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Updated: May 17, 2025
Rameyev continued: "I have been observing Elisaveta very attentively of late. And listen to what I say pardon me for my frankness I have come to the conclusion that you'd be better off with Elena. Perhaps you have also erred in your feelings." Piotr replied with a bitter smile: "Why, of course Elena is more simple.
"His verses...." began Elisaveta. But Piotr would not let her continue. "Tell me, where is his talent? What is he famous for? All that he writes only seems like poetry. If you look at it closely you will see that it is bookish, forced, dry it is diabolically suggestive without being talented." Rameyev interrupted in a conciliatory tone: "You're unjust. You can't deny him everything."
Again Elisaveta spoke quietly: "You reproach me for what is dear to me, for my better part, you wish that I should become different. You do not love me, you are tempted by the beautiful Beast my young body with its smiles and its caresses...." And again ignoring what she said, Piotr asserted passionately: "Elisaveta, dearest, love me! You surely do not love any one else! Isn't that so?
He decided to go away; he made the decision again and again, but always remained there restless and yearning. As for Misha, he fell quite in love with Trirodov. He liked to remain with Elisaveta in order to talk about him. One evening Piotr came to Trirodov's house. He did not like to go there, for such antagonistic feelings wrestled in his soul! But common courtesy made the visit necessary.
Money, with co-existent violence in the community, only represents the possibility of a new form of impersonal slavery, which has taken the place of personal slavery. The slave-owner has a right to the labor of Piotr, Ivan, and Sidor. But the owner of money, in a place where money is demanded from all, has a right to the toil of all those nameless people who are in need of money.
But, for reasons which seemed too voluble and complicated for adequate expression, Piotr had been as slow of movement as my bumptious yamtschik of the posting-station, and nothing was ready. Piotr, like many elderly peasants, might sit for the portrait of his apostolic namesake.
All were ordinary people, like everybody else, Martin Semyonovitches, Piotr Piotrovitches, Marya Ivanovnas, people who did not consider themselves unhappy, but who regarded themselves, and who actually were, just like the rest of mankind. We had been prepared to witness nothing except what was terrible.
He had the day to ponder over this news: reserving the greater pain of it for the night: when, happily, he should be unmolested. But he never came to this; for, at the end of the evening study-period, he was called from the assembly-hall by no less a person than Colonel Becker himself, at the door of whose dreaded room stood Piotr, white-faced and red-eyed.
"Both one and the other are sufficiently strong to stand up for themselves." "Nevertheless," argued Piotr, "monuments of civilization are being demolished by this Kham who is trying to replace us." "It is not our monuments of civilization alone that are being destroyed," retorted Trirodov patiently. "This is very sad, of course, and proper measures should be taken.
Piotr returned to the carriage, and handed him with the match-box a thick black cigar, which Arkady began to smoke promptly, diffusing about him such a strong and pungent odour of cheap tobacco, that Nikolai Petrovitch, who had never been a smoker from his youth up, was forced to turn away his head, as imperceptibly as he could for fear of wounding his son.
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