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Updated: May 22, 2025
But the fire of Mitia's spirit died down as quickly as it had been kindled to a flame; he gasped with the exertion as he worked the pole, and muttered to himself below his breath. Sergei waited some time for the answer which did not come. His simple, hardy nature was quelled by the grim and death-like stillness of the night.
Masha did not, however, say a single word, and she promptly left the room. Sergei Sergeitch was sitting on the sofa, playing patience. Conversation sprang up. Sergei Sergeitch had not yet succeeded with his usual skill in bringing the conversation round from all extraneous topics to his dog, when Masha reappeared, wearing a plaid silk sash, Kister's favourite sash.
You're somehow queer. You're always wandering somewhere, seeking something...You forgive me, Sergei Ivanovich, you're some sort of a little innocent! ... And that's just why I've come to you, to you alone! ..." "Speak on, Jennechka..."
The stillness suffocates, and the water seems spellbound with expectation, as it beats softly against the raft. A great sadness, and a timid questioning is heard in that faint sound the only voice of the night accentuating still more the silence. "We want a little wind now," says Sergei. "No it's not exactly wind we want that would bring rain," he replies to himself, as he begins to fill his pipe.
She declares that her husband is somewhere in Germany, and that she lives here with her brother." "Who is the 'brother'?" asked the old princess curiously. "The deuce knows! He is also a bit shady. Oh, yes! Sergei Kovroff knows him; he told me something about their history; he came here with a forged passport, under the name of Vladislav Karozitch, but his real name is Kasimir Bodlevski."
'Ah! said the master of the house and Sergei Nikolaevitch with one voice: 'So much the better.... Tell us about it. 'If you wish it ... or no; I won't tell the story; I'm no hand at telling a story; I make it dry and brief, or spun out and affected. If you'll allow me, I'll write out all I remember and read it you.
And the girl's done for! She's living with an old man! And you drove the old man into sin! How many laws have you broken? You clever head!" "Law, Sergei, is in the soul. There is one law for everyone. Don't do things that are against your soul, and you will do no evil on the earth," answered Mitia, in a slow, conciliatory tone, and nodding his head.
"And you have had an inspiration?" smiled Sergei Antonovitch, with a slightly ironical shade of friendly skepticism. "I have had an inspiration," replied the supposititious Hungarian nobleman, falling into the other's tone. "And your muse is ?" "The tenth of the muses," the count interrupted him: "another name is Industry." "She is the muse of all of us." "And mine in particular.
'You know, continued Sergei Pavlitch after a long pause, 'that not such things.... But why am I saying this? you know everything, of course. At that instant a bell rang in the house. 'Ah! la cloche du diner! cried Mlle. Boncourt, 'rentrons.
Platonov looked over all the persons sitting with a slow gaze, and suddenly, waving his hand despondently, said in a tired voice: "However ... The devil take it all! To-day I have spoken enough for ten years ... And all of it to no purpose." "But really, Sergei Ivanich, why shouldn't you try to describe all this yourself?" asked Yarchenko.
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