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Updated: June 27, 2025
As far as I know, my father never had any serious difference with any other human being during the whole course of his existence. And Turgenieff, in a letter to my father in 1865, wrote, "You are the only man with whom I have ever had misunderstandings." Whenever my father related his quarrel with Ivan Sergeyevitch, he took all the blame on himself.
It turned out that they were both in the right, and everything ended to their mutual satisfaction. Ivan Sergeyevitch slept down-stairs in my father's study. When the party broke up for the night, I used to see him to his room, and while he was undressing I sat on his bed and talked sport with him. He asked me if I could shoot.
I do not like to assert it positively, but it seems to me that just as Turgenieff was unwilling to confine himself to "merely friendly relations," so my father also felt too warmly toward Ivan Sergeyevitch, and that was the very reason why they could never meet without disagreeing and quarreling.
Turgenieff spent all the time sitting with my father, who during his visit put aside even his work, and once in the middle of the day my mother collected us all at a quite unusual hour in the drawing-room, where Ivan Sergeyevitch read us his story of "The Dog."
Ostrov said with a scornful smile: "Will you try your chemistry on him, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch? Well, it's all the same to us. A bad man ought to be punished make even a skeleton of him for your use if you like." Trirodov drew a flagon containing a colourless liquid from his pocket. "Now this will put him to sleep," he said.
The cheery, dark-eyed lad looked attentively at Elisaveta, frowned slightly, lowered his eyes, reflected, then again eyed the sisters attentively and sadly, and said: "In the main building, where Giorgiy Sergeyevitch lives, there are more of these quiet children. They are never with us. They are quiet ones. They do not play. They have been ill. It's likely they haven't improved yet. I don't know.
There are none here at all. Keep well, don't worry about money there will be plenty; don't try to spend less and spoil the summer for yourselves. TOMSK, May 20, 1890. Greetings to you at last from Siberia, dear Alexey Sergeyevitch! I have missed you and our correspondence terribly. I will begin from the beginning, however. At Tyumen I was told the first steamer to Tomsk went on the 18th of May.
At that moment, when the sisters were taking leave of the children in the wood, Kirsha felt especially perturbed. In the far corner of the garden he saw a boy in white dress; he ran up to him. They spoke long and quietly. Then Kirsha ran to his father. Giorgiy Sergeyevitch Trirodov was all alone at home. He was lying on the sofa, reading a book by Wilde. Trirodov was forty years old.
"I did not expect you until Wednesday," replied Trirodov. "Why Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?" said Ostrov with a savage smile. "Or do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?"
In 1883 my father received from Ivan Sergeyevitch his last farewell letter, written in pencil on his death-bed, and I remember with what emotion he read it. And when the news of his death came, my father would talk of nothing else for several days, and inquired everywhere for details of his illness and last days.
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