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Updated: June 11, 2025
But when the Chevalier de Grieux, who had lain two days near the corpse of his dear Manon, finally began to dig a grave with the stump of his sword Liubka burst into sobbing so that Soloviev became scared and dashed after water. But even having calmed down a little, she still sobbed for a long time with her trembling, swollen lips and babbled: "Ah! Their life was so miserable!
Otherwise..." The ponderous Soloviev hurriedly, sincerely, and powerfully embraced and rumpled Lichonin. "Well, dear fellow, well, that's enough ... I committed a stupidity in the flurry. It won't be repeated any more. Hail, my pale-faced sister." He extended his hand with a broad sweep across the table to Liubka, and squeezed her listless, small and short fingers with gnawed, tiny nails.
So was it also with the lofty thoughts of the philosopher Soloviev, the macâbre tales of Dostoïevsky, the realistic narratives of Gogol, or the popular epics of Gorky and Ouspensky. The doctrines of Marx took some strange shapes in the Russian milieu. Eminently materialistic, they were there reclothed in an abstract and dogmatic idealism in fact, Marxism in Russia was transformed into a religion.
Once she asked: "Soloviev, dearie, who was he this author?" "He was a certain French priest." "He wasn't a Russian?" "No, a Frenchman, I'm telling you. See, he's got everything so the towns are French and the people have French names." "Then he was a priest, you say? Where did he know all this from, then?" "Well, he knew it, that's all.
Sempstresses, modistes, chorus girls, girls in candy stores, and telephone girls melted from the intense gaze of his heavy, soft, and languishing dark-blue eyes. "Un-to this house and all those righteously, peacefully and without sin inhabiting it ..." Soloviev started in to vociferate like an arch-deacon and suddenly missed fire.
It's precisely you, only, who are capable of such a genuinely Russian heroism, expressed simply, modestly, without superfluous words." "Drop it ... Well, where's the heroism?" Lichonin made a wry face. "That's true, too," confirmed Nijeradze. "You're reproaching me all the time that I chatter a lot, but see what nonsense you're spouting yourself." "That makes no difference!" retorted Soloviev.
Not being able to read, she intercepted his letters and, not daring to turn to the aid of the prince or Soloviev, would save them up in her little cupboard together with sugar, tea, lemon and all sorts of other trash. She had even reached the stage when, in minutes of anger, she threatened him with sulphuric acid.
But he kept his counsel for the most part, and looked at each one from under the glasses of his pince-nez, raising his head high to do so. "So, so, so," he said at last, drumming with his fingers upon the table. "What Lichonin has done is splendid and brave. And that the prince and Soloviev are going to meet him half-way is also very good.
She cried, swore, wrung her hands, and exclaimed all the while: "Lord! Where does he take all that stuff from, and so skillfully! Why, it's every bit just the way it is with us!" It must be said that Soloviev himself was reading this remarkable book for the first time. But still, Liubka appraised it far more deeply and finely.
The study of Russian history, so well commenced by Karamzin, has been further developed by Oustrialov and Soloviev. Peculiar to them is the douma, a kind of narrative poem, in which the metre is generally very irregular; but a sort of rhythm is preserved by the recurrence of accentuated syllables. The douma of the Little Russians corresponds to the bîlina of the Great Russians.
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