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Updated: May 14, 2025
Varya, Masha's sister, ran into the study with a wineglass in her hand, and with a queer, strained expression, as though her mouth were full of water; apparently she had meant to go on further, but she suddenly burst out laughing and sobbing, and the wineglass crashed on the floor. We took her by the arms and led her away.
Again Polyansky led the grand chain through all the rooms, again after dancing they played "fate." Before supper, when the visitors had gone into the dining-room, Masha, left alone with Nikitin, pressed close to him and said: "You must speak to papa and Varya yourself; I am ashamed." After supper he talked to the old father.
When you are in Vosdvizhenka give my respects and greetings to Varvara Alexyevna, Varya, Natasha, and Glyeb. I can fancy how Glyeb and Natasha have grown. Now if only you would all come here for Easter, I could have a look at you all. Don't forget me, please, and don't be angry with me. I send you my warmest good wishes. I press your hand heartily and embrace you. YALTA, January 21, 1900.
Where's the satisfaction of putting on the fetters at your age?" "I am not young!" said Nikitin, offended. "I am in my twenty-seventh year." "Papa, the farrier has come!" cried Varya from the other room. And the conversation broke off. Varya, Masha, and Polyansky saw Nikitin home.
"I said as much to the governor: 'It's loutishness, your Excellency, I said." "I won't argue any more," cried Nikitin. "It's unending. . . . Enough! Ach, get away, you nasty dog!" he cried to Som, who laid his head and paw on his knee. "Rrr . . . nga-nga-nga!" came from under the table. "Admit that you are wrong!" cried Varya. "Own up!"
But some young ladies came in, and the argument dropped of itself. They all went into the drawing-room. Varya sat down at the piano and began playing dances. They danced first a waltz, then a polka, then a quadrille with a grand chain which Captain Polyansky led through all the rooms, then a waltz again.
My wife is frightened, and a look of intense suffering comes into her face. "For God's sake, Nikolay Stepanovitch," she implores me, with tears in her voice "for God's sake, take this burden off me! I am so worried!" It is painful for me to look at her. "Very well, Varya," I say affectionately, "if you wish it, then certainly I will go to Harkov and do all you want."
"I ate too many sweets," she said, and laughed. "Have you been home?" she asked after a pause. "No." Nikitin knew already that Captain Polyansky, on whom Varya had been building great hopes of late, was being transferred to one of the western provinces, and was already making his farewell visits in the town, and so it was depressing at his father-in-law's.
Lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to be prepared for anything." "And all of a sudden I shall die," she thinks, shutting her eyes. And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her mother, her husband, her cousin Varya with her husband, her relations, the admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she whispers her last farewell. All are weeping.
Here is the big grey house with the chemist's shop; at this point there used to stand a little house, and in it was a beershop; in that beershop I thought out my thesis and wrote my first love-letter to Varya. I wrote it in pencil, on a page headed "Historia morbi."
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