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Updated: June 12, 2025
The days pass, tiresome, monotonous, filled only with visits and driving; the nights are interminable and sad near this husband whom she does not love, and whom she married out of spite and for money. Love for a comrade of her youth, Volodia by name, fills her heart.
Volodia Ivanovitch's house stood close to the village street, so that as Elena looked from her windows she could see the long stretch of white road the snow piled up in great walls on either side the two rows of straggling, half-finished log huts, ending with the ruined Church, and the new posting-house.
Nothing can save it! The water rises! rises! and any minute it may burst through! The Saints have mercy! All our things will be lost; but it is the will of God we cannot fight against it." And Volodia crossed himself devoutly with Russian fatalism. "But mamma! what will happen to her?" cried Elena passionately. "Can nothing be done?"
The springtime found the children and their father settled once more in their old home, with Adam, Var-Vara, and Alexis; and life flowing on very much as it had always done, except for the absence of the gentle, motherly, Anna Olsheffsky. Uncle Volodia continued to look after his shop with zeal; and the two rooms with the gilt furniture, which Mr.
"You might have knocked me flat down with a birch twig," said Uncle Volodia afterwards, when talking it over with Adam. "The idea of thanking us for what was nothing at all but a real pleasure! He's a good man, the Barin!"
"Where are the children?" said André Olsheffsky, brokenly. "Perhaps they're dead, too?" "Oh, the children are all well, Barin! They are at Volodia Ivanovitch's." "Drive me there, then," said Mr. Olsheffsky; and the sledge dashed off with a peal of its bells, and drew up with a flourish in front of Volodia's doorway.
"Don't tell them anything about it, but just cook it. It's a chicken we reared ourselves one of those saved from the flood." Volodia would have liked to give the things back again, but his wife declared this would be such an affront to the donors that she really couldn't undertake to do it.
After those who insist on always realizing their temporary ideals, let us take up characters of a new type, those whom destiny has irredeemably conquered, and who have finally resigned themselves to their fate. An example of this type is Sofia Lvovna in "Volodia the Great and Volodia the Small." Married to a rich colonel, she has no other end in life.
Volodia himself, had been a servant at the great house many years before, "when the place was kept up as a country gentleman's should be" he was fond of explaining to the children "but when the poor dear master was taken off to Siberia he was as good as a saint, and no one knew what they found out against him then the Government took all his money, and your mother had to manage as well as she could with the little property left her by your grandfather.
You know your things sold for a great deal, and it is all put away in the wooden honey-box, in the clothes chest. It will last till you're an old woman!" "But I would like to feel I was earning some money, Uncle Volodia. I think I might learn to make paper flowers. Don't you think so, dear Uncle Volodia? You know I began while mamma was with us; the lady in Mourum taught me.
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