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Updated: May 2, 2025
The fat monk with the jug, from the monastery, for some reason had none handed to him at all, though up till then he had had his glass every day. "Semyon Yakovlevitch, do say something to me. I've been longing to make your acquaintance for ever so long," carolled the gorgeously dressed lady from our carriage, screwing up her eyes and smiling.
Mavriky Nikolaevitch got up from his knees. She clutched his arms above the elbow and looked intently into his face. There was terror in her expression. "Milovzors! Milovzors!" Semyon Yakovlevitch repeated again. She dragged Mavriky Nikolaevitch back to the other part of the room at last. There was some commotion in all our company.
The lady from our carriage, probably intending to relieve the situation, loudly and shrilly asked the saint for the third time, with an affected smile: "Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch, won't you utter some saying for me I I've been reckoning so much on you." "Out with the , out with the ," said Semyon Yakovlevitch, suddenly addressing her, with an extremely indecent word.
Merry and greedily inquisitive eyes were turned upon Semyon Yakovlevitch, as well as lorgnettes, pince-nez, and even opera-glasses. Lyamshin, at any rate, looked through an opera-glass. Semyon Yakovlevitch calmly and lazily scanned all with his little eyes. "Milovzors! Milovzors!" he deigned to pronounce, in a hoarse bass, and slightly staccato.
"Be sure it's by way of a prophecy," said some one in the crowd. "Another pound for her, another!" Semyon Yakovlevitch persisted. There was a whole sugar-loaf still on the table, but the saint ordered a pound to be given, and they gave her a pound. "Lord have mercy on us!" gasped the people, crossing themselves. "It's surely a prophecy."
In the Nechludoff family that spot was Dimitri's extraordinary affection for Lubov Sergievna, which aroused in the mother and sister, if not a jealous feeling, at all events a sense of hurt family pride. This was the grave significance which underlay, for all those present, the seeming dispute about Ivan Yakovlevitch and superstition.
"Ask her," said Semyon Yakovlevitch to the verger, who went to the partition. "Have you done what Semyon Yakovlevitch bade you last time?" he asked the widow in a soft and measured voice. "Done it! Father Semyon Yakovlevitch. How can one do it with them?" wailed the widow. "They're cannibals; they're lodging a complaint against me, in the court; they threaten to take it to the senate.
All our party laughed: "What's the meaning of 'Milovzors'?" But Semyon Yakovlevitch relapsed into silence, and finished his potatoes. Presently he wiped his lips with his napkin, and they handed him tea. As a rule, he did not take tea alone, but poured out some for his visitors, but by no means for all, usually pointing himself to those he wished to honour.
The subject of the quarrel seemed to be Ivan Yakovlevitch and superstition, but it was too animated a difference for its underlying cause not to be something which concerned the family much more nearly.
The servant poured out the tea and took it by mistake to the dandy with the pince-nez. "The long one, the long one!" Semyon Yakovlevitch corrected him. Mavriky Nikolaevitch took the glass, made a military half-bow, and began drinking it. I don't know why, but all our party burst into peals of laughter. "Mavriky Nikolaevitch," cried Liza, addressing him suddenly.
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