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Updated: June 5, 2025
It was clear that that dog and he were prevented from leaving the yard by the same thing; the habit of bondage, of servitude. . . . At midday next morning he went to see his wife, and that he might not be dull, asked Yartsev to go with him. Yulia Sergeyevna was staying in a summer villa at Butovo, and he had not been to see her for five days.
And while they were at lunch on the verandah, Yartsev smiled with a sort of joyous shyness, and kept gazing at Yulia and at her beautiful neck. Laptev could not help watching them while he thought that he had perhaps another thirteen, another thirty years of life before him. . . . And what would he have to live through in that time? What is in store for us in the future?
With the languor of a handsome man spoilt by too much love, he fondled the children without haste, then went into the study and said, rubbing his hands: "I've not come to stay long, my friends. I'm going to Petersburg to-morrow. They've promised to transfer me to another town." He was staying at the Dresden Hotel. A friend who was often at the Laptevs' was Ivan Gavrilitch Yartsev.
He was open with her; he liked talking to her in a low voice in the evening, and even gave her novels of his own composition to read, though these had been kept a secret even from such friends as Laptev and Yartsev. She read these novels and praised them, so that she might not disappoint him, and he was delighted because he hoped sooner or later to become a distinguished author.
They went into Yartsev's flat by the back way through the kitchen, where they were met by the cook, a clean little old woman with grey curls; she was overcome with embarrassment, and with a honeyed smile which made her little face look like a pie, said: "Please walk in." Yartsev was not at home.
When you have to do with some historical authority or even read a textbook of Russian history, you feel that every one in Russia is exceptionally talented, gifted, and interesting; but when I see an historical play at the theatre, Russian life begins to seem stupid, morbid, and not original." Near Dmitrovka the friends separated, and Yartsev went on to his lodging in Nikitsky Street.
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