Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket. "I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!" "I understand. . . . Only you are wrong to go. Why should you? They've searched your things, but you . . . what does it matter to you? You will be none the worse for it." Mashenka was silent and went on packing.
I am just about to measure the diameter when Mashenka seizes my hand, and says: "Do not forget to-day, eleven o'clock." I withdraw my hand, feeling every second precious, try to continue my observations, but Varenka clutches my arm and clings to me. Pencil, pieces of glass, drawings all are scattered on the grass. Hang it!
The landowners of the South of Russia are very keen on giving balls, inviting officers to their houses, and marrying off their daughters. About seven miles from the village of Kirilovo lived just such a country gentleman, a Mr. Perekatov, the owner of four hundred souls, and a fairly spacious house. He had a daughter of eighteen, Mashenka, and a wife, Nenila Makarievna. Mr.
Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and hanger-on, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing either. "H'm! . . . You say nothing! That's not enough for you. In that case, I will apologise for my wife.
'Do tell me, please, Masha said to him, when, after galloping twenty times to the end of the room, they stood at last, the first couple, 'why isn't your friend dancing? 'Which friend? Masha pointed with the tip of her fan at Lutchkov. 'He never dances, answered Kister. 'Why did he come then? Kister was a little disconcerted. 'He wished to have the pleasure... Mashenka interrupted him.
It was true it was terrible to lose her place, to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do? Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here.
I get up and bend over her long face, feeling as I do so just as I did in my childhood when I was lifted up to kiss my grandmother in her coffin. Not content with the kiss, Mashenka leaps up and impulsively embraces me.
She was so disgusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her illnesses and her supposed aristocratic rank, that everything in the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because this woman was living in it. Mashenka jumped up from the bed and began packing.
I speak of marriage in ancient Egypt and India, then pass to more recent times, a few ideas from Schopenhauer. Mashenka listens attentively, but all of a sudden, through some strange incoherence of ideas, thinks fit to interrupt me: "Nicolas, kiss me!" she says. I am embarrassed and don't know what to say to her. She repeats her request. There seems no avoiding it.
Your pride is wounded, and here you've been crying and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied?
Word Of The Day