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Updated: June 6, 2025
"I did not expect you until Wednesday," replied Trirodov. "Why Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?" said Ostrov with a savage smile. "Or do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?"
There was no warmth or welcome in his voice: "I did not expect to see you." "I've come, all the same," said Ostrov. "Whether you like it or not, you've got to receive your dear guest." There was contemptuous defiance in his voice. His eyes looked more insolent than ever. Trirodov frowned lightly and looked straight into Ostrov's eyes, which were compelled to turn aside. "Come in," said Trirodov.
They walked a long time Trirodov and Kirsha, and some distance behind them the quiet Grisha followed. At last there appeared, quite near, peering through the mist, the low white cemetery wall. Another road cut across theirs. Quite narrow, its worn cobblestones gleamed dimly in the moonlight. The road of the living and the road of the dead crossed each other at the entrance of the cemetery.
He asked rather slowly in a strangely sounding voice: "You are not afraid?" "What is there to be afraid of?" replied Piotr morosely. "I am not at all a tragic person. My path is clear to me, and I know who guides me." "You don't know that," said Trirodov. "Besides, Elena is lovely. He who fears to take the grand and the terrible, he who loves tender melodies, for him there is Elena."
"When will he come?" asked Kirsha again. Trirodov said with a smile: "Rouse Grisha and ask him whether the sleeper has yet begun to wake in his grave." Kirsha walked away. Trirodov looked in silence at the distant cemetery, where the dark, bereaved night stooped sadly over the crosses. "And where are you, my happy beloved?"
She laughed, and said with assumed gaiety: "What a strange creature!" Trirodov turned upon her his melancholy glances and said quietly: "He talks like one who knows. He talks like one who sees. But no one can know what happened." Oh, if one could only know! If one could only change that which once had happened! Trirodov recalled again during these days the dark history of Piotr Matov's father.
That means the week is not up yet." "What do you mean it isn't up?" said Ostrov. "I came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French fashion? You won't come off so easily." "You came here on Wednesday," replied Trirodov. "And this is why I haven't the money ready for you." Ostrov was unable to grasp the situation.
Their faces wore their habitually pleasant smiles and their hands did not tremble. Trirodov gave the reins to Kirsha, who drove away. The meeting proved an embarrassing one. The sisters' agitation was evident in their polite, empty phrases. They entered the drawing-room. Presently Rameyev, accompanied by the Matov brothers, came in to welcome the guest.
It was indeed a strange room everything in it had an odd shape: the ceiling sloped, the floor was concave, the corners were round, upon the walls were incomprehensible pictures and unfamiliar hieroglyphics. In one corner was a dark, flat object in a carved frame of black wood. "It's a mirror in which it is interesting to take a look at oneself," said Trirodov.
"Why didn't you write and tell me that you wished to see me?" "How should I know that you were here?" growled Ostrov surlily. "Nevertheless, you found out," said Trirodov, with a vexed smile. "Found out quite by accident on the float," replied Ostrov. "Heard you mentioned in conversation. I don't think you'll care to know what they said." He gave an insinuating smile.
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