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And it was into this incipient chaos that poor Stepan Trofimovitch was thrust. I ran out to him behind the scenes once more, and had time to warn him excitedly that in my opinion the game was up, that he had better not appear at all, but had better go home at once on the excuse of his usual ailment, for instance, and I would take off my badge and come with him.
The brunette observing at last the love of the blonde girl to Stepan Trofimovitch, kept her feelings locked up in her heart. The blonde girl, noticing on her part the love of the brunette to Stepan Trofimovitch, also locked her feelings in her own heart. And all three, pining with mutual magnanimity, kept silent in this way for twenty years, locking their feelings in their hearts.
And you know real genuine sorrow will sometimes make even a phenomenally frivolous, unstable man solid and stoical; for a short time at any rate; what's more, even fools are by genuine sorrow turned into wise men, also only for a short time of course; it is characteristic of sorrow. And if so, what might not happen with a man like Stepan Trofimovitch?
With a childlike smile he leaned towards the woman and suddenly said: "What's that? Are they pancakes? Mais... c'est char-mant." "Would you like some, sir?" the woman politely offered him at once. "I should like some, I certainly should, and... may I ask you for some tea too," said Stepan Trofimovitch, reviving. "Get the samovar? With the greatest pleasure."
"It was a got-up thing and it was too transparent, and so badly acted." "I don't mean that. Do you know that it was all too transparent on purpose, that those... who had to, might understand it. Do you understand that?" "I don't understand." "Tant mieux; passons. I am very irritable to-day." "But why have you been arguing with him, Stepan Trofimovitch?" I asked him reproachfully.
It was Yulia Mihailovna herself who had enlisted his services. Now he was walking from corner to corner, and, like Stepan Trofimovitch, was muttering to himself, though he looked on the ground instead of in the looking-glass. He was not trying on smiles, though he often smiled rapaciously. It was obvious that it was useless to speak to him either.
Stepan Trofimovitch became so seriously ill that he could not go on board the steamer, which on this occasion arrived punctually at two o'clock in the afternoon. She could not bring herself to leave him alone, so she did not leave for Spasov either. From her account he was positively delighted at the steamer's going without him. "Well, that's a good thing, that's capital!" he muttered in his bed.
Stepan Trofimovitch sometimes talked of art, and very well, though rather abstractly. He sometimes spoke of the friends of his youth all names noteworthy in the history of Russian progress. He talked of them with emotion and reverence, though sometimes with envy.
Fortunately Sofya Matveyevna had not yet had time to get away and was only just going out of the gate with her pack and her bag. She was brought back. She was so panic-stricken that she was trembling in every limb. Varvara Petrovna pounced on her like a hawk on a chicken, seized her by the hand and dragged her impulsively to Stepan Trofimovitch. "Here, here she is, then. I've not eaten her.
"Come along, come along!" cried Liza, almost in hysterics, drawing Mavriky Nikolaevitch after her again. "Wait a minute, Stepan Trofimovitch!" she came back suddenly to him. "Stay, poor darling, let me sign you with the cross. Perhaps, it would be better to put you under control, but I'd rather make the sign of the cross over you.
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