#BrothersKaramazov

[byfaithmedia]

#BrothersKaramazov #ByFaithMedia #Moscow #ChristianArticle #RussianOrthodoxChurch #ChristianJourney #ByFaith #Afterlife #BibleCollege #Christianity #FyodorDostoevsky #God #Jesus #USSR #Karamazov #Forgiveness #Theology #Faith #Doubt #Justice #Revenge #Repentance #Mystery #Novel #BookReview #BookBlogger #Bookstagram #Russia

[meowdzilla]

january 29th, 2023

currently reading Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

#currently reading #fyodor dostoevsky #dostoyevsky #brotherskaramazov

[child-of-hurin]

Agape being onboard with marrying the volatile mess that is Eugenides in Queen of Attolia, and later, presumably, being just as onboard with marrying Sophos's uncle who is Sounis... Interpretations of her agency in those matches might vary, but if you assume she was only too willing to go ahead with them... Something very intimidating about how badly this woman wants a project

"(...)He was an astonishingly angry man, but he had many admirable qualities.” [the Magus] glanced up at Eddis and said, “He could be quite charming.” “Agape might have made something of him,” said Eddis.

Handing Agape problematic men like one hands a trainer problematic dogs dsbhujfdrf

#queen's thief #a conspiracy of kings #is Agape is the Katya Brotherskaramazov of Queen's Thief? inquiring minds want to know #when I first read queen's thief I came away thinking she was just a foil for Irene but when you get to this in conspiracy you have #enough material to assume she might be a little strange herself in her taste in marriages... and good for her #i hope she got the powerful but mercurial problem husband (that i chose to believe) she wanted <3 <3 <3

[postumusabelard]

"Igor Sherpovsky as the scandalous reprobate Fyodor in the Rostov People's Theatre production of "The Brothers Karamazov, January 1977." Photograph, digital work. #photography #photo #instagram #instaphoto #portrait #digital #rostov #russia #sovietunion #artistsofinstagram #artistsoninstagram #russianliterature #brotherskaramazov #selfie #drama #theatre #acting https://www.instagram.com/p/B56kDQOF3uv/?igshid=1v4df4r0qjrnc

#photography #photo #instagram #instaphoto #portrait #digital #rostov #russia #sovietunion #artistsofinstagram #artistsoninstagram #russianliterature #brotherskaramazov #selfie #drama #theatre #acting

[cmeknowmore]

#dailystoic #dostoevsky #brotherskaramazov #nietzsche #tomcollins #arnoldpalmer #seneca #aristotle #stoicism #thedailystoic (at Mission Viejo Civic Center) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtCfTE8B_Wj/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=ozqmiomx9tn5

#dailystoic #dostoevsky #brotherskaramazov #nietzsche #tomcollins #arnoldpalmer #seneca #aristotle #stoicism #thedailystoic

[digoure]

#intothewild #dostoyevsky #brotherskaramazov #cactus #home #fisheye #vintage #bookstagram

#home #vintage #intothewild #brotherskaramazov #dostoyevsky #bookstagram #fisheye #cactus

[readbookywooks]

Smerdyakov with a Guitar

HE had no time to lose indeed. Even while he was saying good-bye to Lise, the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his brother Dmitri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting late, nearly three o'clock. Alyosha's whole soul turned to the monastery, to his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitri outweighed everything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about to happen grew stronger in Alyosha's mind with every hour. What that catastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he could perhaps not have said definitely. "Even if my benefactor must die without me, anyway I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the thought that I might have saved something and did not, but passed by and hastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great precept." His plan was to catch his brother Dmitri unawares, to climb over the fence, as he had the day before, get into the garden and sit in the summer-house. If Dmitri were not there, thought Alyosha, he would not announce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain hidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If, as before, Dmitri were lying in wait for Grushenka to come, he would be very likely to come to the summer-house. Alyosha did not, however, give much thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even if it meant not getting back to the monastery that day. Everything happened without hindrance, he climbed over the hurdle almost in the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his instructions, and so refuse to let Alyosha come into the garden, or might warn Dmitri that he was being sought and inquired for. There was no one in the summer-house. Alyosha sat down and began to wait. He looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal more ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it seemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table, left no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before. Foolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in a time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down precisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last he felt very depressed - depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the thrum of a guitar somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only just sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away. Alyosha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the day before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green low garden-seat among the bushes on the left, by the fence. The people must be sitting on it now. Who were they? A man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying himself on the guitar: With invincible force I am bound to my dear. O Lord, have mercy On her and on me! On her and on me! On her and on me! The voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another voice, a woman's, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with mincing affectation: "Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovitch? Why do you always look down upon us?" "Not at all answered a man's voice politely, but with emphatic dignity. It was clear that the man had the best of the position, and that the woman was making advances. "I believe the man must be Smerdyakov," thought Alyosha, "from his voice. And the lady must be the daughter of the house here, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail and goes to Marfa for soup." "I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds, if they rhyme," the woman's voice continued. "Why don't you go on?" The man sang again: What do I care for royal wealth If but my dear one be in health? Lord have mercy On her and on me! On her and on me! On her and on me! "It was even better last time," observed the woman's voice. "You sang 'If my darling be in health'; it sounded more tender. I suppose you've forgotten to-day." "Poetry is rubbish!" said Smerdyakov curtly. "Oh, no! I am very fond of poetry." "So far as it's poetry, it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, who ever talks in rhyme? And if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it were decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no good, Marya Kondratyevna." "How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything?" The woman's voice was more and more insinuating. "I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that, if it had not been for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a man in a duel if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy beggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in Moscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Vassilyevitch. Grigory Vassilyevitch blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not have come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your mamma too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair was like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee bit. Why talk of a wee bit while she might have said 'a little bit,' like everyone else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all, in his ignorance. From my childhood up when I hear 'a wee bit,' I am ready to burst with rage. I hate all Russia, Marya Kondratyevna." "If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hussar, you wouldn't have talked like that, but would have drawn your sabre to defend all Russia." "I don't want to be a hussar, Marya Kondratyevna, and, what's more, I should like to abolish all soldiers." "And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us?" "There's no need of defence. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia by Napoleon, first Emperor of the French, father of the present one, and it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation would have conquered a very stupid one and annexed it. We should have had quite different institutions." "Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't change a dandy I know of for three young englishmen," observed Marya Kondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most languishing glance. "That's as one prefers." "But you are just like a foreigner - just like a most gentlemanly foreigner. I tell you that, though it makes me bashful." "If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in their vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished boots and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian people want thrashing, as Fyodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday, though he is mad, and all his children." "You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch." "But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left here long ago. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his behaviour, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do anything, and yet he is respected by everyone. I may be only a soup-maker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant in Petrovka, in Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow, except the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first count in the country, he'd fight him. Though in what way is he better than I am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am. Look at the money he has wasted without any need!" "It must be lovely, a duel," Marya Kondratyevna observed suddenly. "How so?" "It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A perfect picture! Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give anything to see one!" "It's all very well when you are firing at someone, but when he is firing straight in your mug, you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run away, Marya Kondratyevna." "You don't mean you would run away?" But Smerdyakov did not deign to reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang again in the same falsetto: Whatever you may say, I shall go far away. Life will be bright and gay In the city far away. I shall not grieve, I shall not grieve at all, I don't intend to grieve at all. Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdyakov dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded, and perhaps curled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter of the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She was young and would not have been bad-looking, but that her face was so round and terribly freckled. "Will my brother Dmitri soon be back? asked Alyosha with as much composure as he could. Smerdyakov got up slowly; Marya Kondratyevna rose too. "How am I to know about Dmitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his keeper," answered Smerdyakov quietly, distinctly, and superciliously. "But I simply asked whether you do know?" Alyosha explained. "I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to." "But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the house, and promised to let him know when Agrafena Alexandrovna comes." Smerdyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him. "And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?" he asked, looking at Alyosha. "I came in from the back-alley, over the fence, and went straight to the summer-house. I hope you'll forgive me, he added addressing Marya Kondratyevna. "I was in a hurry to find my brother." "Ach, as though we could take it amiss in you!" drawled Marya Kondratyevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. "For Dmitri Fyodorovitch often goes to the summer-house in that way. We don't know he is here and he is sitting in the summer-house." "I am very anxious to find him, or to learn from you where he is now. Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him." "He never tells us," lisped Marya Kondratyevna. "Though I used to come here as a friend," Smerdyakov began again, "Dmitri Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way even here by his incessant questions about the master. 'What news?' he'll ask. 'What's going on in there now? Who's coming and going?' and can't I tell him something more. Twice already he's threatened me with death "With death?" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise. "Do you suppose he'd think much of that, with his temper, which you had a chance of observing yourself yesterday? He says if I let Agrafena Alexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to suffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he might not do!" "His honour said to him the other day, 'I'll pound you in a mortar!'" added Marya Kondratyevna. "Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk," observed Alyosha. "If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that too." "Well, the only thing I can tell you is this," said Smerdyakov, as though thinking better of it; "I am here as an old friend and neighbour, and it would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Ivan Fyodorovitch sent me first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street, without a letter, but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine with him at the restaurant here, in the marketplace. I went, but didn't find Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. 'He's been here, but he is quite gone,' those were the very words of his landlady. It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this moment he is in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, for Ivan Fyodorovitch has not been home to dinner and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone an hour ago, and is gone to lie down. But I beg you most particularly not to speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing at all." "Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant to-day?" repeated Alyosha quickly. "That's so." "The Metropolis tavern in the marketplace?" "The very same." "That's quite likely," cried Alyosha, much excited. "Thank you, Smerdyakov; that's important. I'll go there at once." "Don't betray me," Smerdyakov called after him. "Oh, no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious." "But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you," cried Marya Kondratyevna. "No; it's a short cut, I'll get over the fence again." What he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the tavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them down. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open, and his brother Ivan called down to him from it. "Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful." "To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress - " "But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps; I'll run down to meet you." A minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone dining.

#BrothersKaramazov

[romanyova]

russian classics aesthetic.

brothers karamazov.  orthodox monasteries. deep woods. starry nights. the sound of paper being torn. dimly lit rooms. withered roses. an unfinished letter. piles of books. the sound of shattering glass. ticking of clocks in a silent house. heavy wooden furniture. the air before a storm. the smell of earth. a crowd of people dressed in black. distant murmurs. emptied streets. the fear of walking alone in dusk.

crime and punishment.  coldness of the skin against a blade. slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands. a red stain blooming on white fabric. lonely steps in a corridor. the slow dripping of water. looking out of the window into the thickening darkness. a single dying candle on the table. listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats. too many stairs. the desire to be invisible. a subtle memory of kind words.

the idiot.  classical statues. wealth covered with dust. a dark house tainted with inherited madness. an unsettling feeling. long walks in a park. useless chatter. a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench. a melancholic face. an unexpected spring rain. the joy of reading one’s favorite book. the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around. looking at cloudless sky.

anna karenina.  fields of crops. flowers brought from an early morning walk. the wind caressing a girl’s hair. a bowl of fruit. the smell of ripe pears. the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea. children’s laughter coming from the garden. soft sunlight and white curtains. the sensation of velvet against skin. pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor. a sudden silence in a room full of people.

war and peace.  a glass of wine. the brightness of a crystal chandelier. white lace. a raging snow storm. the sound of a door being gently closed. the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room. indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light. the sound of a saber being drawn. closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing. the sweet smell of strawberries. a pair of gloves left on an armchair. light scent of powder.

the master and margarita.  the chaos of a lively city. ambient jazz in expensive restaurants. jumping on off a moving tram. the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house. yellow flowers in a vase. leaning out of the window. shelves stacked with books. a small tin box with old photographs. strange shapes in the night sky. laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony. colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

eugene onegin.  a lonely mansion. reading a book in the parlor. faint piano melody lingering in falling silence. long evenings. passing seasons. discussing french novels of the moment. unspoken thoughts. leaning against the door frame. quickly averted glance. eating a peach absent-minded. bright mornings. footprints in snow. a loud gunshot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

a hero of our time.  byronic boredom. getting up late in the afternoon. the hidden unspeakable sadness of existence. shakespeare’s tragedy opened next to untouched breakfast. cigarette smoke. polished boots. walking with one’s coat wide open letting the night chill break through to the bone. carved wooden chair. fading warmth of the ashes late in the evening. the thought of farewell.

fathers and sons.  birch groves. morning mist. moss covered stones near a moor. scientific books. white roses. cheap champagne. shabby pocket-watch. light-hearted irony. a maladroit cello sonata. freshly mowed grass. leaving thoughts come and go. a slow yawn. picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes. drinking tea on the porch. longing for the future.

doctor zhivago.  a strange feeling of loss. writing poems in a diary. traveling by train. the hesitation before touching someone’s hand. the gaze of one lost in thought. the warmth of cinnamon. a scarf brightly embellished with flowers. a glass of water. two people listening each on the other side of the door. a threadbare jacket. the tempting void. the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

dead souls.  horses in a merry gallop. delicious smells mingled. grotesque and bizarre tragedy. luxurious attire cheap soul. masks. a perfumed love letter. the triumph of sarcasm. an unattached wheel rolling down a dusty road. the atmosphere of commedia dell’arte. puzzling speeches. a baffling caricature drawn on a handkerchief.

cherry orchard.  a lone chair in an empty room. falling blossoms. old samovar. the unsettling need for change. a mirror reflecting full moon. the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance. a piano out of tune.

tagged by: @marblecarved​​ !!

tagging: you !!

#aesth. #q.

[miracleyemoh]

"There are four types of men in this world: 1. The man who knows, and knows that he knows; he is wise, so consult him. 2. The man who knows, but doesn't know that he knows; help him not forget what he knows. 3. The man who knows not, and knows that he knows not; teach him. 4. Finally, there is the man who knows not but pretends that he knows; he is a fool, so avoid him." Solomon Ibn Gabirol Artwork - Statue of Solomon Ibn Gabirol . . . #wisewords #strengthquotes #philosophy #wisdom #enlightened #senecaare #dailyphilosopher #quoteoftheday #quotestoliveby #thoughts #mind #think #mindsetmatters #wisequotes #philosopher #stoicism #marcusaurelius #selfdevelopment #epictetus #wordstoliveby #thoughtofthedaypost #socialdistancingreadalong #brotherskaramazov #russianliterature #fyodordostoevsky #thoughtbubbleanxiety #franzkafka #kafka #strindberg #ibsen https://www.instagram.com/p/CZ4Y7ogK5cg/?utm_medium=tumblr

#wisewords #strengthquotes #philosophy #wisdom #enlightened #senecaare #dailyphilosopher #quoteoftheday #quotestoliveby #thoughts #mind #think #mindsetmatters #wisequotes #philosopher #stoicism #marcusaurelius #selfdevelopment #epictetus #wordstoliveby #thoughtofthedaypost #socialdistancingreadalong #brotherskaramazov #russianliterature #fyodordostoevsky #thoughtbubbleanxiety #franzkafka #kafka #strindberg #ibsen

[girlwiththethornonherside]

Above all, do not lie to yourself.

.

.

.

#brothersKaramazov #braćakaramazovi #fjodordostojevski #serbiantranslation #ivankaramazov #orthodox #atheism #deism

[bookschallenge]

Passed the 100pg mark and enjoying #brotherskaramazov so far. I think it's too early to discuss the book but is it stra...

#owlsreadathon2020 book review books book comic books booknerds bookaholic bookworm read reader currently reading reads reading

[goodloebyron]

The Brothers Karamazov Just went looking through my basement for a painting and found this one. One of my very favorite older paintings! I think I did two of these at the time. I really like how it juxtaposes each of the brothers. Dimitri (red) is too driven by impulse and emotions, Ivan too intellectual and detached while Alexi (gold) suffers from empathy #brotherskaramazov #dostoyevski — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/371X1NT

#Instagram #IFTTT

[mariannareads]

❄️9.1.19❄️ Happy Wednesday Bookworms! 😉 QOTD: What fictional world you wouldn't want to live in? AOTD: The Game of Thrones world, for sure! I'd be dead in the very first chapter 😂 . Life update: It's so cold that I just want to spend my day in bed reading, and guess what? I will 😂 I plan two read #WickedKing and Warwolfe which I was assigned to from work. . Current read:Wicked King is my priority today ☺ _ Book Challenges ✨World you wouldn't want to live in, #AlltheBooksJan19 ✨The coldest hands, #booknerdsjan19 ✨Light snack, #bookstababesjan19 ✨Bloody Sunday - Book. Set in Russia, #FinnFuryRevolution _________________________________________ #winter2019 #bookscoffeelifestyle #januarybooks #bibliophile #igreads #goodreads #instavivlio #vscobooks #booktography #greekbookstagram #bookstagrammer #bookstagram #bookstagramfeature #thebookchroniclesvol #bookphotography #diavazo #mariannareads #currentlyreading #BrothersKaramazov https://www.instagram.com/p/BsaT8oYnfiv/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=12bqys0k0hpp0

#wickedking #allthebooksjan19 #booknerdsjan19 #bookstababesjan19 #finnfuryrevolution #winter2019 #bookscoffeelifestyle #januarybooks #bibliophile #igreads #goodreads #instavivlio #vscobooks #booktography #greekbookstagram #bookstagrammer #bookstagram #bookstagramfeature #thebookchroniclesvol #bookphotography #diavazo #mariannareads #currentlyreading #brotherskaramazov

[eugene--ivanov--artist]

Dostoevsky by Eugene Ivanov. No. 5. The official website by artist Eugene Ivanov: http://opatov.wixsite.com/eugeneivanov #cubism #surrealism #oil #watercolor #watercolourpainting #painting #best #philosophy #philosophical #metaphysics #oilpainting #art #abstract #abstraction #openstudio #animation #cartoon #dostoevsky #fyodor #dostoyevsky #eugeneivanov #author #literature #russia #russian #writer #literaryarts, #russianwriter #brotherskaramazov #crimeandpunishment #idiot #poorfolk #whitenights (v místě Prague) https://www.instagram.com/p/BsjP1HNjjfq/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=f5zau0mn88ut

#cubism #surrealism #oil #watercolor #watercolourpainting #painting #best #philosophy #philosophical #metaphysics #oilpainting #art #abstract #abstraction #openstudio #animation #cartoon #dostoevsky #fyodor #dostoyevsky #eugeneivanov #author #literature #russia #russian #writer #literaryarts #russianwriter #brotherskaramazov #crimeandpunishment

[jundies]

Finished! Which is always a sad feeling. I really enjoyed this book, and as is common with these classics, all the themes and ideas covered and put forward in this book are still really relevant today. Should we be a slave to our passions, honest yet wild like Mitya? Should we be a slave to our intellect, cold and analytical, like Ivan? Or should we be a slave to a greater power? Meek and kind like Aloysha? I guess the question is, how much power should we give to each at any one point in time. TLDR ole m8 is ded, who dunnit ey? - - - - - #dostoeyvsky #brotherskaramazov #books #reading #life — view on Instagram https://ift.tt/2wjRLoD

#Instagram #IFTTT

[readbookywooks]

Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov

ALEXEY Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a landowner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place. For the present I will only say that this "landowner" - for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate - was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Fyodor Pavlovitch, for instance, began with next to nothing; his estate was of the smallest; he ran to dine at other men's tables, and fastened on them as a toady, yet at his death it appeared that he had a hundred thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same time, he was all his life one of the most senseless, fantastical fellows in the whole district. I repeat, it was not stupidity - the majority of these fantastical fellows are shrewd and intelligent enough - but just senselessness, and a peculiar national form of it. He was married twice, and had three sons, the eldest, Dmitri, by his first wife, and two, Ivan and Alexey, by his second. Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife, Adelaida Ivanovna, belonged to a fairly rich and distinguished noble family, also landowners in our district, the Miusovs. How it came to pass that an heiress, who was also a beauty, and moreover one of those vigorous intelligent girls, so common in this generation, but sometimes also to be found in the last, could have married such a worthless, puny weakling, as we all called him, I won't attempt to explain. I knew a young lady of the last "romantic" generation who after some years of an enigmatic passion for a gentleman, whom she might quite easily have married at any moment, invented insuperable obstacles to their union, and ended by throwing herself one stormy night into a rather deep and rapid river from a high bank, almost a precipice, and so perished, entirely to satisfy her own caprice, and to be like Shakespeare's Ophelia. Indeed, if this precipice, a chosen and favourite spot of hers, had been less picturesque, if there had been a prosaic flat bank in its place, most likely the suicide would never have taken place. This is a fact, and probably there have been not a few similar instances in the last two or three generations. Adelaida Ivanovna Miusov's action was similarly, no doubt, an echo of other people's ideas, and was due to the irritation caused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her feminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism of her family. And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must suppose, for a brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his parasitic position, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that progressive epoch, though he was, in fact, an ill-natured buffoon and nothing more. What gave the marriage piquancy was that it was preceded by an elopement, and this greatly captivated Adelaida Ivanovna's fancy. Fyodor Pavlovitch's position at the time made him specially eager for any such enterprise, for he was passionately anxious to make a career in one way or another. To attach himself to a good family and obtain a dowry was an alluring prospect. As for mutual love it did not exist apparently, either in the bride or in him, in spite of Adelaida Ivanovna's beauty. This was, perhaps, a unique case of the kind in the life of Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was always of a voluptuous temper, and ready to run after any petticoat on the slightest encouragement. She seems to have been the only woman who made no particular appeal to his senses. Immediatley after the elopement Adelaida Ivanovna discerned in a flash that she had no feeling for her husband but contempt. The marriage accordingly showed itself in its true colours with extraordinary rapidity. Although the family accepted the event pretty quickly and apportioned the runaway bride her dowry, the husband and wife began to lead a most disorderly life, and there were everlasting scenes between them. It was said that the young wife showed incomparably more generosity and dignity than Fyodor Pavlovitch, who, as is now known, got hold of all her money up to twenty five thousand roubles as soon as she received it, so that those thousands were lost to her forever. The little village and the rather fine town house which formed part of her dowry he did his utmost for a long time to transfer to his name, by means of some deed of conveyance. He would probably have succeeded, merely from her moral fatigue and desire to get rid of him, and from the contempt and loathing he aroused by his persistent and shameless importunity. But, fortunately, Adelaida Ivanovna's family intervened and circumvented his greediness. It is known for a fact that frequent fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumour had it that Fyodor Pavlovitch did not beat his wife but was beaten by her, for she was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-browed, impatient woman, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the house and ran away from Fyodor Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity student, leaving Mitya, a child of three years old, in her husband's hands. Immediately Fyodor Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the house, and abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals he used to drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all of Adelaida Ivanovna's having left him, going into details too disgraceful for a husband to mention in regard to his own married life. What seemed to gratify him and flatter his self-love most was to play the ridiculous part of the injured husband, and to parade his woes with embellishments. "One would think that you'd got a promotion, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you seem so pleased in spite of your sorrow," scoffers said to him. Many even added that he was glad of a new comic part in which to play the buffoon, and that it was simply to make it funnier that he pretended to be unaware of his ludicrous position. But, who knows, it may have been simplicity. At last he succeeded in getting on the track of his runaway wife. The poor woman turned out to be in Petersburg, where she had gone with her divinity student, and where she had thrown herself into a life of complete emancipation. Fyodor Pavlovitch at once began bustling about, making preparations to go to Petersburg, with what object he could not himself have said. He would perhaps have really gone; but having determined to do so he felt at once entitled to fortify himself for the journey by another bout of reckless drinking. And just at that time his wife's family received the news of her death in Petersburg. She had died quite suddenly in a garret, according to one story, of typhus, or as another version had it, of starvation. Fyodor Pavlovitch was drunk when he heard of his wife's death, and the story is that he ran out into the street and began shouting with joy, raising his hands to Heaven: "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," but others say he wept without restraint like a little child, so much so that people were sorry for him, in spite of the repulsion he inspired. It is quite possible that both versions were true, that he rejoiced at his release, and at the same time wept for her who released him. As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naive and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.

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