ISBN is

9780460006774 / 0460006770

Liza (Everyman's Library)

by

3.92 avg rating1,685 ratings by GoodReads

Publisher:Dutton Adult, 1969

Edition:Hardcover

Language:English

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About the book:

Excerpt: ...had never married; but he had fallen in love countless times, and he always wrote poetry about all his loves: with especial fervor did he sing about a mysterious, raven-haired "lady." It was rumored, indeed, that this "lady" was nothing more than a Jewess, and one who had numerous friends among cavalry officers; but, after all, if one thinks the matter over, it is not one of much importance. With Lemm, Mikhalevich did not get on well. His extremely loud way of talking, his rough manners, frightened the German, to whom they were entirely novel. One unfortunate man immediately and from afar recognizes another, but in old age he is seldom willing to associate with him. Nor is that to be wondered at. He has nothing to share with him-not even hopes. Before he left, Mikhalevich had another long talk with Lavretsky, to whom he predicted utter ruin if he did not rouse himself, and whom he entreated to occupy himself seriously with the question of the position of his serfs. He set himself up as a pattern for imitation, saying that he had been purified in the furnace of misfortune; and then he several times styled himself a happy man, comparing himself to a bird of the air, a lily of the valley. "A dusky lily, at all events," remarked Lavretsky. "Ah, brother, don't come the aristocrat," answered Mikhalevich good-humoredly; "but rather thank God that in your veins also there flows simple plebeian blood. But I see you are now in need of some pure, unearthly being, who might rouse you from your apathy." "Thanks, brother," said Lavretsky; "I have had quite enough of those unearthly beings." "Silence, cyneec!"A exclaimed Mikhalevich. Footnote A: He says Tsuinnik instead of Tsinik. "Cynic," said Lavretsky, correcting him. "Just so, cyneec," repeated the undisconcerted Mikhalevich. Even when he had taken his seat in the tarantass, in which his flat and marvellously light portmanteau had been stowed away, he still went on talking. Enveloped in a kind of Spanish...

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