Sasha lay there and smiled a quiet, indefinite smile. A vague desire awoke in him, and sweetly tormented him. And when Liudmilla kissed his knees and feet the kisses aroused languorous, half-dreaming musings in him. He wanted to do something, something pleasant or painful, gentle or shameful—but what? To kiss her feet? Or to beat her long, hard, with long flexible twigs, so that she would laugh with joy or cry with pain? Perhaps she desired one or the other. But that was not enough. What then did she want? Here they were both half-naked, and with their freed flesh was bound desire and a restraining shame—but what then was the mystery of the flesh? And how then could he bring his blood and his body as an exquisite sacrifice to her desires, and to his shame?
And Liudmilla languished and stirred at his feet, going pale from impossible desires, now growing cold. She whispered passionately:
"Am I not beautiful? Haven't I burning eyes? Haven't I wonderful hair? Then caress me! Take me close to you! Tear off my bracelets, pull off my necklace!"
Sasha felt terrified, and impossible desires tormented him agonisingly.
[CHAPTER XXVII]
Peredonov awoke in the morning. Someone was looking at him with huge, cloudy, four-cornered eyes. Wasn't it Pilnikov? Peredonov walked up to the window and spat on the evil apparition. Everything seemed bewitched. The wild nedotikomka squealed and the people and the beasts looked malignantly and craftily at Peredonov. Everything was hostile to him, he was one against all. During lessons at the gymnasia Peredonov slandered his colleagues, the Head-Master, the parents and the pupils. The students listened to him in astonishment. Some, vulgarians by nature, truckled to Peredonov and showed their sympathy with him. Others remained gravely silent or defended their parents hotly, when Peredonov assailed them. Peredonov looked morosely and timorously on these boys, and avoided them, muttering something to himself.
At some of the lessons Peredonov amused his pupils by absurd comments.
They were reading the lines from Pushkin:
"The sun rises in a cold mist;
The harvest-fields are silent;
The wolf goes out on the road
With his hungry mate."