Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin

“ If ye but knew how dreadful ’tis To bear love’s parching agonies— To burn, yet reason keep awake The fever of the blood to slake— A passionate desire to bend And, sobbing at your feet, to blend Entreaties, woes and prayers, confess All that the heart would fain express— Yet with a feigned frigidity To arm the tongue and e’en the eye, To be in conversation clear And happy unto you appear. So be it! But internal strife I cannot longer wage concealed. The die is cast! Thine is my life! Into thy hands my fate I yield! ”

“ No, no, impossible; it cannot be! Papa, hear me: if you have resolved to destroy me, then I will find a protector that you do not dream of. You will see, and then you will regret having driven me to despair.”
“What? What?” said Troekouroff. “Threats! threats to me? Insolent girl! Do you know that I will do with you what you little imagine. You dare to frighten me, you worthless girl! We will see who this protector will be.”
“Vladimir Doubrovsky,” replied Masha, in despair.
Kirila Petrovitch thought that she had gone out of her mind, and looked at her in astonishment. ”

“ Pugatchéf's eyes flashed.
"Who among my people would dare to harm an orphan?" cried he. "Were he ever so brazen-faced, he should never escape my vengeance! Speak, who is the guilty one?"
"Chvabrine," replied I; "he keeps in durance the same young girl whom you saw with the priest's wife, and he wants to force her to become his wife."
"I'll give him a lesson, Master Chvabrine!" cried Pugatchéf, with a fierce air. "He shall learn what it is to do as he pleases under me, and to oppress my people. I'll hang him."
"Bid me speak a word," broke in Khlopúsha, in a hoarse voice. ”

“ The son of Kurbsky, nurtured in exile, Forgetting all the wrongs borne by thy father, Redeeming his transgression in the grave, Ready art thou for the son of great Ivan To shed thy blood, to give the fatherland Its lawful tsar. Righteous art thou; thy soul Should flame with joy. KURBSKY. And dost not thou likewise Rejoice in spirit? There lies our Russia; she Is thine, tsarevich! There thy people's hearts Are waiting for thee, there thy Moscow waits, Thy Kremlin, thy dominion. PRETENDER. Russian blood, O Kurbsky, first must flow! Thou for the tsar Hast drawn the sword, thou art stainless ”

“ Anyhow, even at the risk of offending critics, I have decided to misstate myself by not giving the life of Pushkin rather than to misstate poor Pushkin by giving an attenuated, vapid thing, which passes under the name of a "Sketch." The world judges a man by what is known of him, forgetting that underneath the thin film of the known lies the immeasurable abyss of the unknown, and that the true explanation of the man is found not in what is visible of him, but in what is invisible of him. ”

“ Pougatcheff gave me a sharp, quick glance. “You do not believe that I am the emperor, Peter III? Be it so. Have not bold men succeeded before me and obtained the crown? Think what you please about me, but stay with me. What matters it whom you serve? Success is right. Serve under me, and I will make you a field-marshal, a prince. What say you?”
“No,” said I. “I am a nobleman. I have taken an oath to her majesty, the Empress; I can not serve with you. If truly you wish me well, send me to Orenbourg.” ”

“ His death's head grinned affably at the undertaker. Shreds of green and red cloth and of rotten linen hung on him as on a pole; while the bones of his feet clattered inside his heavy boots like pestles in mortars.
"You do not recognise me, Prohoroff?" said the skeleton. "Don't you remember the retired, sergeant in the guards, Peter Petrovitch Kurilkin, him to whom you in the year 1799 sold your first coffin, and of deal instead of oak?" With these words the corpse stretched out his long arms to embrace him. ”