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Makar Kuzmitch drops his hands and asks in a fright: "Who is betrothed?" "Anna." "How's that? To whom?" "To Sheikin. Prokofy Petrovitch. His aunt's a housekeeper in Zlatoustensky Lane. She is a nice woman. Naturally we are all delighted, thank God. The wedding will be in a week. Mind you come; we will have a good time."
You see, I deceived him just now, I made him promise to believe me and I told him a lie. I told him that I was going to spend the evening with my old man, Kuzma Kuzmitch, and should be there till late counting up his money. I always spend one whole evening a week with him making up his accounts. We lock ourselves in and he counts on the reckoning beads while I sit and put things down in the book.
On the little table, as greasy and unwashed as Makar Kuzmitch himself, there is everything: combs, scissors, razors, a ha'porth of wax for the moustache, a ha'porth of powder, a ha'porth of much watered eau de Cologne, and indeed the whole barber's shop is not worth more than fifteen kopecks.
"I'll do it with pleasure. Please sit down." With a scrape of his foot Makar Kuzmitch indicates a chair. Yagodov sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking-glass displays a face awry, with Kalmuck lips, a broad, blunt nose, and eyes in the forehead.
“She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while, and went off again.” “What? Went away?” cried Mitya. “When did she go?” “Why, as soon as she came. She only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma Kuzmitch a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away.” “You’re lying, damn you!” roared Mitya. “Aie! Aie!” shrieked the old woman, but Mitya had vanished.
A cricket chirped in the corner ... the rain pattered on the roof and streamed down the windows; we were all silent. 'Foma Kuzmitch, said the peasant suddenly in a thick, broken voice; 'Foma Kuzmitch! 'What is it? 'Let me go. Biryuk made no answer. 'Let me go ... hunger drove me to it; let me go. 'I know you, retorted the forester severely; 'your set's all alike all thieves.
"We have not come in to . . . er-er-er . . . supper, nor to see Yevgraf Kuzmitch. We have come to ask you, madam, where is Mark Ivanovitch whom you have murdered?" "What? What Mark Ivanovitch?" faltered the superintendent's wife, and her full face was suddenly in one instant suffused with crimson. "I . . . don't understand." "I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klyauzov?
On the way here it seemed all right, and now it’s nothing but nonsense.” The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind. All the while he had been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching him with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment in suspense, Kuzma Kuzmitch pronounced at last in the most positive and chilling tone: “Excuse me, we don’t undertake such business.”
"But how's this, Erast Ivanitch?" says Makar Kuzmitch, pale, astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. "It's . . . it's utterly impossible. Why, Anna Erastovna . . . why I . . . why, I cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. How could it happen?" "Why, we just went and betrothed her. He's a good fellow." Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of Makar Kuzmitch.
And there is no money to buy wood to mend it with." "I'll give you the wood, Kuzma Kuzmitch." Zamuhrishen asks for and gets a cow too, a letter of recommendation for his daughter whom he wants to send to a boarding school, and . . . touched by the lady's liberality he whimpers with excess of feeling, twists his mouth, and feels in his pocket for his handkerchief . . . .
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