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"Yes, I've come, as you see," said Pyotr Mihalitch, brushing the rain off himself with both hands. "Well, that's capital! I'm very glad," said Vlassitch, but he did not hold out his hand: evidently he did not venture, but waited for Pyotr Mihalitch to hold out his. "It will do the oats good," he said, looking at the sky. "Yes." They went into the house in silence.
"No, I have no right," muttered Pyotr Mihalitch. "But so much the better. . . . The harsher I am, the less right I have to interfere, the better." It was sultry. Clouds of gnats hung over the ground and in the waste places the peewits called plaintively. Everything betokened rain, but he could not see a cloud in the sky.
He rode up to the dark figure: it was an old rotten post, the relic of some shed. From Koltovitch's copse and garden there came a strong fragrant scent of lilies of the valley and honey-laden flowers. Pyotr Mihalitch rode along the bank of the pond and looked mournfully into the water.
The good man could not help saying, "Well, what an absurd constitution; the man's dying; he's certain to die, and he keeps hanging on, lingering, taking up space for nothing, and keeping out others." Well, I thought to myself, "So you are in a bad way, Mihal Mihalitch...." And, after all, I got well, and am alive till now, as you may see for yourself. You are right, to be sure.
'No, sir, he's still alive but as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. I was running for Seliverstitch, for the doctor. Ardalion Mihalitch told the constable to gallop to the village for Seliverstitch, while he himself pushed on at a quick trot to the clearing.... I followed him. We found poor Maksim on the ground. The peasants were standing about him. We got off our horses.
On one of my excursions I received an invitation to dine at the house of a rich landowner and sportsman, Alexandr Mihalitch G . His property was four miles from the small village where I was staying at the time. I put on a frock-coat, an article without which I advise no one to travel, even on a hunting expedition, and betook myself to Alexandr Mihalitch's.
Three-quarters of a mile to the right of the church there was a copse like a dark blur it was Count Koltonovitch's. And beyond the church Vlassitch's estate began. From behind the church and the count's copse a huge black storm-cloud was rising, and there were ashes of white lightning. "Here it is!" thought Pyotr Mihalitch. "Lord help us, Lord help us!"
Nevertheless, Pyotr Mihalitch was fond of Vlassitch; he was conscious of a sort of power in him, and for some reason he had never had the heart to contradict him. Vlassitch sat down quite close to him for a talk in the dark, to the accompaniment of the rain, and he had cleared his throat as a prelude to beginning on something lengthy, such as the history of his marriage.
He hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment, and bit his lips, fast turning blue.... The lower part of his face was twitching; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young lime-tree glided softly over his face. We bent down to him. He recognised Ardalion Mihalitch.
"We'll wait for five years, ten years, and be patient, and then God's will be done." She took her brother's arm, and when she walked through the dark hall she squeezed close to him. They went out on the steps. Pyotr Mihalitch said good-bye, got on his horse, and set off at a walk; Zina and Vlassitch walked a little way with him.
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