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He came into God's world, I remember, in 1828, at his father's native place and property, in one of the sleepiest corners of a sleepy province of the steppes. Misha's father, Andrei Nikolaevitch Poltyev, I remember well to this day.
So it was with those people their desperateness was without an object. But there, if you'll allow me, I'll tell you the story of my nephew, or rather cousin, Misha Poltyev. It may serve as an example of the desperate characters of those days.
Her face was simple, roundish, not without charm; she looked dejected and gloomy, and was shy and awkward in her movements. 'You are Madame Poltyev? I inquired, and I asked her to sit down. 'Yes, she answered in a subdued voice, and she did not sit down. 'I am the widow of your nephew, Mihail Andreevitch Poltyev. 'Is Mihail Andreevitch dead? Has he been dead long? But sit down, I beg.
To my glance of inquiry, he responded that the lady asking for me was young, poorly dressed, and had come in a peasant's cart with one horse, which she was driving herself! I told him to ask Madame Poltyev up to my room. I saw a woman of five-and-twenty, in the dress of the small tradesman class, with a large kerchief on her head.
Three years later, I was again at home in the country; all of a sudden a servant came in and announced that Madame Poltyev was asking to see me. I knew no Madame Poltyev, and the servant, who made this announcement, for some unknown reason smiled sarcastically.
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