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Updated: June 7, 2025
The gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from Groholsky, was singing, was beating Groholsky and her, was flogging the boy under the window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in the chaise. . . . Oh, dreams!
When towards two o'clock in the morning he had drunk too much vodka and champagne, he would take Mishutka in his arms, and weeping, say to him, before Groholsky and Liza: "Mihail, my son, what am I? I . . . am a scoundrel. I have sold your mother! Sold her for thirty pieces of silver, may the Lord punish me! Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? Lost! Gone! Sold into slavery!
He is such a pretty boy. Such an exquisite boy!" Groholsky pondered, while Liza went on talking and talking. "This is an unexpected meeting," said Groholsky, after prolonged and, as usual, harrassing reflection. "Well, who could have expected that we should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be it. It seems that it is fated. I can imagine the awkwardness of his position when he meets us."
Patches of red came out of her cheeks, her eyes swelled, and tears flowed down her kittenish face. . . . "What is it?" cried Groholsky in a flutter. "Liza! what's the matter? Come! what are you crying for? What a girl! Come, what is it? Darling! Little woman!" Liza held out her hands to Groholsky, and hung on his neck. There was a sound of sobbing. "I am sorry for him . . ." muttered Liza.
Liza and Groholsky thought at the same moment, while they did not know what to do with their heavy hands and embarrassed eyes. . . . The petrified husband, rosy-faced, turned white. An agonising, strange, soul-revolting silence lasted for three minutes. Oh, those three minutes! Groholsky remembers them to this day. The first to move and break the silence was the husband.
Groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid before Bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and bundles of papers. The heap was big, and of all sorts of hues and tints. Never in the course of his life had Bugrov seen such a heap. He spread out his fat fingers and, not looking at Groholsky, fell to going through the bundles of notes and bonds. . . .
Bugrov began on seeing Groholsky, "such disorder . . . such disorder . . . Please sit down. You must excuse my being in the costume of Adam and Eve. . . . It's of no consequence. . . . Horrible disorderliness! I don't understand how people can exist here, I don't understand it!
One is Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There's Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . The west! Good-bye!" Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to his ladies.
Just when the partridges, Groholsky's favorite dish, had been put on the table, Liza was suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky began wiping his face with his dinner napkin. On the verandah of the villa opposite they saw Bugrov. He was standing with his arms leaning on the parapet, and staring straight at them, with his eyes starting out of his head.
GROHOLSKY embraced Liza, kept kissing one after another all her little fingers with their bitten pink nails, and laid her on the couch covered with cheap velvet. Liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands behind her head, and lay down. Groholsky sat down in a chair beside her and bent over. He was entirely absorbed in contemplation of her.
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