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Updated: June 26, 2025
Misha, come here, my boy, drink this glass to Phœbus, the golden-haired, of to-morrow morn....” “What are you giving it him for?” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably. “Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!” “E—ech!” Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out. “He’ll remember it afterwards,” Mitya remarked. “Woman, I love woman! What is woman? The queen of creation!
'To-day's Friday, your Ex s s lency. 'Eh? What? What's Friday? What Friday? 'Friday, your Ex s s s lency, the day of the week. 'What, do you pretend to teach me, eh? Matvy Ilyitch was a higher official all the same, though he was reckoned a liberal.
Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, whom we left knocking at the strong locked gates of the widow Morozov’s house, ended, of course, by making himself heard. Fenya, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours before, and too much “upset” to go to bed, was almost frightened into hysterics on hearing the furious knocking at the gate.
“Good heavens! What is the matter?” “I’ve come for my pistols,” said Mitya, “and brought you the money. And thanks very much. I’m in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyitch, please make haste.”
But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?” “I have,” said Mitya, winking slyly. “What have you stolen?” inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously. “I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave it back three days after.” As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up. “Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won’t you come now?” called Andrey from the door of the shop. “Are you ready?
"I was looking for you, uncle," he said. "Moisey Ilyitch sends you his greetings and bids you come to him at once." Yakov felt in no mood for this. He wanted to cry. "Leave me alone," he said, and walked on. "How can you," Rothschild said, fluttered, running on in front. "Moisey Ilyitch will be offended! He bade you come at once!"
I’d hardly had time to thank him when in comes Pyotr Ilyitch, and Rakitin suddenly looked as black as night. I could see that Pyotr Ilyitch was in the way, for Rakitin certainly wanted to say something after giving me the verses. I had a presentiment of it; but Pyotr Ilyitch came in. I showed Pyotr Ilyitch the verses and didn’t say who was the author.
“Well, you may go to the devil!” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second thoughts. “What’s it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it’s cost you nothing.” “This way, my economist, this way, don’t be angry.” Mitya drew him into a room at the back of the shop. “They’ll give us a bottle here directly. We’ll taste it. Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me, for you’re a nice fellow, the sort I like.”
When Pyotr Ilyitch was questioned later on as to the sum of money, he said that it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been two thousand, or perhaps three, but it was a big, “fat” bundle. “Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” so he testified afterwards, “seemed unlike himself, too; not drunk, but, as it were, exalted, lost to everything, but at the same time, as it were, absorbed, as though pondering and searching for something and unable to come to a decision.
Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder horn, and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle. “Why are you looking at the bullet?” asked Pyotr Ilyitch, watching him with uneasy curiosity. “Oh, a fancy.
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