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Updated: June 26, 2025
And remember, Misha, if you are called Misha—His name is Misha, isn’t it?” He turned to Pyotr Ilyitch again. “Wait a minute,” Protr Ilyitch intervened, listening and watching him uneasily, “you’d better go yourself and tell them. He’ll muddle it.” “He will, I see he will! Eh, Misha!
The simple pathos, and the apparent indirectness of such a tale as that of 'Poticoushka, the peasant conscript, is of vastly more value to the world at large than all his parables; and 'The Death of Ivan Ilyitch, the Philistine worldling, will turn the hearts of many more from the love of the world than such pale fables of the early Christian life as "Work while ye have the Light."
But that is just how it is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one, with the decisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Pyotr Ilyitch was by no means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all his life how a haunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him, growing more and more painful and driving him on, against his will.
When Pyotr Ilyitch, though still unwilling to believe in it, threatened to tell some one so as to prevent the suicide, Mitya had answered grinning: “You’ll be too late.” So they must make haste to Mokroe to find the criminal, before he really did shoot himself.
But, having nonplussed his subordinate, Matvy Ilyitch paid him no further attention. Our higher officials are fond as a rule of nonplussing their subordinates; the methods to which they have recourse to attain that end are rather various.
“But I shan’t have change enough. Haven’t you less?” “No,” said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones. “No, they’re all alike,” he added, and again he looked inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch.
But by the end of the third game, Pyotr Ilyitch felt no more desire for billiards; he laid down the cue, and without having supper as he had intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the market-place he stood still in perplexity, wondering at himself.
A WELL-FED, red-cheeked young man called Nikolay Ilyitch Belyaev, of thirty-two, who was an owner of house property in Petersburg, and a devotee of the race-course, went one evening to see Olga Ivanovna Irnin, with whom he was living, or, to use his own expression, was dragging out a long, wearisome romance.
And he's giving a great ball the day after to-morrow. 'Will you be at the ball? inquired Arkady. 'He gives it in my honour, answered Matvy Ilyitch, almost pityingly. 'Do you dance? 'Yes; I dance, but not well. 'That's a pity! There are pretty girls here, and it's a disgrace for a young man not to dance.
And scandal was what Pyotr Ilyitch dreaded more than anything in the world. Yet the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he stamped his foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s but to Madame Hohlakov’s.
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