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Updated: June 17, 2025
Altogether she lives in an expensive style; she has taken a big detached villa with a large garden, and has taken all her town retinue with her two maids, a coachman... I often ask her: "Katya, what will you live on when you have spent your father's money?" "Then we shall see," she answers. "That money, my dear, deserves to be treated more seriously. It was earned by a good man, by honest labour."
Mihail Fyodorovitch takes two packs of cards off the whatnot and begins to play patience. According to him, some varieties of patience require great concentration and attention, yet while he lays out the cards he does not leave off distracting his attention with talk. Katya watches his cards attentively, and more by gesture than by words helps him in his play.
Besides this, even the previous evening Anna Sergyevna had not been herself; and Katya herself had felt ill at ease, as though she were conscious of some fault in herself. As she yielded to Arkady's entreaties, she said to herself that it was for the last time.
They were very polite, but it wasn't nice seeing them stand there with their rifles in the middle of the dining-room. Katya offered them some wine. But they wouldn't touch it. They said they had been told not to, and they looked quite angry with her for offering it.
Katya went off into a happy laugh, cried, and laid her hands reverently on her idol's shoulders.
They asked Mitya whether he admitted having written the letter. “It’s mine, mine!” cried Mitya. “I shouldn’t have written it, if I hadn’t been drunk!... We’ve hated each other for many things, Katya, but I swear, I swear I loved you even while I hated you, and you didn’t love me!” He sank back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair.
"And what then?" asked Sisoy in the next room. "Then we drank tea . . ." answered Marya Timofyevna. "Good gracious, you've got a green beard," said Katya suddenly in surprise, and she laughed. The bishop remembered that the grey-headed Father Sisoy's beard really had a shade of green in it, and he laughed.
"Ah, blast you!" he heard the widow railing at Katya. "Damnation take you!" The artist drank a glass of vodka, and the dark cloud in his soul gradually disappeared, and he felt as though all his inside was smiling within him. He began dreaming. . . . His fancy pictured how he would become great.
"You have changed in many respects since your marriage, and for the better," said Sergey Ivanovitch, smiling to Kitty, and obviously little interested in the conversation, "but you have remained true to your passion for defending the most paradoxical theories." "Katya, it's not good for you to stand," her husband said to her, putting a chair for her and looking significantly at her.
“That’s what I loved you for, that you are generous at heart!” broke from Katya. “My forgiveness is no good to you, nor yours to me; whether you forgive me or not, you will always be a sore place in my heart, and I in yours—so it must be....” She stopped to take breath. “What have I come for?” she began again with nervous haste: “to embrace your feet, to press your hands like this, till it hurts—you remember how in Moscow I used to squeeze them—to tell you again that you are my god, my joy, to tell you that I love you madly,” she moaned in anguish, and suddenly pressed his hand greedily to her lips.
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