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Updated: June 29, 2025
“My dear Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” said Trifon Borissovitch, “make them give you back the money you lost. It’s as good as stolen from you.” “I don’t want my fifty roubles back,” Kalganov declared suddenly. “I don’t want my two hundred, either,” cried Mitya, “I wouldn’t take it for anything! Let him keep it as a consolation.” “Bravo, Mitya!
You can keep your own socks and underclothes.” Mitya flew into a passion. “I won’t have other people’s clothes!” he shouted menacingly, “give me my own!” “It’s impossible!” “Give me my own. Damn Kalganov and his clothes, too!” It was a long time before they could persuade him. But they succeeded somehow in quieting him down.
But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants do. “We must apologize most humbly, your reverence,” began Miüsov, simpering affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. “Pardon us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch.
I see you’re sad.... Yes, I see it,” she added, looking intently into his eyes. “Though you keep kissing the peasants and shouting, I see something. No, be merry. I’m merry; you be merry, too.... I love somebody here. Guess who it is. Ah, look, my boy has fallen asleep, poor dear, he’s drunk.” She meant Kalganov. He was, in fact, drunk, and had dropped asleep for a moment, sitting on the sofa.
“Well, now I’ll go,” thought Kalganov, and walking out of the blue room, he closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy in the larger room went on and grew louder and louder. Mitya laid Grushenka on the bed and kissed her on the lips.
“Look how pretty he is,” said Grushenka, taking Mitya up to him. “I was combing his hair just now; his hair’s like flax, and so thick....” And, bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Kalganov instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most anxious air inquired where was Maximov? “So that’s who it is you want.” Grushenka laughed. “Stay with me a minute.
Kalganov looked as though he had been besmirched with dirt. “It’s swinish, all this peasant foolery,” he murmured, moving away; “it’s the game they play when it’s light all night in summer.” He particularly disliked one “new” song to a jaunty dance-tune.
Pointing to Kalganov, she said to Mitya: “What a dear, charming boy he is!” And Mitya, delighted, ran to kiss Kalganov and Maximov. Oh, great were his hopes! She had said nothing yet, and seemed, indeed, purposely to refrain from speaking. But she looked at him from time to time with caressing and passionate eyes. At last she suddenly gripped his hand and drew him vigorously to her.
Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove up with Miüsov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the university.
But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no reply. “Good-by, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-by!” he heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on. Mitya had time to seize and press his hand.
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