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Updated: May 13, 2025
Poverty weighs on me worse than illness. . . . For example, take this . . . It's the time to sow oats, and how is one to sow it if one has no seed? I ought to buy it, but the money . . . everyone knows how we are off for money. . . ." "I will give you oats, Kuzma Kuzmitch. . . . Sit down, sit down.
My Yevgraf Kuzmitch is not at home. . . . He is staying at the priest's. But we can get on without him. Sit down. Have you come from an inquiry?" "Yes. . . . We have broken one of our springs, you know," began Tchubikov, going into the drawing-room and sitting down in an easy-chair. "Take her by surprise at once and overwhelm her," Dyukovsky whispered to him.
The young wife of our old police superintendent, Yevgraf Kuzmitch, Olga Petrovna; that's who it is! She bought that box of matches!" "You . . . you. . . . Are you out of your mind?" "It's very natural! In the first place she smokes, and in the second she was head over ears in love with Klyauzov. He rejected her love for the sake of an Akulka. Revenge.
He clears his throat, wrinkles up his forehead, and remains silent for a full minute. "I say, Semyon Mitritch," he says hotly, getting up and twitching not only in his right cheek but all over his face. "It's God's truth. . . . May the Almighty strike me dead, after Easter I shall get something from Stepan Kuzmitch for an axle, and I will pay you not one rouble but two! May the Lord chastise me!
Dyukovsky asked quietly. "I beg you not to put your spoke in," Tchubikov answered roughly. "Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience, Yevgraf Kuzmitch," he added to the police superintendent, dropping his voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . . . The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same.
"I woke up in the servants' kitchen on the stove . . . . They can all confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can't say. . . ." "Don't disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?" "Oh well, not particularly." "Did she leave you for Klyauzov?" "Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have some tea, Yevgraf Kuzmitch?"
Mitya suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him. “What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmitch?” he muttered, with a pale smile. “I suppose it’s all up with me—what do you think?” “Excuse me....” Mitya remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a movement in the old man’s face. He started.
'My little horse, the peasant went on, 'my poor little horse, at least ... our only beast ... let it go. 'I tell you I can't. I'm not a free man; I'm made responsible. You oughtn't to be spoilt, either. 'Let me go! It's through want, Foma Kuzmitch, want and nothing else let me go! 'I know you! 'Oh, let me go! 'Ugh, what's the use of talking to you! sit quiet, or else you'll catch it.
I’m afraid I’ve overtaxed your strength. I shall never forget it. It’s a Russian says that, Kuzma Kuzmitch, a R-r-russian!” “To be sure!” Mitya seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in the old man’s eye. Mitya drew back his hand, but at once blamed himself for his mistrustfulness. “It’s because he’s tired,” he thought. “For her sake! For her sake, Kuzma Kuzmitch!
Beside herself with terror, and by now feeling a violent hatred for the man, Marya Petrovna gathers up her bundles and hurriedly departs. Half-way home she remembers that she has forgotten to ask for her three roubles, but after stopping and thinking for a minute, with a wave of her hand, she goes on. MORNING. It is not yet seven o'clock, but Makar Kuzmitch Blyostken's shop is already open.
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