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Updated: May 20, 2025
Trirodov said: "It's not quite large enough. I should like to acquire the rest of it for my colony." "I shouldn't like to let the rest go," remarked Rameyev. "It belongs to Piotr and Misha." "As far as it concerns me," put in Piotr, "I'd sell my share with the greatest pleasure before those 'comrade' fellows take it from me for nothing."
Next to him sat a University student who was coaching him, and Missy's cousin, Michael Sergeivitch Telegin, generally called Misha; opposite him, Katerina Alexeevna, a 40-year-old maiden lady, a Slavophil; and at the foot of the table sat Missy herself, with an empty place by her side. "Ah! that's right! Sit down.
Then came Prince Korchagin, with his thick lips, apoplectic neck, and a travelling cap on his head; behind him Missy, her cousin Misha, and an acquaintance of Nekhludoff's the long-necked diplomat Osten, with his protruding Adam's apple and his unvarying merry mood and expression. He was saying something very emphatically, though jokingly, to the smiling Missy.
But I could not expel Mísha, whom I had invited in. He himself extricated me from this dilemma. That very day before I had even left my study I suddenly heard a dull and vicious voice behind me. "Nikolái Nikoláitch, hey there, Nikolái Nikoláitch!" I looked round. In the doorway stood Mísha, with a terrible, lowering, distorted visage. "What dost thou want?" "Let me go ... this very moment!"
Moreover, she was constantly engrossed by anxieties: in the first place, over her really feeble health; in the second place, over the health of her husband, whose fits always inspired her with something akin to superstitious terror; and, in conclusion, over her only son, Mísha, whom she reared herself with great zeal.
So it was with those people their desperateness was without an object. But there, if you'll allow me, I'll tell you the story of my nephew, or rather cousin, Misha Poltyev. It may serve as an example of the desperate characters of those days.
And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It’s not only the money, though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction.” “Ivan is above that. He wouldn’t make up to any one for thousands. It is not money, it’s not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it’s suffering he is seeking.” “What wild dream now? Oh, you—aristocrats!” “Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage.
Andréi Nikoláevitch did not prevent his wife's busying herself with Mísha but on one condition: she was never, under any circumstances, to depart from the limits, which had been defined once for all, wherein everything in his house must revolve!
She walked through all the rooms, humming and looking out of window; stopping in the drawing-room, she could not resist beginning to talk to Mishenka. "I don't know what you think of yourself, Misha," she said, and heaved a sigh. "Really, God might punish you for it." "What do you mean?" "You know what I mean. Excuse my meddling in your affairs.
"You have been the one attachment in my life," the doctor went on, "and you cannot imagine how deeply my feeling is wounded by falsehood . . . . Come, I entreat you, Olga, for once in your life, tell me the truth. . . . At these moments one cannot lie. Tell me that Misha is not my son. I am waiting." "He is."
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