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Updated: June 20, 2025
The good-natured police captain said a great deal that was irregular, but Grushenka’s suffering, a fellow creature’s suffering, touched his good-natured heart, and tears stood in his eyes. Mitya jumped up and rushed towards him. “Forgive me, gentlemen, oh, allow me, allow me!” he cried. “You’ve the heart of an angel, an angel, Mihail Makarovitch, I thank you for her.
The head-gardener, Mihail Karlovitch, a venerable old man with a full shaven face, wearing a fur waistcoat and no coat, superintended the packing of the plants himself, but at the same time he listened to our conversation in the hope of hearing something new. He was an intelligent, very good-hearted man, respected by everyone.
"Yes, that's what I expected!" she said to herself with an evil smile. "Very good, you can go home then," she said softly, addressing Mihail. She spoke softly because the rapidity of her heart's beating hindered her breathing. "No, I won't let you make me miserable," she thought menacingly, addressing not him, not herself, but the power that made her suffer, and she walked along the platform.
She sank into a chair. 'It's two months. 'And had you been married to him long? 'I had been a year with him. 'Where have you come from now? 'From out Tula way.... There's a village there, Znamenskoe-Glushkovo perhaps you may know it. I am the daughter of the deacon there. Mihail Andreitch and I lived there.... He lived in my father's house. We were a whole year together.
"Why, manage like Mihail Petrovitch, or let the land for half the crop or for rent to the peasants; that one can do only that's just how the general prosperity of the country is being ruined. Where the land with serf-labor and good management gave a yield of nine to one, on the half-crop system it yields three to one. Russia has been ruined by the emancipation!"
You can't go on like this . . . . Excuse me speaking openly as a friend," whispered Mihail Averyanitch. "You live in the most unfavourable surroundings, in a crowd, in uncleanliness, no one to look after you, no money for proper treatment. . . . My dear friend, the doctor and I implore you with all our hearts, listen to our advice: go into the hospital!
One day Mihail Averyanitch came after dinner when Andrey Yefimitch was lying on the sofa. It so happened that Hobotov arrived at the same time with his bromide. Andrey Yefimitch got up heavily and sat down, leaning both arms on the sofa. "You have a much better colour to-day than you had yesterday, my dear man," began Mihail Averyanitch. "Yes, you look jolly. Upon my soul, you do!"
There he lay on the table, with open eyes, and the moon shed its light upon him at night. In the morning Sergey Sergeyitch came, prayed piously before the crucifix, and closed his former chief's eyes. Next day Andrey Yefimitch was buried. Mihail Averyanitch and Daryushka were the only people at the funeral.
Only his fair hair and scanty beard, and, perhaps, a certain coarseness and frigidity in his features showed traces of his descent from Barons of the Baltic provinces; everything else his name, Mihail Mihailovitch, his religion, his ideas, his manners, and the expression of his face were purely Russian.
Why are you sitting here like two toads, poisoning the air with your breath? Give over!" And without waiting for them to finish their gossip I prepare to go home. And, indeed, it is high time: it is past ten. "I will stay a little longer," says Mihail Fyodorovitch. "Will you allow me, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?" "I will," answers Katya. "Bene! In that case have up another little bottle."
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