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Updated: June 12, 2025
The snow of the little quadrangle before the house was lit up by a light in the bedroom windows of his old nurse, Agafea Mihalovna, who performed the duties of housekeeper in his house. She was not yet asleep. Kouzma, waked up by her, came sidling sleepily out onto the steps.
When Olga Mihalovna came to herself again after a pain she was no longer sobbing nor tossing from side to side, but moaning. She could not refrain from moaning even in the intervals between the pains. The candles were still burning, but the morning light was coming through the blinds. It was probably about five o'clock in the morning.
There was nothing out of the way in Pyotr Dmitritch's lazily raking together the hay in order to sit down on it with Lubotchka and chatter to her of trivialities; there was nothing out of the way, either, in pretty Lubotchka's looking at him with her soft eyes; but yet Olga Mihalovna felt vexed with her husband and frightened and pleased that she could listen to them.
And she waited in silence for Varvara to say something herself. "Olya, we are going indoors," Pyotr Dmitritch called from the raspberries. Olga Mihalovna liked being silent, waiting and watching Varvara. She would have been ready to stay like that till night without speaking or having any duty to perform. But she had to go.
He jeered at the way in which she arranged the furniture they had brought from Moscow; rearranged their room; hung up curtains; prepared rooms for visitors; a room for Dolly; saw after an abode for her new maid; ordered dinner of the old cook; came into collision with Agafea Mihalovna, taking from her the charge of the stores.
In the verandah the gentlemen were drinking liqueur and eating strawberries: one of them, the Examining Magistrate a stout elderly man, blagueur and wit must have been telling some rather free anecdote, for, seeing their hostess, he suddenly clapped his hands over his fat lips, rolled his eyes, and sat down. Olga Mihalovna did not like the local officials.
But everything in general was terrible, incomprehensible, and it already seemed to Olga Mihalovna that Pyotr Dmitritch only half belonged to her. "He has no right to do it!" she muttered, trying to formulate her jealousy and her vexation with her husband. "He has no right at all. I will tell him so plainly!"
At nine o'clock they heard the bell and the faint vibration of a carriage over the mud. "Well, here's visitors come to us, and you won't be dull," said Agafea Mihalovna, getting up and going to the door. But Levin overtook her. His work was not going well now, and he was glad of a visitor, whoever it might be.
The old grow older while the young grow up. . . . Have you had dinner?" "Oh, please don't trouble!" said the student. "Why, you have not had dinner?" "For goodness' sake, don't trouble!" "But I suppose you are hungry?" Olga Mihalovna said it in a harsh, rude voice, with impatience and vexation it escaped her unawares, but at once she coughed, smiled, and flushed crimson.
"I showed you Christopher Fedoritch's cantata on the express condition that you said nothing about it to him?" "I beg your pardon, Lisaveta Mihalovna, the words slipped out unawares." "You have hurt his feelings and mine too. Now he will not trust even me." "How could I help it, Lisaveta Mihalovna? Ever since I was a little boy I could never see a German without wanting to teaze him."
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