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Updated: June 20, 2025
Avdotya Romanovna couldn't help laughing when she looked at him. "You may both be mistaken about Rodya," Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. "I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can't imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and, so to say, capricious he is.
And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I know my way about. We'll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital." Dounia's eyes shone. "I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!" she said.
"The queen who mended her stockings in prison," he thought, "must have looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levees." "My God!" exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, "little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch," she added, glancing at him timidly.
KATYA SERGYEVNA, her sister. PORFIRY PLATONITCH, her neighbor. MATVY ILYITCH KOLYAZIN, government commissioner. VIKTOR SITNIKOV, a would-be liberal. PROKOFITCH, head servant to Nikolai. DUNYASHA, a maid servant. MITYA, infant of Fedosya. TIMOFEITCH, manager for Vassily.
Pavel Petrovitch's unexpected action had alarmed every one in the house, and her more than any one; Prokofitch was the only person not agitated by it; he discoursed upon how gentlemen in his day used to fight, but only with real gentlemen; low curs like that they used to order a horsewhipping in the stable for their insolence.
Nikolai Petrovitch gave a sidelong glance at his son, and the carriage went on a half-a-mile further before the conversation was renewed between them. 'I don't recollect whether I wrote to you, began Nikolai Petrovitch, 'your old nurse, Yegorovna, is dead. 'Really? Poor thing! Is Prokofitch still living? 'Yes, and not a bit changed. As grumbling as ever.
He had just heard that blight had begun to appear in his wheat, upon which he had in particular rested his hopes. Pavel Petrovitch overwhelmed every one, even Prokofitch, with his icy courtesy. Bazarov began a letter to his father, but tore it up, and threw it under the table. 'If I die, he thought, 'they will find it out; but I'm not going to die.
It was the same with Dmitri Prokofitch, who called here yesterday. I admit mine to be a caustic temperament, that mine is a horrid disposition, but that such a meaning could possibly be attributed to harmless remarks. He called here yesterday, when you had gone, and in the course of dinner he talked, talked. You had sent him, had you not? But do sit down, batuchka! do sit down, for heaven's sake!"
"Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!" "Naturally," answered Razumihin. "I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years' separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you?
They are worrying and persecuting you through a stupid and contemptible suspicion.... Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I don't think so, and I fully understand how indignant you must be, and that that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That's what I am afraid of.
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