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Updated: May 24, 2025
One of the most respected of our club members, on our committee of management, Pyotr Pavlovitch Gaganov, an elderly man of high rank in the service, had formed the innocent habit of declaring vehemently on all sorts of occasions: "No, you can't lead me by the nose!" Well, there is no harm in that. He could have had no grudge against Mr. Gaganov.
He regards it as extravagance to pay for having his hair cut and is waiting for the hair to grow of itself on the shaven side. He danced at the wedding in that condition. PYOTR PETROVITCH STRIZHIN, the nephew of Madame Ivanov, the colonel's widow the man whose new goloshes were stolen last year, came home from a christening party at two o'clock in the morning.
"A friend, that is to say," said Pyotr quietly. "He has character, indeed he has; he esteems himself highly, as he ought to; he has put a high price on himself, as he ought to. There's a man, Tatyana! You say " "Is he married?" Tatyana interposed, and compressed the thin lips of her small mouth. "He's a widower," answered the mother sadly. "That's why he's so brave," remarked Tatyana.
A bright summer day looked in at the widely open windows; in the garden below the windows, the sparrows and the magpies never ceased chattering for one instant. The drawers were shut now, her husband's bed had been made. There was no sign of the midwife or of the maid, or of Varvara in the room, only Pyotr Dmitritch was standing, as before, motionless by the window looking into the garden.
Pyotr, her husband, a very thin old man with a brownish bald patch, had come with her; he stood looking straight before him like a blind man. On the stove a piece of pork was being braised in a saucepan; it was spurting and hissing, and seemed to be actually saying: "Flu-flu-flu." It was stifling. "What am I to write?" Yegor asked again.
I always knew and was convinced that nothing good would come of your Pyotr! I told you so, and I tell you so now. What you have sown, that now you must reap! Reap it!" "But what have I sown, Father Fyodor?" the deacon asked softly, looking up at his Reverence. "Why, who is to blame if not you? You're his father, he is your offspring!
But having questioned Pyotr Ilyitch, and learned that he wanted to see Fenya on very “important business,” the man made up his mind at last to open.
Did she really?” said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him dubiously. “As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phœbus, ever young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out.” “I don’t know on what terms you are ... since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you.
The female choir was singing, a nun was reading the prayers for the day. How stifling, how hot it was! How long the service went on! Bishop Pyotr was tired. His breathing was laboured and rapid, his throat was parched, his shoulders ached with weariness, his legs were trembling. And it disturbed him unpleasantly when a religious maniac uttered occasional shrieks in the gallery.
You wait a minute, when you do come . . . ." And feeling a craving to vent his wrath and impatience upon someone, the man of learning goes to the door leading to his wife's room and knocks. "Listen, Katya," he says in an indignant voice. "If you see Pyotr Danilitch, tell him that decent people don't do such things. It's abominable!
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