The speculator fairly flung apart his hands in surprise.—"You do not wish to live?"
Mísha cast a menacing glance at the speculator:—"Does that surprise you? Are not you the cause of it all?… Is it not you?… Is it not thou?…[15] Is it not thou, Judas, who hast robbed me, by taking advantage of my youth? Dost not thou skin the peasants? Is it not thou who hast deprived this decrepit old man of his daily bread? Is it not thou?… O Lord! Everywhere there is injustice, and oppression, and villainy…. So down with everything,—and with me also! I don't wish to live—I don't wish to live any longer in Russia!"—And the spade made swifter progress than ever in Mísha's hands.
"The devil knows the meaning of this!" thought the speculator: "he actually is burying himself."—"Mikhaíl Andréitch,"—he began afresh, "listen; I really am guilty toward you; people did not represent you properly to me."
Mísha went on digging.
"But why this recklessness?"
Mísha went on digging—and flung the dirt on the speculator, as much as to say: "Take that, earth-devourer!"
"Really, you have no cause for this. Will not you come to my house to eat and rest?"
Mísha raised his head a little. "Now you're talking! And will there be anything to drink?"
The speculator was delighted.—"Good gracious!… I should think so!"
"And dost thou invite Timoféi also?"