possible, sir, how can I help feeling it!

BOLSHÓV. Well, then, I suppose you don't love her?

PODKHALYÚZIN. How can I help loving her, sir? Good gracious, it seems as if
I loved her more than anything on earth. But no, Samsón Sílych, how is it
possible, sir!

BOLSHÓV. You ought to have said: "I love her, you see, more than anything
on earth."

PODKHALYÚZIN. How can I help loving her, sir? Please consider yourself:
all day, I think, and all night, I think--Oh, dear me, of course Olimpiáda
Samsónovna is a young lady whose like can't be found on earth--But no, that
cannot be, sir. What chance have I, sir?

BOLSHÓV. What cannot be, you poor soft-head?

PODKHALYÚZIN. How can it be possible, Samsón Sílych? Knowing you, sir, as I
do, like my own father, and Olimpiáda Samsónovna, sir; and again, knowing
myself for what I'm worth--what chance have I with my calico snout, sir?

BOLSHÓV. Calico nothing. Your snout'll do! So long as you have brains in
your head--and you don't have to borrow any; because God has endowed you
in that way. Well, Lázar, suppose I try to make a match between you and
Olimpiáda Samsónovna, eh? That indescribable beauty, eh?

PODKHALYÚZIN. Good gracious, would I dare? It may be that Olimpiáda
Samsónovna won't look kindly on me, sir!