Chapter III: Part 3

I was sitting in a birch grove in autumn, near the middle of September. It had been drizzling ever since morning; occasionally the sun shone warmly--the weather was changeable. Now the sky was overcast with watery white clouds, now it suddenly cleared up for an instant, and then the bright, soft azure, like a beautiful eye, appeared from beyond the dispersed clouds. I was sitting looking about me and listening. The leaves were slightly rustling over my head; and by their very rustle one could tell what season of the year it was. It was not the gay, laughing palpitation of spring; not a soft whispering, nor the lingering chatter of summer, nor the timid and cold lisping of late autumn, but a barely audible, drowsy prattle. A faint breeze was whisking over the tree-tops. The interior of the grove, moist from the rain, was forever changing, as the sun shone or hid beyond the clouds; now the grove was all illuminated as if everything in it had burst into a smile; the trunks of the birch trees suddenly assumed the soft reflection of white silk; the small leaves which lay scattered on the ground all at once became variegated and flashed up like red gold; and the pretty stalks of the tall, branchy ferns, already tinted in their autumn hue, resembling the color of overripe grapes, appeared here and there tangling and crossing one another. Now again everything suddenly turned blue; the bright colors died out instantaneously, the birch trees stood all white, lustreless, like snow which had not yet been touched by the coldly playing rays of the winter sun--and stealthily, slyly, a drizzling rain began to sprinkle and whisper over the forest. The leaves on the birches were almost all green yet, though they had turned somewhat pale; only here and there stood a solitary young little birch, all red or all golden, and one should have seen how brightly these birches flushed in the sun when its rays suddenly appeared gliding and flashing through the dense net of the thin branches which had just been washed around by the sparkling rain. Not a single bird was heard; all had found shelter, and were silent; only rarely the mocking voice of the bluebird sang out like a little steel bell. Before stopping in this birch forest I passed with my dog through a poplar grove. I confess I am not very fond of the poplar tree with its pale lilac-colored trunk and its grayish-green, metallic leaves, which it lifts high and spreads in the air like a trembling fan--I do not like the constant shaking of its round, untidy leaves, which are so awkwardly attached to long stems. The poplar is pretty only on certain summer evenings when, rising high amid the low shrubbery, it stands against the red rays of the setting sun, shining and trembling, bathed from root to top in uniform yellowish purple--or when, on a clear windy day, it rocks noisily, lisping against the blue sky, and each leaf seems as if eager to tear itself away, to fly and hurry off into the distance. But in general I do not like this tree, and, therefore, not stopping to rest in the poplar grove, I made my way to the birch forest, and seated myself under a tree whose branches started near the ground, and thus could protect me from the rain. Having admired the surrounding view, I fell asleep--I slept that tranquil, sweet sleep which is familiar to hunters only.

I can not say how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes the entire interior of the forest was filled with sunshine, and everywhere the bright blue sky was flashing through the cheerfully droning leaves; the clouds disappeared, driven asunder by the wind which had begun to play; the weather was clear now, and one felt in the air that peculiar, dry freshness which, filling the heart with a certain vigorous sensation, almost always predicts a quiet, clear night after a rainy day. I was about to rise and try my luck at hunting again, when my eyes suddenly fell on a motionless human figure. I gazed at it fixedly; it was a young peasant girl. She was sitting some twenty feet away from me, her head bowed pensively and her hands dropped on her knees; in one hand, which was half open, lay a heavy bunch of field flowers, and every time she breathed the flowers were softly gliding over her checkered skirt. A clear white shirt, buttoned at the neck and the wrists, fell in short, soft folds about her waist; large yellow beads were hanging down from her neck on her bosom in two rows. She was not at all bad-looking. Her heavy fair hair, of a beautiful ash color, parted in two neatly combed half-circles from under a narrow, dark-red head-band, which was pulled down almost to her ivory-white forehead; the rest of her face was slightly tanned with the golden sunburn peculiar to a tender skin. I could not see her eyes--she did not lift them; but I saw her thin, high eyebrows, her long lashes; these were moist, and on her cheek gleamed a dried-up teardrop, which had stopped near her somewhat pale lips. Her entire small head was very charming; even her somewhat thick and round nose did not spoil it. I liked especially the expression of her face; it was so simple and gentle, so sad and so full of childish perplexity before her own sadness. She was apparently waiting for some one. Something cracked faintly in the forest. Immediately she raised her head and looked around; her eyes flashed quickly before me in the transparent shade--they were large, bright, and shy like a deer’s. She listened for a few seconds, not moving her wide-open eyes from the spot whence the faint sound had come; she heaved a sigh, turned her head slowly, bent down still lower and began to examine the flowers. Her eyelids turned red, her lips quivered bitterly and a new teardrop rolled down from under her heavy eyelashes, stopping and sparkling on her cheek. Thus quite a long while passed; the poor girl did not stir--only occasionally she moved her hands and listened--listened all the time. Something cracked once more in the forest--she startled. This time the noise did not stop, it was becoming more distinct, it was nearing--at last firm footsteps were heard. She straightened herself, and it seemed as if she lost her courage, for her eyes began to quiver. The figure of a man appeared through the jungle. She looked fixedly, suddenly flushed, and, smiling joyously and happily, seemed about to rise, but she immediately cast down her head again, turned pale, confused--only then she lifted her quivering, almost prayerful, eyes to the man as he paused beside her.

I looked at him from my hiding-place with curiosity. I confess he did not produce a pleasant impression upon me. He was, by all appearances, a spoiled valet of some rich young man. His clothes betokened a claim to taste and smart carelessness. He wore a short top-coat of bronze color, which evidently belonged to his master, and which was buttoned up to the very top; he had on a pink necktie with lilac-colored edges; and his black velvet cap, trimmed with gold stripes, was pulled over his very eyebrows. The round collar of his white shirt propped his ears up and cut his cheeks mercilessly, and the starched cuffs covered his hands up to his red, crooked fingers, which were ornamented with silver and gold rings, set with forget-me-nots of turquoise. His red, fresh, impudent face belonged to those countenances which, as far as I have observed, are almost always repulsive to men, but, unfortunately, are often admired by women. Apparently trying to give an expression of contempt and of weariness to his rough features, he was forever closing his small, milky-gray eyes, knitting his brows, lowering the corners of his lips, yawning forcedly, and, with careless, although not too clever, ease, now adjusting his reddish, smartly twisted temple-curls, now fingering the yellow hair which bristled upon his thick upper lip--in a word, he was making an insufferable display of himself. He started to do this as soon as he noticed the young peasant girl who was awaiting him. He advanced to her slowly, with large strides, then stood for a while, twitched his shoulders, thrust both hands into the pockets of his coat, and, casting a quick and indifferent glance at the poor girl, sank down on the ground.

“Well?” he began, continuing to look aside, shaking his foot and yawning. “Have you waited long?”

The girl could not answer him at once.

“Long, Victor Alexandrovich,” she said at last, in a scarcely audible voice.

“Ah!” He removed his cap, majestically passed his hand over his thick, curly hair whose roots started almost at his eyebrows, and, looking around with dignity, covered his precious head again cautiously. “And I almost forgot all about it. Besides, you see, it’s raining.” He yawned again. “I have a lot of work to do; you can’t look after everything, and he is yet scolding. We are leaving to-morrow--”

“To-morrow?” uttered the girl, and fixed a frightened look upon him.

“To-morrow.--Come, come, come, please,” he replied quickly, vexed, noticing that she quivered, and bowed her head in silence. “Please, Akulina, don’t cry. You know I can’t bear it” (and he twitched his flat nose). “If you don’t stop, I’ll leave you right away. What nonsense--to whimper!”

“Well, I shan’t, I shan’t,” said Akulina hastily, swallowing the tears with an effort. “So you’re going away to-morrow?” she added, after a brief silence. “When will it please God to have me meet you again, Victor Alexandrovich?”

“We’ll meet, we’ll meet again. If it isn’t next year, it’ll be later. My master, it seems, wants to enter the service in St. Petersburg,” he went on, pronouncing the words carelessly and somewhat indistinctly. “And it may be that we’ll go abroad.”

“You will forget me, Victor Alexandrovich,” said Akulina sadly.

“No--why should I? I’ll not forget you, only you had rather be sensible; don’t make a fool of yourself; obey your father.--And I’ll not forget you.--Oh, no; oh, no.” And he stretched himself calmly and yawned again.

“Do not forget me, Victor Alexandrovich,” she resumed in a beseeching voice. “I have loved you so much, it seems--all, it seems, for you.--You tell me to obey father, Victor Alexandrovich.--How am I to obey my father--?”

“How’s that?” He pronounced these words as if from the stomach, lying on his back and holding his hands under his head.

“Why, Victor Alexandrovich--you know it yourself--”

She fell silent. Victor fingered his steel watch-chain.

“Akulina, you are not a foolish girl,” he said at last, “therefore don’t talk nonsense. It’s for your own good, do you understand me? Of course, you are not foolish, you’re not altogether a peasant, so to say, and your mother wasn’t always a peasant either. Still, you are without education--therefore you must obey when you are told to.”

“But it’s terrible, Victor Alexandrovich.”

“Oh, what nonsense, my dear--what is she afraid of! What is that you have there,” he added, moving closer to her, “flowers?”

“Flowers,” replied Akulina sadly. “I have picked some field tansies,” she went on, with some animation. “They’re good for the calves. And here I have some marigolds--for scrofula. Here, look, what a pretty flower! I haven’t seen such a pretty flower in all my life. Here are forget-me-nots, and--and these I have picked for you,” she added, taking from under the tansies a small bunch of cornflowers, tied around with a thin blade of grass; “do you want them?”

Victor stretched out his hand lazily, took the flowers, smelt them carelessly, and began to turn them around in his fingers, looking up with thoughtful importance. Akulina gazed at him. There was so much tender devotion, reverent obedience, and love in her pensive eyes. She at once feared him, and yet she dared not cry, and inwardly she bade him farewell, and admired him for the last time; and he lay there, stretched out like a sultan, and endured her admiration with magnanimous patience and condescension. I confess I was filled with indignation as I looked at his red face, which betrayed satisfied selfishness through his feigned contempt and indifference. Akulina was so beautiful at this moment. All her soul opened before him trustingly and passionately--it reached out to him, caressed him, and he.... He dropped the cornflowers on the grass, took out from the side-pocket of his coat a round glass in a bronze frame and began to force it into his eye; but no matter how hard he tried to hold it with his knitted brow, his raised cheek, and even with his nose, the glass dropped out and fell into his hands.

“What’s this?” asked Akulina at last, with surprise.

“A lorgnette,” he replied importantly.

“What is it for?”

“To see better.”

“Let me see it.”

Victor frowned, but gave her the glass.

“Look out; don’t break it.”

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll not break it.” She lifted it timidly to her eye.

“I can’t see anything,” she said naively.

“Shut your eye,” he retorted in the tone of a dissatisfied teacher. She closed the eye before which she held the glass.

“Not that eye, not that one, you fool! The other one!” exclaimed Victor, and, not allowing her to correct her mistake, he took the lorgnette away from her.

Akulina blushed, laughed slightly, and turned away.

“It seems it’s not for us.”

“Of course not!”

The poor girl maintained silence, and heaved a deep sigh.

“Oh, Victor Alexandrovich, how will I get along without you?” she said suddenly.

Victor wiped the lorgnette and put it back into his pocket.

“Yes, yes,” he said at last. “At first it will really be hard for you.” He tapped her on the shoulder condescendingly; she quietly took his hand from her shoulder and kissed it. “Well, yes, yes, you are indeed a good girl,” he went on, with a self-satisfied smile; “but it can’t be helped! Consider it yourself! My master and I can’t stay here, can we? Winter is near, and to pass the winter in the country is simply nasty--you know it yourself. It’s a different thing in St. Petersburg! There are such wonders over there that you could not imagine even in your dreams, you silly.--What houses, what streets, and society, education--it’s something wonderful!--” Akulina listened to him with close attention, slightly opening her lips like a child. “However,” he added, wriggling on the ground, “why do I say all this to you? You can’t understand it anyway!”

“Why not, Victor Alexandrovich? I understood, I understood everything.”

“Just think of her!”

Akulina cast down her eyes.

“You did not speak to me like this before, Victor Alexandrovich,” she said, without lifting her eyes.

“Before?--Before! Just think of her!--Before!” he remarked, indignantly.

Both grew silent.

“However, it’s time for me to go,” said Victor, and leaned on his elbow, about to rise.

“Wait a little,” said Akulina in an imploring voice.

“What for? I have already said to you, Good-by!”

“Wait,” repeated Akulina.

Victor again stretched himself on the ground and began to whistle. Akulina kept looking at him steadfastly. I could see that she was growing agitated by degrees--her lips twitched, her pale cheeks were reddening.

“Victor Alexandrovich,” she said at last in a broken voice, “it’s a sin for you, it’s a sin, Victor Alexandrovich, by God!”

“What’s a sin?” he asked, knitting his brows. He raised his head and turned to her.

“It’s a sin, Victor Alexandrovich. If you would only say a good word to me before leaving--if you would only say one word to me, miserable little orphan that I am--”

“But what shall I say to you?”

“I don’t know. You know that better than I do, Victor Alexandrovich. Here you are going away--if you would only say one word.--What have I done to deserve this?”

“How strange you are! What can I say?”

“If only one word--”

“There she’s firing away one and the same thing,” he muttered with vexation, and got up.

“Don’t be angry, Victor Alexandrovich,” she added hastily, unable to repress her tears.

“I’m not angry--only you are foolish.--What do you want? I can’t marry you! I can’t, can I? Well, then, what do you want? What?” He stared at her, as if awaiting an answer, and opened his fingers wide.

“I want nothing--nothing,” she replied, stammering, not daring to outstretch her trembling hands to him, “but simply so, at least one word, at parting--”

And the tears began to stream from her eyes.

“Well, there you are, she’s started crying,” said Victor indifferently, pulling the cap over his eyes.

“I don’t want anything,” she went on, sobbing and covering her face with her hands; “but how will I feel now at home, how will I feel? And what will become of me, what will become of me, wretched one that I am? They’ll marry the poor little orphan off to a man she does not like. My poor little head!”

“Keep on singing, keep on singing,” muttered Victor in a low voice, stirring restlessly.

“If you only said one word, just one: ‘Akulina--I--’”

Sudden heart-rending sobs interrupted her. She fell with her face upon the grass and cried bitterly, bitterly--All her body shook convulsively, the back of her neck seemed to rise.--The long-suppressed sorrow at last burst forth in a stream of tears. Victor stood a while near her, then he shrugged his shoulders, turned around and walked off with large steps.

A few moments went by. She grew silent, lifted her head, looked around and clasped her hands; she was about to run after him, but her feet failed her--she fell down on her knees. I could not endure it any longer and rushed over to her; but before she had time to look at me, she suddenly seemed to have regained her strength--and with a faint cry she rose and disappeared behind the trees, leaving the scattered flowers on the ground.

I stood a while, picked up the bunch of cornflowers, and walked out of the grove to the field. The sun was low in the pale, clear sky; its rays seemed to have faded and turned cold; they did not shine now, they spread in an even, almost watery, light. There was only a half-hour left until evening, and twilight was setting in. A violent wind was blowing fast toward me across the yellow, dried-up stubble-field; the small withered leaves were carried quickly past me across the road; the side of the grove which stood like a wall by the field trembled and flashed clearly, but not brightly; everywhere on the reddish grass, on the blades, and the straw, innumerable autumn cobwebs flashed and trembled. I stopped. I began to feel sad; it seemed a dismal fear of approaching winter was stealing through the gay, though fresh, smile of fading nature. High above me, a cautious raven flew by, heavily and sharply cutting the air with his wings; then he turned his head, looked at me sidewise, and, croaking abruptly, disappeared beyond the forest; a large flock of pigeons rushed past me from a barn, and, suddenly whirling about in a column, they came down and stationed themselves bustlingly upon the field--a sign of spring autumn! Somebody rode by beyond the bare hillock, making much noise with an empty wagon.

I returned home, but the image of poor Akulina did not leave my mind for a long time, and the cornflowers, long withered, are in my possession to this day.

THE COUNTING-HOUSE
BY IVAN TURGENEV

Translated by Constance Garnett.

It was autumn. For some hours I had been strolling across country with my gun, and should probably not have returned till evening to the tavern on the Kursk high-road, where my three-horse trap was awaiting me, had not an exceedingly fine and persistent rain, which had worried me all day with the obstinacy and ruthlessness of some old maiden lady, driven me at last to seek at least a temporary shelter somewhere in the neighborhood. While I was still deliberating in which direction to go, my eye suddenly fell on a low shanty near a field sown with peas. I went up to the shanty, glanced under the thatched roof, and saw an old man so infirm that he reminded me at once of the dying goat Robinson Crusoe found in some cave on his island. The old man was squatting on his heels, his little dim eyes half closed, while hurriedly, but carefully, like a hare (the poor fellow had not a single tooth), he munched a dry, hard pea, incessantly rolling it from side to side. He was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not notice my entrance.

“Grandfather! hey, grandfather!” said I. He ceased munching, lifted his eyebrows high, and with an effort opened his eyes.

“What?” he mumbled in a broken voice.

“Where is there a village near?” I asked.

The old man fell to munching again. He had not heard me. I repeated my question louder than before.

“A village?--But what do you want?”

“Why, shelter from the rain?”

“What?”

“Shelter from the rain.”

“Ah!” He scratched his sunburnt neck. “Well, now, you go,” he said suddenly, waving his hands indefinitely, “so--as you go by the copse--see, as you go--there’ll be a road; you pass it by, and keep right on to the right; keep right on, keep right on, keep right on.--Well, there will be Ananyevo. Or else you’d go to Sitovka.”

I followed the old man with difficulty. His mustaches muffled his voice, and his tongue too did not obey him readily.

“Where are you from?” I asked him.

“What?”

“Where are you from?”

“Ananyevo.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m watchman.”

“Why, what are you watching?”

“The peas.”

I could not help smiling.

“Really!--how old are you?”

“God knows.”

“Your sight’s failing, I expect.”

“What?”

“Your sight’s failing, I daresay?”

“Yes, it’s failing. At times I can hear nothing.”

“Then how can you be a watchman, eh?”

“Oh, my elders know about that.”

“Elders!” I thought, and I gazed not without compassion at the poor old man. He fumbled about, pulled out of his bosom a bit of coarse bread, and began sucking it like a child, with difficulty moving his sunken cheeks.

I walked in the direction of the copse, turned to the right, kept on, kept right on as the old man had advised me, and at last got to a large village with a stone church in the new style, _i. e._, with columns, and a spacious manor-house, also with columns. While still some way off I noticed through the fine network of falling rain a cottage with a deal roof, and two chimneys, higher than the others, in all probability the dwelling of the village elder; and toward it I bent my steps in the hope of finding, in this cottage, a samovár, tea, sugar, and some not absolutely sour cream. Escorted by my half-frozen dog, I went up the steps into the outer room, opened the door, and instead of the usual appurtenances of a cottage, I saw several tables, heaped up with papers, two red cupboards, bespattered inkstands, pewter boxes of blotting sand weighing half a hundred-weight, long penholders, and so on. At one of the tables was sitting a young man of twenty with a swollen, sickly face, diminutive eyes, a greasy-looking forehead, and long, straggling locks of hair. He was dressed, as one would expect, in a gray nankeen coat, shiny with wear at the waist and the collar.

“What do you want?” he asked me, flinging his head up like a horse taken unexpectedly by the nose.

“Does the bailiff live here--or--”

“This is the principal office of the manor,” he interrupted. “I’m the clerk on duty.--Didn’t you see the sign-board? That’s what it was put up for.”

“Where could I dry my clothes here? Is there a samovár anywhere in the village?”

“Samovars, of course,” replied the young man in the gray coat with dignity; “go to Father Timofey’s, or to the servants’ cottage, or else to Nazar Tarasitch, or to Agrafena, the poultry woman.”

“Who are you taking to, you blockhead? Can’t you let me sleep, dummy!” shouted a voice from the next room.

“Here’s a gentleman’s come in to ask where he can dry himself.”

“What sort of a gentleman?”

“I don’t know. With a dog and a gun.”

A bedstead creaked in the next room. The door opened, and there came in a stout, short man of fifty, with a bull neck, goggle eyes, extraordinarily round cheeks, and his whole face positively shining with sleekness.

“What is it you wish?” he asked me.

“To dry my things.”

“There’s no place here.”

“I didn’t know this was the counting-house; I am willing, though, to pay--”

“Well, perhaps it could be managed here,” rejoined the fat man; “won’t you come inside here?” He led me into another room, but not the one he had come from. “Would this do for you?”

“Very well.--And could I have tea and milk?”

“Certainly, at once. If you’ll meantime take off your things and rest, the tea shall be got ready this minute.”

“Whose property is this?”

“Madame Losnyakova’s, Elena Nikolaevna.”

He went out. I looked round: against the partition separating my room from the office stood a huge leather sofa; two high-backed chairs, also covered in leather, were placed on both sides of the solitary window which looked out on the village street. On the walls, covered with a green paper with pink patterns on it, hung three immense oil paintings. One depicted a setter dog with a blue collar, bearing the inscription: “This is my consolation”; at the dog’s feet flowed a river; on the opposite bank of the river a hare of quite disproportionate size, with ears cocked up, was sitting under a pine tree. In another picture two old men were eating a melon; behind the melon was visible in the distance a Greek temple with the inscription: “The Temple of Satisfaction.” The third picture represented the half-nude figure of a woman in a recumbent position, much foreshortened, with red knees and very big heels. My dog had, with superhuman efforts, crouched under the sofa, and apparently found a great deal of dust there, as he kept sneezing violently. I went to the window. Boards had been laid across the street in a slanting direction from the manor-house to the counting-house--a very useful precaution, as, thanks to our rich black soil and the persistent rain, the mud was terrible. In the grounds of the manor-house, which stood with its back to the street, there was the constant going and coming there always is about manor-houses: maids in faded chintz gowns flitted to and fro; house-serfs sauntered through the mud, stood still, and scratched their spines meditatively; the constable’s horse, tied up to a post, lashed his tail lazily, and, with his nose high up, gnawed at the hedge; hens were clucking; sickly turkeys kept up an incessant gobble-gobble. On the steps of a dark, crumbling out-house, probably the bath-house, sat a stalwart lad with a guitar, singing with some spirit the well-known ballad:

“I’m leaving this enchanting spot
To go into the desert.”

The fat man came into the room.

“They’re bringing you in your tea,” he told me, with an affable smile.

The young man in the gray coat, the clerk on duty, laid on the old card-table a samovár, a teapot, a tumbler on a broken saucer, a jug of cream, and a bunch of Bolhovo biscuit rings. The fat man went out.

“What is he?” I asked the clerk; “the steward?”

“No, sir; he was the chief cashier, but now he has been promoted to be head clerk.”

“Haven’t you got a steward, then?”

“No, sir. There’s an agent, Mihal Vikulov, but no steward.”

“Is there a manager, then?”

“Yes; a German, Lindamandol, Karlo Karlitch; only he does not manage the estate.”

“Who does manage it, then?”

“Our mistress herself.”

“You don’t say so. And are there many of you in the office?”

The young man reflected.

“There are six of us.”

“Who are they?” I inquired.

“Well, first there’s Vassily Nikolaevitch, the head cashier; then Piotr, one clerk; Piotr’s brother, Iván, another clerk; the other Iván, a clerk; Konstantin Narkizer, another clerk; and me here--there’s a lot of us, you can’t count all of them.”

“I suppose your mistress has a great many serfs in her house?”

“No, not to say a great many.”

“How many, then?”

“I dare say it runs up to about a hundred and fifty.”

We were both silent for a little.

“I suppose you write a good hand, eh?” I began again.

The young man grinned from ear to ear, went into the office and brought in a sheet covered with writing.

“This is my writing,” he announced, still with the same smile on his face.

I looked at it; on the square sheet of grayish paper there was written, in a good bold hand, the following document:

“ORDER: From the Chief Office of the Manor of Ananyevo to the
Agent, Mihal Vikulov. No. 209.

“_Whereas_, Some person unknown entered the garden at Ananyevo last
night in an intoxicated condition, and with unseemly songs waked
the French governess, Madame Engêne, and disturbed her; and whether
the watchman saw anything, and who were on watch in the garden and
permitted such disorderliness: as regards all the above-written
matters, your orders are to investigate in detail, and report
immediately to the Office.”

“_Head Clerk_, NIKOLAI HVOSTOV.”

A huge heraldic seal was attached to the order, with the inscription: “Seal of the chief office of the manor of Ananyevo;” and below stood the signature: “To be executed exactly, Elena Losnyakova.”

“Your lady signed it herself, eh?” I queried.

“To be sure; she always signs herself. Without that the order would be of no effect.”

“Well, and now shall you send this order to the agent?”

“No, sir. He’ll come himself and read it. That’s to say, it’ll be read to him; you see, he’s no scholar.” The clerk on duty was silent again for a while. “But what do you say?” he added, simpering; “is it well written?”

“Very well written.”

“It wasn’t composed, I must confess, by me. Konstantin is the great one for that.”

“What?--Do you mean the orders have first to be composed among you?”

“Why, how else could we do? Couldn’t write them off straight without making a fair copy.”

“And what salary do you get?” I inquired.

“Thirty-five rubles, and five rubles for boots.”

“And are you satisfied?”

“Of course I am satisfied. It’s not every one can get into an office like ours. It was God’s will, in my case, to be sure; I’d an uncle who was in service as a butler.”

“And you’re well off?”

“Yes, sir. Though, to tell the truth,” he went on, with a sigh, “a place at a merchant’s, for instance, is better for the likes of us. At a merchant’s they’re very well off. Yesterday evening a merchant came to us from Venev, and his man got talking to me.--Yes, that’s a good place, no doubt about it; a very good place.”

“Why? Do the merchants pay more wages?”

“Lord preserve us! Why, a merchant would soon give you the sack if you asked him for wages. No, at a merchant’s you must live on trust and on fear. He’ll give you food, and drink, and clothes, and all. If you give him satisfaction, he’ll do more.--Talk of wages, indeed! You don’t need them.--And a merchant, too, lives in plain Russian style, like ourselves; you go with him on a journey--he has tea, and you have it; what he eats, you eat. A merchant--one can put up with; a merchant’s a very different thing from what a gentleman is; a merchant’s not whimsical; if he’s out of temper, he’ll give you a blow, and there it ends. He doesn’t nag nor sneer.--But with a gentleman it’s a woeful business! Nothing’s as he likes it--this is not right, and that he can’t fancy. You hand him a glass of water or something to eat: ‘Ugh, the water stinks! positively stinks!’ You take it out, stay a minute outside the door, and bring it back: ‘Come, now, that’s good; this doesn’t stink now.’ And as for the ladies, I tell you, the ladies are something beyond everything!--and the young ladies above all!--”

“Fedyushka!” came the fat man’s voice from the office. The clerk went out quickly. I drank a glass of tea, lay down on the sofa, and fell asleep. I slept for two hours.

When I woke I meant to get up, but I was overcome by laziness; I closed my eyes, but did not fall asleep again. On the other side of the partition, in the office, they were talking in subdued voices. Unconsciously I began to listen.

“Quite so, quite so, Nikolai Eremyitch,” one voice was saying; “quite so. One can’t but take that into account; yes, certainly! Hm!” The speaker coughed.

“You may believe me, Gavrila Antonitch,” replied the fat man’s voice; “don’t I know how things are done here? Judge for yourself.”

“Who does, if you don’t, Nikolai Eremyitch? You’re, one may say, the first person here. Well, then, how’s it to be?” pursued the voice I did not recognize; “what decision are we to come to, Nikolai Eremyitch? Allow me to put the question.”

“What decision, Gavrila Antonitch? The thing depends, so to say, on you; you don’t seem overanxious.”

“Upon my word, Nikolai Eremyitch, what do you mean? Our business is trading, buying; it’s our business to buy. That’s what we live by, Nikolai Eremyitch, one may say.”

“Eight rubles a measure,” said the fat man emphatically.

A sigh was audible.

“Nikolai Eremyitch, sir, you ask a heavy price.”

“Impossible, Gavrila Antonitch, to do otherwise; I speak as before God Almighty; impossible.”

Silence followed.

I got up softly and looked through a crack in the partition. The fat man was sitting with his back to me. Facing him sat a merchant, a man about forty, lean and pale, who looked as if he had been rubbed with oil. He was incessantly fingering his beard, and very rapidly blinking and twitching his lips.

“Wonderful the young green crops this year, one may say,” he began again; “I’ve been going about everywhere admiring them. All the way from Voronezh they’ve come up wonderfully, first-class, one may say.”

“The crops are pretty fair, certainly,” answered the head clerk; “but you know the saying, Gavrila Antonitch, autumn bids fair, but spring may be foul.”

“That’s so, indeed, Nikolai Eremyitch; all is in God’s hands; it’s the absolute truth what you’ve just remarked, sir.--But perhaps your visitor’s awake now?”

The fat man turned round--listened--

“No, he’s asleep. He may, though--”

He went to the door.

“No, he’s asleep,” he repeated, and went back to his place.

“Well, so what are we to say, Nikolai Eremyitch?” the merchant began again; “we must bring our little business to a conclusion.--Let it be so, Nikolai Eremyitch, let it be so,” he went on, blinking incessantly; “two gray notes and a white for your favor, and there” (he nodded in the direction of the house), “six and a half. Done, eh?”

“Four gray notes,” answered the clerk.

“Come, three, then.”

“Four grays and no white.”

“Three, Nikolai Eremyitch.”

“Three and a half, and not a farthing less.”

“Three, Nikolai Eremyitch.”

“You’re not talking sense, Gavrila Antonitch.”

“My, what a pig-headed fellow!” muttered the merchant. “Then I’d better arrange it with the lady herself.”

“That’s as you like,” answered the fat man; “far better, I should say. Why should you worry yourself, after all? Much better, indeed!”

“Well, well! Nikolai Eremyitch. I lost my temper for a minute! That was nothing but talk.”

“No, really, why--”

“Nonsense, I tell you--I tell you I was joking. Well, take your three and a half; there’s no doing anything with you.”

“I ought to have got four, but I was in too great a hurry--like an ass!” muttered the fat man.

“Then up there at the house, six and a half, Nikolai Eremyitch; the corn will be sold for six and a half?”

“Six and a half, as we said already.”

“Well, your hand on that then, Nikolai Eremyitch.” The merchant clapped his outstretched fingers into the clerk’s palm. “And good-by, in God’s name!” The merchant got up. “So then, Nikolai Eremyitch, sir, I’ll go now to your lady, and bid them send up my name, and so I’ll say to her, ‘Nikolai Eremyitch,’ I’ll say, ‘has made a bargain with me for six and a half.’”

“That’s what you must say, Gavrila Antonitch.”

“And now, allow me.”

The merchant handed the manager a small roll of notes, bowed, shook his head, picked up his hat with two fingers, shrugged his shoulders, and, with a sort of undulating motion, went out, his boots creaking after the approved fashion. Nikolai Eremyitch went to the wall, and, as far as I could make out, began sorting the notes handed him by the merchant. A red head, adorned with thick whiskers, was thrust in at the door.

“Well?” asked the head; “all as it should be?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

The fat man made an angry gesture with his hand, and pointed to my room.

“Ah, all right!” responded the head, and vanished.

The fat man went up to the table, sat down, opened a book, took out a reckoning frame, and began shifting the beads to and fro as he counted, using not the forefinger, but the third finger of his right hand, which has a much more showy effect.

The clerk on duty came in.

“What is it?”

“Sidor is here from Goloplek.”

“Oh! ask him in. Wait a bit, wait a bit.--First go and look whether the strange gentleman’s still asleep, or whether he has waked up.”

The clerk on duty came cautiously into my room. I laid my head on my game-bag, which served me as a pillow, and closed my eyes.

“He’s asleep,” whispered the clerk on duty, returning to the counting-house.

The fat man muttered something.

“Well, send Sidor in,” he said at last.

I got up again.

A peasant of about thirty, of huge stature, came in--a red-cheeked, vigorous-looking fellow, with brown hair, and a short curly beard. He crossed himself, praying to the holy image, bowed to the head clerk, held his hat before him in both hands, and stood erect.

“Good day, Sidor,” said the fat man, tapping with the reckoning beads.

“Good day to you, Nikolai Eremyitch.”

“Well, what are the roads like?”

“Pretty fair, Nikolai Eremyitch. A bit muddy.” The peasant spoke slowly and not loud.

“Wife quite well?”

“She’s all right!”

The peasant gave a sigh and shifted one leg forward. Nikolai Eremyitch put his pen behind his ear, and blew his nose.

“Well, what have you come about?” he proceeded to inquire, putting his check handkerchief into his pocket.

“Why, they do say, Nikolai Eremyitch, they’re asking for carpenters from us.”

“Well, aren’t there any among you, hey?”

“To be sure there are, Nikolai Eremyitch; our place is right in the woods; our earnings are all from the wood, to be sure. But it’s the busy time, Nikolai Eremyitch. Where’s the time to come from?”

“The time to come from! Busy time! I dare say you’re so eager to work for outsiders, and don’t care to work for your mistress.--It’s all the same!”

“The work’s all the same, certainly, Nikolai Eremyitch--but--”

“Well?”

“The pay’s--very--”

“What next! You’ve been spoiled; that’s what it is. Get along with you!”

“And what’s more, Nikolai Eremyitch, there’ll be only a week’s work, but they’ll keep us hanging on a month. One time there’s not material enough, and another time they’ll send us into the garden to weed the path.”

“What of it? Our lady herself is pleased to give the order, so it’s useless you and me talking about it.”

Sidor was silent; he began shifting from one leg to the other.

Nikolai Eremyitch put his head on one side, and began busily playing with the reckoning beads.

“Our--peasants--Nikolai Eremyitch--” Sidor began at last, hesitating over each word, “sent word to your honor--there is--see here--” He thrust his big hand into the bosom of his coat, and began to pull out a folded linen kerchief with a red border.

“What are you thinking of? Goodness, idiot, are you out of your senses?” the fat man interposed hurriedly. “Go on; go to my cottage,” he continued, almost shoving the bewildered peasant out; “ask for my wife there--she’ll give you some tea; I’ll be round directly; go on. For goodness’ sake, I tell you, go on.”

Sidor went away.

“Ugh!--what a bear!” the head clerk muttered after him, shaking his head, and set to work again on his reckoning frame.

Suddenly shouts of “Kuprya! Kuprya! there’s no knocking down Kuprya!” were heard in the street and on the steps, and a little later there came into the counting-house a small man of sickly appearance, with an extraordinarily long nose and large, staring eyes, who carried himself with a great air of superiority. He was dressed in a ragged little old surtout, with a plush collar and diminutive buttons. He carried a bundle of firewood on his shoulder. Five house-serfs were crowding round him, all shouting, “Kuprya! there’s no suppressing Kuprya! Kuprya’s been turned stoker; Kuprya’s turned a stoker!” But the man in the coat with the plush collar did not pay the slightest attention to the uproar made by his companions, and was not in the least out of countenance. With measured steps he went up to the stove, flung down his load, straightened himself, took out of his tail-pocket a snuff-box, and with round eyes began helping himself to a pinch of dry trefoil mixed with ashes. At the entrance of this noisy party the fat man had at first knitted his brows and risen from his seat, but, seeing what it was, he smiled, and only told them not to shout. “There’s a sportsman,” said he, “asleep in the next room.”

“What sort of sportsman?” two of them asked with one voice.

“A gentleman.”

“Ah!”

“Let them make a row,” said the man with the plush collar, waving his arms; “what do I care, so long as they don’t touch me? They’ve turned me into a stoker--”

“A stoker! a stoker!” the others put in gleefully.

“It’s the mistress’s orders,” he went on, with a shrug of his shoulders; “but just you wait a bit--they’ll turn you into swineherds yet. But I’ve been a tailor, and a good tailor too, learned my trade in the best house in Moscow, and worked for generals--and nobody can take that from me. And what have you to boast of? What? you’re a pack of idlers, not worth your salt; that’s what you are! Turn me off! I shan’t die of hunger; I shall be all right; give me a passport. I’d send a good rent home, and satisfy the masters. But what would you do? You’d die off like flies, that’s what you’d do!”

“That’s a nice lie!” interposed a pock-marked lad with white eyelashes, a red cravat, and ragged elbows. “You went off with a passport sharp enough, but never a halfpenny of rent did the masters see from you, and you never earned a farthing for yourself; you just managed to crawl home again, and you’ve never had a new rag on you since.”

“Ah, well, what could one do, Konstantin Narkizitch?” responded Kuprya; “a man falls in love--a man’s ruined and done for! You go through what I have, Konstantin Narkizitch, before you blame me!”

“And you picked out a nice one to fall in love with!--a regular fright.”

“No, you mustn’t say that, Konstantin Narkizitch.”

“Who’s going to believe that? I’ve seen her, you know; I saw her with my own eyes last year in Moscow.”

“Last year she had gone off a little, certainly,” observed Kuprya.

“No, gentlemen, I tell you what,” a tall, thin man, with a face spotted with pimples, a valet probably, from his frizzed and pomatumed head, remarked in a careless and disdainful voice; “let Kuprya Afanasyitch sing us his song. Come on, now; begin, Kuprya Afanasyitch.”

“Yes! yes!” put in the others. “Hoorah for Alexandra! That’s one for Kuprya; ‘pon my soul.--Sing away, Kuprya!--You’re a regular brick, Alexandra!” (Serfs often use feminine terminations in referring to a man as an expression of endearment.) “Sing away!”

“This is not the place to sing,” Kuprya replied firmly; “this is the manor counting-house.”

“And what’s that to do with you? you’ve got your eye on a place as clerk, eh?” answered Konstantin with a coarse laugh. “That’s what it is!”

“Everything rests with the mistress,” observed the poor wretch.

“There, that’s what he’s got his eye on! a fellow like him! oo! oo! a!”

And they all roared; some rolled about with merriment. Louder than all laughed a lad of fifteen, probably the son of an aristocrat among the house-serfs; he wore a waistcoat with bronze buttons, and a cravat of lilac color, and had already had time to fill out his waistcoat.

“Come, tell us, confess now, Kuprya,” Nikolai Eremyitch began complacently, obviously tickled and diverted himself; “is it bad being stoker? Is it an easy job, eh?”

“Nikolai Eremyitch,” began Kuprya, “you’re head clerk among us now, certainly; there’s no disputing that, no; but you know you have been in disgrace yourself, and you too have lived in a peasant’s hut.”

“You’d better look out and not forget yourself in my place,” the fat man interrupted emphatically; “people joke with a fool like you; you ought, you fool, to have sense, and be grateful to them for taking notice of a fool like you.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Nikolai Eremyitch; I beg your pardon--”

“Yes, indeed, a slip of the tongue.”

The door opened and a little page ran in.

“Nikolai Eremyitch, mistress wants you.”

“Who’s with the mistress?” he asked the page.

“Aksinya Nikitishna, and a merchant from Venev.”

“I’ll be there this minute. And you, mates,” he continued in a persuasive voice, “better move off out of here with the newly appointed stoker; if the German pops in, he’ll make a complaint for certain.”

The fat man smoothed his hair, coughed into his hand, which was almost completely hidden in his coat-sleeve, buttoned himself, and set off with rapid strides to see the lady of the manor. In a little while the whole party trailed out after him, together with Kuprya. My old friend, the clerk on duty, was left alone. He set to work mending the pens, and dropped asleep in his chair. A few flies promptly seized the opportunity and settled on his mouth. A mosquito alighted on his forehead, and, stretching its legs out with a regular motion, slowly buried its sting into his flabby flesh. The same red head with whiskers showed itself again at the door, looked in, looked again, and then came into the office, together with the rather ugly body belonging to it.

“Fedyushka! eh, Fedyushka! always asleep,” said the head.

The clerk on duty opened his eyes and got up from his seat.

“Nikolai Eremyitch has gone to the mistress?”

“Yes, Vassily Nikolaevitch.”

“Ah! ah!” thought I; “this is he, the head cashier.”

The head cashier began walking about the room. He really slunk rather than walked, and altogether resembled a cat. An old black frock-coat with very narrow skirts hung about his shoulders; he kept one hand in his bosom, while the other was forever fumbling about his high, narrow horse-hair collar, and he turned his head with a certain effort. He wore noiseless kid boots, and trod very softly.

“The landowner, Yagushkin, was asking for you to-day,” added the clerk on duty.

“Hm, asking for me? What did he say?”

“Said he’d go to Tyutyurov this evening and would wait for you. ‘I want to discuss some business with Vassily Nikolaevitch,’ said he, but what the business was he didn’t say; ‘Vassily Nikolaevitch will know,’ says he.”

“Hm!” replied the head cashier, and he went up to the window.

“Is Nikolai Eremyitch in the counting-house?” a loud voice was heard asking in the outer room, and a tall man, apparently angry, with an irregular but bold and expressive face, and rather clean in his dress, stepped over the threshold.

“Isn’t he here?” he inquired, looking rapidly round.

“Nikolai Eremyitch is with the mistress,” responded the cashier. “Tell me what you want, Pavel Andreitch; you can tell me.--What is it you want?”

“What do I want? You want to know what I want?” The cashier gave a sickly nod. “I want to give him a lesson, the fat, greasy villain, the scoundrelly tell-tale!--I’ll give him a tale to tell!”

Pavel flung himself into a chair.

“What are you saying, Pavel Andreitch! Calm yourself.--Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t forget whom you’re talking about, Pavel Andreitch!” lisped the cashier.

“Forget whom I’m talking about? What do I care for his being made head clerk? A fine person they’ve found to promote, there’s no denying that! They’ve let the goat loose in the kitchen garden, you may say!”

“Hush, hush, Pavel Andreitch, hush! drop that--what rubbish are you talking?”

“So Master Fox is beginning to fawn? I will wait for him,” Pavel said with passion, and he struck a blow on the table. “Ah, here he’s coming!” he added with a look at the window; “speak of the devil. With your kind permission!” He got up.

Nikolai Eremyitch came into the counting-house. His face was shining with satisfaction, but he was rather taken aback at seeing Pavel Andreitch.

“Good day to you, Nikolai Eremyitch,” said Pavel in a significant tone, advancing deliberately to meet him.

The head clerk made no reply. The face of the merchant showed itself in the doorway.

“What, won’t you deign to answer me?” pursued Pavel. “But no--no,” he added; “that’s not it; there’s no getting anything by shouting and abuse. No, you’d better tell me in a friendly way, Nikolai Eremyitch; what do you persecute me for? what do you want to ruin me for? Come, speak, speak.”

“This is no fit place to come to an understanding with you,” the head clerk answered in some agitation, “and no fit time. But I must say I wonder at one thing: what makes you suppose I want to ruin you, or that I’m persecuting you? And if you come to that, how can I persecute you? You’re not in my counting-house.”

“I should hope not,” answered Pavel; “that would be the last straw! But why are you humbugging, Nikolai Eremyitch?--You understand me, you know.”

“No, I don’t understand.”

“No, you do understand.”

“No, by God, I don’t understand!”

“Swearing, too! Well, tell us, since it’s come to that: have you no fear of God? Why can’t you let the poor girl live in peace? What do you want of her?”

“Whom are you talking of?” the fat man asked with feigned amazement.

“Ugh! doesn’t know; what next? I’m talking of Tatyana. Have some fear of God--what do you want to revenge yourself for? You ought to be ashamed: a married man like you, with children as big as I am; it’s a very different thing with me.--I mean marriage: I’m acting straightforwardly.”

“How am I to blame in that, Pavel Andreitch? The mistress won’t permit you to marry; it’s her seigniorial will! What have I to do with it?”

“Why, haven’t you been plotting with that old hag, the housekeeper, eh? Haven’t you been telling tales, eh? Tell me, aren’t you bringing all sorts of stories up against the defenseless girl? I suppose it’s not your doing that she’s been degraded from laundrymaid to washing dishes in the scullery? And it’s not your doing that she’s beaten and dressed in sackcloth?--You ought to be ashamed, you ought to be ashamed--an old man like you! You know there’s a paralytic stroke always hanging over you.-- answer to God.”

“You’re abusive, Pavel Andreitch, you’re abusive--You shan’t have a chance to be insolent much longer.”

Pavel fired up.

“What? You dare to threaten me?” he said passionately. “You think I’m afraid of you. No, my man, I’m not come to that! What have I to be afraid of? I can make my bread everywhere. For you, now, it’s another thing! It’s only here you can live and tell tales, and filch--”

“Fancy the conceit of the fellow!” interrupted the clerk, who was also beginning to lose patience; “an apothecary’s assistant, simply an apothecary’s assistant, a wretched leech; and listen to him--fie upon you! you’re a high and mighty personage!”

“Yes, an apothecary’s assistant, and except for this apothecary’s assistant you’d have been rotting in the graveyard by now.--It was some devil drove me to cure him,” he added between his teeth.

“You cured me?--No, you tried to poison me; you dosed me with aloes,” the clerk put in.

“What was I to do if nothing but aloes had any effect on you?”

“The use of aloes is forbidden by the Board of Health,” pursued Nikolai. “I’ll lodge a complaint against you yet.--You tried to compass my death--that was what you did! But the Lord suffered it not.”

“Hush, now, that’s enough, gentlemen,” the cashier was beginning--

“Stand off!” bawled the clerk. “He tried to poison me! Do you understand that?”