ears. Then Ivan took an axe from under his skirt, came up to the master from behind, knocked off his cap, and saying, ‘I warned you, Piotr Petrovitch—you’ve yourself to blame now!’ he struck off his head at one blow. Then he stopped the ponies, put the cap on his dead master, and, getting on the box-seat again, drove him to the town, straight to the courts of justice.

‘Here’s the Suhinsky general for you, dead; I have killed him. As I told him, so I did to him. Put me in fetters.’

They took Ivan, tried him, sentenced him to the knout, and then to hard labour. The light-hearted, bird-like dancer was sent to the mines, and there passed out of sight for ever….

Yes; one can but repeat, in another sense, Alexey Sergeitch’s words:

‘They were good old times … but enough of them!’

1881.

THE BRIGADIER

I

Reader, do you know those little homesteads of country gentlefolks, which were plentiful in our Great Russian Oukraïne twenty-five or thirty years ago? Now one rarely comes across them, and in another ten years the last of them will, I suppose, have disappeared for ever. The running pond overgrown with reeds and rushes, the favourite haunt of fussy ducks, among whom one may now and then come across a wary ‘teal’; beyond the pond a garden with avenues of lime-trees, the chief beauty and glory of our black-earth plains, with smothered rows of ‘Spanish’ strawberries, with dense thickets of gooseberries, currants, and raspberries, in the midst of which, in the languid hour of the stagnant noonday heat, one would be sure to catch glimpses of a serf-girl’s striped kerchief, and to hear the shrill ring of her voice. Close by would be a summer-house standing on four legs, a conservatory, a neglected kitchen garden, with flocks of sparrows hung on stakes, and a cat curled up on the tumble-down well; a little further, leafy apple-trees in the high grass, which is green below and grey above, straggling cherry-trees, pear-trees, on which there is never any fruit; then flower-beds, poppies, peonies, pansies, milkwort, ‘maids in green,’ bushes of Tartar honeysuckle, wild jasmine, lilac and acacia, with the continual hum of bees and wasps among their thick, fragrant, sticky branches. At last comes the manor-house, a one-storied building on a brick foundation, with greenish window-panes in narrow frames, a sloping, once painted roof, a little balcony from which the vases of the balustrade are always jutting out, a crooked gable, and a husky old dog in the recess under the steps at the door. Behind the house a wide yard with nettles, wormwood, and burdocks in the corners, outbuildings with doors that stick, doves and rooks on the thatched roofs, a little storehouse with a rusty weathercock, two or three birch-trees with rooks’ nests in their bare top branches, and beyond—the road with cushions of soft dust in the ruts and a field and the long hurdles of the hemp patches, and the grey little huts of the village, and the cackle of geese in the far-away rich meadows…. Is all this familiar to you, reader? In the house itself everything is a little awry, a little rickety—but no matter. It stands firm and keeps warm; the stoves are like elephants, the furniture is of all sorts, home-made. Little paths of white footmarks run from the doors over the painted floors. In the hall siskins and larks in tiny cages; in the corner of the dining-room an immense English clock in the form of a tower, with the inscription, ‘Strike—silent’; in the drawing-room portraits of the family, painted in oils, with an expression of ill-tempered alarm on the brick-coloured faces, and sometimes too an old warped picture of flowers and fruit or a mythological subject. Everywhere there is the smell of kvas, of apples, of linseed-oil and of leather. Flies buzz and hum about the ceiling and the windows. A daring cockroach suddenly shows his countenance from behind the looking-glass frame…. No matter, one can live here—and live very well too.

II

Just such a homestead it was my lot to visit thirty years ago … it was in days long past, as you perceive. The little estate in which this house stood belonged to a friend of mine at the university; it had only recently come to him on the death of a bachelor cousin, and he was not living in it himself…. But at no great distance from it there were wide tracts of steppe bog, in which at the time of summer migration, when they are on the wing, there are great numbers of snipe; my friend and I, both enthusiastic sportsmen, agreed therefore to go on St. Peter’s day, he from Moscow, I from my own village, to his little house. My friend lingered in Moscow, and was two days late; I did not care to start shooting without him. I was received by an old servant, Narkiz Semyonov, who had had notice of my coming. This old servant was not in the least like ‘Savelitch’ or ‘Caleb’; my friend used to call him in joke ‘Marquis.’ There was something of conceit, even of affectation, about him; he looked down on us young men with a certain dignity, but cherished no particularly respectful sentiments for other landowners either; of his old master he spoke slightingly, while his own class he simply scorned for their ignorance. He could read and write, expressed himself correctly and with judgment, and did not drink. He seldom went to church, and so was looked upon as a dissenter. In appearance he was thin and tall, had a long and good-looking face, a sharp nose, and overhanging eyebrows, which he was continually either knitting or lifting; he wore a neat, roomy coat, and boots to his knees with heart-shaped scallops at the tops.

III

On the day of my arrival, Narkiz, having given me lunch and cleared the table, stood in the doorway, looked intently at me, and with some play of the eyebrows observed:

‘What are you going to do now, sir?’

‘Well, really, I don’t know. If Nikolai Petrovitch had kept his word and come, we should have gone shooting together.’

‘So you really expected, sir, that he would come at the time he promised?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘H’m.’ Narkiz looked at me again and shook his head as it were with commiseration. ‘If you ‘d care to amuse yourself with reading,’ he continued: ‘there are some books left of my old master’s; I’ll get them you, if you like; only you won’t read them, I expect.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re books of no value; not written for the gentlemen of these days.’

‘Have you read them?’

‘If I hadn’t read them, I wouldn’t have spoken about them. A dream-book, for instance … that’s not much of a book, is it? There are others too, of course … only you won’t read them either.’

‘Why?’

‘They are religious books.’

I was silent for a space…. Narkiz was silent too.

‘What vexes me most,’ I began, ‘is staying in the house in such weather.’

‘Take a walk in the garden; or go into the copse. We’ve a copse here beyond the threshing-floor. Are you fond of fishing?’

‘Are there fish here?’

‘Yes, in the pond. Loaches, sand-eels, and perches are caught there. Now, to be sure, the best time is over; July’s here. But anyway, you might try…. Shall I get the tackle ready?’

‘Yes, do please.’

‘I’ll send a boy with you … to put on the worms. Or maybe I ‘d better come myself?’ Narkiz obviously doubted whether I knew how to set about things properly by myself.

‘Come, please, come along.’

Narkiz, without a word, grinned from ear to ear, then suddenly knitted his brows … and went out of the room.

IV

Half an hour later we set off to catch fish. Narkiz had put on an extraordinary sort of cap with ears, and was more dignified than ever. He walked in front with a steady, even step; two rods swayed regularly up and down on his shoulders; a bare-legged boy followed him carrying a can and a pot of worms.

‘Here, near the dike, there’s a seat, put up on the floating platform on purpose,’ Narkiz was beginning to explain to me, but he glanced ahead, and suddenly exclaimed: ‘Aha! but our poor folk are here already … they keep it up, it seems.’

I craned my head to look from behind him, and saw on the floating platform, on the very seat of which he had been speaking, two persons sitting with their backs to us; they were placidly fishing.

‘Who are they?’ I asked.

‘Neighbours,’ Narkiz responded, with displeasure. ‘They’ve nothing to eat at home, and so here they come to us.’

‘Are they allowed to?’

‘The old master allowed them…. Nikolai Petrovitch maybe won’t give them permission…. The long one is a superannuated deacon—quite a silly creature; and as for the other, that’s a little stouter—he’s a brigadier.’

‘A brigadier?’ I repeated, wondering. This ‘brigadier’s’ attire was almost worse than the deacon’s.

‘I assure you he’s a brigadier. And he did have a fine property once. But now he has only a corner given him out of charity, and he lives … on what God sends him. But, by the way, what are we to do? They’ve taken the best place…. We shall have to disturb our precious visitors.’

‘No, Narkiz, please don’t disturb them. We’ll sit here a little aside; they won’t interfere with us. I should like to make acquaintance with the brigadier.’

‘As you like. Only, as far as acquaintance goes … you needn’t expect much satisfaction from it, sir; he’s grown very weak in his head, and in conversation he’s silly as a little child. As