from the German natives, gets the peasant under his thumb again. Now, if any one of the young gentlemen would set us an example, would show us, «See, this is how you ought to manage!» … What will be the end of it? Can it be that I shall die without seeing the new methods?… What is the proverb?—the old is dead, but the young is not born!’

I did not know what reply to make to Ovsyanikov. He looked round, drew himself nearer to me, and went on in an undertone:

‘Have you heard talk of Vassily Nikolaitch Lubozvonov?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Explain to me, please, what sort of strange creature he is. I can’t make anything of it. His peasants have described him, but I can’t make any sense of their tales. He is a young man, you know; it’s not long since he received his heritage from his mother. Well, he arrived at his estate. The peasants were all collected to stare at their master. Vassily Nikolaitch came out to them. The peasants looked at him— strange to relate! the master wore plush pantaloons like a coachman, and he had on boots with trimming at the top; he wore a red shirt and a coachman’s long coat too; he had let his beard grow, and had such a strange hat and such a strange face—could he be drunk? No, he wasn’t drunk, and yet he didn’t seem quite right. «Good health to you, lads!» he says; «God keep you!» The peasants bow to the ground, but without speaking; they began to feel frightened, you know. And he too seemed timid. He began to make a speech to them: «I am a Russian,» he says, «and you are Russians; I like everything Russian…. Russia,» says he, «is my heart, and my blood too is Russian»…. Then he suddenly gives the order: «Come, lads, sing a Russian national song!» The peasants’ legs shook under them with fright; they were utterly stupefied. One bold spirit did begin to sing, but he sat down at once on the ground and hid himself behind the others…. And what is so surprising is this: we have had landowners like that, dare-devil gentlemen, regular rakes, of course: they dressed pretty much like coachmen, and danced themselves and played on the guitar, and sang and drank with their house-serfs and feasted with the peasants; but this Vassily Nikolaitch is like a girl; he is always reading books or writing, or else declaiming poetry aloud—he never addresses any one; he is shy, walks by himself in his garden; seems either bored or sad. The old bailiff at first was in a thorough scare; before Vassily Nikolaitch’s arrival he was afraid to go near the peasants’ houses; he bowed to all of them— one could see the cat knew whose butter he had eaten! And the peasants were full of hope; they thought, ‘Fiddlesticks, my friend!—now they’ll make you answer for it, my dear; they’ll lead you a dance now, you robber!’ … But instead of this it has turned out—how shall I explain it to you?—God Almighty could not account for how things have turned out! Vassily Nikolaitch summoned him to his presence and says, blushing himself and breathing quick, you know: «Be upright in my service; don’t oppress any one—do you hear?» And since that day he has never asked to see him in person again! He lives on his own property like a stranger. Well, the bailiff’s been enjoying himself, and the peasants don’t dare to go to Vassily Nikolaitch; they are afraid. And do you see what’s a matter for wonder again; the master even bows to them and looks graciously at them; but he seems to turn their stomachs with fright! ‘What do you say to such a strange state of things, your honour? Either I have grown stupid in my old age, or something…. I can’t understand it.’

I said to Ovsyanikov that Mr. Lubozvonov must certainly be ill.

‘Ill, indeed! He’s as broad as he’s long, and a face like this—God bless him!—and bearded, though he is so young…. Well, God knows!’ And Ovsyanikov gave a deep sigh.

‘Come, putting the nobles aside,’ I began, ‘what have you to tell me about the peasant proprietors, Luka Petrovitch?’

‘No, you must let me off that,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Truly…. I could tell you … but what’s the use!’ (with a wave of his hand). ‘We had better have some tea…. We are common peasants and nothing more; but when we come to think of it, what else could we be?’

He ceased talking. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinitchna rose from her place and sat down rather nearer to us. In the course of the evening she several times went noiselessly out and as quietly returned. Silence reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov drank cup after cup with gravity and deliberation.

‘Mitya has been to see us to-day,’ said Tatyana Ilyinitchna in a low voice.

Ovsyanikov frowned.

‘What does he want?’

‘He came to ask forgiveness.’

Ovsyanikov shook his head.

‘Come, tell me,’ he went on, turning to me, ‘what is one to do with relations? And to abandon them altogether is impossible…. Here God has bestowed on me a nephew. He’s a fellow with brains—a smart fellow —I don’t dispute that; he has had a good education, but I don’t expect much good to come of him. He went into a government office; threw up his position—didn’t get on fast enough, if you please…. Does he suppose he’s a noble? And even noblemen don’t come to be generals all at once. So now he is living without an occupation…. And that, even, would not be such a great matter—except that he has taken to litigation! He gets up petitions for the peasants, writes memorials; he instructs the village delegates, drags the surveyors over the coals, frequents drinking houses, is seen in taverns with city tradesmen and inn-keepers. He’s bound to come to ruin before long. The constables and police-captains have threatened him more than once already. But he luckily knows how to turn it off—he makes them laugh; but they will boil his kettle for him some day…. But, there, isn’t he sitting in your little room?’ he added, turning to his wife; ‘I know you, you see; you’re so soft-hearted—you will always take his part.’

Tatyana Ilyinitchna dropped her eyes, smiled, and blushed.

‘Well, I see it is so,’ continued Ovsyanikov. ‘Fie! you spoil the boy! Well, tell him to come in…. So be it, then; for the sake of our good guest I will forgive the silly fellow…. Come, tell him, tell him.’

Tatyana Ilyinitchna went to the door, and cried ‘Mitya!’

Mitya, a young man of twenty-eight, tall, well-made, and curly-headed, came into the room, and seeing me, stopped short in the doorway. His costume was in the German style, but the unnatural size of the puffs on his shoulders was enough alone to prove convincingly that the tailor who had cut it was a Russian of the Russians.

‘Well, come in, come in,’ began the old man; ‘why are you bashful? You must thank your aunt—you’re forgiven…. Here, your honour, I commend him to you,’ he continued, pointing to Mitya; ‘he’s my own nephew, but I don’t get on with him at all. The end of the world is coming!’ (We bowed to one another.) ‘Well, tell me what is this you have got mixed up in? What is the complaint they are making against you? Explain it to us.’

Mitya obviously did not care to explain matters and justify himself before me.

‘Later on, uncle,’ he muttered.

‘No, not later—now,’ pursued the old man…. ‘You are ashamed, I see, before this gentleman; all the better—it’s only what you deserve. Speak, speak; we are listening.’

‘I have nothing to be ashamed of,’ began Mitya spiritedly, with a toss of his head. ‘Be so good as to judge for yourself, uncle. Some peasant proprietors of Reshetilovo came to me, and said, «Defend us, brother.» «What is the matter?»‘ «This is it: our grain stores were in perfect order—in fact, they could not be better; all at once a government inspector came to us with orders to inspect the granaries. He inspected them, and said, ‘Your granaries are in disorder—serious neglect; it’s my duty to report it to the authorities.’ ‘But what does the neglect consist in?’ ‘That’s my business,’ he says…. We met together, and decided to tip the official in the usual way; but old Prohoritch prevented us. He said, ‘No; that’s only giving him a taste for more. Come; after all, haven’t we the courts of justice?’ We obeyed the old man, and the official got in a rage, and made a complaint, and wrote a report. So now we are called up to answer to his charges.» «But are your granaries actually in order?» I asked. «God knows they are in order; and the legal quantity of corn is in them.» «Well, then,» say I, «you have nothing to fear»; and I drew up a document for them…. And it is not yet known in whose favour it is decided…. And as to the complaints they have made to you about me over that affair—it’s very easy to understand that—every man’s shirt is nearest to his own skin.

‘Everyone’s, indeed—but not yours seemingly,’ said the old man in an undertone. ‘But what plots have you been hatching with the Shutolomovsky peasants?’

‘How do you know anything of it?’

‘Never mind; I do know of it.’

‘And there, too, I am right—judge for yourself again. A neighbouring landowner, Bezpandin, has ploughed over four acres of the Shutolomovsky peasants’ land. «The land’s mine,» he says. The