Shutolomovsky people are on the rent-system; their landowner has gone abroad—who is to stand up for them? Tell me yourself? But the land is theirs beyond dispute; they’ve been bound to it for ages and ages. So they came to me, and said, «Write us a petition.» So I wrote one. And Bezpandin heard of it, and began to threaten me. «I’ll break every bone in that Mitya’s body, and knock his head off his shoulders….» We shall see how he will knock it off; it’s still on, so far.’

‘Come, don’t boast; it’s in a bad way, your head,’ said the old man.

‘You are a mad fellow altogether!’

‘Why, uncle, what did you tell me yourself?’

‘I know, I know what you will say,’ Ovsyanikov interrupted him; ‘of course a man ought to live uprightly, and he is bound to succour his neighbour. Sometimes one must not spare oneself…. But do you always behave in that way? Don’t they take you to the tavern, eh? Don’t they treat you; bow to you, eh? «Dmitri Alexyitch,» they say, «help us, and we will prove our gratitude to you.» And they slip a silver rouble or note into your hand. Eh? doesn’t that happen? Tell me, doesn’t that happen?’

‘I am certainly to blame in that,’ answered Mitya, rather confused; ‘but I take nothing from the poor, and I don’t act against my conscience.’

‘You don’t take from them now; but when you are badly off yourself, then you will. You don’t act against your conscience—fie on you! Of course, they are all saints whom you defend!… Have you forgotten Borka Perohodov? Who was it looked after him? Who took him under his protection—eh?’

‘Perohodov suffered through his own fault, certainly.’

‘He appropriated the public moneys…. That was all!’

‘But, consider, uncle: his poverty, his family.’

‘Poverty, poverty…. He’s a drunkard, a quarrelsome fellow; that’s what it is!’

‘He took to drink through trouble,’ said Mitya, dropping his voice.

‘Through trouble, indeed! Well, you might have helped him, if your heart was so warm to him, but there was no need for you to sit in taverns with the drunken fellow yourself. Though he did speak so finely … a prodigy, to be sure!’

‘He was a very good fellow.’

‘Every one is good with you…. But did you send him?’ … pursued

Ovsyanikov, turning to his wife; ‘come; you know?’

Tatyana Ilyinitchna nodded.

‘Where have you been lately?’ the old man began again.

‘I have been in the town.’

‘You have been doing nothing but playing billiards, I wager, and drinking tea, and running to and fro about the government offices, drawing up petitions in little back rooms, flaunting about with merchants’ sons? That’s it, of course?… Tell us!’

‘Perhaps that is about it,’ said Mitya with a smile…. ‘Ah! I had almost forgotten—Funtikov, Anton Parfenitch asks you to dine with him next Sunday.’

‘I shan’t go to see that old tub. He gives you costly fish and puts rancid butter on it. God bless him!’

‘And I met Fedosya Mihalovna.’

‘What Fedosya is that?’

‘She belongs to Garpentchenko, the landowner, who bought Mikulino by auction. Fedosya is from Mikulino. She lived in Moscow as a dress- maker, paying her service in money, and she paid her service-money accurately—a hundred and eighty two-roubles and a half a year…. And she knows her business; she got good orders in Moscow. But now Garpentchenko has written for her back, and he retains her here, but does not provide any duties for her. She would be prepared to buy her freedom, and has spoken to the master, but he will not give any decisive answer. You, uncle, are acquainted with Garpentchenko … so couldn’t you just say a word to him?… And Fedosya would give a good price for her freedom.’

‘Not with your money I hope? Hey? Well, well, all right; I will speak to him, I will speak to him. But I don’t know,’ continued the old man with a troubled face; ‘this Garpentchenko, God forgive him! is a shark; he buys up debts, lends money at interest, purchases estates at auctions…. And who brought him into our parts? Ugh, I can’t bear these new-comers! One won’t get an answer out of him very quickly…. However, we shall see.’

‘Try to manage it, uncle.’

‘Very well, I will see to it. Only you take care; take care of yourself! There, there, don’t defend yourself…. God bless you! God bless you!… Only take care for the future, or else, Mitya, upon my word, it will go ill with you…. Upon my word, you will come to grief…. I can’t always screen you … and I myself am not a man of influence. There, go now, and God be with you!’

Mitya went away. Tatyana Ilyinitchna went out after him.

‘Give him some tea, you soft-hearted creature,’ cried Ovsyanikov after her. ‘He’s not a stupid fellow,’ he continued, ‘and he’s a good heart, but I feel afraid for him…. But pardon me for having so long kept you occupied with such details.’

The door from the hall opened. A short grizzled little man came in, in a velvet coat.

‘Ah, Frantz Ivanitch!’ cried Ovsyanikov, ‘good day to you. Is God merciful to you?’

Allow me, gentle reader, to introduce to you this gentleman.

Frantz Ivanitch Lejeune, my neighbour, and a landowner of Orel, had arrived at the respectable position of a Russian nobleman in a not quite ordinary way. He was born in Orleans of French parents, and had gone with Napoleon, on the invasion of Russia, in the capacity of a drummer. At first all went smoothly, and our Frenchman arrived in Moscow with his head held high. But on the return journey poor Monsieur Lejeune, half-frozen and without his drum, fell into the hands of some peasants of Smolensk. The peasants shut him up for the night in an empty cloth factory, and the next morning brought him to an ice-hole near the dyke, and began to beg the drummer ‘de la Grrrrande Armée’ to oblige them; in other words, to swim under the ice. Monsieur Lejeune could not agree to their proposition, and in his turn began to try to persuade the Smolensk peasants, in the dialect of France, to let him go to Orleans. ‘There, messieurs,’ he said, ‘my mother is living, une tendre mère’ But the peasants, doubtless through their ignorance of the geographical position of Orleans, continued to offer him a journey under water along the course of the meandering river Gniloterka, and had already begun to encourage him with slight blows on the vertebrae of the neck and back, when suddenly, to the indescribable delight of Lejeune, the sound of bells was heard, and there came along the dyke a huge sledge with a striped rug over its excessively high dickey, harnessed with three roan horses. In the sledge sat a stout and red- faced landowner in a wolfskin pelisse.

‘What is it you are doing there?’ he asked the peasants.

‘We are drowning a Frenchman, your honour.’

‘Ah!’ replied the landowner indifferently, and he turned away.

‘Monsieur! Monsieur!’ shrieked the poor fellow.

‘Ah, ah!’ observed the wolfskin pelisse reproachfully, ‘you came with twenty nations into Russia, burnt Moscow, tore down, you damned heathen! the cross from Ivan the Great, and now—mossoo, mossoo, indeed! now you turn tail! You are paying the penalty of your sins!… Go on, Filka!’

The horses were starting.

‘Stop, though!’ added the landowner. ‘Eh? you mossoo, do you know anything of music?’

‘Sauvez-moi, sauvez-moi, mon bon monsieur!’ repeated Lejeune.

‘There, see what a wretched people they are! Not one of them knows

Russian! Muzeek, muzeek, savey muzeek voo? savey? Well, speak, do!

Compreny? savey muzeek voo? on the piano, savey zhooey?’

Lejeune comprehended at last what the landowner meant, and persistently nodded his head.

‘Oui, monsieur, oui, oui, je suis musicien; je joue tous les instruments possibles! Oui, monsieur…. Sauvez-moi, monsieur!’

‘Well, thank your lucky star!’ replied the landowner. ‘Lads, let him go: here’s a twenty-copeck piece for vodka.’

‘Thank you, your honour, thank you. Take him, your honour.’

They sat Lejeune in the sledge. He was gasping with delight, weeping, shivering, bowing, thanking the landowner, the coachman, the peasants. He had nothing on but a green jacket with pink ribbons, and it was freezing very hard. The landowner looked at his blue and benumbed shoulders in silence, wrapped the unlucky fellow in his own pelisse, and took him home. The household ran out. They soon thawed the Frenchman, fed him, and clothed him. The landowner conducted him to his daughters.

‘Here, children!’ he said to them, ‘a teacher is found for you. You were always entreating me to have you taught music and the French jargon; here you have a Frenchman, and he plays on the piano…. Come, mossoo,’ he went on, pointing to a wretched little instrument he had bought five years before of a Jew, whose special line was eau de Cologne, ‘give us an example of your art; zhooey!’

Lejeune, with a sinking heart, sat down on the music-stool; he had never touched a piano in his life.

‘Zhooey, zhooey!’ repeated the landowner.

In desperation, the unhappy man beat on the keys as though on a drum, and played at hazard. ‘I quite expected,’ he used to tell afterwards, ‘that my deliverer would seize me by the collar, and throw me out of the house.’ But, to the utmost amazement of the unwilling improvisor, the landowner, after waiting a little, patted him good-humouredly on the shoulder.

‘Good, good,’ he said; ‘I see your attainments; go now, and rest yourself.’

Within a fortnight Lejeune had gone from this landowner’s to stay with another, a rich and cultivated man. He gained his friendship by his bright and gentle disposition, was married to a ward of his, went into a government office, rose to