Leaving the flower garden Volgin entered the avenue of lime trees, hundreds of years old, which peasant girls were tidying and sweeping with spades and brooms. The gardener was busy measuring, and a boy was bringing something in a cart. Passing these Volgin went into the park of at least a hundred and twenty-five acres, filled with fine old trees, and intersected by a network of well-kept walks. Smoking as he strolled Volgin took his favourite path past the summer-house into the fields beyond. It was pleasant in the park, but it was still nicer in the fields. On the right some women who were dig-ging potatoes formed a mass of bright red and white colour; on the left were wheat fields, mead-ows, and grazing cattle; and in the foreground, slightly to the right, were the dark, dark oaks of Littleports. Volgin took a deep breath, and felt glad that he was alive, especially here in his cousin's home, where he was so thoroughly en-joying the rest from his work at the bank.
"Lucky people to live in the country," he thought. "True, what with his farming and his Zemstvo, the owner of the estate has very little peace even in the country, but that is his own lookout " Volgin shook his head, lit another cigarette, and, stepping out firmly with his power-ful feet clad in his thick English boots, began to think of the heavy winter's work in the bank that was in front of him. "I shall be there every day from ten to two, sometimes even till five. And the board meetings . . . And private inter-views with clients. . . . Then the Duma.
Whereas here. . . . It is delightful. It may be a little dull, but it is not for long " He smiled. After a stroll in Littleports he turned back, going straight across a fallow field which was being ploughed. A herd of cows, calves, sheep, and pigs, which belonged to the village community, was grazing there. The shortest way to the park was to pass through the herd.
He frightened the sheep, which ran away one after another, and were followed by the pigs, of which two little ones stared solemnly at him.
The shepherd boy called to the sheep and cracked his whip. "How far behind Europe we are," thought Volgin, recalling his frequent holidays abroad. "You would not find a single cow like that anywhere in Europe " Then, wanting to find out where the path which branched off from the one he was on led to and who was the owner of the herd, he called to the boy.
"Whose herd is it?"
The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on terror, when he gazed at the hat, the well-brushed beard, and above all the gold-rimmed eyeglasses, that he could not reply at once. When Volgin repeated his question the boy pulled himself to-gether, and said, "Ours." "But whose is 'ours'?" said Volgin, shaking his head and smiling. The boy was wearing shoes of plaited birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a dirty, unbleached shirt ragged at the shoulder, and a cap the peak of which had been torn.
"Whose is 'ours'?"
"The Pirogov village herd."
"How old are you?
"I don't know."
"Can you read?"
"No, I can't."
"Didn't you go to school?"
"Yes, I did."
"Couldn't you learn to read?"
"No."
"Where does that path lead?"
The boy told him, and Volgin went on to-wards the house, thinking how he would chaff Nicholas Petrovich about the deplorable condi-tion of the village schools in spite of all his ef-forts.
On approaching the house Volgin looked at his watch, and saw that it was already past eleven.
He remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was going to drive to the nearest town, and that he had meant to give him a letter to post to Moscow; but the letter was not written. The letter was a very important one to a friend, asking him to bid for him for a picture of the Madonna which was to be offered for sale at an auction. As he reached the house he saw at the door four big, well-fed, well-groomed, thoroughbred horses har-nessed to a carriage, the black lacquer of which glistened in the sun. The coachman was seated on the box in a kaftan, with a silver belt, and the horses were jingling their silver bells from time to time.
A bare-headed, bare-footed peasant in a ragged kaftan stood at the front door. He bowed.
Volgin asked what he wanted.
"I have come to see Nicholas Petrovich."
"What about?"
"Because I am in distress--my horse has died."
Volgin began to question him. The peasant told him how he was situated. He had five chil-dren, and this had been his only horse. Now it was gone. He wept.
"What are you going to do?"
"To beg " And he knelt down, and remained kneeling in spite of Volgin's expostulations.
"What is your name?"
"Mitri Sudarikov," answered the peasant, still kneeling.
Volgin took three roubles from his purse and gave them to the peasant, who showed his grat-itude by touching the ground with his forehead, and then went into the house. His host was standing in the hall.
"Where is your letter?" he asked, approach-ing Volgin; "I am just off."
"I'm awfully sorry, I'll write it this minute, if you will let me. I forgot all about it. It's so pleasant here that one can forget anything."
"All right, but do be quick. The horses have already been standing a quarter of an hour, and the flies are biting viciously. Can you wait, Ar-senty?" he asked the coachman.
"Why not?" said the coachman, thinking to himself, "why do they order the horses when they aren't ready? The rush the grooms and I had--just to stand here and feed the flies."
"Directly, directly," Volgin went towards his room, but turned back to ask Nicholas Petrovich about the begging peasant.
"Did you see him?--He's a drunkard, but still he is to be pitied. Do be quick!"
Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites for writing, wrote the letter, made out a cheque for a hundred and eighty roubles, and, sealing down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich.
"Good-bye."
Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon. He only read the Liberal papers: The Russian Gazette, Speech, sometimes The Russian Word --but he would not touch The New Times, to which his host subscribed.
