I entertain for Arcadi Pavlytch, I once happened
to pass the night at his house. Early
the next morning I had the horses put to my
calèche, but he would not allow me to leave
till I had breakfasted in the English style,
And he dragged me into his cabinet. We had
tea, cutlets, poached eggs, butter, honey,
Swiss cheese, and so on. Two white-gloved
valets, silently, and with the greatest
promptness, anticipated our slightest wishes.
We were seated upon a Persian divan,—
Arcadi Pavlytch, in a heterogeneous Oriental
costume, sipped his tea, nibbled a bit of
something, smiled, looked at his nails, smoked,
tucked a cushion under his arm, and appeared
in the main to be in excellent good temper.
He soon made a serious attack upon the
cutlets and the cheese; and, after having
worked away at them like a man, he poured
himself out a glass of red wine, raised it to
his lips, and knitted his brows.

"Why has this wine not been warmed?"
he drily asked of one of the valets, who be
became confused, turned pale, and stood like a
statue. "I just ask you that question, my
dear fellow," continued the young Seigneur,
staring at the poor man with wide-open eyes.
The only motion the culprit made was a
slight twisting of the napkin which he held
in his hand. Under the weight of fascination,
he was unable to utter a syllable. Arcadi
Pavlytch lowered his forehead, and continued
to gaze thoughtfully, but covertly, at his
victim.

"I beg your pardon, my dear sir," he said
to me with an amiable smile, laying his hand
familiarly on my knee. He again gave the
valet a silent stare.

"Well! go!" he said, at last, raising his
eyebrows, and touching the spring of a small
alarum bell, which was followed by the
entrance of a stout, brown-faced man, with a
low forehead and bloodshot eyes.

"Get matters ready for Fedor," said Arcadi
Pavlytch, with increasing laconism, and in a
state of perfect self-command.

The thickset man bowed, and left the
room. No doubt the correction for which he
had received the order was duly administered
to the delinquent servant-man.

"This is one of the annoyances of country
life," said Arcadi, in laughing mood. "But
where are you going to? Stop, stop! sit
down here."

"No, indeed; I am obliged to leave you.
It is getting late."

"To go shooting? Always shooting! 'Tis
quite a passion with you. In which direction
do you propose to start?"

"Forty versts off; to Reabovo."

"To Reabovo! But then I will accompany
you. Reabovo is only five versts from
my estate of Chipilovka, and I have been
intending to go there for some time past.
Till to-day, I have not had a moment at
liberty. It is a lucky accident. You can
shoot to your heart's content at Reabovo, if
such is your wish, and in the evening you
will be my guest. We will have a good
supper, for I will take the cook with me. I
want to show you Chipilovka; my moujiks
(peasants) there, pay their taxes punctually.
I can't understand how they make two ends
meet; but that's their affair. I must own that
I have a hard-headed bourmister (steward)
over them; quite a little statesman, on my
word of honour. You will see what a lucky
mortal I am."

It was impossible to refuse; but instead of
leaving at nine o'clock in the morning, it was
two in the afternoon before we started. A
sportsman will understand my impatience.
Arcadi Pavlytch took with him such a stock
of linen, provisions, clothes, cushions,
perfumes, and divers "necessaries," as would
have sufficed an economical German for a
whole twelvemonth, supplying him stylishly
and pleasantly too. At last we arrived, not
at Reabovo, where I wanted to go, but at
Chipilovka. It was too late to think seriously
of shooting, so I consoled myself with the
reflection that what can't be cured must be
endured.

The cook had preceded us by several
minutes. I thought I could observe that he had
already completed sundry arrangements, and
especially that he had given notice of our
coming to the person who had the greatest
interest in being informed of it. At the gate
of the village we were met by the staroste
(elder), the son of the bourmister, a vigorous
red-headed peasant, six feet high, on horse-
back, without a hat, dressed in his best
armiak, which hung unfastened and danced
in the air.

"And where is Sophron? " asked Arcadi
Pavlytch.

The elder first of all dismounted, bowed
very low, and muttered, "Health, father,
Seigneur Arcadi Pavlytch." Then he raised
his head, shaking his locks to make them
stand upright, and said that Sophron was at
Perof, but that he had already been sent for
to return immediately.

"Very well! Go behind the calèche, and
follow us."

The elder, by way of politeness, led his
horse ten paces away from us to the border
of the road, remounted, and trotted after us,
cap in hand. We made our entry into the
village.

The bourmister's cottage was situated
apart from the others, in the midst of a green
and fertile hempfield. We halted at the
entrance of the courtyard. M. Péenotchkine
rose, picturesquely threw aside his cloak, and
stepped out of the calèche, serenely gazing
around him. The bourmister's wife advanced,
bowing very low in front, and making a dead
set at the hand of the master, who graciously
allowed the good woman to kiss it as long as
she pleased, and then mounted the three steps
that led to the front door. The elder's wife
was waiting in a dark corner of the entrance,