bowing also very low, but without daring for
a moment to aspire to the honour of kissing
the hand. ln what is called "the cold
chamber," to the right of the entrance hall,
two other women were busily engaged in
carrying off all sorts of objects—empty jugs,
old clothes, butter-pots, and a cradle wherein,
amidst a heap of rags, an infant reposed, as it
seemed to me. Their work ended, Arcadi
Pavlytch drove them out in a hurry, to seat
himself on the bench exactly under the holy
pictures, which the common people never fail
to salute, crossing themselves at the same
time, whenever they enter any room
whatsoever. The drivers then brought in the
large chests, the middle-sized trunks, and the
little boxes. It is needless to mention that
they took infinite pains to muffle the sound
of their footsteps. Once, when they stood a
little on one side, I saw the bourmistress
noiselessly pinch and beat some other woman,
who did not dare to cry out. Suddenly, we
heard the rapid rolling, as rapidly checked, of
a "telegue" which stopped before the door,
and the bourmister made his entrance.

The "statesman" of whom Arcadi Pavlytch
had boasted was short, thickset, with broad
shoulders, grisly hair, a red nose, small blue
eyes, and a beard shaped like a reversed fan.
Note, by the way, that ever since Russia has
been in existence there has not been a single
instance of a man's growing rich, without his
beard at the same time becoming
proportionally broader and broader. We may
suppose that the Bourmister had copiously
washed down his dinner at Perof. His face
streamed with perspiration, and he smelt of
wine at ten paces' distance.

"Ah, you! our fathers! You, our benefactors!"
said the cunning fellow, in a droll
sort of chant, using the plural form to show
his greater respect, and speaking in such a
tone of emotion, that I expected every
moment to see him burst into tears. "You have
come to us at last! Your hand, father, your
hand!" he added, protruding his thick lips to
their utmost stretch.

Arcadi Pavlytch allowed his hand to be
kissed, and said, quite caressingly: "Well,
brother Sophron, how do our affairs go
on?"

"Ah, you, our fathers!" Sophron replied.
"And how should they go on otherwise than
well, when you, our fathers, our benefactors,
deign by your presence to enlighten our poor
liltle village? Oh! I am happy to my dying
day. Thanks to God, Arcadi Pavlytch, all
goes well. All goes well that belongs to your
grace."

After a minute's silence devoted to mute
contemplation, the "statesman" sighed
enthusiastically, and, as if carried away by
sudden inspiration (with which a strong dose
of ardent spirits might have something to do),
he again solicited the lordly hand, and chanted
with greater vehemence than before: "Ah,
you! our fathers and benefactors! I am mad                                           with delight! I can scarcely believe my eyes
that it is you, our fathers, our—"

The scene was well acted. Aircadi Pavlytch
looked at me, smiled slightly, and asked me
in French, "Is it not touching?"

"Ah! Arcadi Pavlytch," resumed the
bourmister; "what will become of you here?
Just now, I think, you thoroughly vex me;
you did not let me know that you were
coming. How will you contrive to pass the
night, gracious Heaven? This is a dusty,
dirty hole—"

"No matter, Sophron; no matter," replied
Arcadi Pavlytch with a smile. "We are well
enough here."

"Well! our cherished fathers; well! yes;
but for whom? For us clod-hoppers, well
enough, but for you! Ah! our fathers—
ah! our benefactors, excuse a poor imbecile.
Yes; my brain is turned inside out—Father of
Heaven! inside out—I am crazy with excess
of joy."

Supper was served: Arcadi Pavlytch sat
down to supper. The old man soon turned
his son out of the room, because he exhaled
too potent a rustic odour, according to the
remark of the father himself, who stood like
an automaton three or four paces away from
the table.

'"Well, old fellow! have you settled with
the neighbours about the boundary?" asked
M. Péenotchkine.

"Settled, bârine, settled—thanks to thee,
to thy name. The day before yesterday we
signed the agreement. The khlynovski, at
first, made a great many objections; they
demanded this, and that, and something
besides, and Heaven knows what. Dogs, poor
people, fools as they are! But we, father,
thanks to thy generosity, we have—satisfied
Nicolas Nicolaévitch. We acted according to
thy instructions, bârine—as thou hast said,
we have done—yes; we have arranged and
finished all, according to thy will, as reported
by Egor Dmitritch."

"Egor delivered in his report," said Arcadi
Pavlytch, majestically; "and now are you
satisfied?"

Sophron only waited for such a word to
intone afresh his "Ah! you, our fathers,
our saviours and benefactors! ah! we pray
the Lord God for you night and day. Doubtless,
we have but little laud here."

"Good, good, Sophron," said Péenotchkine,
"I know you are a devoted servant, and—
what does this year's threshing produce?"

"The threshing? it is not altogether satisfactory.
But allow me, our good fathers,
Arcadi Pavlytch, to announce to you a little
matter which has befallen us unexpectedly."
Here he drew near to M. Péenotchkine,
leaned forward obliquely, and, winking his
eye, said, "A dead body has been found upon
our land."

"How did that happen?"

"Ah! our fathers, I ask the same question;
it must have been done by some enemy. It