is fortunate that it lay upon the very verge
of our estate, near a field which belongs
to other people. I cleverly caused the corpse
to be transported to the neighbour's land. I
posted a sentinel a little way off, and enjoined
him to keep the strictest silence. I then went
to the head of the police, gave information in
my own way, and left him with a slight token
of gratitude for the injury which he does not
do us. By Our Lady, bârine, my plan
answered; the corpse remained hanging
round our neighbour's neck. You know that
on such an occasion as this two hundred
roubles (more than thirty pounds) have no
more effect than a penny roll of the finest
flour has on the appetite of a starving man."

M. Péenotchkine laughed at his bourmister's
exploit, and said to me in French
several times, pointing to him with a motion
of the head, "What a jolly fellow! Isn't he?"

The night came, the table was removed,
and some hay brought in. The valet de
chambre arranged two beds, covering them
properly with sheets and pillows. Arcadi,
before going to sleep, enumerated the admirable
qualities of the Russian peasantry,
adding that ever since Sophron had been
manager he had never lost a farthing of
income from this estate.

Next morning we rose early. I had
intended to go to Reabovo; but Arcadi
Pavlytch testified a great desire to show me his
property, and induced me to remain. I confess
I was curious to witness with my own
eyes the proofs of the great talents of the
statesman whose name was Sophron the bourmister.
He soon appeared before us. He
was still dressed in a blue armiak with a red
girdle. He was less talkative than the day
before: he watched his master with piercing
attention: he answered cleverly, and in proper
terms. We inspected the barns, the sheep-
fold, the outhouses, the windmill, the stables,
the kitchen-garden, and the hemp-fields; all
was really in excellent order. The wan
countenances of the moujiks were in truth
the only thing with which I could as yet find
fault. Arcadi Pavlytch was delighted; he
explained to me, in French, the advantages
of the system of "obroc" (personal tax), and
gave advice to the bourmister as to the best
way of planting potatoes and physicking
cattle. Sophron listened attentively, and
sometimes even ventured to differ, for he had
discarded yesterday's devoted adulation, and
stuck to the text that the estate must be
increased, because the soil was bad. "Buy
more land, then,—in my name," answered
Arcadi Pavlytch; "I have no objection." To
which Sophron made no other answer than
to close his eyes in silence, and stroke his
beard. With regard to sylviculture, M.
Péenotchkine followed Russian notions. He
told me an anecdote, which he thought very
amusing,—of a facetious country gentleman,
who, in order to make his head forester
understand that it is not true that the more                                                  you strip a wood, the better it will sprout
again,—robbed him, at a single pluck, of half
the beard that grew on his chin.

In other respects, I cannot say that either
Arcadi Pavlytch or Sophron were opposed to
all innovation and improvement. They took
me to see a winnowing-machine, which they
had recently procured from Moscow; but if
Sophron could have foreseen the untoward
event which awaited us there, he would
certainly have deprived us of this latter
spectacle.

A few paces from the door of the barn
where the machine was at work, stood two
peasants,—one an old man of seventy, the
other a lad of twenty, both dressed in shirts
made of odd scraps of cloth, both wearing a
girdle of rope, and with naked feet. The
elder, with gaping mouth, and convulsively
clenched fists, was trying to drive them away,
and would probably have succeeded if we had
remained much longer in the barn. Arcadi
Pavlytch knit his brows, bit his lip, and
walked straight to the group. The two
peasants cast themselves at his feet.

"What do you want? Speak!" he
said, in a severe and somewhat nasal voice.

The poor creatures exchanged looks, and
could not utter a word; their eyes winked as
if they were dazzled, and their respiration was
accelerated.

"Well, what is the matter?" resumed
Arcadi Pavlytch, immediately turning round
to Sophron. "To what family do they
belong?"

"To the Toboléif family," answered the
bourmister slowly.

"What do you want, then? Have you no
tongue? Speak, old man; what would you
have?" He added; "You have nothing to
be frightened at, imbecile."

The old man stretched forward his bronzed
and wrinkled neck, moved his thick blue lips,
and said, in a bleating voice: "Come to our
aid, my Seigneur!"

And again he fell with his forehead to the
ground; the young man acted nearly in the
same way. Arcadi Pavlytch gravely regarded
their bended necks; then changing the position
of his legs and his head, he said, "What
is the matter? Of whom do you complain?
Let us see all about it."

"Pity, my Seigneur; a moment's breathing-
time. We are tortured; we are—"

"Who tortures you?"

"Sophron Jakovlitch, the bourmister."

"Your name?" said my companion, after
a moment's silence.

"Anthippe, my Seigneur."

"And the other?"

"He is my son, Seigneur."

Arcadi Pavlytch was again silent, twisting
his moustache. At last he added, "Well, and
in what way has he tortured you so cruelly?"
And he haughtily regarded the wretched
man, looking down between the tufts of his
moustache.