"My Seigneur, he has completely stripped
and ruined us. Contrary to every regulation,
he has compelled two of my sons to
enlist out of their turn, and now he is going
to rob me of the third. No later than yesterday,
he carried off my last cow; and his
grace, the elder, who is indeed his son, has
beaten my housewife. Ah! good Seigneur!
Do not permit him to make an end of us."

M. Péenotchkine was extremely
embarrassed; he coughed three or four times, and
then, with a discontented air, inquired of the
bourmister, in an under tone, what he ought
to think of such an allegation.

"He is a drunkard, sir; " replied the
bourmister, with insolent assurance; "a
drunkard and an idler. He does nothing.
For the last five years he has not been able to
pay his back reckoning."

"Sophron Jakovlitch has paid for me, my
Seigneur," replied the old man. "This is the
fifth year in which he has paid instead of me;
and, as he pays for me, he has treated me as
his pledge, his own proper slave, my good
Seigneur, and—"

"But all that does not explain the reason of
the deficit," said M. Péenotchkine, with
animation. The old man bowed his head.—"You
drink, don't you? You haunt the public-
houses?" The old man opened his lips to
justify himself.—" I know you," continued
Arcadi Pavlytch. "You pass your time in
drinking and in sleeping on the stove; and
the industrious peasant has to answer for
you, to—"

"And, besides, he is ill-behaved," added
the bourmister, without scrupling to behave
ill himself by presuming to interrupt his
master.

"Ill-behaved, of course! it is always so; I
have often made the same observation. The
lazy fellow indulges in dissipation and bad
language the whole year through, and then,
one day, he throws himself at his Seigneur's
feet."

"My good Seigneur," said the old man
with an accent of fearful despair, "in the
name of God, rescue us from this man. And
he calls me ill-behaved, besides! I tell you
before Heaven that I cannot exist any longer.
Sophron Jakovlitch has taken a spite against
me. Why? Who can say? He has ruined,
crushed, and utterly destroyed me. This is
my last child. Well! "— A tear ran down
the old man's yellow and wrinkled cheeks.
"In the name of Heaven, my good Seigneur,
come to our aid."

"And we are not the only people whom he
persecutes," said the younger peasant.

Arcadi Pavlytch took fire at this word from
the poor lad, who had hitherto kept so quiet.
"And who asked you any questions? Tell
me that. How dare you speak before you
are spoken to? What does all this mean?
Hold your tongue; hold your tongue! Good
God! this is a regular revolt. But it will
not answer to revolt against me. I will "—

Arcadi Pavlytch was about to make some
hasty movement of which he would have
repented afterwards, but he probably
remembered that I was present, for he restrained
himself, and stuck his hands in his pockets.
He said to me in French, "I beg your pardon,
my dear fellow," with a forced smile and
in an undertone. "It is the wrong side of the
tapestry, the reverse of the medal." He
continued in Russian, addressing the serfs, but
without looking at them, "Very well; very
well. I shall take my measures. Very well,
go!" (The peasants did not stir). "Very
well, I tell you. Take yourselves off. I tell
you I shall give my orders. Begone."

Arcadi turned his back, muttering the
words, "Nothing but unpleasantnesses," and
strode off to the bourmister's house, who
followed him.

A couple of hours after this scene, I was at
Reabovo; and there, taking for my companion
one Anpadiste, a peasant, whom I knew, I
promised to devote myself entirely to sport.
Up to the moment of my departure, M.
Péenotchkine appeared to be sulky with
Sophron. I could not help thinking that I
had yielded extremely mal à propos to the
invitation to stop and inspect, that morning.
Whether I would or not, the thought was so
completely uppermost in my mind, that while
journeying with Anpadiste I said to him a
few words on the subject of M. Péenotchkine
and the Chipilovka serfs, and asked him if he
knew the bourmister of the estate.

"Sophron Jacovlitch, you mean."

"Yes; what sort of man is he?"

"He is not a man, he is a dog, and so bad
a dog that from here to Koursk you would
not find his equal."

"Really?"

"Ah, sir, Chipilovka has only the appearance
of belonging to—to this—never mind
his Christian names" (in Russia, a person's
Christian name and that of his father are
used together, whenever it is wished to speak
respectfully to, or of, any person: their
suppression is equivalent to an insult)—" to this
M. Péenotchkine. He is not the owner: the
real owner is Sophron only."

"Do you think so?"

"He has converted Chipilovka into a life-
estate of his own. Fancy that there is not a
single peasant there who is not in debt to
him up to the neck. He, therefore, has them
all under his thumb. He employs them as
he will, does what he chooses with them, and
makes them his tools and drudges."

"I am told they are pinched for room,—
that the estate is not large enough."

"Are we ever short of land or room in
these districts? Sophron traffics in land, in
horses, in cattle, pitch, rosin, butter, hemp,
and a hundred other articles. He is clever,
very clever; and isn't he rich, the brute?
But he is mad about threshing. He is a dog,
a mad dog, and not a man. I tell you again,
he is a ferocious brute."