Chương Chương 9 · 第7章（3）

The old man pretended not to hear my question, and in a low voice went

on reading my travelling certificate. I ceased my inquiries and ordered

hot water.

My curiosity was becoming painful, and I hoped that the punch would

loosen the tongue of my old friend. I was not mistaken; the old man

did not refuse the proffered tumbler. I noticed that the rum dispelled

his gloom. At the second glass he became talkative, remembered, or at

any rate looked as if he remembered, me, and I heard the story, which

at the time interested me and even affected me much.

"So you knew my Dunia?" he began. "But, then, who did not? Oh, Dunia,

Dunia! What a beautiful girl you were! You were admired and praised

by every traveller. No one had a word to say against her. The ladies

gave her presents--one a handkerchief, another a pair of earrings. The

gentlemen stopped on purpose, as if to dine or to take supper, but

really only to take a longer look at her. However rough a man might be,

he became subdued in her presence and spoke graciously to me. Will you

believe me, sir? Couriers and special messengers would talk to her for

half-an-hour at the time. She was the support of the house. She kept

everything in order, did everything and looked after everything. While

I, the old fool that I was, could not see enough of her, or pet her

sufficiently. How I loved her! How I indulged my child! Surely her life

was a happy one? But, no! fate is not to be avoided."

Then he began to tell me his sorrow in detail. Three years before,

one winter evening, while the Postmaster was ruling a new book, his

daughter in the next partition was busy making herself a dress, when

a _troika_ drove up and a traveller, wearing a Circassian hat and a

long military overcoat, and muffled in a shawl, entered the room and

demanded horses.

The horses were all out. Hearing this, the traveller had raised his

voice and his whip, when Dunia, accustomed to such scenes, rushed out

from behind the partition and inquired pleasantly whether he would not

like something to eat? Her appearance produced the usual effect. The

passenger's rage subsided, he agreed to wait for horses, and ordered

some supper. He took off his wet hat, unloosed the shawl, and divested

himself of his long overcoat.

The traveller was a tall, young hussar with a small black moustache.

He settled down comfortably at the Postmaster's and began a lively,

conversation with him and his daughter. Supper was served. Meanwhile,

the horses returned and the Postmaster ordered them instantly, without

being fed, to be harnessed to the traveller's _kibitka._ But returning

to the room, he found the young man senseless on the bench where he lay

in a faint. Such a headache had attacked him that it was impossible for

him to continue his journey. What was to be done? The Postmaster gave

up his own bed to him; and it was arranged that if the patient was not

better the next morning to send to C------ for the doctor.

Next day the hussar was worse. His servant rode to the town to fetch

the doctor. Dunia bound up his head with a handkerchief moistened

in vinegar, and sat down with her needlework by his bedside. In the

presence of the Postmaster the invalid groaned and scarcely said a word.

Nevertheless, he drank two cups of coffee and, still groaning, ordered

a good dinner. Dunia never left him. Every time he asked for a drink

Dunia handed him the jug of lemonade prepared by herself. After

moistening his lips, the patient each time he returned the jug gave her

hand a gentle pressure in token of gratitude.

Towards dinner time the doctor arrived. He felt the patient's pulse,

spoke to him in German and in Russian, declared that all he required

was rest, and said that in a couple of days he would be able to start

on his journey. The hussar handed him twenty-five rubles for his visit,

and gave him an invitation to dinner, which the doctor accepted. They

both ate with a good appetite, and drank a bottle of wine between them.

Then, very pleased with one another, they separated.

Another day passed, and the hussar had quite recovered. He became very

lively, incessantly joking, first with Dunia, then with the Postmaster,

whistling tunes, conversing with the passengers, copying their

travelling certificates into the station book, and so ingratiating

himself that on the third day the good Postmaster regretted parting

with his dear lodger.

It was Sunday, and Dunia was getting ready to attend mass. The hussar's

_kibitka_ was at the door. He took leave of the Postmaster, after

recompensing him handsomely for his board and lodging, wished Dunia

good-bye, and proposed to drop her at the church, which was situated at

the other end of the village. Dunia hesitated.

"What are you afraid of?" asked her father. "His nobility is not a

wolf. He won't eat you. Drive with him as far as the church."

Dunia got into the carriage by the side of the hussar. The servant

jumped on the coach box, the coachman gave a whistle, and the horses

went off at a gallop.

The poor Postmaster could not understand how he came to allow his Dunia

to drive off with the hussar; how he could have been so blind, and what

had become of his senses. Before half-an-hour had passed his heart

misgave him. It ached, and he became so uneasy that he could bear the

situation no longer, and started for the church himself. Approaching

the church, he saw that the people were already dispersing. But Dunia

was neither in the churchyard nor at the entrance. He hurried into

the church; the priest was just leaving the altar, the clerk was

extinguishing the tapers, two old women were still praying in a corner;

but Dunia was nowhere to be seen. The poor father could scarcely summon

courage to ask the clerk if she had been to mass. The clerk replied

that she had not. The Postmaster returned home neither dead nor alive.

He had only one hope left; that Dunia in the flightiness of her youth

had, perhaps, resolved to drive as far as the next station, where her

godmother lived. In patient agitation he awaited the return of the

_troika_ with which he had allowed her to drive off, but the driver did

not come back. At last, towards night, he arrived alone and tipsy, with

the fatal news that Dunia had gone on with the hussar.

The old man succumbed to his misfortune, and took to his bed, the same

bed where, the day before, the young impostor had lain. Recalling all

the circumstances, the Postmaster understood now that the hussar's

illness had been shammed. The poor fellow sickened with severe fever,

he was removed to C------, and in his place another man was temporarily

appointed. The same doctor who had visited the hussar attended him. He

assured the Postmaster that the young man had been perfectly well, that

he had from the first had suspicions of his evil intentions, but that

he had kept silent for fear of his whip.

Whether the German doctor spoke the truth, or was anxious only to prove

his great penetration, his assurance brought no consolation to the poor

patient. As soon as he was beginning to recover from his illness, the

old Postmaster asked his superior postmaster of the town of C------ for

two months' leave of absence, and without saying a word to anyone, he

started off on foot to look for his daughter.

From the station book he discovered that Captain Minsky had left

Smolensk for Petersburg. The coachman who drove him said that Dunia had

wept all the way, though she seemed to be going of her own free will.

"Perhaps," thought the station master, "I shall bring back my strayed

lamb." With this idea he reached St. Petersburg, and stopped with the

Ismailovsky regiment, in the quarters of a non-commissioned officer,

his old comrade in arms. Beginning his search he soon found out that

Captain Minsky was in Petersburg, living at Demuth's Hotel. The

Postmaster determined to see him.

Early in the morning he went to Minsky's antechamber, and asked to

have his nobility informed that an old soldier wished to see him. The

military attendant, in the act of cleaning a boot on a boot-tree,

informed him that his master was asleep, and never received anyone

before eleven o'clock. The Postmaster left to return at the appointed

time. Minsky came out to him in his dressing gown and red skull cap.

"Well, my friend, what do you want?" he inquired.

The old maids heart boiled, tears started to his eyes, and in a

trembling voice he could only say, "Your nobility; be divinely

merciful!"

Minsky glanced quickly at him, flushed, and seizing him by the hand,

led him into his study and locked the door.

"Your nobility!" continued the old man, "what has fallen from the cart

is lost; give me back, at any rate, my Dunia. Let her go. Do not ruin

her entirely."

"What is done cannot be undone," replied the young man, in extreme

confusion. "I am guilty before you, and ready to ask your pardon. But

do not imagine that I could neglect Dunia. She shall be happy, I give

you my word of honour. Why do you want her? She loves me; she has

forsaken her former existence. Neither you nor she can forget what has

happened." Then, pushing something up his sleeve, he opened the door,

and the Postmaster found himself, he knew not how, in the street.

He stood long motionless, at last catching sight of a roll of papers

inside his cuff, he pulled them out and unrolled several crumpled-up

fifty ruble notes. His eyes again filled with tears, tears of

indignation! He crushed the notes into a ball, threw them on the

ground, and, stamping on them with his heel, walked away. After a few

steps he stopped, reflected a moment, and turned back.

But the notes were gone. A well-dressed young man, who had observed

him, ran towards an _isvoshtchick_, got in hurriedly, and called to the

driver to be "off."

The Postmaster did not pursue him. He had resolved to return home to

his post-house; but before doing so he wished to see his poor Dunia

once more. With this view, a couple of days afterwards he returned to

Minsky's lodgings. But the military servant told him roughly that his

master received nobody, pushed him out of the antechamber, and slammed

the door in his face. The Postmaster stood and stood, and at last went

away.

That same day, in the evening, he was walking along the Leteinaia,

having been to service at the Church of the All Saints, when a smart

_drojki_ flew past him, and in it the Postmaster recognised Minsky.

The _drojki_ stopped in front of a three-storeyed house at the very

entrance, and the hussar ran up the steps. A happy thought occurred to

the Postmaster. He retraced his steps.

"Whose horses are these?" he inquired of the coachman. "Don't they

belong to Minsky?"

"Exactly so," replied the coachman. "Why do you ask?"

"Why! your master told me to deliver a note for him to his Dunia, and I

have forgotten where his Dunia lives."

"She lives here on the second floor; but you are too late, my friend,

with your note; he is there himself now."

"No matter," answered the Postmaster, who had an undefinable sensation

at his heart. "Thanks for your information; I shall be able to manage

my business." With these words he ascended the steps.

The door was locked; he rang. There were several seconds of painful

delay. Then the key jingled, and the door opened.

"Does Avdotia Simeonovna live here?" he inquired.

"She does," replied the young maid-servant, "What do you want with her?"

The Postmaster did not reply, but walked on.

"You must not, must not," she called after him; "Avdotia Simeonovna has

visitors." But the Postmaster, without listening, went on. The first

two rooms were dark. In the third there was a light. He approached the

open door and stopped. In the room, which was beautifully furnished,

sat Minsky in deep thought. Dunia, dressed in all the splendour of

the latest fashion, sat on the arm of his easy chair, like a rider

on an English side saddle. She was looking tenderly at Minsky, while

twisting his black locks round her glittering fingers. Poor Postmaster!

His daughter had never before seemed so beautiful to him. In spite of

himself, he stood admiring her.

"Who is there?" she asked, without raising her head.

He was silent.

Receiving no reply Dunia looked up, and with a cry she fell on the

carpet.

Minsky, in alarm, rushed to pick her up, when suddenly seeing the old

Postmaster in the doorway, he left Dunia and approached him, trembling

with rage.

"What do you want?" he inquired, clenching his teeth. "Why do you steal

after me everywhere, like a burglar? Or do you want to murder me?

Begone!" and with a strong hand he seized the old man by the scruff of

the neck and pushed him down the stairs.

The old man went back to his rooms. His friend advised him to take

proceedings, but the Postmaster reflected, waved his hand, and decided

to give the matter up. Two days afterwards he left Petersburg for his

station and resumed his duties.

"This is the third year," he concluded, "that I am living without my

Dunia; and I have had no tidings whatever of her. Whether she is alive

or not God knows. Many tilings happen. She is not the first, nor the

last, whom a wandering blackguard has _enticed_ away, kept for a time,

and then dropped. There are many such young fools in Petersburg to-day,

in satins and velvets, and to-morrow you see them sweeping the streets

in the company of drunkards in rags. When I think sometimes that Dunia,

too, may end in the same way, then, in spite of myself, I sin, and wish

her in her grave."

Such was the story of my friend, the old Postmaster, the story more

than once interrupted by tears, which he wiped away picturesquely

with the flap of his coat like the faithful Terentieff in Dmitrieff's

beautiful ballad. The tears were partly caused by punch, of which he

had consumed five tumblers in the course of his narrative. But whatever

their origin, I was deeply affected by them. After parting with him, it

was long before I could forget the old Postmaster, and I thought long

of poor Dunia.

Lately, again passing through the small place of ------, I remembered

my friend. I heard that the station over which he ruled had been done

away with. To my inquiry, "Is the Postmaster alive?" no one could give

a satisfactory answer. Having resolved to pay a visit to the familiar

place, I hired horses of my own, and started for the village of N----.

It was autumn. Grey clouds covered the sky; a cold wind blew from the

close reaped fields, carrying with it the brown and yellow leaves

of the trees which it met. I arrived in the village at sunset, and

stopped at the station house. In the passage (where once Dunia had

kissed me) a stout woman met me; and to my inquiries, replied that the

old Postmaster had died about a year before; that a brewer occupied

his house; and that she was the wife of that brewer. I regretted my

fruitless journey, and my seven roubles of useless expense.

"Of what did he die?" I asked the brewer's wife.

"Of drink," she answered.

"And where is he buried?"

"Beyond the village, by the side of his late wife."

"Could someone take me to his grave?"

"Certainly! Hi, Vanka! cease playing with the cat and take this

gentleman to the cemetery, and show him the Postmaster's grave."

At these words, a ragged boy, with red hair and a squint, ran towards

me to lead the way.

"Did you know the poor man?" I asked him, on the road.

"How should I not know him? He taught me to make whistles. When (may

he be in heaven!) we met him coming from the tavern, _we_ used to run

after him calling, 'Daddy! daddy! some nuts,' and he gave us nuts. He

idled most of his time away with, us."

"And do the travellers ever speak of him?"

"There are few travellers now-a-days, unless the assize judge turns up;

and he is too busy to think of the dead. But a lady, passing through

last summer, did ask after the old Postmaster, and she went to his

grave."

"What was the ladylike?" I inquired curiously.

"A beautiful lady," answered the boy. "She travelled in a coach with

six horses, three beautiful little children, a nurse, and a little

black dog; and when she heard that the old Postmaster was dead, she

wept, and told the children to keep quiet while she went to the

cemetery. I offered to show her the way, but the lady said, 'I know

the way,' and she gave me a silver _piatak_ (twopence) ... such a kind

lady!"

We reached the cemetery. It was a bare place unenclosed, marked with

wooden crosses and unshaded by a single tree. Never before had I seen

such a melancholy cemetery.

"Here is the grave of the old Postmaster," said the boy to me, as he

pointed to a heap of sand into which had been stuck a black cross with

a brass _icon_ (image).

"Did the lady come here?" I asked.

"She did," replied Vanka. "I saw her from a distance. She lay down

here, and remained lying down for a long while. Then she went into the

village and saw the priest. She gave him some money and drove off. To

me she gave a silver _piatak._ She was a splendid lady!"

And I also gave the boy a silver _piatak,_ regretting neither the

journey nor the seven roubles that it had cost me.

THE LADY RUSTIC.

In one of our distant provinces was the estate of Ivan Petrov

Story 6. THE LADY RUSTIC

As a youth he served in the guards, but having left the

army early in 1797 he retired to his country seat and there remained.

He married a wife from among the poor nobility, and when she died in

childbed he happened to be detained on farming business in one of his

distant fields. His daily occupations soon brought him consolation. He

built a house on his own plan, set up his own cloth factory, became his

own auditor and accountant, and began to think himself the cleverest

fellow in the whole district. The neighbours who used to come to him

upon a visit and bring their families and dogs took good care not to

contradict him. His work-a-day dress was a short coat of velveteen;

on holidays he wore a frock-coat of cloth from his own factory. His

accounts took most of his time, and he read nothing but the _Senatorial

News_. On the whole, though he was considered proud, he was not

disliked. The only person who could never get on with him was his

nearest neighbour, Grigori Ivanovitch Muromsky. A true Russian _barin,_

he had squandered in Moscow a large part of his estate, and having lost

his wife as well as his money he had retired to his sole remaining

property, and there continued his extragavance but in a different way.

He set up an English garden on which he spent nearly all the income he

had left. His grooms wore English liveries. An English governess taught

his daughter. He farmed his land upon the English system. But foreign

farming grows no Russian corn.

So, in spite of his retirement, the income of Grigori Ivanovitch did

not increase. Even in the country he had a faculty for making new

debts. But he was no fool, people said, for was he not the first

landowner in all that province to mortgage his property to the

government--a process then generally believed to be one of great

complexity and risk? Among his detractors Berestoff, a thorough hater

of innovation, was the most severe. In speaking of his neighbour's

Anglo-mania he could scarcely keep his feelings under control, and

missed no opportunity for criticism. To some compliment from a visitor

to his estate he would answer, with a knowing smile:

"Yes, my farming is not like that of Grigori Ivanovitch. I can't afford

to ruin my land on the English system, but I am satisfied to escape

starvation on the Russian."

Obliging neighbours reported these and other jokes to Grigori, with

additions and commentaries of their own. The Anglo-maniac was as

irritable as a journalist under this criticism, and wrathfully referred

to his critic as a bumpkin and a bear.

Relations were thus strained when Berestoff's son came home. Having

finished his university career, he wanted to go into the army; but his

father objected. For the civil service young Berestoff had no taste.

Neither would yield, so young Alexis took up the life of a country

gentleman, and to be ready for emergencies cultivated a moustache. He

was really a handsome fellow, and it would indeed have been a pity

never to pinch his fine figure into a military uniform, and instead

of displaying his broad shoulders on horseback to round them over an

office desk. Ever foremost in the hunting-field, and a straight rider,

it was quite clear, declared the neighbours, that he could never make

a good official. The shy young ladies glanced and the bold stared at

him in admiration; but he took no notice of them, and each could only

attribute his indifference to some prior attachment. In fact, there was

in private circulation, copied from an envelope in his handwriting,

this address:

A. N. P.,

Care of Akulina Petrovna Kurotchkina,

Opposite Alexeieff Monastery.

Those readers who have not seen our country life can hardly realize the

charm of these provincial girls. Breathing pure air under the shadow

of their apple trees, their only knowledge of the world is drawn from

books. In solitude and unrestrained, their feelings and their passions

develop early to a degree unknown to the busier beauties of our towns.

For them the tinkling of a bell is an event, a drive into the nearest

town an epoch, and a chance visit a long, sometimes an everlasting

remembrance. At their oddities he may laugh who will, but superficial

sneers cannot impair their real merits--their individuality, which, so

says Jean Paul, is a necessary element of greatness. The women in large

towns may be better educated, but the levelling influence of the world

soon makes all women as much alike as their own head-dresses.

Let not this be regarded as condemnation. Still as an ancient writer

says _nota nostra manet._

It may be imagined what an impression Alexis made on our country

misses. He was the first gloomy and disenchanted hero they had ever

beheld; the first who ever spoke to them of vanished joys and blighted

past. Besides, he wore a black ring with a death's head on it. All this

was quite a new thing in that province, and the young ladies all went

crazy.

But she in whose thoughts he dwelt most deeply was Lisa, or, as the old

Anglo-maniac called her, Betty, the daughter of Grigori Ivanovitch.

Their fathers did not visit, so she had never seen Alexis, who was

the sole topic of conversation among her young neighbours. She was

just seventeen, with dark eyes lighting up her pretty face. An only,

and consequently a spoilt child, full of life and mischief, she was

the delight of her father, and the distraction of her governess, Miss

Jackson, a prim spinster in the forties, who powdered her face and

blackened her eyebrows, read Pamela twice a year, drew a salary of

2,000 rubles, and was nearly bored to death in barbarous Russia.

Lisa's maid Nastia was older, but quite as flighty as her mistress, who

was very fond of her, and had her as confidante in all her secrets and

as fellow-conspirator in her mischief.

In fact, no leading lady played half such an important part in French

tragedy as was played by Nastia in the village.

Said Nastia, while dressing her young lady:

"May I go to-day and visit a friend?"

"Yes. Where?"

"To the Berestoff's. It is the cook's namesday. He called yesterday to

ask us to dinner."

"Then," said Lisa, "the masters quarrel and the servants entertain one

another."

"And what does that matter to us?" said Nastia. "I belong to you and

not to your father. You have not quarrelled with young Berestoff yet.

Let the old people fight if they please."

"Nastia! try and see Alexei Berestoff. Come back and tell me all about

him."

Nastia promised; Lisa spent the whole day impatiently waiting for her.

In the evening she returned.

"Well, Lisaveta Grigorievna!" she said, as she entered the room.

"I have seen young Berestoff. I had a good look at him. We spent the

whole day together."

"How so? tell me all about it."

"Certainly? We started, I and Anissia----"

"Yes, yes, I know! What then?"

"I would rather tell you in proper order. We were just in time for

dinner; the room was quite full. There were the Zaharievskys, the

steward's wife and daughters, the Shlupinskys----"

"Yes, yes! And Berestoff?"

"Wait a bit. We sat down to dinner. The steward's wife had the seat of

honour; I sat next to her, and her daughters were huffy; but what do I

care!"

"Oh, Nastia! How tiresome you are with these everlasting details!"

"How impatient you are! Well, then we rose from table--we had been

sitting for about three hours and it was a splendid dinner-party,

blue, red and striped creams--then we went into the garden to play at

kiss-in-the-ring when the young gentleman appeared."

"Well, is it true? Is he so handsome?"

"Wonderfully handsome! I may say beautiful. Tall, stately, with a

lovely colour."

"Really! I thought his face was pale. Well, how did he strike you--Was

he melancholy and thoughtful?"

"Oh, no! I never saw such a mad fellow. He took it into his head to

join us at kiss-in-the-ring." "He played at kiss-in-the-ring! It is

impossible."

"No, it's very possible; and what more do you think? When he caught any

one he kissed her." "Of course you may tell lies if you like, Nastia."

"As you please, miss, only I am not lying. I could scarcely get away

from him. Indeed he spent the whole day with us."

"Why do people say then that he is in love and looks at nobody?"

"I am sure I don't know, miss. He looked too much at me and Tania too,

the steward's daughter, and at Pasha too. In fact, he neglected nobody.

He is such a wild fellow!"

"This is surprising; and what do the servants say about him?"

"They say he is a splendid gentleman--so kind, so lively! He has only

one fault: he is too fond of the girls. But I don't think that is such

a great fault. He will get steadier in time."

"How I should like to see him," said Lisa, with a sigh.

"And why can't you? Tugilovo is only a mile off. Take a walk in that

direction, or a ride, and you are sure to meet him. He shoulders his

gun and goes shooting every morning."

"No, it would never do. He would think I was running after him.

Besides, our fathers have quarrelled, so he and I could hardly set up

a friendship. Oh, Nastia! I know what I'll do. I will dress up like a

peasant."

"That will do. Put on a coarse chemise and a _sarafan_, and set out

boldly for Tugilovo. Berestoff will never miss you I promise you."

"I can talk like a peasant splendidly. Oh, Nastia, dear Nastia, what

a happy thought!" and Lisa went to bed resolved to carry out her

plan. Next day she made her preparations. She went to the market for

some coarse linen, some dark blue stuff, and some brass buttons, and

out of these Nastia and she cut a chemise and a _sarafan._ All the

maid-servants were set down to sew, and by evening everything was

ready.

As she tried on her new costume before the glass, Lisa said to herself

that she had never looked so nice. Then she began to rehearse her

meeting with Alexis. First she gave him a low bow as she passed along,

then she continued to nod her head like a mandarin. Next she addressed

him in a peasant _patois,_ simpering and shyly hiding her face behind

her sleeve. Nastia gave the performance her full approval. But there

was one difficulty. She tried to cross the yard barefooted, but the

grass stalks pricked her tender feet and the gravel caused intolerable

pain. Nastia again came to the rescue.

She took the measure of Lisa's foot and hurried across the fields to

the herdsman Trophim, of whom she ordered a pair of bark shoes.

The next morning before daylight Lisa awoke. The whole household was

still asleep. Nastia was at the gate waiting for the herdsman; soon

the sound of his horn drew near, and the village herd straggled past

the Manor gates. After them came Trophim, who, as he passed, handed to

Nastia a little pair of speckled bark shoes, and received a ruble.

Lisa, who had quietly donned her peasant dress, whispered to Nastia

her last instructions about Miss Jackson; then she went through the

kitchen, out of the back door, into the open field, then she began to

run.

Dawn was breaking, and the rows of golden clouds stood like courtiers

waiting for their monarch. The clear sky, the fresh morning air, the

dew, the breeze and singing of the birds filled Lisa's heart with

child-like joy.

Fearing to meet with some acquaintance, she did nor walk but flew. As

she drew near the wood where lay the boundary of her father's property

she slackened her pace. It was here she was to meet Alexis. Her heart

beat violently, she knew not why. The terrors of our youthful escapades

are their chief charm.

Lisa stepped forward into the darkness of the wood; its hollow

echoes bade her welcome. Her buoyant spirits gradually gave place to

meditation. She thought--but who shall truly tell the thoughts of sweet

seventeen in a wood, alone, at six o'clock on a spring morning?

And as she walked in meditation under the shade of lofty trees,

suddenly a beautiful pointer began to bark at her. Lisa cried out with

fear, and at the same moment a voice exclaimed, "_Tout beau Shogar,

ici,_" and a young sportsman stepped from behind the bushes. "Don't be

afraid, my dear, he won't bite."

Lisa had already recovered from her fright, and instantly took

advantage of the situation.

"It's all very well, sir," she said, with assumed timidity and shyness,

_"I_ am afraid of him, he seems such a savage creature, and may fly at

me again."

Alexis, whom the reader has already recognised, looked steadily at the

young peasant. "I will escort you, if you are afraid; will you allow me

to walk by your side?"

"Who is to prevent you?" replied Lisa. "A freeman can do as he likes,

and the road is public!"

"Where do you come from?"

"From Prilutchina; I am the daughter of Yassili, the blacksmith, and I

am looking for mushrooms." She was carrying a basket suspended from her

shoulders by a cord.

"And you, _barin_; are you from Tugilovo?"

"Exactly, I am the young gentleman's valet" (he wished to equalize

their ranks). But Lisa looked at him and laughed.

"Ah! you are lying," she said. "I am not a fool. I see you are the

master himself."

"What makes you think so?"

"Everything."

"Still----?"

"How can one help it. You are not dressed like a servant. You speak

differently. You even call your dog in a foreign tongue."