THE HEAD GARDENER'S TALE
THE sale of flowers from the greenhouses on Count N.'s estate was attended by few: I, a neighbouring country gentleman, and a young timber-merchant. While the workmen carried out our handsome purchases and packed them in carts, we sat at the greenhouse door, and talked away on every theme imaginable. Indeed, on that warm April morning, to sit in the garden, hear the birds, and see the flowers, restored to freedom, basking in the sun, was more than delightful.
The packing was superintended by the gardener, Mikhail Karlovitch, a worthy old man, with a fat, clean-shaven face. Mikhail Karlovitch wore a waist-coat of fur, and worked in his shirt-sleeves. He kept silence severely, and listened intently to our conversation, waiting for some one to say something new. We all considered him a German, though as a fact his father was a Swede and his mother Russian, and he professed the orthodox faith. He spoke Russian, Swedish, and German, read much in all three languages, and knew no greater pleasure than to be lent
