“I don't understand why you tell me all that,” said the superintendent. “I ask you . . . it's you I ask, why you don't pay your arrears? None of you pay, and I am held responsible.”
“I'm not able to.”
“These expressions are without consequence, your honour,” said the starosta magniloquently. “In reality, the Tchikildeyeffs belong to the impoverished class, but be so good as to ask the others what is the reason. Vodka and impudence . . . without any comprehension.”
The superintendent made a note, and said to Osip in a quiet, even voice, as if he were asking for water —
“Begone!”
Soon afterwards he drove away; and as he sat in his cheap tarantass and coughed, it was plain, even from the appearance of his long, thin back, that he had forgotten Osip, and the starosta, and the arrears of Zhukovo, and was thinking of his own domestic affairs. He had hardly covered a verst before Antip Siedelnikoff was carrying off the Tchikildeyeff^s samovar; and after him ran grandmother, and whined like a dog.
“I won't give it! I won't give it to you, accursed!”
The starosta walked quickly, taking big steps; and grandmother, stooping and fierce and breathless, tottered after him; and her green-grey hair floated in the wind. At last she stopped, beat her breast with her fists, and exclaimed, with a whine and a sob —
