an ignorant steward! And to choose in place of it what?—the copying of papers which a cantonist who has learnt anything could do incomparably better,' and Andrey Ivanovitch called himself a fool once more.
And meanwhile, another spectacle was awaiting him. Hearing of the master's arrival the population of the whole village had gathered at the entrance. Bright coloured kerchiefs, sashes, headbands, full-skirted coats, beards of all shapes—shovel, spade, and wedge-shaped, red, fair, and white as silver, covered the whole court in front of the house. The peasants boomed out: 'Our dear master, we have lived to see you again!' The women chanted: 'Thou golden one, silver of our hearts!' Those who stood further off actually began fighting to get nearer. A decrepit little old woman who looked like a dried pear, darted between the legs of the others, stepped up to him, clasped her hands and shrieked: 'Our nurseling! But how thin you are! the accursed foreigners have worn you out!' 'Get away, woman!' the beards, shovel, spade, and wedge-shaped, shouted to her. 'Where are you shoving to, you shrivelled thing?' Some one added to this an expression at which only a Russian peasant could help laughing. Andrey Ivanovitch could not refrain from laughter, but nevertheless he was deeply touched at heart. 'How much love, and what for?' he thought to himself, 'in return for my never having seen them, never having troubled about them! I swear
