when he goes and till that time he lives in the house; he sometimes stays there for six months and the way he’ll go on, it’s a disgrace to a decent house. ‘I am going for a soldier in place of your son,’ the fellow would say, ‘so I am your benefactor, so you must all respect me, or I’ll refuse.’ So Filka was having a rare time at the shopkeeper’s, sleeping with the daughter, pulling the father’s beard every day after dinner, and doing just as he liked. He had a bath every day and insisted on using vodka for water, and the women carrying him to the bath-house in their arms. When he came back from a walk he would stand in the middle of the street and say, ‘I won’t go in at the gate, pull down the fence,’ so they had to pull down the fence in another place beside the gate for him to go through. At last his time was up, they got him sober and took him off. The people came out in crowds into the street saying, ‘Filka Morozov’s being taken for a soldier!’ He bowed in all directions. Just then Akulka came out of the kitchen garden. When Filka saw her just at our gate, 'Stop,’ he cried, and leapt out of the cart and bowed down before her. ‘You are my soul,’ he said, ‘my darling, I’ve loved you for two years, and now they are taking me for a soldier with music. Forgive me,’ said he, ‘honest daughter of an honest father, for I’ve been a scoundrel to you and it’s all been my fault!’ And he bowed down to the ground again. Akulka stood, seeming scared at first, then she made him a low bow and said, ‘You forgive me too, good youth, I have no thought of any evil you have done.’ I followed her into the hut. ‘What did you say to him, dog’s flesh?’ And you may not believe me but she looked at me: ‘Why, I love him now more than all the world,’ said she.”
“You don’t say so!”
“I did not say one word to her all that day . . . only in the evening. ‘Akulka, I shall kill you now,’ says I. All night I could not sleep; I went into the passage to get some kvas to drink, and the sun was beginning to rise. I went back into the room. ‘Akulka,’ said I, ‘get ready to go out to the field.’ I had been meaning to go before and mother knew we were going. ‘That’s right,’ said she. ‘It’s harvest-time now and I hear the labourer’s been laid up with his stomach for the last three days.’ I got out the cart without saying a word. As you go out of our town there’s a pine forest that stretches for ten miles, and beyond the forest was the land we rented. When we had gone two miles I stopped the horse. ‘Get out, Akulina,’ said I, ‘your end has come.’ She looked at me, she was scared; she stood up before me, she
