“Uncle Osip, let me stay the night!”
Into the hut came the little, bald old man, General Zhukoff's cook, whose cap was burnt in the fire. He sat and listened, and, like his hosts, related many strange happenings. Nikolai, his legs hanging over the stove, listened ; and asked what sort of food was eaten at the manor-house. They spoke of bitki, cutlets, soups of various kinds, and sauces; and the cook, who, too, had an excellent memory, named certain dishes which no one eats nowadays; there was a dish, for instance, made of ox-eyes, and called “Awake in the morning.”
“And did you cook cutlets maréchal?” asked Nikolai.
“No.”
Nikolai shook his head reproachfully, and said —
“Then you are a queer sort of cook.”
The little girls sat and lay on the stove, and looked down with widely opened eyes; there seemed to be no end to them — like cherubs in the sky. The stories delighted them; they sighed, shuddered, and turned pale, sometimes from rapture, sometimes from fear; and, breathless, afraid to move, they listened to the stories of their grandmother, which were the most interesting of all.
They went to bed in silence; and the old men, agitated by their stories, thought how glorious was youth, which — however meagre it might be — left
