He could not sleep, but he sank into a traveller’s dreamy reverie.  Just as before, pictures of by-gone days slowly rose and floated across his mind, blending with each other, and becoming confused with other scenes.  Lavretsky began to think—­heaven knows why—­about Sir Robert Peel; then about French history; lastly, about the victory which he would have gained if he had been a general.  The firing and the shouting rang in his ears.  His head slipped on one side; he opened his eyes—­the same fields stretched before him, the same level views met his eyes.  The iron shoes of the outside horses gleamed brightly by turns athwart the waving dust, the driver’s yellow[A] shirt swelled with the breeze.  “Here I am, returning virtuously to my birth-place,” suddenly thought Lavretsky, and he called out, “Get on there!” drew his cloak more closely around him, and pressed himself still nearer to the cushion.  The tarantass gave a jerk.  Lavretsky sat upright and opened his eyes wide.  On the slope before him extended a small village.  A little to the right was to be seen an old manor house of modest dimensions, its shutters closed, its portico awry.  On one side stood a barn built of oak, small, but well preserved.  The wide court-yard was entirely overgrown by nettles, as green and thick as hemp.  This was Vasilievskoe.

[Footnote A:  Yellow, with red pieces let in under the armpits.]

The driver turned aside to the gate, and stopped his horses.  Lavretsky’s servant rose from his seat, ready to jump down, and shouted “Halloo!” A hoarse, dull barking arose in reply, but no dog made its appearance.  The lackey again got ready to descend, and again cried “Halloo!” The feeble barking was repeated, and directly afterwards a man, with snow-white hair, dressed in a nankeen caftan, ran into the yard from one of the comers.  He looked at the tarantass, shielding his eyes from the sun, then suddenly struck both his hands upon his thighs, fidgeted about nervously for a moment, and finally ran to open the gates.  The tarantass entered the court-yard, crushing the nettles under its wheels, and stopped before the portico.  The white-headed old man, who was evidently of a very active turn, was already standing on the lowest step, his legs spread awkwardly apart.  He unbuttoned the apron of the carriage, pulling up the leather with a jerk, and kissed his master’s hand while assisting him to alight.

“Good day, good day, brother,” said Lavretsky.  “Your name is Anton, isn’t it.  So you’re still alive?”

The old man bowed in silence, and then ran to fetch the keys.  While he ran, the driver sat motionless, leaning sideways and looking at the closed door; and Lavretsky’s man-servant remained in the picturesque attitude in which he found himself after springing clown to the ground, one of his arms resting on the box seat.  The old man brought the keys and opened the door, lifting his elbows high the while, and needlessly wriggling his body—­then he stood on one side, and again bowed down to his girdle.