Behind the great house was an old garden which had already run wild, and was overgrown with rough weeds and bushes.  I walked up and down the verandah, which was still solid and beautiful; through the glass doors one could see a room with parquetted floor, probably the drawing-room; an old-fashioned piano and pictures in deep mahogany frames—­there was nothing else.  In the old flower-beds all that remained were peonies and poppies, which lifted their white and bright red heads above the grass.  Young maples and elms, already nibbled by the cows, grew beside the paths, drawn up and hindering each other’s growth.  The garden was thickly overgrown and seemed impassable, but this was only near the house where there stood poplars, fir-trees, and old limetrees, all of the same age, relics of the former avenues.  Further on, beyond them the garden had been cleared for the sake of hay, and here it was not moist and stuffy, and there were no spiders’ webs in one’s mouth and eyes.  A light breeze was blowing.  The further one went the more open it was, and here in the open space were cherries, plums, and spreading apple-trees, disfigured by props and by canker; and pear-trees so tall that one could not believe they were pear-trees.  This part of the garden was let to some shopkeepers of the town, and it was protected from thieves and starlings by a feeble-minded peasant who lived in a shanty in it.

The garden, growing more and more open, till it became definitely a meadow, sloped down to the river, which was overgrown with green weeds and osiers.  Near the milldam was the millpond, deep and full of fish; a little mill with a thatched roof was working away with a wrathful sound, and frogs croaked furiously.  Circles passed from time to time over the smooth, mirror-like water, and the water-lilies trembled, stirred by the lively fish.  On the further side of the river was the little village Dubetchnya.  The still, blue millpond was alluring with its promise of coolness and peace.  And now all this—­the millpond and the mill and the snug-looking banks—­ belonged to the engineer!

And so my new work began.  I received and forwarded telegrams, wrote various reports, and made fair copies of the notes of requirements, the complaints, and the reports sent to the office by the illiterate foremen and workmen.  But for the greater part of the day I did nothing but walk about the room waiting for telegrams, or made a boy sit in the lodge while I went for a walk in the garden, until the boy ran to tell me that there was a tapping at the operating machine.  I had dinner at Madame Tcheprakov’s.  Meat we had very rarely:  our dishes were all made of milk, and Wednesdays and Fridays were fast days, and on those days we had pink plates which were called Lenten plates.  Madame Tcheprakov was continually blinking —­it was her invariable habit, and I always felt ill at ease in her presence.

As there was not enough work in the lodge for one, Tcheprakov did nothing, but simply dozed, or went with his gun to shoot ducks on the millpond.  In the evenings he drank too much in the village or the station, and before going to bed stared in the looking-glass and said:  “Hullo, Ivan Tcheprakov.”