us, begging for a bucket of vodka; we were hot in the crowd; we were soon exhausted, and returned home dissatisfied and a little ill at ease.  In the end the peasants set apart a plot of ground for the school, and were obliged to bring all the building material from the town with their own horses.  And the very first Sunday after the spring corn was sown carts set off from Kurilovka and Dubetchnya to fetch bricks for the foundations.  They set off as soon as it was light, and came back late in the evening; the peasants were drunk, and said they were worn out.

As ill-luck would have it, the rain and the cold persisted all through May.  The road was in an awful state:  it was deep in mud.  The carts usually drove into our yard when they came back from the town—­and what a horrible ordeal it was.  A potbellied horse would appear at the gate, setting its front legs wide apart; it would stumble forward before coming into the yard; a beam, nine yards long, wet and slimy-looking, crept in on a waggon.  Beside it, muffled up against the rain, strode a peasant with the skirts of his coat tucked up in his belt, not looking where he was going, but stepping through the puddles.  Another cart would appear with boards, then a third with a beam, a fourth . . . and the space before our house was gradually crowded up with horses, beams, and planks.  Men and women, with their heads muffled and their skirts tucked up, would stare angrily at our windows, make an uproar, and clamour for the mistress to come out to them; coarse oaths were audible.  Meanwhile Moisey stood at one side, and we fancied he was enjoying our discomfiture.

“We are not going to cart any more,” the peasants would shout.  “We are worn out!  Let her go and get the stuff herself.”

Masha, pale and flustered, expecting every minute that they would break into the house, would send them out a half-pail of vodka; after that the noise would subside and the long beams, one after another, would crawl slowly out of the yard.

When I was setting off to see the building my wife was worried and said: 

“The peasants are spiteful; I only hope they won’t do you a mischief.  Wait a minute, I’ll come with you.”

We drove to Kurilovka together, and there the carpenters asked us for a drink.  The framework of the house was ready.  It was time to lay the foundation, but the masons had not come; this caused delay, and the carpenters complained.  And when at last the masons did come, it appeared that there was no sand; it had been somehow overlooked that it would be needed.  Taking advantage of our helpless position, the peasants demanded thirty kopecks for each cartload, though the distance from the building to the river where they got the sand was less than a quarter of a mile, and more than five hundred cartloads were found to be necessary.  There was no end to the misunderstandings, swearing, and importunity; my wife was indignant, and the foreman of the masons, Tit Petrov, an old man of seventy, took her by the arm, and said: