they probably do not accept a first refusal, but endeavour by means of supplication to make him reconsider his decision.  Stepping forward a little, and bowing low, one of the group begins in a half-respectful, half-familiar, caressing tone:  “Little Father, Ivan Ivan’itch, be gracious; you are our father, and we are your children”—­and so on.  Ivan Ivan’itch good-naturedly listens, and again explains that he cannot grant what they ask; but they have still hopes of gaining their point by entreaty, and continue their supplications till at last his patience is exhausted and he says to them in a paternal tone, “Now, enough! enough! you are blockheads—­blockheads all round!  There’s no use talking; it can’t be done.”  And with these words he enters the house, so as to prevent all further discussion.

A regular part of the evening’s occupation is the interview with the steward.  The work that has just been done, and the programme for the morrow, are always discussed at great length; and much time is spent in speculating as to the weather during the next few days.  On this latter point the calendar is always carefully consulted, and great confidence is placed in its predictions, though past experience has often shown that they are not to be implicitly trusted.  The conversation drags on till supper is announced, and immediately after that meal, which is an abridged repetition of dinner, all retire for the night.

Thus pass the days and weeks and months in the house of Ivan Ivan’itch, and rarely is there any deviation from the ordinary programme.  The climate necessitates, of course, some slight modifications.  When it is cold, the doors and windows have to be kept shut, and after heavy rains those who do not like to wade in mud have to remain in the house or garden.  In the long winter evenings the family assembles in the sitting-room, and all kill time as best they can.  Ivan Ivan’itch smokes and meditates or listens to the barrel-organ played by one of the children.  Maria Petrovna knits a stocking.  The old aunt, who commonly spends the winter with them, plays Patience, and sometimes draws from the game conclusions as to the future.  Her favourite predictions are that a stranger will arrive, or that a marriage will take place, and she can determine the sex of the stranger and the colour of the bridegroom’s hair; but beyond this her art does not go, and she cannot satisfy the young ladies’ curiosity as to further details.

Books and newspapers are rarely seen in the sitting-room, but for those who wish to read there is a book-case full of miscellaneous literature, which gives some idea of the literary tastes of the family during several generations.  The oldest volumes were bought by Ivan Ivan’itch’s grandfather—­a man who, according to the family traditions, enjoyed the confidence of the great Catherine.  Though wholly overlooked by recent historians, he was evidently a man who had some pretensions to culture.  He had his portrait painted by a foreign artist of considerable