Andrei Vassil’itch was a noted man in the neighbourhood.  He was the centre of a whole cycle of legends, and I have often heard that his name was used with effect by nurses to frighten naughty children.  I never missed an opportunity of meeting him, for I was curious to see and study a legendary monster in the flesh.  How far the numerous stories told about him were true I cannot pretend to say, but they were certainly not without foundation.  In his youth he had served for some time in the army, and was celebrated, even in an age when martinets had always a good chance of promotion, for his brutality to his subordinates.  His career was cut short, however, when he had only the rank of captain.  Having compromised himself in some way, he found it advisable to send in his resignation and retire to his estate.  Here he organised his house on Mahometan rather than Christian principles, and ruled his servants and peasants as he had been accustomed to rule his soldiers—­using corporal punishment in merciless fashion.  His wife did not venture to protest against the Mahometan arrangements, and any peasant who stood in the way of their realisation was at once given as a recruit, or transported to Siberia, in accordance with his master’s demand.* At last his tyranny and extortion drove his serfs to revolt.  One night his house was surrounded and set on fire, but he contrived to escape the fate that was prepared for him, and caused all who had taken part in the revolt to be mercilessly punished.  This was a severe lesson, but it had no effect upon him.  Taking precautions against a similar surprise, he continued to tyrannise and extort as before, until in 1861 the serfs were emancipated, and his authority came to an end.

* When a proprietor considered any of his serfs unruly he could, according to law, have them transported to Siberia without trial, on condition of paying the expenses of transport.  Arrived at their destination, they received land, and lived as free colonists, with the single restriction that they were not allowed to leave the locality where they settled.

A very different sort of man was Pavel Trophim’itch, who likewise came regularly to pay his respects and present his congratulations to the General and “Gheneralsha."* It was pleasant to turn from the hard, wrinkled, morose features of the legendary monster to the soft, smooth, jovial face of this man, who had been accustomed to look at the bright side of things, till his face had caught something of their brightness.  “A good, jovial, honest face!” a stranger might exclaim as he looked at him.  Knowing something of his character and history, I could not endorse such an opinion.  Jovial he certainly was, for few men were more capable of making and enjoying mirth.  Good he might be also called, if the word were taken in the sense of good-natured, for he never took offence, and was always ready to do a kindly action if it did not cost him any trouble.  But as to his honesty,