Andrei’s supplanter was named Katiusha, but her angular charms corresponded so precisely with those of the character in “The Mikado” that we referred to her habitually as Katisha.  She had been a serf, a member of the serf aristocracy, which consisted of the house servants, and had served always as maid or nurse.  She was now struggling on as a seamstress.  Her sewing was wonderfully bad, and she found great difficulty in bringing up her two children, who demanded fashionable “European” clothing, and in eking out the starvation wages of her husband, a superannuated restaurant waiter, also a former serf, and belonging, like herself, to the class which received personal liberty, but no land, at the emancipation.  Her view of the emancipation was not entirely favorable.  In fact, all the ex-serfs with whom I talked retained a soft spot in their hearts for the comforts and irresponsibility of the good old days of serfdom.

Katiusha could neither read nor write, but her naturally acute powers of observation, unconsciously trained by constant contact with her former owners, were of very creditable quality.  She possessed a genuine talent for expressing herself neatly.  For example, in describing a concert to which she had been taken, she praised the soprano singer’s voice with much discrimination, winding up with, “It was—­how shall I say it?—­ round—­as round—­as round as—­a cartwheel!”

Her great delight consisted in being sent by me to purchase eggs and fruit at the market, or in accompanying me to carry them home, when I went myself to enjoy the scene and her methods.  In her I was able to study Russian bargaining tactics in their finest flower.  She would haggle for half an hour over a quarter of a cent on very small purchases, and then would carry whatever she bought into one of the neighboring shops to be reweighed.  To my surprise, the good-natured venders seemed never to take offense at this significant act; and she never discovered any dishonesty.  When wearied out by this sort of thing, I took charge of the proceedings, that I might escape from her agonized groans and grimaces at my extravagance.  After choking down her emotion in gulps all the way home, she would at last clasp her hands, and moan in a wheedling voice:—­

“Please, barynya,* how much did you pay that robber?”

* Mistress.

“Two kopeks* apiece for the eggs.  They are fine, large, and fresh, as you see.  Twenty kopeks a pound for the strawberries, also of the first quality.”

* About one cent.

Then would follow a scene which never varied, even if my indiscretion had been confined to raspberries at five cents a pound, or currants at a cent less.  She would wring her hands, long and fleshless as fan handles, and, her great green eyes phosphorescent with distress above her hollow cheeks and projecting bones, she would cry:—­

“Oh, barynya, they have cheated you, cheated you shamefully!  You must let me protect you.”