“Eh, what food?  Only just a pretence of food.  Naturally, when it’s not one’s own child.  Only enough to get it there alive.  She said she just managed to get it to Moscow, and there it died.  She brought a certificate—­all in order.  She was such a wise woman.”

That was all Nekhludoff could find out concerning his child.

CHAPTER VI.

REFLECTIONS OF A LANDLORD.

Again striking his head against both doors, Nekhludoff went out into the street, where the pink and the white boys were waiting for him.  A few newcomers were standing with them.  Among the women, of whom several had babies in their arms, was the thin woman with the baby who had the patchwork cap on its head.  She held lightly in her arms the bloodless infant, who kept strangely smiling all over its wizened little face, and continually moving its crooked thumbs.

Nekhludoff knew the smile to be one of suffering.  He asked who the woman was.

“It is that very Anisia I told you about,” said the elder boy.

Nekhludoff turned to Anisia.

“How do you live?” he asked.  “By what means do you gain your livelihood?”

“How do I live?  I go begging,” said Anisia, and began to cry.

Nekhludoff took out his pocket-book, and gave the woman a 10-rouble note.  He had not had time to take two steps before another woman with a baby caught him up, then an old woman, then another young one.  All of them spoke of their poverty, and asked for help.  Nekhludoff gave them the 60 roubles—­all in small notes—­which he had with him, and, terribly sad at heart, turned home, i.e., to the foreman’s house.

The foreman met Nekhludoff with a smile, and informed him that the peasants would come to the meeting in the evening.  Nekhludoff thanked him, and went straight into the garden to stroll along the paths strewn over with the petals of apple-blossom and overgrown with weeds, and to think over all he had seen.

At first all was quiet, but soon Nekhludoff heard from behind the foreman’s house two angry women’s voices interrupting each other, and now and then the voice of the ever-smiling foreman.  Nekhludoff listened.

“My strength’s at an end.  What are you about, dragging the very cross [those baptized in the Russo-Greek Church always wear a cross round their necks] off my neck,” said an angry woman’s voice.

“But she only got in for a moment,” said another voice.  “Give it her back, I tell you.  Why do you torment the beast, and the children, too, who want their milk?”

“Pay, then, or work it off,” said the foreman’s voice.

Nekhludoff left the garden and entered the porch, near which stood two dishevelled women—­one of them pregnant and evidently near her time.  On one of the steps of the porch, with his hands in the pockets of his holland coat, stood the foreman.  When they saw the master, the women were silent, and began arranging the kerchiefs on their heads, and the foreman took his hands out of his pockets and began to smile.