“Yes, yes,” said Nekhludoff, not knowing what to say.

“True, sir.  My wife is a steady woman.  I am satisfied with my wife, because she can feel for me.  Is it right what I’m saying, Mavra?”

“There you are, take it, I don’t want any more,” said the wife, returning the bottle to him.  “And what are you jawing for like that?” she added.

“There now!  She’s good—­that good; and suddenly she’ll begin squeaking like a wheel that’s not greased.  Mavra, is it right what I’m saying?”

Mavra laughed and moved her hand with a tipsy gesture.

“Oh, my, he’s at it again.”

“There now, she’s that good—­that good; but let her get her tail over the reins, and you can’t think what she’ll be up to. . . .  Is it right what I’m saying?  You must excuse me, sir, I’ve had a drop!  What’s to be done?” said the factory worker, and, preparing to go to sleep, put his head in his wife’s lap.

Nekhludoff sat a while with the old man, who told him all about himself.  The old man was a stove builder, who had been working for 53 years, and had built so many stoves that he had lost count, and now he wanted to rest, but had no time.  He had been to town and found employment for the young ones, and was now going to the country to see the people at home.  After hearing the old man’s story, Nekhludoff went to the place that Taras was keeping for him.

“It’s all right, sir; sit down; we’ll put the bag here,” said the gardener, who sat opposite Taras, in a friendly tone, looking up into Nekhludoff’s face.

“Rather a tight fit, but no matter since we are friends,” said Taras, smiling, and lifting the bag, which weighed more than five stone, as if it were a feather, he carried it across to the window.

“Plenty of room; besides, we might stand up a bit; and even under the seat it’s as comfortable as you could wish.  What’s the good of humbugging?” he said, beaming with friendliness and kindness.

Taras spoke of himself as being unable to utter a word when quite sober; but drink, he said, helped him to find the right words, and then he could express everything.  And in reality, when he was sober Taras kept silent; but when he had been drinking, which happened rarely and only on special occasions, he became very pleasantly talkative.  Then he spoke a great deal, spoke well and very simply and truthfully, and especially with great kindliness, which shone in his gentle, blue eyes and in the friendly smile that never left his lips.  He was in such a state to-day.  Nekhludoff’s approach interrupted the conversation; but when he had put the bag in its place, Taras sat down again, and with his strong hands folded in his lap, and looking straight into the gardener’s face, continued his story.  He was telling his new acquaintance about his wife and giving every detail:  what she was being sent to Siberia for, and why he was now following her.  Nekhludoff had never heard a detailed account of this affair, and so he listened with interest.  When he came up, the story had reached the point when the attempt to poison was already an accomplished fact, and the family had discovered that it was Theodosia’s doing.