“Two and a half,” said his father, shaking his head.

“Well, it’s not like the country there, you go into a restaurant to have a snack of something, you ask for one thing and another, others join till there is a party of us, one has a drink—­and before you know where you are it is daylight and you’ve three or four roubles each to pay.  And when one is with Samorodov he likes to have coffee with brandy in it after everything, and brandy is sixty kopecks for a little glass.”

“And he is making it all up,” said the old man enthusiastically; “he is making it all up, lying!”

“I am always with Samorodov now.  It is Samorodov who writes my letters to you.  He writes splendidly.  And if I were to tell you, mamma,” Anisim went on gaily, addressing Varvara, “the sort of fellow that Samorodov is, you would not believe me.  We call him Muhtar, because he is black like an Armenian.  I can see through him, I know all his affairs like the five fingers of my hand, and he feels that, and he always follows me about, we are regular inseparables.  He seems not to like it in a way, but he can’t get on without me.  Where I go he goes.  I have a correct, trustworthy eye, mamma.  One sees a peasant selling a shirt in the market place.  ‘Stay, that shirt’s stolen.’  And really it turns out it is so:  the shirt was a stolen one.”

“What do you tell from?” asked Varvara.

“Not from anything, I have just an eye for it.  I know nothing about the shirt, only for some reason I seem drawn to it:  it’s stolen, and that’s all I can say.  Among us detectives it’s come to their saying, ’Oh, Anisim has gone to shoot snipe!’ That means looking for stolen goods.  Yes....  Anybody can steal, but it is another thing to keep!  The earth is wide, but there is nowhere to hide stolen goods.”

“In our village a ram and two ewes were carried off last week,” said Varvara, and she heaved a sigh, and there is no one to try and find them....  Oh, tut, tut..”

“Well, I might have a try.  I don’t mind.”

The day of the wedding arrived.  It was a cool but bright, cheerful April day.  People were driving about Ukleevo from early morning with pairs or teams of three horses decked with many-coloured ribbons on their yokes and manes, with a jingle of bells.  The rooks, disturbed by this activity, were cawing noisily in the willows, and the starlings sang their loudest unceasingly as though rejoicing that there was a wedding at the Tsybukins’.

Indoors the tables were already covered with long fish, smoked hams, stuffed fowls, boxes of sprats, pickled savouries of various sorts, and a number of bottles of vodka and wine; there was a smell of smoked sausage and of sour tinned lobster.  Old Tsybukin walked about near the tables, tapping with his heels and sharpening the knives against each other.  They kept calling Varvara and asking for things, and she was constantly with a distracted face running breathlessly into the kitchen, where the man cook from Kostukov’s and the woman cook from Hrymin Juniors’ had been at work since early morning.  Aksinya, with her hair curled, in her stays without her dress on, in new creaky boots, flew about the yard like a whirlwind showing glimpses of her bare knees and bosom.