“Whose herd is it?”

The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on terror, when he gazed at the hat, the well-brushed beard, and above all the gold-rimmed eyeglasses, that he could not reply at once.  When Volgin repeated his question the boy pulled himself together, and said, “Ours.”  “But whose is ’ours’?” said Volgin, shaking his head and smiling.  The boy was wearing shoes of plaited birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a dirty, unbleached shirt ragged at the shoulder, and a cap the peak of which had been torn.

“Whose is ’ours’?”

“The Pirogov village herd.”

“How old are you?

“I don’t know.”

“Can you read?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Didn’t you go to school?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Couldn’t you learn to read?”

“No.”

“Where does that path lead?”

The boy told him, and Volgin went on towards the house, thinking how he would chaff Nicholas Petrovich about the deplorable condition of the village schools in spite of all his efforts.

On approaching the house Volgin looked at his watch, and saw that it was already past eleven.  He remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was going to drive to the nearest town, and that he had meant to give him a letter to post to Moscow; but the letter was not written.  The letter was a very important one to a friend, asking him to bid for him for a picture of the Madonna which was to be offered for sale at an auction.  As he reached the house he saw at the door four big, well-fed, well-groomed, thoroughbred horses harnessed to a carriage, the black lacquer of which glistened in the sun.  The coachman was seated on the box in a kaftan, with a silver belt, and the horses were jingling their silver bells from time to time.

A bare-headed, barefooted peasant in a ragged kaftan stood at the front door.  He bowed.  Volgin asked what he wanted.

“I have come to see Nicholas Petrovich.”

“What about?”

“Because I am in distress—­my horse has died.”

Volgin began to question him.  The peasant told him how he was situated. 
He had five children, and this had been his only horse.  Now it was gone. 
He wept.

“What are you going to do?”

“To beg.”  And he knelt down, and remained kneeling in spite of Volgin’s expostulations.

“What is your name?”

“Mitri Sudarikov,” answered the peasant, still kneeling.

Volgin took three roubles from his purse and gave them to the peasant, who showed his gratitude by touching the ground with his forehead, and then went into the house.  His host was standing in the hall.

“Where is your letter?” he asked, approaching Volgin; “I am just off.”

“I’m awfully sorry, I’ll write it this minute, if you will let me.  I forgot all about it.  It’s so pleasant here that one can forget anything.”

“All right, but do be quick.  The horses have already been standing a quarter of an hour, and the flies are biting viciously.  Can you wait, Arsenty?” he asked the coachman.