“Why not?” said the coachman, thinking to himself, “why do they order the horses when they aren’t ready?  The rush the grooms and I had—­just to stand here and feed the flies.”

“Directly, directly,” Volgin went towards his room, but turned back to ask Nicholas Petrovich about the begging peasant.

“Did you see him?—­He’s a drunkard, but still he is to be pitied.  Do be quick!”

Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites for writing, wrote the letter, made out a cheque for a hundred and eighty roubles, and, sealing down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich.

“Good-bye.”

Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon.  He only read the Liberal papers:  The Russian Gazette, Speech, sometimes The Russian Word—­but he would not touch The New Times, to which his host subscribed.

While he was scanning at his ease the political news, the Tsar’s doings, the doings of President, and ministers and decisions in the Duma, and was just about to pass on to the general news, theatres, science, murders and cholera, he heard the luncheon bell ring.

Thanks to the efforts of upwards of ten human beings—­counting laundresses, gardeners, cooks, kitchen-maids, butlers and footmen—­the table was sumptuously laid for eight, with silver waterjugs, decanters, kvass, wine, mineral waters, cut glass, and fine table linen, while two men-servants were continually hurrying to and fro, bringing in and serving, and then clearing away the hors d’oeuvre and the various hot and cold courses.

The hostess talked incessantly about everything that she had been doing, thinking, and saying; and she evidently considered that everything that she thought, said, or did was perfect, and that it would please every one except those who were fools.  Volgin felt and knew that everything she said was stupid, but it would never do to let it be seen, and so he kept up the conversation.  Theodorite was glum and silent; the student occasionally exchanged a few words with the widow.  Now and again there was a pause in the conversation, and then Theodorite interposed, and every one became miserably depressed.  At such moments the hostess ordered some dish that had not been served, and the footman hurried off to the kitchen, or to the housekeeper, and hurried back again.  Nobody felt inclined either to talk or to eat.  But they all forced themselves to eat and to talk, and so luncheon went on.

The peasant who had been begging because his horse had died was named Mitri Sudarikov.  He had spent the whole day before he went to the squire over his dead horse.  First of all he went to the knacker, Sanin, who lived in a village near.  The knacker was out, but he waited for him, and it was dinner-time when he had finished bargaining over the price of the skin.  Then he borrowed a neighbour’s horse to take his own to a field to be buried, as it is forbidden to bury dead animals near a village.  Adrian would not lend his horse because he was getting