He could not sleep, but he sank into the drowsy numbness of a journey.  Images of the past rose slowly as before, floated in his soul, mixed and tangled up with other fancies.  Lavretsky, for some unknown reason, began to think about Robert Peel, . . . about French history—­of how he would gain a battle, if he were a general; he fancied the shots and the cries . . . .  His head slipped on one side, he opened his eyes.  The same fields, the same steppe scenery; the polished shoes of the trace-horses flashed alternately through the driving dust; the coachman’s shirt, yellow with red gussets, was puffed out by the wind . . . .  “A nice home-coming!” glanced through Lavretsky’s brain; and he cried, “Get on!” wrapped himself in his cloak and pressed close into the cushion.  The carriage jolted; Lavretsky sat up and opened his eyes wide.  On the slope before him stretched a small hamlet; a little to the right could be seen an ancient manor house of small size, with closed shutters! and a winding flight of steps; nettles, green and thick as hemp, grew over the wide courtyard from the very gates; in it stood a storehouse built of oak, still strong.  This was Vassilyevskoe.

The coachman drove to the gates and drew up; Lavretsky’s groom stood up on the box and as though in preparation for jumping down, shouted, “Hey!” There was a sleepy, muffled sound of barking, but not even a dog made its appearance; the groom again made ready for a jump, and again shouted “Hey!” The feeble barking was repeated, and an instant after a man from some unseen quarter ran into the courtyard, dressed in a nankeen coat, his head as white as snow; he stared at the coach, shading his eyes from the sun; all at once he slapped his thighs with both hands, ran to and fro a little, then rushed to open the gates.  The coach drove into the yard, crushing the nettles with the wheels, and drew up at the steps.  The white-headed man, who seemed very alert, was already standing on the bottom step, his legs bent and wide apart. he unfastened the apron of the carriage, holding back the strap with a jerk and aiding his master to alight; he kissed his hand.

“How do you do, how do you do, brother?” began Lavretsky.  “Your name’s Anton, I think?  You are still alive, then?” The old man bowed without speaking, and ran off for the keys.  While he went, the coachman sat motionless, sitting sideways and staring at the closed door, but Lavretsky’s groom stood as he had leaped down in a picturesque pose with one arm thrown back on the box.  The old man brought the keys, and, quite needlessly, twisting about like a snake, with his elbows raised high, he opened the door, stood on one side, and again bowed to the earth.

“So here I am at home, here I am back again,” thought Lavretsky, as he walked into the diminutive passage, while one after another the shutters were being opened with much creaking and knocking, and the light of day poured into the deserted rooms.