“Not to my taste, do you say, Gavrila Andreitch?  She’s right enough, a hard-working steady girl. . .  But you know very well yourself, Gavrila Andreitch, why that fellow, that wild man of the woods, that monster of the steppes, he’s after her, you know. . .”

“I know, mate, I know all about it,” the butler cut him short in a tone of annoyance:  “but there, you see . . .”

“But upon my soul, Gavrila Andreitch! why, he’ll kill me, by God, he will, he’ll crush me like some fly; why, he’s got a fist—­why, you kindly look yourself what a fist he’s got; why, he’s simply got a fist like Minin Pozharsky’s.  You see he’s deaf, he beats and does not hear how he’s beating!  He swings his great fists, as if he’s asleep.  And there’s no possibility of pacifying him; and for why?  Why, because, as you know yourself, Gavrila Andreitch, he’s deaf, and what’s more, has no more wit than the heel of my foot.  Why, he’s a sort of beast, a heathen idol, Gavrila Andreitch, and worse . . . a block of wood; what have I done that I should have to suffer from him now?  Sure it is, it’s all over me now; I’ve knocked about, I’ve had enough to put up with, I’ve been battered like an earthenware pot, but still I’m a man, after all, and not a worthless pot.”

“I know, I know, don’t go talking away. . .”

“Lord, my God!” the shoemaker continued warmly, “when is the end? when, O Lord!  A poor wretch I am, a poor wretch whose sufferings are endless!  What a life, what a life mine’s been come to think of it!  In my young days, I was beaten by a German I was ’prentice to; in the prime of life beaten by my own countrymen, and last of all, in ripe years, see what I have been brought to. . .”

“Ugh, you flabby soul!” said Gavrila Andreitch.  “Why do you make so many words about it?”

“Why, do you say, Gavrila Andreitch?  It’s not a beating I’m afraid of, Gavrila Andreitch.  A gentleman may chastise me in private, but give me a civil word before folks, and I’m a man still; but see now, whom I’ve to do with . . .”

“Come, get along,” Gavrila interposed impatiently.  Kapiton turned away and staggered off.

“But, if it were not for him,” the steward shouted after him, “you would consent for your part?”

“I signify my acquiescence,” retorted Kapiton as he disappeared.

His fine language did not desert him, even in the most trying positions.

The steward walked several times up and down the room.

“Well, call Tatiana now,” he said at last.

A few instants later, Tatiana had come up almost noiselessly, and was standing in the doorway.

“What are your orders, Gavrila Andreitch?” she said in a soft voice.

The steward looked at her intently.

“Well, Taniusha,” he said, “would you like to be married?  Our lady has chosen a husband for you?”

“Yes, Gavrila Andreitch.  And whom has she deigned to name as a husband for me?” she added falteringly.