from top to toe with all the greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. He appeared to be nearly thirty. Small-pox had left indelible traces on his face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge; his long blue-black hair fell in ringlets on his collar behind, and was twisted into jaunty curls in front; his small swollen eyes were quite expressionless; a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. He was dressed like a dissipated country gentleman, given to frequenting horse-fairs, in a rather greasy striped Caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk-tie, a waistcoat with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge funnels, from under which the toes of unbrushed shoes could just be discerned. He smelt strongly of tobacco and spirits; on his fat, red hands, almost hidden in his sleeves, could be seen silver and Tula rings. Such figures are met in Russia not by dozens, but by hundreds; an acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any particular pleasure; but in spite of the prejudice with which I looked at the new-comer, I could not fail to notice the recklessly good-natured and passionate expression of his face.
'This gentleman's been waiting more than an hour here too,' observed the overseer indicating me.
More than an hour! The rascal was making fun of me.
'But perhaps he doesn't need them as I do,' answered the new comer.
'I know nothing about that,' said the overseer sulkily.
'Then is it really impossible? Are there positively no horses?'
'Impossible. There's not a single horse.'
'Well, tell them to bring me a samovar. I'll wait a little; there's nothing else to be done.'
The new comer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and passed his hand over his hair.
'Have you had tea already?' he inquired of me.
'Yes.'
'But won't you have a little more for company.'
I consented. The stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth time on the table. I brought out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property. His name was Piotr Petrovitch Karataev.
We got into conversation. In less than half-an-hour after his arrival, he was telling me his whole life with the most simple-hearted openness.
'I'm on my way to Moscow now,' he told me as he sipped his fourth glass; 'there's nothing for me to do now in the country.'
'How so?'
'Well, it's come to that. My property's in disorder; I've ruined my peasants, I must confess; there have been bad years: bad harvests, and all sorts of ill-luck, you know.... Though, indeed,' he added, looking away dejectedly; 'how could I manage an estate!'
'Why's that?'
'But, no,' he interrupted me? 'there are people like me who make good managers! You see,' he went on, screwing his head on one side and sucking his pipe assiduously, 'looking at me, I dare say you think I'm not much... but you, see, I must confess, I've had a very middling education; I wasn't well off. I beg your pardon; I'm an open man, and if you come to that....'
He did not complete his sentence, but broke off with a wave of the hand. I began to assure him that he was mistaken, that I was highly delighted to meet him, and so on, and then observed that I should have thought a very thorough education was not indispensable for the good management of property.
'Agreed,' he responded; 'I agree with you. But still, a special sort of disposition's essential! There are some may do anything they like, and it's all right! but I.... Allow me to ask, are you from Petersburg or from Moscow?'
'I'm from Petersburg.'
He blew a long coil of smoke from his nostrils.
'And I'm going in to Moscow to be an official.'
'What department do you mean to enter?'
'I don't know; that's as it happens. I'll own to you, I'm afraid of official life; one's under responsibility at once. I've always lived in the country; I'm used to it, you know... but now, there's no help for it... it's through poverty! Oh, poverty, how I hate it!'
'But then you will be living in the capital.'
'In the capital.... Well, I don't know what there is that's pleasant in the capital. We shall see; may be, it's pleasant too.... Though nothing, I fancy, could be better than the country.'
'Then is it really impossible for you to live at your country place?'
He gave a sigh.
'Quite impossible. It's, so to say, not my own now.'
'Why, how so?'
'Well, a good fellow there--a neighbour--is in possession... a bill of exchange.'
Poor Piotr Petrovitch passed his hand over his face, thought a minute, and shook his head.
'Well?'... I must own, though,' he added after a brief silence, 'I can't blame anybody; it's my own fault. I was fond of cutting a dash, I am fond of cutting a dash, damn my soul!'
'You had a jolly life in the country?' I asked him.
'I had, sir,' he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the face, 'twelve harriers--harriers, I can tell you, such as you don't very often see.' (The last words he uttered in a drawl with great significance.) 'A grey hare they'd double upon in no time. After the red fox--they were devils, regular serpents. And I could boast of my greyhounds too. It's all a thing of the past now, I've no reason to lie. I used to go out shooting too. I had a dog called the Countess, a wonderful setter, with a first-rate scent--she took everything. Sometimes I'd go to a marsh and call 'Seek.' If she refused, you might go with a dozen dogs, and you'd find nothing. But when she was after anything, it was a sight to see her. And in the house so well-bred. If you gave her bread with your left hand and said, 'A Jew's tasted it,' she wouldn't touch it; but give it with your right and say, 'The young lady's had some,' and she'd take it and eat it at once. I had a pup of hers--capital pup he was, and I meant to bring him with me to Moscow, but a friend asked me for him, together with a gun; he said, 'In Moscow you'll have other things to think of.' I gave him the pup and the gun; and so, you know, it stayed there.'
'But you might go shooting in Moscow.'
'No, what would be the use? I didn't know when to pull myself up, so now I must grin and bear it.
But there, kindly tell me rather about the living in Moscow--is it dear?'
'No, not very.'
'Not very.... And tell me, please, are there any gypsies in Moscow?'
'What sort of gypsies?'
'Why, such as hang about fairs?'
'Yes, there are in Moscow....'
'Well, that's good news. I like gypsies, damn my soul! I like 'em....'
And there was a gleam of reckless merriment in Piotr Petrovitch's eyes. But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me.
'Give me some of your rum,' he said.'
'But the tea's all finished.'
'Never mind, as it is, without tea... Ah--h!' Karataev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. I looked at him without speaking, and although I was expecting the sentimental exclamations, possibly even the tears of which the inebriate are so lavish, yet when he raised his head, I was, I must own, impressed by the profoundly mournful expression of his face.
'What's wrong with you?'
'Nothing.... I was thinking of old times. An anecdote that... I would tell it you, but I am ashamed to trouble you....'
'What nonsense!'
'Yes,' he went on with a sigh:--'there are cases... like mine, for instance. Well, if you like, I will tell you. Though really I don't know....'
'Do tell me, dear Piotr Petrovitch.'
'Very well, though it's a... Well, do you see,' he began; 'but, upon my word, I don't know.'
'Come, that's enough, dear Piotr Petrovitch.'
