'Invite Ivan Ivanitch,' said Marya Gerasimovna.
'To be sure!' I thought, delighted. 'That is an idea!
II
Of all the mass of acquaintances who, in this house twenty-five to thirty-five years ago, had eaten, drunk, masqueraded, fallen in love, married, bored us with accounts of their splendid packs of hounds and horses, the only one still living was Ivan Ivanitch Bragin. At one time he had been very active, talkative, noisy, and given to falling in love, and had been famous for his extreme views and for the peculiar charm of his face, which fascinated men as well as women; now he was an old man, had grown corpulent, and was living out his days with neither views nor charm. He came the day after getting my letter, in the evening just as the samovar was brought into the dining- room and little Marya Gerasimovna had begun slicing the lemon.
'I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow,' I said gaily, meeting him. 'Why, you are stouter than ever. . . .'
'It isn't getting stout; it's swelling,' he answered. 'The bees must have stung me.'
With the familiarity of a man laughing at his own fatness, he put his arms round my waist and laid on my breast his big soft head, with the hair combed down on the forehead like a Little Russian's, and went off into a thin, aged laugh.
'And you go on getting younger,' he said through his laugh. 'I wonder what dye you use for your hair and beard; you might let me have some of it.' Sniffing and gasping, he embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. 'You might give me some of it,' he repeated. 'Why, you are not forty, are you?'
'Alas, I am forty-six!' I said, laughing.
Ivan Ivanitch smelt of tallow candles and cooking, and that suited him. His big, puffy, slow-moving body was swathed in a long frock-coat like a coachman's full coat, with a high waist, and with hooks and eyes instead of buttons, and it would have been strange if he had smelt of eau-de-Cologne, for instance. In his long, unshaven, bluish double chin, which looked like a thistle, his goggle eyes, his shortness of breath, and in the whole of his clumsy, slovenly figure, in his voice, his laugh, and his words, it was difficult to recognize the graceful, interesting talker who used in old days to make the husbands of the district jealous on account of their wives.
'I am in great need of your assistance, my friend,' I said, when we were sitting in the dining-room, drinking tea. 'I want to organize relief for the starving peasants, and I don't know how to set about it. So perhaps you will be so kind as to advise me.'
'Yes, yes, yes,' said Ivan Ivanitch, sighing. 'To be sure, to be sure, to be sure. . . .'
'I would not have worried you, my dear fellow, but really there is no one here but you I can appeal to. You know what people are like about here.'
'To be sure, to be sure, to be sure. . . . Yes.'
I thought that as we were going to have a serious, business consultation in which any one might take part, regardless of their position or personal relations, why should I not invite Natalya Gavrilovna.
'
A little later Natalya Gavrilovna came in. I got up to meet her and said:
'Excuse us for troubling you, Natalie. We are discussing a very important matter, and we had the happy thought that we might take advantage of your good advice, which you will not refuse to give us. Please sit down.'
Ivan Ivanitch kissed her hand while she kissed his forehead; then, when we all sat down to the table, he, looking at her tearfully and blissfully, craned forward to her and kissed her hand again. She was dressed in black, her hair was carefully arranged, and she smelt of fresh scent. She had evidently dressed to go out or was expecting somebody. Coming into the dining-room, she held out her hand to me with simple friendliness, and smiled to me as graciously as she did to Ivan Ivanitch -- that pleased me; but as she talked she moved her fingers, often and abruptly leaned back in her chair and talked rapidly, and this jerkiness in her words and movements irritated me and reminded me of her native town -- Odessa, where the society, men and women alike, had wearied me by its bad taste.
'I want to do something for the famine-stricken peasants,' I began, and after a brief pause I went on: ' Money, of course, is a great thing, but to confine oneself to subscribing money, and with that to be satisfied, would be evading the worst of the trouble. Help must take the form of money, but the most important thing is a proper and sound organization. Let us think it over, my friends, and do something.'
Natalya Gavrilovna looked at me inquiringly and shrugged her shoulders as though to say, 'What do I know about it?'
'Yes, yes, famine . . .' muttered Ivan Ivanitch. 'Certainly . . . yes.'
'It's a serious position,' I said, 'and assistance is needed as soon as possible. I imagine the first point among the principles which we must work out ought to be promptitude. We must act on the military principles of judgment, promptitude, and energy.'
'Yes, promptitude . . .' repeated Ivan Ivanitch in a drowsy and listless voice, as though he were dropping asleep. 'Only one can't do anything. The crops have failed, and so what's the use of all your judgment and energy? . . . It's the elements. . . . You can't go against God and fate.'
'Yes, but that's what man has a head for, to contend against the elements.'
'Eh? Yes . . . that's so, to be sure. . . . Yes.'
Ivan Ivanitch sneezed into his handkerchief, brightened up, and as though he had just woken up, looked round at my wife and me.
'My crops have failed, too.' He laughed a thin little laugh and gave a sly wink as though this were really funny. 'No money, no corn, and a yard full of labourers like Count Sheremetyev's. I want to kick them out, but I haven't the heart to.'
Natalya Gavrilovna laughed, and began questioning him about his private affairs. Her presence gave me a
