The coachman pulled up his four horses and looked round to the

right, to a field of rye, where some peasants were sitting on a

cart. The counting house clerk was just going to jump down, but

on second thoughts he shouted peremptorily to the peasants

instead, and beckoned to them to come up. The wind, that seemed

to blow as they drove, dropped when the carriage stood still;

gadflies settled on the steaming horses that angrily shook them

off. The metallic clank of a whetstone against a scythe, that

came to them from the cart, ceased. One of the peasants got up

and came towards the carriage.

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"Well, you are slow!" the counting house clerk shouted angrily to

the peasant who was stepping slowly with his bare feet over the

ruts of the rough dry road. "Come along, do!"

A curly-headed old man with a bit of bast tied round his hair,

and his bent back dark with perspiration, came towards the

carriage, quickening his steps, and took hold of the mud-guard

with his sunburnt hand.

"Vozdvizhenskoe, the manor house? the count's?" he repeated; "go

on to the end of this track. Then turn to the left. Straight

along the avenue and you'll come right upon it. But whom do you

want? The count himself?"

"Well, are they at home, my good man?" Darya Alexandrovna said

vaguely, not knowing how to ask about Anna, even of this peasant.

"At home for sure," said the peasant, shifting from one bare foot

to the other, and leaving a distinct print of five toes and a

heel in the dust. "Sure to be at home," he repeated, evidently

eager to talk. "Only yesterday visitors arrived. There's a

sight of visitors come. What do you want?" He turned round and

called to a lad, who was shouting something to him from the cart.

"Oh! They all rode by here not long since, to look at a reaping

machine. They'll be home by now. And who will you be belonging

to?..."

"We've come a long way," said the coachman, climbing onto the

box. "So it's not far?"

"I tell you, it's just here. As soon as you get out..." he said,

keeping hold all the while of the carriage.

A healthy-looking, broad-shouldered young fellow came up too.

"What, is it laborers they want for the harvest?" he asked.

"I don't know, my boy."

"So you keep to the left, and you'll come right on it," said the

peasant, unmistakably loth to let the travelers go, and eager to

converse.




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