put a sausage and three rolls into the bag. Caviar is too expensive for the rascal. Look at the fellow—sleeps like a log and sings through his nose. I wouldn't be surprised if he were sitting on the bag."

He rummaged about in search of the bag, but could not find it.

"Ivan Mikhailych, Ivan Mikhailych," he shouted to the sleeping innkeeper. The man woke up and for a while could not make out where he was and how he happened to be sitting opposite his master.

"I was just beginning to nap," he said finally.

"Sleep, friend, sleep. I only want to know where the bag with the food is."

"Are you hungry? But you would like a drink first, I suppose."

"Right. Where is the bottle?"

Stepan Vladimirych took a drink, and then attacked the sausage, which happened to be as salty as salt itself and as hard as stone, so that he had to use the point of his knife to pierce it.

"Some whitefish would taste good now," he remarked.

"Excuse me, sir, I clean forgot about the whitefish. All morning I kept saying to my wife: 'Be sure to remind me of the whitefish.' I am very sorry."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. The sausage is good enough for me. When we were on the campaign, we ate worse things. Father used to tell that two Englishmen made a bet. One of them was to eat a dead cat, and he ate it."

"You don't say!"

"He did. And he was as sick as a dog afterwards. He cured himself with rum. He guzzled two bottles as fast as he could, and that set him right at once. Another Englishman made a bet that he would live a whole year on nothing but sugar."

"Did he win?"

"No. He kicked the bucket two days before the end of the year. And how about you, why don't you take a drink?"

"I never touch it."

"So you swill nothing but tea. No good, brother. That's why your belly has grown so big. One must be careful with tea. A cup of tea must be followed by a glass of vodka. Tea gathers phlegm, vodka breaks it up. Isn't that so?"

"Well, I don't know. You are learned; you know better."

"True. On the campaign we had no time to bother with tea or coffee. But vodka—that's a holy affair. You unscrew the flask, pour the vodka into a cup, drink, and that's all. At that time we had to march so fast that for ten days I went without washing."

"You certainly roughed it, sir."

"Yes, marching on the highroad is not a joke. Still, on our way forward it was not so bad. People gave us money, and there was plenty to eat and drink. But when we marched back there was no more fêting."

Golovliov gnawed at the sausage and finally chewed up a piece.

"It is very salty, this sausage is," he said. "But I'm not squeamish. After all, mother won't feed me on tid-bits. A plate of cabbage soup and some gruel—that's all she'll let me have."

"God is merciful. Maybe she'll give you pie on holidays."

"No, I imagine there'll be no tea, no tobacco, no vodka. People say she has become fond of playing fool, so she may call me in to take a hand at the game and give me some tea. As for the rest, there is no hope."

There was a four-hour rest to feed the horses. Golovliov had finished the bottle and was tormented by hunger. The travellers entered the inn and settled down to a hearty meal.

Stepan Vladimirych took a stroll in the court, paid a visit to the backyard, the stables and the dovecote, and even tried to sleep. Finally he came to the conclusion that the best thing for him to do was to join his fellow-travellers in the inn. There the cabbage soup was already steaming and on a wooden tray on the sideboard lay a great chunk of beef, which Ivan Mikhailych was just then engaged in carving. Golovliov seated himself a little way from the table, lighted his pipe, and sat silent for quite a while pondering over the way in which he could allay the pangs of hunger.

"I wish you a good appetite, gentlemen," he said finally, "the soup seems to be good and rich."

"The soup is all right," answered Ivan Mikhailych. "Why don't you order a portion for yourself?"

"Oh, it was only a remark on my part. I'm not hungry."

"Impossible. All you've eaten is a bit of sausage, and the damned thing only teases one's appetite. Please eat something. I'll have a separate table laid for you. My dear woman," he turned to the hostess, "a place for the gentleman."

The passengers silently attacked their meal and now and then exchanged meaningful looks. Golovliov felt his fellow-travellers suspected how matters stood, although he had played master throughout the journey, not without some arrogance, and had addressed the faithful innkeeper as if he had merely entrusted him with his cash. His brows knitted, and a thick cloud of smoke escaped from his mouth. In the depths of his heart he felt he ought to refuse, but so imperative are the dictates of hunger that he set upon the bowl of cabbage soup like a beast of prey and emptied it in a trice. Along with satiety came his customary self-assurance and, as if nothing were the matter, he said, turning to Ivan Mikhailych:

"Well, my cashier, you will pay up for me, and I am off for the hayloft to have a talk with Mr. Khrapovitzky."

He jogged over to the hayloft, and as his stomach was full he was soon fast asleep. He woke up at five o'clock in the morning. Noticing that the horses stood at their empty bins rubbing their noses against the edges, he roused the driver. "He sleeps like a top, the rascal," he shouted. "We're in a hurry, and he's having pleasant dreams."

Soon the travellers reached the station at which the road turned off to Golovliovo. Here at last Stepan Vladimirych lost some of his devil-may-care attitude and became crestfallen and taciturn. Ivan Mikhailych tried to cheer him up and insisted that he part with his pipe.

"You'd better throw the pipe into the nettles, sir, when you come to the manor-house," he coaxed. "You will find it later on."

Finally the horses that were to take the innkeeper to the end of his journey were ready, and the moment of parting came.

"Good-by, brother," said Golovliov in a tremulous voice, kissing Ivan Mikhailych. "She'll plague the life out of me."

"The Lord is merciful. Keep up a stout heart."

"She'll eat me up alive," repeated Stepan Vladimirych, with such conviction that the innkeeper involuntarily lowered his eyes.

With these words Golovliov turned sharply along the country road, walking in a shuffle and leaning on a gnarled stick which he had cut off a tree.

Ivan Mikhailych followed him with his eyes for a while, and then ran after him.

"Listen, master," he said. "When I was cleaning your uniform a few minutes ago, I saw three rubles in your side pocket. Please don't lose them."

Stepan Vladimirych was visibly irresolute and could not make up his mind how to act in this contingency. Finally, he stretched out his hand to the peasant and said, with tears in his eyes:

"I understand—to buy tobacco for the old trooper? Thanks. But she'll eat me up alive, friend. Sure as hell."

Golovliov found the country road again and several minutes later his grey soldier's cap showed afar off, now vanishing, now appearing above the young wood. It was early in the day. The morning mist, touched into gold by the first rays of the sun, hovered above the country road. The grass glistened with the dew, and the air was redolent of fir-trees, mushrooms, and wild berries. The road meandered across a plain swarming with birds.

Stepan Vladimirych, however, noticed nothing of the beauty about him. All his frivolity had suddenly gone, and he walked as if to the Last Judgment. One thought filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else. In three or four hours he would have reached his goal. He recalled his life at Golovliovo, and he felt as if the doors of a damp cellar were opening to let him in, and no sooner would he penetrate into the gloomy interior than the doors would close behind him and everything would be over. Memories prophetic of what awaited him at Golovliovo surged