While the superintendent was thus enjoying himself to the fullest satisfaction in the musical society of his cook the elder returned, and, making a low bow to his superior, proceeded to give the desired information concerning the serfs.
“Well,” asked Michael, “did they plough?”
“Yes,” replied the elder; “they have accomplished about half the field.”
“Is there no fault to be found?”
“Not that I could discover. The work seems to be well done. They are evidently afraid of you.”
“How is the soil?”
“Very good. It appears to be quite soft.”
“Well,” said Simeonovitch, after a pause, “what did they say about me? Cursed me, I suppose?”
As the elder hesitated somewhat, Michael commanded him to speak and tell him the whole truth. “Tell me all,” said he; “I want to know their exact words. If you tell me the truth I shall reward you; but if you conceal anything from me you will be punished. See here, Catherine, pour out a glass of vodka to give him courage!”
After drinking to the health of his superior, the elder said to himself: “It is not my fault if they do not praise him. I shall tell him the truth.” Then turning suddenly to the superintendent he said:
“They complain, Michael Simeonovitch! They complain bitterly.”
“But what did they say?” demanded Michael. “Tell me!”