A bareheaded, barefooted peasant in a ragged kaftan stood at the front door. He bowed. Volgin asked what he wanted.
“I have come to see Nicholas Petrovich.”
“What about?”
“Because I am in distress—my horse has died.”
Volgin began to question him. The peasant told him how he was situated. He had five children, and this had been his only horse. Now it was gone. He wept.
“What are you going to do?”
“To beg.” And he knelt down, and remained kneeling in spite of Volgin’s expostulations.
“What is your name?”
“Mitri Sudarikov,” answered the peasant, still kneeling.
Volgin took three roubles from his purse and gave them to the peasant, who showed his gratitude by touching the ground with his forehead, and then went into the house. His host was standing in the hall.
“Where is your letter?” he asked, approaching Volgin; “I am just off.”
“I’m awfully sorry, I’ll write it this minute, if you will let me. I forgot all about it. It’s so pleasant here that one can forget anything.”
“All right, but do be quick. The horses have already been standing a quarter of an hour, and the flies are biting viciously. Can you wait, Arsenty?” he asked the coachman.
“Why not?” said the coachman, thinking to himself, “why do they order the horses when they aren’t ready? The rush the grooms and I had—just