to stand here and feed the flies.”
“Directly, directly,” Volgin went towards his room, but turned back to ask Nicholas Petrovich about the begging peasant.
“Did you see him?—He’s a drunkard, but still he is to be pitied. Do be quick!”
Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites for writing, wrote the letter, made out a cheque for a hundred and eighty roubles, and, sealing down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich.
“Goodbye.”
Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon. He only read the Liberal papers: The Russian Gazette , Speech , sometimes The Russian Word —but he would not touch The New Times , to which his host subscribed.
While he was scanning at his ease the political news, the Tsar’s doings, the doings of President, and ministers and decisions in the Duma, and was just about to pass on to the general news, theatres, science, murders and cholera, he heard the luncheon bell ring.
Thanks to the efforts of upwards of ten human beings—counting laundresses, gardeners, cooks, kitchen-maids, butlers and footmen—the table was sumptuously laid for eight, with silver waterjugs, decanters, kvass, wine, mineral waters, cut glass, and fine table linen, while two menservants were continually hurrying to and fro, bringing in and serving, and then clearing away the hors d’oeuvre and the various hot and cold courses.
The hostess talked incessantly about everything that she had been doing, thinking, and saying; and she evidently considered that everything that she thought, said, or did was perfect, and that it would please everyone except those who were fools. Volgin felt and knew that everything she