he was left alone, master of the house, when he was fourteen, and has earned everything himself.
“And do you drink vodka?”
He evidently does not like to say that he does, and still does not wish to tell a lie.
“I do,” he says, softly, shrugging his shoulders.
“And can you read and write?”
“Very well.”
“And haven’t you read books about strong drink?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, but wouldn’t it be better not to drink at all?”
“Of course. Little good comes of it.”
“Then why not give it up?”
He is silent, evidently understanding, and thinking it over.
“It can be done, you know,” say I, “and what a good thing it would be! … The day before yesterday I went to Ívino. When I reached one of the houses, the master came out to greet me, calling me by name. It turned out that we had met twelve years before. … It was Koúzin—do you know him?”
“Of course I do! Sergéy Timoféevitch, you mean?”
I tell him how we started a Temperance Society twelve years ago with Koúzin, who, though he used to drink, has quite given it up, and now