“And life has grown worse, grandfather. It is utterly impossible to live. Bad crops, want.⁠ ⁠… Cattle plague continually, diseases of all sorts.⁠ ⁠… We are crushed by poverty.”

The bailiff’s puffy face turned crimson and took a dejected, womanish expression. He twirled his fingers as though seeking words to convey his vague feeling and went on:

“Eight children, a wife⁠ ⁠… and my mother still living, and my whole salary ten roubles a month and to board myself. My wife has become a Satan from poverty.⁠ ⁠… I go off drinking myself. I am a sensible, steady man; I have education. I ought to sit at home in peace, but I stray about all day with my gun like a dog because it is more than I can stand; my home is hateful to me!”

Feeling that his tongue was uttering something quite different from what he wanted to say, the bailiff waved his hand and said bitterly:

“If the world’s going to end I wish it would make haste about it. There’s no need to drag it out and make folks miserable for nothing.⁠ ⁠…”

The old man took the pipe from his lips and, screwing up one eye, looked into its little opening. His face was sad and covered with thick drops like tears. He smiled and said:

“It’s a pity, my friend! My goodness, what a pity! The earth, the forest, the sky, the beasts of all sorts⁠—all this has been created, you know, adapted; they all have their intelligence. It is all going to ruin. And most of all I am sorry for people.”

There was the sound in the wood of heavy rain coming nearer. Meliton looked in the direction of the sound, did up all his buttons, and said:

“I am going to the village. Goodbye, grandfather. What is your name?”

“Luka the Poor.”