“How young you still are!” I say. “And will you have to go as a soldier?”

“Of course⁠ ⁠… be conscripted!” says he, with the calm expression with which people speak of old age, death, and in general of things it is useless to argue about, because they are unavoidable.

As always happens now when one speaks to peasants, our talk touches on the land, and, describing his life, he says he has not enough land, and that if he did not do wage-labour, sometimes with and sometimes without his horse, he would not have anything to live on. But he says this with merry, pleased and proud self-satisfaction; and again remarks that 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.