solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody drove through the streets and footsteps were rarely heard. The Povarskáya was quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the Rostóvs’ house was littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the horses, and not a soul was to be seen there. In the great drawing room of the house, which had been left with all it contained, were two people. They were the yard porter Ignát, and the page boy Míshka, Vasílich’s grandson who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather. * Míshka had opened the clavichord and was strumming on it with one finger. * The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with satisfaction before the
“Isn’t it fine, eh, Uncle Ignát?” said the boy, suddenly beginning to strike the keyboard with both hands.
“Only fancy!” answered Ignát, surprised at