wn-up son of the
house, and a ne'er-do-well. His name was Theodore, but some one had
once called him Theodorite either as a joke or to tease him; and, as it
seemed funny, the name stuck to him, although his doings were no longer
in the least amusing. So it was now. He had been to the university, but
left it in his second year, and joined a regiment of horse guards; but
he gave that up also, and was now living in the country, doing nothing,
finding fault, and feeling discontented with everything. Theodorite
was still in bed: so were the other members of the household--Anna
Mikhailovna, its mistress; her sister, the widow of a general; and a
landscape painter who lived with the family.

Volgin took his panama hat from the hall table (it had cost twenty
roubles) and his cane with its carved ivory handle, and went out.
Crossing the veranda, gay with flowers, he walked through the flower
garden, in the centre of which was a raised round bed, with rings of
red, white, and blue flowers, and the initials of the mistress of the
house done in carpet bedding in the centre. Leaving the flower garden
Volgin entered the avenue of lime trees, hundreds of years old, which
peasant girls were tidying and sweeping with spades and brooms. The
gardener was busy measuring, and a boy was bringing something in a
cart. Passing these Volgin went into the park of at least a hundred
and twenty-five acres, filled with fine old trees, and intersected by
a network of well-kept walks. Smoking as he strolled Volgin took his
favourite path past the summer-house into the fields beyond. It was
pleasant in the park, but it was still nicer in the fields. On the right
some women who were digging potatoes formed a mass of bright red and
white colour; on the left were wheat fields, meadows, and grazing
cattle; and in the foreground, slightly to the right, were the dark,
dark oaks of Littleports. Volgin took a deep breath, and felt glad that
he was alive, especially here in his cousin's home, where he was so
thoroughly enjoying the rest from his work at the bank.

"Lucky people to live in the country," he thought. "True, what with his
farming and his Zemstvo, the owner of the estate has very little peace
even in the country, but that is his own lookout." Volgin shook his
head, lit another cigarette, and, stepping out firmly with his powerful
feet clad in his thick English boots, began to think of the heavy
winter's work in the bank that was in front of him. "I