shall be there
every day from ten to two, sometimes even till five. And the board
meetings . . . And private interviews with clients. . . . Then the Duma.
Whereas here. . . . It is delightful. It may be a little dull, but it is
not for long." He smiled. After a stroll in Littleports he turned back,
going straight across a fallow field which was being ploughed. A herd of
cows, calves, sheep, and pigs, which belonged to the village community,
was grazing there. The shortest way to the park was to pass through the
herd. He frightened the sheep, which ran away one after another, and
were followed by the pigs, of which two little ones stared solemnly at
him. The shepherd boy called to the sheep and cracked his whip. "How far
behind Europe we are," thought Volgin, recalling his frequent holidays
abroad. "You would not find a single cow like that anywhere in Europe."
Then, wanting to find out where the path which branched off from the
one he was on led to and who was the owner of the herd, he called to the
boy.

"Whose herd is it?"

The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on terror, when he gazed
at the hat, the well-brushed beard, and above all the gold-rimmed
eyeglasses, that he could not reply at once. When Volgin repeated his
question the boy pulled himself together, and said, "Ours." "But whose
is 'ours'?" said Volgin, shaking his head and smiling. The boy was
wearing shoes of plaited birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a
dirty, unbleached shirt ragged at the shoulder, and a cap the peak of
which had been torn.

"Whose is 'ours'?"

"The Pirogov village herd."

"How old are you?

"I don't know."

"Can you read?"

"No, I can't."

"Didn't you go to school?"

"Yes, I did."

"Couldn't you learn to read?"

"No."

"Where does that path lead?"

The boy told him, and Volgin went on towards the house, thinking how
he would chaff Nicholas Petrovich about the deplorable condition of the
village schools in spite of all his efforts.

On approaching the house Volgin looked at his watch, and saw that it was
already past eleven. He remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was going to
drive to the nearest town, and that he had meant to give him a letter
to post to Moscow; but the letter was not written. The letter was a very
important one to a friend, asking him to bid for him for a picture
of the Madonna which was to be offered for sale at an auction. As he
reached the house he saw at the door four big, well-f