ith 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 Ignat, and the page boy Mishka,
Vasilich's grandson who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather.
Mishka had opened the clavichord and was strumming on it with
one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with
satisfaction before the large mirror.

"Isn't it fine, eh, Uncle Ignat?" said the boy, suddenly beginning to
strike the keyboard with both hands.

"Only fancy!" answered Ignat, surprised at the broadening grin on his
face in the mirror.

"Impudence! Impudence!" they heard behind them the voice of Mavra
Kuzminichna who had entered silently. "How he's grinning, the fat mug!
Is that what you're here for? Nothing's cleared away down there and
Vasilich is worn out. Just you wait a bit!"

Ignat left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with
meekly downcast eyes.

"Aunt, I did it gently," said the boy.

"I'll give you something gently, you monkey you!" cried Mavra
Kuzminichna, raising her arm threateningly. "Go and get the samovar to
boil for your grandfather."

Mavra Kuzminichna flicked the dust off the clavichord and closed it, and
with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door.

Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go
next--to drink tea in the servants' wing with Vasilich, or into the
storeroom to put away what still lay about.

She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street. Someone
stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it.
Mavra Kuzminichna went to the gate.

"Who do you want?"

"The count--Count Ilya Andreevich Rostov."

"And who are you?"

"An officer, I have to see him," came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred
Russian voice.

Mavra Kuzminichna opened the gate and an officer of eighteen, with the
round face of a Rostov, entered the yard.

"They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at vespertime," said
Mavra Kuzminichna cordially.

The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating whether to
enter or not, clicked his tongue.

"Ah, how annoying!" he muttered. "I should have come yesterday.... Ah,
what a pity."

Meanwhile, Mavra Kuzminichna was attentively and sympathetically
examining the familiar Rostov features of the young man's face, his
tattered coat and trodden-down