Robert Peel; then about French history; lastly, about the victory
which he would have gained if he had been a general. The firing and
the shouting rang in his ears. His head slipped on one side; he opened
his eyes--the same fields stretched before him, the same level views
met his eyes. The iron shoes of the outside horses gleamed brightly by
turns athwart the waving dust, the driver's yellow[A] shirt swelled
with the breeze. "Here I am, returning virtuously to my birth-place,"
suddenly thought Lavretsky, and he called out, "Get on there!" drew
his cloak more closely around him, and pressed himself still nearer
to the cushion. The tarantass gave a jerk. Lavretsky sat upright
and opened his eyes wide. On the slope before him extended a small
village. A little to the right was to be seen an old manor house of
modest dimensions, its shutters closed, its portico awry. On one
side stood a barn built of oak, small, but well preserved. The wide
court-yard was entirely overgrown by nettles, as green and thick as
hemp. This was Vasilievskoe.

[Footnote A: Yellow, with red pieces let in under the armpits.]

The driver turned aside to the gate, and stopped his horses.
Lavretsky's servant rose from his seat, ready to jump down, and
shouted "Halloo!" A hoarse, dull barking arose in reply, but no dog
made its appearance. The lackey again got ready to descend, and
again cried "Halloo!" The feeble barking was repeated, and directly
afterwards a man, with snow-white hair, dressed in a nankeen caftan,
ran into the yard from one of the comers. He looked at the tarantass,
shielding his eyes from the sun, then suddenly struck both his hands
upon his thighs, fidgeted about nervously for a moment, and finally
ran to open the gates. The tarantass entered the court-yard, crushing
the nettles under its wheels, and stopped before the portico. The
white-headed old man, who was evidently of a very active turn, was
already standing on the lowest step, his legs spread awkwardly apart.
He unbuttoned the apron of the carriage, pulling up the leather with a
jerk, and kissed his master's hand while assisting him to alight.

"Good day, good day, brother," said Lavretsky. "Your name is Anton,
isn't it. So you're still alive?"

The old man bowed in silence, and then ran to fetch the keys. While he
ran, the driver sat motionless, leaning sideways and looking at the
closed door; and Lavretsky's man-servant remained in the picturesque
attitude in which he