s sitting one of those girls. It was
the elder one. She had come to ask for subscriptions for some
villagers whose cottages had been burnt down. Speaking with great
earnestness and precision, and not looking at us, she told us how
many houses in the village of Siyanovo had been burnt, how many
men, women, and children were left homeless, and what steps were
proposed, to begin with, by the Relief Committee, of which she was
now a member. After handing us the subscription list for our
signatures, she put it away and immediately began to take leave of
us.

"You have quite forgotten us, Pyotr Petrovitch," she said to
Byelokurov as she shook hands with him. "Do come, and if Monsieur
N. (she mentioned my name) cares to make the acquaintance of admirers
of his work, and will come and see us, mother and I will be delighted."

I bowed.

When she had gone Pyotr Petrovitch began to tell me about her. The
girl was, he said, of good family, and her name was Lidia Voltchaninov,
and the estate on which she lived with her mother and sister, like
the village on the other side of the pond, was called Shelkovka.
Her father had once held an important position in Moscow, and had
died with the rank of privy councillor. Although they had ample
means, the Voltchaninovs lived on their estate summer and winter
without going away. Lidia was a teacher in the Zemstvo school in
her own village, and received a salary of twenty-five roubles a
month. She spent nothing on herself but her salary, and was proud
of earning her own living.

"An interesting family," said Byelokurov. "Let us go over one day.
They will be delighted to see you."

One afternoon on a holiday we thought of the Voltchaninovs, and
went to Shelkovka to see them. They--the mother and two daughters
--were at home. The mother, Ekaterina Pavlovna, who at one time
had been handsome, but now, asthmatic, depressed, vague, and
over-feeble for her years, tried to entertain me with conversation
about painting. Having heard from her daughter that I might come
to Shelkovka, she had hurriedly recalled two or three of my landscapes
which she had seen in exhibitions in Moscow, and now asked what I
meant to express by them. Lidia, or as they called her Lida, talked
more to Byelokurov than to me. Earnest and unsmiling, she asked him
why he was not on the Zemstvo, and why he had not attended any of
its meetings.

"It's not right, Pyotr Petrovitch," she said reproachfully. "It's
not right. It