"Listen, Barin, I want to tell you…."
The Prince turned round and looked at the man. The peasant was old, his face was covered with hair and wrinkles.
"What will your Excellency do now?"
"That is difficult to say," replied the Prince.
"When will you go?" the old man asked. "Those Committees of the Poor are taking away the corn. There are no matches, no manufacturers, and I am burning splinters for light…. They say no corn is to be sold…. Listen, Barin, I will take some secretly to the station. People are coming from Moscow … and … and … about thirty five of them … thirty five I tell you!… But then, what will there be to buy with the proceeds?… Well, well! It is a great time all the same … a great time, Barin! Have a smoke, your Excellency."
Prozorovsky refused the proffered pipe, and rolled himself a small cigar of an inferior brand. Around was the Steppe. No one saw, no one knew of the peasant's compassion. The prince shook hands with him, turned sharply on his heel and went home.
The cold, clear, glassy water in the park lake was blue and limpid, for it was still too early for it to freeze all over. The sun was now sinking towards the west in an ocean of ruddy gold and amethyst.
Prince Prozorovsky entered his study, sat down at the desk and drew out a drawer full of letters. No! he could not take all his life away with him: He laid the drawer on the desk, then went into the drawing- room. A jug of milk and some bread stood on an album-table. The Prince lighted the fire, burnt some papers, and stood by the mantelpiece drinking his milk and eating the bread, for he had grown hungry during the day…. The milk was sour, the bread stale.
Already the room was filling with the dim shadows of evening, a purplish mist hung outside; the fire burnt with a bright yellow flame.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the silence of the corridor, and Ivan Koloturov appeared in the doorway. Koloturov! As young lads they had played together, Ivan had developed into a sober, sensible, thrifty, and industrious peasant. Standing in the middle of the room, the President silently handed the Prince his paper—it had taken him a whole hour to type it out.