“You’ve kindly come to look us up, eh?” said the garrulous old man.
“Yes, I have. Well, how are you getting on?”
“How do we get on? We get on very badly,” the old man drawled, as if it gave him pleasure.
“Why so badly?” Nekhludoff asked, stepping inside the gate.
“What is our life but the very worst life?” said the old man, following Nekhludoff into that part of the yard which was roofed over.
Nekhludoff stopped under the roof.
“I have got 12 of them there,” continued the old man, pointing to two women on the remainder of the manure heap, who stood perspiring with forks in their hands, the kerchiefs tumbling off their heads, with their skirts tucked up, showing the calves of their dirty, bare legs. “Not a month passes but I have to buy six poods “Have you not got enough corn of your own?” “My own?” repeated the old man, with a smile of contempt; “why I have only got land for three, and last year we had not enough to last till Christmas.” “What do you do then?”