“What do we do? Why, I hire out as a labourer; and then I borrowed some money from your honour. We spent it all before Lent, and the tax is not paid yet.”
“And how much is the tax?”
“Why, it’s 17 roubles for my household. Oh, Lord, such a life! One hardly knows one’s self how one manages to live it.”
“May I go into your hut?” asked Nekhludoff, stepping across the yard over the yellow-brown layers of manure that had been raked up by the forks, and were giving off a strong smell.
“Why not? Come in,” said the old man, and stepping quickly with his bare feet over the manure, the liquid oozing between his toes, he passed Nekhludoff and opened the door of the hut.
The women arranged the kerchiefs on their heads and let down their skirts, and stood looking with surprise at the clean gentleman with gold studs to his sleeves who was entering their house. Two little girls, with nothing on but coarse chemises, rushed out of the hut. Nekhludoff took off his hat, and, stooping to get through the low door, entered, through a passage into the dirty, narrow hut, that smelt of sour food, and where much space was taken up by two weaving looms. In the hut an old woman was standing by the stove, with the sleeves rolled up over her thin, sinewy brown arms.
“Here is our master come to see us,” said the old man.
“I’m sure he’s very welcome,” said the old woman, kindly.
“I would like to see how you live.”
“Well, you see how we live. The hut is coming down, and might kill one any day; but my old man he says it’s good enough, and so we live like kings,” said the brisk old woman, nervously jerking her head. “I’m getting the dinner; going to feed the workers.”