“What is it, sir? That we are drinking? Ah, no one sees how we work, but every one sees how we drink. I have earned it, and I am drinking and treating my wife, and no one else.”
“Yes, yes,” said Nekhludoff, not knowing what to say.
“True, sir. My wife is a steady woman. I am satisfied with my wife, because she can feel for me. Is it right what I’m saying, Mavra?”
“There you are, take it, I don’t want any more,” said the wife, returning the bottle to him. “And what are you jawing for like that?” she added.
“There now! She’s good—that good; and suddenly she’ll begin squeaking like a wheel that’s not greased. Mavra, is it right what I’m saying?”
Mavra laughed and moved her hand with a tipsy gesture.
“Oh, my, he’s at it again.”
“There now, she’s that good—that good; but let her get her tail over the reins, and you can’t think what she’ll be up to. . . . Is it right what I’m saying? You must excuse me, sir, I’ve had a drop! What’s to be done?” said the factory worker, and, preparing to go to sleep, put his head in his wife’s lap.
Nekhludoff sat a while with the old man, who told him all about himself. The old man was a stove builder, who had been working for 53 years, and had built so many stoves that he had lost count, and now he wanted to rest, but had no time. He had been to town and found employment for the young ones, and was now going to the country to see the people at home. After hearing the old man’s story, Nekhludoff went to the place that Taras was keeping for him.
“It’s all right, sir; sit down; we’ll put the bag here,” said the gardener, who sat opposite Taras, in a friendly tone, looking up into Nekhludoff’s face.