“You should speak to the Chief of the Village!”
“But I don’t know where he lives,” said Vanyúsha in an offended tone.
“Who has upset you so?” asked Olénin, looking round.
“The devil only knows. Faugh! There is no real master here. They say he has gone to some kind of kriga, and the old woman is a real devil. God preserve us!” answered Vanyúsha, putting his hands to his head. “How we shall live here I don’t know. They are worse than Tartars, I do declare—though they consider themselves Christians! A Tartar is bad enough, but all the same he is more noble. Gone to the kriga indeed! What this kriga they have invented is, I don’t know!” concluded Vanyúsha, and turned aside.
“It’s not as it is in the serfs’ quarters at home, eh?” chaffed Olénin without dismounting.
“Please sir, may I have your horse?” said Vanyúsha, evidently perplexed by this new order of things but resigning himself to his fate.
“So a Tartar is more noble, eh, Vanyúsha?” repeated Olénin, dismounting and slapping the saddle.
“Yes, you’re laughing! You think it funny,” muttered Vanyúsha angrily.
“Come, don’t be angry, Vanyúsha,” replied Olénin, still smiling. “Wait a minute, I’ll go and speak to the people of the house; you’ll see I shall arrange everything. You don’t know what a jolly life we shall have here. Only don’t get upset.”
Vanyúsha did not answer. Screwing up his eyes he looked contemptuously after his master, and shook his head. Vanyúsha regarded Olénin as only his master, and Olénin regarded Vanyúsha as only his servant; and they would both have been much surprised if anyone had told them that they were friends, as they really were without knowing it themselves. Vanyúsha had been taken into his proprietor’s house when he was only eleven and when Olénin was the same age. When Olénin was fifteen he gave Vanyúsha lessons for a time and taught him to read French, of which the latter was inordinately proud; and when in specially good spirits he still let off French words, always laughing stupidly when he did so.