‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘Neighbours,’ Narkiz responded, with displeasure. ‘They’ve nothing to eat at home, and so here they come to us.’
‘Are they allowed to?’
‘The old master allowed them.... Nikolai Petrovitch maybe won’t give them permission.... The long one is a superannuated deacon—quite a silly creature; and as for the other, that’s a little stouter—he’s a brigadier.’
‘A brigadier?’ I repeated, wondering. This ‘brigadier’s’ attire was almost worse than the deacon’s.
‘I assure you he’s a brigadier. And he did have a fine property once. But now he has only a corner given him out of charity, and he lives ... on what God sends him. But, by the way, what are we to do? They’ve taken the best place.... We shall have to disturb our precious visitors.’
‘No, Narkiz, please don’t disturb them. We’ll sit here a little aside; they won’t interfere with us. I should like to make acquaintance with the brigadier.’
‘As you like. Only, as far as acquaintance goes ... you needn’t expect much satisfaction from it, sir; he’s grown very weak in his head, and in conversation he’s silly as a little child. As well he may be; he’s past his eightieth year.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Vassily Fomitch. Guskov’s his surname.’