a storm on the steppes.
“Bog-dan-ovitch!” repeated Nicolai, his eyes wide open in surprise. “Yes—that was his name. How did you know him? It was nearly fifty years ago since I lived with him.”
“Oh yes!” said Martin, still laughing, “it must have been that long ago. I read his life only a short time since, in the edition of ‘Dushenka’ which we have. It was surely Bogdanovitch whom you lived with. Why, Nicolai Petrovitch, you ought to be proud of having had such a master! He was one of our great poets. He wrote the song of the shepherdess, and he wrote the ‘Dushenka.’ He might have acted very simply when he was young, but he certainly became a great poet.”
“So he wrote the shepherdess song, did he?” said Nicolai.
“Yes, he wrote that, and many other good things, and he became quite a famous man. Queen Catharine thought a great deal of him, and the people at court paid him many honors. They did not consider him a fool, as you did. If you would like to know all about what happened to this young boy who was such a simpleton, I will lend you the book with his life in it, and Axinia Nicolaievna can read it to you.”
“My little Martin Ivanovitch,” said the old man, picking up his knife and the yet unfinished rake, “I do not believe that I ever could have become a poet, even if I had known how to read and write. It would have been impossible for me to have gone to a fire in my night-clothes!”
