Ivan Koloturov, President of the Bielokonsky Committee of the Poor, had ploughed his tiny holding for twenty years. He always rose before dawn and worked—dug, harrowed, threshed, planed, repaired—with his huge, strong, pock-marked hands; he could only use his muscular strength.  
On rising in the morning, he prepared his hash of potatoes and bread, and went out of the hut to work—on the land, with cattle, with wood, stone and iron. He was honest, careful, and . While still a lad of five he had, while driving from the station, helped a stranger in a mechanic's to a seat; the man had told him all were equal in the sight of God, that the land belonged to the peasants, that the proprieters had stolen it from them, and that a time would come when he would have to "do things."
 
Ivan Koloturov did not understand what he would have to do, but when the fierce wave of the Revolution broke over the country and swept into the Steppe, he was the first to rise to "do things." Now he felt . He had wanted to do everything honestly, but he was only able to work with his hands and muscles.
 
They elected him to the County Committee. He was accustomed to rise before dawn and set to work immediately. Now he was not permitted to do anything before ten o'clock. At ten he went to the Committee where, with the greatest difficulty, he put his name to papers—but this was not work: papers came in and went out independently of him. He did not understand their , he only signed them.
 
He wanted to do something! In the spring he went home to the plough. He had been elected in the Autumn, President of the Committee of the Poor, and he established himself in Prince Prozorovsky's , putting on his soldier brother's great coat and carrying a revolver in his belt.
 
He went home in the evening. His wife met him , jerking her elbows as she prepared some . The children were sitting on the stove, some little pigs in a corner. There was a strong smell of burning wood.
 
"You won't care to eat with us now after the Barin's meal," the old woman. "You are a Barin yourself now. Ha, ha!"
 
Ivan remained silent, sitting down on a bench beneath the Ikon.
 
"So you mix with now," she persisted, "yes, that is what they are, Ivan Koloturov. Discontented rascals!"
 
"Peace, fool! You don't understand. Be quiet, I say!"
 
"You are ashamed of me, so you are hiding."
 
"We will live there together—soon."
 
"Not I! I will not go there."
 
"Idiot!"
 
"Ah, you have already learnt to snarl," the old woman . "Ate your mash then! But perhaps you don't it after your Barin's pork."
 
She was right, he had already eaten—pork, and she had guessed it.
Ivan began to . "You are an idiot, I tell you," he .
He had come home to have a business talk about their affairs, but he left without settling anything. The old woman's sharp tongue had stung him in a tender spot. It was true that all the respectable peasants had stood aside, and only those who had nothing to lose had joined the Committee.
 
Ivan passed through the village. As he walked across the park, he saw a light burning in the stables and went over to discover the reason. He found some lads had assembled there and were playing cards and smoking. He watched them awhile, frowningly.
 
"This is stupid! You will set the place alight," he .
 
"What if we do?" the men answered sulkily. "It is for you to defend other people's property?"
 
"Not other peoples'—ours!" he retorted, then turned away.
 
"Ivan!" they shouted after him; "have you the wine-cellar key? There are spirits in there—if you don't give it to us, we shall break in…."
 
The house was dark and silent. The huge, apartments seemed strange, terrible. The Prince still occupied the drawing-room. Ivan entered his office—formerly the dining-room—and lighted a lamp. He went down on his knees and began to pick up the clods of earth that lay on the floor; he threw them out of the window, then fetched a brush and swept up. He could not understand why gentlemen's boots did not leave a trail of dirt behind them.
 
Then he went into the drawing-room and served the final notice on the
Prince while the men were accommodating themselves in the kitchen.
Then he joined them, lying down on a form without undressing. After a
long time he fell asleep.
He awoke the next morning while all were still sleeping, rose and walked round the . The lads were still playing cards in the stable.
 
"Why aren't you asleep?" one of them asked him.
 
"I have had all I want," he replied. He called the cow-herd. The man came out, stood still, scratched his head, and swore angrily— indignant at being aroused.
 
"Don't in other people's affairs," he grunted. "I know when to wake."
 
The dawn was fine, clear and . A light appeared in the drawing- room, and Ivan saw the Prince go out, cross the terrace and depart into the Steppe.
 
At ten o'clock, the President entered the office, and set about what was, in his opinion, a , useless business—the making out an of the wheat and rye in each peasant's possession. It was useless because he knew, as did everyone in the village, how much each man had; it was torturous because it such a great deal of writing.
 
Prince Prozorovsky had risen at daybreak. The sun glared fiercely over the bare autumn-swept park and into the drawing-room windows. The wedding cry of the echoed through the autumnal stillness that hung broodingly over the Steppe.
 
On such a dazzling golden day as this, the Prince's ancestors had set off with their blood-hounds in by-gone days. In this house a whole generation had lived—now the old family was forced to leave it—for ever!
 
A red notice—"The Bielokonsky Committee of the Poor"—had been to the front door the previous evening, and the intruders had all night arranging something in the hall. The drawing-room had not so far been touched; the backs of books still glittered from behind glass cases in the study. Oh books! Will not your poison and your delights still ?
 
Prince Prozorovsky went out into the fields; they were barren but for dead rye-stalks that stuck up from the earth. Wolves were already on the trail. He wandered all day long, drank the last wine of autumn and listened to the ravens' wedding cries.
 
When he had this bird's as a child, he had clapped his hands, crying: " for my wedding! Hurrah for my wedding!" He had never had a wedding. Now his days were numbered. He had lived for love. He had known many affections, had felt bitter . He had tasted the poison of the Moscow streets, of books and of women; had been touched by the autumnal sadness of Bielokonsky, where he always stayed in the autumn. Now he knew grief!
 
He walked aimlessly through the trackless fields and down into hollows; the aspens glowed in a purple around him; on a hill behind him the old white house stood amid the lilac shrubbery of a decaying park. The crystal clear, vast, blue was immeasurably distant.
 
The hair on his temples was already growing thin and gray—there was no stopping, no returning!
 
He met a peasant, a rough, plain man in a sheep-skin jacket, driving a cart with sacks. The man took off his cap and stopped his horse, to make way for the … gentleman.
 
"Good morning, little Father," he , then addressed his beast, pulled the , drove on, then stopped again and called out:
 
"Listen, Barin, I want to tell you…."
 
The Prince turned round and looked at the man. The peasant was old, his face was covered with hair and wrinkles.
 
"What will your Excellency do now?"
 
"That is difficult to say," replied the Prince.
 
"When will you go?" the old man asked. "Those Committees of the Poor are taking away the corn. There are no matches, no manufacturers, and I am burning splinters for light…. They say no corn is to be sold…. Listen, Barin, I will take some secretly to the station. People are coming from Moscow … and … and … about thirty five of them … thirty five I tell you!… But then, what will there be to buy with the proceeds?… Well, well! It is a great time all the same … a great time, Barin! Have a smoke, your Excellency."
 
Prozorovsky refused the <............