At the beginning of August the heat often becomes insupportable. At that season, from twelve to three o'clock, the most and sportsman is not able to hunt, and the most dog begins to 'clean his master's spurs,' that is, to follow at his heels, his eyes painfully blinking, and his tongue hanging out to an exaggerated length; and in response to his master's reproaches he wags his tail and shows his confusion in his face; but he does not run forward. I happened to be out hunting on exactly such a day. I had long been fighting against the temptation to lie down somewhere in the shade, at least for a moment; for a long time my dog went on running about in the bushes, though he clearly did not himself expect much good from his activity. The heat compelled me at last to begin to think of husbanding our energies and strength. I managed to reach the little river Ista, which is already known to my indulgent readers, the steep bank, and walked along the damp, yellow sand in the direction of the spring, known to the whole neighbourhood as Raspberry Spring. This spring out of a in the bank, which widens out by degrees into a small but deep , and, twenty paces beyond it, falls with a merry sound into the river; the short grass is green about the source: the sun's rays scarcely ever reach its cold, silvery water. I came as far as the spring; a cup of birch-wood lay on the grass, left by a passing peasant for the public benefit. I my thirst, lay down in the shade, and looked round. In the cave, which had been formed by the flowing of the stream into the river, and hence marked for ever with the trace of , two old men were sitting with their backs to me. One, a rather and tall man in a neat dark-green coat and lined cap, was fishing; the other was thin and little; he wore a patched coat and no cap; he held a little pot full of worms on his knees, and sometimes lifted his hand up to his grizzled little head, as though he wanted to protect it from the sun. I looked at him more , and recognised in him Styopushka of Shumihino. I must ask the reader's leave to present this man to him.  
A few miles from my place there is a large village called Shumihino, with a stone church, in the name of St. Kosmo and St. Damian. Facing this church there had once stood a large and stately manor-house, surrounded by various outhouses, offices, workshops, stables and coach-houses, baths and temporary kitchens, wings for visitors and for bailiffs, , swings for the people, and other more or less useful . A family of rich landowners lived in this manor-house, and all went well with them, till suddenly one morning all this prosperity was burnt to ashes. The owners removed to another home; the place was . The blackened site of the immense house was transformed into a kitchen-garden, cumbered up in parts by piles of bricks, the of the old foundations. A little hut had been hurriedly put together out of the beams that had escaped the fire; it was roofed with timber bought ten years before for the construction of a pavilion in the Gothic style; and the gardener, Mitrofan, with his wife Axinya and their seven children, was installed in it. Mitrofan received orders to send greens and garden-stuff for the master's table, a hundred and fifty miles away; Axinya was put in charge of a Tyrolese cow, which had been bought for a high price in Moscow, but had not given a drop of milk since its acquisition; a smoke-coloured drake too had been left in her hands, the 'seignorial' bird; for the children, in consideration of their tender age, no special duties had been provided, a fact, however, which had not hindered them from growing up lazy. It happened to me on two occasions to stay the night at this gardener's, and when I passed by I used to get cucumbers from him, which, for some unknown reason, were even in summer for their size, their poor, flavour, and their thick yellow skin. It was there I first saw Styopushka. Except Mitrofan and his family, and the old deaf churchwarden Gerasim, kept out of charity in a little room at the one-eyed soldier's widow's, not one man among the house-serfs had remained at Shumihino; for Styopushka, whom I intend to introduce to the reader, could not be classified under the special order of house-serfs, and hardly under the genus 'man' at all.
 
Every man has some kind of position in society, and at least some ties of some sort; every house-serf receives, if not wages, at least some so-called '.' Styopushka had absolutely no means of subsistence of any kind; had no relationship to anyone; no one knew of his existence. This man had not even a past; there was no story told of him; he had probably never been on a census-revision. There were vague that he had once belonged to someone as a valet; but who he was, where he came from, who was his father, and how he had come to be one of the Shumihino people; in what way he had come by the fustian coat he had worn from immemorial times; where he lived and what he lived on—on all these questions no one had the least idea; and, to tell the truth, no one took any interest in the subject. Grandfather Trofimitch, who knew all the pedigrees of all the house-serfs in the direct line to the fourth generation, had once indeed been known to say that he remembered that Styopushka was related to a Turkish woman whom the late master, the brigadier Alexy Romanitch had been pleased to bring home from a campaign in the baggage . Even on holidays, days of general money-giving and of feasting on buckwheat dumplings and vodka, after the old Russian fashion—even on such days Styopushka did not put in an appearance at the trestle-tables nor at the barrels; he did not make his bow nor kiss the master's hand, nor toss off to the master's health and under the master's eye a glass filled by the fat hands of the bailiff. Some kind soul who passed by him might share an unfinished bit of dumpling with the poor beggar, perhaps. At Easter they said 'Christ is risen!' to him; but he did not pull up his sleeve, and bring out of the depths of his pocket a coloured egg, to offer it, panting and blinking, to his young masters or to the mistress herself. He lived in summer in a little shed behind the chicken-house, and in winter in the ante-room of the bathhouse; in the bitter frosts he spent the night in the hayloft. The house-serfs had grown used to seeing him; sometimes they gave him a kick, but no one ever addressed a remark to him; as for him, he seems never to have opened his lips from the time of his birth. After the , this creature sought a refuge at the gardener Mitrofan's. The gardener left him alone; he did not say 'Live with me,' but he did not drive him away. And Styopushka did not live at the gardener's; his was the garden. He moved and walked about quite noiselessly; he sneezed and coughed behind his hand, not without ; he was for ever busy and going stealthily to and fro like an ant; and all to get food—simply food to eat. And indeed, if he had not from morning till night for his living, our poor friend would certainly have died of hunger. It's a sad lot not to know in the morning what you will find to eat before night! Sometimes Styopushka sits under the hedge and a radish or sucks a carrot, or up some dirty cabbage-stalks; or he drags a bucket of water along, for some object or other, as he goes; or he lights a fire under a small pot, and throws in some little black which he takes from out of the of his coat; or he is hammering in his little wooden den—driving in a nail, putting up a shelf for bread. And all this he does silently, as though on the sly: before you can look round, he's in hiding again. Sometimes he suddenly disappears for a couple of days; but of course no one notices his absence…. Then, lo and ! he is there again, somewhere under the hedge, stealthily a fire of sticks under a kettle. He had a small face, yellowish eyes, hair coming down to his , a sharp nose, large ears, like a bat's, and a beard that looked as if it were a fortnight's growth, and never grew more nor less. This, then, was Styopushka, whom I met on the bank of the Ista in company with another old man.
 
I went up to him, wished him good-day, and sat down beside him. Styopushka's companion too I recognised as an acquaintance; he was a freed serf of Count Piotr Ilitch's, one Mihal Savelitch, nicknamed Tuman (i.e. fog). He lived with a consumptive Bolhovsky man, who kept an inn, where I had several times stayed. Young officials and other persons of leisure travelling on the Orel highroad (merchants, buried in their striped rugs, have other things to do) may still see at no great distance from the large village of Troitska, and almost on the highroad, an immense two-storied wooden house, completely deserted, with its roof falling in and its windows closely stuffed up. At mid-day in bright, sunny weather nothing can be imagined more than this ruin. Here there once lived Count Piotr Ilitch, a rich of the olden time, for his hospitality. At one time the whole province used to meet at his house, to dance and make merry to their heart's content to the sound of a home-trained orchestra, and the popping of rockets and Roman candles; and doubtless more than one lady sighs as she drives by the deserted palace of the boyar and recalls the old days and her vanished youth. The count long continued to give balls, and to walk about with an affable smile among the crowd of guests; but his property, unluckily, was not enough to last his whole life. When he was ruined, he set off to Petersburg to try for a post for himself, and died in a room at a hotel, without having gained anything by his efforts. Tuman had been a of his, and had received his freedom already in the count's lifetime. He was a man of about seventy, with a regular and pleasant face. He was almost continually smiling, as only men of the time of Catherine ever do smile—a smile at once stately and indulgent; in speaking, he slowly opened and closed his lips, with his eyes, and slightly through his nose. He blew his nose and took snuff too in a fashion, as though he were doing something serious.
 
'Well, Mihal Savelitch,' I began, 'have you caught any fish?'
 
'Here, if you will to look in the basket: I have caught two and five roaches…. Show them, Styopka.'
 
Styopushka stretched out the basket to me.
 
'How are you, Styopka?' I asked him.
 
'Oh—oh—not—not—not so badly, your honour,' answered Stepan, as though he had a heavy weight on his tongue.
 
'And is Mitrofan well?'
 
'Well—yes, yes—your honour.'
 
The poor fellow turned away.
 
'But there are not many bites,' remarked Tuman; 'it's so fearfully hot; the fish are all tired out under the bushes; they're asleep. Put on a worm, Styopka.' (Styopushka took out a worm, laid it on his open hand, struck it two or three times, put it on the hook, on it, and gave it to Tuman.) 'Thanks, Styopka…. And you, your honour,' he continued, turning to me, 'are pleased to be out hunting?'
 
'As you see.'
 
'Ah—and is your dog there English or German?'
 
The old man liked to show off on occasion, as though he would say, 'I, too, have lived in the world!'
 
'I don't know what breed it is, but it's a good dog.'
 
'Ah! and do you go out with the hounds too?'
 
'Yes, I have two of hounds.'
 
Tuman smiled and shook his head.
 
'That's just it; one man is devoted to dogs, and another doesn't want them for anything. According to my simple notions, I fancy dogs should be kept rather for appearance' sake … and all should be in style too; horses too should be in style, and huntsmen in style, as they ought to be, and all. The late count—God's grace be with him!—was never, I must own, much of a hunter; but he kept dogs, and twice a year he was pleased to go out with them. The huntsmen assembled in the courtyard, in red caftans trimmed with galloon, and blew their horns; his excellency would be pleased to come out, and his excellency's horse would be led up; his excellency would mount, and the chief huntsman puts his feet in the stirrups, takes his hat off, and puts the in his hat to offer them to his excellency. His excellency is pleased to click his whip like this, and the huntsmen give a shout, and off they go out of the gate away. A huntsman rides behind the count, and holds in a silken two of the master's favourite dogs, and looks after them well, you may fancy…. And he, too, this huntsman, sits up high, on a Cossack saddle: such a red-cheeked fellow he was, and rolled his eyes like this…. And there were guests too, you may be sure, on such occasions, and entertainment, and ceremonies observed…. Ah, he's got away, the Asiatic!' He interrupted himself suddenly, drawing in his line.
 
'They say the count used to live pretty freely in his day?' I asked.
 
The old man spat on the worm and lowered the line in again.
 
'He was a great gentleman, as is well-known. At times the persons of the first rank, one may say, at Petersburg, used to visit him. With coloured ribbons on their breasts they used to sit down to table and eat. Well, he knew how to entertain them. He called me sometimes. "Tuman," says he, "I want by to-morrow some live sturgeon; see there are some, do you hear?" "Yes, your excellency." coats, , , perfumes, eau de Cologne of the best sort, snuff-boxes, huge pictures: he would order them all from Paris itself! When he gave a banquet, God , Lord of my being! there were fireworks, and carriages driving up! They even fired off the . The orchestra alone consisted of forty men. He kept a German as conductor of the band, but the German gave himself dreadful airs; he wanted to eat at the same table as the masters; so his excellency gave orders to get rid of him! "My musicians," says he, "can do their work even without a conductor." Of course he was master. Then they would fall to dancing, and dance till morning, especially at the écossaise-matrador. … Ah—ah—there's one caught!' (The old man drew a small perch out of the water.) 'Here you are, Styopka! The master was all a master should be,' continued the old man, dropping his line in again, 'and he had a kind heart too. He would give you a blow at times, and before you could look round, he'd forgotten it already. There was only one thing: he kept mistresses. Ugh, those mistresses! God forgive them! They were the ruin of him too; and yet, you know, he took them most generally from a low station. You would fancy they would not want much? Not a bit—they must have everything of the most expensive in all Europe! One may say, "Why shouldn't he live as he likes; it's the master's business" … but there was no need to ruin himself. There was one especially; Akulina was her name. She is dead now; God rest her soul! the daughter of the watchman at Sitoia; and such a vixen! She would slap the count's face sometimes. She simply bewitched him. My nephew she sent for a soldier; he spilt some chocolate on a new dress of hers … and he wasn't the only one she served so. Ah, well, those were good times, though!' added the old man with a deep sigh. His head forward and he was silent.
 
'Your master, I see, was severe, then?' I began after a brief silence.
 
'That was the fashion then, your honour,' he replied, shaking his head.
 
'That sort of thing is not done now?' I observed, not taking my eyes off him.
 
He gave me a look askance.
 
'Now, surely it's better,' he muttered, and let out his line further.
 
We were sitting in the shade; but even in the shade it was stifling. The sultry atmosphere was faint and heavy; one lifted one's burning face uneasily, seeking a breath of wind; but there was no wind. The sun beat down from blue and darkening skies; right opposite us, on the other bank, was a yellow field of oats, overgrown here and there with wormwood; not one ear of the oats quivered. A little lower down a peasant's horse stood in the river up to its knees, and slowly shook its wet tail; from time to time, under an overhanging bush, a large fish shot up, bringing bubbles to the surface, and gently sank down to the bottom, leaving a slight behind it. The in the grass; the quail's cry sounded languid and reluctant; sailed over the meadows, often resting in the same spot, rapidly fluttering their wings and opening their tails into a fan. We sat motionless, overpowered with the heat. Suddenly there was a sound behind us in the creek; someone came down to the spring. I looked round, and saw a peasant of about fifty, covered with dust, in a smock, and wearing bast ; he carried a wickerwork pannier and a cloak on his shoulders. He went down to the spring, drank thirstily, and got up.
 
'Ah, Vlass!' cried Tuman, staring at him; 'good health to you, friend!
Where has God sent you from?'
'Good health to you, Mihal Savelitch!' said the peasant, coming nearer to us; 'from a long way off.'
 
'Where have you been?' Tuman asked him.
 
'I have been to Moscow, to my master.'
 
'What for?'
 
'I went to ask him a favour.'
 
'What about?'
 
'Oh, to my rent, or to let me work it out in labour, or to put me on another piece of land, or something…. My son is dead—so I can't manage it now alone.'
 
'Your son is dead?'
 
'He is dead. My son,' added the peasant, after a pause, 'lived in
Moscow as a cabman; he paid, I must confess, rent for me.'
'Then are you now paying rent?'
 
'Yes, we pay rent.'
 
'What did your master say?'
 
'What did the master say! He drove me away! Says he, "How dare you come straight to me; there is a bailiff for such things. You ought first," says he, "to apply to the bailiff … and where am I to put you on other land? You first," says he, "bring the debt you owe." He was angry altogether.'
 
'What then—did you come back?'
 
'I came back. I wanted to find out if my son had not left any goods of his own, but I couldn't get a straight answer. I say to his employer, "I am Philip's father"; and he says, "What do I know about that? And your son," says he, "left nothing; he was even in debt to me." So I came away.'
 
The peasant related all this with a smile, as though he were speaking of someone else; but tears were starting into his small, screwed-up eyes, and his lips were quivering.
 
'Well, are you going home then now?'
 
'Where can I go? Of course I'm going home. My wife, I suppose, is pretty well starved by now.'
 
'You should—then,' Styopushka said suddenly. He grew confused, was silent, and began to in the worm-pot.
 
'And shall you go to the bailiff?' continued Tuman, looking with some at Styopka.
 
'What should I go to him for?—I'm in as it is. My son was ill for a year before his death; he could not pay even his own rent. But it can't hurt me; they can get nothing from me…. Yes, my friend, you can be as cunning as you please—I'm cleaned out!' (The peasant began to laugh.) 'Kintlyan Semenitch'll have to be clever if—'
 
Vlass laughed again.
 
'Oh! things are in a sad way, brother Vlass,' Tuman ejaculated .
 
'Sad! No!' (Vlass's voice broke.) 'How hot it is!' he went on, wiping his face with his sleeve.
 
'Who is your master?' I asked him.
 
'Count Valerian Petrovitch.'
 
'The son of Piotr Ilitch?'
 
'The son of Piotr Ilitch,' replied Tuman. 'Piotr gave him Vlass's village in his lifetime.'
 
'Is he well?'
 
'He is well, thank God!' replied Vlass. 'He has grown so red, and his face looks as though it were padded.'
 
'You see, your honour,' continued Tuman, turning to me, 'it would be very well near Moscow, but it's a different matter to pay rent here.'
 
'And what is the rent for you altogether?'
 
'Ninety-five roubles,' muttered Vlass.
 
'There, you see; and it's the least bit of land; all there is is the master's forest.'
 
'And that, they say, they have sold,' observed the peasant.
 
'There, you see. Styopka, give me a worm. Why, Styopka, are you asleep—eh?'
 
Styopushka started. The peasant sat down by us. We sank into silence again. On the other bank someone was singing a song—but such a mournful one. Our poor Vlass grew deeply dejected.
 
Half-an-hour later we parted.