The small village of Kolotovka once belonged to a lady known in the neighbourhood by the nickname of Skin-flint, in illusion to her keen business habits (her real name is lost in oblivion), but has of late years been the property of a German from Petersburg. The village lies on the slope of a barren hill, which is cut in half from top to bottom by a tremendous ravine. It is a yawning , with shelving sides hollowed out by the action of rain and snow, and it winds along the very centre of the village street; it separates the two sides of the unlucky hamlet far more than a river would do, for a river could, at least, be crossed by a bridge. A few gaunt creep down its sandy sides; at the very bottom, which is dry and yellow as , lie huge of argillaceous rock. A cheerless position, there's no denying, yet all the surrounding inhabitants know the road to Kolotovka well; they go there often, and are always glad to go.  
At the very summit of the ravine, a few paces from the point where it starts as a narrow in the earth, there stands a small square hut. It stands alone, apart from all the others. It is thatched, and has a chimney; one window keeps watch like a sharp eye over the ravine, and on winter evenings when it is lighted from within, it is seen far away in the dim frosty fog, and its twinkling light is the guiding star of many a peasant on his road. A blue board is nailed up above the door; this hut is a , called the 'Welcome Resort.' Spirits are sold here probably no cheaper than the usual price, but it is far more frequented than any other establishment of the same sort in the neighbourhood. The explanation of this is to be found in the tavern-keeper, Nikolai Ivanitch.
 
Nikolai Ivanitch--once a slender, curly-headed and rosy-cheeked young fellow, now an excessively , grizzled man with a fat face, sly and good-natured little eyes, and a shiny forehead, with wrinkles like lines all over it--has lived for more than twenty years in Kolotovka. Nikolai Ivanitch is a shrewd, acute fellow, like the majority of tavern-keepers. Though he makes no effort to please or to talk to people, he has the art of attracting and keeping customers, who find it particularly pleasant to sit at his bar under the and , though alert eye, of the host. He has a great deal of common sense; he understands the landowner's conditions of life, the peasant's, and the tradesman's. He could give sensible advice on difficult points, but, like a cautious man and an egoist, prefers to stand , and at most--and that only in the case of his favourite customers--by remote hints, dropped, as it were, unintentionally, to lead them into the true way. He is an authority on everything that is of interest or importance to a Russian; on horses and cattle, on timber, bricks, and crockery, on woollen stuffs and on leather, on songs and dances. When he has no customers he is usually sitting like a sack on the ground before the door of his hut, his thin legs tucked under him, exchanging a friendly greeting with every passer-by. He has seen a great deal in his time; many a score of petty landowners, who used to come to him for spirits, he has seen pass away before him; he knows everything that is done for eighty miles round, and never gossips, never gives a sign of knowing what is unsuspected by the most keen-sighted police-officer. He keeps his own counsel, laughs, and makes his glasses ring. His neighbours respect him; the general Shtcherpetenko, the landowner highest in rank in the district, gives him a nod whenever he drives past his little house. Nikolai Ivanitch is a man of influence; he made a notorious horse-stealer return a horse he had taken from the stable of one of his friends; he brought the peasants of a neighbouring village to their senses when they refused to accept a new overseer, and so on. It must not be imagined, though, that he does this from love of justice, from devotion to his neighbour--no! he simply tries to prevent anything that might, in any way, with his ease and comfort. Nikolai Ivanitch is married, and has children. His wife, a smart, sharp-nosed and keen-eyed woman of the tradesman class, has grown somewhat stout of late years, like her husband. He relies on her in everything, and she keeps the key of the cash-box. Drunken brawlers are afraid of her; she does not like them; they bring little profit and make a great deal of noise: those who are taciturn and surly in their cups are more to her taste. Nikolai Ivanitch's children are still small; the first four all died, but those that are left take after their parents: it is a pleasure to look at their intelligent, healthy little faces.
 
It was an insufferably hot day in July when, slowly dragging my feet along, I went up alongside the Kolotovka ravine with my dog towards the Welcome Resort. The sun blazed, as it were, fiercely in the sky, baking the earth ; the air was thick with dust. crows and with looked at the passers-by, as though asking for sympathy; only the sparrows did not , but, their feathers, twittered more vigorously than ever as they quarrelled among the hedges, or flew up all together from the dusty road, and in grey clouds over the green hempfields. I was by thirst. There was no water near: in Kolotovka, as in many other villages of the steppes, the peasants, having no spring or well, drink a sort of thin mud out of the pond.... For no one could call that water. I wanted to ask for a glass of beer or kvas at Nikolai Ivanitch's.
 
It must be confessed that at no time of the year does Kolotovka present a very cheering spectacle; but it has a particularly depressing effect when the rays of a dazzling July sun pour down full upon the brown, tumble-down roofs of the houses and the deep ravine, and the parched, dusty common over which the thin, long-legged hens are straying hopelessly, and the of the old manor-house, now a hollow, grey framework of aspenwood, with holes instead of windows, overgrown with , wormwood, and rank grass, and the pond black, as though and covered with goose feathers, with its edge of half-dried mud, and its broken-down , near which, on the finely trodden, ash-like earth, sheep, breathless and with the heat, dejectedly together, their heads with weary patience, as though waiting for this insufferable heat to pass at last. With weary steps I drew near Nikolai Ivanitch's , arousing in the village children the usual wonder manifested in a concentrated, meaningless stare, and in the dogs an indignation expressed in such and furious barking that it seemed as if it were tearing their very entrails, and left them breathless and choking, when suddenly in the tavern there appeared a tall peasant without a cap, in a cloak, girt about below his waist with a blue handkerchief. He looked like a house-serf; thick grey hair stood up in above his and wrinkled face. He was calling to some one hurriedly, waving his arms, which obviously were not quite under his control. It could be seen that he had been drinking already.
 
'Come, come along!' he , raising his shaggy with an effort. 'Come, Blinkard, come along! Ah, brother, how you creep along, 'pon my word! It's too bad, brother. They're waiting for you within, and here you crawl along.... Come.'
 
'Well, I'm coming, I'm coming!' called a jarring voice, and from behind a hut a little, short, fat, man came into sight. He wore a rather tidy cloth coat, pulled half on, and a high cap right over his brows, which gave his round plump face a sly and comic expression. His little yellow eyes moved restlessly about, his thin lips wore a continual forced smile, while his sharp, long nose peered forward in front like a rudder. 'I'm coming, my dear fellow.' He went hobbling towards the tavern. 'What are you calling me for?... Who's waiting for me?'
 
'What am I calling you for?' repeated the man in the frieze coat reproachfully.' You're a queer fish, Blinkard: we call you to come to the tavern, and you ask what for? Here are honest folks all waiting for you: Yashka the Turk, and the Wild Master, and the booth-keeper from Zhizdry. Yashka's got a bet on with the booth-keeper: the stake's a pot of beer--for the one that does best, sings the best, I mean... do you see?'
 
'Is Yashka going to sing?' said the man addressed as Blinkard, with lively interest. 'But isn't it your , Gabbler?'
 
'I'm not humbugging,' answered the Gabbler, with dignity; 'it's you are crazy. I should think he would sing since he's got a bet on it, you precious innocent, you noodle, Blinkard!'
 
'Well, come in, simpleton!' retorted the Blinkard.
 
'Then give us a kiss at least, lovey,' stammered the Gabbler, opening wide his arms.
 
'Get out, you great softy!' responded the Blinkard contemptuously, giving him a with his elbow, and both, stooping, entered the low doorway.
 
The conversation I had overheard roused my curiosity exceedingly. More than once had reached me of Yashka the Turk as the best singer in the vicinity, and here was an opportunity all at once of hearing him in competition with another master of the art. I quickened my steps and went into the house.
 
Few of my readers have probably had an opportunity of getting a good view of any village , but we sportsmen go everywhere. They are constructed on an exceedingly simple plan. They usually consist of a dark outer-shed, and an inner room with a chimney, divided in two by a partition, behind which none of the customers have a right to go. In this partition there is a wide opening cut above a broad oak table. At this table or bar the spirits are served. Sealed up bottles of various sizes stand on the shelves, right opposite the opening. In the front part of the room, to customers, there are benches, two or three empty barrels, and a corner table. Village taverns are for the most part rather dark, and you hardly ever see on their wainscotted walls any of the glaring cheap prints which few huts are without.
 
When I went into the Welcome Resort, a fairly large party were already assembled there.
 
In his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up the entire opening in the partition, stood Nikolai Ivanitch in a striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured out with his plump white hand two glasses of spirits for the Blinkard and the Gabbler as they came in; behind him, in a corner near the window, could be seen his sharp-eyed wife. In the middle of the room was Yashka the Turk, a thin, fellow of three-and-twenty, dressed in a long skirted coat of blue nankin. He looked a smart factory hand, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His hollow cheeks, his large, restless grey eyes, his straight nose, with its delicate mobile , his pale brown curls brushed back over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, lips, and his whole face betrayed a and sensitive nature. He was in a state of great excitement; he blinked, his breathing was hurried, his hands shook, as though in fever, and he was really in a fever--that sudden fever of excitement which is so well-known to all who have to speak and sing before an audience. Near him stood a man of about forty, with broad shoulders and broad , with a low forehead, narrow Tartar eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and shining black hair coarse as . The expression of his face--a swarthy face, with a sort of leaden in it--and especially of his pale lips, might almost have been called , if it had not been so still and dreamy. He hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly about him like a bull under the . He was dressed in a sort of surtout, not over new, with smooth buttons; an old black silk handkerchief was twisted round his immense neck. He was called the Wild Master. Right opposite him, on a bench under the holy pictures, was sitting Yashka's rival, the booth-keeper from Zhizdry; he was a short, stoutly-built man about thirty, pock-marked, and curly-headed, with a blunt, turn-up nose, lively brown eyes, and a beard. He looked keenly about him, and, sitting with his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his legs and tapping with his feet, which were encased in top-boots with a coloured edging. He wore a new thin coat of grey cloth, with a plush collar, in sharp contrast with the shirt below, buttoned close across the chest. In the opposite corner, to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow, shabby smock-frock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. The sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish through the dusty of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it struggled in vain with the darkness of the room; all the objects in it were dimly, as it were, patchily lighted up. On the other hand, it was almost cool in the room, and the sense of stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly I crossed the threshold.
 
My entrance, I could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting to Nikolai Ivanitch's customers; but observing that he greeted me as a friend, they were , and took no more notice of me. I asked for some beer and sat down in the corner, near the peasant in the smock.
 
'Well, well,' piped the Gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of spirits at one , and accompanying his with the strange gesticulations, without which he seemed unable to utter a single word; 'what are we waiting for? If we're going to begin, then begin. Hey, Yasha?'
 
'Begin, begin,' chimed in Nikolai Ivanitch approvingly.
 
'Let's begin, by all means,' observed the booth-keeper coolly, with a self-confident smile; 'I'm ready.'
 
'And I'm ready,' Yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with excitement.
 
'Well, begin, lads,' the Blinkard. But, in spite of the unanimously expressed desire, neither began; the booth-keeper did not even get up from the bench--they all seemed to be waiting for something.
 
'Begin!' said the Wild Master sharply and . Yashka started. The booth-keeper pulled down his girdle and cleared his throat.
 
'But who's to begin?' he inquired in a slightly changed voice of the Wild Master, who still stood motionless in the middle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart and his powerful arms thrust up to the elbow into his breeches pockets.
 
'You, you, booth-keeper,' stammered the Gabbler; 'you, to be sure, brother.'
 
The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The Gabbler gave a faint , in confusion looked away at the ceiling, his shoulder, and said no more.
 
'Cast lots,' the Wild Master pronounced emphatically; 'and the pot on the table.'
 
Nikolai Ivanitch down, and with a picked up the pot of beer from the floor and set it on the table.
 
The Wild Master glanced at Yakov, and said 'Come!'
 
Yakov in his pockets, took out a halfpenny, and marked it with his teeth. The booth-keeper pulled from under the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, the string, and shaking out a quantity of small change into his hand, picked out a new halfpenny. The Gabbler held out his dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped his halfpenny in, and the booth-keeper his.
 
'You must pick out one,' said the Wild Master, turning to the Blinkard.
 
The Blinkard smiled , took the cap in both hands, and began shaking it.
 
For an instant a profound silence ; the halfpennies clinked faintly, against each other. I looked round ; every face wore an expression of intense expectation; the Wild Master himself showed signs of uneasiness; my neighbour, even, the peasant in the smock, craned his neck . The Blinkard put his hand into the cap and took out the booth-keeper's halfpenny; every one drew a long breath. Yakov flushed, and the booth-keeper passed his hand over his hair.
 
'There, I said you'd begin,' cried the Gabbler; 'didn't I say so?'
 
'There, there, don't cluck,' remarked the Wild Master contemptuously. 'Begin,' he went on, with a nod to the booth-keeper.
 
'What song am I to sing?' asked the booth-keeper, beginning to be nervous.
 
'What you choose,' answered the Blinkard; 'sing what you think best.'
 
'What you choose, to be sure,' Nikolai Ivanitch chimed in, slowly smoothing his hand on his breast, 'you're quite at liberty about that. Sing what you like; only sing well; and we'll give a fair decision afterwards.'
 
'A fair decision, of course,' put in the Gabbler, licking the edge of his empty glass.
 
'Let me clear my throat a bit, mates,' said the booth-keeper, fingering the collar of his coat.
 
'Come, come, no nonsense--begin!' protested the Wild Master, and he looked down.
 
The booth-keeper thought a minute, shook his head, and stepped forward. Yakov's eyes were upon him.
 
But before I enter upon a description of the contest itself, I think it will not be amiss to say a few words about each of the personages taking part in my story. The lives of some of them were known to me already when I met them in the Welcome Resort; I collected some facts about the others later on.
 
Let us begin with the Gabbler. This man's real name was Evgraf Ivanovitch; but no one in the whole neighbourhood knew him as anything but the Gabbler, and he himself referred to himself by that nickname; so well did it fit him. Indeed, nothing could have been more appropriate to his , ever-restless features. He was a dissipated, unmarried house-serf, whose own masters had long ago got rid of him, and who, without any employment, without earning a halfpenny, found means to get drunk every day at other people's expense. He had a great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of spirits and tea, though they could not have said why they did so themselves; for, far from being entertaining in company, he bored every one with his meaningless , his insufferable familiarity, his spasmodic gestures and , laugh. He could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever, or even a sensible thing in his life; he away, telling lies about everything--a regular Gabbler! And yet not a single drinking party for thirty miles around took place without his figure turning up among the guests; so that they were used to him by now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. They all, it is true, treated him with contempt; but the Wild Master was the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check.
 
The Blinkard was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nickname, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking than other people; it is a well-known fact, that the Russian peasants have a talent for finding good nicknames. In spite of my endeavours to get more information about this man's past, many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to me, and probably to many other people; episodes, buried, as the bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. I could only find out that he was once a coachman in the service of an old childless lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge of; had been lost for a whole year, and no doubt, convinced by experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a wandering life, he had gone back, a cripple, and flung himself at his mistress's feet. He succeeded in a few years in smoothing over his offence by his exemplary conduct, and, gradually getting higher in her favour, at last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff, and on his mistress's death, turned out--in what way was never known--to have received his freedom. He got admitted into the class of tradesmen; rented patches of market garden from the neighbours; grew rich, and now was living in ease and comfort. He was a man of experience, who knew on which side his bread was buttered; was more actuated............