Pavel Petrovich did not stay long at his brother’s interview with the bailiff, a tall, thin man with the soft voice of a consumptive and cunning eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovich’s remarks answered, “Indeed, certainly, sir,” and tried to show up the peasants as thieves and drunkards. The estate had only just started to be run on the new system, whose mechanism still creaked like an ungreased wheel and cracked in places like homemade furniture of raw, unseasoned wood. Nikolai Petrovich did not lose heart but he often sighed and felt discouraged; he realized that things could not be improved without more money, and his money was almost all spent. Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel Petrovich had helped his brother more than once; several times, seeing him perplexed, racking his brains, not knowing which way to turn, Pavel Petrovich had moved towards the window, and with his hands thrust into his pockets had muttered between his teeth, “Mais je puis vous donner de l’argent,” and gave him money; but today he had none left himself and he preferred to go away. The petty disputes of agricultural management wearied him; besides, he could not help feeling that Nikolai Petrovich, with all his zeal and hard work, did not set about things in the right way, although he could not point out exactly what were his brother’s mistakes. “My brother is not practical enough,” he would say to himself; “they cheat him.” On the other hand, Nikolai Petrovich had the highest opinion of Pavel Petrovich’s practical capacity and was always asking for his advice. “I’m a mild, weak person, I’ve spent my life in the depths of the country,” he used to say, “while you haven’t seen so much of the world for nothing; you understand people, you see through them with an eagle’s eye.” In answer to such words, Pavel Petrovich only turned aside but did not contradict his brother.

Leaving Nikolai Petrovich in the study, he walked along the corridor which separated the front portion of the house from the back; on reaching a low door he stopped and hesitated for a moment, then, pulling at his mustache, he knocked on it.

“Who is there? Come in,” called out Fenichka’s voice.

“It is me,” said Pavel Petrovich, and opened the door. Fenichka jumped up from the chair on which she was sitting with her baby, and putting him into the arms of a girl who at once carried him out of the room, she hastily straightened her kerchief.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” began Pavel Petrovich without looking at her; “I only wanted to ask you . . . as they are sending into the town today . . . to see that they buy some green tea for me.”

“Certainly,” answered Fenichka, “how much tea do you want?”

“Oh, half a pound will be enough, I should think. I see you have made some changes here,” he added, casting a rapid look around and at Fenichka’s face. “Those curtains,” he went on, seeing that she did not understand him.

“Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovich kindly gave them to me, but they’ve been hung up for quite a long time.”

“Yes, and I haven’t been to see you for a long time. Now it is all very nice here.”

“Thanks to Nikolai Petrovich’s kindness,” murmured Fenichka.

“You are more comfortable here than in the little side-wing where you used to be?” inquired Pavel Petrovich politely but without any trace of a smile.

“Certainly, it is better here.”

“Who has been put in your place now?”

“The laundrymaids are there now.”

“Ah!”

Pavel Petrovich was silent. “Now he will go,” thought Fenichka; but he did not go and she stood in front of him rooted to the spot, moving her fingers nervously.

“Why did you send your little one away?” said Pavel Petrovich at last. “I love children; do let me see him.”

Fenichka blushed all over with confusion and joy. She was frightened of Pavel Petrovich; he hardly ever spoke to her.

“Dunyasha,” she called. “Will you bring Mitya, please?” (Fenichka was polite to every member of the household.) “But wait a moment; he must have a frock on.” Fenichka was going towards the door.

“That doesn’t matter,” remarked Pavel Petrovich.

“I shall be back in a moment,” answered Fenichka, and she went out quickly.

Pavel Petrovich was left alone and this time he looked round with special attention. The small, low room in which he found himself was very clean and cosy. It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of camomile flowers. Along the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought by the late General Kirsanov in Poland during a campaign; in one corner was a little bedstead under a muslin canopy alongside a chest with iron clamps and a curved lid. In the opposite corner a little lamp was burning in front of a big, dark picture of St. Nicholas the Miracle-Worker; a tiny porcelain egg hung over the saint’s breast suspended by a red ribbon from his halo; on the window sills stood carefully tied greenish glass jars filled with last year’s jam; Fenichka had herself written in big letters on their paper covers the word “Gooseberry;” it was the favorite jam of Nikolai Petrovich. A cage containing a short-tailed canary hung on a long cord from the ceiling; he constantly chirped and hopped about, and the cage kept on swinging and shaking, while hemp seeds fell with a light tap onto the floor. On the wall just above a small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai Petrovich taken in various positions; there, too, was a most unsuccessful photograph of Fenichka; it showed an eyeless face smiling with effort in a dingy frame — nothing more definite could be distinguished — and above Fenichka, General Yermolov, in a Caucasian cloak, scowled menacingly at distant mountains, from under a little silk shoe for pins which fell right over his forehead.

Five minutes passed; a sound of rustling and whispering could be heard in the next room. Pavel Petrovich took from the chest of drawers a greasy book, an odd volume of Masalsky’s Musketeer, and turned over a few pages . . . The door opened and Fenichka came in with Mitya in her arms. She bad dressed him in a little red shirt with an embroidered collar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathing heavily, his whole body moved up and down, and he waved his little hands in the air as all healthy babies do; but his smart shirt obviously impressed him and his plump little person radiated delight. Fenichka had also put her own hair in order and rearranged her kerchief; but she might well have remained as she was. Indeed, is there anything more charming in the world than a beautiful young mother with a healthy child in her arms?

“What a chubby little fellow,” said Pavel Petrovich, graciously tickling Mitya’s double chin with the tapering nail of his forefinger; the baby stared at the canary and laughed.

“That’s uncle,” said Fenichka, bending her face over him and slightly rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set ............