Chapter 17

           Thecoachmanpulleduphisfourhorsesandlookedroundtotheright,toafieldofrye,wheresomepeasantsweresittingonacart.Thecounting-houseclerkwasjustgoingtojumpdown,butonsecondthoughtsheshoutedperemptorilytothepeasantsinstead,andbeckonedtothemtocomeup.Thewind,thatseemedtoblowastheydrove,droppedwhenthecarriagestoodstill;gadfliessettledonthesteaminghorsesthatangrilyshookthemoff.Themetallicclankofawhetstoneagainstascythe,thatcametothemfromthecart,ceased.Oneofthepeasantsgotupandcametowardsthecarriage.

           “Well,youareslow!”thecounting-houseclerkshoutedangrilytothepeasantwhowassteppingslowlywithhisbarefeetovertherutsoftheroughdryroad.“Comealong,do!”

           Acurly-headedoldmanwithabitofbasttiedroundhishair,andhisbentbackdarkwithperspiration,cametowardsthecarriage,quickeninghissteps,andtookholdofthemud-guardwithhissunburnthand.

           “Vozdvizhenskoe,themanorhouse?thecount’s?”herepeated;“goontotheendofthistrack.Thenturntotheleft.Straightalongtheavenueandyou’llcomerightuponit.Butwhomdoyouwant?Thecounthimself?”

           “Well,aretheyathome,mygoodman?”DaryaAlexandrovnasaidvaguely,notknowinghowtoaskaboutAnna,evenofthispeasant.

           “Athomeforsure,”saidthepeasant,shiftingfromonebarefoottotheother,andleavingadistinctprintoffivetoesandaheelinthedust.“Suretobeathome,”herepeated,evidentlyeagertotalk.“Onlyyesterdayvisitorsarrived.There’sasightofvisitorscome.