Chapter 22

           

           Meanwhile,thecityitselfwasdeserted.Therewashardlyanyoneinthestreets.Thegatesandshopswereallclosed,onlyhereandthereroundthetavernssolitaryshoutsordrunkensongscouldbeheard.Nobodydrovethroughthestreetsandfootstepswererarelyheard.ThePovarskáyawasquitestillanddeserted.ThehugecourtyardoftheRostóvs’housewaslitteredwithwispsofhayandwithdungfromthehorses,andnotasoulwastobeseenthere.Inthegreatdrawingroomofthehouse,whichhadbeenleftwithallitcontained,weretwopeople.TheyweretheyardporterIgnát,andthepageboyMíshka,Vasílich’sgrandsonwhohadstayedinMoscowwithhisgrandfather.Míshkahadopenedtheclavichordandwasstrummingonitwithonefinger.Theyardporter,hisarmsakimbo,stoodsmilingwithsatisfactionbeforethelargemirror.

           “Isn’titfine,eh,UncleIgnát?”saidtheboy,suddenlybeginningtostrikethekeyboardwithbothhands.

           “Onlyfancy!”answeredIgnát,surprisedatthebroadeninggrinonhisfaceinthemirror.

           “Impudence!Impudence!”theyheardbehindthemthevoiceofMávraKuzmínichnawhohadenteredsilently.“Howhe’sgrinning,thefatmug!Isthatwhatyou’reherefor?Nothing’sclearedawaydownthereandVasílichiswornout.Justyouwaitabit!”

           Ignátleftoffsmiling,adjustedhisbelt,andwentoutoftheroomwithmeeklydowncasteyes.

           “Aunt,Ididitgently,”saidtheboy.

           “I’llgiveyousomethinggently,youmonkeyyou!”criedMávraKuzmínichna,raisingherarmthreateningly.“Goandgetthesamovartoboilforyourgrandfather.

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