He went home in the evening. His wife met him sullenly, jerking her
elbows as she prepared some mash. The children were sitting on the
stove, some little pigs grunted in a corner. There was a strong smell
of burning wood.
"You won't care to eat with us now after the Barin's meal," nagged
the old woman. "You are a Barin yourself now. Ha, ha!"
Ivan remained silent, sitting down on a bench beneath the Ikon.
"So you mix with rascals now," she persisted, "yes, that is what they
are, Ivan Koloturov. Discontented rascals!"
"Peace, fool! You don't understand. Be quiet, I say!"
"You are ashamed of me, so you are hiding."
"We will live there together--soon."
"Not I! I will not go there."
"Idiot!"
"Ah, you have already learnt to snarl," the old woman jibed. "Ate
your mash then! But perhaps you don't relish it after your Barin's
pork."
She was right, he had already eaten--pork, and she had guessed it.
Ivan began to puff. "You are an idiot, I tell you," he growled.
He had come home to have a business talk about their affairs, but he
left without settling anything. The old woman's sharp tongue had
stung him in a tender spot. It was true that all the respectable
peasants had stood aside, and only those who had nothing to lose had
joined the Committee.
Ivan passed through the village. As he walked across the park, he saw
a light burning in the stables and went over to discover the reason.
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