The man took off his cap and stopped his
horse, to make way for the ... _gentleman_.
"Good morning, little Father," he wheezed, then addressed his beast,
pulled the reins, drove on, then stopped again and called out:
"Listen, Barin, I want to tell you...."
The Prince turned round and looked at the man. The peasant was old,
his face was covered with hair and wrinkles.
"What will your Excellency do now?"
"That is difficult to say," replied the Prince.
"When will you go?" the old man asked. "Those Committees of the Poor
are taking away the corn. There are no matches, no manufacturers, and
I am burning splinters for light.... They say no corn is to be
sold.... Listen, Barin, I will take some secretly to the station.
People are coming from Moscow ... and ... and ... about thirty five
of them ... thirty five I tell you!... But then, what will there be
to buy with the proceeds?... Well, well! It is a great time all the
same ... a great time, Barin! Have a smoke, your Excellency."
Prozorovsky refused the proffered pipe, and rolled himself a small
cigar of an inferior brand. Around was the Steppe. No one saw, no one
knew of the peasant's compassion. The prince shook hands with him,
turned sharply on his heel and went home.
The cold, clear, glassy water in the park lake was blue and limpid,
for it was still too early for it to freeze all over.
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