If a siskin or a chaffinch could have spoken, and had begun declaring that it would peck another bird to death, it would not have reduced me to greater amazement than did Ivan at that moment. What! Suhys’ Vania, that dancing, jesting, comic fellow, the favourite playfellow of children, and a child himself, that kindest-hearted of creatures, a murderer! What ridiculous nonsense! Not for an instant did I believe him; what astonished me to such a degree was that he was capable of saying such a thing. Anyway I appealed to Alexey Sergeitch. I did not repeat what Ivan had said to me, but began asking him whether something couldn’t be done. ‘My young sir,’ the old man answered, ‘I should be only too happy--but what’s to be done? I offered this Little Russian an immense compensation--I offered him three hundred roubles, ‘pon my honour, I tell you! but he--there’s no moving him! what’s one to do? The transaction was not legal, it was done on trust, in the old-fashioned way ... and now see what mischief’s come of it! This Little Russian fellow, you see, will take Ivan by force, do what we will: his arm is powerful, the governor eats cabbage-soup at his table; he’ll be sending along soldiers. And I’m afraid of those soldiers! In old days, to be sure, I would have stood up for Ivan, come what might; but now, look at me, what a feeble creature I have grown! How can I make a fight for it?’ It was true; on my last visit I found Alexey Sergeitch greatly aged; even the centres of his eyes had that milky colour that babies’ eyes have, and his lips wore not his old conscious smile, but that unnatural, mawkish, unconscious grin, which never, even in sleep, leaves the faces of very decrepit old people. I told Ivan of Alexey Sergeitch’s decision. He stood still, was silent for a little, shook his head. ‘Well,’ said he at last, ‘what is to be there’s no escaping. Only my mind’s made up. There’s nothing left, then, but to play the fool to the end. Something for drink, please!’ I gave him something; he drank himself drunk, and that day danced the ‘fish dance’ so that the serf-girls and peasant-women positively shrieked with delight--he surpassed himself in his antics so wonderfully. Next day I went home, and three months later, in Petersburg, I heard that Ivan had kept his word. He had been sent to his new master; his master had called him into his room, and explained to him that he would be made coachman, that a team of three ponies would be put in his charge, and that he would be severely dealt with if he did not look after them well, and were not punctual in discharging his duties generally. ‘I’m not fond of joking.’ Ivan heard the master out, first bowed down to his feet, and then announced it was as his honour pleased, but he could not be his servant. ‘Let me off for a yearly quit-money, your honour,’ said he, ‘or send me for a soldier; or else there’ll be mischief come of it!’