‘Well, well, that’s enough, that’s enough,’ my grandmother cut him short; and after a moment’s thought she queried, speaking through her nose, which was always a bad sign, ‘And what age is he, your protégé?’ ‘About my own age.’ ‘Really, I imagined that you were bringing him up.’ ‘Not so; he is my comrade--and besides ...’ ‘That’s enough,’ my grandmother cut him short a second time. ‘You’re a philanthropist, it seems. Yakov Petrovitch is right; for a man in your position it’s something very peculiar. But now let’s get to business. I’ll explain to you what your duties will be. And as regards wages.... _Que faites vous ici?_’ added my grandmother suddenly, turning her dry, yellow face to me:--‘_Allez étudier votre devoir de mythologie._’ I jumped up, went up to kiss my grandmother’s hand, and went out,--not to study mythology, but simply into the garden. * * * * * The garden on my grandmother’s estate was very old and large, and was bounded on one side by a flowing pond, in which there were not only plenty of carp and eels, but even loach were caught, those renowned loach, that have nowadays disappeared almost everywhere. At the head of this pond was a thick clump of willows; further and higher, on both sides of a rising slope, were dense bushes of hazel, elder, honeysuckle, and sloe-thorn, with an undergrowth of heather and clover flowers. Here and there between the bushes were tiny clearings, covered with emerald-green, silky, fine grass, in the midst of which squat funguses peeped out with their comical, variegated pink, lilac, and straw-coloured caps, and golden balls of ‘hen-dazzle’ blazed in light patches. Here in spring-time the nightingales sang, the blackbirds whistled, the cuckoos called; here in the heat of summer it was always cool--and I loved to make my way into the wilderness and thicket, where I had favourite secret spots, known--so, at least, I imagined--only to me.