Foka has disappeared. Porfiry Vladimirych produces a sheet of paper, arms himself with the counting-board, and the beads begin jumping fast under his skilful fingers. Little by little an orgy of numbers commences. The whole world becomes enwrapped in mist. With feverish haste Yudushka passes from the paper to the counting-board and from the counting-board to the paper. The rows of figures keep growing larger and larger. BOOK VII THE SETTLEMENT CHAPTER I It is the middle of December. The country stretches still and benumbed, covered with a mantle of snow as far as the eye can reach. The horses, though pulling empty carts, wade with difficulty through the snow-drifts that the wind has driven during the night. There is not the trace of a path to the Golovliovo estate. Porfiry Vladimirych had grown so unaccustomed to visits that in the beginning of autumn he barred the front entrance to the house and the main gateways leading to it, leaving only the servants' entrance and the side gates for the domestics to communicate with the outer world. One morning as the clock was striking eleven, Yudushka in his dressing-gown was standing at the window staring aimlessly before him. Since early morning he had been walking to and fro in the room, deep in thought about a certain momentous matter, and ceaselessly counting imaginary profits. Finally, he became mixed in the ciphering and grew tired. Both the magnificent orchard in front of the manor and the village behind it were lost to view in the snow. After yesterday's blizzard the air was frosty, and the snow shimmered and sparkled in the sun, so that Porfiry Vladimirych had to blink. The court was silent and deserted. There was not the least movement, either in the servants' quarters or near the cattle yard. Even the village itself was so silent that it seemed as if death had suddenly stolen upon the people. The only thing that attracted Yudushka's attention was a curl of thin smoke floating upward from the priest's house. "Eleven o'clock, and the parson's wife has not yet finished cooking," he thinks. "Those black coats are always gorging."