to toe with all the greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. He appeared to be nearly thirty. Small-pox had left indelible traces on his face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge; his long blue-black hair fell in ringlets on his collar behind, and was twisted into jaunty curls in front; his small swollen eyes were quite expressionless; a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. He was dressed like a dissipated country gentleman, given to frequenting horse-fairs, in a rather greasy striped Caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk-tie, a waistcoat with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge funnels, from under which the toes of unbrushed shoes could just be discerned. He smelt strongly of tobacco and spirits; on his fat, red hands, almost hidden in his sleeves, could be seen silver and Tula rings. Such figures are met in Russia not by dozens, but by hundreds; an acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any particular pleasure; but in spite of the prejudice with which I looked at the new-comer, I could not fail to notice the recklessly good-natured and passionate expression of his face. 'This gentleman's been waiting more than an hour here too,' observed the overseer indicating me. More than an hour! The rascal was making fun of me. 'But perhaps he doesn't need them as I do,' answered the new comer. 'I know nothing about that,' said the overseer sulkily. 'Then is it really impossible? Are there positively no horses?' 'Impossible. There's not a single horse.' 'Well, tell them to bring me a samovar. I'll wait a little; there's nothing else to be done.' The new comer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and passed his hand over his hair. 'Have you had tea already?' he inquired of me. 'Yes.' 'But won't you have a little more for company.' I consented. The stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth time on the table. I brought out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property. His name was Piotr Petrovitch Karataev. We got into conversation. In less than half-an-hour after his arrival, he was telling me his whole life with the most simple-hearted openness. 'I'm on my way to Moscow now,' he told me as he sipped his fourth glass; 'there's nothing for me to do now in the country.' 'How so?' 'Well, it's come to that. My property's in disorder; I've ruined my peasants, I must confess; there have been bad years: bad harvests, and all sorts of ill-luck, you know.... Though, indeed,' he added, looking away dejectedly; 'how could I manage an estate!' 'Why's that?'