He went out. I looked round: against the partition separating my room from the office stood a huge leather sofa; two high-backed chairs, also covered in leather, were placed on both sides of the solitary window which looked out on the village street. On the walls, covered with a green paper with pink patterns on it, hung three immense oil paintings. One depicted a setter dog with a blue collar, bearing the inscription: “This is my consolation”; at the dog’s feet flowed a river; on the opposite bank of the river a hare of quite disproportionate size, with ears cocked up, was sitting under a pine tree. In another picture two old men were eating a melon; behind the melon was visible in the distance a Greek temple with the inscription: “The Temple of Satisfaction.” The third picture represented the half-nude figure of a woman in a recumbent position, much foreshortened, with red knees and very big heels. My dog had, with superhuman efforts, crouched under the sofa, and apparently found a great deal of dust there, as he kept sneezing violently. I went to the window. Boards had been laid across the street in a slanting direction from the manor-house to the counting-house--a very useful precaution, as, thanks to our rich black soil and the persistent rain, the mud was terrible. In the grounds of the manor-house, which stood with its back to the street, there was the constant going and coming there always is about manor-houses: maids in faded chintz gowns flitted to and fro; house-serfs sauntered through the mud, stood still, and scratched their spines meditatively; the constable’s horse, tied up to a post, lashed his tail lazily, and, with his nose high up, gnawed at the hedge; hens were clucking; sickly turkeys kept up an incessant gobble-gobble. On the steps of a dark, crumbling out-house, probably the bath-house, sat a stalwart lad with a guitar, singing with some spirit the well-known ballad: “I’m leaving this enchanting spot To go into the desert.” The fat man came into the room. “They’re bringing you in your tea,” he told me, with an affable smile. The young man in the gray coat, the clerk on duty, laid on the old card-table a samovár, a teapot, a tumbler on a broken saucer, a jug of cream, and a bunch of Bolhovo biscuit rings. The fat man went out. “What is he?” I asked the clerk; “the steward?” “No, sir; he was the chief cashier, but now he has been promoted to be head clerk.” “Haven’t you got a steward, then?” “No, sir. There’s an agent, Mihal Vikulov, but no steward.” “Is there a manager, then?” “Yes; a German, Lindamandol, Karlo Karlitch; only he does not manage the estate.” “Who does manage it, then?” “Our mistress herself.” “You don’t say so. And are there many of you in the office?” The young man reflected. “There are six of us.” “Who are they?” I inquired.