When I was setting off to see the building my wife was worried and said: "The peasants are spiteful; I only hope they won't do you a mischief. Wait a minute, I'll come with you." We drove to Kurilovka together, and there the carpenters asked us for a drink. The framework of the house was ready. It was time to lay the foundation, but the masons had not come; this caused delay, and the carpenters complained. And when at last the masons did come, it appeared that there was no sand; it had been somehow overlooked that it would be needed. Taking advantage of our helpless position, the peasants demanded thirty kopecks for each cartload, though the distance from the building to the river where they got the sand was less than a quarter of a mile, and more than five hundred cartloads were found to be necessary. There was no end to the misunderstandings, swearing, and importunity; my wife was indignant, and the foreman of the masons, Tit Petrov, an old man of seventy, took her by the arm, and said: "You look here! You look here! You only bring me the sand; I set ten men on at once, and in two days it will be done! You look here!" But they brought the sand and two days passed, and four, and a week, and instead of the promised foundations there was still a yawning hole. "It's enough to drive one out of one's senses," said my wife, in distress. "What people! What people!" In the midst of these disorderly doings the engineer arrived; he brought with him parcels of wine and savouries, and after a prolonged meal lay down for a nap in the verandah and snored so loudly that the labourers shook their heads and said: "Well!" Masha was not pleased at his coming, she did not trust him, though at the same time she asked his advice. When, after sleeping too long after dinner, he got up in a bad humour and said unpleasant things about our management of the place, or expressed regret that he had bought Dubetchnya, which had already been a loss to him, poor Masha's face wore an expression of misery. She would complain to him, and he would yawn and say that the peasants ought to be flogged. He called our marriage and our life a farce, and said it was a caprice, a whim. "She has done something of the sort before," he said about Masha. "She once fancied herself a great opera singer and left me; I was looking for her for two months, and, my dear soul, I spent a thousand roubles on telegrams alone." He no longer called me a dissenter or Mr. Painter, and did not as in the past express approval of my living like a workman, but said: "You are a strange person! You are not a normal person! I won't venture to prophesy, but you will come to a bad end!"