"My good people invited guests for to-day, and did not want to let me go," she said sitting down. "'Well,' said I, 'you can do as you please.' And I went off. Let them bother themselves." "Many guests?" Klimkov asked wearily, remembering his duty. "A good many. But what sort of guests! Not one of them ever sticks a dime into your hand. On New Year's all I got was two rubles and thirty kopeks." "So they're not rich?" asked Yevsey. "Oh, rich! No! Not one of them has a whole overshoe." "Who are they? What's their business?" "Different things. Some write for the newspapers, another is simply a student. Oh, what a good fellow one of them is! He has black eyebrows, and curly hair, and a cute little mustache, white, even teeth--a lively, jolly fellow. He came from Siberia not long ago. He keeps talking about hunting." Yevsey looked at Liza, and bent his head. He wanted to say "Stop!" to her. Instead he apathetically asked, "I suppose he must have been exiled." "Who can tell? Maybe. My master and mistress were exiles, too. The sergeant told me so." "Yes, who nowadays hasn't been an exile?" exclaimed the cook. "I lived at Popov's, an engineer, a rich man. He had his own house and horses and was getting ready to marry. Suddenly the gendarmes came at night, seized him, and broke up everything, and then he was sent off to Siberia." "I don't condemn my people," Liza interrupted, "not a bit of it. They are good folks. They don't scold. They're not grasping. Altogether they're not like other people. And they're very interesting. They know everything and speak about everything." Yevsey looked at Masha's ruddy face, and thought: "I'd better go; I'll ask her about her master next time. But I can't make up my mind to go. If only she kept quiet, the silly!" "Our people understand everything, too," Masha announced with pride. "When that affair happened, that revolt in St. Petersburg," Liza began with animation, "they stayed up nights at a time talking." "Why our people were in your house then," observed the nurse. "Yes, indeed, there were lots of people at the house. They talked, and wrote complaints. One of them even began to cry. Upon my word!" "There's enough to cry about," sighed the cook. "He clutched his head, and sobbed. 'Unhappy Russia!' he said, 'Unhappy people that we are!' They gave him water, and even I got sorry for everybody, and began to cry." Masha looked around frightened. "God, when I think of my sister!" She rose and went into the cook's room. The women looked after her sympathetically. Klimkov sighed with relief. Against his will he asked Liza wearily and with an effort: "To whom did they write complaints?" "I don't know," answered Liza. "Marya went off to cry," remarked the cook. The door opened, and the cook's brother entered coughing. "It's chilly," he said, untwisting the scarf from his neck. "Here, take a drink, quick!" "Yes, indeed. And here's health to you."