sh valetudinarian stand aghast, but they seem
to produce no bad effect on those Russian organisms which have never
been weakened by town life, nervous excitement, or intellectual
exertion.

No sooner has the last dish been removed than a deathlike stillness
falls upon the house: it is the time of the after-dinner siesta.
The young folks go into the garden, and all the other members of the
household give way to the drowsiness naturally engendered by a heavy
meal on a hot summer day. Ivan Ivan'itch retires to his own room, from
which the flies have been carefully expelled. Maria Petrovna dozes in
an arm-chair in the sitting-room, with a pocket-handkerchief spread
over her face. The servants snore in the corridors, the garret, or the
hay-shed; and even the old watch-dog in the corner of the yard stretches
himself out at full length on the shady side of his kennel.

In about two hours the house gradually re-awakens. Doors begin to creak;
the names of various servants are bawled out in all tones, from bass to
falsetto; and footsteps are heard in the yard. Soon a man-servant issues
from the kitchen bearing an enormous tea-urn, which puffs like a little
steam-engine. The family assembles for tea. In Russia, as elsewhere,
sleep after a heavy meal produces thirst, so that the tea and other
beverages are very acceptable. Then some little delicacies are
served--such as fruit and wild berries, or cucumbers with honey,
or something else of the kind, and the family again disperses. Ivan
Ivan'itch takes a turn in the fields on his begovuiya droshki--an
extremely light vehicle composed of two pairs of wheels joined together
by a single board, on which the driver sits stride-legged; and Maria
Petrovna probably receives a visit from the Popadya (the priest's wife),
who is the chief gossipmonger of the neighbourhood. There is not much
scandal in the district, but what little there is the Popadya carefully
collects, and distributes among her acquaintances with undiscriminating
generosity.

In the evening it often happens that a little group of peasants come
into the court, and ask to see the "master." The master goes to the
door, and generally finds that they have some favour to request. In
reply to his question, "Well, children, what do you want?" they tell
their story in a confused, rambling way, several of them speaking at a
time, and he has to question and cross-question them before he comes to
understand clearly what they desire. I