Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume VIII).djvu/21

 to town about some business with his neighbour Pitchukoff. This neighbour Pitchukoff had ploughed over some land of Polutikin's, and had flogged a peasant woman of his on this same piece of land. I went out hunting alone, and before evening I turned into Hor's house. On the threshold of the cottage I was met by an old man—bald, short, broad-shouldered, and stout—Hor himself. I looked with curiosity at the man. The cut of his face recalled Socrates; there was the same high, knobby forehead, the same little eyes, the same snub nose. We went into the cottage together. The same Fedya brought me some milk and black bread. Hor sat down on a bench, and, quietly stroking his curly beard, entered into conversation with me. He seemed to know his own value; he spoke and moved slowly; from time to time a chuckle came from between his long moustaches.

We discussed the sowing, the crops, the peasant's life. . . . He always seemed to agree with me; only afterwards I had a sense of awkwardness and felt I was talking foolishly. . . . In this way our conversation was rather curious. Hor, doubtless through caution, expressed himself very obscurely at times. . . . Here is a specimen of our talk.

'Tell me, Hor,' I said to him, 'why don't you buy your freedom from your master?'

'And what would I buy my freedom for? Now I know my master, and I know my rent. . . . We have a good master.'