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Updated: June 29, 2025
It was clean in the hut; all the walls were dotted with pictures cut out of the illustrated papers, and in the most conspicuous place near the ikon there was a portrait of the Battenburg who was the Prince of Bulgaria. By the table stood Antip Syedelnikov with his arms folded. "There is one hundred and nineteen roubles standing against him," he said when it came to Osip's turn.
The man who had been spoken of as "Pavlicheff's son," although he gave the name of Antip Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair, thin and rather tall.
The old father cleared his throat, took his cap, and went off to the village elder. Antip was soldering something by the stove, puffing out his cheeks; there was a smell of burning. His children, emaciated and unwashed, no better than the Tchikildyeevs, were scrambling about the floor; his wife, an ugly, freckled woman with a prominent stomach, was winding silk.
They were a poor, unlucky family, and Antip was the only one who looked vigorous and handsome. On a bench there were five samovars standing in a row. The old man said his prayer to Battenburg and said: "Antip, show the Divine mercy. Give me back the samovar, for Christ's sake!" "Bring three roubles, then you shall have it. "I can't do it!"
'What's your name? 'Antip, your honour. 'And who's this? 'My boy, your honour. Arkady Pavlitch was silent again; he pulled his moustaches. 'Well! and how has he tormented you? he began again, looking over his moustaches at the old man. 'Your honour, he has ruined us utterly. Two sons, your honour, he's sent for recruits out of turn, and now he is taking the third also.
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