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What I hate is not the writing itself, but the literary entourage from which one cannot escape, and which one takes everywhere as the earth takes its atmosphere.... MELIHOVO, August 15, 1894. Our trip on the Volga turned out rather a queer one in the end. Potapenko and I went to Yaroslav to take a steamer from there to Tsaritsyn, then to Kalatch, from there by the Don to Taganrog.
The garret was locked up by means of a padlock that looked like a kalatch or basket-shaped loaf, only black; the key of this padlock Gerasim always carried about him in his girdle. He did not like people to come to his garret. So passed a year, at the end of which a little incident befell Gerasim.
"I tell you I am a merchant!" repeated Ignat, insinuatingly, and there was something discontented and almost timorous in his glance at the disenchanted face of his son. "Like Grandpa Fedor, the Kalatch baker?" asked Foma, having thought awhile. "Well, yes, like him. Only I am richer than he. I have more money than Fedor." "Have you much money?" "Well, some people have still more."
The garret was locked up by means of a padlock that looked like a kalatch or basket-shaped loaf, only black; the key of this padlock Gerasim always carried about him in his girdle. He did not like people to come to his garret. So passed a year, at the end of which a little incident befell Gerasim.
Happily things are improving, even in this outlying part of the country. Now there is one train daily, and it goes at a less funereal pace. From Kalatch, at the Don end of the line, a steamer starts for Rostoff, which is situated near the mouth of the river. The navigation of the Don is much more difficult than that of the Volga.
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