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"Go away, Savéliitch; I don't want any tea." But it was impossible to quiet Savéliitch when once he had begun to sermonize. "Do you see now, Petr' Andréjïtch," said he, "what it is to commit follies? You have a headache; you won't take anything. A man who gets drunk is good for nothing. Do take a little pickled cucumber with honey or half a glass of brandy to sober you. What do you think?"
Wind a head. Reed the man who went back to the Camp of last night for his Knife has not Come up this evening-we Camped at a pt. on the L. S. at a Beaver house. 1 Buck Killed to daye. S S. the other a Bend, the Banks washing away & trees falling in constantly for 1 mile, abov this place is the remains of an old Tradeing establishment L. S. where Petr.
I only remembered confusedly the occurrences of the past evening. My meditations were broken by Savéliitch, who came into my room with a cup of tea. "You begin early making free, Petr' Andréjïtch," he said to me, shaking his head. "Well, where do you get it from? It seems to me that neither your father nor your grandfather were drunkards.
"Good day, Maximitch," said I, "is it long since you left Bélogorsk?" "No, not long, my little father, Petr' Andréjïtch; I only came back yesterday. I have a letter for you." "Where is it?" I cried, overjoyed. "I have got it," rejoined Maximitch, putting his hand into his breast. "I promised Palashka to give it to you." He handed me a folded paper, and immediately darted off at full gallop.
What was my surprise when, in a momentary glance at him, I recognized in him that very Iván Ivánovitch Zourine who had so well fleeced me in the Simbirsk inn! "Is it possible?" cried I. "Iván Ivánovitch, is it you?" "Ah, bah! Petr' Andréjïtch! By what chance, and where do you drop from? Good day, brother, won't you punt a card?" "Thanks rather give me a lodging." "What, lodging do you want?
At last I resolved to open it, and I did not need to read more than the first few lines to see that the whole affair was at the devil. Here are the contents of this letter: "My Son Petr', "We received the 15th of this month the letter in which you ask our parental blessing and our consent to your marriage with Marya Ivánofna, the Mironoff daughter.
"Oh! my father, Petr' Andréjïtch," cried my good follower, in a tremulous voice; "do you not fear God? How do you mean to travel now that all the roads be blocked by the robbers? At least, take pity on your parents if you have none on yourself. Where do you wish to go? Wherefore? Wait a bit, the troops will come and take all the robbers. Then you can go to the four winds."
Soon afterwards Petr' Andréjïtch became the husband of Marya Ivánofna. Their descendants still live in the district of Simbirsk. In the ancestral home in the village of is still shown the autograph letter of Catherine II., framed and glazed.
Chvabrine came to the rescue. "Iwán Ignatiitch," said he, "approves of the compact we have made." "And with whom, my little father, did you quarrel?" "Why, with Petr' Andréjïtch, to be sure, and we even got to high words." "What for?" "About a mere trifle, over a little song." "Fine thing to quarrel over a little song! How did it happen?" "Thus.
"The road to Orenburg is blocked, the fort surrounded, and it's a bad look-out, Petr' Andréjïtch." We went to the ramparts, a little natural height, and fortified by a palisade. We found the garrison here under arms. The cannon had been dragged hither the preceding evening.
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