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Yermil always goes to the post for us; he has let all his dogs die; they never will live with him, for some reason, and they have never lived with him, though he's a good huntsman, and everyone liked him. So Yermil went to the post, and he stayed a bit in the town, and when he rode back, he was a little tipsy.
Yermil, whom I had to wake up he was lying on a heap of straw in the back yard, near the cart Yermil took my present rather indifferently, with some hesitation in fact, did not thank me, promptly poked his head into the straw and fell asleep again. I went home somewhat disappointed.
'Madam, a hoarse almost stifled voice was heard suddenly. I looked round. Baburin's face was red ... dark red; under his overhanging brows could be seen little sharp points of light.... There was no doubt about it; it was he, it was Baburin, who had uttered the word 'Madam. My grandmother too looked round, and turned her eyeglass from Yermil to Baburin.
It was night, a fine night; the moon was shining.... So Yermil rode across the dam; his way lay there. So, as he rode along, he saw, on the drowned man's grave, a little lamb, so white and curly and pretty, running about. So Yermil thought, "I will take him," and he got down and took him in his arms. But the little lamb didn't take any notice.
'Who's that? my grandmother inquired of Filippitch, who was walking on tiptoe behind her. 'Of whom ... you are pleased ... Filippitch stammered. 'Oh, fool! I mean the one that looked so sullenly at me. There, standing yonder, not working. 'Oh, him! Yes ... th ... th ... that's Yermil, son of Pavel Afanasiitch, now deceased.
Yermil stood without his cap, with downcast head, barefoot, with his boots tied up with a string behind his back; his face, turned towards the seignorial mansion, expressed not despair nor grief, nor even bewilderment; a stupid smile was frozen on his colourless lips; his eyes, dry and half-closed, looked stubbornly on the ground. My grandmother was apprised of his presence.
Tell us. 'Well, this is what happened. You don't know, perhaps, Fedya, but there a drowned man was buried; he was drowned long, long ago, when the water was still deep; only his grave can still be seen, though it can only just be seen ... like this a little mound.... So one day the bailiff called the huntsman Yermil, and says to him, "Go to the post, Yermil."
'They're Yermil, the coachman's, hens! he's sent his Natalka to chase them out.... He didn't send his Parasha, no fear! the landowner added in a low voice with a significant snigger. 'Hey, Yushka! let the hens alone; catch Natalka for me.
Here was old Yermil in a very long white smock, bending forward to swing a scythe; there was a young fellow, Vaska, who had been a coachman of Levin's, taking every row with a wide sweep. Here, too, was Tit, Levin's preceptor in the art of mowing, a thin little peasant. He was in front of all, and cut his wide row without bending, as though playing with the scythe.
The same day, learning that Yermil was still in the village, and would not till early next morning be despatched to the town for the execution of certain legal formalities, which were intended to check the arbitrary proceedings of the landowners, but served only as a source of additional revenue to the functionaries in superintendence of them, I sought him out, and, for lack of money of my own, handed him a bundle, in which I had tied up two pocket-handkerchiefs, a shabby pair of slippers, a comb, an old night-gown, and a perfectly new silk cravat.
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