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While
Mávra
Kuzmínichna
was
running
to
her
room
the
officer
walked
about
the
yard
gazing
at
his
worn-out
boots
with
lowered
head
and
a
faint
smile
on
his
lips
.
"
What
a
pity
I
've
missed
Uncle
!
What
a
nice
old
woman
!
Where
has
she
run
off
to
?
And
how
am
I
to
find
the
nearest
way
to
overtake
my
regiment
,
which
must
by
now
be
getting
near
the
Rogózhski
gate
?
"
thought
he
.
Just
then
Mávra
Kuzmínichna
appeared
from
behind
the
corner
of
the
house
with
a
frightened
yet
resolute
look
,
carrying
a
rolled-up
check
kerchief
in
her
hand
.
While
still
a
few
steps
from
the
officer
she
unfolded
the
kerchief
and
took
out
of
it
a
white
twenty-five-ruble
assignat
and
hastily
handed
it
to
him
.
"
If
his
excellency
had
been
at
home
,
as
a
kinsman
he
would
of
course
...
but
as
it
is
...
"
Mávra
Kuzmínichna
grew
abashed
and
confused
.
The
officer
did
not
decline
,
but
took
the
note
quietly
and
thanked
her
.
"
If
the
count
had
been
at
home
...
"
Mávra
Kuzmínichna
went
on
apologetically
.
"
Christ
be
with
you
,
sir
!
May
God
preserve
you
!
"
said
she
,
bowing
as
she
saw
him
out
Swaying
his
head
and
smiling
as
if
amused
at
himself
,
the
officer
ran
almost
at
a
trot
through
the
deserted
streets
toward
the
Yaúza
bridge
to
overtake
his
regiment
.
But
Mávra
Kuzmínichna
stood
at
the
closed
gate
for
some
time
with
moist
eyes
,
pensively
swaying
her
head
and
feeling
an
unexpected
flow
of
motherly
tenderness
and
pity
for
the
unknown
young
officer
.
From
an
unfinished
house
on
the
Varvárka
,
the
ground
floor
of
which
was
a
dramshop
,
came
drunken
shouts
and
songs
.
On
benches
round
the
tables
in
a
dirty
little
room
sat
some
ten
factory
hands
.
Tipsy
and
perspiring
,
with
dim
eyes
and
wide-open
mouths
,
they
were
all
laboriously
singing
some
song
or
other
.
They
were
singing
discordantly
,
arduously
,
and
with
great
effort
,
evidently
not
because
they
wished
to
sing
,
but
because
they
wanted
to
show
they
were
drunk
and
on
a
spree
.
One
,
a
tall
,
fair-haired
lad
in
a
clean
blue
coat
,
was
standing
over
the
others
.
His
face
with
its
fine
straight
nose
would
have
been
handsome
had
it
not
been
for
his
thin
,
compressed
,
twitching
lips
and
dull
,
gloomy
,
fixed
eyes
.
Evidently
possessed
by
some
idea
,
he
stood
over
those
who
were
singing
,
and
solemnly
and
jerkily
flourished
above
their
heads
his
white
arm
with
the
sleeve
turned
up
to
the
elbow
,
trying
unnaturally
to
spread
out
his
dirty
fingers
.
The
sleeve
of
his
coat
kept
slipping
down
and
he
always
carefully
rolled
it
up
again
with
his
left
hand
,
as
if
it
were
most
important
that
the
sinewy
white
arm
he
was
flourishing
should
be
bare
.
In
the
midst
of
the
song
cries
were
heard
,
and
fighting
and
blows
in
the
passage
and
porch
.
The
tall
lad
waved
his
arm
.
"
Stop
it
!
"
he
exclaimed
peremptorily
.
"
There
's
a
fight
,
lads
!
"
And
,
still
rolling
up
his
sleeve
,
he
went
out
to
the
porch
.
The
factory
hands
followed
him
.
These
men
,
who
under
the
leadership
of
the
tall
lad
were
drinking
in
the
dramshop
that
morning
,
had
brought
the
publican
some
skins
from
the
factory
and
for
this
had
had
drink
served
them
.
The
blacksmiths
from
a
neighboring
smithy
,
hearing
the
sounds
of
revelry
in
the
tavern
and
supposing
it
to
have
been
broken
into
,
wished
to
force
their
way
in
too
and
a
fight
in
the
porch
had
resulted
.
