in the rooms up and down which Roska, after it had grown fat, used to waddle seriously.  In the stable many horses were stalled—­clean-limbed canterers, smart trotters for the centre of the troika, fiery gallopers with platted manes for the side places, riding horses from the Don.  The hours for breakfast, dinner, and supper, were all mixed up and confounded together.  In the words of neighbors, “Such a state of things as never had been known before” had taken place.

On the evening of which we are about to speak, the inmates of the Kalitine house, of whom the eldest, Lenochka’s betrothed, was not more than four-and-twenty, had taken to playing a game which was not of a very complicated nature, but which seemed to be very amusing to them, to judge by their happy laughter,—­that of running about the rooms, and trying to catch each other.  The dogs, too, ran about and barked; and the canaries which hung up in cages before the windows, straining their throats in rivalry, heightened the general uproar by the piercing accents of their shrill singing.  Just as this deafening amusement had reached its climax, a tarantass, all splashed with mud, drew up at the front gate, and a man about forty-five years old, wearing a travelling dress, got out of it and remained standing as if bewildered.

For some time he stood at the gate without moving, but gazing at the house with observant eyes; then he entered the court-yard by the wicket-gate, and slowly mounted the steps.  He encountered no one in the vestibule; but suddenly the drawing-room door was flung open, and Shurochka, all rosy red, came running out of the room; and directly afterwards, with shrill cries, the whole of the youthful band rushed after her.  Suddenly, at the sight of an unknown stranger, they stopped short, and became silent; but the bright eyes which were fixed on him still retained their friendly expression, the fresh young faces did not cease to smile.  Then Maria Dmitrievna’s son approached the visitor, and politely asked what he could do for him.

“I am Lavretsky,” said the stranger.

A friendly cry of greeting answered him—­not that all those young people were inordinately delighted at the arrival of a distant and almost forgotten relative, but simply because they were ready to rejoice and make a noise over every pleasurable occurrence.  They all immediately surrounded Lavretsky.  Lenochka, as his old acquaintance, was the first to name herself, assuring him that, if she had had a very little more time, she would most certainly have recognized him; and then she introduced all the rest of the company to him, giving them all, her betrothed included, their familiar forms of name.  The whole party then went through the dining-room into the drawing-room.  The paper on the walls of both rooms had been altered, but the furniture remained just as it used to be.  Lavretsky recognized the piano.  Even the embroidery-frame by the window remained exactly as it had been, and in the very same position as of old; and even seemed to have the same unfinished piece of work on it which had been there eight years before.  They placed him in a large arm-chair, and sat down gravely around him.  Questions, exclamations, anecdotes, followed swiftly one after another.