His elder son, Fyodor, is head engineer in the factory, and, as the peasants say of him, he has risen so high in the world that he is quite out of reach now.  Fyodor’s wife, Sofya, a plain, ailing woman, lives at home at her father-in-law’s.  She is for ever crying, and every Sunday she goes over to the hospital for medicine.  Dyudya’s second son, the hunchback Alyoshka, is living at home at his father’s.  He has only lately been married to Varvara, whom they singled out for him from a poor family.  She is a handsome young woman, smart and buxom.  When officials or merchants put up at the house, they always insist on having Varvara to bring in the samovar and make their beds.

One June evening when the sun was setting and the air was full of the smell of hay, of steaming dung-heaps and new milk, a plain-looking cart drove into Dyudya’s yard with three people in it:  a man of about thirty in a canvas suit, beside him a little boy of seven or eight in a long black coat with big bone buttons, and on the driver’s seat a young fellow in a red shirt.

The young fellow took out the horses and led them out into the street to walk them up and down a bit, while the traveller washed, said a prayer, turning towards the church, then spread a rug near the cart and sat down with the boy to supper.  He ate without haste, sedately, and Dyudya, who had seen a good many travellers in his time, knew him from his manners for a businesslike man, serious and aware of his own value.

Dyudya was sitting on the step in his waistcoat without a cap on, waiting for the visitor to speak first.  He was used to hearing all kinds of stories from the travellers in the evening, and he liked listening to them before going to bed.  His old wife, Afanasyevna, and his daughter-in-law Sofya, were milking in the cowshed.  The other daughter-in-law, Varvara, was sitting at the open window of the upper storey, eating sunflower seeds.

“The little chap will be your son, I’m thinking?” Dyudya asked the traveller.

“No; adopted.  An orphan.  I took him for my soul’s salvation.”

They got into conversation.  The stranger seemed to be a man fond of talking and ready of speech, and Dyudya learned from him that he was from the town, was of the tradesman class, and had a house of his own, that his name was Matvey Savitch, that he was on his way now to look at some gardens that he was renting from some German colonists, and that the boy’s name was Kuzka.  The evening was hot and close, no one felt inclined for sleep.  When it was getting dark and pale stars began to twinkle here and there in the sky, Matvey Savitch began to tell how he had come by Kuzka.  Afanasyevna and Sofya stood a little way off, listening.  Kuzka had gone to the gate.