This was the shout of a policeman, a man I had happened to see only that morning being insulted by another coachman. Near the house entrance just opposite this very policeman’s box there had been a carriage standing. The splendid red-bearded coachman had tucked the reins under him, and propping his elbows on his knees, was warming his back in the sun, evidently with great enjoyment, for his eyes were almost closed. Across the road from him the policeman was pacing up and down the area in front of his sentry-box and with the end of his halberd was straightening a plank which bridged a puddle in front of his platform. Suddenly he looked displeased, perhaps because there was a carriage standing there, or because he felt envious of the coachman sunning himself so happily, or just because he wanted a bit of a chat: he walked along his little platform, glanced up the side-street, and then with a thump of his halberd on the plank, began: ‘Hey, you, what are you waiting there for? You’re blocking up the road.’ The coachman opened his left eye a crack, looked at the policeman, and shut it again.—‘Move along, do you hear?’ No sign of any attention whatever.—‘So you can’t hear me, eh? Get off the road, I tell you!’ The policeman, seeing that he was not getting any response, walked along his platform and took another look up the side-street, clearly getting ready to say something that would really strike home. At that moment the coachman sat up, adjusted the reins, and turning with sleepy eyes towards the policeman, said: ‘What are you gawping at? They didn’t stick a rifle in your hands, you old fool, but you bellow just the same!’
—‘Get moving!’
The coachman roused himself and got moving.
I glanced at the policeman: he was muttering something and gave me an angry look. He evidently did not like my listening to him and looking at him. I know that there is no more effective way of offending a man than by making it obvious that you have noticed him but that you have no intention of speaking to him; and so I was embarrassed, and feeling sorry for the policeman went on my way.
Another thing I like about Dmitry is his ability to give someone the right name straight off: I find this most amusing. ‘Give way, fur hat,—Let’s have some service there, beardy, Give way, you toboggan, Give way, laundress, Give way, horse-doctor,—Give way, you
I arrived home. Dmitry jumped down to open the main gates, and so did I, to try to get through the wicket gate before he could get through the others. This is how it always happens: I hurry to get in because that is my custom, and he hurries to bring me right up to the house steps, because that is his custom.—For some time I could get no reply to my ringing of the door-bell; inside, the tallow candle was in serious need of snuffing and Prov, my little old manservant, was asleep. While I was ringing this is what I was thinking: Why do I dislike coming home, wherever and in whatever circumstances I happen to be living? Why do I dislike seeing the same old Prov in the same place, the same candle, the same stains on the wallpaper, the same pictures, so that I even begin to feel quite depressed?—
