he turned to me. I told him that my name was Albert.
"And your father's name?" he inquired gravely.
"David," I replied.
"Albert Davidovich (Albert, son of David), welcome to the home of Ivan Ivanov. We are poor, but may God give you his richest blessing."
Ivan Ivanov stood straight as an arrow, longbearded, clear-eyed, hard-muscled. But it was not his strength of body, nor his warmth of feeling, nor his quaint formality of speech that struck me. It was his quiet dignity. It was the dignity of a natural object, a tree whose roots run deep into the soil. And it was indeed out of the soil of this mir that Ivan Ivanov for sixty years had drawn his sustenance, as had his fathers for generations. His little izba was made of logs, its deep thatched roof now green with weeds, its garden gay with flowers.
Ivan's wife, Tatyana, and daughter, Avdotia, having saluted us, brought a table from the house. On it they set a samovar, and lifting its top, placed eggs along the steaming sides. Ivan and his household made the sign of the cross and we sat down at the table.
"Of what we are rich in, we gladly give you," said Ivan, (Chem bogaty, ty ee rady).
The women brought in a big bowl of cabbage-soup (shtchee), and for each person a wooden spoon. Every one was supposed to dip his soup from the common bowl. Seeing this, I stood not upon the
