on which the house and gardens stood was high, steep, and covered
with trees; on the other, which was sloping, stretched broad green
water-meadows with sheets of water glistening in them. The boats
had floated a hundred yards when, behind the mournfully drooping
willows on the sloping banks, huts and a herd of cows came into
sight; they began to hear songs, drunken shouts, and the strains
of a concertina.

Here and there on the river fishing-boats were scattered about,
setting their nets for the night. In one of these boats was the
festive party, playing on home-made violins and violoncellos.

Olga Mihalovna was sitting at the rudder; she was smiling affably
and talking a great deal to entertain her visitors, while she glanced
stealthily at her husband. He was ahead of them all, standing up
punting with one oar. The light sharp-nosed canoe, which all the
guests called the "death-trap"--while Pyotr Dmitritch, for some
reason, called it _Penderaklia_--flew along quickly; it had a
brisk, crafty expression, as though it hated its heavy occupant and
was looking out for a favourable moment to glide away from under
his feet. Olga Mihalovna kept looking at her husband, and she loathed
his good looks which attracted every one, the back of his head, his
attitude, his familiar manner with women; she hated all the women
sitting in the boat with her, was jealous, and at the same time was
trembling every minute in terror that the frail craft would upset
and cause an accident.

"Take care, Pyotr!" she cried, while her heart fluttered with terror.
"Sit down! We believe in your courage without all that!"