the seats. When he thought that they were piled high enough he sat down
on them, but finding them still unsatisfactory, jumped up and arranged
them once more.

"Nicola Dimitvitch, would you be so good as to take master's
dressing-case with you?" said Papa's valet, suddenly standing up in the
carriage, "It won't take up much room."

"You should have told me before, Michael Ivanitch," answered Nicola
snappishly as he hurled a bundle with all his might to the floor of the
cart. "Good gracious! Why, when my head is going round like a whirlpool,
there you come along with your dressing-case!" and he lifted his cap to
wipe away the drops of perspiration from his sunburnt brow.

The courtyard was full of bareheaded peasants in kaftans or simple
shirts, women clad in the national dress and wearing striped
handkerchiefs, and barefooted little ones--the latter holding their
mothers' hands or crowding round the entrance-steps. All were chattering
among themselves as they stared at the carriage. One of the postillions,
an old man dressed in a winter cap and cloak, took hold of the pole of
the carriage and tried it carefully, while the other postillion (a
young man in a white blouse with pink gussets on the sleeves and a black
lamb's-wool cap which he kept cocking first on one side and then on the
other as he arranged his flaxen hair) laid his overcoat upon the box,
slung the reins over it, and cracked his thonged whip as he looked now
at his boots and now at the other drivers where they stood greasing the
wheels of the cart--one driver lifting up each wheel in turn and the
other driver applying the grease. Tired post-horses of various hues
stood lashing away flies with their tails near the gate--some stamping
their great hairy legs, blinking their eyes, and dozing, some leaning