When Nekhludoff was passing the fourth gate, he was stopped by a cart that was coming out, its wheels creaking, loaded high with manure, which was pressed down, and was covered with a mat to sit on. A six-year-old boy, excited by the prospect of a drive, followed the cart. A young peasant, with shoes plaited out of bark on his feet, led the horse out of the yard. A long-legged colt jumped out of the gate; but, seeing Nekhludoff, pressed close to the cart, and scraping its legs against the wheels, jumped forward, past its excited, gently-neighing mother, as she was dragging the heavy load through the gateway. The next horse was led out by a barefooted old man, with protruding shoulder-blades, in a dirty shirt and striped trousers.
When the horses got out on to the hard road, strewn over with bits of dry, grey manure, the old man returned to the gate, and bowed to Nekhludoff.
“You are our ladies’ nephew, aren’t you?”
“You’ve kindly come to look us up, eh?” said the garrulous old man.
“Yes, I have. Well, how are you getting on?”
“How do we get on? We get on very badly,” the old man drawled, as if it gave him pleasure.
“Why so badly?” Nekhludoff asked, stepping inside the gate.
“What is our life but the very worst life?” said the old man, following Nekhludoff into that part of the yard which was roofed over.
“I have got 12 of them there,” continued the old man, pointing to two women on the remainder of the manure heap, who stood perspiring with forks in their hands, the kerchiefs tumbling off their heads, with their skirts tucked up, showing the calves of their dirty, bare legs. “Not a month passes but I have to buy six poods [a pood is 36 English pounds] of corn, and where’s the money to come from?”
“Have you not got enough corn of your own?”
“My own?” repeated the old man, with a smile of contempt; “why I have only got land for three, and last year we had not enough to last till Christmas.”
“What do we do? Why, I hire out as a labourer; and then I borrowed some money from your honour. We spent it all before Lent, and the tax is not paid yet.”
“Why, it’s 17 roubles for my household. Oh, Lord, such a life! One hardly knows one’s self how one manages to live it.”
“May I go into your hut?” asked Nekhludoff, stepping across the yard over the yellow-brown layers of manure that had been raked up by the forks, and were giving off a strong smell.