‘How… how is it you’ve got a cow behind?’ he suddenly asked the wench. ‘What’s that, sir, ain’t you never seen one?’ The wench began to laugh heartily. ‘We bought her in town,’ the muzhik interjected. ‘Our own cattle, you see, went and died last spring — the plague. They was droppin’ all ’round us, all of ’em; no more than half was left, ’twas enough to make yer howl.’ And again he lashed the little horse, which had got stuck in a rut. ‘Yes, that happens in this Russia of ours… and in general we Russians… well, yes, it happens,’ Stepan Trofimovich didn’t finish.
