9. Ivan Wakes Up

One couldn’t certainly affirm that this question was asked with kindness, but the tone of voice was not stern, he rather had the intention of being witty; for, while asking, he had poured himself out another glass of brandy, and it was not anger that usually accompanied such an action with him. Doubtless finding his pleasantry agreeable, “I ask you ” he said, still with a joking air, “if you can count three. How do you count? Let us see.”

“You shall see, sir,” Knich answered. “Five, six—it is the best way of counting, I think—seven, eight—my dead father, may he rest in peace, always counted this way— nine, ten—and he counted so well that the most skillful could never succeed in cheating him—eleven, twelve.”

Ivan let him talk; only, with an absent air, he poured himself out a third bumper, and while he enjoyed it, he listened silently to Knich’s reflections on the customs of the Polish money-lenders, and their capacity for business.

Gradually the heaps of coppers were arranged and the bag was empty.

Ivan poured himself out a fourth bumper, swallowed it at one gulp, and, this done, he seemed to Knich more savage than ever. His forehead was covered with wrinkles which promised nothing good; his face was darkened by threatening frowns. He replied not a word to the affectionate farewell of the old farmer. Much, indeed, he cared for the politeness of the poor man!

He counted the money given him with a severe air, put it in his pocket, went out with a quick step, unhitched .his horse, which was quietly eating oats, struck the poor beast a blow with his fist, called it a glutton, jumped on it, deigned to lift up a little bit the visor of his cap in response to the many salutes of Knich, pulled it down again on his eyebrows with a terrible look, and disappeared in the steppe, and the waves of the green sea closed again behind the horse and his rider.

“A good journey!” murmured old Knich.