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used to it. Everything is habit with men, everything even in
their social and political relations. Habit is the great motive-
power. What a funny-looking peasant!’
Kolya pointed to a tall peasant, with a good-natured
countenance in a long sheepskin coat, who was standing
by his wagon, clapping together his hands, in their shape-
less leather gloves, to warm them. His long fair beard was
all white with frost.
‘That peasant’s beard’s frozen,’ Kolya cried in a loud pro-
vocative voice as he passed him.
‘Lots of people’s beards are frozen,’ the peasant replied,
calmly and sententiously.
‘Don’t provoke him,’ observed Smurov.
‘It’s all right; he won’t be cross; he’s a nice fellow. Good-
bye, Matvey.’
‘Good-bye.’
‘Is your name Matvey?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’
‘No, I didn’t. It was a guess.’
‘You don’t say so! You are a schoolboy, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘You get whipped, I expect?’
‘Nothing to speak of — sometimes.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Well, yes, it does.’
‘Ech, what a life!’ The peasant heaved a sigh from the bot-
tom of his heart.
‘Good-bye, Matvey.’
‘Good-bye. You are a nice chap, that you are.’