Han Ong

They were busy from morning till night, but they were also free.

For Boris, country life was a novelty.

He was a city man.

His grandfather had been a serf who started working at Seton's print shop in 1883, and his father was a skilled proletarian artisan, a true Muscovite.

Before his escape, Boris had never even laid eyes on a village.

Suddenly, the beauty of the secluded little settlement opened up before him.

Danilovi Gorky stood on the banks of a large river, among swamps and forests.

His hosts, the descendants of an aristocratic family, were also to his liking.

They had never known palaces or had a whiff of luxury, having spent half a century between poverty and destitution, exile and prison.

Those who'd survived were hardy.

They had become so simple that they didn't even know any foreign languages.

Nonetheless, there was still something special about them, even if Boris Ivanovitch couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Nikolai's daughters stirred kasha on the stove, baked hearth cakes, worked in the garden, and washed the linens in the river.

His grandsons caught fish, and his granddaughters and the two aunts foraged for berries and mushrooms.

All of them sketched, sang, and put on plays for the little ones.

Soon after Boris's arrival,

Nikolai Mikhailovitch's loud and restless cousin Anastasia came to stay for three days.

She immediately set her sights on Boris Ivanovitch.

He was attempting an easy mark.

They lost no time, although their first night together would have lasted longer if the whole family hadn't spent so much time singing at the table.