I work from morning to night. I do all the grafting myself. I do all the pruning myself—all the planting—everything. When I am assisted I am jealous and irritable to rudeness. The whole secret lies in love, that is, in the vigilant master’s eye, in the master’s hand too, in the feeling that when you go anywhere, to pay a visit of an hour, you sit there and your heart is not easy; you’re not quite yourself, you’re afraid something may happen in the garden. When I die who will look after it all? Who will work? A gardener? Workmen? Yes? I tell you, my good friend, the chief enemy in our business is not the hare, not the cockchafer, not the frost, but the stranger.”

“But Tania?” Kovrin asked, laughing. “She can’t be more injurious than the hare. She loves and understands the business.”

“Yes, she loves and understands it. If after my death she gets the garden, and becomes the mistress, I could wish for nothing better. But if, God forbid it, she should get married?” Egor Semenych whispered and looked at Kovrin with alarm. “That’s just what I fear! She gets married, children arrive, and then there’s no time to think of the garden. What I chiefly fear is that she’ll get married to some young fellow, who’ll be stingy and will let the garden to some tradesman, and the whole place will go to the devil in the first year! In our business women are the scourge of God!”

Egor Semenych sighed and was silent for a few moments.

“Perhaps it is egoism, but, to speak frankly, I don’t want Tania to marry. I’m afraid. There’s a young fop with a fiddle, who comes here and scrapes at it; I know very well Tania will not marry him. I know it very well, but I can’t bear him! In general, dear boy, I’m a great oddity. I confess it.”

Egor Semenych rose and paced about the room for some time, much agitated; it was evident that he wanted to say something very important, but could not make up his mind to do so.

“I love you very much, and will speak to you quite frankly,” he said at last, and thrust his hands into his pockets. “There are certain ticklish subjects I regard quite simply, and I say quite openly what I think of them. I cannot bear so-called hidden thoughts. I say to you plainly: You are the only man I would not be afraid to give my daughter to. You are a clever man, you have a good heart, and you would not allow my cherished work to perish. But the chief reason is—I love you as if you were my son—and I am proud of you. If you and Tania could settle a little romance between yourselves, why—what then? I would be very glad—very happy! As an honest man I say this quite openly, without mincing matters.”

Kovrin laughed. Egor Semenych opened the door to leave the room, but he stopped on the threshold.

“If a son were to be born to you and Tania I’d make a gardener of him,” he said reflectively. “However, these are empty thoughts. . . . Sleep well!”

Left alone, Kovrin lay down more comfortably on the sofa and began to look through the articles. One was entitled: “Of Intermediate Culture,” another was called: “A few words concerning Mr. Z—’s remarks on the digging up of ground for a new garden,” a third was: “More about the budding of dormant eyes”; they were all of a similar nature.