peasants were drunk, and said they were worn out.

As ill-luck would have it, the rain and the cold persisted all
through May. The road was in an awful state: it was deep in mud.
The carts usually drove into our yard when they came back from the
town--and what a horrible ordeal it was. A potbellied horse would
appear at the gate, setting its front legs wide apart; it would
stumble forward before coming into the yard; a beam, nine yards
long, wet and slimy-looking, crept in on a waggon. Beside it, muffled
up against the rain, strode a peasant with the skirts of his coat
tucked up in his belt, not looking where he was going, but stepping
through the puddles. Another cart would appear with boards, then a
third with a beam, a fourth . . . and the space before our house
was gradually crowded up with horses, beams, and planks. Men and
women, with their heads muffled and their skirts tucked up, would
stare angrily at our windows, make an uproar, and clamour for the
mistress to come out to them; coarse oaths were audible. Meanwhile
Moisey stood at one side, and we fancied he was enjoying our
discomfiture.

"We are not going to cart any more," the peasants would shout. "We
are worn out! Let her go and get the stuff herself."

Masha, pale and flustered, expecting every minute that they would
break into the house, would send them out a half-pail of vodka;
after that the noise would subside and the long beams, one after
another, would crawl slowly out of the yard.

When I was setting off to see the building my wife was worried and
said: