“That’s enough!” said Trifon Semyonovich. “You may go now, my dears. Good-by! I’ll send you some little apples for the wedding.”
And Trifon Semyonovich bowed low to the offenders.
The boy and the girl recovered their composure and went away. The boy went to the right, the girl to the left, and to this day they have never seen each other. If Sashenka had not suddenly appeared out of the bushes, they would probably have been whipped with the nettles. This is how Trifon Semyonovich amuses himself in his old age. His family is not far behind him. His daughters are in the habit of sewing onions into the caps of visitors “belonging to the lower orders,” while drunks belonging to the same category have “Ass” and “Fool” chalked on their backs in enormous letters. His son, Mitya, a retired lieutenant, outdid his own father last winter. With the help of Karpushka he smeared the gates of a former private soldier with tar because the soldier refused to give him a wolf cub, and also because he was thought to have warned his daughters against accepting candy and gingerbread from the hands of the retired lieutenant.
After this, call Trifon Semyonovich—Trifon Semyonovich.
August 1880
1 An untranslatable pun. Durachki (“dunces”) is also the name of a card game.
St. Peter’s Day
CAME the long-awaited morning, the long-dreamed-of day — Tallyho! — Came June 29 — Came the day when all debts, dung beetles, delicacies, mothers-in-law, and even young wives are forgotten — Came the day when you are free to thumb your nose a dozen times at the village constable, who forbids you to go hunting!
The stars paled and grew misty. Somewhere voices could be heard. From the village chimneys poured pungent dark-blue smoke. To the gray bell tower came the drowsy sexton, tolling the bell for mass. From the night watchman stretched out beneath a tree came a snore. The finches woke, stirred, flew from one end of the garden to the other, and filled the air with their tedious and insufferable chirping. An oriole sang from a thorn brake. Starlings and hoopoes hurried over the kitchens. The free morning concert had begun.
Two troikas drove up to the house of the retired Cornet of the Guards Yegor Yegorich Optemperansky. The tumble-down steps of his house were picturesquely overgrown with thorn nettles. A fearful uproar arose, both inside and outside the house. Every living thing in the neighborhood of Yegor Yegorich began to walk, rush, and stomp up and down the stairs and through the barns and stables. They changed one of the shaft horses. The coachmen’s caps flew off; a red lantern of a boil appeared under the nose of the footman who haunted the housemaids; someone called the cooks “carrion,” and the names of Satan and his angels were overheard.… In five minutes the carriages were loaded with furs, rugs, gun cases, and sacks full of food.
“It’s all ready, sir!” Avvakum thundered.
“Well, thank you. Ready, eh?” Yegor Yegorich squeaked in his thin, syrupy voice, while a mob gathered on the house steps.
The first to jump into the carriage was the young doctor, followed by old Kuzma Bolva, a small trader of Archangel, who wore boots without heels, a carrot-colored top hat, and yellow-green spots on his neck. He was carrying a twenty-five-pound double-barreled shotgun. Bolva was a plebeian, but out of respect for his advanced years (he was born at the turn of the century), and because he could shoot down a twenty-kopeck piece in midair, the gentry were not overly squeamish about his origins, and they took him out hunting.
“Be so good as to get in, Your Excellency!” said Yegor Yegorich to a small stout gray-haired man, who was wearing his white summer uniform with its glittering buttons, and the Cross of Anna round his neck. “Move over, Doctor!”
The retired general groaned, stood with one foot on the carriage step, while Yegor Yegorich lifted him up. With his stomach the general pushed the doctor over and sat down heavily beside Bolva. Then the general’s puppy Idler, and Yegor Yegorich’s setter Music Maker, jumped in after him.
“Vanya! Hey, there, young fellow!” the general addressed his nephew, a schoolboy with a long single-barreled shotgun slung over his back. “You can sit here beside me! Come here! That’s right! Sit right here! Don’t play any tricks, my friend! You might frighten the horse!”
After once more blowing cigarette smoke up the nose of the shaft horse, Vanya jumped into the carriage, pushed Bolva and the general to one side, looked round, and finally sat down. Yegor Yegorich crossed himself and sat down beside the doctor. On the coachman’s box beside Avvakum sat a tall man who taught physics and mathematics at Vanya’s school. His name was Mange.
When they had filled the first carriage, they began loading up the second.
“Are we ready?” Yegor Yegorich shouted when, after long arguments and much running around and about, eight more men and three dogs were loaded onto the second carriage.
“Ready!” shouted the guests.
“Shall we start now, Your Excellency? Well, God save our souls! Let’s get going, Avvakum!”
The first carriage swayed, lurched, and drove on. The second, which contained the most ardent hunters, swayed, lurched, gave an awful scream, swerved slightly to one side, and then overtook the first and drove to the gate. The hunters were all smiles, clapping their hands in an access of joy. They were in their seventh heaven when … Oh, cruel fate!—they had no sooner left the courtyard than a ghastly accident occurred.
“Stop! Wait for me! Halt!” a piercing tenor voice called from somewhere behind.
The hunters looked back, and turned pale. Stumbling after the carriages was the most insufferable man in the world, a brawler and roughneck, as was well known to everyone in the entire province, a certain Mikhey Yegorich Optemperansky, brother of Yegor Yegorich, and a retired naval captain, second class. He waved his hands wildly. The carriage came to a halt.
“Well, what’s up?” asked Yegor Yegorich.
Mikhey Yegorich hurled himself at the carriage, climbed the step, and shook his fists at his brother. The hunters were all shouting at once.
“What’s going on?” Yegor Yegorich shouted, his face turning crimson.
“What’s going on?” shouted Mikhey Yegorich. “I’ll tell you what’s going on! You’re a Judas, a beast, a swine! Yes, a swine, Your Excellency! Why didn’t you wake me, you fool? What a scoundrel you are! Why didn’t you wake me? Excuse me, gentlemen, I never … I only want to teach him a lesson! Why didn’t he wake me? Don’t you want your brother to come with you? Would I be in the way? You purposely made me drunk yesterday evening, thought I would sleep till noon! Fine fellow you are! Excuse me, Your Excellency … I only want to hit him once … only once!… Excuse me!”
“You mustn’t come in!” the general said, spreading out his hands. “Don’t you see there is no room? It’s really too much!”
“You won’t get anywhere by cursing, Mikhey!” Yegor Yegorich said. “I didn’t wake you because there’s no reason why you should come with us!… You don’t know how to shoot! So what’s the point of coming? You’ll only get in the way! You just don’t know how to shoot!”
“I don’t know how to shoot, eh?” Mikhey Yegorich shouted so loud that Bolva flung his hands up to his ears. “If that’s so, then why the devil is the doctor going? He doesn’t know how to shoot either! So you think he’s a better shot than I am?”
“He’s right, gentlemen,” said the doctor. “I don’t know how to shoot. I don’t know how to handle a gun. I can’t stand shooting!… I don’t know why you take me with you. The hell with it! Let him take my place! I’ll stay behind. Here’s a place for you, Mikhey!”
“Did you hear that? Why should we take him along?”
The doctor rose with the evident intention of climbing out of the carriage. Yegor Yegorich tugged at his coat-tails and pulled him down.
“Don’t tear my coat! It cost thirty rubles! Let go! Really, gentlemen, I must ask you to spare me your conversation today! I’m not in a good mood, and might do something unwise, even something I didn’t want to do! Let go, Yegor Yegorich! I’m going home to get some s
leep!”
“No, you’ve got to come with us,” Yegor Yegorich said, not letting go of the coat. “You gave me your word you would come!”
“That’s right. I gave you my word—you forced it out of me! Why do I have to come?”
“Why?” squeaked Mikhey Yegorich. “Why? Because otherwise you would be left behind with his wife, that’s why! He’s jealous of you, Doctor! Don’t go, dear fellow. Don’t go, in spite of him! Lord God, he’s jealous, that’s what it is!”
Yegor Yegorich turned a thick scarlet and clenched his fists.
“Hey, you!” voices shouted from the other carriage. “Mikhey Yegorich, stop all that fiddle-daddle! Come over here! We’ve got a place for you!”
Mikhey Yegorich smiled his malicious smile.
“Listen, you swine!” he said. “What’s come over you? Didn’t you hear them? They’ve found a place for me, so I’m coming to spite you! I’ll get in your way! I give my word I’ll get in your way! Devil take you, you won’t shoot anything! And don’t you come, doctor. Let him crack wide open with his jealousy!”
Yegor Yegorich got up and shook his fists. His eyes were bloodshot.
“You good-for-nothing!” he said, turning to his brother. “You’re no brother of mine! Our poor dead mother was right to put a curse on your head! Our poor dead father died before his time, because of all the things you did!”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted the general. “I think it can be said we have all had enough! Remember, you are brothers both born from the same mother!”
“He’s the brother of an ass, Your Excellency—no brother of mine! Don’t come, doctor, don’t come!”
“Let’s get going!” the general shouted, thumping Avvakum in the back with his fist. “Devil take you all! God knows what it is all about! Come on! Let’s go!”
Avvakum lashed out at the horses and the troika drove on. In the second carriage Captain Kardamonov, a writer, took the two dogs on his knees and made room for the explosive Mikhey Yegorich.
“Lucky for him you found room,” said Mikhey Yegorich as he settled down in the carriage. “Otherwise I might have … Kardamonov, won’t you describe that highway robber of yours?”
It happened that the previous year Kardamonov had sent to the magazine Niva an article entitled “An Interesting Case of Fertility among the Peasant Population,” and receiving a reply which reflected unfavorably on his pride as an author, he complained bitterly to the neighbors, thus earning the reputation of being a writer.
According to the predetermined plan of action, their first stop was to be at the hayfields where the peasants were busy mowing—the fields were about four miles away from Yegor Yegorich’s estate—and there they would shoot quail. At the hayfields the hunters stepped out of their carriages and divided into two groups: one group, headed by the general and Yegor Yegorich, turned to the right; the other, with Kardamonov at the head, went off to the left. Bolva remained behind and went off on his own. He liked to hunt in peace, in complete silence. Music Maker ran on ahead, barking, and a minute later he raised a quail. Vanya fired a shot and missed.
“Aimed too high, dammit!” he muttered.
Idler, the puppy, had been taken along “to learn the ropes.” For the first time in his life the puppy heard gunfire, set off a howl, and went running back to the carriages with his tail between his legs. Mange aimed at a lark and hit it.
“I enjoy that bird,” he said to the doctor, pointing to the lark.
“Go to hell!” the doctor said. “It’s no use talking to me! I’m in a bad mood! Leave me alone!”
“You’re a skeptic, doctor.”
“Eh, what’s that? What does skeptic mean?”
Mange thought for a while.
“A skeptic is a man … a man who is … a person who doesn’t love …”
“Wrong! Don’t use words you don’t understand! Leave me alone! I might do something unpleasant, something I don’t want to do! I’m in a bad mood!…”
Music Maker began pointing. The general and Yegor Yegorich turned pale and held their breaths.
“I’m shooting this one,” the general whispered. “I … I … Excuse me, this is the second time you have …”
But nothing came of the dog’s pointing. The doctor, with nothing to do, threw a pebble, which struck Music Maker between the ears, and immediately the dog set up a howl and leaped in the air. The general and Yegor Yegorich looked round. They heard a rustling sound in the grass, and a large bustard flew up. The members of the second group were making a lot of noise and pointing at the bustard. The general, Mange, and Vanya fired. Mange missed. Too late! The bustard flew over a mound and vanished in a field of rye.
“I put it to you, doctor, this is no time for a joke!” the general said, turning sharply on the doctor. “Not the right time, is it?”
“What?”
“It’s no time for a joke.”
“Stupid of you, doctor,” Yegor Yegorich observed.
“Well, they shouldn’t have brought me along. Who told you to bring me? I don’t want to explain anything. I’m in a bad mood today.”
Mange killed another lark. Vanya aimed at a young rook, fired, and missed.
“Aimed too high, dammit!” he muttered.
Two shots were heard in quick succession. Bolva, on the other side of the mound, had shot down two quail with his heavy double-barreled shotgun, and he put them in his pocket. Yegor Yegorich aimed at a quail and fired. The quail, wounded, fell in the grass. Yegor Yegorich triumphantly retrieved the quail and presented it to the general.
“In the wing, Your Excellency. Still alive, too.”
“True, she’s still alive. Ought to have a summary execution!”
Saying this, the general lifted the quail to his lips and bit through her neck with his eyeteeth. Mange killed a third lark. Music Maker began pointing again. The general flung his cap away and took aim. “Take that!” A big quail flew up, but at that moment the good-for-nothing doctor somehow got into the line of fire, being almost directly in front of the muzzle of the shotgun.
“Get out of here!” the general exploded.
The doctor jumped to one side, the general fired, but as it happened the shot was fired too late.
“Young man, that’s a bloody awful thing to do!” the general roared.
“What did I do?” the doctor asked.
“You got in my way! Who told you to get in my way? I missed the bird, thanks to you! God knows what’s happening, but whatever it is, it’s all an unseemly mess!”
“What are you shouting for? Pfui! I’m not afraid of you! I’m not afraid of mere generals, Your Excellency! I’m especially not afraid of retired generals! So please shut your mouth!”
“What an extraordinary fellow he is! Walks around and messes everything up! It’s enough to try the patience of an angel.”
“Stop shouting, general! If you have to shout at someone, shout at Mange. He’s afraid of generals. You can’t unnerve a real huntsman! You might as well admit you don’t know how to fire a gun!”
“Enough, sir! One word from me, and there’s a dozen thrown back in my face!” the general said, and then he turned to Vanya. “Vanya, dear boy, give me my powder horn!”
“What made you ask that soldier of fortune to go hunting with you?” the doctor asked Yegor Yegorich.
“Had to, my dear fellow,” replied Yegor Yegorich. “Simply had to take him. I owe him eight thousand.… Yes, my dear boy, all those accursed debts of mine …”
Yegor Yegorich left the sentence unfinished and waved his hand.
“Is it true you are jealous of me?”
Yegor Yegorich turned away and aimed at a high-flying kite.
“Lost it, you little whippersnapper!” came the rumbling roar of the general. “Lost it, and it cost a hundred rubles! You’re a little pig, that’s what you are!”
Yegor Yegorich went over to the general and asked what the matter was. It appeared that Vanya had lost the general’s cartridge bag. A search was undert
aken, and the hunt was broken off. The search lasted an hour and a quarter, and was crowned with success. With the cartridge bag recovered, the hunters sat down for a rest.
The second group of quail hunters was also having its troubles. Within this group Mikhey Yegorich behaved as badly as the doctor, and perhaps worse. He knocked the guns out of their hands, quarreled violently, thrashed the dogs, scattered powder around, and in a word—the devil knows what he wasn’t up to! After some unsuccessful shooting at quail Kardamonov and his dogs went after a young kite. They winged it, but were never able to retrieve it. Captain Kardamanov, second class, killed a marmot with a stone.
“Gentlemen, let us dissect the marmot,” suggested Nekrichikhvostov,1 clerk to the marshal of the nobility.
So the hunters sat down in the grass, took out their penknives, and began to dissect the creature.
“I can’t find anything in this marmot,” Nekrichikhvostov complained when the marmot had been cut to ribbons. “It doesn’t have a heart. It has entrails, though. Know what, gentlemen? Let us go on to the marshes. What can we shoot here? Quail isn’t game. We ought to be going after woodcock and snipe. Shall we go?”
The hunters rose and wandered lazily in the direction of their carriages. When they were close to the carriages, they fired a volley at the local pigeons and killed one.
“Tallyho! Your Excellency! Yegorich!” shouted the members of the second group when they caught sight of the first group sitting down and resting.
The general and Yegor Yegorich looked round. The second group were waving their caps.
“What on earth are you doing that for?” Yegor Yegorich shouted.
“Success! We’ve killed a bustard! Come quickly!”
The first group simply refused to believe they had killed a bustard and went straight off to the carriages. Once inside the carriages, they decided to leave the quail in peace and agreed to follow an itinerary which would take them three miles farther on—into the marshes.
“I get all burned up when I’m hunting,” the general confided to the doctor when the troikas had brought them a mile or so away from the hayfield. “I get all burned up! I wouldn’t spare my own father! Please forgive an old man, eh?”
Forty Stories Page 5