A Hunter's Sketches ............................................................................................................................................1

Ivan Turgenev..........................................................................................................................................1

ANYONE who has chanced to pass from Bolkhov District into Zhizdra District must have been

impressed by the striking difference between the race of people in the province of Orel and the population of

the province of Kaluga. The peasant of Orel is not tall, is bent in figure, sullen and suspicious in his looks; he

lives in wretched little hovels of aspenwood, labours as a serf in the fields, and engages in no kind of

trading, is miserably fed, and wears bast shoes. The rentpaying peasant of Kaluga lives in roomy huts of

pinewood; he is tall, bold, and cheerful in his looks, neat and clean of countenance; he carries on a trade in

butter and tar, and on holidays he wears highboots. The village of the Orel province (we are speaking now

of the eastern part of the province) is usually situated in the midst of ploughed fields, near a ravine which has

been converted into a filthy pool. Except for a few of the everaccommodating willows and two or three

gaunt birchtrees, you do not see a tree for a mile round; hut is huddled up against hut, their roofs crudely

thatched with rotting straw. . . . The villages of Kaluga, on the contrary, are generally surrounded by forest;

the huts stand more freely, are more upright, and have boarded roofs; the gates fasten closely, the hedge is not

broken down nor trailing about; there are no gaps to invite the visits of the passing pig. . . . And things are

much better in the Kaluga province for the hunter. In the Orel province the last of the woods and copses will

have disappeared five years hence, and there is no trace of moorland left; in Kaluga, on the contrary, the

moors extend over tens, the forest over hundreds of miles, and that splendid bird, the grouse, is still extant

there; there is an abundance of the friendly great snipe, and the loudclapping partridge cheers and startles

On a visit to Zhizdra District in search of sport, I met in the fields a petty landlord of the Kaluga

province called Polutikin, and made his acquaintance. He was an enthusiastic hunter; it follows, therefore,

that he was an excellent fellow. He was liable, indeed, to a few weaknesses: he used, for instance, to pay his

addresses to every unmarried heiress in the province, and when he had been refused her hand and house,

brokenhearted he confided his sorrows to all his friends and acquaintances, and continued to shower

offerings of sour peaches and other raw produce from his garden upon the young lady's relatives; he was fond

of repeating one and the same anecdote, which, in spite of Mr. Polutikin's appreciation of its merits, had

certainly never amused anyone; he admired the works of Akim Nakhimov and the novel Pinna; he

stammered; he called his dog Astronomer; instead of "however" said "howsomever" and had established in

his household a French system of cookery, the secret of which consisted, according to his cook's

interpretation, in a complete transformation of the natural taste of each dish; in this artiste's hands meat

assumed the flavour of fish, fish of mushrooms, macaroni of gunpowder; to make up for this, not a single

carrot went into the soup without taking the shape of a rhombus or a trapezium. But, with the exception of

these few and insignificant failings, Mr. Polutikin was, as has been said already, an excellent fellow.

On the first day of my acquaintance with Mr. Polutikin, he invited me to stay the night at his

"It will be five miles farther to my house," he added; "it's a long way to walk; let us first go to

We went in that direction. In a wellcultivated clearing in the middle of the forest rose Khor's

solitary homestead. It consisted of several pinewood buildings, linked by plank fences; a porch ran along the

front of the principal building, supported on slender posts. We went in. We were met by a young lad of

"No. Khor has gone into town," answered the lad, smiling and showing a row of snowwhite teeth.

We went into the cottage. Not a single cheap print from Suzdal was pasted up on the clean boards

of the walls; in the corner, before the heavy, holy image in its silver setting, a lamp was burning; the table of

lindenwood had been lately planed and scrubbed; between the joists and in the cracks of the

windowframes there were no lively Prussian beetles running about, nor gloomy cockroaches in hiding. The

young lad soon reappeared with a great white pitcher filled with excellent kvas, a huge slice of wheaten

bread, and a dozen salted cucumbers in a wooden bowl. He put all these provisions on the table, and then,

leaning with his back against the door, began to gaze with a smiling face at us. We had not had time to finish

eating our lunch when the cart was already rattling before the doorstep. We went out. A curlyheaded,

rosycheeked boy of fifteen was sitting in the cart as driver, and with difficulty holding in the wellfed

piebald horse. Round the cart stood six young giants, very like one another and Fedya.

"These are all Khorki" (i.e., polecats), put in Fedya, who had come after us on to the step; "but

that's not all of them: Potap is in the wood, and Sidor has gone with old Khor to the town. Look out, Vasya,"

he went on, turning to the coachman; "drive like the wind; you are driving the master. Only mind what you're

about over the ruts, and easy a little; don't tip the cart over and upset the master's stomach!"

"Lift Astronomer in!" Mr. Polutikin called majestically. Fedya, not without amusement, lifted the

dog, who wore a forced smile, into the air, and laid him on the bottom of the cart. Vasya let the horse go. We

"And here is my countinghouse," said Mr. Polutikin suddenly to me, pointing to a little

The countinghouse consisted of two empty rooms. The caretaker, a oneeyed old man, ran out of

The oneeyed old man disappeared, and at once returned with a bottle of water and two glasses.

"Taste it," Polutikin said to me; "it is my splendid spring water." We drank off a glass each, while the old

"Come, now, I think we can go on," said my new friend. "In that countinghouse I sold the

We took our seats in the cart, and in half an hour we had reached the court of the manor house.

"Tell me, please," I asked Polutikin at supper, "why does Khor live apart from your other

"Well, this is why: he is a clever peasant. Twentyfive years ago his cottage was burnt down; so he

came up to my late father and said: 'Allow me, Nikolai Kuzmich,' says he, 'to settle in your forest, on the bog.

I will pay you a good rent.' 'But what do you want to settle on the bog for?' 'Oh, I want to; only, your honour,

Nikolai Kuzmich, be so good as not to claim any labour from me, but fix a rent as you think best.' 'Fifty

rubles a year!' 'Very well.' 'But no arrears, mind!' 'Of course, no arrears'; and so he settled on the bog. Since

"Yes, he has grown rich. Now he pays me a round hundred for rent, and I shall raise it again, I dare

say. I have said to him more than once, 'Buy your freedom, Khor; come, buy your freedom. . . .' But he

declares, the rogue, that he can't; has no money, he says. . . . As though that were likely. . . ."

The next day, directly after our morning tea, we started out hunting again. As we were driving

through the village, Mr. Polutikin ordered the coachman to stop at a lowpitched cottage and called loudly,

"Coming, your honour, coming," sounded a voice from the yard; "I am tying on my shoes."

We went on at a walk; outside the village a man of about forty overtook us. He was tall and thin,

with a small and erect head. It was Kalinich. His goodhumoured swarthy face, somewhat pitted, pleased me

from the first glance. Kalinich (as I learnt afterwards) went hunting every day with his master, carried his

bag, and sometimes also his gun, noted where game was to be found, fetched water, built shanties, and

gathered strawberries, and ran behind the droshky; Mr. Polutikin could not stir a step without him. Kalinich

was a man of the merriest and gentlest disposition; he was constantly singing to himself in a low voice and

looking carelessly about him. He spoke a little through his nose, with a laughing twinkle in his lightblue

eyes, and he had a habit of plucking at his scanty, wedgeshaped beard with his hand. He walked not rapidly,

but with long strides, leaning lightly on a long thin staff. He addressed me more than once during the day,

and he waited on me without obsequiousness, but he looked after his master as if he were a child. When the

unbearable heat drove us at midday to seek shelter, he took us to his beegarden in the very heart of the

forest. There Kalinich opened the little hut for us, which was hung round with bunches of dry scented herbs.

He made us comfortable on some dry hay, and then put a kind of bag of network over his head, took a knife,

a little pot, and a smouldering stick, and went to the hive to cut out some honeycomb for us. We had a

draught of spring water after the warm transparent honey, and then dropped asleep to the sound of the

A slight gust of wind awakened me. . . . I opened my eyes and saw Kalinich: he was sitting on the

threshold of the halfopened door, carving a spoon with his knife. I gazed a long time admiring his face, as

sweet and clear as an evening sky. Mr. Polutikin, too, woke up. We did not get up at once. After our long

walk and our deep sleep it was pleasant to lie without moving in the hay; we felt weary and languid in body,

our faces were in a slight glow of warmth, our eyes were closed in delicious laziness. At last we got up and

At supper I began again to talk of Khor and Kalinich. "Kalinich is a good peasant," Mr. Polutikin

told me; "he is a willing and useful peasant; but he can't farm his land properly; I am always taking him away

from it. He goes out hunting every day with me. . . . You can judge for yourself how his farming must fare."

The next day Mr. Polutikin was obliged to go to town about some business with his neighbour

Pichukov. This neighbour Pichukov had ploughed over some land of Polutikin's, and had flogged a peasant

woman of his on this same piece of land. I went out hunting alone, and before evening I turned into Khor's

house. On the threshold of the cottage I was met by an old manbald, short, broadshouldered, and

stoutKhor himself. I looked with curiosity at the man. The cut of his face recalled Socrates: there was the

same high, knobby forehead, the same little eyes, the same snub nose. We went into the cottage together. The

same Fedya brought me some milk and rye bread. Khor sat down on a bench and, quietly stroking his curly

beard, entered into conversation with me. He seemed to know his own value; he spoke and moved slowly;

We discussed the sowing, the crops, the peasant's life. . . . He always seemed to agree with me;

only afterwards I had a sense of awkwardness and felt I was talking foolishly. . . . In this way our

conversation was rather curious. Khor, doubtless through caution, expressed himself very obscurely at times.

"Tell me, Khor," I said to him, "why don't you buy your freedom from your master?"

"And what would I buy my freedom for? Now I know my master, and I know my rent. . . . We

"If Khor were thrown among free men," he continued in an undertone, as though to himself,

"But Khor will be a merchant straightaway; and merchants have a fine life, and they have beards."

"We trade in a little butter and a little tar. . . . Would your honour like the cart put to?"

"You're a close man and keep a tight rein on your tongue," I thought to myself. "No," I said aloud,

"I don't want the cart; I shall be hunting near your homestead tomorrow, and if you will let me, I will stay the

"You are very welcome. But will you be comfortable in the barn? I will tell the women to lay a

sheet and put you a pillow. . . . Hey, women!" he cried, getting up from his place; "here, women!. . . And you,

A quarter of an hour later Fedya conducted me with a lantern to the barn. I threw myself down on

the fragrant hay; my dog curled himself up at my feet; Fedya wished me goodnight; the door creaked and

slammed to. For rather a long time I could not get to sleep. A cow came up to the door and breathed heavily

twice; the dog growled at her with dignity; a pig passed by, grunting pensively; a horse somewhere near

At sunrise Fedya awakened me. This brisk, lively young man pleased me; and, from what I could

see, he was old Khor's favourite, too. They used to banter one another in a very friendly way. The old man

came to meet me. Whether because I had spent the night under his roof, or for some other reason, Khor

We took our seats at the table. A robustlooking peasant woman, one of his daughtersinlaw,

"Yes," he said, breaking off a tiny piece of sugar with his teeth; "they have no cause to complain of

"Here's one not married, the scamp!" he answered, pointing to Fedya, who was leaning as before

"And why should I get married?" retorted Fedya; "I'm very well off as I am. What do I want a wife

"Now then, you . . . ah, I know you! You wear silver rings. . . You'd always be after the girls up at

the manor house. . . . 'Have done, do, for shame!' " the old man went on, mimicking the servant girls. "Ah, I

"A peasant womanis a labourer," said Khor seriously; "she is the peasant's servant."

"I dare say, you'd like to play with the fire and let others burn their fingers; we know the sort of

"There, that's enough, that's enough, giddy pate! You see we're disturbing the gentleman. I'll marry

you off, depend on it. . . . And you, your honour, don't be vexed with him; you see, he's only a baby; he's not

"Is Khor at home?" sounded a wellknown voice; and Kalinich came into the cottage with a bunch

of wild strawberries in his hands, which he had gathered for his friend Khor. The old man gave him a warm

welcome. I looked with surprise at Kalinich. I confess I had not expected such a delicate attention on the part

That day I started out to hunt four hours later than usually, and the following three days I spent at

Khor's. My new friends interested me. I don't know how I had gained their confidence, but they began to talk

to me without constraint. The two friends were not at all alike. Khor was a positive, practical man, with a

head for management, a rationalist; Kalinich, on the other hand, belonged to the order of idealists and

dreamers, of romantic and enthusiastic spirits. Khor had a grasp of actualitythat is to say, he looked ahead,

had saved a little money, kept on good terms with his master and the other authorities; Kalinich wore shoes of

bast, and lived from hand to mouth. Khor had reared a large family, who were obedient and united; Kalinich

had once had a wife, whom he had been afraid of, and he had had no children. Khor knew Mr. Polutikin

inside out; Kalinich revered his master. Khor loved Kalinich and took protecting care of him; Kalinich loved

and respected Khor. Khor spoke little, chuckled, and thought for himself; Kalinich expressed himself with

warmth, though he had not the flow of fine language of a smart factory hand. But Kalinich was endowed with

powers which even Khor recognized; he could charm away hemorrhages, fits, madness, and worms; his bees

always did well; he had a light hand. Khor asked him before me to introduce a newly bought horse to his

stable, and with scrupulous gravity Kalinich carried out the old sceptic's request. Kalinich was in closer

contact with nature; Khor with men and society. Kalinich had no liking for argument, and believed in

everything blindly; Khor had reached even an ironical attitude towards life. He had seen and experienced

much, and I learnt a good deal from him. For instance, from his account I learnt that every year before

mowingtime a small, peculiarlooking cart makes its appearance in the villages. In this cart sits a man in a

long coat, who sells scythes. He charges one ruble twentyfive kopeksa ruble and a half in notesfor

ready money; four rubles if he gives credit. All the peasants, of course, take the scythes from him on credit.

In two or three weeks he reappears and asks for the money. As the peasant has only just cut his oats, he is

able to pay him; he goes with the merchant to the tavern, and there the debt is settled. Some landowners

conceived the idea of buying the scythes themselves for ready money and letting the peasants have them on

credit for the same price; but the peasants seemed dissatisfied, even dejected; they had been deprived of the

pleasure of tapping the scythe and listening to the ring of the metal, turning it over and over in their hands,

and telling the scoundrelly citytrader twenty times over, "Eh, my friend, you won't take me in with your

The same tricks are played over the sale of sickles, only with this difference that the women have a

hand in the business then, and they sometimes drive the trader himself to the necessityfor their good, of

courseof beating them. But the women suffer most illtreatment through the following circumstances.

Contractors for the supply of stuff for paper factories employ for the purchase of rags a special class of men,

who in some districts are called "eagles." Such an "eagle" receives two hundred rubles in banknotes from

the merchant, and starts off in search of his prey. But, unlike the noble bird from whom he has derived his

name, he does not swoop down openly and boldly upon it; quite the contrary, the "eagle" has recourse to

deceit and cunning. He leaves his cart somewhere in a thicket near the village, and goes himself to the

backyards and backdoors, like someone casually passing, or simply a tramp. The women scent out his

proximity and steal out to meet him. The bargain is hurriedly concluded. For a few copper halfpence a

woman gives the "eagle" not only every useless rag she has, but often even her husband's shirt and her own

petticoat. Of late the women have thought it profitable to steal even from themselves, and to sell hemp in the

same waya great extension and improvement of the business for the "eagles"! To meet this, however, the

peasants have grown more cunning in their turn, and on the slightest suspicion, on the most distant rumour of

the approach of an "eagle," they have prompt and sharp recourse to corrective and preventive measures. And,

after all, wasn't it disgraceful? To sell the hemp was the men's businessand they certainly do sell itnot in

the town (they would have to drag it there themselves), but to traders who come for it, who, for want of

scales, reckon forty handfuls to the poodand you know what a Russian's hand is and what it can hold,

As I had had no experience and was not countrybred I heard plenty of such descriptions. But

Khor was not always the narrator; he questioned me too about many things. He learned that I had been in

foreign parts, and his curiosity was aroused. . . . Kalinich was not behind him in curiosity; but he was more

attracted by descriptions of nature, of mountains and waterfalls, extraordinary buildings and great cities; Khor

was interested in questions of government and administration. He went through everything in order. "Well, is

that with them as it is with us, or different?. . . Come, tell us, your honour, how is it?" "Ah, Lord, Thy will be

done!" Kalinich would exclaim while I told my story; Khor did not speak, but frowned with his bushy

eyebrows, only observing at times, "That wouldn't do for us; still, it's a good thing it's right."

All his inquiries I cannot recount, and it is unnecessary; but from our conversations I carried away

one conviction, which my readers will certainly not anticipate . . . the conviction that Peter the Great was

preeminently a RussianRussian, above all, in his reforms. The Russian is so convinced of his own

strength and powers that he is not afraid of putting himself to severe strain; he takes little interest in his past,

and looks boldly forward. What is good he likes, what is sensible he will have, and where it comes from he

does not care. His vigorous sense is fond of ridiculing the thin theorizing of the German; but, in Khor's

words, "The Germans are curious folk," and he was ready to learn from them a little. Thanks to his

exceptional position, his practical independence, Khor told me a great deal which you could not pry oras

the peasants saygrind with a grindstone out of any other man. He did, in fact, understand his position.

Talking with Khor, I for the first time listened to the simple, wise discourse of the Russian peasant. His

knowledge was, in his own opinion, wide enough; but he could not read, though Kalinich could.

"That ne'erdowell has school learning," observed Khor, "and his bees never die in the winter."

The old man made no answer, and changed the subject. However, sensible as he was, he had many

prejudices and crotchets. He despised women, for instance, from the depths of his soul, and in his merry

moments he amused himself by jesting at their expense. His wife was a cross old woman who lay all day long

on the stove, incessantly grumbling and scolding; her sons paid no attention to her, but she kept her

daughtersinlaw in the fear of God. Very significantly, the motherinlaw sings in the Russian ballad:

"What a son art thou to me! What a head of a household! Thou dost not beat thy wife; thou dost not beat thy

young wife. . . ." I once attempted to intercede for the daughtersinlaw, and tried to rouse Khor's sympathy;

but he met me with the tranquil rejoinder, "Why did I want to trouble about such . . . trifles; let the women

fight it out. . . . If anybody tries to tear them apart, it only makes it worse . . . and it's not worth dirtying one's

Sometimes the spiteful old woman got down from the stove and called the yard dog out of the hay,

crying, "Here, here, doggie"; and then beat it on its thin back with the poker, or she would stand in the porch

and "snarl," as Khor expressed it, at everyone that passed. She stood in awe of her husband though, and

would return, at his command, to her place on the stove, it was specially curious to hear Khor and Kalinich

"Well, so am I a peasant, but look!" And Khor lifted up his leg and showed Kalinich a boot which

"Well, at least he might pay for your bast shoes; you go out hunting with him; you must use a pair

Kalinich turned away in vexation, but Khor went off into a chuckle, during which his little eyes

Kalinich sang rather sweetly and played a little on the balalaika. Khor was never weary of listening

to him: all at once he would let his head drop on one side and begin to chime in, in a lugubrious voice. He

was particularly fond of the song, "Ah, my fate, my fate!" Fedya never lost an opportunity of making fun of

his father, saying, "What are you so mournful about, old man?" But Khor leaned his cheek on his hand,

closed his eyes, and continued to mourn over his fate. . . . Yet at other times there could not be a more active

man; he was always busy over somethingmending the cart, patching up the fence, looking after the

harness. He did not insist on a very high degree of cleanliness, however; and, in answer to some remark of

"And you do well, your honour; shoot grouse to your heart's content, and change your bailiff pretty

On the fourth day Mr. Polutikin sent for me in the evening. I was sorry to part from the old man. I

"Goodbye, your honour, goodbye; don't forget us." We started; there was the first red glow of

"No, it will rain," Kalinich replied; "the ducks yonder are splashing, and the scent of the grass is

We drove into the copse. Kalinich began singing in an undertone as he was jolted up and down on

ONE EVENING I went with the huntsman Yermolai "standshooting." But perhaps all my readers

A quarter of an hour before sunset in springtime you go out into the woods with your gun, but

without your dog. You seek out a spot for yourself on the outskirts of the forest, take a look round, examine

your caps, and glance at your companion. A quarter of an hour passes; the sun has set, but it is still light in

the forest; the sky is clear and transparent; the birds are chattering and twittering; the young grass shines with

the brilliance of emerald. . . . You wait. Gradually the recesses of the forest grow dark; the bloodred glow of

the evening sky creeps slowly on to the roots and the trunks. of the trees, and keeps rising higher and higher,

passes from the lower, still almost leafless branches, to the motionless, slumbering treetops. . . . And now

even the topmost branches are darkened; the purple sky fades to darkblue. The forest fragrance grows

stronger; there is a scent of warmth and damp earth; the fluttering breeze dies away at your side. The birds go

to sleepnot all at oncebut after their kinds; first the finches are hushed, a few minutes later the warblers,

and after them the yellow buntings. In the forest it grows darker and darker. The trees melt together into great

masses of blackness; in the darkblue sky the first stars come timidly out. All the birds are asleep. Only the

redstarts and the nuthatches are still chirping drowsily. . . . And now they, too, are still. The last echoing call

of the peewit rings over our heads; the oriole's melancholy cry sounds somewhere in the distance; thenthe

nightingale's first note. Your heart is weary with suspense, when suddenlybut only hunters can understand

mesuddenly in the deep hush there is a peculiar croaking and whirring sound, the measured. sweep of swift

wings is heard, and the snipe, gracefully bending its long beak, sails smoothly from behind a dark bush to

And so I had gone out standshooting with Yermolai. But excuse me, reader: I must first introduce

Picture to yourself a tall gaunt man of fortyfive, with a long thin nose, a narrow forehead, little

grey eyes, a bristling head of hair, and thick sarcastic lips. This man wore, winter and summer alike, a yellow

nankin coat of foreign cut, but with a sash round the waist; he wore blue pantaloons and a cap of astrakhan,

presented to him in a merry hour by a spendthrift landowner. Two bags were fastened on to his sash, one in

front, skilfully tied into two halves, for powder and for shot; the other behind for game; wadding Yermolai

used to produce out of his peculiar, seemingly inexhaustible cap. With the money he gained by the game he

sold, he might easily have bought himself a cartridgebox and powderflask; but he never once even

contemplated such a purchase, and continued to load his gun after his old fashion, exciting the admiration of

all beholders by the skill with which he avoided the risks of spilling or mixing his powder and shot. His gun

was a singlebarrelled flintlock, endowed, moreover, with a villainous habit of "kicking." It was due to this

that Yermolai's right cheek was permanently swollen to a larger size than the left. How he ever succeeded in

hitting anything with this gun, it would take a shrewd man to discoverbut he did. He had, too, a setterdog,

by name Valetka, a most extraordinary creature. Yermolai never fed him. "Me feed a dog!" he reasoned;

"why, a dog's a clever beast; he finds a living for himself." And certainly, though Valetka's extreme thinness

was a shock even to an indifferent observer, he still lived and had a long life; and in spite of his pitiable

position he was not even once lost, and never showed an inclination to desert his master. Once indeed, in his

youth, he had absented himself for two days, on courting bent, but this folly was soon over with him.

Valetka's most noticeable peculiarity was his unruffled indifference to everything in the world. . . . If it were

not a dog I was speaking of, I should have called him "disillusioned." He usually sat with his cropped tail

curled up under him, scowling and twitching at times, and he never smiled. (It is well known that dogs can

smile, and smile very sweetly.) He was exceedingly ugly; and the idle houseserfs never lost an opportunity

of jeering cruelly at his appearance; but all these jeers, and even blows, Valetka bore with astonishing

indifference. He was a source of special delight to the cooks, who would all leave their work at once and give

him chase with shouts and abuse, whenever, through a weakness not confined to dogs, he thrust his hungry

nose through the halfopen door of the kitchen, tempting with its warmth and appetizing smells. He

distinguished himself by untiring energy in the chase, and had a good scent; but if he chanced to overtake a

slightly wounded hare, he devoured it with relish to the last bone, somewhere in the cool shade under the

green bushes, at a respectful distance from Yermolai, who was abusing him in every known and unknown

Yermolai belonged to one of my neighbours, a landlord of the old style. Landlords of the old style

don't care for game, and prefer the domestic fowl. Only on extraordinary occasions, such as birthdays,

namedays, and elections, the cooks of the oldfashioned landlords set to work to prepare some longbeaked

birds, and, falling into the state of frenzy peculiar to Russians when they don't quite know what to do, they

concoct such marvellous sauces for them that the guests examine the proffered dishes curiously and

attentively, but rarely make up their minds to try them. Yermolai was under orders to provide his master's

kitchen with two brace of grouse and partridges once a month. But he might live where and how he pleased.

They had given him up as a man of no use for work of any kind"bone lazy," they called him. Powder and

shot, of course, they did not provide him, following precisely the same principle in virtue of which he did not

feed his dog. Yermolai was a very strange kind of man; heedless as a bird, rather fond of talking, awkward

and vacantlooking; he was excessively fond of drink, and never could sit still long; in walking he shambled

along, and rolled from side to side; and yet he got over fifty miles in the day with his rolling, shambling gait.

He exposed himself to the most varied adventures: spent the night in the marshes, in trees, on roofs, or under

bridges; more than once he had got shut up in lofts, cellars, or barns; he sometimes lost his gun, his dog, his

most indispensable garments; got long and severe thrashings; but he always returned home after a little while,

in his clothes, and with his gun and his dog. One could not call him a cheerful man, though one almost

always found him in an even frame of mind; he was looked on generally as an eccentric. Yermolai liked a

little chat with a good companion, especially over a glass, but he would not stop long; he would get up and

go. "But where the devil are you going? It's dark out of doors." "To Chaplino." "But what's taking you to

Chaplino, ten miles away?" "I am going to stay the night at Sofron's there." "But stay the night here." "No, I

can't." And Yermolai, with his Valetka, would go off into the dark night, through woods and watercourses,

and the peasant Sofron very likely did not let him into his place, and even, I am afraid, gave him a blow to

teach him "not to disturb honest folks." But none could compare with Yermolai in skill in deepwater fishing

in springtime, in catching crayfish with his hands, in tracking game by scent, in snaring quails, in training

hawks, in capturing the nightingales who had the greatest variety of notes. . . . One thing he could not do,

train a dog; he had not patience enough. He had a wife, too. He went to see her once a week. She lived in a

wretched, tumbledown little hut, and led a handtomouth existence, never knowing overnight whether she

would have food to eat on the morrow; and in every way her lot was a pitiful one. Yermolai, who seemed

such a careless and easygoing fellow, treated his wife with cruel harshness; in his own house he assumed a

stern and menacing manner; and his poor wife did everything she could to please him, trembled when he

looked at her, and spent her last farthing to buy him vodka; and when he stretched himself majestically on the

stove and fell into an heroic sleep, she obsequiously covered him with her sheepskin. I happened myself more

than once to catch an involuntary look in him of a kind of savage ferocity; I did not like the expression of his

face when he finished off a wounded bird with his teeth. But Yermolai never remained more than a day at

home, and away from home he was once more the same "Yermolka," as he was called for a hundred miles

round, and as he sometimes called himself. The lowest houseserf was conscious of being superior to this

vagabondand perhaps this was precisely why they treated him with friendliness; the peasants at first

amused themselves by chasing him and driving him like a hare over the open country, but afterwards they left

him in God's hands, and when once they recognized him as "queer," they no longer tormented him, and even

gave him bread and entered into talk with him. . . . This was the man I took as my huntsman, and with him I

Many Russian rivers, like the Volga, have one bank rugged and precipitous, the other bounded by

level meadows; and so it is with the Ista. This small river winds extremely capriciously, coils like a snake,

and does not keep a straight course for half a mile together; in some places, from the top of a sharp declivity,

one can see the river for ten miles, with its dykes, its pools and mills, and the gardens on its banks, shut in

with willows and thick flowergardens. There are fish in the Ista in endless numbers, especially roaches (the

peasants take them in hot weather from under the bushes with their hands); little sandpipers flutter whistling

along the stony banks, which are streaked with cold clear streams; wild ducks dive in the middle of the pools,

and look round warily; in the coves under the overhanging cliffs herons stand out in the shade. . . . We stood

in ambush nearly an hour, killed two brace of wood snipe, and, as we wanted to try our luck again at sunrise

(standshooting can be done as well in the early morning), we resolved to spend the night at the nearest mill.

We came out of the wood and went down the slope. The darkblue waters of the river ran below; the air was

thick with the mists of night. We knocked at the gate. The dogs began barking in the yard.

We listened as the workman went into the cottage; he soon came back to the gate. "No," he said;

"He is afraid; you are hunters, you might set the mill on fire; you've firearms with you, to be sure."

"We had our mill on fire like that last year; some fishdealers stayed the night, and they managed

Yermolai promised him various unpleasant things in the future. "Let us go to the village," he

"Let us stay the night here," I said, "in the open air the night is warm; the miller will let us have

"Well, what do you want?" the workman's voice was heard again; "I've told you we can't."

We explained to him what we wanted. He went to consult the master of the house, and returned

with him. The little side gate creaked. The miller appeared, a tall, fatfaced man with a bull neck,

roundbellied and corpulent. He agreed to my proposal. A hundred paces from the mill there was a little

outbuilding open to the air on all sides. They carried straw and hay there for us; the workman set a samovar

down on the grass near the river, and, squatting on his heels, began to blow vigorously into its pipe. The

embers glowed, and threw a bright light on his young face. The miller ran to wake his wife, and suggested at

last that I myself should sleep in the cottage; but I preferred to remain in the open air. The miller's wife

brought us milk, eggs, potatoes and bread. Soon the samovar boiled, and we began drinking tea. A mist had

risen from the river; there was no wind; from all round came the cry of the corncrake, and faint sounds from

the millwheels of drops that dripped from the paddles and of water gurgling through the bars of the lock.

We built a small fire on the ground. While Yermolai was baking the potatoes in the embers, I had time to fall

into a doze. I was waked by a discreetly subdued whispering near me. I lifted my head; before the fire, on a

tub turned upside down, the miller's wife sat talking to my huntsman. By her dress, her movements, and her

manner of speaking, I had already recognized that she had been in domestic service, and was neither peasant

nor citybred; but now for the first time I got a clear view of her features. She looked about thirty; her thin,

pale face still showed the traces of remarkable beauty; what particularly charmed me was her eyes, large and

mournful in expression. She was leaning her elbows on her knees, and had her face in her hands. Yermolai

"They've the cattleplague again at Zheltukhina," the miller's wife was saying; "father Ivan's two

Yermolai threw a few pine twigs on the fire; they all caught fire at once, and a thick white smoke

"Afraid! the fat old tub! Arina Timofeyevna, my darling, bring me a little glass of spirits."

The miller's wife rose and vanished into the darkness. Yermolai began to sing in an undertone:

Arina returned with a small flask and a glass. Yermolai got up, crossed himself, and drank it off at

"The gentleman's asleep, it seems," observed Yermolai after a short silence. "Don't go to a doctor,

"I will drive my wife out for the occasion," continued Yermolai. "Upon my word, I will."

"You had better wake the gentleman, Yermolai Petrovich; you see, the potatoes are done."

"Oh, let him snore," observed my faithful servant indifferently; "he's tired with walking, so he

I turned over in the hay. Yermolai got up and came to me. "The potatoes are ready; will you come

I came out of the outbuilding; the miller's wife got up from the tub and was going away. I

I must tell the reader why I looked with such sympathy at Arina. During my stay at Petersburg I

had become by chance acquainted with Mr. Zverkov. He had a rather influential position, and was reputed a

man of sense and education. He had a wife, fat, sentimental, lachrymose and spitefulan ordinary and

disagreeable creature; he had, too, a son, the very type of the young swell of today, pampered and stupid. The

exterior of Mr. Zverkov himself did not prepossess one in his favour; his little mouselike eyes peeped slyly

out of a broad, almost square face; he had a large, sharp nose, with distended nostrils; his closecropped grey

hair stood up like a brush above his furrowed brow; his thin lips were for ever twitching and smiling

mawkishly. Mr. Zverkov's favourite position was standing with his short legs wide apart and his podgy hands

in his trouser pockets. Once I happened somehow to be driving alone with Mr. Zverkov in a coach out of

town. We fell into conversation. As a man of experience and of judgement, Mr. Zverkov began to try to set

"Allow me to observe to you," he piped at last: "all you young people criticize and form

judgements on everything at random; you have little knowledge of your own country; Russia, young

gentlemen, is an unknown land to you; that's where it is!. . . You are for ever reading German. For instance,

now you say this and that and the other about anything; for instance, about the houseserfs. . . . Very fine; I

don't dispute it's all very fine; but you don't know them; you don't know the kind of people they are." (Mr.

Zverkov blew his nose loudly and took a pinch of snuff.) "Allow me to tell you as an illustration one little

anecdote; it may perhaps interest you." (Mr. Zverkov cleared his throat.) "You know, doubtless, what my

wife is; it would be difficult, I should imagine, to find a more kindhearted woman, you will agree. For her

waitingmaids, existence is simply a perfect paradise, and no mistake about it. . . . But my wife has made it a

rule never to keep married servingmaids. Certainly it would not do; children comeand one thing and the

otherand how is a lady's maid to look after her mistress as she ought, to fit in with her ways; she is no

longer able to do it; her mind is on other things. One must look at things through human nature. Well, we

were driving once through our village, it must belet me be correctyes, fifteen years ago. We saw, at the

bailiff's, a young girl, his daughter, very pretty indeed; something even you knowsomething of the good

servant in her manners. And my wife said to me: 'Koko'you understand, of course, that is her pet name for

me'let us take this girl to Petersburg; I like her, Koko. . . .' I said, 'Let us take her, by all means.' The

bailiff, of course, was at our feet; he could not have expected such good fortune, you can imagine. . . . Well,

the girl, of course, shed foolish tears. Of course, it was hard for her at first; the parental home . . . and that sort

of thing . . . there was nothing surprising in that. However, she soon got used to us: at first we put her in the

maidservants' room; they trained her, of course. And what do you think?. The girl made wonderful progress;

my wife became simply devoted to her, promoted her at last above the rest to wait on herself . . . observe. . . .

And one must do her the justice to say, my wife had never such a maid, absolutely never; attentive, modest,

and obedientsimply all that could be desired. My wife was very good to her; she even spoilt her, I must

confess; she dressed her well, fed her from our own table, gave her tea to drink, and so on, as you can

imagine! So she waited on my wife like this for ten years. Suddenly, one fine morning, picture to yourself,

Arinaher name was Arinarushes unannounced into my study and flops down at my feet. That's a thing, I

tell you plainly, I can't endure. No human being ought ever to lose sight of his personal dignity. Am I not

right? 'What do you want?' 'Your honour, Alexander Silich, I beseech a favour of you.' 'What favour?' 'Let me

be married.' I must confess I was taken aback. 'But you know, you fool, your mistress has no other lady's

maid?' 'I will wait on Mistress as before.' 'Nonsense! Nonsense! Your mistress can't endure married

servingmaids.' 'Malanya could take my place.' 'Don't argue with me.' 'I obey your will.' I must confess it was

quite a shock. I assure you, I am like that; nothing wounds me so nothing, I venture to say, wounds me so

deeply as ingratitude. I need not tell youyou know what my wife is: an angel upon earth, goodness

inexhaustible. One would fancy even the worst of men would be ashamed to hurt her. Well, I sent Arina

away. I thought, perhaps, she would come to her senses; I was unwilling, do you know, to believe in wicked,

black ingratitude in anyone. What do you think? Within six months she thought fit to come to me again with

the same request. And here I must confess I turned her out in a temper and threatened to tell my wife about it.

I felt revolted. But imagine my amazement when, some time later, my wife comes to me in tears, so agitated

that I felt positively alarmed. 'What has happened?' 'Arina. . . . You understand. . . . I am ashamed to tell it.'

'Impossible! Who is the man?' 'Petrushka, the footman.' My indignation broke out then. I am like that. I don't

like halfmeasures! Petrushkawell, he wasn't to blame. We might flog him, but in my opinion he was not

to blame. Arina. . . . Well, well, well! What more's to be said? I gave orders, of course, that her hair should be

cut off, she should be dressed in sackcloth, and sent back to the village. My wife was deprived of an excellent

lady's maid; but there was no help for it: immorality cannot be tolerated in a household in any case. Better to

cut off the infected member at once. There, there! now you can judge the thing for yourselfyou know that

my wife is . . . yes, yes, yes! indeed! . . . an angel! She had grown attached to Arina, and Arina knew it, and

had the face to. . . . Eh? no, tell me . . . eh? And what's the use of talking about it. Anyway, there was no help

for it. I, indeedI, in particular, felt hurt, felt wounded for a long time by the ingratitude of this girl.

Whatever you sayit's no good to look for feeling, for heart, in these people! You may feed the wolf as you

will; he has always a hankering for the woods. It was a good lesson! But I only wanted to give you an

And Mr. Zverkov, without finishing his sentence, turned away his head, and, wrapping himself

more closely into his cloak, manfully repressed his involuntary emotion. The reader now probably

"My husband." (Yermolai smiled to himself.) "Has my master perhaps spoken to you of me?"

"How was it? Did the miller take a liking to her? Did he give much to buy her freedom?"

"I don't know. She can read and write; in their business it's of use. I suppose he liked her."

"I should think not! Tomorrow, I say, we shall have good sport. A little sleep now would do us no

A flock of wild ducks swept whizzing over our heads, and we heard them drop down into the river

not far from us. It was now quite dark, and it began to be cold; in the thicket sounded the melodious notes of

AT THE BEGINNING of August the heat often becomes insupportable. At that season, from

twelve to three o'clock, the most determined and ardent sportsman is not able to hunt, and the most devoted

dog begins to "clean his master's spurs," that is, to follow at his heels, his eyes painfully blinking, and his

tongue hanging out to an exaggerated length; and in response to his master's reproaches he humbly wags his

tail and shows his confusion in his face; but he does not run forward. I happened to be out hunting on exactly

such a day. I had long been fighting against the temptation to lie down somewhere in the shade, at least for a

moment; for a long time my indefatigable dog went on running about in the bushes, though he clearly did not

himself expect much good from his feverish activity. The stifling heat compelled me at last to begin to think

of husbanding our energies and strength. I managed to reach the little river Ista, which is already known to

my indulgent readers, descended the steep bank, and walked along the damp, yellow sand in the direction of

the spring, known to the whole neighbourhood as Raspberry Spring. This spring gushes out of a cleft in the

bank, which widens out by degrees into a small but deep creek, and, twenty paces beyond it, falls with a

merry babbling sound into the river. Young oak covers the sloping wall of the ravine; the short velvety grass

is green about the source: the sun's rays scarcely ever reach its cold, silvery water. I came as far as the spring;

a cup of birchwood lay on the grass, left by a passing peasant for the public benefit. I quenched my thirst,

lay down in the shade, and looked round. In the cave, which had been formed by the flowing of the stream

into the river, and hence marked for ever with the trace of ripples, two old men were sitting with their backs

to me. One, a rather stout and tall man in a neat darkgreen coat and lined cap, was fishing; the other was

thin and little; he wore a patched fustian coat and no cap; he held a little pot full of worms on his knees, and

sometimes lifted his hand up to his grizzled little head, as though he wanted to protect if from the sun. I

looked at him more attentively, and recognized in him Styopushka of Shumikhino. I must ask the reader's

A few miles from my place there is a large village called Shumikhino, with a stone church, erected

in the name of St. Kozma and St. Damian. Facing this church there had once stood a large and stately manor

house, surrounded by various outbuildings, offices, workshops, stables and coachhouses, baths and

temporary kitchens, wings for visitors and for bailiffs, conservatories, swings for the people, and other more

or less useful edifices. A family of rich landowners lived in this manor house, and all went well with them,

till suddenly one morning all this prosperity was burnt to ashes. The owners removed to another home; the

place was deserted. The blackened site of the immense house was transformed into a kitchengarden,

cumbered up in parts by piles of bricks, the remains of the old foundations. A little hut had been clumsily put

together out of the beams that had survived the fire; it was roofed with timber bought ten years before for the

construction of a pavilion in the Gothic style; and the gardener Mitrofan, with his wife Axinya and their

seven children, was installed in it. Mitrofan received orders to send greens and gardenstuff for the master's

table, a hundred and fifty miles away; Axinya was put in charge of a Tyrolese cow, which had been bought

for a high price in Moscow, but had remained barren and had, consequently, not given a drop of milk since its

acquisition; a crested smokecoloured drake, too, had been left in her hands, the solitary "seignorial" bird; for

the children, in consideration of their tender age, no special duties had been provided, a fact, however, which

had not hindered them from growing up utterly lazy. It happened to me on two occasions to stay the night at

this gardener's, and when I passed by I used to get cucumbers from him, which, for some unknown reason,

were even in summer peculiar for their large size, their poor, watery flavour, and their thick yellow skin. It

was there I first saw Styopushka. Except Mitrofan and his family, and the old deaf churchwarden Gerasim,

kept out of charity in a little room at the oneeyed soldier's widow's, not one man among the houseserfs had

remained at Shumikhino; for Styopushka, whom I intend to introduce to the reader, could not be classified

Every man has some kind of position in society, and at least some ties of some sort; every

houseserf receives, if not wages, at least some socalled "ration." Styopushka had absolutely no means of

subsistence of any kind; had no relationship to anyone; no one knew of his existence. This man had not even

a past; there was no story told of him; he had probably never been enrolled on a censusrevision. There were

vague rumours that he had once belonged to someone as a valet; but who he was, where he came from, who

was his father, and how he had come to be one of the Shumikhino people, in what way he had come by the

fustian coat he had worn from immemorial times, where he lived and what he lived onon all these

questions no one had the least idea; and, to tell the truth, no one took any interest in the subject. Grandfather

Trofimich, who knew all the pedigrees of all the houseserfs in the direct line to the fourth generation, had

once indeed been known to say that he remembered that Styopushka was related to a Turkish woman whom

the late master, the brigadier Alexei Romanich, had been pleased to bring home from a campaign in the

baggagetrain. Even on holidays, days of general moneygiving and of feasting on buckwheat dumplings

and vodka, after the old Russian fashioneven on such days Styopushka did not put in an appearance at the

trestletables nor at the barrels; he did not make his bow nor kiss the master's hand, nor toss off to the

master's health and under the master's eye a glass filled by the fat hands of the bailiff. Some kind soul who

passed by him might share an unfinished bit of dumpling with the poor beggar, perhaps. At Easter they said

"Christ is risen!" to him; but he did not pull up his greasy sleeve and bring out of the depths of his pocket a

coloured egg, to offer it, panting and blinking, to his young masters or to the mistress herself. He lived in

summer in a little shed behind the chickenhouse, and in winter in the anteroom of the bathhouse; in the

bitter frosts he spent the night in the hayloft. The houseserfs had grown used to seeing him; sometimes they

gave him a kick, but no one ever addressed a remark to him; as for him, he seems never to have opened his

lips from the time of his birth. After the conflagration, this forsaken creature sought a refuge at the gardener

Mitrofan's. The gardener left him alone; he did not say "Live with me," but he did not drive him away. And

Styopushka did not live at the gardener's; his abode was the garden. He moved and walked about quite

noiselessly; he sneezed and coughed behind his hand, not without apprehension; he was for ever busy and

going stealthily to and fro like an ant; and all to get food simply food to eat. And indeed, if he had not

toiled from morning till night for his living, our poor friend would certainly have died of hunger. It's a sad lot

not to know in the morning what you will find to eat before night! Sometimes Styopushka sits under the

hedge and gnaws a radish, or sucks a carrot, or shreds up some dirty cabbagestalks; or he drags a bucket of

water along, for some object or other, groaning as he goes; or he lights a fire under a small pot and throws in

some little black scraps which he takes from out of the bosom of his coat; or he is hammering in his little

wooden dendriving in a nail, putting up a shelf for bread. And all this he does silently, as though on the

sly: before you can look round, he's in hiding again. Sometimes he suddenly disappears for a couple of days;

but of course no one notices his absence. . . . Then, lo and behold! he is there again, somewhere under the

hedge, stealthily kindling a fire of sticks under a kettle. He had a small face, yellowish eyes, hair coming

down to his eyebrows, a sharp nose, large transparent ears, like a bat's, and a beard that looked as if it were a

fortnight's growth, and never grew more nor less. This, then, was Styopushka, whom I met on the bank of the

I went up, wished them good day, and set down beside them. Styopushka's companion, too, I

recognized as an acquaintance; he was a freed serf of Count Pyotr Ilyich X., one Mikhailo Savelich,

nicknamed Tuman (i.e., fog). He lived with a consumptive Bolkhov townsman, who kept an inn, where I had

several times stayed. Young officials and other persons of leisure travelling on the Orel highroad (merchants,

buried in their striped rugs, have other things to do) may still see at no great distance from the large village of

Troitskoye, and almost on the highroad, an immense twostoried wooden house, completely deserted, with

its roof falling in and its windows boarded up. At midday in bright, sunny weather nothing can be imagined

more melancholy than this ruin. Here there once lived Count Pyotr Ilyich, a rich grandee of the olden time,

renowned for his hospitality. At one time the whole province used to meet at his house, to dance and make

merry to their heart's content to the deafening sound of a hometrained orchestra, and the popping of rockets

and Roman candles; and doubtless more than one aged lady sighs as she drives by the deserted palace of the

boyar and recalls the old days and her vanished youth. The count long continued to give balls. and to walk

about with an affable smile among the crowd of fawning guests; but his property, unluckily, was not enough

to last his whole life. When he was entirely ruined, he set off to Petersburg to try for a post for himself, and

died in a room at a hotel, without having gained anything by his efforts. Tuman had been a steward of his,

and had received his freedom already in the count's lifetime. He was a man of about seventy, with a regular

and pleasant face. He was almost continually smiling, as only men of the time of Catherine ever do smilea

smile at once stately and indulgent; in speaking, he slowly opened and closed his lips, winked genially with

his eyes, and spoke slightly through his nose. He blew his nose and took snuff, too, in a leisurely fashion, as

"Here, if you will deign to look in the basket: I have caught two perch and five roaches. . . . Show

"But there are not many bites," remarked Tuman; "it's so fearfully hot; the fish are all tired out

under the bushes; they're asleep. Put on a worm, Styopushka." (Styopushka took out a worm, laid it on his

open hand, struck it two or three times, put it on the hook, spat on it, and gave it to Tuman.) "Thanks,

Styopushka. . . . And you, your honour," he continued, turning to me, "are pleased to be out hunting?"

The old man liked to show off on occasion, as though he would say, "I, too, have lived in the

"That's just it; one man is devoted to dogs, and another doesn't want them for anything. According

to my simple notions, I fancy dogs should be kept rather for appearance's sake. . . and all should be in style,

too; horses, too, should be in style, and huntsmen in style, as they ought to be, and all. The late countGod's

grace be with him!was never, I must own, much of a hunter; but he kept dogs, and twice a year he was

pleased to go out with them. The huntsmen assembled in the courtyard, in red caftans trimmed with galloon,

and blew their horns; his excellency would be pleased to come out, and his excellency's horse would be led

up; his excellency would mount, and the chief huntsman puts his feet in the stirrups, takes his hat off, and

puts the reins in his hat to offer them to his excellency. His excellency is pleased to click his whip like this,

and the huntsmen give a shout, and off they go out of the gate away. A huntsman rides behind the count, and

holds in a silken leash two of the master's favourite dogs, and looks after them well, you may fancy. . . . And

he, too, this huntsman, sits up high, on a Cossack saddle; such a redcheeked fellow he was, and rolled his

eyes like this. . . . And there were guests too, you may be sure, on such occasions, and entertainment, and

ceremonies observed. . . . Ah, he's got away, the rascal!" he interrupted himself suddenly, drawing in his line.

"He was a great gentleman, as is well known. At times the persons of the first rank, one may say,

at Petersburg, used to visit him. With blue ribbons on their breasts they used to sit down to table and eat.

Well, he knew how to entertain them. He called me sometimes. 'Tuman,' says he, 'I want by tomorrow some

live sturgeon; see there are some, do you hear?' 'Yes, your excellency.' Embroidered coats, wigs, canes,

perfumes, EaudeCologne of the best sort, snuffboxes, huge pictures: he would order them all from Paris

itself! When he gave a banquet, God Almighty, Lord of my being! there were fireworks, and carriages

driving up! They even fired off the cannon. The orchestra alone consisted of forty men. He kept a German as

conductor of the band, but the German gave himself dreadful airs; he wanted to eat at the same table as the

masters; so his excellency gave orders to get rid of him! 'My musicians,' says he, 'can do their work even

without a conductor.' Of course he was master. Then they would fall to dancing, and dance till morning,

especially at the �cossaise matradur. . . Ahahthere's one caught!" (The old man drew a small perch out

of the water.) "Here you are, Styopushka! The master was all a master should be," continued the old man,

dropping his line in again, "and he had a kind heart, too. He would give you a blow at times, and before you

could look round, he'd forgotten it already. There was only one thing: he kept mistresses. Ugh, those

mistresses! God forgive them! They were the ruin of him, too; and yet, you know, he took them most

generally from a low station. You would fancy they would not want much? Not a bitthey must have

everything of the most expensive in all Europe! One may say, 'Why shouldn't he live as he likes; it's the

master's business' . . . but there was no need to ruin himself. There was one especially; Akulina was her name.

She is dead now; God rest her soul! the daughter of the constable at Sitovo; and such a vixen! She would slap

the count's face sometimes. She simply bewitched him. My nephew she sent for a soldier; he spilt some

chocolate on a new dress of hers . . . and he wasn't the only one she served so. Ah, well, those were good

times, though!" added the old man with a deep sigh. His head drooped forward and he was silent.

We were sitting in the shade; but even in the shade it was stifling. The sultry atmosphere was faint

and heavy; one lifted one's burning face uneasily, seeking a breath of wind; but there was no wind. The sun

beat down from blue and darkening skies; right opposite us, on the other bank, was a yellow field of oats,

overgrown here and there with wormwood; not one ear of the oats quivered. A little lower down a peasant's

horse stood in the river up to its knees and slowly shook its wet tail; from time to time, under an overhanging

bush, a large fish floated up, bringing bubbles to the surface, and gently sank down to the bottom, leaving a

slight ripple behind it. The grasshoppers chirped in the scorched grass; the quail's cry sounded languid and

reluctant; hawks sailed smoothly over the meadows, often resting in the same spot, rapidly fluttering their

wings and opening their tails into a fan. We sat motionless, overpowered with the heat. Suddenly there was a

sound behind us in the creek; someone was coming down to the spring. I looked round and saw a peasant of

about fifty, covered with dust, in a smock, and wearing bast shoes; he carried a wickerwork pannier and a

cloak on his shoulders. He went down to the spring, drank thirstily, and got up.

"Ah, Vlas!" cried Tuman, staring at him; "good health to you, friend! Where has God sent you

"Good health to you, Mikhailo Savelich!" said the peasant, coming nearer to us; "from a long way

"Oh, to lessen my rent, or to let me work it out in labour, or to put me on another piece of land, or

"He is dead. My son," added the peasant, after a pause, "lived in Moscow as a cabman; he paid, I

"What did the master say! He drove me away! Says he, 'How dare you come straight to me; there

is a bailiff for such things. You ought first,' says he, 'to apply to the bailiff . . . and where am I to put you on

other land? You first,' says he, 'bring the debt you owe. He was angry altogether."

"I came back. I wanted to find out if my son had not left any goods of his own, but I couldn't get a

straight answer. I say to his employer, 'I am Philip's father'; and he says, 'What do I know about that? And

The peasant related all this with a smile, as though he were speaking of someone else; but tears

"Where can I go? Of course I'm going home. My wife, I suppose, is pretty well starved by now."

"You should, then. . ." Styopushka said suddenly. He grew confused, was silent, and began to

"And shall you go to the bailiff?" continued Tuman, looking with some amazement. at Styopushka.

"What should I go to him for?I'm in arrears as it is. My son was ill for a year before his death;

he could not pay even his own rent. But it can't hurt me; they can get nothing from me. . . . Yes, my friend,

you can be as cunning as you pleaseI'm cleaned out!" (The peasant began to laugh.) "Kintilyan

"Sad! No!" (Vlas's voice broke.) "How hot it is!" he went on, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"The son of Pyotr Ilyich," replied Tuman. "Pyotr Ilyich gave him Vlas's village in his lifetime."

"He is well, thank God!" replied Vlas. "He has grown so red, and his face looks as though it were

"You see, your honour," continued Tuman, turning to me, "it would be very well near Moscow, but

"There, you see; and it's the least bit of land; all there is is the master's forest."

"There, you see. Styopushka, give me a worm. Why, Styopushka, are you asleepeh?"

Styopushka started. The peasant sat down by us. We sank into silence again. On the other bank

someone was singing a songbut such a mournful one. Our poor Vlas grew deeply dejected.

ONE DAY in autumn on my way back from a remote part of the country I caught cold and fell ill.

Fortunately the fever attacked me in the district town at the inn; I sent for the doctor. In half an hour the

district doctor appeared, a thin, darkhaired man of middle height. He prescribed me the usual sudorific,

ordered a mustardplaster to be put on, very deftly slid a fiveruble note down the cuff of his sleeve,

coughing drily and looking away as he did so, and then was getting up to go home, but somehow fell into talk

and remained. I was exhausted with feverishness; I foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little chat

with a pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began to converse freely. He was a sensible fellow,

and expressed himself with vigour and some humour. Queer things happen in the world: you may live a long

while with some people, and be on friendly terms with them, and never once speak openly with them from

your soul; with others you have scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you are pouring out to

himor he to youall your secrets, as though you were at confession. I don't know how I gained the

confidence of my new friendanyway, with nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather curious incident;

and here I will report his tale for the information of the indulgent reader. I will try to tell it in the doctor's own

"You don't happen to know," he began in a weak and quavering voice (the common result of the

use of unmixed Berezov snuff); "you don't happen to know the judge here, Milov, Pavel Lukich? You don't

know him? Well, it's all the same." (He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.) "Well, you see, the thing

happened, to tell you exactly without mistake, in Lent, at the very time of the thaws. I was sitting at his

houseour judge's, you knowplaying preference. Our judge is a good fellow, and fond of playing

preference. Suddenly" (the doctor made frequent use of this word) "they tell me, 'There's a servant asking for

you.' I say, 'What does he want?' They say, 'He has brought a noteit must be from a patient.' 'Give me the

note,' I say. So it is from a patientwell and goodyou understandit's our bread and butter. . . . But this

is how it was: a lady, a widow, writes to me; she says, 'My daughter is dying. Come, for God's sake!' she

says; 'and the horses have been sent for you.' . . . Well, that's all right. But she lived twenty versts from the

town, and it was midnight out of doors, and the roads in such a state, my word! And as she was poor herself,

one could not expect more than two rubles, and even that problematic; and perhaps it might only be a matter

of a roll of linen and some groats in payment. However, duty, you know, before everything: a

fellowcreature may be dying. I hand over my cards at once to Kalliopin, the member of the provincial

commission, and return home. I look; a wretched little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant's horses,

fattoo fatand their coats as shaggy as felt; and the coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. Well,

I think to myself, 'It's clear, my friend, these patients aren't eating off gold plate.' . . . You smile; but I tell you,

a poor man like me has to take everything into consideration. . . . If the coachman sits like a prince, and

doesn't touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind his beard, and flicks his whipthen you may bet on six

rubles. But this case, I saw, had a very different air. However, I think there's no help for it; duty before

everything. I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off. Will you believe it? I only just managed to get

there at all. The road was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, and the dyke had suddenly burst there that

was the worst of it! However, I arrived at last. It was a little thatched house. There was a light in the

windows; that meant they expected me. I was met by an old lady, very venerable, in a cap. 'Save her!' she

says; 'she is dying.' I say, 'Pray don't distress yourself. Where is the invalid?' 'Come this way.' I see a clean

little room, a lamp in the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious. She was in a burning heat, and

breathing heavilyit was fever. There were other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears. 'Yesterday,' they tell

me, 'she was perfectly well and had a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, and this

evening, suddenly, you see, like this.' I say again, 'Pray don't be uneasy.' It's a doctor's duty, you knowand

I went up to her and bled her, told them to put on a mustardplaster, and prescribed a mixture. Meantime I

looked at her; I looked at her, you knowthere, by God! I had never seen such a face! she was a beauty,

in a word! I felt quite shaken with pity. Such lovely features; such eyes!. . . But, thank God! she became

easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come to her senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand

over her face. . . . Her sisters bent over her. They ask, 'How are you?' 'All right,' she says, and turns away. I

looked at her: she had fallen asleep. 'Well,' I say, 'now the patient should be left alone.' So we all went out on

tiptoe; only a maid remained, in case she was wanted. In the parlour there was a samovar standing on the

table, and a bottle of rum; in our profession one can't get on without it. They gave me tea; asked me to stop

the night. . . . I consented: where could I go, indeed, at that time of night? The old lady kept groaning. 'What

is it?' I say; 'she will live; don't worry yourself; you had better take a little rest yourself; it is about two

o'clock.' 'But will you send to wake me if anything happens?' 'Yes, yes.' The old lady went away, and the

girls, too, went to their own room; they made up a bed for me in the parlour. Well, I went to bedbut I could

not get to sleep, for a wonder! for in reality I was very tired. I could not get my patient out of my head. At last

I could not put up with it any longer! I got up suddenly; I think to myself, 'I will go and see how the patient is

getting on.' Her bedroom was next to the parlour. Well, I got up and gently opened the doorhow my heart

beat! I looked in: the servant was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even snoring, the wretch! but the patient

lay with her face towards me, and her arms flung wide apart, poor girl! I went up to her. . . when suddenly

she opened her eyes and stared at me! 'Who is it? Who is it?' I was in confusion. 'Don't be alarmed,

mademoiselle,' I say; 'I am the doctor; I have come to see how you feel.' 'You the doctor?' 'Yes, the doctor;

your mother sent for me to the town; we have bled you, mademoiselle; now pray go to sleep, and in a day or

two, please God! we will set you on your feet again.' 'Ah, yes, yes, doctor, don't let me die. . . please, please.'

'Why do you talk like that? God bless you!' She is in a fever again, I think to myself; I felt her pulse; yes, she

was feverish. She looked at me, and then took me by the hand. 'I will tell you why I don't want to die; I will

tell you. . . . Now we are alone; and only please don't you. . . not to anyone. . . . Listen. . . .' I bent down; she

moved her lips quite to my ear; she touched my cheek with her hairI confess my head went roundand

began to whisper. . . . I could make out nothing of it. . . . Ah, she was delirious!. . . She whispered and

whispered, but so quickly, and as if it were not in Russian; at last she finished, and shivering dropped her

head on the pillow, and threatened me with her finger. 'Remember, doctor, to no one.' I calmed her somehow,

At this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated energy, and for a moment was silent and

"However," he continued, "the next day, contrary to my expectations, the patient was no better. I

thought and thought, and suddenly decided to remain there, even though my other patients were expecting

me. . . . And you know one can't afford to neglect that; one's practice suffers if one does. But, in the first

place, the patient was really in danger; and secondly, to tell the truth, I felt strongly drawn to her. Besides, I

liked the whole family. Though they were really badly off, they were singularly, I may say, cultivated people.

. . . Their father had been a learned man, an author; he died, of course, in poverty, but he had managed before

he died to give his children an excellent education; he left a lot of books too. Either because I looked after the

invalid very carefully, or for some other reason; anyway, I can venture to say all the household loved me as if

I were one of the family. Meantime the roads were in a worse state than ever; all communications, so to say,

were cut off completely; even medicine could with difficulty be got from the town. The sick girl was not

getting better. Day after day, and day after day . . . but . . . here. . . ." (The doctor made a brief pause.) "I

declare I don't know how to tell you. . . ." (He again took snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little tea.) "I will

tell you without beating about the bush. My patient . . . how should I say?. . . Well, she had fallen in love with

me . . . or, no, it was not that she was in love . . . however. . . really, how should one say?" (The doctor looked

down and grew red.) "No," he went on quickly, "in love, indeed! A man should not overestimate himself.

She was an educated girl, clever and wellread, and I had even forgotten my Latin, one may say, completely.

As to appearance" (the doctor looked himself over with a smile), "I am nothing to boast of there either. But

God Almighty did not make me a fool; I don't take black for white; I know a thing or two; I could see very

clearly, for instance, that Alexandra Andreyevnathat was her namedid not feel love for me, but had a

friendly, so to say, inclinationa respect or something for me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this

sentiment, anyway this was her attitude; you may form your own judgement of it. But," added the doctor,

who had brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking breath, and with obvious

embarrassment, "I seem to be wandering ratheryou won't understand anything like this. . . . There, with

"Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. You are not a doctor, my good sir; you

cannot understand what passes in a doctor's heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that the

disease is getting the upper hand of him. What becomes of his belief in himself? You suddenly grow so timid;

it's indescribable. You fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the patient has no

faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symptoms with

reluctance; that they are looking at you suspiciously, whispering. . . . Ah! it's horrid! There must be a remedy,

you think, for this disease, if one could find it. Isn't this it? You tryno, that's not it! You don't allow the

medicine the necessary time to do good. . . . You clutch at one thing, then at another. Sometimes you take up

a book of medical prescriptionshere it is, you think! Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance,

thinking to leave it to fate. . . . But meantime a fellowcreature's dying, and another doctor would have saved

him. 'We must have a consultation,' you say; 'I will not take the responsibility on myself.' And what a fool

you look at such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it's nothing to you. A human being has diedbut

it's not your fault; you treated him by the rules. But what's still more torture to you is to see blind faith in you,

and to feel yourself that you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just this blind faith that the whole of

Alexandra Andreyevna's family had in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was in danger. I,

too, on my side assure them that it's nothing, but meantime my heart sinks into my boots. To add to our

troubles, the roads were in such a state that the coachman was gone for whole days together to get medicine.

And I never left the patient's room; I could not tear myself away; I tell her amusing stories, you know, and

play cards with her. I watch by her side at night. The old mother thanks me with tears in her eyes; but I think

to myself, 'I don't deserve your gratitude.' I frankly confess to youthere is no object in concealing it

nowI was in love with my patient. And Alexandra Andreyevna had grown fond of me; she would not

sometimes let anyone be in her room but me. She began to talk to me, to ask me questions: where I had

studied, how I lived, who are my people, whom I go to see. I feel that she ought not to talk; but to forbid her

toto forbid her resolutely, you knowI could not. Sometimes I held my head in my hands, and asked

myself, 'What are you doing, you brute?' And she would take my hand and hold it, give me a long, long look,

and turn away, sigh, and say, 'How good you are!' Her hands were so feverish, her eyes so large and languid. .

. . 'Yes,' she says, 'you are a good, kind man; you are not like our neighbours. No, you are not like that. Why

did I not know you till now!' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, calm yourself,' I say. 'I feel, believe me. . . . I don't

know how I have gained . . . but there, calm yourself. All will be right; you will be well again.' And

meanwhile I must tell you," continued the doctor, bending forward and raising his eyebrows, "that they

associated very little with the neighbours, because the smaller people were not on their level, and pride

hindered them from being friendly with the rich. I tell you, they were an exceptionally cultivated family; so

you know it was gratifying for me. She would only take her medicine from my hands. She would lift herself

up, poor girl, with my aid, take it, and gaze at me. . . . My heart felt as if it were bursting. And meanwhile she

was growing worse and worse, worse and worse, all the time; she will die, I think to myself; she must die.

Believe me, I would sooner have gone to the grave myself; and here were her mother and sisters watching

me, looking into my eyes. . . and their faith in me was wearing away. 'Well? how is she?' 'Oh, all right, all

right!' All right, indeed! My mind was failing me. Well, I was sitting one night alone again by my patient.

The maid was sitting there too and snoring away in full swing; I can't find fault with the poor girl, though; she

was worn out, too. Alexandra Andreyevna had felt very unwell all the evening; she was very feverish. Until

midnight she kept tossing about; at last she seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without stirring. The

lamp was burning in the corner before the holy image. I sat there, you know, with my head bent; I even dozed

a little. Suddenly it seemed as though someone touched me in the side; I turned round. . . . Good God!

Alexandra Andreyevna was gazing with intent eyes at me . . . her lips parted, her cheeks seemed burning.

'What is it?' 'Doctor, shall I die?' 'Merciful Heavens!' 'No, doctor, no; please don't tell me I shall live . . . don't

say so. . . If you knew. . . . Listen! for God's sake don't conceal my real position,' and her breath came so fast.

'If I can know for certain that I must die. . . then I will tell you allall!' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, I beg you!'

'Listen; I have not been asleep at all. I have been looking at you a long while. For God's sake!. . . I believe in

you; you are a good man, an honest man; I entreat you by all that is sacred in the worldtell me the truth! If

you knew how important it is for me. . . . Doctor, for God's sake tell me. . . . Am I in danger?' 'What can I tell

you, Alexandra Andreyevna, pray?' 'For God's sake, I beseech you!' 'I can't disguise from you,' I say,

'Alexandra Andreyevna: you are certainly in danger; but God is merciful.' 'I shall die, I shall die.' And it

seemed as though she were pleased; her face grew so bright; I was alarmed. 'Don't be afraid, don't be afraid! I

am not frightened of death at all.' She suddenly sat up and leaned on her elbow. 'Now. . . yes, now I can tell

you that I thank you with my whole heart. . . that you are kind and good that I love you!' I stare at her, like

one possessed; it was terrible for me, you know. 'Do you hear, I love you!' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, how have

I deserved' 'No, no, you don'tyou don't understand me!' And suddenly she stretched out her arms, and

taking my head in her hands, she kissed it. Believe me, I almost screamed aloud. I threw myself on my knees,

and buried my head in the pillow. She did not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; I listen; she is weeping.

I began to soothe her, to assure her. . . . I really don't know what I did say to her. 'You will wake up the girl,' I

say to her; 'Alexandra Andreyevna, I thank you . . . believe me . . . calm yourself.' 'Enough, enough!' she

persisted; 'never mind all of them; let them wake, then; let them come init does not matter; I am dying, you

see. . . . And what do you fear? why are you afraid? Lift up your head. Or, perhaps, you don't love me;

perhaps I am wrong. In that case, forgive me.' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, what are you saying!. . . I love you,

Alexandra Andreyevna.' She looked straight into my eyes and opened her arms wide. 'Then take me in your

arms.' I tell you frankly, I don't know how it was I did not go mad that night. I feel that my patient is killing

herself; I see that she is not fully herself; I understand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point of

death, she would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say what you will, it's hard to die at twenty without

having known love; this was what was torturing her; this was why, in despair, she caught at medo you

understand now? But she held me in her arms and would not let me go. 'Have pity on me, Alexandra

Andreyevna, and have pity on yourself,' I say. 'Why,' she says; 'what is there to think of? You know I must

die.' This she repeated incessantly. 'If I knew that I should return to life, and be a proper young lady again, I

should be ashamed . . . of course, ashamed . . . but why now?' 'But who has said you will die?' 'Oh, no, leave

off! you will not deceive me; you don't know how to lielook at your face.' 'You shall live, Alexandra

Andreyevna; I will cure you; we will ask your mother's blessing . . . we will be unitedwe will be happy.'

'No, no, I have your word; I must die . . . you have promised me . . . you have told me.' It was cruel for

mecruel for many reasons. And see what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at all, but it's

painful. It occurred to her to ask me what is my name; not my surname, but my first name. I must needs be so

unlucky as to be called Trifon. Yes, indeed; Trifon Ivanich. Every one in the house called me doctor.

However, there's no help for it. I say, 'Trifon, mademoiselle.' She frowned, shook her head, and muttered

something in Frenchah, something unpleasant, of course!and then she laugheddisagreeably, too.

Well, I spent the whole night with her in this way. Before morning I went away, feeling as though I were

mad. When I went again into her room it was daytime, after morning tea. Good God! I could scarcely

recognize her; people are laid in their grave looking better than that. I swear to you, on my honour, I don't

understandI absolutely don't understandnow, how I lived through that experience. Three days and nights

my patient still lingered on. And what nights! What things she said to me! And on the last nightonly

imagine to yourselfI was sitting near her and kept praying to God for one thing only: 'Take her,' I said,

'quickly, and me with her.' Suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly into the room. I had already the

evening before told herthe motherthere was little hope, and it would be well to send for a priest. When

the sick girl saw her mother she said, 'It's very well you have come; look at us, we love one anotherwe

have given each other our word.' 'What does she say, doctor? what does she say?' I turned livid. 'She is

wandering,' I say; 'the fever.' But she: 'Hush, hush; you told me something quite different just now, and have

taken my ring. Why do you pretend? My mother is goodshe will forgiveshe will understandand I am

dying. I have no need to tell lies; give me your hand.' I jumped up and ran out of the room. The old lady, of

"I will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me, too, of course, it's painful to recall all this.

My patient passed away the next day. God rest her soul!" the doctor added, speaking quickly and with a sigh.

" 'Forgive me,' she said; 'I am perhaps to blame towards you . . . my illness . . . but believe me, I

"Ah!" he said, "let us talk of something else, or would you care to play preference for a small

stake? It is not for people like me to give way to exalted emotions. There's only one thing for me to think of:

how to keep the children from crying and the wife from scolding. Since then, you know, I have had time to

enter into lawful wedlock, as they say. Yes; I took a merchant's daughterseven thousand for her dowry.

Her name's Akulina; it goes well with Trifon. She is an illtempered woman, I must tell you, but luckily she's

We sat down to preference for kopek points. Trifon Ivanich won two rubles and a half from me

FOR THE AUTUMN, W.s often take refuge in old gardens of limetrees. There are a good

many such gardens among us, in the province of Orel. Our forefathers, when they selected a place for

habitation, invariably marked out two acres of good ground for an orchard, with avenues of limetrees.

Within the last fifty, or seventy years at most, these mansions"noblemen's nests," as they call themhave

gradually disappeared off the face of the earth; the houses are falling to pieces, or have been sold for the

building materials; the stone outbuildings have become piles of rubble; the appletrees are dead and turned

into firewood, the hedges and fences are pulled up. Only the limetrees grow in all their glory as before, and

with ploughed fields all round them, tell a tale to this lighthearted generation of "our fathers and brothers

A magnificent tree is such an old limetree. Even the merciless axe of the Russian peasant spares

it. Its leaves are small, its powerful limbs spread wide in all directions; there is perpetual shade under them.

Once, as I was wandering about the fields after partridges with Yermolai, I saw some way off a deserted

garden, and turned into it. I had hardly crossed its borders when a snipe rose up out of a bush with a clatter. I

fired my gun, and at the same instant, a few paces from me, I heard a shriek; the frightened face of a young

girl peeped out for a second from behind the trees, and instantly disappeared. Yermolai ran up to me. "Why

Before I had time to answer him, before my dog had had time to bring me, with dignified

importance, the bird I had shot, swift footsteps were heard, and a tall man with moustaches came out of the

thicket and stopped, with an air of displeasure, before me. I made my apologies as best I could, gave him my

"Very well," he said to me with a smile; "I will take your game, but only on one condition: that

I must confess I was not greatly delighted at his proposition, but it was impossible to refuse.

"I am a landowner here, and your neighbour, Radilov; perhaps you have heard of me?" continued

my new acquaintance; "today is Sunday, and we shall be sure to have a decent dinner, otherwise I would not

I made such a reply as one does make in such circumstances, and turned to follow him. A little

path that had lately been cleared soon led us out of the grove of limetrees; we came into the kitchengarden.

Between the old appletrees and thick gooseberry bushes were rows of curly whitishgreen cabbages; the

hop twined its tendrils round high poles; there were thick ranks of brown twigs tangled over with dried peas;

large flat pumpkins seemed rolling on the ground; cucumbers showed yellow under their dusty angular

leaves; tall nettles were waving along the hedge; in two or three places grew clumps of Tartar honeysuckle,

elder, and wild rosethe remnants of former flowerbeds. Near a small fishpond, full of reddish and slimy

water, we saw the well, surrounded by puddles. Ducks were busily splashing and waddling about these

puddles; a dog blinking and twitching in every limb was gnawing a bone in the meadow, where a piebald cow

was lazily chewing the grass, from time to time flicking its tail over its lean back. The little path turned to one

side; from behind thick willows and birches we caught sight of a little grey old house, with a boarded roof

"But," he said, with a goodhumoured and direct look in my face, "on second thoughts . . . perhaps

I did not allow him to finish, but assured him that, on the contrary, it would be a great pleasure to

We went into the house. A young man in a long coat of stout blue cloth met us on the steps.

Radilov at once told him to bring Yermolai some vodka; my huntsman made a respectful bow to the back of

the munificent host. From the hall, which was decorated with various particoloured pictures and bird cages,

we went into a small roomRadilov's study. I took off my hunting accoutrements, and put my gun in a

"Well, now let us go into the drawingroom," said Radilov cordially. "I will make you acquainted

I walked after him. In the drawingroom, on the sofa in the centre, was sitting an old lady of

medium height, in a cinnamoncoloured dress and a white cap, with a thinnish, kind old face, and a timid,

The old lady got up and made me a bow, not letting go out of her withered hands a fat worsted

"Have you been long in our neighbourhood?" she asked in a weak and gentle voice, blinking her

"And here," interposed Radilov, indicating to me a tall and thin man, whom I had not noticed on

entering the drawingroom, "is Fyodor Mikheich. . . . Come, Fyodor, give the visitor a specimen of your art.

Fyodor Mikheich got up at once from his chair, fetched a wretched little fiddle from the window,

took the bow not by the end, as is usual, but by the middleput the fiddle to his chest, shut his eyes, and

fell to dancing, singing a song, and scraping on the strings. He looked about seventy; a thin nankin overcoat

flapped pathetically about his dry and bony limbs. He danced, at times skipping boldly, and then dropping his

little bald head with his scraggy neck stretched out, stamping his feet on the ground, and sometimes bending

his knees with obvious difficulty. A voice cracked with age came from his toothless mouth.

Radilov must have guessed from the expression of my face that Fyodor's "art" did not give me

Fyodor Mikheich at once laid down the fiddle on the windowsill, bowed first to me as the guest,

"He, too, was a landowner," my new friend continued, "and a rich one, too, but he ruined

himselfso he lives now with me. But in his day he was considered the most dashing fellow in the province;

he eloped with two married ladies; he used to keep singers, and sang himself, and danced like a master. . . .

A young girl, the same that I had caught a glimpse of in the garden, came into the room.

"And here is Olga!" observed Radilov, slightly turning his head; "let me present you. . . . Well, let

We went in and sat down to the table. While we were coming out of the drawingroom and taking

our seats, Fyodor Mikheich, whose eyes were bright and nose rather red after his "reward," sang Raise the

Cry of Victory. They laid a separate cover for him in a corner on a little table without a tablenapkin. The

poor old man could not boast of very nice habits, and so they always kept him at some distance from society.

He crossed himself, sighed, and began to eat like a shark. The dinner was in reality not bad, and in honour of

Sunday was accompanied, of course, with shaking jelly and Spanish puffs of pastry. At the table Radilov,

who had served ten years in an infantry regiment and had been in Turkey, fell to telling anecdotes; I listened

to him with attention, and secretly watched Olga. She was not very pretty; but the tranquil and resolute

expression of her face, her broad, white brow, her thick hair, and especially her brown eyesnot large, but

clear, sensible and lively would have made an impression on anyone in my place. She seemed to be

following every word Radilov utterednot so much sympathy as passionate attention was expressed on her

face. Radilov in years might have been her father; he called her by her Christian name, but I guessed at once

that she was not his daughter. In the course of conversation he referred to his deceased wife "her sister," he

added, indicating Olga. She blushed quickly and dropped her eyes. Radilov paused a moment and then

changed the subject. The old lady did not utter a word during the whole of dinner; she ate scarcely anything

herself, and did not press me to partake. Her features had an air of timorous and hopeless expectation, that

melancholy of old age which it pierces one's heart to look upon. At the end of dinner Fyodor Mikheich was

beginning to "celebrate" the hosts and guests, but Radilov looked at me and asked him to be quiet; the old

man passed his hand over his lips, began to blink, bowed, and sat down again, but only on the very edge of

In people who are constantly and intensely preoccupied with one idea, or one emotion, there is

something in common, a kind of external resemblance in manner, however different may be their qualities,

their abilities, their position in society, and their education. The more I watched Radilov, the more I felt that

he belonged to the class of such people. He talked of husbandry, of the crops, of war, of the gossip of the

district and the approaching elections; he talked without constraint, and even with interest; but suddenly he

would sigh and drop into a chair, and pass his hand over his face, like a man wearied out by a tedious task.

His whole naturea good and warmhearted one, tooseemed saturated through, steeped in some one

feeling. I was amazed by the fact that I could discover in him neither a passion for eating, nor for wine, nor

for sport, nor for Kursk nightingales, nor for epileptic pigeons, nor for Russian literature, nor for

trottinghacks, nor for Hungarian coats, nor for cards, nor billiards, nor for dances, nor trips to the provincial

town or the capital, nor for paper factories and beetsugar refineries, nor for painted pavilions, nor for tea,

nor for tracehorses trained to hold their heads askew, nor even for fat coachmen belted under their very

armpits those magnificent coachmen whose eyes, for some mysterious reason, seem rolling and starting

out of their heads at every movement. . . . "What sort of landlord is this, then?" I thought. At the same time he

did not in the least pose as a gloomy man discontented with his destiny; on the contrary, he seemed full of

indiscriminating goodwill, cordial and even offensive readiness to become intimate with every one he came

across. In reality you felt at the same time that he could not be friends, nor be really intimate with anyone,

and that he could not be so, not because in general he was independent of other people, but because his whole

being was for a time turned inwards upon himself. Looking at Radilov, I could never imagine him happy

either now or at any time. He, too, was not handsome; but in his eyes, his smile, his whole being, there was

something, mysterious and extremely attractiveyes, mysterious is just what it was. So that you felt you

would like to know him better, to get to love him. Of course, at times the landlord and the man of the steppes

We were beginning to talk about the new marshal of the district, when suddenly we heard Olga's

voice at the door: "Tea is ready." We went into the drawingroom. Fyodor Mikheich was sitting as before in

his corner between the little window and the door, his legs curled up under him. Radilov's mother was

knitting a stocking. From the opened windows came a breath of autumn freshness and the scent of apples.

Olga was busy pouring out tea. I looked at her now with more attention than at dinner. Like provincial girls

as a rule, she spoke very little, but at any rate I did not notice in her any of their anxiety to say something

fine, together with their painful consciousness of stupidity and helplessness; she did not sigh as though from

the burden of unutterable emotions, nor cast up her eyes, nor smile vaguely and dreamily. Her look expressed

tranquil selfpossession, as if she were taking breath after great happiness or great excitement. Her carriage

I fell again into conversation with Radilov. I don't recollect what brought us to the familiar

observation that often the most insignificant things produce more effect on people than the most important.

"Yes," Radilov agreed, "I have experienced that in my own case. I, as you know, have been

married. It was not for longthree years; my wife died in childbirth. I thought that I should not survive her;

I was fearfully miserable, broken down, but I could not weepI wandered about like one possessed. They

decked her out, as they always do, and laid her on a tablein this very room. The priest came, the deacons

came, began to sing, to pray, and to burn incense; I bowed to the ground, but did not shed a single tear. My

heart seemed turned to stoneand my head tooI was heavy all over. So passed my first day. Would you

believe it? I even slept in the night. The next morning I went in to look at my wife: it was summertime, the

sunshine fell upon her from head to foot, and it was so bright. Suddenly I saw. . ." (here Radilov gave an

involuntary shudder) "what do you think? One of her eyes was not quite shut, and on this eye a fly was

crawling. . . . I fell down in a heap, and when I came to myself, I began to weep and weep . . . I could not stop

Radilov was silent. I looked at him, then at Olga. . . . I can never forget the expression of her face.

The old lady had laid the stocking down on her knees and taken a handkerchief out of her reticule; she was

stealthily wiping away her tears. Fyodor Mikheich suddenly got up, seized his fiddle, and in a wild and

hoarse voice began to sing a song. He wanted doubtless to restore our spirits; but we all shuddered at his first

"Still what is past, is past," he continued; "we cannot recall the past, and in the end . . . all is for the

"Yes," I replied, "of course. Besides, every trouble can be endured, and there is no position so

"Do you think so?" said Radilov. "Well, perhaps you are right. I recollect I lay once in the hospital

in Turkey half dead; I had typhus fever. Well, our quarters were nothing to boast ofof course, in time of

warand we had to thank God for what we had! Suddenly they bring in more sickwhere are they to put

them? The doctor goes here and therethere is no room left. So he comes up to me and asks the attendant,

'Is he alive?' He answers, 'He was alive this morning.' The doctor bends down, listens; I am breathing. The

good man could not help saying, 'Well, what an absurd constitution; the man's dying; he's certain to die, and

he keeps hanging on, lingering, taking up space for nothing, and keeping out others.' Well, I thought to

myself, 'So you're in a bad way, Mikhail Mikhalich. . . .' And, after all, I got well, and am alive till now, as

"In any case I am right," I replied; "even if you had died, you would just the same have escaped

"Of course, of course," he added, with a violent blow of his fist on the table. "One has only to

come to a decision. . . . What is the use of being in a horrible position?. . . What is the good of delaying,

Fyodor jumped up and walked about the room with that artificial and peculiar motion which is

affected by the man who plays the part of a goat with a tame bear. He sang meanwhile, "At our gates. . . ."

The rattle of a racing droshky sounded in the drive, and in a few minutes a tall, broadshouldered

But Ovsyanikov is such a remarkable and original personage that, with the reader's permission, we

will put off speaking about him till the next sketch. And now I will only add for myself that the next day I

started off hunting at earliest dawn with Yermolai, and returned home after the day's sport was over . . . that a

week later I went again to Radilov's, but did not find him or Olga at home, and within a fortnight I learned

that he had suddenly disappeared, left his mother, and gone away somewhere with his sisterinlaw. The

whole province was excited, and talked about this event, and I only then completely understood the

expression of Olga's face while Radilov was telling us his story. It was breathing not with sympathetic

Before leaving the country I called on old Madame Radilova. I found her in the drawingroom;

PICTURE to yourselves, gentle readers, a stout, tall man of seventy, with a face reminding one

somewhat of the face of Krilov, our writer of fables, clear and intelligent eyes under overhanging brows,

dignified in bearing, slow in speech, and deliberate in movement: there you have Ovsyanikov. He wore an

ample blue overcoat with long sleeves, buttoned all the way up, a lilac silk handkerchief round his neck,

brightly polished boots with tassels, and altogether resembled in appearance a welltodo merchant. His

hands were handsome, soft, and white; he often fumbled with the buttons of his coat as he talked. With his

dignity and his composure, his good sense and his indolence, his uprightness and his obstinacy, Ovsyanikov

reminded me of the Russian boyars of the times before Peter the Great. . . . The national holiday dress would

have suited him well. He was one of the last men left of the old time. All his neighbours had a great respect

for him, and considered it an honour to be acquainted with him. His fellowfreeholders almost worshipped

him, and took off their hats to him from a distance: they were proud of him. Generally speaking, in these

days, it is difficult to tell a freeholder from a peasant; his husbandry is almost worse than the peasant's; his

calves are wretchedly small; his horses are only half alive; his harness is made of rope. Ovsyanikov was an

exception to the general rule, though he did not pass for a wealthy man. He lived alone with his wife in a

clean and comfortable little house, kept a few servants, whom he dressed in the Russian style and called his

"workmen." They were employed also in ploughing his land. He did not attempt to pass for a nobleman, did

not affect to be a landlord; never, as they say, forgot himself; he did not take a seat at the first invitation to do

so, and he never failed to rise from his seat on the entrance of a new guest, but with such dignity, with such

stately courtesy, that the guest involuntarily made him a more deferential bow. Ovsyanikov adhered to the

antique usages, not from superstition (he was naturally rather independent in mind), but from habit. He did

not, for instance, like carriages with springs, because he did not find them comfortable, and preferred to drive

in a racing droshky, or in a pretty little trap with leather cushions, and he always drove his good bay himself

(he kept none but bay horses). His coachman, a young, rosycheeked fellow, his hair cut round, in a

darkblue belted coat and a low sheepskin cap, sat respectfully beside him. Ovsyanikov always had a nap

after dinner and visited the bathhouse on Saturdays; he read none but religious books and used gravely to fix

his round silver spectacles on his nose when he did so; he got up and went to bed early. He shaved his beard,

however, and wore his hair in an outlandish style. He always received visitors cordially and affably, but he

did not bow down to the ground, nor fuss over them and press them to partake of every kind of dried and

salted delicacy. "Wife!" he would say deliberately, not getting up from his seat, but only turning his head a

little in her direction, "bring the gentlemen a little of something to eat." He regarded it as a sin to sell wheat:

it was the gift of God. In the year '40, at the time of the general famine and terrible scarcity, he shared all his

store with the surrounding landlords and peasants; the following year they gratefully repaid their debt to him

in kind. The neighbours often had recourse to Ovsyanikov as arbitrator and mediator between them, and they

almost always acquiesced in his decision, and listened to his advice. Thanks to his intervention, many had

conclusively settled their boundaries. But after two or three tussles with ladylandowners, he announced that

he declined 'all mediation between persons of the feminine gender. He could not bear the flurry and

excitement, the chatter of women and the "fuss." Once his house had somehow got on fire. A workman ran to

him in headlong haste shrieking, "Fire, fire!" "Well, what are you screaming about?" said Ovsyanikov

tranquilly, "give me my cap and my stick." He liked to break in his horses himself. Once a spirited horse he

was training bolted with him down a hillside to a precipice. "Come, there, there, you young colt, you'll kill

yourself!" said Ovsyanikov soothingly to him, and an instant later he flew over the precipice together with the

racing droshky, the boy who was sitting behind, and the horse. Fortunately, the bottom of the ravine was

covered with heaps of sand. No one was injured; only the horse sprained a leg. "Well, you see," continued

Ovsyanikov in a calm voice as he got up from the ground, "I told you so." He had found a wife to match him.

Tatyana Ilyinichna Ovsyanikova was a tall woman, dignified and taciturn, always dressed in a

cinnamoncoloured silk dress. She had a cold air, though none complained of her severity, but, on the

contrary, many poor creatures called her their mother and benefactress. Her regular features, her large dark

eyes, and her delicately cut lips, bore witness even now to her once celebrated beauty. Ovsyanikov had no

I made his acquaintance, as the reader is already aware, at Radilov's, and two days later I went to

see him. I found him at home, sitting in a large leather armchair and reading the Lives of the Saints. A grey

cat was purring on his shoulder. He received me, according to his habit, with stately cordiality. We fell into

"But tell me the truth, Luka Petrovich," I said to him, among other things, "weren't things better of

"In some ways, certainly, things were better, I should say," replied Ovsyanikov "we lived more

easily, there was a greater abundance of everything. All the same, things are better now, and they will be

"No, I have no special reason to praise old times. Here, for instance, though you are a landlord

now, and just as much a landlord as your grandfather was, you have not the same powerand, indeed, you

are not yourself the same kind of man. Some noblemen still oppress us; but, of course, it is impossible to help

that altogether. Where there are mills grinding there will be flour. No; I don't see now what I have

"Well, for instance, I will tell you about your grandfather. He was an overbearing man; he

oppressed us poor folk. You know, perhapsindeed, you surely know your own estatesthat bit of land

that runs from Chepligin to Malininyou have it under oats now. Well, you know, it is oursit is all ours.

Your grandfather took it away from us; he rode by on his horse, pointed to it with his hand, and said, 'My

property,' and took possession of it. My father (God rest his soul!) was a just man; he was a hottempered

man, too; he would not put up with itindeed, who does like to lose his property?and he laid a petition

before the court. But he was alone: the others did not appearthey were afraid. So they reported to your

grandfather that 'Pyotr Ovsyanikov is making a complaint against you that you were pleased to take away his

land.' Your grandfather at once sent his huntsman Baush with a troop of men. . . . Well, they seized my father

and carried him to your estate. I was a little boy at that time; I ran after him barefoot. What happened? They

brought him to your house and flogged him right under your windows. And your grandfather stands on the

balcony and looks on; and your grandmother sits at the window and looks on, too. My father cries out,

'Gracious lady, Marya Vasilyevna, intercede for me! Have mercy on me!' But her only answer was to keep

getting up to have a look at him. So they exacted a promise from my father to give up the land, and bade him

be thankful they let him go alive. So it has remained with you. Go and ask your peasantswhat do they call

the land, indeed? It's called 'The Cudgelled Land,' because it was gained by the cudgel. So you see from that,

I did not know what answer to make Ovsyanikov, and I had not the courage to look him in the

"We had another neighbour who settled amongst us in those days, Komov, Stepan Niktopolionich.

He used to worry my father out of his life; when it wasn't one thing, it was another. He was a drunken fellow,

and fond of treating others; and when he was drunk he would say in French, 'C'est bon,' lick his lips, and then

make the holy images blush. He would send to all the neighbours to ask them to come to him. His horses

stood always in readiness, and if you wouldn't go he would come after you himself at once!. . . And he was

such a strange fellow! In his sober times he was not a liar; but when he was drunk he would begin to relate

how he had three houses in Petersburgone red, with one chimney; another yellow, with two chimneys; and

a third blue, with no chimneys; and three sons (though he had never even been married), one in the infantry,

another in the cavalry, and the third his own master. . . . And he would say that in each house lived one of his

sons; that admirals visited the eldest, and generals the second, and the third only Englishmen! Then he would

get up and say, 'To the health of my eldest son; he is the most dutiful!' and he would begin to weep. Woe to

anyone who refused to drink the toast! 'I'll shoot you!' he would say; 'and I won't let you be buried!. . .' Then

he would jump up and scream, 'Dance, God's people, for your pleasure and my diversion!' Well, then, you

must dance; if you had to die for it, you must dance. He thoroughly worried his serfgirls to death.

Sometimes all night long till morning they would be singing in chorus, and the one who made the most noise

would have a prize. If they began to be tired, he would lay his head down in his hands and begin moaning,

'Ah, poor forsaken orphan that I am! They want to abandon me!' And the stable men would wake the girls up

at once. He took a liking to my father; what was he to do? He almost drove my father into his grave, and

would actually have driven him into it, but (thank Heaven!) he died himself; in one of his drunken fits he fell

off the pigeonhouse. . . . There, that's what our sweet little neighbours were like!"

"Yes, yes," Ovsyanikov assented. "And there is this to be saidin the old days the nobility lived

more sumptuously. I'm not speaking of the real grandees now. I used to see them in Moscow. They say such

"I used to stay there long, very long ago. I am now in my seventythird year; and I went to

"I saw a great many grandees and everyone saw them; they kept open house for the wonder and

admiration of all! Only no one came up to Count Alexei Grigoryevich OrlovChesmensky. I often saw

Alexei Grigoryevich; my uncle was a steward in his service. The count was pleased to live in Shabolovka,

near the Kaluga Gate. He was a grand gentleman! Such stateliness, such gracious condescension you can't

imagine! and it's impossible to describe it. His figure alone was worth something, and his strength, and the

look in his eyes! Till you knew him, you did not dare come near himyou were afraid, overawed indeed; but

directly you came near him he was like sunshine warming you up and making you quite cheerful. He allowed

every man access to him in person, and he was devoted to every kind of sport. He drove himself in races and

outstripped everyone, and he would never get in front at the start, so as not to offend his adversary; he would

not cut it short, but would pass him at the finish; and he was so pleasanthe would soothe his adversary,

praising his horse. He kept tumblerpigeons of a firstrate kind. He would come out into the court, sit down

in an armchair, and order them to let loose the pigeons; and his men would stand all round on the roofs with

guns to keep off the hawks. A large silver basin of water used to be placed at the count's feet, and he looked

at the pigeons reflected in the water. Beggars and poor people were fed in hundreds at his expense; and what

a lot of money he used to give away!. . . When he got angry, it was like a clap of thunder. Everyone was in a

great fright, but there was nothing to weep over; look round a minute after, and he was all smiles again!

When he gave a banquet he made all Moscow drunk!and see what a clever man he was! you know he beat

the Turk. He was fond of wrestling too; strong men used to come from Tula, from Kharkov, from Tambov,

and from everywhere to him. If he threw anyone he would pay him a reward; but if anyone threw him, he

"And once, during my stay at Moscow, he arranged a hunting party such as had never been in

Russia before; he sent invitations to all the hunters in the whole empire, and fixed a day for it, and gave them

three months' notice. They brought with them dogs and grooms; well, it was an army of peoplea regular

army! First they had a banquet in the usual way, and then they set off into the open country. The people

flocked there in thousands! And what do you think?. . . Your grandfather's dog outran them all."

"Milovidka, Milovidka!. . . So the count began to ask him. 'Give me your dog,' says he; 'take what

you like for her.' 'No, count,' he said, 'I am not a tradesman; I've never sold a rag; for honour's sake I am

ready to part with my wife even, but not with Milovidka. I would give myself into bondage first.' And Alexei

Grigoryevich praised him for it. 'I like you for it,' he said. Your grandfather took her back in the coach with

him, and when Milovidka died, he buried her in the garden with music at the burialyes, and put a stone

"Yes, it is always like that: those who can only just keep themselves afloat are the ones to drag

"Why, how comes it you have heard about Milovidka, and not about Baush? He was your

grandfather's chief huntsman and whipperin. Your grandfather was as fond of him as of Milovidka. He was

a desperate fellow, and whatever order your grandfather gave him, he would carry it out in a minutehe'd

have run on to a sword at his bidding. . . . And when he halloed . . . it was something like a tallyho in the

forest. And then he would suddenly turn obstinate, get off his horse, and lie down on the ground . . . and

directly the dogs ceased to hear his voice, it was all over! They would give up the hottest scent, and wouldn't

go on for anything. Ay, ay, your grandfather did get angry! 'Damn me, if I don't hang the scoundrel! I'll turn

him inside out, the antichrist! I'll stuff his heels down his gullet, the cutthroat!' And it ended by his going up

to find out what he wanted; why he wouldn't halloo to the hounds? Usually, on such occasions, Baush asked

for some vodka, drank it up, got on his horse, and began to halloo as lustily as ever again."

"I should have beencertainly, not now; now my time is overbut in my young days. . . . But

you know it was not an easy matter in my position. It's not suitable for people like us to go trailing after

noblemen. Certainly you may find in our class some drinking, goodfornothing fellow who associates with

the gentrybut it's a queer sort of enjoyment. He only brings shame on himself. They mount him on a

wretched stumbling nag, keep knocking his hat off on to the ground and cut at him with a whip, pretending to

whip the horse, and he must laugh at everything, and be a laughingstock for the others. No, I tell you, the

lower your station, the more reserved must be your behaviour, or else you disgrace yourself directly.

"Yes," continued Ovsyanikov with a sigh, "there's many a gallon of water has flowed down to the

sea since I have been living in the world; times are different now. Especially I see a great change in the

nobility. The smaller landlords have all either become officials, or at any rate do not stop here; as for the

larger owners, there's no making them out. I have had experience of themthe larger landlordsin cases of

settling boundaries. And I must tell you, it does my heart good to see them: they are courteous and affable.

Only this is what astonishes me: they have studied all the sciences, they speak so fluently that your heart is

melted, but they don't understand the actual business in hand; they don't even perceive what's their own

interest; some bailiff, a bond servant, drives them just where he pleases. There's KorolyovAlexander

Vladimirovichfor instance; you know him, perhapsisn't he every inch a nobleman? He is handsome,

rich, has studied at the 'versities, and travelled, I think, abroad; he speaks simply and easily, and shakes hands

with us all. You know him?. . . Well, listen then. Last week we assembled at Beryozovka at the summons of

the mediator, Nikifor Ilyich. And the mediator, Nikifor Ilyich, says to us: 'Gentlemen, we must settle the

boundaries; it's disgraceful; our district is behind all the others; we must get to work.' Well, so we got to

work. There followed discussions, disputes, as usual; our attorney began to make objections. But the first to

make an uproar was Porfiry Ovchinnikov. . . . And what had the fellow to make an uproar about?. . . He

hasn't an acre of ground; he is acting as representative of his brother. He bawls, 'No, you shall not impose on

me! no, you shan't drive me to that! give the plans here! give me the surveyor's plans, the Judas's plans here!'

'But what is your claim, then?' 'Oh, you think I'm a fool! Indeed! do you suppose I am going to lay bare my

claim to you offhand? No, let me have the plans herethat's what I want!' And he himself is banging his fist

on the plans all the time. Then he mortally offended Marfa Dmitrievna. She shrieks out, 'How dare you

asperse my reputation?' 'Your reputation,' says he; 'I shouldn't like my chestnut mare to have your reputation.'

They poured him out some Madeira at last, and so quieted him; then others begin to make a row. Alexander

Vladimirovich Korolyov, the dear fellow, sat in a corner nibbling the knob of his cane, and only shook his

head. I felt ashamed; I could hardly sit it out. 'What must he be thinking of us?' I said to myself. When,

behold! Alexander Vladimirovich has got up, and shows signs of wanting to speak. The mediator exerts

himself, says, 'Gentlemen, gentlemen, Alexander Vladimirovich wishes to speak.' And I must do them this

credit: they were all silent at once. And so Alexander Vladimirovich began and said 'that we seemed to have

forgotten what we had come together for; that, indeed, the fixing of boundaries was indisputably

advantageous for owners of land, but actually what was its object? To make things easier for the peasant, so

that he could work and pay his dues more conveniently; that now the peasant hardly knows his own land, and

often goes to work five miles away; and one can't expect too much of him.' Then Alexander Vladimirovich

said 'that it was disgraceful in a landowner not to interest himself in the wellbeing of his peasants; that in the

end, if you look at it rightly, their interests and our interests are inseparable; if they are well off we are well

off, and if they do badly we do badly, and that, consequently, it was injudicious and wrong to disagree over

trifles'. . . and so onand so on. . . . There, how he did speak! He seemed to go right to your heart. . . . All

the gentry hung their heads; I myself, faith, it nearly brought me to tears. To tell the truth, you would not find

sayings like that in the old books even. . . . But what was the end of it? He himself would not give up four

acres of peat marsh, and wasn't willing to sell it. He said, 'I am going to have my people drain that marsh, and

set up a cloth factory on it, with all the latest improvements. I have already,' he said, 'fixed on that place; I

have thought out my plans on the subject.' And if only that had been the truth, it would be all very well; but

the simple fact is, Alexander Vladimirovich's neighbour, Anton Karasikov, had refused to buy over

Korolyov's bailiff for a hundred rubles. And so we separated without having done anything. But Alexander

Vladimirovich considers to this day that he is right, and still talks of the cloth factory; but he does not start

"He is always introducing new ways. The peasants don't speak well of himbut it's useless to

"Ithat's another thing. You see I am not a nobleman or a landlord. What sort of management is

mine?. . . Besides, I don't know how to do things differently. I try to act according to justice and the law, and

leave the rest in God's hands! Young gentlemen don't like the old methods; I think they are right. . . . It's the

time to take in ideas. Only this is the pity of it; the young are too theoretical. They treat the peasant like a

doll; they turn him this way and that way; twist him about and throw him away. And their bailiff, a serf, or

some German overseer, gets the peasant under his thumb again. Now, if any one of the young gentlemen

would set us an example, would show us, 'See, this is how you ought to manage!'. . . What will be the end of

it? Can it be that I shall die without seeing the new methods? . . . How can it be that the old is dead, but the

I did not know what reply to make to Ovsyanikov. He looked round, drew himself nearer to me,

"Explain to me, please, what sort of strange creature he is. I can't make anything of it. His peasants

have described him, but I can't make any sense of their tales. He is a young man, you know; it's not long since

he received his heritage from his mother. Well, he arrived at his estate. The peasants were all collected to

stare at their master. Vasily Nikolaich came out to them. The peasants looked at himstrange to relate! the

master wore plush pantaloons like a coachman, and he had on boots with trimming at the top; he wore a red

shirt and a coachman's long coat, too; he had let his beard grow, and had such a strange hat and such a strange

face could he be drunk? No, he wasn't drunk, and yet he didn't seem quite right. 'Good health to you, lads!'

he says; 'God keep you!' The peasants bow to the ground, but without speaking; they began to feel frightened,

you know. And he, too, seemed timid. He began to make a speech to them. 'I am a Russian,' he says, 'and you

are Russians; I like everything Russian. . . . Russia,' says he, 'is my heart, and my blood, too, is Russian. . . .'

Then he suddenly gives the order: 'Come, lads, sing a Russian national song!' The peasants' legs shook under

them with fright; they were utterly stupefied. One bold spirit did begin to sing, but he sat down at once on the

ground and hid himself behind the others. . . . And what is so surprising is this: we have had landlords like

that, daredevil gentlemen, regular rakes, of course; they dressed pretty much like coachmen, and danced

themselves and played on the guitar, and sang and drank with their houseserfs and feasted with the peasants;

but this Vasily Nikolaich is like a girl; he is always reading books or writing, or else declaiming poetry

aloudhe never addresses any one; he is shy, walks by himself in his garden; seems either bored or sad. The

old bailiff at first was in a thorough scare; before Vasily Nikolaich's arrival he made the round of all the

peasants' houses; he bowed to all of themone could see the cat knew whose butter he had eaten! And the

peasants were full of hope; they thought, 'Fiddlesticks, my friend!now they'll make you answer for it, my

dear; they'll lead you a dance now, you robber!. . .' But instead of this it has turned outhow shall I explain

it to you?God Almighty could not account for how things have turned out! Vasily Nikolaich summoned

him to his presence and says, blushing himself and breathing quick, you know, 'Be upright in my service;

don't oppress any onedo you hear?' And since that day he has never asked to see him in person again! He

lives on his own property like a stranger. Well, the bailiff gets off again, and the peasants don't dare to go to

Vasily Nikolaich; they are afraid. And do you see what's a matter for wonder again: the master even bows to

them and looks graciously at them; but he seems to turn their stomachs with fright! What do you say to such

a strange state of things, your honour? Either I have grown stupid in my old age, or something. . . . I can't

"Ill, indeed! He's as broad as he's longGod bless him! and such a dignified face, too, though he

"Come, putting the nobles aside," I began, "what have you to tell me about the freeholders, Luka

"No, you must let me off that," he said hurriedly. "Truly. . . I could tell you . . . but what's the use!"

Ovsyanikov waved his hand. "We had better have some tea. . . . We are common peasants and nothing more;

He ceased talking. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinichna rose from her place and sat down nearer to

us. In the course of the evening she several times went noiselessly out and as quietly returned. Silence

reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov drank cup after cup with gravity and deliberation.

"Come, tell me," he went on, turning to me, "what is one to do with relations? And to abandon

them altogether is impossible. . . . Here God has bestowed on me a nephew. He's a fellow with brainsa

smart fellowI don't dispute that; he has had a good education, but I don't expect much good to come of

him. He went into a government office; threw up his positiondidn't get on fast enough, if you please. . . .

Does he suppose he's a noble? And even noblemen don't come to be generals all at once. So now he is living

without an occupation: And that, even, would not be such a great matterexcept that he has taken to

litigation! He gets up petitions for the peasants, writes memorials; he instructs the village delegates, drags the

surveyors over the coals, frequents drinking houses, is seen in taverns with townsmen and scavengers. He's

bound to come to grief before long. The constables and police captains have threatened him more than once

already. But he luckily knows how to turn it offhe makes them laugh; but then he boils their kettle for

them. . . . But there, isn't he sitting in your little room?" he added, turning to his wife; "I know you, you see;

"Well, I see it is so," continued Ovsyanikov. "Fie! you spoil the boy! Well, tell him to come in. . . .

So be it, then; for the sake of our good guest I will forgive the silly fellow. Go, tell him to come in."

Mitya, a young man of twentyeight, tall, wellmade, and curlyheaded, came into the room and,

seeing me, stopped short in the doorway. His costume was in the German style, but the unnatural size of the

puffs on his shoulders was enough alone to prove convincingly that the tailor who had cut it was a Russian.

"Well, come in, come in," began the old man; "why are you bashful? You must thank your

auntyou're forgiven. Here, your honour, I commend him to you," he continued, pointing to Mitya; "he's my

own nephew, but I don't get on with him at all. The end of the world is coming!" (We bowed to one another.)

"Well, tell me what is this you have got mixed up in? What is the complaint they are making against you?

"No, not laternow," pursued the old man. . . . "You are ashamed, I see, before this gentleman; all

"I have nothing to be ashamed of," began Mitya spiritedly, with a toss of his head. "Be so good as

to judge for yourself, uncle. Some freeholders of Reshetilovo came to me and said, 'Defend us, brother.'

'What is the matter?' 'This is it: our grain stores were in perfect orderin fact, they could not be better; all at

once a government inspector came to us with orders to inspect the granaries. He inspected them and said,

"Your granaries are in disorderserious neglect; it's my duty to report it to the authorities." "But what does

the neglect consist in?" "That's my business," he says. . . . We met together and decided to tip the official in

the usual way; but old Prokhorich prevented us. He said, "No; that's only giving him a taste for more. Come;

after all, haven't we any justice?" We obeyed the old man, and the official got in a rage, and made a

complaint, and wrote a report. So now we are called up to answer to his charges.' 'But are your granaries

actually in order?' I asked. 'God knows they are in order; and the legal quantity of corn is in them.' 'Well,

then,' says I, 'you have nothing to fear'; and I drew up a document for them. Though it is not yet known in

whose favour it will be decided. And as to the complaints they have made to you about me over that

affairit's very easy to understand thatevery man's shirt is nearest to his own skin."

"Everyone's, indeedbut not yours seemingly," said the old man in an undertone. "But what plots

"And there, too, I am rightjudge for yourself again. A neighbouring landowner, Bespandin, has

ploughed over four acres of the Shutolomov peasants' land. 'The land's mine,' he says. The Shutolomov

people are on the rentsystem; their landlord has gone abroadwho is to stand up for them? Tell me

yourself? But the land is theirs beyond dispute; they've been bound to it for ages and ages. So they came to

me and said, 'Write us a petition.' So I wrote one. And Bespandin heard of it and began to threaten me. 'I'll

break every bone in that Mitya's body, and knock his head off his shoulders.' We shall see how he will knock

"Come, don't boast; it's in a bad way, your head," said the old man. "You're a mad fellow

"I know, I know what you will say," Ovsyanikov interrupted him; "of course a man ought to live

uprightly, and he is bound to succour his neighbour. Sometimes one must not spare oneself. But do you

always behave in that way? Don't they take you to the tavern, eh? Don't they treat you; bow to you, eh?

'Mitya,' they say, 'help us, and we will prove our gratitude to you.' And they slip a silver ruble or note into

"I am certainly to blame in that," answered Mitya, rather confused; "but I take nothing from the

"You don't take from them now; but when you are badly off yourself, then you will. You don't act

against your consciencefie on you! Of course, they are all saints whom you defend!. . . Have you forgotten

Boris Perekhodov? Who was it looked after him? Who took him under his protectioneh?"

"Poverty, poverty. . . . He's a drunkard, a quarrelsome fellow; that's what it is!"

"Through trouble, indeed! Well, you might have helped him, if your heart was so warm to him, but

there was no need for you to sit in taverns with the drunken fellow yourself. Though he did speak so finely . .

"Everyone is good with you. But did you send him?. . ." pursued Ovsyanikov, turning to his wife;

"You have been doing nothing but playing billiards, I wager, and drinking tea, and strumming the

guitar, and running to and fro about the government offices, drawing up petitions in little backrooms,

"Ah! I had almost forgottenFuntikov, Anton Parfenich asks you to dine with him next Sunday."

"I shan't go to see that old tub. He gives you costly fish and puts rancid butter on it. God bless

"She belongs to Garpenchenko, the landowner, who bought Mikulino by auction. Fedosya is from

Mikulino. She lived in Moscow as a dressmaker, paying her service in money, and she paid her

servicemoney accuratelya hundred and eightytwo rubles and a half a year. . . . And she knows her

business; she got good orders in Moscow. But now Garpenchenko has taken her back, and he retains her here,

but does not provide any duties for her. She would be prepared to buy her freedom, and has spoken to the

master, but he will not give any decisive answer. You, uncle, are acquainted with Garpenchenko . . . so

couldn't you just say a word to him? And Fedosya would give a good price for her freedom."

"Not with your money, I hope? Hey? Well, well, all right; I will speak to him, I will speak to him.

But I don't know," continued the old man with a troubled face; "this Garpenchenko, God forgive him! is a

shark; he buys up debts, lends money at interest, purchases estates at auctions. . . . And who brought him into

our parts? Ugh, I can't bear these newcomers! One won't get an answer out of him very quickly. However,

"Very well, I will see to it. Only you take care; take care of yourself! There, there, don't defend

yourself. God bless you! God bless you! Only take care for the future, or else, Mitya, upon my word, it will

go ill with you. Upon my word, you will come to grief. I can't always screen you . . . and I myself am not a

"Give him some tea, you softhearted creature," cried Ovsyanikov after her. "He's not a stupid

fellow," he continued, "and he has a good heart, but I feel afraid for him. . . . But pardon me for having so

The door from the hall opened. A short grizzled little man came in, in a velvet coat.

"Ah, Frants Ivanich!" cried Ovsyanikov, "good day to you. Is God merciful to you?"

Frants Ivanich Lejeune, my neighbour, and a landlord of Orel province, had arrived at the

respectable position of a Russian nobleman in a not quite ordinary way. He was born in Orleans of French

parents, and had gone with Napoleon, on the invasion of Russia, in the capacity of a drummer. At first all

went smoothly, and our Frenchman arrived in Moscow with his head held high. But on the return journey

poor Monsieur Lejeune, halffrozen and without his drum, fell into the hands of some peasants of Smolensk.

The peasants shut him up for the night in an empty cloth factory, and the next morning brought him to an

icehole near the dyke, and began to beg the drummer "de la grrrrande arm�e" to oblige them, in other words,

to swim under the ice. Monsieur Lejeune could not agree to their proposition, and in his turn began to try to

persuade the Smolensk peasants, in the dialect of France, to let him go to Orleans. "There, messieurs," he

said, "my mother is living, une tendre m�re." But the peasants, doubtless through their ignorance of the

geographical position of Orleans, continued to offer him a journey under water along the course of the

meandering river Gniloterka, and had already begun to encourage him with slight blows on the vertebrae of

the neck and back, when suddenly, to the indescribable delight of Lejeune, the sound of bells was heard, and

there came along the dyke a huge sledge with a striped rug over its excessively high dickey, harnessed with

three roan horses. In the sledge sat a stout and redfaced landlord in a wolfskin pelisse.

"Ah, ah!" observed the wolfskin pelisse reproachfully, "you came with twenty nations into Russia,

burnt Moscow, tore downyou damned heathen!the cross from Ivan the Great, and nowmossoo,

mossoo, indeed! now you turn tail! You are paying the penalty of your sins!. . . Go on, Filka!"

"Stop, though!" added the landlord. "Eh? you mossoo, do you know anything of music?"

"There, see what a wretched people they are! Not one of them knows Russian! Muzeek, muzeek,

savey muzeek voo? savey? Well, speak, do! Compreny? savey muzeek voo? on the piano, zhooey savey?"

Lejeune comprehended at last what the landlord meant, and persistently nodded his head.

"Oui, monsieur, oui, oui, je suis musicien; je joue tous les instruments possibles! Oui, monsieur. . .

"Well, thank your lucky star!" replied the landlord. "Lads, let him go, here's a twentykopek piece

They sat Lejeune in the sledge. He was gasping with delight, weeping, shivering, bowing, thanking

the landlord, the coachman, the peasants. He had nothing on but a green jacket with pink ribbons, and it was

freezing very hard. The landlord looked at his blue and benumbed limbs in silence, wrapped the unlucky

fellow in his own pelisse, and took him home. The household ran out. They soon thawed the Frenchman, fed

"Here, children!" he said to them, "a teacher is found for you. You were always entreating me to

have you taught music and the French jargon; here you have a Frenchman, and he plays on the piano. . . .

Come, mossoo," he went on, pointing to a wretched little instrument he had bought five years before of a

Jew, whose special line was EaudeCologne, "give us an example of your art; zhooey!"

Lejeune, with a sinking heart, sat down on the musicstool; he had never touched a piano in his

In desperation, the unhappy man beat on the keys as though on a drum, and played at hazard. "I

quite expected," he used to tell afterwards, "that my deliverer would seize me by the collar and throw me out

of the house." But, to the utmost amazement of the unwilling improvisor, the landlord, after waiting a little,

Within a fortnight Lejeune had gone from this landlord's to stay with another, a rich and cultivated

man. He gained his friendship by his bright and gentle disposition, was married to a ward of his, went into a

government office, rose to the nobility, married his daughter to Lobizanyev, a landowner of Orel, and a

It was this same Lejeune, or rather, as he is called now, Frants Ivanich, who, when I was there,

But perhaps the reader is already weary of sitting with me at the Ovsyanikov's, and so I will

"LET US GO TO LGOV," Yermolai, whom the reader knows already, said to me one day; "there

Although wild duck offers no special attraction for a genuine sportsman, still, through lack of other

game at the time (it was the beginning of September; snipe were not on the wing yet, and I was tired of

running across the fields after partridges), I acted upon my huntsman's suggestion, and we went to Lgov.

Lgov is a large village of the steppes, with a very old stone church with a single cupola, and two

mills on the swampy little river Rosota. Five miles from Lgov, this river becomes a wide swampy pond,

overgrown at the edges, and in places also in the centre, with thick reeds. Here, in the creeks or rather pools

between the reeds, live and breed a countless multitude of ducks of all possible kindsquackers,

halfquackers, pintails, teals, divers, etc. Small flocks are for ever flitting about and swimming on the water,

and at a gunshot, they rise in such clouds that the hunter involuntarily clutches his hat with one hand and

utters a prolonged "phew!" I walked with Yermolai along the bank; but, in the first place, the duck is a wary

bird, and is not to be met quite close to the bank; and secondly, even when some straggling and inexperienced

teal exposed itself to our shots and lost its life, our dogs were not able to get it out of the thick reeds; in spite

of their most devoted efforts they could neither swim nor tread on the bottom, and only cut their precious

"No," was Yermolai's comment at last, "it won't do; we must get a boat. Let us go back to Lgov."

We went back. We had only gone a few paces when a rather wretchedlooking setterdog ran out

from behind a bushy willow to meet us, and behind him appeared a man of middle height, in a blue and much

worn greatcoat, a yellow waistcoat, and pantaloons of a nondescript grey colour, hastily tucked into high

boots full of holes, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and a singlebarrelled gun on his shoulder. While

our dogs, with the ordinary Chinese ceremonies peculiar to their species, were sniffing at their new

acquaintance, who was obviously ill at ease, held his tail between his legs, dropped his ears back, and kept

turning round and round, showing his teeththe stranger approached us and bowed with extreme civility. He

appeared to be about twentyfive; his long dark hair, perfectly saturated with kvas, stood up in stiff tufts; his

small brown eyes twinkled genially; his face was bound up in a black handkerchief, as though for toothache;

"Allow me to introduce myself," he began in a soft and insinuating voice; "I am a hunter of these

partsVladimir. . . . Having heard of your presence, and having learnt that you proposed to visit the shores

of our pond, I resolved, if it were not displeasing to you, to offer you my services."

The hunter Vladimir uttered those words for all the world like a young provincial actor in the r�le

of leading lover. I agreed to his proposition, and before we had reached Lgov I had succeeded in learning his

whole history. He was a freed houseserf; in his tender youth had been taught music, then served as valet,

could read and write, had readso much I could discoversome few trashy books, and existed now, as

many do exist in Russia, without a farthing of ready money; without any regular occupation; fed by manna

from heaven, or something hardly less precarious. He expressed himself with extraordinary elegance, and

obviously plumed himself on his manners; he must have been devoted to the fair sex, too, and in all

probability popular with them: Russian girls love fine talking. Among other things, he gave me to understand

that he sometimes visited the neighbouring landlords, and went to stay with friends in the town, where he

played preference, and that he was acquainted with people in the metropolis. His smile was masterly and

exceedingly varied; what specially suited him was a modest, contained smile which played on his lips as he

listened to any other man's conversation. He was attentive to you; he agreed with you completely, but still he

did not lose sight of his own dignity, and seemed to wish to give you to understand that he could, if occasion

arose, express convictions of his own. Yermolai, not being very refined, and quite devoid of "subtlety," began

to address him with coarse familiarity. The fine irony with which Vladimir used "sir" in his reply was worth

"No," he answered; "it was a most disastrous consequence of carelessness. I had a friend, a good

fellow, but not a bit of a sportsman, as sometimes occurs. Well, one day he said to me, 'My dear friend, take

me out shooting; I am curious to learn what this diversion consists in.' I did not like, of course, to refuse a

comrade; I procured him a gun and took him out shooting. Well, we shot a little in the ordinary way; at last

we thought we would rest. I sat down under a tree; but he began instead to play with his gun, pointing it at me

meantime. I asked him to leave off, but in his inexperience he did not attend to my words, the gun went off,

We reached Lgov. Vladimir and Yermolai had both decided that we could not shoot without a

"Suchok (i.e., the Twig) has a punt," observed Vladimir, "but I don't know where he has hidden it.

Vladimir went with Yermolai to Suchok's. I told them I would wait for them at the church. While I

was looking at the tombstones in the churchyard, I stumbled upon a blackened, fourcornered urn with the

following inscription on one side in French: "Ci git Th�ophile Henri vicomte de Blangy"; on the next: "Under

this stone is laid the body of a French subject, Count Blangy; born 1737, died 1799, in the 62nd year of his

Under this stone there lies from France an emigrant. Of high descent was he, and also of talent. A

wife and kindred murdered he bewailed, And left his land by tyrants cruel assailed; The friendly shores of

Russia he attained, And hospitable shelter here he gained; Children he taught; their parents' cares allayed;

The approach of Yermolai with Vladimir and the man with the strange nickname, Suchok, broke in

Barelegged, ragged and dishevelled, Suchok looked like a discharged houseserf of sixty years

"I have a boat," he answered in a hoarse, cracked voice; "but it's a very poor one."

"That's no great disaster!" interposed Yermolai; "we can stuff them up with tow."

"Fish don't like slimy marshes," observed my huntsman, with the air of an authority.

"Come," I said to Yermolai, "go and get some tow, and make the boat right for us as soon as you

"God is merciful," he answered. "Anyway, we must suppose that the pond is not deep."

"No, it is not deep," observed Suchok, who spoke in a strange, faraway voice, as though he were

in a dream, "and there's sedge and mud at the bottom, and it's all overgrown with sedge. But there are deep

"Who thinks of rowing in a punt? One has to punt it. I will go with you; my pole is thereor else

"With a spade it won't be easy; you won't touch the bottom perhaps in some places," said Vladimir.

I sat down on a tombstone to wait for Yermolai. Vladimir moved a little to one side out of respect

to me, and also sat down. Suchok remained standing in the same place, his head bent and his hands clasped

"Oh, that bought us. Your honour does not know her, Alyona Timofeyevna; she is so fat . . . not

"God knows. She came to us from her estate in Tambov, gave orders for all the household to come

together, and came out to us. We first kissed her hand, and she said nothing; she was not angry. . . . Then she

began to question us in order: 'How are you employed? what duties have you?' She came to me in my turn; so

she asked, 'What have you been?' I say, 'Coachman.' 'Coachman? Well, a fine coachman you are; only look at

you! You're not fit for a coachman, but be my fisherman, and shave your beard. On the occasions of my visits

provide fish for the table; do you hear?. . .' So since then I have been enrolled as a fisherman. 'And mind you

"To Sergei Sergeich Pekhterev. We came to him by inheritance. But he did not own us long; only

six years altogether. I was his coachman . . . but not in town, he had others thereonly in the country."

"Always a coachman? Oh, no! I became a coachman in Sergei Sergeich's time, but before that I

"Oh, my former master's, Afanasy Nefedich, Sergei Sergeich's uncle. Lgov was bought by him, by

"Why, that died last year in Bolkhov . . . that is, at Karachev, an old maid. . . . She had never

married. Don't you know her? We came to her from her father, Vasily Semyonich. She owned us a goodish

"I don't know, your honour. I stood at the sideboard, and was called Anton instead of Kuzma. The

"Yes, I was. . . . I played in the theatre. Our mistress set up a theatre of her own."

"Don't you know? Why, they take me and dress me up; and I walk about dressed up, or stand, or sit

down there as it happens, and they say, 'See, this is what you must say,' and I say it. Once I represented a

"I had different duties; at first I found myself a page; I have been a postilion, a gardener, and a

"Yes, I rode with the hounds, and was nearly killed; I fell off my horse, and the horse was injured.

Our old master was very severe; he ordered them to flog me and to send me to learn a trade to Moscow, to a

"To learn a trade? But you weren't a child, I suppose, when you were a whipperin?"

"I suppose one could, some way, since the master ordered it. But he luckily died soon after, and

"Well," I commented, "you have seen many things, Kuzma, in your time! What do you do now as

"Oh, your honour, I don't complain. And, thank God, they made me a fisherman. Why, another old

man like meAndrei Pupirthe mistress ordered to be put into the paper factory, as a ladler. 'It's a sin,' she

said, 'to eat bread in idleness.' And Pupir had even hoped for favour; his cousin's son was clerk in the

mistress's countinghouse; he had promised to send his name up to the mistress, to remember him; a fine way

"No, your honour, I have never been married. Tatyana VasilyevnaGod rest her soul!did not

allow anyone to marry. 'God forbid!' she said sometimes, 'here am I living single; what indulgence! What are

"Wages, your honour!. . . Victuals are given me, and thanks be to Thee, Lord! I am very contented.

Suchok ran to get his pole. During the whole time of my conversation with the poor old man, the

"A stupid fellow," was his comment, when the latter had gone off; "an absolutely uneducated

fellow; a peasant, nothing more. One cannot even call him a houseserf, and he was boasting all the time.

How could he be an actor, be pleased to judge for yourself! You were pleased to trouble yourself for no good

A quarter of an hour later we were sitting in Suchok's punt. The dogs we left in a hut in charge of

my coachman. We were not very comfortable, but hunters are not a fastidious race. At the rear end, which

was flattened and straight, stood Suchok, punting; I sat with Vladimir on the planks laid across the boat, and

Yermolai ensconced himself in front, in the very prow. In spite of the tow, the water soon made its

appearance under our feet. Fortunately, the weather was calm and the pond seemed slumbering.

We floated along rather slowly. The old man had difficulty in drawing his long pole out of the

sticky mud; it came up all tangled in green threads of watersedge; the flat round leaves of the waterlily

also hindered the progress of our boat. At last we got up to the reeds, and then the fun began. Ducks flew up

noisily from the pond, scared by our unexpected appearance in their domains, shots sounded at once after

them; it was a pleasant sight to see these shorttailed game turning somersaults in the air, splashing heavily

into the water. We could not, of course, get at all the ducks that were shot; those which were slightly

wounded swam away; some which had been killed fell into such thick reeds that even Yermolai's little lynx

eyes could not discover them, yet by dinnertime our boat was nevertheless filled to the brim with game.

Vladimir, to Yermolai's great satisfaction, did not shoot at all well; he seemed surprised after each

unsuccessful shot, looked at his gun and blew down the barrel, seemed puzzled, and at last explained to us the

reason why he had missed his aim. Yermolai, as always, shot triumphantly; Irather badly, after my custom.

Suchok looked on at us with the eyes of a man who has been the servant of others from his youth up; now and

then he cried out, "There, there, there's another little duck"; and he constantly rubbed his back, not with his

hands, but by a peculiar movement of the shoulderblades. The weather kept magnificent; curly white clouds

moved calmly high above our heads, and were reflected clearly in the water; the reeds were whispering

We were preparing to return to the village, when suddenly a rather unpleasant adventure befell us.

For a long time we had been aware that the water was gradually filling our punt. Vladimir was

entrusted with the task of baling it out by means of a ladle, which my thoughtful huntsman had stolen to be

ready for any emergency from a peasant woman who was staring away in another direction. All went well so

long as Vladimir did not neglect his duty. But just at the end the ducks, as if to take leave of us, rose in such

flocks that we scarcely had time to load our guns. In the heat of the sport we did not pay attention to the state

of our puntwhen suddenly Yermolai. in trying to reach a wounded duck, leaned his whole weight on the

boat's edge; at his overeager movement our old tub veered on one side, began to fill, and majestically sank

to the bottom, fortunately not in a deep place. We cried out, but it was too late; in an instant we were standing

in the water up to our necks, surrounded by the floating bodies of the slaughtered ducks. I cannot help

laughing now when I recollect the scared white faces of my companions (probably my own face was not

particularly rosy at that moment), but I must confess at the time it did not enter my head to feel amused. Each

of us kept his gun above his head, and Suchok, no doubt from the habit of imitating his masters, lifted his

"Curse it!" he muttered, spitting into the water; "here's a go. It's all you, you old devil!" he added,

"Yes; and you're a nice one," continued my huntsman, turning his head in Vladimir's direction;

But Vladimir was not equal to a reply: he was shaking like a leaf, his teeth were chattering, and his

smile was utterly meaningless. What had become of his fine language, his feeling of fine distinctions, and of

The accursed punt rocked feebly under our feet. At the instant of our ducking the water seemed

terribly cold to us, but we soon got hardened to it. When the first shock had passed off, I looked round me;

the reeds rose up in a circle ten paces from us; in the distance above their tops the bank could be seen. "It

"Well, we'll take a look round; we can't spend the night here," he answered. "Here, you, take my

"I will go and find the ford," continued Yermolai, as though there must infallibly be a ford in every

pond; he took the pole from Suchok. and went off in the direction of the bank, warily sounding the depth as

"No, I can't," his voice sounded from behind the reeds. "Then he'll be drowned," remarked Suchok

indifferently. He had been terrified at first, not by the danger, but by our anger, and now, completely

reassured, he drew a long breath from time to time, and seemed not to be aware of any necessity for moving

Yermolai did not return for more than an hour. That hour seemed an eternity to us. At first we kept

calling to him very energetically; then his answering shouts grew less frequent; at last he was completely

silent. The bells in the village began ringing for evening service. There was not much conversation between

us; indeed, we tried not to look at one another. The ducks hovered over our heads; some seemed disposed to

settle near us, but suddenly rose up into the air and flew away quacking. We began to grow numb. Suchok

We wanted to set off at once; but he first brought some string out of his pocket and out of the

water, tied the slaughtered ducks together by their legs, took both ends in his teeth, and moved slowly

forward; Vladimir came behind him, and I behind Vladimir, and Suchok brought up the rear. It was about two

hundred paces to the bank. Yermolai walked boldly and without stopping (so well had he noted the track),

only occasionally crying out, "More to the leftthere's a hole here to the right!" or "Keep to the

rightyou'll sink in there to the left. Sometimes the water was up to our necks, and twice poor Suchok, who

was shorter than all the rest of us, got a mouthful and spluttered. "Come, come, come!" Yermolai shouted

roughly to himand Suchok, scrambling, hopping and skipping, managed to reach a shallower place, but

even in his greatest extremity was never so bold as to clutch at the skirt of my coat. Worn out, muddy and

Two hours later we were all sitting, as dry as circumstances would allow, in a large hay barn,

preparing for supper. The coachman Iyegudiel, an exceedingly deliberate man, heavy in gait, cautious and

sleepy, stood at the entrance, zealously plying Suchok with snuff (I have noticed that coachmen in Russia

very quickly make friends); Suchok was taking snuff with frenzied energy, in quantities to make him ill; he

was spitting, sneezing, and apparently enjoying himself greatly. Vladimir had assumed an air of languor; he

leaned his head on one side, and spoke little. Yermolai was cleaning our guns. The dogs were wagging their

tails at a great rate in the expectation of porridge; the horses were stamping and neighing in the outbuilding.

. . . The sun had set; its last rays were broken up into broad tracts of purple; golden clouds were drawn out

over the heavens into finer and ever finer threads, like a fleece washed and combed out. . . . There was the

IT WAS a glorious July day, one of those days which only come after many days of fine weather.

From earliest morning the sky is clear; the sunrise does not glow with fire; it is suffused with a soft roseate

flush. The sun, not fiery, not redhot as in time of stifling drought, not dull purple as before a storm, but with

a bright and genial radiance, rises peacefully behind a long and narrow cloud, shines out freshly, and plunges

again into its lilac mist. The delicate upper edge of the strip of cloud flashes in little gleaming snakes; their

brilliance is like beaten silver. But, lo! the dancing rays flash forth again, and in solemn joy, as though flying

upward, rises the mighty orb. About midday there is wont to be, high up in the sky, a multitude of rounded

clouds, goldengrey, with soft white edges. Like islands scattered over an overflowing river, that bathes them

in its unbroken reaches of deep transparent blue, they scarcely stir; farther down the heavens they are in

movement, packing closer; now there is no blue to be seen between them, but they are themselves almost as

blue as the sky, filled full with light and heat. The colour of the horizon, a faint pale lilac, does not change all

day, and is the same all round; nowhere is there storm gathering and darkening; only somewhere rays of

bluish colour stretch down from the sky; it is a sprinkling of scarce perceptible rain. In the evening these

clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and undefined as smoke, lie streaked with pink, facing the setting

sun; in the place where it has gone down, as calmly as it rose, a crimson glow lingers briefly over the

darkening earth, and, softly flashing like a candle carried carelessly, the evening star flickers in the sky. On

such days all the colours are softened, bright but not glaring; everything is suffused with a kind of touching

tenderness. On such days the heat is sometimes very great; often it is even "steaming" on the slopes of the

fields, but a wind dispels this growing sultriness, and whirling eddies of dustsure sign of settled, fine

weathermove along the roads and across the fields in high white columns. In the pure dry air there is a

scent of wormwood, rye in blossom, and buckwheat; even an hour before nightfall there is no moisture in the

air. It is for such weather that the farmer longs, for harvesting his wheat. . . .

On just such a day I was once out grouseshooting in the Chernov District of the province of Tula.

I started and shot a fair amount of game; my full gamebag cut my shoulder mercilessly; but already the

evening glow had faded, and the cool shades of twilight were beginning to grow thicker and to spread across

the sky, which was still bright, though no longer lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, when I at last

decided to turn back homewards. With swift steps I passed through the long stretch of brushwood, clambered

up a hill, and instead of the familiar plain I expected to see, with the oak wood on the right and the little white

church in the distance, I saw before me a scene completely different, and quite new to me. A narrow valley

lay at my feet, and directly facing me a dense wood of aspentrees rose up like a thick wall. I stood still in

perplexity, looked round me . . . . "Aha!" I thought, "I have somehow come wrong; I kept too much to the

right," and surprised at my own mistake, I rapidly descended the hill. I was at once plunged into a

disagreeable clinging mist, exactly as though I had gone down into a cellar; the thick high grass at the bottom

of the valley, all drenched with dew, was white like a smooth tablecloth; one felt afraid somehow to walk on

it. I made haste to get on the other side and walked along beside the aspen wood, bearing to the left. Bats

were already hovering over its slumbering treetops, mysteriously flitting and quivering across the clear

obscure of the sky; a young belated hawk flew in swift, straight course upwards, hastening to its nest. "Here,

directly I get to this corner," I thought to myself, "I shall find the road at once; but I have come a verst out of

I did at last reach the end of the wood, but there was no road of any sort there; some kind of low

bushes overgrown with long grass extended far and wide before me; behind them in the far, far distance could

be discerned a tract of wasteland. I stopped again. "Well? Where am I?" I began ransacking my brain to recall

how and where I had been walking during, the day. . . . Ah! but these are the bushes at Parakhin," I cried at

last; "of course! then this must be Sindeyev wood. But how did I get here? So far? . . . Strange! Now I must

I went to the right through the bushes. Meantime the night had crept close and grown up like a

stormcloud; it seemed as though, with the mists of evening, darkness was rising up on all sides and flowing

down from overhead. I had come upon some sort of little, untrodden, overgrown path; I walked along it,

gazing intently before me. Soon all was blackness and silence aroundonly the quail's cry was heard from

time to time. Some small nightbird, flitting noiselessly near the ground on its soft wings, almost flapped

against me and scurried away in alarm. I came out on the further side of the bushes and made my way along a

field by the hedge. By now I could hardly make out distant objects; the field showed dimlywhite around;

beyond it rose up a sullen darkness, which seemed moving up closer in huge masses every instant. My steps

gave a muffled sound in the air that grew colder and colder. The pale sky began again to grow bluebut it

What I had been taking for a wood turned out to be a dark round hillock. "But where am I, then?" I

repeated again aloud, standing still for the third time and looking inquiringly at my spot and tan English dog,

Dianka by name, certainly the most intelligent of fourfooted creatures. But the most intelligent of

fourfooted creatures only wagged her tail, blinked her weary eyes dejectedly, and gave me no sensible

advice. I felt myself disgraced in her eyes and pushed desperately forward, as though I had suddenly guessed

which way I ought to go; I scaled the hill and found myself in a hollow of no great depth, ploughed round.

A strange sensation came over me at once. This hollow had the form of an almost perfect cauldron,

with sloping sides; at the bottom of it were some great white stones standing uprightit seemed as though

they had crept there for some secret counciland it was so still and dark in it, so flat and mute, so dreary and

weird seemed the sky, overhanging it, that my heart sank. Some little animal was whining feebly and

piteously among the stones. I made haste to get out again on to the hillock. Till then I had not quite given up

all hope of finding the way home; but at this point I finally decided that I was utterly lost, and without any

further attempt to make out the surrounding objects, which were almost completely plunged in darkness, I

walked straight forward, by the aid of the stars, at random. . . For about half an hour I walked on in this way,

though I could hardly move one leg before the other. It seemed as if I had never been in such a deserted

country in my life; nowhere was there the glimmer of a fire, nowhere a sound to be heard. One sloping

hillside followed another; fields stretched endlessly upon fields; bushes seemed to spring up out of the earth

under my very nose. I kept walking and was just making up my mind to lie down somewhere till morning,

I quickly drew back my lifted foot, and through the almost opaque darkness I saw far below me a

vast plain. A long river skirted it in a semicircle, turned away from me; its course was marked by the steely

reflection of the water still faintly glimmering here and there. The hill on which I found myself terminated

abruptly in an almost overhanging precipice, whose gigantic profile stood out black against the darkblue

waste of sky, and directly below me, in the corner formed by this precipice and the plain near the river, which

was there a dark, motionless mirror, under the lee of the hill, two fires side by side were smoking and

throwing up red flames. People were stirring round them, shadows hovered, and sometimes the front of a

I found out at last where I had got to. This plain was well known in our parts under, the name of

Bezhin Meadow. . . . But there was no possibility of returning home, especially at night; my legs were

sinking under me from weariness. I decided to get down to the fires and to wait for the dawn in the company

of these men, whom I took for drovers. I got down successfully, but I had hardly let go of the last branch I

had grasped, when suddenly two large shaggy white dogs rushed angrily barking upon me. The sound of

ringing boyish voices came from round the fires; two or three boys quickly got up from the ground. I called

back in response to their shouts of inquiry. They ran up to me and at once called off the dogs, who were

I had been mistaken in taking the figures sitting round the fires for drovers. They were simply

peasant boys from a neighbouring village, who were in charge of a drove of horses. In hot summer weather

they drive the horses out at night to graze in the open country: the flies and gnats would give them no peace

in the daytime; they drive out the drove towards evening, and drive them back in the early morning: it's a

great treat for the peasant boys. Bareheaded, in old sheepskin coats, they bestride the most spirited nags, and

scurry along with merry cries and hooting and ringing laughter, swinging their arms and legs and leaping into

the air. The fine dust is stirred up in yellow clouds and moves along the road; the tramp of hoofs in unison

resounds afar; the horses race along, pricking up their ears; in front of all, with his tail in the air and thistles in

his tangled mane, prances some shaggy chestnut, constantly shifting his paces as he goes.

I told the boys I had lost my way. They made way for me and I sat down with them. They asked

me where I came from, and then were silent for a little. Then we talked a little again. I lay down under a bush,

whose shoots had been nibbled off, and began to look round. It was a marvellous picture; about the fire a red

ring of light quivered and seemed to swoon away in the embrace of a background of darkness; the flame

flaring up from time to time cast swift flashes of light beyond the boundary of this circle; a fine tongue of

light licked the dry twigs and died away at once; long thin shadows, in their turn breaking in for an instant,

danced right up to the very fires; darkness was struggling with light. Sometimes, when the fire burnt low and

the circle of light shrank together, suddenly out of the encroaching darkness a horse's head was thrust in, bay,

with striped markings, or all white, stared with intent blank eyes upon us, nipped hastily the long grass, and

drawing back again, vanished instantly. One could only hear it still munching and snorting. From the circle,

of light it was hard to make out what was going on in the darkness; everything close at hand seemed shut off

by an almost black curtain; but farther away hills and forests were dimly visible in long blurs upon the

The dark unclouded sky stood, inconceivably immense, triumphant, above us in all its mysterious

majesty. One felt a sweet oppression at one's heart, breathing in that peculiar, overpowering, yet fresh

fragrancethe fragrance of a summer night in Russia. Scarcely a sound was to be heard around. Only at

times, in the river near, the sudden splash of a big fish leaping, and the faint rustle of a reed on the bank,

swaying lightly as the ripples reached it. The fires alone kept up a subdued crackling.

The boys sat round them: there, too, sat the two dogs. who had been so eager to devour me. They

could not for long after reconcile themselves to my presence, and, drowsily blinking and looking askance at

the fire, they growled now and then with an unwonted sense of their own dignity; first they growled, and then

whined a little, as though deploring the impossibility of carrying out their desires. There were altogether five

boys: Fedya, Pavlusha, llyusha, Kostya and Vanya. (From their talk I learnt their names, and I intend now to

The first and eldest of all, Fedya, one would take to be about fourteen. He was a wellmade boy,

with goodlooking, delicate, rather small features, curly fair hair, bright eyes, and a perpetual halfmerry,

halfcareless smile. He belonged, by all appearances, to a welltodo family, and had ridden out to the

meadow not through necessity, but for amusement. He wore a gay print shirt, with a yellow border; a short

new overcoat slung round his neck was almost slipping off his narrow shoulders; a comb hung from his blue

belt. His boots, coming a little way up the leg, were certainly, his ownnot his father's. The second boy,

Pavlusha, had tangled black hair, grey eyes, broad cheekbones, a pale face pitted with smallpox, a large

but wellcut mouth; his head altogether was large"a beerbarrel head," as they say and his figure was

square and clumsy. He was not a goodlooking boythere's no denying it!and yet I liked him; he looked

very sensible and straightforward, and there was a vigorous ring in his voice. He had nothing to boast of in

his attire; it consisted simply of a homespun shirt and patched trousers. The face of the third, Ilyusha, was

rather uninteresting; it was a long face, with shortsighted eyes and a hooknose: it expressed a kind of dull,

fretful uneasiness; his tightlydrawn lips seemed rigid; his contracted brow never relaxed; he seemed

continually blinking from the firelight. His flaxenalmost whitehair hung out in thin wisps under his low

felt hat, which he kept pulling down with both hands over his ears. He had on new bast shoes and leggings; a

thick string, wound three times round his figure, carefully held together his neat black smock. Neither he nor

Pavlusha looked more than twelve years old. The fourth, Kostya, a boy of ten, aroused my curiosity by his

thoughtful and sorrowful look. His whole face was small, thin, freckled, pointed at the chin like a squirrel's;

his lips were barely perceptible; but his great black eyes, that shone with liquid brilliance, produced a strange

impression: they seemed trying to express something for which the tonguehis tongue, at leasthad no

words. He was undersized and weakly, and dressed rather poorly. The remaining boy, Vanya, I had not

noticed at first; he was lying on the ground, peacefully curled up under a square mat, and, only occasionally

thrust his curly brown head out from under it; this boy was seven years old at the most.

So I lay under the bush at one side and looked at the boys. A small pot was hanging over one of the

fires; in it potatoes were cooking. Pavlusha was looking after them, and on his knees he was trying them by

poking a splinter of wood into the boiling water. Fedya was lying leaning on his elbow and smoothing out the

skirts of his coat. Ilyusha was sitting beside Kostya, and still kept blinking constrainedly. Kostya's head

drooped despondently, and he looked away into the distance. Vanya did not stir under his mat. I pretended to

At first they gossiped of one thing and another, the work of tomorrow, the horses; but suddenly

Fedya turned to Ilyusha, and, as though taking up again an interrupted conversation, asked him:

"No, I didn't see him, and no one ever can see him," answered Ilyusha in a weak hoarse voice, the

sound of which was wonderfully in keeping with the expression of his face; "I heard him. Yes, and not I

"It was like this. It happened that I and my brother Avdyushka, with Fyodor Mikheyevsky, and

Ivashka the SquintEyed, and the other Ivashka who comes from the Red Hills, and Ivashka Sukhorukov,

tooand there were some other boys there as wellthere were ten of us boys there altogetherthe whole

shift, that isit happened that we spent the night at the paper mill; that's to say, it didn't happen, but

Nazarov, the overseer, kept us. 'Why,' said he, 'should you waste time going home, boys; there's a lot of work

tomorrow, so don't go home, boys.' So we stopped, and were all lying down together, and Avdyushka had just

begun to say, 'I say, boys, suppose the goblin were to come?' And before he'd finished saying so, someone

suddenly began walking over our heads; we were lying down below, and he began walking upstairs overhead,

where the wheel is. We listened: he walked; the boards seemed to be bending under him, they creaked so;

then he crossed over, above, our heads; all of a sudden the water began to drip and drip over the wheel; the

wheel rattled and rattled and again began to turn, though the sluices of the conduit above had been let down.

We wondered who could have lifted them up so that the water could run; anyway, the wheel turned and

turned a little, and then, stopped. Then he went to the door overhead and began coming downstairs, and came

down, not hurrying himself; the stairs seemed to groan under him, too. . . . Well, he came right down to our

door, and waited and waited . . . and all of a sudden the door simply flew open. We were in a fright; we

lookedthere was nothing. Suddenly what if the net on one of the vats didn't begin moving; it got up and

went rising and ducking and moving in the air as though someone were stirring with it, and then it was in its

place again. Then, at another vat, a hook came off its nail, and then was on its nail again; and then it seemed

as if someone came to the door and suddenly coughed and choked like a sheep, but so loudly!. . . We all fell

down in a heap and huddled against one another. Just weren't we in a fright that night!"

"No, they are raw. . . . My, what a splash!" he added, turning his face in the direction of the river;

"I say, I can tell you something, brothers," began Kostya in a shrill little voice; "listen what my

"And do you know why he is so sorrowful always, never speaks? do you know? I'll tell you why

he's so sorrowful; he went one day, Daddy said, he went, brothers, into the forest nutting. So he went nutting

into the forest and lost his way; he went onGod only can tell where he got to. So he went on and on,

brothersbut 'twas no good!he could not find the way; and so night came on out of doors. So he sat down

under a tree. 'I'll wait till morning,' thought he. He sat down and began to drop asleep. So, as he was falling

asleep, suddenly he heard someone call him. He looked up; there was no one. He fell asleep again; again he

was called. He looked and looked again; and in front of him there sat a mermaid on a branch, swinging

herself, and calling him to her, and simply dying with laughing; she laughed so. . . . And the moon was

shining bright, so bright, the moon shone so cleareverything could be seen plain, brothers. So she called

him, and she herself was as bright and as white sitting on the branch as some dace or a roach, or like some

little carp, so white and silvery. . . . Gavrila the carpenter almost fainted, brothers, but she laughed without

stopping, and kept beckoning him to her like this. Then Gavrila was just getting up; he was just wanting to go

up to the mermaid, brothers, but the Lord put it into his heart, doubtlesshe crossed himself. . . . And it

was so hard for him to make that cross, brothers; he said, 'My hand was simply like a stone; it would not

move.' Ugh! the horrid witch!. . . So when he made the cross, brothers, the mermaid, she left off laughing,

and all at once how she did cry. . . . She cried, brothers, and wiped her eyes with her hair, and her hair was

green as any hemp. So Gavrila looked and looked at her, and at last he fell to questioning her. 'Why are you

weeping, wild thing of the woods?' And the mermaid began to speak to him like this: 'If you had not crossed

yourself, man,' she says, 'you should have lived with me in gladness of heart to the end of your days; and I

weep, I am grieved at heart because you crossed yourself; but I will not grieve alone; you, too, shall grieve at

heart to the end of your days.' Then she vanished, brothers, and at once it was plain to Gavrila how to get out

"Ugh!" said Fedya after a brief silence; "but how can such an evil thing of the woods ruin a

"Strange, isn't it?" said Kostya. "Gavrila said that her voice was as shrill and plaintive as a toad's."

"It's a strange thing. Why should he be sorrowful?. . . But I suppose she liked him, since she called

"Ay, she liked him!" put in Ilyusha. "Yes, indeed! she wanted to tickle him to death, that's what

"No," answered Kostya, "this is a clear, open place. There's one thing, though: the river's near."

All were silent. Suddenly from out of the distance came a prolonged, resonant, almost wailing

sound, one of those inexplicable sounds of the night, which break upon a profound stillness, rise upon the air,

linger, and slowly die away at last. You listen: it is as though there were nothing, yet it echoes still. It is as

though someone had uttered a long, long cry upon the very horizon, as though some other had answered him

with shrill harsh laughter in the forest, and, a faint, hoarse hissing hovers over the river. The boys looked

"Ah, you craven crows!" cried Pavlusha; "what are you frightened of? Look, the potatoes are

done." (They all came up to the pot and began to eat the smoking potatoes; only Vanya did not stir.) "'Well,

But he did not creep out from under his mat. The pot was soon completely emptied.

"Yes, yes, near the dam, the brokendown dam. That is a haunted place, such a haunted place, and

so lonely. All round there are pits and quarries, and there are always snakes in pits."

"Well, this is what happened. You don't know, perhaps, Fedya, but there a drowned man was

buried; he was drowned long, long ago, when the water was still deep; only his grave can still be seen, though

it can only just be seen . . . just a little mound. . . . So one day the bailiff called the huntsman Yermil, and says

to him, 'Go to the post, Yermil.' Yermil always goes to the post for us; he has let all his dogs die; they never

will live with him, for some reason, and they have never lived with him, though he's a good huntsman, and

everyone likes him. So Yermil went to the post, and he stayed a bit in the town, and when he rode back, he

was a little tipsy. It was night, a fine night; the moon was shining. . . . So Yermil rode across the dam; his

way lay there. So, as he rode along, he saw, on the drowned man's grave, a little lamb, so white and curly and

pretty, running about. So Yermil thought, 'I will take him,' and he got down and took him in his arms. But the

little lamb didn't take any notice. So Yermil goes back to his horse, and the horse stares at him, and snorts and

shakes his head; however, he said 'wo' to him and sat on him with the lamb, and rode on again; he held the

lamb in front of him. He looks at him, and the lamb looks him straight in the face, like this. Yermil the

huntsman felt upset. 'I don't remember,' he said, 'that lambs ever look at any one like that'; however, he began

to stroke it like this on its wool and to say, 'Chucky! chucky!' And the lamb suddenly showed its teeth and

The boy who was telling the story had hardly uttered this last word, when suddenly both dogs got

up at once, and, barking convulsively, rushed away from the fire and disappeared in the darkness. All the

boys were alarmed. Vanya jumped up from under his mat. Pavlusha ran shouting after the dogs. Their

barking quickly grew fainter in the distance. There was the noise of the uneasy tramp of the frightened drove

of horses. Pavlusha shouted aloud, "Hey, Sery! Zhuchka!" In a few minutes the barking ceased; Pavlusha's

voice sounded still in the distance. A little more time passed; the boys kept looking about in perplexity, as

though expecting something to happen. Suddenly the tramp of a galloping horse was heard; it stopped short at

the pile of wood, and, hanging on to the mane, Pavlusha sprang nimbly off it. Both the dogs also leaped into

"Nothing," answered Pavlusha, waving his hand to his horse; "I suppose the dogs scented

something. I thought it was a wolf," he added, calmly drawing deep breaths into his chest.

I could not help admiring Pavlusha. He was very fine at that moment. His ugly face, animated by

his swift ride, glowed with hardihood and determination. Without even a switch in his hand, he had, without

the slightest hesitation, rushed out into the night alone to face a wolf. "What a splendid fellow!" I thought,

"There are always a good many of them here;" answered Pavlusha; "but they are only troublesome

He crouched down again before the fire. As he sat down on the ground, he laid his hand on the

shaggy head of one of the dogs. For a long while the flattered brute did not turn his head, gazing sidewise

"What dreadful things you were telling us, Ilyusha!" began Fedya, whose part it was, as the son of

a welltodo peasant, to lead the conversation. (He spoke little himself, apparently afraid of lowering his

dignity.) "And then some evil spirit set the dogs barking. . . . Certainly I have heard that place of yours was

"Varnavitsi? I should think it was haunted! More than once, they say, they have seen the old

master therethe late master. He wears, they say, a long skirted coat, and keeps groaning like this, and

looking for something on the ground. Once grandfather Trofimich met him. 'What,' says he, 'your honour,

"Well, I call Trofimich a brave fellow after that. . . . Well, what did he say?"

" 'I am looking for the herb that cleaves all things,' says he. But he speaks so thickly, so thickly.

'And what, your honour, Ivan Ivanich, do you want with the herb that cleaves all things?' 'The tomb weighs

"What a marvel!" said Kostya. "I thought one could only see the departed on All Hallows' Day."

"One can see the departed any time," Ilyusha interposed with conviction. From what I could

observe, I judged he knew the village superstitions better than the others. "But on All Hallows' Day you can

see the living too; those, that is, whose turn it is to die that year. You need only sit in the church porch and

keep looking at the road. They will come by you along the road; those, that is, who will die that year. Last

"To be sure she did. At first she sat a long, long while, and saw no one and heard nothing . . . only

it seemed as if some dog kept whining and whining somewhere. . . . Suddenly she looks up: a boy comes

along the road with only a shirt on. She looked at him. It was Ivashka Fedoseyev."

"Yes, he. He came along and never lifted up his head. But Ulyana knew him. And then she looks

again: a woman came along. She stared and stared at her. . . . Ah, God Almighty! . . . it was herself coming

"But the year is not over yet. And only look at her; her life hangs on a thread."

All were still again. Pavlusha threw a handful of dry twigs on to the fire. They were soon charred

by the suddenly leaping flame; they cracked and smoked, and began to contract, curling up their burning

ends. Gleams of light in broken flashes glanced in all directions, especially upwards. Suddenly, a white dove

flew straight into the bright light, fluttered round and round in terror, bathed in the red glow, and disappeared

"It's lost its home, I suppose," remarked Pavlusha. "Now it will fly till it gets somewhere, where it

"But tell us, please, Pavlusha," began Fedya, "did you in Shalamov also see the heavenly

"Yes; and we weren't the only ones. Our master, though he talked to us beforehand and said there

would be a heavenly portent, yet when it got dark, they say he himself was frightened out of his wits. And in

the houseserfs' cottage the old woman, directly it grew dark, broke all the dishes in the oven with the poker.

"Who will eat now?" she said; "the last day has come." So the soup was running all about the place. And in

the village there were such tales about among us: that white wolves would run over the earth and would eat

men, that a bird of prey would pounce down on us, and that they would even see Trishka."*

*The popular belief in Trishka is probably derived from some tradition of AntichristAuthor's

"Why, don't you know?" interrupted Ilyusha warmly. "Why, brother, where have you been brought

up, not to know Trishka? You're a stayathome, oneeyed lot in your village, really! Trishka will be a

marvellous man, who will come one day, and he will be such a marvellous man that they will never be able to

catch him, and never be able to do anything with him; he will be such a marvellous man. The people will try

to take him; for example, they will come after him with sticks, they will surround him, but he will blind their

eyes so that they fall upon one another. They will put him in prison, for example; he will ask for a little water

to drink in a bowl; they will bring him the bowl, and he will plunge into it and vanish from their sight. They

will put chains on him, but he will only clap his handsthey will fall off him. So this Trishka will go

through villages and towns; and this Trishka will be a wily man; he will lead astray Christ's people . . . and

they will be able to do nothing to him. . . . He will be such a marvellous wily man."

"Well, then," continued Pavlusha in his deliberate voice, "that's what he's like. And so they

expected him in our parts. The old men declared that directly the heavenly portent began, Trishka would

come. So the heavenly portent began. All the people were scattered over the street, in the fields, waiting to

see what would happen. Our place, you know, is open country. They look; and suddenly down the

mountainside from the big village comes a man of some sort; such a strange man, with such a wonderful

head that all scream, 'Oy, Trishka is coming! Oy, Trishka is coming!' and all run in all directions! Our elder

crawled into a ditch; his wife stumbled on the doorboard and screamed with all her might; she terrified her

yarddog so that he broke away from his chain and over the hedge and into the forest it went; and Kuzka's

father, Dorofeyich, ran into the oats, lay down there, and began to cry like a quail. 'Perhaps,' says he, 'the

Enemy, the Destroyer of Souls, will spare the birds, at least.' So they were all in such a scare! But he that was

coming was our cooper Vavila; he had bought himself a new pitcher and had put the empty pitcher over his

All the boys laughed; and again there was a silence for a while, as often happens when people are

talking in the open air. I looked out into the solemn, majestic stillness of the night; the dewy freshness of late

evening had been succeeded by the dry heat of midnight; the darkness still had long to lie in a soft curtain

over the slumbering fields; there was still a long while left before the first whisperings, the first dewdrops of

dawn. There was no moon in the heavens; it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars, twinkling in

rivalry, seemed all running softly towards the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you were almost

conscious of the whirling, neverresting motion of the earth. . . . A strange, harsh, painful cry sounded twice

together over the river, and a few moments later, was repeated farther down. . . .

"That was a heron's cry," replied Pavlusha tranquilly. "A heron," repeated Kostya. . . . "And what

was it, Pavlusha, I heard yesterday evening?" he added, after a short pause; "you perhaps will know."

"I will tell you what I heard. I was going from Stony Ridge to Shashkino; I went first through our

walnut wood, and then passed by a little poolyou know where there's a sharp turn down to the

ravinethere is a waterpit there, you know; it is quite overgrown with reeds; so I went near this pit,

brothers, and suddenly from it came a sound of someone groaning, and piteously, so piteously: oooo,

oooo! I was in such a fright, my brothers; it was late, and the voice was so miserable. I felt as if I should cry

"It was in that pit the thieves drowned Akim the forester last summer," observed Pavlusha; "so

"Oh, dear, really, brothers," replied Kostya, opening wide his eyes, which were round enough

before, "I did not know they had drowned Akim in that pit. Shouldn't I have been frightened if I'd known!"

"But they say there are little, tiny frogs," continued Pavlusha, "who cry piteously like that."

"Frogs? Oh, no, it was not frogs, certainly not." (The heron again uttered a cry above the river.)

"Ugh, there it is!" Kostya cried involuntarily; "it is just like a woodspirit shrieking."

"The woodspirit does not shriek, it is dumb," put in Ilyusha; "it only claps its hands and rattles."

"No, I have not seen it, and God preserve me from seeing it; but others have seen it. Why, one day

it misled a peasant in our parts, and led him through the woods and all in a circle in one field. . . . He scarcely

"Yes. He says it was a big, big creature, dark, shapeless, as if it were standing behind a tree; you

could not make it out well; it seemed to hide away from the moon, and kept staring and staring with its great

"Ugh!" exclaimed Fedya with a slight shiver, and a shrug of the shoulders; "pfoo!"

"And how does such an unclean brood come to exist in the world," said Pavlusha; "it's a wonder."

"Look, look, brothers," suddenly came Vanya's childish voice; "look at God's little stars; they are

He put his fresh little face out from under his mat, leaned on his little fist, and slowly lifted up his

large soft eyes. The eyes of all the boys were raised to the sky, and they were not lowered quickly.

And Vanya laid his head down again on the ground. Pavlusha got up and took the empty pot in his

"Yes, he will be careful. But all kinds of things happen; he will stoop over, perhaps, to draw the

water, and the waterspirit will clutch him by the hand, and drag him into the depths. Then they will say, 'The

boy fell into the water.' Fell in, indeed!. . . There, he has gone in among the reeds," he added, listening.

"But is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina has been mad ever since she fell into the water?"

"Yes, ever since. . . . How dreadful she is now! But they say she was a beauty before then. The

waterspirit bewitched her. I suppose he did not expect they would get her out so soon. So down there at the

(I had met this Akulina more than once. Covered with rags, fearfully thin, with face as black as

coal, bleareyed and for ever grinning, she would stay whole hours in one place in the road, stamping with

her feet, pressing her fleshless hands to her breast, and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a wild

beast in a cage. She understood nothing that was said to her, and only chuckled spasmodically from time to

"But they say," continued Kostya, "that Akulina threw herself into the river because her lover had

"Why, the one who was drowned," replied Kostya, "in this very river. Ah, what a boy he was!

What a boy he was! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And she seemed to have a

foreboding, Feklista did, that harm would come to him from the water. Sometimes, when Vasya went with us

boys in the summer to bathe in the river, she used to be trembling all over. The other women did not mind;

they passed by with the pails, and went on, but Feklista put her pail down on the ground, and set to calling

him, 'Come back, come back, my little joy; come back, my darling!' And no one knows how he was drowned.

He was playing on the bank, and his mother was there haymaking; suddenly she hears as though someone

was blowing bubbles through the water, and behold! there was only Vasya's little cap to be seen swimming

on the water. You know since then Feklista has not been right in her mind: she goes and lies down at the

place where he was drowned; she lies down, brothers, and sings a songyou remember Vasya was always

singing a song like thatso she sings it, too, and weeps and weeps, and bitterly rails against God."

"I don't know. Only I went to stoop down to the water; suddenly I hear my name called in Vasya's

voice, as though it came from below water, 'Pavlusha, Pavlusha, come here.' I came away. But I fetched the

"It was the waterspirit calling you, Pavlusha," said Fedya; "we were just talking of Vasya."

"Well, never mind, don't bother about it," Pavlusha declared stoutly, and he sat down again; "no

The boys were still. It was clear that Pavlusha's words had produced a strong impression on them.

More than three hours had passed since I first came across the boys. The moon at last had risen; I

did not notice it at first; it was such a tiny crescent. This moonless night was as solemn and hushed as it had

been at first. . . . But already many stars, that not long before had been high up in the heavens, were setting

over the earth's dark rim; everything around was perfectly still, as it is only still towards morning; all was

sleeping the deep unbroken sleep that comes before daybreak. Already the fragrance in the air was fainter;

once more a dew seemed falling. . . . How short are nights in summer!. . . The boys' talk died down when the

fires did. The dogs even were dozing; the horses, so far as I could make out in the hardly perceptible, faintly

shining light of the stars, were asleep with downcast heads. . . . I fell into a state of weary unconsciousness,

A fresh breeze passed over my face. I opened my eyes; the morning was beginning. The dawn had

not yet flushed the sky, but already it was growing light in the east. Everything had become visible, though

dimly visible, around. The palegrey sky was growing light and cold and bluish; the stars twinkled with a

dimmer light, or disappeared; the earth was wet, the leaves covered with dew, and from the distance came

sounds of life and voices, and a light morning breeze went fluttering over the earth. My body responded to it

with a faint shudder of delight. I got up quickly and went to the boys. They were all sleeping, as though they

were tired out, round the smouldering fire; only Pavlusha half rose and gazed intently at me.

I nodded to him, and walked homewards beside the misty river. Before I had walked two miles,

already all around me, over the wide dewdrenched prairie, and in front, from forest to forest, where the hills

were growing green again, and behind, over the long dusty road and the sparkling bushes, flushed with the

red glow, and the river faintly blue now under the lifting mist, flowed fresh streams of burning light, first

pink, then red and golden. . . . All things began to stir, to awaken, to sing, to flutter, to speak. On all sides

thick drops of dew sparkled in glittering diamonds; to welcome me, pure and clear as though bathed in the

freshness of morning, came the notes of a bell, and suddenly there rushed by me, driven by the boys I had

Sad to say, I must add that in that year Pavlusha met his end. He was not drowned; he was killed

I WAS RETURNING from hunting in a jolting little trap, and overcome by the stifling heat of a

cloudy summer day (it is well known that the heat is often more insupportable on such days than in bright

days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and was shaken about, resigning myself with sullen fortitude

to being persecuted by the fine white dust which was incessantly raised from the beaten road by the warped

and creaking wheels, when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary uneasiness and agitated

movements of my coachman, who had till that instant been more soundly dozing than I. He began tugging at

the reins, moved uneasily on the box, and started shouting to the horses, staring all the while in one direction.

I looked round. We were driving through a wide ploughed plain; low hills, also ploughed over, ran in gently

sloping, swelling waves over it; the eye took in some five versts of deserted country; in the distance the

roundscolloped treetops of some small birch copses were the only objects to break the almost straight line

of the horizon. Narrow paths ran over the fields, disappeared into the hollows, and wound round the hillocks.

On one of these paths, which happened to run into our road five hundred paces ahead of us, I made out a kind

It was a funeral. In front, in a little cart harnessed with one horse and advancing at a walking pace,

came the priest; beside him sat the deacon driving: behind the cart four peasants, bareheaded, carried the

coffin covered with a white cloth; two women followed the coffin. The shrill wailing voice of one of them

suddenly reached my ears; I listened; she was intoning a dirge. Very dismal sounded this chanted,

monotonous, hopelesslysorrowful lament among the empty fields. The coachman whipped up the horses; he

wanted to get in front of this procession. To meet a corpse on the road is a bad omen. And he did succeed in

galloping ahead beyond this path before the funeral had had time to turn out of it into the highroad; but we

had hardly got a hundred paces beyond this point, when suddenly our trap jolted violently, heeled on one

side, and all but overturned. The coachman pulled up the galloping horses, and spat with a gesture of his

"The axle is broken . . . it caught fire," he replied gloomily, and he suddenly arranged the collar on

the offside horse with such indignation that it was almost pushed over, but it stood its ground, snorted,

shook itself, and tranquilly began to scratch its foreleg below the knee with its teeth.

I got out and stood for some time on the road, a prey to a vague and unpleasant feeling of

helplessness. The right wheel was almost completely bent in under the trap, and it seemed to turn its

"That's what's the cause of it!" said my coachman, pointing with his whip to the funeral procession,

which had just turned into the highroad and was approaching us. "I have always noticed that," he went on;

And again he began worrying the offside horse, who, seeing his illhumour, resolved to remain

perfectly quiet, and contented itself with discreetly switching its tail now and then. I walked up and down a

Meanwhile the funeral had come up to us. Quietly turning off the road on to the grass, the

mournful procession moved slowly past us. My coachman and I took off our caps, saluted the priest, and

exchanged glances with the bearers. They moved with difficulty under their burden, their broad chests

standing out under the strain. Of the two women who followed the coffin, one was very old and pale; her set

face, terribly distorted as it was by grief, still kept an expression of grave and severe dignity. She walked in

silence, from time to time lifting her wasted hand to her thin drawn lips. The other, a young woman of

fiveandtwenty, had her eyes red and moist and her whole face swollen with weeping: as she passed us she

ceased wailing and hid her face in her sleeve. . . . But when the funeral had got round us and turned again into

the road, her piteous, heartpiercing lament began again. My coachman followed the measured swaying of

"Yes . . . fever. The day before yesterday the overseer sent for the doctor, but they did not find the

doctor at home. He was a good carpenter; he drank a bit, but he was a good carpenter. See how upset his good

woman is. . . . But, there; women's tears don't cost much, you know. Women's tears are only water . . . yes,

And he bent down, crept under the sidehorse's trace, and seized the wooden yoke that passes over

"Anyway," I observed, "what are we going to do?" My coachman just supported himself with his

knee on the shafthorse's shoulder, twice gave the backstrap a shake, and straightened the pad; then he crept

out of the sidehorse's trace again, and giving it a blow on the nose as he passed, went up to the wheel. He

went up to it, and, never taking his eyes off it, slowly took out of the skirts of his coat a box, slowly pulled

open its lid by a strap, slowly thrust into it his two fat fingers (which pretty well filled it up), rolled and rolled

up some snuff, and creasing up his nose in anticipation, helped himself to it several times in succession,

accompanying the snufftaking every time by a prolonged sneezing. Then, his streaming eyes blinking

My coachman thrust his box carefully into his pocket, brought his hat forward on to his brows

without the aid of his hand by a movement of his head, and gloomily got up on the box.

"It is broken; but we will get to the settlement . . . at a walking pace, of course. Over here, beyond

We did succeed in getting to the settlement, though the right front wheel was almost off, and

turned in a very strange way. On one hillock it almost flew off, but my coachman shouted in a voice of

Yudino settlement consisted of six little lowpitched huts, the walls of which had already begun to

slant, though they had certainly not been long built; the backyards of some of the huts were not even fenced

in with a hedge. As we drove into this settlement we did not meet a single living soul; there were no hens

even to be seen in the street, and no dogs, but one black croptailed cur, which at our approach leaped

hurriedly out of a perfectly dry and empty trough, to which it must have been driven by thirst, and at once,

without barking, rushed headlong under a gate. I went up to the first hut, opened the door into the outer room,

and called for the master of the house. No one answered me. I called once more; the hungry mewing of a cat

sounded behind the other door. I pushed it open with my foot; a thin cat ran up and down near me, its green

eyes glittering in the dark. I put my head into the room and looked round; it was empty, dark, and smoky. I

returned to the yard, and there was no one there either. . . . A calf lowed behind the paling; a lame grey goose

waddled a little away. I passed on to the second hut. Not a soul in the second hut either. I went into the yard. .

In the very middle of the yard, in the glaring sunlight, there lay, with his face on the ground and a

cloak thrown over his head, a boy, as it seemed to me. In a thatched shed a few paces from him a thin little

nag with broken harness was standing near a wretched little cart. The sunshine falling in streaks through the

narrow cracks in the dilapidated roof striped his shaggy, reddishbrown coat in small bands of light. Above,

in the high birdhouse, starlings were chattering and looking down inquisitively from their airy home. I went

He lifted his head, saw me, and at once jumped up on to his feet . . . . "What? what do you want?

Picture to yourself a little creature of fifty years old, with a little round wrinkled face, a sharp nose,

little, scarcely visible brown eyes, and thick curly black hair, which stood out on his tiny head like the cap on

the top of a mushroom. His whole person was excessively thin and weakly, and it is absolutely impossible to

"What do you want?" he asked me again. I explained to him what was the matter; he listened,

"You shoot the fowls of heaven, I suppose?. . . the wild things of the woods?. . . And is it not a sin

The strange old man spoke in a very drawling tone. The sound of his voice also astonished me.

There was none of the weakness of age to be heard in it; it was marvellously sweet, young and almost

"I have no axle," he added after a brief silence. "That thing will not suit you." He pointed to his

"Not much of a village here!. . . No one has an axle. . . . And there is no one at home either; they

are all at work. You must go on," he announced suddenly; and he lay down again on the ground.

"Listen, old man," I said, touching him on the shoulder; "do me a kindness, help me."

"Go on, in God's name! I am tired; I have driven into the town," he said, and drew his cloak over

"I could take you perhaps to the clearing. Some merchants have bought the forest hereGod be

their judge! They are cutting down the forest, and they have built a countinghouse thereGod be their

"Come, let us go," I said; "let us go, old man! The coachman is waiting for us in the road."

The old man rose unwillingly and followed me into the street. We found my coachman in an

irritable frame of mind; he had tried to water his horses, but the water in the well, it appeared, was scanty in

quantity and bad in taste, and water is the first consideration with coachmen. . . . However, he grinned at the

sight of the old man, nodded his head and cried, "Hallo! Kasyan! good health to you!"

I at once made known his suggestion to the coachman; Erofei expressed his approval of it and

drove into the yard. While he was busy deliberately unharnessing the horses, the old man stood leaning with

his shoulders against the gate and looking disconsolately first at him and then at me. He seemed in some

uncertainty of mind; he was not very pleased, as it seemed to me, at our sudden visit.

"So they have made you settle here too?" Erofei asked him suddenly, lifting the wooden arch of the

"Ugh!" said my coachman between his teeth. "You know Martin the carpenter. . . . Of course, you

"Yes, he is dead. Why didn't you cure him, eh? You know, they say you cure folks; you're a

"And is this your trap, pray?" he added, with a shrug of his shoulders in its direction.

"Well, a trap . . . a fine trap!" he repeated, and taking it by the shafts, almost turned it completely

upside down. "A trap!. . . But what will you drive in to the clearing?. . . You can't harness our horses in these

"I don't know," replied Kasyan, "what you are going to drive; that beast perhaps," he added with a

"That?" broke in Erofei, and going up to Kasyan's nag, he tapped it disparagingly on the back with

the third finger of his right hand. "See," he added contemptuously, "it's asleep, the scarecrow!"

I asked Erofei to harness it as quickly as he could. I wanted to drive myself with Kasyan to the

clearing; grouse are fond of such places. When the little cart was quite ready, and I, together with my dog,

had been installed in its warped wicker body, and Kasyan huddled up into a little ball, with still the same

dejected expression on his face, had taken his seat in front, Erofei came up to me and whispered with an air of

"You did well, your honour, to drive with him. He is such a queer fellow; he's cracked, you know,

and his nickname is the Flea. I don't know how you managed to make out what he said . . . ."

I tried to say to Erofei that so far Kasyan had seemed to me a very sensible man; but my coachman

"But you keep a lookout where he is driving you to. And, your honour, be pleased to choose the

axle yourself; be pleased to choose a sound one. . . . Well, Flea," he added aloud, "could I get a bit of bread in

"Look about; you may find some," answered Kasyan. He pulled the reins and we rolled away.

His little horse, to my genuine astonishment, did not go badly. Kasyan preserved an obstinate

silence the whole way, and made abrupt and unwilling answers to my questions. We quickly reached the

clearing, and then made our way to the countinghouse, a lofty cottage standing by itself over a small gully,

which had been dammed up and converted into a pool. In this countinghouse I found two young merchants'

clerks, with snowwhite teeth, sweet and soft eyes, sweet and subtle words, and sweet and wily smiles. I

bought an axle of them and returned to the clearing. I thought that Kasyan would stay with the horse and

So we went together. The land cleared was about a verst in length. I must confess I watched

Kasyan more than my dogs. He had been aptly called "Flea." His little black uncovered head (though his hair,

indeed, was as good a covering as any cap) seemed to flash hither and thither among the bushes. He walked

extraordinarily swiftly, and seemed always hopping up and down as he moved; he was for ever stooping

down to pick herbs of some kind, thrusting them into his bosom, muttering to himself, and constantly looking

at me and my dog with such a strange searching gaze. Among low bushes and in clearings there are often

little grey birds which constantly flit from tree to tree, and which whistle as they dart away. Kasyan

mimicked them, answered their calls; a young quail flew from between his feet, chirruping, and he chirruped

in imitation of him; a lark began to fly down above him, moving his wings and singing melodiously; Kasyan

The weather was glorious, even more so than before; but the heat was no less. Over the clear sky

the high thin clouds were hardly stirred, yellowishwhite, like snow lying late in spring, flat and drawn out

like rolledup sails. Slowly but perceptibly their fringed edges, soft and fluffy as cottonwool, changed at

every moment; they were melting away, even these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. I strolled about the

clearing for a long while with Kasyan. Young shoots, which had not yet had time to grow more than a yard

high, surrounded the low blackened stumps with their smooth slender stems; and spongy funguses with grey

edgesthe same of which they make tinderclung to these; strawberry plants flung their rosy tendrils

over them; mushrooms squatted close in groups. The feet were constantly caught and entangled in the long

grass that was parched in the scorching sun; the eyes were dazzled on all sides by the glaring metallic glitter

of the young reddish leaves of the trees; on all sides were the variegated blue clusters of vetch, the golden

cups of bloodwort, and the halflilac, halfyellow blossoms of the heart'sease. In some places near the

disused paths, on which the tracks of wheels were marked by streaks on the fine bright grass, rose piles of

wood, blackened by wind and rain, laid in yardlengths; there was a faint shadow cast from them in slanting

oblongs; there was no other shade anywhere. A light breeze rose, then sank again; suddenly it would blow

straight in the face and seem to be rising; everything would begin to rustle merrily, to nod, to shake around

one; the supple tops of the ferns bow down gracefully, and one rejoices in it, but at once it dies away again,

and all is at rest once more. Only the grasshoppers chirrup in chorus with frenzied energy, and wearisome is

this unceasing, sharp, dry sound. It is in keeping with the persistent heat of midday; it seems akin to it, as

Without having started one single covey we at last reached another clearing. There the aspentrees

had only lately been felled, and lay stretched mournfully on the ground, crushing the grass and small

undergrowth below them; on some the leaves were still green, though they were already dead, and hung

limply from the motionless branches; on others they were crumpled and dried up. Fresh goldenwhite chips

lay in heaps round the stumps that were covered with bright drops; a peculiar, very pleasant pungent odour

rose from them. Farther away, nearer the wood, sounded the dull blows of the axe, and from time to time,

bowing and spreading wide its arms, a bushy tree fell slowly and majestically to the ground.

For a long time I did not come upon a single bird; at last a corncrake flew out of a thick clump of

young oak across the wormwood springing up round it. I fired; it turned over in the air and fell. At the sound

of the shot, Kasyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand, and he did not stir till I had reloaded the gun and

picked up the bird. When I had moved farther on, he went up to the place where the wounded bird had fallen,

bent down to the grass, on which some drops of blood were sprinkled, shook his head, and looked in dismay

at me. . . . I heard him afterwards whispering, "A sin!. . . Ah, yes, it's a sin!"

The heat forced us at last to go into the wood. I flung myself down under a high nut bush, over

which a slender young maple gracefully stretched its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick trunk of a

felled birchtree. I looked at him. The leaves faintly stirred overhead, and their thin greenish shadows crept

softly to and fro over his feeble body, muffled in a dark coat, and over his little face. He did not lift his head.

Bored by his silence, I lay on my back and began to admire the tranquil play of the tangled foliage on the

background of the bright, faraway sky. A marvellously sweet occupation it is to lie on one's back in a wood

and gaze upwards! You may fancy you are looking into a bottomless sea; that it stretches wide below you;

that the trees are not rising out of the earth, but, like the roots of gigantic weeds, are droppingfalling

straight down into those glassy, limpid depths; the leaves on the trees are at one moment transparent as

emeralds, the next, they condense into golden, almost black green. Somewhere, afar off, at the end of a

slender twig, a single leaf hangs motionless against the blue patch of transparent sky, and beside it another

trembles with the motion of a fish on the line, as though moving of its own will, not shaken by the wind.

Round white clouds float calmly across, and calmly pass away like submarine islands; and suddenly, all this

ocean, this shining ether, these branches and leaves steeped in sunlightall is rippling, quivering in fleeting

brilliance, and a fresh trembling whisper awakens like the tiny, incessant splash of suddenly stirred eddies.

One does not moveone looks, and no word can tell what peace, what joy, what sweetness reigns in the

heart. One looks: the deep, pure blue stirs on one's lips a smile, innocent as itself; like the clouds over the sky,

and, as it were, with them, happy memories pass in slow procession over the soul, and still one fancies one's

gaze goes deeper and deeper, and draws one with it up into that peaceful, shining immensity, and that one

I raised myself in surprise: up till then he had scarcely replied to my questions, and now he

"That was not what you killed it for, master, as though you were going to eat it! You killed it for

"Those birds are provided by God for man, but the corncrake is a wild bird of the woods; and not

he alone; many they are, the wild things of the woods and the fields, and the wild things of the rivers and

marshes and moors, flying on high or creeping below; and a sin it is to slay them; let them live their allotted

life upon the earth. But for man another food has been provided; his food is other, and other his sustenance:

bread, the good gift of God, and the water of heaven, and the tame beasts that have come down to us from our

I looked in astonishment at Kasyan. His words flowed freely; he did not hesitate for a word; he

"Fishes have cold blood," he replied with conviction. "The fish is a dumb creature; it knows

neither fear nor rejoicing. The fish is a voiceless creature. The fish does not feel; the blood in it is not living. .

. . Blood," he continued after a pause, "blood is a holy thing! God's sun does not look upon blood; it is hidden

away from the light . . . it is a great sin to bring blood into the light of day; a great sin and horror. . . . Ah, a

He sighed, and his head drooped forward. I looked, I confess, in absolute amazement at the strange

old man. His language did not sound like the language of a peasant; the common people do not speak like

that, nor those who aim at fine speaking. His speech was meditative, grave, and curious. . . . I had never heard

"Tell me, please, Kasyan," I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, "what is

He did not answer my question at once. His eyes strayed uneasily for an instant.

"I live as the Lord commands," he brought out at last; "and as for occupationno, I have no

occupation. I've never been very clever from a child; I work when I can; I'm not much of a workmanhow

should I be? I have no health; my hands are awkward. But in the spring I catch nightingales."

"You catch nightingales?. . . But didn't you tell me that we must not touch any of the wild things of

"We must not kill them, of a certainty; death will take its own without that. Look at Martin the

carpenter; Martin lived, and his life was not long, but he died; his wife now grieves for her husband, for her

little children. . . . Neither for man nor beast is there any charm against death. Death does not hasten, nor is

there any escaping it; but we must not aid death. . . . And I do not kill nightingalesGod forbid! I do not

catch them to harm them, to spoil their lives, but for the pleasure of men, for their comfort and delight."

"Yes, I go to Kursk, and farther, too, at times. I pass nights in the marshes, or at the edge of the

forests; I am alone at night in the fields, in the thickets; there the curlews call and the hares squeak and the

wild ducks lift up their voices. . . . I note them at evening; at morning I give ear to them; at daybreak I cast

my net over the bushes. . . . There are nightingales that sing so pitifully sweet . . . yea, pitifully."

"I am not employed at all. . . . I am a poor workman. But I can read and write."

"No, but . . . I have never been lucky in life. But all that is in God's hands; we are all in God's

hands; and a man should be righteousthat is all! Upright before God, that is it."

"Tell me, please," I began: "I heard my coachman ask you why you did not cure Martin. You cure

"Your coachman is a righteous man," Kasyan answered thoughtfully, "but not without sin either.

They call me a doctor. Me a doctor, indeed! And who can heal the sick? That is all a gift from God. But there

are . . . yes, there are herbs, and there are flowers; they are of use, of a certainty. There is plantain, for

instance, a herb good for man; there is budmarigold too; it is not sinful to speak of them: they are holy herbs

of God. Then there are others not so; and they may be of use, but it's a sin; and to speak of them is a sin. Still,

with prayer, maybe. . . . And doubtless there are such words. . . . But who has faith, shall be saved," he added,

"I heard of it too late," replied the old man. "But what of it! Each man's destiny is written from his

birth. The carpenter Martin was not to live; he was not to live upon the earth: that was what it was. No, when

a man is not to live on the earth, him the sunshine does not warm like another, and him the bread does not

nourish and make strong; it is as though something is drawing him away. . . . Yes; God rest his soul!"

"No, not long; about four years. In the old master's time we always lived in our old houses, but the

trustees made us settle here. Our old master was a kind heart, a man of peacethe Kingdom of Heaven be

"Yes . . . yes, there, there was open country, with rivers; it was our home; here we are cramped and

parched up. . . . Here we are strangers. There at home, at Fair Springs, you could get up on to a hilland ah,

my God, what a sight you could see! Streams and meadows and forests, and there was a church, and then

came more meadows beyond. You could see far, very far. Yes, how far you could lookyou could look and

look, ah, yes! Here, doubtless, the soil is better; it is claygood fat clay, the peasants say; for me the corn

"Yes, I should like to see it. Still, all places are good. I am a man without kin, a restless man. And,

after all, do you gain much, pray, by staying at home? But, behold! as you walk, and as you walk," he went

on, raising his voice, "the heart grows lighter, of a truth. And the sun shines upon you, and you are in the

sight of God, and the singing comes more tunefully. Here, you look what herb is growing; you look on

ityou pick it. Here water runs, perhapsspring water, a source of pure holy water; so you drink of ityou

look on it, too. The birds of heaven sing. . . . And beyond Kursk come the steppes, that steppecountry; ah,

what a marvel, what a delight for man! what freedom, what a blessing of God! And they go on, folks tell,

even to the warm seas where dwells the sweetvoiced bird, the Hamayune, and from the trees the leaves fall

not, neither in autumn nor in winter, and apples grow of gold, on silver branches, and every man lives in

uprightness and content. And I would go even there. . . . Have I journeyed so little already! I have been to

Romni and to Simbirsk the fair city, and even to Moscow of the golden cupolas; I have been to the good

nurse Oka, and to the dove Tsna, and to our mother Volga, and many folks, good Christians, have I seen, and

noble cities I have visited. . . . Well, I would go thither . . . yes . . . and more, too . . . and I am not the only

one, I a poor sinner . . . many other Christians go in bast shoes, roaming over the world, seeking truth, yea!. . .

These last words Kasyan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more

which I could not catch at all, and such a strange expression passed over his face that I involuntarily recalled

the epithet "cracked." He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again.

"What sunshine!" he murmured in a low voice. "It is a blessing, oh, Lord! What warmth in the

He gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. With a vague look round him he began

softly to sing. I could not catch all the words of his slow chant; I heard the following:

"Oh!" I thought, "so he improvises." Suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a

thick part of the wood. I turned and saw a little peasant girl, about eight years old, in a blue frock, with a

checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. She had

certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, "stumbled upon" us, and she stood motionless in a

shady recess among the thick foliage of the nuttrees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. I had

"Annushka! Annushka! come here, don't be afraid!" cried the old man caressingly.

Annushka left her hiding place in silence, walked softly roundher little childish feet scarcely

sounded on the thick grassand came out of the bushes near the old man. She was not a child of eight, as I

had fancied at first from her diminutive stature, but a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her whole person was small

and thin, but very neat and graceful, and her pretty little face was strikingly like Kasyan's own, though he was

certainly not handsome. There were the same thin features, and the same strange expression, shy and

confiding, melancholy and shrewd, and her gestures were the same. . . . Kasyan kept his eyes fixed on her;

"Show me, show me . . . ." (She slipped the basket off her arm and half lifted the big burdock leaf

which covered up the mushrooms.) "Ah!" said Kasyan, bending down over the basket; "what splendid ones!

"She's your daughter, Kasyan, isn't she?" I asked. (Annushka's face flushed faintly.)

"No, well, a relative," replied Kasyan with affected indifference. "Come, Annushka, run along," he

Annushka blushed like a poppy, grasped the rope handle of her basket with both hands, and looked

"No, she will get there all right," he answered in the same languid and indifferent voice. "Why

Annushka went rapidly away into the forest, Kasyan looked after her, then looked down and

smiled, to himself. In this prolonged smile, in the few words he had spoken to Annushka, and in the very

sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was an intense, indescribable love and tenderness. He looked

again in the direction she had gone, again smiled to himself, and, passing his hand across his face, nodded his

"Why did you send her away so soon?" I asked him. "I would have bought her mushrooms."

"Well, you can buy them there at home just the same, sir, if you like," he answered, for the first

"No . . . only soso," he answered with seeming reluctance, and from that instant he relapsed into

Seeing that all my efforts to make him talk again were fruitless,. I went off into the clearing.

Meantime the heat had somewhat abated; but my illsuccess continued, and I returned to the settlement with

nothing but one corncrake and the new axle. Just as we were driving into the yard, Kasyan suddenly turned to

"Master, master," he began, "do you know I have done you a wrong; it was I cast a spell to keep all

"Oh, I can do that. Here you have a welltrained dog and a good one, but he could do nothing.

When you think of it, what are men? what are they? Here's a beast; what have they made of him?"

It would have been useless for me to try to convince Kasyan of the impossibility of "casting a

spell" on game, and so I made him no reply. Meantime we had turned into the yard.

Annushka was not in the hut: she had had time to get there before us and to leave her basket of

mushrooms. Erofei fitted in the new axle, first exposing it to a severe and most unjust criticism; and an hour

later I set off, leaving a small sum of money with Kasyan, which at first he was unwilling to accept, but

afterwards, after a moment's thought, holding it in his hand, he put it in his bosom. In the course of this hour

he had scarcely uttered a single word; he stood as before, leaning against the gate. He made no reply to the

Directly I turned round, I could see that my worthy Erofei was in a gloomy frame of mind. . . . To

be sure, he had found nothing to eat in the village; the water for his horses was bad. We drove off. With

dissatisfaction expressed even in the back of his head, he sat on the box, burning to begin to talk to me. While

waiting for me to begin by some question, he confined himself to a low muttering in an undertone, and some

rather caustic instructions to the horses. "A village," he muttered; "call that a village? You ask for a drop of

kvasnot a drop of kvas even. Ah, Lord!. . . And the watersimply filth!" (He spat loudly.) "Not a

cucumber, nor kvas, nor nothing. . . Now, then!" he added aloud, turning to the right tracehorse; "I know

you, you humbug." (And he gave him a cut with the whip.) "That horse has learnt to shirk his work entirely,

Erofei did not answer me at once: he was, in general, a reflective and deliberate fellow; but I could

"The Flea?" he said at last, gathering up the reins; "he's a queer fellow; yes, a crazy chap; such a

queer fellow, you wouldn't find another like him in a hurry. You know, for example, he's for all the world like

our roan horse here; he gets out of everythingout of work, that's to say. But then, what sort of workman

could he be?. . . He's hardly body enough to keep his soul in . . . but still, of course. . . . He's been like that

from a child up, you know. At first he followed his uncles' business as a carrierthere were three of them in

the business; but then he got tired of it, you knowhe threw it up. He began to live at home, but he could not

keep at home long; he's so restlessa regular flea, in fact. He happened, by good luck, to have a kind

masterhe didn't worry him. Well, so ever since he has been wandering about like a lost sheep. And then,

he's so strange; there's no understanding him. Sometimes he'll be as silent as a post, and then he'll begin

talking, and God knows what he'll say! Is that good manners, pray? He's an absurd fellow, that he is. But he

"Cure people! How could he? A fine sort of doctor! Though he did cure me of the king's evil, I

must own. . . . But how can he? He's a stupid fellow, that's what he is," he added after a moment's pause.

"And what of that girlwho met us in the wood, Annushkawhat relation is she to him?"

"He, he!. . . yes, they are relations. She is an orphan; she has no mother, and it's not even known

who her mother was. But she must be a relation; she's too much like him. Anyway, she lives with him. She's a

smart girl, there's no denying; a good girl; and as for the old man, she's simply the apple of his eye; she's a

good girl. And, do you know, you wouldn't believe it, but do you know, he'll probably start teaching

Annushka to read. Well, well! that's quite like him; he's such an extraordinary fellow, such a changeable

fellow; there's no reckoning on him, really. . . . Eh! eh! eh!" my coachman suddenly interrupted himself, and

stopping the horses, he bent over on one side and began sniffing. "Isn't there a smell of burning? Yes! Why,

that new axle, I do declare!. . . I thought I'd greased it. . . . We must get on to some water; why, here is a

And Erofei slowly got off his seat, untied the pail, went to the pool, and coming back, listened with

a certain satisfaction to the hissing of the box of the wheel as the water suddenly touched it. . . . Six times

during some ten versts he had to pour water on the smouldering axle, and it was quite evening when we got

TWELVE miles from my place lives an acquaintance of mine, a landowner and a retired officer in

the GuardsArkady Pavlich Penochkin. He has a great deal of game on his estate, a house built after the

design of a French architect, and servants dressed after the English fashion; he gives capital dinners, and a

cordial reception to visitors, and, with all that, one goes to see him reluctantly. He is a sensible and practical

man, has received an excellent education, has been in the service, mixed in the highest society, and is now

devoting himself to his estate with great success. Arkady Pavlich is, to judge by his own words, severe but

just; he looks after the good of his subjects and punishes themfor their good. "One has to treat them like

children," he says on such occasions; "their ignorance, mon cher; il faut prendre cela en consid�ration." When

this socalled painful necessity arises, he eschews all sharp or violent gestures, and prefers not to raise his

voice, but with a straight blow in the culprit's face, says calmly, "I believe I asked you to do something, my

friend?" or "What is the matter, my boy? what are you thinking about?" while he sets his teeth a little, and the

corners of his mouth are drawn. He is not tall, but has an elegant figure, and is very goodlooking; his hands

and nails are kept perfectly exquisite; his rosy cheeks and lips are simply the picture of health. He has a

ringing, lighthearted laugh, and there is sometimes a very genial twinkle in his clear brown eyes. He dresses

in excellent taste; he orders French books, prints, and papers, though he's no great lover of reading himself:

he has hardly as much as waded through the The Wandering Jew. He plays cards in masterly style.

Altogether, Arkady Pavlich is reckoned one of the most cultivated gentlemen and most eligible matches in

our province; the ladies are perfectly wild over him, and especially admire his manners. He is wonderfully

well conducted, wary as a cat, and has never from his cradle been mixed up in any scandal, though he is fond

of making his power felt, intimidating or snubbing a nervous man, when he gets a chance. He has a positive

distaste for doubtful society he is afraid of compromising himself; in his lighter moments, however, he will

avow himself a follower of Epicurus, though as a rule he speaks slightingly of philosophy, calling it foggy

food fit for German brains or, at times, simply rot. He is fond of music, too; at the cardtable he is given to

humming through his teeth, but with feeling; he knows by heart some snatches from Lucia and Les

Somnambules, but he is always apt to sing everything a little sharp. The winters he spends in Petersburg. His

house is kept in extraordinarily good order; the very grooms feel his influence, and every day not only rub the

harness and brush their coats, but even wash their faces. Arkady Pavlich's houseserfs have, it is true,

something of a hangdog look; but among us Russians there's no knowing what is sullenness and what is

sleepiness. Arkady Pavlich speaks in a soft, agreeable voice, with emphasis and, as it were, with satisfaction;

he brings out each word through his handsome perfumed moustaches; he uses a good many French

expressions too, such as: Mais c'est impayable! Mais comment donc! and so on. For all that, I, for one, am

never overeager to visit him, and if it were not for the grouse and the partridges, I should probably have

dropped his acquaintance altogether. One is possessed by a strange sort of uneasiness in his house; the very

comfort is distasteful to one, and every evening when a befrizzed valet makes his appearance in a blue livery

with heraldic buttons, and begins, with cringing servility, drawing off one's boots, one feels that if his pale,

lean figure could suddenly be replaced by the amazingly broad cheeks and incredibly thick nose of a stalwart

young labourer fresh from the plough, who has yet had time in his ten months of service to tear his new

nankin coat open at every seam, one would be unutterably overjoyed, and would gladly run the risk of having

In spite of my dislike for Arkady Pavlich, I once happened to pass a night in his house. The next

day I ordered my carriage to be ready early in the morning, but he would not let me start without a regular

breakfast in the English style, and conducted me into his study. With our tea they served us cutlets, boiled

eggs, butter, honey, cheese, and so on. Two footmen in clean white gloves swiftly and silently anticipated our

faintest desires. We sat on a Persian divan. Arkady Pavlich was arrayed in loose silk trousers, a black velvet

smoking jacket, a red fez with a blue tassel, and yellow Chinese slippers without heels. He drank his tea,

laughed, scrutinized his fingernails, smoked, propped himself up with cushions, and was altogether in an

excellent humour. After making a hearty breakfast with obvious satisfaction, Arkady Pavlich poured himself

"Didn't I ask you a question, my friend?" Arkady Pavlich resumed tranquilly, never taking his eyes

The luckless footman fidgeted in his place, twisted the napkin, and uttered not a word.

Arkady Pavlich dropped his head and looked up at him thoughtfully from under his eyelids.

"Pardon, mon cher," he observed, patting my knee amicably, and again he stared at the footman.

"You can go," he added after a short silence, raising his eyebrows, and he rang the bell.

A stout, swarthy, blackhaired man, with a low forehead and eyes positively lost in fat, came into

"About Fyodor . . . make the necessary arrangements," said Arkady Pavlich in an undertone, and

"Vol�, mon cher, les d�sagr�ments de la campagne," Arkady Pavlich remarked gaily. "But where

"Nothing but sport! Oh, you sportsmen! And where are you going to shoot just now?"

"Ryabovo? By Jove! now in that case I will come with you. Ryabovo's only five versts from my

village Shipilovka, and it's a long while since I've been over to Shipilovka; I've never been able to get the

time. Well, this is a piece of luck; you can spend the day shooting in Ryabovo and come on in the evening to

me. Ce sera charmant. We'll have supper togetherwe'll take the cook with us, and you'll stay the night with

me. Capital! capital!" he added without waiting for my answer. "C'est arrang�. . . . Hey, you there! Have the

carriage brought out, and look sharp. You have never been in Shipilovka? I should be ashamed to suggest

your putting up for the night in my bailiff's cottage, but you're not particular, I know, and at Ryabovo you'd

"You don't know, I dare say," he pursued, swaying from side to side; "I've some peasants there

who pay rent. It's the custom of the placewhat was I to do? They pay their rent very punctually, though. I

should, I'll own, have put them back to payment in labour, but there's so little land. I really wonder how they

manage to make both ends meet. However, c'est leur affaire. My steward there's a fine fellow, une forte t�te, a

man of real administrative power! You shall see. . . . Really, how luckily things have turned out!"

There was no help for it. Instead of nine o'clock in the morning, we started at two in the afternoon.

Hunters will sympathize with my impatience. Arkady Pavlich liked, as he expressed it, to be comfortable

when he had the chance, and he took with him such a supply of linen, dainties, wearing apparel, perfumes,

pillows, and dressingcases of all sorts, that a careful and selfdenying German would have found enough to

last him for a year. Every time we went down a steep hill, Arkady Pavlich addressed some brief but powerful

remarks to the coachman, from which I was able to deduce that my worthy friend was a thorough coward.

The journey was, however, performed in safety, except that, in crossing a latelyrepaired bridge, the trap

with the cook in it broke down, and he got squeezed in the stomach against the hind wheel.

Arkady Pavlich was alarmed in earnest at the sight of the fall of Karem, his homemade professor

of the culinary art, and he sent at once to inquire whether his hands were injured. On receiving a reassuring

reply to this query, his mind was set at rest immediately. With all this, we were rather a long time on the

road; I was in the same carriage as Arkady Pavlich, and towards the end of the journey I was a prey to deadly

boredom, especially as in a few hours my companion ran perfectly dry of subjects, of conversation, and even

fell to expressing his liberal views on politics. At last we did arrivenot at Ryabovo, but at Shipilovka; it

happened so somehow. I could have got no shooting now that day in any case, and so, raging inwardly, I

The cook had arrived a few minutes before us, and apparently had had time to arrange things and

prepare those whom it concerned, for on our very entrance within the village boundaries we were met by the

village bailiff (the steward's son), a stalwart, redhaired peasant of seven feet; he was on horseback,

bareheaded, and wearing a new overcoat, not buttoned up. "And where's Sofron?" Arkady Pavlich asked him.

The bailiff first jumped nimbly off his horse, bowed to his master till he was bent double, and said, "Good

health to you, Arkady Pavlich, sir!" then raised his head, shook himself, and announced that Sofron had gone

"Well, come along after us," said Arkady Pavlich. The bailiff deferentially led his horse to one

side, clambered on to it, and followed the carriage at a trot, his cap in his hand. We drove through the village.

A few peasants in empty carts happened to meet us; they were driving from the threshingfloor and singing

songs, swaying backwards and forwards, and swinging their legs in the air; but at the sight of our carriage and

the bailiff they were suddenly silent, took off their winter caps (it was summertime) and got up as though

waiting for orders. Arkady Pavlich nodded to them graciously. A flutter of excitement had obviously spread

through the village. Peasant women in check petticoats flung splinters of wood at indiscreet or overzealous

dogs; an old lame man with a beard that began just under his eyes pulled a horse away from the well before it

had drunk, gave it, for some obscure reason, a blow on the side, and fell to bowing low. Boys in long shirts

ran with a howl to the huts, flung themselves on their bellies on the high doorsills, with their heads down

and legs in the air, rolled over with the utmost haste into the dark outer rooms, from which they did not

reappear again. Even the hens sped in a hurried scuttle to the turning; one bold cock with a black throat like a

satin waistcoat and a red tail, curving up to his very comb, stood his ground in the road, and even prepared

for a crow, then suddenly took fright and scuttled off, too. The steward's cottage stood apart from the rest in

the middle of a thick green patch of hemp. We stopped at the gates. Mr. Penochkin got up, flung off his cloak

with a picturesque motion, and got out of the carriage, looking affably about him. The steward's wife met us

with low curtseys, and came up to kiss the master's hand. Arkady Pavlich let her kiss it to her heart's content,

and mounted the steps. In the outer room, in a dark corner, stood the bailiff's wife, and she too curtsied, but

did not venture to approach his hand. In the cold hut, as it is calledto the right of the outer roomtwo

other women were still busily at work; they were carrying out all the rubbish, empty tubs, sheepskins stiff as

boards, greasy pots, a cradle with a heap of rags and a baby covered with spots, and sweeping out the dirt

with steambath besoms. Arkady Pavlich sent them away, and installed himself on a bench under the holy

images. The coachmen began bringing in the trunks, bags, and other conveniences trying each time to subdue

Meantime Arkady Pavlich began questioning the bailiff about the crops, the sowing, and other

agricultural subjects. The bailiff gave satisfactory answers, but spoke with a sort of heavy awkwardness, as

though he were buttoning up his coat with benumbed fingers. He stood at the door and kept looking round on

the watch to make way for the nimble footman. Behind his powerful shoulders I managed to get a glimpse of

the steward's wife in the outer room surreptitiously belabouring some other peasant woman. Suddenly a cart

This man, as Arkady Pavlich said, of real administrative power, was short, broadshouldered,

grey, and thickset, with a red nose, little blue eyes, and a beard of the shape of a fan. We may observe, by

the way, that ever since Russia has existed, there has never yet been an instance of a man who has grown rich

and prosperous without a big, bushy beard; sometimes a man may have had a thin, wedgeshape beard all his

life; but then he begins to get one all at once, it is all round his face like a haloone wonders where the hair

has come from! The steward must have been making merry at Perov: his face was unmistakably flushed, and

"Ah, our father, our gracious benefactor!" he began in a singsong voice, and with a face of such

deep feeling that it seemed every minute as if he would burst into tears; "at last you have graciously deigned

to come to us . . . your hand, your honour's hand," he added, his lips protruded in anticipation. Arkady

Pavlich gratified his desire. "Well, brother Sofron, how are things going with you?" he asked in a friendly

"Ah, our father!" cried Sofron; "how should they go ill? how should things go ill, now that you,

our father, our benefactor, graciously deign to lighten our poor village with your presence, to make us happy

till the day of our death? Thank the Lord for thee, Arkady Pavlich! thank the Lord for thee! All is right by

At this point Sofron paused, gazed upon his master, and, as though carried away by a rush of

feeling (tipsiness had its share in it, too), begged once more for his hand, and whined more than before.

"Ah, you, our father, our benefactor . . . and. . . . There, God bless me! I'm a regular fool with

Arkady Pavlich glanced at me, smiled, and asked, "N'estce pas que c'est touchant?"

"But, Arkady Pavlich, your honour," resumed the indefatigable steward; "what are you going to

do? You'll break my heart, your honour; your honour didn't graciously let me know of your visit. Where are

"Nonsense, Sofron, nonsense!" Arkady Pavlich responded with a smile; "it's all right here."

"But, our father, all rightfor whom? For peasants like us it's all right; but for you . . . oh, our

father, our gracious protector! oh, you . . . our father!. . . Pardon an old fool like me; I'm off my head, bless

Meanwhile supper was served; Arkady Pavlich began to eat. The old man packed his son off,

"Well, settled the division of land, old chap, hey?" inquired Mr. Penochkin, obviously trying to

"We've settled the land shares, your honour; all by your gracious favour. Day before yesterday the

list was made out. The Khlinov folks made themselves disagreeable about it at first. . . they were disagreeable

about it, certainly. They wanted this . . . and they wanted that . . . and God knows what they didn't want! but

they're a set of fools, your honour!an ignorant lot. But we, your honour, graciously please you, gave an

earnest of our gratitude, and satisfied Mikolai Mikolaich, the mediator; we acted in everything according to

your orders, your honour; as you graciously ordered, so we did, and nothing did we do unbeknown to Yegor

"Ah, you are our father, our benefactor!" he began in the same singsong as before. "Indeed, now,

your honour . . . why, for you, our father, we pray day and night to God Almighty. . . . There's too little land,

"There, that'll do, that'll do, Sofron; I know you're eager in my service. Well, and how goes the

"Well, our father, the threshing's none too good. But there, your honour, Arkady Pavlich, let me

tell you about a little matter that came to pass." (Here he came closer to Mr. Penochkin, with his arms apart,

"I can't think myself, your honour; it seems like the doing of the evil one. But, luckily, it was found

near the boundary; on our side of it, to tell the truth. I ordered them to drag it on to the neighbour's strip of

land at once, while it was still possible, and set a watch there, and sent word round to our folks. 'Mum's the

word,' says I. But I explained how it was to the police officer in case of the worst. 'You see how it was,' says

I; and of course I had to treat him and slip some notes into his hand . . . . Well, what do you say, your honour?

We shifted the burden on to other shoulders; you see a dead body's a matter of two hundred rubles, as sure as

Mr. Penochkin laughed heartily at his steward's cunning, and said several times to me, indicating

Meantime it was quite dark out of doors; Arkady Paylich ordered the table to be cleared, and hay

to be brought in. The valet spread out sheets for us and arranged pillows; we lay down. Sofron retired after

receiving his instructions for the next day. Arkady Pavlich, before falling asleep, talked a little more about the

firstrate qualities of the Russian peasant, and at that point made the observation that since Sofron had had

the management of the place, the Shipilovka peasants had never been one kopek in arrears. . . The watchman

struck his board; a baby, who apparently had not yet had time to be imbued with a sentiment of dutiful

The next morning we got up rather early; I was getting ready to start for Ryabovo, but Arkady

Pavlich was anxious to show me his estate, and begged me to remain. I was not averse myself to seeing more

of the firstrate qualities of that man of administrative powerSofron in their practical working. The

steward made his appearance. He wore a blue loose coat, girded with a red belt. He talked much less than on

the previous evening, kept an alert, intent eye on his master's face, and gave connected and sensible answers.

We set off with him to the threshingfloor. Sofron's son, the sevenfoot bailiff, by every external sign a very

slowwitted fellow, walked after us also, and we were joined farther on by the village constable, Fedoseyich,

a retired soldier, with immense moustaches, and an extraordinary expression of face; he looked as though he

had had some startling shock of astonishment a very long while ago, and had never quite got over it. We took

a look at the threshingfloor, the barn, the cornstacks, the outbuildings, the windmill, the cattleshed, the

vegetables, and the hempfields; everything was, as a fact, in excellent order; only the dejected faces of the

peasants rather puzzled me. Sofron had had an eye to the ornamental as well as the useful; he had planted all

the ditches with willows, between the stacks he had made little paths to the threshingfloor and strewn them

with fine sand; on the windmill he had constructed a weathercock of the shape of a bear with his jaws open

and a red tongue sticking out; he had attached to the brick cattleshed something of the nature of a Greek

fa�ade, and on it inscribed in white letters: "Construt in the village Shipilovka 1 thousand eight Hunderd

fortieth year. This cattleshed." Arkady Pavlich was quite touched, and fell to expatiating in French to me

upon the advantages of the system of rentpayment, adding, however, that labourdues came more profitable

to the owner"but, after all, that wasn't everything." He began giving the steward advice how to plant his

potatoes, how to prepare cattlefood, and so on. Sofron heard his master's remarks out with attention,

sometimes replied, but did not now address Arkady Pavlich as his father, or his benefactor, and kept insisting

that there was too little land; that it would be a good thing to buy more. "Well, buy some then," said Arkady

Pavlich; "I've no objection; in my name, of course." To this Sofron made no reply; he merely stroked his

"And now it would be as well to ride down to the copse," observed Mr. Penochkin. Saddlehorses

were led out to us at once; we went off to the copse, or, as they call it about us, the "enclosure." This

"enclosure" proved to be a dense virgin forest, for which Arkady Pavlich applauded Sofron and clapped him

on the shoulder. In regard to forestry, Arkady Pavlich clung to the Russian ideas, and told me on that subject

an amusingin his wordsanecdote, of how a jocose landowner had given his forester a good lesson by

pulling out nearly half his beard, by way of a proof that growth is none the thicker for being uprooted. In

other matters, however, neither Sofron nor Arkady Pavlich objected to innovations. On our return to the

village, the steward took us to look at a winnowingmachine he had recently ordered from Moscow. The

winnowingmachine did certainly work beautifully, but if Sofron had known what a disagreeable incident

was in store for him and his master on this last excursion, he would doubtless have stopped at home with us.

This was what happened. As we came out of the barn the following spectacle confronted us. A few

paces from the door, near a filthy pool, in which three ducks were splashing unconcernedly, there stood two

peasants one, an old man of sixty, the other, a lad of twentyboth in patched homespun shirts, barefoot,

and with a cord tied round their waists for belts. The village constable Fedoseyich was busily engaged with

them, and would probably have succeeded in inducing them to retire if we had lingered a little longer in the

barn, but catching sight of us, he drew himself up and stood at attention. Close by stood the bailiff gaping, his

fists hanging irresolute. Arkady Pavlich frowned, bit his lip, and went up to the suppliants. They both

"What do you want? What are you asking about?" he inquired in a stern voice, a little through his

nose. (The peasants glanced at one another, and did not utter a syllable, only blinked a little as if the sun were

"Well, what is it?" Arkady Pavlich said again; and turning at once to Sofron, "Of what family?"

"Well, what do you want?" Mr. Penochkin said again; "have you lost your tongues, or what? Tell

me, you, what is it you want?" he added, with a nod at the old man. "And don't be afraid, stupid."

The old man craned forward his darkbrown wrinkled neck, opened his bluish twitching lips, and

in a hoarse voice uttered the words, "Protect us, lord!" and again bent his forehead to the earth. The young

peasant prostrated himself too. Arkady Pavlich looked at their bent necks with an air of dignity, threw back

his head, and stood with his legs rather wide apart. "What is it? Whom do you complain of?"

'Have mercy, lord! Let us breathe. . . . We are tormented to death quite." (The old man spoke with

"Well! and how has he tormented you?" he began again, looking over his moustaches at the old

Your honour, he has ruined us utterly. Two sons, your honour, he's sent for recruits out of turn, and

now he is taking the third also. Yesterday, your honour, our last cow was taken from the yard, and my old

Mr. Penochkin scowled. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked his steward in a low voice, with an

"He's a drunken fellow, sir," answered the steward, even more deferentially than ever, "and lazy,

"Sofron Yakovlich paid the arrears for me, your honour," the old man went on; "it's the fifth year's

come that he's paid it, he's paid itand he's brought me into slavery to him, your honour, and here"

"And why did you get into arrears?" Mr. Penochkin asked threateningly. (The old man's head

sank.) "You're fond of drinking, hanging about the taverns, I dare say." (The old man opened his mouth to

speak.) "I know you," Arkady Pavlich went on emphatically; "you think you've nothing to do but drink, and

"That's sure to be so; it's always the way; I've noticed it more than once. The whole year round,

"Your honour, Arkady Pavlich," the old man began despairingly, "have pity, protect us; when have

I been impudent? Before God Almighty, I swear it was beyond my strength. Sofron Yakovlich has taken a

dislike to me; for some reason he dislikes meGod be his judge! He will ruin me utterly, your honour. . . .

The last . . . here. . . the last boy . . . and him he. . . ." (A tear glistened in the old man's wrinkled yellow eyes.)

"And who asked your opinion, hey? Till you're spoken to, hold your tongue. How dare you?

Silence, I tell you, silence!. . . Why, upon my word, this is simply mutiny! No, my friend, I don't advise you

to mutiny on my domain . . . on my . . . ." (Arkady Pavlich stepped forward, but probably recollected my

presence, turned round, and put his hands in his pockets.) "Je vous demande bien pardon, mon cher," he said.

with a forced smile, dropping his voice significantly. "C'est le mauvais c�t� de la m�daille. . . . There, that'll

do, that'll do," he went on, not looking at the peasants; "I'll see to it . . . that'll do, you can go." (The peasants

did not rise.) "Well, haven't I told you . . . that'll do. You can go, I tell you."

Arkady Pavlich turned his back on them. "Nothing but vexation," he muttered between his teeth,

and strode with long steps homewards. Sofron followed him. The village constable opened his eyes wide,

looking as if he were just about to take a tremendous leap into space. The bailiff drove a duck away from the

puddle. The suppliants remained as they were a little, then looked at each other, and, without turning their

Two hours later I was at Ryabovo, and making ready to begin shooting, accompanied by Anpadist,

a peasant I knew well. Penochkin had been out of humour with Sofron up to the time I left. I began talking to

Anpadist about the Shipilovka peasants, and Mr. Penochkin, and asked him whether he knew the steward

"He's not a man; he's a dog; you couldn't find another brute like him between here and Kursk."

"Why, Shipilovka's hardly reckoned aswhat's his name?Mr. Penkin's at all; he's not the

"He's master, just as if it were his own. The peasants all about are in debt to him; they work for

him like slaves; he'll send one off with the waggons; another, another way. . . . He harries them out of their

"Not much land! He rents two hundred acres from the Khlinov peasants alone, and two hundred

and eighty from our folks; there's more than three hundred and seventyfive acres he's got. And he doesn't

only traffic in land; he does a trade in horses and stock, and pitch, and butter, and hemp, and one thing and

the other. . . . He's sharp, awfully sharp, and rich too, the beast! But what's badhe beats them. He's a brute,

"I dare say, the master'd be pleased! There's no arrears; so what does he care? I should like to see

anyone try to complain," he added after a brief pause. "No, he'd let you know . . . yes, you'd better not try it at

"There," commented Anpadist, "he will eat him up now; he'll simply eat the man up. The bailiff

will beat him now. Such a poor, unlucky chap, come to think of it! And what's his offence?. . . He had some

wrangle on a village meeting with him, the steward, and he lost all patience, I suppose, and of course he

wouldn't stand it. . . . A great matter, truly, to make so much of! So he began pecking at him, Antip. Now he'll

eat him up altogether. You see, he's such a dog. Such a curGod forgive my transgressions!he knows

whom to fall upon. The old men that are a bit richer, that have big, working families, he doesn't touch, the

redheaded devil! But there's all the difference here! Why he's sent Antip's sons for recruits out of turn, the

IT WAS AUTUMN. For some hours I had been strolling across country with my gun, and should

probably not have returned till evening to the tavern on the Kursk highroad where my troika was awaiting

me, had not an exceedingly fine and persistent rain, which had worried me all day with the obstinacy and

ruthlessness of some old maiden lady, driven me at last to seek at least a temporary shelter somewhere in the

neighbourhood. While I was still deliberating in which direction to go, my eye suddenly fell on a low shanty

near a field sown with peas. I went up to the shanty, glanced under the thatched roof, and saw an old man so

infirm that he reminded me at once of the dying goat Robinson Crusoe found in a cave on his island. The old

man was squatting on his heels, his little dim eyes halfclosed, while hurriedly, but carefully, like a hare (the

poor fellow had not a single tooth), he munched a dry, hard pea, incessantly rolling it from side to side. He

"Grandfather! hey, grandfather!" said I. He ceased munching, lifted his eyebrows high, and with an

The old man fell to munching again. He had not heard me. I repeated my question louder than

"Ah!" (He scratched his sunburnt neck.) "Well, now, you go," he said suddenly, waving his hands

indefinitely, "so . . . as you go by the copsesee, as you gothere'll be a road; you pass it by, and keep

right on to the right, keep right on, keep right on, keep right on. . . . Well, there will be Ananyevo. Or else

I followed the old man with difficulty. His moustaches muffled his voice, and his tongue, too, did

"Elders!" I thought, and I gazed not without compassion at the poor old man. He fumbled about,

pulled out of his bosom a bit of coarse bread, and began sucking it like a child, with difficulty moving his

I walked in the direction of the copse, turned to the right, kept on, kept right on as the old man had

advised me, and at last got to a large village with a stone church in the new style, i. e., with columns, and a

spacious manor house, also with columns. While still some way off I noticed through the fine network of

falling rain a cottage with a deal roof, and two chimneys, higher than the others, in all probability the

dwelling of the village elder; and towards it I bent my steps in the hope of finding, in this cottage, a samovar,

tea, sugar, and some not absolutely sour cream. Escorted by my halffrozen dog, I went up the steps into the

outer room, opened the door, and instead of the usual appurtenances of a cottage, I saw several tables, heaped

up with papers, two red cupboards, bespattered inkstands, pewter boxes of blotting sand weighing half a

hundredweight, long penholders, and so on. At one of the tables was sitting a young man of twenty with a

swollen, sickly face, diminutive eyes, a greasylooking forehead, and seemingly endless sideburns. He was

dressed, as one would expect, in a grey nankin coat, shiny with wear at the waist and the collar.

"What do you want?" he asked me, flinging his head up like a horse taken unexpectedly by the

"This is the principal office of the manor," he interrupted. "I'm the clerk on duty. Didn't you see the

"Where could I dry my clothes here? Is there a samovar anywhere in the village?"

"Samovars, of course," replied the young man in the grey coat with dignity; "go to Father

Timofey's, or to the servants' cottage, or else to Nazar Tarasich, or to Agrafena, the poultrywoman."

"Who are you talking to, you blockhead? Can't you let me sleep, dummy!" shouted a voice from

A bedstead creaked in the next room. The door opened, and there came in a stout, short man of

fifty, with a bull neck, goggle eyes, extraordinarily round cheeks, and his whole face positively shining with

"Well, perhaps it could be managed here," rejoined the fat man; "won't you come inside here?" (He

led me into another room, but not the one he had come from.) "Would this do for you?"

"Certainly, at once. If you'll meantime take off your things and rest, the tea shall be got ready this

He went out. I looked round: against the partition separating my room from the office stood a huge

leather sofa; two highbacked chairs, also covered in leather, were placed on both sides of the solitary

window which looked out on the village street. On the walls, covered with a green paper with pink patterns

on it, hung three immense oil paintings. One depicted a setterdog with a blue collar, bearing the inscription:

"This is my consolation"; at the dog's feet flowed a river; on the opposite bank of the river a hare of quite

disproportionate size with ears cocked up was sitting under a pinetree. In another picture two old men were

eating a melon; behind the melon was visible in the distance a Greek temple with the inscription: "The

Temple of Satisfaction." The third picture represented the halfnude figure of a woman in a recumbent

position en raccourci, with red knees and very big heels. My dog had, with supernatural efforts, crawled

under the sofa, and apparently found a great deal of dust there, as he kept sneezing violently. I went to the

window. Boards had been laid across the street in a slanting direction from the manor house to the

countinghousea very useful precaution, as, thanks to our rich black soil and the persistent rain, the mud

was terrible. In the grounds of the manor house, which stood with its back to the street, there was the constant

going and coming there always is about manor houses: maids in faded chintz gowns flitted to and fro;

houseserfs sauntered through the mud, stood still and scratched their spines meditatively; the constable's

horse, tied up to a post, lashed his tail lazily, and with his nose high up, gnawed at the hedge; hens were

clucking; sickly turkeys kept up an incessant gobblegobble. On the steps of a dark crumbling outbuilding,

probably the bathhouse, sat a stalwart lad with a guitar, singing with some spirit the wellknown ballad:

The young man in the grey coat, the clerk on duty, laid on the old cardtable a samovar, a teapot,

a tumbler on a broken saucer, a jug of cream, and a bunch of Bolkhovo biscuit rings hard as flint. The fat man

"No, sir; he was the chief cashier, but now he has been promoted to be headclerk."

"Yes; a German, Lindamandol, Karlo Karlich; only he does not manage the estate."

"Well, first there's Vasily Nikolayevich, the headcashier; then Pyotr, one clerk; Pyotr's brother,

Ivan, another clerk; the other Ivan, a clerk; Konstantin Narkizov, another clerk; and me herethere's a lot of

"I suppose you write a good hand, eh?" I began again. The young man grinned from ear to ear,

I looked at it; on the square sheet of greyish paper there was written, in a good bold hand, the

"From the Chief Office of the Manor of Ananyevo to the Steward, Mikhaii Vikulov. No. 209

"Whereas some person unknown entered the garden at Ananyevo last night in an intoxicated

condition, and with unseemly songs waked the French governess, Madame Eng�ne, and disturbed her, and

whether the watchman saw anything, and who were on watch in the garden and permitted such disorderliness:

as regards all the abovewritten matters, your orders are to investigate in detail, and report immediately to the

A huge heraldic seal was attached to the order, with the inscription: "Seal of the Chief Office of the

Manor of Ananyevo"; and below stood the signature: "To be executed exactly, Elena Losnyakova."

"To be sure; she always signs herself. Without that the order would be of no effect."

"No. sir. He'll come himself and read it. That's to say, it'll be read to him; you see, he's no scholar."

(The clerk on duty was silent again for a while.) "But what do you say?" he added, simpering; "is it well

"It wasn't composed, I must confess, by me. Konstantin is the great one for that."

"Why, how else could we do? Couldn't write them off straight without making a fair copy.

"Of course I am satisfied. It's not everyone can get into an office like ours. It was God's will, in my

"Yes, sir. Though, to tell the truth," he went on with a sigh, "a place at a merchant's, for instance, is

Yesterday evening a merchant came to us from Venev, and his man got talking to me. . . . Yes,

"Lord preserve us! Why, a merchant would sooner give you the sack if you asked him for wages.

No, at a merchant's you must live on trust and on fear. He'll give you food, and drink, and clothes, and all. If

you give him satisfaction, he'll do more. . . . Talk of wages, indeed! You don't need them. And a merchant,

too, lives in plain, Russian style, like ourselves; you go with him on a journeyhe has tea, and you have it;

what he eats, you eat. A merchant . . . one can put up with; a merchant's a very different thing from what a

gentleman is; a merchant's not whimsical; if he's out of temper, he'll give you a blow, and there it ends. He

doesn't nag nor sneer. But with a gentleman it's a woeful business! Nothing's as he likes itthis is not right,

and that he can't fancy. You hand him a glass of water or something to eat. 'Ugh, the water stinks! the dish

stinks!' You take it out, stay a minute outside the door, and bring it back. 'Come, now, that's good; this doesn't

stink now.' And as for the ladies, I tell you, the ladies are something beyond everything! . . . and the young

"Fedyushka!" came the fat man's voice from the office. The clerk went out quickly. I drank a glass

When I woke, I meant to get up, but I was overcome by laziness; I closed my eyes, but did not fall

asleep again. On the other side of the partition, in the office, they were talking in subdued voices.

"Quite so, quite so, Nikolai Eremeich," one voice was saying; "quite so. One can't but take that into

"You may believe me, Gavrila Antonich," replied the fat man's voice: "don't I know how things are

"Who does, if you don't, Nikolai Eremeich? You're, one may say, the first person here. Well, then,

how's it to be?" pursued the voice I did not recognize; "what decision are we to come to, Nikolai Eremeich?

"What decision, Gavrila Antonich? The thing depends, so to say, on you; you don't seem

"Upon my word, Nikolai Eremeich, what do you mean? Our business is trading, buying; it's our

"Impossible, Gavrila Antonich, to do otherwise; I speak as before God Almighty; impossible."

I got up softly and looked through a crack in the partition. The fat man was sitting with his back to

me. Facing him sat a merchant, a man about forty, lean and pale, who looked as if he had been rubbed with

oil. He was incessantly fingering his beard, and very rapidly blinking and twitching his lips.

"Wonderful the young green crops this year, one may say," he began again; "I've been going about

everywhere admiring them. All the way from Voronezh. they've come up wonderfully, firstclass, one may

"The crops are pretty fair, certainly," answered the headclerk; "but you know the saying, Gavrila

"That's so, indeed, Nikolai Eremeich; all is in God's hands; it's the absolute truth what you've just

"Well, so what are we to say, Nikolai Eremeich?" the merchant began again; "we must bring our

little business to a conclusion. Let it be so, Nikolai Eremeich, let it be so," he went on, blinking incessantly;

"two grey notes and a white for your favour, and there" (he nodded in the direction of the house), "six and a

"My, what a pigheaded fellow!" muttered the merchant. "Then I'd better arrange it with the lady

"That's as you like," answered the fat man; "far better, I should say. Why should you worry

"Well, well! Nikolai Eremeich. I lost my temper for a minute! That was nothing but talk."

"Nonsense, I tell you. . . . I tell you I was joking. Well, take your three and a half; there's no doing

"I ought to have got four, but I was in too great a hurrylike an ass!" muttered the fat man.

"Then up there at the house, six and a half, Nikolai Eremeich; the corn will be sold for six and a

"Well, your hand on that then, Nikolai Eremeich" (the merchant clapped his outstretched fingers

into the clerk's palm). "And goodbye, in God's name!" (The merchant got up.) "So then, Nikolai Eremeich,

sir, I'll go now to your lady, and bid them send up my name, and so I'll say to her, 'Nikolai Eremeich,' I'll say,

The merchant handed the clerk a small roll of notes, bowed, shook his head, picked up his hat with

two fingers, shrugged his shoulders, and, with a sort of undulating motion, went out, his boots creaking after

the approved fashion. Nikolai Eremeich went to the wall, and, as far as I could make out, began sorting the

notes handed him by the merchant. A red head, adorned with thick whiskers, was thrust in at the door.

The fat man went up to the table, sat down, opened a book, took out a reckoning frame, and began

shifting the beads to and fro as he counted, using not the forefinger but the third finger of his right hand,

"Oh! ask him in. Wait a bit, wait a bit. . . . First go and look whether the strange gentleman's still

The clerk on duty came cautiously into my room. I laid my head on my gamebag, which served

I got up again. A peasant of about thirty, of huge stature, came ina redcheeked,

vigorouslooking fellow, with brown hair, and a short curly beard. He crossed himself, praying to the holy

image, bowed to the headclerk, held his hat before him in both hands, and stood erect.

"Pretty fair, Nikolai Eremeich. A bit muddy." (The peasant spoke slowly and not loud.)

The peasant gave a sigh and shifted one leg forward. Nikolai Eremeich put his pen behind his ear,

"Well, what have you come about?" he proceeded to inquire, putting his check handkerchief into

"To be sure there are, Nikolai Eremeich; our place is right in the woods; our earnings are all from

the wood, to be sure. But it's the busy time, Nikolai Eremeich. Where's the time to come from?"

"The time to come from! Busy time! I dare say, you're so eager to work for outsiders, and don't

"And what's more, Nikolai Eremeich, there'll be only a week's work, but they'll keep us hanging on

a month. One time there's not material enough, and another time they'll send us into the garden to weed the

"What of it? Our lady herself is pleased to give the order, so it's useless you and me talking about

Nikolai Eremeich put his head on one side, and began busily playing with the reckoning beads.

"Our peasants, Nikolai Eremeich. . ." Sidor began at last, hesitating over each word, "sent word to

your honour . . . there is . . . see here. . ." (He thrust his big hand into the bosom of his coat and began to pull

"What are you thinking of? Goodness, idiot, are you out of your senses?" the fat man interposed

hurriedly. "Go on; go to my cottage," he continued, almost shoving the bewildered peasant out; "ask for my

wife there . . . she'll give you some tea; I'll be round directly; go on. For goodness' sake, I tell you, go on."

"Ugh! . . . what a bear!" the headclerk muttered after him, shaking his head, and set to work again

Suddenly shouts of "Kuprya! Kuprya! there's no knocking down Kuprya!" were heard in the street

and on the steps, and a little later there came into the countinghouse a small man of sickly appearance, with

an extraordinarily long nose and large staring eyes, who carried himself with a great air of superiority. He

was dressed in a ragged little old surtout, with a plush collar and diminutive buttons. He carried a bundle of

firewood on his shoulder. Five houseserfs were crowding round him, all shouting, "Kuprya! there's no

suppressing Kuprya! Kuprya's been turned stoker; Kuprya's turned a stoker!" But the man in the coat with the

plush collar did not pay the slightest attention to the uproar made by his companions, and was not in the least

out of countenance. With measured steps he went up to the stove, flung down his load, straightened himself,

took out of his tailpocket a snuffbox, and with round eyes began helping himself to a pinch of dry trefoil

mixed with ashes. At the entrance of this noisy party the fat man had at first knitted his brows and risen from

his seat, but, seeing what it was, he smiled, and only told them not to shout. "There's a hunter," said he,

"asleep in the next room." "What, sort of hunter?" two of them asked with one voice.

"Let them make a row," said the man with the plush collar, waving his arms: "what do I care, so

"It's the mistress's orders," he went on with a shrug of his shoulders; "but just you wait a bit . . .

they'll turn you into swineherds yet. But I've been a tailor, and a good tailor too, learnt my trade in the best

house in Moscow, and worked for generals, and nobody can take that from me. And what have you to boast

of? What? You're a pack of idlers, not worth your salt; that's what you are! Turn me off! I shan't die of

hunger; I shall be all right; give me a passport. I'd send a good rent home, and satisfy the masters. But what

"That's a nice lie!" interposed a pockmarked lad with white eyelashes, a red cravat, and ragged

elbows. "You went off with a passport sharp enough, but never a halfpenny of rent did the masters see from

you, and you never earned a kopek for yourself, you just managed to crawl home again and you've never had

"Ah, well, what could one do, Konstantin Narkizich," responded Kuprya; "a man falls in lovea

man's ruined and done for! You go through what I have, Konstantin Narkizich, before you blame me!"

"Who's going to believe that? I've seen her, you know; I saw her with my own eyes last year in

"No, gentlemen, I tell you what," a tall, thin man, with a face spotted with pimples, a valet

probably, from his frizzed and pomatumed head, remarked in a careless and disdainful voice; "let Kuprya

"Yes! yes!" put in the others. "Hooray for Alexandra! That's one for Kuprya; 'pon my soul. . . .

Sing away, Kuprya! . . You're a regular brick, Alexandra!" (Serfs often use feminine terminations in referring

"This is not the place to sing," Kuprya replied firmly; "this is the manor countinghouse."

"And what's that to do with you? you've got your eye on a place as clerk, eh?" answered

And they all roared; some rolled about with merriment. Louder than all laughed a lad of fifteen,

probably the son of an aristocrat among the houseserfs; he wore a waistcoat with bronze buttons, and a

"Come, tell us, confess now, Kuprya," Nikolai Eremeich began complacently, obviously tickled

"Nikolai Eremeich," began Kuprya, "you're headclerk among us now, certainly; there's no

disputing that, no; but you know you have been in disgrace yourself, and you, too, have lived in a peasant's

"You'd better look out and not forget yourself in my place," the fat man interrupted emphatically;

"people joke with a fool like you; you ought, you fool, to have sense, and be grateful to them for taking notice

"I'll be there this minute. And you, brothers," he continued in a persuasive voice, "better move off

out of here with the newlyappointed stoker; if the German pops in, he'll make a complaint for certain."

The fat man smoothed his hair, coughed into his hand, which was almost completely hidden in his

coatsleeve, buttoned himself, and set off with long strides to see the lady of the manor. In a little while the

whole party trailed out after him, together with Kuprya. My old friend, the clerk on duty, was left alone. He

set to work mending the pens, and dropped asleep in his chair. A few flies promptly seized the opportunity

and settled on his mouth. A mosquito alighted on his forehead, and, stretching its legs out with a regular

motion, slowly buried its sting into his flabby flesh. The same red head with whiskers showed itself again at

the door, looked in, looked again, and then came into the office, together with the rather ugly body belonging

The headcashier began walking about the room. He really slunk rather than walked, and

altogether resembled a cat. An old black frockcoat with very narrow skirts hung about his shoulders; he kept

one hand in his bosom, while the other was for ever fumbling about his high, tight horsehair cravat, and he

turned his head with a certain effort. He wore noiseless kid boots, and trod very softly.

"Said he'd go to Tyutyurev this evening and would wait for you. 'I want to discuss some business

with Vasily Nikolayevich,' said he, but what the business was he didn't say; 'Vasily Nikolayevich will know,'

"Is Nikolai Eremeich in the countinghouse?" a loud voice was heard asking in the outer room,

and a tall man, apparently angry, with an irregular but bold and expressive face, and rather clean in his dress,

"Nikolai Eremeich is with the mistress," responded the cashier. "Tell me what you want, Pavel

"What do I want? You want to know what I want?" (The cashier gave a sickly nod.) "I want to give

him a lesson, the fat, greasy villain, the scoundrelly telltale!. . . I'll give him a tale to tell!"

"What are you saying, Pavel Andreich! Calm yourself. . . . Aren't you ashamed? Don't forget

"Forget whom I'm talking about? What do I care for his being made headclerk? A fine person

they've found to promote, there's no denying that! They've let the goat loose in the kitchengarden, you may

"Hush, hush, Pavel Andreich, hush! drop that . . . what rubbish are you talking?"

"So Master Fox is beginning to fawn? I will wait for him," Pavel said with passion, and he struck a

blow on the table. "Ah, here he's coming!" he added with a look at the window; "Speak of the devil.

Nikolai Ererneich came into the countinghouse. His face was shining with satisfaction, but he

"Good day to you, Nikolai Eremeich," said Pavel in a significant tone, advancing deliberately to

The headclerk made no reply. The face of the merchant showed itself in the doorway.

"What, won't you deign to answer me?" pursued Pavel. "But no . . . no," he added; "that's not it;

there's no getting anything by shouting and abuse. No, you'd better tell me in a friendly way, Nikolai

Eremeich; what do you persecute me for? what do you want to ruin me for? Come, speak, speak."

"This is no fit place to come to an understanding with you." the headclerk answered in some

agitation, "and no fit time. But I must say I wonder at one thing: what makes you suppose. I want to ruin you,

or that I'm persecuting. you? And if you come to that, how can I persecute you? You're not in my

"I should hope not," answered Pavel; "that would be the last straw! But why are you humbugging,

"Swearing, too! Well, tell us, since it's come to that: have you no fear of God? Why can't you let

"Ugh! doesn't know; what next? I'm talking of Tatyana. Have some fear of Godwhat do you

want to revenge yourself for? You ought to be ashamed: married man like you, with children as big as I am;

it's a very different thing with me. . . . I mean marriage: I'm acting straightforwardly."

"How am I to blame in that, Pavel Andreich? The mistress won't permit you to marry; it's her

"Why, haven't you been plotting with that old hag, the housekeeper, eh? Haven't you been telling

tales, eh? Tell me, aren't you bringing all sorts of stories up against the defenceless girl? I suppose it's not

your doing that she's been degraded from laundrymaid to washing dishes in the scullery? And it's not your

doing that she's beaten and dressed in sackcloth?. . . You ought to be ashamed, you ought to be ashamedan

old man like you! You know there's a paralytic stroke always hanging over you. . . . You will have to answer

"You're abusive, Pavel Andreich, you're abusive. . . . You shan't have a chance to be insolent much

"What? You dare to threaten me?" he said passionately. "You think I'm afraid of you. No, my man,

I'm not come to that! What have I to be afraid of? I can make my bread everywhere. For you, now, it's

"Fancy the conceit of the fellow!" interrupted the clerk, who was also beginning to lose patience;

"an apothecary's assistant, simply an apothecary's assistant, a wretched leech; and listen to himfie upon

"Yes, an apothecary's assistant, and except for this apothecary's assistant you'd have been rotting in

the graveyard by now. It was some devil drove me to cure him," he added between his teeth.

"You cured me? No, you tried to poison me; you dosed me with aloes," the clerk put in.

"The use of aloes is forbidden by the Board of Health," pursued Nikolai. "I'll lodge a complaint

against you yet. . . . You tried to do me inthat was what you did! But the Lord suffered it not."

"That's very likely. . . . Listen, Nikolai Eremeich," Pavel began in despairing accents. "For the last

time, I beg you. . . . You forced me to itI can't stand it any longer. Let us alone, do you hear? or else, by

"I'm not afraid of you!" he shouted; "do you hear, milksop? I got the better of your father; I broke

"And I tell you, don't forget yourself! However necessary you think yourself, if our lady has a

choice between us it's not you'll be kept, my dear! Nobody's allowed to mutiny, mind!" (Pavel was shaking

with fury.) "As for the wench, Tatyana, she deserves . . . wait a bit, she'll get something worse!"

Pavel dashed forward with uplifted fists, and the clerk rolled heavily on the floor.

I won't take upon myself to describe the end of this scene; I fear I have wounded the reader's

The same day I returned home. A week later I heard that Madame Losnyakova had kept both Pavel

and Nikolai in her service, but had sent away the girl Tatyana; it appeared she was not wanted.

I WAS COMING back from hunting one evening alone in a racing droshky. I was eight versts

from home; my good trottingmare galloped bravely along the dusty road, pricking up her ears with an

occasional snort; my weary dog stuck close to the hind wheels, as though he were fastened there. A tempest

was coming on. In front, a huge purplish stormcloud slowly rose from behind the forest; long grey

rainclouds flew over my head and to meet me; the willows stirred and whispered restlessly. The suffocating

heat changed suddenly to a damp chilliness; the darkness rapidly thickened. I gave the horse a lash with the

reins, descended a steep slope, pushed across a dry watercourse overgrown with brushwood, mounted the hill,

and drove into the forest. The road ran before me, bending between thick hazel bushes, now enveloped in

darkness; I advanced with difficulty. The droshky jumped up and down over the hard roots of the ancient

oaks and limes, which continually intersected a pair of deep rutsthe tracks of cart wheels; my horse began

to stumble. A violent wind suddenly began to roar overhead; the trees blustered; big drops of rain fell with

slow tap and splash on the leaves; there came a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The rain fell in

torrents. I went on at a walk, and soon was forced to stop; my horse foundered; I could not see an inch before

me. I managed to take refuge somehow in a spreading bush. Crouching down and covering my face, I waited

patiently for the storm to blow over, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, I saw a tall figure on the road. I

began to stare intently in that directionand again the figure seemed to spring out of the ground near my

A pale flash of lightning lit up the forester from head to foot; a brief crashing clap of thunder

He went up to the mare's head, took her by the bit, and pulled her up. We set off. I held on to the

cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat on the sea," and called my dog. My poor mare splashed

with difficulty through the mud, slipped and stumbled; the forester hovered before the shafts to right and to

left like a ghost. We drove rather a long while; at last my guide stopped. "Here we are home, sir," he

observed in a quiet voice. The gate creaked; some puppies barked a welcome. I raised my head, and in a flash

of lightning I made out a small hut in the middle of a large yard, fenced in with hurdles. From the one little

window there was a dim light. The forester led his horse up to the steps and knocked at the door. "Coming,

coming!" we heard a little shrill voice; there was the patter of bare feet, the bolt creaked, and a girl of twelve,

in a little smock tied round the waist with list, appeared in the doorway with a lantern in her hand.

"Show the gentleman a light," he said to her; "and I will put your droshky in the shed."

The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoky, lowpitched, and empty, without curtains or

partition. A tattered sheepskin hung on the wall. On the bench lay a singlebarrelled gun; in the corner lay a

heap of rags; two great pots stood near the oven. A pine splinter was burning on the table, flickering up and

dying down mournfully. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, suspended from the end of a long

horizontal pole. The little girl put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny stool, and with her right hand began

swinging the cradle, while with her left she attended to the smouldering pine splinter. I looked roundmy

heart sank within me: it's not cheering to go into a peasant's hut at night. The baby in the cradle breathed hard

The door creaked, and the forester, bending his head, stepped across the threshold. He lifted the

"I dare say you're not used to the splinter light?" said he, and he shook back his curls.

I looked at him. Rarely has it been my fortune to behold such a heroic creature. He was tall,

broadshouldered, and built in marvellous proportion. His powerful muscles stood out in strong relief under

his wet homespun shirt. A curly, black beard hid half of his stern and manly face; small brown eyes looked

out boldly from under broad eyebrows which met in the middle. He stood before me, his arms held lightly

*The name Biryuk is used in the Orel province to denote a solitary, misanthropic manAuthor's

I looked with redoubled curiosity at him. From my Yermolai and others I had often heard stories

about the forester Biryuk, whom all the peasants of the surrounding districts feared as they feared fire.

According to them there had never been such a master of his business in the world before. "He won't let you

carry off a handful of brushwood; he'll drop upon you like a fall of snow, whatever time it may be, even in

the middle of the night, and you needn't think of resisting himhe's strong, and cunning as the devil. . . .

And there's no getting at him anyhow; neither by brandy nor by money; there's no snare he'll walk into. More

than once good folks have planned to put him out of the world, but noit's never come off."

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated; "I've heard talk of you, brother. They say you show no mercy to

"I do my duty," he answered grimly; "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."

"No . . . yes . . . she's dead," he added, and turned away. I was silent; he raised his eyes and looked

"She ran away with a townsman who happened to pass by," he brought out with a bitter smile. The

little girl hung her head; the baby waked up and began crying; the little girl went to the cradle. "There, give it

him," said Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feedingbottle into her hand. "Him, too, she abandoned," he went on in an

undertone, pointing to the baby. He went up to the door, stopped and turned round.

"A gentleman like you," he began, "wouldn't care for our bread, I dare say, and except bread,

"Well, that's for you to say. I would have heated the samovar, but I've no tea. . . . I'll go and see

He went out and slammed the door. I looked round again. The hut struck me as more melancholy

than ever. The bitter smell of stale smoke choked my breathing unpleasantly. The little girl did not stir from

her place, and did not raise her eyes; from time to time she jogged the cradle, and timidly pulled her slipping

"The storm's passing over," he observed after a brief silence; "if you wish it, I will guide you out of

"There's mischief in the forest. . . . They're cutting a tree down on Mare's Ravine," he added, in

We went out together. The rain had ceased. Heavy masses of stormcloud were still huddled in the

distance; from time to time there were long flashes of lightning; but here and there overhead the darkblue

sky was already visible; stars twinkled through the swiftly flying clouds. The outline of the trees, drenched

with rain and stirred by the wind, began to stand out in the darkness. We listened. The forester took off his

cap and bent his head. . . . "There!" he said suddenly, and he stretched out his hand: "see what a night he's

pitched on." I had heard nothing but the rustle of the leaves. Biryuk led the mare out of the shed. "But,

perhaps," he added aloud, "this way I shall miss him." "I'll go with you . . . if you like?" "Certainly," he

answered, and he backed the horse in again; "we'll catch him in a trice, and then I'll take you. Let's be off."

We started, Biryuk in front, I following him. Heaven only knows how he found out his way, but he only

stopped once or twice, and then merely to listen to the strokes of the axe. "There," he muttered, "do you hear?

do you hear?" "Why, where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We went down into the ravine; the wind was

still for an instant; the rhythmical strokes reached my hearing distinctly. Biryuk glanced at me and shook his

head. We went farther through the wet bracken and nettles. A slow muffled crash was heard. . . .

"He's felled it," muttered Biryuk. Meantime the sky had grown clearer and clearer; there was a

"Wait here a little," the forester whispered to me. He bent down, and raising his gun above his

head, vanished among the bushes. I began listening with strained attention. Across the continual roar of the

wind faint sounds from close by reached me; there was a cautious blow of an axe on the brushwood, the crash

"Where are you off to? Stop!" the iron voice of Biryuk thundered suddenly. Another voice was

"No, you don't," Biryuk said panting; "you're not going to get off. . . ." I rushed in the direction of

the noise, and ran up to the scene of the conflict, stumbling at every step. A felled tree lay on the ground, and

near it Biryuk was busily engaged holding the thief down and binding his hands behind his back with a

kerchief. I came closer. Biryuk got up and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant drenched with rain, in tatters,

and with a long dishevelled beard. A sorry little nag, half covered with a stiff mat, was standing by, together

with a rough cart. The forester did not utter a word; the peasant too was silent; his head was shaking.

Without a word Biryuk took the horse by the mane with his left hand; in his right he held the thief

"No reason to lose it, certainly," said the forester, and he picked up the axe. We started. I walked

behind. . . . The rain began sprinkling again, and soon fell in torrents. With difficulty we made our way to the

hut. Biryuk pushed the captured horse into the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the

knot in the kerchief, and made him sit down in a corner. The little girl, who had fallen asleep near the oven,

"Ugh, what a downpour!" remarked the forester; "you will have to wait till it's over. Won't you lie

"I would have shut him in the store loft, on your honour's account," he went on, indicating the

The peasant stole a glance at me from under his brows. I vowed inwardly to set the poor wretch

free, come what might. He sat without stirring on the locker. By the light of the lantern I could make out his

worn, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, his restless eyes, his thin limbs. . . . The little girl lay

down on the floor, just at his feet, and again dropped asleep. Biryuk sat at the table, his head in his hands. A

cricket chirped in the corner. . . . the rain pattered on the roof and streamed down the windows; we were all

"Foma Kuzmich," said the peasant suddenly in a thick, broken voice; "Foma Kuzmich!"

"I know you," retorted the forester severely; "your set's all alikeall thieves."

"Let me go," repeated the peasant. "Our manager. . . we're ruined, that's what it islet me go!"

"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich. . . . Don't destroy me. Your manager, you know yourself, will have no

Biryuk turned away. The peasant was shivering as though he were in the throes of fever. His head

"Let me go," he repeated with mournful desperation. "Let me go; by God, let me go! I'll pay; see,

by God, I will! By God, it was through hunger!. . . the little ones are crying, you know yourself. It's hard for

"My horse," the peasant went on, "my poor little horse, at least . . . our only beast . . . let it go."

"I tell you I can't. I'm not a free man; I'm made responsible. You oughtn't to be spoilt, either."

"Ugh, what's the use of talking to you! sit quiet, or else you'll catch it. Don't you see the gentleman,

The poor wretch hung his head. . . . Biryuk yawned and laid his head on the table. The rain still

Suddenly the peasant stood erect. His eyes were glittering, and his face flushed dark red. "Well, do

your worst, then; eat me up and be damned," he began, his eyes puckering up and the corners of his mouth

dropping; "come, cursed destroyer of men's souls! drink Christian blood, drink."

"Are you drunk or what, to set to being abusive?" began the forester, puzzled. "Are you out of your

"What's that to me? It's all one; I'm done for; what can I do without a horse? Kill meit's the same

in the end; whether it's through hunger or like thisit's all one. Ruin us allwife, children . . . kill us all at

"Kill me; kill me," the peasant went on in savage tones, "kill me; come, come, kill me (The little

"I won't be silent," the luckless wretch went on. "It's all the sameruin anywayyou destroyer of

souls, you brute; you've not come to ruin yet. . . . But wait a bit; you won't have long to boast of; they'll wring

I should not have feared his threats, and already had my fist in the air; but to my intense

amazement, with one pull he tugged the kerchief off the peasant's elbows, took him by the scruff of the neck,

"Go to the devil with your horse!" he shouted after him; "but mind, next time. . . ."

"Well, Biryuk," I said at last, "you've astonished me; I see you're a splendid fellow."

"Oh, stop that, master," he cut me short with an air of vexation; "please don't speak of it. But I'd

better see you on your way now," he added; "I suppose you won't wait for the rain to stop. . . ."

I HAVE already had the honour, kind readers, of introducing to you several of my neighbours; let

me now seize a favourable opportunity (it is always a favourable opportunity with us writers) to make known

to you two more gentlemen, on whose lands I often used to go shootingvery worthy, wellintentioned

First I will describe to you the retired MajorGeneral Vyacheslav Illarionovich Khvalinsky.

Picture to yourselves a tall and once slender man, now inclined to corpulence, but not in the least decrepit or

even elderly, a man of ripe age; in his very prime, as they say. It is true the once regular and even now rather

pleasing features of his face have undergone some change; his cheeks are flabby; there are close wrinkles like

rays about his eyes; a few teeth no longer are, as Saadi, according to Pushkin, used to say; his lightbrown

hairat least, all that is left of ithas assumed a purplish hue, thanks to a composition bought at the Romni

horsefair of a Jew who gave himself out as an Armenian; but Vyacheslav Illarionovich has a smart walk and

a ringing laugh, jingles his spurs and curls his moustaches, and finally speaks of himself as an old cavalry

man, whereas we all know that really old men never talk of being old. He usually wears a frockcoat

buttoned up to the top, a high cravat, starched collars, and grey sprigged trousers of a military cut; he wears

his hat tilted over his forehead, leaving all the back of his head exposed. He is a goodnatured man, but of

rather curious notions and principles. For instance, he can never treat noblemen of no wealth or standing as

equals. When he talks to them, he usually looks sideways at them, his cheek pressed hard against his stiff

white collar, and suddenly he turns and silently fixes them with a clear stony stare, while he moves the whole

skin of his head under his hair; he even has a way of his own in pronouncing many words; he never says, for

instance: "Thank you, Pavel Vasilyich," or "This way, if you please, Mikhailo Ivanich," but always: "Fanks,

Pa'l 'Asilich," or " 'Is way, please, Mil, 'Vanich." With persons of the lower grades of society, his behaviour is

still more quaint; he never looks at them at all, and before making known his desires to them, or giving an

order, he repeats several times in succession, with a puzzled, faraway air: "What's your name?. . . what,

what's your name?" with extraordinary sharp emphasis on the first word, which gives the Russian phrase a

rather close resemblance to the call of a quail. He is very fussy and terribly closefisted, but manages his land

badly; he had chosen as overseer on his estate a retired quartermaster, a Little Russian, and a man of really

exceptional stupidity. None of us, though, in the management of land, has ever surpassed a certain great

Petersburg dignitary, who, having perceived from the reports of his steward that the drying sheds in which the

corn was dried on his estate were often liable to catch fire, whereby he lost a great deal of grain, gave the

strictest orders that for the future they should not put the sheaves in till the fire had been completely put out!

This same great personage conceived the brilliant idea of sowing his fields with poppies, as the result of an

apparently simple calculation; poppy being dearer than rye, he argued, it is consequently more profitable to

sow poppy. He it was, too, who ordered his women serfs to wear tiaras after a pattern bespoken from

Petersburg; and to this day the peasant women on his lands do actually wear the tiaras, only they wear them

over their kerchiefs. . . . But let us return to Vyacheslav Illarionovich. Vyacheslav Illarionovich is a devoted

admirer of the fair sex, and directly he catches sight of a pretty woman in the promenade of his district town,

he is promptly off in pursuit, but falls at once into a sort of limping gaitthat is the remarkable feature of the

case. He is fond of playing cards, but only with people of a lower standing; they toady him with "Your

Excellency" in every sentence, while he can scold them and find fault to his heart's content. When he chances

to play with the governor or any official personage, a marvellous change comes over him: he is all nods and

smiles; he looks them in the face; he seems positively flowing with honey. He even loses without grumbling.

Vyacheslav Illarionovich does not read much; when he is reading he incessantly works his moustaches and

eyebrows up and down, as if a wave were passing from below upwards over his face. This undulatory motion

in Vyacheslav Illarionovich's face is especially marked when (before company, of course) he happens to be

reading the columns of the Journal des D�bats. In the gubernia elections he plays a rather important part, but

on grounds of economy he declines the honourable dignity of marshal. "Gentlemen," he usually says to the

noblemen who press that office upon him, and he speaks in a voice filled with condescension and

selfsufficiency: "I am much indebted for the honour; but I have made up my mind to consecrate my leisure

to solitude." And, as he utters these words, he turns his head several times to right and to left, and then, with a

dignified air, adjusts his chin and his cheek over his cravat. In his young days he served as adjutant to some

very important person, whom he never speaks of except by his Christian name and patronymic; they do say

he fulfilled other functions than those of an adjutant; that, for instance, in full parade getup, buttoned up to

the chin, he had to lather his chief in his bathbut one can't believe everything one hears. General

Khvalinsky is not, however, fond of talking himself about his career in the army, which is certainly rather

curious; it seems that he had never seen active service. General Khvalinsky lives in a small house alone; he

has never known the joys of married life, and consequently he is still regarded as a possible match, and

indeed a very eligible one. But he has a housekeeper, a darkeyed, darkbrowed, plump, freshlooking

woman of fiveandthirty with a moustache; she wears starched dresses even on weekdays, and on Sundays

puts on muslin sleeves as well. Vyacheslav Illarionovich is at his best at the large invitation dinners given by

gentlemen of the neighbourhood in honour of the governor and other dignitaries: then he is, one may say, in

his natural element. On these occasions he usually sits, if not on the governor's right hand, at least at no great

distance from him; at the beginning of dinner he is more disposed to nurse his sense of personal dignity, and,

sitting back in his chair, he loftily scans the necks and standup collars of the guests, without turning his

head, but towards the end of the meal he unbends, begins smiling in all directions (he had been all smiles for

the governor from the first), and sometimes even proposes the toast in honour of the fair sex, the ornament of

our planet, as he says. General Khvalinsky shows to advantage, too, at all solemn public functions,

inspections, assemblies, and exhibitions; no one in church goes up for the benediction with such style.

Vyacheslav Illarionovich's servants are never noisy and clamorous on the breaking up of assemblies or in

crowded thoroughfares; as they make a way for him through the crowd or call his carriage, they say in an

agreeable guttural baritone, "By your leave, by your leave allow General Khvalinsky to pass," or "Call for

General Khvalinsky's carriage." Khvalinsky's carriage is, it must be admitted, of a rather queer design, and

the footmen's liveries are rather threadbare (that they are grey, with red facings, it is hardly necessary to

remark); his horses, too, have seen a good deal of hard service in their time; but Vyacheslav Illarionovich has

no pretensions to splendour, and goes so far as to think it beneath his rank to make an ostentation of wealth.

Khvalinsky has no special gift of eloquence, or possibly has no opportunity of displaying his rhetorical

powers, as he has a particular aversion, not only for disputing, but for discussion in general, and assiduously

avoids long conversation of all sorts, especially with young people. This was certainly judicious on his part;

the worst of having to do with the younger generation is that they are so ready to forget the proper respect and

submission due to their superiors. In the presence of persons of high rank Khvalinsky is for the most part

silent, while with persons of a lower rank, whom to judge by appearances he despises, though he constantly

associates with them, his remarks are sharp and abrupt, expressions such as the following occurring

incessantly: "That's a piece of folly, what you're saying now," or "I feel myself compelled, sir, to remind

you," or "You ought to realize with whom you are dealing," and so on. He is peculiarly dreaded by

postmasters, officers of the local boards, and superintendents of posting stations. He never entertains anyone

in his house, and lives, as the rumour goes, like a miser. For all that, he's an excellent country gentleman, "An

old soldier, a disinterested fellow, a man of principle, vieux grognard," his neighbours say of him. The

provincial prosecutor alone permits himself to smile when General Khvalinsky's excellent and solid qualities

Mardary Apollonich Stegunov has no sort of resemblance to Khvalinsky; I hardly think he has ever

served under government in any capacity, and he has never been reckoned handsome. Mardary Apollonich is

a little, fattish, bald old man of a respectable corpulence, with a double chin and little soft hands. He is very

hospitable and jovial; lives, as the saying is, for his comfort; summer and winter alike, he wears a striped

wadded dressinggown. There's only one thing in which he is like General Khvalinsky: he too is a bachelor.

He owns five hundred souls. Mardary Apollonich's interest in his estate is of a rather superficial description;

not to be behind the age, he ordered a threshingmachine from Butenop's in Moscow, locked it up in a barn,

and then felt his mind at rest on the subject. Sometimes on a fine summer day he would have out his racing

droshky, and drive off to his fields, to look at the crops and gather cornflowers. Mardary Apollonich's

existence is carried on in quite the old style. His house is of an oldfashioned construction; in the hall there

is, of course, a smell of kvas, tallow candles, and leather; close at hand, on the right, there is a sideboard with

cockroaches and towels; in the diningroom, family portraits, flies, a great pot of geraniums, and a squeaky

piano; in the drawingroom, three sofas, three tables, two lookingglasses, and a wheezy clock of tarnished

enamel with engraved bronze hands; in the study, a table piled up with papers, and a bluishcoloured screen

covered with pictures cut out of various works of last century; a bookcase full of musty books, spiders, and

black dust; a puffy armchair; an Italian window; a sealedup door into the garden. . . . Everything, in short,

just as it always is. Mardary Apollonich has a multitude of servants, all dressed in the oldfashioned style: in

long blue full coats, with high collars, pantaloons of a muddy hue, and shortish yellow waistcoats. They

address visitors as "father." His estate is under the superintendence of a steward, a peasant with a beard that

covers the whole of his sheepskin; his household is managed by a stingy, wrinkled old woman, whose face is

always tied up in a cinnamoncoloured handkerchief. In Mardary Apollonich's stable there are thirty horses

of various kinds; he drives out in a coach built on the estate, that weighs four tons. He receives visitors very

cordially, and entertains them sumptuously; in other words, thanks to the stupefying powers of our national

cookery, he deprives them of all capacity for doing anything but playing preference. For his part, he never

does anything, and has even given up reading the Dream Book. But there are a good many of our landed

gentry in Russia exactly like this. It will be asked: "What is my object in talking about him?" Well, by way of

answering that question, let me describe to you one of my visits at Mardary Apollonich's.

I arrived one summer evening at seven o'clock. An evening service was only just over; the priest, a

young man, apparently very timid, and only lately come from the seminary, was sitting in the drawingroom

near the door, on the extreme edge of a chair. Mardary Apollonich received me as usual, very cordially; he

was genuinely delighted to see any visitor, and indeed he was the most goodnatured of men altogether. The

"Wait a bit, wait a bit, father," said Mardary Apollonich, not yet leaving go of my hand; "don't go.

"I never drink it, sir," the priest muttered in confusion, blushing up to his ears.

"What nonsense!" answered Mardary Apollonich; "A priest, too! Mishka! Yushka! vodka for the

Yushka, a tall, thin old man of seventy, came in with a glass of vodka on a darkcoloured tray,

with a few patches of flesh colour on it, all that was left of the original enamel.

"Come, drink it up, father, no ceremony; it's too bad of you," observed the landowner

"A capital fellow," pursued Mardary Apollonich, looking after him, "I like him very much; there's

only one thinghe's young yet. Spends so much time on his sermons that he hasn't learned to drink. But how

are you, my dear sir? What have you been doing? How are you? Let's come out on to the balconysuch a

We went out on the balcony, sat down, and began to talk. Mardary Apollonich glanced below, and

"Whose hens are those? whose hens are those?" he shouted. "Whose are those hens roaming about

in the garden?. . . Whose are those hens? How many times I've forbidden it! How many times I've spoken

The unlucky hens, two speckled and one white with a topknot, as I still remember, went on

stalking tranquilly about under the appletrees, occasionally giving vent to their feelings in a prolonged

clucking, when suddenly Yushka, bareheaded and stick in hand, with three other houseserfs of mature years,

flew at them simultaneously. Then the fun began. The hens clucked, flapped their wings, hopped, raised a

deafening cackle; the houseserfs ran, tripping up and tumbling over; their master shouted from the balcony

like one possessed, "Catch 'em, catch 'em! Catch 'em, catch 'em! Catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em! Whose are

At last one servant succeeded in catching the hen with the topknot, tumbling upon it, and at the

very same moment a little girl of eleven, with dishevelled hair, and a dry branch in her hand, jumped over the

"Ah, we see now whose hens!" cried the landlord in triumph. "They're Yermil the coachman's

hens! he's sent his Natalka for them. He didn't sent Parasha though," the landlord added in a low voice with a

But before the panting Yushka had time to reach the terrified little girl, the housekeeper suddenly

"That's it! that's it!" cried the master, "tuttuttut!. . . And carry off the hens, Avdotya," he added

in a loud voice, and he turned with a beaming face, to me; "that was a fine chase, my dear sir, hey? I'm in a

"Tell me," I began, "Mardary Apollonich: are those your peasants' huts, out there on the highroad,

"I wonder at you, Mardary Apollonich. It's really sinful. The huts allotted to the peasants there are

wretched cramped little hovels; there isn't a tree to be seen near them; there's not a pond even; there's only

one well, and that's no good. Could you really find no other place to settle them? And they say you're taking

"And what is one to do with this new division of the lands?" Mardary Apollonich made answer.

"Do you know I've this redivision quite on my mind, and I foresee no sort of good from it. And as for my

having taken away the hempgrounds, and their not having dug any ponds, or what notas to that, my dear

sir, I know my own business. I'm a plain manI go on the old system. To my ideas, when a man's

masterhe's master; and when he's peasanthe's peasant. That's what I think about it."

"And besides," he went on, "those peasants are a wretched lot; they're in disgrace. Particularly two

families there; why, my late fatherGod rest his soul!couldn't bear them; positively couldn't bear them.

And you know my precept is: where the father's a thief, the son's a thief; say what you like. . . . Blood,

bloodoh, that's the great thing! I don't mind telling you that I sent quite a few men for soldiers from those

two families and tried to get rid of them in other ways. But they breed too damned quickly for me!"

Meanwhile there was a perfect stillness in the air. Only rarely there came a gust of wind, which, as

it sank for the last time near the house, brought to our ears the sound of rhythmically repeated blows, seeming

to come from the stable. Mardary Apollonich was in the act of lifting a saucer full of tea to his lips, and was

just inflating his nostrils to sniff its fragranceno trueborn Russian, as we all know, can drink his tea

without this preliminarybut he stopped short, listened, nodded his head, sipped his tea, and laying the

saucer on the table, with the most goodnatured smile imaginable, murmured as though involuntarily

"Oh, by my order, they're punishing a scamp of a fellow. . . . Do you happen to remember Vasya,

The fiercest indignation could not have stood against the clear mild gaze of Mardary Apollonich.

"What are you after, young man? what is it?" he said, shaking his head. "Am I a criminal or

something, that you stare at me like that? 'Whom he loveth he chasteneth'; you know that."

A quarter of an hour later I had taken leave of Mardary Apollonich. As I was driving through the

village I caught sight of Vasya. He was walking down the village street, cracking nuts. I told the coachman to

"Oh, I deserved it, father; I deserved it. They don't punish for trifles among us: that's not the way

with us no, no. Our master's not like that; our master . . . you won't find another master like him in all the

"Drive on!" I said to the coachman. "There you have it, old Russia!" I mused on my homeward

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL advantages of hunting, my dear readers, consists in its forcing you to

be constantly moving from place to place, which is highly agreeable for a man of no occupation. It is true that

sometimes, especially in wet weather, it's not overpleasant to roam over byroads, to cut across country, to

stop every peasant you meet with the question, "Hey! my good man! how are we to get to Mordovka?" and at

Mordovka to try to extract from a halfwitted peasant woman (the working folk are all in the fields) whether

it is far to an inn on the highroad, and how to get to itand then, when you have gone on ten versts farther,

instead of an inn, to come upon the deserted village of Khudobubnovo, to the great amazement of a whole

herd of pigs, who have been wallowing up to their ears in the black mud in the middle of the village street,

without the slightest anticipation of ever being disturbed. There is no great joy either in having to cross

planks that dance under your feet; to climb down into ravines; to wade across boggy streams; it is not

overpleasant to tramp twentyfour hours on end through the sea of green that covers the highroads or

(which God forbid!) stay for hours stuck in the mud before a striped milestone with the figures 22 on one side

and 23 on the other; it is not wholly pleasant to live for weeks together on eggs, milk, and the ryebread

patriots affect to be so fond of. . . . But there is ample compensation for all these inconveniences and

discomforts in pleasures and advantages of another sort. Let us come, though, to our story.

After all I have said above, there is no need to explain to the reader how I happened five years ago

to be at Lebedyan just in the very thick of the horsefair. We hunters may often set off on a fine morning

from our more or less ancestral roof, in the full intention of returning there the following evening, and little

by little, still in pursuit of snipe, may get at last to the blessed banks of the Pechora in the Far North. Besides,

every lover of the gun and the dog is a passionate admirer of the noblest animal in the world, the horse. And

so I turned up at Lebedyan, stopped at the hotel, changed my clothes, and went out to the fair. (The waiter, a

thin lanky youth of twenty, had already informed me in a sweet nasal tenor that his Excellency Prince N,

who purchases the chargers for the X. regiment, was staying at their house; that many other gentlemen had

arrived; that some gypsies were to sing in the evenings, and there was to be a performance of Pan Tvardovsky

at the theatre; that the horses were fetching good prices; and that there was a fine show of them.)

In the market square there were endless rows of carts drawn up, and behind the carts, horses of

every possible kind: racers, studhorses, drayhorses, carthorses, postinghacks, and simple peasants' nags.

Some fat and sleek, assorted by colours, covered with striped horsecloths, and tied up short to high racks,

turned furtive glances backward at the too familiar whips of their owners, the horsedealers; private owners'

horses, sent by noblemen of the steppes a hundred or two hundred versts away, in charge of some decrepit old

coachman and two or three headstrong stableboys, shook their long necks, stamped with ennui, and gnawed

at the fences; roan horses, from Vyatka, huddled close to one another; racehorses, dapplegrey, raven, and

sorrel, with large hindquarters, flowing tails, and shaggy legs, stood in majestic immobility like lions.

Connoisseurs stopped respectfully before them. The avenues formed by the rows of carts were thronged with

people of every class, age, and appearance; horsedealers in long blue coats and high caps, with sly faces,

were on the lookout for purchasers; gypsies, with bulging eyes and curly heads, scurried up and down, like

uneasy spirits, looking into the horses' mouths, lifting up a hoof or a tail, shouting, swearing, acting as

gobetweens, casting lots, or hanging about some army horsecontractor in a foragecap and military cloak,

with beaver collar. A stalwart Cossack rode up and down on a lanky gelding with the neck of a stag, offering

it for sale "in one lot," that is, saddle, bridle, and all. Peasants, in sheepskins torn at the armpits, were forcing

their way desperately through the crowd, or packing themselves by dozens into a cart harnessed to a horse,

which was to be "put to the test," or somewhere on one side, with the aid of a wily gypsy, they were

bargaining till they were exhausted, clasping each other's hands a hundred times over, each still sticking to

his price, while the subject of their dispute, a wretched little jade covered with a shrunken mat, was blinking

quite unmoved, as though it was no concern of hers. . . . And, after all, what difference did it make to her who

was to have the beating of her? Broadbrowed landowners, with dyed moustaches and an expression of

dignity on their faces, in Polish hats and cotton overcoats pulled half on, were talking condescendingly with

fat merchants in felt hats and green gloves. Officers of different regiments were crowding everywhere; an

extraordinarily lanky cuirassier of German extraction was languidly inquiring of a lame horsedealer "what

he expected to get for that chestnut." A fairhaired young hussar, a boy of nineteen, was choosing a

tracehorse to match a lean pacer; a postboy in a lowcrowned hat, with a peacock's feather twisted round

it, in a brown coat and long leather gloves tied round the arm with narrow, greenish bands, was looking for a

shafthorse. Coachmen were plaiting the horses' tails, wetting their manes, and giving respectful advice to

their masters. Those who had completed a stroke of business were hurrying to hotel or to tavern, according to

their class. . . . And all the crowd were moving, shouting, bustling, quarrelling and making it up again,

swearing and laughing, all up to their knees in the mud. I wanted to buy a set of three horses for my covered

trap; mine had begun to show signs of breaking down. I had found two, but had not yet succeeded in picking

up a third. After a hotel dinner, which I cannot bring myself to describe (even Aeneas had discovered how

painful it is to dwell on sorrows past), I repaired to a caf� socalled, which was the evening resort of the

purchasers of cavalry mounts, horsebreeders, and other persons. In the billiardroom, which was plunged in

grey floods of tobacco smoke, there were about twenty men. Here were freeandeasy young landlords in

embroidered jackets and grey trousers, with long sideburns and little waxed moustaches, staring about them

with gentlemanly insolence; other noblemen in Cossack dress, with extraordinary short necks, and eyes lost

in layers of fat, were snorting with distressing distinctness; merchants sat quietly a little apart; officers were

chatting freely among themselves. At the billiardtable was Prince N, a young man of twoandtwenty,

with a lively and rather contemptuous face, in a coat hanging open, a red silk shirt, and loose velvet

The exlieutenant, Victor Khlopakov, a little, thinnish, dark man of thirty, with black hair, brown

eyes, and a thick snub nose, is a diligent frequenter of elections and horsefairs. He walks with a skip and a

hop, waves his fat hands with a jovial swagger, cocks his cap on one side, and tucks up the sleeves of his

military coat, showing the blueblack cotton lining. Mr. Khlopakov knows how to gain the favour of rich

scapegraces from Petersburg; smokes, drinks, and plays cards with them; calls them by their Christian names.

What they find to like in him it is rather hard to comprehend. He is not clever; he is not amusing; he is not

even a buffoon. It is true they treat him with friendly casualness, as a goodnatured fellow, but rather a fool;

they chum with him for two or three weeks, and then all of a sudden do not recognize him in the street, and

he on his side, too, does not recognize them. The chief peculiarity of Lieutenant Khlopakov consists in his

continually, for a year, sometimes two at a time, using in season and out of season one expression, which,

though not in the least humorous, for some reason or other makes everyone laugh. Eight years ago he used on

every occasion to say, "'Umble respecks and gratification," and his patrons of that date used always to fall

into fits of laughter and make him repeat " 'Umble respecks and gratification"; then he began to adopt a more

complicated expression: "No, that's too, too k'essk'say," and with the same brilliant success; two years later

he had invented a fresh saying: "Ne voo excite vooself pa, man of sin, sewn in a sheepskin," and so on. And

strange to say! these, as you see, not overwhelmingly witty phrases keep him in food and drink and clothes.

(He has run through his property ages ago, and lives solely upon his friends.) There is, observe, absolutely no

other attraction about him; he can, it is true, smoke a hundred pipes of Zhukov tobacco in a day, and when he

plays billiards, throws his right leg higher than his head, and while taking aim, shakes his cue affectedly; but,

after all, not everyone has a fancy for these accomplishments. He can drink, too . . . but in Russia it is hard to

gain distinction as a drinker. In short, his success is a complete riddle to me. There is one thing, perhaps: he is

discreet; he has no taste for washing dirty linen away from home, never speaks a word against anyone.

"Thirty love," whined a consumptive marker, with a dark face and rings of lead under his eyes.

"Ah!" a stoutish merchant, sitting in the corner at a tottering little onelegged table, boomed

approvingly from the depths of his chest, and immediately was overcome by confusion at his own

presumption. But luckily no one noticed him. He drew a long breath, and stroked his beard.

"Thirtysix love!" the marker shouted in a nasal voice. "Well, what do you say to that, old man?"

"Oh! that's not the way, prince, that's not the way," lisped a fairhaired young officer with red

eyes, a tiny nose, and a babyish, sleepy face. "You shouldn't play like that . . . you ought . . . not that way!"

"What do you say, prince? Shall we go this evening to hear the gypsies?" the young man hurriedly

"Love! . . . just look, I'll do the trick with that yellow." Khlopakov, fidgeting his cue in his hand,

"Your excellency made a miss," observed the marker. "Allow me to chalk the cue. . . . Forty love."

"Yes, gentlemen," said the prince, addressing the whole company, and not looking at any one in

particular, "you know, Verzhembitskaya must be called before the curtain tonight."

"To be sure, to be sure, of course," several voices cried in rivalry, amazingly flattered at the chance

"Verzhembitskaya's an excellent actress, far superior to Sopnyakova," whined an ugly little man in

the corner, with moustaches and spectacles. Luckless wretch! he was secretly sighing at Sopnyakova's feet,

"Waiter, hey, a pipe!" a tall gentleman, with regular features and a most majestic mannerin

A waiter ran for a pipe, and when he came back, announced to his excellency that the groom

Baklaga, as I was told afterwards, was the name of a youthful, handsome, and excessively spoiled

groom; the prince loved him, made him presents of horses, went out hunting with him, spent whole nights

with him. Now you would not know this same prince, who was once a rake and a scapegrace. In what good

odour he is now; how straightlaced, how supercilious! How devoted to the governmentand, above all, so

However, the tobacco smoke had begun to make my eyes smart. After hearing Khlopakov's

exclamation and the prince's chuckle one last time more, I went off to my room, where, on a narrow,

hairstuffed sofa pressed into hollows, with a high, curved back, my man had already made me up a bed.

The next day I went out to look at the horses in the stables, and began with the famous

horsedealer Sitnikov's. I went through a gate into a yard strewn with sand. Before a wide open stable door

stood the horsedealer himselfa tall, stout man no longer young, in a hareskin coat, with a raised turnover

collar. Catching sight of me, he moved slowly to meet me, held his cap in both hands above his head, and in a

We went into the stable. Some white pugdogs got up from the hay and ran up to us, wagging their

tails, and a longbearded old goat walked away with an air of dissatisfaction; three stableboys, in strong but

greasy sheepskins, bowed to us without speaking. To right and to left, in horseboxes raised above the

ground, stood nearly thirty horses, groomed to perfection. Pigeons fluttered cooing about the rafters.

"What, now, do you want a horse for? for driving or for breeding?" Sitnikov inquired of me.

"To be sure, to be sure," the horsedealer commented, dwelling on each syllable. "Petya, show the

"But won't you let them bring you a bench out of the hut? You don't want to sit down. . . . As you

There was the thud of hoofs on the boards, the crack of a whip, and Petya, a swarthy fellow of

forty, marked by smallpox, popped out of the stable with a rather wellshaped grey stallion, made it rear,

ran twice round the yard with it, and adroitly pulled it up at the right place. Ermine stretched himself, snorted,

"His legs are firstrate!" Sitnikov rejoined, with an air of conviction; "and his hindquarters . . . just

"Long! mercy on us! Start him, Petya, start him, but at a trot, a trot. . . don't let him gallop."

Falcon, a gaunt beast of Dutch extraction with sloping hindquarters, as black as a beetle, turned out

to be little better than Ermine. He was one of those beasts of whom fanciers will tell you that "they go

chopping and mincing and dancing about," meaning thereby that they prance and throw out their forelegs to

right and to left without making much headway. Middleaged merchants have a great fancy for such horses;

their action recalls the swaggering gait of a smart waiter; they do well in single harness for an afterdinner

drive; with mincing paces and curved neck they zealously draw a clumsy droshky laden with an overfed

coachman, a depressed, dyspeptic merchant, and his lymphatic wife, in a blue silk mantle, with a lilac

handkerchief over her head. Falcon, too, I declined. Sitnikov showed me several horses. . . . One at last, a

dapplegrey beast of Voyeikov breed, took my fancy. I could not restrain my satisfaction, and patted him on

Kuzya, the jockey, a real master of horsemanship, drove three times past us up and down the street.

The horse went well, without changing its pace or shambling; it had a free action, held its tail high, and

"And what are you asking for him?" Sitnikov asked an impossible price. We began bargaining on

the spot in the street, when suddenly a splendidly matched team of three postinghorses flew noisily round

the corner and drew up sharply at the gates before Sitnikov's house. In the smart little, sportsman's trap sat

Prince N; beside him Khlopakov. Baklaga was driving . . . and how he drove! He could have driven them

through an earring, the rascal! The bay tracehorses, little, keen, blackeyed, blacklegged beasts, were all

impatience; they kept rearinga whistle, and off they would have bolted! The darkbay shafthorse stood

firmly, its neck arched like a swan's, its breast forward, its legs like arrows, shaking its head and proudly

blinking. . . . They were splendid! The tsar Ivan Vasilyevich could not wish for a finer turnout for an Easter

"Your Excellency, please to come in!" cried Sitnikov. The prince leaped out of the trap. Khlopakov

"You may be sure we've horses for Your Excellency! Pray walk in. Petya, bring out Peacock! and

let them get Favourite ready, too. And with you, sir," he went on, turning to me, "we'll settle matters another

From a special stable which I had not at first observed they led out Peacock. A powerful

darksorrel horse, Peacock seemed to fly across the yard with all its legs in the air. Sitnikov even turned

Peacock was stopped with difficulty; he dragged the stableman about the yard; at last he was

pushed against the wall. He snorted, started and reared, while Sitnikov still teased him, brandishing a whip at

"What are you looking at? there! oo!" said the horsedealer with caressing menace, unable to

'I went away without staying to see the end of the bargaining. At the farthest corner of the street I

noticed a large sheet of paper fixed on the gate of a little grey house. At the top there was a penandink

sketch of a horse with a tail of the shape of a pipe and an endless neck, and below the hoofs were the

"Here are for sale horses of various colours brought to the Lebedyan fair from the celebrated

steppes stud of Anastasy Ivanich Chernobai, landholder of Tambov province. These horses are of excellent

sort; broken in to perfection, and free from vice. Purchasers will kindly ask for Anastasy Ivanich himself;

should Anastasy Ivanich be absent, then ask for Nazar Kubishkin, the coachman. Gentlemen about to

I stopped. "Come," I thought, "let's have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppe breeder, Mr.

I was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. I

The gate was opened. I beheld a peasant woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin

"Please to come in, kind sir, and I'll go at once and tell Anastasy Ivanich. . . . Nazar, hey, Nazar!"

"A customer, a customer," Nazar grumbled in response; "I've not washed all their tails yet."

"Good day, sir, pleased to see you," I heard a rich, pleasant voice saying behind my back. I looked

round; before me, in a longskirted blue coat, stood an old man of medium height, with white hair, a friendly

"You want a horse? By all means, my dear sir, by all means. But won't you step in and drink just a

"Well, well, as you please. You must excuse me, my dear sir; you see I'm oldfashioned." (Mr.

Chernobai spoke with deliberation, and in a broad Doric.) "Everything with me is done in a plain way, you

know. Nazar, hey, Nazar!" he added, not raising his voice, but prolonging each syllable.

Nazar, a wrinkled old man with a little hawk nose and a wedgeshaped beard, showed himself at

"To be sure, we have got them to suit you, to be sure. Nazar, Nazar, show the gentleman the grey

gelding, you know, that stands at the farthest corner, and the sorrel with the star, or else the other sorrelfoal

"And bring them out by their halters just as they are," Mr. Chernobai shouted after him. "You

won't find things with me, my good sir," he went on, with a clear mild gaze into my face, "as they are with

the horsedealers; confound their tricks! They use all sorts of drugs, salt and malted grains; God forgive

them! But with me, you will see, sir, everything's aboveboard; no underhandedness."

"Well, well, take them back, in God's name," said Anastasy Ivanich. "Show us the others."

Others were shown. At last I picked out one, rather a cheap one. We began to bargain over the

price. Mr. Chernobai did not get excited; he spoke so reasonably, with such dignity, that I could not help

"Well, now," observed Anastasy Ivanich, "allow me to give over the horse to you from hand to

hand, after the old fashion: You will thank me for himas sound and fresh as a nut, a true child of the

He crossed himself, laid the skirt of his coat over his hand, took the halter, and handed me the

"You're his master now, with God's blessing. And you still won't take a cup of tea?"

"By all means, my dear sir, by all means. Vasily, hey, Vasily! step along with the gentleman, lead

the horse, and take the money from him. Well, goodbye, my good sir; God bless you.

They led the horse home for me. The next day he turned out to be brokenwinded and lame. I tried

having him put in harness; the horse backed, and if one gave him a flick with the whip he jibbed, kicked, and

positively lay down. I set off at once to Mr. Chernobai's. I inquired: "At home?"

"What's the meaning of this?" said I; "here you've sold me a brokenwinded horse."

"Lame! I know nothing about it: your coachman must have illtreated him somehow. But before

"No, my good sir, don't put yourself in a passion; once gone out of the yard, is done with. You

I understood what that meant, accepted my fate, laughed, and walked off. Luckily, I had not paid

Two days later I left, and in a week I was again at Lebedyan on my way home. In the caf� I found

almost the same persons, and again I came upon Prince N at billiards. But the usual change in the fortunes

of Mr. Khlopakov had taken place in this interval: the fairhaired young officer had supplanted him in the

prince's favours. The poor exlieutenant once more tried letting off his catchword in my presence, on the

chance it might succeed as before; but, far from smiling, the prince positively scowled and shrugged his

shoulders. Mr. Khlopakov looked downcast, shrank into a corner, and began furtively filling himself a pipe. .

GIVE me your hand, gentle reader, and come along with me. It is glorious weather; there is a

tender blue in the May sky; the smooth young leaves of the willows glisten as though they had been polished;

the wide even road is all covered with that delicate grass with the little reddish stalk that the sheep are so fond

of nibbling; to right and to left, over the long sloping hillsides, the. green rye is softly waving; the shadows of

small clouds glide in thin long streaks over it. In the distance is the dark mass of forests, the glitter of ponds,

yellow patches of villages; larks in hundreds are soaring, singing, falling headlong with outstretched necks,

hopping about the clods; the rooks on the highroad stand still, look at you, peck at the earth, let you drive

close up, and with two hops lazily move aside. On a hill beyond a ravine a peasant is ploughing; a piebald

colt, with a cropped tail and ruffled mane, is running on unsteady legs after its mother; its shrill whinnying

reaches us. We drive on into the birch wood, and drink in the strong, sweet, fresh fragrance. Here we are at

the boundaries. The coachman gets down; the horses snort; the tracehorses look round; the centre horse in

the shafts switches his tail, and turns his head up towards the wooden yoke above it; the great gate opens

creaking; the coachman seats himself. . . . Drive on! the village is before us. Passing five homesteads, and

turning off to the right, we drop down into a hollow and drive along a dyke, the farther side of a small pond;

behind the round tops of the lilacs and appletrees a wooden roof, once red, with two chimneys, comes into

sight; the coachman keeps along the hedge to the left, and to the spasmodic and drowsy baying of three

pugdogs he drives through the wideopen gates, whisks smartly round the broad courtyard past the stable

and the barn, gallantly salutes the old housekeeper, who is stepping sideways over the high lintel in the open

doorway of the storehouse, and pulls up at last before the steps of a dark house with light windows. . . . We

are at Tatyana Borisovna's. And here she is herself opening the window and nodding to us.

Tatyana Borisovna is a woman of fifty, with large, prominent grey eyes, a rather blunt nose, rosy

cheeks and a double chin. Her face is brimming over with friendliness and kindness. She was once married,

but was soon left a widow. Tatyana Borisovna is a very remarkable woman. She lives on her little property,

never leaving it, mixes very little with her neighbours, sees and likes none but young people. She was the

daughter of very poor landowners, and received no education; in other words, she does not know French; she

has never been in Moscowand in spite of all these defects, she is so good and simple in her manners, so

broad in her sympathies and ideas, so little infected with the ordinary prejudices of country ladies of small

means, that one positively cannot help marvelling at her. Indeed, a woman who lives all the year round in the

country and does not talk scandal, nor whine, nor curtsey, is never flurried, nor depressed, nor in a flutter of

curiosity, is a real marvel! She usually wears a grey taffeta gown and a white cap with lilac streamers: she is

fond of good cheer, but not to excess; all the preserving, pickling, and salting she leaves to her housekeeper.

"What does she do all day long?" you will ask. "Does she read?" No, she doesn't read, and, to tell the truth,

books are not written for her. If there are no visitors with her, Tatyana Borisovna sits by herself at the

window knitting a stocking in winter; in summertime she is in the garden, planting and watering her flowers,

playing for hours together with her cats, or feeding her doves. She does not take much part in the

management of her estate. But if a visitor pays her a callsome young neighbour whom she likesTatyana

Borisovna is all life directly; she makes him sit down, pours him out some tea, listens to his chat, laughs,

sometimes pats his cheek, but says little herself; in trouble or sorrow she comforts and gives good advice.

How many people have confided their family secrets and the griefs of their hearts to her, and have wept on

her shoulder! At times she sits opposite her visitor, leaning lightly on her elbow, and looks with such

sympathy into his face, smiles so affectionately, that he cannot help feeling: "What a dear, good woman you

are, Tatyana Borisovna! Let me tell you what is in my heart." One feels happy and warm in her small, snug

rooms; in her house it is always, so to speak, fine weather. Tatyana Borisovna is a wonderful woman, but no

one wonders at her; her sound good sense, her breadth and firmness, her warm sympathy in the joys and

sorrows of others in a word, all her qualities are so innate in her; they are no trouble, no effort to her. One

cannot fancy her otherwise, and so one feels no need to thank her. She is particularly fond of watching the

pranks and follies of young people; she folds her hands under her bosom, throws back her head, puckers up

her eyes, and sits smiling at them, then all of a sudden she heaves a sigh and says, "Ah, my children, my

children!" Sometimes one longs to go up to her, take hold of her hands and say, "Let me tell you, Tatyana

Borisovna, you don't know your own value; for all your simplicity and lack of learning, you're an

extraordinary creature!" Her very name has a sweet familiar ring; one is glad to utter it; it calls up a kindly

smile at once. How often, for instance, have I chanced to ask a peasant, "Tell me, my friend, how am I to get

to Grachovka?" let us say. "Well, sir, you go on first to Vyazovoe, and from there to Tatyana Borisovna's,

and from Tatyana Borisovna's anyone will show you the way." And at the name of Tatyana Borisovna the

peasant wags his head in quite a special way. Her household is small, in accordance with her means. The

house, the laundry, the stores and the kitchen are in the charge of the housekeeper, Agafya, once her nurse, a

goodnatured, tearful, toothless creature; she has under her two stalwart girls with stout crimson cheeks like

Antonov apples. The duties of valet, butler, and waiter are filled by Polikarp, an extraordinary old man of

seventy, a queer fellow, full of erudition, once a violinist and worshipper of Viotti, with a personal hostility to

Napoleon, or, as he calls him, Bonaparty, and a passion for nightingales. He always keeps five or six of the

latter in his room; in early spring he will sit for whole days together by the cage, waiting for the first trill, and

when he hears it, he covers his face with his hands and moans, "Oh, piteous, piteous!" and sheds tears in

floods. Polikarp has, to help him, his grandson Vasya, a curlyheaded, sharpeyed boy of twelve; Polikarp

adores him, and grumbles at him from morning till night. He undertakes his education too. "Vasya," he says,

"say Bonaparty was a scoundrel." "And what'll you give me, Granddad?" "What'll I give you?. . . I'll give you

nothing. . . . Why, what are you? Aren't you a Russian?" "I'm a Mtsanian, Granddad; I was born in Mtsensk."

"Oh, silly dunce! but where is Mtsensk?" "How can I tell?" "Mtsensk's in Russia, silly!" "Well, what then if it

is in Russia?" "What then? Why, his Highness the late Prince Mikhail Illarionovich GolenishchevKutuzov

of Smolensk, with God's aid, graciously drove Bonaparty out of the Russian territories. It's on that event the

song was composed: 'Bonaparty's in no mood to dance, he's lost the garters he brought from France. . . .' Do

you understand? he liberated your fatherland." "And what's that to do with me?" "Ah! you silly boy! Why, if

his Highness Prince Mikhail Illarionovich hadn't driven out Bonaparty, some mounseer would have been

beating you about the head with a stick this minute. He'd come up to you like this, and say, 'Koman voo porty

voo?' and then a box on the ear!" "But I'd give him one in the belly with my fist." "But he'd go on: 'Bonzhur,

bonzhur, veny ici,' and then a cuff on the head." "And I'd give him one in his legs, his bandy legs." "You're

quite right, their legs are bandy. . . . Well, but suppose he tied your hands?" "I wouldn't let him; I'd call

Mikhei the coachman to help me." "But, Vasya, suppose you weren't a match for the Frenchy even with

Mikhei?" "Not a match for him! See how strong Mikhei is!" "Well, and what would you do with him?" "We'd

get him on his back, we would." "And he'd shout, 'Pardon, pardon, seevooplay!'" "We'd tell him, 'None of

your seevooplays, you old Frenchy!" "Bravo, Vasya!. . . Well, now then, shout, 'Bonaparty's a scoundrel!' "

Of the neighbouring ladies Tatyana Borisovna sees very little; they do not care about going to see

her, and she does not know how to amuse them; the sound of their chatter sends her to sleep; she starts, tries

to keep her eyes open, and drops off again. Tatyana Borisovna is not fond of women as a rule. One of her

friends, a good, harmless young man, had a sister, an old maid of thirtyeight, a goodnatured creature, but

exaggerated, affected, and ecstatic. Her brother had often talked to her of their neighbour. One fine morning

our old maid has her horse saddled, and, without a word to anyone, sallies off to Tatyana Borisovna's. In her

long habit, a hat on her head, a green veil and floating curls, she went into the hall, and passing by the

panicstricken Vasya, who took her for a woodwitch, ran into the drawingroom. Tatyana Borisovna,

terrified, tried to rise, but her legs sank under her. "Tatyana Borisovna," began the visitor in a supplicating

voice, "forgive my temerity; I am the sister of your friend, Alexei Nikolayevich K, and I have heard so

much about you from him that I resolved to make your acquaintance." "Greatly honoured," muttered the

bewildered lady. The sister flung off her hat, shook her curls, seated herself near Tatyana Borisovna, took her

by the hand. "So this is she," she began in a pensive voice fraught with feeling. "This is that sweet, clear,

noble, holy being! This is she! that woman at once so simple and so deep! How glad I am! how glad I am!

How we shall love each other! I can breathe easily at last. I always fancied her just so," she added in a

whisper, her eyes riveted on the eyes of Tatyana Borisovna. "You won't be angry with me, will you, my dear

kind friend?" "Really, I'm delighted! Won't you have some tea?" The lady smiled patronizingly. "Wie wahr,

wie unreflectirt," she murmured as it were to herself. "Let me embrace you, my dear one!"

The old maid stayed three hours at Tatyana Borisovna's, never ceasing talking an instant. She tried

to explain to her new acquaintance what a boon to humanity she was. Directly after the unexpected visitor

had departed, the poor lady took a bath, drank some limeflower water, and took to her bed. But the next day

the old maid came back, stayed four hours, and left, promising to come to see Tatyana Borisovna every day.

Her idea, please to observe, was to develop, to complete the education of so rich a nature, to use her own

expression, and she would probably have really been the death of her, if she had not, in the first place, been

utterly disillusioned as regards her brother's friend within a fortnight, and secondly, fallen in love with a

young student on a visit in the neighbourhood, with whom she at once rushed into a fervid and active

correspondence; in her missives she consecrated him, as the manner of such is, to a noble, holy life, offered

herself wholly as a sacrifice, asked only for the name of sister, launched into endless descriptions of nature,

made allusions to Goethe, Schiller, Bettina and German philosophy, and drove the luckless young man at last

to the blackest desperation. But youth asserted itself; one fine morning he woke up with such a furious hatred

for "his sister and best of friends" that he almost killed his valet in his passion, and was snappish for a long

while after at the slightest allusion to elevated and disinterested passion. From that time forth Tatyana

Borisovna began to avoid all intimacy with ladies of the neighbourhood more than ever.

Alas! nothing is lasting on this earth. All I have related as to the way of life of my kindhearted

neighbour is a thing of the past; the peace that used to reign in her house has been destroyed for ever. For

more than a year now there has been living with her a nephew, an artist from Petersburg. This is how it came

Eight years ago, there was living with Tatyana Borisovna a boy of twelve, an orphan, the son of

her brother. This boy, Andryusha, had large, clear, humid eyes, a tiny little mouth, a regular nose, and a fine

lofty brow. He spoke in a low, sweet voice, was attentive and coaxing with visitors, kissed his auntie's hand

with an orphan's sensibility; and one hardly had time to show oneself before he had put an armchair for one.

He had no mischievous tricks; he was never noisy; he would sit by himself in a corner with a book, and with

such sedateness and propriety, never even leaning back in his chair. When a visitor came in, Andryusha

would get up, with a decorous smile and a flush; when the visitor went away he would sit down again, pull

out of his pocket a brush and a lookingglass, and brush his hair. From his earliest years he had shown a taste

for drawing. Whenever he got hold of a piece of paper, he would ask Agafya the housekeeper for a pair of

scissors at once, carefully cut a square piece out of the paper, trace a border round it and set to work; he

would draw an eye with an immense pupil, or a Grecian nose, or a house with a chimney and smoke coming

out of it in the shape of a corkscrew, a dog, en face, looking rather like a bench, or a tree with two pigeons on

it, and would sign it: "Drawn by Andrei Belovzorov, such a day in such a year, in the village of

MaliyeBriki." He used to toil with special industry for a fortnight before Tatyana Borisovna's birthday; he

was the first to present his congratulations and offer her a roll of paper tied up with a pink ribbon. Tatyana

Borisovna would kiss her nephew and undo the knot; the roll was unfolded and presented to the inquisitive

gaze of the spectator, a round, boldly sketched temple in sepia, with columns and an altar in the centre; on the

altar lay a burning heart and a wreath, while above, on a curling scroll, was inscribed in legible characters:

"To my aunt and benefactress, Tatyana Borisovna Bogdanova, from her dutiful and loving nephew, as a

token of his deepest affection." Tatyana Borisovna would kiss him again and give him a silver ruble. She did

not, though, feel any very warm affection for him; Andryusha's fawning ways were not quite to her taste.

Meanwhile, Andryusha was growing up; Tatyana Borisovna began to be anxious about his future. An

One day eight years ago she received a visit from a certain Mr. Benevolensky, Pyotr Mikhailich, a

collegiate councillor with a decoration. Mr. Benevolensky had at one time held an official post in the nearest

district town, and had been assiduous in his visits to Tatyana Borisovna; then he had moved to Petersburg,

got into a ministry, and attained a rather important position, and on one of the numerous journeys he took in

the discharge of his official duties, he remembered his old friend, and came back to see her, with the intention

of taking a rest for two days from his official labours "in the bosom of the peace of nature." Tatyana

Borisovna greeted him with her usual cordiality, and Mr. Benevolensky. . . . But before we proceed with the

Mr. Benevolensky was a stoutish man, of middle height and mild appearance, with little short legs

and little fat hands; he wore a roomy and excessively spruce frockcoat, a high broad cravat, snowwhite

linen, a gold chain on his silk waistcoat, a gemring on his forefinger, and a white wig on his head; he spoke

softly and persuasively, trod noiselessly, and had an amiable smile, an amiable look in his eyes, and an

amiable way of settling his chin in his cravat; he was, in fact, an amiable person altogether. God had given

him a heart, too, of the softest; he was easily moved to tears and to transports; moreover, he was all aglow

with disinterested passion for art: disinterested it certainly was, for Mr. Benevolensky, if the truth must be

told, knew absolutely nothing about art. One is set wondering, indeed, whence, by virtue of what mysterious

uncomprehended forces, this passion had come upon him. He was, to all appearance, a practical, even prosaic

person . . . however, we have a good many people of the same sort among us in Russia.

Their devotion to art and artists produces in these people an inexpressible mawkishness; it is

distressing to have to do with them and to talk to them; they are perfect logs smeared with honey. They never,

for instance, call Raphael, Raphael, or Correggio, Correggio; "the divine Sanzio, the incomparable Allegri,"

they murmur, and always with the broadest vowels. Every pretentious, conceited, homebred mediocrity they

hail as a genius; "the blue sky of Italy," "the lemons of the South," "the balmy breezes of the banks of the

Brenta," are for ever on their lips. "Ah, Vanya, Vanya," or "Oh, Sasha, Sasha," they say to one another with

deep feeling, "we must away to the South . . . we are Greeks in soulancient Greeks." One may observe

them at exhibitions before the works of some Russian painters (these gentlemen, it should be noted, are for

the most part passionate patriots). First they step back a couple of paces, and throw back their heads; then

they go up to the picture again; their eyes are suffused with an oily moisture. "There you have it, my God!"

they say at last, in voices broken with emotion; "there's soul, soul! Ah! what feeling, what feeling! Ah, what

soul he has put into it! what a mass of soul!. . . And how he has thought it out! thought it out like a master!"

And, oh! the pictures in their own drawingrooms! Oh, the artists that come to them in the evenings, drink

tea, and listen to their conversation! And the views in perspective they make them of their own rooms, with a

broom in the foreground, a little heap of dust on the polished floor, a yellow samovar on a table near the

window, and the master of the house himself in skullcap and dressinggown, with a brilliant streak of

sunlight falling on his cheek! Oh, the longhaired nurslings of the Muses, wearing spasmodic and

contemptuous smiles, that cluster about them! Oh, the young ladies, with faces of greenish pallor, who squeal

over their pianos! For that is the established rule with us in Russia; a man cannot be devoted to one art

alonehe must have them all. And so it is not to be wondered at that these gentlemen extend their powerful

patronage to Russian literature also, especially to dramatic literature. The Jacob Sannazars are written

for them; the struggle of unappreciated talent against the whole world, depicted a thousand times over, still

The day after Mr. Benevolensky's arrival, Tatyana Borisovna told her nephew at teatime to show

their guest his drawings. "Why, does he draw?" said Mr. Benevolensky with some surprise, and he turned

with interest to Andryusha. "Yes, he draws," said Tatyana Borisovna; "he's so fond of it! and he does it all

alone, without a master." "Ah! show me, show me," cried Mr. Benevolensky. Andryusha, blushing and

smiling, brought the visitor his sketchbook. Mr. Benevolensky began turning it over with the air of a

connoisseur. "Good, young man," he pronounced at last; "good, very good." And he patted Andryusha on the

head. Andryusha intercepted his hand and kissed it. "Fancy, now, a talent like that! I congratulate you,

Tatyana Borisovna." "But what am I to do, Pyotr Mikhailich? I can't get him a teacher here. To have one from

the town is a great expense; our neighbours, the Artamonovs, have a drawingmaster, and they say an

excellent one, but his mistress forbids his giving lessons to outsiderssays he'll ruin his taste." "Hm,"

pronounced Mr. Benevolensky; he pondered and looked askance at Andryusha. "Well, we will talk it over,"

he added suddenly, rubbing his hands. The same day he begged Tatyana Borisovna's permission for an

interview with her alone. They shut themselves up together. In half an hour they called

AndryushaAndryusha went in. Mr. Benevolensky was standing at the window with a slight flush on his

face and a beaming expression. Tatyana Borisovna was sitting in a corner wiping her eyes.

"Come, Andryusha," she said at last, "you must thank Pyotr Mikhailich; he will take you under his

"Tell me candidly," began Mr. Benevolensky, in a voice filled with dignity and patronizing

indulgence; "do you want to be an artist, young man? Do you feel yourself consecrated to the holy service of

"I want to be an artist, Pyotr Mikhailich," Andryusha declared in a trembling voice.

"I am delighted, if so it be. It will, of course," continued Mr. Benevolensky, "be hard for you to

"Of course, of course, that's readily understood, and does you great credit; but, on the other hand,

"'Kiss me, Andryusha," muttered the kindhearted lady. Andryusha flung himself on her neck.

Andryusha embraced Mr. Benevolensky's stomach, and stretching on tiptoe, reached his hand,

which his benefactor was in no hurry to withdraw, and imprinted a kiss upon it. He had, to be sure, to humour

the child, and, after all, he deserved it. Two days later, Mr. Benevolensky departed, taking with him his new

During the first three years of Andryusha's absence he wrote pretty often, sometimes enclosing

drawings in his letters. From time to time Mr. Benevolensky added a few words, for the most part of

approbation; then the letters began to be less and less frequent, and at last ceased altogether. A whole year

passed without a word from her nephew; and Tatyana Borisovna was beginning to be uneasy when suddenly

"Dearest Auntie,Pyotr Mikhailich, my patron, died three days ago. A severe paralytic stroke has

deprived me of my sole support. To be sure, I am now twenty. I have made considerable progress during the

last seven years; I have the greatest confidence in my talent, and can make my living by means of it; I do not

despair; but all the same send me, if you can, as soon as convenient, 250 rubles. I kiss your hand and remain.

Tatyana Borisovna sent her nephew 250 rubles. Two months later he asked for more; she got

together every kopek she had and sent it him. Not six weeks after the second donation he was asking a third

time for help, ostensibly to buy colours for a portrait bespoken by Princess Terteresheneva. Tatyana

Borisovna refused. "Under these circumstances," he wrote to her, "I propose coming to you to regain my

health in the country." And in the May of the same year Andryusha did, in fact, return to MaliyeBriki.

Tatyana Borisovna did not recognize him for the first minute. From his letter she had expected to

see a wasted invalid, and she beheld a stout, broadshouldered fellow, with a big red face and greasy curly

hair. The pale, slender little Andryusha had turned into the stalwart Andrei Ivanovich Belovzorov. And it was

not only his exterior that was transformed. The modest spruceness, the sedateness and tidiness of his earlier

years, was replaced by a careless swagger and slovenliness quite insufferable; he rolled from side to side as

he walked, lolled in easychairs, put his elbows on the table, stretched and yawned, and behaved rudely to his

aunt and the servants. "I'm an artist," he would say; "a free Cossack! That's our sort!" Sometimes he did not

touch a brush for whole days together; then the inspiration, as he called it, would come upon him; then he

would swagger about as if he were drunk, clumsy, awkward, and noisy; his cheeks were flushed with a coarse

colour, his eyes dull; he would launch into discourses upon his talent, his success, his development, the

advance he was making . . . . It turned out in actual fact that he had barely talent enough to produce passable

portraits. He was a perfect ignoramus, had read nothing; why should an artist read, indeed? Nature, freedom,

poetry are his fitting elements; he need do nothing but shake his curls, talk, and suck away at his eternal

cigarette! Russian audacity is a fine thing, but it doesn't suit everyone; and Polezhaevs at secondhand,

without the genius, are insufferable beings. Andrei Ivanovich went on living at his aunt's; he did not seem to

find the bread of charity bitter, notwithstanding the proverb. Visitors to the house found him a mortal

nuisance. He would sit at the piano (for, you must know, there was a piano at Tatyana Borisovna's) and begin

strumming "The Swift Sledge" with one finger; he would strike some chords, tap on the keys, and for hours

together he would howl Varlamov's songs, "The Solitary Pine," or "No, doctor, no, don't come to me," in the

most distressing manner, and his eyes seemed to disappear altogether, his cheeks were so puffed out and

tense as drums. Then he would suddenly strike up: "Be still, distracting passion's tempest!" Tatyana

"It's a strange thing," she observed to me one day, "the songs they compose nowadays; there's

something desperate about them; in my day they were very different. We had mournful songs, too, but it was

Come, come to me in the meadow, Where I am awaiting thee; Come, come to me in the meadow,

Where I'm shedding tears for thee. . . . Alas! thou'rt coming to the meadow, But too late, dear love, for me!

A year has gone by since then. Belovzorov is still living at his aunt's, and still talking of going

back to Petersburg. He has grown as broad as he is long in the country. His auntwho could have imagined

such a thing?idolizes him, and the young girls of the neighbourhood are falling in love with him.

I HAVE a neighbour, a young landlord and a young hunter. One fine July morning I rode over to

him with a proposition that we should go out grouseshooting together. He agreed. "Only let's go," he said,

"to my underwoods at Zusha; I can seize the opportunity to have a look at Chapligino; you know my oak

wood; they're felling timber there." "By all means." He ordered his horse to be saddled, put on a green coat

with bronze buttons, stamped with a boar's head, a gamebag embroidered in crewels, and a silver flask,

slung a brandnew French gun over his shoulder, turned himself about with some satisfaction before the

lookingglass, and called his dog, Esp�rance, a gift from his cousin, an old maid with an excellent heart, but

no hair on her head. We started. My neighbour took with him the village constable, Arkhip, a stout, squat

peasant with a square face and jaws of antediluvian proportions, and an overseer he had recently hired from

the Baltic provinces, a youth of nineteen, thin, flaxenhaired, and shortsighted, with sloping shoulders and a

long neck, Herr Gottlieb von der Kock. My neighbour had himself only recently come into the property. It

had come to him by inheritance from an aunt, the widow of a councillor of state Madame KardonKatayeva,

an excessively stout woman, who even lying in bed sighed and groaned. We reached the underwoods. "You

wait for me here at the clearing," said Ardalion Mikhailich (my neighbour), addressing his companions. The

German bowed, got off his horse, pulled a book out of his pocketa novel of Johanna Schopenhauer's, I

fancyand sat down under a bush; Arkhip remained in the sun without stirring a muscle for an hour. We

beat about among the bushes, but did not come on a single covey. Ardalion Mikhailich announced his

intention of going on to the wood. I myself had no faith, somehow, in our luck that day; I, too, sauntered after

him. We got back to the clearing. The German noted the page, got up, put the book in his pocket, and with

some difficulty mounted his bobtailed, brokenwinded mare, who neighed and kicked at the slightest touch;

Arkhip shook himself, gave a tug at both reins at once, swung his legs, and at last succeeded in starting his

I had been familiar with Ardalion Mikhailich's wood from my childhood. I had often strolled in

Chapligino with my French tutor, Monsieur D�sir� Fleury, the kindest of men (who had, however, almost

ruined my constitution for life by dosing me with Leroy's mixture every evening). The whole wood consisted

of some two or three hundred immense oaks and ashtrees. Their stately, powerful trunks were magnificently

black against the transparent golden green of the nut bushes and mountain ashes; higher up, their wide

knotted branches stood out in graceful lines against the clear blue sky, unfolding into a tent overhead; hawks,

honeybuzzards and kestrels flew whizzing under the motionless treetops; variegated woodpeckers tapped

loudly on the stout bark; the blackbird's belllike trill was heard suddenly in the thick foliage, following on

the everchanging note of the goldhammer; in the bushes below was the chirp and twitter of hedgewarblers,

siskins, and peewits; finches ran swiftly along the paths; a hare would steal along the edge of the wood,

halting cautiously as he ran; a squirrel would hop sporting from tree to tree, then suddenly sit still, with its tail

over its head. In the grass among the high anthills under the delicate shade of the lovely, feathery,

deepindented ferns, were violets and lilies of the valley, and funguses, russet, yellow, brown, red and

crimson; in the patches of grass among the spreading bushes red strawberries were to be found. . . . And oh,

the shade in the wood! In the most stifling heat, at midday, it was like night in the wood: such peace, such

fragrance, such freshness. . . . I had spent happy times in Chapligino, and so, I must own, it was with

melancholy feelings I entered the wood I knew so well. The ruinous, snowless winter of 1840 had not spared

my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered, naked, covered here and there with sickly foliage, they

struggled mournfully up above the young growth which "took their place, but could never replace them."*

*In 1840 there were severe frosts, and no snow fell up to the very end of December; all the winter

corn was frozen, and many splendid oak forests were destroyed by that merciless winter. It will be hard to

replace them; the productive force of the land is apparently diminishing; in the "interdicted" wastelands

(visited by processions with holy images, and so not to be touched), instead of the noble trees of former days,

birches and aspens grow of themselves; and, indeed, they have no idea among us of planting woods at

Some trees, still covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless, ruined branches upwards, as it

were, in reproach and despair; in others, stout, dead, dry branches are thrust out of the midst of foliage still

thick, though with none of the luxuriant abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like

corpses on the ground. Andwho could have dreamed of this in former days?there was no shadeno

shade to be found anywhere in Chapligino! "Ah," I thought, looking at the dying trees: "isn't it shameful and

What has become Of the mighty voices, The haughty strength, The royal pomp? Where now is the

"How is it, Ardalion Mikhailich," I began, "that they didn't fell these trees the very next year? You

"You should have asked my aunt that; the timber merchants came, offered money down, pressed

"Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" von der Kock cried at every step. "Vat a bity, vat a bity!"

What particularly aroused his regrets were the oaks lying on the groundand, indeed, many a

miller would have given a good sum for them. But the constable Arkhip preserved an unruffled composure,

and did not indulge in any lamentations; on the contrary, he seemed even to jump over them and crack his

We were getting near the place where they were cutting down the trees, when suddenly a shout and

hurried talk was heard, following on the crash of a falling tree, and a few instants after a young peasant, pale

"The foreman, sir. We'd started cutting an ashtree, and he was standing looking on. He stood

there a bit, and then off he went to the well for some waterwanted a drink, seeminglywhen suddenly the

ashtree began creaking and coming straight towards him. We shout to him, 'Run, run, run!. . .' He should

have rushed to one side, but he up and ran straight before him. He was scared, to be sure. The ashtree

covered him with its top branches. But why it fell so soon, the Lord only knows! Perhaps it was rotten at the

"No, sir, he's still alivebut as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. I was running for

Ardalion Mikhailich told the constable to gallop to the village for Seliverstich, while he himself

We found poor Maxim on the ground. A dozen peasants were standing about him. We got off our

horses. He hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in

astonishment, and bit his lips, fast turning blue. The lower part of his face was twitching; his hair was matted

on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young limetree glided softly

"Please, sir," he said to him, hardly articulately, "send for the priest . . . tell . . . the Lord has

punished me . . . arms, legs, all smashed . . . today's . . . Sunday . . . and I. . . I . . . see. . . didn't let the lads off

"And my money . . . for my wife . . . after deducting. . . . Onisim here knows . . . whom I . . . what I

"We've sent for the doctor, Maxim," said my neighbour; "perhaps you may not die yet."

"No, I'm dying. Here . . . here it is coming . . . here it. . . . Forgive me, lads, if in any way. . . ."

"God will forgive you, Maxim Andreich," said the peasants thickly with one voice, and they took

He suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a painful effort, and he fell back

"We can't let him lie here and die, though," cried Ardalion Mikhailich; "lads, give us the mat from

"I bought a horse . . yesterday," faltered the dying man, "off Efim . . . in Sichovka . . . paid

They began to move him on to the mat. He trembled all over, like a wounded bird, and stiffened.

We mounted our horses in silence and rode away. The death of poor Maxim set me musing. How

wonderfully indeed the Russian peasant dies! The temper in which he meets his end cannot be called

indifference or stolidity; he dies as though he were performing a solemn rite, coolly and simply.

A few years ago a peasant belonging to another neighbour of mine in the country got burnt in the

drying shed, where the corn is put. (He would have remained there, but a passing townsman pulled him out

halfdead; he plunged into a tub of water, and with a run broke down the door of the burning outbuilding.) I

went to his hut to see him. It was dark, smoky, stifling, in the hut. I asked, "Where is the sick man?" "There,

sir, on the stove," the sorrowing peasant woman answered me in a singsong voice. I went up; the peasant

was lying covered with a sheepskin, breathing heavily. "Well, how do you feel?" The injured man stirred on

the stove; burned all over, within sight of death as he was, he tried to rise. "Lie still, lie still . . . lie still. Well,

how are you?" "In a bad way, surely," said he. "Are you in pain?" No answer. "Is there anything you want?"

No answer. "Shouldn't I send you some tea, or anything." "There's no need." I moved away from him and sat

down on the bench. I sat there a quarter of an hour; I sat there half an hourthe silence of the tomb in the

hut. In the corner behind the table under the holy images crouched a little girl of five years old, eating a piece

of bread. Her mother threatened her every now and then. In the outer room there was coming and going,

noise and talk: the brother's wife was chopping cabbage. "Hey, Aksinya," said the injured man at last.

"What?" "Some kvas." Aksinya gave him some kvas. Silence again. I asked in a whisper, "Have they given

him the sacrament?" "Yes." So, then, everything was in order: he was waiting for death, that was all. I could

Again, I recall how I went one day to the hospital in the village of Krasnogorye to see the surgeon

This hospital consisted of what had once been the lodge of the manor house; the lady of the manor

had founded it herself; in other words, she ordered a blue board to be nailed up above the door with an

inscription in white letters: "Krasnogorye Hospital," and had herself handed to Kapiton a lovely album to

record the names of the patients in. On the first page of this album one of the toadying parasites of this Lady

Dans ces beaux lieux, o� r�gne l'all�gresse, Ce temple fut ouvert par la Beaut�; De vos seigneurs

The surgeon bought six beds at his own expense, and had set to work in a thankful spirit to heal

God's people. Besides him, the staff consisted of two persons: an engraver, Pavel, liable to attacks of insanity,

and a onearmed peasant woman, Melikitrisa, who performed the duties of cook. Both of them mixed the

medicines and dried and infused herbs; they, too, controlled the patients when they were delirious. The insane

engraver was sullen in appearance and sparing of words; at night he would sing a song about "lovely Venus,"

and would besiege every one he met with a request for permission to marry a girl called Malanya, who had

long been dead. The onearmed peasant woman used to beat him and set him to look after the turkeys.

Well, one day I was at Kapiton's. We had begun talking over our last day's shooting, when

suddenly a cart drove into the yard, drawn by an exceptionally stout horse, such as are only found belonging

to millers. In the cart sat a thickset peasant, in a new greatcoat, with a beard streaked with grey.

"Hullo, Vasily Dmitrich," Kapiton shouted from the window; "please come in. . . . The miller of

The peasant climbed groaning out of the cart, came into the surgeon's room, and after looking for

"Well, Vasily Dmitrich, any news?. . . But you must be ill; you don't look well."

"Well, it was like this, Kapiton Timofeich. Not long ago I bought some millstones in the town, so I

took them home, and as I went to lift them out of the cart, I strained myself, or something; I'd a sort of rick in

the loins, as though something had been torn away, and ever since I've been out of sorts. Today I feel worse

"Hm," commented Kapiton, and he took a pinch of snuff; "that's a rupture, no doubt. But is it long

"Ten days?" (The surgeon drew a long inward breath and shook his head.) "Let me examine you. . .

. Well, Vasily Dmitrich," he pronounced at last, "I am sorry for you, heartily sorry, but things aren't right with

you at all; you're seriously ill; stay here with me; I will do everything I can for my part, though I can't answer

"Yes, Vasily Dmitrich, it is bad; if you'd come to me a day or two sooner, it would have been

nothing much; I could have cured you in a trice; but now inflammation has set in; before we know where we

The peasant pondered and pondered, his eyes fixed on the floor, then he glanced up at us, scratched

"Where? why, home to be sure, if it's so bad. I must put things to rights, if it's like that."

"But you'll do yourself harm, Vasily Dmitrich; you will, really; I'm surprised how you managed to

"No, brother, Kapiton Timofeich, if I must die, I'll die at home; why die here? I've got a home, and

"No one can tell yet, Vasily Dmitrich, how it will end. Of course, there is danger, considerable

danger; there's no disputing that . . . but for that reason you ought to stay here."

The peasant shook his head. "No, Kapiton Timofeich, I won't stay . . . but perhaps you will

The surgeon tore a page out of the album, and, writing out a prescription, gave him some advice as

to what he could do besides. The peasant took the sheet of paper, gave Kapiton half a ruble, went out of the

room, and took his seat in the cart. "Well, goodbye, Kapiton Timofeich, don't remember evil against me,

The peasant simply shook his head, struck the horse with the reins, and drove out of the yard. I

went out and looked after him. The road was muddy and full of holes; the miller drove cautiously, without

hurry, guiding his horse skilfully, and nodding to the acquaintances he met. Three days later he was dead.

The Russians, in general, meet death in a marvellous way. Many of the dead come back now to my

memory. I recall you, my old friend, who left the university without finishing the course, Avenir

Sorokoumov, noblest, best of men! I see once again your sickly, consumptive face, your lank brown tresses,

your gentle smile, your ecstatic glance, your long limbs; I can hear your weak, caressing voice. You lived at a

Great Russian landlord's, called Gur Krupyanikov, taught his children, Fofa and Zyozya, Russian grammar,

geography, and history, patiently bore all the ponderous jokes of the said Gur, the coarse familiarities of the

butler, the vulgar pranks of the spiteful urchins; with a bitter smile, but without repining, you complied with

the caprices of their bored and exacting mother; but to make up for it all, what bliss, what peace was yours in

the evening, after supper, when, free at last of all duties, you sat at the window pensively smoking a pipe, or

greedily turned the pages of a greasy and mutilated number of some thick magazine, brought you from the

town by the landsurveyor just such another poor, homeless devil as yourself! How delighted you were

then with any sort of poem or novel; how readily the tears started into your eyes; with what pleasure you

laughed; what genuine love for others, what generous sympathy for everything good and noble, filled your

pure youthful soul! One must tell the truth: you were not distinguished by excessive sharpness of wit; Nature

had endowed you with neither memory nor industry; at the university you were regarded as one of the least

promising students; at lectures you slumbered, at examinations you preserved a solemn silence; but who was

beaming with delight and breathless with excitement at a friend's success, a friend's triumphs? Avenir! Who

had a blind faith in the lofty destiny of his friends? who extolled them with pride? who championed them

with angry vehemence? who was innocent of envy as of vanity? who was ready for the most disinterested

selfsacrifice? who eagerly gave way to men who were not worthy to untie his shoelaces?. . . That was you,

all you, our good Avenir! I remember how brokenheartedly you parted from your comrades, when you were

going away to be a tutor in the country; you were haunted by a presentiment of evil.

And, indeed, your lot was a sad one in the country; you had no one there to listen to with

veneration, no one to admire, no one to love. . . . The neighboursrude sons of the steppes, and polished

gentlemen aliketreated you as a tutor; some, with rudeness and neglect, others carelessly. Besides, you

were not prepossessing in person; you were shy, given to blushing, getting hot and stammering. . . . Even

your health was no better for the country air: you wasted like a candle, poor fellow! It is true your room

looked out in the garden; wild cherries, appletrees, and limes strewed their delicate blossoms on your table,

your inkstand, your books; on the wall hung a blue silk watchpocket, a parting present from a kindhearted,

sentimental German governess with flaxen curls and little blue eyes; and sometimes an old friend from

Moscow would come out to you and throw you into ecstasies with new poetry, often even with his own. But,

oh, the loneliness, the insufferable slavery of a tutor's lot! the impossibility of escape, the endless autumns

I paid Sorokoumov a visit not long before his death. He was then hardly able to walk. The

landlord, Gur Krupyanikov, had not turned him out of the house, but had given up paying him a salary and

had taken another tutor for Zyozya. . . . Fofa had been sent to a school of cadets. Avenir was sitting near the

window in an old easychair. It was exquisite weather. The clear autumn sky was a bright blue above the

darkbrown line of bare limes; here and there a few last leaves of lurid gold rustled and whispered about

them. The earth had been covered with frost, now melting into dewdrops in the sun, whose ruddy rays fell

aslant across the pale grass; there was a faint crisp resonance in the air; the voices of the labourers in the

garden reached us clearly and distinctly. Avenir wore a threadbare Bukhara dressinggown; a green

neckerchief threw a deathly hue over his terribly sunken face. He was greatly delighted to see me, held out

his hand, began talking and coughing at once. I made him be quiet, and sat down by him. . . . On Avenir's

knee lay a manuscript book of Koltsov's poems, carefully copied out; he patted it with a smile. "That's a

poet," he stammered, with an effort repressing his cough; and he fell to declaiming in a voice scarcely

Can the eagle's wings Be chained and fettered? Can the pathways of heaven Be closed against

I stopped him: the doctor had forbidden him to talk. I knew what would please him. Sorokoumov

never, as they say, "kept up" with the science of the day; but he was always anxious to know what results the

leading intellects had reached. Sometimes he would get an old friend into a corner and begin questioning

him; he would listen and wonder, take every word on trust, and even repeat it all after him. He took a special

interest in German philosophy. I began discoursing to him about Hegel (this all happened long ago, as you

may gather). Avenir nodded his head approvingly, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and whispered, "I see! I see!

ah, that's splendid! splendid! . . ." The childish curiosity of this poor, dying, homeless outcast moved me, I

confess, to tears. It must be noted that Avenir, unlike the general run of consumptives, did not deceive

himself in regard to his disease. But what of that?he did not sigh, nor grieve; he did not even once refer to

Rallying his strength, he began talking of Moscow, of old friends, of Pushkin, of the drama, of

Russian literature; he recalled our little suppers, the heated debates of our circle; with regret he uttered the

"Do you remember Dasha?" he went on. "Ah, there was a heart of pure gold! What a heart! and

how she loved me!. . . What has become of her now? Wasted and fallen away, poor dear, I daresay!"

I had not the courage to disillusion the sick man; and, indeed, why should he know that his Dasha

was now broader than she was long, and that she was living under the protection of some merchants, the

brothers Kondachkov, that she used powder and paint, and was for ever swearing and scolding?

"But can't we," I thought, looking at his wasted face, "get him away from here? Perhaps there may

"No, brother, thanks," he said; "it makes no difference where one dies. I shan't live till the winter,

you see. Why give trouble for nothing? I'm used to this house. It's true the people. . . ."

"No, not unkind, but woodenheaded creatures. However, I can't complain of them. There are

neighbours: there's a Mr. Kasatkin's daughter, a cultivated, kind, charming girl . . . not proud . . . ."

"I shouldn't mind anything," he went on, after taking breath, "if they'd only let me smoke my pipe.

. . . But I'll have my pipe, if I die for it!" he added, with a sly wink. "Thank God, I have had life enough! I

"Why write to them? They can't be any help; when I die they'll hear of it. But, why talk about it . . .

I began to tell him my experiences. He seemed positively to gloat over my story. Towards evening

I left, and ten days later I received the following letter from Mr. Krupyanikov:

"I have the honour to inform you, my dear sir, that your friend, the student living in my house, Mr.

Avenir Sorokoumov, died at two o'clock in the afternoon three days ago, and was buried today, at my

expense, in the parish church. He asked me to forward you the books and manuscripts enclosed herewith. He

was found to have twentytwo rubles and a half, which, with the rest of his belongings, pass into the

possession of his relatives. Your friend died fully conscious, and, I may say, with so little sensibility that he

showed no signs of regret even when the whole family of us took a last farewell of him. My wife, Kleopatra

Alexandrovna, sends you her regards. The death of your friend has, of course, affected her nerves; as regards

myself, I am, thank God, in good health, and have the honour to remain your humble servant.

Many more examples recur to me, but one cannot relate everything. I will confine myself to one.

I was present at an old country lady's deathbed; the priest had begun reading the prayers for the

dying over her, but, suddenly noticing that the patient seemed to be actually dying, he made haste to give her

the cross to kiss. The lady turned away with an air of displeasure. "You're in too great a hurry, father," she

said in a voice almost inarticulate; "in too great a hurry." She kissed the cross, put her hand under the pillow

and expired. Under the pillow was a silver ruble; she had meant to pay the priest for the service at her own

THE SMALL village of Kolotovka once belonged to a lady known in the neighbourhood by the

nickname of Skinflint, in allusion to her keen business habits (her real name is lost in oblivion), but has of

late years been the property of a German from Petersburg. The village lies on the slope of a barren hill, which

is cut in half from top to bottom by a tremendous ravine. It is a yawning chasm, with shelving sides hollowed

out by the action of rain and snow, and it winds along the very centre of the village street; it separates the two

sides of the unlucky hamlet far more than a river would do, for a river could, at least, be crossed by a bridge.

A few gaunt willows creep timorously down its sandy sides; at the very bottom, which is dry and yellow as

copper, lie huge slabs of argillaceous rock. A cheerless position, there's no denying, yet all the surrounding

inhabitants know the road to Kolotovka well; they go there often, and are always glad to go.

At the very summit of the ravine, a few paces from the point where it starts as a narrow fissure in

the earth, there stands a small square hut. It stands alone, apart from all the others. It is thatched, and has a

chimney; one window keeps watch like a sharp eye over the ravine, and on winter evenings when it is lighted

from within, it is seen far away in the dim frosty fog, and its twinkling light is the guiding star of many a

peasant on his road. A blue board is nailed up above the door; this hut is a tavern, called the "Welcome

Resort." Spirits are sold here probably no cheaper than the usual price, but it is far more frequented than any

other establishment of the same sort in the neighbourhood. The explanation of this is to be found in the

excessively stout, grizzled man with a fat face, sly and goodnatured little eyes, and a shiny forehead, with

wrinkles like lines drawn all over ithas lived for more than twenty years in Kolotovka. Nikolai Ivanich is a

shrewd, acute fellow, like the majority of tavernkeepers. Though he makes no conspicuous effort to please

or to talk to people, he has the art of attracting and keeping customers, who find it particularly pleasant to sit

at his bar under the placid and genial, though alert eye of the phlegmatic host. He has a great deal of common

sense; he thoroughly understands the landowner's conditions of life, the peasant's, and the townsman's. He

could give sensible advice on difficult points, but, like a cautious man and an egoist, prefers to stand aloof,

and at mostand that only in the case of his favourite customersby remote hints, dropped, as it were,

unintentionally, to lead them into the true way. He is an authority on everything that is of interest or

importance to a Russian: on horses and cattle, on timber, bricks, and crockery, on woollen stuffs and on

leather, on songs and dances. When he has no customers, he is usually sitting like a sack on the ground before

the door of his hut, his thin legs tucked under him, exchanging a friendly greeting with every passerby. He

has seen a great deal in his time: many a score of petty landowners, who used to come to him for spirits, he

has seen pass away before him; he knows everything that is done for a hundred miles round, and never

gossips, never gives a sign of knowing what is unsuspected by the most keensighted police officer. He

keeps his own counsel, laughs, and makes his glasses ring. His neighbours respect him; the civilian general

Shcherepetenko, the landlord highest in rank in the district, gives him a condescending nod whenever he

drives past his little house. Nikolai Ivanich is a man of influence; he made a notorious horsestealer return a

horse he had taken from the stable of one of his friends; he brought the peasants of a neighbouring village to

their senses when they refused to accept a new overseer, and so on. It must not be imagined, though, that he

does this from love of justice, from devotion to his neighbourno! he simply tries to prevent anything that

might, in any way, interfere with his ease and comfort. Nikolai Ivanich is married, and has children. His wife,

a smart, sharpnosed and keeneyed townswoman, has grown somewhat stout of late years, like her husband.

He relies on her in everything, and she keeps the key of the cashbox. Drunken brawlers are afraid of her: she

does not like them; they bring little profit and make a great deal of noise; those who are taciturn and surly in

their cups are more to her taste. Nikolai Ivanich's children are still small; the first all died, but those that are

left take after their parents; it is a pleasure to look at their intelligent, healthy little faces.

It was an insufferably hot day in July when, slowly dragging my feet along, I went up alongside

the Kolotovka ravine with my dog towards the Welcome Resort. The sun blazed, as it were, fiercely in the

sky, baking the parched earth relentlessly; the air was thick with stifling dust. Glossy crows and ravens with

gaping beaks looked plaintively at the passersby, as though asking for sympathy; only the sparrows did not

droop, but, pluming their feathers, twittered more vigorously than ever as they quarrelled among the hedges,

or flew up all together from the dusty road and hovered in grey clouds over the green hempfields. I was

tormented by thirst. There was no water near: in Kolotovka, as in many other villages of the steppes, the

peasants, having no spring or well, drink a sort of thin mud out of the pond. For no one could call that

repulsive beverage water. I wanted to ask for a glass of beer or kvas at Nikolai Ivanich's.

It must be confessed that at no time of the year does Kolotovka present a very cheering spectacle;

but it has a particularly depressing effect when the relentless rays of a dazzling July sun pour down full upon

the brown, tumbledown roofs of the houses and the deep ravine, and the parched, dusty common over which

the thin, longlegged hens are straying hopelessly, and the remains of the old manor house, now a hollow,

grey framework of aspenwood, with holes instead of windows, overgrown with nettles, wormwood, and

rank grass, and the pond black, as though charred, and covered with goose feathers, with its edge of

halfdried mud, and its brokendown dyke, near which, on the finely trodden, ashlike earth, sheep,

breathless and gasping with the heat, huddle dejectedly together, their heads drooping with weary patience, as

though waiting for this insufferable heat to pass at last. With weary steps I drew near Nikolai Ivanich's

dwelling, arousing in the village children the usual wonder manifested in a concentrated, meaningless stare,

and in the dogs an indignation expressed in such hoarse and furious barking that it seemed as if it were

tearing their very entrails, and left them breathless and choking, when suddenly in the tavern doorway there

appeared a tall peasant without a cap, in a frieze cloak, girt about below his waist with a blue handkerchief.

He looked like a houseserf; thick grey hair stood up in disorder above his withered and wrinkled face. He

was calling to someone hurriedly, waving his arms, which obviously were not quite under his control. It

"Come, come along!" he stammered, raising his shaggy eyebrows with an effort. "Come, Blinkard,

come along! Ah, brother, how you creep along, 'pon my word! It's too bad, brother. They're waiting for you

"Well, I'm coming, I'm coming!" called a jarring voice, and from behind a hut a little, short, fat,

lame man came into sight. He wore a rather tidy cloth coat, pulled half on, and a high pointed cap right over

his brows, which gave his round plump face a sly and comic expression. His little yellow eyes moved

restlessly about, his thin lips wore a continual forced smile, while his sharp, long nose peered forward saucily

in front like a rudder. "I'm coming, my dear fellow." He went hobbling towards the tavern. "What are you

"What am I calling you for?" repeated the man in the frieze coat reproachfully. "You're a queer

fish, Blinkard: we call you to come to the tavern, and you ask what for? Here are honest folks all waiting for

you: Yakov the Turk, and the Wild Master, and the boothkeeper from Zhizdra. Yakov's got a bet on with the

boothkeeper: the stake's a pot of beerfor the one that does best, sings the best, I mean . . . do you see?"

"Is Yakov going to sing?" said the man addressed as Blinkard, with lively interest. "But isn't it

"I'm not humbugging," answered the Gabbler with dignity; "it's you are crazy. I should think he

would sing since he's got a bet on it, you precious innocent, you noodle, Blinkard!"

"Then give us a kiss at least, lovey," stammered the Gabbler, opening wide his arms.

"Get out, you great softy!" responded the Blinkard contemptuously, giving him a poke with his

The conversation I had overheard roused my curiosity exceedingly. More than once rumours had

reached me of Yakov the Turk as the best singer in the vicinity, and here was an opportunity all at once of

hearing him in competition with another master of the art. I quickened my steps and went into the house.

Few of my readers have probably had an opportunity of getting a good view of any village taverns,

but we hunters go everywhere. They are constructed on an exceedingly simple plan. They usually consist of a

dark outer shed, and an inner room with a chimney, divided in two by a partition, behind which none of the

customers have a right to go. In this partition there is a wide opening cut above a broad oak table. At this

table or bar the spirits are served. Sealed up bottles of various sizes stand on the shelves, right opposite the

opening. In the front part of the room, devoted to customers, there are benches, two or three empty barrels,

and a corner table. Village taverns are for the most part rather dark, and you hardly ever see on their

When I went into the Welcome Resort, a fairly large party were already assembled there.

In his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up the entire opening in the partition, stood Nikolai

Ivanich in a striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured out with his plump white hand

two glasses of spirits for the Blinkard and the Gabbler as they came in; behind him, in a corner near the

window, could be seen his sharpeyed wife. In the middle of the room was standing Yakov the Turk, a thin,

graceful fellow of threeandtwenty, dressed in a long skirted coat of blue nankin. He looked a smart

factoryhand, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His hollow cheeks, his

large, restless grey eyes, his straight nose, with its delicate mobile nostrils, his palebrown curls brushed back

over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, expressive lips, and his whole face betrayed a passionate

and sensitive nature. He was in a state of great excitement; he blinked, his breathing was hurried, his hands

shook, as though in fever, and he was really in a feverthat sudden fever of excitement which is so well

known to all who have to speak and sing before an audience. Near him stood a man of about forty, with broad

shoulders and broad jaws, with a low forehead, narrow Tartar eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and

shining black hair, coarse as bristles. The expression of his facea swarthy face, with a sort of leaden hue in

itand especially of his pale lips, might almost have been called savage, if it had not been so still and

dreamy. He hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly about him like a bull under the yoke. He was

dressed in a sort of surtout, not over new, with smooth brass buttons; an old black silk handkerchief was

twisted round his immense neck. He was called the Wild Master. Right opposite him, on a bench under the

holy images, was sitting Yakov's rival, the boothkeeper from Zhizdra; he was a short, stoutly built man of

about thirty, pockmarked and curlyheaded, with a blunt, turnup nose, lively brown eyes, and a scanty

beard. He lookedkeenly about him, and, sitting with his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his

legs and tapping with his feet, which were encased in stylish topboots with a coloured edging. He wore a

new thin coat of grey cloth, with a plush collar, in sharp contrast with the crimson shirt below, buttoned close

across the chest. In the opposite corner, to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow, shabby

smockfrock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. The sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish streak through the

dusty panes of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it struggled in vain with the habitual darkness of

the room; all the objects in it were dimly, as it were, patchily lighted up. On the other hand, it was almost

cool in the room, and the sense of stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly I crossed the

My entrance, I could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting to Nikolai Ivanich's customers; but

observing that he greeted me as a friend, they were reassured, and took no more notice of me. I asked for

"Well, well," piped the Gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of spirits at one gulp and accompanying

his exclamation with the strange gesticulations, without which he seemed unable to utter a single word; "what

"Let's begin, by all means," observed the boothkeeper coolly, with a selfconfident smile; "I'm

"Well, begin, lads," whined the Blinkard. But, in spite of the unanimously expressed desire, neither

began; the boothkeeper did not even get up from the benchthey all seemed to be waiting for something.

"Begin!" said the Wild Master sharply and sullenly. Yakov started. The boothkeeper pulled down

"But who's to begin?" he inquired in a slightly changed voice addressing the Wild Master, who still

stood motionless in the middle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart and his powerful arms thrust up to

The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The Gabbler gave a faint squeak, in

"Cast lots," the Wild Master pronounced emphatically; "and the pot on the table."

Nikolai Ivanich bent down, and with a gasp picked up the pot of beer from the floor and set it on

Yakov fumbled in his pockets, took out a kopek, and marked it with his teeth. The boothkeeper

pulled from under the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, deliberately untied the string, and shaking

out a quantity of small change into his hand, picked out a new kopek. The Gabbler held out his dirty cap, with

its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped his kopek in, and the boothkeeper his.

The Blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands, and began shaking it.

For an instant a profound silence reigned; the kopeks clinked faintly, jingling against each other. I

looked round attentively; every face wore an expression of intense expectation; the Wild Master himself

showed signs of uneasiness; my neighbour even, the peasant in the tattered smock, craned his neck

inquisitively. The Blinkard put his hand into the cap and took out the boothkeeper's kopek; everyone drew a

"There, there, don't cluck," remarked the Wild Master contemptuously. "Begin," he went on, with a

"What you choose, to be sure," Nikolai Ivanich chimed in, slowly folding his hands on his breast,

"you're quite at liberty about that. Sing what you like; only sing well; and we'll give a fair decision

"A fair decision, of course," put in the Gabbler, licking the edge of his empty glass.

"Let me clear my throat a bit, fellows," said the boothkeeper, fingering the collar of his coat.

"Come, come, no dillydallyingbegin!" protested the Wild Master, and he looked down.

The boothkeeper thought a minute, shook his head, and stepped forward. Yakov's eyes were

But before I enter upon a description of the contest itself, I think it will not be amiss to say a few

words about each of the personages taking part in my story. The lives of some of them were known to me

already when I met them in the Welcome Resort; I collected some facts about the others later on.

Let us begin with the Gabbler. This man's real name was Evgraf Ivanov; but no one in the whole

neighbourhood knew him as anything but the Gabbler, and he himself referred to himself by that nickname,

so well did it fit him. Indeed, nothing could have been more appropriate to his insignificant, everrestless

features; he was a dissipated, unmarried houseserf, whose own masters had long ago got rid of him, and

who, without any employment, without earning a kopek, found means to get drunk every day at other

people's expense. He had a great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of spirits and tea, though

they could not have said why they did so themselves; for, far from being entertaining in company, he bored

everyone with his meaningless chatter, his insufferable familiarity, his spasmodic gestures and incessant,

unnatural laugh. He could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever, or even a sensible thing in his

life; he chattered away, telling lies about everythinga regular Gabbler! And yet not a single drinking party

for thirty versts around took place without his lank figure turning up among the guests; so that they were used

to him by now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. They all, it is true, treated him with

contempt; but the Wild Master was the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check.

The Blinkard was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nickname, too, suited him, though he was

no more given to blinking than other people; it is a wellknown fact that the Russian peasants have a talent

for finding good nicknames. In spite of my endeavours to get more detailed information about this man's past,

many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to me, and probably to many other people;

episodes buried, as the bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. I could only find out that he was once a

coachman in the service of an old childless lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge of;

had been lost for a whole year, and no doubt, convinced by experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a

wandering life, he had gone back, a cripple, and flung himself at his mistress's feet. He succeeded in a few

years in smoothing over his offence by his exemplary conduct, and, gradually getting higher in her favour, at

last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff, and on his mistress's death, turned outin what way

was never knownto have received his freedom. He got admitted into the class of tradesmen; rented patches

of marketgarden from the neighbours; grew rich, and now was living in ease and comfort. He was a man of

experience, who knew on which side his bread was buttered; was more actuated by prudence than by either

good or ill nature; had knocked about, understood men, and knew how to turn them to his own advantage. He

was cautious, and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; though he was as fond of gossip as an old woman,

he never let out his own affairs, while he made everyone else talk freely of theirs. He did not affect to be a

simpleton, though, as so many crafty men of his sort do; indeed it would have been difficult for him to take

anyone in, in that way; I have never seen a sharper, keener pair of eyes than his tiny cunning "peepers," as

they call them in Orel. They were never simply looking about; they were always looking one up and down

and through and through. The Blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks together over some apparently

simple undertaking, and again he would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which one

would fancy would bring him to ruin. But it would be sure to turn out all right; everything would go

smoothly. He was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens. He was exceedingly

superstitious in general. He was not liked, because he would have nothing much to do with anyone, but he

was respected. His whole family consisted of one little son, whom he idolized, and who, brought up by such a

father, is likely to get on in the world. "Little Blinkard'll be his father over again," is said of him already in

undertones by the old men, as they sit on their mud walls gossiping on summer evenings, and every one

As to Yakov the Turk and the boothkeeper, there is no need to say much about them. Yakov,

called the Turk because he actually was descended from a Turkish woman, a prisoner from the war, was by

nature an artist in every sense of the word, and by calling, a ladler in a paper factory belonging to a merchant.

As for the boothkeeper, his career, I must own, I know nothing of; he struck me as being a smart townsman

of the tradesman class, ready to turn his hand to anything. But the Wild Master calls for a more detailed

The first impression the sight of this man produced on you was a sense of coarse, heavy,

irresistible power. He was clumsily built, "all in one piece," as they say among us, but there was an air of

triumphant vigour about him, andstrange to sayhis bearlike figure was not without a certain grace of

its own, proceeding, perhaps, from his absolutely placid confidence in his own strength. It was hard to decide

at first to what class this Hercules belonged: he did not look like a houseserf, nor a townsman, nor an

impoverished clerk out of work, nor a small ruined landlord, such as takes to being a huntsman or a fighting

man; he was, in fact, quite individual. No one knew where he came from or what brought him into our

district; it was said that he came of freeholder stock, and had once been in the government service

somewhere, but nothing positive was known about this; and indeed there was no one from whom one could

learncertainly not from him; he was the most silent and morose of men. So much so that no one knew for

certain what he lived on; he followed no trade, visited no one, associated with scarcely anyone; yet he had

money to spend; little enough, it is true, still he had some. In his behaviour he was not exactly

retiringretiring was not a word that could be applied to him: he lived as though he noticed no one about

him, and cared for no one. The Wild Master (that was the nickname they had given him: his real name was

Perevlesov) enjoyed an immense influence in the whole district; he was obeyed with eager promptitude,

though he had no kind of right to give orders to anyone, and did not himself evince the slightest pretension to

authority over the people with whom he came into casual contact. He spokethey obeyed: strength always

has an influence of its own. He scarcely drank at all, had nothing to do with women, and was passionately

fond of singing. There was much that was mysterious about this man; it seemed as though vast forces sullenly

reposed within him, knowing, as it were, that once roused, once bursting free, they were bound to crush him

and everything they came in contact with; and I am greatly mistaken if, in this man's life, there had not been

some such outbreak; if it was not owing to the lessons of experience, to a narrow escape from ruin, that he

now kept himself so tightly in hand. What especially struck me in him was the combination of a sort of

inborn natural ferocity with an equally inborn generositya combination I have never met in any other man.

And so the boothkeeper stepped forward, and, half shutting his eyes, began singing in high

falsetto. He had a fairly sweet and pleasant voice, though rather hoarse; he played with his voice like a

woodlark, twisting and turning it in incessant roulades and trills up and down the scale, continually

returning to the highest notes, which he held and prolonged with special care. Then he would break off, and

again suddenly take up the first motive with a sort of goahead daring. His modulations were at times rather

bold, at times rather comical; they would have given a connoisseur great satisfaction, and have made a

German furiously indignant. He was a Russian tenore di grazia, t�nor l�ger. He sang a song to a lively

dancetune, the words of which, all that I could catch through the endless maze of embellishments,

A tiny patch of land, young lass, I'll plough for thee, And tiny crimson flowers, young lass, I'll sow

He sang; all listened to him with great attention. He seemed to feel that he had to do with really

musical people, and therefore was exerting himself to do his best. And they really are musical in our part of

the country; the village of Sergievskoye on the Orel highroad is deservedly noted throughout Russia for its

harmonious chorussinging. The boothkeeper sang for a long while without evoking much enthusiasm in

his audience; he lacked the support of a chorus; but at last, after one particularly bold flourish, which set even

the Wild Master smiling, the Gabbler could not refrain from a shout of delight. Everyone was roused. The

Gabbler and the Blinkard began joining in in an undertone and exclaiming, "Bravely done!. . . Take it, you

rogue!. . . Sing it out, you serpent! Hold it! That shake again, you dog, you!. . . May Herod confound your

soul!" and so on. Nikolai Ivanich behind the bar was nodding his head from side to side approvingly. The

Gabbler at last was swinging his legs, tapping with his feet and twitching his shoulder, while Yakov's eyes

fairly glowed like coal, and he trembled all over like a leaf, and smiled nervously. The Wild Master alone did

not change countenance, and stood motionless as before; but his eyes, fastened on the boothkeeper, looked

somewhat softened, though the expression of his lips was still scornful. Emboldened by the signs of general

approbation, the boothkeeper went off in a whirl of flourishes, and began to round off such trills, to turn

such shakes off his tongue, and to make such furious play with his throat, that when at last, pale, exhausted,

and bathed in hot perspiration, he uttered the last dying note, his whole body flung back, a general united

shout greeted him in a violent outburst. The Gabbler threw himself on his neck and began strangling him in

his long, bony arms; a flush came out on Nikolai Ivanich's oily face, and he seemed to have grown younger;

Yakov shouted like mad, "Capital, capital!" Even my neighbour, the peasant in the torn smock, could not

restrain himself, and with a blow of his fist on the table, he cried, "Ha! well done, damn my soul, ha! well

"Well, brother, you've given us a treat!" bawled the Gabbler, not releasing. the exhausted

boothkeeper from his embraces; "you've given us a treat, there's no denying! You've won, brother, you've

won! I congratulate youthe quart's yours! Yakov's miles behind you. . . I tell you: miles . . . take my word

"There, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of you. . ." said the Blinkard with

vexation; "let him sit down on the bench; he's tired, see. You're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny! What are

"Well, then, let him sit down, and I'll drink to his health," said the Gabbler, and he went up to the

The latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of cloth out of his cap, and began wiping

his face, while the Gabbler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and, with a grunt, assumed, after the manner

"You sing beautifully, brother, beautifully," Nikolai Ivanich observed caressingly. "And now it's

your turn, Yakov; mind, now, don't be afraid. We shall see who'll win; we shall see. The boothkeeper sings

"Very beautifully," observed Nikolai Ivanich's wife, and she looked with a smile at Yakov.

"Ah, a wild man of the woods!" the Gabbler vociferated suddenly, and going up to the peasant

with the rent on his shoulder, he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and went off into an

insulting guffaw. "Ha! ha! get along! wild man of the woods! Here's a ragamuffin from the Woodlands! What

The poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up and make off as fast as he could, when

"Well, really, brothers . . . something. . . . Hm, I don't know, on my word, what. . . ."

"Come, that's enough; don't be timid. For shame!. . . why go back? Sing the best you can, by God's

And the Wild Master looked down expectant. Yakov was silent for a minute; he glanced round and

covered his face with his hand. All had their eyes simply fastened upon him, especially the boothkeeper, on

whose face a faint, involuntary uneasiness could be seen through his habitual expression of selfconfidence

and the triumph of his success. He leant back against the wall, and again put both hands under him, but did

not swing his legs as before. When at last Yakov uncovered his face it was pale as a dead man's; his eyes

gleamed faintly under their drooping lashes. He gave a deep sigh and began to sing. The first sound of his

voice was faint and unequal, and seemed not to come from his chest, but to be wafted from somewhere afar

off, as though it had floated by chance into the room. A strange effect was produced on all of us by this

trembling, resonant note; we glanced at one another, and Nikolai Ivanich's wife seemed to draw herself up.

This first note was followed by another, bolder and prolonged, but still obviously quivering, like a

harpstring when suddenly struck by a stray finger it throbs in a last, swiftly dying tremble; the second was

followed by a third, and, gradually gaining fire and breadth, the strains swelled into a pathetic melody. "Not

one little path ran into the field," he sang, and sweet and mournful it was in our ears. I have seldom, I must

confess, heard a voice like it; it was slightly hoarse, and not perfectly true; there was even something morbid

about it at first; but it had genuine depth of passion, and youth, and sweetness, and a sort of fascinating,

careless, pathetic melancholy. A spirit of truth and fire, a Russian spirit, was sounding and breathing in that

voice, and it seemed to go straight to your heart, to go straight to all that was Russian in it. The song swelled

and flowed. Yakov was clearly carried away by enthusiasm; he was not timid now; he surrendered himself

wholly to the rapture of his art; his voice no longer trembled; it quivered, but with the scarce perceptible

inward quiver of passion, which pierces like an arrow to the very soul of the listeners; and he steadily gained

strength and firmness and breadth. I remember I once saw at sunset on a flat sandy shore, when the tide was

low and the sea's roar came weighty and menacing from the distance, a great white seagull; it sat

motionless, its silky bosom facing the crimson glow of the setting sun, and only now and then opened wide

its great wings to greet the wellknown sea, to greet the sinking lurid sun: I recalled it, as I heard Yakov. He

sang, utterly forgetful of his rival and all of us; he seemed supported, as a bold swimmer by the waves, by our

silent, passionate sympathy. He sang, and in every sound of his voice one seemed to feel something dear and

akin to us, something of breadth and space, as though the familiar steppes were unfolding before our eyes and

stretching away into endless distance. I felt the tears gathering in my bosom and rising to my eyes; suddenly I

was struck by dull, smothered sobs. . . . I looked roundthe tavernkeeper's wife was weeping, her bosom

pressed close to the windowsill. Yakov threw a quick glance at her, and he sang more sweetly, more

melodiously than ever; Nikolai Ivanich looked down; the Blinkard turned away; the Gabbler, quite touched,

stood, his gaping mouth stupidly open; the humble peasant was sobbing softly in the corner and shaking his

head with a plaintive murmur; and on the iron visage of the Wild Master, from under his overhanging brows,

there slowly rolled a heavy tear; the boothkeeper raised his clenched fist to his brow, and did not stir. I don't

know how the general emotion would have ended, if Yakov had not suddenly come to a full stop on a high,

exceptionally shrill noteas though his voice had broken. No one called out, or even stirred; everyone

seemed to be waiting to see whether he was not going to sing more; but he opened his eyes as though

wondering at our silence, looked round at all of us with a face of inquiry . . . and saw that the victory was his.

"Yakov," said the Wild Master, laying his hand on his shoulder, and he could say no more.

We all stood, as it were, petrified. The boothkeeper softly rose and went up to Yakov.

"You . . . yours . . . you've won," he articulated at last with an effort, and rushed out of the room.

His rapid, decided action, as it were, broke the spell; we all suddenly fell into noisy, delighted talk. The

Gabbler bounded up and down, stammered and brandished his arms like millsails; the Blinkard limped up to

Yakov and began kissing him; Nikolai Ivanich got up and solemnly announced that he would add a second

pot of beer from himself. The Wild Master laughed a sort of kind, simple laugh, which I should never have

expected to see on his face; the humble peasant, as he wiped his eyes, cheeks, nose, and beard on his sleeves,

kept repeating in his corner, "Ah, beautiful it was, by God! blast me for the son of a dog, but it was fine!"

while Nikolai Ivanich's wife, her face red with weeping, got up quickly and went away. Yakov was enjoying

his triumph like a child; his whole face was transformed, his eyes especially fairly glowed with happiness.

They dragged him to the bar; he beckoned the weeping peasant up to it, and sent the tavernkeeper's little son

to look after the boothkeeper, who was not found, however; and the festivities began. "You'll sing to us

again; you're going to sing to us till evening," the Gabbler declared, flourishing his hands in the air.

I took one more look at Yakov and went out. I did not want to stayI was afraid of spoiling the

impression I had received. But the heat was as insupportable as before. It seemed hanging in a thick, heavy

layer right over the earth; over the darkblue sky tiny bright fires seemed whisking through the finest, almost

black dust. Everything was still; and there was something hopeless and oppressive in this profound hush of

exhausted nature. I made my way to a hayloft and lay down on the freshcut but already almost dry grass.

For a long while I could not go to sleep; for a long while Yakov's irresistible voice was ringing in my ears. At

last the heat and fatigue regained their sway, however, and I fell into a dead sleep. When I waked up,

everything was in darkness; the hay scattered around smelt strong and was slightly damp; through the slender

rafters of the halfopen roof pale stars were faintly twinkling. I went out. The glow of sunset had long died

away, and its last trace showed in a faint light on the horizon; but above the freshness of the night there was

still a feeling of heat in the atmosphere, lately baked through by the sun, and the breast still craved for a

draught of cool air. There was no wind, nor were there any clouds; the sky all round was clear, and

transparently dark, softly glimmering with innumerable but scarcely visible stars. There were lights twinkling

about the village; from the flaring tavern close by rose a confused, discordant din, amid which I fancied I

recognized the voice of Yakov. Violent laughter came from there in an outburst at times. I went up to the

little window and pressed my face against the pane. I saw a cheerless, though varied and animated scene: all

were drunkall from Yakov upwards. With breast bared, he sat on a bench, and singing in a thick voice a

street song to a dancetune, he lazily fingered and strummed on the strings of a guitar. His moist hair hung in

tufts over his fearfully pale face. In the middle of the room, the Gabbler, drunk as a lord and without his coat,

was hopping about in a dance before the peasant in the grey smock; the peasant, on his side, was with

difficulty stamping and scraping with his feet, and grinning meaninglessly over his dishevelled beard; he

waved one hand from time to time, as much as to say, "Here goes!" Nothing could be more ludicrous than his

face: however much he twitched up his eyebrows, his heavy lids would hardly rise, but seemed lying upon his

scarcely visible, dim, and mawkish eyes. He was in that amiable frame of mind of a perfectly intoxicated man

when every passerby, directly he looks him in the face, is sure to say, "My, brother, what a sight you are!"

The Blinkard, as red as a lobster, and his nostrils dilated wide, was laughing malignantly in a corner; only

Nikolai Ivanich, as befits a good tavernkeeper, preserved his composure unchanged. The room was

I turned away with rapid steps and began descending the hill on which Kolotovka lies. At the foot

of this hill stretches a wide plain; plunged in the misty waves of the evening haze, it seemed more immense,

and was, as it were, merged with the darkening sky. I walked with long strides along the road by the ravine,

when all at once from somewhere far away in the plain came a boy's clear voice: "Antropka! Antropkaaa!.

. ." He shouted in obstinate and tearful desperation, with long, long drawing out of the last syllable.

He was silent for a few instants, and started shouting again. His voice rang out clear in the still,

lightly slumbering air. Thirty times at least he had called the name Antropka, when suddenly, from the

farthest end of the plain, as though from another world, there floated a scarcely audible reply:

"What foor?" replied the other, after a long interval. "Because Dad wants to thrash you!" the first

The second voice did not call back again, and the boy fell to shouting Antropka once more. His

cries, fainter and less and less frequent, still floated up to my ears, when it had grown completely dark, and I

had turned the corner of the wood which skirts my village and lies over three miles from Kolotovka. . .

ONE AUTUMN five years ago, I chanced, when on the road from Moscow to Tula, to spend

almost a whole day at a posting station for want of horses. I was on the way back from a shooting expedition,

and had been so incautious as to send my troika on in front of me. The man in charge of the station, a surly,

elderly man, with hair hanging over his brows to his very nose, with little sleepy eyes, answered all my

complaints and requests with disconnected grumbling, slammed the door angrily, as though he were cursing

his calling in life, and going out on the steps abused the postilions who were sauntering in a leisurely way

through the mud with the weighty wooden yokes on their arms, or sat yawning and scratching themselves on

a bench, and paid no special attention to the wrathful exclamations of their superior. I had already sat myself

down three times to tea, had several times tried in vain to sleep, and had read all the inscriptions on the walls

and windows; I was overpowered by fearful boredom. In chill and helpless despair I was staring at the

upturned shafts of my carriage, when suddenly I heard the tinkling of a bell, and a small trap, drawn by three

jaded horses, drew up at the steps. The new arrival leaped out of the trap, and shouting "Horses! and look

sharp!" he went into the room. While he was listening with the strange wonder customary in such cases to the

overseer's answer that there were no horses, I had time to scan my new companion from top to toe with all the

greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. He appeared to be nearly thirty. Smallpox had left indelible traces

on his face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge; his long blueblack hair fell in

ringlets on his collar behind, and was twisted into jaunty sideburns in front; his small swollen eyes were quite

expressionless; a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. He was dressed like a dissipated country gentleman,

given to frequenting horsefairs, in a rather greasy striped Caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk tie, a waistcoat

with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge funnels, from under which the toes of unbrushed

boots could just be discerned. He smelt strongly of tobacco and spirits; on his fat, red hands almost hidden in

his sleeves, could be seen silver and Tula rings. Such figures are met in Russia not by dozens, but by

hundreds; an acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any particular pleasure; but in spite

of the prejudice with which I looked at the newcomer, I could not fail to notice the recklessly goodnatured

"This gentleman's been waiting more than an hour here, too," observed the overseer, indicating me.

"Well, tell them to bring me a samovar. I'll wait a little; there's nothing else to be done."

The newcomer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and passed his hand over his

I consented. The stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth time on the table. I brought

out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small

We got into conversation. In less than half an hour after his arrival, he was telling me his whole

"I'm on my way to Moscow now," he told me as he sipped his fourth glass; "there's nothing for me

"Well, it's come to that. My property's in disorder; I've ruined my peasants, I must confess; there

have been bad years: bad harvests, and all sorts of illluck, you know. . . . Though, indeed," he added,

"But, no," he interrupted me, "are there people like me who make good managers! You see," he

went on, screwing his head on one side and sucking his pipe assiduously, "looking at me, I dare say you think

I'm not much. . . but you see, I must confess, I've had a very middling education; I wasn't well off. I beg your

He did not complete his sentence, but broke off with a wave of the hand. I began to assure him that

he was mistaken, that I was highly delighted to meet him and so on, and then observed that I should have

thought a very thorough education was not indispensable for the good management of property.

"Agreed," he responded; "I agree with you. But still, a special sort of disposition's essential! There

are some may do anything they like, and it's all right! But I . . . . Allow me to ask, are you from Petersburg or

"I don't know; that's as it happens. I'll own to you, I'm afraid of official life; one's under

responsibility at once. I've always lived in the country; I'm used to it, you know. . . but now, there's no help

"In the capital. . . . Well, I don't know what there is that's pleasant in the capital. We shall see;

maybe, it's pleasant, too. Though nothing, I fancy, could be better than the country."

Poor Pyotr Petrovich passed his hand over his face, thought a minute, and shook his head.

"Well?. . . I must own, though," he added after a brief silence, "I can't blame anybody; it's my own

fault. I was fond of cutting a dash, I am fond of cutting a dash, damn my soul!"

"I had, sir," he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the face, "twelve harriersharriers,

I can tell you, such as you don't very often see." (The last words he uttered in a drawl with great

significance.) "A grey hare they'd double upon in no time. After the red foxthey were devils, regular

serpents. And I could boast of my greyhounds too. It's all a thing of the past now, I've no reason to lie. I used

to go out shooting too. I had a dog called Countess, a wonderful setter, with a firstrate scentshe took

everything. Sometimes I'd go to a marsh and call, 'Cherche!' If she refused, you might go with a dozen dogs,

and you'd find nothing. But when she was after anything, it was a sight to see her. And in the house so well

bred. If you gave her bread with your left hand and said, 'A Jew's tasted it,' she wouldn't touch it; but give it

with your right and say, 'The young lady's had some,' and she'd take it and eat it at once. I had a pup of

hersa capital pup he was, and I meant to bring him with me to Moscow, but a friend asked me for him,

together with a gun; he said, 'In Moscow you'll have other things to think of.' I gave him the pup and the gun;

"No, what would be the use? I didn't know when to pull myself up, so now I must grin and bear it.

And there was a gleam of reckless merriment in Pyotr Petrovich's eyes. But suddenly he turned

round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me.

Karataev laid his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. I looked at him without

speaking, and although I was expecting the sentimental exclamations, possibly even the tears of which the

inebriate are so lavish, yet when he raised his head, I was, I must own, impressed by the profoundly mournful

"Nothing. I was thinking of old times. An anecdote that . . . I would tell it you, but I am ashamed to

"Yes," he went on with a sigh: "there are cases. . . like mine, for instance. Well, if you like, I will

"Very well, though it's a. . . . Well, do you see . . ." he began; "but, upon my word, I don't know."

"All right. This, then, was what befell me, so to say. I used to live in the country. All of a sudden, I

took a fancy to a girl. Ah, what a girl she was! . . . handsome, clever, and so good and sweet! Her name was

Matryona. But she wasn't a ladythat is, you understand, she was a serf, simply a serfgirl. And not my girl;

she belonged to someone elsethat was the trouble. Well, so I loved herit's really an incident that one can

hardly . . . well, and she loved me, too. And so Matryona began begging me to buy her off from her mistress;

and, indeed, the thought had crossed my mind, too. But her mistress was a rich, dreadful old body; she lived

about fifteen versts from me. Well, so one fine day, as the saying is, I ordered my team of three horses to be

harnessed abreast to the droshkyin the centre I'd a firstrate goer, an extraordinarily spirited horse, for that

reason called LampurdosI dressed myself in my best, and went off to Matryona's mistress. I arrived; it was

a big house with wings and a garden. Matryona was waiting for me at the bend of the road; she tried to say a

word to me, but she could only kiss my hand and turn away. Well, so I went into the hall and asked if the

mistress were at home. And a tall footman says to me, 'What name shall I say?' I answered, 'Say, brother, the

landlord Karataev has called on a matter of business.' The footman walked away; I waited by myself and

thought, 'I wonder how it'll be? I daresay the old beast'll screw out a fearful price, for all she's so rich. Five

hundred rubles she'll ask, I shouldn't be surprised.' Well, at last the footman returned, saying, 'If you please,

walk up.' I followed him into the drawingroom. A little yellowish old woman sat in an armchair blinking.

'What do you want?' To begin with, you know, I thought it necessary to say how glad I was to make her

acquaintance. 'You are making a mistake; I am not the mistress here; I'm a relation of hers. What do you

want?' I remarked upon that, 'I had to speak to the mistress herself.' 'Marya Ilyinishna is not receiving today;

she is unwell. What do you want?' There's nothing for it, I thought to myself; so I explained my position to

" 'Fyodor Kulik's daughter. . . . But how did you come to know her?' 'By chance.' 'And is she aware

of your intention?' 'Yes.' The old lady was silent for a minute. Then, 'Ah, I'll let her know it, the worthless

hussy!' she said. I was astounded, I must confess. 'Whatever for? upon my word! I'm ready to pay a good

"The old hag positively hissed at me. 'A surprising idea you've concocted there; as though we

needed your money! I'll teach her, I'll show her! I'll beat the folly out of her!' The old lady choked with

spitefulness. 'Wasn't she well off with us, pray? Ah, she's a little devil! God forgive my transgressions!' I fired

up, I'll confess. 'What are you threatening the poor girl for? How is she to blame?' The old lady crossed

herself. 'Ah, Lord have mercy on me, do you suppose I can't do anything I like with my serfs!' 'But she's not

yours, you know!' 'Well, Marya Ilyinishna knows best about that; it's not your business, my good sir; but I'll

show that chit of a Matryona whose serf she is!' I'll confess, I almost fell on the damned old woman, but I

thought of Matryona, and my hands dropped. I was more frightened than I can tell you; I began entreating the

old lady. 'Take what you like,' I said. 'But what use is she to you?' 'I like her, good Ma'am; put yourself in my

position. Allow me to kiss your little hand.' And I positively kissed the wretch's hand! 'Well,' mumbled the

old witch, 'I'll tell Marya Ilyinishnait's for her to decide; you come back in a couple of days.' I went home

in great uneasiness. I began to suspect that I'd managed the thing badly; that I'd been wrong in letting her

notice my state of mind, but I thought of that too late. Two days after, I went to see the mistress. I was shown

into a boudoir. There were heaps of flowers and splendid furniture; the lady herself was sitting in a wonderful

easychair, with her head lolling back on a cushion; and the same relation was sitting there, too, and some

young lady, with white eyebrows and a mouth all awry, in a green gowna companion, most likely. The old

lady said through her nose, 'Please be seated.' I sat down. She began questioning me as to how old I was, and

where I'd been in the service, and what I meant to do, and all that very haughtily and solemnly. I answered

minutely. The old lady took a handkerchief off the table, flourished it, fanning herself. 'Katerina Karpovna

informed me,' says she, 'of your scheme; she informed me of it; but I make it my rule,' says she, 'not to allow

my people to leave my service. It is improper, and quite unsuitable in a wellordered house; it is not good

order. I have already given my orders,' says she. 'There will be no need for you to trouble yourself further,'

says she. 'Oh, no trouble, really. But can it be, Matryona Fyodorovna is so necessary to you?' 'No,' says she,

'she is not necessary.' 'Then why won't you let me have her?' 'Because I don't choose to; I don't chooseand

that's all about it. I've already,' says she, 'given my orders: she is being sent to a village in the steppes.' I was

thunderstruck. The old lady said a couple of words in French to the young lady in green; she went out. 'I am,'

says she, 'a woman of strict principles, and my health is delicate; I can't stand being worried. You are still

young, and I'm an old woman, and entitled to give you advice. Wouldn't it be better for you to settle down,

get married; to look out a good match; wealthy brides are few, but a poor girl, of the highest moral character,

could be found.' I stared, do you know, at the old lady, and didn't understand what she was driving at; I could

hear she was talking about marriage, but the village in the steppes was ringing in my ears all the while. Get

"There, of course, I could see it. I couldn't stand it. 'But, upon my word, Ma'am, what on earth are

you talking about? How does marriage come in? I simply want to know from you whether you will part with

your serfgirl Matryona or not?' The old lady began sighing and groaning. 'Ah, he's worrying me! ah, send

him away! ah!' The relation flew to her, and began scolding me, while the lady kept on moaning, 'What have

I done to deserve it? I suppose I'm not mistress in my own house? Ah! Ah!' I snatched my hat and ran out of

"Perhaps," he continued, "you will blame me for being so warmly attached to a girl of low

position; I don't mean to justify myself exactly, either . . . but so it came to pass! Would you believe it, I had

no rest by day or by night. I was in torment! Besides, I thought, I have ruined the poor girl! At times I thought

that she was herding geese in a smock, and being illtreated by her mistress's orders, and the bailiff, a peasant

in tarred boots, reviling her with foul abuse. I positively fell into a cold sweat. Well, I could not stand it. I

found out what village she had been sent to, mounted my horse, and set off. I only got there the evening of

the next day. Evidently they hadn't expected such a proceeding on my part, and had given no order in regard

to me. I went straight to the bailiff as though I were a neighbour; I go into the yard and look around; there

was Matryona sitting on the steps leaning on her elbow. She was on the point of crying out, but I held up my

finger and pointed outside, towards the open country. I went into the hut; I chatted away a bit to the bailiff,

told him ten thousand lies, seized the right moment, and went out to Matryona. She, poor girl, fairly hung

round my neck. She was pale and thin, my poor darling! I kept saying to her, do you know, 'There, it's all

right, Matryona; it's all right, don't cry,' and my own tears simply flowed and flowed. Well, at last though I

was ashamed; I said to her, 'Matryona, tears are no help in trouble, but we must act, as they say, resolutely;

you must run away with me; that's how we must act.' Matryona fairly swooned away. 'How can it be! I shall

be ruined; they will be the death of me altogether.' 'You silly! who will find you?' 'They will find me; they

will be sure to find me. Thank you, Pyotr PetrovichI shall never forget your kindness; but now you must

leave me; such is my fate, it seems.' 'Ah, Matryona, Matryona, I thought you were a girl of character!' And,

indeed, she had a great deal of character. She had a heart, a heart of gold! 'Why should you be left here? It

makes no difference; things can't be worse. Come, tell meyou've felt the bailiff's fists, eh?' Matryona fairly

crimsoned, and her lips trembled. 'But there'll be no living for my family on my account.' 'Why, your family

nowwill they send them away?' 'Yes; they'll send away my brother.' 'And your father?' 'Oh, they won't

" 'There, you see; and it won't kill your brother.' Would you believe it, I'd hard work to persuade

her; she even brought forward a notion that I might have to answer for it. 'But that's not your affair,' said I.

However, I did carry her off . . . not that time, but another; one night I came with a light cart and carried her

"Yes. Well, so she lived in my house. It was a little house, and I'd few servants. My people, I will

tell you frankly, respected me; they wouldn't have betrayed me for any reward. I began to be as happy as a

prince. Matryona rested and recovered, and I grew devoted to her. And what a girl she was! It seemed to

come by nature! She could sing, and dance, and play the guitar!. . . I didn't show her to my neighbours; I was

afraid they'd gossip! But there was one fellow, my bosom friend, Gornostaev, Panteleiyou don't know

him? He was simply crazy about her; he'd kiss her hand as though she were a lady; he would, really. And I

must tell you, Gornostaev was not like me; he was a cultivated man, had read all Pushkin; sometimes, he'd

talk to Matryona and me so that we pricked up our ears to listen. He taught her to write; such a queer chap he

was! And how I dressed herbetter than the governor's wife, really; I had a pelisse made her of crimson

velvet, edged with fur. Ah! how that pelisse suited her! It was made by a Moscow madame in a new fashion,

with a waist. And what a wonderful creature Matryona was! Sometimes she'd fall to musing, and sit for hours

together looking at the ground, without stirring a muscle; and I'd sit, too, and look at her, and could never

gaze enough, just as if I were seeing her for the first time. Then she would smile, and my heart would give a

jump as though someone were tickling me. Or else she'd suddenly fall to laughing, joking, dancing; she

would embrace me so warmly, so passionately, that my head went round. From morning to evening I thought

of nothing but how I could please her. And would you believe it? I gave her presents simply to see how

pleased she would be, the darling! all blushing with delight! How she would try on my present; how she

would come back with her new possession on, and kiss me! Her father, Kulik, got wind of it, somehow; the

old man came to see us, and how he wept. . . . In that way we lived for five months, and I should have been

"Everything went to the devil. I was the ruin of her, too. My little Matryona was passionately fond

of driving in sledges, and she used to drive herself; she used to put on her pelisse and her embroidered

Torzhok gloves, and shout at the horses. We used to go out sledging always in the evening, so as not to meet

any one, you know. So once it was such a splendid day, you know, frosty and clear, and no wind . . . we

drove out. Matryona had the reins. I looked where she was driving. Could it be to Kukuyevka, her mistress's

village? Yes, it was to Kukuyevka. I said to her, 'You mad girl, where are you going?' She gave me a look

over her, shoulder and laughed. 'Let me,' she said, 'for a lark.' 'Well,' thought I, 'come what may!' To drive

past her mistress's house was grand, wasn't it? Tell me yourselfwasn't it grand? So we drove on. The

shafthorse seemed to float through the air, and the tracehorses went, I can tell you, like a regular

whirlwind. We were already in sight of Kukuyevka, when suddenly I see an old green coach crawling along

with a groom on the footboard up behind. It was the mistressthe mistress driving towards us! My heart

failed me; but Matryonahow she lashed the horses with the reins, and flew straight towards the coach! The

coachman, he, you understand, sees us flying to meet him, meant, you know, to move on one side, turned too

sharp, and upset the coach in a snowdrift. The window was broken; the mistress shrieked, 'Ai! ai! ai! ai! ai!

ai!' The companion wailed, 'Help! help!' while we flew by at the best speed we might. We galloped on, but I

thought, 'Evil will come of it. I did wrong to let her drive to Kukuyevka.' And what do you think? Why, the

mistress had recognized Matryona, and me, too, the old wretch, and made a complaint against me. 'My

runaway serfgirl,' said she, 'is living at Mr. Karataev's'; and thereupon she made a suitable present. Lo and

behold! the captain of police comes to me; and he was a man I knew, Stepan Sergeich Kuzovkin, a good

fellow; that's to say, really a regular bad lot. So he came up and said this and that, and, 'How could you do so,

Pyotr Petrovich? The liability is serious, and the laws very distinct on the subject.' I tell him, 'Well, we'll have

a talk about that, of course; but come, you'll take a little something after your drive.' He agreed to take

something, but he said, 'Justice has claims, Pyotr Petrovich; think for yourself.' 'Justice, to be sure,' said I, 'of

course . . . but I have heard say you've a little black horse. Would you be willing to exchange it for my

Lampurdos? But there's no girl called Matryona Fyodorovna in my keeping.' 'Come,' says he, 'Pyotr

Petrovich, the girl's with you, we're not living in Switzerland, you know . . . though my little horse might be

exchanged for Lampurdos; I might even accept your Lampurdos as a gift.' However, I managed to get rid of

him somehow that time. But the old lady made a greater fuss than ever; ten thousand rubles, she said, she

wouldn't grudge over the business. You see, when she saw me, she suddenly took an idea into her head to

marry me to her young lady companion in green; that I found out later; that was why she was so spiteful.

What ideas won't these great ladies take into their heads! It comes through being dull, I suppose. Things went

badly with me: I didn't spare money, and I kept Matryona in hiding. No, they harassed me, and turned me this

way and that; I got into debt; I lost my health. So one night, as I lay in my bed, thinking, 'My God, why

should I suffer so? What am I to do, since I can't get over loving her? There, I can't, and that's all about it!'

into the room walked Matryona. I had hidden her for the time at a farmhouse two versts from my house. I

was frightened. 'What? have they discovered you even there?' 'No, Pyotr Petrovich,' said she, 'no one disturbs

me at Bubnovo; but will that last long? My heart,' she said, 'is torn, Pyotr Petrovich; I am sorry for you, my

dear one; never shall I forget your goodness, Pyotr Petrovich, but now I've come to say goodbye to you.'

'What do you mean, what do you mean, you mad girl? Goodbye, how goodbye?' 'Yes. I am going to give

myself up.' 'But I'll lock you up in a garret, mad girl! Do you mean to destroy me? Do you want to kill me, or

what?' The girl was silent; she looked on the floor. 'Come, speak, speak!' 'I can't bear to cause you any more

trouble, Pyotr Petrovich.' Well, one might talk to her as one pleased. . . . 'But do you know, little fool, do you

"Well, what do you think?" he went on, striking the table with his fist and trying to frown, while

the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks; "the girl gave herself up. . . . She went and gave herself up. . .

A year after my meeting with Karataev, I happened to go to Moscow. One day, before dinner, for

some reason or other I went into a caf� in the Okhotny Rowan original Moscow caf�. In the billiardroom,

across clouds of smoke, I caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers, oldfashioned Hungarian coats, and

Thin little old men in sober surtouts were reading the Russian papers. The waiters flitted airily

about with trays, treading softly on the green carpets. Merchants, with painful concentration, were drinking

tea. Suddenly a man came out of the billiardroom, rather dishevelled, and not quite steady on his legs. He

Pyotr Petrovich almost fell on my neck, and, slightly staggering, drew me into a small private

"Come here," he said, carefully seating me in an easychair; "here you will be comfortable. Waiter,

beer! No, I mean champagne! There, I'll confess, I didn't expect; I didn't expect. . . . Have you been here

long? Are you staying much longer? Well, God has brought us, as they say, together."

"To be sure, I remember; to be sure, I remember!" he interrupted me hurriedly; "it's a thing of the

"I'm living, as you can see. Life's firstrate here; they're a merry lot here. Here I've found peace."

"No, I'm not in the service yet, but I think I shall enter. But what's the service? People are the chief

"Here's another good fellow. Isn't that true, Vasya, that you're a good fellow? To your health!"

"Yes, there are capital people here," pursued Pyotr Petrovich; "people of soul, of feeling. Would

you like me to introduce you?such splendid fellows. They'll all be glad to know you. I say . . . Bobrov is

"Sergei Bobrov; he was a capital fellow; he took me under his wing as an ignoramus from the

"Have you been living all the time in Moscow? You haven't been away to the country?"

"I shan't die of hunger; God will provide when I've no money. I shall have friends. And what is

He shut his eyes, felt in his pocket, and held out to me in the palm of his hand two fifteenkopek

"What's that? Isn't it dust and ashes" (and the money flew on the floor). "But you had better tell

"You've not seen him, not seen him!. . ." (And Karataev's face turned pale; his eyes strayed

uneasily; he turned away; a faint spasm passed over his lips.) "Ah, Mochalov, Mochalov! 'To dieto sleep!'"

No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh

Who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his

quietus make With a bare bodhin? Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.

And he dropped his head on the table. He began stammering and talking at random. "Within a

A little month; or ere those shoes were old, With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Like

Niobe, all tears; why she, even she O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn'd

He raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the wine, and went on:

For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba That he should weep for her?. . . But I'm a

dull and muddy mettled rascal, Who calls me coward? gives me the lie i' the throat? . . . Why I should take it;

for it cannot be, But I am pigeonliver'd and lack gall To make oppression bitter.

Karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. I fancied I understood him.

"Well, well," he said at last, "one must not rake up the past. Isn't that so?" (and he laughed). "To

"Karataev!" called a voice in the next room; "Karataev, where are you? Come here, my dear

"They're calling me," he said, getting up heavily from his seat. "Goodbye; come and see me if

But next day, through unforeseen circumstances, I was obliged to leave Moscow, and I never saw

I WAS SITTING in a birch copse in autumn, about the middle of September. From early morning

a fine rain had been falling, with intervals from time to time of warm sunshine; the weather was unsettled.

The sky was at one time overcast with soft white clouds, at another it suddenly cleared in parts for an instant,

and then behind the parting clouds could be seen a blue, bright and tender as a beautiful eye. I sat looking

about and listening. The leaves faintly rustled over my head; from the sound of them alone one could tell

what time of year it was. It was not the gay laughing tremor of the spring, nor the subdued whispering, the

prolonged gossip of the summer, nor the chill and timid faltering of late autumn, but a scarcely audible,

drowsy chatter. A slight breeze was faintly humming in the treetops. Wet with the rain, the copse in its

inmost recesses was for ever changing as the sun shone or hid behind a cloud; at one moment it was all a

radiance, as though suddenly everything were smiling in it; the slender stems of the thinlygrowing

birchtrees took all at once the soft lustre of white silk, the tiny leaves lying on the earth were of a sudden

flecked and flaring with purplish gold, and the graceful stalks of the high, curly bracken, decked already in

their autumn colour, the hue of an overripe grape, seemed interlacing in endless tangling crisscross before

one's eyes; then suddenly again everything around was faintly bluish; the glaring tints died away

instantaneously, the birchtrees stood all white and lustreless, white as freshfallen snow, before the cold

rays of the winter sun have caressed it; and slily, stealthily there began drizzling and whispering through the

wood the finest rain. The leaves on the birches were still almost all green, though perceptibly paler; only here

and there stood one young leaf, all red or golden, and it was a sight to see how it flamed in the sunshine when

the sunbeams suddenly pierced with tangled flecks of light through the thick network of delicate twigs,

freshly washed by the sparkling rain. Not one bird could be heard; all were in hiding and silent, except that at

times there rang out the metallic, belllike sound of the jeering tomtit. Before halting in this birch copse I had

been through a wood of tall aspentrees with my dog. I confess I have no great liking for that tree, the aspen,

with its palelilac trunk and the greyishgreen metallic leaves which it flings high as it can, and unfolds in a

quivering fan in the air; I do not care for the eternal shaking of its round, slovenly leaves, awkwardly hooked

on to long stalks. It is only fine on some summer evenings when, rising singly above low undergrowth, it

faces the reddening beams of the setting sun, and shines and quivers, bathed from root to top in one unbroken

yellow glow, or when, on a clear windy day, it is all rippling, rustling, and whispering to the blue sky, and

every leaf is, as it were, taken by a longing to break away, to fly off and soar into the distance. But, as a rule,

I don't care for the tree, and so, not stopping to rest in the aspen wood, I made my way to the birch copse,

nestled down under one tree whose branches started low down near the ground, and were consequently

capable of shielding me from the rain, and after admiring the surrounding view a little, I fell into that sweet

I cannot say how long I was asleep, but when I opened my eyes, all the depths of the wood were

filled with sunlight, and in all directions across the joyously rustling leaves there were glimpses and, as it

were, flashes of intense blue sky; the clouds had vanished, driven away by the blustering wind; the weather

had changed to fair, and there was that feeling of peculiar dry freshness in the air which fills the heart with a

sense of buoyancy, and is almost always a sure sign of a still bright evening after a rainy day. I was just about

to get up and try my luck again when suddenly my eyes fell on a motionless human figure. I looked

attentively; it was a young peasant girl. She was sitting twenty paces off, her head bent in thought, and her

hands lying in her lap; one of them, halfopen, held a big nosegay of wild flowers, which softly stirred on her

checked petticoat with every breath. Her clean white smock, buttoned up at the throat and wrists, lay in short

soft folds about her figure; two rows of big yellow beads fell from her neck to her bosom. She was very

pretty. Her thick fair hair of a lovely, almost ashen hue was parted into two carefully combed semicircles,

under the narrow crimson band, which was brought down almost on to her forehead, white as ivory; the rest

of her face was faintly tanned that golden hue which is only taken by a delicate skin. I could not see her

eyesshe did not raise them; but I saw her delicate high eyebrows, her long lashes; they were wet, and on

one of her cheeks there shone in the sun the traces of quickly drying tears, reaching right down to her rather

pale lips. Her little head was very charming altogether; even her rather thick and snub nose did not spoil her. I

was especially taken with the expression of her face; it was so simple and gentle, so sad and so full of

childish wonder at its own sadness. She was obviously waiting for someone; something made a faint

crackling in the wood; she raised her head at once and looked round; in the transparent shade I caught a rapid

glimpse of her eyes, large, clear, and timorous, like a fawn's. For a few instants she listened, not moving her

wideopen eyes from the spot whence the faint sound had come; she sighed, turned her head slowly, bent still

lower, and began sorting her flowers. Her eyelids turned red, her lips twitched faintly, and a fresh tear rolled

from under her thick eyelashes, and stood brightly shining on her cheek. Rather a long while passed thus;

the poor girl did not stir, except for a despairing movement of her hands now and thenand she kept

listening, listening. Again there was a crackling sound in the wood; she started. The sound did not cease,

grew more distinct, and came closer; at last one could hear quick resolute footsteps. She drew herself up and

seemed frightened; her intent gaze was all aquiver, all aglow with expectation. Through the thicket quickly

appeared the figure of a man. She gazed at it, suddenly flushed, gave a radiant, blissful smile, tried to rise,

and sank back again at once, turned white and confused, and only raised her quivering, almost supplicating

I looked at him with curiosity from my ambush. I confess he did not make an agreeable impression

on me. He was, to judge by external signs, the pampered valet of some rich young gentleman. His attire

betrayed pretensions to style and fashionable carelessness; he wore a shortish coat of a bronze colour,

doubtless from his master's wardrobe, buttoned up to the top, a pink cravat with lilac ends, and a black velvet

cap with a gold ribbon, pulled forward right on to his eyebrows. The round collar of his white shirt

mercilessly propped up his ears and cut his cheeks, and his starched cuffs hid his whole hand to the red

crooked fingers, adorned by gold and silver rings, with turquoise forgetmenots. His red, fresh,

impudentlooking face belonged to the order of faces which, as far as I have observed, are almost always

repulsive to men and unfortunately are very often attractive to women. He was obviously trying to give a

scornful and bored expression to his coarse features; he was incessantly screwing up his milkygrey

eyessmall enough at all times; he scowled, dropped the corners of his mouth, affected to yawn, and with

careless, though not perfectly natural nonchalance, pushed back his modishly curled red sideburns, or pinched

the yellow hairs sprouting on his thick upper lipin fact, he gave himself insufferable airs. He began his

antics directly he caught sight of the young peasant girl waiting for him; slowly, with a swaggering step, he

went up to her, stood a moment shrugging his shoulders, stuffed both hands in his coat pockets, and barely

vouchsafing the poor girl a cursory and indifferent glance, he dropped on to the ground.

"Well," he began, still gazing away, swinging his leg and yawning, "have you been here long?"

"Yes, a long while, Victor Alexandrich," she said at last in a voice hardly audible.

"Ah!" (He took off his cap, majestically passed his hand over his thick, stiffly curled hair, which

grew almost down to his eyebrows, and looking round him with dignity, he carelessly covered his precious

head again.) "And I quite forgot all about it. Besides, it rained!" (He yawned again.) "Lots to do; there's no

"Tomorrow?" uttered the young girl. And she fastened her startled eyes upon him.

"Yes, tomorrow. Come, come, come, please!" he added in a tone of vexation, seeing she was

shaking all over and softly bending her head; "please, Akulina, don't cry. You know, I can't stand that." (And

he wrinkled up his snub nose.) "Else I'll go away at once. . . . What sillinesssnivelling!"

"There, I won't, I won't!" cried Akulina, hurriedly gulping down her tears with an effort. "You are

starting tomorrow?" she added after a brief silence; "when will God grant that we see, each other again,

"We shall see each other, we shall see each other. If not next yearthen later. The master wants to

enter the service in Petersburg, I fancy," he went on, pronouncing his words with careless condescension

"No, why so? I won't forget you; only you be sensible, don't be a fool; obey your father. . . . And I

"Don't forget me, Victor Alexandrich," she went on in a supplicating voice. "I think none could

love you as I do. I have given you everything. You tell me to obey my father, Victor Alexandrich. But how

"Why not?" (He uttered these words, as it were, from his stomach, lying on his back with his hands

"You're not a fool, Akulina," he said at last, "so don't talk nonsense. I desire your gooddo you

understand me? To be sure, you're not a foolnot altogether a mere rustic, so to say; and your mother, too,

wasn't always a peasant. Still you've no educationso you ought to do what you're told."

"Ooh! that's nonsense, my dear; a queer thing to be afraid of! What have you got there?" he

"Yes," Akulina responded dejectedly. "That's some wild tansy I picked," she went on, brightening

up a little; "it's good for calves. And this is budmarigold against the king's evil. Look, what a funny

flower! I've never seen such a funny flower before. These are forgetmenots, and that's motherdarling.

And these I picked for you," she added, taking from under a yellow tansy a small bunch of blue cornflowers,

Victor languidly held out his hand, took the flowers, carelessly sniffed at them, and began twirling

them in his fingers, looking upwards. Akulina watched him. In her mournful eyes there was such tender

devotion, adoring submission and love. She was afraid of him and did not dare to cry, and was saying

goodbye to him and admiring him for the last time; while he lay, lolling like a sultan, and with

magnanimous patience and condescension put up with her adoration. I must own, I glared indignantly at his

red face, on which, under the affectation of scornful indifference, one could discern vanity soothed and

satisfied. Akulina was so sweet at that instant; her whole soul was confidingly and passionately laid bare

before him, full of longing and caressing tenderness, while he . . . he dropped the cornflowers on the grass,

pulled out of the side pocket of his coat a round eyeglass set in a brass rim, and began sticking it in his eye;

but however much he tried to hold it with his frowning eyebrow, his pursedup cheek and nose, the

"No fear, I won't break it." (She put it to her eye.) "I see nothing," she said innocently.

"But you must shut your eye," he retorted in the tones of a displeased teacher. (She shut the eye

"Not that one, not that one, you fool! the other!" cried Victor, and he took away his eyeglass,

The poor girl was silent and gave a deep sigh. "Ah, Victor Alexandrich, what it will be like for me

Victor rubbed the glass on the lappet of his coat and put it back in his pocket.

"Yes, yes," he said at last, "at first it will be hard for you, certainly." (He patted her

condescendingly on the shoulder; she softly took his hand from her shoulder and timidly kissed it.) "There,

there, you're a good girl, certainly," he went on, with a complacent smile; "but what's to he done? You can

see for yourself! me and the master could never stay on here; it will soon be winter now, and winter in the

countryyou know yourselfis simply disgusting. It's quite another thing in Petersburg! There, there are

simply such wonders as a silly girl like you could never fancy in your dreams! Such horses, and streets, and

society, and civilizationsimply marvellous!" (Akulina listened with devouring attention, her lips slightly

parted, like a child.) "But what's the use," he added, turning over on the ground, "of my telling you all this?

"You used not to talk to me like that once, Victor Alexandrich," she said, not lifting her eyes.

Victor lay down again and began whistling. Akulina never took her eyes off him. I could see that

she was gradually being overcome by emotion; her lips twitched, her pale cheeks faintly glowed.

"Victor Alexandrich," she began at last in a broken voice, "it's too bad of you . . . it is too bad of

"What's too bad?" he asked frowning, and he slightly raised his head and turned it towards her.

"It's too bad, Victor Alexandrich. You might at least say one kind word to me at parting; you might

"I don't know; you know that best, Victor Alexandrich. Here you are going away, and one little

"There, she keeps on at the same thing," he commented with annoyance, and he got up.

"Don't be angry, Victor Alexandrich," she added hurriedly, with difficulty suppressing her tears.

"I'm not angry, only you're silly. . . . What do you want? You know I can't marry you, can I? I

can't, can I? What is it you want then, eh?" (He thrust his face forward as though expecting an answer, and

"I want nothing . . . nothing," she answered falteringly, and she ventured to hold out her trembling

"There, that means she's gone off into crying," said Victor coolly, pushing down his cap on to his

"I want nothing," she went on, sobbing and covering her face with her hands; "but what is there

before me in my family? what is there before me? what will happen to me? what will become of me, poor

"Sing away, sing away," muttered Victor in an undertone, fidgeting with impatience as he stood.

"And he might say one word, one word. . . . He might say, 'Akulina . . . I . . . ."

Sudden heartbreaking sobs prevented her from finishing; she lay with her face in the grass and

bitterly, bitterly she wept. Her whole body shook convulsively, her neck fairly heaved. . . . Her

longsuppressed grief broke out in a torrent at last. Victor stood over her, stood a moment, shrugged his

A few instants passed. She grew calmer, raised her head, jumped up, looked round and wrung her

hands; she tried to run after him, but her legs gave way under hershe fell on her knees. I could not refrain

from rushing up to her; but, almost before she had time to look at me, making a superhuman effort she got up

with a faint shriek and vanished behind the trees, leaving her flowers scattered on the ground.

I stood a minute, picked up the bunch of cornflowers, and went out of the wood into the open

country. The sun had sunk low in the pale clear sky; its rays too seemed to have grown pale and chill; they

did not shine; they were diffused in an unbroken, watery light. It was within half an hour of sunset, but there

was scarcely any of the glow of evening. A gusty wind scurried to meet me, across the yellow parched

stubble; little curledup leaves, scudding hurriedly before it, flew by across the road, along the edge of the

copse; the side of the copse facing the fields like a wall was all shaking and lighted up by tiny gleams,

distinct, but not glowing; on the reddish plants, the blades of grass, the straws on all sides, were sparkling and

stirring innumerable threads of autumn spiderwebs. I stopped. I felt sad at heart: under the bright but chill

smile of fading nature, the dismal dread of coming winter seemed to steal upon me. High overhead flew a

cautious raven, heavily and sharply cleaving the air with his wings; he turned his head, looked sideways at

me, flapped his wings and, cawing abruptly, vanished behind the wood; a great flock of pigeons flew up

playfully from a threshingfloor, and suddenly eddying round in a column, scattered busily about the

country. Sure sign of autumn! Someone came driving over the bare hillside, his empty cart rattling loudly. . . .

I turned homewards; but it was long before the figure of poor Akulina faded out of my mind, and

ON ONE of my excursions I received an invitation to at the house of a rich landowner and hunter,

Alexander Mikhailich G. His property was about five versts from the small village where I was staying

at the time. I put on a frockcoat, an article without which I advise no one to travel, even on a hunting

expedition, and betook myself to Alexander Mikhailich's. The dinner was fixed for six o'clock; I arrived at

five, and found already a great number of gentlemen in uniforms, in civilian dress, and other nondescript

garments. My host met me cordially, but soon hurried away to the butler's pantry. He was expecting a great

dignitary, and was in a state of agitation not quite in keeping with his independent position in society and his

wealth. Alexander Mikhailich had never married, and did not care for women; his house was the centre of a

bachelor society. He lived in grand style; he had enlarged and sumptuously redecorated his ancestral

mansion, spent fifteen thousand rubles on wine from Moscow every year, and enjoyed the highest public

consideration. Alexander Mikhailich had retired from the service ages ago, and had no ambition to gain

official honours of any kind. What could have induced him to go out of his way to procure a guest of high

official position, and to be in a state of excitement from early morning on the day of the dinnerparty? That

remains buried in the obscurity of the unknown, as a friend of mine, an attorney, is in the habit of saying

when he is asked whether he takes bribes when kindlydisposed persons offer them.

On parting from my host, I began walking through the rooms. Almost all the guests were utterly

unknown to me; about twenty persons were already seated at the cardtables. Among these devotees of

preference were two warriors, with aristocratic but rather dissipated countenances; a few civilian officials,

with tight high cravats and drooping dyed moustaches, such as are only to be found in persons of resolute

character and strict conservative opinions: these conservative persons picked up their cards with dignity, and,

without turning their heads, glared sideways at everyone who approached; and five or six local petty officials,

with round bellies, fat, moist little hands, and staid, immovable little legs. These worthies spoke in a subdued

voice, smiled benignly in all directions, held their cards close up to their very shirtfronts, and when they

trumped did not flap their cards on the table, but, on the contrary, shed them with an undulatory motion on

the green cloth, and packed their tricks together with a slight, unassuming, and decorous swish. The rest of

the company were sitting on sofas, or hanging in groups about the doors or at the windows; one gentleman,

no longer young, though of feminine appearance, stood in a corner, fidgeting, blushing, and twisting the seal

of his watch over his stomach in his embarrassment, though no one was paying any attention to him; some

others in swallowtail coats and checked trousers, the handiwork of the tailor and Master of the Tailors

Corporation, Firs Klyukhin, were talking together with extraordinary ease and liveliness, turning their bald,

greasy heads from side to side unconstrainedly as they talked; a young man of twenty, shortsighted and

fairhaired, dressed from head to foot in black, obviously shy, smiled sarcastically. . . .

I was beginning, however, to feel bored, when suddenly I was joined by a young man, one

Voinitsin by name, a student without a degree, who resided in the house of Alexander Mikhailich in the

capacity of . . . it would be hard to say precisely, of what. He was a firstrate shot, and could train dogs. I had

known him before in Moscow. He was one of those young men who at every examination "played at dumb

show," that is to say, did not answer a single word to the professor's questions. Such persons were also

designated "the bewhiskered students." (You will gather that this was in long past days.) This was how it

used to be: they would call Voinitsin, for example. Voinitsin, who had sat upright and motionless in his place,

bathed in a hot perspiration from head to foot, slowly and aimlessly looked about him, got up, hurriedly

buttoned up his undergraduate's uniform, and edged up to the examiner's table. "Take a paper, please," the

professor would say to him pleasantly. Voinitsin would stretch out his hand and with trembling fingers

fumble at the pile of papers. "No selecting, if you please," observed, in a jarring voice, an assistantexaminer,

an irritable old gentleman, a professor in some other faculty, conceiving a sudden hatred for the unlucky

bewhiskered one. Voinitsin resigned himself to his fate, took a paper, showed the number on it, and went and

sat down by the window, while his predecessor was answering his question. At the window Voinitsin never

took his eyes off his paper, except that at times he looked slowly round as before, though he did not move a

muscle. But his predecessor would finish at last, and would be dismissed with, "Good! you can go," or even

"Good indeed, very good!" according to his abilities. Then they call Voinitsin: Voinitsin gets up and with

resolute step approaches the table. "Read your question," they tell him. Voinitsin raises the papers in both

hands up to his very nose, slowly reads it, and slowly drops his hands. "Well, now, your answer, please," the

same professor remarks languidly, throwing himself backwards and crossing his arms over his breast. There

reigns the silence of the tomb. "Why are you silent?" Voinitsin is mute. The assistantexaminer begins to be

restive. "Well, say something!" Voinitsin is as still as if he were dead. All his companions gaze inquisitively

at the back of his thick, closecropped, motionless head. The assistantexaminer's eyes are almost starting

out of his head; he positively hates Voinitsin. "Well, this is strange, really," observes the other examiner.

"Why do you stand as if you were dumb? Come, don't you know it? If so, say so." "Let me take another

question," the poor devil articulates thickly. The professors look at each other. "Well, take one," the

headexaminer answers. with a wave of the hand. Voinitsin again takes a paper, again goes to the window,

again returns to the table, and again is silent as the grave. The assistantexaminer is capable of devouring him

alive. At last they send him away and mark him a nought. You would think, "Now, at least, he will go." Not a

bit of it! He goes back to his place, sits just as immovably to the end of the examination, and, as he goes out,

exclaims, "I've been on the rack! what illluck!" And the whole of that day he wanders about Moscow,

clutching every now and then at his head, and bitterly cursing his luckless fate. He never, of course, touched a

"Would you like me," he whispered to me suddenly, "to introduce you to the first wit of these

Voinitsin led me up to a little man, with a high tuft of hair on his forehead and moustaches, in a

cinnamoncoloured frockcoat and striped cravat. His yellow, mobile features were certainly full of

cleverness and sarcasm. His lips were perpetually curved in a flitting ironical smile; little black eyes, screwed

up with an impudent expression, looked out from under uneven lashes. Beside him stood a country

gentleman, broad, soft, and sweeta veritable sugarandhoney mixturewith one eye. He laughed in

anticipation at the witticisms of the little man, and seemed positively melting with delight. Voinitsin

presented me to the wit, whose name was Pyotr Petrovich Lupikhin. We were introduced and exchanged the

"Allow me to present to you my best friend," said Lupikhin suddenly in a strident voice, seizing

"Come, don't resist, Kirila Selifanich," he added; "we're not going to bite you. I commend him to

you," he went on, while the embarrassed Kirila Selifanich bowed with about as much grace as if he were

undergoing a surgical operation; "he's a most superior gentleman. He enjoyed excellent health up to the age

of fifty, then suddenly conceived the idea of doctoring his eyes, in consequence of which he has lost one.

Since then he doctors his peasants with similar success. They, to be sure, repay with similar devotion."

"Speak out, my friend; eh, speak out!" Lupikhin rejoined. "Why, they may elect you a judge; I

shouldn't wonder, and they will, too, you see. Well, to be sure, the secretaries will do the thinking for you, we

may assume; but you know you'll have to be able to speak, anyhow, even if only to express the ideas of

others. Suppose the governor comes and asks, 'Why is it the judge stammers?' And they'd say, let's assume,

'It's a paralytic stroke.' 'Then bleed him,' he'd say. And it would be highly indecorous, in your position, you'll

"You see he laughs," Lupikhin pursued with a malignant glance at Kirila Selifanich's heaving

stomach. "And why shouldn't he laugh?" he added, turning to me: "he has enough to eat, good health, and no

children; his peasants aren't mortgagedto be sure, he doctors themand his wife is cracked." (Kirila

Selifanich turned a little away as though he were not listening, but he still continued to chuckle.) "I laugh,

too, while my wife has eloped with a landsurveyor." (He grinned.) "Didn't you know that? What! Why, one

fine day she ran away with him and left me a letter. 'Dear Pyotr Petrovich,' she said, 'forgive me: carried away

by passion, I am leaving with the friend of my heart. . . .' And the landsurveyor only took her fancy through

not cutting his nails and wearing tight trousers. You're surprised at that? 'Why, this,' you're saying, 'is a man

with no dissimulation about him.' But mercy on us! Rustic fellows like us speak the truth too plainly. But let

"I've the reputation of a wit here," he said to me in the course of conversation. "You need not

believe that. I'm simply an embittered man, and I do my railing aloud: that's how it is I'm so free and easy in

my speech. And why should I mince matters, if you come to that; I don't care a straw for anyone's opinion,

and I've nothing to gain; I'm spitefulwhat of that? A spiteful man, at least, needs no wit. And you won't

believe how refreshing it is. . . . I say, now, I say, look at our host! There! What is he running to and fro like

that for? Upon my word, he keeps looking at his watch, smiling, perspiring, putting on a solemn face,

keeping us all starving for our dinner! Such a marvel! a real court grandee! Look, look, he's running

"The only pity is, there are no ladies," he resumed with a deep sigh; "it's a bachelor party, else

that's when your humble servant gets on. Look, look," he cried suddenly: "Prince Kozelsky's comethat tall

man there, with a beard, in yellow gloves. You can see at once he's been abroad . . . and he always arrives as

late. He's as dullwitted, I tell you, as a pair of merchant's horses, and you should see how condescendingly

he talks with your humble servant, how graciously he deigns to smile at the civilities of our starving mothers

and daughters! And he sometimes sets up for a wit, but he is only here for a little time; and oh, his witticisms!

It's for all the world like hacking at a cable with a blunt knife. He can't bear me. . . . I'm going to bow to him."

"And here comes my special enemy," he observed, turning all at once to me. "Do you see that fat

man with the brown face and the bristles on his head, over there, that's got his cap clutched in his hand, and is

creeping along by the wall and glaring in all directions like a wolf? I sold him for 400 rubles a horse worth

1,000, and that stupid animal has a perfect right now to despise me; though all the while he is so destitute of

all faculty of imagination, especially in the morning before his tea, or after dinner, that if you say 'Good

morning!' to him, he'll answer, 'Is it?' And here comes the general," pursued Lupikhin, "the civilian general, a

retired, destitute general. He has a daughter of beetroot sugar, and refinery with scrofula. . . . Beg pardon,

I've got it wrong . . . but there, you understand. Ah! and the architect's turned up here! A German, and wears

moustaches, and does not understand his businessa natural phenomenon! . . . though what need for him to

understand his business so long as he takes bribes and sticks in pillars everywhere to suit the tastes of our

Lupikhin chuckled again. But suddenly a wave of excitement passed over the whole house. The

grandee had arrived. The host positively gushed forth into the hall. After him ran a few devoted members of

the household and eager guests. The noisy talk was transformed into a subdued pleasant chat, like the buzzing

of bees in spring within their hives. Only the turbulent wasp, Lupikhin, and the splendid drone, Kozelsky, did

not subdue their voices. . . . And behold, at last, the queenbee!the great dignitary entered. Hearts bounded

to meet him, sitting bodies rose; even the gentleman who had bought a horse from Lupikhin poked his chin

into his chest. The great personage kept up his dignity in an inimitable manner; throwing his head back, as

though he were bowing, he uttered a few words of approbation of which each was prefaced by the syllable er,

drawled through his nose; with a sort of devouring indignation he stared at Prince Kozelsky's beard, and gave

the destitute general with the factory and the daughter the forefinger of his right hand. After a few minutes, in

the course of which the dignitary had had time to observe twice that he was very glad he was not late for

There is no need to describe to the reader how they put the great man in the most important place,

between the civilian general and the marshal of the province, a man of an independent and dignified

expression of face, in perfect keeping with his starched shirtfront, his expanse of waistcoat, and his round

snuffbox full of French snuff; how our host bustled about, and ran up and down, fussing and pressing the

guests to eat, smiling at the great man's back in passing, and hurriedly snatching a plate of soup or a bit of

bread in a corner like a schoolboy; how the butler brought in a fish more than a yard long, with a nosegay in

its mouth; how the surlylooking footmen in livery sullenly plied every gentleman, now with Malaga, now

dry Madeira; and how almost all the gentlemen, particularly the more elderly ones, drank off glass after glass

with an air of reluctantly resigning themselves to a sense of duty; and finally, how they began popping

champagne bottles and proposing toasts: all that is probably only too well known to the reader. But what

struck me as especially noteworthy was the anecdote told us by the great man himself amid a general

delighted silence. SomeoneI fancy it was the destitute general, a man familiar with modern literature

referred to the influence of women in general, and especially on young men. "Yes, yes," chimed in the great

man, "that's true; but young men ought to be kept in strict subjection, or else, very likely, they'll go out of

their senses over every petticoat." (A smile of childlike delight flitted over the faces of all the guests;

positive gratitude shone in one gentleman's eyes.) "For young men are idi�ts." (The great man, I suppose for

the sake of greater impressiveness, sometimes changed the accepted accentuation of words.)

"My son, Ivan, for instance," he went on; "the fool's only just twentyand all at once he comes to

me and says, 'Let me be married, father.' I told him he was a fool; told him he must go into the service first.

Well, there was despairtears, but with me . . . no nonsense." (The words "no nonsense" the great man

seemed to enunciate more with his stomach than his lips; he paused and glanced majestically at his

neighbour, the general, while he raised his eyebrows higher than anyone could have expected. The civilian,

general nodded agreeably a little on one side, and with extraordinary rapidity winked with the eye turned to

the great man.) "And what do you think?" the great man began again: "now he writes�to me himself, and

thanks me for looking after him when he was a fool. So that's the way to act." All the guests, of course, were

in complete agreement with the speaker, and seemed quite cheered up by the pleasure and instruction they

derived from him. After dinner, the whole party rose and moved into the drawingroom with a great deal of

noisedecorous, however; and, as it were, licensed for the occasion. They sat down to cards.

I got through the evening somehow, and charging my coachman to have my carriage ready at five

o'clock next morning, I went to my room. But I was destined, in the course of that same day, to make the

In consequence of the great number of guests staying in the house, no one had a bedroom to

himself. In the small, greenish, damp room to which I was conducted by Alexander Mikhailich's butler, there

was already another guest, quite undressed. On seeing me, he quickly ducked under the bedclothes, covered

himself up to the nose, turned a little on the soft featherbed, and lay quiet, keeping a sharp lookout from

under the round frill of his cotton nightcap. I went up to the other bed (there were only two in the room),

undressed, and lay down in the damp sheets. My neighbour turned over in bed. I wished him goodnight.

Half an hour went by. In spite of all my efforts, I could not get to sleep: aimless and vague

thoughts kept persistently and monotonously dragging one after another on an endless chain, like the buckets

"Oh! I go to sleepI don't know why. I lie in bed, and lie in bed, and so get to sleep."

"I wonder," he went on after a brief silence, "how it is there are no fleas here? Where should there

"I haven't the pleasure of knowing you," I responded. "What can make you infer?. . ."

"Why, the sound of your voice is enough; you answer me so carelessly. But I'm not at all what you

"No, you allow me. In the first place, I speak French as well as you, and German even better;

secondly, I have spent three years abroadin Berlin alone I lived eight months. I've studied Hegel, honoured

sir; I know Goethe by heart; add to that, I was a long while in love with a German professor's daughter, and

was married at home to a consumptive lady, who was bald, but a remarkable personality. So I'm a bird of

your feather; I'm not a barbarian of the steppes, as you imagine. I, too, have been bitten by reflection, and

I raised my head and looked with redoubled attention at the queer fellow. By the dim light of the

"There, you're looking at me now," he went on, setting his nightcap straight, "and probably you're

asking yourself, 'How is it I didn't notice him today?' I'll tell you why you didn't notice me: because I didn't

raise my voice; because I get behind other people, hang about doorways, and talk to no one; because, when

the butler passes me with a tray, he raises his elbow to the level of my shoulder. And how is it all that comes

about? From two causes: first, I'm poor; and secondly, I've grown humble. Tell the truth, you didn't notice

He raised himself and folded his arms; the long shadow of his cap was bent from the wall to the

"And confess, now," he added, with a sudden sideway glance at me, "I must strike you as a queer

fellow, an original, as they say, or possibly as something worse: perhaps you think I affect to be original!"

"Why have I begun talking so unexpectedly to you, a man utterly a stranger?the Lord, the Lord

only knows!" (He sighed.) "Not through the natural affinity of our souls! Both you and I are respectable

people, that's to say, egoists: neither of us has the least concern with the other; isn't it so? But we are neither

of us sleepy. . . so why not chat? I'm in the mood, and that's rare with me. I'm shy, do you see? and not shy

because I'm a provincial, of no rank and poor, but because I'm a fearfully vain person. But at times, under

favourable circumstances, occasions which I could not, however, particularize nor foresee, my shyness

vanishes completely, as at this moment, for instance. At this moment you might set me face to face with the

Grand Lama, and I'd ask him for a pinch of snuff. But perhaps you want to go to sleep?"

"Quite the contrary!" I hastened to respond; "it is a pleasure for me to talk to you."

"That is, I amuse you, you mean to say. All the better. And so, I tell you, they call me here an

original; that's what they call me when my name is casually mentioned, among other gossip. No one is much

concerned about my fate. They think it wounds me. Oh, good Lord! if they only knew . . . it's just what's my

ruin, that there is absolutely nothing original in menothing, except such freaks as, for instance, my

conversation at this moment with you; but such freaks are not worth a brass farthing. That's the cheapest and

"Honoured sir!" he cried, "I am of the opinion that life on earth's only worth living, as a rule, for

original people: it's only they who have a right to live: 'Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon

verre,' said someone. Do you see," he added in an undertone, "how well I pronounce French? What is it to

one if one has a capacious brain, and understands everything, and knows a lot, and keeps pace with the age, if

one's nothing of one's own, of oneself! One more storehouse for hackneyed commonplaces in the world; and

what good does that do to anyone? No, better be stupid even, but in one's own way! One should have a

flavour of one's own, one's individual flavour; that's the thing! And don't suppose that I am very exacting as

to that flavour. God forbid! There are no end of original people of the sort I mean: look where you

willthere's an original: every live man is an original; but I am not to be reckoned among them!

"And yet," he went on after a brief silence, "in my youth what expectations I aroused! What a high

opinion I cherished of my own individuality before I went abroad, and even, at first, after my return! Well,

abroad I kept my ears open, held aloof from everyone, as befits a man like me, who is always seeing through

"An original, an original!" he hurried on, shaking his head reproachfully. "They call me an

original. In reality, it turns out that there's not a man in the world less original than your humble servant. I

must have been born even in imitation of someone else. Oh, dear! It seems I am living, too, in imitation of the

various authors studied by me; in the sweat of my brow I live; and I've studied, and fallen in love, and

married, in fact, as it were, not through my own willas it were, fulfilling some sort of duty, or sort of

"Would you like me to tell you the story of my life?" he asked me in an abrupt voice; "or, rather, a

"Or, no, I'd better tell you how I got married. You see marriage is an important thing, the

touchstone that tests the whole man: in it, as in a glass, is reflected. . . . But that sounds too hackneyed. . . . If

He pulled a snuffbox from under his pillow, opened it, and began again, waving the open

"Put yourself, honoured sir, in my place. Judge for yourself, what, now what, tell me as a favour:

what benefit could I derive from the encyclopaedia of Hegel? What is there in common, tell me, between that

encyclopaedia and Russian life? and how would you advise me to apply it to our life, and not it, the

encyclopaedia, only, but German philosophy in general. I will say more Science itself?"

"Ah, that's it, that's it! . . . Then why did you go trailing off abroad? Why didn't you stay at home

and study the life surrounding you on the spot? You might have found out its needs and its future, and have

come to a clear comprehension of your vocation, so to say. But, upon my word," he went on, changing his

tone again as though timidly justifying himself, "where is one to study what no sage has yet inscribed in any

book? I should have been glad indeed to take lessons of herof Russian life, I meanbut she's dumb, the

poor dear. You must take her as she is; but that's beyond my power: you must give me the inference; you

must present me with a conclusion. Here you have a conclusion, too: listen to our wise men of

Moscowthey're a set of nightingales worth listening to, aren't they? Yes, that's the pity of it, that they pipe

away like Kursk nightingales, instead of talking as the people talk. Well, I thought and thought'Science, to

be sure,' I thought, 'is everywhere the same, and truth is the same'so I was up and off, in God's name, to

foreign parts, to the heathens. What would you have? I was infatuated with youth and conceit; I didn't want,

you know, to get fat before my time, though they say it's healthy. Though, indeed, if nature doesn't put the

"But fancy," he added after a moment's thought, "I promised to tell you how I got marriedlisten.

First, I must tell you that my wife is no longer living; secondly . . . secondly, I see I must give you some

account of my youth, or else you won't be able to make anything out of it. . . . But don't you want to go to

"That's good news. Hark! . . . how vulgarly Mr. Kantagryukhin is snoring in the next room! I was

the son of parents of small propertyI say parents, because, according to tradition, I had once had a father as

well as a mother. I don't remember him; he was a narrowminded man, I've been told, with a big nose,

freckles, and red hair; he used to take snuff on one side of his nose only; his portrait used to hang in my

mother's bedroom, and very hideous he was in a red uniform with a black collar up to his ears. They used to

take me to be whipped before him, and my mother used always on such occasions to point to him, saying, 'He

would give it to you much more if he were here.' You can imagine what an encouraging effect that had on

me. I had no brother nor sisterthat's to say, speaking accurately, I had once had a brother knocking about,

with rickets in his neck, but he soon died. And why ever, one wonders, should the English disease make its

way to the Shchigri District of the province of Kursk? But that's neither here nor there. My mother undertook

my education with all the vigorous zeal of a country lady of the steppes: she undertook it from the solemn

day of my birth till the time when my sixteenth year had come. You are following my story?"

"All right. Well, when I was sixteen, my mother promptly dismissed my teacher of French, a

German, Filipovich, from the Greek settlement of Nezhin. She conducted me to Moscow, put down my name

for the university, and gave up her soul to the Almighty, leaving me in the hands of my uncle, the attorney

KoltunBabur, a bird well known not only in the Shchigri District. My uncle, the attorney KoltunBabur,

plundered me to the last halfpenny, after the custom of guardians. But again that's neither here nor there. I

entered the universityI must do so much justice to my motherrather well grounded; but my lack of

originality was even then apparent. My childhood was in no way distinguished from the childhood of other

boys; I grew up just as languidly and dullymuch as if I were under a feather blanketjust as early I began

repeating poetry by heart and moping under the pretence of a dreamy inclination . . . for what?why, for the

beautiful . . . and so on. In the university I went on in the same way; I promptly got into a 'circle.' Times were

different then. . . . But you don't know, perhaps, what sort of thing a students' 'circle' is? I remember Schiller

Gef�hrlich ist's den Leu zu wecken, Und schrecklich ist des Tigers Zahn, Dock das schrecklichste

He didn't mean that, I can assure you; he meant to say: Das ist ein circle in der Stadt Moskau!"

"What do I find so awful?" he shouted. "Why, this: the circle is the destruction of all independent

development; the circle is a hideous substitute for society, woman, life; the circle . . oh, wait a bit, I'll tell you

what a circle is! A circle is a slothful, dull living side by side in common, to which is attached a serious

significance and a show of rational activity; the circle replaces conversation by debate, trains you in fruitless

discussion, draws you away from solitary, useful labour, develops in you the itch for authorshipdeprives

you, in fact, of all freshness and virgin vigour of soul. The circlewhy, it's vulgarity and boredom under the

name of brotherhood and friendship! a concatenation of misunderstandings and cavillings under the pretence

of openness and sympathy; in the circlethanks to the right of every friend, at all hours and seasons, to poke

his unwashed fingers into the very inmost soul of his comradeno one has a single spot in his soul pure and

undefiled; in the circle they fall down before the shallow, vain, smart talker and the premature wiseacre, and

worship the rhymester with no poetic gift, but full of 'subtle' ideas; in the circle young lads of seventeen talk

glibly and learnedly of women and of love, while in the presence of women they are dumb or talk to them

like a book and what do they talk about? The circle is the hotbed of glib fluency; in the circle they spy on

one another like so many police officials. Oh, circle! thou'rt not a circle, but an enchanted ring, which has

"Perhaps, God knows, perhaps. But, you see, there's only one pleasure left your humble servant,

and that's exaggerationwell, that was the way I spent four years in Moscow. I can't tell you, my dear sir,

how quickly, how fearfully quickly, that time passed; it's positively painful and vexatious to remember. Some

mornings one gets up, and it's like sliding downhill on little sledges . . . . Before one can look round, one's

flown to the bottom; it's evening already, and already the sleepy servant is pulling on one's coat; one dresses,

and trails off to a friend, and maybe smokes a pipe, drinks weak tea in glasses, and discusses German

philosophy, love, the eternal sunshine of the spirit, and other farfetched topics. But even there I met original,

independent people: however some men stultify themselves and warp themselves out of shape, still nature

asserts itself; I alone, poor wretch, moulded myself like soft wax, and my pitiful little nature never made the

faintest resistance! Meantime I had reached my twentyfirst year. I came into possession of my inheritance,

or, more correctly speaking, that part of my inheritance which my guardian had thought fit to leave me, gave

a freed houseserf Vasily Kudryashev a warrant to superintend all my patrimony, and set off abroad to

Berlin. I was abroad, as I have already had the pleasure of telling you, three years. Well. There, too, abroad, I

remained the same unoriginal creature. In the first place, I need not say that of Europe, of European life, I

really learnt nothing. I listened to German professors and read German books in their birthplace: that was all

the difference. I led as solitary a life as any monk; I got on good terms with retired lieutenants, weighed

down, like myself, by a thirst for knowledge but always dull of comprehension, and not gifted with a flow of

words: I made friends with slowwitted families from Penza and other agricultural provinces, hung about

caf�s, read the papers, in the evening went to the theatre. With the natives I associated very little; I talked to

them with constraint, and never had one of them to see me at my own place, except two or three intrusive

fellows of Jewish extraction, who were constantly running in upon me and borrowing money thanks to der

Russe's gullibility. A strange freak of chance brought me at last to the house of one of my professors. It was

like this: I came to him to enter my name for a course of lectures, and he, all of a sudden, invited me to an

evening party at his house. This professor had two daughters, of twentyseven, such stumpy little

thingsGod bless them!with such majestic noses, frizzed curls and paleblue eyes, and red hands with

white nails. One was called Linchen and the other Minchen. I began to go to the professor's. I ought to tell

you that the professor was not exactly stupid, but seemed, as it were, dazed; in his professorial desk he spoke

fairly�consecutively, but at home he lisped, and always had his spectacles on his foreheadhe was a very

learned man, though. Well, suddenly it seemed to me that I was in love with Linchen, and for six whole

months this impression remained. I talked to her, it's true, very littleit was more that I looked at her; but I

used to read various touching passages aloud to her, to press her hand on the sly, and to dream beside her in

the evenings, gazing persistently at the moon, or else simply looking up. Besides, she made such delicious

coffee! One asks oneselfwhat more could one desire? Only one thing troubled me: at the very moments of

ineffable bliss, as it's called, I always had a sort of sinking in the pit of the stomach, and a cold shudder ran

down my back. At last I could not stand such happiness and ran away. Two whole years after that I was

abroad; I went to Italy, stood before the Transfiguration in Rome, and before the Venus in Florence, and

suddenly fell into exaggerated raptures, as though an attack of delirium had come upon me; in the evenings I

wrote verses, began a diary; in fact, there, too, I behaved just like everyone else. And just mark how easy it is

to be original! I take no interest, for instance, in painting and sculpture. But simply saying so aloud . . . no, it

"'Well, I came back to my own country at last," he went on in a weary voice. 'I went to Moscow. In

Moscow a marvellous transformation took place in me. Abroad I was mostly silent, but now suddenly I began

to talk with unexpected smartness, and at the same time I began to conceive all sorts of ideas of myself. There

were kindly disposed persons to be found, to whom I seemed all but a genius; ladies listened sympathetically

One fine morning a slander sprang up about me (who had originated it, I don't know; it must have

been some old maid of the male sexthere are any number of such old maids in Moscow); it sprang up and

began to throw off outshoots and tendrils like a strawberry plant. I was abashed, tried to get out of it, to break

through its clinging toilsthat was no good. I went away. Well, in that, too, I showed that I was an absurd

person; I ought to have calmly waited for the storm to blow over, just as one waits for the end of nettlerash,

and the same kindly disposed persons would have opened their arms to me again, the same ladies would have

smiled approvingly again at my remarks. But what's wrong is just that I'm not an original person.

Conscientious scruples, please to observe, had been stirred up in me; I was somehow ashamed of talk, talk

without ceasing, nothing but talk yesterday in Arbat, today in Truba, tomorrow in SivtsevVrazhek, and

all about the same thing. But if that is what people want of me? Look at the really successful men in that line;

they don't ask its use; on the contrary, it's all they need; some will keep their tongues wagging twenty years

together, and always in one direction. That's what comes of selfconfidence and conceit! I had that, too,

conceitindeed, even now it's not altogether stifled. But what was wrong was thatI say again, I'm not an

original personI stopped midway: nature ought to have given me far more conceit or none at all. But at

first I felt the change a very hard one; moreover, my stay abroad, too, had utterly drained my resources, while

I was not disposed to marry a merchant's daughter, young, but flabby as a jelly, so I retired to my country

place. I fancy," added my neighbour, with another glance sideways at me, "I may pass over in silence the first

impressions of country life, references to the beauty of nature, the gentle charm of solitude, etc."

"All the more," he continued, "as all that's nonsense; at least, as far as I'm concerned. I was as

bored in the country as a puppy locked up, though I will own that on my journey home, when I passed

through the familiar birch wood in spring for the first time, my head was in a whirl and my heart beat with a

vague, sweet expectation. But these vague expectations, as you're well aware, never come to pass; on the

other hand, very different things do come to pass, which you don't at all expect, such as cattle disease, arrears,

sales by auction, and so on, and so on. I managed to get along from day to day with the aid of my steward,

Yakov, who replaced the former superintendent, and turned out in the course of time to be as great, if not a

greater, robber and over and above that poisoned my existence by the smell of his tarred boots; suddenly one

day I remembered a family I knew in the neighbourhood, consisting of the widow of a retired colonel and her

two daughters, ordered out my droshky, and set off to see them. That day must always be a memorable one

for mesix months later I was married to the retired colonel's second daughter! . . ."

"And now," he went on warmly, "I couldn't bear to give you an unfavourable opinion of my late

wife. Heaven forbid! She was the most generous, sweetest creature, a loving nature capable of any sacrifice,

though I must between ourselves confess that if I had not had the misfortune to lose her, I should probably

not be in a position to be talking to you today, since the beam is still there in my barn, to which I repeatedly

"Some pears," he began again after a brief pause, "need to lie in an underground cellar for a time,

to come, as they say, to their real flavour; my wife, it seems, belonged to a similar order of nature's works, It's

only now that I do her complete justice. It's only now, for instance, that memories of some evenings I spent

with her before marriage no longer awaken the slightest bitterness, but move me almost to tears. They were

not rich people; their house was very oldfashioned and built of wood, but comfortable; it stood on a hill

between an overgrown courtyard and a garden run wild. At the bottom of the hill ran a river, which could just

be seen through the thick leaves. A wide terrace led from the house to the garden; before the terrace flaunted

a long flowerbed covered with roses; at each end of the flowerbed grew two acacias, which had been

trained to grow into the shape of a screw by its late owner. A little farther, in the very midst of a thicket of

neglected and overgrown raspberries, stood an arbour, smartly painted within, but so old and tumbledown

outside that it was depressing to look at it. A glass door led from the terrace into the drawingroom; in the

drawingroom this was what met the eye of the inquisitive spectator: in the various corners stoves of Dutch

tiles, a squeaky piano to the right, piled with manuscript music, a sofa covered with faded blue material with

a whitish pattern, a round table, two cabinets with knickknacks of the Catherine period made of porcelain

and beads; on the wall the wellknown picture of a flaxenhaired girl with a dove on her breast and eyes

turned upwards; on the table a vase of fresh roses. You see how minutely I describe it. In that drawingroom,

on that terrace, was played out all the tragicomedy of my love. The colonel's wife herself was an illnatured

old dame, whose voice was always hoarse with spitea petty, snappish creature. Of the daughters, one,

Vera, did not differ in any respect from the common run of young ladies of the provinces; the other, Sofya, I

fell in love with. The two sisters had another little room, too, their common bedroom, with two innocent little

wooden bedsteads, yellowish albums, mignonette, portraits of friends sketched in pencil rather badly (among

them was one gentleman with an exceptionally vigorous expression of face and a still more vigorous

signature, who had in his youth raised disproportionate expectations, but had come, like all of us, to nothing),

with busts of Goethe and Schiller, German books, dried wreaths, and other objects, kept as souvenirs. But

that room I rarely and reluctantly entered; I felt stifled there somehow. And, too, strange to say, I liked Sofya

best of all when I was sitting with my back to her, or still more, perhaps, when I was thinking or dreaming

about her in the evening on the terrace. At such times I used to gaze at the sunset, at the trees, at the tiny

leaves, already in darkness, but standing out sharply against the rosy sky; in the drawingroom Sofya sat at

the piano continually playing over and over again some favourite, passionately pathetic phrase from

Beethoven; the illnatured old lady snored peacefully, sitting on the sofa; in the diningroom, which was

flooded by a glow of lurid light, Vera was bustling about getting tea; the samovar hissed merrily as though it

were pleased at something; the cracknels snapped with a pleasant crispness, and the spoons tinkled against

the cups; the canary, which trilled mercilessly all day, was suddenly still, and only chirruped from time to

time, as though asking for something; from a light transparent cloud there fell a few passing drops of rain. . . .

And I would sit and sit, listen, listen, and look, my heart would expand, and again it seemed to me that I was

in love. Well, under the influence of such an evening, I one day asked the old lady for her daughter's hand,

and two months later I was married. It seemed to me that I loved her. . . . By now, indeed, it's time I should

know, but, by God, even now I don't know whether I loved Sofya. She was a sweet creature, clever, silent,

and warmhearted, but God only knows from what cause, whether from living too long in the country, or for

some other reason, there was at the bottom of her soul (if only there is a bottom to the soul) a secret wound,

or, to put it better, a little open sore which nothing could heal, to which neither she nor I could give a name.

Of the existence of this sore, of course, I only guessed after marriage. The struggles I had over it . . . nothing

availed! When I was a child I had a little bird, which had once been caught by the cat in its claws; it was

saved and tended, but the poor bird never got right; it moped, it pined, it ceased to sing. It ended by a rat

getting into its open cage one night and biting off its beak, after which it made up its mind at last to die. I

don't know what cat had caught my wife in its claws, but she, too, moped and pined just like my unlucky

bird. Sometimes she obviously made an effort to shake herself, to rejoice in the open air, in the sunshine and

freedom; she would try, and shrink up into herself again. And, you know, she loved me; how many times has

she assured me that she had nothing left to wish for?oof! damn my soul! and the light was fading out of

her eyes all the while. I wondered whether there hadn't been something in her past. I made investigations:

there was nothing forthcoming. Well, you may form your own judgement; an original man would have

shrugged his shoulders and heaved a sigh or two, perhaps, and would have proceeded to live his own life; but

I, not being an original creature, began to contemplate a beam and rope. My wife was so thoroughly

permeated by all the habits of an old maidBeethoven, evening walks, mignonette, corresponding with her

friends, albums, et ceterathat she never could accustom herself to any other mode of life, especially to the

life of the mistress of a house; and yet it seemed absurd for a married woman to be pining in vague

"Well, we were blissful after that fashion for three years; in the fourth, Sofya died in her first

confinement, and, strange to say, I had felt, as it were, beforehand that she would not be capable of giving me

a daughter or a sonof giving the earth a new inhabitant. I remember how they buried her. It was in the

spring. Our parish church was small and old, the iconostasis was blackened, the walls bare, the brick floor

worn into hollows in parts; there was a big, oldfashioned holy picture in each half of the choir. They

brought in the coffin, placed it in the middle before the holy gates, covered it with a faded pall, set three

candlesticks about it. The service commenced. A decrepit deacon, with a little shock of hair behind, belted

low down with a green kerchief, was mournfully mumbling before a readingdesk; a priest, also an old man,

with a kindly purblind face, in a lilac cassock with yellow flowers on it, served the mass for himself and the

deacon. At all the open windows the fresh young leaves were stirring and whispering, and the smell of the

grass rose from the churchyard outside; the red flame of the wax candles paled in the bright light of the spring

day; the sparrows were twittering all over the church, and every now and then there came the ringing cry of a

swallow flying in under the cupola. In the golden motes of the sunbeams the brown heads of the few peasants

kept rising and dropping down again as they prayed earnestly for the dead; in a thin bluish stream the smoke

issued from the holes of the censer. I looked at the dead face of my wife. . . . My God! even deathdeath

itselfhad not set her free, had not healed her wound: the same sickly, timid, dumb look, as though, even in

her coffin, she were ill at ease. My heart was filled with bitterness. A sweet, sweet creature she was, and she

"When at last," he began again, "I emerged from the deep depression which overwhelmed me after

my wife's death, I resolved to devote myself, as it is called, to work. I went into a government office in the

capital of the province; but in the great apartments of the government institution my head ached, and my

eyesight, too, began to fail; other incidental causes came in. I retired. I had thought of going on a visit to

Moscow, but, in the first place, I hadn't the money, and secondly . . . I've told you already: I'm resigned. This

resignation came upon me both suddenly and not suddenly. In spirit I had long ago resigned myself, but my

brain was still unwilling to accept the yoke. I ascribed my humble temper and ideas to the influence of

country life and unhappiness. On the other side, I had long observed that all my neighbours, young and old

alike, who had been frightened at first by my learning, my residence abroad, and my other advantages of

education, had not only had time to get completely used to me, but had even begun to treat me halfrudely,

halfcontemptuously, did not listen to my observations, and, in talking to me, no longer made use of

superfluous signs of respect. I forgot to tell you, too, that during the first year after my marriage, I had tried to

launch into literature, and even sent a thing to a journala story, if I'm not mistaken; but in a little time I

received a polite letter from the editor, in which, among other things, I was told that he could not deny I had

intelligence, but he was obliged to say I had no talent, and talent alone was what was needed in literature. To

add to this, it came to my knowledge that a young man, on a visit from Moscowa most goodnatured

youth, toohad referred to me at an evening party at the governor's as a shallow person, antiquated and

behind the times. But my halfwilful blindness still persisted: I was unwilling to give myself a slap in the

face, you know; at last, one fine morning, my eyes were opened. This was how it happened. The district

captain of police came to see me, with the object of calling my attention to a tumbledown bridge on my

property, which I had absolutely no money to repair. After consuming a glass of vodka and a snack of dried

fish, this condescending guardian of order reproached me in a paternal way for my heedlessness,

sympathizing, however, with my position, and only advising me to order my peasants to patch up the bridge

with some rubbish; he lighted a pipe, and began talking of the coming elections. A candidate for the

honourable post of marshal of the province was at that time one Orbassanov, a noisy, shallow fellow, who

took bribes into the bargain. Besides, he was not distinguished either for wealth or for family. I expressed my

opinion with regard to him, and rather casually too: I regarded Mr. Orbassanov, I must own, as beneath my

level. The police captain looked at me, patted me amicably on the shoulder, and said goodnaturedly, 'Come,

come, Vasily Vasilyich, it's not for you and me to criticize men like thathow are we qualified to? Let the

shoemaker stick to his last.' 'But, upon my word,' I retorted with annoyance, 'whatever difference is there

between me and Mr. Orbassanov?' The police captain took his pipe out of his mouth, opened his eyes wide,

and fairly roared. 'Well, you're an amusing chap,' he observed at last, while the tears ran down his cheeks:

'what a joke to make!. . . Ah! you are a funny fellow!' And till his departure he never ceased jeering at me,

now and then giving me a poke in the ribs with his elbow, and addressing me by my Christian name. He went

away at last. This was enough: it was the last drop, and my cup was overflowing. I paced several times up

and down the room, stood still before the lookingglass and gazed a long, long while at my embarrassed

countenance, and deliberately putting out my tongue, I shook my head with a bitter smile. The scales fell

from my eyes: I saw clearly, more clearly than I saw my face in the glass, what a shallow, insignificant,

"In one of Voltaire's tragedies," he went on wearily, "there is some worthy who rejoices that he has

reached the furthest limit of unhappiness. Though there is nothing tragic in my fate, I will admit I have

experienced something of that sort. I have known the bitter transports of cold despair; I have felt how sweet it

is, lying in bed, to curse deliberately for a whole morning together the hour and day of my birth. I could not

resign myself all at once. And indeed, think of it yourself: I was kept by impecuniosity in the country, which

I hated; I was not fitted for managing my land, nor for the public service, nor for literature, nor anything; my

neighbours I didn't care for, and books I loathed; as for the mawkish and morbidly sentimental young ladies

who shake their curls and feverishly harp on the word 'life,' I had ceased to have any attraction for them ever

since I gave up ranting and gushing; complete solitude I could not face. . . . I beganwhat do you

suppose?I began hanging about, visiting my neighbours. As though drunk with selfcontempt, I purposely

exposed myself to all sorts of petty slights. I was missed over in serving at table; I was met with supercilious

coldness, and at last was not noticed at all; I was not even allowed to take part in general conversation, and

from my corner I myself used purposely to back up some stupid talker who in those days at Moscow would

have ecstatically licked the dust off my feet and kissed the hem of my cloak. I did not even allow myself to

believe that I was enjoying the bitter satisfaction of irony. What sort of irony, indeed, can a man enjoy in

"Really, this is beyond everything," grumbled the sleepy voice of Mr. Kantagryukhin from the next

room: "what fool is it that has taken a fancy to talk all night?" The speaker promptly ducked under the clothes

"Shsh!" he whispered; and, as it were, bowing apologetically in the direction of

Kantagryukhin's voice, he said respectfully, "I obey, sir, I obey; I beg your pardon. . . . It's permissible for

him to sleep; he ought to sleep," he went on again in a whisper: "he must recruit his energieswell, if only

to eat his dinner with the same relish tomorrow. We have no right to disturb him. Besides, I think I've told

"No, for mercy's sake!" he cut me short, "don't inquire my name either of me or of others. Let me

remain to you an unknown being, a Vasily Vasilyich, crushed by fate. Besides, as an unoriginal person, I

don't deserve an individual name. But if you really want to give me some title, call me . . . call me the Hamlet

of the Shchigri District. There are many such Hamlets in every district, but perhaps you haven't come across

He buried himself again under his feather blanket, and the next morning, when they came to wake

ONE HOT summer day I was coming home from hunting in a light cart; Yermolai sat beside me

dozing. The sleeping dogs were jolted up and down like lifeless bodies under our feet. The coachman kept

flicking gadflies off the horses with his whip. The white dust rose in a light cloud behind the cart. We drove

in between bushes. The road here was full of ruts, and the wheels began catching in the twigs. Yermolai

started up and looked round. "Hullo!" he said; "there ought to be grouse here. Let's get out." We stopped and

went into the thicket. My dog hit upon a covey. I took a shot and was beginning to reload, when suddenly

there was a loud crackling behind me, and a man on horseback came towards me, pushing the bushes apart

with his hands. "Sir . . . peermit me to ask," he began in a haughty voice, "by what right you

areershooting here, sir?" the stranger spoke extraordinarily quickly, jerkily and in nasal accents. I

looked at his face; never in my life have I seen anything like it. Picture to yourselves, gentle readers, a little

flaxenhaired man, with a little turnup red nose and long red moustaches. A pointed Persian cap with a

crimson cloth crown covered his forehead right down to his eyebrows. He was dressed in a shabby yellow

Caucasian overcoat, with black velveteen cartridge pockets on the breast, and tarnished silver braid on all the

seams; over his shoulder was slung a horn; in his sash was sticking a dagger. A rawboned, hooknosed

chestnut horse shambled unsteadily under his weight; two lean, crookpawed greyhounds kept turning round

just under the horse's legs. The face, the glance, the voice, every action, the whole being of the stranger was

expressive of a wild daring and an unbounded, incredible pride; his paleblue glassy eyes strayed about with

a sideway squint like a drunkard's; he flung back his head, puffed out his cheeks, snorted and quivered all

over, as though bursting with dignityfor all the world like a turkeycock. He repeated his question.

"But peermit me to ask," he rejoined, "is it a nobleman I have the honour of addressing?"

"In that case, oblige me by hunting here. I am a nobleman myself, and am very pleased to do any

service to a nobleman. . . . And my name is Pantelei Chertopkhanov." He bowed, hallooed, gave his horse a

lash on the neck; the horse shook its head, reared, shied, and trampled on a dog's paw. The dog gave a

piercing squeal. Chertopkhanov boiled over with rage; foaming at the mouth, he struck the horse with his fist

on the head between the ears, leaped to the ground quicker than lightning, looked at the dog's paw, spat on

the wound, gave it a kick in the ribs to stop its whining, caught on to the horse's forelock, and put his foot in

the stirrup. The horse flung up its head, and with its tail in the air edged away into the bushes; he followed it,

hopping on one leg; he got into the saddle at last, however, flourished his whip in a sort of frenzy, blew his

horn, and galloped off. I had no time to recover from the unexpected appearance of Chertopkhanov, when

suddenly, almost without any noise, there came out of the bushes a stoutish man of forty on a little black nag.

He stopped, took off his green leather cap, and in a thin, subdued voice he asked me whether I hadn't seen a

"Which way did the gentleman go?" he went on in the same tone, without putting on his cap.

He made a kissing sound with his lips, swung his legs against his horse's sides, and fell into a

jogtrot in the direction indicated. I looked after him till his peaked cap was hidden behind the branches. This

second stranger was not in the least like his predecessor in exterior. His face, plump and round as a ball,

expressed bashfulness, goodnature, and humble meekness; his nose, also plump and round and streaked

with blue veins, betokened a sensualist. On the front of his head there was not a single hair left, some thin

brown tufts stuck out behind; there was an ingratiating twinkle in his little eyes, set in long slits, and a sweet

smile on his red, juicy lips. He had on a coat with a standup collar and brass buttons, very worn but clean;

his cloth trousers were hitched up high, his fat calves were visible above the yellow tops of his boots.

"He's not rich; but, to be sure, Chertopkhanov's not got a brass farthing either."

"Oh, they made friends. One's never seen without the other. It's a fact, indeedwhere the horse

We got out of the bushes; suddenly two hounds "gave tongue" close to us, and a big hare bounded

through the oats, which were fairly high by now. The dogs, hounds and harriers, leaped out of the thicket

after him, and after the dogs flew out Chertopkhanov himself. He did not shout, nor urge the dogs on, nor

halloo; he was breathless and gasping; broken, senseless sounds were jerked out of his gaping mouth now and

then; he dashed on, his eyes starting out of his head, and furiously lashed at his luckless horse with the whip.

The harriers were gaining on the hare . . . it squatted for a moment, doubled sharply back, and darted past

Yermolai into the bushes. The harriers rushed in pursuit. "Look out! look out!" the exhausted horseman

articulated with effort, in a sort of stutter, "look out, friend!" Yermolai shot . . . the wounded hare rolled

head over heels on the smooth dry grass, leaped into the air, and squealed piteously in the teeth of a worrying

dog. The hounds crowded about her. Like an arrow, Chertopkhanov flew off his horse, clutched his dagger,

ran straddling among the dogs with furious imprecations, snatched the mangled hare from them, and, creasing

up his whole face, he buried the dagger in its throat up to the very hilt . . . buried it, and began hallooing.

Tikhon Ivanich made his appearance on the edge of the thicket. "Hohohohohohohoho!" vociferated

"But really, you know, one ought not to hunt in summer," I observed to Chertopkhanov, pointing

He pulled the hare into shape, hung it on to his saddle, and flung the paws among the dogs.

"I owe you a charge, my friend, by the rules of hunting," he said, addressing Yermolai. "And you,

"Delighted to make your acquaintance. When you have an opportunity, hope you'll come and see

me. But where is that Fomka, Tikhon Ivanich?" he went on with heat; "the hare was run down without him."

Chertopkhanov struck his horse on the muzzle with his whip, and galloped off at a breakneck

pace. Tikhon Ivanich bowed to me twice, once for himself and once for his companion, and again set off at a

These two gentlemen aroused my curiosity keenly. What could unite two creatures so different in

the bonds of an inseparable friendship? I began to make inquiries. This was what I learned.

Pantelei Eremeich Chertopkhanov had the reputation in the whole surrounding vicinity of a

dangerous, crackbrained fellow, haughty and quarrelsome in the extreme. He had served a very short time in

the army, and had retired from the service through "difficulties" with his superiors, with that officer's rank

which is generally regarded as equivalent to no rank at all. He came of an old family, once rich; his

forefathers lived sumptuously, after the manner of the steppesthat is, they welcomed all, invited or

uninvited, fed them to exhaustion, gave out oats by the quarter to their guests' coachmen for their teams, kept

musicians, singers, jesters, and dogs; on festive days regaled their people with spirits and beer, drove to

Moscow in the winter with their own horses, in heavy old coaches, and sometimes were for whole months

without a farthing, living on homegrown produce. The estate came into Pantelei Eremeich's father's hands in

a crippled condition; he, in his turn, "played ducks and drakes" with it, and when he died, left his sole heir,

Pantelei, the small mortgaged village of Bessonovo, with thirtyfive souls of the male, and seventysix of the

female sex, and twentyeight acres and a half of useless land on the waste of Kolobrodova, no titledeed for

which could be found among the deceased's papers. The deceased had, it must be confessed, ruined himself in

a very strange way: "provident management" had been his destruction. According to his notions, a nobleman

ought not to depend on merchants, townsmen, and "brigands" of that sort, as he called them; he set up all

possible trades and crafts on his estate. "It's both seemlier and cheaper," he used to say: "it's provident

management!" He never relinquished this fatal idea to the end of his days; indeed, it was his ruin. But, then,

what entertainment it gave him! He never denied himself the satisfaction of a single whim. Among his freaks,

he once built, after his own plan, so immense a family coach that, in spite of the united efforts of the peasants

horses, drawn together from the whole village, as well as their owners, it came to grief and fell to pieces on

the first hillside. Eremei Lukich (the name of Pantelei's father was Eremei Lukich) ordered a memorial to be

put up on the hillside, but was not, however, at all abashed over the affair. He conceived the happy thought,

too, of building a church by himself, of coursewithout the assistance of an architect. He burnt a whole

forest in making the bricks, laid an immense foundation, as though for a cathedral, raised the walls, and

began putting on the cupola; the cupola fell down. He tried againthe cupola again broke down; he tried the

third timethe cupola fell to pieces a third time. Good Eremei Lukich grew thoughtful; there was something

uncanny about it, he reflected . . . some accursed witchcraft must have a hand in it. . . and at once he gave

orders to flog all the old women in the village. They flogged the old women; but they didn't get the cupola on,

for all that. He began reconstructing the peasants' huts on a new plan, and all on a system of "provident

management"; he set them three homesteads together in a triangle, and in the middle stuck up a post with a

painted birdcage and flag. Every day he invented some new freak; at one time he was making soup of

burdocks, at another cutting his horses' tails off to make caps for his servants; at another, proposing to

substitute nettles for flax, to feed pigs on mushrooms. . . . However, economic innovation was not his sole

hobby; he also concerned himself with the welfare of his peasants. He had once read in the Moscow Gazette

an article by a Kharkov landowner, KhryakKhrupyorsky, on the importance of morality to the wellbeing of

the peasant, and the next day he gave forth a decree to all his peasants to learn off the Kharkov landowner's

article by heart at once. The peasants learnt the article; the master asked them whether they understood what

was said in it. The bailiff repliedthat to be sure they understood it! About the same time he ordered all his

subjects, with a view to the maintenance of order and provident management, to be numbered, and each to

have his number sewn on his collar. On meeting the master, each was to shout, "Number soandso is here!"

In spite, however, of order and provident management, Eremei Lukich got by degrees into a very

difficult position; he began at first by mortgaging his villages, and then was brought to the sale of them; the

last ancestral home, the village with the unfinished church, was sold at last for arrears to the Crown, luckily

not in the lifetime of Eremei Lukichhe could never have supported such a blowbut a fortnight after his

death. He succeeded in dying at home in his own bed, surrounded by his own people, and under the care of

Pantelei heard of his father's illness while he was still in the service, in the very heat of the

"difficulties" mentioned above. He was only just nineteen. From his earliest childhood he had not left his

father's house, and under the guidance of his mother, a very goodnatured but perfectly stupid woman,

Vasilisa Vasilyevna, he grew up spoilt and conceited. She undertook his education alone; Eremei Lukich,

buried in his economical fancies, had no thoughts to spare for it. It is true, he once punished his son with his

own hand for mispronouncing a letter of the alphabet; but Eremei Lukich had received a cruel blow that day

and was secretly suffering: his best dog had been crushed by running into a tree. Vasilisa Vasilyevna's efforts

in regard to Pantelei's education did not, however, get beyond one terrific exertion; in the sweat of her brow

she engaged him a tutor, one Birkopf, a retired Alsatian soldier, and to the day of her death she trembled like

a leaf before him. "Oh," she thought, "if he quits us I'm lost! Where could I turn? Where could I find

another teacher? Why, with what pains, what pains I enticed this one away from our neighbours!" And

Birkopf, like a shrewd man, promptly took advantage of his unique position; he drank like a fish, and slept

from morning till night. On the completion of his "course of science," Pantelei entered the army. Vasilisa

Vasilyevna was no more; she had died six months before that important event, of fright: she had had a dream

of a white figure riding on a bear with a sign on its breast: "Antichrist." Eremei Lukich soon followed his

At the first news of his illness, Pantelei galloped home at breakneck speed, but he did not find his

father alive. What was the amazement of the dutiful son when he found himself, utterly unexpectedly,

transformed from a rich heir to a poor man! Few men are capable of bearing so sharp a reverse well. Pantelei

was embittered, made misanthropical by it. From an honest, generous, goodnatured fellow, though spoilt

and hottempered, he became haughty and quarrelsome; he gave up associating with the neighbourshe was

too proud to visit the rich, and he disdained the poorand behaved with unheardof arrogance to everyone,

even to the established authorities. "I am of the ancient hereditary nobility," he would say. Once he had been

on the point of shooting the police commissioner for coming into the room with his cap on his head. Of

course the authorities, on their side, had their revenge, and took every opportunity to make him feel their

power; but still, they were rather afraid of him, because he had a desperate temper, and would propose a duel

with knives at the second word. At the slightest retort Chertopkhanov's eyes blazed, his voice broke. "Ah,

ererer," he stammered, "damn my soul!" . . . and nothing could stop him. And, moreover, he was a man

of stainless character, who had never had a hand in anything the least shady. No one, of course, visited him . .

. and with all this he was a goodhearted, even a greathearted man in his own way; acts of injustice, of

oppression, he would not brook; he stood up for his own peasants like a rock. "What?" he would say, with a

violent blow on his own head: "touch my people, mine? My name's not Chertopkhanov, if I. . . ."

Tikhon Ivanich Nedopyuskin could not, like Pantelei Eremeich, pride himself on his origin. His

father came of the freeholder class, and only after forty years of service attained the rank of a noble. Mr.

Nedopyuskin, the father, belonged to the number of those people who are pursued by misfortune with an

obduracy akin to personal hatred. For sixty whole years, from his very birth to his very death, the poor man

was struggling with all the hardships, calamities, and privations, incidental to people of small means; he

struggled desperately to make both ends meet, never having enough food and sleepcringing, worrying,

wearing himself to exhaustion, fretting over every kopek, with genuine "innocence" suffering in the service,

and dying at last in either a garret or a cellar, in the unsuccessful struggle to gain for himself or his children a

He was a goodnatured and honest man, though he did take bribes commensurate with his

officefrom a tenkopek piece up to a couple of rubles inclusive. Nedopyuskin had a wife, thin and

consumptive; he had children, too; luckily they all died young except Tikhon and a daughter, Mitrodora,

nicknamed "the merchants' belle," who, after many painful and ludicrous adventures, was married to a retired

attorney. Mr. Nedopyuskin had succeeded before his death in getting Tikhon a place as supernumerary clerk

in some office; but directly after his father's death Tikhon resigned his situation. Their perpetual anxieties,

their heartrending struggle with cold and hunger, his mother's careworn depression, his father's toiling

despair, the coarse aggressiveness of landladies and shopkeepersall the unending daily suffering of their

life had developed an exaggerated timidity in Tikhon: at the mere sight of his chief he was faint and

trembling like a captured bird. He quit the civil service. Nature, in her indifference, or perhaps her irony,

implants in people all sorts of faculties and tendencies utterly inconsistent with their means and their position

in society; with her characteristic care and love she had moulded of Tikhon, the son of a poor clerk, a

sensuous, indolent, soft, impressionable creaturea creature fitted exclusively for enjoyment, gifted with an

excessively delicate sense of smell and of taste . . . she had moulded him, finished him off most carefully, and

set her creation to struggle up on sour cabbage and putrid fish! And, behold! the creation did struggle up

somehow, and began what is called "life." Then the fun began. Fate, which had so ruthlessly tormented

Nedopyuskin the father, took to the son, too; she had a taste for them, one must suppose. But she treated

Tikhon on a different plan: she did not torture him; she played with him. She did not once drive him to

desperation, she did not set him to suffer the degrading agonies of hunger, but she led him a dance through

the whole of Russia from one end to the other, from one degrading and ludicrous position to another; at one

time Fate made him "majordomo" to a snappish, choleric Lady Bountiful, at another a humble parasite on a

wealthy skinflint merchant, then a private secretary to a goggleeyed gentleman, with his hair cut in the

English style, then she promoted him to the post of something between butler and buffoon to a dogfancier

and a bully. . . In short, Fate drove poor Tikhon to drink drop by drop to the dregs the bitter poisoned cup of a

dependent existence. He had been, in his time, the sport of the dull malignity and the boorish pranks of

slothful masters. How often, alone in his room, released at last "to go in peace, after a mob of visitors had

glutted their taste for horseplay at his expense, he had vowed, blushing with shame, chill tears of despair in

his eyes, that he would run away in secret, would try his luck in the town, would find himself some little

place as clerk, or die once for all of hunger in the street! But, in the first place, God had not given him

strength of character; secondly, his timidity unhinged him; and thirdly, how could he get himself a place?

whom could he ask? "They'll never give it me," the luckless wretch would murmur, tossing wearily in his

bed, "they'll never give it me!" And the next day he would take up the same degrading life again. His position

was the more painful that, with all her care, nature had not troubled to give him the smallest share of the gifts

and qualifications without which the trade of a buffoon is almost impossible. He was not equal, for instance,

to dancing till he dropped, in a bearskin coat turned inside out, nor making jokes and cutting capers in the

immediate vicinity of cracking whips; if he was turned out in the nude into a temperature of twenty degrees

below freezing, as often as not, he caught cold; his stomach could not digest brandy mixed with ink and other

filth, nor minced funguses and toadstools in vinegar. There is no knowing what would have become of

Tikhon if the last of his patrons, a contractor who had made his fortune, had not taken it into his head in a

merry hour to inscribe in his will: "And to Zyozya (Tikhon, to wit) Nedopyuskin, I leave in perpetual

possession, to him and his heirs, the village of Besselendeyevka, lawfully acquired by me, with all its

appurtenances." A few days later this patron was taken with a fit of apoplexy after gorging on sturgeon soup.

The relations arrived; the will was opened and read; and they called for Nedopyuskin;

Nedopyuskin made his appearance. The greater number of the party knew the nature of Tikhon Ivanich's

duties to his patron's household; he was greeted with deafening shouts and ironical congratulations. "The

landlord; here is the new landlord!" shouted the other heirs. "Well, really this," put in one, a noted wit and

humourist; "well, really this, one may say . . . this positively is . . . really what one may call . . . an heir!" and

they all went off into shrieks. For a long while Nedopyuskin could not believe in his good fortune. They

showed him the will: he flushed, shut his eyes, and with a despairing gesture he burst into tears. The chuckles

of the party passed into a deep unanimous roar. The village of Besselendeyevka consisted of only

twentytwo serfs, no one regretted its loss keenly; so why not get some fun out of it? One of the heirs from

Petersburg, an important man, with a Greek nose and a majestic expression of face, Rostislav Adamich

Shtoppel, went so far as to go up to Nedopyuskin and look haughtily at him over his shoulder. "So far as I can

gather, honoured sir," he observed with contemptuous carelessness, "you enjoyed your position in the

household of our respected Fyodor Fyodorich owing to your obliging readiness to wait on his diversions?"

The gentleman from Petersburg expressed himself in a style insufferably refined, smart, and correct.

Nedopyuskin, in his agitation and confusion, had not taken in the unknown gentleman's words, but the others

were all quiet at once; the wit smiled condescendingly. Mr. Shtoppel rubbed his hands and repeated his

question. Nedopyuskin raised his eyes in bewilderment and opened his mouth. Rostislav Adamich puckered

"I congratulate you, my dear sir, I congratulate you," he went on: "it's true, one may say, not

everyone would have consented to gain his daily bread in such a fashion; but de gustibus non est

"Tell us," pursued Mr. Shtoppel, much encouraged by the smiles of the whole party, "to what

special talent are you indebted for your good fortune? No, don't be bashful, tell us; we're all here, so to speak,

The relation to whom Rostislav Adamich chanced to turn with this question did not, unfortunately,

know French, and so he confined himself to a faint grunt of approbation. But another relation, a young man,

with patches of a yellow colour on his forehead, hastened to chime in, "Wee, wee, to be sure."

"Perhaps," Mr. Shtoppel began again, "you can walk on your hands, your legs raised, so to say, in

Nedopyuskin looked round in agony: every face wore a taunting smile, every eye was moist with

A loud guffaw broke out on all sides, and was hushed at once, stifled by expectation.

"Stop that!" a loud harsh voice suddenly interrupted Rostislav Adamich: "I wonder you're not

Everyone looked round. In the doorway stood Chertopkhanov. As a cousin four times removed of

the deceased contractor, he, too, had received a note of invitation to the meeting of the relations. During the

whole time of reading the will he had kept, as he always did, haughtily apart from the others.

Mr. Shtoppel turned round quickly, and seeing a poorly dressed, unattractivelooking man, he

"And who are you to give orders?" he said through his nose, drooping his eyelids scornfully; "what

"Ssssss!" he hissed like one possessed, and all at once he thundered, "Who am I? Who am I?

I'm Pantelei Chertopkhanov, of the ancient hereditary nobility; my forefathers served the Tsar; and who may

Rostislav Adamich turned pale and stepped back. He had not expected such a rebuff.

Chertopkhanov darted forward; Shtoppel bounded away in great perturbation, the others rushed to

"A duel, a duel, a duel, at once, across a handkerchief!" shouted the enraged Pantelei, "or beg my

"Pray beg his pardon!" the agitated relations muttered all round Shtoppel; "he's such a madman,

"I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, I didn't know," stammered Shtoppel; "I didn't know. . . ."

"I beg your pardon, too," added Rostislav Adamich, addressing Nedopyuskin, who was shaking as

Chertopkhanov calmed down; he strode up to Tikhon Ivanich, took him by the hand, looked

fiercely round, and, as not one pair of eyes ventured to meet his, he walked triumphantly amid profound

silence out of the room, with the new owner of the lawfully acquired village of Besselendeyevka.

From that day they never parted again. (The village of Besselendeyevka was only seven miles from

Bessonovo.) The boundless gratitude of Nedopyuskin soon passed into the, most adoring veneration. The

weak, soft, and not perfectly stainless Tikhon bowed down in the dust before the fearless and irreproachable

Pantelei. "It's no slight thing," he thought to himself sometimes, "to talk to the governor looking him straight

He marvelled at him, he exhausted all the forces of his soul in his admiration of him, he regarded

him as an extraordinary man, as clever, as learned. And there's no denying that, bad as Chertopkhanov's

education might be, still, in comparison with Tikhon's education, it might pass for brilliant. Chertopkhanov, it

is true, had read little Russian, and knew French very badlyso badly that once, in reply to the question of a

Swiss tutor: "Vous parlez fran�ais, monsieur?" he answered: "Je ne comprehend," and after a moment's

thought, he added pas; but anyway he was aware that Voltaire had once existed, and was a very witty writer,

and that Frederick the Great, king of Prussia, had been distinguished as a great military commander. Of

Russian writers he respected Derzhavin but liked Marlinsky, and named the best dog of his pack

A few days after my first meeting with the two friends, I set off for the village of Bessonovo to see

Pantelei Eremeich. His little house could be seen a long way off; it stood out on a bare place, half a mile from

the village, on the bluff, like a hawk on a ploughed field. Chertopkhanov's homestead consisted of nothing

more than four old tumbledown buildings of different sizesthat is, a lodge, a stable, a barn, and a

bathhouse. Each building stood apart by itself; there was neither a fence round nor a gate to be seen. My

coachman stopped in perplexity at a well which was choked up and had almost disappeared. Near the barn

some thin and unkempt puppies were mangling a dead horse, probably Orbassan; one of them lifted up the

bleeding nose, barked hurriedly, and again fell to devouring the bare ribs. Near the horse stood a boy of

seventeen, with a puffy, yellow face, dressed as a servant, and barelegged; he looked with a responsible air at

the dogs committed to his charge, and now and then gave the greediest a lash with his whip.

Mr. Chertopkhanov's dwelling presented a very cheerless aspect: the beams were blackened and

bulging forward, the chimney had fallen off, the corners of the house were stained with damp and sunk out of

the perpendicular, the small, dusty, bluish windows peeped out from under the shaggy overhanging roof with

an indescribably morose expression: some old trollops have eyes that look like that. I knocked; no one

"A, B, C; there now, idiot!" a hoarse voice was saying; "A, B, C, D . . . no! D, E, E, . . . . . Now

I went into the small empty hall, and through the open door I saw Chertopkhanov himself. In a

greasy Bokhara dressinggown, loose trousers, and a red skullcap, he was sitting on a chair; in one hand he

gripped the face of a young poodle, while in the other he was holding a piece of bread just above his nose.

"Ah!" he pronounced with dignity, not stirring from his seat, "delighted to see you. Please sit

down. I am busy here with Venzor. Tikhon Ivanich," he added, raising his voice, "come here, will you?

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Tikhon Ivanich responded from the other room. "Masha, give me my

Chertopkhanov turned to Venzor again and laid the piece of bread on his nose. I looked round.

Except an extending table, much warped, with thirteen legs of unequal length, and four rush chairs worn into

hollows, there was no furniture of any kind in the room; the walls, which had been washed white ages ago,

with blue, starshaped spots, were peeling off in many places; between the windows hung a broken tarnished

lookingglass in a huge wooden frame painted to look like mahogany. In the corners stood pipestands and

"A, B, C, D," Chertopkhanov repeated slowly, and suddenly he cried furiously: "E! E! E! E! What

But the luckless poodle only shivered, and could not make up his mind to open his mouth; he still

sat wagging his tail uneasily and, wrinkling up his face, blinked dejectedly, and frowned as though saying to

He gave him a kick. The poor dog got up softly, dropped the bread off his nose, and walked, as it

were, on tiptoe to the hall, deeply wounded. And with good reason: a stranger calling for the first time, and to

The door from the next room gave a subdued creak, and Mr. Nedopyuskin came in, affably bowing

"You have been for some time in our neighbourhood?" began Nedopyuskin in a subdued voice,

coughing discreetly into his hand, and holding his fingers before his lips from a feeling of propriety.

"Lovely weather we are having just now," resumed Nedopyuskin, and he looked gratefully at me

as though I were in some way responsible for the weather: "the corn, one may say, is doing wonderfully."

"Pantelei Eremeich was pleased to hunt two hares yesterday," Nedopyuskin began again with an

effort, obviously wishing to enliven the conversation; "yes, indeed, very big hares they were, sir.

"The most wonderful hounds, sir!" Nedopyuskin replied, delighted; "one may say, the best in the

province, indeed." (He drew nearer to me.) "But, then, Pantelei Eremeich is such a wonderful man! He has

only to wish for anythinghe has only to take an idea into his head and before you can look round, it's

done; everything, you may say, goes like clockwork. Pantelei Eremeich, I assure you. . . ."

Chertopkhanov came into the room. Nedopyuskin smiled, ceased speaking, and indicated him to

me with a glance which seemed to say, "There, you will see for yourself." We fell to talking about hunting.

"Would you like me to show you my leash?" Chertopkhanov asked me; and, not waiting for a

A sturdy lad came in, in a green nankin long coat, with a blue collar and livery buttons.

"Tell Fomka," said Chertopkhanov abruptly, "to bring in Ammalat and Saiga, and in good order,

Karp gave a broad grin, uttered an indefinite sound, and went away. Fomka made his appearance,

well combed and tightly buttoned up, in boots, and with the hounds. From politeness, I admired the stupid

beasts (greyhounds are all exceedingly stupid). Chertopkhanov spat right into Ammalat's nostrils, which did

not, however, apparently afford that dog the slightest satisfaction. Nedopyuskin, too, stroked Ammalat from

behind. We began chatting again. By degrees Chertopkhanov unbent completely, and no longer stood on his

dignity nor snorted defiantly; the expression of his face changed. He glanced at me and at Nedopyuskin. . . .

"Hey!" he cried suddenly; "why should she sit in there alone? Masha! hi, Masha! come in here!"

'Maasha!" Chertopkhanov repeated caressingly; "come in here. It's all right, don't be afraid."

The door was softly opened, and I caught sight of a tall and slender girl of twenty, with a dark

gypsy face, goldenbrown eyes, and hair black as pitch; her large white teeth gleamed between full red lips.

She had on a white dress; a blue shawl, pinned close round her throat with a gold brooch, half hid her slender,

beautiful arms, in which one could see the fineness of her race. She took two steps with the bashful

"Come, let me introduce. . ." said Pantelei Eremeich "not exactly my wife but as good as one."

Masha flushed slightly and smiled in confusion. I made her a low bow. I thought her very

charming. The delicate falcon nose, with distended, halftransparent nostrils; the bold sweep of her high

eyebrows; the pale, almost sunken cheeksevery feature of her face denoted wilful passion and reckless

devilry. From under the coil of her hair two rows of little shining hairs ran down her broad necka sign of

She went to the window and sat down. I did not want to increase her embarrassment and began

talking with Chertopkhanov. Masha turned her head slyly, and began peeping from under her eyelids at me

stealthily, shyly, and swiftly. Her glance seemed to flash out like a snake's sting. Nedopyuskin sat beside her

and whispered something in her ear. She smiled again. When she smiled, her nose slightly puckered up, and

her upper lip was raised, which gave her face something of the expression of a cat or a lion.

"Oh, but you're one of the 'hands off!' sort," I thought, in my turn stealing a look at her supple

"Masha," Chertopkhanov asked, "don't you think we ought to give our visitor some entertainment,

"Well, bring the jam here, and some vodka, too, while you're about it. And, I say, Masha," he

She went out, soon came back with jam and vodka, and again sat by the window. There was still a

line to be seen on her forehead; the two eyebrows rose and dropped like a wasp's antenn�. Have you ever

noticed, reader, what a wicked face the wasp has? "Well," I thought, "I'm in for a storm." The conversation

flagged. Nedopyuskin shut up completely, and wore a forced smile; Chertopkhanov panted, turned red, and

opened his eyes wide; I was on the point of taking leave. Suddenly Masha got up, flung open the window,

thrust out her head, and shouted lustily to a passing peasant woman, "Aksinya!" The woman started, and tried

to turn round, but slipped down and flopped heavily on to the ground. Masha threw herself back and laughed

merrily; Chertopkhanov laughed, too. Nedopyuskin shrieked with delight. We all revived. The storm had

Half an hour later, no one would have recognized us; we were chatting and frolicking like children.

Masha was the merriest of all; Chertopkhanov simply could not take his eyes off her. Her face grew paler, her

nostrils dilated, her eyes glowed and darkened at the same time. It was a wild creature at play. Nedopyuskin

limped after her on his short, fat little legs, like a drake after a duck. Even Veuzor crawled out of his hiding

place in the hall, stood a moment in the doorway, glanced at us, and suddenly fell to jumping up into the air

and barking. Masha flitted into the other room, fetched the guitar, flung off the shawl from her shoulders,

seated herself quickly, and, raising her head, began singing a gypsy song. Her voice rang out, vibrating like a

glass bell when it is struck; it flamed up and died away. It filled the heart with sweetness and pain.

Chertopkhanov fell to dancing. Nedopyuskin stamped and swung his legs in tune. Masha was all aquiver,

like birchbark in the fire; her delicate fingers flew playfully over the guitar, her darkskinned throat slowly

heaved under the two rows of amber beads. All at once she would cease singing, sink into exhaustion, and

twang the guitar, as it were, involuntarily, and Chertopkhanov stood still, merely working his shoulders and

turning round in one place, while Nedopyuskin nodded his head like a Chinese figure; then she would break

out into song like a mad thing, drawing herself up and holding up her head, and Chertopkhanov again danced

down to the ground, leaped up to the ceiling, spun round like a top, crying, "Quicker!. . ."

IT WAS two years after my visit that Pantelei Eremeich's troubles beganhis real troubles.

Disappointments, disasters, even misfortunes he had had before that time, but he had paid no attention to

them. and had risen superior to them in former days. The first blow that fell upon him was the most

What induced her to forsake his roof, where she seemed to be so thoroughly at home, it is hard to

say. Chertopkhanov to the end of his days clung to the conviction that a certain young neighbour, a retired

captain of Uhlans, named Yaff, was at the root of Masha's desertion. He had taken her fancy, according to

Pantelei Eremeich, simply by constantly curling his moustaches, pomading himself to excess, and sniggering

significantly; but one must suppose that the vagrant gypsy blood in Masha's veins had more to do with it.

However that may have been, one fine summer evening Masha tied up a few odds and ends in a small bundle

For three days before this she had sat crouched up in a corner, huddled against the wall, like a

wounded fox, and had not spoken a word to anyone; she had only turned her eyes about, and twitched her

eyebrows, and bared her teeth, and moved her arms as though she were wrapping herself up. This mood had

come upon her before, but had never lasted long; Chertopkhanov knew that, and so he neither worried

himself nor worried her. But on coming in from the kennels, where, in his huntsman's words, the last two

hounds "had departed," he met a servant girl who, in a trembling voice, informed him that Marya

Akinfiyevna sent him her greetings, and left word that she wished him every happiness, but she was not

coming back to him any more; Chertopkhanov, after reeling round where he stood and uttering a hoarse yell,

He overtook her a mile and a half from his house, near a birch wood, on the highroad to the district

town. The sun was sinking on the horizon, and everything was suddenly suffused with purple glowtrees,

"To Yaff! to Yaff!" groaned Chertopkhanov directly he caught sight of Masha. "Going to Yaff!" he

Masha stood still and turned round facing him. She stood with her back to the light and looked all

black, as though she had been carved out of ebony; only the whites of her eyes stood out like silvery almonds,

"You are going to Yaff, wretched girl!" repeated Chertopkhanov, and he was on the point of

seizing her by the shoulder, but, meeting her eyes, he was abashed, and stood uneasily where he was.

"I am not going to Mr. Yaff, Pantelei Eremeich," replied Masha in soft, even tones; "it's only I

Masha shook her head. "You've not offended me in any way, Pantelei Eremeich, only my heart is

Chertopkhanov was amazed; he positively slapped his thighs, and bounced up and down in his

"How is that? Here she's gone on living with me, and known nothing but peace and happiness, and

all of a suddenher heart's heavy! and she flings me over! She goes and puts a kerchief on her head, and is

"Don't care for it? From a wandering gypsy to turn into a lady, and she doesn't care for it! How

don't you care for it, you lowborn slave? Do you expect me to believe that? There's treachery hidden in

"There's no treachery in my thoughts, and never has been," said Masha in her distinct, resonant

"Masha!" cried Chertopkhanov, striking himself a blow on the chest with his fist; "there, stop it;

hush, you have tortured me . . . now, it's enough! O my God! think only what Tikhon will say; you might

Chertopkhanov wrung his hands. "No, you are talking nonsenseyou are not going! Your Yaff

"A fine Mister Yaff!" Chertopkhanov mimicked her. "He's an underhand rascal, a low curthat's

For fully half an hour Chertopkhanov was struggling with Masha. He came close to her, he fell

Little by little her face assumed such an indifferent, almost drowsy expression, that Chertopkhanov

"Then what if I kill you?" he cried suddenly, and he pulled the pistol out of his pocket.

"I won't go back, my dearie. Never in my life will I go back. My word is steadfast."

Chertopkhanov suddenly thrust the pistol into her hand and sat down on the ground.

"Then, you kill me! Without you I don't care to live. I have grown loathsome to youand

Masha bent down, took up her bundle, laid the pistol on the grass, its mouth away from

"Ah, my dearie, why torture yourself? Don't you know what we gypsy girls are? It's our nature;

you must make up your mind to it. When there comes weariness the divider and calls the soul away to

strange, distant parts, how is one to stay here? Don't forget your Masha; you won't find such another

"I loved you, Masha," Chertopkhanov muttered into the fingers in which he had buried his face.

"I love you, I love you madly, senselesslyand when I think now that you, in your right senses,

without rhyme or reason, are leaving me like this and going to wander over the face of the earthwell, it

strikes me that if I weren't a poor penniless devil, you wouldn't be throwing me over!"

"And he used to say I didn't care for money," she commented, and she gave Chertopkhanov a

"Come, at least you must let me give you some moneyhow can you go like this without a

Chertopkhanov shuddered. "Then it's only from thatfrom fear of penal servitude!"

Masha stood over him in silence. "I'm sorry for you, dear," she said with a sigh: "you're a good

She turned away and took two steps. The night had come on by now, and dim shadows were

closing in on all sides. Chertopkhanov jumped up swiftly and seized Masha from behind by her elbows.

"Goodbye!" Masha repeated sharply and significantly; she tore herself away and walked off.

Chertopkhanov looked after her, ran to the place where the pistol was lying, snatched it up, took

aim, fired. . . . But before he touched the trigger, his arm twitched upwards; the ball whistled over Masha's

head. She looked at him over her shoulder without stopping, and went on, swinging as she walked, as though

But before he had run fifty paces he suddenly stood still as though turned to stone. A wellknown,

too wellknown voice came floating to him. Masha was singing. "It was in the sweet days of youth," she

sang; every note seemed to linger plaintive and ardent in the evening air. Chertopkhanov listened intently.

The voice retreated and retreated; at one moment it died away, at the next it floated across, hardly audible,

"She does it to spite me," thought Chertopkhanov; but at once he moaned, "oh, no! it's her last

The next day he appeared at the lodgings of Mr. Yaff, who, as a true man of the world, not liking

the solitude of the country, resided in the district town, "to be nearer the young ladies," as he expressed it.

Chertopkhanov did not find Yaff: he had, in the words of his valet, set off for Moscow the evening before.

"Then it is so!" cried Chertopkhanov furiously; "there was an arrangement between them; she has

He broke into the young cavalry captain's room in spite of the resistance of the valet. In the room

there was hanging over the sofa a portrait in oils of the master, in the Uhlan uniform. "Ah, here you are, you

tailless ape!" thundered Chertopkhanov; he jumped on to the sofa and with a blow of his fist burst a big hole

"Tell your worthless master," he turned to the valet, "that, in the absence of his own filthy phiz, the

nobleman Chertopkhanov put a hole through the painted one; and if he cares for satisfaction from me, he

knows where to find the nobleman Chertopkhanov! or else I'll find him out myself! I'll fetch the rascally ape

Saying these words, Chertopkhanov jumped off the sofa and majestically withdrew.

But the cavalry captain Yaff did not demand satisfaction from himindeed, he never met him

anywhereand Chertopkhanov did not think of seeking his enemy out, and no scandal followed. Masha

herself soon after this disappeared beyond all trace. Chertopkhanov took to drink; however, he "reformed"

II This was the death of his bosom friend Tikhon Ivanich Nedopyuskin. His health had begun to

fail two years before his death: he began to suffer from asthma, and was constantly dropping asleep, and on

waking up could not at once come to himself; the district doctor maintained that this was the result of "little

fits." During the three days which preceded Masha's departure, those three days when "her heart was heavy,"

Nedopyuskin had been away at his own place at Besselendeyevka: he had been laid up with a severe cold.

Masha's conduct was consequently even more unexpected for him; it made almost a deeper impression on

him than on Chertopkhanov himself. With his natural sweetness and diffidence, he gave utterance to nothing

but the tenderest sympathy with his friend, and the most painful perplexity . . . but it crushed and made havoc

of everything in him. "She has torn the heart out of me," he would murmur to himself as he sat on his

favourite sofa and twisted his fingers. Even when Chertopkhanov had got over it, he, Nedopyuskin, did not

recover, and still felt that "there was a void within him." "Here," he would say, pointing to the middle of his

breast above his stomach. In that way he lingered on till the winter. When the frosts came, his asthma got

better, but he was visited by, not a "little fit" this time, but a real, unmistakable fit. He did not lose his

memory at once: he still knew Chertopkhanov, and to his friend's cry of despair, "How can you desert me,

Tikhon, without my consent, just as Masha did?" he even responded with faltering, uncertain tongue, "O. . .

This did not, however, prevent him from dying the same day, without waiting for the district

doctor, who (on seeing the hardly cold body) found nothing left for him to do but, with a melancholy

recognition of the instability of all things mortal, to ask for "a drop of vodka and a snack of fish." As might

have been anticipated, Tikhon Ivanich had bequeathed his property to his revered patron and generous

protector, Pantelei Eremeich Chertopkhanov; but it was of no great benefit to the revered patron, as it was

shortly after sold by public auction, partly in order to cover the expense of a sepulchral monument, a statue,

which Chertopkhanov (and one can see his father's craze coming out in him here) had thought fit to put up

over the ashes of his friend. This statue, which was to have represented an angel praying, was ordered by him

from Moscow; but the agent recommended to him, conceiving that connoisseurs in sculpture were not often

to be met with in the provinces, sent him, instead of an angel, a goddess Flora, which had for many years

adorned one of those neglected gardens near Moscow, laid out in the days of Catherine. He had an excellent

reason for doing so, since this statue, though highly artistic, in the rococo style, with plump little arms,

tossing curls, a wreath of roses round the bare bosom, and a serpentine figure, was obtained by him, the

agent, for nothing. And so to this day the mythological goddess stands, with one foot elegantly lifted, above

the tomb of Tikhon Ivanich and with a genuinely Pompadour simper, gazes at the calves and sheep, those

On the loss of his faithful friend, Chertopkhanov again took to drink, and this time far more seriously.

Everything went utterly to the bad with him. He had no money left for sport; the last of his meagre fortune

was spent; the last of his few servants ran away. Pantelei Eremeich's isolation became complete: he had no

one to speak a word to even, far less to open his heart to. His pride alone had suffered no diminution. On the

contrary, the worse his surroundings became, the more haughty and lofty and inaccessible he was himself. He

became a complete misanthrope in the end. One distraction, one delight, was left him: a superb grey horse of

As he was riding one day through a neighbouring village, Chertopkhanov heard a crowd of

peasants shouting and hooting before a tavern. In the middle of the crowd stalwart arms were continually

"What is happening there?" he asked, in the peremptory tone peculiar to him, of an old peasant

woman who was standing on the threshold of her hut. Leaning against the doorpost as though dozing, the

old woman stared in the direction of the tavern. A whiteheaded urchin in a print smock, with a

cypresswood cross on his little bare breast, was sitting, with little outstretched legs, and little clenched fists,

between her bast shoes; a chicken close by was chipping at a stale crust of rye bread.

"The Lord knows, your honour," answered the old woman. Bending forward, she laid her wrinkled

"The Lord knows, your honour. A Jew came among us; and where he's come fromwho knows?

"I don't know, your honour. No doubt, he deserves it. And, indeed, why not beat him? You know,

Chertopkhanov uttered a whoop, gave his horse a lash on the neck with the ridingwhip, flew

straight towards the crowd, and plunging into it, began with the same ridingwhip thrashing the peasants to

left and to right indiscriminately, shouting in broken tones, "Lawless brutes! lawless brutes! It's for the law to

Before two minutes had passed the crowd had beaten a retreat in various directions; and on the

ground before the tavern door could be seen a small, thin, swarthy creature, in a long nankin coat, dishevelled

and mangled. . . a pale face, rolling eyes, open mouth. . . . What was it? . . . deadly terror, or death itself?

"Why have you killed this Jew?" Chertopkhanov shouted at the top of his voice, brandishing his

The crowd muttered faintly in response. One peasant was rubbing his shoulder, another his side, a

But at this point, the creature lying on the ground hurriedly jumped on to its feet, and, running up

"Your exshelency, defend me, save me!" the unhappy Jew was faltering meanwhile, his whole

body squeezed up against Chertopkhanov's foot; "or they will murder me, they will murder me, your

"I can't tell, so help me God! Some cows hereabouts died . . . so they suspect me . . . but I. . . ."

"Well, that we'll go into later!" Chertopkhanov interrupted. "But now, you hold on to the saddle

and follow me. And you!" he added, turning to the crowd, "do you know me?I'm the landlord Pantelei

Chertopkhanov. I live at Bessonovo . . . and so you can take proceedings against me, when you think

"Why take proceedings?" said a greybearded, decentlooking peasant, bowing low, the very

picture of an ancient patriarch. (He had been no whit behind the others in belabouring the Jew, however.)

"We know your honour, Pantelei Eremeich, well; we thank your honour humbly for teaching us better!"

"Why take proceedings?" chimed in the others. "As to the Jew, we'll take it out of him another day!

Chertopkhanov pulled his moustaches, snorted, and went home at a walking pace, accompanied by

the Jew, whom he had delivered from his persecutors just as he had once delivered Tikhon Nedopyuskin.

A few days later the one groom who was left to Chertopkhanov announced that someone had come on

horseback and wanted to speak to him. Chertopkhanov went out on to the steps and recognized the Jew,

riding a splendid horse of the Don breed, which stood proud and motionless in the middle of the courtyard.

The Jew was bareheaded; he held his cap under his arm, and had thrust his feet into the stirrupstraps, not

into the stirrups themselves; the ragged skirts of his long coat hung down on both sides of the saddle. On

seeing Chertopkhanov, he gave a smack with his lips and ducked down with a twitch of the elbows and a

bend of the legs. Chertopkhanov, however, not only failed to respond to his greeting, but was even enraged

by it; he was all on fire in a minute: a scurvy Jew dare to ride a magnificent horse like that!. . . It was

"Hi, you Ethiopian fright!" he shouted; "get off at once, if you don't want to be flung off into the

The Jew promptly obeyed, rolled off the horse like a sack, and keeping hold of the rein with one

"Your exshelency, deign to look what a horse!" said the Jew, never ceasing to bow for an instant.

"Er . . . well . . . the horse is all right. Where did you. get it from? Stole it, I suppose?"

"How can you say that, your exshelency! I'm an honest Jew. I didn't steal it, but I obtained it for

your exshelencyreally! And the trouble, the trouble I had to get it? But, then, see what a horse it is!

There's not another horse like it to be found in all the Don country! Look, your exshelency, what a horse it

is! Here, kindly step this way! Wo! . . . wo! . . . turn round, stand sideways! And we'll take off the saddle.

"The horse is all right," repeated Chertopkhanov with affected indifference, though his heart was

beating like a sledgehammer in his breast. He was a passionate lover of horses, and knew a good thing when

"Only take a look at him, your exshelency! Pat him on the neck! yes, yes, hehehehe! like this,

Chertopkhanov, with apparent reluctance, laid his hand on the horse's neck; gave it a pat or two,

then passed his fingers from the forelock along the spine, and when he had reached a certain spot above the

kidneys, like a connoisseur, he lightly pressed that spot. The horse instantly arched its spine, and looking

round suspiciously at Chertopkhanov with its haughty black eye, snorted and moved its forelegs.

The Jew laughed and faintly clapped his hands. "He knows his master, your exshelency, his

"Don't talk nonsense," Chertopkhanov interrupted with vexation. "To buy this horse from you . . . I

haven't the means, and as for presents, I not only wouldn't take them from a Jew, I wouldn't take a present

"As though I would presume to offer you a present, mercy upon me!" cried the Jew; "you buy it,

"And the money . . . when?" he asked, scowling furiously and not looking at the Jew.

Chertopkhanov flung his head back but did not raise his eyes. "That's no answer. Speak plainly,

"Well, let's say, then," the Jew hastened to add, "in six months' time. Do you agree?"

The Jew tried to get a look at his face. "Do you agree? You permit him to be led to your stable?"

"The saddle I don't want," Chertopkhanov blurted out abruptly. "Take the saddledo you hear?"

"To be sure, to be sure, I will take it," faltered the delighted Jew, shouldering the saddle.

"And the money," Chertopkhanov pursued, "in six months. And not two hundred, but two hundred

Chertopkhanov still could not bring himself to raise his eyes. Never had his pride been so cruelly

"It's plain, it's a present," was the thought in his mind; "he's brought it out of gratitude, the devil!"

"Your exshelency," began the Jew, gaining a little courage, and grinning all over his face,

"What next? what an idea! A Hebrew . . . and Russian customs! Hey! you there! Take the horse;

lead him to the stable. And give him some oats. I'll come myself and look after him. And his name is to

Chertopkhanov made to go up the steps, but turning sharply back and running up to the Jew, he

pressed his hand warmly. The latter was bending down to kiss his hand, but Chertopkhanov bounded back

From that very day the chief interest, the chief occupation, the chief pleasure in the life of Chertopkhanov,

was MalekAdel. He loved him as he had not loved even Masha; he became more attached to him than even

to Nedopyuskin. "And what a horse it was! All firesimply explosive as gunpowderand stately as a

boyar! Untiring, enduring, obedient, whatever you might put him to; and costing nothing for his keep; he'd be

ready to nibble at the ground under his feet if there was nothing else. When he stepped at a walking pace, it

was like being lulled to sleep in a nurse's arms; when he trotted, it was like rocking at sea; when he galloped,

he outstripped the wind! Never out of breath, perfectly sound in his wind. Sinews of steel: for him to stumble

was a thing never recorded! To take a ditch or a fence was nothing to himand what a clever beast! At his

master's voice he would run with his head in the air; if you told him to stand still and walked away from him,

he would not stir; directly you turned back, a faint neigh to say, 'Here I am.' And afraid of nothing: in the

pitch dark, in a snowstorm he would find his way; and he would not let a stranger come near him for

anything; he would have his teeth in him! And a dog dare never approach him: he would have his foreleg on

his head in a minute! and that was the end of the beast. A horse of proper pride, you might flourish a switch

over him as an ornamentbut God forbid you touched him! But why say more?a perfect treasure, not a

If Chertopkhanov set to describing his MalekAdel, he expressed himself in glowing words. And

how he petted and pampered him! His coat shone like silver not old, but new silverwith a dark polish on

it; if one passed one's hand over it, it was like velvet! His saddle, his cloth, his bridleall his trappings, in

fact, were so wellfitted, in such good order, so brighta perfect picture! Chertopkhanov himselfwhat

more can we say? with his own hands plaited his favourite's forelocks and mane, and washed his tail with

beer, and even, more than once, rubbed his hoofs with polish. Sometimes he would mount MalekAdel and

ride out, not to see his neighbourshe avoided them, as of oldbut across their lands, past their

homesteads . . . for them, poor fools, to admire him from a distance! Or he would hear that there was to be a

hunt somewhere, that a rich landlord had arranged a meet in some outlying part of his land: he would be off

there at once, and would canter in the distance, on the horizon, astounding all spectators by the swiftness and

beauty of his horse, and not letting anyone come close to him. Once some hunting landlord even gave chase

to him with all his suite; he saw Chertopkhanov was getting away, and he began shouting after him with all

his might, as he galloped at full speed, "Hey, you! Here! Take what you like for your horse! I wouldn't

Chertopkhanov suddenly reined in MalekAdel. The hunting gentleman flew up to him. "My dear

"If you were the Tsar," said Chertopkhanov emphatically (and he had never heard of Shakespeare),

"you might give me all your kingdom for my horse; I wouldn't take it!" He uttered these words, chuckled,

drew MalekAdel up on to his haunches, turned him in the air on his hind legs like a top or teetotum, and off

he went like a flash over the stubble. And the sportsman (a rich prince, they said, he was) flung his cap on the

ground, threw himself down with his face in his cap, and lay so for half an hour.

And how could Chertopkhanov fail to prize his horse? Was it not thanks to him he had again an

Meanwhile time went by, the day fixed for payment was approaching: while, far from having two hundred

and fifty rubles, Chertopkhanov had not even fifty. What was to be done? how could it be met? "Well," he

decided at last, "if the Jew is relentless, if he won't wait any longer, I'll give him my house and my land, and

I'll set off on my horse, no matter where! I'll starve before I'll give up MalekAdel!" He was greatly

perturbed and even downcast; but at this juncture Fate, for the first and last time, was pitiful and smiled upon

him: some distant kinswoman, whose very name was unknown to Chertopkhanov, left him in her will a sum

immense in his eyesno less than two thousand rubles! And he received this sum in the very nick, as they

say, of time: the day before the Jew was to come. Chertopkhanov almost went out of his mind with joy, but

he never even thought of vodka; from the very day MalekAdel came into his hands he had not touched a

drop. He ran into the stable and kissed his favourite on both sides of his face above the nostrils, where the

horse's skin is always so soft. "Now we shall not be parted!" he cried, patting MalekAdel on the neck, under

his wellcombed mane. When he went back into the house, he counted out and sealed up in a packet two

hundred and fifty rubles. Then, as he lay on his back and smoked a pipe, he mused on how he would lay out

the rest of the money what dogs he would procure, real Kostroma hounds, spot and tan, and no mistake!

He even had a little talk with Perfishka, to whom he promised a new Cossack coat, with yellow braid on all

He had a bad dream: he dreamt he was riding out, hunting, not on MalekAdel, but on some

strange beast of the nature of a unicorn; a white fox, white as snow, ran to meet him. . . . He tried to crack his

whip, tried to set the dogs on herbut instead of his ridingwhip, he found he had a wisp of bast in his hand,

and the fox ran in front of him, putting her tongue out at him. He jumped off, his unicorn stumbled, he fell . .

. and fell straight into the arms of a police constable, who was taking him before the GovernorGeneral, and

Chertopkhanov waked up. The room was dark; the cocks were just crowing for the second time. . .

Somewhere in the far, far distance a horse neighed. Chertopkhanov lifted up his head. Once more a faint,

"That's MalekAdel neighing!" was his thought. "It's his neigh. But why so far away? Bless us and

Chertopkhanov suddenly turned chill all over; he instantly leaped out of bed, fumbled after his

boots and his clothes, dressed himself, and, snatching up the stable door key from under his pillow, he dashed

The stable was at the very end of the courtyard; one wall faced the open country. Chertopkhanov could not at

once fit the key into the lockhis hands were shaking and he did not immediately turn the key. He stood

motionless, holding his breath; if only something would stir inside! "Malek! Malek!" he cried, in a low voice:

the silence of death! Chertopkhanov unconsciously jogged the key; the door creaked and opened. So, it was

not locked! He stepped over the threshold and again called his horse; this time by his full name, MalekAdel!

But no response came from his faithful companion; only a mouse rustled in the straw. Then Chertopkhanov

rushed into one of the three horseboxes in the stable in which MalekAdel was put. He went straight to the

horsebox, though it was pitch dark around. . . . Empty! Chertopkhanov's head went round; it seemed as

though a bell were booming in his brain. He tried to say something, but only brought out a sort of hiss; and

fumbling with his hands above, below, on all sides, breathless, with shaking knees, he made his way from

one horsestall to another . . . to a third, filled almost to the top with hay; stumbled against one wall, and then

the other; fell down, rolled over on his head, got up, and suddenly ran headlong through the halfopen door

The groom Perfishka flew head over heels out of the loft where he slept, with only his shirt on.

Like drunken men they ran against each other, the master and his solitary servant, in the middle of

the courtyard; like madmen they hopped round each other. The master could not explain what was the matter;

nor could the servant make out what was wanted of him. "Woe! woe!" wailed Chertopkhanov. "Woe! woe!"

the groom repeated after him. "A lantern! here! light a lantern! Light! light!" broke at last from

But to light the lantern, to get fire, was not easy: lucifer matches were regarded as a rarity in those

days in Russia; the last embers had long ago gone out in the kitchen; flint and steel were not quickly found,

and they did not work well. Gnashing his teeth, Chertopkhanov snatched them out of the hands of the

flustered Perfishka and began striking a light himself; the sparks fell in abundance, in still greater abundance

fell curses, and even groans; but the tinder either did not catch or went out again, in spite of the united efforts

of four swollen cheeks and lips to blow it into a flame! At last, in five minutes, not sooner, a bit of tallow

candle was alight at the bottom of a battered lantern; and Chertopkhanov, accompanied by Perfishka, dashed

He bounded out into the courtyard, ran up and down it in all directionsno horse anywhere! The

hurdle fence, enclosing Pantelei Eremeich's yard, had long been dilapidated, and in many places was bent and

lying on the ground. . . . Beside the stable, it had been completely levelled for a good yard's width. Perfishka

"Master! look here; this wasn't like this today. And there are the uprights; that means someone has

"Hoofs, hoofs, prints of horseshoes, fresh prints!" he muttered, speaking hurriedly. "They took

He instantly leaped over the fence, and with a shout, "MalekAdel! MalekAdel!" ran straight into

Perfishka remained standing bewildered at the fence. The ring of light from the lantern was soon

lost to his eyes, swallowed up in the dense darkness of a starless, moonless night.

It was daylight when he came home again. He hardly looked like a human being. His clothes were covered

with mud, his face had a wild and ferocious expression, his eyes looked dull arid sullen. In a hoarse whisper

he drove Perfishka away and locked himself in his room. He could hardly stand with fatigue, but he did not

But in what way had the thief contrived by night, when the stable was locked, to steal

MalekAdel? MalekAdel, who would never let a stranger come near him even by daysteal him, too,

without noise, without a sound? And how explain that not a yard dog had barked? It was true there were only

two lefttwo young puppiesand those two probably burrowing in rubbish from cold and hungerbut

"And what am I to do now without MalekAdel?" Chertopkhanov brooded. "I've lost my last

pleasure now; it's time to die. Buy another horse, seeing the money has come? But where find another horse

"Pantelei Eremeich! Pantelei Eremeich!" he heard a timid voice call at the door.

"Hohohohoho!" yelled Chertopkhanov, and he at once flung open the door. "Drag him here!

On seeing the sudden apparition of his "benefactor's" dishevelled, wildlooking figure, the Jew,

who was standing behind Perfishka's back, tried to give them the slip; but Chertopkhanov, in two bounds,

"Ah! he's come for the money! for the money!" he cried as hoarsely as though he were being

strangled himself instead of strangling the Jew; "you stole him by night, and are come by day for the money,

"Tell me, where's my horse? What have you done with him? Who have you sold him to? Tell me,

The Jew by now could not even groan; his face was rapidly turning livid, and even the expression

of fear had vanished from it. His hands dropped and hung lifeless, his whole body, furiously shaken by

"I'll pay you your money, I'll pay it you in full to the last kopek," roared Chertopkhanov, "but I'll

"But you have strangled him already, master," observed the groom Perfishka humbly.

He let go of the Jew's neck; the latter fell heavily to the ground. Chertopkhanov picked him up, sat

him on a bench, poured a glass of vodka down his throat, and restored him to consciousness. And having

It turned out that the Jew had not the slightest idea that MalekAdel had been stolen. And, indeed,

what motive could he have to steal the horse which he had himself procured for his "revered Pantelei

Together they scrutinized the horseboxes, the manger, and the lock on the door, turned over the

hay and the straw, and then went into the courtyard. Chertopkhanov showed the Jew the hoofprints on the

"Well, then, no one could have stolen him but he! Consider it yourself, listen, stand here!. . .

"Well, judge then, Moshel Leyba, my friendyou're a man of sensewhom would MalekAdel

have allowed to touch him except his old master? You see he must have saddled him and bridled him and

taken off his cloththere it is lying on the hay! . . . and made all his arrangements simply as if he were at

home! Why, anyone except his master, MalekAdel would have trampled underfoot! He'd have raised such a

"But how are we to find him, your exshelency? I have only seen him one little time in my life,

and where is he now, and what's his name? Alack, alack!" added the Jew, shaking the long curls over his ears

"Leyba!" shouted Chertopkhanov suddenly; "Leyba, look at me! You see I've lost my senses; I'm

"We'll go to the fairs, the highways and byways, to the horsestealers, to towns and villages and

hamletseverywhere, everywhere! And don't trouble about money; I've come into a fortune, brother! I'll

spend my last kopek, but I'll get my darling back! And he shan't escape us, our enemy, the Cossack! Where

he goes we'll go! If he's hidden in the earth we'll follow him! If he's gone to the devil, we'll follow him to

"Leyba!" Chertopkhanov went on; "Leyba, though you're a Jew, and your creed's an accursed one,

you've a soul better than many a Christian soul! Have pity on me! I can't go alone; alone I can never carry the

thing through. I'm a hotheaded fellow, but you've a braina brain worth its weight in gold! Your race are

like that; you succeed in everything without being taught! You're wondering, perhaps, where I could have got

the money? Come into my roomI'll show you all the money. You may take it, you may take the cross off

Chertopkhanov was shivering as if he were in a fever; the sweat rolled down his face in drops, and,

mingling with his tears, was lost in his moustaches. He pressed Leyba's hands, he besought him, he almost

kissed him. . . . He was in a sort of delirium. The Jew tried to object, to declare that it was utterly impossible

for him to get away; that he had business. . . . It was useless! Chertopkhanov would not even hear anything.

The next day Chertopkhanov set out from Bessonovo in a peasant cart, with Leyba. The Jew wore

a somewhat troubled aspect; he held on to the rail with one hand, while all his withered figure bounded up

and down on the jolting seat; the other hand he held pressed to his bosom, where lay a packet of notes

wrapped up in newsprint. Chertopkhanov sat like a statue, only moving his eyes about him and drawing in

"There, the miscreant who has parted us must look out for himself now!" he muttered, as they

His house he left in the charge of Perfishka and an old cook, a deaf peasant woman, whom he took

"I shall come back to you on MalekAdel," he shouted to them at parting, "or never come back at

"You might as well be married to me at once!" jested Perfishka, giving the cook a dig in the ribs

with his elbow. "No fear! the master'll never come back to us; and here I shall be bored to death all alone!"

A year passed . . . a whole year: no news had come of Pantelei Eremeich. The cook was dead; Perfishka

himself made up his mind to abandon the house and go off to town, where he was constantly being persuaded

to come by his cousin, apprenticed to a barber, when suddenly a rumour was set afloat that his master was

coming back. The parish deacon got a letter from Pantelei Eremeich himself, in which he informed him of his

intention of arriving at Bessonovo, and asked him to prepare his servant to be ready for his immediate return.

These words Perfishka understood to mean that he was to sweep up the place a bit. He did not, however, put

much confidence in the news; he was convinced, though, that the deacon had spoken the truth, when a few

days later Pantelei Eremeich in person appeared in the courtyard, riding on MalekAdel.

Perfishka rushed up to his master and, holding the stirrup, would have helped him to dismount, but

the latter got off alone, and with a triumphant glance about him, cried in a loud voice, "I said I would find

MalekAdel, and I have found him in spite of my enemies, and of Fate itself!" Perfishka went up to kiss his

hand, but Chertopkhanov paid no attention to his servant's devotion. Leading MalekAdel after him by the

rein, he went with long strides towards the stable. Perfishka looked more intently at his master, and his heart

sank. "Oh, how thin and old he's grown in a year; and what a stern, grim face!" One would have thought

Pantelei Eremeich would have been rejoicing that he had gained his end; and he was rejoicing, certainly . . .

and yet Perfishka's heart sank; he even felt a sort of dread. Chertopkhanov put the horse in its old place, gave

him a light pat on the back, and said, "There! now you're at home again; and mind what you're about." The

same day he hired a freedman out of work as watchman, established himself again in his rooms, and began

Not altogether as before, however . . . but of that later. The day after his return, Pantelei Eremeich

called Perfishka in to him, and for want of anyone else to talk to, began telling himkeeping up, of course,

his sense of his own dignity and his bass voicehow he had succeeded in finding MalekAdel.

Chertopkhanov sat facing the window while he told his story, and smoked a pipe with a long stem, while

Perfishka stood in the doorway, his hands behind his back, and, respectfully contemplating the back of his

master's head, heard him relate how, after many fruitless efforts and idle expeditions, Pantelei Eremeich had

at last come to the fair at Romni by himself, without the Jew Leyba, who, through weakness of character, had

not persevered, but had deserted him; how, on the fifth day, when he was on the point of leaving, he walked

for the last time along the rows of carts, and all at once he saw between three other horses fastened to the

railingshe saw MalekAdel! How he knew him at once, and how MalekAdel knew him, too, and began

"And he was not with the Cossack," Chertopkhanov went on, still not turning his head, and in the

same bass voice, "but with a gypsy horsedealer; I, of course, at once took hold of my horse and tried to get

him away by force, but the brute of a gypsy started yelling as if he'd been scalded, all over the market, and

began swearing he'd bought the horse off another gypsyand wanted to bring witnesses to prove it. I spat,

and paid him the money: damn the fellow! All I cared for was that I had found my favourite and had got back

my peace of mind. Moreover, in the Karachev District, I took a man for the CossackI took the Jew Leyba's

word for it that he was my thiefand smashed his face for him; but the Cossack turned out to be a priest's

son, and got damages out of mea hundred and twenty rubles. Well, money's a thing one may get again, but

the great thing is, I've MalekAdel back again! I'm happy nowI'm going to enjoy myself in peace. And I've

one instruction to give you, Perfishka: if ever you, which God forbid, catch sight of a Cossack in this

neighbourhood, run the very minute without saying a word, and bring me my gun, and I shall know what to

This was what Pantelei Eremeich said to Perfishka: that was how his tongue spoke; but at heart he

Alas! in his heart of hearts he was not perfectly convinced that the horse he had brought back was

Troubled times followed for Pantelei Eremeich. Peace was just the last thing he enjoyed. He had some happy

days, it is true; the doubt stirring within him would seem to him all nonsense: he would drive away the

ridiculous idea, like a persistent fly, and even laugh at himself; but he had bad days, too: the importunate

thought began again stealthily gnawing and tearing at his heart, like a mouse under the floor, and he existed

in secret torture. On the memorable day when he found MalekAdel, Chertopkhanov had felt nothing but

rapturous bliss; but the next morning, when, in a lowpitched shed of the inn, he began saddling his

recovered joy, beside whom he had spent the whole night, he felt for the first time a certain secret pang. He

only shook his head, but the seed was sown. During the homeward journey (it lasted a whole week) doubts

seldom arose in him; they grew stronger and more distinct directly he was back at Bessonovo, directly he was

home again in the place where the old authentic MalekAdel had lived. On the road home he had ridden at a

quiet, swinging pace, looking in all directions, smoking a short pipe, and not reflecting at all, except at times

the thought struck him: "When the Chertopkhanovs want a thing, they get it, you bet!" and he smiled to

himself; but on his return home it was a very different state of things. All this, however, he kept to himself;

vanity alone would have prevented him from giving utterance to his inner dread. He would have torn anyone

to pieces who dropped the most distant hint that the new MalekAdel was possibly not the old one; he

accepted congratulations on "the successful recovery of his horse," from the few persons whom he happened

to meet; but he did not seek such congratulations; he avoided all contact with people more than evera bad

sign! He was almost always putting MalekAdel through examinations, if one may use the expression; he

would ride him out to some point at a great distance in the open country, and put him to the proof, or would

go stealthily into the stable, lock the door after him, and standing right before the horse's head, look into his

eyes, and ask him in a whisper, "Is it you? Is it you? You?" . . . or else stare at him silently and intently for

hours together, and then mutter, brightening up, "Yes! it's he! Of course it's he!" or else go out with a

puzzled, even confused look on his face. Chertopkhanov was not so much confused by the physical

differences between this MalekAdel and that one . . . though there were a few such differences: that one's

tail and mane were a little thinner, and his ears more pointed, and his pasterns shorter, and his eyes

brighterbut all that might be only fancy; what confounded Chertopkhanov most were, so to say, the moral

differences. The habits of that one had been different: all his ways were not the same. For instance, that

MalekAdel had looked round and given a faint neigh every time Chertopkhanov went into the stable; while

this one went on munching hay as though nothing had happened, or dozed with his head bent. Both of them

stood still when their master leaped out of the saddle; but that one came at once at his voice when he was

called, while this one stood stockstill. That one galloped as fast, but with higher and longer bounds; this one

went with a freer step and at a more jolting trot, and at times "wriggled" with his shoesthat is, knocked the

back one against the front one; that one had never done anything so disgracefulGod forbid! This one, it

struck Chertopkhanov, kept twitching his ears in such a stupid way, while with that one it was quite the

contrary: he used to lay one ear back, and hold it so, as though on the alert for his master! That one, directly

he saw that it was dirty about him, would at once knock on the partition of his box with his hind leg, but this

one did not care if the dung was heaped up to his belly. That one, if, for instance, he were set facing the wind,

would take deep breaths and shake himself, this one simply snorted; that one was put out by the rain, this one

cared nothing for it. This was a coarser beastcoarser! And there wasn't the gentleness in it, and hard in the

This was what Chertopkhanov sometimes thought, and very bitter were such thoughts to him. At

other times he would set his horse at full gallop over some newly ploughed field, or would make him leap

down to the very bottom of a hollow ravine, and leap out again at the very steepest point, and his heart would

throb with rapture, a loud whoop would break from his lips, and he would know, would know for certain, that

it was the real, authentic MalekAdel he had under him, for what other horse could do what this one was

However, there were sometimes shortcomings and misfortunes even here. The prolonged search

for MalekAdel had cost Chertopkhanov a great deal of money; he did not even dream of Kostroma hounds

now, and rode about the neighbourhood in solitude as before. So one morning, five versts from Bessonovo,

Chertopkhanov chanced to come upon the same prince's hunting party before whom he had cut such a

triumphant figure a year and a half before. And, as Fate would have it, just as on that day the hare must go

leaping out from the hedge before the dogs, down the hillside! Tallyho! Tallyho! All the hunt fairly flew

after it, and Chertopkhanov flew along, too, but not with the rest of the party, but two hundred paces to one

side of it, just as he had done the time before. A huge watercourse ran zigzagging across the hillside, and as it

rose higher and higher got gradually narrower, cutting off Chertopkhanov's path. At the point where he had to

jump it, and where, eighteen months before, he actually had jumped it, it was still eight feet wide and

fourteen feet deep. In anticipation of a triumpha triumph repeated in such a delightful

wayChertopkhanov chuckled exultantly, cracking his ridingwhip; the hunting party were galloping, too,

their eyes fixed on the daring rider; his horse whizzed along like a bullet, and now the watercourse was just

under his nosenow, now, at one leap, as then!. . . But MalekAdel pulled up sharply, wheeled to the left,

and in spite of Chertopkhanov's tugging him to the edge, to the watercourse, he galloped along beside the

Then Chertopkhanov, burning with shame and wrath, almost in tears, dropped the reins and set the

horse going straight forward, up the hill, away, away from the hunting party, if only not to hear them jeering

"No, it's not he; it's not my darling! He would have broken his neck before he would have betrayed

What finally "did for," as they say, Chertopkhanov was the following circumstance. One day he sauntered,

riding on MalekAdel, about the backyards of the priests' quarters round about the church of the parish in

which is Bessonovo. Huddled up, with his Cossack fur cap pulled down over his eyes, and his hands hanging

loose on the saddlebow, he jogged slowly on, a vague discontent in his heart. Suddenly someone called him.

He stopped his horse, raised his head, and saw his correspondent, the deacon. With a brown,

threecornered hat on his brown hair, which was plaited in a pigtail, attired in a yellowish nankin long coat,

girt much below the waist by a strip of blue stuff, the servant of the altar had come out into his backgarden,

and, catching sight of Pantelei Eremeich, he thought it his duty to pay his respects to him, and to take the

opportunity of doing so to beseech some sort of favour. Without some such hidden motive, as we know,

But Chertopkhanov was in no mood for the deacon; he barely responded to his bow, and,

muttering something between his teeth, he was already cracking his whip, when. . . .

"What a magnificent horse you have!" the deacon made haste to add; "and really you can take

credit to yourself for it. Truly you're a man of amazing cleverness, simply a lion indeed!"

His reverence the deacon prided himself on his fluency, which was a great source of vexation to

his reverence the priest, to whom the gift of words had not been vouchsafed; even vodka did not loosen his

"After losing one animal by the cunning of evil men," continued the deacon, "you did not lose

courage in repining; but, on the other hand, trusting the more confidently in Divine Providence, procured

yourself another, in no wise inferior, but even, one may say, superior, since. . . ."

"What nonsense are you talking?" Chertopkhanov interrupted gloomily; "what other horse do you

mean? This is the same one; this is MalekAdel. . . . I found him. The fellow's raving!"

"Ay! ay! ay!" responded the deacon emphatically with a sort of drawl, drumming with his fingers

in his beard and eyeing Chertopkhanov with his bright eager eyes. "How's that, sir? Your horse, God help my

memory, was stolen a fortnight after Intercession last year, and now we're near the end of November."

"Why, it follows that more than a year's gone by since then, and your horse was a dapple grey then,

just as it is now; in fact, it seems even darker. How's that? Grey horses get a great deal lighter in colour in a

Chertopkhanov started . . . as though someone had driven a dagger into his heart. It was true: the

grey colour did change! How was it such a simple reflection had never occurred to him?

"You damned pigtail! leave me alone!" he yelled suddenly, his eyes flashing with fury, and in a

Now, at last, everything was really over, everything was shattered, the last card trumped.

That this worthless jade was not MalekAdel; that between him and MalekAdel there was not the smallest

resemblance; that any man of the slightest sense would have seen this from the first minute; that he,

Chertopkhanov, had been taken in in the vulgarest wayno! that he purposely, of set intent, tricked himself,

Chertopkhanov walked up and down in his room, turning monotonously on his heels at each wall,

like a beast in a cage. His vanity suffered intolerably; but he was not only tortured by the sting of wounded

vanity; he was overwhelmed by despair, stifled by rage, and burning with the thirst for revenge. But rage

against whom? On whom was he to be revenged? On the Jew, Yaff, Masha, the deacon, the Cossackthief,

all his neighbours, the whole world, himself? His brain was giving way. The last card was trumped! (That

simile gratified him.) And he was again the most worthless, the most contemptible of men, a common

laughingstock, a motley fool, a damned idiot, an object for jibesto a deacon!. . . He fancied, he pictured

vividly how that loathsome pigtailed priest would tell the story of the grey horse and the foolish gentleman. O

damn! In vain Chertopkhanov tried to check his rising passion, in vain he tried to assure himself that this . . .

horse, though not MalekAdel, was still . . . a good horse, and might be of service to him for many years to

come; he put this thought away from him on the spot with fury, as though there were contained in it a new

insult to that MalekAdel whom he considered he had wronged so already. . . Yes, indeed! this jade, this

carrion he, like a blind idiot, had put on a level with him, MalekAdel! And as to the service the jade could

be to him! . . . as though he would ever deign to get astride of him? Never! on no consideration!!. . . He

would sell him to a Tartar for dog's meatit deserved no better end. . . . Yes, that would be best!

"Perfishka!" he called peremptorily all of a sudden, "run this minute to the tavern; fetch a gallon of

vodka! Do you hear? A gallon, and look sharp! I want the vodka this very second here, on the table!"

The vodka was not long in making its appearance on Pantelei Eremeich's table, and he began

If anyone had looked at Chertopkhanov then; if anyone could have been a witness of the sullen exasperation

with which he drained glass after glasshe would inevitably have felt an involuntary shudder of fear. The

night came on, the tallow candle burnt dimly on the table. Chertopkhanov ceased wandering from corner to

corner; he sat all flushed, with dull eyes, which he dropped at one time on the floor, at another fixed

obstinately on the dark window; he got up, poured out some vodka, drank it off, sat down again, again fixed

his eyes on one point, and did not stironly his breathing grew quicker and his face still more flushed. It

seemed as though some resolution were ripening within him, which he was himself ashamed of, but which he

was gradually getting used to; one single thought kept obstinately and undeviatingly moving up closer and

closer, one single image stood out more and more distinctly, and under the burning weight of heavy

drunkenness the angry irritation was replaced by a feeling of ferocity in his heart, and a vindictive smile

"Yes, the time has come!" he declared in a matteroffact, almost weary tone. "I must get to

He drank off the last glass of vodka, took from over his bed the pistolthe very pistol from which

he had shot at Mashaloaded it, put some cartridges in his pocketto be ready for anythingand went

The watchman ran up to him when he began to open the door, but he shouted to him, "It's I! Are

you blind? Get out!" The watchman moved a little aside. "Get out and go to bed!" Chertopkhanov shouted at

him again: "there's nothing for you to guard here! A mighty wonder, a treasure indeed to watch over!" He

went into the stable. MalekAdel . . . the spurious MalekAdel, was lying on his litter. Chertopkhanov gave

him a kick; saying, "Get up, you brute!" Then he unhooked a halter from a nail, took off the horsecloth and

flung it on the ground, and roughly turning the submissive horse round in the box, led it out into the

courtyard, and from the yard into the open country, to the great amazement of the watchman, who could not

make out at all where the master was going off to by night, leading an unharnessed horse. He was, of course,

afraid to question him, and only followed him with his eyes till he disappeared at the bend in the road leading

Chertopkhanov walked with long strides, not stopping nor looking round. MalekAdelwe will call him by

that name to the endfollowed him meekly. It was a rather clear night; Chertopkhanov could make out the

jagged outline of the forest, which formed a black mass in front of him. When he got into the chill night air,

he would certainly have thrown off the intoxication of the vodka he had drunk, if it had not been for another,

stronger intoxication, which completely overmastered him. His head was heavy, his blood pulsed in thuds in

He had made up his mind to kill MalekAdel; he had thought of nothing else the whole day. Now

He went out to do this thing not only calmly, but confidently, unhesitatingly, as a man going about

something from a sense of duty. This "job" seemed a very "simple" thing to him; in making an end of the

impostor, he was quits with "everyone" at oncehe punished himself for his stupidity, and made expiation to

his real darling, and showed the whole world (Chertopkhanov worried himself a great deal about the "whole

world") that he was not to be trifled with. And, above all, he was making an end of himself, too, with the

impostorfor what had he to live for now? How all this took shape in his brain, and why it seemed to him so

simpleit is not easy to explain, though not altogether impossible; stung to the quick, solitary, without a

human soul near to him, without a kopek, and with his blood on fire with vodka, he was in a state bordering

on madness, and there is no doubt that even in the absurdest freaks of mad people there is, to their eyes, a sort

of logic, and even justice. Of his justice Chertopkhanov was, at any rate, fully persuaded; he did not hesitate,

he made haste to carry out sentence on the guilty without giving himself any clear definition of whom he

meant by that term. To tell the truth, he reflected very little on what he was about to do. "I must, I must make

an end," was what he kept stubbornly and severely repeating to himself; "I must make an end!"

And the guiltless guilty one followed in a submissive trot behind his back. But there was no pity

Not far from the forest to which he was leading his horse there stretched a small ravine, half overgrown with

young oak bushes. Chertopkhanov went down into it. MalekAdel stumbled and almost fell on him.

"So you would crush me, would you, you damned brute!" shouted Chertopkhanov, and, as though

in selfdefence, he pulled the pistol out of his pocket. He no longer felt furious exasperation, but that special

numbness of the senses which they say comes over a man before the perpetration of a crime. But his own

voice terrified himit sounded so wild and strange under the cover of dark branches in the close, decaying

dampness of the forest ravine! Moreover, in response to his exclamation, some great bird suddenly fluttered

in a treetop above his head. . . . Chertopkhanov shuddered. He had, as it were, roused a witness to his

"Away with you, devil, to the four winds of heaven!" he muttered, and letting go MalekAdel's

rein, he gave him a violent blow on the shoulder with the butt end of the pistol. MalekAdel promptly turned

back, clambered out of the ravine . . . and trotted away. But the thud of his hoofs was not long audible. The

Chertopkhanov, too, slowly clambered out of the ravine, reached the forest, and made his way

along the road homewards. He was ill at ease with himself; the weight he had felt in his head and his heart

had spread over all his limbs; he walked along angry, gloomy, dissatisfied, hungry, as though someone had

Suddenly something poked him behind between his shoulderblades. He looked round.

MalekAdel was standing in the middle of the road. He had walked after his master; he touched him with his

"Ah!" shouted Chertopkhanov, "of yourself, of yourself you have come to your death! So, there!"

In the twinkling of an eye he had snatched out his pistol, drawn the trigger, turned the muzzle on

The poor horse sprung aside, rose on its haunches, bounded ten paces away, and suddenly fell

Chertopkhanov put his two hands over his ears and ran away. His knees were shaking under him.

Drunkenness and revenge and blind selfconfidenceall had flown at once. There was left nothing but a

sense of shame and loathingand the consciousness, unmistakable, that this time he had put an end to

Six weeks later, the groom Perfishka thought it his duty to stop the commissioner of police as he happened to

"If you please, Your Excellency, come into our house," answered the groom with a low bow.

"Pantelei Eremeich, I fancy, is about to die; so that I'm afraid of getting into trouble."

"Yes, sir. First, his honour drank vodka every day, and now he's taken to his bed and got very thin.

I fancy his honour does not understand anything now. He's lost his tongue completely."

"Have you sent for the priest, at least? Has your master been confessed? Taken the sacrament?"

The commissioner frowned. "How is that, my boy? How can that behey? Don't you know that

"Indeed, and I did ask him the day before yesterday, and yesterday again," protested the

intimidated groom. "'Wouldn't you, Pantelei Eremeich,' says I, 'let me run for the priest, sir?' 'You hold your

tongue, idiot,' says he; 'mind your own business.' But today, when I began to address him, his honour only

An astounding sight was in store for him. In a damp, dark backroom, on a wretched bedstead

covered with a horsecloth, with a rough felt cloak for a pillow, lay Chertopkhanov. He was not pale now,

but yellowishgreen, like a corpse, with sunken eyes under leaden lids and a sharp, pinched nosestill

reddishabove his dishevelled whiskers. He lay dressed in his invariable Caucasian coat, with the cartridge

pockets on the breast, and blue Circassian trousers. A Cossack cap with a crimson crown covered his

forehead to his very eyebrows. In one hand Chertopkhanov held his hunting whip, in the other an

embroidered tobacco pouchMasha's last gift to him. On a table near the bed stood an empty spirit bottle,

and at the head of the bed were two watercolour sketches pinned to the wall; one represented, as far as could

be made out, a fat man with a guitar in his handprobably Nedopyuskin; the other portrayed a horseman

galloping at full speed. The horse was like those fabulous animals which are sketched by children on walls

and fences; but the carefully washedin dappling of the horse's grey coat, and the cartridge pockets on the

rider's breast, the pointed toes of his boots, and the immense moustaches, left no room for doubtthis sketch

The astonished commissioner of police did not know how to proceed. The silence of death reigned

in the room. "Why, he's dead already!" he thought, and raising his voice, he said, "Pantelei Eremeich! Eh,

Then something extraordinary occurred. Chertopkhanov's eyelids slowly opened, the eyes, fast

growing dim, moved first from right to left, then from left to right, rested on the commissionersaw him. . .

. Something gleamed in their dull whites, the semblance of a flash came back to them, the blue lips were

"Pantelei Eremeich of the ancient hereditary nobility is dying: who can hinder him? He owes no

The hand holding the whip tried to lift it. . . . In vain! The lips cleaved together again, the eyes

closed, and as before Chertopkhanov lay on his comfortless bed, flat as an empty sack, and his feet close

"Let me know when he dies," the commissioner whispered to Perfishka as he went out of the room;

"and I suppose you can send for the priest now. You must observe due order; give him extreme unction."

Perfishka went that same day for the priest, and the following morning he had to let the

When they buried him, two men followed his coffin: the groom Perfishka and Moshel Leyba. The

news of Chertopkhanov's death had somehow reached the Jew, and he did not fail to pay this last act of

A FRENCH proverb says that "a dry fisherman and a wet hunter are a sorry sight." Never having

had any taste for fishing, I cannot decide what are the fisherman's feelings in fine bright weather, and how far

in bad weather the pleasure derived from the abundance of fish compensates for the unpleasantness of being

wet. But for the sportsman rain is a real calamity. It was to just this calamity that Yermolai and I were

exposed on one of our expeditions after grouse in the Belev District. The rain never ceased from early

morning. What didn't we do to escape it? We put mackintosh capes almost right over our heads, and stood

under the trees to avoid the raindrops. The waterproof capes, to say nothing of their hindering our shooting,

let the water through in the most shameless fashion; and under the trees, though at first, certainly, the rain did

not reach us, afterwards the water collected on the leaves suddenly rushed through, every branch dripped on

us like a waterspout, a chill stream made its way under our neckties and trickled down our spines. . . . This

was "the limit," as Yermolai expressed it. "No, Pyotr Petrovich," he cried at last; "we can't go on like this.

There's no shooting today. The dogs' scent is drowned. The guns misfire. . . . Pugh! What a mess!"

"Well, let's go to Alekseyevka. You don't know it, perhapsthere's a hamlet of that name

belonging to your mother; it's seven versts from here. We'll stay the night there, and tomorrow. . . ."

"No, not here. I know of some places beyond Alekseyevka . . . ever so much better than here for

I did not proceed to question my faithful companion why he had not taken me to those

partsbefore, and the same day we made our way to my mother's hamlet, the existence of which, I must

confess, I had not even suspected up till then. At this hamlet, it turned out, there was a little lodge. It was very

old, but, as it had not been inhabited, it was clean; I passed a fairly tranquil night in it.

The next day I woke up very early. The sun had only just risen: there was not a single cloud in the

sky: everything around shone with a double brilliancethe brightness of the fresh morning rays and of

yesterday's downpour. While they were harnessing me a cart, I went for a stroll about a small orchard, now

neglected and run wild, which enclosed the little lodge on all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. Ah, how

sweet it was in the open air, under the bright sky, where the larks were trilling, whence their belllike notes

rained down like silvery beads! On their wings, doubtless, they had carried off drops of dew, and their songs

seemed steeped in dew. I took my cap off my head and drew a glad deep breath. On the slope of a shallow

ravine, close to the hedge, could be seen a beegarden; a narrow path led to it, winding like a snake between

dense walls of high grass and nettles, above which struggled up, God knows whence brought, the pointed

I turned along this path; I reached the beehives. Beside them stood a little wattled shanty, where

they put the beehives for the winter. I peeped into the halfopen door; it was dark, still, dry within; there was

a scent of mint and balm. In the corner were some trestles fitted together, and on them, covered with a quilt, a

"Master, master! Pyotr Petrovich!" I heard a voice, faint, slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of

"Pyotr Petrovich! Come in, please!" the voice repeated. It came from the corner where were the

I drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. Before me lay a living human being; but what

A head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue like some very ancient holy picture, yellow

with age; a sharp nose like a keenedged knife; the lips could barely be seenonly the teeth flashed white

and the eyes; and from under the kerchief some thin wisps of yellow hair straggled on to the forehead. At the

chin, where the quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same coppery hue were moving, the fingers slowly

twitching like little sticks. I looked more intently; the face, far from being ugly, was positively beautiful, but

strange and dreadful; and the face seemed the more dreadful to me that on iton its metallic cheeksI saw,

"You don't recognize me, master?" whispered the voice again; it seemed to be breathed from the

almost unmoving lips. "And, indeed, how should you? I'm Lukerya. . . . Do you remember, who used to lead

the dance at your mother's, at Spasskoye?. . . Do you remember, I used to be leader of the choir, too?"

I did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefaction at the dark motionless face with the clear,

deathlike eyes fastened upon me. Was it possible? This mummy, Lukeryathe greatest beauty in all our

householdthat tall, plump, pinkandwhite, singing, laughing, dancing creature! Lukerya, our smart

Lukerya, whom all our lads were courting, for whom I heaved some secret sighsI, a boy of sixteen!

"Oh, such a misfortune befell me! But don't mind me, sir; don't let my trouble revolt you; sit there

on that little tuba little nearer, or you won't be able to hear me. I've not much of a voice nowadays!. . .

"Tell you about my trouble? Certainly, sir. It happened to me a long while ago nowsix or seven

years. I had only just been betrothed then to Vasily Polyakov do you remember, such a finelooking

fellow he was, with curly hair?he waited at table at your mother's. But you weren't in the country then; you

had gone away to Moscow to your studies. We were very much in love, Vasily and me; I could never get him

out of my head; and it was in the spring it all happened. Well, one night . . . not long before sunrise, it was . . .

I couldn't sleep; a nightingale in the garden was singing so wonderfully sweet!. . . I could not help getting up

and going out on to the steps to listen. It trilled and trilled . . . and all at once I fancied someone called me; it

seemed like Vasily's voice, so softly, 'Lukerya dear!. . .' I looked round, and being half asleep, I suppose, I

missed my footing and fell straight down from the top step, and flop on to the ground! And I thought I wasn't

much hurt, for I got up directly and went back to my room. Only it seems something inside mein my

Lukerya ceased, and I looked at her with surprise. What surprised me particularly was that she told

her story almost cheerfully, without sighs and groans, not complaining nor asking for sympathy.

"Ever since that happened," Lukerya went on, "I began to pine away and get thin; my skin got

dark; walking was difficult for me: and thenI lost the use of my legs altogether; I couldn't stand or sit; I

had to lie down all the time. And I didn't care to eat or drink; I got worse and worse. Your mamma, in the

kindness of her heart, made me see doctors, and sent me to a hospital. But there was no curing me. And not

one doctor could even say what my illness was. What didn't they do to me?they burnt my spine with hot

irons, they put me in lumps of ice, and it was all no good. I got quite numb in the end. . . . So the mistress

decided it was no use doctoring me any more, and there was no sense in keeping cripples up at the great

house . . . well, and so they sent me herebecause I've relations here. So here I live, as you see."

"But this is awfulyour position!" I cried. And not knowing how to go on, I asked, "And what of

"What of Polyakov? He grievedhe grieved for a bitand he is married to another, a girl from

Glinnoye. Do you know Glinnoye? It's not far from us. Her name's Agrafena. He loved me dearlybut, you

see, he's a young man; he couldn't stay a bachelor. And what sort of a helpmeet could I be? The wife he found

for himself is a good, sweet womanand they have children. He lives here; he's a clerk at a neighbour's;

your mamma let him go off with a passport, and he's doing very well, praise God."

"Yes, sir, I've been lying here seven years. In the summertime I lie here in this shanty, and when it

"Oh, there are kind folks here as everywhere: they don't desert me. Yes, they see to me a little. As

to food, I eat nothing to speak of: but water is here, in the pitcher; it's always kept full of pure spring water. I

can reach to the pitcher myself: I've one arm still of use. There's a little girl here, an orphan; now and then she

comes to see me, the kind child. She was here just now. . . . You didn't meet her? Such a pretty, fair little

thing. She brings me flowers. We've no flowers in the gardenthere were somebut they've all

disappeared. But, you know, wild flowers, too, are nice; they smell even sweeter than garden flowers. Lilies

"Why, what is one to do? I wouldn't tell a lie about it. At first it was very wearisome; but later on I

got used to it, I got more patientit was nothing; there are others worse off still."

"Why, some haven't a roof to shelter them, and there are some blind or deaf; while I, thank God,

have splendid sight, and hear everythingeverything. If a mole burrows in the groundI hear even that.

And I can smell every scent, even the faintest! When the buckwheat comes into flower in the meadow, or the

limetree in the gardenI don't need to be told of it, even; I'm the first to know directly. Anyway, if there's

the least bit of a wind blowing from that quarter. No, he who stirs God's wrath is far worse off than me. Look

at this, again: anyone in health may easily fall into sin; but I'm cut off even from sin. The other day, father

Alexei, the priest, came to give me the sacrament, and he says: 'There's no need,' says he, 'to confess you; you

can't fall into sin in your condition, can you?' But I said to him, 'How about sinning in thought, father?' 'Ah,

"But I fancy I'm no great sinner even in that way, in thought," Lukerya went on, "for I've trained

I must own I was astonished. "You're always alone, Lukerya: how can you prevent the thoughts

"Oh, no, sir! I can't always sleep. Though I've no great pain, still I've an ache, there, right inside,

and in my bones, too; it won't let me sleep as I ought. No . . . but there, I lie by myself; I lie here and don't

think; I feel that I'm alive, I breathe; and I put myself all into that. I look and listen. The bees buzz and hum in

the hive; a dove sits on the roof and coos; a hen comes along with her chickens to peck up crumbs; or a

sparrow flies in, or a butterflythat's a great treat for me. Last year some swallows even built a nest over

there in the corner, and brought up their little ones. Oh, how interesting it was! One would fly to the nest,

press close, feed the young ones, and off again. Look again: the other would be in her place already.

Sometimes it wouldn't fly in, but only fly past the open door; and the little ones would begin to squeak and

open their beaks directly. . . . I was hoping for them back again the next year, but they say a hunter here shot

them with his gun. And what could he gain by it? It's hardly bigger, the swallow, than a beetle. . . . What

"And once," Lukerya began again, "it was comical, really. A hare ran in, it did really! The hounds,

I suppose, were after it; anyway, it seemed to tumble straight in at the door!. . . It squatted quite near me, and

sat so a long while; it kept sniffing with its nose, and twitching its whiskerslike a regular officer! and it

looked at me. It understood, to be sure, that I was no danger to it. At last it got up, went hophop to the door,

looked round in the doorway, and vanished in a twinkling. Such a funny fellow it was!"

Lukerya glanced at me, as much as to say, "Wasn't it funny?" To satisfy her, I laughed. She

"Well, in the winter, of course, I'm worse off, because it's dark; to burn a candle would be a pity,

and what would be the use? I can read, to be sure, and was always fond of reading, but what could I read?

There are no books of any kind, and even if there were, how could I hold a book? Father Alexei brought me a

calendar to entertain me, but he saw it was no good, so he took and carried it away again. But even though it's

dark, there's always something to listen to: a cricket chirps, or a mouse begins scratching somewhere. That's

"And I repeat the prayers, too," Lukerya went on after taking breath a little; "only I don't know

many of them the prayers, I mean. And besides, why should I weary the Lord God? What can I ask Him

for? He knows better than I what I need. He has laid a cross upon me: that means that He loves me. So we are

commanded to understand. I repeat the Lord's Prayer, the Hymn to the Virgin, the Supplication of all the

Afflicted, and I lie still again, without any thought at all, and am all right!"

Two minutes passed by. I did not break the silence, and did not stir on the narrow tub which served

me as a seat. The cruel stony stillness of the living, unlucky creature lying before me communicated itself to

"Listen, Lukerya," I began at last; "listen to the suggestion I'm going to make to you. Would you

like me to arrange for them to take you to a hospitala good hospital in the town? Who knows, perhaps you

Lukerya's eyebrows fluttered faintly. "Oh, no, sir," she answered in a troubled whisper; "don't

move me into a hospital; don't touch me. I shall only have more agony to bear there! How could they cure me

now? Why, there was a doctor came here once; he wanted to examine me. I begged him, for Christ's sake, not

to disturb me. It was no use. He began turning me over, pounding my hands and legs, and pulling me about.

He said, 'I'm doing this for Science; I'm a servant of Sciencea scientific man! And you,' he said, 'really

oughtn't to oppose me, because I've a medal given me for my labours, and it's for you simpletons I'm toiling.'

He mauled me about, told me the name of my diseasesome wonderful long nameand with that he went

away; and all my poor bones ached for a week after. You say I'm all alone, always alone. Oh, no, not always;

they come to see meI'm quietI don't bother them. The peasant girls come in and chat a bit; a pilgrim

woman will wander in and tell me tales of Jerusalem, of Kiev, of the holy towns. And I'm not afraid of being

alone. Indeed, it's better, ay, ay! Master, don't touch me, don't take me to the hospital. . . . Thank you, you are

"Well, as you like, as you like, Lukerya. You know, I only suggested it for your good."

"I know, master, that it was for my good. But, master dear, who can help another? Who can enter

into his soul? Every man must help himself! You won't believe me, perhaps. I lie here sometimes so alone . . .

and it's as though there were no one else in the world but me. As if I alone were living! And it seems to me as

though something were blessing me. . . . I'm carried away by dreams that are really marvellous!"

"That, too, master, I couldn't say; one can't explain. Besides, one forgets afterwards. It's like a

cloud coming over and bursting, then it grows so fresh and sweet; but just what it was, there's no knowing!

Only my idea is, if folks were near me, I should have nothing of that, and should feel nothing except my

Lukerya heaved a painful sigh. Her breathing, like her limbs, was not under her control.

"When I come to think, master, of you," she began again, "you are very sorry for me. But you

mustn't be too sorry, really! I'll tell you one thing; for instance, I sometimes, even now. . . . Do you remember

how merry I used to be in my time? A regular madcap!. . . So do you know what? I sing songs even now."

"Yes; I sing the old songs, songs for games, for feasts, Christmas songs, all sorts! I know such a lot

of them, you see, and I've not forgotten them. Only dance songs I don't sing. In my state now, it wouldn't suit

"To myself, yes; and aloud, too. I can't sing loud, but still one can understand it. I told you a little

girl waits on me. A clever little orphan she is. So I have taught her; four songs she has learnt from me

Lukerya took breath. . . . The thought that this halfdead creature was making ready to begin

singing raised an involuntary feeling of dread in me. But before I could utter a word, a long drawnout,

hardly audible, but pure and true note, was quivering in my. ears . . . it was followed by a second and a third.

"In the meadows," sang Lukerya. She sang, the expression of her stony face unchanged, even her eyes riveted

on one spot. But how touchingly tinkled out that poor struggling little voice, that wavered like a thread of

smoke: how she longed to pour out all her soul in it!. . . I felt no dread now; my heart throbbed with

"Ah, I can't!" she said suddenly. "I've not the strength. I'm so upset with joy at seeing you."

I laid my hand on her tiny chill fingers. . . . She glanced at me, and her dark lids, fringed with

golden eyelashes, closed again, and were still as an ancient statue's. An instant later they glistened in the

"How silly I am!" said Lukerya suddenly, with unexpected force, and opened her eyes wide: she

tried to wink the tears out of them. "I ought to be ashamed! What am I doing? It's a long time since I have

been like this . . . not since that day when Vasya Polyakov was here last spring. While he sat with me and

talked, I was all right; but when he had gone away, how I did cry in my loneliness! Where did I get the tears

from? But, there! we girls get our tears for nothing. Master," added Lukerya, "perhaps you have a

I made haste to carry out her desire, and left her the handkerchief. She refused it at first. . . . "What

good's such a gift to me?" she said. The handkerchief was plain enough, but clean and white. Afterwards she

clutched it in her weak fingers and did not loosen them again. As I got used to the darkness in which we both

were, I could clearly make out her features, could even perceive the delicate flush that peeped out under the

coppery hue of her face, could discover in the face, so at least it seemed to me, traces of its former beauty.

"You asked me, master," Lukerya began again, "whether I sleep. I sleep very little, but every time I

fall asleep I've dreamssuch splendid dreams! I'm never ill in my dreams; I'm always so well, and young. .

. . There's one thing's sad: I wake up and long for a good stretch, and I'm all as if I were in chains. I once had

such an exquisite dream! Shall I tell it you? Well, listen. I dreamt I was standing in a meadow, and all round

me was rye, so tall, and ripe, as gold!. . . And I had a reddish dog with mesuch a wicked dog; it kept trying

to bite me. And I had a sickle in my hands; not a simple sickle; it seemed to be the moon itselfthe moon as

it is when it's the shape of a sickle. And with this same moon I had to cut the rye clean. Only I was very

weary with the heat, and the moon blinded me, and I felt lazy; and cornflowers were growing all about, and

such big ones! And they all turned their heads to me. And I thought in my dream I would pick them; Vasya

had promised to come, so I'd pick myself a wreath first; I'd still time to reap. I began picking cornflowers,

but they kept melting away from between my fingers, do what I would. And I couldn't make myself a wreath.

And meanwhile I heard someone coming up to me, so close, and calling, 'Lukerya! Lukerya!. . .' 'Ah,' I

thought, 'what a pity I hadn't time!' No matter, I put that moon on my head instead of cornflowers. I put it on

like a tiara, and I was all brightness directly; I made the whole field light around me. And, behold! over the

very top of the ears there came gliding very quickly towards me, not Vasya, but Christ Himself! And how I

knew it was Christ I can't say; they don't paint Him like thatonly it was He! No beard, tall, young, all in

white, only His belt was golden; and He held out His hand to me. 'Fear not,' said He; 'My bride adorned,

follow Me; you shall lead the choral dance in the heavenly kingdom, and sing the songs of Paradise.' And

how I clung to His hand! My dog at once snapped at my heels. . . but then we began to float upwards! He in

front. . . . His wings spread wide over all the sky, long like a seagull'sand I after Him! And my dog had to

stay behind. Then only I understood that that dog was my illness, and that in the heavenly kingdom there was

"And I had another dream, too," she began again; "but maybe it was a vision. I really don't know. It

seemed to me I was lying in this very shanty, and my dead parents, father and mother, come to me and bow

low to me, but say nothing. And I asked them, 'Why do you bow down to me, father and mother?' 'Because,'

they said, 'you suffer much in this world, so that you have not only set free your own soul, but have taken a

great burden from off us, too. And for us in the other world it is much easier. You have made an end of your

own sins; now you are expiating our sins.' And having said this, my parents bowed down to me again, and I

could not see them; there was nothing but the walls to be seen. I was in great doubt afterwards what had

happened with me. I even told the priest of it in confession. Only he thinks it was not a vision, because

"And I'll tell you another dream," Lukerya went on. "I dreamt I was sitting on the highroad, under

a willow; I had a stick, had a bundle on my shoulders, and my head tied up in a kerchief, just like a pilgrim

woman! And I had to go somewhere, a long, long way off, on a pilgrimage. And pilgrims kept coming past

me; they came along slowly, all going one way; their faces were weary, and all very much like one another.

And I dreamt that moving about among them was a woman, a head taller than the rest, and wearing a peculiar

dress, not like oursnot Russian. And her face, too, was peculiar a worn face and severe. And all the

others moved away from her; but she suddenly turns, and comes straight to me. She stood still and looked at

me; and her eyes were yellow, large, and clear as a falcon's. And I asked her, 'Who are you?' And she says to

me, 'I'm your death.' Instead of being frightened, it was quite the other way. I was as pleased as could be; I

crossed myself! And the womanmy deathsays to me, 'I'm sorry for you, Lukerya, but I can't take you

with me. Farewell!' Good God! how sad I was then!. . . 'Take me,' said I, 'good mother, take me, darling!'

And my death turned to me, and began speaking to me. . . . I knew that she was appointing me my hour, but

indistinctly, incomprehensibly. 'After St. Peter's day,' said she. . . . With that I awoke. . . . Yes, I have such

"Only the sad thing is, sometimes a whole week will go by without my getting to sleep once. Last

year a lady came to see me, and she gave me a little bottle of medicine against sleeplessness; she told me to

take ten drops at a time. It did me so much good, and I used to sleep; only the bottle was all finished long

The lady had obviously given Lukerya opium. I promised to get her another bottle like it, and

"Ah, master!" she answered, "why do you say so? What do you mean by patience? There, Simeon

Stylites now had patience certainly, great patience; for thirty years he stood on a pillar! And another saint had

himself buried in the earth, right up to his breast, and the ants ate his face. . . . And I'll tell you what I was told

by a student of the Bible: there was once a country, and the Moslems made war on it, and they tortured and

killed all the inhabitants; and do what they would, the people could not get rid of them. And there appeared

among these people a holy virgin; she took a great sword, put on armour weighing eighty pounds, went out

against the Moslems and drove them all beyond the sea. Only when she had driven them out, she said to

them, 'Now burn me, for that was my vow, that I would die a death by fire for my people.' And the Moslems

took her and burnt her, and the people have been free ever since then! That was a noble deed, now! But what

I wondered to myself whence and in what shape the legend of Joan of Arc had reached her, and

"Twentyeight . . . or nine. . . . It won't be thirty. But why count the years! I've something else to

"It's true," she whispered, hardly audibly; "it's time to end our talk; but what does it matter! Now,

when you leave me, I can be silent as long as I like. Anyway, I've opened my heart. . . ."

I began bidding her goodbye. I repeated my promise to send her the medicine and asked her once

"I want nothing; I am content with all, thank God!" she articulated with very great effort, but with

emotion; "God give good health to all! But there, master, you might speak a word to your mammathe

peasants here are poorif she could take the least bit off their rent! They've not land enough, and no woods,

nothing. . . . They would pray to God for you. . . . But I want nothing; I'm quite content with all."

I gave Lukerya my word that I would carry out her request, and had already walked to the door

"Do you remember, master," she said, and there was a wonderful gleam in her eyes and on her lips,

"what hair I used to have? Do you remember, right down to my knees! It was long before I could make up my

mind to it. . . . Such hair as it was! But how could it be kept combed? In my state!. . . So I had it cut off. . . .

That day, before setting off to shoot, I had a conversation with the village constable about Lukerya.

I learnt from him that in the village they called Lukerya the "Living Relic"; that she gave them no trouble,

however: they never heard complaint or repining from her. "She asks nothing, but, on the contrary, she's

grateful for everything; a gentle soul, one must say, if any there be. Stricken of God," so the constable

concluded, "for her sins, one must suppose; but we do not go into that. And as for judging her, nono, we

A few weeks later I heard that Lukerya was dead. So her death had come for her . . . and "after St.

Peter's day." They told me that on the day of her death she kept hearing the sound of bells, though it was

reckoned over five miles from Alekseyevka to the church, and it was a weekday. Lukerya, however, had

said that the sounds came not from the church, but from above! Probably she did not dare to sayfrom

I'VE SOMETHING to tell you," observed Yermolai, coming into the hut to see me. I had just had

dinner, and was lying down on a travelling bed to rest a little after a fairly successful but fatiguing day of

grouseshootingit was somewhere about the 10th of July, and the heat was terrific. "I've something to tell

"All gone? How's that? Why, we took pretty nearly thirty pounds with us from the villagea

"That's so; and a big bag it was: enough for a fortnight. But there's no knowing! There must have

been a hole come in it, or something; anyway, there's no shot. . . that's to say, there's enough for ten charges

"What are we to do now? The very best places are before uswe're promised six coveys for

"Well, send me to Tula. It's not so far from here: only fortyfive versts. I'll fly like the wind, and

"We can't drive there with our own. The shafthorse has gone lame . . . terribly!"

"Well, the other day, the coachman took him to be shod. So he was shod, and the blacksmith, I

suppose, was clumsy. Now, he can't even step on the hoof. It's a front leg. He lifts it up, like a dog."

"No, they've not; but, of course, they ought to take it off. A nail's been driven right into the flesh, I

I ordered the coachman to be summoned. It turned out that Yermolai had spoken the truth: the

shafthorse really could not put its hoof to the ground. I promptly gave orders for it to have the shoe taken

"Do you suppose we can get horses in this wilderness?" I exclaimed with involuntary irritation.

The village in which we found ourselves was a desolate, Godforsaken place; all its inhabitants

seemed to be povertystricken; we had difficulty in discovering one hut, moderately roomy, and even that

"Yes," replied Yermolai with his habitual equanimity; "what you said about this village is true

enough; but there used to be living in this very place one peasanta very clever fellow! rich, too! He had

nine horses. He's dead, and his eldest son manages it all now. The man's a perfect fool, but still he's not had

time to waste his father's wealth yet. We can get horses from him. If you say the word, I will fetch him. His

"Becausehe's the eldest! Of course, the younger ones must obey!" Here Yermolai, in reference

to younger brothers as a class, expressed himself with a vigour quite unsuitable for print.

"I'll fetch him. He's a simple fellow. With him you can't fail to come to terms."

While Yermolai went after his "simple fellow" the idea occurred to me that it might be better for

me to drive to Tula myself. In the first place, taught by experience, I had no very great confidence in

Yermolai: I had once sent him to the town for purchases; he had promised to get through all my commissions

in one day, and was gone a whole week, drank up all the money, and came back on foot, though he had set

off in my racing droshky. And, secondly, I had an acquaintance in Tula, a horsedealer; I might buy a horse

"The thing's decided!" I thought; "I'll drive over myself; I can sleep just as well on the

"I've brought him!" cried Yermolai, rushing into the hut a quarter of an hour later. He was

followed by a tall peasant in a white shirt, blue breeches, and bast shoes, with white eyebrows and

shortsighted eyes, a wedgeshaped red beard, a long swollen nose, and a gaping mouth. He certainly did

"So be, surely, I. . ." the peasant began hesitatingly in a rather hoarse voice, shaking his thin wisps

of hair and drumming with his fingers on the band of the cap he held in his hands, "surely, I . . ."

"Well, then, friend Filofei; I hear you have horses. Bring a team of three herewe'll put them in

my coachit's a light oneand you drive me in to Tula. There's a moon now at night; it's light, and it's cool

"The road? There's naught amiss with the road. To the main road it will be sixteen milesnot

more. . . . There's one little place . . . a bit awkward; but naught amiss else."

"Oh!" commented my faithful servant with a shake of his head. "Ohoh!" he repeated; then he spat

The expedition to Tula obviously no longer presented any features of interest to him; it had

"Surely, we know the road! Only, so to say, please your honour, can't . . . so on the sudden, so to

It appeared that Yermolai, on engaging Filofei, had stated that he could be sure that, fool as he

was, he'd be paid . . . and nothing more! Filofei, fool as he was in Yermolai's wordswas not satisfied

with this statement alone. He demanded of me fifty rublesan exorbitant price; I offered him tena low

price. We fell to haggling; Filofei at first was stubborn; then he began to come down, but slowly. Yermolai

entering for an instant began assuring me, "that fool"("He's fond of the word, seemingly!" Filofei remarked

in a low voice) "that fool can't reckon money at all," and reminded me how twenty years ago a posting

tavern established by my mother at the crossing of two highroads came to complete grief from the fact that

the old houseserf who was put there to manage it positively did not understand reckoning money, but valued

sums simply by the number of coins in fact, gave silver coins in exchange for copper, though he would

"Ugh, you Filofei! you're sure a regular Filofei!" Yermolai jeered at lastand he went out

Filofei made him no reply, as though admitting that to be called Filofei wasas a factnot very

clever of him, and that a man might fairly be reproached for such a name, though really the village priest was

to blame in the matter for he had not been properly recompensed at the christening.

At last we agreed, however, on the sum of twenty rubles. He went off for the horses, and an hour

later brought five for me to choose from. The horses turned out to be fairly good, though their manes and tails

were tangled, and their bellies round and taut as drums. With Filofei came two of his brothers, not in the least

like him. Little, blackeyed, sharpnosed fellows, they certainly produced the impression of "smart chaps";

they talked a great deal, very fast "clacked away," as Yermolai expressed itbut obeyed the elder brother.

They dragged the coach out of the shed and were busy about it and the horses for an hour and a

half; first they let out the traces, which were of cord, then pulled them too tight again! Both brothers were

very much set on harnessing the "roan" in the shafts, because "him can do best going downhill"; but Filofei

decided for "the shaggy one." So the shaggy one was put in the shafts accordingly.

They heaped the coach up with hay, put the collar of the lame shafthorse under the seat, in case

we might want to fit it on to the horse to be bought at Tula. . . . Filofei, who had managed to run home and

come back in a long, white, loose, ancestral overcoat, a high sugarloaf cap, and tarred boots, clambered

triumphantly upon to the box. I took my seat, looking at my watch: it was a quarter past ten. Yermolai did not

even say goodbye to mehe was engaged in beating his ValetkaFilofei tugged at the reins, and shouted in

His brothers skipped away on both sides, lashed the tracehorses under the belly, and the coach

started, turned out of the gates into the street, the shaggy one tried to turn off towards his own home, but

Filofei brought him to reason with a few strokes of the whip, and behold! we were already out of the village,

and rolling along a fairly even road, between closegrowing bushes of thick hazels.

It was a still, glorious night, the very nicest for driving. A breeze rustled now and then in the

bushes, set the twigs swinging and died away again; in the sky could be seen motionless, silvery clouds; the

moon stood high and threw a bright light on all around. I stretched myself on the hay, and was just beginning

"Eight versts!" I mused. "We shan't get there for another hour. I can have a nap meanwhile. Filofei,

I was awakened not, as often happens, by my own intention of waking in exactly an hour, but by a

sort of strange, though faint, lapping, gurgling sound at my very ear. I raised my head.

Wonderful to relate! I was lying in the coach as before, but all round the coach, half a foot, not

more, from its edge, a sheet of water lay shining in the moonlight, broken up into tiny, distinct, quivering

eddies. I looked in front. On the box, with back bowed and head bent, Filofei was sitting like a statue, and a

little further on, above the rippling water, I saw the curved arch of the yoke, and the horses' heads and backs.

And everything as motionless, as noiseless, as though in some enchanted realm, in a dreama dream of

fairyland. . . . "What does it mean?" I looked back from under the hood of the coach. "Why, we are in the

"I see we're in the river. But, like this, we shall be drowned directly. Is this how you cross the ford?

"I've made a little mistake," observed my guide; "I've gone to one side, a bit wrong, but now we've

"Well, we must let the shaggy one look about him; which way he turns his head, that way we've

I raised myself on the hay. The shafthorse's head stood quite motionless. Above the head one

could only see in the bright moonlight one ear slightly twitching backwards and forwards.

And everything was still again; there was only the faint gurgle of the water as before. I sank into a

All of a sudden the head of the shafthorse shook, his ears pricked up; he gave a snort, began to

move. "Hoho, hohoo!" Filofei began suddenly bawling at the top of his voice; he sat up and brandished

the whip. The coach was at once tugged away from where it had stuck, it plunged forward, cleaving the

waters of the river, and moved along, swaying and lurching from side to side. At first it seemed to me we

were sinking, getting deeper; however, after two or three tugs and jolts, the expanse of water seemed

suddenly lower. . . . It got lower and lower, the coach seemed to grow up out of it, and now the wheels and

the horses' tails could be seen, and now stirring with a mighty splashing of big drops, scattering showers of

diamondsno, not diamondssapphires in the dull brilliance of the moon, the horses with a spirited pull all

together drew us on to the sandy bank and trotted along the road to the hillside their shining white legs

"What will Filofei say now?" was the thought that flashed through my mind; "You see I was

right!" or something of that sort. But he said nothing. So I, too, did not think it necessary to reproach him for

But I could not go to sleep, not because I was not tired from hunting, and not because the exciting

experience I had just been through had dispelled my sleepiness: it was that we were driving through such

very beautiful country. There were liberal, widestretching, grassy riverside meadows, with a multitude of

small pools, little lakes, rivulets, creeks overgrown at the ends with branches and osiersa regular Russian

scene, such as Russians love, like the scenes amid which the heroes of our old legends rode out to shoot white

swans and grey ducks. The road we were driven along wound in a yellowish ribbon, the horses ran

lightlyand I could not close my eyes. I was admiring! And it all floated by, softened into harmony under

"Those meadows are called St. Yegor's," he said, turning to me. "And beyond them come the

Grand Duke's; there are no other meadows like them, in all Russia. . . . Ah, it's lovely!" The shafthorse

snorted and shook itself. "God bless you," commented Filofei gravely in an undertone. "How lovely!" he

repeated with a sigh; then he gave a long sort of grunt. 'There, mowing time's just upon us, and think what

hay they'll rake up there!regular mountains! And there are lots of fish in the creeks. Such bream!" he added

"Hullo! lookee! over the lake . . . is it a crane standing there? Can it be fishing at night? Bless me!

it's a branch, not a crane. Well, that was a mistake! But the moon is always so tricky."

So we drove on and on. But now the end of the meadows had been reached, little copses and

ploughed fields came into view; a little village flashed with two or three lights on one sideit was only

Again I did not wake up of my own accord. This time I was roused by the voice of Filofei.

I sat up. The coach was standing still on level ground in the very middle of the highroad. Filofei,

who had turned round on the box, so as to face me, with wideopen eyes (I was positively surprised at them;

I couldn't have imagined he had such large eyes), was whispering with mysterious significance:

I put my head out of the coach, held my breath, and did catch, somewhere in the distance, far

"And do you hear . . . shoo! The bells . . . and whistling, too. . . . Do you hear? Take off your cap . .

"It's a cart coming . . . lightly; ironrimmed wheels," he observed, and he took up the reins. "It's

wicked folks coming, master; hereabouts, you know, near Tula, they play a good many tricks."

"I speak the truth . . . with bells . . . and in an empty cart. . . . Who should it be?"

"Well, then, get on quicker; it's no good lingering." Filofei brandished the whip, and the coach

Though I did not put much faith in Filofei, I could not go to sleep. "What if it really is so?" A

disagreeable sensation began to stir in me. I sat up in the coachtill then I had lain downand began

looking in all directions. While I had been asleep, a slight fog had come over, not the earth, but the sky; it

stood high, the moon hung a whitish patch in it, as though in smoke. Everything had grown dim and blended

together, though it was clearer near the ground. Around us flat, dreary country; fields, nothing but

fieldshere and there bushes and ravinesand again fields, mostly fallow, with scanty, dusty grass. A

We drove on for half an hour. Filofei kept constantly cracking his whip and clicking with his lips,

but neither he nor I uttered a word. So we mounted the hillside. . . . Filofei pulled up the horses, and promptly

I poked my head out of the coach again, but I might have stayed under the cover of the hood, so

distinctly, though still from a distance, the sound reached me of cart wheels, men whistling, the jingling of

bells, and even the thud of horses' hoofs; I even fancied I could hear singing and laughter. The wind, it is true,

was blowing from there, but there was no doubt that the unknown travellers were a good verst, perhaps two,

nearer us. Filofei and I looked at one another; he only gave his hat a tweak forward from behind, and at once,

bending over the reins, fell to whipping up the horses. They set off at a gallop, but they could not gallop for

long, and fell back into a trot again. Filofei continued to whip them. We must get away!

I can't account for the fact that, though I had not at first shared Filofei's apprehensions, about this

time I suddenly gained the conviction that we really were being followed by highwaymen. I had heard

nothing new: the same bells, the same rattle of a cart without a load, the same intermittent whistling, the same

And now twenty minutes more had gone by. During the last of these twenty minutes, even through

the clatter and rumble of our own carriage, we could hear another clatter and another rumbling.

Filofei uttered a fainthearted "wo"! The horses instantaneously stopped, as though delighted at

Mercy upon us! the bells were simply booming away just behind our backs, the cart was rattling

and creaking, the men were whistling, shouting, and singing, the horses were snorting and thumping on the

"There'll be trouble," Filofei commented in an emphatic undertone; and, clicking to the horses

irresolutely, he began to urge them on again. But at that very instant there was a sort of sudden rush and

whizz, and a very big, wide cart, harnessed with three lean horses, cut sharply at a rush up to us, galloped in

"A regular brigand's trick!" murmured Filofei. I must own I felt a cold chill at my heart. . . . I fell

to staring before me with strained attention in the halfdarkness of the misty moonlight. In the cart in front of

us werehalflying, halfsittingsix men in shirts and in unbuttoned rough overcoats; two of them had no

caps on; huge feet in boots were swinging and hanging over the cartrail, arms were rising and falling

helterskelter, bodies were jolting backwards and forwards. . . . It was quite clear a drunken party. Some

were bawling at random; one was whistling very correctly and shrilly, another was swearing; on the driver's

seat sat a sort of giant in a cape, driving. They went at a walking pace, as though paying no attention to us.

What was to be done? We followed them also at a walking pace . . . we could do nothing else.

For a quarter of a verst we moved along in this manner. The suspense was torturing. To protect, to

defend ourselves, was out of the question! There were six of them; and I hadn't even a stick! Should we turn

back? But they would catch us up directly. I remembered the line of Zhukovsky (in the passage where he

Or elsestrangling with filthy cord . . . flung into a ditch . . . there to choke and struggle like a

"Filofei!" I whispered, "just try, keep more to the right; see if you can get by."

Filofei triedkept to the right. . . but they promptly kept to the right, too. It was impossible to get

Filofei made another effort; he kept to the left. But there, again, they did not let him pass the cart.

"To reach the bridgeover there in frontin the hollowabove the stream. They'll finish us off

there! That's always their way . . . by bridges. We're done for, master." He added with a sigh, "They'll hardly

let us go alive; for the great thing for them is to keep it all dark. I'm sorry for one thing, master: my horses are

I should have been surprised at the time that Filofei could still trouble about his horses at such a

moment; but, I must confess, I had no thoughts for him. "Will they really kill me?" I kept repeating mentally.

And the bridge was getting nearer and nearer; it could be more and more clearly seen.

Suddenly a sharp whoop was heard; the cart before us, as it were, flew ahead, dashed along, and

reaching the bridge, at once stopped stockstill a little on one side of the road. My heart fairly sank like lead.

"Ah, brother Filofei," I said, "we are going to our death. Forgive me for bringing you to ruin."

"As though it were your fault, master! There's no escaping one's fate! Come, Shaggy, my trusty

little horse," Filofei addressed the shafthorse; "step on, brother! Do your last bit of service! It's all the

And he urged his horses into a trot. We began to get near the bridgenear that motionless,

menacing cart. In it everything was silent, as though on purpose. Not a single halloo! It was the stillness of

the pike or the hawk, of every beast of prey, as its victim approaches. And now we were level with the cart. . .

. Suddenly the giant in the cape sprang out of the cart and came straight towards us!

He said nothing to Filofei, but the latter, of his own accord, tugged at the reins. The coach stopped.

The giant laid both arms on the carriage door, and bending forward his shaggy head with a grin, he

uttered the following speech in a soft, even voice, with the accent of factoryhand:

"Honoured sir, we are coming from an honest feast from a wedding; we've been marrying one

of our fine fellowsthat is, we've put him to bed; we're all young lads, reckless chapsthere's been a good

deal of drinking, and nothing to sober us; so wouldn't your honour be so good as to favour us, the least little,

just for a dram of brandy for every mate? We'd drink to your health, and remember your worship; but if you

The giant continued to stand with bent head. At that very instant the moon emerged from the fog

and lighted up his face. There was a grin on the face, in the eyes, and on the lips. But there was nothing

threatening to be seen in it . . . only it seemed, as it were, all on the alert . . . and the teeth were so white and

"I shall be pleased . . . take this. . ." I said hurriedly, and pulling my purse out of my pocket, I took

out two silver rublesat that time silver was still circulating in Russia"here, if that's enough?"

"Much obliged!" bawled the giant, in military fashion; and his fat fingers in a flash snatched from

menot the whole pursebut only the two rubles; "much obliged!" He shook his hair back, and ran up to

"Lads!" he shouted, "the gentleman makes us a present of two silver rubles!" They all began, as it

And that was the last we saw of them. The horses dashed on, the cart rumbled up the hill; once

more it stood out on the dark line separating the earth from the sky, went down, and vanished.

"Ah, you're a merry fellow!" he commented at last, and taking off his hat he began crossing

himself. "Fond of a joke, on my word," he added, and he turned to me, beaming all over. "But he must be a

capital fellowon my word! Now, now, now, little ones, look alive! You're safe! We are all safe! It was he

who wouldn't let us get by; it was he who drove the horses. What a chap for a joke! Now, now! get on, in

I did not speak, but I felt happy, too. "We are safe!" I repeated to myself, and lay down on the hay.

"How was it you didn't think of them? You were sorry for your horses; weren't you sorry. for your

"Why be sorry for them? They weren't going to fall into the hands of thieves, you know. But I kept

them in my mind all the while, and I do now . . . surely." Filofei paused. "Maybe . . . it was for their sake

"How can we tell? Can one creep into the soul of another? Another's soul, we know, is a dark

place. But, with the thought of God in the heart, things are always better. No, no! . . . I'd my family all the

It was already almost daylight; we began to drive into Tula. I was lying, dreamy and halfasleep.

"Master," Filofei said to me suddenly, "look: there they're stopping at the tavern . . . their cart."

I raised my head. There they were, and their cart and horses. In the doorway of the drinkinghouse

there suddenly appeared our friend, the giant in the cape. "Sir!" he shouted, waving his cap, "we're drinking

your health! Hey, coachman," he added, wagging his head at Filofei; "you were a bit scared, I shouldn't

"A merry fellow!" observed Filofei when we had driven nearly fifty yards from the tavern.

We got into Tula at last; I bought shot, and while I was about it, tea and spirits, and even got a

At midday we set off home again. As we drove by the place where we first heard the rattle of the

cart behind us, Filofei, who, having had something to drink at Tula, turned out to be very talkativehe even

"Do you remember, master, how I kept saying to you, 'A rattle . . . a rattle of wheels,' I said!"

He waved his hand several times. This expression struck him as most amusing. The same evening

I related the adventure that had befallen us to Yermolai. Being sober, he expressed no sympathy;

he only gave a gruntwhether of approval or reproach, I imagine he did not know himself. But two days

later he informed me, with great satisfaction, that the very night Filofei and I had been driving to Tula, and on

the very road, a merchant had been robbed and murdered. I did not at first put much faith in this, but later on I

was obliged to believe it: it was confirmed by the police captain, who came galloping over in consequence.

Was not that perhaps the "wedding" our brave spirits were returning from? Wasn't that the "fine

fellow" they had "put to bed," in the words of the jocose giant? I stayed five days longer in Filofei's village.

And slowly something began to draw him Back to the country, to the garden dark, Where

limetrees are so huge, so full of shade, And lilies of the valley, sweet as maids, Where rounded willows o'er

the water's edge Lean from the dyke in rows, and where the oak Sturdily grows above the sturdy field, Amid

the smell of hemp and nettles rank. . . There, there, in meadows stretching wide, Where rich and black as

velvet is the earth, Where the sweet rye, far as the eye can see, Moves noiselessly in tender, billowing waves,

And where the heavy golden light is shed From out of rounded, white, transparent clouds. There it is good. . .

THE READER is, very likely, already weary of my sketches; I hasten to reassure him by

promising to confine myself to the fragments already printed; but I cannot refrain from saying a few words at

Hunting with a dog and a gun is delightful in itself, f�r sich, as they used to say in old days; but let

us suppose you were not born a hunter, but are fond of nature and freedom all the same; you cannot then help

Do you know, for instance, the delight of setting off before daybreak in spring? You come out on

to the steps. . . . In the darkgrey sky stars are twinkling here and there; a damp breeze in faint gusts flies to

meet you now and then; there is heard the secret, vague whispering of the night; the trees faintly rustle, wrapt

in darkness. And now they put a rug in the cart, and lay a box with the samovar at your feet. The tracehorses

move restlessly, snort, and daintily paw the ground; a couple of white geese, only just awake, waddle slowly

and silently across the road. On the other side of the hedge, in the garden, the watchman is snoring

peacefully; every sound seems to stand still in the frozen airsuspended, not moving. You take your seat;

the horses start at once; the cart rolls off with a loud rumble. You rideride past the church, downhill to the

right, across the dyke. . . . The pond is just beginning to be covered with mist. You are rather chilly; you

cover your face with the collar of your fur cloak; you doze. The horses' hoofs splash sonorously through the

puddles; the coachman begins to whistle. But by now you have driven over four versts . . . the rim of the sky

flushes crimson; the jackdaws are heard, fluttering clumsily in the birchtrees; sparrows are twittering about

the dark hayricks. The air is clearer, the road more distinct, the sky brightens, the clouds look whiter, and the

fields look greener. In the huts there is the red light of flaming chips; from behind gates comes the sound of

sleepy voices. And meanwhile the glow of dawn is beginning; already streaks of gold are stretching across

the sky; mists are gathering in clouds over the ravines; the larks are singing musically; the breeze that ushers

in the dawn is blowing; and slowly the purple sun floats upward. There is a perfect flood of light; your heart

is fluttering like a bird. Everything is fresh, gay, delightful! One can see a long way all round. That way,

beyond the copse, a village; there, further, another, with a white church, and there a birchwood on the hill;

behind it the marsh, for which you are bound. . . . Quicker, horses, quicker! Forward at a good trot!. . . There

are three versts to gonot more. The sun mounts swiftly higher; the sky is clear. It will be a glorious day. A

herd of cattle comes straggling from the village to meet you. You go up the hill. . . . What a view! the river

winds for ten versts, dimly blue through the mist; beyond it meadows of watery green; beyond the meadows

sloping hills; in the distance the plovers are wheeling with loud cries above the marsh; through the moist

brilliance suffused in the air the distance stands out clearly . . . not as in the summer. How freely one drinks

in the air, how quickly the limbs move, how strong is the whole man, clasped in the fresh breath of spring!. . .

And a summer morninga morning in July! Who but the hunter knows how soothing it is to

wander at daybreak among the underwoods? The print of your feet lies in a green line on the grass, white

with dew. You part the drenched bushes; you are met by a rush of the warm fragrance stored up in the night;

the air is saturated with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, the honey sweetness of buckwheat and clover; in

the distance an oak wood stands like a wall, and glows and glistens in the sun; it is still fresh, but already the

approach of heat is felt. The head is faint and dizzy from the excess of sweet scents. The copse stretches on

endlessly. Only in places there are yellow glimpses in the distance of ripening rye, and narrow streaks of red

buckwheat. Then there is the creak of cart wheels; a peasant makes his way among the bushes at a walking

pace, and sets his horse in the shade before the heat of the day. You greet him, and turn away; the musical

swish of the scythe is heard behind you. The sun rises higher and higher. The grass is speedily dry. And now

it is quite sultry. One hour passes, another. . . . The sky grows dark over the horizon; the still air is baked with

prickly heat. "Where can one get a drink here, brother?" you inquire of the mower. "Yonder, in the ravine's a

well." Through the thick hazel bushes, tangled by the clinging grass, you drop down to the bottom of the

ravine. Right under the cliff a little spring is hidden; an oak bush greedily spreads out its twigs like great

fingers over the water; great silvery bubbles rise trembling from the bottom, covered with fine velvety moss.

You fling yourself on the ground, you drink, but you are too lazy to stir. You are in the shade, you drink in

the damp fragrance, you take your ease, while the bushes face you, glowing and, as it were, turning yellow in

the sun. But what is that? There is a sudden flying gust of wind; the air is astir all about you: was not that

thunder? Is it the heat thickening? Is a storm coming on?. . . And now there is a faint flash of lightning. Yes,

there will be a storm! The sun is still blazing; you can still go on hunting. But the stormcloud grows; its

front edge, drawn out like a long sleeve, bends over into an arch. The grass, the bushes, everything around

grows dark. Make haste! over there you think you catch sight of a haybarn . . . make haste!. . . You run

there, go in. . . . What rain! What flashes of lightning! The water drips in through some hole in the

thatchroof on to the sweetsmelling hay. But now the sun is shining bright again. The storm is over; you

come out. My God, the joyous sparkle of everything! the fresh, limpid air, the scent of raspberries and

mushrooms! And then the evening comes on. There is the blaze of fire glowing and covering half the sky.

The sun sets; the air near you has a peculiar transparency as of crystal; over the distance lies a soft,

warmlooking haze; with the dew a crimson light is shed on the fields, lately plunged in floods of limpid

gold; from trees and bushes and high stacks of hay run long shadows. The sun has set; a star gleams and

quivers in the fiery sea of the sunset; and now it pales; the sky grows blue; the separate shadows vanish; the

air is plunged in darkness. It is time to turn homewards to the village, to the hut, where you will stay the

night. Shouldering your gun, you move briskly, in spite of fatigue. Meanwhile, the night comes on: now you

cannot see twenty paces from you; the dogs show faintly white in the dark. Over there, above the black

bushes, there is a vague brightness on the horizon. What is it?a fire?. . . No, it is the moon rising. And

away below, to the right, the village lights are twinkling already. And here at last is your hut. Through the

tiny window you see a table, with a white cloth, a candle burning, supper. . . .

Another time you order the racing droshky to be got out, and set off to the forest to shoot

W.. It is pleasant making your way along the narrow path between two high walls of rye. The ears

softly strike you in the face; the cornflowers cling round your legs; the quails call around; the horse moves

along at a lazy trot. And here is the forest, all shade and silence. Graceful aspens rustle high above you; the

long hanging branches of the birches scarcely stir; a mighty oak stands like a champion beside a lovely

limetree. You go along the green path, streaked with shade; great yellow flies stay suspended, motionless, in

the sunny air, and suddenly dart away; midges hover in a cloud, bright in the shade, dark in the sun; the birds

are singing peacefully; the golden little voice of the warbler sings of innocent, babbling joyousness, in sweet

accord with the scent of the lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest . . . the forest grows

more dense. . . . An unutterable stillness falls upon the soul within; without, too, all is still and dreamy. But

now a wind has sprung up, and the treetops are booming like falling waves. Here and there, through last

year's brown leaves, grow tall grasses; mushrooms stand apart under their widebrimmed hats. All at once a

And how fair is this same forest in late autumn, when the snipe are on the wing! They do not keep

in the heart of the forest; one must look for them along the outskirts. There is no wind, and no sun, no light,

no shade, no movement no sound; the autumn perfume, like the perfume of wine, is diffused in the soft air; a

delicate haze hangs over the yellow fields in the distance. The still sky is a peacefully untroubled white

through the bare brown branches; in parts, on the limes, hang the last golden leaves. The damp earth is elastic

under your feet; the high dry blades of grass do not stir; long threads lie shining on the blanched turf, white

with dew. You breathe tranquilly; but there is a strange tremor in the soul. You walk along the forest's edge,

look after your dog, and meanwhile loved forms, loved faces, dead and living, come to your mind; long, long

slumbering impressions unexpectedly awaken; the fancy darts off and soars like a bird; and all moves so

clearly and stands out before your eyes. The heart at one time throbs and beats, plunging passionately

forward; at another it is drowned beyond recall in memories. Your whole life, as it were, unrolls lightly and

rapidly before you; a man at such times possesses all his past, all his feelings and his powersall his soul;

And a clear, rather cold autumn day, with a frost in the morning, when the birch, all golden like

some tree in a fairytale, stands out picturesquely against the paleblue sky; when the sun, standing low in

the sky, does not warm, but shines more brightly than in summer; the small aspen copse is all asparkle

through and through, as though it were glad and at ease in its nakedness; the hoarfrost is still white at the

bottom of the hollows; while a fresh wind softly stirs up and drives before it the falling, crumpled leaves;

when blue ripples whisk gladly along the river, lifting rhythmically the scattered geese and ducks; in the

distance the mill creaks, half hidden by the willows; and with changing colours in the clear air the pigeons

Sweet, too, are dull days in summer, though the hunters do not like them. On such days one can't

shoot the bird that flutters up from under your very feet and vanishes at once in the whitish dark of the

hanging fog. But how peaceful, how unutterably peaceful it is everywhere! Everything is awake, and

everything is hushed. You pass by a tree: it does not stir a leaf; it is musing in repose. Through the thin

steamy mist, evenly diffused in the air, there is a long streak of black before you. You take it for a

neighbouring copse close at hand; you go upthe copse is transformed into a high row of wormwood in the

boundaryditch. Above you, around you, on all sidesmist. . . . But now a breeze is faintly astir; a patch of

paleblue sky peeps dimly out; through the thinning, as it were, steaming mist, a ray of goldenyellow

sunshine breaks out suddenly, flows in a long stream, strikes on the fields and in the copseand now

everything is overcast again. For long this struggle is drawn out, but how unutterably brilliant and

magnificent the day becomes when at last light triumphs and the last waves of the warmed mist here unroll

and are drawn out over the plains, there wind away and vanish into the deep, softly shining heights.

Again you set off into outlying country, to the steppe. For some ten versts you make your way over

crossroads, and here at last is the highroad. Past endless trains of waggons, past wayside taverns, with the

hissing samovar under a shed, wideopen gates and a well, from one hamlet to another; across endless fields,

alongside green hempfields, a long, long time you drive. The magpies flutter from willow to willow; peasant

women with long rakes in their hands wander in the fields; a man in a threadbare nankin overcoat, with a

wicker pannier over his shoulder, trudges along with weary step; a heavy country coach, harnessed with six

tall, brokenwinded horses, rolls to meet you. The corner of a cushion is sticking out of a window, and on a

sack up behind, hanging on to a string, perches a groom in a fur cloak, splashed with mud to his very

eyebrows. And here is the little district town with its crooked little wooden houses, its endless fences, its

empty stone shops, its oldfashioned bridge over a deep ravine. On, on!. . . The steppe country is reached at

last. You look from a hilltop; what a view! Round low hills, tilled and sown to their very tops, are seen in

broad undulations; ravines, overgrown with bushes, wind coiling among them; small copses are scattered like

oblong islands; from village to village run narrow paths; churches stand out white; between willow bushes

glimmers a little river, in four places dammed up by dykes; far off, in a field, in a line, an old manor house,

with its outbuildings, orchard, and threshingfloor, huddles close up to a small pond. But on, on you go.

The hills are smaller and ever smaller; there is scarcely a tree to be seen. Here it is at lastthe boundless,

And on a winter day to walk over the high snowdrifts after hares; to breathe the keen frosty air,

while halfclosing the eyes involuntarily at the fine blinding sparkle of the soft snow; to admire the emerald

sky above the reddish forest!. . . And the first spring day when everything is shining, and breaking up, when

across the heavy streams, from the melting snow, there is already the scent of the thawing earth; when on the

bare thawed places, under the slanting sunshine, the larks are singing confidingly, and, with glad splash and

But it is time to end. By the way, I have spoken of spring: in spring it is easy to part; in spring even

the happy are drawn away to the distance. . . . Farewell, reader! I wish you unbroken prosperity.