was thrashing his sweetheart: he thought he was thrashing Trifon Semyonovich. The girl was screaming at the top of her voice. He kept on beating her for a long time. I don’t know how this story would ever have come to an end if Sashenka, Trifon Semyonovich’s charming daughter, had not at that moment popped up from behind the bushes.
“Papa, come and have tea!” she exclaimed, and when she saw what was happening she burst out into peals of laughter.
“That’s enough!” said Trifon Semyonovich. “You may go now, my dears. Good-by! I’ll send you some little apples for the wedding.”
And Trifon Semyonovich bowed low to the offenders.
The boy and the girl recovered their composure and went away. The boy went to the right, the girl to the left, and to this day they have never seen each other. If Sashenka had not suddenly appeared out of the bushes, they would probably have been whipped with the nettles. This is how Trifon Semyonovich amuses himself in his old age. His family is not far behind him. His daughters are in the habit of sewing onions into the caps of visitors “belonging to the lower orders,” while drunks belonging to the same category have “Ass” and “Fool” chalked on their backs in enormous letters. His son, Mitya, a retired lieutenant, outdid his own father last winter. With the help of Karpushka he smeared the gates of a former private soldier with tar because the soldier refused to give him a wolf cub, and also because he was thought to have warned his daughters against accepting candy and gingerbread from the hands of the retired lieutenant.
After this, call Trifon Semyonovich—Trifon Semyonovich.
1 An untranslatable pun. Durachki (“dunces”) is also the name of a card game.
S
CAME the long-awaited morning, the long-dreamed-of day — Tallyho! — Came June 29 — Came the day when all debts, dung beetles, delicacies, mothers-in-law, and even young wives are forgotten — Came the day when you are free to thumb your nose a dozen times at the village constable, who forbids you to go hunting!
The stars paled and grew misty. Somewhere voices could be heard. From the village chimneys poured pungent dark-blue smoke. To the gray bell tower came the drowsy sexton, tolling the bell for mass. From the night watchman stretched out beneath a tree came a snore. The finches woke, stirred, flew from one end of the garden to the other, and filled the air with their tedious and insufferable chirping. An oriole sang from a thorn brake. Starlings and hoopoes hurried over the kitchens. The free morning concert had begun.
Two troikas drove up to the house of the retired Cornet of the Guards Yegor Yegorich Optemperansky. The tumble-down steps of his house were picturesquely overgrown with thorn nettles. A fearful uproar arose, both inside and outside the house. Every living thing in the neighborhood of Yegor Yegorich began to walk, rush, and stomp up and down the stairs and through the barns and stables. They changed one of the shaft horses. The coachmen’s caps flew off; a red lantern of a boil appeared under the nose of the footman who haunted the housemaids; someone called the cooks “carrion,” and the names of Satan and his angels were overheard.… In five minutes the carriages were loaded with furs, rugs, gun cases, and sacks full of food.
“It’s all ready, sir!” Avvakum thundered.
“Well, thank you. Ready, eh?” Yegor Yegorich squeaked in his thin, syrupy voice, while a mob gathered on the house steps.
The first to jump into the carriage was the young doctor, followed by old Kuzma Bolva, a small trader of Archangel, who wore boots without heels, a carrot-colored top hat, and yellow-green spots on his neck. He was carrying a twenty-five-pound double-barreled shotgun. Bolva was a plebeian, but out of respect for his advanced years (he was born at the turn of the century), and because he could shoot down a twenty-kopeck piece in midair, the gentry were not overly squeamish about his origins, and they took him out hunting.
“Be so good as to get in, Your Excellency!” said Yegor Yegorich to a small stout gray-haired man, who was wearing his white summer uniform with its glittering buttons, and the Cross of Anna round his neck. “Move over, Doctor!”
The retired general groaned, stood with one foot on the carriage step, while Yegor Yegorich lifted him up. With his stomach the general pushed the doctor over and sat down heavily beside Bolva. Then the general’s puppy Idler, and Yegor Yegorich’s setter Music Maker, jumped in after him.
“Vanya! Hey, there, young fellow!” the general addressed his nephew, a schoolboy with a long single-barreled shotgun slung over his back. “You can sit here beside me! Come here! That’s right! Sit right here! Don’t play any tricks, my friend! You might frighten the horse!”
After once more blowing cigarette smoke up the nose of the shaft horse, Vanya jumped into the carriage, pushed Bolva and the general to one side, looked round, and finally sat down. Yegor Yegorich crossed himself and sat down beside the doctor. On the coachman’s box beside Avvakum sat a tall man who taught physics and mathematics at Vanya’s school. His name was Mange.
When they had filled the first carriage, they began loading up the second.
“Are we ready?” Yegor Yegorich shouted when, after long arguments and much running around and about, eight more men and three dogs were loaded onto the second carriage.
“Ready!” shouted the guests.
“Shall we start now, Your Excellency? Well, God save our souls! Let’s get going, Avvakum!”
The first carriage swayed, lurched, and drove on. The second, which contained the most ardent hunters, swayed, lurched, gave an awful scream, swerved slightly to one side, and then overtook the first and drove to the gate. The hunters were all smiles, clapping their hands in an access of joy. They were in their seventh heaven when … Oh, cruel fate!—they had no sooner left the courtyard than a ghastly accident occurred.
“Stop! Wait for me! Halt!” a piercing tenor voice called from somewhere behind.
The hunters looked back, and turned pale. Stumbling after the carriages was the most insufferable man in the world, a brawler and roughneck, as was well known to everyone in the entire province, a certain Mikhey Yegorich Optemperansky, brother of Yegor Yegorich, and a retired naval captain, second class. He waved his hands wildly. The carriage came to a halt.
