T
T
A R
I have the honor to inform Your Excellency that in the Mikhalkovo Woods, not far from the Old Ravine, while crossing the footbridge I observed the hanged body of a dead man showing no signs of life, bearing the name, according to documents found in his possession, of Stepan Maximov Kachagov, 51 years old. From the state of his wallet and his rags, he was clearly in an impecunious condition. Except for the rope I found no other marks on his body, while all his effects were still in his possession. No motive for the suicide was disclosed, but these things happen from vodka. The peasants of Zhabrovo saw him leaving the pothouse. Should I make an official report, or await the coming of Your Excellency?
T
A NOBLEMAN’S horse was stolen. The next day the following announcement appeared in all the newspapers: “Unless the horse is returned to my possession, I shall be forced to have recourse to the extreme measures formerly employed by my father in similar circumstances.” The threat was effective. The thief, not knowing exactly what was in store, but supposing he would fall victim to some extraordinary and fearful punishment, became panic-stricken, and he secretly returned the horse. The nobleman rejoiced in the successful issue of the affair, and told his friends how very glad he was that he would not have to follow his father’s example.
“What did your father do?” they asked him.
“You are asking me what my father did, eh? Well, I’ll tell you. He was staying in lodgings when they stole his horse. He threw the saddle over his shoulders and walked home on foot. I’d swear I would have had to do the same thing, if the thief had not been so obliging.”
T
NOON, hot and stifling, with no clouds in the sky. The sunburned grass had a dismal, hopeless look. Even if the rains came, it was doubtful whether the grass would ever be green again. The forest was silent, motionless, as though gazing out from the treetops or waiting for something to happen.
At the edge of the clearing a tall, narrow-shouldered man of forty, wearing a red shirt, patched trousers which had evidently once belonged to a gentleman, and high leather boots, was sauntering along a pathway with lazy, shambling strides. To the right was the green of the clearing, to the left a golden sea of ripened rye stretching to the horizon. His face was ruddy and sweating. A white cap with a straight visor, like those worn by jockeys, perched jauntily on his handsome blond head—the cap must have been the gift of a generous young nobleman. Over his shoulder hung a game bag with a crumpled woodcock lying in it. The man was holding a double-barreled shotgun in his hand, both barrels cocked, and he was screwing up his eyes as he followed the ancient and lean hunting dog which was running on ahead, sniffing at the bushes. There was silence all round, not a sound anywhere. Every living thing had taken refuge from the heat.
“Yegor Vlassich!” The huntsman suddenly heard a soft voice.
He was startled and turned round, knitting his brows. Beside him, as though she had sprung out of the earth, stood a pale peasant woman of thirty, with a sickle in her hand. She was trying to peer into the face, and she was smiling shyly.
“Oh, it is you, Pelageya!” said the huntsman, and he stopped and slowly uncocked the gun. “Well, how do you happen to be here?”
“The women from our village have come to work here, and so I came with them.… I’m working with them, Yegor Vlassich.”
“Ah,” Yegor muttered, and walked slowly on.
Pelageya followed him. They went on in silence for twenty paces.
“It’s a long time since I saw you, Yegor Vlassich,” Pelageya said, gazing tenderly at the movement of his shoulders and shoulder blades. “I remember you dropped into our hut during Easter week for a drink of water, and then I never saw you again.… You dropped in for a moment at Easter, and then God knows what was the matter … you were quite drunk … you swore at me, and gave me a beating, and then you went away.… I’ve waited and waited.… I’ve worn out my eyes waiting.… Ah, Yegor Vlassich, Yegor Vlassich! If only you’d come back just once in all that time!”
“What would I be doing in your place?”
“No use.… Still, there’s the house to look after … seeing about things.… You are the master there!… So you shot a woodcock, Yegor? Why don’t you sit down and rest awhile.…”
