'Yet maybe it is the General's,' says the policeman, thinking aloud. 'It's not written on its face. . . . I saw one like it the other day in his yard.'
'It is the General's, that's certain! ' says a voice in the crowd.
'H'm, help me on with my overcoat, Yeldyrin, my lad . . . the wind's getting up. . . . I am cold. . . . You take it to the General's, and inquire there. Say I found it and sent it. And tell them not to let it out into the street. . . . It may be a valuable dog, and if every swine goes sticking a cigar in its mouth, it will soon be ruined. A dog is a delicate animal. . . . And you put your hand down, you blockhead. It's no use your displaying your fool of a finger. It's your own fault. . . .'
'Here comes the General's cook, ask him. . . Hi, Prohor! Come here, my dear man! Look at this dog. . . . Is it one of yours?'
'What an idea! We have never had one like that!'
'There's no need to waste time asking,' says Otchumyelov. 'It's a stray dog! There's no need to waste time talking about it. . . . Since he says it's a stray dog, a stray dog it is. . . . It must be destroyed, that's all about it.'
'It is not our dog,' Prohor goes on. 'It belongs to the General's brother, who arrived the other day. Our master does not care for hounds. But his honour is fond of them. . . .'
'You don't say his Excellency's brother is here? Vladimir Ivanitch?' inquires Otchumyelov, and his whole face beams with an ecstatic smile. ''Well, I never! And I didn't know! Has he come on a visit?
'Yes.'
'Well, I never. . . . He couldn't stay away from his brother. . . . And there I didn't know! So this is his honour's dog? Delighted to hear it. . . . Take it. It's not a bad pup. . . . A lively creature. . . . Snapped at this fellow's finger! Ha-ha-ha. . . . Come, why are you shivering? Rrr . . . Rrrr. . . . The rogue's angry . . . a nice little pup.'
Prohor calls the dog, and walks away from the timber-yard with her. The crowd laughs at Hryukin.
'I'll make you smart yet!' Otchumyelov threatens him, and wrapping himself in his greatcoat, goes on his way across the square.
NOTES
Otchumyelov: the name is similar to
Hryukin: usually tranliterated as Khryukin; Khryu-khryu is the representation in Russian of a pig's grunt
The Huntsman
by Anton Chekhov
A SULTRY, stifling midday. Not a cloudlet in the sky. . . . The sun-baked grass had a disconsolate, hopeless look: even if there were rain it could never be green again. . . . The forest stood silent, motionless, as though it were looking at something with its tree-tops or expecting something.
At the edge of the clearing a tall, narrow-shouldered man of forty in a red shirt, in patched trousers that had been a gentleman's, and in high boots, was slouching along with a lazy, shambling step. He was sauntering along the road. On the right was the green of the clearing, on the left a golden sea of ripe rye stretched to the very horizon. He was red and perspiring, a white cap with a straight jockey peak, evidently a gift from some open- handed young gentleman, perched jauntily on his handsome flaxen head. Across his shoulder hung a game-bag with a blackcock lying in it. The man held a double-barrelled gun cocked in his hand, and screwed up his eyes in the direction of his lean old dog who was running on ahead sniffing the bushes. There was stillness all round, not a sound . . . everything living was hiding away from the heat.
'Yegor Vlassitch!' the huntsman suddenly heard a soft voice.
He started and, looking round, scowled. Beside him, as though she had sprung out of the earth, stood a pale- faced woman of thirty with a sickle in her hand. She was trying to look into his face, and was smiling diffidently.
'Oh, it is you, Pelagea!' said the huntsman, stopping and deliberately uncocking the gun. 'H'm! . . . How have you come here?'
'The women from our village are working here, so I have come with them. . . . As a labourer, Yegor Vlassitch.'
'Oh . . .' growled Yegor Vlassitch, and slowly walked on.
Pelagea followed him. They walked in silence for twenty paces.
'I have not seen you for a long time, Yegor Vlassitch . . .' said Pelagea looking tenderly at the huntsman's moving shoulders. 'I have not seen you since you came into our hut at Easter for a drink of water . . . you came in at Easter for a minute and then God knows how . . . drunk . . . you scolded and beat me and went away . . . I have been waiting and waiting . . . I've tired my eyes out looking for you. Ah, Yegor Vlassitch, Yegor Vlassitch! you might look in just once!'
'What is there for me to do there?'
'Of course there is nothing for you to do . . . though to be sure . . . there is the place to look after. . . . To see how things are going. . . . You are the master. . . . I say, you have shot a blackcock, Yegor Vlassitch! You ought to sit down and rest!'
As she said all this Pelagea laughed like a silly girl and looked up at Yegor's face. Her face was simply radiant with happiness.
'Sit down? If you like . . .' said Yegor in a tone of indifference, and he chose a spot between two fir-trees. 'Why are you standing? You sit down too.'
Pelagea sat a little way off in the sun and, ashamed of her joy, put her hand over her smiling mouth. Two minutes passed in silence.
'You might come for once,' said Pelagea.
'What for?' sighed Yegor, taking off his cap and wiping his red forehead with his hand. 'There is no object in my coming. To go for an hour or two is only waste of time, it's simply upsetting you, and to live continually in the village
