Forty Stories (13 page)

October 1884

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?

Policeman Denis Ch
.

March 1885

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.”

May 1885

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.…”

Saying this, Pelageya smiled like an idiot and looked up into Yegor’s face. Her own face was glowing with happiness.

“Sit down? Well, if you want me to …” Yegor said in a tone of indifference, and he chose a spot in the shade between two fully grown fir trees. “Why are you standing, eh? You sit down, too!”

Pelageya sat down a little way away in the full sunlight. Ashamed of her happiness, she hid her smiles with her hand. Two minutes passed in silence.

“You might come back to me just once,” Pelageya said softly.

“Why?” Yegor sighed, and he removed his cap and wiped his red forehead with his sleeve. “I don’t see any need for it. There’s no sense in coming for an hour or two—it will only upset you! And as for living all the time in your village, well, it’s beyond endurance! You know yourself how I have been spoiled.… I have to have a bed, and good tea, and fine conversations.… Me, I want all the fine things of life, and as for you—you enjoy the poverty and smoke of your village.… I couldn’t stand it for even a day. Imagine there came an order saying I must live permanently with you—well, I’d rather set fire to the cottage or lay hands on myself! Ever since I was a boy, I was always spoiled—there’s no getting away from it!”

“Where are you living now?”

“With Dmitry Ivanich, a fine gentleman, and I’m his huntsman. I furnish his table with game … and there it is … he keeps me more for his own pleasure than for anything else.”

“That’s not proper kind of work, Yegor Vlassich!… People call that fooling around—there’s only you who thinks of it as an occupation, a real job of work.…”

“You don’t understand, stupid,” Yegor said, gazing dreamily at the sky. “Ever since you were born, you’ve never understood what kind of man I am, and you never will.… According to you I’m just a crazy half-cocked sort of fellow, but anyone with an ounce of understanding knows that I’m the best shot in the whole district. The gentry know that, and they’ve even written me up in a magazine. There isn’t a man who can be compared with me as a huntsman.… And it isn’t because I am spoiled and proud that I despise the work of your village. From the time when I was a child, as you know, I never had to do with anything except guns and dogs. If they took my gun away, I’d go out with a fishing rod, and if they took my rod away, then I’d find some way to busy myself with my hands. I went in for horse trading and I’d go to fairs when I had money, and you know
yourself that when a peasant goes in for hunting and horse trading, then it’s good-by to the plow. Once freedom catches hold of a man, you can never hammer it out of him! In the same way a gentleman who takes up acting or goes in for the arts will never be of any use as an official or a landowner. You’re a peasant girl, and you’ll never understand that, but it’s something you’ve got to know!”

“I do understand it, Yegor Vlassich.”

“You obviously don’t understand, seeing that you’re about to cry.”

“I … I’m not crying,” Pelageya said, turning her head away. “It’s a sin, Yegor Vlassich! You ought to come and spend a bit of time with me. I’m so miserable! We’ve been married for twelve years … never once was there any love between us.… I … I’m not crying.”

“Love,” Yegor muttered, scratching his arm. “There couldn’t be any love between us. It’s only on paper we’re husband and wife—the truth is we are really nothing at all, eh? You think of me as a wild sort of fellow, and I think of you as a simple peasant girl who doesn’t understand anything. We are not much of a pair! I’m a free man, and I’ve been spoiled, and I go where I please. And you’re a laboring woman wearing bast shoes, living in filth, and your back is bent low to the ground. I know all about myself—I know I’m the best huntsman around, and you look at me with pity.… There’s a fine pair for you!”

“We were married in church, Yegor Vlassich,” sobbed Pelageya.

“It wasn’t my fault we got married.… Have you forgotten? You have Count Sergey Pavlich to thank for it … and you had some responsibility, too. He was full of envy for me because I was a better shot than he was, and he kept me drinking for a whole month, and when a fellow is drunk, you can make him do anything—get married, change his religion, anything! Out of revenge he married me to you when I was drunk.… A huntsman marrying a cow girl! You saw I was
drunk, so why did you marry me? You were not a serf—you could have refused! Sure, it is a lucky thing for a cow girl to marry a huntsman, but you have to use your brains. Now you are making yourself miserable, and crying. The count thought it was a joke, but you went right on crying … beating your head against a wall.…”

Silence followed. Three wild ducks flew over the clearing. Yegor watched them, following them until they became three barely perceptible dots, and then they vanished on the other side of the forest far away.

“How do you live?” he asked, no longer looking at the ducks, but at Pelageya.

“This time of year I go out and work, and in the winter I take a baby from the foundling hospital and bring it up on the bottle. For that they give me a ruble and a half a month.”

“So …”

Again there was silence. From a field which had been reaped there came the first soft notes of a song, which broke off abruptly. It was too hot for singing.

“They say you built a new hut for Akulina,” said Pelageya.

Yegor was silent.

“Are you fond of her?”

“It’s just your luck, it’s fate!” said the huntsman, stretching himself. “You have to suffer, poor orphan! Good-by! I’ve been chattering too much!… I have to reach Boltovo by evening.”

Yegor rose, stretched himself, and threw his gun over his shoulder. Pelageya got up.

“When are you coming to the village?” she asked softly.

“No reason for me to come. I won’t come sober, and I won’t be much use to you if I come drunk. I’m mean when I’m drunk. Good-by!”

“Good-by, Yegor Vlassich.”

Yegor put his cap on the back of his head, made a clicking noise with his tongue to summon the dog, and went on his way. Pelageya stood there and watched him going. She followed the
movement of his shoulder blades, the vigorous young neck, the lazy and careless gait, and her eyes were full of melancholy and tender affection.… Her eyes ran over the tall, lean figure of her husband, and caressed and fondled him. As though he felt the force of her gaze, he stopped and looked back.… He did not speak, but from his face and the thrust of his shoulders Pelageya knew he wanted to say something to her. She went up to him timidly, gazing at him imploringly.

“Take it,” he said, and he turned away.

He gave her a crumpled-up ruble note, and walked on quickly.

“Good-by, Yegor Vlassich,” she said, mechanically taking the ruble.

He went down the long road, which was as straight as a taut strap. She stood there pale and motionless as a statue, following closely each one of his footsteps. Soon the red color of his shirt melted into the dark color of his trousers, and she could no longer follow his footsteps, and the dog became indistinguishable from his boots. At last she could see only his cap, and suddenly Yegor turned sharply to the right into a clearing, and the cap vanished in the green depths.

“Good-by, Yegor Vlassich,” whispered Pelageya, and she stood on tiptoe, hoping to see the white cap.

July 1885

THE tiny and extraordinarily skinny peasant, wearing patched drawers and a shirt of striped linen, stood facing the investigating magistrate. His hairy face was pitted with smallpox, and his eyes, scarcely visible under thick overhanging brows, conveyed an expression of sullen resentment. He wore his hair in a tangled unkempt thatch which somehow emphasized his sullen spiderlike character. He was barefoot.

“Denis Grigoryev!” the magistrate began. “Step closer, and answer my questions. On the morning of July 7 the linesman Ivan Semyonov Akinfov, while performing the duty of examining the tracks, found you in proximity to the one-hundred-and-forty-first mile post unscrewing one of the nuts from the bolt securing the rail to the tie. The nut is here. He thereupon arrested you with the nut in your possession. Do you testify to the truth of this statement?”

“Wha-at?”

“Did all this happen as stated by Akinfov?”

“Sure—yes, it did.”

“Excellent. Now why were you unscrewing the nut?”

“Wha-at?”

“Stop saying what’ and answer the question! Why were you unscrewing the nut?”

“I wouldn’t have unscrewed it, would I, if I hadn’t wanted it?” Denis said hoarsely, squinting up at the ceiling.

“What on earth was the good of the nut to you?”

“The nut, eh? Well, we make sinkers out of ’em.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“We—the people in the village. The peasants of Klimovo.…”

“Listen, fellow. Don’t play the fool with me. Learn to talk sense. Don’t tell me any lies about sinkers!”

“Me, tell lies? All my life I haven’t told any lies, and now …” Denis muttered, his eyes blinking. “Your Honor, I ask you, what can you do without sinkers? Now, if you put live worms on the hook, how do you think it touches bottom without a sinker? So I’m lying, am I?” he smirked. “Then what is the good of live bait floating on the surface? The perch and pike and eelpout always go along the bottom, while if the bait floats on the surface there’s only the snapper will bite, and that doesn’t happen often.… And there are no snappers in our part of the country.… Our fish like a lot of space.…”