Read Forty Stories Online

Authors: Anton Chekhov

Forty Stories (7 page)

BOOK: Forty Stories
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“Lucky for him you found room,” said Mikhey Yegorich as he
settled down in the carriage. “Otherwise I might have … Kardamonov, won’t you describe that highway robber of yours?”

It happened that the previous year Kardamonov had sent to the magazine
Niva
an article entitled “An Interesting Case of Fertility among the Peasant Population,” and receiving a reply which reflected unfavorably on his pride as an author, he complained bitterly to the neighbors, thus earning the reputation of being a writer.

According to the predetermined plan of action, their first stop was to be at the hayfields where the peasants were busy mowing—the fields were about four miles away from Yegor Yegorich’s estate—and there they would shoot quail. At the hayfields the hunters stepped out of their carriages and divided into two groups: one group, headed by the general and Yegor Yegorich, turned to the right; the other, with Kardamonov at the head, went off to the left. Bolva remained behind and went off on his own. He liked to hunt in peace, in complete silence. Music Maker ran on ahead, barking, and a minute later he raised a quail. Vanya fired a shot and missed.

“Aimed too high, dammit!” he muttered.

Idler, the puppy, had been taken along “to learn the ropes.” For the first time in his life the puppy heard gunfire, set off a howl, and went running back to the carriages with his tail between his legs. Mange aimed at a lark and hit it.

“I enjoy that bird,” he said to the doctor, pointing to the lark.

“Go to hell!” the doctor said. “It’s no use talking to me! I’m in a bad mood! Leave me alone!”

“You’re a skeptic, doctor.”

“Eh, what’s that? What does skeptic mean?”

Mange thought for a while.

“A skeptic is a man … a man who is … a person who doesn’t love …”

“Wrong! Don’t use words you don’t understand! Leave me alone! I might do something unpleasant, something I don’t want to do! I’m in a bad mood!…”

Music Maker began pointing. The general and Yegor Yegorich turned pale and held their breaths.

“I’m shooting this one,” the general whispered. “I … I … Excuse me, this is the second time you have …”

But nothing came of the dog’s pointing. The doctor, with nothing to do, threw a pebble, which struck Music Maker between the ears, and immediately the dog set up a howl and leaped in the air. The general and Yegor Yegorich looked round. They heard a rustling sound in the grass, and a large bustard flew up. The members of the second group were making a lot of noise and pointing at the bustard. The general, Mange, and Vanya fired. Mange missed. Too late! The bustard flew over a mound and vanished in a field of rye.

“I put it to you, doctor, this is no time for a joke!” the general said, turning sharply on the doctor. “Not the right time, is it?”

“What?”

“It’s no time for a joke.”

“Stupid of you, doctor,” Yegor Yegorich observed.

“Well, they shouldn’t have brought me along. Who told you to bring me? I don’t want to explain anything. I’m in a bad mood today.”

Mange killed another lark. Vanya aimed at a young rook, fired, and missed.

“Aimed too high, dammit!” he muttered.

Two shots were heard in quick succession. Bolva, on the other side of the mound, had shot down two quail with his heavy double-barreled shotgun, and he put them in his pocket. Yegor Yegorich aimed at a quail and fired. The quail, wounded, fell in the grass. Yegor Yegorich triumphantly retrieved the quail and presented it to the general.

“In the wing, Your Excellency. Still alive, too.”

“True, she’s still alive. Ought to have a summary execution!”

Saying this, the general lifted the quail to his lips and bit through her neck with his eyeteeth. Mange killed a third lark. Music Maker began pointing again. The general flung his cap
away and took aim. “Take that!” A big quail flew up, but at that moment the good-for-nothing doctor somehow got into the line of fire, being almost directly in front of the muzzle of the shotgun.

“Get out of here!” the general exploded.

The doctor jumped to one side, the general fired, but as it happened the shot was fired too late.

“Young man, that’s a bloody awful thing to do!” the general roared.

“What did I do?” the doctor asked.

“You got in my way! Who told you to get in my way? I missed the bird, thanks to you! God knows what’s happening, but whatever it is, it’s all an unseemly mess!”

“What are you shouting for? Pfui! I’m not afraid of you! I’m not afraid of mere generals, Your Excellency! I’m especially not afraid of retired generals! So please shut your mouth!”

“What an extraordinary fellow he is! Walks around and messes everything up! It’s enough to try the patience of an angel.”

“Stop shouting, general! If you have to shout at someone, shout at Mange. He’s afraid of generals. You can’t unnerve a real huntsman! You might as well admit you don’t know how to fire a gun!”

“Enough, sir! One word from me, and there’s a dozen thrown back in my face!” the general said, and then he turned to Vanya. “Vanya, dear boy, give me my powder horn!”

“What made you ask that soldier of fortune to go hunting with you?” the doctor asked Yegor Yegorich.

“Had to, my dear fellow,” replied Yegor Yegorich. “Simply had to take him. I owe him eight thousand.… Yes, my dear boy, all those accursed debts of mine …”

Yegor Yegorich left the sentence unfinished and waved his hand.

“Is it true you are jealous of me?”

Yegor Yegorich turned away and aimed at a high-flying kite.

“Lost it, you little whippersnapper!” came the rumbling roar of the general. “Lost it, and it cost a hundred rubles! You’re a little pig, that’s what you are!”

Yegor Yegorich went over to the general and asked what the matter was. It appeared that Vanya had lost the general’s cartridge bag. A search was undertaken, and the hunt was broken off. The search lasted an hour and a quarter, and was crowned with success. With the cartridge bag recovered, the hunters sat down for a rest.

The second group of quail hunters was also having its troubles. Within this group Mikhey Yegorich behaved as badly as the doctor, and perhaps worse. He knocked the guns out of their hands, quarreled violently, thrashed the dogs, scattered powder around, and in a word—the devil knows what he wasn’t up to! After some unsuccessful shooting at quail Kardamonov and his dogs went after a young kite. They winged it, but were never able to retrieve it. Captain Kardamanov, second class, killed a marmot with a stone.

“Gentlemen, let us dissect the marmot,” suggested Nekrichikhvostov,
1
clerk to the marshal of the nobility.

So the hunters sat down in the grass, took out their penknives, and began to dissect the creature.

“I can’t find anything in this marmot,” Nekrichikhvostov complained when the marmot had been cut to ribbons. “It doesn’t have a heart. It has entrails, though. Know what, gentlemen? Let us go on to the marshes. What can we shoot here? Quail isn’t game. We ought to be going after woodcock and snipe. Shall we go?”

The hunters rose and wandered lazily in the direction of their carriages. When they were close to the carriages, they fired a volley at the local pigeons and killed one.

“Tallyho! Your Excellency! Yegorich!” shouted the members of the second group when they caught sight of the first group sitting down and resting.

The general and Yegor Yegorich looked round. The second group were waving their caps.

“What on earth are you doing that for?” Yegor Yegorich shouted.

“Success! We’ve killed a bustard! Come quickly!”

The first group simply refused to believe they had killed a bustard and went straight off to the carriages. Once inside the carriages, they decided to leave the quail in peace and agreed to follow an itinerary which would take them three miles farther on—into the marshes.

“I get all burned up when I’m hunting,” the general confided to the doctor when the troikas had brought them a mile or so away from the hayfield. “I get all burned up! I wouldn’t spare my own father! Please forgive an old man, eh?”

“Hm.”

“Sweet old rogue,” Yegor Yegorich whispered into the doctor’s ear. “He says that because it’s the fashion nowadays to marry off your daughter to a doctor. He’s a sly excellency, he is! Hee-hee-hee!…”

“We’re coming to the wide-open spaces,” Vanya said.

“So we are. Plenty of ’em.”

“What’s that?”

“Gentlemen, where is Bolva?” Mange said, wondering where he had gone.

They all stared at one another.

“He must have been in the other troika,” Yegor Yegorich suggested, and he began shouting: “Gentlemen, is Bolva with you?”

“No, he’s not,” Kardamonov shouted back.

The hunters pondered the matter.

“Devil take him,” the general decided. “We’re not going to turn back for him!”

“Really, we ought to go back, Your Excellency. He’s not strong. He’ll die without water. He couldn’t walk that far.”

“He could if he wanted to.”

“It would kill the old man. He’s ninety years old!”

“Nonsense!”

When they came to the marshes, our hunters pulled long faces. The marshes were crowded with other hunters: it was therefore hardly worth their while to emerge from their carriages. After a little thought they decided to go on a little farther to the state forest.

“What will you shoot there?” the doctor asked.

“Thrushes, orioles, maybe some grouse …”

“That’s all very well, but what will my poor patients be doing in the meantime? Why did you bring me along, Yegor Yegorich? Why? Why?”

The doctor sighed and scratched the back of his neck. When they came to the first parcel of forest, they got out of their carriages and fell to discussing who should go left, who right.

“Know what, gentlemen?” Nekrichikhvostov suggested. “In view of the law, or should we say the guiding principles, of nature, the game won’t leave us in the lurch. Hm. The game won’t leave us in the lurch. So I suggest we fortify ourselves before anything else! A nip of wine, and vodka, and caviar, and sturgeon won’t do any harm. Right here on the grass! What do you think, doctor? You know best—you’re a medical man. Shouldn’t we fortify ourselves?”

Nekrichikhvostov’s suggestion was accepted. Avvakum and Firs spread out two rugs, and round these were arranged the bottles and sacks full of food. Yegor Yegorich sliced the sausages, cheese, and sturgeon, while Nekrichikhvostov opened the bottles and Mange cut the bread. The hunters licked their lips and lay down on the rugs.

“Come, come, Your Excellency … Let us each have a little …”

The hunters ate and drank. The doctor immediately poured himself another drink and drank it down. Vanya followed his example.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were wolves here,” Kardamonov
announced after a period of deep meditation, throwing a sidelong glance at the forest.

The hunters pondered, discussed the matter at length, and at the end of ten minutes came to the conclusion that one might be quite safe in saying there were no wolves.

“Well, now, shall we have another? Drink up, eh? Yegor Yegorich, what are you staring at?”

They drank another round.

“What are you thinking about, young fellow?” Yegor Yegorich turned to Vanya.

Vanya shook his head.

“When I’m here,” said the general, “you can drink, but when I’m not here … So let’s have a little nip!”

Vanya filled his wineglass and drank it down.

“What about a third round, Your Excellency?”

They drank a third round. The doctor drank his sixth.

“Young fellow!”

Vanya shook his head.

“Drink, Amphiteatrov!” said Mange, patronizingly.

“When I’m here you can drink, but when I am not here …”

Vanya drank another glass.

“Why is the sky so blue today?” asked Kardamonov.

The hunters pondered the problem, discussed it, and at the end of a quarter of an hour they came to the conclusion that no one really knew why the sky was so blue.

“A rabbit! A rabbit!… Steady there!”

A rabbit appeared on the other side of the mound. The rabbit was being pursued by two mongrels. The hunters jumped to their feet and grabbed their guns, while the rabbit ran past them and vanished into the forest with Music Maker, the two mongrels, and still other dogs hot on its trail. Idler pondered for a moment, threw a suspicious glance at the general, and then hurried after the rabbit.

“It’s a big one! We ought to have brought him down, eh? How did he get away?”

“True! But there’s a bottle here, and what’s to be done with it?

You didn’t finish your drink, Your Excellency? Well, well, that’s fine!”

So they drank a fourth round. The doctor drank his ninth, quacked loudly, and then he too vanished into the forest. He found a dark shady spot, lay down on the grass, put his coat under his head, and proceeded to make snoring noises. Vanya was fuddled. He drank another glass of wine, and then became wildly excited. He fell on his knees and declaimed twenty verses of Ovid.

The general observed that Latin shared many remarkable similarities with French. Yegor Yegorich agreed, and observed that anyone who wanted to learn French should absolutely know Latin, which was a very similar language. Mange did not agree with Yegor Yegorich. He emphasized that this was not the proper occasion for discourses on languages, since there was a physics and mathematics teacher present, and a goodly number of bottles; and he added that his own gun had cost a fortune when he bought it some time ago, and now you couldn’t buy a gun like that for love or money.…

“An eighth round, gentlemen?”

“Wouldn’t that be a bit too much?”

“Get on with you! Eight too much? It’s clear to me you’ve never done any drinking!”

They drank their eighth round.

“Young fellow!”

Vanya shook his head.

“Drink it down, boy, like a soldier! I see you shoot well.…”

“Drink up, Amphiteatrov!” said Mange.

“It’s all right when I’m here, but when I’m not here … Well, let’s have a little drink.…”

Vanya put his beer aside and drank another shot of vodka.

“A ninth round, gentlemen? What did you say? I hate the number eight. My father died on the eighth day.… I mean Ivan … Fyodor … Yegor Yegorich! Fill the glasses!”

BOOK: Forty Stories
12.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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