Forty Stories

St. Peter’s Day

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.

“Well, what’s up?” asked Yegor Yegorich.

Mikhey Yegorich hurled himself at the carriage, climbed the step, and shook his fists at his brother. The hunters were all shouting at once.

“What’s going on?” Yegor Yegorich shouted, his face turning crimson.

“What’s going on?” shouted Mikhey Yegorich. “I’ll tell you what’s going on! You’re a Judas, a beast, a swine! Yes, a swine, Your Excellency! Why didn’t you wake me, you fool? What a scoundrel you are! Why didn’t you wake me? Excuse me, gentlemen, I never … I only want to teach him a lesson! Why didn’t he wake me? Don’t you want your brother to come with you? Would I be in the way? You purposely made me drunk yesterday evening, thought I would sleep till noon! Fine fellow you are! Excuse me, Your Excellency … I only want to hit him once … only once!… Excuse me!”

“You mustn’t come in!” the general said, spreading out his hands. “Don’t you see there is no room? It’s really too much!”

“You won’t get anywhere by cursing, Mikhey!” Yegor Yegorich said. “I didn’t wake you because there’s no reason why you should come with us!… You don’t know how to shoot! So what’s the point of coming? You’ll only get in the way! You just don’t know how to shoot!”

“I don’t know how to shoot, eh?” Mikhey Yegorich shouted so loud that Bolva flung his hands up to his ears. “If that’s so, then why the devil is the doctor going? He doesn’t know how to shoot either! So you think he’s a better shot than I am?”

“He’s right, gentlemen,” said the doctor. “I don’t know how to shoot. I don’t know how to handle a gun. I can’t stand shooting!… I don’t know why you take me with you. The hell with it! Let him take my place! I’ll stay behind. Here’s a place for you, Mikhey!”

“Did you hear that? Why should we take him along?”

The doctor rose with the evident intention of climbing out of the carriage. Yegor Yegorich tugged at his coat-tails and pulled him down.

“Don’t tear my coat! It cost thirty rubles! Let go! Really, gentlemen, I must ask you to spare me your conversation today! I’m not in a good mood, and might do something unwise, even something I didn’t want to do! Let go, Yegor Yegorich! I’m going home to get some sleep!”

“No, you’ve got to come with us,” Yegor Yegorich said, not letting go of the coat. “You gave me your word you would come!”

“That’s right. I gave you my word—you forced it out of me! Why do I have to come?”

“Why?” squeaked Mikhey Yegorich. “Why? Because otherwise you would be left behind with his wife, that’s why! He’s jealous of you, Doctor! Don’t go, dear fellow. Don’t go, in spite of him! Lord God, he’s jealous, that’s what it is!”

Yegor Yegorich turned a thick scarlet and clenched his fists.

“Hey, you!” voices shouted from the other carriage. “Mikhey Yegorich, stop all that fiddle-daddle! Come over here! We’ve got a place for you!”

Mikhey Yegorich smiled his malicious smile.

“Listen, you swine!” he said. “What’s come over you? Didn’t you hear them? They’ve found a place for me, so I’m coming to spite you! I’ll get in your way! I give my word I’ll get in your way! Devil take you, you won’t shoot anything! And don’t you come, doctor. Let him crack wide open with his jealousy!”

Yegor Yegorich got up and shook his fists. His eyes were bloodshot.

“You good-for-nothing!” he said, turning to his brother. “You’re no brother of mine! Our poor dead mother was right to put a curse on your head! Our poor dead father died before his time, because of all the things you did!”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted the general. “I think it can be said we have all had enough! Remember, you are brothers both born from the same mother!”

“He’s the brother of an ass, Your Excellency—no brother of mine! Don’t come, doctor, don’t come!”

“Let’s get going!” the general shouted, thumping Avvakum in the back with his fist. “Devil take you all! God knows what it is all about! Come on! Let’s go!”

Avvakum lashed out at the horses and the troika drove on. In the second carriage Captain Kardamonov, a writer, took the two dogs on his knees and made room for the explosive Mikhey Yegorich.

“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!”

So they drank a ninth round.

“You might say it is a hot day.…”

“So it is, but it’s not going to prevent us from drinking a tenth round, is it?”

“But …”

“I spit on the heat! Gentlemen, let us show the elements we are not afraid of them. Young fellow! Make us ashamed of ourselves. Put your old uncle to shame! We’re not afraid of the heat or the cold!”

Vanya drank down a glass of wine. The hunters shouted “Hurrah!” and followed his example.

“This way we might get sunstroke,” the general observed.

“Quite impossible!”

“Impossible! In our climate? Hm …”

“Still, cases have been known. My godfather, for example, died of sunstroke.…”

“Well, doctor, what do you think? Can a man get sunstroke, eh, in our climate? Eh, doctor?”

There was no response.

“You haven’t had to treat any cases, eh? We’re discussing sunstroke. Doctor! Where’s the doctor?”

“Where the devil is the doctor?”

The hunters looked all round: the doctor had gone.

“Where’s the doctor? Faded away? Like wax in the presence of flame! Ha-ha-ha!”

“He’s gone to see Yegor’s wife,” Mikhey Yegorich said maliciously.

Yegor Yegorich turned pale and let the bottle fall to the ground.

“Yes, gone to see his wife,” Mikhey Yegorich went on, nibbling on some sturgeon.

“Why do you have to tell lies?” Mange asked. “Did you see him go?”

“Of course I saw him! A peasant went by in a cart, and he jumped on and drove away. I swear to God! Shall we have an eleventh round now, gentlemen?”

Yegor Yegorich jumped up and shook his fists.

“That’s right,” Mikhey Yegorich went on. “I asked him where he was going. ‘I’m going after strawberries,’ he said, ‘and to sweeten the horns of a cuckold. I planted ’em, and now I’m going to sweeten ’em.’ And then he said: Good-by, Mikhey Yegorich, dear boy. Give my love to Yegor Yegorich!’ and then he winked at me. Well, here’s to your health, hee-hee-hee!”

“Horses!” shouted Yegor Yegorich, and he ran staggering in the direction of the carriage.

“Hurry, or you’ll be too late!” Mikhey Yegorich shouted after him.

Yegor Yegorich dragged Avvakum onto the box, jumped in the carriage, and drove home, shaking his fists at the other hunters.

“What’s the meaning of this, gentlemen?” the general asked when Yegor Yegorich’s white cap had vanished out of sight. “He’s gone, devil take it, but how am I to get home? He went off in my carriage. Not in mine, of course, but in the one I’m supposed to go home in. Strange behavior! III-mannered of him!”

Vanya felt ill. Vodka and beer conspired to act as an emetic. They had to take him home. After the fifteenth round, they decided to let the general have the troika, but only on condition that as soon as he reached his home he would send fresh horses immediately to take them back.

The general began his good-bys.

“You can tell him from me, gentlemen,” the general said, “that only swine behave like that!”

“You should protest his bill of exchange, Your Excellency,” Mikhey Yegorich suggested.

“What’s that? Bill of exchange? Why, yes, he shouldn’t take advantage of my kindness, should he? I’ve waited and waited, and now I’m tired of waiting. Tell him I’m going to pro—Good-by, gentlemen! Come and visit me. Yes, he’s a swine all right!”

The hunters bade farewell to the general and put him in the carriage alongside the sick Vanya.

“Let’s go!”

And the general and Vanya drove away.

After the eighteenth round of drinks the hunters went into the forest and spent some time shooting at a target before lying down and going to sleep. Towards evening the general’s horses came. Firs handed Mikhey Yegorich a letter addressed to “that brother of mine.” The letter contained a demand which would result in legal proceedings if not promptly carried out. After the third round of drinks (when they woke up, they started a new count), the general’s coachmen put them into the carriages and took them home.

When Yegor Yegorich at last reached his own house, he was met by Idler and Music Maker, whose rabbit hunt had only been a pretext for going home. Yegor Yegorich threw a threatening look at his wife, and started to search the house. He searched every storeroom, cupboard, closet, and wardrobe: he never found the doctor. But he did find the choirmaster Fortunov hiding under his wife’s bed.

It was already dark when the doctor awoke. For a while he wandered about the forest, and then, remembering that he had been out hunting, he cursed and began shouting for help. Of course, his cries remained unanswered, and he decided to make the journey back on foot. It was a good road, safe, and quite visible. He covered the sixteen miles in under four hours, and by morning he reached the district hospital. He gave a tongue-lashing to the orderlies, the patients, and the midwife, and then he began to compose an immensely long letter to Yegor Yegorich. In this letter he demanded “explanations for your unseemly conduct,” said some injurious things about jealous husbands, and swore on oath that he would never go hunting again—not even on the twenty-ninth of June.

June 1881

¹ The name means “not-screaming-tail.”