The general and Egor Egorovich turned around. Everyone in the second group was waving his cap.
“What is it?” Egor Egorovich shouted back.
“We’ve got something to show you! We killed a bustard! Come on!”
The first group didn’t believe the bustard story, but they went anyway. Everyone settled back into the carriages. They decided to let the quails be and to go to the marshes five versts away, as planned.
“I get so worked up when hunting,” the general confided to the doctor, when they’d gone a good part of the way. “Terribly worked up! I wouldn’t spare my own father. I hope that you can forgive an old man!”
The doctor was noncommittal.
“What a kind old soul he’s become, the rascal!” Egor Egorovich whispered to the doctor. “And you know it’s all the fashion these days to marry your daughter to a doctor! His Excellency is a sly one, all right!”
“There’s more room than there was,” Vanya commented.
“Yes.”
“Why’s there so much more room?”
“Where’s Bolva?” Manzhe asked and then gasped.
The hunters looked at one another.
“He must be in the other carriage. Gentlemen, is Bolva with you?” shouted Egor Egorovich.
“No,” Kardamonov shouted back.
The hunters pondered.
“Well, the hell with him!” the general declared. “We’re not going back!”
“Really, we ought to go back, Your Excellency. He’s very frail! He’ll die without water. He won’t make it back.”
“He’ll make it back if he wants to.”
“He’ll die trying, the poor old thing. He’s ninety years old!”
“Nonsense.”
But when they got to the marshes, their faces fell . . . The marshes were overrun with hunters. There was no point even getting out. They thought about it and decided to ride on to the state forest—five more versts.
“And what can you shoot there?” asked the doctor.
“Thrushes, eagle hens. Grouse, probably.”
“I see. I wonder how my poor patients are doing! Why did you make me come, Egor Egorovich? Really!” The doctor sighed and scratched his head.
When they reached the forest, the hunters climbed out of the carriages and split into two groups again. They discussed which way each would go.
“Gentlemen,” Nekrichikhvostov began, “it is a law of Nature, so to speak, that game will stick around. Yes. The game will stick around, gentlemen! So first things first—let’s have a little refreshment! Some wine, vodka, caviar. Some sturgeon. Right here, on the grass! What do you think, doctor? You’re a doctor, after all. Don’t we need some refreshments?”
Nekrichikhvostov’s proposal was accepted. Avvakum and Firs spread out two rugs and laid out the food and the drinks. Egor Egorovich sliced salami, cheese, and sturgeon. Nekrichikhvostov opened the bottles, Manzhe sliced the bread. The hunters licked their chops and got down to business.
“Now then, Your Excellency! Let’s have a drop . . .”
The hunters drank a shot and followed it with food. The doctor poured himself a second shot straightaway, gulping it down. Vanya followed suit.
“You know, they’ve probably got wolves here,” Kardamonov commented sagaciously, glancing askance at the trees.
The hunters considered this, conferred, and ten minutes later concluded that most likely there weren’t any wolves.
“What do you say? Another round? Drink up! Egor Egorovich, why are you just sitting there?”
Everyone drank another round.
“Young man!” Egor Egorovich addressed Vanya. “Why do you hesitate? Have another!”
Vanya shook his head.
“It’s all right if you’re with me,” said the general. “Don’t drink on your own, but if you’re with me . . . Have a little!”
Vanya poured a shot and drank it.
“Well? A third round? Your Excellency . . .”
They drank a third round. The doctor drank a sixth.
“Young man!”
Vanya shook his head.
“Drink up, Amfiteatrov!” said Manzhe, patronizingly.
“If you’re with me, you can drink, though not on your own . . . Have a little!”
Vanya drank.
“Why is the sky so blue today?” Kardamonov asked.
The hunters considered this, conferred, and a quarter of an hour later decided that no one knew why the sky was so blue today.
“A hare, a hare, a hare! Get it!”
A hare had appeared from behind a hillock. Two mutts were chasing it. The hunters jumped up, grabbing their rifles. The hare flew past, followed by the mutts, Musician, and other dogs. Futile thought about it, eyed the general suspiciously, and also took off after the hare.
“A large one! Wouldn’t it be nice to, you know . . . How is it that we missed it?”
“Yes. Now why is this unfinished bottle standing here . . . Were you the one who didn’t finish it off, Your Excellency? So that’s the way you do things! All right then, sir!”
They drank a fourth round. The doctor drank a ninth, grunted furiously, and went off into the forest. He located the largest swath of shade, lay down on the grass, crammed his jacket under his head, and began to snore. Vanya was already three sheets to the wind. He downed another shot, switched to beer—and his heart overflowed. He got up onto his knees and recited twenty stanzas from Ovid.
“Latin,” the general remarked, “resembles French.” Egor Egorovich agreed, adding that when studying French it is vitally necessary to know Latin, which it very much resembles. Manzhe disagreed, noting that one shouldn’t discuss languages in a place where a teacher of physics and arithmetic is sitting and so many bottles are standing, plus his rifle had cost a lot of money back when he got it and nowadays it was impossible to find a good rifle, and that . . .
“An eighth round, gentlemen?”
“Won’t it be too much?”
“Come off it. What are you talking about? Eight, too much? It’s obvious that you’ve never done any real drinking!”
Everyone drank an eighth round.
“Young man!”
Vanya shook his head.
“Stop that! Let’s see you down it—military-style! After all, you shoot so well.”
“Drink up, Amfiteatrov!” said Manzhe.
“It’s all right when you’re with me, though not on your own . . . Have a little!”
Vanya put down the beer and had another shot.
“A ninth round, gentlemen, what’d you say? What do you think? It’s just that I can’t stand the number eight. My father died on the eighth. His name was Fedor—I mean, Ivan. Egor Egorovich! Pour another!”
They had a ninth round.
“Can you believe how hot it is?”
“Hot, yes, but that’s not going to stop us from drinking a tenth round!”
“But . . .”
“Who cares about the heat! Gentlemen, let’s show the elements that we’re not afraid of them. Young man! Set an example. Go ahead—put your uncle here to shame! Neither cold nor heat has the power to frighten us . . .”
Vanya downed a shot. “Hurray!” everyone shouted—and had a shot.
“You could get sunstroke here,” said the general.
“No, you couldn’t.”
“In our climate? No.”
“But it happens. My godfather died of sunstroke . . .”
“Doctor, what do you think? Sunstroke—in our climate? Doctor!”
No answer came.
“Doctor, have you treated it? We’re talking about sun . . . Doctor. Where’s the doctor?”
“Where’s the doctor? Doctor!”
Everyone looked everywhere: The doctor was nowhere to be found.
“So where’s the doctor? He hath vanished? As wax doth melt before the flame? Hahaha . . .”
“He went off to pay a visit to Egor’s wife!” Mikhei Egorovich burst out.
Egor Egorovich blanched and dropped his bottle.