“He went off to see Egor’s wife!” repeated Mikhei Egorovich, his mouth full of sturgeon.
“Why are you lying?” asked Manzhe. “Did you see him go?”
“I did. A peasant drove by on his cart, and he got in and took off. Honest to goodness. An eleventh round, gentlemen?”
Egor Egorovich rose. He brandished his fists.
“I asked him, ‘Where are you off to?’” Mikhei Egorovich continued. “‘I’m going to get myself something soft and sweet,’ says he. ‘A certain someone is wearing the horns already, but they’re going to be polished nicely when I’m done today. Farewell, dear Mikhei Egorovich!’ says he. ‘Give my best to your relation Egor Egorovich!’ With a little wink too! I hope that he enjoys himself.” He broke out laughing.
“Get the horses ready!” shouted Egor Egorovich. He staggered to the carriage.
“Hurry up, or you’ll be too late!” shouted Mikhei Egorovich.
Egor Egorovich dragged Avvakum up onto the coachman’s box, leapt into the carriage, and rode off, shaking his fist at the hunters.
“What’s the meaning of this, gentlemen?” asked the general. Egor Egorovich’s white cap had disappeared into the distance. “He left. How the devil am I supposed to get home? He took my carriage! I mean, not mine, but the one that was meant for me to ride back in. Strange. It’s quite impertinent, really!”
Vanya vomited. All that vodka and beer. He had to go home. After a fifteenth round, the hunters decided to cede the troika to the general but only on the condition that as soon as he got home he’d send them some fresh horses.
The general began to take his leave.
“Tell him, gentlemen, that only a swine does that.”
“Make him pay up his promissory notes, Your Excellency,” Mikhei Egorovich advised.
“Promissory notes? Ah, yes. It’s about time he paid up. Everything has a limit. I’ve waited and waited, and now I’m tired of waiting. I’m fed up, tell him that. Farewell, gentlemen! Do come visit! He is a swine!”
The hunters bade farewell in turn. They deposited the general in the carriage next to poor sick Vanya.
“Go!”
And they went.
An eighteenth round ensued, after which the hunters took to the woods for some target shooting and fell asleep. Toward evening, the general’s horses came to pick them up. Firs gave Mikhei Egorovich a letter to hand over to his “dear brother.” It contained an urgent request and a threat to summon the bailiff. A third round followed (fresh from their slumber, the hunters began a new count), and then the general’s coachmen dumped the hunters into the carriages and dropped them off at their respective houses.
Meanwhile, Egor Egorovich had come home, where he was greeted by Musician and Futile, who’d gone straight back instead of chasing the hare. Egor Egorovich threw his wife a terrible look and began to search. He searched in the storage rooms, wardrobes, chests, and chests of drawers. He didn’t find the doctor. He found someone else: Under his wife’s bed he discovered the sexton Fortunatov.
It was dark when the doctor awoke. He wandered in the forest for a while, then, remembering that this was a hunt, he swore loudly and began to halloo. Needless to say, his cries remained unanswered. He decided to return home on foot. The road was a good one: safe and well lit. He covered the twenty-four versts in about four hours and reached the district hospital by morning. After fighting with the orderlies, the midwife, and the patients, he sat down to write a massive letter to Egor Egorovich. In the letter he demanded “an explanation for unseemly conduct,” railed at jealous husbands, and vowed never to hunt again. Never! Not even on the twenty-ninth of June.
* June 29, St. Peter’s Day, was the start of the Russian hunting season.
CHASE TWO RABBITS, CATCH NONE
THE CLOCK struck noon. Major Shchelkobokov, the owner of thousands of acres of land and a young wife, poked his bald head from under the chintz blanket and swore out loud.
The day before, he’d walked past the gazebo and heard his young wife, Karolina Karlovna, engaged in a conversation with her cousin. He was visiting them. The conversation was more than friendly. She had called him, the major, a muttonhead. She had maintained, with a woman’s typical lack of judgment, that she did not love her husband, had never loved him, and would never love him. He was a dunce. He acted like a peasant. He showed signs of mental derangement. He was chronically drunk.
The major had been amazed and outraged. He went into a frenzy of indignation. He didn’t sleep that whole night. He hadn’t slept in the morning. His head seethed with thought (it was a first), his face burned (it was redder than a boiled lobster), he clenched his fists, and his chest was filled with a commotion and booming that exceeded what he had heard at the battle for Kars.* He peeked out from under his blanket, swore, jumped out of bed, and began to pace the room, brandishing his fists. “Hey, blockheads!” he yelled.
The door creaked open. In came Panteley, the major’s valet, hairdresser, and janitor. Panteley wore the major’s castoffs and clutched a puppy under one arm. He leaned against the doorframe. Respectfully, he blinked his eyes.
“Listen here, Panteley,” the major began. “I want to talk man-to-man. Stand up straight! Why’d you catch those flies? Let them go already! That’s more like it! Now, answer me sincerely, from the depths of your heart!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look so surprised. Don’t look at your betters with surprise. Stop gaping! What a dope you are! You don’t even know how to act around me. Answer me straight and don’t stammer! Do you beat your wife?”
Panteley covered his mouth with his hand and guffawed. “Every single Tuesday, sir,” he muttered with a giggle.
“Very good. Why are you laughing? This is no joking matter. Close your mouth! Don’t scratch yourself in my presence: I don’t like it!” The major gave the matter some thought. “Listen, I’m thinking that it’s not just the peasants who beat their wives. What do you think?”
“Certainly not, sir!”
“Give me an example!”
“Petr Ivanovich, the town judge . . . Does Your Honor know him? Ten years ago, I worked for him as a yard sweeper. A good master—I mean, mostly. But if he got a few drinks, watch out! He’d come home after downing some, and with that huge fist of his, he’d give it to the missus, right in the ribs. May the earth swallow me up right here if I’m lying! He’d pound me too, just for good measure. He’d clobber the missus, saying, ‘You don’t love me, you fool. I want to kill you. I’m going to end your life.’”
“And what did she say?”
“‘Forgive me.’”
“Really? Honest to goodness? That’s wonderful!” And the major rubbed his hands with glee.
“It’s God’s own truth, sir! Just beat them, sir! No two ways around it. Take my wife, for example. There’s nothing to do except beat her. She steps on the harmonica and squashes it. She gobbles up the master’s pastries. Is that acceptable?”
“Stop lecturing me, blockhead! Why are you trying to lecture? Not like you’ll come up with anything smart! Don’t get uppity! What’s my wife doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“So here goes nothing! Go tell Marya to wake her up and ask her to come here. Wait! What do you think: Do I look like a peasant?”
“Why would you look like a peasant, Your Honor? When does a master look like a peasant? That doesn’t happen.”
Panteley shrugged and left. The door creaked behind him. The major washed and dressed, with a worried expression on his face.
“Sweetheart,” the newly dressed major began in a withering tone. His pretty twenty-year-old wife had just come from her bedroom to his. “Do you think you could spare me an hour of your precious time?”