*Titular councillor was equivalent to the ninth-grade rank of the Russian Table of Ranks. Collegiate assessor was an eighth-grade rank (one higher than titular councillor).
ST. PETER’S DAY
AT LAST the morning of that long-awaited and long-dreamed-of day had come! Hurray, cry hunters everywhere! It was finally the twenty-ninth of June!* At last the day on which debts, bugbears, overpriced food, mothers-in-law, and even young wives are forgotten, the day on which you can thumb your nose twenty times over at the village police officer who forbids you from taking out your guns and shooting.
The stars grew pale and misty. Voices rang out here and there. Acrid blue-gray smoke billowed from the village chimneys. The drowsy sexton climbed into the gray belfry and rang the bell for Matins. Snoring issued from the night watchman lying sprawled under a tree. The finches woke up and started a ruckus, flying from one side of the garden to the other, breaking out with their tiresome, insufferable chirping. In the blackthorn shrubs, an oriole began to sing. Above the servants’ kitchen, starlings and hoopoes raised a fuss. The complimentary morning concert had begun.
Two troikas drove up to the house of Egor Egorovich Obtemperansky, a retired cornet of the guards, and came to a stop in front of his run-down porch, so picturesquely overgrown with stinging nettle. A mad rush erupted in the house and the yard. Every living thing on Egor Egorovich’s estate began to walk, run, and stomp about, in the barns and stables and on the staircases. One middle horse was exchanged for another. The coachmen’s caps flew off their heads; the footman, Katya’s main squeeze, got his nose bloodied so that it glowed like a red lantern; the women cooks were called “nasty pieces of work”; mention was made of Satan and his fallen angels. In five minutes, the traveling carriages were loaded with rugs, blankets, bags of food, and rifle cases.
“Ready, sir!” Avvakum bellowed.
“If you please, everyone! Everything’s ready!” Egor Egorovich announced in a treacly voice. A crowd of people spilled out onto the porch. The young doctor jumped into the traveling carriage first. Next came Kuzma Bolva, a lowly resident of the town of Arkhangelsk, an old man with yellowish-green spots on his neck, who crawled into the carriage in flat-soled boots and a discolored top hat, holding a twenty-five-pound double-barreled shotgun. Bolva was a commoner, but the gentry overlooked his status and brought him along out of the respect due to someone his age (he had been born at the close of the last century) and because he could shoot a twenty-kopeck coin in midair.
“If you please, Your Excellency,” said Egor Egorovich, turning to a short fat man with gray hair who was wearing a white military jacket with bright buttons and the Order of St. Anna around his neck. “Move over, doctor!” he added.
Supported by Egor Egorovich, the retired general grunted and hoisted his leg up onto the carriage step. With his stomach to the fore, he shoved the doctor aside and sat down heavily beside Bolva. The general’s pup, Futile, and Egor Egorovich’s pointer, Musician, hopped into the carriage after him.
“Say . . . look here, my dear . . . Vanya!” the general said to his nephew, a schoolboy with a long single-barreled gun slung behind his back. “You can sit right here, beside me. Come here! Yes—right here. Stop fooling around, my boy! You’ll frighten the horse.”
Blowing the last puff of tobacco smoke up the shaft horse’s nose, Vanya jumped into the traveling carriage, pushed Bolva aside, and fumbled around before settling in next to the general. Egor Egorovich crossed himself and took a seat by the doctor. Manzhe, the tall, lanky teacher of math and physics at Vanya’s school, perched on the coachbox beside Avvakum.
At last, the first carriage was full. Now it was time for the second carriage, and after lengthy argument and much running to and fro, the remaining eight men and three dogs all squeezed in.
“Ready!” Egor Egorovich shouted.
“Ready!” the guests shouted back.
“Well then . . . Should we get going, Your Excellency? God bless! Let’s go, Avvakum!”
The first carriage lurched into motion. The second carriage, containing the most avid hunters, creaked desperately, swerved about, and rolled toward the gates, overtaking the one in front. All the hunters smiled and clapped their hands in delight. They were in seventh heaven, until—cruel fate! A scandal broke out just as they were leaving the courtyard.
“Hold on! Wait up! Hold it!” a shrill tenor called out from behind the troikas.
The hunters looked at one another and blanched. Chasing after them was the world’s most insufferable man, a troublemaker known to the entire province, Egor Egorovich’s brother, Mikhei Egorovich, retired captain, second class. He was waving his arms frantically. The carriages stopped.
“Whatever is the matter?” asked Egor Egorovich.
Mikhei Egorovich ran up to the carriage, climbed onto the footboard, and raised his fist against his brother. All the hunters shouted.
“What is it?” asked Egor Egorovich, who had turned crimson.
“What it is,” shouted Mikhei Egorovich, “is that you are Judas, a beast, a swine! He’s a swine, Your Excellency! Why didn’t you wake me up? Why didn’t you wake me up, you jackass? I’m asking you, you scoundrel! If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I don’t . . .I just want to teach him a lesson! Why didn’t you wake me up? Didn’t want to take me along, did you? I’d be in your way? You got me drunk last night on purpose and you thought I’d sleep until noon! Aren’t you clever! With your permission, Your Excellency, I’ll just take one swipe at him. With your permission—”
“Stop shoving!” shouted the general, spreading out his arms. “Can’t you see there’s no space? You’re taking liberties, you know!”
“No need to get angry, Mikhei,” said Egor Egorovich. “I didn’t wake you up because there’s just no point in your coming. You can’t even shoot a gun. So why come? To get in the way? After all, you can’t even shoot!”
“I can’t—I can’t shoot?” Mikhei Egorovich screeched so loudly that even Bolva clapped his hands to his ears. “Well, in that case, why the hell is the doctor coming? He can’t shoot either! Does he shoot any better than I do?”
“He’s right, gentlemen!” said the doctor. “I can’t shoot and I don’t even know how to hold a rifle. I hate hunting. Why are you bringing me along? What the hell is the point? He can take my place! I’m staying! Sit here, Mikhei Egorovich!”
“Hear that? Hear that? Why are you taking him then?”
The doctor stood up in order to get out of the carriage. Egor Egorovich grabbed his coattails and yanked him down.
“Hey! Don’t tear my coat! It cost me thirty rubles. Let go! Gentlemen, please spare me your company today. I’m in a bad mood and that could lead to all kinds of trouble. Let go, Egor Egorovich. Take my spot, Mikhei Egorovoch! I’m going back to sleep!”
“But you have to come, doctor!” said Egor Egorovich, not letting go of his coattails. “You gave me your word of honor you’d come!”
“You dragged it out of me. Why on earth should I come?”
“That way you won’t stay behind with his wife,” Mikhei Egorovich squealed. “That’s it! He’s jealous, doctor! Don’t go! Don’t go, just to spite him! He’s jealous, by God, he’s jealous!”
Egor Egorovich turned bright red. He clenched his fists.
A shout came from the other carriage. “Hey, Mikhei Egorovich, enough nonsense! Come here, we’ve got room for you!”
Mikhei Egorovich smiled mockingly.
“Did you hear that, you shark?” he said. “Who’s on top now? Did you hear that? They’ve got room! I’ll go just to spite you! I’ll go and I’ll get in the way. The hell you’ll bag anything with me around! And you, doctor, don’t go! Let him burst with jealousy!”
Egor Egorovich climbed to his feet. He stood there shaking his fists. His eyes were bloodshot.