'It's a long time since I saw you last, Yegor Vlasych . . .' says Pelageya, looking fondly at the rippling motion of his shoulders. 'Not since you came into our hut for a drink of water at Eastertide — that was the last time we saw you . .. Yes, you came inside for a minute at Easter, and Lord knows the state you were in - under the influencc, you wcrc . . . You just sworc at us, beat me and went off ag.iin . . . And I've been waiting and waiting -I've worn my eycs out looking for you rn come. . . Ah, Ycgor Vlasych, Ycgor Vlasych! You could have callcd in once, |ust oncc!'
'To do what?'
'Not to do anything, of course, but . . . it is your household, after all ... Just to sec how cverything is ... You .ire the hcad . . . Oh, you'vc shot a little grouse. Ye-gor Vlasych! Why not sit down and have 3 rest —'
As she says all this, Pclageya keeps laughing like a simpleton and looking up at Ycgor's face . . . Hcr own face positively brcathcs happincss . . .
'All right. I'll sit down for a bit . . .' Yegor says nonchalantly, choosing3 spot between two fir-trees growingside by side. 'What are you standing up for? You sit down too!'
Pelagcya sits a little way off in the sun and, ashamcd to show how happy she is, keeps covering her smiling mouth with her hand. A couple of minutes pass in silence.
'You could have called in just once,' Pelageya says quietly.
'What for?' sighs Yegor, taking off his cap and mopping his ruddy brow with his sleeve. 'What's the point? Calling in for an hour or two's just a bother, it justgets you worked up, and as for living in the village all the time - my soul couldn't take it ... You know yourself I've been mollvcoddled ... I need a bed to sleep in, good tea to drink, fine convers3tions ... I need everything to be just right . . . and all you'vegotthere in the village is poverty andgrime. . .I couldn'tstick it for a day. Supposing they even made a decree, saying I had to live with thee come what may, I'd either burn the hut down, or I'd lay hands on myself. I've loved the easy life since I was a kid, you won't change me.'
'And where are you living nowadays?'
'At the m3ster's, Dmitry lvanych's, as one of his shooters. I pro- vide game for his table, but really . . . he just likes having me around.'
'It's not a proper way of life, that, Yegor Vlasych . . . For other people that's their leisure, but it's as though you've made it your trade . . . like a real job . . .'
'You're stupid, you don't understand anything,' says Yegor, gaz- ing dreamily at the sky. 'Never in all your born days have you understood what kind ofa man I am, nor will you . .. You think I'm crazy, I've ruined my life, but to those as knows, I'm the top shot in the whole district. The gents know that all right, and they've even written about me in a magazine. There's not a man can compare with me when itcomes to hunting... And I don'tdespiseyour village jobs because I'm spoilt or proud. You know I never done anything else since I was small than shooting and keeping a dog, don't you? If they took my gun away, I'd use my line, if they took my line away, I'd catch things with my hands. I did a bit of horse-dealing, too, I went the round of the fairs when I had money, and you know yourself that once a peasant's joined the huntsmen and horse-dealers, it's goodbye to the plough. Once that free spirit's got into a man, there's no winkling it out. Just like when a gent goes off with the players, or one of them other arts, he can't work in an office or be a squire again. You're a woman, you don't understand, but you got to.'
'I do understand, Yegor Vlasych .. .'
'You can't do, if you're going to cry about it . . .'
'I - I'm not crying . . .' says Pelageya, turning away. 'It's a sin, Yegor Vlasych! You could at least have some pity and spend a day with me. It's twelve years now since I married you, and . . . and there's never once been love between us! . . . I'm not crying .. .'
'Love ...' mumbles Yegor, scratching the back of his hand. 'There can't be any love. We're man and wife in name only, we're not really, are we? To you I'm a wild man, and to me you're just a simple girl who doesn't understand anything. Call that a match? I'm free, I'm mollycoddled, I come and go as I please, and you're a working-girl, you trudge around in bast shoes all day, you live in dirt, your back's always bent. The way I see myself, when it comes to hunting I'm number one, but when you look at me you just feel pity . . . What kind of a match is that?'
'But we were married in church, Yegor Vlasych !' Pelageya sobs loudly.
'Not freely we weren't . . . You haven't forgonen, have you? You can thank the Count, Sergey Pavlych, for that - and yourself. Because he was so jealous I could shoot better'n him, the Count got me drunk on wine for a month, and when a man's drunk you can make him change his religion, never mind get married. He went and married me offdrunk to you, toget his own back ... A huntsman to a cowherd! You could see I was drunk, so why did you marry me? You're not a serf, youcould havegone against his will! 'Course, it'sa great thing for a cowherd, marrying a huntsman, but why didn't you stop and think first? Now it's nothing but tears and tribulation. The
c. - , 43
Count has his laugh, and you're left crying . . . banging your head against a wall . . .'
They fall silent. Three mallard fly in above the scrub. Yegor looks up and stares after them until they turn into three barely visible points, and come down far beyond the forest.
'What do you do for money?' he asks, turning back to Pelageya.
'Nowadays I work in the fields, but in winter I take in a little baby from the orphanage and feed him with a bottle. I get a rouble and a half a month for it.'
'Uhuh . . . '
Once more there is silence. Over in the cut rye, someone begins softly singing, but breaks off almost immediately. It's too hot to sing . . .
'I hear you've put up a new hut for Akulina,' says Pelageya.
Yegor does not reply.
'So she must be to your liking.'
'That's how i tis, such is life!' says the sportsman, stretching. 'Have patience, orphan. I must be going, though, I've been chatting too long . . . I've got to be in Boltovo by nightfall ...'
Yegor rises, stretches again, and slings his gun over his shoulder. Pelageya stands up.
'So when will you be coming to the village?' she asks quietly.
'No point. I'll never come sober, and a drunk's not much use to you. I get mad when I'm drunk . .. Goodbye, then!'
'Goodbye, Yegor Vlasych ...'
Yegor sticks his cap on the back of his head, calls his dog over with a tweet of the lips, and continues on his way. Pelageya stays where she is and watches him go . .. She can see his shoulder-blades rippling, the rakish set of his cap, his lazy, casual walk, and her eyes fill with sadness and a deep tenderness . .. Her gaze runs all over the slim, tall figure of her husband and caresses and strokes him ... He stops, as if feeling thisgaze, and looks round ... He says nothing, but from his face and hunched-up shoulders, Pelageya can tell that he wants to say something to her. She goes up timidly to him and looks at him with pleading eyes.
'Here!' he says, turning aside.
He hands her a very worn rouble note and moves quickly away.
'Goodbye, Yegor Vlasych!' she says, mechanically taking the rouble.
He walks offdown the road, which is as long and straight as a taut thong . .. Pale and still, she stands there like a statue, and her eyes devour every stride he takes. But now the red of his shirt merges with the dark of his trousers, his strides become invisible, his dog cannot be distinguished from his boots. Only his little cap can be seen, then . . . Suddenly Yegor turns off sharply to the right into the scrub and his cap disappears among the green.
'Goodbye, Yegor Vlasych!' whispers Pelageya, and rises on tiptoe to try and catch a last glimpse of his little white cap.
The Malefactor
Before the examining magistrate stands a short, extremely skinny little peasant wearing a shin made of ticking and baggy trousers covered in patches. His face, which is overgrown with hair and pitted with pock-marks, and his eyes, which are barely visible beneath their heavy, beetling brows, wear a grim, sullen expression. He has a whole shock of tangled hair that has not seen a comb for ages, and this lends him an even greater, spider-like grimness. He is barefoot.