The secretary rolled his eyes and stretched his mouth to his ears. The honorary justice of the peace grunted and moved his fingers, probably imagining the kulebiak.
“Devil knows what this is…,” grumbled the local justice, retiring to another window.
“You eat two pieces and save a third for the cabbage soup,” the inspired secretary went on. “As soon as you finish the kulebiak, right then, so as not to lose your appetite, you have the cabbage soup served…The cabbage soup should be hot, fiery. But best of all, my benefactor, is a nice beet borscht in Ukrainian style, with ham and sausage. You add sour cream, fresh parsley, and dill. Another splendid thing is pickled cabbage soup with giblets and young kidney, and if you like soup very much, the best is with various roots and greens: carrots, asparagus, cauliflower, and suchlike jurisprudence.”
“Yes, a splendid thing…,” the chairman sighed, tearing his eyes from the paper, but he immediately caught himself and groaned: “Have some fear of God! This way I won’t finish my notes before nightfall! I’ve ruined it for the fourth time!”
“I’ll stop, I’ll stop! Sorry, sir!” the secretary apologized and went on in a whisper. “As soon as you finish the borscht or other soup, order the fish course at once. Of all voiceless fish, the best is a fried carp in sour cream; only so that it loses the smell of slime and acquires delicacy, you must keep it alive in milk for twenty-four hours.”
“Equally good is a sterlet in a ring,” said the honorary justice, closing his eyes, but at once, unexpectedly for everyone, he tore from his seat, made a ferocious face, and roared in the direction of the chairman: “Pyotr Nikolaich, will you be done soon? I can’t wait any longer! I can’t!”
“Let me finish!”
“Then I’ll go by myself! To hell with you!”
The fat man waved his hand, grabbed his hat, and ran out of the room without saying goodbye. The secretary sighed and, leaning toward the ear of the associate prosecutor, went on in a low voice:
“Pike perch or carp is also good with a sauce of tomatoes and mushrooms. But fish, Stepan Frantsych, is not filling; it’s not substantial food, the main thing in a dinner is not fish, not sauces, but a roast. What’s your favorite fowl?”
The associate prosecutor made a sour face and said with a sigh:
“Unfortunately, I cannot sympathize with you: I have a stomach catarrh.”
“Come now, sir! Stomach catarrh is a doctor’s invention! Freethinking and pride are more to blame for this illness! Don’t pay it any attention. Let’s say you don’t want to eat or feel nauseous, but you pay no attention and eat. If, let’s say, they serve you a pair of roast snipe, and if they add to that a partridge or a pair of fat quail, you’ll forget about any catarrh, on my word of honor. And a roast turkey? So white, fat, juicy, you know, just like a nymph…”
“Yes, it’s probably tasty,” the prosecutor said with a sad smile. “I could most likely eat some turkey.”
“Lord, and duck? If you take a young duck, that’s only just felt the first frost, and you put it in a frying pan along with some potatoes, and the potatoes should be cut in small pieces, so they turn golden brown and get steeped in duck fat, and so that…”
The philosopher Milkin made a ferocious face and apparently wanted to say something, but suddenly smacked his lips, probably imagining the fried duck, and without saying a word, drawn by an unknown force, grabbed his hat and ran out.
“Yes, most likely I could also eat some duck…,” the associate prosecutor sighed.
The chairman stood up, paced back and forth, and sat down again.
“After the roast, you become sated and fall into a sweet oblivion,” the secretary went on. “At this point your body feels good and your soul is tender. For the pleasure of it you could drink some three little glasses of honey-spice vodka.”
The chairman grunted as he crossed out yet another page.
“I’ve ruined it for the sixth time,” he said angrily. “This is shameless!”
“Write, write, my benefactor!” the secretary whispered. “I’ll stop! I’ll speak softly. I’m telling you in all honesty, Stepan Frantsych,” he went on in a barely audible whisper, “homemade honey-spice vodka is better than any champagne. After the first glass, your whole soul is engulfed in a sort of fragrant mirage, and it seems that you’re not at home in your armchair, but somewhere in Australia, on some sort of ultrasoft ostrich…”
“Ah, let’s go, Pyotr Nikolaich!” the prosecutor said, jerking his leg impatiently.
“Yes, sir!” the secretary went on. “During the honey-spice vodka it’s good to light up a cigar and blow smoke rings, and it’s then that such dreamy thoughts come to your head, as if you’re a field marshal, or married to the foremost beauty in the world, and this beauty swims all day in front of your windows in a pool full of goldfish. She swims, and you say to her: ‘Come kiss me, sweetie!’ ”
“Pyotr Nikolaich!” the assistant prosecutor moaned.
“Yes, sir!” the secretary went on. “After smoking, you pick up the skirts of your dressing gown, and it’s off to bed! You lie down on your back, belly up, and take a newspaper in your hands. When your eyes start closing and your whole body is filled with drowsiness, it’s a pleasure to read about politics: here Austria made a slip-up, there France failed to hit it off with somebody, here the pope of Rome was at cross-purposes—you read, and it’s a pleasure.”
The chairman jumped up, flung his pen away, and grabbed his hat with both hands. The assistant prosecutor, who forgot about his catarrh and was swooning with impatience, also jumped up.
“Let’s go!” he cried.
“Pyotr Nikolaich, my benefactor, what about the particular opinion?” The secretary was alarmed. “When will you write it? You have to go to town at six o’clock!”
The chairman waved his hand and rushed to the door. The assistant prosecutor also waved his hand and, grabbing his briefcase, disappeared along with the chairman. The secretary sighed, followed them with a reproachful gaze, and began to gather up the papers.
1887
THE SHEPHERD’S PIPE
SLUGGISH FROM THE SULTRINESS of the dense firs, covered with cobwebs and pine needles, the steward of the Dementyevs’ farmstead, Meliton Shishkin, carrying his gun, was making his way to the edge of the forest. His Damka—a cross between a mutt and a setter—extraordinarily skinny and pregnant, her wet tail between her legs, trudged after her master, trying her best not to prick her nose. The morning was unpleasant, overcast. From the trees, enveloped in light mist, and from the ferns heavy spatters fell, and the forest dampness gave off a pungent smell of rot.
Ahead, where the forest ended, stood birches, and through their trunks and branches the misty distance could be seen. Beyond the birches someone was playing a homemade shepherd’s pipe. The player hit no more than five or six notes, lazily drawing them out, not trying to connect them into a tune, but nonetheless something stern and extremely mournful could be heard in his piping.
When the forest thinned out and the firs mixed with young birches, Meliton saw the herd. Hobbled horses, cows, and sheep wandered among the bushes, making the twigs crackle, and sniffing at the forest grass. At the edge of the forest, leaning against a wet birch, stood an old shepherd, skinny, in tattered homespun and without a hat. He looked at the ground, thought about something, and played his pipe as if mechanically.
“Good day, grandpa! God be with you!” Meliton greeted him in a high, husky little voice, which was not at all suited to his enormous height and big, fleshy face. “And you play the pipe so nicely! Whose herd are you tending?”
“The Artamonovs’,” the shepherd replied reluctantly and put the pipe into his bosom.
“So the forest is also the Artamonovs’?” Meliton asked, looking around. “And in fact it is, mercy me…I was completely lost. My mug’s all scratched up from the brush.”