Next day I set out with my gun and dog, but without Prokofy, to the
Eskovo copse. It was an exquisite day; I fancy there are no days like
that in September anywhere but in Russia. The stillness was such that
one could hear, a hundred paces off, the squirrel hopping over the dry
leaves, and the broken twig just feebly catching at the other branches,
and falling, at last, on the soft grass--to lie there for ever, not to
stir again till it rotted away. The air, neither warm nor chill, but
only fragrant, and as it were keen, was faintly, deliciously stinging
in my eyes and on my cheeks. A long spider-web, delicate as a silken
thread, with a white ball in the middle, floated smoothly in the
air, and sticking to the butt-end of my gun, stretched straight out
in the air--a sign of settled and warm weather. The sun shone with a
brightness as soft as moonlight. Wild snipe were to be met with pretty
often; but I did not pay special attention to them. I knew that the
copse went on almost to Harlov’s homestead, right up to the hedge of
his garden, and I turned my steps in that direction, though I could
not even imagine how I should get into the place itself, and was even
doubtful whether I ought to try to do so, as my mother was so angry
with its new owners. Sounds of life and humanity reached me from no
great distance. I listened.… Some one was coming through the copse …
straight towards me.
‘You should have said so straight out, dear,’ I heard a woman’s voice.
‘Be reasonable,’ another voice broke in, the voice of a man. ‘Can one
do it all at once?’
I knew the voices. There was the gleam of a woman’s blue gown through
the reddening nut bushes. Beside it stood a dark full coat. Another
instant--and there stepped out into the glade, five paces from me,
Sletkin and Evlampia.
They were disconcerted at once. Evlampia promptly stepped back, away
into the bushes. Sletkin thought a little, and came up to me. There was
not a trace to be seen in his face of the obsequious meekness, with
which he had paced up and down Harlov’s courtyard, four months before,
rubbing up my horse’s snaffle. But neither could I perceive in it the
insolent defiance, which had so struck me on the previous day, on the
threshold of my mother’s boudoir. It was still as white and pretty as
ever, but seemed broader and more solid.
‘Well, have you shot many snipe?’ he asked me, raising his cap,
smiling, and passing his hand over his black curls; ‘you are shooting
in our copse.… You are very welcome. We would not hinder you.… Quite
the contrary.’
‘I have killed nothing to-day,’ I rejoined, answering his first
question; ‘and I will go out of your copse this instant.’
Sletkin hurriedly put on his cap. ‘Indeed, why so? We would not drive
you out--indeed, we’re delighted.… Here’s Evlampia Martinovna will
say the same. Evlampia Martinovna, come here. Where have you hidden
yourself?’ Evlampia’s head appeared behind the bushes. But she did not
come up to us. She had grown prettier, and seemed taller and bigger
than ever.
‘I’m very glad, to tell the truth,’ Sletkin went on, ‘that I have
met you. Though you are still young in years, you have plenty of
good sense already. Your mother was pleased to be very angry with me
yesterday--she would not listen to reason of any sort from me, but I
declare, as before God, so before you now, I am not to blame in any
way. We can’t treat Martin Petrovitch otherwise than we do; he’s fallen
into complete dotage. One can’t humour all his whims, really. But we
show him all due respect. Only ask Evlampia Martinovna.’
Evlampia did not stir; her habitual scornful smile flickered about her
lips, and her large eyes watched us with no friendly expression.
‘But why, Vladimir Vassilievitch, have you sold Martin Petrovitch’s
mare?’ (I was particularly impressed by that mare being in the
possession of a peasant.)
‘His mare, why did we sell it? Why, Lord have mercy on us--what use
was she? She was simply eating her head off. But with the peasant she
can work at the plough anyway. As for Martin Petrovitch, if he takes a
fancy to drive out anywhere, he’s only to ask us. We wouldn’t refuse
him a conveyance. On a holiday, we should be pleased.’
‘Vladimir Vassilievitch,’ said Evlampia huskily, as though calling him
away, and she still did not stir from her place. She was twisting some
stalks of ripple grass round her fingers and snapping off their heads,
slapping them against each other.
‘About the page Maximka again,’ Sletkin went on, ‘Martin Petrovitch
complains because we’ve taken him away and apprenticed him. But kindly
consider the matter for yourself. Why, what had he to do waiting on
Martin Petrovitch? Kick up his heels; nothing more. And he couldn’t
even wait on him properly; on account of his stupidity and his youth.
Now we have sent him away to a harness-maker’s. He’ll be turned into a
first-rate handicraftsman--and make a good thing of it for himself--and
pay us ransom-money too. And, living in a small way as we do, that’s a
matter of importance. On a little farm like ours, one can’t afford to
let anything slip.’
‘And this is the man Martin Petrovitch called a “poor stick,”’ I
thought. ‘But who reads to Martin Petrovitch now?’ I asked.
‘Why, what is there to read? He had one book--but, luckily, that’s been
mislaid somewhere.… And what use is reading at his age.’
‘And who shaves him?’ I asked again.
Sletkin gave an approving laugh, as though in response to an amusing
joke. ‘Why, nobody. At first he used to singe his beard in the
candle--but now he lets it be altogether. And it’s lovely!’
‘Vladimir Vassilievitch!’ Evlampia repeated insistently: ‘Vladimir
Vassilievitch!’
Sletkin made her a sign with his hand.
‘Martin Petrovitch is clothed and cared for, and eats what we do. What
more does he want? He declared himself that he wanted nothing more in
this world but to think of his soul. If only he would realise that
everything now, however you look at it, is ours. He says too that we
don’t pay him his allowance. But we’ve not always got money ourselves;
and what does he want with it, when he has everything provided him?
And we treat him as one of the family too. I’m telling you the truth.
The rooms, for instance, which he occupies--how we need them! there’s
simply not room to turn round without them; but we don’t say a word--we
put up with it. We even think how to provide amusement for him. There,
on St. Peter’s Day, I bought him some excellent hooks in the town--real
English ones, expensive hooks, to catch fish. There are lots of carp in
our pond. Let him sit and fish; in an hour or two, there’d be a nice
little fish soup provided. The most suitable occupation for old men.’
‘Vladimir Vassilitch!’ Evlampia called for the third time in an
incisive tone, and she flung far away from her the grass she had been
twisting in her fingers, ‘I am going!’ Her eyes met mine. ‘I am going,
Vladimir Vassilievitch!’ she repeated, and vanished behind a bush.
‘I’m coming, Evlampia Martinovna, directly!’ shouted Sletkin. ‘Martin
Petrovitch himself agrees with us now,’ he went on, turning again to
me. ‘At first he was offended, certainly, and even grumbled, until,
you know, he realised; he was, you remember, a hot-tempered violent
man--more’s the pity! but there, he’s grown quite meek now. Because
he sees his own interest. Your mamma--mercy on us! how she pitched
into me!… To be sure: she’s a lady that sets as much store by her own
authority as Martin Petrovitch used to do. But you come in and see for
yourself. And you might put in a word when there’s an opportunity. I
feel Natalia Nikolaevna’s bounty to me deeply. But we’ve got to live
too.’
‘And how was it Zhitkov was refused?’ I asked.
‘Fedulitch? That dolt?’ Sletkin shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why, upon
my word, what use could he have been? His whole life spent among
soldiers--and now he has a fancy to take up farming. He can keep the
peasants up to the mark, says he, because he’s been used to knocking
men about. He can do nothing; even knocking men about wants some sense.
Evlampia Martinovna refused him herself. He was a quite unsuitable
person. All our farming would have gone to ruin with him!’
‘Coo--y!’ sounded Evlampia’s musical voice.
‘Coming! coming!’ Sletkin called back. He held out his hand to me.
Though unwillingly, I took it.
‘I beg to take leave, Dmitri Semyonovitch,’ said Sletkin, showing all
his white teeth. ‘Shoot wild snipe as much as you like. It’s wild game,
belonging to no one. But if you come across a hare--you spare it; that
game is ours. Oh, and something else! won’t you be having pups from
your bitch? I should be obliged for one!’
‘Coo--y!’ Evlampia’s voice rang out again.
‘Coo--y!’ Sletkin responded, and rushed into the bushes.