Stories

—Ugh... ugh!... said Levka, grimacing, ugh... ugh!... do you know Uncle Zakhar? In the spring they beat Uncle Zakhar, Levka watched, Uncle Zakhar is healthy, strong, he stands there—they beat him, he does nothing. Uncle Zakhar is a strong, big fool. Do not go, Senka! —No, do not be afraid, no one will beat me. He watched me for a long time, then whistled to his dog and ran toward the forest—but I had hardly managed to take twenty steps when Levka caught up with me. —Levka is going there, they are going to beat Senka. Levka will throw a stone. At this, he showed me a cobblestone the size of an ostrich egg. But his measures were unnecessary; the people refused me, saying the masters were having tea;—then I came three more times, the young master was always too busy; after the third time, I did not go again. And what was this young master busy with? He is always walking, either with a gun, or simply with no business at all through the fields, especially where the peasant girls are working; could he really not tear himself away for half an hour? Fate finally showed a way out, though a very sorrowful one. In the village of Porechye, eight versts approx. 5 miles from us, there was a patronal feast; the village of Porechye is a state-owned, commercial village, wealthier than ours, and their celebration was handled excellently. The local priest (who was also the blagochinny dean of a church district) invited us all. We set out on the eve: Father Vasily with his wife, my father alone, the chanters, and I—in order to celebrate the all-night vigil vespers and matins service together. The celebration was magnificent, factory workers sang in the choir.—During the liturgy the next day, the captain-ispravnik the chief of district police himself arrived with