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Updated: September 2, 2025
Nevertheless, Pyotr Mihalitch was fond of Vlassitch; he was conscious of a sort of power in him, and for some reason he had never had the heart to contradict him. Vlassitch sat down quite close to him for a talk in the dark, to the accompaniment of the rain, and he had cleared his throat as a prelude to beginning on something lengthy, such as the history of his marriage.
"That's not proper work you're doing, Yegor Vlassitch.... For other people it's a pastime, but with you it's like a trade... like real work." "You don't understand, you silly," said Yegor, gazing gloomily at the sky.
Pyotr Mihalitch was tempted to say, "Don't meddle in what does not concern you," but he held his tongue. Vlassitch walked by his right stirrup and Zina by the left; both seemed to have forgotten that they had to go home. It was damp, and they had almost reached Koltovitch's copse.
There was stillness all round, not a sound... everything living was hiding away from the heat. "Yegor Vlassitch!" the huntsman suddenly heard a soft voice. He started and, looking round, scowled. Beside him, as though she had sprung out of the earth, stood a pale-faced woman of thirty with a sickle in her hand. She was trying to look into his face, and was smiling diffidently.
"He is a Quixote, an obstinate fanatic, a maniac," thought Pyotr Mihalitch, "and she is as soft, yielding, and weak in character as I am. . . . She and I give in easily, without resistance. She loves him; but, then, I, too, love him in spite of everything." Pyotr Mihalitch considered Vlassitch a good, straightforward man, but narrow and one-sided.
Pyotr Mihalitch's eyes filled with tears and his hand began to tremble as it lay on the table. Zina guessed what he was thinking about, and her eyes, too, glistened and looked red. "Grigory, come here," she said to Vlassitch. They walked away to the window and began talking of something in a whisper.
But good-bye, I've been chattering long enough.... I must be at Boltovo by the evening." Yegor rose, stretched himself, and slung his gun over his shoulder; Pelagea got up. "And when are you coming to the village?" she asked softly. "I have no reason to, I shall never come sober, and you have little to gain from me drunk; I am spiteful when I am drunk. Good-bye!" "Good-bye, Yegor Vlassitch."
She went up to him timidly and looked at him with imploring eyes. "Take it," he said, turning round. He gave her a crumpled rouble note and walked quickly away. "Good-bye, Yegor Vlassitch," she said, mechanically taking the rouble. He walked by a long road, straight as a taut strap. She, pale and motionless as a statue, stood, her eyes seizing every step he took.
Ah, Yegor Vlassitch, Yegor Vlassitch! you might look in just once!" "What is there for me to do there?" "Of course there is nothing for you to do... though to be sure... there is the place to look after.... To see how things are going.... You are the master.... I say, you have shot a blackcock, Yegor Vlassitch! You ought to sit down and rest!"
In the stable the steward's horse was standing ready saddled. He got on it and galloped off to Vlassitch. There was a perfect tempest within him. He felt a longing to do something extraordinary, startling, even if he had to repent of it all his life afterwards. Should he call Vlassitch a blackguard, slap him in the face, and then challenge him to a duel?
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