Forty Stories by ANTON CHEKHOV Page B

place for me, so I’m coming to spite you! I’ll get in your way! I give my word I’ll get in your way! Devil take you, you won’t shoot anything! And don’t you come, doctor. Let him crack wide open with his jealousy!”
    Yegor Yegorich got up and shook his fists. His eyes were bloodshot.
    “You good-for-nothing!” he said, turning to his brother. “You’re no brother of mine! Our poor dead mother was right to put a curse on your head! Our poor dead father died before his time, because of all the things you did!”
    “Gentlemen,” interrupted the general. “I think it can be said we have all had enough! Remember, you are brothers both born from the same mother!”
    “He’s the brother of an ass, Your Excellency—no brother of mine! Don’t come, doctor, don’t come!”
    “Let’s get going!” the general shouted, thumping Avvakum in the back with his fist. “Devil take you all! God knows what it is all about! Come on! Let’s go!”
    Avvakum lashed out at the horses and the troika drove on. In the second carriage Captain Kardamonov, a writer, took the two dogs on his knees and made room for the explosive Mikhey Yegorich.
    “Lucky for him you found room,” said Mikhey Yegorich as hesettled down in the carriage. “Otherwise I might have … Kardamonov, won’t you describe that highway robber of yours?”
    It happened that the previous year Kardamonov had sent to the magazine
Niva
an article entitled “An Interesting Case of Fertility among the Peasant Population,” and receiving a reply which reflected unfavorably on his pride as an author, he complained bitterly to the neighbors, thus earning the reputation of being a writer.
    According to the predetermined plan of action, their first stop was to be at the hayfields where the peasants were busy mowing—the fields were about four miles away from Yegor Yegorich’s estate—and there they would shoot quail. At the hayfields the hunters stepped out of their carriages and divided into two groups: one group, headed by the general and Yegor Yegorich, turned to the right; the other, with Kardamonov at the head, went off to the left. Bolva remained behind and went off on his own. He liked to hunt in peace, in complete silence. Music Maker ran on ahead, barking, and a minute later he raised a quail. Vanya fired a shot and missed.
    “Aimed too high, dammit!” he muttered.
    Idler, the puppy, had been taken along “to learn the ropes.” For the first time in his life the puppy heard gunfire, set off a howl, and went running back to the carriages with his tail between his legs. Mange aimed at a lark and hit it.
    “I enjoy that bird,” he said to the doctor, pointing to the lark.
    “Go to hell!” the doctor said. “It’s no use talking to me! I’m in a bad mood! Leave me alone!”
    “You’re a skeptic, doctor.”
    “Eh, what’s that? What does skeptic mean?”
    Mange thought for a while.
    “A skeptic is a man … a man who is … a person who doesn’t love …”
    “Wrong! Don’t use words you don’t understand! Leave me alone! I might do something unpleasant, something I don’t want to do! I’m in a bad mood!…”
    Music Maker began pointing. The general and Yegor Yegorich turned pale and held their breaths.
    “I’m shooting this one,” the general whispered. “I … I … Excuse me, this is the second time you have …”
    But nothing came of the dog’s pointing. The doctor, with nothing to do, threw a pebble, which struck Music Maker between the ears, and immediately the dog set up a howl and leaped in the air. The general and Yegor Yegorich looked round. They heard a rustling sound in the grass, and a large bustard flew up. The members of the second group were making a lot of noise and pointing at the bustard. The general, Mange, and Vanya fired. Mange missed. Too late! The bustard flew over a mound and vanished in a field of rye.
    “I put it to you, doctor, this is no time for a joke!” the general said, turning