Russian fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English
Yégor Mikhaïlovitch, in his long frock coat, with his hands negligently
thrust into his pockets, with his factory-made uniform cap pushed well
forward, and standing firmly, with his legs set wide apart, on a height
looking down upon all these faces lifted and turned to him, faces for
the most part dignified with age, and for the most part handsome and
full-bearded, had an entirely different mien from that which he wore in
presence of his mistress. He was majestic.
"Well, boys, here's the mistress's message: she is not willing to let
any of the household servants go, and whoever among you you may see
fit to send will have to go. This time three are required. At present
accounts the matter is five-sixths settled; now there's only half a
choice left. But it makes no difference: put it off till another time
if you don't want to decide to-day."
"Now's the time! let's have it settled," cried several voices.
"In my opinion," continued Yégor Mikhaïlovitch, "if Khoriushkin and
Mitiukhin's Vaska go, it will be in accordance with the will of God."
"That's a fact, true enough," cried a number of voices.
"For the third we shall have to send either Dutlof, or from one of the
families where there are two grown sons."
"Dutlof, Dutlof," echoed the voices. "Dutlof has three."
And again, little by little, little by little, the din began, and
again recriminations flew about in regard to vegetables taken from the
fields, and things stolen from the manor-house. Yégor Mikhaïlovitch had
been manager of the estate now for twenty years, and was a man of sense
and experience. He stood in silence for fifteen minutes and listened;
then he suddenly commanded all to be silent, and bade Dutlof cast lots
as to which of his family should go. They cast the lots into a cap, and
when it had been well shaken Khrapkof drew from it. The lot fell to
Ilyushkin. All were silent.
"So it's mine, is it? Let me see," said the nephew in a broken voice.
All looked on in silence. Yégor Mikhaïlovitch commanded to bring on the
next day the conscription money, seven kopeks for each peasant farm,
and, explaining that all the business was now at an end, adjourned
the meeting. The crowd moved away, putting on their caps, as they
went around the house with a noise of voices and shuffling steps. The
overseer stood on the doorstep, gazing after the departing people. When
the young Dutlofs had gone out of sight, he called the old man who had
remained behind, and the two went into the office.
"I am sorry for you, old man," said the overseer, sitting down in an
arm-chair by the table. "It was your turn though. Will you hire a
substitute for your nephew, or not?"
The old man without replying looked earnestly at the overseer.
"You won't let him go?" queried the overseer in reply to his look.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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