“You’re good at telling tales, but you’re better at stealing. And now, my pretty one—” He turned to the girl. “Say the Lord’s Prayer.”

The pretty one blushed and recited the Lord’s Prayer in a muffled voice, scarcely breathing.

“Now recite the Eighth Commandment.”

“You think we took a lot of apples, don’t you?” the boy said, throwing up his arms in despair. “I’ll swear it on the cross, if you don’t believe me.”

“It’s a sad thing, my dears, that you don’t know the Eighth Commandment. I’ll have to give you a lesson. Did he teach you to steal, my beauty? Why so silent, my little cherub? You have to answer! Speak! Keep your mouth shut—that means you agree. And now, my little beauty, I’ll have to ask you to give your sweetheart a beating because he taught you to steal!”

“I won’t!” the girl whispered.

“Oh, just beat him a little bit! He’s a fool, and has to be taught a lesson! Give him a beating, my dear. You don’t want to? Then I’ll have to order Karpushka and Matvey to give you a taste of the nettles.… You still don’t want to?”

“No, I don’t!”

“Karpushka, come here!”

At that moment the girl flew headlong at the boy and gave him a box on the ears. The boy smiled stupidly, while tears came to his eyes.

“Wonderful, my dear! Now pull his hair out! Go at it, my darling! You don’t want to? Karpushka, come here!”

The girl clutched at her sweetheart’s hair.

“Don’t stand still! Make it hurt! Pull harder!”

The girl really began to pull at her sweetheart’s hair. Karpushka was in ecstasies, bubbling over with good humor and roaring away.

“That’s enough now!” Trifon Semyonovich said. “Thank you, my dear, for having given wickedness its due. And now”—he turned to the boy—“you must teach your girl a lesson. She gave it to you, and now you must give it to her!”

“Dear God, how could you think of such a thing? Why must I beat her?”

“Why? Well, she gave you a beating, didn’t she? Now beat her! It will do her a lot of good! You don’t want to? Well, it won’t help you! Karpushka, call for Matvey!”

The boy spat on the ground, hawked, grabbed his sweetheart’s hair in his fist, and began to give wickedness its due. As he was punishing her, without realizing it he was carried away, and in his transports of joy he forgot that he was thrashing his sweetheart: he thought he was thrashing Trifon Semyonovich. The girl was screaming at the top of her voice. He kept on beating her for a long time. I don’t know how this story would ever have come to an end if Sashenka, Trifon Semyonovich’s charming daughter, had not at that moment popped up from behind the bushes.

“Papa, come and have tea!” she exclaimed, and when she saw what was happening she burst out into peals of laughter.

“That’s enough!” said Trifon Semyonovich. “You may go now, my dears. Good-by! I’ll send you some little apples for the wedding.”

And Trifon Semyonovich bowed low to the offenders.

The boy and the girl recovered their composure and went away. The boy went to the right, the girl to the left, and to this day they have never seen each other. If Sashenka had not suddenly appeared out of the bushes, they would probably have been whipped with the nettles. This is how Trifon Semyonovich amuses himself in his old age. His family is not far behind him. His daughters are in the habit of sewing onions into the caps of visitors “belonging to the lower orders,” while drunks belonging to the same category have “Ass” and “Fool” chalked on their backs in enormous letters. His son, Mitya, a retired lieutenant, outdid his own father last winter. With the help of Karpushka he smeared the gates of a former private soldier with tar because the soldier refused to give him a wolf cub, and also because he was thought to have warned his daughters against accepting candy and gingerbread from the hands of the retired lieutenant.

After this, call Trifon Semyonovich—Trifon Semyonovich.

August 1880

1 An untranslatable pun. Durachki (“dunces”) is also the name of a card game.

St. Peter’s Day

CAME the long-awaited morning, the long-dreamed-of day — Tallyho! — Came June 29 — Came the day when all debts, dung beetles, delicacies, mothers-in-law, and even young wives are forgotten — Came the day when you are free to thumb your nose a dozen times at the village constable, who forbids you to go hunting!

The stars paled and grew misty. Somewhere voices could be heard. From the village chimneys poured pungent dark-blue smoke.