Admittedly, he had acquired one or two weaknesses: for instance, he paid court to all the rich young ladies of marriageable age in the province and, being refused both their hands and admission to their homes, confessed his grief heartbrokenly to all his friends and acquaintances while continuing to send the young ladies’ parents gifts of sour peaches and other raw produce from his garden; he was fond of repeating one and the same anecdote which, despite Polutykin’s high opinion of its merits, simply failed to make anyone laugh; he was full of praise for the works of Akim Nakhimov3 and the story Pinna;4 he had a stammer; he called his dog Astronomer; instead of however he used to say howsoever, and he introduced in his own house a French cuisine, the secret of which, according to his cook’s ideas, consisted in completely altering the natural taste of each dish: in the hands of this culinary master meat turned out to be fish, fish became mushrooms, and macaroni ended up dry as powder; moreover, no carrot would be permitted in a soup that had not first assumed a rhomboidal or trapezoidal shape. But apart from these minor and insignificant failings Polutykin was, as I’ve said, an excellent fellow.

On the day of our meeting Polutykin invited me to spend the night with him.

‘It’ll be about five miles to my place,’ he added, ‘a long way on foot, so let’s drop in on Khor first of all.’ (The reader will permit me to overlook his stammer.)

‘And who is this Khor?’

‘One of my peasants. He lives not far from here.’

We set off for his place. Khor’s isolated settlement stood amid woodland in a clearing that had been given over to cultivation. It consisted of several frame dwellings of fir linked by fences. An overhanging roof, supported by thin pillars, ran along the front of the main hut. We entered and were met by a tall, handsome young man of about twenty.

‘Hello, Fedya! Is Khor at home?’ Polutykin asked him.

‘No, Khor’s gone off to the town,’ the young man answered, smiling and displaying a row of snow-white teeth. ‘Would you like the cart got ready?’

‘Yes, my good fellow, harness the cart. And bring us some kvas.’5

We entered the hut. No cheap pictures, such as are made in Suzdal, were stuck on the clean, beamed walls; in one corner, before a heavy icon in its silver frame, a small lamp was kept burning; the table, constructed of lime-wood, had recently been scrubbed and wiped clean; and among the beams and the window-frames there were neither scurrying cockroaches nor lurking, contemplative beetles. The young man soon appeared with a large white jug full of good-tasting kvas, a large portion of good wheat loaf and a dozen salted cucumbers in a wooden bowl. He placed these refreshments on the table, leaned against the door and proceeded to watch us smilingly as we ate. We had barely finished when the cart drove up to the porch. We went out to find a curly-haired, red-cheeked boy of about fifteen sitting in the driver’s seat and restraining with difficulty a frisky, piebald stallion. Around the cart there stood six or so young giants, all very similar to each other and to Fedya.

‘They’re all Khor’s boys,’ Polutykin remarked.

‘We’re the Khor lads,’ echoed Fedya, who had followed us out on to the porch, ‘and there aren’t all of us here – Potap’s in the forest and Sidor’s gone to the town with the old man. Now watch out, Vasya,’ he continued, turning to the young driver, ‘remember you’re driving the master! See you go quietly over the bumps or you’ll smash the carriage and upset the master’s stomach!’

The remaining Khor brothers grinned broadly at Fedya’s witticism.

‘Let Astronomer be seated!’ exclaimed Polutykin pompously.

Fedya, not without a show of pleasure, lifted the uneasily smiling dog into the air and deposited it on the floor of the cart. Vasya gave rein to the horses and we set off.

‘And that’s my office,’ Polutykin said suddenly, pointing to a tiny, low-walled house. ‘Would you like to see inside?’

‘Certainly.’

‘It’s not used now,’ he said, climbing down, ‘but it’s still worth looking at.’

The office consisted of two empty rooms. The caretaker, a bent old man, ran in from the yard at the back.

‘Good day, Minyaich,’ said Polutykin, ‘and have you any of that water?’

The ancient caretaker made off and at once returned with a bottle and two glasses.

‘You try it,’ Polutykin said to me. ‘It’s some of my good spring water.’

We each drank a glassful, while the old man regaled us with low bows to the waist.

‘Well, it’s time now, it seems, for us to be off,’ my new friend remarked. ‘In this office I got a good price from the merchant Alliluyev for ten acres of woodland I once sold him.’

We took our seats again in the carriage and in half an hour were entering the forecourt of Polutykin’s mansion.

‘Tell me, please,’ I asked him at dinner, ‘why is it that Khor lives apart from your other peasants?’

‘He lives apart because he’s one of my clever ones. About fifteen years ago his hut burned down and he came to my late father and said: “If you please, Nikolay Kuzmich, allow me to settle on some of the marshland in your forest. I’ll pay you a good rent for it.” “And what do you want to settle in a marsh for?” “That’s my business, sir; all I ask, Nikolay Kuzmich, sir, is that you don’t use me for any kind of work, but name whatever rent you think is right.” “Fifty roubles a year!” “Thank you, sir.” “No falling down on the rent payments, mind you!” “Of course, sir, no falling down…” And so he settled in the marshland. And from that time he’s become known as Khor the Polecat.’

‘I suppose he’s got rich?’ I asked.

‘He’s got rich. He now pays me a hundred silver roubles a year in rent, and I’ll probably raise that a bit before long. Many times I’ve said to him: “Buy yourself off, Khor, buy your freedom!” But he, wily polecat that he is, always assures me he’s got nothing to do it with, no money, nothing. He’s a sly one!’

On the next day, directly after morning tea, we set off on a hunting expedition. On our way through the village Polutykin ordered the driver to stop at a squat little hut and called out loudly:

‘Kalinych!’

‘At once, sir, at once!’ a voice cried from the yard. ‘I’m just doing up my shoe.’

We went on at a walking pace and just beyond the village we were caught up by a man of about forty, of tall, thin build, with a small head bent well back on his shoulders. This was Kalinych.