I
The burning July sun blazed dazzlingly over Smolkena, pouring down upon the old huts a generous stream of resplendent rays. A goodly share of the sunlight fell to the roof of the Starosta’s[2] hut, newly recovered with smoothly-planed, yellow, fragrant planks. It was Sunday, and almost the entire population of the village had gone out into the street, thickly overgrown with grass and bespattered in spots with quantities of dry mud. A large group of peasants—men and women—had gathered in front of the Starosta’s hut. Some sat on the earthwork around the house, others simply stood; while the children chased one another in and out of the throng, calling forth from the elders rebukes and blows.
The centre of the crowd was a tall man, with large, drooping mustaches. To judge from his swarthy face, covered with thick gray bristles and a network of deep wrinkles, as well as from the gray tufts of hair which forced their way from under the dirty straw hat, he might have been fifty years of age. He was gazing on the ground, and the nostrils of his large, gristly nose were quivering; and when he raised his head, throwing his glance upon the windows of the Starosta’s hut, his eyes—large, melancholy, and even morose—became visible; they were sunk deep within their orbits, and the bushy brows cast shadows over their dark pupils. He was dressed in the brown under-cassock of a lay-brother, worse for the wear; it hardly covered his knees, and was girt with cord. Over his back was flung a bag; in his right hand he carried a long stick with iron ferrule; his left hand he held in his bosom. The people eyed him suspiciously, derisively, with contempt; and with evident joy in having caught a wolf before he had had time to do hurt to their flock. He was passing through the village, and had asked for a drink at the window of the Starosta’s hut. The Starosta gave him cider and entered into conversation with him. The wayfarer, however, unlike his kind, answered unwillingly. The Starosta asked him for his passport, but none was forthcoming. It was decided to send him to the local magistrate. The Starosta chose as the man’s escort the village deputy, and was now in the hut giving him directions, having in the meantime left the prisoner in the midst of the mob which made sport of him.
The prisoner stood near the trunk of a willow and rested against it his stooped back.
Presently there appeared on the staircase of the hut a dim-eyed old man, with a foxy face and a gray, wedge-shaped beard. He lowered his booted feet step by step, measuredly, and his round stomach moved from side to side solidly under the long calico shirt. Just over his shoulder came to view the bearded, four-cornered face of the deputy.
“Do you understand me, Efimushka?” the Starosta questioned the deputy.
“Why shouldn’t I understand? It’s easy enough. Simply means I am to take this man to the magistrate—and there’s an end of it!” The deputy, pronouncing his speech with measured emphasis and with comical dignity, winked at the public.
“And the papers?”
“The papers are stuck away in my bosom.”
“Well, all right, then,” said the Starosta, and, scratching his sides energetically, he added: