The Horse-Stealers and other stories

skin and big black felt overboots, waited till the Zemstvo doctor had finished seeing hi

our honour

do you

his hand up and over his nose, lo

rother Vaska the blacksmith from Varvarino

what

an with a little one. . . . There are a lot of us and no one to work. . . . In the smithy it’s nearly two years now since the forge has been heated. I

you want

ful! Let

ut saying a word walked on. The young peasant ran

ome! We shall remember you in our prayers for ever! Your honour, let him go! They are all starving! Mother’s wailing day in, day out, V

?” asked the doctor angrily. “How can

n crying. “

brought him to the hospital for me to treat him, but I have as muc

ow there is no saying what he is there for. It would have been a different thing if he

, but how do

obeyed them, the fool. They broke the lock, you know, got in, and did no end of mischief; they turned everything upside down, broke the windows, and scattered the flour about. They were drunk, that is all one can say! Well, the constable turned up . . . and with one thing and another they took them off to the magistrate. They have been a whole year in prison,

th it, I tell you again.

e been to the police captain, and I have been to the examining magistrate, and everyone says, ‘It is not my business!

ilty, not the governor, not even the minister, could do anything, le

judged hi

men of the

ere our peasants! Andrey Guryev

old talking t

his own door. Kirila was on the point of follo

and without putting on his cap stared at the doctor’s house, then he h

Whose business is it, then? No, till you grease their hands you will get nothing out of them. The doctor says that, but he keeps looki

eet. Not more than half a mile in front of him the wretched little district town in which his brother had just been tried lay outstretched on the hill. On the right was the dark prison with its red roof and sentry-boxes at the cor

ather,” said Kiri

-day.

iving it to

ld man answ

u a tow

what he had come to the hospital for, and

s a gentleman, he is only taught to cure by every means, but to give you real advice, or, let us say, write out a petition for you—that he cannot do. T

am I

oard is the chief person for peasant

who is at

t is anything that has to do with you peasants eve

man. . . . I dare say it’s t

something wil

ould I send in a peti

a petition the clerk will write you one qui

middle of the square, thought a little, and walked back

of Kirila again in his yard. This time the young peasant was not alone, but with a gaunt, very

Kirila. “Here I have come with my father. Be merciful, let Vaska

ws, “be merciful! We are poor people, we cannot repay your honour, but if you

above his head as though he would take an oath. “Let him go!

both of them, as at the word of command, fell at the doctor’s feet. The latter wa