THE HUNTSMAN
by Anton Chekhov
A sultry, stifling midday. Not a cloudlet in the sky. . . . The sun-
baked grass had a disconsolate, hopeless look: even if there were
rain it could never be green again. . . . The forest stood silent,
motionless, as though it were looking at something with its tree-
tops or expecting something.
At the edge of the clearing a tall, narrow-shouldered man of
forty in a red shirt, in patched trousers that had been a gentle-
man's, and in high boots, was slouching along with a lazy, sham-
bling step. He was sauntering along the road. On the right was
the green of the clearing, on the left a golden sea of ripe rye
stretched to the very horizon. He was red and perspiring, a
white cap with a straight jockey peak, evidently a gift from some
open-handed young gentleman, perched jauntily on his hand-
some flaxen head. Across his shoulder hung a game-bag with a
blackcock lying in it. The man held a double-barrelled gun
cocked in his hand, and screwed up his eyes in the direction of
his lean old dog who was running on ahead sniffing the bushes.
There was stillness all round, not a sound . . . everything living
was hiding away from the heat.
"Yegor Vlassitch!" the huntsman suddenly heard a soft voice.
He started and, looking round, scowled. Beside him, as though
she had sprung out of the earth, stood a pale-faced woman of
thirty with a sickle in her hand. She was trying to look into his
face, and was smiling diffidently.
"Oh, it is you, Pelagea!" said the huntsman, stopping and de-
liberately uncocking the gun. "H'm! . . . How have you come
here?"
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