![The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood]](http://fs.thenovelorange.com/620252/thumbs/152x264/the-village-translation-from-the-original-russian-text-by-isabel-hapgood.jpg)
Free The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] by 1870-1953 Ivan Alekseevich Bunin Page A
Authors: 1870-1953 Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
towards the highway—a man in a round-topped hat and only a short roundabout coat. On looking more closely, Tikhon Hitch recognized ZhikharefT, the son of a wealthy land-owner, who had long since become a thoroughgoing drunkard. His heart contracted with pain. "Well, it makes no difference," thought Tikhon Hitch sadly. " Twill be best to chat a bit with him and, in case of need, give him half a ruble. 'Tis not worth while to anger the vagabond: he's a spiteful fellow."
But on this occasion Zhikhareff approached in a decidedly arrogant frame of mind, bristling, but with his head, in its beggar's hat, thrown back, and chewing between his clenched jaws the mouth end of a
THE VILLAGE
cigarette, long since smoked out and extinct. His face was blue with the cold, puffy with drunkenness; his eyes were red, and his mustache disheveled. He had turned up the collar of his short coat, which was buttoned to the chin, and, with the tips of his fingers thrust into the pockets, he was splashing along in a spirited manner through the mud. His rusty, dilapidated high boots projected below his short trousers, which were tightly strained over his knees.
"A—ah!" he drawled through his teeth, as he chewed his cigarette-butt. "Whom do I see? Tikhon Fom-itch x is looking over his domains!" And he emitted a hoarse laugh.
"Good-day, Lyeff Lvovitch," replied Tikhon Hitch. "Are you waiting for the train?"
"Yes, I am—and I never seem to hit it," returne-d Zhikhareff, shrugging his shoulders. "I've been waiting and waiting, and I got so bored that I've been making the forester a little visit. We've been chattering and smoking. But I've still a whole eternity to wait! Shall we not meet at the station? I believe you are fond of putting something behind your collar yourself?"
"God has been gracious," replied Tikhon Hitch, in the same tone he had used before. "As for drinking— why shouldn't a man drink a bit? Only, he must pick the proper time."
1 Probably a deliberate bit of insolence, as he must have known that the patronymic was "Hitch," not "Fomitch."
—TRANS.
THE VILLAGE
"Fudge and nonsense!" said Zhikhareff hoarsely, skipping across a puddle with considerable agility, and he directed his course towards the railway station at a leisurely pace.
His aspect was pitiful, and Tikhon Hitch gazed long and with disgust at his inadequate trousers, which hung down like bags from beneath his short coat.
XV
DURING the night the rain poured down again, and it was so dark you could not see your hand before your face. Tikhon Hitch slept badly and gritted his teeth in torture. He had a chill—evidently he had taken cold by standing on the highway in the evening—and the overcoat which he had thrown over himself slid off upon the floor, and immediately he dreamed the same thing he had always dreamed ever since childhood, whenever his back was cold: twilight, narrow alleys, a hurrying throng, firemen galloping along in heavy carts drawn by vicious black truck-horses. Once he woke up, struck a match, looked at the ticking clock—it showed the hour of three —and picked up the overcoat; and, as he fell asleep, the thought of Zhikhareff once more recurred distressingly to his mind. And athwart his slumbers a persistent thought obsessed him: that the shop was being looted and the horses driven away.
Sometimes it seemed to him that he was at the Dan-kova posting-station, that the nocturnal rain was pat-
THE VILLAGE
tering on the pent-house over the gate, and that the little bell above it was being pulled and was ringing incessantly—thieves had come and had led thither, through the impenetrable darkness, his splendid stallion, and if they were to discover his presence there, they would murder him. And again consciousness of the reality would return to him. But even the reality was alarming. The old watchman was walking about under the windows with his mallet, but it seemed as if he were far, far away; as if the sheep-dog, with choking growls,
But on this occasion Zhikhareff approached in a decidedly arrogant frame of mind, bristling, but with his head, in its beggar's hat, thrown back, and chewing between his clenched jaws the mouth end of a
THE VILLAGE
cigarette, long since smoked out and extinct. His face was blue with the cold, puffy with drunkenness; his eyes were red, and his mustache disheveled. He had turned up the collar of his short coat, which was buttoned to the chin, and, with the tips of his fingers thrust into the pockets, he was splashing along in a spirited manner through the mud. His rusty, dilapidated high boots projected below his short trousers, which were tightly strained over his knees.
"A—ah!" he drawled through his teeth, as he chewed his cigarette-butt. "Whom do I see? Tikhon Fom-itch x is looking over his domains!" And he emitted a hoarse laugh.
"Good-day, Lyeff Lvovitch," replied Tikhon Hitch. "Are you waiting for the train?"
"Yes, I am—and I never seem to hit it," returne-d Zhikhareff, shrugging his shoulders. "I've been waiting and waiting, and I got so bored that I've been making the forester a little visit. We've been chattering and smoking. But I've still a whole eternity to wait! Shall we not meet at the station? I believe you are fond of putting something behind your collar yourself?"
"God has been gracious," replied Tikhon Hitch, in the same tone he had used before. "As for drinking— why shouldn't a man drink a bit? Only, he must pick the proper time."
1 Probably a deliberate bit of insolence, as he must have known that the patronymic was "Hitch," not "Fomitch."
—TRANS.
THE VILLAGE
"Fudge and nonsense!" said Zhikhareff hoarsely, skipping across a puddle with considerable agility, and he directed his course towards the railway station at a leisurely pace.
His aspect was pitiful, and Tikhon Hitch gazed long and with disgust at his inadequate trousers, which hung down like bags from beneath his short coat.
XV
DURING the night the rain poured down again, and it was so dark you could not see your hand before your face. Tikhon Hitch slept badly and gritted his teeth in torture. He had a chill—evidently he had taken cold by standing on the highway in the evening—and the overcoat which he had thrown over himself slid off upon the floor, and immediately he dreamed the same thing he had always dreamed ever since childhood, whenever his back was cold: twilight, narrow alleys, a hurrying throng, firemen galloping along in heavy carts drawn by vicious black truck-horses. Once he woke up, struck a match, looked at the ticking clock—it showed the hour of three —and picked up the overcoat; and, as he fell asleep, the thought of Zhikhareff once more recurred distressingly to his mind. And athwart his slumbers a persistent thought obsessed him: that the shop was being looted and the horses driven away.
Sometimes it seemed to him that he was at the Dan-kova posting-station, that the nocturnal rain was pat-
THE VILLAGE
tering on the pent-house over the gate, and that the little bell above it was being pulled and was ringing incessantly—thieves had come and had led thither, through the impenetrable darkness, his splendid stallion, and if they were to discover his presence there, they would murder him. And again consciousness of the reality would return to him. But even the reality was alarming. The old watchman was walking about under the windows with his mallet, but it seemed as if he were far, far away; as if the sheep-dog, with choking growls,
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