King Stakh's Wild Hunt

One might suppose that the sun had turned round once (I use the word “suppose” because as a matter of fact the sun had not shown itself from behind the clouds) when I arrived in the district town in the afternoon. It was a small town, flat as a pancake, worse than the most ill-kept of small towns, and it was separated form the Janoŭski region by some 18 versts of stunted forests. My horse tramped along the dirty streets. All around instead of houses were some kind of hen-coops, and the only things that distinguished this small town from a village were the striped sentry-boxes near which stood moustached Cerberuses in patched regimental coats, and also two or three brick shops on a high foundation. Emaciated goats with ironical eyes belonging to poor Jews were looking me over from the decayed, ragged eaves.

In the distance were the moss-covered, tall, mighty walls of an ancient Uniate Church with two lancet towers over a quadrangled dark stone building.

And over all this the same desolation reigned as everywhere: tall birches grew on the roofs.

In the main square dirt lay knee-deep. In front of the grey building of the district court, beside one of the wings, lay about six pigs, trembling with cold and from time to time trying unsuccessfully to creep under one another to warm themselves. This was each time followed by offended grunting.

I tied my horse to the horse line and, making my way along squeaking steps, came up into a corridor that smelled of sour paper, dust, ink and mice. A door, covered with worn-out oilcloth, led into the office. The door was almost torn off and was hanging down. I entered and at first saw nothing: such little light came through the small, narrow windows into this room filled with tobacco smoke. A bald-headed, crooked little man, his shirt-tail sticking out at the back of his pants, raised his eyes and winked at me. I was very much surprised: the upper lid remained motionless, while the lower one covered the entire eyes as in a frog.

I said who I was, gave my name.

“So you have come!” the frog-like man was surprised. “And we…”

“And you thought,” I continued, “I would not appear at the court, would run away. Lead me to your judge.”

The protocol-keeper scrambled out from behind his writing-desk and with stamping feet went in front of me into the midst of this smoky hell.

In the next room behind a large table three men were sitting. They were dressed in frock-coats so bedraggled that it seemed they were made from old fustian. They turned their faces towards me and in their eyes I noticed identical expressions of greediness, insolence and surprise — for I had actually appeared.

These men were the judge, the prosecutor and an advocate, one of those advocates who skin their clients like a plaster and then betray them. A hungry, greedy and corrupt judicial pettifogger with a head resembling a cucumber.

And these were neither the fathers nor the children of judicial reform, but rather minor officials of the days before Peter the Great.

“Mr. Biełarecki,” his voice reminding me of peppermint, “we expected you. Very pleasant. We respect people with the lustre of the capital.” He did not invite me to be seated, kept his eyes fixed on a piece of paper: “You, probably, know that you have committed something resembling criminal, when you beat up a district police officer for some harmless joke? This is a criminal act, for it is in exact contradiction to the morals and manners of our circuit and also the code of laws of the Russian Empire.”

And the look that he cast at me through his eye-glasses was a very proud one. This descendant of Šamiaka's was so terribly pleased that it was he who was administering justice and meting out punishment in the district.

I understood that if I did not step on his toes I would be lost. Therefore I moved a chair up and sat astride it.

“It seems to me that politeness has been forgotten in the Janoŭski region. Therefore I have seated myself without an invitation.”

The prosecutor, a young man with dark blue circles under his eyes, such as are to be seen among those suffering from a shameful disease, said dryly:

“It's not for you, sir, to talk about politeness. No sooner did you appear here than you immediately began disturbing the peaceful lives of our residents. Scandals, fights, an attempt to start a duel ending fatally at a ball in the house of the honourable Miss Janoŭskaja. And in addition you considered it possible to beat up a policeman while he was on duty. A stranger, but you pry into our lives.”

A cold fury stirred within me somewhere under my heart.