Ask the "starost"--the mayor of the village. He knows the
barins, and hates them.
Michael Roon, the starosta or elder of Osterno, president of the Mir, or
village council, principal shopkeeper, mayor and only intelligent soul
of the nine hundred, probably had Tartar blood in his veins. To this
strain may be attributed the narrow Tartar face, the keen black eyes,
the short, spare figure which many remember to this day, although
Michael Roon has been dead these many years.
Removed far above the majority of his fellow-villagers in intelligence
and energy, this man administered the law of his own will to his
colleagues on the village council.
It was late in the autumn, one evening remembered by many for its
death-roll, that the starosta was standing at the door of his small
shop. He was apparently idle. He never sold vodka, and the majority of
the villagers were in one of the three thriving "kabaks" which drove a
famous trade in strong drink and weak tea. It was a very hot evening.
The sun had set in a pink haze which was now turning to an unhealthy
gray, and spreading over the face of the western sky like the shadow of
death across the human countenance.
The starosta shook his head forebodingly. It was cholera weather.
Cholera had come to Osterno. Had come, the starosta thought, to stay. It
had settled down in Osterno, and nothing but the winter frosts would
kill it, when hunger-typhus would undoubtedly succeed it.
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