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.

Therefore the starosta shook his head at the sunset, and forgot to
regret the badness of the times from a commercial point of view. He had
done all he could. He had notified to the Zemstvo the condition of his
village. He had made the usual appeal for help, which had been forwarded
in the usual way to Tver, where it had apparently been received with the
usual philosophic silence.

But Michael Roon had also telegraphed to Karl Steinmetz, and since the
despatch of this message had the starosta dropped into the habit of
standing at his doorway in the evening, with his hands clasped behind