I paid Sorokoumov a visit not long before his death. He was then hardly able to walk. The landowner, Gur Krupyanikov, had not turned him out of the house, but had given up paying him a salary, and had taken another tutor for Zyozya.... Fofa had been sent to a school of cadets. Avenir was sitting near the window in an old easy - chair. It was exquisite weather. The clear autumn sky was a bright blue above the dark - brown line of bare limes; here and there a few last leaves of lurid gold rustled and whispered about them. The earth had been covered with frost, now melting into dewdrops in the sun, whose ruddy rays fell aslant across the pale grass; there was a faint crisp resonance in the air; the voices of the labourers in the garden reached us clearly and distinctly. Avenir wore an old Bokhara dressing - gown; a green neckerchief threw a deathly hue over his terribly sunken face. He was greatly delighted to see me, held out his hand, began talking and coughing at once. I made him be quiet, and sat down by him.... On Avenir’s knee lay a manuscript book of Koltsov’s poems, carefully copied out; he patted it with a smile. ‘That’s a poet,’ he stammered, with an effort repressing his cough; and he fell to declaiming in a voice scarcely audible:
‘Can the eagle’s wings
Be chained and fettered?
Can the pathways of heaven
Be closed against him?’
I stopped him: the doctor had forbidden him to talk. I knew what would please him. Sorokoumov never, as they say, ‘kept up’ with the science of the day; but he was always anxious to know what results the leading intellects had reached. Sometimes he would get an old friend into a corner and begin questioning him; he would listen and wonder, take every word on trust, and even repeat it all after him. He took a special interest in German philosophy. I began discoursing to him about Hegel (this all happened long ago, as you may gather). Avenir nodded his head approvingly, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and whispered: ‘I see! I see! ah, that’s splendid! splendid!’... The childish curiosity of this poor, dying, homeless outcast, moved me, I confess, to tears. It must be noted that Avenir, unlike the general run of consumptives, did not deceive himself in regard to his disease.... But what of that? — he did not sigh, nor grieve; he did not even once refer to his position....
Rallying his strength, he began talking of Moscow, of old friends, of Pushkin, of the drama, of Russian literature; he recalled our little suppers, the heated debates of our circle; with regret he uttered the names of two or three friends who were dead....
‘Do you remember Dasha?’ he went on. ‘Ah, there was a heart of pure gold! What a heart! and how she loved me!... What has become of her now? Wasted and fallen away, poor dear, I daresay!’
I had not the courage to disillusion the sick man; and, indeed, why should he know that his Dasha was now broader than she was long, and that she was living under the protection of some merchants, the brothers Kondatchkov, that she used powder and paint, and was for ever swearing and scolding?
‘But can’t we,’ I thought, looking at his wasted face, ‘get him away from here? Perhaps there may still be a chance of curing him.’ But Avenir cut short my suggestion.
‘No, brother, thanks,’ he said; ‘it makes no difference where one dies. I shan’t live till the winter, you see.... Why give trouble for nothing? I’m used to this house. It’s true the people...’
‘They’re unkind, eh?’ I put in.
‘No, not unkind! but wooden - headed creatures. However, I can’t complain of them. There are neighbours: there’s a Mr. Kasatkin’s daughter, a cultivated, kind, charming girl... not proud...’
Sorokoumov began coughing again.
‘I shouldn’t mind anything,’ he went on, after taking breath, ‘if they’d only let me smoke my pipe.... But I’ll have my pipe, if I die for it!’ he added, with a sly wink. ‘Thank God, I have had life enough! I have known so many fine people.
‘But you should, at least, write to your relations,’ I interrupted.
‘Why write to them? They can’t be any help; when I die they’ll hear of it. But, why talk about it... I’d rather you’d tell me what you saw abroad.’
I began to tell him my experiences. He seemed positively to gloat over my story. Towards evening I left, and ten days later I received the following letter from Mr. Krupyanikov:
‘I have the honour to inform you, my dear sir, that your friend, the student, living in my house, Mr. Avenir Sorokoumov, died at two o’clock in the afternoon, three days ago, and was buried to - day, at my expense, in the parish church. He asked me to forward you the books and manuscripts enclosed herewith. He was found to have twenty - two roubles and a half, which, with the rest of his belongings, pass into the possession of his relatives. Your friend died fully conscious, and, I may say, with so little sensibility that he showed no signs of regret even when the whole family of us took a last farewell of him. My wife, Kleopatra Aleksandrovna, sends you her regards. The death of your friend has, of course, affected her nerves; as regards myself, I am, thank God, in good health, and have the honour to remain, your humble servant,’
‘G. KRUPYANIKOV.’
Many more examples recur to me, but one cannot relate everything. I will confine myself to one.
I was present at an old lady’s death - bed; the priest had begun reading the prayers for the dying over her, but, suddenly noticing that the patient seemed to be actually dying, he made haste to give her the cross to kiss. The lady turned away with an air of displeasure. ‘You’re in too great a hurry, father,’ she said, in a voice almost inarticulate; ‘in too great a hurry.’... She kissed the cross, put her hand under the pillow and expired. Under the pillow was a silver rouble; she had meant to pay the priest for the service at her own death....
Yes, the Russians die in a wonderful way.
XVII
THE SINGERS
The small village of Kolotovka once belonged to a lady known in the neighbourhood by the nickname of Skin - flint, in illusion to her keen business habits (her real name is lost in oblivion), but has of late years been the property of a German from Petersburg. The village lies on the slope of a barren hill, which is cut in half from top to bottom by a tremendous ravine. It is a yawning chasm, with shelving sides hollowed out by the action of rain and snow, and it winds along the very centre of the village street; it separates the two sides of the unlucky hamlet far more than a river would do, for a river could, at least, be crossed by a bridge. A few gaunt willows creep timorously down its sandy sides; at the very bottom, which is dry and yellow as copper, lie huge slabs of argillaceous rock. A cheerless position, there’s no denying, yet all the surrounding inhabitants know the road to Kolotovka well; they go there often, and are always glad to go.
At the very summit of the ravine, a few paces from the point where it starts as a narrow fissure in the earth, there stands a small square hut. It stands alone, apart from all the others. It is thatched, and has a chimney; one window keeps watch like a sharp eye over the ravine, and on winter evenings when it is lighted from within, it is seen far away in the dim frosty fog, and its twinkling light is the guiding star of many a peasant on his road. A blue board is nailed up above the door; this hut is a tavern, called the ‘Welcome Resort.’ Spirits are sold here probably no cheaper than the usual price, but it is far more frequented than any other establishment of the same sort in the neighbourhood. The explanation of this is to be found in the tavern - keeper, Nikolai Ivanitch.
Nikolai Ivanitch — once a slender, curly - headed and rosy - cheeked young fellow, now an excessively stout, grizzled man with a fat face, sly and good - natured little eyes, and a shiny forehead, with wrinkles like lines drawn all over it — has lived for more than twenty years in Kolotovka. Nikolai Ivanitch is a shrewd, acute fellow, like the majority of tavern - keepers. Though he makes no conspicuous effort to please or to talk to people, he has the art of attracting and keeping customers, who find it particularly pleasant to sit at his bar under the placid and genial, though alert eye, of the phlegmatic host. He has a great deal of common sense; he thoroughly un
derstands the landowner’s conditions of life, the peasant’s, and the tradesman’s. He could give sensible advice on difficult points, but, like a cautious man and an egoist, prefers to stand aloof, and at most — and that only in the case of his favourite customers — by remote hints, dropped, as it were, unintentionally, to lead them into the true way. He is an authority on everything that is of interest or importance to a Russian; on horses and cattle, on timber, bricks, and crockery, on woollen stuffs and on leather, on songs and dances. When he has no customers he is usually sitting like a sack on the ground before the door of his hut, his thin legs tucked under him, exchanging a friendly greeting with every passer - by. He has seen a great deal in his time; many a score of petty landowners, who used to come to him for spirits, he has seen pass away before him; he knows everything that is done for eighty miles round, and never gossips, never gives a sign of knowing what is unsuspected by the most keen - sighted police - officer. He keeps his own counsel, laughs, and makes his glasses ring. His neighbours respect him; the civilian general Shtcherpetenko, the landowner highest in rank in the district, gives him a condescending nod whenever he drives past his little house. Nikolai Ivanitch is a man of influence; he made a notorious horse - stealer return a horse he had taken from the stable of one of his friends; he brought the peasants of a neighbouring village to their senses when they refused to accept a new overseer, and so on. It must not be imagined, though, that he does this from love of justice, from devotion to his neighbour — no! he simply tries to prevent anything that might, in any way, interfere with his ease and comfort. Nikolai Ivanitch is married, and has children. His wife, a smart, sharp - nosed and keen - eyed woman of the tradesman class, has grown somewhat stout of late years, like her husband. He relies on her in everything, and she keeps the key of the cash - box. Drunken brawlers are afraid of her; she does not like them; they bring little profit and make a great deal of noise: those who are taciturn and surly in their cups are more to her taste. Nikolai Ivanitch’s children are still small; the first four all died, but those that are left take after their parents: it is a pleasure to look at their intelligent, healthy little faces.
It was an insufferably hot day in July when, slowly dragging my feet along, I went up alongside the Kolotovka ravine with my dog towards the Welcome Resort. The sun blazed, as it were, fiercely in the sky, baking the parched earth relentlessly; the air was thick with stifling dust. Glossy crows and ravens with gaping beaks looked plaintively at the passers - by, as though asking for sympathy; only the sparrows did not droop, but, pluming their feathers, twittered more vigorously than ever as they quarrelled among the hedges, or flew up all together from the dusty road, and hovered in grey clouds over the green hempfields. I was tormented by thirst. There was no water near: in Kolotovka, as in many other villages of the steppes, the peasants, having no spring or well, drink a sort of thin mud out of the pond.... For no one could call that repulsive beverage water. I wanted to ask for a glass of beer or kvas at Nikolai Ivanitch’s.
It must be confessed that at no time of the year does Kolotovka present a very cheering spectacle; but it has a particularly depressing effect when the relentless rays of a dazzling July sun pour down full upon the brown, tumble - down roofs of the houses and the deep ravine, and the parched, dusty common over which the thin, long - legged hens are straying hopelessly, and the remains of the old manor - house, now a hollow, grey framework of aspenwood, with holes instead of windows, overgrown with nettles, wormwood, and rank grass, and the pond black, as though charred and covered with goose feathers, with its edge of half - dried mud, and its broken - down dyke, near which, on the finely trodden, ash - like earth, sheep, breathless and gasping with the heat, huddle dejectedly together, their heads drooping with weary patience, as though waiting for this insufferable heat to pass at last. With weary steps I drew near Nikolai Ivanitch’s dwelling, arousing in the village children the usual wonder manifested in a concentrated, meaningless stare, and in the dogs an indignation expressed in such hoarse and furious barking that it seemed as if it were tearing their very entrails, and left them breathless and choking, when suddenly in the tavern doorway there appeared a tall peasant without a cap, in a frieze cloak, girt about below his waist with a blue handkerchief. He looked like a house - serf; thick grey hair stood up in disorder above his withered and wrinkled face. He was calling to some one hurriedly, waving his arms, which obviously were not quite under his control. It could be seen that he had been drinking already.
‘Come, come along!’ he stammered, raising his shaggy eyebrows with an effort. ‘Come, Blinkard, come along! Ah, brother, how you creep along, ‘pon my word! It’s too bad, brother. They’re waiting for you within, and here you crawl along.... Come.’
‘Well, I’m coming, I’m coming!’ called a jarring voice, and from behind a hut a little, short, fat, lame man came into sight. He wore a rather tidy cloth coat, pulled half on, and a high pointed cap right over his brows, which gave his round plump face a sly and comic expression. His little yellow eyes moved restlessly about, his thin lips wore a continual forced smile, while his sharp, long nose peered forward saucily in front like a rudder. ‘I’m coming, my dear fellow.’ He went hobbling towards the tavern. ‘What are you calling me for?... Who’s waiting for me?’
‘What am I calling you for?’ repeated the man in the frieze coat reproachfully.’ You’re a queer fish, Blinkard: we call you to come to the tavern, and you ask what for? Here are honest folks all waiting for you: Yashka the Turk, and the Wild Master, and the booth - keeper from Zhizdry. Yashka’s got a bet on with the booth - keeper: the stake’s a pot of beer — for the one that does best, sings the best, I mean... do you see?’
‘Is Yashka going to sing?’ said the man addressed as Blinkard, with lively interest. ‘But isn’t it your humbug, Gabbler?’
‘I’m not humbugging,’ answered the Gabbler, with dignity; ‘it’s you are crazy. I should think he would sing since he’s got a bet on it, you precious innocent, you noodle, Blinkard!’
‘Well, come in, simpleton!’ retorted the Blinkard.
‘Then give us a kiss at least, lovey,’ stammered the Gabbler, opening wide his arms.
‘Get out, you great softy!’ responded the Blinkard contemptuously, giving him a poke with his elbow, and both, stooping, entered the low doorway.
The conversation I had overheard roused my curiosity exceedingly. More than once rumours had reached me of Yashka the Turk as the best singer in the vicinity, and here was an opportunity all at once of hearing him in competition with another master of the art. I quickened my steps and went into the house.
Few of my readers have probably had an opportunity of getting a good view of any village taverns, but we sportsmen go everywhere. They are constructed on an exceedingly simple plan. They usually consist of a dark outer - shed, and an inner room with a chimney, divided in two by a partition, behind which none of the customers have a right to go. In this partition there is a wide opening cut above a broad oak table. At this table or bar the spirits are served. Sealed up bottles of various sizes stand on the shelves, right opposite the opening. In the front part of the room, devoted to customers, there are benches, two or three empty barrels, and a corner table. Village taverns are for the most part rather dark, and you hardly ever see on their wainscotted walls any of the glaring cheap prints which few huts are without.
When I went into the Welcome Resort, a fairly large party were already assembled there.
In his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up the entire opening in the partition, stood Nikolai Ivanitch in a striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured out with his plump white hand two glasses of spirits for the Blinkard and the Gabbler as they came in; behind him, in a corner near the window, could be seen his sharp - eyed wife. In the middle of the room was standing Yashka the Turk, a thin, graceful fellow of three - and - twenty, dressed in a long skirted coat of blue nankin. He looked a smart factory hand, and could not, to judge by his appeara
nce, boast of very good health. His hollow cheeks, his large, restless grey eyes, his straight nose, with its delicate mobile nostrils, his pale brown curls brushed back over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, expressive lips, and his whole face betrayed a passionate and sensitive nature. He was in a state of great excitement; he blinked, his breathing was hurried, his hands shook, as though in fever, and he was really in a fever — that sudden fever of excitement which is so well - known to all who have to speak and sing before an audience. Near him stood a man of about forty, with broad shoulders and broad jaws, with a low forehead, narrow Tartar eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and shining black hair coarse as bristles. The expression of his face — a swarthy face, with a sort of leaden hue in it — and especially of his pale lips, might almost have been called savage, if it had not been so still and dreamy. He hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly about him like a bull under the yoke. He was dressed in a sort of surtout, not over new, with smooth brass buttons; an old black silk handkerchief was twisted round his immense neck. He was called the Wild Master. Right opposite him, on a bench under the holy pictures, was sitting Yashka’s rival, the booth - keeper from Zhizdry; he was a short, stoutly - built man about thirty, pock - marked, and curly - headed, with a blunt, turn - up nose, lively brown eyes, and a scanty beard. He looked keenly about him, and, sitting with his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his legs and tapping with his feet, which were encased in stylish top - boots with a coloured edging. He wore a new thin coat of grey cloth, with a plush collar, in sharp contrast with the crimson shirt below, buttoned close across the chest. In the opposite corner, to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow, shabby smock - frock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. The sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish streak through the dusty panes of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it struggled in vain with the habitual darkness of the room; all the objects in it were dimly, as it were, patchily lighted up. On the other hand, it was almost cool in the room, and the sense of stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly I crossed the threshold.
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 217