‘I wasn’t doing nothing,’ muttered the Gabbler. ‘I didn’t... I only....’
‘There, all right, shut up!’ retorted the Wild Master. ‘Yakov, begin!’
Yakov took himself by his throat:
‘Well, really, brothers,... something.... Hm, I don’t know, on my word, what....’
‘Come, that’s enough; don’t be timid. For shame!... why go back?... Sing the best you can, by God’s gift.’
And the Wild Master looked down expectant. Yakov was silent for a minute; he glanced round, and covered his face with his hand. All had their eyes simply fastened upon him, especially the booth - keeper, on whose face a faint, involuntary uneasiness could be seen through his habitual expression of self - confidence and the triumph of his success. He leant back against the wall, and again put both hands under him, but did not swing his legs as before. When at last Yakov uncovered his face it was pale as a dead man’s; his eyes gleamed faintly under their drooping lashes. He gave a deep sigh, and began to sing.... The first sound of his voice was faint and unequal, and seemed not to come from his chest, but to be wafted from somewhere afar off, as though it had floated by chance into the room. A strange effect was produced on all of us by this trembling, resonant note; we glanced at one another, and Nikolai Ivanitch’s wife seemed to draw herself up. This first note was followed by another, bolder and prolonged, but still obviously quivering, like a harpstring when suddenly struck by a stray finger it throbs in a last, swiftly - dying tremble; the second was followed by a third, and, gradually gaining fire and breadth, the strains swelled into a pathetic melody. ‘Not one little path ran into the field,’ he sang, and sweet and mournful it was in our ears. I have seldom, I must confess, heard a voice like it; it was slightly hoarse, and not perfectly true; there was even something morbid about it at first; but it had genuine depth of passion, and youth and sweetness and a sort of fascinating, careless, pathetic melancholy. A spirit of truth and fire, a Russian spirit, was sounding and breathing in that voice, and it seemed to go straight to your heart, to go straight to all that was Russian in it. The song swelled and flowed. Yakov was clearly carried away by enthusiasm; he was not timid now; he surrendered himself wholly to the rapture of his art; his voice no longer trembled; it quivered, but with the scarce perceptible inward quiver of passion, which pierces like an arrow to the very soul of the listeners; and he steadily gained strength and firmness and breadth. I remember I once saw at sunset on a flat sandy shore, when the tide was low and the sea’s roar came weighty and menacing from the distance, a great white sea - gull; it sat motionless, its silky bosom facing the crimson glow of the setting sun, and only now and then opening wide its great wings to greet the well - known sea, to greet the sinking lurid sun: I recalled it, as I heard Yakov. He sang, utterly forgetful of his rival and all of us; he seemed supported, as a bold swimmer by the waves, by our silent, passionate sympathy. He sang, and in every sound of his voice one seemed to feel something dear and akin to us, something of breadth and space, as though the familiar steppes were unfolding before our eyes and stretching away into endless distance. I felt the tears gathering in my bosom and rising to my eyes; suddenly I was struck by dull, smothered sobs.... I looked round — the innkeeper’s wife was weeping, her bosom pressed close to the window. Yakov threw a quick glance at her, and he sang more sweetly, more melodiously than ever; Nikolai Ivanitch looked down; the Blinkard turned away; the Gabbler, quite touched, stood, his gaping mouth stupidly open; the humble peasant was sobbing softly in the corner, and shaking his head with a plaintive murmur; and on the iron visage of the Wild Master, from under his overhanging brows there slowly rolled a heavy tear; the booth - keeper raised his clenched fist to his brow, and did not stir.... I don’t know how the general emotion would have ended, if Yakov had not suddenly come to a full stop on a high, exceptionally shrill note — as though his voice had broken. No one called out, or even stirred; every one seemed to be waiting to see whether he was not going to sing more; but he opened his eyes as though wondering at our silence, looked round at all of us with a face of inquiry, and saw that the victory was his....
‘Yasha,’ said the Wild Master, laying his hand on his shoulder, and he could say no more.
We all stood, as it were, petrified. The booth - keeper softly rose and went up to Yakov.
‘You... yours... you’ve won,’ he articulated at last with an effort, and rushed out of the room. His rapid, decided action, as it were, broke the spell; we all suddenly fell into noisy, delighted talk. The Gabbler bounded up and down, stammered and brandished his arms like mill - sails; the Blinkard limped up to Yakov and began kissing him; Nikolai Ivanitch got up and solemnly announced that he would add a second pot of beer from himself. The Wild Master laughed a sort of kind, simple laugh, which I should never have expected to see on his face; the humble peasant as he wiped his eyes, cheeks, nose, and beard on his sleeves, kept repeating in his corner: ‘Ah, beautiful it was, by God! blast me for the son of a dog, but it was fine!’ while Nikolai Ivanitch’s wife, her face red with weeping, got up quickly and went away, Yakov was enjoying his triumph like a child; his whole face was tranformed, his eyes especially fairly glowed with happiness. They dragged him to the bar; he beckoned the weeping peasant up to it, and sent the innkeeper’s little son to look after the booth - keeper, who was not found, however; and the festivities began. ‘You’ll sing to us again; you’re going to sing to us till evening,’ the Gabbler declared, flourishing his hands in the air.
I took one more look at Yakov and went out. I did not want to stay — I was afraid of spoiling the impression I had received. But the heat was as insupportable as before. It seemed hanging in a thick, heavy layer right over the earth; over the dark blue sky, tiny bright fires seemed whisking through the finest, almost black dust. Everything was still; and there was something hopeless and oppressive in this profound hush of exhausted nature. I made my way to a hay - loft, and lay down on the fresh - cut, but already almost dry grass. For a long while I could not go to sleep; for a long while Yakov’s irresistible voice was ringing in my ears.... At last the heat and fatigue regained their sway, however, and I fell into a dead sleep. When I waked up, everything was in darkness; the hay scattered around smelt strong and was slightly damp; through the slender rafters of the half - open roof pale stars were faintly twinkling. I went out. The glow of sunset had long died away, and its last trace showed in a faint light on the horizon; but above the freshness of the night there was still a feeling of heat in the atmosphere, lately baked through by the sun, and the breast still craved for a draught of cool air. There was no wind, nor were there any clouds; the sky all round was clear, and transparently dark, softly glimmering with innumerable, but scarcely visible stars. There were lights twinkling about the village; from the flaring tavern close by rose a confused, discordant din, amid which I fancied I recognised the voice of Yakov. Violent laughter came from there in an outburst at times. I went up to the little window and pressed my face against the pane. I saw a cheerless, though varied and animated scene; all were drunk — all from Yakov upwards. With breast bared, he sat on a bench, and singing in a thick voice a street song to a dance - tune, he lazily fingered and strummed on the strings of a guitar. His moist hair hung in tufts over his fearfully pale face. In the middle of the room, the Gabbler, completely ‘screwed’ and without his coat, was hopping about in a dance before the peasant in the grey smock; the peasant, on his side, was with difficulty stamping and scraping with his feet, and grinning meaninglessly over his dishevelled beard; he waved one hand from time to time, as much as to say, ‘Here goes!’ Nothing could be more ludicrous than his face; however much he twitched up his eyebrows, his heavy lids would hardly rise, but seemed lying upon his scarcely visible, dim, and mawkish eyes. He was in that amiable frame of mind of a perfectly intoxicated man, when every passer - by, directly he looks him in the face, is sure to say, ‘Bless you, brother, bless you!’ The Blinkard, as red as a lobster, and his nostrils dilated wide, was laughi
ng malignantly in a corner; only Nikolai Ivanitch, as befits a good tavern - keeper, preserved his composure unchanged. The room was thronged with many new faces; but the Wild Master I did not see in it.
I turned away with rapid steps and began descending the hill on which Kolotovka lies. At the foot of this hill stretches a wide plain; plunged in the misty waves of the evening haze, it seemed more immense, and was, as it were, merged in the darkening sky. I walked with long strides along the road by the ravine, when all at once from somewhere far away in the plain came a boy’s clear voice: ‘Antropka! Antropka - a - a!...’ He shouted in obstinate and tearful desperation, with long, long drawing out of the last syllable.
He was silent for a few instants, and started shouting again. His voice rang out clear in the still, lightly slumbering air. Thirty times at least he had called the name, Antropka. When suddenly, from the farthest end of the plain, as though from another world, there floated a scarcely audible reply:
‘Wha - a - t?’
The boy’s voice shouted back at once with gleeful exasperation:
‘Come here, devil! woo - od imp!’
‘What fo - or?’ replied the other, after a long interval.
‘Because dad wants to thrash you!’ the first voice shouted back hurriedly.
The second voice did not call back again, and the boy fell to shouting Antropka once more. His cries, fainter and less and less frequent, still floated up to my ears, when it had grown completely dark, and I had turned the corner of the wood which skirts my village and lies over three miles from Kolotovka.... ‘Antropka - a - a!’ was still audible in the air, filled with the shadows of night.
XVIII
PIOTR PETROVITCH KARATAEV
One autumn five years ago, I chanced, when on the road from Moscow to Tula, to spend almost a whole day at a posting station for want of horses. I was on the way back from a shooting expedition, and had been so incautious as to send my three horses on in front of me. The man in charge of the station, a surly, elderly man, with hair hanging over his brows to his very nose, with little sleepy eyes, answered all my complaints and requests with disconnected grumbling, slammed the door angrily, as though he were cursing his calling in life, and going out on the steps abused the postilions who were sauntering in a leisurely way through the mud with the weighty wooden yokes on their arms, or sat yawning and scratching themselves on a bench, and paid no special attention to the wrathful exclamations of their superior. I had already sat myself down three times to tea, had several times tried in vain to sleep, and had read all the inscriptions on the walls and windows; I was overpowered by fearful boredom. In chill and helpless despair I was staring at the upturned shafts of my carriage, when suddenly I heard the tinkling of a bell, and a small trap, drawn by three jaded horses, drew up at the steps. The new arrival leaped out of the trap, and shouting ‘Horses! and look sharp!’ he went into the room. While he was listening with the strange wonder customary in such cases to the overseer’s answer that there were no horses, I had time to scan my new companion from top to toe with all the greedy curiosity of a man bored to death. He appeared to be nearly thirty. Small - pox had left indelible traces on his face, which was dry and yellowish, with an unpleasant coppery tinge; his long blue - black hair fell in ringlets on his collar behind, and was twisted into jaunty curls in front; his small swollen eyes were quite expressionless; a few hairs sprouted on his upper lip. He was dressed like a dissipated country gentleman, given to frequenting horse - fairs, in a rather greasy striped Caucasian jacket, a faded lilac silk - tie, a waistcoat with copper buttons, and grey trousers shaped like huge funnels, from under which the toes of unbrushed shoes could just be discerned. He smelt strongly of tobacco and spirits; on his fat, red hands, almost hidden in his sleeves, could be seen silver and Tula rings. Such figures are met in Russia not by dozens, but by hundreds; an acquaintance with them is not, to tell the truth, productive of any particular pleasure; but in spite of the prejudice with which I looked at the new - comer, I could not fail to notice the recklessly good - natured and passionate expression of his face.
‘This gentleman’s been waiting more than an hour here too,’ observed the overseer indicating me.
More than an hour! The rascal was making fun of me.
‘But perhaps he doesn’t need them as I do,’ answered the new comer.
‘I know nothing about that,’ said the overseer sulkily.
‘Then is it really impossible? Are there positively no horses?’
‘Impossible. There’s not a single horse.’
‘Well, tell them to bring me a samovar. I’ll wait a little; there’s nothing else to be done.’
The new comer sat down on the bench, flung his cap on the table, and passed his hand over his hair.
‘Have you had tea already?’ he inquired of me.
‘Yes.’
‘But won’t you have a little more for company.’
I consented. The stout red samovar made its appearance for the fourth time on the table. I brought out a bottle of rum. I was not wrong in taking my new acquaintance for a country gentleman of small property. His name was Piotr Petrovitch Karataev.
We got into conversation. In less than half - an - hour after his arrival, he was telling me his whole life with the most simple - hearted openness.
‘I’m on my way to Moscow now,’ he told me as he sipped his fourth glass; ‘there’s nothing for me to do now in the country.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, it’s come to that. My property’s in disorder; I’ve ruined my peasants, I must confess; there have been bad years: bad harvests, and all sorts of ill - luck, you know.... Though, indeed,’ he added, looking away dejectedly; ‘how could I manage an estate!’
‘Why’s that?’
‘But, no,’ he interrupted me? ‘there are people like me who make good managers! You see,’ he went on, screwing his head on one side and sucking his pipe assiduously, ‘looking at me, I dare say you think I’m not much... but you, see, I must confess, I’ve had a very middling education; I wasn’t well off. I beg your pardon; I’m an open man, and if you come to that....’
He did not complete his sentence, but broke off with a wave of the hand. I began to assure him that he was mistaken, that I was highly delighted to meet him, and so on, and then observed that I should have thought a very thorough education was not indispensable for the good management of property.
‘Agreed,’ he responded; ‘I agree with you. But still, a special sort of disposition’s essential! There are some may do anything they like, and it’s all right! but I.... Allow me to ask, are you from Petersburg or from Moscow?’
‘I’m from Petersburg.’
He blew a long coil of smoke from his nostrils.
‘And I’m going in to Moscow to be an official.’
‘What department do you mean to enter?’
‘I don’t know; that’s as it happens. I’ll own to you, I’m afraid of official life; one’s under responsibility at once. I’ve always lived in the country; I’m used to it, you know... but now, there’s no help for it... it’s through poverty! Oh, poverty, how I hate it!’
‘But then you will be living in the capital.’
‘In the capital.... Well, I don’t know what there is that’s pleasant in the capital. We shall see; may be, it’s pleasant too.... Though nothing, I fancy, could be better than the country.’
‘Then is it really impossible for you to live at your country place?’
He gave a sigh.
‘Quite impossible. It’s, so to say, not my own now.’
‘Why, how so?’
‘Well, a good fellow there — a neighbour — is in possession... a bill of exchange.’
Poor Piotr Petrovitch passed his hand over his face, thought a minute, and shook his head.
‘Well?’... I must own, though,’ he added after a brief silence, ‘I can’t blame anybody; it’s my own fault. I was fond of cutting a dash, I am fond of cutting a dash, damn my soul!’
‘I had, sir,’ he responded emphatically, looking me straight in the face, ‘twelve harriers — harriers, I can tell you, such as you don’t very often see.’ (The last words he uttered in a drawl with great significance.) ‘A grey hare they’d double upon in no time. After the red fox — they were devils, regular serpents. And I could boast of my greyhounds too. It’s all a thing of the past now, I’ve no reason to lie. I used to go out shooting too. I had a dog called the Countess, a wonderful setter, with a first - rate scent — she took everything. Sometimes I’d go to a marsh and call “Seek.” If she refused, you might go with a dozen dogs, and you’d find nothing. But when she was after anything, it was a sight to see her. And in the house so well - bred. If you gave her bread with your left hand and said, “A Jew’s tasted it,” she wouldn’t touch it; but give it with your right and say, “The young lady’s had some,” and she’d take it and eat it at once. I had a pup of hers — capital pup he was, and I meant to bring him with me to Moscow, but a friend asked me for him, together with a gun; he said, “In Moscow you’ll have other things to think of.” I gave him the pup and the gun; and so, you know, it stayed there.’
‘But you might go shooting in Moscow.’
‘No, what would be the use? I didn’t know when to pull myself up, so now I must grin and bear it.
But there, kindly tell me rather about the living in Moscow — is it dear?’
‘No, not very.’
‘Not very.... And tell me, please, are there any gypsies in Moscow?’
‘What sort of gypsies?’
‘Why, such as hang about fairs?’
‘Yes, there are in Moscow....’
‘Well, that’s good news. I like gypsies, damn my soul! I like ‘em....’
And there was a gleam of reckless merriment in Piotr Petrovitch’s eyes. But suddenly he turned round on the bench, then seemed to ponder, dropped his eyes, and held out his empty glass to me.
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 219