A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  He paused.

  ‘In one of Voltaire’s tragedies,’ he went on wearily, ‘there is some worthy who rejoices that he has reached the furthest limit of unhappiness. Though there is nothing tragic in my fate, I will admit I have experienced something of that sort. I have known the bitter transports of cold despair; I have felt how sweet it is, lying in bed, to curse deliberately for a whole morning together the hour and day of my birth. I could not resign myself all at once. And indeed, think of it yourself: I was kept by impecuniosity in the country, which I hated; I was not fitted for managing my land, nor for the public service, nor for literature, nor anything; my neighbours I didn’t care for, and books I loathed; as for the mawkish and morbidly sentimental young ladies who shake their curls and feverishly harp on the word “life,” I had ceased to have any attraction for them ever since I gave up ranting and gushing; complete solitude I could not face.... I began — what do you suppose? — I began hanging about, visiting my neighbours. As though drunk with self - contempt, I purposely exposed myself to all sorts of petty slights. I was missed over in serving at table; I was met with supercilious coldness, and at last was not noticed at all; I was not even allowed to take part in general conversation, and from my corner I myself used purposely to back up some stupid talker who in those days at Moscow would have ecstatically licked the dust off my feet, and kissed the hem of my cloak.... I did not even allow myself to believe that I was enjoying the bitter satisfaction of irony.... What sort of irony, indeed, can a man enjoy in solitude? Well, so I have behaved for some years on end, and so I behave now.’

  ‘Really, this is beyond everything,’ grumbled the sleepy voice of Mr. Kantagryuhin from the next room: ‘what fool is it that has taken a fancy to talk all night?’

  The speaker promptly ducked under the clothes and peeping out timidly, held up his finger to me warningly,

  ‘Sh — sh — !’ he whispered; and, as it were, bowing apologetically in the direction of Kantagryuhin’s voice, he said respectfully: ‘I obey, sir, I obey; I beg your pardon.... It’s permissible for him to sleep; he ought to sleep,’ he went on again in a whisper: ‘he must recruit his energies — well, if only to eat his dinner with the same relish to - morrow. We have no right to disturb him. Besides, I think I’ve told you all I wanted to; probably you’re sleepy too. I wish you good - night.’

  He turned away with feverish rapidity and buried his head in the pillow.

  ‘Let me at least know,’ I asked, ‘with whom I have had the pleasure....’

  He raised his head quickly.

  ‘No, for mercy’s sake!’ he cut me short, ‘don’t inquire my name either of me or of others. Let me remain to you an unknown being, crushed by fate, Vassily Vassilyevitch. Besides, as an unoriginal person, I don’t deserve an individual name.... But if you really want to give me some title, call me... call me the Hamlet of the Shtchigri district. There are many such Hamlets in every district, but perhaps you haven’t come across others.... After which, good - bye.’

  He buried himself again in his feather - bed, and the next morning, when they came to wake me, he was no longer in the room. He had left before daylight.

  XXI

  TCHERTOP - HANOV AND NEDOPYUSKIN

  One hot summer day I was coming home from hunting in a light cart; Yermolaï sat beside me dozing and scratching his nose. The sleeping dogs were jolted up and down like lifeless bodies under our feet. The coachman kept flicking gadflies off the horses with his whip. The white dust rose in a light cloud behind the cart. We drove in between bushes. The road here was full of ruts, and the wheels began catching in the twigs. Yermolaï started up and looked round.... ‘Hullo!’ he said; ‘there ought to be grouse here. Let’s get out.’ We stopped and went into the thicket. My dog hit upon a covey. I took a shot and was beginning to reload, when suddenly there was a loud crackling behind me, and a man on horseback came towards me, pushing the bushes apart with his hands. ‘Sir... pe - ermit me to ask,’ he began in a haughty voice, ‘by what right you are — er — shooting here, sir?’ The stranger spoke extraordinarily quickly, jerkily and condescendingly. I looked at his face; never in my life have I seen anything like it. Picture to yourselves, gentle readers, a little flaxen - haired man, with a little turn - up red nose and long red moustaches. A pointed Persian cap with a crimson cloth crown covered his forehead right down to his eyebrows. He was dressed in a shabby yellow Caucasian overcoat, with black velveteen cartridge pockets on the breast, and tarnish silver braid on all the seams; over his shoulder was slung a horn; in his sash was sticking a dagger. A raw - boned, hook - nosed chestnut horse shambled unsteadily under his weight; two lean, crook - pawed greyhounds kept turning round just under the horse’s legs. The face, the glance, the voice, every action, the whole being of the stranger, was expressive of a wild daring and an unbounded, incredible pride; his pale - blue glassy eyes strayed about with a sideway squint like a drunkard’s; he flung back his head, puffed out his cheeks, snorted and quivered all over, as though bursting with dignity — for all the world like a turkey - cock. He repeated his question.

  ‘I didn’t know it was forbidden to shoot here,’ I replied.

  ‘You are here, sir,’ he continued, ‘on my land.’

  ‘With your permission, I will go off it.’

  ‘But pe - ermit me to ask,’ he rejoined, ‘is it a nobleman I have the honour of addressing?’

  I mentioned my name.

  ‘In that case, oblige me by hunting here. I am a nobleman myself, and am very pleased to do any service to a nobleman.... And my name is Panteley Tchertop - hanov.’ He bowed, hallooed, gave his horse a lash on the neck; the horse shook its head, reared, shied, and trampled on a dog’s paws. The dog gave a piercing squeal. Tchertop - hanov boiled over with rage; foaming at the mouth, he struck the horse with his fist on the head between the ears, leaped to the ground quicker than lightning, looked at the dog’s paw, spat on the wound, gave it a kick in the ribs to stop its whining, caught on to the horse’s forelock, and put his foot in the stirrup. The horse flung up its head, and with its tail in the air edged away into the bushes; he followed it, hopping on one leg; he got into the saddle at last, however, flourished his whip in a sort of frenzy, blew his horn, and galloped off. I had not time to recover from the unexpected appearance of Tchertop - hanov, when suddenly, almost without any noise, there came out of the bushes a stoutish man of forty on a little black nag. He stopped, took off his green leather cap, and in a thin, subdued voice he asked me whether I hadn’t seen a horseman riding a chestnut? I answered that I had.

  ‘Which way did the gentleman go?’ he went on in the same tone, without putting on his cap.

  ‘Over there.’

  ‘I humbly thank you, sir.’

  He made a kissing sound with his lips, swung his legs against his horse’s sides, and fell into a jog - trot in the direction indicated. I looked after him till his peaked cap was hidden behind the branches. This second stranger was not in the least like his predecessor in exterior. His face, plump and round as a ball, expressed bashfulness, good - nature, and humble meekness; his nose, also plump and round and streaked with blue veins, betokened a sensualist. On the front of his head there was not a single hair left, some thin brown tufts stuck out behind; there was an ingratiating twinkle in his little eyes, set in long slits, and a sweet smile on his red, juicy lips. He had on a coat with a stand - up collar and brass buttons, very worn but clean; his cloth trousers were hitched up high, his fat calves were visible above the yellow tops of his boots.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I inquired of Yermolaï.

  ‘That? Nedopyuskin, Tihon Ivanitch. He lives at Tchertop - hanov’s.’

  ‘What is he, a poor man?’

  ‘He’s not rich; but, to be sure, Tchertop - hanov’s not got a brass farthing either.’

  ‘Then why does he live with him?’

  ‘Oh, they made friends. One’s never seen without the other.... It’s a fact, indeed — where the horse puts its hoof, there the cra
b sticks its claw.’

  We got out of the bushes; suddenly two hounds ‘gave tongue’ close to us, and a big hare bounded through the oats, which were fairly high by now. The dogs, hounds and harriers, leaped out of the thicket after him, and after the dogs flew out Tchertop - hanov himself. He did not shout, nor urge the dogs on, nor halloo; he was breathless and gasping; broken, senseless sounds were jerked out of his gaping mouth now and then; he dashed on, his eyes starting out of his head, and furiously lashed at his luckless horse with the whip. The harriers were gaining on the hare... it squatted for a moment, doubled sharply back, and darted past Yermolaï into the bushes.... The harriers rushed in pursuit. ‘Lo - ok out! lo - ok out!’ the exhausted horseman articulated with effort, in a sort of stutter: ‘lo - ok out, friend!’ Yermolaï shot... the wounded hare rolled head over heels on the smooth dry grass, leaped into the air, and squealed piteously in the teeth of a worrying dog. The hounds crowded about her. Like an arrow, Tchertop - hanov flew off his horse, clutched his dagger, ran straddling among the dogs with furious imprecations, snatched the mangled hare from them, and, creasing up his whole face, he buried the dagger in its throat up to the very hilt... buried it, and began hallooing. Tihon Ivanitch made his appearance on the edge of the thicket ‘Ho - ho - ho - ho - ho - ho - ho - ho!’ vociferated Tchertop - hanov a second time. ‘Ho - ho - ho - ho,’ his companion repeated placidly.

  ‘But really, you know, one ought not to hunt in summer, ‘I observed to Tchertop - hanov, pointing to the trampled - down oats.

  ‘It’s my field,’ answered Tchertop - hanov, gasping.

  He pulled the hare into shape, hung it on to his saddle, and flung the paws among the dogs.

  ‘I owe you a charge, my friend, by the rules of hunting,’ he said, addressing Yermolaï. ‘And you, dear sir,’ he added in the same jerky, abrupt voice, ‘my thanks.’

  He mounted his horse.

  ‘Pe - ermit me to ask... I’ve forgotten your name and your father’s.’

  Again I told him my name.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. When you have an opportunity, hope you’ll come and see me.... But where is that Fomka, Tihon Ivanitch?’ he went on with heat; ‘the hare was run down without him.’

  ‘His horse fell down under him,’ replied Tihon Ivanitch with a smile.

  ‘Fell down! Orbassan fell down? Pugh! tut!... Where is he?’

  ‘Over there, behind the copse.’

  Tchertop - hanov struck his horse on the muzzle with his whip, and galloped off at a breakneck pace. Tihon Ivanitch bowed to me twice, once for himself and once for his companion, and again set off at a trot into the bushes.

  These two gentlemen aroused my curiosity keenly. What could unite two creatures so different in the bonds of an inseparable friendship? I began to make inquiries. This was what I learned.

  Panteley Eremyitch Tchertop - hanov had the reputation in the whole surrounding vicinity of a dangerous, crack - brained fellow, haughty and quarrelsome in the extreme. He had served a very short time in the army, and had retired from the service through ‘difficulties’ with his superiors, with that rank which is generally regarded as equivalent to no rank at all. He came of an old family, once rich; his forefathers lived sumptuously, after the manner of the steppes — that is, they welcomed all, invited or uninvited, fed them to exhaustion, gave out oats by the quarter to their guests’ coachmen for their teams, kept musicians, singers, jesters, and dogs; on festive days regaled their people with spirits and beer, drove to Moscow in the winter with their own horses, in heavy old coaches, and sometimes were for whole months without a farthing, living on home - grown produce. The estate came into Panteley Eremyitch’s father’s hands in a crippled condition; he, in his turn, ‘played ducks and drakes’ with it, and when he died, left his sole heir, Panteley, the small mortgaged village of Bezsonovo, with thirty - five souls of the male, and seventy - six of the female sex, and twenty - eight acres and a half of useless land on the waste of Kolobrodova, no record of serfs for which could be found among the deceased’s deeds. The deceased had, it must be confessed, ruined himself in a very strange way: ‘provident management’ had been his destruction. According to his notions, a nobleman ought not to depend on merchants, townsmen, and ‘brigands’ of that sort, as he called them; he set up all possible trades and crafts on his estate; ‘it’s both seemlier and cheaper,’ he used to say: ‘it’s provident management’! He never relinquished this fatal idea to the end of his days; indeed, it was his ruin. But, then, what entertainment it gave him! He never denied himself the satisfaction of a single whim. Among other freaks, he once began building, after his own fancy, so immense a family coach that, in spite of the united efforts of the peasants’ horses, drawn together from the whole village, as well as their owners, it came to grief and fell to pieces on the first hillside. Eremey Lukitch (the name of Panteley’s father was Eremey Lukitch), ordered a memorial to be put up on the hillside, but was not, however, at all abashed over the affair. He conceived the happy thought, too, of building a church — by himself, of course — without the assistance of an architect. He burnt a whole forest in making the bricks, laid an immense foundation, as though for a provincial hall, raised the walls, and began putting on the cupola; the cupola fell down. He tried again — the cupola again broke down; he tried the third time — - the cupola fell to pieces a third time. Good Eremey Lukitch grew thoughtful; there was something uncanny about it, he reflected... some accursed witchcraft must have a hand in it... and at once he gave orders to flog all the old women in the village. They flogged the old women; but they didn’t get the cupola on, for all that. He began reconstructing the peasants’ huts on a new plan, and all on a system of ‘provident management’; he set them three homesteads together in a triangle, and in the middle stuck up a post with a painted bird - cage and flag. Every day he invented some new freak; at one time he was making soup of burdocks, at another cutting his horses’ tails off to make caps for his servants; at another, proposing to substitute nettles for flax, to feed pigs on mushrooms.... He had once read in the Moscow Gazette an article by a Harkov landowner, Hryak - Hrupyorsky, on the importance of morality to the well - being of the peasant, and the next day he gave forth a decree to all his peasants to learn off the Harkov landowner’s article by heart at once. The peasants learnt the article; the master asked them whether they understood what was said in it? The bailiff replied — that to be sure they understood it! About the same time he ordered all his subjects, with a view to the maintenance of order and provident management, to be numbered, and each to have his number sewn on his collar. On meeting the master, each was to shout, ‘Number so - and - so is here!’ and the master would answer affably: ‘Go on, in God’s name!’

  In spite, however, of order and provident management, Eremey Lukitch got by degrees into a very difficult position; he began at first by mortgaging his villages, and then was brought to the sale of them; the last ancestral home, the village with the unfinished church, was sold at last for arrears to the Crown, luckily not in the lifetime of Eremey Lukitch — he could never have supported such a blow — but a fortnight after his death. He succeeded in dying at home in his own bed, surrounded by his own people, and under the care of his own doctor; but nothing was left to poor Panteley but Bezsonovo.

  Panteley heard of his father’s illness while he was still in the service, in the very heat of the ‘difficulties’ mentioned above. He was only just nineteen. From his earliest childhood he had not left his father’s house, and under the guidance of his mother, a very good - natured but perfectly stupid woman, Vassilissa Vassilyevna, he grew up spoilt and conceited. She undertook his education alone; Eremey Lukitch, buried in his economical fancies, had no thoughts to spare for it. It is true, he once punished his son with his own hand for mispronouncing a letter of the alphabet; but Eremey Lukitch had received a cruel and secret blow that day: his best dog had been crushed by a tree. Vassilissa Vassilyevna’s efforts in regard Panteley’s education did not, howev
er, get beyond one terrific exertion; in the sweat of her brow she engaged him a tutor, one Birkopf, a retired Alsatian soldier, and to the day of her death she trembled like a leaf before him. ‘Oh,’ she thought, ‘if he throws us up — I’m lost! Where could I turn? Where could I find another teacher? Why, with what pains, what pains I enticed this one away from our neighbours!’ And Birkopf, like a shrewd man, promptly took advantage of his unique position; he drank like a fish, and slept from morning till night. On the completion of his ‘course of science,’ Panteley entered the army. Vassilissa Vassilyevna was no more; she had died six months before that important event, of fright. She had had a dream of a white figure riding on a bear. Eremey Lukitch soon followed his better half.