Ermolai belonged to one of my neighbors, a landowner of the old school—the school which does not fancy wild game and clings to its preference for domestic fowls. It is only on special occasions, such as birthdays, name days and election days, that cooks in the houses of landowners of this school set about the dressing of long-beaked game, and, working themselves into the frenzy peculiar to the Russian when he does not properly know what he is doing, invent such cunning sauces that the guests for the most part inspect the proffered delicacies with curiosity and attention, but cannot resolve to taste them. It was Ermolai’s duty to bring to his master’s kitchen once a month two brace of blackcock and two brace of partridge, but otherwise he was allowed to live where and how he pleased. His master had given him up in despair as a fellow who was good for no useful work. It goes without saying that Ermolai received no allowance of powder or shot, in virtue of exactly the same principles as those on which he himself refused to feed his dog. He was a queer fellow: carefree as a bird, talkative enough, absent-minded, and clumsy-looking; a deep drinker and a rolling stone; when he walked, he shuffled his feet and lurched from one side to the other—yet, with all his shuffling and lurching, he could cover fifty versts in twenty-four hours. He had all sorts of vicissitudes and misadventures; he would spend the night in the marshes, in a tree, on a roof, under a bridge; often he found himself sitting locked up in an attic, a cellar, or a barn, having lost his gun, his dog and the most essential parts of his wardrobe; he would be beaten hard and long—and all the same, after a while, he would return home fully clothed, complete with gun and dog. He was not what you would call of cheerful disposition, although he was almost always in pretty tolerable good spirits. In brief, he was a regular freak.
Ermolai liked a chat with a congenial soul, especially if it was over a glass, but even so it would never be for long; all of a sudden he’d be up and off. “Where are you going, you rascal—at this hour of the night?” “To Chaplino.” “And what takes you to Chaplino, ten versts away?” “I’d thought of sleeping at Sofron’s place there.” “Why not sleep here?” “No, no, I can’t.” And off goes Ermolai, with Valetka after him, into the pitch-dark night, through bushes, across ravines, only to find that his friend Sofron very likely won’t let him in and indeed will take him by the scruff of the neck and throw him out: “Don’t you go bothering honest folk.”
With it all, Ermolai had no rival in the art of catching fish in a flooded stream in spring, tickling for crayfish, smelling out game, enticing quail, training falcons, and catching nightingales with “the devil’s whistle” or “the cuckoo-passage”* . . . One thing he could not do was to train dogs; he lacked the patience.
He had a wife, too. He went and saw her once a week. She lived in a miserable half-ruined hut, managed to exist somehow, never knew the day before whether she would have enough to eat on the morrow; altogether hers was a wretched lot. Ermolai, carefree and good-natured as he was, treated her roughly and harshly. When at home he took on a grim and threatening appearance—and his poor wife did not know how to please him, trembled at his glance, spent her last copeck buying vodka for him, and covered him obsequiously with her coat when he subsided majestically on the shelf above the stove and fell into an epic slumber. More than once I would observe in him the unwitting display of a sort of sullen cruelty. I did not like the expression on his face when he took a bite out of a wounded bird. But Ermolai never stayed more than a day at home; once away, he again became “Ermolka,” as they called him for a hundred versts around, and as he sometimes called himself. The humblest menial felt his superiority to this vagabond—which, perhaps, was why he would treat him with friendliness: the peasants for their part began by joyfully chasing and catching him, like a hare in a field, but then they would let him go, and wish him luck; once they had got to know the queer fellow, they left him alone, even gave him bread, and enjoyed a talk with him.
This was the man that I took with me as a hunter and with whom I made my way to the “flight” in a great birch wood on the bank of the Ista.
Many Russian rivers, like the Volga, have hills on one bank and flat meadows on the other; the Ista follows the same pattern. It is a highly capricious little river, which winds like a snake, and never flows straight for more than half a verst; at some points, from the top of a steep hill, it can be seen for ten versts, with its dams, its pools, its water-mills, and orchards, bowered in willow thickets and tufted parkland. There are endless fish in the Ista, especially chub (in the heat of the summer the peasants catch them under the bushes in their hands). The little sandpipers whistle up and down the stony banks, which are enlivened here and there with springs of cold and sparkling water; wild duck swim out into the middle of the pools and look cautiously about them; herons perch in shady creeks, under the steep banks . . .
We waited for the “flight” for about an hour, shot two brace of woodcock and, wishing to try our luck again before sunrise (for one can wait for the morning flight too), decided to spend the night in the nearest mill. We came out of the wood and went down the slope. Darkly blue, the river was rolling on its way; the air was growing heavy and charged with the vapors of the night. We knocked at the gates of the mill. Dogs began to bark furiously in the courtyard. “Who’s there?” asked a hoarse and sleepy voice. “We’ve been out shooting: can we spend the night here?” There was no answer. “We’ll pay for it.” “I’ll go and tell the master . . . Shut up, you cursed brutes . . . death and destruction on you!” We heard the laborer go into the house, and soon he came back to the gates again. “No,” he said, “the master won’t let you in.” “Why not?” “He’s afraid, because you’ve been out shooting and there’s a risk of your setting fire to the mill, what with all your powder and shot.” “I never heard such nonsense!” “We had the mill catch fire like that last year: some cattle-dealers spent the night here and somehow or other they set the place on fire.” “Surely you wouldn’t have us spend the night out of doors?” “That’s your affair.” And he went off, stamping his shoes.
Ermolai wished him various evil fates. “Let’s go to the village,” he said at last, with a sigh. But the village was two versts away . . . “Let’s spend the night here,” I said. “It’s a warm night out of doors, and if we offer him money the miller will send us out some straw.”
Ermolai agreed without more ado. We started knocking afresh. “What do you want now?” said the laborer’s voice again. “I told you you can’t come in.” We explained to him what we wanted. He went to consult his master and the two of them came back together. The gate opened with a squeak and the miller appeared—a big, fat-faced, bull-necked, pot-bellied fellow. He agreed to my proposition. About a hundred yards from the mill there was a small open shed. Beds of straw and hay were spread for us there; the laborer set up a samovar on the grass beside the stream, squatted down on his haunches and started blowing heartily down the funnel. . . . The coals burst into flame and brightly lit up his youthful face. The miller went to wake his wife, and finally invited me to spend the night indoors; but I preferred to stay in the open air. The miller’s wife brought us milk, eggs, potatoes, bread. Soon the samovar was boiling and we were setting about our tea.
Mists were rising from the river and there was not a breath of wind; corn-crakes called near by; faint sounds came from the mill-wheels: drops falling from the blades, or water running through between the sluices of the dam. We laid a small fire, and while Ermolai baked potatoes in the ashes I dozed off to sleep. . . . A low, discreet murmuring woke me again. I lifted my head: in front of the fire, on an up-ended tub, the miller’s wife was sitting talking to my hunter. I had already placed her, by her dress, her movements and her accent, as a woman of the servant class, neither peasant nor townswoman; but it was only now that I was able to get a clear view of her features. She seemed to be about thirty; her thin, pale face still showed the traces of a remarkable beauty; I was especially taken with her large, sad eyes. Her elbows were resting on her knees and her face was propped on her
hands. Ermolai was sitting with his back to me, throwing twigs on the fire.
“There’s cattle disease again in Zheltukhina,” said the miller’s wife. “Old Ivan’s cows have both got it. . . . God’s mercy on us!”
“How are your pigs?” asked Ermolai after a silence.
“Still alive.”
“You might at least give me a sucking-pig.”
The miller’s wife said nothing, then heaved a sigh.
“Who’s this you are with?” she asked.
“The master from Kostomarov.”
Ermolai threw a few fit-branches on to the fire; they crackled away in unison, and the thick white smoke blew straight into his face.
“Why wouldn’t your husband let us come indoors?”
“He’s afraid.”
“The great fat lout. . . . Arina Timofeyevna, my love, bring me out a little glass of vodka.”
The miller’s wife got up and vanished into the darkness. Ermolai began to sing under his breath:
I wear my shoes out, heel and toe,
So oft to see my love I go . . .
Arina returned with a small carafe and a glass. Ermolai half-rose, crossed himself, and emptied the glass in one gulp. “That’s what I like,” he added.
The miller’s wife sat down again on the tub.
“Well, Arina Timofeyevna—still ailing?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the matter?”
“My cough troubles me at night.”
“I think the master’s dropped off to sleep,” said Ermolai after a short silence. “Don’t you go to the doctor, Arina: you’ll get worse.”
“I wouldn’t go anyway.”
“But come and stay with me.”
Arina looked down.
“I’ll send my wife away, if you come,” continued Ermolai. “Really I will.”
“You’d better wake up the master, Ermolai Petrovich: look, the potatoes are done.”
“Let him sleep his head off,” answered my faithful retainer indifferently; “he’s walked enough, and deserves it.”
I turned over in the hay. Ermolai got up and came across to me.
“The potatoes are ready, sir, if you like to start on them.”
I came out from the shed; the miller’s wife rose from the tub and made as if to go. I kept her in conversation.
“Have you had this mill for long?”
“A year ago last Trinity.”
“Where does your husband come from?”
Arina paid no heed to my question.
“Where’s your husband from?” repeated Ermolai, raising his voice.
“From Belev. He’s a townsman from Belev.”
“Are you from Belev, too?”
“No, I’m a serf . . . or was, rather.”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Zverkov’s. But I’m free now.”
“Which Zverkov?”
“Alexander Silyich.”
“Weren’t you his wife’s maid?”
“However do you know that? Yes, I was.”
I looked at Arina with redoubled curiosity and sympathy.
“I know your master,” I continued.
“You do?” she answered in a low voice, and looked down.
I must tell the reader why I looked with such sympathy at Arina. While I was in Petersburg, chance made me acquainted with Mr. Zverkov. He held a fairly important position and passed for a man of knowledge and ability. He had a wife who was podgy, sentimental, tearful and ill-natured—a humdrum, boring creature; there was a son, too, a real mother’s darling, spoilt and stupid. Mr. Zverkov’s appearance was not to his advantage: in a broad, almost square face, his little mousy eyes looked slyly out above a big, sharp, protruding nose with wide-open nostrils; his close-cropped gray hair bristled up from a wrinkled forehead; his thin lips were constantly moving and shaping themselves into a sickly smile. Mr. Zverkov usually stood with his legs apart and his fat hands in his pockets. Once it so happened that I found myself alone with him in a carriage on the way out of town. We fell into conversation. As a man of experience and ability, Mr. Zverkov started to tell me “what was what.”
“Allow me to observe to you,” he squeaked, after a time: “All you young people—your views and opinions are all absolutely in the air. You hardly know your own country; Russia, gentlemen, to you is an unknown country—and that’s the truth! . . . All you do is read German books. Now, take an instance: you tell me this and that on such and such a subject, well, say, about the servant class . . . all right, I don’t dispute it, that’s all very fine; but you don’t know them, you’ve no idea what sort of people they really are.” Mr. Zverkov blew his nose loudly and took a pinch of snuff. “As an instance, let me tell you a little story; it may interest you.” Mr. Zverkov cleared his throat. “You know what my wife is like: I think you will agree that it would be difficult to find a kinder woman than she. The life her maids lead is no ordinary servant’s existence—why, it’s heaven itself made visible on earth. . . . But my wife has one firm principle: never to keep a married maid—and quite rightly, too, for no good comes of it: she has children, and so on—well, how can you expect her then to look after her mistress as she ought, and pay proper attention to her habits: she can’t be bothered any longer, she has other things to think of. You’ve got to take human nature as you find it. Well, anyway, one day we were driving through our village, about—let me see, when was it exactly?—about fifteen years ago. We notice that the village headman has a daughter, a very pretty girl, and what I call respectful-mannered, into the bargain. My wife says to me: ‘Koko’—you see, that’s what she calls me—‘let’s take this girl with us to Petersburg . . . I like her, Koko. . . .’ I answer: ‘Let’s take her, with pleasure.’ The headman of course is at our feet, he had never dreamt of such good fortune. . . . Well, of course, the girl, like a fool, cries a little. Actually it must be rather grim to begin with: leaving home and all that. . . . There’s nothing surprising about it. However, she soon gets used to us; to begin with they put her in with the housemaids—to train her, of course. Then what do you think happens? . . . The girl makes astonishing progress; my wife takes a regular fancy to her, and over the heads of all the others gives her the privilege of being her own personal maid. . . . What d’you say to that! . . . And you’ve got to give the girl her due. My wife had never had such a maid, definitely not; obliging, modest, obedient—in short, everything you could want. On top of it all, I’ve got to admit that my wife spoiled her; gave her good clothes, fed her from our own table, let her have tea . . . and everything else you can imagine! So there she was, employed for ten years as my wife’s maid. Suddenly, one fine morning, if you please, in comes Arina—that was her name—without asking leave, into my study, and falls at my feet. . . . I tell you frankly, that’s one thing I can’t abide. Human beings should never forget their dignity, don’t you agree? ‘What do you want?’ ‘Alexander Silyich, sir, please, please . . .’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Please let me get married.’ I confess to you that I was amazed. ‘Why, you stupid girl, why, surely you know your mistress has no other maid?’ ‘I’ll serve the mistress the same as before.’ ‘Stuff and nonsense! The mistress never keeps a married maid.’ ‘Malanya can take my place.’ ‘I’ll thank you not to argue.’ ‘It’s as you wish, sir.’ . . . I must admit I was astounded. I should explain that nothing offends me so much, I’d go so far as to say that nothing offends me so gravely, as ingratitude; that’s the kind of man I am . . . Well, there’s nothing more I can tell you—you know what my wife is, an angel incarnate, her kindness is beyond description. I think that even the worst man on earth would have sympathized with her in this situation. I sent Arina about her business. I thought she’d be sure to come to her senses; you know, one doesn’t like to believe one’s fellow creatures capable of wickedness or black ingratitude. Well, what d’you think? After six months she has the impertinence to come to me again with the same request. This time, I confess, I sent her packing and no mistake. I threatened her; I s
wore I’d tell my wife. I was beside myself . . . But then, imagine my amazement: some time after, my wife came to me in tears, in such a state that I got quite a fright. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ ‘It’s Arina . . . you understand . . . I’m ashamed to say more.’ ‘It’s not possible! Whoever . . . ?’ ‘Petrushka, the footman.’ Then I blew up. I’m the sort of man that doesn’t like half measures . . . Petrushka was not to blame. One could always punish him, certainly—but all the same, he, in my opinion, was not to blame. Arina—h’m—well—h’m, what more is there to say? Of course I gave orders at once that her head should be shaved, that she should be put into sackcloth and sent home to the country. My wife lost an excellent maid, but there was nothing else to be done. Say what you like, you can’t have laxity in your own home. It’s better to amputate the diseased limb once and for all! Now, judge for yourself—you know my wife; well, this, this . . . anyway, this angel . . . she had grown fond of Arina, and Arina knew it and yet wasn’t ashamed. . . . Eh? No, honestly . . . eh? But why talk about it any more? Anyhow, there was nothing else to be done. For my own part, I felt particularly aggrieved and hurt, for a long time afterwards, by this girl’s ingratitude. Whatever you may say . . . don’t look for heart or feeling in these people. You can feed a wolf for all you’re worth, but he’ll still keep an eye on the forest. We live and learn! But I only wanted to prove to you . . .”
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