A Sportsman's Notebook

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by Ivan Turgenev


  “Well, we enjoyed this sort of bliss for three years; in the fourth year Sofya died, of her first child, and—a strange thing—I had had a kind of premonition beforehand that she would not be able to present me with a daughter or a son, or the earth with a new inhabitant. I remember her funeral. It was in the spring. We have a little old parish church, with a blackened iconostasis, bare walls, and a dilapidated tiled floor; in the choir, on either side, there is a huge old icon. They carried in the coffin, put it down right in the middle, in front of the main doors of the iconostasis, covered it with a faded cloth, and set three candlesticks round it. The service started. A little doddering clerk, with a little pigtail behind, and a green belt below his waist, was mumbling lugubriously in front of the lectern; the priest, who was old too, with a good-natured, short-sighted face, in a purple vestment with a yellow pattern, was conducting the service and acting as deacon as well. Across the open windows the fresh young leaves of the weeping birch-trees murmured and stirred; from outside came the smell of grass; the red flame of the wax candles paled in the gay light of the spring day; the twittering of the sparrows filled the whole church, and now and then, from under the dome, came a cheerful exclamation from a swallow which had flown in. In the golden dust of the sunlight, the fair heads of a few peasants, zealously praying for the dead lady, rose and fell busily; in a fine, bluish wisp, smoke rose from the mouth of the censer. I looked on the dead face of my wife . . . God! Even death, death itself, had not freed her, had not healed her wound: the same ailing, frightened, dull expression—as if she was ill at ease even in her coffin. . . . I felt the ache of the blood stirring within me. She had been such a good creature, but she had done well for herself to die!”

  The narrator’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were dimmed.

  “Finally,” he began again, “when I had got over the deep depression which seized me after the death of my wife, I thought I would set my hand to the plough, as the saying goes. I took up official duties in the provincial capital, but in the big rooms of the government building my head would begin to ache and my eyes to do their job badly; there were other reasons as well . . . and I retired from my appointment. I wanted to visit Moscow, but, first of all, I hadn’t enough money, and secondly, I’ve already told you of my mood of resignation. It had come over me suddenly, and yet not so suddenly after all. In spirit I had resigned myself long ago, but my head still refused to be bowed. I attributed the placid state of my emotions and thoughts to the influence of country life, to my unhappiness. . . . On the other hand, I had long since observed that almost all my neighbors, young or old, who had at first been stunned by my erudition, my travels abroad, and the other advantages of my education, had not only managed to get completely accustomed to me, but had even begun to treat me in an offhand manner, didn’t wait for the end of my stories, and, when they talked to me, no longer used polite forms of speech. I have also forgotten to tell you that, during the first year after my marriage, out of boredom, I had tried to go in for literature, and had even sent in a contribution to a paper—a story, if I am not mistaken—but some little time later I received from the editor a polite letter saying, amongst other things, that though he could not deny me intelligence, he had to deny me talent, and that in literature only talent was required. On top of that, the news got around to me that a visitor from Moscow, incidentally a very good-natured young fellow, had made a passing reference to me at a party of the Governor’s as being someone who was finished and played out. But my half-deliberate blindness continued. You see, I didn’t want to give myself a smack in the face: but at last, one fine morning, my eyes were opened. This is how it happened. The police inspector had called on me with the object of drawing my attention to a broken-down bridge on my estate, which I was unable to repair for lack of funds. After chasing down a glass of vodka with a piece of smoked sturgeon, this affable guardian of the public peace reproached me in a fatherly way for my lack of circumspection, but put himself in my position and advised me just to tell my peasants to put on more manure, lit a pipe, and began talking about the elections which were shortly to take place. The high estate of Marshal of Nobility of the Province was at that time coveted by one Orbassanov, an empty wind-bag, and a taker of bribes into the bargain. Besides, he had neither wealth nor fame to distinguish him. I spoke my mind on this score with some degree of superiority: I must admit that I looked down on Mr. Orbassanov from somewhere far above. The inspector glanced at me, clapped my shoulder in a friendly way, and said good-naturedly: ‘Hey, Vasily Vasilyich, it’s not for the likes of you and me to judge such folk—who are we to do so? . . . The cricket must know his own hearth.’ ‘But, for goodness’ sake,’ I rejoined indignantly, ‘what is the difference between me and Mr. Orbassanov?’ The inspector took his pipe out of his mouth, opened his eyes wide—and fairly spluttered with laughter. ‘You are a one,’ he brought out at length, through tears. ‘That’s a good one . . . eh?’ and from then on until he took his departure he kept making fun of me, giving me an occasional dig in the ribs with his elbow and addressing me in the second person singular. Finally he left. It was the last drop needed; the cup brimmed over. I paced several times up and down the room, halted in front of the looking-glass, gazed and gazed at my embarrassed countenance, slowly put out my tongue, and shook my head in bitter mockery. The veil had fallen from my eyes; I could see clearly, more clearly than my own face in the looking-glass, what an empty, insignificant, useless, unoriginal fellow I was!”

  The narrator paused.

  “In one of Voltaire’s tragedies,” he went on sadly, “there is a gentleman who rejoices in having reached the extreme limit of misfortune. Although there is nothing tragic about my fate, I must confess that I have experienced something of the same sort. I have known the poisonous delights of cold despair; I have learned how sweet it is to spend a whole morning lying motionless in bed and cursing the day and hour of my birth;—I could not resign myself straight away. And I had some reason, you know: my straitened circumstances chained me to my detested country home; agriculture, state service, literature, nothing had suited me. I shunned my neighbors; books had become repugnant to me. Your insipidly plump, morbidly sensitive young ladies, who shake their curls and feverishly repeat the word ‘freedom,’ found me uninteresting, since I had stopped chattering and waxing enthusiastic. A life of complete seclusion was beyond my abilities and my powers. I began . . . what d’you suppose? I began dragging myself round to visit my neighbors. As if drunk with self-contempt, I deliberately submitted to every trivial humiliation. I was left out when the dishes came around, greeted coldly and haughtily, finally not even noticed; I was not even allowed to join in a general conversation, and I would purposely sit in a corner agreeing with some perfectly stupid chatterbox who in the old days, in Moscow, would have been enraptured to lick the dust off my feet or the hem of my coat. I didn’t even allow myself to believe that I was enjoying the bitter-sweets of irony. . . . What’s the good of irony in solitude! So that, sir, is how I continued for several years on end, and how I am still continuing to-day . . .”

  “But I’ve never heard of such a thing,” grumbled the sleepy voice of Mr. Kantagryukhin from the next room. “Who’s the fool there who’s taken it into his head to talk all night?”

  The narrator darted swiftly under his blanket and, looking timidly forth, shook his finger at me.

  “Sh . . . sh . . .” he whispered and, as if with an apologetic bow in the direction of Kantagryukhin’s voice, he said respectfully: “Yes, very good, very good, I’m sorry, sir . . . He’s got every right to sleep, he ought to sleep,” he went on again in a whisper; “he must get new strength, well, even if only to be able to eat to-morrow with the same satisfaction. We have no right to disturb him. Anyway, I think I have told you all I want; probably you too would like to sleep. I wish you good night.”

  The narrator turned away with feverish haste and buried his head in his pillows.

  “At least let me know,” I asked, “with whom
I have had the pleasure . . .”

  He lifted his head briskly.

  “No, for heaven’s sake,” he interrupted me, “don’t ask me or anyone else my name. Let me remain for you an unknown creature, the ill-starred Vasily Vasilyich. Besides, an unoriginal fellow like myself doesn’t even deserve a name of his own. . . . But if you positively wish to call me something, then call me . . . call me the Hamlet of Shchigrovo district. There are numbers of such Hamlets in every district, but it may be that you have not come across the others. Therewith, I wish you farewell.”

  He buried himself again in his quilt, and next morning when they came to call me he was no longer in the room. He had gone away before daybreak.

  Chertopkhanov and Nedopyuskin

  ONE HOT SUMMER’S DAY I WAS RETURNING IN THE CART FROM shooting; Ermolai sat dozing and nodding beside me. The dogs twitched as they lay at our feet in a dead sleep. Now and again the coachman flicked the gad-flies off the horses with his whip. A faint cloud of white dust floated after the cart. We drove into the brushwood. The road grew worse and our wheels began catching on roots. Ermolai started up, looked around . . . “Hey!” he said. “There ought to be blackcock here. Let’s get out.” We halted and went into the undergrowth. My dog put up a covey. I fired, and was beginning to reload my gun, when suddenly, from behind me, I heard a loud crackling and, parting the bushes with his hands, a man on horse-back came riding up to me. “But kindly inform me,” he began in a haughty voice, “by what right you are shooting here, my dear sir?” The stranger spoke extremely quickly, jerkily, and through his nose. I looked him in the face: never in all my life have I seen anything like him. Imagine, dear reader, a small, fair-haired man with a little red turned-up nose and interminable ginger side-whiskers. A pointed Persian cap with a top made of raspberry-colored cloth covered his forehead right down to the eyebrows. He wore a shabby yellow coat with black cartridge-pleats at the chest and faded silver braid at all the seams; from his shoulders hung a horn, out of his belt stuck a dagger. His scraggy, hook-nosed, sorrel horse fidgeted under him like one possessed; two thin crooked-legged borzoi dogs kept circling close beneath it. The stranger’s face, his look, his voice, all his movements, his whole being, breathed a crazy bravado and a limitless, unheard-of arrogance; his pale-blue, glassy eyes rolled and squinted like a drunkard’s; he threw his head back, puffed out his cheeks, whinnied, and twitched all over, as though from a surfeit of dignity—a regular turkey-cock of a man. He repeated his question.

  “I didn’t know it was forbidden to shoot here,” I answered.

  “My dear sir,” he went on, “you are on my land.”

  “Very well, I’ll go away.”

  “But kindly inform me,” he rejoined, “have I the honor to address a nobleman?”

  I told him my name.

  “In that case, please go on shooting. I am a nobleman myself, and very glad to oblige one of my peers . . . My name is Pan-telei Chertopkhanov!”

  He leaned forward, whooped, and gave the horse its head; the horse started, reared up, bucked to one side, and trod on the paw of one of the dogs. The dog gave a piercing yelp. Chertopkhanov boiled, hissed, punched the horse on the head between the ears, jumped down quicker than lightning, looked at the dog’s paw, spat on the wound, gave the dog a push in the side with his foot to stop it whining; took hold of the horse’s withers and put his foot in the stirrup. The horse threw up his head, lifted his tail, and bucked sideways into the bushes; Chertopkhanov went after him hopping on one leg, managed at last to scramble into the saddle, whirled his whip like a raving madman, blew his horn, and galloped off. I had not had time to recover my senses after Chertopkhanov’s unexpected apparition, when suddenly, almost noiselessly, there rolled out of the bushes, on a smallish, blackish horse, a fat little man of about forty. He stopped, took off his green leather cap, and asked me in a faint soft voice if I hadn’t seen a man on a sorrel horse. I answered that I had.

  “Which way would he have gone?” he continued, in the same voice, and without replacing his cap.

  “That way.”

  “Thank you very much indeed, sir.”

  He smacked his lips, swung his legs against his horse’s sides, and jogged away—trit-trot, trit-trot—in the direction indicated. I looked after him until his horned cap disappeared behind the branches. This new stranger in no way resembled his predecessor in appearance. His face, which was chubby and round as a ball, wore an expression of embarrassment, good nature, and timid resignation; his nose, which was also chubby and round and mottled with blue veins, indicated the good liver. There was not a single hair left on the front of his head, but at the back there were some sparse blond tufts sticking up; his little eyes, which were like slits made with a reed, twinkled amiability; there was a pleasant smile on his red, puffy lips. He wore a coat with a stand-up collar and copper buttons, very worn, but clean; his little cloth breeches were rucked up high; a pair of fat little calves showed above the yellow turnovers of his boots.

  “Who is that?” I asked Ermolai.

  “That? Tikhon Ivanich Nedopyuskin. He lives at Chertopkhanov’s.”

  “What, is he badly off?”

  “Not well off; and Chertopkhanov has not got a brass farthing either.”

  “Then why has he gone to live with him?”

  “Well, you see, they became friends, they’re always together . . . thick as the horse and his hoof, or the crab and his shell, as the saying goes.”

  We walked out of the brushwood; suddenly two beagles gave tongue near at hand, and a big white hare came darting through the oats, which were already standing fairly high. Close on his heels there burst from the trees a pack of beagles and borzois, and close on their heels Chertopkhanov himself came flying out. There were no shouts from him, no cries of “go on” or “seek”: he was puffing and choking; from his half-open mouth burst now and again an abrupt inarticulate sound; he flashed past, eyes bursting out of his head, flogging his unlucky horse furiously with his whip. The borzois were gaining ground, when the hare crouched down, doubled sharply back, and bolted past Ermolai into the bushes. The borzois streamed past. “Go on, go on!” the fainting huntsman whispered laboriously, as if tongue-tied. “Good boy, you take care of him!” Ermolai fired . . . The wounded hare spun round like a top on the smooth, dry grass, sprang up into the air, and screamed between the teeth of a hound that was worrying him furiously. The pack had swooped on him at once.

  Chertopkhanov threw himself from his horse like a whirlwind, snatched out his dagger, ran straddle-legged over to the pack, tore the mangled hare away from them with furious oaths, and, with his whole face distorted, plunged his dagger into its throat right up to the hilt . . . plunged it in, and began to roar with laughter. Tikhon Ivanich appeared at the edge of the wood. “Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” bawled Chertopkhanov for the second time. “Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,” repeated his companion calmly.

  “But it isn’t right to hunt in the middle of summer,” I observed, drawing Chertopkhanov’s attention to the trampled oats.

  “It’s my land,” answered Chertopkhanov, hardly breathing. He disembowelled the hare, quartered it, and distributed its paws among the dogs.

  “I must pay for your shot, my friend, according to the rules of the chase,” he said, addressing Ermolai. “And as for you, my dear sir,” he added in the same abrupt, sharp voice, “thank you.”

  He mounted his horse.

  “Kindly tell me . . . I have forgotten your name.”

  I told him again.

  “Very glad to make your acquaintance. If opportunity offers, I hope you’ll pay me a visit . . . But where’s that fellow Fomka?” he went on, with feeling. “They got the hare without him.”

  “His horse fell,” answered Tikhon with a smile.

  “Fell? Orbassan fell? Where . . . where is he?”

  “Over there, behind the wood.”

  Chertopkhanov struck his horse’s head with the whip and galloped off helter-skelter. Tikhon bowed to me twice—once for himse
lf, and once for his friend, and again went off at a jog-trot into the bushes.

  These two gentlemen stirred my curiosity strangely . . . What was it that could hold two such different creatures together in the bonds of inseparable friendship? I began to make inquiries, and this is what I learned.

  Throughout the district Pantelei Eremeich Chertopkhanov had the reputation of a dangerous, crazy, proud fellow, and a first-class picker of quarrels. He had served for a very short time in the army and had resigned as a result of “unpleasantnesses” with the rank that has given rise to the saying that a hen is no bird.* He came of an old family which had once been wealthy. His ancestors had lived sumptuously, after the manner of the steppes; that is to say, they received all and sundry, fed them to surfeit, allowed visiting coachmen a quarter of oats for each troika, kept musicians, singers, buffoons, and hounds, treated their people to wine and home-brewed beer on feast-days, drove away in the winter to Moscow in heavy travelling-coaches drawn by their own horses, and now and then sat for months on end without a farthing and lived on home-grown poultry. The family fortune was already dissipated when Pantelei’s father succeeded to it; he in his turn enjoyed life heartily, and, when he died, left to his sole heir, Pantelei, the mortgaged village of Bessonovo, with thirty-five serfs and seventy-six women, and thirty-nine acres and one rood of poor land in the wilderness of Kolobrodova, on which, incidentally, there were no serfs entered in the title-deeds of the deceased. The deceased, it must be agreed, had ruined himself in the most remarkable way: “Cost Accounting” had been his undoing. According to his principles, a gentleman ought not to depend on merchants, townsmen, and other such “pilferers,” as he termed them; he imported into his estate every possible trade and skill. “It looks better and costs less,” he said. “Cost Accounting!” This disastrous idea stuck with him to the end of his life; and this it was that ruined him. But he had a good run for his money! There was no whim that he denied himself. Among other inspirations, he rigged up one day, following his own calculations, such a huge family coach, that, notwithstanding the combined efforts of peasants’ horses, rounded up from the whole village, and of their owners, it came to grief and disintegrated on the first slope. Eremei Lukich (such was the name of Pantelei’s father) gave orders for a monument to be erected on the slope, but otherwise was not in the least put out. He also had the idea of building a church, on his own, of course, and without the help of an architect. He burnt up a whole forest in baking the bricks, he laid the foundations—and they were immense: fit for a cathedral in a provincial capital! He built the walls, and started putting on the dome: the dome collapsed. He started again, again the dome fell in; he did it a third time, a third time the dome crashed. Eremei Lukich took thought: there must be something a bit wrong . . . he pondered . . . there must be an evil spell on it . . . so suddenly he gave orders that all the old women in the village were to be whipped. And whipped they were—but all the same the dome never went up. He started rebuilding his peasants’ huts on a new plan, all based on Cost Accounting; he grouped every three back-yards together in a triangle, and in the middle he put up a pole, with a painted box full of starlings, and a flag. Every day he would have a new brain-wave: now it would be making soup out of dock-leaves, now it would be clipping horses’ tails to make caps for the house servants, now it would be plans to substitute nettles for flax or to feed pigs on mushrooms. His brain-waves were not only financial, either; he also worried his head about the welfare of his servants. One day he read in the Moscow News an article by a landowner from Kharkov, a certain Mr. Khryakà-Khrupyorski, about the importance of morality in the peasants’ life, and the very next day he gave orders that all his peasants were forthwith to learn the landowners’ article by heart—this is how it began: “Attained at last, thanks to the redoubled exertions of a humane administration, the exalted goal dear to every true scion of the fatherland,” and so on. The peasants learned the article; their master asked them if they understood what it said, and the agent answered that of course they understood! About the same time he ordered that numbers should be given to all his serfs, in the interests of orderliness and Cost Accounting, and that each one should have his number sewn on his collar. On meeting the master, each one of them would cry: “Here comes such and such a number!” And the master would answer affably: “Carry on, bless your heart.”

 

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