A Sportsman's Notebook

by Ivan Turgenev

  He admired him to stupefaction, until his faculties became confused; he thought of him as a man of extraordinary intelligence and learning. And indeed, poor as Chertopkhanov’s education was, nevertheless compared with Tikhon’s it could be termed brilliant. It is true that Chertopkhanov read little in Russian and understood badly in French, so badly that one day, when a Swiss tutor asked him: “Vous parlez français, monsieur?” he answered: “Je ne understand,” and after a moment’s thought added, “pas”; but all the same, he knew that there had once been a very clever writer called Voltaire and that Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, had had a distinguished military career. Among Russian writers he admired Derzhavin, loved Marlinsky, and called his best hound Ammalat Bey . . .

  A few days after my first encounter with the two friends, I went over to Bessonovo to call on Pantelei. His little house could be seen from afar; it stood in a bare patch half a verst away from the village, conspicuous as a hawk above a ploughed field. Chertopkhanov’s whole establishment consisted of four old wooden structures of various sizes, namely, the house, the stable, the barn, and the bath-house. Each of these structures sat by itself, apart from the others; there was no fence around, no gate to be seen. My coachman stopped in perplexity beside a crumbling, choked-up well. By the barn some thin, dishevelled borzoi puppies were worrying a dead horse, probably Orbassan; one of them lifted a blood-stained muzzle, gave a hasty bark, and again set about gnawing the exposed ribs. Beside the horse stood a lad of about seventeen, with a plump, sallow face, Cossack’s dress, and bare feet; he looked solemnly at the dogs entrusted to his care, and now and then gave the greediest of them a flick of his whip.

  “Is the master at home?” I asked.

  “The Lord knows!” answered the lad. “Knock on the door.”

  I jumped down from the drozhky and went up to the porch of the house.

  Mr. Chertopkhanov’s residence had a very sorry look: the woodwork was blackened and bellying out in front, the chimney had slipped, the corners had been propped up but even so were out of true, and little windows of a dim, dove-gray color looked out with an indescribably sour expression from beneath the shaggy roof that was jammed down above them: they looked like the eyes of some old prostitute. I knocked; no one answered. But, behind the door, I heard words sharply spoken: “A, B, V; well, go on, you fool,” said a husky voice. “A, B, V, G . . . no! G, D, E! E! E for Eat! Go on, you fool!”

  I knocked again.

  The same voice shouted: “Come in—who is it?”

  I went into a little, empty front hall, and through an open door I caught sight of Chertopkhanov himself. He was sitting in a chair, in a greasy Bokhara robe, wide trousers, and a red skull-cap; with one hand he was squeezing the muzzle of a young poodle, and with the other he was holding a piece of bread right in front of his nose.

  “Ah!” he said with dignity, not stirring from his place. “Very glad to see you. Kindly be seated. I am having trouble with Venzor here . . . Tikhon,” he added, raising his voice, “come here, will you. We have a visitor.”

  “Coming, coming,” answered Tikhon from the next room. “Masha, give me my cravat.”

  Chertopkhanov addressed himself again to Venzor and put the piece of bread on his nose. I looked around. The room had no furniture except a warped folding-table on thirteen uneven legs, and four sagging straw-chairs; the walls, which ages ago had been painted white with blue star-shaped spots, were peeling in many places; between the windows hung a dim, battered little looking-glass in a massive frame of imitation mahogany. Guns and chibouks stood in the corners; spiders’ webs hung, dense and black, from the ceiling.

  “A, B, V, G, D,” said Chertopkhanov slowly, then all of a sudden he exclaimed furiously: “E! E! E! for Eat! . . . what a stupid creature . . . E for Eat!”

  But the unlucky poodle only shivered and could not make up his mind to open his mouth; he went on sitting, with his tail pressed miserably down, his mouth screwed up, humbly blinking and narrowing his eyes, as if to say: “Of course, you’re the master.”

  “Well, eat it, go on! Take it!” repeated the indefatigable landowner.

  “You’ve frightened him,” I observed.

  “Well, get away with you, then!” He gave him a push with his foot. The poor wretch got up, quietly dropped the bread off his nose and went, as it were on tiptoe, into the front hall, deeply offended. And with reason: a stranger had come to the house for the first time, and this was how they treated him.

  The door leading from the next room squeaked discreetly and Mr. Nedopyuskin came in, bowing amiably and smiling.

  I got up and bowed.

  “Don’t move, don’t move,” he murmured.

  We sat down. Chertopkhanov went out into the next room.

  “Have you been long in our part of the world?” began Nedopyuskin in a soft voice, after coughing carefully into his hand and holding his fingers in front of his lips for good manners’ sake.

  “Nearly two months.”

  “Quite so.”

  Silence descended.

  “Delightful weather now,” continued Nedopyuskin, and he looked gratefully at me, as though the weather depended on me. “We ought to have a fine crop.”

  I nodded my head in sign of agreement. There was a silence.

  “Yesterday Pantelei Eremeich caught two hares,” began Nedopyuskin, not without effort, with an obvious wish to enliven the conversation. “Yes, sir, very big hares, sir.”

  “Has Mr. Chertopkhanov got good hounds?”

  “They’re remarkable, sir!” rejoined Nedopyuskin with gusto. “I dare say they are the best in the province.” He drew closer to me. “Why, Pantelei Eremeich is a wonderful fellow! Anything he wants, any idea he has—you look, and it’s all prepared, the whole thing fairly on the boil. I tell you, Pantelei Eremeich . . .”

  Chertopkhanov came into the room. Nedopyuskin chuckled, fell silent, and indicated him to me with his eyes, as much as to say: Just see for yourself. We started to talk about hunting.

  “Would you like me to show you my leash of hounds?” Chertopkhanov asked me and, without waiting for an answer, he called: “Karp!” A sturdy lad came in, wearing a green nankeen coat with a blue collar and livery buttons.

  “Tell Fomka,” said Chertopkhanov abruptly, “to bring around Ammalat and Saiga, and tidily, too, understand?”

  Karp smiled with his whole mouth, uttered an indeterminate sound, and went out. Fomka appeared, neat-headed, tightly buttoned, wearing shoes, and accompanied by his hounds. For politeness’ sake I admired these stupid animals (all borzois are extraordinarily stupid). Chertopkhanov spat right into Ammalat’s nostrils, which appeared to give the hound not the slightest satisfaction. Nedopyuskin stroked Ammalat on the hind-quarters. We resumed our conversation. By degrees Chertopkhanov softened up completely, and stopped crowing and snorting; the expression on his face changed. He looked at me and Nedopyuskin . . .

  “Hey!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Why should she sit there all by herself? Masha! I say, Masha! Come here.” Someone moved in the next room, but there was no answer.

  “Ma-a-sha,” repeated Chertopkhanov pleadingly. “Come here. Never mind, you needn’t be afraid.”

  The door opened quietly and I saw a woman of about twenty, tall and well-built, with a dark, gypsy face and yellowish-brown eyes and pitch-black locks; her big white teeth fairly glittered between full, red lips. She wore a white dress; a blue shawl, fastened at the throat with a gold pin, half hid her slender thoroughbred arms. She took two steps forward, with the embarrassed clumsiness of a wild thing, then halted and looked down.

  “Well, let me introduce you,” said Pantelei. “Wife or no wife, let her pass for one.”

  Masha blushed slightly and smiled from embarrassment. I gave her a specially deep bow. I liked her very much. Her fine aquiline nose, with its arched, transparent-looking nostrils, the bold, high sweep of her eyebrows, her pale, slightly sunken cheeks—all her features spoke of self-willed passion and reckless daring. Fr
om her braided hair down to her sturdy neck ran two lines of tiny gleaming hairs—the sign of blood and vigor.

  She went to the window and sat down. I had no wish to add to her confusion, and began talking to Chertopkhanov. Masha turned her head slightly and began to study me with a sidelong, furtive, wild, swift gaze. Her glance flashed like a viper’s fang. Nedopyuskin sat down beside her and whispered something in her ear. She smiled again. When she smiled, she slightly wrinkled her nose and raised her upper lip, which gave her face an expression which was half-cat, half-lioness.

  Oh, you’re an elusive one, I thought, shooting a furtive glance in my turn at her willowy waist, her deep breast, and angular, nimble movements.

  “Well, Masha,” asked Chertopkhanov, “we ought to offer something to our guest, eh?”

  “We have got some jam,” she answered.

  “Well, bring it here, and some vodka, too, and listen, Masha,” he called after her, “bring your guitar as well.”

  “Why the guitar? I’m not going to sing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Oh, nonsense, you’ll want to, if . . .”

  “If what?” asked Masha with a swift wrinkling of the brows.

  “If you’re asked to,” Chertopkhanov concluded with a certain embarrassment.

  “Oh!”

  She went out, soon returned with the jam and vodka, and sat down again in the window. A little furrow had already appeared on her forehead. . . . Her brows kept darting up and down like a wasp’s whiskers. . . . Have you ever noticed, reader, what a wicked face a wasp has? Well, I thought, there’s going to be a storm. The conversation was not going well. Nedopyuskin had dried up completely and wore a constrained smile; Chertopkhanov puffed and flushed and his eyes were starting out: I began making as if to leave. . . . Suddenly Masha rose, and in a flash opened the window, leaned her head out, and gave a hearty shout of “Axinya!” after a passing peasant-woman. The woman started, began to turn round, slipped, and fell down heavily on the ground. Masha threw herself back with a ringing laugh; Chertopkhanov chuckled, too, and Nedopyuskin squeaked with delight. We all came to life. The storm had broken with nothing but lightning . . . the air had cleared.

  Half an hour later no one would have recognized us: we were talking and laughing away like children. Masha was in higher spirits than anyone. Chertopkhanov fairly devoured her with his eyes. Her face had gone paler, her nostrils had expanded, her glance blazed up and dimmed again all at the same time. The wild creature was well away. Nedopyuskin stumbled after her on his fat little legs, like a drake following a duck. Even Venzor crept out from under the bench in the hall, stood in the doorway, looked at us, and suddenly started jumping up and barking. Masha fluttered out into the next room, brought her guitar, threw the shawl off her shoulders, sat quickly down, lifted her head, and struck up a gypsy song. Her voice rang and thrilled like a cracked glass bell, blazed out, faded away . . . It gave one a pleasant creepy feeling inside. “Ay, burn and speak! . . .” Chertopkhanov embarked on a dance. Nedopyuskin stamped and jumped and took little mincing steps. Masha was all a-quiver, like birch-bark on a fire: her slender fingers ran gaily over the guitar, her brown throat rose slowly under her double necklace of amber. One moment she would suddenly be silent, sink into a doze, pluck the strings with seeming reluctance, and Chertopkhanov would halt with only his shoulder twitching and shuffle from one foot to the other where he stood, and Nedopyuskin would shake his head like a porcelain Chinaman; then she would be off again in a frenzy, straighten her back, throw out her breast, and Chertopkhanov would be squatting on the ground again, jumping up to the ceiling, spinning like a top, and shouting “Bravo! . . .”

  “Bravo, bravo, bravo!” Nedopyuskin gabbled after him.

  It was late in the evening when I left Bessonovo. . . . As for Masha’s own story, I shall tell it to my forbearing readers some other time.

  The End of Chertopkhanov

  I

  Two years after my visit, Pantelei’s disasters began—“disasters” is the only word. Disappointments, failures, misfortunes had pursued him even before then; but he paid them no attention and “reigned” as before. The first disaster which struck him was the most painful one of all: Masha left him.

  What induced her to forsake his roof, to which she had seemed so well-accustomed, it would be hard to say. Until his dying day, Chertopkhanov remained convinced that the blame for Masha’s treachery lay with a certain young neighbor, a retired captain of Lancers by the name of Yaff, who, in Pantelei’s words, got his way just by perpetually twisting his whiskers, thickly oiling his hair, and sniffing significantly; but it may be supposed that it was rather the effect of the wandering gypsy blood which flowed in Masha’s veins. Anyway, however that may be, one fine summer evening Masha tied a few rags together into a small bundle and walked out of Chertopkhanov’s house.

  For three days previous to this she had been sitting in a corner writhing and pressing up against the wall like a wounded vixen. If only she had said a word to somebody—but no, she just rolled her eyes the whole time, looked thoughtful, twitched her eyebrows, bared her teeth slightly, and fidgeted with her hands, as if to wrap herself up. The same sort of mood had come over her before, but had never lasted long; Chertopkhanov knew this, and consequently was not disturbed himself and didn’t disturb her either.

  But when returning from the kennels, where, in the words of his whipper-in, the last two hounds had “gone stiff,” he met a maid who announced to him in a trembling voice that Marya Akinfyevna sent her compliments and said that she wished him all the best, but would never return to his house again, Chertopkhanov, after turning round twice where he stood and giving vent to a husky roar, at once dashed after the fugitive—snatching up his pistol on the way.

  He found her about two versts from his house, beside a birchwood, on the high road leading to the nearest town. The sun stood low over the horizon and everything round suddenly turned scarlet: trees, grass, and earth.

  “To Yaff, to Yaff!” groaned Chertopkhanov as soon as he caught sight of Masha. “To Yaff,” he repeated, running up to her and almost tripping with every step.

  Masha halted and turned to face him. She stood with her back to the light—and looked quite black, as if carved in ebony. Only the whites of her eyes showed up as little silver almonds, but her eyes themselves—the pupils—were darker than ever.

  She threw her bundle aside and folded her arms.

  “You’re on the way to Yaff’s, you hussy!” repeated Chertopkhanov, and tried to seize her by the shoulder, but met her gaze, faltered, and fidgeted where he stood.

  “I’m not going to Mr. Yaff’s, Pantelei Eremeich,” answered Masha calmly and evenly. “I just can’t live with you any more.”

  “Why can’t you? What for? Have I done anything to offend you?”

  Masha shook her head. “You’ve done nothing to offend me, Pantelei Eremeich. I have just got bored living with you. . . . Thanks for times past, but I can’t stay on—no!”

  Chertopkhanov was dumbfounded; he even slapped his thighs and jumped up into the air.

  “How can that be? You’ve lived, and lived, and known nothing but pleasure and peace—and suddenly: you’re bored! So you tell yourself, I’ll chuck him! You go and throw a handkerchief over your head and set off. You’ve been treated with every respect, the same as a lady.”

  “Not that I wanted it at all,” interrupted Masha.

  “You didn’t want it? Turned from a wandering gypsy into a lady—you didn’t want it? What d’you mean, you child of Ham? D’you expect me to believe that? There’s treachery behind this, treachery.”

  He had begun to hiss with rage again.

  “There’s no thought of treachery in my mind and never has been,” said Masha in her clear, sing-song voice. “I’ve already told you: I got bored.”

  “Masha,” exclaimed Chertopkhanov, and punched himself in the chest. “Stop, that’s enough, you’ve made me suffer quite e
nough. Good heavens! Just think what Tisha will say; you might have thought about him!”

  “Please give my respects to Tikhon Ivanich and tell him . . .”

  Chertopkhanov waved his arms.

  “Oh, no, you’re wrong—you won’t get away! Your Yaff can go on waiting for you.”

  “Mr. Yaff——” began Masha.

  “Mr. Yaff, indeed,” imitated Chertopkhanov. “He’s a twister and a rogue, if ever there was one—and a face like a monkey, too!”

  For a whole half-hour Chertopkhanov argued with Masha. Now he would go close up to her, now he would dart away, now he would lift his arm at her, now he would bow to her from the waist and weep and curse.

  “I can’t,” asserted Masha. “I’m so sad there . . . so bored and miserable.”

  Her face had gradually assumed such an indifferent, almost sleepy expression that Chertopkhanov asked her if she had not taken a nip of thorn-apple spirit.

  “Bored,” she said for the tenth time.

  “And supposing I were to kill you?” he cried all of a sudden, and pulled the pistol out of his pocket.

  Masha smiled; her face became animated. “Why, kill away, Pantelei Eremeich: I’m at your mercy; but one thing I won’t do, and that’s come back.”

  “You won’t come back!” Chertopkhanov pulled back the cock.

  “No, my dear . . . Never in my life, and I mean it.”

  Chertopkhanov suddenly thrust the pistol into her hand and sat down on the grass.

  “Well, then, you kill me! I don’t want to live without you. If you’re tired of me—then I’m tired of everything else.”

  Masha bent down, picked up her bundle, put the pistol down in the grass with the muzzle away from Chertopkhanov, and went up to him.

  “Why, my dear, what’s all the fuss about? Don’t you know us gypsy girls? It’s our way, it’s how we are. Once the longing to be off comes over us, and calls our hearts away to somewhere else far off, how can we stay where we are? Remember your Masha—you won’t find another friend like her—and I, too, I won’t forget you, my falcon; but our life together is over!”