A Sportsman's Notebook

by Ivan Turgenev

  The Knocking

  “I’VE GOT SOMETHING TO TELL YOU,” SAID ERMOLAI, COMING into the cabin where I was. I had just had dinner and lain down on a camp-bed to rest myself after a fairly successful and exhausting day shooting blackcock. It was in the middle of July and the heat was terrible. “I’ve got something to tell you: all our shot’s finished.”

  I jumped up from the bed.

  “Our shot finished! How on earth? Why, we must have taken thirty pounds from home! A whole bagful.”

  “Certainly; and a big bag, too: it ought to have been enough for two weeks. But who knows? Perhaps there was a slit in it; anyhow there isn’t any shot . . . just about enough for ten charges.”

  “Whatever are we going to do? The best places are ahead of us. They promised us six coveys for to-morrow.”

  “Send me into Tula. It’s no distance—only forty-five versts. I’ll fly like the wind and bring back the shot—forty pounds of it, if you like.”

  “But when will you go?”

  “I’ll go at once. Why waste time? Only there’s one thing about it: we shall have to hire horses.”

  “Hire horses! What are our own for?”

  “We can’t use our own. The shaft-horse is lame, dead lame.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since just lately—when the coachman took him to be shod. Well, they shod him. The smith must have been no good. Now he can’t even walk on the hoof—the fore-hoof . . . So he carries it . . . like a dog.”

  “Well, at least he’s been unshod?”

  “No, he hasn’t, but he’ll have to be unshod at once. The nail must have gone right into the flesh.”

  I sent for the coachman. It appeared that Ermolai had spoken the truth: the shaft-horse was indeed lame in one hoof. I at once gave orders for him to be unshod and stood on wet clay.

  “Well? Shall I hire horses and go to Tula?” insisted Ermolai again.

  “But can you so much as find horses in this miserable hole?” I exclaimed, annoyed in spite of myself. . . .

  The village in which we found ourselves was solitary and out of the way; all its inhabitants seemed to be desperately poor; with difficulty we had found a single cabin that had no chimney, certainly, but was quite roomy.

  “Yes,” answered Ermolai, imperturbable as ever. “You’re right about this village, but even here there lived a peasant—very clever . . . and rich! He had nine horses. He’s dead now, and his eldest son manages it all. He’s the stupidest man that ever lived, but he hasn’t yet managed to run through his father’s fortune. We’ll get horses from him. If you wish it, I’ll fetch him. He’s got brothers—bright lads, so I’ve heard . . . but all the same he’s the head of the family.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because he is the eldest! That means, the younger ones have got to knuckle under.”—Here Ermolai expressed himself forcibly and unprintably about younger brothers in general.—“I’ll fetch him. He’s a simple chap. It won’t be difficult to come to terms with him.”

  While Ermolai went to fetch the “simple chap,” it occurred to me that it might be better for me to drive into Tula myself. In the first place, taught by experience, I knew I couldn’t rely on Ermolai. I had once sent him into a town to make some purchases; he had promised to carry out all my commissions during a single day—and vanished for a whole week, spent all the money on drink, and returned on foot—having set out in a racing drozhky. Secondly, I had an acquaintance in Tula who was a horse-dealer; I could buy a horse from him to replace my lame shaft-horse.

  That’s decided, I thought. I’ll drive in myself; I can sleep on the way, too—luckily my carriage is well-sprung.

  “I’ve brought him!” exclaimed Ermolai a quarter of an hour later, bursting into the cabin. Behind him entered a sturdy peasant, in a white shirt, blue trousers, and shoes, fair-haired, short-sighted, with a little pointed red beard, a long, swollen nose, and a wide-open mouth.

  He certainly looked a “simple chap.”

  “Here, sir,” said Ermolai, “he has got horses and it’s all settled.”

  “That is, that’s to say, I . . .” began the peasant in a husky, stammering voice, shaking his sparse hair and fingering the band of the cap which he held in his hands. “I, that’s to say . . .”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  The peasant looked down and seemed to reflect. “What is my name?”

  “Yes; what do they call you?”

  “They call me Filofei.”

  “Well, listen, Filofei, my friend; you have got horses, I hear. Bring three of them here; we’ll harness them to my carriage—it’s quite a light one—and then you drive me into Tula. There’s a moon to-night, it’s light, and it will be cool driving. What sort of road have you got here?”

  “Road? the road’s all right! It’s twenty versts at most—to the highway. There’s one place . . . a bit awkward, but all right.”

  “What’s the place that’s awkward?”

  “You have to cross a river by a ford.”

  “So you’re going into Tula yourself?” inquired Ermolai.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well!” said my faithful attendant, and shook his head. “We-ell!” he repeated, spat, and went out.

  The drive to Tula evidently held no more attraction for him; in his eyes it had become an empty and uninteresting business.

  “D’you know the way all right?” I said to Filofei.

  “Of course I know the way! Only, I mean, of course, you’re the master, but I can’t . . . all of a sudden, like this.”

  It turned out that Ermolai, in engaging Filofei, had declared that he need have no doubt of being paid, fool that he was . . . and that was that! Fool though he was, according to Ermolai, Filofei was not satisfied merely with this declaration. He asked me for fifty rubles in notes—an enormous price. I offered him ten rubles—a low price. We started bargaining. Filofei at first was obstinate, then began to yield ground, though stubbornly. Coming in for a moment, Ermolai began to assure me “that this fool” (“he must like the word!” observed Filofei under his breath;) “this fool has no idea of the value of money”—which incidentally reminded me how, twenty years before, a tavern which my mother had established at a busy spot at the crossing of two high roads had failed completely because the old servingman, who had been installed there as host, really didn’t know the value of money, but paid out by quantity; that is to say, he would change a silver twenty-five copeck piece for six brass pieces of five copecks each, swearing heartily the whole time.

  “Oh, you, Filofei, you’re a regular Filofei!” exclaimed Ermolai at length, and he went out and slammed the door with feeling.

  Filofei answered nothing, as if recognizing that to be called Filofei was indeed not altogether felicitous and that such a name could even be used as a term of reproach, although the whole guilt for it lay with the priest, who had not been suitably remunerated before the christening.

  Finally he and I agreed on twenty rubles. He went off for his horses and within an hour brought five of them for me to choose from. They turned out to be decent horses, although their manes and tails were tousled and their bellies were large and taut as drums. With Filofei came two of his brothers, who in no way resembled him. Small, black-eyed, sharp-nosed, they certainly made the impression of “bright lads”—talked fast and much, “bubbled,” as Ermolai expressed it, but obeyed their elder.

  They rolled the carriage out from the shelter, and busied themselves with it and with the horses for an hour and a half; one moment they would be slackening off the string traces, the next, they would be making them fast as hard as they knew how. The two brothers wanted badly to harness the roan horse, because “he knew how to go downhill,” but Filofei decided on the bay, so the bay it was that was harnessed to the shaft.

  They piled the carriage up with hay and pushed under the seat the collar belonging to my lame shaft-horse—in case we had occasion to fit it on to a newly-bought horse in Tula. Filofei, who had found
time to run home and return in a long white overall inherited from his father, a cone-shaped cake of a hat, and well-greased boots, solemnly mounted on to the box. I took my seat, and looked at the time: it was a quarter past ten. Ermolai didn’t even say good-bye to me, he was busy beating his dog Valetka. Filofei twitched the reins, called out in a very faint voice: “Hey, my tiny ones!” His brothers jumped back on both sides, gave the side-horses a flick under the stomach, the carriage moved off, turned through the gate into the road—the bay tried to dart home to his yard, but Filofei brought him to his senses with a few blows of the whip—and there we were driving out of the village and rolling on over a fairly good road between dense, unbroken hazel-thickets.

  It was a glorious, still night, perfect for driving. Now the wind would be rustling in the bushes, swaying the branches, now it would die right away; here and there in the sky you could see motionless, silvery clouds; the moon stood high and lit up the countryside distinctly. I stretched out on the hay and was already dozing off . . . when I remembered the “awkward place” and started up.

  “Hey! Filofei, how far is it to the ford?”

  “To the ford? Eight versts or so.”

  Eight versts, I thought. We shan’t be there in less than an hour. I can sleep until then.

  “You know the way well, Filofei?” I asked again.

  “Of course, I know the way. It isn’t the first time . . .”

  He said something more, but I didn’t hear the rest . . . I was asleep.

  I WAS AWAKENED, not by my own intention to wake after exactly an hour, as is often the case, but by a strange though faint squelching and gurgling right under my ear. I raised my head . . .

  What in the world was this? I was lying in my carriage as before, but around the carriage—and a foot away, no more, from its edge—was a watery expanse, moonlit, quivering, and breaking into tiny, precise ripples. I looked forward: on the box, head down, back bent, Filofei was sitting like a statue, and, farther forward still, above the bubbling water, was the curving line of the shaft-bow and the heads and backs of the horses. And everything so motionless, so soundless, as if in an enchanted kingdom, in a dream, a fairy dream . . . What in the world? I looked back over the hood of the carriage . . . Why, we were right in the middle of the river, thirty yards from the bank!

  “Filofei!” I exclaimed.

  “What?” he rejoined.

  “What d’you mean, ‘what’? For goodness’ sake, where are we?”

  “In the river.”

  “I can see we’re in the river. And likely to drown at any moment. Is this the way to ford it? Eh? You’re asleep, Filofei! Answer me!”

  “I made a little bit of a mistake,” said my guide. “You see, I took the wrong way, too much to one side, and now we’ve got to wait.”

  “What d’you mean, we’ve got to wait? Wait for what?”

  “Why, just to let the shaft-horse take a look around. The way he turns will be the way for us to go.”

  I raised myself slightly in the hay. The head of the shaft-horse emerged motionless from the water. But it was possible to see, in the bright moonlight, that one of his ears was just moving—first forward, then back.

  “But he’s asleep, too, your shaft-horse!”

  “No,” answered Filofei, “he’s now sniffing the water.”

  And again all was still, except, as before, for the faint gurgling of the water. I, too, sat still, as if petrified.

  The moonlight, the night, the river, and we in it . . .

  “What’s that hissing noise?” I asked Filofei.

  “That? Ducks in the rushes . . . or else snakes.”

  Suddenly the shaft-horse’s head began to turn from side to side, his ears pricked, he whinnied and fidgeted. “Ho-ho-ho-ho-o!” came a sudden full-throated roar from Filofei, and he sat up and waved his whip. The carriage at once began to move, it lurched forward, across-stream, and moved on, jolting and swaying. At first I thought that we were sinking, going to the bottom, but, after two or three jolts and dives, the level of the water seemed suddenly to drop . . . it dropped farther and farther, the carriage emerged from it, the wheels and the horses’ tails were already visible—and then, throwing up great, heavy splashes, which burst into sheaves of diamonds—no—not diamonds—sapphires, in the even brilliance of the moonlight, and pulling cheerfully together, the horses dragged us out on to the sandy bank and struck off along a track which led uphill, stepping out, as if to race each other, with their glittering wet hooves.

  What’ll Filofei say now, I wondered: “You see, I was right!” or something like that? But he said nothing. So I on my side didn’t think it necessary to reproach him for his carelessness and, lying down on the hay, tried to go to sleep again.

  But I could not go to sleep; not that I wasn’t tired from shooting—and not that the anxiety which I had felt had driven away my sleep—but we were passing through a landscape of great beauty. There were vast, spreading, grassy water-meadows, with countless smaller meadows, lakelets, brooks, creeks with banks overgrown with sallow and osier, real Russian country, such as the Russian people love, the sort of country into which the heroes of our ancient folk-lore rode out to shoot white swans and gray duck. The rough track wound in a yellowish ribbon, the horses went easily, and I couldn’t close my eyes—I was lost in admiration! And the whole scene floated past so softly and smoothly under the friendly moon. Even Filofei was affected.

  “We call these St. Egor’s meadows,” he told me. “And after them come the Grand Duke’s meadows; such meadows as you won’t find in the whole of Russia . . . They’re really beautiful!” The shaft-horse snorted and shook himself . . . “God bless you!” said Filofei sedately, under his breath. “Really beautiful!” he repeated, and sighed, and then gave a prolonged grunt. “It’ll soon be mowing-time, and the amount of hay they’ll get here—whew! And there are plenty of fish in the creeks. Wonderful bream!” he added in a sing-song voice. “You just don’t want to die, and that’s the truth.”

  Suddenly he raised his arm.

  “Oh—look, just look! Above that lake, is that a heron standing? Can he really be fishing, at night-time, too? Oh, no! it’s a stake—not a heron. I was wrong! The moon’s always playing tricks!”

  So we drove on and on . . . But at last even the meadows came to an end, and woods and ploughed fields appeared. Away to one side was a hamlet with two or three winking lights . . . we were not more than five versts from the high road. I went to sleep.

  Again something woke me. This time it was Filofei’s voice.

  “Master . . . hey, Master!”

  I sat up. The carriage was standing on a smooth patch right in the middle of the high road; looking at me from the box with wide-open eyes (in fact I was amazed, I had no idea that his eyes were so big) Filofei was whispering significantly and mysteriously.

  “The knocking! . . . The knocking!”

  “What d’you say? . . .”

  “I say: the knocking! Just bend down and listen. D’you hear it?”

  I put my head out of the carriage and held my breath. Indeed, from somewhere far, far away behind us, I heard a faint, staccato knocking, as if from rolling wheels.

  “D’you hear it?” repeated Filofei.

  “Well, yes,” I answered. “There’s some sort of carriage coming.”

  “But don’t you hear it . . . eh? There . . . bells, and whistling, too . . . d’you hear it? Take off your cap . . . you’ll be able to hear better.”

  I didn’t take off my cap, but strained my ears. “Well, perhaps . . . But what of it?”

  Filofei turned to face the horses.

  “It’s a cart coming . . . travelling light, wrought-iron wheels,” he said, and picked up the reins. “It’s bad men coming, master; just here, by Tula, they’re up to all sorts of tricks.”

  “What nonsense! Why d’you suppose that it must be bad men?”

  “I’m sure of it. With bells . . . and in an empty cart . . . Who else could it be?”

 
“By the way—are we far from Tula?”

  “About fifteen versts still, and there is not so much as a house hereabouts.”

  “Well, go faster then, there’s no point in hanging about like this.”

  Filofei waved his whip and the carriage moved on again.

  Although I didn’t believe Filofei, nevertheless I could no longer go to sleep. Supposing what he said were true! An unpleasant feeling stirred within me. I sat up in the carriage—until then I had been lying down—and began to look out. While I had been asleep, a fine mist had gathered—not on the ground, but in the sky. It stood high up, and inside it the moon hung in a yellowish patch, as if seen through smoke. The whole scene had grown dim and confused, although it was clearer near the ground. Around us lay a flat and cheerless landscape. Fields, more fields, small bushes, ravines—and still more fields, most of them fallow, under a sparse growth of weeds. Deserted . . . dead! Not so much as the cry of a quail.

  We drove on for about half an hour. Now and again Filofei waved his whip and clucked with his lips, but neither of us spoke a word. We came out on to a small hill . . . Filofei halted the horses, and said at once:

  “The knocking . . . The knocking, master!”

  I leant out of the carriage again; but I could have remained under the shelter of the hood, so clearly, though still far off, could I hear the knocking of iron wheels, the sound of people whistling, the jingling of bells and even the clopping of horses’ hooves; even, I thought, the sound of singing and laughter. True, the wind was blowing from that quarter, but there could be no doubt that the unknown travellers had gained on us by a whole verst—perhaps even by two.

  Filofei and I exchanged glances. He merely moved his hat from the back of his head on to his forehead, and at once bent over the reins and began whipping up the horses. They set off at a gallop, but could not keep it up for long and fell into a trot. Filofei kept whipping them up. We had to get away!