A Sportsman's Notebook

by Ivan Turgenev

  I could not explain to myself why, when I’d not shared Filofei’s suspicions to start with, I had now suddenly become convinced that they were indeed bad men who were on our tracks. I had heard nothing new: the same bells, the same knocking of a cart travelling light, the same whistling, the same vague hubbub. But I no longer had any doubt. Filofei could not be mistaken!

  So another twenty minutes went by. During the last of these twenty minutes, above the rattling and rumbling of our own carriage, we could already hear another rattling and rumbling . . .

  “Stop, Filofei,” I said. “It doesn’t matter—it’ll all be the same in the end!”

  Filofei clucked apprehensively. The horses stopped, as if delighted at the chance of a rest.

  Good heavens! The bells were simply thundering right behind us, the cart was rumbling and jolting, men were whistling and singing, horses were snorting and beating the ground with their hooves . . .

  They had caught us!

  “Oh dear,” said Filofei deliberately under his breath, and he clucked irresolutely and began to urge the horses on. But, simultaneously, something suddenly tore up out of the darkness, there was a roaring and a rushing—and an enormous ramshackle cart, harnessed to three lean horses, whirled past us obliquely, galloped ahead, and at once fell into a walk, blocking the way.

  “A regular cut-throat’s trick,” whispered Filofei.

  I confess that my heart contracted . . . I stared ahead intently—into the dim mist-veiled moonlight. Sitting or lying in the cart in front of us were half a dozen men in blouses and unbuttoned coats; two of them were capless; their long-booted legs swung and dangled over the edge, their arms rose and fell aimlessly . . . their bodies jolted . . . it was as clear as daylight: they were all drunk. Some were roaring out anything that came into their heads; one was whistling very piercingly and accurately; another was swearing; a giant in a sheepskin jacket was sitting driving on the box. They drove at a walk, as if taking no notice of us.

  What could we do? We drove after them, also at a walk . . . willy-nilly.

  We went on in this way for about a quarter of a verst. Agonizing apprehension! Salvation, self-defence . . . what a hope! There were six of them and I had not so much as a stick! Turn around the other way? They would catch us at once. I remembered Zhukovsky’s line from the passage where he tells of the murder of Field-Marshal Kamensky:

  The assassin’s axe abhorred . . .

  Or, if not that—strangling with a muddy cord . . . and into the ditch . . . croak there, and struggle like a hare in a trap. . . .

  Oh, it was a black look-out indeed!

  The others kept on at a walk and took no notice of us.

  “Filofei,” I whispered, “just try pulling out to the right, as if to go past them.”

  Filofei tried and pulled out to the right . . . but they at once pulled out to the right, too . . . it was impossible to get past.

  Filofei tried again: he pulled out to the left . . . but they wouldn’t let him pass the cart on that side either. What was more, they began to laugh . . . It was clear that they were not going to let us pass.

  “Regular cut-throats,” Filofei whispered to me over his shoulder.

  “But what are they waiting for?” I asked, also in a whisper.

  “Ahead of us—in a hollow—over a stream, there’s a bridge . . . That’s where they’ll get us! That’s always their way . . . at bridges. Our business is settled, master,” he added with a sigh. “They aren’t likely to let us go alive; so the great thing for them is that no one shall be any the wiser. There’s one thing I’m sorry about, master: my three little horses will go—and my brothers won’t get them.”

  I might have been surprised that at such a moment Filofei should still be able to worry about his horses, but I confess I had no time for such thoughts myself . . . Will they really kill us? I repeated to myself. What for? Why, I’ll give them everything I’ve got.

  But meanwhile the bridge drew nearer and nearer and we could see it more and more clearly.

  Suddenly there came a shrill whoop and the horses ahead of us seemed to whirl into the air, dashed away, and, galloping up to the bridge, halted all of a sudden, as if nailed to the spot, a little to one side of the road. My heart fairly sank within me.

  “Oh, Filofei, my friend,” I said, “we’re going to our death. Forgive me for having brought this on you.”

  “But it isn’t your fault, master! There’s no escaping your own fate! Well, shaft-horse, my faithful one,” said Filofei, “go on, boy! Do me your last service! It’s all the same thing in the end . . . God bless us all!”

  And he put his horses into a trot.

  We began to approach the bridge and the cart, which stood there motionless and threatening . . . In it, all was still, as if from set purpose. Not a sound! It was the silence of the pike, of the hawk, of every creature of prey, when its victim approaches. So we drew level with the cart. Suddenly the giant in the sheep-skin jacket jumped down from it and came straight at us.

  He said nothing to Filofei, but Filofei of his own accord at once pulled on the reins and the carriage halted. The giant put both his hands on the doors and, bowing his shaggy head forward and grinning, pronounced, in a quiet even voice, with a mechanic’s accent, the following words:

  “Honored sir, we are coming from a party, everything fair and above board, a wedding; we’ve married off our boy; we’ve put him to bed, good and proper; our lads are all young and hot-headed—they’ve had plenty to drink and they’ve nothing to sober down with; so would you be good enough to give us just a very little money, so that we could get a pint to toast our brother? We’d drink your health, we’d call upon your honor’s name; won’t you be so good? . . . and please don’t be angry with me!”

  What could this be? . . . I thought . . . A game? . . . A practical joke?

  The giant stood there with his head bowed. That moment the moon came out of the mist and lit up his face. It was grinning, this face—grinning with its eyes and with its lips. There was no threat to be seen in it, but it was full of a certain alertness . . . and such white teeth, and such big ones, too . . .

  “With pleasure . . . take this,” I said hurriedly, and getting my purse out of my pocket I pulled out two silver rubles from it—it was the time when silver coins were still current in Russia. “Here, if this is enough.”

  “Most grateful!” barked the giant, military-fashion, and his thick fingers snatched from me in a flash, not my whole purse, but just the two rubles. “Most grateful!” He shook his locks and ran back to the cart.

  “Lads!” he cried. “The gentleman-traveller has given us two rubles!” They all burst out laughing together. . . . The giant tumbled up on to the box. . . .

  “Good-bye and good luck!”

  And that was all we saw of them! The horses darted off, the cart rumbled up the hill, it showed for a flash against the dark line dividing earth from heaven, sank beyond, and disappeared.

  And soon we couldn’t even hear the knocking, the shouting, the bells . . .

  Dead silence fell.

  IT WAS SOME WHILE before Filofei and I recovered ourselves.

  “You joker, you!” he said at length—took off his hat, and began crossing himself. “A proper joker,” he added, and turned to me with a happy face. “He must be a good man—he must. Go on, my little ones! Get a move on! Your skins are saved! All our skins are saved! D’you remember how he wouldn’t let us pass? He was the one that was driving. A regular joker, that lad! Go on! and God bless you!”

  I said nothing, but I felt good inside. Our skins are saved, I repeated to myself, and lay down on the hay. We had got off cheap!

  I was even slightly ashamed of having remembered that line of Zhukovsky’s.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to me:

  “Filofei!”

  “What?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “With children?”

  “Yes.”

  “W
hy didn’t you think about them? You were sorry about the horses—but what about your wife and your children?”

  “But why be sorry about them? They would not have fallen into the hands of thieves. But I had them in mind the whole time . . . and so I have now . . . and that’s the truth.” Filofei paused. “Perhaps . . . it was on their account that the Lord God spared you and me.”

  “But supposing they weren’t cut-throats?”

  “How can you tell? Can you get inside someone else’s soul? Other people’s souls—it’s a well-known thing—are just so much darkness. But it’s always better, with God’s help . . . No . . . as for my family, I always . . . Go on, my little ones, God bless you!”

  It was almost light when we started to enter Tula. I was lying, half asleep and oblivious. . . .

  “Master,” Filofei said to me suddenly, “just look; there, standing in front of the pot-house, that’s their cart.”

  I raised my head . . . so it was; their cart and their horses. On the threshold of the drinking establishment there suddenly appeared my friend the giant in the sheepskin jacket.

  “Master,” he exclaimed, waving his cap, “we’re having a drink at your expense! Well, coachman,” he added, with a wave of the head at Filofei, “you were scared, weren’t you?”

  “A very funny fellow,” observed Filofei, when we had driven fifty yards past the pot-house.

  And so at last we were in Tula; I bought some shot and incidentally some tea and vodka—and I also got a horse from a dealer. At noon we set off on the return journey. As we passed the spot where we had for the first time heard the cart knocking along behind us, Filofei, who had had a drop in Tula, and turned out a very talkative fellow—he had even been telling me stories—suddenly burst out laughing.

  “D’you remember, master, how I kept on saying to you: ‘The knocking . . . the knocking,’ I said, ‘the knocking!’”

  He moved his arm several times in a back-handed gesture. By now this expression struck him as very amusing.

  The same evening we returned to his home village.

  I informed Ermolai of the incident that had befallen us. Being sober, he expressed no sympathy—simply sniffed, approvingly or censoriously—I dare say he didn’t himself know which. But two days later he informed me with pleasure that, the very same night on which Filofei and I had driven into Tula, and on the very same road, a merchant had been robbed and murdered. At first I refused to believe this story: but afterwards I had to believe it; its truth was confirmed to me by a police-inspector who arrived post-haste to investigate. Was this not the “wedding” from which our hot-heads were returning, and was this not the “lad” whom they, to quote the giant-joker, had put to bed? I stayed five days more in Filofei’s village. Whenever I met him I would say to him: “The knocking? Eh?”

  “A funny fellow,” he would answer every time, and burst out laughing.

  Forest and Steppe

  THE READER IS PERHAPS ALREADY WEARY OF MY NOTES. I HASTEN to reassure him with the promise that I will limit myself to the fragments already printed; but, in taking my leave of him, I cannot refrain from saying a word about the pleasures of shooting.

  Shooting with gun and dog is a joy in its own right, “für sich,” as our fathers used to say . . . but let’s suppose that you are not a born hunter; all the same, you’re a lover of nature and freedom; and you cannot therefore help envying the rest of us. Listen to me . . .

  Do you know, for example, the delight of starting out in spring, before dawn? You walk out on to the porch . . . Away in the dark-blue sky the stars are twinkling; from time to time a moist breeze blows gently past: you can hear the discreet, confused murmuring of the night; a faint rustle comes from trees deep in the shadow. Your men are already spreading out the rug in the cart; under your seat they put the case which holds the samovar. The horses shiver, snort, and take small prancing steps; a couple of white geese that have just woken up pass silently and slowly across the road. Behind the fence, in the garden, the nightwatchman is snoring peacefully; every sound seems to stand in the cool stillness of the air—to stand, and go no farther. You take your place; the horses set off together, and the cart rattles behind noisily . . . Away you go—past the church, down the hill to the right, across the dam . . . The mist is just beginning to rise from the pond, you feel the chill, you hide your face in the collar of your coat; you begin to nod. The horses splash their way noisily through the puddles; the coachman whistles softly. By now you have covered about four versts . . . Near the horizon the sky is growing scarlet; in the birches, jackdaws are waking up and flapping about awkwardly; sparrows are chirruping round the dark ricks. The air grows lighter, the road begins to glimmer and the sky to clear; the clouds are tinged with white, the fields with green. In the cottages there is a red blaze of firewood, and sleepy voices come from inside the gates. By now the dawn has begun to blaze; the sky is striped with bands of gold; mists curl in the valleys; larks sing noisily, the dawn breeze blows—and the blood-red sun swims quietly up. Light fairly streams forth; the heart starts up inside you like a bird. Freshness, laughter, beauty! The eye ranges for far around. Away there behind the trees is a village; there in the distance is another, with a white church; over there is a birch-wood on a hill; behind it is the marsh for which you are bound . . . Step out, horses, step out! Forward at a fast trot! . . . Only three versts more. The sun is rising quickly into a clear sky . . . It will be a glorious day. A herd of cattle comes winding out of the village towards you. You have reached the top of the hill . . . What a view! The river winds for about ten versts, dimly blue through the mist; behind it, water-green meadows; behind the meadows, sloping hills; in the distance, lap-wings are wheeling and calling over the marsh; through the brilliance of the moisture transfusing the air, the distance stands out sharply . . . how different from the summer! How freely you breathe, how briskly you move, what strength courses through all your being, lapped in the fresh breath of spring! . . .

  Or take a summer morning—a morning in July. Who but a sportsman knows the joy of wandering through the brakes at sunrise? Your footprints make a green trail across the dew-whitened grass. You part the dripping bushes, and are all but drenched with the concentrated warmth and fragrance of the night; the air is heady with the sharp freshness of wormwood, the honey-sweetness of buckwheat and clover. In the distance an oak-wood stands up like a wall and flashes and blushes in the sun; it is still cool, but you can already feel the sultriness to come. Your head is dizzy and languid, surfeited with scents. The brushwood stretches endlessly away . . . Here and there in the distance is the yellow glow of rye that is almost ready for the harvest; here and there, narrow strips of reddening buckwheat. Then you hear the creaking of a cart; the peasant driver is threading his way forward at a walk; then he stops, and leaves his horse in the shade, before the heat becomes too great; you exchange greetings and pass by. From behind you comes the ringing chime of a scythe. The sun mounts higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. By now it is already hot. An hour passes, then a second one . . . The sky grows darker about the horizon; the motionless air exhales a tingling sultriness. “Where can I get a drink hereabouts, my friend?” you ask a mower. “There’s a well down there in the valley.” Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with clinging grass, you drop down to the bed of the valley. Sure enough, at the very foot of the slope, there’s a hidden spring; an oak-thicket has thirstily spread its splay-fingered boughs above the water; big, silvery bubbles rise, swaying, from the bottom, which is covered with a fine velvety moss. You throw yourself to the ground, you drink your fill, but now you feel too lazy to move. You are in the shade, breathing an air redolent with dampness; you have a sense of perfect well-being—but opposite you the bushes in the sunlight begin to glow an incandescent yellow. What is happening? All of a sudden a wind gets up and blows past you; the air shivers round about; can it be thunder? You come out of the valley . . . What is that leaden streak on the skyline? Is the heat growing thicker? Are the clouds piling up
? . . . Lightning flickers faintly . . . Yes, here is the storm! All around, the sun is still shining brightly: it is still possible to shoot. But the cloud is growing. Its forward edge spreads out like a sleeve and forms into a vault above us. Grass, bushes—everything around suddenly darkens . . . Hurry! Over there you spy a hay-shed . . . hurry! You run to it and take shelter . . . what a downpour! What lightning! From somewhere in the straw roof water begins to drip through on to the sweet-smelling hay . . . But here once more is the play of sunlight. The storm has passed; you go out again. Heavens above! How gaily it sparkles all around, how fresh and liquid the air, how strong the scent of strawberry and mushroom! . . .

  But now evening is coming on. The glow of sunset blazes up and suffuses half the sky. The sun is sinking. Near at hand, the air has a special transparent quality, as if made of glass, and the distance is mantled in soft, warm-looking mist. With the falling dew, a crimson splendor drops on forest glades which, a moment before, were drenched in floods of liquid gold; from trees, from bushes and tall haystacks, long shadows run out . . . The sun has set. A star lights up and trembles in the fiery sea of sunset . . . Now the fiery sea turns pale; the sky takes on a deeper blue; separate shadows are extinguished and the air is saturated with mist. It is time to go home, to the village, to the cabin where you are spending the night. Throwing your gun over your shoulder, you step out briskly, weary though you are . . . Meanwhile night comes on; you cannot see twenty paces in front of you; the dogs are white shapes, hardly visible in the darkness. Over there, above those black bushes, there is a dim radiance on the skyline . . . What is it? A fire? . . . no, it is the moon rising. But down on the right the village lights are already twinkling . . . Here, at last, is your cabin. Through the window you see a table spread with a white cloth, a candle burning, and supper laid . . .

  Or else you have the racing drozhky harnessed and drive away to the forest after hazel-hen. It is exhilarating to thread your way along the narrow track, between two walls of tall rye. The rye-ears beat softly in your face, cornflowers cling to your ankles, quails call on all sides, the horse trots lazily on. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately poplars whisper high above your head; the long, hanging birch-branches hardly stir; the powerful oak stands warrior-like beside the graceful lime. You drive along a green track, checkered with shadow; big yellow flies hover motionless in the golden air and suddenly dart away; a swarm of midges forms a pillar, light in the shadow, dark in the sun; birds sing quietly. The small golden voice of the robin rings out in its innocent, prattling joy: it matches the scent of the lilies of the valley. Farther, farther, ever deeper into the forest . . . The forest runs wild . . . An ineffable stillness descends on you; everything around is so drowsy and so still. But soon a breeze passes, and the tree-tops sigh, with the sound of breaking waves. Through the brown mold of last year’s leaves, tall grasses grow here and there; mushrooms stand aloof under their little hats. Suddenly a white hare starts up, and with a loud bark the dog dashes after it . . .