These last words Kassyan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more which I could not catch at all, and such a strange expression passed over his face that I involuntarily recalled the epithet ‘cracked.’ He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again. ‘What sunshine!’ he murmured in a low voice. ‘It is a blessing, oh, Lord! What warmth in the woods!’
He gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. With a vague look round him he began softly to sing. I could not catch all the words of his slow chant; I heard the following:
’They call me Kassyan,
But my nickname’s the Flea.’
‘Oh!’ I thought, ‘so he improvises.’ Suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a thick part of the wood. I turned and saw a little peasant girl, about seven years old, in a blue frock, with a checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark - basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. She had certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, ‘stumbled upon’ us, and she stood motionless in a shady recess among the thick foliage of the nut - trees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. I had scarcely time to catch a glimpse of her; she dived behind a tree.
‘Annushka! Annushka! come here, don’t be afraid!’ cried the old man caressingly.
‘I’m afraid,’ came her shrill voice.
‘Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid; come to me.’
Annushka left her hiding place in silence, walked softly round — her little childish feet scarcely sounded on the thick grass — and came out of the bushes near the old man. She was not a child of seven, as I had fancied at first, from her diminutive stature, but a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her whole person was small and thin, but very neat and graceful, and her pretty little face was strikingly like Kassyan’s own, though he was certainly not handsome. There were the same thin features, and the same strange expression, shy and confiding, melancholy and shrewd, and her gestures were the same…. Kassyan kept his eyes fixed on her; she took her stand at his side.
‘Well, have you picked any mushrooms?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered with a shy smile.
‘Did you find many?’
‘Yes.’ (She stole a swift look at him and smiled again.)
‘Are they white ones?’
‘Yes.’
‘Show me, show me…. (She slipped the basket off her arm and half -
lifted the big burdock leaf which covered up the mushrooms.) ‘Ah!’ said
Kassyan, bending down over the basket; ‘what splendid ones! Well done,
Annushka!’
‘She’s your daughter, Kassyan, isn’t she?’ I asked. (Annushka’s face flushed faintly.)
‘No, well, a relative,’ replied Kassyan with affected indifference. ‘Come, Annushka, run along,’ he added at once, ‘run along, and God be with you! And take care.’
‘But why should she go on foot?’ I interrupted. ‘We could take her with us.’
Annushka blushed like a poppy, grasped the handle of her basket with both hands, and looked in trepidation at the old man.
‘No, she will get there all right,’ he answered in the same languid and indifferent voice. ‘Why not?… She will get there…. Run along.’
Annushka went rapidly away into the forest. Kassyan looked after her, then looked down and smiled to himself. In this prolonged smile, in the few words he had spoken to Annushka, and in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was an intense, indescribable love and tenderness. He looked again in the direction she had gone, again smiled to himself, and, passing his hand across his face, he nodded his head several times.
‘Why did you send her away so soon?’ I asked him. ‘I would have bought her mushrooms.’
‘Well, you can buy them there at home just the same, sir, if you like,’ he answered, for the first time using the formal ‘sir’ in addressing me.
‘She’s very pretty, your girl.’
‘No … only so - so,’ he answered, with seeming reluctance, and from that instant he relapsed into the same uncommunicative mood as at first.
Seeing that all my efforts to make him talk again were fruitless, I went off into the clearing. Meantime the heat had somewhat abated; but my ill - success, or, as they say among us, my ‘ill - luck,’ continued, and I returned to the settlement with nothing but one corncrake and the new axle. Just as we were driving into the yard, Kassyan suddenly turned to me.
‘Master, master,’ he began, ‘do you know I have done you a wrong; it was I cast a spell to keep all the game off.’
‘How so?’
‘Oh, I can do that. Here you have a well - trained dog and a good one, but he could do nothing. When you think of it, what are men? what are they? Here’s a beast; what have they made of him?’
It would have been useless for me to try to convince Kassyan of the impossibility of ‘casting a spell’ on game, and so I made him no reply. Meantime we had turned into the yard.
Annushka was not in the hut: she had had time to get there before us, and to leave her basket of mushrooms. Erofay fitted in the new axle, first exposing it to a severe and most unjust criticism; and an hour later I set off, leaving a small sum of money with Kassyan, which at first he was unwilling to accept, but afterwards, after a moment’s thought, holding it in his hand, he put it in his bosom. In the course of this hour he had scarcely uttered a single word; he stood as before, leaning against the gate. He made no reply to the reproaches of my coachman, and took leave very coldly of me.
Directly I turned round, I could see that my worthy Erofay was in a gloomy frame of mind…. To be sure, he had found nothing to eat in the country; the only water for his horses was bad. We drove off. With dissatisfaction expressed even in the back of his head, he sat on the box, burning to begin to talk to me. While waiting for me to begin by some question, he confined himself to a low muttering in an undertone, and some rather caustic instructions to the horses. ‘A village,’ he muttered; ‘call that a village? You ask for a drop of kvas — not a drop of kvas even…. Ah, Lord!… And the water — simply filth!’ (He spat loudly.) ‘Not a cucumber, nor kvas, nor nothing…. Now, then!’ he added aloud, turning to the right trace - horse; ‘I know you, you humbug.’ (And he gave him a cut with the whip.) ‘That horse has learnt to shirk his work entirely, and yet he was a willing beast once. Now, then — look alive!’
‘Tell me, please, Erofay,’ I began, ‘what sort of a man is Kassyan?’
Erofay did not answer me at once: he was, in general, a reflective and deliberate fellow; but I could see directly that my question was soothing and cheering to him.
‘The Flea?’ he said at last, gathering up the reins; ‘he’s a queer fellow; yes, a crazy chap; such a queer fellow, you wouldn’t find another like him in a hurry. You know, for example, he’s for all the world like our roan horse here; he gets out of everything — out of work, that’s to say. But, then, what sort of workman could he be?… He’s hardly body enough to keep his soul in … but still, of course…. He’s been like that from a child up, you know. At first he followed his uncle’s business as a carrier — there were three of them in the business; but then he got tired of it, you know — he threw it up. He began to live at home, but he could not keep at home long; he’s so restless — a regular flea, in fact. He happened, by good luck, to have a good master — he didn’t worry him. Well, so ever since he has been wandering about like a lost sheep. And then, he’s so strange; there’s no understanding him. Sometimes he’ll be as silent as a post, and then he’ll begin talking, and God knows what he’ll say! Is that good manners, pray? He’s an absurd fellow, that he is. But he sings well, for all that.’
‘And does he cure people, really?’
‘Cure people!… Well, how should he? A fine sort of doctor! Though he did cure me of the king’s evil, I must own…. But how can he? He’s a stupid fellow, that’s what he is,’ he added, after a moment’s pause.
‘Have you known him lo
ng?’
‘A long while. I was his neighbour at Sitchovka up at Fair Springs.’
‘And what of that girl — who met us in the wood, Annushka — what relation is she to him?’
Erofay looked at me over his shoulder, and grinned all over his face.
‘He, he!… yes, they are relations. She is an orphan; she has no mother, and it’s not even known who her mother was. But she must be a relation; she’s too much like him…. Anyway, she lives with him. She’s a smart girl, there’s no denying; a good girl; and as for the old man, she’s simply the apple of his eye; she’s a good girl. And, do you know, you wouldn’t believe it, but do you know, he’s managed to teach Annushka to read? Well, well! that’s quite like him; he’s such an extraordinary fellow, such a changeable fellow; there’s no reckoning on him, really…. Eh! eh! eh!’ My coachman suddenly interrupted himself, and stopping the horses, he bent over on one side and began sniffing. ‘Isn’t there a smell of burning? Yes! Why, that new axle, I do declare!… I thought I’d greased it…. We must get on to some water; why, here is a puddle, just right.’
And Erofay slowly got off his seat, untied the pail, went to the pool, and coming back, listened with a certain satisfaction to the hissing of the box of the wheel as the water suddenly touched it…. Six times during some eight miles he had to pour water on the smouldering axle, and it was quite evening when we got home at last.
X
THE AGENT
Twelve miles from my place lives an acquaintance of mine, a landowner and a retired officer in the Guards — Arkady Pavlitch Pyenotchkin. He has a great deal of game on his estate, a house built after the design of a French architect, and servants dressed after the English fashion; he gives capital dinners, and a cordial reception to visitors, and, with all that, one goes to see him reluctantly. He is a sensible and practical man, has received the excellent education now usual, has been in the service, mixed in the highest society, and is now devoting himself to his estate with great success. Arkady Pavlitch is, to judge by his own words, severe but just; he looks after the good of the peasants under his control and punishes them — for their good. ‘One has to treat them like children,’ he says on such occasions; ‘their ignorance, mon cher; il faut prendre cela en considération.’ When this so - called painful necessity arises, he eschews all sharp or violent gestures, and prefers not to raise his voice, but with a straight blow in the culprit’s face, says calmly, ‘I believe I asked you to do something, my friend?’ or ‘What is the matter, my boy? what are you thinking about?’ while he sets his teeth a little, and the corners of his mouth are drawn. He is not tall, but has an elegant figure, and is very good - looking; his hands and nails are kept perfectly exquisite; his rosy cheeks and lips are simply the picture of health. He has a ringing, light - hearted laugh, and there is sometimes a very genial twinkle in his clear brown eyes. He dresses in excellent taste; he orders French books, prints, and papers, though he’s no great lover of reading himself: he has hardly as much as waded through the Wandering Jew. He plays cards in masterly style. Altogether, Arkady Pavlitch is reckoned one of the most cultivated gentlemen and most eligible matches in our province; the ladies are perfectly wild over him, and especially admire his manners. He is wonderfully well conducted, wary as a cat, and has never from his cradle been mixed up in any scandal, though he is fond of making his power felt, intimidating or snubbing a nervous man, when he gets a chance. He has a positive distaste for doubtful society — he is afraid of compromising himself; in his lighter moments, however, he will avow himself a follower of Epicurus, though as a rule he speaks slightingly of philosophy, calling it the foggy food fit for German brains, or at times, simply, rot. He is fond of music too; at the card - table he is given to humming through his teeth, but with feeling; he knows by heart some snatches from Lucia and Somnambula, but he is always apt to sing everything a little sharp. The winters he spends in Petersburg. His house is kept in extraordinarily good order; the very grooms feel his influence, and every day not only rub the harness and brush their coats, but even wash their faces. Arkady Pavlitch’s house - serfs have, it is true, something of a hang - dog look; but among us Russians there’s no knowing what is sullenness and what is sleepiness. Arkady Pavlitch speaks in a soft, agreeable voice, with emphasis and, as it were, with satisfaction; he brings out each word through his handsome perfumed moustaches; he uses a good many French expressions too, such as: Mais c’est impayable! Mais comment donc? and so so. For all that, I, for one, am never over - eager to visit him, and if it were not for the grouse and the partridges, I should probably have dropped his acquaintance altogether. One is possessed by a strange sort of uneasiness in his house; the very comfort is distasteful to one, and every evening when a befrizzed valet makes his appearance in a blue livery with heraldic buttons, and begins, with cringing servility, drawing off one’s boots, one feels that if his pale, lean figure could suddenly be replaced by the amazingly broad cheeks and incredibly thick nose of a stalwart young labourer fresh from the plough, who has yet had time in his ten months of service to tear his new nankin coat open at every seam, one would be unutterably overjoyed, and would gladly run the risk of having one’s whole leg pulled off with the boot….
In spite of my aversion for Arkady Pavlitch, I once happened to pass a night in his house. The next day I ordered my carriage to be ready early in the morning, but he would not let me start without a regular breakfast in the English style, and conducted me into his study. With our tea they served us cutlets, boiled eggs, butter, honey, cheese, and so on. Two footmen in clean white gloves swiftly and silently anticipated our faintest desires. We sat on a Persian divan. Arkady Pavlitch was arrayed in loose silk trousers, a black velvet smoking jacket, a red fez with a blue tassel, and yellow Chinese slippers without heels. He drank his tea, laughed, scrutinised his finger - nails, propped himself up with cushions, and was altogether in an excellent humour. After making a hearty breakfast with obvious satisfaction, Arkady Pavlitch poured himself out a glass of red wine, lifted it to his lips, and suddenly frowned.
‘Why was not the wine warmed?’ he asked rather sharply of one of the footmen.
The footman stood stock - still in confusion, and turned white.
‘Didn’t I ask you a question, my friend?’ Arkady Pavlitch resumed tranquilly, never taking his eyes off the man.
The luckless footman fidgeted in his place, twisted the napkin, and uttered not a word.
Arkady Pavlitch dropped his head and looked up at him thoughtfully from under his eyelids.
‘Pardon, mon cher’, he observed, patting my knee amicably, and again he stared at the footman. ‘You can go,’ he added, after a short silence, raising his eyebrows, and he rang the bell.
A stout, swarthy, black - haired man, with a low forehead, and eyes positively lost in fat, came into the room.
‘About Fyodor … make the necessary arrangements,’ said Arkady
Pavlitch in an undertone, and with complete composure.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the fat man, and he went out.
‘Voilà, mon cher, les désagréments de la campagne,’ Arkady Pavlitch remarked gaily. ‘But where are you off to? Stop, you must stay a little.’
‘No,’ I answered; ‘it’s time I was off.’
‘Nothing but sport! Oh, you sportsmen! And where are you going to shoot just now?’
‘Thirty - five miles from here, at Ryabovo.’
‘Ryabovo? By Jove! now in that case I will come with you. Ryabovo’s only four miles from my village Shipilovka, and it’s a long while since I’ve been over to Shipilovka; I’ve never been able to get the time. Well, this is a piece of luck; you can spend the day shooting in Ryabovo and come on in the evening to me. We’ll have supper together — we’ll take the cook with us, and you’ll stay the night with me. Capital! capital!’ he added without waiting for my answer.
‘C’est arrangé…. Hey, you there! Have the carriage brought out, and look sharp. You have never been in Shipilovka? I should be a
shamed to suggest your putting up for the night in my agent’s cottage, but you’re not particular, I know, and at Ryabovo you’d have slept in some hayloft…. We will go, we will go!’
And Arkady Pavlitch hummed some French song.
‘You don’t know, I dare say,’ he pursued, swaying from side to side; ‘I’ve some peasants there who pay rent. It’s the custom of the place — what was I to do? They pay their rent very punctually, though. I should, I’ll own, have put them back to payment in labour, but there’s so little land. I really wonder how they manage to make both ends meet. However, c’est leur affaire. My agent there’s a fine fellow, une forte tête, a man of real administrative power! You shall see…. Really, how luckily things have turned out!’
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 207