My entrance, I could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting to Nikolai Ivanitch’s customers; but observing that he greeted me as a friend, they were reassured, and took no more notice of me. I asked for some beer and sat down in the corner, near the peasant in the ragged smock.
‘Well, well,’ piped the Gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of spirits at one gulp, and accompanying his exclamation with the strange gesticulations, without which he seemed unable to utter a single word; ‘what are we waiting for? If we’re going to begin, then begin. Hey, Yasha?’
‘Begin, begin,’ chimed in Nikolai Ivanitch approvingly.
‘Let’s begin, by all means,’ observed the booth - keeper coolly, with a self - confident smile; ‘I’m ready.’
‘And I’m ready,’ Yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with excitement.
‘Well, begin, lads,’ whined the Blinkard. But, in spite of the unanimously expressed desire, neither began; the booth - keeper did not even get up from the bench — they all seemed to be waiting for something.
‘Begin!’ said the Wild Master sharply and sullenly. Yashka started. The booth - keeper pulled down his girdle and cleared his throat.
‘But who’s to begin?’ he inquired in a slightly changed voice of the Wild Master, who still stood motionless in the middle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart and his powerful arms thrust up to the elbow into his breeches pockets.
‘You, you, booth - keeper,’ stammered the Gabbler; ‘you, to be sure, brother.’
The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The Gabbler gave a faint squeak, in confusion looked away at the ceiling, twitched his shoulder, and said no more.
‘Cast lots,’ the Wild Master pronounced emphatically; ‘and the pot on the table.’
Nikolai Ivanitch bent down, and with a gasp picked up the pot of beer from the floor and set it on the table.
The Wild Master glanced at Yakov, and said ‘Come!’
Yakov fumbled in his pockets, took out a halfpenny, and marked it with his teeth. The booth - keeper pulled from under the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, deliberately untied the string, and shaking out a quantity of small change into his hand, picked out a new halfpenny. The Gabbler held out his dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped his halfpenny in, and the booth - keeper his.
‘You must pick out one,’ said the Wild Master, turning to the Blinkard.
The Blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands, and began shaking it.
For an instant a profound silence reigned; the halfpennies clinked faintly, jingling against each other. I looked round attentively; every face wore an expression of intense expectation; the Wild Master himself showed signs of uneasiness; my neighbour, even, the peasant in the tattered smock, craned his neck inquisitively. The Blinkard put his hand into the cap and took out the booth - keeper’s halfpenny; every one drew a long breath. Yakov flushed, and the booth - keeper passed his hand over his hair.
‘There, I said you’d begin,’ cried the Gabbler; ‘didn’t I say so?’
‘There, there, don’t cluck,’ remarked the Wild Master contemptuously. ‘Begin,’ he went on, with a nod to the booth - keeper.
‘What song am I to sing?’ asked the booth - keeper, beginning to be nervous.
‘What you choose,’ answered the Blinkard; ‘sing what you think best.’
‘What you choose, to be sure,’ Nikolai Ivanitch chimed in, slowly smoothing his hand on his breast, ‘you’re quite at liberty about that. Sing what you like; only sing well; and we’ll give a fair decision afterwards.’
‘A fair decision, of course,’ put in the Gabbler, licking the edge of his empty glass.
‘Let me clear my throat a bit, mates,’ said the booth - keeper, fingering the collar of his coat.
‘Come, come, no nonsense — begin!’ protested the Wild Master, and he looked down.
The booth - keeper thought a minute, shook his head, and stepped forward. Yakov’s eyes were riveted upon him.
But before I enter upon a description of the contest itself, I think it will not be amiss to say a few words about each of the personages taking part in my story. The lives of some of them were known to me already when I met them in the Welcome Resort; I collected some facts about the others later on.
Let us begin with the Gabbler. This man’s real name was Evgraf Ivanovitch; but no one in the whole neighbourhood knew him as anything but the Gabbler, and he himself referred to himself by that nickname; so well did it fit him. Indeed, nothing could have been more appropriate to his insignificant, ever - restless features. He was a dissipated, unmarried house - serf, whose own masters had long ago got rid of him, and who, without any employment, without earning a halfpenny, found means to get drunk every day at other people’s expense. He had a great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of spirits and tea, though they could not have said why they did so themselves; for, far from being entertaining in company, he bored every one with his meaningless chatter, his insufferable familiarity, his spasmodic gestures and incessant, unnatural laugh. He could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever, or even a sensible thing in his life; he chattered away, telling lies about everything — a regular Gabbler! And yet not a single drinking party for thirty miles around took place without his lank figure turning up among the guests; so that they were used to him by now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. They all, it is true, treated him with contempt; but the Wild Master was the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check.
The Blinkard was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nickname, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking than other people; it is a well - known fact, that the Russian peasants have a talent for finding good nicknames. In spite of my endeavours to get more detailed information about this man’s past, many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to me, and probably to many other people; episodes, buried, as the bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. I could only find out that he was once a coachman in the service of an old childless lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge of; had been lost for a whole year, and no doubt, convinced by experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a wandering life, he had gone back, a cripple, and flung himself at his mistress’s feet. He succeeded in a few years in smoothing over his offence by his exemplary conduct, and, gradually getting higher in her favour, at last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff, and on his mistress’s death, turned out — in what way was never known — to have received his freedom. He got admitted into the class of tradesmen; rented patches of market garden from the neighbours; grew rich, and now was living in ease and comfort. He was a man of experience, who knew on which side his bread was buttered; was more actuated by prudence than by either good or ill - nature; had knocked about, understood men, and knew how to turn them to his own advantage. He was cautious, and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; though he was as fond of gossip as an old woman, he never let out his own affairs, while he made everyone else talk freely of theirs. He did not affect to be a simpleton, though, as so many crafty men of his sort do; indeed it would have been difficult for him to take any one in, in that way; I have never seen a sharper, keener pair of eyes than his tiny cunning little ‘peepers,’ as they call them in Orel. They were never simply looking about; they were always looking one up and down and through and through. The Blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks together over some apparently simple undertaking, and again he would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which one would fancy would bring him to ruin.... But it would be sure to turn out all right; everything would go smoothly. He was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens. He was exceedingly superstitious in general. He was not liked, because he would have nothing much to do with anyone, but he was respected. His whole family consisted of one little son, whom he idolised, and who, brought up by such a father, is likely to get on in the world. ‘Little Blink
ard’ll be his father over again,’ is said of him already, in undertones by the old men, as they sit on their mud walls gossiping on summer evenings, and every one knows what that means; there is no need to say more.
As to Yashka the Turk and the booth - keeper, there is no need to say much about them. Yakov, called the Turk because he actually was descended from a Turkish woman, a prisoner from the war, was by nature an artist in every sense of the word, and by calling, a ladler in a paper factory belonging to a merchant. As for the booth - keeper, his career, I must own, I know nothing of; he struck me as being a smart townsman of the tradesman class, ready to turn his hand to anything. But the Wild Master calls for a more detailed account.
The first impression the sight of this man produced on you was a sense of coarse, heavy, irresistible power. He was clumsily built, a ‘shambler,’ as they say about us, but there was an air of triumphant vigour about him, and — strange to say — his bear - like figure was not without a certain grace of its own, proceeding, perhaps, from his absolutely placid confidence in his own strength. It was hard to decide at first to what class this Hercules belonged: he did not look like a house - serf, nor a tradesman, nor an impoverished clerk out of work, nor a small ruined landowner, such as takes to being a huntsman or a fighting man; he was, in fact, quite individual. No one knew where he came from or what brought him into our district; it was said that he came of free peasant - proprietor stock, and had once been in the government service somewhere, but nothing positive was known about this; and indeed there was no one from whom one could learn — certainly not from him; he was the most silent and morose of men. So much so that no one knew for certain what he lived on; he followed no trade, visited no one, associated with scarcely anyone; yet he had money to spend; little enough, it is true, still he had some. In his behaviour he was not exactly retiring — retiring was not a word that could be applied to him: he lived as though he noticed no one about him, and cared for no one. The Wild Master (that was the nickname they had given him; his real name was Perevlyesov) enjoyed an immense influence in the whole district; he was obeyed with eager promptitude, though he had no kind of right to give orders to anyone, and did not himself evince the slightest pretension to authority over the people with whom he came into casual contact He spoke — they obeyed: strength always has an influence of its own. He scarcely drank at all, had nothing to do with women, and was passionately fond of singing. There was much that was mysterious about this man; it seemed as though vast forces sullenly reposed within him, knowing, as it were, that once roused, once bursting free, they were bound to crush him and everything they came in contact with; and I am greatly mistaken if, in this man’s life, there had not been some such outbreak; if it was not owing to the lessons of experience, to a narrow escape from ruin, that he now kept himself so tightly in hand. What especially struck me in him was the combination of a sort of inborn natural ferocity, with an equally inborn generosity — a combination I have never met in any other man.
And so the booth - keeper stepped forward, and, half shutting his eyes, began singing in high falsetto. He had a fairly sweet and pleasant voice, though rather hoarse: he played with his voice like a woodlark, twisting and turning it in incessant roulades and trills up and down the scale, continually returning to the highest notes, which he held and prolonged with special care. Then he would break off, and again suddenly take up the first motive with a sort of go - ahead daring. His modulations were at times rather bold, at times rather comical; they would have given a connoisseur great satisfaction, and have made a German furiously indignant. He was a Russian tenore di grazia, ténor léger. He sang a song to a lively dance - tune, the words of which, all that I could catch through the endless maze of variations, ejaculations and repetitions, were as follows:
‘A tiny patch of land, young lass,
I’ll plough for thee,
And tiny crimson flowers, young lass,
I’ll sow for thee.’
He sang; all listened to him with great attention. He seemed to feel that he had to do with really musical people, and therefore was exerting himself to do his best. And they really are musical in our part of the country; the village of Sergievskoe on the Orel highroad is deservedly noted throughout Russia for its harmonious chorus - singing. The booth - keeper sang for a long while without evoking much enthusiasm in his audience; he lacked the support of a chorus; but at last, after one particularly bold flourish, which set even the Wild Master smiling, the Gabbler could not refrain from a shout of delight. Everyone was roused. The Gabbler and the Blinkard began joining in in an undertone, and exclaiming: ‘Bravely done!... Take it, you rogue!... Sing it out, you serpent! Hold it! That shake again, you dog you!... May Herod confound your soul!’ and so on. Nikolai Ivanitch behind the bar was nodding his head from side to side approvingly. The Gabbler at last was swinging his legs, tapping with his feet and twitching his shoulder, while Yashka’s eyes fairly glowed like coal, and he trembled all over like a leaf, and smiled nervously. The Wild Master alone did not change countenance, and stood motionless as before; but his eyes, fastened on the booth - keeper, looked somewhat softened, though the expression of his lips was still scornful. Emboldened by the signs of general approbation, the booth - keeper went off in a whirl of flourishes, and began to round off such trills, to turn such shakes off his tongue, and to make such furious play with his throat, that when at last, pale, exhausted, and bathed in hot perspiration, he uttered the last dying note, his whole body flung back, a general united shout greeted him in a violent outburst. The Gabbler threw himself on his neck and began strangling him in his long, bony arms; a flush came out on Nikolai Ivanitch’s oily face, and he seemed to have grown younger; Yashka shouted like mad: ‘Capital, capital!’ — even my neighbour, the peasant in the torn smock, could not restrain himself, and with a blow of his fist on the table he cried: ‘Aha! well done, damn my soul, well done!’ And he spat on one side with an air of decision.
‘Well, brother, you’ve given us a treat!’ bawled the Gabbler, not releasing the exhausted booth - keeper from his embraces; ‘you’ve given us a treat, there’s no denying! You’ve won, brother, you’ve won! I congratulate you — the quart’s yours! Yashka’s miles behind you... I tell you: miles... take my word for it.’ (And again he hugged the booth - keeper to his breast.)
‘There, let him alone, let him alone; there’s no being rid of you’... said the Blinkard with vexation; ‘let him sit down on the bench; he’s tired, see... You’re a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny! What are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for...’
‘Well, then, let him sit down, and I’ll drink to his health,’ said the Gabbler, and he went up to the bar. ‘At your expense, brother,’ he added, addressing the booth - keeper.
The latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of cloth out of his cap, and began wiping his face, while the Gabbler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and, with a grunt, assumed, after the manner of confirmed drinkers, an expression of careworn melancholy.
‘You sing beautifully, brother, beautifully,’ Nikolai Ivanitch observed caressingly. ‘And now it’s your turn, Yasha; mind, now, don’t be afraid. We shall see who’s who; we shall see. The booth - keeper sings beautifully, though; ‘pon my soul, he does.’
‘Very beautifully,’ observed Nikolai Ivanitch’s wife, and she looked with a smile at Yakov.
‘Beautifully, ha!’ repeated my neighbour in an undertone.
‘Ah, a wild man of the woods!’ the Gabbler vociferated suddenly, and going up to the peasant with the rent on his shoulder, he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and went off into an insulting guffaw. ‘Ha! ha! get along! wild man of the woods! Here’s a ragamuffin from Woodland village! What brought you here?’ he bawled amidst laughter.
The poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up and make off as fast as he could, when suddenly the Wild Master’s iron voice was heard:
‘What does the insufferable brute mean?’ he articula
ted, grinding his teeth.
‘I wasn’t doing nothing,’ muttered the Gabbler. ‘I didn’t... I only....’
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 218