Sketches From a Hunter's Album

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, of course, you can guess what happened. I couldn’t contain myself. “Well, my good woman,” I said, “what rubbish are you talking? What’s all this about marriage? I simply want to know from you whether or not you’re prepared to let me have your girl Matryona.” The old lady started groaning. “Oh, he’s upset me! Oh, tell him to go! Oh!…” Her relative rushed to her and started shouting at me, but the old lady went on groaning and saying: “Why’ve I deserved this? So I’m no longer mistress in my own house, is that it? Oh! Oh!” I seized my hat and dashed out of the house like a mad thing.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the narrator went on, ‘you’ll blame me for becoming so strongly attached to a girl from a lower class. I don’t intend to justify myself – it’s just how things worked out! Believe me, day and night I had no peace! I suffered tortures! What’ve I ruined the poor girl for? I thought. As soon as I’d think of her having to wear a coarse coat to go driving the geese and being kept in the harshest of conditions on her mistress’s orders and having the village elder, a peasant in tarred boots, swearing at her, I’d literally break out in a cold sweat. Well, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I discovered which village she’d been sent to, got on my horse and rode there. It was the evening of the next day when I arrived. Obviously they’d not expected me to do such a thing and given no orders how to deal with me. I went straight to the elder as if I were a neighbour. I went into the yard and saw Matryona sitting on the porch, with her head resting on her hand. She was on the point of crying out, but I made her a sign that she shouldn’t and pointed in the direction of the backyard and the fields. I went into the peasant hut, started chattering with the elder, told him the devil’s own nonsense and when the opportunity came went out to Matryona. She, poor girl, literally threw herself on my neck. She’d got pale and thin, my darling had. I told her, you know: “It’s all right, Matryona, don’t cry,” but my own tears just poured down my face. Well, anyhow, in the end I felt quite ashamed of myself and I told her: “Matryona, tears’ll get us nowhere, the thing is we’ve got to act decisively, as the saying goes. You’ve got to come away with me. That’s what we’ve got to do.” Matryona simply froze. “We can’t do that! I’ll be lost, they’ll swallow me whole!” “You’re being silly – who’ll come looking for you?” “Someone’ll come looking for sure. Thank you, Pyotr Petrovich, I’ll never forget your kindness, but you must give me up now. I can see what my fate is.” “Oh, Matryona, Matryona, and I took you for a girl with character!” And she did have a lot of character – and she had a heart, a heart of gold! “A lot of good it’ll do you staying here! All in all it won’t be worse coming away with me. Tell me, have you had a taste of those elder’s fists?” Matryona just flared up at that and her lips started trembling. “’Cos of me my family’s in trouble.” “Well, your family – will they be sent away?” “They’ll be sent away. My brother’ll be sure to be sent to the army.” “And your father?” “No, he won’t be, he’s the only good tailor in these parts.” “Well, you see, then. And your brother won’t be done for either.” Believe you me, I had a hard time persuading her and she took it into her head to start telling me I’d have to take responsibility for everything… “That,” I said, “is none of your business.” However, I did take her away – not that time but another. I came with a cart at night and took her.’

  ‘You took her away with you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Well, she came and lived with me. My house wasn’t large and I didn’t have many servants. I can say without fear of contradiction that my servants respected me and wouldn’t have given me away for any kind of bribes. I started living to my heart’s content. Matryona took a little time to rest and adjust – and I grew so attached to her, what a girl she was! Where’d she get it all from? She could sing and dance and play the guitar… I never showed her to the neighbours – lot of good that’d do, they’d only gossip! But I had a friend, a bosom friend, Panteley Gornostaev – you may have heard of him? He simply adored her. He’d kiss her hand just as if she were a high-born lady. And I must tell you that Gornostaev was quite unlike me. He was an educated man, had read the whole of Pushkin. Sometimes when he’d start talking to Matryona and me we’d just listen open-mouthed. He taught her to write, oddball that he was! And the way I used to dress her up – simply better than a Governor’s wife! I had a little coat made for her out of bright-red velvet with fur hems – and how that little coat looked on her! A Moscow madame made that little coat in the latest style, with a narrow waist. And what a strange and wonderful girl that Matryona was! Sometimes she’d fall into deep thought and sit there for hours staring at the floor, not moving an eyebrow. I’d sit there too and watch her and I couldn’t have enough of looking at her as if I’d never seen her before in my life. She’d smile and my heart’d literally jump as if someone’d tickled it. Or she’d suddenly take to laughing and joking and dancing and give me such passionate, strong hugs my head would start going round. From morning to night I’d be thinking only about how I could please her. And, believe me, I only gave her presents so as to see how overjoyed my darling was, how she’d go all red from joy, how she’d try on what I’d given her and come to me in her new array and kiss me. I don’t know how her father, Kulik, got wind of the affair, but he came to take a look at us and shed some tears. Surely they were tears of joy, or you’d have thought that, wouldn’t you? We gave him a few things. She, my darling, even gave him a five-rouble note in the end – and he went flop down at her feet, such a silly old fool he was! So that’s how we lived five months or so together and I wouldn’t have objected to living the whole of my life with her in that way, ’cept I’ve had such damned awful bad breaks!’

  Pyotr Petrovich stopped.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ I asked him with feeling.

  He waved his hand.

  ‘It all went to pot. I was the one that spoiled her. My Matryona was terribly fond of sledge rides and liked driving herself. She’d put on her little coat and wear her embroidered Torzhok mittens and do nothing but shriek. We’d always go sledge-riding at night so as, you know, not to meet anyone. Then there was one of those days, you know, quite splendid – frosty, clear, no wind – and we went riding. Matryona took the reins. Then I saw where she was going. Wasn’t she going towards Kukuevka, her mistress’s estate? Yes, she was. I said to her: “You’re mad! D’you know where you’re going?” She glanced at me over her shoulder and grinned, so much as to say: Let’s risk it! Ah, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound – it’d be fun to drive past the mistress’s house, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think it would be? Well, we drove on. My shaft-horse literally floated along and the side-horses went like the wind. The Kukuevka church was already in sight when we saw an old green contraption crawling along the road with a footman sticking up at the back. It was the mistress out for a drive! I was for turning back, but Matryona struck the horses with the reins and rushed straight at the contraption! The coachman, the mistress’s, that is, saw this Alchimerical wonder racing towards him, tried, you know, to get out of the way, swerved sharply and overturned the contraption into a snowdrift. The glass was broken and the mistress cried out: “Ay-ay-ay! Ay-ay-ay!” Her lady companion squeaked: “Hold on! Hold on!” We rushed by at God’s speed and galloped on, but I thought it wouldn’t work out and knew I’d been wrong to let Matryona drive to Kukuevka. Well, wouldn’t you know it! Her mistress had of course recognized Matryona and me, old hag that she was, and laid a complaint to the effect that her runaway servant-girl was living with the landowner Karataev and of course expressed her gratitude to the authorities in the appropriate way. The next thing I saw was the constable riding up, and the constable was an acquaintance of mine, Stepan Sergeich Kuzovkin, a good fellow, that’s to say, not really a good fellow at all. Well, he came to me and said words to the effect that it’s like this and that, Pyotr Petrovich, can’t you see that, eh? There’s a serious responsibility and the laws are quite clear on the point… I said to him: “Well, we ought to
talk about it, of course we ought, so won’t you have a bite to eat after your journey?” He agreed to have a bite to eat, but he said: “Justice demands this, Pyotr Petrovich, judge for yourself.” “Oh, of course, it’s justice,” I said, “of course it is… I hear, though, you’ve got a little black horse. Wouldn’t you like to swap it for my Lampurdos? In any case, the girl Matryona Fyodorova isn’t here!” “Well,” he said, “Pyotr Petrovich, we know the girl’s here, we’re not living in Switzerland, you know… But as for Lampurdos, I’ll swap my horse for him, or you know, I could just take him.” Anyhow, that time I fooled him. But the old woman, the mistress, now started making more fuss than before. “I don’t mind if it costs me ten thousand roubles,” she said. You see, the thing was that, on seeing me, she’d suddenly taken it into her head to marry me off to her green lady companion – or that’s what I learnt later, which is why she’d got so angry. The things these ladies think up! It must be out of boredom. So things were working out badly for me, what with the money I’d been spending and hiding Matryona – no, far worse, I was being pestered and quite driven out of my mind! I fell into debt, my health suffered. One night I was lying on my bed and thinking, Good God, why’ve I got to endure all this? What am I to do if I can’t give her up? Well, I can’t, and that’s final! when suddenly Matryona came into my room. At that time I’d been hiding her on a farm a mile or so from my house. I was scared stiff. “What’s happened? Have they found where you were?” “No, Pyotr Petrovich,” she said, “no one’s been after me in Bubnovo. But how long’s this got to go on? My heart’s breaking, Pyotr Petrovich,” she said. “I feel so sorry for you, my darling. All my life I’ll never forget your kindness, Pyotr Petrovich, but now the time’s come to say goodbye to you.” “What’re you saying? Are you mad? Say goodbye – what do you mean?” “Just that. I’m going to give myself up.” “Then I’ll put you up in the attic, because you’re out of your mind… Or have you decided to ruin me for good and all? You’re set on finishing me off, are you?” She didn’t say anything and just looked at the floor. “Well, tell me, tell me!” “I don’t want to cause you any more trouble, Pyotr Petrovich.” Well, I tried to reason with her, I tried… I said: “Don’t you know, you silly girl, can’t you see, you crazy… crazy…”’

  And Pyotr Petrovich burst into bitter tears.

  ‘So what d’you think?’ he went on, striking his fist on the table and trying to frown as the tears ran down his burning cheeks. ‘The girl gave herself up, she went and gave herself up…’

  ‘The horses are ready, sir!’ the post-master exclaimed triumphantly as he came into the room.

  We both stood up.

  ‘What happened to Matryona?’ I asked.

  Karataev gave a wave of the hand.

  A year after my meeting with Karataev I had occasion to travel to Moscow. One day, just before dinner, I happened to go into the coffee-house on Hunter’s Row, the original Moscow coffee-house.2 In the billiard-room, through waves of smoke, one could glimpse beetroot-red faces, moustaches, topknots, old-fashioned Hungarian short jackets and the latest thing in Slavophile wear. Scrawny old gents in modest frock-coats were reading Russian newspapers. The waiters darted briskly about the place with trays, their footsteps softened by the green carpets. Merchants drank their tea with painful concentration. Suddenly a man came out of the billiard-room looking slightly dishevelled and a little unsteady on his feet. He put his hands in his pockets, let his head drop forward and glanced mindlessly around him.

  ‘But, it’s, it’s, it’s… Pyotr Petrovich! How are you?’

  Pyotr Petrovich almost threw himself on my neck and then, swaying slightly, dragged me off to a small private room.

  ‘Here,’ he said, carefully directing me to an armchair, ‘we’ll be all right. Waiter, beer! No, make it champagne! Well, I must say, I’d never have expected, never… Have you been here long? Are you staying long? Well, it’s an act of God, as they say, that brought…’

  ‘So you remember, do you…’

  ‘How can I forget, how can I forget,’ he interrupted me hurriedly. ‘It’s all in the past… all in the past…’

  ‘Well, what’re you doing with yourself here, my dear Pyotr Petrovich?’

  ‘I live, as you can observe. Living’s good here, the people here are welcoming. I’ve found peace here.’

  He sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘Are you in the civil service?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m not in the civil service yet, but I think I’ll find a post soon. Anyhow, what’s government service? People – that’s the main thing. What people I’ve got to know here!’

  A boy came in with a bottle of champagne on a black tray.

  ‘Well, there’s a good chap… Isn’t it true, Vasya, you’re a good chap, eh? Here’s to your health!’

  The boy waited a moment, politely shook his little head, smiled and went out.

  ‘Yes, they’re good people, here,’ Pyotr Petrovich went on, ‘people with feeling, people with heart… If you like, I’ll introduce you? Such grand lads they are, they’ll be glad to see you. I’ll tell them… Bobrov’s dead, such a pity.’

  ‘What Bobrov?’

  ‘Sergey Bobrov. He was a splendid chap. He supported me financially, provincial ignoramus that I was. And Panteley Gornostaev’s died. They’ve all died, all of them!’

  ‘Have you been here in Moscow all the time? Haven’t you been to the country at all?’

  ‘To the country… My estate’s been sold.’

  ‘Sold?’

  ‘Auctioned… It’s a pity you didn’t buy it!’

  ‘What on earth will you live on, Pyotr Petrovich?’

  ‘I won’t die of hunger, God grant! There’ll be no money, but there’ll be friends. Anyhow, what’s money? It’s just dust! Gold’s just dust!’

  He screwed up his eyes, rummaged about in his pocket and then held out to me in the palm of his hand two fifteen-copeck coins and a ten-copeck coin.

  ‘What’s that? It’s just dust!’ The money was flung on the floor. ‘Tell me now, have you read Polezhaev?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen Mochalov3 in Hamlet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘You’ve never seen, never…’ (And Karataev went pale, his eyes roved restlessly about. Turning away, his lips gave slight quivers.) ‘Oh, Mochalov, Mochalov! “To die, to sleep,”’4 he declared in a hoarse voice.

  ‘“No more – and by a sleep to say we end

  The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

  That flesh is heir to. ’Tis a consummation

  Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep…”

  ‘To sleep, to sleep!’ he muttered several times.

  ‘Tell me, please,’ I started to say, but he went on heatedly:

  ‘“For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

  Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

  The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,

  The insolence of office, and the spurns

  That patient merit o’ the unworthy takes,

  When he himself might his quietus make

  With a bare bodkin?… Nymph, in thy orisons

  Be all my sins remembered.”’

  And he let his head fall on the table. He began to stammer and blabber.

  ‘“A little month”,’ he pronounced with renewed effort,

  ‘“A little month, or e’er these shoes were old

  With which she followed my poor father’s body

  Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she –

  O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason

  Would have mourned longer…”’

  He raised the glass of champagne to his lips, but he didn’t drink and went on:

  ‘“For Hecuba!

  What’s Hecuba to him, or he to her,

  That he should weep for her?… Yet I,

  A dull and muddy-mettled rascal… Am I a coward?

  Who call
s me villain? Gives me the lie i’th’throat?

  Ha, ’swounds, I should take it. For it cannot be

  But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall

  To make oppression bitter…”’

  Karataev dropped his glass and clutched his head in his hands. I realized that I understood him.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ he said eventually. ‘The past’s a foreign country, you shouldn’t go there… Isn’t that right?’ He gave a laugh. ‘Here’s to your health!’

  ‘Will you stay in Moscow?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’ll die in Moscow!’

  ‘Karataev!’ came a shout from the next room. ‘Karataev, where are you? Come here, there’s a good fe-ow!’

  ‘They’re calling me,’ he said, rising heavily from where he’d been sitting. ‘Goodbye. Call on me if you can. I’m living in —.’

  But the next day, due to unforeseen circumstances, I had to leave Moscow and I never saw Pyotr Petrovich Karataev again.

  MEETING

  I WAS sitting in a birch wood one autumn, about the middle of September. From early morning there had been occasional drizzle, succeeded from time to time by periods of warm sunny radiance; a season of changeable weather. The sky was either covered with crumbling white clouds or suddenly clear for an instant in a few places, and then, from behind the parted clouds, blue sky would appear, lucid and smiling, like a beautiful eye. I sat and looked around me and listened. The leaves scarcely rustled above my head; by their very noise one could know what time of year it was. It was not the happy, laughing tremolo of spring, not the soft murmuration and long-winded talkativeness of summer, not the shy and chill babblings of late autumn, but a hardly audible dreamy chattering. A faint wind ever so slightly moved through the treetops. The interior of the wood, damp from the rain, was continually changing, depending on whether the sun was shining or whether it was covered by cloud; the interior was either flooded with light, just as if everything in it had suddenly smiled: the delicate trunks of the not-too-numerous birches would suddenly acquire the soft sheen of white silk, the wafer-thin leaves which lay on the ground would suddenly grow multi-coloured and burn with crimson and gold, while the beautiful stems of tall curly bracken, already embellished with their autumn colouring which resembles the colour of overripe grapes, would stand there shot through with light, endlessly entangling and crisscrossing before one’s eyes; or suddenly one would again be surrounded by a bluish dusk: the bright colours would instantly be extinguished and the birches would all stand there white, without a gleam on them, white as snow that has only just fallen and has not yet been touched by the chilly sparkling rays of the winter sun; and secretively, slyly, thinly drizzling rain would begin to filter and whisper through the wood.