Sketches From a Hunter's Album

  ‘Today the Yagushka landowner was asking for you,’ the duty clerk added.

  ‘Was he? What did he have to say?’

  ‘He said to say he’d be going to Tyutyurev in the evening and he’d wait for you there. He said to say he’d wanted to discuss something with Vasily Nikolaich, but he didn’t say what it was ’cos, he said, Vasily Nikolaich’d already know.’

  ‘Hm!’ exclaimed the chief cashier and went to the window.

  ‘Is Nikolay Yeremeich in the office?’ a voice resounded in the porch and a tall man, evidently extremely angry, with irregular, but expressive and bold features, and fairly neatly dressed, strode into the room.

  ‘So he’s not here?’ he asked, glancing quickly round.

  ‘Nikolay Yeremeich is with the mistress,’ answered the cashier. ‘Tell me what you want, Pavel Andreich. You know you can tell me… What d’you want?’

  ‘What do I want? You want to know what I want?’ (The cashier nodded painfully.) ‘I want to teach him a lesson, the useless Fatso he is, the low-down sneak… I’ll give him something to sneak about!’

  Pavel threw himself into a chair.

  ‘What’s up with you, what’s up, Pavel Andreich? Calm down… Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You’ll not forget who you’re speaking about, Pavel Andreich!’ the cashier started babbling.

  ‘Who I’m speaking about? What’s it to me that he’s been made chief clerk? A fine one they’ve found to promote, say what you like! What can be said is that they’ve gone and let the old goat into the cabbage patch!’

  ‘Enough’s enough, Pavel Andreich! That’s enough! Stop it! What sort of rubbish is that?’

  ‘Well, so the old fox is off a-hunting, is he! I’ll wait for him!’ said Pavel in a temper, and struck the table with his fist. ‘Ah, there he is!’ he added, glancing through the window. ‘The devil himself! Greetings, sir!’ He stood up.

  Nikolay Yeremeich came into the office. His face glowed with satisfaction, but at the sight of Pavel he appeared slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Hallo, Nikolay Yeremeich,’ said Pavel meaningfully, slowly moving forwards to meet him, ‘hallo.’

  The chief clerk did not answer. The merchant’s face appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Why don’t you do me the courtesy of answering?’ Pavel went on. ‘Besides, no… no,’ he added, ‘that’s not the way, you won’t get anything by shouting and cursing. No, it’d be better if you did the right thing by me and told me, Nikolay Yeremeich, why you’re persecuting me. Why d’you want to ruin me, eh? Well, speak up, speak up.’

  ‘This isn’t the place for explanations,’ the chief clerk retorted, not without a certain feeling. ‘And it’s not the time either. Except, I confess, I’m surprised by one thing. Wherever did you get the idea that I wanted to ruin you or was persecuting you? After all, how could I persecute you? You’re not working here in the office.’

  ‘Right,’ answered Pavel, ‘that’s all that’s missing! But why go on pretending, Nikolay Yeremeich? You know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘No, by God, I don’t.’

  ‘And it’s by God, too! If it comes to that, you tell me: don’t you have any fear of God? Why’re you ruining a poor girl’s life? What d’you need from her?’

  ‘Who’re you speaking about, Pavel Andreich?’ asked the Fatso with feigned astonishment.

  ‘Hey, so he doesn’t know, eh? I’m talking about Tatyana. You ought to have the fear of God in you – why’re you being so vengeful? You should be ashamed! You’re a married man, you’ve got children the same size as me and I’m not any different, I want to get married. I’m acting honourably.’

  ‘Why am I to blame, Pavel Andreich? The mistress doesn’t permit you to get married – she’s the one with authority! What’ve I got to do with it?’

  ‘What! So you haven’t been up to your old tricks behind our backs with that old witch, the housekeeper, eh? So you haven’t been sneaking about this and that, eh? Say you haven’t been telling all sorts of lies, eh, about that poor defenceless girl? So it wasn’t through your efforts, eh, that she got demoted from the laundry to the scullery? And isn’t it through your efforts they’re beating her and making her wear rags, eh? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought, you old man! You’ll be struck down by paralysis, you will, just you wait and see! You’ll have to answer to God for this!’

  ‘That’s bad language, Pavel Andreich, bad language… But you won’t go on with that much longer!’

  Pavel exploded.

  ‘What? So it’s threats now, is it?’ he burst out angrily. ‘You think I’m frightened of you, do you? No, mate, you’ve met your match with me! What’ve I got to be frightened of? I can earn a living wherever I like. But you – that’s a different matter! You can only live here, and do your sneaking and your thieving…’

  ‘Oh, listen to him, putting on airs!’ broke in the chief clerk, who was also beginning to lose patience. ‘A medic, just a medic, a bloody little quack! But just listen to him, what an important person he is!’

  ‘Yes, a medic, but without this medic your honour’d be rotting in a graveyard now! I don’t know what possessed me to cure you,’ he added through his teeth.

  ‘You cured me? No, you wanted to poison me, you made me drink aloes,’ the chief clerk objected.

  ‘So what, if nothing but aloes had any effect on you?’

  ‘Aloes are forbidden by the medical authorities,’ Nikolay went on, ‘and I’ll lay a complaint against you. I’ll say you wanted to kill me, so I will! But the Good Lord didn’t allow it.’

  ‘Enough, gentlemen, enough…’ the cashier started saying.

  ‘Shut up!’ screamed the chief clerk. ‘He wanted to poison me! Don’t you understand?’

  ‘A lot I care… Listen, Nikolay Yeremeich,’ Pavel exclaimed in desperation, ‘for the last time I’m asking you – you’ve been pressuring me, you’ve made things impossible for me – leave us alone, understand? Or else, by God, it’ll be the worse for one of us, that I can tell you!’

  The Fatso went crazy.

  ‘I’m not scared of you,’ he screamed, ‘d’you hear me, you milksop! I did for your father, too, I broke his antlers I did – an’ I’ll do the same for you, you’ll see!’

  ‘Don’t you mention my father, Nikolay Yeremeich, leave him out of it!’

  ‘Well I never! So who’re you to tell me what to do?’

  ‘I’m telling you, leave him out!’

  ‘An’ I’m telling you, don’t forget yourself… No matter how much the mistress, in your opinion, needs you, if she had to choose between the two of us, you wouldn’t stand a chance, my fine friend!’ (Pavel shook with rage.) ‘And the girl Tatyana deserves what she’s got… Just wait and see what’ll be coming to her next!’

  Pavel hurled himself at the man with raised fists and the chief clerk fell heavily to the floor.

  ‘Put him in chains, in chains!’ groaned Nikolay Yeremeich.

  I will not take it upon myself to describe the end of this scene because I’m already afraid I’ve insulted the reader’s feelings.

  I returned home that day. A week later I learned that Mrs Losnyakova had kept both Pavel and Nikolay in her employment but had sent the girl Tatyana away: she evidently wasn’t needed.

  LONER

  ONE evening I was by myself in my racing droshky after going hunting. There were still some half-dozen miles before I got home. My good trotting mare went happily along the dusty road, occasionally giving snorts and twitching her ears; my tired dog, as though literally tied there, never for a moment fell back behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was threatening. Straight ahead an enormous lilac cloud rose slowly beyond the forest and long grey lengths of cloud hung above me and stretched towards me. The willows rustled and murmured in alarm. The muggy heat was suddenly replaced by moist cool air and the shadows thickened. I struck the horse with a rein, descended into a gully, made my way across a dry stream comp
letely overgrown with willow bushes, went uphill and drove into the forest. The road wound its way ahead of me between thick clumps of nut, already immersed in darkness, and my progress was difficult. The droshky jumped about as the wheels struck the hard roots of centuries-old oaks and limes which crisscrossed the deep ruts made by cartwheels, and my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly began roaring on high, the trees began thrashing about, huge raindrops started pounding sharply on the leaves and splashing over them, lightning flashed and thunder exploded. The rain fell in torrents. I went at a walking pace and was soon obliged to stop because my horse had got stuck and I couldn’t see a thing. Somehow or other I found shelter by a large bush. Hunched down and covering up my face, I was waiting patiently for the storm to end, when suddenly by the light of a lightning flash I thought I saw a tall figure on the road. I began looking intently in that direction and saw that the figure had literally sprung from the earth just beside my droshky.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked a loud voice.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the local forester.’

  I named myself.

  ‘Ah, I know you. On your way home, are you?’

  ‘Yes. But you can see, what a storm…’

  ‘Yes, a storm,’ the voice responded.

  A white lightning flash lit up the forester from head to toe. A crackling thunderclap followed immediately afterwards. The rain beat down with redoubled force.

  ‘It’ll not be over soon,’ the forester went on.

  ‘What’s to be done?’

  ‘Let me lead you to my cottage,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Kindly take your seat.’

  He went up to the head of the horse, took hold of the bridle and gave a tug. We set off. I clung to the cushion on the droshky which swayed ‘like a boat on the waves’1 and called to my dog. My poor mare splashed about heavily in the mud, slipping and stumbling, while the forester hovered to right and left in front of the shafts like a ghost. We travelled for quite a long while until my guide finally came to a stop.

  ‘Here we are at home, sir,’ he said in a calm voice.

  The garden gate creaked and several dogs started barking in unison. I raised my head and saw by the light of a lightning flash a small cottage set in a large courtyard surrounded by wattle fencing. From one small window a light shone faintly. The forester led the horse up to the porch and banged on the door. ‘Coming! Coming!’ rang out a thin, small voice, followed by a sound of bare feet and the squeaky drawing of the bolt, and a little girl of about twelve, in a shirt tied with selvedge and with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the doorstep.

  ‘Show the gentleman the way,’ he said to the little girl. ‘Meanwhile I’ll put your droshky under cover.’

  She glanced at me and went in. I followed her.

  The forester’s cottage consisted of one room, smoke-blackened, low and bare, without slats for bedding or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barrelled gun and in one corner a pile of rags; beside the stove stood two large jugs. A taper burned on the table, sadly flaring up, then guttering. In the very centre of the cottage hung a cradle tied to the end of a long pole. The little girl extinguished the lantern, seated herself on a tiny bench and began with her right hand to rock the cradle and with her other to adjust the taper. I looked around me and my heart sank, because it’s not a happy experience to enter a peasant cottage at night. The baby in the cradle breathed heavily and quickly.

  ‘Are you all by yourself here?’ I asked the little girl.

  ‘I am,’ she said scarcely audibly.

  ‘You’re the forester’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  The door squeaked and the forester came across the threshold, ducking his head. He lifted the lantern off the floor, went to the table and lit the wick.

  ‘It’s likely you’re not used to just a taper, are you?’ he said and shook his curls.

  I looked at him. I’d rarely seen such a fine figure of a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a splendid physique. Beneath the damp, coarse cloth of his shirt his powerful muscles stood out clearly. A black curly beard covered half his severe, masculine features and beneath broad eyebrows which met in the middle there gazed out small hazel eyes. He lightly placed his hands on his hips and stood in front of me.

  I thanked him and asked him his name.

  ‘I’m called Foma,’ he answered, ‘but I’m nicknamed Loner.’*

  ‘So you’re the one called Loner?’

  I looked at him with redoubled interest. From my Yermolay and others I’d often heard stories about the Loner whom all the local peasants feared like fire. According to them there wasn’t a better master of his job in the world: ‘He won’t let you take so much as a bit o’ brushwood! It doesn’t matter when it is, even at dead o’ night, he’ll be down on you like a ton o’ snow, an’ you’d best not think of puttin’ up a fight – he’s as strong and skilful as a devil! An’ you can’t bribe him, not with drink, not with money, not with any trickery. More’n once there’s good folks’ve tried to drive him off the face of the earth, but he’s not given up.’

  That’s how the local peasants spoke about Loner.

  ‘So you’re Loner,’ I repeated. ‘I’ve heard about you, my friend. They say you won’t let a thing go.’

  ‘I look after my job,’ he answered sombrely. ‘I’m not eating my master’s bread for nothing.’

  He took a chopper from his belt, squatted down on the floor and began to hack out a taper.

  ‘You’ve no lady of the house?’ I asked him.

  ‘No,’ he answered and struck a heavy blow with the chopper.

  ‘She’s dead, is she?’

  ‘No…Yes…She’s dead,’ he added and turned away.

  I said nothing. He raised his eyes and looked at me.

  ‘She ran off with a passer-by, a fellow from the town,’ he pronounced with a cruel smile. The little girl bowed her head. The baby woke up and started crying. The little girl went to the cradle. ‘Here, give him this,’ said Loner, thrusting a dirty feeding bottle into her hand. ‘She even abandoned him,’ he went on in a low voice, pointing at the baby. He went to the door, stopped and turned round.

  ‘You’ll likely, sir,’ he began, ‘not want to eat our bread, but apart from bread I’ve…’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is. I’d light the samovar, only I’ve got no tea…I’ll go out and see how your horse is.’

  He went out and banged the door. I again looked around. The cottage seemed to me even more miserable than before. The bitter odour of stale woodsmoke made it hard for me to breathe. The little girl didn’t move from where she was and didn’t raise her eyes. From time to time she gave the cradle a rock and modestly drew her shirt over her shoulders. Her bare feet hung down motionlessly.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.

  ‘Ulita,’ she said, lowering her sad little face even further.

  The forester came in and sat on the bench.

  ‘The storm’s passing,’ he remarked after a short silence. ‘If you say so, I’ll lead you out of the forest.’

  I rose. Loner picked up his gun and examined the breech-block.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s something going on in the forest…Someone’s felling wood up on Mare’s Ridge,’* he added, in answer to my questioning look.

  ‘Can you hear it from here?’

  ‘Outside I can.’

  We left together. The rain had stopped. In the far distance heavy masses of cloud still crowded together and long streaks of lightning flickered, but above our heads dark-blue patches of sky could be seen here and there and tiny stars twinkled through sparse, swiftly fleeting clouds. The outlines of trees, drenched in rain and shaken by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We started listening. The forester took off his cap and bent his head.

  ‘There!… T
here!’ he said suddenly and pointed. ‘My, what a night he’s chosen for it!’

  I didn’t hear a thing apart from the noise of leaves. Loner led the horse out from under the awning.

  ‘It’s likely,’ he added aloud, ‘I’ll not get there in time.’

  ‘I’ll come with you… Is that all right?’

  ‘All right,’ he answered and put the horse back. ‘We’ll catch him and then I’ll lead you out. Let’s go.’

  We set off, Loner in front and I behind him. God knows how he knew the way, but he stopped only occasionally and then just to listen to the sound of the axe.

  ‘See,’ he hissed through his teeth, ‘d’you hear it? D’you hear it?’

  ‘But where?’

  Loner shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a gully, the wind dropped for a moment and the regular sounds of an axe clearly reached my hearing. Loner looked at me and nodded. We went further through wet bracken and nettles. A muffled and prolonged cracking sound was heard.

  ‘He’s felled it,’ said Loner.

  Meanwhile the sky continued to clear and in the forest it became just a bit brighter. Finally we made our way out of the gully.

  ‘You wait here,’ the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising his gun aloft, disappeared among the bushes. I began listening intensely. Through the wind’s constant noise I thought I heard such faint sounds as an axe carefully cutting off branches, the creaking of wheels and the snorting of a horse.

  ‘Where’re you going? Stop!’ the iron voice of Loner suddenly cried out.

  Another voice cried out plaintively, like a trapped hare. Then a struggle ensued.

  ‘Li-ar! Li-ar!’ asserted Loner, breathing hard. ‘You’ll not get away…’

  I dashed off in the direction of the noise and, stumbling at each step, ran to the site of the struggle. The forester was busy with something on the ground beside a felled tree: he was holding the thief under him and twisting his arm round his back with a belt. I approached. Loner straightened up and set the other on his feet. I saw a peasant all damp and in tatters, with a long straggly beard. A wretched little horse, half-covered by an awkward piece of matting, also stood there along with the flat cart. The forester didn’t say a word, the peasant also. He merely shook his head.