Sketches From a Hunter's Album

  I turned away and began quickly to descend the hill on which Kolotovka is situated. At the foot of this hill there is a broad plain; flooded with murky waves of evening mist, it appeared to be even vaster than it was and seemed to flow into the darkened sky. I was taking large steps down the road alongside the ravine, when suddenly somewhere far off in the plain a boy’s shrill voice cried out. ‘Antropka! Antropka-a-a!’ he shouted with insistent and tearful desperation, prolonging and prolonging the last syllable.

  He was silent for several instants and then resumed his shouting. His voice carried resonantly through the still, lightly dreaming air. At least thirty times he called out Antropka’s name, when suddenly from the opposite end of the wide field, as if from another world, came the hardly audible answer:

  ‘Wh-a-a-a-at?’

  The boy’s voice at once cried out with gleeful spite:

  ‘Come here, you devil pip-sque-e-e-eak!’

  ‘Why-y-y-y?’ the other answered after a short time.

  ‘ ’Cos dad wants to be-e-eat you,’ the second voice hurriedly shouted.

  The second voice made no further reply, and the boy again started calling for Antropka. His shouts, more and more infrequent and faint, still reached my ears by the time it had grown completely dark and I was skirting the edge of the forest which surrounds my little village and lies about three miles from Kolotovka.

  ‘Antropka-a-a!’ still seemed to resound in the air, filled with shades of night.

  PYOTR PETROVICH KARATAEV

  ABOUT five years ago one autumn, on the road from Moscow to Tula, I had to spend almost a whole day in a post house due to a lack of horses. I was returning from hunting and was incautious enough to send my troika on ahead. The post-master, an old man of gloomy character, with hair that hung down to his nose and with small, sleep-filled eyes, answered all my complaints and requests with short-tempered grumbling, angrily slammed the door in my face as if he were bringing down curses on his own calling and, going out on to the porch, swore at the drivers who either slowly dragged their way through the mud with heavy items of harness in their arms or sat on a bench, yawning and scratching themselves and not giving any particular attention to the angry exclamations of their boss. I’d already drunk tea on three occasions, tried several times without success to have a snooze and read all the announcements on the windows and the walls and was bored to death. With unfeeling and hopeless despair I gazed at the raised shafts of my tarantass when suddenly a harness-bell started tinkling and a small cart drawn by a troika of worn-out horses stopped in front of the porch. The new arrival jumped down from the cart and with a cry of ‘Horses! Step lively there!’ entered the room.

  While he was listening with the usual strange astonishment to the post-master saying that there weren’t any horses, I managed, with all the greedy curiosity of a bored man, to survey my new companion from head to toe. To all appearances he seemed to be in his late twenties. Smallpox had left ineradicable traces on his face, which was dry-skinned and yellowish with an unpleasant coppery tinge to it. His long blue-black hair lay in rings over his collar at the back, while in front it was twisted into fancy curls. His small puffy eyes gazed out – and that’s all one can say about them. A few small hairs were prominent on his upper lip. He was dressed like an out-and-out landowning type, a frequenter of horse fairs, in a colourful, rather greasy coat, a faded silk cravat of a mauve colour, a waistcoat with copper buttons and grey trousers with enormous bell-bottoms beneath which the tips of his unpolished shoes were only just visible. He emitted a strong smell of tobacco and vodka. Silver and Tulamade rings could be seen on his stubby, red fingers, almost covered by his coat sleeves. Such figures can be encountered not by the dozen but by the hundreds in Russia. Acquaintanceship with them, it has to be said, does not afford any pleasure, but despite the prejudice with which I studied the new arrival I couldn’t help noticing the unheedingly kind and passionate look on his face.

  ‘This gentleman here’s been waiting for more than an hour, sir,’ said the post-master, pointing to me.

  More than an hour, indeed! The villain was having a laugh at my expense.

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t need them as badly as we do,’ answered the new arrival.

  ‘That, sir, we cannot know, sir,’ said the post-master gloomily.

  ‘So you can’t do a thing? There are absolutely no horses?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir. There’s not a single horse.’

  ‘Well, then, have the samovar brought in for me. If we’ve got to wait, there’s nothing to be done about it.’

  The new arrival sat down on a bench, threw his cap on the table and ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘You’ve already had some tea to drink?’ he asked me.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Would you care to have some more just for the company?’

  I agreed. The large reddish samovar appeared on the table for the fourth time. I got out a bottle of rum. I wasn’t mistaken in taking my companion for a small-time landowner. He was called Pyotr Petrovich Karataev.

  We started talking. Scarcely half an hour had passed since his arrival and he’d already told me the story of his life with the most good-natured candour.

  ‘Now I’m on my way to Moscow,’ he told me, finishing his fourth glass. ‘There’s nothing left for me here in the country.’

  ‘Why nothing?’

  ‘Just that – there’s nothing left. The estate’s in a mess, I’ve got to admit, and I’ve ruined the peasants. Bad years’ve arrived, what with harvest failures and, you know, various misfortunes. Besides,’ he added, glancing away despondently, ‘I’m no good at managing!’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Look,’ he interrupted me, ‘a fine owner I am! I mean,’ he went on, twisting his head to one side and busily sucking at his pipe, ‘you might think, taking a look at me as I am now, that I, well… and yet I’ve got to confess I received an ordinary sort of education because there wasn’t a lot of money about. You must forgive me, I’m an honest sort of chap and after all…’

  He didn’t finish what he was saying and gave a wave of the hand. I began assuring him he was wrong, that I was very glad we’d met and so on, and then I remarked that one didn’t need too strong an education to manage an estate, or so it would seem.

  ‘Sure,’ he responded. ‘I agree with you. But at least something’s needed, like a special disposition. Some fleece the peasant like nobody’s business and get away with it, but I… Permit me to inquire, are you yourself from Peter or Moscow?’

  ‘I’m from St Petersburg.’

  He emitted a long stream of smoke through his nostrils.

  ‘I’m off to Moscow to enter the civil service.’

  ‘Where do you intend to find a place?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever comes along. I confess to you I’m frightened of joining because you’re instantly responsible to someone. I’ve lived all the time in the country, got used to it, you know… Still, there’s nothing to be done about it – necessity demands! Oh, what this necessity does to me!’

  ‘No matter, you’ll be living in the capital.’

  ‘In the capital… Well, I don’t know what’ll be good about that. We’ll see, perhaps it’ll be good. But I don’t think there can be anything better than the country.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t live any longer in the country?’

  He gave a sigh.

  ‘It’s impossible. My estate’s now no longer my own.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘A kind chap there, my neighbour, has acquired it… an IOU…’

  Poor Pyotr Petrovich ran his hand across his face, thought a moment and shook his head.

  ‘Well, that’s all there is to it!… And I’ve got to confess,’ he added after a short silence, ‘I can’t blame anyone, it’s all my own fault. I liked making a bit of a show! I still do like making a bit of a show, devil take it!’

  ‘You had a good time when you lived in the country?’ I asked him.


  ‘I had in my possession, sir,’ he answered, pausing between the words and looking me directly in the eyes, ‘a dozen pair of hunting dogs,1 the like of which, I’ll tell you, there can’t be many.’ (He practically sang out this last word.) ‘They’d be on to a hare in an instant, and as for red deer – like snakes they were, absolute vipers. And I could boast of my borzoi as well. Now it’s all a matter of the past, there’s no point in telling tales. I also went hunting with a gun. I had a dog called Contessa, an exceptional pointer she was, she’d fetch anything with her sixth sense. Say I’d come to a marsh, and I’d tell her: charge! If she didn’t start seeking, you could send a dozen dogs through there and you’d be wasting your time, you wouldn’t find a thing! But if she did, she’d gladly die on the spot!… And at home she was so polite. You’d give her a piece of bread with your left hand and say: “A Jew’s eaten that,” and she wouldn’t take it, but give it her with your right hand and say: “A young lady’s eaten that,” she’d take it at once and eat it. I had a puppy from her, an excellent puppy, and wanted to bring it with me to Moscow, but a friend of mine asked me to give it him along with my gun. He said: “You won’t be needing that in Moscow, my dear chap. There’ll be quite different things going on in Moscow, my dear fellow.” So I let him have the puppy and my gun. It’s all remained behind there, you see.’

  ‘But even in Moscow you could go shooting.’

  ‘No, what’d be the point? I couldn’t restrain myself, so now I’ve just got to bide my time. But it’d be better if you could tell me, is life in Moscow expensive?’

  ‘No, not too expensive.’

  ‘Not too expensive? Then tell me, please, do gypsies live in Moscow?’

  ‘What kind of gypsies?’

  ‘The kind that travel round the horse fairs.’

  ‘Yes, in Moscow…’

  ‘Well, that’s splendid. I love gypsies, the devil take ’em, I love ’em…’

  And Pyotr Petrovich’s eyes flashed with daredevil happiness. But suddenly he twisted about on the bench, then grew thoughtful, lowered his head and held out to me his empty glass.

  ‘Give me a drop of your rum,’ he said.

  ‘The tea’s run out, you know.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll have it like that, without tea… Oh, hell!’

  Karataev placed his head in his arms and leaned his elbows on the table. I watched him in silence and waited for those emotional outbursts, those tears even, of which drunkards are so prodigal, but when he raised his head what struck me, I confess, was the profoundly sad expression on his face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing… I was just remembering old times. It’s a long story. I’d tell you, only I don’t want to take up your time…’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Yes,’ he went on with a sigh, ‘there are instances… Take, for instance, my case. If you like I’ll tell you. Still, I don’t know…’

  ‘Tell me, my dear Pyotr Petrovich.’

  ‘May be, though it’s… Well, you see,’ he began, ‘but really I don’t know if I should…’

  ‘That’s enough shilly-shallying, my dear Pyotr Petrovich.’

  ‘Well, probably. This, then, is what happened in my case, so to speak. I was living in the country, sir. Suddenly a girl caught my eye, oh, what a girl she was – good-looking, clever and as kind-hearted as you can imagine! Her name was Matryona. She was a simple girl, a peasant girl, you understand, no more’n a serf. And she wasn’t mine but somebody else’s, that was the problem. Well, I fell in love with her – it’s an old story, true – and she fell in love with me. So she starts begging me: buy me from my mistress. And I’d been thinking about the same thing myself. But her mistress was rich, a really frightful old woman. She lived about ten miles away from me. Well, one fine day, as they say, I ordered my droshky to be harnessed with three horses – between the shafts went my ambling horse, an unusually barbarous animal, which is why he was called Lampurdos – and I dressed up in my best clothes and set off to see Matryona’s mistress. I arrived and found a large house with wings and a garden… At the turn in the road Matryona was waiting for me and had wanted to say something to me, but simply kissed my hand and stepped back. So I went into the entrance and asked: “Is there anyone home?” And a tall footman then asked me: “How shall I announce you, sir?” I said: “Announce, my dear fellow, that the landowner Karataev has arrived to discuss a matter of business.” The footman went off. I waited about and wondered whether anything’d come of it. Very likely the old woman’d demand a frightfully high price, since she wasn’t rich for nothing. She’d very likely ask about 500 roubles, I thought. Then the footman returned and said: “Follow me, please.” I followed him into a drawing-room. There sitting in an armchair was a tiny, yellowish old woman blinking her eyes all the time. “What can I do for you?” The first thing I considered necessary, you know, was to say how glad I was to make her acquaintance, so to speak. “You are mistaken, I’m not the mistress here but her relative… What can I do for you?” I remarked to her at once that I had something to discuss with the mistress. “Marya Ilinichna is not receiving today. She is unwell. What can I do for you?” Well, I thought, it’s no good, I’ll have to explain everything to her. The old woman heard me out. “Matryona, what Matryona?” “Matryona Fyodorova, Kulik’s daughter.” “Fyodor Kulik’s daughter… How do you come to know her?” “In a chance manner.” “Is she aware of your intentions?” “She is.” The old woman was silent for a while. “Well, I’ll give her what for, the good-for-nothing!” I was astonished, I can tell you. “Why d’you say that? I’m prepared to offer money for her. Just name the sum please.” The old hag literally started hissing. “Surprise, surprise, a lot of good your money’ll do us! Just let me get my hands on her, just let me, I’ll soon knock the nonsense out of her!” The old woman burst out coughing in her annoyance. “So she doesn’t like it here, is that it? Oh, the little she-devil, God forgive me for saying such a thing!” I can tell you I lost my temper at that. “What’re you threatening the poor girl for? What’s she done wrong?” The old woman crossed herself. “Oh, you can say that, my God, Jesus Christ! Can’t I treat my serfs just as I wish?” “But she’s not yours!” “Well, Marya Ilinichna knows all about that. It’s none of your business, my good man. But I’ll just show that Matryoshka whose serf she is!” I can tell you I almost flung myself on to the old woman, but I remembered Matryona and let my hands fall to my sides. I felt so chastened, I can’t tell you, and began pleading with the old woman. “Take whatever you want.” “What’s she mean to you?” “I’m fond of her, my dear lady. See the position I’m in and permit me to kiss your charming hand!” And I literally kissed the hand of the old witch! “Well,” mumbled the old witch, “I’ll tell Marya Ilinichna. It’ll be up to her. You come back here in two days’ time.” I returned home in a state of great unease. I was beginning to sense that I’d got things wrong and had let my feelings be known for nothing and then had realized my mistake too late. A couple of days later I set off to see the lady again. They showed me into her boudoir. A mass of flowers everywhere, splendid furnishings, and she herself was sitting in such a strange-looking armchair and her head resting back on cushions; and the relative who’d been there last time was also sitting there, as well as some other white-haired lady in a green dress, with a lopsided mouth – I guessed she was a companion. “Please be seated,” said the old lady nasally. I sat down. She started asking me how old I was, where I’d done my government service, what I was intending to do – and all in a high-and-mighty, self-important way. I answered everything in detail. The old lady seized a handkerchief from a table and started fanning herself with it. “Katerina Karpovna,” she said, “has informed me of your intentions, but I have made it a rule not to allow my servants to be released for service elsewhere. It is not decent, and it is unsuitable for an orderly home: it is disorderly. I have already dealt with the matter,” she said, “so you won’t be bothered any more.” “Bothered, but?
?? D’you need Matryona Fyodorova?” “No,” she said, “I don’t need her.” “Then why don’t you want to let her come to me?” “Because I don’t have a mind to, I don’t want to, and that’s final. I’ve already dealt with the matter: she’s been sent away to a steppe village.” That struck me like a thunderclap. The old lady spoke a couple of words in French to the green lady and the green lady left. “I am a woman,” she said, “of strict rules and my health is weak. I can’t endure upsets of any kind. You’re still a young man, but I’m an old woman and I’ve earned the right to give you some advice. Surely you’d be better off settling down, marrying, looking for a good match. Rich brides are rare, but it’s possible to find some poor girl, though of good morals.” You know, I stared at the old lady and didn’t understand a thing she was babbling about. I heard her saying something about marriage, but what rang in my ears was what she’d said about a steppe village. Get married! Devil take that!’

  At this point the narrator suddenly stopped in what he was saying and looked at me.

  ‘You’re not married, are you?’