Sketches From a Hunter's Album
And the guiltless guilty party jogged along behind his back at a servile trot… But there was no pity in Chertopkhanov’s heart.
xv
Not far from the edge of the forest where he led his horse there was a small ravine half overgrown with oak trees. Chertopkhanov descended into it. Malek Adel stumbled and nearly fell on him.
‘So you want to crush me, you damned animal!’ shrieked Chertopkhanov and, literally as if he were defending himself, whipped the pistol out of his pocket.
He felt no bitterness but only that particular wooden feeling which, so they say, seizes hold of a man before the commission of a crime. But the sound of his own voice frightened him because it sounded so wild under the canopy of dark branches, in the rotten and fetid rawness of the wooded ravine. What’s more, in response to his shriek some large bird suddenly started fluttering in a tree-top above his head. Chertopkhanov shuddered. It was just as if he’d alerted a witness to his deed – but where exactly? In, of all places, this back-of-beyond where he shouldn’t have come across a single living soul…
‘Be off, you devil, to all four corners of the earth!’ he muttered through his teeth and, letting go Malek Adel’s halter, struck him hard on the shoulder with the butt of his pistol. Malek Adel immediately turned back, scrambled up out of the ravine and ran off. But the sound of his hoofs couldn’t be heard for long. A wind that had sprung up blurred and smoothed out every sound.
In his turn Chertopkhanov slowly climbed out of the ravine, came to the edge of the forest and set off on the road home. He was dissatisfied with himself. The heaviness which he’d felt in his head and heart was spreading to all his limbs. He walked along angry, gloomy, dissatisfied and hungry just as if someone had done him an injury or seized his catch from him, taken away his food…
A suicide who has been prevented from committing suicide knows such feelings.
Suddenly something struck him from behind, between the shoulders. He glanced round and saw Malek Adel standing in the middle of the road. He’d followed behind his master and he’d touched him with his muzzle. He’d let it be known that he was there…
‘Ah!’ shouted Chertopkhanov. ‘It’s you, you’ve come for your own death! So be it!’
In the twinkling of an eye he whipped out his pistol, cocked it, pressed the barrel to Malek Adel’s forehead and fired.
The poor horse shied away to one side, reared up on its hind legs, jumped ten or so paces back and suddenly collapsed heavily and started wheezing, going into convulsions on the ground.
Chertopkhanov covered both ears with his hands and ran off. His knees were bending under him. The drunkenness and the anger and the unquestioning self-assurance – all had vanished at a stroke. There remained only a feeling of shame and outrage – and an awareness, a clear awareness, that on this occasion he’d done for himself as well.
XVI
About six weeks later the servant-boy Perfishka considered it his duty to stop the local constable as he rode past the Unsleepy Hollow estate.
‘Whaddya want?’ asked the guardian of the law.
‘Please, your ’onour, come an’ see us,’ answered the servant-boy with a low bow. ‘It seems like Panteley Yeremeich’s gettin’ ready to die. That’s what I’m ‘fraid it is.’
‘What’s that? Ready to die?’ cross-examined the constable.
‘Yes, sir. First he was all day drinkin’ vodka, an’ now he’s laid down in ’is bed, an’ very thin he is. I don’t think he’s able to understand anything now. Not a word from ’im.’
The constable got down from his cart.
‘Leastways, have you been to fetch the priest? Has your master made his confession? Has he received communion?’
‘No, sir.’
The constable frowned.
‘How can that be, boy? Surely that can’t be right, eh? Or perhaps you’re not knowing that for that… there’s a grave responsibility, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, I asked ’im the day before yesterday and yesterday I asked,’ agreed the chastened servant-boy, ‘wouldn’t he want me, I asked, Panteley Yeremeich, wouldn’t he want me to go for the priest. “Shut up, you fool,” he said. “Don’t stick your nose in where it’s not wanted!” An’ today, as soon as I started tellin’ ’im something he just looked at me an’ twitched his whiskers.’
‘And did he drink a lot of vodka?’
‘Gallons! Your ’onour, please be good enough to go an’ see ’im in ‘is room.’
‘Well, lead the way!’ exclaimed the constable and followed behind Perfishka.
An astonishing sight greeted him.
In the back room of the house, dank and dark, lying on a threadbare bed covered with a horse cloth and with a tattered old felt cloak for a pillow was Chertopkhanov, no longer looking pale but yellowish-green like a corpse, with sunken eyes under lustrous eyelids and a sharpened but still reddish nose over dishevelled whiskers. He lay there dressed in his invariable old-fashioned caftan with the cartridge pleats on the chest and in wide blue Circassian trousers. The conical Persian hat with the upper part covered in raspberry-coloured cloth covered his forehead right down to his eyebrows. In one hand Chertopkhanov held his hunting crop, in the other an embroidered tobacco pouch, Masha’s last gift to him. On a table next to the bed stood an empty vodka bottle. But at the head of the bed, fastened to the wall with large pins, could be seen two water-colours. One, so far as one could tell, depicted a stout man with a guitar in his hands – presumably Nedopyuskin. The other depicted a galloping horseman… The horse resembled those fairy-tale animals which children draw on walls and fences, but the assiduously shaded dapplings on the horse’s coat and the cartridges on the rider’s chest, the sharp toes to his boots and the enormous whiskers left no room for doubt: it was a picture that strove to show Panteley Yeremeich riding Malek Adel.
The astonished constable didn’t know what to do. A deathly silence reigned in the room. ‘Yes, he’s already dead,’ he thought and in a loud voice he said:
‘Panteley Yeremeich! Eh, Panteley Yeremeich!’
Something quite unusual happened at that moment. Chertopkhanov’s eyes slowly opened, the lightless pupils moved first from right to left, then from left to right and fixed on the visitor and saw him. Something flared momentarily in their murky pallor, the semblance of a gaze appeared in them, the already blue lips gradually parted and there emerged a husky voice, literally a voice from the grave:
‘The hereditary nobleman Panteley Chertopkhanov is dying. Who can stand in his way? He owes no one anything and asks for nothing… Leave him be, good people! Go away!’
The hand holding the riding crop made an attempt to raise itself, but in vain. The lips again came together and the eyes closed. And once again Chertopkhanov lay on his hard bed, flat on his back with his heels together.
‘Let me know when he dies,’ whispered the constable to Perfishka as he went out of the room, ‘and I suggest it’s the right time now to send for the priest. One’s got to observe the right procedures and see he receives the last rites.’
Perfishka went for the priest that very day. And the next morning it fell to his lot to let the constable know that Panteley Yeremeich had died that night.
When he was buried, his coffin was accompanied by two mourners, the servant-boy Perfishka and Moshel Leiba. News of Chertopkhanov’s death had reached the Jew somehow or other and he did not let pass the need to acknowledge his last debt to his benefactor.
LIVING RELIC
Homeland of longsuffering –
Thou art the land of Russia!1
F. Tyutchev
THERE is a French saying which runs: ‘A dry fisherman and a wet hunter have the same sad look.’ Never having had a fondness for catching fish, I am unable to judge what a fisherman must experience at a time of fine, clear weather and to what extent, when the weather is bad, the pleasure afforded him by an excellent catch outweighs the unpleasantness of being wet. But for a hunter rainy weather is a veritable calamity. It was precisely t
o such a calamity that Yermolay and I were subjected during one of our expeditions after grouse in Belev county. The rain did not let up from dawn onwards. The things we did to be free of it! We almost covered our heads completely with our rubber capes and took to standing under trees in order to catch fewer drips – yet the waterproof capes, not to mention the way they interfered with our shooting, let the water through in a quite shameless fashion; and as for standing under trees – true, at first it did seem that there were no drips, but a little later the moisture which had gathered in the foliage suddenly broke its way through and every branch doused us with water as if it were a rainpipe, cold dribbles gathered under my collar and ran down the small of my back… That was the last straw, as Yermolay was fond of saying.
‘No, Pyotr Petrovich,’ he exclaimed eventually, ‘we can’t go on with this! We can’t hunt today. All the scent’s being washed out for the dogs and the guns are misfiring… Phew! What a life!’
‘What do we do, then?’ I asked.
‘This is what. We’ll drive to Alekseyevka. Perhaps you don’t know it, but there’s a small farm of that name belonging to your mother, about five miles away. We can spend the night there, and then tomorrow…’
‘We’ll come back here?’
‘No, not here… I know some places on the other side of Alekseyevka. They’re a lot better than this for grouse!’
I refrained from asking my trusty companion why he had not taken me straightaway to those places, and that very same day we reached the farm belonging to my mother, the very existence of which, I admit, I had not suspected until that moment. The farmhouse had an adjacent cottage of considerable antiquity, but not lived-in and therefore clean; here I spent a reasonably quiet night.
The next day I awoke pretty early. The sun had only just risen and the sky was cloudless. All around glistened with a strong, two-fold brilliance: the brilliance of the youthful rays of morning light and of yesterday’s downpour. While a little cart was being got ready for me, I set off to wander a little way through the small, once fruit-bearing but now wild, orchard, which pressed up on all sides against the cottage with its richly scented, luxuriantly fresh undergrowth. Oh, how delightful it was to be in the open air, under a clear sky in which larks fluttered, whence poured the silver beads of their resonant song! On their wings they probably carried drops of dew, and their singing seemed to be dew-sprinkled in its sweetness. I even removed my cap from my head and breathed in joyfully, lungfuls at a time… On the side of a shallow ravine, close by the wattle fencing, a bee-garden could be seen; a small path led to it, winding like a snake between thick walls of weeds and nettles, above which projected – God knows where they had come from – sharp-tipped stalks of dark-green hemp.
I set off along this path and reached the bee-garden. Next to it there stood a little wattle shed, a so-called amshanik, where the hives are put in winter. I glanced in through the half-open door: it was dark, silent and dry inside, smelling of mint and melissa. In a corner boards had been fixed up and on them, covered by a quilt, a small figure was lying. I turned to go out at once.
‘Master, but master! Pyotr Petrovich!’ I heard a voice say, as faintly, slowly and hoarsely as the rustling of marsh sedge.
I stopped.
‘Pyotr Petrovich! Please come here!’ the voice repeated. It came to me from the corner, from those very boards which I had noticed.
I drew close and froze in astonishment. In front of me there lay a live human being, but what kind of human being was it?
The head was completely withered, of a uniform shade of bronze, exactly resembling the colour of an ancient icon painting; the nose was as thin as a knife-blade; the lips had almost disappeared – only the teeth and eyes gave any gleam of light, and from beneath the kerchief wispy clusters of yellow hair protruded on to the temples. At the chin, where the quilt was folded back, two tiny hands of the same bronze colour slowly moved their fingers up and down like little sticks. I looked more closely and I noticed that not only was the face far from ugly, it was even endowed with beauty, but it seemed awesome none the less and incredible. And the face seemed all the more awesome to me because I could see that a smile was striving to appear on it, to cross its metallic cheeks — was striving and yet could not spread.
‘Master, don’t you recognize me?’ the voice whispered again: it was just like condensation rising from the scarcely quivering lips. ‘But how would you recognize me here! I’m Lukeria… Remember how I used to lead the dancing at your mother’s, at Spasskoye… and how I used to be the leader of the chorus, remember?’
‘Lukeria!’ I cried. ‘Is it you? Is it possible?’
‘It’s me, master — yes, it’s me, Lukeria.’
I had no notion what to say, and in a state of shock I gazed at this dark, still face with its bright, seemingly lifeless eyes fixed upon me. Was it possible? This mummy was Lukeria, the greatest beauty among all the maid servants in our house, tall, buxom, white-skinned and rosy-cheeked, who used to laugh and sing and dance! Lukeria, talented Lukeria, who was sought after by all our young men, after whom I myself used to sigh in secret, I – a sixteen-year-old boy!
‘Forgive me, Lukeria,’ I said at last, ‘but what’s happened to you?’
‘Such a calamity overtook me! Don’t feel squeamish, master, don’t turn your back on my misfortune – sit down on that little barrel, bring it closer, so as you’ll be able to hear me… See how talkative I’ve become!… Well, it’s glad I am I’ve seen you! How ever did you come to be in Alekseyevka?’
Lukeria spoke very quietly and faintly, but without pausing.
‘Yermolay the hunter brought me here. But go on with what you were saying…’
‘About my misfortune, is it? If that’s what you wish, master. It happened to me long, long ago, six or seven years ago. I’d just then been engaged to Vasily Polyakov – remember him, such a fine upstanding man he was, with curly hair, and in service as wine butler at your mother’s house. But by that time you weren’t here in the country any longer – you’d gone off to Moscow for your schooling. We were very much in love, Vasily and I. I couldn’t get him out of my mind; it all happened in the springtime. One night – it wasn’t long to go till dawn – I couldn’t sleep, and there was a nightingale singing in the garden so wonderfully sweetly! I couldn’t bear it, and I got up and went out on to the porch to listen to it. He was pouring out his song, pouring it out… and suddenly I imagined I could hear someone calling me in Vasya’s voice, all quiet like: “Loosha!…” I glanced away to one side and, you know, not awake properly, I slipped right off the porch step and flew down – bang! – on to the ground. And, likely, I hadn’t hurt myself so bad, because – soon I was up and back in my own room. Only it was just like something inside – in my stomach – had broken… Let me get my breath back… Just a moment, master.’
Lukeria fell silent, and I gazed at her with astonishment. What amazed me was the almost gay manner in which she was telling her story, without groans or sighs, never for a moment complaining or inviting sympathy.
‘Ever since that happened,’ Lukeria continued, ‘I began to wither and sicken, and a blackness came over me, and it grew difficult for me to walk, and then I even began to lose control of my legs – I couldn’t stand or sit, I only wanted to lie down all the time. And I didn’t feel like eating or drinking: I just got worse and worse. Your mother, out of the goodness of her heart, had medical people to look at me and sent me to hospital. But no relief for me came of it all. And not a single one of the medicals could even say what kind of an illness it was I had. The things they didn’t do to me, burning my spine with red-hot irons and sitting me in chopped-up ice – and all for nothing. In the end I got completely stiff… So the masters decided there was no good in trying to cure me any more, and because there wasn’t room for a cripple in their house… well, they sent me here – because I have relations here. So here I’m living, as you see.’
Lukeria again fell silent and again endeavoured to smile. r />
‘But this is horrible, this condition you’re in!’ I exclaimed, and not knowing what to add, I asked: ‘What about Vasily Polyakov?’ It was a very stupid question.
Lukeria turned her eyes a little to one side.
‘About Polyakov? He grieved, he grieved – and then he married someone else, a girl from Glinnoye. Do you know Glinnoye? It’s not far from us. She was called Agrafena. He loved me very much, but he was a young man – he couldn’t be expected to remain a bachelor all his life. And what sort of a companion could I be to him? He’s found himself a good wife, who’s a kind woman, and they’ve got children now. He’s steward on the estate of one of the neighbours: your mother released him with a passport, and things are going very well for him, praise be to God.’
‘And you can’t do anything except lie here?’ I again inquired.
‘This is the seventh year, master, that I’ve been lying like this. When it’s summer I lie here, in this wattle hut, and when it begins to get cold – then they move me into a room next to the bath-house. So I lie there, too.’