Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (235 page)

‘Good, good,’ he said; ‘I see your attainments; go now, and rest yourself.’

Within a fortnight Lejeune had gone from this landowner’s to stay with another, a rich and cultivated man. He gained his friendship by his bright and gentle disposition, was married to a ward of his, went into a government office, rose to the nobility, married his daughter to Lobizanyev, a landowner of Orel, and a retired dragoon and poet, and settled himself on an estate in Orel.

It was this same Lejeune, or rather, as he is called now, Frantz Ivanitch, who, when I was there, came in to see Ovsyanikov, with whom he was on friendly terms….

But perhaps the reader is already weary of sitting with me at the

Ovsyanikovs’, and so I will become eloquently silent.

VII

LGOV

‘Let us go to Lgov,’ Yermolaï, whom the reader knows already, said to me one day; ‘there we can shoot ducks to our heart’s content.’

Although wild duck offers no special attraction for a genuine sportsman, still, through lack of other game at the time (it was the beginning of September; snipe were not on the wing yet, and I was tired of running across the fields after partridges), I listened to my huntsman’s suggestion, and we went to Lgov.

Lgov is a large village of the steppes, with a very old stone church with a single cupola, and two mills on the swampy little river Rossota. Five miles from Lgov, this river becomes a wide swampy pond, overgrown at the edges, and in places also in the centre, with thick reeds. Here, in the creeks or rather pools between the reeds, live and breed a countless multitude of ducks of all possible kinds — quackers, half - quackers, pintails, teals, divers, etc. Small flocks are for ever flitting about and swimming on the water, and at a gunshot, they rise in such clouds that the sportsman involuntarily clutches his hat with one hand and utters a prolonged Pshaw! I walked with Yermolaï along beside the pond; but, in the first place, the duck is a wary bird, and is not to be met quite close to the bank; and secondly, even when some straggling and inexperienced teal exposed itself to our shots and lost its life, our dogs were not able to get it out of the thick reeds; in spite of their most devoted efforts they could neither swim nor tread on the bottom, and only cut their precious noses on the sharp reeds for nothing.

‘No,’ was Yermolaï’s comment at last, ‘it won’t do; we must get a boat…. Let us go back to Lgov.’

We went back. We had only gone a few paces when a rather wretched - looking setter - dog ran out from behind a bushy willow to meet us, and behind him appeared a man of middle height, in a blue and much - worn greatcoat, a yellow waistcoat, and pantaloons of a nondescript grey colour, hastily tucked into high boots full of holes, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and a single - barrelled gun on his shoulder. While our dogs, with the ordinary Chinese ceremonies peculiar to their species, were sniffing at their new acquaintance, who was obviously ill at ease, held his tail between his legs, dropped his ears back, and kept turning round and round showing his teeth — the stranger approached us, and bowed with extreme civility. He appeared to be about twenty - five; his long dark hair, perfectly saturated with kvas, stood up in stiff tufts, his small brown eyes twinkled genially; his face was bound up in a black handkerchief, as though for toothache; his countenance was all smiles and amiability.

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he began in a soft and insinuating voice; ‘I am a sportsman of these parts — Vladimir…. Having heard of your presence, and having learnt that you proposed to visit the shores of our pond, I resolved, if it were not displeasing to you, to offer you my services.’

The sportsman, Vladimir, uttered those words for all the world like a young provincial actor in the
rôle
of leading lover. I agreed to his proposition, and before we had reached Lgov I had succeeded in learning his whole history. He was a freed house - serf; in his tender youth had been taught music, then served as valet, could read and write, had read — so much I could discover — some few trashy books, and existed now, as many do exist in Russia, without a farthing of ready money; without any regular occupation; fed by manna from heaven, or something hardly less precarious. He expressed himself with extraordinary elegance, and obviously plumed himself on his manners; he must have been devoted to the fair sex too, and in all probability popular with them: Russian girls love fine talking. Among other things, he gave me to understand that he sometimes visited the neighbouring landowners, and went to stay with friends in the town, where he played preference, and that he was acquainted with people in the metropolis. His smile was masterly and exceedingly varied; what specially suited him was a modest, contained smile which played on his lips as he listened to any other man’s conversation. He was attentive to you; he agreed with you completely, but still he did not lose sight of his own dignity, and seemed to wish to give you to understand that he could, if occasion arose, express convictions of his own. Yermolaï, not being very refined, and quite devoid of ‘subtlety,’ began to address him with coarse familiarity. The fine irony with which Vladimir used ‘Sir’ in his reply was worth seeing.

‘Why is your face tied up? ‘I inquired; ‘have you toothache?’

‘No,’ he answered; ‘it was a most disastrous consequence of carelessness. I had a friend, a good fellow, but not a bit of a sportsman, as sometimes occurs. Well, one day he said to me, “My dear friend, take me out shooting; I am curious to learn what this diversion consists in.” I did not like, of course, to refuse a comrade; I got him a gun and took him out shooting. Well, we shot a little in the ordinary way; at last we thought we would rest I sat down under a tree; but he began instead to play with his gun, pointing it at me meantime. I asked him to leave off, but in his inexperience he did not attend to my words, the gun went off, and I lost half my chin, and the first finger of my right hand.’

We reached Lgov. Vladimir and Yermolaï had both decided that we could not shoot without a boat.

‘Sutchok (
i.e.
the twig) has a punt,’ observed Vladimir, ‘but I don’t know where he has hidden it. We must go to him.’

‘To whom?’ I asked.

‘The man lives here; Sutchok is his nickname.’

Vladimir went with Yermolaï to Sutchok’s. I told them I would wait for them at the church. While I was looking at the tombstones in the churchyard, I stumbled upon a blackened, four - cornered urn with the following inscription, on one side in French: ‘Ci - git Théophile - Henri, Vicomte de Blangy’; on the next; ‘Under this stone is laid the body of a French subject, Count Blangy; born 1737, died 1799, in the 62nd year of his age’: on the third, ‘Peace to his ashes’: and on the fourth: —

   ’Under this stone there lies from France an emigrant.

     Of high descent was he, and also of talent.

     A wife and kindred murdered he bewailed,

     And left his land by tyrants cruel assailed;

     The friendly shores of Russia he attained,

     And hospitable shelter here he gained;

     Children he taught; their parents’ cares allayed:

     Here, by God’s will, in peace he has been laid.’

The approach of Yermolaï with Vladimir and the man with the strange nickname, Sutchok, broke in on my meditations.

Barelegged, ragged and dishevelled, Sutchok looked like a discharged stray house - serf of sixty years old.

‘Have you a boat?’ I asked him.

‘I have a boat,’ he answered in a hoarse, cracked voice; ‘but it’s a very poor one.’

‘How so?’

‘Its boards are split apart, and the rivets have come off the cracks.’

‘That’s no great disaster!’ interposed Yermolaï; ‘we can stuff them up with tow.’

‘Of course you can,’ Sutchok assented.

‘And who are you?’

‘I am the fisherman of the manor.’

‘How is it, when you’re a fisherman, your boat is in such bad condition?’

‘There are no fish in our river.’

‘Fish don’t like slimy marshes,’ observed my huntsman, with the air of an authority.

‘Come,’ I said to Yermolaï, ‘go and get some tow, and make the boat right for us as soon as you can.’

Yermolaï went off.

‘Well, in this way we may very likely go to the bottom,’ I said to Vladimir. ‘God is merciful,’ he answered. ‘Anyway, we must suppose that the pond is not deep.’

‘No, it is not deep,’ observed Sutchok, who spoke in a strange, far - away voice, as though he were in a dream, ‘and there’s sedge and mud at the bottom, and it’s all overgrown with sedge. But there are deep holes too.’

‘But if the sedge is so thick,’ said Vladimir, ‘it will be impossible to row.’

‘Who thinks of rowing in a punt? One has to punt it. I will go with you; my pole is there — or else one can use a wooden spade.’

‘With a spade it won’t be easy; you won’t touch the bottom perhaps in some places,’ said Vladimir.

‘It’s true; it won’t be easy.’

I sat down on a tomb - stone to wait for Yermolaï. Vladimir moved a little to one side out of respect to me, and also sat down. Sutchok remained standing in the same place, his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back, according to the old habit of house - serfs.

‘Tell me, please,’ I began, ‘have you been the fisherman here long?’

‘It is seven years now,’ he replied, rousing himself with a start.

‘And what was your occupation before?’

‘I was coachman before.’

‘Who dismissed you from being coachman?’

‘The new mistress.’

‘What mistress?’

‘Oh, that bought us. Your honour does not know her; Alyona Timofyevna; she is so fat … not young.’

‘Why did she decide to make you a fisherman?’

‘God knows. She came to us from her estate in Tamboff, gave orders for all the household to come together, and came out to us. We first kissed her hand, and she said nothing; she was not angry…. Then she began to question us in order; “How are you employed? what duties have you?” She came to me in my turn; so she asked: “What have you been?” I say, “Coachman.” “Coachman? Well, a fine coachman you are; only look at you! You’re not fit for a coachman, but be my fisherman, and shave your beard. On the occasions of my visits provide fish for the table; do you hear?” … So since then I have been enrolled as a fisherman. “And mind you keep my pond in order.” But how is one to keep it in order?’

‘Whom did you belong to before?’

‘To Sergaï Sergiitch Pehterev. We came to him by inheritance. But he did not own us long; only six years altogether. I was his coachman … but not in town, he had others there — only in the country.’

‘And were you always a coachman from your youth up?’

‘Always a coachman? Oh, no! I became a coachman in Sergaï Sergiitch’s time, but before that I was a cook — but not town - cook; only a cook in the country.’

‘Whose cook were you, then?’

‘Oh, my former master’s, Afanasy Nefeditch, Sergaï Sergiitch’s uncle.

Lgov was bought by him, by Afanasy Nefeditch, but it came to Sergaï

Sergiitch by inheritance from him.’

‘Whom did he buy it from?’

‘From Tatyana Vassilyevna.’

‘What Tatyana Vassilyevna was that?’

‘Why, that died last year in Bolhov … that is, at Karatchev, an old maid…. She had never married. Don’t you know her? We came to her from her father, Vassily Semenitch. She owned us a goodish while … twenty years.’

‘Then were you cook to her?’

‘At first, to be sure, I was cook, and then I was coffee - bearer.’

‘What were you?’

‘Coffee - bearer.’

‘What sort of duty is that?’

‘I don’t know, your honour. I stood at the sideboard, and was called Anton instead of Kuzma. The mistress ordered that I should be called so.’

‘Your real name, then, is Kuzma?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were you coffee - bearer all the time?’

‘No, not all the time; I was an actor too.’