May Herod
confound
your soul!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v26 - Tur to Wat
»
“Yes, ever since. How dreadful she is now! But they say
she was a beauty before then. The water-spirit bewitched her.
I suppose he did not expect they would get her out so soon.
So down there at the bottom he bewitched her. ”
(I had met this Akulina more than once.
Covered with rags,
fearfully thin, with face as black as a coal, blear-eyed and for
ever grinning, she would stay whole hours in one place in the
road, stamping with her feet, pressing her feshless hands to
her breast, and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a
wild beast in a cage.
She understood nothing that was said to
her, and only chuckled spasmodically from time to time. )
“But they say,” continued Kostya, «that Akulina threw her-
self into the river because her lover had deceived her. ”
“Yes, that was it. ”
"And do you remember Vasya ? ” added Kostya mournfully.
“What Vasya ? ” asked Fedya.
«Why, the one who was drowned,” replied Kostya, «in this
very river. Ah, what a boy he was! What a boy he was!
, His
mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And she seemed
to have •a foreboding, Feklista did, that harm would come to him
from the water. Sometimes when Vasya went with us boys in
the summer to bathe in the river, she used to be trembling all
The other women did not mind; they passed by with
the pails and went on: but Feklista put her pail down on the
ground, and set to calling him, Come back, come back, my lit-
tle joy; come back, my darling! And no one knows how he
was drowned. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was
there haymaking; suddenly she hears, as though some one was
blowing bubbles through the water, and behold! there was only
Vasya's little cap to be seen swimming on the water. You know
since then Feklista has not been right in her mind: she goes and
lies down at the place where he was drowned; she lies down,
brothers, and sings a song; — you remember Vasya was always
singing a song like that, so she sings it too, and weeps and
weeps, and bitterly rails against God. ”
“Here is Pavlusha coming,” said Fedya.
Pavel came up to the fire with a full pot in his hand.
C
over.
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»
«Boys,” he began after a short silence, something bad hap-
pened. ”
«Oh, what ? ” asked Kostya hurriedly.
"I heard Vasya's voice. ”
They all seemed to shudder.
“What do you mean? What do you mean? ” stammered
Kostya.
“I don't know. Only I went to stoop down to the water;
suddenly I hear my name called in Vasya's voice, as though it
came from below water: Pavlusha, Pavlusha, come here. I
came away.
But I fetched the water, though. "
"Ah, God have mercy upon us! ” said the boys, crossing them-
selves.
“It was the water-spirit calling you, Pavel,” said Fedya: “we
were just talking of Vasya. ”
"Ah, it's a bad omen,” said Ilyusha deliberately.
“Well, never mind, don't bother about it,” Pavel declared
stoutly, and he sat down again: “no one can escape his fate. ”
The boys were still. It was clear that Pavel's words had pro-
duced a strong impression on them. They began to lie down
before the fire, as though preparing to go to sleep.
“What is that? ” asked Kostya, suddenly lifting his head.
Pavel listened.
It's the curlews flying and whistling. ”
«Where are they flying to ? ”
« To a land where, they say, there is no winter. ”
« But is there such a land ? »
« Yes. ”
"Is it far away? "
Far, far away, beyond the warm seas. ”
Kostya sighed and shut his eyes.
More than three hours had passed since I first came across
the boys. The moon at last had risen; I did not notice it at
first, it was such a tiny crescent. This moonless night was as
solemn and hushed as it had been at first. But already many
stars that not long before had been high up in the heavens,
were setting over the earth's dark rim: everything around was
perfectly still, as it is only still towards morning; all was sleeping
the deep unbroken sleep that comes before daybreak. Already
the fragrance in the air was fainter; once more a dew seemed
falling.
XXV1-945
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How short are nights in summer! The boys' talk died down
when the fires did. The dogs even were dozing; the horses, so
far as I could make out, in the hardly perceptible, faintly shining
light of the stars, were asleep with downcast heads. I fell into
a state of weary unconsciousness, which passed into sleep.
THẺ SINGERS
WE
From A Sportsman's Sketches)
HEN I went into the Welcome Resort, a fairly large party
were already assembled there.
In his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up
the entire opening in the partition, stood Nikolai Ivan'itch in a
striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured
out with his plump white hand two glasses of spirits for the
Blinkard and the Gabbler as they came in: behind him, in a
corner near the window, could be seen his sharp-eyed wife. In
the middle of the room was standing Yashka the Turk, -a
thin, graceful fellow of three-and-twenty, dressed in a long-skirted
coat of blue nankin. He looked a smart factory hand; and could
not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His
hollow cheeks, his large restless gray eyes, his straight nose with
its delicate mobile nostrils, his pale-brown curls brushed back
over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, expressive
lips, and his whole face, betrayed a passionate and sensitive
nature. He was in a state of great excitement: he blinked, iris
breathing was hurried, his hands shook as though in fever, and
he was really in a fever — that sudden fever of excitement which
is so well known to all who have to speak and sing before an
audience. Near him stood a man of about forty, with broad
shoulders and broad jaws, with a low forehead, narrow Tartar
eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and shining black hair
coarse as bristles. The expression of his face - a swarthy face,
with a sort of leaden hue in it — and especially of his pale lips,
might almost have been called savage, if it had not been so still
and dreamy. He hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly
about him like a bull under the yoke. He was dressed in a sort
of surtout, not over new, with smooth brass buttons; an old black-
silk handkerchief was twisted round his immense neck.
called the Wild Master.
He was
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-
Right opposite him, on a bench under the holy pictures, was
sitting Yashka's rival, the booth-keeper from Zhizdry; he was
a short, stoutly built man about thirty, pock-marked and curly-
headed, with a blunt, turn-up nose, lively brown eyes, and a
scanty beard. He looked keenly about him; and sitting with
his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his legs and
tapping with his feet, which were encased in . stylish top-boots
with a colored edging. He wore a new thin coat of gray cloth,
- with a plush collar in sharp contrast with the crimson shirt
below,- buttoned close across the chest. In the opposite corner,
to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow,
shabby smock-frock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. The
sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish streak through the dusty
panes of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it strug-
gled in vain with the habitual darkness of the room: all . the
objects in it were dimly - as it were patchily — lighted up. On
the other hand, it was almost cool in the room; and the sense of
stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly I crossed
the threshold.
My entrance, I could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting
to Nikolai Ivan'itch's customers; but observing that he greeted
me as a friend, they were reassured, and took no more notice of
me. I asked for some beer, and sat down in the corner, near the
peasant in the ragged smock.
“Well, well,” piped the Gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of
spirits at one gulp, and accompanying his exclamation with the
strange gesticulations without' which he seemed unable to utter
a single word: “what are we waiting for?
If we're going
to begin, then begin. Hey, Yashka ? »
"Begin, begin," chimed in Nikolai Ivan'itch approvingly.
"Let's begin, by all means," observed the booth-keeper coolly,
with a self-confident smile: “I'm ready. ”
"And I'm ready,” Yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with
excitement.
« Well, begin, lads,” whined the Blinkard. But in spite of the
unanimously expressed desire, neither began; the booth-keeper did
not even get up from the bench: they all seemed to be waiting
for something
Begin! ” said the Wild Master sharply and sullenly. Yashka
started. The booth-keeper pulled down his girdle and cleared his
throat.
(
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»
»
But who's to begin ? ” he inquired in a slightly changed
voice, of the Wild Master, who still stood motionless in the mid-
dle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart, and his powerful
arms thrust up to the elbow into his breeches pockets.
"You, you, booth-keeper,” stammered the Gabbler; "you, to
be sure, brother. ”
The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The
Gabbler gave a faint squeak, in confusion looked away at the
ceiling, twitched his shoulder, and said no more.
Cast lots,” the Wild Master pronounced emphatically; "and
the pot on the table. ”
Nikolai Ivan'itch bent down, and with a gasp picked up the
pot of beer from the floor, and set it on the table.
The Wild Master glanced at Yakov, and said, “Come. ”
Yakov fumbled in his pockets, took out a halfpenny, and
marked it with his teeth. The booth-keeper pulled from under
the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, deliberately untied
the string, and shaking out a quantity of small change into his
hand, picked out a new halfpenny. The Gabbler held out his
dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped
his halfpenny in, and the booth-keeper his.
«You must pick out one,” said the Wild Master, turning to
the Blinkard.
The Blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands,
and began shaking it.
For an instant a profound silence reigned; the halfpennies
clinked faintly, jingling against each other. I looked around
attentively: every face wore an expression of intense expecta-
tion; the Wild Master himself showed signs of uneasiness; my
neighbor even, the peasant in the tattered smock, craned his neck
inquisitively. The Blinkard put his hand into the cap and took
out the booth-keeper's halfpenny; every one drew a long breath.
Yakovflushed, and the booth-keeper passed his hand over his
hair.
« There, I said you'd begin,” cried the Gabbler; "didn't I say
(
>
(
So ? »
“There, there, don't cluck,” remarked the Wild Master con-
temptuously. "Begin,” he went on, with a nod to the booth-
keeper.
“What song am I to sing ? ” asked the booth-keeper, begin-
ning to be nervous.
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“What you choose," answered the Blinkard; "sing what you
think best. ”
“What you choose, to be sure,” Nikolai Ivan'itch chimed in,
slowly smoothing his hand on his breast; "you're quite at liberty
about that. Sing what you like; only sing well: and we'll give a
fair decision afterwards. ”
"A fair decision, of course," put in the Gabbler, licking the
edge of his empty glass.
“Let me clear my throat a bit, mates," said the booth-keeper,
fingering the collar of his coat.
“Come, come, no nonsense — begin! ” protested the Wild Mas-
ter, and he looked down.
The booth-keeper thought a minute, shook his head, and
stepped forward. Yakov's eyes were riveted upon him.
But before I enter upon a description of the contest itself, I
think it will not be amiss to say a few words about each of the
personages taking part in my story. The lives of some of them
were known to me already when I met them in the Welcome
Resort; I collected some facts about the others later on.
Let us begin with the Gabbler. This man's real name was
Evgraf Ivanovitch; but no one in the whole neighborhood knew
him as anything but the Gabbler, and he himself referred to
himself by that nickname, so well did it fit him. Indeed, noth-
ing could have been more appropriate to his insignificant, ever-
restless features. He was a dissipated, unmarried house-serf,
whose own masters had long ago got rid of him; and who, with-
out any employment, without earning a halfpenny, found means
to get drunk every day at other people's expense. He had a
great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of
spirits and tea, though they could not have said why they did so
themselves; for far from being entertaining in company, he bored
every one with his meaningless chatter, his insufferable familiar-
ity, his spasmodic gestures, and incessant, unnatural laugh. He
could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever or even
a sensible thing in his life; he chattered away, telling lies about
everything — a regular Gabbler! And yet not a single drinking-
party for thirty miles around took place without his lank figure
turning up among the guests; so that they were used to him by
now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. They all,
it is true, treated him with contempt; but the Wild Master was
the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check.
>
## p. 15110 (#46) ###########################################
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-
The Blinkafd was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nick-
name, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking
than other people: it is a well-known fact that the Russian peas-
ants have a talent for finding good nicknames. In spite of my
endeavors to get more detailed information about this man's past,
many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to
me, and probably to many other people: episodes buried, as the
bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. I could only find out
that he was once a coachman in the service of an old childless
lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge
of; had been lost for a whole year: and, no doubt convinced by
experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a wandering life,
he had gone back, a cripple, and Aung himself at his mistress's
feet. He succeeded in a few years in smoothing over his offense
by his exemplary conduct; and gradually getting higher in her
favor, at last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff,
and on his mistress's death turned out — in what way was never
known - to have received his freedom. He got admitted into
the class of tradesmen; rented patches of market garden from
the neighbors; grew rich, and now was living in ease and com-
fort. He was a man of experience, who knew on which side his
bread was buttered; was more actuated by prudence than by
either good or ill nature; had knocked about, understood men,
and knew how to turn them to his own advantage.
He was
cautious, and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; though
he was as fond of gossip as an old woman, he never let out his
own affairs, while he made every one else talk freely of theirs.
He did not affect to be a simpleton, though, as so many crafty
men of his sort do: indeed, it would have been difficult for him
to take any one in, in that way; I have never seen a sharper,
keener pair of eyes than his tiny cunning little "peepers,” as
they call them in Orel. They were never simply looking about;
they were always looking one up and down and through and
through. The Blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks to-
gether over some apparently simple undertaking; and again he
would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which
one would fancy would bring him to ruin. But it would be
sure to turn out all right: everything would go smoothly. He
was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens.
He was exceedingly superstitious in general. He was not liked,
because he would have nothing much to do with any one; but
1
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a
he was respected. His whole family consisted of one little son,
whom he idolized, and who, brought up by such a father, is
,
likely to get on in the world. « Little Blinkard 'll be his father
over again,” is said of him already, in undertones, by the old
men, as they sit on their mud walls gossiping on summer even-
ings; and every one knows what that means,—there is no need
to say more.
As to Yashka the Turk, and the booth-keeper, there is no
need to say much about them. Yakov — called the Turk because
he actually was descended from a Turkish woman, a prisoner
from the war — was by nature an artist in every sense of the
word; and by calling, a ladler in a paper factory belonging to a
merchant. As for the booth-keeper, his career, I must own, I
know nothing of; he struck me as being a smart townsman of
the tradesman class, ready to turn his hand to anything. But the
Wild Master calls for a more detailed account.
The first impression the sight of this man produced on you
was a sense of coarse, heavy, irresistible power. He was clum.
sily built, "shambler,” as they say about us: but there was
an air of triumphant vigor about him; and strange to say, his
bear-like figure was not without a certain grace of its own, pro-
ceeding perhaps from his absolutely placid confidence in his own
strength. It was hard to decide at first to what class this Her-
cules belonged: he did not look like a house-serf, nor a trades-
man, nor an impoverished clerk out of work, nor a small ruined
land-owner such as takes to being a huntsman or a fighting man:
he was, in fact, quite individual. No one knew where he came
from, or what brought him into our district: it was said that he
came of free peasant-proprietor stock, and had once been in the
government service somewhere, but nothing positive was known
about this; and indeed there was no one from whom one could
learn,- certainly not from him: he was the most silent and mo-
rose of men. So much so that no one knew for certain what he
lived on: he followed no trade, visited no one, associated with
scarcely any one; yet he had money to spend; little enough, it is
true, still he had some. In his behavior he was not exactly
retiring - retiring was not a word that could be applied to him:
he lived as though he noticed no one about him, and cared for
no one.
The Wild Master (that was the nickname they had given
him; his real name was Perevlyesov) enjoyed an immense influ-
ence in the whole district: he was obeyed with eager promptitude,
-
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IVAN TURGENEFF
though he had no kind of right to give orders to any one, and
did not himself evince the slightest pretension to authority over
the people with whom he came into casual contact.
He spoke —
they obeyed: strength always has an influence of its own. He
scarcely drank at all, had nothing to do with women, and was
passionately fond of singing. There was much that was myste-
rious about this man: it seemed as though vast forces sullenly
reposed within him, knowing as it were, that once roused, once
bursting free, they were bound to crush him and everything they
came in contact with. And I am greatly mistaken if in this
man's life there had not been some such outbreak; if it was not
owing to the lessons of experience, to a narrow escape from ruin,
that he now kept himself so tightly in hand. What especially
struck me in him was the combination of a sort of inborn natural
ferocity with an equally inborn generosity,-a combination I
have never met in any other man.
And so the booth-keeper stepped forward; and half shutting
his eyes, began singing in high falsetto. He had a fairly sweet
and pleasant voice, though rather hoarse; he played with his
voice like a woodlark,etwisting and turning it in incessant rou-
lades and trills up and down the scale, - continually returning
to the highest notes, which he held and prolonged with special
Then he would break off, and again suddenly take up
the first motive with a sort of go-ahead daring. His modulations
were at times rather bold, at times rather comical: they would
have given a connoisseur great satisfaction, and have made a
German furiously indignant. He was a Russian tenore di grazia,
ténor léger. He sang a song to a lively dance-tune; the words
of which — all that I could catch through the endless maze of
variations, ejaculations, and repetitions — were as follows:-
care.
"A tiny patch of land, young lass,
I'll plow for thee,
And tiny crimson flowers, young lass,
I'll sow for thee. ”
He sang: all listened to him with great attention. He seemed
to feel that he had to do with really musical people, and there-
fore was exerting himself to do his best. And they really are
musical in our part of the country: the village of Sergievskoe on
the Orel high-road is deservedly noted throughout Russia for its
harmonious chorus singing. The booth-keeper sang for a long
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»
while without evoking much enthusiasm in his audience,- he
lacked the support of a chorus; but at last, after one particularly
bold flourish, which set even the Wild Master smiling, the Gab-
bler could not refrain from a shout of delight. Every one was
roused. The Gabbler and the Blinkard began joining in in an
undertone, and exclaiming, “Bravely done! Take it, you rogue!
Sing it out, you serpent! Hold it! That shake again, you dog
you!
May Herod confound your soul! ” and so on. Nikolai
Ivan'itch behind the bar was nodding his head from side to side
approvingly. The Gabbler at last was swinging his legs, tapping
with his feet and twitching his shoulder; while Yashka's eyes
fairly glowed like coals, and he trembled all over like a leaf, and
smiled nervously. The Wild Master alone did not change counte-
nance, and stood motionless as before; but his eyes, fastened on
the booth-keeper, looked somewhat softened, though the expression
of his lips was still scornful. Emboldened by the signs of general
approbation, the booth-keeper went off in a whirl of flourishes;
and began to round off such trills, to turn such shakes off his
tongue, and to make such furious play with his throat, that when
at last, pale, exhausted, and bathed in hot perspiration, he uttered
the last dying note, his whole body flung back, a general united
shout greeted him in a violent outburst. The Gabbler threw
himself on his neck, and began strangling him in his long bony.
arms; a flush came out on Nikolai Ivan’itch's oily face, and he
seemed to have grown younger; Yashka shouted like mad, “Cap.
ital, capital! ” Even my neighbor, the peasant in the torn smock,
could not restrain himself; and with a blow of his fist on the
table he cried, "Aha! well done, damn my soul, well done! »
And he spat on one side with an air of decision.
"Well, brother, you've given us a treat! ” bawled the Gabbler,
not releasing the exhausted booth-keeper from his embraces;
"you've given us a treat, there's no denying! You've won, brother,
you've won! I congratulate you — the quart's yours! Yashka's
miles behind you, I tell you; miles — take my word for it. ”
And
again he hugged the booth-keeper to his breast.
“There, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of
you,” said the Blinkard with vexation; let him sit down on the
bench; he's tired, see. - You're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny!
-
What are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for? ”
“Well, then, let him sit down, and I'll drink to his health,”
said the Gabbler, and he went up to the bar. “At your expense,
brother,” he added, addressing the booth-keeper.
»
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The latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of
cloth out of his cap, and began wiping his face; while the Gab-
bler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and with a grunt,
assumed, after the manner of confirmed drinkers, an expression
of careworn melancholy.
“You sing beautifully, brother, beautifully,” Nikolai Ivan'itch
observed caressingly. “And now it's your turn, Yashka; mind,
now, don't be afraid. We shall see who's who; we shall see.
The booth-keeper sings beautifully, though; 'pon my soul, he
does. ”
“Very beautifully,” observed Nikolai Ivan’itch's wife, and she
looked with a smile at Yakov.
“Beautifully, ha! ” repeated my neighbor in an undertone.
“Ah, a wild man of the woods! ” the Gabbler vociferated sud-
denly; and going up to the peasant with the rent on his shoulder,
he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and
went off into an insulting guffaw. "Ha! ha! get along! wild
man of the woods! Here's a ragamuffin from Woodland village!
What brought you here ? ” he bawled amidst laughter.
The poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up
and make off as fast as he could, when suddenly the Wild Master's
iron voice was heard :
« What does the insufferable brute mean? ” he articulated,
grinding his teeth.
"I wasn't doing nothing," muttered the Gabbler. “I didn't-
I only — "
“There, all right, shut up! ” retorted the Wild Master. “Yakov,
begin ! »
Yakov took himself by his throat:
“–
"Well, really, brothers - Something - H'm, I don't know,
on my word, what — »
“Come, that's enough; don't be timid. For shame! why go
back? Sing the best you can, by God's gift. ”
And the Wild Master looked down expectant. Yakov was
silent for a minute; he glanced round, and covered his face with
his hand. All had their eyes simply fastened upon him; especially
the booth-keeper, on whose face a faint, involuntary uneasiness
could be seen through his habitual expression of self-confidence
and the triumph of his success. He leant back against the wall,
and again put both hands under him, but did not swing his legs
as before. When at last Yakov uncovered his face, it was pale
as a dead man's; his eyes gleamed faintly under their drooping
(
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((
lashes. He gave a deep sigh, and began to sing. The first
sound of his voice was faint and unequal, and seemed not to
come from his chest, but to be wafted from somewhere afar off,
as though it had floated by chance into the room. A strange
effect was produced on all of us by this trembling, resonant note:
we glanced at one another, and Nikolai Ivan'itch's wife seemed to
draw herself up. This first note was followed by another, bolder
and prolonged, but still obviously quivering - like a harpstring,
when, suddenly struck by a stray finger, it throbs in a last swiftly
dying tremble; the second was followed by a third; and gradually
gaining fire and breadth, the strains swelled into a pathetic
melody.
“Not one little path ran into the field,” he sang; and sweet
and mournful it was in our ears. I have seldom, I must con-
fess, heard a voice like it: it was slightly hoarse, and not per-
fectly true; there was even something morbid about it at first:
but it had genuine depth of passion, and youth and sweetness,
and a sort of fascinating, careless, pathetic melancholy. A spirit
of truth and fire, a Russian spirit, was sounding and breathing
in that voice; and it seemed to go straight to your heart, - to
go straight to all that was Russian in it. The song swelled and
flowed. Yakov was clearly carried away by enthusiasm: he was
not timid now; he surrendered himself wholly to the rapture of
his art: his voice no longer trembled; it quivered, but with the
scarce perceptible inward quiver of passion, which pierces like an
arrow to the very soul of the listeners: and he steadily gained
strength and firmness and breadth. I remember I once saw at
sunset on a flat sandy shore, when the tide was low and the sea's
roar came weighty and menacing from the distance, a great white
sea-gull; it sat motionless, its silky bosom facing the crimson
glow of the setting sun, and only now and then opening wide
its great wings to greet the well-known sea, to greet the sinking
lurid sun: I recalled it, as I heard Yakov. He sang, utterly for-
getful of his rival and all of us; he seemed supported, as a bold
swimmer by the waves, by our silent, passionate sympathy. He
sang, and in every sound of his voice one seemed to feel some-
thing dear and akin to us; something of breadth and space, as
though the familiar steppes were unfolding before our eyes and
stretching away into endless distance.
I felt the tears gathering in my bosom and rising to my eyes;
suddenly I was struck by dull, smothered sobs. I looked round;
## p. 15116 (#52) ###########################################
15116
IVAN TURGENEFF
(
the innkeeper's wife was weeping, her bosom pressed close to
the window. Yakov threw a quick glance at her, and he sang
more sweetly, more melodiously than ever; Nikolai Ivan'itch
looked down; the Blinkard turned away; the Gabbler, quite
touched, stood, his gaping mouth stupidly open; the humble peas-
ant was sobbing softly in the corner, and shaking his head with
a plaintive murmur; on the iron visage of the Wild Master,
from under his overhanging brows, there slowly rolled a heavy
tear; the booth-keeper raised his clenched fist to his brow, and
did not stir. I don't know how the general emotion would have
ended, if Yakov had not come to a full stop on a high, excep-
tionally shrill note—as though his voice had broken.
No one
called out, or even stirred: every one seemed to be waiting to
see whether he was not going to sing more; but he opened his
eyes as though wondering at our silence, looked round at all of
us with a face of inquiry, and saw that the victory was his.
“Yasha,” said the Wild Master, laying his hand on his shoul-
der — and he could say no more.
We all stood, as it were, petrified. The booth-keeper softly
rose and went up to Yakov.
“You — yours — you've won,” he articulated at last with an
effort; and rushed out of the room. His rapid, decided action, as
it were, broke the spell: we all suddenly fell into noisy, delighted
talk. The Gabbler bounded up and down, stammered, and brand-
ished his arms like mill sails; the Blinkard limped up to Yakov
and began kissing him; Nikolai Ivan'itch got up and solemnly
announced that he would add a second pot of beer from himself.
The Wild Master laughed a sort of kind, simple laugh, which I
should never have expected to see on his face; the humble peas-
ant, as he wiped his eyes, cheeks, nose, and beard on his sleeves,
kept repeating in his corner, "Ah, beautiful it was, by God!
blast me for the son of a dog, but it was fine! ” while Nikolai
Ivan'itch's wife, her face red with weeping, got up quickly and
went away. Yakov was enjoying his triumph like a child: his
whole face was transformed, his eyes especially fairly glowed
with happiness. They dragged him to the bar; he beckoned the
weeping peasant up to it, and sent the innkeeper's little son
to look after the booth-keeper, who was not found, however: and
the festivities began. “You'll sing to us again; you're going to
sing to us till evening,” the Gabbler declared, flourishing his
hands in the air.
((
## p. 15117 (#53) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15117
I took one more look at Yakov, and went out. I did not
want to stay - I was afraid of spoiling the impression I had
received. But the heat was as insupportable as before. It
seemed hanging in a thick, heavy layer right over the earth;
over the dark-blue sky, tiny bright fires seemed whisking through
the finest, almost black dust. Everything was still; and there
was something hopeless and oppressive in this profound hush of
exhausted nature. I made my way to a hay-loft, and lay down
on the fresh-cut but already almost dry grass. For a long while
I could not go to sleep; for a long while Yakov's irresistible
yoice was ringing in my ears. At last the heat and fatigue
regained their sway, however, and I fell into a dead sleep.
When I waked up, everything was in darkness: the hay scattered
around smelt strong and was slightly damp; through the slender
rafters of the half-open roof, pale stars were faintly twinkling.
I went out. The glow of sunset had long died away, and
its last trace showed in a faint light on the horizon; but above
the freshness of the night there was still a feeling of heat in
the atmosphere, lately baked through by the sun, and the breast
still craved a draught of cool air. There was no wind, nor
were there any clouds; the sky all round was clear and transpar-
ently dark, softly glimmering with innumerable but scarcely visible
stars,
There were lights twinkling about the village; from the flar-
ing tavern close by rose a confused, discordant din, amid which
I fancied I recognized the voice of Yakov. Violent laughter
came from there in an outburst at times. I went up to the
little window and pressed my face against the pane. I saw a
cheerless, though varied and animated scene. All were drunk
all from Yakov upwards. With breast bared, he sat on a bench,
and singing in a thick voice a street song to a dance-tune, he
lazily fingered and strummed on the strings of a guitar. His
moist hair hung in tufts over his fearfully pale face. In the
middle of the room, the Gabbler, completely "screwed” and
”
without his coat, was hopping about in a dance before the
peasant in the gray smock: the peasant, on his side, was with
difficulty stamping and scraping with his feet, and grinning
meaninglessly over his disheveled beard; he waved one hand
from time to time, as much as to say, Here goes! ”
Nothing
could be more ludicrous than his face; however much he twitched
up his eyebrows, his heavy lids would hardly rise, but seemed
## p. 15118 (#54) ###########################################
15118
IVAN TURGENEFF
He was
lying upon his scarcely visible, dim, and mawkish eyes.
in that amiable frame of mind of a perfectly intoxicated man,
when every passer-by, directly he looks him in the face, is sure
to say, "Bless you, brother, bless you! ” The Blinkard, as red as
a lobster, and his nostrils dilated wide, was laughing malignantly
in a corner; only Nikolai Ivan’itch, as befits a good tavern-keeper,
preserved his composure unchanged.
The room was thronged
with many new faces; but the Wild Master I did not see in it.
I turned away with rapid steps, and began descending the
hill on which Kolotovka lies. At the foot of this hill stretches a
wide plain; plunged in the misty waves of the evening haze, it
seemed more immense, and was, as it were, merged in the dark-
ening sky. I walked with long strides along the road by the
ravine, when all at once from somewhere far away in the plain
came a boy's clear voice: "Antropka! Antropka-a-a! ” He shouted
in obstinate and tearful desperation, with long, long drawing out
of the last syllable.
He was silent for a few instants, and started shouting again.
His voice rang out clear in the still, lightly slumbering air.
Thirty times at least he had called the name Antropka; when
suddenly, from the farthest end of the plain, as though from
another world, there floated a scarcely audible reply:-
“Wha-a-t? ”
The boy's voice shouted back at once with gleeful exaspera-
tion:
«Come here, devil! woo-od imp!
«What fo-or? ” replied the other, after a long interval.
“Because dad wants to thrash you! ” the first voice shouted
back hurriedly.
The second voice did not call back again, and the boy fell to
shouting "Antropka” once more. His cries, fainter and less and
less frequent, still floated up to my ears, when it had grown
completely dark, and I had turned the corner of the wood which
skirts my village, and lies over three miles from Kolotovka.
"Antropka-a-a! ) was still audible in the air, filled with the
shadows of night.
>
## p. 15119 (#55) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15119
A LIVING RELIC
From A Sportsman's Sketches)
T
>
He same day we made our way to my mother's peasant set-
tlement,- the existence of which, I must confess, I had not
even suspected till then. At this settlement, it turned out,
there was a little lodge. It was very old, but as it had not been
inhabited, it was clean: I passed a fairly tranquil night in it.
The next day I woke up very early. The sun had only just
risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around
shone with a double brilliance, - the brightness of the fresh
morning rays and of yesterday's downpour. While they were
harnessing me a cart, I went for a stroll about a small orchard,
now neglected and run wild, which inclosed the little lodge on
all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. Ah, how sweet it was
in the open air, under the bright sky, where the larks were trill-
ing, whence their bell-like notes rained down like silvery beads!
On their wings, doubtless, they had carried off drops of dew, and
their songs seemed steeped in dew. I took my cap off my head
and drew a glad deep breath. On the slope of a shallow ravine,
close to the hedge, could be seen a beehive; a narrow path led
to it, winding like a snake between dense walls of high grass and
nettles, above which struggled up, God knows whence brought,
the pointed stalks of dark-green hemp.
I turned along this path; I reached the beehive. Beside it
stood a little wattled shanty, where they put the beehives for the
winter. I peeped into the half-open door: it was dark, still, dry,
within; there was a scent of mint and balm. In the corner were
some trestles fitted together, and on them, covered with a quilt,
a little figure of some sort. I was walking away —
« Master, master! Piotr Petrovitch! ” I heard a voice, faint,
slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of marsh rushes.
I stopped.
Piotr Petrovitch! Come in, please! ” the voice repeated. It
came from the corner where were the trestles I had noticed.
I drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. Before
me lay a living human being; but what sort of a creature was
it ?
A head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue- like
some very ancient holy picture, yellow with age; a sharp nose
## p. 15120 (#56) ###########################################
15120
IVAN TURGENEFF
like a keen-edged knife; the lips could barely be seen - only the
teeth flashed white, and the eyes; and from under the kerchief
some thin wisps of yellow hair straggled on to the forehead. At
the chin, where the quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same
coppery hue were moving, the fingers slowly twitching like little
sticks. I looked more intently: the face, far from being ugly,
was positively beautiful, but strange and dreadful; and the face
seemed the more dreadful to me that on it, on its metallic cheeks,
I saw struggling -- struggling and unable to form itself - a smile.
a
“ You don't recognize me, master ? ” whispered the voice
again: it seemed to be breathed from the almost unmoving lips.
"And indeed, how should you ? I'm Lukerya. Do you remem-
ber who used to lead the dance at your mother's, at Spasskoye ?
Do you remember I used to be leader of the choir too ? ”
«Lukerya! ” I cried. "Is it you? Can it be? ”
"
“Yes, it's I, master - I, Lukerya. ”
I did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefaction at
the dark motionless face, with the clear, death-like eyes . fastened
upon me.
Was it possible ? This mummy Lukerya — the great-
est beauty in all our household - that tall, plump, pink-and-white,
singing, laughing, dancing creature! Lukerya, our smart Lu-
kerya, whom all our lads were courting, for whom I heaved some
secret sighs — I, a boy of sixteen!
“Mercy, Lukerya! ” I said at last: “what is it has happened
to you? ”
Oh, such a misfortune befell me! But don't mind me, sir;
don't let my trouble revolt you: sit there on that little tub;
little nearer, or you won't be able to hear me. I've not much of
a voice nowadays! Well, I am glad to see you! What brought
you to Aleksyevka ? ”
Lukerya spoke very softly and feebly, but without pausing.
“Yermolaï the huntsman brought me here. But you tell
»
a
>
me
(
me
– six or
“Tell you about my trouble? Certainly, sir. It happened to
a long while ago now
seven years. I had only
just been betrothed then to Vassily Polyakov — do you remember,
such a fine-looking fellow he was, with curly hair ? -- he waited
at table at your mother's. But you weren't in the country then;
you had gone away to Moscow to your studies. We were very
much in love, Vassily and me; I could never get him out of
my head: and it was in the spring it all happened. Well, one
## p. 15121 (#57) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15121
sir. »
night - not long before sunrise, it was — I couldn't sleep: a night-
-
ingale in the garden was singing so wonderfully sweet! I could
not help getting up and going out on to the steps to listen. It
trilled and trilled; and all at once I fancied some one called me
—it seemed like Vassya's voice — so softly: Lusha! ' I looked
round; and being half asleep, I suppose, I missed my footing and
fell straight down from the top step, and flop on to the ground !
And I thought I wasn't much hurt, for I got up directly and
went back to my room. Only it seems something inside me
in my body — was broken.
Let me get my breath — half a
minute
Lukerya ceased, and I looked at her with surprise. What sur-
prised me particularly was that she told her story almost cheer-
fully, without sighs and groans, not complaining nor asking for
sympathy.
“Yes, ever since. How dreadful she is now! But they say
she was a beauty before then. The water-spirit bewitched her.
I suppose he did not expect they would get her out so soon.
So down there at the bottom he bewitched her. ”
(I had met this Akulina more than once.
Covered with rags,
fearfully thin, with face as black as a coal, blear-eyed and for
ever grinning, she would stay whole hours in one place in the
road, stamping with her feet, pressing her feshless hands to
her breast, and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a
wild beast in a cage.
She understood nothing that was said to
her, and only chuckled spasmodically from time to time. )
“But they say,” continued Kostya, «that Akulina threw her-
self into the river because her lover had deceived her. ”
“Yes, that was it. ”
"And do you remember Vasya ? ” added Kostya mournfully.
“What Vasya ? ” asked Fedya.
«Why, the one who was drowned,” replied Kostya, «in this
very river. Ah, what a boy he was! What a boy he was!
, His
mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And she seemed
to have •a foreboding, Feklista did, that harm would come to him
from the water. Sometimes when Vasya went with us boys in
the summer to bathe in the river, she used to be trembling all
The other women did not mind; they passed by with
the pails and went on: but Feklista put her pail down on the
ground, and set to calling him, Come back, come back, my lit-
tle joy; come back, my darling! And no one knows how he
was drowned. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was
there haymaking; suddenly she hears, as though some one was
blowing bubbles through the water, and behold! there was only
Vasya's little cap to be seen swimming on the water. You know
since then Feklista has not been right in her mind: she goes and
lies down at the place where he was drowned; she lies down,
brothers, and sings a song; — you remember Vasya was always
singing a song like that, so she sings it too, and weeps and
weeps, and bitterly rails against God. ”
“Here is Pavlusha coming,” said Fedya.
Pavel came up to the fire with a full pot in his hand.
C
over.
## p. 15105 (#41) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15105
(
(
»
«Boys,” he began after a short silence, something bad hap-
pened. ”
«Oh, what ? ” asked Kostya hurriedly.
"I heard Vasya's voice. ”
They all seemed to shudder.
“What do you mean? What do you mean? ” stammered
Kostya.
“I don't know. Only I went to stoop down to the water;
suddenly I hear my name called in Vasya's voice, as though it
came from below water: Pavlusha, Pavlusha, come here. I
came away.
But I fetched the water, though. "
"Ah, God have mercy upon us! ” said the boys, crossing them-
selves.
“It was the water-spirit calling you, Pavel,” said Fedya: “we
were just talking of Vasya. ”
"Ah, it's a bad omen,” said Ilyusha deliberately.
“Well, never mind, don't bother about it,” Pavel declared
stoutly, and he sat down again: “no one can escape his fate. ”
The boys were still. It was clear that Pavel's words had pro-
duced a strong impression on them. They began to lie down
before the fire, as though preparing to go to sleep.
“What is that? ” asked Kostya, suddenly lifting his head.
Pavel listened.
It's the curlews flying and whistling. ”
«Where are they flying to ? ”
« To a land where, they say, there is no winter. ”
« But is there such a land ? »
« Yes. ”
"Is it far away? "
Far, far away, beyond the warm seas. ”
Kostya sighed and shut his eyes.
More than three hours had passed since I first came across
the boys. The moon at last had risen; I did not notice it at
first, it was such a tiny crescent. This moonless night was as
solemn and hushed as it had been at first. But already many
stars that not long before had been high up in the heavens,
were setting over the earth's dark rim: everything around was
perfectly still, as it is only still towards morning; all was sleeping
the deep unbroken sleep that comes before daybreak. Already
the fragrance in the air was fainter; once more a dew seemed
falling.
XXV1-945
(
## p. 15106 (#42) ###########################################
15106
IVAN TURGENEFF
How short are nights in summer! The boys' talk died down
when the fires did. The dogs even were dozing; the horses, so
far as I could make out, in the hardly perceptible, faintly shining
light of the stars, were asleep with downcast heads. I fell into
a state of weary unconsciousness, which passed into sleep.
THẺ SINGERS
WE
From A Sportsman's Sketches)
HEN I went into the Welcome Resort, a fairly large party
were already assembled there.
In his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up
the entire opening in the partition, stood Nikolai Ivan'itch in a
striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured
out with his plump white hand two glasses of spirits for the
Blinkard and the Gabbler as they came in: behind him, in a
corner near the window, could be seen his sharp-eyed wife. In
the middle of the room was standing Yashka the Turk, -a
thin, graceful fellow of three-and-twenty, dressed in a long-skirted
coat of blue nankin. He looked a smart factory hand; and could
not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His
hollow cheeks, his large restless gray eyes, his straight nose with
its delicate mobile nostrils, his pale-brown curls brushed back
over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, expressive
lips, and his whole face, betrayed a passionate and sensitive
nature. He was in a state of great excitement: he blinked, iris
breathing was hurried, his hands shook as though in fever, and
he was really in a fever — that sudden fever of excitement which
is so well known to all who have to speak and sing before an
audience. Near him stood a man of about forty, with broad
shoulders and broad jaws, with a low forehead, narrow Tartar
eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and shining black hair
coarse as bristles. The expression of his face - a swarthy face,
with a sort of leaden hue in it — and especially of his pale lips,
might almost have been called savage, if it had not been so still
and dreamy. He hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly
about him like a bull under the yoke. He was dressed in a sort
of surtout, not over new, with smooth brass buttons; an old black-
silk handkerchief was twisted round his immense neck.
called the Wild Master.
He was
## p. 15107 (#43) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15107
-
Right opposite him, on a bench under the holy pictures, was
sitting Yashka's rival, the booth-keeper from Zhizdry; he was
a short, stoutly built man about thirty, pock-marked and curly-
headed, with a blunt, turn-up nose, lively brown eyes, and a
scanty beard. He looked keenly about him; and sitting with
his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his legs and
tapping with his feet, which were encased in . stylish top-boots
with a colored edging. He wore a new thin coat of gray cloth,
- with a plush collar in sharp contrast with the crimson shirt
below,- buttoned close across the chest. In the opposite corner,
to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow,
shabby smock-frock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. The
sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish streak through the dusty
panes of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it strug-
gled in vain with the habitual darkness of the room: all . the
objects in it were dimly - as it were patchily — lighted up. On
the other hand, it was almost cool in the room; and the sense of
stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly I crossed
the threshold.
My entrance, I could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting
to Nikolai Ivan'itch's customers; but observing that he greeted
me as a friend, they were reassured, and took no more notice of
me. I asked for some beer, and sat down in the corner, near the
peasant in the ragged smock.
“Well, well,” piped the Gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of
spirits at one gulp, and accompanying his exclamation with the
strange gesticulations without' which he seemed unable to utter
a single word: “what are we waiting for?
If we're going
to begin, then begin. Hey, Yashka ? »
"Begin, begin," chimed in Nikolai Ivan'itch approvingly.
"Let's begin, by all means," observed the booth-keeper coolly,
with a self-confident smile: “I'm ready. ”
"And I'm ready,” Yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with
excitement.
« Well, begin, lads,” whined the Blinkard. But in spite of the
unanimously expressed desire, neither began; the booth-keeper did
not even get up from the bench: they all seemed to be waiting
for something
Begin! ” said the Wild Master sharply and sullenly. Yashka
started. The booth-keeper pulled down his girdle and cleared his
throat.
(
## p. 15108 (#44) ###########################################
15108
IVAN TURGENEFF
»
»
But who's to begin ? ” he inquired in a slightly changed
voice, of the Wild Master, who still stood motionless in the mid-
dle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart, and his powerful
arms thrust up to the elbow into his breeches pockets.
"You, you, booth-keeper,” stammered the Gabbler; "you, to
be sure, brother. ”
The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The
Gabbler gave a faint squeak, in confusion looked away at the
ceiling, twitched his shoulder, and said no more.
Cast lots,” the Wild Master pronounced emphatically; "and
the pot on the table. ”
Nikolai Ivan'itch bent down, and with a gasp picked up the
pot of beer from the floor, and set it on the table.
The Wild Master glanced at Yakov, and said, “Come. ”
Yakov fumbled in his pockets, took out a halfpenny, and
marked it with his teeth. The booth-keeper pulled from under
the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, deliberately untied
the string, and shaking out a quantity of small change into his
hand, picked out a new halfpenny. The Gabbler held out his
dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped
his halfpenny in, and the booth-keeper his.
«You must pick out one,” said the Wild Master, turning to
the Blinkard.
The Blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands,
and began shaking it.
For an instant a profound silence reigned; the halfpennies
clinked faintly, jingling against each other. I looked around
attentively: every face wore an expression of intense expecta-
tion; the Wild Master himself showed signs of uneasiness; my
neighbor even, the peasant in the tattered smock, craned his neck
inquisitively. The Blinkard put his hand into the cap and took
out the booth-keeper's halfpenny; every one drew a long breath.
Yakovflushed, and the booth-keeper passed his hand over his
hair.
« There, I said you'd begin,” cried the Gabbler; "didn't I say
(
>
(
So ? »
“There, there, don't cluck,” remarked the Wild Master con-
temptuously. "Begin,” he went on, with a nod to the booth-
keeper.
“What song am I to sing ? ” asked the booth-keeper, begin-
ning to be nervous.
## p. 15109 (#45) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15109
»
“What you choose," answered the Blinkard; "sing what you
think best. ”
“What you choose, to be sure,” Nikolai Ivan'itch chimed in,
slowly smoothing his hand on his breast; "you're quite at liberty
about that. Sing what you like; only sing well: and we'll give a
fair decision afterwards. ”
"A fair decision, of course," put in the Gabbler, licking the
edge of his empty glass.
“Let me clear my throat a bit, mates," said the booth-keeper,
fingering the collar of his coat.
“Come, come, no nonsense — begin! ” protested the Wild Mas-
ter, and he looked down.
The booth-keeper thought a minute, shook his head, and
stepped forward. Yakov's eyes were riveted upon him.
But before I enter upon a description of the contest itself, I
think it will not be amiss to say a few words about each of the
personages taking part in my story. The lives of some of them
were known to me already when I met them in the Welcome
Resort; I collected some facts about the others later on.
Let us begin with the Gabbler. This man's real name was
Evgraf Ivanovitch; but no one in the whole neighborhood knew
him as anything but the Gabbler, and he himself referred to
himself by that nickname, so well did it fit him. Indeed, noth-
ing could have been more appropriate to his insignificant, ever-
restless features. He was a dissipated, unmarried house-serf,
whose own masters had long ago got rid of him; and who, with-
out any employment, without earning a halfpenny, found means
to get drunk every day at other people's expense. He had a
great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of
spirits and tea, though they could not have said why they did so
themselves; for far from being entertaining in company, he bored
every one with his meaningless chatter, his insufferable familiar-
ity, his spasmodic gestures, and incessant, unnatural laugh. He
could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever or even
a sensible thing in his life; he chattered away, telling lies about
everything — a regular Gabbler! And yet not a single drinking-
party for thirty miles around took place without his lank figure
turning up among the guests; so that they were used to him by
now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. They all,
it is true, treated him with contempt; but the Wild Master was
the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check.
>
## p. 15110 (#46) ###########################################
15110
IVAN TURGENEFF
-
The Blinkafd was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nick-
name, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking
than other people: it is a well-known fact that the Russian peas-
ants have a talent for finding good nicknames. In spite of my
endeavors to get more detailed information about this man's past,
many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to
me, and probably to many other people: episodes buried, as the
bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. I could only find out
that he was once a coachman in the service of an old childless
lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge
of; had been lost for a whole year: and, no doubt convinced by
experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a wandering life,
he had gone back, a cripple, and Aung himself at his mistress's
feet. He succeeded in a few years in smoothing over his offense
by his exemplary conduct; and gradually getting higher in her
favor, at last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff,
and on his mistress's death turned out — in what way was never
known - to have received his freedom. He got admitted into
the class of tradesmen; rented patches of market garden from
the neighbors; grew rich, and now was living in ease and com-
fort. He was a man of experience, who knew on which side his
bread was buttered; was more actuated by prudence than by
either good or ill nature; had knocked about, understood men,
and knew how to turn them to his own advantage.
He was
cautious, and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; though
he was as fond of gossip as an old woman, he never let out his
own affairs, while he made every one else talk freely of theirs.
He did not affect to be a simpleton, though, as so many crafty
men of his sort do: indeed, it would have been difficult for him
to take any one in, in that way; I have never seen a sharper,
keener pair of eyes than his tiny cunning little "peepers,” as
they call them in Orel. They were never simply looking about;
they were always looking one up and down and through and
through. The Blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks to-
gether over some apparently simple undertaking; and again he
would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which
one would fancy would bring him to ruin. But it would be
sure to turn out all right: everything would go smoothly. He
was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens.
He was exceedingly superstitious in general. He was not liked,
because he would have nothing much to do with any one; but
1
## p. 15111 (#47) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15111
(
a
he was respected. His whole family consisted of one little son,
whom he idolized, and who, brought up by such a father, is
,
likely to get on in the world. « Little Blinkard 'll be his father
over again,” is said of him already, in undertones, by the old
men, as they sit on their mud walls gossiping on summer even-
ings; and every one knows what that means,—there is no need
to say more.
As to Yashka the Turk, and the booth-keeper, there is no
need to say much about them. Yakov — called the Turk because
he actually was descended from a Turkish woman, a prisoner
from the war — was by nature an artist in every sense of the
word; and by calling, a ladler in a paper factory belonging to a
merchant. As for the booth-keeper, his career, I must own, I
know nothing of; he struck me as being a smart townsman of
the tradesman class, ready to turn his hand to anything. But the
Wild Master calls for a more detailed account.
The first impression the sight of this man produced on you
was a sense of coarse, heavy, irresistible power. He was clum.
sily built, "shambler,” as they say about us: but there was
an air of triumphant vigor about him; and strange to say, his
bear-like figure was not without a certain grace of its own, pro-
ceeding perhaps from his absolutely placid confidence in his own
strength. It was hard to decide at first to what class this Her-
cules belonged: he did not look like a house-serf, nor a trades-
man, nor an impoverished clerk out of work, nor a small ruined
land-owner such as takes to being a huntsman or a fighting man:
he was, in fact, quite individual. No one knew where he came
from, or what brought him into our district: it was said that he
came of free peasant-proprietor stock, and had once been in the
government service somewhere, but nothing positive was known
about this; and indeed there was no one from whom one could
learn,- certainly not from him: he was the most silent and mo-
rose of men. So much so that no one knew for certain what he
lived on: he followed no trade, visited no one, associated with
scarcely any one; yet he had money to spend; little enough, it is
true, still he had some. In his behavior he was not exactly
retiring - retiring was not a word that could be applied to him:
he lived as though he noticed no one about him, and cared for
no one.
The Wild Master (that was the nickname they had given
him; his real name was Perevlyesov) enjoyed an immense influ-
ence in the whole district: he was obeyed with eager promptitude,
-
## p. 15112 (#48) ###########################################
15112
IVAN TURGENEFF
though he had no kind of right to give orders to any one, and
did not himself evince the slightest pretension to authority over
the people with whom he came into casual contact.
He spoke —
they obeyed: strength always has an influence of its own. He
scarcely drank at all, had nothing to do with women, and was
passionately fond of singing. There was much that was myste-
rious about this man: it seemed as though vast forces sullenly
reposed within him, knowing as it were, that once roused, once
bursting free, they were bound to crush him and everything they
came in contact with. And I am greatly mistaken if in this
man's life there had not been some such outbreak; if it was not
owing to the lessons of experience, to a narrow escape from ruin,
that he now kept himself so tightly in hand. What especially
struck me in him was the combination of a sort of inborn natural
ferocity with an equally inborn generosity,-a combination I
have never met in any other man.
And so the booth-keeper stepped forward; and half shutting
his eyes, began singing in high falsetto. He had a fairly sweet
and pleasant voice, though rather hoarse; he played with his
voice like a woodlark,etwisting and turning it in incessant rou-
lades and trills up and down the scale, - continually returning
to the highest notes, which he held and prolonged with special
Then he would break off, and again suddenly take up
the first motive with a sort of go-ahead daring. His modulations
were at times rather bold, at times rather comical: they would
have given a connoisseur great satisfaction, and have made a
German furiously indignant. He was a Russian tenore di grazia,
ténor léger. He sang a song to a lively dance-tune; the words
of which — all that I could catch through the endless maze of
variations, ejaculations, and repetitions — were as follows:-
care.
"A tiny patch of land, young lass,
I'll plow for thee,
And tiny crimson flowers, young lass,
I'll sow for thee. ”
He sang: all listened to him with great attention. He seemed
to feel that he had to do with really musical people, and there-
fore was exerting himself to do his best. And they really are
musical in our part of the country: the village of Sergievskoe on
the Orel high-road is deservedly noted throughout Russia for its
harmonious chorus singing. The booth-keeper sang for a long
## p. 15113 (#49) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15113
»
while without evoking much enthusiasm in his audience,- he
lacked the support of a chorus; but at last, after one particularly
bold flourish, which set even the Wild Master smiling, the Gab-
bler could not refrain from a shout of delight. Every one was
roused. The Gabbler and the Blinkard began joining in in an
undertone, and exclaiming, “Bravely done! Take it, you rogue!
Sing it out, you serpent! Hold it! That shake again, you dog
you!
May Herod confound your soul! ” and so on. Nikolai
Ivan'itch behind the bar was nodding his head from side to side
approvingly. The Gabbler at last was swinging his legs, tapping
with his feet and twitching his shoulder; while Yashka's eyes
fairly glowed like coals, and he trembled all over like a leaf, and
smiled nervously. The Wild Master alone did not change counte-
nance, and stood motionless as before; but his eyes, fastened on
the booth-keeper, looked somewhat softened, though the expression
of his lips was still scornful. Emboldened by the signs of general
approbation, the booth-keeper went off in a whirl of flourishes;
and began to round off such trills, to turn such shakes off his
tongue, and to make such furious play with his throat, that when
at last, pale, exhausted, and bathed in hot perspiration, he uttered
the last dying note, his whole body flung back, a general united
shout greeted him in a violent outburst. The Gabbler threw
himself on his neck, and began strangling him in his long bony.
arms; a flush came out on Nikolai Ivan’itch's oily face, and he
seemed to have grown younger; Yashka shouted like mad, “Cap.
ital, capital! ” Even my neighbor, the peasant in the torn smock,
could not restrain himself; and with a blow of his fist on the
table he cried, "Aha! well done, damn my soul, well done! »
And he spat on one side with an air of decision.
"Well, brother, you've given us a treat! ” bawled the Gabbler,
not releasing the exhausted booth-keeper from his embraces;
"you've given us a treat, there's no denying! You've won, brother,
you've won! I congratulate you — the quart's yours! Yashka's
miles behind you, I tell you; miles — take my word for it. ”
And
again he hugged the booth-keeper to his breast.
“There, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of
you,” said the Blinkard with vexation; let him sit down on the
bench; he's tired, see. - You're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny!
-
What are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for? ”
“Well, then, let him sit down, and I'll drink to his health,”
said the Gabbler, and he went up to the bar. “At your expense,
brother,” he added, addressing the booth-keeper.
»
## p. 15114 (#50) ###########################################
15114
IVAN TURGENEFF
The latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of
cloth out of his cap, and began wiping his face; while the Gab-
bler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and with a grunt,
assumed, after the manner of confirmed drinkers, an expression
of careworn melancholy.
“You sing beautifully, brother, beautifully,” Nikolai Ivan'itch
observed caressingly. “And now it's your turn, Yashka; mind,
now, don't be afraid. We shall see who's who; we shall see.
The booth-keeper sings beautifully, though; 'pon my soul, he
does. ”
“Very beautifully,” observed Nikolai Ivan’itch's wife, and she
looked with a smile at Yakov.
“Beautifully, ha! ” repeated my neighbor in an undertone.
“Ah, a wild man of the woods! ” the Gabbler vociferated sud-
denly; and going up to the peasant with the rent on his shoulder,
he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and
went off into an insulting guffaw. "Ha! ha! get along! wild
man of the woods! Here's a ragamuffin from Woodland village!
What brought you here ? ” he bawled amidst laughter.
The poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up
and make off as fast as he could, when suddenly the Wild Master's
iron voice was heard :
« What does the insufferable brute mean? ” he articulated,
grinding his teeth.
"I wasn't doing nothing," muttered the Gabbler. “I didn't-
I only — "
“There, all right, shut up! ” retorted the Wild Master. “Yakov,
begin ! »
Yakov took himself by his throat:
“–
"Well, really, brothers - Something - H'm, I don't know,
on my word, what — »
“Come, that's enough; don't be timid. For shame! why go
back? Sing the best you can, by God's gift. ”
And the Wild Master looked down expectant. Yakov was
silent for a minute; he glanced round, and covered his face with
his hand. All had their eyes simply fastened upon him; especially
the booth-keeper, on whose face a faint, involuntary uneasiness
could be seen through his habitual expression of self-confidence
and the triumph of his success. He leant back against the wall,
and again put both hands under him, but did not swing his legs
as before. When at last Yakov uncovered his face, it was pale
as a dead man's; his eyes gleamed faintly under their drooping
(
## p. 15115 (#51) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15115
((
lashes. He gave a deep sigh, and began to sing. The first
sound of his voice was faint and unequal, and seemed not to
come from his chest, but to be wafted from somewhere afar off,
as though it had floated by chance into the room. A strange
effect was produced on all of us by this trembling, resonant note:
we glanced at one another, and Nikolai Ivan'itch's wife seemed to
draw herself up. This first note was followed by another, bolder
and prolonged, but still obviously quivering - like a harpstring,
when, suddenly struck by a stray finger, it throbs in a last swiftly
dying tremble; the second was followed by a third; and gradually
gaining fire and breadth, the strains swelled into a pathetic
melody.
“Not one little path ran into the field,” he sang; and sweet
and mournful it was in our ears. I have seldom, I must con-
fess, heard a voice like it: it was slightly hoarse, and not per-
fectly true; there was even something morbid about it at first:
but it had genuine depth of passion, and youth and sweetness,
and a sort of fascinating, careless, pathetic melancholy. A spirit
of truth and fire, a Russian spirit, was sounding and breathing
in that voice; and it seemed to go straight to your heart, - to
go straight to all that was Russian in it. The song swelled and
flowed. Yakov was clearly carried away by enthusiasm: he was
not timid now; he surrendered himself wholly to the rapture of
his art: his voice no longer trembled; it quivered, but with the
scarce perceptible inward quiver of passion, which pierces like an
arrow to the very soul of the listeners: and he steadily gained
strength and firmness and breadth. I remember I once saw at
sunset on a flat sandy shore, when the tide was low and the sea's
roar came weighty and menacing from the distance, a great white
sea-gull; it sat motionless, its silky bosom facing the crimson
glow of the setting sun, and only now and then opening wide
its great wings to greet the well-known sea, to greet the sinking
lurid sun: I recalled it, as I heard Yakov. He sang, utterly for-
getful of his rival and all of us; he seemed supported, as a bold
swimmer by the waves, by our silent, passionate sympathy. He
sang, and in every sound of his voice one seemed to feel some-
thing dear and akin to us; something of breadth and space, as
though the familiar steppes were unfolding before our eyes and
stretching away into endless distance.
I felt the tears gathering in my bosom and rising to my eyes;
suddenly I was struck by dull, smothered sobs. I looked round;
## p. 15116 (#52) ###########################################
15116
IVAN TURGENEFF
(
the innkeeper's wife was weeping, her bosom pressed close to
the window. Yakov threw a quick glance at her, and he sang
more sweetly, more melodiously than ever; Nikolai Ivan'itch
looked down; the Blinkard turned away; the Gabbler, quite
touched, stood, his gaping mouth stupidly open; the humble peas-
ant was sobbing softly in the corner, and shaking his head with
a plaintive murmur; on the iron visage of the Wild Master,
from under his overhanging brows, there slowly rolled a heavy
tear; the booth-keeper raised his clenched fist to his brow, and
did not stir. I don't know how the general emotion would have
ended, if Yakov had not come to a full stop on a high, excep-
tionally shrill note—as though his voice had broken.
No one
called out, or even stirred: every one seemed to be waiting to
see whether he was not going to sing more; but he opened his
eyes as though wondering at our silence, looked round at all of
us with a face of inquiry, and saw that the victory was his.
“Yasha,” said the Wild Master, laying his hand on his shoul-
der — and he could say no more.
We all stood, as it were, petrified. The booth-keeper softly
rose and went up to Yakov.
“You — yours — you've won,” he articulated at last with an
effort; and rushed out of the room. His rapid, decided action, as
it were, broke the spell: we all suddenly fell into noisy, delighted
talk. The Gabbler bounded up and down, stammered, and brand-
ished his arms like mill sails; the Blinkard limped up to Yakov
and began kissing him; Nikolai Ivan'itch got up and solemnly
announced that he would add a second pot of beer from himself.
The Wild Master laughed a sort of kind, simple laugh, which I
should never have expected to see on his face; the humble peas-
ant, as he wiped his eyes, cheeks, nose, and beard on his sleeves,
kept repeating in his corner, "Ah, beautiful it was, by God!
blast me for the son of a dog, but it was fine! ” while Nikolai
Ivan'itch's wife, her face red with weeping, got up quickly and
went away. Yakov was enjoying his triumph like a child: his
whole face was transformed, his eyes especially fairly glowed
with happiness. They dragged him to the bar; he beckoned the
weeping peasant up to it, and sent the innkeeper's little son
to look after the booth-keeper, who was not found, however: and
the festivities began. “You'll sing to us again; you're going to
sing to us till evening,” the Gabbler declared, flourishing his
hands in the air.
((
## p. 15117 (#53) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15117
I took one more look at Yakov, and went out. I did not
want to stay - I was afraid of spoiling the impression I had
received. But the heat was as insupportable as before. It
seemed hanging in a thick, heavy layer right over the earth;
over the dark-blue sky, tiny bright fires seemed whisking through
the finest, almost black dust. Everything was still; and there
was something hopeless and oppressive in this profound hush of
exhausted nature. I made my way to a hay-loft, and lay down
on the fresh-cut but already almost dry grass. For a long while
I could not go to sleep; for a long while Yakov's irresistible
yoice was ringing in my ears. At last the heat and fatigue
regained their sway, however, and I fell into a dead sleep.
When I waked up, everything was in darkness: the hay scattered
around smelt strong and was slightly damp; through the slender
rafters of the half-open roof, pale stars were faintly twinkling.
I went out. The glow of sunset had long died away, and
its last trace showed in a faint light on the horizon; but above
the freshness of the night there was still a feeling of heat in
the atmosphere, lately baked through by the sun, and the breast
still craved a draught of cool air. There was no wind, nor
were there any clouds; the sky all round was clear and transpar-
ently dark, softly glimmering with innumerable but scarcely visible
stars,
There were lights twinkling about the village; from the flar-
ing tavern close by rose a confused, discordant din, amid which
I fancied I recognized the voice of Yakov. Violent laughter
came from there in an outburst at times. I went up to the
little window and pressed my face against the pane. I saw a
cheerless, though varied and animated scene. All were drunk
all from Yakov upwards. With breast bared, he sat on a bench,
and singing in a thick voice a street song to a dance-tune, he
lazily fingered and strummed on the strings of a guitar. His
moist hair hung in tufts over his fearfully pale face. In the
middle of the room, the Gabbler, completely "screwed” and
”
without his coat, was hopping about in a dance before the
peasant in the gray smock: the peasant, on his side, was with
difficulty stamping and scraping with his feet, and grinning
meaninglessly over his disheveled beard; he waved one hand
from time to time, as much as to say, Here goes! ”
Nothing
could be more ludicrous than his face; however much he twitched
up his eyebrows, his heavy lids would hardly rise, but seemed
## p. 15118 (#54) ###########################################
15118
IVAN TURGENEFF
He was
lying upon his scarcely visible, dim, and mawkish eyes.
in that amiable frame of mind of a perfectly intoxicated man,
when every passer-by, directly he looks him in the face, is sure
to say, "Bless you, brother, bless you! ” The Blinkard, as red as
a lobster, and his nostrils dilated wide, was laughing malignantly
in a corner; only Nikolai Ivan’itch, as befits a good tavern-keeper,
preserved his composure unchanged.
The room was thronged
with many new faces; but the Wild Master I did not see in it.
I turned away with rapid steps, and began descending the
hill on which Kolotovka lies. At the foot of this hill stretches a
wide plain; plunged in the misty waves of the evening haze, it
seemed more immense, and was, as it were, merged in the dark-
ening sky. I walked with long strides along the road by the
ravine, when all at once from somewhere far away in the plain
came a boy's clear voice: "Antropka! Antropka-a-a! ” He shouted
in obstinate and tearful desperation, with long, long drawing out
of the last syllable.
He was silent for a few instants, and started shouting again.
His voice rang out clear in the still, lightly slumbering air.
Thirty times at least he had called the name Antropka; when
suddenly, from the farthest end of the plain, as though from
another world, there floated a scarcely audible reply:-
“Wha-a-t? ”
The boy's voice shouted back at once with gleeful exaspera-
tion:
«Come here, devil! woo-od imp!
«What fo-or? ” replied the other, after a long interval.
“Because dad wants to thrash you! ” the first voice shouted
back hurriedly.
The second voice did not call back again, and the boy fell to
shouting "Antropka” once more. His cries, fainter and less and
less frequent, still floated up to my ears, when it had grown
completely dark, and I had turned the corner of the wood which
skirts my village, and lies over three miles from Kolotovka.
"Antropka-a-a! ) was still audible in the air, filled with the
shadows of night.
>
## p. 15119 (#55) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15119
A LIVING RELIC
From A Sportsman's Sketches)
T
>
He same day we made our way to my mother's peasant set-
tlement,- the existence of which, I must confess, I had not
even suspected till then. At this settlement, it turned out,
there was a little lodge. It was very old, but as it had not been
inhabited, it was clean: I passed a fairly tranquil night in it.
The next day I woke up very early. The sun had only just
risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around
shone with a double brilliance, - the brightness of the fresh
morning rays and of yesterday's downpour. While they were
harnessing me a cart, I went for a stroll about a small orchard,
now neglected and run wild, which inclosed the little lodge on
all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. Ah, how sweet it was
in the open air, under the bright sky, where the larks were trill-
ing, whence their bell-like notes rained down like silvery beads!
On their wings, doubtless, they had carried off drops of dew, and
their songs seemed steeped in dew. I took my cap off my head
and drew a glad deep breath. On the slope of a shallow ravine,
close to the hedge, could be seen a beehive; a narrow path led
to it, winding like a snake between dense walls of high grass and
nettles, above which struggled up, God knows whence brought,
the pointed stalks of dark-green hemp.
I turned along this path; I reached the beehive. Beside it
stood a little wattled shanty, where they put the beehives for the
winter. I peeped into the half-open door: it was dark, still, dry,
within; there was a scent of mint and balm. In the corner were
some trestles fitted together, and on them, covered with a quilt,
a little figure of some sort. I was walking away —
« Master, master! Piotr Petrovitch! ” I heard a voice, faint,
slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of marsh rushes.
I stopped.
Piotr Petrovitch! Come in, please! ” the voice repeated. It
came from the corner where were the trestles I had noticed.
I drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. Before
me lay a living human being; but what sort of a creature was
it ?
A head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue- like
some very ancient holy picture, yellow with age; a sharp nose
## p. 15120 (#56) ###########################################
15120
IVAN TURGENEFF
like a keen-edged knife; the lips could barely be seen - only the
teeth flashed white, and the eyes; and from under the kerchief
some thin wisps of yellow hair straggled on to the forehead. At
the chin, where the quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same
coppery hue were moving, the fingers slowly twitching like little
sticks. I looked more intently: the face, far from being ugly,
was positively beautiful, but strange and dreadful; and the face
seemed the more dreadful to me that on it, on its metallic cheeks,
I saw struggling -- struggling and unable to form itself - a smile.
a
“ You don't recognize me, master ? ” whispered the voice
again: it seemed to be breathed from the almost unmoving lips.
"And indeed, how should you ? I'm Lukerya. Do you remem-
ber who used to lead the dance at your mother's, at Spasskoye ?
Do you remember I used to be leader of the choir too ? ”
«Lukerya! ” I cried. "Is it you? Can it be? ”
"
“Yes, it's I, master - I, Lukerya. ”
I did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefaction at
the dark motionless face, with the clear, death-like eyes . fastened
upon me.
Was it possible ? This mummy Lukerya — the great-
est beauty in all our household - that tall, plump, pink-and-white,
singing, laughing, dancing creature! Lukerya, our smart Lu-
kerya, whom all our lads were courting, for whom I heaved some
secret sighs — I, a boy of sixteen!
“Mercy, Lukerya! ” I said at last: “what is it has happened
to you? ”
Oh, such a misfortune befell me! But don't mind me, sir;
don't let my trouble revolt you: sit there on that little tub;
little nearer, or you won't be able to hear me. I've not much of
a voice nowadays! Well, I am glad to see you! What brought
you to Aleksyevka ? ”
Lukerya spoke very softly and feebly, but without pausing.
“Yermolaï the huntsman brought me here. But you tell
»
a
>
me
(
me
– six or
“Tell you about my trouble? Certainly, sir. It happened to
a long while ago now
seven years. I had only
just been betrothed then to Vassily Polyakov — do you remember,
such a fine-looking fellow he was, with curly hair ? -- he waited
at table at your mother's. But you weren't in the country then;
you had gone away to Moscow to your studies. We were very
much in love, Vassily and me; I could never get him out of
my head: and it was in the spring it all happened. Well, one
## p. 15121 (#57) ###########################################
IVAN TURGENEFF
15121
sir. »
night - not long before sunrise, it was — I couldn't sleep: a night-
-
ingale in the garden was singing so wonderfully sweet! I could
not help getting up and going out on to the steps to listen. It
trilled and trilled; and all at once I fancied some one called me
—it seemed like Vassya's voice — so softly: Lusha! ' I looked
round; and being half asleep, I suppose, I missed my footing and
fell straight down from the top step, and flop on to the ground !
And I thought I wasn't much hurt, for I got up directly and
went back to my room. Only it seems something inside me
in my body — was broken.
Let me get my breath — half a
minute
Lukerya ceased, and I looked at her with surprise. What sur-
prised me particularly was that she told her story almost cheer-
fully, without sighs and groans, not complaining nor asking for
sympathy.
