Sketches from a Hunter's Album (28 page)

‘Why was it, Ardalion Mikhaylich,' I began, ‘that these trees weren't cut down the year afterwards? They won't give you a tenth of what they were worth before.'

He simply shrugged his shoulders.

‘You should have asked my aunt – merchants came to her, brought money, badgered her.'

‘
Mein Gott! Mein Gott!
' von der Kock exclaimed at every step. ‘Such a sham! Such a sham!'

‘What sham?' my neighbour remarked with a smile.

‘This eez a shame, what I wishes to te
ll
.' (It is well known that all Germans, once they have finally mastered our Russian letter ‘l', dwell on it amazingly.)

His compassion was particularly aroused by the oaks which lay on the ground – and no wonder, for many a miller would have paid a high price for them. But our guardian of the peace, Arkhip, maintained an imperturbable composure and showed not the least sign of regret; on the contrary, it was even with a certain pleasure that he jumped over them and lashed at them with his riding crop.

We made our way to the place where the felling was going on, when suddenly, after the sound of a falling tree, there resounded cries and talk, and a few seconds later a young peasant, pale and dishevelled, raced towards us out of a thicket.

‘What's the matter? Where are you running?' Ardalion Mikhaylich asked him.

He stopped at once.

‘Ardalion Mikhaylich, sir, there's been an accident.'

‘What's the matter?'

‘Maxim, sir, has been knocked down by a tree.'

‘How did it happen? Do you mean Maxim the contractor?'

‘Yes, sir, the contractor. We started cutting down an ash tree, and he stood and watched… He was standing there a long time, and then he went to the well to get water, like he wanted to have a drink, see. Then all of a sudden the ash tree starts creaking and falling right down on him. We shout to him: run, run, run… He could've thrown himself to one side, but instead he decides to run straight on… he got scared, you know. The ash tree's top boughs fell on him and covered him. God only knows why it fell so quickly. Probably it was all rotten inside.'

‘So it struck Maxim, did it?'

‘It struck him, sir.'

‘Did it kill him?'

‘No, sir, he's still alive, but it's no good: his legs and arms are broken. I was just running to get Seliverstych, the doctor.'

Ardalion Mikhaylich ordered the guardian of the peace to gallop
into the village for Seliverstych and himself set off at a brisk trot for the site of the felling. I followed him.

We found the wretched Maxim on the ground. Ten or so peasants were gathered round him. We alighted from our horses. He was hardly groaning at all, though occasionally he opened wide his eyes, as if looking around him with surprise, and bit his blue lips. His chin quivered, his hair was stuck to his temples and his chest rose irregularly: he was clearly dying. The faint shadow of a young lime tree ran calmly aslant his face. We bent down to him, and he recognized Ardalion Mikhaylich.

‘Sir,' he began to say in a scarcely audible voice, ‘the priest… send for him… order to send… God has… has punished me… my legs, arms, all broken… today… Sunday… but I… but I… you see… I didn't let the lads off.'

He fell silent. His breath came in short gasps.

‘My money… the wife… give it to the wife… after what's owing… Onisim knows… who I… owe what…'

‘We've sent for the doctor, Maxim,' my neighbour said. ‘Perhaps you won't die after all.'

He wanted to open wide his eyes and with an effort raised his brows and eyelids.

‘No, I'll die. See… see, there she's coming, there she is, there… Forgive me, lads, if I've in any way…'

‘God'll forgive you, Maxim Andreyich,' the peasants said in husky unison and removed their caps. ‘And you forgive us.'

He gave a sudden desperate shake of the head, lifted his chest regretfully and again sank back.

‘He shouldn't have to die here,' Ardalion Mikhaylich exclaimed. ‘Lads, get the mat from the cart over there and let's carry him to the hospital.'

A couple of men rushed to the cart.

‘Off of Efim… Sychovsky,' the dying man began to babble, ‘I bought a horse yesterday… I put money down… So the horse is mine… see the wife gets that as well…'

They began to lay him on the mat. He started trembling all over, like a shot bird, and straightened up.

‘He's dead,' the peasants said.

Silently, we mounted our horses and rode off.

The death of the wretched Maxim put me in a reflective mood. What an astonishing thing is the death of a Russian peasant! His state of mind before death could be called neither one of indifference, nor one of stupidity; he dies as if he is performing a ritual act, coldly and simply.

A few years ago a peasant belonging to another country neighbour of mine was burned in a barn. (He would, in fact, have remained in the barn had not a visitor from town pulled him out half dead: he doused himself in a pitcher of water and at a run broke down the door under the overhang which was already alight.) I visited him in his hut. It was dark inside, the atmosphere stuffy and smoky. ‘Where is the sick man?' I inquired.

‘Over there, sir, above the stove,' answered the singsong voice of an old woman weighed down by her burden of grief.

I approached and found a peasant covered in a sheepskin, breathing painfully.

‘Well, how are you feeling?'

The sick man grew restless, wanted to raise himself, but he was covered in wounds and close to death.

‘Lie down, lie down. Well? How is it?'

‘I'm poorly, that's for sure,' he said.

‘Does it hurt you?'

No answer.

‘Is there anything you need?'

Silence.

‘Shall I order some tea to be sent to you, eh?'

‘There's no need.'

I left him and sat down on a bench. I sat for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, and all the while the silence of the grave reigned in the hut. In one corner, by a table under the icons, a five-year-old girl was hiding, eating bread. From time to time her mother warned her to be quiet. Out on the porch people walked about, clattered and talked and a sister-in-law of the dying man was chopping cabbage.

‘Ha, Aksinya!' he mumbled eventually.

‘What is it?'

‘Give me a little
kvas
.'

Aksinya gave him some. The silence once more returned. I asked in a whisper: ‘Have they given him the last rites?'

‘Yes.'

In that case, everything was in order: he was simply awaiting death, nothing else. I could not stand it any more and left.

On another occasion, I remember, I called in at the hospital in Red Hills village to see the assistant doctor, Kapiton, an acquaintance of mine and a devoted hunter.

The hospital occupied what had formerly been the wing of the manor. The lady of the manor had herself established it – that is, she had ordered to be placed over the door a blue sign with letters in white reading: ‘Red Hills hospital', and she had herself entrusted to Kapiton a beautiful album for noting down the names of the sick. On the first page of this album one of the benevolent lady's sycophants and time-servers had inscribed the following trite verses:

The assistant doctor had purchased six beds out of his own money and, after calling down a blessing on his work, had set about caring for all God's people. Apart from himself, the hospital had a staff of two; Pavel, a wood-carver, given to fits of madness, and a woman with a withered arm, Melikitrisa, who was the hospital cook. Both of them made up medicines, dried herbs and concocted herbal infusions; they also used to subdue patients if they became delirious. The mad wood-carver was sullen in appearance and a man of few words: by night he used to sing a ditty concerning ‘a beautiful Venus' and he would importune every visitor to the hospital with the request that he be allowed to marry a certain Malanya, a girl long since dead. The woman with the withered arm used to beat him and made him look after the turkeys.

One day I was sitting with Kapiton. We had just begun to chat
about our most recent hunting expedition when suddenly a cart drove into the yard with an unusually fat grey horse in harness (of the dray-horse variety only used by millers). In the cart sat a solid-looking peasant, in a new coat, sporting a mottled beard.

‘Hey there, Vasily Dmitrich,' Kapiton shouted out of the window, ‘you're welcome to come in… It's the Lybovshinsky miller,' he whispered to me.

The peasant climbed down from the cart, groaning as he did so, and entered Kapiton's room, where he glanced round for the icon and crossed himself.

‘Well, Vasily Dmitrich, what's new? You're ill, that's obvious: your face looks pasty.'

‘Yes, Kapiton Timofeyich, something's wrong.'

‘What's the trouble?'

‘It's like this, Kapiton Timofeyich. Not long ago I bought millstones in the town. Well, I brought them home, but when I started unloading them from the cart, I put too much into it, you know, and something went pop in my stomach, just as if it'd got torn. And from then on I've felt bad all the time. Today it hurts real bad.'

‘Hmmm,' murmured Kapiton and sniffed some tobacco, ‘that means a hernia. How long ago did this happen to you?'

‘It's ten days ago, now.'

‘Ten?' Kapiton drew in breath through his teeth and shook his head. ‘Let me feel. Well, Vasily Dmitrich,' he said at last, ‘I'm sorry for you, because I like you, but that condition of yours is not at all good. You're ill right enough, and no joking. Stay here with me, and I'll do all I can for you, but I don't promise anything.'

‘You really mean it's that bad?' muttered the astonished miller.

‘Yes, Vasily Dmitrich, it's that bad. If you'd come to me a couple of days earlier, I'd have been able to put you right with a flick of the wrist. But now you've got an inflammation here, that's what it is, and before long it'll turn into St Anthony's fire.'

‘But it's just not possible, Kapiton Timofeyich.'

‘And I'm telling you it is.'

‘But how can it be!' (In response Kapiton shrugged his shoulders.) ‘Am I going to die because of this silly business?'

‘I'm not saying that. I'm simply telling you to stay here.'

The peasant thought about this a bit, looked at the floor, then
glanced up at us, scratched the nape of his neck and was ready to put his cap on.

‘Where are you off to, Vasily Dmitrich?'

‘Where to? It's obvious where to – home, if things are that bad. If things are like that, there's a lot to be put in order.'

‘But you'll do yourself real harm, Vasily Dmitrich. I'm surprised that you even got here at all. Stay here, I beg you.'

‘No, Brother Kapiton Timofeyich, if I'm going to die, I'll die at home. If I died here, God knows what a mess there'd be at home.'

‘It's still not certain, Vasily Dmitrich, how it's going to turn out… Of course, it's dangerous, there's no doubt about that, and that's why you ought to stay here.'

The peasant shook his head. ‘No, Kapiton Timofeyich, I won't stay. Just you write out a prescription for a little medicine.'

‘Medicine by itself won't help.'

‘I'm not staying, I'm telling you that.'

‘Well, as you wish… Mind you, you've only yourself to blame afterwards!'

Kapiton tore a little page out of the album and, after writing out a prescription, gave some advice on what still had to be done. The peasant took the sheet of paper, gave Kapiton a half-rouble piece, walked out of the room and sat in his cart.

‘Goodbye, then, Kapiton Timofeyich. Think kindly of me and don't forget the little orphans, if it should happen…'

‘Stay here, Vasily, stay here!'

The peasant merely gave a shake of the head, struck the horse with the reins and rode out of the yard. I went out on to the street and looked after him. The road was muddy and pot-holed. The miller drove carefully, without hurrying, skilfully guiding the horse and bowing to those he met on the way… Four days later he was dead.

In general, Russians surprise one when it comes to dying. I can recall to mind now many who have died. You I recall, my friend of old, the student who never completed his education, Avenir Sorokoumov, fine and most noble person! I see again your consumptive, greenish face, your thin, russet-coloured hair, your timid smile, your fascinated gaze and long-limbed body; I hear your weak, kindly voice. You lived at the house of the Great Russian landowner, Gur Krupyanikov, taught Russian grammar, geography and history to
his children, Fofa and Zyoza, and patiently endured the heavy-handed humour of Gur himself, the crude familiarity of his butler, the tasteless pranks of his wicked little boys and not without a bitter smile, but also without complaint, fulfilled all the capricious demands made upon you by his bored wife; despite this, how you used to enjoy your leisure, how filled with beatitude were your evenings, after supper, when, finally rid of all obligations and duties, you would sit by the window, thoughtfully smoking your pipe or greedily thumbing through some mutilated and much-fingered copy of a thick journal which had been brought from town by a surveyor who was just as homeless a wretch as you were! How you used to enjoy in those days all kinds of verses and stories, how easily tears would be brought to your eyes, with what pleasure you used to laugh, how rich was your childishly pure soul in sincere love for mankind and in high-minded compassion for all that was good and beautiful! True, you were not remarkable for undue wit: nature had endowed you neither with a good memory, nor with diligence; at the university you were considered one of the worst students; you used to sleep during lectures and preserved a solemn silence at examinations. But whose eyes lit up with joy, who used to catch his breath at the success and accomplishments of a fellow-student? You did, Avenir… Who believed blindly in the high calling of his friends, who took such pride in extolling them, who was so fierce in their defence? Who knew neither envy nor ambition, who selflessly sacrificed his own interests, who gladly deferred to people who were unworthy so much as to unlatch the buckle of his shoes?… You did, you did, my good Avenir! I remember how you said goodbye to your comrades with a heavy heart when you went off to your ‘temporary employment'; evil forebodings tormented you… And for good reason: in the country things were bad for you; there was no one in the country at whose feet you could sit in reverent attentiveness, no one to wonder at, no one to love… Both the provincials and the educated landowners treated you simply as a schoolteacher, some displaying rudeness, others indifference. And you, for your own part, cut a poor figure with your shyness, and blushing, and sweatiness, and your stammer… Even your health was not improved by the country air; you melted away, poor fellow, like a wax candle! True, your little room looked out on to the
garden; cherry trees, apple trees and limes sprinkled their delicate blossoms on your table, your ink-pot and your books; on the wall hung a little pale-blue silk cushion for a watch, given to you as a parting gift by a warm-hearted and sensitive little German governess with fair curls and sweet blue eyes; and sometimes an old friend from your Moscow days would visit and put you in an ecstasy of excitement over his own or another's verses; but your loneliness, the unbearable grind of your vocation as a teacher, the impossibility of freeing yourself, but the endless autumns, the endless winters, the relentless advance of disease… Wretched, wretched Avenir!

I visited Sorokoumov shortly before his death. He was almost unable to walk. The landowner, Gur Krupyanikov, had not driven him from his house, but had ceased to pay him and had hired another teacher for Zyoza. Fofa had been put in the cadet corps. Avenir was sitting beside the window in an ancient Voltairean armchair. The weather was wonderful. A bright autumn sky shone a gay blue above a dark-brown row of naked limes; here and there on their boughs the last, radiantly golden leaves fluttered and rustled. The frost-bound earth perspired and thawed in the sunlight; its slanting, pink-tinged rays struck lengthwise across the pale grass; a faint crackling seemed to dwell in the air, and in the garden the voices of workmen had a clear, sharp resonance.

Avenir wore an antiquated Bokhara dressing-gown; a green neckerchief cast a deathly hue upon his terribly wasted face. He was extremely delighted to see me, stretched out his hand, began to say something and started coughing. I gave him time to compose himself and took a seat near him. On Avenir's knees lay an exercise book into which the poems of Koltsov had been painstakingly copied. Giving a smile, he tapped the book with his hand.

‘That's a poet,' he managed to say, with an effort holding back his cough, and embarked on declaiming some of the verse in a scarcely audible voice: