Sketches from a Hunter's Album (10 page)

‘Oh, I'm right whatever the situation,' I answered. ‘Even if you'd died, you'd still have got out of your bad situation.'

‘OK, OK,' he added, suddenly and powerfully striking the table with his hand, ‘you must just make up your mind! Why put up with a bad situation, eh? What's the point of scraping by, hanging on…'

Olga stood up quickly and went out into the garden.

‘Well, Fedya, give us a tune!' shouted Radilov.

Fedya jumped up and walked about the room with that show-off special walk of a boy mincing about in front of a tame bear, beginning to sing:

The noise of a carriage resounded at the porch steps and in a moment or so a tall old man entered the room, broad-shouldered and solidly built, Farmer Ovsyanikov by name… But Ovsyanikov is such a remarkable and unusual person that, with the reader's permission, we will talk about him in the next Sketch. As for the present story I'll simply add that the next day Yermolay and I set off hunting as soon as it was light and after hunting we went home and a week later I went once again to see Radilov, but I found neither him nor Olga at home, and a couple of weeks later I learnt he'd suddenly vanished, abandoning his mother and going off somewhere with his sister-in-law. The entire province was stirred by the event and started talking about it, and it was only then that I finally fathomed the look that had been on Olga's face during Radilov's story. It hadn't just been a look of compassion; it had been a look burning with envy.

Before leaving the country I visited Radilov's old mother. I found her in the drawing-room playing a game of ‘donkey' with Fyodor Mikheich.

‘Have you any news of your son?' I asked her eventually.

The old woman burst into tears. I didn't ask her any more about Radilov.

I met him at Radilov's, as the reader already knows, and a couple of days later I called on him. I found him at home. He was sitting in a large leather armchair and he was reading from the monthly calendar of saints' lives. A grey cat purred on his shoulder. He received me, as was his custom, courteously and somewhat grandly. We struck up a conversation.

‘Tell me the truth, Luka Petrovich,' I said by the by. ‘Surely, in your time, things were better?'

‘Some things were truly better, I can tell you,' Ovsyanikov replied. ‘We lived quieter lives, and it's true there was more of everything… But it's better now. And for your children it'll be better still, God grant.'

‘Luka Petrovich, I'd expected you to start praising the old days.'

‘No, I've no reason to praise them old days especially. I'll give you one example. Take yourself, you're a landowner, just as much a landowner as your late grandad, but you'll never have as much authority as he had! What's more, you're not the same kind of man. Nowadays there's other gentlemen putting pressure on us, but it seems you'll never get rid of that. The corn's gotta be ground, you know, that's the only way you'll get flour. No, I won't be seeing nowadays what I saw so much of in my youth.'

‘What, for instance?'

‘Take, for example, what I gotta say about your grandad. A man of authority, he was! He'd squash the likes of us. You very likely know – well, of course, you know your own land – the wedge of land stretching from Chaplygino to Malinin? You've got it under
oats now. Well, that's ours – our land as ever is. Your grandad took it off us. He rode up, pointed, said: “That's my property,” and took it. My father – he's dead now (God rest his soul!) – he was a just man, but hot-tempered, too, and didn't stand for that – who wants to lose his property anyway? – and he went to court. He went to court, mind, but the others didn't – they were too frightened. So your grandad was told that Pyotr Ovsyanikov'd lodged a complaint against him, to the effect that his land'd been taken away… Your grandad at once sent his master of hounds Baush to us, along with some men. They seized my father and took him to your estate. I was a small boy and I ran after him barefoot. So what d'you think, eh? They took him to your house and there they gave him a beating right under the windows. And your grandad stood on the balcony and watched, he did. And your grandma sat at the window watching too. My father called out: “Dear lady, Marya Vasilyevna, help me, have mercy on me!” But all she did was raise herself a little and glance down at him. So they got father to promise he'd give up the land and they ordered him to thank them for letting him go with his life. So it's remained yours. Go and ask your peasants what that piece of land's called. “Cudgel's Piece” they call it, because it was taken away with a cudgel. That's why there's nothing much for us, us small folk, to regret about the old order of things.'

I didn't know what to say to Ovsyanikov and didn't dare look him in the face.

‘And there was another neighbour of ours in those times, Komov, Stepan Niktopolionych. He was a real pain to my father, if not with one thing, then another. He was a drunkard and he liked to play host, and as soon as he'd had a drop to drink he'd be saying in French “
Se bon
” and he'd lick his lips – then there'd be all hell let loose! He'd send round to all his neighbours asking them to visit. His troikas literally stood ready, and if you didn't go he'd be down on you at once!… What a strange fellow he was! In a “soberous” state he'd never tell a he, but as soon as he'd had a drop he'd begin telling how in St Petersburg he'd got three houses on the Fontanka – one red with one chimney, another yellow with two chimneys and a third blue without chimneys – and three sons (he'd never been married, mind), one in the infantry, one in the cavalry and one just ordinary
… And he'd say that a son lived in each of the houses, and the eldest entertained admirals, the second one generals and the third one nothing but Englishmen! Then he'd stand up and he'd say: “To the health of my eldest son, he's the most respected!” – and then he'd burst into tears. And woe to anyone who tried to refuse the toast! “I'll shoot you!” he'd shout. “And I won't let you have a Christian burial!” Or he'd jump up and shout: “Dance, all God's people, dance – to your heart's content and my delight!” Well, you'd gotta dance, though you might die, dance you must. He was a right pain to his peasant girls. All night long, as ever was, till morning they'd be singing in chorus and whichever reached the highest note got a prize. And as soon as they'd get tired he'd rest his head on his hand and start wailing: “Oh, what a poor orphan girl I am! They're leaving me all forlorn!” Then the stable-lads'd rightaway start encouraging them. My father became a favourite of his, but he couldn't help that, could he? He nearly drove my father into the grave and would've done, if he'd not died himself, thank God, by falling off a dovecote when drunk… That's the kind of neighbours we had in those days!'

‘How times have changed,' I remarked.

‘Yes, yes,' Ovsyanikov agreed. ‘Still, it's gotta be said that in the old days the gentry lived more sumptuously. Which is to say nothing about the grandees, I had my fill of seeing them in Moscow. They say there aren't any of them left there.'

‘You've been to Moscow?'

‘Yes – long, long ago. I'm going on seventy-three now an' I went to Moscow in my sixteenth year.'

Ovsyanikov sighed.

‘Who did you see there?'

‘Many grand personages I saw and each one I saw lived openly, for everyone to admire and wonder at. Only not one of them matched Count Aleksey Grigoryevich Orlov-Chesmensky.
⁴
I used to see Aleksey Grigoryevich often ‘cos my uncle was his butler. The Count used to live out by the Kaluga Gate, on Shabalovka. Now he was a real grandee! Such bearing, such gracious words of welcome – unimaginable, indescribable. His height alone was worth something and as for his strength, his look!… So long as you didn't know him, hadn't met him face to face, you'd be really frightened and shy, but as soon as you met him he'd bring the sun's warmth into your life
and you'd be full of joy. He'd let anyone into his presence and be interested in everything. In the races he drove himself and he'd race with each one, never overtaking right away, never humiliating, never breaking away, but only going ahead at the very end. And he was so nice about it, consoling his opponent and praising his horse. He used to keep the very best sort of tumbling pigeons. He'd go out into his courtyard, seat himself in an armchair and order the pigeons to be released. And all round about, on the roofs, his men'd be standing with guns to protect against hawks. A large silver bowl with water in it would be put at the Count's feet and he'd watch the pigeons reflected in the water. Hundreds of paupers and beggars lived off his bread – and the amount of money he handed out! But when he was angry, it was like a roar of thunder! You'd be frightened, but there'd be nothing to cry about. A moment later you'd look at him and he'd be smiling. He'd give a feast and the whole of Moscow'd be drunk! And what a clever chap he was! After all, he beat the Turks. He loved wrestling, too. He'd have strong fellows brought to him from Tula and Kharkov and Tambov and all over. If he outwrestled someone, he'd give him a prize, but if he got beaten he'd give lavish rewards and kiss the winner on the lips… During my time in Moscow he organized such a hunt as had never before been seen in all Russia. He invited all the hunters as ever were from all parts of the kingdom to be his guests and named the day three months ahead. So they all gathered. They brought dogs and huntsmen – a whole army of them there were! First they all feasted as was right and proper and then they all set off for the town gate. Such a crowd of people there were, all pushing and shoving! And what d'you think? It was your grandad's dog outran all of them.'

‘You mean Pretty Lady?' I asked.

‘Pretty Lady, Pretty Lady, that's right… The Count, he started saying: “Sell me your dog. Take whatever you like for her.” “No, Count,” your grandad said, “I'm not a merchant, I don't go round selling worthless rubbish, but as a matter of honour I'd be prepared to give up my wife, only I'll not give up Pretty Lady… I'd rather go to prison.” And Aleksey Grigoryevich praised him. “That's what I like to hear,” he said. Your grandad brought her back in his carriage. And when Pretty Lady died, he buried her in the garden
with musical accompaniment, buried the bitch and erected a stone with an inscription over her grave.'

‘So Aleksey Grigoryevich never did anyone down, then,' I remarked.

‘That's always the way it is: it's the petty ones that see the pettiness in others.'

‘What sort of a chap was this Baush?' I asked after some moments' silence.

‘How is it you've heard about Pretty Lady but you haven't heard about Baush? He was your grandad's chief huntsman in charge of the hounds. Your grandad was as fond of him as he was of Pretty Lady. He was fiercely loyal, and whatever your grandad ordered him to do he'd do it in a flash, even if it meant getting knifed for it… And when he set the hounds on some scent he'd fill the whole forest with his shouts. And then he might suddenly straighten up, slip off his horse and lie down flat. When the hounds couldn't hear his voice any more, that'd be that – finished! They'd give up the scent and wouldn't go on no matter what. Heck, wouldn't your grandad be angry! “Life,” he'd say, “it's not worth living, unless I string up that good-for-nothing! I'll tear that Antichrist inside out! I'll pull his heels right through his throat, I will!” And it'd end by him sending to know what was wrong, why weren't the hounds being set on. And Baush in such circumstances used usually to ask for something to drink, have a drink, then climb to his feet and start his view-halloo all over again.'

‘It seems you're also fond of hunting, Luka Petrovich?'

‘I'd love hunting, yes… but not now. Now my time's passed, but when I was young… I felt awkward, you know, on account of my being a farmer. It's not for the likes of us to start trying to be gentry. Mind, there've been those of us farmers, drinkers and incompetents, who've sucked up to our lords and masters – and a lot o' good it's done them! They've just brought shame on themselves. They'd be given some trashy, stumbling horse and have their hats knocked off their heads again and again or get swiped with a horse-whip supposedly meant for the horse and they'd have to pretend to laugh at it and make others laugh. No, I tell you, the lower down the social scale you are, the stricter you've got to behave, otherwise you'll be in the dirt.

‘Yes,' Ovsyanikov continued with a sigh, ‘much water's flowed under the bridge since I was born and now times are different. In
particular I've noticed a great change in the gentry. The minor gentry've either been in state service or else can't stay in one place, and as for the bigwigs – you can't recognize them any more. I've done my fill of looking at the big ones – for instance, over the redivision of land. And I've gotta tell you this: it fair gladdens the heart to see how caring and polite they are. Only what surprises me is that they've got all their learning and talk so fancy that one can't help being impressed, but they still don't understand real business and can't feel what's in their own best interest. Why, one of their peasants, a bailiff, say, can bend them any way he wants just like a bow! Well, you probably know Korolyov, Alexander Vladimirych – he's one of the gentry, isn't he? Good-looking, rich, attended universities, it seems, and been abroad, is a smooth talker, self-effacing and shakes everyone by the hand. Do you know who I mean? Well, then listen to this. Last week we all gathered in Beryozovka on the invitation of the mediator, Nikifor Ilyich. And the mediator Nikifor Ilyich said to us: “Gentlemen, we've got to revise our boundaries. It's a crying shame that our sector of land's got so behind-hand. Let's get down to business.” So we got down to it. As usual, there were discussions and arguments and our legal adviser began to get really heated. But the first one to blow up was Porfiry Ovchinnikov. And what's he got to blow up about? He didn't own an inch of land, but he was acting on his brother's behalf. He shouted: “No, you won't get the better of me! No, I'm not going to be fooled! Give the plans here! Let me get my hands on that surveyor, just let me get hold of that Judas!” “In the end, what on earth do you want?” “My God, what a fool! Do you think I'm going to tell you right now what I want? No, just you let me have those plans!” And he brought his fist down on the plans. Marfa Dmitrievna was bitterly hurt. She shouted: “How do you dare cast a slur on my reputation?” He said: “I wouldn't want your reputation for my brown mare.” They forced some madeira on them. He was calmed down and then others started up. Korolyov, Alexander Vladimirych, sat the whole time as good as gold in the corner and sucked the knob on his walking-stick and just nodded his head. I felt real bad about it all, but just didn't have the strength to get up and go. And I wondered what he was thinking about the lot of us? Then I saw that my Alexander Vladimirych had got up and was giving the impression he wanted to say something.
The mediator put on airs and said: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, Alexander Vladimirych would like to say a word.” And you've gotta give the gentry credit, because they all stopped talking at that. So Alexander Vladimirych began and he said that we've, so to speak, forgotten what we're doing here, that although boundary revision is indisputably advantageous to landowners, what has it really been introduced for? Why, in order to ensure that the peasant has an easier lot, can work and fulfil his obligations more easily. As it is, he may not even know what land is his and frequently has to go five miles or more to do his ploughing and so you don't know how much to ask him to pay. Then Alexander Vladimirych said it was a sin for a landowner not to care about the welfare of his peasants, that peasants were entrusted to him by God and, finally, that, if one thought about it sensibly, their advantage was our advantage, that it was all one and the same: what was good for them was good for us, what was bad for them was bad for us, and that consequently it was sinful and foolish not to reach agreement because of trivial disputes, and so on, and so forth… Oh, the way he talked! He fairly seized one by the heart. The gentry all looked crestfallen and I myself was almost on the verge of tears. My word, you wouldn't find a speech like that in any of the old-fashioned books! But how did it all end? He didn't want to give up and sell just under a dozen acres of mossy bogland. He said: “I'll drain that bog with my own men and put up a cloth factory there, with all the latest improvements. I've specially chosen that place,” he said, “and I've got my own reasons…” Though that was right and proper in its own way, it was only because Alexander Vladimirych's neighbour, Anton Karasikov, hadn't given Korol-oyov's bailiff a hundred-rouble bribe in paper notes. So we dispersed without having done what we should've done. And Alexander Vladimirych still goes on thinking himself in the right and talks about a cloth factory, only he does nothing about draining the bog.'