Sketches from a Hunter's Album (7 page)

A few miles from my village is the large village of Shumikhino, with a stone church erected to Saints Cosmas and Damian.
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Opposite this church there used to be extensive manorial buildings surrounded by various structures such as outbuildings, workshops, stables, greenhouses and outhouses for carriages, baths and temporary kitchens, accommodation for guests and estate managers, conservatories, swings for the peasantry to enjoy and other more or less useful buildings. In the manorial buildings themselves wealthy landowners used to live, and everything went well for them until suddenly, one fine morning, the whole blessed place was burned to the ground. The gentlefolk took themselves off to another nest; the estate fell into disuse. The extensive burnt-out area became a kitchen garden which was here and there surrounded by piles of bricks left over from the former foundations. Such of the woodwork as survived was used to knock together a small peasant hut covered with ship's planking which had been bought ten years or so before for the purpose of building a pavilion in the Gothic manner. A gardener, Mitrofan, his wife Aksinya and their seven children were housed in this hut. Mitrofan was ordered to supply greens and vegetables for the manorial table, which was 150 miles away, while Aksinya was given charge of a Tyrolean cow purchased in Moscow for a considerable sum but, unfortunately, deprived of any means of reproduction and therefore barren of milk from the day of purchase. She was also entrusted with a crested, smoke-grey drake, the only surviving ‘manorial' bird. The children, due to their tender years, were given no tasks to perform, which, however, in no way prevented them from becoming complete layabouts. On a couple of occasions I'd happened to spend the night at this gardener's hut and in the course of doing so I'd had from him cucumbers which, God knows why, even at the height of summer were outstanding for their size, rubbishy watery taste and thick yellow skins. It was there I'd first
seen Stepushka. Apart from Mitrofan and his family and a deaf old churchwarden Gerasim, who lived out of Christian charity in a tiny room in the house of a one-eyed soldier's widow, not a single real servant remained in Shumikhino, since Stepushka, with whom I'm intending to acquaint the reader, couldn't be regarded as a man in a general sense, nor as a manorial servant in particular.

Every man has at least some position or other in society, or at least some connections. Every manorial servant receives, if not pay, then ‘support', but Stepushka received absolutely no financial help at all, had no relations and no one knew of his existence. He didn't even have a past; no one spoke about him; he'd never been included in the census. There were dark rumours abroad that he'd at one time been employed as a valet, but who he was, where he came from, whose son he was, how he came to be a resident of Shumikhino, in what fashion he came by the frock coat of mixed material which he'd worn from times immemorial, where he lived and what he lived on – about all these things positively no one had the slightest idea and, truth to tell, such questions didn't concern them. Grandpa Tro-fimych, who knew the family tree of all manorial servants in an ascending line to the fourth generation, even he had said only once that he thought, so it was said, Stepan'd been related to a Turkish woman whom the late master, Brigadier Aleksey Romanych, had brought back in a cart from the wars. Even on holidays and days of general celebration when there were abundant free handouts of buckwheat pies and green wine in the good old Russian tradition, even on such occasions Stepushka didn't make his way to the laden tables and full barrels, didn't bow down, didn't kiss the master's hand, didn't drink back at one go a whole glass in his master's presence and to his master's health, a glass filled by the fat hand of an estate steward; but there was always some kind soul or other who, in passing, would hand the poor wretch a partly eaten piece of pie. On Easter Sunday he was greeted in Christ's name but he never turned back his greasy sleeve and fetched from his back pocket his painted egg and handed it, sighing and winking, to the young master and mistress or even to the mistress herself. In summer he lived in a storeroom behind the henhouse and in winter in the entrance to the bathhouse; in severe frosts he spent the night in the hayloft. People were used to having him about, sometimes even hit him, but no one used
to talk to him and he, it seems, had grown used to keeping his mouth shut from birth onwards. After the fire this abandoned man found refuge in – or, as the Oryol peasants say, ‘got his foot into' – Mitrofan the gardener's place. The gardener didn't lay a finger on him, nor did he invite him to stay, nor drive him away. Stepushka didn't in fact live in the gardener's hut. He lived in, or hung about, the kitchen garden. He'd move and walk about without a sound, and sneeze and cough into his hand, not without fear, and eternally fussed and bothered on the quiet, just like an ant, always looking for food, just for food. And if he hadn't spent from morning to evening worrying about food, my Stepushka'd have died of hunger! It's a bad business if you don't know in the morning what you'll have to fill yourself with by the evening! So Stepushka'd spend his time sitting under the fence eating a radish or sucking a carrot or crumbling in his lap a dirty head of cabbage; or he'd be groaning under the weight of carrying a bucket of water somewhere; or he'd get a little fire going under a pot and throw some black bits and bobs into it from out of his breast pouch; or in his own little hidey-hole he'd be wielding a piece of wood, knocking in a nail, making a little shelf for some crust or other. And he'd do it all without a word, just as if he were all the time on the lookout and about to hide. And then he'd be gone for a couple of days and no one'd notice his absence… You'd take a second look and he'd be there again, sitting under the fence and surreptitiously feeding kindling under a little three-legged pot. He had a small face, yellowish little eyes, hair down to his eyebrows, a sharp little nose, enormous, transparent ears, like a bat's, and a beard shaved literally two weeks ago, never any longer or shorter. This was the Stepushka I met on the bank of the Ista in the company of the other old man.

I approached them, exchanged greetings and sat down beside them. In Stepushka's companion I recognized another acquaintance. It was one of Count Pyotr Ilyich—'s freed serfs, Mikhaylo Savelyev, known as Foggy. He lived in the house of a consumptive townsman of Bolkhov, the proprietor of an inn where I'd stayed fairly often. Young officials and other idle folk (merchants piled high with striped feather coverlets are indifferent to it) who travel on the Oryol high road can see even to this day, a short way beyond the village of Troitsky, an enormous wooden house on two floors, stuck right
beside the road, completely abandoned, its roof collapsed and its windows stove in. At midday in clear sunny weather it's hard to imagine anything sadder than this ruin. Here Count Pyotr Ilyich used to live, famous for his lavish hospitality, a rich magnate of the last century. The whole province used to visit him and would dance and make merry in fine fashion, to the deafening accompaniment of homegrown music and the crackling of fireworks and Roman candles. And probably there's more than one old lady who nowadays passes by that abandoned manorial residence and sighs and recalls long-vanished times and long-vanished youth. The Count spent much time in feasting, spent long strolling with welcoming smiles among the crowds of obsequious guests; but his estate, sad to say, did not last out his lifetime. Having ruined himself thoroughly, he went off to St Petersburg to seek an official niche for himself and died in a hotel room before anything had been decided. Foggy'd been employed as a butler in his house and had achieved his freedom in the Count's lifetime. He was a man of seventy or so, with pleasant, regular features. Almost the whole time he smiled, as nowadays only those from the epoch of Catherine the Great are used to smiling, in a kindly and dignified manner. In conversation, he would slowly protrude and compress his lips as he sweetly squeezed up his eyes and pronounced his words with a slight nasal intonation. He would blow his nose and sniff tobacco also without any haste, as if he were engaged in doing something very serious.

‘Well, Mikhaylo Savelyich,' I began, ‘have you caught anything?'

‘Take a look in the basket. A couple of perch and five or so sculpin. Show 'em, Steve.'

Stepushka held out the basket to me.

‘How are you, Stepan?' I asked him.

‘I… I… I… I get by, sir,' answered Stepan, stammering as though his tongue was moving heavy weights.

‘Is Mitrofan well?'

‘Well, yes-s-sir.'

The poor wretch turned away.

‘Not biting, they're not biting,' said Foggy. ‘It's too hot. Fish're all hidin' under the bushes, all asleep… Give us ‘nother worm, Steve.' (Stepushka got out a worm, placed it on his palm, hit it once or twice, stuck it on the hook, spat on it and handed it to Foggy.)
‘Thanks, Steve… And you, sir,' he went on, turning to me, ‘you're out huntin', sir, are you?'

‘As you can see.'

‘I see, sir… And what's that dog you got, sir, an Inglish or Furland?'

The old man liked to take the opportunity to show he'd been about the world and knew a thing or two.

‘I don't know what breed it is, but it's a good one.'

‘I see, sir… D'you go out ridin' with dogs?'

‘I've got a couple of packs.'

Foggy smiled and shook his head.

‘That's the way of it – one's a great dog-lover, t'other's not interested like. What I think is, accordin' to my simple way o' thinkin', dogs oughter be kept more for show, so to speak… And so as everythin' was in proper order, the horses in proper order, and the men lookin' after the dogs, and everythin'. The dead Count – the Lord bless 'im! – weren't a great one for huntin', truth to tell, but he kept dogs and once or twice a year he'd ride out with 'em. The huntsmen'd gather out in the courtyard in red caftans with gold braid and they'd blow the horn. Then his excellency'd come out and they'd lead the horse to him. Then his excellency'd mount the horse and the master of hounds, he'd help with the stirrups and then take his hat off his head and hand up the reins in his hat. Then his excellency'd crack his whip and the huntsmen'd start hallooin' and off they'd all go out of the yard. A groom'd be ridin ‘just behind the Count and keepin' two o' the Count's favourite hounds on a silk leash and lookin' round, keepin' an eye on everythin', you know… And this groom, he'd be sittin' high, high up, on a Cossack saddle, red-cheeked like, keepin' his eyes on everythin' like… Well, there'd be guests, you see, at a thing like that. Entertainin' to see, but you got to observe decorum… Oh, it's got away, dammit!' he added suddenly, jerking his fishing rod.

‘They do say, don't they, the Count lived it up in his time?' I asked.

The old man spat on a worm and cast his line again.

‘A grandee he were, and that's the truth. The top-rank important persons, one can say, used to visit 'im from St Petersburg. In their sky-blue ribbons like they'd sit at table and eat. And he was a great
one for hospitality. He'd summon me and say: “Foggy, for tomorrow we must have live sterlets. Order 'em, understand?” “Yes, your excellency.” He'd order right from Paris embroidered caftans and wigs and sticks and scents and eau-de-cologne, the very best, and snuff boxes and pictures, big ones like. And if he'd give a banquet – oh, my Lord, oh, my God! – what fireworks, like, what outings! There'd even be cannons firin'! He kept forty or so musicians. He kept a music master, a German, and that German, he gave ‘imself such airs, he did, wantin' to eat at table with the guests. So his excellency ordered 'im out of 'is house, sayin': “In my house musicians must know their place.” That was 'is right as a master, and that's the truth. They'd start dancin' and they'd dance right through till dawn, mostly the schottische, like, the matradura and such… Ah, I've got one, I've got one!' (The old man pulled a small perch out of the water.) ‘Take it, Steve. The master was a master as should be,' the old man continued, casting again, ‘and he was a good kind soul. He'd give you a blow – in a moment he'd have forgotten. One thing, though: he kept fancy women. Oh, good Lord, those fancy women! They're what ruined 'im. And mostly he took 'em from the lowest class o'people. You'd wonder what more they'd want? Oh, they'd want the very best in the whole of Europe, that's what they'd want! You might say, why not live to your heart's content, that's what masters're for… But to be ruined for it, that's not right. There was one in particular, called Akulina, she's dead now, God bless 'er! She was ordinary enough, policeman's daughter from Sitov, but what a bitch she was! She'd beat the Count about the cheeks. Utterly bewitched him. She got a relative of mine shaved and sent off to the army for droppin' choc'late on 'er dress – and he wasn't the only one, mind. Still, those were good times, they were!' the old man added with a deep sigh, bowed his head and fell silent.

‘Your master, so far as I can see, was a severe man, wasn't he?' I began after a short silence.

‘Then it was in fashion, sir,' the old man replied, shaking his head.

‘Now they don't do that sort of thing,' I remarked, not taking my eyes off him.

He looked at me sideways.

‘Now things are better, so they say,' he muttered and cast his line far out.

We were sitting in the shade, but even in the shade it was stifling. The heavy, heat-laden wind had literally fallen to nothing and one's burning face sought any kind of breeze, but there was no breeze at all. The sun literally beat down from a blue, darkened sky. Directly opposite us, on the other bank, a field of oats glowed yellow, with wormwood growing in it here and there, and yet not a single stalk so much as quivered. A little lower down a peasant's horse stood in the river up to its knees and lazily waved about its wet tail. Occasionally a large fish swam to the surface beneath an overhanging bush, emitted bubbles and then slowly sank to the bottom, leaving behind it a slight ripple. Grasshoppers sawed away in the sun-browned grass. Quail cried out as if despite themselves. Hawks floated smoothly above the fields and frequently stopped in one spot, rapidly beating their wings and fanning out their tails. We sat motionless, oppressed by the heat. Suddenly, behind us, there came a noise from the creek as someone descended towards the spring. I looked round and saw a peasant of about fifty, covered in dust, in a peasant shirt and bast shoes, with a woven bag and coarse coat flung over his shoulder. He approached the spring, drank thirstily and then stood up.