Sketches from a Hunter's Album by Ivan Turgenev Read Free Book Online Page A

voice and could strum a little on the balalaika. Khor would listen and listen, and then he would bend his head to one side and begin to accompany in a plaintive voice. He particularly liked the song: ‘O, mine’s a hard lot, a hard life!’
    Fedya never let pass an opportunity to poke fun at his father, saying, ‘Well, old man, what’ve you got to complain about?’
    But Khor would rest his cheek on his hand, close his eyes and continue complaining about his hard lot. Yet at other times no one was more active than he: he would always be busying himself with something – repairing the cart, making new fence supports or taking a look at the harness. He did not, however, insist on exceptional cleanliness, and in answer to my comments once remarked that ‘a hut ought to have a lived-in smell’.
    â€˜But,’ I remarked in return, ‘look how clean it is out at Kalinych’s where he keeps bees.’
    â€˜Bees wouldn’t live there, see, sir, unless it was clean,’ he said with a sigh.
    On another occasion he asked me:
    â€˜Do you have your own estate, sir?’
    â€˜I do.’
    â€˜Is it far from here?’
    â€˜Sixty or seventy miles.’
    â€˜Well, sir, do you live on your estate?’
    â€˜I do.’
    â€˜But mostly, I reckon, you’re out enjoying yourself with that gun?’
    â€˜Yes, I must admit that.’
    â€˜And that’s a good thing you’re doing, sir. Shoot them black grouse as much as you like, but be sure and see you change your bailiff often.’
    On the evening of the fourth day Polutykin sent for me. I was sorry to have to say goodbye to the old man. Together with Kalinych I took my place in the cart.
    â€˜Well, goodbye, Khor, and keep well,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Fedya.’
    â€˜Goodbye, sir, goodbye, and don’t forget us.’
    We drove off. Dawn had just set fire to the sky.
    â€˜It’s going to be beautiful weather tomorrow,’ I said, looking at the bright sky.
    â€˜No, there’ll be rain,’ Kalinych contradicted. ‘Look how the ducks are splashing about, and the grass has got a strong smell.’
    We drove through bushy undergrowth. Kalinych began to sing in a low voice, bouncing up and down on the driver’s seat and gazing all the while at the dawn.
    The next day I was gone from under Polutykin’s hospitable roof.

YERMOLAY AND THE MILLER’S WIFE

    I N the evening the hunter Yermolay and I set off for ‘cover’. But perhaps not all my readers know what ‘cover’ means. Pray listen, gentlemen.
    In the springtime, a quarter of an hour before sundown, you go into a wood with your gun but without your dog. You seek out a place for yourself somewhere close by a thicket, look around you, inspect the firing mechanism on your gun and exchange winks with your companion. A quarter of an hour passes. The sun sinks below the horizon, but it is still light in the wood; the air is fresh and translucent; there is the spirited chatter of birds; the young grass glows with a happy emerald brilliance. You wait. The interior of the wood gradually darkens; the crimson rays of an evening sunset slowly slide across the roots and trunks of the trees, rise higher and higher, moving from the lower, still almost bare, branches to the motionless tips of the sleep-enfolded trees. Then the very tips grow faint; the pink sky becomes a dark blue. The woodland scent increases, accompanied by slight wafts of a warm dampness; the breeze that has flown into the wood around you begins to die down. The birds fall asleep – not all at once, but by types: first the finches fall silent, a few instants later the robins, after them the yellow buntings. The wood grows darker and darker. The trees fuse into large blackening masses; the first small stars emerge diffidently in the blue sky. The birds are all asleep. Only the redstarts and little woodpeckers continue to make an occasional