A Sportsman's Notebook Page 10
“Not Milovidka?” I asked.
“Yes, Milovidka. . . . So the count started asking your grandfather to sell him his dog: ‘Take what you like,’ says he. ‘No, Count,’ says your grandfather, ‘I am no merchant: I am no seller of unwanted trash; for honor’s sake I would be ready even to yield up my wife, only not Milovidka. . . . I’d sooner give my own self up into captivity.’ Alexei Grigoryevich praised him: ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he says. Your grandfather took Milovidka back in his carriage; and when Milovidka died, he gave her a funeral with music in his park—he gave the bitch a funeral and set up a headstone with an inscription over her body.”
“Well, your Alexei Grigoryevich certainly gave offence to nobody,” I observed.
“Yes, it’s always the same way: it’s the small chap that picks the quarrels.”
“And what was this fellow Bausch like?” I asked, after a pause.
“How is it that you’ve heard of Milovidka and not of Bausch? . . . He was your grandfather’s head huntsman and whipper-in. Your grandfather loved him as much as he loved Milovidka. He was a desperate fellow, and whatever your grandfather ordered, he would carry out in the twinkling of an eye—even if it meant climbing on to a knife. And what a halloo he would give: the whole forest would fairly ring with it. And then he’d suddenly set his jaw, dismount, and lie down . . . and the moment the hounds no longer heard his voice, the game was up! They’d drop the hottest scent, they’d not run farther for anything in the world. Eh, how angry your grandfather would get! ‘Don’t let me live a moment longer if I can’t hang the lazy rascal! I’ll turn the devil inside out! I’ll drag the scoundrel’s heels out through his throat!’ But it’d all end by his sending to find out what Bausch wanted and why he wasn’t hallooing, and Bausch would then generally ask for a drink, swallow it, get up, and start tally-hoing again for all he was worth.”
“You’re fond of hunting, too, Luka Petrovich, I think?”
“I might have been, certainly—but not now: now my day is over—but when I was young . . . though, you know, it’s awkward, because of my standing. It isn’t right that fellows like us should ape the nobility. It is true, you may find one of our kind, some drunken idiot who becomes a hanger-on of the gentry . . . and what a time he has! . . . all he does is make a fool of himself. They give him a rotten, stumbling horse; they keep on knocking his cap off on to the ground; they give him a stinging blow with the whip and pretend it was meant for the horse; and all the time it’s his job to laugh and make the others laugh too. No, I’ll tell you: the humbler your station, the stricter the watch you must keep on yourself if you want to avoid the mud.
“Yes,” continued Ovsyanikov, with a sigh. “Plenty of water has flowed under the bridges since I’ve been in the world: the times have changed indeed. I see a specially big change among the nobility. The small landowners have all either gone into the Government service, or else don’t stay at home; and as for the bigger fellows, they’re not the same men any more. I’ve seen enough of them, your big landowners, in these boundary cases, and I’m bound to tell you: it delights my heart to see how amiable and obliging they are. The only thing that surprises me is this: they have learned all the sciences, they talk so eloquently that it fairly melts your heart, but they make no sense out of the business in hand, they’re not even conscious of their own interest; any clerk, their own serf, can bend them any way he wants, like so many longbows. You perhaps know Korolev, Alexander Vladimirich. A nobleman through and through, handsome, rich, been to those universities abroad even, I believe, fluent and modest of speech, shakes hands with us all. You know him? . . . Well, listen, then. Last week we all assembled at Berezovka at the invitation of Nikifor Ilyich, the arbitrator. And Nikifor Ilyich the arbitrator says to us: ‘Gentlemen, we must demarcate our land, it’s shameful, our district is so badly behind-hand. Let’s get busy.’ So we did. As usual, there was arguing and quarrelling; our attorney started to be tiresome. But it was Porfyry Ovchinnikov who began the trouble. . . . And what about? . . . He himself does not own a square foot of land: he’s acting on his brother’s behalf. He shouts: ‘No, you can’t cheat me! No, you’re up against someone of a different kind! Give the plans here! Send the surveyor to me, send the Judas here!’ ‘Well, after all this, what are you claiming?’ ‘D’you think I’m such a fool as that, eh? Do you think that I am going to tell you what my claim is, just like that? . . . No, give the plans here, that’s what I say!’ and he bangs on the plans with his fists. Marfa Dmitryevna takes mortal offense. She cries: ‘How dare you defame my reputation?’ He answers: ‘I wouldn’t have your reputation even for my bay mare.’ They had to pour madeira down her throat. When he calmed down, the others started making trouble instead. Alexander Vladimirovich Korolev, the dear sweet fellow, was sitting in a corner, biting the knob of his cane, and just shaking his head. I felt so ashamed of the whole business, I could stand it no longer, and wanted to run away. What on earth could he be thinking of us? All of a sudden my friend Alexander Vladimirovich gets up and shows that he wants to speak. The arbitrator starts fussing about and says: ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, Alexander Vladimirovich wishes to speak.’ And, to give the gentlemen their due, they all fell silent at once. So Alexander Vladimirovich begins and says: ‘I think we have forgotten the reason for our assembly: although it’s true that demarcation of boundaries is to the advantage of the landowners, what is its real purpose? It is to make things easier for the peasant, to make his work handier for him and his taxes easier to pay; at present he does not know his own land and often walks five miles to do his ploughing—so that you cannot ask too much from him.’ Then Alexander Vladimirovich said that it was wicked for a landowner not to care about the welfare of his peasants, that, in the long run, if you look at it in the right way, the peasants’ interests are exactly the same as ours; if he does well, so do we, if he does badly so do we . . . and therefore it is both wicked and ill-considered not to reach agreement because of trifles . . . and he went on and on . . . and how he spoke! He fairly gripped your heart . . . all the gentlemen hung their heads; and as for me, well, I practically burst into tears. Upon my word, you won’t find language like his in any old books. But what was the end of it all? He himself refused to give up or sell ten acres of moss-hags. He said: ‘I am going to drain this marsh with my own labor and I am going to start a cloth factory there, an improved cloth factory. I have already chosen the site: I have got my own plans for it. . . .’ And had it been fair, it would have been another matter, but the plain truth is that Anton Karasikov, Alexander Vladimirovich’s neighbor, had been too mean to give Alexander’s agent a bribe of a hundred rubles. So we all went our ways without settling our business. And Alexander Vladimirovich still considers himself in the right and goes on talking about his cloth factory, only he does nothing about draining the marsh.”
“And how does he manage his estate?”
“He’s always introducing new methods. His peasants don’t like it—but it is no use listening to them. Alexander Vladimirovich is quite right.”
“How is that, Luka Petrovich? I thought you were all for conservatism?”
“My own feelings are a different question. I’m not a nobleman, I’m not a landowner. What do my ideas on farming matter? Anyhow I don’t know how to do otherwise. I try to do what is right and just, with God’s help. The younger gentry don’t like the old ways: I can’t blame them. . . . It’s high time people sat down and thought things out. There is only one thing that’s a pity: they’re all so terribly clever. They treat the peasant like a doll: they turn him this way and that, they break him and throw him away. And the agent, who’s a serf, or the bailiff, who’s of German origin, gets the peasant into his clutches once more. And if only just one of these young gentlemen would give an example and show how things ought to be done! . . . What will be the end of it? Must I really die without seeing any new system in action? . . . It’s a strange thing when the old order passes and there’s no new one to take its place!”
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nbsp; I did not know how to answer Ovsyanikov. He looked around, leaned closer to me and continued in an undertone: “Have you heard about Vasily Nikolaich Lyubozvonov?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s an extraordinary story which you may be able to explain to me. I can’t grasp it at all myself. His own peasants told the story but I can’t make any sense of what they said. He’s a young fellow, you know, and inherited from his mother not long ago. Well, he arrives at his place. The peasants have assembled to have a look at their master. Vasily appears before them. What on earth is it that they see? A master who comes before them in velveteen pantaloons like a coachman, and in boots with trimmings on them: he wears a red shirt, and a coat which is also like a coachman’s; he has let his beard grow, and on his head such a queer little hat, and such a queer face too. Not that he is drunk, but just not in his right mind. ‘Good day to you, my lads; God bless you.’ The peasants give him a deep bow—but in silence, for he has made them feel shy. And he himself seems to feel shy, too. He begins to make them a speech. ‘I am Russian,’ he says, ‘and you are Russian, too; I love everything that’s Russian. . . . My soul is Russian and so is my blood.’ . . . Then suddenly he gives them an order: ‘Well, my lads, go on, sing me a Russian folk-song.’ The peasants’ knees were all of a tremble; they were knocked quite silly. One stout fellow struck up a song, then dropped down at once and hid behind the others. . . . And this is the surprising thing: we have had strange landowners before, gentlemen-desperadoes, regular rakes, certainly: they dressed up as coachmen, I dare say, danced, played the guitar, sang and drank with their own serving-folk, and feasted with the peasants; but this chap Vasily is like a pretty girl: all the time reading books, or writing them, or, if not that, reciting verse aloud—talks to no one, is shyness itself, walks in the garden alone, as if he’s bored or sad. The former agent had been quite scared to begin with. Before Vasily’s arrival, he ran around the peasants’ back-yards, and bowed to them all. Clearly, as they say, the cat had smelt whose meat he had eaten! The peasants were full of hope; they thought to themselves: ‘No more of your tricks, my friend. Now you’ll have to answer for what you’ve done; now you’ll have to dance all right, you mean old rascal! . . .’ But instead of that, it turned out—how can I explain it to you?—the Lord himself could not make out what happened! Vasily sends for the agent, talks to him, blushes, you know, and gasps out: ‘I want you to be just and not to oppress anybody—d’you hear?’ And from that day forward he never even sent for him! He lives on his own estate as though he was a stranger there. Well, the agent heaved a sigh of relief, and, as for the peasants, they don’t dare to approach Vasily: they’re afraid to. And, look, here is another surprising thing: the master bows to them and gives them friendly looks—but their stomachs fairly turn from fear. What an extraordinary story, sir! Eh? . . . Or perhaps I’ve grown old and stupid or something, and don’t understand.”
I answered Ovsyanikov that Mr. Lyubozvonov was probably ill.
“Ill! Why he is fatter across than he is tall, and such a great sprawling face, my word, you’d never think he was a young man. . . . But of course, who can tell—except God?” And Ovsyanikov sighed deeply.
“Well, enough of the gentry,” I began. “What have you got to tell me about the freeholders, Luka Petrovich?”
“No, there I must ask to be excused,” he said hastily. “It is true, I could tell you. . . . But what’s the use?” Ovsyanikov waved his hands. “We’d better have tea. Peasants we are, just ordinary peasants; besides, what else should we be?” He paused. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinichna rose from her chair and sat down again closer to us. In the course of the evening she had several times noiselessly gone out and no less quietly returned. Silence reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov, with slow-moving dignity, drank cup after cup.
“Mitya was here to-day,” observed Tatyana Ilyinichna in a low voice.
Ovsyanikov frowned.
“What did he want?”
“He came to beg your pardon.”
Ovsyanikov shook his head.
“There you are,” he went on, turning to me. “What’s a man to do with his relations? He can’t just drop them, can he? Take my case: a nice little nephew God has rewarded me with. A head on his shoulders, a smart lad, there’s no question of that; quite a scholar—and yet no good’s ever likely to come out of him. He was in the Government service—then threw it up: promotion was not fast enough for him, if you please. . . . Does he think he is a nobleman, or what? Even they don’t get promoted to generals at once. Anyway, now he’s without a job. . . . And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s become a tale-bearer too! He composes petitions for the peasants, writes reports, instructs the village spokesmen, shows up surveyors at their tricks, crawls around the pot-houses, rubs shoulders with townsfolk and yard-sweepers in every tavern. In short, he’s heading for a bad end. The police have warned him more than once. Luckily he knows how to crack a joke: he makes them laugh, then gets them into hot water too. . . . Why, I bet he’s sitting in your little den, isn’t he?” he added, turning to his wife. “I know you, you’re so soft-hearted—you’ve taken him under your wing.”
Tatyana Ilyinichna dropped her head, smiled and blushed.
“So it’s like that, is it?” continued Ovsyanikov: “You molly-coddler! Well, tell him to come in—let it pass. I’ll forgive the silly boy for the sake of our dear guest. . . . Well, call him, call him . . .”
Tatyana Ilyinichna went to the door and called: “Mitya!”
Mitya, a lad of about twenty-eight, tall, well-built and curly-headed, came into the room, and, catching sight of me, halted on the threshold. He was dressed in the German fashion, but you’d only to look at the unnaturally high padding of the shoulders to see clearly that his clothes had been cut by the most Russian of tailors.
“Well, come on, come on,” said the old man, “what are you ashamed about? You must thank your aunt you are forgiven . . . Here, sir, let me introduce him,” he continued, pointing at Mitya, “my own nephew, but the two of us don’t see eye to eye. I’ve come to the end of my patience!” Mitya and I bowed to each other. “Well, tell me, what sort of a scrape are you in now? Tell me what they’ve got against you this time!”
Mitya was clearly reluctant to explain and justify himself in front of me.
“Later on, uncle,” he murmured.
“No, not later on, but now,” persisted the old man. “I know you’re ashamed to speak in front of this gentleman, all the better—it’s a punishment for you. Come on, tell us. . . . We’ll hear what you have to say.”
“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” began Mitya vehemently, and he shook his head; “please, uncle, judge for yourself. The freeholders of Reshetilovo come and ask for my help. ‘What is the matter?’ I ask. ‘Here’s the matter: our grain-sheds are all in order, they could not be better than they are. Suddenly there comes to us an official and says he’s got orders to inspect the sheds. He inspects them and says our sheds are in bad order, seriously neglected, he must report it to his superiors. But how are they neglected, pray? I know how, he says. We got together and decided to grease his palm in the usual way, but old Prokhorich prevented us, he said we would only sharpen his appetite; why, hadn’t we any means of redress? . . . We took the old man’s advice, but the official was annoyed and made a complaint and wrote a report. And now we’re called on to answer him.’ ‘And are your sheds really in order?’ I asked. ‘Before God, they are indeed; and there’s as much grain there as the law prescribes. . . .’ ‘Well,’ I say, ‘you’ve nothing to be afraid of, then,’ and I wrote them out a paper . . . and it’s not known yet which way the case has gone . . . But as for the complaint that’s been made to you about it all, it’s as clear as day: everyone has got his own axe to grind.”
“Everyone except you apparently,” said the old man, in a low voice. . . . “And what are the tricks you have been up to with the peasants of Shutolomovo?”
“How d’you know about that?”
“There too I was in the right—please judge again for yourself. The peasants of Shutolomovo had ten acres of their land ploughed up by their neighbor Bespandin. ‘It’s my land,’ he says. The Shutolomovo people pay rent, their master’s away abroad—tell me yourself, who is there to help them? But there’s no question of it, the land is theirs, they’ve been serfs on it since time immemorial. So they come to me and ask me to write a petition, and I do. But Bespandin finds out and starts threatening, and says: ‘I’ll take this little Mitya and I’ll pull the backs of his shoulder-blades out, or else I’ll take his head right off his shoulders.’ We’ll see whether he does. So far my head is safe and sound.”
“Well, don’t boast: your head will come to a bad end,” said the old man, “raving lunatic that you are.”
“But, uncle, didn’t you tell me yourself?”
“I know, I know what you are going to say to me,” Ovsyanikov interrupted him. “Exactly: a man must live justly and ought to help his neighbor. Certainly there are times when a man shouldn’t spare himself . . . but do you always live up to those principles? Don’t they take you to pot-houses, eh? and stand you drinks? and bow to you, eh? and say: ‘Dmitry Alexeich, sir, help us, and we will prove to you how grateful we are,’ and don’t they slip a silver ruble or a note from under their coat skirts into your hand? eh? Isn’t that what happens? Tell us, isn’t it, eh?”