Sketches from a Hunter's Album Read Online Free PDF Page B

bent well back on his shoulders. This was Kalinych. At the very first glance I took a liking to his warm-hearted, ruddy and slightly pock-marked face. Kalinych (as I learned subsequently) was accustomed to go out on a daily hunting trip with his master, would carry his bag, sometimes also his gun, note where a bird had fallen, act as water-carrier, gather wild strawberries, build shelters and run behind the buggy; indeed, without him Polutykin was helpless. Kalinych was a man of the happiest and most amenable disposition. He hummed endless tunes to himself, glancing around him on all sides in a carefree way and talking slightly through his nose, smiling, screwing up his light-blue eyes and giving frequent tugs at his scanty, wedge-shaped beard. He had a habit of walking slowly but with long strides, leaning a little on a long, thin stick. In the course of the day he more than once chatted with me and showed no servility towards me, but he looked after his master like a child. When the intolerable midday heat forced us to seek shelter, he led us into the depths of the wood to the place where he kept bees. Here he invited us into his little hut, adorned with tufts of dry, sweet-scented herbs, prepared fresh hay for us to He on and then placed a kind of net sacking over his head, picked up a knife, a pot and a lighted brand and went out to his bees to cut out a honeycomb for us. We drank down the warm transparent mead like spring water and fell asleep to the monotone humming of the bees and the leaves’ talkative rustling.
    I was awakened by a gentle gust of breeze. I opened my eyes and saw Kalinych. He was sitting in the half-open doorway whittling a spoon. For a long while I looked admiringly at his patient face, as unclouded as an evening sky. Polutykin also awoke, but we did not get up at once. After a long walk and a deep sleep it is very enjoyable to lie quietly in the hay while one’s body relaxes and dreams, one’s face burns with a slight flush and a sweet drowsiness presses on the eyes. Finally we arose and again set off on our wanderings until evening.
    Over supper I again turned the conversation to Khor and Kalinych.
    â€˜Kalinych is a good man,’ Polutykin told me, ‘diligent, obliging, a good peasant. Howsoever, he can’t keep his holding in proper order because I’m always taking him off with me. He goes hunting with me every day. You can judge for yourself what happens to his holding.’
    I agreed with him, and we went to bed.
    Next day Polutykin had to go into town on business connected with his neighbour, Pichukov. Pichukov had ploughed up some of Polutykin’s land and on this ploughed land he had also administered a beating to one of Polutykin’s female serfs. I went out hunting alone and just before evening turned into Khor’s place. On the threshold of his hut I was met by an old man – bald, small in stature, thick-set and broad-shouldered; it was Khor himself. The sight of this polecat aroused in me considerable curiosity. The cast of his features reminded me of Socrates: the same high, protuberant forehead, the same small eyes, the same snub nose. Together we entered the hut. Once again Fedya brought me some milk and brown bread. Khor sat down on a bench and, stroking his curly beard with the utmost calmness, proceeded to converse with me. He was evidently a man aware of his standing in the world, for his speech and his movements were of a measured slowness and he gave occasional chuckles through his long whiskers.
    We touched on such subjects as the sowing, the harvesting and the life of the peasantry. He seemed to be in agreement with me on most things, but after a while I began to have apprehensions of my own, feeling that I wasn’t saying the right thing, since everything I said began to sound so strange. Khor sometimes expressed himself in a rather puzzling fashion out of caution, I assumed. Here is an example of our conversation:
    â€˜Listen,