While Sina Karsavina and Dubova were absent on a visit, Yourii’s life
seemed uneventful and monotonous. His father was engaged, either at the
club or with household matters, and Lialia and Riasantzeff found the
presence of a third person embarrassing, so that Yourii avoided their
society. It thus became his habit to go to bed early and not to rise
till the midday meal. All day long, when in his room, or in the garden,
he brooded over matters, waiting for a supreme access of energy that
should spur him on to do some great work.
This “great work” each day assumed a different form. Now it was a
picture, or, again, it was a series of articles that should show the
world what a huge mistake the social democrats had made in not giving
Yourii a leading role in their party. Or else it was an article in
favour of adherence to the people and of strenuous co-operation with
it—a very broad, imposing treatment of the subject. Each day, however,
as it passed, brought nothing but boredom. Once or twice Novikoff and
Schafroff came to see him. Yourii also attended lectures and paid
visits, yet all this seemed to him empty and aimless. It was not what
he sought, or fancied that he sought.
One day he went to see Riasantzeff. The doctor had large, airy rooms
filled with all such things as an athletic, healthy man needs for his
amusement; Indian clubs, dumb-bells, rapiers, fishing-rods, nets,
tobacco-pipes, and much else that savoured of wholesome, manly
recreation.
Riasantzeff received him with frank cordiality, chatted pleasantly,
offered him cigarettes, and finally asked him to go out shooting with
him.
“I have not got a gun,” said Yourii.
“Have one of mine. I have got five,” replied Riasantzeff. To him,
Yourii was the brother of Lialia, and he was anxious to be as kind to
him as possible. He therefore insisted upon Yourii’s acceptance of one
of his guns, eagerly displaying them all, taking them to pieces, and
explaining their make. He even fired at a target in the yard, so that
at last Yourii laughingly accepted a gun and some cartridges, much to
Riasantzeff’s pleasure.
“That’s first-rate!” he said, “I had meant to get some duck-shooting
to-morrow, so we’ll go together, shall we?”
“I should like it very much,” replied Yourii.
When he got home he spent nearly two hours examining his gun, fingering
the lock, and taking aim at the lamp. He then carefully greased his old
shooting-boots.
On the following day, towards evening, Riasantzeff, fresh, hearty as
ever, drove up in a _droschky_ with a smart bay to fetch Yourii.
“Are you ready?” he called out to him through the open window.
Yourii, who had already donned cartridge-belt and game bag, and carried
his gun, came out, looking somewhat overweighted and ill at ease.
“I’m ready, I’m ready,” he said.
Riasantzeff, who was lightly and comfortably clad, seemed somewhat
astonished at Yourii’s accoutrements.
“You’ll find those things too heavy,” he said, smiling. “Take them all
off and put them here. You needn’t wear them till we get there.” He
helped Yourii to divest himself of his shooting-kit and placed them
underneath the seat. Then they drove away at a good pace. The day was
drawing to a close, but it was still warm and dusty. The _droschky_
swayed from side to side so that Yourii had to hold tightly to the
seat. Riasantzeff talked and laughed the whole time, and Yourii was
compelled to join in his merriment. When they got out into the fields
where the stiff meadow-grass lightly brushed against their feet it was
cooler, and there was no dust.
On reaching a broad level field Riasantzeff pulled up the sweating
horse and, placing his hand to his mouth, shouted, in a clear, ringing
voice, “Kousma—a … Kousma—a—a!”
At the extreme end of the field, like silhouettes, a row of little men
could be descried who, at the sound of Riasantzeff’s voice, looked
eagerly in his direction.
One of the men then came across the field, walking carefully between
the furrows. As he approached, Yourii saw that he was a burly, grey-
haired peasant with a long beard and sinewy arms.
He came up to them slowly, and said, with a smile, “You know how to
shout, Anatole Pavlovitch!”
“Good day, Kousma; how are you? Can I leave the horse with you?”
“Yes, certainly you can,” said the peasant in a calm, friendly voice,
as he caught hold of the horse’s bridle. “Come for a little shooting,
eh? And who is that?” he asked, with a kindly glance at Yourii.
“It is Nicolai Yegorovitch’s son,” replied Riasantzeff.
“Ah, yes! I see that he is just like Ludmilla Nicolaijevna! Yes, yes!”
Yourii was pleased to find that this genial old peasant knew his sister
and spoke of her in such a simple, friendly way.
“Now, then, let us go!” said Riasantzeff, in his cheery voice, as he
walked first, after getting his gun and game-bag.
“May you have luck!” cried Kousma, and then they could hear him coaxing
the horse as he led it away to his hut.
They had to walk nearly a verst before they reached the marsh. The sun
had almost set, and the soil, covered with lush grasses and reeds, felt
moist beneath their feet. It looked darker, and had a damp smell, while
in places water shimmered. Riasantzeff had ceased smoking, and stood
with legs wide apart, looking suddenly grave as if he had to begin an
important and responsible task. Yourii kept to the right, trying to
find a dry comfortable place. In front of them lay the water which,
reflecting the clear evening sky, looked pure and deep. The other bank,
like a black stripe, could be discerned in the distance.
Almost immediately, in twos and threes, ducks rose and flew slowly over
the water, starting up suddenly out of the rushes, and then passing
over the sportsmen’s heads, a row of silhouettes against the saffron
sky. Raisantzeff had the first shot, and with success. A wounded duck
tumbled sideways into the water, beating down the rushes with its
wings.
“I hit it!” exclaimed Riasantzeff, as he gaily laughed aloud.
“He’s really a good sort of fellow,” thought Yourii, whose turn it was
to shoot. He brought down his bird also, but it fell at such a distance
that he could not find it, though he scratched his hands and waded
knee-deep through the water. This disappointment only made him more
keen; it was fine fun, so he thought.
Amid the clear, cool air from the river the gun-smoke had a strangely
pleasant smell, and, in the darkening landscape, the merry shots
flashed out with charming effect. The wounded wild fowl, as they fell,
described graceful curves against the pale green sky where now the
first faint stars gleamed. Yourii felt unusually energetic and gay. It
was as if he had never taken part in anything so interesting or
exhilarating. The birds rose more rarely now, and the deepening dusk
made it more difficult to take aim.
“Hullo there! We must get home!” shouted Riasantzeff, from a distance.
Yourii felt sorry to go, but in accordance with his companion’s
suggestion he advanced to meet him, stumbling over rushes and splashing
through the water which in the dusk was not distinguishable from dry
soil. As they met, their eyes flashed, and they were both breathless.
“Well,” asked Riasantzeff, “did you have any luck?”
“I should say so,” replied Yourii, displaying his well-filled bag.
“Ah! you’re a better shot than I am,” said Riasantzeff pleasantly.
Yourii was delighted by such praise, although he always professed to
care nothing for physical strength or skill. “I don’t know about
better,” he observed carelessly, “It was just luck.”
By the time they reached the hut it was quite dark. The melon-field was
immersed in gloom, and only the foremost rows of melons shimmered white
in the firelight, casting long shadows. The horse stood, snorting,
beside the hut, where a bright little fire of dried steppe-grass burnt
and crackled. They could hear men talking and women laughing, and one
voice, mellow and cheery in tone, seemed familiar to Yourii.
“Why, it’s Sanine,” said Riasantzeff, in astonishment. “How did he get
here?”
They approached the fire. Grey-bearded Kousma, seated beside it, looked
up, and nodded to welcome them.
“Any luck?” he asked, in his deep bass voice, through a drooping
moustache.
“Just a bit,” replied Riasantzeff.
Sanine, sitting on a huge pumpkin, also raised his head and smiled at
them.
“How is it that you are here?” asked Riasantzeff.
“Oh! Kousma Prokorovitch and I are old friends,” explained Sanine,
smiling the more.
Kousma laughed, showing the yellow stumps of his decayed teeth as he
slapped Sanine’s knee good-naturedly with his rough hand.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Sit down here, Anatole Pavlovitch, and taste this
melon. And you, my young master, what is your name?”
“Yourii Nicolaijevitch,” replied Yourii, pleasantly.
He felt somewhat embarrassed, but he at once took a liking to this
gentle old peasant with his friendly speech, half Russian, half
dialect.
“Yourii Nicolaijevitch! Aha! We must make each other’s acquaintance,
eh? Sit you down, Yourii Nicolaijevitch.”
Yourii and Riasantzeff sat down by the fire on two big pumpkins.
“Now, then show us what you have shot,” said Kousma.
A heap of dead birds fell out of the game-bags, and the ground was
dabbled with their blood. In the flickering firelight they had a weird,
unpleasant look. The blood was almost black, and the claws seemed to
move. Kousma took up a duck, and felt beneath its wings.
“That’s a fat one,” he said approvingly. “You might spare me a brace,
Anatole Pavlovitch. What will you do with such a lot?”
“Have them all!” exclaimed Yourii, blushing.
“Why all? Come, come, you’re too generous,” laughed the old man. “I’ll
just have a brace, to show that there’s no ill-feeling.”
Other peasants and their wives now approached the fire, but, dazzled by
the blaze, Yourii could not plainly distinguish them. First one and
then another face swiftly emerged from the gloom, and then vanished.
Sanine, frowning, regarded the dead birds, and, turning away, suddenly
rose. The sight of these beautiful creatures lying there in blood and
dust, with broken wings, was distasteful to him.
Yourii watched everything with great interest as he greedily ate large,
luscious slices of a ripe melon which Kousma cut off with his pocket-
knife that had a yellow bone handle.
“Eat, Yourii Nicolaijevitch; this melon’s good,” he said. “I know your
little sister, Ludmilla Nicolaijevna, and your father, too. Eat, and
enjoy it.”
Everything pleased Yourii; the smell of the peasants, an odour as of
newly-baked bread and sheepskins; the bright blaze of the fire; the
gigantic pumpkin upon which he sat; and the glimpse of Kousma’s face
when he looked downwards, for when the old man raised his head it was
hidden in the gloom and only his eyes gleamed. Overhead there was
darkness now, which made the lighted place seem pleasant and
comfortable. Looking upwards, Yourii could at first see nothing, and
then suddenly the calm, spacious heaven appeared and the distant stars.
He felt, however, somewhat embarrassed, not knowing what to say to
these peasants. The others, Kousma, Sanine, and Riasantzeff, chatted
frankly and simply to them about this or that, never troubling to
choose some special theme for talk.
“Well, how’s the land?” he asked, when there was a short pause in the
conversation, though he felt that the question sounded forced and out
of place.
Kousma looked up, and answered:
“We must wait, just wait a while, and see.” Then he began talking about
the melon-fields and other personal matters, Yourii feeling only more
and more embarrassed, although he rather liked listening to it all.
Footsteps were heard approaching. A little red dog with a curly white
tail appeared in the light, sniffing at Yourii and Riasantzeff, and
rubbing itself against Sanine’s knees, who patted its rough coat. It
was followed by a little, old man with a sparse beard and small bright
eyes. He carried a rusty single-barrelled gun.
“It is grandfather, our guardian,” said Kousma. The old man sat down on
the ground, deposited his weapon, and looked hard at Yourii and
Riasantzeff.
“Been out shooting; yes, yes!” he mumbled, showing his shrivelled,
discoloured gums. “He! He! Kousma, it’s time to boil the potatoes! He!
He!”
Riasantzeff picked up the old fellow’s flint-lock, and laughingly
showed it to Yourii. It was a rusty old barrel-loader, very heavy, with
wire wound round it.
“I say,” said he, “what sort of a gun do you call this? Aren’t you
afraid to shoot with it?”
“He! He! I nearly shot myself with it once! Stepan Schapka, he told me
that one could shoot without … caps? He! He! … without caps! He said
that if there were any sulphur left in the gun one could fire without a
cap. So I put the loaded rifle on my knee like this, and fired it off
at full cock with my finger, like this, see? Then bang! it went off!
Nearly killed myself! He! He! Loaded the rifle, and bang!! Nearly
killed myself!”
They all laughed, and there were tears of mirth in Yourii’s eyes, so
absurd did the little man seem with his tufted grey beard and his
sunken jaws.
The old fellow laughed, too, till his little eyes watered. “Very nearly
killed myself! He! He!”
In the darkness, and beyond the circle of light, one could hear
laughter, and the voices of girls whom shyness had kept at a distance.
A few feet away from the fire, and in quite a different place from
where Yourii imagined him to be seated, Sanine struck a match. In the
reddish flare of it Yourii saw his calm, friendly eyes, and beside him
a young face whose soft eyes beneath their dark brows looked up at
Sanine with simple joy.
Riasantzeff, as he winked to Kousma, said:
“Grandfather, hadn’t you better keep an eye on your granddaughter, eh?”
“What’s the good!” replied Kousma, with a careless gesture. “Youth is
youth.”
“He! He!” laughed the old man in his turn, as with his fingers he
plucked a red-hot coal from the fire.
Sanine’s laugh was heard in the darkness. The girls may have felt
ashamed, for they had moved away, and their voices were scarcely
audible.
“It is time to go,” said Riasantzeff, as he got up. “Thank you,
Kousma.”
“Not at all,” replied the other, as with his sleeve he brushed away the
black melon-pips that had stuck to his grey beard. He shook hands with
both of them, and Yourii again felt a certain repugnance to the touch
of his rough, bony hand. As they retreated from the fire, the gloom
seemed less intense. Above were the cold, glittering stars and the vast
dome of heaven, serenely fair. The group by the fire, the horses, and
the pile of melons all became blacker against the light.
Yourii tripped over a pumpkin and nearly fell.
“Look out!” said Sanine. “Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” replied Yourii, looking round at the other’s tall, dark
form, leaning against which he fancied that he saw another, the
graceful figure of a woman. Yourii’s heart beat faster. He suddenly
thought of Sina Karsavina, and envied Sanine.
Once more the wheels of the _droschky_ rattled, and once again the good
old horse snorted as it ran.
The fire faded in distance, as did the sound of voices and laughter.
Stillness reigned. Yourii slowly looked upwards to the sky with its
jewelled web of stars. As they reached the outskirts of the town,
lights flashed here and there, and dogs barked. Riasantzeff said to
Yourii:
“Old Kousma’s a philosopher, eh?”
Seated behind, Yourii looked at Riasantzeff’s neck, and roused from his
own melancholy thoughts, endeavoured to understand what he said.
“Oh!… Yes!” he replied hesitatingly.
“I didn’t know that Sanine was such a gay dog,” laughed Riasantzeff.
Yourii was not dreaming now, and he recalled the momentary vision of
Sanine and that pretty girlish face illumined by the light of a match.
Again he felt jealous, yet suddenly it occurred to him that Sanine’s
treatment of the girl was base and contemptible.
“No, I had no idea of it, either,” said Yourii, with a touch of irony
that was lost upon Riasantzeff, who whipped up the horse and, after a
while, remarked:
“Pretty girl, wasn’t she? I know her. She’s the old fellow’s
grandchild,”
Yourii was silent. His contemplative mood was in a moment dispelled,
and he now felt convinced that Sanine was a coarse, bad man.
Riasantzeff shrugged his shoulders, and at last blurted out:
“Deuce take it! Such a night, eh? It seems to have got hold of me, too.
I say, suppose we drive back, and—”
Yourii did not at first understand what he meant.
“There are some fine girls there, you know. What do you say? Shall we
go back?” continued Riasantzeff, sniggering.
Yourii blushed deeply. A thrill of animal lust shot through his frame,
and enticing pictures rose up before his heated imagination. Yet,
controlling himself, he answered, in a dry voice:
“No; it is time that we were at home.” Then he added, maliciously:
“Lialia is waiting for us.”
Riasantzeff collapsed.
“Oh, yes, of course; yes, we ought to be back by now!” he hastily
muttered.
Yourii ground his teeth, and, glaring at the driver’s broad back in its
white jacket, remarked aggressively:
“I have no particular liking for adventures of that sort.”
“No, no; I understand. Ha! Ha!” replied Riasantzeff, laughing in a
faint half-hearted way. After that he was silent.
“Damn it! How stupid of me!” he thought.
They drove home without uttering another word, and to each the way
seemed endless.
“You will come in, won’t you?” asked Yourii, without looking up.
“Er … No! I have got to see a patient. Besides it is rather late,”
replied Riasantzeff hesitatingly.
Yourii got out of the _droschky_, not caring to take the gun or the
game. Everything that belonged to Riasantzeff he now seemed to loathe.
The latter called out to him.
“I say, you’ve left your gun!”
Yourii turned round, took this and the bag with an air of disgust.
After shaking hands awkwardly with Riasantzeff, he entered the house.
The latter drove on slowly for a short distance and then turned sharply
into a side-street. The rattle of wheels on the road could now be heard
in another direction. Yourii listened to it, furious, and yet secretly
jealous. “A bad lot!” he muttered, feeling sorry for his sister.