hunter notes

Chapter 32
One of the chief advantages of hunting, my dear readers, is that it keeps you constantly in a buggy, which is a great pleasure to a man at leisure.But sometimes (especially rainy days) it is really annoying, such as walking slowly on a country road through the vast open fields, and stopping any farmer at random and asking him: "Hello, friend! We are going to Moore." Go to Mordovka, how do I get there?" And when I arrived in Mordovka, I asked a peasant woman who was slow to respond (the hired hands were all working): Is it far to the inn on the main road?How to move?After driving for ten versts, there was no inn, but we came to the scattered village of Hudobnov, where the landowner lived, and frightened a large herd of pigs out of their wits—they were not up to the ears in the dark brown pigs in the middle of the street. In the mud, I never expected that someone would scare them.Even worse, driving down the valley through a loose bridge, crossing a small river with swamps on both sides; , or pray not to—sink for hours in the mud in front of a mottled milepost with the number "22" on one side and the number "23" on the other; Eggs, milk, and the much-praised rye bread... But all this inconvenience and misfortune was replaced by another kind of benefit and satisfaction.Now let's start telling the story.I have already mentioned above, how I came to the Lebelsky Bazaar in the chaos about 5 years ago, so I will not describe it here.We hunters usually set off from our country one morning in a carriage, intending to return the next evening, but by and by, we shoot the snipe, and we come to the happy banks of the Pechora, and more Besides, everyone who loves guns and dogs is also a loyal admirer of the noblest animal in the world, the horse.So I came to Lepetsky, checked into a hotel, changed clothes, and went to the market. (In the waiter of the hotel, a tall, thin young man in his twenties with a pleasant nasal voice and a tenor voice, has already told me that a certain duke, that is, a member of the ××× team who does not buy horses , lived in their hotel. And many gentlemen came, and said that every night there were gypsies singing, and "Master Tvardowski" was being played in the theater, and that horses were expensive, but horses were good .) In the market square, there are many rows of carts, and behind the carts there are various horses: trotting horses, stud horses, biquge horses, wagon horses, stage horses Horses and common farm horses.In addition, there are fat horses, classified according to their coat color, covered with horse clothes of various colors, tied to a high frame with short bridles, turning their eyes in fear to see their familiar horses in the hands of their horse dealers. whips; domestic horses sent from a hundred or two versts by rich people on the steppe, watched by an old coachman and two or three slow drivers, shaking their long necks stomping, gnawing impatiently at stakes; tawny Vyatka horses close together; broad-ripped trotters with wavy tails and hairy paws, Some are gray with round spots, some are dark and shiny, and some are bay red, and they all stand fearlessly like lions.People who know the goods stand in front of them with respect.On the improvised road of rows of carts, people of all identities, ages and shapes stand: horse dealers in blue coats and high hats, peeping and waiting for buyers with sly eyes the bulging-eyed, curly-haired gipsy ran frantically up and down, looking at the horse's teeth, pulling up its legs and tail, cursing from time to time, acting as middlemen, drawing lots, or ignoring Everything caught up with a horse-buyer in a service cap and beaver-collared overcoat.A muscular Cossack sat aloft on a lean gelding with a deer-like neck, and he was about to sell it "whole," that is, with saddle and bridle.Peasants in fur coats with torn armpits scrambled into the crowd and crowded to the carts with "trial" horses; or, with the help of the clever and witty Gypsy , bargaining there exhaustedly, clapping palms a hundred times in succession, each insisting on his price; all the while their object of bargaining—a poor horse—was covered with curly matting, and stood there to himself Blinking eyes, as if the matter had nothing to do with it... In fact, it doesn't make all the same who hits it!Landlords with broad foreheads, dyed beards and hair, serious faces, square caps in the Polish style, and thick woolen coats, pulled up by only one sleeve, were sharing with fat men in plush hats and green gloves. Businessman Talking Respectfully.Officers from various regiments also wander here.A tall and burly German cuirassier was calmly asking a lame horse dealer: "How much does this chestnut horse cost?" A mate was selected; a stagecoach driver, in a low cap with peacock feathers, a brown coat, and a pair of leather gloves tucked into a very narrow and long green belt, was searching for a workhorse.Coachmen braid their horses' tails, wet their manes, and give earnest advice to gentlemen.The people who have completed the transaction, according to the situation of each person, either run to the big hotel, or to the tavern... All these people are busy there, noisy, commotion, quarrel, reconciliation, scolding, laughing, everyone Knees were covered with mud.I want to buy three decent horses for my buggy, for my horses are dying.I found two and haven't had time to pick the third yet.After my insignificant meal (Ani already knew how sad it was to look back on the pain of the past), I went to the so-called rest room where the horse buyers, the stud masters, and other visitors gathered every night. to go.There were about 20 people in the billiard room, filled with gray smoke from tobacco.Among these were a dissolute young landowner in a Hungarian hussar jacket and gray trousers, with long sideburns and oiled mustaches, who was looking around pompously and pretentiously; The other nobles, short and swollen-eyed, were panting there; the merchants sat on one side, the so-called "other seats," and the officers chatted freely there.The duke was playing billiards, a young man of about twenty-two, with a cheerful and slightly conceited face, in an unbuttoned frock coat, a red silk shirt, and baggy velvet bloomers.He was playing pool with a retired lieutenant, Viktor Khlobakov.

Retired Army Lieutenant Viktor Khlobakov is a dark, thin man of about 30 years old, with black hair, dark brown eyes and a flat snub nose.All the elections and fairs, he always attended with great enthusiasm.He walked and skipped, his outstretched arms proudly outstretched, his hat on one side, and the sleeves of his gray-blue muslin-lined military overcoat rolled up.Mr. Khlobakov is good at currying favor with the dandies of Petersburg, smoking, drinking, playing cards with them, and becoming friends with them.Why they appreciate him is incomprehensible.He's not smart, and he's not funny, and he's not very entertaining.Indeed, they just greeted him casually, as if he were a kind person who was of no use to them.After dating him for two or three weeks, I suddenly stopped talking to him, and he didn't greet them anymore.It was characteristic of Lieutenant Khlobakov that for a period of one year, sometimes two years, he often said the same thing—appropriate or inappropriate, the sentence died out, but somehow, Everyone laughed when they heard it.About 8 years ago, he would say this everywhere he went: "I salute you, thank you from the bottom of my heart." His friend at that time would laugh out of breath every time and beg him to repeat "I salute you".Then he changed it to another sentence: "No, you really are, Kanskansey—it turned out to be like this." This sentence achieved the same purpose.After about two years, he invented a new saying: "Don't be hasty, man of God, in sheep's clothing." Something like this, but how strange!You see, these are not interesting words at all, you can feed him, drink him, and dress him.

(His property has been squandered, and now he lives on his friends alone.) You will notice that he is of no use to anyone else.This is true, he can smoke 100 barrels of "Zhukov" cigarettes a day, and when playing billiards, he raises his right foot above his head, takes aim, and swings the pool cue in his hand frantically-but this advantage is not all Everyone likes it.He is also very good at drinking... But in Russia, it is not easy to become famous by drinking... So, his success, in my opinion, is completely unbelievable... The only thing is that he keeps secrets about other people's affairs and does not publicize them not to speak ill of others... "Hey," I thought to myself when I saw Khlobakov, "what kind of joke has he invented now?"

Duke hits the white ball. "Thirty to zero," announced a dark, consumptive billiards scorer with bruises under his eyes.With a pop, Duke hit a yellow ball into the side pocket.

"Good!" A fat businessman sitting next to a rickety one-legged table in the corner of the room uttered an unusually loud voice of praise, but he felt embarrassed after shouting.Fortunately no one noticed him.He breathed a sigh of relief and stroked his beard.

"36 to zero!" the scorer shouted nasally.

"Hey, brother, what do you think of me?" the prince asked Khlobakov. "How? Needless to say, it's Lelelela Callio'oong, the very Lelelela Callio'oong!" The Duke smiled slightly. "What, what? Say it again!"

"Lelelela Callio'oong!" the retired lieutenant repeated triumphantly.

"Oh, here's his new one-liner!" I thought.The Duke pocketed the red ball again. "Ah! It can't be done, Prince, don't do it," murmured suddenly a flaxen-haired officer with red eyes, a small nose, and a baby's face, "don't hit like that... you should... do not do that!"

"Then how should we fight?" the Duke turned to him and asked. "Should... um... use the double return method." "Really?" the Duke murmured thoughtfully.

"How about it, Prince, are you going to see the gypsy show tonight?" The embarrassed young man hastily continued, "Stoshika is going to sing...and Ilyushka..."

The duke didn't answer him. "Lelelela Kaliohoon, brother," said Khlobakov, narrowing his left eye deliberately.The Duke laughed heartily. "39 to zero." The scorekeeper reported the score.

"Zero, zero...I want to hit this yellow ball..." Khlobakov took the pool cue in his hand and aimed at it, but slipped a shot.

"Ah, Le La Callioon," he exclaimed regretfully but resignedly.The Duke laughed again.

"Why, how...how?" But Khlobakov didn't want to say his words again: he should be coquettish.

"You slipped a club," said the scorer, "please let me whitewash the club...forty to zero!"

"Yes, gentlemen," said the prince to all present, without looking at any one, "you know that Ferzhinbytskaya must be called out at the theater tonight to take the curtain call."

"Of course, of course, we must take Ferzhinbyskaya..." Several gentlemen who were courting the Duke shouted over each other.

"Ferzhinbitskaia is a famous actress, much better than Sopnekova," whispered a pathetic bearded and spectacled figure from a corner of the room.The unfortunate man!He was very much in love with Sopnekova from the bottom of his heart, and the prince did not bother to look at him.

"The waiter, bring the pipe!" said a burly, well-featured, dignified gentleman, looking at his tie, he was an experienced card player.

The waiter ran off to get his pipe, and when he came back he reported to his lord the duke that the coachman, Cragg, had come to beat him. "Ah! Well, tell him to wait a moment, and get him some brandy." "Yes." I was later told that Bakerage was a young, handsome, and agreeable post-coach driver.The Duke doted on him, gave him horses, raced with him, and often stayed with him for several nights... This Duke was a mischievous spender, and now you don't know him... Now he sprays Famous brand perfume, well-dressed clothes, what a pride!How busy with duties, and above all how cautious!
(End of this chapter)