hunter notes

Chapter 4 Yermolai and the Miller Wife (1)
... In the evening, the hunter Yermolai and I went out to "guard"... But what is guarding, probably not everyone of my readers has heard of it.So everyone, listen to me.

In spring, a quarter of an hour before the sun goes down, you go alone into the woods.You find yourself a spot near the edge of the woods, look around, check the cartridge caps, and exchange winks with your companions.Soon the sun is setting, but the woods are still bright, the air is clean and clear, the birds are chirping and the grass is green as emeralds...you just have to wait.The interior of the woods gradually darkened, and the red light of the sunset moved slowly over the roots and trunks, rising higher and higher, from the low branches that were barely leafy to the motionless, sleeping treetops... Soon the treetops also darkened, and the red sky slowly turned blue.The breath of the woods becomes stronger, slightly exuding warm moisture, and the wind that blows in stops around you.Birds fall asleep - because different species fall asleep at different times.The chaffinches were the first to quiet down, then the robins, and then the pelicans.It was getting darker in the woods.The trees merged into a great black mass, and the first stars appeared timidly in the deep blue sky.The birds were all asleep.Only the red-tailed bird and the little woodpecker were still whistling lazily... and soon they too were silent.The willow warbler sings loudly over your head again, the oriole bleats mournfully somewhere, and the nightingale begins to sing.You were waiting impatiently, when suddenly—only a hunter can understand me—from the deep stillness came a strange rattle and hiss, a rapid, measured beat of wings—and then Sandpipers gracefully tilt their long beaks and fly out from behind shadowy birch trees to meet your shot.This is "guarding".

I just went out to defend with Yermolay.But I'm sorry, gentlemen, but first I must introduce Yermolai to you.

Imagine a man of about forty-five years of age, tall and thin, with a muscular nose, narrow frontal bone, gray eyes, fluffy hair, wide lips, and a sarcastic expression.This man, never in winter nor in summer, wore a yellow home-skin coat of the German style with a belt at the waist, blue knickerbockers, and on his head the lambskin hat that a ruined landowner gave him when he pleased.Two pouches were fastened to the belt: one in the front, neatly tied in two, half for powder and half for shot; the other at the back, for game.As for the cotton crumbs, they were taken from the magic-bag-like hat on Yermolay's head.The money he made selling game would have bought himself a cartridge-pouch and a rucksack, but it never occurred to him to buy these, and he just loaded his gun the old way.He is good at avoiding the danger of scattered or mixed shotgun and gunpowder, and the familiarity of his technique surprises the onlookers.His was a single-barreled, flint-loaded gun, and he had a violent "recoil" temper, so Ermolai's right cheek was usually swollen more than his left.How he hit venison with this gun is beyond the imagination of a dexterous man, but he managed to hit it.He also had a hunting dog named Valetka, who was a very strange fellow.Yermolai never gave it food. "I don't feed the dog," he affirmed, "and the dog is a smart animal, and it will find a way to fill its stomach by itself." I was surprised to see it, but it is still alive, and it has lived for a long time.No matter how unfortunate its situation is, it has never escaped once, and it has never shown that it wants to leave its master.It's just that once when it was young, it was confused by love and left for two days, but this stupidity disappeared quickly.Valetka's best nature is his mysterious indifference to all things in the world... If I am not talking about dogs, then I will use the word "pessimistic".It usually sits with its short tail tucked under its body, frowning, trembling from time to time, and never laughs. (Dogs are known to laugh, and laugh cutely.) He was ugly, and the idle servants laughed viciously at his appearance at every opportunity; but for all this mocking and even beating, Waller Teka endured it all with astonishing silence.He gave cooks a special pleasure: when, for a weakness not only peculiar to dogs, he stuck his greedy face through the half-open door of the smelly kitchen, the cook quickly put down his work and cursed loudly. chasing after it.When hunting, it is always tireless and has a very keen sense of smell; however, if it accidentally catches up with a wounded rabbit, it will stay away from that Yermolay who is yelling in dialect. Eat it all up with relish in the shade.

Yermolay was from a neighbor of mine who was an old-fashioned landowner.The old-fashioned landlords did not like "snipes", but only preferred poultry.Except on special occasions, such as birthdays, naming days, and election days, the cooks of the old-fashioned landowners prepare toucans. A strange seasoning method was introduced, which made most of the guests watch the dishes with curiosity and attention, but they dared not taste the taste.Yermolay was ordered to send two pairs of grouse and partridge every month to the kitchen of his master, who did not care where he lived or what he did for a living.People don't want his help, they treat him as a good-for-nothing—a "waste" as we say in Orel.Gunpowder and shot were not given to him, of course, any more than he was fed to his dogs.Yermolay was a very special man: he was thoughtless like a bird, very talkative, loose and clumsy, fond of drinking, wandered about, couldn't lift his legs when he walked, and wobbled - dragging his feet like this. One leg, walking with a waddle, can cover a distance of about 50 versts in a day and night.He had many adventures: spent nights in moors, in trees, on roofs, under bridges, often locked in attics, cellars, sheds, without guns, dogs, and most necessary clothes, for a long time He was beaten on the ground—but a few days later, he came home with his clothes on, a gun on his back, and a dog.Although he was often at ease, he could not be called cheerful; generally speaking he seemed to be an eccentric.Yermolai liked to chat with nice people, especially when drinking, but the time was short, and he often got up and left. "Where the hell are you going? It's already midnight." "To Chaprino." "What are you doing in Chaprino, ten versts away?" Overnight at the Dragon's." "Stay here overnight." "No, no." And Yermolay and his Valetka went through the jungle and the puddles in the dark.However, the farmer Sophron might not allow him to go into his yard, and might slap him, telling him: Don't disturb the clean house.But Yermolay had some ingenuity, no one could match him.He can catch fish during the spring flood, catch shrimp with his hands, find game by instinct, attract quail, tame hawks, and catch those nightingales who can sing "Magic Flute" and "Flying Cuckoo"... There is only one thing he doesn't know , is to train a dog, he does not have this kind of patience.He also has a wife.He goes to her once a week.She lives in a dilapidated, half-collapsed hut, barely getting by, never knowing if she will have enough to eat tomorrow, but she has been living a miserable life.Yermolay, a simple, kind-hearted man, was cruel and brutish towards her, and at home he assumed a dignified and dignified air—his poor wife did not know how to please him, seeing her husband's appearance She trembled and often took out the last kopek to buy him wine; when he was lying on the kang sleeping soundly, she humbly covered him with her fur coat.I have also seen him inadvertently show a sinister and fierce look many times with my own eyes. I hate the expression on his face when he kills a wounded bird.But Yermolay never stayed at home for more than a day; but in other places he resumed "Yermolka"—that's what he was called by everyone within a hundred versts, and sometimes by himself. Own.Even the lowest servant feels himself superior to him.It was probably for this reason that they were very affectionate towards him.The farmers liked to chase him at first, and treated him like a rabbit in the field, but soon let him go, and once they knew that he was a weird person, they stopped making trouble for him, even gave him bread, and talked to him... ...I just asked him to be a hunter, and went hunting with him in a large birch forest on the banks of the Ista River.

There are many rivers in Russia similar to the Volga, with mountains on one side and meadows on the other.The same is true of the Ista River, a small river that winds and twists, almost never running straight. In some places, looking down from the steep hills, you can see dykes, ponds, and mills in the basin for about ten versts. , vegetable garden, surrounded by firecracker willows and lush orchards.There are countless fish in the Ista River, especially the big ones (the farmers often touch these fish with their hands under the bushes in hot weather).The little sand drill twittered and skimmed along the thick banks of the cool springs all the way; the mallards paddled to the middle of the pond, watching carefully; the heron stood in the shadow of the cliffs in the inlet... …We guarded for an hour, hunting two pairs of woodcocks, trying to try our luck again before sunrise (and guarding in the morning too), and planned to spend the night at a nearby mill.We came out of the woods and passed the hills.The river was rippling with dark blue water waves, and the mist filled the air and thickened the air.We knock.Several dogs in the yard barked, "Who is it?" A hoarse, sleepy voice came from inside. "We are hunters and would like to stay overnight." There was no response. "We'll pay for it." "Let me ask the master. . . Shhh, damn dog! . . . Go to hell!" We heard him go into the house, and he came back to the door in a moment. "No," said he, "the master won't let you in." "Why not?" "He's afraid, because you are hunters, you may burn the mill, and you have ammunition." "What nonsense!" "Our mill burned down once the year before last, and a few cattle dealers came to spend the night, and I don't know why it caught fire as soon as they came." "But, man, we won't spend the night outside!" "That's up to you ..." He said, turned and went in, his boots rattling on the ground.

(End of this chapter)