hunter notes

Chapter 41 Peter Petrovich Karataev (1)
One autumn about 5 years ago, I was running between Moscow and Tula. Because I didn't rent a horse, I sat in the post house for almost a whole day.I came back from hunting this time, so I didn't think carefully and sent all three of my horses away first.The postmaster was a very old man with a gloomy appearance, his hair hung down to the tip of his nose, and his small eyes seemed to fall asleep at any moment.He responded to all my complaints and demands with intermittent complaints, and knocked on the door angrily, as if cursing the job that made him tired.Then he went up the steps and yelled at the coachmen, who moved slowly in the mud with their heavy yokes in their hands, or sat on their stools and yawned and tickled, almost ignoring their superiors. Angry shouts and curses.I have already drank tea three times, tried to fall asleep several times but failed, and read and recited the inscriptions on the window and wall, and I felt extremely lonely.I gazed with cold despair at the upturned poles of my carriage, when suddenly there was a muffled ringing of bells, and a small carriage with three weary horses pulled up at the steps.The visitor jumped out of the carriage, shouted: "Hassle up the horse!" and turned to enter the house.When he heard, with customary surprise, "No horses" from the postmaster, I had scrutinized my new companion with all the curiosity of a lonely traveller.He looked about 30 years old.Acne had left indelible marks on his face, which was haggard and had an unpleasant bronzed dull gleam; his long blue-black hair hung down in curls at the neckline at the back and curled at the front. A pair of swollen and red eyes with no expression at all; a few mustaches sticking out of his mouth.He was dressed like a wild landowner in a horse market: he wore a stained, patterned jacket, a faded snow blue silk tie, a vest with brass buttons and a large flared mouth. Gray trousers at the cuffs, with the tips of the dirt-stained boots showing slightly below.He reeked strongly of cigarettes and wine; on his stubby fingers, which were almost completely hidden by the sleeves of his coat, he wore silver rings and tulla rings.You can meet dozens or even hundreds of such characters in Russia.In all fairness, there is no fun in associating with these people.However, although I observed this visitor with prejudice, I could not help noticing his gentle and warm face.

"Look, this gentleman started waiting an hour ago," said the Postmaster, pointing to me.

"One hour!" This guy was having fun with me. "But he may not need it urgently," replied the visitor. "We don't know that," said the postmaster with a grim face. "Is there no way? No horses at all?" "No way. Not a single horse left."

"Well, then tell them to bring me a samovar. I have to wait. What can I do?" The visitor sat down on the stool, threw his hat on the table, and ran his hands through his hair.

"Have you had your tea?" he asked me. "Drink it." "Do you want to have another drink?"

I agreed. —for the fourth time the huge brown-yellow samovar appeared on the table.I got out a bottle of rum.I took the object of my conversation for a nobleman of small estates, and I was right.His name was Pyotr Petrovich Karataev.

Let's chat.It had not been half an hour since he arrived, and he had already told me his life without any concealment.

"Now I'm going to Moscow," he told me over his fourth cup of tea, "there's nothing I need to do in the country."

"Why don't you need it?"

"I really can't do anything. The family is in decline, and to be honest, the farmers have been bankrupted by me—famines, bad harvests, and all kinds of misfortunes, you know..." He teased dejectedly. He rolled his eyes and looked to the side, and then said, "However, why am I still worthy of being the head of the family?"

"How do you say that?" "No," he said decisively, "there is no one in charge like me!" He turned his head to one side, smoked intently, and continued, "From your point of view, you may think that I am It's that... but I, to tell you the truth, have only a secondary education and no property. Please don't take offense, I'm a talker and..."

He waved his hand before finishing his sentence.I started to explain to him that he was wrong, that I enjoyed chatting with him, etc., and then pointed out to him that a high education is not necessarily helpful in managing real estate. "I agree," he replied, "I agree with you. But a special kind of management is always needed. Some people bully the peasants at will, and that's all right! But I... Excuse me, are you from Petersburg or Moscow? "I'm from Petersburg." A long puff of smoke came from his nostrils. "I have come to Moscow to seek a job." "What do you intend to do?"

"Then I don't know, let's see when we get there. I'll tell you the truth, I'm afraid of work, because when I have a job, I have to bear the burden. I've been living in the country, I'm used to it, you know . . . but there's no way . . . ...so poor! Oh, how poor I am!"

"You will live in the capital in the future."

"Living in the capital... well. I don't think there is anything good in the capital. Take it easy, maybe it's good... But I always feel that there is no better place than the countryside."

"Is it impossible for you to continue living in the country?" he sighed. "Impossible, the village almost no longer belongs to me."

"How do you say that?"

"There's a well-meaning man over there - a neighbor - taking over the village...a note..."

Poor Pyotr Petrovitch wiped his face, thought, and shook his head.

"Oh, what can I do!..." He was silent for a while and then continued: "But, to be honest, I can't blame anyone, it's my own fault. I like to play tricks! . . . !"

"Are you happy living in the country?" I asked him. "Sir," he said, looking straight into my eyes, "I have twelve pairs of hounds. To tell you the truth, such good hounds are rare. (He draws The voice utters the last word.) No one is better at chasing gray rabbits, and as good as snakes at such rare game as foxes, venomous snakes at all. And my polzaya hounds, Also to be commended. It is gone now, no need to lie. I also hunt with a gun on my back. I have a dog named Konjeska. This dog has a wonderful posture when he spots his prey. He has an excellent sense of smell in the air .Sometimes I go into the swamp and shout: 'Look for it!' If it doesn't want to move, it doesn't work if you take a dozen dogs and walk around, and you can't find it at all! It's happy there!...and it's very polite when you don't go out. You give it bread with your left hand and say 'Jews have eaten', and it turns away; I'll take it right away. I've got a pup too, he's born, it's so good, I wanted to take him with me, but my friend wants to go with a gun. He said: Dude, you're in There's no need for any of that in Moscow; it's different when you get there, old man. I'll give him the dog, and I'll give him the gun, and I'll keep them all, you know."

"Actually, it's not impossible for you to hunt in Moscow." "If you don't hunt anymore, what are you hunting? I used to have no restraint, but now I have to endure loneliness. Let me ask you, is the standard of living in Moscow high?" "No, generally Right." "Normal?...Excuse me, are there gypsy people in Moscow?" "What are gypsy people?" "Well, they often go to the market." "Yes, in Moscow..." "Oh, that's very good .I like gypsies, damn it, I like..." Pyotr Petrovich's eyes flashed boldly and cheerfully.

But suddenly he fidgeted on the stool, and then lost in thought, he hung his head and handed me the empty glass.

"Would you mind giving me some more rum?" he said. "But there's no more tea." "It's all right, that's all right, there's no need for tea... Alas!" Karatayev supported his head with both hands, and put his hands on the table.

I watched him without saying a word, waiting for the sad sigh that drunk people do not hesitate, or tears, but when he raised his head, the sad expression on his face I really didn't think of it.

"Anything sad?" "It's nothing... just an old story. Such an anecdote... I want to tell you, but I don't know if you'd like to..." "Don't be so polite!" "Well," he said He let out a sigh, and continued, "Things are often like this in the world... For example, I have also encountered them. If you want to hear, I will tell you, but in fact, I don't know..."

"Tell me, my dear Pyotr Petrovich." "There may be something about it... well, so it is," he began, "but I really don't know..." "Oh, let's get started , dear Pyotr Petrovich."

OK, so I'll start talking.Here's the thing.I live in the country... One day I fell in love with a girl, ah, such a good girl... beautiful and kind-hearted!Her name is Matt Liana.But she was a very ordinary person, that is to say, a serf, a servant at all.And she doesn't belong to my family, but to someone else's—that's where the trouble is.So I fell in love with her—it was a beautiful thing indeed—and she fell in love with me.Materina begged me, asking me to redeem her life.I have a lot of thoughts about this too... But her mistress is a rich, eccentric old woman who lives about fifteen versts from where I live.At last, one day, I hitched up a three-set cart, and my workhorse was a step-horse, a special Asiatic horse, for which I named Rumble Dauss—and I put on my formal clothes, and drove to the horses. The home of Triana's mistress.When I got there, I saw that the house was very big, with side rooms and a garden...Matriona was waiting for me at the intersection, and wanted to talk to me, but she only kissed my hand, then turned and left.So I went into the hall and asked: "Is the master at home?..." A tall servant said to me: "Who are you?" The master has something to talk about." The servant went in.I waited, thinking to myself: there will be no problem, right?Maybe the old hag asks for a high price, and the rich are always greedy.Maybe ask for 15 rubles.Finally the servant came back and said, "Come in." I followed him into the living room.In the living room a small, sallow old woman was sitting in a rocking chair, blinking.

"What's the matter?" At first, you know, I thought I had to say something like, "It's an honor to meet you or something."

"You are mistaken, the master is not me, I am her relative... What do you want?" I told her that I need to talk to the mistress... "Maria Ilyinichna is not convenient to come out today because She's not in good health...what's the matter with you?" I thought to myself, I had no choice but to tell her why I came.The old woman listened to me. "Matryina? Whose Matryina?" Matryina Fedorova, Kulik's daughter. "Fyodor Kulik's daughter...you know her?" "It was just a coincidence."

"Does she know what you're thinking?"

"knew."

The old woman paused for a few seconds, and suddenly said: "This thief, I want to show her some color!..."

Honestly, I was surprised to hear that. "Why do you say that! . . . I'm going to pay her a fortune, just ask for an offer."

The old fellow muttered hoarsely. "Don't you want to scare us like this, we don't care about your money!...Look, I want to let her know how good I am, I want...I want her not to be stupid again." The wife coughed bitterly . "What else does she want with us? . . . Hey, the devil, God forgive me!"

This time I was really annoyed. "Why are you threatening the poor girl? What has she done wrong?"

The old woman crossed herself. "Oh, God bless, Jesus Christ! I suppose I can dispose of my servant freely?"

"She's not yours! It's Maria Ilinichna's business, sir, not yours. I'll show Matryina a little bit, and let her know to whom she must submit."

To tell you the truth, I almost rushed over to beat up the nasty old woman, but I thought of Materina, so I gave up again.I was so timid that I couldn't describe it. I tried to beg the old woman: "You can do whatever you want."

"But why do you want her?" "I like her, good mother, please understand me...please let me kiss your hand." I really set my heart to kiss the hand of this ghost woman!
"Well," said the witch vaguely, "I'll tell Maria Ilinichna what to do with her, and come back in two or three days."

I went home in panic and bewilderment.I gradually realized that I was not doing a good job of letting them know my love for her, but by the time I realized it, it was too late.Two or three days later, I went to her.The servant led me into the study.There were lots of flowers, and the decor was charming, and the hostess sat in a very fancy rocking chair, with a pillow for her head.The relative I saw last time was also sitting there, and beside him stood a girl in green clothes, with a crooked mouth and light yellow hair, who should be a female companion.The old woman said in a nasal voice, "Please sit down." I did.She asked me how old I was, where I worked, and what I planned to do in the future.She spoke with a very proud manner, very airy.I will answer them one by one.The old woman took a handkerchief from the table and waved it back and forth in front of her... "Katerina Karpovna has already told me what you think, told me," she muttered, "but I'm determined Household law: servants are forbidden to go out to serve others. This kind of thing is indecent, and it is not suitable for rich children, because it is too shameful. I have decided and settled this matter, and you don't have to worry about it."

"Why do you say that... Maybe you want Matryina Fedorova?"

"No," she said, "I don't need her." "Then why don't you let her go?" "Because I don't want to, I don't like it, that's all. I've decided: Send her to the steppe village .”

It was as if I had been struck by lightning.The old woman said something in French to the girl in green, and she left the room. "I," she said, "are a strict man, and I am in poor health and cannot bear trouble. You are young and I am old, so I think I can give you advice. You'd better arrange A job, a wife, a good match, a rich unmarried woman is hard to find, but a gentle girl, though poor, can be found."

I stared blankly at the old woman, not understanding what she was rambling about, only knowing that she was talking about marriage, but the words "grassland village" kept echoing in my ears.marry!hateful……

The speaker stopped suddenly at this point and looked up at me. "Are you married?"

"not yet."

(End of this chapter)