Sanine by Mikhail Artsybashev (ebook pdf reader for pc .TXT) 📕

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 pocketknife 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