Sketches from a Hunter's Album by Ivan Turgenev

Author:Ivan Turgenev
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-11-03T16:00:00+00:00

TATYANA BORISOVNA AND HER NEPHEW

GIVE me your hand, dear reader, and come on an outing. The weather is beautiful. The May sky glows a gentle blue. The smooth young leaves of the willow shine as if newly washed. The broad, level road is entirely covered with that short grass with reddish stems which sheep so love to nibble. To left and right, along the long slopes of the low hills green rye quietly ripples. The shadows of small clouds slide across it like globules of moisture. In the distance gleam dark woodlands, ponds glisten and villages shine yellow. Larks rise by the hundreds, sing and fall precipitately and, with small outstretched necks, are seen conspicuously on small outcrops of soil. Rooks stop on the road, look at you, crouch down to let you pass and, giving a couple of jumps, fly off heavily to one side. On an upland beyond a shallow valley a peasant is ploughing. A dappled foal with short little tail and ruffled mane runs on uncertain legs behind its mother and one can hear its high-pitched neighing. We drive into a birch wood and the strong, fresh scent pleasantly takes one’s breath away. We’re on the outskirts of a village. The coachman alights, the horses snort, the trace-horses looking round them and the shaft-horse waving its tail and leaning its head against the shaft… The gate opens with a loud creaking. The coachman takes his seat – and off we go! The village is in front of us. Passing half-a-dozen houses, we turn to the right, descend into a hollow and drive across a dam. Beyond a small pond, from behind the round tops of apple trees and lilacs, can be seen a wooden roof, at one time painted red, and two chimneys. The coachman chooses a way to the left along a fence and to the accompaniment of the hoarse, yelping barks of three exceedingly ancient small dogs drives through wide-open gates, dashes boldly round a wide yard past stables and barn, bows with a flourish to an old housekeeper who has just gone sideways over a high doorstep into an open store-room doorway, and comes to a stop finally in front of the entrance to a dark little house with shining windows… We’ve reached Tatyana Borisovna’s. And there she is herself, opening the little window and nodding to us…

Hello, auntie!

Tatyana Borisovna is a lady of about fifty with large, grey, bulging eyes, a slightly blunt nose, pink cheeks and a double chin. Her face breathes welcome and warmth. She was married at one time but was quickly widowed. Tatyana Borisovna is a very remarkable lady. She lives permanently on her little estate, has little to do with her neighbours and only likes and receives young people. She was the daughter of extremely poor landowners and received no education – that is to say, she doesn’t speak French; nor has she ever been to Moscow and yet, despite these many handicaps, she conducts herself so

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