The District Doctor and Other Stories by Ivan Turgenev

Author:Ivan Turgenev
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: It's hard to die at twenty without having known love… An intriguing confession of doctor's romantic involvement with a beautiful 20 year old patient. Followed by Turgenev's exquisite, often meditative descriptions of Russian countryside and mysterious herbalist Kassyan infatuated with Gamayane, a prophetic bird of Russian folklore, a symbol of wisdom and knowledge., The book includes 14 stories from The Hunting Sketches collection.Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev 1818-1883, a Russian novelist, short story writer, and playwright. His short story collection entitled The Hunting Sketches, is a milestone of Russian Realism, and his novel Fathers and Sons regarded as one of the major works of 19th-century fiction. Turgenev studied literature, philosophy and philology at the Universities of Moscow, St Petersburg and Berlin and in 1879 received honorary doctorate from the University of Oxford. Turgenev's artistic purity made him a favourite of like-minded novelists of the next generation, such as Henry James and Joseph Conrad., Turgenev's best work includes: Fathers and Sons (ISBN 9781909904972), Virgin Soil (ISBN 9781909904989), The Torrents of Spring (ISBN 9781909904996), First Love (ISBN 9781910150009), Rudin (ISBN 9781910150016), Home of the Gentlefolk (ISBN 9781910150023).Turgenev, romance, nihilism, classic fiction, intense, thought provoking, historical, philosophical
Publisher: Interactive Media
Published: 2013-12-26T00:00:00+00:00

IX. KASSYAN OF FAIR SPRINGS

I was returning from hunting in a jolting little trap, and overcome by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is well known that the heat is often more insupportable on such days than in bright days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and was shaken about, resigning myself with sullen fortitude to being persecuted by the fine white dust which was incessantly raised from the beaten road by the warped and creaking wheels, when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary uneasiness and agitated movements of my coachman, who had till that instant been more soundly dozing than I. He began tugging at the reins, moved uneasily on the box, and started shouting to the horses, staring all the while in one direction. I looked round. We were driving through a wide ploughed plain; low hills, also ploughed over, ran in gently sloping, swelling waves over it; the eye took in some five miles of deserted country; in the distance the round-scolloped tree-tops of some small birch-copses were the only objects to break the almost straight line of the horizon. Narrow paths ran over the fields, disappeared into the hollows, and wound round the hillocks. On one of these paths, which happened to run into our road five hundred paces ahead of us, I made out a kind of procession. At this my coachman was looking.

It was a funeral. In front, in a little cart harnessed with one horse, and advancing at a walking pace, came the priest; beside him sat the deacon driving; behind the cart four peasants, bareheaded, carried the coffin, covered with a white cloth; two women followed the coffin. The shrill wailing voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened; she was intoning a dirge. Very dismal sounded this chanted, monotonous, hopelessly-sorrowful lament among the empty fields. The coachman whipped up the horses; he wanted to get in front of this procession. To meet a corpse on the road is a bad omen. And he did succeed in galloping ahead beyond this path before the funeral had had time to turn out of it into the high-road; but we had hardly got a hundred paces beyond this point, when suddenly our trap jolted violently, heeled on one side, and all but overturned. The coachman pulled up the galloping horses, and spat with a gesture of his hand.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

My coachman got down without speaking or hurrying himself.

‘But what is it?’

‘The axle is broken … it caught fire,’ he replied gloomily, and he suddenly arranged the collar on the off-side horse with such indignation that it was almost pushed over, but it stood its ground, snorted, shook itself, and tranquilly began to scratch its foreleg below the knee with its teeth.

I got out and stood for some time on the road, a prey to a vague and unpleasant feeling of helplessness. The right wheel was almost completely bent in under the trap, and it seemed to turn its centre- piece upwards in dumb despair.

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