Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

He, who had happened to move from the Bolkhovskiy district to the Schizdrinskiy one, may be stricken by a great difference between the people from the Orlov province and the people from Kaluga . An Orlov man is round-shouldered, gloomy and isn’t tall. He also always frowns at you. His home is a bad aspen izba. He doesn’t trade, eats badly and wears bast sandals. A Kaluga man lives in comfortable pine houses, has a clean face, looks at you gaily and fearlessly, sells oil and tar and walks in boots on holidays. He is tall, as a rule. An Orlov village, if we speak about the eastern part of the Orlov province, is usually located among tilled fields near a ravine, which is hardly transformed into a muddy pond. You won’t see any tree there except some poor birches and pines. All the houses are so close to each other there that there isn’t any space left. And the roofs of their izbas are covered with rotten thatch… A Kaluga village, on the contrary, is surrounded by forests; their izbas stand more distantly from others and the fences aren’t shaky… And a hunter feels better there. In the Orlov government the last forests and bushes would disappear in approximately 5 years; and in Kaluga , on the opposite, the forests and bogs are stretched for kilometers and kilometers. Black cocks and partridges always frighten hunters and their dogs.

While staying in the Schizdrinskiy district, I met a Kaluga smallholder, whose surname was Polutikin. He was a very passionate hunter and, consequently, a very good man. But frankly speaking, he had some weaknesses. For example, he used to ask in marriage all rich brides, who lived in the province. And after being refused, he, with broken heart, usually complained to his friends of it, but then he still kept on gifting the brides’ parents sour peaches and other tasteless fruits from his own garden. He liked to reiterate the same anecdote all the time, which made nobody laugh, praised Nakhimov’s composition and Pinn’s story, stuttered and called his dog Astronomer. He pronounced hownever instead of however and was fond of French cookery. But with the exception of the foresaid things, Mr. Polutikin was a perfect man.

After meeting for the first time, Mr. Polutikin invited me to spend a night at his place.

“My house is 5 versts away from here,” he added.

“It’ll take us a lot of time to get there on foot. Let’s visit Khor at first.” (I think the reader would let me not show his stutter).

“And who is Khor?” “It’s my man… He doesn’t live too far from here.”

So we went to his place. The Khor’s farm stood alone in the middle of the forest on a clean and tilled glade. It consisted of some pine blockhouses, which were fixed together by fences. There was a shed in front of the main izba, which was propped up by some thin pillars. We entered the farm. A young, tall and handsome fellow of 20 met us.

“Hi, Fedya! Is Khor at home?” Mr. Polutikin asked.

“No, he’s in city now,” the smiling lad replied showing us his white as snow teeth.

“Do you wish to get the cart ready?”

“Yes, brother. And bring us some kvass.”

We entered the izba. There wasn’t any Suzdal picture on the clean log walls but an icon-lamp in the corner of the house. The lime table was cleaned and scraped not long ago. There were no thoughtful cockroaches under the window cants and between the logs. The young guy soon appeared carrying a massive white mug filled with good kvass, a big chunk of white bread and a dozen of pickled cucumbers in a wooden tub. He put the food on the table, leaned against the doorpost and began to look at us with a smile. Not finished eating our snack, we heard the cart’s noise. We left the house. A boy of 15, curly-headed and red-cheeked, was sitting next to a coachman. He hardly managed not to let the fat piebald horse go. There were 6 young tall lads, who were very similar to Fedya and each other.

“All are Khor’s children,” Polutikin noticed.

“All are small Khors,” added Fedya, who left the house after us.

“But there aren’t all of them: Potap is in the forest and Sidor went to the city with old Khor…”

“Look here, Vasya,” he continued, turning to the coachman. “You’re carting a landlord. Drive fast, but carefully or you would break the cart and damage the master!”

The small Khors smiled ironically.

“Let’s help Astronomer to have a seat!” Mr. Polutikin announced in a solemn tone.

Fedya, not without pleasure, raised the smiling dog and put it in on the bottom of the cart. Vasya took the reins and we started off.

“And this is my office,” Mr. Polutikin said suddenly, pointing to a small and not high house.

“Would you like to come in?”

“With pleasure,” I replied.

“It’s abolished now,” he noticed, while climbing down the horse.

“But it’s worth visiting it.”

The office consisted of 2 empty rooms. The watchman, a crooked old man, ran up to us from the backyard.

“Hallo Minyaich!” Mr. Polutikin said. “And where is the water?”

A crooked old man disappeared and returned with a bottle of water and 2 glasses.

“Do try,” Mr. Polutikin asked. “It’s good water from a subterranean spring.”

We drank it and the old man bowed from the waist.

“Well, now we can go,” my friend noticed. “I’ve sold 4 dessiatinas of forest to a merchant, whose surname was Alliluev. It was a profitable deal.”

We sat into the cart and already in half an hour drove up into the landlord’s yard.

“Tell me, please,” I asked Mr. Polutikin at supper. “Why does Khor live separate from your other men?”

“You see, he’s a clever man. Approximately 25 years ago his izba burned; so he went to my decedent father, Nikolai Kuzmich, and asked him for permission to settle in the forest bog. He added he would pay him a good tribute. My father was amazed and inquired why Khor wished to live there. Khor replied he desired it and requested to give him no work at all and fix any tribute he wanted. My father charged him 50 rubles a year. Khor agreed with him and settled in the bog. Since that time we call him Khor.”

“Did he get rich?” I asked.

“Yes. Now he pays me 100 rubles and I’m going to raise the sum. How many times I told him to buy this land. But he, such a rogue, replied he had no money. I’m sure he lies to me!”

The next day after breakfast we went hunting.

While driving through the village, Mr. Polutikin told the coachman to stop at a low house and shouted: “Kalinych!”

“I’m coming, master, coming,” the voice said from the yard. “I’m putting on my bast sandals.”

We went on driving slowly; outside the village we were caught up with man of 40, who was tall, thin and had a small head. It was Kalinych. I liked his good-natured and swarthy face at first sight.