A Sportsman's Sketches, Volume 2: Works of Ivan Turgenev, Volume 2 — John Shaqi
A Sportsman's Sketches, Volume 2: Works of Ivan Turgenev, Volume 2Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich
General
A Sportsman's Sketches, Volume 2: Works of Ivan Turgenev, Volume 2
Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich
Country life -- Russia -- Fiction; Peasants -- Russia -- Fiction; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
We found poor Maksim on the ground. The peasants were standing about
him. We got off our horses. He hardly moaned at all; from time to time
he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment, and
bit his lips, fast turning blue.... The lower part of his face was
twitching; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved
irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young lime-tree glided
softly over his face.
We bent down to him. He recognised Ardalion Mihalitch.
'Please sir,' he said to him, hardly articulately, 'send... for the
priest... tell... the Lord... has punished me... arms, legs, all
smashed... to-day's... Sunday... and I... I... see... didn't let
the lads off... work.'
He ceased, out of breath.
'And my money... for my wife... after deducting.... Onesim here knows...
whom I... what I owe.'
'We've sent for the doctor, Maksim,' said my neighbour; 'perhaps you may
not die yet.'
He tried to open his eyes, and with an effort raised the lids.
'No, I'm dying. Here... here it is coming... here it.... Forgive me,
lads, if in any way....'
'God will forgive you, Maksim Andreitch,' said the peasants thickly with
one voice, and they took off their caps; 'do you forgive us!'
He suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a
painful effort, and he fell back again.
'We can't let him lie here and die, though,' cried Ardalion Mihalitch;
'lads, give us the mat from the cart, and carry him to the hospital.'
Two men ran to the cart.
'I bought a horse... yesterday,' faltered the dying man, 'off Efim...
Sitchovsky... paid earnest money... so the horse is mine.... Give it...
to my wife....'
They began to move him on to the mat.... He trembled all over, like a
wounded bird, and stiffened....
'He is dead,' muttered the peasants.
We mounted our horses in silence and rode away.
The death of poor Maksim set me musing. How wonderfully indeed the
Russian peasant dies! The temper in which he meets his end cannot be
called indifference or stolidity; he dies as though he were performing a
solemn rite, coolly and simply.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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