A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev, Volume ITurgenev, Ivan Sergeevich
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A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev, Volume I
Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich
Country life -- Russia -- Fiction; Peasants -- Russia -- Fiction; Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
'Then he'll be drowned,' remarked Sutchok indifferently. He had been
terrified at first, not by the danger, but through fear of our anger,
and now, completely reassured, he drew a long breath from time to time,
and seemed not to be aware of any necessity for moving from his present
position.
'And he will perish without doing any good,' added Vladimir piteously.
Yermolaï did not return for more than an hour. That hour seemed an
eternity to us. At first we kept calling to him very energetically;
then his answering shouts grew less frequent; at last he was completely
silent. The bells in the village began ringing for evening service.
There was not much conversation between us; indeed, we tried not to
look at one another. The ducks hovered over our heads; some seemed
disposed to settle near us, but suddenly rose up into the air and flew
away quacking. We began to grow numb. Sutchok shut his eyes as though
he were disposing himself to sleep.
At last, to our indescribable delight, Yermolaï returned.
'Well?'
'I have been to the bank; I have found the ford.... Let us go.'
We wanted to set off at once; but he first brought some string out of
his pocket out of the water, tied the slaughtered ducks together by
their legs, took both ends in his teeth, and moved slowly forward;
Vladimir came behind him, and I behind Vladimir, and Sutchok brought up
the rear. It was about two hundred paces to the bank. Yermolaï walked
boldly and without stopping (so well had he noted the track), only
occasionally crying out: 'More to the left--there's a hole here to the
right!' or 'Keep to the right--you'll sink in there to the left....'
Sometimes the water was up to our necks, and twice poor Sutchok, who
was shorter than all the rest of us, got a mouthful and spluttered.
'Come, come, come!' Yermolaï shouted roughly to him--and Sutchok,
scrambling, hopping and skipping, managed to reach a shallower place,
but even in his greatest extremity was never so bold as to clutch at
the skirt of my coat. Worn out, muddy and wet, we at last reached the
bank.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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