Not less perfect as art though far slighter in scope is the exquisite _A Living Relic_ (1874), one of the last of _A Sportsman's Sketches_. Along with the narrator we pass, in a step, from the clear sunlight and freshness of early morning, "when the larks' songs seemed steeped in dew," into the "little wattled shanty with its burden of a woman's suffering," poor Lukerya's, who lies, summer after summer, resigned to her living death: "... I was walking away.... "'Master, master! Piotr Petrovitch!' I heard a voice, faint, slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of marsh rushes. "I stopped. "'Piotr Petrovitch! Come in, please!' the voice repeated. It came from the corner where were the trestles I had noticed. "I drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. Before me lay a living human being; but what sort of creature was it? "A head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue--like some very ancient and holy picture, yellow with age; a sharp nose like a keen-edged knife; the lips could barely be seen--only the teeth flashed white and the eyes; and from under the kerchief sometimes wisps of yellow hair struggled on to the forehead. At the chin, where the quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same coppery hue were moving, the fingers slowly twitching like little sticks. I looked more intently; the face far from being ugly was positively beautiful, but strange and dreadful; and the face seemed more dreadful to me that on it--on its metallic cheeks--I saw struggling ... struggling and unable to form itself--a smile. "'You don't recognize me, master?' whispered the voice again; it seemed to be breathed from the almost unmoving lips! 'And, indeed, how should you? I'm Lukerya.... Do you remember, who used to lead the dance at your mother's, at Spasskoe?... Do you remember, I used to be leader of the choir, too?' "'Lukerya!' I cried. 'Is it you? Can it be?' "'Yes, it's I, master--I, Lukerya.' "I did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefaction at the dark motionless face with the clear, deathlike eyes fastened upon me. Was it possible? This mummy Lukerya--the greatest beauty in all our household--that tall, plump, pink-and-white, singing, laughing, dancing creature! Lukerya, our smart Lukerya, whom all our lads were courting, for whom I heaved some secret sighs--I a boy of sixteen!" Lukerya tells her story. How one night she could not sleep, and, thinking of her lover, rose to listen to a nightingale in the garden; how half-dreaming she fell from the top stairs--and now she lives on, a little shrivelled mummy. Something is broken inside her body, and the doctors all shake their heads over her case. Her lover, Polyakov, has married another girl, a good sweet woman. "He couldn't stay a bachelor all his life, and they have children."