Sketches from a Hunter's Album by Ivan Turgenev

courtyard in red caftans with gold braid and they’d blow the horn. Then his excellency’d come out and they’d lead the horse to him. Then his excellency’d mount the horse and the master of hounds, he’d help with the stirrups and then take his hat off his head and hand up the reins in his hat. Then his excellency’d crack his whip and the huntsmen’d start hallooin’ and off they’d all go out of the yard. A groom’d be ridin ‘just behind the Count and keepin’ two o’ the Count’s favourite hounds on a silk leash and lookin’ round, keepin’ an eye on everythin’, you know… And this groom, he’d be sittin’ high, high up, on a Cossack saddle, red-cheeked like, keepin’ his eyes on everythin’ like… Well, there’d be guests, you see, at a thing like that. Entertainin’ to see, but you got to observe decorum… Oh, it’s got away, dammit!’ he added suddenly, jerking his fishing rod.
    â€˜They do say, don’t they, the Count lived it up in his time?’ I asked.
    The old man spat on a worm and cast his line again.
    â€˜A grandee he were, and that’s the truth. The top-rank important persons, one can say, used to visit ’im from St Petersburg. In their sky-blue ribbons like they’d sit at table and eat. And he was a greatone for hospitality. He’d summon me and say: “Foggy, for tomorrow we must have live sterlets. Order ’em, understand?” “Yes, your excellency.” He’d order right from Paris embroidered caftans and wigs and sticks and scents and eau-de-cologne, the very best, and snuff boxes and pictures, big ones like. And if he’d give a banquet – oh, my Lord, oh, my God! – what fireworks, like, what outings! There’d even be cannons firin’! He kept forty or so musicians. He kept a music master, a German, and that German, he gave ‘imself such airs, he did, wantin’ to eat at table with the guests. So his excellency ordered ’im out of ’is house, sayin’: “In my house musicians must know their place.” That was ’is right as a master, and that’s the truth. They’d start dancin’ and they’d dance right through till dawn, mostly the schottische, like, the matradura and such… Ah, I’ve got one, I’ve got one!’ (The old man pulled a small perch out of the water.) ‘Take it, Steve. The master was a master as should be,’ the old man continued, casting again, ‘and he was a good kind soul. He’d give you a blow – in a moment he’d have forgotten. One thing, though: he kept fancy women. Oh, good Lord, those fancy women! They’re what ruined ’im. And mostly he took ’em from the lowest class o’people. You’d wonder what more they’d want? Oh, they’d want the very best in the whole of Europe, that’s what they’d want! You might say, why not live to your heart’s content, that’s what masters’re for… But to be ruined for it, that’s not right. There was one in particular, called Akulina, she’s dead now, God bless ’er! She was ordinary enough, policeman’s daughter from Sitov, but what a bitch she was! She’d beat the Count about the cheeks. Utterly bewitched him. She got a relative of mine shaved and sent off to the army for droppin’ choc’late on ’er dress – and he wasn’t the only one, mind. Still, those were good times, they were!’ the old man added with a deep sigh, bowed his head and fell silent.
    â€˜Your master, so far as I can see, was a severe man, wasn’t he?’ I began after a short silence.
    â€˜Then it was in fashion, sir,’ the old man replied, shaking his head.
    â€˜Now they don’t do that sort of thing,’ I remarked, not taking my eyes off him.
    He looked at me sideways.
    â€˜Now things are better, so they