The Living Mummy

THE LIVING MUMMY.
BY IVAN TURGENEV.

"A DRY fisherman and a wet hunter make sorry figures," says the French proverb. Never having had any turn for angling, I can form no opinion as to the feelings of a fisherman in fine sunny weather -- or tell how far, in foul weather, the satisfaction he obtains from a good catch makes up for the unpleasantness of getting drenched. But, for any one out shooting, rain is an actual disaster.

Well, it was to a disaster of this kind that Ermolai and I were exposed in one of our expeditions after blackcock in the Bielef district. From the earliest morn the rain fell without ceasing. We tried everything we could think of in order to escape from it. We pulled our water-proofs almost over our heads; we took shelter under trees, in hopes of being less drenched. But our water-proofs, besides hindering us from shooting, let in the wet in the most shameless manner; and under the trees, though at first scarcely a drop reached us, yet, after a time, the moisture which had accumulated on the leaves broke through; every branch spouted on us like a water-pipe, till a cold stream insinuated itself under our cravats and ran down our backs. Things had got to their worst, as Ermolai observed.

"It's no use, Peter Petrovich," at last he exclaimed. "There will be no shooting to-day. The scent won't lie in the wet, and the guns will hang fire."

"What's to be done?" I asked.

"I'll tell you. We'll go to Alexievka. Perhaps you don't know such a place exists. It's a hamlet belonging to your mother, about eight versts off. We can spend the night there, and tomorrow --"

"We'll come back here?"

"No, not here. I know some covers beyond Alexievka, much better for blackcock than hereabouts."

I did not stop to ask my trusty companion why he had not taken me there at once, and, before long, we reached the little village, of the existence of which, to tell the truth, I had never till then had the slightest idea. There was a small seigneurial house in it, very old, but unoccupied, and therefore clean. Within its walls I spent a tolerably quiet night.

Next morning I awoke very early. The sun had only just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; all around was brilliant with the fresh light of the early sunbeams flashed back by yesterday's raindrops.

While a carriage was being got ready, I took a stroll through what had once been a fruit-garden, but was now a little wilderness, surrounding the house on all sides with its rich, odoriferous vegetation. Ah! how pleasant it was in the open air, beneath the clear sky, in which trembled the larks, from which streamed the silvery rain of their ringing notes! Actual dew had they borne aloft on their wings, and in the dew of fancy their songs seemed to have been steeped. I wandered along bare-headed, joyfully drawing long deep breaths.

On the slope of a shallow ravine, close to the garden hedge, a number of bee-hives were to be seen. A narrow path led up to them, gliding like a snake between compact walls of nettles and fern, above which, rose here and there, a stray stalk of dark green hemp. I strolled along this path and reached the bee-hives. Beside them stood the wattled hut which they occupied in winter.