When my father said good night to us that night, he whispered
to us that we were to get up early and go back to the place to have
a good hunt for the bird.
And what was the result? The woodcock, in falling, had caught
in the fork of a branch, right at the top of an aspen-tree, and it
was all we could do to knock it out from there.
When we brought it home in triumph, it was something of an
"occasion," and my father and Turgenieff were far more
delighted than we were. It turned out that they were both in the
right, and everything ended to their mutual satisfaction.
Ivan Sergeyevitch slept down-stairs in my
father's study. When the party broke up for the night, I used to
see him to his room, and while he was undressing I sat on his bed
and talked sport with him.
He asked me if I could shoot. I said yes, but that I didn't
care to go out shooting because I had nothing but a rotten old
one-barreled gun.
"I'll give you a gun," he said. "I've got two in Paris, and
I have no earthly need for both. It's not an expensive gun, but
it's a good one. Next time I come to Russia I'll bring it with
me."
I was quite taken aback and thanked him heartily. I was
tremendously delighted at the idea that I was to have a real
central-fire gun.
Unfortunately, Turgenieff never came to Russia again.
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