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ITONE Largene
Five Short Novels
Ivan Turgenev
THE DIARY OF
A SUPERFLUOUS MAN RUDIN
FIRST LOVE SPRING TORRENTS.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
Translated and with an introduction by
Franklin Reeve
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BANTAM
CLASSIC
TURGENEV 1818-1883
Ivan Turgenev was the son of a rich, cold
woman and a fashionable army officer who
married her for her money. From youth to
the end of his life Turgenev suffered from his
adoration of Pauline Viardot, the great opera
singer. Madame Viardot had a husband, and other
lovers as well as Turgenev. Nevertheless, the
Viardot household was Turgenev's refuge. When
the Tsar persecuted him for his outspoken
liberal convictions, when literary and
artistic Russia turned against him, it was
to Madame Viardot and her husband that
Turgenev fled. He lived with them, traveled
with them, and in their company wrote some
of his most significant books. Under their
roof Turgenev endured his painful last
illness. The world mourned the passing of
the first great Russian novelist to emerge from
the feudal darkness of nineteenth-century Russia.

DEN
Q
BANTAM CLA
CLASSIC
*
FIVE SHORT NOVELS
by
IVAN TURGENEV
TRANSLATED AND WITH
AN INTRODUCTION BY
FRANKLIN REEVE
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
B
BANTAM BOOKS/NEW YORK
ہو
89176
794
FIVE SHORT NOVELS BY IVAN TURGENEV
Published as a Bantam Classic / July 1961
All rights reserved
Copyright, 1961 by Bantam Books, Inc.
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trade-mark,
consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a
bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other
countries. Marca Registrada. Printed in the United States of Amer-
ica. Bantam Books, Inc., 271 Madison Ave., New York 16, N. Y.
*
GL
Gift
Deming Brown
8-25-94
Contents
Introduction, by Franklin Reeve
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN.
RUDIN
FIRST LOVE.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE.
SPRING TORRENTS
A Selected Bibliography
Chronology
vii
3
51
165
225
297
421
423
Introduction
"The deepest quality of a work of art will always be the
quality of the mind of the producer," said Henry James. "In
proportion as that intelligence is fine will the novel, the pic-
ture, the statue partake of the substance of beauty and truth."
This criterion for excellence, measured only and finally in the
execution, points to the heart of Turgenev's talent. Episodes
from his own life, of course, lie behind many of his stories and
many episodes in his novels. "I never try to improve on life; I
merely try to see and understand it . . . Every line I have
written has been inspired by something that has actually hap-
pened to me or come within my observation,” said Turgenev.
But to read Turgenev's stories back to the life, to find their
"sources," seems to me essentially irrelevant. The moral dilem-
mas of Tolstoy's life are visibly reenacted in his works;
Turgenev's personal history becomes, in his prose, a literary
pattern, the work of the organizing, visionary intelligence-of
that “fine mind." Turgenev thought First Love one of his best
pieces and said that it was very much autobiographical;
letters, documents, memoirs all confirm that Voldemar is
Turgenev's memory of himself as a boy and Voldemar's par-
ents are Turgenev's own mother and father. First Love, how-
ever, is a story, not a memoir, because the narrator lets life
determine its own fidelity: he avoids imposing his feelings on
what he perceives, but, rather, derives his feelings from it.
The substance of Turgenev's memory is made an event
(an event in a story, and, thereby, an event in our conscious-
ness) by fitting character to incident-by building a pattern
of incidents to describe a character. James said the two terms
were mutually dependent. Turgenev said that the writer "must
know and feel the roots of appearances, but he can present
only the appearances themselves-either in their blossoming
out or in their withering away." Voldemar's jumping down
from the wall to Zinaida's feet on a dare; Kharlov, covered
viii
INTRODUCTION
with mud, crazily rushing into Natalia Nikolaevna's house;
the party getting into the carriage for the outing to Soden-
Tartaglia clambering up on the box, Gemma sitting sedately
in her big straw hat with brown ribbons and waving her
handkerchief to her mother in the window; Lezhniov and
Rudin meeting by chance in the hotel; Chulkaturin's tiffs with
Terentievna: these moments are not "slices of life"; they are
life informing on itself, looking both forward and backward,
exposing the characters in those instants of change when, like
real people, they simultaneously experience loss and intensify
their hope or their resolve.
The direction in which Turgenev wishes you to follow the
pattern of instants he has arranged is given in many ways, but
perhaps the three categories, "lyricism," "commentary," and
"irony," point to basic differences in kind. The description of
the forest that Sanin and Maria Nikolaevna ride into, the night
and the garden where Voldemar watches Zinaida's window,
are lyric digressions that tie the characters to the natural world
around them; more importantly, they express that idealized
beauty which the author holds as a positive value and which
is embodied, in the story, in some partial aspect of one of the
figures. Turgenev's "commentary" is, at times, bald-the au-
thor's initial attitude toward Rudin; at other times, it is
equally part of the exposition itself-the whole "diary of a
superfluous man.” But the “irony" goes through all his work,
now gently, now bitterly, putting Turgenev at a remove from
his characters and what they do-from what some might call
the real-life models for his fiction-and often putting them at
a remove from each other: the kiss that compassionate Zinaida
gives semi-conscious Voldemar is equally a mark of the im-
possibility of his ever giving her a kiss in passion; the lack of
obligation imposed on Sanin by Gemma-her offer to release
him after he has committed himself-makes possible his aban-
doning of her. It is not that she should have done something
else; quite clearly, there is nothing else she could have done.
There is the irony, and it is turned twice more on itself-when
Sanin is rejected, and when he opens the letter from Gemma,
which makes him decide to join her in America (he had met
her in Frankfurt by mere chance), and Marianna's photograph
falls out-Marianna who looks just like her mother.
The excellence of Turgenev's style is not its message or its
story. Turgenev's work was variously politically successful and
unsuccessful in his own time; most people now seem to think
it tame, the work of a coward-and, to buttress their notion,
INTRODUCTION
ix
refer to the unpleasant incident in Turgenev's life when, at
sea on the way to Germany, the ship caught fire and the
captain had to push Turgenev back from a lifeboat filled with
women and children—and Turgenev kept lamenting, “Mourir
si jeune!” The political importance of A Sportsman's Sketches
(1852) is mostly, perhaps properly, forgotten. The book was
said to have much influenced the Tsar and helped force the
manumission of the serfs in 1861; at any rate, the book was
widely popular because of its obvious sympathy for the peas-
ants and their human dignity. The censor who passed it was
fired, and that same year, for having written a suspicious
encomium of Gogol, Turgenev was exiled to his estate for a
year and a half. Turgenev was close to such liberal figures as
Stankevich (d. 1840) and to such writers as Nekrasov, Dos-
toevsky, Tiutchev, Tolstoy (they quarreled, famously, in 1861,
over moral and literary issues) and, in Europe, James, Méri-
mée, Flaubert, and the Goncourts. The message that Turge-
nev's Potugin in Smoke (1867) leaves:
I both love and hate my Russia, my strange, dear, rotten,
precious country. Now I have abandoned her; I had to
give myself a bit of an airing after sitting for twenty
years. . . in a government office building. I've abandoned
Russia, and here I am very comfortable and happy; but
I'll go back soon; I feel that.
-this message means little to us now, for, like the once-
burning issues Turgenev discussed, it is dated. What remain
are the "appearances" exposed in their web of relations and
signs and symbols-as in a poem.
If one thinks of Pushkin as a "novelistic poet" in Eugene
Onegin, one might call Turgenev a "poetic novelist"—not for
his purple passages, but for his insistence on the specificity
of things experienced and the symbolic nature of their mean-
ing. His "stories" are, on the whole, basically narratives of
the breaking-up of an impossible love-triangle. Chulkaturin
is dispossessed of inaccessible Liza by Prince N, who never
intended to stay with her anyway. Rudin hovers between
Daria Mikhailovna and Natalia Alekseevna, as Natalia Alek-
seevna hovers between Rudin and Volyntsev. Voldemar was
only Zinaida's page; his father, her lover; herself, always lost
-alone in a world of admirers, exquisite and tragic. Kharlov
is betrayed by his two daughters, who come finally to hate
each other and to be almost fantastically isolated from the
world around them. Sanin wins Gemma from Klüber, leaves
X
INTRODUCTION
her for Maria Nikolaevna (who has a husband), and, at the
end, is about to depart on the actual journey of which Gemma
has long represented the symbolic fulfillment. We are not
moved by the "story" itself; we are moved by the perceptions
of character that the events of the story uncover. In short, we
are moved by Turgenev's mind in the excellence of its play-
its literary craftsmanship.
Turgenev generally tries to avoid any message from his
"stories" except pity, the response we offer the experience of
loss and the feeling of hopelessness engendered by change.
There was a profound melancholy in his nature. The excel-
lence of the play of his mind lies in the picture it composes,
as the excellence of a painting may be said to lie in its color:
as the color is the form, so the gestures of his intelligence are
the structure. Literally, as in the following excerpts from
"Kasian from Krasaia Mech" (1851), the movement of the
eye is the form built by the imagination:
It's a wonderfully pleasant thing to lie on your back in
the forest and look up! You think you're looking into a
bottomless sea, that it stretches out far and wide under-
neath you, that the trees don't rise from the ground, but,
like roots of huge plants, drop down, fall perpendicularly
into those glass-clear waves; the leaves on the trees are
sometimes as translucent as emeralds, sometimes opaque
in a goldish, almost black greenness. Somewhere far, far
away, at the end of its slender twig, a single leaf stands
motionless against a blue patch of pellucid sky, and be-
side it another one sways with a movement like the play
of a fish on a line, a movement that seems spontaneous
and not produced by the wind. Like fairy islands under
the sea, round wide clouds float quietly up and quietly
away-and suddenly the whole sea, the radiant air, the
sun-drenched branches and leaves, all begin to ripple and
tremble with a transitory brilliance, and there comes a
fresh, thrilling murmur, like the interminable faint splash-
ing that follows the rising of a sudden swell. You gaze
without stirring, and no words can express the gladness
and peace and sweetness that catch at your heart. . .
The atmosphere is one of gentleness, with an overtone of
gentility; but, then, there is this sort of calm only in leisure.
Only in leisure, too, comes the disinterestedness which is a
prerequisite for successful communication-the disinterested-
ness of the spectator, the clever but casual observer, which is
INTRODUCTION
xi
what Turgenev considered himself. As he said to Flaubert,
apropos of the Paris Commune, "We have some hard mo-
ments to live through, we others, we born spectators." And
towards the end of his life, he, who had chosen to spend his
adulthood in Germany and France, lamented: "There has been
something tragic in the fate of every Russian writer who was
at all prominent; with me, it is absenteeism." As a writer, he
insisted, he owed allegiance only to his personal vision of the
truth and to the "logic" of his art. “Art, I say, is such a great
thing that the whole man, with all his faculties, including the
intellect, is hardly enough for it." The artist's experience
seemed to him like that of the dreamer. "You walk among the
heroes of your novel; you see yourself among them, and at
the same time you realize the difference between that self
and your ordinary self. It is thus that in a dream you know a
man to be Ivan Fyodorovich although he looks like someone
else, a fact which does not bother you at all." The great
strength of the novelist, he asserted, is reason: "Instinct, how-
ever nearly it approaches genius, is unworthy of man; reason
-simple, sound, ordinary reason-is our true inheritance, our
pride." He stood his whole talent up to nature, measured
what he saw, adjusted to it as well as he easily could, and
shuddered at the inequities, the frustrations, and the vul-
garities. He wrote at a remove, like any artist, because he
could not adjust completely. Even less than Henry James
could he hide himself in his art. "I have always avoided
themes which are too subjective," he wrote. "They embarrass
me.”
What lies behind the series of rendezvous and encounter
that make up the bones of Turgenev's novels is an informed
consideration and sympathy for the conditions of life of
ordinary men. Turgenev hates to see unhappiness: it supposes
discord, unnatural relationships, unjust suffering. He sees it
against a background or vision of beauty and reason, a classi-
cal, intellectual symmetry deriving from, and giving life to,
all nature. Something of the idea of this is suggested by
Lezhniov in Rudin:
Philosophy, art, science, life itself-all this was for us
just words, or maybe even concepts, tempting, beautiful,
but incoherent, disjointed. We weren't conscious of, we
didn't sense, any common bond among the concepts, any
universal law, although we vaguely talked about it, made
every effort to realize it . . . Listening to Rudin, we at
xii
INTRODUCTION
first thought we'd finally seized it, this common bond,
that at last the curtain had been lifted! Suppose he
wasn't speaking his own mind-what does that matter?
A harmonious order was established in everything we
knew; everything that was incoherent suddenly fitted
together, formed a pattern, and rose up before us like a
building; everything shone brightly, there was spirit in
everything... Nothing was now meaningless, fortuitous;
everything manifested a rational necessity and beauty,
had an obvious and at the same time a mysterious mean-
ing; each separate phenomenon of life resounded with
one accord, and we ourselves, with a kind of sacred awe,
with a sweet quivering in our hearts, felt ourselves living
vessels of eternal truth, its implements, summoned to
something great. . .
As he grew old and tired and haunted by the fear of death
and the pain of dying, depressed by the despair of late middle
age, believing there was nothing more to do, nothing to ex-
pect, Turgenev turned ever so gently to a notion of Russian
nationalism. The Russians, he maintained, were hommes de
l'humanité-the French and all the Latins, hommes de la loi-
and had a deeper and warmer social awareness, an indif-
ference or irreverence for merely human regulations, but were
devoted to the ultimate, the real, the radical. Russians did not
fear simplicity. And once he remarked that the Russians were
liars because they had so long been slaves, but they demanded
in art what life had so long refused them-truth and freedom.
Turgenev wrote from a fundamental understanding of life
and its values with a quiet talent that expressed the inside
through the forms of the outside, that spoke always of con-
sciousness by the expression it wore. Ultimately, perhaps,
this is to say that Turgenev, like the few other very great
Russian novelists, understood that, just as meaning is a func-
tion of a word, so the meaning of a man is his function. This
is a perception of purpose, an inquiry into value. Pressed to
its ultimate, in turn, it is ineffable, like that moment of mystery
when Gemma and Sanin are literally and symbolically in-
separable from the entire universe, though they have no
rational understanding of it-they cannot use what they have
experienced-and are therefore only the more keenly aware
that what seemed fulfillment was actually a loss: "The deep
silence set in again.”
Franklin Reeve
FIVE SHORT NOVELS BY IVAN TURGENE▼
+
+
PREFACE TO The Diary of a Superfluous Man
Turgenev was known as a poet before he was known as a
novelist and playwright. The appearance of Parasha in 1843,
a mock-narrative in a style suggesting some of Pushkin's and
Lermontov's work, confirmed his literary pretensions rather
than any literary excellence. People were enchanted by Tur-
genev, for he was a social figure with charm, humor, and a
keen intelligence. Indeed, it was on these terms that he first
met Pauline Viardot, the "love of his life," after having first
met her husband. Later, he became a friend of the family-
“un excellent et intime ami de la famille,” as Gounod de-
scribed him-and for a while, perhaps, even Pauline Viardot's
lover; but that was after the early years of literary posing and
social mimicry had passed and Turgenev had chosen to devote
his life to a lady whose flame, as he put it, was beyond him.
Parasha was warmly reviewed by the well-known critic
Belinsky, who considered the poem one of the best of 1843
and praised the simplicity and earnestness he found in it.
Through Belinsky, Turgenev met Dostoevsky in the late fall
of 1845; but what impressed Dostoevsky was not Turgenev's
simplicity or earnestness but his social figure, the intelligent
respectability he later bitterly satirized in The Devils. Dosto-
evsky said in a letter to his brother:
What a man he is! I, too, practically fell in love with
him. A poet, a real talent, an aristocrat, a handsome
figure, rich, intelligent, well educated, twenty-five-I
can't think of anything nature has denied him.
The comment seemed apt then and even more so all through
the 1850's when Turgenev was at the height of popularity and
2
IVAN TURGENEV
influence and his work was considered especially reflective of
the liberal point of view toward social conditions in Russia.
In addition to describing and judging these conditions in
the stories of A Sportsman's Sketches, Turgenev was also try-
ing to work toward a definition of the conflicts of his age and
the portrayal of its "typical hero." Whether or not he suc-
ceeded-and there was as much argument then as now about
his success he did succeed in pinning a label on the kind of
figure that hero was to be. This he did in the story, The Diary
of a Superfluous Man.
Pushkin's Eugene Onegin and Lermontov's Pechorin come
from books whose composition and rhythm are very dif-
ferent: but the two central figures themselves are alike enough
in their deracination, their aimlessness, their self-involve-
ment, and their imaginative talent to be considered a "type."
Their noblest efforts, undertaken in a kind of romantic illusion,
always fail. The hero of Turgenev's story is not so powerful
a figure nor so complete in characterization as Onegin and
Pechorin, but the tag fitted to him fits them as well. Indeed,
it is a tag that has been fitted to a number of central figures
in various books and stories from Pushkin to Chekhov
(Ivanov, for example). Against this type Chernyshevsky and
the "radical critics" of the 1860's proposed the "positive
hero as a solution for literature as well as for social life."
The period 1847-50 Turgenev spent mostly in Paris with
the Viardots. When he refused to obey his mother's injunction
to return to Russia in 1848, she cut off his funds. This made
Turgenev more than ever dependent on Kraevsky's Notes of
the Fatherland, for Kraevsky was willing to give Turgenev
advances. The Diary of a Superfluous Man, written while
Turgenev was in France, appeared in Notes of the Fatherland
in 1850.
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
Ovechi Vody Village, March 20, 18—
The doctor has just gone. Finally, I got what I wanted! No
matter how he tried to dodge it, he had to say it out after all.
Yes, I'm going to die soon, very soon. The ice in the rivers
will break up, and I'll probably float away with the last snow
where to, God knows. Into the sea, too. Well, so what! If
you're going to die, you might as well die in spring. But isn't
it silly to begin your diary two weeks, maybe, before your
death? What's the diffrence? And how are fourteen days less
than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? In the eyes of eter-
nity, they say, nothing matters; that's true, but in that case
eternity, too, doesn't matter. I'm getting into speculation; I
think: that's a bad sign-already I am behaving like a coward.
I'd better tell a story. It's raw and windy outside. . . I'm not
allowed out. What will I tell about? A decent man doesn't
talk about his illnesses; writing a long story, perhaps, isn't
my line of work. I haven't the strength to get involved in
discussions of elevated topics; descriptions of the everyday
life around me can't even interest me. . . . But doing nothing
is boring; I'm too lazy to read. Ha! I'll tell myself the story
of my life. A magnificent idea! It's even appropriate before
death and won't hurt anybody. I begin.
I was born some thirty years ago into a rather rich land-
owning family. My father was an ardent gambler; my mother.
was a lady of strong will-a very virtuous lady. Only I've never
known a woman to whom virtue gave less pleasure. She fell
under the weight of her own merits and tormented everyone,
starting with herself. During the fifty years of her life she
never once took a rest, never was idle; she was forever potter-
4
IVAN TURGENEV
ing about and being busy with something, like an ant-
without anything to show for it, which you can't say about the
ant. An indefatigable worm was gnawing away at her day and
night. Only once did I see her completely calm, and that on
the first day after her death, in her coffin. Looking at her, I
really thought her face expressed a gentle amazement; there
seemed to come from the half-parted lips, from the sunken
cheeks and the meekly fixed eyes the words: "How good to lie
still!" Yes, how good, how good to be free at last of the
wearying consciousness of life, of the importunate and rest-
less sense of existence! But that's not the point.
I grew up badly and unhappily. My father and mother
both loved me, but that didn't make things easier for me. My
father had no authority at all in his own house and no im-
portance, being a man obviously given over to a shameful
and ruinous vice; he was aware of his fall and, not having the
strength to refrain from his favorite passion, at least tried by
his continually tender and unassuming expression, by his
evasive humility, to win clemency from his exemplary wife.
My mother actually endured her misfortune with that splen-
did, virtuous long-suffering in which there's so much self-
pride. She never reproached my father for anything, silently
gave him her last money and paid his debts; he extolled her
to her face and when she was absent, but he didn't like to
stay home and caressed me stealthily, as if himself afraid of
infecting me by his presence. But his distorted features
breathed such goodness then, the feverish smirk on his lips
became such a tender smile, his dark brown eyes surrounded
by delicate wrinkles shone with such love that I involuntarily
pressed my cheek to his, damp and warm with tears. . . . I
wiped these tears away with my handkerchief, and they again
fell effortlessly, like water from an overfilled glass. I would
start crying myself, and he would comfort me, stroke my back
with his hand, kiss me all over my face with his trembling
lips. Even now, more than twenty years after his death, when
I remember my poor father, dumb sobs catch in my throat
and my heart pounds, pounds as passionately and bitterly,
suffers as mournful a pity, as if it still had long to pound and
something to feel pity for. .
My mother, on the other hand, always treated me gently
but coldly; you often meet such moralizing and impartial
mothers in children's books. She loved me; but I didn't love
her; indeed, I shunned my virtuous mother and loved my
sinful father passionately.
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
5
But that's enough for today. The beginning's done, and
there's no point now in my worrying about the end, whatever
it is. That's my illness's job.
March 21.
Today the weather's wonderful. It's warm, bright; the sun's
playing gaily on the melting snow; everything shimmers,
steams, drips; the sparrows are crying like mad around the
wet, dark, wooden fences; the damp air sweetly and terribly →
irritates my chest. . . . Spring, spring's coming! I sit by the
window and look across the river at the fields. O Nature,
Nature! I love you so, yet I came from your womb incapable ·
of living. There, the male sparrow is hopping around with
outspread wings; he's shouting, and every sound of his voice,
every ruffled feather on his little body breathes health and
strength.
What follows from this? Nothing. He's healthy and has
a right to shout and ruffle his feathers; and I'm sick and have
to die-and that's it. There's no point talking about this any
more. And lachrymose apostrophes to Nature are really ludi-
crous. Let's get back to the story.
I grew up, as I've already said, very badly and unhappily.
I had no brothers and sisters. I was educated at home. In-
deed, what would my mother have had to do if I had been
sent to boarding school or to a government school? That's
what children are for-so the parents don't get bored. We
lived mostly in the country; from time to time we went into
Moscow. I had tutors and teachers, as usual; I can still remem-
ber especially well one cachectical, tearful German, Rickmann,
an extraordinarily sad creature crippled by fate and futilely
wasting away with a dreadful longing for his distant native
land. . . . I remember how my unshaven under-tutor Vasili,
nicknamed "The Goose," used to sit by the stove in the
terrific stuffiness of the cramped vestibule, shot through with
the sour smell of old kvass. Vasili would sit in his everlast-
ing caftan of dark blue sackcloth and play trumps with the
coachman Potap, who had just put on his brand-new, white-
as-foam sheepskin coat and his indestructible, freshly blacked
boots. and Rickmann on the other side of the partition
would sing:
•
Herz, mein Herz, warum so traurig?
Was bekümmerts dich so sehr?
's ist ja schön im fremden Lande-
Herz, mein Herz, was willst du mehr?
Palin
6
IVAN TURGENEV
After my father's death we moved to Moscow to stay. I was
twelve then. My father died one night from a stroke. I'll never
forget that night. I was sound asleep, the way all children
usually sleep; but, I remember, even in my sleep I seemed to
hear a heavy and even wheezing. Suddenly I felt somebody
take me by the shoulder and shake me. . . . I opened my eyes:
Vasili was there in front of me. "What is it?" "Hurry up, hurry
up, Aleksei Mikhailych is dying. . . ." I jumped out of bed,
like a madman, and went into his room. I looked: my father
was lying there, his head thrown back, all red, and wheezing
painfully. The servants were crowding in the doorway with
frightened faces; in the anteroom, somebody asked in a hoarse
voice, "Did they send for the doctor?" Outside they brought
the horse out of the stable, the gate squeaked. A tallow candle
was burning on the floor in the room; mother was right there,
too, filled with grief, but not having lost either decorum or
the consciousness of her own dignity. I flung myself on my
father's chest, hugged him, babbled, "Papa, Papa! . . ." He
lay still and squinted strangely. I looked at his face-unbear-
able terror took away my breath, I squealed in fear like a
bird grabbed roughly-I was pulled away and taken out. Just
that very evening he, as if with a presentiment that his death
was near, had caressed me so passionately and so dolefully.
They brought some sleepy and shaggy doctor smelling
strongly of vodka. . . . My father died under his lancet, and
on the very next day, completely benumbed with grief, I stood
with a candle in my hand in front of the table on which the
dead man lay and listened senselessly to the rich melody of
the sexton, from time to time interrupted by the priest's weak
voice; tears continually streamed down my cheeks, my lips,
my collar, my dicky; I was crying my heart out; I was look-
ing persistently, looking intently at my father's motionless
face, as if I were expecting something from him; and my
mother, meanwhile, slowly paid her last respects, slowly stood
up and, making the sign of the cross, pressed her fingers hard
on her forehead, her shoulders, and her stomach. There
wasn't a thought in my head; I had grown all heavy, but I
felt that something terrifying was happening to me.
Death then looked me in the face and marked me down.
•
After my father's death we moved to Moscow to live, for
a very simple reason: our whole estate was auctioned off to
pay his debts; absolutely all of it, except for one little hamlet
-the very one in which I'm now finishing out my splendid
existence. I must say that, though I was young then, I grieved
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
7
much over the sale of our home; that is, I actually grieved
only about our garden. Practically my only happy memories
are connected with that garden; there one quiet spring eve-
ning I buried my best friend, an old dog with a bobbed tail
and crooked paws-Trixie; there, hiding in the tall grass, I
used to eat stolen apples, red, sweet, Novgorod apples. There,
finally, through a ripe red-raspberry bush I first saw the maid
Klavdia, who, despite her turned-up nose and her habit of
laughing into her kerchief, aroused such a tender passion in
me that in her presence I could hardly breathe, could not
move, and was speechless; and once, on Easter Sunday, when
it came her turn to kiss my little lordly hand, I almost threw
myself down to kiss her worn-out goatskin shoes. . . . My
Lord! Was that all really twenty years ago? It doesn't seem
long since I was riding my little, shaggy, chestnut horse along
the old wattle fence of our garden and, standing up in the
stirrups, picking the two-colored leaves of the poplars. While
a man is alive, he doesn't sense his own life: like a sound, it
becomes distinct for him only a little while later.
O my garden, O overgrown paths beside the little pond!
O little sandy spot under the decrepit dam, where I caught
gudgeons and carp! And you, tall birches with the long, hang-
ing branches through which, from the country road, there
used to come a peasant's mournful song, unevenly interrupted
by the jolts of the cart-I send you my last good-bye!
Parting with life, I reach my arms out to you alone-I would
like once more to breathe in the pungent freshness of worm-
wood, the sweet smell of mown buckwheat on the fields of
my home. I'd like once more to hear in the distance the un-
assuming jangle of the cracked bell in our parish church; to
lie once more in the cool shade under an oak bush on the
slope of a familiar ravine; to follow with my eyes once more
the moving path of the wind running in a dark stream over
the golden grass of our meadow.
Ah, what's all this for? But I can't go on today. Until
tomorrow.
•
•
March 22.
It's again cold and bleak today. Such weather is much more
suitable-it's right in tune with my work. Yesterday quite
inopportunely aroused in me a great number of useless feel-
ings and memories. That won't happen again. Outpourings
of emotion are like liquorice: you start sucking and at first
it doesn't seem bad, but then it gets very nasty in your
mouth. I'll simply and quietly tell the story of my life.
8
IVAN TURGENEV
1
And so, we moved to Moscow.
•
But it keeps occurring to me: is the story of my life really
worth telling?
No, absolutely not. . . . My life was in no way different
from that of a great number of other people. My parents'
house, the university, service in the lowest ranks, retirement;
a little circle of friends, real poverty, modest pleasures, hum-
ble work, moderate desires-just tell me, who doesn't know
all this? And so I won't tell the story of my life, especially
since I'm writing for my own pleasure; and if my past offers
even me nothing either very cheerful or even very sad, there's
consequently absolutely nothing in it worth attention. I better
try to give myself an analysis of my own character.
What kind of a man am I? Someone may point out to me
that nobody ever asks that. Agreed. But, you see, I'm dying,
honestly, dying. . . and before death, really, I think, it's for-
givable to want to find out, as they say, what kind of a bird
I was.
Having thoroughly thought out this important question and
not having any need to be too harsh on myself, as people are
who are strongly convinced of their own merits, I must admit
one thing: I was a completely superfluous man in this world,
or, if you want, a completely superfluous bird.
That's what I plan doing tomorrow, because I am coughing
today like an old sheep, and my nurse, Terentievna, gives me
no rest: "Lie down," she says, "my gentleman, and drink a
bit of tea." I know why she pesters me: she'd like some tea
herself. Why not?—all right. Why not let the poor old woman
get, at the end, all the good she can out of her master?
While there's still time.
March 23.
Winter again. Snow is falling in big flakes.
Superfluous, superfluous. . . That's an excellent word I've
thought up. The deeper I get into myself, the closer I look
into my whole past life, the more I'm convinced of the strict
truth of that expression. Superfluous-exactly. This word
doesn't fit other people. People are wicked, kind, intelligent,
stupid, pleasant, and unpleasant; but superfluous-no. That
is, get me straight: the universe could get on fine without
these people, of course; but uselessness isn't their chief
quality, their distinguishing mark, and when you talk about
them, the word "superfluous" isn't the first that comes to mind.
But I-there's nothing else you can even say about me: just
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
9
superfluous. A supernumerary-that's all. Nature, obviously,
hadn't been figuring on my showing up and consequently
treated me as an unexpected and uninvited guest. There was
good reason for one wit (a great lover of the game of pref-
erence) to have said that in me my mother didn't make her
bid. I'm talking calmly about myself now, without any bitter-
ness-it's a thing of the past! In the whole course of my life
I regularly found my place filled, perhaps because I looked
for this place not where I ought to have. I was overanxious,
shy, and irritable, like all sick people; besides, probably on
account of excessive pride or in general as a result of the
unsuccessful make-up of my person, between my thoughts
and feelings and the expression of these thoughts and feelings
there existed some meaningless, incomprehensible, and in-
surmountable barrier. And when I made up my mind to
overcome this obstacle by force, to break down this barrier-
my gestures, my facial expression, my whole being took on an
aspect of agonizing strain. I didn't just seem, I actually be-
came, unnatural and taut. I felt it myself and hurried to with-
draw into myself again. Then a terrible anxiety would arise
inside me. I would analyze myself down to the last thread,
compare myself to others, recall the smallest glances, smiles,
words of the people in front of whom I had been about to
open up; I would see everything in the worst light, caustically
mock my own pretension of "being like everyone else,”—and
suddenly, in the midst of mockery, forlornly lose all heart,
fall into absurd melancholy, and then start all over again.
In short, I was going around like a squirrel in a cage. Whole
days went by in this agonizing, sterile way. And now, just
you tell me, tell me yourself, what's such a man good for,
and to whom? Why this would happen to me, what the reason
was for this laborious fussing with myself-who knows? Who
will say?
I remember, once I was going from Moscow in a stage-
coach; the road was good, but the coachman had hitched up
a side-horse alongside the four-in-hand. This unfortunate, fifth,
and quite useless horse, fastened somehow to the coach front
with a thick short rope, which was mercilessly cutting into its
flank, rubbing its tail, forcing it to run most unnaturally, and
making its whole body look like a comma-this horse always
provokes my deepest compassion. I observed to the driver
that, I thought, this time you could do without a fifth horse.
He was silent a moment, shook his head, lashed the horse
with his whip for being slow some dozen times across its
Wed
10
IVAN TURGENEV
gaunt back and under its swollen belly-then said, not with-
out an ironic grin: "See, now, it's actually started dragging
itself along... what the hell?”
And so I, too, have dragged myself along. . . . But, for-
tunately, the station isn't far.
Superfluous... I promised to prove the correctness of my
opinion, and I'll keep my promise. I don't think it's necessary
to mention the thousand little things, daily events and occur-
rences, which, however, in the eyes of any thinking man
could serve as irrefutable proofs in my favor, that is, in favor
of my view. Rather, I'll begin right away with a rather
important occurrence, after which, most likely, there won't be
any more doubt about the accuracy of the word superfluous.
I repeat: I don't plan to go into details, but I can't pass over
in silence one rather curious and remarkable circumstance,
specifically: the strange behavior of my friends (I, also, had
friends) to me every time I ran into them, or even dropped
in on them. They seemed to become uncomfortable; meeting
me, they didn't smile quite naturally, they looked at me, not
in the eye, nor at my feet, as some do, but rather at my
cheeks, hastily shook my hand, said hurriedly: "Ah! Hello,
Chulkaturin!" (Fate had obliged me with such a label) or:
"Ah, here's Chulkaturin," immediately stepped to one side
and then even stood still for a while, as if trying hard to
remember something. I would notice all this, because I
don't lack acumen and the gift of observation; in general, I'm
not stupid; sometimes I even get rather amusing and not at
all ordinary ideas; but since I'm a superfluous man and
locked up in myself, it's frightening for me to say what I
think, especially because I know ahead of time that I'll
express it terribly badly. Sometimes it even seems strange to
me that people talk, and so simply, easily. . . . What ability,
you think. That is, I must say, my tongue, too, despite my
little lock inside, often itched; but I actually spoke words
only in my youth, and in my more mature years was able to
restrain myself almost every time. I used to say, in a low
voice: "Now, we'd better to be quiet a bit," and I'd relax.
We're all clever at being quiet; our women especially have
gotten ahead by it: one lofty young Russian girl will be so
powerfully quiet that such a spectacle can make even a man
already prepared break out in a light tremor and a cold sweat.
But that's not the point, and it's not for me to criticize others.
I proceed to the promised story.
Several years ago, thanks to a combination of insignificant
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
11
but for me very important circumstances, I happened to spend
about six months in the district town of O--. The town has
been built up completely on a hillside, and built very incon-
veniently. There are about eight hundred inhabitants in it, in
extraordinary poverty; the huts are like nothing else at all.
Dreadful slabs of unpolished limestone, on the pretext of
being paving, stick up in places on the main street; as a result,
even carts are obliged to go around it. Right in the middle
of an amazingly slovenly square stands a tiny yellowish build-
ing with dark holes, and in the holes people in big caps are
sitting and pretending they're trading. Here there's an un-
usually tall striped pole sticking up, and beside the pole, to
look good, on order of the authorities, there is a cart of
yellow hay, and a government chicken is walking around.
In short, in the town of O-- life was just great. During the
first days of my stay in this town I almost went out of my
mind from boredom. I have to say about myself that although
I am, of course, a superfluous man, it's not by my own wish;
I'm sick myself, but I can't stand all sick things. . . . I'm not
against happiness, either; I even tried to find it both on the
right hand and on the left. . . . And so it's not surprising that
I, too, can get bored, like every other mortal. I was in the
town of O~~ on official business.
•
Terentievna has absolutely sworn to kill me. Here's a little
sample of our conversation:
Terentievna: Oh-oh, my poor gentleman! Why are you
always writing? It's not good for you to write, now.
I: But I'm bored, Terentievna.
She: Now, you just have a bit of tea and lie down. God
grant it, you'll sweat a bit and sleep good.
I: But I'm not sleepy.
She: Ah, poor gentleman! Why d'you talk like that? God
bless you! Lie down, now, lie down; it's better.
I: I'll die anyway, Terentievna.
She: The Lord save us and protect us. So, you want
·
some tea?
I: I won't last the week, Terentievna!
She: Eeee, poor man, why do you talk like that? . . . So,
now I'll go and put up the samovar.
O, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! Am I not a man to
you, too?
March 24. A hard frost.
On the very day of my arrival in the town of O-- the
above-mentioned official business compelled me to call on a
12
IVAN TURGENEV
certain Ozhogin, Kirilla Matveich, one of the chief officials of
the district, but I met him, or, as they say, got to know him,
two weeks later. His house was on the main street and stood
out from the rest by its size, its painted roof, and its two lions
on the gate, lions of that species which remarkably resembles
unsuccessful dogs, and the birthplace of which is Moscow.
Just by these lions you could conclude that Ozhogin was a
prosperous man. And, in fact, he had four hundred male
serfs, entertained all the best society of the town of O
and was famous for being hospitable.
The mayor would come calling on him in a wide, rust-
colored drozhky driven by a pair. He was an unusually big
man who seemed to have been cut out of left-over material.
Other officials came: the attorney, a yellowish and malicious
little creature; the surveyor, a wit of German descent with a
Tartar face; the officer of communications, a gentle soul, a
singer, but a gossip; the former Marshal of Nobility of the
district, a gentleman with dyed hair, a starched white dicky,
close-fitting trousers, and that noble expression on his face
which is so characteristic of people who have been at court.
Two landowners, also, used to come, inseparable friends, both
already elderly and even washed out, the younger of whom
continually crushed the elder and kept stopping his talk with
one and the same reproach: "Now that'll do, Sergei Sergeich!
It's beyond you! Why, the word 'cork' you write with a 'k.'
.. Yes, ladies and gentlemen," he would continue, in all
the heat of conviction, turning to those present, “Sergei
Sergeich doesn't write 'cork' but kork.'" And everyone pres-
ent would laugh, although, probably, not one of them was
distinguished by any special excellence in spelling; and the
unhappy Sergei Sergeich would fall silent and, with a fading
smile, droop his head. But I'm forgetting that my days are
numbered, and I'm going too much into descriptive details.
So, without any more beating around the bush: Ozhogin was
married, had a daughter, Elizaveta Kirillovna, and I fell in
love with that daughter.
Ozhogin himself was an ordinary man, neither bad nor
good; his wife was beginning to look like a neglected chick;
but their daughter didn't take after her parents. She was
extremely good-looking, with a lively and gentle disposition.
Her bright grey eyes looked good-naturedly and straightfor-
wardly out from under childishly arched eyebrows; she was
almost continually smiling and also laughed rather often. Her
crisp voice resounded very pleasantly; she moved freely,
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
13
quickly, and blushed gaily. She didn't dress too elegantly;
only simple dresses suited her.
In general, I've never made friends quickly, and if it was
easy for me with someone the first time-which, however,
almost never happened-this, I must say, spoke heavily in
favor of the new friendship. I had no idea at all how to deal
with women and in their presence either frowned and
adopted a truculent expression, or kept grinning in the stu-
pidest way and twisted my tongue in my mouth in confusion.
With Elizaveta Kirillovna, on the contrary, I felt myself at
home right from the first. Here's how it happened.
I arrived at Ozhogin's once just before dinner; I asked, "Is
he in?" and I was told, “He is, getting dressed; will you come
into the reception room?” I went into the reception room;
there, standing by the window, with her back to me, I saw
a young girl in a white dress, holding a small cage in her hand.
I felt a little sick, as I always did; however, I didn't do
anything, just coughed out of decorum. The girl turned
around quickly, so quickly that her ringlets struck her in the
face; she caught sight of me, bowed, and with a smile
showed me a little box half full of seeds. "Do you mind?" she
said.
A
I, of course, as is done in such instances, first bent my
head and at the same time quickly flexed and straightened
my knees (as if someone had hit me in the back of them,
which, as everyone knows, is a sign of excellent upbringing
and attractive familiarity with good manners), and then
smiled, raised my hand, and carefully and gently waved it in
the air a couple of times.
The girl instantly turned away from me, pulled a little
board out of the cage, began to scrape it hard with a knife,
and suddenly, not changing her position, said: "This is Papa's
bullfinch... Do you like bullfinches?" "I prefer canaries,"
I replied, not without some effort. “And I, too, love canaries;
but look at him, how nice he is. Take a look; he's not afraid."
(I was amazed that I wasn't.) "Come closer. He's called
Popka."
I went up and bent down. "Isn't he darling?" She turned
her face toward me; but we were standing so close to each
other that she had to put her head back a little in order to
look at me with her little bright eyes. I looked at her closely:
her whole young, rosy face was smiling in such a friendly
way that I smiled, too, and almost started laughing in delight.
The door opened: in came Mr. Ozhogin. I went up to him
14
IVAN TURGENEV
win
at once and started talking to him very easily; I don't know
myself how I came to stay for dinner-and stayed there the
whole evening. The next day Ozhogin's lackey, a lanky and
weak-sighted man, was already smiling at me as a friend of
the family, as he pulled my overcoat off.
To find shelter, to make yourself even a temporary nest,
to know the delight of everyday relationships and habits-I,
a superfluous man, without family memories, had never ex-
perienced that happiness until then. If there were anything
about me resembling a flower, and if this comparison weren't
so much of a cliché, I'd dare to say that from that day on
my soul blossomed. Everything in me and around had
changed so instantaneously! My whole life was floodlit with
love, literally all of it down to the littlest things, like a dark,
deserted room into which someone has brought a candle.
I went to bed and got up, got dressed, ate breakfast, smoked
my pipe differently than before; I even skipped along as I
walked-really, as if wings had suddenly sprouted from my
shoulders.
I was never for a moment in doubt, I remember, about the
feeling which Elizaveta Kirillovna had inspired in me; from
the very first day I had fallen passionately in love with her,
and from the very first day I also knew that I had. I saw her
every day for three weeks. Those three weeks were the hap-
piest time in my life; but the memory of them is painful to
me. I can not think of them by themselves: what followed
them inevitably comes to mind, and a poisonous bitterness
creeps through the heart that has just softened.
When a man is very comfortable, his brain, as everybody
knows, works very, very little. A calm and delightful feeling,
a feeling of satisfaction, goes through his whole being; he's
engrossed in it; consciousness of personality disappears in
him-he's blissfully happy, as unpolished poets say. But
when, finally, this "enchantment" passes, the man sometimes
becomes annoyed and sorry that in the midst of happiness
he observed himself so little, that by reflection, by memory,
he did not double, did not extend his delights as if a
man being "blissfully happy" had time, as if it were worth
thinking about his own feelings! A happy man is a fly in
the sunshine. That's why, when I think back on those three
weeks, it's almost impossible for me to retain an accurate,
definite impression, especially since, during all that time,
nothing particularly remarkable occurred between us.
Those twenty days seem to me something warm, young, and
•
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
15
fragrant, a bright patch in my dull and grey life. My memory
becomes suddenly, inexorably sure and clear only from the
moment when, speaking in the language of those same unpol-
ished writers, the blows of fate rained down on me.
Yes, those three weeks. . . . However, they were not with-
out lasting impressions. Sometimes, when I happen to be
thinking at length about that time, some memories suddenly
swim out of the darkness of the past-just as stars unexpect-
edly come out in the evening sky to meet intently fixed eyes.
I remember especially a walk in a grove outside town. There
were four of us: old lady Ozhogina, Liza, myself, and a cer-
tain Bizmionkov, a minor official of the town of O——, a
blond, nice, mild little man. I'll have more to say about him
later. Mr. Ozhogin himself had stayed home; he had a head-
ache from having slept too long. The day was marvelous-
warm, and calm.
I ought to point out that amusement parks and public
outdoor fêtes aren't to a Russian's liking. In provincial towns,
in the so-called public gardens, you'll never meet a living
soul at any season; if some old woman, moaning, sits down
on a green sun-warmed bench in the neighborhood of a sickly
little tree, it's only because there is no dirty little bench by
the nearby gateway. But if in the neighborhood of the town
there's a scrawny little birch grove, merchants, and sometimes
officials, on Sundays and holidays gladly drive out there with
their samovars, pies, and melons; they put all this abundance
on the dusty grass right beside the road, sit down around it,
and eat and drink tea in the sweat of their brows right up
until evening. A little grove of just this sort existed then
two versts from the town of O——.
We drove there after dinner, filled ourselves with tea as
we ought to, and then set out, all four of us, to take a walk
through the grove. Bizmionkov took old lady Ozhogina's arm;
I, Liza's. The day was already giving way to evening. I was
then at the very height of first love (not more than two weeks
had passed since we met), in that state of passionate and
intent adoration, when your whole soul innocently and help-
lessly follows every movement of your beloved, when you
can't have enough of her presence, hear enough of her voice,
when you smile and look like a sick child who's gotten well,
and a slightly experienced person a hundred paces away
must know at first glance what's happening to you. Until that
day I had never had a chance to take Liza by the arm. We
went along together, side by side, quietly walking across the
16
IVAN TURGENEV
green grass. A light breeze seemed to be fluttering around us,
among the white trunks of the birches, from time to time
tossing the ribbon of her hat into my face. I persistently
followed her with my eyes until, finally, she turned gaily to
me, and we both smiled at each other. The birds chirped
approvingly above us, the blue sky pierced gently through the
fine leaves. My head was spinning from an excess of pleasure.
I hasten to point out: Liza was not at all in love with me.
She liked me; in general, she never shied away from anyone,
but it wasn't I who was fated to stir up her child's tranquillity.
She walked along on my arm as if on a brother's. She was
seventeen then. . . . Yet that same evening, when I was there,
there began in her that quiet, inner ferment which precedes
the transformation of a child into a woman. . . I was wit-
ness to this change of her whole being, to this innocent
uncertainty, to this anxious thoughtfulness; I was the first to
catch the sudden softness in her eyes, the ringing unsteadi-
ness in her voice-and, O idiot! O superfluous man! for a
whole week I wasn't ashamed to assume that I, I had been
the cause of this change!
This is how it happened.
•
We had been walking a rather long time, right until dark,
and talking little. I had been quiet, like all inexperienced
lovers, and she, probably, had nothing to say to me; but she
seemed to be thinking about something and somehow spe-
cially nodding her head, thoughtfully biting a leaf she had
picked. Sometimes she started to go ahead so decisively...
and then suddenly would stop, wait for me, and look around
with raised eyebrows and an absent-minded smile. The eve-
ning before we had read together "The Prisoner of the
Caucasus." With what eagerness she had listened to me, her
face propped up on both hands and her chest pressed against
the table! I was about to start talking about yesterday's read-
ing; she blushed, asked me if, before we left, I'd given the
bullfinch any hempseed, started to sing some song loudly, and
suddenly fell silent. On one side the grove ended in a rather
deep and sharp precipice: down below flowed a meandering
stream, and beyond it, in some places rising like waves, in
others spreading out broadly like a tablecloth, stretched a
vast expanse of meadows here and there broken by ravines.
Liza and I were the first to come out on the edge of the
grove; Bizmionkov was behind with the mother. We came
out, stopped, and both involuntarily squinted: directly in
front of us, in the middle of a burning mist, the huge crimson
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
17
sun was going down. Half the sky was flaring up and glow-
ing; the red rays streaked across the meadows, casting a
scarlet reflection even on the shady sides of the ravines, fell
like molten lead on the stream where it was not hidden under
overhanging bushes, and seemed to lean against the face of
the precipice and the grove. We stood there drenched with the
fiery radiance. I'm not able to give the whole passionate
portentousness of this picture. They say that red appeared to
one blind man as the sound of a trumpet; I don't know to
what extent this comparison is valid, but, really, there was
something invocatory in that flaming gold of the evening air,
in the crimson luster of the sky and the earth.
I cried out in ecstasy and instantly turned to Liza. She was
looking straight at the sun. I remember the fire of the sunset
was reflected in little fiery spots in her eyes. She was thunder-
struck, deeply moved. She didn't respond to my exclamation,
but stood still for a long time, hung her head. . . . I reached
my hand out to her; she turned from me and suddenly dis-
solved in tears. I looked at her with a secret, almost joyous
bewilderment. . . . Bizmionkov's voice rang out two paces
from us. Liza quickly wiped her tears and looked at me with
a hesitant smile. Her mother, leaning on the arm of her blond
guide, came out of the grove; both, in their turn, admired the
view. Liza's mother asked her something, and I, I remember,
involuntarily shuddered when, in reply, her daughter's faint,
broken voice resounded like cracked glass.
Meanwhile, the sun had gone down, the afterglow had
begun dying out. We went back. I again took Liza's arm. It
was still light in the grove, and I could make out her features
clearly. She was confused and did not look up. The color,
spread over her face, had not disappeared: it was as if she
were still standing in the rays of the setting sun.
Her arm
barely touched mine. I couldn't begin talking for a long time,
my heart was pounding so hard. The carriage was gleaming
in the distance through the trees; the coachman was driving
slowly to meet us across the loose sand of the road.
"Lizaveta Kirillovna," I said at last, "why did you cry?”
"I don't know," she replied after a brief silence, looked at
me with her gentle eyes still moist with tears-their look
seemed to me different-and again fell silent.
"I see you love nature," I went on. I hadn't meant to say
that at all, and my tongue hardly finished mumbling out the
last part of it. She nodded. I couldn't get any more words
out . .. I was waiting for something . . . not a declaration-
•
18
IVAN TURGENEV
how could that be! I was waiting for a trusting look, a ques-
tion. . . . But Liza looked at the ground and kept silent. I
repeated once more in a low voice: "Why?" and got no
answer. She began to feel uncomfortable, almost ashamed, I
could see.
A quarter of an hour later we were sitting in the carriage
and already approaching the town. The horses were going at
a brisk trot; we were speeding quickly through the darkening,
damp air. I suddenly started talking, continually turning now
to Bizmionkov, now to Ozhogina. I didn't look at Liza, but I
could notice that from the corner of the carriage her glance
did not once fall on me. Once home, she roused herself but
she didn't want to read with me and soon went to bed. The
sudden change-that sudden change I was talking about-had
occurred in her. She had stopped being a girl, she had also
begun to wait . . . like me . . . for something. She didn't wait
long.
But that night I went home to my apartment in complete
enchantment. That vague something-not really a presenti-
ment, not really a suspicion-which had been about to rise up
in me, disappeared: I ascribed Liza's sudden stiffness with
me to girlish bashfulness, timidity. Hadn't I read a thousand
times in writings that the first emergence of love alarms and
frightens a young girl? I felt myself extremely happy and was
already making various plans in my mind.
If anyone had whispered in my ear then: "Nonsense, my
friend! That's not at all what's in store for you, old man:
you're going to die alone, in a miserable little hut, under the
unbearable grumbling of an old woman who can hardly wait
for your death so as to sell your boots for a song . . .
">
Sure, you'd willy-nilly say, with a certain Russian philoso-
pher: "How can you know what you don't know?” ... Until
tomorrow.
March 25. A white winter day.
I've read over what I wrote yesterday and almost tore up
the whole notebook. It seems to me that I'm telling things
too verbosely and too saccharinely. However, since the rest
of my memories of that time present nothing comforting,
except that special sort of consolation which Lermontov had
in mind when he said that it's pleasant and painful to disturb
the sores of old wounds, then why not indulge myself a bit?
But one mustn't abuse someone else's hospitality. And there-
fore I continue-without any saccharine.
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
19
During the whole week after the walk outside the town,
my position didn't essentially improve at all, although the
change in Liza became more noticeable every day. I, as I
have said, interpreted this change in the most favorable light
for myself. . . . The misfortune of lonely and timid people-
timid out of pride-lies precisely in the fact that they, having
eyes, and even staring with them, see nothing, or see every-
thing in a false light, as if through colored glasses. Their own
ideas and observations get in their way at every step. In the
beginning of our friendship, Liza treated me trustfully and
freely, as a child would; perhaps, even in her fondness for
me, there was something of a simple, childish attachment... .
But when that strange, almost sudden crisis had occurred in
her, she, after some uncertainty, felt uneasy in my presence,
involuntarily turned away from me, and at the same time was
melancholy and thoughtful. She was waiting-for what? She
didn't know herself . . . and I... I, as I said before, delighted
in this change. . . . I, honestly, was practically dying of de-
light, as the saying goes. I'm willing to agree, however, that
another man in my place might have been fooled, too.
Who does not have pride? There's no point in saying that all
this became clear to me only in the course of time, when I
had to lower my damaged wings, which never were very
strong.
The misunderstanding which had arisen between Liza and
me lasted a whole week-and there's nothing surprising about
that: I've seen some misunderstandings that lasted for years
and years. Who was it said that only the truth is real? False-
hood is just as viable as truth, if not more so. Indeed, I
remember, from time to time during that week the worm
turned in me. . . . But we lonely people, I want to say again,
are just as unable to understand what's going on in ourselves
as we are to understand what's happening before our eyes.
And moreover: is love a natural emotion? Is it human to
love? Love is a disease; and there's no law laid down for
disease. Suppose my heart is sometimes unpleasantly wrung;
and then everything inside me is turned upside down. How
would you then set about finding out what is proper, what is
not, what the reason is, what every separate sensation means?
Well, be that as it may, all these misunderstandings, pre-
sentiments, and hopes were settled in the following way.
One day--it was in the morning, sometime between eleven
and twelve o'clock-I had barely entered Mr. Ozhogin's ante-
room when an unfamiliar, clear voice rang out in the recep-
20
IVAN TURGENEV
tion room. The door flew open, and a tall slender man of
about twenty-five, accompanied by the host, appeared on the
threshold, quickly threw on a military greatcoat which had
been lying on the bench in the hall, said good-bye to Kirilla
Matveich warmly, casually touched his cap as he went by me-
and disappeared, jangling his spurs.
"Who's that?" I asked Ozhogin.
"Prince N--,” he answered me with a worried expression,
"sent from Petersburg to review the recruits. Now where are
the servants?” he continued with annoyance. "No one held his
coat for him.”
We entered the reception room.
"Did he come some time ago?" I asked.
"Last evening, he says. I offered him a room in the house,
but he refused. However, he seems to be a very nice young
fellow."
"Was he with you long?"
c
"About an hour. He asked me to introduce him to Olimpi-
ada Nikitichna."
"And did you?"
"Of course."
"
“And Lizaveta Kirillovna ...
"
"He met her, too, of course.'
I was silent for a while.
"Has he come here for long, do you know?”
"Yes, I think he'll have to stay here a couple of weeks,
maybe a bit more.
And Kirilla Matveich went off to dress.
I walked back and forth across the room several times. I
don't remember that Prince N--'s arrival made any special
impression on me then, aside from that unfriendly feeling
which often comes over us on the appearance of a new face
in our domestic circle. Maybe with that feeling was also
mixed something of envy which a timid and obscure Moscow
man might feel for a brilliant Petersburg officer. "The Prince,"
I thought, "is a sharp fellow from the capital: he'll look down
on us. I hadn't seen him for more than a minute, but I
had managed to observe that he was good-looking, adroit, and
easy-going.
Having walked around the reception room for some time,
I stopped in front of the mirror, got out my comb, fixed my
hair in picturesque carelessness, and, as sometimes happens,
suddenly plunged into contemplation of my own face. I re-
member my attention was anxiously concentrated on my nose;
•

THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
21
the spongy and undefined outlines of this member did not
give me any special pleasure-when suddenly, in the dark
depths of the slightly tilted glass reflecting almost the entire
room, a door opened and the slender figure of Liza appeared.
I don't know why I didn't move and kept the same expression
on my face. Liza stretched her neck out, looked at me in-
tently, and, raising her eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding
her breath like a man who is glad he hasn't been noticed,
carefully slipped back and quietly started to pull the door
shut behind her. The door squeaked faintly. Liza shuddered
and froze on the spot. ... I still didn't move.... She pulled
the handle again and stole away.
There was no possibility of doubt: the expression on Liza's
face at the sight of my person, this expression which showed
nothing except the desire to get out of there safely, to avoid
an unpleasant meeting; the sudden gleam of pleasure, which
I managed to catch in her eyes, when she thought she'd
actually managed to slip out unnoticed-all this said only too
clearly: this girl doesn't love me. For a long, long time I
couldn't take my eyes off the dumb, motionless door, again
appearing as a white spot in the depths of the mirror; I was
about to smile at my own craning figure. I hung my head,
went home, and flung myself on the sofa. I felt extraordinarily
unhappy, so unhappy I couldn't cry and what was there
to cry about?... “Really?” I constantly repeated, lying on
my back like a dead man with my hands folded across my
chest, "really?" ... How do you like that “really”?
•
•
·
March 26. A thaw.
When, the next day, after long vacillation and going all
cold inside, I entered the Ozhogins' familiar living room, I
was no longer that man they had known for three weeks. All
my old ways, which I had started to break myself of under
the influence of my new emotion, suddenly appeared again
and took possession of me, like the owners of a house return-
ing home. People like me generally follow not so much posi-
tive facts as their own impressions: no longer, as yesterday,
dreaming of the "delights of mutual love,” I had no doubt at
all today of my "misfortune" and was completely despondent,
although I myself wasn't able to find any sensible reason for
my despair. I could not be jealous of Prince N--, and no
matter what merits he might happen to have, his one appear-
ance was not enough to uproot in one blow Liza's fondness
for me.
But wait, now: did that fondness ever exist?
return
22
IVAN TURGENEV
I recollected the past. "And the walk in the forest?" I asked
myself. "The expression on her face in the mirror? Well," I
went on, "the walk in the forest, I think . . . Ugh, my God,
now! What a worthless creature I am!" I exclaimed aloud,
at last. Unsaid, unfinished thoughts like that kept coming
back a thousand times and spun in my head like a monoto-
nous whirlwind. I repeat, I went back to the Ozhogins' the
same over-anxious, suspicious, tense man I had been since
childhood....
I found the whole family in the living room; Bizmionkov
was there, too, sitting in a corner. Everybody seemed in high
spirits: Ozhogin especially was beaming and right away told
me that Prince N-- had spent the whole evening yesterday
at their house. Liza greeted me serenely. "Well," I said to
myself, "now I understand why you're in good spirits."
I must say, the Prince's second visit took me aback. I hadn't
expected it. In general, people like me expect everything in
the world except what is most likely to happen in the natural
order of things. I started sulking, and adopted the expression
of an insulted, but magnanimous, man; I wanted to punish
Liza by my disfavor, from which, however, it must be con-
cluded that I was nevertheless still not in complete despair.
They say that in certain cases when you are really in love
it's even useful to harass the adored creature a bit; but in
my position that was ineffably stupid: in the most innocent
way, Liza didn't pay me any attention at all. Only Madame
Ozhogina noticed my portentous reticence and with concern
inquired about my health. I, of course, answered her, with a
bitter smile, that, thank God, I was fine. Ozhogin kept expati-
ating on his guest; but noticing that I was replying to him
reluctantly, he turned more to Bizmionkov, who was listening
to him very attentively, when all of a sudden a servant
entered and announced Prince N--. The host jumped up and
ran to meet him; Liza, on whom I immediately fixed my
gaze, blushed from pleasure and fidgeted in her chair. The
Prince came in, heavily perfumed, gay, and gentle....
Since I am not putting together a story for a sympathetic
reader, but simply writing for my own pleasure, there's no
point in my having recourse to the usual tricks of gentlemen
of literature. So I'll say right now, without further delay, that,
from the very first day, Liza had fallen passionately in love
with the Prince, and the Prince had come to love her-partly
from having nothing to do, partly from a habit of turning
women's heads, but also because Liza really was a lovely little
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
23
thing. There was nothing surprising about their having fallen
in love with each other. He, probably, hadn't at all expected
to find such a pearl in such a rotten shell (I'm talking about
the God-forsaken town of O--), and until then she had
never even dreamed of anything like this brilliant, intelligent,
attractive aristocrat.
After preliminary greetings, Ozhogin introduced me to the
Prince, who treated me most courteously. In general, he was
very polite to everyone and, despite the unbridgeable distance
between him and our obscure, district set, had the gift not
only of making anyone feel at ease, but even acted as if we
were equals and he only by chance happened to live in St.
Petersburg.
That first evening . . . Oh, that first evening! In the happy
days of our childhood our teachers used to tell us about, and
hold up to us as an example, the manly endurance of that
young Spartan who, having stolen a fox and hidden it under
his chlamys, without once uttering a sound let it eat up all
his bowels, preferring his own death to disgrace. . . . I can't
think of a better analogy to express my untold sufferings
during that evening when I first saw the Prince beside Liza.
My constantly tense smile, my agonizing keenness of observa-
tion, my stupid silence, my melancholic and wrong-headed
desire to get away-all this, probably, was in its own way
quite noticeable. Not just one fox was digging at my innards:
jealousy, envy, a sense of my own worthlessness, and impo-
tent fury were tearing me to pieces.
I couldn't help but admit that the Prince was really quite
a courteous young man. . .
I devoured him with my eyes;
I think I actually forgot to blink, staring at him. He wasn't
talking just to Liza, but, of course, talked only for her. I
suppose I really bored him. . . . He probably soon guessed
that he was dealing with a rejected lover but, out of sym-
pathy for me, and also out of a deep awareness of my
complete harmlessness, treated me exceptionally kindly. You
can imagine how that outraged me!
the
During the course of the evening, I remember, I tried to
smooth over my fault; I (don't laugh at me, whoever you are
whose eye these lines happen to catch, especially since this
was my last dream) . . . I, honestly, suddenly imagined, in
the midst of my various agonies, that Liza wanted to punish
me for my arrogant coldness at the beginning of my visit,
that she was angry with me, and was flirting with the Prince
only out of pique. I caught a moment and, going up to her
24
IVAN TURGENEV
•
with a humble but affectionate smile, mumbled: "That's
enough, forgive me. I'm not saying this, however, be-
cause I'm afraid." And suddenly, without waiting for her
answer, I assumed an unusually lively and pert expression,
gave a crooked smile, stretched my hand up over my head
toward the ceiling (I remember I wanted to fix the kerchief
around my neck), and was even getting ready to spin around
on one foot, as if meaning to say: "It's all over, I feel won-
derful, let's all feel wonderful." But I didn't turn around,
being afraid of falling because of some sort of unnatural
stiffness in my knees. . . Liza absolutely didn't understand
me, looked straight into my face in amazement, smiled slowly
as if wanting to get rid of me sooner, and went back to the
Prince.
•
•
Blind and deaf as I was, I couldn't admit to myself that
she wasn't angry at all and wasn't annoyed at me at that
moment: she simply wasn't even thinking about me. The
blow was decisive: my last hopes came down with a crash,
as a block of ice, pierced by the spring sun, suddenly crum-
bles into little pieces. I had been completely smashed at the
first onslaught and, like the Prussians in one day at Jena, had
lost everything at once. No, she wasn't angry at me. . . .
Alas, quite the contrary! Her very self-I could see this-
was being swept along, as by a wave. Like a young tree
already leaning halfway away from the bank, she eagerly
bent out over the current, ready to yield to it forever both the
first bloom of her spring and her whole life. Whoever has
happened to witness such a passion has lived through bitter
moments, if he himself has loved and not been loved. I will
remember forever that devouring attention, that tender gaiety,
that innocent self-oblivion, that look still childish and yet
already womanly, that happy-as if blossoming-smile which
never left the half-open lips and the blushing cheeks.
Everything of which Liza had had a vague presentiment
during our walk in the grove had now come true-and she,
wholly given over to love, had at the same time quieted down
and brightened, like a young wine which stops fermenting
because its time has come.
•
I had the patience to sit through that first evening and all
the evenings that followed-right to the end! I could hope
for nothing. Every day Liza and the Prince became closer
to each other. But I absolutely lost all sense of my own
dignity and couldn't tear myself away from the spectacle of
my own misfortune. Once, I remember, I started trying not
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
25
to go; in the morning I swore to myself to stay home . . . and
at eight in the evening (I usually left at seven), jumped up
like a madman, put on my hat, and, panting, ran into Kirilla
Matveich's living room.
My position was exceptionally awkward: I was stubbornly
silent, sometimes for days on end I wouldn't utter a sound.
As I've already said, I was never distinguished for eloquence;
but now every bit of sense I had seemed to vanish into thin
air in the Prince's presence, and I remained as naked as a
new-born babe. Besides, I had privately been making my
unhappy brain work so hard, slowly turning over everything
I observed or noticed in the course of the day before, that
when I returned to the Ozhogins' I hardly had the strength
to watch again. They were sparing me, like a sick man, I
could see that. Every morning I adopted a fresh, final de-
cision, most agonizingly incubated during a sleepless night:
sometimes I was all set to have an explanation with Liza, to
give her friendly advice; but when I happened to be alone
with her, my tongue would suddenly stop working, as if it
had frozen, and we both would boredly await the arrival of
a third person. Sometimes I wanted to run away, of course
forever, leaving my beloved a letter filled with reproaches,
and once I had even started that letter, but the sense of
justice in me hadn't completely vanished: I understood I
hadn't the right to reproach anyone for anything, and I threw
my personal note into the fire.
Sometimes I would suddenly magnanimously offer my
whole self as sacrifice, give Liza my blessing for a happy
love, and from the corner smile meekly and amicably to the
Prince. But the hard-hearted lovers not only didn't thank me
for my sacrifice; they never even noticed it and, to all
appearances, didn't need either my blessings or my smiles.
Then, resentful, I would suddenly pass into the completely
opposite frame of mind. I would promise myself that,
wrapped up in a cloak like a Spaniard, I would slit my
lucky rival's throat from behind some corner, and with bestial
delight would imagine Liza's despair. . . . But, first of all, in
the town of O-- there were very few such corners; and
secondly. a wooden fence, a street light, a policeman on
duty a ways off . . . No! on such a corner it would be some-
how much more proper to sell pretzels than to spill human
blood.
•
•
I must admit that, among the various means of deliverance,
as I used to put it quite vaguely, talking to myself, it occurred
*****
26
IVAN TURGENEV
**
}
to me to turn to Ozhogin himself—to direct this nobleman's
attention to the dangerous position his daughter was in, to
the sad consequences of her thoughtlessness. Once I
even started talking to him about this delicate subject, but
did it so subtly and vaguely that he kept listening and listen-
ing to me-and suddenly, as if half-awake, rubbed his whole
face hard and quickly with the palm of his hand, not sparing
his nose, snorted, and walked away from me. There's no
point in saying that I, having taken this decision, kept con-
vincing myself that I was acting out of the most disinterested
motives, wished general well-being, and was fulfilling the
duty of a friend of the family. . . . But I make bold to think
that, even if Kirilla Matveich hadn't cut off my outpourings,
I still wouldn't have had the courage to finish my monologue.
Sometimes I set out, with the importance of an ancient wise
man, to weigh the Prince's merits; sometimes I consoled myself
with the hope that it wasn't serious, that Liza would come
to her senses, that her love wasn't real love . . . oh, no! In
short, I don't know of an idea which I didn't struggle with
then. Only one means, I must frankly confess, never even
entered my head: specifically, I never once thought of taking
my life. Why it never occurred to me I don't know..
Maybe, even then, I had a presentiment that I had not long
to live anyway.
Naturally, under such unfavorable conditions my conduct,
my treatment of people, was more than ever unnatural and
tense. Even Madame Ozhogina, that innately dumb creature,
began avoiding me and did not know how to approach me.
Bizmionkov, always polite and ready to help, shunned me.
I thought then that he was in the same boat I was, that he,
too, loved Liza. But he never responded to my hints, and
in general talked to me reluctantly. The Prince treated him
in a very friendly way; you could even say that the Prince
respected him. Neither Bizmionkov nor I stood in the way
of the Prince and Liza; but he did not stay clear of them, as
I did, did not look like either the wolf or the victim, and
gladly joined them when they wanted him to. True, on such
occasions he did not distinguish himself by any special hu-
morousness; but there'd always been something quiet about
his gaiety.
In this way about two weeks went by. The Prince was not
merely good-looking and intelligent: he played the piano,
sang, drew rather well, knew how to tell a story. His anec-
dotes, taken from the upper circles of life in the capital,
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
27
always made a strong impression on his listeners, strong
especially because he attached no particular importance to
them.
The result of this, if you will, simple ruse of the Prince's
was that during his short stay in the town of O-- he abso-
lutely charmed everybody there. It's always very easy for a
man of high society to charm us people of the steppe. The
Prince's frequent visits to the Ozhogins' (he would spend his
evenings there) of course aroused the envy of the other noble
gentlemen and officials. But the Prince, being a sophisticated
and intelligent man, didn't overlook one of them, visited them
all, said at least one endearing word to all the ladies, young
and old alike, let them feed him elaborately indigestible food
and rotten wines with magnificent labels-in short, he be-
haved perfectly, cautiously, and smartly. In general, Prince
N-- was a man of cheerful disposition, convivial, by inclina-
tion courteous, and also, incidentally, by intent: how could
he fail to succeed completely in everything?
Since his arrival, everyone in the house found that the
time flew by with exceptional speed; everything was going
fine; old man Ozhogin, though he kept pretending he didn't
see anything, was probably rubbing his hands in glee in secret
at the idea of having such a son-in-law; the Prince himself
was handling the whole business very quietly and properly,
when suddenly an unexpected thing...
Until tomorrow. Today I'm tired. These memories get me
upset, even on the edge of my grave. Terentievna noticed
today that my nose was already a bit more pointed; they say
that's a bad sign.
March 27. The thaw's continuing.
Things were as I've said above-the Prince and Liza were
in love with each other, the old Ozhogins were waiting for
what was coming, Bizmionkov was still around (there's noth-
ing else I could say about him), I was struggling like a fish
on dry land and keeping my eyes open as best I could. I
remember, at that time I set myself the task of at least not
letting Liza perish in the seducer's snares, and therefore
began paying special attention to the maids and the fateful
"back" porch. On the other hand, I would sometimes dream
for nights on end about the touching magnanimity with which,
in time, I would extend my hand to the fallen victim and
say to her: "A perfidious man deceived you; but I'm your
faithful friend... let's forget the past and be happy!" Then,
„LOT>Cl
28
IVAN TURGENEV
suddenly, a delightful bit of news spread through the whole
town: the district Marshal of Nobility was going to give a
big ball, in honor of our distinguished guest, at his own
estate, Gornostaevka. All the officials and authorities of the
town of O— received invitations, from the mayor to the
druggist (an unusually pimply German with terrible preten-
sions to an ability to speak without the trace of an accent, as a
result of which he persistently and always inappropriately
used strong expressions, as, for example: "I'll pe got-tamnt,
totay I'm a rrheal fine fellow. . . .”).
Terrific preparations were undertaken, as there always are.
One beauty-parlor owner sold sixteen dark blue jars of
pomade with the label: "à la jesmina." The young ladies.
made themselves tight dresses with torturingly tight waist-
bands like promontories on the top of their stomachs. The
mothers erected some sort of dreadful ornaments on their own
heads, on the pretext that these were headdresses; the once-
bustling fathers now lay, as the saying goes, with their legs
run off....
At last the longed-for day arrived. I was among the guests.
It was about nine versts from town to Gornostaevka. Kirilla
Matveich offered me à seat in his carriage, but I declined.
That's the way punished children who really want to get
revenge on their parents refuse their favorite food at meals.
Besides, I felt that my presence would embarrass Liza. Biz-
mionkov took my place. The Prince went in his own barouche;
I, in a broken-down drozhky which I'd hired at a high price
for this solemn occasion.
• •
I won't try to describe the ball. It had everything it ought
to have: musicians with unusually high-pitched horns in the
gallery, stunnned landowners with their inveterate families,
lavender ice cream, sticky orgeat, servants in boots run down
at the heels and knitted cotton gloves, provincial lions with
convulsively distorted faces, etc., etc. And this whole little
world turned around its sun-around the Prince. Lost in the
crowd, unnoticed even by the forty-eight-year-old spinsters
with red pimples on their foreheads and blue flowers on the
tops of their heads, I kept looking continually either at the
Prince or at Liza. She was very nicely dressed and looked
lovely that evening. They danced with each other only twice
(true, he danced the mazurka with her!), but, to me at least,
it seemed there was a secret, uninterrupted communication
between them. Even without looking at her, without talking
to her, he seemed to be always turning to her, and to her
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
29
alone; he was handsome and brilliant, and kind to others-
for her alone. She obviously thought herself the queen of the
ball-and loved: her face shone with childish delight and
innocent pride and was suddenly lit up with another, deeper
feeling-all at the same time. She breathed happiness. I
noticed all this. . . . It wasn't the only time that I'd happened
to watch them. At first, it hurt me deeply, then somehow
moved me, but finally drove me wild. I suddenly felt excep-
tionally evil and, I remember, delighted in this new sensation
and even got a certain respect for myself. "We'll show them
we're not done for yet," I said to myself.
When the first sounds calling everyone to the mazurka
thundered out, I looked around tranquilly, coldly and pertly
went up to a long-faced young lady with a red and shiny
nose, an awkwardly open, as if unbuttoned, mouth, and a
stringy neck reminiscent of the handle of a double-bass-I
went up to her and, clicking my heels curtly, asked her to
dance. She had on a pink dress that looked as if it had
recently and not yet completely faded; on top of her head,
some sort of discolored, despondent fly was trembling on a
very fat, copper spring; and in general this young lady was,
if I may put it this way, saturated all through with a sort
of sour boredom and inveterate unluckiness. She hadn't
moved from her seat from the beginning of the evening:
nobody had thought of asking her to dance. One sixteen-year-
old, fair-haired boy was, for lack of a partner, about to turn
to this girl and had already taken a step in her direction, but
thought again, looked at her quickly, and deftly vanished into
the crowd. You can imagine with what delighted surprise she
accepted my invitation! I triumphantly escorted her across
the entire room, found two chairs, and sat down with her in
the mazurka circle, the tenth couple, almost opposite the
Prince, who, of course, had the first place. The Prince, as I
said before, was dancing with Liza.
Neither I nor my partner was inconvenienced with invita-
tions; so, we had plenty of time to talk. To tell the truth,
my lady wasn't distinguished by an ability to put words
together in coherent speech: she used her mouth rather for
making a strange downward smile, previously unseen by me;
at the same time, she raised her eyes, as if an invisible force
were stretching her face; but I didn't need her eloquence.
It was enough that I felt evil, and my lady didn't make me
feel timid. I started criticizing everything and everyone in
the world, stressing especially the young fellows in the capital
30
IVAN TURGENEV
•
and Petersburg mirliflores, and finally, in the end, was striking
out so widely that my lady bit by bit stopped smiling and,
instead of raising her eyes, began suddenly-from amazement,
I suppose-looking cross-eyed, and so oddly besides, as if
she'd just noticed for the first time that she had a nose on
her face. My neighbor, one of those lions referred to above,
looked me over more than once, even turned to me with the
expression of an actor on the stage who's waked up in an
unknown place, as if wanting to say: "You still at it?” Still,
singing like a nightingale, as they say, I kept watching the
Prince and Liza all the time. They were constantly getting
asked to dance; but I suffered less when they were both
dancing; and even when they were sitting side by side and,
talking to each other, were smiling that submissive smile
which doesn't want to leave the faces of happy lovers-even
then I wasn't in such agony; but when Liza was flitting
around the room with some dashing fop, and the Prince, her
light-blue gossamer shawl on his lap, was thoughtfully follow-
ing her with his eyes, as if delighting in his victory-then, oh,
then I went through unbearable tortures and in my annoy-
ance let out such evil remarks that the pupils in both my
lady's eyes slid completely in against her nose. Meanwhile,
the mazurka was coming to an end....
They started doing the figure called la confidente. In this
figure, a lady sits down in the middle of a circle, chooses
another lady as confidante and whispers to her the name of
the gentleman with whom she wishes to dance; her partner
escorts dancers to her one by one, but the confidante refuses
them until, finally, the previously designated, lucky man ap-
pears. Liza sat down in the middle of the circle and chose the
hostess's daughter, one of those young girls about whom it's
said that "it doesn't matter." The Prince started searching for
the chosen man. Having presented some dozen young men in
vain (the hostess's daughter refused them all with the most
attractive smile), the Prince turned toward me. . . .
. . Some-
thing extraordinary happened in me at that moment: it was
as if I blinked with my whole body, and I was about to
decline, but I rose and went. The Prince led me to Liza. . . .
She didn't even look at me; the hostess's daughter shook her
head, the Prince turned to me and, provoked, probably, by
the goose-like expression on my face, made me a deep bow.
This derisive bow, this refusal, given me by my triumphant
rival, his careless smile, Liza's indifferent inattention-all this
•
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
31
made me boil with rage. . . . I moved up to the Prince and
whispered in fury: "I think you're making fun of me?”
The Prince looked at me in scornful amazement, again
took me by the arm and, pretending he was escorting me to
my seat, coldly replied: "Me?"
"Yes, you, you!" I went on in a whisper, obeying him,
however, that is, following him to my seat. "You; but I'm
not going to let any do-nothing Petersburg upstart . . .'
The Prince smiled calmly, almost condescendingly, pressed
my arm, whispered: "I understand you; but this isn't the
place: we'll talk later," and he turned away from me, went
over to Bizmionkov and led him to Liza. The pale little office-
worker turned out to be the chosen one. Liza rose to greet
him.
Sitting down beside my partner with the despondent fly
on her head, I felt almost a hero. My heart was pounding,
my chest was nobly swelled out under my starched dicky, I
was breathing deeply and quickly-and suddenly glanced
so grandly at my neighboring lion that he involuntarily
twitched the foot turned toward me. Having got rid of this
man, I glanced around the whole circle of those dancing....
It seemed to me that two or three gentlemen were staring at
me with some bewilderment; but, in general, my conversa-
tion with the Prince hadn't been noticed. . . . My rival was
already sitting in his chair, completely at ease and with the
former smile on his face. Bizmionkov returned Liza to her
seat. She bowed to him in a friendly way and immediately
turned to the Prince with a certain nervousness, it seemed to
me. But he laughed to her in response, gracefully waving his
hand, and, I suppose, told her something very pleasant, for she
blushed in pleasure, lowered her eyes, and then with affec-
tionate reproof fixed them on him again.
The heroic frame of mind which had suddenly risen in me
did not disappear until the end of the mazurka; but I no
longer tried to be witty and I didn't criticize. From time to
time I merely glanced gloomily and sternly at my partner,
who, evidently, was beginning to be afraid of me; she was
stammering and blinking constantly when I led her back to
the natural fortification that was her mother, a very fat woman
with a rust-colored toque on her head.
Having handed the frightened young girl over to the proper
quarter, I went over to the window, folded my arms, and
started waiting for what would come. I waited a rather long
time. The Prince was surrounded by the host the whole time-
1
* * *
32
IVAN TURGENEV
I mean surrounded, the way England is surrounded by the
sea-not to mention various other members of the district
Marshal of Nobility's family and the other guests. Besides, he
couldn't come over to such an unimportant person as myself
and start talking without provoking general amazement. This
unimportance of mine, I remember, even delighted me then.
"You won't catch me!" I thought, watching how he turned
first to one, then to another distinguished person honored by
having been noticed by him if only for "the twinkling of an
eye,” as poets say. "You won't catch me, old boy-you'll come
over by and by, because I insulted you." At last, the Prince,
having deftly got rid of the crowd of admirers, walked past
me, glanced-not at the window, really, nor at my hair, was
about to turn away, and suddenly stopped, as if he had just
remembered something.
"Ah, yes!" he said, turning to me with a smile, "by the way,
I've a little business with you.'
>>
Two of the most importunate landowners, stubbornly fol-
lowing after the Prince, probably thought the "little business"
was official and respectfully retreated. The Prince took me by
the arm and led me to one side. My heart was hammering in
my chest.
"You, I think," he began, drawling the word you and
looking at my chin with a scornful expression which, strangely,
couldn't have better suited his fresh and handsome face,
"you said something impudent to me?"
"I said what I thought," I replied, raising my voice.
"Shh . . Quieter," he remarked. “Decent people don't
shout. You, perhaps, desire to fight me?"
"That's up to you," I answered, straightening up.
"I'll be compelled to challenge you," he said casually, "if
you don't withdraw what you've said."
"I'm not going to withdraw anything," I retorted with pride.
"Really?" he said, with a derisive smile. "In that case," he
continued after a brief pause, "I'll have the honor of sending
my second around to you tomorrow."
"Very well, sir,” I said in a voice as indifferent as possible.
The Prince bowed slightly.
"I can't forbid your finding me a do-nothing," he added,
arrogantly squinting, “but the Princes N-- can not be up-
starts. Good-bye, Mr.-Mr. Shtukaturin.”
»✡
He quickly turned his back to me and went over to the
host, who had already begun to get nervous.
* Mr. Plasterer.
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
33
Mr. Shtukaturin! . . . I'm Chulkaturin. I couldn't think
of anything to answer this last insult of his, and just looked
after him in a rage. "Until tomorrow," I whispered, clenching
my teeth, and immediately hunted up an officer I knew,
uhlan Captain Koloberdiaev, a terrific carouser and a wonder-
ful fellow, told him of my quarrel with the Prince in a few
words, and asked him to be my second. He, of course, agreed
at once, and I went home.
I couldn't sleep all night-from excitement, not from cow-
ardice. I'm not a coward. I hardly even thought about the
possibility of losing my life, that greatest blessing on earth,
so the Germans say. I thought only about Liza, about my lost
hopes, about what I had to do. "Do I have to try to kill the
Prince?" I asked myself and, of course, I wanted to kill him-
not out of revenge, but out of a desire for Liza's good. "But
she wouldn't stand that blow," I went on. "No, it'll be better
if he kills me!" I must say, it was also pleasant for me to think
that I, an obscure district man, had forced such an important
person to fight with me.
The morning found me deep in these thoughts, and right
after dawn in came Koloberdiaev.
"Well," he said, coming into my bedroom with a lot of
noise, "where's the Prince's second?"
M
"For goodness' sake," I replied with annoyance, “it's only
seven o'clock; I suppose the Prince is still asleep."
"In that case," replied the indefatigable Captain, "order me
some tea. My head aches from last night. I didn't even
undress. However," he added, yawning, "in general I sel-
dom do."
He was served tea. He drank up six glasses with rum,
smoked four pipes, told me that yesterday, for practically
nothing, he had bought a horse the coachmen had refused to
handle and which he was going to break in, once he'd tied
up a front leg-and, without undressing, fell asleep on the
sofa, his pipe in his mouth. I got up and put my papers in
order. I was about to put an invitation from Liza, the only
note I had ever gotten from her, in my breast pocket, but
thought it over and threw it into a drawer. Koloberdiaev was
snoring faintly, his head hanging over the leather pillow. I
remember I took a long look at his disheveled, bold, careless,
kind face. At ten o'clock my servant announced Bizmionkov's
arrival. The Prince had chosen him as his second.
Together we woke up the soundly sleeping Captain. He
raised himself a little, stared at us with sleepy eyes, and in
34
IVAN TURGENEV
a hoarse voice asked for some vodka; then he pulled himself
together and, having exchanged greetings with Bizmionkov,
went with him into the next room for discussion. The discus-
sion between Messrs. Seconds didn't last long. A quarter of an
hour later they both came back into my bedroom: Kolober-
diaev informed me, "We'll fight today at three o'clock, with
pistols." I bowed my head as a sign of agreement. Bizmionkov
at once said good-bye and left. He was a bit pale and seemed
upset, like a man who isn't used to this sort of escapade;
however, he was very courteous and cold. I felt rather
ashamed in front of him, and I didn't dare look him in the
eye. Koloberdiaev began talking about his horse again. This
conversation was much to my liking: I was afraid he would
bring up Liza. But my good Captain was no gossip, and
besides that, he despised all women, calling them, God knows
why, salad. We had a bite to eat at two, and at three were
already on the field of action-in that very same birch grove
where I'd once gone walking with Liza, two steps from that
precipice.
We arrived first. But the Prince and Bizmionkov didn't
make us wait long. The Prince was, without exaggerating,
as fresh as a rose: his brown eyes looked out extremely
affably from under the vizor of his cap. He was smoking a
straw cigarillo and, catching sight of Koloberdiaev, affection-
ately shook his hand. He even bowed to me very nicely. I, on
the contrary, felt I was pale, and my hands, to my great
annoyance, were trembling slightly my throat was dry
I'd never fought a duel before. “O, Lord,” I thought, “if
only this mocking gentleman doesn't take my nervousness for
timidity!" Inside myself my nerves had gone to hell, but
finally taking a look straight into the Prince's face and catch-
ing on his lips an almost unnoticeable ironic grin, I suddenly
got really angry again and relaxed at once. In the meantime,
our seconds had fixed the barrier, measured off the paces,
loaded the pistols. Koloberdiaev was doing more than Biz-
mionkov, who was mostly watching him. The day was splen-
did-no worse than the day of the unforgettable stroll. The
dark blue sky pierced through the gilded foliage of the leaves
as before. The murmuring of the leaves, it seemed, excited
me. The Prince kept on smoking his cigarillo, leaning his
shoulder against the trunk of a linden.
"Gentlemen, to your places, please," said Koloberdiaev
finally, handing us the pistols.
The Prince started to go off a few steps, stopped, and,
•
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
35
turning his head around, asked me over his shoulder: "You
still won't take back what you said?” I wanted to answer him,
but my voice betrayed me, and I had to content myself with
making a scornful gesture with my hand. The Prince smiled
again and took his place. We began coming toward each other.
I raised my pistol, started taking aim at my enemy's heart-
in that moment he really was my enemy-but suddenly raised
the muzzle, as if somebody had bumped my elbow, and shot.
The Prince staggered, raised his left hand to his left temple-
a little stream of blood started trickling down his cheek from
under the white suede glove. Bizmionkov rushed to him.
"It's nothing," he said, taking off his cap which the bullet
had gone through. "If it didn't go into my head and I didn't
fall, it means it's only a scratch."
He calmly took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket
and put it on his curly hair moist with blood. I was staring
at him, dumfounded, and did not move.
"To the barrier, please!" Koloberdiaev remarked to me
sternly.
I obeyed.
"Is the duel going on?" he added, turning to Bizmionkov.
Bizmionkov didn't answer him, but the Prince, without
taking the handkerchief from his wound and without even
giving himself the pleasure of torturing me a bit at the barrier,
retorted with a smile: “The duel's over,” and shot into the air.
I practically started crying in annoyance and fury. By his
magnanimity, this man had thoroughly trampled me in the
dirt, slit my throat. I was about to protest, was about to
demand that he shoot at me, but he came over to me and
extended his hand.
"Everything's forgotten between us, isn't it?" he said in an
affectionate voice.
I looked at his pale face, at that bloody handkerchief, and,
completely losing control of myself, ashamed and crushed, I
pressed his hand....
"Gentlemen!" he added, turning to the seconds, "I hope
this will all remain secret?"
"Naturally!" exclaimed Koloberdiaev, “but, Prince, let
me..." And he himself bandaged the Prince's head.
Leaving, the Prince bowed to me once more, but Bizmion-
kov did not even glance at me. Dead-morally dead-I went
home with Koloberdiaev.
"What's wrong with you?" the Captain asked me. “Relax:
the wound's not serious. He can go dancing tomorrow if he
!
36
IVAN TURGENEV
wants to. Or are you sorry you didn't kill him? In that case,
you're wrong; he's a good fellow."
"Why did he spare me?" I finally mumbled.
"Well, I never!" replied the Captain calmly. “Oh, I'm really
fed up with these writers!"
I don't know where he got the idea of calling me a writer.
I absolutely decline to describe my agonies during the
evening that followed this unfortunate duel. My pride suffered
inexpressibly. It wasn't my conscience that tormented me: con-
sciousness of my stupidity annihilated me. "I gave myself the
last, the final blow!" I kept repeating, walking around the
room with big steps. "The Prince, wounded by me and for-
giving me . . .
.. Yes, Liza is his now. Now nothing can save her,
hold her back on the brink of the abyss." I knew very well
that our duel couldn't remain secret, despite what the Prince
had said; at any rate, it couldn't stay a secret from Liza. “The
Prince isn't so stupid," I whispered in fury, "not to take
advantage of...'
>>
But, in the meantime, I was wrong: the whole town found
out about the duel and its real reason the next day, of course;
but it wasn't the Prince who had let it out. On the contrary,
when he appeared in front of Liza with his head all bandaged
and an excuse all prepared, she already knew everything.
Whether Bizmionkov betrayed me or whether the news
reached her in some other way I can't say. And, after all, can
you hide anything in a small town? You can imagine how Liza
took it, how the whole Ozhogin family took it!
As for me, I suddenly became the object of general indigna-
tion and loathing, a monster of cruelty, a wildly jealous man,
and a cannibal. My few friends turned from me as from a
leper. The town authorities immediately went to the Prince
with a proposal to punish me severely as an example; only the
insistent and unyielding requests of the Prince himself averted
the disaster threatening my head. This man was fated to crush
me in every way possible. He slammed me down under his
magnanimity as if under a coffin lid. There's no point adding
that the Ozhogins' house was closed to me. Kirilla Matveich
even returned a pencil I had left behind. Actually, he was
just the man who shouldn't have been angry at me. My
"wild" jealousy, as they called it around town, defined, clari-
fied, so to speak, the relations between the Prince and Liza.
The old Ozhogins themselves and the other inhabitants began
to regard him practically as her fiancé. Essentially, this could
not have been very pleasant for him, but he liked Liza very
•
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
37
much; besides, he still hadn't reached his goal. With all the
cleverness of an intelligent and sophisticated man, he adjusted
himself to his new position and immediately entered, as the
phrase goes, into the spirit of his new role. . . .
But me! . . . I gave up on myself, on my future, too, as
being hopeless. When suffering gets to the point of making
us creak and groan inside like an overloaded cart, it ought
to stop being ridiculous. But no! Laughter not only accom-
panies tears right to the end, to exhaustion, to the impossibil-
ity of shedding any more-it goes right on ringing and
resounding when the tongue is dumb and the plaint itself dies
away. . . . And, therefore, first of all, because I do not plan
to appear ridiculous even to myself, and secondly, because
I'm terribly tired, I'm putting off the continuation and, if
God grants, the conclusion of my story until tomorrow.
March 29. A light frost; Yesterday there was a thaw.
Yesterday I hadn't the strength to continue my diary; like
Poprishchin, I mostly lay on my bed and chatted with
Terentievna. What a woman! She lost her first bridegroom
from plague sixty years ago, has outlived all her children, is
herself unforgivably old, drinks tea to her heart's content, is
well-fed and warmly dressed; and what do you think she
talked to me about all day yesterday? I told her to give
another, completely bare old woman (she wears only a front-
piece of cloth in the form of a vest) the collar of an ancient
livery all eaten by moths. . . . Terentievna wanted me to give
it to her. "But I'm your nurse, I think . . . Oh-oh, my poor
gentleman, it's sinful for you .
And what've I been taking
care of you, now, for?" etc. The pitiless old woman completely
wore me out with her reproaches. . . . But let's get back to the
story.
• •
So, I was suffering like a dog whose hind part has been
run over by a wheel. Only afterwards, only after I'd been
thrown out of the Ozhogins' house, did I finally find out what
pleasure a man can derive from the contemplation of his own
misfortune. Oh, men! What a miserable race, indeed! How-
ever, let's put philosophic remarks aside. . . . I spent days in
complete solitude, and only in the most roundabout and
shameful ways could find out what was happening in the
Ozhogin household, what the Prince was doing. My servant
had become friends with his coachman's wife's parent's first
cousin. This acquaintance afforded me some relief . . . and
my servant could soon guess, by my hints and little presents,
38
IVAN TURGENEV
what he ought to talk to his master about when he was taking
off his boots in the evening. Sometimes on the street I ran
into someone from the Ozhogins' household, Bizmionkov, the
Prince. . . . I would exchange greetings with the Prince, with
Bizmionkov, but did not enter into conversation.
I met Liza only three times: once with her mother in a
fashionable store; once in an open carriage with her father,
her mother, and the Prince; and once in church. Naturally,
I didn't dare go up to her, and stared at her only from a
distance. In the store she was very preoccupied but cheerful.
She was ordering something and was busily matching ribbons.
Her mother was watching her, her arms folded across her
stomach, her nose in the air, and smiling that foolish and
fond smile which only devoted mothers can. In the carriage
with the Prince, Liza was . . . I'll never forget that meeting!
The old Ozhogins were sitting on the rear seats of the car-
riage; the Prince and Liza, up front. She was paler than usual;
two little pink patches could be seen on her cheeks. She was
half turned toward the Prince; leaning on her outstretched
right arm (she was holding a parasol in her left) and lan-
guidly tilting her little head, she was looking straight at him
with her expressive eyes. In that instant she was completely
given over to him, trusted him irrevocably. I didn't manage
to get a good look at his face-the carriage flashed by me too
fast-but it seemed to me that he, too, was deeply moved.
The third time, when I saw her in church, no more than
ten days had passed since I had met her in the carriage with
the Prince, no more than three weeks since my duel. The
business on which the Prince had come to O-- was already
finished, but he still kept on putting off his departure: he
reported to Petersburg that he was sick. Every day the people
around town were expecting his formal proposal to Kirilla
Matveich. I myself was waiting for this last blow just to clear
out for good. The town of O—— had become repulsive to me.
I couldn't stay home, and kept wandering around in the out-
skirts from morning till night.
One grey, rainy day, coming home from a walk interrupted
by the rain, I ducked into a church. The evening service was
just beginning, and there were very few people; I looked
around and suddenly saw, beside a window, a familiar profile.
I didn't recognize it at first: the pale face, the dulled eyes,
the hollow cheeks-was this really the same Liza I had seen
two weeks before? Wrapped in a cape, without a hat, on one
side the cold light falling on her through the wide, white
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
39
window, she was staring motionless at the iconostasis and, it
seemed, trying to pray, trying to get out of some sad numb-
ness. A fat, red-cheeked serving boy, dressed like a Cossack,
with yellow cartridge belts across his chest, stood behind her,
his arms folded behind his back, and was looking at his lady
in sleepy perplexity. I shuddered all over, started to go over
to her, but stopped. An agonizing presentiment shot through
my chest. Right to the end of vespers, Liza did not move. All
the other people left, the sexton began sweeping the church;
she still did not move. The serving boy went up to her, said
something to her, touched her dress. She looked around,
rubbed her hand over her face, and went out. At a distance,
I followed her home and then went back to my place.
"She's ruined!" I exclaimed as I entered my room.
As an honest man, I still don't know what sort of feelings I
had then; I remember I flung myself on the sofa, my arms
folded, and fixed my eyes on the floor. But, I don't know, in
the midst of my grief I was rather pleased with something.
... I wouldn't have admitted this for anything if I weren't
writing for just myself. I'd been tormented, indeed, by agoniz-
ing, terrible presentiments-and, who knows, maybe I'd have
been quite surprised if they hadn't come true. "Such is the
human heart!" some middle-aged Russian teacher would now
exclaim in a significant voice, raising his fat index finger
adorned with a carnelian ring. But what have we to do with
the opinion of a Russian teacher with a significant voice and
a carnelian ring on his finger?
Be that as it may, my presentiments turned out to be right.
Suddenly the news spread through town that the Prince had
left, supposedly as a result of a directive received from Peters-
burg; that he had left without having made any proposal at
all, either to Kirilla Matveich or to his wife; and that Liza
was left to bewail his treachery to the end of her days. The
Prince's departure was wholly unexpected, because even the
day before his coachman, according to my servant's assur-
ances, hadn't the least suspicion of his master's plans. This
news threw me into a fever; I got dressed at once and was
about to rush over to the Ozhogins, but, having thought the
thing over, considered it decent to wait until the next day.
I didn't lose anything, however, by staying home. That
same evening a certain Pandopipopulo ran in to see me, a
Greek traveling through who had accidentally got stuck in the
town of O——, a gossip of the first order, who more than any-
one else had seethed with indignation against me for my duel
40
IVAN TURGENEV
with the Prince. He didn't even give my servant time to
announce him but burst into my room, squeezed my hand
hard, apologized to me a thousand times, called me the model
of magnanimity and daring, described the Prince in the black-
est colors, and didn't spare the old Ozhogins, whom, in his
opinion, fate had punished properly. He gave a kick to Liza,
too, in passing, and ran off after kissing me on the shoulder.
Among other things, I learned from him that on the eve of
his departure the Prince, un vrai grand seigneur, had coldly
replied to a delicate hint from Kirilla Matveich that he had
no intention of deceiving anyone and wasn't thinking of get-
ting married; he had stood up and bowed good-bye, and off
he went..
•
The next day I set out for the Ozhogins. At my appearance,
the weak-sighted lackey jumped up from his bench with the
speed of lightning. I told him to announce me; the lackey ran
off and came back immediately. "Please," he said, “they'd like
to see you." I went in to Kirilla Matveich's study. . . . Until
tomorrow.
March 30. Freezing cold.
So, I went into Kirilla Matveich's study. I would give a lot
of money to anyone who could show me now what my own
face was like at that moment when that venerable official,
hastily wrapped up in his Bokhara dressing gown, came up
to me with open arms. I suppose I was radiating humble
triumph, condescending sympathy, and limitless magnanimity.
... I felt something like Scipio Africanus. Ozhogin was,
obviously, embarrassed and saddened, avoided my glance,
shifted nervously in one place. I also noticed that he spoke
unnaturally loudly and in general expressed himself quite
vaguely-vaguely but ardently begged my pardon, vaguely
referred to the departed guest, added a few general and
indefinite remarks about the delusiveness and inconstancy of
earthly blessings, and suddenly, feeling a tear in his eye,
hurried to take a pinch of snuff, probably to fool me about
the reason that had made the tears come. He used green
Russian tobacco, and everybody knows that this plant makes
even old men shed tears, through which the human eye looks
out dully and senselessly for several moments. I, of course,
treated the old man extremely carefully, asked about the
health of his wife and daughter and skillfully turned the
conversation to the interesting problem of crop rotation. I
was dressed as usual; but the feeling of gentle decorum and
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
41
humble tolerance which filled me gave me a fresh and holiday
sensation, as if I had on a white vest and white tie. Only one
thing disturbed me: the idea of seeing Liza. At last,
Ozhogin himself offered to take me to his wife. This kind but
stupid woman became at first terribly embarrassed when she
saw me, but her brain wasn't able to hold on long to the same
impression, and so she soon calmed down. At last, I saw Liza.
She came into the room.
I had expected to find her an ashamed, penitent sinner,
and had already adopted ahead of time the tenderest, the
most reassuring expression. Why lie about it? I really loved
her and longed for the happiness of forgiving her, of offering
her my hand. But, to my unspeakable surprise, she, in re-
sponse to my meaningful bow, burst out laughing coldly, and
casually remarked: “Ah? It's you?" and at once turned away.
To be sure, her laughter seemed to me forced and, at any
rate, hardly went with her terribly emaciated face, but still
I hadn't expected such a reception. I looked at her in amaze-
ment. What a change had taken place in her! There was
nothing in common between the former child and this present
woman. She seemed to have grown taller, to have straightened
up, all the features of her face-especially her lips-seemed
to have become definite. her expression had become
deeper, stronger, and darker.
I stayed at the Ozhogins' until dinner. Liza would get up,
go out of the room and come back, calmly answer questions,
and deliberately pay me no attention. She-I could see this-
she wanted to make me feel I wasn't worth even her anger,
although I had practically killed her lover. I finally lost my
patience: a venomous allusion escaped from my lips. She
shuddered, glanced at me quickly, got up, and, going over to
the window, said in a slightly quivering voice: "You all can
say what you like, but know that I love that man, and always
will, and I don't consider him in any way guilty towards me.
On the contrary. . .” Her voice rang out, she stopped . . . she
tried to control herself, but couldn't, and bursting into tears,
ran out of the room. The old Ozhogins were overcome with
confusion. I shook hands with both of them, sighed, cast my
eyes on high, and departed.
•
I'm too weak, I've too little time left, I'm in no condition
to describe in detail this new series of agonizing considera-
tions, firm intentions, and other fruits of so-called inner strug-
gle, which arose in me following renewal of my friendship
with the Ozhogins. I didn't doubt that Liza still loved the
42
IVAN TURGENEV
Prince and would for a long time. . . but as a man subdued
by circumstances who had himself made his peace with the
world, I didn't even dream of her love: I wanted only her
friendship, wanted to win her confidence, her respect, which,
according to what people who know say, is regarded as the
most hopeful support of happiness in marriage. . . . Unfortu-
nately, I had lost sight of one rather important circumstance,
namely, since the day of the duel Liza had despised me. I
found this out too late.
I started visiting the Ozhogins as before. Kirilla Matveich
was more affectionate to me and more solicitous than ever
before. I even have reason to think that he would have given
me his daughter at this time with pleasure, although I wasn't
an enviable fiancé; public opinion was persecuting him and
Liza, but praising me, on the contrary, to the skies. Liza's
treatment of me didn't change. Most of the time she kept
silent, obeyed when called to meals, showed no external signs
of grief, but, for all this, was dwindling like a candle. Kirilla
Matveich must be given credit for sparing her in every way
possible; but her mother only got her hackles up when she
looked at her poor little thing. Liza didn't shun one man-
Bizmionkov-although even with him she did not talk much.
The old Ozhogins treated him very harshly, even rudely; they
couldn't forgive his having been a second; but he continued
coming to see them, as if not noticing their unpleasantness.
He was very cold to me and-strange thing!-I seemed to be
afraid of him. This lasted about two weeks. Finally, after a
sleepless night, I decided to have a full explanation with
Liza, to open my heart to her, to tell her that, despite the
past, despite rumors and gossip of every sort, I would con-
sider myself happy beyond measure if she would deign me
her confidence. Really, I seriously imagined I was being, as
the school anthologies put it, an ineffable example of mag-
nanimity, and that she would agree out of sheer amazement.
In any case, I wanted to clear up everything with her and,
at last, to be free of uncertainty.
Behind the Ozhogins' house there was a rather large garden
which ended in a neglected and overgrown linden grove.
In the middle of this grove stood an old, old arbor in Chinese
style; a wooden fence separated the garden from a little blind
alley. Sometimes Liza went walking in this garden alone, for
hours on end. Kirilla Matveich knew this and had forbidden
anyone to disturb her: "Let her grief," he said, “wear itself
out." When she couldn't be found in the house, you only had
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
43
to ring the bell on the porch before dinner, and she would
appear right away, with the same obstinate silence on her
lips and in her eyes, and with some crumpled leaf in her hand.
So, one time, having noticed she was not in the house, I
pretended that I was going to go, said good-bye to Kirilla
Matveich, put on my hat, and went out the vestibule into the
courtyard, and from the courtyard onto the street; but at once
with extraordinary speed I darted back through the gate and
made my way past the kitchen into the garden. Fortunately,
nobody noticed me. Without stopping to think, I hurried into
the grove. Liza was standing on the path in front of me. My
heart started pounding. I stopped, sighed deeply, and was
about to go over to her when suddenly, without turning
around, she raised her hand and started listening...
From behind the trees, in the direction of the alley, two
blows rang out clearly, as if someone were rapping on the
fence. Liza clapped her hands, the faint squeak of the wicker
gate was heard, and Bizmionkov appeared out of the thicket.
I nimbly hid behind a tree. Liza silently turned toward him.
He silently took her by the arm, and they both quietly
started off along the path. I stared after them in amazement.
They stopped, looked around, vanished for an instant behind
some bushes, appeared again, and finally went into the arbor.
This arbor was a small round structure with one door and
one little window; in the middle you could see an old table
with one leg overgrown with fine green moss; two little dis-
colored, plank couches stood on the sides, a bit away from the
damp and darkened walls. Here in former times, on unusually
hot days, they used to have tea. The door didn't close at all,
the window frame had fallen out long ago and, caught by one
corner, was hanging sadly, like the broken wing of a bird.
I crept up to the arbor and cautiously peeked in through a
crack in the window. Liza was sitting on one of the little
couches, her head lowered; her right hand lay on her lap,
Bizmionkov held her left in both of his. He was looking at
her sympathetically.
"How do you feel today?" he asked her in a low voice.
"Just the same," she replied, "no worse, no better. The
emptiness, the terrible emptiness!" she added, mournfully
raising her eyes.
Bizmionkov did not answer her.
"What do you think?" she continued. "Will he write me
again?"
"I don't think so, Lizaveta Kirillovna!"
44
IVAN TURGENEV
She was silent.
"And, in fact, what would he write about? He told me
everything in his first letter. I can't be his wife, but I was
happy... not for long . . . I was happy ..
Bizmionkov looked down.
>>
"Ah," she continued vivaciously, "if only you knew how
repulsive that Chulkaturin is to me. I still think that I
see on that man's hands his blood." (I squirmed behind my
crack.) "However," she added thoughtfully, "who knows,
maybe without that duel . . . Ah, when I saw him wounded,
I felt right away that I was completely his."
“Chulkaturin loves you," Bizmionkov remarked.
"What's that to me? Do I need just any old love?" She
paused, and slowly added: "Except yours. Your love, my
friend, is essential for me: I'd be lost without you. You helped
me over terrible moments. . . .”
She fell silent. Bizmionkov started caressing her hand with
paternal tenderness.
"Nothing can be done, nothing can be done, Lizaveta
Kirillovna!" he repeated several times.
"Even now," she said dully, “I think I'd die without you.
You're my only support: besides, you remind me of him. After
all, you knew everything. Remember how wonderful he was
that day... But excuse me: it must be hard for you—”
"Go on, go on!" Bizmionkov interrupted her. "What do you
mean! God bless you!”
She squeezed his hand. "You're very kind, Bizmionkov,"
she continued, “you're as kind as an angel. What can I do!
I feel I'll love him till my grave. I've forgiven him, I'm
grateful to him. God grant him happiness! God grant him a
wife to his liking!" And her eyes filled with tears. "Just so he
doesn't forget me, just so he even once in a while remembers
his Liza.... Let's go," she added after a brief silence.
Bizmionkov raised her hand to his lips.
"I know," she started saying heatedly, "everybody's blaming
me now, everybody's throwing stones at me. Let them! I still
wouldn't exchange my unhappiness for their happiness. . .
no! no! He didn't love me long, but he loved me! He never
deceived me; he didn't tell me that I'd be his wife; I myself
never thought about it. Only poor Papa hoped for that. Even
now I'm not completely unhappy: the memory remains, and,
no matter how terrible the consequences are . . . I'm suffocat-
ing in here-it was here I met him the last time.
out in the fresh air."
.. Let's go
•
...
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
45
They got up. I barely managed to jump aside and hide
behind a thick linden. They came out of the arbor and, as
best I could judge by the sound of their footsteps, went into
the grove. I don't know how long I stood there not stirring,
engrossed in some senseless bewilderment, when suddenly I
heard steps again. I gave a start and cautiously glanced out
from my ambush. Bizmionkov and Liza were coming back
down the same path. They both were very upset, especially
Bizmionkov. He seemed to be crying. Liza stopped, looked
at him, and said clearly: "I agree, Bizmionkov. I wouldn't
agree if you only wanted to save me, to get me out of a
terrible position, but you love me, you know everything-and
love me. I'll never find a more reliable, a truer friend. I'll be
your wife.”
Bizmionkov kissed her hand; she smiled at him sadly and
set off for the house. Bizmionkov rushed into the thicket, and
I set out for my place. Since Bizmionkov probably had told
Liza exactly what I was going to tell her, and since she had
answered him exactly what I'd wanted to hear from her,
there was no point in my being bothered about it any more.
In two weeks she married him. The old Ozhogins were glad of
any bridegroom.
Well, tell me now, was I not a superfluous man? Didn't
I play the role of a superfluous man in that whole story? The
role of the Prince-there's nothing to say about it; Bizmion-
kov's role, too, is clear. But me? What did I get involved in it
for? What a foolish fifth wheel on the cart! Ah, it's hard,
so hard for me! Now, as the barge-haulers say: “Once more,
heave-ho!" One more little day, heave-ho!, and it won't be
hard for me any more, or easy.
March 31.
Things are bad. I'm writing these lines in bed. Since yes-
terday evening the weather has suddenly changed. Today it
is hot, almost a summer day. Everything is melting, falling,
flowing. The air smells of dug-up earth: a heavy, pungent,
stifling smell. The steam is rising everywhere. The sun is
pouring down, beating down. I feel bad. I feel as if I am
decomposing.
I wanted to keep a diary, and instead of that what have
I done? Told the story of one incident in my life. I got carried
away talking; sleeping memories woke up and distracted me.
I wrote leisurely, in detail, as if I still had years ahead of me;
and now there's no time left to go on. Death, death's coming.
1
46
IVAN TURGENEV
I can already hear its terrible crescendo. . . . It's time
It's time! . . .
And what difference does it make! Isn't it all the same?
With death in sight, the last earthly vanities disappear. I feel
I'm going; I'm getting simpler, clearer. I've gotten some sense,
but too late! Strange thing! I'm going and at the same time,
I'm awe-struck. Half bent over the silent, gaping chasm, I
shudder, turn away, with covetous attention look all around
me. Every object is twice as dear to me. I can't look enough
at my poor, cheerless room as I say good-bye to each little
spot on my walls! Eyes, fill yourselves for the last time! Life
is leaving; it's smoothly and quietly running away from me,
like the sea from the seafarer's eyes. The old, yellow face of
my nurse, wrapped in a dark kerchief; the hissing samovar
on the table; the geranium pot in the window; and you, my
poor dog Tresor; the pen with which I'm writing these lines
my own hand-I see you now . . . there you are, there . . .
Really... maybe, today . . . I'll never see you again? It's hard
for a living being to part with life! Why are you coming up to
me for affection, poor dog? Why are you leaning your chest
on the bed, convulsively putting your bobbed tail between
your legs, and not taking your kind, sad eyes off me? Or are
you sorry for me? Or do you already sense that your master
will soon be gone? Ah, if only I could go over every object
in my room! I know these memoirs are cheerless and unim-
portant, but I have no others. The emptiness, the terrible
emptiness! as Liza said.
O my Lord, my Lord! Now I'm dying. . . . My heart, able
and ready to love, will soon stop beating. And will it
really stop forever without ever having known happiness,
without ever having spread out under the sweet burden of
delight? Alas! It is impossible, impossible, I know. . . . If only,
at least, now, before death-for death still is something sacred,
it surely raises up every creature-if only some sweet, sad,
friendly voice were to sing a farewell song to me, a song about
my own sorrow, I think I might, perhaps, be reconciled to it.
But dying is stupid, stupid.
I think I'm beginning to be delirious.
•
•
Good-bye, life; good-bye, my garden, and you, my lindens!
When summer comes, be sure not to forget to cover your-
selves from top to bottom with blossoms . . . and may it be
pleasant for people to lie in your fragrant shade on the fresh
grass under the prattling murmur of your leaves, slightly
3
THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN
47
stirred up by the wind. Good-bye, good-bye! Good-bye every-
thing, now and forever!
Good-bye, Liza! I just wrote those two words-and almost
burst out laughing. This exclamation seems to me very book-
ish. I seem to be writing a sentimental novel and finishing up
a letter of despair. . . .
Tomorrow is April 1. Will I really die tomorrow? It would
be somehow sort of indecent. But it goes along with the rest
of me....
How garrulous the doctor was today!...
April 1.
It's over... Life is over. I am really going to die today.
It's hot outdoors . . . almost stifling . . . or is my chest already
refusing to breathe? My little comedy is played out. The
curtain is coming down.
Becoming nothing, I'm ceasing to be superfluous....
Ah, how bright the sun is! Those mighty rays breathe
eternity....
Good-bye, Terentievna! This morning, sitting by the win-
dow, she started crying . . . maybe, over me . . . and maybe,
over the fact that she herself will soon have to die. I got her
to promise "not to hurt" Tresor.
It is hard for me to write . . . I'm dropping my pen.
It's time! Death is already drawing near with louder and
louder thunder, like a carriage at night on the pavement. It is
here, it is flitting around me like that light puff of wind which
made the prophet's hair stand on end....
I am dying. . . . Live, you who are alive.
And let young life have fun and play
Before the entrance to the grave,
And all indifferent nature shine
In radiant beauty evermore!
Publisher's Note.-Below this last line there's the profile of a
head with a tuft of hair and a moustache, with one eye en face
and ray-like eyelashes; and under the head someone has writ-
ten the following:
This manuscript read by
And The Contents Thereof Not Approved By
Petr Zudoteshin
M M M M
Dear Sir
Piotr Zudoteshin
My dear Sir.
or Lo
48
IVAN TURGENEV
But since the handwriting of these lines is not at all like
that in which the other part of the notebook is written, the
publisher considers himself right in concluding that the above-
mentioned lines were added subsequently, by someone else,
especially since so far as he (the publisher) knows, Mr.
Chulkaturin really died during the night of April 1-2, 18—,
on his ancestral estate, Ovechi Vody.
[1850]
PREFACE TO Rudin
The publication of the first stories of A Sportsman's Sketches
in The Contemporary in 1847 brought Turgenev to the atten-
tion of a wide public, including all the important literary men
of the day. The publication of Rudin in the magazine's first
two issues in 1856-a novel on which Turgenev said his career
as a novelist depended (as opposed to the career of critic and
man of letters)-increased his success, if anything. The con-
servative Dudyshkin in Notes of the Fatherland said the cen-
tral figure was merely a pale copy of Onegin and Pechorin.
The liberal Chernyshevsky, writing in The Contemporary, said
the figure was an apt portrait of a man of the new age, an
enthusiast capable of self-sacrifice in the name of general
good. In fact, the portrait was a caricature of a radical of the
time.
The novel, or povest, as it was first subtitled, reflects a
combination of autobiography, social history, and fiction typi-
cal of Turgenev. He started the actual writing in early June
1855, at his country place "Spasskoe" and finished it by the
end of July. "I've never been able to create out of my head,”
he once noted. "In order to produce some fictional figure, I
absolutely have to imagine some real person who may serve
me as a guide." In Rudin, the two most important real persons
are the revolutionary radical Bakunin, the "model" for Rudin,
and the passionate idealist Stankevich, described by Lezhniov
as Pokorski. Although in working on the novel, Turgenev
worked from real life, so to speak, elaborating on the images
he had in mind of the historical figures and involving them
in interdependent relationships, or incidents, what finally
emerged was as much the result of Turgenev's own attitude
50
IVAN TURGENEV
and of the criticisms of his friends as it was of the real-life
characteristics of his models. Much of the shaping of the
novel, including revision of Daria Mikhailovna's last conver-
sation with Rudin, the description of Rudin's and Lezhniov's
student years and of Pokorski's circle, and the epilogue, was
prompted by the advice of friends. And Turgenev then, as
always, was trying to give what he called, with reference to
Shakespeare, the "body and pressure of his time." The real
figures of Bakunin and Stankevich, both of whom Turgenev
had known, are changed into fiction; or, if you will, the fiction
typifies the "real." Henry James summed up Turgenev's atti-
tude in an article in The Atlantic in 1884, a few months after
Turgenev's death. The purpose that pervaded all of Tur-
genev's work, he said, was portrayal of life itself.
The germ of a story, with him, was never an affair or a
plot-that was the last thing he thought of: it was the
representation of certain persons. The first form in which
it all appeared to him was as the figure of one individual
or a combination of individuals, whom he wished to see
in action, being sure that such people must do something
very special and interesting.
The special and interesting things Rudin does are, for Tur-
genev, an expression of his nature, that is, a portrait of a man
in his time.
RUDIN
I
It was a calm summer morning. The sun was already fairly
high in the clear sky, but the fields still shimmered with dew;
a sweet-scented fragrance came from the recently awakened
valleys, and in the forest, still damp and quiet, the early
morning birds were singing gaily. On the crest of a gently
sloping hill, covered from top to bottom with rye that had
just burst into bloom, stood a very small village. A young
woman in a white muslin dress and round straw hat, and with
a parasol in her hand, was walking toward the village along
a narrow country road. A serving boy followed her at a dis-
tance.
She strolled leisurely along, seemingly enjoying the walk.
All around, long waves ran with a soft rustle across the tall,
undulating rye, flowing at times with a silvery green, at times
with a reddish rippling; high up, larks were calling. The young
woman was on her way from her own village, not more than
a verst away, to the little village for which she was headed.
Her name was Aleksandra Pavlovna Lipina. She was a widow,
childless, and rather rich, who lived with her brother, Sergei
Pavlych Volyntsev, a retired cavalry captain. He was unmar-
ried and took care of her estate.
Aleksandra Pavlovna got to the edge of the little village,
stopped at the first cottage, extremely dilapidated and poor,
and, having called her serving boy to her, told him him to go
in and ask about the mistress's health. He soon came back
accompanied by a decrepit peasant with a white beard.
“Well?” Aleksandra Pavlovna asked.
“Still alive . . ." the old man said.
"May I go in?”
52
IVAN TURGENEV
3
1
"Why not? You may."
Aleksandra Pavlovna went into the cottage. It was cramped
and stuffy and smoky inside. .. Someone started moving
about on the bench and groaning. Aleksandra Pavlovna looked
around and saw in the semi-darkness the yellow, wrinkled
head of an old woman, wrapped in a plaid kerchief. Covered
to her chest with a heavy cloth coat, she breathed with
difficulty, feebly moving her emaciated arms.
Aleksandra Pavlovna went over to the old woman and
touched her forehead with her fingers; it was really burning.
"How do you feel, Matriona?" she asked, bending down
over the bench.
"O-oh!” moaned the old woman, looking at Aleksandra
Pavlovna. “Bad, bad, my dear! My hour's come, dearie!"
"God's merciful, Matriona: maybe you'll get well. Did you
take the medicine I sent you?”
•
The old woman began to groan plaintively and did not
answer. She did not catch the question.
"She took it," said the old man, who had stopped in the
doorway.
one.
Aleksandra Pavlovna turned to him.
"There's nobody with her except you?"
"There's the girl-her granddaughter, but she's out all the
time. Can't sit still; such a fidgety thing. When it's time to
give the old woman some water to drink, she's too lazy to do
even that. And I'm too old myself-how can I do it!”
"Don't you want to send her over to me in the hospital?"
"No! Why take her to the hospital? She's going to die
anyway. She's lived her bit; you can see it's God's will now.
She won't get up off the bench. Why should she go to the
hospital! If they try picking her up, she'll die.”"
"Oh," the sick woman groaned, "my beautiful lady, don't
forget my little orphan; our masters are far away, but you
The old woman fell silent. Talking was too much for her.
"Don't worry," Aleksandra Pavlovna said, “it will all be
done. Here, I brought you some tea and sugar. If you want
to, drink. . . . You have a samovar, don't you?” she added,
glancing at the old man.
"A samovar? We don't have a samovar, but we can get
"
• •
"Then go get it, or I'll send mine. And tell your grand-
daughter not to stay out. Tell her it's shameful."
The old man answered nothing but took the package of
tea and sugar with both hands.
RUDIN
53
"Well, good-bye, Matriona," Aleksandra Pavlovna said.
"I'll come see you again. Now don't you be unhappy, and
take the medicine regularly.
The old woman raised her head a little and reached out
toward Aleksandra Pavlovna.
>>
"Give me your hand, m'lady," she mumbled.
Aleksandra Pavlovna did not give her her hand, but bent
down, and kissed her on the forehead.
"Look here," she said to the old man after she had gone
out, "give her the medicine just as it's written down. And
let her drink tea. . . .
"
The old man again said nothing, but merely bowed.
Finding herself in the fresh air, Aleksandra Pavlovna
breathed freely. She opened her parasol and was about to go
home when suddenly from around the corner of the cottage
a man of about thirty in an old grey coarse linen coat and
matching peak-cap drove out in a low racing sulky. Having
caught sight of Aleksandra Pavlovna, he immediately stopped
his horse and turned toward her. Broad, without color, with
small, pale grey eyes and a whitish moustache, his face
matched the color of his clothes.
“Hello,” he said with a lazy grin, “what're you doing here,
if I may ask?”
"I was visiting a sick woman. . . . But where are you com-
ing from, Mikhailo Mikhailych?”
The man called Mikhailo Mikhailych looked straight at her
and smiled again.
"It's good of you to do this," he went on, "visiting a sick
woman; only wouldn't it be better for you to take her to the
hospital?"
“She's too weak; she can't be moved.”
"But you're not planning on doing away with your hos-
pital?"
"Doing away with it? What for?"
"Just like that."
“What a queer idea! How did that get into your head?”
"Why, now you're always around with Lasunskaia and, I
think, under her influence. And from what she says, hospitals,
schools-they're all silly, useless inventions. Good work has
to be personal. Education, too. It's all a matter of the soul-
that's what she says, I think. Whose song is she singing, I'd
like to know?”
Aleksandra Pavlovna laughed.
"Daria Mikhailovna's a clever woman, I like her and re-
54
IVAN TURGENEV
spect her very much, but even she can be wrong, and I don't
believe every word she says."
"And you do very well," Mikhailo Mikhailych retorted, still
not getting out of the sulky, "because she hardly believes her
own words. But I'm very glad I ran into you.
>>
"Why?"
"That's a good question! As if it weren't always pleasant
to run into you! Today you're just as fresh and sweet as the
morning."
Aleksandra Pavlovna laughed again.
"Why are you laughing?"
"Why not? If you could see with what a blank and cold
expression you delivered your compliment! I'm surprised you
didn't yawn on the last word."
"With a cold expression. . . You still want ardor; but ardor
won't do at all. It'll flare up, smoke a bit, and go out.”
"And warm you,” Aleksandra Pavlovna put in.
"Yes... and burn you."
"Well, so what, so what if it burns you! That's not bad,
either. It's still better than-”
"But I want to see what you'll say when you get really
burned just once," Mikhailo Mikhailych, annoyed, interrupted
her, and slapped the reins on the horse. "Good-bye!"
“Mikhailo Mikhailych, wait!" Aleksandra Pavlovna cried.
"When are you coming over?"
"Tomorrow; say hello to your brother." And the sulky drove
off.
Aleksandra Pavlovna watched Mikhailo Mikhailych go.
“What a sack!” she thought. Hunched over, covered with
dust, his peak-cap on the back of his head and shocks of
yellow hair sloppily sticking out from under it, he really did
look like a big flour-sack.
Aleksandra Pavlovna quietly set out again on the road
home. She walked along with her eyes down. The close thud
of a horse's hoofs made her stop and raise her head. Her
brother was riding out to meet her; beside him walked a
young man, short, in a light unbuttoned frock-coat, light tie,
and light grey hat, with a cane in his hand. He had smiled
at Aleksandra Pavlovna quite a while ago, although he had
seen that she was walking along deep in thought, noticing
nothing, and as soon as she stopped, he went up to her and
said joyfully, almost fondly, "Hello, Aleksandra Pavlovna,
hello!"
RUDIN
55
“Ah! Konstantin Diomidych! Hello!” she answered. “You're
coming from Daria Mikhailovna's?"
"Exactly so, exactly so," the young man replied with a
radiant expression; "from Daria Mikhailovna's. Daria Mikhai-
lovna sent me over to you; I preferred to walk . . . the morn-
ing's so marvelous, it's only four versts. I arrived-and you
were out. Your brother told me you had gone to Semionovka
and he himself was about to go out to the fields; so I set out
with him, to meet you. Yes, indeed. How pleasant this is!"
The young man spoke Russian clearly and correctly but
with a foreign accent, although it was hard to specify with
just what kind. There was something Asiatic about the fea-
tures of his face. A long aquiline nose, large, motionless
bulging eyes, thick red lips, a retreating forehead, jet-black
hair-everything about him betrayed an Eastern origin; but
the young man bore the name Pandalevski and called Odessa
his birthplace, although he had been brought up somewhere
in Belorussia by a rich and philanthropic widow. Another
widow had gotten him a job. In general, middle-aged ladies
readily patronized Konstantin Diomidych: he knew how to
look for them and find them. Even now he was living at a
rich landowner's, Daria Mikhailovna Lasunskaia's, as a foster
son or boarder. He was extremely sweet, obliging, sensitive,
and secretly sensual; he possessed a pleasant voice, played
the piano rather well, and had the habit, when talking to any-
one, of boring into him with his eyes. He dressed very neatly
and wore his clothes extraordinarily long, meticulously shaved
his broad chin, and brushed his hair just so.
Aleksandra Pavlovna heard him out, then turned to her
brother.
"I've run into people all day today; I was just talking to
Lezhniov."
"Ah, to him! He was going somewhere?"
"Yes; and imagine, in a racing sulky, in some sort of a linen
sack, all covered with dust. What a queer one!"
"Yes, perhaps; only he's an awfully good man.”
"Who's that? Mr. Lezhniov?" Pandalevski asked, as if
surprised.
"Yes, Mikhailo Mikhailych Lezhniov," Volyntsev replied.
"But good-bye, sister. It's time I went out to the fields;
your buckwheat's being sown. Mr. Pandalevski will escort
you home." And Volyntsev put his horse into a trot.
"With the greatest pleasure!" exclaimed Konstantin Dio-
midych, and offered Aleksandra Pavlovna his arm.
56
IVAN TURGENEV
She took his arm, and they set out on the road to her
country house.
To escort Aleksandra Pavlovna on his arm obviously
afforded Konstantin Diomidych great pleasure; he took little
steps, smiled, and his Eastern eyes were even moist, which,
by the way, was not an infrequent occurrence: Konstantin
Diomidych was easily moved and easily shed tears. And who
would not find it pleasant to escort a pretty, young, graceful
woman on his arm? All the province of unanimously said
about Aleksandra Pavlovna that she was lovely, and the
province was not wrong. Her straight, just barely turned-up
little nose alone could drive any mortal out of his mind, not
to mention her velvet brown eyes, her golden blond hair, the
dimples on her round cheeks, and her other charms. But best
of all was the expression of her comely face: trustful, good-
natured, and gentle, it was both moving and attractive. Alek-
sandra Pavlovna looked and laughed like a child; ladies found
her plain. . . . Could one have wished for anything more?
"You say Daria Mikhailovna sent you to me?” she asked
Pandalevski.
"Yes, she did," he answered, pronouncing the letter "s"
like the English "th." "They absolutely want you to come
and told me to beg you earnestly to come to dinner at their
house today. They" (Pandalevski, when he was speaking about
a third person, especially about a lady, stuck strictly to the
plural)" "they're waiting for a new guest, whom they
absolutely want you to meet.”
"Who's that?”
“A certain Muffel, a baron, a kammer-junker from Peters-
burg. Daria Mikhailovna met him not long ago at Prince
Garin's and speaks of him with great praise, as a polite and
cultured young man. Mr. Baron is studying literature, too,
or, I should say-ah, what a lovely butterfly! Allow me to
point it out to you—I should say, political economy. He wrote
an article about some very interesting problem, and wants to
submit it to Daria Mikhailovna's judgment."
"An article on political economy?"
-
"From the point of view of language, Aleksandra Pavlovna,
from the point of view of language, ma'am. You know, I
* A mark of respect, as used by servants, or serfs addressing their land-
lords. Here its use is excessive, as is Pandalevski's use of "s," for sudar
("sir"), mostly omitted in this translation because of the absence of equiva-
lent English usage.
RUDIN
57
believe, that Daria Mikhailovna's an expert on that too.
Zhukovski used to ask her advice, and my benefactor, who
lives in Odessa, the venerable elder Roksolan Mediarovich
Ksandryka.... You surely know this man's name?"
"Not at all; I never even heard of him."
"Never heard of such a man? Amazing! I was going to
say that Roksolan Mediarovich always had a very high
opinion of Daria Mikhailovna's knowledge of the Russian
language.
"And this baron isn't a pedant?" Aleksandra Pavlovna
asked.
"Not at all, maʼam; Daria Mikhailovna says that, quite the
contrary, the man of the world comes out in him immediately.
He talked about Beethoven with such eloquence that even
the old prince felt excited. That, I must admit, I'd liked to
have heard; that's right in my line. Allow me to offer you
this beautiful wildflower."
Aleksandra Pavlovna took the flower and, after having
gone several steps, dropped it on the road. . . . She still had
about two hundred paces to her house, no more. Recently
built and whitewashed, its wide, light windows seemed to
greet her through the thick foliage of the old lindens and
maples.
"So, ma'am, you want me to tell Daria Mikhailovna,"
Pandalevski began, slightly affronted by the fate of his votive
flower, "you'll be there for dinner? Your brother is invited
too."
"Yes, we'll come, certainly. And how is Natasha?”
"Natalia Alekseevna, thank God, is well. . . . But we've
already passed the turn to Daria Mikhailovna's estate. Allow
me to take leave of you.”
Aleksandra Pavlovna stopped. "But won't you come in?”
she asked in a hesitating voice.
"I'd sincerely like to, but I'm afraid of being late. Daria
Mikhailovna wants to hear a new étude by Thalberg: so I
must get ready and learn it. Besides, I must say, I doubt my
conversation could afford you any pleasure.'
"
"But no why.
Pandalevski sighed and looked down significantly.
"Good-bye, Aleksandra Pavlovna!" he said after a brief
silence, bowed, and started back.
Aleksandra Pavlovna turned and went home.
• • •
Konstantin Diomidych also headed home. All sweetness at
once vanished from his face: a self-confident, almost harsh
58
IVAN TURGENEV
expression came over it. Even his walk changed: he now took
longer steps and walked more heavily. He went about two
versts, casually waving his cane, and he suddenly grinned
again: he had caught sight of a young, rather comely peasant
girl beside the road who was driving some calves out of an
oat field. Konstantin Diomidych cautiously, like a cat, went
up to the girl and started talking to her. She at first said
nothing, blushed and chuckled, and finally covered her mouth
with her sleeve, turned away, and said:
“Go away, sir, really. . .
Konstantin Diomidych shook his finger at her and ordered
her to bring him some cornflowers.
"What d'you want cornflowers for? You going to weave
garlands, hey?" the girl retorted. "Now, go away, really. . ."
"Listen, my pretty little beauty," Konstantin Diomidych
started to say.
"Now go away," the girl interrupted him. "Here come the
young masters."
Konstantin Diomidych looked around. Indeed, Vania and
Petia, Daria Mikhailovna's sons, were running along the road;
behind them came their teacher, Basistov, a young man of
twenty-two who had just finished at the university. Basistov
was a tall fellow, with a plain face, a big nose, thick lips, and
little piglike eyes: an unattractive and awkward person, but
good, honest, and straightforward. He dressed carelessly, did
not cut his hair-not from foppishness, but from laziness; he
liked to eat a bit, liked to sleep a bit, but also liked a good
book, a heated discussion, and with all his heart and soul
hated Pandalevski.
Daria Mikhailovna's children adored Basistov and were not
at all afraid of him; he was on intimate terms with everyone
else in the house, which did not very much please the mistress,
no matter how much she insisted that prejudice did not even
exist for her.
"Hello, my darlings!" Konstantin Diomidych began; "how
early you went out for a walk today! But I," he added, turn-
ing to Basistov, "went out long ago; my passion is to enjoy
nature."
"We saw how you enjoy nature," Basistov muttered.
"You're a materialist: God knows now what you're thinking.
I know you!"
Pandalevski, when speaking to Basistov or people in his
position, became slightly irritated and pronounced the letter
's” neatly, even with a little whistle.
un
RUDIN
59
"Why, now, you were probably asking that girl the way?"
Basistov said, looking to right and left. He felt that Panda-
levski was staring straight at him, and that was extremely
unpleasant to him.
"I repeat, you're a materialist and nothing else. You abso-
lutely insist on seeing only the prosaic side of everything."
"Children!" Basistov suddenly ordered, "you see the wil-
low in the meadow; let's see who gets there fastest. . . . One!
two! three!"
And the children ran off as fast as they could toward the
willow. Basistov rushed after them.
"Peasant!" Pandalevski thought; "he'll ruin those children.
... A complete peasant!"
And having glanced over his own tidy and elegant figure
with self-satisfaction, Konstantin Diomidych slapped the
sleeve of his frock coat two or three times with his outspread
fingers, shook his collar, and went on. Once back in his room,
he put on his old dressing gown and with a preoccupied
expression sat down at the piano.
II
Daria Mikhailovna Lasunskaia's house was considered prac-
tically the most important in the whole province of Huge,
made of stone, and built according to designs by Rastrelli in
the style of the previous century, it rose majestically on the
crest of a hill past whose foot flowed one of the main rivers
of central Russia. Daria Mikhailovna herself was a rich and
noble lady, the widow of a Privy Councillor. Although Panda-
levski used to say about her that she knew Europe and Europe
knew her, in actual fact Europe knew her but slightly. She
did not play an important role even in Petersburg; in Moscow,
on the other hand, everybody knew her and called on her.
She belonged to high society and had the reputation of being
a somewhat odd, not really good-hearted, but extraordinarily
clever woman. In her youth she had been very good-looking.
Poets used to write her poems, young men fell in love with
her, important gentlemen trailed after her. But some twenty-
five or thirty years had passed since then, and not a trace
remained of those former charms. "Really," everyone who
saw her now for the first time involuntarily asked himself,
"really was this skinny, sallow, sharp-nosed woman-not yet
old-once a beauty? Really, is she the same one for whom
the lyres thrummed?" And everyone was inwardly astounded
Ti
1
60
IVAN TURGENEV
at the changeability of all earthly things. To be sure, Panda-
levski found that Daria Mikhailovna still had, surprisingly,
kept her splendid eyes; but, after all, it was Pandalevski who
asserted that all Europe knew her.
Every summer Daria Mikhailovna went to her country
place with her children (she had three: a daughter Natalia,
seventeen, and two sons, ten and nine) and kept open house,
that is, entertained men, especially bachelors; she could not
stand the provincial ladies. But, on the other hand, what she
then had to take from those ladies! Daria Mikhailovna, accord-
ing to them, was both proud and immoral, and a terrible
tyrant; but the chief thing was that she took such liberties
in conversation it was really dreadful! Actually, Daria Mikhai-
lovna did not like to keep herself in check in the country, and
a slight overtone of the scorn of a lioness of the capital for
the rather drab and petty creatures around her was noticeable
in the easy simplicity of her behavior. .. With her city
friends, too, she behaved very casually, even mockingly, but
there was no suggestion of scorn.
•
Incidentally, reader: have you noticed that a man, un-
usually distraught in a group of subordinates, is never dis-
traught with superiors? Why should this be so? Questions like
this, however, do not lead anywhere.
When Konstantin Diomidych, having finally learned the
Thalberg étude by heart, went down to the living room from
his neat and cheerful room, he found the whole household
already gathered. The salon had begun. The hostess, her legs
tucked under her and her hands twisting a new French
pamphlet, had settled comfortably on the sofa; on either side
of the window, lace-frames in hands, sat Daria Mikhailovna's
daughter and Mlle Boncourt, the governess, a dry old maid
of about sixty with a bun of black hair under a parti-colored
little cap and cotton in her ears. Basistov had found a place
in the corner by the door and was reading a paper; Petia and
Vania were playing checkers beside him. And, leaning against
the stove, his hands behind his back, stood a short, dis-
heveled, grey-haired man with a swarthy face and furtive
little black eyes-a certain Afrikan Semionovich Pigasov.
A strange man was this gentleman Pigasov. Embittered
about everything and everybody-especially women-he criti-
cized things from morning till night, sometimes very pointedly,
sometimes quite stupidly, but always with relish. His petu-
lance reached childish extremes; his laughter, the sound of his
voice, his whole being seemed shot through with bile. Daria
RUDIN
61
Mikhailovna entertained Pigasov gladly: he amused her by
his sallies. Indeed, they were rather funny. Exaggerating
everything was his passion. For example: no matter what
catastrophe he would hear talked about-if he was told that
lightning had set fire to a village, or that water had burst
through the mill, or that a peasant had cut his hand off with
an axe-he would ask every time, with concentrated bitter-
ness: "And what's her name?"-that is, what is the name of
the woman who caused the catastrophe, because, according
to him, the cause of every catastrophe is a woman; you only
have to look into the matter thoroughly. Once he fell on his
knees before a lady virtually unknown to him, who kept
insisting that he help himself to something, and tearfully,
but with anger written all over his face, began imploring her
to spare him, that he was guilty of nothing towards her, and
never would be. Once a horse ran away with one of Daria
Mikhailovna's laundresses, threw her into a ditch, and almost
killed her. Since then, Pigasov called the horse only the
"good, good little pony" and found the very hill and the ditch
extraordinarily picturesque places.
Pigasov had not been lucky in life, and he had brought all
this absurdity on himself. He came of poor parents. His
father held various petty jobs, was barely literate, and did not
bother about his son's education; he fed, he clothed him—
and that was it. His mother spoiled him, but she soon died.
Pigasov educated himself, made his own way into the district
school, then into the high school, and learned languages:
French, German, and even Latin, and, having finished at this
school with an excellent record, set out for Dorpat, where
he struggled continually with poverty but held on through
the three-year course to the end. Pigasov's abilities were not
out of the ordinary; he was distinguished by patience and
perseverance; particularly strong in him was a feeling of
ambition, a desire to get into the best circles, not to lag be-
hind others, to spite Fate. He studied diligently and out of
ambition entered the University of Dorpat. Poverty made him
angry, and developed his powers of observation and cunning.
He expressed himself with originality; from boyhood on he
had acquired a special sort of caustic and irritating elo-
quence. His ideas did not rise above the general level; but he
spoke in such a way that he might seem not merely an
intelligent, but actually an extremely intelligent man.
Having received his bachelor's degree, Pigasov decided to
devote himself to scholarship: he knew that in any other
62
IVAN TURGENEV
field he could not possibly keep up with his friends (he
tried to choose them from the best circles and knew how to
play up to them, even flatter them, although grumbling all
the time). But for once, to put it simply, he did not have the
stuff. A man self-taught, but not out of love for learning,
Pigasov in fact knew much too little. He failed miserably in
a debate while another student who had been living in the
same room with him and whom he had constantly made fun
of, a man very limited, indeed, but who had received a sound
and solid education, triumphed completely. This failure drove
Pigasov wild: he threw all his books and notebooks in the
fire and took a job.
At first everything went rather well. He was a terrific
official: not very well organized, but on the other hand
extremely self-confident and glib. But he wanted to make
something of himself just as fast as he could, and he got
mixed up, stumbled, and had to retire. He spent three long
years alone on the estate he had acquired for himself and
then suddenly married a rich, semi-cultivated lady whom he
hooked on the line with his easy-going and derisive manner.
But Pigasov's disposition had become irritable and soured;
family life was a burden to him. His wife, after living with
him for several years, slipped off to Moscow and sold her
estate to some sly swindler, though Pigasov had just finished
building the manor house. Shaken to his foundations by this
last blow, Pigasov started a suit against his wife, but got
nothing from it. He was now living out his time all alone,
visiting neighbors-whom he cursed behind their backs and
even to their faces, and who received him with a sort of
tense semi-laughter, although he did not cause them any real
fear-and never picked up a book. He had about a hundred
serfs; his peasants were not badly off.
"Ah! Constantin!" Daria Mikhailovna said as soon as Panda-
levski came into the living room. "Alexandrine is coming?”
“Aleksandra Pavlovna asked me to thank you and to say she
considers it a great pleasure," Konstantin Diomidych replied,
bowing amiably all around and touching his perfectly combed
hair with a fat, white little hand with nails filed in triangles.
"And Volyntsev, too?"
"Yes, he, too."
“So now, Afrikan Semionych,” Daria Mikhailovna went on,
turning to Pigasov, "according to you, all young ladies are
unnatural?"
Ma**
RUDIN
63
Pigasov screwed up his mouth on one side and nervously
twitched his elbow.
"I say," he began in a patient voice-even in his moments
of greatest bitterness he spoke slowly and distinctly-"I say
that young ladies in general-I'm not speaking of present
company, of course—”
"But that doesn't stop you from thinking of them,” Daria
Mikhailovna interrupted.
"I'm not speaking of them," Pigasov repeated. "All young
ladies generally are unnatural to the highest degree-un-
natural in the expression of their feelings. Whether a young
lady is scared, for example, or delighted with something, or
saddened, she unfailingly first bends herself somehow grace-
fully like this" (Pigasov himself bent at the waist quite hide-
ously and stuck his arms out) "and then cries out: 'Ah!' or
starts laughing, or crying. Nevertheless I" (and here Pigasov
smiled self-satisfiedly) "once managed to obtain a true, genuine
expression of feeling from a remarkably unnatural young
lady!"
"In what way?”
Pigasov's eyes lit up.
"From behind, I hit her in the side with an aspen pole.
She screamed out, and I shouted at her: 'Bravo! Bravo!'
That was the voice of nature; that was a natural cry. . . . And
from now on you should always act like that!”
Everyone in the room laughed.
"What silly things you say, Afrikan Semionych!" Daria
Mikhailovna exclaimed. "How can I believe you started pok-
ing a girl in the side with a pole!"
"Really, with a pole, a huge pole, like the kind they use
in defense of fortresses."
“Mais, c'est une horreur ce que vous dîtes là, monsieur,'
Mlle Boncourt cried out, looking threateningliy at the guf-
fawing children.
"Oh, don't believe him,” Daria Mikhailovna said. “Don't
you know him?”
But the indignant French woman could not calm down for
quite a while and kept muttering to herself.
"You don't have to believe me," Pigasov continued in a
cold tone, "but I swear I told you the real truth. Who else
would know, if not me? After this, you probably won't be-
lieve either that our neighbor Chepuzova, Elena Antonovna
herself, mind you, herself told me how she killed her own
nephew?"
"
64
IVAN TURGENEV
"What won't you think up next!"
"Please, please! Listen and judge for yourselves. Mind you,
I'm not trying to slander her, I even like her-as much, that
is, as you can like a woman; there isn't a single book in her
whole house, besides the calendar, and she can't read except
out loud-she gets all in a sweat from the effort and after-
wards complains her eyes are popping out. In short, she's a
good woman, and she has maids. Why should I want to
slander her?”
"Well!" remarked Daria Mikhailovna. "Afrikan Semionych
has climbed on his hobbyhorse-he won't get off until night-
fall."
"My hobbyhorse.
But women have three of them,
which they never get off of-except when they're sleeping.'
"What three?”
"Reproach, remark, rebuke.”
"You know what, Afrikan Semionych," Daria Mikhailovna
began, "you're pointlessly embittered against women. Some
one of them, probably, did you—”
"Insulted me, you mean?" Pigasov interrupted.
Daria Mikhailovna was somewhat embarrassed: she re-
membered Pigasov's unhappy marriage, and merely nodded.
"Indeed, a woman did insult me," said Pigasov, "although
she was a fine person, very fine.”
"Who was it?”
"My mother," Pigasov said, lowering his voice.
"Your mother? How could she have insulted you?"
"Why, by having given birth to . . .”
Daria Mikhailovna frowned. "It seems to me," she said,
"our conversation is taking an unhappy turn. Constantin, play
us Thalberg's new étude. Maybe the music will tame Afrikan
Semionych. Orpheus, you know, tamed the wild animals."
Konstantin Diomidych sat down at the piano and played
the étude perfectly satisfactorily. At first Natalia Alekseevna
listened attentively, but then she picked up her work again.
“Merci, c'est charmant,” said Daria Mikhailovna. “I love
Thalberg. Il est si distingué. A penny for your thoughts,
Afrikan Semionych?”
"I'm thinking," Pigasov began slowly, "that there are three
categories of egoists: egoists who live for themselves and
give others room to live; egosists who live for themselves and
don't give others room to live; and finally egoists who don't
live for themselves and don't let others. Women, in general,
belong to the third category."
RUDIN
65
"How sweet! I'm only surprised, Afrikan Semionych, how
self-confident you are in your judgments; as if you could
never make a mistake."
"Who says so! I, too, make mistakes; a man, too, can make
a mistake. But do you know what the difference is between
one of our mistakes and a woman's? You don't know? It's this:
a man, for example, may say that two times two isn't four but
five, or three and a half; but a woman will say that two times
two is a wax candle.”
"I think I've heard you say that before. . . . But let me ask
you, what's the connection between your idea of the three
categories of egoists and the music you just heard?”
“None, and besides I wasn't listening to the music.'
"Well, 'you're incorrigible, dear, I see; let's drop it,'” pro-
tested Daria Mikhailovna, slightly twisting Griboedov's line.
"What do you like, if you don't like even music? Literature,
maybe?"
"I like literature, but not contemporary."
"Why?"
>>
"Because. Not long ago I was crossing the Oka on a ferry
with some landowner. The ferry put in at a steep place: the
carriages had to be dragged off by hand. The landowner had
a particularly heavy carriage. While the ferrymen were
straining away, hauling the carriage onto the shore, the land-
owner, standing on the ferry, was groaning so that you even
began to feel sorry for him. . . Here, I thought, is a new
application of the division of labor! That's the way con-
temporary literature is: others are hauling, doing things, but
it stands groaning."
Daria Mikhailovna smiled.
·
"And it's called a reproduction of contemporary life," the
indefatigable Pigasov continued, "an expression of profound
sympathy with social questions, and even somehow- Oh, I'm
fed up with all this high-flown talk!”
“But women, now, whom you're attacking so, why they, at
least, don't use high-flown talk."
Pigasov shrugged his shoulders. "They don't, because they
can't.'
>>
Daria Mikhailovna blushed slightly.
"You're beginning to be rude, Afrikan Semionych!" she
remarked with a forced smile.
The whole room fell silent.
"Where's this Zolotonosha?" one of the boys suddenly asked
Basistov.
66
IVAN TURGENEV
"In Poltava province, my little man," Pigasov chimed in,
"in the heart of the Ukraine. (He was very glad of the chance
to change the conversation.) "Here, we've been talking about
literature," he went on; "if I had some extra money, I'd be-
come a Ukrainian poet right away."
"What's gotten into you? A fine poet you'd be!" Daria
Mikhailovna objected. "Do you know Ukrainian?"
"Not a bit; besides, you don't need it.”
"How so?"
"Just like that, you don't need it. You just take a piece of
paper and write on top: 'Elegy'; then you start out: ‘Oi, you
fayte uv mine, my fayte!' or: "The little Cozek Nalivaiko's
sittin on the grayvel' and then: 'Under the mountain, under
the green mountain, oh wah, wah is may, oh, oh!' or some-
thing like that. And the matter's settled. Print and publish it.
A Ukrainian'll read it, prop his chin up on his hand, and
certainly start crying-such a sensitive soul he is!"
"For goodness' sake!" exclaimed Basistov. "What are you
talking about? That has nothing at all to do with it. I lived
in the Ukraine, I like it, and I know its language. ‘Oh wah,
wah is may' is complete nonsense."
"Maybe, but still the Ukrainian'll cry. You say: language-
Is there actually a Ukrainian language? Once I asked a
Ukrainian to translate the following, the first thing that came
into my head: 'Grammar is the art of reading and writing
correctly.' You know how he translated it? 'Cram her i sthart
o freedin gend writin gareckly.' Well, do you consider that
a language? A separate language? Why, sooner than agree
to that I'm ready to let my best friend be pounded up in a
mortar."
Basistov was about to protest.
"Leave him alone," said Daria Mikhailovna. "You know
you won't get anything from him except paradoxes."
Pigasov smiled caustically. A servant came in and an-
nounced the arrival of Aleksandra Pavlovna and her brother.
Daria Mikhailovna rose to meet her guests.
"Hello, Alexandrine!" she began, going up to her; "how
good of you to have come. Hello, Sergei Pavlych!"
Volyntsev shook Daria Mikhailovna's hand and went up to
Natalia Alekseevna.
"So now, this Baron, your new friend, is coming this eve-
ning?" Pigasov asked.
"Yes, he is."
•
•
RUDIN
67
"They say he's a great philosopher: he keeps throwing
Hegel around."
Daria Mikhailovna did not answer, but seated Aleksandra
Pavlovna on a couch and settled down beside her.
"Philosophy," Pigasov went on, "is the highest point of
view! It'll be the death of me-these highest points of view.
And what can you see, looking down? Surely, if you want to
buy a horse you're not going to start looking it over from a
fire tower!"
"This Baron wanted to bring you some article or other?”
Aleksandra Pavlovna asked.
"Yes," replied Daria Mikhailovna with exaggerated casual-
ness, "an article about the relation between commerce and
industry in Russia. But don't worry: we're not going to read
it now. I didn't invite you for that. Le baron est aussi aimable
que savant. And speaks Russian so well! C'est un vrai torrent
il vous entraîne."
"Speaks Russian so well," Pigasov muttered, "that he merits
praise in French."
"Keep growling, Afrikan Seminoych, keep growling. It goes
fine with your disheveled hair. . . . But, why hasn't he come?
You know what, messieurs et mesdames,” Daria Mikhailovna
added, having glanced around, "let's go into the garden. It's
still about an hour to dinner and the weather's perfect."
The whole group got up and went out into the garden.
Daria Mikhailovna's garden ran down right to the river.
There were many old linden alleys in it, golden dark and
fragrant with emerald openings at each end, and many per-
golas of acacia and lilac.
Volyntsev, along with Natalia and Mlle Boncourt, went
into the deepest part of the garden. Volyntsev walked beside
Natalia and kept silent. Mlle Boncourt followed a little way
behind.
"What have you been doing today?" Volyntsev finally asked,
tweaking the ends of his beautiful dark-blond moustache.
In his features, he looked very much like his sister, but in
his expression there was less playfulness and life, and his
eyes, lovely and tender, looked somehow sad.
"Oh, nothing," replied Natalia. "I listened to Pigasov argu-
ing, did some needle point, read."
"What did you read?"
“I read . . . a history of the Crusades," Natalia said with
a little hesitation.
Volyntsev glanced at her.
68
IVAN TURGENEV
"Ah!" he said at last, "that must be interesting."
He broke off a branch and began turning it in the air. They
went on some twenty paces farther.
"Who's this Baron your mother met?" Volyntsev asked
again.
“A kammer-junker, a newcomer; maman speaks very highly
of him."
"Your mother gets carried away."
"That just proves she's still very young in heart,” Natalia
remarked.
“Yes. . . . I'll send you your horse soon. She's almost com-
pletely schooled. I'd like her to break into a canter from a
standstill, and I'll get her to."
“Merci. . . . However, I'm a bit embarrassed. You're school-
ing her yourself. They say that's very hard. . . .”
“To give you the slightest pleasure, Natalia Alekseevna,
you know, I'm ready . . . I'm . . and not just such little
things..." Volyntsev became confused.
Natalia glanced at him amicably and said again: "Merci."
"You know," Sergei Pavlych continued after a long pause,
"that there's no such thing- But why do I say this! Of course,
you know it all.”
At this moment the bell in the house rang.
"Ah! la cloche du dîner!” Mlle Boncourt exclaimed. “Ren-
trons."
"Quel dommage," the old French woman thought to her-
self, making her way up the steps of the balcony behind
Volyntsev and Natalia, "quel dommage que ce charmant
garçon ait si peu de ressources dans la conversation,” which
may be translated: You are, my dear, a dear one, but you
won't quite do.
The Baron did not arrive for dinner. They waited for him
about half an hour. The conversation at table did not get
going. Sergei Pavlych only looked at Natalia, next to whom
he was sitting, and zealously kept filling her glass with water.
Pandalevski conscientiously tried to keep up a conversation
with his neighbor Aleksandra Pavlovna: he was bubbling over
with sweetness, but she was practically yawning.
Basistov was rolling little balls of bread and thinking of
nothing; even Pigasov was silent, and when Daria Mikhai-
lovna remarked to him that he had been very rude today, he
sullenly replied: "When have I ever been polite? It's not my
And, having smiled bitterly, added: “Wait a
"
concern.
RUDIN
69
bit. I'm just kvass, simple Russian kvass, but your kammer-
junker..."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Daria Mikhailovna. "Pigasov's jealous,
jealous beforehand!"
He did not answer her, but merely glowered at her.
It struck seven, and everyone gathered again in the living
room.
"It's clear he's not coming," said Daria Mikhailovna.
But just then the rumble of a carriage resounded as a
small tarantass drove into the courtyard, and after a few
moments a servant came into the living room and handed
Daria Mikhailovna a letter on a silver dish. She glanced
through it to the end and, turning to the servant, asked:
"But where's the gentleman who brought this letter?"
"In the carriage, ma'am. Shall I show him in, ma'am?”
"Yes, do."
The servant went out.
"Just imagine, what a shame!" Daria Mikhailovna went on.
"The Baron received instructions to return immediately to
Petersburg. He's sent me his article along with a certain Mr.
Rudin, his friend. The Baron wanted to introduce him to me
-he spoke very highly of him. Oh, how annoying! I'd hoped
the Baron would stay here a while-"
"Dmitri Nikolaevich Rudin,” the servant announced.
III
In came a man of about thirty-five, tall, a bit round-
shouldered, curly-headed, swarthy, with an irregular but ex-
pressive and intelligent face, with a liquid glitter in his quick,
dark blue eyes, with a straight, broad nose and finely out-
lined lips. His clothes were not new, and were tight, as if he
had outgrown them.
He deftly went up to Daria Mikhailovna and, having bowed
slightly, told her that he had long wished for the honor of
being introduced to her, and that his friend, the Baron, very
much regretted not having been able to say good-bye per-
sonally.
The thin sound of Rudin's voice did not go with his height
and his broad chest.
“Sit down . . . I'm very pleased,” said Daria Mikhailovna
and, having introduced him to the whole group, asked if he
was from the district or was just passing through.
"My estate is in T- province," Rudin answered, holding
(
70
IVAN TURGENEV
his hat in his lap. "I haven't been here long. I came on busi-
ness and have taken lodgings for the time being in your
district town."
>>
"Where?"
"At the doctor's. He's a very old friend of mine from the
university."
"Oh! At the doctor's. . . . People speak well of him. He
knows his business, they say. And you've known the Baron
long?"
"I met him in Moscow last winter, and I've spent about a
week at his house now."
"He's a very intelligent man, the Baron."
"Yes."
Daria Mikhailovna sniffed the little knot in her handker-
chief saturated with Eau de Cologne.
“Are you in the government?" she asked.
"Who? Me?"
"Yes."
"No... I'm retired."
A brief silence set in. Then the general conversation started
up again.
"May I be so inquisitive," began Pigasov, turning to Rudin,
"as to ask whether or not the contents of the article sent over
by the Baron are known to you?"
"They are."
"The article treats the relations of commerce-or no, I
mean, of industry to commerce in our fatherland. . . That,
I think, was the way you put it, Daria Mikhailovna?”
•
>>
"Yes, it takes that up
said Daria Mikhailovna, and
put her hand on her forehead.
•
“Of course, I'm a bad judge of these things," Pigasov went
on, “but I must admit that the very title of the article seems
to me extraordinarily-how can I put it more delicately?-
extraordinarily obscure and confused.'
>>
"Why does it seem like that to you?”
Pigasov smiled and glanced furtively at Daria Mikhailovna.
“Is it clear to you?” he said, again turning his foxlike face
toward Rudin.
"To me? Yes."
“Hm... Of course, you'd know better than I.”
“Do you have a headache?" Aleksandra Pavlovna asked
Daria Mikhailovna.
"No. It's just my . . . c'est nerveux.
"May I be so inquisitive," Pigasov started in again in a high
RUDIN
71
nasal voice, “does your friend, Baron Muffel-that's his name,
I think?"
"Exactly so."
or
"Does Baron Muffel specialize in political economy,
does he just spend some of his leisure, left over from his
secular pleasures and official duties, on this interesting
science?"
Rudin looked hard at Pigasov.
"The Baron is a dilettante in this business," he replied,
blushing slightly, "but there is much in his article that is
correct and interesting."
"Not knowing the article, I can't disagree with you.
But I might ask if your friend's work, Baron Muffel's work,
doesn't probably stick to general arguments rather than to
facts?"
"It has both facts and arguments based on facts.”
“Of course, of course. I must tell you, in my opinion—and,
given the opportunity, I can express my opinion: I spent
three years in Dorpat-all these, so to speak, general argu-
ments, hypotheses, now, these systems . excuse me, I'm a
country fellow, I blurt the truth right out aren't worth a
damn. It's all just philosophizing-just something to pull the
wool over people's eyes. Out with the facts, gentlemen, and
that's it."
• •
"Really!" Rudin objected. "But shouldn't you say what the
facts mean?"
"General arguments," Pigasov continued, "these general
arguments, surveys, conclusions, really kill me! It's all based
on so-called convictions; everybody talks about his convic-
tions, even demands that we respect them, makes a big fuss
over them.
Eh!" And Pigasov shook his fist in the air.
Pandalevski laughed.
"Splendid!" said Rudin. "And so, according to you, there
are no convictions?"
"No-they don't exist."
"That's your conviction?"
"Yes."
"How can you say there aren't any? There's one for you
right away."
Everyone in the room smiled and looked at each other.
"Please, please, after all," Pigasov began...
•
•
But Daria Mikhailovna clapped her hands and exclaimed:
"Bravo, bravo! Pigasov's crushed, crushed!" and gently took
Rudin's hat out of his hands.
72
IVAN TURGENEV
"Wait before you cheer, my lady! There'll be time!" said
Pigasov, annoyed. "It doesn't do to be witty with an air of
superiority; you have to prove, to disprove. . We've lost
"
the train of argument."
"Please," remarked Rudin coldly, "it's very simple. You see
no point in general arguments, you don't believe in con-
victions."
"I don't, I don't, I don't believe in anything."
"Fine. You're a skeptic.”
"I don't see the necessity of using so scholarly a word.
Besides-"
“Don't interrupt!" Daria Mikhailovna put in.
"Sick 'em, sick 'em, sick 'em!" Pandalevski said to himself
at this moment, and grinned all over.
"That word expresses my thought,” Rudin continued. “You
understand it: why not use it? You believe nothing. . . . Why,
then, do you believe facts?”
"What do you mean, why? That's a good onel Facts are
obvious; everybody knows what facts are. . . . I judge them
from experience, from my own feeling."
"But can't feeling deceive you? Feeling tells you that the
sun goes around the earth . . . or, maybe, you don't agree
with Copernicus? Don't you believe him either?"
A smile again flitted across everyone's face, and every-
body's eyes focussed on Rudin. "Now, he's no fool," every-
body was thinking.
"You keep on joking," Pigasov began again. "Of course,
this is very original, but it's not to the point."
"In what I've said so far," protested Rudin, "unfortunately,
there's only too little originality. It's all long been well known
and repeated a thousand times over. That's not the point."
"Then what is?" inquired Pigasov, somewhat insolently.
In an argument Pigasov would first banter with his opponent,
then become vulgar, and finally pout and fall silent.
"This," Rudin went on. "I admit I can't help feeling sin-
cerely sorry when in my presence intelligent people attack-"
"Systems?" Pigasov interrupted.
"Yes, if you want, even systems. Why does this word scare
you so much? Every system is based on the knowledge of
fundamental laws, on principles of life."
"But to recognize them, to discover them is impossible.
heavens!"
"Excuse me. They're not within everybody's reach, of
course, and a man's bound to make mistakes. However, you
RUDIN
73
probably will agree with me that Newton, for example, dis-
covered at least a few of these fundamental laws. He was a
genius, I admit, but the discoveries of geniuses are great
precisely because they become everybody's property. The
desire to uncover general principles in particular phenomena
is one of the basic characteristics of the human mind, and
our whole culture-"
"So that's where you're headed!" Pigasov broke in with a
drawl. "I'm a practical man, and I don't go in for all these
metaphysical subtleties, and don't want to.'
>>
"Excellent! As you wish. But note that your very desire to
be exclusively a practical man is already in its own way a
system, a theory-"
"Culture! you say," Pigasov cut in. "Look what you've
thought up to amaze us with! We really need it, this highly
touted culture! I wouldn't give a kopeck for your culture!"
"But how badly you argue, Afrikan Semionych!” Daria
Mikhailovna remarked, inwardly completely satisfied with the
composure and elegant civility of her new acquaintance.
"C'est un homme comme il faut," she thought, glancing at
Rudin's face with benevolent attention. "He must be treated
gently." These last words she thought to herself in Russian.
"I'm not going to defend culture," Rudin continued after
a brief silence. "It doesn't need my defense. You don't like
it-everyone has his own taste. And besides, it would take us
too far afield. Let me just remind you of the old saying:
'Jupiter, you're angry: it must be that you're to blame.' I
meant that all these attacks on systems, on general arguments,
and so on, are especially annoying precisely because people
deny, along with the systems, knowledge in general, science
and belief in it; accordingly, even faith in themselves, in their
own strength. And people need this faith: they can't live
merely by impressions; they're wrong to be afraid of thought
and not to trust it. Skepticism has always been marked by
futility and impotency-"
"Words, just words!" Pigasov muttered.
"Maybe. But let me point out that by saying, 'Words, just
words!' we ourselves often want to avoid having to say some-
thing more sensible than words alone.”
"What?" Pigasov asked, and squinted.
"You understood what I meant," Rudin retorted with in-
voluntary, but immediately restrained, impatience. “I repeat,
if a man has no firm principle in which he believes, no ground
on which he stands firm, how can he be aware of the needs,
¿
74
IVAN TURGENEV
of the meaning, of the future of his people? How can he
know what he himself must do, if—”
"You're most welcome here!" said Pigasov curtly, and he
bowed and went off to one side, without glancing at anyone.
Rudin looked at him, smiled slightly, and fell silent.
"Aha! He's taken flight!" said Daria Mikhailovna. "Don't
worry, Dmitri. ... I'm sorry," she added with a friendly smile,
"what's your patronymic?"
"Nikolaich.'
"Don't worry, dear Dmitri Nikolaich! He didn't fool any
of us. He wants to pretend that he doesn't want to discuss it
any more. He feels he can't argue with you. But why don't
you sit closer and we'll chat."
Rudin moved his chair over.
"How does it happen we never met before?" Daria Mikhai-
lovna continued. "It amazes me. Did you read this book?
C'est de Tocqueville, vous savez.”
And Daria Mikhailovna offered Rudin a French pamphlet.
Rudin took the slender volume, turned over several pages
in it, and, having put it back on the table, replied that in
fact he had not read this particular work by M. Tocqueville
but had often considered the issue discussed in it. The con-
versation began. Rudin at first seemed to vacillate, not to
dare say what he thought, did not find the words, but he
finally warmed up and started talking. Inside a quarter of an
hour his voice alone rang out through the room. Everybody
had crowded around him in a circle.
•
•
Only Pigasov stayed off by himself in the corner by the
fireplace. Rudin talked intelligently, passionately, to the
point; he displayed much knowledge, much erudition. No-
body had expected to find in him a remarkable person-he
was so plainly dressed, there had been so little talk about
him. It seemed strange and incomprehensible to everyone that
somehow, suddenly, such an intelligent man should have
shown up in the country. He, therefore, all the more amazed
and, one may say, enchanted everyone, beginning with Daria
Mikhailovna. She took great pride in her find, and thought
ahead about how she would introduce Rudin to society. Her
first impressions were in a way almost childish, despite her
age. Aleksandra Pavlovna, to tell the truth, understood little
of what Rudin said, but was much surprised and delighted;
her brother marveled at him, too. Pandalevski kept watching
Daria Mikhailovna and was envious; Pigasov thought, "I'll
give five hundred rubles-and get a still better nightingale!"
RUDIN
75
But Basistov and Natalia were more amazed than anyone.
Basistov nearly lost his breath; he sat with his mouth open
the whole time and his eyes popping-and listening, listening,
as he had never listened to anyone in his whole life; and
Natalia's face became bright red, and her eyes, fixed on Rudin,
both darkened and sparkled.
"What wonderful eyes he has!" Volyntsev whispered to her.
"Yes, fine."
"Only it's too bad his hands are big and red."
Natalia said nothing.
Tea was served. The conversation became more general;
but merely by the suddenness with which everybody fell
silent as soon as Rudin opened his mouth, one could judge
the strength of the impression he had made.
Daria Mikhailovna suddenly wanted to tease Pigasov. She
went over to him and said in a low voice, "Why aren't you
talking, but only smiling caustically? Try, do, to come to grips
with him again," and, without waiting for a response, beck-
oned Rudin over.
"There's still something you don't know about him," she
told him, pointing to Pigasov: "he's a terrible woman-hater,
always attacking them; please, set him on the true path."
Rudin looked at Pigasov-willy-nilly looked down at him,
for Rudin was two heads taller. Pigasov practically curled up
with spite, and his jaundiced face turned pale.
"Daria Mikhailovna is wrong," he began in a faltering
voice, “I don't attack just women: I've no great love for the
whole human race.'
"What could give you such a bad opinion of it?" asked
Rudin.
Pigasov looked him right in the eye. "Most likely the study
of my own self, in which every day I discover more and more
rottenness. I judge others by myself. Maybe this is unfair, and
I'm a lot worse than others, but what can I do? It's a habit!”
"I understand you and sympathize with you,” Rudin re-
sponded. "What noble person hasn't felt a craving for self-
disparagement? But that doesn't mean you have to remain in
such a hopeless condition."
"I'm humbly grateful for your handing my soul a certificate
of nobility,” replied Pigasov, "but my condition is all right,
not bad at all, so that even if there is a way out, who cares?
I'm not going to look for it.”
“But that means-if I may say so-preferring the satisfac-
76
IVAN TURGENEV
tion of one's own pride to the desire of being and living in
truth."
"Why, of course!" exclaimed Pigasov. "Pride-why, I under-
stand it, and you, I expect, understand it, and everyone
understands it: but truth-what's that? Where is it, this truth?”
"You're repeating yourself, I warn you," Daria Mikhailovna
commented.
Pigasov shrugged his shoulders.
"
"What's wrong with that? I ask you: where's truth? Even
philosophers don't know what it is. Kant says: there it is, now,
that's it; but Hegel says: no, you're wrong, this is what it is.'
"And do you know what Hegel says about it?" Rudin asked
without raising his voice.
"I repeat," continued Pigasov, all flushed, "I can't under-
stand what truth is. As I see it, it doesn't exist in the world
at all, that is, the word exists, but the thing itself doesn't."
"Fiel fie!" exclaimed Daria Mikhailovna. “Aren't you
ashamed to say this, you old sinner! There is no truth? Why,
then, keep on living in this world?"
"Why, I think, Daria Mikhailovna," Pigasov replied, an-
noyed, "it would be a lot easier for you, in any case, to live
without truth than without your cook Stepan, who's such a
master at making bouillon. What do you need truth for,
please tell me? You can't make a lace hat out of it!"
"A joke's no objection," Daria Mikhailovna remarked,
"especially when it turns into slander...
"J
"I don't know about real truth, but obviously home truths
don't go down well," Pigasov muttered and, still annoyed,
went off to one side.
Rudin started talking about pride and talked very sensibly.
He showed how a man without pride is nothing, how pride is
the Archimedes lever which can move the world; but how at
the same time only he is worthy of being called a man who
knows how to control his pride (as a rider his horse), and
who sacrifices his own individuality for the general good.
"Self-love," he concluded, "is suicide. The self-loving man
withers like a lonely, barren tree; but pride, as an active
desire for perfection, is the source of everything great. In-
deed, a man must break down the stubborn egoism of his own
self in order to give his personality the right of expressing
itself!"
Pigasov turned to Basistov. "Can't you lend me a little
pencil?"
RUDIN
77
Basistov did not immediately understand what Pigasov had
asked him.
"What do you want a pencil for?" he finally said.
"I want to write down that last phrase of Mr. Rudin's. If
you don't do it, you forget it, I'm afraid. And you've got to
agree such a phrase is just like a grand slam in whist."
"There are some things it's unforgivable to laugh at or
make fun of, Afrikan Semionych!" said Basistov heatedly,
and turned away from Pigasov.
Meanwhile, Rudin had gone over to Natalia. She rose; her
face showed embarrassment.
Volyntsev, who had been sitting beside her, also stood up.
"I notice there's a piano," Rudin began softly and gently,
like a wandering prince; "is it you who plays it?"
"Yes, I do,” Natalia said, "but not very well. Konstantin
Diomidych here plays a lot better than I."
Pandalevski thrust his face forward and smiled.
"You're wrong about that, Natalia Alekseevna; you don't
play a bit worse than I do.”
"Do you know Schubert's Erlkönig?” asked Rudin.
"He does, he does," Daria Mikhailovna chimed in. "Sit
down. Constantin. . . . And do you like music, Dmitri Niko-
laich?"
Rudin merely tilted his head slightly to one side and ran
his hand through his hair, as if getting ready to listen. Pan-
dalevski started playing.
Natalia stood beside the piano, directly opposite Rudin.
From the first note, his face became beautiful. His dark blue
eyes wandered slowly about, from time to time pausing on
Natalia. Pandalevski finished playing.
Rudin said nothing, and went over to the open window. A
fragrant mist lay like a shroud over the garden; the trees
nearby breathed a drowsy freshness. The stars glowed peace-
fully. The summer night was both balmy and consoling.
Rudin looked out onto the dark garden-and turned around.
"This music and this night," he said, "remind me of my
student days in Germany: our gatherings, our serenades.
"You were in Germany?" Daria Mikhailovna asked.
"I spent a year in Heidelberg and about a year in Berlin."
"And dressed like a student? They say they dress somehow
specially there.”
“In Heidelberg, I used to wear big boots with spurs and
a Hungarian jacket with braid, and let my hair grow down
78
IVAN TURGENEV
to my shoulders. In Berlin, the students dress like everyone
else."
"Tell us something about your student experiences,” said
Aleksandra Pavlovna.
Rudin began telling about them. He did not speak entirely
successfully. His descriptions lacked color. He did not know
how to make people laugh. But he soon switched from stories
of his adventures abroad to general comments on the impor-
tance of education and science, on the universities and univer-
sity life in general. He sketched a vast picture in bold and
sweeping outlines. Everybody listened to him with rapt atten-
tion. He spoke skillfully, engagingly, not entirely clearly-but
the very vagueness lent his words a special charm.
A plethora of ideas prevented Rudin from expressing him-
self definitely and precisely. One set of images yielded to
another; simile followed simile, sometimes unexpectedly auda-
cious, sometimes amazingly apt. His impatient extemporizing
breathed not the self-satisfied refinement of the experienced
talker, but inspiration. He did not search for words: they
came to his lips themselves, obediently and freely, and his
every word seemed to pour forth straight from his heart, fired
with all the ardor of conviction. Rudin possessed what is
almost the greatest secret in speaking-the music of elo-
quence. By striking some strings of the heart, he knew how
to make all the others tremble and quiver. A listener, perhaps,
might not understand exactly what had been said, but he
would breathe deeply, a veil would part before his eyes, and
a distant radiance would blaze up ahead.
All Rudin's thoughts seemed focused on the future; this
gave them an air of impetuousness and youthfulness. Standing
by the window, looking at no one in particular, he kept on
talking, and, inspired by the general sympathy and attention,
by the closeness of young women, by the beauty of the night,
carried away by the torrent of his own feelings, he rose to
heights of eloquence, to poetry. The very sound of his voice,
concentrated and quiet, magnified the charm; it seemed his
lips themselves were saying something exalted, something
unexpected even to himself. Rudin was talking about what
gives permanent meaning to the transient life of man.
"I remember a certain Scandinavian legend," he con-
cluded. "The king is sitting with his warriors around the fire
in a dark and enormous barn. It's night, wintertime. Suddenly
a little bird flies in one open door and out the other. The king
comments that this bird is like man in the world: it flew in out
RUDIN
79
of the darkness and flew out into darkness again, and was in
the warmth and the light only a little while. 'O King,' the
oldest of the warriors objects, 'the little bird won't get lost
even in the dark, and will find its nest.' In the same way, our
life is brief and paltry; but everything great is done by men.
The consciousness of being an instrument of these supreme
powers must take the place of all man's other joys: in death
itself he'll find his life, his nest. . . ."
Rudin stopped and lowered his eyes with a smile of invol-
untary embarrassment.
"Vous êtes un poète,” said Daria Mikhailovna in a low
voice.
And everyone, to himself, agreed with her-everyone except
Pigasov. Without waiting for the end of Rudin's long speech,
he had quietly taken his hat and, on his way out, whispered
spitefully to Pandalevski, standing near the door: "No! I'm
off to see some fools!"
Nobody, incidentally, held him back or noticed his absence.
The servants brought supper in, and half an hour later
everybody had gone home. Daria Mikhailovna had prevailed
upon Rudin to spend the night. Aleksandra Pavlovna, on her
way home in the carriage with her brother, oh-ed and ah-ed
over Rudin several times and expressed astonishment at his
unusual intelligence. Volyntsev agreed with her, but observed
that he sometimes expressed himself a bit obscurely-"that is,
not completely intelligibly," he added, wishing probably to
make his own thought clear; but his face clouded over, and
his gaze, fixed on a corner of the carriage, seemed still sadder.
Pandalevski, getting ready for bed and taking off his silk-
embroidered suspenders, said aloud: "A very clever man!"
and suddenly, glancing sternly at his young valet, ordered him
out. Basistov did not sleep all night and did not undress; he
kept on writing a letter to one of his friends in Moscow until
dawn. And Natalia, although she undressed and got into bed,
did not sleep either, and did not even shut her eyes. Propping
her head on her hand, she stared intently into the darkness;
her veins pulsed feverishly, and a heavy sigh frequently made
her chest rise and fall.
IV
The next morning Rudin had just managed to get dressed
when Daria Mikhailovna's man appeared with an invitation
to have tea with her in her study. Rudin found her alone.
80
IVAN TURGENEV
She greeted him very kindly, asked whether he had had a
comfortable night, herself poured him a cup of tea, even
asked if there was enough sugar, offered him a cigarette, and
again repeated a couple of times how surprised she was at
not having met him long before. Rudin was about to sit down
a little way off, but Daria Mikhailovna pointed to a small
armchair standing beside hers and, bending slightly toward
him, began asking him about his family, about his plans and
projects. Daria Mikhailovna spoke casually, listened absent-
mindedly, but Rudin well understood that she was playing
up to him, indeed, practically flattering him. She had not
arranged this morning rendezvous for no reason, nor for no
reason had dressed simply but elegantly à la madame
Récamier!
However, Daria Mikhailovna soon stopped questioning him:
she began to tell him about herself, about her youth, about
people she used to know. Rudin listened to all her profuse
talk sympathetically, although-oddly enough!-no matter
whom Daria Mikhailovna started talking about, she herself
always remained in the foreground, and the other person
somehow got obscured and disappeared. On the other hand,
Rudin found out in detail exactly what Daria Mikhailovna had
said to such-and-such a well-known dignitary, what influence
she had had on such-and-such a celebrated poet. Judging by
Daria Mikhailovna's stories, one might have thought that all
the outstanding people of the last quarter-century had
dreamed of nothing but how to meet her, how to win her
favor. She spoke of them simply, without special enthusiasm
and praise, as of her own family, calling some of them eccen-
trics. She spoke of them, and, like a rich setting around a
precious stone, their names lay in a brilliant border around the
most important name of all-Daria Mikhailovna. . . .
But Rudin kept listening, smoking his cigarette and not
talking, only once in a while inserting little comments into
the talk of the lady who was going on and on. He liked to talk
and knew how to; actually, conversation was not one of his
strong points, but he did know how to listen. Everyone whom
he did not intimidate at the outset, trustingly opened up in
his presence, so eagerly and approvingly did he follow the
thread of another's story. He was very good-natured-good-
natured in that special way people are who are used to
thinking of themselves as superior to others. In arguments,
he rarely let his opponent have his say, and crushed him with
his own headlong and passionate dialectics.
RUDIN
81
Daria Mikhailovna went on talking in Russian. She was
showing off her knowledge of her native language, although
Gallicisms, little French phrases, kept popping up quite fre-
quently. She intentionally used simple, popular turns of
phrase, but not always successfully. Rudin's ear was not
offended by the strange medley of words from Daria Mikhai-
lovna's lips, and, indeed, he hardly had an ear for it at all.
Finally, Daria Mikhailovna was worn out and, leaning her
head back on the cushion of the armchair, fixed her eyes on
Rudin and fell silent.
"Now I understand," Rudin began slowly, "I understand
why you come to the country every summer. The rest is essen-
tial for you; the country quiet, after life in the capital,
refreshes and strengthens you. I'm sure that you must feel
a profound sympathy with the beauties of nature.”
Daria Mikhailovna looked at Rudin with a sidelong glance.
“Nature—yes, yes, of course. I'm terribly fond of it, but do
you know, Dmitri Nikolaich, even in the country you need
people. And there's practically nobody here. Pigasov is the
cleverest man around.
>>
"The angry old man yesterday?” Rudin asked.
“Yes, him. . . . But in the country even he fits in-if only
to make us laugh once in a while."
"He's not a stupid man," Rudin protested, "but he's on
the wrong track. I don't know if you'll agree with me, Daria
Mikhailovna, but there's no blessing in negation-in complete
and universal negation. Negate everything, and you can
easily pass as a very clever man: that's a well-known trick.
Good-natured people are ready to conclude that you're above
what you negate. But that's often untrue. In the first place,
one can find blemishes in everything, and, secondly, even if
you are stating the facts, it makes it worse for you; your
mind, bent only on negating, becomes impoverished, dries up.
Satisfying your own pride, you lose the real joys of contem-
plation; life-the essence of life-slips away from your petty
and bitter observation, and you end up swearing and making
jokes for others. Only he who loves has the right to censure
and to criticize.”
“Voilà Monsieur Pigasoff enterré,” said Daria Mikhailovna.
"What an expert you are at characterizing someone! Pigasov,
however, probably wouldn't understand you. He loves only
his own person."
"And attacks it in order to have the right of attacking
others,” Rudin retorted.
82
IVAN TURGENEV
1
Daria Mikhailovna laughed. "He lays the fault-how does
it go?-he lays his own faults at other people's door. By the
way, what do you think of the Baron?"
"Of the Baron? He's a good man, with a kind heart, and
able, but he has no backbone, and he'll remain all his life half
intellectual, half man-about-town-that is, a dilettante, that is,
to put it in plain terms, nothing. . And that's a shame!"
"I've thought that myself," responded Daria Mikhailovna.
"I read his article. Entre nous-cela a assez peu de fond."
After a pause Rudin asked, "Who else is here?”
Daria Mikhailovna flicked the ashes off her cigarette with
her little finger.
"There's practically nobody else. Lipina, Aleksandra Pav-
lovna, whom you saw yesterday: she's very sweet-but that's
all. Her brother, too, is a fine man, un parfait honnête homme.
Prince Garin you know. And that's everybody. There are two
or three other neighbors, but they're nothing at all. Either
they're always posing-they have terrible pretensions-or
they're shy, or ineptly familiar. I don't see the ladies, as you
know. There's one other neighbor, a very well-educated, even
scholarly man, they say, but a terrible eccentric, a dreamer.
Alexandrine knows him and, I think, is not indifferent to him.
You ought to get acquainted with her, Dmitri Nikolaich: she's
a darling creature; she just needs to be developed a little, she
certainly needs to be developed!"
"I liked her very much," observed Rudin.
"A perfect child, Dmitri Nikolaich, a real child. She was
married, mais c'est tout comme If I were a man, I'd fall
in love only with women like that.”
•
"Really?"
“Absolutely. Women like that are at least fresh, and fresh-
ness can't be assumed."
"But everything else can?" Rudin asked and laughed, which
he very rarely did. When he laughed, his face took on an
odd, almost senile expression, his eyes squinted, his nose
wrinkled up.
"And who is that, as you put it, eccentric, to whom
Madame Lipina isn't indifferent?" he asked.
"A certain Lezhniov, Mikhailo Mikhailych, a landowner
here."
Rudin raised his head. He was dumbfounded.
"Lezhniov, Mikhailo Mikhailych?" he said. "Is he really
your neighbor?"
"Yes. You know him?”
RUDIN
83
Rudin paused.
"I used to know him . . . long ago. He's a rich man, I
think, isn't he?" he added, pinching the fringe of the arm-
chair with his hand.
"Yes, rich, though he dresses terribly and goes around in a
racing sulky, like a bailiff. I tried to get him to come over;
they say he's intelligent; I have a little business to settle with
him. . . . For, you know, I take care of my estate myself.”
Rudin tilted his head to one side.
"Yes, myself," Daria Mikhailovna continued. "I don't try
to set up any foreign foolishness; I stick to my own way, the
Russian way. And things go, as you see, rather well,” she
added, making a wide circle with her hand.
"I've always been convinced," Rudin politely observed, “of
the complete unjustness of those who deny that women are
practical.”
Daria Mikhailovna smiled pleasantly.
"You're very tolerant," she said, "but what was it I wanted
to say? What were we talking about? Oh, yes! Lezhniov. He
and I have a boundary problem to settle. I've asked him over
several times, and in fact I expect him today, but, God knows
what he's up to; he never comes. . . . Such an eccentric!"
The curtain in front of the door quietly parted and the
butler came in, a tall man, grey-haired and balding, in a
black tail coat, white tie, and white vest.
"What is it?" Daria Mikhailovna asked and, slightly turn-
ing toward Rudin, added in a low voice, "N'est-ce pas, comme
il ressemble à Canning?"
"Mikhailo Mikhailych Lezhniov has arrived," the butler
announced. “Shall I show him in?”
"Ah, my Lord!" exclaimed Daria Mikhailovna. “Speak of
the devil. Yes, do!"
The butler went out.
“What an eccentric! He's come at last, and just at the
wrong time: he's interrupted our conversation.”
Rudin got up, but Daria Mikhailovna stopped him.
"Where are you going? We can talk in front of you. And I
want you to characterize him, too, just like Pigasov. When
you talk, vous gravez comme avec un burin. Stay."
Rudin was about to say something, but changed his mind
and remained.
Mikhailo Mikhailych, already known to the reader, entered
the study. He had on that same grey coat, and in his sun-
84
IVAN TURGENEV
burned hands he held that same old cap. He calmly bowed
to Daria Mikhailovna and went up to the tea table.
"At last you've come calling on us, Monsieur Lezhniov!”
Daria Mikhailovna said. "Please sit down. You know each
other, I've heard," she continued, pointing to Rudin.
Lezhniov glanced at Rudin and smiled rather strangely.
"I know Mr. Rudin,” he said with a little bow.
"We were at the university together," Rudin remarked in
a low voice, and lowered his eyes.
"We met afterwards, too," Lezhniov said coldly.
Daria Mikhailovna looked at them both with some amaze-
ment and asked Lezhniov to sit down.
"You wanted to see me," he began after he was seated,
"about boundary markers?"
"Yes, about the boundary markers, but I wanted to see you
anyway. Why, we're next-door neighbors and practically
relatives."
"Much obliged to you,” replied Lezhniov. "As far as the
boundary markers are concerned, your manager and I have
settled the matter completely: I agreed to all his suggestions."
"I know that."
"Only he told me that the papers couldn't be signed with-
out seeing you personally.”
"Yes, that's the way I have things arranged. By the way,
may I ask you: all your serfs are on quit-rent,* I think, aren't
they?"
"Exactly so."
“And you take care of the boundaries yourself? That's
commendable."
Lezhniov made no comment on that. "So I've come to see
you personally,” he said.
Daria Mikhailovna smiled.
"I see you have. You say that in such a tone . . . You
probably didn't very much want to come.'
"
"I go nowhere," Lezhniov objected phlegmatically.
"Nowhere? But you go to see Aleksandra Pavlovna?”
"Her brother and I are old friends."
But,
"Her brother! However, I don't force anybody
excuse me, Mikhailo Mikhailych, I'm years older than you
and can point some things out to you: what makes you want
to live like such a lone wolf? Or is it just my house you don't
like? Or you don't like me?”
* Payment of rent in kind, as opposed to corvée-barshchina-payment of
rent in labor.
RUDIN
85
"I don't know you, Daria Mikhailovna, and therefore I
can't dislike you. Your house is splendid, but, I'll tell you
frankly, I don't like to be embarrassed. I don't even have a
proper tail coat, or gloves; and besides, I don't belong to your
>>
set.
"By birth, by education, you do, Mikhailo Mikhailych!
Vous êtes des nôtres.'
>>
"Birth and education aside, Daria Mikhailovna! That's not
the issue....
"A person must live with people, Mikhailo Mikhailych!
Why sit like Diogenes in a barrel?"
"In the first place, he lived there very well; and, secondly,
how do you know I don't live with people?"
>>
Daria Mikhailovna bit her lips.
"That's quite different! I can only regret that I haven't
merited being included among the people you see.”
"Monsieur Lezhniov," Rudin cut in, "I think, is exaggerat-
ing a completely praiseworthy feeling-love of freedom."
Lezhniov said nothing, and only glanced at Rudin. A brief
silence followed.
"So, ma'am," Lezhniov began, getting up, "I can consider
our business finished and tell your manager to send me the
papers?"
“Yes . . . although, I must say, you're so impolite
really ought to refuse you.'
"
"But this fixing of the boundaries is really much more to
your advantage than to mine.'
>>
Daria Mikhailovna shrugged her shoulders.
"You don't even want to have a bite to eat in my house?”
she asked.
“Thank you, no: I never eat in the morning, and besides,
I'm in a hurry to get home.”
Daria Mikhailovna got up. "I won't keep you,” she said,
going over to the window. "I don't dare keep you.'
Lezhniov started to say good-bye.
"Good-bye, Monsieur Lezhniov! I'm sorry I bothered you."
"Not at all-heavens!" returned Lezhniov, and went out.
"What do you make of him?" Daria Mikhailovna asked
Rudin. "I'd heard about him, that he was eccentric, but this
is going too far!”
"He's suffering from the same disease as Pigasov,” said
Rudin: "the desire to be original. One plays Mephistopheles;
the other, a cynic. There's a lot of egoism in it, a lot of pride
and very little truth, very little love. You see, this, too, is
86
IVAN TURGENEV
in its own way calculated: a man has put on the mask of
indifference and sloth, saying to himself, perhaps someone
will think: 'Just look at that man, how much talent he's
wasted!' But you take a closer look-and he has no talent
at all."
"Et de deux!" said Daria Mikhailovna. "You're a terror at
characterization. No one can hide from you.'
"
“You think so?" said Rudin. "However," he continued,
"actually, I oughtn't to talk about Lezhniov: I like him, liked
him as a friend-but later, as a result of various misunder-
standings..."
"You quarreled?"
"No. But we parted, and parted, I think, for good."
"That's it; I noticed you somehow weren't yourself all the
while he was here. However, I'm deeply grateful to you for
this morning. I spent the time extarordinarily pleasantly. But
enough is enough. I excuse you until lunch, and I'll go see
to some things myself. My secretary, you've seen him-Con-
stantin, c'est lui qui est mon secrétaire-is probably already
waiting for me. I recommend him to you: he's a fine, con-
scientious young man, and is in absolute ecstasy over you.
Good-bye, cher Dmitri Nikolaich! How grateful I am to the
Baron for introducing you to me!"
And Daria Mikhailovna held her hand out to Rudin. He
first shook it, then raised it to his lips. He went out into the
reception room, and from the reception room onto the terrace.
On the terrace he met Natalia.
V
Daria Mikhailovna's daughter, Natalia Alekseevna, might
not at first sight seem to be likeable. She had not yet man-
aged to develop; she was skinny, dark, and somewhat round-
shouldered. But the features of her face were beautiful and
regular, although too big for a seventeen-year-old girl. Her
pure and even forehead was especially fine above her thin
eyebrows which seemed to break in the middle. She spoke
little, looked and listened attentively, almost intensely-as if
she wanted to make everything add up for herself. She
would often remain motionless, drop her hands, and grow
thoughtful; then the inner workings of her mind would show
on her face. A barely noticeable smile would suddenly appear
on her lips and vanish; her large, dark eyes would look up
softly. "Qu'avez-vous?" Mlle Boncourt would ask, and begin
RUDIN
87
scolding her, saying that it was unbecoming for a young girl
to think so deeply and to assume an absent-minded expres-
sion. But Natalia was not absent-minded; on the contrary,
she studied diligently, read and worked eagerly. She felt
things deeply and strongly, but secretly; even in childhood
she had rarely cried, and now she even sighed rarely, and
merely grew slightly pale when something annoyed her. Her
mother considered her a well-behaved, sensible girl, called her
jokingly mon honnête homme de fille, but did not think very
highly of her intellectual abilities. "Fortunately, my Natasha's
cold,” she used to say, “not like me. . . . So much the better.
She'll be happy." Daria Mikhailovna was wrong. However,
it's a rare mother who understands her own daughter.
Natalia loved Daria Mikhailovna, but did not fully trust
her.
"There's no point in your hiding things from me,” Daria
Mikhailovna told her once, “or else you'd be trying to: after
all, you're secretive. . . .”
Natalia looked straight at her mother and thought: “Why
shouldn't I be?”
When Rudin met her on the terrace, she was going to her
room with Mlle Boncourt to put on a hat and go out into the
garden. Her morning studying was already done. Natalia had
ceased being treated like a little girl. Mlle Boncourt no longer
gave her lessons in mythology and geography; but every
morning Natalia had to read history books, books of travel,
and other edifying works in her presence. Daria Mikhailovna
selected them, supposedly according to her own special sys-
tem. In fact, she simply passed on to Natalia everything a
French bookseller sent her from Petersburg, excepting, of
course, the novels of Dumas-fils and Co. Daria Mikhailovna
read these novels herself. Mlle Boncourt peered through her
glasses especially sternly and sourly when Natalia was reading
history books: according to the old Frenchwoman's concepts,
all history was filled with improper things-although of all the
great men of antiquity, she herself, for some reason, knew
only Cambyses and, of the most recent period, Louis XIV and
Napoleon, whom she could not stand. But Natalia also read
books whose existence Mlle Boncourt had no idea of: she
knew all of Pushkin by heart. . . .
Natalia blushed slightly on meeting Rudin.
"You're going for a walk?" he asked.
"Yes. We're going into the garden.”
"May I join you?”
88
IVAN TURGENEV
Natalia glanced at Mlle Boncourt.
"Mais certainement, monsieur, avec plaisir," the old maid
said hurriedly.
Rudin picked up his hat and set off with them.
At first Natalia felt awkward walking beside Rudin, along
the same path; after a while she became more at ease. He
began asking her about her studies, and how she liked the
country. She answered not without shyness but without that
hasty bashfulness which is often affected, and taken as shy-
ness. Her heart was pounding.
"You're not bored in the country?" Rudin asked, glancing
quickly sidelong at her whole figure.
"How could one be? I'm very glad we're here. I'm very
happy here."
•
"You're happy. . . That's a big word. However, it's
understandable: you're young."
Rudin said this last word rather strangely: either he envied
Natalia, or he felt sorry for her.
"Yes! Youth!" he added. "The whole aim of science is
consciously to attain what comes to youth gratis."
Natalia looked at Rudin intently: she did not understand
him.
"I was talking to your mother all morning," he went on;
“she's a remarkable woman. I understand why all our poets
valued her friendship. And do you like poetry?” he added,
after a brief pause.
"He's quizzing me," thought Natalia, and said: "Yes, very
much."
"Poetry is the language of the gods. Myself, I love verse.
But poetry's not just in verse: everything's filled with it, it's
all around us. .. Look at these trees, at this sky-beauty
and life are in the air everywhere; and where there's beauty
and life, there's poetry too.
"Let's sit down here, on this bench,” he continued. “That's
it. Somehow I think that when you've got used to me a bit"
(and he looked straight at her with a smile) "we'll be friends.
What do you think?”
•
"He treats me like a little girl,” Natalia thought again and,
not knowing what to say, asked him if he planned to stay in
the country long.
“All summer, fall, and maybe winter, too. I'm not at all
rich, you know; my affairs are in complete disorder, and
besides, I'm tired of wandering about from one place to
another. It's time I took it easy."
RUDIN
89
Natalia was amazed.
"Do you really think it's time for you to take it easy?” she
asked timidly.
Rudin turned his head to Natalia. "What do you mean by
that?”
“I mean,” she replied with some embarrassment, “that
others can take it easy, but you you must work, must try
to be useful. Who, if not you—”
"Thank you for the compliment,” Rudin interrupted her.
"To be useful-that's easily said." (He passed his hand across
his face.) "To be useful!” he repeated. “Even if I had a firm
conviction how I could be useful, even if I believed in my
own strength, where could I find sincere, sympathetic re-
sponse?"
And Rudin waved his hand so hopelessly and lowered his
head so sadly that Natalia involuntarily asked herself: Really,
were they his enthusiastic speeches, filled with hope, that she
had heard the evening before?
"But, no,” he added, suddenly shaking his leonine mane,
"that's absurd, and you're right. Thank you, Natalia Alek-
seevna, thank you sincerely." (Natalia had no idea what he
was thanking her for.) "Your one word has reminded me of
my duty, has shown me my way. Yes, I must act. I
mustn't bury my talent, if I have any; I mustn't waste my
strength on mere talk, on empty, useless talk, on just
words...."
>>
•
And his words gushed out. He spoke beautifully, passion-
ately, convincingly-about the ignominy of cowardice and
sloth, about the necessity of doing things. He heaped re-
proaches on himself, proved that to reason out ahead of time
what you want to do is just as harmful as sticking a pin into
a ripening piece of fruit-that it's only a useless waste of
energy and juice. He asserted that there is no noble idea
which finds no response; that only those are not understood
who either themselves don't know what they want, or aren't
worth being understood. He talked a long time, and ended
up by thanking Natalia Alekseevna once more and completely
unexpectedly squeezing her hand, saying: "You're a wonder-
ful, noble creature!"
This license astounded Mlle Boncourt who, despite her
forty years in Russia, understood Russian with difficulty and
was merely surprised by the beautiful rapidity and fluency of
Rudin's talk. In her eyes, however, he was something in the
nature of a virtuoso or an actor, and you couldn't expect such
90
IVAN TURGENEV
people, according to her lights, to observe all the rules of
decorum.
She got up and, impetuously adjusting her dress, informed
Natalia it was time to go back, all the more since Monsieur
Volinsoff (as she called Volyntsev) was planning to be there
for lunch.
"And there he is!" she added, having glanced down one
of the alleys leading from the house. And, indeed, Volyntsev
appeared not far away.
He came up hesitantly, bowed greetings to everyone from
a distance, and with a sickly expression on his face, turning to
Natalia, said, “Ah! you're out for a walk?”
"Yes," Natalia answered, “we're already on our way home."
"Oh!" said Volyntsev. "Well, let's go.
And they all went back toward the house.
"How is your sister?” Rudin asked Volyntsev in a particu-
larly kind tone. Last night, too, he had been very polite to
him.
"Thank you, fine. Today, maybe, she'll . . . I think you
were discussing something when I arrived?”
"Yes, Natalia Alekseevna and I were talking. She said
something to me which had a profound effect on me. . . .'
>>
Volyntsev did not ask what this was, and everyone returned
to Daria Mikhailovna's house in deep silence.
They gathered in the living room again before dinner.
Pigasov, however, did not come. Rudin was not in form; he
kept making Pandalevski play Beethoven. Volyntsev was silent
and stared at the floor. Natalia did not leave her mother, at
one moment lost in thought, at another setting to work.
Basistov did not take his eyes off Rudin, continually expecting
him to say something brilliant. Some three hours passed like
this rather monotonously. Aleksandra Pavlovna did not come
for dinner-and Volyntsev, as soon as they arose from the
table, immediately ordered his carriage and slipped away
without saying good-bye to anyone.
It was hard for him. He had long loved Natalia and always
kept meaning to propose to her. She felt kindly disposed
toward him—but her heart was calm: he saw that clearly. He
did not even hope to instil a more tender feeling in her, and
waited only for the moment when she would be completely
accustomed to him, would become close to him. What could
have upset him? What change had he noticed in these last
two days? Natalia treated him exactly as before....
RUDIN
91
Whether the idea had sunk into his mind that perhaps he
didn't understand Natalia's ways at all, that she was more
alien to him than he had thought-whether he had become
jealous, whether he vaguely sensed something wrong-what-
ever it was, he was suffering, no matter how he tried to
persuade himself.
When he went in to see his sister, Lezhniov was there with
her.
"Why are you back so soon?" Aleksandra Pavlovna asked.
"Because I got bored."
"Rudin's there?"
"He is."
Volyntsev threw down his cap and sat down.
Aleksandra Pavlovna turned to him excitedly.
"Please, Seriozha, help me convince this stubborn man”
(she pointed to Lezhniov) "that Rudin is unusually intelligent
and eloquent."
Volyntsev mumbled something.
"But I don't disagree with you at all," began Lezhniov.
"I don't doubt Mr. Rudin's intelligence and eloquence; I was
only saying that I don't like him."
"And have you ever seen him?" Volyntsev asked.
"I saw him this morning, at Daria Mikhailovna's. Why, he's
her Grand Vizier now. The time will come when she'll drop
him-it's the Pandalevskis she never drops-but now Rudin
is king. Of course I saw him! He's sitting there-and she
points me out to him: look, dear, she says, what eccentrics
we've got. I'm no stud-horse-I'm not used to being shown
off. I got up and took off."
“What, in fact, were you there for?"
“About boundaries. It's all stupid: she just wanted to stare
at my ugly face. A lady-you know!”
"His superiority offends you-that's what!" said Aleksandra
Pavlovna heatedly. "That is what you can't forgive him. But
I'm certain that, besides intelligence, he must have a won-
derful heart. "Just look at his eyes when he—”
(6
> >>
"Expatiates on lofty honor... Lezhniov chimed in.
"You're going to make me cross, and I'll start crying. I'm
really sorry I didn't go to Daria Mikhailovna's but stayed here
with you. You're not worth it. Enough of teasing me,” she
added in a miserable voice. "Instead, tell me about his
youth."
"About Rudin's?"
>
92
IVAN TURGENEV
"Why, certainly. You've already told me you know him
well, and have known him a long time."
Lezhniov got up and paced up and down.
A
"Yes," he began, "I know him well. You want me to tell
you about his youth? All right. He was born in T-
of poor
landowners. His father soon died. He was left alone with his
mother. She was an extremely kind woman and doted on him;
she lived on oatmeal and spent whatever money she had on
him. He got his education in Moscow, paid for at first by
some uncle, and later, when he grew up and became inde-
pendent, by some rich princeling he'd brown-nosed up to-
excuse me, I won't again-with whom he'd become close
friends. Then he entered the university. At the university I
got to know him well and became very close to him. Some-
time I'll tell you about our life and doings then. I can't now.
Afterwards, he went abroad. . . .'
>>
Lezhniov continued pacing the room; Aleksandra Pavlovna
followed him with her eyes.
"From abroad," he continued, "Rudin wrote his mother
amazingly seldom and visited her only once, for ten days....
The old woman died without him, in the hands of strangers,
but right to the last never took her eyes off his portrait. I used
to get see her when I lived in T. She was a good woman
and extremely hospitable; she always treated me, I remember,
to cherry jam. She loved her Mitia to distraction. The gentle-
man of the Pechorin* school will tell you that we always love
those who themselves are almost incapable of loving; but it
seems to me that all mothers love their children, especially
those who aren't around. Later I met Rudin abroad. There,
some lady had latched onto him, one of our Russians, some
blue-stocking, no longer so young or very good-looking, as
blue-stockings must be. He carried on with her for quite a
while and, finally, got rid of her . . . or, no, wait, I'm wrong:
she got rid of him. And then I got rid of him. That's it."
་
Lezhniov fell silent, passed his hand over his forehead and,
as if worn out, sank into an armchair.
"But you know what, Mikhailo Mikhailych," Aleksandra
Pavlovna began, "I see you're a wicked man: really, you're
no better than Pigasov. I'm sure that everything you said is
true, that you didn't make up a thing, and still, in what an
unfriendly light you presented it all! That poor old woman,
her devotion, her lonely death, that lady... What's it all for?
• The hero of Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time.
RUDIN
93
You know, you can paint the life of the very best man in
such colors-without adding anything, mind you-that any-
body would be horrified! Why, that's in its own way slander,
too!"
Lezhniov got up and again paced the floor.
"I didn't at all mean to horrify you, Aleksandra Pavlovna,"
he said finally. "I'm not a slanderer. Nevertheless," he added,
after a moment's reflection, "there really is a particle of truth
in what you've said. I didn't slander Rudin; but-who knows?
-maybe he's changed since then-maybe I'm unfair to him."
"Ah! you see. Now, promise me you'll renew your friendship
with him, you'll get to know him well, and only then tell me
your final opinion of him.”
"As you wish.
But why aren't you talking, Sergei
Pavlych?"
•
Volyntsev shuddered and raised his head, as if he'd been
waked up.
"What shall I say? I don't know him. Besides, I have a
headache today."
"You really are rather pale today, Aleksandra Pavlovna
commented. "Are you all right?”
"I have a headache," Volyntsev repeated, and went out.
Aleksandra Pavlovna and Lezhniov watched him leave and
exchanged glances, but said nothing. Neither for him nor for
her was there anything secret about what was going on in
Volyntsev's heart.
VI
More than two months went by. In all that time Rudin
hardly left Daria Mikhailovna's. She could not get on with-
out him. Telling him about herself, listening to his comments,
had become a necessity for her. Once he wanted to leave on
the pretext that he had run out of money; she gave him five
hundred rubles. He also borrowed a couple of hundred from
Volyntsev. Pigasov visited Daria Mikhailovna much less than
before: Rudin oppressed him by his presence. Not only
Pigasov, however, felt this pressure.
"I don't like this smart fellow," he would say. “He speaks
unnaturally, exactly like a character out of a Russian story;
he says, 'I,' and stops, deeply moved. 'I,' he says, 'I ...' And
he always uses such long words. You sneeze-and he imme-
diately starts showing you why you sneezed and didn't cough.
He praises you-as if he was promoting you. When he
94
IVAN TURGENEV
¡
starts upbraiding himself, grinding himself into the dirt-
well, you think, now he won't bother about this world any
more. Not at all! He even gets cheerful, as if he'd treated
himself to some strong vodka."
Pandalevski was chary of Rudin and played up to him
cautiously. Volyntsev was on strange terms with him. Rudin
called him a knight, extolled him to his face and behind his
back; but Volyntsev could not bring himself to like Rudin, and
every time Rudin, in his presence, started enumerating his
virtues, he felt a helpless impatience and annoyance. “Isn't he
making fun of me?" he would think, and his heart would stir
hostilely. Volyntsev tried to keep control of himself, but he
was jealous of him over Natalia. Indeed, Rudin himself,
although he always greeted Volyntsev enthusiastically, al-
though he called him a knight and borrowed money from
him, was hardly well disposed toward him. It would be hard
to define what, exactly, these two men felt when, amicably
pressing each other's hand hard, they looked each other in
the eye....
Basistov continued to revere Rudin and to be quick to
catch his every word. Rudin paid him little attention. Once
he spent a whole morning with him, discussed the most
important world issues and problems with him, and got him
very excited; but then he dropped him. Obviously, he only
said he was looking for pure and devoted response. Rudin
did not even get into a disagreement with Lezhniov, who
had begun coming to Daria Mikhailovna's, and seemed to be
avoiding him. Lezhniov, for his part, treated him coldly, but
did not express any final opinion of him, which much an-
noyed Aleksandra Pavlovna. She worshiped Rudin, but she
also trusted Lezhniov.
སདྷཱཏིདཾ
Everybody in Daria Mikhailovna's house gave in to Rudin's
whims: his slightest wishes were fulfilled. The order of the
day's activities depended on him. Not a single partie de
plaisir occurred without him. However, he was no great lover
of all sorts of sudden excursions and ventures, and took part
in them as grown-ups do in children's games, with affection-
ate and slightly bored good will. On the other hand, he en-
tered into everything: with Daria Mikhailovna he discussed
the running of the estate, the bringing-up of children, the
household, business matters in general; he listened to her
suggestions, was not troubled even by details, proposed
changes and innovations. Daria Mikhailovna was carried away
by them when she talked-but that was all. In the matter of
RUDIN
95
running things she stuck to the advice of her manager, an
elderly, one-eyed Ukrainian, a good-natured and crafty swin-
dler. "What's old is plump, what's young is lean,” he used to
say, smiling contentedly and winking his one eye.
Other than to Daria Mikhailovna, Rudin talked to no one
so often and so long as to Natalia. He gave her books se-
cretly, confided his plans to her, read her the first pages of
his projected articles and compositions. Their meaning often
remained incomprehensible to Natalia. Rudin, however,
seemed not to be very concerned that she understand him-
just so long as she listened to him. His closeness to Natalia
was not completely to Daria Mikhailovna's liking. "But," she
thought, "let her chat away with him in the country. She's
entertaining for him, like a little girl. There's no great harm,
and, anyway, she'll learn something. In Petersburg I'll change
all this...
>>
Daria Mikhailovna was wrong. Natalia was not chatting
away with Rudin like a little girl: she was trying to get to
the meaning of things; she was submitting her own ideas,
her own doubts, to his judgment; he was her tutor, her leader.
So far, only her head was stirred up . . . but a young head
is not long stirred up alone. What sweet moments Natalia
experienced when, in the garden, sitting on a little bench
in the light, frail shadow of an ash, Rudin would start reading
her Goethe's Faust, Hoffmann, or Bettina's Letters, or
Novalis, continually stopping and explaining what for her was
obscure! She spoke German badly, like almost all our young
ladies, but understood it well, whereas Rudin was completely
immersed in German poetry, in the German romantic and
philosophic world, and carried her along with him into those
forbidden lands. Mysterious, beautiful, they opened up before
her intent gaze; wonderful images, new, bright ideas poured
into her soul in ringing streams from the pages of the book
Rudin held in his hands, and the holy spark of ecstasy
quietly flashed up and took fire in her heart, stunned by the
noble joy of magnificent sensations.
“Tell me, Dmitri Nikolaich," she once began, sitting by the
window at her embroidery, "you're going to Petersburg for
the winter, aren't you?”
"I don't know," replied Rudin, letting the book he had
been leafing through fall in his lap; "if I can gather the funds,
I will."
He spoke spiritlessly: he felt tired and had done nothing
all morning.
}
96
IVAN TURGENEV
"I think you can't help but find them.”
Rudin shook his head. "That's what you think!" And he
glanced significantly to one side.
Natalia was about to say something, but checked herself.
"Look," began Rudin, with his hand pointed out the win-
dow, "do you see that apple tree? It was broken by the weight
and number of its own fruit. The true emblem of genius...
"It was broken because it had no support," Natalia re-
turned.
“I understand you, Natalia Alekseevna, but it's not so easy
for a man to find it, this support.”
"I think the sympathy of others
tude...
at any rate, soli-
>>
Natalia became a bit confused and blushed. "And what
will you do in the country in winter?" she quickly added.
"What will I do? I'll finish my big article-you know-
about the tragic in life and art-I told you the outline the day
before yesterday-and I'll send it to you."
"3
"And publish it?”
"No."
"Why not? Who will you be doing your work for, then?”
"I hope for you.”
Natalia looked down. "That's way beyond me, Dmitri
Nikolaich."
•
"What's the article about, if I may ask?" asked Basistov
unassumingly, sitting at a distance from them.
"About the tragic in life and art," Rudin repeated. “And
let Mr. Basistov read it, too. However, I haven't really come
to terms yet with the basic idea. So far I still haven't satisfac-
torily explained even to myself the tragic meaning of love.”
Rudin talked about love eagerly and often. At first, Mlle
Boncourt shuddered and pricked up her ears at the word
"love," like an old cavalry mount on hearing the bugle, but
afterwards she had grown used to it and only once in a while
pursed her lips and sporadically took snuff.
"It seems to me," Natalia observed shyly, "that the tragic
in love is unhappy love."
"Not at all!" Rudin objected. "That's rather the comic side
of love. . . . You have to put the question completely differ-
ently you have to dig deeper. . . . Love!" he went on,
“it's all a mystery: how it comes, grows, vanishes. Sometimes
it appears suddenly, unquestionable, joyful, like daylight;
sometimes it smoulders for a long time, like a fire under
ashes, and bursts through the soul like a flame when every-
•
RUDIN
97
thing is already in ruins; sometimes it crawls into the heart
like a snake; sometimes suddenly slips away from it. . . . Yes,
really, it's a crucial question. Besides, who loves nowadays,
who dares to love?" And Rudin became thoughtful.
"Why haven't we seen Sergei Pavlych in a long time?" he
asked suddenly.
Natalia blushed crimson and bent her head over her em-
broidery. "I don't know," she whispered.
“What a fine, noble man!" said Rudin, getting up. “He's
one of the best examples of the real Russian nobleman."
Mlle Boncourt looked at him askance with her little French
eyes.
Rudin walked back and forth across the room.
"Have you noticed," he started in, spinning around on his
heels, "that on an oak-and an oak's a strong tree-the old
leaves fall only when the new begin to push out?”
“Yes,” Natalia replied slowly, "I have."
"Exactly the same thing happens with an old love in a
strong heart; the love's already dead but it still hangs on; only
a different, new love can force it out."
Natalia said nothing.
"What does this mean?" she thought.
Rudin paused a moment, shook his hair, and went away.
Natalia went to her room. She sat on her bed for a long
time, puzzled, thinking about Rudin's last words, and sud-
denly clenched her hands together and started crying. Lord
knows what about! She did not know herself why the tears
had come so unexpectedly. She would wipe some away, but
others came running down afresh, like water out of a spring
that has long been filling up.
The same day there was a conversation about Rudin
between Aleksandra Pavlovna and Lezhniov. At first, he kept
refusing to talk, but she was determined to have her way.
"I see," she said to him, "that you still don't like Dmitri
Nikolaich. So far, I purposely haven't questioned you, but
now you've been able to find out for sure whether or not
there's been a change in him, and I'd like to know why you
don't like him.'
29
"As you like,” replied Lezhniov with his usual apathy, "if
you're so anxious; only, take care, don't be angry.
“Well, go ahead, go ahead.”
"And let me say everything."
“As you want, as you want, go ahead.”
··
98
IVAN TURGENEV
.......
+
1
¡
"So," Lezhniov began, slowly sitting down on the sofa, "I
must tell you that, really, I don't like Rudin. He's an intelli-
gent man-
>>
"I should think so!"
"He's a remarkably intelligent man, though, essentially,
empty-"
"That's easy to say!"
"Though, essentially, empty," Lezhniov repeated. "But that
doesn't matter: we're all empty. I don't even hold it against
him that he's a tyrant at heart, lazy, not very well-informed."
Aleksandra Pavlovna clapped her hand. "Not very well-
informed! Rudin!" she exclaimed.
"Not very well-informed," Lezhniov repeated in exactly the
same tone. “He likes to live at somebody else's expense, plays
a role, and so on. . . . That's all quite natural. But what's bad
is that he's as cold as ice-"
"He! That ardent soul, cold!" Aleksandra Pavlovna inter-
rupted.
"Yes, as cold as ice, and he knows it and pretends to be
ardent. What's bad," Lezhniov continued, gradually becom-
ing animated, "is that he's playing a dangerous game-not
dangerous for himself, of course; he himself doesn't bet a
kopeck; but everyone else bets his soul."
"Who are you talking about? I don't understand you,” said
Aleksandra Pavlovna.
"What's bad is that he's dishonest. After all, he's an intelli-
gent man: he must know what his words are worth-but he
says them as if they cost him something. There's no arguing
he's eloquent: only his eloquence isn't Russian. And, in the
end, to talk eloquently is all right for a young lad, but at his
age it's disgraceful to like the sound of your own voice, dis-
graceful to show off!"
"It seems to me, Mikhailo Mikhailych, the listener doesn't
care whether you're showing off or not-"
"Excuse me, Aleksandra Pavlovna, he does. One man will
tell me something and it'll go right through me; another will
say the very same thing, or something even better-and I
won't even lend an ear. Why is this?"
"That is, you don't lend an ear," Aleksandra Pavlovna said.
"No, I don't," Lezhniov returned, "though maybe I have
pretty big ears. The point is that Rudin's words stay just
words and never become action-and meanwhile these very
words can confuse, can ruin a young heart.”
RUDIN
99
"Now who, who are you talking about, Mikhailo Mik-
hailych?"
Lezhniov stopped short. "You want to know who I'm talk-
ing about?-Natalia Alekseevna.”
Aleksandra Pavlovna was put out for a moment, but then
she laughed.
"Heavens," she said, "what odd ideas you always have!
Natalia's still a child; and, after all, if there really were
something, do you really think Daria Mikhailovna .
"
•
"First of all, Daria Mikhailovna is an egoist and lives to
please herself; secondly, she's so sure of her own ability to
bring up children that it never occurs to her to worry about
them. Fie! how can she! One wave of her hand, one majestic
glance-and it's all gone, as if into thin air. That's what this
lady thinks who imagines herself a great patroness, a brilliant
woman, and God knows what all, but who in fact is no more
than an old society dame. And Natalia's no child: believe me,
she thinks harder and deeper than you or I. And so such an
honest, passionate, and ardent nature had to stumble on such
a fake, such a flirt! However, that's the way things go."
"A flirt! And you call him a flirt?"
"Certainly, him. . . . Why, you yourself, now, Aleksandra
Pavlovna, tell me-what is his role at Daria Mikhailovna's?
To be an idol, the oracle of the house, get mixed up in the
household arrangements, in the family gossip and squabbles-
is that really worthy of a man?"
Aleksandra Pavlovna looked straight at Lezhniov with
astonishment.
"I don't recognize you, Mikhailo Mikhailych," she said.
"You're blushing, you're excited. Really, there must be some-
thing behind all this. ...'
>>
"Well, indeed, there is! Just you tell a woman some business,
and she won't rest until she's thought up some petty, extra-
neous reason that made you talk the way you did and not
differently."
Alexsandra Pavlovna became cross.
"Bravo, Monsieur Lezhniov! You're beginning to persecute
women no less than Mr. Pigasov. But go ahead; no matter
how perspicacious you are, it's still hard for me to believe
that in so short a time you could have understood everyone
and everything. I think you're wrong. According to you,
Rudin is a sort of Tartuffe."
"That's the point, that he's not even a Tartuffe. The real
100
IVAN TURGENEV
Tartuffe at least knew what he was after, but this one, for all
his intelligence...
""
"What, what is he? Finish what you were saying, unfair,
nasty man!"
Lezhniov got up.
"Listen, Aleksandra Pavlovna," he began, “it's you who
are unfair, not I. You're annoyed with me for my harsh judg-
ment of Rudin: I have a right to talk harshly about him!
Perhaps I didn't buy this right for a good price! I know him
well: I lived with him for a long time. You remember, I
promised sometime to tell you about our life in Moscow.
Now is obviously the time to do that. But will you have the
patience to hear it all?”
"Go on, go on!”
"Well, as you like."
Lezhniov began to pace the room with slow steps, every
so often stopping and leaning forward.
"Maybe you know," he started, "but maybe you don't, that
I was orphaned early in life, and by the time I was seventeen
I had no older person over me. I lived in my aunt's house,
in Moscow, and did what I wanted. I was a rather shallow
and touchy lad; I liked to show off and brag. After entering
the university, I behaved like a schoolboy and soon got into
trouble. I won't bother you with that: it's not important.
I lied, and lied rather nastily. . . . I was caught in my lying,
exposed, and put to shame. . . . I lost control of myself and
cried like a child. This happened in a friend's apartment in
the presence of a number of my friends. Everyone started
laughing at me, everyone except one student, who, mind you,
had been more indignant with me than the rest, as long as I
had been obstinate and wouldn't confess my lying. Maybe he
felt sorry for me; anyway he took me by the arm and led me
off to his room."
""
"That was Rudin?" Aleksandra Pavlovna asked.
“No, that wasn't Rudin ... that was a man-he's dead
now-that was an unusual man. His name was Pokorski. It's
more than I can do to describe him in a few words, but once
you've started talking about him, you don't want to talk about
anyone else. He was a noble, pure soul, and I've never since
met such a mind. Pokorski lived in a little low room in the
attic of a little old wooden house. He was very poor and
somehow made ends meet by giving lessons. Sometimes he
hadn't even a cup of tea to offer a guest, and his only sofa
RUDIN
101
was so broken down it looked like a rowboat. But despite all
these discomforts, many people came to see him. Everyone
liked him; he attracted them to him. You won't believe how
enjoyable and encouraging it was to sit in his miserable little
room. I met Rudin there. At that time he'd already left his
little prince."
"What was so special about this Pokorski?” Aleksandra
Pavlovna asked.
"What shall I say? Poetry and truth-that's what drew
everyone to him. With a quick, broad mind, he was kind and
amusing, like a child. His bright laughter still rings in my
ears, and at the same time he
Burned like a midnight icon-lamp
Before the image of the good...
That's how a half-mad and terribly kind poet of our group
referred to him."
"And how did he talk?" Aleksandra Pavlovna asked.
"He talked well, when he was in the mood, but not sur-
prisingly. Even then Rudin was twenty times more eloquent
than he.'
>>
Lezhniov stopped and folded his arms.
"Pokorski and Rudin weren't alike. In Rudin there was
much more luster and bluster, more things to say, and,
probably, more enthusiasm. He seemed much more talented
than Pokorski, but actually he was a pauper compared to him.
Rudin could develop any idea superbly, could argue master-
fully; but his ideas didn't come from his own head: he took
them from others, especially from Pokorski. To look at,
Pokorski was mild and gentle, even weak-and loved women
to distraction, loved to have a wild time, and didn't let any-
one take advantage of him. Rudin seemed full of fire, daring,
life, but in his heart of hearts he was cold and almost timid,
as long as his pride wasn't wounded: then he could climb
walls.
"He used to try in every way he could to get the upper
hand over people, but he did it in the name of general
principles and ideas and, actually, had a powerful influence
on many people. To be sure, nobody liked him; only I, per-
haps, became fond of him. They bore his yoke. . . They
gave themselves to Pokorski willingly. Rudin, however, never
refused to discuss and argue anything with the first man he
met. He hadn't read very many books, but in any case more
than Pokorski, and more than we had; besides, he had a
•
102
IVAN TURGENEV
systematic mind, a vast memory, and, of course, that has an
affect on young people! Just give them summings-up, con-
clusions, even if false, so long as they're conclusions! A
completely scrupulous man won't do for that. Try to tell
young people that you can't give them the whole truth,
because you don't know it yourself-they won't even listen to
you. But you can't deceive them either. You yourself have
to believe, at least halfway, that you know the truth. Which
is why Rudin had such an influence on us. You see, I told
you just now that he had read a little, but he used to read
philosophic books, and the head on him was so put together
that he'd immediately pull all the generalizations possible out
of what he had read, get hold of the very root of the matter,
and then lay out in every direction bright, regular webs of
thought, open up perspectives in the mind.
"At that time our group consisted of boys-of half-educated
boys. Philosophy, art, science, life itself-all this was for us
just words, or maybe only concepts, tempting, beautiful, but
incoherent, disjointed. We weren't conscious of, we didn't
sense, any common bond among the concepts, any universal
law, although we vaguely talked about it, made every effort
to realize it. At first, listening to Rudin, we thought we'd
finally seized it, this common bond; that at last the curtain
had been lifted. Suppose he wasn't speaking his own mind-
what did that matter? A harmonious order was established in
everything we knew; everything that was incoherent suddenly
fitted together, formed a pattern, and rose up before us like
a building; everything shone brightly, there was spirit in
everything. Nothing was now meaningless, fortuitous; every-
thing manifested a rational necessity and beauty, had an
obvious, and at the same time, a mysterious, meaning; each
separate phenomenon of life resounded with one accord, and
we ourselves, with a kind of sacred awe, with a sweet quiver-
ing in our hearts, felt ourselves living vessels of eternal truth,
its implements, summoned to something great. . . . All this
doesn't seem ridiculous to you?”
"Not at all,” Aleksandra Pavlovna replied slowly. "Why do
you think that? I don't completely understand you, but it's
not ridiculous.”
"We've managed to become a bit wiser since then, of
course," Lezhniov continued. "All that may now seem just
part of childhood to us. But, I repeat, we were indebted to
Rudin then for an awful lot. Pokorski was incomparably above
him, no question about it; Pokorski breathed fire and strength
RUDIN
103
*
into us all, but he sometimes felt dull and wouldn't talk. He
was a nervous person, sickly; on the other hand, when he
spread his wings-God! where wouldn't he fly! Right to the
vault and azure of the heavens! But Rudin, that handsome
and noble boy, was filled with triviality; he even gossiped;
he had a passion for getting mixed up in everything, for
defining and explaining everything. His busybodiness never
disappeared-a politician's nature! I'm talking about him as I
knew him then. Unfortunately, however, he hasn't changed.
Nor, on the other hand, has he changed his beliefs-and he
is thirty-five years old! Not everyone can say that about
himself."
"Sit down," said Aleksandra Pavlovna; "why are you going
back and forth, like a pendulum?”
"I feel better this way," Lezhniov replied. "So, having
ended up in Pokorski's circle, let me tell you, Aleksandra
Pavlovna, I-I was completely transformed: I quieted down,
I asked questions, I studied, I became elated, I was filled
with awe-in short, it was as if I'd gone into a church. And,
in fact, as I remember our gatherings, why, really, there was
a lot of good in them, a lot that was even touching. Just
imagine: some five or six young men have met together,
a single tallow candle is burning, the worst possible tea is
being served, and old, old zweiback to go along with it.
But if only you saw all our faces; if only you listened to
what we were saying! There's ecstasy in each man's eyes,
and his cheeks are flaming and his heart's pounding, and
we're talking about God, about truth, about the future of
mankind, about poetry-sometimes we talk nonsense, and get
all excited over nothing; but who cares! . . . Pokorski's sitting
cross-legged, his pale cheek propped on his hand, and his
eyes are all lit up. Rudin is standing in the middle of the
room and is talking, talking wonderfully, the very image of
young Demosthenes by the roaring sea. The disheveled poet
Subbotin from time to time blurts out curt exclamations, as
if in a dream, a forty-year-old Bursche, son of a German
pastor, Scheller, famous among us as a deep thinker, thanks
to his eternal, unbroken silence, keeps silent in a sort of
special triumph; the gay Shchitov, the Aristophanes of our
group, is subdued and merely smiles; a couple of new boys
are listening with rapturous delight. . . .
"And the night flies by quietly and smoothly, as if on
wings. The morning has already begun turning grey, and we're
breaking up, deeply moved, gay, honest, sober (we didn't
104
IVAN TURGENEV
even have a drop of wine in those days), with a sort of
pleasant tiredness in our souls. . . . I can remember, you'd
go along empty streets, all stirred up inside, and you'd even
look at the stars somehow trustfully, as if they'd become
closer, and were more understandable. . . . Oh, what a
wonderful time it was then, and I can't believe that it
amounted to nothing! It wasn't wasted-wasn't wasted even
for those whom life vulgarized later on. . How many times
I've happened to run into such men, my old friends! You'd
think the man had become a beast completely, but you just
had to mention Pokorski's name to him-and all the remnants
of nobility started stirring in him, as if in a dirty, dark room
you had opened a forgotten little bottle of perfume. . . .”
·
Lezhniov stopped talking; his colorless face reddened.
"But why did you quarrel with Rudin?" Aleksandra Pav-
lovna asked, looking at Lezhniov in amazement.
"I didn't quarrel with him; I parted company with him
when I got to know him thoroughly. It happened when we
were abroad; but even in Moscow I might have fallen out
with him. Even there he'd already played a dirty trick on me.
"What?"
•
ވ
"This. I-how'll I put it? It's not becoming to me-but I've
always been very good at falling in love.”
"You?"
"Me. It's strange, isn't it? Nevertheless, it's so. Well, now,
I'd fallen in love then with a very sweet girl. . . . Why do
you look at me like that? I could tell you something about
myself much more amazing."
"What's that, may I ask?”
"Well, something like this. . . . In those Moscow days, I
used to go out on dates late at night . . . who with, would
you think? With a young linden at the far end of my garden.
I'd clasp its slender trunk and I'd feel as if I were embracing
all nature, and my heart would open up and be thrilled as
if all nature were actually pouring into it. That's what I was
like! Really! Maybe you think I didn't write poems? I did,
and even wrote a whole play in imitation of Manfred. The
characters included a ghost with blood on its chest, and not
its own blood, mind you, but the blood of mankind in general.
But I started telling about my love. I met a young
girl . . .
"And stopped going out on dates with the linden?" Alek-
sandra Pavlovna asked.
RUDIN
105
“I did. The girl was the kindest, nicest creature ever, with
cheerful, bright little eyes and a ringing little voice."
"You describe things well," Aleksandra Pavlovna remarked
with a smile.
"And you're a very harsh critic," returned Lezhniov. “Well,
this girl lived with her old father. . . . However, I won't go
into details. I'll just tell you that this girl was really the
kindest creature-she always used to pour you three-quarters
of a glass of tea when you'd asked for only a half! Two days
after my first meeting with her, I was already burning with
desire, and by the end of the week I couldn't hold back and
told Rudin everything. A young man in love can't get along
without talking about it, and I confessed everything to Rudin.
I was then completely under his influence; and this influence,
I'll say frankly, was beneficial in many ways. He was the
first person who didn't disdain me, who smoothed my rough
edges. I adored Pokorski passionately and felt a certain fear
before his purity of mind, but I was closer to Rudin.
"Having learned of my love, he went into an indescribable
ecstasy: congratulated me, embraced me, and immediately
started reasoning with me, explaining to me the whole impor-
tance of my new position. I swallowed it all. . . . Well, you
know, of course, how he can talk. What he said had an
extraordinary effect on me. I suddenly formed an amazing
respect for myself, adopted a serious manner, and stopped
laughing. I can remember I even started walking more care-
fully, as if in my chest there was some dish full of precious
liquid which I was afraid of spilling. I was very happy,
especially because someone was obviously very fond of me.
Rudin said he wanted to meet my beloved, and I myself
practically insisted on introducing him."
"Now I see, I see what happened," Aleksandra Pavlovna
interrupted. "Rudin took your girl away from you, and you
still can't forgive him. . . . I'll bet I'm right!”
"You'll lose the bet, Aleksandra Pavlovna: you're wrong.
Rudin didn't take my girl away, indeed, he didn't even want
to; but all the same he destroyed my happiness, although,
having thought about it objectively, I'm ready now to thank
him for it. But at the time I almost went mad. Rudin didn't
at all mean to hurt me-on the contrary! But on account of
his damned habit of pinning down with a word every move
in life, both his own and other people's, like a butterfly on
a pin, he started explaining our personalities to us both, our
relations, how we ought to behave; despotically forced us to
106
IVAN TURGENEV
account for our feelings and thoughts, praised us, reproached
us, and even started up a correspondence with us-imagine!
Well, he disconcerted us completely! I would hardly have
married my young lady then-there was still that much com-
mon sense in me-but at least we might have spent a few
months splendidly, like Paul and Virginia*; as it was, there
were misunderstandings, all sorts of tensions-in short, a lot
of nonsense. It ended up by Rudin, one fine morning, arguing
himself into the conviction that he, as a friend, had the most
sacred duty of informing her old father about everything-
and he did it."
"Really?" Aleksandra Pavlovna exclaimed.
"Yes; and, mind you, did it with my approval-that's what's
funny! I still remember what chaos was going on in my head:
everything was simply spinning around and shifting as if
inside a box-camera: white seemed black; black, white; false-
hood, truth; fantasy, duty. . . . Oh, even now I'm ashamed
when I think of it! Rudin-he wasn't dejected. . . . Why should
he be! He skimmed right along through all sorts of mis-
understandings and mix-ups, like a swallow over a pond."
"And so you and your young girl broke up?" Aleksandra
Pavlovna asked, naïvely tilting her head to one side and
raising her eyebrows.
"We did-and did it badly, outrageously, awkwardly, pub-
licly, indeed needlessly publicly. I myself cried, and she cried,
and God knows what all happened. Some kind of Gordian
knot had been tied tightly-and it had to be cut in the middle,
and that hurt! Everything in this world, however, turns out
for the best. She married a good man and is flourishing
now-"
"But admit you still can't forgive Rudin-” Aleksandra
Pavlovna broke in.
"It's not true!" Lezhniov cut her off. "I cried like a baby
when I saw him off abroad. To tell the truth, however, the
seed was already planted in my soul even then. And when
I later met him abroad . . . well, I'd grown a bit older by then
Rudin showed himself to me in his true colors.”
•
"What exactly did you discover in him?”
"Everything I've been telling you about for the last hour.
However, that's enough about him. Maybe everything will end
well. I only wanted to show you that if I judge him harshly,
it's not because I don't know him. As for Natalia Alekseevna,
* Central figures in Bernard de Saint-Pierre's novel, Paul et Virginie (1787),
"an innocent idyl of two children in the lap of nature in the ile de France.”
RUDIN
107
I won't waste words, but you keep your eye on your brother."
"My brother? But why?”
"Take a good look at him. Don't you really notice any-
thing?"
Aleksandra Pavlovna looked down. "You're right," she said;
indeed, my brother hasn't seemed himself for some time now.
But do you really think-"
"Quiet! I think he's coming in," said Lezhniov in a whisper.
"And Natalia's no child, believe me, although, unfortunately,
she's as inexperienced as a child. You'll see, that girl will
surprise us all."
"In what way?"
"Why, this way. . . . Do you know that it's just such girls
who drown themselves, who take poison, and so on? Don't
worry about her being so quiet; her passions are strong and
her character, too, oh, oh!"
"Why, I think you're plunging into poetry now. To such a
phlegmatic man as you, probably even I seem like a volcano.'
"Not a bit!" Lezhniov said with a smile. "And as for
character-thank God, you have no character at all.”
"What sort of added impudence is this?"
“This? This is the greatest compliment, for heaven's sake!”
Volyntsev came in, and looked suspiciously at Lezhniov
and at his sister. He had grown thin lately. They both started
talking to him, but he hardly smiled in response to their
jests, and looked, as Pigasov once said about him, like a for-
lorn rabbit. However, probably there has never yet been a
man in this world who, at least once in his life, has not looked
still worse. Volyntsev felt that Natalia was moving away from
him, and along with her, it seemed, the earth, too, was run-
ning away from under his feet.
VII
The next day was Sunday, and Natalia got up late. The day
before she had been very uncommunicative right up until
evening, had been secretly ashamed of her tears, and had
slept very badly. Sitting half-dressed at her baby-grand piano,
she sometimes picked out chords, barely audible so as not to
wake Mlle Boncourt, sometimes bent her forehead down to
the cold keys and remained motionless a long time. She kept
thinking, not about Rudin himself, but about some word he
had said, and lost herself completely in her thought. Now
and then Volyntsev came back in her memory. She knew he
108
IVAN TURGENEV
loved her. But right now her thought swerved from him....
She felt a strange emotion. In the morning she dressed
hurriedly, went downstairs and, having greeted her mother,
caught a free moment and went out into the garden by herself.
The day was hot, bright, radiant, despite intermittent
showers. Low, smoke-colored storm clouds drifted smoothly
across the clear sky without covering the sun, and from time
to time the heavy torrents of a sudden and momentary
downpour fell on the fields. The big shining drops showered
down like diamonds with a sort of dry, hard sound; the sun
played through their shimmering net. The grass, not long
before stirred by the wind, was still, thirstily drinking in the
moisture; the watered trees languidly quivered in all their
little leaves; the birds did not stop singing, and it was de-
lightful to hear their garrulous chirping in the fresh rumble
and murmur of the passing rain. The dusty roads seemed
covered with smoke, and became slightly mottled under the
sharp blows of the frequent drops. But the storm clouds
passed, a breeze started up, the grass began to shine, emerald
and gold. . . . The leaves of the trees, sticking to each other,
became translucent. A strong scent rose up all around.
The sky had almost completely cleared when Natalia went
out into the garden. There was a freshness and a calm in the
air-that gentle and happy calm to which a man's heart
responds with the sweet languor of mysterious sympathy and
undefined desires.
•
Natalia walked along the pond, down a long alley of silvery
poplars; suddenly, in front of her, as if out of the ground,
Rudin appeared.
She was overcome with confusion. He looked straight at
her.
"You're alone?" he asked.
"Yes, I am,” replied Natalia. "However, I came out for
just a minute-it's time for me to go back.”
"I'll go with you." And he set off beside her.
"You seem sad," he said.
"Me? And I wanted to tell you that I think you're out of
sorts."
"Maybe that happens to me. It's more excusable in me
than in you.”
"Why? You really think I have nothing to be sad about?”
“At your age one ought to enjoy life.”
Natalia took several steps without speaking. Then she said:
"Dmitri Nikolaevich!"
La
RUDIN
109
"What?"
“Do you remember . . . the comparison you made yesterday
-remember-about the oak?"
"Yes, of course I do. What about it?”
Natalia glanced at Rudin furtively.
"Why did you-what did you mean by that comparison?"
Rudin bent his head and stared into the distance.
"Natalia Alekseevna!" he began with his own inimitable,
restrained, and significant expression, which always made the
listener think that Rudin had not said even a tenth of what
was crowding his soul. "Natalia Alekseevna, you've been able
to observe that I talk little about my past. There are some
strings I don't pluck at all. My heart-who has any need of
knowing what's gone on in it? To display it has always
seemed to me a sacrilege. But I'm frank with you: you inspire
my confidence. I can't conceal from you that I've loved and
suffered like everyone else. When and how? There's no point
talking about that, but my heart has known many joys and
many griefs. . . ." He was silent a moment.
"What I told you yesterday," he went on, "can to a certain
extent be applied to me, to my present situation. But, again,
there's no point in talking about this. This side of life has for
me already gone. There now remains for me to drag myself
along the hot and dusty road, from station to station, in a
jolting cart. When I'll arrive, and if I'll arrive, God knows.
Let's rather talk about you."
"Really, Dmitri Nikolaevich,” Natalia responded, “do you
expect nothing from life?"
"Oh, no! I expect a lot, but not for myself. . I'll never
give up doing things, the bliss of doing things, but I've given
up pleasure. My hopes, my dreams-and my own happiness
have nothing in common. Love" (as he said it, he shrugged
his shoulders) "-love isn't for me; I'm . . . not worthy of it;
a woman who loves has the right to demand the whole man,
and I can't give myself wholly any more. Besides, to be
pleasing is a young man's business: I'm too old. How can
I turn others' heads? God grant I keep my own on my
shoulders!"
"I understand," said Natalia. "Whoever aims at a great end
mustn't think about himself; but really isn't a woman able
to appreciate such a man? It seems to me that, on the con-
trary, a woman sooner turns away from an egoist. All young
people, these young men, as you put it, are all egoists, all
concerned only with themselves, even when in love. Believe
110
IVAN TURGENEV
!
me, a woman is not only capable of understanding self-sac-
rifice; she herself knows how to make it."
Natalia's cheeks flushed slightly and her eyes sparkled.
Before meeting Rudin she would never have made such a
long speech, or spoken with such ardor.
"You've often heard my opinion about a vocation for
women," Rudin replied with a condescending smile. "You
know that, as I see it, Joan of Arc alone could have saved
France. But that's not the point. I wanted to talk about
you. You stand on the threshold of life. To discuss your
future is cheering and not unavailing. Listen: you know I'm
your friend; I take an interest in you almost of kinship. And
therefore I hope you won't find my question indiscreet: tell
me, has your heart so far been completely untouched?”
Natalia blushed crimson all over and said nothing. Rudin
paused, and she did, too.
•
•
"You're not angry at me?" he asked.
"
"No," she said, “but I didn't at all expect . . .'
"However,” he continued, “you don't have to answer me.
I know your secret."
Natalia glanced at him almost with fright.
"Yes, yes; I know whom you like. And I must say you
couldn't have made a better choice. He's a splendid man; he
knows how to appreciate you; he's not spoiled by life, he's.
simple and pure in heart. . . . He'll bring you happiness.”
"Who are you talking about, Dmitri Nikolaich?"
"As if you didn't understand! Of course, Volyntsev. Well?
Am I wrong?"
Natalia turned away from Rudin a little. She was com-
pletely lost.
"Doesn't he love you? For heaven's sake! He doesn't take
his eyes off you, follows your every move; and, after all, can
you hide love? And aren't you yourself favorably disposed
toward him? As far as I can see, your mother likes him, too.
Your choice-"
"Dmitri Nikolaich," Natalia interrupted, in her confusion
reaching her hand out to the bush nearby, "I really feel so
awkward talking about this, but I assure you, you're wrong."
"I'm wrong?" repeated Rudin. “I don't think. . . . I met you
recently, but I already know you well. What's the meaning
of the change I see in you, see clearly? Are you the same as
I found you six weeks ago? No, Natalia Alekseevna, your
heart's not at peace."
RUDIN
111
"
"Maybe," answered Natalia barely audibly, "but still you're
""
wrong.
"How so?" asked Rudin.
“Leave me alone, don't question me!” Natalia retorted, and
quickly headed for the house. She had become terrified of
everything she suddenly felt inside herself.
Rudin caught up to her and stopped her.
"Natalie Alekseevna!" he began. "The conversation can't
end like this: it's too important for me, too. How am I to
understand you?"
"Leave me alone!" Natalia repeated.
"Natalie Alekseevna, for God's sake!"
Intense emotion was written on Rudin's face. He was pale.
"You understand everything; you ought to understand me
too!" said Natalia, and she tore her hand from his, and set off
without looking back.
"Just one word!" Rudin called after her.
She stopped, but did not turn around.
"You asked me what I meant by yesterday's comparison.
I was talking about myself, about my past-and about you.”
"What? About me?”
“Yes, you. I repeat, I don't want to deceive you. You know
now what feeling, what new feeling, I was talking about then.
Until this very day I'd never have dared...”
Natalia suddenly covered her face with her hands and ran
toward the house.
She was so shaken by the unexpected dénouement of the
conversation with Rudin that she did not even notice
Volyntsev, whom she ran past. He stood still, leaning his
back against a tree. A quarter of an hour before, he had
arrived at Daria Mikhailovna's and found her in the living
room; he said a couple of words, withdrew unnoticed, and set
out to find Natalia. Directed by that sense peculiar to people
in love, he had gone straight to the garden and had come
upon her and Rudin at the very moment when she tore her
hand from his. Everything went dark before Volyntsev's eyes.
Watching Natalia go, he moved away from the tree and took
a couple of steps without knowing where and why. Rudin,
coming up, caught sight of him. Each looked straight at the
other, bowed, and separated in silence.
"It's not over yet," they both thought.
Volyntsev went to the very end of the garden. He felt
bitter and somber; a leaden weight lay on his heart, and from
time to time his blood rose spitefully. A light rain started
112
IVAN TURGENEV
}
sprinkling again. Rudin returned to his room. He, too, was not
calm: thoughts whirled in his head like the wind. The trust-
ful, unexpected touch of a young, honest soul disturbs any-
body.
At dinner, everything somehow went wrong. Natalia, all
pale, could hardly sit in her chair, and did not look up.
Volyntsev sat, as usual, beside her, and from time to time
compulsively started talking to her.
It so happened that day that Pigasov was dining at Daria
Mikhailovna's. During dinner he talked more than anyone
else. Among other things, he began proving that people, like
dogs, can be divided into dock-tailed and long-tailed. There
are people dock-tailed, he said, both from birth and from
some fault of their own. The dock-tailed have a hard time:
they succeed in nothing-they have no self-confidence. But
the man who has a long, fluffy tail is fortunate. He may be
both more trivial and weaker than the dock-tailed, but he's
sure of himself, he spreads his tail, and everybody admires
it. And that's what's so surprising: for, of course, the tail's
a completely useless part of the body, you must admit: what
can a tail be useful for? But everybody judges your merits
according to your tail.
"I," he added with a sigh, "belong to the dock-tailed, and,
what's saddest of all, I cut off my tail myself."
"That is, you mean," observed Rudin casually, “what, by
the way, La Rochefoucauld said long before you: believe in
yourself, and others will believe in you. Why you had to drag
the tail mixed in here I don't understand."
"Let everyone," Volyntsev began sharply, and his eyes lit
up,
"let everyone put things the way he wants to. They speak
of despotism. . . . As I see it, there's nothing worse than the
despotism of so-called intelligent people. The hell with
them!"
Volyntsev's outburst astounded everybody; everyone be-
came silent. Rudin started looked at him but could not keep
it up, turned away and smiled, and did not open his mouth.
"Aha! Why, you're dock-tailed, too!" thought Pigasov,
but Natalia's heart froze in fear. Daria Mikhailovna gave
Volyntsev a long, puzzled look and, at last, was the first to
speak: she began telling about some unusual dog of her
friend, the Minister
Volyntsev left soon after dinner. Saying good-bye to
Natalia, he could not contain himself, and said to her:
RUDIN
113
"Why are you so embarrassed, as if guilty? You can't be
guilty toward anybody!"
Natalia understood nothing, and merely watched him go.
Before tea, Rudin came up to her and, bending down over
the table, as if looking at the newspapers, whispered:
"This is all like a dream, isn't it? I absolutely must see
you alone
even if for just a minute." He turned to Mlle
Boncourt. "Here," he said to her, "is that feuilleton you were
looking for," and again bending forward toward Natalia,
added in a whisper: "Try to be in the lilac pergola by the
terrace about ten o'clock: I'll be waiting for you.'
>>
The hero of the evening was Pigasov. Rudin yielded him
the field of battle. He made Daria Mikhailovna laugh very
much; at first he told about a neighbor of his who, having
been henpecked by his wife for some thirty years, had
become such an old woman that, once crossing a little puddle
in Pigasov's presence, he put his hand behind his back and
gathered the tails of his frock coat as women do their skirts.
Then he turned his comments to another landowner, who
had at first been a Mason, then a melancholic person, and
then wanted to be a banker.
"How were you a Mason, Filipp Stepanych?" Pigasov had
asked him.
"It's clear how: I had a long nail on my little finger."
But Daria Mikhailovna laughed most of all when Pigasov
started discussing love and assuring her that he had been
sighed over, too; that one passionate German lady had even
called him "tasty little Afrikan" and "raucous little man."
Daria Mikhailovna laughed, but Pigasov was not lying: he
really had a right to boast of his conquests. He asserted that
nothing could be easier than to make any woman at all fall
in love with you: you have only to repeat to her ten days
in a row that paradise is on her lips and bliss in her eyes,
and that all other women are common rags compared to her,
and on the eleventh day she herself will tell you that paradise
is on her lips and bliss in her eyes, and fall in love with you.
There are all kinds of things in this world. Who knows—
maybe Pigasov was indeed right.
•
•
•
At nine-thirty Rudin was already in the pergola. In the
distant, pale depths of the sky little stars had just started
coming out; in the west it was still bright red-there the
horizon seemed clearer and purer; the half-moon shone gold
through the black web of a weeping birch. The other trees
either stood like sullen giants, with a thousand little openings,
}
114
IVAN TURGENEV
L
like eyes, or flowed together into solid, gloomy, enormous
masses. Not a leaf stirred; the upper branches of the lilac
and acacia seemed to be listening to something and reaching
out in the warm air. The house loomed close by; the lighted,
long windows were outlined as patches of reddish light. The
evening was mild and still, but a restrained, passionate sigh
seemed to whisper in the stillness.
Rudin stood, his arms folded, and listened with strained
attention. His heart was pounding, and he was involuntarily
holding his breath. At last he heard light, hurried steps, and
Natalia walked into the pergola.
Rudin rushed to her and took her hands. They were as cold
as ice.
“Natalia Alekseevna!" he began in an anxious whisper, “I
wanted to see you . . . I couldn't wait until tomorrow. I have
to tell you what I had no idea of, what I wasn't aware of,
this morning even: I love you!”
Natalia's hands trembled weakly in his.
"I love you,” he repeated; "how could I deceive myself so
long, how could it be that I didn't guess long ago that I love
you! And you? . . . Natalia Alekseevna, tell me, do you .
you...?”
Natalia could hardly catch her breath.
"You see I've come here,” she said finally.
“No, tell me, do you love me?”
"I think-yes," she whispered.
Rudin pressed her hands still harder and was about to draw
her to him.
Natalia quickly turned and looked around.
"Let me go-I'm terrified-I think somebody's listening...
For God's sake, be careful! Volyntsev suspects."
"Never mind him! You saw I didn't even answer him today.
Ah, Natalia Alekseevna, how happy I am! Now nothing
separates us!"
•
Natalia looked directly into his eyes. "Let me go,” she
whispered; “it's time for me to go.'
"
"
"Just a moment," Rudin began...
“No, let me go, let me go..
"You seem afraid of me?"
"No, but it's time for me to go...
"Then say it again, just once more."
"You say you're happy?" Natalia asked.
"Me? No man in the world is happier than I! Do you really
doubt it?"
Natalia raised her head. Her pale, noble, young, and
RUDIN
115
troubled face was beautiful, there in the mysterious shadows
of the pergola in the faint light falling from the night sky.
"Know, then," she said, “I will be yours."
"Oh God!" exclaimed Rudin.
But Natalia slipped aside and left. Rudin stood a moment,
then slowly went out of the pergola. The moon lit up his face
brightly; a smile wandered across his lips.
"I'm happy," he said in a low voice. "Yes, I'm happy," he
repeated, as if wanting to convince himself.
He straightened up, shook his curly hair, and set out
nimbly into the garden, gaily swinging his arms.
1
But in the meantime, the bushes in the lilac pergola quietly
parted, and Pandalevski appeared. He looked around care-
fully, shook his head, pressed his lips, and said significantly:
"So that's it. This must be brought to Daria Mikhailovna's
attention,” and disappeared.
VIII
Having returned home, Volyntsev was so despondent and
gloomy, responded to his sister so unwillingly, and locked
himself in his study so soon that she decided to send a mes-
senger for Lezhniov. She turned to him on all difficult occa-
sions. Lezhniov sent word that he would come the next day.
Volyntsev had not cheered up the next morning, either.
He was about to go out to work after breakfast, but stayed
in, lay down on the sofa and started reading a book, which
he did not often do. Volyntsev did not feel drawn to litera-
ture, and he was simply afraid of poetry. "It's incompre-
hensible, like poetry," he would say of something, and, in
support of this phrase, would quote the following lines of the
poet Aibulet:
Į
And to the end of my sad days
The hands of proud experience
And intellect will never pluck
The blood-stained forget-me-nots of life.
Aleksandra Pavlovna kept looking at her brother anxiously,
but did not bother him with questions. A carriage drove up
to the front porch. “At last," she thought, “thank God-
Lezhniov...." A servant came in and announced the arrival
of Rudin.
Volyntsev threw his book on the floor and raised his head.
"Who has come?" he asked.
116
IVAN TURGENEV
"Rudin, Dmitri Nikolaich," the servant repeated.
Volyntsev got up. “Ask him in,” he said, “and you, my
sister," he added, turning to Aleksandra Pavlovna, "leave us.'
"But why... ?" she began.
"
"I know why," he cut in quick-temperedly. "I beg you."
Rudin came in. Volyntsev bowed to him coldly, standing
in the middle of the room, and did not extend him his hand.
"You weren't expecting me, admit it," began Rudin, and
put his hat on the window sill.
His lips were twitching slightly. He felt uneasy, but he tried
to hide his confusion.
"Indeed, I wasn't," replied Volyntsev. "After yesterday, I
could have rather expected someone-with a message from
you.”
"I understand what you mean," Rudin said, sitting down,
"and I'm very glad of your frankness. It's much better this
way. I've come to you myself as to a gentleman.”
"Can't we do without compliments?" Volyntsev remarked.
"I want to explain to you why I came."
"We know each other: why shouldn't you come to see me?
Besides, this isn't the first time you've honored me with a
visit."
"I've come to you as one gentleman to another," Rudin
repeated, "and now I want to refer to your personal judg-
ment. I trust you completely...."
"What's it all about?" said Volyntsev, who was still stand-
ing in the same position, staring gloomily at Rudin, and every
so often pulling at the ends of his moustache.
"Please-I came to explain myself, of course, but still it
can't be done just like that."
"Why not?"
"There's a third person involved. . . .'
"What third person?"
"Sergei Pavlych, you understand me.
"Dmitri Nikolaich, I don't at all.”
"You'd like-"
"I'd like you to talk without beating around the bush!"
Volyntsev cut in. He was beginning to be really angry.
Rudin frowned.
"If you please ... We're alone. .
We're alone . . . I must tell you-how-
ever, you probably have already guessed" (Volyntsev
shrugged his shoulders impatiently) "-I must tell you I love
Natalia Alekseevna, and have a right to suppose that she,
too, loves me."
RUDIN
117
Volyntsev blanched, but made no reply; he went over to
the window and turned his back.
"You understand, Sergei Pavlych," Rudin continued, “that
if I weren't sure-
>>
"For heaven's sake!" Volyntsev interrupted, "I don't doubt
it at all. . . . So! To your health! Only I'm surprised at what
the devil put it into your head to come to me with this news.
What have I to do with it? What's it to me who you love and
who loves you? I just can't understand."
Volyntsev kept on staring out the window. His voice
sounded hollow.
Rudin rose.
2
"I'll tell you, Sergei Pavlych, why I decided to come to
see you, why I didn't think I even had the right to keep
from you our-our mutual inclinations. I respect you too
deeply-that's why I came: I didn't want. neither of us
wanted to try to deceive you. I knew about your feeling for
Natalia Alekseevna. Believe me, I know my value: I
know how little I'm worthy of taking your place in her heart,
but if it was bound to happen, would it be better to be
cunning, to be deceitful, to make a pretence? Would it be
better to subject ourselves to misunderstandings, or even to
the possibility of a scene such as happened yesterday at
dinner? Sergei Pavlych, tell me.
•
•
•
•
Volyntsev folded his arms across his chest, as if making
an effort to subdue himself.
"Sergei Pavlych!" continued Rudin. "I have hurt you, I
sense that ... but understand us-understand that we had
no other way of showing you our respect, of showing that we
know how to appreciate your straightforward gentlemanli-
ness. Frankness, complete frankness would be out of place
with anyone else, but with you it becomes an obligation. It's
pleasant for us to think that our secret is in your hands.”
Volyntsev broke into a laugh compulsively.
"Thanks for the confidence!" he exclaimed; "although I
want you to note, I wanted neither to know your secret nor
to let you in on my own, and yet you deal with it as if it
were your property. But you keep talking in the plural-
may I assume, therefore, that Natalia Alekseevna knows
about your visit, and the aim of this visit?”
Rudin was a bit embarrassed.
“No, I didn't tell Natalia Alekseevna about my intention,
but I know she shares my way of thinking."
"That's fine," Volyntsev began after a brief silence, and
118
IVAN TURGENEV
drummed his fingers on the windowpane; "although, I must
say, it would be a lot easier if you respected me less. To tell
the truth, I don't give a damn for your respect. But what do
you want from me now?"
"I don't want a thing-or, no! I want one thing: I want
you not to regard me as a perfidious and cunning man; I
want you to understand me. I hope that now you can not
doubt my sincerity. Sergei Pavlych, I want us to part friends
I want you to extend me your hand as you used to. . . .
And Rudin drew close to Volyntsev.
"
"Excuse me, sir,” said Volyntsev, turning around and taking
a step back: "I'm ready to concede the complete fairness of
your intentions. It's all wonderful, let's say, even exalted; but
we're plain people, eat undecorated gingerbread, we're not in
a position to follow the flight of such great minds as yours.
What seems to you sincere seems to us forced and indiscreet.
What's simple and clear for you is confused and dark for
us. You celebrate what we hide: how can a man understand
you! Excuse me, but I can't consider you a friend; I can
neither regard you as a friend nor give you my hand. Maybe
this is petty, but I'm petty myself."
•
Rudin picked his hat up from the window sill.
"Sergei Pavlych," he said sorrowfully, "good-bye; I've been
disappointed. My visit, actually, is rather strange, but I was
hoping that you-" (Volyntsev made an impatient gesture)
"Excuse me, I'm not going to talk about it any more. Having
thought it all out, I see you're right and you couldn't have
done otherwise. Good-bye, and let me at least once more, one
last time, assure you of the purity of my intentions. . . I
know I can rely on your discretion . . ."
"That's too much!" exclaimed Volyntsev, and began to
shake with anger. "I haven't asked for your confidence at all,
and therefore you haven't the slightest right to count on my
discretion!"
Rudin wanted to say something, but only threw up his
hands, bowed, and left, and Volyntsev flung himself onto the
sofa and turned his face to the wall.
Aleksandra Pavlovna's voice was heard at the door. "May
I come in?"
Volyntsev did not answer immediately, and stealthily
passed his hand over his face.
"No, Sasha," he said in a slightly changed tone, “wait a
little bit."
Half an hour later, Aleksandra Pavlovna went to the door
RUDIN
119
again. "Mikhailo Mikhailych has come," she said, “do you
want to see him?”
"I do,” replied Volyntsev; "send him in.”
Lezhniov came in. “What's wrong?-are you sick?" he
asked, sitting down in an armchair beside the sofa.
Volyntsev raised himself a little, leaned on his elbow, and
stared his friend in the face for a long, long while; and then
and there told him his whole conversation with Rudin, word
for word. Until then, he had never even hinted to Lezhniov
about his feelings for Natalia, although he suspected that they
weren't a secret to him.
"Well, old man, you've surprised me," said Lezhniov as
soon as Volyntsev had finished his story. "I expected a lot of
strange things from him, but this. . . . However, I recognize
him in this, too."
"For heaven's sake!" said Volyntsev excitedly. "It's simply
insolence! Why, I nearly threw him out the window! He
wanted to brag in front of me, was that it? Or was he afraid
of me? But why should he come? How could he dare go see
the man.
." Volyntsev put his hands behind his head and
fell silent.
"No, old man, that's not it," Lezhniov calmly objected.
"You won't believe me, but he did it from a good motive.
Really. You see, it's both noble, and candid, and, well, a
chance to talk presents itself, to let go a flow of eloquence,
and you know that's what he needs, what he can't get on
without. . . . Oh, his tongue's his enemy-yet, for all that, it's
his servant, too.'
"You can't imagine how pompously he came in, and how
he kept on talking!”
"Well, that can't be helped. He buttons his coat as if ful-
filling a sacred duty. I'd like to put him on a desert island
and peek around the corner to see how he makes out. And he
keeps on harping on simplicity!”
“But tell me, for God's sake," Volyntsev asked, “what is
this-philosophy, really?”
"What can I tell you? On the one hand, maybe, it's philoso-
phy precisely-and on the other, it's not that at all. You can't
pass everything off on philosophy."
Volyntsev glanced up at him.
"But he wasn't lying, you think?”
“No, old man, he wasn't. But you know what? That's
enough talking about all this. Let's light up a pipe and ask
120
IVAN TURGENEV
Aleksandra Pavlovna in. When she's around, one talks better,
and feels easier not talking. She'll pour us some tea."
"Let's," Volyntsev agreed. "Sasha, come in!" he shouted.
Aleksandra Pavlovna came in. He seized her hand and
pressed it hard to his lips.
Rudin returned home in an uneasy and odd frame of mind.
He was annoyed with himself, reproached himself for his
unforgivable rashness, for his childishness. As someone wisely
said: there is nothing more painful than the consciousness of
a stupid mistake one has just made.
Remorse gnawed at Rudin. "What the devil," he muttered
through his teeth, "made me drop in on that landowner! What
a stupid idea! Just asking for trouble!"
And in Daria Mikhailovna's house something unusual was
happening. The mistress herself had not appeared all morn-
ing, and did not come to dinner: according to Pandalevski,
the only person allowed to see her, she had a headache. Rudin
hardly saw Natalia, either: she stayed in her room with Mlle
Boncourt. Meeting him in the dining room, she looked at him
so sadly that his heart shuddered. Her face had changed, as
if misfortune had fallen on her since the day before. An
anguish of indefinite forebodings began to wear Rudin down.
In order to be distracted somehow, he took up with Basistov,
talked to him a good deal and found him a fiery, lively young
man with enthusiastic hopes and a faith still intact. Toward
evening, Daria Mikhailovna appeared in the living room for
a couple of hours. She was polite to Rudin but kept somewhat
aloof, and sometimes laughed softly, sometimes frowned,
talked through her nose, and chiefly by implication. . . . In
this way, she had the air of a lady of the court. Recently she
seemed to have cooled off a bit toward Rudin. "What's the
mystery?" he wondered, looking from one side at her little
head tossed back.
He did not wait long for the solution. Going back to his
room at about eleven at night, he was walking down a dark
corridor. Suddenly someone slipped a note into his hand. He
looked up: a girl was just going out of sight-Natalia's maid,
so it seemed to him. He entered his room, sent his man out,
opened the note, and read the following lines written in
Natalia's hand:
Come at seven tomorrow morning, no later, to Avdiu-
khin Pond, behind the oak forest. Any other time is im-
RUDIN
121
possible. It will be our last meeting, and everything will
be settled if... Come. It must be decided. . . .
P.S. If I don't come, it means we won't see each other
again: in that case I'll let you know..
Rudin thought a moment, turned the note over in his
hands, and put it under his pillow. He undressed and lay
down, but he did not fall asleep for a while. He slept lightly,
and woke up before it was five o'clock.
IX
Avdiukhin Pond, beside which Natalia had set the meeting
with Rudin, had long ago ceased to be a pond. Some thirty
years ago the dam had broken, and since then it had been
abandoned. Only the flat and level bottom of the ravine, once
covered with rich silt, and the remains of the dam suggested
that here there had been a pond. A farmstead used to be here,
too. It had long, long ago disappeared. Two huge pines
reminded one of it; the wind blew eternally and whistled
mournfully through their tall, scraggy branches. Mysterious
rumors circulated among the peasants about a terrible crime
that had supposedly occurred at their foot; people also said
that neither of them would fall without causing someone's
death; a third pine used to stand here, which had come down
in a storm and crushed a little girl. The whole place around
the old pond was considered evil; deserted and bare, lonely
and somber even on a sunny day, it seemed still more somber
and lonely for the nearness of an oak forest which had long
ago died off. The scattered grey skeletons of the huge trees
towered like dismal ghosts over the low underbrush. They
were awful to look at: it seemed as if wicked old men had
gathered together and were plotting something evil. A nar-
row, hardly traveled path meandered along on one side.
Nobody went by Avdiukhin Pond unless it was necessary.
Natalia intentionally chose such an isolated spot; it was about
a half-verst from Daria Mikhailovna's.
The sun had risen some time ago when Rudin reached
Avdiukhin Pond, but the morning was not cheerful. Solid,
milk-colored clouds covered the whole sky; the wind drove
them fast, whistling and whining. Rudin began walking back
and forth on the dam covered with sticky burdock and
blackened nettles. He was nervous. These meetings, these new
feelings filled his being, but troubled him, too, especially after
122
IVAN TURGENEV
?
yesterday's note. He saw that the dénouement was drawing
near and secretly he was all confused, although no one would
have thought so, seeing with what concentrated resoluteness
he folded and unfolded his arms and kept looking around.
Pigasov had once aptly said of him that his head continually
kept falling over, like a Chinese idol's. But with the head
alone, no matter how mighty it is, it is hard for a man to
realize what is going on in himself. Rudin-intelligent,
perspicacious Rudin-was unable to say for certain whether
or not he loved Natalia, whether or not he was suffering, or
whether or not he would be, after he had left her. Why, then,
not even pretending to be a Lovelace-this honesty must be
granted him—had he driven a poor girl wild? Why was he
waiting for her with great anxiety?
There is only one answer to that: nobody is so easily
distracted as impassive people.
He continued to walk back and forth on the dam, and
Natalia hurried toward him across the fields through the wet
grass.
"Miss! Miss! You'll get your feet wet," said her maid
Masha, barely keeping up with her.
Natalia did not listen to her, and ran on without turning
her head.
“Ah, as long as they don't catch sight of us!" Masha kept
repeating. "It's wonder enough we got out of the house. As
long as Ma'm'selle doesn't wake up. . . . It's a good thing it
isn't far. . . . And he's here already," she added, suddenly
catching sight of Rudin's stately figure standing picturesquely
on the dam; “only he's wrong to be standing out in the open
like that he ought to go down in the hollow."
Natalia stopped short.
"Wait here, Masha, by the pines," she said, and went down
toward the pond.
Rudin came up to her and stopped in astonishment. He had
never before seen such an expression on her face. Her brows
were knit, her lips pursed, her eyes looked sternly straight
ahad.
“Dmitri Nikolaich," she began, "we've no time to lose. I've
come for five minutes. I must tell you that Mother knows
everything. Mr. Pandalevski spied on us day before yesterday
and told her about our rendezvous. He's always been a spy
for Mother. Yesterday she called me in—”
"My Lord!" exclaimed Rudin. "That's terrible... What
did your mother say?”
RUDIN
123
"She didn't get angry at me, didn't scold me, only re-
proached me for my levity."
"Only?"
"Yes, and told me she'd rather see me dead than
me dead than your wife.”
"She really said that?"
"Yes; and added that you yourself have no desire to marry
me, that you just flirted with me for lack of anything else to
do, and that she hadn't expected this from you; that, however,
she herself was at fault: why did she let me see you so often?
That she counts on my good sense, that I very much
surprised her. . . . But I don't remember everything now that
she said to me.
>>
Natalia said all this in a level, almost muffled voice.
“And you, Natalia Alekseevna, what did you answer her?”
asked Rudin.
"What did I answer her?" repeated Natalia. "What are you
going to do now?"
"My Lord! My Lord!" Rudin responded. "It's brutal! So
soon! Such a sudden blow! . . . And your mother became so
indignant?"
• •
"Yes. yes, she doesn't want to hear about you."
"It's terrible And so, there's no hope?"
"None."
"Why are we so unfortunate! That foul Pandalevski!
You ask me, Natalia Alekseevna, what am I going to do? My
head's spinning-I can't think anything out. I feel only my
own unhappiness . . . I'm amazed how you can keep so calm!”
"You think it's easy for me?" Natalia said.
Rudin started walking back and forth on the dam again.
Natalia did not take her eyes off him.
"Your mother didn't ask you any questions?" he said finally.
"She asked me if I love you.
"Well-and you?"
">
Natalia was silent a moment. “I didn't lie,” she said.
Rudin took her hand.
"Always, in everything, noble and generous! Oh, the heart
of a girl is pure gold! But did your mother really express her
decision about the impossibility of our marriage so flatly?”
"Yes, flatly. I've already told you: she's convinced you
yourself aren't thinking of marrying me."
"Therefore, she considers me a deceiver! How did I deserve
this?" And Rudin took his head in his hands.
"Dmitri Nikolaich," said Natalia, "we're wasting time. Re-
member we're seeing each other for the last time. I didn't
124
IVAN TURGENEV
:
come here to cry, to complain-you see I'm not crying-I came
for advice."
"But what advice can I give you, Natalia Alekseevna?"
"What advice? You're a man: I've grown accustomed to
believing you, I'll believe you to the end. Tell me, what are
your intentions?”
"My intentions! Your mother, probably, will throw me out
of the house."
"Perhaps. She told me yesterday that I must break off with
you... But you haven't answered my question."
"What question?"
"What do you think we have to do now?”
"What can we do?" Rudin replied. "Resign ourselves, of
course."
"Resign ourselves," Natalia repeated slowly, and her lips
grew pale.
"Resign ourselves to our fate," Rudin continued. “What's
to be done? I know too well how bitter, hard, unbearable this
is, but don't you see, Natalia Alekseevna, I'm poor. . . . True,
I can work; but even if I were a rich man, would you be able
to endure a violent break with your family, your mother's
anger? No, Natalia Alekseevna! There's no point in even
thinking about it. Clearly, we weren't fated to live together,
and that happiness of which I dreamed is not for me!"
Natalia suddenly hid her face in her hands and cried.
Rudin went closer to her.
"Natalia Alekseevna! Darling Natalia!" he said ardently.
"Don't cry, for God's sake, don't torture me, calm down....
Natalia raised her head.
"You tell me to calm down," she began, and her eyes shone
through her tears; "I'm not crying about what you think of
me. That isn't what hurts: what hurts is that I was deceived
about you. Really! I come to you for advice, at a moment like
this, and the first thing you say is: resign ourselves!
Resign ourselves! That's how you put into practice all your
talk about freedom, about the sacrifices which . . ." Her voice
broke.
•
"But Natalia Alekseevna," Rudin began, embarrassed, “re-
member-I don't go back on what I said-only-"
"You were asking me," she continued with new strength,
"what I answered my mother when she told me she'd rather
consent to my death than to my marriage to you: I answered
her that I'd rather die than marry anyone else.
And you
tell me: resign ourselves! So she was right; you-just for lack
•
•
RUDIN
125
of anything else to do, from boredom-you played a trick on
""
me.
•
"I swear to you, Natalia Alekseevna-I assure you,” Rudin
insisted, but she was not listening to him.
"Why didn't you stop me? Why did you yourself Or
didn't you figure on obstacles? I'm ashamed to talk about it
... but, of course, it's all over now."
"You must calm yourself, Natalia Alekseevna," Rudin began
again; "together we have to consider what measures-
"You talked so often about self-sacrifice," she cut in; "but,
you know, if you had told me today, just now: I love you,
but I can't get married, I don't answer for the future, give
me your hand and come with me-do you know I'd have gone
with you, do you know I'd have done anything? But, of
course, there's a big difference between saying a thing and
doing it, and you've shown yourself a coward now, exactly as
you did day before yesterday at dinner in front of Volyntsev."
The color rushed to Rudin's face. Natalia's unexpected
spirit astounded him, but her last words wounded his pride.
"You're too upset now, Natalia Alekseevna," he began;
"you can't understand how cruelly you insulted me. I hope
that, with time, you'll do me justice; you'll understand what
it's cost me to refuse the happiness which, as you yourself are
saying, didn't impose any obligations on me. Your peace of
mind is dearer to me than anything else in the world, and I
would be the lowest man if I dared take advantage of—”
"Perhaps, perhaps," Natalia interrupted; "perhaps you're
right, but I don't know what I'm saying. Up until now I've
believed you, believed everything you've said. From now on,
please, weigh your words, don't talk at random. When I told
you I loved you, I knew what that word meant: I was ready
for anything. . . . Now I have only to thank you for the lesson
and to say good-bye.”
"Wait, for God's sake, Natalia Alekseevna, I beg you! I
don't deserve your scorn, I swear. Just put yourself in my
position. I'm responsible for you and for myself. If I didn't
love you with the deepest devotion-good Lord! I myself
would be suggesting that you run off with me. Sooner or
later, your mother would forgive us-and then. But before
thinking about my own happiness . . .
"
He stopped. Natalia's eyes, fixed on him, confounded him.
"You're trying to prove to me you're an honest man,
Dmitri Nikolaich,” she said. “I don't doubt it. You're unable
• •
•
"
126
IVAN TURGENEV
to do anything calculatingly; but did I want to be convinced
of that? Did I come here for that?"
"Natalia Alekseevna, I didn't expect-"
"Ah! There you've let the cat out of the bag! Yes, you
didn't expect all this-you didn't know me. Don't worry....
You don't love me, and I'm not forcing myself on anyone."
"I do love you!" exclaimed Rudin.
Natalia drew herself up.
"Perhaps; but how do you? I remember everything you
said, Dmitri Nikolaich. Remember, you told me: there's no
love without complete equality. You're too lofty for me,
there's no comparing us. . . It serves me right. You have
ahead of you things to do more worthy of you. I'll never for-
get this day. . . . Good-bye.
•
"Natalia Alekseevna, are you going? Are we really parting
like this?"
"
He reached his arms out to her. She stopped. His pleading
voice, it seemed, made her hesitate.
"No," she said finally. "I feel something's snapped inside
me. I came here, I talked to you, as if in a delirium; I must
collect myself. It mustn't be, you yourself said so; it won't.
My God, while I was coming here I mentally said good-bye
to my home, to all my past-and what happened? Whom did
I meet here? A coward. And how did you know I wouldn't
be able to stand a break with my family? ‘Your mother doesn't
agree. . . . It's terrible!' That's all I heard from you. Is this
you, is this you, Rudin? No! Good-bye. . . . Ah! If you loved
me, I'd feel it now, this instant. No, no, good-bye!"
She turned quickly and ran toward Masha, who had
started to be uneasy some time ago and was making signs
to her.
"You're the coward, not I!" Rudin shouted after Natalia.
She was no longer paying him any attention and was hurry-
ing home across the fields. She got back to her bedroom
safely, but she had just crossed the sill when her strength gave
out and she fell unconscious into Masha's arms.
But Rudin stood at the dam for a long while. Finally he
roused himself, slowly made his way to the path, and quietly
set out along it. He was very ashamed. . . and grieved. “How
do you like that!" he thought. "At eighteen! No, I didn't know
her. . . She's a remarkable girl. What will power! She's
right: she deserves a love different from that which I felt for
her.... Felt?” he asked himself. "Don't I really feel any love
RUDIN
127
any longer? And so that's how it all had to end! How pitiful
and worthless I was in front of her!"
The light rumble of a racing sulky made Rudin raise his
eyes. Coming straight toward him, with his inevitable trotter,
was Lezhniov. Rudin greeted him silently and, like a man
struck by a sudden idea, turned off the road and quickly
headed for Daria Mikhailovna's.
Lezhniov let him go, gazed after him, and, having reflected
a moment, also turned his horse around and drove back to
Volyntsev, with whom he had spent the night. He found him
asleep, told them not to wake him, and, waiting for tea, sat
down on the balcony and lit his pipe.
X
Volyntsev got up about ten o'clock and, learning that
Lezhniov was sitting on the balcony, was very much surprised
and said to ask him to come in.
"What happened?" he asked Lezhniov. "I thought you
wanted to go home?”
"I did, but I met Rudin. . . . He was walking through the
fields alone, and he looked very upset. I changed my mind
and came back."
"You came back because you met Rudin?”
"To tell the truth, I myself don't know why I came back-
probably because I remembered you. wanted to stay with
you a little while; and I'll still manage to get home.'
""
Volyntsev smiled bitterly.
"Yes, you can't think about Rudin now without thinking
about me, too. Boy!" he shouted loudly, "bring in our
tea."
The friends began to drink their tea. Lezhniov was about
to start talking about farming, about a new method of roofing
granaries with paper. Suddenly Volyntsev jumped up from
his chair and pounded the table so hard that the cups and
saucers rattled.
“No!” he exclaimed. "I can't stand it any longer! I'll chal-
lenge this wizard, and let him shoot me, or I'll try to lodge a
bullet in his wizardly head."
"What are you saying, what are you saying, for goodness'
sake!” Lezhniov mumbled. "How can you shout so? I dropped
my pipe. . . . What's gotten into you?”
"Why, precisely that I can't be indifferent when I hear his
name: all my blood rises."
128
IVAN TURGENEV
"Stop it, old man, enough! You ought to be ashamed!"
Lezhniov retorted, picking his pipe up off the floor. "Forget
it! To the devil with him!”
"He's insulted me,” Volyntsev continued, pacing the room.
"Yes, insulted me! You yourself must agree. At first I couldn't
find the right thing to say-he took me aback. Indeed, who
could have expected it? But I'll show him nobody can make
fun of me. I'll shoot him like a partridge-the damned
philosopher!"
•
"A lot of good that'll do you! I'm not even talking about
your sister. Obviously, you're all stirred up-how can you
think about your sister! But in regard to another person-do
you think that, having killed this philosopher, you'll set your
own affairs straight?”
Volyntsev flung himself into an armchair.
“Then I'll go away somewhere! Because here depression is
getting me down: I can't find a place anywhere.'
>>
"You'll go away.
now, that's something else! I agree to
that. And you know what I suggest to you? Let's go together-
to the Caucasus, or just to the Ukraine, and eat dumplings.
A great idea, old man!”
•
"Yes, but with whom will we leave my sister?”
"Why doesn't Aleksandra Pavlovna come with us? Really,
it will be fine. To see she has everything she wants-that will
be my job! There won't be a thing lacking; if she wants it,
I'll give her a serenade every evening under her window,
sprinkle the coachman with Eau de Cologne, stick flowers in
the ground along the roadside. And you and I, old man, will
simply go to the dogs; we'll have such a good time, we'll
come back such fat-bellies that no love will ever get at us!”
"You're always joking, Misha!"
“No joking at all. That's a brilliant idea you have.”
"No! It's absurd!" Volyntsev shouted again: "I want to
fight, to fight him!"
“Again! What a case of staggers you have today, old man!”
A servant came in with a letter in his hand.
"Who is it from?" asked Lezhniov.
"From Rudin, Dmitri Nikolaich. The Lasunskis' man
brought it."
"From Rudin?" repeated Volyntsev. "To whom?”
"You, sir."
"Me? Let me have it.”
Volyntsev snatched the letter, quickly opened it, and began
reading. Lezhniov watched him closely: a strange, almost
RUDIN
129
delighted amazement showed on Volyntsev's face; he let his
hands fall.
"What is it?" Lezhniov asked.
"Read it,” said Volyntsev in a low voice, and handed him
the letter.
Lezhniov began reading. Here is what Rudin had written:
Dear Sir,
Sergei Pavlovich!
I am leaving Daria Mikhailovna's today and am leav-
ing for good. This will probably surprise you, especially
after what happened yesterday. I cannot explain to you
precisely what compels me to act in this way, but for
some reason I feel that I must inform you of my depar-
ture. You dislike me, and even consider me an evil man.
I have no intention of trying to justify myself: time will
do that. In my opinion, it is unworthy of a man, and
useless, to try to show a prejudiced person the unfairness
of his prejudice. Who wants to understand me will
excuse me, but who does not want to, or cannot, will
not touch me with his accusations. I was wrong about
you. In my eyes, you remain, as before, a noble and
honorable man, but I supposed that you would be able
to rise above the environment in which you grew up.
I was wrong. What can I do? That is neither the first nor
the last time. I repeat: I am leaving. I wish you good
luck. Believe me, this wish is completely disinterested,
and I hope that you will now be happy. Perhaps in time
you will change your opinion of me. Whether or not we
will meet sometime, I do not know, but, in any event, I
remain
Yours sincerely,
D. R.
P.S. I will send you the two hundred rubles I owe you
as soon as I reach my place in T-- province. I also
ask you not to mention this letter in front of Daria
Mikhailovna.
P.P.S. One more, final, but important request: Since I
am now leaving, I hope you will not refer to my visit to
you in front of Natalia Alekseevna.
"Well, what do you say?" asked Volyntsev as soon as
Lezhniov had finished the letter.
"What can I!" returned Lezhniov. "Cry out, in Oriental
:
130
IVAN TURGENEV
W
fashion, ‘Allah! Allah!' and stick your finger in your mouth
in amazement-that's all you can do. He's leaving. Well!
good riddance. But what's curious is this: this letter, too, he
considered it a duty to write; and he showed up at your place
out of his sense of duty. . . . Every step for these fellows is
a duty, everything's duty-and debts,” added Lezhniov, with
an ironic smile pointing to the postscript.
"And what phrases he uses!" exclaimed Volyntsev. "He
was wrong about me: he expected I would rise above some
environment. . . . Lord, what a lot of hot air! It's worse than
poetry!"
>>
•
Lezhniov answered nothing; only his eyes smiled. Volyntsev
stood up.
"I want to drop in on Daria Mikhailovna," he said. "I want
to find out what this all means.
"Wait, old man: let him clear out. What's the point of
your running into him again? You know he's disappearing-
what more do you want? Go lie down instead, take a nap;
you were tossing and turning all night, I'm sure. And now
your affairs are straightening out—”
"What makes you think that?”
"I just think so. Really, take a nap, and I'll go find your
sister-I'll stay with her a while."
·
"All right; he went out to look over the fields."
Aleksandra Pavlovna was silent a moment.
"I have no desire to sleep. Why should I? I'll go take
a look at the fields instead," said Volyntsev, straightening out
his coat.
"Good enough. Go on, old man, go on, have a look at your
fields."
And Lezhniov set out for Aleksandra Pavlovna's part of the
house.
He found her in the living room. She greeted him affection-
ately. She was always glad of his coming, but her face re-
mained sad. Rudin's visit yesterday had disturbed her.
"You just left my brother?" she asked Lezhniov. "How is
he today?"
"Tell me, please," she began, looking intently at the border
of her handkerchief, "you don't know why-"
"Rudin came?" Lezhniov chimed in. "I do: he came to say
good-bye."
Aleksandra Pavlovna raised her head. "Really-good-bye?"
"Yes. Didn't you hear? He's leaving Daria Mikhailovna's."
"Leaving?"
RUDIN
131
"For good; at least, that's what he says."
"But, heavens! How is one to understand this, after every-
thing that .
"But that's something else! You can't understand it, but
that's how it is. Something, I suppose, happened there. He
drew the string too tight-and it snapped."
"Mikhailo Mikhailych!" Aleksandra Pavlovna exclaimed. "I
don't understand a thing; I think you're making fun of me. . . .
"No, honestly I'm not. Listen, he's leaving, and he's even
told his friends about it in writing. It's not bad, if you like,
from one point of view, but his going has put off one really
excellent project your brother and I had just started talking
about."
""
"What's that? What project?"
“This: I suggested that your brother go away, for relaxa-
tion-take a trip with me, and take you along. My job was
to see to it personally that you had everything you want."
"That's just fine!" exclaimed Aleksandra Pavlovna. "I can
just imagine how you'd see to that. You'd starve me to death."
"You say that, Aleksandra Pavlovna, because you don't
know me. You think I'm a blockhead, a complete blockhead,
a piece of wood of some sort; but do you know I can dissolve
like sugar, I can kneel for days?”
"I must say I'd like to see that!"
Lezhniov suddenly got up.
"Marry me, Aleksandra Pavlovna, and you will.”
Aleksandra Pavlovna blushed to her ears.
"Why did you say that, Mikhailo Mikhailych?" she asked
in embarrassment.
"I said,” replied Lezhniov, "what's been on the tip of my
tongue a thousand times for a long time now. I finally said
it, and you can do as you want. But so as not to embarrass
you, I'll go out now while you consider whether or not you
want to be my wife . . . I'm withdrawing. If it doesn't go
against your grain, you just tell them to call me: I'll under-
stand."
Aleksandra Pavlovna started to restrain Lezhniov, but he
went out quickly, headed for the garden without his hat,
leaned on the wicket gate, and began to stare off into
nowhere.
"Mikhailo Mikhailych!" a maid's voice rang out behind
him. "My lady would like to see you. She told me to call you."
Mikhailo Mikhailych turned around, took the maid's head,
132
IVAN TURGENEV
i
to her great surprise, in both his hands, kissed her on the
forehead, and set off for Aleksandra Pavlovna.
XI
Having returned home immediately after the meeting with
Lezhniov, Rudin locked himself in his room and wrote two
letters: one to Volyntsev (my readers already know it), and
the other to Natalia. He sat over this second letter a very
long time, crossed out many parts of it and rewrote them,
and, having carefully copied it on a thin sheet of notepaper,
folded it as small as possible and put it in his pocket. With
sadness on his face he walked back and forth across the room
several times, then sat down in an armchair in front of the
window and propped his head on his hand; a tear started
on his eyelashes. He got up, buttoned all the buttons of
his coat, called his servant, and told him to ask Daria Mik-
hailovna if he could see her.
•
The servant soon returned and reported that Daria Mik-
hailovna had ordered him shown in. Rudin went to her.
She received him in her study, as on the first time, two
months before. But now she was not alone: Pandalevski was
with her-unassuming, fresh, neat, and tenderly emotional, as
always.
Daria Mikhailovna greeted Rudin politely, and Rudin
bowed politely to her; but a single glance at their smiling
faces would have informed even the least experienced person
that something had gone wrong between them. Rudin knew
that Daria Mikhailovna was angry at him. Daria Mikhailovna
suspected that he already knew everything.
Pandalevski's report had greatly upset her. Her social
arrogance had been stirred within her. Rudin, a poor man,
thus far unknown and not of high rank, had had the impu-
dence to arrange a rendezvous with her daughter-the daugh-
ter of Daria Mikhailovna Lasunskaia!
"Granted he's intelligent, he's a genius!" she had said.
"What does that prove? After that, can any man hope to be
my son-in-law?”
"For a long time I couldn't believe my eyes," Pandalevski
chimed in. “I'm amazed that he doesn't know his place!"
Daria Mikhailovna had been worked up, and had given
Natalia a hard time of it.
She asked Rudin to sit down. He did so, but no longer
now like the old Rudin, almost the host in the house, not
RUDIN
133
even like a good friend, but like a guest, and not an intimate
guest. All this happened in a moment-in the same way water
suddenly turns into ice.
"I've come to you, Daria Mikhailovna," Rudin began, "to
thank you for your hospitality. I've received word from my
little country place, and I absolutely have to go there today."
Daria Mikhailovna looked at Rudin intently.
"He's anticipated me; probably he's guessed," she thought.
"He's saved me a difficult explanation; so much the better.
Long live intelligent people!"
"Really?" she said aloud. "Oh, how unpleasant! Well, what
can we do! I hope to see you in Moscow this winter. We're
soon leaving here ourselves."
"I don't know, Daria Mikhailovna, whether or not I'll be
able to get to Moscow, but, if I can manage it, I'll consider it
my duty to call on you."
"Aha, old man!" Pandalevski thought in his turn. "You
played master here a long time, and now look how you have
to talk!"
"So you received unsatisfactory news from your place?" he
said with his usual hesitation.
"Yes," Rudin retorted drily.
"Crop failure, perhaps?"
"No . . . something else. . . . Believe me, Daria Mikhai-
lovna," Rudin added, "I'll never forget the time I've spent in
your house.'
>>
"And I, Dmitri Nikolaich, will always remember my ac-
quaintance with you with pleasure. . . . When are you going?”
"Today, after dinner."
"So soon! Well, I wish you a pleasant trip. If, however,
your business doesn't detain you, you'll perhaps still find us
here."
"I'll hardly manage that," Rudin replied. "Excuse me," he
added, "I can't pay you my debt right now, but as soon as I
reach my place-"
"Don't, Dmitri Nikolaich!" Daria Mikhailovna cut him off.
"You ought to be ashamed! But what time is it?" she asked.
Pandalevski took his gold-plated watch out of his vest
pocket and looked at it, cautiously letting his pink cheek rest
on his stiff, white collar.
"Two thirty-three," he said.
"Time to dress," Daria Mikhailovna noted. "Good-bye,
Dmitri Nikolaich!"
Rudin stood up. The whole conversation between him and
134
IVAN TURGENEV
Daria Mikhailovna had carried a special imprint. Actors thus
rehearse their roles; thus diplomats at conferences exchange
previously agreed-on phrases.
Rudin left the room. He now knew by experience how
society people do not throw out a man they do not want, but
simply drop him, like a glove after a dance, like a candy-
wrapper, like a losing lottery ticket.
He quickly packed up and began to wait impatiently for
the moment of departure. Everyone in the house was very
much surprised when they heard about his intention; even
the servants looked at him perplexed. Basistov did not con-
ceal his sorrow. Natalia conspicuously avoided him. She tried
not to meet his eyes; however, he managed to slip his letter
into her hand. At dinner Daria Mikhailovna once more re-
peated that she hoped to see him before his departure for
Moscow, but Rudin did not respond. Pandalevski talked to
him more than anyone else. Several times Rudin had an
almost irresistible urge to throw himself at him and pummel
his healthy, rosy face. Mlle Boncourt frequently glanced at
him with a sly and strange expression in her eyes: you some-
times see such an expression on old, very intelligent setters.
"Aha!" she seemed to be saying to herself, "now they've got
you!"
At last it struck six and Rudin's tarantass was brought up.
He began hurriedly saying good-bye to everyone. He felt very
bad at heart. He had not expected that he would leave the
house like this: it was as if he had been thrown out. . . .
“How had it all happened! And what was there to hurry
for? However, it makes no difference," was what he was
thinking as, saying good-bye, he bowed in all directions with
a forced smile. He glanced at Natalia for the last time, and
his heart skipped a beat: her eyes were fixed on him in sad,
farewell reproach.
He nimbly ran down the steps and jumped into the
tarantass. Basistov had offered to go with him to the first
station, and got in with him.
“Do you remember," Rudin began, once the tarantass had
driven out of the courtyard onto the main road lined with firs,
"do you remember what Don Quixote said to his squire as
he was leaving the Duchess' palace? 'Freedom,' he said, 'my
dear Sancho, is one of man's most precious possessions, and
he is happy to whom heaven has granted a piece of bread,
who needn't be obligated to another for it!' What the Don
RUDIN
135
felt then I feel now. . . . God grant that you, too, my good
Basistov, may experience this feeling some day!"
Basistov pressed Rudin's hand, and the honest young man's
heart beat violently in his agitated breast. Right up to the
station itself Rudin talked about man's worth, about the
meaning of true freedom-talked passionately, nobly, and
truthfully-and when the moment of parting had come,
Basistov could not contain himself, but threw his arms around
his neck and began to sob. Tears streamed down Rudin's own
cheeks, but he was not crying because he was parting with
Basistov, and his tears were full of pride.
Natalia went off to her room and read Rudin's letter.
*****
"My dear Natalia Alekseevna," he wrote. “I've de-
cided to leave. I have no other way out. I have decided
to leave before I'm told in no uncertain terms to do so.
All the misunderstandings will end with my going, and
hardly anyone will feel sorry for me. What could I
expect? It's always like this, but why write you?
"I am parting from you probably forever, and it would
be too hard to leave you with a memory of me even
worse than the one I deserve. That's why I write you.
I don't want either to try to justify myself or to accuse
anyone at all except myself: I want to make myself
clear, as best I can. . . . The events of the last few days
were so unexpected, so sudden.
"Today's rendezvous is a lesson to me I will remember.
Yes, you're right: I didn't know you, but I thought I did!
During my life I have had dealings with all sorts of
people; I have been closely acquainted with many women
and girls; but, meeting you, I met for the first time in
my life a soul completely honest and sincere. I wasn't
used to this, and I didn't know how to appreciate you.
I felt an attraction to you from the first day of our
acquaintance-you could see this. I spent hours and hours.
with you, and I didn't get to know you; I hardly even
tried to . . . and I could fancy that I'd fallen in love with
you! Now I'm punished for that sin.
"I loved a woman before, and she loved me. My feel-
ing for her was complex, as was hers for me; but since
she herself was not simple, it was all right. The truth
didn't strike me then: I didn't recognize it even now
when it appeared in front of me. . . I finally recognized
it, but too late. You can't bring back the past. Our lives
136
IVAN TURGENEV
1
+
might have come together-and now they never will.
How can I prove to you that I could have loved you
really, from the heart and not from fancy, when I myself
don't know if I'm capable of such love!
"Nature has given me much-I know this, and I won't
now belittle myself before you out of false shame-
especially now in moments so hard and shameful to me.
Yes, nature has given me much, but I'll die without
having done anything worthy of my abilities, without
leaving a philanthropic trace behind. All my wealth will
go for nothing; I'll not see any fruit from my seeds.
I lack- I can't say myself exactly what I lack. I lack,
probably, what you can't move people's hearts without-
or win a woman's heart; and control over minds alone
is both precarious and useless. My fate is odd, almost
comic: I want to surrender my entire self, avidly, com-
pletely-and can't do it. I'll end up sacrificing myself
for some sort of nonsense which I'll never even believe
in. . . . My Lord! At thirty-five still getting ready to do
something!
"I've never before talked about myself like this to
anyone-this is my confession.
"But that's enough about me. I'd like to talk about
you, to give you a little advice: I'm not good for any-
thing else. You're still young; but no matter how long
you live, always follow the promptings of your heart,
don't give in to your own or to somebody else's intelli-
gence. Believe me that the simpler, the tighter the circle
which your life follows the better; the point is not to
find out new aspects to it, but to realize that all its
transitions occur in their own time. 'Blessed is he who
from his youth was young. . . .' But I see that this advice
applies to me much more than to you.
"To tell you the truth, Natalia Alekseevna, I feel
miserable. I never fooled myself about the nature of the
feeling I aroused in Daria Mikhailovna, but I hoped
that I'd found at least a temporary harbor. Now I again
have to knock about the world. What will take the place
for me of your conversation, your presence, your atten-
tive and intelligent eyes? I am myself to blame, but you
must admit that fate seems deliberately to have mocked
us. A week ago I myself scarcely suspected I love you.
The day before yesterday, in the evening, in the garden,
I heard from you for the first time . . . but why remind
RUDIN
137
you of what you said then? And now today I'm leaving,
leaving in disgrace, after a brutal argument with you,
and taking no hope with me. And you still don't know
to what extent I'm guilty toward you. There is a sort of
stupid frankness in me, a sort of garrulity. . . . But why
talk about this! I'm leaving for good."
(Here Rudin had started to tell Natalia about his visit to
Volyntsev, but he had thought a moment and crossed that
portion out and added the second postscript to the letter to
Volyntsev.)
"I remain alone on earth in order to give myself up-
as you told me this morning with a cruel, ironic smile-
to other things more in my line. Alas! If only I could,
really, do this, could finally overcome my laziness. But
no! I'll remain the same unfinished creature I've been
so far. The first obstacle—and I go to pieces: the incident
with you proved this to me. If only I had at least sacri-
ficed my love to my future business, to my calling; but I
simply became scared of the responsibility which landed
on me, and, therefore, I'm indeed unworthy of you.
I'm not worth your tearing yourself away from your
environment. And, besides, all this is perhaps for the
best. Perhaps I'll come out of this experience purer and
stronger.
“I wish you complete happiness. Good-bye! Think of
me sometimes. I hope you will still hear about me.
Rudin."
صاب
A
Natalia put Rudin's letter down on her lap and for a long
time sat motionless, fixing her eyes on the floor. This letter,
more clearly than all the possible arguments, proved to her
how right she had been when, parting with Rudin that morn-
ing, she had involuntarily cried out that he did not love her.
But this did not make things easier for her. She sat without
stirring; it seemed to her that dark waves were closing in over
her head without lapping, without a splash, and that she,
growing still and numb with cold, was sinking to the bottom.
The first disillusionment is hard for anyone, but for a candid
soul that has not wanted to deceive itself, a soul alien to flip-
pancy and exaggeration, it is almost unbearable. Natalia
recalled her childhood when, walking in the evening, she
always used to try to go in the direction of the bright part of
the sky where the sunset was burning, and not toward the
138
IVAN TURGENEV
dark. Her life now stood before her darkly, and she had
turned her back on the light. . . .
Tears welled up in Natalia's eyes. Tears are not always
salutary. They are comforting and salubrious when, having
long boiled up in the breast, they finally start to flow-at first
with effort, then more and more easily and sweetly; the dumb
suffering of anguish is resolved by them. But there are cold
tears, tears that fall stingily: they are squeezed from the heart
drop by drop by the heavy and motionless burden of grief
laid on it; they are comfortless, and they ease nothing. Need
sheds such tears, and he who has not shed them has not yet
been miserable. Natalia discovered them that day.
A couple of hours went by. Natalia pulled herself together,
got up, and wiped her eyes. She lit the candle, used it to
burn up Rudin's letters, and threw the ashes out the window.
Then she opened Pushkin at random and read the first lines
she came on (she often used Pushkin for telling her fortune
like this). Here is what she got:
The sensitive are much disturbed
By the ghost of irrevocable days...
They have no more illusions now,
Gnawed by the snake of memory,
Gnawed by real-life penitence...
She stood, looked ironically at herself in the mirror, and,
having made a little gesture of nodding her head, went into
the living room.
Daria Mikhailovna, as soon as she saw her, told her to
come into her study. There she seated Natalia beside herself,
tenderly caressed her cheek, and at the same time attentively,
almost curiously, looked her in the face. Daria Mikhailovna
felt mysterious bewilderment: for the first time in her life,
she got the idea that, basically, she did not know her own
daughter. Having heard from Pandalevski about her ren-
dezvous with Rudin, she did not become angry so much as
amazed that her sensible Natalia could dare do such a thing.
But when she called her in and started reprimanding her-
not at all the way one might have expected from a European
lady, but rather raucously and inelegantly-Natalia's firm
answers, the decisiveness of her eyes and gestures confounded
and even frightened Daria Mikhailovna.
The sudden and also not completely understandable depar-
ture of Rudin took a great weight off her heart; but she
RUDIN
139
expected tears, hysteria. Natalia's outward composure bewil-
dered her again.
"Well, so, my child?" Daria Mikhailovna began. "How are
you today?"
Natalia looked hard at her mother without speaking.
"But he's gone-your beloved. You don't know why he
took off so soon?”
“Ma'am," said Natalia in a quiet voice, “I give you my
word that if you yourself won't mention him, you'll never hear
anything from me.
"So you admit you were guilty toward me?”
Natalia lowered her head and repeated: "You'll never hear
a thing from me."
"Well, take care!" Daria Mikhailovna retorted with a smile.
"I believe you. But do you remember how, the day before
yesterday. . . . Well, I'll drop it. It's dead, gone, and buried.
Right? Now I recognize you again, but, as it was, I was just
about at my wits' end. Come, kiss me, my dear child!"
Natalia raised Daria Mikhailovna's hand to her lips, but
Daria Mikhailovna kissed her on her bowed head.
"Always take my advice: don't forget you're a Lasunskaia,
and my daughter-and you'll be happy," she added. "And
now go."
Natalia went out without speaking. Daria Mikhailovna
watched her go and thought: "She takes after me-she'll get
carried away, too: mais elle aura moins d'abandon." And
Daria Mikhailovna became engrossed in memories of the past
of the distant past.
Then she had Mlle Boncourt called and sat with her for a
long time, shut in together. When she let her go, she called
Pandalevski. She wanted to find out for certain the real rea-
son for Rudin's departure . . . but Pandalevski calmed her
completely. He was an expert at that.
•
The next day Volyntsev and his sister came to dinner.
Daria Mikhailovna was always very polite to him, but this
time she treated him especially affectionately. It was unbear-
ably hard for Natalia, but Volyntsev was so deferential, talked
to her so meekly, that she could not help thanking him in her
heart.
The day passed quietly, rather dully, but everyone, going
home, felt they had gotten back into the old rut; and that
means much, very much.
Indeed, everyone had gotten back into their old rut-
140
IVAN TURGENEV
everyone except Natalia. Left alone at last, she dragged her-
self to her bed with difficulty and, tired, worn out, fell face-
down onto the pillow. Living seemed to her so hard, so
repugnant, so cheap, she had become so ashamed of herself,
of her love, of her sadness, that at that moment she would
have probably been willing to die. Many hard days still lay
ahead for her, many sleepless nights and tormenting emotions,
but she was young-life had only begun for her, and sooner
or later life asserts itself. Whatever blow may astound a man,
he, that same day, or else on the next-pardon the crudeness
of the expression-has a bite to eat: and there's your first
consolation already.
Natalia suffered agonizingly; she was suffering for the first
time. .. But one's first suffering, like the first love, is not
repeated-thank God!
•
XII
Some two years had passed. The first days of May had
arrived. Aleksandra Pavlovna was sitting on her balcony, now
no longer Lipina but Lezhniova; she had been married to
Mikhailo Mikhailych more than a year. She was lovely, as
before; only recently she had filled out. In front of the bal-
cony, from which steps led down to the garden, a wet nurse
was walking around with a little red-faced baby in her arms;
the baby wore a white coat and had a white pompon on his
hat. Aleksandra Pavlovna kept continually glancing at him.
The baby was not crying; he was intently sucking his thumb
and quietly looking around. The worthy son and heir of
Mikhailo Mikhailych was already asserting himself.
Our old friend Pigasov was sitting on the balcony beside
Aleksandra Pavlovna. He had grown noticeably grey since
we last saw him, had become round-shouldered, grown thin,
and hissed when he talked-one of his front teeth had fallen
out; the hissing made what he said seem still more venomous.
His bitterness had not lessened with the years, but his keen
wit had lost its edge, and he repeated himself more often
than before. Mikhailo Mikhailych was not at home; he was
expected back for tea. The sun had already set. There, where
it had gone down, a band of pale gold, lemon color stretched
along the horizon; on the opposite side of the sky there were
two bands: the lower one was light blue; the other reddish-
lilac. Light clouds were fading away high above. Everything
promised steady weather.
mug
RUDIN
141
Suddenly Pigasov laughed.
"What are you laughing at, Afrikan Semionych?" Aleksan-
dra Pavlovna asked.
"Oh, nothing. . . .Yesterday I heard a peasant saying to
his wife-she was talking away-Don't squeak.' I liked that
very much. Don't squeak! And actually what can a woman
really think about? As you know, I never talk about present
company. Our old people were smarter than we. In their fairy
tales, the beautiful girl sits by a window, a star reflected on
her forehead, and she herself completely silent. Now that's
how it ought to be. Otherwise, you can see for yourself: day
before yesterday our Marshal's wife as good as fired a pistol
at me, said that she didn't like my drift! Drift! Now, wouldn't
it be better for her and for everyone else if, by some benevo-
lent arrangement of nature, she suddenly lost the use of her
tongue?"
"You're still the same, Afrikan Semionych; you attack all
us poor ... You know, it's probably a misfortune in its own
way. I feel sorry for you."
"Misfortune? What do you mean by that? First of all, as I
see it, there are only three misfortunes in the world: to live
in a cold apartment in winter, to have to wear tight boots in
summer, and to sleep in a room where a baby's crying. And
secondly, for goodness' sake, I've become the mildest man
now. You could use me as a model to copy from! That's how
morally I behave!"
"You-behave very well-indeed! Only yesterday Elena
Antonovna was complaining to me about you."
"Is that so! And what did she say to you, if I may ask?”
"She told me that during the whole morning you answered
all her questions with just the phrase 'What? What, ma'am?'
And in a sort of whiny voice."
Pigasov laughed.
"Now wasn't that a good idea, admit it, Aleksandra Pav-
lovna-eh?"
"Marvelous! How can you be so rude to a woman, Afrikan
Semionych?"
"How? In your opinion, is Elena Antonovna a woman?”
"What is she in yours?"
“A drum, if you will, a regular drum, the kind that's
pounded with sticks—”
"Ah, yes!" Aleksandra Pavlovna cut in, wanting to change
the conversation. "I hear you're to be congratulated, aren't
you?"
142
IVAN TURGENEV
"On what?"
"On the end of your lawsuit. The Glinovski meadows
remain yours. .
"
"Yes, mine," Pigasov replied gloomily.
"You were after this so many years, and now you seem
dissatisfied."
"I'll tell you, Aleksandra Pavlovna," said Pigasov slowly.
"Nothing can be worse and more galling than happiness that
comes too late. On the one hand, it can't give you any pleas-
ure, and on the other, it deprives you of the right, of the
most precious right, of quarreling and cursing fate. Indeed,
madam, a bitter and galling thing is happiness that comes
late."
Aleksandra Pavlovna merely shrugged her shoulders.
"Nurse,” she said, “I think it's time for Misha to go to bed.
Let me have him." And Aleksandra Pavlovna busied herself
with her son, and Pigasov moved off grumbling, to another
corner of the balcony.
Suddenly Mikhailo Mikhailych appeared in his racing sulky
not far off on the road leading by the garden. His two big
watchdogs were running along in front of the horse-one
yellow, the other grey; he had bought them recently. They
were forever squabbling and lived in inseparable friendship.
An old hairy mongrel came out of the gate to meet them,
opened its mouth as if about to bark, and ended up by yawn-
ing and going back, wagging its tail in a friendly way.
"Look, Sasha," Lezhniov shouted out to his wife from a
distance, "look who I've brought you."
Aleksandra Pavlovna did not immediately recognize the
man sitting behind her husband.
"Ah! Mr. Basistov!" she cried at last.
"Himself,” replied Lezhniov, "and what great news he's
brought. Wait a minute, you'll find out in a minute.” And he
drove into the yard.
A few moments later he and Basistov appeared on the
balcony.
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, and embraced his wife. "Seriozha's
getting married!"
"To whom?" Aleksandra Pavlovna asked anxiously.
"To Natalia, of course. Our friend's brought this bit of
news from Moscow, and there's a letter for you. . . . You
hear, Mishuk?" he added, picking his son up in his arms.
"Your uncle's getting married!... What a rascally lazybones!
He just keeps staring blankly!"
RUDIN
143
"He's sleepy," the nurse commented.
"Yes," said Basistov, going over to Aleksandra Pavlovna,
"I got here from Moscow today, on an errand for Daria
Mikhailovna-to check the accounts on her estate. And here's
the letter."
Aleksandra Pavlovna hurriedly opened her brother's letter.
It consisted of only a few lines. In the first outburst of joy
he informed his sister that he had proposed to Natalia, and
had gotten her acceptance and Daria Mikhailovna's consent.
He promised to write more the next mail, and sent everyone
many hugs and kisses. It was obvious that he had written in
a sort of haze.
Tea was served. Basistov was made to sit down. He was
bombarded with questions like hail. The news he had brought
delighted everyone, even Pigasov.
"Tell us, please," said Lezhniov, casually: "we heard
rumors about a Mr. Korchagin. This means there was nothing
to it?"
(Korchagin was a handsome young man-a social lion,
extremely arrogant and self-important: he carried himself
extraordinarily grandly, as if he were not a real man, but a
statue of himself raised by public subscription.)
"No, there was something," Basistov protested with a smile.
"Daria Mikhailovna was very kindly disposed toward him, but
Natalie Alekseevna didn't want to hear a thing about him.”
"Why, of course, I know him," Pigasov chimed in. “He's
a double-dyed blockhead, an ignominious blockhead-for
heaven's sake! Why, if everyone were like him you'd have to
have a pile of money just to want to live-for goodness' sake!"
"Perhaps," objected Basistov; "but in society he's not
unimportant."
"Well, it makes no difference!" exclaimed Aleksandra Pav-
lovna. "Let's not worry about him. Oh, how glad I am for my
brother! . . . And Natalia's cheerful, happy?"
"Yes. She's calm, as always-you know her, of course-but
seems pleased."
The evening passed in pleasant and lively conversation.
They sat down to supper.
"Say, by the way," Lezhniov asked Basistov as he poured
him some Lafitte, "do you know where Rudin is?"
"I don't know now for sure. Last winter he came to Moscow
for a short time, then went with a family to Simbirsk. He and
I wrote each other for a while: in his last letter he told me
144
IVAN TURGENEV
he was leaving Simbirsk-he didn't say for where-and since
then I haven't heard a thing about him.”
"He won't get lost!" Pigasov cut in. "He's sitting some
place and preaching. That gentleman will always find himself
two or three admirers who'll listen to him, their mouths
agape, and lend him money. You wait and see-he'll end up
dying in some Tsarevokokshaisk or Chukhlom, in the arms of
a very, very old maid with a wig who'll think him the great-
est genius in the world."
"You're very hard on him," Basistov remarked in a low
voice, with displeasure.
"Not a bit!" retorted Pigasov. "And it's completely justified.
In my opinion, he's simply nothing but a sponger. I forgot to
tell you,” he went on, turning to Lezhniov, "I met that Ter-
lakhov whom Rudin went abroad with. Indeed, indeed! What
he told me about Rudin you just can't imagine-it's simply
killing! It's remarkable that all Rudin's friends and followers
in time become his enemies."
"Please exclude me from among such friends!" Basistov
interrupted heatedly.
"Well, you're something else again! No one's talking about
you."
“And what did Terlakhov tell you?" Aleksandra Pavlovna
asked.
"A lot: I'll never get to mention it all. But the best thing
that happened to Rudin was this. Constantly developing and
developing-these gentlemen keep on developing; others just
sleep or eat, but these gentlemen always find themselves in the
moment of the development of sleep or of food; isn't that so,
Mr. Basistov?" Basistov did not answer. "And so, constantly
developing, Rudin reached, through philosophy, the rational
conclusion that he had to fall in love. He began to seek out a
beloved worthy of such a wonderful conclusion. Fortune smiled
on him. He met a little French girl, a very pretty milliner. It
all happened in a German town-on the Rhine, mind you.
He began calling on her, bringing her various books, talking
to her about nature and Hegel. Can you imagine the little
milliner's position? She took him for an astronomer. However,
as you know, he's an all-right fellow; well-a foreigner, a
Russian-she liked him. So, finally, he arranged a rendezvous,
and a very poetic rendezvous: in a boat on the river. The
French girl agreed; she dressed up in her best and set out
with him in the boat. And so they rowed on for a couple of
hours. What do you think he was doing the whole time?
RUDIN
145
Patting the little French girl on the head, meditatively look-
ing at the sky, and several times repeating that he felt a
paternal tenderness for her. The little French girl returned
home furious, and afterwards told everything to Terlakhov.
That's the sort of gentleman he is?”
Pigasov laughed.
"You're an old cynic!" remarked Aleksandra Pavlovna,
annoyed, "but I'm more and more convinced that even those
who castigate Rudin can say nothing bad about him."
"Nothing bad? For goodness' sake! And his always living
off somebody else, his borrowng. Mikhailo Mikhailych?
I bet he probably borrowed from you, too?”
"Listen, Afrikan Semionych!" Lezhniov began, and his face
assumed a serious expression. “Listen: you know, and my wife
knows, that recently I haven't had any special sympathy for
Rudin, and often have even criticized him. All the same".
Lezhniov poured champagne into all the glasses-"here's what
I propose to you: we've just drunk the health of our dear
brother and his fiancée: I propose a toast now to the health of
Dmitri Rudin!"
Aleksandra Pavlovna and Pigasov looked at Lezhniov in
amazement, but Basistov shook all over, flushed crimson in
delight, and stared.
"I know him well,” Lezhniov continued. "I know his fail-
ings very well. They appear all the more obvious because he
is not a little man.
•
"Rudin is a tremendous person!" Basistov chimed in.
"There is, perhaps, something of the tremendous in him,"
Lezhniov responded, "but as a person-that's his whole trou-
ble, that he's not really a person. But that's not the question.
I want to talk about what's good, what's rare, about him. He
has enthusiasm, and this, believe me, a phlegmatic man, is the
most precious quality these days. We've all become unbear-
ably rational, indifferent, and spiritless; we've gone to sleep,
we've become paralyzed, and we ought to thank anyone who
even for a moment warms us up and moves us. It's high time!
You remember, Sasha, I once talked to you about him and
blamed him for his coldness. I was both right and not right
then. This coldness is in his blood-it's not his fault-but not
in his head. He's not an actor, as I called him, not a cheat,
not a swindler; he lives off other people, not like a sponger,
but like a child. Yes, he'll really die some place in pov-
erty and want, but can we really, for that, throw stones at
him? He'll never do anything himself, precisely because he
*** g
•
•
146
IVAN TURGENEV
has no personality, no blood; but who has the right to say
that he won't be, that he hasn't been, useful? That what he's
said hasn't sown many good seeds in young hearts which
nature hasn't deprived, as it has him, of the power of doing
things, of the ability of carrying out their own designs?
Indeed, I myself, I first, experienced all this in myself. . . .
Sasha knows what Rudin was for me in my youth. I remember
that I, too, asserted that what Rudin said couldn't affect
people, but I was talking then about people like me at my
age now, of people who've lived their lives and been broken
by them. One false note in a speech-and its whole harmony
is gone for us; but in a young man, fortunately, the ear is
not yet so developed, not so spoiled. If the essence of what
he hears seems beautiful to him, what does he care about the
tone? He'll find the tone in himself!"
"Bravo! bravo!" exclaimed Basistov. “How justly said! And
as for Rudin's influence, I swear that that man not only knew
how to shake you to your foundations, he also moved you from
your place, he didn't let you stop, he turned you upside down
and set you on fire!"
"You hear?” Lezhniov continued, turning to Pigasov. “What
more proof do you need? You attack philosophy: talking about
it, you can't find enough pejoratives. I'm not very fond of
it myself, and understand it badly, but our chief troubles
don't come from philosophy. Philosophic stratagems and rav-
ings will never catch on with the Russian: he has too much
common sense for that; but you can't allow people, in the
name of philosophy, to attack every honest search for truth
and knowledge. Rudin's misfortune is that he doesn't know
Russia, and this, indeed, is a great misfortune. Russia can get
on without any of us, but none of us can get on without her.
Woe to the man who thinks so; double woe to the one who
really gets on without her! Cosmopolitanism is rubbish; the
cosmopolite is a zero, worse than a zero; outside of nationality
there's neither art nor truth nor life nor anything. Without a
physiognomy there's not even an ideal face; only a vulgar
face can have no physiognomy. But, I'll say again, it's not
Rudin's fault; it's his fate, his bitter and hard fate, for which
we're not going to blame him.
"We'd get way off the track if we started trying to figure
out why Rudins crop up among us. And for there being some-
thing good in him, let's be grateful to him. It's easier than
being unfair to him, and we've been unfair to him. It's not
our job to punish him, and no one has to: he has punished
RUDIN
147
himself a lot more harshly than he's deserved. . . . And God
grant that his misfortunes purge him of everything bad and
leave only the beautiful in him! I drink to Rudin's health!
I drink to the health of my friend of my best years. I drink
to youth, to its hopes, its ambitions, its trustfulness and hon-
esty, everything that at twenty made our hearts pound, and
than which we still have never seen and in life never will see
anything better. . I drink to you, golden age. I drink to
Rudin's health!"
Everyone clinked glasses with Lezhniov. Basistov in his
excitement almost broke his, and drained it in one gulp.
Aleksandra Pavlovna pressed Lezhniov's hand.
"Mikhailo Mikhailych, I never suspected you were so elo-
quent," Pigasov remarked, "the equal of Mr. Rudin himself;
it cut right through even me."
"I'm not eloquent at all," Lezhniov objected, with some
irritation, “and I think it would be tough to cut through you.
However, that's enough about Rudin; let's talk about some-
thing else. What-what's his name, now? Is Pandalevski still
living at Daria Mikhailovna's?” he asked, turning to Basistov.
"Still there, yes indeed! She's wangled him a very good job."
Lezhniov smiled. "That one won't die in poverty, I can
promise you that.”
Supper was over. The guests departed. Left alone with her
husband, Aleksandra Pavlovna smilingly looked straight at
him.
"How fine you were today, Misha!" she said, brushing his
forehead with her hand. "How intelligently and nobly you
spoke! But confess you got a little carried away in Rudin's
favor, as before you were carried away against him.'
"
"You don't hit a man when he's down. And I used to be
afraid once that he'd turn your head."
"No," Aleksandra Pavlovna replied artlessly, "he always
seemed to me too intelligent; I was afraid of him and didn't
know what to say in his presence. But Pigasov made fun of
him today rather spitefully, don't you think?”
"Pigasov?" said Lezhniov. "That's exactly why I came out
for Rudin so fervently, because Pigasov was here. He dares
call Rudin a sponger! As I see it, his role, Pigasov's role,
is a hundred times worse. He has an independent income,
he makes fun of everything, and how he plays up to the nobil-
ity and the rich! Do you know that this Pigasov, who curses
everything and everybody so spitefully, and attacks philosophy
and women-do you know that when he was working in the
148
IVAN TURGENEV
1
government he took bribes, yes, indeed! Ah, indeed he did!"
"Really?" exclaimed Aleksandra Pavlovna. “I'd never have
expected it! . . . Listen, Misha,” she added, after a pause,
"what I want to ask you is-"
"What?"
"What do you think? Will my brother be happy with
Natalia?"
"How shall I put it? All the chances are for it. She'll be the
boss-there's no point in hiding this from ourselves—she's
smarter than he; but he's a fine man and loves her sincerely.
What more do you want? Why, look, we love each other and
are happy, aren't we?”
Aleksandra Pavlovna smiled and pressed Mikhailo Mik-
hailych's hand.
On that day when everything we have told about was
taking place in Aleksandra Pavlovna's house, a rather poor,
bast kibitka,* hitched to a troika of local horses, was moving
slowly along a main road in the heat of the day in one of the
remote provinces of Russia. A little grey-haired peasant in an
old, torn cloth coat was sitting up on the coachman's seat,
his legs stuck slantwise against the swingletree, continually
yanking the rope reins, and flicking his little whip; and in the
kibitka itself, on an old, almost empty suitcase, sat a tall man
in a peak-cap and an old dust-covered cape. This was Rudin.
He was sitting there hanging his head, with the vizor of his
cap pulled down over his eyes. The uneven jolts of the kibitka
tossed him from side to side; he seemed completely insensible,
as if dozing. At last, he straightened up.
"When do we get to the station?" he asked the peasant
sitting on the coachman's seat.
“Why, now, sir," the peasant began, and yanked the reins
still harder, “as soon as we get up the rise, there's some two
versts left, no more. .. Look out, you! . . . I'll teach you to
look out," he added in a reedy voice, starting to whip the
right-hand horse.
"You drive pretty badly, I think," Rudin commented.
"We've been going since morning, and can't ever make it.
You might at least sing something.”
"But what can you do, sir! The horses, you see yourself,
are overdriven. . . . It's hot again. And we can't sing, we're no
coachman. You sheep, hey, sheep!" cried the peasant
A Russian cart of wood fibre.
?
RUDIN
149
suddenly, turning to a passer-by in an old brown smock and
tattered bast shoes. "Get out of the way, you sheep."
"Look you-a coachman!" the passer-by muttered after him
and stopped. "You Moscow chip!" he added in a voice filled
with reproach, shook his head, and went bobbing on.
"Where are you going?" the peasant spoke up haltingly,
yanking on the shaft-horse. “Ah, you devil! Really, a devil...'
The worn-out horses somehow finally dragged themselves to
the yard of the station. Rudin climbed out of the kibitka, paid
the peasant (who did not bow to thank him, and turned the
money over and over in his palm for a long time-meaning
there was little left for vodka), and carried his suitcase into
the waiting room.
"
A man I know, who in his time traveled much around
Russia, made the observation that, if in the waiting room
there are pictures on the walls showing scenes from "The
Prisoner of the Caucasus" or of Russian generals, then you can
get horses quickly; but if the pictures portray the life of the
famous gambler Georges de Germanie, then the traveler can't
hope for a quick departure: he'll have plenty of time to
admire the tightly curled tuft of hair, the white open-breasted
vest, and the extremely narrow, short trousers of the gambler
in his youth, his frenzied physiognomy when, already an old
man, swinging a chair high over his head, he murders his
son in a ramshackle hut with a steep roof. In the room which
Rudin entered there hung precisely these pictures from
"Thirty Years, or A Gambler's Life." The stationmaster came
in response to his shout, sleepy (by the way, has anyone ever
seen a stationmaster who wasn't sleepy?) and, without even
waiting for Rudin's question, announced in a dull voice that
there were no horses.
"How can you say there are no horses?" Rudin said, “when
you don't even know where I'm going? I came here by local
horses."
"We haven't got horses for any place,” replied the station-
master. "Where are you going?"
"To --sk.”
"No horses," the stationmaster repeated, and went out.
Rudin, annoyed, went over to the window and threw his
cap on the table. He had not changed much in the last two
years but had grown sallow; silver threads showed here and
there in his curly hair, and his eyes, still wonderful, seemed
to have dulled a little; fine wrinkles, the traces of bitter and
anxious emotions, lay around his mouth, on his cheeks, at his
150
IVAN TURGENEV
temples. The clothing he wore was threadbare and old, and
nothing washable showed at all. The time of his flowering,
evidently, had passed: as gardeners say, he had gone to seed.
He started reading the inscriptions on the walls-the well-
known pastime of bored travelers. Suddenly the door
squeaked, and the stationmaster came in.
“There are no horses for --sk, and won't be for a long
time," he said, "but there are some going back to
-ov.”
"To --ov?" said Rudin. "For the love of mercy! It's not
on my way at all. I'm going to Penza, and -ov lies, I
think, in the direction of Tambov."
"So what? You can go on from Tambov, or somehow turn
off from
>>
-ov.
Rudin thought a moment.
"Well, all right!" he said finally. "Tell them to harness up.
It makes no difference to me, I'll go to Tambov."
The horses were soon ready. Rudin carried his little suit-
case out, climbed into the cart, sat down, and hung his head
as before. There was something helpless and sadly submissive
about his hunched-over figure. . . And the troika made its
way along at a leisurely trot, jerkily jingling its bells.
EPILOGUE
A few more years went by.
It was a cold autumn day. A traveling barouche drove up
to the entrance porch of the chief hotel of the provincial town
of S--; out of it, stretching himself a bit and slightly moan-
ing, clambered a gentleman, not yet elderly but already
having managed to acquire that fullness of figure which people
are accustomed to term respectable. Mounting the stairs to the
second floor, he stopped at the entrance to a wide corridor
and, seeing no one in front of him, in a loud voice called out
for a room. A door banged somewhere, a lanky servant
jumped out from behind a low screen and led the way in a
nimbly rolling gait, his glossy back and tucked-in sleeves
flashing in the semi-darkness of the corridor.
Having entered the room, the traveler immediately threw
off his overcoat and scarf, sat down on the sofa and, putting
his fists on his knees, first looked around, as if still half asleep,
then asked to have his own servant called. The lackey made
an evasive gesture and disappeared. This traveler was none
RUDIN
151
other than Lezhniov. The recruitment had called him up from
his place to S-—.
Lezhniov's servant, a young, curly-headed, red-cheeked
fellow in a grey overcoat tied around with a light blue sash
and soft felt boots, came into the room.
"Well, here we are, my boy, we made it," said Lezhniov,
"and you kept being afraid the tire would bounce off the
wheel."
"We made it," responded the servant, trying to smile
through the turned-up collar of his overcoat, "but why that
tire didn't bounce off, now...
"Is nobody here?” a voice rang out in the corridor.
Lezhniov shuddered and began to listen.
"Hey! Who's there?" the voice repeated.
Lezhniov got up, went over to the door, and quickly opened
it.
In front of him stood a tall man almost completely grey
and hunched over, in an old velveteen frock-coat with bronze
buttons. Lezhniov recognized him at once.
"Rudin!" he exclaimed with emotion.
"
Rudin turned. He could not make out Lezhniov's features
as the latter stood with his back to the light, and he looked
at him, puzzled.
"You don't recognize me?” Lezhniov began.
"Mikhailo Mikhailych!" exclaimed Rudin and put out his
hand, but became embarrassed and was about to draw it back.
Lezhniov quickly shook it with both of his. "Come in, come
into my room!" he said to Rudin, and led him into his room.
"How you've changed!" said Lezhniov, having been silent
a moment, and involuntarily dropping his voice.
"Yes, I'm told so,” replied Rudin, his eyes wandering over
the room. "The years.
But you now-you are just the same.
your wife?"
How is Aleksandra ..
"Thank you, fine. But what brings you here?”
"Me? It's a long story. Actually, I came here by chance. I
•
•
was looking for a friend. However, I'm very glad. .
"Where are you going to eat dinner?”
"Me? I don't know. In some inn. I have to leave here today.”
"Have to?"
Rudin smiled significantly.
"Yes, have to. I'm being sent to my estate, to stay."
"Have dinner with me.
Rudin for the first time looked straight into Lezhniov's eyes.
"You're inviting me to have dinner with you?" he said.
t
152
IVAN TURGENEV
!
"Yes, Rudin, as we used to, as friends. Will you? I didn't
expect to run into you, and God knows when we'll meet again.
We can't part just like this!”
"Very well, I accept."
Lezhniov shook Rudin's hand. He called the servant,
ordered dinner, and had a bottle of champagne put on ice.
During dinner Lezhniov and Rudin, as if by agreement,
talked all the time about their student days, recalled many
things and people-dead and living. At first Rudin talked
reluctantly, but he drank several glasses of wine and his blood
warmed up. Finally, the lackey carried the last dish out.
Lezhniov got up, locked the door, and, returning to the table,
sat down directly opposite Rudin and gently rested his chin
on both hands.
"Well, now," he said, "tell me everything that's happened
to you since I last saw you."
Rudin looked up at Lezhniov.
"My God!" thought Lezhniov again, "how he's changed,
poor man!”
Rudin's features had changed little, especially since that
time when we saw him at the station, although the imprint of
approaching old age already lay on them; but their expression
had become different. His eyes had a different look; in his
whole being, in his movements-sometimes slow, sometimes
disconnectedly abrupt-in his chilled and, as it were, broken
speech, a final weariness told, a mysterious and gentle melan-
choly, far different from that half-feigned sadness which he
used to flaunt, as youth generally flaunts it when filled with
hope and confident pride.
"Tell you everything that's happened to me?" he began.
"I can't tell everything, and it isn't worth it. . . . I suffered a
lot, kicked around-not just physically-spiritually, too. My
God, in what and whom I haven't been disillusioned! The
people I've come in contact with! Yes, the people!" repeated
Rudin, noticing that Lezhniov was staring at him with special
sympathy. "How many times has what I myself said become
repugnant to me-I'm not talking now about what came from
my own lips but from those of people who shared my opin-
ions! How many times I've gone from the impatience, from
the irritability of a child, to the obtuse insensibility of a horse
which no longer even twitches its tail when it's beaten with a
whip.. How many times I was delighted, filled with hope,
hated, and falsely humbled myself! How many times I flew
out like a falcon-and came crawling back like a snail whose
RUDIN
153
shell has been smashed! Where haven't I been, what roads
haven't I covered! . . . And the roads are muddy," Rudin
added, and slightly turned away. "You know-” he continued.
"Listen," Lezhniov interrupted, “once we used to thee-and-
thou each other. . . . You want to? Let's revive the old times.
Let's drink to thee!”
Rudin started, raised himself a little, and something flashed
in his eyes which words cannot express.
"Let's," he said. "Thank you, my friend, let's."
Lezhniov and Rudin each drank a glass.
"You know," Rudin began again, with a smile and with
emphasis on the word you,* "there's some kind of worm in
me which is gnawing at me and chewing me and won't give
me peace to the very end. It throws me up against people-
they first come under my influence, and then. . .” Rudin waved
his hand in the air.
"Since I left you, I've seen and learned a lot. I began to
live; I took up something new twenty times-and look at me
now!"
"You had no stamina," said Lezhniov, as if to himself.
“As you say, I had no stamina. I never could build any-
thing; indeed, it's hard, old man, to build when there's no
ground under you, when you have to build your own founda-
tion! I won't describe to you all my travels, that is, strictly
speaking, all my failures. I'll give you two or three instances
those instances in my life when it seemed success was
smiling on me, or rather, when I began to have real hope of
success-which isn't at all the same.
•
•
>>
Rudin threw back his grey and already thinning hair with
that same gesture of his hand with which he once used to
throw back his dark, thick curls.
7
"Well, listen," he began. “In Moscow, I met a rather strange
gentleman. He was very rich and owned vast estates; he had
no government job. His chief, his only passion was a love for
science, for science in general. To this day I can't understand
why this passion occurred in him. It suited him like a saddle
on a cow. By great effort he kept himself on the qui vive; he
hardly knew how to talk, just rolled his eyes expressively and
nodded his head sententiously. I've never met anyone, old
man, less gifted and by nature more impoverished then he.
* Rudin and Lezhniov, with a couple of lapses, do revert to "thou." The
“thou”-“you” distinction is, of course, impossible in English except under
very special circumstances. In Russian, it is natural and sometimes, as here,
significant.
154
IVAN TURGENEV
In Smolensk province there are places like that-just sand and
nothing else except some bits of grass which not a living
animal will eat. Nothing came to him-everything slipped
away from him, farther off; and he was already mad about
doing everything the hard way. If it had depended on his
running things, his servants would have eaten with their feet,
really. He worked, wrote, and read indefatigably. He courted
science with a sort of stubborn persistence, with a terrifying
patience; he had enormous pride and an iron will. He lived
alone and was reputed an eccentric. I met him .
well, and
he liked me. I must say, I soon understood him, but his zeal
moved me. Moreover, he had such means, so much good
could be done through him, real good done. . . . I moved into
his place and finally went with him to his country place. My
plans, my friend, were vast: I dreamed of various improve-
ments, innovations. .
• •
"As at Lasunskaia's, remember," commented Lezhniov with
a good-natured smile.
"Not at all! There, I knew inside that nothing would come
of what I said; but here-here a completely different field
opened out before me. I brought along with me some books
on agronomy. To be sure, I hadn't read a single one through
well, so I set to work. At first it didn't go as I'd expected,
but then it seemed to go fine. My new friend was silent all the
time and kept his eyes open; he didn't bother me, that is, to
a certain extent. He took my suggestions and carried them
out, but obstinately, slowly, with secret distrustfulness, and
twisted everything his own way. He valued highly every one
of his own ideas. He'd clamber up on it with difficulty, like
a ladybird up the end of a blade of grass, and sit on it and
sit on it, all the while spreading his wings and getting ready
to fly-and he'd suddenly tumble down, and then crawl up
again. . . . Don't be surprised at all these comparisons: they
were even then surging up in me.
"So I struggled along like that for a couple of years. Things
were going badly, despite all my efforts. I began to get tired,
I was fed up with my friend, started taunting him; he was
smothering me like a feather quilt. His distrustfulness changed
to speechless irritation; a feeling of hostility seized us both;
we could no longer talk about anything. He tried, on the quiet
but incessantly, to show me he wasn't under my influence; my
arrangements either got distorted or altered altogether..
I noticed, at last, that I'd become this mister landowner's
hanger-on in the field of intellectual exercise. It became very
•
RUDIN
155
hard for me to waste my time and strength on nothing, hard
to come to the realization that I had again and again been
disappointed. I knew very well what I was losing by leaving,
but I couldn't cope with myself; and one day, as a result of
a terrible and outrageous scene to which I was a witness and
which showed up my friend to me in too unfavorable a light,
I quarreled with him once and for all and left, discarded the
gentleman-pedant fashioned out of steepe flour, with a touch
of German treacle..
»
"That is, discarded your piece of daily bread," said
Lezhniov, and put both hands on Rudin's shoulder.
"Yes, and found myself once more light and clear, in empty
space. Fly, I said to myself, wherever you want. . . . Ah, let's
drink!"
"To your health," said Lezhniov, and kissed Rudin on the
forehead. "To your health and Pokorski's memory. He
also knew how to stay poor.
""
"There's number one of my travels for you," Rudin began,
a moment later. “Shall I go on?”
"Do, please."
"Ah! Somehow I don't want to talk. I'm tired of talking,
old man.
.. Well, never mind, let it be. Having knocked
around some more in various places-by the way, I could tell
you how I almost became secretary to a well-intentioned
person of high rank, and what came of it all, but that would
take us too far afield. . . . Having knocked around in various
places, I decided to become finally-don't laugh, please-a
businessman, practical. It happened like this: I met a-maybe
you've heard of him-a certain Kurbeev-no?”
"No, I haven't. But, heavens, Rudin, how did it happen
that you, with your intelligence, didn't figure out that it
wasn't your business to become-pardon the pun-a business-
man?"
•
•
•
•
"I know it wasn't, old man; but what was, though? If only
you'd seen Kurbeev! Please don't think of him as some idle
chatterer. I'm told I was eloquent once. Beside him I simply
wasn't anything. This was a man amazingly learned, knowl-
edgeable, with a head for industrial matters and commerce.
The boldest, the most unexpected projects seethed in his
brain. He and I got together and decided to use our abilities
for a socially useful cause.
"For what, may I ask?”
Rudin looked down. "You'll laugh."
"Why? No, I won't.”
156
IVAN TURGENEV
A
“We decided to make a river in K-- province navigable,”
said Rudin with an awkward smile.
"Really! Then this Kurbeev was a financier?”
"He was poorer than I,” replied Rudin, and quietly lowered
his grey head.
Lezhniov burst out laughing, but suddenly stopped and
took Rudin's hand.
"I'm sorry, old man, very," he said, "but I hadn't expected
that at all. Well, so your enterprise remained on paper?"
"Not quite. There was a start made. We hired laborers-
well, and they set in. But then different obstacles came up.
First, the mill-owners didn't at all want to understand us,
and on top of that we couldn't handle the water without a
machine, and there wasn't money for one. We lived in mud
huts for six months. Kurbeev lived on bread alone; I, too,
was underfed. However, I'm not complaining about that: the
country there is magnificent. We struggled and struggled,
persuaded the merchants, wrote letters, circulars. It ended up
by my getting rid of my last grosh* on this project."
"Well," observed Lezhniov, "I bet it wasn't hard to get rid
of your last grosh.”
"Not hard, right."
Rudin glanced out the window.
"But the project, honestly, was all right and could have
brought enormous benefits.
"What's become of this Kurbeev?" Lezhniov asked.
"Him? He's in Siberia now; he's become a gold-mine owner.
And you'll see, he'll make a fortune; he won't lose."
"Maybe; but you, now, certainly won't make a fortune."
"Me? What will I do! However, I know-in your eyes I've
always been a hollow man.
"You? Stop it, old man! There was a time, yes, when I
saw only your dark side; but now, believe me, I've learned
to appreciate you. You won't make a fortune-and I love you
for that... good Lord!"
"
"9
Rudin smiled feebly. "Really?”
"I respect you for it!" said Lezhniov. "Do you understand
me?"
Both were silent.
"Well, on with number three?” asked Rudin.
"Do me the favor."
"As you like. Number three, and the last. I've just gotten
through with this number. I'm not boring you?”
* A half-kopek.
RUDIN
157
"Go on, go on."
"So you see,” Rudin began again, “once, at leisure, I got
the idea-I always had a lot of leisure-I got the idea: I have
a good bit of knowledge, I want to do good. . . . Listen, you
certainly won't deny my desire to do good?”
"Of course not!”
"On all other counts I'd more or less failed-why shouldn't
I become a pedagogue or, speaking simply, a teacher? Rather
than live for nothing.
>>
Rudin stopped and sighed.
“Rather than live for nothing, wouldn't it be better to try
to pass on to others what I know: maybe they'll extract some
good from my knowledge. My abilities, after all, are outstand-
ing, I know the language. So I decided to devote myself
to this new business. It was hard for me to get a place; I
didn't want to give private lessons; in the lower schools there'd
be nothing for me to do. Finally, I succeeded in getting a job
as teacher in the high school here."
"Teacher-of what?" asked Lezhniov.
•
·
"Teacher of Russian literature. Let me tell you, I never
undertook anything with such fervor as I did this. The thought
of having an effect on young people inspired me. I worked
three weeks on composing my opening lecture."
“You don't have it with you?" Lezhniov interrupted.
"No, it got lost some place. It turned out all right, and
people liked it. I see the faces of my listeners as if it were
now-good, young faces with an expression of open-hearted
attention, sympathy, even wonder. I got up in the chair, de-
livered the lecture in a fever; I thought it was long enough
for over an hour, but I'd finished it in twenty minutes. The
inspector was sitting there-a dry old man in silver-rimmed
glasses and a short wig; from time to time he leaned his head
in my direction. When I'd finished and jumped down from the
chair, he said to me: 'All right, sir, only a bit high-flown, a
bit obscure, and not much said about the subject itself.' But
the students' eyes followed with respect-really. That's what's
important to young people! I brought in the second lecture
written out, and the third, too. Then I began to ex-
•
temporize."
"And had success?" asked Lezhniov.
"Huge success. I passed on to my listeners everything that
was in my heart. There were several boys among them who
were really remarkable; the rest understood me badly. How-
ever, I have to admit that even those who understood me
158
IVAN TURGENEV
sometimes embarrassed me by their questions. But I didn't
give up. As for liking me, everybody did; in recitations, I gave
high marks to everyone.
"But then an intrigue was started against me .
・ ・ or no!
there was no intrigue; I'd simply fallen into the wrong en-
vironment. I embarrassed others, and they hounded me. I
lectured to the students in a way they aren't always lectured
to; my listeners got little from my lectures. I know facts
badly myself. Besides, I didn't content myself with the circle
of activities laid out for me-that, you know, is my weakness.
I wanted radical changes and, I swear, these changes were
both practical and easy. I hoped to effect them through the
director, a kind and honest man on whom I'd had some in-
fluence in the beginning. His wife helped me. In my life, old
man, I haven't met many such women. She was almost forty,
but she believed in good, loved everything beautiful, like a
fifteen-year-old girl, and wasn't afraid of expressing her con-
victions in front of anyone. I'll never forget her noble zeal
and purity. On her advice, I was about to write out a plan.
But here I was undermined, slandered in front of her. I was
especially hurt by the mathematics teacher, a little, sharp,
acrimonious man who believed in nothing, rather like Pigasov,
only more practical than he. . . . By the way, how's Pigasov
-alive?"
•
“Alive and, just imagine, married to a middle-class woman
who, they say, beats him."
"Serves him right! And Natalia Alekseevna's well?”
"
"Yes.'
"Happy?"
"Yes.
Rudin fell silent a moment.
"What was I talking about, now? . . . Oh, yes! The math
teacher. He hated me, compared my lectures to fireworks,
seized on every slightly unclear expression as it came out,
once even got me on some sixteenth-century monument-but
the chief thing was he suspected my intentions; my
last soap
bubble landed on him, as if on a pin, and burst. The inspector,
whom I hadn't got on with right from the start, turned the
director against me; there was a scene; I didn't want to give
in, got hot. The whole thing reached the authorities; I was
forced to resign. I didn't stop at that, I wanted to show them
they couldn't do that to me-but they could do what they
wanted to me. Now I have to get out of here."
A silence followed. Both friends sat with their heads down.
RUDIN
159
Rudin spoke first. “Yes, old man," he said, "now I can say
with Koltsov: 'What have you led me to, youth, made me
suffer, that now I've nowhere to go. And, still, have I
really been good for nothing, is there really nothing for me to
do on earth? I often asked myself this question, and no matter
how I tried to debase myself in my own eyes, I couldn't help
but feel inside myself the presence of powers not given to
everyone. Why do these powers remain sterile? And what's
more: remember, when you and I were abroad, I was then
conceited, a fake. Indeed, I then clearly wasn't conscious of
what I wanted, I reveled in words and believed in ghosts; but
now, I swear, I can speak out in front of everybody every-
thing I want. I've absolutely nothing to hide: I'm a com-
pletely, and in the very essence of the word, well-meaning
man; I'm subdued, I want to adapt myself to circumstances,
I want little, I want to reach my immediate goal of doing
even a little insignificant good. But no! It doesn't work! What
does this mean? What prevents me from living and acting
like others? That's all I dream of now. But I'll just manage
to get into a set position, stop at a certain point, and fate
will haul me away from it. . . . I've come to be afraid of it
-my fate. Why is this? Answer me this riddle!”
"Riddle!" repeated Lezhniov. "Yes, that's true. Even for
me you've always been a riddle. Even in our youth, when,
after some trivial sally, you suddenly used to start talking
so, and my heart would shudder, and then you'd begin again.
Well, you know what I mean.
Even then I didn't
understand you: which is why I stopped liking you.
There's so much strength in you, such an untiring aspiration
for the ideal—”
•
•
"
•
"Words, just words! Nothing was done!" Rudin cut in.
"Nothing was done! Things were-
"What things? To feed a blind woman and her whole
family by your own labor, as, you remember, Priazhentsov
did. . . . That's doing something."
"Yes, but a good word is something, too."
Rudin looked at Lezhniov silently and calmly shook his
head.
Lezhniov started to say something and passed his hand.
over his face.
“So, you're going to your country place?" he asked finally.
"I am.
"But do you still have a place left?”
"There's something like it left there. Two serfs and a half.
160
IVAN TURGENEV
There's a corner to die in. Maybe you're thinking this minute:
'Here, too, he couldn't do without turning a phrase!' Turns
of phrase have, indeed, ruined me, consumed me, but I can't
ever get rid of them. But what I said wasn't just a phrase.
These white hairs, old man, these wrinkles, aren't a phrase;
these holes in my elbows aren't a phrase. You always were
severe on me, and you were right; but it's not a question of
severity now, when everything's finished, and there's no oil
in the icon-lamp, and the lamp itself is broken; and, look,
see, now the wick's burning down. . . . Death, old man, must
reconcile at last. . .
>>
Lezhniov jumped up.
"Rudin!" he shouted. "Why do you talk to me like this?
How have I deserved this from you? What kind of judge am
I, and what kind of man would I be if, at the sight of your
hollow cheeks and wrinkles, the word 'phrase' could enter
my head? You want to know what I think of you? All right!
I think: here's a man-with his abilities, what could he not
achieve, what earthly benefits could he not have right now,
if only he'd wanted to! And I find him hungry, without
shelter.
j
•
"I arouse your pity," said Rudin dully.
"No, you're wrong. You fill me with respect-that's what.
Who prevented you from spending years and years at that
landowner's, your friend's, who, I'm absolutely sure, if you'd
only wanted to play up to him, would have made you really
secure? Why couldn't you get on in the high school, why have
you-strange man!-no matter what ideas you've started any-
thing out with, why have you every time without fail ended
up sacrificing your personal advantage, not put your roots
down in bad soil, no matter how fat the land was?”
"I was born a rolling stone," Rudin answered with a de-
spondent grin. "I can't stop.”
"That's true; but you can't stop, not because there's a worm
in you, as you told me at first. It's not a worm that's in you,
not the spirit of idle restiveness-the fire of love for truth is
burning in you, and clearly, despite all your squabbles, it
burns in you stronger than in many who do not even think
themselves egoists and probably call you an intriguer. I'd have
been the first, had I been you, to have made that worm in
me quiet down long ago and make its peace with everything;
but you haven't even become bitterer, and I'm sure that today,
right now, you're ready again to start out on something new,
like a boy."
RUDIN
161
“No, old man, I'm tired now," said Rudin. "I've had
enough."
"Tired! Anyone else would have been dead long ago. You
say death reconciles everything, but life, you think, doesn't?
He who has lived out his time and not become tolerant of
others doesn't deserve tolerance himself. And who can say he
doesn't need tolerance? You've done what you could, fought
while you could. What more do you want? Our paths
parted-"
"You're a completely different man from me," Rudin inter-
rupted with a sigh.
"Our paths parted," Lezhniov went on, "perhaps precisely
because, thanks to my position, cold blood, and other fortunate
circumstances, nothing kept me from being a stay-at-home and
remaining an observer, my arms folded; but you had to go out
into the field, roll up your sleeves, toil, and work. Our paths
parted-but look how close we are to each other. You know
you and I talk practically the same language, understand each
other at barely a hint, grew up on the same sentiments. Now
there are few of us left, old man; you and I are the last of
the Mohicans! We could disagree, even be at war with each
other in the old days when much of life still lay ahead; but
now when the crowd is thinning out around us, when new
generations are going past us toward goals that weren't ours,
we must hold tightly to each other. Let's drink a toast, old
friend and in the old way: Gaudeamus igitur!”
The friends clinked glasses and sang in deeply moved, off-
key, really Russian voices the ancient student song.
"So you're going to your place now," Lezhniov said again.
"I don't think you'll stay on it long, and I can't imagine where
and how you'll end up. But remember: whatever happens to
you, you always have a place, a home, you can come to. That's
my house
you hear me, old man? Thought, too, has its
disabled: there must be shelter for them, also."
•
Rudin got up.
"Thank you, friend," he said. "Thank you! I won't forget
this of you. Only I'm not worth sheltering. I've ruined my
life, and haven't served thought as I ought to have. . .'
"
"Be quiet," Lezhniov continued. "Everybody remains what
nature made him, and you can't ask any more of him! You
called yourself the Wandering Jew. . . . And how do you
know, maybe you have to wander forever, maybe by that
you'll fulfill a higher destiny unknown to you yourself: it's not
without reason the folk-wisdom says that God watches over
162
IVAN TURGENEV
us all. You're going," Lezhniov went on, seeing that Rudin
was getting his cap; "you won't spend the night?"
"I'm on my way! Good-bye. Thanks. . . But I'll end up
badly."
"God knows. . . . You're really going?"
"I am. Good-bye. Think kindly of me.”
<<
And you of me--and don't forget what I told you. Good-
bye...
»
The friends embraced. Rudin went out quickly.
For a long time Lezhniov walked back and forth across the
room. He stopped by the window, thought a moment, said in
a low voice: "Poor man!" and, sitting down at the table,
began writing a letter to his wife.
Outside, the wind rose and started howling with a sinister
sound, striking the jangling panes hard and maliciously. The
long autumn night set in. Lucky is the man who on such
nights sits under his own roof, who has a warm nook.
And may God help all homeless wanderers!
In the noonday heat of June 26, 1848, in Paris, when the
uprising of the “national ateliers" was just about suppressed,
a battalion of troops of the line were capturing a barricade
in one of the narrow alleys of Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Sev-
eral cannon shots had already smashed it; its defenders who
were still alive had abandoned it and were thinking only of
saving themselves, when suddenly on its very top, on the
crushed chassis of an overturned omnibus, there appeared a
tall man in an old frock coat tied round the waist with a red
scarf, and a straw hat on his grey, disheveled hair. He held
a red banner in one hand; in the other, a crooked, dull saber,
and he was shouting something in a strained, thin voice,
scrambling higher and waving his banner and saber. A Vincen-
nes marksman took aim at him-fired. . . . The tall man
dropped the banner-and, like a sack, fell face downwards,
as if bowing down to somebody's feet. The bullet had gone
right through his heart.
"Tiens!" said one of the fleeing insurgents to another, "on
vient de tuer le Polonais.”
“Bigre!” replied the other, and they both dashed into the
cellar of a house all the shutters of which were closed and
the walls pocked with traces of bullets and shot.
That "Polonais" was-Dmitri Rudin.
[1856]
$&{{
}
PREFACE TO First Love
Written in the first three months of 1860, dedicated to
Annenkov and published a few years later in Druzhinin's
magazine The Library for Reading, First Love provoked a
warm response from Flaubert. He wrote Turgenev that all
old romantics should be grateful for such a moving story,
such an exciting figure as Zinaida-so real and ideal at once.
Turgenev himself regarded it as one of his favorites among
his own work and freely admitted its extremely autobio-
graphical nature. In fact, according to all the evidence and
Turgenev's own subsequent correspondence, the story may
be read as virtually "literally true."
From the age given his father in the story and from the
events described, it would seem that the incidents narrated
took place when Turgenev was just about thirteen (he gives
his age as sixteen in the story). The story itself clearly pro-
ceeds from a list of characters, beginning with the triangle
“I, my father, my mother." The affection of both father and
son for the same girl shapes another triangle, imposed on the
first. The outcome of the affair deeply affects the narrator,
who tells the story from the point of view of a middle-aged
man-which, of course, Turgenev was when he wrote it.
The whole story is intimately connected with Turgenev's
own biography. In one letter, he writes that the knife episode
in which the boy was set to kill his rival, is an actual account
of what he himself did because of intense jealousy; in others,
he refers to his hatred of unattractive hands and of the deep
impression women's hands make on him-in the same way the
whip across Zinaida's made such an impression on the young
boy. And, finally, for all his other affairs, both physical and
164
IVAN TURGENEV
Platonic, Turgenev's most lasting attachment was a kind of
self-castigating devotion to Pauline Viardot. The self-effacing,
humiliating, but ecstatic devotion little Voldemar offers Zi-
naida expresses better than letters or commentary the relation
between Turgenev and the famous singer. At the end of his
life, the impossibility of their long "affair" frequently filled
him with despair and fury. He was aware that she had never
cared for him as he had for her. An exquisite hopelessness of
just this sort is the tone of First Love.
FIRST LOVE
(for P. V. Annenkov)
The guests had left long ago. The clock struck twelve-
thirty. Only the host and Sergei Nikolaich and Vladimir
Petrovich remained in the room.
The host rang and ordered the left-overs from supper
cleared away.
"And so, it's decided," he said, sinking back in the arm-
chair and lighting a cigar. "Each of us must tell the story of
his first love. It's your turn, Sergei Nikolaich."
Sergei Nikolaich, a rotund man with a chubby, blond-
bearded face, looked first at his host and then up at the ceil-
ing. “I never had a first love," he said finally; "I began im-
mediately with the second."
"How so?"
"Very simple. I was eighteen when I first flirted with a very
pretty young lady, but I courted her as if the whole thing
wasn't new for me at all-just the way I courted others later.
Strictly speaking, the first-and last-time I fell in love I was
six . . . with my nurse. But that was very long ago. The de-
tails of our relationship are blotted out of my memory, and
even if I remembered them, who would be interested?"
“Well, then,” the host began, "there's not much of interest
in my first love, either: I didn't fall in love with anyone until
I met Anna Ivanovna, my present wife-and it was all smooth
sailing for us. Our fathers arranged our marriage; we very soon
took a liking to each other-and got married without dallying.
My story is told in two words. I must admit, gentlemen, that
in bringing up the question of a first love I was counting on
you, I won't say old-but also, not young-bachelors. You will
entertain us with something, won't you, Vladimir Petrovich?”
2
166
IVAN TURGENEV
"My first love was, actually, somewhat unusual," Vladimir
Petrovich answered with a little hesitation; he was a man of
about forty with black hair turning grey.
"Ah!" the host and Sergei Nikolaich said simultaneously.
"So much the better. Tell it."
"If you want . . . or no, I won't tell it. I'm not an expert
at story-telling; things come out dry and short, or long-winded
and false. But, if you'll let me, I'll write down everything I
remember, in a notebook, and I'll read it to you."
At first the friends did not agree, but Vladimir Petrovich
insisted on having his own way. Two weeks later they met
again, and Vladimir Petrovich kept his promise.
This is what was in his notebook.
I
I was sixteen at the time. It happened in the summer of
1833.
I was living in Moscow with my parents. They had rented
a dacha near the Kaluga Gate across from Neskuchnyi Park.
I was preparing for the university, but I was studying very
little and was in no hurry.
1
Nobody hampered my freedom. I did what I wanted-
especially after I parted with my last French tutor, who had
never been able to get used to the idea that he had fallen
"like a bomb" (comme une bombe) into Russia—and with an
embittered expression on his face used to lie in his bed for
days. My father treated me with indifferent kindness; my
mother paid me almost no attention, although she had no
other children besides me: other cares absorbed her. My
father, a man still young and very handsome, had married
her for her money; she was ten years older than he. My
mother led a sad life; she was continually upset, jealous, angry
--but not in my father's presence. She was very afraid of him,
and he kept himself stern, cold, remote. I've never seen
a man more elegantly composed, self-confident, and tyrannical.
I'll never forget the first weeks I spent at the dacha. The
weather was wonderful. We had left town May 9th, right on
St. Nicholas' Day. I would take walks-sometimes in the
garden of our dacha, sometimes through Neskuchnyi Park,
sometimes beyond the Gate. I'd take some book along, Kaida-
nov's lectures, for example, but I seldom looked through it;
rather, I usually recited verses, for I knew many by heart;
my blood fermented in me--and my heart ached, so sweetly
·
•
FIRST LOVE
167
and ridiculously. I was all the time expecting, and shying away
from something, marveling at everything; and was always
ready. My imagination dallied and flitted quickly around the
same notions-like martins around a church tower at sunset.
I would get lost in thought, grow sad, and even cry; but even
through my tears, even through my sadness, provoked some-
times by a melodious verse, sometimes by the beauty of the
evening, there broke out, like spring grass, the joyful feeling
of young, bubbling life.
I had a horse. I used to saddle it myself and go riding alone
to some place rather far away, used to gallop and imagine
myself a knight in a tourney (how gaily the wind whistled in
my ears!) or, turning my face up to the sky, let its shining
light and its azure fall on my open heart.
I remember, at that time, the figure of a woman-the image
of a woman's love-practically never arose in my mind in
definite shape; but in everything I thought, in everything I
felt, there lay hidden a half-conscious, half-ashamed premoni-
tion of something new, ineffably sweet-feminine.
This premonition, this expectation went through my whole
being; I breathed it, it coursed through my veins in every
drop of blood. It was fated soon to come true.
Our dacha was a wooden manor house with columns and
two low little wings. In the wing on the left a tiny, cheap
wallpaper factory had been set up; I often went there to
watch how a dozen skinny and disheveled boys in greasy
smocks and with hollow faces continually jumped up and
down on the wooden levers that pushed down the quad-
rangular blocks of the press and, in this way, by the weight
of their frail bodies, were squeezing out the motley designs
of the wallpapers. The little wing on the right of the house
stood empty and was up for rent. One day, about three weeks
after May 9th, the shutters on the windows of this little wing
were opened, and women's faces appeared in them; some
family had moved in. I remember, that same day at dinner,
my mother asked the butler who our new neighbors were,
and, hearing the name Princess Zasekina, said first, not with-
out a certain respectfulness, "Ah! a princess," but then added,
“A poor one, I suppose.”
"They came in three cabs, ma'am," the butler remarked,
serving a dish respectfully; "they don't have their own car-
riages-and the furniture is the plainest."
"Of course," my mother retorted, "but still it's better."
My father glanced at her coldly: she fell silent.
N
168
IVAN TURGENEV
L'
Actually, Princess Zasekina could not be a rich woman: the
little wing she had rented was so decrepit, and so small and
low, that people who were even just a bit well-off would not
have agreed to move into it. Anyway, at that time I turned
a deaf ear to all this. The princely title had little effect on
me: I had not long before read Schiller's The Robbers.
II
I had the habit of wandering through our garden every
evening with my rifle and lying in wait for crows. For a long
time I had felt real hatred for these careful, predatory, and
cunning birds. On the day which I've started talking about,
I set out for the garden as usual-and having gone through
all the pathways to no avail (the crows had spotted me and
only cawed sporadically from far off), I happened to come to
the low fence separating our property from the narrow little
string of garden stretching out behind the little wing on the
right and belonging to it. I went on, my head down. Sud-
denly I heard voices. I looked over the fence-and was petri-
fied: I saw a strange sight.
A few steps away from me, in a clearing among green
raspberry bushes, stood a tall, slender girl in a striped pink
dress with a little white kerchief on her head. Four young
men crowded around her, and she was tapping them in turn
on the forehead with those little grey flowers (I don't recall
the name, but children know them well)-those little flowers
which form small sacs, and burst with a crackle when you
strike them on something hard. The young men were offer-
ing their foreheads so eagerly-and in the girl's movements
(I saw her from the side) there was something so enchanting,
so authoritative, so gentle, so mocking and kind, that I almost
cried out in surprise and pleasure; and, I think, I would have
given everything in the world right then and there if only
those lovely little fingers would have struck my forehead too.
My gun slipped to the grass, I forgot everything. My eyes
devoured the slender figure and little neck and beautiful hands
--and the slightly tousled blond hair under the white kerchief
and those half-closed deep eyes and those eyelashes and the
soft cheeks beneath them.
•
"Young man, oh, young man," suddenly somebody's voice
beside me said, "is one allowed to stare so at young ladies one
doesn't know?”
I shuddered all over, I was stupefied. Next to me-on the
FIRST LOVE
169
other side of the fence-there stood a man with short-cut black
hair; he was looking at me ironically. At that very same
moment the girl herself turned toward me. I saw big grey
eyes on a mobile, animated face. This whole face suddenly
quivered, burst into laughter, its white teeth flashed, the eye-
brows were somehow amusingly raised. I blushed all over,
grabbed my gun and, pursued by a ringing, but not malicious,
boisterous laugh, ran to my room, threw myself on my bed,
and covered my face with my hands. The heart in me was
really leaping. I was very ashamed and happy: I felt an un-
known excitement.
Having rested, I combed my hair, cleaned up, and went
down to tea. The image of the young girl went along before
me, my heart stopped jumping, but somehow ached pleas-
antly.
"What's the matter with you?" my father suddenly asked
me. "You killed a crow?”
I was about to tell him everything, but I restrained my-
self-and just smiled inwardly. When I went to bed, I, not
knowing why myself, spun around on one foot three times,
pomaded my hair, lay down-and slept all night like a log.
Before daylight I woke up for a moment, raised my head,
looked around in delight-and again fell asleep.
III
"How can I get to meet them?" was my first thought as
soon as I woke up in the morning. Before breakfast I went
out to the garden, but I didn't go too close to the fence and
didn't see anyone. After breakfast I walked up and down the
street in front of the dacha several times, and I looked at the
windows from a distance.... I seemed to see her face behind
the curtains, and I hurried away faster in fright. "However,
I must get to know them," I thought, walking back and forth
confusedly on the sandy flat piece of ground along Neskuchnyi
Park. "But how? That's the question." I recalled the smallest
details of yesterday's meeting: for some reason I saw clearly
how she had laughed at me. But, while I was all upset
and was figuring out various plans, fate had already had its
conference on me.
•
•
In my absence my mother had received from our new
neighbor a letter on grey paper, sealed with brown wax like
that used only on post-office notices and on the corks of cheap
wine. In this letter, written in ungrammatical language and
170
IVAN TURGENEV
a slovenly hand, the princess asked my mother's patronage.
My mother, according to the princess, was well acquainted
with some important people on whom her fate and her chil-
dren's fate depended, since she was involved in very im-
portant lawsuits. "I turn tyou," she wrote, "as a lady to lady,
and besides Im gladd to tak advantuj of this oportunity." In
ending, she asked Mother for permission to call on her. I
found my mother in an unpleasant frame of mind: Father
wasn't home, and she had no one to talk this over with. Not
to answer "the lady”—a princess besides-was out of the ques-
tion; but how to answer, my mother was at a loss. To write
a note in French seemed inappropriate to her, and Mother
was not very good at Russian spelling (she admitted it her-
self)-and she didn't want to be compromised. She was
delighted with my coming in, and immediately told me to go
over to the princess's and tell her that my mother says she is
always ready to render Her Highness whatever service she
can, and begs her to call about one o'clock. The unexpected,
quick fulfillment of my secret desires both delighted and
frightened me; however, I didn't betray the embarrassment
which had come over me—and, as a preliminary, went off to
my room to put on my newest tie and little coat. (At home I
still went around in a short jacket and turn-down collar,
although I felt very restricted by them.)
IV
In the cramped and untidy vestibule of the little wing,
which I entered trembling hopelessly all over, I was met by
a grey old servant with a dark, copper-colored face, piglike,
sullen little eyes, and deep wrinkles on his forehead and
temples such as I had never seen in my life. He was carrying
the bare skeleton of a herring on a plate-and, kicking the
door shut that led into the next room, he said abruptly: "What
do you want?”
"Is Princess Zasekina at home?" I asked.
"Vonifati!” a jarring female voice shouted from behind the
door.
The servant turned his back on me without speaking, ex-
posing the terribly frayed back of his livery-with a solitary,
rusty, heraldic button-and went off, having put the plate on
the floor.
"Did you go to the police station?" the same female voice
asked. The steward mumbled something. "What? Somebody's
FIRST LOVE
171
come?" the voice said. "The young man next door! Well, ask
him in."
"Please, come into the living room, sir," the servant said,
having reappeared in front of me—and picking the plate up
off the floor. I straightened my coat and went into the “living
room."
I found myself in a small and rather untidy room with
meager, seemingly hastily placed furniture. By the window, in
a chair with a broken arm, sat a woman of about fifty, bare-
headed and homely, in an old green dress and with a gray
worsted kerchief around her neck. Her little black eyes were
fixed on me.
I went over to her and bowed.
"Have I the honor of speaking to Princess Zasekina?”
"I'm Princess Zasekina; and you're Mr. V's son?"
"That's right, ma'am. I've come with a message from my
mother."
"Sit down, please. Vonifati! Where are my keys, did you
see them?"
I told the princess my mother's answer to her note. She
heard me out, tapping her fat red fingers on the window sill,
and, when I had finished, stared at me again.
"Fine; I certainly will," she said finally. “And how young
you still are! How old are you, if I may ask?”
"Sixteen," I answered with an involuntary stammer.
The princess took some dirty pieces of paper, all written on,
out of her pocket, put them right up against her nose and
started sorting them.
“A good age,” she suddenly said, turning around and fidget-
ing in her chair. "And, please, don't be formal. I live very
simply."
"Too simply," I thought, with involuntary disgust looking
her unattractive figure up and down.
At that moment the other living room door was flung open
and the girl I had seen in the garden the evening before
appeared in the doorway. She raised her hand-and an ironic
smile flitted across her face.
"And here's my daughter," the princess said, pointing to
her with her elbow. "Zinochka, the son of our neighbor Mr.
V. What's your name, if I may ask?”
“Vladimir,” I answered, standing up and stammering from
nervousness.
"And your patronymic?"
"Petrovich."
172
IVAN TURGENEV
"Fine. I used to know a police chief. He was Vladimir
Petrovich too. Vonifati! Don't look for the keys! They are in
my pocket."
The young girl kept on looking at me with the same ironic
smile, squinting a little and tilting her head a little to one side.
"I've already seen Monsieur Voldemar," she began. (The
silvery sound of her voice ran through me like a sweet shiver.)
"May I call you that?”
"Please," I mumbled.
"Where was that?" the Princess asked.
The young princess did not answer her mother.
66
'Are you busy now?" she asked, not taking her eyes off me.
"Not at all."
"Do you want to help me wind some wool? Come this way,
to my room.”
She nodded to me and went out of the living room. I set
out after her.
In her room the furniture was a little better and was ar-
ranged with more taste. Besides, at that moment I could
hardly see anything: I moved as in a dream-and felt a kind
of intense, almost foolish, well-being all over.
The young princess sat down, got her bundle of red wool,
and, motioning to me to sit down in the chair opposite her,
carefully undid the bundle and put it on my hands. She did
all this without talking, with a sort of amusing slowness, and
with that same bright and cunning smile on her barely parted
lips. She began winding the wool onto a folded card and
suddenly looked at me with such a bright, quick glance that
I involuntarily looked down. When her eyes, usually half-
closed, opened up wide, her face completely changed-as if
light were spilling over it.
"What did you think of me yesterday, Monsieur Voldemar?"
she asked, a little later. "Probably you criticized me?”
"I ... Princess . . . I didn't think a thing. How could I-”
I answered in embarrassment.
"Listen," she said. "You don't know me yet. I'm very
strange; I want to be told the truth always. You're sixteen,
I heard; and I'm twenty-one. You see I'm much older than
you, and therefore you must always tell me the truth-and
obey me," she added. "Look at me-why don't you look at
me?"
I grew even more confused; however, I looked up at her.
She smiled, only not with that earlier smile, but with a dif-
ferent, approving one. "Look at me," she repeated, tenderly
{
FIRST LOVE
173
lowering her voice; "it's not unpleasant for me. I like your
face; I have a feeling that we'll be friends. But do you like
me?" she added slyly.
"Princess. . ." I began.
"First of all, call me Zinaida Aleksandrovna, and secondly,
what sort of habit is it for children"-she corrected herself-
"for young people not to say what they feel? It's all right for
grown-ups. You know you like me, don't you?"
Although it was very pleasant for me that she talked to me
so candidly, I was still a little hurt. I wanted to show her that
she wasn't dealing with a boy and, having assumed as best
I could a worldly and serious expression, said: “Of course, I
like you very much, Zinaida Aleksandrovna; I don't want to
hide it."
She slowly shook her head. "Do you have a tutor?” she
asked suddenly.
"No, I haven't had a tutor for a long time."
I was lying: less than a month had gone by since I had
parted with my Frenchman.
"Oh! Indeed! I see-you're completely grown up.”
She tapped me lightly on my fingers. "Hold your hands
straight!" And she diligently set to winding the ball.
I took advantage of the fact that she didn't raise her eyes,
and began looking her up and down, at first furtively, then
more and more boldly. Her face seemed to me even more
charming than the evening before: everything in it was fine,
intelligent, and kind. She sat with her back to a window hung
with a white blind; a ray of sunlight, falling through the blind,
covered her fluffy, golden hair, her virginal neck, sloping
shoulders and tender, tranquil breast with a soft light. I looked
at her-and how dear and how close she became to me! It
seemed to me that I had known her for a long time—and that,
before her, I had known nothing and had not lived.... She had
on a darkish, faded dress with an apron; I think I would have
gladly caressed every pleat of that dress and that apron. The
tips of her shoes looked out from under her dress; I would
have bent down to those shoes in adoration. And here I'm
sitting in front of her, I thought: I have really met her-my
God, what happiness! I almost jumped up out of the chair
from excitement, but I only dangled my feet a little, like a
child in delight.
I felt fine, like a fish in water-and I would have stayed in
that room forever-would not have left that place.
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IVAN TURGENEV
She raised her eyelids calmly-again her bright eyes shone
caressingly before me, and she smiled again.
"How you look at me!" she said slowly, and shook her
finger at me.
I blushed. “She understands everything, she sees every-
thing," flashed through my head. "How could she not under-
stand and see everything!"
Suddenly something made a noise in the next room-a
saber clanked.
"Zina!" the princess called out from the living room.
"Belovzorov has brought you a kitten."
"A kitten!" Zinaida exclaimed and, jumping out of her chair
in a rush, she threw the ball in my lap and ran out.
I, too, got up and, having put the hank of wool and the
ball on the window sill, went into the living room and stopped
in bewilderment: A striped kitten lay in the middle of the
room, its paws spread wide; Zinaida was kneeling in front of
it and carefully lifting its face up. Beside the old princess,
covering almost the whole wall space between the windows,
stood a blond, curly-haired young hussar with a rosy face and
bulging eyes.
"It's so funny!" Zinaida was saying. "And its eyes aren't
grey, but green, and the ears are so big! Thank you, Viktor
Egorych! You're very kind!"
The hussar, whom I recognized as one of the young people
I had seen the evening before, smiled and bowed; as he did
so he clicked his spurs and clanked the little rings of his saber.
"Yesterday you were pleased to say that you wanted a
striped kitten with big ears-so I got it. Your word is my law."
And he bowed again.
The kitten mewed feebly and began to sniff the floor.
"It's hungry!" Zinaida exclaimed. "Vonifati, Sonia! Bring
some milk."
The maid, in an old yellow dress and with a faded kerchief
around her neck, came in with a saucer of milk in her hand
and put it down in front of the kitten. The kitten shivered,
blinked, and began lapping.
"What a rosy little tongue it has!” Zinaida observed, bend-
ing her head down almost to the floor and looking at it from
the side under its very nose.
The kitten had all it wanted and began to purr, mincingly
moving its paws. Zinaida got up and, turning to the maid, said
with indifference, "Take it out."
"For the kitten, your hand," said the hussar, grinning and
FIRST LOVE
175
jerking his whole mighty body, held tightly in his new uni-
form.
"Both," Zinaida said, and held her hands out to him. While
he kissed them, she looked at me over his shoulder.
I stood motionless and didn't know whether to laugh or
not, whether to say something or to be silent. Suddenly,
through the open door to the hallway, I caught sight of our
valet Fyodor. He was making signs to me. Automatically I
went out to him.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Your mother sent for you," he said in a whisper. “She's
cross that you haven't come back with an answer."
“Have I been here long?"
"Over an hour."
"Over an hour!" I repeated involuntarily, and, having re-
turned to the living room, began to say good-bye, and click
my heels.
"Where are you going?" the young princess asked me,
glancing up from behind the hussar.
"I have to go home. So, I'll tell her,” I added, turning to
the old woman, "that you'll call on us at two o'clock."
"Do tell her, young man.'
The princess hastily reached for her snuffbox and took a
pinch so loudly that I winced. "Do tell her," she repeated,
blinking tearfully and clearing her throat.
I bowed once again, turned, and went out of the room with
that feeling of awkwardness in my back which a very young
man feels when he knows that he is being watched from
behind.
""
"Be sure, Monsieur Voldemar, to come and see us,” Zinaida
called, and again burst out laughing.
"Why is she always laughing?" I thought, going home
accompanied by Fyodor, who didn't speak to me at all, but
moved along behind me disapprovingly. Mother scolded me,
and was surprised: what could I have been doing so long at
the princess's? I didn't answer her, and went off to my room.
I suddenly felt very sad. I tried hard to cry . I was jeal-
ous of the hussar!
V
The princess, as she had promised, called on Mother-and
Mother didn't like her. I wasn't present at their meeting, but
at dinner Mother told my father that this Princess Zasekina
176
IVAN TURGENEV
seemed to her une femme très vulgaire, that she was very
much fed up with her pleas to intercede for her with Prince
Sergei, that she was involved in some sort of litigation and
business dealings-des vilaines affaires d'argent-and that she
must be a colossal intriguer. Mother added, however, that
she had invited the princess and her daughter to dinner the
next day (having heard the phrase "and her daughter," I
buried my nose in my plate), because, after all, she was our
neighbor-and with a name. In response to this my father
informed Mother that he now remembered who this woman
was: that when he was young he had known the late Prince
Zasekin, a man excellently educated but empty-minded and
cantankerous; that in society he was called "le Parisien,” on
account of his long residence in Paris; that he was very rich,
but lost all his fortune; "and for some unknown reason,
maybe even for money-however, he could have chosen bet-
ter," my father added and smiled coldly-"married the daugh-
ter of some clerk, and, having married, began speculating-
and ruined himself completely."
"Let's hope she won't ask to borrow money," Mother
observed.
"Possibly she will," my father said calmly. "Does she speak
French?”
"Very badly."
"Hm. However, it doesn't matter. I think you told me you
invited her daughter too; somebody assured me that she's a
very sweet and educåted girl.”
"Ah! Then she doesn't take after the mother."
"Nor the father," said my father. "He was educated, too-
but stupid."
Mother sighed and became lost in thought. My father fell
silent. I felt very awkward throughout this conversation.
After dinner I went out into the garden, but without my
gun. I had just about sworn to myself not to go over to the
"Zasekin garden," but an irresistible force lured me there-
and not for nothing. I hadn't even come close to the fence
when I caught sight of Zinaida. This time she was alone. She
held a little book in her hands and was walking slowly along
the path. She didn't notice me.
I almost let her go by, but suddenly changed my mind and
coughed.
She turned around but didn't stop. She brushed back the
wide blue ribbon of her round straw hat with her hand,
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177
looked at me, calmly smiled, and again turned back to her
book.
I took off my cap and, having hesitated a little where I
stood, walked away with a heavy heart. "Que suis je pour
elle?" I thought, (God knows why) in French.
I heard familiar footsteps behind me: I looked around—my
father was coming toward me in his quick and easy gait.
"Is that the young princess?" he asked me.
"Yes, it is."
“Do you know her?”
"I saw her this morning at her mother's."
My father stopped-and, turning sharply on his heel, went
back. Having caught up with Zinaida, he bowed to her
politely. She greeted him in the same manner, not without
some amazement on her face, and lowered her book. I saw
how she followed him with her eyes. My father always
dressed very elegantly-strikingly yet simply; and he had
never seemed to me more graceful, his grey hat had never sat
more beautifully on his slightly thinning curly hair.
I was about to go over to Zinaida, but she didn't even
glance at me. She raised her book again and moved away.
VI
I spent the whole evening and the following morning in a
sort of despondent numbness. I remember I tried to work,
and took up Kaidanov, but the scattered lines and the pages
of the well-known textbook flashed before me meaninglessly.
Ten times over I read the words: "Julius Caesar was distin-
guished for military courage"-I understood nothing and
dropped the book. Before dinner I again pomaded my hair
and again put on a coat and tie.
"What's this for?" Mother asked. "You're not a student yet,
and God knows if you'll pass the examination. And didn't
you just get your jacket? Don't throw it away."
"Guests are coming," I whispered, almost in despair.
"Nonsense! What sort of guests are they!"
I had to give in. I changed from my coat into the jacket,
but I didn't take off my tie. The princess and her daughter
appeared a half-hour before dinner; the old woman had
thrown a yellow shawl over the green dress which I had
seen, and had put on an old-fashioned cap with fiery-colored
ribbons. She immediately started talking about her debts,
sighed, complained about her poverty, whined, and didn't
178
IVAN TURGENEV
put on "company manners" at all. She snuffed tobacco just
as loudly as ever, turned around and wriggled in her chair
just as freely. It never seemed to occur to her that she was a
princess. Zinaida, on the other hand, was very reserved,
almost haughty, like a real princess. An expression of cold
immobility and arrogance came over her face-I could hardly
recognize her, the way she looked at me, her smile-although
even in this new aspect she seemed to me beautiful. She
had on a light wool dress with a royal-blue design; her hair
fell in long ringlets down along her cheeks, in the English
style; this hairdo went with the cold expression on her face.
My father sat beside her during dinner and, with his own
particular elegant and tranquil courtesy, entertained his neigh-
bor. From time to time he looked at her-and from time to
time she looked at him; but so strangely, almost hostilely.
Their conversation was in French; the pureness of Zinaida's
pronunciation, I remember, surprised me. During dinner, the
princess, as before, letting herself go, ate a good deal, and
praised the meal. Mother obviously found her heavy going,
and replied to her with a sort of sad scorn; my father some-
times frowned very slightly.
Mother didn't like Zinaida, either. "She's a high-stepper,"
she said the next day. "And high about what-avec sa mine
de grisette!"
"Clearly you've never seen a grisette," my father pointed
out to her.
“And thank God!"
“Of course, thank God-only how can you judge them?”
Zinaida paid me absolutely no attention. Soon after dinner
the princess started saying good-bye.
"I'll hope for your support, Maria Nikolayevna and Pyotr
Vasilevich,” she said in a singsong voice to Mother and Father.
"But what can you do! There was a time, but it's gone. And
here I am-an illustrious lady," she added with an unpleasant
laugh, “but where's the honor if there's nothing to eat!”
My father bowed to her respectfully and escorted her to the
door of the vestibule. I stood there in my short jacket and
stared at the floor, as if sentenced to death. Zinaida's treat-
ment of me had crushed me completely. What, then, was
my astonishment when, going by me, she whispered to me
hastily and with the previous tender expression in her eyes,
“Come to our house at eight, do you hear? Without fail...'
I just threw up my hands-but she had already left, having
thrown a white scarf over her head.
1
FIRST LOVE
179
VII
Exactly at eight o'clock, in a frock coat and with my hair
brushed up in front, I entered the vestibule of the little wing
where the princess lived. The old servant looked at me glumly
and reluctantly got up from his bench. Gay voices could be
heard in the living room. I opened the door-and stepped back
in amazement. In the middle of the room, the young princess
stood on a chair, holding a man's hat in front of her; five
men were crowded around the chair. They were trying to
thrust their hands into the hat, but she was raising it higher
and shaking it hard. Having caught sight of me, she cried
out, “Stop, stop! A new guest; we have to give him a slip,
too.” And she jumped lightly down from the chair and took
me by the cuff of my coat. "Come on," she said, “why are
you standing here? Messieurs, allow me to introduce you: this
is Monsieur Voldemar, our neighbor's son. And this," she
added, turning to me and pointing to the guests one by one,
"is Count Malevski, Doctor Lushin, the poet Maidanov, Cap-
tain Nirmatski, retired, and Belovzorov, a hussar, whom you've
seen already. I beg you join together."
I was so embarrassed that I didn't even bow to anyone;
I recognized Doctor Lushin as that same swarthy gentleman
who had so pitilessly put me to shame in the garden; the rest
I didn't know.
"Count!" Zinaida continued, "write out a slip for Monsieur
Voldemar."
"That's unfair," said the count, with a slight Polish accent.
He was a very handsome and modishly dressed dark-haired
man, with expressive brown eyes, a thin white little nose and
an elegant little moustache over a tiny mouth. “He didn't
play forfeits with us.
>>
"Unfair," echoed Belovzorov and the gentleman called the
retired captain, a man of about forty, pockmarked to the point
of deformity, as curly-haired as a Negro, round-shouldered,
bowlegged, and dressed in an unbuttoned military coat with-
out epaulettes.
"Write out a slip, as you were told," the young princess
repeated. "What sort of rebellion is this? Monsieur Voldemar
has joined us for the first time, and today the rules don't apply
to him. There's no point in grumbling, write it out; that's how
I want it."
The count shrugged his shoulders; but, bowing his head
180
IVAN TURGENEV
obediently, he picked up a pen in his white hand adorned
with rings, tore off a scrap of paper, and began writing on it.
"At least let me explain to Mr. Voldemar what it's all
about," Lushin began in a mocking voice, "for he's completely
lost. You see, young man, we're playing forfeits; the princess
has to pay the penalty-and the one who pulls out the lucky
slip has the right of kissing her hand. . . . Did you understand
what I told you?”
I merely looked at him and continued standing there as if
dazed, but the princess again jumped up on the chair and
again began shaking the hat. Everyone reached out toward
her-I with the others.
“Maidanov,” said the princess to a tall young man with a
lean face, little dead eyes, and extraordinarily long, black
hair, "you, as a poet, must be magnanimous and give up your
slip to Monsieur Voldemar, so he'll have two chances instead
of one.
>>
But Maidanov shook his head and tossed his hair back. I
thrust my hand into the hat after all the rest, took out a slip,
and unfolded it . . . My Lord, what happened inside me when
I saw on it the word: kiss!
"Kiss!" I shouted involuntarily.
"Bravo! He won!" the princess joined in. "How glad I am!"
She got down from the chair and looked into my eyes so
brightly and sweetly that my heart leaped. "And are you
glad?” she asked me.
"Me?" I stammered.
"Sell me your slip," Belovzorov suddenly blurted out beside
my ear. "I'll give you a hundred rubles."
I answered the hussar with such an indignant look that
Zinaida clapped her hands together and Lushin shouted,
"Well done!”
"But," he continued, “as master of ceremonies, I must see
that all the rules are obeyed. Monsieur Voldemar, kneel
down! That's the way we do it."
Zinaida stood in front of me, tilted her head a little to the
side-as if the better to look me over-and grandly extended
me her hand. My eyes became blurred; I meant to kneel down
on one knee but I fell onto both-and I touched Zinaida's
fingers with my lips so awkwardly that I lightly scratched the
end of my nose on her nail.
"Good enough!" cried Lushin, and helped me get up.
The game of forfeits continued. Zinaida had me sit down
beside herself. What penalties she thought up! She suddenly
FIRST LOVE
181
decided, among other things, to be a “statue”—and she chose
as her pedestal the ugly Nirmatski, ordered him to lie flat,
and even to tuck his chin into his chest. The laughter did not
die down for a single moment. All this noise and racket, this
too familiar, almost wild gaiety, these fantastic dealings with
people I had never met before-all went to my head-me, a
solitarily and soberly educated boy brought up in a staid,
noble household. I simply got drunk, as if from wine. I began
to laugh and chatter louder than the others-so that even the
old princess, who had been sitting in the next room with
some clerk from the Iverskie Gate called in for consultation,
came out to look at me. But I felt so happy that I didn't care-
and didn't give a hoot about anybody's gibes or anybody's
sidelong glances.
Zinaida kept on showing preference for me and did not let
me leave her. For one penalty, I had to sit right beside her,
both us under one silk kerchief, and I had to tell her my
secret. I remember how both our heads were suddenly in a
stifling, semi-transparent, fragrant haze, how her eyes shone
near and softly in that haze, and her parted lips breathed
hotly, and her teeth gleamed, and the ends of her hair tickled
and singed me. I kept quiet; she smiled mysteriously and
slyly, and finally whispered to me: "Well?" but I only blushed
and laughed and turned away, and could hardly breathe.
L
Forfeits bored us; we began playing hands-on-the-string.
My God! what ecstasy I felt when, not paying attention, I
got a strong, sharp blow on my fingers-afterwards I tried to
pretend I was staring vacantly, but she teased me and would
not touch my proferred hands!
What else didn't we do in the course of that evening! We
played the piano, too, and sang and danced and pretended we
were gypsies. Nirmatski was dressed up as a bear and given
salted water to drink. Count Malevski showed us different
card tricks and finished up, having shuffled the cards, by
dealing himself a whist hand with all the trumps-for which
Lushin "had the honor of congratulating him." Maidanov
recited excerpts from his poem "The Murderer" (the thing
was in the height of romanticism), which he intended pub-
lishing in a black cover with the letters of the title the color
of blood. The clerk from the Iverskie Gate had his hat stolen
off his knees-and they made him, as ransom, dance a
kazachok. Old Vonifati was decked out in a woman's little
cap, and the young princess put on a man's hat. . . . There
was no end to it. Belovzorov, alone, frowning and annoyed,
182
IVAN TURGENEV
stayed mostly in the corner. Sometimes his eyes became
bloodshot, he grew flushed, and it seemed as if he were right
then and there going to rush at us and scatter us, like chips,
all around. But the young princess would look at him, wag
her finger at him, and he would hide in his corner again.
We finally ran out of energy. The princess was, as she
herself would say, ready for anything-no shouting dismayed
her; but even she felt fatigue and asked for a rest. Supper
was served at midnight and consisted of a piece of old, dry
cheese, and some sort of cold pirozhki with diced ham, which
seeemed to me tastier than any pâté. There was only one
bottle of wine, and a strange one at that: dark, with a dis-
tended neck, and the wine in it tasted of pink coloring;
nobody drank it, though. Tired and happy to exhaustion, I
left the wing. Saying good-bye, Zinaida squeezed my hand
tightly and again smiled enigmatically.
The night brushed heavily and damply against my flushed
face. A storm seemed to be coming up. The black clouds grew
bigger and bigger and crawled across the sky, visibly changing
their smoky outlines. A light air restively shivered in the dark
trees, and somewhere far off beyond the horizon, thunder
growled angrily and hollowly, as if to itself.
I went to my room by way of the back entrance. My valet
was asleep on the floor, and I had to step over him. He woke
up, saw me, and informed me that my mother had become
angry and again had wanted to send someone after me, but
that my father had restrained her. (I never went to bed with-
out saying good night to my mother and without asking her
blessing.) There was nothing to be done about it!
I told my valet that I would undress and get to bed myself—
and blew out the candle. . . But I didn't undress, and I
didn't lie down.
I sat down in a chair and stayed there a long time, as if
enchanted. What I felt was so new and so sweet. I sat
there hardly looking around and not stirring, breathing slowly,
and only from time to time either laughing silently, remember-
ing, or going all cold inside at the thought that I had fallen
in love, that this was it, that this was my love. Zinaida's face
calmly swam in front of me in the dark-swam before me
but not by-her lips still smiled enigmatically, her eyes looked
at me a little from one side, questioningly, thoughtfully, and
tenderly, as at the moment when I left her. Finally I got up,
tiptoed over to my bed, and carefully, without undressing,
•
FIRST LOVE
183
laid my head down on the pillow, as if afraid of alarming by
a sudden movement all that filled me.
I lay down but didn't even close my eyes. Soon I noticed
that some sort of pale reflections were continually falling into
my room. I raised myself up and looked out the window. The
mullions stood out distinctly from the mysteriously, vaguely
whitened panes. A storm, I thought—and indeed, there was a
storm, but it was passing very far away, so that you could not
even hear the thunder; only faint, long, forked lightning was
continually flashing in the sky: it did not flash so much as
it trembled and twitched like the wing of a dying bird. I got
up, went over to the window, and stood there until morning.
The lightning did not stop for a moment; it was, as the
peasants say, a vorobinaya noch.* I looked out at the silent
sandy field, at the dark mass of Neskuchnyi Park, at the yel-
lowish façades of the distant buildings, which also seemed to
quiver at each pale flash. I kept looking-and could not tear
myself away. This silent lightning, this restrained brilliance,
it seemed, was responding to those silent and secret bursts
which were flashing in me, too. It began to get light; the
dawn came in vermilion patches. With the approach of the
sun the lightning grew paler and died down: it quivered less
and less often and finally disappeared, flooded out by the
sobering, certain light of the rising day....
And the lightning in me disappeared too. I felt great
fatigue and peace-but the image of Zinaida continued to
hover, triumphantly, before my mind's eye. Only it itself-
this image-seemed to have been assuaged: like a swan that
has flown up from the marsh grass, it separated itself from the
other unattractive figures around it, and I, falling asleep, clung
to it in parting and trustful adoration....
O, intimate feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and calm of
the heart that has been moved, the languishing joy of the first
tender emotions of love-where are you, where are you?
VIII
The next morning when I went down to breakfast, Mother
scolded me-less, however, than I had expected-and made
me tell her how I had spent the evening before. I answered
her in few words, leaving out many details and trying to give
it all as innocent an appearance as possible.
* A night of continual summer lightning.
184
IVAN TURGENEV
1
"Still, they're not comme il faut," Mother remarked, “and
there's no point in your tagging after them instead of studying
and preparing for your examination."
Since I knew that Mother's concern over what I did would
be limited to these few words, I didn't think I had to protest;
but after breakfast my father took me by the arm, and, having
gone out into the garden with me, made me tell him every-
thing I had seen at the Zasekins'.
My father had a strange influence on me-and our relations
were strange. He hardly bothered about my up-bringing, but
never insulted my feelings; he respected my freedom. He was
even, if I may put it this way, courtous to me-only he did
not let me get close to him. I loved him, I loved to look at
him and admire him; he seemed to me the perfect man-and,
my God, how passionately I would have become attached
to him if I hadn't continually felt his rejecting hand! However,
when he wanted to, he know how to arouse in me, almost
instantaneously, by a word, by a gesture, unlimited confidence
in himself. My heart would open up-I would chat away with
him the way you would with an intelligent friend, with an
indulgent tutor. And then he would just as suddenly leave
me; his hand would again push me away-tenderly and gently,
but push me away.
Sometimes he was in a gay mood-and then he was like a
little boy, ready for horseplay and fun with me (he liked all
violent bodily movement). Once-only once!-he caressed me
with such tenderness I almost cried. But his gaiety, even, and
his tenderness disappeared without a trace-and what had
gone on between us gave me no hope for the future-as if
it all had happened in a dream. Sometimes I would start study-
ing his intelligent, handsome, shining face . . . my heart
would give a shudder, and my whole being would yearn for
him. As if he sensed what was going on in me, he would pat
me on the cheek as he passed-and either go out, or get busy
with something, or suddenly get all stiff, as only he knew
how to, and I would quickly shrink into myself and grow
cold, too. The rare fits of his affection for me were never
provoked by my wordless but obvious supplication; they
always came unexpectedly. Subsequently thinking about my
father's character, I have come to the conclusion that he had
no concern for me—or for family life; he liked something else
and took pleasure in that completely. "Take what you can
yourself, but don't yield to anyone. To belong to yourself—
that's the whole trick in life," he told me once. Another
FIRST LOVE
185
time, in his presence, I, as a young democrat, launched into
a discussion of freedom (that day he was, as I used to call it,
"good"; at such times you could talk to him about anything
you wanted). ... “Freedom,” he repeated, “but do you know
what can give man freedom?”
"What?"
"Will, his own will, and it gives power, too, which is better
than freedom. Know how to desire-and you'll be free, and
you'll be in command."
First of all and most of all, my father desired life . . . and
he lived. Perhaps he had a foreboding that he would not
enjoy "the trick” of life for long: he died at forty-two.
I told my father in detail about my visit to the Zasekins'.
He listened to me half attentively, half absent-mindedly, sit-
ting on a bench and drawing in the sand with the end of his
riding crop. Now and then he chuckled, glanced at me in a
rather bright and amused way-and egged me on with little
questions and retorts. At first I didn't dare even mention
Zinaida's name, but I could not hold back and began to extol
her. My father kept right on chuckling. Then he became
meditative, stretched, and got up.
I remembered that, as he was leaving the house, he had
ordered his horse saddled. He was an excellent rider-and,
long before Mr. Rarey, could tame the wildest horses.
CC
"Am I going with you, Papa?" I asked him.
"No," he answered, and his face took on its usual, indiffer-
ently kind expression. "Go by yourself, if you want; but tell
the coachman I'm not going."
He turned his back on me and went away quickly. I fol-
lowed him with my eyes-he disappeared beyond the gate.
I saw how his hat moved along the fence; he went in to the
Zasekins'.
He stayed at their place somewhat less than an hour, but
then immediately set out for town and returned home only
toward evening.
After dinner, I myself went to the Zasekins'. I found the
old princess alone in the living room. Having caught sight
of me, she scratched her head under her little cap with the
end of a knitting needle and suddenly asked me if I could
copy out just one petition for her.
"I'd be glad to," I replied, and sat down on the edge of a
chair.
"Only be careful, make the letters neat and big," the prin-
186
IVAN TURGENEV
cess said, handing me a soiled sheet of paper. "And couldn't
it be today, my dear?"
"I'll do it today, maʼam.”
The door of the next room was opened just a crack-and
Zinaida's face appeared in the opening-pale, pensive, with
her hair thrown back carelessly. She looked at me with big
cold eyes and quietly shut the door.
"Zinal-oh, Zina!" the old woman said. Zinaida did not
respond. I took the old woman's petition home and sat over
it all evening.
IX
My "passion" dates from that day. I remember I then felt
something like what a man must feel who has taken a job:
I had stopped being simply a young boy; I was a man in
love. I said that my passion dates from that day; I could
add that my sufferings, too, date from that same day. I pined
away in Zinaida's absence: I couldn't concentrate on anything,
nothing went well, and for whole days I thought about her
intensely. I was pining away... but in her presence it was
no easier. I was jealous, I acknowledged my own worthless-
ness, I stupidly sulked-and stupidly fawned on her; and still,
an insuperable force drew me to her-and I stepped across the
threshold of her room every time with an involuntary tremor
of happiness. Zinaida quickly guessed that I had falien in
love with her, and, indeed, I never thought of hiding it. She
was amused at my passion, made a fool of me, petted and
tortured me. It is sweet to be the single source, the despotic
and capricious cause of another's greatest joys and deepest
grief-and in Zinaida's hands I was like soft wax. Besides, it
was not only I who had fallen in love with her: all the men
who visited her house doted on her, and she kept them all
on a leash-at her feet. She was amused by exciting some-
times their hope, sometimes their apprehension, and by twist-
ing them around her little finger as she fancied (she called
this "knocking people together"), but they never even
dreamed of resisting and willingly submitted to her. In all
her essential being, with its great vitality and beauty, there
was some especially fascinating mixture of slyness and care-
lessness, of artificiality and simplicity, of calmness and spor-
tiveness; a subtle, facile charm emanated from all she did or
said, from her every movement; and everything expressed her
peculiar, playful power. Her face was constantly changing,
*
*
FIRST LOVE
187
playing, also; it would express, almost at one and the same
time, mockery, thoughtfulness, passion. The most diverse
feelings, light and flitting, like the shadows of clouds on a
sunny, windy day, ran continually back and forth across her
eyes and lips.
She needed each of her admirers. Belovzorov, whom she
sometimes called "my wild animal" and sometimes simply
"my own," would have willingly thrown himself into fire for
her. Putting no stock in his own intellectual abilities and
other qualities, he kept suggesting that she marry him, hinting
that the rest were merely talking. Maidanov responded to the
poetic strings of her heart: a rather cold man, like almost
all authors, he strenuously assured her, and perhaps even
himself, that he worshiped her, sang of her in never-ending
verses, and read them to her with a sort of unnatural yet
sincere enthusiasm. She both sympathized with him and
lightly made fun of him. She trusted him little and, after
having heard a lot of his outpourings, would make him read
Pushkin, in order, as she put it, to clear the air. Lushin, a
derisive, seemingly cynical doctor, knew her better than the
others-and loved her more than any of them, although he
criticized her behind her back and to her face. She respected
him but did not give in to him-and sometimes, with a par-
ticular, gloating pleasure would make him feel that he, too,
was in her hands. "I'm a flirt, I have no heart, I'm an actress
by nature,” she told him once in my presence. “Well, all
right! So put out your hand, I'll stick a pin in it, and you'll
be ashamed in front of this young man; it will hurt you, but
still you, Mr. Upright Man, will laugh." Lushin flushed,
turned away, bit his lip, but ended up by putting out his
hand. She pricked him, and he indeed began to laugh. . .
and she laughed, thrusting the pin in rather deep and peer-
ing into his eyes, which he was vainly turning from side to
side.
•
I understood the relationship that existed between Zinaida
and Count Malevski least of all. He was good-looking, clever,
and intelligent; but even to me, a sixteen-year-old boy, there
seemed something shady, something false in him, and I was
astounded that Zinaida did not notice it. Perhaps, indeed, she
did and had no aversion to it. Improper upbringing, strange
friendships and habits, the constant presence of her mother,
poverty and disorder in the house-everything, beginning
with the very freedom which the young girl enjoyed, with
her consciousness of her superiority to the people around her,
188
IVAN TURGENEV
had developed a sort of half-contemptuous carelessness and
easy-goingness. No matter what had happened-if Vonifati
came in to announce there was no sugar, if some stupid piece
of gossip came to light, if the guests started arguing-she
would only shake her curls and say: "It's nothing!"—and
think no more about it.
On the other hand, all my blood would boil when Malevski
would go up to her, swaying slyly like a fox, lean elegantly
on the back of her chair, and begin whispering in her ear
with a self-satisfied and ingratiating smile. She would fold her
arms, look at him intently, and smile too, and shake her head.
“How is it that you want to have Mr. Malevski here?” I
asked her once.
"But he has such a pretty little moustache," she replied.
"Besides, that's not in your line.'
"
"You don't think I love him, do you?" she said to me another
time. “No; I can't love people I have to look down on. I need
a man who would tame me. . . . But I hope I never run into
such a man, God willing! I never want to fall into anyone's
clutches, never!"
"Therefore, you'll never love anyone?"
"And you, now? Don't I love you?" she said, and struck my
nose with the tip of her glove.
Yes, Zinaida made fun of me a great deal. In the course
of three weeks I saw her every day-and what she didn't do to
me! She came to our place rarely, and I didn't regret it: in
our house she turned into a young lady, into a young princess
-and I shunned her. I was afraid of giving myself away
in front of Mother; she didn't look on Zinaida favorably at
all and kept a hostile eye on us. I wasn't so afraid of my
father: he seemed not to notice me and talked little to
Zinaida, though when he did, it seemed especially clever and
meaningful. I stopped studying and reading-I even stopped
walking around the neighborhood and going riding. Like a
beetle tethered by a leg, I spun continually around the adored
little wing; I would, I think, have stayed there forever. But
that was impossible, Mother grumbled at me, and sometimes
Zinaida herself chased me away. Then I would lock myself
in my room or go down to the very end of the garden, clamber
up the ruins of a high, stone greenhouse, and, dangling my
legs over the wall facing the road, would sit for hours and
look and look, not seeing anything. Beside me, white butter-
flies fluttered lazily over dust-covered nettles; a pert sparrow
landed nearby on a half-broken red brick and chirped irritably,
FIRST LOVE
189
incessantly turning around and spreading his tail; still sus-
picious crows cawed from time to time, sitting high, high up
on the bare top of a birch; the sun and wind played quietly
in among its sparse branches; the sound of the bells of the
Donskoi Monastery came across the air intermittently, peace-
ful and sad. And I went on sitting, looking, listening-and
became filled with some nameless sensation in which there
was everything: sadness, and joy, and a premonition of the
future, and desire, and the fear of life. But I didn't then
understand any of this, and couldn't have put a name to any
of the things that were fermenting in me-or I would have
called them all by one name-the name of Zinaida.
And Zinaida kept on playing with me, like a cat with a
mouse. Sometimes she would flirt with me-and I would get
excited and melt; and sometimes she would suddenly push
me away-and then I didn't dare get near her, didn't dare
glance at her.
I remember she was very cold to me for several days in a
row. I became completely timid-and apprehensively running
over to the wing to their place, tried to keep near the old
princess, despite the fact that she was shouting and scolding
just at that time. The business with her debts was going
badly, and she had already had two disputes with the district
policeman.
Once I was walking in the garden past that special fence,
and caught sight of Zinaida; leaning back on both arms, she
was sitting on the grass, not moving. I was about to go away
cautiously; but she suddenly raised her head and made a
peremptory sign to me. I froze on the spot: I didn't understand
her at first. She repeated the sign. I immediately jumped
over the fence and joyfully ran toward her; but she stopped
me with a glance and motioned me to the path two steps
from her. In embarrassment, not knowing what to do, I knelt
down on the edge of the path. She was so pale, such bitter
sorrow, such grave fatigue showed in her every feature that
my heart was wrung-and I involuntarily mumbled: "What's
wrong?"
Zinaida stretched out her hand, picked a blade of grass, bit
it, and threw it to one side.
“Do you love me very much?” she asked finally. “Do you?”
I made no reply-indeed, what could I have replied?
"You do,” she said, looking at me as she used to. "It's true.
The same eyes," she added very thoughtfully, and covered
her face with her hands. "I'm sick of it all," she whispered;
.
IVAN TURGENEV
190
"if only I could go to the end of the world. I can't bear this,
can't cope with it. . . . And what's ahead for me? . . . Oh,
I'm miserable my God, how miserable!”
• •
"But why?" I asked timidly.
Zinaida didn't answer me but only shrugged her shoulders.
I continued to kneel and look at her in bleak despondency.
Her every word cut me to the quick. At that moment, it
seemed, I would have willingly given up my life if only she
would not grieve. I looked at her-and though not understand-
ing why she was miserable, I vividly imagined how she
suddenly, in a fit of irrepressible sorrow, had gone out into
the garden and fallen on the ground as if shot. It was bright
and green all around: the wind was rustling in the leaves of
the trees, from time to time shaking a long branch of the
raspberry bush over Zinaida's head. Pigeons were cooing
somewhere, and bees were buzzing, flying low over the thin
grass. Overhead the sky was a gentle blue-but I was so
sad.
•
"Recite some poetry to me," Zinaida said in a low voice,
and leaned on her elbow. “I like it when you recite poetry.
You chant it, but that doesn't matter-it's because you're
young. Recite 'On the Georgian Hills.' Only sit down first.'
I sat down and recited "On the Georgian Hills."
€6
'It cannot help but be in love," " Zinaida repeated. "That's
what's good about poetry: it tells us about what doesn't exist
and what's not only better than what does exist, but even
more like the truth. It cannot help-but be in love'-and
would like to, but cannot!" She fell silent again, and then
suddenly shook herself and got up. "Let's go. Maidanov is
with Mama; he brought me his poem, and I've left him. He's
chagrined now, too... but what can you do! You'll find out
sometime-only don't get angry with me!"
Zinaida hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead. We
went back to the wing. Maidanov started reading us his
just-published "The Murderer," but I didn't listen to him. He
shouted out his iambic tetrameters in a sing-song voice-
the rhymes alternated and rang out like bells, hollowly and
loudly. I kept looking at Zinaida and trying to understand the
meaning of her last words.
"Or, maybe, some clandestine rival
Has won you unexpectedly?"
Maidanov suddenly exclaimed through his nose-and my eyes
and Zinaida's met. She lowered hers and blushed slightly.
FIRST LOVE
191
I noticed the blush and grew cold from fright. I had been
jealous about her before-but only in that moment did the
thought that she had fallen in love flash through my head.
"My God! She's fallen in love!"
X
My real torment set in from that moment. I racked my
brains, pondered, changed my mind and, relentlessly, al-
though as secretly as possible, kept my eye on Zinaida. A
change had occurred in her-that was clear. She went out
walking alone, and walked for a long time. Sometimes she
didn't show up for her guests; for whole hours she would sit
by herself in her room. This hadn't happened with her before.
I had suddenly become-or it seemed to me I had become-
extraordinarily astute. "Is it he, or isn't it?" I kept asking
myself, my mind running anxiously from one to another of her
admirers. Count Malevski (although I was ashamed to admit
it for Zinaida's sake) secretly seemed to me more dangerous
than the rest.
•
My keenness of observation saw no farther than the end of
my nose, and my secrecy, probably, fooled no one. Doctor
Lushin, at least, soon saw through me. Besides, he, too, had
changed lately: he had grown thin; he laughed as often but
somehow more hollowly, more maliciously, and more abruptly
-an involuntary, neurotic irritability replaced his former light
irony and affected cynicism.
"Why do you keep constantly hanging around here, young
man?" he said to me once, left alone with me in the Zasekins'
living room. (The young princess had not yet come back from
a walk, and the shrill voice of the old princess resounded from
the attic-she was having a row with her maid.) “You ought
to be studying, doing your work, while you're young-but you
-what do you do?”
"You can't know whether or not I work at home," I pro-
tested, not without haughtiness, but not without embarrass-
ment either.
"What do you mean, work! That's not what's on your mind.
Well, I won't argue. At your age it's the way things go. But
your choice is hardly apt. Don't you really see what kind of
house this is?"
"I don't understand you," I replied.
"Don't understand? So much the worse for you. I take it as
my duty to warn you. Old bachelors like me can come here:
192
IVAN TURGENEV
what can happen to us? We're a hardened bunch, there's no
way of getting at us; but you've still got tender skin. The air
here is bad for you-believe me, you can get infected."
"How so?"
“Just like that. Are you really well right now? Are you really
normal? Really, is what you feel-useful for you, good for
you?"
“But what do I feel?” I said, though I admitted inside me
that the doctor was right.
“Ah, young man, young man," the doctor went on with an
expression as though there were something terribly shameful
to me in those two words, "how can you be crafty? Because,
still, thank God, what's in your heart is on your face. But
why explain! I wouldn't be coming here myself, if" (the
doctor clenched his feeth) "-if I weren't just such an odd-
ball. Only what surprises me is-how is it that you, with your
intelligence, don't see what's going on around you?"
“But what is going on?" I asked, and became all attention.
The doctor looked at me with a sort of derisive pity.
"I'm a good one myself," he said, as if to himself; "a lot
of need there is to tell him this. In short," he added, raising
his voice, “I repeat: the atmosphere here is not suitable for
you. You like it here-but you don't know the half of it! It
smells nice in a greenhouse, too—but you can't live in it. Now,
listen to me, take up Kaidanov again."
""
The old princess came in and started complaining to the
doctor about a toothache. Then Zinaida appeared.
"Here, doctor," the old princess added, “give her a talk-
ing-to. She drinks ice water all day long. Is this good for her,
with her weak chest?"
"Why do you do it?" Lushin asked.
"But what can happen?”
"What? You can catch a cold and die."
"Really? Is that so? Well, so what?-it would serve me
right."
"That's so," the doctor muttered. The old princess left the
room.
"That's so," Zinaida repeated. "Is life so enjoyable? Look
around you.
Well-is it good? Or do you think I don't
understand this, don't feel it? It gives me pleasure-drinking
ice water. And you can gravely assure me that such a life is
worth not being risked for a moment's pleasure-I'm not
talking about happiness.
"Yes, of course," Lushin remarked, "whim and independ-
•
""
FIRST LOVE
193
ence-these two words completely sum you up. Your whole
nature is in these two words."
Zinaida laughed nervously.
"You've missed the boat, my dear doctor. You observe
badly-you're behind the times. Put your glasses on. I'm not
interested in whims now. To make a fool of you, a fool of
myself-how enjoyable that is; and as for independence. . .
Monsieur Voldemar,” Zinaida suddenly added, and stamped
her foot, "don't pull a long face. I can't stand it when people
feel sorry for me." She went out quickly.
"It's bad, bad for you, the atmosphere here, young man,"
Lushin told me again.
XI
The usual guests collected at the Zasekins' that same eve-
ning; I was among them.
The conversation started off on Maidanov's poem; Zinaida
frankly praised it. "But, you know what?" she said to him.
"If I were a poet, I'd choose different subjects. Maybe it's all
silly, but I sometimes get strange ideas, especially when I'm
lying awake before dawn, when the sky begins to get pink
and grey. For example, I'd You won't laugh at me?”
"No! No!" we all shouted at once.
"I'd describe," she continued, folding her arms and turning
her eyes aside, "a whole company of young girls, at night,
in a big boat-on a quiet stream. The moon's shining, and
they're all in white and in wreaths of white flowers, and
they're singing-you know, something like a hymn.”
“I understand, I understand, go on," said Maidanov mean-
ingfully and dreamily.
"Suddenly, there's an uproar, laughter, torches, tambourines
on the shore. It's a crowd of Bacchantes running, and singing
and shouting. And now it's your job to paint the picture, Mr.
Poet . . . only I want the torches to be red and very smoky,
and the Bacchantes' eyes to shine under their wreaths, but the
wreaths must be dark. Also, don't forget the tiger skins and
the goblets-and the gold, a lot of gold.”
"And where's there supposed to be gold?” Maidanov asked,
tossing his straight hair back and opening his nostrils wide.
"Where? On their shoulders, on their arms, on their legs,
everywhere. They say that in olden times women wore gold
rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes call the girls in the
boat over to them. The girls have stopped singing their hymn-
194
IVAN TURGENEV
they can't go on-but they don't move. The river carries them
to the shore. And suddenly one of them quietly stands up.
This has to be described carefully: how she quietly stands
up in the moonlight and how her friends are frightened.
She has stepped over the side of the boat, the Bacchantes
surround her; they flee into the night, into the darkness. . . .
Now you show clouds of smoke, and everything in confusion.
You can hear only their screams, and her wreath is left on the
shore."
·
Zinaida stopped talking. (Oh! She's fallen in love! crossed
my mind again.)
"And that's all?" Maidanov asked.
"That's all," she replied.
"That can't be the subject of a whole epic," he remarked
pompously, "but I'll use your idea for a little lyric."
"In the romantic style?" Malevski asked.
"Of course, in the romantic style, like Byron."
“But I think Hugo is better than Byron," the young count
said casually; "more interesting."
"Hugo's a first-rate writer,” Maidanov said, “and my friend
Tonkosheyev, in his Spanish novel El Trovador—”
"Oh, is that the book with the upside-down question
marks?" Zinaida interrupted.
"Yes, that's how the Spanish do it. I wanted to say that
Tonkosheyev-”
"Well! You're arguing again about classicism and romanti-
cism,” Zinaida interrupted a second time. "Instead, let's
play_"
"Forfeits?" Lushin cut in.
"No, forfeits is boring; similes.” (Zinaida herself had in-
vented this game: some object was named, everybody tried
to compare it to something else, and the one who chose the
best simile got the prize.) She went over to the window. The
sun had just gone down; long, red clouds hung high in the
sky.
"What are those clouds like?" Zinaida asked, and without
waiting for our response, said: "I find them like those purple
sails on Cleopatra's golden ship when she went to meet
Antony. Remember, Maidanov, you told me about it not long
ago?"
All of us, like Polonius in Hamlet, decided that the clouds
reminded us exactly of those sails and that none of us could
find a better simile.
"And how old was Antony then?” Zinaida asked.
FIRST LOVE
195
"Most likely he was a young man,” Malevski remarked.
"Yes, young," Maidanov confirmed convincingly.
"Excuse me," Lushin exclaimed, "he was over forty."
"Over forty," Zinaida repeated, glancing at him quickly.
I soon went home. "She's fallen in love," my lips involun-
tarily whispered. . . . "But with whom?"
11
XII
Days went by. Zinaida became more and more strange,
more and more incomprehensible. Once I went into her room
and saw her sitting in a wicker chair with her head bent down
against the sharp edge of the table. She straightened up . .
her whole face was covered with tears.
"Oh! It's you!" she said with a cruel and ironic smile.
"Come on over here."
I went over to her: she put her hand on my head and, all
of a sudden, having grabbed my hair, began twisting it.
"That hurts," I finally said.
- Jedné: 3 peorak!
"Oh! That hurts! But doesn't it hurt me? Doesn't it?" she
repeated. "Oh!" she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled out
a little lock of hair. "What have I done? Poor Monsieur
Voldemar.'
"

She carefully smoothed out the plucked-out hair, wound it
around her finger and rolled it into a little ring.
"I'll put your hair in my locket-and I'll wear it,” she said;
and her eyes were still all shiny with tears. “That, maybe, will
comfort you a little . . . and now,
and now, good-bye.”
I went back home and there ran into trouble. Mother and
my father were having it out: she had reproached him for
something, and he, as he usually did, coldly and politely said
nothing-and soon left. I couldn't hear what Mother was
talking about, and besides I didn't care; I remember only
that, at the end of the conversation, she ordered me called
into her study and with great displeasure talked of my fre-
quent visits to the princess, who, according to her, was une
femme capable de tout. I went over and kissed her hand-I
always did this when I wanted to stop a conversation-and
went to my room. Zinaida's tears had completely knocked me
off balance; I had no idea where to start thinking, and was
myself ready to cry: I still was a child, despite being sixteen.
I no longer thought about Malevski, although Belovzorov
became more and more threatening every day and looked at
the shifty count like a wolf at a ram; indeed, I didn't think
196
IVAN TURGENEV
about anything or anyone. I kept getting lost in reflection
and always looked for lonely places. I especially liked the
greenhouse ruins. I would climb up the high wall, sit down,
and stay there such an unhappy, lonely, and sad young boy
that I'd start feeling sorry for myself-and how gratifying
these feelings of grief were for me, how I reveled in them!
Once, as I was sitting on the wall, looking into the dis-
tance and listening to the peal of the bells, something
suddenly passed over me-not a breeze, not a shiver, but
something like a puff, like a sense of somebody's presence.
I looked down. Below, on the road, in a light grey dress,
Zinaida was hurrying along with a pink parasol on her shoul-
ders. She caught sight of me, stopped, and, having raised the
brim of her straw hat, looked up at me with her velvet eyes.
"What are you doing there, up so high?” she asked me
with a rather strange smile. "Here," she went on, “you keep
saying you love me-jump down to me here on the road, if
you really do.”
Zinaida had hardly finished saying this when I was already
flying down as if someone had pushed me from behind. The
wall was about fourteen feet high. I landed on my feet, but
the jolt was so strong that I couldn't control myself; I fell
and, for a moment, passed out. When I came to, not opening
my eyes, I felt Zinaida beside me. “My sweet little boy," she
said, bending over me, and her voice had a tone of anxious
tenderness, "how could you do this, how could you obey . . .
You know I love you . . . get up.'
»
Her breast was heaving close to mine, her hands touched
my head, and suddenly-what happened to me then?-her
soft, pure lips began to cover my whole face with kisses.
they touched my lips. ... But just then Zinaida must have
guessed, by the expression on my face, that I had already
come to, although I still had not opened my eyes—and,
having stood up quickly, she said, "Now get up, you imp, you
madman. What are you lying the dirt for?” I got up.
"Hand me my parasol," said Zinaida; "look where I threw
it! And don't stare at me like that... how stupid! You didn't
get hurt? Just stung by the nettles, I imagine. Don't look at
me, I told you. Why, he doesn't understand a thing,
doesn't answer at all," she added, as if to herself. “Go on
home, Monsieur Voldemar, clean up-and don't dare follow
me or I'll get cross, and never again.
She didn't finish what she was saying but walked off
quickly and I sat down the road. My legs wouldn't hold me.
FIRST LOVE
197
The nettles had stung my hands, my back ached, and my
head was spinning-but the feeling of bliss which I experi-
enced then never occurred again in my life. It lay like a
sweet pain throughout my whole body and ended in excited
jumping up and down and shouting. Yes, indeed, I was still
a child.
XIII
as
I was so proud and cheerful that whole day, I kept on my
face the feeling of Zinaida's kisses so vividly-I remembered
her every word with such a shiver of delight-I so cherished
my unexpected happiness-that I became terrified, I didn't
even want to see her, the one who was the cause of these new
sensations. It seemed to me that there was nothing more to
ask of fate-that now it was time "to collect myself, take a
last deep breath, and die." However, on the next day, setting
out for the wing, I felt great embarrassment, which I vainly
tried to hide behind a mask of unpretentious familiarity,
becoming in a man who wants to show that he knows how
to keep a secret. Zinaida received me very simply, without
any excitement-just shook her finger at me and asked if I
didn't have some black-and-blue spots. All my unpretentious
familiarity and secretiveness disappeared in a second, and
along with them, my embarrassment. Of course, I didn't
expect anything special, but Zinaida's calmness was like a
bucket of cold water on me. I understood that in her eyes I
was a child-and I felt very miserable! Zinaida walked back
and forth in the room, smiling curtly each time she glanced
at me--but her thoughts were far away; I saw that clearly.
"Maybe I should start talking about yesterday myself," I
thought; "ask her where she was going in such a hurry, in
order to find out once and for all . but I gave it up as
hopeless and sat down in a corner.
Belovzorov came in. I was glad to see him.
"I didn't find you a saddle horse, a gentle one," he started
out in a gruff voice. "Freitag swears by one, but I'm not sure.
I'm afraid."
>>
"What are you afraid of," said Zinaida, “if I may ask?"
"What of? Why, you don't know how to ride. God knows
what may happen! And what a crazy idea to have suddenly
gotten into your head!”
"Well, that's my business, my dear Monsieur Wild-Animal.
In that case, I'll ask Pyotr Vasilich. (My father was called
198
IVAN TURGENEV
Pyotr Vasilich. I was surprised that she dropped his name so
freely and easily, as if she were sure of his readiness to do
her a favor.)
"Really," Belovzoroc retorted. "It's him you want to go
riding with?”
"With him-or someone else-it makes no difference to you.
Only not with you.'
"
"Not with me," Belovzoroc repeated. "As you wish. Why
not? I'll get you a horse."
"Only be sure it's not an old cow. I give you advance notice
I want to gallop."
"Gallop if you want. Who'll you be going with—Malevski,
probably?"
"And why not with him, you warrior? Oh, calm down,”
she added, "and don't flash your eyes. I'll take you too. You
know what Malevski means to me now-fie!" She shook her
head.
"You say that to console me,” Belovzoroc muttered.
Zinaida screwed up her eyes. "That consoles you? Oh . . .
oh . . . oh.. you warrior!" she finally said, as if unable to
find another word. "And you, Monsieur Voldemar, would you
go with us?"
"I don't like-in a big group-" I muttered without look-
ing up.
"You prefer tête-à-tête? Well, freedom for the free, and
heaven for the blessed," she said with a sigh. "Go on,
Belovzorov, get busy. I need a horse by tomorrow."
"Well and good, but where's the money coming from?" the
old princess cut in.
Zinaida frowned. "I'm not asking you for any-Belovzorov
trusts me."
"Trusts, trusts muttered the old princess, and sud-
denly shouted at the top of her voice, "Dunyashka!"
"Maman, I gave you the little bell," the young princess
remarked.
•
"9
"Dunyashka!" the old woman repeated.
Belovzorov said good-bye; I went out with him.... Zinaida
did not try to keep me.
XIV
The next morning I got up early, cut myself a stick, and
set out beyond the gate. I'll go for a walk, I thought; shake off
my grief. The day was beautiful, bright and not too hot.
FIRST LOVE
199
A lively, fresh wind blew across the land, whistling, dancing,
yet all the while not disturbing anything. I wandered through
the hills and forests for a long time. I did not feel happy.
I had left the house meaning to give myself over to despond-
ency, but my youthfulness, the beautiful weather, the fresh
air, the fun of quick walking, the voluptuousness of lying
alone on the thick grass-all echoed in me. Remembrance of
those unforgettable words, of those kisses, again crowded
into my heart. I found it pleasant to think that Zinaida, at
any rate, couldn't help but render justice to my resoluteness,
my heroism. "For her the others are better than I," I thought;
"all right! On the other hand, the others only say what
they'll do-but I did it. . . . And what I'd still do for her!"
My imagination started working. I began to picture how I
would rescue her from the hands of enemies; how I, all
covered with blood, would release her from a dungeon; how
I would die at her feet. I remembered the picture hanging in
our living room: Malech-Adele carrying off Mathilda-and
right then got fascinated by the appearance of a big mottled
woodpecker which was busily climbing up a thin birch trunk
and nervously looking around from behind it to the right, to
the left, like a musician from behind the neck of a double-
bass.
After that I started singing "The Snow's Not White," and
switched to the then well-known "I'll Be Waiting for You
When the Playful Zephyr"; after that I began loudly to recite
Ermak's apostrophe to the stars from Khomyakov's tragedy; I
started to try to put together something in the sentimental
vein-I even thought up the line which the whole poem had
to end with: "O, Zinaida! Zinaida!" but nothing would come.
Meanwhile, it had become dinnertime. I went down into
the valley; a narrow, sandy path wound through it and led
into the town. I set out along this path . . . the dull beat of
horses' hoofs resounded behind me. I looked back, involun-
tarily stood still, and took off my cap: I saw my father and
Zinaida. They were riding side by side. Father was telling her
something, bending his whole body toward her and leaning
his hand on her horse's neck; he was smiling. Zinaida was
listening to him without speaking, her eyes sternly lowered
and her lips tightened. I first caught sight of them alone;
only after a few moments did Belovzorov appear from around
a curve in the valley, in his hussar uniform with a fur-
trimmed cape, on a black horse all in a lather. The good horse
shook his head, neighed, and pranced: the rider both held
200
IVAN TURGENEV
him back and dug in with his spurs. I stepped aside. Father
picked up his reins and moved away from Zinaida. She
slowly raised her eyes to look at him-and they both started
galloping. Belovzorov dashed after them, rattling his saber.
"He's as red as a lobster," I thought; "and she's-why is she
so pale? Riding all morning-and pale?"
I began to walk twice as fast, and managed to get home
just before dinner. Father, washed, freshened-up, and his
clothes changed, was already sitting beside Mother's chair
and reading to her, in his smooth and resounding voice, an
article out of the Journal des Débats. Mother was listening to
him without paying attention and, having seen me, asked
where I had been all day, and added that she didn't like it
when someone was gadding about God knows where-and
God knows with whom. But I was out walking alone, I was
about to answer; but I glanced at my father and for some
reason kept silent.
XV
During the next five or six days I hardly saw Zinaida. They
said she was sick, which nevertheless didn't prevent the usual
visitors to the wing from, as they put it, reporting for duty-
all except Maidanov, who immediately became despondent
and bored as soon as he had no chance to feel enthusiastic.
Belovzorov sat glumly in a corner, all buttoned up and red-
faced. A sort of malicious smile continually wandered across
Count Malevski's thin face; he had really fallen into disgrace
with Zinaida and with a special effort was worming his way
into the old princess's favor; he had taken the stagecoach
with her to the governor-general's. This trip, incidentally, had
turned out to be unsuccessful, and Malevski had even had an
unpleasant experience: someone had reminded him of an
occurrence with some transportation office-and he, in expla-
nation, had had to admit that he had then been inexperienced.
Lushin came about twice a day but stayed briefly. I was a
little chary of him after our last conversation-and at the
same time felt a real attraction to him. Once he went for a
walk with me through Neskuchnyi Park and was very good-
natured and polite; he told me the names and characteristics
of various grasses and flowers; and suddenly-out of the blue,
as the saying goes-exclaimed, striking his forehead: “And I,
like a fool, thought she was a flirt! Obviously, self-sacrifice is
sweet-for some.
"
-
FIRST LOVE
201
“What do you mean by that?" I asked.
“I don't mean to tell you anything," Lushin retorted curtly.
Zinaida avoided me. My appearance, I couldn't help but
notice, had a disagreeable effect on her. She involuntarily
turned away from me . . . involuntarily-that was what was
bitter, that was what grieved me, but there was nothing I
could do, and I tried not to let her see me and to catch sight
of her only from a distance, but I didn't always succeed.
Something as incomprehensible was happening to her as had
happened before: her face had become different, she herself
had become completely different. The change that had oc-
curred in her especially astounded me one warm, quiet eve-
ning. I was sitting on a low bench under a spreading elder
bush; I loved this little place-you could see the window of
Zinaida's room from it. I sat there; a little bird was moving
about busily in the darkened foliage above my head; a grey
cat, having stretched, carefully stole into the garden; and
the first beetles droned sonorously in the air still limpid
although no longer light. I was sitting and looking at the
window, and waiting-would it open? Indeed, it opened, and
Zinaida appeared. She had on a white dress, and she herself,
her face, her shoulders, her hands were as white. She re-
mained motionless a long time, and stared long and straight
ahead from under knitted brows. I didn't know she could
have such an expression. Then she clenched her hands to-
gether tightly, tightly, pressed them to her lips, to her fore-
head-and suddenly, spreading her fingers, pushed her hair
back from her ears, tossed it, and, decisively nodding her head,
slammed the window shut.
Three days later, she ran into me in the garden. I started
to duck off to one side-but she stopped me.
"Give me your hand," she said to me with her old tender-
ness; “you and I haven't had a chat in a long time."
I glanced at her. Her eyes shone calmly, and her face was
smiling as if through a haze.
"Are you still not well?" I asked her.
"No, it's all over now,” she answered and picked a small
red rose. “I'm a little tired, but that will pass, too.”
“And you'll be just the same as before?" I asked.
Zinaida lifted the rose up to her face-and it seemed to me
as if the reflection of the bright petals fell on her cheeks.
"Have I changed?” she asked me.
"Yes, you have," I answered in a low voice.
"I was cold to you, I know," Zinaida began, “but you
202
IVAN TURGENEV
shouldn't have paid any attention to that. I couldn't help it.
And, besides, what's the point of talking about it?”
"You don't want me to love you, that's what!" I exclaimed
gloomily, in an unintentional outburst.
"No, love me-but not as you used to.”
“How, then?”
"Let's be friends-that's how." Zinaida gave me the rose to
smell. “Listen, you know I'm a lot older than you-I could be
your aunt, really; well, not your aunt, but your older sister.
And you-
"
"To you I'm a child," I interrupted.
“Well, yes, a child, but a sweet, good, clever one, whom
I love very much. You know what? From this day on I make
you my page; and don't you forget that pages mustn't be
separated from their ladies. Here's the sign of your new sta-
tion," she added, putting the rose into the buttonhole of my
jacket, "the sign of our favor to you."
"I used to get other favors from you," I muttered.
“Ah!" said Zinaida, and looked at me with a sidelong
glance. "What a memory he has! Well! I'm ready now, too.
And, bending down to me, she imprinted on my forehead
a pure, serene kiss.
I merely looked at her-and she turned away saying, "Fol-
low me, my page," and went toward the wing. I set out after
her, still perplexed. “Really,” I thought, "is this meek, sober-
minded girl the same Zinaida I used to know?" Even her
walk seemed to me quieter, her whole figure more majestic
and graceful.
But my God! With what new force did love flame up in me!
XVI
After dinner the guests again gathered in the wing, and
the young princess came out to meet them. The whole group
was present in full strength, as on that first, for me unfor-
gettable, evening. Even Nirmatski had dragged himself in.
Maidanov came before the others this time and brought some
new poems. We started playing forfeits again but without the
old, strange pranks, without the tomfoolery and the wit-the
gypsy stuff had gone. Zinaida set a new tone for our gather-
ing. I was sitting next to her, as was a page's right. She had,
incidentally, proposed that the one whose forfeit fell out
should tell his dream. But that didn't work. The dreams came
out either uninteresting (Balovzorov dreamed that he fed his
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203
horse carp, and that it had a wooden head) or unnatural,
made-up. Maidanov treated us to a whole story: there were
burial vaults, and angels with lyres, and talking flowers, and
sounds drifting in from afar. . . . Zinaida didn't let him finish.
"Since it's came to making things up," she said, "let every-
body tell something really concocted." It was again Belov-
zorov's turn to speak first.
The young hussar became embarrassed. "I can't make up
anything!" he exclaimed.
"What nonesense!" Zinaida retorted. “Imagine you're mar-
ried, for example, and tell us how you'd spend the time with
your wife. Would you lock her up?"
"I would."
"And stay with her yourself?"
"Absolutely."
“Wonderful. And if she got fed up with this and deceived
you?"
"I'd kill her."
"But if she ran away?"
"I'd catch her and still kill her."
"Right. But now let's suppose I were your wife, what would
you do then?”
Belovzorov was silent a moment. "I'd kill myself."
Zinaida laughed. "I see your song is short.
The second forfeit was Zinaida's. She looked up at the
ceiling and became lost in thought. "Now, listen," she finally
began, "to what I've made up. Imagine a splendid chamber,
a summer night, and a wonderful ball. A young queen is
giving this ball. Everywhere there's gold, marble, crystal, silk,
lights, diamonds, flowers, incense, all the delights of luxury."
"You like luxury?" Lushin interrupted.
"Luxury is lovely," she retorted; "I like everything that's
lovely."
"More than the beautiful?" he asked.
"That's somehow tricky-I don't understand. Don't pester
me. And so, the ball is splendid. There are lots of guests,
they're all young, beautiful, brave, and all head over heels
in love with the Queen."
"No women among the guests?" asked Malevski.
"No... or wait a minute-there are."
"But unattractive?"
“Charming, but the men are all in love with the queen.
She's tall and slender ... she has a little gold diadem set in
her black hair."
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IVAN TURGENEV
I looked at Zinaida-and at that moment she seemed to
me so much above us all, and such a noble mind and such
power seemed to emanate from her white forehead, from her
motionless brows, that I thought: "You're that queen yourself."
"They're all crowding around her," Zinaida went on, “all
showering her with the most flattering speeches."
"And she likes flattery?" Lushin asked.
"How unbearable you are-always interrupting. Who
doesn't like flattery?"
"One last question,” Malevski remarked. “Does the queen
have a husband?"
“I didn't even think about that. No; why a husband?"
"Of course," Malevski agreed. "Why a husband?"
"Silence!" exclaimed Maidanov, who spoke French badly.
"Merci," Zinaida said to him. “And so, the queen listens to
these speeches, listens to the music, but doesn't look at a
single one of the guests. Six windows are open from top to
bottom, from the ceiling to the floor, and beyond them there's
a dark sky with huge stars and a dark garden with huge trees.
The queen looks out into the garden. There, among the trees,
there is a fountain; it shines white in the darkness-tall, tall,
like a ghost. Above the talk and the music the queen hears
the tranquil splash of the water; she looks and thinks: All of
you, gentlemen, are noble, clever, rich; you surround me;
you value my every word; you all are ready to die at my feet;
I possess you. But there by the fountain, by that splash-
ing water, there stands and waits for me the one I love-the
one who possesses me. He has no rich clothing, no precious
stones, nobody knows him, but he is waiting for me and is
certain I'm coming. And I am, and there's no power which
can stop me once I want to go to him and be with him and
get lost with him there in the garden's darkness amid the
rustling of the trees, by the splashing of the fountain..?
•
•
Zinaida stopped.
“That . . . is made up?" Malevski cunningly asked.
Zinaida didn't even look at him.
"
"And what would we do, gentlemen," Lushin suddenly
broke in, "if we were among those guests and knew about
that lucky man at the fountain?”
“Wait, wait,” Zinaida cut him off, "I'll tell you myself what
each of you would do. You, Belovzorov, would challenge him
to a duel. You, Maidanov, would write an epigram against
him; actually, you wouldn't-you don't know how to write
epigrams. You'll write a long iambic about him, in the style
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205
of Barbier and publish your work in the Telegraph. You,
Nirmatski, would borrow from him . . no, you'd lend him
money at interest. You, doctor. . ." She paused. "Now, I don't
know what you'd do."
"As Her Majesty's doctor," Lushin replied, "I'd advise the
queen not to give balls when she doesn't feel like having
guests.
"
"Maybe you'd be right. And you, Count. . ."
"Me?" Malevski repeated with his malicious smile.
"And you'd treat him to a piece of poisoned candy."
Malevski's face became slightly distorted and for an in-
stant assumed a Jewish expression, but he almost immediately
burst out laughing.
"And as for you, Voldemar . . ." Zinaida went on. "But that's
enough; let's play another game."
"Monsieur Voldemar, as the queen's page, would hold her
train as she would be running into the garden,” Malevski re-
marked venomously.
I flushed bright red; but Zinaida, nimbly putting her hands
on my shoulders and getting up, said in a voice that trembled
slightly: "I never gave Your Excellency the right of being
impudent, and I therefore beg you to leave." She pointed to
the door.
"For pity's sake, Princess," Malevski mumbled, and
blanched all over.
"The princess is right," exclaimed Belovzorov and he also
stood up.
"I, honestly, didn't at all expect you to take it like that,"
Malevski went on. "In what I said, I think, there was nothing
So. I had absolutely no intention of offending you. For-
give me."
Zinaida looked him up and down coldly and coldly smiled.
"Why not; stay," she said with a casual gesture of her hands.
"Monsieur Voldemar and I became angry for nothing. You
enjoy being caustic. To your health."
"Forgive me," Malevski repeated once more, but I, remem-
bering Zinaida's gesture, again thought that a real queen
could not have shown an insolent man the door with greater
dignity.
The game of forfeits didn't last long after this little scene;
everybody was somewhat uneasy, not so much from the scene
itself as from another, not entirely distinct, but depressing
feeling. Nobody talked about it, but everyone recognized it
both in himself and in his neighbor. Maidanov recited his
•
206
IVAN TURGENEV
poems to us, and Malevski showered praise on them with
exaggerated fervor. "How much he now wants to appear in
a good light,” Lushin whispered to me. We soon broke up. A
thoughtful mood suddenly fell on Zinaida; the old princess
sent in word that she had a headache; Nirmatski began com-
plaining about his rheumatism.
I couldn't fall asleep for a long time; Zinaida's story had
impressed me. "Is there really an allusion in it?" I asked
myself, “and to whom was she alluding, to what? And if there
was something to allude to, how do you make up your mind
to. No, no, impossible," I whispered, turning from one
hot cheek to the other. But I remembered the expression on
Zinaida's face during her story. I remembered the exclama-
tion which had burst out of Lushin in Neskuchnyi Park, the
sudden changes in her treatment of me-and got lost in the
speculations. "Who is he?" These three words seemed to stand
before my eyes, limned in the darkness. A low, ominous cloud
seemed to be hanging over me; I felt its pressure, and waited
for it to burst any minute. Lately I had become accustomed
to a great deal, had seen a great deal at the Zasekins: their
disorderliness, the tallow candle-ends, the broken knives and
forks, sullen Vonifati, the shabby maids, the manners of the
old princess herself-this whole strange life no longer surprised
me. But what now vaguely disturbed me about Zinaida I
could not get used to. “A little adventuress," my mother once
said about her. A little adventuress-she, my idol, my deity!
That label stung me-I tried to get away from it into the
pillow. I was indignant and at the same time, what
wouldn't I have agreed to, what wouldn't I have given, just
to have been that lucky man by the fountain!
The blood in me seethed and went wild. “Garden . . . foun-
tain . . ." I thought. “I'll just go in the garden.” I dressed
hastily and slipped out of the house. The night was dark; the
trees were just barely whispering; a soft chill descended from
the sky, the scent of dill came from the kitchen garden. I
skirted all the paths; the light sound of my steps made me
both self-conscious and bold; I would stop, wait, and listen
to how my heart was pounding-powerfully and fast. Finally
I came up to the fence and leaned on a thin post. Suddenly-
or was it my imagination?—a feminine figure flashed by a few
paces from me. I held my breath. “What is it? Do I hear foot-
steps-or is it my heart pounding again? Who's there?" I
babbled barely distinctly. What's that again? Suppressed
laughter . . . or a rustling in the leaves-or a deep breath right
FIRST LOVE
207
by my ear? I was terrified. "Who's there?" I repeated still
more quietly.
For a moment there was a rush of air; a fiery streak flashed
in the sky, a star fell. "Zinaida?" I started to ask, but the
sound died on my lips. And suddenly everything became
profoundly silent all around, as often happens in the middle
of the night. Even the crickets had stopped chirping in the
trees-only a window somewhere rang shut. I stood there,
stood there, and then went back to my room, to my cold bed.
I felt a strange excitement: it seemed as if I had gone to a
rendezvous-and remained alone, and passed by somebody
else's happiness.
XVII
The next day I caught only a glimpse of Zinaida: she was
going somewhere with the old princess in a cab. However, I
did see Lushin, who, by the way, hardly bothered to say
hello, and Malevski. The young count grinned and amicably
started a conversation with me. Of all the visitors to the wing,
he alone knew how to worm his way into our house, and he
had caught Mother's fancy. Father didn't like him and treated
him politely to the point of insult.
“Ah, monsieur le page," Malevski began, “I'm very glad to
see you. What is your beautiful queen doing?”
His clean, handsome face was so repulsive to me at that
moment, and he looked at me so scornfully, so waggishly, that
I didn't answer him.
"You're still angry?" he went on. "That's silly. After all, it
wasn't I who called you a page-and it is chiefly queens who
have pages. But let me point out that you fulfill your duties
badly."
"How so?"
"Pages must be inseparable from their mistresses; pages
must know everything they do; they must keep an eye on
them," he added, lowering his voice, "day-and night."
“What do you mean?”
"What do I mean? I express myself clearly, I think. Day-
and night. By day, there's one thing and another; by day, it's
light and there are lots of people about. But at night-then
you have to watch out for trouble. I advise you not to sleep at
night, and to keep an eye out, keep an eye out with all your
might. Remember-in a garden, at night, by the fountain—
that's where you have to keep watch. You'll thank me.”
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IVAN TURGENEV
Malevski laughed and turned away from me. He probably
attached no special importance to what he had told me; he
had the reputation of a great hoaxer and was famous for his
ability to fool people at masquerades, which was greatly
helped by that almost unconscious mendacity with which his
whole being was shot through. He just wanted to tease me;
but his every word coursed like poison through my veins. The
blood rushed to my head. "Ah! That's it!" I said to myself.
"All right! That means I wasn't drawn to the garden for
nothing! This must never happen!" I exclaimed aloud, and I
beat my chest with my fist, although I had no idea what
shouldn't happen. "Maybe Malevski himself will go to the
garden," I wondered (maybe he had let the cat out of the
bag; he had enough cheek to do that)-"or someone else" (the
fence around our garden was very low, and it was no trouble
to climb over it)-"but it will turn out badly for whoever
crosses my path-I don't advise anyone to run into me! I'll
show the whole world, and her, too, the traitress" (I really
called her traitress) "that I know how to get revenge!"
I returned to my room, got from my desk the English pen-
knife I had bought recently, tested the sharpness of the blade
and, frowning, with a cold and concentrated decisiveness
shoved it in my pocket, as if it were neither strange nor the
first time I was doing such things. The evil in my heart rose
up and hardened; I didn't stop glowering or relax my lips
until nightfall, and continually walked back and forth, with
my hand in my pocket, squeezing the warmed knife and get-
ting ready ahead of time for something terrible. These new,
fantastic sensations so occupied and even delighted me that
I actually thought very little about Zinaida. I kept imagining
Aleko, the young gypsy-"Where are you going, handsome
young man? Lie down ... And then: "You're all spattered
with blood! Oh, what have you done?" "Nothing!" With what
a fierce smile I repeated that "Nothing!"
Father was not at home, but Mother, who for some time
had been in a state of almost continual, vague irritation,
turned her attention to my morbid appearance and said to me
at supper: "What are you pouting for, like a spoiled brat?”
I just smiled at her condescendingly in reply and thought:
"If only they knew!" It struck eleven; I went up to my room
but did not undress. I was waiting for midnight; finally it,
too, struck. “It's time!" I whispered through my teeth and,
having buttoned my coat all the way up, having even turned
up my sleeves, I set out for the garden.
"
FIRST LOVE
209
I had picked out a place ahead of time to keep watch. At
the bottom of the garden, where the fence dividing our prop-
erty and the Zasekins' was set against a common wall, there
grew a solitary fir; standing under its low thick branches, I
could easily see, as much as the darkness of night allowed,
what was going on around. Here meandered a little path,
which had always seemed mysterious to me: like a snake it
crawled under the fence, which in this spot carried traces of
the feet that had climbed over, and led to a round arbor of
solid acacia. I made my way to the fir, leaned against its
trunk, and began my watch.
The night was as quiet as the one before; but there were
fewer clouds in the sky-and the outlines of the bushes, even
of the tall flowers, were more clearly visible. The first mo-
ments of waiting were agonizing, almost terrible. I'd made up
my mind to do anything. I was just wondering how I should
do it. Should I thunder out: “Where are you going? Stop!
Confess or die!" Or should I simply strike? Every round, every
rustle and murmuring seemed to me significant, unusual. I
got ready. . . . I leaned forward. .. But half an hour went
by; an hour. My blood quieted down, cooled off; the idea
that I was doing all this for nothing, that I was even a bit
ridiculous, that Malevski had been making fun of me, began
to creep into my mind. I left my ambush and walked around
the whole garden. As if on purpose, there was not the slightest
sound anywhere; everything was at rest; even our dog was
asleep, curled up into a little ball by the gate. I climbed up
onto the ruins of the greenhouse, saw before me the distant
field, remembered the meeting with Zinaida, and became
thoughtful.
•
•
I shuddered. I thought I heard the creak of a door
opening, and then the light crack of a broken twig. I got
down from the ruins in two jumps-and froze on the spot.
Hurried, light but cautious footsteps could be clearly heard
in the garden. They were coming toward me. "It's he . . . it's
he at last!" shot through my heart. I convulsively pulled the
knife out of my pocket, convulsively opened it, something like
red sparks started whirling before my eyes, my hair began
to rise, out of fear and fury. The footsteps were coming
straight toward me. I crouched down, I stretched out toward
them. A man appeared. . . . My God, it was my father!
I recognized him at once-although he was all wrapped up
in a dark cloak and had pulled his hat down over his face.
He went by on tiptoe. He didn't notice me, although I wasn't
210
IVAN TURGENEV
concealed at all, but I was so hunched up and shriveled that
I think I was level with the ground itself. Jealous, ready to
murder, Othello suddenly turned into a schoolboy. . . . I was
so frightened by my father's unexpected appearance that I
didn't even notice at first where he had come from or where
he disappeared to. Only when everything around had again
quieted down, I straightened up and started thinking: "Why
is Father walking through the garden at night?" Out of fear
I had dropped my knife in the grass-but I didn't even start
looking for it: I was very ashamed. I sobered up at once.
Going home, however, I went over to my bench under the
elder bush and glanced at the little window of Zinaida's bed-
room. The small, somewhat curved panes of the window
dimly shone dark blue in the pale light from the night sky.
Suddenly their color started changing. Behind them-I saw
it, saw it clearly-a whitish shade was carefully and quietly
drawn down, down to the sill, and stayed like that, mo-
tionless.
"What was that?" I said aloud, almost involuntarily, when
I found myself again in my own room. “A dream, a coinci-
dence, or. . ." The suppositions which suddenly came into my
head were so new and strange that I didn't dare even think
about them.
XVIII
I got up in the morning with a headache. The excitement
of the day before had gone. It was replaced by a depressing
bewilderment and a sort of sadness I had never known before
-as if something in me were dying.
"How is it that you look like a rabbit with half its brain
taken out?" Lushin said to me as we met. During breakfast
I kept glancing stealthily, first at my father and then at my
mother. He was at ease, as usual; she, as usual, was covertly
irritated. I waited to see if my father would start a friendly
conversation with me, as he sometimes did. But he didn't
even caress me with his ordinary, cold affection. “Shall I tell
Zinaida everything?" I asked myself. "It won't make any dif-
ference-everything's over between us." I set out to see her,
but not only did I tell her nothing-I didn't even get to talk
to her, as I would have liked. The old princess's son, a cadet
about twelve years old, had come from Petersburg for his
vacation. Zinaida immediately handed her brother over to me.
"Here," she said, "my dear Volodya (it was the first time she
had called me that), is a friend for you. His name is Volodya,
FIRST LOVE
211
too. Please be nice to him; he's still a wilding, but his heart's
in the right place. Show him Neskuchnyi, go walking with
him, take him under your wing. You'll do this, won't you?
You're so good, too!" She put her two hands tenderly on my
shoulders-and I was completely lost. This boy's arrival
turned me into a boy myself. Without speaking, I looked at
the cadet, who just as silently stared at me. Zinaida burst out
laughing and pushed us together. "Go on, embrace each other,
children!" We embraced.
"Would you like me to take you into the garden?" I asked
the cadet.
"If you will, sir,” he replied in a hoarse, strictly cadet voice.
Zinaida laughed again. I managed to notice that such charm-
ing color had never appeared in her face before. The cadet
and I set out. An old swing hung in our garden. I seated him
on the thin board and began to push him. He sat still, in his
new little uniform of heavy cloth with wide gold braid, and
held onto the rope tightly. "Why don't you undo your collar?"
I said to him. "It doesn't matter, sir; we're used to it," he
said, and coughed. He looked like his sister: his eyes espe-
cially reminded me of her. I even liked doing him a favor,
and at the same time aching grief quietly gnawed at my heart.
"Now I'm like a child," I thought, "but yesterday. . .” I re-
membered where I had dropped the knife the day before and
looked for it until I found it. The cadet asked for it, cut off a
thick stalk of lovage, cut a pipe out of it, and started whistling.
Othello whistled a bit, too.
But now he cried that evening, this same Othello, in
Zinaida's arms when she, having found him in a corner of the
garden, asked him why he was so sad. My tears gushed with
such force that she grew frightened. “What's the matter with
you? What's the matter with you, Volodya?" she repeated
again and again and, seeing that I didn't respond and didn't
stop crying, was about to kiss my wet cheek. But I turned
away from her and whispered through my sobbing: "I know
everything; why were you playing with me? What did you
need my love for?"
"I'm guilty before you, Volodya,” Zinaida said. “Ah, very
guilty," she said, and clenched her hands. "How much evil,
darkness, and sin there is in me! But I'm not playing with
you now, I love you; you don't even suspect why-and how.
... But-what do you know?"
What could I tell her? She was standing before me and
looking at me, and I belonged to her completely, from head
212
IVAN TURGENEV
.. A quarter of an
to foot just as soon as she looked at me.
hour later Zinaida and the cadet and I were chasing each
other; I wasn't crying, I was laughing, although my swollen
eyelids were shedding tears; Zinaida's ribbon was fastened
around my neck instead of a tie, and I shouted from joy when
I succeeded in catching her by her waist. She did with me
anything she wanted to.
#
XIX
I would have a hard time if I were to have to tell in detail
what happened to me during the week after my unsuccessful
expedition. It was a strange, feverish time, a sort of chaos in
which the most contradictory feelings, thoughts, suspicions,
hopes, delights, and sufferings spun round like a whirlwind;
I was afraid of looking inside myself-if, indeed, a boy just
sixteen can-afraid of summing up anything at all; I simply
hurried to get through the day until evening. But at night I
slept . . . my child's light-heartedness helped me. I didn't
want to know whether or not I was loved, and I didn't want
to admit to myself that I wasn't. I avoided my father-but
Zinaida I couldn't avoid. I was scorched as if by fire in her
presence . . . but why should I have known what sort of fire
it was in which I was burning and melting-it was supreme
happiness for me sweetly to melt and burn. I indulged all my
impressions and played tricks on myself, turned away from
my memories, and shut my eyes to what I sensed lay ahead.
This torment, probably, wouldn't have lasted long any-
way... A thunderbolt stopped everything at once, and threw
me onto a new path.
Once, coming home to dinner from a rather long walk, I
learned to my surprise that I would dine alone; Father had
gone out and Mother was unwell, didn't want to eat, and had
locked herself in her bedroom. From the servants' faces I
guessed that something unusual had happened. I didn't dare
question them, but I had a friend, the young butler, Filipp, a
passionate devotee of poetry and an artist on the guitar-I
turned to him. From him I learned that a terrible scene had
occurred between Father and Mother (and everything down
to the last word had been heard in the maids' room; much
of the quarrel was spoken in French-but the maid Masha had
lived with a seamstress from Paris for five years and under-
stood everything). My mother had accused my father of un-
faithfulness, of intimacy with the young lady next door;
FIRST LOVE
213
Father at first justified himself, then flared up and in turn
said something cruel "seemingly about her age," which made
Mother cry. Mother also reminded him about the loan sup-
posedly given the old princess and spoke about her very
disparagingly, and about the young lady, too, and at that
point Father threatened her. “And the whole trouble started,”
Filipp went on, "from an anonymous letter; because, other-
wise, there's no reason for things like this to come out in the
open.
>>
“But was there really something?" I said with difficulty,
while in the meantime my hands and feet had grown cold
and something was trembling deep in my chest.
Filipp winked significantly. "There was. You can't hide
these things; no matter how careful your papa was this time,
still you have to, for example, get a carriage, or whatever-
and you can't do without servants, either.”
I sent Filipp out and fell on my bed. I didn't sob, didn't
give myself up to despair; I didn't ask myself when and how
all this had happened; I wasn't surprised why I hadn't before,
long ago, guessed it; I didn't even reproach my father. What
I had found out was beyond my strength: this sudden dis-
covery crushed me. Everything was over. All my flowers had
been plucked at once and lay around me strewn and trampled.
XX
Mother announced the next day that she was going back
to town. In the morning Father went into her bedroom and
stayed with her alone for a long time. Nobody heard what
he told her, but Mother cried no more; she calmed down and
asked for something to eat-but she didn't come out, and
didn't change her decision. I remember I wandered around
all day, but didn't go into the garden and didn't once glance
at the wing; but in the evening I was witness to an amazing
event: my father escorted Count Malevski by the arm across
the hall into the vestibule and, in the valet's presence, coldly
said to him: "A few days ago in a certain house Your Excel-
lency was shown the door; I will not now go into details with
you, but I have the honor to inform you that if you once
more come to mine, I will throw you out the window. I don't
like your handwriting." The count bowed, clenched his teeth,
shrank into himself, and vanished.
Preparations started for the move to town, to the Arbat,
where our house was. Father himself, probably, no longer
214
IVAN TURGENEV
"
wanted to stay in the country; but, clearly, he had succeeded
in begging Mother not to make a fuss; everything was done
calmly, without hurrying. Mother even sent a good-bye to the
old princess and expressed her regret that, for reasons of ill
health, she couldn't see her before leaving. I wandered around
like a crazy man, and wished only for all this to end as quickly
as possible. One thought would not leave my mind: how
could she, a young girl-and a princess besides-take such a
step, knowing that my father was not a free man, and having
the opportunity of marrying even, say, Belovzorov! What did
she hope for? How was it that she wasn't afraid of ruining
her whole future? Indeed, I thought, that's love, that's passion,
that's devotion; and I recalled Lushin's words: Self-sacrifice
is sweet-for some. Somehow I happened to catch sight of a
pale spot in one of the windows of the wing. "Is that really
Zinaida's face?” I wondered. Indeed, it was her face. I couldn't
bear it. I couldn't leave her without having said a last good-
bye. I caught a convenient moment and set out for the wing.
In the living room the old princess received me with her
usual slovenly-casual greeting.
"How is it, my friend, that your people are running all
about so early?” she said, stuffing snuff into both nostrils. I
looked at her and felt relieved. The word loan which Filipp
had said tortured me. She suspected nothing, at least it
seemed so to me then. Zinaida appeared from the next room,
in a black dress, pale, her hair loose; she silently took me by
the hand and led me out.
"I heard your voice," she began, "and immediately came
in. And was it so easy for you to desert us, wicked boy?”
"I came to say good-bye to you, Princess," I answered,
"probably forever. You have, perhaps, heard-we're leaving.”
Zinaida looked at me intently.
"Yes, I heard. Thank you for coming. I had thought I
wouldn't see you. Think kindly of me. I sometimes tormented
you, but nevertheless I'm not what you imagine.”
She turned away and leaned against the window.
"Really, I'm not. I know you have a bad opinion of me."
"I?"
•
"Yes, you
"I?” I repeated sorrowfully, and my heart trembled as be-
fore under the influence of her irresistible, inexpressible
charm. "I? Believe me, Zinaida Aleksandrovna, no matter
what you do, no matter how you torment me--I will love and
adore you to the end of my days."
• •
"J
you."
FIRST LOVE
215
She quickly turned around toward me and, spreading her
arms wide, embraced my head and kissed me hard and pas-
sionately. God knows for whom that long, farewell kiss was
meant, but I greedily tasted its sweetness-I knew that it
would never be repeated. "Good-bye, good-bye," I said again
and again.
She tore herself away and went out. I, too, left. I'm not able
to convey the feeling with which I went away. I don't want
it ever to come again, but I would consider myself unfortunate
if I had never experienced it.
We moved to town. I didn't soon put the past behind me,
didn't soon get down to work. My wound healed slowly; but
I actually bore my father no ill will. On the contrary, he had
somehow grown more in my eyes-let psychologists explain
that contradiction, if they can. Once I was going down the
avenue and, to my indescribable joy, ran into Lushin. I liked
him for his straightforward and unhypocritical manners, and,
besides, he was dear to me for those memories which he
awoke in me. I rushed toward him.
“Aha!” he said and frowned. “It's you, young man! Let me
look at you. You're still green, but your eyes don't have that
old trashy look. You look the way a man does, not a lap dog.
That's good. Well, what're you up to? Working?”
I sighed. I didn't want to lie-and I was ashamed to tell the
truth.
“Well, never mind,” Lushin went on; "don't be shy. The
main thing is to live normally and not give in to distractions.
Or else, what's the point? Wherever the waves take you, it's
all no good; a man must stand on his own two feet—even on a
rock. I have a cough now, and Belovzorov-did you hear?”
“No. What?”
"Disappeared without a trace. They say he went to the
Caucasus. A lesson for you, young man. And all because they
don't know how to part in time, to break the ties. Now you,
I think, came out safely. But look out, don't get caught again.
Good-bye."
"I won't," I thought. "I'll never see her again”; but I was
fated to see Zinaida once more.
XXI
My father went out riding every day; he had a fine chest-
nut-roan English horse with a long thin neck and long legs,
tireless and vicious; its name was Electric. Nobody could ride
216
IVAN TURGENEV
it except my father. Once he came to me in a good mood,
which he hadn't been in for a long time; he was planning on
going out and had already put on his spurs. I started begging
him to take me along.
"Let's play leapfrog instead," Father answered me, "for you
on your old nag can't keep up with me."
“I can; I'll put spurs on, too."
>>
“Well, all right.'
We set out. I had a little shaggy black horse, sturdy-legged
and rather fast; true, he had to canter as fast as he could
when Electric went at a full trot, but all the same I didn't
lag behind. I never saw a rider like my father; he sat so
handsomely, so casually and adroitly that it seemed the horse
itself under him sensed it and wanted to show him off. We
rode down all the avenues, went to Devichie Field, jumped
several fences (at first I was afraid to jump, but my father
scorned timid people, and I stopped being afraid), crossed
the Moscow River twice, and I thought we were already
headed home-all the more because Father himself remarked
that my horse was tired-when suddenly he wheeled away
from me toward the Krymskii Ford and galloped along the
shore. I set off after him. Coming up to a high pile of old
logs, he agilely jumped down from Electric, ordered me to
get off, and, having handed me his horse's bridle, told me to
wait for him here, by the logs, and he himself turned into a
little alley and disappeared. I started walking back and forth
along the shore, leading the horses and struggling with
Electric who, as we were walking along, kept pulling his head
up continually, shaking it, snorting, neighing; and, when I
would stop, alternately pawing the ground with his hoof,
nipping my nag in the neck with a squeal-in short, behaving
like a spoiled thoroughbred. Father didn't come back. An un-
pleasant dampness drifted in from the river; a light drizzle
softly set in and covered with tiny dark spots the dumb grey
logs around which I was wandering, and with which I was
really fed up. I was getting bored stiff, and still Father hadn't
come. Some policeman on duty, a Finn, also all grey and with
a huge shako in the shape of a pot on his head and with a
halberd (What was a policeman on duty doing, I wondered,
on the bank of the Moscow River!) came up to me and, turn-
ing his old-womanish, wrinkled face toward me, said:
"What're you doing here with horses, young man? Let me
have 'em, I'll hold 'em.”
I didn't answer him; he asked me for some tobacco. To get
FIRST LOVE
217
****
rid of him (besides, my impatience was torturing me), I took
several steps in the direction my father had gone; then I
went down the little alley to the end, turned the corner, and
stopped. On the street about forty paces from me in front of
the open window of a little wooden house my father was
standing with his back to me; he was leaning his chest on the
window sill, and, in the little house, half hidden by a curtain,
a woman in a dark dress was sitting and talking to my father.
This woman was Zinaida.
I was dumbfounded. This, I admit, I hadn't expected. My
first impulse was to run. "Father will look around," I thought,
"and I'm done for." But a strange sensation, a sensation
stronger than curiosity, stronger even than jealousy, stronger
than fear-stopped me. I started watching; I tried to overhear.
My father seemed to be insisting on something. Zinaida
wouldn't agree. Even now I see her face-sad, serious, lovely,
and with an ineffable imprint of devotion, grief, love, and a
certain despair-I can't find another word. She spoke in mono-
syllables, didn't raise her eyes, and merely smiled-meekly
but obstinately. By just this smile I recognized my old Zinaida.
Father shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his hat, which
with him was always a sign of impatience . . . then I heard:
Vous devez vous séparer de cette. . . . Zinaida straightened
up and extended her hand. . . . Suddenly something amazing
happened before my eyes: Father all of a sudden raised the
whip with which he had been knocking the dust off the skirt
of his coat-and there was the sound of a sharp blow on this
arm bare to the elbow. I almost screamed, and Zinaida
shuddered, silently looked at my father, and, having slowly
raised her arm to her lips, kissed the red welt on it. Father
hurled the whip away and, hastily running up the steps of the
little porch, stormed into the house. Zinaida turned around-
and, her hands stretched out, her head thrown back, also
moved away from the window.
Ya
With a sinking feeling of fright, with a sort of bewildered
horror in my heart, I fled back-and, having run to the end
of the little alley, almost letting go of Electric, returned to the
river bank. I couldn't think. I knew that my cold and re-
strained father was sometimes seized by fits of rage, and still
I couldn't understand at all what it was I had seen. But I
sensed then that as long as I lived I could never forget that
gesture, that look, that smile of Zinaida's, that her image-
that new image suddenly placed before me-was forever
stamped on my memory. I stared vacantly at the river and
218
IVAN TURGENEV
Kasa
big smilgan, M, Page. The capabilit
didn't notice that tears were pouring down my face. She's
being beaten, I thought... beaten . . . beaten.
"Well, what are you doing? Give me my horse!” I heard
my father's voice behind me.
•
I handed him the bridle mechanically. He jumped on Elec-
tric... the chilled horse reared on his hind legs and leaped
forward three yards. But Father soon curbed him: he dug his
spurs into his sides and struck him on the neck with his fist.
“Ah, I've no whip," he muttered.
I remembered the recent whine and whack of that very
whip-and shuddered.
"What did you do with it?" I asked my father after a
minute.
Father didn't answer me and galloped on ahead. I caught
up with him. I absolutely had to see his face.
"Did you miss me?" he said through his teeth.
"Some. Where did you drop your whip?" I asked again.
Father glanced at me. "I didn't drop it," he said; "I threw
it away." He became thoughtful and lowered his head. .
and I then saw for the first and almost last time how much
tenderness and pity his stern features could show.
He galloped on again, and I couldn't catch up to him; I
got home a quarter of an hour after him.
"So that's love,” I said to myself again, that night while
sitting at my desk that was already beginning to be covered
with books and notebooks. "That's passion. There's no re-
bellion, it seems; you have to put up with whatever strikes . .
even the most beloved hand! And clearly you can, if you're in
love. But I, somehow. I somehow imagined.
>>
→
The last month had made me much older-and my love,
with all its excitements and suffering, seemed to me some-
thing so little, and childish and meager before that other,
unknown something which I could hardly surmise, and which
frightened me, like an unfamiliar, handsome, but ominous
face which you in vain try to make out in the dusk. . . .
That same night I dreamed a strange and terrible dream. I
dreamed that I was going into a low, dark room. . . . My father
was standing with a whip in his hand and stamping his feet;
Zinaida was crouched in a corner-and there was a red mark,
not on her arm but on her forehead. . . . And behind them
both there arose Belovzorov, all covered with blood-he
opened his pale lips and angrily threatened Father.
Two months later I entered the university, and six months
after that my father died (of a stroke) in Petersburg, where
FIRST LOVE
219
he had just moved with my mother and me. A few days be-
fore his death he received a letter from Moscow, which upset
him extremely. ... He went to ask Mother for something and,
they say, he even cried-he, my father! On the very morning
of the day he had his stroke, he started a letter to me in
French: "My son," he wrote me, "beware of a woman's love
-beware of this happiness, of this poison. . ." Mother, after his
death, sent a rather substantial sum of money to Moscow.
XXII
Some four years went by. I had just left the university and
still didn't know very well where to begin, which door to
knock on; for the time being I was just loafing. One, evening
I ran into Maidanov in the theater. He had managed to get
married and get a job-but I found him unchanged. He just
as senselessly got all excited and just as suddenly got de-
pressed.
"You know," he told me, among other things, “Madame
Dolskaia's here."
"What Madame Dolskaia?"
"Have you forgotten? The former Princess Zasekina, whom
we all were in love with, even you. Remember, in the dacha,
next to Neskuchnyi?"
"She's married to Dolski?”
"Yes."
"And she's here, in the theater?"
"No, in Petersburg. She arrived the other day; she's getting
ready to go abroad."
"What kind of man is her husband?" I asked.
"A fine fellow, with a fortune. A colleague of mine, in
Moscow. You understand, after all that happened . . . it must
all be well-known to you" (Maidanov smiled sententiously)
“—it wasn't easy for her to find herself a match; there were
consequences . . but with her intelligence anything's pos-
sible. Go see her; she'd be very glad. She's grown even
prettier."
•
Maidanov gave me Zinaida's address. She was staying at
the Hotel Demut. Old memories stirred me. I promised
myself to call on my former "passion" the very next day. But /
something came up: a week went by, another, and when I
finally got to the Hotel Demut and asked for Madame
Dolskaia, I found out that she had died four days before-
practically without warning, in childbirth.
•
220
IVAN TURGENEV
Something seemed to have struck me in the heart. The
thought that I could have seen her, and didn't-and never
will-this bitter thought stung me with all the force of an
irrefutable reproach. "Dead!" I repeated, stupidly staring at
the doorman. I quietly got out onto the street and went away,
not knowing where. The whole past arose at once before me.
And that's what it had come to, that's what it had been
headed for, rushing and all excited, this young, passionate,
brilliant life! This was what I was thinking: I pictured to
myself those dear features, those eyes, those curls-in a tight
box, in the damp, underground darkness-here, not far from
me, still alive, and, perhaps a few steps from my father. . . . I
thought all this, I strained my imagination—and meanwhile
I heard the news of death out of indifferent lips
And heeded it indifferently...
rang in my heart. O youth! youth! You have no cares, you
seem to possess all the treasures of the universe, even grief
pleases you, even sorrow becomes you, you are self-confident
and bold; you say: I alone am alive-look, but for you, too,
the days run on and vanish without trace or number, and
everything in you vanishes, like wax in the sunlight, like
snow. . . . And perhaps the whole secret of your charm does
not lie in the possibility of doing everything, but in the possi-
bility of thinking that you will do everything-lies exactly in
your setting against the wind a strength which you wouldn't
have known how to use for anything else; lies in each of us
seriously considering himself a spendthrift, seriously suppos-
ing that he has the right to say: Oh, what I would have done
if I hadn't needlessly wasted my time!
Here I, too-what did I hope for, what was I waiting for,
what rich future did I foresee, when I had hardly escorted,
with only a sigh, with only a sense of despondency, the mo-
mentarily risen ghost of my first love?
And what came of all that I hoped for? Even now, when
evening shadows have begun to fall across my life, what has
remained fresher and dearer to me than the memories of that
quickly gone, spring morning thunderstorm?
But I slander myself falsely. Even then in that light-hearted,
youthful time, I wasn't deaf to a sad voice appealing to me,
to a triumphant voice, flying to me from beyond the grave.
I remember, a few days after that day when I found out
about Zinaida's death, I myself, by my own irresistible in-
FIRST LOVE
221
clination, was present at the death of a poor old woman who
lived in our house. Covered with rags, on hard boards, with
a bag under her head, she died hard and painfully. Her whole
life had gone in a bitter struggle with daily want, she had not
known joy, had not tasted the cup of happiness-wouldn't she
be glad of death, of its freedom and peace? But, instead, as
long as her chest still painfully heaved under the ice-cold
hand lying on it, as long as the last strength hadn't left her,
the old woman kept crossing herself and whispering: "Lord,
forgive me my sins . . ." and the expression of fear and of
horror of dying disappeared only with the last spark of con-
sciousness. And I remember that there, by this poor old
woman's deathbed, I became terrified for Zinaida, and I
wanted to pray for her, for my father-and for myself.
[1860]
PREFACE TO A King Lear of the Steppe
The materials published in Mazon's Manuscrits parisiens
d'Ivan Tourguéneff traced the development of Kharlov's story.
The action is given as having occurred in the country near
Spasskoe, in 1840. Turgenev listed the characters, starting with
Martyn Petrovich Kharlov, born 1772, and included lengthy
descriptions of their peculiarities and features. The frag-
mentary, psychological characterizations given in this list are
expanded and actualized in the story. Technical information
-for example, the procedures connected with the division of
the estate between the two daughters, or the correct names
of the beams and rafters in a roof-Turgenev asked of his
friends, acquaintances, and the steward of his own estate. The
final accuracy and actualness of the incidents he imagined
his characters tied to, Turgenev arrived at by, as he put it,
"fixing over and plowing up" the list of characters and char-
acteristics with which he started.
Having finished the long story in June, 1870, Turgenev read
it to a group of friends, revised it, and gave it to Annenkov
in July. It came out in The Messenger of Europe in the
October issue.
Goncharov valued the fact that so much in the story had
been drawn from life:
1
I find this story tied in with A Sportsman's Sketches, in
which Turgenev is a true artist, a creator, for he knows
this life, has seen it himself, has lived it, and writes from
nature, whereas in his long stories he doesn't create but
composes.
Turgenev was pleased by Goncharov's response.
224
IVAN TURGENEV
The critic of The St. Petersburg Record responded to the
tale very much as Goncharov had, but Dostoevsky definitely
did not. He wrote to Strakhov: "I don't like Turgenev's King
Lear at all. It's an inflated and hollow thing. Its tone is in-
ferior." And Strakhov, in turn, said it was nothing but "a
parody of one of Shakespeare's marvelous plays."
Perhaps one could most satisfactorily read it as the best
example of the double provenance of Turgenev's figures: the
story comes from an incident in Oriol province which Tur-
genev heard about, and it comes equally from the pattern of
family relationships given in the literary example, King Lear.
Clearly the power of the story comes from Turgenev's ability
to express in naturalistic terms the demonic force driving
Kharlov to his own destruction.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
There were six of us, gathered together one winter evening
at the house of an old university friend. The conversation
turned on Shakespeare, on his characters, on their being pro-
foundly and faithfully drawn from the very depths of the
human "essence." We were especially astounded by their
trueness to life, their everydayness; each of us named those
Hamlets, those Othellos, those Falstaffs, even those Richard
the Thirds and Macbeths (these last, it's true, only poten-
tially) whom he'd happened to run into.
"But I, gentlemen," our host (a man already elderly) ex-
claimed, “used to know a certain King Lear!"
“What do you mean?” we asked him.
"Just that. You want me to tell you the story?”
"Please."
And our friend immediately started.
I
in
I spent my whole childhood, he began, and my early youth
up to the age of fifteen, in the country on my mother's estate
province. Just about the sharpest impression that
remains in my memory of that now long-past time is the
figure of our nearest neighbor, a certain Martyn Petrovich
Kharlov. And it would be hard to erase that impression: never,
in all my life since, have I met anything like Kharlov. Imagine
a man of gigantic height. On his huge torso rested, a little
aslant and without any sign of a neck, an enormous head; a
whole shock of tangled yellow-grey hair rose up from it, start-
ing practically from his ruffled eyebrows themselves. On the
226
IVAN TURGENEV
broad square of his dove-colored face there stuck out a big,
knobby nose; his tiny little light blue eyes puffed out arro-
gantly, and his mouth hung open-also tiny, but crooked,
chapped, and the same color as the rest of his face. The voice
that came out of this mouth was, though husky, extremely
strong and stentorian. Its sound reminded you of the clanking
of flat iron bars in a cart on a rough pavement, and Kharlov
would talk as if shouting to someone across a wide ravine in
a strong wind. It was hard to say just what Kharlov's face
expressed, it was so vast. You couldn't take it all in at a
glance. But it wasn't unpleasant-there was even a certain
majesty about it; it's just that it was so astonishing and un-
usual. And what hands he had-real pillows! What fingers,
what feet! I remember, I couldn't look without a certain awe
at Martyn Petrovich's five-foot-long back, at his millstone-like
shoulders; but it was his ears that amazed me especially. They
were perfect kalaches* with all the twists and turns; his
cheeks seemed to be pushing them up on both sides. Both
winter and summer Martyn Petrovich wore a kazakin coat of
green cloth, belted with a Circassian strap, and blacked boots.
I never saw a necktie on him, and, indeed, what would he
have tied it around? He breathed slowly and heavily, like a
bull, but moved noiselessly. Once he'd gotten into a room,
you'd have thought that he was constantly afraid of knocking
everything over and breaking it and therefore moved from
place to place carefully, mostly sideways, as if stealthily. He
had really Herculean strength, and as a result of it enjoyed
huge respect in the neighborhood. Our people, who still revere
the ancient epic heroes, even made up legends about him:
they used to tell about how he once met a bear in the forest
and actually outfought it; how, coming on a strange peasant-
thief in his bee garden, he threw him and his cart and horse
all together right over the wattle fence; and other tales like
that. Kharlov himself never boasted of his strength. "If my
right hand's blessed," he used to say, "that's what God's will
was." He was proud-only he wasn't proud of his strength,
but of his name, of his lineage, of his own intelligence.
"Our family comes from the Wsedes" (that's the way he
used to say the word Swedes), "from the Wsede Kharlus,"
he used to assure us; "came into Russia in the reign of Ivan
Vasilievich the Blind-that's when it was!-and this Wsede
Kharlus didn't want to be a Finnish count but wanted to be
* A kalach is a kind of twisted wheat roll,
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
227
a Russian noble and entered his name in the official genealogy.
So that's where we Kharlovs come from! And for the same
reason all of us Kharlovs are born blond, blue-eyed, and
clear-skinned, because we're snow-people."
“But, Martyn Petrovich," I would protest to him, “there
never was an Ivan Vasilievich the Blind, but Ivan Vasilievich
the Terrible. Great Prince Vasili Vasilievich was called The
Blind."
"Go on with you!" Kharlov answered me calmly. “What-
ever I say, that's the way it is!”
Once Mother decided to praise him to his face for his really
remarkable disinterestedness.
"Ah, Natalia Nikolaevna!" he said almost with annoyance,
"what's this you're praising! We gentlemen can't be different;
so no worthless peasant, county do-gooder, or underling ever
thinks anything bad about us! I'm Kharlov, and that's where
my name comes from" (here he pointed with his finger to
some place high above him up in the ceiling) "—and the idea
that there's no honor in me-how's that possible?"
Another time a dignitary, who had come to call on my
mother as a guest, decided to banter Martyn Petrovich.
Martyn Petrovich again started talking about the Wsede
Kharlus who'd emigrated to Russia.
"In the days of yore?" the dignitary interrupted.
“No, not in the days of yore, but in the days of Great Prince
Ivan Vasilievich the Blind.”
"But I'd supposed," the dignitary continued, "that your
family was much older and goes back to even the antediluvian
times when there were still mastodons and megalosaurs."
These scholarly terms were completely unknown to Martyn
Petrovich, but he understood that the dignitary was ridiculing
him.
"Maybe," he blurted out, "our family is really very, very
old. In the time when my forefathers came into Moscow, they
say, there was a fool living there no worse than Your Ex-
cellency, and such fools get born only once in a thousand
years."
>>
The dignitary went white with rage, but Kharlov threw his
head back, stuck out his chin, and snorted, and off he went.
Two days later he showed up again. Mother began scolding
him. "It's a lesson to him, madam,” Kharlov cut her off, “not
to fly out at random, to find out ahead of time who you're
dealing with. He's still terribly young, he's got to be taught.”
The dignitary was almost the same age as Kharlov, but this
228
IVAN TURGENEV
!
giant had grown used to thinking of everybody as half-edu-
cated youngsters. He had great confidence in himself and
feared absolutely nobody. "Can they do anything to me?
Where's there such a man in the world?" he used to ask, and
he would suddenly start roaring boisterously in quick and
deafening laughter.
II
My mother was very choosy about her friends, but she
received Kharlov with special cordiality and forgave him a
lot. Some twenty-five years before he had saved her life by
holding her carriage back from the edge of a deep ravine into
which the horses had already fallen. The traces and breech-
bands broke, but Martyn Petrovich still didn't let go of the
wheel he'd gotten his hands on-even though the blood
spurted out from under his nails. My mother even arranged
his marriage: she married to him a seventeen-year-old orphan
girl who had been brought up in her house; he was then past
forty. Martyn Petrovich's wife was a frail little thing-they say
he carried her into his house on his palms-and didn't have
long to live with him; however, she bore him two daughters.
After her death, too, my mother continued to be a patroness
to Martyn Petrovich: she placed his older daughter in the
provincial boarding school, then found her a husband; and
now she had her eye on one for the second daughter. Kharlov
was a rather substantial landowner: he had about eight hun-
dred acres on his estate, and had built himself a little house
on it; and the way the serfs obeyed him-there's no point in
even bringing it up!
On account of his stoutness Kharlov went practically no-
where on foot: the ground didn't hold him. He drove around
every place in a low racing sulky and he himself drove the
horse, a weak, thirty-year-old mare with a scar from a wound
on her shoulder: she'd gotten this wound during the battle
of Borodino carrying the sergeant-major of a regiment of the
Horse Guards. This horse was constantly lame, somehow in
all four legs at once; she couldn't go at a walk but just
hobbled at a jog-trot, hopping along; she ate mugwort and
wormwood along the edge of the fields-something I never
seen any other horse do. I remember I was always puzzled
how this half-dead nag could pull such a terrific load. (I
don't dare mention how many pounds our neighbor weighed.)
Behind Martyn Petrovich on the racing sulky sat his swarthy
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
229
little servant Maksimka. Pressing his whole body and face
against his master and bracing his bare feet on the rear axle
of the sulky, he seemed a leaf or a worm accidentally stuck
to the gigantic carcass towering up in front of him. The same
little servant boy shaved Martyn Petrovich once a week. To
carry out this operation, they say, he used to stand on a table;
other wags swore he used to have to run around his master's
chin. Kharlov didn't like to stay home long, and therefore
you could often see him riding around in his invariable rig,
the reins in one hand (the other, with elbow turned out, he
agilely leaned on his knee), a tiny old cap on the very top of
his head. He would look around cheerfully with his little bear-
like eyes, call out hello in a thundering voice to all the peas-
ants, townsmen, and merchants he would meet; he shouted
strong names at the priests, whom he didn't like at all; and
once, coming up alongside me (I'd gone out with my gun for
a walk), he started tally-hoing so at a hare lying beside the
road that the roaring and ringing remained in my tears until
evening.
III
My mother, as I already said, received Martyn Petrovich
cordially; she knew what deep respect he had for her. "A
lady! Madam! A bird of our feather!"-that's the way he used
to refer to her. He called her benefactress, and she saw him
as a devoted giant who wouldn't hesitate to defend her single-
handed against a whole gang of peasants; and though there
wasn't even the foreseeable possibility of such an encounter,
still, to Mother's mind, in the absence of a husband (she had
been widowed early) such a defender as Martyn Petrovich
wasn't to be disdained. Besides, he was a straightforward per-
son, didn't play up to anybody, didn't borrow money, didn't
drink-and also wasn't stupid, although he'd received no
education. Mother trusted Martyn Petrovich. When she
decided to make her will, she called him in as a witness, and
he went home just to get his round, iron-rimmed glasses (he
couldn't write without them); and with these glasses on his
nose he barely managed, in the course of a quarter-hour,
huffing and puffing, to inscribe his rank, first name, pa-
tronymic, and surname, putting down huge, rectangular letters
with capitals and flourishes, and, having finished his labor,
announced he was tired and that for him writing was just the
same as catching fleas. Yes, Mother respected him-though he
230
IVAN TURGENEV
was never admitted beyond the dining room in our house.
A very strong odor came from him: he smelled of earth, of the
forests, of swamp mire. "That's what a wood-demon is like!”
my old nurse insisted. A special table was set in the corner
for Martyn Petrovich to dine at, and he wasn't insulted by
this; he knew that others felt uneasy sitting beside him—and
it left him more room in which to eat-and he ate the way, I
suppose, nobody's eaten since the time of Polyphemus. At the
beginning of dinner, he was always provided with a pot of
about six pounds of groats as a sort of precaution: “Or you
know you'll eat me out of house and home!" Mother used to
say. "I will anyway, madam!" Martyn Petrovich would reply,
grinning.
Mother liked to listen to his discussion of any topic con-
nected with running an estate, but she couldn't stand his
voice for long.
"What's this, my friend!" she would exclaim. "You really
ought to get cured of it, that's what! You've deafened me com-
pletely. What a trumpet!”
"Natalia Nikolaevna! Benefactress!” Martyn Petrovich would
usually answer. "I've no control of my larynx. And what
medicine can get at me anyway, you tell me, please? I'd
better just be quiet for a bit.”
Actually, I suppose, no medicine could have gotten at
Martyn Petrovich. He was never sick.
He didn't know how to tell stories, and didn't like to.
"Short-windedness comes from long speeches," he used to
note reproachfully. But when he was gotten onto the War of
"Twelve (he had served in the Home Guard and had received
a bronze medal which he wore on holidays with an Order of
St. Vladimir ribbon), and when he was questioned about the
French, he would come forth with some little stories-though
at the same time he continually asserted that no Frenchmen,
no real Frenchmen, had ever come into Russia-just some
petty marauders had come running in out of hunger, and he'd
clobbered a lot of this riffraff in the woods.
IV
Nevertheless, even this unconquerable, self-confident giant
had moments of melancholy and deep reflection. Without any
apparent reason he would suddenly begin to be despondent;
he would lock himself in his room alone and buzz-exactly:
buzz, like a whole swarm of bees. Or he'd call in his little
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
231
servant boy Maksimka and order him either to read aloud
from the one book that had strayed into his house, an odd
volume of Novikov's The Hard-Working Man at Rest, or to
sing. And Maksimka, who, by a strange quirk of fate, knew
how to read, syllable by syllable, would start in, with his
habitual chopping up of words and misplacement of accents,
shouting out sentences like the following: "But pas-SIONate
man draws from that emp-TY place, which he finds in sim-
PLE crea-TURES, the COM-pletely opposite conclusions. No
be-AST by IT-self, he says, has the po-WER to make me
hapPY!" etc. Or he would strike up in the thinnest little
voice a plaintive little song, in which all that you could make
out was: “Ee... ee... eh... ee... eh ... ee. . . Aaaa ...
sk!. . . . O . . . 00 .. 00
oo...bee
la!" And Martyn Petrovich would nod his head, refer to the
transitory nature of things-how everything turns to dust,
withers even as the grass, goes by, and is no more!
ee
ee
ee
•
• •
He'd somehow once gotten hold of a little picture showing
a burning candle which the winds, with puffed-up cheeks,
were blowing on from all sides; underneath it was the inscrip-
tion: "Even such is the life of man!" He liked this picture very
much. He'd hung it up in his study; but in ordinary, non-
melancholy times, he would turn its face to the wall so it
wouldn't bother him. Kharlov, this colossus, was afraid of
death! Even in fits of melancholy, however, he seldom re-
sorted to the help of religion or of prayer; here, too, he relied
even more heavily on his own native intelligence. There was
no special piety about him; he wasn't often seen in church.
He used to say, though, that he didn't go there supposedly
because he was afraid of squeezing everybody out just by
his very size. The despondent fits would usually end with
Martyn Petrovich's starting to whistle. Suddenly, in a thun-
dering voice, he would order his sulky harnessed up and
would head off somewhere in the neighborhood; and, not
without dash, he would brandish his free hand in the air over
the vizor of his cap, as if to say, "I don't give a damn about
anything now!" He was a real Russian.
܀
V
•
•
•
•
Men of great physical strength, like Martyn Petrovich, most
often have a phlegmatic temperament; he, on the contrary,
was rather easily irritated. He was driven out of all patience
232
IVAN TURGENEV
by a man staying in our house, not exactly as a jester, not
exactly as a boarder-the brother of his late wife, a certain
Bychkov, nicknamed Souvenir in childhood and now called
Souvenir by everybody, even the servants, who, it's true,
used to address him as Souvenir Timofeich. I think he didn't
know his real name himself. He was a skinny little man looked
down on by everybody: in short, a sponger. On one side of
his mouth all his teeth were missing; this made his wrinkled
little face seem twisted. He was eternally bustling about and
fidgeting: he'd go into the maids' quarters or into the office,
to the village to the priest's, or to the village elder at his
cottage. Everywhere they'd throw him out, but he'd just
hunch his shoulders and squint his little slanty eyes and give
a weak, wretched little liquid laugh, like a bottle being rinsed
out. It always seemed to me that, if Souvenir had had money,
he'd have been the foulest man-immoral, wicked, even cruel.
Poverty had willy-nilly "cut him down to size." They let him
drink only on holidays. He was dressed very well, according
to Mother's orders, since in the evenings he played piquet or
boston with her. Souvenir kept saying over and over contin-
ually: "Now, please, I'll, I'll righ-twaway, righ-twaway."-"But
what righ-twaway?" Mother would ask him in annoyance.
He'd instantly throw up his hands, shrink into himself, and
babble: "Whatever you say, maʼam!”
Listening behind doors, gossiping away, and, chiefly, “nag-
ging," teasing-he had no other cares at all-he used to "nag"
as if he had a right to, as if he were getting revenge for
something. He called Martyn Petrovich his little brother and
bored him absolutely to death. “What did you kill my sister
Margarita Timofeevna for?" he'd keep pestering Martyn
Petrovich, wriggling around in front of him and sniggering.
Once Martyn Petrovich was sitting in the cool billiard room,
in which never a fly had ever been seen and which our neigh-
bor, an enemy of heat and sunlight, therefore much fre-
quented. He was sitting between the wall and the billiard
table. Souvenir darted past his belly, teasing him, showing
off. Martyn Petrovich wanted to push him away-and put
both his hands out. Luckily for Souvenir, he managed to dodge.
to one side. His "little brother's" palms came to a stop on
the edge of the billard table-and the heavy wooden table fell
tumbling down off all its six legs. What a pancake Souvenir
would have become if he'd fallen under those mighty hands!
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
233
VI
I had long been curious to see how Martyn Petrovich had
set up his living quarters, what kind of a house he had. Once I
offered to ride with him over to Eskovo (that's what his estate
was called). “Well, now! Y'want to take a look at my king-
dom," said Martyn Petrovich; "very good! I'll show you the
garden, and the house, and the threshing floor-and every-
thing. I've lots of all kinds of things!"
We set out. From our village to Eskovo was no more than
three versts. "There she is, my kingdom!" Martyn Petrovich
suddenly thundered, trying to turn his immovable head
around and gesturing with his hand to the right and the left.
"It's all mine!" Kharlov's manor house was on the top of a
gentle rise; down below, several wretched peasant huts hud-
dled next to a small pond. Beside the pond, on a little wooden
ramp, an old woman in a plaid homespun skirt was beating a
rolled-up bundle of laundry with a battledore.
“Aksinia!” Martyn Petrovich barked, so that the rooks flew
up in a flock from the next oatfield. "Y'washing your man's
pants?"
The woman turned around at once and made a low bow.
“I am, sir,” her weak voice replied.
"Aha! Now, look there," Martyn Petrovich went on, trot-
ting alongside a half-rotten wattle fence, "that's my hemp, and
that over there's the peasants'; you see the difference? And
that's my orchard. I planted the apple trees myself; and the
willows-did them, too. For there wasn't a single tree here.
That's right, now-that's a lesson for you."
We turned into the courtyard, enclosed by a paling; right
across from the gate there stood a little tumbledown old wing
with a thatch roof and a tiny porch with little columns; on
one side there stood another, somewhat newer, with a tiny
balcony-but also chicken-legged. "Now here's another lesson
for you," said Kharlov. “Our forefathers, see, lived in such
little houses, but here's the sort of palace, now, I've built
myself." The palace looked like a house of cards. Five or six
dogs, each shaggier and more hideous than the next, greeted
us with barking. "Sheep dogs!" Martyn Petrovich remarked,
"real Crimeans! Stop it, you devils! Or I'll take you all and
string you up." A young man in a long nankeen duster ap-
peared on the porch of the new wing: the husband of Mar-
234
IVAN TURGENEV
tyn Petrovich's older daughter. Running nimbly up to the
sulky, he respectfully took his father-in-law's elbow as he got
out-and with one hand even made a gesture as if about to
grasp the gigantic leg which his father-in-law, bending his
huge body forward, swung over the seat; then he helped me
down from my horse.
"Anna!" Kharlov shouted. "Natalia Nikolaevna's boy has
come to visit us; got to show him hospitality. But where's
Evlampiushka?” (The older daughter was Anna; the younger,
Evlampia.)
"She's out; went to the fields to get cornflowers,” Anna
replied, appearing in the little window beside the door.
"Is there any pot-cheese?" Kharlov asked.
»
"There is.'
"And any cream?"
"There is."
"Well, put them on the table, and in the meantime I'll
show him my study. This way, please, this way," he added,
turning to me and beckoning me with his index finger. He
didn't "thee-thou" me in his own house: the host has to be
polite. He led me along a corridor. "Here's where I live," he
said, stepping sideways over the sill of a wide doorway, "and
this here's my study. Come in!”
The study was a large room, unplastered and practically
empty; on the walls, on unevenly driven-in nails, there hung
two riding crops, a tri-cornered reddish-brown hat, a single-
barreled rifle, a sword, an odd sort of horse collar with name-
plates, and the little picture showing the burning candle in
the wind; a wooden couch, covered with a gay rug, stood in
one corner. Hundreds of flies buzzed thickly on the ceiling;
however, it was cool in the room, but smelled very strongly
of that special forest odor which followed Martyn Petrovich
everywhere.
"So, is it a nice study?" Kharlov asked me.
"Very nice.”
"You just look there, now, I've got a Dutch horse collar
hanging there," Kharlov continued, lapsing again into "thou."
"A wonderful collar! I got it in a swop from a Jew. Just look
at it!"
"It's a good collar."
"The most economical! Just smell it-what leather!”
I smelled the collar. It reeked of fusty blubber-oil-and
nothing else.
"So, now, have a seat-there, on that little chair, be my
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
235
:
guest," said Kharlov, and dropped onto the couch and, as if
he had begun to doze, shut his eyes and even started wheez-
ing. I looked at him silently and couldn't help being filled
with wonder: a mountain-simply a mountain!
He suddenly shook himself. "Anna!" he shouted, and as he
did, his enormous stomach rose and fell like a wave on the
ocean, "what are you doing? Get a move on! Or didn't you
hear me?"
"Everything's ready, Father, come in," his daughter's voice
rang out.
I marveled inwardly at the speed with which Martyn
Petrovich's orders were carried out, and set off after him to
the living room, where, on a table covered with a red table-
cloth with a white design, a snack had been set out: pot-
cheese, cream, white bread, even granulated sugar with
ginger. While I was taking care of the pot-cheese, Martyn
Petrovich, having mumbled affectionately, “Eat, my friend,
eat, little man, don't disdain our country victuals," again sat
down in a corner and again seemed to doze off. Anna Mar-
tynovna stood in front of me, motionless, her eyes lowered;
out of the window I could see how her husband was leading
my Klepper around the yard, again and again wiping off the
chain of the snaffle with his own hands.
VII
My mother didn't like Kharlov's older daughter; she called
her a haughty thing. Anna Martynovna practically never came
to pay respects to us. In Mother's presence she was very
sedate and cold, although it was by Mother's charity that she
had gone to boarding school and had gotten married. On the
day of her wedding she'd received a thousand rubles from
Mother and a yellow Turkish shawl-true, one that was a bit
worn. She was a woman of medium height, lean, very lively
and nimble in her movements, with thick blond hair, and
a beautiful dark face with somewhat strange, but pleasant,
narrow pale blue eyes; she had a thin, straight nose, lips that
were also thin, and a “hairpin" chin. Looking at her, anyone
would certainly have thought: "Well, what a clever woman
you are-and what a shrew!" But with all this, there was
something attractive about her; even the dark moles scattered
“like buckwheat" over her face were becoming to her and
intensified the feeling which she provoked.
236
IVAN TURGENEV
Having thrust her hands under her kerchief, she furtively
looked down on me (I was sitting, she was standing); an
unkind little smile crossed her lips, her cheeks, in the shadow
of her long eyelashes. “Oh, you spoiled little landowner's
boy," this smile seemed to say. Each time she breathed her
nostrils dilated slightly-this was a bit strange, too; but still
I felt that if Anna Martynovna were to fall in love with me,
or just to want to kiss me with her thin hard lips, I'd have
jumped up to the ceiling in delight. I knew she was very strict
and demanding, that the peasant women and maids were
afraid of her like fire-but what did that matter! Anna Mar-
tynovna secretly excited my imagination... However, I'd just
turned fifteen then-and at that age.
•
Martyn Petrovich shook himself again.
“Anna!” he shouted. “You might strum something on the
piano.... Young fellows like that."
I looked around: in the room there stood a sort of pitiful
likeness of a piano.
"Yes, Father," Anna Martynovna replied. "Only what will
I play for him? It won't be interesting for him."
"Well, what were you taught in the boarded-shool?”
"I've forgotten it all-and besides, the strings are broken.”
Anna Martyovna's little voice was very pleasant, clear, and
seemingly sad... something like that of birds of prey.
"Well," said Martyn Petrovich, and he became thoughtful.
"Well," he started in again, “don't you want to take a look
at the threshing floor, just for curiosity? Volodka'll take you.
-Hey, Volodka!" he shouted to his son-in-law, who was still
walking up and down in the yard with my horse, "take him to
the threshing floor . . . and in general... show him my farm.
But I've got to take a nap! Right you are! Good luck!”
He went out, and I started after him. Anna Martynovna
immediately, deftly, and with a sort of annoyance, began
clearing the table. On the threshold I turned and bowed to
her, but she seemed not to notice my bow and just smiled
again, even more maliciously than before.
I took my horse from Kharlov's son-in-law and led it by
the reins. He and I went to the threshing floor together; but
since we found nothing specially interesting there-and be-
sides, he couldn't suppose that in me, a young boy, there was
any great love of farming-we went back through the orchard
to the road.
+
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
237
VIII
I knew Kharlov's son-in-law well: his name was Sliotkin,
Vladimir Vasilievich; he was an orphan, the son of a minor
official who was Mother's attorney, and her ward. At first he
had been sent to the district school, then he had entered the
"patrimonial estate office," then he had been given a job in
the government warehouses, and finally he had been married
to Martyn Petrovich's daughter. Mother called him her little
Jew, and really, with his curly hair, with his eyes black and
eternally moist, like stewed prunes, with his hawklike nose
and his wide red mouth, he reminded you of the Jewish type;
only, the color of his skin was white, and he was, on the
whole, quite good-looking. He had a complaisant disposition,
just so long as his personal advantage wasn't involved. When
it was, he'd lose his head from greediness, even going to the
point of tears; he was ready to make a fuss and pester you
all day over an old rag, remind you a hundred times about
what had been promised, and be resentful and whine if the
promise wasn't fulfilled right away. He liked to go wandering
over the fields with his gun, and whenever he'd happen to
nab a hare or a duck, he'd put his quarry into his game
bag with a special feeling, repeating again and again, “Well,
try your tricks now, you won't get away! Now you'll serve
me!”
"You have a nice little horse,” he began in his lisping voice,
helping me into the saddle; "I wish I had one like that! Yes,
indeed! It's not my luck. If you'd just ask your mother
remind her."
·
"But did she promise you?"
"If only she had! No; but I dare say that from her great
kindness...
"You ought to ask Martyn Petrovich."
"Martyn Petrovich!" Sliotkin repeated slowly. "For him
there's no difference between me and any little worthless serv-
ing boy like Maksimka. He treats us really badly, and you're
never going to get a reward from him for all you've done.”
"Really?"
"Yes, honestly. He just says: 'My word's gospel!'-why, it's
as if he'd cut you down with an axe. Ask or not-it makes no
difference. Why, even my wife, Anna Martynovna, doesn't
have such stature with him as Evlampia Martynovna.
238
IVAN TURGENEV
"Ah, Lord, saints alive!" he suddenly interrupted himself
and clasped his hands in despair. "Look there: what's this?
Some dirty rat's mowed down a whole half-eighth of oats,
of our oats. How do you like that? What a world this is!
Robbers, the robbers! Now they're really telling the truth
when they tell you not to trust Eskovo, Beskovo, Erino,
Belino" (those were the names of four neighboring villages).
“Ah, ah, what's this! You figure it, now, it's a ruble and a half,
or even two-dead loss!"
There were practically sobbing sounds in Sliotkin's voice.
I dug my heels into my horse's sides and rode off.
I was still within hearing of Sliotkin's exclamations when
suddenly, at a turn in the road, I ran into Kharlov's second
daughter, Evlampia, who, according to Anna Martynovna, had
gone out into the fields for cornflowers. Her head was bound
with a thick garland of these flowers. We exchanged greetings
silently. Evlampia, too, was quite good-looking, no worse than
her sister, but in a different way. She was tall and solidly
put together; everything about her was big: her head, her
feet, her hands, her snow-white teeth, and especially her eyes,
bulging, languishing, very dark blue, like beads; everything
about her was even monumental (she wasn't Martyn Petro-
vich's daughter for nothing), but beautiful. She apparently
didn't know what to do with her thick blond plait, and
wound it three times around the top of her head. Her mouth
was charming, fresh as a rose and raspberry-colored, and
when she spoke the middle of her upper lip was very sweetly
raised a little. But in the look of her huge eyes there was
something stern and almost wild. "A loner, Cossack blood”-
that's what Martyn Petrovich used to say about her. I was
rather afraid of her. This hefty beauty reminded me of her
old man.
I rode off a little farther and heard her start singing in a
strong, even, somewhat sharp voice, completely peasant-like,
and then suddenly she stopped. I looked around, and from
the top of the hill saw her standing beside Kharlov's son-in-
law in front of the mown eighth of oats. He was waving his
arms and pointing, but she wasn't moving. The sun lit up her
tall figure, and the cornflower wreath on her head shone
bright blue.
W
IX
I think I've already told you, gentlemen, that my mother
had provided a fiancé for Kharlov's second daughter too. He
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
239
was one of our poorest neighbors, a retired army major,
Zhitkov, Gavrila Fedulych, a man no longer young and, as he
himself put it, not without a certain smugness, by the way,
and as if recommending himself, "beaten and broken.” He
hardly knew how to read and write and was very stupid, but
he secretly hoped to become my mother's estate manager, for
he felt himself "an executive." "I may not know much, sir,
but as for knocking out a peasant's teeth-that I understand
through and through," he used to say, practically gritting
his own; “because I got used to doing it," he would explain,
“in my old job, I mean." If Zhitkov had been less stupid, he
would have understood that he didn't have the slightest
chance at all of becoming Mother's estate manager, for to
do that we would have had to get rid of the then present
manager, a certain Kwicinski, a very determined and business-
like Pole whom Mother trusted completely.
Zhitkov's face was long and horselike; it was covered all
over with dusty-blond hair, even the cheeks under the eyes;
in the coldest weather it was covered with a great deal of
sweat, like drops of dew. At the sight of Mother he'd imme-
diately draw himself up straight, his head would start shaking
from zeal, his huge hands would lightly tap his thighs, and
his whole body seemed to be appealing: "Give me the order,
and I'll rush off!" Mother wasn't fooled about his abilities-
which didn't prevent her, however, from trying to take care
of his marriage to Evlampia.
"Only will you get along with her, old man?" she asked him
once.
Zhitkov smiled self-satisfiedly. "For goodness sake, Natalia
Nikolaevna! I used to keep a whole company in order; they
obeyed me completely, and now what's this? Child's play."
"A company's one thing, old man; and a noble girl, a wife,
is another," Mother remarked with displeasure.
"For goodness' sake, ma'am! Natalia Nikolaevna!" Zhitkov
exclaimed again. "That's something we all can easily under-
stand. Just the word: a young lady, a gentle person!"
"Well," Mother finally decided, "Evlampia's not going to
let herself be insulted."
X
Once-this was in June and the day was giving way to
evening-a servant announced the arrival of Martyn Petro-
vich. Mother was surprised: we hadn't seen him for over a
240
IVAN TURGENEV
•
•
week, but he never visited us so late. "Something's hap-
pened!" she exclaimed in a low voice. Martyn Petrovich's face,
when he stumbled into the room and immediately dropped
onto the chair by the door, had such an extraordinary expres-
sion, was so thoughtful and even pale, that my mother loudly
and involuntarily repeated her exclamation. Martyn Petrovich
fixed his little eyes on her, said nothing but sighed heavily,
fell silent again, and finally announced that he'd come on
some business
which . was of such a nature that
because.
Having mumbled these disconnected words, he suddenly
got up and left.
Mother rang, ordered the lackey who came in to catch up
with Martyn Petrovich at once and bring him back without
fail; but Martyn Petrovich had already managed to get into
his sulky and take off.
The next morning Mother, whom Martyn Petrovich's
strange behavior and extraordinary facial expression had
both astounded and bewildered, was getting ready to send
a special messenger over to him when he himself again
showed up in front of her. This time he seemed more com-
posed.
"Tell me, my friend, tell me," Mother exclaimed as soon
as she'd seen him, "what's this that's happened to you? I
really thought yesterday-Lord!, I thought, has our old man
gone mad; is he out of his mind?”
"I haven't gone mad, madam," Martyn Petrovich replied;
"I'm not that kind of fellow. But I've got to ask your advice."
"What about?”
"Only I don't know if this'll be pleasant for you..
“Go on, go on, dear, only make it simple. Don't get me all
upset! What about this? Speak simply. Has a fit of depression
come over you again?”
Kharlov frowned.
>>
"No, no depression-I get that with the new moon; but let
me ask you, madam, what do you think about death?"
Mother was startled.
"About what?"
“About death. Can death spare any man in this world?”
"What's this you've gotten into your head, my friend?
Who of us is immortal? Here you are, born a giant-but your
time will come, too."
"It will! Oh, it will!" Kharlov cut in, and looked down. "I
had a dream in my sleep-" he finally drawled.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
241
"What did you say?" Mother interrupted.
"A dream in my sleep," he repeated. "You know I'm a
visionary!"
"You?"
"Me! You didn't know?" Kharlov sighed. “Well, so I
lay down for a while sort of, madam, a little over a week ago
right on the eve of the St. Peter fast, I lay down for a while
after dinner to rest up a bit, and I fell asleep. And I see what's
like a raven-black foal that's come running into the room
toward me. And the foal starts playing and flashing its teeth.
Like a beetle's, this raven-black foal.”
Kharlov fell silent.
"Well?" said Mother.
"When all of a sudden this same foal turns around and
kicks me in the left elbow, right there on the funny-bone!
I woke up: but my hand's not working and my left leg, too.
Well, I think, it's paralysis; but I gave it a good rubbing,
and it got working again; only shivers ran through my joints
for a long time, and still do. I just open up my hand and they
start again."
>>
"Why, Martyn Petrovich, you were somehow lying on your
arm."
"No, madam, that's not it. This is a warning to me.
About my death, I mean."
"Now, what next!” Mother began.
"A warning! Prepare thyself, man! And so, madam, here's
what I have to tell you, without delaying a minute. Not
wanting," Kharlov suddenly started shouting, "that this here
death catches me, one of God's servants, unawares, this is
what I made up in my mind to do: while I'm alive, now, to
divide up my estate between my two daughters, Anna and
Evlampia, the way the Lord God tells me to." Martyn Petro-
vich sighed heavily, and added: "Without delaying a minute.”
"Why not? It's a good thing," Mother remarked. “Only I
think you're making a mistake to be in such a hurry.”
"And since in this thing," Kharlov continued, raising his
voice still more, "I want to observe the right order and law-
fulness, I most humbly beg your boy, Dmitri Semionovich-
I don't dare disturb you, madam-I beg this young son of
yours, Dmitri Semionovich, and I require it as an absolute
duty of my relative Bychkov, to be present at the completion
of the formal deed and the induction into possession of my
two daughters, Anna, wed, and Evlampia, unmarried; which
deed will be enacted the day after tomorrow at twelve o'clock
242
IVAN TURGENEV
noon on my own estate Ekovo; also Koziulkino, with the
participation of the duly constituted authorities and officials,
who have already been invited."
Martyn Petrovich could barely finish this speech, which he
had obviously committed to memory and which was inter-
rupted by frequent sighs. . . . It seemed as if he didn't have
enough air in his chest: his blanched face again turned crim-
son, and he wiped the sweat off it several times.
"And you've already made up this deed of allotment?"
Mother asked. "When did you manage to do this?”
“Managed . . . oh! Without eating or drinking .
"You wrote it out yourself?"
“Volodka . . . oh! . . . helped."
“And you handed in your petition?"
“I did, and the supreme District Court's affirmed it, and the
lower court was instructed, and an acting commission of the
county court... oh!... has been assigned to be present."
Mother smiled. "I see you've already done everything you
ought to, Martyn Petrovich, and so quickly! That means you
haven't begrudged the money?"
"I haven't, madam."
"Aha! Yet you say you want to ask my advice. All right,
let Mitenka go; I'll let Souvenir go with him, too, and I'll tell
Kwicinski... But you didn't invite Gavrila Fedulych?"
"Gavrila Fedulych . . . Mr. Zhitkov . . . has been notified
.. also, by me. As fiancé, he ought to be.”
Martyn Petrovich had evidently exhausted his whole sup-
ply of eloquence. Besides, it had always seemed to me that he
wasn't really very fond of the fiancé my mother had found;
maybe he was hoping for a better match for his Evlampiushka.
He got up from the chair and shuffled his feet. "I'm grateful
for your agreeing," he said.
"Where are you going?" Mother asked. “Sit down a minute;
I'll have them bring in something to eat.'
>>
"Much obliged," Kharlov responded, "but I can't... Oh!
.. got to get home.”
He started backing up and, as usual, was just about to go
through the door sideways.
"Wait, wait,” Mother continued. "Are you really giving your
whole estate, complete, to your daughters?"
"Of course, complete."
“Well, but yourself . . . where'll you live?”
Kharlov began waving his arms.
"What do you mean, where? In my own house, the way
KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
243
've lived to this day... the way I will in the future. What
hange can there be?”
“And you're so sure of your daughters and your son-in-law?”
"You mean that about Volodka, now? About that milksop?
Why, I can shove him where I want him, here, there .
What power has he got? And they, my daughters, that is,
hey've got to feed me, give me drink, dress me, and shoe me
o my grave. . . For goodness' sake, it's the first thing they've
got to do! I won't be an eyesore to them for long. It's not
ver the mountains, my death-it's over my shoulder.”
"It's the Lord Himself who chooses about death," Mother
emarked; "but that's their duty, that's right. Only, forgive
ne now, Martyn Petrovich: your older girl, Anna, is a well-
nown haughty little thing-well, and the other looks like a
volf—”
"Natalia Nikolaevna," Kharlov cut her off, "what do you
nean? . . . That they my daughters... that I . . . To leave
ff being obedient? Why, even in their dreams they
• • ·
Go against? Whom? Their father? . . . To dare? And wouldn't
hey be cursed before long? They've lived their lives in fear
nd trembling-and suddenly! ... Lord!"
Kharlov had a coughing fit; his throat was hoarse.
"Well, all right, all right," Mother hastened to calm him
own, "only I still don't understand why you got the idea of
ividing it up between them now. It'll come to them after
ou, anyway. I suspect your melancholy's at the bottom of
ll this."
"Ah, dear!" Kharlov objected, not without some annoyance,
you're all set to talk about this melancholy of yours! This
me, maybe, there's a higher power at work, and you keep
n: melancholy! I got this idea, madam, because I personally,
vhile I'm still living, want to decide for myself who's going
have what, and who I'm going to give something to; let
hem have it and feel gratitude, and keep it up, and let them
eel that what their father and benefactor did is a great kind-
ess . . ." Kharlov's voice broke off again.
“Well, enough, that's enough, my friend,” Mother said to
im, “or the raven-black foal will come right back."
“Oh, Natalia Nikolaevna, don't talk to me about it!” Kharlov
roaned. "That was my death coming for me. Good-bye and
arewell. But you, my young gentleman, I'll be having the
onor of expecting you the day after tomorrow."
Martyn Petrovich went out; Mother watched him go and
hook her head significantly.
244
IVAN TURGENE
"This won't lead to anything good," she whispered, "no
to anything good. You noticed," she turned to me, "he kep
talking but all the time he was squinting, as if from the sun
know, now, that that's a bad sign. Such a man has a heav
heart, and bad luck's threatening him. Ride over the day afte
tomorrow with Vikenti Osipovich and Souvenir."
XI
On the appointed day, our big, family, four-seated carriage
hitched up to six dark bay horses, with the chief "royal coach
man"-the stout and grey-bearded Alekseich-on the box
rolled smoothly up to the porch of our house. The importanc
of the deed which Kharlov meant to effect and the solemnit
with which he had invited us had had their affect on m
mother. She herself had given the order to harness up pre
cisely this extraordinary coach and had instructed Souveni
and me to get dressed up in our holiday best: she, evidently
wanted to honor her "protegé." As for Kwicinski-he was
man who always went around in a tail coat and a white tie
The whole way over, Souvenir chattered like a magpie
sniggered, kept trying to decide whether or not his brothe
would give him anything, and then called him a stone imag
and a grotesque figure. Kwicinski, a sullen, bitter man, finall
couldn't stand it. "And what do you want to keep babblin
such foolishness for?" he began, in his distinct Polish accent
"Can't you really sit still, without all this 'nobody wants it'
(his favorite phrase) "nonsense?" "Well, righ-twaway," Sou
venir mumbled with displeasure and fastened his squinting
eyes on the window.
A quarter of an hour hadn't gone by, the evenly running
horses had hardly begun to sweat under the thin straps of th
new harness, when Kharlov's manor house came in sight. Ou
carriage rolled into the courtyard through the gates throw
wide open. The tiny postilion, his legs barely reaching the
middle of the horse's body, uttered a boyish shout and jumpe
up in his soft saddle for the last time; simultaneously old
Alekseich's elbows spread out and rose-you could hear
light whoa!, and we stopped. The dogs didn't bark to gree
us; the servants' little boys with their long shirts slightly oper
over their big bellies-even they had disappeared somewhere
Kharlov's son-in-law was waiting for us in the doorway.
remember, the birches, stuck in on both sides of the porch a
on Trinity Day, struck me especially. "Victory of victories,
KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
245
ouvenir intoned through his nose, climbing out of the car-
age first.
And indeed, a solemn festivity was evident in everything.
harlov's son-in-law had on a velveteen tie with a satin bow
nd an unusually tight black tail coat; and the hair of
Maksimka, who was peeking out from behind his back, was
o wetted down with kvas that some was even dripping down.
We went into the living room and caught sight of Martyn
etrovich motionlessly towering-precisely, towering-in the
iddle of the room. I don't know what Kwicinski or Souvenir
elt at the sight of his colossal figure, but I felt something like
we. Martyn Petrovich had dressed himself in his grey (I
uppose 1812 Home Guard) kazakin coat with a black,
and-up collar; the bronze medal hung on his chest, a sword
t his side. He had put his left hand on the hilt; with his
ght, he was leaning on a table covered with a red cloth.
wo sheets of paper covered with writing were lying on this
ble. Kharlov didn't move, didn't even pant. What dignity
howed in his bearing, what confidence in himself, in his own
nlimited and unquestionable power! He barely greeted us
ith a nod and, having said hoarsely, "Please!" pointed with
he index finger of his left hand to some chairs set out in a
tle row.
Both of Kharlov's daughters were standing against the
ght wall of the living room, done up in their Sunday best:
nna in a green-and-lavender, double-faced dress with a yel-
w silk sash; Evlampia in pink with crimson ribbons. Zhitkov
as standing up near them in a new uniform, with the usual
pression of vacant and greedy expectation in his eyes, and
ith more than the usual amount of perspiration on his hairy
ice. Against the left wall of the living room sat a priest in a
orn-out, tobacco-colored cassock, an old man with shaggy,
rown hair. This hair, and his sad, filmy eyes, and his big,
alloused hands which seemed to weigh him down and lay,
ke lumps, in his lap, and the blacked boots peeking out from
nder his cassock—all this testified to a laborious, joyless life:
is congregation was very poor. Beside him stood the district
olice officer—a pudgy, palish, untidy little fellow with short,
uffy hands and feet, with black eyes, a black clipped mous-
che, with a constant and gay but wretched little smile on
is face: he was famous as a great bribe-taker and even a
rant, as they used to say in those days; but not only the
ndowners but also the peasants had gotten used to him and
ked him. He kept looking around in a very familiar and

246
IVAN TURGENE
somewhat derisive way: it was obvious that the whole "pro
cedure" amused him. In fact, all that interested him was the
snack that was coming, and the vodka.
On the other hand, the lawyer sitting beside him, a lean mar
with a long face, narrow sideburns from his ear to his nose
(the way they wore them in the days of Aleksander the First)
was taking part in Martyn Petrovich's arrangements with all
his heart and soul, and never let his big, serious eyes off him:
out of very intense attention and sympathy, he kept moving
and twitching his lips all the time, without, however, ever
opening them. Souvenir moved in on him and started talking
in a whisper, having explained to me ahead of time that this
man was the first Freemason in the whole province. The act
ing commission of the county court consisted, of course, of the
district police officer, the lawyer, and the rural policeman
but either there was no rural policeman at all, or else he kept
so much in the background that I didn't notice him; besides
in our section he had the nickname of "the non-existent,” just
the way there are "don't-remembers." I sat down beside
Souvenir; Kwicinski, beside me. All over the face of the prac
tical Pole was written obvious annoyance at the "nobody wants
it" trip, at the useless waste of time. "A lady! Upper-class
Russian whims!" it seemed he was whispering to himself. . .
"I'm fed up with these Russians!”

XII
•
When we all had sat down, Martyn Petrovich raised his
shoulders, hemmed and hawed, looked us all over with his
little bearlike eyes, and, sighing loudly, began like this:
"Dear sirs! I've invited you here for the following reason.
I'm getting old, gentlemen, infirmities are getting hold of me
.... I already even had a warning, my death hour's coming on
me, like a thief in the night." He turned to the priest. "Isn't
that right, Father?"
The Father was startled. "Right, right,” he muttered, shak-
ing his beard.
"And therefore," continued Martyn Petrovich, suddenly
raising his voice, "not wanting that this here death catches
me unawares, I've made up my mind . . ." Martyn Petrovich
repeated word for word the phrase he'd said to my mother
two days before. "In virtue of this decision of mine," he
started shouting still more loudly, "this deed" (he struck the
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
247
papers lying on the table with his hand) "has been drawn up
by me, and the duly constituted authorities have been invited
as witnesses, and what it is my wish consists of, all the points
follow. I've had my reign, that's enough of me!”
Martyn Petrovich put his round, iron-rimmed glasses on his
nose, picked up from the table one of the sheets of paper
covered with writing, and began:
"The deed of allotment of the estate of retired bayonet-
junker and hereditary nobleman, Martyn Kharlov, drawn up
by him himself, being of sound mind and body, and according
to his own discretion, and wherein is accurately specified
what lands and properties are assigned to his two daughters,
Anna and Evlampia-Bow down!" (they bowed down) "and
the way in which the serfs and other goods and chattels is
apportioned between these daughters. Done under my hand
and seal."
"This paper of his," the district police officer whispered to
Kwicinski with his invariable little smile, “he wants to read
it for the beauty of its style, but a legal deed is drawn up in
a regular form, without all these little flourishes."
Souvenir was about to start giggling . . .
"In accordance with my will!" interposed Kharlov, on
whom the police officer's comment had not been lost.
"In accordance on all points," the police officer replied
quickly and cheerfully; "only you know, Martyn Petrovich,
you can't get around the form. And superfluous details are
eliminated. For the Court positively can't go into skewbald
cows and Turkish drakes."
"You come over here!" Kharlov shouted at his son-in-law,
who had entered the room right behind us and with a servile
expression had stopped inside the door. He ran over to his
father-in-law at once.
"Here, take this, read it! Because it's hard for me. Only
look out you don't babble! Make it so all these gentlemen
here can get what it means."
Sliotkin took the piece of paper with both hands and began,
nervously but distinctly, with taste and feeling, to read the
deed of allotment. In it, what went to Anna and what to
Evlampia, and how they were to divide it, was set down with
the greatest accuracy. From time to time Kharlov interrupted
the reading with the phrase: "Listen now, Anna, this is for
you, for your diligence!" or: "This I'm granting you, Evlam-
piushka!”—and both sisters would bow, Anna deeply, Evlampia
248
IVAN TURGENEV
just her head. Kharlov kept watching them with morose
pomposity. "The Manor House" (the new little wing) was
given to Evlampia, “as the youngest daughter, according to
the ancient custom." The reader's voice began to ring and
tremble, pronouncing these words, unpleasant for himself, but
Zhitkov licked his lips. Evlampia looked at him askance: if I
had been in Zhitkov's place, I wouldn't have liked that look
at all. The scornful facial expression, natural to Evlampia, as
to any true Russian beauty, this time had a special nuance.
Martyn Petrovich kept for himself the right of living in the
rooms he now had and stipulated his right, as an oprichnyi,*
to full support and maintenance "in natural provisions" and
ten rubles a month for shoes and clothing. Kharlov wanted
to read the last sentence of the deed of allotment himself.
"And my daughters are to observe and carry out," it said,
"sacredly and inviolably, like a commandment, this my pater-
nal will; for I am their father after God, and the head of
their family, and I am not bound to render account to anyone,
and I have not; and if they carry out my will, they will then
have my paternal blessing, but if they do not carry out my
will, which God forbid, then will my everlasting paternal
curse fall on them, now and forever, amen!" Kharlov raised
the sheet of paper high over his head, Anna immediately
nimbly slipped to her knees and bowed her forehead to the
floor; her husband, too, tumbled down right after her. Kharlov
turned to Evlampia. "Well, what about you?” She turned crim-
son all over, and also bowed down to the ground; Zhitkov
bent forward with his whole body.
"Sign it!" exclaimed Kharlov, pointing to the bottom of the
sheet of paper with his finger. "Here: I gratefully accept,
Anna! I gratefully accept, Evlampia!"
Both daughters got up and signed, one after the other.
Sliotkin got up also, and was about to take the pen, but
Kharlov pushed him aside, shoving his middle finger into the
tie on his chest so hard that he gave a hiccough. There was
silence for about a minute. Suddenly Martyn Petrovich
seemed to sob and, having said, "Well, now it's all yours,"
moved to one side. The daughters and son-in-law looked at
one another, went over to him, and started kissing his arm
above the elbow. They couldn't reach his shoulder.
* Oprichnyi: literally, a member of the oprichina, a section of the govern-
ment under Ivan IV, directly dependent on and responsible to the tsar, and
supporting him in his struggle against the old nobility.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
249
XIII
The district police officer read through the actual, formal
deed, the settlement drawn up by Martyn Petrovich. Then
he and the lawyer went out on the porch and informed all
the neighbors who had gathered at the gate, the witnesses,
Kharlov's peasants, and several servants of what had just
occurred. Then began the induction into possession of the
two new landladies, who had also come out on the porch and
whom the police officer pointed to with his hand when,
slightly lowering one eyebrow and for an instant giving his
carefree face a threatening expression, he impressed "obe-
dience" on the peasants. He could well have done without
this: I suspect that in all of nature there doesn't exist a milder
physiognomy than that of Kharlov's peasants. Clothed in
worn-out cloth coats and torn sheepskin jackets, very tightly
belted the way they do it on important occasions, they stood
motionlessly, as if made of stone, and whenever the police
officer let out some interjection like "Listen, you devils!” or
"You understand, you devils!" they would suddenly all bow
at once, as if by command; each of the "devils" held his cap
tightly in both hands and never took his eyes off the window
in which Martyn Petrovich's figure could be seen. Even the
witnesses themselves were only a little less afraid.
"Do you know of any objections," the police officer shouted
at them, "to the induction into possession of these only and
legitimate heirs and daughters of Martyn Petrovich Kharlov?"
All the witnesses immediately seemed to shrink a little.
"Do you know, you devils?" the police officer shouted again.
"Nothing, Your Excellency, we know of nothing," courage-
ously replied a pock-marked little old man with a clipped
beard and a moustache, a retired soldier.
"What a dare-devil Eremeich is!" the witnesses said about
him as they broke up.
Despite the police officer's request, Kharlov didn't want to
go out on the porch with his daughters. "My people will obey
my will without that!" he answered. Something like sadness
had come over him, now that the deed was completed. His
face had again paled. This new, unprecedented expression of
sadness went so little with Martyn Petrovich's broad, plump
features that I had no idea what to make of it. Was a fit of
depression coming on? The peasants, too, for their part, were
obviously perplexed. And after all: the master's hale and
250
IVAN TURGENEV
hearty; there he's standing, and what a master-Martyn Petro-
vich! And suddenly he's not going to be owning them.
What wonders next! I don't know whether or not Kharlov
guessed what thoughts were wandering through his people's
heads, whether or not he wanted to show off one last time,
but he suddenly opened the little hinged pane in the window,
stuck his head out, and shouted in a thundering voice:
"Obey!” Then he slammed the pane shut.
The peasants's perplexity, of course, was neither dispelled
nor decreased by this; they became still more petrified and
seemed to stop even moving their eyes. The group of house
servants (among them were two robust girls in short print
dresses and with legs like those you can see probably only
in Michelangelo's frightening "Last Judgment," and there was
one completely decrepit, half-blind old man all white and
frosty with age, in a rough, frieze overcoat-according to
rumor, he had been a "horn-blower" under Potiomkin)
showed more liveliness than the peasants; at least it had
shifted around in one spot.
The new landladies carried themselves very sedately, espe-
cially Anna. Pressing her thin lips, she pertinaciously kept her
eyes down; her harsh figure promised her servants little good.
Evlampia also did not look up; she turned around only once
and, as if in amazement, slowly examined her fiancé Zhitkov,
who, following Sliotkin, also thought it necessary to appear on
the porch. "What right have you to be here?" those beautiful,
bulging eyes seemed to say. Sliotkin-he'd changed more than
the rest: a hasty daring showed itself all over him, as if
hunger was gnawing at him; the movements of his head, his
feet, were servile, as before, but how cheerfully he spread
his arms, how fussily he kept jerking his shoulders. "I finally
made it!" he seemed to say.
Having finished the "procedure" of the induction into pos-
session, the police officer, whose mouth was watering at the
approach of something to eat, rubbed his hands in that special
way which usually precedes "the downing of the first little
glassful," but it turned out that Martyn Petrovich wanted to
have the consecration service first. The priest put on his old,
barely usable chasuble; a barely alive sexton came out of the
kitchen, blowing with great effort on the incense in an old
brass censer. The service began. Kharlov kept sighing all the
time; on account of his obesity he couldn't bow all the way
down to the ground, but, making the sign of the cross with
his right hand and bending his head forward, with the finger
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
251
of his left hand he kept pointing to the floor. Sliotkin was
beaming, and even cried a bit; Zhitkov, in a nobly military
manner, twitched his fingers a little between the third and
fourth buttons of his uniform; Kwicinski, as a Catholic, stayed
in the next room; on the other hand, the lawyer prayed so
fervently, sighed so sympathetically after Martyn Petrovich,
and so earnestly whispered and moved his lips up and down,
turning his eyes to Heaven, that I, looking at him, felt deeply
moved and started praying passionately.
At the end of the service and consecration of the water, at
which everyone present, even the blind Potiomkin "horn-
blower," even Kwicinski, doused their eyes with holy water,
Anna and Evlampia once more, at Martyn Petrovich's order,
thanked him by bowing down before him; and then, at last,
the moment to eat something had come! There was plenty of
food, and it was all very tasty; we all stuffed ourselves ter-
rifically. The inevitable bottle of Don wine showed up. The
police officer, as the man most acquainted of all of us with
social customs, and also as the representative of the author-
ities, first drank a toast to the health of "the beautiful pro-
prietresses." Then he proposed we drink to the most venerable
and magnanimous Martyn Petrovich! At the word "magnani-
mous," Sliotkin squealed and rushed over to kiss his benefac-
tor. . . . "Now, all right, all right, don't," Kharlov muttered as
if annoyed, pushing Sliotkin aside with his elbow. But at this
point there occurred a somewhat unpleasant, as they say,
little scene.
XIV
It was this: Souvenir, who had been drinking continually
from the beginning of the luncheon, suddenly got up from his
chair red as a beet and, pointing his finger at Martyn Petro-
vich, poured out his flabby, wretched laugh.
"Magnanimous! Magnanimous!" he started cackling. "We'll
see if this magnanimity's to his own liking when he, the ser-
vant of God, gets turned out of house and home . . . and into
the snow!"
"What are you talking about, you idiot!" Kharlov exclaimed
scornfully.
"Idiot! Idiot!" Souvenir repeated. "God Most High alone.
knows which of the two of us is the real idiot. Now you,
brother, killed my sister, your wife-for which you've now
rubbed yourself out, too. . . . Ha, ha, ha!"
252
IVAN TURGENEV
"How dare you insult our honorable benefactor?" Sliotkin
squeaked and, tearing himself away from Martyn Petrovich's
shoulder which he'd clutched, flew at Souvenir. “Do you know
that, if our benefactor wants to, why, we can destroy this
deed itself this very minute?”
"But still you'll throw him out-into the snow
venir bore in, hiding behind Kwicinski.
“Silence!” roared Kharlov. “I'll smash you so there's only
a puddle left where you're standing." He turned to Sliotkin.
"And you shut up, too, you puppy! Don't stick your nose into
other people's business! As long as I, Martyn Petrovich Khar-
lov, have decided to draw up this here deed of allotment, why,
who can destroy it? Go against my will? Why, there's no
power on earth—”
»
Sou-
"Martyn Petrovich!" the lawyer suddenly broke in, in his
rich bass voice; he, too, had drunk a lot, but it had only made
him more pompous. "But what if this landowning gentleman's
told the truth? You did a great thing, but what if, God save
us, really . . . instead of the gratitude due you, why, some
insult comes out of it?”
I stole a glance at both of Martyn Petrovich's daughters.
Anna was piercing the speaker with her eyes, and, truly, a
more evil, viperous and, in its very malice, more beautiful face
I'd never seen! Evlampia turned away and folded her arms; a
derisive smile twisted her full, rosy lips more than ever.
Kharlov rose from his chair, opened his mouth, but appar-
ently his tongue failed him. He suddenly struck his fist on
the table so that everything in the room shook and clattered.
"Father,” Anna hurriedly said, "they don't know us, and so
they think that about us, but please don't you hurt yourself.
You're getting angry for nothing; why, your sweet face is all
distorted."
Kharlov glanced at Evlampia; she didn't move, although
Zhitkov sitting beside her even nudged her in the ribs.
"Thank you, Anna, my daughter," Kharlov said dully,
"you're my good and clever girl; I count on you, and on
your husband too." Sliotkin squealed again; Zhitkov started to
stick his chest out and stamped his foot lightly, but Kharlov
didn't notice his effort. "This good-for-nothing," he continued,
pointing his chin at Souvenir, “likes to tease me, but you, my
dear sir,” he turned to the lawyer, “you've got no business
judging Martyn Kharlov; you've got no understanding of him.
You're a high-ranking man, too, but what you say is the stu-
pidest . . . And anyway, the thing's done, there's going to be
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
253
no change in my decision. ... Well, and good luck! I'm going.
I'm not the host here any more. I'm a guest. Anna, take care
of things as best you can; I'm going into my study. I've had
enough!"
Martyn Petrovich turned his back on us and without saying
a word more slowly left the room.
The sudden exit of the host couldn't help but throw our
group into confusion, especially since the two hostesses quickly
disappeared also. Sliotkin tried in vain to keep us. The police
officer didn't fail to reproach the lawyer for his inept frankness.
"It couldn't be helped!" the lawyer answered. "My con-
science started speaking!"
"Now it's obvious he's a Mason," Souvenir whispered to me.
"Your conscience!" retorted the police officer. "We know
your conscience! It probably sits in your pocket, too, just like
with the rest of us sinners!"
Meanwhile the priest, now standing up but sensing the
approaching end of the repast, was continuously sticking bite
after bite into his mouth.
"I see you've got a hearty appetite," Sliotkin said to him
sharply.
"This is for reserve," the priest replied with a humble
grimace; chronic hunger sounded in his reply.
The carriages began to rumble up and we all went
•
away.
On the way back nobody prevented Souvenir from showing
off and babbling away, since Kwicinski had announced that
he was fed up with all these "nobody wants it" outrages, and
had set out for home ahead of us on foot. Zhitkov got into
his place in the carriage; the retired major had a very dis-
satisfied expression and kept constantly twitching his mous-
tache, like a cockroach.
"Well, Your Honor," Souvenir prattled, "the subordination.
system's obviously undermined. Wait a while, this is just the
start! You'll get a good going-over, too! Ah, you poor little
bridegroom, poor little bridegroom, poor unhappy little bride-
groom!"
Souvenir was slightly drunk, and poor Zhitkov just kept
on twitching his moustache.
Once home, I told Mother everything I'd seen. She listened
to me to the end, and shook her head several times.
"This won't lead to any good," she said. “I don't like all
these new-fangled things!"
254
IVAN TURGENEV
XV
The next day Martyn Petrovich came for dinner. Mother
congratulated him on the successful conclusion of his under-
taking.
"Now you're a free man," she said, "and must feel re-
lieved."
"Relieved, madam, somewhat relieved," Martyn Petrovich
replied without, however, in any way showing by his expres-
sion that he really was. "I can think about my soul, now, and
get myself ready for the hour of death the way I ought."
"Oh," Mother asked, “do you still have the shivers running
up your arm?”
Kharlov opened and closed his left hand a couple of times.
“I do, madam, and I'll tell you this: whenever I start falling
asleep, there's something in my head shouts: 'Beware! Be-
ware!'"
"It's your nerves," Mother commented, and started talking
about the day before, mentioning some of the circumstances
attending the completion of the deed of allotment.
“Well, yes, yes
Kharlov interrupted her, "there was
something there no matter. Only here's what I'll tell
you," he added haltingly. "It wasn't the stupid things Sou-
venir said yesterday that bothered me-even the lawyer fel-
low, though he's a reliable man, too-even he didn't get me,
but who got me was . . ." Here Kharlov stopped short.
"Who?" Mother asked.
Kharlov looked up at her.
•
"
"Evlampia!"
"Evlampia? Your daughter? How?"
"Heavens, madam-she was like stone! like a statue of
stone! Has she really no feeling? Her sister, Anna-why, she
did everything the way she should. She's a shrewd one! But
Evlampia-you know I've shown her-Why hide my sins?—
shown her a lot of preference! Doesn't she really feel sorry
for me? And so, I'm going to have a hard time; and so, I feel,
I'm not long for this world, now I'm bequeathing everything
to them; and she was just like stone! If she'd only made a
sound! Bow down, she's told-she bows, but you can't see any
gratitude."
"Just you wait,” Mother remarked, "we'll marry her off to
Gravila Fedulych . . . she'll soften up a bit with him."
Martyn Petrovich again looked at Mother distrustfully.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
255
"But now will Gravila Fedulych really do it? Clearly,
madam, you're counting on him?”
"I am "
"So; well, you know best. But now Evlampia, let me tell
you-what I have, she has; our disposition's the same. Cossack
blood-and hearts like hot coals!"
"Do you really have a heart like that, my dear?"
Kharlov didn't answer. A brief silence followed.
"Well, now, Martyn Petrovich," Mother began, "how do
you plan to save your soul now? Are you going over to
Mitrofani's, or into Kiev? Or, maybe, you'll go into the Optin
Hermitage, since it's nearby? There, they say, there's such a
holy monk-Father Makari he's called; nobody remembers
anyone like him! He sees right through you to all your sins."
"If she's really an ungrateful daughter," Kharlov said in a
hoarse voice, “it'd be easier for me, I think, to kill her with
my own hands!”
"What are you saying! What are you saying! God help you!
Pull yourself together!" Mother exclaimed. "What are you
saying things like that for? What did I tell you? That's just
it! You ought to have listened to me the other day, when you
came for advice. And now you're going to be torturing your-
self-instead of thinking about your soul. You're going to be
torturing yourself-but you won't be able to do a thing about
it! Yes-and now here you are, complaining, getting afraid . . .'
This reproach seemed to have cut Kharlov to the quick.
All his old arrogance swelled up in him again like a wave.
He shook himself and stuck his chin out.
"I'm not the kind of man, Madame Natalia Nikolaevna, to
complain or get afraid," he said sullenly. "I just wanted to tell
you my feelings, as my benefactress and a person I respect.
But the Lord God knows" (here he raised his hand above his
head) "that this round earth will be smashed to pieces before
I go back on my word, or-" (here he even snorted) "or be-
come afraid or repent what I've done! There were good rea-
sons, now! And my daughters won't stop obeying me, forever
and ever, amen!"
Mother put her hands on her ears.
“Why are you sounding off like a trumpet! Thank God if
you're so sure of your household! You've completely bashed
my head in!"
Martyn Petrovich begged her pardon, sighed once or twice,
and fell silent. Mother again mentioned Kiev, the Optin
Hermitage, or Father Makari. Kharlov kept saying yes, kept
256
IVAN TURGENEV
saying "I must, I must . . . I'll have to . . . about my soul..
and that was all. Right until he left, he didn't cheer up; from
time to time he shut and opened his hand, looked at his palm,
said that he was above all terrified of dying without con-
fession, from a stroke, and that he'd solemnly sworn not to
get angry, since the blood gets spoiled by anger and rushes
to the head. . . . Besides, he had now cut himself off from
everything; why should he get angry? Let others do the work
now and spoil their blood!
99
Saying good-bye to Mother, he looked at her in a strange
way: pensively and inquisitively . . . and suddenly pulling a
copy of The Hard-working Man at Rest out of his pocket, he
shoved it into Mother's hands.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Read it... here,” he said hastily, "where the corner's bent
down, that's about death. Seems to me it's really well put,
but I can't understand it a bit. Won't you explain it to me,
benefactress of mine? I'll come back, see, and you can ex-
plain it to me."
Having said this, Martyn Petrovich went out.
"Something's wrong! Oh, something's wrong!" Mother com-
mented as soon as he'd gone out the door, and she picked up
The Hard-working Man at Rest.
On the page marked by Kharlov there was the following:
“Death is a great and important work of nature. It is nothing
other than the fact that the spirit, because it is lighter, finer,
and much more acute than those environmental elements to
whose power it has been entrusted, and even more than
electric force, also, chemically purges itself and is filled with
yearning until such time as it senses out the right spiritual
place...
>>
Mother read this little excerpt a couple of times and ex-
claimed: "Pah!"-and threw the book aside.
Three days later she received the news that her sister's
husband had died and, taking me with her, set out for her
sister's place in the country. Mother expected to spend a
month there, but she stayed until fall-and we returned to
our country place only at the end of September.
XVI
The first news Prokofi, my valet, greeted me with (he was
considered the manorial huntsman) was that huge numbers
of woodcock had flown in and that especially the birch grove
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
257
i
near Eskovo, Kharlov's estate, was teeming with them. There
were still about three hours before dinner; I grabbed my gun
and my game bag immediately and, along with Prokofi and a
setter, ran over to the Eskovo grove. We found really a lot
of woodcock in it-and having fired about thirty shells, killed
half a dozen. Hurrying home with our bag, I caught sight of
a peasant ploughing near the road. His horse had stopped,
and he, swearing tearfully and spitefully, was mercilessly
pulling its bent head to one side with the rope rein. I looked
more closely at the miserable nag, whose ribs were practically
sticking out and whose sides, all covered with sweat, were
heaving convulsively and irregularly, like a blacksmith's bel-
lows-and right then I recognized it as the old, feeble mare
with the scar on the shoulder which had so long served Martyn
Petrovich.
"Is Mr. Kharlov living?" I asked Prokofi. The hunting had
absorbed our attention so much that until that moment we
hadn't talked about anything else.
"Yes, sir. Why?”
"Isn't that his horse, though? Did he sell it?”
"His horse, indeed, sir; but as for selling it, he didn't; they
took it from him-and gave it away to this little peasant."
"How could they take it? Did he agree?”
"Nobody asked his agreement, sir. They started a new way
of doing things here while you were gone," Prokofi said with
a slight grin in response to my look of amazement. "It's bad!
My Lord! Now Sliotkin here is the boss of the whole show."
"And Martyn Petrovich?”
“And Martyn Petrovich's become the last man of all, that's
the truth. He gets nothing but dry crusts-what more do you
want? They've completely undone him. Just you watch,
they'll drive him out of the yard yet."
The idea that such a giant could be driven was impossible
for me to believe.
"But what's Zhitkov doing?" I finally asked. “He married
the other daughter, didn't he?"
"Married?" Prokofi repeated, and this time he grinned from
ear to ear. "They won't even let him into the house. No point,
they say; turn around, they tell him; back where you came
from. It's just like I told you: Sliotkin runs it all."
"But what about the bride?”
"Evlampia Martynovna, you mean? Ah, sir, I could tell you
... but you're too young-that's what. Things here have come
258
IVAN TURGENEV
to such a point, that . . . oh... oh... oh! Ehy! But I think
Dianka's pointing!"
Indeed, my dog had stopped dead in front of a big oak
bush which was at the end of the narrow ravine that led out
to the road. Prokofi and I ran up to the dog: a woodcock rose
from the bush. We both shot at it and missed; the bird had
moved somewhere else. We set out after it.
When I got home soup was already on the table. Mother
scolded me. "What's this?" she said with displeasure. "The
first day home, and you made us wait dinner for you." I took
the dead woodcocks over to her: she didn't even look at them.
Souvenir, Kwicinski, and Zhitkov were also in the room. The
retired major had hidden in a corner, exactly like a bad
schoolboy; his face expressed a mixture of embarrassment and
annoyance; his eyes were bloodshot. One might even have
thought that a little while ago he'd had a cry. Mother con-
tinued to be out of sorts; it wasn't very hard for me to guess
that my coming in late had nothing to do with it. During
dinner she hardly said anything; once in a while the major
cast pitiful glances at her, but nevertheless ate industriously;
Souvenir was trembling; Kwicinski kept his usual self-con-
fident bearing.
"Vikenti Osipych," Mother said, turning to him, “will you
please send a carriage for Martyn Petrovich tomorrow, for
I've been told he no longer has his own, and have them tell
him to be sure to come, that I want to see him."
Kwicinski started to make some objection, but restrained
himself.
“And let Sliotkin know," Mother went on, "that I demand
he come see me. You hear? I de-mand!”
"Now actually . . . that scoundrel ought to be. . ." Zhitkov
began in a low voice, but Mother looked at him so scornfully
that he immediately turned away and fell silent.
"You hear? I demand it!" Mother repeated.
“Yes, ma'am,” Kwicinski said obediently, but with dignity.
"Martyn Petrovich won't come," Souvenir whispered to me,
leaving the dining room with me after dinner. “Just look
what's happened to him! It's incomprehensible! I bet he
doesn't understand a thing that's said to him. Really! The
grass-snake's been pressed down with a pitchfork!”
And Souvenir burst buoyantly into his flabby laugh.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
259
XVII
Souvenir's prediction turned out to be right. Martyn Petro-
vich didn't want to come to Mother's. She didn't like this at
all, and sent him a letter; he sent her back a quarter of a
sheet of paper with the following words written on it in big
letters: "In faith, I can't. The shame'd kill me. Let me go
like this. Thanks. Don't torture me. Kharlov Martynko."
Sliotkin came: not on the day when Mother had "demanded"
he come, but a whole twenty-four hours later. Mother had
him shown into her study. . . . God knows what their con-
versation was about, but it didn't last long-about fifteen
minutes, no more. Sliotkin came out from the study all red and
with such a venemous and impudent expression that, running
into him in the living room, I simply froze on the spot, and
Souvenir, who'd been skipping around, stopped in the middle
of his laughing. Mother came out of her study, red in the face,
too, and announced in everyone's hearing that under no ex-
cuse, was Mr. Sliotkin ever to be let into her house again;
and if Martyn Petrovich's daughters decided to show up-if
they had the insolence, she said, to do that to turn them
away also. At dinner she suddenly exclaimed: “What a rotten
little Jew! I pulled him out of the mud by his ears, I set him
up in the world; he owes me everything, everything—and he
dares tell me that I'm interfering in their affairs for nothing!
That Martyn Petrovich is capricious-and that it's impossible
to indulge him. Indulge him! How do you like that! Ah, what
an ungrateful puppy! The stinking little Jew!" Major Zhitkov,
who was also among those at table, imagined that now God
Himself told him to take advantage of the opportunity and
put in his piece . . . but Mother cut him off right away. “And
what a good one you are, my friend!" she said. “Couldn't get
on with a wench, and you an officer at that! Commanded a
company! I can just imagine how it obeyed you! Wanted to
be manager! What a good manager you'd make!"
Kwicinski, sitting at the end of the table, smiled to himself
not without malicious joy, but poor Zhitkov just twitched his
moustache and raised his eyebrows and buried his whole
hairy face in his napkin.
After dinner he went out on the porch to smoke his pipe,
as usual-and he seemed to me so pitiable and lonely that,
though I didn't much like him, I went and joined him.
"How did it happen, Gavrila Fedulych," I started right in,

260
IVAN TURGENEV
"that your business with Evlampia Martynovna fell apart? I'd
supposed you'd gotten married long ago.'
"
The retired major looked at me despondently.
"The viper," he began, with pitiful painstakingness pro-
nouncing every letter of each word, "poisoned me with his
sting and turned all the hopes of my life into dust! And I'd
tell you, Dmitri Semionovich, all his foul deeds, but I'm
afraid of getting your mother angry." ("But you're too young"
-Prokofi's phrase flashed through my mind.) "That's the way
it is...'
Zhitkov hemmed and coughed.
"Put up with it . . . put up with it... there's nothing else
left!" (He struck his chest with his fist.) "Put up with it, old
campaigner, put up with it! I served the Tsar loyally and
truly ... faultlessly! Yes! Didn't spare my blood or sweat, and
now look what I've come to! If I was in the regiment now-
and the thing depended on me,” he continued after a short
pause, "I'd fix him. . . I'd have him whacked on the back in
three shifts... that is, till he'd had it. . . .”
Zhitkov took his pipe out of his mouth and gazed off into
the distance, as if within himself enjoying the picture he'd
conjured up.
Souvenir ran up and began to nag the major. I moved off
to one side from them-and decided that, come what might,
I was going to see Martyn Petrovich with my own eyes. .
My child's curiosity was really aroused.
XVIII
The following day I again set out for the Eskovo grove
with my gun and dog, but without Prokofi. The day had
turned out to be marvelous: I think that in September there
are no such days anywhere else as in Russia. There was such
a quiet that you could hear when a squirrel jumped in the
dry foliage a hundred paces away, or when a broken-off twig
first stuck lightly in the other branches and then finally fell
onto the soft grass-fell once and for all; it would never move
until it had rotted away. The air, neither warm nor bracing,
but only fragrant and somewhat acrid, just barely, pleasantly,
nipped your eyes and your cheeks; fine as a silk thread, with
a little white ball in the middle, a long spider's gossamer flew
down smoothly and, having caught on the barrel of my gun,
shot straight up into the air-a sign of steady, warm weather.
The sun was shining, but as timidly as if it were the moon.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
261
I came on woodcock rather frequently, but I didn't pay them
any special attention; I knew that the grove went up almost
right to Kharlov's house, right to the wattle fence of his
orchard, and I headed that way, though I couldn't imagine
how I'd get into the house itself, and even wondered whether
or not I ought to try to get in, since my mother was angry
with the new owners.
I thought I heard voices a little distance away. I listened.
Someone was walking through the woods. . . right to-
ward me.
...
"You ought to have said so,” I heard a woman's voice say.
"Listen to you!" another voice interrupted, a man's voice.
"How can you do everything at once?"
I knew the voices. A light blue woman's dress flashed by
the thinned-out nut bushes; a dark caftan appeared beside it.
A moment later-and Sliotkin and Evlampia came out in the
glade, five paces from me.
They were suddenly embarrassed. Evlampia immediately
went back into the bushes. Sliotkin thought a moment-and
then came over to me. His face showed not even a trace of
that old servile humility with which he, some four months
before, walking up and down the yard of Kharlov's house,
had wiped off my horse's snaffle; but I also couldn't discern
in his face that impudent defiance which had so astounded
me the day before on the threshold of Mother's study. It was
white and comely, as before, but seemed more solid and
broader.
“Well, have you shot a lot of woodcock?" he asked me,
doffing his cap, grinning, and running his hand through his
black curls. "You're hunting in our grove.
Please do!
•
We've no objections. On the contrary!"
"I haven't shot anything today," I said, answering his first
question, “and I'm going out of your grove right now.”
Sliotkin quickly put his cap back on.
"Please, why? We aren't chasing you-and are even very
glad. Here, Evlampia Martynovna will tell you the same.
Evlampia Martynovna, come here, please! Where are you
hiding?"
Evlampia's head appeared from behind the bushes, but she
didn't come over to us. She had become still more attractive
lately-and seemed to have grown and put on weight.
"I must say," Sliotkin continued, "I'm even very pleased
I ran into you. Though you're still young, you have a real head
on you. Your mother got angry at me yesterday-she didn't
262
IVAN TURGENEV
want to listen to any reasons from me at all, but I'll tell you,
just as I would God: I'm not to blame for anything. You can't
treat Martyn Petrovich differently: he's fallen back into child-
hood completely. We just can't take care of all his whims,
really. And we show him respect just as we ought to. Just ask
Evlampia Martynovna."
Evlampia didn't move; her habitual derisive smile crossed
her lips, and her beautiful eyes looked out coldly.
"But, Vladimir Vasilievich, why did you sell Martyn Petro-
vich's horse?" (This horse bothered me especially, being now
in a peasant's possession.)
"Why did we sell his horse, sir? Now, merciful Father,
what was it good for? Just eating up hay for nothing. But at
the peasant's it can at least do some plowing. And Martyn
Petrovich-whenever he wants to go some place-has only got
to ask us. We never refuse him the carriage. On days we
aren't working-with the greatest pleasure!"
"Vladimir Vasilievich!" Evlampia said hollowly, as if call-
ing him away, and yet not leaving her spot. She was winding
several stems of plantain around her fingers and knocking off
their heads by beating them against each other.
"And then about that serving boy Maksimka," Sliotkin con-
tinued. "Martyn Petrovich's complaining: Why, he says, did
we take him from him and apprentice him out? But you judge
for yourself, please: now what would he be doing with
Martyn Petrovich? Twiddling his thumbs, that's all. And he
can't serve as he ought to, on account of his stupidity and
youth. And now we've apprenticed him to the harness-maker.
He'll come out a good workman-and help himself along and
pay us the quit-rent. And on our little farm that's a big thing,
sir. On our little farm you can't let a thing slip by!"
"And Martyn Petrovich called this man a milksop!" I
thought. "But who reads to Martyn Petrovich now?" I asked.
"But what's there to read? There was a book-but, for-
tunately, it got lost somewhere. And who wants to read at
his age!"
"But who shaves him?" I asked again.
Sliotkin laughed approvingly, as if in response to an amus-
ing joke.
"Why, nobody. At first he singed his beard down with a
candle-but now he's let it grow. That's wonderful!"
"Vladimir Vasilievich!" Evlampia repeated insistently.
"Vladimir Vasilievich!"
Sliotkin gestured to her with his hand.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
263
"Martyn Petrovich is shod, clothed, eats the same as we;
what more does he want? He swore himself that he doesn't
wish for anything more in this world but to think about his
soul. If only he'd understand that, whatever it's all like now,
it's ours. He says, too, that we don't give him his allowance;
but we don't always have money ourselves, and what's he
need it for, when everything's done for him? And we treat
him like one of the family: I'm telling you the truth. The
rooms he lives in, for example-oh, how we need them! With-
out them we simply have no place to turn around, but, no
matter, we make do. We even think about how to give him
some entertainment. Why, for St. Peter's Day I bought him
some perfect hooks in town-real English ones-expensive
hooks, to go fishing with. We've got some carp in our pond.
He could just sit and catch them. Just sit there an hour or
two-and the fish soup would be all ready. The most staid
occupation for nice old men!”
“Vladimir Vasilievich!” Evlampia said in a firm voice for the
third time and threw far away from her the stems of plantain
she'd been twisting around her fingers. "I'm going!" Her eyes
met mine. “I'm going, Vladimir Vasilievich!" she repeated,
and disappeared behind a bush.
"Right away, Evlampia Martynovna, right away!" Sliotkin
shouted. "Martyn Petrovich himself now approves of us," he
continued, turning back to me again. “At first he was in-
sulted, of course, and even grumbled until, you know, he
understood it all: he was a man, you probably remember, who
was hot-headed and stubborn-too bad! Well, now he's com-
pletely calmed down. Because he saw what was good for him.
Your mama-oh, my God! didn't she let go at me! Everybody
knows: a lady values her power just as much as, once upon a
time, Martyn Petrovich did. You drop in yourself sometime,
take a look around-and when you get the chance, put in a
word or two. I'm very aware of the good things Natalia
Nikolaevna did; but we, too, have to live.”
“And how did it happen that Zhitkov was turned down?”
I asked.
"Fedulych, you mean? That no-good?" Sliotkin shrugged
his shoulders. "But, for heaven's sake, what good could he be?
He spent his life in the army-and then he got the idea of
doing some farming. I can administer punishment to the
peasants, he says, because I got used to hitting men in the
face. He can't do a thing, sir. You've got to know how to hit
a man in the face, too. And Evlampia Martynovna refused
264
IVAN TURGENEV
him herself. A completely unsuitable person. With him our
whole place would have been lost!"
"A-oo!" Evlampia's resounding voice rang out.
"Right away! Right away!" Sliotkin called back. He held
out his hand to me; although reluctantly, I shook it.
"Good-bye, now, Dmitri Semionovich," said Sliotkin, show-
ing all his white teeth. "Shoot yourself all the woodcock you
want; it's a migrant bird, doesn't belong to anybody, but if
you come across a rabbit, now, why, spare it: that's a catch
for us. Oh, and one other thing! Maybe there'd be a little
puppy from your bitch?” It'd be a big favor to us!”
CC
"A-oo!" Evlampia's voice rang out again.
"A-oo! A-oo!" Sliotkin called back, and dashed off into
the bushes.
XIX
Left alone, I remember, the thought occurred to me: how
was it that Kharlov hadn't smashed Sliotkin "so there'd be
only a puddle left where he'd been standing"-and how was
it that Sliotkin hadn't been afraid of such a fate? Clearly,
Martyn Petrovich had really "calmed down," I thought-and
I wanted all the more to get into Eskovo for even just a
glimpse of that colossus whom I couldn't possibly imagine
subdued and beaten down.
I'd already reached the edge of the woods when suddenly
a big woodcock shot up and into the depth of the thicket.
I aimed: my gun missed fire. I was very annoyed: the bird
was a very good one, and I decided to see if I couldn't flush
it again. I set out in the direction it had flown and, having
gone about two hundred paces, caught sight of—in a little
meadow, under a spreading birch-not the woodcock, but the
same Mr. Sliotkin. He was lying on his back, his two hands
folded under his head, and was looking up in the sky with a
contented smile, slightly swinging his left leg, which he had
dangled across his right knee. He didn't notice me approach-
ing. Several paces away from him, Evlampia was walking
back and forth in the meadow, slowly, her eyes cast down;
she seemed to be looking for something in the grass-mush-
rooms, perhaps-and once in a while would bend down and
reach her hand out. She was singing in a low voice. I stopped
dead still and began to listen. At first I couldn't understand
what it was she was singing, but then I clearly recognized
the well-known lines of an old, old song:
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
265
"You come on, come on, you storm cloud,
You kill, kill now my father-in-law.
You crush, crush now my mother-in-law,
And I myself'll kill the little wife."
Evlampia sang louder and louder; she drew out the final
words especially strongly. Sliotkin kept lying there on his back
and laughing, and she, as it were, kept circling around him.
"What a girl!" he finally said. "And what won't you get
into your head!"
"What?" Evlampia asked.
Sliotkin raised his head a little.
"What? What are those words you're saying?"
"You know yourself, Volodia, you don't leave parts of a
song out," Evlampia replied, and turned away and caught
sight of me. We both shrieked at once and rushed off in
opposite directions.
I got out of the grove in a hurry-and having crossed the
narrow glade, found myself in front of Kharlov's orchard.
XX
I had no time to think about what I'd seen-and there
wasn't any point, anyway. There was just a word that came
back to me: "love-spell," which I'd learned about not long
before and the meaning of which I much marveled at. I went
along the wattle fence of the orchard and after a few moments
saw Martyn Petrovich's house and courtyard through the
silvery poplars (they hadn't yet lost a single leaf; they were
spread out luxuriantly and were shining). The whole house
seemed to me cleaned and tidied up; everywhere you could
see the marks of constant and strict surveillance. Anna
Martynovna appeared on the porch and, squinting her pale
blue eyes, looked long in the direction of the grove.
"Have you see the master?" she asked a peasant, going
through the yard.
"Vladimir Vasilich?" he answered, yanking his cap off his
head. "I think he went into the grove.'
“I know he did. Isn't he back? Haven't you seen him?”"
"I haven't... no.”
The peasant continued standing with his hat off in front
of Anna Martynovna.
"Well, go on," she said. "Or no
Petrovich? Do you know?"
no... wait. Where's Martyn
266
IVAN TURGENEV
"Well, Martyn Petrovich, now," the peasant replied in a
melodious voice, raising his right hand and then his left hand
in turn, as if pointing somewhere, "is sitting down there by
the pond, with his rod. Sitting in the reeds, there, with his
rod. Catching fish, maybe, God knows."
"All right... Go on," Anna Martynovna repeated, “and
pick up that wheel lying there."
The peasant hurried to do what he was told; she stood a
few more minutes on the porch and kept looking in the direc-
tion of the grove. Then she silently made a threatening gesture
with one hand and slowly went back into the house.
“Aksiutka!” her peremptory voice rang out behind the door.
Anna Martynovna had an irritated look and squeezed her
thin lips together very tightly. She was carelessly dressed,
and a strand of her uncurled plait lay on her shoulder. But
despite both the carelessness of her dress and her irritation,
she struck me as attractive, the way she had before; and with
great delight I would have kissed that thin, seemingly wicked,
hand of hers with which, annoyed, she once or twice threw
back that uncurled strand.
XXI
"Has Martyn Petrovich really become a fisherman?" I asked
myself as I headed for the pond that lay on the other side of
the orchard. I mounted the dam and looked this way and
that. Martyn Petrovich was nowhere to be seen. I set out
along one side of the pond-and finally, practically at the
head of it, by a little cove, among the flat and broken stalks
of the rust-colored reeds, I caught sight of an enormous,
greyish lump. I looked closely: it was Kharlov. Without a hat,
disheveled, in an unbleached linen caftan split at the seams,
his legs tucked under him, he was sitting motionlessly on the
bare ground; he was sitting so still that at my approach a
sandpiper scooted away from the dried mud two paces off,
and flew away, flapping its little wings and whistling, over
the smooth water. That meant that nobody had moved in its
vicinity for a long time. Kharlov's whole figure was so un-
usual that my dog, as soon as it saw him, stopped abruptly,
dropped its tail, and started growling. He barely turned his
head and fixed his wild eyes on me and my dog. His beard
changed him greatly: though it was short, it was thick and
curly, in white swirls like astrakhan. The butt of a fishing rod
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
267
lay in his right hand, the other end swayed feebly over the
water. My heart shrank helplessly; but I pulled myself to-
gether, went up to him, and said hello. He started blinking
slowly, as if only half awake.
"What are you doing, Martyn Petrovich," I began; "fish-
ing?”
"Yes... fishing," he answered in a husky voice and yanked
up the rod, on the end of which there was a yard of thread
dangling, but no hook.
"Your line's broken," I said, and just then noticed that
beside Martyn Petrovich there was neither bait can nor worms.
And what kind of fishing could there be in September
anyway?
•
“Broken?” he said, and rubbed his face with his hand. “But
that makes no difference!"
He threw his line in again.
"Are you Natalia Nikolaevna's little boy?" he asked me after
a couple of minutes, during which I looked him up and down,
with secret amazement. Although he had become terribly
thin, he still seemed a giant. But what tatters he had on, and
how he'd gone completely to seed!
"That's right,” I replied. "I'm Natalia Nikolaevna B.'s son."
"She's doing fine?”
"My mother's fine. She was very hurt by your refusal,” I
added; “she didn't at all expect that you wouldn't want to
come see her."
Martyn Petrovich hung his head.
"But were you-there?" he asked, tilting his head to one
side.
"Where?"
"There-in the house. You weren't? Go take a look. What
are you doing here? Go on. No point talking to me. You don't
like it."
He stopped for a moment.
"You keep wanting to play with your gun all the time!
When I was young, I ran along this road too. Only, my
father used to... but I respected him; that's what! Not the
way they do now. Father would whip me with his hunting
crop-and that was it! Enough playing! So I respected him.
Ugh!... Yes..."
Kharlov again paused for a moment.
“But don't you stay here,” he began again. "You go see the
house. They've got a glorious household going up there now.
268
IVAN TURGENEV
Volodka. . ." Here he faltered for an instant. "This Volodka
of mine is a real handy man. Great fellow. And what a rat,
too."
I didn't know what to say; Martyn Petrovich was talking
very strangely.
"And have a look at my daughters. I bet you remember
I used to have some daughters. They're . . . clever landladies,
too. And I'm getting old, boy; I'm out of it. Retired, you
know...
"
"What a fine retirement!" I thought, glancing around.
"Martyn Petrovich!" I said aloud. "You absolutely have to
>>
come see us.
Kharlov glanced at me.
“Go on, boy, get away; really."
"Don't disappoint Mama; come."
"Go on, boy, go on," Kharlov insisted. "What do you want
to talk to me for?”
"If you haven't got a carriage, Mama will send you hers.”
"Go on!"
"No, really, Martyn Petrovich!”
Kharlov hung his head-and it seemed to me that his
darkened cheeks, seemingly covered with earth, blushed
slightly.
"Really, come," I continued. "Why should you sit here?
Why torture yourself?"
"How do you mean-torture?" he said haltingly.
"Just that torture!" I repeated.
Kharlov fell silent and seemed to have fallen into deep
thought.
Emboldened by his silence, I decided to be frank, to move
straight, openly. (Don't forget-I was only fifteen.)
"Martyn Petrovich!" I began, sitting down beside him.
"But I know everything, absolutely everything! I know how
your son-in-law treats you-of course, with your daughters'
approval. And now you're in such a position. . . But why get
depressed?"
i
Kharlov kept silent and merely dropped his rod; but I-
what a wise man, what a philosopher I felt I was!
“Of course,” I started again, "you were careless in giving
everything away to your daughters. It was very magnanimous
on your part-and I'm not going to reproach you. In our days
that's too rare a trait! But if your daughters are so ungrateful,
then you've got to show scorn. . . just that-scorn . . . and not
feel sorry...
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
269
އ
"Leave me alone!" Kharlov suddenly whispered, gnashing
his teeth; and his eyes, staring at the pond, began sparkling
maliciously. "Get out!"
"But, Martyn Petrovich...
“Get out, you're being told . . . or I'll kill you!”
>>
I was just about to move up next to him, but with that last
phrase I involuntarily jumped to my feet.
"What did you say, Martyn Petrovich?"
"I'll kill you, I said; get out!" With a wild moan and a
bellow, the voice burst out of Kharlov's chest, but he didn't
turn his head, kept on looking straight ahead in anger. "I'll
take you and throw you and all your stupid advice in the
water-then you'll know what it is to bother old people, you
whippersnapper!" "He's gone mad!" flashed through my head.
I glanced at him more intently and was completely dumb-
founded: Martyn Petrovich was crying! Tear after tear rolled
from his eyelashes down his cheeks, but his face had taken
on a ferocious expression.
"Go away," he shouted once more, "or I'll kill you, really!
As a lesson to the rest!"
He seemed to jerk his whole body to the side, and flashed
his teeth just like a wild boar; I grabbed my gun and started
running. My dog set out after me, barking. She was frightened
too.
Once home, I didn't even hint to Mother, of course, about
what I'd seen, but, running into Souvenir, I-God knows why
-told him everything. This repulsive man was so delighted
with my story, guffawed so shrilly, even jumping up and
down, that I almost hit him.
"Ah! I'd like to have seen it," he kept repeating, choking
from laughter, "seen how that big statue, that 'Wsede'
Kharlus, had crawled into the mud and was sitting in it. .
"Go down to the pond and see him, if you're so interested."
"Sure, but if he kills me?"
I was thoroughly fed up with Souvenir, and I regretted
my ill-advised talkativeness. Zhitkov, to whom he told my
story, looked at the whole thing a little differently.
"We'll have to go to the police," he decided, "and maybe
even send for a detachment of soldiers."
His presentiment about calling in the soldiers didn't come
true; but something equally unusual did happen.
270
IVAN TURGENEV
XXII
In the middle of October, about three weeks after my
meeting with Martyn Petrovich, I was standing by the window
in my room on the second floor of our house and, not thinking
about anything, but staring dully at the courtyard and the
road that lay beyond it. The weather had been foul for five
days; it was out of the question even to think about going
hunting. Every living thing had taken cover; even the spar-
rows had become quiet, and the rooks had long ago vanished.
The wind sometimes howled hollowly, sometimes whistled
violently; the low, solid sky changed from an unpleasant white
to a leaden, still more malevolent color-and the rain, which
had been pouring, pouring down incessantly and unendingly,
suddenly became still heavier, still more driving-and with a
screech kept striking against the windowpanes. The trees were
all frayed and had become a sort of grey: it seemed they'd
already been stripped, but then the wind would start harassing
them again. Everywhere there were puddles filled with dead
leaves; big bubbles, continually breaking and forming, skipped
and glided across them. The roads were deep in mire; the
cold pierced the rooms, your clothes, into your bones. An
involuntary shiver ran through me-and how rotten I felt at
heart! Precisely rotten-not sad. It seemed there would never
be any sunlight in the world, or any brightness or color, but
always just this slush and slime, this grey wetness, this bitter
dampness-and the wind whining and howling forever! So,
there I was standing by the window lost in thought-and I
remember a sudden darkness fell, a deep blue darkness—
though the clock showed only twelve.
All of a sudden I thought I saw, crossing our courtyard
from the gate to the porch, a bear rushing! True, not on all
fours, but the way a bear is drawn when it gets up on its hind
legs. I couldn't believe my eyes. If it wasn't a bear I saw, at
least it was something enormous, black, shaggy. . . . I hadn't
time even to imagine what it might be, when suddenly a
furious knocking rang out downstairs. It seemed that some-
thing unexpected, something terrifying had stumbled into our
house. A commotion arose . . . a running back and forth.
•
I quickly slipped down the stairs, charged into the dining
room.
In the living-room doorway, face toward me, my mother
stood petrified; some frightened women's faces could be seen
•
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
271
behind her; the butler, two lackeys, and a serving boy, all
with their mouths open in amazement, were huddling together
in the doorway to the anteroom-and in the middle of the
dining room, covered with mud, disheveled, tattered, wet-
so wet that steam was rising all around and water was stream-
ing down across the floor-that same monster which had
dashed across the yard under my very eyes was kneeling,
swaying heavily, and seemingly about to pass out. And who
was this monster? Kharlov!
I went up to him from the side and saw-not his face, but
his head, which he'd grabbed with his hands on his mud-
covered hair. He was breathing heavily, convulsively; some-
thing was even gurgling in his chest; and in this whole dark,
mud-spattered mass you could make out clearly only the
tiny, wildly wandering whites of his eyes. He was terrible!
I remembered the dignitary whom he had once cut short for
comparing him to a mastodon. Now he actually had such a
look-the look of some antediluvian creature which had just
saved itself from another, stronger beast, in the middle of the
eternal slime of the primordial swamps.
"Martyn Petrovich!" Mother exclaimed at last, and clasped
her hands. "Is this you? O Lord, merciful Father!"
""
"It's me
the broken voice said, seeming to
push out each sound with effort and pain. "Oh, it's me!”
me
"But what's happened to you? Lord!"
"Natalia Nikolaev
na ... I've come to you . ran
straight . . . from ho . . . home on foot.
"Through this mud! Why, you don't even look like a man!
Get off the floor, sit down at least. . . . And you," she turned
to the maids, "hurry up and get some towels. And isn't there
some dry clothing?" she asked the butler.
•
•
•
•
>>
•
The butler made a gesture with his hands as if to say:
Where, of that size?
"However, I can bring a blanket,” he said; “or there's a new
horse-cloth."
"Get up, get off the floor, Martyn Petrovich! Sit down,"
Mother repeated.
“They threw me out, madam,” Kharlov suddenly groaned,
threw his head back, and stretched his hands out. "Threw
me out, Natalia Nikolaevna! My own daughters, from my
own hearth. . .
"
Mother gasped.
"Is that true? Threw you out! What a sin! What a sin!”
272
IVAN TURGENEV
(She crossed herself.) "Only get up off the floor, Martyn
Petrovich, please!"
Two maids came in with towels and stopped in front of
Kharlov. It was obvious that they couldn't imagine how to
begin on such a pile of mud.
"Threw me out, madam, threw me out," Kharlov kept
repeating meanwhile. The butler came back with a big wool
blanket and also stopped in perplexity. Souvenir's head poked
itself in from around the door and then disappeared.
"Martyn Petrovich! Get up! Sit down! And tell me every-
thing in order," Mother commanded in a firm voice.
Kharlov rose to his feet. The butler started to help him,
but only dirtied his hand and, shaking the mud off his fingers,
moved back toward the doorway. Stumbling and staggering,
Kharlov made his way to a chair and sat down. The maids
again started toward him with the towels, but he waved them
aside with his hand, and refused the blanket. Mother herself,
however, didn't insist: there wasn't a chance, evidently, of
getting Kharlov dry; they just hurriedly wiped up his tracks
on the floor.
XXIII
"How did they throw you out?" Mother asked Kharlov as
soon as he'd caught his breath.
"Madam! Natalia Nikolaevna!" he began in a tense voice-
and again the restless jerking back and forth of the whites of
his eyes astonished me-"I'll tell the truth: it's my own fault
more than anybody else's."
"What did I tell you! You wouldn't listen to me then,"
Mother said, sitting down in an armchair and waving a
scented handkerchief under her nose. Kharlov really reeked-
much worse than a forest swamp.
“Oh, that wasn't my fault, madam, it was my pride. Pride
ruined me, no less than King Nebuchadnezzar. I thought: the
Lord God didn't stint me in intelligence; if I've decided some-
thing-well, that means that's the way it ought to be . . . and
then the fear of death came on me. I got thrown all off!
I decided I'd show them my strength and my power once
and for all! I'll bestow everything on them-and they've got
to know it to the grave." (Kharlov suddenly shook all over.)
"Threw me out of my house like a mangy dog! That's their
gratitude for you!"
"But how?" Mother was about to say again.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
273
"Took my serving boy Maksimka from me," Kharlov cut
her off (his eyes continued moving back and forth, he held
both hands on his chin, his fingers locked together), "took my
carriage away, cut off my allowance, didn't pay me the money
stipulated-cut me off all around-I still kept quiet, still put
up with it! And I put up with it on account of . . . oh! again,
my pride. So my fierce enemies wouldn't say: There, they'd
say, now that old fool's sorry. And you, madam, remember?
You warned me: but, you said, you won't be able to do a
thing about it!-so I put up with it. Only, today I go into my
own room-and it's already taken-and my bed's been thrown
into the storeroom! You can sleep there, they tell me; we're
putting up with you out of kindness, anyway; we've got to
have your room for the house. And who tells me this-who?
Volodka Sliotkin, the peasant, the dirty d..." Kharlov's voice
broke.
"But your daughters? What about them?" Mother asked.
"But I kept on putting up with it," Kharlov continued; "it
was hard, oh, so hard for me, and shameful. . . . I couldn't
stand to go on! That's why I didn't want to come see you-
on account of just that shame, that disgrace! See, I tried
everything: gentleness, and threats, and appealed to their
conscience, and, besides that, got down on my knees to them
like this." (Kharlov showed how he did that.) “And all
for nothing! And still I put with it! In the beginning, at the
start, I didn't get such ideas. I'll take them, I said, beat them
up and throw them all around so there won't be even enough
left for seeds. . . . They'll get it! Well, but then-then I gave
in! This is my cross, I thought; I've got to get ready for death
now, this means. And suddenly today, like a dog! And who
did it? Volodka! And what you were asking about my daugh-
ters-if they have their own will at all? Volodka's bondmaids!
Really!"
•
Mother was astounded.
"I can understand that about Anna; she's his wife. ... But
why does your other one-
“Evlampia, you mean? Worse than Anna! She's given her-
self up to Volodka completely. And that's why she turned
down your soldier. On his, on Volodka's, say-so. Anna-the
whole thing's clear-ought to get insulted, and besides she
can't stand her sister-but she gives in! He's bewitched her,
the damned man! Because, see, Anna likes thinking: There
now, Evlampia, she thinks, you were always so proud, and
>>
274
IVAN TURGENEV
now look what's happened to you! . . . Oh! . . . oh! oh! My
God, my God!”
Mother looked at me uneasily. I moved off a little to one
side, as a precaution against being sent out.
"I'm very sorry, Martyn Petrovich," she began, "that my
former ward has caused you so much grief and turned out
to be such a bad man; but I, too, was wrong about him. Who
could have expected this of him!"
"Madam!" Kharlov groaned and struck his chest. "I can't
bear the ingratitude of my daughters! I can't, madam! I gave
them everything, see, everything! And on top of it all, my
conscience tormented me. I've thought over a lot . . . oh, a
lot, sitting by the pond and fishing. 'If you'd only done some-
body some good in your life!' I was thinking; 'given to the
poor, set the peasants free, maybe, because the times were just
wearing them down! And you've got to be the defendant for
them before God! And that's when their tears'll be pouring
down for you!' And what's their fate now? The pit was deep
when I had them, I have to admit—but now you can't even
see the bottom! I took all these sins on my own head, sacri-
ficed my conscience for my children, and for this they look
down their noses at me! Kicked out of the house, like a dog!"
"Stop thinking about it, Martyn Petrovich," Mother said.
“And when he told me, your Volodka, I mean,” Kharlov
went on with fresh strength, "when he told me I couldn't live
in my room any more, and I'd put together every board in
that little room with my own hands-when he told me that,
God knows what went on in me then! It went dark before my
eyes, it felt as if a knife was cutting into my heart. . . . So! It
was either cutting his throat or getting out of the house! And
so I ran to you, my benefactress, Natalia Nikolaevna . . . for
where could I put my head down? With the rain coming
down, and the slush. . . I fell maybe twenty times! And now
. . in such disgrace. . .'
>>
Kharlov glanced over himself, up and down, and began
shifting on his chair as if about to get up.
"Stop, Martyn Petrovich, that's enough," Mother said
hurriedly. "What's bad about that? That you soiled the floor?
That doesn't matter! But I want to make you a proposition.
Listen! They'll show you to your own room now, give you a
clean bed-you can undress, wash, and lie down and go to
sleep...
>>
“Natalia Nikolaevna! I can't sleep!" Kharlov said despond-
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
275
ently. "It's as if there were hammers pounding in my head!
See, like an obscene thing now, I. .
"Lie down, go to sleep," Mother repeated insistently. "And
then we'll give you some tea-well, and you and I'll have a
talk. Don't be sad, old friend! If you got thrown out of your
house, you'll always find shelter in mine. . . . I haven't for-
gotten that you saved my life."
""
Ca
"Benefactress!" Kharlov groaned, and covered his face with
his hands. "Now you save me!"
This appeal moved my mother almost to tears.
"I'm ready and eager to help you, Martyn Petrovich, in any
way I can, but you have to promise me that in the future
you'll listen to me and put all evil ideas out of your mind."
Kharlov took his hands down from his face.
"If I have to," he said, “you know I can even forgive them!"
Mother nodded her head approvingly.
"I'm very glad to see you in such a genuinely Christian
frame of mind, Martyn Petrovich, but we can talk about that
later. Meanwhile, clean up-and, most important, sleep."
Mother turned to the butler. "Take Martyn Petrovich into the
green study that was my husband's, and see that he has
everything he wants. Have his clothes cleaned off and dried
out, and ask the linen maid for whatever underclothes and
shirts are needed-you hear?"
"Yes'm," the butler replied.
XXIV
"And when he wakes up, have the tailor takes his measure-
ments; and his beard has to be shaved off. Not now, but later.
"Yes'm," the butler repeated. "Martyn Petrovich, this way."
Kharlov got up, looked at Mother, was about to go over to
her but stopped, made a deep bow, crossed himself three
times in front of the icon, and went off after the butler. I,
too, slipped out of the room behind him.
"
The butler led Kharlov into the green study and immedi-
ately ran off for the linen maid, since there were no sheets
on the bed. Souvenir, who had run into us in the anteroom
and hopped into the study with us; immediately he started
laughing, putting on airs, and hovering around Kharlov, who,
stretching out his arms and legs slightly, had paused in the
middle of the room, lost in thought. Water was still dripping
off him.
"Wsede! Wsede Kharlus!" Souvenir whined, doubling up
276
IVAN TURGENEV
and holding his sides. "Great founder of the famous Kharlov
family, look at your descendant now! How do you like him?
Can you recognize him? Ha-ha-ha! Your Excellency, let me
kiss your hand! How does it happen you have black gloves
on?"
I tried to hold Souvenir back, to make him ashamed of
himself-but there wasn't a chance.
“Used to call me a sponger, a parasite! 'Y'haven't got your
own place,' you said. And now I bet you've become the same
kind of sponger as this miserable sinner! Martyn Petrovich-
Souvenir-both rascals now, no difference! Now he'll live off
sops, too! Now he'll take the old crust of bread the dog
sniffed and left. . . . Here, they'll say, eat! Ha-ha-ha!”
Kharlov kept standing motionless, his head down, his legs
and arms apart.
"Martyn Kharlov! The hereditary nobleman!" Souvenir kept
on squeaking. "How important he tries to look, fie on you, the
heck with you! Don't come near me, he says, I'll crown you!
And when he, in his big wisdom, started giving away and
cutting up his estate-how he started cackling! 'Gratitude!'
he shouts; 'Gratitude!' But what did he insult me for? Why
didn't he give me anything? Maybe I ought to've shown more
feeling! And I told the truth, that he'd get turned out of
house and home-"
"Souvenir!" I shouted, but Souvenir didn't relent. Kharlov
still didn't move; it seemed he was just now beginning to feel
how wet everything on him was, and was waiting for them
to take it off him. But the butler had not come back.
"And a warrior, besides!" Souvenir started in again. “Saved
his country in 'Twelve! Showed his courage! That's just it:
taking the boots off frozen marauders-that we can do; but
soon as a wench puts her foot down on us, our heart's in our
boots-"
"Souvenir!" I shouted again.
Kharlov glanced furtively at Souvenir; it seemed that right
up to that instant he hadn't even noticed his presence, and
only my shout aroused his attention.
"Look out, brother," he muttered hollowly, "don't go run-
ning into trouble!"
Souvenir was rolling with laughter as it was.
"Oh, how you scared me, most venerable brother! How
frightening you are, really! You ought to comb your hair,
though, or else-God save us-it'll dry out and you'll never
get it washed out afterwards. You'll have to mow it with a
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
277
scythe." Souvenir was suddenly getting out of control. "Go
swagger again! Naked as a babe, and he's swaggering!
Where's your roof now, you tell me, you who were always
boasting of it? I've got a roof, he says, over my head, but
you haven't! My hereditary roof, he says!" (Souvenir had
landed on this word.)
"Mr. Bychkov," I said, "what are you doing! Pull yourself
together!"
But he kept right on chattering and jumping up and down
and running around Kharlov himself. . . . And the butler and
the linen maid still hadn't come.
I felt horrified. I began noticing that Kharlov, who during
his conversation with my mother had gradually calmed down
and at the end had apparently become reconciled to his lot,
was again becoming irritated: he breathed faster, he seemed
to have swelled up under the ears suddenly, his fingers had
started twitching, his eyes had again started flicking back and
forth in the dark mask of his mud-covered face.
"Souvenir! Souvenir!" I cried. "Stop! I'll tell Mother."
But it was as if some devil possessed Souvenir.
"Sure, sure, most venerable!" he started cackling again.
"Just look at what delicate circumstance you and I find our-
selves in now! And your daughters, with your son-in-law,
Vladimir Vasilievich, under your roof are laughing themselves
silly at you! If only you'd cursed them, at least, as you
promised! But you couldn't do even that! Besides, how could
you have stood up against Vladimir Vasilievich anyway? You
even used to call him Volodka! How's he Volodka to you?
He's Vladimir Vasilievich, Mr. Sliotkin, landowner, master;
and you-who are you?”
A furious roar drowned Souvenir's talking. Kharlov ex-
ploded. His fists closed and rose up, his face turned blue,
froth appeared on his cracked lips. He shook with rage.
"Roof! That's what you say!" his iron voice thundered. “A
curse! That's what you say! No I won't curse them . . . that
means nothing to them! But the roof . . . I'll tear off their
roof, and they won't have any roof, just like me! They'll find
out who Martyn Petrovich is! My strength's not gone yet!
They'll find out what it means to make fun of me! They won't
have any roof!"
I was stupefied; in all my life I'd never witnessed such
boundless rage. It wasn't a man, but a wild beast rushing
around in front of me. I was stupefied . . . and Souvenir had
hidden under the table in fear.
278
IVAN TURGENEV
"Not any!" Kharlov shouted one last time and, practically
knocking down the linen maid and the butler as they were
coming in, he rushed off out of the house. He rushed head-
long through the yard and vanished beyond the gate.
XXV
Mother was terribly angry when the butler came in with
a confused look to announce Martyn Petrovich's new and
unexpected absence. He didn't dare conceal the reason for this
absence; I was forced to confirm what he said.
“So it's all your doing!" Mother shouted at Souvenir, who
had started to run up like a rabbit and was even about to
kiss her hand. "Your nasty tongue is the cause of all this!"
"Please . I'll righ-twaway, righ-twaway Souvenir
lisped out, stammering and hooking his elbows behind his
back.
>>
•
righ-twaway
"Righ-twaway
I know your righ-
twaway!" Mother repeated reproachfully and sent him out.
Then she rang, ordered Kwicinski called in, and gave him
an order: to set out for Eskovo in the carriage immediately,
find Martyn Petrovich at all costs and bring him back. “Don't
show up without him!" she concluded. The gloomy Pole
silently bowed and went out.
I returned to my room, sat down by the window again,
and, I remember, for a long time thought about what had
happened before my eyes. I was perplexed; I couldn't under-
stand at all why Kharlov, who almost without a murmur had
put up with the insults his own people had given him,
couldn't control himself and couldn't take the gibes and stings
of such a worthless creature as Souvenir. I didn't know even
then what unbearable bitterness may sometimes lie in an idle
rebuke, even when it comes from despicable lips. The hate-
ful name of Sliotkin, spoken by Souvenir, fell like a spark on
powder; the sore spot had not withstood this final prick.
An hour or so went by. Our carriage drove into the yard,
but the manager was sitting in it alone. And Mother had told
him: "Don't show up without him!" Kwicinski quickly jumped
out of the carriage and ran up onto the porch. He looked
upset, which almost never happened to him. I went down-
stairs at once and followed on his heels into the living room.
“Well? Did you bring him?” Mother asked.
"No," Kwicinski answered, “and I couldn't.”
"Why's that? Did you see him?”
•
•
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
279
"I did."
"What's wrong with him? A stroke?”
"Not at all; nothing's wrong."
"Why then didn't you bring him?”
"He's tearing down his house."
"What?"
"He's standing on the roof of the new wing-and tearing
it apart. Some forty shingles or more, I
suppose, have already
flown off; also half a dozen rafters." ("They won't have any
roof!" Kharlov's words came back to me.)
Mother stared at Kwicinski.
“Alone . . . standing on the roof and tearing it down?”
"Exactly so, ma'am. He's walking along the flooring of the
attic and breaking it up right and left. His strength, you
know, is superhuman. And to tell the truth, the roof's very
weak: it's done in gap-style, covered with thin shingles, and
held with roofing nails."
Mother looked at me as if wanting to make sure that she
hadn't somehow heard wrong.
"With thin shingles gap-style," she repeated, obviously not
understanding a word she said.
"Well, so what do you want?" she said, finally.
"I came for instructions. You can't do a thing without some
servants to help. The peasants there are all in hiding from
fear."
"And his daughters-what about them?"
"The daughters-they're all right. They're running around,
they don't know where... Wailing... What does that prove?"
"And Sliotkin's there?"
"He's there too. Wails more than the rest-but he can't do
anything."
"And Martyn Petrovich is standing on the roof?”
"On the roof-that is, in the attic-and tearing the roof off."
"Yes, yes," Mother said, "with thin shingles.
Evidently it was a very special and unusual case. What
could be done? Send to town for the local police chief, get
the peasants together? Mother was completely lost.
Zhitkov, who had arrived for dinner, was lost too. To be
sure, he brought the idea up again of the detachment of
soldiers, but offered no advice, and just had a subordinate and
* A roof is made "gap-style" when between each two shingles there is
an empty space covered over, on top, by another shingle; such a roof is
cheaper, but less sturdy. A thin shingle is the very thinnest board, ½ vershok
thick; the usual shingle is 34 vershok. (Author's note: A vershok is 134
inches.)
280
IVAN TURGENEV
devoted look. Kwicinski, seeing that he wasn't going to get
any instructions, informed my mother-with that special scorn-
ful deference of his-that if she would let him take some of
the grooms, gardeners, and other house serfs, he'd try-
"Yes, of course," Mother interrupted, "try, dear Vikenti
Osipych! Only hurry, please, and I take all the responsibility
on myself!"
Kwicinski smiled coldly. "Let me explain one thing in
advance to you, madam: it's impossible to guarantee the re-
sults, for Mr. Kharlov's strength is great, and his despair, too;
he considers himself deeply outraged!"
"Yes, yes," Mother cut in, "and that nasty Souvenir's the
cause of it all! I'll never forgive him! Go ahead, take the
servants, go on, Vikenti Osipych!"
"Mr. Manager, you get some more ropes to take with you,
now, and some fire-hooks," Zhitkov said in his bass voice,
"and if there's a net-why, it's not a bad idea to take that, too.
Once in our regiment it happened that—”
"Please don't give me instructions, my dear sir," Kwicinski
cut him off in annoyance. “I well know what to do without
your help.”
Zhitkov was offended and explained that since he supposed
they wanted him along, too ..
"No, no!" Mother broke in. "You better stay here. Let
Vikenti Osipych do it himself. Go ahead, Vikenti Osipych!"
Zhitkov was even more offended, and Kwicinski bowed and
left.
I rushed down to the stable, quickly saddled my horse
myself, and galloped off down the road toward Eskovo.
XXVI
The rain had stopped, but the wind was blowing twice as
hard-right against me. Halfway there, the saddle almost
slipped off-the girth had come loose; I got down and started
tightening the straps with my teeth. Suddenly I heard some-
one calling my name-Souvenir was running toward me
through the grass.
“So, old man,” he shouted at me, still a good way off,
"curiosity's got the better of you? But one couldn't not
I'm going there, too, cross country, in Kharlov's tracks
You'll never see a thing like this as long as you live!”
•
"You want to admire your handiwork," I said indignantly,
jumped onto my horse, and galloped off, but indefatigable
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
281
Souvenir didn't drop behind me and even laughed and showed
off on the run. Then, at last, there was Eskovo-there was
the dam, and there the long wattle fence and the willows by
the manor house. I rode up to the gate, got down and tied
my horse, and stopped in amazement.
Of the front third of the roof on the new wing and of the
attic there remained only the frame; lath and shingles lay in
random piles on the ground on both sides of the wing.
Assuming the roof was, as Kwicinski put it, very weak, still
the thing was incredible! A grey-black hulk was moving
lumberingly yet deftly on the flooring of the attic, raising dust
and dirt, sometimes rocking the remaining chimney, made of
bricks (the other had already fallen), and sometimes ripping
off a shingle and throwing it down; sometimes grabbing the
rafters themselves. This was Kharlov. Here again he seemed
to me a veritable bear: his head and his back and his shoul-
ders were bearlike, and he set his legs wide apart without
bending his feet-the way a bear does, too. The sharp wind·
was blowing on him from all around, ruffling his matted hair;
it was terrible to see through the holes in his torn clothing
how in places his bare body was all red; it was terrible to
hear his wild, hoarse muttering.
The yard was crowded; women, little boys, house girls
pressed against the fence; a few serfs were huddled together
in a separate group a little way off. The old priest stood
without his hat on the porch of the other wing and, having
clutched his brass cross with both hands, from time to time
raised it silently and hopelessly and seemed to show it to
Kharlov. Evlampia was standing beside the priest and, her
back leaning against the wall, watched her father without
moving; Anna was now sticking her head out the window,
now drawing back, running out into the yard, going back into
the house; Sliotkin, all pale, yellow, in an old dressing gown
and skull cap, with a single-barreled rifle in his hand, was
running from place to place with little steps. He'd become, as
they say, a real Jew; he was gasping, threatening, shivering,
aiming at Kharlov-and then would throw the gun up to his
shoulder-aim again, shout, cry. . . . Catching sight of Sou-
venir and me, he made a rush for us.
“Look, look what's happening!" he squealed. “Look! He's
gone mad, he's white-hot with anger. and look what he's
doing! I've already sent for the police-but nobody's come!
Nobody's come! Now if I shoot him, the law can't get me,
· •
282
IVAN TURGENEV
i
because every man has the right of defending his property.
And I'll shoot! Honestly, I will!"
He dashed toward the house.
"Martyn Petrovich, look out! If you don't come down, I'll
shoot!"
"Shoot!" a hoarse voice rang out from the roof. "Shoot!
Meanwhile here's a little present for you!"
A long board flew down-and, turning over a couple of
times in the air, struck the ground right at Sliotkin's feet. He
screamed, and Kharlov guffawed.
"Christ our Lord!" somebody whispered behind me. I
turned around: it was Souvenir. “Ah!" I thought, "now he's
stopped laughing."
Sliotkin grabbed a peasant standing near him by the collar.
"Climb up, climb up, go climb up there, you devils,” he
wailed, shaking the man as hard as he could; “save my
property!"
The peasant took a couple of steps, threw his head back,
waved his hands, and shouted: "Hey, you! Sir!" He shuffled
his feet where he stood and whirled around.
Sliotkin turned to the other peasants. “A ladder! Bring a
ladder!"
"And where'll we get it?" the answer came back to him.
"And if there was a ladder,” a voice said without hurrying,
"who wants to climb up? You think we're fools? He'll wring
your neck-in a second!”
"Kill you right off," said a young, blond fellow with a
stupid face.
CC
And why not?" others put in. It seemed to me that even
if there hadn't been any obvious danger, the peasants still
would have been reluctant to do what their new landowner
ordered. They almost approved of Kharlov-although he was
astounding them.
“Ah, you robbers!" Sliotkin moaned. "I'll get you all...'
At this point the last chimney came thundering down with
a terrible roar, and amidst the cloud of yellow dust which
rose up for a moment Kharlov, letting out a piercing shriek
and holding his bloody hands high, turned his face toward us.
Sliotkin took aim at him again.
Evlampia pulled his elbow back.
"Don't interfere!" he shot at her fiercely.
"Don't you dare!” she said, and her dark blue eyes flashed
threateningly from under her knitted eyebrows. "Father's
tearing his own house down. It's his property."
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
283
"You're lying: it's ours!"
"You say 'ours,' but I say it's his."
Sliotkin began hissing from rage; Evlampia bore into him
with her eyes.
"Hello, there! Hello, dear daughter!” Kharlov roared from
above. "Hello there, Evlampia Martynovna! How're you get-
ting on with your friend? The kissing pretty good? The
caressing?"
"Father!" Evlampia's resonant voice rang out.
"What is it, my child?" Kharlov replied, and moved over
to the very edge of the wall. As best I could make out, there
was a strange grin on his face-bright and gay-and precisely,
therefore, an especially terrible, evil grin. Many years
later I saw exactly the same grin on the face of a man
sentenced to death.
"Stop, Father; come down." (Evlampia didn't call him
"batiuska.")" "We're to blame; we'll give you back everything.
Come down."
"And why are you settling things for us?" Sliotkin broke in.
Evlampia only frowned more sternly.
"I'll give you back my part-give you back everything.
Stop, come down, Father! Forgive us; forgive me."
•
Kharlov kept right on grinning.
"Too late, my angel," he said, and his every word re-
sounded like brass. "Your stone heart's been stirred too late!
It's all started rolling downhill-you can't stop it now! And
don't you look at me now. I'm a lost man! Look at your
Volodka instead: see what a dandy you've picked out! And
look at that spiteful sister of yours: there she's sticking her
vixen nose out the window, there she's egging her matey on!
No, little madams! You wanted to take away my roof-so I
won't leave you one board on another! Put it up with my
own hands, I'll take it down with them, too-with my bare
hands! See, I didn't take an axe, even!"
He spat on both his palms and grabbed the rafters again.
"Stop, Father," Evlampia kept saying all the while, and
her voice became somehow remarkably gentle. "Don't think
of the past. Believe me; you always believed me. Come down;
come into my bright, cheery room, to my soft bed. I'll dry
you off and warm you; I'll bandage your cuts; see, you've
skinned your hands. You'll live with me as in the Lord's
* In the Russian, batiushka is an endearing-and untranslatable-form of
"father," "dear fellow," "sir.'
""
284
IVAN TURGENEV
bosom, eat sweet things-and sleep more sweetly still. We
were wrong! We got conceited, we sinned; but forgive us!”
Kharlov shook his head.
• •
"Tell me some more! Think I'll believe you? Not for a
minute! You've killed belief in me. Killed everything! I was
an eagle-and for you all I turned into a worm..
and you-
you want to step on the worm, too? Enough! I loved you, you
know that yourself-but now you're no daughter of mine, and
I'm not your father. . . . I'm a lost man! Keep out of the way!
And you go ahead and shoot, you coward, you sad-sack!”
Kharlov suddenly barked at Sliotkin. "Why do you just keep
aiming all the time? Or d'you remember the law: if the man
who's received something attempts the life of the giver," said
Kharlov haltingly, "then the giver has the power to demand
everything back? Ha-ha! Don't be afraid, Mr. Lawyer! I won't
ask it back—I'll finish it all off myself. . . . Go on!”
"Father!" Evlampia begged for the last time.
"Shut up!"
"Martyn Petrovich! Brother, forgive us magnanimously!"
Souvenir lisped.
"Father, darling!"
“Shut up, you bitch!" Kharlov shouted. He didn't even look
at Souvenir-he merely spat in his direction.
XXVII
At that moment Kwicinski and his whole retinue, in three
carts, showed up at the gate. The tired horses snorted; one
after the other the peasants jumped down into the mud.
"Aha!" Kharlov shouted as loudly as he could. "The army-
here it is, the army! They're sending a whole army against
me. Good enough! Only I warn you, whoever comes up here
on the roof to me, I'll send him off head over heels, right
down! I'm a stern master, I don't like guests at the wrong
time. There you are!"
He took hold of the front pair of rafters-the so-called “legs"
of the pediment-with both hands and began to shake them
violently. Hanging on the edge of the flooring, he seemed to
be pulling them after him, and chanting evenly like the barge-
men: "Yo-ho heave-ho! Heave-ho-ho! Oonh!"
Sliotkin ran up to Kwicinski and started complaining and
whining. Kwicinski asked him not to interfere and set out to
carry out the plan he had thought up. Himself, he stood in
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
285
front of the house and began, as a diversion, explaining to
Kharlov that this was something nobles didn't do...
"Yo-ho-heave-ho!" Kharlov chanted.
that Natalia Nikolaevna was extremely displeased by his
actions, and hadn't expected this from him. . .
"Yo-ho-heave-ho! Heave-ho-ho! Oonh!" Kharlov chanted-
but in the meantime Kwicinski had sent four of the huskiest
and bravest stableboys around to the other side of the house
to climb up on the roof from behind. The plan of attack,
however, did not slip by Kharlov unnoticed; he suddenly let
go of the rafters and nimbly ran to the back of the attic.
His look was so terrifying that the two stableboys who'd
managed to get into the attic instantly slid back to the
ground down the drainpipe, to the great delight and even
laughter of the house-serfs' little boys. Kharlov shook his fist
at them and, going back to the front of the house, grabbed
the rafters again and started shaking them, again chanting like
the bargemen.
•
He suddenly stopped, stared ahead....
“Maksimushka, old friend!" he exclaimed; "my friend, is
that you?"
I looked around. The serving boy Maksimka had indeed
come out of the crowd of peasants and, grinning and smiling,
started forward. His master, the harness-maker, had probably
let him off for a few days at home.
"Come on up here, Maksimka, my faithful servant," Kharlov
continued, "we'll fight off these foul Tartars together, these
Lithuanian thieves!"
Still smiling, Maksimka immediately climbed onto the roof.
But he was seized and pulled down-God knows why-
maybe as an example to the rest; he wouldn't have been much
help to Martyn Petrovich anyway.
"Well, all right! Very good, now!" said Kharlov in a threat-
ening voice, and set in on the rafters again.
►
Sliotkin turned to Kwicinski. “Vikenti Osipych, let me shoot.
See, it's mostly just to frighten him, it's loaded with small
shot." But before Kwicinski even had a chance to answer him,
the front pair of rafters, shaken violently by Kharlov's iron
hands, tilted, cracked, and fell into the yard-and along with
it, not having the strength to hold himself back, Kharlov
himself fell too, and struck the ground hard. Everybody shud-
dered and gasped. . . . Kharlov lay motionless face-down, and
on his back lay the ridgepole of the roof, the rooftree, which
followed the fallen pediment.
286
IVAN TURGENEV
XXVIII
They ran over to Kharlov, pulled the beam off him, and
turned him over on his back. His face was lifeless, there was
blood trickling out of his mouth, he didn't breathe. "He's
had his breath knocked out," the peasants who had come
up muttered. They ran over to the well for water, brought a
whole pailful, and doused Kharlov's head. The mud and dirt
came off his face, but his lifeless expression remained the
same. They dragged up a bench, put it up against the wall
of the wing, and, lifting up Martyn Petrovich's huge body
with difficulty, put it down there, leaning his head against the
wall. The serving boy Maksimka came up to him, got down
on one knee and, sticking his other leg way out in a theatrical
way, held his old master's hand. Evlampia, as pale as death
itself, stood right in front of her father, staring continually
at him with her enormous eyes. Anna and Sliotkin did not
come close. Everybody was silent, everybody was waiting for
something.
At last, broken, squelching sounds came from Kharlov's
throat-as if he were choking on something. Then he
feebly moved one hand-his right (Maksimka was holding the
left), opened one eye-his right, and, slowly looking around, as
if drunk in some terrible drunkenness, moaned, and said in a
guttural voice:
“Hurt my-self . . .” and, seemingly having thought a mo-
ment, added: "Here it is, the bla... ck foal!" Blood suddenly
spurted thickly out of his mouth-his whole body shuddered.
"That's the end!" I thought. But Kharlov again opened
that right eye (the left eyelid didn't move, as on a dead
man), and, fixing it on Evlampia, said, barely audibly: “Well,
my daugh... ter... You I don't co..." Kwicinski beckoned
sharply to the priest, who had been standing on the porch of
the wing the whole time. The old man drew near, getting his
feeble knees tangled up in his tight cossock. But suddenly
Kharlov's legs moved somehow hideously, and his belly too;
an uneven convulsion ran over his face from bottom to top-
Evlampia's face shuddered and became twisted in exactly the
same way. Maksimka began crossing himself. I was awe-
struck; I ran to the gate and, not looking around, leaned my
chest against it. A moment later a sound quietly buzzed on all
the lips behind me-and I understood that Martyn Petrovich
had gone.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
287
The ridgepole had smashed the back of his head, and he
had crushed his chest himself in his fall, as was shown at the
autopsy.
XXIX
"What did he want to tell as he was dying?" I kept asking
myself, riding home on my Klepper: "You I don't cu... rse”?
or "don't co...ndone"? The rain was pouring down again,
but I rode at a slow pace. I wanted to be alone as long as I
could; I wanted to give myself up to my thoughts, unham-
pered. Souvenir had set out in one of the carts which came
with Kwicinski. No matter how young and thoughtless I was
then, the sudden, over-all change (not just in details) always.
caused in all hearts by the unexpected or the expected (it's
all the same!) appearance of death, its solemnity, importance,
and rightness, couldn't help astound me. And I was astounded
-but, for all that, my confused child's eyes noticed a good
deal right away: they noticed how Sliotkin, deftly and timidly,
threw his gun aside, as if it were something stolen; how both
he and his wife instantly became an object of silent but gen-
eral alienation; how it became empty around them. This
alienation wasn't extended to Evlampia, though her fault, most
likely, was no less than her sister's. She even aroused a certain
sympathy for herself when she fell at the feet of her deceased
father. But that she, too, was guilty-everybody felt this.
"They did the old man wrong," said a greying, big-headed
peasant, leaning, like some ancient judge, with both hands
and his chin on a long stick; “a sin on your souls! Did him
wrong!" This word "wrong" was immediately picked up by
everybody as an irrevocable verdict. This was the justice of
the people; I understood it at once. I also noticed that at
first Sliotkin didn't dare give orders. Without him, they picked
up the body and carried it into the house; without asking him,
the priest set out for the church for the things he needed, and
the head-man ran to the village to send a cart to town. Anna
Martynovna herself didn't dare order the samovar set "so
there'd be warm water to wash the deceased" in her usual
bossy tone. Her order was like a request-and she was an-
swered rudely.
The one question still occupied me: what did he really want
to say to his daughter? Did he want to condone her, or to
curse her? I decided, finally, that he wanted to condone her.
Three days later Martyn Petrovich's funeral took place, at
288
IVAN TURGENEV
+
Mother's expense; she was much grieved by his death and
ordered no expense spared. She didn't go to the church her-
self-because, as she put it, she didn't want to see those two
mean women and that foul little Jew, but she sent Kwicinski,
me, and Zhitkov, whom, however, from that time on, she
never referred to except as an old woman. She wouldn't let
Souvenir enter her sight and for a long time afterwards was
angry at him, calling him the murderer of her friend. He felt
this disgrace very keenly: he continually went around on
tiptoes in the room next to Mother's, fell into a sort of anxious
and mean melancholy, kept quivering and whispering:
"Righ-twaway!"
In church and during the procession, Sliotkin seemed to me
to be "in his element" again. He took charge of things and
bustled about as he used to, and avidly watched that not
an extra kopeika was spent, although the whole thing had
nothing to do with his own pocket. Maksimka, in a new
kazakin, also furnished by my mother, sang out such tenor
notes in the choir loft, that of course no one could doubt the
sincerity of his devotion to the deceased. Both sisters were,
as they should have been, in mourning-but they seemed
embarrassed more than grieved, especially Evlampia. Anna
had assumed a humble and pious expression, but didn't make
herself cry, and just kept running her thin, lovely hand over
her hair and cheek. Evlampia was deep in thought the whole
time. That general, irrevocable alienation, that censure, which
I had noticed on the day of Kharlov's death, seemed to me
now also on the faces of everyone in the church, in all their
movements, in their glances-but still more staidly and seem-
ingly more indifferently. All these people seemed to know
that the sin into which the Kharlov family had fallen-that
great sin—was now in the hands of the one just Judge, and
that, consequently, there was no reason for them to worry and
be indignant. They prayed zealously for the soul of the de-
parted, whom in life they hadn't especially liked-had even
feared. Death had struck very suddenly.
"If only he'd had a drink once in a while, my good friend,”
one peasant said to another on the back porch.
"You can get drunk without drinking," the other answered.
"Depends how things happen."
"They did him wrong," the first peasant repeated the decid-
ing word.
"Did him wrong," others said after him.
A KING LEAR OF THE
STEPPE
289
"But didn't he himself oppress you?" I asked a peasant
whom I recognized as one of Kharlov's serfs.
"He was the master, yes," the peasant replied, "but still...
they did him wrong!"
“Did him wrong..." someone in the crowd said again.
At the grave, Evlampia still stood as if she were lost. She
was filled with deep thoughts-heavy thoughts. I noticed that
she treated Sliotkin, who started talking to her several times,
the way she had Zhitkov-and even worse.
A few days later the rumor went around our neighborhood
that Evlampia Martynovna Kharlova had left the family house
for good, having granted her sister and brother-in-law every-
thing that had been left to her and having taken only a few
hundred rubles.
"Obviously, she's bought herself in, that Anna!" my mother
remarked; "only you and I," she added, turning to Zhitkov
with whom she was playing piquet-he had replaced Souvenir
for her "have clumsy hands!"
Zhitkov glanced sullenly at his powerful hands. “Clumsy
they are!" he seemed to be thinking. . . .
Soon afterwards Mother and I moved to Moscow to stay-
and many years went by before I happened to see Martyn
Petrovich's two daughters.
—
XXX
But I did see them. I ran into Anna Martynovna in the
most ordinary way. After Mother's death, visiting our country
place which I hadn't been to for over fifteen years, I received
an invitation from the arbitrator (all over Russia, at that time,
and with a slowness still unforgettable, the measuring and
surveying of overlapping agricultural lands was going on)-
an invitation to come to a meeting for talks with the other
landowners of our countryside, on the estate of the landowner,
the widow Anna Sliotkina. The news of the non-existence in
this world of Mother's "little Jew" with the prune-like eyes
didn't make me in the least sad, I must say, but I thought
it would be interesting to have a look at his widow. She had
the reputation in the district of being an excellent manager.
And indeed her estate, the farm buildings, and her house
itself (I couldn't help but glance at the roof: it was iron)—
everything seemed in perfect order, everything was tidy,
clean, put away, painted where it needed to be-just like a
German woman's. Anna Martynovna herself, of course, had
290
IVAN TURGENEV
somewhat aged; but that special, dry, and, as it were, evil
charm which had once so much aroused me had not com-
pletely left her. She was dressed in country style, but ele-
gantly. She received us, not cordially-that word was never
right for her-but politely, and, catching sight of me, a
witness of that terrible occurrence, didn't even raise an eye-
brow. She never mentioned my mother, or her father, or her
sister, or her husband, as if the cat had got her tongue.
She had two daughters, both extremely pretty, slender,
with lovely little faces, with a cheerful and tender look in
their black eyes; there was a son, too, who resembled his
father a little, but who was a wonderful little boy. During
the discussions among the landowners, Anna Martynovna
behaved calmly, with dignity, showing neither any particular
obstinacy nor any particular self-interest. But no one under-
stood his own advantage better than she, nor knew how to
advance and defend his own rights better; all the “applicable"
laws, even the ministerial circulars, were well known to her;
she said little, and that in a quiet voice, but each word struck
its mark. It ended up by our announcing our agreement with
all her demands, and making such concessions that a man
could only wonder at them. On the way home, some of the
men landowners even cursed themselves out; everyone was
groaning and shaking his head.
"What a clever woman!" one man said.
"A crafty rascal!" another, less subtle landowner put in.
"The bed's soft when you make it, but hard to sleep on!”
"But what a miser!" added a third. “A little glass of vodka
and a bite of caviar apiece-what is that?”
“What did you expect from her?" blurted out a man who
had so far been silent. "Who doesn't know she poisoned her
own husband?”
To my surprise, nobody thought it necessary to refute this
terrible, and undoubtedly unfounded, accusation. This sur-
prised me especially because, despite the abusive expressions
I've quoted, everybody felt respect for Anna Martynovna,
not excluding the indelicate landowner. The arbitrator even
fell into pathos.
"Put her on the throne," he exclaimed, “she's the same as
Semiramis or Katerina II! The way her peasants obey her is
exemplary. The way she's brought up her children is
exemplary. What a head! What brains!"
Semiramis and Katerina II aside, there was no doubt that
Anna Martynovna led a completely happy life. She herself,
•
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
291
her family, her whole way of life breathed an air of inner
and outer satisfaction, of a pleasant tranquillity, of spiritual
and physical well-being. To what extent she deserved that
happiness-that's another question. Such questions, however,
come up only in youth. Everything in the world, both the
good and the bad, come to a man not by his merits but as a
result of some still unknown but logical laws which I won't
even try to state, although I sometimes think I vaguely sense
them.
XXXI
I asked the arbitrator about Evlampia Martynovna, and
found out that ever since she had left the house she had
been missing-and "had probably gone to her long home some
time ago.” That's the way our arbitrator put it-but I'm sure
I saw Evlampia; that I met her. It was like this.
About four years after my encounter with Anna Mar-
tynovna, I spent a summer in Murino, a little village near
Petersburg, well known to summer people of moderate means.
The hunting around Murino at that time wasn't bad, and I
went out with my gun almost every day. I had a friend, a
certain Vikulov, a bourgeois-a good fellow, and no fool at
that-but, as he used to say about himself, of a completely
‘gone” behavior. Where that man hadn't been, and what he
hadn't been! Nothing could surprise him, he knew everything
--but he liked only hunting and wine. Well, once he and
I were coming back to Murino and we happened to pass a
solitary house standing where two roads crossed, and sur-
rounded by a high, thick paling. It wasn't the first time I'd
seen this house, and every time it aroused my curiosity: there
was something mysterious about it, something secret, gloomily
silent, something reminding you of a jail or a hospital. All you
could see from the road was its steep, dark-painted roof. In
the whole fence there was only one gate, and that was securely
locked; you never heard a sound from behind it. For all this,
you sensed that someone certainly was living in this house:
it didn't have at all the look of a deserted building. On the
contrary, everything about it was so solid and firm and sturdy
that it seemed as if it could have withstood a siege.
<<
"What's this fortress?" I asked my friend. “Do you know?”
Vikulov slyly squinted.
"A strange place probably. The local police officer gets a
big income out of it.”
292
IVAN TURGENEV
"How so?"
"Just does. You've heard, I suppose, about the Khlysts-
the dissenters who have no priests?”*
"Yes."
"Well, here's where their mother superior dwells."
"A woman?"
"Sure-the queen; according to them, the Mother of God.”
"What are you talking about?!”
"I'm telling you. A very strict woman, they say. A real com-
manding officer-bosses thousands! I'd like to take all these
Mothers-of-God . . . But what's the point of talking!"
He called his Pegashka, a wonderful dog with an excellent
nose but without any understanding of pointing. Vikulov had
to tie up one hind leg so she wouldn't go running around so
furiously.
What he told me stuck in my memory. I used to turn off
to one side deliberately, just to go past the mysterious house.
Once, as I was coming up to it, suddenly-wonder of won-
ders!-the bolt rattled in the gate, a key squeaked in the lock,
the gate itself quietly opened, and there appeared the head
of a powerful horse with a braided forelock under a brightly
painted shaft-bow-and slowly a little cart rolled out onto
the road, a cart like those in which horsedealers and self-
styled judges from the merchant class go about. On the
leather pillow of the cart, on the side near me, sat a man of
about thirty of a strikingly handsome and fine-looking appear-
ance, in a neat, black, long cloth coat, with a black cap pulled
down low on his forehead. He was sedately driving the well-
fed stallion that was as wide as a stove; and beside the man,
on the other side of the cart, sat a woman who was tall and
straight as an arrow. An expensive black shawl covered her
head; she had on a short, olive-colored velvet jacket and a
dark blue merino-wool skirt; her white hands were held to-
gether, decorously folded against her chest. The cart turned
left along the road, and the woman was no more than two
paces from me; she moved her head slightly-and I recog-
nized Evlampia Kharlova. I recognized her immediately; I
didn't doubt for an instant. Besides, it would have been
impossible to: I never saw anybody else with such eyes as
she had, and especially such a shape of the lips-haughty and
sensual. Her face had become longer and thinner, the skin
had darkened, you could see wrinkles here and there; but it
* The Khlysts, or Scourgers, were a dissenting sect whose chief dogma was
the incarnation of God in man.
A KING LEAR OF THE STEPPE
293
was especially the expression of the face that had changed.
It's hard to put into words how self-confident it had become,
how stern, how proud. Every feature breathed not the simple
composure of authority but a satiety of power; in the casual
glance which she threw at me showed an old, old inveterate
habit of meeting only reverential, dumb submission. This
women apparently lived surrounded not by admirers, but by
slaves; she evidently had even forgotten the time when her
slightest command or desire wasn't immediately fulfilled. I
loudly called out her name; she just barely shuddered, looked
at me a second time-not with fright, but with scornful anger:
Who, she seemed to say, dares disturb me?—and barely open-
ing her lips, gave an order. The man sitting beside her gave
a start, slapped the reins on the horse's back as hard as he
could, and the horse moved ahead at a brisk, full trot—and the
cart disappeared.
Since then I've never met Evlampia again. How Martyn
Petrovich's daughter got to be the Khlysts' Mother-of-God
I can't even imagine; but who knows, maybe she founded a
doctrine which will be named, or already is named, after
her: Evlampievshchina? There are all kinds of things in the
world, all sorts of things happen.
And that's what I had to tell you about my King Lear of
the steppe, about his family, and what he did.
The storyteller fell silent-and we talked about it a little,
but then broke up and went home.
[1870]
C
PREFACE TO Spring Torrents }
Passing through Frankfurt on his first trip out of Russia
in 1838, Turgenev was asked by a Jewish girl in a confec-
tioner's shop to save her brother. Turgenev fell in love with
the girl; the decision to leave and continue to Berlin was
especially difficult for him.
Later, he became deeply attached to Pauline Viardot, who
possessed him without ever being possessed by him, a fact
Turgenev admitted to the well-known Russian poet, Fet,
during Fet's visit to Turgenev at the Viardots' country place
in France. Angrily and desperately, Turgenev confessed that
the woman had him in her power. According to Fet's inter-
pretation, Turgenev delighted in his own submission. Viardot's
taste, elegance, and musical talent literally enchanted Tur-
genev. He stayed with her or near her almost all his life,
although shortly after the episode of the admission to Fet, he
broke with her temporarily, partly in anger with himself for
being so captivated and partly in annoyance at her for having
become involved in an affair with another man.
These two loves, the one pure, the other passionate, are
the autobiographical starting points of Spring Torrents, one of
the most moving love stories ever written. Turgenev's work
on it extended through the spring and summer of 1871, cover-
ing the period of the Paris Commune of March 18 to May
28, 1871. But, though Turgenev's daughter was in Paris and
Turgenev's interest in the uprising was keen, the only refer-
ence in the story to the important political events is the com-
parison of first love to revolution through dramatization of the
great change both bring, and to the vital enthusiasm with
which they await whatever may come.
296
IVAN TURGENEV
Turgenev himself was not completely pleased with the story,
for, as he said, it had "absolutely no social or political or
contemporary allusions." In fact, of course, it does: besides
the reference just mentioned, the caricature of the German
officers and businessmen, the attack on the German theater,
actually angered the Germans. Pietsch, the artist and writer,
wrote Turgenev a letter of sharp protest, and Russians inter-
preted the story as an expression of Turgenev's disgust with
the Germans for the Franco-Prussian War. Besides this, the
warm sympathy and the fiercely sexual passions described in
the story made it extraordinarily popular.
Turgenev had finished it by the end of 1871, and it was
printed in the January 1872 issue of The Messenger of
Europe. It was so popular, so successful, that the issue of the
magazine had a second printing.
The greatest praise came from Flaubert, who, in a letter
in August 1873, said that it was an exquisite love story and
that Turgenev not only knew all about life but knew how to
write about it, how to put it into words. “Quel homme que
mon ami Tourguéneff! Quel homme!"
SPRING TORRENTS
The laughter-filled years,
The happiest days—
Like the torrents of spring
They've all rushed away!
From an old song.
Sometime after one o'clock at night he returned to his study.
He sent out the servant who had lit the candles and, drop-
ping into an armchair by the fire, covered his face with both
hands.
He had never before felt such fatigue-physical and spir-
itual. He had spent the whole evening with agreeable ladies
and well-educated men. Some of the ladies were beautiful,
practically all the men were marked by intelligence and
ability; he himself had talked very successfully and even
brilliantly. And, even so, that taedium vitae, that "disgust
with life” which the old Romans had talked about, had never
before overwhelmed him with such irresistible force, never
before so oppressed him. Had he been somewhat younger,
he would have started crying from depression, from boredom,
from irritation. A caustic and scalding bitterness, like the
bitterness of wormwood, filled his whole being. Something
importunately repellent, unpleasantly painful pressed in on
him from all sides, like a dark autumn night; and he did not
know how to get free of that darkness, of that bitterness.
There was no use in counting on sleep; he knew that he
would not fall asleep.
He started thinking-slowly, dully, and spitefully.
He thought of the vanity, the uselessness, the cheap mere-
triciousness of everything human. All the ages of man passed
gradually before his mind's eye (he himself had turned fifty-
two just recently), and not one received his mercy. Every-
where there was the same eternal milling of the wind, the
same pointless lashing of the waves, the same half well-
intentioned, half deliberate deluding of oneself-anything to
298
IVAN TURGENEV
keep the child happy. And then suddenly, like a bolt from
the blue, old age takes you unawares-and along with it, the
ever-increasing, corroding, and undermining fear of death.
And then plop! you've fallen into the deep! It's still all right
if life works out like this. But sometimes, perhaps, before
the end there start creeping up, like rust on iron, feebleness,
sufferings. The sea of life seemed to him covered, not with
wild and stormy waves, as poets describe it—no. He imagined
this sea imperturbably smooth, still, and limpid right to the
dark, dark bottom. He himself is sitting in a little, shaky
boat-and there, on that dark, slimy bottom, one can just
barely make out hideous monsters, like enormous fish; all
life's ailments, illnesses, sorrows, madness, poverty, blindness.
... He looks-and, there, one of the monsters is moving out
of the darkness, is rising up higher and higher, is becoming
more and more distinct, more and more repulsively distinct.
Another minute-and the boat under him will be over-
turned! But, there, the thing seems to be fading again, it's
receding, going down to the bottom-and it lies there, just
barely moving its tail. . . . But the day of reckoning will come,
and this thing will overturn the boat.
He shook his head, jumped up from the chair, walked back
and forth in the room a couple of times, sat down at his desk,
and, pulling out one drawer after another, started going
through his papers, through old letters, mostly from women.
He himself did not know why he was doing this; he was not
looking for anything-he simply wanted, by doing something,
to get rid of the thoughts that were tormenting him. Having
opened several letters at random (in one of them there was
a dried-out flower tied with a faded ribbon), he merely
shrugged his shoulders and, glancing at the fire, threw them
aside, probably intending to burn up all this useless trash.
Hurriedly sticking his hands first into one drawer and then
another, he suddenly opened his eyes wide and, having pulled
out a small octagonal antique box, slowly raised its lid. In the
box, under a double layer of yellowed cotton, was a little
garnet cross.
For several moments he stared at this little cross in be-
wilderment-and suddenly gave a faint cry. His features
expressed half regret, half delight. Such a look comes on a
man's face when he happens suddenly to run into someone
whom he long ago lost sight of, whom he once was very fond
of, and who now unexpectedly appears before his eyes, still
the same-and completely changed by the years.
SPRING TORRENTS
299
He got up and, going back to the fireplace, sat down again
in the armchair, and again covered his face with his hands.
"Why today? Why precisely today?" he thought, and he
remembered many things that had happened long ago.
This is what he remembered....
But first one must be told his name, patronymic, and sur-
name. He was called Sanin, Dmitri Pavlovich.
This is what he remembered.
I
It happened in the summer of 1840. Sanin had turned
twenty-two, and was in Frankfurt on his way back to Russia
from Italy. He was a man whose fortune was small, but he
was independent, and almost without family ties. It turned
out that he had, following the death of a distant relative,
several thousand rubles—and he had decided to spend them
abroad before entering the service, before finally putting on
that government yoke without which a comfortable existence
was, for him, inconceivable. Sanin had carried out his inten-
tion exactly and had managed so skillfully that on the day
of his arrival in Frankfurt he had just as much money as
he needed to get back to Petersburg. In 1840 there were very
few railroads in existence; tourists traveled by public stage-
coach. Sanin reserved a seat in the Beiwagen, but the coach
did not leave until after ten at night. There was a good
deal of time left. Fortunately, the weather was wonderful,
and Sanin, having dined in the White Swan, a well-known
hotel of that time, set out to wander around town. He went
in to take a look at Dannecker's "Ariadne,” which he did not
like very much; visited the house of Goethe, of whose works,
by the way, he had read only Werther-and that in a French
translation; he took a walk along the shore of the Main, and
was somewhat bored, as any decent traveler should be; and
finally, at six o'clock in the evening, worn-out, with dust-
covered feet, found himself in one of the most insignificant
streets of Frankfurt.
For a long time afterwards he could not forget this street.
On one of its few houses he caught sight of a sign: “Italian
Confectionary, Giovanni Roselli" it announced to passers-by.
Sanin went in to have a glass of lemonade, but there wasn't a
soul in the first room. Behind a plain counter, on the shelves
of a painted cupboard, reminding one of a pharmacy, stood
several bottles with gold labels and the same number of
300
IVAN TURGENEV
glass jars with rusk, chocolate cookies, and fruit drops. On
a tall wicker chair by the window a grey cat was blinking
and purring, moving its paws up and down; and, glowing
brightly in the slanting rays of the evening sun, a big ball of
red wool lay on the floor beside an overturned fretwork
basket. There was a vague noise in the next room. Sanin
stood there a moment-and, having waited for the little bell
on the door to stop ringing, he raised his voice and called:
"Is nobody here?" Just at that moment the door from the next
room opened, and Sanin could not help but be amazed.
II
A girl of about nineteen, her dark curls hanging loosely
over her bare shoulders, her bare arms stretched out in front
of her, ran impetuously into the shop and, having caught
sight of Sanin, immediately rushed to him, grabbed his arm
and started pulling him after her, saying again and again in a
gasping voice: "Hurry, hurry, in here, save him!" Not from
any unwillingness to obey, but simply from being over-
whelmed by surprise, Sanin did not follow the girl at once-
he seemed to have become rooted to the spot: in his whole
life he had never seen such a beautiful girl. She turned around
to him and said, "But come, come!" with such despair in her
voice, in her eyes, in the gesture of her clenched hand, which
she convulsively put up against her pale cheek, that he imme-
diately lunged through the open door behind her.
In the room into which he had run, following the girl, on
an old-fashioned horsehair couch lay a boy of about fourteen,
all white-white with a yellowish tinge, like wax or like
ancient marble-strikingly like the girl, evidently her brother.
His eyes were closed; the shadow of his thick, black hair
fell like a blotch on his stony forehead, on his thin, motionless
eyebrows; his clenched teeth showed between his blue lips.
He seemed not to be breathing; one hand had dropped down
to the floor, the other he had flung back up over his head.
The boy was dressed, and his coat was buttoned; a necktie
was tight about his neck.
The girl rushed to him with a loud wail.
"He's dead, he's dead!" she cried. “Just now he was sitting
here talking to me-and suddenly he fell and was motionless.
My God! can't anything be done to help? And Mama's
out! Pantaleone, Pantaleone, what about the doctor?" she
added suddenly in Italian. "Did you go for the doctor?”
•
SPRING TORRENTS
301
"Signorina, I didn't, I sent Louise," said a hoarse voice be-
hind the door, and into the room, hobbling on his bandy legs,
came a little old man in a lavender frock coat with black
buttons, a high white tie, nankeen breeches, and dark blue
wool stockings. His tiny little face was completely hidden by a
huge mass of iron grey hair. Rising up sharply on all sides
and falling back in tousled locks, it made the old man look
like a tufted chicken-a resemblance all the more striking
because, under the dark grey mass, one could only just make
out a pointed nose and round yellow eyes.
"Louise will run over quicker, and I can't run," the little
old man continued in Italian, lifting, one after another, his
flat, gouty feet shod in high button-up boots. "But, here, I've
brought some water."
He was squeezing the neck of the bottle with his dry,
crooked fingers.
"But meanwhile Emilio will die!” cried the girl, and
reached out toward Sanin. “Oh sir, oh mein Herr! Can't you
possibly help?"
"He has to be bled-it's a stroke," remarked the little old
man called Pantaleone.
Although Sanin had not the least knowledge of medicine,
he knew one thing for sure: fourteen-year-old boys do not
have strokes.
"It's a fainting spell, not a stroke," he said, turning to
Pantaleone. "Have you brushes?"
The old man raised his face.
"What?"
"Brushes, brushes," Sanin repeated in German and in
French. "Brushes," he added, making the gesture of cleaning
his clothes.
The old man finally understood him.
"Ah, brushes! Spazette! Of course we have!"
"Let me have them; we'll take off his coat, and start rub-
bing him down.”
"Very good... Benone! But shouldn't you pour some water
on his head?”
"No-later; now hurry up, and get the brushes quickly.”
Pantaleone put the bottle on the floor and ran out, and
immediately came back with two brushes, one a clothesbrush
and the other a hairbrush.
A curly poodle was accompanying him and, earnestly
wagging his tail, was looking inquisitively at the old man,
302
IVAN TURGENEV
at the girl, and even at Sanin-as if wanting to know what
all this commotion meant.
Sanin deftly took off the boy's coat, unbuttoned his collar,
rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and, having equipped him-
self with a brush, started rubbing his chest and arms as hard
as he could. Pantaleone just as zealously rubbed with the
hairbrush over the boy's boots and trousers. The girl fell on
her knees beside the couch and, having seized his head in
both hands, fixed her eyes, without winking an eyelash, on
her brother's face.
Sanin himself kept rubbing, and kept looking at her fur-
tively. My Lord! What a beautiful girl!
III
Her nose was a bit large, but of a beautiful aquiline shape;
a little down just barely set off her upper lip; the color of
her face, however, smooth and lusterless, was exactly like
ivory or like milky amber; she had a wavy gloss to her hair,
like Allorio's Judith in the Palazzo Pitti; and especially her
eyes, dark grey with a black rim around the pupils, were
magnificent, triumphant eyes-even now when fright and
sadness had dulled their sheen. . . Sanin involuntarily
thought of the marvelous land from which he was returning.
Indeed, even in Italy he had not run into anything like
this! The girl was breathing unevenly and slowly; it seemed
that, with each breath, she was waiting to see whether her
brother would start breathing.
•
Sanin kept on rubbing the boy, but he was looking not only
at the girl. Pantaleone's eccentric figure also drew his atten-
tion. The old man had become weak all over and was puffing
and panting; he kept jumping up and down at each stroke of
the brush and groaning shrilly; and his huge mane of hair,
wet with perspiration, swung heavily from side to side like
the roots of a great plant eroded by water.
"At least take off his boots,” Sanin started to tell him.
The poodle, probably excited by the unusualness of every-
thing going on, suddenly sank down onto its front paws and
began to bark.
"Tartaglia! Canaglia!" the old man hissed at it.
But at that moment the girl's face was transformed. Her
brows rose, her eyes became still bigger and shone with
delight...
Sanin looked around. Color had broken out on the young
SPRING TORRENTS
303
man's face; his eyelids moved... his nostrils quivered. He
inhaled air through his still clenched teeth, he sighed....
"Emilio!” cried the girl. “Emilio mio!”
The big black eyes slowly opened. They still stared vacantly,
but they were smiling-weakly; the same weak smile crossed
the pale lips. Then he moved the arm that was hanging down t
--and, with an effort, swung it up onto his chest.
"Emilio!" the girl repeated, and got up. The expression on
her face was so intense and striking that, it seemed, she would
either burst into tears or break out in laughter.
"Emilio! What's going on? Emilio!" came from behind the
door, and a neatly dressed lady with silver-grey hair and a
dark face came quickly into the room. An elderly man was
following her; a maid's head appeared for an instant behind
his shoulders.
The girl ran to meet them.
"He's saved, Mama, he's alive!" she cried, convulsively
embracing the lady who had entered.
"But what's going on?" she repeated. "I was just coming
back-and I suddenly ran into the doctor and Louise. . . .'
>>
The girl started telling what had happened, and the doctor
went over to the patient, who was coming round more and
more, and all the while continuing to smile; he seemed to be
beginning to be ashamed of the alarm he had caused.
"I see you rubbed him with brushes," the doctor said, turn-
ing to Sanin and Pantaleone, "and a good thing that was. A
very good idea-and now we'll see if there's anything else."
He felt the young man's pulse. "Hm! Say 'ah!''
The lady bent down to him solicitously. He smiled still
more openly, raised his eyes to her, and blushed.
It struck Sanin that he was not needed; he went out into
the shop. But before he could even touch the handle of the
street door, the girl had again appeared in front of him and
stopped him.
"You're going?” she began, looking straight at him warmly.
"I won't keep you, but you absolutely have to come back
this evening, we're so indebted to you-you probably saved
my brother-we want to thank you-Mama wants to. You
have to tell us who you are, you have to rejoice with us. . . ."
"But I'm leaving for Berlin today," Sanin began hesitantly.
"You still can," the girl replied vivaciously. “Come have a
cup of chocolate with us in an hour. You promise? . . . But I
have to go back to him. You'll come?"
What was there for Sanin to do?
304
IVAN TURGENEV
"I will," he answered.
The beautiful girl quickly pressed his hand, darted off-
and he found himself on the street.
IV
When, an hour and a half later, Sanin returned to the
Roselli confectionery, he was greeted like one of the family.
Emilio was sitting on the same couch on which he had been
rubbed down; the doctor had prescribed some medicine for
him and recommended "extreme caution in emotional excite-
ment"-since the patient was of a nervous temperament and
had a tendency toward heart trouble. He had even had faint-
ing spells before, but no attack had ever been so long or so
strong. However, the doctor announced, all danger was past.
Emilio was dressed, as a convalescent ought to be, in a loose
dressing gown; his mother had wound a blue woolen kerchief
around his neck; but he had a cheerful, almost carefree,
expression, and, indeed, everything around him seemed care-
free. In front of the couch, on a round table covered with a
clean cloth, stood a huge china coffee-pot filled with fragrant
chocolate and surrounded by cups, carafes of syrup, lady-
fingers and rolls, and even flowers; six thin wax candles were
burning in two old silver candelabra; soft and inviting, a
Voltaire chair stood on one side of the couch-and in that
chair they seated Sanin.
All the inhabitants of the shop whom he had happened to
meet that day were on hand, including the poodle Tartaglia
and the cat. Everyone seemed unspeakably happy; the poodle
was even sneezing from pleasure; only the cat kept mincing,
as always, and closing its eyes. They made Sanin explain who
he was, and where he came from, and what his name was.
When he said that he was Russian, both ladies were somewhat
taken aback and even gasped-and at once declared, with one
accord, that he spoke German excellently, but if it was easier
for him to speak French, he could use that language, too,
for they both could understand it and speak it well. Sanin
immediately availed himself of the suggestion. "Sanin! Sanin!"
The ladies had not in the least expected that a Russian name
could be pronounced so easily. His first name, “Dmitri," they
liked that very much, too. The older lady remarked that in
her youth she had heard a beautiful opera, "Demetrio e
Polibio"-but that "Dimitri" was much better than "Demetrio."
Sanin talked away like this for about an hour. The ladies,
SPRING TORRENTS
305
for their part, let him in on all the details of their own lives.
The mother, the lady with grey hair, talked most of all.
Sanin found out from her that her name was Leonora Roselli,
that she had been left a widow by her husband, Giovanni
Battista Roselli, who had settled in Frankfurt as a confec-
tioner twenty-five years ago, that Giovanni Battista had come
from a family in Vicenza and was a very good man, though
somewhat irascible and overbearing, and a republican besides!
As she said this, Signora Roselli pointed to his portrait, done
in oils and hanging over the couch. One had to presume that
the artist-"also a republican," as Signora Roselli remarked
with a sigh-had not quite managed to catch the likeness,
for in the portrait the late Giovanni Battista seemed a some-
what gloomy and austere brigand-rather like Rinaldo
Rinaldini!
Signora Roselli herself was a native "of the old and beauti-
ful city of Parma, where there is the marvelous dome painted
by the immortal Correggio!" But from her long stay in Ger-
many she had become almost completely Germanized. Then
she added, shaking her head sadly, that all she had left was
this daughter and this son (she pointed to each in turn); the
daughter was called Gemma and the son Emilio, they were
both very good and obedient children, especially Emilio...
("I'm not obedient?" the daughter put in; “Oh, you're a
republican, too!" the mother replied); and that, of course,
things were going worse now than when her husband-who
had been a great master in the confectioner's trade-was alive
(“Un grand'uomo!" Pantaleone chimed in with a stern look);
but that, still, thank God, they could make out!
V
Gemma listened to her mother, and sometimes laughed
softly, sometimes sighed, sometimes patted her shoulder,
sometimes shook her finger at her, or sometimes looked at
Sanin. Finally she got up, put her arms around her mother,
and kissed her neck-in the hollow of her throat, which made
her mother laugh a good deal, and even squeal.
Pantaleone, also, was introduced to Sanin. It turned out
that he had once been an opera singer, a baritone, but had
long ago dropped his theatrical activities and in the Roselli
family was something between a friend of the family and a
servant. Despite his long stay in Germany, he spoke German
very badly and could only swear in it, mercilessly mangling
306
IVAN TURGENEV
even the swear words. "Ferroflucto spiccebubbio!"* he called
almost every German. Italian he spoke perfectly-for his fam-
ily was from Sinigaglia, where one hears “lingua toscana in
bocca romana." Emilio, quite obviously, was taking it easy
and giving himself up to the pleasant sensations of one who
has just avoided danger or who is convalescing; and, besides,
it was quite clear that his family spoiled him. He thanked
Sanin shyly, and set to work harder on the syrup and the
sweets. Sanin was forced to drink two big cups of excellent
chocolate and to eat an extraordinary number of ladyfingers:
he would just get one down when Gemma would already be
offering him another-and it was impossible to refuse! He
soon felt at home; the time flew by with unbelievable swift-
ness.
There was a lot he had to tell them about-about Russia
in general, about Russia's climate. about Russian society, about
the Russian peasant-and especially about the Cossacks; about
the War of '12, Peter the Great, the Kremlin, and about Rus-
sian songs and church bells. Both ladies had an extremely
vague idea of our vast and faraway native land; Signora
Roselli, or, as she was more often called, Frau Lenore, even
astounded Sanin by asking: Does there still exist in Peters-
burg the famous ice-palace, built in the last century, about
which she had recently read such an interesting article in
one of her late husband's books, Bellezze delle arti? And in
reply to Sanin's exclamation: "Do you really believe that
there never is any summer in Russia?" Frau Lenore protested
that until then she had thought of Russia like this: eternal
snow, everyone going around in fur coats, and everyone a
soldier-but amazing hospitality and all the peasants very
obedient. Sanin tried to give her and her daughter some more
nearly accurate information.
When the conversation turned to Russian music, they
immediately begged him to sing a Russian aria and pointed
to a tiny piano in the room with black keys instead of white,
and white instead of black. He at once did as he was asked
and, accompanying himself with two fingers of his right hand
and three (the thumb, middle, and little finger) of his left,
he sang in a thin nasal tenor, first “Sarafan" and then “Along
a Cobbled Street." The ladies praised his voice and the music,
but were still more delighted with the softness and richness
of Russian and requested a translation of the text. Sanin did
* For verfluchte Spitzbube.
SPRING TORRENTS
307
as they wished, but since the words of "Sarafan" and, espe-
cially, of "Along a Cobbled Street (sur une rue pavée une
jeune fille allait à l'eau was how he rendered the meaning of
the original) could not inspire his listeners with a high regard
for Russian poetry, he first recited, then translated, and then
sang Pushkin's "I Recall a Marvelous Moment" set to music
by Glinka, the minor bars of which he slightly garbled. The
ladies were ecstatic-Frau Lenore even found a remarkable
similarity between the sounds of Russian and Italian:
"Mgnovenie"-"o, vieni”; “so mnoi”-“siam noi”; and so forth.*
Even the names Pushkin (she pronounced it Pussekin) and
Glinka sounded like her native tongue to her. Sanin, in his
turn, asked the ladies to sing something; they, too, were not
awkward or formal about it. Frau Lenore sat down at the
piano and with Gemma sang several little duets and stornelle.
The mother had once had a nice contralto; the daughter's
voice was rather weak, but pleasant.
VI
But it was not Gemma's voice, it was the girl herself that
Sanin was admiring. He was sitting somewhat behind her and
to one side, and was thinking to himself that no palm tree-
even in the poems of Benediktov, a fashionable poet at that
time-could rival the elegant grace of her figure. When, on
the little tender notes, she raised her eyes up, it seemed to
him that there was no heaven which would not open wide at
such a look. Even old Pantaleone who, leaning his shoulder
against the door jamb, his chin and mouth tucked into his
broad cravat, was listening with an air of importance, with
the expression of a connoisseur-even he was admiring the
face of the beautiful girl and marveling at it-though, one
would have thought, he should have become used to it! Having
finished her duets with her daughter, Frau Lenore made the
remark that Emilio had an excellent voice, pure silver, but
that he had now reached the age when the voice changes
(he really did talk in a kind of continually cracking bass),
and that therefore he was not allowed to sing; but that now
Pantaleone might, in honor of their guest, bring back the old
days.
Pantaleone immediately assumed a dissatisfied expression,
frowned, ruffled his hair, and announced that he had given all
* "Moment"—"oh, come"; "with me"-"it's we.”
308
IVAN TURGENEV
this up long ago, although he could really do well when he
was young-that in general he belonged to that great age
when there were real, classical singers-no comparison to the
squeakers they had now!-and a real school of singing. Once
he, Pantaleone Cippatola of Varese, had been given a laurel
wreath at Modena, and on that occasion they had even let
out several white doves in the theater; and, by the way, a
certain Russian Prince Tarbusski-il principe Tarbusski-with
whom he had been extremely friendly, as they sat at dinner
was always inviting him to Russia, promising him mountains
of gold, mountains! But he had not wanted to leave Italy, the
country of Dante-il paese del Dante!— Later, of course, there
were-unfortunate circumstances, he himself had been care-
less- Here the old man broke off, sighed deeply once or
twice, looked down-and again started talking about the
classical age of singing, about the great tenor Garcia, for
whom he nourished a reverential, boundless respect.
"That was a man!" he exclaimed. "The great Garcia-il
gran Garcia-never stooped to singing falsetto as these little
tenors-tenoracci-do now: always with the chest, the chest,
voce di petto, si!” The old man rapped his little dried-up fist
hard on his jabot. "And what an actor! A volcano, signori
miei, a volcano, un Vesuvio! I had the honor and good fortune
of singing with him in an opera dell'illustrissimo maestro Ros-
sini-in Otello! Garcia was Otello, I was Iago, and when he
uttered this phrase . . .”
Here Pantaleone struck a pose and started singing in a
trembling and husky but still deeply moving voice:
“L'i ... ra daver ... so daver ... so il fato
Io più no... no
no
non temerò!
•
• • •
"The theater was shaking, signori miei! but I, too, didn't
hang back, I went on right after him:
• • •
"L'i.. ra daver ... so daver.
so daver ... so il fato
Temèr più non dovrol
And then suddenly, like lightning, like a tiger, he replied:
Morro!
ma vendicato.
“Or then again, when he was singing . . . when he was
singing the famous aria from Matrimonio segreto: Pria che
spunti... Here he, il gran Garcia, after the words I cavalli
di galoppo made, at the words Senza posa cassiera-listen how
great it is, com'è stupendo! Here he made. . ." The old man
.
•
SPRING TORRENTS
309
started to make a sort of unusual flourish-faltered on the
tenth note, coughed, and, waving his hand in disgust, turned
away, and muttered: "Why do you torture me?" Gemma
immediately jumped up from her chair and, loudly applaud-
ing, shouting “Bravo! Bravo!" ran over to the poor retired
Iago and with both hands affectionately patted him on his
shoulders. Only Emilio laughed pitilessly. Cet âge est sans
pitié-that age has no pity, Lafontaine once said.
Sanin tried to comfort the aged singer and started talking
to him in Italian (he had picked up a little during his last
trip)-started talking about paese del Dante, dove il si suona.
This phrase, along with Lasciate ogni speranza, was the young
tourist's entire Italian poetic baggage, but Pantaleone did
not yield to his flattery. Tucking his chin more deeply than
ever into his cravat and sullenly bulging his eyes, he again
resembled a bird, but an angry one-a raven, maybe, or a
kite. At that point Emilio, blushing slightly for an instant,
as spoiled children usually do, turned to his sister and said
to her that if she wanted to entertain their guest she could
not do better than to read him one of the little comedies of
Malz, which she read so well. Gemma laughed, slapped her
brother on the hand, and exclaimed that he "was always
thinking up such things!" She went straight to her own room,
however, and, having come back with a small book in her
hand, sat down at the table in front of the lamp, looked
around, raised her finger, as if to say, Silencel—a completely
Italian gesture-and started reading.
VII
Malz was a Frankfurt literary figure of the Thirties who,
in his very short and light comedies, written in the local
dialect, drew with amusing and sharp, although not pro-
found, humor the local, Frankfurt types. Gemma, it turned
out, did indeed read superbly-just like an actress. She set
off each character and brilliantly maintained his character-
istics, using that mimicry she had inherited along with her
Italian blood. She spared neither her soft voice nor her
beautiful face; whenever she had to portray some old woman
who had become a dotard, or some stupid burgomaster, she
made the most amusing faces, screwed up her eyes, wrinkled
her nose, talked with a guttural burr, whined. .. During
the reading she herself did not laugh, but when her listeners
(excepting, it is true, Pantaleone: he had immediately gone
•
310
IVAN TURGENEV
ا
away in indignation as soon as there was mention of quel
ferroflucto Tedesco)-when her listeners interrupted her by a
burst of sudden genuine laughter, she, having put the book
on her lap, would laugh ringingly herself with her head
thrown back-and her black curls would jump in soft ringlets
on her neck and shaking shoulders. The laughter would stop
and she would immediately pick up the book and, again
assuming the expression that went with the role, start reading
seriously. Sanin could not admire her sufficiently; he was
especially amazed by what miracle such an ideally beautiful
face suddenly took on such a comic, sometimes almost banal,
expression. Gemma read the young girls' parts, the so-called
jeunes premières, less satisfactorily; she was not very good in
the love scenes especially; she herself sensed that, and there-
fore read them with a light tone of ridicule-as if she did not
believe all these rapturous vows and noble protestations,
which the author himself, however, refrained from, as much
as he could.
Sanin did not notice how the evening flew by, and remem-
bered the journey ahead of him only when the clock struck
ten. He jumped up from his chair as if he had been stung.
"What's the matter?" Frau Lenore asked.
"Why, I was supposed to leave for Berlin today—and I've
already reserved a seat in the coach!"
"But when does the coach leave?"
"At ten-thirty."
“Well, now you can't make it," Gemma remarked. “Stay .
I'll read a little more."
"Did you pay the whole fare, or just leave a deposit?” Frau
Lenore inquired.
"The whole fare!" Sanin wailed with a mournful look.
Gemma looked at him, half closed her eyes, and burst out
laughing; but her mother scolded her.
"The young man's spent his money for nothing, and you're
laughing!"
"It doesn't matter,” replied Gemma. "This won't ruin him,
and we'll try to console him. Do you want some lemonade?”
Sanin drank a glass of lemonade. Gemma again began to
read Malz, and again everything was going just fine.
The clock struck twelve. Sanin started to say good-bye.
"Now that you have to stay in Frankfurt a few days,”
Gemma said to him, "where do you have to hurry to? It
wouldn't be any gayer in another town." She was silent a
moment. "Really, it wouldn't," she added and smiled. Sanin
SPRING TORRENTS
311
answered nothing, and thought that owing to the emptiness
of his purse he would, willy-nilly, have to stay in Frankfurt
until an answer came from a certain Berlin friend to whom
he intended to turn for money.
"Stay, stay," said Frau Lenore, too. "We'll introduce you
to Gemma's fiancé, Herr Karl Klüber. He couldn't come today
because he's very busy in his store. You probably saw it: the
biggest store for yard goods and silks on the Zeile. Well, he's
the manager there. But he'll be very glad to call and introduce
himself to you.
"
This news-God knows why-somewhat took Sanin aback.
"That fiancé's a lucky man!" flashed through his mind. He
looked at Gemma-and he thought he caught a mocking ex-
pression in her eyes. He began bowing and saying good-bye.
"Until tomorrow? It is tomorrow, isn't it?" said Frau
Lenore.
"Until tomorrow!" said Gemma, not in an interrogative but
in an affirmative tone, as if it could not be otherwise.
"Until tomorrow!" echoed Sanin.
Emilio, Pantaleone, and the poodle Tartaglia walked with
him to the street corner. Pantaleone could not hold back from
expressing his displeasure at Gemma's reading.
"She ought to be ashamed of herself! Making faces, whin-
ing-una caricatura! She ought to be doing Merope or Cly-
temnestra—something great, tragic, and she does a take-off
on some disgusting German woman! Even I can do that. . .
Merts, kerts, smerts," he added in a hoarse voice, thrusting
his face forward and spreading his fingers. Tartaglia barked
at him, and Emilio burst into a loud laugh. The old man
turned back sharply.
Sanin returned to the White Swan hotel (he had left his
things there in the lobby) in a rather troubled state of mind.
All those German-French-Italian conversations were still ring-
ing in his ears.
"She's engaged!" he whispered, lying in bed in the little
hotel room assigned him. “And what a beautiful girl! But why
did I stay?"
However, the next day he sent a letter to his Berlin friend.
VIII
He had just barely gotten dressed when the waiter an-
nounced the arrival of two gentlemen. One of them turned
312
IVAN TURGENEV
out to be Emilio; the other, a tall and attractive young man
with a very fine-looking face, was Herr Karl Klüber, the
fiancé of the beautiful Gemma.
It is safe to assume that at that time in all of Frankfurt
there was not another store with such a courteous, presentable,
dignified, obliging manager as Herr Klüber. The impecca-
bility of his dress was on the same high level as the dignity
of his bearing and the elegance-a little stiff, it is true, and
reserved, in the English style (he had spent two years in
England)—but nevertheless, the captivating elegance of his
manners! From the first glance it was clear that this handsome,
somewhat stern, excellently brought-up, and superbly clean
young man was accustomed to obeying superiors and order-
ing inferiors, and that behind the counter of his store he must
have unfailingly inspired respect in his customers themselves!
There could not be the slightest doubt of his supernatural
honesty: one had only to look at his stiffly starched collar! His
voice, also, was what one would have expected: rich and
self-confidently full, but not too loud, with even a certain
gentleness of timbre. Such a voice is particularly good for
giving orders to the clerks under you: "Please show the piece
of crimson Lyons velvet!" or "Bring this lady a chair!”
Herr Klüber began by introducing himself, bending at the
waist so nobly, moving his feet so pleasantly, and touching
one heel against the other so respectfully that anyone would
certainly have felt: "Both this man's underwear and his
spiritual qualities are of first quality!" The trim of his exposed
right hand (in his left, clothed in a suede glove, he held a hat
polished to a mirror sheen, in which lay his other glove)—the
trim of this right hand, which he modestly but firmly extended
to Sanin, exceeded all belief: each nail was perfection in itself!
Then he explained, in the most refined German, that he
wished to pay his respects and his gratitude to the gentleman
from abroad who had rendered such an important service to
his future relative, the brother of his fiancée. As he said this,
he moved his left hand, holding the hat, in the direction of
Emilio, who seemed embarrassed and, having turned to the
window, put his finger in his mouth. Herr Klüber added that
he would consider himself fortunate if, for his part, he might
be able to do something pleasant for the gentleman from
abroad. Sanin answered, not without some difficulty, also in
German, that he was very glad . . . that his service was un-
important . . . and begged his guests to sit down. Herr Klüber
thanked him—and, instantly spreading the tails of his dress
SPRING TORRENTS
313
coat, lowered himself onto a chair-but he lowered himself
so delicately and sat on it so precariously that it was im-
possible not to realize: “That man sat down out of politeness
—and will jump up again any minute!" And actually, he did
jump up right away and, discreetly shifting from one foot to
another once or twice, as if dancing, announced that, un-
fortunately, he could not stay longer, for he was in a hurry
to get to his store-business comes first!-but that since to-
morrow was Sunday, he had, with the consent of Frau Lenore
and Fräulein Gemma, arranged a pleasure trip to Soden, to
which he had the honor of inviting the gentleman from abroad
-and that he cherished the hope that he would not refuse to
grace it by his presence. Sanin did not refuse to grace it-
and Herr Klüber bowed a second time and went out, pleas-
antly flashing his trousers of a most delicate pea-green color
and just as pleasantly squeaking with the soles of his brand-
new boots.
IX
Emilio, who continued to stand facing the window even
after Sanin's invitation to be seated, swung around to the left
just as soon as his future relative had gone, and, making a
childish face and blushing, asked Sanin if he could stay a
little longer. "I'm a lot better today," he added, "but the
doctor forbade my working.”
"Stay!" Sanin exclaimed at once. "You're not in my way at
all.” Like every true Russian, he was glad to seize the first
excuse for not having to do something himself.
Emilio thanked him-and in the shortest time had com-
pletely fitted himself in both with Sanin and his room; he was
looking over his things, and asking questions about almost
every one of them: where did he buy it, and what was it
worth? He helped him shave, and as he did so commented
that Sanin was wrong not to let his moustache grow; told
him, finally, a lot of little things about his own mother, his
sister, Pantaleone, even about the poodle Tartaglia, about
their whole way of life. Every semblance of timidity in Emilio
disappeared; he suddenly felt extraordinarily attracted to
Sanin-and not at all because he had saved his life the day
before, but because he was such a nice man! He immediately
entrusted all his secrets to Sanin. He particularly heatedly
insisted on the fact that his mama absolutely wanted to make
him a merchant, but he knew, knew for sure, that he was
314
IVAN TURGENEV
born an artist, a musician, a singer; that the theater was his
real calling; that even Pantaleone was encouraging him. But
Herr Klüber was supporting Mama, on whom he had great
influence; the very idea of making him a shopkeeper was
personally Herr Klüber's, according to whose understanding
nothing in the world can be compared to being a merchant!
To sell cloth and velvet and swindle the public, to charge
them Narren-oder Russen-Preise (fool's-or Russians' prices)
-that's his ideal!*
"Well, so! Now we have to go to our place!" he exclaimed
as soon as Sanin had finished getting ready and had written
the letter to Berlin.
"It's too early yet," remarked Sanin.
"That doesn't mean anything," said Emilio, playing up to
him. "Let's go! We'll drop by the post-office, and from there
go to our place. Gemma will be so glad to see you! You'll have
lunch with us. You can put in a good word to Mama for me,
about my career."
“Well, let's go,” said Sanin, and they set out.
X
Gemma was indeed delighted to see him, and Frau Lenore
greeted him very warmly: it was clear that he had made a
good impression on both of them the day before. Emilio ran
off to see about the lunch, having first whispered in Sanin's
ear: "Don't forget!"
"I won't," replied Sanin.
Frau Lenore was not feeling quite well: she was suffering
from migraine, and, half-lying in an armchair, was trying not
to move. Gemma had on a loose yellow smock with a black
leather belt around her waist; she, too, looked tired and was
somewhat pale; darkish circles shadowed her eyes, but their
brilliance was no less for that, and her paleness added some-
thing mysterious and endearing to the classically severe fea-
tures of her face. The exquisite beauty of her hands struck
Sanin especially that day; when she fixed or put up her dark,
shiny curls with them, he could not take his eyes off her
fingers, supple and long and set apart from each other as on
Raphael's Fornarina.
* In former times-and, perhaps, it has continued even now-when, begin-
ning with May, many Russians appeared in Frankfurt, the prices were raised
in all the stores and came to be called Russen, or-alas!-Narren-Preise.
(Author's note.)
SPRING TORRENTS
315
Outdoors it was very hot; after lunch Sanin was about to
leave, but they pointed out to him that on such a day it was
best not to move around-and he agreed; he stayed. In the
back room where he was sitting with his hostesses, coolness
reigned; the windows looked out on a little garden overgrown
with acacia. A great number of bees, wasps, and bumblebees
were buzzing constantly and greedily in their thick branches
covered with gold blossoms; this incessant noise pierced
through the half-closed shutters and the drawn blinds into
the room: it told of the sultry heat that filled the outside air
-and the coolness of the closed and comfortable house became
that much sweeter.
Sanin talked a good deal, as he had the day before, but
not about Russia and not about Russian life. Wanting to
please his young friend, who had been sent off to Herr
Klüber's right after lunch, to practice bookkeeping, he began
talking about the comparative advantages and disadvantages
of art and of trade. He was not surprised that Frau Lenore
took the side of trade-he expected that; but Gemma, too,
shared her opinion.
"If you're an artist-and especially a singer," she asserted,
bringing her hand down forcefully, "you absolutely must be
in the first rank! Second is no good at all; and who knows if
you can reach first rank?" Pantaleone, who was also taking
part in the conversation (as a long-time servant and an old
man, he was allowed even to sit on a chair in his masters'
presence; the Italians in general are not strict about etiquette)
-Pantaleone, of course, was completely for art. To tell the
truth, his reasons were rather weak: he mostly talked about
how it was above all essential to have un certo estro d'inspira-
zione-a certain fit of inspiration! Frau Lenore remarked to
him that he, of course, had had this estro-yet that. . .
"I had enemies," Pantaleone commented gloomily.
*
"But how do you know that Emilio won't have enemies,
even if this estro is discovered in him?”
"Well, so make him a tradesman," said Pantaleone with
annoyance, "but Giovann' Battista wouldn't have done it,
though he was a confectioner himself!"
“Giovann' Battista, my husband, was a sensible man-and
if he was carried away when he was young.
"
But the old man did not want to hear any more, and left
the room, having said once more, reproachfully:
•
* In Russian, ty—“thou.” The distinction cannot be easily translated into
English.
3
316
IVAN TURGENEV
“Ah! Giovann' Battista! ..
Gemma exclaimed that if Emilio felt patriotic and wanted
to devote all his energies to the liberation of Italy-why, of
course, for such a noble and sacred cause a secure future
might, indeed, be sacrificed-but not for the theater! At this
point Frau Lenore became upset and started imploring her
daugher at least not to confuse her brother, and be content
that she herself was such a desperate republican! Having
said this, Frau Lenore began to groan and complain about
her head, which was "ready to burst." (Frau Lenore, out of
respect for their guest, was talking to her daughter in French.)
"
Gemma immediately started taking care of her, blew gently
on her forehead, having first moistened it with Eau de
Cologne, softly kissed her cheeks, put some pillows under
her head, forbade her to talk-and again kissed her. Then,
turning to Sanin, she began telling him in a half-joking, half-
serious tone what a wonderful mother she had, and what a
beautiful woman she had been! "What am I saying: had
been? She's charming even now. Look, look, what eyes she
has!"
Gemma instantly took a white handkerchief out of her
pocket, covered her mother's face with it, and, slowly lower-
ing the upper edge, gradually uncovered Frau Lenore's fore-
head, eyebrows, and eyes; she stopped a moment and asked
her to open them. Her mother obeyed, Gemma cried out in
delight (Frau Lenore's eyes were really very beautiful), and,
having quickly slid the handkerchief over the lower, less
regular part of her mother's face, started kissing her again.
Frau Lenore laughed and turned slightly away, and with
feigned effort pushed her daughter back. She, too, pretended
she was struggling with her mother and pressed up to her-
not like a cat, not in the French manner, but with that Italian
grace in which the presence of power is always felt.
Finally, Frau Lenore declared that she was tired. . . . Then
Gemma immediately advised her to take a little nap, right
there, in the chair; "and the Russian gentleman-le monsieur
russe-and I will be as quiet, as quiet. . . as little mice . . .
comme des petites souris." Frau Lenore smiled in response to
her, shut her eyes, and, having sighed a little, dozed off.
Gemma quickly dropped down onto a footstool beside her and
did not move; once in a while she would raise the finger of
one hand to her lips-she was holding a pillow under her
mother's head with the other hand-and barely say "Shh!"
glancing sidelong at Sanin, whenever he made the slightest
SPRING TORRENTS
317
•
movement. In the end he also became completely still and sat
motionless, like a man in a trance. With all deepest feeling,
he delighted in the picture presented him by this half-dark
room-where here and there fresh, magnificent roses placed
in green, antique glasses glowed like bright dots-and by this
sleeping woman with the unassumingly folded hands and the
good, tired face framed by the snowy whiteness of the pillow,
and by this young, sharply watchful, and also good, intelli-
gent, pure, and ineffably beautiful creature with such black,
deep, shadow-filled, but still so shining, eyes. .. What was
this? A dream? A fairy tale? And how did he come to be here?
The little bell tinkled over the outside door. A young
peasant in a fur cap and a red vest came into the confectioner's
shop. Since early morning not a single customer had even
looked in. "That's the kind of business we do!" said Frau
Lenore to Sanin with a sigh during lunch. She continued
dozing; Gemma was afraid to take her hand away from under
the pillow and whispered to Sanin: "Go in and take care of
the customer for me!" Sanin immediately went out into the
shop on tiptoe. The young boy wanted a quarter-pound of
peppermints.
"What do I ask for them?" Sanin whispered through the
door to Gemma.
"Six kreutzers!" she answered in the same sort of whisper.
Sanin weighed out a quarter of a pound, found a piece of
paper, made a cone out of it, poured the mints into it, spilled
them, poured them in again, again spilled them, finally gave
them to the boy, and took the money. The boy stared at him
in amazement, twirling his cap on his stomach, and in the next
room Gemma, her hand over her mouth, was dying of
laughter. This customer had barely gone out when another
showed up, and then a third. . . . “Well, obviously, I'm lucky!”
Sanin thought. The second one asked for a glass of almond
drink; the third, for a half-pound of candy. Sanin served
them, clinking the spoons with abandon, pushing the saucers
around, and boldly sticking his fingers into drawers and jars.
On totaling up, it turned out that he had charged too little
for the almond drink and had taken two keutzers too much
for the candy. Gemma did not stop laughing surreptitiously,
and even Sanin himself had a sense of an unusual gaiety. He
felt as if he could stand behind the counter like that for ages,
selling candy and almond drinks while that dear creature
watched him from behind the door with friendly, mocking
eyes; and the summer sun, cutting its way through the thick
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IVAN TURGENEV
foliage of the chestnuts growing in front of the windows,
filled the whole room with the greenish gold of its midday
rays, its midday shadows, and the heart was basking in the
sweet languor of idleness, of unconcern, and of youth-of
first youth!
The fourth visitor asked for a cup of coffee: he had to turn
to Pantaleone (Emilio still had not returned from Herr
Klüber's store). Sanin again sat down beside Gemma. Frau
Lenore continued to doze, to her daughter's great satisfaction.
"Mama's migraine always goes away when she sleeps," she
observed.
Sanin started talking-in a whisper, of course, as before-
about his "selling"; completely seriously, he asked about the
price of various confectioner's goods; Gemma gave him these
prices just as seriously, and all the while they were both in-
wardly laughing together, as if admitting that they were
acting out the most amusing comedy. Suddenly, outside, a
street organ struck up an aria from the Freischütz: Durch die
Felder, durch die Auen... Trembling and whistling, the
whining sounds whimpered in the still air. Gemma shud-
dered.... "He'll wake up Mama!" Sanin immediately ran out
to the street, shoved several kreutzers into the organ-grinder's
hand, and made him stop playing and go away. When he
came back, Gemma thanked him with a slight nod of her
head and, smiling reflectively, herself started singing, just
barely audibly, the beautiful Weber tune with which Max
expresses all the wonder of first love. Then she asked Sanin
whether he knew the Freischütz, if he liked Weber, and
added that, though she was an Italian herself, she liked
music like that most of all. From Weber the conversation
passed to poetry and romanticism, to Hoffmann, who was
then still read by everybody. . .
Frau Lenore was still dozing and even just barely snoring,
and the sun's rays, falling through the shutters in narrow
streaks, were constantly shifting, unnoticed, and traveling
across the floor, the furniture, Gemma's dress, the leaves and
petals of the flowers.
XII
It turned out that Gemma was not too fond of Hoffmann,
and even found him. . . boring! The fantastic, foggy, northern
element of his stories was hardly accessible to her bright,
southern nature. "It's all fairy tales, it's all written for chil-
SPRING TORRENTS
319
dren!" she asserted, not without disdain. She also vaguely
sensed the lack of poetry in Hoffmann. But there was one
story whose title she had forgotten, which she liked very
much. Strictly speaking, she liked only the beginning of the
story: either she had not read the ending, or she had for-
gotten that too. It was about a certain young man who some-
where-maybe even in a confestioner's shop-meets a girl of
extraordinary beauty, a Greek girl; she is accompanied by a
mysterious and strange, evil old man. The young man falls
in love with the girl at first sight; she looks at him so pitifully,
as if she were begging him to liberate her. He goes away for
a moment and, on returning to the shop, finds neither the
girl nor the old man; he sets out to find her, continually keeps
stumbling on their fresh trail, chases after them-and can
never get to them in any way, any place, any time. The
beautiful girl disappears for him forever and ever, but he is
not able to forget her imploring look, and he is tormented by
the idea that perhaps his life's happiness has slipped through
his hands.
Hoffmann hardly ends his tale like that, but that was the
way she had put it together, that was the way it had re-
mained in Gemma's memory.
"It seems to me," she said, "that such meetings and such
partings take place in this world more often than we think."
Sanin was silent, and a little later he began to talk about
Herr Klüber. It was the first time he had mentioned him; he
had not once thought about him until that moment.
Gemma, in turn, was silent and lost in thought, lightly
biting the nail of her index finger and staring to one side.
Then she praised her fiancé, referred to the next day's outing
he had arranged, and, glancing quickly at Sanin, fell silent
again.
Sanin did not know what to talk about.
Emilio ran in noisily and woke up Frau Lenore. . . . Sanin
was relieved that he had come.
Frau Lenore got up from the armchair. Pantaleone ap-
peared and announced that dinner was ready. The family
friend, ex-singer, and servant also served as cook.
XIII
Sanin stayed on after dinner, too. They did not let him
go, still on the same excuse of the terrible heat; and when
the heat had gone, they suggested going out into the garden
320
IVAN TURGENEV
My
to drink coffee in the shade of the acacias. Sanin agreed. He
felt very good. Great delights are hidden in the monotonous,
placid, and even flow of life-and he gave himself over to
them with enjoyment, asking nothing special of the day and
not thinking of the morrow nor remembering the day before.
What was just the closeness of such a girl as Gemma worth
to him? He would be parting from her soon, probably for-
ever; but while the same boat, as in Uhland's love-poem,
carried them along life's calm currents-rejoice, enjoy your-
self, traveler! And to the happy traveler everything seemed
pleasant and sweet.
Frau Lenore proposed that he play tresette with her and
Pantaleone, and taught him this simple Italian card game;
she won a few kreutzers from him and he was very pleased.
At Emilio's request, Pantaleone made the poodle Tartaglia
do all its tricks-and Tartaglia jumped over a stick, "spoke,"
that is barked, sneezed, shut the door with his nose, fetched
his master's worn-out slipper, and, finally, with an old shako
on his head, played Marshal Bernadotte being subjected to
the harsh reproaches of the Emperor Napoleon for his
treachery. Pantaleone, of course, played Napoleon-and
played him very realistically: he folded his arms on his chest,
pulled his tricorner down over his eyes, and spoke coarsely
and sharply in French-but, my Lord, what French! Tartaglia
sat in front of his sovereign all hunched up, his tail between
his legs, blinking confusedly and squinting under the vizor
of the shako set crookedly on his head; from time to time,
when Napoleon raised his voice, Bernadotte rose up on his
hind legs. "Fuori, traditore!" Napoleon finally shouted, having
forgotten, in his excess of irritation, that he ought to have
kept his French character to the end-and Bernadotte rushed
headlong under the couch, but immediately jumped back out
with a joyful bark, as if indicating by this that the perform-
ance was over. All the spectators laughed-Sanin most of all.
Gemma had an especially endearing, unceasing, soft laugh
with little, extremely amusing shrieks. . . . Sanin was dissolved
by this laugh-he could have smothered her with kisses for
these shrieks!
At last night fell. It was time for him to go home. Having
said good-bye to everyone several times, having told every-
one several times: "Until tomorrow!" (he even kissed Emilio),
Sanin set out for the hotel and took with him the image of a
young girl, sometimes laughing, sometimes thoughtful, some-
times calm and even indifferent, but always attractive! Her
SPRING TORRENTS
321
eyes, at times wide open and bright and joyful as the day,
at times half-covered by their lashes and deep and dark as
night, were virtually in front of him, strangely and sweetly
penetrating all other images and fancies.
He did not once think about Herr Klüber, about the rea-
sons why he had stayed in Frankfurt-in short, about every-
thing that had worried him the day before.
XIV
A few words, however, must be said about Sanin himself.
In the first place, he was really not at all bad-looking.
Tall, of slender stature; with pleasant, slightly vague features,
tender little bluish eyes, golden hair, white skin, and rosy
cheeks-but, most important, that artlessly gay, trusting,
candid, at first seemingly rather foolish expression by which
in olden times one could immediately recognize the children
of the best families, sons who took after their fathers, fine
young noblemen born and bred in our open semi-steppe
regions; a hesitant way of walking, a lisping voice, a child's
smile as soon as you barely glanced at him, and, finally,
freshness, healthiness-and softness, softness, softness-there
you have the whole of Sanin. And, in the second place, he
was not stupid and had learned a few things. He had retained
his freshness, despite his trip abroad: the feelings of anxiety
which disturbed the better part of the young people in those
days were little known to him.
Recently, after a vain search for "new men," our literature
has begun to be filled with young man who have decided
to be fresh at any cost-as fresh as Flensburg oysters im-
ported into Petersburg. Sanin was not like them. If it is a
question of comparison, he rather reminded one of a young,
bushy, recently grafted appletree in our black-earth orchards
-or, better still, a sleek, smooth, thick-legged, tender three-
year-old on one of our former “gentleman's" stud farms, who
had just begun to be schooled on a lunge. Those who ran
across Sanin subsequently, when life in its course had broken
him and his youthful, unnatural plumpness had long since
left him, saw him as a completely different man.
The next day Sanin was still lying in bed when Emilio, in
holiday best and with a cane in his hand and his hair very
slicked down, burst into his room and announced that Herr
Klüber would arrive any minute now in his carriage, that
322
IVAN TURGENEV
wonderful weather was promised, that they had everything
ready, but that Mama wasn't going because she again had a
headache. He started trying to hurry Sanin up, swearing to
him there wasn't a minute to lose. And indeed, Herr Klüber
found Sanin still getting dressed. He knocked on the door,
came in, bowed, bent deeply at the waist, expressed his readi-
ness to wait any length of time, and sat down, gracefully
resting his hat on his knee. The handsome manager had
dressed to the hilt and perfumed himself all over: each of his
movements was accompanied by a strong rush of a very deli-
cate aroma. He had arrived in a roomy, open carriage, a so-
called landau, drawn by two large and strong, though not
handsome, horses. A quarter of an hour later, Sanin, Klüber,
and Emilio in this carriage rolled triumphantly up to the
front door of the confectioner's shop. Signora Roselli abso-
lutely declined to take part in the outing; Gemma wanted to
stay with her mother, but was, as they say, chased out.
"I don't need anyone," her mother insisted; "I'm going to
sleep. I'd send Pantaleone with you, but there'd be nobody
to mind the shop."
"May we take Tartaglia?" asked Emilio.
"Yes, of course.'
Tartaglia immediately, with joyful efforts, scrambled up
onto the box and sat down, licking his chops: clearly, he was
used to this. Gemma put on a big straw hat with brown
ribbons; the hat turned down in front, shielding almost her
whole face from the sun. The shadow ended just above the
lips: they glowed virginally and softly, like the petals of a
hundred-leaved rose, and her teeth shone through her parted
lips innocently, as with children. Gemma sat down on the
rear seat, beside Sanin; Klüber and Emilio sat opposite. Frau
Lenore's pale face appeared in the window. Gemma waved
her handkerchief to her-and the horses were off.
XV
Soden is a little town about a half-hour from Frankfurt.
It lies in a lovely district in the foothills of the Taunus
Mountains and is famous among us in Russia for its waters,
supposedly healthy for people with weak chests. The people
of Frankfurt go there chiefly for amusement, since Soden has
a beautiful park and various Wirtschaften where one can
drink beer and coffee in the shade of tall lindens and maples.
The road from Frankfurt to Soden goes along the right bank
SPRING TORRENTS
323
of the Main and is lined with fruit trees. As the carriage was
rolling quietly along the excellent highway, Sanin was furi-
tively watching how Gemma treated her fiancé: this was the
first time he had seen them together. She was composed and
natural-but a little more reserved and more serious than
usual; he looked like a condescending schoolteacher who had
allowed both himself and those under him a modest and
decorous pleasure. Sanin did not notice in him any special
attentiveness to Gemma, what the French call empressement.
It was clear that Herr Klüber considered the business settled
and therefore saw no reason to make a special effort or to be
concerned. But his condescension did not leave him for a
moment! Even during the long walk before dinner through
the wooded hills and valleys beyond Soden, even while en-
joying the beauties of nature, he treated it, nature itself, with
the same condescension, pierced from time to time by his
regular headclerk's harshness. So, for example, he commented
about one little stream that it flowed through the hollow too
straight, instead of making several picturesque turns; he also
did not approve of the behavior of a certain bird, a finch,
which did not vary its strains enough!
Gemma was not bored and even, evidently, was pleased,
but Sanin did not recognize the old Gemma in her: it was not
that a shadow had come over her-her beauty had never been
more radiant-but her soul had turned inward, had sunk with-
in her. Having opened her parasol and not unbuttoned her
gloves, she walked along sedately, without hurrying-as well-
brought-up young ladies walk-and talked little. Emilio also
felt a kind of constraint, as Sanin had for quite a while. He,
by the way, was somewhat ill at ease because of the fact that
the conversation was continually in German. Only Tartaglia
was not dejected! Barking madly, he dashed off after all the
blackbirds he saw, jumped over ruts, tree stumps and holes
in the ground; rushed into the water with a splash and
eagerly lapped it, shook himself, yelped-and again flew off
like an arrow, his red tongue flung back almost to his shoul-
der! Herr Klüber, for his part, did everything which he
thought necessary for the party's amusement; he invited
everyone to sit down in the shade of a spreading oak, and,
having taken out of his side pocket a little book with the title
Knallerbsen-oder du sollst und wirst lachen! (Firecrackers-
or You Must and Shall Laugh!), started reading amusing jokes,
with which this little book was filled. He read about twelve
of the things, but provoked little mirth; only Sanin smiled
K
324
IVAN TURGENEV
out of politeness, and Herr Klüber himself, after each joke,
let out a brief, business-like, but still condescending_laugh.
Toward noon, the whole group returned to Soden, to the best
restaurant there.
Arrangements for dinner had to be made. Herr Klüber
proposed that this dinner take place in the arbor, enclosed
on all sides-im Gartensalon; but at this point Gemma sud-
denly balked and announced she would dine only in the open
air, in the garden, at one of the little tables set out in front
of the restaurant; that she was tired of always being face to
face with the same people and that she wanted to see others.
Groups of newly arrived guests were already sitting at several
of the tables.
While Herr Klüber, condescendingly indulging "the whim
of his fiancée,” was off talking to the headwaiter, Gemma
stood motionless, her eyes lowered and her lips drawn; she
felt that Sanin was staring at her constantly and somehow
questioningly-and this, apparently, made her angry. Herr
Klüber finally came back, announced that dinner would be
ready in half an hour, and suggested that until then they
play skittles, adding that this was very good for the appetite,
he-he-he! He played skittles expertly; when throwing the ball
he struck amazingly dashing poses, foppishly flexed his mus-
cles, foppishly swung and shook his leg. He was an athlete
in his own way-and superbly built. His hands were so white
and beautiful, and he wiped them with such a very gorgeous,
gold-striped Indian foulard!
It came time for dinner-and the whole group sat down at
the little table.
XVI
Who does not know what a German dinner is? Watery
soup with knobby dumplings and cinnamon, well-cooked
beef dry as a cork with white fat on it, clammy potatoes,
plump beets and chopped horseradish, a dark blue eel with
capers and vinegar, roast meat with preserves, and the in-
evitable Mehlspeise, something like a pudding with a tart red
sauce; but then, also, excellent wine and beer! The Soden
restaurateur treated his guests to just such a dinner. The
dinner, however, went fine. True, there was no particular
animation, not even when Herr Klüber drank a toast to "what
we love!" (Was wir lieben!) Everything was very proper
and decorous. Coffee was served after dinner, weak, rusty-
SPRING TORRENTS
325
colored, really German coffee. Herr Klüber, as a true cavalier,
asked Gemma's permission to light a cigar.
... But at this
point there suddenly happened something unforeseen and,
indeed, unpleasant-and even improper!
Several officers of the Mainz garrison had sat down at one
of the nearby tables. By their glances and whispering it was
easy to guess that Gemma's beauty had struck them; one of
them, who had probably been in Frankfurt, kept continually
staring at her as at a familiar face: evidently he knew who
she was. He suddenly got up and with his glass in his hand-
the officers were somewhat under the weather, and the whole
tablecloth in front of them was covered with bottles-ap-
proached the table at which Gemma was sitting. He was a
very young, tow-haired man with a rather pleasant, even
likable face, but the wine he had drunk distorted it: his
cheeks were twitching, his bloodshot eyes wandered and had
taken on a daring expression. His friends at first tried to hold
him back, but then they let him go; whether or not it was
the confectioner's daughter-why not see what would happen?
Slightly swaying on his feet, the officer stopped in front of
Gemma and in an artificially shrill voice, in which, despite
himself, the struggle that was going on inside him showed
through, said: "I drink to the health of the most beautiful
coffee-house girl in all of Frankfurt, in all the world" (he
downed his glass in one swallow), “and in return I take this
flower picked by her divine little fingers!" He picked up from
the table the rose which had been lying in front of Gemma's
place. She was at first astounded, frightened, and became
terribly pale; then her fright changed to indignation, she
suddenly blushed to the roots of her hair, and her eyes, fixed
directly on the man who had insulted her, simultaneously
darkened and flashed, filled with gloom and burned with the
fire of irrepressible anger. This look probably embarrassed
the officer; he muttered something indistinct, bowed-and
went back to his friends. They greeted him with laughter
and light applause.
Herr Klüber suddenly got up from his chair and, straighten-
ing up fully and putting on his hat, said with dignity but
not too loudly: "It is unheard-of! Unheard-of insolence!"
(Unerhört! Unerhörte Frechheit!)-and immediately calling
the waiter over in a stern voice, asked for the check at once.
And as if that weren't enough, he ordered the carriage
harnessed and added that respectable people could not pos-
326
IVAN TURGENEV
sibly come here, for they were subjected to insults! At these
words, Gemma, who had continued to sit in her place with-
out stirring, her chest rising and falling violently-Gemma
turned her eyes to Herr Klüber and stared at him just as
intently, with exactly the same look as she had at the officer.
Emilio was simply trembling from rage.
"Get up, mein Fräulein,” Herr Klüber said with the same
severity; "it isn't proper for you to stay. We'll settle the
account there, in the restaurant!”
Gemma got up silently; he offered her his arm, she gave
him hers, and he went toward the restaurant majestically,
with a gait which, like his bearing, became more and more
majestic and haughty the farther away he got from the place
where they had dined. Poor Emilio trailed after them.
But while Herr Klüber was settling things with the waiter,
to whom he, as a form of penalty, did not give even one
kreutzer as a tip, Sanin went quickly up to the table at which
the officers were sitting, and, turning to the one who had
insulted Gemma (he was at that moment letting each of his
comrades in turn smell her rose), said clearly, in French:
"What you have just done, sir, is unworthy of an honorable
man, unworthy of the uniform you are wearing—and I have
come to tell you that you are a bad-mannered, impudent
fellow!"
The young man jumped to his feet, but another officer, a
little older, stopped him with a gesture, made him sit down,
and, turning to Sanin, asked him, also in French: "Are you
a relative, a brother, or the fiancé of that young lady?"
"I am a complete stranger to her," exclaimed Sanin; “I am
a Russian, but I cannot look at such insolence indifferently;
Here, however, is my card and my address: the officer can
look me up."
Having said this, Sanin threw his visiting card on the table
and at the same time deftly picked up Gemma's rose which
one of the officers sitting at the table had dropped on his
plate. The young man was again about to jump up from his
chair, but his friend again stopped him, saying: "Dönhof,
be quiet!" (Dönhof, sei still!). Then he himself got up, and,
saluting, said to Sanin, not without a certain shade of respect
in his voice and gestures, that tomorrow morning an officer
from their regiment would have the honor of calling on him
at his apartment. Sanin responded with a little bow, and
quickly returned to his friends.
SPRING TORRENTS
327
Herr Klüber pretended not to have noticed at all either
Sanin's absence or his conversation with the officers; he was
hurrying up the coachman harnessing the horses and was very
angry at his slowness. Gemma, also, said nothing to Sanin,
did not even glance at him: one could see by her knitted
brows, her pale and compressed lips, by her very stillness,
that she felt very disturbed. Only Emilio obviously wanted to
talk to Sanin, wanted to ask him all about it: he had seen
how Sanin went up to the officers, and that he gave them
something white-a piece of paper, a note, a card. . . . The
poor boy's heart was pounding, his cheeks were inflamed, he
was ready to throw himself on Sanin's neck, ready to cry or
to go with him at once and beat up all those foul officers!
However, he controlled himself and was content to follow
carefully each movement of his noble Russian friend.
The coachman, finally, had harnessed the horses; the whole
group seated itself in the carriage. Emilio climbed up on the
box right behind Tartaglia; he had more room there, and
besides, Klüber, whom he could not look at calmly, would
not be sticking up in front of him.
Herr Klüber kept talking away the whole trip-and kept
talking alone; nobody, nobody contradicted him, and nobody
agreed with him. He particularly insisted on the fact that
they had been wrong in not listening to him when he had
suggested dining in the enclosed arbor. There would have
been no unpleasantness! Then he pronounced several sharp
and even liberal judgments about how the government was
unforgivably indulging its officers, not watching over their
discipline and not showing enough respect for the civilian
element of society (das bürgerliche Element in der Societät!)
-and how in time this would give rise to discontent, from
which it is but a short step to revolution, a sad example of
which (here he sighed sympathetically but sternly)-a sad
example of which is France! At this point, however, he added
that he personally had much respect for authority and never
-never!-would be a revolutionary, but that he could not help
but express his... disapproval at the sight of such licentious-
ness! He then added a few more general comments on
morality and immorality, on decorum and the sense of dig-
nity!
◇
During all this discourse, Gemma, who had not seemed
completely satisfied with Herr Klüber even during their walk
before dinner (because of which she had kept somewhat aloof
from Sanin and seemed to have been embarrassed by his
328
IVAN TURGENEV
presence)-Gemma clearly was becoming ashamed of her
fiancé. At the end of the ride she was positively suffering,
and although, as before, she said nothing to Sanin, she sud-
denly cast him an imploring look. On his part, he felt much
more pity for her than indignation at Herr Klüber; he was
even secretly, half-consciously delighted with everything that
had happened in the course of that day, although he could
expect a challenge the following morning.
This painful partie de plaisir finally ended. Helping Gemma
alight from the carriage in front of the confectioner's shop,
Sanin, without saying a word, handed her the rose he had
taken back. She flushed all over, pressed his hand, and in-
stantly hid the rose. He did not want to go into the house,
although the evening was just beginning. She herself did not
invite him. Besides, Pantaleone, who had come out onto the
porch, announced that Frau Lenore was resting. Emilio said
good-bye to Sanin bashfully; he seemed to be really shy of
him: actually he was filled with wonder for him. Klüber took
Sanin to his hotel room and primly took leave of him. The
thoroughly organized German, for all his self-confidence, was
ill-at-ease. Indeed, everybody was.
However, for Sanin this feeling, the feeling of awkward-
ness, soon disappeared. It was replaced by an undefined, but
pleasant, even rapturous mood. He walked back and forth
in his room, did not want to think about anything, whistled,
and was very pleased with himself. . . .
XVII
"I'll wait for the officer until ten o'clock" he thought to
himself the following morning as he was getting dressed,
"and then let him look for me!" But the Germans get up
early: it had not yet struck nine when the waiter announced
to Sanin that Second Lieutenant (der Herr Seconde Leut-
nant) von Richter wanted to see him. Sanin quickly pulled
on his frock coat and ordered him shown in. Herr Richter
turned out to be, contrary to Sanin's expectations, a very
young man, almost a boy. He tried to give an air of im-
portance to his beardless face-but he could not do it: he
could not even conceal his embarrassment, and as he sat
down on a chair, almost fell, tripping over his sword. Stutter-
ing and sputtering, he informed Sanin in execrable French
that he had come with a commission from his friend, Baron
von Dönhof; that his commission was to demand from Herr
SPRING TORRENTS
329
von Zanin an apology for certain insulting expressions used
by him the day before; and that in case Herr von Zanin re-
fused it, Baron von Dönhof would seek satisfaction. Sanin
replied that he had no intention of apologizing and was ready
to give satisfaction. Then Herr von Richter, still stammering,
asked with whom, at what time, and in what place would he
have to make the necessary negotiations? Sanin replied that
he could come back to his room in two hours and that in
the meantime he, Sanin, would try to find a second. (“Damn
it, who'll I ask to be second?" he in the meanwhile thought
to himself.) Herr von Richter got up and began taking his
leave, but stopped on the threshold, as if he had felt a pang
of conscience, and, turning to Sanin, said that his friend,
Baron von Dönhof, did not deny . . . to a certain degree..
of his own guilt in yesterday's occurrence-and therefore
would be satisfied with mild apologies-des exghizes lèchéres.
Sanin replied to this that he did not intend to make any
apologies, strong or mild, since he did not consider himself
at fault.
“In that case,” replied Herr von Richter and flushed even
more, “it will be necessary to exchange friendly shots-des
goups de bisdolet à l'amiaple!"
"That I don't understand in the least," said Sanin. “We're
supposed to shoot in the air, is that it?"
"Oh, no, no, not so," mumbled the lieutenant, completely
embarrassed, "but I'd supposed that since this is something
between two gentlemen . . . I'll talk to your second,” he cut
himself off and left.
Sanin sank down onto a chair, as soon as the other had
gone out, and stared at the floor. "What is all this?" he
thought. "How did life suddenly take such a turn? The whole
past, the whole future is suddenly rubbed out, is gone-and
there's nothing left but the fact that here I am in Frankfurt
fighting somebody about something." He recalled only his
crazy aunt who used to dance and sing all the time:
O lieutenant!
Darling boy!
Sweetest love!
Come dance with me, my joy!
And he burst out laughing and sang, as she had: "O lieu-
tenant! Come dance with me, my joy!”
“However, I must act; there's no time to lose!" he ex-
1
330
IVAN TURGENEV
claimed aloud, and he jumped up and saw Pantaleone stand-
ing in front of him with a note in his hand.
"I knocked several times, but you didn't answer; I thought
you were out," said the old man, and gave him the note.
"From Signorina Gemma."
Sanin took the note-as they say, mechanically-opened it,
and read it. Gemma wrote him that she was very worried
about a certain matter well-known to him and wanted to see
him at once.
"The signorina is very worried," Pantaleone began, who
apparently knew what was in the note; "she told me to see
what you were doing and bring you to her."
Sanin glanced at the old Italian, and fell to thinking. A
sudden idea flashed through his mind. In the first instant it
seemed impossibly strange to him.
"However-why not?" he asked himself.
"Signor Pantaleone!" he said aloud.
The old man started, tucked his chin into his cravat, and
stared at Sanin.
"Do you know," Sanin went on, "what happened yester-
day?"
Pantaleone bit his lips and shook his enormous tuft of
hair. "I do.”
(Emilio had told him everything just as soon as he had
gotten in.)
"Ah! You know! Well, now. Just a moment ago an officer
left here. That impudent fellow is challenging me to a duel.
I've accepted his challenge. But I haven't got a second. Do
you want to be my second?”
Pantaleone shuddered and raised his eyebrows so high
they disappeared under his hair that was hanging down.
"You absolutely must fight?" he said finally in Italian; until
that moment he had been speaking French.
"Absolutely. To do anything else would be to shame myself
forever."
"Hm. If I don't agree to be your second, you'll look for
another?"
“I will . . . absolutely."
Pantaleone dropped his eyes.
"But may I ask you, Signor de Tsanini, won't your duel
cast a certain unseemly shadow on the reputation of a certain
person?"
"I don't think so; but, whether it does or not, there's
nothing else to be done."
SPRING TORRENTS
331
"Hm.” Pantaleone withdrew into his cravat completely.
"Well, and that ferroflucto Kluberio-what about him?" he
suddenly exclaimed and lifted up his face.
"Him? He has nothing to do with it.”
“Che!"* Pantaleone shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"I must at least thank you," he said at last in an unsteady
voice, "that even in my present humble state you were able
to recognize me as an honorable man-un galanť'uomo! In
so doing, you show yourself to be a real galant'uomo. But I
have to think your suggestion over."
"Time won't let you, dear Signor Ci-Cippa-"
"-tola," the old man finished. "I ask for just an hour to
think it over. The daughter of my benefactors is involved
here. And therefore I must, I'm obliged-to think it over. In
an hour, in three-quarters of an hour, you will know my
decision."
<<
"All right, I'll wait.'
"And now . . . what answer will I give Signorina Gemma?”
Sanin took a sheet of paper and wrote on it: "Rest as-
sured, my dear friend, that in three hours I will come to see
you, and everything will be explained. I sincerely thank you
for your concern," and handed this little sheet to Pantaleone.
"
The old man carefully put it in his side pocket, and, re-
peating once more "In an hour!" started toward the door, but
spun suddenly around, rushed up to Sanin, grabbed his hand,
and, pressing it to his jabot, his eyes raised toward the
heavens, exclaimed:
"Noble youth! Great heart! (Nobil giovanotto! Gran cuore!)
let a feeble old man (un vecchiotto!) shake your courageous
right hand! (la vostra valorosa destra!)" Then he jumped
back a little, shook both his arms in the air and went out.
Sanin looked after him .. picked up a newspaper, and
started reading. But his eyes ran over the lines pointlessly;
he understood nothing.
·
•
NIA
An hour later the waiter came into Sanin's room again
and handed him an old, stained visiting card on which there
was the following: Pantaleone Cippatola, from Varese, Court
Singer (cantante di camera) to his Royal Highness the Duke
of Modena. Right after the waiter, Pantaleone himself ap-
peared. He had changed his clothes from head to foot. He
had on black dress coat, somewhat rusty, and a white piqué
vest on which a little pinchbeck chain curled fancifully; a
* An Italian exclamation much like the English "Well!" (Author's note.)

332
IVAN TURGENEV
heavy carnelian seal hung low on his narrow black trousers.
In his right hand he held a black hat of rabbit's fur; in his
left, two thick chamois gloves; he had tied his cravat still
wider and higher than usual, and in his starched jabot had
stuck a pin with a stone, a so-called "cat's eye" (œil de chat).
On the index finger of his right hand there was a splendid
ring showing two hands clasped together and a burning
heart between them. The old man's whole person gave off
a stale smell, a smell of camphor and musk; the worried
solemnity of his bearing would have astounded the most
indifferent spectator. Sanin rose to meet him.
"I'm your second," said Pantaleone in French and bowed
with his whole body, turning his toes out, as dancers do.
"I've come for instructions. Do you want to fight to the
death?"
"Why to the death, my dear Signor Cippatola? I won't take
back the words I said yesterday for anything in the world,
but I'm not a bloodsucker! Just wait now, my opponent's
second will be here any minute. I'll go into the next room-
and you and he can arrange everything. Believe me, for the
rest of my life I'll never forget your kindness, and I thank
you from my heart."
"Honor comes first!” replied Pantaleone, and he sat down
in an armchair without waiting for Sanin to ask him. "If that
ferroflucto spiccebubbio,” he began, passing from French to
Italian, “if that clerk Kluberio didn't understand his own
responsibility or grow scared-so much the worse for him!
A cheap and petty man-basta! As concerns the conditions of
the duel, I'm your second and your interests are sacred to
me! When I was living in Padua, there was a regiment of
White Dragoons there, and I knew many of the officers very
well! I know their whole code very well. And I often used
to chat with your principe Tarbuski about these problems.
The other second is supposed to come soon?"
"I'm expecting him any minute-why, there he is, coming
along himself," Sanin added, glancing at the street.
W
Pantaleone got up, looked at his watch, adjusted his top-
knot, and hurriedly stuck into his shoe a tape that was hang-
ing down from under his trousers. The young lieutenant came
in, still just as flushed and embarrassed.
Sanin introduced the seconds to each other.
"Monsieur Richter, souslieutenant!-Monsieur Cippatola,
artiste!"
The lieutenant was somewhat surprised at the sight of the
SPRING TORRENTS
333
old man
.. Oh, what would he have said if someone had
whispered to him at that moment that the artiste who had
been introduced to him was also engaged in the culinary
art! But Pantaleone's expression indicated that taking part
in arranging a duel was, for him, the most ordinary thing to
do: probably he was helped in this by memories of his the-
atrical career-and he was playing the role of second exactly
like a role in a play. Both he and the lieutenant were silent
for a moment.
"Well? Let's get down to it!" Pantaleone spoke first, play-
ing with his carnelian seal.
"Let's," replied the lieutenant, "but . . . the presence of
one of the antagonists .
"
"I'll leave you at once, gentlemen," exclaimed Sanin,
bowed, went into the bedroom-and locked the door behind
him.
He threw himself onto the bed and started thinking about
Gemma, but the conversation of the seconds came to him
through the closed door. It was in French; both were
mangling it unmercifully, each in his own way. Pantaleone
again brought up the dragoons in Padua and principe Tar-
busski; the lieutenant, his exghizes léchères and goups à
l'amiaple. But the old man would not hear a word about any
exghizes! To Sanin's horror, he suddenly launched into a lec-
ture to his interlocutor about a certain young and pure girl
whose little finger alone was worth more than all the officers
in the world... (oune zeune damigella innoucenta, qu'a ella
sola sans soun péti doa vale piu que toutt le zouffissié del
mondo!) and said heatedly several times: "It's shameful! it's
shameful!” (E ouna onta, ouna onta!) The lieutenant at first
did not protest, but after a while an angry tremble could be
heard in the young man's voice and he remarked that he had
not come to listen to moral maxims...
"At your age it's always good to listen to true and fair
words!" exclaimed Pantaleone.
The discussion between the two seconds became stormy
several times; it went on for over an hour and ended, finally,
with the following conditions: "Baron von Dönhof and Herr
de Sanin will duel tomorrow morning at ten o'clock in a
small woods near Hanau, at a distance of twenty paces; each
has the right of firing twice on signal given by the seconds;
the pistols to be with hair-triggers and their barrels to be
unrifled." Herr von Richter left and Pantaleone triumphantly
opened the bedroom door and, having communicated the re-
334
IVAN TURGENEV
sult of the meeting, again exclaimed, “Bravo, Russo! Bravo,
giovanotto! You'll be the winner!"
Several minutes later they both set out for the Roselli
confectioner's shop. Sanin had made Pantaleone swear be-
forehand to keep the business of the duel the deepest secret.
In response the old man only raised his finger and, squinting,
whispered twice quickly: "Segredezza! (Secrecy!)" He had
become obviously younger, and even moved more freely. All
these events, unusual, although also unpleasant, vividly put
him back in that time when he, too, had made and accepted
challenges-only on the stage, to be sure. Baritones, as every-
one knows, very much ride the high horse in their roles.
XIX
Emilio ran out to meet Sanin-he had been waiting over an
hour for him to arrive-and hurriedly whispered in his ear
that his mother knew nothing about yesterday's unpleasant-
ness and that there was no point in even hinting to her about
it; and that he was being sent off again to the store, but
rather than go there, he was going to hide somewhere! Having
told all this in the course of a few seconds, he suddenly
pressed against Sanin's shoulder, impulsively kissed it, and
ran off down the street. Gemma met Sanin in the shop; she
wanted to say something-and she could not. Her lips were
slightly quivering, and her eyes were narrowed and turned
aside. He hastened to calm her with the assurance that the
whole matter was settled-there was nothing to it.
"Nobody was at your place today?" she asked.
"One person was-he and I talked things out and we-we
came to a most satisfactory decision."
Gemma turned back behind the counter.
"She doesn't believe me!" he thought; however, he went
into the next room and there found Frau Lenore.
Her migraine was gone, but she was in a melancholy mood.
She smiled cheerfully at him, but at the same time warned
him that he would find it boring with her today, since she
wasn't in a condition to entertain him. He sat down beside
her and noticed that her eyelids were red and swollen.
"What's the matter, Frau Lenore? Have you been crying?"
“Shhh . . .” she whispered, and nodded her head in the
direction of the room where her daughter was. "Don't say
that... out loud."
SPRING TORRENTS
335
"But what were you crying about?”
“Ah, Monsieur Sanin, I don't know myself!”
"Somebody's grieved you?"
“Oh no! I just suddenly feel very down. I remembered
Giovann' Battista . . . my young days . . . And then how
quickly it all passed. I'm getting old, my dear-and I just
can't get used to it. I think I'm still the same myself, as
before, but old age-here it is . . . here it is!" Little tears came
to Frau Lenore's eyes. "I can see you're looking at me and
wondering. But you'll get old, too, my dear, and you'll find
out how bitter it is!"
Sanin began trying to comfort her, reminded her of her
children, in whom her own youth was resurrected, tried even
to tease her a little, asserting that she was just looking for
compliments. But she, not joking, asked him to stop, and he
then for the first time could understand that there is nothing
possible with which to comfort and disperse such despond-
ency, the despondency of the consciousness of old age; one
must wait for it to go away by itself. He suggested that they
play tresette-and he could not have thought of anything bet-
ter. She agreed immediately and seemed to cheer up some-
what.
Sanin played with her until dinner, and after dinner Panta-
leone also took part in the game. His topknot had never fallen
so low over his forehead, his chin had never retreated so far
into his cravat! His every movement expressed such con-
centrated solemnity that, looking at him, the thought involun-
tarily arose: what is the secret that this man is keeping with
such firmness?
But-segredezza! segredezza!
All day long he had tried in every way to show Sanin the
greatest respect; at table, solemnly and decisively, passing up
the ladies, he served him first; during the card game he let
him get extra cards and did not dare fine him; he kept
announcing, apropos of nothing, that the Russians were the
most magnanimous, courageous, and resolute people in the
world!
"Ah, you old ham!" thought Sanin to himself.
And he was not so amazed at the unexpected frame of
mind of Signora Roselli as he was at the way her daughter
treated him. She was not really avoiding him-on the con-
trary, she was continually sitting down not far from him,
listening to what he said, looking at him; but she determinedly
336
IVAN TURGENEV
did not want to enter into a conversation with him, and just
as soon as he would start talking to her, she would quietly
get up from her place and go away for a few moments. Then
she would come back again, and again sit down somewhere
in a corner-sit still, as if deep in thought and perplexed-
above all, perplexed. Frau Lenore herself finally noticed the
unusualness of her behavior and asked her once or twice
what was the matter.
"Nothing," replied Gemma; "you know I'm often like this."
"That's true," her mother agreed.
Thus passed the whole of that long day, neither animatedly
nor dully-neither gaily nor boringly. Had Gemma behaved
differently, Sanin-who knows?-might not have resisted the
temptation to show off a bit, or might simply given himself
over to a feeling of sadness before a probable parting, per-
haps eternal. But since he did not once get into conversation
with Gemma, he had to content himself with picking out
minor chords on the piano for a quarter of an hour before
evening coffee.
Emilio came home late and, to avoid questions about Herr
Klüber, went off to bed almost right away. It came Sanin's
turn to leave.
He began saying good-bye to Gemma. For some reason
he remembered Lenski's parting with Olga in Onegin. He
pressed her hand hard and tried to look into her eyes, but
she turned slightly away and freed her fingers.
XX
The stars were already shining when he came out onto
the porch. And how many there were scattered all over, how
many stars-big, little, yellow, red, dark blue, white! They
all shone and swarmed, their rays crossing and sparkling.
There was no moon, but even without it each object was
clearly visible in the shadowless twilight dusk. Sanin walked
down to the end of the street. He did not want to go straight
home; he felt the need of taking a walk in the pure air. He
turned back-and had just come up to the house in which the
Rosellis' shop was, when one of the windows facing the street
suddenly shook and opened; in its black rectangle (there was
no light in the room) a woman's figure appeared and he
heard himself being called:
"Monsieur Dmitri!"
SPRING TORRENTS
337
He immediately rushed to the window-Gemmal
She put her elbows on the window sill and leaned out.
"Monsieur Dmitri," she began in a cautious tone of voice,
"all day long I've wanted to give you one thing, but I didn't
dare; and now, seeing you again unexpectedly, I thought
that, obviously, it was fated..."
Gemma involuntarily stopped on this word. She could not
go on: something extraordinary happened at that very
moment.
Suddenly, in the midst of complete stillness, under a com-
pletely cloudless sky, such a burst of wind came up that
the earth itself, it seemed, was shaking under one's feet, the
faint light of the stars started quivering and shimmering,
the air itself started whirling around. A whirlwind, not cold
but warm, almost suffocating, struck the trees, the roof of the
house, its walls, the street; it instantaneously tore off Sanin's
hat, twined up and ruffled Gemma's black curls. Sanin's head
came on a level with the window sill; he involuntarily pressed
against it—and Gemma seized his shoulders with both hands,
pressed her bosom against his head. The noise, ringing and
roaring, lasted about a minute. Like a flock of huge
Again the deep stillness
birds, the whirlwind swirled past.
fell over everything.
•
•
•
•
Sanin looked up and saw above him such a marvelous,
frightened, excited face, such enormous, terrified, magnificent
eyes-saw such a beautiful girl that his heart stopped beating,
he pressed his lips to the thin lock of hair that had fallen on
his chest, and could say only:
"O Gemma!"
"What was that? Lightning?" she asked, opening her eyes
wider and not taking her bare arms from his shoulders.
"Gemma!" repeated Sanin.
She sighed, looked around behind her in the room-and
quickly taking the already withered rose out of her bodice,
tossed it to Sanin.
"I wanted to give you this flower. . . ."
He recognized the rose which he had won back the day
before.
But the little window had already slammed shut, and
nothing could be seen, nothing showed white, behind its dark
glass.
Sanin arrived home without his hat... He did not even
notice that he had lost it.
338
IVAN TURGENEV
7
XXI
It was just before dawn when he fell asleep. And no
wonder! Under the force of that instantaneous summer whirl-
wind, he felt, almost as instantly, not that Gemma was
beautiful or that he liked her-he knew that before-but that
he had just about . . . fallen in love with her! Love came
over him instantaneously, like that whirlwind. And now there
was that stupid duel! Mournful forebodings began to torment
him. Well, supposing he isn't killed . . . What can come of
his love for a girl who is someone else's fiancée? Even sup-
posing that this "other" man is no rival to him, that Gemma
herself could fall in love with him, or already has ... What
of that? What then? Such a beautiful girl...
He paced the room, sat down at the table, took a piece of
paper, dashed off a few lines on it-and immediately crossed
them out. He would recall Gemma's wonderful face in the
dark window, under the starlight, her hair all scattered by
the warm whirlwind; he remembered her marble arms, like
the arms of Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on
his shoulders. . . . Then he picked up the rose that had been
tossed to him-and it seemed to him that its half-withered
petals gave off a different and more lovely aroma than the
usual aroma of roses...
And if suddenly he were killed or maimed?
He did not go to bed, but fell asleep, fully dressed, on the
sofa.
Someone was shaking his shoulder...
He opened his eyes and saw Pantaleone.
"Sleeping like Alexander the Great on the eve of the Battle
of Babylon!" the old man exclaimed.
"What time is it?" asked Sanin.
"A quarter of seven; it's a two-hour ride to Hanau, and
we must be there first. The Russians always get ahead of
their enemies! I've hired the best carriage in Frankfurt!"
Sanin began to wash up.
"And where are the pistols?"
"The ferroflucto Tedesco is bringing the pistols. And a
doctor, too."
Pantaleone was obviously trying to keep up his spirits, as
he had the day before; but when he had sat down in the
carriage with Sanin, when the coachman had cracked his
SPRING TORRENTS
339
whip and the horses had started galloping off, there was a
sudden change in the former singer and friend of the Padua
dragoons. He became uneasy, even frightened. It was as if
something inside him had given way, like a badly built little
wall.
"But what are we doing, good Lord, santissima Madonna!”
he exclaimed in an unexpectedly squeaky voice and clutched
at his head. "What am I doing, old fool that I am, madman,
frenetico?"
Sanin was surprised and laughed and, putting his arm
lightly around Pantaleone's waist, reminded him of the French
saying: Le vin est tiré-il faut le boire (or, to phrase it a bit
differently: You can't back out now that you've begun).
"Yes, yes,” the old man answered, “we'll drain this cup
together-but still I'm crazy! I'm crazy! Everything was so
peaceful, so good. . . . and suddenly: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!”
“Like tutti in the orchestra," commented Sanin with a
forced smile. “But it's not your fault.”
"I know it's not! Of course! Still it's all-such an unbridled
act. Diavolo! Diavolo!" Pantaleone repeated, shaking his top-
knot and sighing.
And the carriage kept rolling on and on.
The morning was lovely. The streets of Frankfurt, just
beginning to come alive, seemed so clean and comfortable;
the windows of the houses shone iridescently, like tinfoil;
and the carriage had just passed through the gates when
from above, from the light blue, still pale sky the loud peals
of the larks came scattering down. Suddenly at a turn in the
highway, a familiar figure appeared from behind a tall pop-
lar, took a few steps, and stopped. Sanin looked closely.
My God! Emilio!
"But does he know anything about it?" he said, turning
to Pantaleone.
"I tell you I'm crazy!" the poor Italian cried in despair,
almost shouting. "This ill-fated boy pestered me all night-
and finally, this morning I told him everything!"
"There's your segredezza for you!" thought Sanin.
The carriage came up to Emilio; Sanin ordered the driver
to halt the horses and called the "ill-fated boy" over to him.
Emilio, all pale, as pale as on the day of his attack, came
over hesitantly. He could hardly stand up.
"What are you doing here?" Sanin asked him sharply.
"Why aren't you at home?"
"Please-please let me come with you,” Emilio muttered in
340
IVAN TURGENEV
a trembling voice, and clasped his hands together. His teeth
were chattering as in fever. "I won't get in your way-only
take me!"
"If you feel even the slightest attachment or respect for
me," said Sanin. "you will go home right away, or else to
Herr Klüber's store, and not say a word to anyone, and await
my return!"
"Your return," moaned Emilio, and his voice quavered
and broke off; "but if you're-"
"Emilio!" Sanin cut him off and indicated the coachman
with his eyes, "pull yourself together! Emilio, please, go
home! Listen to me, my friend, and do what I say! You say
you love me. So, I beg you!”
He put out his hand to him. Emilio swung forward, sobbed,
pressed it to his lips, and, jumping off the road, ran back
toward Frankfurt across the fields.
"A noble heart, too," Pantaleone mumbled, but Sanin
looked at him sullenly. The old man shrank into a corner of
the carriage. He admitted his fault; on top of that, with every
passing moment he was becoming more and more surprised:
had he really become a second, had he gotten the horses and
made all the arrangements and left his peaceful abode at six
o'clock in the morning? Besides, his legs had started paining
him and aching.
Sanin felt it necessary to pluck up his courage—and he
landed on the right thing, found the right word:
"Where's your old spirit, worthy Signor Cippatola? Where's
il antico valor?”
Signor Cippatola straightened up and frowned.
"Il antico valor?" he said in a bass voice. “Non è ancora
spento (It's not all gone yet)-il antico valor!!"
He assumed a dignified air, started talking about his own
career, about opera, about the great tenor Garcia-and ar-
rived in Hanau on top of the world. Come to think of it,
there's nothing in the world stronger-and weaker than a
word!
XXII
The little wood in which the bloody battle was supposed to
occur was a quarter of a mile from Hanau. Sanin and Panta-
leone arrived first, as he had predicted, told the coachman
to wait on the edge of the woods, and went into the shade
SPRING TORRENTS
341
of the rather thick and dense trees. They had to wait about
an hour.
The waiting did not seem especially painful to Sanin; he
kept walking back and forth along the path, listened to the
birds singing, watched the dragonflies darting past, and, like
the majority of Russians on similar occasions, tried not to
think. Only once did deep reflection come over him: he had
stumbled on a young linden broken off, quite likely, by
yesterday's storm. It was definitely dying all its leaves
were dying. "What's this? A portent?" flashed through his
mind, but he immediately started whistling, jumped right
over the linden itself, and walked on down the path. Panta-
leone was grumbling, cursing the Germans, groaning, rub-
bing his back or his knees. He was even yawning from ner-
vousness, which gave his shriveled little face a very ridiculous
expression. Sanin almost burst out laughing, looking at him.
At last the rumble of wheels was heard on the soft road.
"It's they!" said Pantaleone, and pricked up his ears and
straightened up, not without a momentary nervous shudder
which, however, he hurried to cover up with the exclama-
tion, "Brrr!" and the comment that it was rather chilly this
morning. A heavy dew soaked the grass and the leaves, but
the heat of the day was already beginning to pierce into the
woods itself.
Both officers soon appeared under its vaults; they were
accompanied by a stocky little man with a phlegmatic, almost
sleepy face-an army doctor. In one hand he was carrying a
clay pitcher of water-just in case; a bag with surgical instru-
ments and bandages was hanging from his left shoulder.
It was clear that he was completely accustomed to such excur-
sions; they constituted one of his sources of income: each
duel brought him in eight gold pieces-four from each of the
warring parties. Herr von Richter was carrying the box with
pistols; Herr von Dönhof was twirling in his hand-probably
to appear "chic"-a little riding crop.
"Pantaleone!" Sanin whispered to the old man, “if . . . if
I'm killed-anything can happen-take the piece of paper out
of my side pocket-there's a flower wrapped up in it-and give
it to Signorina Gemma. You hear? Do you promise?"
The old man glanced at him sorrowfully, and nodded his
head affirmatively. . . . But God only knows whether or not
he understood what Sanin asked him to do.
The antagonists and seconds bowed to each other, as is
customary; only the doctor did not even raise an eyebrow
342
IVAN TURGENEV
and sat down, yawning, on the grass: I've got nothing to do,
he seemed to say, with expressions of chivalrous courtesy.
Herr von Richter suggested that Herr "Tshibadola” select the
place; Herr "Tshibadola" replied, dully moving his tongue
(the "little wall' inside him had again fallen down): “You
go ahead, my dear sir; I'll watch. . . .
>>
And Herr von Richter started going ahead. He found right
there in the woods a lovely little glade all covered with
flowers; measured off the paces, marked the two end-points
with hastily sharpened sticks, got the pistols out of the
box, and, squatting on his heels, rammed in the bullets; in
short, he was as busy and working as hard as he could,
continually wiping off his perspiring face with a little white
handkerchief. Pantaleone, who accompanied him, looked
rather like a man completely chilled. During all these prepara-
tions, both antagonists stood some distance apart, reminding
one of two chastised schoolboys sulking at their teachers.
The decisive moment came.
“Each one took his pistol up . . .
But at this point Herr von Richter remarked to Pantaleone
that he, as the older of the seconds, ought, according to
the rules of dueling, before calling out the fatal One! two!
three!, turn to the antagonists with a final word of advice
and the recommendation that they be reconciled; that al-
though this recommendation never had any affect and gener-
ally was nothing but a mere formality, still, by observing this
formality Herr Cippatola would absolve himself of a certain
amount of responsibility; that, indeed, such an allocutio was
the immediate responsibility of the so-called “impartial wit-
ness" (unparteisicher Zeuge)-but since they had no such
witness, he, Herr von Richter, gladly yielded this privilege
to his respected colleague. Pantaleone, who had managed to
duck behind a bush in order not to see the offending officer
at all, at first understood nothing of all that Herr Richter
said, especially because it had been said through the nose;
but he suddenly gave a start, stepped forward deftly, and,
convulsively beating his hands on his chest, cried out in a
husky voice in his own mixed dialect: "A la-la-la... Che
bestialità! Deux zeun' ommes comme ça que si battono-
perché? Che diavolo? Andate a casa!”
"I do not consent to a reconciliation," Sanin said quickly.
"Nor do I," his opponent said after him.
•
SPRING TORRENTS
343
"So then,” von Richter turned to Pantaleone, who was
hopelessly lost, “cry out: one, two, three!"
Pantaleone immediately ducked into the bushes again-
and from there started shouting out, cowering, squinting his
eyes, and turning his head away, at the top of his voice:
“Uno . . . due tre!"
• • •
Sanin shot first-and missed. His bullet sounded against
a tree. Baron von Dönhof fired immediately after him-delib-
erately to one side, into the air.
A tense silence fell.
. . Nobody moved. Pantaleone
groaned feebly.
"Do we continue?" asked Dönhof.
"Why did you shoot into the air?" asked Sanin.
"That's not your business.'
»
"Will you shoot into the air the second time also?” Sanin
asked.
"Perhaps: I don't know."
"Please, please, gentlemen . . ." von Richter began, "duel-
ists don't have the right to talk to each other. This is quite
out of order."
"I refuse my shot,” said Sanin and threw his pistol on the
ground.
"I, too, have no intention of continuing the duel!" ex-
claimed Dönhof, and he also threw his pistol down. “And
besides, I'm now ready to admit that I was wrong the day
before yesterday."
He hesitated a moment where he stood-and then inde-
cisively held out his hand. Sanin quickly went over to him
and shook it. Both young men looked at each other smilingly
-and then both of them flushed.
"Bravi! bravi!" Pantaleone suddenly yelled like a madman,
and, clapping, away, came tumbling out from behind the
bushes; and the doctor, who had been sitting at one side on
a felled tree, got up at once, poured the water out of the
pitcher, and set off, swaying lazily, toward the edge of the
woods.
"Honor is satisfied-and the duel is over!" von Richter
announced.
“Fuori! (Odds even!)" barked Pantaleone once more, from
old habit.
Having exchanged bows with the officers and seated him-
self in the carriage, Sanin really felt all over, if not pleasure,
at least a certain release, as after a successful operation; but
344
IVAN TURGENEV
another feeling, also, stirred inside him-a feeling something
like shame. The duel in which he had just played his part
seemed to him something spurious, an agreed-upon conven-
tionality, a usual thing officers or students do. He remembered
the phlegmatic doctor, remembered how he had smiled-that
is, wrinkled up his nose-when he had seen him leaving the
woods almost arm-in-arm with Baron Dönhof. And then when
Pantaleone had paid this same doctor the four gold pieces
owed him. . . Ah! Something was wrong!
Indeed, Sanin felt somewhat ashamed and conscience-
stricken . . . although, on the other hand, what could he have
done? How could he have let the young officer's insolence
pass, the way Herr Klüber had? He had stood up for Gemma,
he had defended her . . . Very well; but still his heart was
heavy, and he was ashamed, and even sorry.
On the other hand, Pantaleone was simply triumphant! He
was suddenly seized with pride. A victorious general returning
from the field of a battle he has just won, does not look
around with greater self-satisfaction. Sanin's conduct during
the duel filled him with delight. He called him a hero-and
would not even listen to Sanin's admonitions and even his
requests. He compared him to a statue of marble or bronze-
to the statue of the Commander in Don Juan! About himself,
he admitted that he had felt a certain perturbation. “But you
know I'm an actor," he commented; “I have a nervous nature,
but you-you're the child of snows and granite cliffs.”
Sanin had no idea how to quiet down the actor, who was
getting out of control.
Almost at the same spot on the road where two hours back
they had run into Emilio, he again jumped from behind the
tree and with a shout of delight, waving his cap over his head
and jumping up and down, rushed straight for the carriage,
almost fell under the wheel, and, not waiting for the horses
to stop, opened the doors and climbed in-and bore his eyes
into Sanin.
"You're alive, you're not wounded!" he kept repeating.
"Forgive me--I didn't do what you said, I didn't go back to
Frankfurt ... I couldn't! I waited for you here. . . . Tell me,
what was it like? You-killed him?”
With difficulty Sanin calmed Emilio and made him sit
down.
At great length, and with obvious pleasure, Pantaleone told
him all the details of the duel and, of course, did not fail to
SPRING TORRENTS
345
mention again the statue of bronze, the statue of the Com-
mander. He even got up from his seat and, spreading his legs
to keep his balance, folded his arms on his chest, and looking
scornfully back over his shoulder, personally portrayed Sanin
the Commander! Emilio listened in awe, from time to time
interrupting the story with an exclamation, or quickly getting
up and very quickly kissing his heroic friend.
The wheels of the carriage clattered on the paved streets of
Frankfurt and finally stopped in front of the hotel where
Sanin was living.
Escorted by his two companions, he climbed up the stairs
to the second floor-when suddenly a woman came out of
the dark little corridor with very quick steps: her face was
covered with a veil; she stopped in front of Sanin, swayed
a little, gasped slightly, and immediately ran down and out
onto the street and disappeared, to the waiter's great amaze-
ment, who announced that "this lady was waiting over an
hour for the return of the gentleman from abroad.” No matter
how momentary her appearance had been, Sanin had recog-
nized her as Gemma. He had recognized her eyes under the
heavy silk of her brown veil.
"Did Fräulein Gemma know he said in a displeased
tone of voice, in German, turning to Emilio and Pantaleone,
who were following on his heels.
»
Emilio blushed and became all confused.
"
"I had to tell her everything," he mumbled. “She was
guessing—and I just couldn't . . . But now it doesn't matter,'
he went on animatedly, "it's all ended so wonderfully, and
she's seen you well and unhurt!”
Sanin turned away.
"What old gossips you are, both of you!" he said with
annoyance, and he went into his room and sat down.
"Don't be angry, please," begged Emilio.
"All right, I won't." (Sanin really was not angry—and, after
all, he could hardly have wished that Gemma should have
found out nothing.) "All right... that's enough hugging me.
Go on, now. I want to be alone. I'm going to go to sleep.
I'm tired."
"An excellent idea!" exclaimed Pantaleone. "You need rest!
You've fully earned it, noble signore! Let's go, Emilio! On
tiptoe! On tiptoe! Shhhh!"
Though he had said that he wanted to sleep, Sanin wanted
only to get rid of his friends; but, left alone, he really felt a
great tiredness all through his body. He had hardly shut his
346
IVAN TURGENEV
eyes all the night before; and, throwing himself on his bed,
he immediately fell into a deep sleep.
XXIII
He slept heavily for several hours. Then he began to dream
that he was again fighting a duel, that the opponent facing
him was Herr Klüber, and a parrot was sitting in the fir tree,
and that parrot was Pantaleone, who kept repeating, tapping
his beak: One-one-one! One-one-one!
One
one ... one!-he heard it only too clearly; he
opened his eyes, raised his head. . . . Someone was knocking
on his door.
"Come in!” cried Sanin.
The waiter appeared and announced that a certain lady
very much wanted to see him.
"Gemma!" flashed through his mind, but the lady turned
out to be her mother-Frau Lenore.
As soon as she came in, she sat down on a chair and began
to cry.
"What's the matter, my good, dear Signora Roselli?" began
Sanin, having sat down beside her and gently touched her
arm. "What's happened? Do calm down, please.”
"Ah, Herr Dmitri, I'm very very unhappy!"
"You're unhappy?"
"Ah, very! And how could I have expected it? Suddenly,
like a bolt out of a clear sky . . .”
She was breathing with difficulty.
“But what is it? Explain! Do you want a glass of water?”
“No, thank you very much." Frau Lenore wiped her eyes
with her handkerchief and started crying again even harder.
"You see, I know everything! Everything!"
"What do you mean-everything?"
• •
"Everything that happened today! And I . . . know the
reason, too! You behaved like an honorable man, but what
an unhappy coincidence! There was a reason I didn't like
that ride to Soden-there was a reason!" (On the day of the
trip, Frau Lenore had said nothing of the kind, but now she
thought she had then had a presentiment of "everything.")
"And so I've come to you as to a noble man, as to a friend,
although I saw you for the first time just five days ago.
But you know I'm a widow, all alone . . . My daughter
Tears choked Frau Lenore's voice. Sanin did not know
what to think.
•
"
SPRING TORRENTS
347
"Your daughter?" he repeated.
"My daughter Gemma," burst from Frau Lenore, almost
with a moan, from behind the handkerchief wet with tears,
"told me today that she doesn't want to marry Herr Klüber
and that I have to refuse him!"
Sanin even stepped back a little; he had not expected this.
"I'm not even talking about the fact," Frau Lenore went
on, "that it's a disgrace, that it's never before happened in
the whole world that a bride-to-be has turned down her
groom, but the fact that it's ruin for us, Herr Dmitri!" Frau
Lenore carefully rolled her handkerchief up tightly into a tiny
little ball, as if she wanted to squeeze all her grief into it.
“We can't live off what the store brings in any more, Herr
Dmitri! and Herr Klüber's very rich and will be still richer.
And refuse him for what? Because he didn't stand up for his
bride? Agreed, it wasn't very good on his part, but you know
he's a civilian, he didn't go to the university, and, as a solid
tradesman, had to look down on the thoughtless prank of
some unknown little officer. And what was the insult, Herr
Dmitri?"
"Please, Frau Lenore, you seem to be blaming me...
"I'm not blaming you at all, not at all! You're something
else completely; like all Russians, you're a military man...'
"
"Excuse me, I'm not at all. . ."
"You're a foreigner, a tourist, and I'm grateful to you,'
continued Frau Lenore without listening to Sanin. She kept
sighing, throwing up her hands in dismay, unfolding her
handkerchief again and blowing her nose. Merely by the way
her grief expressed itself one could see that she had not been
born under a northern sky.
"
"And how's Herr Klüber going to do business in the store
if he's going to be fighting with his customers? It's absolutely
absurd! And now I have to refuse him. But what are we going
to live on? Before, we were the only ones who made sweet
cough syrup and pistachio nougat, and customers kept
coming; but now everybody makes sweet cough syrup! Think
about it now: as it is, they're going to be talking about your
duel all over town . . . how could you hide it? And suddenly
the wedding is off! Why, it's a Skandal, a Skandal! Gemma's
a beautiful girl; she loves me very much, but she's a stubborn
republican, doesn't care a bit for other people's opinions. Only
you can persuade her!”
Sanin was even more astonished than before.
“Me, Frau Lenore?”
348
IVAN TURGENEV
“Yes, only you ... Only you. That's why I came here:
couldn't think of anything else! You're such an educated, such
a good man! You stood up for her. She'll trust you! She has
to trust you-why, you risked your own life! You'll show her,
but I can't do a thing more! You'll show her that she's going
to ruin herself and all of us. You saved my son-now save my
daughter, too! God Himself sent you here . . . I'm ready to
beg you on my knees.
And Frau Lenore half rose from her chair, as if getting
ready to fall at Sanin's feet. He held her back.
"Frau Lenore! For God's sake! What are you doing?"
She convulsively grasped his hands.
"Do you promise?"
"Frau Lenore, think now, why should I..
"You promise? You don't want me to die here right now
in front of you, do you?"
59
Sanin was lost completely. This was the first time in his
life that he had to deal with burning Italian blood.
"I'll do anything you want!" he exclaimed. “I'll talk to
Fräulein Gemma...
Frau Lenore cried out with delight.
"Only, really, I don't know what the result may be...
"Ah, don't refuse, don't refuse!" said Frau Lenore in a
pleading voice; "you've already agreed! The result, I'm sure,
will be fine. In any case, I can't do anything more! She won't
listen to me!”
•
"
"She's told you definitely of her unwillingness to marry
Herr Klüber?" Sanin asked after a brief silence.
"She almost chopped my head off! She's just like her
father, like Giovann' Battista! Headstrong!"
"Headstrong? She?" Sanin repeated slowly.
"Yes... yes
.. but she's an angel too. She's listen to
you. You'll come, come soon? O my dear Russian friend!”
Frau Lenore impulsively got up from her chair and just as
impulsively embraced Sanin's head as he sat in front of her.
"Accept a mother's blessing-and let me have some water!"
Sanin brought Signora Roselli a glass of water, gave her his
word of honor that he would come immediately, escorted her
downstairs to the street-and, having returned to his room,
threw up his hands and his eyes grew wide.
"There," he thought, "now life's really spinning! In fact,
it's started spinning so that my head is in a whirl." He did
not try to look within himself, to understand what was going
on there; real commotion-basta! “What a day!" his lips invol-
SPRING TORRENTS
349
untarily whispered. "Headstrong-her mother says. . . . And
I have to advise her-her! Advise her what?”
Sanin's head was definitely spinning-and over this whole
whirl of various feelings, impressions, and unfinished thoughts
there constantly hovered the image of Gemma, that image
which had so unforgettably etched itself in his memory on
that warm, electrically turbulent night, in that dark window,
under the light of the swarming stars!
XXIV
Sanin went to the Rosellis' house hesitantly. His heart was
pounding hard; he distinctly felt and even heard how it was
knocking against his ribs. What would he tell Gemma, how
would he start talking to her? He went into the house, not
through the shop, but by the back entrance. He met Frau
Lenore in the little vestibule. She was both delighted to see
him and afraid.
"I was waiting, waiting for you," she said in a whisper,
squeezing his hand with each of hers in turn. "Go into the
garden; she's there. And don't forget: I'm counting on you!"
Sanin headed for the garden.
Gemma was sitting on a bench by the path and was pick-
ing the ripest cherries out of a large basket filled with them,
and putting them on a plate. The sun was low in the sky-
it was already after six-and in the wide, slanting rays with
which it flooded Signora Roselli's little garden there was more
crimson than gold. Every so often, barely audibly and seem-
ingly unhurriedly, the leaves whispered among themselves,
the tardy bees buzzed intermittently, flying from flower to
neighboring flower, and somewhere a turtledove cooed monot-
onously and unceasingly.
Gemma had on that same round hat which she had worn
to Soden. She glanced at Sanin from under its turned-down
brim and bent over the basket again.
Sanin came up to her, involuntarily shortening each step,
and . . . and . . . And could find nothing to say to her except
to ask why she was sorting the cherries.
Gemma, without hurrying, answered.
"These-the riper," she said, finally, "will go for jam, and
these for pie filling. You know those round pies with sugar
that we sell."
Having said this, Gemma bent her head still lower, and
350
IVAN TURGENEV
her right hand, with two cherries in her fingers, hung in mid-
air between the basket and the plate.
"May I sit beside you?” Sanin asked.
"You may.” Gemma moved a little on the bench. Sanin sat
down. "How do I begin?" he thought. But Gemma got him
out of his difficulty.
"You fought a duel today," she started in animatedly, and
turned her whole beautiful, bashfully blushing face to him-
and what deep gratitude shone in her eyes! "And you're so
calm? Does that mean danger doesn't exist for you?”
"Heavens! I wasn't in any danger. Everything came off
very well and harmlessly.”
Gemma wagged her finger right and left in front of her
eyes... That's also an Italian gesture.
"No, no! Don't say that! You won't fool mel Pantaleone
has told me everything!"
"What a man to believe! Was he comparing me to the
statue of the Commander?”
"His way of putting things may be silly, but neither his
feeling is, nor what you did today. And it's all because of
me-for me. I'll never forget it.”
“I assure you, Fräulein Gemma ..
"I'll never forget it," she repeated with hesitation, once
again looking intently at him and then turning away.
He could now see her delicate, pure profile, and it seemed
to him that he had never seen anything like it-and never
experienced anything like what he was experiencing at that
moment. His heart was on fire.
"But my promise!" flashed through his mind.
"Fräulein Gemma . . ." he began after a momentary hesita-
tion.
“What?”
She did not turn toward him; she kept on sorting the cher-
ries, carefully picking them up by their stems with the ends
of her fingers and conscientiously picking out the leaves. But
with what trusting affection did that one word ring: "What?"
"Your mother didn't tell you anything about...
"About?"
>>
"About me?"
Gemma suddenly threw the cherries she had picked up
back into the basket.
"She was talking to you?" she asked in turn.
"Yes."
"What did she say to you?"
SPRING TORRENTS
351
"She told me that you ... that you had suddenly decided
to change . . . your previous plans."
Gemma's head again bent down. It completely disappeared
under her hat; only her neck could be seen, supple and
tender, like the stalk of a large flower.
"What plans?"
"Your plans. . . in connection with... the future arrange-
ment of your life."
“That is . . . You're talking about... Herr Klüber?”
"Yes."
"Mama told you that I don't want to be Herr Klüber's
wife?"
"Yes."
Gemma moved on the bench. The basket tilted, fell down
. several cherries rolled down onto the path. A minute
went by... another.
"Why did she tell you that?" he heard her say. Sanin, as
before, saw only Gemma's neck. Her bosom was rising and
falling more quickly than before.
"Why? Your mother thought that, since you and I had, one
might say, become friends in a short time and you've come
to have a certain confidence in me, well, that I was in a
position to give you some useful advice-and that you'd listen
to me."
Gemma's hands slid softly into her lap. . . . She began
adjusting the folds of her dress.
"What advice are you going to give me, Monsieur Dmitri?”
she asked after a brief pause.
Sanin noticed that Gemma's fingers were trembling in her
lap... She was adjusting the folds of her dress merely to
hide the trembling. He gently put his hand on these pale,
quivering fingers.
"Gemma," he said, "why don't you look at me?”
She instantly pushed her hat back to hang between her
shoulders and fastened her eyes on him, eyes as trusting and
grateful as before. She waited for him to speak. . . . But the
expression on her face confused him and seemed to blind him.
The warm brilliance of the evening sun bathed her young
head in light-and the expression of that head was brighter
and more striking than the brilliance of the sun itself.
"I'll listen to you, Monsieur Dmitri," she began, barely
smiling and barely raising her eyebrows, "but what advice are
you going to give me?”
"What advice?" Sanin repeated. "Well, you see, your
352
IVAN TURGENEV
mother thinks that to refuse Herr Klüber just because he
didn't show much courage the day before yesterday . . .”
"Just because?" said Gemma, bent down, picked up the
basket, and put it beside her on the bench.
"That . . . in general. . . to refuse him, on your part, is
unwise; that this is a step of which all the consequences must
be carefully weighed; that, finally, your whole business sit-
uation lays certain obligations on each member of your
family-"
"That's all Mama's opinion," Gemma interrupted, "that's
what she says. I know that, but what's your opinion?"
"Mine?" Sanin was silent a moment. He felt that some-
thing had caught in his throat and was choking him. “I also
think," he began with an effort.
Gemma sat up straight.
"Also? You-also?”
"Yes... That is . Sanin could not, absolutely could not
add another word.
“All right,” said Gemma. "If, as a friend, you advise me to
change my decision . . . that is, not to change my former
decision, I'll think it over." Without noticing what she was
doing herself, she began putting cherries from the plate back
into the basket . . . “Mama hopes I'll listen to you ... Well?
Maybe I really will. . . ."
"But, please, Fräulein Gemma, I'd first like to know what
reasons induced you . . .
"
"I'll listen to you,” repeated Gemma, but her brows frowned
more and more, her cheeks grew paler and paler, she kept
biting her lower lip. “You did so much for me that I'm obliged
to do what you want, obliged to carry out your wishes. I'll
tell Mama ... I'll think about it. Incidentally, look, here she
comes."
"9
Indeed, Frau Lenore appeared on the threshold of the
doorway leading from the house into the garden. Impatience
was consuming her: she could not sit still. According to her
calculations, Sanin should have finished his talk with Gemma
long ago, although, in fact, his chat with her had not lasted
even a quarter of an hour.
“No, no, no, for God's sake, don't say a word to her for the
time being," said Sanin hastily, almost in fright. “Wait a
little . . . I'll tell you, I'll write you . . . and don't you decide
a thing until then . . . wait!”
He pressed Gemma's hand, jumped up from the bench-
SPRING TORRENTS
353
and to Frau Lenore's great surprise, darted past her, doffing
his hat, said something inaudible, and disappeared.
She went over to her daughter.
"Tell me, please, Gemma..
»
Gemma suddenly got up and embraced her.
“Mama darling, can you wait a little bit, just a little bit,
until tomorrow? Can you? And not a word until tomorrow,
either? ... Ah!
"
.
She dissolved in sudden, bright tears, to herself com-
pletely unexpected. This astonished Frau Lenore all the more
because the expression on Gemma's face was anything but
sad-on the contrary, it was joyful.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "You never cry-and now
suddenly..."
"Nothing, Mama, never mind! You just wait a little! You
and I both have to wait. Don't ask any questions until
tomorrow-and let's sort the cherries before the sun's gone."
“But you'll be sensible?”
"Oh, I'm very sensible!" Gemma nodded significantly. She
began tying small bunches of cherries together, holding them
up high in front of her reddening face. She did not wipe
away her tears: they had dried up of themselves.
XXV
Sanin went back to his hotel almost at a run. He felt,
he knew that only there, only alone with himself, would it
finally become clear what was the matter with him, what was
happening to him. And, indeed, he had hardly managed to
get into his room, to sit down in front of his desk, when,
leaning on it with both elbows and pressing his palms against
his face, he mournfully and hollowly exclaimed: "I love her,
love her madly!"-and glowed all over inside, like a coal from
which the layer of dead ash has just been blown off. A
moment later . . . and already he could not understand how
he could have been sitting beside her-beside her!-and talk-
ing to her, and not feeling how he worshiped the hem of her
dress; how he was ready, as young people say, to "die at
her feet." The last meeting in the garden had decided every-
thing. Now, as he thought of her, he no longer thought of
her with her wind-tossed curls in the light of the stars; he
saw her sitting on a little bench, saw how she threw back
her hat with a sudden gesture, and looked at him so trust-
ingly and a shudder and the thirst of love coursed
7.
354
IVAN TURGENEV
through all his veins. He remembered the rose which he had
been carrying in his pocket for three days now: he pulled it
out-and pressed it to his lips with such feverish force that
he involuntarily frowned from pain. Now he no longer delib-
erated about anything, did not imagine, count on, or foresee
anything; he had cut himself off from his entire past, he had
leaped forward; from the cheerless shore of his bachelor life
he had fallen straight into this gay, boiling, mighty current-
and little did he care, and little did he want to know, where
it would take him, or whether it would dash him against the
rocks! This was now not the gentle streams of a Uhland love
poem, which had lulled him not long ago
These were
powerful, irrepressible waves! They were flying and leaping
onward-and he with them!
\
•
He took a sheet of paper and, without a correction, prac-
tically with one sweep of the pen, wrote the following:
Gemma dear,
You know what advice I took upon myself to give
you; you know what your mother wants and what she
asked me to do, but what you don't know and what I
now must tell you-is that I love you, love you with all
the passion of a heart that has fallen in love for the first
time! This flame blazed up suddenly in me, but with
such force that I can't find words to describe it!! When
your mother came to me and asked me, it was still
smoldering in me, or else I, as an honest man, would
certainly have refused to carry out her request. The
very confession which I'm now making to you is the
confession of an honest man. You must know with whom
you're dealing-there must be no misunderstandings be-
tween us. You see I can't give you any advice. I
love you, love you, love you-and there's nothing else
either in my mind or in my heart!!
Dm. Sanin
•
Having folded the note and sealed it, Sanin was just about
to call the waiter and send it by him. "No! That's awkward.
By Emilio? But to go to the store, find him there among the
other clerks-that's awkward, too. Besides, it's already dark
outside-and he's probably already left the store." Thinking
like that, Sanin nevertheless put on his hat and went out to
the street; he turned one corner, another-and, to his inde-
scribable delight, caught sight of Emilio in front of him.
SPRING TORRENTS
355
With a bag under his arm, a roll of paper in his hand, the
young enthusiast was hurrying home.
"They mean it when they say every lover has his lucky
star," thought Sanin, and he called Emilio over.
Emilio turned around and rushed toward him.
Sanin gave him no chance to be ecstatic, handed him the
note, told him how and to whom to give it. Emilio listened
carefully.
"So nobody sees?" he asked, putting on a knowing and
mysterious look: “We understand what it's all about!" he
seemed to say.
"Yes, my friend,” said Sanin, and became somewhat em-
barrassed, but he patted Emilio's cheek. . . .
. . "And if there's
an answer . . . You'll bring me an answer, won't you? I'll be
at home.
»
"Don't worry about that!" Emilio whispered gaily, ran off,
and as he ran nodded his head once more.
Sanin went back to his place and, without lighting a
candle, threw himself on the sofa, put his hands up behind
his head, and gave himself over to the recently admitted
feelings of love-feelings which there is no point in describ-
ing: he who has experienced them knows their torments and
sweetness; he who has not, cannot have them explained to
him.
The door burst open-Emilio's head appeared.
"I've brought it," he said in a whisper; "here it is, the
answer!"
He held a folded piece of paper up over his head.
Sanin jumped up from the sofa and snatched it from
Emilio's hands. His passion had grown too strong: he was
not now concerned about keeping things secret, about observ-
ing decorum-even in front of this boy, her brother. He
would have been ashamed of himself in front of him, he
would have forced himself to be restrained-if only he could
have!
He went over to the window, and by the light of the street
lamp that stood in front of the house, read the following lines:
I beg you, I implore you-don't come to see us the
whole of tomorrow, don't appear. This is necessary for
me, absolutely necessary-and then everything will be
decided. I know you won't refuse me, because ...
Gemma
356
IVAN TURGENEV
Sanin read the note through twice-oh, how deeply sweet
and beautiful her handwriting seemed to him! He thought a
moment, and, turning to Emilio, who, to show what a modest
young man he was, was standing with his face to the wall
and picking a little hole in it with his fingernail, called his
name aloud.
Emilio immediately ran up to him.
"What would you like?”
“Listen, my friend—”
"
"Monsieur Dmitri," Emilio interrupted in a sad voice, "why
is it you don't say thou to me?”
Sanin laughed.
H
"Well, all right. Listen, my friend" (Emilio gave a little
jump from joy), "listen: there-you know what I mean-there
you say that everything will be carried out exactly" (Emilio
bit his lips and nodded his head solemnly) "—and you yourself
what are you doing tomorrow?”
"Me? What am I doing? What do you want me to?”
"If you can, come early in the morning, as early as you can,
and we'll take a walk through the outskirts of Frankfurt until
evening. . . Do you want to?”
Emilio gave another little jump.
"Heavens, what could be better? To take a walk with you-
that's simply wonderful! I'll certainly come!"
"And if they don't let you off?”
"They will!"
"Listen... Don't say there that I asked you for the whole
day."
"Why should I? I'll just go anyway! What's wrong with
that!"
Emilio kissed Sanin hard and ran off.
And Sanin walked back and forth in his room for a long
time-and went to bed late. He gave himself over to those
same sweet and awe-inspiring feelings, to that same delightful
breathlessness before a new life. Sanin was very pleased that
he had had the idea of inviting Emilio for the next day; his
face looked just like his sister's. "He'll remind me of her,”
Sanin thought.
But he was, above all, amazed at how he could be differ-
ent yesterday from what he was today. It seemed to him
that he had loved Gemma "eternally"-and loved her exactly
as he loved her today.

SPRING TORRENTS
357
XXVI
The next day at eight in the morning, Emilio, with Tar-
taglia on a leash, made his appearance at Sanin's place. If
he had been the child of German parents, he could not have
been more on time. At home he had told a lie: he had said
he was going to take a walk with Sanin until breakfast and
then go to the store. While Sanin was dressing, Emilio started
talking to him, rather hesitantly, to be sure, about Gemma,
about her falling-out with Herr Klüber, but Sanin was sternly
silent in reply; and Emilio, showing by his expression that he
understood why such an important point should not be
touched on lightly, did not come back to it-and only every
now and then assumed a concentrated and even severe
expression.
Having had coffee, the two friends set out-on foot, of
course-for Hausen, a small village lying not far from Frank-
furt and surrounded by forests. You can see the whole
Taunus mountain range from there, as if in the palm of your
hand. The weather was wonderful; the sun was warm and
bright, but not scorching; a fresh breeze rustled briskly in
the green leaves; the shadows of the high, round, little white
clouds skidded smoothly and quickly in small patches over
the earth. The young men soon had made their way out of
town and struck out boldly and gaily along the well-kept
road. They went into a forest, and wandered around there
for a long time; then had a hearty lunch in a village inn; then
climbed some mountains, enjoyed the views, rolled stones
down and clapped their hands as they watched them hop,
amusingly and surprisingly, like rabbits, until some man
passing by below, invisible to them, cursed them out in a
strong, ringing voice. They lay stretched out on the short,
dry moss that was a yellow-lavender color; they drank beer
at another inn, then chased each other, and made a bet to
see who could jump farther. They found an echo and talked
to it; sang, hallooed, wrestled; broke off twigs, put ferns in
their hats—and even danced. Tartaglia took part in all this
as best he could: he did not throw stones, to be sure, but
he rolled head-over-heels after them, howled when the
young man sang-and even drank beer, though with obvious
dislike: a student, to whom he had once belonged, had
taught him this art. Besides, he did not obey Emilio well-
358
IVAN TURGENEV
quite unlike his obedience to his master Pantaleone-and
when Emilio commanded him to "speak" or "sneeze," he just
wagged his tail and hung out his tongue.
The young men also chatted together. In the beginning of
their walk, Sanin, as the older and, therefore, more reasonable,
began to talk about fate and predestination and what is the
import and significance of a man's calling, but the conversa-
tion very soon took a less serious direction. Emilio began
questioning his friend and patron about Russia, about how
duels are fought there, asking if the women there are beau-
tiful, and if one can learn Russian quickly, and what he felt
when the officer aimed at him. And Sanin, in his turn, asked
Emilio about his father, his mother, about their family
business in general, in every way trying to avoid mentioning
Gemma's name-and thinking only of her. Strictly speaking,
he was not thinking even about her but about the next day,
about that mysterious day tomorrow, which would bring him
inconceivable, unprecedented happiness! It was as if a cur-
tain, a light, delicate curtain were hanging, gently swaying,
in front of his mind's eye; and behind that curtain he sensed
... sensed the presence of a young, motionless, divine coun-
tenance with a tender smile on its lips and austerely-
feignedly austerely-lowered eyelashes. And this countenance
was not Gemma's face, but the face of happiness itself! And
now, at last, his hour has struck, the curtain has been raised,
the lips open, the eyelashes are lifted-the divinity has seen
him-and now there is light, as from the sun, and joy, and
endless delight! He thinks about that tomorrow-and his
heart again becomes ecstatically still in the thrill of longing
and of an expectation being continually reborn!
And this expectation, this longing does not interfere with
anything. It goes along with his every gesture-and interferes
with nothing. It does not interfere with his dining splendidly
with Emilio in a third inn, and only now and then the idea
flashes in his mind, like a sudden bolt of lightning-what if
anybody in the world knew? This longing does not keep him
from playing leapfrog with Emilio after dinner. The game
takes place on a wide, open, green meadow . . . and what was
Sanin's astonishment, his embarrassment, when, to the accom-
paniment of Tartaglia's wild barking, his legs spread wide
and, flying like a bird over the hunched-up Emilio, he sud-
denly sees in front of him, on the very edge of the green
meadow, two officers, whom he immediately recognizes as his
antagonist of yesterday and his second, messieurs von Dönhof
SPRING
TORRENTS
359
and von Richter! Each of them puts his monocle on and looks
at him and smirks . . . Sanin lands on his feet, turns away,
hurriedly puts on his coat that he had thrown down, says a
curt word to Emilio, who also puts on his jacket, and they
both leave at once.
They got back to Frankfurt late.
"I'm going to get scolded," Emilio said to Sanin as he was
bidding him good-bye, "but it doesn't matter! Because I had
such a wonderful, wonderful day!"
Returning to his room in the hotel, Sanin found a note
from Gemma. She set a rendezvous with him for the next
day, at seven in the morning, in one of the public parks that
surround Frankfurt on all sides.
How his heart quivered! How glad he was that he had so
unquestioningly obeyed her! And, good Lord, what was
promised . . . what wasn't promised by this unprecedented,
unique, impossible-and absolutely certain tomorrow?
He kept staring at Gemma's note. The long, graceful flour-
ish of the letter G, the first letter of her name, standing at the
bottom of the page, reminded him of her beautiful fingers,
her hand. . . . He reflected that he had never once touched
that hand with his lips. . . . "Italian girls," he thought, "despite
what's said about them, are shy and stern. And Gemma
all the more! A queen a goddess
pure and virginal
• •
"
• •
•
•
marble.
•
"But the time will come-and it's not far off .
That night in Frankfurt there was one happy man. . . . He
was asleep, but he could have said about himself, in the
words of the poet: "I sleep . . . but still my wakeful heart
does not..
>>
»
It was beating as softly as the wings of a butterfly clinging
to a flower and bathed by the summer sun.
XXVII
Sanin woke up at five o'clock, was already dressed by six,
and at half-past six was walking up and down in the public
park within sight of the small arbor mentioned by Gemma
in her note.
The morning was quiet, warm, and overcast. Once in a
while it seemed as if it were just about to start raining, but
the outstretched hand felt nothing, and only by looking at
the sleeve of the clothing could the traces of tiny drops, like
the smallest beads, be noticed; and even that soon stopped.
360
IVAN TURGENEV
The wind-it was as if there had never been any wind in the
world. Each sound did not fly across the air but spilled out
around itself; in the distance, a whitish mist became ever so
slightly thicker; the air was filled with the smell of mignonette
and white acacia blossoms.
In the streets the shops were not yet open but pedestrians
were already appearing; from time to time a solitary carriage
rattled by. There was no one walking in the park. A
gardener was unhurriedly scraping the path with a shovel, and
a decrepit old woman in a black cloth cloak was hobbling
along across an alley. Sanin could not for even a moment take
that poor creature for Gemma-yet the heart in him shrank,
and he intently followed the retreating black spot with his
eyes.
Seven! the clock in the tower droned out.
Sanin stopped. Really, wasn't she coming? A cold shiver
suddenly ran all through his body. The same shiver went
through him again a moment later, but for a different reason.
Sanin heard light footsteps behind him, the light noise of a
woman's dress. . . He turned around: it was she!
Gemma was coming from behind him along the path. She
had on a greyish mantilla and a small dark hat. She glanced
at Sanin, turned her head aside-and, having come up even
with him, quickly walked past.
"Gemma," he said, barely audibly.
She nodded to him slightly and kept walking on ahead.
He followed her.
He was gasping. His legs hardly obeyed him.
Gemma passed the arbor, turned right, passed a small, flat
fountain in which a sparrow was busily splashing, and, going
behind a bed of tall lilac, sat down on a bench. The place was
agreeable and concealed. Sanin sat down beside her.
A minute went by, and neither he nor she said a word; she
even did not look at him-and he looked not at her face but
her folded hands, in which she was holding a little parasol.
What was there to say? What was there to say that, by its
meaning, could be compared to their just being here, to-
gether, alone, so early, so close to each other?
“You . . . aren't angry with me?" Sanin said finally.
It would have been hard for Sanin to have said anything
stupider than this . . . he was aware of it himself. . . But, at
least, the silence had been broken.
"Me?" she asked. "Why? No."
“And you believe me?" he went on.
SPRING TORRENTS
361
"What you wrote?”
"Yes."
Gemma lowered her head and said nothing. The parasol
slipped out of her hands. She hurriedly caught it before it
landed on the path.
"Ah, believe me, believe what I wrote you!" exclaimed
Sanin; all his timidity had suddenly disappeared, and he
started talking heatedly: "If there's truth in this world, sure,
sacred truth, it is that I love you, love you passionately,
Gemma!"
She threw a sidelong, momentary glance at him, and again
nearly dropped her parasol.
"Believe me, believe me," he kept repeating. He begged
her, reached his hands out toward her, and did not dare
touch her. “What do you want me to do . . . to convince
you?"
She glanced at him again.
"Tell me, Monsieur Dmitri," she began, "the day before
yesterday, when you came to try to persuade me-I suppose
you still didn't know . . . didn't feel.
>>
"I felt," Sanin put in, “but I didn't know. I fell in love with
you the first moment I saw you-but didn't understand at
once what you meant to me! Besides, I'd heard that you were
engaged. . . . And as for what your mother asked me to do,
well, first of all, how could I refuse? And, secondly, I think
I told you what she wanted me to in such a way that you
could have guessed.
There was a sound of heavy footsteps, and a rather portly
gentleman with a traveling bag over his shoulder, obviously
a foreigner, came out from behind the lilac and, with the
unceremoniousness of a passing tourist, looked the pair seated
on the bench up and down, coughed loudly, and went on.
"Your mother," Sanin began as soon as the sound of the
heavy footsteps had died away, "told me that your refusal
would cause a scandal" (Gemma frowned slightly); "that I
myself had been in part responsible for improper rumors, and
that consequently the obligation lay on me-to a
certain degree-of persuading you not to refuse your fiancé,
Herr Klüber ..
•
•
>>
"Monsieur Dmitri," said Gemma, and ran her hand through
her hair on the side turned toward Sanin, "please don't call
Herr Klüber my fiancé. I will never be his wife. I've broken
with him."
"You've broken with him? When?"
362
IVAN TURGENEV
25
"Yesterday."
"You told him personally?"
"Him personally. At our house. He came over.”
"Gemma! That means you love me?”
She turned toward him.
“Otherwise ... would I have come here?” she whispered,
and both her hands fell onto the bench.
Sanin seized these helpless hands, lying palms up, and
pressed them to his eyes, to his lips. . . . That was when the
curtain was raised, the curtain he had imagined he had seen
the night before! Here it was-happiness; there was its
radiant countenance!
He raised his head-and looked at Gemma straight and
boldly. She, too, looked at him, from a little bit above him.
The gaze of her half-closed eyes barely flickered, swimming
with light, blissful tears. But her face was not smiling
no! It was laughing a blissful but soundless laughter.
He wanted to draw her to his breast, but she held back
and, without stopping that same soundless laughter, shook
her head to say no. "Wait," her happy eyes seemed to be
saying.
"O Gemma!" exclaimed Sanin, "could I have thought that
thou" (the heart in him quivered, like a string, when for the
first time his lips said this intimate word) "-that thou would
love me!"
•
"I didn't expect it myself," said Gemma quietly.
"Could I have thought," Sanin went on, "could I have
thought, driving up to Frankfurt, where I expected to stay
just a few hours, that I would here find the happiness of
my whole life!"
"Your whole life? Really?" Gemma asked.
"My whole life, forever and ever!" exclaimed Sanin in a
new burst of passion.
The gardener's shovel suddenly started scraping two paces
away from the bench on which they were sitting.
"Let's go home," Gemma whispered; "let's go together-
you want to?"
If at that moment she had said to him: "Throw yourself
into the sea-do you want to?" she would not have finished
before he would have already been flying headlong into the
deep.
They left the park together and headed for the house, not
through the streets of the city but through the suburbs.
SPRING TORRENTS
363
XXVIII
Sanin walked sometimes beside Gemma, sometimes a little
behind her, did not take his eyes off her and did not stop
smiling. And she seemed to be hurrying on-seemed to be
pausing. To tell the truth, both of them-he all pale, she all
pink from excitement-moved forward as if dazed. What,
they had done together, a few moments before-this giving
of one's soul to another-was so strong and new and awesome;
everything in their lives had been reordered and changed
so suddenly, that they both could not collect themselves, and
were aware only of the whirlwind which had caught them
up, like that night whirlwind which had almost thrown them
into each other's arms. Sanin walked along and felt that he
was even looking at Gemma differently: he instantly noticed
several peculiarities in her walk, in her gestures-and good
Lord! how endlessly dear and charming they were to him!
And she felt that he was looking at her that way.
Sanin and she had both fallen in love for the first time; all
the miracles of first love absorbed them. First love is the
same as revolution: the monotonously regular structure of
established life is smashed and broken in a moment, youth
stands on the barricade, its bright banner waves on high-
and no matter what lies ahead for it-death or a new life-
it sends everything its ecstatic greetings.
"What's this? Isn't that our old friend?" said Sanin, point-
ing his finger at a muffled figure which was little by little
making its way along on one side, as if trying to remain un-
noticed. In his excess of bliss, he felt a need to talk to Gemma
not about love-that was something already decided, sacred
-but about something else.
"Yes, it's Pantaleone," Gemma answered gaily and hap-
pily. "He probably left the house on my heels; even yester-
day he followed every step I took. . . . He has figured it out.”
"He has!" repeated Sanin in delight. What could Gemma
have said that would not have made him delighted?
Then he asked her if she would tell him in detail every-
thing that actually had happened the day before.
And she immediately began telling it all, hurrying, getting
mixed up, smiling, letting out little sighs, and exchanging
brief bright glances with Sanin. She told him how, after the
conversation the day before yesterday, her mother had kept
trying to get something positive out of her; how she had put
**
364
IVAN TURGENEV
1
€
off Frau Lenore by promising to let her know her decision
within twenty-four hours; how she had finally succeeded in
getting that delay-and how hard it had been; how Herr
Klüber had showed up completely unexpectedly, more prim
and starched than ever; how he had expressed his indigna-
tion at the childishly unforgivable, and for him, Klüber,
deeply insulting (that was exactly how he put it) prank of
the Russian stranger-“he meant your duel"-and how he
demanded that "you immediately be forbidden the house.
'Because,' he added"-and here Gemma slightly mimicked
his tone and manner-" it casts a shadow on my honor; as if
I didn't know how to stand up for my own fiancée if I found
it necessary or useful! Tomorrow all Frankfurt will know
that a stranger fought with an officer over my fiancée-how
does that look? It stains my honor!' Mama agreed with him
--imagine!—but at this point I suddenly told him that he was
worried about his honor and his person for nothing, was
feeling insulted by rumors about his fiancée all for nothing-
because I wasn't his fiancée any longer, and was never going
to be his wife! I confess I would have liked to have talked
to you first . . . before refusing him finally, but he had
and I couldn't hold back. Mama even cried out
in fright, and I went into the other room and brought him
back his ring-you didn't notice, I took his ring off two days
ago-and gave it to him. He was very offended, but since
he's terribly conceited and boastful, he didn't say much-and
left. Of course, I had to put up with a great deal from Mama,
and it was very painful for me to see how grieved she was-
and I thought I'd been a little hasty, but, after all, I had your
note-and even without it I already knew..
come
"That I love you," put in Sanin.
"
•
>>
"Yes... that you loved me.
That is how Gemma talked, becoming confused and smil-
ing, and dropping her voice or falling silent completely when-
ever someone came toward her or went past. And Sanin
listened ecstatically, delighting in the very sound of her voice,
as the evening before he had delighted in her handwriting.
"Mama is extremely upset," Gemma began again, and her
words came very quickly one after another; "she doesn't at all
want to consider the fact that Herr Klüber might have be-
come repulsive to me, that I was marrying him not for love
but because of her insistent beggings. She suspects you;
that is, frankly speaking, she's sure that I've fallen in love
with you-and it's even harder for her because only the day
•
►
•
SPRING TORRENTS
365
before yesterday nothing of the sort had entered her head
and she had even asked you to try to persuade me And
it was an odd commission, wasn't it? Now she calls you a
sly one, a cunning man, says that you betrayed her con-
fidence, and predicts that you'll deceive me
•
"But, Gemma," exclaimed Sanin, "didn't you tell her
"I didn't tell her anything! What right did I have, without
having talked to you?"
+
•
•
Sanin threw up his hands.
"Gemma, I hope that now, at least, you'll tell her every-
thing; take me to her . . . I want to show your mother I'm
not a deceiver!”
Sanin's chest heaved from an onrush of magnanimous and
passionate feelings.
Gemma looked at him with wide eyes.
"You really want to go to Mama now with me? To Mama,
who's certain that that everything between us is im-
possible-and never can be?" There was one word which
Gemma did not dare speak out. . . . It seared her lips, but
Sanin said it all the more willingly.
"Marry you, Gemma, be your husband-I know of no
greater happiness!”
He knew no limits either to his love or his magnanimity
or his determination.
•
Having heard those words, Gemma, who had stopped for,
just a moment, went on still faster. . . . She seemed to want to
run away from this too great and unexpected happiness!
But suddenly her legs gave way under her. From around
the corner of an alleyway, a few steps from her, appeared
Herr Klüber wearing a new hat and a new long, full, pleated
overcoat, as straight as an arrow and as curly as a poodle.
He noticed Gemma, noticed Sanin-and somehow snorting
inwardly and bending back at his supple waist, he strode
forward dandily to meet them. Sanin was disgusted, but,
glancing at Klüber's face, to which its owner tried, as best
he could, to lend an expression of contemptuous amazement
and even condolence-glancing at that ruddy, commonplace
face, he suddenly felt a surge of anger, and stepped forward.
Gemma seized his arm and, with calm decisiveness giving
him hers, looked her former fiancé straight in the face. . .
He squinted, shrank back, scooted to one side, and, mutter-
ing through his teeth: "The usual ending to the song!" (Das
alte Ende vom Liede!), went off in that same dandyish,
slightly bouncy gait.
366
IVAN TURGENEV
"What did he say, the scoundrel?" Sanin asked, and wanted
to rush after Klüber, but Gemma restrained him and went
on with him, not taking her arm out of his.
The Roselli confectioner's shop appeared in front of them.
Gemma stopped once more.
"Dmitri, Monsieur Dmitri," she said, "we aren't there yet,
we haven't yet seen Mama. . . . If you want to think it over,
if— You're still free, Dmitri.”
In response, Sanin pressed her arm very tightly against
his chest, and drew her on.
"Mama," said Gemma, going with Sanin into the room
where Frau Lenore was sitting, "I've brought the real one!"
XXIX
If Gemma had announced that she had brought home with
her cholera or death itself, Frau Lenore, one must suppose,
would not have received the news with greater despair. She
immediately sat down in a corner, her face to the wall, and
burst into tears, almost wailing, just like a Russian peasant
woman over the coffin of her husband or her son. At first
Gemma was so confused that she did not even go up to her
mother, and stood, like a statue, in the middle of the room;
and Sanin was completely lost, almost to the point of tears
himself! This inconsolable weeping went on for a whole hour:
a whole hour! Pantaleone thought it better to lock the out-
side shop door so that no stranger would come in-since it was
still early. The old man himself was perplexed; at any rate
he did not approve of the haste with which Gemma and
Sanin had acted, but he would not criticize them and was
ready to give them his support in case they needed it-he
really hadn't liked Klüber! Emilio considered himself an inter-
mediary between his friend and his sister-and was almost
proud of how well everything had turned out! He was com-
pletely unable to understand what Frau Lenore was so upset
about, and in his heart he then and there decided that women,
even the very best of them, suffer from a lack of quickness
of wit! It was worse for Sanin than for anyone else. Frau
Lenore's voice rose to a howl and she waved him away as
soon as he approached her; standing at a distance, he several
times tried vainly to shout out: "I'm asking for your daugh-
ter's hand!" Frau Lenore was especially annoyed at herself
for having been so blind-for having seen nothing! "If my
Giovann' Battista were alive," she kept repeating through her
SPRING TORRENTS
367
tears, "none of this would have happened!" "Lord, what is
this?" thought Sanin. “After all, it's really absurd!" He did
not dare look at Gemma, nor did she have the courage to
look at him. She just patiently looked after her mother, who
at first pushed even her away
not come near
Little by little the storm at last quieted down. Frau Lenore
stopped crying, let Gemma lead her out of the corner where
she had crouched, seat her in a chair by the window, and
give her a glass of water with fleur d'orange; she let Sanin-
oh no!-but at least stay in the room
(before she had kept demanding that he go away), and did
not interrupt him when he was talking. Sanin at once took
advantage of the calm that had set in-and displayed an
astounding eloquence: he could hardly have set out his in-
tentions and his feelings with such ardor and such conviction
before Gemma herself. These feelings were the most sincere,
these intentions the most honorable, like Almaviva's in The
Barber of Seville. He did not conceal, either from Frau
Lenore or from himself, the unfavorable side of his intentions,
but these were only seeming disadvantages! True, he was a
foreigner, they had met him only recently, they knew nothing
positive either about him personally or about his means, but
he was prepared to bring all the necessary proofs to show
that he was an honest and respectable man, and not poor;
he would call as his witness the most unquestionable testi-
mony of his fellow-countrymen! He hoped that Gemma would
be happy with him and that he would be able to make her
separation from her family a happy one. . . . The mention
of separation-just that word "separation"-almost ruined the
whole things. Frau Lenore started trembling all over and
became all wrought-up. Sanin hastened to point out that the
separation would be only temporary-and that, after all, per-
haps, there would not be any.
Sanin's eloquence was not lost on Frau Lenore. She began
looking at him, though still with sadness and reproachfulness,
at least no longer with her former aversion and anger; later,
she let him even come and sit down beside her (Gemma was
sitting on the other side); then she began reproaching him-
not merely with her eyes, but in words, which signified a
certain softening of her heart; she started complaining, and
her complaints became quieter and quieter and softer and
softer; they alternated with questions, sometimes to her
daughter, sometimes to Sanin; then she let him take her hand
and did not take it away immediately; then she started crying
•
-
368
IVAN TURGENEV
again-but already with quite different tears; then she smiled
sadly and regretted the absence of Giovann' Battista, but now
in a different sense than before. . . . Another moment went by,
and both criminals-Sanin and Gemma-were on their knees
at her feet and she was laying her hands on their heads in
turn; still another moment went by, and they were embracing
her and kissing her; and Emilio, his face radiant with joy,
ran into the room and flung himself into the tightly packed
group.
Pantaleone glanced into the room, grinned and frowned
simultaneously, and, having gone into the shop, unlocked the
street door.
XXX
The transition from despair to sadness, and from sadness
to "quiet resignation" took place rather quickly in Frau
Lenore, but this quiet resignation did not take long in turn-
ing into secret delight, which was, however, in every way
possible covered up and kept back for the sake of propriety.
Sanin had been to Frau Lenore's liking from the very first day
of their acquaintance; once used to the idea that he would
be her son-in-law, she no longer found anything about it.
especially unpleasant, though she did consider it her duty to
keep a somewhat hurt-or rather, worried expression on her
face. Besides, everything that had happened in the last few
days was so extraordinary . . . One thing after another! As
a practical woman and as a mother, Frau Lenore considered
it also her duty to subject Sanin to various questions; and
Sanin who, setting out that morning for a rendezvous with
Gemma, had had no thought at all of marrying her-to be
sure, he had not been thinking of anything then, but was just
abandoning himself to the bent of his passion-Sanin took up
his role, the role of fiancé, with complete readiness and, one
might say, excitement, and responded to all the questions
fully, in detail, and willingly. Having made sure that he was
a real nobleman by birth-and having been even a little
surprised that he was not a prince-Frau Lenore assumed a
grave expression and "warned him ahead of time" that she
was going to be completely and informally frank with him,
because her sacred obligation as a mother required this of
her! To which Sanin replied that he had expected nothing
else of her, and earnestly begged her not to spare him!
Then Frau Lenore remarked to him that Herr Klüber
SPRING TORRENTS
369
(having said this name, she lightly sighed and pressed her
lips and hesitated an instant)-Herr Klüber, Gemma's former
fiancé, now had an income of eight thousand guldens and
each year that sum would rapidly increase-but his, Herr
Sanin's, income was how much?
"Eight thousand guldens," repeated Sanin slowly. "In our
money, that's about fifteen thousand rubles. . . . My income
is a lot less. I have a small estate in Tula province. . . . With
good organization and supervision, it might yield-and cer-
tainly ought to yield-about five or six thousand. . . . And if
I go into the government service, I can easily get a salary of
about two thousand."
"Government service in Russia?" exclaimed Frau Lenore.
“Then that means I have to part with Gemma!”
"It's possible to get assigned to the diplomatic corps,
Sanin put in. “I have a few connections. . . . Then the service
is abroad. Or this, too, is something that could be done: sell
the estate and use the money for some useful enterprise, for
example, for the improvement of your shop." Sanin felt that
he was saying something foolish, but an incomprehensible
courage had taken possession of him! He would glance at
Gemma who, from the time the "practical" conversation had
started, had been constantly getting up, walking around the
room, and sitting down again-he would glance at her, and
there would be nothing in his way, and he would be ready
to arrange everything, this moment, in the best possible way
-if she only did not worry!
"Herr Klüber also wanted to give me a small amount for
fixing up the shop,” said Frau Lenore, after a little hesitation.
"Mother! For God's sake! Mother!" exclaimed Gemma in
Italian.
"You have to talk about these things in advance, my
child," Frau Lenore answered her in the same language.
She again turned to Sanin and started questioning him
about the Russian laws in regard to marriages, and if there
were any obstacles to entering into matrimony with Catholics,
as in Prussia? (At that time, in '40, all Germany still remem-
bered the quarrel of the Prussian government with the Arch-
bishop of Cologne over mixed marriages.) When Frau Lenore
heard that, by marrying a Russian nobleman, her daughter
herself would become a noblewoman, she expressed a certain
pleasure.
"But don't you have to go to Russia first?”
"Why?"
>>
"
370
IVAN TURGENEV
"How else?" To get the permission of your sovereign!"
Sanin explained to her that that wasn't necessary at all..
but that, perhaps, before the wedding, he indeed ought to
go to Russia for just a very short time (he said this-and his
heart contracted painfully; looking at him, Gemma under-
stood that it had, and blushed and became lost in thought),
and that he would try to use his stay in his own country to
sell his estate ... at least, he would bring back the necessary
money.
"I'd also like to ask you to bring me back some good
Astrakhan lambskin for a cape," said Frau Lenore. "From
what I hear, they're amazingly good there and amazingly
cheap!"
"Certainly, with the greatest pleasure-for both you and
for Gemma!" exclaimed Sanin.
“And a little silver-embroidered Morocco cap for me,” put
in Emilio, poking his head in from the next room.
“All right, I will . . . and for Pantaleone, some slippers.”
"But what's all this for? What for?" remarked Frau Lenore.
“We're talking about serious things now. Now, here's another
thing," the practical lady added: "You say: sell your estate.
But how will you do that? You'll sell the peasants, too, is
that it?"
It was as if Sanin had been jabbed in the side. He remem-
bered that, in talking with Signora Roselli and her daughter
about serfdom-which, according to what he had said, aroused
deep indignation in him-he had repeatedly assured them
that he would never sell his peasants for any reason, for he
considered such a sale an immoral act.
"I'll try to sell my estate to a man whom I know to be
good," he said, not without hesitation, "or perhaps the peas-
ants themselves will want to buy themselves off."
"That's best of all," Frau Lenore agreed. "Because selling
living people. .
"
"Barbari!" muttered Pantaleone, who appeared in the door-
way behind Emilio, shook his topknot, and vanished.
"It's bad!" Sanin thought to himself, and glanced furtively
at Gemma. She did not seem to have heard what he had just
been saying. "Well, never mind!" he thought.
The practical conversation went on like this almost until
dinner. Toward the end, Frau Lenore calmed down com-
pletely-and was even calling Sanin, Dmitri, affectionately
shaking her finger at him, and promising to revenge his per-
fidy. She kept asking him questions in great number and detail
SPRING TORRENTS
371
about his relatives, because "that's very important, too,"
requested also that he describe the marriage ceremony as
performed in the Russian church-and was already delighted
with Gemma in a white dress and with a gold crown on her
head.
"You know, she's as beautiful as a queen,” she said with
maternal pride. "Why, there's not even a queen like her in
the whole world!"
"There's no other Gemma in the whole world!” Sanin
chimed in.
"Yes; that's why she's-Gemma!" (Gemma, of course, in
Italian means a jewel.)
Gemma flung herself on her mother and kissed her . . . It
seemed that only now she breathed freely-that the weight
that had been making her despondent had been lifted from
her heart.
And Sanin suddenly felt so happy, his heart was filled with
such childlike gaiety at the thought that they had come true,
they had come true, those dreams which he had recently
abandoned himself to here in these very rooms, his whole
being was so full of joy, that he immediately went into the
shop-he absolutely wanted, whatever might be, to do some
business behind the counter, as he had a few days before.
“I have full right to do it now," he seemed to be saying.
"I'm one of the family now!”
And he actually went behind the counter and actually did
some business, that is, he sold a pound of candy to two little
girls who came in, giving them two pounds instead of the one
and charging only half the price.
At dinner, he, as fiancé, sat officially beside Gemma. Frau
Lenore continued her practical considerations. Emilio was
laughing all the time and pestering Sanin to take him along
to Russia. It was decided that Sanin would leave in two
weeks. Only Pantaleone looked somewhat sullen-so much so
that even Frau Lenore chided him: “And you were a second,
too!" Pantaleone looked scowlingly at her.
Gemma was silent almost the entire time, but her face had
never been more beautiful and bright. After dinner she called
Sanin out into the garden for a moment and, stopping by
that same bench where she had been sorting the cherries
two days before, she told him:
“Dmitri, don't be angry with me, but I want to remind
you once more that you don't have to feel yourself obli-
gated—”
372
IVAN TURGENEV
1
He did not let her finish.
Gemma turned her face away.
"And about what Mama brought up-remember?-about
the difference of our religion, well, here! . . ."
She seized the little garnet cross which was hanging around
her neck on a thin cord, jerked it hard, broke the cord, and
handed him the little cross.
•
"If I'm yours, then your faith is mine, too!"
Sanin's eyes were still moist when he and Gemma returned
to the house.
By evening, everything was back in its old routine. They
even played a little tresette.
XXXI
Sanin woke up very early the next day. He felt himself at
the peak of human well-being, but it was not that which
kept him from sleeping; the question, the vital, fateful ques-
tion-how could he sell his estate as soon and as advantage-
ously as possible-disturbed his peace of mind. All different
sorts of plans kept crisscrossing in his head, but nothing was
yet clear. He went out of the house to get a breath of fresh
air. He wanted to come before Gemma with a ready project
-not otherwise.
What figure was that, rather heavy and thicklegged, but
quite properly dressed, walking along in front of him, sway-
ing slightly and hobbling a little? Where had he seen the
back of that head, with tow-colored, curly hair, that head
seemingly planted right onto the shoulders, that soft, fatty
back, those puffy, loose-hanging hands? Was that really
Polozov, his old boarding-school friend whom he had lost
track of these five years now? Sanin overtook the figure go-
ing along in front of him, turned . . . A broad, yellowish face,
little piglike eyes with white brows and lashes, a short, flat
nose, thick lips, seemingly glued together, a round, hairless
chin-and that sour, lazy, and distrustful expression of the
whole face-yes, really: it was he, it was Ippolit Polozov!
"Can this be my lucky star at work again?" flashed through
Sanin's thoughts.
"Polozov! Ippolit Sidorych! Is that you?"
The figure stopped, lifted its tiny eyes up, held still a
moment-and, at last ungluing its lips, said in a wheezy
falsetto:
"Dmitri Sanin?”
SPRING TORRENTS
373
"The very same!" exclaimed Sanin and shook one of
Polozov's hands; covered with tight, ash-grey kid gloves,
they hung as lifelessly as before beside his bulging thighs.
"Have you been here long?" Where did you come from?
Where are you staying?”
"I came from Wiesbaden yesterday," Polozov answered, in
no hurry, "to get things for my wife-and I'm going back to
Wiesbaden today.”
"Oh, yes! So you're married, and they say to such a beauty!"
Polozov looked to one side.
"So they say."
Sanin laughed.
"I see you're still the same-phlegmatic, as you were in
school."
“What would I change for?”
"And they say," Sanin added with special stress on the
word "say," "that your wife is very rich.'
"They say that, too."
"But don't you yourself know, Ippolit Sidorych?”
“I, my friend Dmitri
don't interfere in my wife's business."
“Don't interfere? Not in anything?”
Polozov again turned his eyes away.
"Not in anything, my friend. She takes care of herself-
and I of myself.”
"Where are you going now?" asked Sanin.
•
>>
•
Pavlovich?—yes, Pavlovich!—
"Now I'm not going anywhere; I'm standing in the street
talking to you; but when you and I've finished, why, I'll go
back to my hotel and have some lunch."
“With me along-would you like that?"
"You're talking about lunch, now, that is?”
"Yes."
"Please do; it's much more cheerful to eat together. You're
not a great talker, are you?”
"Hardly."
"Very good."
Polozov moved on. Sanin set out beside him. And the
thought occurred to Sanin-Polozov's lips became glued to-
gether again, he wheezed and swayed along without talking
-the thought occurred to Sanin: how did this idiot manage
to catch a beautiful and rich wife? He was neither rich, nor
eminent, nor intelligent; in school he was known as a dull and
thick-headed boy, as a sleepyhead and a glutton-and had the
nickname "The Slob." Miracles never cease!
374
IVAN TURGENEV
P
"But if his wife's very rich-they say she's the daughter of
some tax-farmer-then wouldn't she buy my place? Though
he says he never interferes in any of his wife's affairs, a man
can't really believe that! And besides, I'll put a moderate,
reasonable price on it. Why not try? Maybe my lucky star is
still working. . . . Done! I'll give it a try!"
Polozov led Sanin into one of the best hotels in Frankfurt,
in which he had, of course, the best room. The table and
chairs were piled high with cartons, boxes, packages. . . . “All
things bought, my friend, for Maria Nikolaevna!" (that was
Ippolit Sidorych's wife's name). Polozov sank down into an
armchair and moaned, "What heat!" and undid his tie. Then
he rang for the headwaiter and carefully ordered the most
enormous lunch. “And have the carriage ready at one! You
hear, exactly at one!”
The headwaiter bowed obsequiously and servilely with-
drew.
Polozov unbuttoned his vest. Merely by the way he raised
his eyebrows, huffed and puffed and wrinkled his nose, one
could see that talking would be a big burden for him and
that he was wondering, not without a certain alarm, whether
Sanin would make him wag his tongue, or whether he him-
self would undertake the labor of starting a conversation.
Sanin realized his friend's frame of mind and therefore
did not burden him with questions, limiting himself to the
most essential: he learned that he had been in government
service two years (in an uhlan regiment! He must have looked
really good in a little short tunic!), had gotten married three
years ago, and had been abroad now for more than a year
with his wife, "who's now getting cured of something in
Wiesbaden"-and then was going to Paris. On his part, Sanin
expatiated very little on his past life, on his own plans; he
launched right in on the main thing-that is, started talking
about his intention of selling his estate.
Polozov listened to him silently, only from time to time
glancing up at the door through which the lunch was due to
appear. It finally came. The headwaiter, accompanied by two
other servants, brought in several dishes under silver covers.
"Your estate is in Tula province?" said Polozov, seating
himself at the table and tucking his napkin into his shirt collar.
"It is."
"Efremov district . . . I know."
"You know my Alekseevka?" asked Sanin, also sitting down
at the table.
SPRING TORRENTS
375
"Of course I do." Polozov stuffed a bite of omelette with
truffles into his mouth. "Maria Nikolaevna, my wife, has an
estate nearby. . . . Open this bottle, waiter! The land is good
enough-only the peasants have cut down your forest. Why
are you selling?”
"I need the money, old man. I'd let it go cheaply. Now,
you could buy it. . . Just the thing."
Polozov downed a glass of wine, wiped his mouth with his
napkin, and again started chewing, slowly and noisily.
"Mm-yes," he said finally. "I don't buy estates: no capital.
Push the butter over. But maybe my wife would. You have
a chat with her. If you're not asking too much-she's not
against that sort of thing. . . . Oh, these Germans-real asses!
Don't know how to cook fish. Now, what's easier? And they
keep on saying: 'Got to unite the Vaterland.' Waiter, take
this foul stuff away!"
“Does your wife really take care of running the place her-
self?" asked Sanin.
"Herself. Now, these chops are good! I recommend them
to you. I told you, Dmitri Pavlovich, that I never interfere
in my wife's business-and now I tell you it again."
Polozov kept on chomping away.
"Hm.
Sidorych?"
"Very simply, Dmitri Pavlovich. Go to Wiesbaden. It's not
far from here. . . . Waiter, haven't you any English mustard?
No? Pigs!... Only don't waste any time. We're leaving the
day after tomorrow. Please, let me pour you a glass: this
wine has bouquet-it's not vinegar."
Polozov's face became animated and flushed; it became
animated only when he was eating-or drinking.
"Really . . . I don't know how I can do it," Sanin muttered.
"But what's suddenly gotten into you?"
>>
•
But how can I have a talk with her, Ippolit
"There is something, old man.
"And you need a lot of money?”
"A lot. I-how'll I tell you? I'm thinking of-getting mar-
ried."
Polozov put his glass on the table, the glass he had just
raised to his lips.
"Getting married!" he said in a voice hoarse from amaze-
ment, and folded his puffy hands on his stomach. "So sud-
denly?"
"Yes-soon."
"Your fiancée's in Russia, of course?"
376
IVAN TURGENEV
"No, not in Russia.”
"Where then?”
"Here, in Frankfurt."
"And who is she?"
"A German girl; that is, no-an Italian. She lives here."
"With money?"
"Without."
"It must be a very powerful love?"
"How ridiculous you are! Yes, powerful.”
“And you need money for that?”
"Well, yes. yes, yes."
Polozov downed his wine, rinsed his mouth and washed his
hands, carefully wiping them on the napkin, took out a cigar
and lit it. Sanin looked at him in silence.
·
•
"There's only one way," mumbled Polozov at last, throw-
ing his head back and blowing smoke out in a fine stream.
"Go see my wife. If she wants to, she'll solve all your troubles
at once."
"But how can I see her-your wife? You say you're leaving
the day after tomorrow?"
Polozov shut his eyes.
•
"You know what?" he said finally, rolling the cigar in his
lips and sighing. “Go home now, get your things together as
quick as you can, and come back here. I'm leaving at once-
my carriage is big-I'll take you along. That's the best thing.
But now I'm going to have a little nap. Once I've eaten, old
man, I've got to have a nap. It's nature's demand-and I'm
not against it. And don't you bother me.”
Sanin thought and thought about it-and suddenly raised
his head: he had decided!
“All right, I agree, thank you. I'll be here at twelve-thirty,
and we'll go to Wiesbaden together. I hope your wife won't
be angry.
>>
But Polozov was already wheezing. He mumbled: "Don't
bother me!" moved his feet, and fell asleep like a baby.
Sanin once more glanced over his massive figure, his head,
neck, his chin raised high-round and like an apple-and,
laeving the hotel, quickly set off for the Roselli confectioner's
shop. He had to forewarn Gemma.
XXXII
He found her in the shop along with her mother. Frau
Lenore, her back bent over, was measuring the space be-
SPRING TORRENTS
377
tween the windows with a small folding foot-rule. On seeing
Sanin, she straightened up and greeted him cheerfully, but
not without a little embarrassment.
"After what you said yesterday," she began, "my head's
been spinning with ideas about improving our store. Now
here, I think, we ought to put two little cupboards with little
mirrored shelves. It's very fashionable now, you know. And
then-"
""
"Wonderful, wonderful," Sanin interrupted; "that all must
be thought out. But come here, I want to tell you something.
He took Frau Lenore and Gemma by the arm and led them
into the next room. Frau Lenore became nervous and dropped
the foot-rule. Gemma at first was nervous, too, but she looked
more closely at Sanin and relaxed. His face, worried indeed,
at the same time expressed an animated daring and decisive-
ness.
He asked both women to sit down and he stood in front
of them-and, waving his arms and ruffling his hair, told them
everything: his meeting with Polozov, the proposed trip to
Wiesbaden, the possibility of selling his estate.
"Imagine my good luck!" he exclaimed finally. "The thing's
taken such a turn so that perhaps I won't even have to go to
Russia! And we can have the wedding much sooner than I
thought!"
"When do you have to go?" asked Gemma.
"Today, in an hour; my friend has hired a carriage-he'll
take me.
"Will you write us?”
"Right away! Just as soon as I've talked to this lady, I'll
write at once.
"This lady, you say, is very rich?” asked the practical Frau
Lenore.
"Extremely! Her father was a millionaire, and left her
everything."
"Everything-just to her? Well, that's your good luck. Only
be careful not to sell your place too cheap! Be sensible and
firm. Don't get carried away! I understand your wanting to
become Gemma's husband as soon as you can-but caution
comes first! Don't forget: the more you sell your estate for,
the more there is for the two of you, and for your children.
Gemma turned away, and Sanin again waved his arms.
"You can rely on my caution, Frau Lenore! But I'm not
going to bargain. I'll tell her the actual price: if she gives
it—fine; if not-never mind about her.”
378
IVAN TURGENEV
i
"Do you know her-this lady?" asked Gemma.
"I never saw her in my life."
"And when are you coming back?"
"If our business doesn't work out, the day after tomorrow;
if it all goes fine, maybe I'll have to stay an extra day or
two. In any case, I won't linger a minute. I'm leaving my
heart here! But I've lost track of the time talking to you, and
I still have to run back to the hotel before leaving. . . . Give
me your hand for good luck, Frau Lenore-we always do that
in Russia."
"The right or the left?”
"The left-it's closer to the heart. I'll be here the day after
tomorrow-with my shield, or on it! Something tells me I'll
come back the victor! Good-bye, my dears, my darlings. . . .
He embraced and kissed Frau Lenore, and asked Gemma
to go into her room with him, for just a moment, since he
had something very important to tell her. . . He simply
wanted to say good-bye to her alone. Frau Lenore understood
this-and showed no curiosity as to what this important thing
•
was. . .
Sanin had never been in Gemma's room. All the charm of
love, all its fire and ecstasy and sweet terror blazed up in him
and burst into his soul the moment he stepped across the
sacred threshold. . . . Deeply moved, he glanced around, fell
at the feet of the beloved girl, and pressed his face against
her waist..
“Are you mine?" she whispered. "Will you come back
soon?"
"I'm yours . . . I'll come back,” he kept repeating breath-
lessly.
"I'll be waiting for you, my darling!"
A few moments later Sanin was running along the street
toward his hotel. He did not even notice that Pantaleone
rushed out of the shop door right behind him, all disheveled,
and kept shouting something at him, and was shaking his
upraised hand, seeming to threaten him.
At exactly a quarter of one Sanin appeared at Polozov's.
The carriage, hitched to four hourses, was already standing at
the hotel gate. On seeing Sanin, Polozov merely said: “Ah!
you decided to go?" and, having put on his hat, his coat, and
his galoshes, and having stuffed cotton in his ears, although
it was summer, he went out onto the steps. On his orders, the
waiters had lined the inside of the carriage with his numerous
SPRING TORRENTS
379
purchases, had surrounded his seat with silk pillows, little
bags, and parcels, put a hamper of provisions at his feet, and
tied his trunk to the box. Polozov tipped everyone generously
—and respectfully, supported from behind by the obliging
doorman, he climbed, groaning, into the carriage, settled
down, patted everything around him down well, took out a
cigar and lit it-and only then beckoned to Sanin with his
finger, as if to say: “Now you climb in, too!" Sanin took a seat
beside him. Polozov, through the doorman, told the coachman
to drive carefully if he wanted a tip; the footboards came up
with a crash, the doors slammed shut, the carriage rolled off.
XXXIII
From Frankfurt to Wiesbaden is now less than an hour by
rail; in those days the express post could do it in about three
hours. Horses were changed five times. Polozov half dozed,
and swayed back and forth, holding his cigar in his teeth
and talking very little; he did not look out the window once,
he was not interested in scenic views and even announced:
"Nature is the death of me!" Sanin, also, was silent and also
did not admire the view: he was in no mood for it. He was
completely absorbed in thoughts and memories. At the sta-
tions, Polozov carefully paid his fare, noted the time on his
watch and rewarded the drivers a little or a lot, depending on
their zeal. At the halfway point, he took two oranges out of
the food hamper and, having chosen the better one, offered
Sanin the other. Sanin looked hard at his traveling companion
and suddenly broke into a laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" asked the latter, carefully
taking the skin off the orange with his short white nails.
"What at?" Sanin repeated. "At this trip of yours and mine.'
“What about it?” Polozov asked, putting into his mouth one
of those longitudinal sections into which the inside of an
orange is divided.
"
"It's very strange. Yesterday, I must say, I thought as little
about you as about the emperor of China-and today I'm
riding along with you to sell my estate to your wife, about
whom I haven't the least idea."
"All kinds of things happen," replied Polozov. “Just live
a bit longer-you'll get to see everything. For example, can
you imagine me riding along as an orderly officer? But I did,
and the Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich gave the order: ‘At
a trot, at a trot for that fat cornet! Trot faster!'"
380
IVAN TURGENEV
"Tell me, please, Ippolit Sidorych, what's your wife like?
What sort of disposition has she? It's important for me to
know."
"It's all right for him to order: "Trot!" Polozov put in with
sudden vehemence, "but what about me . . . how's it for me?
So I thought: keep your ranks and your epaulettes-the hell
with them! Yes. . . . You were asking about my wife? What
about my wife? A human being, like everybody. Don't get
her back up-she doesn't like that. Most important, talk a
lot... so she has something to laugh at. Tell her about your
love, now-but rather amusingly, you know."
"What do you mean, rather amusingly?"
"Why, just that. You were just telling me you're in love,
want to get married. Well, now, describe it all to her."
Sanin was offended. "What do you find amusing in that?”
Polozov merely rolled his eyes. Juice from the orange ran
down his chin.
"Your wife sent you to Frankfurt to shop?" Sanin asked a
little while later.
"She did."
"For what kind of things?”
"The usual: toys."
"Toys? You have children?”
Polozov even moved back from Sanin.
"Heavens! Why would I have children! Women's colifichets
Finery. Toilet articles."
“Do you know anything about all that?”
"I do."
"Why did you tell me, then, that you never have anything
to do with what your wife does?"
"In other things I don't. But this-it's nothing. Out of
boredom, I can do that. And, besides, my wife trusts my taste.
I'm clever at bargaining, too."
Polozov was beginning to talk jerkily; he was already tired.
"And your wife's very rich?"
"Rich enough, yes, indeed. Only mostly for herself."
"However, I think you can't complain, can you?"
"That's why I'm her husband. The idea of my not taking
advantage of it! And I'm a useful fellow for her! With me
she's in clover! I'm convenient!"
Polozov wiped his face with a foulard handkerchief and
puffed heavily. "Spare me," he seemed to say, "don't make
me talk. You see how hard it is for me."
Sanin left him alone, and sank into thought again.
SPRING TORRENTS
381
The hotel in Wiesbaden in front of which the carriage
stopped really looked like a palace. Little bells immediately
started ringing somewhere inside; a great bustle and fuss
arose; handsome servants in black dress coats began jumping
about at the main entrance; a doorman covered with gold
opened the carriage doors with a flourish.
Like some victorious hero, Polozov got out of the carriage
and started going up the staircase, sweet-smelling and covered
with carpeting. A man, also excellently dressed, but with a
Russian face, flew down to meet him—his valet. Polozov re-
marked to him that henceforth he would always take him
along, for, in Frankfurt the night before, he, Polozov, had
been left for the night without hot water! The valet's face
showed he was horrified, and, deftly bending down, he took
off his master's galoshes.
"Is Maria Nikolaevna in?" Polozov asked.
"Yes, sir. She's dressing. She'll be dining at Countess
Lasunskaia's.
>>
“Ah! At her place. . . . Wait! There are things in the car-
riage; take them all out yourself and bring them in. And you,
Dmitri Pavlovich," Polozov added, "get yourself a room, and
- come in in three-quarters of an hour. We'll have dinner
together."
Polozov went waddling off, and Sanin asked for a room
that was inexpensive, and, having put his things in order and
rested a little, set out for the enormous suite occupied by
his Serene Highness (Durchlaucht) Prince von Polozóff.
He found this "prince" sitting in state in a most luxurious
velvet armchair in the middle of a most splendid drawing
room. Sanin's phlegmatic friend had already managed to have
a bath and garb himself in a very rich satin dressing gown;
he had put a raspberry-colored fez on his head. Sanin drew
near him and for a while looked him up and down. Polozov
sat motionless, like an idol; he did not even turn his face to
one side, did not even raise an eyebrow, did not make a
sound. The spectacle was truly magnificent! Having admired
him for a minute or two, Sanin was just about to say some-
thing, to break this holy silence, when suddenly the door of
the next room opened and there appeared on the threshold
a young, beautiful lady in a white silk dress with black lace,
and diamonds on her hands and around her throat-Maria
Nikolaevna Polozova herself. Her thick blond hair fell down
on both sides of her head-braided, but not pinned up.
:
382
IVAN TURGENEV
1
XXXIV
“Oh, excuse me!" she said with a half-embarrassed, half-
mocking smile, instantly catching the end of one braid in her
hand and fixing her big, grey, bright eyes on Sanin. "I didn't
think you'd come yet.'
"
"Sanin, Dmitri Pavlovich, my childhood friend," said
Polozov, without, as before, turning to him and without get-
ting up, but pointing to him with his finger.
"Yes... I know.... You already told me. I'm very pleased
to meet you. But I wanted to ask you to do something, Ippolit
Sidorych. My maid's somehow so scatter-brained today. . . :
"Put up your hair?”
"
“Yes, yes, please. Excuse me," Maria Nikolaevna repeated
with the same smile as before, nodded to Sanin, and, quickly
turning around, disappeared behind the door, leaving the
fleeting but pleasing impression of a charming neck, marvel-
ous shoulders, and a marvelous figure.
Polozov rose and, waddling heavily, went out through the
same door.
Sanin did not for an instant doubt that his presence in
"Prince Polozov's" drawing room had been perfectly well
known to the mistress herself; the whole gambit was to show
off her hair, which was, indeed, very fine. Sanin was even
inwardly glad of this little trick of Madame Polozova's. "If,”
he thought, “she wanted to impress me, to show off in front
of me, maybe-who knows?-she'll be complaisant about the
price of the estate, too.” His heart was so filled with Gemma
that all other women had no significance for him at all: he
hardly noticed them; and this time he confined himself to the
thought: "Yes, I was told the truth: this lady's quite some-
thing!"
But if he had not been in such an exclusively spiritual
state, he would probably have put things differently: Maria
Nikolaevna Polozova, née Kolyshkina, was a very remarkable
person. Not that she was a real beauty: traces of her plebeian
origin were even rather obvious in her. Her forehead was
low, her nose somewhat fleshy and turned-up; she could not
boast either of delicate skin or elegant hands and feet-but
what did all this signify? Any man who ran into her would
have stopped, not before a "sacred thing of beauty," to use
Pushkin's phrase, but before the fascination of a powerful,
SPRING TORRENTS
383
half-Russian, half-gypsy, blooming, woman's body-and would
not have stopped involuntarily!
But Gemma's image protected Sanin, like that triple armor
of which the poets sing.
Some ten minutes later Maria Nikolaevna appeared again
accompanied by her husband. She went up to Sanin-and
she walked in such a way that some crackpots in that—alas!—
now long-gone time went out of their minds just from the way
she walked. "When this woman comes toward you, it's as if
she were carrying all the happiness of your life to meet you,'
one of them used to say. She went up to Sanin and, holding
her hand out to him, said in her soft and seemingly restrained
voice, in Russian: "You'll wait for me, won't you? I'll be right
back."
"
Sanin bowed respectfully, but Maria Nikolaevna had al-
ready disappeared behind the portière of the main door and,
on her way out, had again looked over her shoulder and
again smiled, and again left behind that previous, pleasing
impression.
When she smiled, not one or two but three little dimples
appeared on each cheek, and her eyes smiled more than her
lips, than her long, bright red, delicious lips with two tiny
moles on the left side of them.
Polozov stumbled into the room, and again parked him-
self in the armchair. He kept silent as before, but a strange
ironic grin from time to time came over his colorless and
already wrinkled cheeks.
He looked old, though he was only three years older than
Sanin.
The dinner with which he entertained his guest would, of
course, have satisfied the most exacting gourmet, but to Sanin
it seemed endless and unbearable. Polozov ate slowly, "with
feeling, with intelligence, without haste," intently bending
over the plate, sniffing almost every bite, at first rinsing out
his mouth with the wine, then swallowing it, and smacking
his lips.
.. Over the entrée he suddenly started talking—
but about what? About merino sheep, of which he was
planning to order a whole flock-and in such detail, with such
tenderness, using affectionate diminutives. Having drunk a
cup of boiling-hot coffee (he had several times reminded the
waiter, in a teary, irritated voice, that yesterday he had been
served coffee as cold as ice!) and having bit off the end of a
Havana cigar with his crooked, yellow teeth, he dozed off,
as was his habit. Sanin, delighted, began walking back and
•
384
IVAN TURGENEV
2
forth on the soft rug with noiseless steps and dreamed about
how he and Gemma would live together and with what news
he would go back to her. Polozov, however, woke up earlier
than usual, as he himself remarked; he had slept only an
hour and a half. And, after drinking a glass of seltzer water
with ice and swallowing some eight spoonfuls of jam-of
Russian jam, which was brought him by his valet in a dark
green, real “Kiev” jar, and without which, according to what
he said, he could not live-he fixed his puffy eyes on Sanin
and asked him if he didn't want to play a little Old Maid.
Sanin willingly agreed; he was afraid that Polozov might
again start talking about dear little lambs, about lovely little
ewes, and about curly little sheep with cute, fat tails. The
host and the guest both went into the living room, the waiter
brought in some cards, and the game began, though not for
money, of course.
Maria Nikolaevna, returning from Countess Lasunskaia's,
came on them at this innocent pastime.
She burst out laughing loudly as soon as she entered the
room and saw the cards and the open card table. Sanin
jumped up, but she exclaimed:
"Sit down and play. I'll change right away and join you,"
and again disappeared, rustling her dress and pulling off her
gloves as she went.
Indeed, she soon returned. She had changed her smart
dress for a loose, silk, lavender gown with open, hanging
sleeves; a thick, twisted cord was around her waist. She sat
down by her husband and, having waited until he was the
Old Maid, said to him: "Now, Dumpling, that's enough!"
(Sanin glanced at her in amazement at the word "dumpling,"
but she smiled cheerfully, answering his glance by a glance
and showing all the dimples in her cheeks.) "That's enough;
I can see you want to go to sleep; kiss my hand and go off to
bed, and Mr. Sanin and I will have a little chat together."
"I'm not sleepy," said Polozov, rising cumbrously from his
chair, "but going to bed, now-why, I will, and I'll kiss your
hand." She offered him her palm, without ceasing to smile
or taking her eyes off Sanin.
Polozov also glanced at him, and left without saying good-
night.
"Now, tell me, tell me,” said Maria Nikolaevna animatedly,
at once putting both her bare elbows on the table and im-
patiently tapping the nails of one hand with those of the
other. "Is it true you're getting married, as I've heard?"
SPRING
385
TORRENTS
Having said this, Maria Nikolaevna even bent her head a
little to one side to look into Sanin's eyes more intently and
more piercingly.
XXXV
Madame Polozova's familiar manner would at first probably
have embarrassed Sanin-although he was no tyro and had
been about a good deal-had he not seen this very familiarity
and over-freeness as a good portent for his undertaking.
"We'll humor the whims of this rich lady," he decided to
himself, and answered her just as casually as she had asked
her question.
"Yes, I am."
"To whom? A foreigner?"
"Yes."
"You just met her? In Frankfurt?"
"That's right."
"And who is she? May I ask?”
"You may. She's a confectioner's daughter.”
Maria Nikolaevna opened her eyes wide and raised her
eyebrows.
"Oh, that's charming," she said slowly, "that's marvelous!
I didn't think there were any more young men like you left
in the world. A confectioner's daughter!"
"That surprises you, I see," Sanin remarked, not without
some dignity. "But, first of all, I don't have any of those
prejudices-"
“First of all, it doesn't surprise me a bit,” Maria Nikolaevna
interrupted. “I haven't any prejudices, either. I'm the daughter
of a peasant myself. Well? I beat you there, didn't I? It sur-
prises me and delights me that here is a man who isn't afraid
of loving. Because you love her, don't you?"
"Yes."
"She's very good-looking?"
Sanin winced slightly at this last question. . . . But this was
not the time to give in.
"You know, Maria Nikolaevna,” he began, “that for every
man the face of the woman he loves seems better than all
others, but my fiancée is really beautiful."
"Actually? In what way? The Italian? The classic?"
"Yes, she has very regular features."
"You don't have her portrait with you”
386
IVAN TURGENEV
"No." (At that time, there was no mention even of photo-
graphs. Daguerreotypes were just beginning to be popular.)
"What's her name?”
"Gemma."
"And yours?"
"Dmitri."
"Patronymic?"
"Pavlovich."
"You know what," said Maria Nikolaevna in the same slow
voice. "I like you very much, Dmitri Pavlovich. I'm sure you
must be a good man. Give me your hand. Let's be friends."
She pressed his hand hard with her strong, beautiful, white
fingers. Her hand was somewhat smaller than his-but much
warmer, and smoother, and softer, and more full of life.
"Only you know what occurs to me?”
"What?"
"You won't be angry? No? She's your fiancée, you say. But
really-really was that absolutely necessary?"
Sanin frowned.
"I don't understand you, Maria Nikolaevna.”
Maria Nikolaevna laughed softly and, shaking her head,
tossed back the hair that had fallen onto her cheeks.
"He is delightful, absolutely," she said half-thoughtfully,
half-absent-mindedly. "A knight! Now, after this, just try to
believe those who say that the idealists are all dead!”
Maria Nikolevna spoke Russian the whole time with a sur-
prisingly pure, true Moscow accent-the way the people talk,
rather than the nobility.
"Most likely you were brought up at home, in an old-fash-
ioned, God-fearing family?" she asked. "You're from which
province?"
"Tula."
“Well, then we're neighbors . . . But you know who my
father was?”
"Yes, I do."
"He was born in Tula . . . A Tula man. Well, good enough.
." (Maria Nikolaevna deliberately pronounced "good
enough" exactly as the shopkeepers do-"gudnuf.") So, now
let's get down to business."
“That is . . . What's this getting down to business? What do
you mean by that?"
Maria Nikolaevna half-closed her eyes.
"But what did you come here for?" (When she half-closed
her eyes, their expression became very tender and a little
SPRING TORRENTS
· 387
derisive; when she opened them wide, something evil came
through their bright, almost cold, gleam-something threaten-
ing. Her thick, slightly raised, really sable-like eyebrows lent
her eyes a special beauty.) "You want me to buy your estate?
You need money for your wedding? Isn't that right?"
"Yes, I do."
"And do you want much?”
"I would be satisfied with a few thousand francs to start
with. Your husband knows my estate. You can ask his advice;
I would take a very reasonable price."
Maria Nikolaevna swung her head to the right and to the
left.
"First of all," she began slowly, tapping the lapel of Sanin's
frock coat with the ends of her fingers, "it's not my habit to
consult with my husband, except for clothes-he's splendid at
that for me; and secondly, why do you say you'll set a very
reasonable price? I don't want to take advantage of the fact
that you're very much in love now and prepared to make all
kinds of sacrifices. . . . I won't accept any sacrifices from you.
What? Instead of encouraging your-well, how'll I say it best?
-noble feelings, say, shall I try to fleece you? That's not the
way I do things. When it comes down to it, I don't let people
off easy-only not in that way."
Sanin could not understand at all whether she was making
fun of him or speaking seriously, and merely thought to him-
self: "Oh, indeed with you one must keep his eyes open."
A servant came in with a Russian samovar, a tea service,
cream, rusks, etc., on a large tray, set all this bliss out on the
table between Sanin and Madame Polozova, and went out.
She poured him a cup of tea.
"You don't mind?" she asked, putting the sugar into his cup
with her fingers, though the sugar-tongs were lying right
there.
"Heavens! ... From such a beautiful hand
He did not finish the sentence and almost choked over a
mouthful of tea, and she watched him intently and serenely.
“I mentioned a very reasonable price for my estate,” he
went on, "because, since you're now abroad, I can't expect
you to have much ready cash and, finally, I myself feel that
the sale . . . or purchase of an estate under such conditions is
something out of the ordinary, and I must take that into
consideration."
•
Sanin became embarrassed and confused, but Maria Niko-
laevna quietly leaned against the back of her chair, folded
388
IVAN TURGENEV
A
her hands, and kept looking at him in the same intent and
serene way. He finally fell silent.
"
"Never mind, go on, go on,” she said, as if coming to his
rescue. “I'm listening to you-I like listening to you: go on.
Sanin started describing his estate, how many acres it had,
where it was, what kind of farmland and forest it had, and
what profits one could get from it-he even mentioned the
picturesque setting of the manor house; but Maria Nikolaevna
kept looking and looking at him, more and more brightly and
intently, and her lips just barely moved, without smiling: she
was biting them. Finally he felt completely awkward: he fell
silent a second time.
"Dmitri Pavlovich," Maria Nikolaevna began-and sank
into thought. "Dmitri Pavlovich," she repeated, “you
know what? I'm sure that the purchase of your estate is a
very profitable bit of business for me and that we'll agree
on the terms, but you must give me . . . two days—yes, two
days. After all, you can be separated from your fiancée for
two days, can't you? I won't keep you any longer, against your
will-I give you my word. But if you need five, six thousand
francs right away, I'm ready to lend them to you with great
pleasure-and we'll settle later."
Sanin got up.
"I must thank you, Maria Nikolaevna, for your kind and
heart-warming readiness to help a person practically un-
known to you. . . . But if this is what's most convenient for
you, I'd prefer to wait for your decision about my estate-
I'll stay here two days.”
"Yes, that's most convenient for me, Dmitri Pavlovich. But
will it be very hard for you? Very? Tell me.”
"I love my fiancée, Maria Nikolaevna, and being separated
from her is not easy for me."
“Ah, you're an angel!” said Maria Nikolaevna with a sigh.
"I promise not to torment you too much. You're going?”
"It's late," Sanin observed.
"And you have to rest after the trip, and after the game of
Old Maid with my husband. Tell me-you're a close friend of
Ippolit Sidorych, my husband?"
"We were at the same boarding school."
“And even then he was like this?”
"What does 'this' mean?" asked Sanin.
Maria Nikolaevna suddenly laughed, laughed until her
whole face was red, put her handkerchief to her lips, got up
SPRING TORRENTS
389
from her chair-and, swaying as if very tired, went up to
Sanin and held out her hand to him.
He said good-bye and started for the door.
"Please come very early tomorrow, do you hear?" she
called after him. He glanced back as he was leaving the room
and saw that she had again sunk into the armchair and
thrown both hands up behind her head. The loose sleeves of
her gown had fallen down almost to her shoulders-and it
could not be denied that the pose of those arms, that her
whole figure was fascinatingly beautiful.
XXXVI
The lamp in Sanin's room burned long after midnight. He
was sitting at a table and writing "his Gemma." He had told
her everything, described the Polozovs to her-husband and
wife-expatiated more about his own feelings, and ended with
setting a meeting with her in three days!!! (with three excla-
mation marks). Early in the morning he took this letter to the
mailbox and then went for a walk in the Kurhaus garden,
where music was already being played. There were few peo-
ple yet; he stood for a while in front of the arbor where
the orchestra was, listened to a pot-pourri from Robert le
Diable, and, having had some coffee, set out along a lonely
side alley, sat down on a bench, and became lost in thought.
The handle of a parasol tapped him briskly, and rather
hard on the shoulder. He gave a start. . . . In front of him,
in a light, greyish-green Barèges dress, a white tulle hat and
suède gloves, fresh and pink as a summer morning, but with
the languor of a peaceful night's sleep still in her movements
and her eyes, stood Maria Nikolaevna.
"Hello,” she said. “I sent for you today, but you had already
gone out. I've just had my second glass-I have to drink the
water here, you know-God knows why . . . am I not healthy?
So now I have to take a walk for a whole hour. Do you want
to be my companion on the walk? And then we'll drink some
coffee."
"I already have," said Sanin rising, "but I'm very glad to
walk with you.”
“Well, let me have your arm. . Don't be afraid: your
fiancée isn't here-she won't see you."
•
>>
Sanin gave a forced smile. He had an unpleasant feeling
every time Maria Nikolaevna reminded him of Gemma. How-
ever, he leaned toward her hurriedly and obediently. Maria
390
IVAN TURGENEV
Nikolaevna's hand came slowly and softly down onto his arm,
and slid along it, and seemed to cling to it.
"Let's go-this way," she said to him, putting up her
opened parasol over her shoulder. "In this park I feel I'm at
home: I'll take you to the good places. And you know what"
(she often used these three words): "you and I won't talk
about that purchase now; we can discuss it thoroughly after
lunch; but now you must tell me about yourself-so that I'll
know with whom I'm dealing. And afterwards, if you want,
I'll tell you about myself. Do you agree?"
“But, Maria Nikolaevna, what can there be of interest for
you...
"Wait, wait. You didn't understand me correctly. I don't
want to flirt with you." Maria Nikolaevna shrugged her shoul-
ders. “He has a fiancée like an antique statue, and I'm going
to flirt with him? But you have something to sell-and I'm a
buyer. Now, I want to know what kind of goods you've got.
Well, show me—what are they? I want to know not only what
I'm buying, but also from whom I'm buying. That was my
father's rule. Well, begin. . . . Well, if not from childhood-
well, now, have you been abroad long? And where were you
until now? Only go slower, we're in no hurry."
"I came here from Italy, where I spent several months.”
"Obviously you feel a special attraction for everything
Italian? It's strange you didn't find your beloved there. You
like art? Paintings? Or music perhaps more?"
"I like art . . . I like everything beautiful.”
"Music, too?"
“And music, too.”
"I don't like it at all. I like only Russian songs-and then
only in the country, in spring-with dancing, you know....
The red calicoes, the strings of beads around the heads, the
young grass in the pasture, the smell of smoke. . . . It's won-
derful! But we weren't talking about me. Go on, tell me
more."
Maria Nikolaevna walked on, but kept constantly looking
at Sanin. She was tall-her face came almost up to the same
level as his.
He started telling about himself-reluctantly at first, clum-
sily, but then he warmed up, and was even chatty. Maria
Nikolaevna listened very sensibly; besides, she herself seemed
so candid that she inevitably provoked candor in others. She
had that great gift of "intimacy"-le terrible don de la famili-
SPRING TORRENTS
391
arité, which Cardinal Retz speaks of. Sanin talked about his
travels, about life in Petersburg, about his youth. . . . Had
Maria Nikolaevna been a society lady with refined manners,
he would never have opened up like that, but she herself
called herself a good fellow who wouldn't put up with any
formalities; that was exactly how she described herself to
Sanin. And at the same time there was something catlike in
the way this "good fellow" was walking along beside him,
lightly rubbing up against him and glancing up into his face;
was walking along in the guise of a young female creature
giving off that enticing and tormenting, that quiet and searing 2
air of seduction with which only Slav natures-and only some
of them; not those of pure blood, but only those with mixed
blood-are able to plague us sinful, weak men!
Sanin's walk with Maria Nikolaevna, Sanin's talk with
Maria Nikolaevna, lasted over an hour. And they did not
stop once-they kept walking and walking along the endless
alleys of the park, sometimes going up a hill and admiring
the view as they went, sometimes going down into a dale and
becoming hidden in impenetrable shade-and all the time.
arm in arm. At moments, Sanin even became annoyed: he
had never taken such a long walk with Gemma, with his
sweet Gemma . . . and here this lady had gotten hold of him-
and he could do nothing about it.
"Aren't you tired?” he asked her more than once.
"I never get tired," she replied.
From time to time they met others out for a walk; they
almost all bowed to her-some respectfully, others even obse-
quiously. To one of them, a very handsome, smartly dressed,
dark-haired man, she called from a distance, in the very best
Parisian accent: "Comte, vous savez, il ne faut pas venir me
voir—ni aujourd'hui, ni demain." He silently took off his hat
and bowed very low.
"Who's that?" asked Sanin, from the bad habit of "being
curious," peculiar to all Russians.
"That? A little Frenchman-there are a lot of them running
around here. He's one of my admirers also. However, it's
time for coffee now. Let's go home. You, I'm sure, have be-
come hungry. My lord and master, I suppose, has unbuttoned
his eyes now.
"
• •
"My lord and master! Unbuttoned his eyes!" Sanin repeated
to himself. . . . “And she speaks such excellent French.
What a queer one!"
392
IVAN TURGENEV
Maria Nikolaevna was not wrong. When she got back to
the hotel together with Sanin, her "lord and master," or
"dumpling," was already sitting, with the inevitable fez on
his head, in front of a table all set.
"I've been waiting and waiting for you!" he exclaimed,
making a sour face. "I was about to have coffee without you.
"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," Maria Nikolaevna
retorted gaily. "Are you angry? That's good for you: or you'll
stiffen up completely. Here, now, I've brought a guest. Ring
quickly! Let's drink some coffee; coffee-the very best coffee-
in Saxony cups, on a snow-white tablecloth!”
"3
She slipped off her hat and gloves, and clapped her hands.
Polozov glanced at her scowlingly.
"Why are you feeling so good today, Maria Nikolaevna?”
he said in a low voice.
“That's none of your business, Ippolit Sidorych! Ring!
Dmitri Pavlovich, sit down-and have some coffee a second
time! Ah, how much fun to give orders! There's no other
such pleasure in the world!"
"When they're obeyed," her husband again muttered.
"Exactly, when they're obeyed! That's what makes it fun
for me. Especially with you. Isn't that right, Dumpling? And
here's the coffee."
On the enormous tray with which the waiter had appeared
there was also a theater playbill. Maria Nikolaevna imme-
diately snatched it up.
"A drama!" she said indignantly; "a German drama. It
doesn't matter: that's better than a German comedy. Order a
box for me-a baignoire-or no... better the Fremden-Loge,"
she said to the waiter. "You hear: the Fremden-Loge posi-
tievly!"
"But if the Fremden-Loge is already taken by His Excel-
lency the City Manager (seine Excellenz der Herr Stadt-
Direktor)?" the waiter was bold enough to reply.
"Give His Excellency ten thalers-but be sure the box is
mine! You hear!"
The waiter submissively and sadly bowed his head.
"Dmitri Pavlovich, you'll go to the theater with me? Ger-
man actors are dreadful, but you'll go? . . . Yes? Good! How
kind you are! Dumpling, you're not going?"
"Whatever you say," said Polozov into the cup which he
had raised to his mouth.
"You know what: stay here. You always sleep in the thea-
ter-and you understand German badly, besides. You do this
SPRING TORRENTS
393
instead: write an answer to the steward-you remember, about
our mill... about the peasants' grinding. Tell him I won't,
I won't, and I won't! There's something to keep you busy all
evening....
"Yes'm," responded Polozov.
"Well, that's splendid. You're my clever boy. And now,
gentlemen, since we've started talking about the steward,
let's discuss our main business. Just as soon, now, as the
waiter clears the table, you'll tell us all, Dmitri Pavlovich,
about your estate-what price you're selling it for, how, and
what, how much deposit you want in advance-in short,
everything!" ("At last," thought Sanin, "thank God!") "You've
already told me some things-described your orchard, I re-
member, marvelously-but Dumpling wasn't there. Let him
listen a bit-he always has something to mumble about! It's
very pleasant for me to think that I can help you get married
-besides, I've already promised you to get down to business
with you after breakfast, and I always keep my promises,
don't I, Ippolit Sidorych?”
Polozov rubbed his face with his palm.
"The truth is the truth: you don't deceive anybody."
"Never! and I never will. Well, Dmitri Pavlovich, state your
case, as we say in the Senate."
XXXVII
Sanin started "stating his case"-that is, describing his
estate again, a second time, but no longer touching on the
beauties of nature-and from time to time referring to Polozov
for confirmation of "facts and figures" introduced. But Polozov
merely grunted and shook his head-approvingly or disapprov-
ingly, God Himself, probably, would have had a hard time
saying. Maria Nikolaevna, however, did not need his help.
She showed such commercial and administrative abilities as
one could only wonder at! She knew perfectly all the ins and
outs of running an estate: she asked about everything pre-
cisely, went into every detail; everything she said hit its mark,
put the dot on every "i." Sanin had not expected such an
examination: he was unprepared. And this examination lasted
a whole hour and a half. He experienced all the feelings of
a defendant sitting on a narrow bench in front of a harsh and
penetrating judge. "It's a cross-examination!" he whispered
miserably to himself. Maria Nikolaevna kept laughing softly
all the time, as if she were joking, but that made things no
394
IVAN TURGENEV
easier for Sanin; and when during the "cross-examination” it
turned out that he did not completely clearly understand the
meaning of the words "re-allotment" and "tillage," he even
broke into a sweat.
"Well, fine!" Maria Nikolaevna decided at last. "Now I
know your estate .. as well as you do. What price do you
want per peasant?" (At that time, the price of estates was,
of course, figured according to the number of peasants.)
“Well . . . I think . . . I can't take less than five hundred
rubles," Sanin said with difficulty. (O Pantaleone, Panta-
leone, where are you? Now's the time for you to shout out
again: Barbari!)
•
Maria Nikolaevna raised her eyes on high, as if consider-
ing it.
"Why not?" she said finally. "That price seems to me harm-
less enough. But I stipulated two days and you must wait
until tomorrow. I think we'll agree, and then you can say how
much you want down. But now basta così!" she put in, notic-
ing that Sanin was about to make an objection. "We've spent
enough time on filthy lucre . . . à demain les affaires! You
know what: I'll let you go now" (she glanced at the little
enamel watch tucked into her belt) .. until three. You
must be allowed to rest. Go play a little roulette.”
<<
"I never play games of chance," Sanin remarked.
"Really? You're perfection. However, I don't play, either.
It's silly to throw money to the wind. But go into the gam-
bling hall, look at the faces. Some really amusing ones turn
up. There's one old woman there with a ferronnière and a
moustache—marvelous! There's one of our princes there-he's
good, too. A majestic figure, a nose like an eagle's, bets a
thaler and secretly crosses himself under his vest. Read the
journals, walk around-in short, do what you want. . . But I'll
be expecting you at three . . . de pied ferme. We'll have to
eat dinner a little earlier. The theater among these silly Ger-
mans starts at six-thirty." She held out her hand. "Sans
rancune, n'est-ce pas?”
"Heavens, Maria Nikolaevna, what have I to be annoyed
at you for?”
"For having tormented you. Wait a bit, I haven't really
yet," she added, half-closing her eyes and all her dimples
appeared at once on her crimsoned cheeks. "Until later!"
Sanin bowed and went out. A merry laugh rang out behind
him—in the mirror which he was passing at that moment this
scene was reflected: Maria Nikolaevna had pushed her hus-
SPRING TORRENTS
395
band's fez down over his eyes, and he was helplessly strug-
gling with both hands.
XXXVIII
Oh, how deeply and joyfully Sanin sighed as soon as he
found himself in his own room! Indeed, Maria Nikolaevna had
spoken truthfully-he needed to rest, to rest from all these new
acquaintances, encounters, conversations, from the smoke and
fumes which had gotten into his head, into his soul-from this
unforeseen, unasked-for intimacy with a woman so alien to
him! And when was all this happening? Practically the day
after he had learned that Gemma loved him, that he had
become her fiancé! Why, it was a sacrilege! A thousand times
in his thoughts he begged forgiveness from his pure, chaste
darling-although actually he could not accuse himself of
anything; a thousand times he kissed the little cross she had
given him. Had he had no hope of speedily and successfully
finishing the business for which he had come to Wiesbaden,
he would have rushed back again headlong to his dear Frank-
furt, to that dear, already kindred home, to her, to her adored
feet... But there was nothing he could do! He had to drain
the cup to the bottom, had to get dressed, go have dinner-
and then go to the theater. . . . If only she would let him go
as soon as possible tomorrow!
One other thing bothered him, made him angry: he thought
of Gemma with love, with tender emotion, with grateful
delight, of his life together with her, of the happiness which
lay ahead of him in the future-and meanwhile this strange
woman, this Madame Polozova, constantly drifted along .
no! not drifted along-loomed up-thus Sanin put it with spe-
cial vindictiveness-loomed up before his eyes, and he could
not get free of her image, could not stop hearing her voice,
remembering what she said-could not help but sense even
that special scent, delicate, fresh, and penetrating, like the
smell of yellow lilies, that came from her clothes. This lady
was clearly making a fool of him, getting around him this
way and that. . . . Why? What did she want? Was it just the
whim of a spoiled, rich, and most likely immoral woman?
And that husband! What kind of creature was he? What
were his relations with her? And why were these questions
creeping into his head, when he, Sanin, really had nothing
to do with either Polozov or his wife? Why couldn't he drive
that importunate image away even when he was turned body
396
IVAN TURGENEV
and soul to another, as bright and clear as the daylight of
God's world? How dared-through those other, almost divine
features-these slip through? And they didn't just slip through
-they grinned impudently. These grey, predatory eyes, these
dimples on the cheeks, these snakelike braids-was it all now
really as good as stuck to him; and couldn't he, wasn't he
able, to shake it off, to throw it all away?
Nonsense! Nonsense! It'll all disappear tomorrow anyway
without a trace. ... But would she let him go tomorrow?
Yes. . . He put all these questions to himself-but when it
was getting near three o'clock, he put on his black dress coat
and, having walked in the park a little, headed for Polozov's.
In their living room he found an embassy secretary, a
German, very tall, blond, with a horse-like profile and his hair
parted in the back (that was still something new then), and
oh, wonders! whom else but von Dönhof, that same
officer with whom he had fought just a few days before! He
had not at all expected to run into him here-and involun-
tarily he was confused, but exchanged hellos with him none-
theless.
"You know each other?” Maria Nikolaevna asked, by whom
Sanin's embarrassment had not gone unnoticed.
"Yes. . . I've already had the honor," said Dönhof, and,
bowing slightly in Maria Nikolaevna's direction, added in a
low voice, with a smile: "The same man.
Your com-
>>
patriot . . . the Russian . . .
"Impossible!" she exclaimed, also in a low voice, shook
her finger at him, and immediately started saying good-bye
both to him and to the lanky secretary who, from all the
signs, was head over heels in love with her, for he gaped
every time he looked at her. Dönhof left immediately, with
courteous acquiescence, like a friend of the family who at a
hint understands what is being asked of him; the secretary
rather balked, but Maria Nikolaevna showed him out without
further formalities.
"Go on to your sovereign lady," she told him (in Wiesbaden
at that time there lived a certain principessa di Monaco, who
strikingly resembled a poor cocotte). "Why should you stay
with such a plebeian as me?"
"Please, madam," the hapless secretary asserted, "all the
principesse in the world . . .”
>>
But Maria Nikolaevna was merciless-and the secretary
went out, along with his hair-do.
SPRING TORRENTS
397
Maria Nikolaevna had that day dressed up very much to
her “advantage,” as our grandmothers used to say. She had
on a pink, glacé silk dress with sleeves à la Fontanges and a big
diamond in each ear. Her eyes were shining no less than the
diamonds: she seemed in high spirits and good form.
She seated Sanin beside her and began talking to him about
Paris, where she was planning to go in a few days, about the
fact that she was fed up with the Germans, that they were
stupid when they tried to be witty, and ineptly witty when
they were being stupid; then suddenly, as they say, point-
blank-à brûle pourpoint-asked him if it was true that he had
fought a duel the other day over a certain lady with that same
officer who had just been there?
"How do you know that?" a surprised Sanin muttered.
"The world is full of talk, Dmitri Pavlovich; but I know
you were right, a thousand times right, and behaved like a
knight. Tell me-this lady-was your fiancée?”
Sanin slightly frowned.
"Well, I won't, I won't," Maria Nikolaevna said quickly.
"It's unpleasant for you; forgive me, I won't! Don't be angry!"
Polozov appeared from the next room with a page from a
newspaper in his hands. "What do you want? Or is dinner
ready?”
•
"Dinner will be served in a minute, but look here, now,
what I read in The Northern Bee. ... Prince Gromoboi's
dead."
Maria Nikolaevna looked up.
"Ah! May he rest in peace! Every year," she turned to
Sanin, “in February, for my birthday, he used to decorate all
the rooms with camellias for me. But it's still not worth living
in Petersburg in the winter for that. Why, I suppose he was
over seventy, wasn't he?" she asked her husband.
"He was. His funeral is described in the paper. The whole
court was there. And here's a poem by Prince Kovrizhkin
about it."
"Well, that's wonderful."
"If you want me to, I'll read it. The Prince calls him a man
of counsel."
"No, don't. What kind of a man of counsel was he! He was
simply Tatiana Iurevna's man. Let's go have dinner. The
living must think of the living. Dmitri Pavlovich, your arm.”
The dinner was, like that the day before, marvelous, and
passed very animatedly. Maria Nikolaevna knew how to tell
398
IVAN TURGENEV
stories-a rare talent in a woman, especially in a Russian
woman. She did not hold back her expressions, and her
fellow-countrywomen, especially, got a good going over from
her. Sanin often had to burst out in hearty laughter at her
witty and pointed remarks. Maria Nikolaevna hated bigotry
most of all, and pompous phrases and lies. . . . She found them
almost everywhere. She seemed to boast, to be proud of the
low-class environment in which her life had begun; she told
rather strange stories about her relatives and family from the
days of her childhood; called herself a poor peasant woman
no worse than Natalia Kirillovna Naryshkina.* It became ob-
vious to Sanin that she had experienced much more in her life
than the majority of women of her age.
Polozov kept on eating thoughtfully, drank intently, and
only now and then glanced either at his wife or at Sanin
with his whitish, seemingly blind, but actually very percep-
tive, eyes.
"Oh, you're my clever boy!" exclaimed Maria Nikolaevna,
turning to him; "how well you did everything I ask you to
in Frankfurt! I'd kiss your little forehead, but you don't much
like that from me."
"I don't,” replied Polozov, and cut a pineapple with a silver
knife.
Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him and tapped her fingers
on the table.
"So our bet's on?" she said meaningfully.
>>
"It's on."
“Right. You'll lose.”
Polozov thrust his chin out.
"Well, this time, no matter how much you count on your-
self, Maria Nikolaevna, I think you're going to lose."
"What's the bet about? May I ask?" asked Sanin.
you can't now," replied Maria Nikolaevna-and
“No ...
laughed.
It struck seven. The waiter announced that the carriage was
at the door. Polozov saw his wife out and then immediately
dragged himself back to his chair.
"Mind now! Don't forget the letter to the steward!" Maria
Nikolaevna shouted to him from the hall.
"I'll write it, don't worry. I'm a careful man.”
The mother of Peter the Great, the second wife of Tsar Aleksei Mikhai-
lovich, came from a very poor family.
SPRING TORRENTS
399
XXXIX
In 1840 the theater in Wiesbaden was terrible, even from
the outside, and its company of actors, by their pompous and
shabby mediocrity, by their assiduous and cheap routine, were
not a hair's breadth above that level which even now can be
considered normal for all German theaters, and the epitome
of which is the Karlsruhe company under the "illustrious"
direction of Herr Devrient. Behind the box taken for "Her
Serene Highness Madame von Polozóff” (God knows how
the waiter managed to get it; maybe he actually had bribed
the Stadt-Direktor!)-behind this box there was a small ves-
tibule with sofas around the walls; before going into it, Maria
Nikolaevna asked Sanin to put up the screen separating the
box from the theater.
"I don't want them to see me," she said, "or they'll be
coming up here right away."
She seated him beside her, his back to the orchestra, so
that the box would seem empty.
The orchestra started playing the overture from The Mar-
riage of Figaro. . . . The curtain went up, the play had begun.
It was one of those numerous, home-grown products in
which well-read but talentless authors, in carefully chosen
but lifeless language, diligently but awkwardly would try to
advance some “profound" or "crucial" idea, present a so-
called tragic conflict, and bring on boredom.. as deadly as
Asian cholera. Maria Nikolaevna listened patiently to half an
act, but when the young lead, having found out about the
betrayal of his beloved (he was dressed in a brown frock
coat with "puffs" and a velveteen collar, a striped vest with
mother-of-pearl buttons, green trousers with patent-leather
shoe-straps, and white chamois gloves), when this lead, press-
ing his two fists to his chest and thrusting his elbows out in
front at a sharp angle, started howling exactly like a dog,
Maria Nikolaevna could take no more.
•
"The worst French actor in the worst little provincial town
plays better and more naturally than the biggest German
celebrity," she exclaimed indignantly, and moved into the
little vestibule. "Come here," she said to Sanin, patting the
sofa beside her. "Let's talk."
Sanin obeyed.
Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him.
"Why, I see you're as meek as a lamb! Your wife'll have
400
IVAN TURGENEV
an easy time of it with you. That clown," she went on,
pointing to the howling actor with the end of her fan (he
was playing the role of a private tutor) "reminded me of
my youth: I was once in love with a teacher, too. That was
my first-no, my second flame. The first time I fell in love
with a lay brother of the Donskoi Monastery. I was twelve.
I used to see him only on Sundays. He wore a velvet cassock,
sprayed himself with eau de lavande, and as he made his way
through the crowd with the censer would say to ladies in
French, 'Pardon, excusez,' and never looked up, and his eye-
lashes were-like that!" Maria Nikolaevna marked off half her
little finger with her thumbnail and held it up to Sanin. "My
teacher was called Monsieur Gaston! I have to tell you 'he was
terribly learned and a very severe man, a Swiss-and with
such an energetic face! His sideburns were as black as pitch;
he had a Greek profile-and his lips seemed cast of iron!
I was scared to death of him! This is the only man whom
I've ever been afraid of in my whole life. He was my brother's
tutor, my brother who later died-drowned. A gypsy has
predicted a violent death for me, too, but that's absurd. I
don't believe it. Can you imagine Ippolit Sidorych with a
dagger?"
"You can die from other things besides a dagger,” Sanin
remarked.
"It's all absurd! Are you superstitious? I'm not a bit. And
what's going to happen has to happen. Monsieur Gaston lived
in our house, right over my head. I used to wake up in the
night and hear his footsteps-he went to bed very late-and
my heart would stop beating in awe . . or from some other
feeling. My father himself could hardly read and write, but
he gave us a good education. Do you know I understand
Latin?"
"You? Latin?”
>>
"Yes-me. Monsieur Gaston taught me. I read the Aeneid
with him. It's a boring thing-but there are good spots in it.
You remember when Dido and Aeneas are in the woods...
"Yes, yes, I do," Sanin said quickly. He himself had long
ago forgotten all his Latin and had only a vague idea of the
Aeneid.
Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him, the way she usually did,
somewhat from one side and looking upward.
"Don't think, though, that I'm very learned. Ah, good Lord,
no! I'm not learned, and I have no special talents. I can
hardly write-really; I can't read out loud, nor play the piano,
SPRING TORRENTS
401
nor draw, nor sew-nothing! That's what I'm like-this is all
there is!"
She spread her arms.
"I'm telling you all this," she continued, "first of all, in
order not to listen to those fools" (she pointed toward the
stage where at that moment, instead of the actor, an actress
was wailing, with her elbows, too, stuck out), "and secondly,
because I'm in debt to you: you told me about yourself
yesterday."
"You asked me to," Sanin observed.
Maria Nikolaevna suddenly turned around to him.
"And you don't want to know just what kind of woman I
am? However, I'm not surprised," she added, again leaning
back on the sofa cushions. "A man who is getting ready to
get married, and for love, and after a duel . . . Why would
he be thinking of anything else?"
Maria Nikolaevna became lost in thought and began biting
the handle of her fan with her large but even, milk-white
teeth.
It seemed to Sanin that his head was again filling up
with
the fog and fumes which he could not get free of-for two
days now.
The conversation between him and Maria Nikolaevna was
being carried on in a low voice, almost in a whisper-and that
irritated and excited him even more. . . .
When was it all going to end?
Weak people never end anything themselves-they always
keep waiting for an end.
On stage someone sneezed; this sneezing had been intro-
duced into the play by the author as the "comic relief" or
"element"; there was, of course, no other comic element in it,
and the audience was delighted with this moment and
laughed.
This laughter, too, irritated Sanin.
There were moments when he really did not know whether
he was angry or delighted, bored or having a good time. Oh,
if Gemma could have seen him!
"Really, it's strange," said Maria Nikolaevna suddenly. "A
man tells you, and in such a calm voice: 'I'm going to get
married'; but nobody'll tell you calmly: 'I'm going to throw
myself in the water.' And what's the difference between
them? It's strange, really."
Annoyance seized Sanin.
402
IVAN TURGENEV
L
"The difference is enormous, Maria Nikolaevna! For some,
throwing yourself in the water isn't terrible at all: they can
swim; and besides . . . as far as the strangeness of marriages
goes... if it's a question of that . . .”
He suddenly fell silent and bit his tongue.
Maria Nikolaevna struck her palm with her fan.
"Finish it, Dmitri Pavlovich, finish it-I know what you
wanted to say. 'If it's a question of that, my dear lady, Maria
Nikolaevna,' you wanted to say, 'one can't imagine a marriage
stranger than yours why, I've known your husband well,
since childhood!' That's what you wanted to say, you swim-
mer!"
"Please," Sanin began...
"Isn't it true? Isn't it true?” Maria Nikolaevna said insist-
ently. "Well, look me in the eye and tell me that I didn't
speak the truth!"
Sanin did not know where to look.
"Well, all right: it's true, if you absolutely insist on
knowing," he finally said.
Maria Nikolaevna nodded.
“Exactly. . . . Indeed. Well, and have you asked yourself,
you swimmer, what might be the reason for this strange
action on the part of a woman who is not poor . . . and not
stupid . . . and not bad-looking? That doesn't interest you,
perhaps; it doesn't matter. I'll tell you the reason, but not
now; just as soon as the intermission is over. I'm always wor-
ried that somebody might come in. . . .'
>>
Maria Nikolaevna had barely managed to get out the last
word when the outer door actually opened halfway-and a
head stuck itself into the box-reddish, oily, perspiring, still
young but already toothless, with straight long hair, a pen-
dulant nose, huge ears like a bat, with gold-rimmed glasses
on inquisitive and dull little eyes and with a pince-nez on top
of the glasses. The head looked around, noticed Maria Niko-
laevna, grinned wretchedly, started nodding. . . . A stringy
neck stretched out behind it.
•
•
Maria Nikolaevna waved her handkerchief at it:
"I'm not in! Ich bin nicht zu Hause, Herr P... ! Ich bin
nicht zu Hause . . . Shoo, shoo!"
The head was taken aback, gave a forced laugh, and said,
as if sobbing, in imitation of Liszt at whose feet it had at
one time groveled: “Sehr gut! sehr gut!”—and vanished.
"What fellow is that?" asked Sanin.
"That? A Wiesbaden critic. A literat or a lohn-lackey,
SPRING TORRENTS
403
whichever you please. He's in the hire of the local contractor,
and therefore he has to praise everything and be ecstatic
about everything, but he himself is filled with foul bile which
he doesn't dare let out. I'm afraid: he's a terrible gossip, he'll
run now and tell everybody that I'm in the theater. But it
makes no difference."
The orchestra played a waltz, the curtain went up again.
... On stage, the face-making and whimpering started again.
"Well, now," began Maria Nikolaevna, sitting down on the
sofa again, "since you're caught and have to sit with me,
instead of enjoying the closeness of your fiancée-don't turn
your eyes up like that and don't be angry-I understand you
and have already promised you I'll let you go, as free as the
wind, but now listen to my confession. You want to know
what I love most of all?”
"Freedom," prompted Sanin.
Maria Nikolaevna put her hand on his.
“Yes, Dmitri Pavlovich," she said, and her voice sounded
special, sounded unquestionably sincere and serious, “free-
dom, more than anything else and before anything else. And
don't think I'm boasting about it-there's nothing to boast
about in it-only that's the way it is, and it always was and
will be like that for me to the day I die. In childhood, I
suppose, I saw my fill of slavery and suffered from it. Well,
Monsieur Gaston, my teacher, opened my eyes. Now, perhaps,
you understand why I married Ippolit Sidorych; with him I'm
free, completely free, like the air, like the wind. . . . And I
knew that before the wedding, I knew that with him I'd be a
free Cossack!”
Maria Nikolaevna fell silent for a moment and tossed her
fan to one side.
"I'll tell you something else: I'm not against thinking things
over . . it's amusing, and, besides, that's what our mind is
for, but about the consequences of what I myself do—I never
think, and when I have to, I'm not sorry for myself-not the
tiniest bit: it's not worth it. I have a saying: "Cela ne tire pas
à conséquence”-I don't know how to say it in Russian. And
indeed: why tire à conséquence? Because nobody's going to
ask me for an accounting here-in this world; and there" (she
raised her finger and pointed up)-"well, there-let them
arrange things as they can. When I'm judged there, I won't be
me! Are you listening to me? You're not bored?”
Sanin was sitting bent over. He raised his head.
"I'm not at all bored, Maria Nikolaevna, and I'm listening
•
3
404
IVAN TURGENEV
to you with interest. Only I . . . confess . . . I'm asking myself,
why are you telling me all this?”
Maria Nikolaevna shifted slightly on the sofa.
"You're asking yourself
•
modest?"
Sanin raised his head still more.
"I'm telling you all this," Maria Nikolaevna continued in a
calm tone, which, however, did not completely correspond
to the expression on her face, "because I like you very much.
Yes, don't be surprised, I'm not joking; because, after having
met you, I would be unhappy thinking that you had an
unpleasant memory of me or even not unpleasant—that
makes no difference to me-but a false one. And therefore I
lured you here, and have stayed alone with you, and have
been talking to you so frankly. . . . Yes, yes, frankly. I'm not
lying. And mind, Dmitri Pavlovich, I know you're in love with
another woman, that you're planning on marrying her.
Do justice to my disinterestedness! However, here's your
chance to say in your turn: Cela ne tire pas à conséquence!”
She laughed, but her laughter suddenly broke off—and she
remained still, as if her own words had astounded her very
being; and in her eyes, usually so merry and bold, flashed
something like timidity, even like sorrow.
"A snake! Ah, she's a snake!" thought Sanin meanwhile,
"but what a lovely snake!”
“Give me my lorgnette," Maria Nikolaevna said suddenly.
"I'd like to see if that jeune première is really so ugly. Really,
one might think that the government gave her the job with
the moral aim that the young men do not get too infatuated."
Sanin handed her her lorgnette, and she, taking it from
him, quickly, but hardly audibly, seized his hand with both
of hers.
•
. . Are you so slow? Or so
•
"Don't be so serious," she whispered with a smile. “You
know what: nobody can put chains on me, but I don't put
chains on anybody, either. I love freedom and don't admit
obligations—and not just for myself. And now move aside a
little, and let's listen to the play."
Maria Nikolaevna turned her lorgnette on the stage and
Sanin started looking there, too, sitting beside her in the semi-
darkness of the box, and breathing in, involuntarily breathing
in the warmth and fragrance of her luxurious body and just
as involuntarily turning over in his own mind everything she
had told him during the evening, especially during the last
few minutes.
SPRING TORRENTS
405
XL
The play lasted more than an hour longer, but Maria
Nikolaevna and Sanin soon stopped looking at the stage. A
conversation started up again between them, and it went
along the same lines as before; only this time Sanin was less
silent. Inside, he was angry both at himself and at Maria
Nikolaevna; he tried to show her the whole superficiality of
her "theory," as if she cared about theory! He started arguing
with her, which secretly delighted her very much: if he
argues, he's either giving in, or will give in. He had taken
the bait, he was yielding, he had stopped being shy of her!
She kept retorting, laughing, agreeing, thinking deeply, at-
tacking... and meanwhile his face and hers grew close
together, his eyes no longer looked away from hers. These
seemed to be wandering as if circling over his features, and
he was smiling back at her-politely, but smiling. He was
also playing into her hands in that he was indulging in
abstractions, discussing the honesty of reciprocal relations,
obligation, the sanctity of love and marriage. . . . It is a well-
known fact that these abstractions are very useful as a
beginning, as a starting point. . . .
People who knew Maria Nikolaevna well used to assert that
when something tender and modest, something practically
virginally coy suddenly broke through her strong and sturdy
being-although you wondered where it came from-then, yes,
then things took a dangerous turn.
It apparently was taking this turn for Sanin, too. He
would have felt scorn for himself if he had managed to con-
centrate for even a moment, but he did not manage either
to concentrate or to scorn himself.
She was losing no time. And this all was happening because
he was very good-looking! Willy-nilly one must say: "How
can you know when you'll find something or lose something?"
The play was over. Maria Nikolaevna asked Sanin to throw
her shawl over her shoulders and did not stir while he
wrapped her truly regal shoulders with the soft material.
Then she took his arm, went out into the corridor-and almost
screamed: right by the door of the box, like a ghost, stood
Dönhof, and filthy little figure of the Wiesbaden critic was
peeping out from behind his back. The oily face of the literat
was radiant with vindictiveness.
"Wouldn't you like me, madam, to fetch you your car-
Į
406
IVAN TURGENEV
riage?" The young officer turned to Maria Nikolaevna with a
quiver of barely restrained fury in his voice.
"No, thank you very much," she replied, "my servant will
get it. Stay here!" she added in a commanding whisper, and
quickly went off, drawing Sanin after her.
"Go to hell! What are you hanging around me for?"
Dönhof suddenly barked at the literat. He had to let off steam
on somebody!
“Sehr gut! Sehr gut!” muttered the literat and cleared out.
Maria Nikolaevna's servant, who had been waiting for her
in the lobby, found her carriage in no time at all and quickly
got into it; Sanin jumped in after her. The doors slammed
shut and Maria Nikolaevna dissolved in laughter.
"What are you laughing at?" Sanin inquired.
“Ah, I'm sorry, please . . . but it just occurred to me: what
if Dönhof and you fight a duel again . . . over me? Wouldn't
that be amazing?”
"You know him very well?" asked Sanin.
"Him? That boy? He runs errands for me. Don't you worry!"
"I'm not worrying at all.”
Maria Nikolaevna sighed.
“Ah, I know you're not. But listen-you know what: you're
so sweet, you can't refuse me one last request. Don't forget-
in three days I'm leaving for Paris, and you're going back to
Frankfurt... When will we ever meet!”
"What's your request?"
"You know how to ride, of course?”
"Yes."
"Well, it's this. Tomorrow morning I'll take you with me
and we'll go riding together outside of town. We'll have excel-
lent horses. Then we'll come back, finish our business-and
amen! Don't be surprised, don't tell me it's just a whim, that
I'm mad-that may all be true-but just tell me: I agree!”
Maria Nikolaevna turned her face to him. It was dark in
the carriage, but her eyes flashed in that very darkness.
“All right, I agree," said Sanin with a sigh.
"Ah! You sighed!" Maria Nikolaevna mimicked him. “That
means: once you've started, you can't stop. But no, no . . .
You're charming, you're good-and I'll keep my promise.
Here's my hand, without a glove on, my right hand, my busi-
ness hand. Take it and believe its handshake. What kind of
woman I am I don't know, but I'm an honest person, and
one can do business with me.”
Sanin, without himself being very well aware of what he
SPRING TORRENTS
407
was doing, raised this hand to his lips. Maria Nikolaevna
gently drew it back and suddenly fell silent-and remained
silent until the carriage had stopped.
She started getting out
.. What is that? Did it only
seem so to Sanin, or did he really feel on his cheek a quick
and burning touch?
•
"Until tomorrow!" Maria Nikolaevna whispered to him on
the steps, all lit up by the four candles of a candelabrum
held high on her arrival by the gold-braided doorman. She
kept her eyes down. “Until tomorrow!”
Returning to his room, Sanin found a letter from Gemma
on the table. He instantly was frightened-and then imme-
diately pretended to rejoice, in order all the more quickly
to conceal his fright from himself. It consisted of several lines.
She was delighted with the good "beginning of the business,"
advised him to be patient, and added that everyone at home
was well and looking forward with delight to his return.
Sanin thought the letter rather dry; however, he picked up a
pen, paper-and threw it all down. “Why write? I'll be going
back tomorrow myself-it's time, it's time!"
He went to bed at once and tried to get to sleep as soon
as he could. Had he stayed up and kept awake, he surely
would have started thinking about Gemma-and for some
reason he was . . . ashamed to think about her. His conscience
was stirring. But he reassured himself with the thought that
tomorrow everything would be over, once and for all, and
that he would have parted forever from this extravagant lady
--and would forget all this nonsense!
Weak people, talking to themselves, eagerly use energetic
expressions.
Et puis ... cela ne tire pas à conséquence!
XLI
That is what Sanin was thinking, going to bed, but what
he thought the next day when Maria Nikolaevna knocked on
his door impatiently with the coral handle of her riding crop,
when he saw her on the threshold of his room-with the train
of a dark blue riding habit over her arm, with a little, man's
hat on her thickly braided locks, with a veil thrown back
over her shoulder, with an inviting smile on her lips, in her
eyes, over all her face-what he thought then-about that
history is silent.
“Well? Are you ready?” her cheerful voice rang out.
408
IVAN TURGENEV
Sanin buttoned up his coat and silently picked up his hat.
Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him brightly, nodded her head,
and quickly ran downstairs. And he ran after her.
The horses were already standing in the street in front
of the entrance. There were three: a golden-chestnut,
thoroughbred mare, with a dry-skinned muzzle that showed
its teeth, black bulging eyes, legs like a deer, a little lean,
but beautiful and fiery-for Maria Nikolaevna; a powerful,
broad, rather heavy horse, jet-black without markings-for
Sanin; the third horse was for the groom. Maria Nikolaevna
leaped nimbly onto her mare, who started pawing and wheel-
ing around, raising her tail and lowering her crupper, but
Maria Nikolaevna (an excellent horsewoman) held her in
place. They had to say good-bye to Polozov, who, in his
inevitable fez and his dressing gown wide open, appeared on
the balcony and from there waved his little cambric hand-
kerchief, without smiling at all, though, but rather frowning.
Sanin, too, mounted his horse; Maria Nikolaevna saluted
good-bye to Polozov with her crop and then struck her horse
with it on its arched, smooth neck: it reared up on its hind
legs, jumped forward, and set off at a smart, curbed gait,
trembling in all its sinews, champing at the bit, nipping the
air, and snorting. Sanin rode behind and kept his eyes on
Maria Nikolaevna: her slender, supple body, tightly but
easily held in by her corset, swayed self-confidently, dexter-
ously, and gracefully. She turned her head around and beck-
oned to him with her eyes alone. He caught up to her.
"Now, you see how good it is," she said. "I'm telling you
for the last time before we part: you're charming and you
won't be sorry."
Having said this, she nodded her head several times, as if
wishing to confirm it and make its meaning felt.
She seemed so happy that Sanin was simply amazed; there
appeared on her face even that sedate expression which chil-
dren have when they are very, very pleased.
They rode at a walk to the nearby tollgate and then set
out at a good trot along the highway. The weather was mar-
velous, real summer weather; the wind streamed to meet
them and pleasantly sang and whistled in their ears. They
felt wonderful: consciousness of youth and health and of free
and impetuous forward motion took possession of them both;
it grew with each moment.
Maria Nikolaevna reined in her horse and again went at
a walk; Sanin did as she did.
<)
1
SPRING TORRENTS
409
"This," she began with a deep, contented sigh, “this is all
it's worth living for. If you've succeeded in doing what you
want-what seemed impossible-well, then, enjoy it, right to
the last drop!" She drew her hand across her throat. "And
how good you then feel you are! Take me, now-how good I
feel! I think I could embrace the whole world. Well, no, not
the whole world! I wouldn't hug that one, now." With her
riding crop she pointed to a poorly dressed old man making
his way along the side of the road. "But I'm ready to make
him happy. Here, take this," she shouted out loudly in Ger-
man, and threw her purse at his feet. The rather heavy little
bag (there was no such thing as a coin-purse in those
days) struck the road with a thud. The passer-by stopped,
astounded, and Maria Nikolaevna burst out in a loud laugh
and galloped off.
“Do you enjoy riding so much?" asked Sanin, having caught
up to her.
Maria Nikolaevna immediately reined in her horse hard
again: she did not stop it any other way.
"I just wanted to get away from his gratitude. Whoever
thanks me spoils my pleasure. Because I did that not for
him, but for myself. How dare he thank me? . . . I didn't
hear what you were asking me."
“I was asking . . . I wanted to know why you're so cheerful
today?"
"You know what," said Maria Nikolaevna: either she had
again not heard Sanin or else she did not think it necessary
to answer his question. “I'm terribly fed up with that groom
who keeps dangling along after us and who, I imagine, is
thinking only about when the lady and gentleman will go
home. How will we get rid of him?" She quickly took a
little notebook out of her pocket. “Send him to town with a
note? No... that's no good. Ah! I have it! What's that up
ahead? An inn?”
Sanin took a look where she was pointing.
"Yes, I think it is.'
"Splendid. I'll tell him to stay at this inn and drink beer
until we come back."
"But what will he think?"
"What do we care! Besides, he won't even think; he'll be
drinking beer-and that's all. Well, Sanin (she called him
for the first time by just his last name), onward, at a trot!”
On reaching the inn, Maria Nikolaevna called up the groom
and told him what she wanted him to do. The groom, a man
410
IVAN TURGENEV
of English origin and English temperament, silently raised
his hand to the vizor of his cap, jumped down from his horse,
and took it by the bridle.
"Well, now we're free as the birds!" exclaimed Maria
Nikolaevna. "Where shall we go-north, south, east, west?
Look-I do what the King of Hungary does at his coronation"
(she pointed with her crop to all four corners of the world).
“It's all ours! No, you know what: see, how wonderful the
mountains are-and that wonderful forest! Let's go there, to
the mountains!
“In die Berge, wo die Freiheit thront!”
She turned off the highway and galloped along a narrow,
untrodden path which really seemed to lead to the moun-
tains. Sanin galloped after her.
XLII
This path soon turned into a little footpath, and finally
disappeared completely, cut off by a ditch. Sanin advised
going back, but Maria Nikolaevna said: "No! I want to go
to the mountains! Let's go straight, as the birds fly," and
made her horse jump the ditch. Sanin also jumped over. A
meadow began on the other side of the ditch, at first dry,
but then wet, and then completely swampy: the water
seeped through everywhere and stood in puddles. Maria
Nikolaevna rode her horse deliberately through these pud-
dles, laughed loudly and kept repeating: "Let's just be
children!"
"You know," she asked Sanin, "what it means to go puddle-
hunting?"
"Yes,” replied Sanin.
"My uncle was a huntsman," she went on. “I used to go
out on horseback with him in the spring. It was marvelous!
And now here you and I are, too-puddle-hunting! It's just
that I see you're a Russian man and you want to marry an
Italian girl. But that's your business. What's this? Another
ditch? Hup!"
The horse jumped across-but the hat fell off Maria Niko-
laevna's head, and her curls tumbled down over her shoul-
ders. Sanin was about to get down from his horse and pick
up the hat, but she shouted to him: "Don't touch it, I'll get
it myself." She bent down low from the saddle, caught the
veil with the handle of her crop, and indeed got the hat and
put it on her head, but did not put up her hair, and again
SPRING TORRENTS
411
dashed off with a whoop. Sanin tore along beside her, jumped
over ditches, fences, streams, fell in and scrambled out, rush-
ing downhill, rushing uphill, and all the time looking at her
face. What a face it was! It seemed all wide open: the
eyes wide open, avid, bright, and wild; the lips, the nostrils,
also wide open and breathing greedily; she stared straight,
fixedly, in front of her, and it seemed that that soul wanted
to possess everything it saw-the earth, the sky, the sun, and
the air itself-and that there was just one thing it regretted-
there weren't enough dangers-it would have overcome them
all! "Sanin," she cried, "it's like Bürger's Lenore! Only you're
not dead, are you? Not dead? . . . I'm alive!” Daring forces
had come into play. This is no horsewoman putting her horse
to a gallop-this is a young female Centaur galloping-half-
beast and half-god-and the sedate and well-bred countryside,
trampled underfoot by her wild revelry, is amazed!
Maria Nikolaevna finally stopped her foaming, mud-spat-
tered horse: it was swaying under her, and Sanin's powerful
but heavy stallion was gasping for breath.
"Well? Pleasant?" Maria Nikolaevna asked in a sort of
wonderful whisper.
"Yes!" Sanin replied ecstatically. His blood, too, had taken
fire.
“Wait, there's more!" She held out her hand. The glove on
it was torn.
"I said I'd take you to the woods, to the mountains.
There they are, the mountains!" Indeed: some two hundred
paces from the place where the dashing riders had stopped,
the mountains began, covered with a tall forest. “Look: there's
a path. Let's go on. Only, at a walk. We have to rest the
horses."
They set out. Maria Nikolaevna threw her hair back with
one strong sweep of her hand. Then she glanced at her gloves
and took them off.
"My hands will smell of leather," she said, "but that doesn't
make any difference to you, does it?”
Maria Nikolaevna smiled, and Sanin smiled too. This mad
gallop had somehow finally brought them close together and
made them friends.
“How old are you?” she suddenly asked.
"Twenty-two.
"Really? I'm twenty-two, also. It's a good age. Put them
together, and old age is still a long way off. But it's hot. Am
I all red in the face?”
1
.
I
}


412
IVAN TURGENE
*
:
"Like a poppy.
Maria Nikolaevna wiped her face with her handkerchie
"Once we get into the woods, it'll be cool there. It's suc
an old forest-like an old friend. Do you have friends?"
Sanin thought a moment.
"Yes. just a few. No real ones."
"Well, I have, real ones, but no old ones. Here's a friend
too-my horse. How carefully she carries one! Oh, but it
splendid here! Am I really going to Paris the day after to
morrow?"
"Are you?" Sanin chimed in.
“And you to Frankfurt?”
"I'm going to Frankfurt for sure.”
"Well, go ahead! But today is ours
• • •
ours . . . ours!”
The horses reached the edge of the forest and went into it
The shade covered them, wide and soft on all sides.
"Oh, it's heaven here!" exclaimed Maria Nikolaevna. "Let'
go deeper, farther into this shade, Sanin!"
The horses quietly went "deeper into the shade,” swaying
slightly and snorting. The little path they were riding alon
turned suddenly to one side and ran into a rather narrow
ravine. The smell of heather, ferns, pine resin, last year'
dank leaves was collected in it, thick and drowsy. A strong
freshness came from the cracks in the huge, brown rocks
Round knolls covered with green moss rose up on both side
of the little path.
"Stop!" cried Maria Nikolaevna. "I want to sit down and
rest on this velvet. Help me down.'
Sanin jumped off his horse and ran over to her. She leaned
on his shoulders, instantly jumped off onto the ground, and
sat down on one of the mossy knolls. He stood in front of her
holding the reins of both horses in his hands.
She looked up at him.
"Sanin, do you know how to forget?"
Sanin recalled yesterday's happenings. . . in the carriage
"Is that a question . . . or a reproach?"
“Since the day I was born I've never reproached anyone
for anything. Do you believe in the magic of love potions?'
"What?"
"In the magic of love potions-you know, what they sing
about in our songs. In the popular Russian folk-songs.'
>>
"Ah! That's you're talking about. . . ." Sanin said slowly.
"Yes, that. I believe. and you will, too."
SPRING TORRENTS
413
"Love potions . . . magic. . ." Sanin repeated. "Anything's
possible in this world. Before, I didn't believe-now I do.
I don't recognize myself."
Maria Nikolaevna thought a moment and looked around.
"I somehow feel I know this place. Take a look, Sanin,
behind that wide oak-is there a red wooden cross there, or
not?"
Sanin took a few steps to one side.
"There is."
Maria Nikolaevna smiled.
"Oh, fine! I know where we are. We're not lost yet. What's
that tapping? A woodcutter?"
Sanin glanced into the thicket.
"Yes. . . a man is cutting up dead wood there."
"I must tidy up my hair," said Maria Nikolaevna. “He might
see me-and not like it." She took off her hat and started
braiding her long plaits, silently and seriously. Sanin contin-
ued to stand in front of her. Her graceful body was
clearly outlined under the dark folds of her habit, to which
here and there little moss fibers were sticking.
One of the horses suddenly gave a start behind Sanin's
back: he himself shook involuntarily, from head to foot.
Everything in him was confused-his nerves were as taut as
violin strings. There was good reason for his having said he
did not recognize himself. . . . He really was bewitched. His
whole being was filled with one idea, one desire. Maria
Nikolaevna glanced at him piercingly.
"Well, now everything's in order," she said, putting on her
hat. "You're not going to sit down? Here! No, wait . . . don't
sit down! What's that?"
A dull rumble rolled over the tops of the trees, across the
forest air.
•
·
"Can that be thunder?”
“It seems like it,” replied Sanin.
"Oh, this is a holiday, simply a holiday! That was all we
needed!" A hollow rumble resounded again, rose up and fell
with a crash. "Bravo! Bis! Remember, I told you yesterday
about the Aeneid? You know, a storm caught them in the
woods, too. However, we have to get going." She got up
quickly. "Bring me my horse. . . . Your hand. Like that....
I'm not heavy."
She climbed into the saddle like a bird. Sanin, too, mounted
his horse.
“Are you going home?” he asked in an uncertain voice.
414
IVAN TURGENEV
3
"Home!" she replied after a pause and picked up the reins.
"Follow me!" she ordered almost coarsely.
She rode out onto the road and, passing the red cross,
went down into a hollow, came to a crossroad, turned right,
and again went uphill. She obviously knew where she
was going-and this path led farther and farther into the
forest. She said nothing, did not look around; she moved
commandingly forward-and he followed her obediently and
submissively, without a spark of will in his sinking heart.
It began to drizzle. She hurried her horse-and he did not lag
behind her. Finally, through the thick green of low firs, under
an overhanging grey cliff, he caught sight of a wretched little
warden's hut with a low door in its wattle wall. Maria Niko-
laevan made her horse push through the firs, jumped down,
and, finding herself suddenly by the entrance to the hut,
turned around to Sanin-and whispered: "Aeneas!"
Four hours later Maria Nikolaevna and Sanin, accompanied
by the groom dozing in his saddle, returned to Wiesbaden to
the hotel. Herr Polozov met his wife, holding in his hand the
letter to the steward. Looking at her more closely, however,
he showed a certain displeasure-and even muttered:
"Did I really lose the bet?"
Maria Nikolaevna merely shrugged her shoulders.
And that same day, two hours later, Sanin was standing in
his room in front of her, like a lost, like a ruined, man. . .
"Where are you going?”* she was asking him. “To Paris-
or to Frankfurt?”
"I'm going where you'll be-and I'll be with you until you
drive me away," he replied in despair and started kissing the
hands of his sovereign-mistress. She freed them, put them on
his head, and seized his hair with all her fingers. She slowly
twisted and turned his unresisting hair, herself sitting up
straight, her lips curled in triumph-and her eyes, wide and
bright almost to the point of whiteness, expressed only the
merciless dullness and satiety of victory. A hawk, holding in
its claws a bird it has caught, has such eyes.
XLIII
This is what Dmitri Sanin remembered when, in the quiet-
ness of his study, sorting his old papers, he found among
* Maria Nikolaevna now uses the 2nd person singular to Sanin.
SPRING TORRENTS
415
them a little garnet cross. The events we have told about rose
clearly and consecutively before his mind's eye. . . . But hav-
ing reached that moment when with such humiliating suppli-
cation he turned to Madame Polozova, when he fall at her
feet, when his bondage began-he turned away from the
images he had conjured up, he did not want to remember
any more. Not that his memory had betrayed him. Oh, no!
He knew, he knew too well, what followed that moment,
but shame was smothering him-even now, so many years
later. He was terrified of that feeling of invincible scorn for
himself which, he could not doubt, would certainly rush over
him and, like a wave, drown all his other feelings, if he did
not make his memory be still. But no matter how he turned
away from the memories which had come back, he could
not stifle them completely.
He remembered the wretched, tearful, lying, pitiful letter
he had sent Gemma, a letter that had gone unanswered.
To go to her, to return to her-after such deceit, after such
a betrayal-no! no! He still had that much conscience and
honesty left. Besides, he had lost all confidence in himself,
all self-respect: he no longer dared vouch for anything. Sanin
also remembered how he later-oh, the shame!-had sent
Polozov's servant to Frankfurt for his things, how scared he
had been, how he had thought only about leaving for Paris,
leaving for Paris as soon as possible; how he, at Maria
Nikolaevna's bidding, had played up to Ippolit Sidorych and
fawned on him-and been gracious to Dönhof, on whose
finger he noticed exactly the same sort of iron ring as the
one Maria Nikolaevna had given him!
Then came memories still worse, still more shameful.
A waiter brings him a visiting card, and on it is the name of
Pantaleone Cippatola, Court Singer to H. H. the Duke of
Modena. He hides from the old man, but can't avoid meeting
him in the hallway-and there rises before him the angry
face under the towering grey topknot; the old man's eyes
burn like coals-and he hears the threatening exclamations
and curses: "Maledizione!"; hears even the terrible words:
"Codardo! Infame traditore!"
Sanin squints, shakes his head, turns away again and again
and still sees himself sitting on the narrow front seat of a
big dormeuse. On the comfortable rear seats sit Maria Niko-
laevna and Ippolit Sidorych-the four-in-hand is going at a
good trot along the streets of Wiesbaden on the way to Paris!
To Paris! Ippolit Sidorych is eating a pear which Sanin has
416
IVAN TURGENEV
peeled for him, and Maria Nikolaevna is watching him and
smiling that smile he, a man enslaved, already knows so well
-the smile of an owner, of a sovereign.
But good God! There, on the street corner, not far from
the exit from town-isn't that Pantaleone there again-and who
is with him? Is it really Emilio? Yes, it is, that ecstatic, de-
voted boy! It wasn't so long ago that his young heart was
filled with reverence for his hero, his ideal; and now his pale,
beautiful face-so beautiful that Maria Nikolaevna noticed it
and put her head out the window of the carriage-this noble
face is burning with hatred and scorn; the eyes, so much like
those eyes! sink into Sanin, and the lips are pressed-and
suddenly they open to shout an insult.
And Pantaleone reaches out his hand and points Sanin out
-to whom? To Tartaglia standing beside him, and Tartaglia
barks at Sanin-and the very bark of the honest dog resounds
as an unbearable insult. . . . Hideous!
And then-life in Paris, and all the humiliations, all the
foul tortures of a slave who is not allowed to be jealous or
to complain and who is finally thrown away, at last, like
worn-out clothing.
•
•
•
Then-the return home to his own country, the poisoned,
devastated life, the petty cares, the petty worries, the bitter
and futile repentance, and the just as futile and bitter apathy
--the invisible but constant punishment of every minute, like
an insignificant but incurable pain, the repayment penny by
penny of a debt which can never be settled. . .
The cup was filled to overflowing-enough!
How did it happen that the little cross which Gemma had
given to Sanin had been preserved; why hadn't he returned
it? How had it happened that until that day he hadn't once
come across it? He sat for a long, long time in deep thought-
and now, taught by the experience of so many years, still
could not understand how he could have left Gemma, whom
he so tenderly and passionately loved, for a woman he didn't
love at all. . . . The next day he saw all his friends and
acquaintances: he told them that he was going abroad.
Bewilderment spread through society. Sanin was leaving
Petersburg in the middle of winter, having just rented and
furnished an excellent apartment, even having taken a sub-
scription to the performances of the Italian opera in which
Madame Patti herself was singing-herself, Patti herself! His
friends and acquaintances were bewildered; but in general
SPRING TORRENTS
417
people can't long be interested in others' affairs, and when
Sanin set out for abroad, only his French tailor came to see
him off at the railroad station-and at that in the hope of
settling a little unpaid bill-pour un saute-en-barque en velours
noir, tout à fait chic.
XLIV
Sanin told his friends he was going abroad-but he didn't
say exactly where: the reader can easily guess that he headed
straight to Frankfurt. Thanks to the general expansion of
railroads, on the fourth day after he had left Petersburg he
was already there. He hadn't visited the city since 1840. The
White Swan hotel was still in its old place and flourishing,
although no longer considered first-class; the Zeile, the main
street of Frankfurt, had changed little; but there was not a
trace left of Signora Roselli's house, nor of the street itself
where the shop had been. Sanin wandered like a crazy man
though the places once so familiar to him-and recognized
nothing: old buildings had disappeared; they had been re-
placed by new streets lined with enormous solid blocks of
houses, elegant villas; even the public garden, where his last
conversation with Gemma had occurred, was so overgrown
and changed that Sanin kept asking himself: was this really
the garden? What could he do? How and where could he
start inquiring? Thirty years had passed since . . . It was
hardly easy! No matter to whom he turned, no one had even
heard of the name Roselli; the proprietor of his hotel advised
him to inquire in the public library: there, he said, he'd find
all the old papers, but what use he could make of this the
proprietor himself couldn't explain. Sanin, in despair, asked
him about Herr Klüber. The proprietor knew the name well-
but here, too, he was unsuccessful. The elegant clerk, having
made himself a name and become a capitalist, was ruined in
trade, went bankrupt, and died in jail. This news, however,
didn't cause Sanin the slightest grief. He was already begin-
ning to feel that his trip was somewhat rash. But then one
day, leafing through the Frankfurt directory he came upon
the name of von Dönhof, retired Major (Major a. D.). He
immediately took a carriage and went to him-though why
did this Dönhof have to be that Dönhof, and why could even
that Dönhof tell him anything about the Roselli family? It
didn't matter: a drowning man catches at a straw.
Sanin found the retired major von Dönhof at home-and in
418
IVAN TURGENEV
the grey-haired gentleman who received him, he at once
recognized his former antagonist. And Dönhof recognized
him, too, and was even glad to see him: it reminded him of
his youth-of his youthful pranks. Sanin heard from him that
the Roselli family had long, long ago gone to America, to
New York; that Gemma had married a merchant; that he,
Dönhof, had a friend, also a merchant, who probably knew
the address of her husband, since he did much business with
America. Sanin successfully begged Dönhof to go call on his
friend and-oh, joy!-Dönhof brought him the address of
Gemma's husband, a Mr. Jeremiah Slocum, 501 Broadway,
New York. Only, this address was for 1863.
"We'll hope," exclaimed Dönhof, "that our Frankfurt beauty
is still alive and hasn't left New York! By the way,” he added,
dropping his voice, "what about that Russian lady, the one
who was staying in Wiesbaden then, you remember-Madame
von Bo-- von Bosolóff-is she still living?"
"No," replied Sanin, “she died some time ago."
Dónhof looked up but, having noticed that Sanin had
turned away and frowned, said nothing more and left.
That same day Sanin sent a letter to Mrs. Gemma Slocum
in New York. In this letter he told her that he was writing
her from Frankfurt, where he had come solely in order to
find a trace of her; that he was extremely conscious that he
had not the slightest right to expect an answer from her; that
he in no way deserved her forgiveness, and hoped only that
she, in the midst of happy surroundings, had long ago for-
gotten his very existence. He added that he had made up his
mind to remind her of himself as a result of a coincidence
which had too vividly aroused his memories of the past; told
her about his own life, lonely, without family, joyless; begged
her to understand the reasons inducing him to turn to her,
not to let him carry to the grave the bitter consciousness of
his guilt-long ago atoned by suffering, but not forgiven-and
to make him happy by even the briefest news of her life in
the new world to which she has gone. "In writing me just
one word,” Sanin finished his letter, “you will have done a
good deed, worthy of your beautiful soul, and I will be grate-
ful to you until my dying day. I have stopped here, at the
White Swan" (he underlined these words), "and I'll wait,
until spring, for your answer."
He sent off the letter and started waiting. He spent six
whole weeks in the hotel, almost without leaving his room-
S
SPRING TORRENTS
419
and seeing absolutely nobody. No one could write to him from
Russia or from any place else, and that suited him; if a letter
came for him, he would know immediately that it was the
one he was waiting for. He read from morning till night—not
journals, but serious books, histories. This continuous read-
ing, this silence, this snail-like, hidden life—all this was right
in tune with his frame of mind: and thanks to Gemma for
that! But was she alive? Would she answer?
Finally, a letter came for him-with an American stamp-
from New York. The handwriting of the address on the
envelope was English. He didn't recognize it, and his heart
sank. It took him a while to make up his mind to break the
seal and open the letter. He glanced at the signature: Gemma!
Tears gushed from his eyes: just the fact that she had signed
her name, without her last name-was for him a pledge of
reconciliation, of forgiveness! He unfolded the thin sheet of
dark blue notepaper-a photograph slipped out. He hurriedly
picked it up-and froze: Gemma, the living Gemma, young,
as he had known her thirty years ago! The same eyes, the
same lips, the whole face the same. On the back of the
photograph was written: "My daughter, Marianna.” The
whole letter was very affectionate and simple. Gemma
thanked Sanin for not having hesitated to write to her, for
having had confidence in her; she did not hide from him
also the fact that after his flight she had really lived through
some terrible moments, but she added at once that she still
considered-and always has considered-her meeting with him
good fortune, since this meeting had prevented her from
becoming Herr Klüber's wife-and thus, though indirectly,
was the reason for her marriage to her present husband, with
whom she has been living now for over twenty-seven years,
completely happily, in comfort and plenty: everyone in New
York knows their house. Gemma told Sanin that she had five
children-four boys and a girl of eighteen, engaged to be
married, whose photograph she was sending him-because,
according to the general opinion, she was just like her
mother. The sad news Gemma kept to the end of the letter.
Frau Lenore had died in New York, where she had followed
her daughter and son-in-law, but she had lived long enough
to delight in the happiness of her children and to take care
of her grandchildren. Pantaleone, also, was planning to come
to America, but he died just before he was to leave Frankfurt.
"And Emilio, our darling, incomparable Emilio, died a hero's
death for the liberation of his native land, in Sicily, where
420
IVAN TURGENEV
he went as one of the "Thousand,' under the leadership of the
great Garibaldi; we all bitterly mourned the death of our
priceless brother-but, as we shed our tears, we were proud
of him and always will be proud of him and hold his memory
sacred! His lofty, selfless soul was worthy of its martyr's
crown!" Then Gemma expressed her regret that Sanin's life,
apparently, had worked out so badly, wished him above all
peace of mind and a calm spirit, and said she would be glad
to see him, although she was aware how improbable such a
meeting was. . .
We will not attempt to describe the feelings experienced
by Sanin on reading this letter. There is no satisfactory ex-
pression for such feelings: they are deeper and stronger-and
more indefinite than any word. Only music could communi-
cate them.
Sanin replied immediately-and as a present to the bride he
sent to "Marianna Slocum from an unknown friend" the little
garnet cross, set in a magnificent pearl necklace. This present,
although it was very expensive, did not ruin him: over the
period of thirty years, since his first stay in Frankfurt, he had
managed to accumulate a sizable fortune. In the beginning of
May he returned to Petersburg-but hardly for long. It is
rumored that he is selling all his estates and is planning to
go to America.
[1872]
1
A SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
Akademiia nauk SSSR, I. S. Turgenev. Moscow, 1958. [Bibli-
ography]
Ernst Borkowsky, Turgenjew. Berlin, 1903.
N. L. Brodsky, Turgenev i ego vremia. Moscow, 1923.
Richard Freeborn, Turgenev: the novelist's novelist, a study. Lon-
don, 1960.
Henri Granjard, Ivan Tourguénev et les courants politiques et
sociaux de son temps. Paris, 1953.
L. P. Grossman, Turgenev. Moscow, 1928.
Emile Haumant, Ivan Touguénief, la vie et l'oeuvre. Paris, 1906.
David Magarshack, Turgenev, a life. London, 1954.
André Mazon, Manuscrits parisiens d'Ivan Tourguénev. Paris, 1930.
Avrahm Yarmolinsky, Turgenev, the man, his art and his age. New
York, 1959.
B. K. Zaitsev, Zhizn' Turgeneva. Paris, 1932.
CHRONOLOGY OF EVENTS
IN IVAN TURGENEV'S LIFE
1818-Born November 9 in Oriol to Sergei Nikolaevich Turgenev
and his wife Varvara Petrovna, the second of three sons.
1827-In boarding school in Moscow.
1833-Entered Moscow University.
1834-Turgenev family moved to Petersburg. Turgenev transferred
to philological department of the Faculty of Philosophy at
the University of St. Petersburg. In November, his father
died.
1836-Finished Petersburg University, worked on translations of
Othello and King Lear and Byron's Manfred. First published
work, a book review, appeared in August.
1837-Passed final examination and was graduated from the Uni-
versity. Turgenev saw Pushkin shortly before his death.
1838-First published poem, Evening, published by Pletniov in
The Contemporary. In May, left for Germany to enter Berlin
University. Met N. V. Stankevich, the idealistic thinker who
had a significant influence on him.
1839-Returned to Russia. Met the poet and novelist, M. I. Ler-
montov.
1840-With P. I. Krivtsov he went abroad, spent the spring in
Rome, met the radical revolutionist, M. A. Bakunin.
1841-Returned from Berlin, spent the spring and summer on the
family estate, Spasskoe.
1842-Completed all requirements for Master's degree, Moscow
University, except for public defense of paper (the Chair of
Philosophy had been closed down). Birth of his natural
daughter, Polina. Short trip abroad. Meeting with V. G.
Belinsky.
424
IVAN TURGENEV
1843-Publication of narrative poem, Parasha. Entered government
service in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Meeting with
Pauline Viardot, who had come to Petersburg on tour to per-
form a cycle of Italian opera. Various works published in
Notes of the Fatherland, a journal.
1845-Resigned from the service, traveled abroad. On return, met
Dostoevsky.
1847-The first number of the reorganized The Contemporary ap-
peared in January, included "Khor and Kalinych," the first
story from A Sportsman's Sketches. Turgenev went abroad
in January, spent the summer with Belinsky in Salzbrunn.
1848-Witnessed the revolutionary events in Paris. Met A. M.
Herzen, the vociferous proponent of Western socialism.
1850-Returned to Russia from Paris. In the fall, sent his daughter
Polina to Pauline Viardot in Paris. In November, his mother
died; he inherited the estate and some money.
1851-Met Gogol in Moscow.
1852-Exiled to Spasskoe for a year and a half for having pub-
lished a highly laudatory necrology on Gogol in a Moscow
magazine in circumvention of the Petersburg censorship,
which had banned it; under arrest for a while. Publication
of collection, A Sportsman's Sketches.
1853-Stealthily saw Pauline Viardot in Moscow. Released, finally,
and given a triumphant dinner in Petersburg.
1855-Publication of play, A Month in the Country. Participation
in the centenary of Moscow University. Rudin started at
Spasskoe.
1856-Rudin published in numbers 1 and 2 of The Contemporary.
Meeting with Tolstoy. Trip abroad; meeting with Herzen in
London. Three-volume Stories and Sketches published in
November.
1858-Return to Russia, to country estate Spasskoe. Finished A
Nest of Gentlefolk.
1859-Elected to Society of Friends of Russian Literature.
1860-In Petersburg, delivered speech on Hamlet-Don Quixote
theme at first public meeting to support the Literary Fund.
On the Eve published in The Russian Herald. First Love
published in The Library for Reading. Rupture with Gon-
charov. Departure for Paris, beginning of Fathers and Sons.
Elected a corresponding member of the Academy of
Sciences.
CHRONOLOGY
425
1861-Return to Russia. Quarrel with Tolstoy, threat of duel.
Finished Fathers and Sons. Back to Paris. Break with The
Contemporary.
1862-Meeting with Herzen and Bakunin. Publication of Fathers
and Sons. Spent summer at Spasskoe. Published letter
apropos of his break with The Contemporary.
1863-Beginning of the affair of the 32, in connection with Rus-
sians in London issuing anti-government propaganda.
1864-Turgenev absolved of connection. Publication of Phantoms
in Dostoevsky's magazine Epoch.
1865-7-Lived abroad almost entirely.
1867-Smoke published. Quarrel with Dostoevsky. Reconciliation
with Herzen.
1868-Visited Flaubert at his country place.
1869-Began work on A King Lear of the Steppe.
1870-Last meeting with Herzen. Published correspondence on
Franco-Prussian War in The Petersburg Record.
1871-February and March in Petersburg and Moscow. Began
Spring Torrents. To Edinburgh to participate in a Scott
festival.
1872-Spring Torrents published in The Herald of Europe. A
Month in the Country performed in Moscow. Meeting with
George Sand.
1874-Beginning of the "Dinners of 5"-Turgenev, Flaubert, E.
Goncourt, Zola, and Daudet.
1875-81-Led life of literary celebrity, mostly in Paris, at own place
at Bougival, in Germany, and in Russia. Visited abroad by
all the important Russian men of letters. Elected vice-presi-
dent of the International Literary Congress (Paris, 1878).
Reconciliation with Tolstoy. Composition of most of the
Poems in Prose (1878). Awarded LLD. by Oxford (1879).
Last visit to Spasskoe (summer, 1881).
1882-March, fell seriously ill.
1883-Taken from Paris to Bougival, a little village on the Seine.
Dictated sketch Fire at Sea to Pauline Viardot. Wrote letter
to Tolstoy, urging him to return to literary work.
Died September 3. Memorial service at Gare du nord, Paris,
October 1. Buried in Volkovo Cemetery, Petersburg, October
9, 1883.
The illustration on the cover of
this Bantam Classic is a steel
engraving from the picture collection
of the New York Public Library.

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a banta m
In the novels of Turgenev we have a
flawless portrait of the Russian
spirit and way of life in the nineteenth
century. We learn to understand
the rich landowner, the young
intellectual, the peasant, the serf on the
threshold of liberation, their
women. But Turgenev was never a
crusader or preacher, he was an
artist, a precise and loving craftsman,
who wanted, above all, to create
beauty. Through his sensitive art we
have not only some of the greatest
novels ever written, but a
finger on the pulse of a civilization
in upheaval
W
ivan turgenev
Five Short Novels