Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (299 page)

Three years more slipped by. Nothing changed in the monotonous round of life, marked out and arranged for us. Viktor was growing into a boy. I was eight years older and would gladly have looked after him, but Mr. Ratsch opposed my doing so. He gave him a nurse, who had orders to keep strict watch that the child was not ‘spoilt,’ that is, not to allow me to go near him. And Viktor himself fought shy of me. One day Mr. Ratsch came into my room, perturbed, excited, and angry. On the previous evening unpleasant rumours had reached me about my stepfather; the servants were talking of his having been caught embezzling a considerable sum of money, and taking bribes from a merchant.

‘You can assist me,’ he began, tapping impatiently on the table with his fingers. ‘Go and speak for me to Ivan Matveitch.’

‘Speak for you? On what ground? What about?’

‘Intercede for me.... I’m not like a stranger any way... I’m accused... well, the fact is, I may be left without bread to eat, and you, too.’

‘But how can I go to him? How can I disturb him?’

‘What next! You have a right to disturb him!’

‘What right, Ivan Demianitch?’

‘Come, no humbug.... He cannot refuse you, for many reasons. Do you mean to tell me you don’t understand that?’

He looked insolently into my eyes, and I felt my cheeks simply burning. Hatred, contempt, rose up within me, surged in a rush upon me, drowning me.

‘Yes, I understand you, Ivan Demianitch,’ I answered at last — my own voice seemed strange to me — ’and I am not going to Ivan Matveitch, and I will not ask him for anything. Bread, or no bread!’

Mr. Ratsch shivered, ground his teeth, and clenched his fists.

‘All right, wait a bit, your highness!’ he muttered huskily. ‘I won’t forget it!’ That same day, Ivan Matveitch sent for him, and, I was told, shook his cane at him, the very cane which he had once exchanged with the Due de la Rochefoucauld, and cried, ‘You be a scoundrel and extortioner! I put you outside!’ Ivan Matveitch could hardly speak Russian at all, and despised our ‘coarse jargon,’
ce jargon vulgaire et rude
. Some one once said before him, ‘That same’s self - understood.’ Ivan Matveitch was quite indignant, and often afterwards quoted the phrase as an example of the senselessness and absurdity of the Russian tongue. ‘What does it mean, that same’s self - understood?’ he would ask in Russian, with emphasis on each syllable. ‘Why not simply that’s understood, and why same and self?’

Ivan Matveitch did not, however, dismiss Mr. Ratsch, he did not even deprive him of his position. But my stepfather kept his word: he never forgot it.

I began to notice a change in Ivan Matveitch. He was low - spirited, depressed, his health broke down a little. His fresh, rosy face grew yellow and wrinkled; he lost a front tooth. He quite ceased going out, and gave up the reception - days he had established for the peasants, without the assistance of the priest,
sans le concours du clergé
. On such days Ivan Matveitch had been in the habit of going in to the peasants in the hall or on the balcony, with a rose in his buttonhole, and putting his lips to a silver goblet of vodka, he would make them a speech something like this: ‘You are content with my actions, even as I am content with your zeal, whereat I rejoice truly. We are all
brothers
; at our birth we are equal; I drink your health!’ He bowed to them, and the peasants bowed to him, but only from the waist, no prostrating themselves to the ground, that was strictly forbidden. The peasants were entertained with good cheer as before, but Ivan Matveitch no longer showed himself to his subjects. Sometimes he interrupted my reading with exclamations: ‘La machine se détraque! Cela se gâte!’ Even his eyes — those bright, stony eyes — began to grow dim and, as it were, smaller; he dozed oftener than ever and breathed hard in his sleep. His manner with me was unchanged; only a shade of chivalrous deference began to be perceptible in it. He never failed to get up — though with difficulty — from his chair when I came in, conducted me to the door, supporting me with his hand under my elbow, and instead of Suzon began to call me sometimes, ‘ma chère demoiselle,’ sometimes, ‘mon Antigone.’ M. le Commandeur died two years after my mother’s death; his death seemed to affect Ivan Matveitch far more deeply. A contemporary had disappeared: that was what distressed him. And yet in later years M. le Commandeur’s sole service had consisted in crying, ‘Bien joué, mal réussi!’ every time Ivan Matveitch missed a stroke, playing billiards with Mr. Ratsch; though, indeed, too, when Ivan Matveitch addressed him at table with some such question as: ‘N’est - ce pas, M. le Commandeur, c’est Montesquieu qui a dit cela dans ses
Lettres Persanes
?’ he had still, sometimes dropping a spoonful of soup on his ruffle, responded profoundly: ‘Ah, Monsieur de Montesquieu? Un grand écrivain, monsieur, un grand écrivain!’ Only once, when Ivan Matveitch told him that ‘les théophilanthropes ont eu pourtant du bon!’ the old man cried in an excited voice, ‘Monsieur de Kolontouskoi’ (he hadn’t succeeded in the course of twenty years in learning to pronounce his patron’s name correctly), ‘Monsieur de Kolontouskoi! Leur fondateur, l’instigateur de cette secte, ce La Reveillère Lepeaux était un bonnet rouge!’ ‘Non, non,’ said Ivan Matveitch, smiling and rolling together a pinch of snuff: ‘des fleurs, des jeunes vierges, le culte de la Nature... ils out eu du bon, ils out eu du bon!’...I was always surprised at the extent of Ivan Matveitch’s knowledge, and at the uselessness of his knowledge to himself.

Ivan Matveitch was perceptibly failing, but he still put a good face on it. One day, three weeks before his death, he had a violent attack of giddiness just after dinner. He sank into thought, said, ‘C’est la fin,’ and pulling himself together with a sigh, he wrote a letter to Petersburg to his sole heir, a brother with whom he had had no intercourse for twenty years. Hearing that Ivan Matveitch was unwell, a neighbour paid him a visit — a German, a Catholic — once a distinguished physician, who was living in retirement in his little place in the country. He was very rarely at Ivan Matveitch’s, but the latter always received him with special deference, and in fact had a great respect for him. He was almost the only person in the world he did respect. The old man advised Ivan Matveitch to send for a priest, but Ivan Matveitch responded that ‘ces messieurs et moi, nous n’avons rien à nous dire,’ and begged him to change the subject. On the neighbour’s departure, he gave his valet orders to admit no one in future.

Then he sent for me. I was frightened when I saw him; there were blue patches under his eyes, his face looked drawn and stiff, his jaw hung down. ‘Vous voila grande, Suzon,’ he said, with difficulty articulating the consonants, but still trying to smile (I was then nineteen), ‘vous allez peut - être bientót rester seule. Soyez toujours sage et vertueuse. C’est la dernière récommandation d’un’ — he coughed — ’d’un vieillard qui vous veut du bien. Je vous ai recommandé à mon frère et je ne doute pas qu’il ne respecte mes volontés....’ He coughed again, and anxiously felt his chest. ‘Du reste, j’esèpre encore pouvoir faire quelque chose pour vous... dans mon testament.’ This last phrase cut me to the heart, like a knife. Ah, it was really too... too contemptuous and insulting! Ivan Matveitch probably ascribed to some other feeling — to a feeling of grief or gratitude — what was expressed in my face, and as though wishing to comfort me, he patted me on the shoulder, at the same time, as usual, gently repelling me, and observed: ‘Voyons, mon enfant, du courage! Nous sommes tous mortels! Et puis il n’y a pas encore de danger. Ce n’est qu’une précaution que j’ai cru devoir prendre.... Allez!’

Again, just as when he had summoned me after my mother’s death, I longed to shriek at him, ‘But I’m your daughter! your daughter!’ But I thought in those words, in that cry of the heart, he would doubtless hear nothing but a desire to assert my rights, my claims on his property, on his money.... Oh, no, for nothing in the world would I say a word to this man, who had not once mentioned my mother’s name to me, in whose eyes I was of so little account that he did not even trouble himself to ascertain whether I was aware of my parentage! Or, perhaps, he suspected, even knew it, and did not wish ‘to raise a dust’ (a favourite saying of his, almost the only Russian expression he ever used), did not care to deprive himself of a good reader with a young voice! No! no! Let him go on wronging his daughter, as he had wronged her mother! Let him carry both sins to the grave! I swore it, I swore he should not hear from my lips the word which must have something of a sweet and holy sound in every ear! I would not say to him father! I would not forgive him for my mother and myself! He felt no need of that forgiveness, of that name.... It could not be, it could not be that he felt no need of it! But he should not have forgiveness, he should not, he should not!

God knows whether I should have kept my vow, and whether my heart would not have softened, whether I should not have overcome my shyness, my shame, and my pride... but it happened with Ivan Matveitch just as with my mother. Death carried him off suddenly, and also in the night. It was again Mr. Ratsch who waked me, and ran with me to the big house, to Ivan Matveitch’s bedroom.... But I found not even the last dying gestures, which had left such a vivid impression on my memory at my mother’s bedside. On the embroidered, lace - edged pillows lay a sort of withered, dark - coloured doll, with sharp nose and ruffled grey eyebrows.... I shrieked with horror, with loathing, rushed away, stumbled in doorways against bearded peasants in smocks with holiday red sashes, and found myself, I don’t remember how, in the fresh air....

I was told afterwards that when the valet ran into the bedroom, at a violent ring of the bell, he found Ivan Matveitch not in the bed, but a few feet from it. And that he was sitting huddled up on the floor, and that twice over he repeated, ‘Well, granny, here’s a pretty holiday for you!’ And that these were his last words. But I cannot believe that. Was it likely he would speak Russian at such a moment, and such a homely old Russian saying too!

For a whole fortnight afterwards we were awaiting the arrival of the new master, Semyon Matveitch Koltovsky. He sent orders that nothing was to be touched, no one was to be discharged, till he had looked into everything in person. All the doors, all the furniture, drawers, tables — all were locked and sealed up. All the servants were downcast and apprehensive. I became suddenly one of the most important persons in the house, perhaps the most important. I had been spoken of as ‘the young lady’ before; but now this expression seemed to take a new significance, and was pronounced with a peculiar emphasis. It began to be whispered that ‘the old master had died suddenly, and hadn’t time to send for a priest, indeed and he hadn’t been at confession for many a long day; but still, a will doesn’t take long to make.’

Mr. Ratsch, too, thought well to change his mode of action. He did not affect good - nature and friendliness; he knew he would not impose upon me, but his face wore an expression of sulky resignation. ‘You see, I give in,’ he seemed to say. Every one showed me deference, and tried to please me... while I did not know what to do or how to behave, and could only marvel that people failed to perceive how they were hurting me. At last Semyon Matveitch arrived.

Semyon Matveitch was ten years younger than Ivan Matveitch, and his whole life had taken a completely different turn. He was a government official in Petersburg, filling an important position.... He had married and been left early a widower; he had one son. In face Semyon Matveitch was like his brother, only he was shorter and stouter, and had a round bald head, bright black eyes, like Ivan Matveitch’s, only more prominent, and full red lips. Unlike his brother, whom he spoke of even after his death as a French philosopher, and sometimes bluntly as a queer fish, Semyon Matveitch almost invariably talked Russian, loudly and fluently, and he was constantly laughing, completely closing his eyes as he did so and shaking all over in an unpleasant way, as though he were shaking with rage. He looked after things very sharply, went into everything himself, exacted the strictest account from every one. The very first day of his arrival he ordered a service with holy water, and sprinkled everything with water, all the rooms in the house, even the lofts and the cellars, in order, as he put it, ‘radically to expel the Voltairean and Jacobin spirit.’ In the first week several of Ivan Matveitch’s favourites were sent to the right - about, one was even banished to a settlement, corporal punishment was inflicted on others; the old valet — he was a Turk, knew French, and had been given to Ivan Matveitch by the late field - marshal Kamensky — received his freedom, indeed, but with it a command to be gone within twenty - four hours, ‘as an example to others.’ Semyon Matveitch turned out to be a harsh master; many probably regretted the late owner.

‘With the old master, Ivan Matveitch,’ a butler, decrepit with age, wailed in my presence, ‘our only trouble was to see that the linen put out was clean, and that the rooms smelt sweet, and that the servants’ voices weren’t heard in the passages — God forbid! For the rest, you might do as you pleased. The old master never hurt a fly in his life! Ah, it’s hard times now! It’s time to die!’

Rapid, too, was the change in my position, that is to say in the position in which I had been placed for a few days against my own will.... No sort of will was found among Ivan Matveitch’s papers, not a line written for my benefit. At once every one seemed in haste to avoid me.... I am not speaking of Mr. Ratsch... every one else, too, was angry with me, and tried to show their anger, as though I had deceived them.