Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (321 page)

The first two days he was very talkative and cheerful. But even on the third day he seemed somehow subdued, though he remained, as before, with the ladies and tried to entertain them. A half mournful, half dreamy expression flitted now and then over his face, and the face itself was paler and looked thinner. ‘Are you unwell?’ I asked him.

‘Yes,’ he answered; ‘my head aches a little.’ On the fourth day he was completely silent; for the most part he sat in a corner, hanging his head disconsolately, and his dejected appearance worked upon the compassionate sympathies of the two ladies, who now, in their turn, tried to amuse him. At table he ate nothing, stared at his plate, and rolled up pellets of bread. On the fifth day the feeling of compassion in the ladies began to be replaced by other emotions — uneasiness and even alarm. Misha was so strange, he held aloof from people, and kept moving along close to the walls, as though trying to steal by unnoticed, and suddenly looking round as though some one had called him. And what had become of his rosy colour? It seemed covered over by a layer of earth. ‘Are you still unwell?’ I asked him.

‘No, I’m all right,’ he answered abruptly.

‘Are you dull?’

‘Why should I be dull?’ But he turned away and would not look me in the face.

‘Or is it that wretchedness come over you again?’ To this he made no reply. So passed another twenty - four hours.

Next day my aunt ran into my room in a state of great excitement, declaring that she would leave the house with her niece, if Misha was to remain in it.

‘Why so?’

‘Why, we are dreadfully scared with him…. He’s not a man, he’s a wolf, — nothing better than a wolf. He keeps moving and moving about, and doesn’t speak — and looks so wild…. He almost gnashes his teeth at me. My Katia, you know, is so nervous…. She was so struck with him the first day…. I’m in terror for her, and indeed for myself too.’ … I didn’t know what to say to my aunt. I couldn’t, anyway, turn Misha out, after inviting him.

He relieved me himself from my difficult position. The same day, — I was still sitting in my own room, — suddenly I heard behind me a husky and angry voice: ‘Nikolai Nikolaitch, Nikolai Nikolaitch!’ I looked round; Misha was standing in the doorway with a face that was fearful, black - looking and distorted. ‘Nikolai Nikolaitch!’ he repeated … (not ‘uncle’ now).

‘What do you want?’

‘Let me go … at once!’

‘Why?’

‘Let me go, or I shall do mischief, I shall set the house on fire or cut some one’s throat.’ Misha suddenly began trembling. ‘Tell them to give me back my clothes, and let a cart take me to the highroad, and let me have some money, however little!’

‘Are you displeased, then, at anything?’

‘I can’t live like this!’ he shrieked at the top of his voice. ‘I can’t live in your respectable, thrice - accursed house! It makes me sick, and ashamed to live so quietly! … How
you
manage to endure it!’

‘That is,’ I interrupted in my turn, ‘you mean — you can’t live without drink….’

‘Well, yes! yes!’ he shrieked again: ‘only let me go to my brethren, my friends, to the beggars! … Away from your respectable, loathsome species!’

I was about to remind him of his sworn promises, but Misha’s frenzied look, his breaking voice, the convulsive tremor in his limbs, — it was all so awful, that I made haste to get rid of him; I said that his clothes should be given him at once, and a cart got ready; and taking a note for twenty - five roubles out of a drawer, I laid it on the table. Misha had begun to advance in a menacing way towards me, — but on this, suddenly he stopped, his face worked, flushed, he struck himself on the breast, the tears rushed from his eyes, and muttering, ‘Uncle! angel! I know I’m a ruined man! thanks! thanks!’ he snatched up the note and ran away.

An hour later he was sitting in the cart dressed once more in his Circassian costume, again rosy and cheerful; and when the horses started, he yelled, tore off the peaked cap, and, waving it over his head, made bow after bow. Just as he was going off, he had given me a long and warm embrace, and whispered, ‘Benefactor, benefactor … there’s no saving me!’ He even ran to the ladies and kissed their hands, fell on his knees, called upon God, and begged their forgiveness! Katia I found afterwards in tears.

The coachman, with whom Misha had set off, on coming home informed me that he had driven him to the first tavern on the highroad — and that there ‘his honour had stuck,’ had begun treating every one indiscriminately — and had quickly sunk into unconsciousness. From that day I never came across Misha again, but his ultimate fate I learned in the following manner.

VIII

Three years later, I was again at home in the country; all of a sudden a servant came in and announced that Madame Poltyev was asking to see me. I knew no Madame Poltyev, and the servant, who made this announcement, for some unknown reason smiled sarcastically. To my glance of inquiry, he responded that the lady asking for me was young, poorly dressed, and had come in a peasant’s cart with one horse, which she was driving herself! I told him to ask Madame Poltyev up to my room.

I saw a woman of five - and - twenty, in the dress of the small tradesman class, with a large kerchief on her head. Her face was simple, roundish, not without charm; she looked dejected and gloomy, and was shy and awkward in her movements.

‘You are Madame Poltyev?’ I inquired, and I asked her to sit down.

‘Yes,’ she answered in a subdued voice, and she did not sit down. ‘I am the widow of your nephew, Mihail Andreevitch Poltyev.’

‘Is Mihail Andreevitch dead? Has he been dead long? But sit down, I beg.’

She sank into a chair.

‘It’s two months.’

‘And had you been married to him long?’

‘I had been a year with him.’

‘Where have you come from now?’

‘From out Tula way…. There’s a village there, Znamenskoe - Glushkovo — perhaps you may know it. I am the daughter of the deacon there. Mihail Andreitch and I lived there…. He lived in my father’s house. We were a whole year together.’

The young woman’s lips twitched a little, and she put her hand up to them. She seemed to be on the point of tears, but she controlled herself, and cleared her throat.

‘Mihail Andreitch,’ she went on: ‘before his death enjoined upon me to go to you; “You must be sure to go,” said he! And he told me to thank you for all your goodness, and to give you … this … see, this little thing (she took a small packet out of her pocket) which he always had about him…. And Mihail Andreitch said, if you would be pleased to accept it in memory of him, if you would not disdain it…. “There’s nothing else,” said he, “I can give him” … that is, you….’

In the packet there was a little silver cup with the monogram of Misha’s mother. This cup I had often seen in Misha’s hands, and once he had even said to me, speaking of some poor fellow, that he really was destitute, since he had neither cup nor bowl, ‘while I, see, have this anyway.’

I thanked her, took the cup, and asked:

‘Of what complaint had Misha died? No doubt….’

Then I bit my tongue … but the young woman understood my unuttered hint…. She took a swift glance at me, then looked down again, smiled mournfully, and said at once: ‘Oh no! he had quite given that up, ever since he got to know me … But he had no health at all! … It was shattered quite. As soon as he gave up drink, he fell into ill health directly. He became so steady; he always wanted to help father in his land or in the garden, … or any other work there might be … in spite of his being of noble birth. But how could he get the strength? … At writing, too, he tried to work; as you know, he could do that work capitally, but his hands shook, and he couldn’t hold the pen properly. … He was always finding fault with himself; “I’m a white - handed poor creature,” he would say; “I’ve never done any good to anybody, never helped, never laboured!” He worried himself very much about that…. He used to say that our people labour, — but what use are we? … Ah, Nikolai Nikolaitch, he was a good man — and he was fond of me … and I… Ah, pardon me….’

Here the young woman wept outright. I would have consoled her, but I did not know how.

‘Have you a child left you?’ I asked at last.

She sighed. ‘No, no child…. Is it likely?’ And her tears flowed faster than ever.

‘And so that was how Misha’s troubled wanderings had ended,’ the old man P. wound up his narrative. ‘You will agree with me, I am sure, that I’m right in calling him a desperate character; but you will most likely agree too that he was not like the desperate characters of to - day; still, a philosopher, you must admit, would find a family likeness between him and them. In him and in them there’s the thirst for self - destruction, the wretchedness, the dissatisfaction…. And what it all comes from, I leave the philosopher to decide.’

BOUGIVALLE,
November
1881.

Fifteen years ago — began H. — official duties compelled me to spend a few days in the principal town of the province of T —
 
— . I stopped at a very fair hotel, which had been established six months before my arrival by a Jewish tailor, who had grown rich. I am told that it did not flourish long, which is often the case with us; but I found it still in its full splendour: the new furniture emitted cracks like pistol - shots at night; the bed - linen, table - cloths, and napkins smelt of soap, and the painted floors reeked of olive oil, which, however, in the opinion of the waiter, an exceedingly elegant but not very clean individual, tended to prevent the spread of insects. This waiter, a former valet of Prince G.’s, was conspicuous for his free - and - easy manners and his self - assurance. He invariably wore a second - hand frockcoat and slippers trodden down at heel, carried a table - napkin under his arm, and had a multitude of pimples on his cheeks. With a free sweeping movement of his moist hands he gave utterance to brief but pregnant observations. He showed a patronising interest in me, as a person capable of appreciating his culture and knowledge of the world; but he regarded his own lot in life with a rather disillusioned eye. ‘No doubt about it,’ he said to me one day; ‘ours is a poor sort of position nowadays. May be sent flying any day!’ His name was Ardalion.

I had to make a few visits to official persons in the town. Ardalion procured me a coach and groom, both alike shabby and loose in the joints; but the groom wore livery, the carriage was adorned with an heraldic crest. After making all my official calls, I drove to see a country gentleman, an old friend of my father’s, who had been a long time settled in the town…. I had not met him for twenty years; he had had time to get married, to bring up a good - sized family, to be left a widower and to make his fortune. His business was with government monopolies, that is to say, he lent contractors for monopolies loans at heavy interest…. ‘There is always honour in risk,’ they say, though indeed the risk was small.

In the course of our conversation there came into the room with hesitating steps, but as lightly as though on tiptoe, a young girl of about seventeen, delicate - looking and thin. ‘Here,’ said my acquaintance, ‘is my eldest daughter Sophia; let me introduce you. She takes my poor wife’s place, looks after the house, and takes care of her brothers and sisters.’ I bowed a second time to the girl who had come in (she meanwhile dropped into a chair without speaking), and thought to myself that she did not look much like housekeeping or looking after children. Her face was quite childish, round, with small, pleasing, but immobile features; the blue eyes, under high, also immobile and irregular eyebrows, had an intent, almost astonished look, as though they had just observed something unexpected; the full little mouth with the lifted upper lip, not only did not smile, but seemed as though altogether innocent of such a practice; the rosy flush under the tender skin stood in soft, diffused patches on the cheeks, and neither paled nor deepened. The fluffy, fair hair hung in light clusters each side of the little head. Her bosom breathed softly, and her arms were pressed somehow awkwardly and severely against her narrow waist. Her blue gown fell without folds — like a child’s — to her little feet. The general impression this girl made upon me was not one of morbidity, but of something enigmatical. I saw before me not simply a shy, provincial miss, but a creature of a special type — that I could not make out. This type neither attracted nor repelled me; I did not fully understand it, and only felt that I had never come across a nature more sincere. Pity … yes! pity was the feeling that rose up within me at the sight of this young, serious, keenly alert life — God knows why! ‘Not of this earth,’ was my thought, though there was nothing exactly ‘ideal’ in the expression of the face, and though Mademoiselle Sophie had obviously come into the drawing - room in fulfilment of those duties of lady of the house to which her father had referred.

He began to talk of life in the town of T —
 
— , of the social amusements and advantages it offered. ‘We’re very quiet here,’ he observed; ‘the governor’s a melancholy fellow; the marshal of the province is a bachelor. But there’ll be a big ball in the Hall of the Nobility the day after to - morrow. I advise you to go; there are some pretty girls here. And you’ll see all our
intelligentsi
too.’

My acquaintance, as a man of university education, was fond of using learned expressions. He pronounced them with irony, but also with respect. Besides, we all know that moneylending, together with respectability, developes a certain thoughtfulness in men.

‘Allow me to ask, will you be at the ball?’ I said, turning to my friend’s daughter. I wanted to hear the sound of her voice.

‘Papa intends to go,’ she answered, ‘and I with him.’

Her voice turned out to be soft and deliberate, and she articulated every syllable fully, as though she were puzzled.

‘In that case, allow me to ask you for the first quadrille.’

She bent her head in token of assent, and even then did not smile.

I soon withdrew, and I remember the expression in her eyes, fixed steadily upon me, struck me as so strange that I involuntarily looked over my shoulder to see whether there were not some one or some thing she was looking at behind my back.

I returned to the hotel, and after dining on the never - varied ‘soupe - julienne,’ cutlets, and green peas, and grouse cooked to a dry, black chip, I sat down on the sofa and gave myself up to reflection. The subject of my meditations was Sophia, this enigmatical daughter of my old acquaintance; but Ardalion, who was clearing the table, explained my thoughtfulness in his own way; he set it down to boredom.

‘There is very little in the way of entertainment for visitors in our town,’ he began with his usual easy condescension, while he went on at the same time flapping the backs of the chairs with a dirty dinner - napkin — a practice peculiar, as you’re doubtless aware, to servants of superior education. ‘Very little!’

He paused, and the huge clock on the wall, with a lilac rose on its white face, seemed in its monotonous, sleepy tick, to repeat his words: ‘Ve - ry! ve - ry!’ it ticked. ‘No concerts, nor theatres,’ pursued Ardalion (he had travelled abroad with his master, and had all but stayed in Paris; he knew much better than to mispronounce this last word, as the peasants do) — ’nor dances, for example; nor evening receptions among the nobility and gentry — there is nothing of the kind whatever.’ (He paused a moment, probably to allow me to observe the choiceness of his diction.) ‘They positively visit each other but seldom. Every one sits like a pigeon on its perch. And so it comes to pass that visitors have simply nowhere to go.’

Ardalion stole a sidelong glance at me.

‘But there is one thing,’ he went on, speaking with a drawl, ‘in case you should feel that way inclined….’

He glanced at me a second time and positively leered, but I suppose did not observe signs of the requisite inclination in me.

The polished waiter moved towards the door, pondered a moment, came back, and after fidgeting about uneasily a little, bent down to my ear, and with a playful smile said:

‘Would you not like to behold the dead?’

I stared at him in perplexity.

‘Yes,’ he went on, speaking in a whisper; ‘there is a man like that here. He’s a simple artisan, and can’t even read and write, but he does marvellous things. If you, for example, go to him and desire to see any one of your departed friends, he will be sure to show him you.’

‘How does he do it?’

‘That’s his secret. For though he’s an uneducated man — to speak bluntly, illiterate — he’s very great in godliness! Greatly respected he is among the merchant gentry!’

‘And does every one in the town know about this?’

‘Those who need to know; but, there, of course — there’s danger from the police to be guarded against. Because, say what you will, such doings are forbidden anyway, and for the common people are a temptation; the common people — the mob, we all know, quickly come to blows.’

‘Has he shown you the dead?’ I asked Ardalion.

Ardalion nodded. ‘He has; my father he brought before me as if living.’

I stared at Ardalion. He laughed and played with his dinner - napkin, and condescendingly, but unflinchingly, looked at me.

‘But this is very curious!’ I cried at last. ‘Couldn’t I make the acquaintance of this artisan?’

‘You can’t go straight to him; but one can act through his mother. She’s a respectable old woman; she sells pickled apples on the bridge. If you wish it, I will ask her.’

‘Please do.’

Ardalion coughed behind his hand. ‘And a gratuity, whatever you think fit, nothing much, of course, should also be handed to her — the old lady. And I on my side will make her understand that she has nothing to fear from you, as you are a visitor here, a gentleman — and of course you can understand that this is a secret, and will not in any case get her into any unpleasantness.’

Ardalion took the tray in one hand, and with a graceful swing of the tray and his own person, turned towards the door.

‘So I may reckon upon you!’ I shouted after him.

‘You may trust me!’ I heard his self - satisfied voice say: ‘We’ll talk to the old woman and transmit you her answer exactly.’

* * * * *

I will not enlarge on the train of thought aroused in me by the extraordinary fact Ardalion had related; but I am prepared to admit that I awaited the promised reply with impatience. Late in the evening Ardalion came to me and announced that to his annoyance he could not find the old woman. I handed him, however, by way of encouragement, a three - rouble note. The next morning he appeared again in my room with a beaming countenance; the old woman had consented to see me.

‘Hi! boy!’ shouted Ardalion in the corridor; ‘Hi! apprentice! Come here!’ A boy of six came up, grimed all over with soot like a kitten, with a shaved head, perfectly bald in places, in a torn, striped smock, and huge goloshes on his bare feet. ‘You take the gentleman, you know where,’ said Ardalion, addressing the ‘apprentice,’ and pointing to me. ‘And you, sir, when you arrive, ask for Mastridia Karpovna.’

The boy uttered a hoarse grunt, and we set off.

* * * * *

We walked rather a long while about the unpaved streets of the town of T —
 
— ; at last in one of them, almost the most deserted and desolate of all, my guide stopped before an old two - story wooden house, and wiping his nose all over his smock - sleeve, said: ‘Here; go to the right.’ I passed through the porch into the outer passage, stumbled towards my right, a low door creaked on rusty hinges, and I saw before me a stout old woman in a brown jacket lined with hare - skin, with a parti - coloured kerchief on her head.

‘Mastridia Karpovna?’ I inquired.

‘The same, at your service,’ the old woman replied in a piping voice.

‘Please walk in. Won’t you take a chair?’

The room into which the old woman conducted me was so littered up with every sort of rubbish, rags, pillows, feather - beds, sacks, that one could hardly turn round in it. The sunlight barely struggled in through two dusty little windows; in one corner, from behind a heap of boxes piled on one another, there came a feeble whimpering and wailing…. I could not tell from what; perhaps a sick baby, or perhaps a puppy. I sat down on a chair, and the old woman stood up directly facing me. Her face was yellow, half - transparent like wax; her lips were so fallen in that they formed a single straight line in the midst of a multitude of wrinkles; a tuft of white hair stuck out from below the kerchief on her head, but the sunken grey eyes peered out alertly and cleverly from under the bony overhanging brow; and the sharp nose fairly stuck out like a spindle, fairly sniffed the air as if it would say: I’m a smart one! ‘Well, you’re no fool!’ was my thought. At the same time she smelt of spirits.