Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (339 page)

‘HONOURED MADAM, RAÏSSA PAVLOVNA! — On the decease of my friend, and your aunt, I had the happiness of addressing to you two letters, the first on the first of June, the second on the sixth of July of the year 1815, while she expired on the sixth of May in that year; in them I discovered to you the feelings of my soul and of my heart, which were crushed under deadly wrongs, and they reflected in full my bitter despair, in truth deserving of commiseration; both letters were despatched by the imperial mail registered, and hence I cannot conceive that they have not been perused by your eye. By the genuine candour of my letters, I had counted upon winning your benevolent attention; but the compassionate feelings of your heart were far removed from me in my woe! Left on the loss of my one only friend, Agrippina Ivanovna, in the most distressed and poverty - stricken circumstances, I rested, by her instructions, all my hopes on your bounty; she, aware of her end approaching, said to me in these words, as it were from the grave, and never can I forget them: “My friend, I have been your serpent, and am guilty of all your unhappiness. I feel how much you have sacrificed for me, and in return I leave you in a disastrous and truly destitute situation; on my death have recourse to Raïssa Pavlovna” — that is, to you — ”and implore her aid, invite her succour! She has a feeling heart, and I have confidence in her, that she will not leave you forlorn.” Honoured madam, let me call to witness the all - high Creator of the world that those were her words, and I am speaking with her tongue; and, therefore, trusting firmly in your goodness, to you first of all I addressed myself with my open - hearted and candid letters; but after protracted expectation, receiving no reply to them, I could not conceive otherwise than that your benevolent heart had left me without attention! Such your unfavourable disposition towards me, reduced me to the depths of despair — whither, and to whom, was I to turn in my misfortune I knew not; my soul was troubled, my intellect went astray; at last, for the completion of my ruin, it pleased Providence to chastise me in a still more cruel manner, and to turn my thoughts to your deceased aunt, Fedulia Ivanovna, sister of Agrippina Ivanovna, one in blood, but not one in heart! Having present to myself, before my mind’s eye, that I had been for twenty years devoted to the whole family of your kindred, the Lomovs, especially to Fedulia Ivanovna, who never called Agrippina Ivanovna otherwise than “my heart’s precious treasure,” and me “the most honoured and zealous friend of our family”; picturing all the above, among abundant tears and sighs in the stillness of sorrowful night watches, I thought: “Come, brigadier! so, it seems, it is to be!” and, addressing myself by letter to the said Fedulia Ivanovna, I received a positive assurance that she would share her last crumb with me! The presents sent on by me, more than five hundred roubles’ worth in value, were accepted with supreme satisfaction; and afterwards the money too which I brought with me for my maintenance, Fedulia Ivanovna was pleased, on the pretext of guarding it, to take into her care, to the which, to gratify her, I offered no opposition.

If you ask me whence, and on what ground I conceived such confidence — to the above, madam, there is but one reply: she was sister of Agrippina Ivanovna, and a member of the Lomov family! But alas and alas! all the money aforesaid I was very soon deprived of, and the hopes which I had rested on Fedulia Ivanovna — that she would share her last crumb with me — turned out to be empty and vain; on the contrary, the said Fedulia Ivanovna enriched herself with my property. To wit, on her saint’s day, the fifth of February, I brought her fifty roubles’ worth of green French material, at five roubles the yard; I myself received of all that was promised five roubles’ worth of white piqué for a waistcoat and a muslin handkerchief for my neck, which gifts were purchased in my presence, as I was aware, with my own money — and that was all that I profited by Fedulia Ivanovna’s bounty! So much for the last crumb! And I could further, in all sincerity, disclose the malignant doings of Fedulia Ivanovna to me; and also my expenses, exceeding all reason, as, among the rest, for sweetmeats and fruits, of which Fedulia Ivanovna was exceedingly fond; — but upon all this I am silent, that you may not take such disclosures against the dead in bad part; and also, seeing that God has called her before His judgment seat — and all that I suffered at her hands is blotted out from my heart — and I, as a Christian, forgave her long ago, and pray to God to forgive her!

‘But, honoured madam, Raïssa Pavlovna! Surely you will not blame me for that I was a true and loyal friend of your family, and that I loved Agrippina Ivanovna with a love so great and so insurmountable that I sacrificed to her my life, my honour, and all my fortune! that I was utterly in her hands, and hence could not dispose of myself nor of my property, and she disposed at her will of me and also of my estate! It is known to you also that, owing to her action with her servant, I suffer, though innocent, a deadly wrong — this affair I brought after her death before the senate, before the sixth department — it is still unsettled now — in consequence of which I was made accomplice with her, my estate put under guardianship, and I am still lying under a criminal charge! In my position, at my age, such disgrace is intolerable to me; and it is only left me to console my heart with the mournful reflection that thus, even after Agrippina Ivanovna’s death, I suffer for her sake, and so prove my immutable love and loyal gratitude to her!

‘In my letters, above mentioned, to you, I gave you an account with every detail of Agrippina Ivanovna’s funeral, and what masses were read for her — my affection and love for her spared no outlay! For all the aforesaid, and for the forty days’ requiems, and the reading of the psalter six weeks after for her (in addition to above, fifty roubles of mine were lost, which were given as security for payment for the stone, of which I sent you a description) — on all the aforesaid was spent of my money seven hundred and fifty roubles, in which is included, by way of donation to the church, a hundred and fifty roubles.

‘In the goodness of your heart, hear the cry of a desperate man, crushed beneath a load of the crudest calamities! Only your commiseration and humanity can restore the life of a ruined man! Though living — in the suffering of my heart and soul I am as one dead; dead when I think what I was, and what I am; I was a soldier, and served my country in all fidelity and uprightness, as is the bounden duty of a loyal Russian and faithful subject, and was rewarded with the highest honours, and had a fortune befitting my birth and station; and now I must cringe and beg for a morsel of dry bread; dead above all I am when I think what a friend I have lost … and what is life to me after that? But there is no hastening one’s end, and the earth will not open, but rather seems turned to stone! And so I call upon you, in the benevolence of your heart, hush the talk of the people, do not expose yourself to universal censure, that for all my unbounded devotion I have not where to lay my head; confound them by your bounty to me, turn the tongues of the evil speakers and slanderers to glorifying your good works — and I make bold in all humility to add, comfort in the grave your most precious aunt, Agrippina Ivanovna, who can never be forgotten, and who for your speedy succour, in answer to my sinful prayers, will spread her protecting wings about your head, and comfort in his declining days a lonely old man, who had every reason to expect a different fate! … And, with the most profound respect, I have the honour to be, dear madam, your most devoted servant,

VASSILY GUSKOV,

Brigadier and cavalier.
’

Several years later I paid another visit to my friend’s little place…. Vassily Fomitch had long been dead; he died soon after I made his acquaintance. Cucumber was still flourishing. He conducted me to the tomb of Agrafena Ivanovna. An iron railing enclosed a large slab with a detailed and enthusiastically laudatory epitaph on the deceased woman; and there, beside it, as it were at her feet, could be seen a little mound with a slanting cross on it; the servant of God, the brigadier and cavalier, Vassily Guskov, lay under this mound…. His ashes found rest at last beside the ashes of the creature he had loved with such unbounded, almost undying, love.

1867.

I

In the year 182 - … there was living in the town of O —
 
— the lieutenant Ivan Afanasiitch Pyetushkov. He was born of poor parents, was left an orphan at five years old, and came into the charge of a guardian. Thanks to this guardian, he found himself with no property whatever; he had a hard struggle to make both ends meet. He was of medium height, and stooped a little; he had a thin face, covered with freckles, but rather pleasing; light brown hair, grey eyes, and a timid expression; his low forehead was furrowed with fine wrinkles. Pyetushkov’s whole life had been uneventful in the extreme; at close upon forty he was still youthful and inexperienced as a child. He was shy with acquaintances, and exceedingly mild in his manner with persons over whose lot he could have exerted control….

People condemned by fate to a monotonous and cheerless existence often acquire all sorts of little habits and preferences. Pyetushkov liked to have a new white roll with his tea every morning. He could not do without this dainty. But behold one morning his servant, Onisim, handed him, on a blue - sprigged plate, instead of a roll, three dark red rusks.

Pyetushkov at once asked his servant, with some indignation, what he meant by it.

‘The rolls have all been sold out,’ answered Onisim, a native of Petersburg, who had been flung by some queer freak of destiny into the very wilds of south Russia.

‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Ivan Afanasiitch.

‘Sold out,’ repeated Onisim; ‘there’s a breakfast at the Marshal’s, so they’ve all gone there, you know.’

Onisim waved his hand in the air, and thrust his right foot forward.

Ivan Afanasiitch walked up and down the room, dressed, and set off himself to the baker’s shop. This establishment, the only one of the kind in the town of O —
 
— , had been opened ten years before by a German immigrant, had in a short time begun to flourish, and was still flourishing under the guidance of his widow, a fat woman.

Pyetushkov tapped at the window. The fat woman stuck her unhealthy, flabby, sleepy countenance out of the pane that opened.

‘A roll, if you please,’ Pyetushkov said amiably.

‘The rolls are all gone,’ piped the fat woman.

‘Haven’t you any rolls?’

‘No.’

‘How’s that? — really! I take rolls from you every day, and pay for them regularly.’

The woman stared at him in silence. ‘Take twists,’ she said at last, yawning; ‘or a scone.’

‘I don’t like them,’ said Pyetushkov, and he felt positively hurt.

‘As you please,’ muttered the fat woman, and she slammed to the window - pane.

Ivan Afanasiitch was quite unhinged by his intense vexation. In his perturbation he crossed to the other side of the street, and gave himself up entirely, like a child, to his displeasure.

‘Sir!’ … he heard a rather agreeable female voice; ‘sir!’

Ivan Afanasiitch raised his eyes. From the open pane of the bakehouse window peeped a girl of about seventeen, holding a white roll in her hand. She had a full round face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, rather a turn - up nose, fair hair, and magnificent shoulders. Her features suggested good - nature, laziness, and carelessness.

‘Here’s a roll for you, sir,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’d taken for myself; but take it, please, I’ll give it up to you.’

‘I thank you most sincerely. Allow me …’

Pyetushkov began fumbling in his pocket.

‘No, no! you are welcome to it.’

She closed the window - pane.

Pyetushkov arrived home in a perfectly agreeable frame of mind.

‘You couldn’t get any rolls,’ he said to his Onisim; ‘but here, I’ve got one, do you see?’

Onisim gave a bitter laugh.

The same day, in the evening, as Ivan Afanasiitch was undressing, he asked his servant, ‘Tell me, please, my lad, what’s the girl like at the baker’s, hey?’

Onisim looked away rather gloomily, and responded, ‘What do you want to know for?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Pyetushkov, taking off his boots with his own hands.

‘Well, she’s a fine girl!’ Onisim observed condescendingly.

‘Yes, … she’s not bad - looking,’ said Ivan Afanasiitch, also looking away. ‘And what’s her name, do you know?’

‘Vassilissa.’

‘And do you know her?’

Onisim did not answer for a minute or two.

‘We know her.’

Pyetushkov was on the point of opening his mouth again, but he turned over on the other side and fell asleep.

Onisim went out into the passage, took a pinch of snuff, and gave his head a violent shake.

The next day, early in the morning, Pyetushkov called for his clothes. Onisim brought him his everyday coat — an old grass - coloured coat, with huge striped epaulettes. Pyetushkov gazed a long while at Onisim without speaking, then told him to bring him his new coat. Onisim, with some surprise, obeyed. Pyetushkov dressed, and carefully drew on his chamois - leather gloves.

‘You needn’t go to the baker’s to - day,’ said he with some hesitation;

‘I’m going myself, … it’s on my way.’

‘Yes, sir,’ responded Onisim, as abruptly as if some one had just given him a shove from behind.

Pyetushkov set off, reached the baker’s shop, tapped at the window. The fat woman opened the pane.

‘Give me a roll, please,’ Ivan Afanasiitch articulated slowly.

The fat woman stuck out an arm, bare to the shoulder — a huge arm, more like a leg than an arm — and thrust the hot bread just under his nose.

Ivan Afanasiitch stood some time under the window, walked once or twice up and down the street, glanced into the courtyard, and at last, ashamed of his childishness, returned home with the roll in his hand. He felt ill at ease the whole day, and even in the evening, contrary to his habit, did not drop into conversation with Onisim.

The next morning it was Onisim who went for the roll.

II

Some weeks went by. Ivan Afanasiitch had completely forgotten Vassilissa, and chatted in a friendly way with his servant as before. One fine morning there came to see him a certain Bublitsyn, an easy - mannered and very agreeable young man. It is true he sometimes hardly knew himself what he was talking about, and was always, as they say, a little wild; but all the same he had the reputation of being an exceedingly agreeable person to talk to. He smoked a great deal with feverish eagerness, with lifted eyebrows and contracted chest — smoked with an expression of intense anxiety, or, one might rather say, with an expression as though, let him have this one more puff at his pipe, and in a minute he would tell you some quite unexpected piece of news; at times he would even give a grunt and a wave of the hand, while himself sucking at his pipe, as though he had suddenly recollected something extraordinarily amusing or important, then he would open his mouth, let off a few rings of smoke, and utter the most commonplace remarks, or even keep silence altogether. After gossiping a little with Ivan Afanasiitch about the neighbours, about horses, the daughters of the gentry around, and other such edifying topics, Mr. Bublitsyn suddenly winked, pulled up his shock of hair, and, with a sly smile, approached the remarkably dim looking - glass which was the solitary ornament of Ivan Afanasiitch’s room.

‘There’s no denying the fact,’ he pronounced, stroking his light brown whiskers, ‘we’ve got girls here that beat any of your Venus of Medicis hollow…. Have you seen Vassilissa, the baker girl, for instance?’ … Mr. Bublitsyn sucked at his pipe.

Pyetushkov started.

‘But why do I ask you?’ pursued Bublitsyn, disappearing in a cloud of smoke, — ’you’re not the man to notice, don’t you know, Ivan Afanasiitch! Goodness knows what you do to occupy yourself, Ivan Afanasiitch!’

‘The same as you do,’ Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling voice.

‘Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it…. How can you say so?’

‘Well, why not?’

‘Nonsense, nonsense.’

‘Why so, why so?’

Bublitsyn stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began scrutinising his not very handsome boots. Pyetushkov felt embarrassed.

‘Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, Ivan Afanasiitch!’ pursued Bublitsyn, as though sparing his feelings. ‘But as to Vassilissa, the baker girl, I can assure you: a very, ve - ry fine girl, … ve - ry.’

Mr. Bublitsyn dilated his nostrils, and slowly plunged his hands into his pockets.

Strange to relate, Ivan Afanasiitch felt something of the nature of jealousy. He began moving restlessly in his chair, burst into explosive laughter at nothing at all, suddenly blushed, yawned, and, as he yawned, his lower jaw twitched a little. Bublitsyn smoked three more pipes, and withdrew. Ivan Afanasiitch went to the window, sighed, and called for something to drink.

Onisim set a glass of kvas on the table, glanced severely at his master, leaned back against the door, and hung his head dejectedly.

‘What are you so thoughtful about?’ his master asked him genially, but with some inward trepidation.

‘What am I thinking about?’ retorted Onisim; ‘what am I thinking about? … it’s always about you.’

‘About me!’

‘Of course it’s about you.’

‘Why, what is it you are thinking?’

‘Why, this is what I’m thinking.’ (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff.)

‘You ought to be ashamed, sir — you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Ashamed?’

‘Yes, ashamed…. Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch…. Tell me if he’s not a fine fellow, now.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘You don’t understand me…. Oh yes, you do understand me.’

Onisim paused.

‘Mr. Bublitsyn’s a real gentleman — what a gentleman ought to be. But what are you, Ivan Afanasiitch, what are you? Tell me that.’

‘Why, I’m a gentleman too.’

‘A gentleman, indeed!’ … retorted Onisim, growing indignant. ‘A pretty gentleman you are! You’re no better, sir, than a hen in a shower of rain, Ivan Afanasiitch, let me tell you. Here you sit sticking at home the whole blessed day … much good it does you, sitting at home like that! You don’t play cards, you don’t go and see the gentry, and as for … well …’