Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (424 page)

Tropatchov. Karpy, fill his glass.

Kuzovkin [refusing]. No, thank you very much.

Tropatchov. Nonsense. [Drinks himself] To your good health. [Kuzovkin stands up, bows, and drinks.] Well, then, what are you doing about it? You can’t go on like this. You’ll lose your case.

Kuzovkin. What’s to be done? It’s more than a year since I made any inquiries. [Tropatchov shakes his head reproachfully.’] It’s true I have a man there. ... I rest my hopes on him, but who can tell?

Tropatchov [keeps glancing at Yeletsky]. And who is the man, may I ask?

Kuzovkin. I ought not to tell — but there! . . . It’s Ivan Arhipitch Lytchkov, do you know him?

Tropatchov. No, I don’t; what is he?

Kuzovkin. Well ... a provincial attorney . . . that is, he used to be... not here, it’s true, but in Venyovo. Now he does what he can — more in the commercial line.

Tropatchov [still keeps looking at Yeletsky, who begins to be amused by Kuzovkin]. So this gentleman Lytchkov has promised to assist you?

Kuzovkin [after a pause]. Yes, he promised to. I was godfather to his second son, and so he promised. I’ll manage the case for you, he said, just wait a bit. And Ivan Lytchkov is a master at his work.

Tropatchov. You don’t say so?

Kuzovkin. He is famed for it all over the province.

Tropatchov. But you say he’s retired, and more in the commercial line now?

Kuzovkin. Yes, that is true; circumstances obliged him to. But he is a man of gold. It’s some time since I saw him, though.

Tropatchov. How long?

Kuzovkin. Well, it will be a year or more.

Tropatchov. Oh, I say, how can you let things go like that? That’s too bad.

Kuzovkin. What you say is quite true, sir. But what would you have me do?

Yeletsky. Tell us what’s the point in dispute.

Kuzovkin [clearing his throat and growing excited]. This is how it is, Pavel Nikolaitch. Excuse my presumption . . . but it’s your own wish. This is how it is. The Vyetrovo ... I confess I’ve never been used to speaking to a great man . .. you must pardon me if I...

Yeletsky. Don’t be afraid to tell us.

Tropatchov [indicating Kuzovkin’s glass to Karpatchov]. And another glass? Eh?

Kuzovkin [refusing]. No, excuse me.

Tropatchov. To give you courage?

Kuzovkin. Well, perhaps. [Drinks and wipes his forehead.] And so, I must inform you, the Vyetrovo land, which is what I’m telling you about, came in direct line of descent from my grandfather, Maxim Kuzovkin, a lieutenant - major, you may perhaps have heard of him — to the brothers, Maxim’s sons, my father Semyon and my uncle Niktopolion. My father Semyon and his brother, my uncle that is, did not divide the estate in their lifetime; and my uncle died childless, I beg you to note that — only he died after the decease of my father Semyon; and they had a sister, Katerina . . . and she, Katerina, married Porfiry Yagushkin; and this Porfiry Yagushkin by his first wife, a Polish woman, had a son, Ilya, a terrible drunkard and rowdy, and to this Ilya my uncle Niktopolion, at the instance of his sister Katerina, no doubt, gave an I.O.U. for one thousand seven hundred roubles, and Katerina herself assigned to her husband, Porfiry, another I.O.U. for one thousand seven hundred, and through the mediation of the assessor Galushkin she took from my father another I.O.U. . . . but that was for two thousand, in which Galushkin’s wife had a share. ... It was just then my father — the Kingdom of Heaven be his — took and died. The I.O.U.s were presented, uncle Niktopolion was at his wits’ end, he said he had never divided the land, that he held the estate in common with his nephew; Katerina said, let me have my fourteenth part; and then the arrears of taxes were claimed, too. ... It was terrible! Galushkin’s wife suddenly plops down her I.O.U. . . . Niktopolion says, my nephew must be responsible for that... and just think, how can a minor be responsible? . . . and Galushkin took it into court. The Polish woman’s son had a hand in it too, and didn’t even spare his stepmother, Katerina.... I won’t let her off, he said ... she poisoned my servant Akulina. ... There was a bobbery. Petitions went rolling in. First to the district court, then to the court of the province, and from that back again to the district, with comments . . . and after uncle Niktopolion’s death everything went wrong. I claim the possession of my property ... and then an order is given for the sale of the Vyetrovo estate by auction to pay arrears of taxes. The German Hanginmester sends in his claims... and the peasants are flying away like partridges; the district marshal reads a reprimand to me. In chancery, he says, in chancery, and how could it be? . . . The lawful heir not allowed to take possession . . . and Katerina his stepmother took a complaint against Ilya right up to the Senate. . . . [Pulled up by a general burst of laughter Kuzovkin breaks off and is terribly confused. Trembinsky, who has been obsequiously and rather uncertainly watching his superiors and deferentially sharing their amusement, guffaws with his hand before his mouth. Pyotr grins stupidly near the door. Karpatchov laughs on a deep bass note, but discreetly. Tropatchov roars. Yeletsky laughs rather disdainfully and screws up his eyes. Only Ivanov, who has more than once pulled at Kuzovkin’s coat while the latter was speaking, sits mute with bowed head.]

Yeletsky [still laughing, to Kuzovkin]. Go on, why have you stopped?

Tropatchov. Oh please do, What’s - Your - Name, go on.

Kuzovkin. I... I beg your pardon... I’ve troubled you.

Tropatchov. I see what it is. . . you’re shy .. . you’re shy, aren’t you, now?

Kuzovkin [in a faint voice]. Yes, sir.

Tropatchov. Well, we must put that right. . . . [Picking up an empty bottle.] Boy! bring up some more wine. . . . [To Yeletsky.] Vous permettez?

Yeletsky. By all means. . . . [To Trembinsky.] Have you no champagne?

Trembinsky. Oh yes, sir. . . . [Runs for the bowl with champagne in it and brings it hastily; Kuzovkin is smiling nervously fingering the button of his own coat.]

Tropatchov [to Kuzovkin]. That’s not right, my worthy friend! Shyness ... is not the proper thing in polite society. [To Yeletsky — motions towards the champagne.] What — iced, too? Mais c’est magnifique! [Pours out a glassful.] First - rate, I’ve no doubt. [To Kuzovkin.] Here’s to you. Oh, you mustn’t say no. . . . Come, if you have been a little muddled — what does it matter? Pavel Nikolaitch, tell him to drink.

Yeletsky. To the health of the future master of Vyetrovo! Drink it, Vassily ... Alexeyitch. [Kuzovkin drinks.]

Tropatchov. Come, I like that! [Yeletsky and he get up; all rise and come to the front of the stage.] What a jolly lunch! [To Kuzovkin.] Well now? Where had we got to? With whom is your lawsuit now, eh?

Kuzovkin [beginning to become excited by the wine]. With the heirs of Hanginmester, of course.

Tropatchov. But who was that gentleman?

Kuzovkin. A German, to be sure. He bought up the I.O.U.s, or some say, simply took them. That’s my own opinion, too. He just frightened the woman and took them.

Tropatchov. And Katerina, what was she about? And the Polish woman’s son, Ilya?

Kuzovkin. Oh! they are all dead! Ilya was actually burnt to death, when he was intoxicated, in an inn on the high road which was on fire. [To Ivanov.] Oh, leave off tugging at my coat. I’m explaining it all properly to the gentlemen. They insist on hearing it. What’s the harm?

Yeletsky. Let him alone, Mr. Ivanov, we are glad to listen to him.

Kuzovkin [to Ivanov]. There, you see. [To Yeletsky and Tropatchov.] What am I asking for, gentlemen? I ask for nothing but justice, for my lawful right. I’m not acting from ambition. . . . What’s personal ambition to me? Nothing. All I say is, judge between us. If I’m in the wrong, well, then I am; but if I’m in the right — if I’m in the right. . .

Tropatchov [interrupting]. Another glass?

Kuzovkin. No, thank you. You see all I demand is...

Tropatchov. In that case, let me embrace you.

Kuzovkin [somewhat astonished]. I’m greatly honoured. . . . Really, sir. . . .

Tropatchov. Yes, I like you very much. . . . [Embraces him and holds him for some time.] I would kiss you, my dear man, but no, better later on.

Kuzovkin. As you please.

Tropatchov [winking to Karpatchov]. Come, Karpy, now it’s your turn. ...

Karpatchov [with a husky laugh]. Well, Vassily Semyonitch, let me press you to my heart. [Embraces Kuzovkin and twirls round with him. Everyone laughs, each in his own way.]

Kuzovkin [tearing himself out of Karpatchov’s arms]. Leave off, do.

Karpatchov. Come, don’t give yourself airs. . . . [To Tropatchov.] You had better bid him sing us a song, Flegont Alexandritch. . . . He’s our leading singer.

Tropatchov. You sing, dear friend? . . . Oh, do oblige us, give us a taste of your talent!

Kuzovkin [To Karpatchov]. Why do you tell stories about me? As though I could sing!

Karpatchov. You used to sing at table in the old master’s days, didn’t you?

Kuzovkin [dropping his voice]. In the old master’s days. . . . I’ve grown old since then.

Tropatchov. You old, what next!

Karpatchov [pointing to Kuzovkin]. He used to sing — and he used to dance, too.

Tropatchov. You don’t say so! You’re a talented person, I see! You might oblige us. [To Yeletsky.] C’est un peu vulgaire . . . but there, in the country! [Aloud to Kuzovkin.] Come now ... begin ‘As down the Street.’ [Begins singing /V.] Well?

Kuzovkin. Kindly excuse me.

Tropatchov. I say, what a disobliging fellow. . . Yeletsky, do tell him to. . . .

Yeletsky [somewhat uncertainly]. But why don’t you care to sing now, Vassily Semyonitch?

Kuzovkin. Not at my age, Pavel Nikolaitch. Spare me.

Trembinsky [listening and looking with a smile at the gentlemen]. Only lately at the wedding of this gentleman’s brother [Motioning towards Ivanov] he distinguished himself, I’m told.

Tropatchov. There, you see. . . .

Trembinsky. He went hopping all over the room. . .

Tropatchov. Well, if that’s so, you really can’t refuse us. . . . Why won’t you oblige Pavel Nikolaitch and us?

Kuzovkin. I wasn’t forced to, then.

Tropatchov. And now we ask you. You might reflect that your refusal may be set down to ingratitude. Ingratitude ... oh! what a horrid vice!

Kuzovkin. But I’ve really no voice. As to gratitude. . . . No one could be more grateful, and I’m ready to make any sacrifice.