A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  Pavel Yakovlitch Shubin happened to be a distant cousin of hers. His father had been a government official in Moscow. His brothers had entered cadets’ corps; he was the youngest, his mother’s darling, and of delicate constitution; he stopped at home. They intended him for the university, and strained every effort to keep him at the gymnasium. From his early years he began to show an inclination for sculpture. The ponderous senator, Volgin, saw a statuette of his one day at his aunt’s — he was then sixteen — and declared that he intended to protect this youthful genius. The sudden death of Shubin’s father very nearly effected a complete transformation in the young man’s future. The senator, the patron of genius, made him a present of a bust of Homer in plaster, and did nothing more. But Anna Vassilyevna helped him with money, and at nineteen he scraped through into the university in the faculty of medicine. Pavel felt no inclination for medical science, but, as the university was then constituted, it was impossible for him to enter in any other faculty. Besides, he looked forward to studying anatomy. But he did not complete his anatomical studies; at the end of the first year, and before the examination, he left the university to devote himself exclusively to his vocation. He worked zealously, but by fits and starts; he used to stroll about the country round Moscow sketching and modelling portraits of peasant girls, and striking up acquaintance with all sorts of people, young and old, of high and low degree, Italian models and Russian artists. He would not hear of the Academy, and recognised no one as a teacher. He was possessed of unmistakeable talent; it began to be talked about in Moscow. His mother, who came of a good Parisian family, a kind - hearted and clever woman, had taught him French thoroughly and had toiled and thought for him day and night. She was proud of him, and when, while still young in years, she died of consumption, she entreated Anna Vassilyevna to take him under her care. He was at that time twenty - one. Anna Vassilyevna carried out her last wish; a small room in the lodge of the country villa was given up to him.

  IV

  ‘Come to dinner, come along,’ said the lady of the house in a plaintive voice, and they all went into the dining - room. ‘Sit beside me, Zoe,’ added Anna Vassilyevna, ‘and you, Helene, take our guest; and you, Paul, please don’t be naughty and tease Zoe. My head aches to - day.’

  Shubin again turned his eyes up to the ceiling; Zoe responded with a half - smile. This Zoe, or, to speak more precisely, Zoya Nikitishna Mueller, was a pretty, fair - haired, half - Russian German girl, with a little nose rather wide at the end, and tiny red lips. She sang Russian ballads fairly well and could play various pieces, both lively and sentimental, very correctly on the piano. She dressed with taste, but in a rather childish style, and even over - precisely. Anna Vassilyevna had taken her as a companion for her daughter, and she kept her almost constantly at her side. Elena did not complain of that; she was absolutely at a loss what to say to Zoya when she happened to be left alone with her.

  The dinner lasted rather a long time; Bersenyev talked with Elena about university life, and his own plans and hopes; Shubin listened without speaking, ate with an exaggerated show of greediness, and now and then threw comic glances of despair at Zoya, who responded always with the same phlegmatic smile. After dinner, Elena with Bersenyev and Shubin went into the garden; Zoya looked after them, and, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, sat down to the piano. Anna Vassilyevna began: ‘Why don’t you go for a walk, too?’ but, without waiting for a reply, she added: ‘Play me something melancholy.’

  ‘La derniere pensee de Weber?’ suggested Zoya.

  ‘Ah, yes, Weber,’ replied Anna Vassilyevna. She sank into an easy chair, and the tears started on to her eyelashes.

  Meanwhile, Elena led the two friends to an arbour of acacias, with a little wooden table in the middle, and seats round. Shubin looked round, and, whispering ‘Wait a minute!’ he ran off, skipping and hopping to his own room, brought back a piece of clay, and began modelling a bust of Zoya, shaking his head and muttering and laughing to himself.

  ‘At his old tricks again,’ observed Elena, glancing at his work. She turned to Bersenyev, with whom she was continuing the conversation begun at dinner.

  ‘My old tricks!’ repeated Shubin. ‘It’s a subject that’s simply inexhaustible! To - day, particularly, she drove me out of all patience.’

  ‘Why so?’ inquired Elena. ‘One would think you were speaking of some spiteful, disagreeable old woman. She is a pretty young girl.’

  ‘Of course,’ Shubin broke in, ‘she is pretty, very pretty; I am sure that no one who meets her could fail to think: that’s some one I should like to — dance a polka with; I’m sure, too, that she knows that, and is pleased.... Else, what’s the meaning of those modest simpers, that discreet air? There, you know what I mean,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘But now you’re absorbed in something else.’

  And breaking up the bust of Zoya, Shubin set hastily to modelling and kneading the clay again with an air of vexation.

  ‘So it is your wish to be a professor?’ said Elena to Bersenyev.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, squeezing his red hands between his knees. ‘That’s my cherished dream. Of course I know very well how far I fall short of being — to be worthy of such a high — I mean that I am too little prepared, but I hope to get permission for a course of travel abroad; I shall pass three or four years in that way, if necessary, and then — — ’

  He stopped, dropped his eyes, then quickly raising them again, he gave an embarrassed smile and smoothed his hair. When Bersenyev was talking to a woman, his words came out more slowly, and he lisped more than ever.

  ‘You want to be a professor of history?’ inquired Elena.

  ‘Yes, or of philosophy,’ he added, in a lower voice — ’if that is possible.’

  ‘He’s a perfect devil at philosophy already,’ observed Shubin, making deep lines in the clay with his nail. ‘What does he want to go abroad for?’

  ‘And will you be perfectly contented with such a position?’ asked Elena, leaning on her elbow and looking him straight in the face.

  ‘Perfectly, Elena Nikolaevna, perfectly. What could be a finer vocation? To follow, perhaps, in the steps of Timofay Nikolaevitch ... The very thought of such work fills me with delight and confusion ... yes, confusion... which comes from a sense of my own deficiency. My dear father consecrated me to this work... I shall never forget his last words.’...

  ‘Your father died last winter?’

  ‘Yes, Elena Nikolaevna, in February.’

  ‘They say,’ Elena went on, ‘that he left a remarkable work in manuscript; is it true?’

  ‘Yes. He was a wonderful man. You would have loved him, Elena Nikolaevna.’

  ‘I am sure I should. And what was the subject of the work?’

  ‘To give you an idea of the subject of the work in few words, Elena Nikolaevna, would be somewhat difficult. My father was a learned man, a Schellingist; he used terms which were not always very clear — — ’

  ‘Andrei Petrovitch,’ interrupted Elena, ‘excuse my ignorance, what does that mean, a Schellingist?’

  Bersenyev smiled slightly.

  ‘A Schellingist means a follower of Schelling, a German philosopher; and what the philosophy of Schelling consists in — — ’

  ‘Andrei Petrovitch!’ cried Shubin suddenly, ‘for mercy’s sake! Surely you don’t mean to give Elena Nikolaevna a lecture on Schelling? Have pity on her!’

  ‘Not a lecture at all,’ murmured Bersenyev, turning crimson. ‘I meant — — ’

  ‘And why not a lecture?’ put in Elena. ‘You and I are in need of lectures, Pavel Yakovlitch.’

  Shubin stared at her, and suddenly burst out laughing.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ she said coldly, and almost sharply.

  Shubin did not answer.

  ‘Come, don’t be angry,’ he said, after a short pause. ‘I am sorry. But really it’s a strange taste, upon my word, to discuss philosophy in weather like this under these trees. Let us rather talk of nightingal
es and roses, youthful eyes and smiles.’

  ‘Yes; and of French novels, and of feminine frills and fal - lals,’ Elena went on.

  ‘Fal - lals, too, of course,’ rejoined Shubin, ‘if they’re pretty.’

  ‘Of course. But suppose we don’t want to talk of frills? You are always boasting of being a free artist; why do you encroach on the freedom of others? And allow me to inquire, if that’s your bent of mind, why do you attack Zoya? With her it would be peculiarly suitable to talk of frills and roses?’

  Shubin suddenly fired up, and rose from the garden seat. ‘So that’s it?’ he began in a nervous voice. ‘I understand your hint; you want to send me away to her, Elena Nikolaevna. In other words, I’m not wanted here.’

  ‘I never thought of sending you away from here.’

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ Shubin continued passionately, ‘that I am not worthy of other society, that I am her equal; that I am as vain, and silly and petty as that mawkish German girl? Is that it?’

  Elena frowned. ‘You did not always speak like that of her, Pavel Yakovlitch,’ she remarked.

  ‘Ah! reproaches! reproaches now!’ cried Shubin. ‘Well, then I don’t deny there was a moment — one moment precisely, when those fresh, vulgar cheeks of hers... But if I wanted to repay you with reproaches and remind you... Good - bye,’ he added suddenly, ‘I feel I shall say something silly.’

  And with a blow on the clay moulded into the shape of a head, he ran out of the arbour and went off to his room.

  ‘What a baby,’ said Elena, looking after him.

  ‘He’s an artist,’ observed Bersenyev with a quiet smile. ‘All artists are like that. One must forgive them their caprices. That is their privilege.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Elena; ‘but Pavel has not so far justified his claim to that privilege in any way. What has he done so far? Give me your arm, and let us go along the avenue. He was in our way. We were talking of your father’s works.’

  Bersenyev took Elena’s arm in his, and walked beside her through the garden; but the conversation prematurely broken off was not renewed. Bersenyev began again unfolding his views on the vocation of a professor, and on his own future career. He walked slowly beside Elena, moving awkwardly, awkwardly holding her arm, sometimes jostling his shoulder against her, and not once looking at her; but his talk flowed more easily, even if not perfectly freely; he spoke simply and genuinely, and his eyes, as they strayed slowly over the trunks of the trees, the sand of the path and the grass, were bright with the quiet ardour of generous emotions, while in his soothed voice there was heard the delight of a man who feels that he is succeeding in expressing himself to one very dear to him. Elena listened to him very attentively, and turning half towards him, did not take her eyes off his face, which had grown a little paler — off his eyes, which were soft and affectionate, though they avoided meeting her eyes. Her soul expanded; and something tender, holy, and good seemed half sinking into her heart, half springing up within it.

  V

  Shubin did not leave his room before night. It was already quite dark; the moon — not yet at the full — stood high in the sky, the milky way shone white, and the stars spotted the heavens, when Bersenyev, after taking leave of Anna Vassilyevna, Elena, and Zoya, went up to his friend’s door. He found it locked. He knocked.

  ‘Who is there?’ sounded Shubin’s voice.

  ‘I,’ answered Bersenyev.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Let me in, Pavel; don’t be sulky; aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘I am not sulky; I’m asleep and dreaming about Zoya.’

  ‘Do stop that, please; you’re not a baby. Let me in. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Haven’t you had talk enough with Elena?’

  ‘Come, come; let me in!’ Shubin responded by a pretended snore.

  Bersenyev shrugged his shoulders and turned homewards.

  The night was warm and seemed strangely still, as though everything were listening and expectant; and Bersenyev, enfolded in the still darkness, stopped involuntarily; and he, too, listened expectant. On the tree - tops near there was a faint stir, like the rustle of a woman’s dress, awaking in him a feeling half - sweet, half - painful, a feeling almost of fright. He felt a tingling in his cheeks, his eyes were chill with momentary tears; he would have liked to move quite noiselessly, to steal along in secret. A cross gust of wind blew suddenly on him; he almost shuddered, and his heart stood still; a drowsy beetle fell off a twig and dropped with a thud on the path; Bersenyev uttered a subdued ‘Ah!’ and again stopped. But he began to think of Elena, and all these passing sensations vanished at once; there remained only the reviving sense of the night freshness, of the walk by night; his whole soul was absorbed by the image of the young girl. Bersenyev walked with bent head, recalling her words, her questions. He fancied he heard the tramp of quick steps behind. He listened: some one was running, some one was overtaking him; he heard panting, and suddenly from a black circle of shadow cast by a huge tree Shubin sprang out before him, quite pale in the light of the moon, with no cap on his disordered curls.

  ‘I am glad you came along this path,’ he said with an effort. ‘I should not have slept all night, if I had not overtaken you. Give me your hand. Are you going home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will see you home then.’

  ‘But why have you come without a cap on?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I took off my neckerchief too. It is quite warm.’

  The friends walked a few paces.

  ‘I was very stupid to - day, wasn’t I?’ Shubin asked suddenly.

  ‘To speak frankly, you were. I couldn’t make you out. I have never seen you like that before. And what were you angry about really? Such trifles!’

  ‘H’m,’ muttered Shubin. ‘That’s how you put it; but they were not trifles to me. You see,’ he went on, ‘I ought to point out to you that I — that — you may think what you please of me — I — well there! I’m in love with Elena.’

  ‘You in love with Elena!’ repeated Bersenyev, standing still.

  ‘Yes,’ pursued Shubin with affected carelessness. ‘Does that astonish you? I will tell you something else. Till this evening I still had hopes that she might come to love me in time. But to - day I have seen for certain that there is no hope for me. She is in love with some one else.’

  ‘Some one else? Whom?’

  ‘Whom? You!’ cried Shubin, slapping Bersenyev on the shoulder.

  ‘Me!’

  ‘You,’ repeated Shubin.

  Bersenyev stepped back a pace, and stood motionless. Shubin looked intently at him.

  ‘And does that astonish you? You are a modest youth. But she loves you. You can make your mind easy on that score.’

  ‘What nonsense you talk!’ Bersenyev protested at last with an air of vexation.

  ‘No, it’s not nonsense. But why are we standing still? Let us go on. It’s easier to talk as we walk. I have known her a long while, and I know her well. I cannot be mistaken. You are a man after her own heart. There was a time when she found me agreeable; but, in the first place, I am too frivolous a young man for her, while you are a serious person, you are a morally and physically well - regulated person, you — hush, I have not finished, you are a conscientiously disposed enthusiast, a genuine type of those devotees of science, of whom — no not of whom — whereof the middle class of Russian gentry are so justly proud! And, secondly, Elena caught me the other day kissing Zoya’s arms!’

  ‘Zoya’s?’

  ‘Yes, Zoya’s. What would you have? She has such fine shoulders.’

  ‘Shoulders?’

  ‘Well there, shoulders and arms, isn’t it all the same? Elena caught me in this unconstrained proceeding after dinner, and before dinner I had been abusing Zoya in her hearing. Elena unfortunately doesn’t understand how natural such contradictions are. Then you came on the scene, you have faith in — what the deuce is it you have faith in?... You blush and look confused, you
discuss Schiller and Schelling (she’s always on the look - out for remarkable men), and so you have won the day, and I, poor wretch, try to joke — and all the while — — ’

  Shubin suddenly burst into tears, turned away, and dropping upon the ground clutched at his hair.

  Bersenyev went up to him.

  ‘Pavel,’ he began, ‘what childishness this is! Really! what’s the matter with you to - day? God knows what nonsense you have got into your head, and you are crying. Upon my word, I believe you must be putting it on.’

  Shubin lifted up his head. The tears shone bright on his cheeks in the moonlight, but there was a smile on his face.

  ‘Andrei Petrovitch,’ he said, ‘you may think what you please about me. I am even ready to agree with you that I’m hysterical now, but, by God, I’m in love with Elena, and Elena loves you. I promised, though, to see you home, and I will keep my promise.’

  He got up.

  ‘What a night! silvery, dark, youthful! How sweet it must be to - night for men who are loved! How sweet for them not to sleep! Will you sleep, Andrei Petrovitch?’

  Bersenyev made no answer, and quickened his pace.

  ‘Where are you hurrying to?’ Shubin went on. ‘Trust my words, a night like this will never come again in your life, and at home, Schelling will keep. It’s true he did you good service to - day; but you need not hurry for all that. Sing, if you can sing, sing louder than ever; if you can’t sing, take off your hat, throw up your head, and smile to the stars. They are all looking at you, at you alone; the stars never do anything but look down upon lovers — that’s why they are so charming. You are in love, I suppose, Andrei Petrovitch?... You don’t answer me... why don’t you answer?’ Shubin began again: ‘Oh, if you feel happy, be quiet, be quiet! I chatter because I am a poor devil, unloved, I am a jester, an artist, a buffoon; but what unutterable ecstasy would I quaff in the night wind under the stars, if I knew that I were loved!... Bersenyev, are you happy?’