A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  And uttering these words, Bambaev turned to a good - looking young man standing near him with a fresh and rosy, but prematurely demure face. Litvinov got up, and, it need hardly be said, did not kiss him, but exchanged a cursory bow with the phoenix, who, to judge from the severity of his demeanor, was not overpleased at this unexpected introduction.

  “I said a phoenix, and I will not go back from my word,” continued Bambaev; “go to Petersburg, to the military school, and look at the golden board; whose name stands first there? The name of Voroshilov, Semyon Yakovlevitch! But, Gubaryov, Gubaryov, my dear fellow! It’s to him we must fly! I absolutely worship that man! And I’m not alone, every one’s at his feet! Ah, what a work he is writing, O - - O - - O!. . . .”

  “What is his work about?” inquired Litvinov.

  “About everything, my dear boy, after the style of Buckle, you know . . . but more profound, more profound. . . . Everything will be solved and made clear in it?”

  “And have you read this work yourself?”

  “No, I have not read it, and indeed it’s a secret, which must not be spread about; but from Gubaryov one may expect everything, everything! Yes!” Bambaev sighed and clasped his hands. “Ah, if we had two or three intellects like that growing up in Russia, ah, what mightn’t we see then, my God! I tell you one thing, Grisha; whatever pursuit you may have been engaged in in these latter days - - and I don’t even know what your pursuits are in general - - whatever your convictions may be - - I don’t know them either - - from him, Gubaryov, you will find something to learn. Unluckily, he is not here for long. We must make the most of him, we must go. To him, to him!”

  A passing dandy with reddish curls and a blue ribbon on his low hat, turned round and stared through his eyeglass with a sarcastic smile at Bambaev. Litvinov felt irritated.

  “What are you shouting for?” he said; “one would think you were hallooing dogs on at a hunt! I have not had dinner yet.”

  “Well, think of that! we can go at once to Weber’s . . . the three of us . . . capital! You have the cash to pay for me?” he added in an undertone.

  “Yes, yes; only, I really don’t know - - “

  “Leave off, please; you will thank me for it, and he will be delighted. Ah, heavens!” Bambaev interrupted himself. “It’s the finale from Ernani they’re playing. How delicious! . . . A som . . . mo Carlo. . . . What a fellow I am, though! In tears in a minute. Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch! Voroshilov! shall we go, eh?” Voroshilov, who had remained all the while standing with immovable propriety, still maintaining his former haughty dignity of demeanor, dropped his eyes expressively, frowned, and muttered something between his teeth . . . but he did not refuse; and Litvinov thought, “Well, we may as well do it, as I’ve plenty of time on my hands.” Bambaev took his arm, but before turning towards the café he beckoned to Isabelle the renowned flower - girl of the Jockey Club: he had conceived the idea of buying a bunch of flowers of her. But the aristocratic flower - girl did not stir; and, indeed, what should induce her to approach a gentleman without gloves, in a soiled fustian jacket, streaky cravat, and boots trodden down at heel, whom she had not even seen in Paris? Then Voroshilov in his turn beckoned to her. To him she responded, and he, taking a tiny bunch of violets from her basket, flung her a florin. He thought to astonish her by his munificence, but not an eyelash on her face quivered, and when he had turned away, she pursed up her mouth contemptuously. Voroshilov was dressed very fashionably, even exquisitely, but the experienced eye of the Parisian girl noted at once in his get - up and in his bearing, in his very walk, which showed traces of premature military drill, the absence of genuine, pure - blooded “chic.”

  When they had taken their seats in the principal dining - hall at Weber’s, and ordered dinner, our friends fell into conversation. Bambaev discoursed loudly and, hotly upon the immense importance of Gubaryov, but soon he ceased speaking, and, gasping and chewing noisily, drained off glass after glass. Voroshilov ate and drank little, and as it were reluctantly, and after questioning Litvinov as to the nature of his interests, fell to giving expression to his own opinions - - not so much on those interests, as on questions of various kinds in general. . . . All at once he warmed up, and set off at a gallop like a spirited horse, boldly and decisively assigning to every syllable, every letter, its due weight, like a confident cadet going up for his “final” examination, with vehement, but in appropriate gestures. At every instant, since no one interrupted him, he became more eloquent, more emphatic; it seemed as though he were reading a dissertation or lecture. The names of the most recent scientific authorities - - with the addition of the dates of the birth or death of each of them - - the titles of pamphlets that had only just appeared, and names, names, names. . . fell in showers together from his tongue, affording himself intense satisfaction, reflected in his glowing eyes. Voroshilov, seemingly, despised everything old, and attached value only to the cream of culture, the latest, most advanced points of science; to mention, however inappropriately, a book of some Doctor Zauerbengel on Pennsylvanian prisons, or yesterday’s articles in the Asiatic Journal on the Vedas and Puranas (he pronounced it Journal in the English fashion, though he certainly did not know English) was for him a real joy, a felicity. Litvinov listened and listened to him, and could not make out what could be his special line. At one moment his talk was of the part played by the Celtic race in history; then he was carried away to the ancient world, and discoursed upon the Æginetan marbles, harangued with great warmth on the sculptor living earlier than Phidias, Onetas, who was, however, transformed by him into Jonathan, which lent his whole discourse a half - Biblical, half - American flavor; then he suddenly bounded away to political economy and called Bastiat a fool or a blockhead, “as bad as Adam Smith and all the physiocrats.” “Physiocrats,” murmured Bambaev after him . . . “aristocrats?” Among other things Voroshilov called forth an expression of bewilderment on Bambaev’s face by criticism, dropped casually in passing, of Macaulay, as an old - fashioned writer, superseded by modem historical science; as for Gneist, he declared he need scarcely refer to him, and he shrugged his shoulders. Bambaev shrugged his shoulders too. “And all this at once, without any inducement, before strangers, in a café” - - Litvinov reflected, looking at the fair hair, clear eyes, and white teeth of his new acquaintance (he was specially embarrassed by those large sugar - white teeth, and those hands with their inappropriate gesticulations), “and he doesn’t once smile; and with it all, he would seem to be a nice lad, and absolutely inexperienced.” Voroshilov began to calm down at last, his voice, youthfully resonant and shrill as a young cock’s, broke a little . . . Bambaev seized the opportunity to declaim verses and again nearly burst into tears, which scandalized one table near them, round which was seated an English family, and set another tittering; two Parisian cocottes were dining at this second table with a creature who resembled an ancient baby in a wig. The waiter brought the bill; the friends paid it.

  “Well,” cried Bambaev, getting heavily up from his chair, “now for a cup of coffee, and quick march. There she is,’ our Russia,” he added, stopping in the doorway, and pointing almost rapturously with his soft red hand to Voroshilov and Litvinov. . . “What do you think of her? . . .”

  “Russia, indeed,” thought Litvinov; and Voroshilov, whose face had by now regained its concentrated expression, again smiled condescendingly, and gave a little tap with his heels.

  Within five minutes they were all three mounting the stairs of the hotel where Stepan Nikolaitch Gubaryov was staying. . . . A tail slender lady, in a hat with a short black veil, was coming quickly down the same staircase. Catching sight of Litvinov she turned suddenly round to him, and stopped still as though struck by amazement. Her’ face flushed instantaneously, and then as quickly grew pale under its thick lace veil; but Litvinov did not observe her, and the lady, ran down the wide steps more quickly than before.

  IV

  “GRIGORY LITVINOV, a brick, a true Russian heart. I commend him to you,” cried B
ambaev, conducting Litvinov up to a short man of the figure of a country gentleman, with an unbuttoned collar, in a short jacket, gray morning trousers and slippers, standing in the middle of a light, and very well - furnished room; “and this,” he added, addressing himself to Litvinov, “is he, the man himself, do you understand? Gubaryov, then, in a word.” Litvinov stared with curiosity at “the man himself.” He did not at first sight find in him anything out of the common. He saw before him a gentleman of respectable, somewhat dull exterior, with a broad forehead, large eyes, full lips, a big beard, and a thick neck, with a fixed gaze, bent sidelong and downwards. This gentleman simpered, and said, “Mmm. . . ah . . . very pleased, . . .” raised his hand to his own face, and at once turning his back on Litvinov, took a few paces upon the carpet, with a slow and peculiar shuffle, as though he were trying to slink along unseen. Gubaryov had the habit of continually walking up and down, and constantly plucking and combing his beard with the tips of his long hard nails. Besides Gubaryov, there was also in the room a lady of about fifty, in a shabby silk dress, with an excessively mobile face almost as yellow as a lemon, a little black moustache on her upper lip, and eyes which moved so quickly that they seemed as though they were jumping out of her head; there was too a broad - shouldered man sitting bent up in a corner.

  “Well, honored Matrona Semyonovna,” began Gubaryov, turning to the lady, and apparently not considering it necessary to introduce Litvinov to her, “what was it you were beginning to tell us?”

  The lady (her name was Matrona Semyonovna Suhantchikov - - she was a widow, childless, and not rich, and had been traveling from country to country for two years past) began with peculiar exasperated vehemence:

  “Well, so he appears before the prince and says to him: ‘Your Excellency,’ he says, ‘in such an office and such a position as yours, what will it cost you to alleviate my lot? You,’ he says, ‘cannot but respect the purity of my ideas! And is it possible,’ he says, ‘in these days to persecute a man for his ideas?’ And what do you suppose the prince did, that cultivated dignitary in that exalted position?” “Why, what did he do?” observed Gubaryov, lighting a cigarette with a meditative air.

  The lady drew herself up and held out her bony right hand, with the first finger separated from the rest.

  “He called his groom and said to him, ‘Take off that man’s coat at once, and keep it yourself. I make you a present of that coat!’“

  “And did the groom take it?” asked Bambaev, throwing up his arms.

  “He took it and kept it. And that was done by Prince Barnaulov, the well - known rich grandee, invested with special powers, the representative of the government. What is one to expect after that!”

  The whole frail person of Madame Suhantchikov was shaking with indignation, spasms passed over her face, her withered bosom was heaving convulsively under her flat corset; of her eyes it is needless to speak, they were fairly leaping out of her head. But then they were always leaping, whatever she might be talking about.

  “A crying shame, a crying shame!” cried Bambaev. “No punishment could be bad enough!”

  “Mmm. . . . Mmm. . . . From top to bottom it’s all rotten,” observed Gubaryov, without raising his voice, however. In that case punishment is not . . . that needs . . . other measures.”

  “But is it really true?” commented Litvinov.

  “Is it true?” broke in Madame Suhantchikov. “Why, that one can’t even dream of doubting. . . can’t even d - - d - - d - - ream of it.” She pronounced these words with such energy that she was fairly shaking with the effort. “I was told of that by a very trustworthy man. And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, know him - - Elistratov, Kapiton. He heard it himself from eyewitnesses, spectators of this disgraceful scene.”

  “What Elistratov?” inquired Gubaryov. “The one who was in Kazan?”

  “Yes. I know, Stepan Nikolaitch, a rumor was spread about him that he took bribes there from some contractors or distillers. But then who is it says so? Pelikanov! And how can one believe Pelikanov when every one knows he is simply - - a spy!”

  “No, with your permission, Matrona Semyonovna,” interposed Bambaev, “I am friends with Pelikanov, he is not a spy at all.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s just what he is, a spy!”

  “But wait a minute, kindly - - “

  “A spy, a spy!” shrieked Madame Suhantchikov.

  “No, no, one minute, I tell you what,” shrieked Bambaev in his turn.

  “A spy, a spy,” persisted Madame Suhantchikov.

  “No, no! There’s Tentelyev now, that’s a different matter,” roared Bambaev with all the force of his lungs.

  Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment. “I know for a fact about that gentleman,” he continued in his ordinary voice, “that when he was summoned before the secret police, he groveled at the feet of the Countess Blazenkrampff and kept whining, ‘Save me, intercede for me!’ But Pelikanov never demeaned ‘himself to baseness like that.”

  “Mm. ... . Tentelyev . . .” muttered Gubaryov, “that . . . that ought to be noted.” Madame Suhantchikov shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

  “They’re one worse than another,” she said, “but I know a still better story about Tentelyev. He was, as every one knows, a most horrible despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an emancipator. Well, he was once at some friend’s house in Paris, and suddenly in comes Madame Beecher Stowe - - you know, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Tentelyev, who’s an awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to present him; but directly she heard his name. ‘What?’ she said, ‘he presumes to be introduced to the author of Uncle Tom?’ And she gave him a slap on the cheek! ‘Go away!’ she says, ‘at once!’ And what do you think? Tentelyev took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen.” “Come, I think that’s exaggerated,” observed Bambaev. “‘Go away’ she certainly did say, that’s a fact, but she didn’t give him a smack!”

  “She did, she did!” repeated Madame Suhantchikov with convulsive intensity: “I am not talking idle gossip. And you are friends with men like that!”

  “Excuse me, excuse me, Matrona Semyonovna, I never spoke of Tentelyev as a friend of mine; I was speaking of Pelikanov.”

  “Well, if it’s not Tentelyev, it’s another. Mihnyov, for example.”

  “What did he do then?” asked Bambaev, already showing signs of alarm. “What? Is it possible you don’t know? He exclaimed on the Poznesensky Prospect in the hearing of all the world that all the liberals ought to be in prison; and what’s more, an old schoolfellow came to him, a poor man of course, and said, ‘Can I come. to dinner with you?’ And this was his answer. ‘No, impossible; I have two counts dining with me to - day . . . get along with you!’“

  “But that’s slander, upon my word!” vociferated Bambaev.

  “Slander? . . . slander? In the first place, Prince Vahrushkin, who was also dining at your Mihnyov’s - - - - “ “Prince Vahrushkin,” Gubaryov interpolated severely, “is my cousin; but I don’t allow him to enter my house. . . . So there is no need to mention him, even.” “In the second place,” continued Madame Suhantchikov, with a submissive nod in Gubaryov’s direction, “Praskovya Yakovlevna told me so herself.”

  “You have hit on a fine authority to quote! Why, she and Sarkizov are the greatest scandal - mongers going.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sarkizov is a liar, certainly. He filched the very pall of brocade off his dead father’s coffin. I will never dispute that; but Praskovya Yakovlovna - - there’s no comparison! Remember how magnanimously she parted from her husband! But you, I know, are always ready - - “

  “Come, enough, enough, Matrona Semyonovna, said Bambaev, interrupting her, “let us give up this tittletattle, and take a loftier flight. I am not new to the work, you know. Have you read Mlle. de la Quintinie? That’s something charming now! And quite in accord with your principles at the same time!” “I never read novels now,” was Madame Suhantchikov’s dry and sharp reply.

  “Why?”

&nbs
p; “Because I have not the time now; I have no thoughts now but for one thing, sewing machines.”

  “What machines?” inquired Litvinov. “Sewing, sewing; all women ought to provide themselves with sewing - machines, and form societies; in that way they will all be enabled to earn their living, and will become independent at once. In no other way can they ever be emancipated. That is an important, most important social question. I had such an argument about it with Boleslav Stadnitsky. Boleslav Stadnitsky is a marvelous nature, but he looks at these things in an awfully frivolous spirit. He does nothing but laugh. Idiot!”

  “All will in their due time be called to account, from all it will be exacted,” pronounced Gubaryov deliberately, in a tone half - professorial, half - prophetic.

  “Yes, yes,” repeated Bambaev, “it will be exacted, precisely so, it will be exacted. But, Stepan Nikolaitch,” he added, dropping his voice, “how goes the great work?” “I am collecting materials,” replied Gubaryov, knitting his brows; and, turning to Litvinov, whose head began to swim from the medley of unfamiliar names, and the frenzy of backbiting, he asked him what subjects he was interested in.

  Litvinov satisfied his curiosity. “Ah! to be sure, the natural sciences. That is useful, as training; as training, not as an end in itself. The end at present should be . . . mm. . . . should be . . . different. Allow me to ask what views do you hold?”

  “What views?”

  “Yes, that is, more accurately speaking, what are your political views?”

  Litvinov smiled.

  “Strictly speaking, I have no political views.”

  The broad - shouldered man sitting in the corner raised his head quickly at these words and looked attentively at Litvinov.

  “How is that?” observed Gubaryov with peculiar gentleness. “Have you not yet reflected on the subject, or have you grown weary of it?”