A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  A pretty curly - haired boy of about nine burst into the room and stopped suddenly on catching sight of her. He was dressed in a Highland costume, his legs bare, and was very much befrizzled and pomaded.

  “What do you want, Kolia?” Valentina Mihailovna asked. Her voice was as soft and velvety as her eyes.

  “Mamma,” the boy began in confusion, “auntie sent me to get some lilies - of - the - valley for her room.... She hasn’t got any — ”

  Valentina Mihailovna put her hand under her little boy’s chin and raised his pomaded head.

  “Tell auntie that she can send to the gardener for flowers. These are mine. I don’t want them to be touched. Tell her that I don’t like to upset my arrangements. Can you repeat what I said?”

  “Yes, I can,” the boy whispered.

  “Well, repeat it then.”

  “I will say... I will say... that you don’t want.”

  Valentina Mihailovna laughed, and her laugh, too, was soft.

  “I see that one can’t give you messages as yet. But never mind, tell her anything you like.”

  The boy hastily kissed his mother’s hand, adorned with rings, and rushed out of the room.

  Valentina Mihailovna looked after him, sighed, walked up to a golden wire cage, on one side of which a green parrot was carefully holding on with its beak and claws. She teased it a little with the tip of her finger, then dropped on to a narrow couch, and picking up a number of the “Revue des Deux Mondes” from a round carved table, began turning over its pages.

  A respectful cough made her look round. A handsome servant in livery and a white cravat was standing by the door.

  “What do you want, Agafon?” she asked in the same soft voice.

  “Simion Petrovitch Kollomietzev is here. Shall I show him in?”

  “Certainly. And tell Mariana Vikentievna to come to the drawing room.”

  Valentina Mihailovna threw the “Revue des Deux Mondes” on the table, raised her eyes upwards as if thinking — a pose which suited her extremely.

  From the languid, though free and easy, way in which Simion Petrovitch Kollomietzev, a young man of thirty - two, entered the room; from the way in which he brightened suddenly, bowed slightly to one side, and drew himself up again gracefully; from the manner in which he spoke, not too harshly, nor too gently; from the respectful way in which he kissed Valentina Mihailovna’s hand, one could see that the new - comer was not a mere provincial, an ordinary rich country neighbour, but a St. Petersburg grandee of the highest society. He was dressed in the latest English fashion. A corner of the coloured border of his white cambric pocket handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of his tweed coat, a monocle dangled on a wide black ribbon, the pale tint of his suede gloves matched his grey checked trousers. He was clean shaven, and his hair was closely cropped. His features were somewhat effeminate, with his large eyes, set close together, his small flat nose, full red lips, betokening the amiable disposition of a well - bred nobleman. He was effusion itself, but very easily turned spiteful, and even vulgar, when any one dared to annoy him, or to upset his religious, conservative, or patriotic principles. Then he became merciless. All his elegance vanished like smoke, his soft eyes assumed a cruel expression, ugly words would flow from his beautiful mouth, and he usually got the best of an argument by appealing to the authorities.

  His family had once been simple gardeners. His great - grandfather was called Kolomientzov after the place in which he was born; his grandfather used to sign himself Kolomietzev; his father added another I and wrote himself Kollomietzev, and finally Simion Petrovitch considered himself to be an aristocrat of the bluest blood, with pretensions to having descended from the well - known Barons von Gallenmeier, one of whom had been a field - marshal in the Thirty Years’ War. Simion Petrovitch was a chamberlain, and served in the ministerial court. His patriotism had prevented him from entering the diplomatic service, for which he was cut out by his personal appearance, education, knowledge of the world, and his success with women. Mais quitter la Russie? Jamais! Kollomietzev was rich and had a great many influential friends. He passed for a promising, reliable young man un peu feodal dans ses opinions, as Prince B. said of him, and Prince B. was one of the leading lights in St. Petersburg official circles. Kollomietzev had come away on a two months’ leave to look after his estate, that is, to threaten and oppress his peasants a little more. “You can’t get on without that!” he used to say.

  “I thought that your husband would have been here by now,” he began, rocking himself from one leg to the other. He suddenly drew himself up and looked down sideways — a very dignified pose.

  Valentina Mihailovna made a grimace.

  “Would you not have come otherwise?”

  Kollomietzev drew back a pace, horrified at the imputation.

  “Valentina Mihailovna!” he exclaimed. “How can you possibly say such a thing?”

  “Well, never mind. Sit down. My husband will be here soon. I have sent the carriage to the station to meet him. If you wait a little, you will be rewarded by seeing him. What time is it?

  “Half - past two,” Kollomietzev replied, taking a large gold enamelled watch out of his waistcoat pocket and showing it to Valentina Mihailovna. “Have you seen this watch? A present from Michael, the Servian Prince Obrenovitch. Look, here are his initials. We are great friends — go out hunting a lot together. Such a splendid fellow, with an iron hand, just what an administrator ought to be. He will never allow himself to be made a fool of. Not he! Oh dear no!”

  Kollomietzev dropped into an armchair, crossed his legs, and began leisurely pulling off his left glove.

  “We are badly in need of such a man as Michael in our province here,” he remarked.

  “Why? Are you dissatisfied with things here?”

  Kollomietzev made a wry face.

  “It’s this abominable county council! What earthly use is it? Only weakens the government and sets people thinking the wrong way.” (He gesticulated with his left hand, freed from the pressure of the glove.) “And arouses false hopes.” (Kollomietzev blew on his hand.) “I have already mentioned this in St. Petersburg, mais bah! They won’t listen to me. Even your husband — but then he is known to be a confirmed liberal!”

  Valentina Mihailovna sat up straight.

  “What do I hear? You opposed to the government, Monsieur Kollomietzev?

  “I — not in the least! Never! What an idea! Mais j’ai mon franc parler. I occasionally allow myself to criticise, but am always obedient.”

  “And I, on the contrary, never criticise and am never obedient.”

  “Ah! Mais c’est un mot! Do let me repeat it to my friend Ladislas. Vous savez, he is writing a society novel, read me some of it. Charming! Nous aurons enfin le grand monde russe peint par lui - meme.”

  “Where is it to be published?

  “In the ‘Russian Messenger’, of course. It is our ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’. I see you take it, by the way.”

  “Yes, but I think it rather dull of late.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps it is. ‘The Russian Messenger’, too, has also gone off a bit,” using a colloquial expression.

  Kollomietzev laughed. It amused him to have said “gone off a bit.” “Mais c’est un journal qui se respecte,” he continued, “and that is the main thing. I am sorry to say that I interest myself very little in Russian literature nowadays. It has grown so horribly vulgar. A cook is now made the heroine of a novel. A mere cook, parole d’honneur! Of course, I shall read Ladislas’ novel. Il y aura le petit mot pour rire, and he writes with a purpose! He will completely crush the nihilists, and I quite agree with him. His ideas sont tres correctes.”

  “That is more than can be said of his past,” Valentina Mihailovna remarked.

  “Ah! jeton une voile sur les erreurs de sa jeunesse!” Kollomietzev exclaimed, pulling off his other glove.

  Valentina Mihailovna half - closed her exquisite eyes and looked at him coquettishly.

  “Simion Petrovitch!”
she exclaimed, “why do you use so many French words when speaking Russian? It seems to me rather old - fashioned, if you will excuse my saying so.”

  “But, my dear lady, not everyone is such a master of our native tongue as you are, for instance. I have a very great respect for the Russian language. There is nothing like it for giving commands or for governmental purposes. I like to keep it pure and uncorrupted by other languages and bow before Karamzin; but as for an everyday language, how can one use Russian? For instance, how would you say, in Russian, de tout a l’heure, c’est un mot? You could not possibly say ‘this is a word,’ could you?”

  “You might say ‘a happy expression.’“

  Kollomietzev laughed.

  “A happy expression! My dear Valentina Mihailovna. Don’t you feel that it savours of the schoolroom; that all the salt has gone out of it?

  “I am afraid you will not convince me. I wonder where Mariana is?” She rang the bell and a servant entered.

  “I asked to have Mariana Vikentievna sent here. Has she not been told?”

  The servant had scarcely time to reply when a young girl appeared behind him in the doorway. She had on a loose dark blouse, and her hair was cut short. It was Mariana Vikentievna Sinitska, Sipiagin’s niece on the mother’s side.

  VI

  “I am sorry, Valentina Mihailovna,” Mariana said, drawing near to her, “I was busy and could not get away.”

  She bowed to Kollomietzev and withdrew into a corner, where she sat down on a little stool near the parrot, who began flapping its wings as soon as it caught sight of her.

  “Why so far away, Mariana?” Valentina Mihailovna asked, looking after her. “Do you want to be near your little friend? Just think, Simion Petrovitch,” she said, turning to Kollomietzev, “our parrot has simply fallen in love with Mariana!”

  “I don’t wonder at it!”

  “But he simply can’t bear me!”

  “How extraordinary! Perhaps you tease him.”

  “Oh, no, I never tease him. On the contrary, I feed him with sugar. But he won’t take anything out of my hand. It is a case of sympathy and antipathy.”

  Mariana looked sternly at Valentina Mihailovna and Valentina Mihailovna looked at her. These two women did not love one another.

  Compared to her aunt Mariana seemed plain. She had a round face, a large aquiline nose, big bright grey eyes, fine eyebrows, and thin lips. Her thick brown hair was cut short; she seemed retiring, but there was something strong and daring, impetuous and passionate, in the whole of her personality. She had tiny little hands and feet, and her healthy, lithesome little figure reminded one of a Florentine statuette of the sixteenth century. Her movements were free and graceful.

  Mariana’s position in the Sipiagin’s house was a very difficult one. Her father, a brilliant man of Polish extraction, who had attained the rank of general, was discovered to have embezzled large state funds. He was tried and convicted, deprived of his rank, nobility, and exiled to Siberia. After some time he was pardoned and returned, but was too utterly crushed to begin life anew, and died in extreme poverty. His wife, Sipiagin’s sister, did not survive the shock of the disgrace and her husband’s death, and died soon after. Uncle Sipiagin gave a home to their only child, Mariana. She loathed her life of dependence and longed for freedom with all the force of her upright soul. There was a constant inner battle between her and her aunt. Valentina Mihailovna looked upon her as a nihilist and freethinker, and Mariana detested her aunt as an unconscious tyrant. She held aloof from her uncle and, indeed, from everyone else in the house. She held aloof, but was not afraid of them. She was not timid by nature.

  “Antipathy is a strange thing,” Kollomietzev repeated. “Everybody knows that I am a deeply religious man, orthodox in the fullest sense of the word, but the sight of a priest’s flowing locks drives me nearly mad. It makes me boil over with rage.”

  “I believe hair in general has an irritating effect upon you, Simion Petrovitch,” Mariana remarked. “I feel sure you can’t bear to see it cut short like mine.”

  Valentina Mihailovna lifted her eyebrows slowly, then dropped her head, as if astonished at the freedom with which modern young girls entered into conversation. Kollomietzev smiled condescendingly.

  “Of course,” he said, “I can’t help feeling sorry for beautiful curls such as yours, Mariana Vikentievna, falling under the merciless snip of a pair of scissors, but it doesn’t arouse antipathy in me. In any case, your example might even... even ... convert me!”

  Kollomietzev could not think of a Russian word, and did not like using a French one, after what his hostess had said.

  “Thank heaven,” Valentina Mihailovna remarked, “Mariana does not wear glasses and has not yet discarded collars and cuffs; but, unfortunately, she studies natural history, and is even interested in the woman question. Isn’t that so, Mariana?”

  This was evidently said to make Mariana feel uncomfortable, but Mariana, however, did not feel uncomfortable.

  “Yes, auntie,” she replied, “I read everything I can get hold of on the subject. I am trying to understand the woman question.”

  “There is youth for you!” Valentina Mihailovna exclaimed, turning to Kollomietzev. “Now you and I are not at all interested in that sort of thing, are we?”

  Kollomietzev smiled good - naturedly; he could not help entering into the playful mood of his amiable hostess.

  “Mariana Vikentievna,” he began, “is still full of the ideals.. . the romanticism of youth... which... in time — ”

  “Heaven, I was unjust to myself,” Valentina Mihailovna interrupted him; “I am also interested in these questions. I am not quite an old lady yet.”

  “Of course. So am I in a way,” Kollomietzev put in hastily. “Only I would forbid such things being talked about!”

  “Forbid them being talked about?” Mariana asked in astonishment.

  “Yes! I would say to the public, ‘Interest yourselves in these things as much as you like, but talk about them... shhh...’“ He layed his finger on his lips.

  “I would, at any rate, forbid speaking through the press under any conditions!”

  Valentina Mihailovna laughed.

  “What? Would you have a commission appointed by the ministers for settling these questions?

  “Why not? Don’t you think we could do it better than these ignorant, hungry loafers who know nothing and imagine themselves to be men of genius? We could appoint Boris Andraevitch as president.”

  Valentina Mihailovna laughed louder still.

  “You had better take care, Boris Andraevitch is sometimes such a Jacobin — ”

  “Jacko, jacko, jacko,” the parrot screamed. Valentina Mihailovna waved her handkerchief at him. “Don’t interrupt an intelligent conversation! Mariana, do teach him manners!”

  Mariana turned to the cage and began stroking the parrot’s neck with her finger; the parrot stretched towards her.

  “Yes,” Valentina Mihailovna continued, “Boris Andraevitch astonishes me, too, sometimes. There is a certain strain in him... a certain strain... of the tribune.”

  “C’est parce qu’il est orateur!” Kollomietzev exclaimed enthusiastically in French. “Your husband is a marvellous orator and is accustomed to success... ses propres paroles le grisent ... and then his desire for popularity. By the way, he is rather annoyed just now, is he not? Il boude? Eh?”

  Valentina Mihailovna looked at Mariana.

  “I haven’t noticed it,” she said after a pause. “Yes,” Kollomietzev continued pensively, “he was rather overlooked at Easter.”

  Valentina Mihailovna indicated Mariana with her eyes. Kollomietzev smiled and screwed up his eyes, conveying to her that he understood. “Mariana Vikentievna,” he exclaimed suddenly, in an unnecessarily loud tone of voice, “do you intend teaching at the school again this year?”

  Mariana turned round from the cage.

  “Are you interested to know, Simion Petrovitch?”

  “Certainly. I am very
much interested.”

  “Would you forbid it?”

  “I would forbid nihilists even so much as to think of schools. I would put all schools into the hands of the clergy, and with an eye on them I wouldn’t mind running one myself!”

  “Really! I haven’t the slightest idea what I shall do this year. Last year things were not at all successful. Besides, how can you get a school together in the summer?”

  Mariana blushed deeply all the time she was speaking, as if it cost her some effort. She was still very self - conscious.

  “Are you not sufficiently prepared?” Valentina Mihailovna asked sarcastically.

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Heavens!” Kollomietzev exclaimed. “What do I hear? Oh ye gods! Is preparation necessary to teach peasants the alphabet?”

  At this moment Kolia ran into the drawing room shouting “Mamma! mamma! Papa has come!” And after him, waddling on her stout little legs, appeared an old grey - haired lady in a cap and yellow shawl, and also announced that Boris had come.

  This lady was Sipiagin’s aunt, and was called Anna Zaharovna. Everyone in the drawing room rushed out into the hall, down the stairs, and on to the steps of the portico. A long avenue of chipped yews ran straight from these steps to the high road — a carriage and four was already rolling up the avenue straight towards them. Valentina Mihailovna, standing in front, waved her pocket handkerchief, Kolia shrieked with delight, the coachman adroitly pulled up the steaming horses, a footman came down headlong from the box and almost pulled the carriage door off its hinges in his effort to open it — and then, with a condescending smile on his lips, in his eyes, over the whole of his face, Boris Andraevitch, with one graceful gesture of the shoulders, dropped his cloak and sprang to the ground. Valentina Mihailovna gracefully threw her arms round his neck and they kissed three times. Kolia stamped his little feet and pulled at his father’s coat from behind, but Boris Andraevitch first kissed Anna Zaharovna, quickly threw off his uncomfortable, ugly Scotch cap, greeted Mariana and Kollomietzev, who had also come out (he gave Kollomietzev a hearty shake of the hand in the English fashion), and then turned to his little son, lifted him under the arms, and kissed him.