“This was I!” he added after a pause, with a modest smile.
“Really!” Nejdanov exclaimed, “were you ever a hunting man?”
“Yes. I was for a time. Once the horse threw me at full gallop and I injured my kurpey. Fimishka got frightened and forbade me; so I have given it up since then.”
“What did you injure?” Nejdanov asked.
“My kurpey,” Fomishka repeated, lowering his voice.
The visitors looked at one another. No one knew what kurpey meant; at least, Markelov knew that the tassel on a Cossack or Circassian cap was called a kurpey, but then how could Fomishka have injured that? But no one dared to question him further.
“Well, now that you have shown off,” Fimishka remarked suddenly, “I will show off too.” And going up to a small bonheur du jour, as they used to call an old - fashioned bureau, on tiny, crooked legs, with a round lid which fitted into the back of it somewhere when opened, she took out a miniature in water colour, in an oval bronze frame, of a perfectly naked little child of four years old with a quiver over her shoulders fastened across the chest with pale blue ribbons, trying the points of the arrows with the tip of her little finger. The child was all smiles and curls and had a slight squint.
“And that was I,” she said.
“Really?
“Yes, as a child. When my father was alive a Frenchman used to come and see him, such a nice Frenchman too! He painted that for my father’s birthday. Such a nice man! He used to come and see us often. He would come in, make such a pretty courtesy and kiss your hand, and when going away would kiss the tips of his own fingers so prettily, and bow to the right, to the left, backwards and forwards! He was such a nice Frenchman!”
The guests praised his work; Paklin even declared that he saw a certain likeness.
Here Fomishka began to express his views on the modern French, saying that they had become very wicked nowadays!
“What makes you think so, Foma Lavrentievitch?”
“Look at the awful names they give themselves nowadays!”
“What, for instance?”
“Nogent Saint Lorraine, for instance! A regular brigand’s name!”
Fomishka asked incidentally who reigned in Paris now, and when told that it was Napoleon, was surprised and pained at the information.
“How?... Such an old man — ” he began and stopped, looking round in confusion.
Fomishka had but a poor knowledge of French, and read Voltaire in translation; he always kept a translated manuscript of “Candide” in the bible box at the head of his bed. He used to come out with expressions like: “This, my dear, is Jausse parquet,” meaning suspicious, untrue. He was very much laughed at for this, until a certain learned Frenchman told him that it was an old parliamentary expression employed in his country until the year 1789.
As the conversation turned upon France and the French, Fimishka resolved to ask something that had been very much on her mind. She first thought of addressing herself to Markelov, but he looked too forbidding, so she turned to Solomin, but no! He seemed to her such a plain sort of person, not likely to know French at all, so she turned to Nejdanov.
“I should like to ask you something, if I may,” she began; “excuse me, my kinsman Sila Samsonitch makes fun of me and my woman’s ignorance.”
“What is it?”
“Supposing one wants to ask in French, ‘What is it?’ must one say ‘Kese - kese - kese - la?’“
“Yes.”
“And can one also say ‘Kese - kese - la?’
“Yes.”
“And simply ‘Kese - la?’“
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And does it mean the same thing?”
“Yes, it does.”
Fimishka thought awhile, then threw up her arms.
“Well, Silushka,” she exclaimed; “I am wrong and you are right. But these Frenchmen... How smart they are!”
Paklin began begging the old people to sing them some ballad. They were both surprised and amused at the idea, but consented readily on condition that Snandulia accompanied them on the harpsichord. In a corner of the room there stood a little spinet, which not one of them had noticed before. Snandulia sat down to it and struck several chords. Nejdanov had never heard such sour, toneless, tingling, jangling notes, but the old people promptly struck up the ballad, “Was it to Mourn.”
Fomisha began —
“In love God gave a heart
Of burning passion to inspire
That loving heart with warm desire.”
“But there is agony in bliss”
Fimishka chimed in.
“And passion free from pain there is,
Ah! where, where? tell me, tell me this,”
“Ah! where, where? Tell me, tell me this,”
Fomisha put in.
“Ah! where, where? tell me, tell me this,”
Fimishka repeated.
“Nowhere in all the world, nowhere,
Love bringeth grief and black despair,”
they sang together,
“And that, love’s gift is everywhere,”
Fomisha sang out alone.
“Bravo!” Paklin exclaimed. “We have had the first verse, now please sing us the second.”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” Fomishka said, “but what about the trill, Snandulia Samsonovna? After my verse there must be a trill.”
“Very well, I will play your trill,” Snandulia replied. Fomishka began again —
“Has ever lover loved true
And kept his heart from grief and rue?
He loveth but to weep anew”
and then Fimishka —
“Yea — hearts that love at last are riven
As ships that hopelessly have striven
For life. To what end were they given?”
“To what end were they given?”
Fomishka warbled out and waited for Snandulia to play the trill.
“To what end were they given?”
he repeated, and then they struck up together —
“Then take, Oh God, the heart away,
Away, away, take hearts away,
Away, away, away today.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” the company exclaimed, all with exception of Markelov.
“I wonder they don’t feel like clowns?” Nejdanov thought. “Perhaps they do, who knows? They no doubt think there is no harm in it and may be even amusing to some people. If one looks at it in that light, they are quite right! A thousand times right!”
Under the influence of these reflections he began paying compliments to the host and hostess, which they acknowledged with a courtesy, performed while sitting in their chairs. At this moment Pufka the dwarf and Nurse Vassilievna made their appearance from the adjoining room (a bedroom or perhaps the maids’ room) from whence a great bustle and whispering had been going on for some time. Pufka began squealing and making hideous grimaces, while the nurse first quietened her, then egged her on.
Solomin’s habitual smile became even broader, while Markelov, who had been for some time showing signs of impatience, suddenly turned to Fomishka:
“I did not expect that you,” he began in his severe manner, “with your enlightened mind — I’ve heard that you are a follower of Voltaire — could be amused with what ought to be an object for compassion — with deformity!” Here he remembered Paklin’s sister and could have bitten his tongue off.
Fomishka went red in the face and muttered: “You see it is not my fault... she herself — ”
Pufka simply flew at Markelov.
“How dare you insult our masters?” she screamed out in her lisping voice. “What is it to you that they took me in, brought me up, and gave me meat and drink? Can’t you bear to see another’s good fortune, eh? Who asked you to come here? You fusty, musty, black - faced villain with a moustache like a beetle’s!” Here Pufka indicated with her thick short fingers what his moustache was like; while Nurse Vassilievna’s toothless mouth was convulsed
with laughter, re - echoed in the adjoining room.
“I am not in a position to judge you,” Markelov went on. “To protect the homeless and deformed is a very praiseworthy work, but I must say that to live in ease and luxury, even though without injury to others, not lifting a finger to help a fellow - creature, does not require a great deal of goodness. I, for one, do not attach much importance to that sort of virtue!”
Here Pufka gave forth a deafening howl. She did not understand a word of what Markelov had said, but she felt that the “black one” was scolding, and how dared he! Vassilievna also muttered something, while Fomishka folded his hands across his breast and turned to his wife. “Fimishka, my darling,” he began, almost in tears; “do you hear what the gentleman is saying? We are both wicked sinners, Pharisees.... We are living on the fat of the land, oh! oh! oh! We ought to be turned out into the street... with a broom in our hands to work for our living! Oh! oh!”
At these mournful words Pufka howled louder than ever, while Fimishka screwed up her eyes, opened her lips, drew in a deep breath, ready to retaliate, to speak.
God knows how it would have ended had not Paklin intervened.
“What is the matter?” he began, gesticulating with his hands and laughing loudly. “I wonder you are not ashamed of yourselves! Mr. Markelov only meant it as a joke. He has such a solemn face that it sounded a little severe and you took him seriously! Calm yourself! Efimia Pavlovna, darling, we are just going, won’t you tell us our fortunes at cards? You are such a good hand at it. Snandulia, do get the cards, please!”
Fimishka glanced at her husband, who seemed completely reassured, so she too quieted down.
“I have quite forgotten how to tell fortunes, my dear. It is such a long time since I held the cards in my hand.”
But quite of her own accord she took an extraordinary, ancient pack of cards out of Snandalia’s hand.
“Whose fortune shall I tell?”
“Why everybody’s, of course!” Paklin exclaimed. “What a dear old thing......... You can do what you like with her,” he thought. “Tell us all our fortunes, granny dear,” he said aloud. “Tell us our fates, our characters, our futures, everything!”
She began shuffling the cards, but threw them down suddenly.
“I don’t need cards!” she exclaimed. “I know all your characters without that, and as the character, so is the fate. This one,” she said, pointing to Solomin, “is a cool, steady sort of man. That one,” she said, pointing threateningly at Markelov, “is a fiery, disastrous man.” (Pufka put her tongue out at him.) “And as for you,” she looked at Paklin, “there is no need to tell you — you know quite well that you’re nothing but a giddy goose! And that one — ”
She pointed to Nejdanov, but hesitated.
“Well?” he asked; “do please tell me what sort of a man I am.”
“What sort of a man are you,” Fimishka repeated slowly. “You are pitiable — that is all!”
“Pitiable! But why?”
“Just so. I pity you — that is all I can say.”
“But why do you pity me?”
“Because my eyes tell me so. Do you think I am a fool? I am cleverer than you, in spite of your red hair. I pity you — that is all!”
There was a brief silence — they all looked at one another, but did not utter a word.
“Well, goodbye, dear friends,” Paklin exclaimed. “We must have bored you to death with our long visit. It is time for these gentlemen to be going, and I am going with them. Goodbye, thanks for your kindness.”
“Goodbye, goodbye, come again. Don’t be on ceremony,” Fomishka and Fimishka exclaimed together. Then Fomishka suddenly drawled out:
“Many, many, many years of life. Many — ”
“Many, many,” Kalliopitch chimed in quite unexpectedly, when opening the door for the young men to pass out.
The whole four suddenly found themselves in the street before the squat little house, while Pufka’s voice was heard from within:
“You fools!” she cried. “You fools!”
Paklin laughed aloud, but no one responded. Markelov looked at each in turn, as though he expected to hear some expression of indignation. Solomin alone smiled his habitual smile.
XX
“WELL,” Paklin was the first to begin, “we have been to the eighteenth century, now let us fly to the twentieth! Golushkin is such a go - ahead man that one can hardly count him as belonging to the nineteenth.”
“Why, do you know him?”
“What a question! Did you know my poll - parrots?”
“No, but you introduced us.”
“Well, then, introduce me. I don’t suppose you have any secrets to talk over, and Golushkin is a hospitable man. You will see; he will be delighted to see a new face. We are not very formal here in S.”
“Yes,” Markelov muttered, “I have certainly noticed an absence of formality about the people here.”
Paklin shook his head.
“I suppose that was a hit for me... I can’t help it. I deserve it, no doubt. But may I suggest, my new friend, that you throw off those sad, oppressive thoughts, no doubt due to your bilious temperament... and chiefly — ”
“And you sir, my new friend,” Markelov interrupted him angrily, “allow me to tell you, by way of a warning, that I have never in my life been given to joking, least of all today! And what do you know about my temperament, I should like to know? It strikes me that it is not so very long since we first set eyes on one another.”
“There, there, don’t get angry and don’t swear. I believe you without that,” Paklin exclaimed. “Oh you,” he said, turning to Solomin, “you, whom the wise Fimishka called a cool sort of man, and there certainly is something restful about you — do you think I had the slightest intention of saying anything unpleasant to anyone or of joking out of place? I only suggested going with you to Golushkin’s. Besides, I’m such a harmless person; it’s not my fault that Mr. Markelov has a bilious complexion.”
Solomin first shrugged one shoulder, then the other. It was a habit of his when he did not quite know what to say.
“I don’t think,” he said at last, “that you could offend anyone, Mr. Paklin, or that you wished to — and why should you not come with us to Mr. Golushkin? We shall, no doubt, spend our time there just as pleasantly as we did at your kinsman’s — and just as profitably most likely.”
Paklin threatened him with his finger.
“Oh! I see, you can be wicked too if you like! However, you are also coming to Golushkin’s, are you not?”
“Of course I am. I have wasted the day as it is.”
“Well then, en avant, marchons! To the twentieth century! To the twentieth century! Nejdanov, you are an advanced man, lead the way!”
“Very well, come along; only don’t keep on repeating the same jokes lest we should think you are running short.”
“I have still enough left for you, my dear friends,” Paklin said gaily and went on ahead, not by leaping, but by limping, as he said.
“What an amusing man!” Solomin remarked as he was walking along arm - in - arm with Nejdanov; “if we should ever be sent to Siberia, which Heaven forbid, there will be someone to entertain us at any rate.”
Markelov walked in silence behind the others.
Meanwhile great preparations were going on at Golushkin’s to produce a “chic” dinner. (Golushkin, as a man of the highest European culture, kept a French cook, who had formerly been dismissed from a club for dirtiness.) A nasty, greasy fish soup was prepared, various pates chauds and fricasses and, most important of all, several bottles of champagne had been procured and put into ice.
The host met the young people with his characteristic awkwardness, bustle, and much giggling. He was delighted to see Paklin as the latter had predicted and asked of him —
“Is he one of us? Of course he is! I need not have asked,” he said, without waiting for a reply. He began telling them how he had just come from that “old fogey” the govern
or, and how the latter worried him to death about some sort of charity institution. It was difficult to say what satisfied Golushkin most, the fact that he was received at the governor’s, or that he was able to abuse that worth before these advanced, young men. Then he introduced them to the promised proselyte, who turned out to be no other than the sleek consumptive individual with the long neck whom they had seen in the morning, Vasia, Golushkin’s clerk. “He hasn’t much to say,” Golushkin declared, “but is devoted heart and soul to our cause.” To this Vasia bowed, blushed, blinked his eyes, and grinned in such a manner that it was impossible to say whether he was merely a vulgar fool or an out - and - out knave and blackguard.
“Well, gentlemen, let us go to dinner,” Golushkin exclaimed.
They partook of various kinds of salt fish to give them an appetite and sat down to the table. Directly after the soup, Golushkin ordered the champagne to be brought up, which came out in frozen little lumps as he poured it into the glasses. “For our ... our enterprise!” Golushkin exclaimed, winking at the servant, as much as to say, “One must be careful in the presence of strangers.” The proselyte Vasia continued silent, and though he sat on the very edge of his chair and conducted himself generally with a servility quite out of keeping with the convictions to which, according to his master, he was devoted body and soul, yet gulped down the wine with an amazing greediness. The others made up for his silence, however, that is, Golushkin and Paklin, especially Paklin. Nejdanov was inwardly annoyed, Markelov angry and indignant, just as indignant, though in a different way, as he had been at the Subotchevs’; Solomin was observant.
Paklin was in high spirits and delighted Golushkin with his sharp, ready wit. The latter had not the slightest suspicion that the “little cripple” every now and again whispered to Nejdanov, who happened to be sitting beside him, the most unflattering remarks at his, Golushkin’s, expense. He thought him “a simple sort of fellow” who might be patronised; that was probably why he liked him. Had Paklin been sitting next him he would no doubt have poked him in the ribs or slapped him on the shoulder, but as it was, he merely contented himself by nodding and winking in his direction. Between him and Nejdanov sat Markelov, like a dark cloud, and then Solomin. Golushkin went into convulsions at every word Paklin said, laughed on trust in advance, holding his sides and showing his bluish gums. Paklin soon saw what was expected of him and began abusing everything (it being an easy thing for him), everything and everybody; conservatives, liberals, officials, lawyers, administrators, landlords, county councils and district councils, Moscow and St. Petersburg. “Yes, yes, yes,” Golushkin put in, “that’s just how it is! For instance, our mayor here is a perfect ass! A hopeless blockhead! I tell him one thing after another, but he doesn’t understand a single word; just like our governor!”
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 110