A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  “What is the matter? What is the matter with you?” Mariana exclaimed. And as on the day when he had fallen on his knees before her, trembling and breathless in a torrent of passion, she laid both her hands on his trembling head. But what she felt now was quite different from what she had felt then. Then she had given herself up to him — had submitted to him and only waited to hear what he would say next, but now she pitied him and only wondered what she could do to calm him.

  “What is the matter with you?” she repeated. “Why are you crying? Not because you came home in a somewhat... strange condition? It can’t be! Or are you sorry for Markelov — afraid for me, for yourself? Or is it for our lost hopes? You did not really expect that everything would go off smoothly!”

  Nejdanov suddenly lifted his bead.

  “It’s not that, Mariana,” he said, mastering his sobs by an effort, “I am not afraid for either of us... but... I am sorry.

  “For whom?”

  “For you, Mariana! I am sorry that you should have united your fate with a man who is not worthy of you.”

  “Why not?”

  “If only because he can be crying at a moment as this!”

  “It is not you but your nerves that are crying!”

  “You can’t separate me from my nerves! But listen, Mariana, look me in the face; can you tell me now that you do not regret — ”

  “What?”

  “That you ran away with me.”

  “No!”

  “And would you go with me further? Anywhere?”

  “Yes!”

  “Really? Mariana... really?

  “Yes. I have given you my word, and so long as you remain the man I love — I shall not take it back.”

  Nejdanov remained sitting on the chair, Mariana standing before him. His arms were about her waist, her’s were resting on his shoulders.

  “Yes, no,” Nejdanov thought... “when I last held her in my arms like this, her body was at least motionless, but now I can feel it — against her will, perhaps — shrink away from me gently!”

  He loosened his arms and Mariana did in fact move away from him a little.

  “If that’s so,” he said aloud, “if we must run away from here before the police find us... I think it wouldn’t be a bad thing if we were to get married. We may not find another such accommodating priest as Father Zosim!”

  “I am quite ready,” Mariana observed.

  Nejdanov gave her a searching glance.

  “A Roman maiden!” he exclaimed with a sarcastic half - smile. “What a feeling of duty!”

  Mariana shrugged her shoulders.

  “We must tell Solomin.”

  “Yes... Solomin...” Nejdanov drawled out. “But he is also in danger. The police would arrest him too. It seems to me that he also took part in things and knew even more than we did.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mariana observed. “He never speaks of himself!

  “Not as I do!” Nejdanov thought. “That was what she meant to imply. Solomin... Solomin!” he added after a pause. “Do you know, Mariana, I should not be at all sorry if you had linked your fate forever with a man like Solomin... or with Solomin himself.”

  Mariana gave Nejdanov a penetrating glance in her turn. “You had no right to say that,” she observed at last.

  “I had no right! In what sense am I to take that? Does it mean that you love me, or that I ought not to touch upon this question generally speaking?”

  “You had no right,” Mariana repeated.

  Nejdanov lowered his head.

  “Mariana!” he exclaimed in a slightly different tone of voice.

  “Yes?

  “If I were to ask you now... now... you know what... But no, I will not ask anything of you.. goodbye.”

  He got up and went out; Mariana did not detain him. Nejdanov sat down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. He was afraid of his own thoughts and tried to stop thinking. He felt that some sort of dark, underground hand had clutched at the very root of his being and would not let him go. He knew that the dear, sweet creature he had left in the next room would not come out to him and he dared not go to her. What for? What would he say to her?

  Firm, rapid footsteps made him open his eyes. Solomin passed through his room, knocked at Mariana’s door, and went in.

  “Honour where honour is due!” Nejdanov whispered bitterly.

  XXXIV

  IT was already ten o’clock in the evening; in the drawing - room of the Arjanov house Sipiagin, his wife, and Kollomietzev were sitting over a game at cards when a footman entered and announced that an unknown gentleman, a certain Mr. Paklin, wished to see Boris Andraevitch upon a very urgent business.

  “So late!” Valentina Mihailovna exclaimed, surprised.

  “What?” Boris Andraevitch asked, screwing up his handsome nose; “what did you say the gentleman’s name was?”

  “Mr. Paklin, sir.”

  “Paklin!” Kollomietzev exclaimed; “a real country name. Paklin. .. Solomin... De vrais noms ruraux, hein?”

  “Did you say,” Boris Andraevitch continued, still turned towards the footman with his nose screwed up, “that the business was an urgent one?”

  “The gentleman said so, sir.”

  “H’m.... No doubt some beggar or intriguer.”

  “Or both,” Kollomietzev chimed in.

  “Very likely. Ask him into my study.” Boris Andraevitch got up. “Pardon, ma bonne. Have a game of ecarte till I come back, unless you would like to wait for me. I won’t be long.”

  “Nous causerons... Allez!” Kollomietzev said.

  When Sipiagin entered his study and caught sight of Paklin’s poor, feeble little figure meekly leaning up against the door between the wall and the fireplace, he was seized by that truly ministerial sensation of haughty compassion and fastidious condescension so characteristic of the St. Petersburg bureaucrat. “Heavens! What a miserable little wretch!” he thought; “and lame too, I believe!”

  “Sit down, please,” he said aloud, making use of some of his most benevolent baritone notes and throwing back his head, sat down before his guest did. “You are no doubt tired from the journey. Sit down, please, and tell me about this important matter that has brought you so late.”

  “Your excellency,” Paklin began, cautiously dropping into an arm - chair, “I have taken the liberty of coming to you — ”

  “Just a minute, please,” Sipiagin interrupted him, “I think I’ve seen you before. I never forget faces. But er... er... really... where have I seen you?”

  “You are not mistaken, your excellency. I had the honour of meeting you in St. Petersburg at a certain person’s who... who has since... unfortunately... incurred your displeasure — ”

  Sipiagin jumped up from his chair.

  “Why, at Mr. Nejdanov’s? I remember now. You haven’t come from him by the way, have you?”

  “Not at all, your excellency; on the contrary...I — ”

  Sipiagin sat down again.

  “That’s good. For had you come on his account I should have asked you to leave the house at once. I cannot allow any mediator between myself and Mr. Nejdanov. Mr. Nejdanov has insulted me in a way which cannot be forgotten... I am above any feelings of revenge, but I don’t wish to know anything of him, nor of the girl — more depraved in mind than in heart” (Sipiagin had repeated this phrase at least thirty times since Mariana ran away), “who could bring herself to abandon a home that had sheltered her, to become the mistress of a nameless adventurer! It is enough for them that I am content to forget them.”

  At this last word Sipiagin waved his wrist into space.

  “I forget them, my dear sir!”

  “Your excellency, I have already told you that I did not come from them in particular, but I may inform your excellency that they are legally married...” (“It’s all the same,” Paklin thought; “I said that I would lie and so here I am. Never mind!”)

  Sipiagin moved his head from left to right on the back o
f his chair.

  “It does not interest me in the least, sir. It only makes one foolish marriage the more in the world — that’s all. But what is this urgent matter to which I am indebted for the pleasure of your visit?”

  “Ugh! you cursed director of a department!” Paklin thought, “I’ll soon make you pull a different face!” “Your wife’s brother,” he said aloud, “Mr. Markelov, has been seized by the peasants whom he had been inciting to rebellion, and is now under arrest in the governor’s house.”

  Sipiagin jumped up a second time.

  “What... what did you say?” he blurted out, not at all in his accustomed ministerial baritones, but in an extremely undignified manner.

  “I said that your brother - in - law has been seized and is in chains. As soon as I heard of it, I procured horses and came straight away to tell you. I thought that I might be rendering a service to you and to the unfortunate man whom you may be able to save!”

  “I am extremely grateful to you,” Sipiagin said in the same feeble tone of voice, and violently pressing a bell, shaped like a mushroom, he filled the whole house with its clear metallic ring. “I am extremely grateful to you,” he repeated more sharply, “but I must tell you that a man who can bring himself to trample under foot all laws, human and divine, were he a hundred times related to me — is in my eyes not unfortunate; he is a criminal!”

  A footman came in quickly.

  “Your orders, sir?

  “The carriage! the carriage and four horses this minute! I am going to town. Philip and Stepan are to come with me!” The footman disappeared. “Yes, sir, my brother - in - law is a criminal! I am going to town not to save him! Oh, no!”

  “But, your excellency — ”

  “Such are my principles, my dear sir, and I beg you not to annoy me by your objections!”

  Sipiagin began pacing up and down the room, while Paklin stared with all his might. “Ugh! you devil!” he thought, “I heard that you were a liberal, but you’re just like a hungry lion!”

  The door was flung open and Valentina Mihailovna came into the room with hurried steps, followed by Kollomietzev.

  “What is the matter, Boris? Why have you ordered the carriage? Are you going to town? What has happened?”

  Sipiagin went up to his wife and took her by the arm, between the elbow and wrist. “Il faut vous armer de courage, ma chere. Your brother has been arrested.”

  “My brother? Sergai? What for?”

  “He has been preaching socialism to the peasants.” (Kollomietzev gave a faint little scream.) “Yes! preaching revolutionary ideas, making propaganda! They seized him — and gave him up. He is now under arrest in the town.”

  “Madman! But who told you?”

  “This Mr... Mr... what’s his name? Mr. Konopatin brought the news.”

  Valentina Mihailovna glanced at Paklin; the latter bowed dejectedly. (“What a glorious woman!” he thought. Even in such difficult moments... alas! how susceptible Paklin was to feminine beauty!)

  “And you want to go to town at this hour?”

  “I think the governor will still be up.”

  “I always said it would end like this,” Kollomietzev put in. “It couldn’t have been otherwise! But what dears our peasants are really! Pardon, madame, c’est votre frere! Mais la verite avant tout!”

  “Do you really intend going to town, Boris?” Valentina Mihailovna asked.

  “I feel absolutely certain,” Kollomietzev continued, “that that tutor, Mr. Nejdanov, is mixed up in this. J’en mettrais ma main au feu. It’s all one gang! Haven’t they seized him? Don’t you know?”

  Sipiagin waved his wrist again.

  “I don’t know — and don’t want to know! By the way,” he added, turning to his wife, “il parait qu’il sont maries.”

  “Who said so? That same gentleman?” Valentina Mihailovna looked at Paklin again, this time with half - closed eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “In that case,” Kollomietzev put in, “he must know where they are. Do you know where they are? Do you know? Eh? Do you know?”

  Kollomietzev took to walking up and down in front of Paklin as if to cut off his way, although the latter had not betrayed the slightest inclination of wanting to run away. “Why don’t you speak? Answer me! Do you know, eh? Do you know?”

  “Even if I knew,” Paklin began, annoyed; his wrath had risen up in him at last and his eyes flashed fire: “even if I knew I would not tell you.”

  “Oh... oh...” Kollomietzev muttered. “Do you hear? Do you hear? This one too — this one too is of their gang!”

  “The carriage is ready!” a footman announced loudly. Sipiagin with a quick graceful movement seized his hat, but Valentina Mihailovna was so insistent in her persuasions for him to put off the journey until the morning and brought so many convincing arguments to bear — such as: that it was pitch dark outside, that everybody in town would be asleep, that he would only upset his nerves and might catch cold — that Sipiagin at length came to agree with her.

  “I obey!” he exclaimed, and with the same graceful gesture, not so rapid this time, replaced his hat on the table.

  “I shall not want the carriage now,” he said to the footman, “but see that it’s ready at six o’clock in the morning! Do you hear? ‘You can go now! But stay! See that the gentleman’s carriage is sent off and the driver paid... I What? Did you say anything, Mr. Konopatin? I am going to take you to town with me tomorrow, Mr. Konopatin! What did you say? I can’t hear... Do you take vodka? Give Mr. Konopatin some vodka! No? You don’t drink? In that case... Feodor! take the gentleman into the green room! Goodnight, Mr. Kono — ”

  Paklin lost all patience.

  “Paklin!” he shouted, “my name is Paklin!”

  “Oh, yes... it makes no difference. A bit alike, you know. What a powerful voice you have for your spare build! Till tomorrow, Mr. Paklin.... Have I got it right this time? Simeon, vous viendrez avec nous?”

  “Je crois bien!”

  Paklin was conducted into the green room and locked in. He distinctly heard the key turned in the English lock as he got into bed. He scolded himself severely for his “brilliant idea” and slept very badly.

  He was awakened early the next morning at half - past five and given coffee. As he drank it a footman with striped shoulder - knots stood over him with the tray in his hand, shifting from one leg to the other as though he were saying, “Hurry up! the gentlemen are waiting!” He was taken downstairs. The carriage was already waiting at the door. Kollomietzev’s open carriage was also there. Sipiagin appeared on the steps in a cloak made of camel’s hair with a round collar. Such cloaks had long ago ceased to be worn except by a certain important dignitary whom Sipiagin pandered to and wished to imitate. On important official occasions he invariably put on this cloak.

  Sipiagin greeted Paklin affably, and with an energetic movement of the hand pointed to the carriage and asked him to take his seat. “Mr. Paklin, you are coming with me, Mr. Paklin! Put your bag on the box, Mr. Paklin! I am taking Mr. Paklin,” he said, emphasising the word “Paklin” with special stress on the letter a. “You have an awful name like that and get insulted when people change it for you — so here you are then! Take your fill of it! Mr. Paklin! Paklin!” The unfortunate name rang out clearly in the cool morning air. It was so keen as to make Kollomietzev, who came out after Sipiagin, exclaim several times in French...

  “Brrr! brrr! brrr!” He wrapped his cloak more closely about him and seated himself in his elegant carriage with the hood thrown back. (Had his poor friend Michael Obrenovitch, the Servian prince, seen it, he would certainly have bought one like it at Binder’s.... “Vous savez Binder, le grand carrossier des Champs Elysees?”)

  Valentina Mihailovna, still in her night garments, peeped out from behind the half - open shutters of her bedroom. Sipiagin waved his hand to her from the carriage.

  “Are you quite comfortable, Mr. Paklin? Go on!”

  “Je vous recommande mon frere, epargnez
- le!” Valentina Mihailovna said.

  “Soyez tranquille!” Kollomietzev exclaimed, glancing up at her quickly from under the brim of his travelling cap — one of his own special design with a cockade in it — ”C’est surtout l’autre, qu’il faut pincer!”

  “Go on!” Sipiagin exclaimed again. “You are not cold, Mr. Paklin? Go on!”

  The two carriages rolled away.

  For about ten minutes neither Sipiagin nor Paklin pronounced a single word. The unfortunate Sila, in his shabby little coat and crumpled cap, looked even more wretched than usual in contrast to the rich background of dark blue silk with which the carriage was upholstered. He looked around in silence at the delicate pale blue blinds, which flew up instantly at the mere press of a button, at the soft white sheep - skin rug at their feet, at the mahogany box in front with a movable desk for letters and even a shelf for books. (Boris Andraevitch never worked in his carriage, but he liked people to think that he did, after the manner of Thiers, who always worked when travelling.) Paklin felt shy. Sipiagin glanced at him once or twice over his clean - shaven cheek, and with a pompous deliberation pulled out of a side - pocket a silver cigar - case with a curly monogram and a Slavonic band and offered him... really offered him a cigar, holding it gently between the second and third fingers of a hand neatly clad in an English glove of yellow dogskin.

  “I don’t smoke,” Paklin muttered.

  “Really!” Sipiagin exclaimed and lighted the cigar himself, an excellent regalia.

  “I must tell you... my dear Mr. Paklin,” he began, puffing gracefully at his cigar and sending out delicate rings of delicious smoke, “that I am... really... very grateful to you. I might have... seemed... a little severe... last night... which does not really... do justice to my character... believe me.” (Sipiagin purposely hesitated over his speech.) “But just put yourself in my place, Mr. Paklin!” (Sipiagin rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.) “The position I occupy places me... so to speak... before the public eye, and suddenly, without any warning... my wife’s brother... compromises himself... and me, in this impossible way! Well, Mr. Paklin? But perhaps you think that it’s nothing?”