A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

‘Well?’ I queried; ‘didn’t she send any message?’

  ‘No.’

  I was silent for a little.

  ‘Did she read my note?’

  ‘No doubt she did; the maid took it to her.’

  ‘Unapproachable,’ I thought, remembering Pasinkov’s last words. ‘All right, you can go,’ I said aloud.

  Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go.

  ‘There’s a girl …’ he began, ‘here to see you.’

  ‘What girl?’

  Elisei hesitated.

  ‘Didn’t my master say anything to you?’

  ‘No…. What is it?’

  ‘When my master was in Novgorod,’ he went on, fingering the door - post, ‘he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. So here is this girl, wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I said to her, “Come along; if the master allows it, I’ll let you see him.”

  ‘Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But … what is she like?’

  ‘An ordinary girl…working class…Russian.’

  ‘Did Yakov Ivanitch care for her?’

  ‘Well, yes … he was fond of her. And she…when she heard my master was dead, she was terribly upset. She’s a good sort of girl.’

  ‘Ask her in, ask her in.’

  Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Elisei said to her; ‘go on, don’t be afraid.’

  I went up to her and took her by the hand.

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked her.

  ‘Masha,’ she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.

  She looked about two - or three - and - twenty; she had a round, rather simple - looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.

  ‘You knew Yakov Ivanitch?’ I pursued.

  ‘I used to know him,’ she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief, and the tears stood in her eyes.

  I asked her to sit down.

  She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of ceremony. Elisei went out.

  ‘You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?’

  ‘Yes, in Novgorod,’ she answered, clasping her hands under her kerchief. ‘I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia, promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn’t wish it.’

  ‘Have you relations in Novgorod?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you live with them?’

  ‘I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a lot of children: and so I moved. I always rested my hopes on Yakov Ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good to me — you can ask Elisei Timofeitch.’

  Masha paused.

  ‘I have his letters,’ she went on. ‘Here, look.’ She took several letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. ‘Read them,’ she added.

  I opened one letter and recognised Pasinkov’s hand.

  ‘Dear Masha!’ (he wrote in large, distinct letters) ‘you leaned your little head against my head yesterday, and when I asked why you do so, you told me — ”I want to hear what you are thinking.” I’ll tell you what I was thinking; I was thinking how nice it would be for Masha to learn to read and write! She could make out this letter …’

  Masha glanced at the letter.

  ‘That he wrote me in Novgorod,’ she observed, ‘when he was just going to teach me to read. Look at the others. There’s one from Siberia. Here, read this.’

  I read the letters. They were very affectionate, even tender. In one of them, the first one from Siberia, Pasinkov called Masha his best friend, promised to send her the money for the journey to Siberia, and ended with the following words — ’I kiss your pretty little hands; the girls here have not hands like yours; and their heads are no match for yours, nor their hearts either…. Read the books I gave you, and think of me, and I’ll not forget you. You are the only, only girl that ever cared for me; and so I want to belong only to you….’

  ‘I see he was very much attached to you,’ I said, giving the letters back to her.

  ‘He was very fond of me,’ replied Masha, putting the letters carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks. ‘I always trusted in him; if the Lord had vouchsafed him long life, he would not have abandoned me. God grant him His heavenly peace!’…

  She wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief.

  ‘Where are you living now?’ I inquired.

  ‘I’m here now, in Moscow; I came here with my mistress, but now I’m out of a place. I did go to Yakov Ivanitch’s aunt, but she is very poor herself. Yakov Ivanitch used often to talk of you,’ she added, getting up and bowing; ‘he always loved you and thought of you. I met Elisei Timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn’t be willing to assist me, as I’m out of a place just now….’

  ‘With the greatest pleasure, Maria … let me ask, what’s your name from your father?’

  ‘Petrovna,’ answered Masha, and she cast down her eyes.

  ‘I will do anything for you I can, Maria Petrovna,’ I continued; ‘I am only sorry that I am a visitor here, and know few good families.’

  Masha sighed.

  ‘If I could get a situation of some sort … I can’t cut out, but I can sew, so I’m always doing sewing … and I can look after children too.’

  ‘Give her money,’ I thought; ‘but how’s one to do it?’

  ‘Listen, Maria Petrovna,’ I began, not without faltering; ‘you must, please, excuse me, but you know from Pasinkov’s own words what a friend of his I was … won’t you allow me to offer you — for the immediate present — a small sum?’ …

  Masha glanced at me.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Aren’t you in want of money?’ I said.

  Masha flushed all over and hung her head.

  ‘What do I want with money?’ she murmured; ‘better get me a situation.’

  ‘I will try to get you a situation, but I can’t answer for it for certain; but you ought not to make any scruple, really … I’m not like a stranger to you, you know…. Accept this from me, in memory of our friend….’

  I turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket - book, and handed them to her.

  Masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast.

  ‘Take it,’ I persisted.

  She slowly raised her eyes to me, looked me in the face mournfully, slowly drew her pale hand from under her kerchief and held it out to me.

  I laid the notes in her cold fingers. Without a word, she hid the hand again under her kerchief, and dropped her eyes.

  ‘In future, Maria Petrovna,’ I resumed, ‘if you should be in want of anything, please apply directly to me. I will give you my address.’

  ‘I humbly thank you,’ she said, and after a short pause she added: ‘He did not speak to you of me?’

  ‘I only met him the day before his death, Maria Petrovna. But I’m not sure … I believe he did say something.’

  Masha passed her hand over her hair, pressed her cheek lightly, thought a moment, and saying ‘Good - bye,’ walked out of the room.

  I sat at the table and fell into bitter musings. This Masha, her relations with Pasinkov, his letters, the hidden love of Sophia Nikolaevna’s sister for him…. ‘Poor fellow! poor fellow!’ I whispered, with a catching in my breath. I thought of all Pasinkov’s life, his childhood, his youth, Fräulein Frederike…. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘much fate gave to thee! much cause for joy!’

  Next day I went again to see Sophia Nikolaevna. I was kept waiting in the ante - room, and w
hen I entered, Lidia was already seated by her mother. I understood that Sophia Nikolaevna did not wish to renew the conversation of the previous day.

  We began to talk — I really don’t remember what about — about the news of the town, public affairs…. Lidia often put in her little word, and looked slily at me. An amusing air of importance had suddenly become apparent on her mobile little visage…. The clever little girl must have guessed that her mother had intentionally stationed her at her side.

  I got up and began taking leave. Sophia Nikolaevna conducted me to the door.

  ‘I made you no answer yesterday,’ she said, standing still in the doorway; ‘and, indeed, what answer was there to make? Our life is not in our own hands; but we all have one anchor, from which one can never, without one’s own will, be torn — a sense of duty.’

  Without a word I bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from the youthful Puritan.

  All that evening I stayed at home, but I did not think of her; I kept thinking and thinking of my dear, never - to - be - forgotten Pasinkov — the last of the idealists; and emotions, mournful and tender, pierced with sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings of a heart not yet quite grown old…. Peace to your ashes, unpractical man, simple - hearted idealist! and God grant to all practical men — to whom you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh even now over you in the grave — God grant to them to experience even a hundredth part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and men, your poor and unambitious life was so rich!

  THE END

  FAUST

  A STORY IN NINE LETTERS

  Translated by Constance Garnett, 1899

  CONTENTS

  FIRST LETTER

  SECOND LETTER

  THIRD LETTER

  FOURTH LETTER

  FIFTH LETTER

  SIXTH LETTER

  SEVENTH LETTER

  EIGHTH LETTER

  NINTH LETTER

  FIRST LETTER

  FROM PAVEL ALEXANDROVITCH B. . . . TO

  SEMYON NIKOLAEVITCH V. . . .

  M - - - - VILLAGE, 6th June 1850.

  I HAVE been here for three days, my dear fellow, and, as I promised, I take up my pen to write to you. It has been drizzling with fine rain ever since the morning; I can’t go out; and I want a little chat with you, too. Here I am again in my old home, where - - it’s a dreadful thing to say - - I have not been for nine long years. Really, as you may fancy, I have become quite a different man. Yes, utterly different, indeed; do you remember, in the drawing - room, the little tarnished looking - glass of my great - grandmother’s, with the queer little curly scrolls in the corners - - - you always used to be speculating on what it had seen a hundred years ago - - directly I arrived, I went up to it, and I could not help feeling disconcerted. I suddenly saw how old and changed I had become in these last years. But I am not alone in that respect. My little house, which was old and tottering long ago, will hardly hold together now, it is all on the slant, and seems sunk into the ground. My dear Vassilievna, the housekeeper (you can’t have forgotten her; she used to regale you with such capital jam), is quite shrivelled up and bent; when she saw me, she could not call out, and did not start crying, but only moaned and choked, sank helplessly into a chair, and waved her hand. Old Terenty has some spirit left in him still; he holds himself up as much as ever, and turns out his feet as he walks. He still wears the same yellow nankeen breeches, and the same creaking goatskin slippers, with high heels and ribbons, which touched you so much sometimes, . . . but, mercy on us! - - how the breeches flap about his thin legs nowadays! how white his hair has grown! and his face has shrunk up into a sort of little fist. When he speaks to me, when he begins directing the servants, and giving orders in the next room, it makes me laugh, and feel sorry for him. All his teeth are gone, and he mumbles with a whistling, hissing sound. On the other hand, the garden has got on wonderfully. The modest little plants of lilac, acacia, and honeysuckle (do you remember, we planted them together?) have grown into splendid, thick bushes. The birches, the maples - - all that has spread out and grown tall; the avenues of lime - trees are particularly fine. I love those avenues, I love the tender grey, green colour, and the delicate fragrance of the air under their arching boughs; I love the changing network of rings of light on the dark earth - - there is no sand here, you know. My favourite oak sapling has grown into a young oak tree. Yesterday I spent more than an hour in the middle of the day on a garden bench in its shade. I felt very happy. All about me the grass was deliciously luxuriant; a rich, soft, golden light lay upon everything; it made its way even into the shade . . . and the birds one could hear! You’ve not forgotten, I expect, that birds are a passion of mine? The turtle - doves cooed unceasingly; from time to time there came the whistle of the oriole; the chaffinch uttered its sweet little refrain; the blackbirds quarrelled and twittered; the cuckoo called far away; suddenly, like a mad thing, the woodpecker uttered its shrill cry. I listened and listened to this subdued, mingled sound, and did not want to move, while my heart was full of something between languor and tenderness.

  And it’s not only the garden that has grown up: I am continually coming across sturdy, thick - set lads, whom I cannot recognise as the little boys I used to know in old days. Your favourite, Timosha, has turned into a Timofay, such as you could never imagine. You had fears in those days for his health, and predicted consumption; but now you should just see his huge, red hands, as they stick out from the narrow sleeves of his nankeen coat, and the stout rounded muscles that stand out all over him! He has a neck like a bull’s, and a head all over tight, fair curls - - a regular Farnese Hercules. His face, though, has changed less than the others’; it is not even much larger in circumference, and the good - humoured, “gaping” - - as you used to say - - smile has remained the same. I have taken him to be my valet; I got rid of my Petersburg fellow at Moscow; he was really too fond of putting me to shame, and making me feel the superiority of his Petersburg manners. Of my dogs I have not found one; they have all passed away. Nefka lived longer than any of them - - and she did not live till my return, as Argos lived till the return of Ulysses; she was not fated to look once more with her lustreless eyes on her master and companion in the chase. But Shavka is all right, and barks as hoarsely as ever, and has one ear torn just the same, and burrs sticking to his tail, - - all just as it should be. I have taken up my abode in what was your room. It is true the sun beats down upon it, and there are a lot of flies in it; but there is less of the smell of the old house in it than in the other rooms. It’s a queer thing; that musty, rather sour, faint smell has a powerful effect on my imagination; I don’t mean that it’s disagreeable to me, quite the contrary, but it produces melancholy, and, at last, depression. I am very fond, just as you are, of podgy old chests with brass plates, white armchairs with oval backs, and crooked legs, fly - blown glass lustres, with a big egg of lilac tinsel in the centre - - of all sorts of ancestral furniture, in fact. But I can’t stand seeing it all continually; a sort of agitated dejection (it is just that) takes possession of me. In the room where I have established myself, the furniture is of the most ordinary, home - made description. I have left, though, in the corner, a long narrow set of shelves, on which there is an old - fashioned set of blown green and blue glasses, just discernible through the dust. And I have had hung on the wall that portrait of a woman - - you remember, in the black frame? - - that you used to call the portrait of Manon Lescaut. It has got rather darker in these nine years; but the eyes have the same pensive, sly, and tender look, the lips have the same capricious, melancholy smile, and the half - plucked rose falls as softly as ever from her slender fingers. I am greatly amused by the blinds in my room. They were once green, but have been turned yellow by the sun; on them are depicted, in dark colours, scenes from d’Arlencourt’s Hermit. On one curtain the hermit, with an immense beard, goggle - eyes, and sandals on his feet, is carrying off a young lady with dishevelled locks to the mountains. On another one
, there is a terrific combat going on between four knights wearing birettas, and with puffs on their shoulders; one, much foreshortened, lies slain - - in fact, there are pictures of all sorts of horrors, while all about there is such unbroken peace, and the blinds themselves throw such soft light on the ceiling. . . . A sort of inward calm has come upon me since I have been settled here; one wants to do nothing, one wants to see no one, one looks forward to nothing, one is too lazy for thought, but not too lazy for musing; two different things, as you know well. Memories of childhood, at first, came flooding upon me - - wherever I went, whatever I looked at, they surged up on all sides, distinct, to the smallest detail, and, as it were, immovable, in their clearly defined outlines. . . . Then these memories were succeeded by others, then . . . then I gradually turned away from the past, and all that was left was a sort of drowsy heaviness in my heart. Fancy! as I was sitting on the dike, under a willow, I suddenly and unexpectedly burst out crying, and should have gone on crying a long while, in spite of my advanced years, if I had not been put to shame by a passing peasant woman, who stared at me with curiosity, then, without turning her face towards me, gave a low bow from the waist, and passed on. I should be very glad to remain in the same mood (I shan’t do any more crying, of course) till I go away from here, that is, till September, and should be very sorry if any of my neighbours should take it into his head to call on me. However there is no danger, I fancy, of that; I have no near neighbours here. You will understand me, I’m sure; you know yourself, by experience, how often solitude is beneficial . . . I need it now after wanderings of all sorts.

  But I shan’t be dull. I have brought a few books with me, and I have a pretty fair library here. Yesterday, I opened all the bookcases, and was a long while rummaging about among the musty books. I found many curious things I had not noticed before: Candide, in a manuscript translation of somewhere about 1770; newspapers and magazines of the same period; the Triumphant Chameleon (that is, Mirabeau), le Paysan Perverti, etc. I came across children’s books, my own, and my father’s, and my grandmother’s, and even, fancy, my great grandmother’s; in one dilapidated French grammar in a particoloured binding, was written in fat letters: “Ce livre appartient à Mile Eudoxie de Lavrine,” and it was dated 1741. I saw books I had brought at different times from abroad, among others, Goethe’s Faust. You’re not aware, perhaps, that there was a time when I knew Faust by heart (the first part, of course) word for word; I was never tired of reading it. . . But other days, other dreams, and for the last nine years, it has so happened, that I have scarcely had a Goethe in my hand. It was with an indescribable emotion that I saw the little book I knew so well, again (a poor edition of 1828). I brought it away with me, lay down on the bed, and began to read. How all that splendid first scene affected me! The entrance of the Spirit of the Earth, the words, you remember - - “on the tide of life, in the whirl of creation,” stirred a long unfamiliar tremor and shiver of ecstasy. I recalled everything: Berlin, and student days, and Fräulein Clara Stick, and Zeidelmann in the rôle of Mephistopheles, and the music of Radzivil, and all and everything. . . . It was a long while before I could get to sleep: my youth rose up and stood before me like a phantom; it ran like fire, like poison through my veins, my heart leaped and would not be still, something plucked at its chords, and yearnings began surging up. . . .