A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  You can imagine what I felt at these words.

  “Of course that’s nonsense,” Priemkov went on; “though I must admit that extraordinary things have happened to my wife in that way.”

  “And you say Vera Nikolaevna is very unwell?”

  “Yes: she was very bad in the night; now she is wandering.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “The doctor said that the disease was undefined as yet. . . .”

  March 12.

  I cannot go on as I began, dear friend; it costs me too much effort and re - opens my wounds too cruelly. The disease, to use the doctor’s words, became defined, and Vera died of it. She did not live a fortnight after the fatal day of our momentary interview. I saw her once more before her death. I have no memory more heart - rending. I had already learned from the doctor that there was no hope. Late in the evening, when every one in the house was in bed, I stole to the door of her room and looked in at her. Vera lay in her bed, with closed eyes, thin and small, with a feverish flush on her cheeks. I gazed at her as though turned to stone. All at once she opened her eyes, fastened them upon me, scrutinised me, and stretching out a wasted hand - -

  “Was will er an dem heiligen Ort

  Der da . . . der dort . . . .”

  [Faust, Part I., Last Scene.]

  she articulated, in a voice so terrible that I rushed headlong away. Almost all through her illness, she raved about Faust and her mother, whom she sometimes called Martha, sometimes Gretchen’s mother.

  Vera died. I was at her burying. Ever since then I have given up everything and am settled here for ever.

  Think now of what I have told you; think of her, of that being so quickly brought to destruction. How it came to pass, how explain this incomprehensible intervention of the dead in the affairs of the living, I don’t know and never shall know. But you must admit that it is not a fit of whimsical spleen, as you express it, which has driven me to retire from the world. I am not what I was, as you knew me; I believe in a great deal now which I did not believe formerly. All this time I have thought so much of that unhappy woman (I had almost said, girl), of her origin, of the secret play of fate, which we in our blindness call blind chance. Who knows what seeds each man living on earth leaves behind him, which are only destined to come up after his death? Who can say by what mysterious bond a man’s fate is bound up with his children’s, his descendants’; how his yearnings are reflected in them, and how they are punished for his errors? We must all submit and bow our heads before the Unknown.

  Yes, Vera perished, while I was untouched. I remember, when I was a child, we had in my home a lovely vase of transparent alabaster. Not a spot sullied its virgin whiteness. One day when I was left alone, I began shaking the stand on which it stood . . . the vase suddenly fell down and broke to shivers. I was numb with horror, and stood motionless before the fragments. My father came in, saw me, and said, “There, see what you have done; we shall never have our lovely vase again; now there is no mending it!” I sobbed. I felt I had committed a crime.

  I grew into a man - - and thoughtlessly broke a vessel a thousand times more precious. . . .

  In vain I tell myself that I could not have dreamed of such a sudden catastrophe, that it struck me too with its suddenness, that I did not even suspect what sort of nature Vera was. She certainly knew how to be silent till the last minute. I ought to have run away directly I felt that I loved her, that I loved a married woman. But I stayed, and that fair being was shattered, and with despair I gaze at the work of my own hands.

  Yes, Madame Eltsov took jealous care of her daughter. She guarded her to the end, and at the first incautious step bore her away with her to the grave!

  It is time to make an end. . . . I have not told one hundredth part of what I ought to have; but this has been enough for me. Let all that has flamed up fall back again into the depths of my heart. . . . In conclusion, I say to you - - one conviction I have gained from the experience of the last years - - life is not jest and not amusement; life is not even enjoyment . . . life is hard labour. Renunciation, continual renunciation - - that is its secret meaning, its solution. Not the fulfilment of cherished dreams and aspirations, however lofty they may be - - the fulfilment of duty, that is what must be the care of man. Without laying on himself chains, the iron chains of duty, he cannot reach without a fall the end of his career. But in youth we think - - the freer the better, the further one will get. Youth may be excused for thinking so. But it is shameful to delude oneself when the stern face of truth has looked one in the eyes at last.

  Good - bye! In old days I would have added, be happy; now I say to you, try to live, it is not so easy as it seems. Think of me, not in hours of sorrow, but in hours of contemplation, and keep in your heart the image of Vera in all its pure stainlessness. . . . Once more, good - bye! - - Yours,

  P. B.

  1855

  ACIA

  Translated by Constance Garnett, 1899

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  I

  AT that time I was five - and - twenty, began N. N., - - it was in days long past, as you perceive. I had only just gained my freedom and gone abroad, not to “finish my education,” as the phrase was in those days; I simply wanted to have a look at God’s world. I was young, and in good health and spirits, and had plenty of money. Troubles had not yet had time to gather about me. I existed without thought, did as I liked, lived like the lilies of the field, in fact. It never occurred to me in those days that man is not a plant, and cannot go on living like one for long. Youth will eat gilt gingerbread and fancy it’s daily bread too; but the time comes when you’re in want of dry bread even. There’s no need to go into that, though.

  I travelled without any sort of aim, without a plan; I stopped wherever I liked the place, and went on again directly I felt a desire to see new faces - - faces, nothing else. I was interested in people exclusively; I hated famous monuments and museums of curiosities, the very sight of a guide produced in me a sense of weariness and anger; I was almost driven crazy in the Dresden “Grüne - Gewölbe.” Nature affected me extremely, but I did not care for the so - called beauties of nature, extraordinary mountains, precipices, and waterfalls; I did not like nature to obtrude, to force itself upon me. But faces, living human faces - - people’s talk, and gesture, and laughter - - that was what was absolutely necessary to me. In a crowd I always had a special feeling of ease and comfort. I enjoyed going where others went, shouting when others shouted, and at the same time I liked to look at the others shouting. It amused me to watch people. . . though I didn’t even watch them - - I simply stared at them with a sort of delighted, ever - eager curiosity. But I am diverging again.

  And so twenty years ago I was staying in the little German town Z., on the left bank of the Rhine. I was seeking solitude; I had just been stabbed to the heart by a young widow, with whom I had made acquaintance at a watering - place. She was very pretty and clever, and flirted with every one - - with me, too, poor sinner. At first she had positively encouraged me, but later on she cruelly wounded my feelings, sacrificing me for a red - faced Bavarian lieutenant. It must be owned, the wound to my heart was not a very deep one; but I thought it my duty to give myself up for a time to gloom and solitude - - youth will find amusement in anything! - - and so I settled at Z.

  I liked the little town for its situation on the slope of two high hills, its ruined walls and towers, its ancient lime - trees, its steep bridge over the little clear stream that falls into the Rhine, and, most of all, for its excellent wine. In the evening, directl
y after sunset (it was June), very pretty flaxen - haired German girls used to walk about its narrow streets and articulate “Guten Abend” in agreeable voices on meeting a stranger, - - some of them did not go home even when the moon had risen behind the pointed roofs of the old houses, and the tiny stones that paved the street could be distinctly seen in its still beams. I liked wandering about the town at that time; the moon seemed to keep a steady watch on it from the clear sky; and the town was aware of this steady gaze, and stood quiet and attentive, bathed in the moonlight, that peaceful light which is yet softly exciting to the soul. The cock on the tall Gothic bell - tower gleamed a pale gold, the same gold sheen glimmered in waves over the black surface of the stream; slender candles (the German is a thrifty soul!) twinkled modestly in the narrow windows under the slate roofs; branches of vine thrust out their twining tendrils mysteriously from behind stone walls; something flitted into the shade by the old - fashioned well in the three - cornered market place; the drowsy whistle of the night watchman broke suddenly on the silence, a good - natured dog gave a subdued growl, while the air simply caressed the face, and the lime - trees smelt so sweet that unconsciously the lungs drew in deeper and deeper breaths of it, and the name “Gretchen” hung, half exclamation, half question, on the lips.

  The little town of Z. lies a mile and a half from the Rhine. I used often to walk to look at the majestic river, and would spend long hours on a stone - seat under a huge solitary ash - tree, musing, not without some mental effort, on the faithless widow. A little statue of a Madonna, with an almost childish face and a red heart, pierced with swords, on her bosom, peeped mournfully out of the branches of the ash - tree. On the opposite bank of the river was the little town L., somewhat larger than that in which I had taken up my quarters. One evening I was sitting on my favourite seat, gazing at the sky, the river, and the vineyards. In front of me flaxen - headed boys were scrambling up the sides of a boat that had been pulled ashore, and turned with its tarred bottom upwards. Sailing - boats moved slowly by with slightly dimpling sails; the greenish waters glided by, swelling and faintly rumbling. All of a sudden sounds of music drifted across to me; I listened. A waltz was being played in the town of L. The double bass boomed spasmodically, the sound of the fiddle floated across indistinctly now and then, the flute was tootling briskly.

  “What’s that?” I inquired of an old man who came up to me, in a plush waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.

  “That,” he replied, after first shifting his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, “is the students come over from B. to a commersh.”

  “I’ll have a look at this commersh,” I thought. “I’ve never been over to L. either.” I sought out a ferryman, and went over to the other side.

  II

  EVERY one, perhaps, may not know what such a commersh is. It is a solemn festival of a special sort, at which students meet together who are of one district or brotherhood (Landsmannschaft). Almost all who take part in the commersh wear the time - honoured costume of German students: Hungarian jackets, big boots, and little caps, with bands round them of certain colours. The students generally assemble to a dinner, presided over by their senior member, and they keep up the festivities till morning - - drinking, singing songs, “Landesvater,” “Gaudeamus,” etc., smoking, and reviling the Philistines. Sometimes they hire an orchestra.

  Just such a commersh was going on in L., in front of a little inn, with the sign of the Sun, in the garden looking on to the street. Flags were flying over the inn and over the garden; the students were sitting at tables under the pollard lime - trees; a huge bull - dog was lying under one of the tables; on one side, in an ivy - covered arbour, were the musicians, playing away zealously, and continually invigorating themselves with beer. A good many people had collected in the street, before the low garden wall; the worthy citizens of L. could not let slip a chance of staring at visitors. I too mingled in the crowd of spectators. I enjoyed watching the students’ faces; their embraces, exclamations, the innocent affectations of youth, the fiery glances, the laughter without cause - - the sweetest laughter in the world - - all this joyous effervescence of young, fresh life, this eager pushing forward - - anywhere, so long as it’s forward - - the simple - hearted freedom moved me and stirred me.

  “Couldn’t I join them?” I was wondering. . . .

  “Acia, have you had enough of it?” I heard a man’s voice say suddenly, in Russian, just behind me.

  “Let’s stay a little longer,” answered another voice, a woman’s, in the same language.

  I turned quickly round. . . . My eyes fell on a handsome young man in a peaked cap and a loose short jacket. He had on his arm a young girl, not very tall, wearing a straw hat, which concealed all the upper part of her face.

  “You are Russians,” fell involuntarily from my lips.

  The young man smiled and answered - -

  “Yes, we are Russians.”

  “I never expected . . . in such an out of the way place,” I was beginning - -

  “Nor did we,” he interrupted me. “Well, so much the better. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Gagin, and this is my - - - - “ he hesitated for an instant, “my sister. What is your name, may I ask?”

  I told him my name, and we got into conversation. I found out that Gagin was travelling, like me, for his amusement; that he had arrived a week before at L., and was staying on there. To tell the truth, I was not eager to make friends with Russians abroad. I used to recognise them a long way off by their walk, the cut of their clothes, and, most of all, by the expression of their faces which was self - complacent and supercilious, often imperious, but would all of a sudden change, and give place to an expression of shyness and cautiousness. . . . The whole man would suddenly be on his guard, his eyes would shift uneasily. . . .

  “Mercy upon us! Haven’t I said something silly; aren’t they laughing at me?” those restless eyes seem to ask. . . . An instant later and haughtiness has regained its sway over the physiognomy, varied at times by a look of dull blankness. Yes, I avoided Russians; but I liked Gagin at once. There are faces in the world of that happy sort; every one is glad to look at them, as though they warmed or soothed one in some way. Gagin had just such a face - - sweet and kind, with large soft eyes and soft curly hair. He spoke in such a way that even if you did not see his face, you could tell by the mere sound of his voice that he was smiling!

  The girl, whom he had called his sister, struck me at the first glance as very charming. There was something individual, characteristic in the lines of her dark, round face, with its small, fine nose, almost childish cheeks, and clear black eyes. She was gracefully built, but hardly seemed to have reached her full development yet. She was not in the least like her brother.

  “Will you come home with us?” Gagin said to me; “I think we’ve stared enough at the Germans. Our fellows, to be sure, would have broken the windows, and smashed up the chairs, but these chaps are very sedate. What do you say, Acia, shall we go home?”

  The girl nodded her head in assent.

  “We live outside the town,” Gagin continued, “in a vineyard, in a lonely little house, high up. It’s delightful there, you’ll see. Our landlady promised to make us some junket. It will soon be dark now, and you had much better cross the Rhine by moonlight.”

  We set off. Through the low gates of the town (it was enclosed on all sides by an ancient wall of cobble - stones, even the barbicans had not all fallen into ruins at that time), we came out into the open country, and after walking a hundred paces beside a stone wall, we came to a standstill before a little narrow gate. Gagin opened it, and led us along a steep path up the mountain - side. On the slopes on both sides was the vineyard; the sun had just set, and a delicate rosy flush lay on the green vines, on the tall poles, on the dry earth, which was dotted with big and little stones, and on the white wall of the little cottage, with sloping black beams, and four bright little windows, which stood at the very top of the mountain we had climbe
d up.

  “Here is our house!” cried Gagin, directly we began to approach the cottage, “and here’s the landlady bringing in the junket. Guten Abend, Madame! . . . We’ll come in to supper directly; but first,” he added, “look round . . . isn’t it a view?”

  The view certainly was marvellous. The Rhine lay at our feet, all silvery between its green banks; in one place it glowed with the purple and gold of the sunset. The little town, nestling close to the river - bank, displayed all its streets and houses; sloping hills and meadows ran in wide stretches in all directions. Below it was fine, but above was finer still; I was specially impressed by the depth and purity of the sky, the radiant transparency of the atmosphere. The fresh, light air seemed softly quivering and undulating, as though it too were more free and at ease on the heights.

  “You have chosen delightful lodgings,” I observed.

  “It was Acia found it,” answered Gagin; “come, Acia,” he went on, “see after the supper. Let everything be brought out here. We will have supper in the open air. We can hear the music better here. Have you ever noticed,” he added, turning to me, “a waltz is often poor stuff close by - - vulgar, coarse music - - but in the distance, it’s exquisite! it fairly stirs every romantic chord within one.”

  Acia (her real name was Anna, but Gagin called her Acia, and you must let me do the same), went into the house, and soon came back with the landlady. They were carrying together a big tray, with a bowl of junkets plates, spoons, sugar, fruit, and bread. We sat down and began supper. Acia took off her hat; her black hair cropped short and combed, like a boy’s, fell in thick curls on her neck and ears. At first she was shy of me; but Gagin said to her - -