A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  “Come, Acia, come out of your shell! he won’t bite.”

  She smiled, and a little while after she began talking to me of her own accord. I had never seen such a restless creature. She did not sit still for a single instant; she got up, ran off into the house, and ran back again, hummed in an undertone, often laughed, and in a very strange way; she seemed to laugh, not at what she heard, but at the different ideas that crossed her mind. Her big eyes looked out boldly, brightly, directly, but sometimes her eyelids faintly drooped, and then their expression instantaneously became deep and tender.

  We chatted away for a couple of hours. The daylight had long died away, and the evening glow, at first fiery, then clear and red, then pale and dim, had slowly melted away and passed into night, but our conversation still went on, as quiet and peaceful as the air around us. Gagin ordered a bottle of Rhine wine; we drank it between us, slowly and deliberately. The music floated across to us as before, its strains seemed sweeter and tenderer; lights were burning in the town and on the river. Acia suddenly let her head fall, so that her curls dropped into her eyes, ceased speaking, and sighed. Then she said she was sleepy, and went indoors. I saw, though, that she stood a long while at the unopened window without lighting a candle. At last the moon rose and began shining upon the Rhine; everything turned to light and darkness, everything was transformed, even the wine in our cut - glass tumblers gleamed with a mysterious light. The wind drooped, as it were, folded its wings and sank to rest; the fragrant warmth of night rose in whiffs from the earth.

  “It’s time I was going!” I cried, “or else perhaps, there’ll be no getting a ferryman.”

  “Yes, it’s time to start,” Gagin assented.

  We went down the path. Suddenly we heard the rolling of the stones behind us; it was Acia coming after us.

  “Aren’t you asleep?” asked her brother; but, without answering a word, she ran by us. The last, smouldering lamps, lighted by the students in the garden of the inn, threw a light on the leaves of the trees from below, giving them a fantastic and festive look. We found Acia at the river’s edge; she was talking to a ferryman. I jumped into the boat, and said good - bye to my new friends. Gagin promised to pay me a visit next day; I pressed his hand, and held out my hand to Acia; but she only looked at me and shook her head. The boat pushed off and floated on the rapid river. The ferryman, a sturdy old man, buried his oars in the dark water, and pulled with great effort.

  “You are in the streak of moonlight, you have broken it up,” Acia shouted to me.

  I dropped my eyes; the waters eddied round the boat, blacker than ever.

  “Good - bye!” I heard her voice.

  “Till to - morrow,” Gagin said after her.

  The boat reached the other side. I got out and looked about me. No one could be seen now on the opposite bank. The streak of moonlight stretched once more like a bridge of gold right across the river. Like a farewell, the air of the old - fashioned Lanner waltz drifted across. Gagin was right; I felt every chord in my heart vibrating in response to its seductive melody. I started homewards across the darkening fields, drinking in slowly the fragrant air, and reached my room, deeply stirred by the voluptuous languor of vague, endless anticipation. I felt happy. . . . But why was I happy? I desired nothing, I thought of nothing. . . . I was happy.

  Almost laughing from excess of sweet, light - hearted emotions, I dived into my bed, and was just closing my eyes, when all at once it struck me that I had not once all the evening remembered my cruel charmer. . . . “What’s the meaning of it?” I wondered to myself; “is it possible I’m not in love?” But though I asked myself this question, I fell asleep, I think, at once, like a baby in its cradle.

  III

  NEXT morning (I was awake, but had not yet begun to get up), I heard the tap of a stick on my window, and a voice I knew at once for Gagin’s hummed - -

  “Art thou asleep? with the guitar

  Will I awaken thee . . .”

  I made haste to open the door to him.

  “Good - morning,” said Gagin, coming in; “I’m disturbing you rather early, but only see what a morning it is. Fresh, dewy, larks singing.” With his curly, shining hair, his open neck and rosy cheeks, he was fresh as the morning himself.

  I dressed; we went out into the garden, sat down on a bench, ordered coffee, and proceeded to talk. Gagin told me his plans for the future; he possessed a moderate fortune, was not dependent on any one, and wanted to devote himself to painting. He only regretted that he had not had more sense sooner, but had wasted so much time doing nothing. I too referred to my projects, and incidentally confided to him the secret of my unhappy love. He listened to me amiably, but, so far as I could observe, I did not arouse in him any very strong sympathy with my passion. Sighing once or twice after me, for civility’s sake, Gagin suggested that I should go home with him and look at his sketches. I agreed at once.

  We did not find Acia. She had, the landlady told us, gone to the “ruin.” A mile and a half from L. were the remains of a feudal castle. Gagin showed me all his canvases. In his sketches there was a good deal of life and truth, a certain breadth and freedom; but not one of them was finished, and the drawing struck me as careless and incorrect. I gave candid expression to my opinion.

  “Yes, yes,” he assented, with a sigh; “you’re right; it’s all very poor and crude; what’s to be done? I haven’t had the training I ought to have had; besides, one’s cursed Slavonic slackness gets the better of one. While one dreams of work, one soars away in eagle flight; one fancies one’s going to shake the earth out of its place - - but when it comes to doing anything, one’s weak and weary directly.”

  I began trying to cheer him up, but he waved me off, and bundling his sketches up together, threw them on the sofa.

  “If I’ve patience, something may be made of me,” he muttered; “if I haven’t, I shall remain a half - baked noble amateur. Come, we’d better be looking for Acia.”

  We went out.

  IV

  THE road to the ruin went twisting down the steep incline into a narrow wooded valley; at the bottom ran a stream, noisily threading its way through the pebbles, as though in haste to flow into the great river, peacefully shining beyond the dark ridge of the deep indented mountain crest. Gagin called my attention to some places where the light fell specially finely; one could see in his words that, even if not a painter, he was undoubtedly an artist. The ruin soon came into sight. On the very summit of the naked rock rose a square tower, black all over, still strong, but, as it were, cleft in two by a longitudinal crack. Mossy walls adjoined the tower; here and there ivy clung about it; wind - twisted bushes hung down from the grey battlements and crumbling arches. A stray path led up to the gates, still standing entire. We had just reached them, when suddenly a girl’s figure darted up in front of us, ran swiftly over a heap of debris, and stood on the projecting part of the wall, right over the precipice.

  “Why, it’s Acia!” cried Gagin; “the mad thing.” We went through the gates and found ourselves in a small courtyard, half overgrown with crab - apple trees and nettles. On the projecting ledge, Acia actually was sitting. She turned and faced us, laughing, but did not move. Gagin shook his finger at her, while I loudly reproached her for her recklessness.

  “That’s enough,” Gagin said to me in a whisper; “don’t tease her; you don’t know what she is; she’d very likely climb right up on to the tower. Look, you’d better be admiring the intelligence of the people of these parts!”

  I looked round. In a corner, ensconced in a tiny, wooden hut, an old woman was knitting a stocking, and looking at us through her spectacles. She sold beer, gingerbread, and seltzer water to tourists. We seated ourselves on a bench, and began drinking some fairly cold beer out of heavy pewter pots. Acia still sat without moving, with her feet tucked under her, and a muslin scarf wrapped round her head; her graceful figure stood out distinctly and finely against the clear sky; but I looked at her with a feeling of hostility. The evenin
g before I had detected something forced, something not quite natural about her. . . . “She’s trying to impress us,” I thought; “whatever for? What a childish trick.” As though guessing my thoughts, she suddenly turned a rapid, searching glance upon me, laughed again, leaped in two bounds from the wall, and going up to the old woman, asked her for a glass of water.

  “Do you think I am thirsty?” she said, addressing her brother; “no; there are some flowers on the walls, which must be watered.”

  Gagin made her no reply; and with the glass in her hand, she began scrambling over the ruins, now and then stopping, bending down, and with comic solemnity pouring a few drops of water, which sparkled brightly in the sun. Her movements were very charming, but I felt, as before, angry with her, even while I could not help admiring her lightness and agility. At one dangerous place she purposely screamed, and then laughed. . . . I felt still more annoyed with her.

  “Why, she climbs like a goat,” the old woman mumbled, turning for an instant from her stocking.

  At last, Acia had emptied the glass, and with a saucy swing she walked back to us. A queer smile was faintly twitching at her eyebrows, nostrils, and lips; her dark eyes were screwed up with a half insolent, half merry look.

  “You consider my behaviour improper,” her face seemed to say; “all the same, I know you’re admiring me.”

  “Well done, Acia, well done,” Gagin said in a low voice.

  She seemed all at once overcome with shame, she dropped her long eyelashes, and sat down beside us with a guilty air. At that moment I got for the first time a good look at her face, the most changeable face I had ever seen. A few instants later it had turned quite pale, and wore an intense, almost mournful expression, its very features seemed larger, sterner, simpler. She completely subsided. We walked round the ruins (Acia followed us), and admired the views. Meanwhile it was getting near dinner - time. As he paid the old woman, Gagin asked for another mug of beer, and turning to me, cried with a sly face - -

  “To the health of the lady of your heart.”

  “Why, has he - - have you such a lady?” Acia asked suddenly.

  “Why, who hasn’t?” retorted Gagin.

  Acia seemed pensive for an instant; then her face changed, the challenging, almost insolent smile came back once more.

  On the way home she kept laughing, and was more mischievous again. She broke off a long branch, put it on her shoulder, like a gun, and tied her scarf round her head. I remember we met a numerous family of light - haired affected English people; they all, as though at a word of command, looked Acia up and down with their glassy eyes in chilly amazement, while she started singing aloud, as though in defiance of them. When she reached home, she went straight to her own room, and only appeared when dinner was on the table. She was dressed in her best clothes, had carefully arranged her hair, laced herself in at the waist, and put on gloves. At dinner she behaved very decorously, almost affectedly, hardly tasting anything, and drinking water out of a wine - glass. She obviously wanted to show herself in a new character before me - - the character of a well - bred, refined young lady. Gagin did not check her; one could see that it was his habit to humour her in everything. He merely glanced at me good - humouredly now and then and slightly shrugged his shoulders, as though he would say - - “She’s a baby; don’t be hard on her.” Directly dinner was over, Acia got up, made us a curtsey, and putting on her hat, asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise.

  “Since when do you ask leave,” he answered with his invariable smile, a rather embarrassed smile this time; “are you bored with us?”

  “No; but I promised Frau Luise yesterday to go and see her; besides, I thought you would like better being alone. Mr. N. (she indicated me) will tell you something more about himself.”

  She went out.

  “Frau Luise,” Gagin began, trying to avoid meeting my eyes, “is the widow of a former burgomaster here, a good - natured, but silly old woman. She has taken a great fancy to Acia. Acia has a passion for making friends with people of a lower class; I’ve noticed, it’s always pride that’s at the root of that. She’s pretty well spoilt with me, as you see,” he went on after a brief pause: “but what would you have me do? I can’t be exacting with any one, and with her less than any one else. I am bound not to be hard on her.”

  I was silent. Gagin changed the conversation. The more I saw of him, the more strongly was I attracted by him. I soon understood him. His was a typically Russian nature, truthful, honest, simple; but, unhappily, without energy, lacking tenacity and inward fire. Youth was not boiling over within him, but shone with a subdued light. He was very sweet and clever, but I could not picture to myself what he would become in ripe manhood. An artist . . . without intense, incessant toil, there is no being an artist . and as for toil, I mused, watching his soft features, listening to his slow deliberate talk, “no, you’ll never toil, you don’t know how to put pressure on yourself.” But not to love him was an impossibility; one’s heart was simply drawn to him. We spent four hours together, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking slowly up and down before the house; and in those four hours we became intimate friends.

  The sun was setting, and it was time for me to go home. Acia had not yet come back.

  “What a reckless thing she is,” said Gagin. “Shall I come along with you? We’ll turn in at Frau Luise’s on the way. I’ll ask whether she’s there. It’s not far out of the way.”

  We went down into the town, and turning off into a narrow, crooked little by - street, stopped before a house four storeys high, and with two windows abreast in each storey. The second storey projected beyond the first, the third and fourth stood out still further than the second; the whole house, with its crumbling carving, its two stout columns below, its pointed brick roof, and the projecting piece on the attic poking out like a beak, looked like a huge, crouching bird.

  “Acia,” shouted Gagin, “are you here?”

  A window, with a light in it in the third storey, rattled and opened, and we saw Acia’s dark head. Behind her peered out the toothless and dim - sighted face of an old German woman.

  “I’m here,” said Acia, leaning roguishly out with her elbows on the window - sill; “I’m quite contented here. Hullo there, catch,” she added flinging Gagin a twig of geranium; “imagine I’m the lady of your heart.”

  Frau Luise laughed.

  “N. is going,” said Gagin; “he wants to say good - bye to you.”

  “Really,” said Acia; “in that case give him my geranium, and I’ll come back directly.”

  She slammed - to the window and seemed to be kissing Frau Luise. Gagin offered me the twig without a word. I put it in my pocket in silence, went on to the ferry, and crossed over to the other side of the river.

  I remember I went home thinking of nothing in particular, but with a strange load at my heart, when I was suddenly struck by a strong familiar scent, rare in Germany. I stood still, and saw near the road a small bed of hemp. Its fragrance of the steppes instantaneously brought my own country to my mind, and stirred a passionate longing for it in my heart. I longed to breathe Russian air, to tread on Russian soil. “What am I doing here, why am I trailing about in foreign countries among strangers?” I cried, and the dead weight I had felt at my heart suddenly passed into a bitter, stinging emotion. I reached home in quite a different frame of mind from the evening before. I felt almost enraged, and it was a long while before I could recover my equanimity. I was beset by a feeling of anger I could not explain. At last I sat down, and bethinking myself of my faithless widow (I wound up every day regularly by dreaming, as in duty bound, of this lady), I pulled out one of her letters. But I did not even open it; my thoughts promptly took another turn. I began dreaming - - dreaming of Acia. I recollected that Gagin had, in the course of conversation, hinted at certain difficulties, obstacles in the way of his returning to Russia. . . . “Come, is she his sister?” I said aloud.

  I undressed, got into bed, and tried to get to sleep;
but an hour later I was sitting up again in bed, propped up with my elbow on the pillow, and was once more thinking about this “whimsical chit of a girl with the affected laugh.” . . . “She’s the figure of the little Galatea of Raphael in the Farnesino,” I murmured: “yes; and she’s not his sister - - - - “

  The widow’s letter lay tranquil and undisturbed on the floor, a white patch in the moonlight.

  V

  NEXT morning I went again to L - - - - . I persuaded myself I wanted to see Gagin, but secretly I was tempted to go and see what Acia would do, whether she would be as whimsical as on the previous day. I found them both in their sitting - room, and strange to say - - possibly because I had been thinking so much that night and morning of Russia - - Acia struck me as a typically Russian girl, and a girl of the humbler class, almost like a Russian servant - girl. She wore an old gown, she had combed her hair back behind her ears, and was sitting still as a mouse at the window, working at some embroidery in a frame, quietly, demurely, as though she had never done anything else all her life. She said scarcely anything, looked quietly at her work, and her features wore such an ordinary, commonplace expression, that I could not help thinking of our Katias and Mashas at home in Russia. To complete the resemblance she started singing in a low voice, “Little mother, little dove.” I looked at her little face, which was rather yellow and listless, I thought of my dreams of the previous night, and I felt a pang of regret for something.

  It was exquisite weather. Gagin announced that he was going to make a sketch to - day from nature; I asked him if he would let me go with him, whether I shouldn’t be in his way.

  “On the contrary,” he assured me; “you may give me some good advice.”