A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Don’t worry yourself about that!’ Emil whispered gaily; he ran off, and as he ran nodded once more to him.

  Sanin went back home, and without lighting a candle, flung himself on the sofa, put his hands behind his head, and abandoned himself to those sensations of newly conscious love, which it is no good even to describe. One who has felt them knows their languor and sweetness; to one who has felt them not, one could never make them known.

  The door opened — Emil’s head appeared.

  ‘I have brought it,’ he said in a whisper: ‘here it is — the answer!’

  He showed and waved above his head a folded sheet of paper.

  Sanin leaped up from the sofa and snatched it out of Emil’s hand. Passion was working too powerfully within him: he had no thought of reserve now, nor of the observance of a suitable demeanour — even before this boy, her brother. He would have been scrupulous, he would have controlled himself — if he could!

  He went to the window, and by the light of a street lamp which stood just opposite the house, he read the following lines: —

  I beg you, I beseech you — don’t come to see us, don’t show yourself all day to - morrow. It’s necessary, absolutely necessary for me, and then everything shall be settled. I know you will not say no, because …

  ‘GEMMA.’

  Sanin read this note twice through. Oh, how touchingly sweet and beautiful her handwriting seemed to him! He thought a little, and turning to Emil, who, wishing to give him to understand what a discreet young person he was, was standing with his face to the wall, and scratching on it with his finger - nails, he called him aloud by name.

  Emil ran at once to Sanin. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Listen, my young friend…’

  ‘Monsieur Dimitri,’ Emil interrupted in a plaintive voice, ‘why do you address me so formally?’

  Sanin laughed. ‘Oh, very well. Listen, my dearest boy — (Emil gave a little skip of delight) — listen; there you understand, there, you will say, that everything shall be done exactly as is wished — (Emil compressed his lips and nodded solemnly) — and as for me … what are you doing to - morrow, my dear boy?’

  ‘I? what am I doing? What would you like me to do?’

  ‘If you can, come to me early in the morning — and we will walk about the country round Frankfort till evening…. Would you like to?’

  Emil gave another little skip. ‘I say, what in the world could be jollier? Go a walk with you — why, it’s simply glorious! I’ll be sure to come!’

  ‘And if they won’t let you?’

  ‘They will let me!’

  ‘Listen … Don’t say there that I asked you to come for the whole day.’

  ‘Why should I? But I’ll get away all the same! What does it matter?’

  Emil warmly kissed Sanin, and ran away.

  Sanin walked up and down the room a long while, and went late to bed. He gave himself up to the same delicate and sweet sensations, the same joyous thrill at facing a new life. Sanin was very glad that the idea had occurred to him to invite Emil to spend the next day with him; he was like his sister. ‘He will recall her,’ was his thought.

  But most of all, he marvelled how he could have been yesterday other than he was to - day. It seemed to him that he had loved Gemma for all time; and that he had loved her just as he loved her to - day.

  XXVI

  At eight o’clock next morning, Emil arrived at Sanin’s hotel leading Tartaglia by a string. Had he sprung of German parentage, he could not have shown greater practicality. He had told a lie at home; he had said he was going for a walk with Sanin till lunch - time, and then going to the shop. While Sanin was dressing, Emil began to talk to him, rather hesitatingly, it is true, about Gemma, about her rupture with Herr Klüber; but Sanin preserved an austere silence in reply, and Emil, looking as though he understood why so serious a matter should not be touched on lightly, did not return to the subject, and only assumed from time to time an intense and even severe expression.

  After drinking coffee, the two friends set off together — on foot, of course — to Hausen, a little village lying a short distance from Frankfort, and surrounded by woods. The whole chain of the Taunus mountains could be seen clearly from there. The weather was lovely; the sunshine was bright and warm, but not blazing hot; a fresh wind rustled briskly among the green leaves; the shadows of high, round clouds glided swiftly and smoothly in small patches over the earth. The two young people soon got out of the town, and stepped out boldly and gaily along the well - kept road. They reached the woods, and wandered about there a long time; then they lunched very heartily at a country inn; then climbed on to the mountains, admired the views, rolled stones down and clapped their hands, watching the queer droll way in which the stones hopped along like rabbits, till a man passing below, unseen by them, began abusing them in a loud ringing voice. Then they lay full length on the short dry moss of yellowish - violet colour; then they drank beer at another inn; ran races, and tried for a wager which could jump farthest. They discovered an echo, and began to call to it; sang songs, hallooed, wrestled, broke up dry twigs, decked their hats with fern, and even danced. Tartaglia, as far as he could, shared in all these pastimes; he did not throw stones, it is true, but he rolled head over heels after them; he howled when they were singing, and even drank beer, though with evident aversion; he had been trained in this art by a student to whom he had once belonged. But he was not prompt in obeying Emil — not as he was with his master Pantaleone — and when Emil ordered him to ‘speak,’ or to ‘sneeze,’ he only wagged his tail and thrust out his tongue like a pipe.

  The young people talked, too. At the beginning of the walk, Sanin, as the elder, and so more reflective, turned the conversation on fate and predestination, and the nature and meaning of man’s destiny; but the conversation quickly took a less serious turn. Emil began to question his friend and patron about Russia, how duels were fought there, and whether the women there were beautiful, and whether one could learn Russian quickly, and what he had felt when the officer took aim at him. Sanin, on his side, questioned Emil about his father, his mother, and in general about their family affairs, trying every time not to mention Gemma’s name — and thinking only of her. To speak more precisely, it was not of her he was thinking, but of the morrow, the mysterious morrow which was to bring him new, unknown happiness! It was as though a veil, a delicate, bright veil, hung faintly fluttering before his mental vision; and behind this veil he felt … felt the presence of a youthful, motionless, divine image, with a tender smile on its lips, and eyelids severely — with affected seventy — downcast. And this image was not the face of Gemma, it was the face of happiness itself! For, behold, at last his hour had come, the veil had vanished, the lips were parting, the eyelashes are raised — his divinity has looked upon him — and at once light as from the sun, and joy and bliss unending! He dreamed of this morrow — and his soul thrilled with joy again in the melting torture of ever - growing expectation!

  And this expectation, this torture, hindered nothing. It accompanied every action, and did not prevent anything. It did not prevent him from dining capitally at a third inn with Emil; and only occasionally, like a brief flash of lightning, the thought shot across him, What if any one in the world knew? This suspense did not prevent him from playing leap - frog with Emil after dinner. The game took place on an open green lawn. And the confusion, the stupefaction of Sanin may be imagined! At the very moment when, accompanied by a sharp bark from Tartaglia, he was flying like a bird, with his legs outspread over Emil, who was bent double, he suddenly saw on the farthest border of the lawn two officers, in whom he recognised at once his adversary and his second, Herr von Dönhof and Herr von Richter! Each of them had stuck an eyeglass in his eye, and was staring at him, chuckling!… Sanin got on his feet, turned away hurriedly, put on the coat he had flung down, jerked out a word to Emil; the latter, too, put on his jacket, and they both immediately made off.

  It was late when they
got back to Frankfort. ‘They’ll scold me,’ Emil said to Sanin as he said good - bye to him. ‘Well, what does it matter? I’ve had such a splendid, splendid day!’

  When he got home to his hotel, Sanin found a note there from Gemma. She fixed a meeting with him for next day, at seven o’clock in the morning, in one of the public gardens which surround Frankfort on all sides.

  How his heart throbbed! How glad he was that he had obeyed her so unconditionally! And, my God, what was promised … what was not promised, by that unknown, unique, impossible, and undubitably certain morrow!

  He feasted his eyes on Gemma’s note. The long, elegant tail of the letter G, the first letter of her name, which stood at the bottom of the sheet, reminded him of her lovely fingers, her hand…. He thought that he had not once touched that hand with his lips…. ‘Italian women,’ he mused, ‘in spite of what’s said of them, are modest and severe…. And Gemma above all! Queen … goddess … pure, virginal marble….’

  ‘But the time will come; and it is not far off….’ There was that night in Frankfort one happy man…. He slept; but he might have said of himself in the words of the poet:

  ‘I sleep … but my watchful heart sleeps not.’

  And it fluttered as lightly as a butterfly flutters his wings, as he stoops over the flowers in the summer sunshine.

  XXVII

  At five o’clock Sanin woke up, at six he was dressed, at half - past six he was walking up and down the public garden within sight of the little arbour which Gemma had mentioned in her note. It was a still, warm, grey morning. It sometimes seemed as though it were beginning to rain; but the outstretched hand felt nothing, and only looking at one’s coat - sleeve, one could see traces of tiny drops like diminutive beads, but even these were soon gone. It seemed there had never been a breath of wind in the world. Every sound moved not, but was shed around in the stillness. In the distance was a faint thickening of whitish mist; in the air there was a scent of mignonette and white acacia flowers.

  In the streets the shops were not open yet, but there were already some people walking about; occasionally a solitary carriage rumbled along … there was no one walking in the garden. A gardener was in a leisurely way scraping the path with a spade, and a decrepit old woman in a black woollen cloak was hobbling across the garden walk. Sanin could not for one instant mistake this poor old creature for Gemma; and yet his heart leaped, and he watched attentively the retreating patch of black.

  Seven! chimed the clock on the tower. Sanin stood still. Was it possible she would not come? A shiver of cold suddenly ran through his limbs. The same shiver came again an instant later, but from a different cause. Sanin heard behind him light footsteps, the light rustle of a woman’s dress…. He turned round: she!

  Gemma was coming up behind him along the path. She was wearing a grey cape and a small dark hat. She glanced at Sanin, turned her head away, and catching him up, passed rapidly by him.

  ‘Gemma,’ he articulated, hardly audibly.

  She gave him a little nod, and continued to walk on in front. He followed her.

  He breathed in broken gasps. His legs shook under him.

  Gemma passed by the arbour, turned to the right, passed by a small flat fountain, in which the sparrows were splashing busily, and, going behind a clump of high lilacs, sank down on a bench. The place was snug and hidden. Sanin sat down beside her.

  A minute passed, and neither he nor she uttered a word. She did not even look at him; and he gazed not at her face, but at her clasped hands, in which she held a small parasol. What was there to tell, what was there to say, which could compare, in importance, with the simple fact of their presence there, together, alone, so early, so close to each other.

  ‘You … are not angry with me?’ Sanin articulated at last.

  It would have been difficult for Sanin to have said anything more foolish than these words … he was conscious of it himself…. But, at any rate, the silence was broken.

  ‘Angry?’ she answered. ‘What for? No.’

  ‘And you believe me?’ he went on.

  ‘In what you wrote?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gemma’s head sank, and she said nothing. The parasol slipped out of her hands. She hastily caught it before it dropped on the path.

  ‘Ah, believe me! believe what I wrote to you!’ cried Sanin; all his timidity suddenly vanished, he spoke with heat; ‘if there is truth on earth — sacred, absolute truth — it’s that I love, love you passionately, Gemma.’

  She flung him a sideway, momentary glance, and again almost dropped the parasol.

  ‘Believe me! believe me!’ he repeated. He besought her, held out his hands to her, and did not dare to touch her. ‘What do you want me to do … to convince you?’

  She glanced at him again.

  ‘Tell me, Monsieur Dimitri,’ she began; ‘the day before yesterday, when you came to talk to me, you did not, I imagine, know then … did not feel …’

  ‘I felt it,’ Sanin broke in; ‘but I did not know it. I have loved you from the very instant I saw you; but I did not realise at once what you had become to me! And besides, I heard that you were solemnly betrothed…. As far as your mother’s request is concerned — in the first place, how could I refuse? — and secondly, I think I carried out her request in such a way that you could guess….’

  They heard a heavy tread, and a rather stout gentleman with a knapsack over his shoulder, apparently a foreigner, emerged from behind the clump, and staring, with the unceremoniousness of a tourist, at the couple sitting on the garden - seat, gave a loud cough and went on.

  ‘Your mother,’ Sanin began, as soon as the sound of the heavy footsteps had ceased, ‘told me your breaking off your engagement would cause a scandal’ — Gemma frowned a little — that I was myself in part responsible for unpleasant gossip, and that … consequently … I was, to some extent, under an obligation to advise you not to break with your betrothed, Herr Klüber….’

  ‘Monsieur Dimitri,’ said Gemma, and she passed her hand over her hair on the side turned towards Sanin, ‘don’t, please, call Herr Klüber my betrothed. I shall never be his wife. I have broken with him.’

  ‘You have broken with him? when?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Yes. At our house. He came to see us.’

  ‘Gemma? Then you love me?’

  She turned to him.

  ‘Should … I have come here, if not?’ she whispered, and both her hands fell on the seat.

  Sanin snatched those powerless, upturned palms, and pressed them to his eyes, to his lips…. Now the veil was lifted of which he had dreamed the night before! Here was happiness, here was its radiant form!

  He raised his head, and looked at Gemma, boldly and directly. She, too, looked at him, a little downwards. Her half - shut eyes faintly glistened, dim with light, blissful tears. Her face was not smiling … no! it laughed, with a blissful, noiseless laugh.

  He tried to draw her to him, but she drew back, and never ceasing to laugh the same noiseless laugh, shook her head. ‘Wait a little,’ her happy eyes seemed to say.

  ‘O Gemma!’ cried Sanin: ‘I never dreamed that you would love me!’

  ‘I did not expect this myself,’ Gemma said softly.

  ‘How could I ever have dreamed,’ Sanin went on, ‘when I came to Frankfort, where I only expected to remain a few hours, that I should find here the happiness of all my life!’

  ‘All your life? Really?’ queried Gemma.

  ‘All my life, for ever and ever!’ cried Sanin with fresh ardour.

  The gardener’s spade suddenly scraped two paces from where they were sitting.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ whispered Gemma: ‘we’ll go together — will you?’

  If she had said to him at that instant ‘Throw yourself in the sea, will you?’ he would have been flying headlong into the ocean before she had uttered the last word.

  They went together out of the garden and turned homewar
ds, not by the streets of the town, but through the outskirts.

  XXVIII

  Sanin walked along, at one time by Gemma’s side, at another time a little behind her. He never took his eyes off her and never ceased smiling. She seemed to hasten … seemed to linger. As a matter of fact, they both — he all pale, and she all flushed with emotion — were moving along as in a dream. What they had done together a few instants before — that surrender of each soul to another soul — was so intense, so new, and so moving; so suddenly everything in their lives had been changed and displaced that they could not recover themselves, and were only aware of a whirlwind carrying them along, like the whirlwind on that night, which had almost flung them into each other’s arms. Sanin walked along, and felt that he even looked at Gemma with other eyes; he instantly noted some peculiarities in her walk, in her movements, — and heavens! how infinitely sweet and precious they were to him! And she felt that that was how he was looking at her.

  Sanin and she were in love for the first time; all the miracles of first love were working in them. First love is like a revolution; the uniformly regular routine of ordered life is broken down and shattered in one instant; youth mounts the barricade, waves high its bright flag, and whatever awaits it in the future — death or a new life — all alike it goes to meet with ecstatic welcome.

  ‘What’s this? Isn’t that our old friend?’ said Sanin, pointing to a muffled - up figure, which hurriedly slipped a little aside as though trying to remain unobserved. In the midst of his abundant happiness he felt a need to talk to Gemma, not of love — that was a settled thing and holy — but of something else.

  ‘Yes, it’s Pantaleone,’ Gemma answered gaily and happily. ‘Most likely he has been following me ever since I left home; all day yesterday he kept watching every movement I made … He guesses!’

  ‘He guesses!’ Sanin repeated in ecstasy. What could Gemma have said at which he would not have been in ecstasy?