A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  Kupfer, as might have been anticipated, found his way into her house, and was soon on an intimate — evil tongues said a too intimate — footing with her. He himself always spoke of her not only affectionately but with respect; he called her a heart of gold — say what you like! and firmly believed both in her love for art and her comprehension of art! One day after dinner at the Aratovs’, in discussing the princess and her evenings, he began to persuade Yakov to break for once from his anchorite seclusion, and to allow him, Kupfer, to present him to his friend. Yakov at first would not even hear of it. ‘But what do you imagine?’ Kupfer cried at last: ‘what sort of presentation are we talking about? Simply, I take you, just as you are sitting now, in your everyday coat, and go with you to her for an evening. No sort of etiquette is necessary there, my dear boy! You’re learned, you know, and fond of literature and music’ — (there actually was in Aratov’s study a piano on which he sometimes struck minor chords) — ’and in her house there’s enough and to spare of all those goods!… and you’ll meet there sympathetic people, no nonsense about them! And after all, you really can’t at your age, with your looks (Aratov dropped his eyes and waved his hand deprecatingly), yes, yes, with your looks, you really can’t keep aloof from society, from the world, like this! Why, I’m not going to take you to see generals! Indeed, I know no generals myself!… Don’t be obstinate, dear boy! Morality is an excellent thing, most laudable…. But why fall a prey to asceticism? You’re not going in for becoming a monk!’

  Aratov was, however, still refractory; but Kupfer found an unexpected ally in Platonida Ivanovna. Though she had no clear idea what was meant by the word asceticism, she too was of opinion that it would be no harm for dear Yasha to take a little recreation, to see people, and to show himself.

  ‘Especially,’ she added, ‘as I’ve perfect confidence in Fyodor Fedoritch! He’ll take you to no bad place!…’ ‘I’ll bring him back in all his maiden innocence,’ shouted Kupfer, at which Platonida Ivanovna, in spite of her confidence, cast uneasy glances upon him. Aratov blushed up to his ears, but ceased to make objections.

  It ended by Kupfer taking him next day to spend an evening at the princess’s. But Aratov did not remain there long. To begin with, he found there some twenty visitors, men and women, sympathetic people possibly, but still strangers, and this oppressed him, even though he had to do very little talking; and that, he feared above all things. Secondly, he did not like their hostess, though she received him very graciously and simply. Everything about her was distasteful to him: her painted face, and her frizzed curls, and her thickly - sugary voice, her shrill giggle, her way of rolling her eyes and looking up, her excessively low - necked dress, and those fat, glossy fingers with their multitude of rings!… Hiding himself away in a corner, he took from time to time a rapid survey of the faces of all the guests, without even distinguishing them, and then stared obstinately at his own feet. When at last a stray musician with a worn face, long hair, and an eyeglass stuck into his contorted eyebrow sat down to the grand piano and flinging his hands with a sweep on the keys and his foot on the pedal, began to attack a fantasia of Liszt on a Wagner motive, Aratov could not stand it, and stole off, bearing away in his heart a vague, painful impression; across which, however, flitted something incomprehensible to him, but grave and even disquieting.

  III

  Kupfer came next day to dinner; he did not begin, however, expatiating on the preceding evening, he did not even reproach Aratov for his hasty retreat, and only regretted that he had not stayed to supper, when there had been champagne! (of the Novgorod brand, we may remark in parenthesis). Kupfer probably realised that it had been a mistake on his part to disturb his friend, and that Aratov really was a man ‘not suited’ to that circle and way of life. On his side, too, Aratov said nothing of the princess, nor of the previous evening. Platonida Ivanovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure of this first experiment or to regret it. She decided at last that Yasha’s health might suffer from such outings, and was comforted. Kupfer went away directly after dinner, and did not show himself again for a whole week. And it was not that he resented the failure of his suggestion, the good fellow was incapable of that, but he had obviously found some interest which was absorbing all his time, all his thoughts; for later on, too, he rarely appeared at the Aratovs’, had an absorbed look, spoke little and quickly vanished…. Aratov went on living as before; but a sort of — if one may so express it — little hook was pricking at his soul. He was continually haunted by some reminiscence, he could not quite tell what it was himself, and this reminiscence was connected with the evening he had spent at the princess’s. For all that he had not the slightest inclination to return there again, and the world, a part of which he had looked upon at her house, repelled him more than ever. So passed six weeks.

  And behold one morning Kupfer stood before him once more, this time with a somewhat embarrassed countenance. ‘I know,’ he began with a constrained smile, ‘that your visit that time was not much to your taste; but I hope for all that you’ll agree to my proposal … that you won’t refuse me my request!’

  ‘What is it?’ inquired Aratov.

  ‘Well, do you see,’ pursued Kupfer, getting more and more heated: ‘there is a society here of amateurs, artistic people, who from time to time get up readings, concerts, even theatrical performances for some charitable object.’

  ‘And the princess has a hand in it?’ interposed Aratov.

  ‘The princess has a hand in all good deeds, but that’s not the point. We have arranged a literary and musical matinée … and at this matinée you may hear a girl … an extraordinary girl! We cannot make out quite yet whether she is to be a Rachel or a Viardot … for she sings exquisitely, and recites and plays…. A talent of the very first rank, my dear boy! I’m not exaggerating. Well then, won’t you take a ticket? Five roubles for a seat in the front row.’

  ‘And where has this marvellous girl sprung from?’ asked Aratov.

  Kupfer grinned. ‘That I really can’t say…. Of late she’s found a home with the princess. The princess you know is a protector of every one of that sort…. But you saw her, most likely, that evening.’

  Aratov gave a faint inward start … but he said nothing.

  ‘She has even played somewhere in the provinces,’ Kupfer continued, ‘and altogether she’s created for the theatre. There! you’ll see for yourself!’

  ‘What’s her name?’ asked Aratov.

  ‘Clara…’

  ‘Clara?’ Aratov interrupted a second time. ‘Impossible!’

  ‘Why impossible? Clara … Clara Militch; it’s not her real name … but

  that’s what she’s called. She’s going to sing a song of Glinka’s … and of

  Tchaykovsky’s; and then she’ll recite the letter from Yevgeny Oniegin.

  Well; will you take a ticket?’

  ‘And when will it be?’

  ‘To - morrow … to - morrow, at half - past one, in a private drawing - room, in Ostozhonka…. I will come for you. A five - rouble ticket?… Here it is … no, that’s a three - rouble one. Here … and here’s the programme…. I’m one of the stewards.’

  Aratov sank into thought. Platonida Ivanovna came in at that instant, and glancing at his face, was in a flutter of agitation at once. ‘Yasha,’ she cried, ‘what’s the matter with you? Why are you so upset? Fyodor Fedoritch, what is it you’ve been telling him?’

  Aratov did not let his friend answer his aunt’s question, but hurriedly snatching the ticket held out to him, told Platonida Ivanovna to give Kupfer five roubles at once.

  She blinked in amazement…. However, she handed Kupfer the money in silence. Her darling Yasha had ejaculated his commands in a very imperative manner.

  ‘I tell you, a wonder of wonders!’ cried Kupfer, hurrying to the door.

  ‘Wait till to - morrow.’

  ‘Has she black eyes?’ Aratov called after him.

  ‘Black as coal!’ Kupfer shouted cheerily, as he van
ished.

  Aratov went away to his room, while Platonida Ivanovna stood rooted to the spot, repeating in a whisper, ‘Lord, succour us! Succour us, Lord!’

  IV

  The big drawing - room in the private house in Ostozhonka was already half full of visitors when Aratov and Kupfer arrived. Dramatic performances had sometimes been given in this drawing - room, but on this occasion there was no scenery nor curtain visible. The organisers of the matinée had confined themselves to fixing up a platform at one end, putting upon it a piano, a couple of reading - desks, a few chairs, a table with a bottle of water and a glass on it, and hanging red cloth over the door that led to the room allotted to the performers. In the first row was already sitting the princess in a bright green dress. Aratov placed himself at some distance from her, after exchanging the barest of greetings with her. The public was, as they say, of mixed materials; for the most part young men from educational institutions. Kupfer, as one of the stewards, with a white ribbon on the cuff of his coat, fussed and bustled about busily; the princess was obviously excited, looked about her, shot smiles in all directions, talked with those next her … none but men were sitting near her. The first to appear on the platform was a flute - player of consumptive appearance, who most conscientiously dribbled away — what am I saying? — piped, I mean — a piece also of consumptive tendency; two persons shouted bravo! Then a stout gentleman in spectacles, of an exceedingly solid, even surly aspect, read in a bass voice a sketch of Shtchedrin; the sketch was applauded, not the reader; then the pianist, whom Aratov had seen before, came forward and strummed the same fantasia of Liszt; the pianist gained an encore. He bowed with one hand on the back of the chair, and after each bow he shook back his hair, precisely like Liszt! At last after a rather long interval the red cloth over the door on to the platform stirred and opened wide, and Clara Militch appeared. The room resounded with applause. With hesitating steps, she moved forward on the platform, stopped and stood motionless, clasping her large handsome ungloved hands in front of her, without a courtesy, a bend of the head, or a smile.

  She was a girl of nineteen, tall, rather broad - shouldered, but well - built. A dark face, of a half - Jewish half - gipsy type, small black eyes under thick brows almost meeting in the middle, a straight, slightly turned - up nose, delicate lips with a beautiful but decided curve, an immense mass of black hair, heavy even in appearance, a low brow still as marble, tiny ears … the whole face dreamy, almost sullen. A nature passionate, wilful — hardly good - tempered, hardly very clever, but gifted — was expressed in every feature.

  For some time she did not raise her eyes; but suddenly she started, and passed over the rows of spectators a glance intent, but not attentive, absorbed, it seemed, in herself…. ‘What tragic eyes she has!’ observed a man sitting behind Aratov, a grey - headed dandy with the face of a Revel harlot, well known in Moscow as a prying gossip and writer for the papers. The dandy was an idiot, and meant to say something idiotic … but he spoke the truth. Aratov, who from the very moment of Clara’s entrance had never taken his eyes off her, only at that instant recollected that he really had seen her at the princess’s; and not only that he had seen her, but that he had even noticed that she had several times, with a peculiar insistency, gazed at him with her dark intent eyes. And now too — or was it his fancy? — on seeing him in the front row she seemed delighted, seemed to flush, and again gazed intently at him. Then, without turning round, she stepped away a couple of paces in the direction of the piano, at which her accompanist, a long - haired foreigner, was sitting. She had to render Glinka’s ballad: ‘As soon as I knew you …’ She began at once to sing, without changing the attitude of her hands or glancing at the music. Her voice was soft and resonant, a contralto; she uttered the words distinctly and with emphasis, and sang monotonously, with little light and shade, but with intense expression. ‘The girl sings with conviction,’ said the same dandy sitting behind Aratov, and again he spoke the truth. Shouts of ‘Bis!’ ‘Bravo!’ resounded over the room; but she flung a rapid glance on Aratov, who neither shouted nor clapped — he did not particularly care for her singing — gave a slight bow, and walked out without taking the hooked arm proffered her by the long - haired pianist. She was called back … not very soon, she reappeared, with the same hesitating steps approached the piano, and whispering a couple of words to the accompanist, who picked out and put before him another piece of music, began Tchaykovsky’s song: ‘No, only he who knows the thirst to see.’… This song she sang differently from the first — in a low voice, as though she were tired … and only at the line next the last, ‘He knows what I have suffered,’ broke from her in a ringing, passionate cry. The last line, ‘And how I suffer’ … she almost whispered, with a mournful prolongation of the last word. This song produced less impression on the audience than the Glinka ballad; there was much applause, however…. Kupfer was particularly conspicuous; folding his hands in a peculiar way, in the shape of a barrel, at each clap he produced an extraordinarily resounding report. The princess handed him a large, straggling nosegay for him to take it to the singer; but she, seeming not to observe Kupfer’s bowing figure, and outstretched hand with the nosegay, turned and went away, again without waiting for the pianist, who skipped forward to escort her more hurriedly than before, and when he found himself so unjustifiably deserted, tossed his hair as certainly Liszt himself had never tossed his!

  During the whole time of the singing, Aratov had been watching Clara’s face. It seemed to him that her eyes, through the drooping eyelashes, were again turned upon him; but he was especially struck by the immobility of the face, the forehead, the eyebrows; and only at her outburst of passion he caught through the hardly - parted lips the warm gleam of a close row of white teeth. Kupfer came up to him.

  ‘Well, my dear boy, what do you think of her?’ he asked, beaming all over with satisfaction.

  ‘It’s a fine voice,’ replied Aratov; ‘but she doesn’t know how to sing yet; she’s no real musical knowledge.’ (Why he said this, and what conception he had himself of ‘musical knowledge,’ the Lord only knows!)

  Kupfer was surprised. ‘No musical knowledge,’ he repeated slowly…. ‘Well, as to that … she can acquire that. But what soul! Wait a bit, though; you shall hear her in Tatiana’s letter.’

  He hurried away from Aratov, while the latter said to himself, ‘Soul! with that immovable face!’ He thought that she moved and held herself like one hypnotised, like a somnambulist. And at the same time she was unmistakably … yes! unmistakably looking at him.

  Meanwhile the matinée went on. The fat man in spectacles appeared again; in spite of his serious exterior, he fancied himself a comic actor, and recited a scene from Gogol, this time without eliciting a single token of approbation. There was another glimpse of the flute - player; another thunder - clap from the pianist; a boy of twelve, frizzed and pomaded, but with tear - stains on his cheeks, thrummed some variations on a fiddle. What seemed strange was that in the intervals of the reading and music, from the performers’ room, sounds were heard from time to time of a French horn; and yet this instrument never was brought into requisition. In the sequel it appeared that the amateur, who had been invited to perform on it, had lost courage at the moment of facing the public. At last Clara Militch made her appearance again.

  She held a volume of Pushkin in her hand; she did not, however, glance at it once during her recitation…. She was obviously nervous, the little book shook slightly in her fingers. Aratov observed also the expression of weariness which now overspread all her stern features. The first line, ‘I write to you … what more?’ she uttered exceedingly simply, almost naïvely, and with a naïve, genuine, helpless gesture held both hands out before her. Then she began to hurry a little; but from the beginning of the lines: ‘Another! no! To no one in the whole world I have given my heart!’ she mastered her powers, gained fire; and when she came to the words, ‘My whole life has but been a pledge of a meeting true with thee,’ her hitherto thick voice
rang out boldly and enthusiastically, while her eyes just as boldly and directly fastened upon Aratov. She went on with the same fervour, and only towards the end her voice dropped again; and in it, and in her face, the same weariness was reflected again. The last four lines she completely ‘murdered,’ as it is called; the volume of Pushkin suddenly slid out of her hand, and she hastily withdrew.

  The audience fell to applauding desperately, encoring…. One Little - Russian divinity student bellowed in so deep a bass, ‘Mill - itch! Mill - itch!’ that his neighbour civilly and sympathetically advised him, ‘to take care of his voice, it would be the making of a protodeacon.’ But Aratov at once rose and made for the door. Kupfer overtook him…. ‘I say, where are you off to?’ he called; ‘would you like me to present you to Clara?’ ‘No, thanks,’ Aratov returned hurriedly, and he went homewards almost at a run.