A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Alice! Alice! come! Can it be you will not come?’ I shouted, for the last time.

  A crow, who had been waked by my voice, suddenly darted upwards into a tree - top close by, and catching in the twigs, fluttered his wings…. But Alice did not appear.

  With downcast head, I turned homewards. Already I could discern the black outlines of the willows on the pond’s edge, and the light in my window peeped out at me through the apple - trees in the orchard — peeped at me, and hid again, like the eye of some man keeping watch on me — when suddenly I heard behind me the faint swish of the rapidly parted air, and something at once embraced and snatched me upward, as a buzzard pounces on and snatches up a quail…. It was Alice sweeping down upon me. I felt her cheek against my cheek, her enfolding arm about my body, and like a cutting cold her whisper pierced to my ear, ‘Here I am.’ I was frightened and delighted both at once…. We flew at no great height above the ground.

  ‘You did not mean to come to - day?’ I said.

  ‘And you were dull without me? You love me? Oh, you are mine!’

  The last words of Alice confused me…. I did not know what to say.

  ‘I was kept,’ she went on; ‘I was watched.’

  ‘Who could keep you?’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ inquired Alice, as usual not answering my question.

  ‘Take me to Italy — to that lake, you remember.’

  Alice turned a little away, and shook her head in refusal. At that point I noticed for the first time that she had ceased to be transparent. And her face seemed tinged with colour; there was a faint glow of red over its misty whiteness. I glanced at her eyes … and felt a pang of dread; in those eyes something was astir — with the slow, continuous, malignant movement of the benumbed snake, twisting and turning as the sun begins to thaw it.

  ‘Alice,’ I cried, ‘who are you? Tell me who you are.’

  Alice simply shrugged her shoulders.

  I felt angry … I longed to punish her; and suddenly the idea occurred to me to tell her to fly with me to Paris. ‘That’s the place for you to be jealous,’ I thought. ‘Alice,’ I said aloud, ‘you are not afraid of big towns — Paris, for instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even those parts where it is as light as in the boulevards?’

  ‘It is not the light of day.’

  ‘Good; then take me at once to the Boulevard des Italiens.’

  Alice wrapped the end of her long hanging sleeve about my head. I was at once enfolded in a sort of white vapour full of the drowsy fragrance of the poppy. Everything disappeared at once; every light, every sound, and almost consciousness itself. Only the sense of being alive remained, and that was not unpleasant.

  Suddenly the vapour vanished; Alice took her sleeve from my head, and I saw at my feet a huge mass of closely — packed buildings, brilliant light, movement, noisy traffic…. I saw Paris.

  XIX

  I had been in Paris before, and so I recognised at once the place to which Alice had directed her course. It was the Garden of the Tuileries with its old chestnut - trees, its iron railings, its fortress moat, and its brutal - looking Zouave sentinels. Passing the palace, passing the Church of St. Roche, on the steps of which the first Napoleon for the first time shed French blood, we came to a halt high over the Boulevard des Italiens, where the third Napoleon did the same thing and with the same success. Crowds of people, dandies young and old, workmen in blouses, women in gaudy dresses, were thronging on the pavements; the gilded restaurants and cafés were flaring with lights; omnibuses, carriages of all sorts and shapes, moved to and fro along the boulevard; everything was bustle, everything was brightness, wherever one chanced to look…. But, strange to say, I had no inclination to forsake my pure dark airy height. I had no inclination to get nearer to this human ant - hill. It seemed as though a hot, heavy, reddish vapour rose from it, half - fragrance, half - stench; so many lives were flung struggling in one heap together there. I was hesitating…. But suddenly, sharp as the clang of iron bars, the voice of a harlot of the streets floated up to me; like an insolent tongue, it was thrust out, this voice; it stung me like the sting of a viper. At once I saw in imagination the strong, heavy - jawed, greedy, flat Parisian face, the mercenary eyes, the paint and powder, the frizzed hair, and the nosegay of gaudy artificial flowers under the high - pointed hat, the polished nails like talons, the hideous crinoline…. I could fancy too one of our sons of the steppes running with pitiful eagerness after the doll put up for sale…. I could fancy him with clumsy coarseness and violent stammering, trying to imitate the manners of the waiters at Véfour’s, mincing, flattering, wheedling … and a feeling of loathing gained possession of me…. ‘No,’ I thought, ‘here Alice has no need to be jealous….’

  Meanwhile I perceived that we had gradually begun to descend…. Paris was rising to meet us with all its din and odour….

  ‘Stop,’ I said to Alice. ‘Are you not stifled and oppressed here?’

  ‘You asked me to bring you here yourself.’

  ‘I am to blame, I take back my word. Take me away, Alice, I beseech you. To be sure, here is Prince Kulmametov hobbling along the boulevard; and his friend, Serge Varaksin, waves his hand to him, shouting: “Ivan Stepanitch, allons souper, make haste, zhay angazha Rigol - bouche itself!” Take me away from these furnished apartments and maisons dorées, from the Jockey Club and the Figaro, from close - shaven military heads and varnished barracks, from sergents - de - ville with Napoleonic beards, and from glasses of muddy absinthe, from gamblers playing dominoes at the cafés, and gamblers on the Bourse, from red ribbons in button - holes, from M. de Four, inventor of ‘matrimonial specialities,’ and the gratuitous consultations of Dr. Charles Albert, from liberal lectures and government pamphlets, from Parisian comedies and Parisian operas, from Parisian wit and Parisian ignorance…. Away! away! away!’

  ‘Look down,’ Alice answered; ‘you are not now in Paris.’

  I lowered my eyes…. It was true. A dark plain, intersected here and there by the whitish lines of roads, was rushing rapidly by below us, and only behind us on the horizon, like the reflection of an immense conflagration, rose the great glow of the innumerable lights of the capital of the world.

  XX

  Again a veil fell over my eyes…. Again I lost consciousness. The veil was withdrawn at last. What was it down there below? What was this park, with avenues of lopped lime - trees, with isolated fir - trees of the shape of parasols, with porticoes and temples in the Pompadour style, with statues of satyrs and nymphs of the Bernini school, with rococo tritons in the midst of meandering lakes, closed in by low parapets of blackened marble? Wasn’t it Versailles? No, it was not Versailles. A small palace, also rococo, peeped out behind a clump of bushy oaks. The moon shone dimly, shrouded in mist, and over the earth there was, as it were spread out, a delicate smoke. The eye could not decide what it was, whether moonlight or fog. On one of the lakes a swan was asleep; its long back was white as the snow of the frost - bound steppes, while glow - worms gleamed like diamonds in the bluish shadow at the base of a statue.

  ‘We are near Mannheim,’ said Alice; ‘this is the Schwetzingen garden.’

  ‘We are in Germany,’ I thought, and I fell to listening. All was silence, except somewhere, secluded and unseen, the splash and babble of falling water. It seemed continually to repeat the same words: ‘Aye, aye, aye, for aye, aye.’ And all at once I fancied that in the very centre of one of the avenues, between clipped walls of green, a cavalier came tripping along in red - heeled boots, a gold - braided coat, with lace ruffs at his wrists, a light steel rapier at his thigh, smilingly offering his arm to a lady in a powdered wig and a gay chintz…. Strange, pale faces…. I tried to look into them…. But already everything had vanished, and as before there was nothing but the babbling water.

  ‘Those are dreams wandering,’ whispered Alice; ‘yesterday there was much — oh, much — to see; to - day, even the dreams avoid man’s eye. Forward! forward!�
�

  We soared higher and flew farther on. So smooth and easy was our flight that it seemed that we moved not, but everything moved to meet us. Mountains came into view, dark, undulating, covered with forest; they rose up and swam towards us…. And now they were slipping by beneath us, with all their windings, hollows, and narrow glades, with gleams of light from rapid brooks among the slumbering trees at the bottom of the dales; and in front of us more mountains sprung up again and floated towards us…. We were in the heart of the Black Forest.

  Mountains, still mountains … and forest, magnificent, ancient, stately forest. The night sky was clear; I could recognise some kinds of trees, especially the splendid firs, with their straight white trunks. Here and there on the edge of the forest, wild goats could be seen; graceful and alert, they stood on their slender legs and listened, turning their heads prettily and pricking up their great funnel - shaped ears. A ruined tower, sightless and gloomy, on the crest of a bare cliff, laid bare its crumbling turrets; above the old forgotten stones, a little golden star was shining peacefully. From a small almost black lake rose, like a mysterious wail, the plaintive croak of tiny frogs. I fancied other notes, long - drawn - out, languid like the strains of an Æolian harp…. Here we were in the home of legend! The same delicate moonlight mist, which had struck me in Schwetzingen, was shed here on every side, and the farther away the mountains, the thicker was this mist. I counted up five, six, ten different tones of shadow at different heights on the mountain slopes, and over all this realm of varied silence the moon queened it pensively. The air blew in soft, light currents. I felt myself a lightness at heart, and, as it were, a lofty calm and melancholy….

  ‘Alice, you must love this country!’

  ‘I love nothing.’

  ‘How so? Not me?’

  ‘Yes … you!’ she answered indifferently.

  It seemed to me that her arm clasped my waist more tightly than before.

  ‘Forward! forward!’ said Alice, with a sort of cold fervour.

  ‘Forward!’ I repeated.

  XXI

  A loud, thrilling cry rang out suddenly over our heads, and was at once repeated a little in front.

  ‘Those are belated cranes flying to you, to the north,’ said Alice; ‘would you like to join them?’

  ‘Yes, yes! raise me up to them.’

  We darted upwards and in one instant found ourselves beside the flying flock.

  The big handsome birds (there were thirteen of them) were flying in a triangle, with slow sharp flaps of their hollow wings; with their heads and legs stretched rigidly out, and their breasts stiffly pressed forward, they pushed on persistently and so swiftly that the air whistled about them. It was marvellous at such a height, so remote from all things living, to see such passionate, strenuous life, such unflinching will, untiringly cleaving their triumphant way through space. The cranes now and then called to one another, the foremost to the hindmost; and there was a certain pride, dignity, and invincible faith in these loud cries, this converse in the clouds. ‘We shall get there, be sure, hard though it be,’ they seemed to say, cheering one another on. And then the thought came to me that men, such as these birds — in Russia — nay, in the whole world, are few.

  ‘We are flying towards Russia now,’ observed Alice. I noticed now, not for the first time, that she almost always knew what I was thinking of. ‘Would you like to go back?’

  ‘Let us go back … or no! I have been in Paris; take me to Petersburg.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘At once…. Only wrap my head in your veil, or it will go ill with me.’

  Alice raised her hand … but before the mist enfolded me, I had time to feel on my lips the contact of that soft, dull sting….

  XXII

  ‘Li - i - isten!’ sounded in my ears a long drawn out cry. ‘Li - i - isten!’ was echoed back with a sort of desperation in the distance. ‘Li - i - isten!’ died away somewhere far, far away. I started. A tall golden spire flashed on my eyes; I recognised the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul.

  A northern, pale night! But was it night at all? Was it not rather a pallid, sickly daylight? I never liked Petersburg nights; but this time the night seemed even fearful to me; the face of Alice had vanished completely, melted away like the mist of morning in the July sun, and I saw her whole body clearly, as it hung, heavy and solitary on a level with the Alexander column. So here was Petersburg! Yes, it was Petersburg, no doubt. The wide empty grey streets; the greyish - white, and yellowish - grey and greyish - lilac houses, covered with stucco, which was peeling off, with their sunken windows, gaudy sign - boards, iron canopies over steps, and wretched little green - grocer’s shops; the façades, inscriptions, sentry - boxes, troughs; the golden cap of St. Isaac’s; the senseless motley Bourse; the granite walls of the fortress, and the broken wooden pavement; the barges loaded with hay and timber; the smell of dust, cabbage, matting, and hemp; the stony - faced dvorniks in sheepskin coats, with high collars; the cab - drivers, huddled up dead asleep on their decrepit cabs — yes, this was Petersburg, our northern Palmyra. Everything was visible; everything was clear — cruelly clear and distinct — and everything was mournfully sleeping, standing out in strange huddled masses in the dull clear air. The flush of sunset — a hectic flush — had not yet gone, and would not be gone till morning from the white starless sky; it was reflected on the silken surface of the Neva, while faintly gurgling and faintly moving, the cold blue waves hurried on….

  ‘Let us fly away,’ Alice implored.

  And without waiting for my reply, she bore me away across the Neva, over the palace square to Liteiny Street. Steps and voices were audible beneath us; a group of young men, with worn faces, came along the street talking about dancing - classes. ‘Sub - lieutenant Stolpakov’s seventh!’ shouted suddenly a soldier, standing half - asleep on guard at a pyramid of rusty bullets; and a little farther on, at an open window in a tall house, I saw a girl in a creased silk dress, without cuffs, with a pearl net on her hair, and a cigarette in her mouth. She was reading a book with reverent attention; it was a volume of the works of one of our modern Juvenals.

  ‘Let us fly away!’ I said to Alice.

  One instant more, and there were glimpses below us of the rotting pine copses and mossy bogs surrounding Petersburg. We bent our course straight to the south; sky, earth, all grew gradually darker and darker. The sick night; the sick daylight; the sick town — all were left behind us.

  XXIII

  We flew more slowly than usual, and I was able to follow with my eyes the immense expanse of my native land gradually unfolding before me, like the unrolling of an endless panorama. Forests, copses, fields, ravines, rivers — here and there villages and churches — and again fields and forests and copses and ravines…. Sadness came over me, and a kind of indifferent dreariness. And I was not sad and dreary simply because it was Russia I was flying over. No. The earth itself, this flat surface which lay spread out beneath me; the whole earthly globe, with its populations, multitudinous, feeble, crushed by want, grief and diseases, bound to a clod of pitiful dust; this brittle, rough crust, this shell over the fiery sands of our planet, overspread with the mildew we call the organic, vegetable kingdom; these human flies, a thousand times paltrier than flies; their dwellings glued together with filth, the pitiful traces of their tiny, monotonous bustle, of their comic struggle with the unchanging and inevitable, how revolting it all suddenly was to me. My heart turned slowly sick, and I could not bear to gaze longer on these trivial pictures, on this vulgar show…. Yes, I felt dreary, worse than dreary. Even pity I felt nothing of for my brother men: all feelings in me were merged in one which I scarcely dare to name: a feeling of loathing, and stronger than all and more than all within me was the loathing — for myself.

  ‘Cease,’ whispered Alice, ‘cease, or I cannot carry you. You have grown heavy.’

  ‘Home,’ I answered her in the very tone in which I used to say the word to my coachman, when I came out at four o’clock at
night from some Moscow friends’, where I had been talking since dinner - time of the future of Russia and the significance of the commune. ‘Home,’ I repeated, and closed my eyes.

  XXIV

  But I soon opened them again. Alice seemed huddling strangely up to me; she was almost pushing against me. I looked at her and my blood froze at the sight. One who has chanced to behold on the face of another a sudden look of intense terror, the cause of which he does not suspect, will understand me. By terror, overmastering terror, the pale features of Alice were drawn and contorted, almost effaced. I had never seen anything like it even on a living human face. A lifeless, misty phantom, a shade,… and this deadly horror….

  ‘Alice, what is it?’ I said at last.

  ‘She … she …’ she answered with an effort. ‘She.’

  ‘She? Who is she?’

  ‘Do not utter her name, not her name,’ Alice faltered hurriedly. ‘We must escape, or there will be an end to everything, and for ever…. Look, over there!’

  I turned my head in the direction in which her trembling hand was pointing, and discerned something … something horrible indeed.

  This something was the more horrible that it had no definite shape. Something bulky, dark, yellowish - black, spotted like a lizard’s belly, not a storm - cloud, and not smoke, was crawling with a snake - like motion over the earth. A wide rhythmic undulating movement from above downwards, and from below upwards, an undulation recalling the malignant sweep of the wings of a vulture seeking its prey; at times an indescribably revolting grovelling on the earth, as of a spider stooping over its captured fly…. Who are you, what are you, menacing mass? Under her influence, I saw it, I felt it — all sank into nothingness, all was dumb…. A putrefying, pestilential chill came from it. At this chill breath the heart turned sick, and the eyes grew dim, and the hair stood up on the head. It was a power moving; that power which there is no resisting, to which all is subject, which, sightless, shapeless, senseless, sees all, knows all, and like a bird of prey picks out its victims, like a snake, stifles them and stabs them with its frozen sting….