A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Not I... not I...’ whispered the distracted Jew.

  ‘You have the enemy with similar information before provided? Confess....’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘You will not deceive me, my good man. Are you a spy?’

  The Jew closed his eyes, shook his head, and lifted the skirts of his gown.

  ‘Hang him,’ the general pronounced expressively after a brief silence,’according to the law. Where is Mr. Fiodor Schliekelmann?’

  They ran to fetch Schliekelmann, the general’s adjutant. Girshel began to turn greenish, his mouth fell open, his eyes seemed starting out of his head. The adjutant came in. The general gave him the requisite instructions. The secretary showed his sickly, pock - marked face for an instant. Two or three officers peeped into the room inquisitively.

  ‘Have pity, your Excellency,’ I said to the general in German as best I could; ‘let him off....’

  ‘You, young man,’ he answered me in Russian, ‘I was saying to you, are inexperienced, and therefore I beg you silent to be, and me no more to trouble.’

  Girshel with a shriek dropped at the general’s feet.

  ‘Your Excellency, have mercy; I will never again, I will not, your Excellency; I have a wife... your Excellency, a daughter... have mercy....’

  ‘It’s no use!’

  ‘Truly, your Excellency, I am guilty... it’s the first time, your Excellency, the first time, believe me!’

  ‘You furnished no other documents?’

  ‘The first time, your Excellency,... my wife... my children... have mercy....’

  ‘But you are a spy.’

  ‘My wife... your Excellency... my children....’

  The general felt a twinge, but there was no getting out of it.

  ‘According to the law, hang the Hebrew,’ he said constrainedly, with the air of a man forced to do violence to his heart, and sacrifice his better feelings to inexorable duty — ’hang him! Fiodor Karlitch, I beg you to draw up a report of the occurrence....’

  A horrible change suddenly came over Girshel. Instead of the ordinary timorous alarm peculiar to the Jewish nature, in his face was reflected the horrible agony that comes before death. He writhed like a wild beast trapped, his mouth stood open, there was a hoarse rattle in his throat, he positively leapt up and down, convulsively moving his elbows. He had on only one slipper; they had forgotten to put the other on again... his gown fell open... his cap had fallen off....

  We all shuddered; the general stopped speaking.

  ‘Your Excellency,’ I began again, ‘pardon this wretched creature.’

  ‘Impossible! It is the law,’ the general replied abruptly, and not without emotion, ‘for a warning to others.’

  ‘For pity’s sake....’

  ‘Mr. Cornet, be so good as to return to your post,’ said the general, and he motioned me imperiously to the door.

  I bowed and went out. But seeing that in reality I had no post anywhere, I remained at no great distance from the general’s house.

  Two minutes later Girshel made his appearance, conducted by Siliavka and three soldiers. The poor Jew was in a state of stupefaction, and could hardly move his legs. Siliavka went by me to the camp, and soon returned with a rope in his hands. His coarse but not ill - natured face wore a look of strange, exasperated commiseration. At the sight of the rope the Jew flung up his arms, sat down, and burst into sobs. The soldiers stood silently about him, and stared grimly at the earth. I went up to Girshel, addressed him; he sobbed like a baby, and did not even look at me. With a hopeless gesture I went to my tent, flung myself on a rug, and closed my eyes....

  Suddenly some one ran hastily and noisily into my tent. I raised my head and saw Sara; she looked beside herself. She rushed up to me, and clutched at my hands.

  ‘Come along, come along,’ she insisted breathlessly.

  ‘Where? what for? let us stop here.’

  ‘To father, to father, quick... save him... save him!’

  ‘To what father?’

  ‘My father; they are going to hang him....’

  ‘What! is Girshel...?’

  ‘My father... I ‘11 tell you all about it later,’ she added, wringing her hands in despair: ‘only come... come....’

  We ran out of the tent. In the open ground, on the way to a solitary birch - tree, we could see a group of soldiers.... Sara pointed to them without speaking....

  ‘Stop,’ I said to her suddenly: ‘where are we running to? The soldiers won’t obey me.’

  Sara still pulled me after her.... I must confess, my head was going round.

  ‘But listen, Sara,’ I said to her; ‘what sense is there in running here? It would be better for me to go to the general again; let’s go together; who knows, we may persuade him.’

  Sara suddenly stood still and gazed at me, as though she were crazy.

  ‘Understand me, Sara, for God’s sake. I can’t do anything for your father, but the general can. Let’s go to him.’

  ‘But meanwhile they’ll hang him,’ she moaned....

  I looked round. The secretary was standing not far off.

  ‘Ivanov,’ I called to him; ‘run, please, over there to them, tell them to wait a little, say I’ve gone to petition the general.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ivanov ran off.

  We were not admitted to the general’s presence. In vain I begged, persuaded, swore even, at last... in vain, poor Sara tore her hair and rushed at the sentinels; they would not let us pass.

  Sara looked wildly round, clutched her head in both hands, and ran at breakneck pace towards the open country, to her father. I followed her. Every one stared at us, wondering.

  We ran up to the soldiers. They were standing in a ring, and picture it, gentlemen! they were laughing, laughing at poor Girshel. I flew into a rage and shouted at them. The Jew saw us and fell on his daughter’s neck. Sara clung to him passionately.

  The poor wretch imagined he was pardoned.... He was just beginning to thank me... I turned away.

  ‘Your honour,’ he shrieked and wrung his hands; ‘I’m not pardoned?’

  I did not speak.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your honour,’ he began muttering; ‘look, your honour, look... she, this girl, see — you know — she’s my daughter.’

  ‘I know,’ I answered, and turned away again.

  ‘Your honour,’ he shrieked, ‘I never went away from the tent! I wouldn’t for anything...’

  He stopped, and closed his eyes for an instant.... ‘I wanted your money, your honour, I must own... but not for anything....’

  I was silent. Girshel was loathsome to me, and she too, his accomplice....

  ‘But now, if you save me,’ the Jew articulated in a whisper, ‘I’ll command her... I... do you understand?... everything... I’ll go to every length....’

  He was trembling like a leaf, and looking about him hurriedly. Sara silently and passionately embraced him.

  The adjutant came up to us.

  ‘Cornet,’ he said to me; ‘his Excellency has given me orders to place you under arrest. And you...’ he motioned the soldiers to the Jew... ‘quickly.’

  Siliavka went up to the Jew.

  ‘Fiodor Karlitch,’ I said to the adjutant (five soldiers had come with him); ‘tell them, at least, to take away that poor girl....’

  ‘Of course. Certainly.’

  The unhappy girl was scarcely conscious. Girshel was muttering something to her in Yiddish....

  The soldiers with difficulty freed Sara from her father’s arms, and carefully carried her twenty steps away. But all at once she broke from their arms and rushed towards Girshel.... Siliavka stopped her. Sara pushed him away; her face was covered with a faint flush, her eyes flashed, she stretched out her arms.

  ‘So may you be accursed,’ she screamed in German; ‘accursed, thrice accursed, you and all the hateful breed of you, with the curse of Dathan and Abiram, the curse of poverty and sterility
and violent, shameful death! May the earth open under your feet, godless, pitiless, bloodthirsty dogs....’

  Her head dropped back... she fell to the ground.... They lifted her up and carried her away.

  The soldiers took Girshel under his arms. I saw then why it was they had been laughing at the Jew when I ran up from the camp with Sara. He was really ludicrous, in spite of all the horror of his position. The intense anguish of parting with life, his daughter, his family, showed itself in the Jew in such strange and grotesque gesticulations, shrieks, and wriggles that we all could not help smiling, though it was horrible — intensely horrible to us too. The poor wretch was half dead with terror....

  ‘Oy! oy! oy!’ he shrieked: ‘oy... wait! I’ve something to tell you... a lot to tell you. Mr. Under - sergeant, you know me. I’m an agent, an honest agent. Don’t hold me; wait a minute, a little minute, a tiny minute — wait! Let me go; I’m a poor Hebrew. Sara... where is Sara? Oh, I know, she’s at his honour the quarter - lieutenant’s.’ (God knows why he bestowed such an unheard - of grade upon me.) ‘Your honour the quarter - lieutenant, I’m not going away from the tent.’ (The soldiers were taking hold of Girshel... he uttered a deafening shriek, and wriggled out of their hands.) ‘Your Excellency, have pity on the unhappy father of a family. I’ll give you ten golden pieces, fifteen I’ll give, your Excellency!...’ (They dragged him to the birch - tree.) ‘Spare me! have mercy! your honour the quarter - lieutenant! your Excellency, the general and commander - in - chief!’

  They put the noose on the Jew.... I shut my eyes and rushed away.

  I remained for a fortnight under arrest. I was told that the widow of the luckless Girshel came to fetch away the clothes of the deceased. The general ordered a hundred roubles to be given to her. Sara I never saw again. I was wounded; I was taken to the hospital, and by the time I was well again, Dantzig had surrendered, and I joined my regiment on the banks of the Rhine.

  AN UNHAPPY GIRL

  Yes, yes, began Piotr Gavrilovitch; those were painful days... and I would rather not recall them.... But I have made you a promise; I shall have to tell you the whole story. Listen.

  I

  I was living at that time (the winter of 1835) in Moscow, in the house of my aunt, the sister of my dead mother. I was eighteen; I had only just passed from the second into the third course in the faculty ‘of Language’ (that was what it was called in those days) in the Moscow University. My aunt was a gentle, quiet woman — a widow. She lived in a big, wooden house in Ostozhonka, one of those warm, cosy houses such as, I fancy, one can find nowhere else but in Moscow. She saw hardly any one, sat from morning till night in the drawing - room with two companions, drank the choicest tea, played patience, and was continually requesting that the room should be fumigated. Thereupon her companions ran into the hall; a few minutes later an old servant in livery would bring in a copper pan with a bunch of mint on a hot brick, and stepping hurriedly upon the narrow strips of carpet, he would sprinkle the mint with vinegar. White fumes always puffed up about his wrinkled face, and he frowned and turned away, while the canaries in the dining - room chirped their hardest, exasperated by the hissing of the smouldering mint.

  I was fatherless and motherless, and my aunt spoiled me. She placed the whole of the ground floor at my complete disposal. My rooms were furnished very elegantly, not at all like a student’s rooms in fact: there were pink curtains in the bedroom, and a muslin canopy, adorned with blue rosettes, towered over my bed. Those rosettes were, I’ll own, rather an annoyance to me; to my thinking, such ‘effeminacies’ were calculated to lower me in the eyes of my companions. As it was, they nicknamed me ‘the boarding - school miss.’ I could never succeed in forcing myself to smoke. I studied — why conceal my shortcomings? — very lazily, especially at the beginning of the course. I went out a great deal. My aunt had bestowed on me a wide sledge, fit for a general, with a pair of sleek horses. At the houses of ‘the gentry’ my visits were rare, but at the theatre I was quite at home, and I consumed masses of tarts at the restaurants. For all that, I permitted myself no breach of decorum, and behaved very discreetly, en jeune homme de bonne maison. I would not for anything in the world have pained my kind aunt; and besides I was naturally of a rather cool temperament.

  II

  From my earliest years I had been fond of chess; I had no idea of the science of the game, but I didn’t play badly. One day in a café, I was the spectator of a prolonged contest at chess, between two players, of whom one, a fair - haired young man of about five - and - twenty, struck me as playing well. The game ended in his favour; I offered to play a match with him. He agreed,... and in the course of an hour, beat me easily, three times running.

  ‘You have a natural gift for the game,’ he pronounced in a courteous tone, noticing probably that my vanity was suffering; ‘but you don’t know the openings. You ought to study a chess - book — Allgacir or Petrov.’

  ‘Do you think so? But where can I get such a book?’

  ‘Come to me; I will give you one.’

  He gave me his name, and told me where he was living. Next day I went to see him, and a week later we were almost inseparable.

  III

  My new acquaintance was called Alexander Davidovitch Fustov. He lived with his mother, a rather wealthy woman, the widow of a privy councillor, but he occupied a little lodge apart and lived quite independently, just as I did at my aunt’s. He had a post in the department of Court affairs. I became genuinely attached to him. I had never in my life met a young man more ‘sympathetic.’ Everything about him was charming and attractive: his graceful figure, his bearing, his voice, and especially his small, delicate face with the golden - blue eyes, the elegant, as it were coquettishly moulded little nose, the unchanging amiable smile on the crimson lips, the light curls of soft hair over the rather narrow, snow - white brow. Fustov’s character was remarkable for exceptional serenity, and a sort of amiable, restrained affability; he was never pre - occupied, and was always satisfied with everything; but on the other hand he was never ecstatic over anything. Every excess, even in a good feeling, jarred upon him; ‘that’s savage, savage,’ he would say with a faint shrug, half closing his golden eyes. Marvellous were those eyes of Fustov’s! They invariably expressed sympathy, good - will, even devotion. It was only at a later period that I noticed that the expression of his eyes resulted solely from their setting, that it never changed, even when he was sipping his soup or smoking a cigar. His preciseness became a byword between us. His grandmother, indeed, had been a German. Nature had endowed him with all sorts of talents. He danced capitally, was a dashing horseman, and a first - rate swimmer; did carpentering, carving and joinery, bound books and cut out silhouettes, painted in watercolours nosegays of flowers or Napoleon in profile in a blue uniform; played the zither with feeling; knew a number of tricks, with cards and without; and had a fair knowledge of mechanics, physics, and chemistry; but everything only up to a certain point. Only for languages he had no great facility: even French he spoke rather badly. He spoke in general little, and his share in our students’ discussions was mostly limited to the bright sympathy of his glance and smile. To the fair sex Fustov was attractive, undoubtedly, but on this subject, of such importance among young people, he did not care to enlarge, and fully deserved the nickname given him by his comrades, ‘the discreet Don Juan.’ I was not dazzled by Fustov; there was nothing in him to dazzle, but I prized his affection, though in reality it was only manifested by his never refusing to see me when I called. To my mind Fustov was the happiest man in the world. His life ran so very smoothly. His mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles all adored him, he was on exceptionally good terms with all of them, and enjoyed the reputation of a paragon in his family.

  IV

  One day I went round to him rather early and did not find him in his study. He called to me from the next room; sounds of panting and splashing reached me from there. Every morning Fustov took a cold shower - bath and afterwards for a quarter of
an hour practised gymnastic exercises, in which he had attained remarkable proficiency. Excessive anxiety about one’s physical health he did not approve of, but he did not neglect necessary care. (‘Don’t neglect yourself, don’t over - excite yourself, work in moderation,’ was his precept.) Fustov had not yet made his appearance, when the outer door of the room where I was waiting flew wide open, and there walked in a man about fifty, wearing a bluish uniform. He was a stout, squarely - built man with milky - whitish eyes in a dark - red face and a perfect cap of thick, grey, curly hair. This person stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth wide, and with a metallic chuckle, he gave himself a smart slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up in front as he did so.

  ‘Ivan Demianitch?’ my friend inquired through the door.

  ‘The same, at your service,’ the new comer responded. ‘What are you up to? At your toilette? That’s right! that’s right!’ (The voice of the man addressed as Ivan Demianitch had the same harsh, metallic note as his laugh.) ‘I’ve trudged all this way to give your little brother his lesson; and he’s got a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. He can’t do his work. So I’ve looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.’

  Ivan Demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again dealt himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a check handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, ferociously rolling his eyes, spat into the handkerchief, and ejaculated with the whole force of his lungs: ‘Tfoo - o - o!’

  Fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us, asked us if we were acquainted.

  ‘Not a bit of it!’ Ivan Demianitch boomed at once: ‘the veteran of the year twelve has not that honour!’

  Fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the ‘veteran of the year twelve,’ he pronounced: ‘Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, professor of... various subjects.’

  ‘Precisely so, various they are, precisely,’ Mr. Ratsch chimed in. ‘Come to think of it, what is there I haven’t taught, and that I’m not teaching now, for that matter! Mathematics and geography and statistics and Italian book - keeping, ha - ha ha - ha! and music! You doubt it, my dear sir?’ — he pounced suddenly upon me — ’ask Alexander Daviditch if I’m not first - rate on the bassoon. I should be a poor sort of Bohemian — Czech, I should say — if I weren’t! Yes, sir, I’m a Czech, and my native place is ancient Prague! By the way, Alexander Daviditch, why haven’t we seen you for so long! We ought to have a little duet... ha - ha! Really!’