A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Don’t, please, speak of him as my friend,’ Kister interposed.

  ‘No, no, I don’t want to separate you.’

  ‘Oh, my God, for you I’m ready to sacrifice more than a friend.... Everything is over between me and Mr. Lutchkov,’ Kister added hurriedly.

  Masha looked intently into his face.

  ‘Well, enough of him,’ she said. ‘Don’t let us talk of him. It’s a lesson to me for the future. It’s I that am to blame. For several months past I have almost every day seen a man who is good, clever, bright, friendly who...’ (Masha was confused, and stammered) ‘who, I think, cared... a little... for me too... and I like a fool,’ she went on quickly, ‘preferred to him... no, no, I didn’t prefer him, but...’

  She drooped her head, and ceased speaking in confusion.

  Kister was in a sort of terror. ‘It can’t be!’ he kept repeating to himself.

  ‘Marya Sergievna!’ he began at last.

  Masha lifted her head, and turned upon him eyes heavy with unshed tears.

  ‘You don’t guess of whom I am speaking?’ she asked.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, Kister held out his hand. Masha at once clutched it warmly.

  ‘You are my friend as before, aren’t you?... Why don’t you answer?’

  ‘I am your friend, you know that,’ he murmured.

  ‘And you are not hard on me? You forgive me?... You understand me? You’re not laughing at a girl who made an appointment only yesterday with one man, and to - day is talking to another, as I am talking to you.... You’re not laughing at me, are you?...’ Masha’s face glowed crimson, she clung with both hands to Kister’s hand....

  ‘Laugh at you,’ answered Kister: ‘I... I... why, I love you... I love you,’ he cried.

  Masha hid her face.

  ‘Surely you’ve long known that I love you, Marya Sergievna?’

  X

  Three weeks after this interview, Kister was sitting alone in his room, writing the following letter to his mother: —

  Dearest Mother! — I make haste to share my great happiness with you; I am going to get married. This news will probably only surprise you from my not having, in my previous letters, even hinted at so important a change in my life — and you know that I am used to sharing all my feelings, my joys and my sorrows, with you. My reasons for silence are not easy to explain to you. To begin with, I did not know till lately that I was loved; and on my own side too, it is only lately that I have realised myself all the strength of my own feeling. In one of my first letters from here, I wrote to you of our neighbours, the Perekatovs; I am engaged to their only daughter, Marya. I am thoroughly convinced that we shall both be happy. My feeling for her is not a fleeting passion, but a deep and genuine emotion, in which friendship is mingled with love. Her bright, gentle disposition is in perfect harmony with my tastes. She is well - educated, clever, plays the piano splendidly.... If you could only see her! I enclose her portrait sketched by me. I need hardly say she is a hundred times better - looking than her portrait. Masha loves you already, like a daughter, and is eagerly looking forward to seeing you. I mean to retire, to settle in the country, and to go in for farming. Mr. Perekatov has a property of four hundred serfs in excellent condition. You see that even from the material point of view, you cannot but approve of my plans. I will get leave and come to Moscow and to you. Expect me in a fortnight, not later. My own dearest mother, how happy I am!... Kiss me...’ and so on.

  Kister folded and sealed the letter, got up, went to the window, lighted a pipe, thought a little, and returned to the table. He took out a small sheet of notepaper, carefully dipped his pen into the ink, but for a long while he did not begin to write, knitted his brows, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, bit the end of his pen.... At last he made up his mind, and in the course of a quarter of an hour he had composed the following:

  ‘Dear Avdey Ivanovitch, — Since the day of your last visit (that is, for three weeks) you have sent me no message, have not said a word to me, and have seemed to avoid meeting me. Every one is, undoubtedly, free to act as he pleases; you have chosen to break off our acquaintance, and I do not, believe me, in addressing you intend to reproach you in any way. It is not my intention or my habit to force myself upon any one whatever; it is enough for me to feel that I am not to blame in the matter. I am writing to you now from a feeling of duty. I have made an offer to Marya Sergievna Perekatov, and have been accepted by her, and also by her parents. I inform you of this fact — directly and immediately — to avoid any kind of misapprehension or suspicion. I frankly confess, sir, that I am unable to feel great concern about the good opinion of a man who himself shows so little concern for the opinions and feelings of other people, and I am writing to you solely because I do not care in this matter even to appear to have acted or to be acting underhandedly. I make bold to say, you know me, and will not ascribe my present action to any other lower motive. Addressing you for the last time, I cannot, for the sake of our old friendship, refrain from wishing you all good things possible on earth. — I remain, sincerely, your obedient servant, Fyodor Kister.’

  Fyodor Fedoritch despatched this note to the address, changed his uniform, and ordered his carriage to be got ready. Light - hearted and happy, he walked up and down his little room humming, even gave two little skips in the air, twisted a book of songs into a roll, and was tying it up with blue ribbon.... The door opened, and Lutchkov, in a coat without epaulettes, with a cap on his head, came into the room. Kister, astounded, stood still in the middle of the room, without finishing the bow he was tying.

  ‘So you’re marrying the Perekatov girl?’ queried Avdey in a calm voice.

  Kister fired up.

  ‘Sir,’ he began; ‘decent people take off their caps and say good - morning when they come into another man’s room.’

  ‘Beg pardon,’ the bully jerked out; and he took off his cap. ‘Good - morning.’

  ‘Good - morning, Mr. Lutchkov. You ask me if I am about to marry Miss Perekatov? Haven’t you read my letter, then?’

  ‘I have read your letter. You’re going to get married. I congratulate you.’

  ‘I accept your congratulation, and thank you for it. But I must be starting.’

  ‘I should like to have a few words of explanation with you, Fyodor Fedoritch.’

  ‘By all means, with pleasure,’ responded the good - natured fellow. ‘I must own I was expecting such an explanation. Your behaviour to me has been so strange, and I think, on my side, I have not deserved... at least, I had no reason to expect... But won’t you sit down? Wouldn’t you like a pipe?’

  Lutchkov sat down. There was a certain weariness perceptible in his movements. He stroked his moustaches and lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘I say, Fyodor Fedoritch,’ he began at last; ‘why did you keep it up with me so long?...’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Why did you pose as such... a disinterested being, when you were just such another as all the rest of us sinners all the while?’

  ‘I don’t understand you.... Can I have wounded you in some way?...’

  ‘You don’t understand me... all right. I’ll try and speak more plainly. Just tell me, for instance, openly, Have you had a liking for the Perekatov girl all along, or is it a case of sudden passion?’

  ‘I should prefer, Avdey Ivanitch, not to discuss with you my relations with Marya Sergievna,’ Kister responded coldly.

  ‘Oh, indeed! As you please. Only you’ll kindly allow me to believe that you’ve been humbugging me.’

  Avdey spoke very deliberately and emphatically.

  ‘You can’t believe that, Avdey Ivanitch; you know me.’

  ‘I know you?... who knows you? The heart of another is a dark forest, and the best side of goods is always turned uppermost. I know you read German poetry with great feeling and even with tears in your eyes; I know that you’ve hung various maps on your walls; I know you keep your person clean; that I know,... but beyond that, I know nothing...’
r />   Kister began to lose his temper.

  ‘Allow me to inquire,’ he asked at last, ‘what is the object of your visit? You have sent no message to me for three weeks, and now you come to me, apparently with the intention of jeering at me. I am not a boy, sir, and I do not allow any one...’

  ‘Mercy on us,’ Lutchkov interrupted him; ‘mercy on us, Fyodor Fedoritch, who would venture to jeer at you? It’s quite the other way; I’ve come to you with a most humble request, that is, that you’d do me the favour to explain your behaviour to me. Allow me to ask you, wasn’t it you who forced me to make the acquaintance of the Perekatov family? Didn’t you assure your humble servant that it would make his soul blossom into flower? And lastly, didn’t you throw me with the virtuous Marya Sergievna? Why am I not to presume that it’s to you I’m indebted for that final agreeable scene, of which you have doubtless been informed in befitting fashion? An engaged girl, of course, tells her betrothed of everything, especially of her innocent indiscretions. How can I help supposing that it’s thanks to you I’ve been made such a terrific fool of? You took such a mighty interest in my “blossoming out,” you know!’

  Kister walked up and down the room.

  ‘Look here, Lutchkov,’ he said at last; ‘if you really — joking apart — are convinced of what you say, which I confess I don’t believe, then let me tell you, it’s shameful and wicked of you to put such an insulting construction on my conduct and intentions. I don’t want to justify myself... I appeal to your own conscience, to your memory.’

  ‘Yes; I remember you were continually whispering with Marya Sergievna. Besides that, let me ask you another question: Weren’t you at the Perekatovs’ after a certain conversation with me, after that evening when I like a fool chattered to you, thinking you my greatest friend, of the meeting she’d arranged?’

  ‘What! you suspect me...’

  ‘I suspect other people of nothing,’ Avdey cut him short with cutting iciness, ‘of which I would not suspect myself; but I have the weakness to suppose that other men are no better than I am.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ Kister retorted emphatically; ‘other men are better than you.’

  ‘I congratulate them upon it,’ Lutchkov dropped carelessly; ‘but...’

  ‘But remember,’ broke in Kister, now in his turn thoroughly infuriated, ‘in what terms you spoke of... of that meeting... of... But these explanations are leading to nothing, I see.... Think what you choose of me, and act as you think best.’

  ‘Come, that’s better,’ observed Avdey. ‘At last you’re beginning to speak plainly.’

  ‘As you think best,’ repeated Kister.

  ‘I understand your position, Fyodor Fedoritch,’ Avdey went on with an affectation of sympathy; ‘it’s disagreeable, certainly. A man has been acting, acting a part, and no one has recognised him as a humbug; and all of a sudden...’

  ‘If I could believe,’ Kister interrupted, setting his teeth, ‘that it was wounded love that makes you talk like this, I should feel sorry for you; I could excuse you.... But in your abuse, in your false charges, I hear nothing but the shriek of mortified pride... and I feel no sympathy for you.... You have deserved what you’ve got.’

  ‘Ugh, mercy on us, how the fellow talks!’ Avdey murmured. ‘Pride,’ he went on; ‘may be; yes, yes, my pride, as you say, has been mortified intensely and insufferably. But who isn’t proud? Aren’t you? Yes, I’m proud, and for instance, I permit no one to feel sorry for me....’

  ‘You don’t permit it!’ Kister retorted haughtily. ‘What an expression, sir! Don’t forget, the tie between us you yourself have broken. I must beg you to behave with me as with a complete outsider.’

  ‘Broken! Broken the tie between us!’ repeated Avdey. ‘Understand me; I have sent you no message, and have not been to see you because I was sorry for you; you must allow me to be sorry for you, since you ‘re sorry for me!... I didn’t want to put you in a false position, to make your conscience prick.... You talk of a tie between us... as though you could remain my friend as before your marriage! Rubbish! Why, you were only friendly with me before to gloat over your fancied superiority...’

  Avdey’s duplicity overwhelmed, confounded Kister.

  ‘Let us end this unpleasant conversation!’ he cried at last. ‘I must own I don’t see why you’ve been pleased to come to me.’

  ‘You don’t see what I’ve come to you for?’ Avdey asked inquiringly.

  ‘I certainly don’t see why.’

  ‘N — o?’

  ‘No, I tell you...’

  ‘Astonishing!... This is astonishing! Who’d have thought it of a fellow of your intelligence!’

  ‘Come, speak plainly...’

  ‘I have come, Mr. Kister,’ said Avdey, slowly rising to his feet, ‘I have come to challenge you to a duel. Do you understand now? I want to fight you. Ah! you thought you could get rid of me like that! Why, didn’t you know the sort of man you have to do with? As if I’d allow...’

  ‘Very good,’ Kister cut in coldly and abruptly. ‘I accept your challenge. Kindly send me your second.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ pursued Avdey, who, like a cat, could not bear to let his victim go so soon: ‘it’ll give me great pleasure I’ll own to put a bullet into your fair and idealistic countenance to - morrow.’

  ‘You are abusive after a challenge, it seems,’ Kister rejoined contemptuously. ‘Be so good as to go. I’m ashamed of you.’

  ‘Oh, to be sure, délicatesse!... Ah, Marya Sergievna, I don’t know French!’ growled Avdey, as he put on his cap. ‘Till we meet again, Fyodor Fedoritch!’

  He bowed and walked out.

  Kister paced several times up and down the room. His face burned, his breast heaved violently. He felt neither fear nor anger; but it sickened him to think what this man really was that he had once looked upon as a friend. The idea of the duel with Lutchkov was almost pleasant to him.... Once get free from the past, leap over this rock in his path, and then to float on an untroubled tide... ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘I shall be fighting to win my happiness.’ Masha’s image seemed to smile to him, to promise him success. ‘I’m not going to be killed! not I!’ he repeated with a serene smile. On the table lay the letter to his mother.... He felt a momentary pang at his heart. He resolved any way to defer sending it off. There was in Kister that quickening of the vital energies of which a man is aware in face of danger. He calmly thought over all the possible results of the duel, mentally placed Masha and himself in all the agonies of misery and parting, and looked forward to the future with hope. He swore to himself not to kill Lutchkov... He felt irresistibly drawn to Masha. He paused a second, hurriedly arranged things, and directly after dinner set off to the Perekatovs. All the evening Kister was in good spirits, perhaps in too good spirits.

  Masha played a great deal on the piano, felt no foreboding of evil, and flirted charmingly with him. At first her unconsciousness wounded him, then he took Masha’s very unconsciousness as a happy omen, and was rejoiced and reassured by it. She had grown fonder and fonder of him every day; happiness was for her a much more urgent need than passion. Besides, Avdey had turned her from all exaggerated desires, and she renounced them joyfully and for ever. Nenila Makarievna loved Kister like a son. Sergei Sergeitch as usual followed his wife’s lead.

  ‘Till we meet,’ Masha said to Kister, following him into the hall and gazing at him with a soft smile, as he slowly and tenderly kissed her hands.

  ‘Till we meet,’ Fyodor Fedoritch repeated confidently; ‘till we meet.’

  But when he had driven half a mile from the Perekatovs’ house, he stood up in the carriage, and with vague uneasiness began looking for the lighted windows.... All in the house was dark as in the tomb.

  XI

  Next day at eleven o’clock in the morning Kister’s second, an old major of tried merit, came for him. The good old man growled to himself, bit his grey moustaches, and wished Avdey Ivanovitch everything unpleasant.... The carriage was brought to the door. Kister h
anded the major two letters, one for his mother, the other for Masha.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘Well, one can never tell...’

  ‘Nonsense! we’ll shoot him like a partridge...’

  ‘Any way it’s better...’

  The major with vexation stuffed the two letters in the side pocket of his coat.

  ‘Let us start.’

  They set off. In a small copse, a mile and a half from the village of Kirilovo, Lutchkov was awaiting them with his former friend, the perfumed adjutant. It was lovely weather, the birds were twittering peacefully; not far from the copse a peasant was tilling the ground. While the seconds were marking out the distance, fixing the barrier, examining and loading the pistols, the opponents did not even glance at one another.... Kister walked to and fro with a careless air, swinging a flower he had gathered; Avdey stood motionless, with folded arms and scowling brow. The decisive moment arrived. ‘Begin, gentlemen!’ Kister went rapidly towards the barrier, but he had not gone five steps before Avdey fired, Kister started, made one more step forward, staggered. His head sank... His knees bent under him... He fell like a sack on the grass. The major rushed up to him.... ‘Is it possible?’ whispered the dying man.

  Avdey went up to the man he had killed. On his gloomy and sunken face was a look of savage, exasperated regret.... He looked at the adjutant and the major, bent his head like a guilty man, got on his horse without a word, and rode slowly straight to the colonel’s quarters.

  Masha... is living to this day.

  THREE PORTRAITS

  ‘Neighbours’ constitute one of the most serious drawbacks of life in the country. I knew a country gentleman of the Vologodsky district, who used on every suitable occasion to repeat the following words, ‘Thank God, I have no neighbours,’ and I confess I could not help envying that happy mortal. My own little place is situated in one of the most thickly peopled provinces of Russia. I am surrounded by a vast number of dear neighbours, from highly respectable and highly respected country gentlemen, attired in ample frockcoats and still more ample waistcoats, down to regular loafers, wearing jackets with long sleeves and a so - called shooting - bag on their back. In this crowd of gentlefolks I chanced, however, to discover one very pleasant fellow. He had served in the army, had retired and settled for good and all in the country. According to his story, he had served for two years in the B — — — regiment. But I am totally unable to comprehend how that man could have performed any sort of duty, not merely for two years, but even for two days. He was born ‘for a life of peace and country calm,’ that is to say, for lazy, careless vegetation, which, I note parenthetically, is not without great and inexhaustible charms. He possessed a very fair property, and without giving too much thought to its management, spent about ten thousand roubles a year, had obtained an excellent cook — my friend was fond of good fare — and ordered too from Moscow all the newest French books and magazines. In Russian he read nothing but the reports of his bailiff, and that with great difficulty. He used, when he did not go out shooting, to wear a dressing - gown from morning till dinner - time and at dinner. He would look through plans of some sort, or go round to the stables or to the threshing barn, and joke with the peasant women, who, to be sure, in his presence wielded their flails in leisurely fashion. After dinner my friend would dress very carefully before the looking - glass, and drive off to see some neighbour possessed of two or three pretty daughters. He would flirt serenely and unconcernedly with one of them, play blind - man’s - buff with them, return home rather late and promptly fall into a heroic sleep. He could never be bored, for he never gave himself up to complete inactivity; and in the choice of occupations he was not difficult to please, and was amused like a child with the smallest trifle. On the other hand, he cherished no particular attachment to life, and at times, when he chanced to get a glimpse of the track of a wolf or a fox, he would let his horse go at full gallop over such ravines that to this day I cannot understand how it was he did not break his neck a hundred times over. He belonged to that class of persons who inspire in one the idea that they do not know their own value, that under their appearance of indifference strong and violent passions lie concealed. But he would have laughed in one’s face if he could have guessed that one cherished such an opinion of him. And indeed I must own I believe myself that even supposing my friend had had in youth some strong impulse, however vague, towards what is so sweetly called ‘higher things,’ that impulse had long, long ago died out. He was rather stout and enjoyed superb health. In our day one cannot help liking people who think little about themselves, because they are exceedingly rare... and my friend had almost forgotten his own personality. I fancy, though, that I have said too much about him already, and my prolixity is the more uncalled for as he is not the hero of my story. His name was Piotr Fedorovitch Lutchinov.