A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  VI

  It was a wretched little house that looked as though it had sunk into the ground, with four little windows looking into the street. The dark green of geraniums blocked them up within; a candle was burning in one of them; night was already coming on. A wooden fence with a hardly visible gate stretched from the house and was almost of the same height. The girl went up to the gate and finding it locked knocked on it impatiently with the iron ring of the padlock. Heavy footsteps were audible behind the fence as though someone in slippers trodden down at heel were carelessly shuffling towards the gate, and a husky female voice asked some question in German which Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not understand: like a regular sailor he knew no language but Russian. The girl answered in German, too; the gate opened a very little, admitted the girl and then was slammed almost in the face of Kuzma Vassilyevitch who had time, however, to make out in the summer twilight the outline of a stout, elderly woman in a red dress with a dimly burning lantern in her hand. Struck with amazement Kuzma Vassilyevitch remained for some time motionless in the street; but at the thought that he, a naval officer (Kuzma Vassilyevitch had a very high opinion of his rank) had been so discourteously treated, he was moved to indignation and turning on his heel he went homewards. He had not gone ten paces when the gate opened again and the girl, who had had time to whisper to the old woman, appeared in the gateway and called out aloud:

  “Where are you going, Mr. Officer! Please come in.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch hesitated a little; he turned back, however.

  VII

  This new acquaintance, whom we will call Emilie, led him through a dark, damp little lobby into a fairly large but low - pitched and untidy room with a huge cupboard against the further wall and a sofa covered with American leather; above the doors and between the windows hung three portraits in oils with the paint peeling off, two representing bishops in clerical caps and one a Turk in a turban; cardboard boxes were lying about in the corners; there were chairs of different sorts and a crooked legged card table on which a man’s cap was lying beside an unfinished glass of kvass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was followed into the room by the old woman in the red dress, whom he had noticed at the gate, and who turned out to be a very unprepossessing Jewess with sullen pig - like eyes and a grey moustache over her puffy upper lip. Emilie indicated her to Kuzma Vassilyevitch and said:

  “This is my aunt, Madame Fritsche.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little surprised but thought it his duty to introduce himself. Madame Fritsche looked at him from under her brows, made no response, but asked her niece in Russian whether she would like some tea.

  “Ah, yes, tea!” answered Emilie. “You will have some tea, won’t you, Mr. Officer? Yes, auntie, give us some tea! But why are you standing, Mr. Officer? Sit down! Oh, how ceremonious you are! Let me take off my fichu.”

  When Emilie talked she continually turned her head from one side to another and jerked her shoulders; birds make similar movements when they sit on a bare branch with sunshine all round them.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch sank into a chair and assuming a becoming air of dignity, that is, leaning on his cutlass and fixing his eyes on the floor, he began to speak about the theft. But Emilie at once interrupted him.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, it’s all right. Auntie has just told me that the principal things have been found.” (Madame Fritsche mumbled something to herself and went out of the room.) “And there was no need to go to the police at all; but I can’t control myself because I am so ... You don’t understand German? ... So quick, immer so rasch! But I think no more about it ... aber auch gar nicht!”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch looked at Emilie. Her face indeed showed no trace of care now. Everything was smiling in that pretty little face: the eyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeks and the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of her turned - up nose. She went up to the little looking glass beside the cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth, began tidying her hair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her movements intently.... He found her very charming.

  VIII

  “You must excuse me,” she began again, turning from side to side before the looking glass, “for having so ... brought you home with me. Perhaps you dislike it?”

  “Oh, not at all!”

  “As I have told you already, I am so quick. I act first and think afterwards, though sometimes I don’t think at all.... What is your name, Mr. Officer? May I ask you?” she added going up to him and folding her arms.

  “My name is Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov.”

  “Yergu.... Oh, it’s not a nice name! I mean it’s difficult for me. I shall call you Mr. Florestan. At Riga we had a Mr. Florestan. He sold capital gros - de - Naples in his shop and was a handsome man, as good - looking as you. But how broad - shouldered you are! A regular sturdy Russian! I like the Russians.... I am a Russian myself ... my papa was an officer. But my hands are whiter than yours!” She raised them above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as to drive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. “Do you see? I wash them with Greek scented soap.... Sniff! Oh, but don’t kiss them.... I did not do it for that.... Where are you serving?”

  “In the fleet, in the nineteenth Black Sea company.”

  “Oh, you are a sailor! Well, do you get a good salary?”

  “No ... not very.”

  “You must be very brave. One can see it at once from your eyes. What thick eyebrows you’ve got! They say you ought to grease them with lard overnight to make them grow. But why have you no moustache?”

  “It’s against the regulations.”

  “Oh, that’s not right! What’s that you’ve got, a dagger?”

  “It’s a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor’s weapon.”

  “Ah, a cutlass! Is it sharp? May I look?” With an effort, biting her lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard and put it to her nose.

  “Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!”

  She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened and laughed. She laughed too.

  “Ihr habt pardon, you are pardoned,” she pronounced, throwing herself into a majestic attitude. “There, take your weapon! And how old are you?” she asked suddenly.

  “Twenty - five.”

  “And I am nineteen! How funny that is! Ach!” And Emilie went off into such a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still more intently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and he felt more and more attracted by her.

  All at once Emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as her habit was, went back to the looking glass.

  “Can you sing, Mr. Florestan?”

  “No, I have never been taught.”

  “Do you play on the guitar? Not that either? I can. I have a guitar set with perlenmutter but the strings are broken. I must buy some new ones. You will give me the money, won’t you, Mr. Officer? I’ll sing you a lovely German song.” She heaved a sigh and shut her eyes. “Ah, such a lovely one! But you can dance? Not that, either? Unmöglich! I’ll teach you. The schottische and the valse - cosaque. Tra - la - la, tra - la - la,” Emilie pirouetted once or twice. “Look at my shoes! From Warsaw. Oh, we will have some dancing, Mr. Florestan! But what are you going to call me?”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears.

  “I shall call you: lovely Emilie!”

  “No, no! You must call me: Mein Schätzchen, mein Zuckerpüppchen! Repeat it after me.”

  “With the greatest pleasure, but I am afraid I shall find it difficult....”

  “Never mind, never mind. Say: Mein.”

  “Me - in.”

  “Zucker.”

  “Tsook - ker.”

  “Püppchen! Püppchen! Püppchen!”

  “Poop ... poop.... That I can’t manage. It doesn’t sound nice.”

  “N
o! You must ... you must! Do you know what it means? That’s the very nicest word for a young lady in German. I’ll explain it to you afterwards. But here is auntie bringing us the samovar. Bravo! Bravo! auntie, I will have cream with my tea.... Is there any cream?”

  “So schweige doch,” answered the aunt.

  IX

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch stayed at Madame Fritsche’s till midnight. He had not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at Nikolaev. It is true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of Riga and her auntie, but Emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. Only one circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite agreeable. When his conversation with Emilie and Madame Fritsche was in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man’s hand in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door. Both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the bundle. “But these are the wrong spoons!” cried Emilie, but her aunt nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up the ends. It seemed to Kuzma Vassilyevitch that one end was spattered with something red, like blood.

  “What is it?” he asked Emilie. “Is it some more stolen things returned to you?”

  “Yes,” answered Emilie, as it were, reluctantly. “Some more.”

  “Was it your servant found them?”

  Emilie frowned.

  “What servant? We haven’t any servant.”

  “Some other man, then?”

  “No men come to see us.”

  “But excuse me, excuse me.... I saw the cuff of a man’s coat or jacket. And, besides, this cap....”

  “Men never, never come to see us,” Emilie repeated emphatically. “What did you see? You saw nothing! And that cap is mine.”

  “How is that?”

  “Why, just that. I wear it for dressing up.... Yes, it is mine, und Punctum.”

  “Who brought you the bundle, then?”

  Emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed Madame Fritsche out of the room. Ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and when Kuzma Vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were, darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer, asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts immediately slipped out of his mind.

  But they came back to him that very day. When he had got out of the gate into the street, had said good - bye to Emilie, shouted to her for the last time, “Adieu, Zuckerpüppchen!” a short man darted by him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose. The man at once rushed round the corner and it struck Kuzma Vassilyevitch that he recognised - - not his face, for he had never seen it before - - but the cuff of his sleeve. Three silver buttons gleamed distinctly in the moonlight. There was a stir of uneasy perplexity in the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light as usual his meerschaum pipe. Though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance with charming Emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company would alone have induced his agitation.

  X

  Whatever Kuzma Vassilyevitch’s apprehensions may have been, they were quickly dissipated and left no trace. He took to visiting the two ladies from Riga frequently. The susceptible lieutenant was soon on friendly terms with Emilie. At first he was ashamed of the acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... Only once he let himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat’s tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal something from him they would converse in German in his presence. Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all, some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche’s house, which was a fairly large one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits; on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie’s continuing to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, “wie die Augen eines Paradiesvogels!”

  XI

  One day in the very height of summer, Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who had spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors and workmen, dragged himself tired and exhausted to the little gate that had become so familiar to him. He knocked and was admitted. He shambled into the so - called drawing - room and immediately lay down on the sofa. Emilie went up to him and mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief.

  “How tired he is, poor pet! How hot he is!” she said commiseratingly. “Good gracious! You might at least unbutton your collar. My goodness, how your throat is pulsing!”

  “I am done up, my dear,” groaned Kuzma Vassilyevitch. “I’ve been on my feet all the morning, in the baking sun. It’s awful! I meant to go home. But there those vipers, the contractors, would find me! While here with you it is cool.... I believe I could have a nap.”

  “Well, why not? Go to sleep, my little chick; no one will disturb you here.”...

  “But I am really ashamed.”

  “What next! Why ashamed? Go to sleep. And I’ll sing you ... what do you call it? ... I’ll sing you to bye - bye, ‘Schlaf, mein Kindchen, Schlafe!’“ She began singing.

  “I should like a drink of water first.”

  “Here is a glass of water for you. Fresh as crystal! Wait, I’ll put a pillow under your head.... And here is this to keep the flies off.”

  She covered his face with a handkerchief.

  “Thank you, my little cupid.... I’ll just have a tiny doze ... that’s all.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately.

  “Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe,” sang Emilie, swaying from side to side and softly laughing at her song and her movements.

  “What a big baby I have got!” she thought. “A boy!”

  XII

  An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. He fancied in his sleep that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. He fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her knees close beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. She jumped up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her pocket.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched.

  “I’ve had a good long snooze, it seems!” he observed, yawning. “Come here, meine züsse Fräulein!”

  Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her pocket and took o
ut a small pair of scissors.

  “Ach, Herr Je!” Emilie could not help exclaiming.

  “It’s ... it’s a pair of scissors?” muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

  “Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny you look! You’re as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing up at the back.... And he doesn’t laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are puffy.... Oh!”

  Emilie went off into a giggle.

  “Come, that’s enough,” muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up from the sofa. “That’s enough giggling about nothing. If you can’t think of anything more sensible, I’ll go home.... I’ll go home,” he repeated, seeing that she was still laughing.

  Emilie subsided.

  “Come, stay; I won’t.... Only you must brush your hair.”

  “No, never mind.... Don’t trouble. I’d better go,” said Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap.

  Emilie pouted.

  “Fie, how cross he is! A regular Russian! All Russians are cross. Now he is going. Fie! Yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he gives me nothing and goes away.”

  “I haven’t any money on me,” Kuzma Vassilyevitch muttered grumpily in the doorway. “Good - bye.”

  Emilie looked after him and shook her finger.

  “No money! Do you hear, do you hear what he says? Oh, what deceivers these Russians are! But wait a bit, you pug.... Auntie, come here, I have something to tell you.”

  That evening as Kuzma Vassilyevitch was undressing to go to bed, he noticed that the upper edge of his leather belt had come unsewn for about three inches. Like a careful man he at once procured a needle and thread, waxed the thread and stitched up the hole himself. He paid, however, no attention to this apparently trivial circumstance.

  XIII

  The whole of the next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch devoted to his official duties; he did not leave the house even after dinner and right into the night was scribbling and copying out his report to his superior officer, mercilessly disregarding the rules of spelling, always putting an exclamation mark after the word but and a semi - colon after however. Next morning a barefoot Jewish boy in a tattered gown brought him a letter from Emilie - - the first letter that Kuzma Vassilyevitch had received from her.