A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1

by Ivan Turgenev

  O realm of azure! In dream have I beheld thee.

  June 1878.

  TWO RICH MEN

  When I hear the praises of the rich man Rothschild, who out of his immense revenues devotes whole thousands to the education of children, the care of the sick, the support of the aged, I admire and am touched.

  But even while I admire it and am touched by it, I cannot help recalling a poor peasant family who took an orphan niece into their little tumble - down hut.

  ‘If we take Katka,’ said the woman, ‘our last farthing will go on her, there won’t be enough to get us salt to salt us a bit of bread.’

  ‘Well,… we’ll do without salt,’ answered the peasant, her husband.

  Rothschild is a long way behind that peasant!

  July 1878.

  THE OLD MAN

  Days of darkness, of dreariness, have come…. Thy own infirmities, the sufferings of those dear to thee, the chill and gloom of old age. All that thou hast loved, to which thou hast given thyself irrevocably, is falling, going to pieces. The way is all down - hill.

  What canst thou do? Grieve? Complain? Thou wilt aid not thyself nor others that way….

  On the bowed and withering tree the leaves are smaller and fewer, but its green is yet the same.

  Do thou too shrink within, withdraw into thyself, into thy memories, and there, deep down, in the very depths of the soul turned inwards on itself, thy old life, to which thou alone hast the key, will be bright again for thee, in all the fragrance, all the fresh green, and the grace and power of its spring!

  But beware … look not forward, poor old man!

  July 1878.

  THE REPORTER

  Two friends were sitting at a table drinking tea.

  A sudden hubbub arose in the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of malignant laughter.

  ‘They’re beating some one,’ observed one of the friends, looking out of window.

  ‘A criminal? A murderer?’ inquired the other. ‘I say, whatever he may be, we can’t allow this illegal chastisement. Let’s go and take his part.’

  ‘But it’s not a murderer they’re beating.’

  ‘Not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no difference, let’s go and get him away from the crowd.’

  ‘It’s not a thief either.’

  ‘Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social reformer?… Any way, let’s go and help him!’

  ‘No … it’s a newspaper reporter they’re beating.’

  ‘A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we’ll finish our glasses of tea first then.’

  July 1878.

  THE TWO BROTHERS

  It was a vision …

  Two angels appeared to me … two genii.

  I say angels, genii, because both had no clothes on their naked bodies, and behind their shoulders rose long powerful wings.

  Both were youths. One was rather plump, with soft smooth skin and dark curls. His eyes were brown and full, with thick eyelashes; his look was sly, merry, and eager. His face was charming, bewitching, a little insolent, a little wicked. His full soft crimson lips were faintly quivering. The youth smiled as one possessing power — self - confidently and languidly; a magnificent wreath of flowers rested lightly on his shining tresses, almost touching his velvety eyebrows. A spotted leopard’s skin, pinned up with a golden arrow, hung lightly from his curved shoulder to his rounded thigh. The feathers of his wings were tinged with rose colour; the ends of them were bright red, as though dipped in fresh - spilt scarlet blood. From time to time they quivered rapidly with a sweet silvery sound, the sound of rain in spring.

  The other was thin, and his skin yellowish. At every breath his ribs could be seen faintly heaving. His hair was fair, thin, and straight; his eyes big, round, pale grey … his glance uneasy and strangely bright. All his features were sharp; the little half - open mouth, with pointed fish - like teeth; the pinched eagle nose, the projecting chin, covered with whitish down. The parched lips never once smiled.

  It was a well - cut face, but terrible and pitiless! (Though the face of the first, the beautiful youth, sweet and lovely as it was, showed no trace of pity either.) About the head of the second youth were twisted a few broken and empty ears of corn, entwined with faded grass - stalks. A coarse grey cloth girt his loins; the wings behind, a dull dark grey colour, moved slowly and menacingly.

  The two youths seemed inseparable companions. Each of them leaned upon the other’s shoulder. The soft hand of the first lay like a cluster of grapes upon the bony neck of the second; the slender wrist of the second, with its long delicate fingers, coiled like a snake about the girlish bosom of the first.

  And I heard a voice. This is what it said: ‘Love and Hunger stand before thee — twin brothers, the two foundation - stones of all things living.

  ‘All that lives moves to get food, and feeds to bring forth young.

  ‘Love and Hunger — their aim is one; that life should cease not, the life of the individual and the life of others — the same universal life.’

  August 1878.

  THE EGOIST

  He had every qualification for becoming the scourge of his family.

  He was born healthy, was born wealthy, and throughout the whole of his long life, continuing to be wealthy and healthy, he never committed a single sin, never fell into a single error, never once made a slip or a blunder.

  He was irreproachably conscientious!… And complacent in the sense of his own conscientiousness, he crushed every one with it, his family, his friends and his acquaintances.

  His conscientiousness was his capital … and he exacted an exorbitant interest for it.

  His conscientiousness gave him the right to be merciless, and to do no good deeds beyond what it dictated to him; and he was merciless, and did no good … for good that is dictated is no good at all.

  He took no interest in any one except his own exemplary self, and was genuinely indignant if others did not take as studious an interest in it!

  At the same time he did not consider himself an egoist, and was particularly severe in censuring, and keen in detecting egoists and egoism. To be sure he was. The egoism of another was a check on his own.

  Not recognising the smallest weakness in himself he did not understand, did not tolerate any weakness in any one. He did not, in fact, understand any one or any thing, since he was all, on all sides, above and below, before and behind, encircled by himself.

  He did not even understand the meaning of forgiveness. He had never had to forgive himself…. What inducement could he have to forgive others?

  Before the tribunal of his own conscience, before the face of his own God, he, this marvel, this monster of virtue, raised his eyes heavenwards, and with clear unfaltering voice declared, ‘Yes, I am an exemplary, a truly moral man!’

  He will repeat these words on his deathbed, and there will be no throb even then in his heart of stone — in that heart without stain or blemish!

  Oh, hideousness of self - complacent, unbending, cheaply bought virtue; thou art almost more revolting than the frank hideousness of vice!

  Dec. 1876.

  THE BANQUET OF THE SUPREME BEING

  One day the Supreme Being took it into his head to give a great banquet in his palace of azure.

  All the virtues were invited. Only the virtues … men he did not ask … only ladies.

  There were a great many of them, great and small. The lesser virtues were more agreeable and genial than the great ones; but they all appeared in good humour, and chatted amiably together, as was only becoming for near relations and friends.

  But the Supreme Being noticed two charming ladies who seemed to be totally unacquainted.

  The Host gave one of the ladies his arm and led her up to the other.

  ‘Beneficence!’ he said, indicating the first.

  ‘Gratitude!’ he added, indicating the second.
r />   Both the virtues were amazed beyond expression; ever since the world had stood, and it had been standing a long time, this was the first time they had met.

  Dec. 1878.

  THE SPHINX

  Yellowish - grey sand, soft at the top, hard, grating below … sand without end, where - ever one looks.

  And above this sandy desert, above this sea of dead dust, rises the immense head of the Egyptian sphinx.

  What would they say, those thick, projecting lips, those immutable, distended, upturned nostrils, and those eyes, those long, half - drowsy, half - watchful eyes under the double arch of the high brows?

  Something they would say. They are speaking, truly, but only Oedipus can solve the riddle and comprehend their mute speech.

  Stay, but I know those features … in them there is nothing Egyptian. White, low brow, prominent cheek - bones, nose short and straight, handsome mouth and white teeth, soft moustache and curly beard, and those wide - set, not large eyes … and on the head the cap of hair parted down the middle…. But it is thou, Karp, Sidor, Semyon, peasant of Yaroslav, of Ryazan, my countryman, flesh and blood, Russian! Art thou, too, among the sphinxes?

  Wouldst thou, too, say somewhat? Yes, and thou, too, art a sphinx.

  And thy eyes, those colourless, deep eyes, are speaking too … and as mute and enigmatic is their speech.

  But where is thy Oedipus?

  Alas! it’s not enough to don the peasant smock to become thy Oedipus, oh

  Sphinx of all the Russias!

  Dec. 1878.

  THE NYMPHS

  I stood before a chain of beautiful mountains forming a semicircle. A young, green forest covered them from summit to base.

  Limpidly blue above them was the southern sky; on the heights the sunbeams rioted; below, half - hidden in the grass, swift brooks were babbling.

  And the old fable came to my mind, how in the first century after Christ’s birth, a Greek ship was sailing on the Aegean Sea.

  The hour was mid - day…. It was still weather. And suddenly up aloft, above the pilot’s head, some one called distinctly, ‘When thou sailest by the island, shout in a loud voice, “Great Pan is dead!”‘

  The pilot was amazed … afraid. But when the ship passed the island, he obeyed, he called, ‘Great Pan is dead!’

  And, at once, in response to his shout, all along the coast (though the island was uninhabited), sounded loud sobs, moans, long - drawn - out, plaintive wailings. ‘Dead! dead is great Pan!’ I recalled this story … and a strange thought came to. ‘What if I call an invocation?’

  But in the sight of the exultant beauty around me, I could not think of death, and with all my might I shouted, ‘Great Pan is arisen! arisen!’ And at once, wonder of wonders, in answer to my call, from all the wide half - circle of green mountains came peals of joyous laughter, rose the murmur of glad voices and the clapping of hands. ‘He is arisen! Pan is arisen!’ clamoured fresh young voices. Everything before me burst into sudden laughter, brighter than the sun on high, merrier than the brooks that babbled among the grass. I heard the hurried thud of light steps, among the green undergrowth there were gleams of the marble white of flowing tunics, the living flush of bare limbs…. It was the nymphs, nymphs, dryads, Bacchantes, hastening from the heights down to the plain….

  All at once they appear at every opening in the woods. Their curls float about their god - like heads, their slender hands hold aloft wreaths and cymbals, and laughter, sparkling, Olympian laughter, comes leaping, dancing with them….

  Before them moves a goddess. She is taller and fairer than the rest; a quiver on her shoulder, a bow in her hands, a silvery crescent moon on her floating tresses….

  ‘Diana, is it thou?’

  But suddenly the goddess stopped … and at once all the nymphs following her stopped. The ringing laughter died away.

  I see the face of the hushed goddess overspread with a deadly pallor; I saw her feet grew rooted to the ground, her lips parted in unutterable horror; her eyes grew wide, fixed on the distance … What had she seen? What was she gazing upon?

  I turned where she was gazing …

  And on the distant sky - line, above the low strip of fields, gleamed, like a point of fire the golden cross on the white bell - tower of a Christian church…. That cross the goddess had caught sight of.

  I heard behind me a long, broken sigh, like the quiver of a broken string, and when I turned again, no trace was left of the nymphs…. The broad forest was green as before, and only here and there among the thick network of branches, were fading gleams of something white; whether the nymphs’ white robes, or a mist rising from the valley, I know not.

  But how I mourned for those vanished goddesses!

  Dec. 1878.

  FRIEND AND ENEMY

  A prisoner, condemned to confinement for life, broke out of his prison and took to head - long flight…. After him, just on his heels flew his gaolers in pursuit.

  He ran with all his might…. His pursuers began to be left behind.

  But behold, before him was a river with precipitous banks, a narrow, but deep river…. And he could not swim!

  A thin rotten plank had been thrown across from one bank to the other. The fugitive already had his foot upon it…. But it so happened that just there beside the river stood his best friend and his bitterest enemy.

  His enemy said nothing, he merely folded his arms; but the friend shrieked at the top of his voice: ‘Heavens! What are you doing? Madman, think what you’re about! Don’t you see the plank’s utterly rotten? It will break under your weight, and you will inevitably perish!’

  ‘But there is no other way to cross … and don’t you hear them in pursuit?’ groaned the poor wretch in despair, and he stepped on to the plank.

  ‘I won’t allow it!… No, I won’t allow you to rush to destruction!’ cried the zealous friend, and he snatched the plank from under the fugitive. The latter instantly fell into the boiling torrent, and was drowned.

  The enemy smiled complacently, and walked away; but the friend sat down on the bank, and fell to weeping bitterly over his poor … poor friend!

  To blame himself for his destruction did not however occur to him … not for an instant.

  ‘He would not listen to me! He would not listen!’ he murmured dejectedly.

  ‘Though indeed,’ he added at last. ‘He would have had, to be sure, to languish his whole life long in an awful prison! At any rate, he is out of suffering now! He is better off now! Such was bound to be his fate, I suppose!

  ‘And yet I am sorry, from humane feeling!’

  And the kind soul continued to sob inconsolably over the fate of his misguided friend.

  Dec. 1878.

  CHRIST

  I saw myself, in dream, a youth, almost a boy, in a low - pitched wooden church. The slim wax candles gleamed, spots of red, before the old pictures of the saints.

  A ring of coloured light encircled each tiny flame. Dark and dim it was in the church…. But there stood before me many people. All fair - haired, peasant heads. From time to time they began swaying, falling, rising again, like the ripe ears of wheat, when the wind of summer passes in slow undulation over them.

  All at once some man came up from behind and stood beside me.

  I did not turn towards him; but at once I felt that this man was Christ.

  Emotion, curiosity, awe overmastered me suddenly. I made an effort … and looked at my neighbour.

  A face like every one’s, a face like all men’s faces. The eyes looked a little upwards, quietly and intently. The lips closed, but not compressed; the upper lip, as it were, resting on the lower; a small beard parted in two. The hands folded and still. And the clothes on him like every one’s.

  ‘What sort of Christ is this?’ I thought. ‘Such an ordinary, ordinary man!

  It can’t be!’

  I turned away. But I had hardly turned my eyes away from this ordinary man when I felt again that it really was none other than Christ standing be
side me.

  Again I made an effort over myself…. And again the same face, like all men’s faces, the same everyday though unknown features.

  And suddenly my heart sank, and I came to myself. Only then I realised that just such a face — a face like all men’s faces — is the face of Christ.

  Dec. 1878.

  THE STONE

  Have you seen an old grey stone on the seashore, when at high tide, on a sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon it on all sides — break and frolic and caress it — and sprinkle over its sea - mossed head the scattered pearls of sparkling foam?

  The stone is still the same stone; but its sullen surface blossoms out into bright colours.

  They tell of those far - off days when the molten granite had but begun to harden, and was all aglow with the hues of fire.

  Even so of late was my old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of fresh girls’ souls … and under their caressing touch it flushed with long - faded colours, the traces of burnt - out fires!

  The waves have ebbed back … but the colours are not yet dull, though a cutting wind is drying them.

  May 1879.

  THE DOVES

  I stood on the top of a sloping hillside; before me, a gold and silver sea of shifting colour, stretched the ripe rye.

  But no little wavelets ran over that sea; no stir of wind was in the stifling air; a great storm was gathering.

  Near me the sun still shone with dusky fire; but beyond the rye, not very far away, a dark - blue storm - cloud lay, a menacing mass over full half of the horizon.