Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  He stood motionless, folding in his strong embrace the young life surrendered to him; he felt against his heart this new, infinitely precious burden; a passion of tenderness, of gratitude unutterable, was crumbling his hard will to dust, and tears unknown till now stood in his eyes.

  She did not weep; she could only repeat, ‘O my friend, my brother!’

  ‘So you will follow me everywhere?’ he said to her, a quarter of an hour later, still enfolding her and keeping her close to him in his arms.

  ‘Everywhere, to the ends of the earth. Where you are, I will be.’

  ‘And you are not deceiving yourself, you know your parents will never consent to our marriage?’

  ‘I don’t deceive myself; I know that.’

  ‘You know that I’m poor — almost a beggar.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That I’m not a Russian, that it won’t be my fate to live in Russia, that you will have to break all your ties with your country, with your people.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Do you know, too, that I have given myself up to a difficult, thankless cause, that I... that we shall have to expose ourselves not to dangers only, but to privation, humiliation, perhaps — — ’

  ‘I know, I know all — I love you — — ’

  ‘That you will have to give up all you are accustomed to, that out there alone among strangers, you will be forced perhaps to work — — ’

  She laid her hand on his lips. ‘I love you, my dear one.’

  He began hotly kissing her slender, rosy hand. Elena did not draw it away from his lips, and with a kind of childish delight, with smiling curiosity, watched how he covered with kisses, first the palm, then the fingers....

  All at once she blushed and hid her face upon his breast.

  He lifted her head tenderly and looked steadily into her eyes. ‘Welcome, then, my wife, before God and men!’

  XIX

  An hour later, Elena, with her hat in one hand, her cape in the other, walked slowly into the drawing - room of the villa. Her hair was in slight disorder; on each cheek was to be seen a small bright spot of colour, the smile would not leave her lips, her eyes were nearly shutting and half hidden under the lids; they, too, were smiling. She could scarcely move for weariness, and this weariness was pleasant to her; everything, indeed, was pleasant to her. Everything seemed sweet and friendly to her. Uvar Ivanovitch was sitting at the window; she went up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, stretched a little, and involuntarily, as it seemed, she laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ he inquired, astonished.

  She did not know what to say. She felt inclined to kiss Uvar Ivanovitch.

  ‘How he splashed!’ she explained at last.

  But Uvar Ivanovitch did not stir a muscle, and continued to look with amazement at Elena. She dropped her hat and cape on to him.

  ‘Dear Uvar Ivanovitch,’ she said, ‘I am sleepy and tired,’ and again she laughed and sank into a low chair near him.

  ‘H’m,’ grunted Uvar Ivanovitch, flourishing his fingers, ‘then you ought — yes — — ’

  Elena was looking round her and thinking, ‘From all this I soon must part... and strange — I have no dread, no doubt, no regret.... No, I am sorry for mamma.’ Then the little chapel rose again before her mind, again her voice was echoing in it, and she felt his arms about her. Joyously, though faintly, her heart fluttered; weighed down by the languor of happiness. The old beggar - woman recurred to her mind. ‘She did really bear away my sorrow,’ she thought. ‘Oh, how happy I am! how undeservedly! how soon!’ If she had let herself go in the least she would have melted into sweet, endless tears. She could only restrain them by laughing. Whatever attitude she fell into seemed to her the easiest, most comfortable possible; she felt as if she were being rocked to sleep. All her movements were slow and soft; what had become of her awkwardness, her haste? Zoya came in; Elena decided that she had never seen a more charming little face; Anna Vassilyevna came in; Elena felt a pang — but with what tenderness she embraced her mother and kissed her on the forehead near the hair, already slightly grey! Then she went away to her own room; how everything smiled upon her there! With what a sense of shamefaced triumph and tranquillity she sat down on her bed — the very bed on which, only three hours ago, she had spent such bitter moments! ‘And yet, even then, I knew he loved me,’ she thought, ‘even before... Ah, no! it’s a sin. You are my wife,’ she whispered, hiding her face in her hands and falling on her knees.

  Towards the evening, she grew more thoughtful. Sadness came upon her at the thought that she would not soon see Insarov. He could not without awakening suspicion remain at Bersenyev’s, and so this was what he and Elena had resolved on. Insarov was to return to Moscow and to come over to visit them twice before the autumn; on her side she promised to write him letters, and, if it were possible, to arrange a meeting with him somewhere near Kuntsov. She went down to the drawing - room to tea, and found there all the household and Shubin, who looked at her sharply directly she came in; she tried to talk to him in a friendly way as of old, but she dreaded his penetration, she was afraid of herself. She felt sure that there was good reason for his having left her alone for more than a fortnight. Soon Bersenyev arrived, and gave Insarov’s respects to Anna Vassilyevna with an apology for having gone back to Moscow without calling to take leave of her. Insarov’s name was for the first time during the day pronounced before Elena. She felt that she reddened; she realised at the same time that she ought to express regret at the sudden departure of such a pleasant acquaintance; but she could not force herself to hypocrisy, and continued to sit without stirring or speaking, while Anna Vassilyevna sighed and lamented. Elena tried to keep near Bersenyev; she was not afraid of him, though he even knew part of her secret; she was safe under his wing from Shubin, who still persisted in staring at her — not mockingly but attentively. Bersenyev, too, was thrown into perplexity during the evening: he had expected to see Elena more gloomy. Happily for her, an argument sprang up about art between him and Shubin; she moved apart and heard their voices as it were through a dream. By degrees, not only they, but the whole room, everything surrounding her, seemed like a dream — everything: the samovar on the table, and Uvar Ivanovitch’s short waistcoat, and Zoya’s polished finger - nails, and the portrait in oils of the Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovitch on the wall; everything retreated, everything was wrapped in mist, everything ceased to exist. Only she felt sorry for them all. ‘What are they living for?’ she thought.

  ‘Are you sleepy, Lenotchka?’ her mother asked her. She did not hear the question.

  ‘A half untrue insinuation, do you say?’ These words, sharply uttered by Shubin, suddenly awakened Elena’s attention. ‘Why,’ he continued, ‘the whole sting lies in that. A true insinuation makes one wretched — that’s unchristian — and to an untrue insinuation a man is indifferent — that’s stupid, but at a half true one he feels vexed and impatient. For instance, if I say that Elena Nikolaevna is in love with one of us, what sort of insinuation would that be, eh?’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Paul,’ said Elena, ‘I should like to show myself vexed, but really I can’t. I am so tired.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ observed Anna Vassilyevna, who was always drowsy in the evening herself, and consequently always eager to send the others to bed. ‘Say good - night to me, and go in God’s name; Andrei Petrovitch will excuse you.’

  Elena kissed her mother, bowed to all and went away. Shubin accompanied her to the door. ‘Elena Nikolaevna,’ he whispered to her in the doorway, ‘you trample on Monsieur Paul, you mercilessly walk over him, but Monsieur Paul blesses you and your little feet, and the slippers on your little feet, and the soles of your little slippers.’

  Elena shrugged her shoulders, reluctantly held out her hand to him — not the one Insarov had kissed — and going up to her room, at once undressed, got into bed, and fell asleep. She slept a deep, unstirring sleep, as even children rarely sleep — the sleep of a child convales
cent after sickness, when its mother sits near its cradle and watches it, and listens to its breathing.

  XX

  ‘Come to my room for a minute,’ Shubin said to Bersenyev, directly the latter had taken leave of Anna Vassilyevna: ‘I have something to show you.’

  Bersenyev followed him to his attic. He was surprised to see a number of studies, statuettes, and busts, covered with damp cloths, set about in all the corners of the room.

  ‘Well I see you have been at work in earnest,’ he observed to Shubin.

  ‘One must do something,’ he answered. ‘If one thing doesn’t do, one must try another. However, like a true Corsican, I am more concerned with revenge than with pure art. Trema, Bisanzia!’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Bersenyev.

  ‘Well, wait a minute. Deign to look this way, gracious friend and benefactor, my vengeance number one.’

  Shubin uncovered one figure, and Bersenyev saw a capital bust of Insarov, an excellent likeness. The features of the face had been correctly caught by Shubin to the minutest detail, and he had given him a fine expression, honest, generous, and bold.

  Bersenyev went into raptures over it.

  ‘That’s simply exquisite!’ he cried. ‘I congratulate you. You must send it to the exhibition! Why do you call that magnificent work your vengeance?’

  ‘Because, sir, I intended to offer this magnificent work as you call it to Elena Nikolaevna on her name day. Do you see the allegory? We are not blind, we see what goes on about us, but we are gentlemen, my dear sir, and we take our revenge like gentlemen.... But here,’ added Shubin, uncovering another figure, ‘as the artist according to modern aesthetic principles enjoys the enviable privilege of embodying in himself every sort of baseness which he can turn into a gem of creative art, we in the production of this gem, number two, have taken vengeance not as gentlemen, but simply en canaille.’

  He deftly drew off the cloth, and displayed to Bersenyev’s eyes a statuette in Dantan’s style, also of Insarov. Anything cleverer and more spiteful could not be imagined. The young Bulgarian was represented as a ram standing on his hind - legs, butting forward with his horns. Dull solemnity and aggressiveness, obstinacy, clumsiness and narrowness were simply printed on the visage of the ‘sire of the woolly flock,’ and yet the likeness to Insarov was so striking that Bersenyev could not help laughing.

  ‘Eh? is it amusing?’ said Shubin. ‘Do you recognise the hero? Do you advise me to send it too to the exhibition? That, my dear fellow, I intend as a present for myself on my own name day.... Your honour will permit me to play the fool.’

  And Shubin gave three little leaps, kicking himself behind with his heels.

  Bersenyev picked up the cloth off the floor — and threw it over the statuette.

  ‘Ah, you, magnanimous’ — began Shubin. ‘Who the devil was it in history was so particularly magnanimous? Well, never mind! And now,’ he continued, with melancholy triumph, uncovering a third rather large mass of clay, ‘you shall behold something which will show you the humility and discernment of your friend. You will realise that he, like a true artist again, feels the need and the use of self - castigation. Behold!’

  The cloth was lifted and Bersenyev saw two heads, modelled side by side and close as though growing together.... He did not at once know what was the subject, but looking closer, he recognised in one of them Annushka, in the other Shubin himself. They were, however, rather caricatures than portraits. Annushka was represented as a handsome fat girl with a low forehead, eyes lost in layers of fat, and a saucily turned - up nose. Her thick lips had an insolent curve; her whole face expressed sensuality, carelessness, and boldness, not without goodnature. Himself Shubin had modelled as a lean emaciated rake, with sunken cheeks, his thin hair hanging in weak wisps about his face, a meaningless expression in his dim eyes, and his nose sharp and thin as a dead man’s.

  Bersenyev turned away with disgust. ‘A nice pair, aren’t they, my dear fellow?’ said Shubin; ‘won’t you graciously compose a suitable title? For the first two I have already thought of titles. On the bust shall be inscribed: “A hero resolving to liberate his country.” On the statuette: “Look out, sausage - eating Germans!” And for this work what do you think of “The future of the artist Pavel Yakovlitch Shubin?” Will that do?’

  ‘Leave off,’ replied Bersenyev. ‘Was it worth while to waste your time on such a — — ’ He could not at once fix on a suitable word.

  ‘Disgusting thing, you mean? No, my dear fellow, excuse me, if anything ought to go to the exhibition, it’s that group.’

  ‘It’s simply disgusting,’ repeated Bersenyev. ‘And besides, it’s nonsense. You have absolutely no such degrading tendencies to which, unhappily, our artists have such a frequent bent. You have simply libelled yourself.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Shubin gloomily. ‘I have none of them, and if they come upon me, the fault is all one person’s. Do you know,’ he added, tragically knitting his brows, ‘that I have been trying drinking?’

  ‘Nonsense?’

  ‘Yes, I have, by God,’ rejoined Shubin; and suddenly grinning and brightening, — ’but I didn’t like it, my dear boy, the stuff sticks in my throat, and my head afterwards is a perfect drum. The great Lushtchihin himself — Harlampy Lushtchihin — the greatest drunkard in Moscow, and a Great Russian drunkard too, declared there was nothing to be made of me. In his words, the bottle does not speak to me.’

  Bersenyev was just going to knock the group over but Shubin stopped him.

  ‘That’ll do, my dear boy, don’t smash it; it will serve as a lesson, a scare - crow.’

  Bersenyev laughed.

  ‘If that’s what it is, I will spare your scarecrow then,’ he said. And now, ‘Long live eternal true art!’

  ‘Long live true art!’ put in Shubin. ‘By art the good is better and the bad is not all loss!’

  The friends shook hands warmly and parted.

  XXI

  Elena’s first sensation on awakening was one of happy consternation. ‘Is it possible? Is it possible?’ she asked herself, and her heart grew faint with happiness. Recollections came rushing on her... she was overwhelmed by them. Then again she was enfolded by the blissful peace of triumph. But in the course of the morning, Elena gradually became possessed by a spirit of unrest, and for the remainder of the day she felt listless and weary. It was true she knew now what she wanted, but that made it no easier for her. That never - to - be forgotten meeting had cast her for ever out of the old groove; she was no longer at the same standpoint, she was far away, and yet everything went on about her in its accustomed order, everything pursued its own course as though nothing were changed; the old life moved on its old way, reckoning on Elena’s interest and co - operation as of old. She tried to begin a letter to Insarov, but that too was a failure; the words came on to paper either lifeless or false. Her diary she had put an end to by drawing a thick stroke under the last line. That was the past, and every thought, all her soul, was turned now to the future. Her heart was heavy. To sit with her mother who suspected nothing, to listen to her, answer her and talk to her, seemed to Elena something wicked; she felt the presence of a kind of falseness in her, she suffered though she had nothing to blush for; more than once an almost irresistible desire sprang up in her heart to tell everything without reserve, whatever might come of it afterwards. ‘Why,’ she thought, ‘did not Dmitri take me away then, from that little chapel, wherever he wanted to go? Didn’t he tell me I was his wife before God? What am I here for?’ She suddenly began to feel shy of every one, even of Uvar Ivanovitch, who was flourishing his fingers in more perplexity than ever. Now everything about her seemed neither sweet nor friendly, nor even a dream, but, like a nightmare, lay, an immovable dead load, on her heart; seeming to reproach her and be indignant with her, and not to care to know about her....’You are ours in spite of everything,’ she seemed to hear. Even her poor pets, her ill - used birds and animals looked at her — so at least she fancied —
with suspicion and hostility. She felt conscience - stricken and ashamed of her feelings. ‘This is my home after all,’ she thought, ‘my family, my country.’... ‘No, it’s no longer your country, nor your family,’ another voice affirmed within her. Terror was overmastering her, and she was vexed with her own feebleness. The trial was only beginning and she was losing patience already... Was this what she had promised?

  She did not soon gain control of herself. But a week passed and then another.... Elena became a little calmer, and grew used to her new position. She wrote two little notes to Insarov, and carried them herself to the post: she could not for anything — through shame and through pride — have brought herself to confide in a maid. She was already beginning to expect him in person.... But instead of Insarov, one fine morning Nikolai Artemyevitch made his appearance.

  XXII

  No one in the house of the retired lieutenant of guards, Stahov, had ever seen him so sour, and at the same time so self - confident and important as on that day. He walked into the drawing - room in his overcoat and hat, with long deliberate stride, stamping with his heels; he approached the looking - glass and took a long look at himself, shaking his head and biting his lips with imperturbable severity. Anna Vassilyevna met him with obvious agitation and secret delight (she never met him otherwise); he did not even take off his hat, nor greet her, and in silence gave Elena his doe - skin glove to kiss. Anna Vassilyevna began questioning him about the progress of his cure; he made her no reply. Uvar Ivanovitch made his appearance; he glanced at him and said, ‘bah!’ He usually behaved coldly and haughtily to Uvar Ivanovitch, though he acknowledged in him ‘traces of the true Stahov blood.’ Almost all Russian families of the nobility are convinced, as is well known, of the existence of exceptional hereditary characteristics, peculiar to them alone; we have more than once heard discussions ‘among ourselves’ of the Podsalaskinsky ‘noses,’ and the ‘Perepreyevsky’ necks. Zoya came in and sat down facing Nikolai Artemyevitch. He grunted, sank into an armchair, asked for coffee, and only then took off his hat. Coffee was brought him; he drank a cup, and looking at everybody in turn, he growled between his teeth, ‘Sortes, s’il vous plait,’ and turning to his wife he added, ‘et vous, madame, restez, je vous prie.’