Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  He got up from the table, and a long time he paced about the rooms of the club, or stood stockstill near the card - players, but he did not go home earlier than usual. Some time later he received a packet addressed to him; in it was the ring he had given the princess. She had drawn lines in the shape of a cross over the sphinx and sent him word that the solution of the enigma — was the cross.

  This happened at the beginning of the year 1848, at the very time when Nikolai Petrovitch came to Petersburg, after the loss of his wife. Pavel Petrovitch had scarcely seen his brother since the latter had settled in the country; the marriage of Nikolai Petrovitch had coincided with the very first days of Pavel Petrovitch’s acquaintance with the princess. When he came back from abroad, he had gone to him with the intention of staying a couple of months with him, in sympathetic enjoyment of his happiness, but he had only succeeded in standing a week of it. The difference in the positions of the two brothers was too great. In 1848, this difference had grown less; Nikolai Petrovitch had lost his wife, Pavel Petrovitch had lost his memories; after the death of the princess he tried not to think of her. But to Nikolai, there remained the sense of a well - spent life, his son was growing up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a solitary bachelor, was entering upon that indefinite twilight period of regrets that are akin to hopes, and hopes that are akin to regrets, when youth is over, while old age has not yet come.

  This time was harder for Pavel Petrovitch than for another man; in losing his past, he lost everything.

  ‘I will not invite you to Maryino now,’ Nikolai Petrovitch said to him one day, (he had called his property by that name in honour of his wife); ‘you were dull there in my dear wife’s time, and now I think you would be bored to death.’

  ‘I was stupid and fidgety then,’ answered Pavel Petrovitch; ‘since then I have grown quieter, if not wiser. On the contrary, now, if you will let me, I am ready to settle with you for good.’

  For all answer Nikolai Petrovitch embraced him; but a year and a half passed after this conversation, before Pavel Petrovitch made up his mind to carry out his intention. When he was once settled in the country, however, he did not leave it, even during the three winters which Nikolai Petrovitch spent in Petersburg with his son. He began to read, chiefly English; he arranged his whole life, roughly speaking, in the English style, rarely saw the neighbours, and only went out to the election of marshals, where he was generally silent, only occasionally annoying and alarming land - owners of the old school by his liberal sallies, and not associating with the representatives of the younger generation. Both the latter and the former considered him ‘stuck up’; and both parties respected him for his fine aristocratic manners; for his reputation for successes in love; for the fact that he was very well dressed and always stayed in the best room in the best hotel; for the fact that he generally dined well, and had once even dined with Wellington at Louis Philippe’s table; for the fact that he always took everywhere with him a real silver dressing - case and a portable bath; for the fact that he always smelt of some exceptionally ‘good form’ scent; for the fact that he played whist in masterly fashion, and always lost; and lastly, they respected him also for his incorruptible honesty. Ladies considered him enchantingly romantic, but he did not cultivate ladies’ acquaintance....

  ‘So you see, Yevgeny,’ observed Arkady, as he finished his story, ‘how unjustly you judge of my uncle! To say nothing of his having more than once helped my father out of difficulties, given him all his money — the property, perhaps you don’t know, wasn’t divided — he’s glad to help any one, among other things he always sticks up for the peasants; it’s true, when he talks to them he frowns and sniffs eau de cologne.’ ...

  ‘His nerves, no doubt,’ put in Bazarov.

  ‘Perhaps; but his heart is very good. And he’s far from being stupid. What useful advice he has given me especially ... especially in regard to relations with women.’

  ‘Aha! a scalded dog fears cold water, we know that!’

  ‘In short,’ continued Arkady, ‘he’s profoundly unhappy, believe me; it’s a sin to despise him.’

  ‘And who does despise him?’ retorted Bazarov. ‘Still, I must say that a fellow who stakes his whole life on one card — a woman’s love — and when that card fails, turns sour, and lets himself go till he’s fit for nothing, is not a man, but a male. You say he’s unhappy; you ought to know best; to be sure, he’s not got rid of all his fads. I’m convinced that he solemnly imagines himself a superior creature because he reads that wretched Galignani, and once a month saves a peasant from a flogging.’

  ‘But remember his education, the age in which he grew up,’ observed Arkady.

  ‘Education?’ broke in Bazarov. ‘Every man must educate himself, just as I’ve done, for instance.... And as for the age, why should I depend on it? Let it rather depend on me. No, my dear fellow, that’s all shallowness, want of backbone! And what stuff it all is, about these mysterious relations between a man and woman? We physiologists know what these relations are. You study the anatomy of the eye; where does the enigmatical glance you talk about come in there? That’s all romantic, nonsensical, æsthetic rot. We had much better go and look at the beetle.’

  And the two friends went off to Bazarov’s room, which was already pervaded by a sort of medico - surgical odour, mingled with the smell of cheap tobacco.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Pavel Petrovitch did not long remain present at his brother’s interview with his bailiff, a tall, thin man with a sweet consumptive voice and knavish eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovitch’s remarks answered, ‘Certainly, sir,’ and tried to make the peasants out to be thieves and drunkards. The estate had only recently been put on to the new reformed system, and the new mechanism worked, creaking like an ungreased wheel, warping and cracking like homemade furniture of unseasoned wood. Nikolai Petrovitch did not lose heart, but often he sighed, and was gloomy; he felt that the thing could not go on without money, and his money was almost all spent. Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel Petrovitch had more than once helped his brother; more than once, seeing him struggling and cudgelling his brains, at a loss which way to turn, Pavel Petrovitch moved deliberately to the window, and with his hands thrust into his pockets, muttered between his teeth, ‘mais je puis vous de l’argent,’ and gave him money; but to - day he had none himself, and he preferred to go away. The petty details of agricultural management worried him; besides, it constantly struck him that Nikolai Petrovitch, for all his zeal and industry, did not set about things in the right way, though he would not have been able to point out precisely where Nikolai Petrovitch’s mistake lay. ‘My brother’s not practical enough,’ he reasoned to himself; ‘they impose upon him.’ Nikolai Petrovitch, on the other hand, had the highest opinion of Pavel Petrovitch’s practical ability, and always asked his advice. ‘I’m a soft, weak fellow, I’ve spent my life in the wilds,’ he used to say; ‘while you haven’t seen so much of the world for nothing, you see through people; you have an eagle eye.’ In answer to which Pavel Petrovitch only turned away, but did not contradict his brother.

  Leaving Nikolai Petrovitch in his study, he walked along the corridor, which separated the front part of the house from the back; when he had reached a low door, he stopped in hesitation, then pulling his moustaches, he knocked at it.

  ‘Who’s there? Come in,’ sounded Fenitchka’s voice.

  ‘It’s I,’ said Pavel Petrovitch, and he opened the door.

  Fenitchka jumped up from the chair on which she was sitting with her baby, and giving him into the arms of a girl, who at once carried him out of the room, she put straight her kerchief hastily.

  ‘Pardon me, if I disturb you,’ began Pavel Petrovitch, not looking at her; ‘I only wanted to ask you ... they are sending into the town to - day, I think ... please let them buy me some green tea.’

  ‘Certainly,’ answered Fenitchka; ‘how much do you desire them to buy?’

  ‘Oh, half a pound will be enough, I imagine. You hav
e made a change here, I see,’ he added, with a rapid glance round him, which glided over Fenitchka’s face too. ‘The curtains here,’ he explained, seeing she did not understand him.

  ‘Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovitch was so good as to make me a present of them; but they have been put up a long while now.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s a long while since I have been to see you. Now it is very nice here.’

  ‘Thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch’s kindness,’ murmured Fenitchka.

  ‘You are more comfortable here than in the little lodge you used to have?’ inquired Pavel Petrovitch urbanely, but without the slightest smile.

  ‘Certainly, it’s more comfortable.’

  ‘Who has been put in your place now?’

  ‘The laundry - maids are there now.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Pavel Petrovitch was silent. ‘Now he is going,’ thought Fenitchka; but he did not go, and she stood before him motionless.

  ‘What did you send your little one away for?’ said Pavel Petrovitch at last. ‘I love children; let me see him.’

  Fenitchka blushed all over with confusion and delight. She was afraid of Pavel Petrovitch; he had scarcely ever spoken to her.

  ‘Dunyasha,’ she called; ‘will you bring Mitya, please.’ (Fenitchka did not treat any one in the house familiarly.) ‘But wait a minute, he must have a frock on,’ Fenitchka was going towards the door.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ remarked Pavel Petrovitch.

  ‘I will be back directly,’ answered Fenitchka, and she went out quickly.

  Pavel Petrovitch was left alone, and he looked round this time with special attention. The small low - pitched room in which he found himself was very clean and snug. It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of camomile. Along the walls stood chairs with lyre - shaped backs, bought by the late general on his campaign in Poland; in one corner was a little bedstead under a muslin canopy beside an iron - clamped chest with a convex lid. In the opposite corner a little lamp was burning before a big dark picture of St. Nikolai the wonder - worker; a tiny porcelain egg hung by a red ribbon from the protruding gold halo down to the saint’s breast; by the windows greenish glass jars of last year’s jam carefully tied down could be seen; on their paper covers Fenitchka herself had written in big letters ‘Gooseberry’; Nikolai Petrovitch was particularly fond of that preserve. On a long cord from the ceiling a cage hung with a short - tailed siskin in it; he was constantly chirping and hopping about, the cage was constantly shaking and swinging, while hempseeds fell with a light tap on to the floor. On the wall just above a small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai Petrovitch in various attitudes, taken by an itinerant photographer; there too hung a photograph of Fenitchka herself, which was an absolute failure; it was an eyeless face wearing a forced smile, in a dingy frame, nothing more could be made out; while above Fenitchka, General Yermolov, in a Circassian cloak, scowled menacingly upon the Caucasian mountains in the distance, from beneath a little silk shoe for pins which fell right on to his brows.

  Five minutes passed; bustling and whispering could be heard in the next room. Pavel Petrovitch took up from the chest of drawers a greasy book, an odd volume of Masalsky’s Musketeer, and turned over a few pages.... The door opened, and Fenitchka came in with Mitya in her arms. She had put on him a little red smock with embroidery on the collar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathing heavily, his whole body working, and his little hands waving in the air, as is the way with all healthy babies; but his smart smock obviously impressed him, an expression of delight was reflected in every part of his little fat person. Fenitchka had put her own hair too in order, and had arranged her kerchief; but she might well have remained as she was. And really is there anything in the world more captivating than a beautiful young mother with a healthy baby in her arms?

  ‘What a chubby fellow!’ said Pavel Petrovitch graciously, and he tickled Mitya’s little double chin with the tapering nail of his forefinger. The baby stared at the siskin, and chuckled.

  ‘That’s uncle,’ said Fenitchka, bending her face down to him and slightly rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set in the window a smouldering perfumed stick, putting a halfpenny under it.

  ‘How many months old is he?’ asked Pavel Petrovitch.

  ‘Six months; it will soon be seven, on the eleventh.’

  ‘Isn’t it eight, Fedosya Nikolaevna?’ put in Dunyasha, with some timidity.

  ‘No, seven; what an idea!’ The baby chuckled again, stared at the chest, and suddenly caught hold of his mother’s nose and mouth with all his five little fingers. ‘Saucy mite,’ said Fenitchka, not drawing her face away.

  ‘He’s like my brother,’ observed Pavel Petrovitch.

  ‘Who else should he be like?’ thought Fenitchka.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Pavel Petrovitch, as though speaking to himself; ‘there’s an unmistakable likeness.’ He looked attentively, almost mournfully, at Fenitchka.

  ‘That’s uncle,’ she repeated, in a whisper this time.

  ‘Ah! Pavel! so you’re here!’ was heard suddenly the voice of Nikolai Petrovitch.

  Pavel Petrovitch turned hurriedly round, frowning; but his brother looked at him with such delight, such gratitude, that he could not help responding to his smile.

  ‘You’ve a splendid little cherub,’ he said, and looking at his watch, ‘I came in here to speak about some tea.’

  And, assuming an expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovitch at once went out of the room.

  ‘Did he come of himself?’ Nikolai Petrovitch asked Fenitchka.

  ‘Yes; he knocked and came in.’

  ‘Well, and has Arkasha been in to see you again?’

  ‘No. Hadn’t I better move into the lodge, Nikolai Petrovitch?’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘I wonder whether it wouldn’t be best just for the first.’

  ‘N ... no,’ Nikolai Petrovitch brought out hesitatingly, rubbing his forehead. ‘We ought to have done it before.... How are you, fatty?’ he said, suddenly brightening, and going up to the baby, he kissed him on the cheek; then he bent a little and pressed his lips to Fenitchka’s hand, which lay white as milk upon Mitya’s little red smock.

  ‘Nikolai Petrovitch! what are you doing?’ she whispered, dropping her eyes, then slowly raising them. Very charming was the expression of her eyes when she peeped, as it were, from under her lids, and smiled tenderly and a little foolishly.

  Nikolai Petrovitch had made Fenitchka’s acquaintance in the following manner. He had once happened three years before to stay a night at an inn in a remote district town. He was agreeably struck by the cleanness of the room assigned to him, the freshness of the bed - linen. Surely the woman of the house must be a German? was the idea that occurred to him; but she proved to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty, neatly dressed, of a good - looking, sensible countenance and discreet speech. He entered into conversation with her at tea; he liked her very much. Nikolai Petrovitch had at that time only just moved into his new home, and not wishing to keep serfs in the house, he was on the look - out for wage - servants; the woman of the inn on her side complained of the small number of visitors to the town, and the hard times; he proposed to her to come into his house in the capacity of housekeeper; she consented. Her husband had long been dead, leaving her an only daughter, Fenitchka. Within a fortnight Arina Savishna (that was the new housekeeper’s name) arrived with her daughter at Maryino and installed herself in the little lodge. Nikolai Petrovitch’s choice proved a successful one. Arina brought order into the household. As for Fenitchka, who was at that time seventeen, no one spoke of her, and scarcely any one saw her; she lived quietly and sedately, and only on Sundays Nikolai Petrovitch noticed in the church somewhere in a side place the delicate profile of her white face. More than a year passed thus.

  One morning, Arina came into his study, and bowing low as usual, she asked him if he could do anything for her daughter, who had got a spark from the stove i
n her eye. Nikolai Petrovitch, like all stay - at - home people, had studied doctoring and even compiled a homoeopathic guide. He at once told Arina to bring the patient to him. Fenitchka was much frightened when she heard the master had sent for her; however, she followed her mother. Nikolai Petrovitch led her to the window and took her head in his two hands. After thoroughly examining her red and swollen eye, he prescribed a fomentation, which he made up himself at once, and tearing his handkerchief in pieces, he showed her how it ought to be applied. Fenitchka listened to all he had to say, and then was going. ‘Kiss the master’s hand, silly girl,’ said Arina. Nikolai Petrovitch did not give her his hand, and in confusion himself kissed her bent head on the parting of her hair. Fenitchka’s eye was soon well again, but the impression she had made on Nikolai Petrovitch did not pass away so quickly. He was for ever haunted by that pure, delicate, timidly raised face; he felt on the palms of his hands that soft hair, and saw those innocent, slightly parted lips, through which pearly teeth gleamed with moist brilliance in the sunshine. He began to watch her with great attention in church, and tried to get into conversation with her. At first she was shy of him, and one day meeting him at the approach of evening in a narrow footpath through a field of rye, she ran into the tall thick rye, overgrown with cornflowers and wormwood, so as not to meet him face to face. He caught sight of her little head through a golden network of ears of rye, from which she was peeping out like a little animal, and called affectionately to her —