Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Allow me to observe to you,’ he drawled at last; ‘all you young people criticise and form judgments on everything at random; you have little knowledge of your own country; Russia, young gentlemen, is an unknown land to you; that’s where it is!… You are for ever reading German. For instance, now you say this and that and the other about anything; for instance, about the house - serfs…. Very fine; I don’t dispute it’s all very fine; but you don’t know them; you don’t know the kind of people they are.’ (Mr. Zvyerkoff blew his nose loudly and took a pinch of snuff.) ‘Allow me to tell you as an illustration one little anecdote; it may perhaps interest you.’ (Mr. Zvyerkoff cleared his throat.) ‘You know, doubtless, what my wife is; it would be difficult, I should imagine, to find a more kind - hearted woman, you will agree. For her waiting - maids, existence is simply a perfect paradise, and no mistake about it…. But my wife has made it a rule never to keep married lady’s maids. Certainly it would not do; children come — and one thing and the other — and how is a lady’s maid to look after her mistress as she ought, to fit in with her ways; she is no longer able to do it; her mind is in other things. One must look at things through human nature. Well, we were driving once through our village, it must be — let me be correct — yes, fifteen years ago. We saw, at the bailiff’s, a young girl, his daughter, very pretty indeed; something even — you know — something attractive in her manners. And my wife said to me: “Kokó” — you understand, of course, that is her pet name for me — “let us take this girl to Petersburg; I like her, Kokó….” I said, “Let us take her, by all means.” The bailiff, of course, was at our feet; he could not have expected such good fortune, you can imagine…. Well, the girl of course cried violently. Of course, it was hard for her at first; the parental home … in fact … there was nothing surprising in that. However, she soon got used to us: at first we put her in the maidservants’ room; they trained her, of course. And what do you think? The girl made wonderful progress; my wife became simply devoted to her, promoted her at last above the rest to wait on herself … observe…. And one must do her the justice to say, my wife had never such a maid, absolutely never; attentive, modest, and obedient — simply all that could be desired. But my wife, I must confess, spoilt her too much; she dressed her well, fed her from our own table, gave her tea to drink, and so on, as you can imagine! So she waited on my wife like this for ten years. Suddenly, one fine morning, picture to yourself, Arina — her name was Arina — rushes unannounced into my study, and flops down at my feet. That’s a thing, I tell you plainly, I can’t endure. No human being ought ever to lose sight of their personal dignity. Am I not right? What do you say? “Your honour, Alexandr Selitch, I beseech a favour of you.” “What favour?” “Let me be married.” I must confess I was taken aback. “But you know, you stupid, your mistress has no other lady’s maid?” “I will wait on mistress as before.” “Nonsense! nonsense! your mistress can’t endure married lady’s maids,” “Malanya could take my place.” “Pray don’t argue.” “I obey your will.” I must confess it was quite a shock, I assure you, I am like that; nothing wounds me so — nothing, I venture to say, wounds me so deeply as ingratitude. I need not tell you — you know what my wife is; an angel upon earth, goodness inexhaustible. One would fancy even the worst of men would be ashamed to hurt her. Well, I got rid of Arina. I thought, perhaps, she would come to her senses; I was unwilling, do you know, to believe in wicked, black ingratitude in anyone. What do you think? Within six months she thought fit to come to me again with the same request. I felt revolted. But imagine my amazement when, some time later, my wife comes to me in tears, so agitated that I felt positively alarmed. “What has happened?” “Arina…. You understand … I am ashamed to tell it.” … “Impossible! … Who is the man?” “Petrushka, the footman.” My indignation broke out then. I am like that. I don’t like half measures! Petrushka was not to blame. We might flog him, but in my opinion he was not to blame. Arina…. Well, well, well! what more’s to be said? I gave orders, of course, that her hair should be cut off, she should be dressed in sackcloth, and sent into the country. My wife was deprived of an excellent lady’s maid; but there was no help for it: immorality cannot be tolerated in a household in any case. Better to cut off the infected member at once. There, there! now you can judge the thing for yourself — you know that my wife is … yes, yes, yes! indeed!… an angel! She had grown attached to Arina, and Arina knew it, and had the face to … Eh? no, tell me … eh? And what’s the use of talking about it. Any way, there was no help for it. I, indeed — I, in particular, felt hurt, felt wounded for a long time by the ingratitude of this girl. Whatever you say — it’s no good to look for feeling, for heart, in these people! You may feed the wolf as you will; he has always a hankering for the woods. Education, by all means! But I only wanted to give you an example….’

  And Mr. Zvyerkoff, without finishing his sentence, turned away his head, and, wrapping himself more closely into his cloak, manfully repressed his involuntary emotion.

  The reader now probably understands why I looked with sympathetic interest at Arina.

  ‘Have you long been married to the miller?’ I asked her at last.

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘How was it? Did your master allow it?’

  ‘They bought my freedom.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Savely Alexyevitch.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My husband.’ (Yermolaï smiled to himself.) ‘Has my master perhaps spoken to you of me?’ added Arina, after a brief silence.

  I did not know what reply to make to her question.

  ‘Arina!’ cried the miller from a distance. She got up and walked away.

  ‘Is her husband a good fellow?’ I asked Yermolaï.

  ‘So - so.’

  ‘Have they any children?’

  ‘There was one, but it died.’

  ‘How was it? Did the miller take a liking to her? Did he give much to buy her freedom?’

  ‘I don’t know. She can read and write; in their business it’s of use. I suppose he liked her.’

  ‘And have you known her long?’

  ‘Yes. I used to go to her master’s. Their house isn’t far from here.’

  ‘And do you know the footman Petrushka?’

  ‘Piotr Vassilyevitch? Of course, I knew him.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He was sent for a soldier.’

  We were silent for a while.

  ‘She doesn’t seem well?’ I asked Yermolaï at last.

  ‘I should think not! To - morrow, I say, we shall have good sport. A little sleep now would do us no harm.’

  A flock of wild ducks swept whizzing over our heads, and we heard them drop down into the river not far from us. It was now quite dark, and it began to be cold; in the thicket sounded the melodious notes of a nightingale. We buried ourselves in the hay and fell asleep.

  III

  RASPBERRY SPRING

  At the beginning of August the heat often becomes insupportable. At that season, from twelve to three o’clock, the most determined and ardent sportsman is not able to hunt, and the most devoted dog begins to ‘clean his master’s spurs,’ that is, to follow at his heels, his eyes painfully blinking, and his tongue hanging out to an exaggerated length; and in response to his master’s reproaches he humbly wags his tail and shows his confusion in his face; but he does not run forward. I happened to be out hunting on exactly such a day. I had long been fighting against the temptation to lie down somewhere in the shade, at least for a moment; for a long time my indefatigable dog went on running about in the bushes, though he clearly did not himself expect much good from his feverish activity. The stifling heat compelled me at last to begin to think of husbanding our energies and strength. I managed to reach the little river Ista, which is already known to my indulgent readers, descended the steep bank, and walked along the damp, yellow sand in the direction of the spring, known to the whole neighbourhood as Raspberry Spring. This spring gushe
s out of a cleft in the bank, which widens out by degrees into a small but deep creek, and, twenty paces beyond it, falls with a merry babbling sound into the river; the short velvety grass is green about the source: the sun’s rays scarcely ever reach its cold, silvery water. I came as far as the spring; a cup of birch - wood lay on the grass, left by a passing peasant for the public benefit. I quenched my thirst, lay down in the shade, and looked round. In the cave, which had been formed by the flowing of the stream into the river, and hence marked for ever with the trace of ripples, two old men were sitting with their backs to me. One, a rather stout and tall man in a neat dark - green coat and lined cap, was fishing; the other was thin and little; he wore a patched fustian coat and no cap; he held a little pot full of worms on his knees, and sometimes lifted his hand up to his grizzled little head, as though he wanted to protect it from the sun. I looked at him more attentively, and recognised in him Styopushka of Shumihino. I must ask the reader’s leave to present this man to him.

  A few miles from my place there is a large village called Shumihino, with a stone church, erected in the name of St. Kosmo and St. Damian. Facing this church there had once stood a large and stately manor - house, surrounded by various outhouses, offices, workshops, stables and coach - houses, baths and temporary kitchens, wings for visitors and for bailiffs, conservatories, swings for the people, and other more or less useful edifices. A family of rich landowners lived in this manor - house, and all went well with them, till suddenly one morning all this prosperity was burnt to ashes. The owners removed to another home; the place was deserted. The blackened site of the immense house was transformed into a kitchen - garden, cumbered up in parts by piles of bricks, the remains of the old foundations. A little hut had been hurriedly put together out of the beams that had escaped the fire; it was roofed with timber bought ten years before for the construction of a pavilion in the Gothic style; and the gardener, Mitrofan, with his wife Axinya and their seven children, was installed in it. Mitrofan received orders to send greens and garden - stuff for the master’s table, a hundred and fifty miles away; Axinya was put in charge of a Tyrolese cow, which had been bought for a high price in Moscow, but had not given a drop of milk since its acquisition; a crested smoke - coloured drake too had been left in her hands, the solitary ‘seignorial’ bird; for the children, in consideration of their tender age, no special duties had been provided, a fact, however, which had not hindered them from growing up utterly lazy. It happened to me on two occasions to stay the night at this gardener’s, and when I passed by I used to get cucumbers from him, which, for some unknown reason, were even in summer peculiar for their size, their poor, watery flavour, and their thick yellow skin. It was there I first saw Styopushka. Except Mitrofan and his family, and the old deaf churchwarden Gerasim, kept out of charity in a little room at the one - eyed soldier’s widow’s, not one man among the house - serfs had remained at Shumihino; for Styopushka, whom I intend to introduce to the reader, could not be classified under the special order of house - serfs, and hardly under the genus ‘man’ at all.

  Every man has some kind of position in society, and at least some ties of some sort; every house - serf receives, if not wages, at least some so - called ‘ration.’ Styopushka had absolutely no means of subsistence of any kind; had no relationship to anyone; no one knew of his existence. This man had not even a past; there was no story told of him; he had probably never been enrolled on a census - revision. There were vague rumours that he had once belonged to someone as a valet; but who he was, where he came from, who was his father, and how he had come to be one of the Shumihino people; in what way he had come by the fustian coat he had worn from immemorial times; where he lived and what he lived on — on all these questions no one had the least idea; and, to tell the truth, no one took any interest in the subject. Grandfather Trofimitch, who knew all the pedigrees of all the house - serfs in the direct line to the fourth generation, had once indeed been known to say that he remembered that Styopushka was related to a Turkish woman whom the late master, the brigadier Alexy Romanitch had been pleased to bring home from a campaign in the baggage waggon. Even on holidays, days of general money - giving and of feasting on buckwheat dumplings and vodka, after the old Russian fashion — even on such days Styopushka did not put in an appearance at the trestle - tables nor at the barrels; he did not make his bow nor kiss the master’s hand, nor toss off to the master’s health and under the master’s eye a glass filled by the fat hands of the bailiff. Some kind soul who passed by him might share an unfinished bit of dumpling with the poor beggar, perhaps. At Easter they said ‘Christ is risen!’ to him; but he did not pull up his greasy sleeve, and bring out of the depths of his pocket a coloured egg, to offer it, panting and blinking, to his young masters or to the mistress herself. He lived in summer in a little shed behind the chicken - house, and in winter in the ante - room of the bathhouse; in the bitter frosts he spent the night in the hayloft. The house - serfs had grown used to seeing him; sometimes they gave him a kick, but no one ever addressed a remark to him; as for him, he seems never to have opened his lips from the time of his birth. After the conflagration, this forsaken creature sought a refuge at the gardener Mitrofan’s. The gardener left him alone; he did not say ‘Live with me,’ but he did not drive him away. And Styopushka did not live at the gardener’s; his abode was the garden. He moved and walked about quite noiselessly; he sneezed and coughed behind his hand, not without apprehension; he was for ever busy and going stealthily to and fro like an ant; and all to get food — simply food to eat. And indeed, if he had not toiled from morning till night for his living, our poor friend would certainly have died of hunger. It’s a sad lot not to know in the morning what you will find to eat before night! Sometimes Styopushka sits under the hedge and gnaws a radish or sucks a carrot, or shreds up some dirty cabbage - stalks; or he drags a bucket of water along, for some object or other, groaning as he goes; or he lights a fire under a small pot, and throws in some little black scraps which he takes from out of the bosom of his coat; or he is hammering in his little wooden den — driving in a nail, putting up a shelf for bread. And all this he does silently, as though on the sly: before you can look round, he’s in hiding again. Sometimes he suddenly disappears for a couple of days; but of course no one notices his absence…. Then, lo and behold! he is there again, somewhere under the hedge, stealthily kindling a fire of sticks under a kettle. He had a small face, yellowish eyes, hair coming down to his eyebrows, a sharp nose, large transparent ears, like a bat’s, and a beard that looked as if it were a fortnight’s growth, and never grew more nor less. This, then, was Styopushka, whom I met on the bank of the Ista in company with another old man.

  I went up to him, wished him good - day, and sat down beside him. Styopushka’s companion too I recognised as an acquaintance; he was a freed serf of Count Piotr Ilitch’s, one Mihal Savelitch, nicknamed Tuman (i.e. fog). He lived with a consumptive Bolhovsky man, who kept an inn, where I had several times stayed. Young officials and other persons of leisure travelling on the Orel highroad (merchants, buried in their striped rugs, have other things to do) may still see at no great distance from the large village of Troitska, and almost on the highroad, an immense two - storied wooden house, completely deserted, with its roof falling in and its windows closely stuffed up. At mid - day in bright, sunny weather nothing can be imagined more melancholy than this ruin. Here there once lived Count Piotr Ilitch, a rich grandee of the olden time, renowned for his hospitality. At one time the whole province used to meet at his house, to dance and make merry to their heart’s content to the deafening sound of a home - trained orchestra, and the popping of rockets and Roman candles; and doubtless more than one aged lady sighs as she drives by the deserted palace of the boyar and recalls the old days and her vanished youth. The count long continued to give balls, and to walk about with an affable smile among the crowd of fawning guests; but his property, unluckily, was not enough to last his whole life. When he was entirely ruined, he set off to
Petersburg to try for a post for himself, and died in a room at a hotel, without having gained anything by his efforts. Tuman had been a steward of his, and had received his freedom already in the count’s lifetime. He was a man of about seventy, with a regular and pleasant face. He was almost continually smiling, as only men of the time of Catherine ever do smile — a smile at once stately and indulgent; in speaking, he slowly opened and closed his lips, winked genially with his eyes, and spoke slightly through his nose. He blew his nose and took snuff too in a leisurely fashion, as though he were doing something serious.

  ‘Well, Mihal Savelitch,’ I began, ‘have you caught any fish?’

  ‘Here, if you will deign to look in the basket: I have caught two perch and five roaches…. Show them, Styopka.’

  Styopushka stretched out the basket to me.

  ‘How are you, Styopka?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh — oh — not — not — not so badly, your honour,’ answered Stepan, stammering as though he had a heavy weight on his tongue.

  ‘And is Mitrofan well?’

  ‘Well — yes, yes — your honour.’

  The poor fellow turned away.

  ‘But there are not many bites,’ remarked Tuman; ‘it’s so fearfully hot; the fish are all tired out under the bushes; they’re asleep. Put on a worm, Styopka.’ (Styopushka took out a worm, laid it on his open hand, struck it two or three times, put it on the hook, spat on it, and gave it to Tuman.) ‘Thanks, Styopka…. And you, your honour,’ he continued, turning to me, ‘are pleased to be out hunting?’

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘Ah — and is your dog there English or German?’

  The old man liked to show off on occasion, as though he would say, ‘I, too, have lived in the world!’