Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  Suddenly something poked him behind between his shoulder blades. He looked round.... Malek - Adel was standing in the middle of the road. He had walked after his master; he touched him with his nose to announce himself.

  ‘Ah!’ shouted Tchertop - hanov,’ of yourself, of yourself you have come to your death! So, there!’

  In the twinkling of an eye he had snatched out his pistol, drawn the trigger, turned the muzzle on Malek - Adel’s brow, fired....

  The poor horse sprung aside, rose on its haunches, bounded ten paces away, and suddenly fell heavily, and gasped as it writhed upon the ground....

  Tchertop - hanov put his two hands over his ears and ran away. His knees were shaking under him. His drunkenness and revenge and blind self - confidence — all had flown at once. There was left nothing but a sense of shame and loathing — and the consciousness, unmistakeable, that this time he had put an end to himself too.

  XVI

  Six weeks later, the groom Perfishka thought it his duty to stop the commissioner of police as he happened to be passing Bezsonovo.

  ‘What do you want?’ inquired the guardian of order.

  ‘If you please, your excellency, come into our house,’ answered the groom with a low bow.

  ‘Panteley Eremyitch, I fancy, is about to die; so that I’m afraid of getting into trouble.’

  ‘What? die?’ queried the commissioner.

  ‘Yes, sir. First, his honour drank vodka every day, and now he’s taken to his bed and got very thin. I fancy his honour does not understand anything now. He’s lost his tongue completely.’

  The commissioner got out of his trap.

  ‘Have you sent for the priest, at least? Has your master been confessed? Taken the sacrament?’

  ‘No, sir!’

  The commissioner frowned. ‘How is that, my boy? How can that be — hey? Don’t you know that for that... you’re liable to have to answer heavily — hey?’

  ‘Indeed, and I did ask him the day before yesterday, and yesterday again,’ protested the intimidated groom. “Wouldn’t you, Panteley Eremyitch,” says I, “let me run for the priest, sir?” “You hold your tongue, idiot,” says he; “mind your own business.” But to - day, when I began to address him, his honour only looked at me, and twitched his moustache.’

  ‘And has he been drinking a great deal of vodka?’ inquired the commissioner.

  ‘Rather! But if you would be so good, your honour, come into his room.’

  ‘Well, lead the way!’ grumbled the commissioner, and he followed Perfishka.

  An astounding sight was in store for him. In a damp, dark back - room, on a wretched bedstead covered with a horsecloth, with a rough felt cloak for a pillow, lay Tchertop - hanov. He was not pale now, but yellowish green, like a corpse, with sunken eyes under leaden lids and a sharp, pinched nose — still reddish — above his dishevelled whiskers. He lay dressed in his invariable Caucasian coat, with the cartridge pockets on the breast, and blue Circassian trousers. A Cossack cap with a crimson crown covered his forehead to his very eyebrows. In one hand Tchertop - hanov held his hunting whip, in the other an embroidered tobacco pouch — Masha’s last gift to him. On a table near the bed stood an empty spirit bottle, and at the head of the bed were two water - colour sketches pinned to the wall; one represented, as far as could be made out, a fat man with a guitar in his hand — probably Nedopyuskin; the other portrayed a horseman galloping at full speed.... The horse was like those fabulous animals which are sketched by children on walls and fences; but the carefully washed - in dappling of the horse’s grey coat, and the cartridge pocket on the rider’s breast, the pointed toes of his boots, and the immense moustaches, left no room for doubt — this sketch was meant to represent Panteley Eremyitch riding on Malek - Adel.

  The astonished commissioner of police did not know how to proceed. The silence of death reigned in the room. ‘Why, he’s dead already!’ he thought, and raising his voice, he said, ‘Panteley Eremyitch! Eh, Panteley Eremyitch!’

  Then something extraordinary occurred. Tchertop - hanov’s eyelids slowly opened, the eyes, fast growing dim, moved first from right to left, then from left to right, rested on the commissioner — saw him.... Something gleamed in their dull whites, the semblance of a flash came back to them, the blue lips were gradually unglued, and a hoarse, almost sepulchral, voice was heard.

  ‘Panteley Eremyitch of the ancient hereditary nobility is dying: who can hinder him? He owes no man anything, asks nothing from any one.... Leave him, people! Go!’

  The hand holding the whip tried to lift it... In vain! The lips cleaved together again, the eyes closed, and as before Tchertop - hanov lay on his comfortless bed, flat as an empty sack, and his feet close together.

  ‘Let me know when he dies,’ the commissioner whispered to Perfishka as he went out of the room; ‘and I suppose you can send for the priest now. You must observe due order; give him extreme unction.’

  Perfishka went that same day for the priest, and the following morning he had to let the commissioner know: Panteley Eremyitch had died in the night.

  When they buried him, two men followed his coffin; the groom Perfishka and Moshel Leyba. The news of Tchertop - hanov’s death had somehow reached the Jew, and he did not fail to pay this last act of respect to his benefactor.

  XXIII

  A LIVING RELIC

  ‘O native land of long suffering,

  Land of the Russian people.’

  F. TYUTCHEV.

  A French proverb says that ‘a dry fisherman and a wet hunter are a sorry sight.’ Never having had any taste for fishing, I cannot decide what are the fisherman’s feelings in fine bright weather, and how far in bad weather the pleasure derived from the abundance of fish compensates for the unpleasantness of being wet. But for the sportsman rain is a real calamity. It was to just this calamity that Yermolaï and I were exposed on one of our expeditions after grouse in the Byelevsky district. The rain never ceased from early morning. What didn’t we do to escape it? We put macintosh capes almost right over our heads, and stood under the trees to avoid the raindrops.... The waterproof capes, to say nothing of their hindering our shooting, let the water through in the most shameless fashion; and under the trees, though at first, certainly, the rain did not reach us, afterwards the water collected on the leaves suddenly rushed through, every branch dripped on us like a waterspout, a chill stream made its way under our neck - ties, and trickled down our spines.... This was ‘quite unpleasant,’ as Yermolaï expressed it. ‘No, Piotr Petrovitch,’ he cried at last; ‘we can’t go on like this....There’s no shooting to - day. The dogs’ scent is drowned. The guns miss fire....Pugh! What a mess!’

  ‘What’s to be done?’ I queried.

  ‘Well, let’s go to Aleksyevka. You don’t know it, perhaps — there’s a settlement of that name belonging to your mother; it’s seven miles from here. We’ll stay the night there, and to - morrow....’

  ‘Come back here?’

  ‘No, not here....I know of some places beyond Aleksyevka...ever so much better than here for grouse!’

  I did not proceed to question my faithful companion why he had not taken me to those parts before, and the same day we made our way to my mother’s peasant settlement, the existence of which, I must confess, I had not even suspected up till then. At this settlement, it turned out, there was a little lodge. It was very old, but, as it had not been inhabited, it was clean; I passed a fairly tranquil night in it.

  The next day I woke up very early. The sun had only just risen; there was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around shone with a double brilliance — the brightness of the fresh morning rays and of yesterday’s downpour. While they were harnessing me a cart, I went for a stroll about a small orchard, now neglected and run wild, which enclosed the little lodge on all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. Ah, how sweet it was in the open air, under the bright sky, where the larks were trilling, whence their bell - like notes rained down like silvery beads! On their wings, dou
btless, they had carried off drops of dew, and their songs seemed steeped in dew. I took my cap off my head and drew a glad deep breath.... On the slope of a shallow ravine, close to the hedge, could be seen a beehive; a narrow path led to it, winding like a snake between dense walls of high grass and nettles, above which struggled up, God knows whence brought, the pointed stalks of dark - green hemp.

  I turned along this path; I reached the beehive. Beside it stood a little wattled shanty, where they put the beehives for the winter. I peeped into the half - open door; it was dark, still, dry within; there was a scent of mint and balm. In the corner were some trestles fitted together, and on them, covered with a quilt, a little figure of some sort.... I was walking away....

  ‘Master, master! Piotr Petrovitch!’ I heard a voice, faint, slow, and hoarse, like the whispering of marsh rushes.

  I stopped.

  ‘Piotr Petrovitch! Come in, please!’ the voice repeated. It came from the corner where were the trestles I had noticed.

  I drew near, and was struck dumb with amazement. Before me lay a living human being; but what sort of a creature was it?

  A head utterly withered, of a uniform coppery hue — like some very ancient holy picture, yellow with age; a sharp nose like a keen - edged knife; the lips could barely be seen — only the teeth flashed white and the eyes; and from under the kerchief some thin wisps of yellow hair straggled on to the forehead. At the chin, where the quilt was folded, two tiny hands of the same coppery hue were moving, the fingers slowly twitching like little sticks. I looked more intently; the face, far from being ugly, was positively beautiful, but strange and dreadful; and the face seemed the more dreadful to me that on it — on its metallic cheeks — I saw, struggling...struggling, and unable to form itself — a smile.

  ‘You don’t recognise me, master?’ whispered the voice again: it seemed to be breathed from the almost unmoving lips. ‘And, indeed, how should you? I’m Lukerya....Do you remember, who used to lead the dance at your mother’s, at Spasskoye?... Do you remember, I used to be leader of the choir too?’

  ‘Lukerya!’ I cried. ‘Is it you? Can it be?’

  ‘Yes, it’s I, master — I, Lukerya.’

  I did not know what to say, and gazed in stupefaction at the dark motionless face with the clear, death - like eyes fastened upon me. Was it possible? This mummy Lukerya — the greatest beauty in all our household — that tall, plump, pink - and - white, singing, laughing, dancing creature! Lukerya, our smart Lukerya, whom all our lads were courting, for whom I heaved some secret sighs — I, a boy of sixteen!

  ‘Mercy, Lukerya!’ I said at last; ‘what is it has happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, such a misfortune befel me! But don’t mind me, sir; don’t let my trouble revolt you; sit there on that little tub — a little nearer, or you won’t be able to hear me....I’ve not much of a voice now - a - days!... Well, I am glad to see you! What brought you to Aleksyevka?’

  Lukerya spoke very softly and feebly, but without pausing.

  ‘Yermolaï, the huntsman, brought me here. But you tell me...’

  ‘Tell you about my trouble? Certainly, sir. It happened to me a long while ago now — six or seven years. I had only just been betrothed then to Vassily Polyakov — do you remember, such a fine - looking fellow he was, with curly hair? — he waited at table at your mother’s. But you weren’t in the country then; you had gone away to Moscow to your studies. We were very much in love, Vassily and me; I could never get him out of my head; and it was in the spring it all happened. Well, one night...not long before sunrise, it was...I couldn’t sleep; a nightingale in the garden was singing so wonderfully sweet!... I could not help getting up and going out on to the steps to listen. It trilled and trilled... and all at once I fancied some one called me; it seemed like Vassya’s voice, so softly, “Lusha!”... I looked round, and being half asleep, I suppose, I missed my footing and fell straight down from the top - step, and flop on to the ground! And I thought I wasn’t much hurt, for I got up directly and went back to my room. Only it seems something inside me — in my body — was broken.... Let me get my breath...half a minute... sir.’

  Lukerya ceased, and I looked at her with surprise. What surprised me particularly was that she told her story almost cheerfully, without sighs and groans, not complaining nor asking for sympathy.

  ‘Ever since that happened,’ Lukerya went on, ‘I began to pine away and get thin; my skin got dark; walking was difficult for me; and then — I lost the use of my legs altogether; I couldn’t stand or sit; I had to lie down all the time. And I didn’t care to eat or drink; I got worse and worse. Your mamma, in the kindness of her heart, made me see doctors, and sent me to a hospital. But there was no curing me. And not one doctor could even say what my illness was. What didn’t they do to me? — they burnt my spine with hot irons, they put me in lumps of ice, and it was all no good. I got quite numb in the end....

  So the gentlemen decided it was no use doctoring me any more, and there was no sense in keeping cripples up at the great house... well, and so they sent me here — because I’ve relations here. So here I live, as you see.’

  Lukerya was silent again, and again she tried to smile.

  ‘But this is awful — your position!’ I cried... and not knowing how to go on, I asked: ‘and what of Vassily Polyakov?’ A most stupid question it was.

  Lukerya turned her eyes a little away.

  ‘What of Polyakov? He grieved — he grieved for a bit — and he is married to another, a girl from Glinnoe. Do you know Glinnoe? It’s not far from us. Her name’s Agrafena. He loved me dearly — but, you see, he’s a young man; he couldn’t stay a bachelor. And what sort of a helpmeet could I be? The wife he found for himself is a good, sweet woman — and they have children. He lives here; he’s a clerk at a neighbour’s; your mamma let him go off with a passport, and he’s doing very well, praise God.’

  ‘And so you go on lying here all the time?’ I asked again.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve been lying here seven years. In the summer - time I lie here in this shanty, and when it gets cold they move me out into the bath - house: I lie there.’

  ‘Who waits on you? Does any one look after you?’

  ‘Oh, there are kind folks here as everywhere; they don’t desert me. Yes, they see to me a little. As to food, I eat nothing to speak of; but water is here, in the pitcher; it’s always kept full of pure spring water. I can reach to the pitcher myself: I’ve one arm still of use. There’s a little girl here, an orphan; now and then she comes to see me, the kind child. She was here just now.... You didn’t meet her? Such a pretty, fair little thing. She brings me flowers. We’ve some in the garden — there were some — but they’ve all disappeared. But, you know, wild flowers too are nice; they smell even sweeter than garden flowers. Lilies of the valley, now... what could be sweeter?’

  ‘And aren’t you dull and miserable, my poor Lukerya?’

  ‘Why, what is one to do? I wouldn’t tell a lie about it. At first it was very wearisome; but later on I got used to it, I got more patient — it was nothing; there are others worse off still.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Why, some haven’t a roof to shelter them, and there are some blind or deaf; while I, thank God, have splendid sight, and hear everything — everything. If a mole burrows in the ground — I hear even that. And I can smell every scent, even the faintest! When the buckwheat comes into flower in the meadow, or the lime - tree in the garden — I don’t need to be told of it, even; I’m the first to know directly. Anyway, if there’s the least bit of a wind blowing from that quarter. No, he who stirs God’s wrath is far worse off than me. Look at this, again: anyone in health may easily fall into sin; but I’m cut off even from sin. The other day, father Aleksy, the priest, came to give me the sacrament, and he says: “There’s no need,” says he, “to confess you; you can’t fall into sin in your condition, can you?” But I said to him; “How about sinning in thought, father?” “Ah, well,” says he, and he laughed hi
mself, “that’s no great sin.”

  ‘But I fancy I’m no great sinner even in that way, in thought,’ Lukerya went on, ‘for I’ve trained myself not to think, and above all, not to remember. The time goes faster.’

  I must own I was astonished. ‘You’re always alone, Lukerya: how can you prevent the thoughts from coming into your head? or are you constantly asleep?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir! I can’t always sleep. Though I’ve no great pain, still I’ve an ache, there, right inside, and in my bones too; it won’t let me sleep as I ought. No... but there, I lie by myself; I lie here and lie here, and don’t think: I feel that I’m alive, I breathe; and I put myself all into that. I look and listen. The bees buzz and hum in the hive; a dove sits on the roof and coos; a hen comes along with her chickens to peck up crumbs; or a sparrow flies in, or a butterfly — that’s a great treat for me. Last year some swallows even built a nest over there in the corner, and brought up their little ones. Oh, how interesting it was! One would fly to the nest, press close, feed a young one, and off again. Look again: the other would be in her place already. Sometimes it wouldn’t fly in, but only fly past the open door; and the little ones would begin to squeak, and open their beaks directly....I was hoping for them back again the next year, but they say a sportsman here shot them with his gun. And what could he gain by it? It’s hardly bigger, the swallow, than a beetle....What wicked men you are, you sportsmen!’

  ‘I don’t shoot swallows,’ I hastened to remark.

  ‘And once, Lukerya began again, ‘it was comical, really. A hare ran in, it did really! The hounds, I suppose, were after it; anyway, it seemed to tumble straight in at the door!... It squatted quite near me, and sat so a long while; it kept sniffing with its nose, and twitching its whiskers — like a regular officer! and it looked at me. It understood, to be sure, that I was no danger to it. At last it got up, went hop - hop to the door, looked round in the doorway; and what did it look like? Such a funny fellow it was!’