Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Good - night to your highness,’ he gasped out, choking: ‘she didn’t catch her fairy prince! What a pity! It wasn’t a bad idea in its way! It’s a lesson for the future: not to keep up correspondence! Ho - ho - ho! How capitally it has all turned out though!’ He went out, and all of a sudden poked his head in at the door. ‘Well? I didn’t forget you, did I? Hey? I kept my promise, didn’t I? Ho - ho!’ The key creaked in the lock. I breathed freely. I had been afraid he would tie my hands... but they were my own, they were free! I instantly wrenched the silken cord off my dressing - gown, made a noose, and was putting it on my neck, but I flung the cord aside again at once. ‘I won’t please you!’ I said aloud. ‘What madness, really! Can I dispose of my life without Michel’s leave, my life, which I have surrendered into his keeping? No, cruel wretches! No! You have not won your game yet! He will save me, he will tear me out of this hell, he... my Michel!’

  But then I remembered that he was shut up just as I was, and I flung myself, face downwards, on my bed, and sobbed... and sobbed.... And only the thought that my tormentor was perhaps at the door, listening and triumphing, only that thought forced me to swallow my tears....

  I am worn out. I have been writing since morning, and now it is evening; if once I tear myself from this sheet of paper, I shall not be capable of taking up the pen again.... I must hasten, hasten to the finish! And besides, to dwell on the hideous things that followed that dreadful day is beyond my strength!

  Twenty - four hours later I was taken in a closed cart to an isolated hut, surrounded by peasants, who were to watch me, and kept shut up for six whole weeks! I was not for one instant alone.... Later on I learnt that my stepfather had set spies to watch both Michel and me ever since his arrival, that he had bribed the servant, who had given me Michel’s note. I ascertained too that an awful, heart - rending scene had taken place the next morning between the son and the father.... The father had cursed him. Michel for his part had sworn he would never set foot in his father’s house again, and had set off to Petersburg. But the blow aimed at me by my stepfather rebounded upon himself. Semyon Matveitch announced that he could not have him remaining there, and managing the estate any longer. Awkward service, it seems, is an unpardonable offence, and some one must be fixed upon to bear the brunt of the scandal. Semyon Matveitch recompensed Mr. Ratsch liberally, however: he gave him the necessary means to move to Moscow and to establish himself there. Before the departure for Moscow, I was brought back to the lodge, but kept as before under the strictest guard. The loss of the ‘snug little berth,’ of which he was being deprived ‘thanks to me,’ increased my stepfather’s vindictive rage against me more than ever.

  ‘Why did you make such a fuss?’ he would say, almost snorting with indignation; ‘upon my word! The old chap, of course, got a little too hot, was a little too much in a hurry, and so he made a mess of it; now, of course, his vanity’s hurt, there’s no setting the mischief right again now! If you’d only waited a day or two, it’d all have been right as a trivet; you wouldn’t have been kept on dry bread, and I should have stayed what I was! Ah, well, women’s hair is long... but their wit is short! Never mind; I’ll be even with you yet, and that pretty young gentleman shall smart for it too!’

  I had, of course, to bear all these insults in silence. Semyon Matveitch I did not once see again. The separation from his son had been a shock to him too. Whether he felt remorse or — which is far more likely — wished to bind me for ever to my home, to my family — my family! — anyway, he assigned me a pension, which was to be paid into my stepfather’s hands, and to be given to me till I married.... This humiliating alms, this pension I still receive... that is to say, Mr. Ratsch receives it for me....

  We settled in Moscow. I swear by the memory of my poor mother, I would not have remained two days, not two hours, with my stepfather, after once reaching the town... I would have gone away, not knowing where... to the police; I would have flung myself at the feet of the governor - general, of the senators; I don’t know what I would have done, if it had not happened, at the very moment of our starting from the country, that the girl who had been our maid managed to give me a letter from Michel! Oh, that letter! How many times I read over each line, how many times I covered it with kisses! Michel besought me not to lose heart, to go on hoping, to believe in his unchanging love; he swore that he would never belong to any one but me; he called me his wife, he promised to overcome all hindrances, he drew a picture of our future, he asked of me only one thing, to be patient, to wait a little....

  And I resolved to wait and be patient. Alas! what would I not have agreed to, what would I not have borne, simply to do his will! That letter became my holy thing, my guiding star, my anchor. Sometimes when my stepfather would begin abusing and insulting me, I would softly lay my hand on my bosom (I wore Michel’s letter sewed into an amulet) and only smile. And the more violent and abusive was Mr. Ratsch, the easier, lighter, and sweeter was the heart within me.... I used to see, at last, by his eyes, that he began to wonder whether I was going out of my mind.... Following on this first letter came a second, still more full of hope.... It spoke of our meeting soon.

  Alas! instead of that meeting there came a morning... I can see Mr. Ratsch coming in — and triumph again, malignant triumph, in his face — and in his hands a page of the Invalid, and there the announcement of the death of the Captain of the Guards — Mihail Koltovsky.

  What can I add? I remained alive, and went on living in Mr. Ratsch’s house. He hated me as before — more than before — he had unmasked his black soul too much before me, he could not pardon me that. But that was of no consequence to me. I became, as it were, without feeling; my own fate no longer interested me. To think of him, to think of him! I had no interest, no joy, but that. My poor Michel died with my name on his lips.... I was told so by a servant, devoted to him, who had been with him when he came into the country. The same year my stepfather married Eleonora Karpovna. Semyon Matveitch died shortly after. In his will he secured to me and increased the pension he had allowed me.... In the event of my death, it was to pass to Mr. Ratsch....

  Two — three — years passed... six years, seven years.... Life has been passing, ebbing away... while I merely watched how it was ebbing. As in childhood, on some river’s edge one makes a little pond and dams it up, and tries in all sorts of ways to keep the water from soaking through, from breaking in. But at last the water breaks in, and then you abandon all your vain efforts, and you are glad instead to watch all that you had guarded ebbing away to the last drop....

  So I lived, so I existed, till at last a new, unhoped - for ray of warmth and light....’

  The manuscript broke off at this word; the following leaves had been torn off, and several lines completing the sentence had been crossed through and blotted out.

  XVIII

  The reading of this manuscript so upset me, the impression made by Susanna’s visit was so great, that I could not sleep all night, and early in the morning I sent an express messenger to Fustov with a letter, in which I besought him to come to Moscow as soon as possible, as his absence might have the most terrible results. I mentioned also my interview with Susanna, and the manuscript she had left in my hands. After having sent off the letter, I did not go out of the house all day, and pondered all the time on what might be happening at the Ratsches’. I could not make up my mind to go there myself. I could not help noticing though that my aunt was in a continual fidget; she ordered pastilles to be burnt every minute, and dealt the game of patience, known as ‘the traveller,’ which is noted as a game in which one can never succeed. The visit of an unknown lady, and at such a late hour, had not been kept secret from her: her imagination at once pictured a yawning abyss on the edge of which I was standing, and she was continually sighing and moaning and murmuring French sentences, quoted from a little manuscript book entitled Extraits de Lecture. In the evening I found on the little table at my bedside the treatise of De Girando, laid open at the chapter: On the evil infl
uence of the passions. This book had been put in my room, at my aunt’s instigation of course, by the elder of her companions, who was called in the household Amishka, from her resemblance to a little poodle of that name, and was a very sentimental, not to say romantic, though elderly, maiden lady. All the following day was spent in anxious expectation of Fustov’s coming, of a letter from him, of news from the Ratsches’ house... though on what ground could they have sent to me? Susanna would be more likely to expect me to visit her.... But I positively could not pluck up courage to see her without first talking to Fustov. I recalled every expression in my letter to him.... I thought it was strong enough; at last, late in the evening, he appeared.

  XIX

  He came into my room with his habitual, rapid, but deliberate step. His face struck me as pale, and though it showed traces of the fatigue of the journey, there was an expression of astonishment, curiosity, and dissatisfaction — emotions of which he had little experience as a rule. I rushed up to him, embraced him, warmly thanked him for obeying me, and after briefly describing my conversation with Susanna, handed him the manuscript. He went off to the window, to the very window in which Susanna had sat two days before, and without a word to me, he fell to reading it. I at once retired to the opposite corner of the room, and for appearance’ sake took up a book; but I must own I was stealthily looking over the edge of the cover all the while at Fustov. At first he read rather calmly, and kept pulling with his left hand at the down on his lip; then he let his hand drop, bent forward and did not stir again. His eyes seemed to fly along the lines and his mouth slightly opened. At last he finished the manuscript, turned it over, looked round, thought a little, and began reading it all through a second time from beginning to end. Then he got up, put the manuscript in his pocket and moved towards the door; but he turned round and stopped in the middle of the room.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ I began, not waiting for him to speak.

  ‘I have acted wrongly towards her,’ Fustov declared thickly. ‘I have behaved... rashly, unpardonably, cruelly. I believed that... Viktor — ’

  ‘What!’ I cried; ‘that Viktor whom you despise so! But what could he say to you?’

  Fustov crossed his arms and stood obliquely to me. He was ashamed, I saw that.

  ‘Do you remember,’ he said with some effort, ‘that... Viktor alluded to... a pension. That unfortunate word stuck in my head. It’s the cause of everything. I began questioning him.... Well, and he — ’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me that the old man... what’s his name?... Koltovsky, had allowed Susanna that pension because... on account of... well, in fact, by way of damages.’

  I flung up my hands.

  ‘And you believed him?’

  Fustov nodded.

  ‘Yes! I believed him.... He said, too, that with the young one... In fact, my behaviour is unjustifiable.’

  ‘And you went away so as to break everything off?’

  ‘Yes; that’s the best way... in such cases. I acted savagely, savagely,’ he repeated.

  We were both silent. Each of us felt that the other was ashamed; but it was easier for me; I was not ashamed of myself.

  XX

  ‘I would break every bone in that Viktor’s body now,’ pursued Fustov, clenching his teeth, ‘if I didn’t recognise that I’m in fault. I see now what the whole trick was contrived for, with Susanna’s marriage they would lose the pension.... Wretches!’

  I took his hand.

  ‘Alexander,’ I asked him, ‘have you been to her?’

  ‘No; I came straight to you on arriving. I’ll go to - morrow... early to - morrow. Things can’t be left so. On no account!’

  ‘But you... love her, Alexander?’

  Fustov seemed offended.

  ‘Of course I love her. I am very much attached to her.’

  ‘She’s a splendid, true - hearted girl!’ I cried.

  Fustov stamped impatiently.

  ‘Well, what notion have you got in your head? I was prepared to marry her — she’s been baptized — I’m ready to marry her even now, I’d been thinking of it, though she’s older than I am.’

  At that instant I suddenly fancied that a pale woman’s figure was seated in the window, leaning on her arms. The lights had burnt down; it was dark in the room. I shivered, looked more intently, and saw nothing, of course, in the window seat; but a strange feeling, a mixture of horror, anguish and pity, came over me.

  ‘Alexander!’ I began with sudden intensity, ‘I beg you, I implore you, go at once to the Ratsches’, don’t put it off till to - morrow! An inner voice tells me that you really ought to see Susanna to - day!’

  Fustov shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘What are you talking about, really! It’s eleven o’clock now, most likely they’re all in bed.’

  ‘No matter.... Do go, for goodness’ sake! I have a presentiment.... Please do as I say! Go at once, take a sledge....’

  ‘Come, what nonsense!’ Fustov responded coolly; ‘how could I go now? To - morrow morning I will be there, and everything will be cleared up.’

  ‘But, Alexander, remember, she said that she was dying, that you would not find her... And if you had seen her face! Only think, imagine, to make up her mind to come to me... what it must have cost her....’

  ‘She’s a little high - flown,’ observed Fustov, who had apparently regained his self - possession completely. ‘All girls are like that... at first. I repeat, everything will be all right to - morrow. Meanwhile, good - bye. I’m tired, and you’re sleepy too.’

  He took his cap, and went out of the room.

  ‘But you promise to come here at once, and tell me all about it?’ I called after him.

  ‘I promise.... Good - bye!’

  I went to bed, but in my heart I was uneasy, and I felt vexed with my friend. I fell asleep late and dreamed that I was wandering with Susanna along underground, damp passages of some sort, and crawling along narrow, steep staircases, and continually going deeper and deeper down, though we were trying to get higher up out into the air. Some one was all the while incessantly calling us in monotonous, plaintive tones.

  XXI

  Some one’s hand lay on my shoulder and pushed it several times.... I opened my eyes and in the faint light of the solitary candle, I saw Fustov standing before me. He frightened me. He was staggering; his face was yellow, almost the same colour as his hair; his lips seemed hanging down, his muddy eyes were staring senselessly away. What had become of his invariably amiable, sympathetic expression? I had a cousin who from epilepsy was sinking into idiocy.... Fustov looked like him at that moment.

  I sat up hurriedly.

  ‘What is it? What is the matter? Heavens!’

  He made no answer.

  ‘Why, what has happened? Fustov! Do speak! Susanna?...’

  Fustov gave a slight start.

  ‘She...’ he began in a hoarse voice, and broke off.

  ‘What of her? Have you seen her?’

  He stared at me.

  ‘She’s no more.’

  ‘No more?’

  ‘No. She is dead.’

  I jumped out of bed.

  ‘Dead? Susanna? Dead?’

  Fustov turned his eyes away again.

  ‘Yes; she is dead; she died at midnight.’

  ‘He’s raving!’ crossed my mind.

  ‘At midnight! And what’s the time now?’

  ‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning now.

  They sent to tell me. She is to be buried to - morrow.’

  I seized him by the hand.

  ‘Alexander, you’re not delirious? Are you in your senses?’

  ‘I am in my senses,’ he answered. ‘Directly I heard it, I came straight to you.’

  My heart turned sick and numb, as always happens on realising an irrevocable misfortune.

  ‘My God! my God! Dead!’ I repeated. ‘How is it possible? So suddenly! Or perhaps she took her own life?’

  ‘I don�
��t know,’ said Fustov, ‘I know nothing. They told me she died at midnight. And to - morrow she will be buried.’

  ‘At midnight!’ I thought.... ‘Then she was still alive yesterday when I fancied I saw her in the window, when I entreated him to hasten to her....’

  ‘She was still alive yesterday, when you wanted to send me to Ivan Demianitch’s,’ said Fustov, as though guessing my thought.

  ‘How little he knew her!’ I thought again. ‘How little we both knew her! “High - flown,” said he, “all girls are like that.”... And at that very minute, perhaps, she was putting to her lips... Can one love any one and be so grossly mistaken in them?’

  Fustov stood stockstill before my bed, his hands hanging, like a guilty man.

  XXII

  I dressed hurriedly.

  ‘What do you mean to do now, Alexander?’ I asked.

  He gazed at me in bewilderment, as though marvelling at the absurdity of my question. And indeed what was there to do?

  ‘You simply must go to them, though,’ I began. ‘You’re bound to ascertain how it happened; there is, possibly, a crime concealed. One may expect anything of those people.... It is all to be thoroughly investigated. Remember the statement in her manuscript, the pension was to cease on her marriage, but in event of her death it was to pass to Ratsch. In any case, one must render her the last duty, pay homage to her remains!’

  I talked to Fustov like a preceptor, like an elder brother. In the midst of all that horror, grief, bewilderment, a sort of unconscious feeling of superiority over Fustov had suddenly come to the surface in me.... Whether from seeing him crushed by the consciousness of his fault, distracted, shattered, whether that a misfortune befalling a man almost always humiliates him, lowers him in the opinion of others, ‘you can’t be much,’ is felt, ‘if you hadn’t the wit to come off better than that!’ God knows! Any way, Fustov seemed to me almost like a child, and I felt pity for him, and saw the necessity of severity. I held out a helping hand to him, stooping down to him from above. Only a woman’s sympathy is free from condescension.