Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  Yeletsky. This is too much! But do you know that I can force you to . . .

  Kuzovkin. And how, may I ask?

  Yeletsky. Don’t try my patience too far! . . . Don’t compel me to remind you what you are!

  Kuzovkin. I am a gentleman born. . . . That’s what I am!

  Yeletsky. A fine gentleman, I must say!

  Kuzovkin. One who cannot be bought, at any rate.

  Yeletsky. Listen. . . .

  Kuzovkin. You can treat your clerks in Petersburg like this, if you choose....

  Yeletsky. Listen, you obstinate old man. You don’t want to injure your benefactress, do you? You have once admitted the falsehood of your words; what do you lose by reassuring Olga Petrovna completely — and taking the money we offer you? Are you so rich that ten thousand roubles is nothing to you?

  Kuzovkin. I am not rich, Pavel Nikolaitch; but your little present is too bitter. I have swallowed shame enough without that. .. yes, indeed. You are pleased to say I want money. I don’t want money, sir. I won’t take a rouble for my journey from you.

  Yeletsky. Oh! I know what you’re reckoning on! You pretend to be so disinterested; you’re hoping to get more by it. For the last time I tell you: either you’ll take this money on the conditions I’ve put to you, or I shall have recourse to measures ... to measures. . . .

  Kuzovkin. But what do you want of me, my God! It’s not enough for you that I’m going away: you want me to be disgraced too, you want to buy me. .. . But no, Pavel Nikolaitch, that shall not be.

  Yeletsky. O damnation! ... I tell you. [At that instant Tropatchov’s voice is heard under the window; he is humming: ‘I am here, beloved, below thy window here.’] This is insufferable! [Going to the window.] I’m coming ... I’m coming [To Kuzovkin.] I give you a quarter of an hour to think things over... after that you must take the consequences. [Goes out.]

  Kuzovkin. My God, what are they doing to me? I’d rather die! . . . I’ve been my own ruin! My tongue’s my enemy. That grand gentleman — he spoke to me as though I were a dog ... as though I have no heart! . . . Well, he may kill me. . . . [Olga comes out of the study; there are papers in her hand. Kuzovkin looks round.] Good heavens! . . .

  Olga [going up to Kuzovkin irresolutely]. I wanted to see you once more, Vassily Semyonitch.

  Kuzovkin [not looking at her]. Olga Petrovna . . . why . . . did you . . . tell your husband?

  Olga. I have never concealed anything from him, Vassily Semyonitch.

  Kuzovkin. Oh. ...

  Olga [hurriedly]. He believed me. . . . [Dropping her voice.] And agreed to everything.

  Kuzovkin. Agreed? What did he agree to?

  Olga. Vassily Semyonitch, you are kind . . . you are generous. You will understand. Tell me, can you stay here?

  Kuzovkin. I cannot.

  Olga. No, listen. ... I want to know what you really think. ... I have learned to appreciate you, Vassily Semyonitch. ... Tell me then, tell me frankly.. . .

  Kuzovkin. I feel your kindness, Olga Petrovna, and believe me, I too can appreciate. . . . [He pauses and goes on with a sigh.] No, I cannot stay here ... I can’t possibly. I might be beaten, may be, in my old age. And why not own the truth? — now I’ve grown staid and sober — there’s been no master in the house for so long . . . there’s been nobody to bully me. . . . But there are the old servants still living; they’ve not forgotten. . . . It’s quite true I was something like a clown for your papa’s diversion. ... At times I would play the fool in fear of the rod . . . and sometimes of my own accord. . . . [Olga turns away.] Don’t let it grieve you, Olga Petrovna. . . . You see, after all. .. I’m nothing but a stranger to you . . . really. ... I can’t stay.

  Olga. If so . . . take . . . this. . . . [Holds out a note to him.]

  Kuzovkin [takes it, wondering]. What is it?

  Olga. It’s ... we offer you ... the money ... to buy back your Vyetrovo. ... I hope you won’t refuse us . . . me... I mean.

  Kuzovkin [drops the note and hides his face in his hands]. Olga Petrovna, why do you, you too, insult me?

  Olga. How?

  Kuzovkin. You want to buy me off. But I’ve told you there are no proofs whatever. . . . How do you know that I haven’t made it all up, that I hadn’t designs ... in fact. ...

  Olga [interrupting him eagerly]. If I didn’t believe you, should we have agreed. . . .

  Kuzovkin. You believe me — what more do I want? — what do I want with this money? I’ve never been used to luxury from a child — I’m not going to begin in my old age. . . . What do I need? A bit of bread . . . that’s all. If you believe me [Stops short.]

  Olga. Yes. . . . Yes ... I do believe you. No, you are not deceiving me — no ... I believe you, I do. [Suddenly embraces him and presses her head to his breast.]

  Kuzovkin. Olga Petrovna darling . . . give over . . . Olya. . . . [Staggers and sinks into chair on Left.]

  Olga [supports him with one arm, while with the other hand she swiftly picks the note from the floor and presses close up to him] You might refuse a stranger, a rich woman — you might refuse my husband — but your daughter, your own daughter, you cannot, you cannot refuse. [Thrusts the note into his hand.]

  Kuzovkin [taking the note with tears]. Very well, Olga Petrovna, it shall be as you wish, bid me what you please, I’m ready, I’m glad to do it — bid me go to the ends of the earth. Now I can die, now I want nothing more. ... [Olga wipes his tears with her handkerchief.] Oh, Olya my little Olya. . . .

  Olga. Don’t cry — don’t cry. . . . We will see each other. . . . You shall come. . . .

  Kuzovkin. Oh, Olga Petrovna, Olya ... is it me? Isn’t it a dream?

  Olga. There, there. . . .

  Kuzovkin [hastily, all at once]. Olya, get up; they are coming. [Olga who has been almost sitting on his knee jumps up quickly.] Only give me your hand, your hand for the last time. [He hurriedly kisses her hand. She moves away to one side. Kuzovkin makes an effort to get up, but cannot. Yeletsky and Tropatchov come in from door on Right followed by Karpatchov. Olga goes to meet them, passing Kuzovkin and stands with her back to him.]

  Tropatchov [bowing and striking an attitude]. Enfin — we have the happiness of beholding you, Olga Petrovna. How are you?

  Olga. Very well, thank you.

  Tropatchov. You look a little . . .

  Yeletsky [cutting in]. We are neither of us quite up to the mark to - day. . . .

  Tropatchov. In sympathy even in that, ha! ha! Your garden is wonderfully fine.

  [Kuzovkin with effort stands up.~

  Olga. I am very glad you like it.

  Tropatchov [as though offendedJ. Why, I tell you it’s perfectly exquisite — mais c’est tres beau, tres beau — the avenues, the flowers . . . the whole thing, in fact. Yes, yes! Nature and poetry — they are my two weak points! But what do I see? Albums? Just as though it were a Petersburg drawing - room.

  Yeletsky [looking significantly at his wife]. Have you succeeded? [Olga nods, Tropatchov politely turns away.] He’s taken it? H’m! Good! [Drawing her a little aside.] I tell you again I don’t believe this tale — but I approve. Domestic peace is worth more than ten thousand.

  Olga [going back to Tropatchov, who is beginning to turn over an album on the table]. What are you looking at, Flegont Alexandritch?

  Tropatchov. Oh — your album — here It’s all very charming. Tell me, do you know the Kovrinskys?

  Olga. No, I haven’t met them.

  Tropatchov. What — didn’t you know them in old days? You should make their acquaintance. Theirs is almost the best house in our district, or rather it was the best till yesterday, ha! ha!

  Yeletsky [meanwhile goes up to Kuzovkin]. You take the money?

  Kuzovkin. Yes, sir.

  Yeletsky. So then — it was a lie?

  Kuzovkin. It was a lie.

  Yeletsky. Ah. [Turning to Tropatchov, who is talking gallantly to Olga and gracefully swaying his body to and fro.] Do you know, Flegont Alexandritch, only yesterday we were making fun o
f Vassily Semyonitch . . . and would you believe it, he’s won his case. The news has just this minute come. While we were in the garden just now.

  Tropatchov. You don’t say so!

  Yeletsky. Yes, yes, Olga has just told me. Ask him yourself.

  Tropatchov. Is it really so, Vassily Semyonitch?

  Kuzovkin [who throughout the rest of the scene is smiling like a child and speaks in a voice ringing with suppressed tears]. Yes, yes, sir. It is mine.

  Tropatchov. I congratulate you, Vassily Semyonitch, I congratulate you. [Aside to Yeletsky.] I understand . . . you are sending him off in the most considerate way after yesterday. . . . [Yeletsky tries to assure him that it is not so.] Ah ... well... with what fine feeling, what generosity, what delicacy. . . . Very, very nice of you. I don’t mind betting [With a sugary glance at Olga] it was your wife’s idea . . . though you, of course . . . [Yeletsky smiles. Tropatchov goes on aloud.] That’s capital, capital. So now Vassily Semyonitch, you have to go over there . . . and begin looking after your estate.

  Kuzovkin. Of course.

  Yeletsky. Vassily Semyonitch has just told me he is getting ready to go there this very day.

  Tropatchov. I should think so. I quite understand his impatience. Hang it all! leading a man - such a dance, keeping on and on — when at last he has got his estate. . . . Anyone would want to have a look at his property, eh, Vassily Semyonitch?

  Kuzovkin. To be sure.

  Tropatchov. I suppose you will have to go to the town?

  Kuzovkin. No doubt; everything will have to be seen to.

  Tropatchov. So you must lose no time. [Winks at Yeletsky.] A fine fellow, that retired attorney, Lytchkov! It’s all his doing, I dare say? [To Kuzovkin.] You’re pleased, are you?

  Kuzovkin. To be sure, to be sure I am.

  Tropatchov. You’ll let me come and see you in your new residence, won’t you?

  Kuzovkin. That’s too great an honour, Flegont Alexandritch.

  Tropatchov [turning to Yeletsky]. Pavel Nikolaitch, what do you say? We ought to celebrate the occasion.

  Yeletsky [rather uncertainly]. Yes . . . perhaps . . . yes. [Goes to door of dining - room.’] Send me Trembinsky.

  Trembinsky [popping in at once from just outside]. What is your pleasure?

  Yeletsky. Ah! you here ... a bottle of champagne.

  Trembinsky [vanishing again]. Yes, sir.

  Yeletsky. Oh . . . wait! [Trembinsky reappears.] I believe I saw Mr. Ivanov in the dining - room, ask him to come in.

  Trembinsky. Yes, sir. [Goes out.]

  Tropatchov [Going up to Olga, who has all this time been standing at the table with the albums, alternately dropping her eyes, and softly lifting them to Kuzovkin]. Madame Kovrinsky will be extremely glad to make your acquaintance . . . enchantee, enchantee. I do hope you will like her. . . . I’m quite one of the family there. . . . Such a clever woman — and so, you know. . . . [IVaves his hand in the air.]

  Olga [with a smile], Ah!

  Tropatchov. You will see. [Trembinsky comes in with glasses and bottles on a tray.] Ah! Well, Vassily Semyonitch, allow me to congratulate you most warmly. . . .

  [Ivanov comes in, stops at the door and bows.]

  Olga [cordially to Ivanov]. How do you do. . . . I’m very glad to see you. . . . You have heard . . . your friend has come into his estate.

  [Ivanov hows a second time and makes his way to Kuzovkin. Trembinsky takes round glasses to everyone.]

  Ivanov [speaking quickly aside to Kuzovkin]. What nonsense are they talking?

  Kuzovkin [also in an undertone]. Hush, Vanya, hush; I’m happy. . . .

  Tropatchov [glass in hand]. To the health of the new landowner!

  All [except Ivanov, who does not even sip his glass]. To his health! To his health!

  Karpatchov [in a bass voice, alone]. Long life to him!

  [Tropatchov looks at him severely; he is abashed. Kuzovkin thanks them, bows smiling; Yeletsky maintains a dignified air; Olga is ill at ease, she is ready to cry; Ivanov is amazed and looks about him suspiciously.]

  Kuzovkin [in a quivering voice]. Allow me now ... on this great day for me ... to express my gratitude for all your kindness. . . .

  Yeletsky [interrupting, severely]. But what is it you are thanking us for, Vassily Semyonitch?

  Kuzovkin. Well, you are my benefactors anyway. . . . And as for my — what shall I say — behaviour yesterday, generously forgive an old man. . . . God knows why I took offence yesterday and said such things.

  Yeletsky [again interrupting]. There, very good, very good.

  Kuzovkin. And what was there to take offence at? What did it matter? . . . The gentlemen were joking. . . . [Glances at Olga.] No, I don’t mean that, though. Goodbye, my benefactors, may you be well, happy, fortunate. . . .

  Tropatchov. But why are you saying good - bye like this, Vassily Semyonitch — you’re not going to Astrachan, you know. . . .

  Kuzovkin [moved, goes on], God give you every blessing. . . . And I ... I have nothing left to pray for ... I am so happy, so. . . . [Breaks off and struggles to keep from tears.]

  Yeletsky [aside, to himself ]. What a scene.... When will he go?

  Olga [To Kuzovkin]. Good - bye, Vassily Semyonitch. . . . When you are in your own home, don’t forget us. . . . I shall be glad to see you [Dropping her voice] to talk to you alone. . . .

  Kuzovkin [kissing her hand]. Olga Petrovna. ... The Lord will reward you.

  Yeletsky. Come, that’s all right, good - bye. . . .

  Kuzovkin. Good - bye. . . . [Bows and goes with Ivanov towards the door of the dining - room. They all accompany him. On the threshold Tropatchov again exclaims: ‘Long live the new landowner!’ Olga goes out quickly into the study.]

  Tropatchov [turns to Yeletsky and pats him on the shoulder]. I say, you know — you are a most generous man.

  Yeletsky. Oh, come! You are too kind. . . .

  Curtain

  CARELESS

  A play in One Act

  Translated by M.S. Mandell

  CONTENTS

  CHARACTERS

  CARELESSNESS

  EPILOGUE

  CHARACTERS

  Don Balthazar d’Estdeiz, 55 years old

  Donna Dolores, his wife, 27 years old

  Don Pablo Sangre, his friend, 40 years old

  Don Rafael de - Luna, 30 years old

  Margaret, a servant, 59 years old

  Count Torreno A Secretary

  CARELESSNESS

  A Comedy in One Act

  Scene One: A street scene in front of Balthazar’s country home. At the right of the house is a stone fence. The house is two - storied, with a balcony. Under the balcony are olive and bay trees.

  Discovered: Donna Dolores sitting on the balcony.

  Donna Dolores: I feel very, very gloomy. I have nothing to read; I don’t know how to sew on canvas, and I dare not leave the house. What shall I do here alone? Go into the garden? Never! The garden annoys me. Moreover, what pleasure is there in recollecting that here, on this spot, my husband scolded me; that there, on that spot, he forbade me to look out of the window, and that near yonder tree, he proposed to me? [Sighing.] Oh, that was the worst thing that ever happened to me! [Falls into a meditation, and after a while, begins to sing.] Tra, la - la - la; tra, la - la - la! There goes a woman neighbor. . . . What a beautiful evening! What balmy air! How nice it would be to take a walk along the Prado, with some amiable, polite young man. How agreeable it would be to hear the voice of an admirer, instead of the decrepit and hoarse voice of my . [She looks around.] I would come home with him; he would bow, and perhaps ask permission to kiss my hand. And I, without taking my glove off, would let him kiss just that — [She points to her fingers.] . . . How beautiful the stars are! I am more depressed than usual to - day, and I really don’t know why. I think, that if my husband were to dress more fashionably; if he were to wear a hat with a white feather, and a velvet mantle, and spurs, and a sword, — really, I think I could love him . . . alth
ough I must confess, that he is awfully fat and very old. ... He always wears worn - out black vests, and forever and aye, the same hat, with the same faded red feather. [Falls into meditation.’] Oh, I am not so very young myself, now. I will soon be 27. For seven years I have been married, and I haven’t lived at all. Why does nothing unusual never happen to me? I am considered an exemplary wife by the whole neighborhood, but what do I care about that? Oh, Lord, forgive me; I think I am sinning. Things will come into one’s head, when one is in a melancholy humor. Is it possible that all my life will pass this way: This same monotonous way? Is it possible that every morning I’ll have to take off my husband’s nightcap, and receive a kiss for that service? Is it possible that I will have to see that unbearable, that hated Sangre, every evening? Is it possible that Margaret will keep watch over me eternally? Save me, Oh, Lord! for I fear such a life. She has gone away for an hour and left me to myself, thank God! I feel that I am virtuous; I feel that nothing in the world ... no, nothing in the world, could persuade me to betray my husband. Then why shouldn’t he, at least at times, permit me to see people. . . . They give me the most gloomy, heavy, old books to read! Only once in my life, I remember, while I was still in the convent, I got hold of a dandy little book. Oh, what a beautiful book it was! It was a novel, written in letters. A young man wrote to his beloved girl, — first, in prose, and then in poetry. Oh, Lord, if I could only receive such letters! But that’s impossible. We are living in the dullest . . . Oh, if only some one would happen to come around here!