by Leo Tolstoy
‘How do they go? Show me, Lisa! I always forget,’ said Anna Fëdorovna, at a standstill in laying out her cards for patience.
Without stopping her work Lisa went to her mother and glanced at the cards:
‘Ah, you’ve muddled them all, mamma dear!’ she said, rearranging them. ‘That’s the way they should go. And what you are trying your fortune about will still come true,’ she added, withdrawing a card so that it was not noticed.
‘Ah yes, you always deceive me and say it has come out.’
‘No really, it means … you’ll succeed. It has come out.’
‘All right, all right, you sly puss! But isn’t it time we had tea?’
‘I have ordered the samovar to be lit. I’ll see to it at once. Do you want to have it here?… Be quick and finish your lesson, Pímochka, and let’s have a run.’
And Lisa went to the door.
‘Lisa, Lizzie!’ said her uncle, looking intently at his fork. ‘I think I’ve dropped a stitch again – pick it up for me, there’s a dear.’
‘Directly, directly! But I must give out a loaf of sugar to be broken up.’
And really, three minutes later she ran back, went to her uncle and pinched his ear.
‘That’s for dropping your stitches!’ she said laughing, ‘and you haven’t done your task!’
‘Well, well, never mind, never mind. Put it right – there’s a little knot or something.’
Lisa took the fork, drew a pin out of her tippet – which thereupon the breeze coming in at the door blew slightly open – and managing somehow to pick up the stitch with the pin, pulled two loops through, and returned the fork to her uncle.
‘Now give me a kiss for it,’ she said, holding out her rosy cheek to him and pinning up her tippet. ‘You shall have rum with your tea to-day. It’s Friday, you know.’
And she again went into the tea-room.
‘Come here and look, uncle, the hussars are coming!’ she called from there in her clear voice.
Anna Fëdorovna came with her brother into the tea-room, the windows of which overlooked the village, to see the hussars. Very little was visible from the windows – only a crowd moving in a cloud of dust.
‘It’s a pity we have so little room, sister, and that the wing is not yet finished,’ said the old man to Anna Fëdorovna. ‘We might have invited the officers. Hussar officers are such splendid, gay young fellows, you know. It would have been good to see something of them.’
‘Why of course, I should have been only too glad, brother; but you know yourself we have no room. There’s my bedroom, Lisa’s room, the drawing-room, and this room of yours, and that’s all. Really now, where could we put them? The village elder’s hut has been cleaned up for them: Michael Matvéev says it’s quite clean now.’
‘And we could have chosen a bridegroom for you from among them, Lizzie – a fine hussar!’
‘I don’t want an hussar; I’d rather have an uhlan. Weren’t you in the uhlans, uncle?… I don’t want to have anything to do with these hussars. They are all said to be desperate fellows.’ And Lisa blushed a little but again laughed her musical laugh.
‘Here comes Ustyúshka running; we must ask her what she has seen,’ she added.
Anna Fëdorovna told her to call Ustyúshka.
‘It’s not in you to keep to your work, you must needs run off to see the soldiers,’ said Anna Fëdorovna. ‘Well, where have the officers put up?’
‘In Erómkin’s house, mistress. There are two of them, such handsome ones. One’s a count, they say!’
‘And what’s his name?’
‘Kazárov or Turbínov.… I’m sorry – I’ve forgotten.’
‘What a fool; can’t so much as tell us anything. You might at least have found out the name.’
‘Well, I’ll run back.’
‘Yes, I know you’re first-rate at that sort of thing.… No, let Daniel go. Tell him to go and ask whether the officers want anything, brother. One ought to show them some politeness after all. Say the mistress sent to inquire.’
The old people again sat down in the tea-room and Lisa went to the servants’ room to put into a box the sugar that had been broken up. Ustyúshka was there telling about the hussars.
‘Darling miss, what a handsome man that count is!’ she said. ‘A regular cherubim with black eyebrows. There now, if you had a bridegroom like that you would be a couple of the right sort.’
The other maids smiled approvingly; the old nurse sighed as she sat knitting at a window and even whispered a prayer, drawing in her breath.
‘So you liked the hussars very much?’ said Lisa. ‘And you’re a good one at telling what you’ve seen. Go, please, and bring some of the cranberry juice, Ustyúshka, to give the hussars something sour to drink.’
And Lisa, laughing, went out with the sugar basin in her hands.
‘I should really like to have seen what that hussar is like,’ she thought, ‘brown or fair? And he would have been glad to make our acquaintance I should think.… And if he goes away he’ll never know that I was here and thought about him. And how many such have already passed me by? Who sees me here except uncle and Ustyúshka? Whichever way I do my hair, whatever sleeves I put on, no one looks at me with pleasure,’ she thought with a sigh as she looked at her plump white arm. ‘I suppose he is tall, with large eyes, and certainly small black moustaches.… Here am I, more than twenty-two, and no one has fallen in love with me except pock-marked Iván Ipátich, and four years ago I was even prettier.… And so my girlhood has passed without gladdening anyone. Oh, poor, poor country lass that I am!’
Her mother’s voice, calling her to pour out tea, roused the country lass from this momentary meditation. She lifted her head with a start and went into the tea-room.
The best results are often obtained accidentally, and the more one tries the worse things turn out. In the country, people rarely try to educate their children and therefore unwittingly usually give them an excellent education. This was particularly so in Lisa’s case. Anna Fëdorovna, with her limited intellect and careless temperament, gave Lisa no education – did not teach her music or that very useful French language – but having accidentally borne a healthy pretty child by her deceased husband she gave her little daughter over to a wet-nurse and a dry-nurse, fed her, dressed her in cotton prints and goat-skin shoes, sent her out to walk and gather mushrooms and wild berries, engaged a student from the seminary to teach her reading, writing, and arithmetic, and when sixteen years had passed she casually found in Lisa a friend, an ever-kind-hearted, ever-cheerful soul, and an active housekeeper. Anna Fëdorovna, being kind-hearted, always had some children to bring up – either serf children or foundlings. Lisa began looking after them when she was ten years old: teaching them, dressing them, taking them to church, and checking them when they played too many pranks. Later on the decrepit kindly uncle, who had to be tended like a child, appeared on the scene. Then the servants and peasants came to the young lady with various requests and with their ailments, which latter she treated with elderberry, peppermint, and camphorated spirits. Then there was the household management which all fell on her shoulders of itself. Then an unsatisfied longing for love awoke and found its outlet only in Nature and religion. And Lisa accidentally grew into an active, good-natured, cheerful, self-reliant, pure, and deeply religious woman. It is true that she suffered a little from vanity when she saw neighbours standing by her in church wearing fashionable bonnets brought from K—, and sometimes she was vexed to tears by her old mother’s whims and grumbling. She had dreams of love, too, in most absurd and sometimes crude forms, but these were dispersed by her useful activity which had grown into a necessity, and at the age of twenty-two there was not one spot or sting of remorse in the clear calm soul of the physically and morally beautifully developed maiden. Lisa was of medium height, plump rather than thin, her eyes were hazel, not large, and had slight shadows on the lower lids, and she had a long light-brown plait of hair. She walked with big steps and with a sli
ght sway – a ‘duck’s waddle’ as the saying is. Her face, when she was occupied and not agitated by anything in particular, seemed to say to everyone who looked into it: ‘It is a joy to live in the world when one has someone to love and a clear conscience.’ Even in moments of vexation, perplexity, alarm, or sorrow, in spite of herself there shone – through the tear in her eye, her frowning left eyebrow and her compressed lips – a kind straightforward spirit unspoilt by the intellect; it shone in the dimples of her cheeks, in the corners of her mouth, and in her beaming eyes accustomed to smile and to rejoice in life.
X
THE air was still hot though the sun was setting when the squadron entered Morózovka. In front of them along the dusty village street trotted a brindled cow separated from its herd, looking round and now and then stopping and lowing, but never suspecting that all she had to do was to turn aside. The peasants – old men, women, and children, and the servants from the manor-house, crowded on both sides of the street and eagerly watched the hussars as the latter rode through a thick cloud of dust, curbing their horses which occasionally stamped and snorted. On the right of the squadron were two officers who sat their fine black horses carelessly. One was Count Túrbin, the commander, the other a very young man recently promoted from cadet, whose name was Pólozov.
An hussar in a white linen jacket came out of the best of the huts, raised his cap, and went up to the officers.
‘Where are the quarters assigned us?’
‘For your Excellency?’ answered the quartermaster-sergeant, with a start of his whole body. ‘The village elder’s hut has been cleaned out. I wanted to get quarters at the manor-house, but they say there is no room there. The proprietress is such a vixen.’
‘All right!’ said the count, dismounting and stretching his legs as he reached the village elder’s hut. ‘And has my phaeton arrived?’
‘It has deigned to arrive, your Excellency!’ answered the quartermaster-sergeant, pointing with his cap to the leather body of a carriage visible through the gateway, and rushing forward to the entrance of the hut, which was thronged with members of the peasant family collected to look at the officer. He even pushed one old woman over as he briskly opened the door of the freshly cleaned hut and stepped aside to let the count pass.
The hut was fairly large and roomy but not very clean. The German valet, dressed like a gentleman, stood inside sorting the linen in a portmanteau after having set up an iron bedstead and made the bed.
‘Faugh, what filthy lodgings!’ said the count with vexation. ‘Couldn’t you have found anything better at some gentleman’s house, Dyádenko?’
‘If your Excellency desires it I will try at the manor-house,’ answered the quartermaster-sergeant, ‘but it isn’t up to much – doesn’t look much better than a hut.’
‘Never mind now. Go away.’
And the count lay down on the bed and threw his arms behind his head.
‘Johann!’ he called to his valet. ‘You’ve made a lump in the middle again! How is it you can’t make a bed properly?’
Johann came up to put it right.
‘No, never mind now. But where is my dressing-gown?’ said the count in a dissatisfied tone.
The valet handed him the dressing-gown. Before putting it on the count examined the front.
‘I thought so, that spot is not cleaned off. Could anyone be a worse servant than you?’ he added, pulling the dressing-gown out of the valet’s hands and putting it on. ‘Tell me, do you do it on purpose?… Is the tea ready?’
‘I have not had time,’ said Johann.
‘Fool!’
After that the count took up the French novel placed ready for him and read for some time in silence: Johann went out into the passage to prepare the samovar. The count was obviously in a bad temper, probably caused by fatigue, a dusty face, tight clothing, and an empty stomach.
‘Johann!’ he cried again, ‘bring me the account for those ten rubles. What did you buy in the town?’
He looked over the account handed him, and made some dissatisfied remarks about the dearness of the things purchased.
‘Serve rum with my tea.’
‘I didn’t buy any rum,’ said Johann.
‘That’s good! … How many times have I told you to have rum?’
‘I hadn’t enough money.’
‘Then why didn’t Pólozov buy some? You should have got some from his man.’
‘Cornet Pólozov? I don’t know. He bought the tea and the sugar.’
‘Idiot! … Get out! … You are the only man who knows how to make me lose my patience.… You know that on a march I always have rum with my tea.’
‘Here are two letters for you from the staff,’ said the valet.
The count opened his letters and began reading them without rising. The cornet, having quartered the squadron, came in with a merry face.
‘Well, how is it, Túrbin? It seems very nice here. But I must confess I’m tired. It was hot.’
‘Very nice! … A filthy stinking hut, and thanks to your lordship no rum; your blockhead didn’t buy any, nor did this one. You might at least have mentioned it.’
And he continued to read his letter. When he had finished he rolled it into a ball and threw it on the floor.
In the passage the cornet was meanwhile saying to his orderly in a whisper: ‘Why didn’t you buy any rum? You had money enough, you know.’
‘But why should we buy everything? As it is I pay for everything, while his German does nothing but smoke his pipe.’
It was evident that the count’s second letter was not unpleasant, for he smiled as he read it.
‘Who is it from?’ asked Pólozov, returning to the room and beginning to arrange a sleeping-place for himself on some boards by the oven.
‘From Mina,’ answered the count gaily, handing him the letter. ‘Do you want to see it? What a delightful woman she is! … Really she’s much better than our young ladies.… Just see how much feeling and wit there is in that letter. Only one thing is bad – she’s asking for money.’
‘Yes, that’s bad,’ said the cornet.
‘It’s true I promised her some, but then this campaign came on, and besides.… However if I remain in command of the squadron another three months I’ll send her some. It’s worth it, really; such a charming creature, eh?’ said he, watching the expression on Pólozov’s face as he read the letter.
‘Dreadfully ungrammatical, but very nice, and it seems as if she really loves you,’ said the cornet.
‘H’m … I should think so! It’s only women of that kind who love sincerely when once they do love.’
‘And who was the other letter from?’ asked the cornet, handing back the one he had read.
‘Oh, that … there’s a man, a nasty beast who won from me at cards, and he’s reminding me of it for the third time.… I can’t let him have it at present.… A stupid letter!’ said the count, evidently vexed at the recollection.
After this both officers were silent for a while. The cornet, who was evidently under the count’s influence, glanced now and then at the handsome though clouded countenance of Túrbin – who was looking fixedly through the window – and drank his tea in silence, not venturing to start a conversation.
‘But d’you know, it may turn out capitally,’ said the count, suddenly turning to Pólozov with a shake of his head. ‘Supposing we get promotions by seniority this year, and take part in an action besides, I may get ahead of my own captains in the Guards.’
The conversation was still on the same topic and they were drinking their second tumblers of tea, when old Daniel entered and delivered Anna Fëdorovna’s message.
‘And I was also to inquire if you are not Count Fëdor Iványch Túrbin’s son?’ added Daniel on his own account, having learnt the count’s name and remembering the deceased count’s sojourn in the town of K—. ‘Our mistress, Anna Fëdorovna, was very well acquainted with him.’
‘He was my father. And tell your mistress I am very much obl
iged to her. We want nothing, but say we told you to ask whether we could not have a cleaner room somewhere – in the manor-house, or anywhere.’
‘Now, why did you do that?’ asked Pólozov when Daniel had gone. ‘What does it matter? Just for one night – what does it matter? And they will be inconveniencing themselves.’
‘What an idea! I think we’ve had our share of smoky huts! … It’s easy to see you’re not a practical man. Why not seize the opportunity when we can, and live like human beings for at least one night? And on the contrary they will be very pleased to have us.… The worst of it is, if this lady really knew my father …’ continued the count with a smile which displayed his glistening white teeth. ‘I always have to feel ashamed of my departed papa. There is always some scandalous story or other, or some debt he has left. That is why I hate meeting these acquaintances of my father’s. However that was the way in those days,’ he added, growing serious.
‘Did I ever tell you,’ said Pólozov, ‘I once met an uhlan brigade-commander, Ilyín? He was very anxious to meet you. He is awfully fond of your father.’
‘That Ilyín is an awful good-for-nothing, I believe. But the worst of it is that these good people, who assure me that they knew my father in order to make my acquaintance, while pretending to be very pleasant, relate such tales about my father as make me ashamed to listen. It is true – I don’t deceive myself, but look at things dispassionately – that he had too ardent a nature and sometimes did things that were not nice. However that was the way in those times. In our days he might have turned out a very successful man, for to do him justice he had extraordinary capacities.’