Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (154 page)

‘Well, that’s very praiseworthy!’ responded the fat man, and he began to descend the staircase. He was obviously tired of me.

I went in to Pasinkov.

‘Have you seen the local Aesculapius?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘What I like about him,’ remarked Pasinkov, ‘is his astounding composure. A doctor ought to be phlegmatic, oughtn’t he? It’s so encouraging for the patient.’

I did not, of course, try to controvert this.

Towards the evening, Pasinkov, contrary to my expectations, seemed better. He asked Elisei to set the samovar, announced that he was going to regale me with tea, and drink a small cup himself, and he was noticeably more cheerful. I tried, though, not to let him talk, and seeing that he would not be quiet, I asked him if he would like me to read him something. ‘Just as at Winterkeller’s — do you remember?’ he answered. ‘If you will, I shall be delighted. What shall we read? Look, there are my books in the window.’…

I went to the window and took up the first book that my hand chanced upon….

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Lermontov.’

‘Ah, Lermontov! Excellent! Pushkin is greater, no doubt…. Do you remember: “Once more the storm - clouds gather close Above me in the perfect calm” … or, “For the last time thy image sweet In thought I dare caress.” Ah! marvellous! marvellous! But Lermontov’s fine too. Well, I’ll tell you what, dear boy: you take the book, open it by chance, and read what you find!’

I opened the book, and was disconcerted; I had chanced upon ‘The Last Will.’ I tried to turn over the page, but Pasinkov noticed my action and said hurriedly: ‘No, no, no, read what turned up.’

There was no getting out of it; I read ‘The Last Will.’

Alone with thee, brother,

    I would wish to be;

    On earth, so they tell me,

    I have not long to stay,

    Soon you will go home:

    See that … But nay! for my fate

    To speak the truth, no one

    Is very greatly troubled.

But if any one asks …

    Well, whoever may ask,

    Tell them that through the breast

    I was shot by a bullet;

    That I died honourably for the Tsar,

    That our doctors are not much good,

    And that to my native land

    I send a humble greeting.

    My father and mother, hardly

    Will you find living….

    I’ll own I should be sorry

    That they should grieve for me.]

‘Splendid thing!’ said Pasinkov, directly I had finished the last verse. ‘Splendid thing!

But, it’s queer,’ he added, after a brief pause, ‘it’s queer you should have chanced just on that…. Queer.’

I began to read another poem, but Pasinkov was not listening to me; he looked away, and twice he repeated again: ‘Queer!’

I let the book drop on my knees.

‘“There is a girl, their neighbour,”‘ he whispered, and turning to me he asked — ’I say, do you remember Sophia Zlotnitsky?’

I turned red.

‘I should think I did!’

‘She was married, I suppose?…’

‘To Asanov, long, long ago. I wrote to you about it.’

* * * * *

But if either of them is living,

    Say I am lazy about writing,

    That our regiment has been sent forward,

    And that they must not expect me home.

    There is a girl, their neighbour….

    As you remember, it’s long

    Since we parted…. She will not

    Ask for me…. All the same,

    You tell her all the truth,

    Don’t spare her empty heart —

    Let her weep a little….

    It will not hurt her much!

‘To be sure, to be sure, so you did. Did her father forgive her in the end?’

‘He forgave her; but he would not receive Asanov.’

‘Obstinate old fellow! Well, and are they supposed to be happy?’

‘I don’t know, really…I fancy they ‘re happy. They live in the country, in —
 
— province. I’ve never seen them, though I have been through their parts.’

‘And have they any children?’

‘I think so…. By the way, Pasinkov?…’ I began questioningly.

He glanced at me.

‘Confess — do you remember, you were unwilling to answer my question at the time — did you tell her I cared for her?’

‘I told her everything, the whole truth…. I always told her the truth. To be hypocritical with her would have been a sin!’

Pasinkov was silent for a while.

‘Come, tell me,’ he began again: ‘did you soon get over caring for her, or not?’

‘Not very soon, but I got over it. What’s the good of sighing in vain?’

Pasinkov turned over, facing me.

‘Well, I, brother,’ he began — and his lips were quivering — ’am no match for you there; I’ve not got over caring for her to this day.’

‘What!’ I cried in indescribable amazement; ‘did you love her?’

‘I loved her,’ said Pasinkov slowly, and he put both hands behind his head. ‘How I loved her, God only knows. I’ve never spoken of it to any one, to any one in the world, and I never meant to … but there! “On earth, so they tell me, I have not long to stay.” … What does it matter?’

Pasinkov’s unexpected avowal so utterly astonished me that I could positively say nothing. I could only wonder, ‘Is it possible? how was it I never suspected it?’

‘Yes,’ he went on, as though speaking to himself, ‘I loved her. I never ceased to love her even when I knew her heart was Asanov’s. But how bitter it was for me to know that! If she had loved you, I should at least have rejoiced for you; but Asanov…. How did he make her care for him? It was just his luck! And change her feelings, cease to care, she could not! A true heart does not change….’

I recalled Asanov’s visit after the fatal dinner, Pasinkov’s intervention, and I could not help flinging up my hands in astonishment.

‘You learnt it all from me, poor fellow!’ I cried; ‘and you undertook to go and see her then!’

‘Yes,’ Pasinkov began again; ‘that explanation with her … I shall never forget it.’ It was then I found out, then I realised the meaning of the word I had chosen for myself long before: resignation. But still she has remained my constant dream, my ideal…. And he’s to be pitied who lives without an ideal!’

I looked at Pasinkov; his eyes, fastened, as it were, on the distance, shone with feverish brilliance.

‘I loved her,’ he went on, ‘I loved her, her, calm, true, unapproachable, incorruptible; when she went away, I was almost mad with grief…. Since then I have never cared for any one.’…

And suddenly turning, he pressed his face into the pillow, and began quietly weeping.

I jumped up, bent over him, and began trying to comfort him….

‘It’s no matter,’ he said, raising his head and shaking back his hair; ‘it’s nothing; I felt a little bitter, a little sorry … for myself, that is…. But it’s all no matter. It’s all the fault of those verses. Read me something else, more cheerful.’

I took up Lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the pages; but, as fate would have it, I kept coming across poems likely to agitate Pasinkov again. At last I read him ‘The Gifts of Terek.’

‘Jingling rhetoric!’ said my poor friend, with the tone of a preceptor; ‘but there are fine passages. Since I saw you, brother, I’ve tried my hand at poetry, and began one poem — ”The Cup of Life” — but it didn’t come off! It’s for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create…. But I’m rather tired; I’ll sleep a little — what do you say? What a splendid thing sleep is, come to think of it! All our life’s a dream, and the best thing in it is dreaming too.’

‘And poetry?’ I queried.

‘Poetry’s a dream too, but a dream of paradise.’

Pasinkov closed his eyes.

I stood for a little while at his bedside. I did not think he would get to sleep quickly, but soon his breathing became more even and prolonged. I went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down on the sofa. For a long while I mused on what Pasinkov had told me, recalled many things, wondered; at last I too fell asleep….

Some one touched me; I started up; before me stood Elisei.

‘Come in to my master,’ he said.

I got up at once.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He’s delirious.’

‘Delirious? And hasn’t it ever been so before with him?’

‘Yes, he was delirious last night, too; only to - day it is something terrible.’

I went to Pasinkov’s room. He was not lying down, but sitting up in bed, his whole body bent forward. He was slowly gesticulating with his hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow voice, like the whispering of rushes. His eyes were wandering. The gloomy light of a night light, set on the floor, and shaded off by a book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling; Pasinkov’s face seemed paler than ever in the half darkness.

I went up to him, called him by his name — he did not answer. I began listening to his whispering: he was talking of Siberia, of its forests. From time to time there was sense in his ravings.

‘What trees!’ he whispered; ‘right up to the sky. What frost on them! Silver … snowdrifts…. And here are little tracks … that’s a hare’s leaping, that’s a white weasel… No, it’s my father running with my papers. Here he is!… Here he is! Must go; the moon is shining. Must go, look for my papers…. Ah! A flower, a crimson flower — there’s Sophia…. Oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is crackling…. Ah, no; it’s the stupid bullfinches hopping in the bushes, whistling…. See, the redthroats! Cold…. Ah! here’s Asanov…. Oh yes, of course, he’s a cannon, a copper cannon, and his gun - carriage is green. That’s how it is he’s liked. Is it a star has fallen? No, it’s an arrow flying…. Ah, how quickly, and straight into my heart!… Who shot it? You, Sonitchka?’

He bent his head and began muttering disconnected words. I glanced at Elisei; he was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing ruefully at his master.

‘Ah, brother, so you’ve become a practical person, eh?’ he asked suddenly, turning upon me such a clear, such a fully conscious glance, that I could not help starting and was about to reply, but he went on at once: ‘But I, brother, have not become a practical person, I haven’t, and that’s all about it! A dreamer I was born, a dreamer! Dreaming, dreaming…. What is dreaming? Sobakevitch’s peasant — that’s dreaming. Ugh!…’