Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (252 page)

One day eight years ago she received a visit from a certain Mr. Benevolensky, Piotr Mihalitch, a college councillor with a decoration. Mr. Benevolensky had at one time held an official post in the nearest district town, and had been assiduous in his visits to Tatyana Borissovna; then he had moved to Petersburg, got into the ministry, and attained a rather important position, and on one of the numerous journeys he took in the discharge of his official duties, he remembered his old friend, and came back to see her, with the intention of taking a rest for two days from his official labours ‘in the bosom of the peace of nature.’ Tatyana Borissovna greeted him with her usual cordiality, and Mr. Benevolensky.... But before we proceed with the rest of the story, gentle reader, let us introduce you to this new personage.

Mr. Benevolensky was a stoutish man, of middle height and mild appearance, with little short legs and little fat hands; he wore a roomy and excessively spruce frock - coat, a high broad cravat, snow - white linen, a gold chain on his silk waistcoat, a gem - ring on his forefinger, and a white wig on his head; he spoke softly and persuasively, trod noiselessly, and had an amiable smile, an amiable look in his eyes, and an amiable way of settling his chin in his cravat; he was, in fact, an amiable person altogether. God had given him a heart, too, of the softest; he was easily moved to tears and to transports; moreover, he was all aglow with disinterested passion for art: disinterested it certainly was, for Mr. Benevolensky, if the truth must be told, knew absolutely nothing about art. One is set wondering, indeed, whence, by virtue of what mysterious uncomprehended forces, this passion had come upon him. He was, to all appearance, a practical, even prosaic person... however, we have a good many people of the same sort among us in Russia.

Their devotion to art and artists produces in these people an inexpressible mawkishness; it is distressing to have to do with them and to talk to them; they are perfect logs smeared with honey. They never, for instance, call Raphael, Raphael, or Correggio, Correggio; ‘the divine Sanzio, the incomparable di Allegri,’ they murmur, and always with the broadest vowels. Every pretentious, conceited, home - bred mediocrity they hail as a genius: ‘the blue sky of Italy,’ ‘the lemons of the South,’ ‘the balmy breezes of the banks of the Brenta,’ are for ever on their lips. ‘Ah, Vasya, Vasya,’ or ‘Oh, Sasha, Sasha,’ they say to one another with deep feeling, ‘we must away to the South... we are Greeks in soul — ancient Greeks.’ One may observe them at exhibitions before the works of some Russian painters (these gentlemen, it should be noted, are, for the most part, passionate patriots). First they step back a couple of paces, and throw back their heads; then they go up to the picture again; their eyes are suffused with an oily moisture.... ‘There you have it, my God!’ they say at last, in voices broken with emotion; ‘there’s soul, soul! Ah! what feeling, what feeling! Ah, what soul he has put into it! what a mass of soul!... And how he has thought it out! thought it out like a master!’ And, oh! the pictures in their own drawing - rooms! Oh, the artists that come to them in the evenings, drink tea, and listen to their conversation! And the views in perspective they make them of their own rooms, with a broom in the foreground, a little heap of dust on the polished floor, a yellow samovar on a table near the window, and the master of the house himself in skull - cap and dressing - gown, with a brilliant streak of sunlight falling on his cheek! Oh, the long - haired nurslings of the Muse, wearing spasmodic and contemptuous smiles, that cluster about them! Oh, the young ladies, with faces of greenish pallor, who squeal; over their pianos! For that is the established rule with us in Russia; a man cannot be devoted to one art alone — he must have them all. And so it is not to be wondered at that these gentlemen extend their powerful patronage to Russian literature also, especially to dramatic literature.... The
Jacob Sannazars
are written for them; the struggle of unappreciated talent against the whole world, depicted a thousand times over, still moves them profoundly....

The day after Mr. Benevolensky’s arrival, Tatyana Borissovna told her nephew at tea - time to show their guest his drawings. ‘Why, does he draw?’ said Mr. Benevolensky, with some surprise, and he turned with interest to Andryusha. ‘Yes, he draws,’ said Tatyana Borissovna; ‘he’s so fond of it! and he does it all alone, without a master.’ ‘Ah! show me, show me,’ cried Mr. Benevolensky. Andryusha, blushing and smiling, brought the visitor his sketch - book. Mr. Benevolensky began turning it over with the air of a connoisseur. ‘Good, young man,’ he pronounced at last; ‘good, very good.’ And he patted Andryusha on the head. Andryusha intercepted his hand and kissed it ‘Fancy, now, a talent like that!... I congratulate you, Tatyana Borissovna.’ ‘But what am I to do, Piotr Mihalitch? I can’t get him a teacher here. To have one from the town is a great expense; our neighbours, the Artamonovs, have a drawing - master, and they say an excellent one, but his mistress forbids his giving lessons to outsiders.’ ‘Hm,’ pronounced Mr. Benevolensky; he pondered and looked askance at Andryusha. ‘Well, we will talk it over,’ he added suddenly, rubbing his hands. The same day he begged Tatyana Borissovna’s permission for an interview with her alone. They shut themselves up together. In half - an - hour they called Andryusha — Andryusha went in. Mr. Benevolensky was standing at the window with a slight flush on his face and a beaming expression. Tatyana Borissovna was sitting in a corner wiping her eyes. ‘Come, Andryusha,’ she said at last, ‘you must thank Piotr Mihalitch; he will take you under his protection; he will take you to Petersburg.’ Andryusha almost fainted on the spot. ‘Tell me candidly,’ began Mr. Benevolensky, in a voice filled with dignity and patronising indulgence; ‘do you want to be an artist, young man? Do you feel yourself consecrated to the holy service of Art?’ ‘I want to be an artist, Piotr Mihalitch,’ Andryusha declared in a trembling voice. ‘I am delighted, if so it be. It will, of course,’ continued Mr. Benevolensky,’be hard for you to part from your revered aunt; you must feel the liveliest gratitude to her.’ ‘I adore my auntie,’ Andryusha interrupted, blinking. ‘Of course, of course, that’s readily understood, and does you great credit; but, on the other hand, consider the pleasure that in the future... your success....’ ‘Kiss me, Andryusha,’ muttered the kind - hearted lady. Andryusha flung himself on her neck. ‘There, now, thank your benefactor.’ Andryusha embraced Mr. Benevolensky’s stomach, and stretching on tiptoe, reached his hand and imprinted a kiss, which his benefactor, though with some show of reluctance, accepted.... He had, to be sure, to pacify the child, and, after all, might reflect that he deserved it. Two days later, Mr. Benevolensky departed, taking with him his new
protégé
.

During the first three years of Andryusha’s absence he wrote pretty often, sometimes enclosing drawings in his letters. From time to time Mr. Benevolensky added a few words, for the most part of approbation; then the letters began to be less and less frequent, and at last ceased altogether. A whole year passed without a word from her nephew; and Tatyana Borissovna was beginning to be uneasy when suddenly she got the following note: —

‘DEAREST AUNTIE, — Piotr Mihalitch, my patron, died three days ago. A severe paralytic stroke has deprived me of my sole support. To be sure, I am now twenty. I have made considerable progress during the last seven years; I have the greatest confidence in my talent, and can make my living by means of it; I do not despair; but all the same send me, if you can, as soon as convenient, 250 roubles. I kiss your hand and remain...’ etc.

Tatyana Borissovna sent her nephew 250 roubles. Two months later he asked for more; she got together every penny she had and sent it him. Not six weeks after the second donation he was asking a third time for help, ostensibly to buy colours for a portrait bespoken by Princess Tertereshenev. Tatyana Borissovna refused. ‘Under these circumstances,’ he wrote to her, ‘I propose coming to you to regain my health in the country.’ And in the May of the same year Andryusha did, in fact, return to Maliya - Briki.

Tatyana Borissovna did not recognise him for the first minute. From his letter she had expected to see a wasted invalid, and she beheld a stout, broad - shouldered fellow, with a big red face and greasy, curly hair. The pale, slender little Andryusha had turned into the stalwart Andrei Ivanovitch Byelovzorov. And it was not only his exterior that was transformed. The modest spruceness, the sedateness and tidiness of his earlier years, was replaced by a careless swagger and slovenliness quite insufferable; he rolled from side to side as he walked, lolled in easy - chairs, put his elbows on the table, stretched and yawned, and behaved rudely to his aunt and the servants. ‘I’m an artist,’ he would say; ‘a free Cossack! That’s our sort!’ Sometimes he did not touch a brush for whole days together; then the inspiration, as he called it, would come upon him; then he would swagger about as if he were drunk, clumsy, awkward, and noisy; his cheeks were flushed with a coarse colour, his eyes dull; he would launch into discourses upon his talent, his success, his development, the advance he was making.... It turned out in actual fact that he had barely talent enough to produce passable portraits. He was a perfect ignoramus, had read nothing; why should an artist read, indeed? Nature, freedom, poetry were his fitting elements; he need do nothing but shake his curls, talk, and suck away at his eternal cigarette! Russian audacity is a fine thing, but it doesn’t suit every one; and Polezhaevs at second - hand, without the genius, are insufferable beings. Andrei Ivanovitch went on living at his aunt’s; he did not seem to find the bread of charity bitter, notwithstanding the proverb. Visitors to the house found him a mortal nuisance. He would sit at the piano (a piano, too, had been installed at Tatyana Borissovna’s) and begin strumming ‘The Swift Sledge’ with one finger; he would strike some chords, tap on the keys, and for hours together he would howl Varlamov’s songs, ‘The Solitary Pine,’ or ‘No, doctor, no, don’t come to me,’ in the most distressing manner, and his eyes seemed to disappear altogether, his cheeks were so puffed out and tense as drums.... Then he would suddenly strike up: ‘Be still, distracting passion’s tempest!’... Tatyana Borissovna positively shuddered.

‘It’s a strange thing,’ she observed to me one day, ‘the songs they compose nowadays; there’s something desperate about them; in my day they were very different. We had mournful songs, too, but it was always a pleasure to hear them.... For instance: —

 
“‘Come, come to me in the meadow,

    
Where I am awaiting thee;

  
Come, come to me in the meadow,

    
Where I’m shedding tears for thee...

  
Alas! thou’rt coming to the meadow,

    
But too late, dear love, for me!’“

Tatyana Borissovna smiled slyly.

‘I agon - ise, I agon - ise!’ yelled her nephew in the next room.

‘Be quiet, Andryusha!’

‘My soul’s consumed apart from thee!’ the indefatigable singer continued.

Tatyana Borissovna shook her head.

‘Ah, these artists! these artists!’....

A year has gone by since then. Byelovzorov is still living at his aunt’s, and still talking of going back to Petersburg. He has grown as broad as he is long in the country. His aunt — who could have imagined such a thing? — idolises him, and the young girls of the neighbourhood are falling in love with him....

Many of her old friends have given up going to Tatyana Borissovna’s.

XVI

DEATH

I have a neighbour, a young landowner and a young sportsman. One fine July morning I rode over to him with a proposition that we should go out grouse - shooting together. He agreed. ‘Only let’s go,’ he said, ‘to my underwoods at Zusha; I can seize the opportunity to have a look at Tchapligino; you know my oakwood; they’re felling timber there.’ ‘By all means.’ He ordered his horse to be saddled, put on a green coat with bronze buttons, stamped with a boar’s head, a game - bag embroidered in crewels, and a silver flask, slung a new - fangled French gun over his shoulder, turned himself about with some satisfaction before the looking - glass, and called his dog, Hope, a gift from his cousin, an old maid with an excellent heart, but no hair on her head. We started. My neighbour took with him the village constable, Arhip, a stout, squat peasant with a square face and jaws of antediluvian proportions, and an overseer he had recently hired from the Baltic provinces, a youth of nineteen, thin, flaxen - haired, and short - sighted, with sloping shoulders and a long neck, Herr Gottlieb von der Kock. My neighbour had himself only recently come into the property. It had come to him by inheritance from an aunt, the widow of a councillor of state, Madame Kardon - Kataev, an excessively stout woman, who did nothing but lie in her bed, sighing and groaning. We reached the underwoods. ‘You wait for me here at the clearing,’ said Ardalion Mihalitch (my neighbour) addressing his companions. The German bowed, got off his horse, pulled a book out of his pocket — a novel of Johanna Schopenhauer’s, I fancy — and sat down under a bush; Arhip remained in the sun without stirring a muscle for an hour. We beat about among the bushes, but did not come on a single covey. Ardalion Mihalitch announced his intention of going on to the wood. I myself had no faith, somehow, in our luck that day; I, too, sauntered after him. We got back to the clearing. The German noted the page, got up, put the book in his pocket, and with some difficulty mounted his bob - tailed, broken - winded mare, who neighed and kicked at the slightest touch; Arhip shook himself, gave a tug at both reins at once, swung his legs, and at last succeeded in starting his torpid and dejected nag. We set off.

I had been familiar with Ardalion Mihalitch’s wood from my childhood. I had often strolled in Tchapligino with my French tutor, Monsieur Désiré Fleury, the kindest of men (who had, however, almost ruined my constitution for life by dosing me with Leroux’s mixture every evening). The whole wood consisted of some two or three hundred immense oaks and ash - trees. Their stately, powerful trunks were magnificently black against the transparent golden green of the nut bushes and mountain - ashes; higher up, their wide knotted branches stood out in graceful lines against the clear blue sky, unfolding into a tent overhead; hawks, honey - buzzards and kestrels flew whizzing under the motionless tree - tops; variegated wood - peckers tapped loudly on the stout bark; the blackbird’s bell - like trill was heard suddenly in the thick foliage, following on the ever - changing note of the gold - hammer; in the bushes below was the chirp and twitter of hedge - warblers, siskins, and peewits; finches ran swiftly along the paths; a hare would steal along the edge of the wood, halting cautiously as he ran; a squirrel would hop sporting from tree to tree, then suddenly sit still, with its tail over its head. In the grass among the high ant - hills under the delicate shade of the lovely, feathery, deep - indented bracken, were violets and lilies of the valley, and funguses, russet, yellow, brown, red and crimson; in the patches of grass among the spreading bushes red strawberries were to be found.... And oh, the shade in the wood! In the most stifling heat, at mid - day, it was like night in the wood: such peace, such fragrance, such freshness.... I had spent happy times in Tchapligino, and so, I must own, it was with melancholy feelings I entered the wood I knew so well. The ruinous, snowless winter of 1840 had not spared my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered, naked, covered here and there with sickly foliage, they struggled mournfully up above the young growth which ‘took their place, but could never replace them.’ [Footnote: In 1840 there were severe frosts, and no snow fell up to the very end of December; all the wintercorn was frozen, and many splendid oak - forests were destroyed by that merciless winter. It will be hard to replace them; the productive force of the land is apparently diminishing; in the ‘interdicted’ wastelands (visited by processions with holy images, and so not to be touched), instead of the noble trees of former days, birches and aspens grow of themselves; and, indeed, they have no idea among us of planting woods at all. —
Author’s Note
.]

Some trees, still covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless, ruined branches upwards, as it were, in reproach and despair; in others, stout, dead, dry branches are thrust out of the midst of foliage still thick, though with none of the luxuriant abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like corpses on the ground. And — who could have dreamed of this in former days? — there was no shade — no shade to be found anywhere in Tchapligino! ‘Ah,’ I thought, looking at the dying trees: ‘isn’t it shameful and bitter for you?’... Koltsov’s lines recurred to me:

 
‘What has become

  
Of the mighty voices,

  
The haughty strength,

  
The royal pomp?

  
Where now is the

  
Wealth of green?...

‘How is it, Ardalion Mihalitch,’ I began, ‘that they didn’t fell these trees the very next year? You see they won’t give for them now a tenth of what they would have done before.’

He merely shrugged his shoulders.

‘You should have asked my aunt that; the timber merchants came, offered money down, pressed the matter, in fact.’

‘
Mein Gott! mein Gott!
’ Von der Kock cried at every step. ‘Vat a bity, vat a bity!’

‘What’s a bity!’ observed my neighbour with a smile.

‘That is; how bitiful, I meant to say.’

What particularly aroused his regrets were the oaks lying on the ground — and, indeed, many a miller would have given a good sum for them. But the constable Arhip preserved an unruffled composure, and did not indulge in any lamentations; on the contrary, he seemed even to jump over them and crack his whip on them with a certain satisfaction.

We were getting near the place where they were cutting down the trees, when suddenly a shout and hurried talk was heard, following on the crash of a falling tree, and a few instants after a young peasant, pale and dishevelled, dashed out of the thicket towards us.

‘What is it? where are you running?’ Ardalion Mihalitch asked him.

He stopped at once.

‘Ah, Ardalion Mihalitch, sir, an accident!’

‘What is it?’

‘Maksim, sir, crushed by a tree.’

‘How did it happen?... Maksim the foreman?’

‘The foreman, sir. We’d started cutting an ash - tree, and he was standing looking on.... He stood there a bit, and then off he went to the well for some water — wanted a drink, seemingly — when suddenly the ash - tree began creaking and coming straight towards him. We shout to him: ‘Run, run, run!’.... He should have rushed to one side, but he up and ran straight before him.... He was scared, to be sure. The ash - tree covered him with its top branches. But why it fell so soon, the Lord only knows!... Perhaps it was rotten at the core.’

‘And so it crushed Maksim?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘To death?’

‘No, sir, he’s still alive — but as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. I was running for Seliverstitch, for the doctor.’

Ardalion Mihalitch told the constable to gallop to the village for Seliverstitch, while he himself pushed on at a quick trot to the clearing.... I followed him.

We found poor Maksim on the ground. The peasants were standing about him. We got off our horses. He hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment, and bit his lips, fast turning blue.... The lower part of his face was twitching; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young lime - tree glided softly over his face.

We bent down to him. He recognised Ardalion Mihalitch.

‘Please sir,’ he said to him, hardly articulately, ‘send... for the priest... tell... the Lord... has punished me... arms, legs, all smashed... to - day’s... Sunday... and I... I... see... didn’t let the lads off... work.’

He ceased, out of breath.

‘And my money... for my wife... after deducting.... Onesim here knows... whom I... what I owe.’

‘We’ve sent for the doctor, Maksim,’ said my neighbour; ‘perhaps you may not die yet.’

He tried to open his eyes, and with an effort raised the lids.

‘No, I’m dying. Here... here it is coming... here it.... Forgive me, lads, if in any way....’

‘God will forgive you, Maksim Andreitch,’ said the peasants thickly with one voice, and they took off their caps; ‘do you forgive us!’

He suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a painful effort, and he fell back again.

‘We can’t let him lie here and die, though,’ cried Ardalion Mihalitch; ‘lads, give us the mat from the cart, and carry him to the hospital.’

Two men ran to the cart.

‘I bought a horse... yesterday,’ faltered the dying man, ‘off Efim... Sitchovsky... paid earnest money... so the horse is mine.... Give it... to my wife....’

They began to move him on to the mat.... He trembled all over, like a wounded bird, and stiffened....

‘He is dead,’ muttered the peasants.

We mounted our horses in silence and rode away.

The death of poor Maksim set me musing. How wonderfully indeed the Russian peasant dies! The temper in which he meets his end cannot be called indifference or stolidity; he dies as though he were performing a solemn rite, coolly and simply.

A few years ago a peasant belonging to another neighbour of mine in the country got burnt in the drying shed, where the corn is put. (He would have remained there, but a passing pedlar pulled him out half - dead; he plunged into a tub of water, and with a run broke down the door of the burning outhouse.) I went to his hut to see him. It was dark, smoky, stifling, in the hut. I asked, ‘Where is the sick man?’ ‘There, sir, on the stove,’ the sorrowing peasant woman answered me in a sing - song voice. I went up; the peasant was lying covered with a sheepskin, breathing heavily. ‘Well, how do you feel?’ The injured man stirred on the stove; all over burns, within sight of death as he was, tried to rise. ‘Lie still, lie still, lie still.... Well, how are you?’ ‘In a bad way, surely,’ said he. ‘Are you in pain?’ No answer. ‘Is there anything you want?’ — No answer. ‘Shouldn’t I send you some tea, or anything.’ ‘There’s no need.’ I moved away from him and sat down on the bench. I sat there a quarter of an hour; I sat there half an hour — the silence of the tomb in the hut. In the corner behind the table under the holy pictures crouched a little girl of twelve years old, eating a piece of bread. Her mother threatened her every now and then. In the outer room there was coming and going, noise and talk: the brother’s wife was chopping cabbage. ‘Hey, Aksinya,’ said the injured man at last. ‘What?’ ‘Some kvas.’Aksinya gave him some kvas. Silence again. I asked in a whisper, ‘Have they given him the sacrament?’ ‘Yes.’ So, then, everything was in order: he was waiting for death, that was all. I could not bear it, and went away....

Again, I recall how I went one day to the hospital in the village of Krasnogorye to see the surgeon Kapiton, a friend of mine, and an enthusiastic sportsman.

This hospital consisted of what had once been the lodge of the manor - house; the lady of the manor had founded it herself; in other words, she ordered a blue board to be nailed up above the door with an inscription in white letters: ‘Krasnogorye Hospital,’ and had herself handed to Kapiton a red album to record the names of the patients in. On the first page of this album one of the toadying parasites of this Lady Bountiful had inscribed the following lines: