Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (257 page)

Here he suddenly stopped in his story and looked at me.

‘You’re not married, I suppose?’

‘No.’

‘There, of course, I could see it. I couldn’t stand it. “But, upon my word, ma’am, what on earth are you talking about? How does marriage come in? I simply want to know from you whether you will part with your serf - girl Matrona or not?” The old lady began sighing and groaning. “Ah, he’s worrying me! ah, send him away! ah!” The relation flew to her, and began scolding me, while the lady kept on moaning: “What have I done to deserve it?... I suppose I’m not mistress in my own house? Ah! ah!” I snatched my hat, and ran out of the house like a madman.

‘Perhaps,’ he continued, ‘you will blame me for being so warmly attached to a girl of low position; I don’t mean to justify myself exactly, either... but so it came to pass!... Would you believe it, I had no rest by day or by night.... I was in torment! Besides, I thought, “I have ruined the poor girl!” At times I thought that she was herding geese in a smock, and being ill - treated by her mistress’s orders, and the bailiff, a peasant in tarred boots, reviling her with foul abuse. I positively fell into a cold sweat. Well, I could not stand it. I found out what village she had been sent to, mounted my horse, and set off. I only got there the evening of the next day. Evidently they hadn’t expected such a proceeding on my part, and had given no order in regard to me. I went straight to the bailiff as though I were a neighbour; I go into the yard and look around; there was Matrona sitting on the steps leaning on her elbow. She was on the point of crying out, but I held up my finger and pointed outside, towards the open country. I went into the hut; I chatted away a bit to the bailiff, told him ten thousand lies, seized the right moment, and went out to Matrona. She, poor girl, fairly hung round my neck. She was pale and thin, my poor darling! I kept saying to her, do you know: “There, it’s all right, Matrona; it’s all right, don’t cry,” and my own tears simply flowed and flowed.... Well, at last though, I was ashamed, I said to her: “Matrona, tears are no help in trouble, but we must act, as they say, resolutely; you must run away with me; that’s how we must act.” Matrona fairly swooned away.... “How can it be! I shall be ruined; they will be the death of me altogether.” “You silly! who will find you?” “They will find me; they will be sure to find me. Thank you, Piotr Petrovitch — I shall never forget your kindness; but now you must leave me; such is my fate, it seems.” “Ah, Matrona, Matrona, I thought you were a girl of character!” And, indeed, she had a great deal of character.... She had a heart, a heart of gold! “Why should you be left here? It makes no difference; things can’t be worse. Come, tell me — you’ve felt the bailiff’s fists, eh?” Matrona fairly crimsoned, and her lips trembled. “But there’ll be no living for my family on my account.” “Why, your family now — will they send them for soldiers?” “Yes; they’ll send my brother for a soldier.” “And your father?” “Oh, they won’t send father; he’s the only good tailor among us.”

‘“There, you see; and it won’t kill your brother.” Would you believe it, I’d hard work to persuade her; she even brought forward a notion that I might have to answer for it. “But that’s not your affair,” said I.... However, I did carry her off... not that time, but another; one night I came with a light cart, and carried her off.’

‘You carried her off?’

‘Yes... Well, so she lived in my house. It was a little house, and I’d few servants. My people, I will tell you frankly, respected me; they wouldn’t have betrayed me for any reward. I began to be as happy as a prince. Matrona rested and recovered, and I grew devoted to her.... And what a girl she was! It seemed to come by nature! She could sing, and dance, and play the guitar!... I didn’t show her to my neighbours; I was afraid they’d gossip! But there was one fellow, my bosom friend, Gornostaev, Panteley — you don’t know him? He was simply crazy about her; he’d kiss her hand as though she were a lady; he would, really. And I must tell you, Gornostaev was not like me; he was a cultivated man, had read all Pushkin; sometimes, he’d talk to Matrona and me so that we pricked up our ears to listen. He taught her to write; such a queer chap he was! And how I dressed her — better than the governor’s wife, really; I had a pelisse made her of crimson velvet, edged with fur... Ah! how that pelisse suited her! It was made by a Moscow madame in a new fashion, with a waist. And what a wonderful creature Matrona was! Sometimes she’d fall to musing, and sit for hours together looking at the ground, without stirring a muscle; and I’d sit too, and look at her, and could never gaze enough, just as if I were seeing her for the first time.... Then she would smile, and my heart would give a jump as though someone were tickling me. Or else she’d suddenly fall to laughing, joking, dancing; she would embrace me so warmly, so passionately, that my head went round. From morning to evening I thought of nothing but how I could please her. And would you believe it? I gave her presents simply to see how pleased she would be, the darling! all blushing with delight! How she would try on my present; how she would come back with her new possession on, and kiss me! Her father, Kulik, got wind of it, somehow; the old man came to see us, and how he wept.... In that way we lived for five months, and I should have been glad to live with her for ever, but for my cursed ill - luck!’

Piotr Petrovitch stopped.

‘What was it happened?’ I asked him sympathetically. He waved his hand.

‘Everything went to the devil. I was the ruin of her too. My little Matrona was passionately fond of driving in sledges, and she used to drive herself; she used to put on her pelisse and her embroidered Torzhok gloves, and cry out with delight all the way. We used to go out sledging always in the evening, so as not to meet any one, you know. So, once it was such a splendid day, you know, frosty and clear, and no wind... we drove out. Matrona had the reins. I looked where she was driving. Could it be to Kukuyevka, her mistress’s village? Yes, it was to Kukuyevka. I said to her, “You mad girl, where are you going?” She gave me a look over her shoulder and laughed. “Let me,” she said, “for a lark.” “Well,” thought I, “come what may!...” To drive past her mistress’s house was nice, wasn’t it? Tell me yourself — wasn’t it nice? So we drove on. The shaft - horse seemed to float through the air, and the trace - horses went, I can tell you, like a regular whirlwind. We were already in sight of Kukuyevka; when suddenly I see an old green coach crawling along with a groom on the footboard up behind.... It was the mistress — the mistress driving towards us! My heart failed me; but Matrona — how she lashed the horses with the reins, and flew straight towards the coach! The coachman, he, you understand, sees us flying to meet him, meant, you know, to move on one side, turned too sharp, and upset the coach in a snowdrift. The window was broken; the mistress shrieked, “Ai! ai! ai! ai! ai! ai!” The companion wailed, “Help! help!” while we flew by at the best speed we might. We galloped on, but I thought, “Evil will come of it. I did wrong to let her drive to Kukuyevka.” And what do you think? Why, the mistress had recognised Matrona, and me too, the old wretch, and made a complaint against me. “My runaway serf - girl,” said she, “is living at Mr. Karataev’s”; and thereupon she made a suitable present. Lo and behold! the captain of police comes to me; and he was a man I knew, Stepan Sergyeitch Kuzovkin, a good fellow; that’s to say, really a regular bad lot. So he came up and said this and that, and “How could you do so, Piotr Petrovitch?... The liability is serious, and the laws very distinct on the subject.” I tell him, “Well, we’ll have a talk about that, of course; but come, you’ll take a little something after your drive.” He agreed to take something, but he said, “Justice has claims, Piotr Petrovitch; think for yourself.” “Justice, to be sure,” said I, “of course... but, I have heard say you’ve a little black horse. Would you be willing to exchange it for my Lampurdos?... But there’s no girl called Matrona Fedorovna in my keeping.” “Come,” says he, “Piotr Petrovitch, the girl’s with you, we’re not living in Switzerland, you know... though my little horse might be exchanged for Lampurdos; I might, to be sure, accept it in that way.” However, I managed to get rid of him somehow that time. But the old lady made a greater fuss than ever; ten thousand roubles, she said, she wouldn’t grudge over the business. You see, when she saw me, she suddenly took an idea into her head to marry me to her young lady companion in green; that I found out later; that was why she was so spiteful. What ideas won’t these great ladies take into their heads!... It comes through being dull, I suppose. Things went badly with me: I didn’t spare money, and I kept Matrona in hiding. No, they harassed me, and turned me this way and that: I got into debt; I lost my health.... So one night, as I lay in my bed, thinking, “My God, why should I suffer so? What am I to do, since I can’t get over loving her?... There, I can’t, and that’s all about it!” into the room walked Matrona. I had hidden her for the time at a farmhouse a mile and a half from my house. I was frightened. “What? have they discovered you even there?” “No, Piotr Petrovitch,” said she, “no one disturbs me at Bubnova; but will that last long? My heart,” she said, “is torn, Piotr Petrovitch; I am sorry for you, my dear one; never shall I forget your goodness, Piotr Petrovitch, but now I’ve come to say good - bye to you.” “What do you mean, what do you mean, you mad girl?... Good - bye, how good - bye?”... “Yes... I am going to give myself up.” “But I’ll lock you up in a garret, mad girl!... Do you mean to destroy me? Do you want to kill me, or what?” The girl was silent; she looked on the floor. “Come, speak, speak!” “I can’t bear to cause you any more trouble, Piotr Petrovitch.” Well, one might talk to her as one pleased... “But do you know, little fool, do you know, mad...”

And Piotr Petrovitch sobbed bitterly.

‘Well, what do you think?’ he went on, striking the table with his fist and trying to frown, while the tears still coursed down his flushed cheeks; ‘the girl gave herself up.... She went and gave herself up...’

‘The horses are ready,’ the overseer cried triumphantly, entering the room.

We both stood up.

‘What became of Matrona?’ I asked.

Karataev waved his hand.

A year after my meeting with Karataev, I happened to go to Moscow. One day, before dinner, for some reason or other I went into a
café
in the Ohotny row — an original Moscow
café
. In the billiard - room, across clouds of smoke, I caught glimpses of flushed faces, whiskers, old - fashioned Hungarian coats, and new - fangled Slavonic costumes.

Thin little old men in sober surtouts were reading the Russian papers. The waiters flitted airily about with trays, treading softly on the green carpets. Merchants, with painful concentration, were drinking tea. Suddenly a man came out of the billiard - room, rather dishevelled, and not quite steady on his legs. He put his hands in his pockets, bent his head, and looked aimlessly about.

‘Ba, ba, ba! Piotr Petrovitch!... How are you?’

Piotr Petrovitch almost fell on my neck, and, slightly staggering, drew me into a small private room.

‘Come here,’ he said, carefully seating me in an easy - chair; ‘here you will be comfortable. Waiter, beer! No, I mean champagne! There, I’ll confess, I didn’t expect; I didn’t expect... Have you been here long? Are you staying much longer? Well, God has brought us, as they say, together.’

‘Yes, do you remember...’

‘To be sure, I remember; to be sure, I remember!’ he interrupted me hurriedly; ‘it’s a thing of the past...’

‘Well, what are you doing here, my dear Piotr Petrovitch?’

‘I’m living, as you can see. Life’s first - rate here; they’re a merry lot here. Here I’ve found peace.’

And he sighed, and raised his eyes towards heaven.

‘Are you in the service?’

‘No, I’m not in the service yet, but I think I shall enter. But what’s the service?... People are the chief thing. What people I have got to know here!...’

A boy came in with a bottle of champagne on a black tray.

‘There, and this is a good fellow.... Isn’t that true, Vasya, that you’re a good fellow? To your health!’

The boy stood a minute, shook his head, decorously smiled, and went out.

‘Yes, there are capital people here,’ pursued Piotr Petrovitch; ‘people of soul, of feeling.... Would you like me to introduce you? — such jolly chaps.... They’ll all be glad to know you. I say... Bobrov is dead; that’s a sad thing.’

‘What Bobrov?’

‘Sergay Bobrov; he was a capital fellow; he took me under his wing as an ignoramus from the wilds. And Panteley Gornostaev is dead. All dead, all!’

‘Have you been living all the time in Moscow? You haven’t been away to the country?’

‘To the country!... My country place is sold.’