Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (258 page)

‘Sold?’

‘By auction.... There! what a pity you didn’t buy it.’

‘What are you going to live on, Piotr Petrovitch?’

‘I shan’t die of hunger; God will provide when I’ve no money. I shall have friends. And what is money.... Dust and ashes! Gold is dust!’

He shut his eyes, felt in his pocket, and held out to me in the palm of his hand two sixpences and a penny.

‘What’s that? Isn’t it dust and ashes’ (and the money flew on the floor). ‘But you had better tell me, have you read Polezhaev?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you seen Motchalov in Hamlet?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘You’ve not seen him, not seen him!...’ (And Karataev’s face turned pale; his eyes strayed uneasily; he turned away; a faint spasm passed over his lips.) ‘Ah, Motchalov, Motchalov! “To die — to sleep!”‘ he said in a thick voice:

 
‘No more; and by a sleep to say we end

  
The heart - ache and the thousand natural shocks

  
That flesh is heir to; ‘tis a consummation

  
Devoutly to be wished. To die — to sleep!’

‘To sleep — to sleep,’ he muttered several times.

‘Tell me, please,’ I began; but he went on with fire:

 
‘Who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

  
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

  
The insolence of office and the spurns

  
That patient merit of the unworthy takes

  
When he himself might his quietus make

  
With a bare bodkin? Nymph in thy orisons

  
Be all my sins remembered.’

And he dropped his head on the table. He began stammering and talking at random. ‘Within a month’! he delivered with fresh fire:

 
‘A little month, or ere those shoes were old,

  
With which she followed my poor father’s body,

  
Like Niobe — all tears; why she, even she —

  
O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,

  
Would have mourned longer!’

He raised a glass of champagne to his lips, but did not drink off the wine, and went on:

 
‘For Hecuba!

  
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,

  
That he should weep for her?...

  
But I’m a dull and muddy mettled - rascal,

  
Who calls me coward? gives me the lie i’ the throat?

  
... Why I should take it; for it cannot be,

  
But I am pigeon - livered and lack gall

  
To make oppression bitter.’

Karataev put down the glass and grabbed at his head. I fancied I understood him.

‘Well, well,’ he said at last, ‘one must not rake up the past. Isn’t that so?’ (and he laughed). ‘To your health!’

‘Shall you stay in Moscow?’ I asked him.

‘I shall die in Moscow!’

‘Karataev!’ called a voice in the next room; ‘Karataev, where are you? Come here, my dear fellow!’

‘They’re calling me,’ he said, getting up heavily from his seat. ‘Good - bye; come and see me if you can; I live in....’

But next day, through unforeseen circumstances, I was obliged to leave Moscow, and I never saw Piotr Petrovitch Karataev again.

XIX

THE TRYST

I was sitting in a birchwood in autumn, about the middle of September. From early morning a fine rain had been falling, with intervals from time to time of warm sunshine; the weather was unsettled. The sky was at one time overcast with soft white clouds, at another it suddenly cleared in parts for an instant, and then behind the parting clouds could be seen a blue, bright and tender as a beautiful eye. I sat looking about and listening. The leaves faintly rustled over my head; from the sound of them alone one could tell what time of year it was. It was not the gay laughing tremor of the spring, nor the subdued whispering, the prolonged gossip of the summer, nor the chill and timid faltering of late autumn, but a scarcely audible, drowsy chatter. A slight breeze was faintly humming in the tree - tops. Wet with the rain, the copse in its inmost recesses was for ever changing as the sun shone or hid behind a cloud; at one moment it was all a radiance, as though suddenly everything were smiling in it; the slender stems of the thinly - growing birch - trees took all at once the soft lustre of white silk, the tiny leaves lying on the earth were on a sudden flecked and flaring with purplish gold, and the graceful stalks of the high, curly bracken, decked already in their autumn colour, the hue of an over - ripe grape, seemed interlacing in endless tangling crisscross before one’s eyes; then suddenly again everything around was faintly bluish; the glaring tints died away instantaneously, the birch - trees stood all white and lustreless, white as fresh - fallen snow, before the cold rays of the winter sun have caressed it; and slily, stealthily there began drizzling and whispering through the wood the finest rain. The leaves on the birches were still almost all green, though perceptibly paler; only here and there stood one young leaf, all red or golden, and it was a sight to see how it flamed in the sunshine when the sunbeams suddenly pierced with tangled flecks of light through the thick network of delicate twigs, freshly washed by the sparkling rain. Not one bird could be heard; all were in hiding and silent, except that at times there rang out the metallic, bell - like sound of the jeering tomtit. Before halting in this birch copse I had been through a wood of tall aspen - trees with my dog. I confess I have no great liking for that tree, the aspen, with its pale - lilac trunk and the greyish - green metallic leaves which it flings high as it can, and unfolds in a quivering fan in the air; I do not care for the eternal shaking of its round, slovenly leaves, awkwardly hooked on to long stalks. It is only fine on some summer evenings when, rising singly above low undergrowth, it faces the reddening beams of the setting sun, and shines and quivers, bathed from root to top in one unbroken yellow glow, or when, on a clear windy day, it is all rippling, rustling, and whispering to the blue sky, and every leaf is, as it were, taken by a longing to break away, to fly off and soar into the distance. But, as a rule, I don’t care for the tree, and so, not stopping to rest in the aspen wood, I made my way to the birch - copse, nestled down under one tree whose branches started low down near the ground, and were consequently capable of shielding me from the rain, and after admiring the surrounding view a little, I fell into that sweet untroubled sleep only known to sportsmen.

I cannot say how long I was asleep, but when I opened my eyes, all the depths of the wood were filled with sunlight, and in all directions across the joyously rustling leaves there were glimpses and, as it were, flashes of intense blue sky; the clouds had vanished, driven away by the blustering wind; the weather had changed to fair, and there was that feeling of peculiar dry freshness in the air which fills the heart with a sense of boldness, and is almost always a sure sign of a still bright evening after a rainy day. I was just about to get up and try my luck again when suddenly my eyes fell on a motionless human figure. I looked attentively; it was a young peasant girl. She was sitting twenty paces off, her head bent in thought, and her hands lying in her lap; one of them, half - open, held a big nosegay of wild flowers, which softly stirred on her checked petticoat with every breath. Her clean white smock, buttoned up at the throat and wrists, lay in short soft folds about her figure; two rows of big yellow beads fell from her neck to her bosom. She was very pretty. Her thick fair hair of a lovely, almost ashen hue, was parted into two carefully combed semicircles, under the narrow crimson fillet, which was brought down almost on to her forehead, white as ivory; the rest of her face was faintly tanned that golden hue which is only taken by a delicate skin. I could not see her eyes — she did not raise them; but I saw her delicate high eye - brows, her long lashes; they were wet, and on one of her cheeks there shone in the sun the traces of quickly drying tears, reaching right down to her rather pale lips. Her little head was very charming altogether; even her rather thick and snub nose did not spoil her. I was especially taken with the expression of her face; it was so simple and gentle, so sad and so full of childish wonder at its own sadness. She was obviously waiting for some one; something made a faint crackling in the wood; she raised her head at once, and looked round; in the transparent shade I caught a rapid glimpse of her eyes, large, clear, and timorous, like a fawn’s. For a few instants she listened, not moving her wide open eyes from the spot whence the faint sound had come; she sighed, turned her head slowly, bent still lower, and began sorting her flowers. Her eyelids turned red, her lips twitched faintly, and a fresh tear rolled from under her thick eyelashes, and stood brightly shining on her cheek. Rather a long while passed thus; the poor girl did not stir, except for a despairing movement of her hands now and then — and she kept listening, listening.... Again there was a crackling sound in the wood: she started. The sound did not cease, grew more distinct, and came closer; at last one could hear quick resolute footsteps. She drew herself up and seemed frightened; her intent gaze was all aquiver, all aglow with expectation. Through the thicket quickly appeared the figure of a man. She gazed at it, suddenly flushed, gave a radiant, blissful smile, tried to rise, and sank back again at once, turned white and confused, and only raised her quivering, almost supplicating eyes to the man approaching, when the latter stood still beside her.

I looked at him with curiosity from my ambush. I confess he did not make an agreeable impression on me. He was, to judge by external signs, the pampered valet of some rich young gentleman. His attire betrayed pretensions to style and fashionable carelessness; he wore a shortish coat of a bronze colour, doubtless from his master’s wardrobe, buttoned up to the top, a pink cravat with lilac ends, and a black velvet cap with a gold ribbon, pulled forward right on to his eyebrows. The round collar of his white shirt mercilessly propped up his ears and cut his cheeks, and his starched cuffs hid his whole hand to the red crooked fingers, adorned by gold and silver rings, with turquoise forget - me - nots. His red, fresh, impudent - looking face belonged to the order of faces which, as far as I have observed, are almost always repulsive to men, and unfortunately are very often attractive to women. He was obviously trying to give a scornful and bored expression to his coarse features; he was incessantly screwing up his milky grey eyes — small enough at all times; he scowled, dropped the corners of his mouth, affected to yawn, and with careless, though not perfectly natural nonchalance, pushed back his modishly curled red locks, or pinched the yellow hairs sprouting on his thick upper lip — in fact, he gave himself insufferable airs. He began his antics directly he caught sight of the young peasant girl waiting for him; slowly, with a swaggering step, he went up to her, stood a moment shrugging his shoulders, stuffed both hands in his coat pockets, and barely vouchsafing the poor girl a cursory and indifferent glance, he dropped on to the ground.

‘Well,’ he began, still gazing away, swinging his leg and yawning, ‘have you been here long?’

The girl could not at once answer.

‘Yes, a long while, Viktor Alexandritch,’ she said at last, in a voice hardly audible.

‘Ah!’ (He took off his cap, majestically passed his hand over his thick, stiffly curled hair, which grew almost down to his eyebrows, and looking round him with dignity, he carelessly covered his precious head again.) ‘And I quite forgot all about it. Besides, it rained!’ (He yawned again.) ‘Lots to do; there’s no looking after everything; and he’s always scolding. We set off to - morrow....’

‘To - morrow?’ uttered the young girl. And she fastened her startled eyes upon him.

‘Yes, to - morrow.... Come, come, come, please!’ he added, in a tone of vexation, seeing she was shaking all over and softly bending her head; ‘please, Akulina, don’t cry. You know, I can’t stand that.’ (And he wrinkled up his snub nose.) ‘Else I’ll go away at once.... What silliness — snivelling!’

‘There, I won’t, I won’t!’ cried Akulina, hurriedly gulping down her tears with an effort. ‘You are starting to - morrow?’ she added, after a brief silence: ‘when will God grant that we see each other again, Viktor Alexandritch?’

‘We shall see each other, we shall see each other. If not next year — then later. The master wants to enter the service in Petersburg, I fancy,’ he went on, pronouncing his words with careless condescension through his nose; ‘and perhaps we shall go abroad too.’

‘You will forget me, Viktor Alexandritch,’ said Akulina mournfully.

‘No, why so? I won’t forget you; only you be sensible, don’t be a fool; obey your father.... And I won’t forget you — no - o.’ (And he placidly stretched and yawned again.)

‘Don’t forget me, Viktor Alexandritch,’ she went on in a supplicating voice. ‘I think none could, love you as I do. I have given you everything.... You tell me to obey my father, Viktor Alexandritch.... But how can I obey my father?...’

‘Why not?’ (He uttered these words, as it were, from his stomach, lying on his back with his hands behind his head.)

‘But how can I, Viktor Alexandritch? — you know yourself...’

She broke off. Viktor played with his steel watch - chain.

‘You’re not a fool, Akulina,’ he said at last, ‘so don’t talk nonsense. I desire your good — do you understand me? To be sure, you’re not a fool — not altogether a mere rustic, so to say; and your mother, too, wasn’t always a peasant. Still you’ve no education — so you ought to do what you’re told.’

‘But it’s fearful, Viktor Alexandritch.’

‘O - oh! that’s nonsense, my dear; a queer thing to be afraid of! What have you got there?’ he added, moving closer to her; ‘flowers?’

‘Yes,’ Akulina responded dejectedly. ‘That’s some wild tansy I picked,’ she went on, brightening up a little; ‘it’s good for calves. And this is bud - marigold — against the king’s evil. Look, what an exquisite flower! I’ve never seen such a lovely flower before. These are forget - me - nots, and that’s mother - darling.... And these I picked for you,’ she added, taking from under a yellow tansy a small bunch of blue corn - flowers, tied up with a thin blade of grass.’ Do you like them?’

Viktor languidly held out his hand, took the flowers, carelessly sniffed at them, and began twirling them in his fingers, looking upwards. Akulina watched him.... In her mournful eyes there was such tender devotion, adoring submission and love. She was afraid of him, and did not dare to cry, and was saying good - bye to him and admiring him for the last time; while he lay, lolling like a sultan, and with magnanimous patience and condescension put up with her adoration. I must own, I glared indignantly at his red face, on which, under the affectation of scornful indifference, one could discern vanity soothed and satisfied. Akulina was so sweet at that instant; her whole soul was confidingly and passionately laid bare before him, full of longing and caressing tenderness, while he... he dropped the corn - flowers on the grass, pulled out of the side pocket of his coat a round eye - glass set in a brass rim, and began sticking it in his eye; but however much he tried to hold it with his frowning eyebrow, his pursed - up cheek and nose, the eye - glass kept tumbling out and falling into his hand.

‘What is it?’ Akulina asked at last in wonder.

‘An eye - glass,’ he answered with dignity.

‘What for?’

‘Why, to see better.’

‘Show me.’

Viktor scowled, but gave her the glass.

‘Don’t break it; look out.’

‘No fear, I won’t break it.’ (She put it to her eye.) ‘I see nothing,’ she said innocently.

‘But you must shut your eye,’ he retorted in the tones of a displeased teacher. (She shut the eye before which she held the glass.)

‘Not that one, not that one, you fool! the other!’ cried Viktor, and he took away his eye - glass, without allowing her to correct her mistake.