Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (300 page)

One Sunday after matins, in which he invariably officiated at the altar, Semyon Matveitch sent for me. Till that day I had seen him by glimpses, and he seemed not to have noticed me. He received me in his study, standing at the window. He was wearing an official uniform with two stars. I stood still, near the door; my heart was beating violently from fear and from another feeling, vague as yet, but still oppressive. ‘I wish to see you, young lady,’ began Semyon Matveitch, glancing first at my feet, and then suddenly into my eyes. The look was like a slap in the face. ‘I wished to see you to inform you of my decision, and to assure you of my unhesitating inclination to be of service to you.’ He raised his voice. ‘Claims, of course, you have none, but as... my brother’s reader you may always reckon on my... my consideration. I am... of course convinced of your good sense and of your principles. Mr. Ratsch, your stepfather, has already received from me the necessary instructions. To which I must add that your attractive exterior seems to me a pledge of the excellence of your sentiments.’ Semyon Matveitch went off into a thin chuckle, while I... I was not offended exactly... but I suddenly felt very sorry for myself... and at that moment I fully realised how utterly forsaken and alone I was. Semyon Matveitch went with short, firm steps to the table, took a roll of notes out of the drawer, and putting it in my hand, he added: ‘Here is a small sum from me for pocket - money. I won’t forget you in future, my pretty; but good - bye for the present, and be a good girl.’ I took the roll mechanically: I should have taken anything he had offered me, and going back to my own room, a long while I wept, sitting on my bed. I did not notice that I had dropped the roll of notes on the floor. Mr. Ratsch found it and picked it up, and, asking me what I meant to do with it, kept it for himself.

An important change had taken place in his fortunes too in those days. After a few conversations with Semyon Matveitch, he became a great favourite, and soon after received the position of head steward. From that time dates his cheerfulness, that eternal laugh of his; at first it was an effort to adapt himself to his patron... in the end it became a habit. It was then, too, that he became a Russian patriot. Semyon Matveitch was an admirer of everything national, he called himself ‘a true Russian bear,’ and ridiculed the European dress, which he wore however. He sent away to a remote village a cook, on whose training Ivan Matveitch had spent vast sums: he sent him away because he had not known how to prepare pickled giblets.

Semyon Matveitch used to stand at the altar and join in the responses with the deacons, and when the serf - girls were brought together to dance and sing choruses, he would join in their songs too, and beat time with his feet, and pinch their cheeks.... But he soon went back to Petersburg, leaving my stepfather practically in complete control of the whole property.

Bitter days began for me.... My one consolation was music, and I gave myself up to it with my whole soul. Fortunately Mr. Ratsch was very fully occupied, but he took every opportunity to make me feel his hostility; as he had promised, he ‘did not forget’ my refusal. He ill - treated me, made me copy his long and lying reports to Semyon Matveitch, and correct for him the mistakes in spelling. I was forced to obey him absolutely, and I did obey him. He announced that he meant to tame me, to make me as soft as silk. ‘What do you mean by those mutinous eyes?’ he shouted sometimes at dinner, drinking his beer, and slapping the table with his hand. ‘You think, maybe, you’re as silent as a sheep, so you must be all right.... Oh, no! You’ll please look at me like a sheep too!’ My position became a torture, insufferable,... my heart was growing bitter. Something dangerous began more and more frequently to stir within it. I passed nights without sleep and without a light, thinking, thinking incessantly; and in the darkness without and the gloom within, a fearful determination began to shape itself. The arrival of Semyon Matveitch gave another turn to my thoughts.

No one had expected him. It turned out that he was retiring in unpleasant circumstances; he had hoped to receive the Alexander ribbon, and they had presented him with a snuff - box. Discontented with the government, which had failed to appreciate his talents, and with Petersburg society, which had shown him little sympathy, and did not share his indignation, he determined to settle in the country, and devote himself to the management of his property. He arrived alone. His son, Mihail Semyonitch, arrived later, in the holidays for the New Year. My stepfather was scarcely ever out of Semyon Matveitch’s room; he still stood high in his good graces. He left me in peace; he had no time for me then... Semyon Matveitch had taken it into his head to start a paper factory. Mr. Ratsch had no knowledge whatever of manufacturing work, and Semyon Matveitch was aware of the fact; but then my stepfather was an active man (the favourite expression just then), an ‘Araktcheev!’ That was just what Semyon Matveitch used to call him — ’my Araktcheev!’ ‘That’s all I want,’ Semyon Matveitch maintained; ‘if there is zeal, I myself will direct it.’ In the midst of his numerous occupations — he had to superintend the factory, the estate, the foundation of a counting - house, the drawing up of counting - house regulations, the creation of new offices and duties — Semyon Matveitch still had time to attend to me.

I was summoned one evening to the drawing - room, and set to play the piano. Semyon Matveitch cared for music even less than his brother; he praised and thanked me, however, and next day I was invited to dine at the master’s table. After dinner Semyon Matveitch had rather a long conversation with me, asked me questions, laughed at some of my replies, though there was, I remember, nothing amusing in them, and stared at me so strangely... I felt uncomfortable. I did not like his eyes, I did not like their open expression, their clear glance.... It always seemed to me that this very openness concealed something evil, that under that clear brilliance it was dark within in his soul. ‘You shall not be my reader,’ Semyon Matveitch announced to me at last, prinking and setting himself to rights in a repulsive way. ‘I am, thank God, not blind yet, and can read myself; but coffee will taste better to me from your little hands, and I shall listen to your playing with pleasure.’ From that day I always went over to the big house to dinner, and sometimes remained in the drawing - room till evening. I too, like my stepfather, was in favour: it was not a source of joy for me. Semyon Matveitch, I am bound to own, showed me a certain respect, but in the man there was, I felt it, something that repelled and alarmed me. And that ‘something’ showed itself not in words, but in his eyes, in those wicked eyes, and in his laugh. He never spoke to me of my father, of his brother, and it seemed to me that he avoided the subject, not because he did not want to excite ambitious ideas or pretensions in me, but from another cause, to which I could not give a definite shape, but which made me blush and feel bewildered.... Towards Christmas came his son, Mihail Semyonitch.

Ah, I feel I cannot go on as I have begun; these memories are too painful. Especially now I cannot tell my story calmly.... But what is the use of concealment? I loved Michel, and he loved me.

How it came to pass — I am not going to describe that either. From the very evening when he came into the drawing - room — I was at the piano, playing a sonata of Weber’s when he came in — handsome and slender, in a velvet coat lined with sheepskin and high gaiters, just as he was, straight from the frost outside, and shaking his snow - sprinkled, sable cap, before he had greeted his father, glanced swiftly at me, and wondered — I knew that from that evening I could never forget him — I could never forget that good, young face. He began to speak... and his voice went straight to my heart.... A manly and soft voice, and in every sound such a true, honest nature!

Semyon Matveitch was delighted at his son’s arrival, embraced him, but at once asked, ‘For a fortnight, eh? On leave, eh?’ and sent me away.

I sat a long while at my window, and gazed at the lights flitting to and fro in the rooms of the big house. I watched them, I listened to the new, unfamiliar voices; I was attracted by the cheerful commotion, and something new, unfamiliar, bright, flitted into my soul too.... The next day before dinner I had my first conversation with him. He had come across to see my stepfather with some message from Semyon Matveitch, and he found me in our little sitting - room. I was getting up to go; he detained me. He was very lively and unconstrained in all his movements and words, but of superciliousness or arrogance, of the tone of Petersburg superiority, there was not a trace in him, and nothing of the officer, of the guardsman.... On the contrary, in the very freedom of his manner there was something appealing, almost shamefaced, as though he were begging you to overlook something. Some people’s eyes are never laughing, even at the moment of laughter; with
him
it was the lips that almost never changed their beautiful line, while his eyes were almost always smiling. So we chatted for about an hour... what about I don’t remember; I remember only that I looked him straight in the face all the while, and oh, how delightfully at ease I felt with him!

In the evening I played on the piano. He was very fond of music, and he sat down in a low chair, and laying his curly head on his arm, he listened intently. He did not once praise me, but I felt that he liked my playing, and I played with ardour. Semyon Matveitch, who was sitting near his son, looking through some plans, suddenly frowned. ‘Come, madam,’ he said, smoothing himself down and buttoning himself up, as his manner was, ‘that’s enough; why are you trilling away like a canary? It’s enough to make one’s head ache. For us old folks you wouldn’t exert yourself so, no fear...’ he added in an undertone, and again he sent me away. Michel followed me to the door with his eyes, and got up from his seat. ‘Where are you off to? Where are you off to?’ cried Semyon Matveitch, and he suddenly laughed, and then said something more... I could not catch his words; but Mr. Ratsch, who was present, sitting in a corner of the drawing - room (he was always ‘present,’ and that time he had brought in the plans), laughed, and his laugh reached my ears.... The same thing, or almost the same thing, was repeated the following evening... Semyon Matveitch grew suddenly cooler to me.

Four days later I met Michel in the corridor that divided the big house in two. He took me by the hand, and led me to a room near the dining - room, which was called the portrait gallery. I followed him, not without emotion, but with perfect confidence. Even then, I believe, I would have followed him to the end of the world, though I had as yet no suspicion of all that he was to me. Alas, I loved him with all the passion, all the despair of a young creature who not only has no one to love, but feels herself an uninvited and unnecessary guest among strangers, among enemies!... Michel said to me — and it was strange! I looked boldly, directly in his face, while he did not look at me, and flushed slightly — he said to me that he understood my position, and sympathised with me, and begged me to forgive his father.... ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he added, ‘I beseech you always to trust me, and believe me, to me you ‘re a sister — yes, a sister.’ Here he pressed my hand warmly. I was confused, it was my turn to look down; I had somehow expected something else, some other word. I began to thank him. ‘No, please,’ — he cut me short — ’don’t talk like that.... But remember, it’s a brother’s duty to defend his sister, and if you ever need protection, against any one whatever, rely upon me. I have not been here long, but I have seen a good deal already... and among other things, I see through your stepfather.’ He squeezed my hand again, and left me.

I found out later that Michel had felt an aversion for Mr. Ratsch from his very first meeting with him. Mr. Ratsch tried to ingratiate himself with him too, but becoming convinced of the uselessness of his efforts, promptly took up himself an attitude of hostility to him, and not only did not disguise it from Semyon Matveitch, but, on the contrary, lost no opportunity of showing it, expressing, at the same time, his regret that he had been so unlucky as to displease the young heir. Mr. Ratsch had carefully studied Semyon Matveitch’s character; his calculations did not lead him astray. ‘This man’s devotion to me admits of no doubt, for the very reason that after I am gone he will be ruined; my heir cannot endure him.’... This idea grew and strengthened in the old man’s head. They say all persons in power, as they grow old, are readily caught by that bait, the bait of exclusive personal devotion....

Semyon Matveitch had good reason to call Mr. Ratsch his Araktcheev.... He might well have called him another name too. ‘You’re not one to make difficulties,’ he used to say to him. He had begun in this condescendingly familiar tone with him from the very first, and my stepfather would gaze fondly at Semyon Matveitch, let his head droop deprecatingly on one side, and laugh with good - humoured simplicity, as though to say, ‘Here I am, entirely in your hands.’

Ah, I feel my hands shaking, and my heart’s thumping against the table on which I write at this moment. It’s terrible for me to recall those days, and my blood boils.... But I will tell everything to the end... to the end!

A new element had come into Mr. Ratsch’s treatment of me during my brief period of favour. He began to be deferential to me, to be respectfully familiar with me, as though I had grown sensible, and become more on a level with him. ‘You’ve done with your airs and graces,’ he said to me one day, as we were going back from the big house to the lodge. ‘Quite right too! All those fine principles and delicate sentiments — moral precepts in fact — are not for us, young lady, they’re not for poor folks.’