Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (305 page)

At last the farewell was over. They began closing the coffin. During the whole service I had not courage to look straight at the poor girl’s distorted face; but every time that my eyes passed by it — ’he did not come, he did not come,’ it seemed to me that it wanted to say. They were just going to lower the lid upon the coffin. I could not restrain myself: I turned a rapid glance on to the dead woman. ‘Why did you do it?’ I was unconsciously asking.... ‘He did not come!’ I fancied for the last time.... The hammer was knocking in the nails, and all was over.

XXVII

We followed the hearse towards the cemetery. We were forty in number, of all sorts and conditions, nothing else really than an idle crowd. The wearisome journey lasted more than an hour. The weather became worse and worse. Halfway there Viktor got into a carriage, but Mr. Ratsch stepped gallantly on through the sloppy snow; just so must he have stepped through the snow when, after the fateful interview with Semyon Matveitch, he led home with him in triumph the girl whose life he had ruined for ever. The ‘veteran’s’ hair and eyebrows were edged with snow; he kept blowing and uttering exclamations, or manfully drawing deep breaths and puffing out his round, dark - red cheeks.... One really might have thought he was laughing. ‘On my death the pension was to pass to Ivan Demianitch’; these words from Susanna’s manuscript recurred again to my mind. We reached the cemetery at last; we moved up to a freshly dug grave. The last ceremony was quickly performed; all were chilled through, all were in haste. The coffin slid on cords into the yawning hole; they began to throw earth on it. Mr. Ratsch here too showed the energy of his spirit, so rapidly, with such force and vigour, did he fling clods of earth on to the coffin lid, throwing himself into an heroic pose, with one leg planted firmly before him... he could not have shown more energy if he had been stoning his bitterest foe. Viktor, as before, held himself aloof; he kept muffling himself up in his coat, and rubbing his chin in the fur of his collar. Mr. Ratsch’s other children eagerly imitated their father. Flinging sand and earth was a source of great enjoyment to them, for which, of course, they were in no way to blame. A mound began to rise up where the hole had been; we were on the point of separating, when Mr. Ratsch, wheeling round to the left in soldierly fashion, and slapping himself on the thigh, announced to all of us ‘gentlemen present,’ that he invited us, and also the ‘reverend clergy,’ to a ‘funeral banquet,’ which had been arranged at no great distance from the cemetery, in the chief saloon of an extremely superior restaurant, ‘thanks to the kind offices of our honoured friend Sigismund Sigismundovitch.’... At these words he indicated the assistant of the police superintendent, and added that for all his grief and his Lutheran faith, he, Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, as a genuine Russian, put the old Russian usages before everything. ‘My spouse,’ he cried, ‘with the ladies that have accompanied her, may go home, while we gentlemen commemorate in a modest repast the shade of Thy departed servant!’ Mr. Ratsch’s proposal was received with genuine sympathy; ‘the reverend clergy’ exchanged expressive glances with one another, while the officer of roads and highways slapped Ivan Demianitch on the shoulder, and called him a patriot and the soul of the company.

We set off all together to the restaurant. In the restaurant, in the middle of a long, wide, and quite empty room on the first storey, stood two tables laid for dinner, covered with bottles and eatables, and surrounded by chairs. The smell of whitewash, mingled with the odours of spirits and salad oil, was stifling and oppressive. The police superintendent’s assistant, as the organiser of the banquet, placed the clergy in the seats of honour, near which the Lenten dishes were crowded together conspicuously; after the priests the other guests took their seats; the banquet began. I would not have used such a festive word as banquet by choice, but no other word would have corresponded with the real character of the thing. At first the proceedings were fairly quiet, even slightly mournful; jaws munched busily, and glasses were emptied, but sighs too were audible — possibly sighs of digestion, but possibly also of feeling. There were references to death, allusions to the brevity of human life, and the fleeting nature of earthly hopes. The officer of roads and highways related a military but still edifying anecdote. The priest in the calotte expressed his approval, and himself contributed an interesting fact from the life of the saint, Ivan the Warrior. The priest with the superbly arranged hair, though his attention was chiefly engrossed by the edibles, gave utterance to something improving on the subject of chastity. But little by little all this changed. Faces grew redder, and voices grew louder, and laughter reasserted itself; one began to hear disconnected exclamations, caressing appellations, after the manner of ‘dear old boy,’ ‘dear heart alive,’ ‘old cock,’ and even ‘a pig like that’ — everything, in fact, of which the Russian nature is so lavish, when, as they say, ‘it comes unbuttoned.’ By the time that the corks of home - made champagne were popping, the party had become noisy; some one even crowed like a cock, while another guest was offering to bite up and swallow the glass out of which he had just been drinking. Mr. Ratsch, no longer red but purple, suddenly rose from his seat; he had been guffawing and making a great noise before, but now he asked leave to make a speech. ‘Speak! Out with it!’ every one roared; the old man in the smock even bawled ‘bravo!’ and clapped his hands... but he was already sitting on the floor. Mr. Ratsch lifted his glass high above his head, and announced that he proposed in brief but ‘impressionable’ phrases to refer to the qualities of the noble soul which,’leaving here, so to say, its earthly husk (die irdische Hülle) has soared to heaven, and plunged...’ Mr. Ratsch corrected himself: ‘and plashed....’ He again corrected himself: ‘and plunged...’

‘Father deacon! Reverend sir! My good soul!’ we heard a subdued but insistent whisper, ‘they say you’ve a devilish good voice; honour us with a song, strike up: “We live among the fields!”‘

‘Sh! sh!... Shut up there!’ passed over the lips of the guests.

...’Plunged all her devoted family,’ pursued Mr. Ratsch, turning a severe glance in the direction of the lover of music, ‘plunged all her family into the most irreplaceable grief! Yes!’ cried Ivan Demianitch, ‘well may the Russian proverb say, “Fate spares not the rod.”...’

‘Stop! Gentlemen!’ shouted a hoarse voice at the end of the table, ‘my purse has just been stolen!...’

‘Ah, the swindler!’ piped another voice, and slap! went a box on the ear.

Heavens! What followed then! It was as though the wild beast, till then only growling and faintly stirring within us, had suddenly broken from its chains and reared up, ruffled and fierce in all its hideousness. It seemed as though every one had been secretly expecting ‘a scandal,’ as the natural outcome and sequel of a banquet, and all, as it were, rushed to welcome it, to support it.... Plates, glasses clattered and rolled about, chairs were upset, a deafening din arose, hands were waving in the air, coat - tails were flying, and a fight began in earnest.

‘Give it him! give it him!’ roared like mad my neighbour, the fishmonger, who had till that instant seemed to be the most peaceable person in the world; it is true he had been silently drinking some dozen glasses of spirits. ‘Thrash him!...’

Who was to be thrashed, and what he was to be thrashed for, he had no idea, but he bellowed furiously.

The police superintendent’s assistant, the officer of roads and highways, and Mr. Ratsch, who had probably not expected such a speedy termination to his eloquence, tried to restore order... but their efforts were unavailing. My neighbour, the fishmonger, even fell foul of Mr. Ratsch himself.

‘He’s murdered the young woman, the blasted German,’ he yelled at him, shaking his fists; ‘he’s bought over the police, and here he’s crowing over it!!’

At this point the waiters ran in.... What happened further I don’t know; I snatched up my cap in all haste, and made off as fast as my legs would carry me! All I remember is a fearful crash; I recall, too, the remains of a herring in the hair of the old man in the smock, a priest’s hat flying right across the room, the pale face of Viktor huddled up in a corner, and a red beard in the grasp of a muscular hand.... Such were the last impressions I carried away of the ‘memorial banquet,’ arranged by the excellent Sigismund Sigismundovitch in honour of poor Susanna.

After resting a little, I set off to see Fustov, and told him all of which I had been a witness during that day. He listened to me, sitting still, and not raising his head, and putting both hands under his legs, he murmured again, ‘Ah! my poor girl, my poor girl!’ and again lay down on the sofa and turned his back on me.

A week later he seemed to have quite got over it, and took up his life as before. I asked him for Susanna’s manuscript as a keepsake: he gave it me without raising any objection.

XXVIII

Several years passed by. My aunt was dead; I had left Moscow and settled in Petersburg. Fustov too had moved to Petersburg. He had entered the department of the Ministry of Finance, but we rarely met and I saw nothing much in him then. An official like every one else, and nothing more! If he is still living and not married, he is, most likely, unchanged to this day; he carves and carpenters and uses dumb - bells, and is as much a lady - killer as ever, and sketches Napoleon in a blue uniform in the albums of his lady friends. It happened that I had to go to Moscow on business. In Moscow I learned, with considerable surprise, that the fortunes of my former acquaintance, Mr. Ratsch, had taken an adverse turn. His wife had, indeed, presented him with twins, two boys, whom as a true Russian he had christened Briacheslav and Viacheslav, but his house had been burnt down, he had been forced to retire from his position, and worst of all, his eldest son, Viktor, had become practically a permanent inmate of the debtors’ prison. During my stay in Moscow, among a company at a friendly gathering, I chanced to hear an allusion made to Susanna, and a most slighting, most insulting allusion! I did all I could to defend the memory of the unhappy girl, to whom fate had denied even the charity of oblivion, but my arguments did not make much impression on my audience. One of them, a young student poet, was, however, a little moved by my words. He sent me next day a poem, which I have forgotten, but which ended in the following four lines:

 
‘Her tomb lies cold, forlorn, but even death

  
Her gentle spirit’s memory cannot save

  
From the sly voice of slander whispering on,

  
Withering the flowers on her forsaken tomb....’

I read these lines and unconsciously sank into musing. Susanna’s image rose before me; once more I seemed to see the frozen window in my room; I recalled that evening and the blustering snowstorm, and those words, those sobs.... I began to ponder how it was possible to explain Susanna’s love for Fustov, and why she had so quickly, so impulsively given way to despair, as soon as she saw herself forsaken. How was it she had had no desire to wait a little, to hear the bitter truth from the lips of the man she loved, to write to him, even? How could she fling herself at once headlong into the abyss? Because she was passionately in love with Fustov, I shall be told; because she could not bear the slightest doubt of his devotion, of his respect for her. Perhaps; or perhaps because she was not at all so passionately in love with Fustov; that she did not deceive herself about him, but simply rested her last hopes on him, and could not get over the thought that even this man had at once, at the first breath of slander, turned away from her with contempt! Who can say what killed her; wounded pride, or the wretchedness of her helpless position, or the very memory of that first, noble, true - hearted nature to whom she had so joyfully pledged herself in the morning of her early days, who had so deeply trusted her, and so honoured her? Who knows; perhaps at the very instant when I fancied that her dead lips were murmuring, ‘he did not come!’ her soul was rejoicing that she had gone herself to him, to her Michel? The secrets of human life are great, and love itself, the most impenetrable of those secrets.... Anyway, to this day, whenever the image of Susanna rises before me, I cannot overcome a feeling of pity for her, and of angry reproach against fate, and my lips whisper instinctively, ‘Unhappy girl! unhappy girl!’

1868.

I

A regiment of cuirassiers was quartered in 1829 in the village of Kirilovo, in the K — - province. That village, with its huts and hay - stacks, its green hemp - patches, and gaunt willows, looked from a distance like an island in a boundless sea of ploughed, black - earth fields. In the middle of the village was a small pond, invariably covered with goose feathers, with muddy, indented banks; a hundred paces from the pond, on the other side of the road, rose the wooden manor - house, long, empty, and mournfully slanting on one side. Behind the house stretched the deserted garden; in the garden grew old apple - trees that bore no fruit, and tall birch - trees, full of rooks’ nests. At the end of the principal garden - walk, in a little house, once the bath - house, lived a decrepit old steward. Every morning, gasping and groaning, he would, from years of habit, drag himself across the garden to the seignorial apartments, though there was nothing to take care of in them except a dozen white arm - chairs, upholstered in faded stuff, two podgy chests on carved legs with copper handles, four pictures with holes in them, and one black alabaster Arab with a broken nose. The owner of the house, a careless young man, lived partly at Petersburg, partly abroad, and had completely forgotten his estate. It had come to him eight years before, from a very old uncle, once noted all over the countryside for his excellent liqueurs. The empty, dark - green bottles are to this day lying about in the storeroom, in company with rubbish of all sorts, old manuscript books in parti - coloured covers, scantily filled with writing, old - fashioned glass lustres, a nobleman’s uniform of the Catherine period, a rusty sabre with a steel handle and so forth. In one of the lodges of the great house the colonel himself took up his abode. He was a married man, tall, sparing of his words, grim and sleepy. In another lodge lived the regimental adjutant, an emotional person of fine sentiments and many perfumes, fond of flowers and female society. The social life of the officers of this regiment did not differ from any other kind of society. Among their number were good people and bad, clever and silly.... One of them, a certain Avdey Ivanovitch Lutchkov, staff captain, had a reputation as a duellist. Lutchkov was a short and not thick - set man; he had a small, yellowish, dry face, lank, black hair, unnoticeable features, and dark, little eyes. He had early been left an orphan, and had grown up among privations and hardships. For weeks together he would be quiet enough,... and then all at once — as though he were possessed by some devil — he would let no one alone, annoying everybody, staring every one insolently in the face; trying, in fact, to pick a quarrel. Avdey Ivanovitch did not, however, hold aloof from intercourse with his comrades, but he was not on intimate terms with any one but the perfumed adjutant. He did not play cards, and did not drink spirits.

In the May of 1829, not long before the beginning of the manoeuvres, there joined the regiment a young cornet, Fyodor Fedorovitch Kister, a Russian nobleman of German extraction, very fair - haired and very modest, cultivated and well read. He had lived up to his twentieth year in the home of his fathers, under the wings of his mother, his grandmother, and his two aunts. He was going into the army in deference solely to the wishes of his grandmother, who even in her old age could not see a white plumed helmet without emotion.... He served with no special enthusiasm but with energy, as it were conscientiously doing his duty. He was not a dandy, but was always cleanly dressed and in good taste. On the day of his arrival Fyodor Fedoritch paid his respects to his superior officers, and then proceeded to arrange his quarters. He had brought with him some cheap furniture, rugs, shelves, and so forth. He papered all the walls and the doors, put up some screens, had the yard cleaned, fixed up a stable, and a kitchen, even arranged a place for a bath.... For a whole week he was busily at work; but it was a pleasure afterwards to go into his room. Before the window stood a neat table, covered with various little things; in one corner was a set of shelves for books, with busts of Schiller and Goethe; on the walls hung maps, four Grevedon heads, and guns; near the table was an elegant row of pipes with clean mouthpieces; there was a rug in the outer room; all the doors shut and locked; the windows were hung with curtains. Everything in Fyodor Fedoritch’s room had a look of cleanliness and order.

It was quite a different thing in his comrades’ quarters. Often one could scarcely make one’s way across the muddy yard; in the outer room, behind a canvas screen, with its covering peeling off it, would lie stretched the snoring orderly; on the floor rotten straw; on the stove, boots and a broken jam - pot full of blacking; in the room itself a warped card - table, marked with chalk; on the table, glasses, half - full of cold, dark - brown tea; against the wall, a wide, rickety, greasy sofa; on the window - sills, tobacco - ash.... In a podgy, clumsy arm - chair one would find the master of the place in a grass - green dressing - gown with crimson plush facings and an embroidered smoking - cap of Asiatic extraction, and a hideously fat, unpleasant dog in a stinking brass collar would be snoring at his side.... All the doors always ajar....

Fyodor Fedoritch made a favourable impression on his new comrades. They liked him for his good - nature, modesty, warm - heartedness, and natural inclination for everything beautiful, for everything, in fact, which in another officer they might, very likely, have thought out of place. They called Kister a young lady, and were kind and gentle in their manners with him. Avdey Ivanovitch was the only one who eyed him dubiously. One day after drill Lutchkov went up to him, slightly pursing up his lips and inflating his nostrils:

‘Good - morning, Mr. Knaster.’

Kister looked at him in some perplexity.

‘A very good day to you, Mr. Knaster,’ repeated Lutchkov.

‘My name’s Kister, sir.’

‘You don’t say so, Mr. Knaster.’

Fyodor Fedoritch turned his back on him and went homewards. Lutchkov looked after him with a grin.

Next day, directly after drill he went up to Kister again.

‘Well, how are you getting on, Mr. Kinderbalsam?’

Kister was angry, and looked him straight in the face. Avdey Ivanovitch’s little bilious eyes were gleaming with malignant glee.

‘I’m addressing you, Mr. Kinderbalsam!’

‘Sir,’ Fyodor Fedoritch replied, ‘I consider your joke stupid and ill - bred — do you hear? — stupid and ill - bred.’

‘When shall we fight?’ Lutchkov responded composedly.

‘When you like,... to - morrow.’

Next morning they fought a duel. Lutchkov wounded Kister slightly, and to the extreme astonishment of the seconds went up to the wounded man, took him by the hand and begged his pardon. Kister had to keep indoors for a fortnight. Avdey Ivanovitch came several times to ask after him and on Fyodor Fedoritch’s recovery made friends with him. Whether he was pleased by the young officer’s pluck, or whether a feeling akin to remorse was roused in his soul — it’s hard to say... but from the time of his duel with Kister, Avdey Ivanovitch scarcely left his side, and called him first Fyodor, and afterwards simply Fedya. In his presence he became quite another man and — strange to say! — the change was not in his favour. It did not suit him to be gentle and soft. Sympathy he could not call forth in any one anyhow; such was his destiny! He belonged to that class of persons to whom has somehow been granted the privilege of authority over others; but nature had denied him the gifts essential for the justification of such a privilege. Having received no education, not being distinguished by intelligence, he ought not to have revealed himself; possibly his malignancy had its origin in his consciousness of the defects of his bringing up, in the desire to conceal himself altogether under one unchanging mask. Avdey Ivanovitch had at first forced himself to despise people, then he began to notice that it was not a difficult matter to intimidate them, and he began to despise them in reality. Lutchkov enjoyed cutting short by his very approach all but the most vulgar conversation. ‘I know nothing, and have learned nothing, and I have no talents,’ he said to himself; ‘and so you too shall know nothing and not show off your talents before me....’ Kister, perhaps, had made Lutchkov abandon the part he had taken up — just because before his acquaintance with him, the bully had never met any one genuinely idealistic, that is to say, unselfishly and simple - heartedly absorbed in dreams, and so, indulgent to others, and not full of himself.

Avdey Ivanovitch would come sometimes to Kister, light a pipe and quietly sit down in an arm - chair. Lutchkov was not in Kister’s company abashed by his own ignorance; he relied — and with good reason — on his German modesty.

‘Well,’ he would begin, ‘what did you do yesterday? Been reading, I’ll bet, eh?’

‘Yes, I read....’

‘Well, and what did you read? Come, tell away, old man, tell away.’ Avdey Ivanovitch kept up his bantering tone to the end.

‘I read Kleist’s
Idyll
. Ah, what a fine thing it is! If you don’t mind, I’ll translate you a few lines....’ And Kister translated with fervour, while Lutchkov, wrinkling up his forehead and compressing his lips, listened attentively.... ‘Yes, yes,’ he would repeat hurriedly, with a disagreeable smile,’it’s fine... very fine... I remember, I’ve read it... very fine.’

‘Tell me, please,’ he added affectedly, and as it were reluctantly, ‘what’s your view of Louis the Fourteenth?’

And Kister would proceed to discourse upon Louis the Fourteenth, while Lutchkov listened, totally failing to understand a great deal, misunderstanding a part... and at last venturing to make a remark.... This threw him into a cold sweat; ‘now, if I’m making a fool of myself,’ he thought. And as a fact he often did make a fool of himself. But Kister was never off - hand in his replies; the good - hearted youth was inwardly rejoicing that, as he thought, the desire for enlightenment was awakened in a fellow - creature. Alas! it was from no desire for enlightenment that Avdey Ivanovitch questioned Kister; God knows why he did! Possibly he wished to ascertain for himself what sort of head he, Lutchkov, had, whether it was really dull, or simply untrained. ‘So I really am stupid,’ he said to himself more than once with a bitter smile; and he would draw himself up instantly and look rudely and insolently about him, and smile malignantly to himself if he caught some comrade dropping his eyes before his glance. ‘All right, my man, you’re so learned and well educated,...’ he would mutter between his teeth. ‘I’ll show you... that’s all....’

The officers did not long discuss the sudden friendship of Kister and Lutchkov; they were used to the duellist’s queer ways. ‘The devil’s made friends with the baby,’ they said.... Kister was warm in his praises of his friend on all hands; no one disputed his opinion, because they were afraid of Lutchkov; Lutchkov himself never mentioned Kister’s name before the others, but he dropped his intimacy with the perfumed adjutant.

II

The landowners of the South of Russia are very keen on giving balls, inviting officers to their houses, and marrying off their daughters.

About seven miles from the village of Kirilovo lived just such a country gentleman, a Mr. Perekatov, the owner of four hundred souls, and a fairly spacious house. He had a daughter of eighteen, Mashenka, and a wife, Nenila Makarievna. Mr. Perekatov had once been an officer in the cavalry, but from love of a country life and from indolence he had retired and had begun to live peaceably and quietly, as landowners of the middling sort do live. Nenila Makarievna owed her existence in a not perfectly legitimate manner to a distinguished gentleman of Moscow.

Her protector had educated his little Nenila very carefully, as it is called, in his own house, but got her off his hands rather hurriedly, at the first offer, as a not very marketable article. Nenila Makarievna was ugly; the distinguished gentleman was giving her no more than ten thousand as dowry; she snatched eagerly at Mr. Perekatov. To Mr. Perekatov it seemed extremely gratifying to marry a highly educated, intellectual young lady... who was, after all, so closely related to so illustrious a personage. This illustrious personage extended his patronage to the young people even after the marriage, that is to say, he accepted presents of salted quails from them and called Perekatov ‘my dear boy,’ and sometimes simply, ‘boy.’ Nenila Makarievna took complete possession of her husband, managed everything, and looked after the whole property — very sensibly, indeed; far better, any way, than Mr. Perekatov could have done. She did not hamper her partner’s liberty too much; but she kept him well in hand, ordered his clothes herself, and dressed him in the English style, as is fitting and proper for a country gentleman. By her instructions, Mr. Perekatov grew a little Napoleonic beard on his chin, to cover a large wart, which looked like an over - ripe raspberry. Nenila Makarievna, for her part, used to inform visitors that her husband played the flute, and that all flute - players always let the beard grow under the lower lip; they could hold their instrument more comfortably. Mr. Perekatov always, even in the early morning, wore a high, clean stock, and was well combed and washed. He was, moreover, well content with his lot; he dined very well, did as he liked, and slept all he could. Nenila Makarievna had introduced into her household ‘foreign ways,’ as the neighbours used to say; she kept few servants, and had them neatly dressed. She was fretted by ambition; she wanted at least to be the wife of the marshal of the nobility of the district; but the gentry of the district, though they dined at her house to their hearts’ content, did not choose her husband, but first the retired premier - major Burkolts, and then the retired second major Burundukov. Mr. Perekatov seemed to them too extreme a product of the capital.