Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (338 page)

‘You took part, I see, sir, in the storming of Prague,’ I began, pointing to the St. George cross, ‘and won a sign of distinction, rare at any time, but particularly so then; you must remember Suvorov?’

‘Alexander Vassilitch?’ the brigadier answered, after a brief silence, in which he seemed to be pulling his thoughts together; ‘to be sure, I remember him; he was a little, brisk old man. Before one could stir a finger, he’d be here and there and everywhere (the brigadier chuckled). He rode into Warsaw on a Cossack horse; he was all in diamonds, and he says to the Poles: “I’ve no watch, I forgot it in Petersburg — no watch!” and they shouted and huzzaed for him. Queer chaps! Hey! Cucumber! lad!’ he added suddenly, changing and raising his voice (the deacon - buffoon had remained standing at the door), ‘where’s the rolls, eh? And tell Grunka … to bring some kvas!’

‘Directly, your honour,’ I heard Cucumber’s voice reply. He handed the brigadier the bundle of rolls, and, going out of the lodge, approached a dishevelled creature in rags — the half - witted girl, Grunka, I suppose — and as far as I could make out through the dusty little window, proceeded to demand kvas from her — at least, he several times raised one hand like a funnel to his mouth, and waved the other in our direction.

XII

I made another attempt to get into conversation with the brigadier; but he was evidently tired: he sank, sighing and groaning, on the little couch, and moaning, ‘Oy, oy, my poor bones, my poor bones,’ untied his garters. I remember I wondered at the time how a man came to be wearing garters. I did not realise that in former days every one wore them. The brigadier began yawning with prolonged, unconcealed yawns, not taking his drowsy eyes off me all the time; so very little children yawn. The poor old man did not even seem quite to understand my question…. And he had taken Prague! He, sword in hand, in the smoke and the dust — at the head of Suvorov’s soldiers, the bullet - pierced flag waving above him, the hideous corpses under his feet…. He … he! Wasn’t it wonderful! But yet I could not help fancying that there had been events more extraordinary in the brigadier’s life. Cucumber brought white kvas in an iron jug; the brigadier drank greedily — his hands shook. Cucumber supported the bottom of the jug. The old man carefully wiped his toothless mouth with both hands — and again staring at me, fell to chewing and munching his lips. I saw how it was, bowed, and went out of the room.

‘Now he’ll have a nap,’ observed Cucumber, coming out behind me. ‘He’s terribly knocked up to - day — he went to the grave early this morning.’

‘To whose grave?’

‘To Agrafena Ivanovna’s, to pay his devotions…. She is buried in our parish cemetery here; it’ll be four miles from here. Vassily Fomitch visits it every week without fail. Indeed, it was he who buried her and put the fence up at his own expense.’

‘Has she been dead long?’

‘Well, let’s think — twenty years about.’

‘Was she a friend of his, or what?’

‘Her whole life, you may say, she passed with him … really. I myself, I must own, never knew the lady, but they do say … what there was between them … well, well, well! Sir,’ the deacon added hurriedly, seeing I had turned away, ‘wouldn’t you like to give me something for another drop, for it’s time I was home in my hut and rolled up in my blanket?’

I thought it useless to question Cucumber further, so gave him a few coppers, and set off homewards.

XIII

At home I betook myself for further information to Narkiz. He, as I might have anticipated, was somewhat unapproachable, stood a little on his dignity, expressed his surprise that such paltry matters could ‘interest’ me, and, finally, told me what he knew. I heard the following details.

Vassily Fomitch Guskov had become acquainted with Agrafena Ivanovna Teliegin at Moscow soon after the suppression of the Polish insurrection; her husband had had a post under the governor - general, and Vassily Fomitch was on furlough. He fell in love with her there and then, but did not leave the army at once; he was a man of forty with no family, with a fortune. Her husband soon after died. She was left without children, poor, and in debt…. Vassily Fomitch heard of her position, threw up the service (he received the rank of brigadier on his retirement) and sought out his charming widow, who was not more than five - and - twenty, paid all her debts, redeemed her estate…. From that time he had never parted from her, and finished by living altogether in her house. She, too, seems to have cared for him, but would not marry him. ‘She was froward, the deceased lady,’ was Narkiz’s comment on this: ‘My liberty,’ she would say, ‘is dearer to me than anything.’ But as for making use of him — she made use of him ‘in every possible way,’ and whatever money he had, he dragged to her like an ant. But the frowardness of Agrafena Ivanovna at times assumed extreme proportions; she was not of a mild temper, and somewhat too ready with her hands…. Once she pushed her page - boy down the stairs, and he went and broke two of his ribs and one leg…. Agrafena Ivanovna was frightened … she promptly ordered the page to be shut up in the lumber - room, and she did not leave the house nor give up the key of the room to any one, till the moans within had ceased…. The page was secretly buried…. ‘And had it been in the Empress Catherine’s time,’ Narkiz added in a whisper, bending down, ‘maybe the affair would have ended there — many such deeds were hidden under a bushel in those days, but as …’ here Narkiz drew himself up and raised his voice:’ as our righteous Tsar Alexander the Blessed was reigning then … well, a fuss was made…. A trial followed, the body was dug up … signs of violence were found on it … and a great to - do there was. And what do you think? Vassily Fomitch took it all on himself. “I,” said he, “am responsible for it all; it was I pushed him down, and I too shut him up.” Well, of course, all the judges then, and the lawyers and the police … fell on him directly … fell on him and never let him go … I can assure you … till the last farthing was out of his purse. They’d leave him in peace for a while, and then attack him again. Down to the very time when the French came into Russia they were worrying at him, and only dropped him then. Well, he managed to provide for Agrafena Ivanovna — to be sure, he saved her — that one must say. Well, and afterwards, up to her death, indeed, he lived with her, and they do say she led him a pretty dance — the brigadier, that is; sent him on foot from Moscow into the country — by God, she did — to get her rents in, I suppose. It was on her account, on account of this same Agrafena Ivanovna — he fought a duel with the English milord Hugh Hughes; and the English milord was forced to make a formal apology too. But later on the brigadier went down hill more and more…. Well, and now he can’t be reckoned a man at all.’

‘Who was that Alexey Ivanitch the Jew,’ I asked, ‘through whom he was brought to ruin?’

‘Oh, the brother of Agrafena Ivanovna. A grasping creature, Jewish indeed. He lent his sister money at interest, and Vassily Fomitch was her security. He had to pay for it too … pretty heavily!’

‘And Fedulia Ivanovna the plunderer — who was she?’

‘Her sister too … and a sharp one too, as sharp as a lance. A terrible woman!’

XIV

‘What a place to find a Werter!’ I thought next day, as I set off again towards the brigadier’s dwelling. I was at that time very young, and that was possibly why I thought it my duty not to believe in the lasting nature of love. Still, I was impressed and somewhat puzzled by the story I had heard, and felt an intense desire to stir up the old man, to make him talk freely. ‘I’ll first refer to Suvorov again,’ so I resolved within myself; ‘there must be some spark of his former fire hidden within him still … and then, when he’s warmed up, I’ll turn the conversation on that … what’s her name? … Agrafena Ivanovna. A queer name for a “Charlotte” — Agrafena!’

I found my Werter - Guskov in the middle of a tiny kitchen - garden, a few steps from the lodge, near the old framework of a never - finished hut, overgrown with nettles. On the mildewed upper beams of this skeleton hut some miserable - looking turkey poults were scrambling, incessantly slipping and flapping their wings and cackling. There was some poor sort of green stuff growing in two or three borders. The brigadier had just pulled a young carrot out of the ground, and rubbing it under his arm ‘to clean it,’ proceeded to chew its thin tail…. I bowed to him, and inquired after his health.

He obviously did not recognise me, though he returned my greeting — that is to say, touched his cap with his hand, though without leaving off munching the carrot.

‘You didn’t go fishing to - day?’ I began, in the hope of recalling myself to his memory by this question.

‘To - day?’ he repeated and pondered … while the carrot, stuck into his mouth, grew shorter and shorter. ‘Why, I suppose it’s Cucumber fishing! … But I’m allowed to, too.’

‘Of course, of course, most honoured Vassily Fomitch…. I didn’t mean that…. But aren’t you hot … like this in the sun.’

The brigadier was wearing a thick wadded dressing - gown.

‘Eh? Hot?’ he repeated again, as though puzzled over the question, and, having finally swallowed the carrot, he gazed absently upwards.

‘Would you care to step into my apartement?’ he said suddenly. The poor old man had, it seemed, only this phrase still left him always at his disposal.

We went out of the kitchen - garden … but there involuntarily I stopped short. Between us and the lodge stood a huge bull. With his head down to the ground, and a malignant gleam in his eyes, he was snorting heavily and furiously, and with a rapid movement of one fore - leg, he tossed the dust up in the air with his broad cleft hoof, lashed his sides with his tail, and suddenly backing a little, shook his shaggy neck stubbornly, and bellowed — not loud, but plaintively, and at the same time menacingly. I was, I confess, alarmed; but Vassily Fomitch stepped forward with perfect composure, and saying in a stern voice, ‘Now then, country bumpkin,’ shook his handkerchief at him. The bull backed again, bowed his horns … suddenly rushed to one side and ran away, wagging his head from side to side.

‘There’s no doubt he took Prague,’ I thought.

We went into the room. The brigadier pulled his cap off his hair, which was soaked with perspiration, ejaculated, ‘Fa!’ … squatted down on the edge of a chair … bowed his head gloomily….

‘I have come to you, Vassily Fomitch,’ I began my diplomatic approaches, ‘because, as you have served under the leadership of the great Suvorov — have taken part altogether in such important events — it would be very interesting for me to hear some particulars of your past.’

The brigadier stared at me…. His face kindled strangely — I began to expect, if not a story, at least some word of approval, of sympathy….

‘But I, sir, must be going to die soon,’ he said in an undertone.

I was utterly nonplussed.

‘Why, Vassily Fomitch, ‘I brought out at last, ‘what makes you … suppose that?’

The brigadier suddenly flung his arms violently up and down.

‘Because, sir … I, as maybe you know … often in my dreams see Agrippina Ivanovna — Heaven’s peace be with her! — and never can I catch her; I am always running after her — but cannot catch her. But last night — I dreamed — she was standing, as it were, before me, half - turned away, and laughing…. I ran up to her at once and caught her … and she seemed to turn round quite and said to me: “Well, Vassinka, now you have caught me.”‘

‘What do you conclude from that, Vassily Fomitch?’

‘Why, sir, I conclude: it has come, that we shall be together. And glory to God for it, I tell you; glory be to God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost (the brigadier fell into a chant): as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, Amen!’

The brigadier began crossing himself. I could get nothing more out of him, so I went away.

XV

The next day my friend arrived…. I mentioned the brigadier, and my visits to him….

‘Oh yes! of course! I know his story,’ answered my friend; ‘I know Madame Lomov very well, the privy councillor’s widow, by whose favour he obtained a home here. Oh, wait a minute; I believe there must be preserved here his letter to the privy councillor’s widow; it was on the strength of that letter that she assigned him his little cot.’ My friend rummaged among his papers and actually found the brigadier’s letter. Here it is word for word, with the omission of the mistakes in spelling. The brigadier, like every one of his epoch, was a little hazy in that respect. But to preserve these errors seemed unnecessary; his letter bears the stamp of his age without them.