Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (261 page)

‘But I fancy,’ he added, after a moment’s thought, ‘I promised to tell you how I got married — listen. First, I must tell you that my wife is no longer living; secondly... secondly, I see I must give you some account of my youth, or else you won’t be able to make anything out of it.... But don’t you want to go to sleep?’

‘No, I’m not sleepy.’

‘That’s good news. Hark!... how vulgarly Mr. Kantagryuhin is snoring in the next room! I was the son of parents of small property — I say parents, because, according to tradition, I had once had a father as well as a mother, I don’t remember him: he was a narrow - minded man, I’ve been told, with a big nose, freckles, and red hair; he used to take snuff on one side of his nose only; his portrait used to hang in my mother’s bedroom, and very hideous he was in a red uniform with a black collar up to his ears. They used to take me to be whipped before him, and my mother used always on such occasions to point to him, saying, “He would give it to you much more if he were here.” You can imagine what an encouraging effect that had on me. I had no brother nor sister — that’s to say, speaking accurately, I had once had a brother knocking about, with the English disease in his neck, but he soon died.... And why ever, one wonders, should the English disease make its way to the Shtchigri district of the province of Kursk? But that’s neither here nor there. My mother undertook my education with all the vigorous zeal of a country lady of the steppes: she undertook it from the solemn day of my birth till the time when my sixteenth year had come.... You are following my story?’

‘Yes, please go on.’

‘All right. Well, when I was sixteen, my mother promptly dismissed my teacher of French, a German, Filipóvitch, from the Greek settlement of Nyezhin. She conducted me to Moscow, put down my name for the university, and gave up her soul to the Almighty, leaving me in the hands of my uncle, the attorney Koltun - Babur, one of a sort well - known not only in the Shtchigri district. My uncle, the attorney Koltun - Babur, plundered me to the last half - penny, after the custom of guardians.... But again that’s neither here nor there. I entered the university — I must do so much justice to my mother — rather well grounded; but my lack of originality was even then apparent. My childhood was in no way distinguished from the childhood of other boys; I grew up just as languidly and dully — much as if I were under a feather - bed — just as early I began repeating poetry by heart and moping under the pretence of a dreamy inclination... for what? — why, for the beautiful... and so on. In the university I went on in the same way; I promptly got into a “circle.” Times were different then.... But you don’t know, perhaps, what sort of thing a student’s “circle” is? I remember Schiller said somewhere:

 
Gefährlich ist’s den Leu zu wecken

 
Und schrecklich ist des Tigers Zahn,

 
Doch das schrecklichste der Schrecken

 
Das ist der Mensch in seinem Wahn!

He didn’t mean that, I can assure you; he meant to say:
Das ist ein
circle
in der Stadt Moskau
!’

‘But what do you find so awful in the circle?’ I asked.

My neighbour snatched his cap and pulled it down on to his nose.

‘What do I find so awful?’ he shouted. ‘Why, this: the circle is the destruction of all independent development; the circle is a hideous substitute for society, woman, life; the circle... oh, wait a bit, I’ll tell you what a circle is! A circle is a slothful, dull living side by side in common, to which is attached a serious significance and a show of rational activity; the circle replaces conversation by debate, trains you in fruitless discussion, draws you away from solitary, useful labour, develops in you the itch for authorship — deprives you, in fact, of all freshness and virgin vigour of soul. The circle — why, it’s vulgarity and boredom under the name of brotherhood and friendship! a concatenation of misunderstandings and cavillings under the pretence of openness and sympathy: in the circle — thanks to the right of every friend, at all hours and seasons, to poke his unwashed fingers into the very inmost soul of his comrade — no one has a single spot in his soul pure and undefiled; in the circle they fall down before the shallow, vain, smart talker and the premature wise - acre, and worship the rhymester with no poetic gift, but full of “subtle” ideas; in the circle young lads of seventeen talk glibly and learnedly of women and of love, while in the presence of women they are dumb or talk to them like a book — and what do they talk about? The circle is the hot - bed of glib fluency; in the circle they spy on one another like so many police officials.... Oh, circle! thou’rt not a circle, but an enchanted ring, which has been the ruin of many a decent fellow!’

‘Come, you’re exaggerating, allow me to observe,’ I broke in.

My neighbour looked at me in silence.

‘Perhaps, God knows, perhaps. But, you see, there’s only one pleasure left your humble servant, and that’s exaggeration — well, that was the way I spent four years in Moscow. I can’t tell you, my dear sir, how quickly, how fearfully quickly, that time passed; it’s positively painful and vexatious to remember. Some mornings one gets up, and it’s like sliding downhill on little sledges.... Before one can look round, one’s flown to the bottom; it’s evening already, and already the sleepy servant is pulling on one’s coat; one dresses, and trails off to a friend, and may be smokes a pipe, drinks weak tea in glasses, and discusses German philosophy, love, the eternal sunshine of the spirit, and other far - fetched topics. But even there I met original, independent people: however some men stultify themselves and warp themselves out of shape, still nature asserts itself; I alone, poor wretch, moulded myself like soft wax, and my pitiful little nature never made the faintest resistance! Meantime I had reached my twenty - first year. I came into possession of my inheritance, or, more correctly speaking, that part of my inheritance which my guardian had thought fit to leave me, gave a freed house - serf Vassily Kudryashev a warranty to superintend all my patrimony, and set off abroad to Berlin. I was abroad, as I have already had the pleasure of telling you, three years. Well. There too, abroad too, I remained the same unoriginal creature. In the first place, I need not say that of Europe, of European life, I really learnt nothing. I listened to German professors and read German books on their birthplace: that was all the difference. I led as solitary a life as any monk; I got on good terms with a retired lieutenant, weighed down, like myself, by a thirst for knowledge but always dull of comprehension, and not gifted with a flow of words; I made friends with slow - witted families from Penza and other agricultural provinces, hung about
cafés
, read the papers, in the evening went to the theatre. With the natives I associated very little; I talked to them with constraint, and never had one of them to see me at my own place, except two or three intrusive fellows of Jewish extraction, who were constantly running in upon me and borrowing money — thanks to
der Russe’s
gullibility. A strange freak of chance brought me at last to the house of one of my professors. It was like this: I came to him to enter my name for a course of lectures, and he, all of a sudden, invited me to an evening party at his house. This professor had two daughters, of twenty - seven, such stumpy little things — God bless them! — with such majestic noses, frizzed curls and pale - blue eyes, and red hands with white nails. One was called Linchen and the other Minchen. I began to go to the professor’s. I ought to tell you that the professor was not exactly stupid, but seemed, as it were, dazed: in his professorial desk he spoke fairly consecutively, but at home he lisped, and always had his spectacles on his forehead — he was a very learned man, though. Well, suddenly it seemed to me that I was in love with Linchen, and for six whole months this impression remained. I talked to her, it’s true, very little — it was more that I looked at her; but I used to read various touching passages aloud to her, to press her hand on the sly, and to dream beside her in the evenings, gazing persistently at the moon, or else simply up aloft. Besides, she made such delicious coffee! One asks oneself — what more could one desire? Only one thing troubled me: at the very moments of ineffable bliss, as it’s called, I always had a sort of sinking in the pit of the stomach, and a cold shudder ran down my back. At last I could not stand such happiness, and ran away. Two whole years after that I was abroad: I went to Italy, stood before the Transfiguration in Rome, and before the Venus in Florence, and suddenly fell into exaggerated raptures, as though an attack of delirium had come upon me; in the evenings I wrote verses, began a diary; in fact, there too I behaved just like everyone else. And just mark how easy it is to be original! I take no interest, for instance, in painting and sculpture.... But simply saying so aloud... no, it was impossible! I must needs take a cicerone, and run to gaze at the frescoes.’...

He looked down again, and again pulled off his nightcap.

‘Well, I came back to my own country at last,’ he went on in a weary voice. ‘I went to Moscow. In Moscow a marvellous transformation took place in me. Abroad I was mostly silent, but now suddenly I began to talk with unexpected smartness, and at the same time I began to conceive all sorts of ideas of myself. There were kindly disposed persons to be found, to whom I seemed all but a genius; ladies listened sympathetically to my diatribes; but I was not able to keep on the summit of my glory. One fine morning a slander sprang up about me (who had originated it, I don’t know; it must have been some old maid of the male sex — there are any number of such old maids in Moscow); it sprang up and began to throw off outshoots and tendrils like a strawberry plant. I was abashed, tried to get out of it, to break through its clinging toils — that was no good.... I went away. Well, in that too I showed that I was an absurd person; I ought to have calmly waited for the storm to blow over, just as one waits for the end of nettle - rash, and the same kindly - disposed persons would have opened their arms to me again, the same ladies would have smiled approvingly again at my remarks.... But what’s wrong is just that I’m not an original person. Conscientious scruples, please to observe, had been stirred up in me; I was somehow ashamed of talk, talk without ceasing, nothing but talk — yesterday in Arbat, to - day in Truba, to - morrow in Sivtsevy - Vrazhky, and all about the same thing.... But if that is what people want of me? Look at the really successful men in that line: they don’t ask its use; on the contrary, it’s all they need; some will keep their tongues wagging twenty years together, and always in one direction.... That’s what comes of self - confidence and conceit! I had that too, conceit — indeed, even now it’s not altogether stifled.... But what was wrong was that — I say again, I’m not an original person — I stopped midway: nature ought to have given me far more conceit or none at all. But at first I felt the change a very hard one; moreover, my stay abroad too had utterly drained my resources, while I was not disposed to marry a merchant’s daughter, young, but flabby as a jelly, so I retired to my country place. I fancy,’ added my neighbour, with another glance sideways at me, ‘I may pass over in silence the first impressions of country life, references to the beauty of nature, the gentle charm of solitude, etc.’

‘You can, indeed,’ I put in.

‘All the more,’ he continued, ‘as all that’s nonsense; at least, as far as I’m concerned. I was as bored in the country as a puppy locked up, though I will own that on my journey home, when I passed through the familiar birchwood in spring for the first time, my head was in a whirl and my heart beat with a vague, sweet expectation. But these vague expectations, as you’re well aware, never come to pass; on the other hand, very different things do come to pass, which you don’t at all expect, such as cattle disease, arrears, sales by auction, and so on, and so on. I managed to make a shift from day to day with the aid of my agent, Yakov, who replaced the former superintendent, and turned out in the course of time to be as great, if not a greater robber, and over and above that poisoned my existence by the smell of his tarred boots; suddenly one day I remembered a family I knew in the neighbourhood, consisting of the widow of a retired colonel and her two daughters, ordered out my droshky, and set off to see them. That day must always be a memorable one for me; six months later I was married to the retired colonel’s second daughter!...’

The speaker dropped his head, and lifted his hands to heaven.

‘And now,’ he went on warmly, ‘I couldn’t bear to give you an unfavourable opinion of my late wife. Heaven forbid! She was the most generous, sweetest creature, a loving nature capable of any sacrifice, though I must between ourselves confess that if I had not had the misfortune to lose her, I should probably not be in a position to be talking to you to - day; since the beam is still there in my barn, to which I repeatedly made up my mind to hang myself!’

‘Some pears,’ he began again, after a brief pause, ‘need to lie in an underground cellar for a time, to come, as they say, to their real flavour; my wife, it seems, belonged to a similar order of nature’s works. It’s only now that I do her complete justice. It’s only now, for instance, that memories of some evenings I spent with her before marriage no longer awaken the slightest bitterness, but move me almost to tears. They were not rich people; their house was very old - fashioned and built of wood, but comfortable; it stood on a hill between an overgrown courtyard and a garden run wild. At the bottom of the hill ran a river, which could just be seen through the thick leaves. A wide terrace led from the house to the garden; before the terrace flaunted a long flower - bed, covered with roses; at each end of the flower - bed grew two acacias, which had been trained to grow into the shape of a screw by its late owner. A little farther, in the very midst of a thicket of neglected and overgrown raspberries, stood an arbour, smartly painted within, but so old and tumble - down outside that it was depressing to look at it. A glass door led from the terrace into the drawing - room; in the drawing - room this was what met the eye of the inquisitive spectator: in the various corners stoves of Dutch tiles, a squeaky piano to the right, piled with manuscript music, a sofa, covered with faded blue material with a whitish pattern, a round table, two what - nots of china and glass, knicknacks of the Catherine period; on the wall the well - known picture of a flaxen - haired girl with a dove on her breast and eyes turned upwards; on the table a vase of fresh roses. You see how minutely I describe it. In that drawing - room, on that terrace, was rehearsed all the tragi - comedy of my love. The colonel’s wife herself was an ill - natured old dame, whose voice was always hoarse with spite — a petty, snappish creature. Of the daughters, one, Vera, did not differ in any respect from the common run of young ladies of the provinces; the other, Sofya, I fell in love with. The two sisters had another little room too, their common bedroom, with two innocent little wooden bedsteads, yellowish albums, mignonette, portraits of friends sketched in pencil rather badly (among them was one gentleman with an exceptionally vigorous expression of face and a still more vigorous signature, who had in his youth raised disproportionate expectations, but had come, like all of us, to nothing), with busts of Goethe and Schiller, German books, dried wreaths, and other objects, kept as souvenirs. But that room I rarely and reluctantly entered; I felt stifled there somehow. And, too, strange to say, I liked Sofya best of all when I was sitting with my back to her, or still more, perhaps, when I was thinking or dreaming about her in the evening on the terrace. At such times I used to gaze at the sunset, at the trees, at the tiny leaves, already in darkness, but standing out sharply against the rosy sky; in the drawing - room Sofya sat at the piano continually playing over and over again some favourite, passionately pathetic phrase from Beethoven; the ill - natured old lady snored peacefully, sitting on the sofa; in the dining - room, which was flooded by a glow of lurid light, Vera was bustling about getting tea; the samovar hissed merrily as though it were pleased at something; the cracknels snapped with a pleasant crispness, and the spoons tinkled against the cups; the canary, which trilled mercilessly all day, was suddenly still, and only chirruped from time to time, as though asking for something; from a light transparent cloud there fell a few passing drops of rain.... And I would sit and sit, listen, listen, and look, my heart would expand, and again it seemed to me that I was in love. Well, under the influence of such an evening, I one day asked the old lady for her daughter’s hand, and two months later I was married. It seemed to me that I loved her.... By now, indeed, it’s time I should know, but, by God, even now I don’t know whether I loved Sofya. She was a sweet creature, clever, silent, and warm - hearted, but God only knows from what cause, whether from living too long in the country, or for some other reason, there was at the bottom of her heart (if only there is a bottom to the heart) a secret wound, or, to put it better, a little open sore which nothing could heal, to which neither she nor I could give a name. Of the existence of this sore, of course, I only guessed after marriage. The struggles I had over it... nothing availed! When I was a child I had a little bird, which had once been caught by the cat in its claws; it was saved and tended, but the poor bird never got right; it moped, it pined, it ceased to sing.... It ended by a cat getting into its open cage one night and biting off its beak, after which it made up its mind at last to die. I don’t know what cat had caught my wife in its claws, but she too moped and pined just like my unlucky bird. Sometimes she obviously made an effort to shake herself, to rejoice in the open air, in the sunshine and freedom; she would try, and shrink up into herself again. And, you know she loved me; how many times has she assured me that she had nothing left to wish for? — oof! damn my soul! and the light was fading out of her eyes all the while. I wondered whether there hadn’t been something in her past. I made investigations: there was nothing forthcoming. Well, you may form your own judgment; an original man would have shrugged his shoulders and heaved a sigh or two, perhaps, and would have proceeded to live his own life; but I, not being an original creature, began to contemplate a beam and halter. My wife was so thoroughly permeated by all the habits of an old maid — Beethoven, evening walks, mignonette, corresponding with her friends, albums, et cetera — that she never could accustom herself to any other mode of life, especially to the life of the mistress of a house; and yet it seemed absurd for a married woman to be pining in vague melancholy and singing in the evening: “Waken her not at the dawn!”