Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (281 page)

I don’t know whether it sounds true or not, but I know that all I have told is the absolute and literal truth. However, I gave myself up all that day to a feverish gaiety, assured myself that I simply did not deserve such happiness; but next morning….

A wonderful thing is sleep! It not only renews one’s body: in a way it renews one’s soul, restoring it to primaeval simplicity and naturalness. In the course of the day you succeed in
tuning
yourself, in soaking yourself in falsity, in false ideas … sleep with its cool wave washes away all such pitiful trashiness; and on waking up, at least for the first few instants, you are capable of understanding and loving truth. I waked up, and, reflecting on the previous day, I felt a certain discomfort…. I was, as it were, ashamed of all my own actions. With instinctive uneasiness I thought of the visit to be made that day, of my interview with Ivan Semyonitch…. This uneasiness was acute and distressing; it was like the uneasiness of the hare who hears the barking of the dogs and is bound at last to run out of his native forest into the open country…and there the sharp teeth of the harriers are awaiting him…. ‘Why was I in such a hurry?’ I repeated, just as I had the day before, but in quite a different sense. I remember the fearful difference between yesterday and to - day struck myself; for the first time it occurred to me that in human life there lie hid secrets — strange secrets…. With childish perplexity I gazed into this new, not fantastic, real world. By the word ‘real’ many people understand ‘trivial.’ Perhaps it sometimes is so; but I must own that the first appearance of
reality
before me shook me profoundly, scared me, impressed me….

What fine - sounding phrases all about love that didn’t come off, to use Gogol’s expression! … I come back to my story. In the course of that day I assured myself again that I was the most blissful of mortals. I drove out of the town to Ivan Semyonitch’s. He received me very gleefully; he had been meaning to go and see a neighbour, but I myself stopped him. I was afraid to be left alone with Varia. The evening was cheerful, but not reassuring. Varia was neither one thing nor the other, neither cordial nor melancholy … neither pretty nor plain. I looked at her, as the philosophers say, objectively — that is to say, as the man who has dined looks at the dishes. I thought her hands were rather red. Sometimes, however, my heart warmed, and watching her I gave way to other dreams and reveries. I had only just made her an offer, as it is called, and here I was already feeling as though we were living as husband and wife … as though our souls already made up one lovely whole, belonged to one another, and consequently were trying each to seek out a separate path for itself….

‘Well, have you spoken to papa?’ Varia said to me, as soon as we were left alone.

This inquiry impressed me most disagreeably…. I thought to myself,

‘You’re pleased to be in a desperate hurry, Varvara Ivanovna.’

‘Not yet,’ I answered, rather shortly, ‘but I will speak to him.’

Altogether I behaved rather casually with her. In spite of my promise, I said nothing definite to Ivan Semyonitch. As I was leaving, I pressed his hand significantly, and informed him that I wanted to have a little talk with him … that was all…. ‘Good - bye!’ I said to Varia.

‘Till we meet!’ said she.

I will not keep you long in suspense, gentlemen; I am afraid of exhausting your patience….We never met again. I never went back to Ivan Semyonitch’s. The first days, it is true, of my voluntary separation from Varia did not pass without tears, self - reproach, and emotion; I was frightened myself at the rapid drooping of my love; twenty times over I was on the point of starting off to see her. Vividly I pictured to myself her amazement, her grief, her wounded feelings; but — I never went to Ivan Semyonitch’s again. In her absence I begged her forgiveness, fell on my knees before her, assured her of my profound repentance — and once, when I met a girl in the street slightly resembling her, I took to my heels without looking back, and only breathed freely in a cook - shop after the fifth jam - puff. The word ‘to - morrow’ was invented for irresolute people, and for children; like a baby, I lulled myself with that magic word. ‘To - morrow I will go to her, whatever happens,’ I said to myself, and ate and slept well to - day. I began to think a great deal more about Kolosov than about Varia … everywhere, continually, I saw his open, bold, careless face. I began going to see him as before. He gave me the same welcome as ever. But how deeply I felt his superiority to me! How ridiculous I thought all my fancies, my pensive melancholy, during the period of Kolosov’s connection with Varia, my magnanimous resolution to bring them together again, my anticipations, my raptures, my remorse!… I had played a wretched, drawn - out part of screaming farce, but he had passed so simply, so well, through it all….

You will say, ‘What is there wonderful in that? your Kolosov fell in love with a girl, then fell out of love again, and threw her over…. Why, that happens with everybody….’ Agreed; but which of us knows just when to break with our past? Which of us, tell me, is not afraid of the reproaches — I don’t mean of the woman — the reproaches of every chance fool? Which of us is proof against the temptation of making a display of magnanimity, or of playing egoistically with another devoted heart? Which of us, in fact, has the force of character to be superior to petty vanity, to
petty fine feelings
, sympathy and self - reproach?… Oh, gentlemen, the man who leaves a woman at that great and bitter moment when he is forced to recognise that his heart is not altogether, not fully, hers, that man, believe me, has a truer and deeper comprehension of the sacredness of love than the faint - hearted creatures who, from dulness or weakness, go on playing on the half - cracked strings of their flabby and sentimental hearts! At the beginning of my story I told you that we all considered Andrei Kolosov an extraordinary man. And if a clear, simple outlook upon life, if the absence of every kind of cant in a young man, can be called an extraordinary thing, Kolosov deserved the name. At a certain age, to be natural is to be extraordinary…. It is time to finish, though. I thank you for your attention…. Oh, I forgot to tell you that three months after my last visit I met the old humbug Ivan Semyonitch. I tried, of course, to glide hurriedly and unnoticed by him, but yet I could not help overhearing the words, ‘Feather - headed scoundrels!’ uttered angrily.

‘And what became of Varia?’ asked some one.

‘I don’t know,’ answered the story - teller.

We all got up and separated.

1864.

A few years ago I was in Dresden. I was staying at an hotel. From early morning till late evening I strolled about the town, and did not think it necessary to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last it reached my ears in some chance way that there was a Russian in the hotel — lying ill. I went to see him, and found a man in galloping consumption. I had begun to be tired of Dresden; I stayed with my new acquaintance. It’s dull work sitting with a sick man, but even dulness is sometimes agreeable; moreover, my patient was not low - spirited and was very ready to talk. We tried to kill time in all sorts of ways; We played ‘Fools,’ the two of us together, and made fun of the doctor. My compatriot used to tell this very bald - headed German all sorts of fictions about himself, which the doctor had always ‘long ago anticipated.’ He used to mimic his astonishment at any new, exceptional symptom, to throw his medicines out of window, and so on. I observed more than once, however, to my friend that it would be as well to send for a good doctor before it was too late, that his complaint was not to be trifled with, and so on. But Alexey (my new friend’s name was Alexey Petrovitch S —
 
— ) always turned off my advice with jests at the expense of doctors in general, and his own in particular; and at last one rainy autumn evening he answered my urgent entreaties with such a mournful look, he shook his head so sorrowfully and smiled so strangely, that I felt somewhat disconcerted. The same night Alexey was worse, and the next day he died. Just before his death his usual cheerfulness deserted him; he tossed about uneasily in his bed, sighed, looked round him in anguish … clutched at my hand, and whispered with an effort, ‘But it’s hard to die, you know … dropped his head on the pillow, and shed tears. I did not know what to say to him, and sat in silence by his bed. But Alexey soon got the better of these last, late regrets…. ‘I say,’ he said to me, ‘our doctor’ll come to - day and find me dead…. I can fancy his face.’… And the dying man tried to mimic him. He asked me to send all his things to Russia to his relations, with the exception of a small packet which he gave me as a souvenir.

This packet contained letters — a girl’s letters to Alexey, and copies of his letters to her. There were fifteen of them. Alexey Petrovitch S —
 
— had known Marya Alexandrovna B —
 
— long before, in their childhood, I fancy. Alexey Petrovitch had a cousin, Marya Alexandrovna had a sister. In former years they had all lived together; then they had been separated, and had not seen each other for a long while. Later on, they had chanced one summer to be all together again in the country, and they had fallen in love — Alexey’s cousin with Marya Alexandrovna, and Alexey with her sister. The summer had passed by, the autumn came; they parted. Alexey, like a sensible person, soon came to the conclusion that he was not in love at all, and had effected a very satisfactory parting from his charmer. His cousin had continued writing to Marya Alexandrovna for nearly two years longer … but he too perceived at last that he was deceiving her and himself in an unconscionable way, and he too dropped the correspondence.

I could tell you something about Marya Alexandrovna, gentle reader, but you will find out what she was from her letters. Alexey wrote his first letter to her soon after she had finally broken with his cousin. He was at that time in Petersburg; he went suddenly abroad, fell ill, and died at Dresden. I resolved to print his correspondence with Marya Alexandrovna, and trust the reader will look at it with indulgence, as these letters are not love - letters — Heaven forbid! Love - letters are as a rule only read by two persons (they read them over a thousand times to make up), and to a third person they are unendurable, if not ridiculous.

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FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

ST. PETERSBURG,
March
7, 1840.

DEAR MARYA ALEXANDROVNA, —

I fancy I have never written to you before, and here I am writing to you now…. I have chosen a curious time to begin, haven’t I? I’ll tell you what gave me the impulse. Mon cousin Théodore was with me to - day, and…how shall I put it?…and he confided to me as the greatest secret (he never tells one anything except as a great secret), that he was in love with the daughter of a gentleman here, and that this time he is firmly resolved to be married, and that he has already taken the first step — he has declared himself! I made haste, of course, to congratulate him on an event so agreeable for him; he has been longing to declare himself for a great while…but inwardly, I must own, I was rather astonished. Although I knew that everything was over between you, still I had fancied…. In short, I was surprised. I had made arrangements to go out to see friends to - day, but I have stopped at home and mean to have a little gossip with you. If you do not care to listen to me, fling this letter forthwith into the fire. I warn you I mean to be frank, though I feel you are fully justified in taking me for a rather impertinent person. Observe, however, that I would not have taken up my pen if I had not known your sister was not with you; she is staying, so Théodore told me, the whole summer with your aunt, Madame B — - . God give her every blessing!

And so, this is how it has all worked out…. But I am not going to offer you my friendship and all that; I am shy as a rule of high - sounding speeches and ‘heartfelt’ effusions. In beginning to write this letter, I simply obeyed a momentary impulse. If there is another feeling latent within me, let it remain hidden under a bushel for the time.

I’m not going to offer you sympathy either. In sympathising with others, people for the most part want to get rid, as quick as they can, of an unpleasant feeling of involuntary, egoistic regret…. I understand genuine, warm sympathy … but such sympathy you would not accept from just any one…. Do, please, get angry with me…. If you’re angry, you’ll be sure to read my missive to the end.

But what right have I to write to you, to talk of my friendship, of my feelings, of consolation? None, absolutely none; that I am bound to admit, and I can only throw myself on your kindness.

Do you know what the preface of my letter’s like? I’ll tell you: some Mr. N. or M. walking into the drawing - room of a lady who doesn’t in the least expect him, and who does, perhaps, expect some one else…. He realises that he has come at an unlucky moment, but there’s no help for it…. He sits down, begins talking…goodness knows what about: poetry, the beauties of nature, the advantages of a good education…talks the most awful rot, in fact. But, meanwhile, the first five minutes have gone by, he has settled himself comfortably; the lady has resigned herself to the inevitable, and so Mr. N. or M. regains his self - possession, takes breath, and begins a real conversation — to the best of his ability.

In spite, though, of all this rigmarole, I don’t still feel quite comfortable. I seem to see your bewildered — even rather wrathful — face; I feel that it will be almost impossible you should not ascribe to me some hidden motives, and so, like a Roman who has committed some folly, I wrap myself majestically in my toga, and await in silence your final sentence….

The question is: Will you allow me to go on writing to you? — I remain sincerely and warmly devoted to you,

ALEXEY S.

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FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

VILLAGE OF X —
 
— ,
March
22, 1840.

DEAR SIR,

ALEXEY PETROVITCH,

I have received your letter, and I really don’t know what to say to you. I should not even have answered you at all, if it had not been that I fancied that under your jesting remarks there really lies hid a feeling of some friendliness. Your letter made an unpleasant impression on me. In answer to your rigmarole, as you call it, let me too put to you one question:
What for?
What have I to do with you, or you with me? I do not ascribe to you any bad motives … on the contrary, I’m grateful for your sympathy … but we are strangers to each other, and I, just now at least, feel not the slightest inclination for greater intimacy with any one whatever. — With sincere esteem, I remain, etc.,

MARYA B.

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FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

ST. PETERSBURG,
March
30.

Thank you, Marya Alexandrovna, thank you for your note, brief as it was. All this time I have been in great suspense; twenty times a day I have thought of you and my letter. You can’t imagine how bitterly I laughed at myself; but now I am in an excellent frame of mind, and very much pleased with myself. Marya Alexandrovna, I am going to begin a correspondence with you! Confess, this was not at all what you expected after your answer; I’m surprised myself at my boldness…. Well, I don’t care, here goes! But don’t be uneasy; I want to talk to you, not of you, but of myself. It’s like this, do you see: it’s absolutely needful for me, in the old - fashioned phraseology, to open my heart to some one. I have not the slightest right to select you for my confidant — agreed.

But listen: I won’t demand of you an answer to my letters; I don’t even want to know whether you read my ‘rigmarole’; but, in the name of all that’s holy, don’t send my letters back to me!

Let me tell you, I am utterly alone on earth. In my youth I led a solitary life, though I never, I remember, posed as a Byronic hero; but first, circumstances, and secondly, a faculty of imaginative dreaming and a love for dreaming, rather cool blood, pride, indolence — a number of different causes, in fact, cut me off from the society of men. The transition from dream - life to real life took place in me late…perhaps too late, perhaps it has not fully taken place up to now. So long as I found entertainment in my own thoughts and feelings, so long as I was capable of abandoning myself to causeless and unuttered transports and so on, I did not complain of my solitude. I had no associates; I had what are called friends. Sometimes I needed their presence, as an electrical machine needs a discharger — and that was all. Love…of that subject we will not speak for the present. But now, I will own, now solitude weighs heavy on me; and at the same time, I see no escape from my position. I do not blame fate; I alone am to blame and am deservedly punished. In my youth I was absorbed by one thing — my precious self; I took my simple - hearted self - love for modesty; I avoided society — and here I am now, a fearful bore to myself. What am I to do with myself? There is no one I love; all my relations with other people are somehow strained and false.

And I’ve no memories either, for in all my past life I can find nothing but my own personality. Save me. To you I have made no passionate protestations of love. You I have never smothered in a flood of aimless babble. I passed by you rather coldly, and it is just for that reason I make up my mind to have recourse to you now. (I have had thoughts of doing so before this, but at that time you were not free….) Among all my self - created sensations, pleasures and sufferings, the one genuine feeling was the not great, but instinctive attraction to you, which withered up at the time, like a single ear of wheat in the midst of worthless weeds…. Let me just for once look into another face, into another soul — my own face has grown hateful to me. I am like a man who should have been condemned to live all his life in a room with walls of looking - glass…. I do not ask of you any sort of confessions — oh mercy, no! Bestow on me a sister’s unspoken sympathy, or at least the simple curiosity of a reader. I will entertain you, I will really.

Meanwhile I have the honour to be your sincere friend,

A. S.

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