Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (298 page)

‘Where are you going, Susanna Ivanovna, mercy on us! Listen, what a storm is raging! You are so lightly dressed.... And your home is not near here. Let me at least go for a carriage, for a sledge....’

‘No, no, I want nothing,’ she said resolutely, repelling me and taking up her cloak and shawl. ‘Don’t keep me, for God’s sake! or... I can’t answer for anything! I feel an abyss, a dark abyss under my feet.... Don’t come near me, don’t touch me!’ With feverish haste she put on her cloak, arranged her shawl.... ‘Good - bye... good - bye.... Oh, my unhappy people, for ever strangers, a curse lies upon us! No one has ever cared for me, was it likely he...’ She suddenly ceased. ‘No; one man loved me,’ she began again, wringing her hands, ‘but death is all about me, death and no escape! Now it is my turn.... Don’t come after me,’ she cried shrilly. ‘Don’t come! don’t come!’

I was petrified, while she rushed out; and an instant later, I heard the slam downstairs of the heavy street door, and the window panes shook again under the violent onslaught of the blast.

I could not quickly recover myself. I was only beginning life in those days: I had had no experience of passion nor of suffering, and had rarely witnessed any manifestation of strong feeling in others.... But the sincerity of this suffering, of this passion, impressed me. If it had not been for the manuscript in my hands, I might have thought that I had dreamed it all — it was all so unlikely, and swooped by like a passing storm. I was till midnight reading the manuscript. It consisted of several sheets of letter - paper, closely covered with a large, irregular writing, almost without an erasure. Not a single line was quite straight, and one seemed in every one of them to feel the excited trembling of the hand that held the pen. Here follows what was in the manuscript. I have kept it to this day.

XVII

MY STORY

I am this year twenty - eight years old. Here are my earliest recollections; I was living in the Tambov province, in the country house of a rich landowner, Ivan Matveitch Koltovsky, in a small room on the second storey. With me lived my mother, a Jewess, daughter of a dead painter, who had come from abroad, a woman always ailing, with an extraordinarily beautiful face, pale as wax, and such mournful eyes, that sometimes when she gazed long at me, even without looking at her, I was aware of her sorrowful, sorrowful eyes, and I would burst into tears and rush to embrace her. I had tutors come to me; I had music lessons, and was called ‘miss.’ I dined at the master’s table together with my mother. Mr. Koltovsky was a tall, handsome old man with a stately manner; he always smelt of
ambre
. I stood in mortal terror of him, though he called me Suzon and gave me his dry, sinewy hand to kiss under its lace - ruffles. With my mother he was elaborately courteous, but he talked little even with her. He would say two or three affable words, to which she promptly made a hurried answer; and he would be silent and sit looking about him with dignity, and slowly picking up a pinch of Spanish snuff from his round, golden snuff - box with the arms of the Empress Catherine on it.

My ninth year has always remained vivid in my memory.... I learnt then, from the maids in the servants’ room, that Ivan Matveitch Koltovsky was my father, and almost on the same day, my mother, by his command, was married to Mr. Ratsch, who was something like a steward to him. I was utterly unable to comprehend the possibility of such a thing, I was bewildered, I was almost ill, my brain suffered under the strain, my mind was overclouded. ‘Is it true, is it true, mamma,’ I asked her, ‘that scented bogey’ (that was my name for Ivan Matveitch) ‘is my father?’ My mother was terribly scared, she shut my mouth.... ‘Never speak to any one of that, do you hear, Susanna, do you hear, not a word!’... she repeated in a shaking voice, pressing my head to her bosom.... And I never did speak to any one of it.... That prohibition of my mother’s I understood.... I understood that I must be silent, that my mother begged my forgiveness!

My unhappiness began from that day. Mr. Ratsch did not love my mother, and she did not love him. He married her for money, and she was obliged to submit. Mr. Koltovsky probably considered that in this way everything had been arranged for the best,
la position était régularisée
. I remember the day before the marriage my mother and I — both locked in each other’s arms — wept almost the whole morning — bitterly, bitterly — and silently. It is not strange that she was silent.... What could she say to me? But that I did not question her shows that unhappy children learn wisdom sooner than happy ones... to their cost.

Mr. Koltovsky continued to interest himself in my education, and even by degrees put me on a more intimate footing. He did not talk to me... but morning and evening, after flicking the snuff from his jabot with two fingers, he would with the same two fingers — always icy cold — pat me on the cheek and give me some sort of dark - coloured sweetmeats, also smelling of
ambre
, which I never ate. At twelve years old I became his reader — -
sa petite lectrice
. I read him French books of the last century, the memoirs of Saint Simon, of Mably, Renal, Helvetius, Voltaire’s correspondence, the encyclopedists, of course without understanding a word, even when, with a smile and a grimace, he ordered me, ‘relire ce dernier paragraphe, qui est bien remarquable!’ Ivan Matveitch was completely a Frenchman. He had lived in Paris till the Revolution, remembered Marie Antoinette, and had received an invitation to Trianon to see her. He had also seen Mirabeau, who, according to his account, wore very large buttons —
exagéré en tout
, and was altogether a man of
mauvais ton, en dépit de sa naissance!
Ivan Matveitch, however, rarely talked of that time; but two or three times a year, addressing himself to the crooked old emigrant whom he had taken into his house, and called for some unknown reason ‘M. le Commandeur,’ he recited in his deliberate, nasal voice, the impromptu he had once delivered at a soiree of the Duchesse de Polignac. I remember only the first two lines.... It had reference to a comparison between the Russians and the French:

 
‘L’aigle se plait aux regions austères

  
Ou le ramier ne saurait habiter...’

‘Digne de M. de Saint Aulaire!’ M. le Commandeur would every time exclaim.

Ivan Matveitch looked youngish up to the time of his death: his cheeks were rosy, his teeth white, his eyebrows thick and immobile, his eyes agreeable and expressive, clear, black eyes, perfect agate. He was not at all unreasonable, and was very courteous with every one, even with the servants.... But, my God! how wretched I was with him, with what joy I always left him, what evil thoughts confounded me in his presence! Ah, I was not to blame for them!... I was not to blame for what they had made of me....

Mr. Ratsch was, after his marriage, assigned a lodge not far from the big house. I lived there with my mother. It was a cheerless life I led there. She soon gave birth to a son, Viktor, this same Viktor whom I have every right to think and to call my enemy. From the time of his birth my mother never regained her health, which had always been weak. Mr. Ratsch did not think fit in those days to keep up such a show of good spirits as he maintains now: he always wore a morose air and tried to pass for a busy, hard - working person. To me he was cruel and rude. I felt relief when I retired from Ivan Matveitch’s presence; but my own home too I was glad to leave.... Unhappy was my youth! For ever tossed from one shore to the other, with no desire to anchor at either! I would run across the courtyard in winter, through the deep snow, in a thin frock — run to the big house to read to Ivan Matveitch, and as it were be glad to go.... But when I was there, when I saw those great cheerless rooms, the bright - coloured, upholstered furniture, that courteous and heartless old man in the open silk wadded jacket, in the white jabot and white cravat, with lace ruffles falling over his fingers, with a
soupçon
of powder (so his valet expressed it) on his combed - back hair, I felt choked by the stifling scent of
ambre
, and my heart sank. Ivan Matveitch usually sat in a large low chair; on the wall behind his head hung a picture, representing a young woman, with a bright and bold expression of face, dressed in a sumptuous Hebrew costume, and simply covered with precious stones, with diamonds.... I often stole a glance at this picture, but only later on I learned that it was the portrait of my mother, painted by her father at Ivan Matveitch’s request. She had changed indeed since those days! Well had he succeeded in subduing and crushing her! ‘And she loved him! Loved that old man!’ was my thought.... ‘How could it be! Love him!’ And yet, when I recalled some of my mother’s glances, some half - uttered phrases and unconscious gestures.... ‘Yes, yes, she did love him!’ I repeated with horror. Ah, God, spare others from knowing aught of such feelings!

Every day I read to Ivan Matveitch, sometimes for three or four hours together.... So much reading in such a loud voice was harmful to me. Our doctor was anxious about my lungs and even once communicated his fears to Ivan Matveitch. But the old man only smiled — no; he never smiled, but somehow sharpened and moved forward his lips — and told him: ‘Vous ne savez pas ce qu’il y a de ressources dans cette jeunesse.’ ‘In former years, however, M. le Commandeur,’... the doctor ventured to observe. Ivan Matveitch smiled as before. ‘Vous rêvez, mon cher,’ he interposed: ‘le commandeur n’a plus de dents, et il crache à chaque mot. J’aime les voix jeunes.’

And I still went on reading, though my cough was very troublesome in the mornings and at night.... Sometimes Ivan Matveitch made me play the piano. But music always had a soporific influence on his nerves. His eyes closed at once, his head nodded in time, and only rarely I heard, ‘C’est du Steibelt, n’est - ce pas? Jouez - moi du Steibelt!’ Ivan Matveitch looked upon Steibelt as a great genius, who had succeeded in overcoming in himself ‘la grossière lourdeur des Allemands,’ and only found fault with him for one thing: ‘trop de fougue! trop d’imagination!’... When Ivan Matveitch noticed that I was tired from playing he would offer me ‘du cachou de Bologne.’ So day after day slipped by....

And then one night — a night never to be forgotten! — a terrible calamity fell upon me. My mother died almost suddenly. I was only just fifteen. Oh, what a sorrow that was, with what cruel violence it swooped down upon me! How terrified I was at that first meeting with death! My poor mother! Strange were our relations; we passionately loved each other... passionately and hopelessly; we both as it were treasured up and hid from each other our common secret, kept obstinately silent about it, though we knew all that was passing at the bottom of our hearts! Even of the past, of her own early past, my mother never spoke to me, and she never complained in words, though her whole being was nothing but one dumb complaint. We avoided all conversation of any seriousness. Alas! I kept hoping that the hour would come, and she would open her heart at last, and I too should speak out, and both of us would be more at ease.... But the daily little cares, her irresolute, shrinking temper, illnesses, the presence of Mr. Ratsch, and most of all the eternal question, — what is the use? and the relentless, unbroken flowing away of time, of life.... All was ended as though by a clap of thunder, and the words which would have loosed us from the burden of our secret — even the last dying words of leave - taking — I was not destined to hear from my mother! All that is left in my memory is Mr. Ratsch’s calling, ‘Susanna Ivanovna, go, please, your mother wishes to give you her blessing!’ and then the pale hand stretched out from the heavy counterpane, the agonised breathing, the dying eyes.... Oh, enough! enough!

With what horror, with what indignation and piteous curiosity I looked next day, and on the day of the funeral, into the face of my father... yes, my father! In my dead mother’s writing - case were found his letters. I fancied he looked a little pale and drawn... but no! Nothing was stirring in that heart of stone. Exactly as before, he summoned me to his room, a week later; exactly in the same voice he asked me to read: ‘Si vous le voulez bien, les observations sur l’histoire de France de Mably, à la page 74... là où nous avons ètè interrompus.’ And he had not even had my mother’s portrait moved! On dismissing me, he did indeed call me to him, and giving me his hand to kiss a second time, he observed: ‘Suzanne, la mort de votre mère vous a privée de votre appui naturel; mais vous pourrez toujours compter sur ma protection,’ but with the other hand he gave me at once a slight push on the shoulder, and, with the sharpening of the corners of the mouth habitual with him, he added, ‘Allez, mon enfant.’ I longed to shriek at him: ‘Why, but you know you’re my father!’ but I said nothing and left the room.

Next morning, early, I went to the graveyard. May had come in all its glory of flowers and leaves, and a long while I sat on the new grave. I did not weep, nor grieve; one thought was filling my brain: ‘Do you hear, mother? He means to extend his protection to me, too!’ And it seemed to me that my mother ought not to be wounded by the smile which it instinctively called up on my lips.

At times I wonder what made me so persistently desire to wring — not a confession... no, indeed! but, at least, one warm word of kinship from Ivan Matveitch? Didn’t I know what he was, and how little he was like all that I pictured in my dreams as a
father
!... But I was so lonely, so alone on earth! And then, that thought, ever recurring, gave me no rest: ‘Did not she love him? She must have loved him for something?’