Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (318 page)

 
‘Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  
And then is heard no more: it is a tale

  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

  
Signifying nothing.’

I quoted these lines from
Macbeth
, and there came back to my mind the witches, phantoms, apparitions.... Alas! no ghosts, no fantastic, unearthly powers are terrible; there are no terrors in the Hoffmann world, in whatever form it appears.... What is terrible is that there is nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is petty, uninteresting and degradingly inane. Once one is soaked through and through with that knowledge, once one has tasted of that bitter, no honey more seems sweet, and even the highest, sweetest bliss, the bliss of love, of perfect nearness, of complete devotion — even that loses all its magic; all its dignity is destroyed by its own pettiness, its brevity. Yes; a man loved, glowed with passion, murmured of eternal bliss, of undying raptures, and lo, no trace is left of the very worm that devoured the last relic of his withered tongue. So, on a frosty day in late autumn, when all is lifeless and dumb in the bleached grey grass, on the bare forest edge, if the sun but come out for an instant from the fog and turn one steady glance on the frozen earth, at once the gnats swarm up on all sides; they sport in the warm rays, bustle, flutter up and down, circle round one another... The sun is hidden — the gnats fall in a feeble shower, and there is the end of their momentary life.

XIV

But are there no great conceptions, no great words of consolation: patriotism, right, freedom, humanity, art? Yes; those words there are, and many men live by them and for them. And yet it seems to me that if Shakespeare could be born again he would have no cause to retract his Hamlet, his Lear. His searching glance would discover nothing new in human life: still the same motley picture — in reality so little complex — would unroll before him in its terrifying sameness. The same credulity and the same cruelty, the same lust of blood, of gold, of filth, the same vulgar pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in the name... why, in the name of the very same shams that Aristophanes jeered at two thousand years ago, the same coarse snares in which the many - headed beast, the multitude, is caught so easily, the same workings of power, the same traditions of slavishness, the same innateness of falsehood — in a word, the same busy squirrel’s turning in the same old unchanged wheel.... Again Shakespeare would set Lear repeating his cruel: ‘None doth offend,’ which in other words means: ‘None is without offence.’ and he too would say ‘enough!’ he too would turn away. One thing perhaps, may be: in contrast to the gloomy tragic tyrant Richard, the great poet’s ironic genius would want to paint a newer type, the tyrant of to - day, who is almost ready to believe in his own virtue, and sleeps well of nights, or finds fault with too sumptuous a dinner at the very time when his half - crushed victims try to find comfort in picturing him, like Richard, haunted by the phantoms of those he has ruined...

But to what end?

Why prove — picking out, too, and weighing words, smoothing and rounding off phrases — why prove to gnats that they are really gnats?

XV

But art?... beauty?... Yes, these are words of power; they are more powerful, may be, than those I have spoken before. Venus of Milo is, may be, more real than Roman law or the principles of 1789. It may be objected — how many times has the retort been heard! — that beauty itself is relative; that by the Chinese it is conceived as quite other than the European’s ideal.... But it is not the relativity of art confounds me; its transitoriness, again its brevity, its dust and ashes — that is what robs me of faith and courage. Art at a given moment is more powerful, may be, than nature; for in nature is no symphony of Beethoven, no picture of Ruysdäel, no poem of Goethe, and only dull - witted pedants or disingenuous chatterers can yet maintain that art is the imitation of nature. But at the end of all, nature is inexorable; she has no need to hurry, and sooner or later she takes her own. Unconsciously and inflexibly obedient to laws, she knows not art, as she knows not freedom, as she knows not good; from all ages moving, from all ages changing, she suffers nothing immortal, nothing unchanging.... Man is her child; but man’s work — art — is hostile to her, just because it strives to be unchanging and immortal. Man is the child of nature; but she is the universal mother, and she has no preferences; all that exists in her lap has arisen only at the cost of something else, and must in its time yield its place to something else. She creates destroying, and she cares not whether she creates or she destroys — so long as life be not exterminated, so long as death fall not short of his dues.... And so just as serenely she hides in mould the god - like shape of Phidias’s Zeus as the simplest pebble, and gives the vile worm for food the priceless verse of Sophokles. Mankind, ‘tis true, jealously aid her in her work of of slaughter; but is it not the same elemental force, the force of nature, that finds vent in the fist of the barbarian recklessly smashing the radiant brow of Apollo, in the savage yells with which he casts in the fire the picture of Apelles? How are we, poor folks, poor artists to be a match for this deaf, dumb, blind force who triumphs not even in her conquests, but goes onward, onward, devouring all things? How stand against those coarse and mighty waves, endlessly, unceasingly moving upward? How have faith in the value and dignity of the fleeting images, that in the dark, on the edge of the abyss, we shape out of dust for an instant?

XVI

All this is true,... but only the transient is beautiful, said Schiller; and nature in the incessant play of her rising, vanishing forms is not averse to beauty. Does not she carefully deck the most fleeting of her children — the petals of the flowers, the wings of the butterfly — in the fairest hues, does she not give them the most exquisite lines? Beauty needs not to live for ever to be eternal — one instant is enough for her. Yes; that may be is true — but only there where personality is not, where man is not, where freedom is not; the butterfly’s wing spoiled appears again and again for a thousand years as the same wing of the same butterfly; there sternly, fairly, impersonally necessity completes her circle... but man is not repeated like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his art, his spontaneous creation once destroyed is lost for ever.... To him alone is it vouchsafed to create... but strange and dreadful it is to pronounce: we are creators... for one hour — as there was, in the tale, a caliph for an hour. In this is our pre - eminence — and our curse; each of those ‘creators’ himself, even he and no other, even this
I
is, as it were, constructed with certain aim, on lines laid down beforehand; each more or less dimly is aware of his significance, is aware that he is innately something noble, eternal — and lives, and must live in the moment and for the moment. Sit in the mud, my friend, and aspire to the skies! The greatest among us are just those who more deeply than all others have felt this rooted contradiction; though if so, it may be asked, can such words be used as greatest, great?

[Footnote 1: One cannot help recalling here Mephistopheles’s words to Faust: —

 
‘Er (Gott) findet sich in einem ewgen Glanze,

  
Uns hat er in die Finsterniss gebracht —

  
Und euch taugt einzig Tag und Nacht.’

                                       
— AUTHOR’S NOTE.]

XVII

What is to be said of those to whom, with all goodwill, one cannot apply such terms, even in the sense given them by the feeble tongue of man? What can one say of the ordinary, common, second - rate, third - rate toilers — whatsoever they may be — statesmen, men of science, artists — above all, artists? How conjure them to shake off their numb indolence, their weary stupor, how draw them back to the field of battle, if once the conception has stolen into their brains of the nullity of everything human, of every sort of effort that sets before itself a higher aim than the mere winning of bread? By what crowns can they be lured for whom laurels and thorns alike are valueless? For what end will they again face the laughter of ‘the unfeeling crowd’ or ‘the judgment of the fool’ — of the old fool who cannot forgive them from turning away from the old bogies — of the young fool who would force them to kneel with him, to grovel with him before the new, lately discovered idols? Why should they go back again into that jostling crowd of phantoms, to that market - place where seller and buyer cheat each other alike, where is noise and clamour, and all is paltry and worthless? Why ‘with impotence in their bones’ should they struggle back into that world where the peoples, like peasant boys on a holiday, are tussling in the mire for handfuls of empty nutshells, or gape in open - mouthed adoration before sorry tinsel - decked pictures, into that world where only that is living which has no right to live, and each, stifling self with his own shouting, hurries feverishly to an unknown, uncomprehended goal? No... no.... Enough... enough... enough!

XVIII

...The rest is silence.

I

… We were a party of eight in the room, and we were talking of contemporary affairs and men.

‘I don’t understand these men!’ observed A.: ‘they’re such desperate fellows…. Really desperate…. There has never been anything like it before.’

‘Yes, there has,’ put in P., a man getting on in years, with grey hair, born some time in the twenties of this century: ‘there were desperate characters in former days too, only they were not like the desperate fellows of to - day. Of the poet Yazikov some one has said that he had enthusiasm, but not applied to anything — an enthusiasm without an object. So it was with those people — their desperateness was without an object. But there, if you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you the story of my nephew, or rather cousin, Misha Poltyev. It may serve as an example of the desperate characters of those days.

He came into God’s world, I remember, in 1828, at his father’s native place and property, in one of the sleepiest corners of a sleepy province of the steppes. Misha’s father, Andrei Nikolaevitch Poltyev, I remember well to this day. He was a genuine old - world landowner, a God - fearing, sedate man, fairly — for those days — well educated, just a little cracked, to tell the truth — and, moreover, he suffered from epilepsy…. That too is an old - world, gentlemanly complaint…. Andrei Nikolaevitch’s fits were, however, slight, and generally ended in sleep and depression. He was good - hearted, and of an affable demeanour, not without a certain stateliness: I always pictured to myself the tsar Mihail Fedorovitch as like him. The whole life of Andrei Nikolaevitch was passed in the punctual fulfilment of every observance established from old days, in strict conformity with all the usages of the old orthodox holy Russian mode of life. He got up and went to bed, ate his meals, and went to his bath, rejoiced or was wroth (both very rarely, it is true), even smoked his pipe and played cards (two great innovations!), not after his own fancy, not in a way of his own, but according to the custom and ordinance of his fathers — with due decorum and formality. He was tall, well built, and stout; his voice was soft and rather husky, as is so often the case with virtuous people in Russia; he was scrupulously neat in his dress and linen, and wore white cravats and full - skirted snuff - coloured coats, but his noble blood was nevertheless evident; no one could have taken him for a priest’s son or a merchant! At all times, on all possible occasions, and in all possible contingencies, Andrei Nikolaevitch knew without fail what ought to be done, what was to be said, and precisely what expressions were to be used; he knew when he ought to take medicine, and just what he ought to take; what omens were to be believed and what might be disregarded … in fact, he knew everything that ought to be done…. For as everything had been provided for and laid down by one’s elders, one had only to be sure not to imagine anything of one’s self…. And above all, without God’s blessing not a step to be taken! — It must be confessed that a deadly dulness reigned supreme in his house, in those low - pitched, warm, dark rooms, that so often resounded with the singing of liturgies and all - night services, and had the smell of incense and Lenten dishes almost always hanging about them!

Andrei Nikolaevitch — no longer in his first youth — married a young lady of a neighbouring family, without fortune, a very nervous and sickly person, who had had a boarding - school education. She played the piano fairly, spoke boarding - school French, was easily moved to enthusiasm, and still more easily to melancholy and even tears…. She was of unbalanced character, in fact. She regarded her life as wasted, could not care for her husband, who, ‘of course,’ did not understand her; but she respected him, … she put up with him; and being perfectly honest and perfectly cold, she never even dreamed of another ‘affection.’ Besides, she was always completely engrossed in the care, first, of her own really delicate health, secondly, of the health of her husband, whose fits always inspired in her something like superstitious horror, and lastly, of her only son, Misha, whom she brought up herself with great zeal. Andrei Nikolaevitch did not oppose his wife’s looking after Misha, on the one condition of his education never over - stepping the lines laid down, once and for all, within which everything must move in his house! Thus, for instance, at Christmas - time, and at New Year, and St. Vassily’s eve, it was permissible for Misha to dress up and masquerade with the servant boys — and not only permissible, but even a binding duty…. But, at any other time, God forbid! and so on, and so on.

II

I remember Misha at thirteen. He was a very pretty boy, with rosy little cheeks and soft lips (indeed he was soft and plump - looking all over), with prominent liquid eyes, carefully brushed and combed, caressing and modest — a regular little girl! There was only one thing about him I did not like: he rarely laughed; but when he did laugh, his teeth — large white teeth, pointed like an animal’s — showed disagreeably, and the laugh itself had an abrupt, even savage, almost animal sound, and there were unpleasant gleams in his eyes. His mother was always praising him for being so obedient and well behaved, and not caring to make friends with rude boys, but always preferring feminine society. ‘A mother’s darling, a milksop,’ his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, would call him; ‘but he’s always ready to go into the house of God…. And that I am glad to see.’ Only one old neighbour, who had been a police captain, once said before me, speaking of Misha, ‘Mark my words, he’ll be a rebel.’ And this saying, I remember, surprised me very much at the time. The old police captain, it is true, used to see rebels on all sides.

Just such an exemplary youth Misha continued to be till the eighteenth year of his age, up to the death of his parents, both of whom he lost almost on the same day. As I was all the while living constantly at Moscow, I heard nothing of my young kinsman. An acquaintance coming from his province did, it is true, inform me that Misha had sold the paternal estate for a trifling sum; but this piece of news struck me as too wildly improbable! And behold, all of a sudden, one autumn morning there flew into the courtyard of my house a carriage, with a pair of splendid trotting horses, and a coachman of monstrous size on the box; and in the carriage, wrapped in a cloak of military cut, with a beaver collar two yards deep, and with a foraging cap cocked on one side,
à la diable m’emporte
, sat … Misha! On catching sight of me (I was standing at the drawing - room window, gazing in astonishment at the flying equipage), he laughed his abrupt laugh, and jauntily flinging back his cloak, he jumped out of the carriage and ran into the house.

‘Misha! Mihail Andreevitch!’ I was beginning, … ‘Is it you?’

‘Call me Misha,’ — he interrupted me. ‘Yes, it’s I, … I, in my own person…. I have come to Moscow … to see the world … and show myself. And here I am, come to see you. What do you say to my horses?… Eh?’ he laughed again.

Though it was seven years since I had seen Misha last, I recognised him at once. His face had remained just as youthful and as pretty as ever — there was no moustache even visible; only his cheeks looked a little swollen under his eyes, and a smell of spirits came from his lips. ‘Have you been long in Moscow?’ I inquired.

‘I supposed you were at home in the country, looking after the place.’ …

‘Eh! The country I threw up at once! As soon as my parents died — may their souls rest in peace — (Misha crossed himself scrupulously, without a shade of mockery) at once, without a moment’s delay, …
ein, zwei, drei!
ha, ha! I let it go cheap, damn it! A rascally fellow turned up. But it’s no matter! Anyway, I am living as I fancy, and amusing other people. But why are you staring at me like that? Was I, really, to go dragging on in the same old round, do you suppose? … My dear fellow, couldn’t I have a glass of something?’

Misha spoke fearfully quick and hurriedly, and, at the same time, as though he were only just waked up from sleep.

‘Misha, upon my word!’ I wailed; ‘have you no fear of God? What do you look like? What an attire! And you ask for a glass too! And to sell such a fine estate for next to nothing….’

‘God I fear always, and do not forget,’ he broke in…. ‘But He is good, you know — God is…. He will forgive! And I am good too…. I have never yet hurt any one in my life. And drink is good too; and as for hurting,… it never hurt any one either. And my get - up is quite the most correct thing…. Uncle, would you like me to show you I can walk straight? Or to do a little dance?’

‘Oh, spare me, please! A dance, indeed! You’d better sit down.’

‘As to that, I’ll sit down with pleasure…. But why do you say nothing of my greys? Just look at them, they’re perfect lions! I’ve got them on hire for the time, but I shall buy them for certain, … and the coachman too…. It’s ever so much cheaper to have one’s own horses. And I had the money, but I lost it yesterday at faro. It’s no matter, I’ll make it up to - morrow. Uncle, … how about that little glass?’

I was still unable to get over my amazement. ‘Really, Misha, how old are you? You ought not to be thinking about horses or cards, … but going into the university or the service.’

Misha first laughed again, then gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

‘Well, uncle, I see you’re in a melancholy humour to - day. I’ll come back another time. But I tell you what: you come in the evening to Sokolniki. I’ve a tent pitched there. The gypsies sing, … such goings - on…. And there’s a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer, written in large letters: “The Troupe of Poltyev’s Gypsies.” The streamer coils like a snake, the letters are of gold, attractive for every one to read. A free entertainment — whoever likes to come! … No refusal! I’m making the dust fly in Moscow … to my glory! … Eh? will you come? Ah, I’ve one girl there … a serpent! Black as your boot, spiteful as a dog, and eyes … like living coals! One can never tell what she’s going to do — kiss or bite! … Will you come, uncle? … Well, good - bye, till we meet!’

And with a sudden embrace, and a smacking kiss on my shoulder, Misha darted away into the courtyard, and into the carriage, waved his cap over his head, hallooed, — the monstrous coachman leered at him over his beard, the greys dashed off, and all vanished!

The next day I — like a sinner — set off to Sokolniki, and did actually see the tent with the streamer and the inscription. The drapery of the tent was raised; from it came clamour, creaking, and shouting. Crowds of people were thronging round it. On a carpet spread on the ground sat gypsies, men and women, singing and beating drums, and in the midst of them, in a red silk shirt and velvet breeches, was Misha, holding a guitar, dancing a jig. ‘Gentlemen! honoured friends! walk in, please! the performance is just beginning! Free to all!’ he was shouting in a high, cracked voice. ‘Hey! champagne! pop! a pop on the head! pop up to the ceiling! Ha! you rogue there, Paul de Kock!’

Luckily he did not see me, and I hastily made off.

I won’t enlarge on my astonishment at the spectacle of this transformation. But, how was it actually possible for that quiet and modest boy to change all at once into a drunken buffoon? Could it all have been latent in him from childhood, and have come to the surface directly the yoke of his parents’ control was removed? But that he had made the dust fly in Moscow, as he expressed it — of that, certainly, there could be no doubt. I have seen something of riotous living in my day; but in this there was a sort of violence, a sort of frenzy of self - destruction, a sort of desperation!

III

For two months these diversions continued…. And once more I was standing at my drawing - room window, looking into the courtyard…. All of a sudden — what could it mean? … there came slowly stepping in at the gate a pilgrim … a squash hat pulled down on his forehead, his hair combed out straight to right and left below it, a long gown, a leather belt … Could it be Misha? He it was!

I went to meet him on the steps…. ‘What’s this masquerade for?’