Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (327 page)

  ’God the All - powerful doth arise

  And judgeth in the congregation of the mighty! …

  How long, how long, saith the Lord,

  Will ye have mercy on the wicked?

  ”Ye have to keep the laws….”‘

‘Sit down!’ Baburin said to him.

Punin sat down, but continued:

  ’To save the guiltless and needy,

  To give shelter to the afflicted,

  To defend the weak from the oppressors.’

Punin at the word ‘oppressors’ pointed to the seignorial abode, and then poked the driver in the back.

  ’To deliver the poor out of bondage!

  They know not! neither will they understand! …’

Nikolai Antonov running out of the seignorial abode, shouted at the top of his voice to the coachman: ‘Get away with you! owl! go along! don’t stay lingering here!’ and the cart rolled away. Only in the distance could still be heard:

  ’Arise, O Lord God of righteousness! …

  Come forth to judge the unjust —

  And be Thou the only Ruler of the nations!’

‘What a clown!’ remarked Nikolai Antonov.

‘He didn’t get enough of the rod in his young days,’ observed the deacon, appearing on the steps. He had come to inquire what hour it would please the mistress to fix for the night service.

The same day, learning that Yermil was still in the village, and would not till early next morning be despatched to the town for the execution of certain legal formalities, which were intended to check the arbitrary proceedings of the landowners, but served only as a source of additional revenue to the functionaries in superintendence of them, I sought him out, and, for lack of money of my own, handed him a bundle, in which I had tied up two pocket - handkerchiefs, a shabby pair of slippers, a comb, an old night - gown, and a perfectly new silk cravat. Yermil, whom I had to wake up — he was lying on a heap of straw in the back yard, near the cart — Yermil took my present rather indifferently, with some hesitation in fact, did not thank me, promptly poked his head into the straw and fell asleep again. I went home somewhat disappointed. I had imagined that he would be astonished and overjoyed at my visit, would see in it a pledge of my magnanimous intentions for the future — and instead of that …

‘You may say what you like — these people have no feeling,’ was my reflection on my homeward way.

My grandmother, who had for some reason left me in peace the whole of that memorable day, looked at me suspiciously when I came after supper to say good - night to her.

‘Your eyes are red,’ she observed to me in French; ‘and there’s a smell of the peasant’s hut about you. I am not going to enter into an examination of what you’ve been feeling and doing — I should not like to be obliged to punish you — but I hope you will get over all your foolishness, and begin to conduct yourself once more in a manner befitting a well - bred boy. However, we are soon going back to Moscow, and I shall get you a tutor — as I see you need a man’s hand to manage you. You can go.’

We did, as a fact, go back soon after to Moscow.

II

1837

Seven years had passed by. We were living as before at Moscow — but I was by now a student in my second year — and the authority of my grandmother, who had aged very perceptibly in the last years, no longer weighed upon me. Of all my fellow - students the one with whom I was on the friendliest terms was a light - hearted and good - natured youth called Tarhov. Our habits and our tastes were similar. Tarhov was a great lover of poetry, and himself wrote verses; while in me the seeds sown by Punin had not been without fruit. As is often the case with young people who are very close friends, we had no secrets from one another. But behold, for several days together I noticed a certain excitement and agitation in Tarhov…. He disappeared for hours at a time, and I did not know where he had got to — a thing which had never happened before. I was on the point of demanding, in the name of friendship, a full explanation…. He anticipated me.

One day I was sitting in his room…. ‘Petya,’ he said suddenly, blushing gaily, and looking me straight in the face, ‘I must introduce you to my muse.’

‘Your muse! how queerly you talk! Like a classicist. (Romanticism was at that time, in 1837, at its full height.) As if I had not known it ever so long — your muse! Have you written a new poem, or what?’

‘You don’t understand what I mean,’ rejoined Tarhov, still laughing and blushing. ‘I will introduce you to a living muse.’

‘Aha! so that’s it! But how is she — yours?’

‘Why, because … But hush, I believe it’s she coming here.’

There was the light click of hurrying heels, the door opened, and in the doorway appeared a girl of eighteen, in a chintz cotton gown, with a black cloth cape on her shoulders, and a black straw hat on her fair, rather curly hair. On seeing me she was frightened and disconcerted, and was beating a retreat … but Tarhov at once rushed to meet her.

‘Please, please, Musa Pavlovna, come in! This is my great friend, a splendid fellow — and the soul of discretion. You’ve no need to be afraid of him. Petya,’ he turned to me, ‘let me introduce my Musa — Musa Pavlovna Vinogradov, a great friend of mine.’

I bowed.

‘How is that … Musa?’ I was beginning…. Tarhov laughed. ‘Ah, you didn’t know there was such a name in the calendar? I didn’t know it either, my boy, till I met this dear young lady. Musa! such a charming name! And suits her so well!’

I bowed again to my comrade’s great friend. She left the door, took two steps forward and stood still. She was very attractive, but I could not agree with Tarhov’s opinion, and inwardly said to myself: ‘Well, she’s a strange sort of muse!’

The features of her curved, rosy face were small and delicate; there was an air of fresh, buoyant youth about all her slender, miniature figure; but of the muse, of the personification of the muse, I — and not only I — all the young people of that time had a very different conception! First of all the muse had infallibly to be dark - haired and pale. An expression of scornful pride, a bitter smile, a glance of inspiration, and that ‘something’ — mysterious, demonic, fateful — that was essential to our conception of the muse, the muse of Byron, who at that time held sovereign sway over men’s fancies. There was nothing of that kind to be discerned in the face of the girl who came in. Had I been a little older and more experienced I should probably have paid more attention to her eyes, which were small and deep - set, with full lids, but dark as agate, alert and bright, a thing rare in fair - haired people. Poetical tendencies I should not have detected in their rapid, as it were elusive, glance, but hints of a passionate soul, passionate to self - forgetfulness. But I was very young then.

I held out my hand to Musa Pavlovna — she did not give me hers — she did not notice my movement; she sat down on the chair Tarhov placed for her, but did not take off her hat and cape.

She was, obviously, ill at ease; my presence embarrassed her. She drew deep breaths, at irregular intervals, as though she were gasping for air.

‘I’ve only come to you for one minute, Vladimir Nikolaitch,’ she began — her voice was very soft and deep; from her crimson, almost childish lips, it seemed rather strange; — ’but our madame would not let me out for more than half an hour. You weren’t well the day before yesterday … and so, I thought …’

She stammered and hung her head. Under the shade of her thick, low brows her dark eyes darted — to and fro — elusively. There are dark, swift, flashing beetles that flit so in the heat of summer among the blades of dry grass.

‘How good you are, Musa, Musotchka!’ cried Tarhov. ‘But you must stay, you must stay a little…. We’ll have the samovar in directly.’

‘Oh no, Vladimir Nikolaevitch! it’s impossible! I must go away this minute.’

‘You must rest a little, anyway. You’re out of breath…. You’re tired.’

‘I’m not tired. It’s … not that … only … give me another book; I’ve finished this one.’ She took out of her pocket a tattered grey volume of a Moscow edition.

‘Of course, of course. Well, did you like it?
Roslavlev
,’ added

Tarhov, addressing me.

‘Yes. Only I think
Yury Miloslavsky
is much better. Our madame is very strict about books. She says they hinder our working. For, to her thinking …’

‘But, I say,
Yury Miloslavsky
’s not equal to Pushkin’s
Gipsies
? Eh?

Musa Pavlovna?’ Tarhov broke in with a smile.

‘No, indeed! The
Gipsies
…’ she murmured slowly. ‘Oh yes, another thing, Vladimir Nikolaitch; don’t come to - morrow … you know where.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘But why?’

The girl shrugged her shoulders, and all at once, as though she had received a sudden shove, got up from her chair.

‘Why, Musa, Musotchka,’ Tarhov expostulated plaintively. ‘Stay a little!’

‘No, no, I can’t.’ She went quickly to the door, took hold of the handle….

‘Well, at least, take the book!’

‘Another time.’

Tarhov rushed towards the girl, but at that instant she darted out of the room. He almost knocked his nose against the door. ‘What a girl! She’s a regular little viper!’ he declared with some vexation, and then sank into thought.

I stayed at Tarhov’s. I wanted to find out what was the meaning of it all. Tarhov was not disposed to be reserved. He told me that the girl was a milliner; that he had seen her for the first time three weeks before in a fashionable shop, where he had gone on a commission for his sister, who lived in the provinces, to buy a hat; that he had fallen in love with her at first sight, and that next day he had succeeded in speaking to her in the street; that she had herself, it seemed, taken rather a fancy to him.

‘Only, please, don’t you suppose,’ he added with warmth, — ’don’t you imagine any harm of her. So far, at any rate, there’s been nothing of that sort between us.

‘Harm!’ I caught him up; ‘I’ve no doubt of that; and I’ve no doubt either that you sincerely deplore the fact, my dear fellow! Have patience — everything will come right’

‘I hope so,’ Tarhov muttered through his teeth, though with a laugh. ‘But really, my boy, that girl … I tell you — it’s a new type, you know. You hadn’t time to get a good look at her. She’s a shy thing! — oo! such a shy thing! and what a will of her own! But that very shyness is what I like in her. It’s a sign of independence! I’m simply over head and ears, my boy!’

Tarhov fell to talking of his ‘charmer,’ and even read me the beginning of a poem entitled: ‘My Muse.’ His emotional outpourings were not quite to my taste. I felt secretly jealous of him. I soon left him.

* * * * *

A few days after I happened to be passing through one of the arcades of the Gostinny Dvor. It was Saturday; there were crowds of people shopping; on all sides, in the midst of the pushing and crushing, the shopmen kept shouting to people to buy. Having bought what I wanted, I was thinking of nothing but getting away from their teasing importunity as soon as possible — when all at once I halted involuntarily: in a fruit shop I caught sight of my comrade’s charmer — Musa, Musa Pavlovna! She was standing, profile to me, and seemed to be waiting for something. After a moment’s hesitation I made up my mind to go up to her and speak. But I had hardly passed through the doorway of the shop and taken off my cap, when she tottered back dismayed, turned quickly to an old man in a frieze cloak, for whom the shopman was weighing out a pound of raisins, and clutched at his arm, as though fleeing to put herself under his protection. The latter, in his turn, wheeled round facing her — and, imagine my amazement, I recognised him as Punin!