Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (378 page)

Here the young woman actually burst into tears. I would have liked to comfort her, but I did not know how.

“Have you a baby?” I asked at last.

She sighed. — ”No, I have not…. How could I have?” — And here tears streamed worse than before.

So this was the end of Mísha’s wanderings through tribulations [old P. concluded his story]. — You will agree with me, gentlemen, as a matter of course, that I had a right to call him reckless; but you will probably also agree with me that he did not resemble the reckless fellows of the present day, although we must suppose that any philosopher would find traits of similarity between him and them. In both cases there is the thirst for self - annihilation, melancholy, dissatisfaction…. And what that springs from I will permit precisely that philosopher to decide.

Twenty years ago I was obliged — in my capacity of private inspector — to make the circuit of all my aunt’s rather numerous estates. The parish priests, with whom I regarded it as my duty to make acquaintance, proved to be individuals of pretty much one pattern, and made after one model, as it were. At length, in about the last of the estates which I was inspecting, I hit upon a priest who did not resemble his brethren. He was a very aged man, almost decrepit; and had it not been for the urgent entreaties of his parishioners, who loved and respected him, he would long before have petitioned to be retired that he might rest. Two peculiarities impressed me in Father Alexyéi (that was the priest’s name). In the first place, he not only asked nothing for himself but announced plainly that he required nothing; and, in the second place, I have never beheld in any human face a more sorrowful, thoroughly indifferent — what is called an “overwhelmed” — expression. The features of that face were of the ordinary rustic type: a wrinkled forehead, small grey eyes, a large nose, a wedge - shaped beard, a swarthy, sunburned skin…. But the expression! … the expression!… In that dim gaze life barely burned, and sadly at that; and his voice also was, somehow, lifeless and dim.

I fell ill and kept my bed for several days. Father Alexyéi dropped in to see me in the evenings, not to chat, but to play “fool.” The game of cards seemed to divert him more than it did me. One day, after having been left “the fool” several times in succession (which delighted Father Alexyéi not a little), I turned the conversation on his past life, on the afflictions which had left on him such manifest traces. Father Alexyéi remained obdurate for a long time at first, but ended by relating to me his story. He must have taken a liking to me for some reason or other. Otherwise he would not have been so frank with me.

I shall endeavour to transmit his story in his own words. Father Alexyéi talked very simply and intelligently, without any seminary or provincial tricks and turns of speech. It was not the first time I had noticed that Russians, of all classes and callings, who have been violently shattered and humbled express themselves precisely in such language.

… I had a good and sedate wife [thus he began], I loved her heartily, and we begat eight children. One of my sons became a bishop, and died not so very long ago, in his diocese. I shall now tell you about my other son, — Yákoff was his name. I sent him to the seminary in the town of T —
 
— , and soon began to receive the most comforting reports about him. He was the best pupil in all the branches! Even at home, in his boyhood, he had been distinguished for his diligence and discretion; a whole day would sometimes pass without one’s hearing him … he would be sitting all the time over his book, reading. He never caused me and my wife the slightest displeasure; he was a meek lad. Only sometimes he was thoughtful beyond his years, and his health was rather weak. Once something remarkable happened to him. He left the house at daybreak, on St. Peter’s day, and was gone almost all the morning. At last he returned. My wife and I ask him: “Where hast thou been?”

“I have been for a ramble in the forest,” says he, “and there I met a certain little green old man, who talked a great deal with me, and gave me such savoury nuts!”

“What little green old man art thou talking about?” we ask him.

“I don’t know,” says he; “I never saw him before. He was a little old man with a hump, and he kept shifting from one to the other of his little feet, and laughing — and he was all green, just like a leaf.”

“What,” say we, “and was his face green also?”

“Yes, his face, and his hair, and even his eyes.”

Our son had never lied to us; but this time my wife and I had our doubts.

“Thou must have fallen asleep in the forest, in the heat of the day, and have seen that old man in thy dreams.”

“I wasn’t asleep at all,” says he. “Why, don’t you believe me?” says he. “See here, I have one of the nuts left in my pocket.”

Yákoff pulled the nut out of his pocket and showed it to us. — The kernel was small, in the nature of a chestnut, and rather rough; it did not resemble our ordinary nuts. I laid it aside, and intended to show it to the doctor … but it got lost…. I did not find it again.

Well, sir, so we sent him to the seminary, and, as I have already informed you, he rejoiced us by his success. So my spouse and I assumed that he would turn out a fine man! When he came for a sojourn at home it was a pleasure to look at him; he was so comely, and there was no mischief about him; — every one liked him, every one congratulated us. Only he was still rather thin of body, and there was no real good rosiness in his face. So then, he was already in his nineteenth year, and his education would soon be finished. When suddenly we receive from him a letter. — He writes to us: “Dear father and mother, be not wroth with me, permit me to be a layman; my heart does not incline to the ecclesiastical profession, I dread the responsibility, I am afraid I shall sin — doubts have taken hold upon me! Without your parental permission and blessing I shall venture on nothing — but one thing I will tell you; I am afraid of myself, for I have begun to think a great deal.”

I assure you, my dear sir, that this letter made me very sad, — as though a boar - spear had pricked my heart, — for I saw that I should have no one to take my place! My eldest son was a monk; and this one wanted to abandon his vocation altogether. I was also pained because priests from our family have lived in our parish for close upon two hundred years. But I thought to myself: “There’s no use in kicking against the pricks; evidently, so it was predestined for him. What sort of a pastor would he be if he has admitted doubt to his mind?” I took counsel with my wife, and wrote to him in the following sense:

“Think it over well, my son Yákoff; measure ten times before you cut off once — there are great difficulties in the worldly service, cold and hunger, and scorn for our caste! And thou must know beforehand that no one will lend a hand to aid; so see to it that thou dost not repine afterward. My desire, as thou knowest, has always been that thou shouldst succeed me; but if thou really hast come to cherish doubts as to thy calling and hast become unsteady in the faith, then it is not my place to restrain thee. The Lord’s will be done! Thy mother and I will not refuse thee our blessing.”

Yákoff answered me with a grateful letter. “Thou hast rejoiced me, dear father,” said he. “It is my intention to devote myself to the profession of learning, and I have some protection; I shall enter the university and become a doctor, for I feel a strong bent for science.” I read Yáshka’s letter and became sadder than before; but I did not share my grief with any one. My old woman caught a severe cold about that time and died — from that same cold, or the Lord took her to Himself because He loved her, I know not which. I used to weep and weep because I was a lonely widower — but what help was there for that? So it had to be, you know. And I would have been glad to go into the earth … but it is hard … it will not open. And I was expecting my son; for he had notified me: “Before I go to Moscow,” he said, “I shall look in at home.” And he did come to the parental roof, but did not remain there long. It seemed as though something were urging him on; he would have liked, apparently, to fly on wings to Moscow, to his beloved university! I began to question him as to his doubts. “What was the cause of them?” I asked. But I did not get much out of him. One idea had pushed itself into his head, and that was the end of it! “I want to help my neighbours,” he said. — Well, sir, he left me. I don’t believe he took a penny with him, only a few clothes. He had such reliance on himself! And not without reason. He passed an excellent examination, matriculated as student, obtained lessons in private houses…. He was very strong on the ancient languages! And what think you? He took it into his head to send me money. I cheered up a little, — not on account of the money, of course, — I sent that back to him, and even scolded him; but I cheered up because I saw that the young fellow would make his way in the world. But my rejoicing did not last long….

He came to me for his first vacation…. And, what marvel is this? I do not recognise my Yákoff! He had grown so tiresome and surly, — you couldn’t get a word out of him. And his face had changed also: he had grown about ten years older. He had been taciturn before, there’s no denying that! At the slightest thing he would grow shy and blush like a girl…. But when he raised his eyes, you could see that all was bright in his soul! But now it was quite different. He was not shy, but he held aloof, like a wolf, and was always looking askance. He had neither a smile nor a greeting for any one — he was just like a stone! If I undertook to interrogate him, he would either remain silent or snarl. I began to wonder whether he had taken to drink — which God forbid! — or had conceived a passion for cards; or whether something in the line of a weakness for women had happened to him. In youth love - longings act powerfully, — well, and in such a large city as Moscow bad examples and occasions are not lacking. But no; nothing of that sort was discernible. His drink was kvas and water; he never looked at the female sex — and had no intercourse with people in general. And what was most bitter of all to me, he did not have his former confidence in me; a sort of indifference had made its appearance, just as though everything belonging to him had become loathsome to him. I turned the conversation on the sciences, on the university, but even there could get no real answer. He went to church, but he was not devoid of peculiarities there also; everywhere he was grim and scowling, but in church he seemed always to be grinning.

After this fashion he spent six weeks with me, then went back to Moscow. From Moscow he wrote to me twice, and it seemed to me, from his letters, as though he were regaining his sensibilities. But picture to yourself my surprise, my dear sir! Suddenly, in the very middle of the winter, just before the Christmas holidays, he presents himself before me!

“How didst thou get here? How is this? What’s the matter? I know that thou hast no vacation at this time. — Dost thou come from Moscow?” — I ask.

“Yes.”

“And how about … the university?”

“I have left the university.”

“Thou hast left it?”

“Just so.”

“For good?”

“For good.”

“But art thou ill, pray, Yákoff?”

“No, father,” says he, “I am not ill; but just don’t bother me and question me, dear father, or I will go away from here — and that’s the last thou wilt ever see of me.”

Yákoff tells me that he is not ill, but his face is such that I am fairly frightened. It was dreadful, dark — not human, actually! — His cheeks were drawn, his cheek - bones projected, he was mere skin and bone; his voice sounded as though it proceeded from a barrel … while his eyes…. O Lord and Master! what eyes! — menacing, wild, incessantly darting from side to side, and it was impossible to catch them; his brows were knit, his lips seemed to be twisted on one side…. What had happened to my Joseph Most Fair, to my quiet lad? I cannot comprehend it. “Can he have gone crazy?” I say to myself. He roams about like a spectre by night, he does not sleep, — and then, all of a sudden, he will take to staring into a corner as though he were completely benumbed…. It was enough to scare one!

Although he had threatened to leave the house if I did not leave him in peace, yet surely I was his father! My last hope was ruined — yet I was to hold my tongue! So one day, availing myself of an opportunity, I began to entreat Yákoff with tears, I began to adjure him by the memory of his dead mother:

“Tell me,” I said, “as thy father in the flesh and in the spirit, Yásha, what aileth thee? Do not kill me; explain thyself, lighten thy heart! Can it be that thou hast ruined some Christian soul? If so, repent!”

“Well, dear father,” he suddenly says to me (this took place toward nightfall), “thou hast moved me to compassion. I will tell thee the whole truth. I have not ruined any Christian soul — but my own soul is going to perdition.”