Read Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Online
Authors: IVAN TURGENEV
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (391 page)
I dreamed that we were sitting, a party of twenty, in a big room with open windows.
Among us were women, children, old men…. We were all talking of some very well - known subject, talking noisily and indistinctly.
Suddenly, with a sharp, whirring sound, there flew into the room a big insect, two inches long … it flew in, circled round, and settled on the wall.
It was like a fly or a wasp. Its body dirt - coloured; of the same colour too its flat, stiff wings; outspread feathered claws, and a head thick and angular, like a dragon - fly’s; both head and claws were bright red, as though steeped in blood.
This strange insect incessantly turned its head up and down, to right and to left, moved its claws … then suddenly darted from the wall, flew with a whirring sound about the room, and again settled, again hatefully and loathsomely wriggling all over, without stirring from the spot.
In all of us it excited a sensation of loathing, dread, even terror…. No one of us had ever seen anything like it. We all cried: ‘Drive that monstrous thing away!’ and waved our handkerchiefs at it from a distance … but no one ventured to go up to it … and when the insect began flying, every one instinctively moved away.
Only one of our party, a pale - faced young man, stared at us all in amazement He shrugged his shoulders; he smiled, and positively could not conceive what had happened to us, and why we were in such a state of excitement. He himself did not see an insect at all, did not hear the ill - omened whirr of its wings.
All at once the insect seemed to stare at him, darted off, and dropping on his head, stung him on the forehead, above the eyes…. The young man feebly groaned, and fell dead.
The fearful fly flew out at once…. Only then we guessed what it was had visited us.
May 1878.
A peasant woman, a widow, had an only son, a young man of twenty, the best workman in the village, and he died.
The lady who was the owner of the village, hearing of the woman’s trouble, went to visit her on the very day of the burial.
She found her at home.
Standing in the middle of her hut, before the table, she was, without haste, with a regular movement of the right arm (the left hung listless at her side), scooping up weak cabbage soup from the bottom of a blackened pot, and swallowing it spoonful by spoonful.
The woman’s face was sunken and dark; her eyes were red and swollen … but she held herself as rigid and upright as in church.
‘Heavens!’ thought the lady, ‘she can eat at such a moment … what coarse feelings they have really, all of them!’
And at that point the lady recollected that when, a few years before, she had lost her little daughter, nine months old, she had refused, in her grief, a lovely country villa near Petersburg, and had spent the whole summer in town! Meanwhile the woman went on swallowing cabbage soup.
The lady could not contain herself, at last. ‘Tatiana!’ she said … ‘Really! I’m surprised! Is it possible you didn’t care for your son? How is it you’ve not lost your appetite? How can you eat that soup!’
‘My Vasia’s dead,’ said the woman quietly, and tears of anguish ran once more down her hollow cheeks. ‘It’s the end of me too, of course; it’s tearing the heart out of me alive. But the soup’s not to be wasted; there’s salt in it.’
The lady only shrugged her shoulders and went away. Salt did not cost her much.
May 1878.
O realm of azure! O realm of light and colour, of youth and happiness! I have beheld thee in dream. We were together, a few, in a beautiful little boat, gaily decked out. Like a swan’s breast the white sail swelled below the streamers frolicking in the wind.
I knew not who were with me; but in all my soul I felt that they were young, light - hearted, happy as I!
But I looked not indeed on them. I beheld all round the boundless blue of the sea, dimpled with scales of gold, and overhead the same boundless sea of blue, and in it, triumphant and mirthful, it seemed, moved the sun.
And among us, ever and anon, rose laughter, ringing and gleeful as the laughter of the gods!
And on a sudden, from one man’s lips or another’s, would flow words, songs of divine beauty and inspiration, and power … it seemed the sky itself echoed back a greeting to them, and the sea quivered in unison…. Then followed again the blissful stillness.
Riding lightly over the soft waves, swiftly our little boat sped on. No wind drove it along; our own lightly beating hearts guided it. At our will it floated, obedient as a living thing.
We came on islands, enchanted islands, half - transparent with the prismatic lights of precious stones, of amethysts and emeralds. Odours of bewildering fragrance rose from the rounded shores; some of these islands showered on us a rain of roses and valley lilies; from others birds darted up, with long wings of rainbow hues.
The birds flew circling above us; the lilies and roses melted away in the pearly foam that glided by the smooth sides of our boat.
And, with the flowers and the birds, sounds floated to us, sounds sweet as honey … women’s voices, one fancied, in them…. And all about us, sky, sea, the heaving sail aloft, the gurgling water at the rudder — all spoke of love, of happy love!
And she, the beloved of each of us — she was there … unseen and close. One moment more, and behold, her eyes will shine upon thee, her smile will blossom on thee…. Her hand will take thy hand and guide thee to the land of joy that fades not!
O realm of azure! In dream have I beheld thee.
June 1878.
When I hear the praises of the rich man Rothschild, who out of his immense revenues devotes whole thousands to the education of children, the care of the sick, the support of the aged, I admire and am touched.
But even while I admire it and am touched by it, I cannot help recalling a poor peasant family who took an orphan niece into their little tumble - down hut.
‘If we take Katka,’ said the woman, ‘our last farthing will go on her, there won’t be enough to get us salt to salt us a bit of bread.’
‘Well,… we’ll do without salt,’ answered the peasant, her husband.
Rothschild is a long way behind that peasant!
July 1878.
Days of darkness, of dreariness, have come…. Thy own infirmities, the sufferings of those dear to thee, the chill and gloom of old age. All that thou hast loved, to which thou hast given thyself irrevocably, is falling, going to pieces. The way is all down - hill.
What canst thou do? Grieve? Complain? Thou wilt aid not thyself nor others that way….
On the bowed and withering tree the leaves are smaller and fewer, but its green is yet the same.
Do thou too shrink within, withdraw into thyself, into thy memories, and there, deep down, in the very depths of the soul turned inwards on itself, thy old life, to which thou alone hast the key, will be bright again for thee, in all the fragrance, all the fresh green, and the grace and power of its spring!
But beware … look not forward, poor old man!
July 1878.
Two friends were sitting at a table drinking tea.
A sudden hubbub arose in the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of malignant laughter.
‘They’re beating some one,’ observed one of the friends, looking out of window.
‘A criminal? A murderer?’ inquired the other. ‘I say, whatever he may be, we can’t allow this illegal chastisement. Let’s go and take his part.’
‘But it’s not a murderer they’re beating.’
‘Not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no difference, let’s go and get him away from the crowd.’
‘It’s not a thief either.’
‘Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social reformer?… Any way, let’s go and help him!’
‘No … it’s a newspaper reporter they’re beating.’
‘A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we’ll finish our glasses of tea first then.’
July 1878.
It was a vision …
Two angels appeared to me … two genii.
I say angels, genii, because both had no clothes on their naked bodies, and behind their shoulders rose long powerful wings.
Both were youths. One was rather plump, with soft smooth skin and dark curls. His eyes were brown and full, with thick eyelashes; his look was sly, merry, and eager. His face was charming, bewitching, a little insolent, a little wicked. His full soft crimson lips were faintly quivering. The youth smiled as one possessing power — self - confidently and languidly; a magnificent wreath of flowers rested lightly on his shining tresses, almost touching his velvety eyebrows. A spotted leopard’s skin, pinned up with a golden arrow, hung lightly from his curved shoulder to his rounded thigh. The feathers of his wings were tinged with rose colour; the ends of them were bright red, as though dipped in fresh - spilt scarlet blood. From time to time they quivered rapidly with a sweet silvery sound, the sound of rain in spring.
The other was thin, and his skin yellowish. At every breath his ribs could be seen faintly heaving. His hair was fair, thin, and straight; his eyes big, round, pale grey … his glance uneasy and strangely bright. All his features were sharp; the little half - open mouth, with pointed fish - like teeth; the pinched eagle nose, the projecting chin, covered with whitish down. The parched lips never once smiled.
It was a well - cut face, but terrible and pitiless! (Though the face of the first, the beautiful youth, sweet and lovely as it was, showed no trace of pity either.) About the head of the second youth were twisted a few broken and empty ears of corn, entwined with faded grass - stalks. A coarse grey cloth girt his loins; the wings behind, a dull dark grey colour, moved slowly and menacingly.
The two youths seemed inseparable companions. Each of them leaned upon the other’s shoulder. The soft hand of the first lay like a cluster of grapes upon the bony neck of the second; the slender wrist of the second, with its long delicate fingers, coiled like a snake about the girlish bosom of the first.
And I heard a voice. This is what it said: ‘Love and Hunger stand before thee — twin brothers, the two foundation - stones of all things living.
‘All that lives moves to get food, and feeds to bring forth young.
‘Love and Hunger — their aim is one; that life should cease not, the life of the individual and the life of others — the same universal life.’
August 1878.
He had every qualification for becoming the scourge of his family.
He was born healthy, was born wealthy, and throughout the whole of his long life, continuing to be wealthy and healthy, he never committed a single sin, never fell into a single error, never once made a slip or a blunder.
He was irreproachably conscientious!… And complacent in the sense of his own conscientiousness, he crushed every one with it, his family, his friends and his acquaintances.
His conscientiousness was his capital … and he exacted an exorbitant interest for it.
His conscientiousness gave him the right to be merciless, and to do no good deeds beyond what it dictated to him; and he was merciless, and did no good … for good that is dictated is no good at all.
He took no interest in any one except his own exemplary self, and was genuinely indignant if others did not take as studious an interest in it!
At the same time he did not consider himself an egoist, and was particularly severe in censuring, and keen in detecting egoists and egoism. To be sure he was. The egoism of another was a check on his own.
Not recognising the smallest weakness in himself he did not understand, did not tolerate any weakness in any one. He did not, in fact, understand any one or any thing, since he was all, on all sides, above and below, before and behind, encircled by himself.
He did not even understand the meaning of forgiveness. He had never had to forgive himself…. What inducement could he have to forgive others?
Before the tribunal of his own conscience, before the face of his own God, he, this marvel, this monster of virtue, raised his eyes heavenwards, and with clear unfaltering voice declared, ‘Yes, I am an exemplary, a truly moral man!’
He will repeat these words on his deathbed, and there will be no throb even then in his heart of stone — in that heart without stain or blemish!
Oh, hideousness of self - complacent, unbending, cheaply bought virtue; thou art almost more revolting than the frank hideousness of vice!
Dec. 1876.
