Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (439 page)

“Cease, struggling passions, Sleep, hopeless heart . . .”

Well, I must get to work. [Site down at the table.] Yes, I need it; I need it.

[Matvei enters.] Zhazikov: Is that you, Matvei? Matvei: Yes, sir.

Zhazikov: What’s the matter there? Matvei: A dog - fancier has come; he wants to see you. He says that you told him to come to the house.

Zhazikov: Oh, yes, yes; that’s it. I did. Has he brought a dog with him? Matvei: He has one with him.

Zhazikov: Tell him to come in. Is it a setter? Come in, my dear fellow.

[A dog - fancier enters. He wears a coarse coat and a kerchief is tied around his cheeks. He has an old, vile - looking dog by a string.] Zhazikov [looking the dog over with an eye - glass]: What’s her name?

Dog - Fancier: Minder.

[The dog looks at her master timidly and wags her short tail spasmodically.] Zhazikov: Is she a good dog? Dog - Fancier: A most excellent dog. Isi, Minder!

Zhazikov: Does she know how to carry things? Dog - Fancier: Sure, she does. [Takes his cap from under his arm and throws it on the floor.] Pil - aport!

[The dog brings him the cap.] Zhazikov: That’s good; and how is she in the field? Dog - Fancier: First class. . . . Kush! Tibo! Oh, you! Zhazikov: Is she old?

Dog - Fancier: This is her third spring. [Pulls her by the string.]

Zhazikov: Well, what do you want for her? Dog - Fancier: Fifty rubles; and not less. Zhazikov: Nonsense! That’s too much. Say thirty. Dog - Fancier: No, I can’t. I ask you very little. Zhazikov: Oh, make it ten rubles!

[Matvei’s face expresses a terrible anguish.] Doo - Fancier: I can’t, sir; really, I can’t. Zhazikov: Well then to the deuce with it. What breed is it?

Dog - Fancier: Good breed. Zhazikov: Good breed?

Dog - Fancier: We don’t keep the poor kind. We never bother with them.

Zhazikov [ironically]: You never keep them? Dog - Fancier: Why should we keep them? Zhazikov [to Matvei]: What do you think, is she a good dog?

Matvei [disheartened]: Good dog. Zhazikov: Well, will you take thirty - five rubles? Dog - Fancier: Forty rubles is the least I’ll take. You can have her for forty rubles. Zhazikov: No, no; no more. Dog - Fancier: Well, so be it; take her.

Zhazikov: You should have given her up long ago. And she is a good dog?

Dog - Fancier: Such a dog, sir, as you won’t find in the whole city.

Zhazikov [somewhat confused]: Well, you see, my dear fellow, I have quite a little money now; but I must buy something else with it. . . . You come in to - morrow, about this time, you understand? Or, day after to - morrow, only a little earlier.

Dog - Fancier: Give a little deposit — I’ll leave the dog here.

Zhazikov: No, I can’t do that.

Dog - Fancier: Just one ruble.

Zhazikov: No, I’d rather pay the whole of it in one lump.

Dog - Fancier [going to the door]: Listen, sir: give me the cash, now, and you can have her for thirty rubles.

Zhazikov: I can’t now.

Dog - Fancier: Well, give me twenty rubles.

Zhazikov: I can’t now; absolutely impossible, my dear.

Dog - Fancier: Twenty rubles, if you want to, now.

Zhazikov: You are a funny man. I tell you I can’t now.

Dog - Fancier: Isi, Minder, Isi! [Smiling bitterly.] It is very plain, sir, that your honor never had any money. Isi, scoundrel, isi.

Zhazikov: How dare you?

Dog - Fancier: And he is asking me to come to his house! Isi!

Zhazikov: Get out of here, ruffian! Matvei, kick him out of here!

Dog - Fancier: Be quiet! I’ll go out myself.

Zhazikov: Matvei! What did I tell you?

Dog - Fancier [from vestibule]: Just come near me, you old devil!

[Matvei follows him out.]

Zhazikov [shouting after him]: Kick him out; knock him in the head!!! Get out, get out!! . . . [Begins to pace the room.] What a contemptible cur! . . . The dog, I think, wasn’t good, either. I am glad I did not buy it; but he had no right to insult. ... He had no right. . . . [Sits down on the sofa.] What a rotten day it has been! I haven’t done a single thing since I got up and I haven’t got any money, either. And I need money very much, very much. Matvei!

[Matvei enters.]

Matvei: Yes, sir?

Zhazikov: Take a letter from me to Krinitsyn.

Matvei: Yes, sir.

Zhazikov: Matvei!

Matvei: What do you wish, sir?

Zhazikov: What do you think, — will he give me money?

Matvei: No, Timofei Petrovich, he won’t give anything.

Ziiazikov: He’ll give. [Clicks with his tongue.] You’ll see, he will give.

Matvei: He won’t give, Timofei Petrovich.

Zhazikov: Why? Why?

Matvei [after a short silence]: Timofei Petrovich, let me, an old fool, say something.

Zhazikov: Say it.

Matvei [after coughing a little]: Timofei Petrovich! Permit me to tell you: you are not doing right by living here. You, sir, are our master by birth; you are, sir, a landowner by inheritance; why should you want to live here in the city, be in need, have troubles? You have an inherited estate, you know it; your mother, by God’s good graces, is well, — why shouldn’t you go and live with her on your own inherited estate?

Zhazikov: Have you received a letter from mother? It seems you are singing her tune.

Matvei: I did receive a letter from the mistress; she deemed me worthy to be written to, so to say; and I wrote to her about your health, in detail, as she ordered me to do. Permit me to tell you, Timofei Petrovich, that she is very uneasy in mind about you; she asked me to write and tell her what you were doing, who was your company, where you went, everything, so to say. She threatened, so to say, to punish me if I didn’t write all about you. “Tell Timofei Petrovich,” she wrote, “that his mother is uneasy about him; and that it is not right to live in St. Petersburg, without doing anything, and wasting money.” That’s what she said.

Zhazikov [forcing a smile]: Well, what did you write to her?

Matvei: I reported that everything was all right; and that what she had asked me to do, I had done, and that I would take it to Timofei Petrovich and report again. Oh, Timofei Petrovich, Timofei Petrovich! If you would go back home, you would live like a lord, in a house of your own, and have a wife too. Why are you living here? Every time the bell rings you jump like a frightened hare, jump over everything, and still you have no money, and you don’t get enough, or in time.

Zhazikov: No; but it’s lonesome at home, in the country; the neighbors are ignorant; the girls only stare at you, and perspire with fear if you say anything to them.

Matvei: Oh, Timofei Petrovich! What good are the girls here? And the company that you receive? Upon my word, they are nothing to look at! They are mean, rascally, sick, coughing, and, may the Lord forgive me, they are like sheep. But at home, in the country, it’s different. It’s true, it is not now what it used to be. No! Your grandfather, Timofei Lukich, blessed be his memory, was a very tall man. When he got mad and commenced to shout in his shrill voice, one wished to be dead! He was a master! But if he happened to take a liking to one, or he happened to be in a good mood, he would reward a fellow, and do it so that a fellow would remember it for a long time. And his wife, the old mistress, how kind she was! She never said a bad word about anybody.

Zhazikov: And still, I wouldn’t go back to live in the country. I’d go crazy there.

Matvei: Timofei Petrovich! You’d have money there, sir. Here, for instance, I am only your serf. I don’t complain, but still it’s provoking. Look, if you please, — [Removing the skirts of his coat.’] — these are pants only in name. In the country everything is in abundance! Warm houses, where one can sleep all day, and plenty to eat. . . . Here, permit me to say, I have not had one square meal. Then, there is hunting, sir, hunting hares and red squirrels. And it would please your mother, Vasilisia Sergieevna, in her old age.

Zhazikov: Well, perhaps I would go to the country; but they wouldn’t let me out again. I’d simply be unable to get away from there. They might marry me off, — who knows?

Matvei: What if they did, sir? It is the Christian way.

Zhazikov: Don’t say that; no, don’t say that.

Matvei: As you like, sir. Well, for instance, Timofei Petrovich, here I must say that I am hardly safe. May the Lord protect us, but if something should be stolen from here my life wouldn’t be worth anything; and it would serve me right because I hadn’t watched. But how can I watch? My duties are those of a serf. I do not go anywhere; I am sitting in the ante - room from morning until night, but it is not like in the country. My mind is not at ease. Sometimes a shudder goes through me; I sit and shudder and pray to the Lord. During the day I can never have a proper nap. And what kind of people are here! They are base, have no fear. There is no comparison between them and us serfs. They have not even a guilty look; and yet there are thieves upon thieves among them and rascals upon rascals. Some of them look as if they had never had any bringing up. Timofei Petrovich! Life here is nowhere near as good as it is in the country. There you find esteem, respect, and quiet. You are my benefactor, my provider, still, listen to an old fool. I attended your grandfather, your father and mother — I have seen a good deal in my life. I have seen Talians (Italians), Germans, and Frenchmen, who came from Odessa. I have seen all kinds; I have been everywhere. Mind an old man! [Bell.~] See, you shuddered again, Timofei Petrovich!

Zhazikov: Go, go, open the door.

[Matvei goes out. ZhazikoV remains sitting, immovable.’]

Frenchman’s Voice: Monsieur Jazikoff?

Matvei’s Voice: Whom do you want?

Frenchman’s Voice: Monsieur Jazikoff?

Matvei’s Voice: He is not home.

Frenchman’s Voice: No? Why not? Sacredieu!

Matvei’s Voice: Who are you?

Frenchman’s Voice: Voila ma carte, voila ma carte!

Matvei’s Voice: Be cursed, you chattering raven!

[Door shuts. Matvei enters and hands Zhazikov a card.]

Zhazikov [not looking at the card]: I know, I know who it was. The French artist, — I told him to come to - day and paint my portrait. Well, no harm done. I must write to Krinitsyn; otherwise, it will be bad. [Sits down at the table and writes; then he gets up, goes to the window, and reads semi - audibly.’]: “My dear Fedia, help a friend in trouble. Don’t let him perish in the bloom of life. Send two hundred and fifty in cash, or two hundred. You can give the money to the messenger. I shall be thankful to you for the rest of my life. Please, Fedia, don’t refuse me. Be a father and a benefactor. Yours, and so on . . .” I think that is all right. Well, here is the letter, Matvei. Take a cab. [Seeing that Matvei wants to object.] Get that same cabmaii, to whom, by the way, I owe something already. He knows me — he’ll trust you. Give the letter and ask for an answer. Do you hear: ask for an answer!