Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  You noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which you did not quite like. I will tell what it had reference to. There is one of the neighbours here … he was not here when you were, and you have not seen him. He … I could marry him if I liked; he is still young, well - educated, and has property. There are no difficulties on the part of my parents; on the contrary, they — I know for a fact — desire this marriage. He is a good man, and I think he loves me … but he is so spiritless and narrow, his aspirations are so limited, that I cannot but be conscious of my superiority to him. He is aware of this, and as it were rejoices in it, and that is just what sets me against him. I cannot respect him, though he has an excellent heart. What am I to do? tell me! Think for me and write me your opinion sincerely.

  But how grateful I am to you for your letter!… Do you know, I have been haunted at times by such bitter thoughts…. Do you know, I had come to the point of being almost ashamed of every feeling — not of enthusiasm only, but even of faith; I used to shut a book with vexation whenever there was anything about hope or happiness in it, and turned away from a cloudless sky, from the fresh green of the trees, from everything that was smiling and joyful. What a painful condition it was! I say, was … as though it were over!

  I don’t know whether it is over; I know hat if it does not return I am indebted to you for it. Do you see, Alexey Petrovitch, how much good you have done, perhaps, without suspecting it yourself! By the way, do you know I feel very sorry for you? We are now in the full blaze of summer, the days are exquisite, the sky blue and brilliant…. It couldn’t be lovelier in Italy even, and you are staying in the stifling, baking town, and walking on the burning pavement. What induces you to do so? You might at least move into some summer villa out of town. They say there are bright spots at Peterhof, on the sea - coast.

  I should like to write more to you, but it’s impossible. Such a sweet fragrance comes in from the garden that I can’t stay indoors. I am going to put on my hat and go for a walk.

  … Good - bye till another time, good Alexey Petrovitch. Yours devotedly, M. B.

  P.S. — I forgot to tell you … only fancy, that witty gentleman, about whom I wrote to you the other day, has made me a declaration of love, and in the most ardent terms. I thought at first he was laughing at me; but he finished up with a formal proposal — what do you think of him, after all his libels! But he is positively too old. Yesterday evening, to tease him, I sat down to the piano before the open window, in the moonlight, and played Beethoven. It was so nice to feel its cold light on my face, so delicious to fill the fragrant night air with the sublime music, through which one could hear at times the singing of a nightingale. It is long since I have been so happy. But write to me about what I asked you at the beginning of my letter; it is very important.

  XII

  FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

  ST. PETERSBURG, July 8, 1840.

  DEAR MARYA ALEXANDROVNA, — Here is my opinion in a couple of words: both the old bachelor and the young suitor — overboard with them both! There is no need even to consider it. Neither of them is worthy of you — that’s as clear as that twice two makes four. The young neighbour is very likely a good - natured person, but that’s enough about him! I am convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! Besides, why be in a hurry? Is it a possible thing that a woman like you — I don’t want to pay compliments, and that’s why I don’t expatiate further — that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of appreciating her? No, Marya Alexandrovna, listen to me, if you really believe that I am your friend, and that my advice is of use. But confess, it was agreeable to see the old scoffer at your feet…. If I had been in your place, I’d have kept him singing Beethoven’s Adelaïda and gazing at the moon the whole night long.

  Enough of them, though, — your adorers! It’s not of them I want to talk to you to - day. I am in a strange, half - irritated, half - emotional state of mind to - day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am enclosing a copy of it to you. This letter was written by one of my friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good - natured but rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has not written to me once. Here is his letter. — N.B. He is very good - looking.

  ‘CHER ALEXIS, — I am in Naples, sitting at the window in my room, in Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the sea, then I was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you, my dear boy — on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclination to pour out my soul into your bosom … that’s how one expresses it, I believe, in your exalted language. And why I’ve been overcome with impatience is this. I’m expecting a friend — a woman; we’re going together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like lizards — in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. My dear boy, I am more happy than I can possibly tell you.

  If only I had your style — oh! what a picture I would draw for you! But unfortunately, as you are aware, I’m an illiterate person. The woman I am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually starting and looking at the door, loves me — but how I love her I fancy even your fluent pen could not describe.

  ‘I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her, and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continually crescendo, like a chromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is something extraordinary, supernatural. Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do nothing but stare at her, and laugh like a fool. I sit at her feet, I feel that I’m awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head…. Well, I tell you, simply … But there, you can’t understand it; you ‘re a philosopher and always were a philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta, as you like; she’s the daughter of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of your Raphaels; fiery as gunpowder, gay, so clever that it’s amazing how she can care for a fool like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes …

  ‘Please excuse this unintentional break…. I fancied the door creaked…. No, she’s not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with myself, and whether I shall stay here long? I know nothing about it, my boy, and I don’t want to. What will be, will be…. Why, if one were to be for ever stopping and considering … ‘She! … she’s running up the staircase, singing…. She is here. Well, my boy, good - bye…. I’ve no time for you now, I’m so sorry. She has bespattered the whole letter; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first moment, she thought I was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any flowers, and whether they are sweet? Well, good - bye. … If you could hear her laughing. Silver can’t ring like it; and the good - nature in every note of it — you want to kiss her little feet for it. We are going, going. Don’t mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.’

  The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of orange - blossom … two white petals had stuck to the paper. This letter has agitated me…. I remember my stay in Naples…. The weather was magnificent then too — May was just beginning; I had just reached twenty - two; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it was, as it were, like bliss itself. … Ah, what is it to be young! … I remember I went out once for a row in the bay. There were two of us; the boatman and I … what did you imagine? What a night it was, and what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars, what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea — cannot describe this, ‘eloquent’ though my style may be. In the harbour
was a French ship of the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the ship; twice he took me round it. … I caught glimpses at the windows of women’s figures, borne gaily round in the whirl - wind of the waltz…. I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the darkness…. I remember a long while the music persistently pursued me…. At last the sounds died away. I stood up in the boat, and in the dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea…. Oh! how my heart ached at that moment! How bitter was my loneliness to me! With what rapture would I have abandoned myself utterly then, utterly … utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to! With what a bitter emotion in my soul I flung myself down in the bottom of the boat and, like Repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away! But my friend here has experienced nothing like that. And why should he? He has managed things far more wisely than I. He is living … while I … He may well call me a philosopher…. Strange! they call you a philosopher too…. What has brought this calamity on both of us?

  I am not living…. But who is to blame for that? Why am I staying on here, in Petersburg? what am I doing here? why am I wearing away day after day? why don’t I go into the country? What is amiss with our steppes? has not one free breathing space in them? is one cramped in them? A strange craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps within reach! Resolved! I am going, going to - morrow, if I can. I am going home — that is, to you, — it’s just the same; we’re only twenty versts from one another. Why, after all, grow stale here! And how was it this idea did not strike me sooner? Dear Marya Alexadrovna, we shall soon see each other. It’s extraordinary, though, that this idea never entered my head before! I ought to have gone long, long ago. Good - bye till we meet, Marya Alexandrovna.

  July 9.

  I purposely gave myself twenty - four hours for reflection, and am now absolutely convinced that I have no reason to stay here. The dust in the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. To - day I am beginning to pack, the day after to - morrow I shall most likely start, and within ten days I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I trust you will welcome me as in old days. By the way, your sister is still staying at your aunt’s, isn’t she?

  Marya Alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my heart, Good - bye till we meet. I had been getting ready to go away, but that letter has hastened my project. Supposing the letter proves nothing, supposing even Ninetta would not please any one else, me for instance, still I am going; that’s decided now. Till we meet, yours,

  A. S.

  XIII

  FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

  VILLAGE OF X — — - ,July 16, 1840.

  You are coming here, Alexey Petrovitch, you will soon be with us, eh? I will not conceal from you that this news both rejoices and disturbs me…. How shall we meet? Will the spiritual tie persist which, as it seems to me, has sprung up between us? Will it not be broken by our meeting? I don’t know; I feel somehow afraid. I will not answer your last letter, though I could say much; I am putting it all off till our meeting. My mother is very much pleased at your coming…. She knew I was corresponding with you. The weather is delicious; we will go a great many walks, and I will show you some new places I have discovered…. I especially like one long, narrow valley; it lies between hillsides covered with forest…. It seems to be hiding in their windings. A little brook courses through it, scarcely seeming to move through the thick grass and flowers…. You shall see. Come: perhaps you will not be bored.

  M.B.

  P.S. — I think you will not see my sister; she is still staying at my aunt’s. I fancy (but this is between ourselves) she is going to marry a very agreeable young man — an officer. Why did you send me that letter from Naples? Life here cannot help seeming dingy and poor in contrast with that luxuriance and splendour. But Mademoiselle Ninetta is wrong; flowers grow and smell sweet — with us too.

  XIV

  FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

  VILLAGE OF X — — , January 1841.

  I have written to you several times, Alexey Petrovitch … you have not answered. Are you living? Or perhaps you are tired of our correspondence; perhaps you have found yourself some diversion more agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a provincial young lady. You remembered me, it is easy to see, simply from want of anything better to do. If that’s so, I wish you all happiness. If you do not even now answer me, I will not trouble you further. It only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely corner. I must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up — that is my apportioned lot, the lot of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to this idea. It’s useless to come out into the light of day, needless to wish for fresh air, when the lungs cannot bear it. By the way, we are now hemmed in all round by deadly drifts of snow. For the future I will be wiser…. People don’t die of dreariness; but of misery, perhaps, one might perish. If I am wrong, prove it to me. But I fancy I am not wrong. In any case, good - bye. I wish you all happiness.

  M. B.

  XV

  FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

  DRESDEN, September 1842.

  I am writing to you, my dear Marya Alexandrovna, and I am writing only because I do not want to die without saying good - bye to you, without recalling myself to your memory. I am given up by the doctors … and I feel myself that my life is ebbing away. On my table stands a rose: before it withers, I shall be no more. This comparison is not, however, altogether an apt one. A rose is far more interesting than I.

  I am, as you see, abroad. It is now six months since I have been in Dresden. I received your last letters — I am ashamed to confess — more than a year ago. I lost some of them and never answered them…. I will tell you directly why. But it seems you were always dear to me; to no one but you have I any wish to say good - bye, and perhaps I have no one else to take leave of.

  Soon after my last letter to you (I was on the very point of going down to your neighbourhood, and had made various plans in advance) an incident occurred which had, one may truly say, a great influence on my fate, so great an influence that here I am dying, thanks to that incident. I went to the theatre to see a ballet. I never cared for ballets; and for every sort of actress, singer, and dancer I had always had a secret feeling of repulsion…. But it is clear there’s no changing one’s fate, and no one knows himself, and one cannot foresee the future. In reality, in life it’s only the unexpected that happens, and we do nothing in a whole lifetime but accommodate ourselves to facts…. But I seem to be rambling off into philosophising again. An old habit! In brief, I fell in love with a dancing - girl.

  This was the more curious as one could not even call her a beauty. It is true she had marvellous hair of ashen gold colour, and great clear eyes, with a dreamy, and at the same time daring, look in them…. Could I fail to know the expression of those eyes? For a whole year I was pining and swooning in the light — of them! She was splendidly well - made, and when she danced her national dance the audience would stamp and shout with delight…. But, I fancy, no one but I fell in love with her, — at least, no one was in love with her as I was. From the very minute when I saw her for the first time (would you believe it, I have only to close my eyes, and at once the theatre is before me, the almost empty stage, representing the heart of a forest, and she running in from the wing on the right, with a wreath of vine on her head and a tiger - skin over her shoulders) — from that fatal moment I have belonged to her utterly, just as a dog belongs to its master; and if, now that I am dying, I do not belong to her, it is only beca
use she has cast me off.

  To tell the truth, she never troubled herself particularly about me. She scarcely noticed me, though she was very good - natured in making use of my money. I was for her, as she expressed it in her broken French, ‘oun Rousso, boun enfant,’ and nothing more. But I … I could not live where she was not living; I tore myself away once for all from everything dear to me, from my country even, and followed that woman.

  You will suppose, perhaps, that she had brains. Not in the least! One had only to glance at her low brow, one needed only one glimpse of her lazy, careless smile, to feel certain at once of the scantiness of her intellectual endowments. And I never imagined her to be an exceptional woman. In fact, I never for one instant deceived myself about her. But that was of no avail to me. Whatever I thought of her in her absence, in her presence I felt nothing but slavish adoration…. In German fairy - tales, the knights often fall under such an enchantment. I could not take my eyes off her features, I could never tire of listening to her talk, of admiring all her gestures; I positively drew my breath as she breathed. However, she was good - natured, unconstrained — too unconstrained indeed, — did not give herself airs, as actresses generally do. There was a lot of life in her — that is, a lot of blood, that splendid southern blood, into which the sun of those parts must have infused some of its beams. She slept nine hours out of the twenty - four, enjoyed her dinner, never read a single line of print, except, perhaps, the newspaper articles in which she was mentioned; and almost the only tender feeling in her life was her devotion to il Signore Carlino, a greedy little Italian, who waited on her in the capacity of secretary, and whom, later on, she married. And such a woman I could fall in love with — I, a man, versed in all sorts of intellectual subtleties, and no longer young! … Who could have anticipated it? I, at least, never anticipated it. I never anticipated the part I was to play. I never anticipated that I should come to hanging about rehearsals, waiting, bored and frozen, behind the scenes, breathing in the smut and grime of the theatre, making friends with all sorts of utterly unpresentable persons…. Making friends, did I say? — cringing slavishly upon them. I never anticipated that I should carry a ballet - dancer’s shawl; buy her her new gloves, clean her old ones with bread - crumbs (I did even that, alas!), carry home her bouquets, hang about the offices of journalists and editors, waste my substance, give serenades, catch colds, wear myself out…. I never expected in a little German town to receive the jeering nickname ‘der Kunst - barbar.’… And all this for nothing, in the fullest sense of the word, for nothing. That’s just it.