Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Well, are we to fight then, Pavel Afanasievitch?’

  ‘Let’s fight, if we must fight,’ replied Rogatchov, and hurriedly buttoned up his shirt.

  ‘Ay, Pavel Afanasievitch, you take my advice, marry her... what is it to you... And believe me, I’ll...’

  ‘No, Vassily Ivanovitch,’ Rogatchov interrupted him. ‘You’ll kill me or maim me, I know, but I’m not going to lose my honour; if I’m to die then I must die.’

  Eroshka came in, and trembling, gave Rogatchov a wretched old sword in a torn leather scabbard. In those days all noblemen wore swords with powder, but in the steppes they only put on powder twice a year. Eroshka moved away to the door and burst out crying. Pavel Afanasievitch pushed him out of the room.

  ‘But, Vassily Ivanovitch,’ he observed with some embarrassment, ‘I can’t fight with you on the spot: allow me to put off our duel till to - morrow. My father is not at home, and it would be as well for me to put my affairs in order to — to be ready for anything.’

  ‘I see you’re beginning to feel frightened again, sir.’

  ‘No, no, Vassily Ivanovitch; but consider yourself...’

  ‘Listen!’ shouted Lutchinov, ‘you drive me out of patience.... Either give me your word to marry her at once, or fight...or I’ll thrash you with my cane like a coward, — do you understand?’

  ‘Come into the garden,’ Rogatchov answered through his teeth.

  But all at once the door opened, and the old nurse, Efimovna, utterly distracted, broke into the room, fell on her knees before Rogatchov, and clasped his legs....

  ‘My little master!’ she wailed, ‘my nursling... what is it you are about? Will you be the death of us poor wretches, your honour? Sure, he’ll kill you, darling! Only you say the word, you say the word, and we’ll make an end of him, the insolent fellow.... Pavel Afanasievitch, my baby - boy, for the love of God!’

  A number of pale, excited faces showed in the door...there was even the red beard of the village elder...

  ‘Let me go, Efimovna, let me go!’ muttered Rogatchov.

  ‘I won’t, my own, I won’t. What are you about, sir, what are you about? What’ll Afanasey Lukitch say? Why, he’ll drive us all out of the light of day.... Why are you fellows standing still? Take the uninvited guest in hand and show him out of the house, so that not a trace be left of him.’

  ‘Rogatchov!’ Vassily Ivanovitch shouted menacingly.

  ‘You are crazy, Efimovna, you are shaming me, come, come...’ said Pavel Afanasievitch. ‘Go away, go away, in God’s name, and you others, off with you, do you hear?...’

  Vassily Ivanovitch moved swiftly to the open window, took out a small silver whistle, blew lightly... Bourcier answered from close by. Lutchinov turned at once to Pavel Afanasievitch.

  ‘What’s to be the end of this farce?’

  ‘Vassily Ivanovitch, I will come to you to - morrow. What can I do with this crazy old woman?...’

  ‘Oh, I see it’s no good wasting words on you,’ said Vassily, and he swiftly raised his cane...

  Pavel Afanasievitch broke loose, pushed Efimovna away, snatched up the sword, and rushed through another door into the garden.

  Vassily dashed after him. They ran into a wooden summerhouse, painted cunningly after the Chinese fashion, shut themselves in, and drew their swords. Rogatchov had once taken lessons in fencing, but now he was scarcely capable of drawing a sword properly. The blades crossed. Vassily was obviously playing with Rogatchov’s sword. Pavel Afanasievitch was breathless and pale, and gazed in consternation into Lutchinov’s face.

  Meanwhile, screams were heard in the garden; a crowd of people were running to the summerhouse. Suddenly Rogatchov heard the heart - rending wail of old age...he recognised the voice of his father. Afanasey Lukitch, bare - headed, with dishevelled hair, was running in front of them all, frantically waving his hands....

  With a violent and unexpected turn of the blade Vassily sent the sword flying out of Pavel Afanasievitch’s hand.

  ‘Marry her, my boy,’ he said to him: ‘give over this foolery!’

  ‘I won’t marry her,’ whispered Rogatchov, and he shut his eyes, and shook all over.

  Afanasey Lukitch began banging at the door of the summerhouse.

  ‘You won’t?’ shouted Vassily.

  Rogatchov shook his head.

  ‘Well, damn you, then!’

  Poor Pavel Afanasievitch fell dead: Lutchinov’s sword stabbed him to the heart... The door gave way; old Rogatchov burst into the summerhouse, but Vassily had already jumped out of window...

  Two hours later he went into Olga Ivanovna’s room... She rushed in terror to meet him... He bowed to her in silence; took out his sword and pierced Pavel Afanasievitch’s portrait in the place of the heart. Olga shrieked and fell unconscious on the floor... Vassily went in to Anna Pavlovna. He found her in the oratory. ‘Mother,’ said he, ‘we are avenged.’ The poor old woman shuddered and went on praying.

  Within a week Vassily had returned to Petersburg, and two years later he came back stricken with paralysis — tongue - tied. He found neither Anna Pavlovna nor Olga living, and soon after died himself in the arms of Yuditch, who fed him like a child, and was the only one who could understand his incoherent stuttering.

  1846.

  ENOUGH

  A FRAGMENT FROM THE NOTE - BOOK OF A DEAD ARTIST

  I

  II

  III

  ‘Enough,’ I said to myself as I moved with lagging steps over the steep mountainside down to the quiet little brook. ‘Enough,’ I said again, as I drank in the resinous fragrance of the pinewood, strong and pungent in the freshness of falling evening. ‘Enough,’ I said once more, as I sat on the mossy mound above the little brook and gazed into its dark, lingering waters, over which the sturdy reeds thrust up their pale green blades.... ‘Enough.’

  No more struggle, no more strain, time to draw in, time to keep firm hold of the head and to bid the heart be silent. No more to brood over the voluptuous sweetness of vague, seductive ecstasy, no more to run after each fresh form of beauty, no more to hang over every tremour of her delicate, strong wings.

  All has been felt, all has been gone through... I am weary. What to me now that at this moment, larger, fiercer than ever, the sunset floods the heavens as though aflame with some triumphant passion? What to me that, amid the soft peace and glow of evening, suddenly, two paces hence, hidden in a thick bush’s dewy stillness, a nightingale has sung his heart out in notes magical as though no nightingale had been on earth before him, and he first sang the first song of first love? All this was, has been, has been again, and is a thousand times repeated — and to think that it will last on so to all eternity — as though decreed, ordained — it stirs one’s wrath! Yes... wrath!

  IV

  Ah, I am grown old! Such thoughts would never have come to me once — in those happy days of old, when I too was aflame like the sunset and my heart sang like the nightingale.

  There is no hiding it — everything has faded about me, all life has paled. The light that gives life’s colours depth and meaning — the light that comes out of the heart of man — is dead within me.... No, not dead yet — it feebly smoulders on, giving no light, no warmth.

  Once, late in the night in Moscow, I remember I went up to the grating window of an old church, and leaned against the faulty pane. It was dark under the low arched roof — a forgotten lamp shed a dull red light upon the ancient picture; dimly could be discerned the lips only of the sacred face — stern and sorrowful. The sullen darkness gathered about it, ready it seemed to crush under its dead weight the feeble ray of impotent light.... Such now in my heart is the light; and such the darkness.

  V

  And this I write to thee, to thee, my one never forgotten friend, to thee, my dear companion, whom I have left for ever, but shall not cease to love till my life’s end.... Alas! thou knowest what parted us. But that I have no wish to speak of now. I have left thee... but even here, in these wilds, in
this far - off exile, I am all filled through and through with thee; as of old I am in thy power, as of old I feel the sweet burden of thy hand on my bent head!

  For the last time I drag myself from out the grave of silence in which I am lying now. I turn a brief and softened gaze on all my past... our past.... No hope and no return; but no bitterness is in my heart and no regret, and clearer than the blue of heaven, purer than the first snow on mountain tops, fair memories rise up before me like the forms of departed gods.... They come, not thronging in crowds, in slow procession they follow one another like those draped Athenian figures we admired so much — dost thou remember? — in the ancient bas - reliefs in the Vatican.

  VI

  I have spoken of the light that comes from the heart of man, and sheds brightness on all around him... I long to talk with thee of the time when in my heart too that light burned bright with blessing... Listen... and I will fancy thee sitting before me, gazing up at me with those eyes — so fond yet stern almost in their intentness. O eyes, never to be forgotten! On whom are they fastened now? Who folds in his heart thy glance — that glance that seems to flow from depths unknown even as mysterious springs — like ye, both clear and dark — that gush out into some narrow, deep ravine under the frowning cliffs.... Listen.

  VII

  It was at the end of March before Annunciation, soon after I had seen thee for the first time and — not yet dreaming of what thou wouldst be to me — already, silently, secretly, I bore thee in my heart. I chanced to cross one of the great rivers of Russia. The ice had not yet broken up, but looked swollen and dark; it was the fourth day of thaw. The snow was melting everywhere — steadily but slowly; there was the running of water on all sides; a noiseless wind strayed in the soft air. Earth and sky alike were steeped in one unvarying milky hue; there was not fog nor was there light; not one object stood out clear in the general whiteness, everything looked both close and indistinct. I left my cart far behind and walked swiftly over the ice of the river, and except the muffled thud of my own steps heard not a sound. I went on enfolded on all sides by the first breath, the first thrill, of early spring... and gradually gaining force with every step, with every movement forwards, a glad tremour sprang up and grew, all uncomprehended within me... it drew me on, it hastened me, and so strong was the flood of gladness within me, that I stood still at last and with questioning eyes looked round me, as I would seek some outer cause of my mood of rapture.... All was soft, white, slumbering, but I lifted my eyes; high in the heavens floated a flock of birds flying back to us.... ‘Spring! welcome spring!’ I shouted aloud: ‘welcome, life and love and happiness!’ And at that instance, with sweetly troubling shock, suddenly like a cactus flower thy image blossomed aflame within me, blossomed and grew, bewilderingly fair and radiant, and I knew that I love thee, thee only — that I am all filled full of thee....

  VIII

  I think of thee... and many other memories, other pictures float before me with thee everywhere, at every turn of my life I meet thee. Now an old Russian garden rises up before me on the slope of a hillside, lighted up by the last rays of the summer sun. Behind the silver poplars peeps out the wooden roof of the manor - house with a thin curl of reddish smoke above the white chimney, and in the fence a little gate stands just ajar, as though some one had drawn it to with faltering hand; and I stand and wait and gaze at that gate and the sand of the garden path — wonder and rapture in my heart. All that I behold seems new and different; over all a breath of some glad, brooding mystery, and already I catch the swift rustle of steps, and I stand intent and alert as a bird with wings folded ready to take flight anew, and my heart burns and shudders in joyous dread before the approaching, the alighting rapture....

  IX

  Then I see an ancient cathedral in a beautiful, far - off land. In rows kneel the close packed people; a breath of prayerful chill, of something grave and melancholy is wafted from the high, bare roof, from the huge, branching columns. Thou standest at my side, mute, apart, as though knowing me not. Each fold of thy dark cloak hangs motionless as carved in stone. Motionless, too, lie the bright patches cast by the stained windows at thy feet on the worn flags. And lo, violently thrilling the incense - clouded air, thrilling us within, rolled out the mighty flood of the organ’s notes... and I saw thee paler, rigid — thy glance caressed me, glided higher and rose heavenwards — while to me it seemed none but an immortal soul could look so, with such eyes...

  X

  Another picture comes back to me.

  No old - world temple subdues us with its stern magnificence; the low walls of a little snug room shut us off from the whole world. What am I saying? We are alone, alone in the whole world; except us two there is nothing living — outside these friendly walls darkness and death and emptiness... It is not the wind that howls without, not the rain streaming in floods; without, Chaos wails and moans, his sightless eyes are weeping. But with us all is peaceful and light and warm and welcoming; something droll, something of childish innocence, like a butterfly — isn’t it so? — flutters about us. We nestle close to one another, we lean our heads together and both read a favourite book. I feel the delicate vein beating in thy soft forehead; I hear that thou livest, thou hearest that I am living, thy smile is born on my face before it is on thine, thou makest mute answer to my mute question, thy thoughts, my thoughts are like the two wings of one bird, lost in the infinite blue... the last barriers have fallen — and so soothed, so deepened is our love, so utterly has all apartness vanished that we have no need for word or look to pass between us.... Only to breathe, to breathe together is all we want, to be together and scarcely to be conscious that we are together....

  XI

  Or last of all, there comes before me that bright September when we walked through the deserted, still flowering garden of a forsaken palace on the bank of a great river — not Russian — under the soft brilliance of the cloudless sky. Oh, how put into words what we felt! The endlessly flowing river, the solitude and peace and bliss, and a kind of voluptuous melancholy, and the thrill of rapture, the unfamiliar monotonous town, the autumn cries of the jackdaws in the high sun - lit treetops, and the tender words and smiles and looks, long, soft, piercing to the very in - most soul, and the beauty, beauty in our lives, about us, on all sides — it is above words. Oh, the bench on which we sat in silence with heads bowed down under the weight of feeling — I cannot forget it till the hour I die! How delicious were those few strangers passing us with brief greetings and kind faces, and the great quiet boats floating by (in one — dost thou remember? — stood a horse pensively gazing at the gliding water), the baby prattle of the tiny ripples by the bank, and the very bark of the distant dogs across the water, the very shouts of the fat officer drilling the red - faced recruits yonder, with outspread arms and knees crooked like grasshoppers!... We both felt that better than those moments nothing in the world had been or would be for us, that all else... But why compare? Enough... enough... Alas! yes: enough.

  XII

  For the last time I give myself up to those memories and bid them farewell for ever. So a miser gloating over his hoard, his gold, his bright treasure, covers it over in the damp, grey earth; so the wick of a smouldering lamp flickers up in a last bright flare and sinks into cold ash. The wild creature has peeped out from its hole for the last time at the velvet grass, the sweet sun, the blue, kindly waters, and has huddled back into the depths, curled up, and gone to sleep. Will he have glimpses even in sleep of the sweet sun and the grass and the blue kindly water?...

  XIII

  Sternly, remorselessly, fate leads each of us, and only at the first, absorbed in details of all sorts, in trifles, in ourselves, we are not aware of her harsh hand. While one can be deceived and has no shame in lying, one can live and there is no shame in hoping. Truth, not the full truth, of that, indeed, we cannot speak, but even that little we can reach locks up our lips at once, ties our hands, leads us to ‘the No.’ Then one way is left a man to keep his feet, not to fal
l to pieces, not to sink into the mire of self - forgetfulness... of self - contempt, — calmly to turn away from all, to say ‘enough!’ and folding impotent arms upon the empty breast, to save the last, the sole honour he can attain to, the dignity of knowing his own nothingness; that dignity at which Pascal hints when calling man a thinking reed he says that if the whole universe crushed him, he, that reed, would be higher than the universe, because he would know it was crushing him, and it would know it not. A poor dignity! A sorry consolation! Try your utmost to be penetrated by it, to have faith in it, you, whoever you may be, my poor brother, and there’s no refuting those words of menace:

  ‘Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  And then is heard no more: it is a tale

  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

  Signifying nothing.’

  I quoted these lines from Macbeth, and there came back to my mind the witches, phantoms, apparitions.... Alas! no ghosts, no fantastic, unearthly powers are terrible; there are no terrors in the Hoffmann world, in whatever form it appears.... What is terrible is that there is nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is petty, uninteresting and degradingly inane. Once one is soaked through and through with that knowledge, once one has tasted of that bitter, no honey more seems sweet, and even the highest, sweetest bliss, the bliss of love, of perfect nearness, of complete devotion — even that loses all its magic; all its dignity is destroyed by its own pettiness, its brevity. Yes; a man loved, glowed with passion, murmured of eternal bliss, of undying raptures, and lo, no trace is left of the very worm that devoured the last relic of his withered tongue. So, on a frosty day in late autumn, when all is lifeless and dumb in the bleached grey grass, on the bare forest edge, if the sun but come out for an instant from the fog and turn one steady glance on the frozen earth, at once the gnats swarm up on all sides; they sport in the warm rays, bustle, flutter up and down, circle round one another... The sun is hidden — the gnats fall in a feeble shower, and there is the end of their momentary life.