Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  “Mein allerliebstep Florestan,” she wrote to him, “can you really so cross with your Zuckerpüppchen be that you came not yesterday? Please be not cross if you wish not your merry Emilie to weep very bitterly and come, be sure, at 5 o’clock to - day.” (The figure 5 was surrounded with two wreaths.) “I will be very, very glad. Your amiable Emilie.” Kuzma Vassilyevitch was inwardly surprised at the accomplishments of his charmer, gave the Jew boy a copper coin and told him to say, “Very well, I will come.”

  XIV

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch kept his word: five o’clock had not struck when he was standing before Madame Fritsche’s gate. But to his surprise he did not find Emilie at home; he was met by the lady of the house herself who - - wonder of wonders! - - dropping a preliminary curtsey, informed him that Emilie had been obliged by unforeseen circumstances to go out but she would soon be back and begged him to wait. Madame Fritsche had on a neat white cap; she smiled, spoke in an ingratiating voice and evidently tried to give an affable expression to her morose countenance, which was, however, none the more prepossessing for that, but on the contrary acquired a positively sinister aspect.

  “Sit down, sit down, sir,” she said, putting an easy chair for him, “and we will offer you some refreshment if you will permit it.”

  Madame Fritsche made another curtsey, went out of the room and returned shortly afterwards with a cup of chocolate on a small iron tray. The chocolate turned out to be of dubious quality; Kuzma Vassilyevitch drank the whole cup with relish, however, though he was at a loss to explain why Madame Fritsche was suddenly so affable and what it all meant. For all that Emilie did not come back and he was beginning to lose patience and feel bored when all at once he heard through the wall the sounds of a guitar. First there was the sound of one chord, then a second and a third and a fourth - - the sound continually growing louder and fuller. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was surprised: Emilie certainly had a guitar but it only had three strings: he had not yet bought her any new ones; besides, Emilie was not at home. Who could it be? Again a chord was struck and so loudly that it seemed as though it were in the room.... Kuzma Vassilyevitch turned round and almost cried out in a fright. Before him, in a low doorway which he had not till then noticed - - a big cupboard screened it - - stood a strange figure ... neither a child nor a grown - up girl. She was wearing a white dress with a bright - coloured pattern on it and red shoes with high heels; her thick black hair, held together by a gold fillet, fell like a cloak from her little head over her slender body. Her big eyes shone with sombre brilliance under the soft mass of hair; her bare, dark - skinned arms were loaded with bracelets and her hands covered with rings, held a guitar. Her face was scarcely visible, it looked so small and dark; all that was seen was the crimson of her lips and the outline of a straight and narrow nose. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stood for some time petrified and stared at the strange creature without blinking; and she, too, gazed at him without stirring an eyelid. At last he recovered himself and moved with small steps towards her.

  The dark face began gradually smiling. There was a sudden gleam of white teeth, the little head was raised, and lightly flinging back the curls, displayed itself in all its startling and delicate beauty.

  “What little imp is this?” thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and, advancing still closer, he brought out in a low voice:

  “Hey, little image! Who are you?”

  “Come here, come here,” the “little image” responded in a rather husky voice, with a halting un - Russian intonation and incorrect accent, and she stepped back two paces.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch followed her through the doorway and found himself in a tiny room without windows, the walls and floor of which were covered with thick camel’s - hair rugs. He was overwhelmed by a strong smell of musk. Two yellow wax candles were burning on a round table in front of a low sofa. In the corner stood a bedstead under a muslin canopy with silk stripes and a long amber rosary with a red tassle at the end hung by the pillow.

  “But excuse me, who are you?” repeated Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

  “Sister ... sister of Emilie.”

  “You are her sister? And you live here?”

  “Yes ... yes.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch wanted to touch “the image.” She drew back.

  “How is it she has never spoken of you?”

  “Could not ... could not.”

  “You are in concealment then ... in hiding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there reasons?”

  “Reasons ... reasons.”

  “Hm!” Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch would have touched the figure, again she stepped back. “So that’s why I never saw you. I must own I never suspected your existence. And the old lady, Madame Fritsche, is your aunt, too?”

  “Yes ... aunt.”

  “Hm! You don’t seem to understand Russian very well. What’s your name, allow me to ask?”

  “Colibri.”

  “What?”

  “Colibri.”

  “Colibri! That’s an out - of - the - way name! There are insects like that in Africa, if I remember right?”

  XV

  Colibri gave a short, queer laugh ... like a clink of glass in her throat. She shook her head, looked round, laid her guitar on the table and going quickly to the door, abruptly shut it. She moved briskly and nimbly with a rapid, hardly audible sound like a lizard; at the back her hair fell below her knees.

  “Why have you shut the door?” asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch.

  Colibri put her fingers to her lips.

  “Emilie ... not want ... not want her.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch grinned.

  “I say, you are not jealous, are you?”

  Colibri raised her eyebrows.

  “What?”

  “Jealous ... angry,” Kuzma Vassilyevitch explained.

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Really! Much obliged.... I say, how old are you?”

  “Seventen.”

  “Seventeen, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch scrutinised his fantastic companion closely.

  “What a beautiful creature you are!” he said, emphatically. “Marvellous! Really marvellous! What hair! What eyes! And your eyebrows ... ough!”

  Colibri laughed again and again looked round with her magnificent eyes.

  “Yes, I am a beauty! Sit down, and I’ll sit down ... beside.”

  “By all means! But say what you like, you are a strange sister for Emilie! You are not in the least like her.”

  “Yes, I am sister ... cousin. Here ... take ... a flower. A nice flower. It smells.” She took out of her girdle a sprig of white lilac, sniffed it, bit off a petal and gave him the whole sprig. “Will you have jam? Nice jam ... from Constantinople ... sorbet?” Colibri took from the small chest of drawers a gilt jar wrapped in a piece of crimson silk with steel spangles on it, a silver spoon, a cut glass decanter and a tumbler like it. “Eat some sorbet, sir; it is fine. I will sing to you.... Will you?” She took up the guitar.

  “You sing, then?” asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch, putting a spoonful of really excellent sorbet into his mouth.

  “Oh, yes!” She flung back her mane of hair, put her head on one side and struck several chords, looking carefully at the tips of her fingers and at the top of the guitar ... then suddenly began singing in a voice unexpectedly strong and agreeable, but guttural and to the ears of Kuzma Vassilyevitch rather savage. “Oh, you pretty kitten,” he thought. She sang a mournful song, utterly un - Russian and in a language quite unknown to Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He used to declare that the sounds “Kha, gha” kept recurring in it and at the end she repeated a long drawn - out “sintamar” or “sintsimar,” or something of the sort, leaned her head on her hand, heaved a sigh and let the guitar drop on her knee. “Good?” she asked, “want more?”

  “I should be delighted,” answered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. “But why do you look like that, as though you were grieving? You’d better have some sorbet.”

  “No ... yo
u. And I will again.... It will be more merry.” She sang another song, that sounded like a dance, in the same unknown language. Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch distinguished the same guttural sounds. Her swarthy fingers fairly raced over the strings, “like little spiders,” and she ended up this time with a jaunty shout of “Ganda” or “Gassa,” and with flashing eyes banged on the table with her little fist.

  XVI

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat as though he were in a dream. His head was going round. It was all so unexpected.... And the scent, the singing ... the candles in the daytime ... the sorbet flavoured with vanilla. And Colibri kept coming closer to him, too; her hair shone and rustled, and there was a glow of warmth from her - - and that melancholy face.... “A russalka!” thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He felt somewhat awkward.

  “Tell me, my pretty, what put it into your head to invite me to - day?”

  “You are young, pretty ... such I like.”

  “So that’s it! But what will Emilie say? She wrote me a letter: she is sure to be back directly.”

  “You not tell her ... nothing! Trouble! She will kill!”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed.

  “As though she were so fierce!”

  Colibri gravely shook her head several times.

  “And to Madame Fritsche, too, nothing. No, no, no!” She tapped herself lightly on the forehead. “Do you understand, officer?”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch frowned.

  “It’s a secret, then?”

  “Yes ... yes.”

  “Very well.... I won’t say a word. Only you ought to give me a kiss for that.”

  “No, afterwards ... when you are gone.”

  “That’s a fine idea!” Kuzma Vassilyevitch was bending down to her but she slowly drew herself back and stood stiffly erect like a snake startled in the grass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stared at her. “Well!” he said at last, “you are a spiteful thing! All right, then.”

  Colibri pondered and turned to the lieutenant.... All at once there was the muffled sound of tapping repeated three times at even intervals somewhere in the house. Colibri laughed, almost snorted.

  “To - day - - no, to - morrow - - yes. Come to - morrow.”

  “At what time?”.

  “Seven ... in the evening.”

  “And what about Emilie?”

  “Emilie ... no; will not be here.”

  “You think so? Very well. Only, to - morrow you will tell me?”

  “What?” (Colibri’s face assumed a childish expression every time she asked a question.)

  “Why you have been hiding away from me all this time?”

  “Yes ... yes; everything shall be to - morrow; the end shall be.”

  “Mind now! And I’ll bring you a present.”

  “No ... no need.”

  “Why not? I see you like fine clothes.”

  “No need. This ... this ... this ...” she pointed to her dress, her rings, her bracelets, and everything about her, “it is all my own. Not a present. I do not take.”

  “As you like. And now must I go?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up. Colibri got up, too.

  “Good - bye, pretty little doll! And when will you give me a kiss?”

  Colibri suddenly gave a little jump and swiftly flinging both arms round his neck, gave him not precisely a kiss but a peck at his lips. He tried in his turn to kiss her but she instantly darted back and stood behind the sofa.

  “To - morrow at seven o’clock, then?” he said with some confusion.

  She nodded and taking a tress of her long hair with her two fingers, bit it with her sharp teeth.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch kissed his hand to her, went out and shut the door after him. He heard Colibri run up to it at once.... The key clicked in the lock.

  XVII

  There was no one in Madame Fritsche’s drawing - room. Kuzma Vassilyevitch made his way to the passage at once. He did not want to meet Emilie. Madame Fritsche met him on the steps.

  “Ah, you are going, Mr. Lieutenant?” she said, with the same affected and sinister smile. “You won’t wait for Emilie?”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on his cap.

  “I haven’t time to wait any longer, madam. I may not come to - morrow, either. Please tell her so.”

  “Very good, I’ll tell her. But I hope you haven’t been dull, Mr. Lieutenant?”

  “No, I have not been dull.”

  “I thought not. Good - bye.”

  “Good - bye.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch returned home and stretching himself on his bed sank into meditation. He was unutterably perplexed. “What marvel is this?” he cried more than once. And why did Emilie write to him? She had made an appointment and not come! He took out her letter, turned it over in his hands, sniffed it: it smelt of tobacco and in one place he noticed a correction. But what could he deduce from that? And was it possible that Madame Fritsche knew nothing about it? And she.... Who was she? Yes, who was she? The fascinating Colibri, that “pretty doll,” that “little image,” was always before him and he looked forward with impatience to the following evening, though secretly he was almost afraid of this “pretty doll” and “little image.”

  XVIII

  Next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch went shopping before dinner, and, after persistent haggling, bought a tiny gold cross on a little velvet ribbon. “Though she declares,” he thought, “that she never takes presents, we all know what such sayings mean; and if she really is so disinterested, Emilie won’t be so squeamish.” So argued this Don Juan of Nikolaev, who had probably never heard of the original Don Juan and knew nothing about him. At six o’clock in the evening Kuzma Vassilyevitch shaved carefully and sending for a hairdresser he knew, told him to pomade and curl his topknot, which the latter did with peculiar zeal, not sparing the government note paper for curlpapers; then Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on a smart new uniform, took into his right hand a pair of new wash - leather gloves, and, sprinkling himself with lavender water, set off. Kuzma Vassilyevitch took a great deal more trouble over his personal appearance on this occasion than when he went to see his “Zuckerpüppchen”, not because he liked Colibri better than Emilie but in the “pretty little doll” there was something enigmatic, something which stirred even the sluggish imagination of the young lieutenant.

  XIX

  Madame Fritsche greeted him as she had done the day before and as though she had conspired with him in a plan of deception, informed him again that Emilie had gone out for a short time and asked him to wait. Kuzma Vassilyevitch nodded in token of assent and sat down on a chair. Madame Fritsche smiled again, that is, showed her yellow tusks and withdrew without offering him any chocolate.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch instantly fixed his eyes on the mysterious door. It remained closed. He coughed loudly once or twice so as to make known his presence.... The door did not stir. He held his breath, strained his ears.... He heard not the faintest sound or rustle; everything was still as death. Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up, approached the door on tiptoe and, fumbling in vain with his fingers, pressed his knee against it. It was no use. Then he bent down and once or twice articulated in a loud whisper, “Colibri! Colibri! Little doll!” No one responded. Kuzma Vassilyevitch drew himself up, straightened his uniform - - and, after standing still a little while, walked with more resolute steps to the window and began drumming on the pane. He began to feel vexed, indignant; his dignity as an officer began to assert itself. “What nonsense is this?” he thought at last; “whom do they take me for? If they go on like this, I’ll knock with my fists. She will be forced to answer! The old woman will hear.... What of it? That’s not my fault.” He turned swiftly on his heel ... the door stood half open.

  XX

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch immediately hastened into the secret room again on tiptoe. Colibri was lying on the sofa in a white dress with a broad red sash. Covering the lower part of her face with a handkerchief, she was laughing, a noiseless but genuine laugh. She had done up her hair, this time plaitin
g it into two long, thick plaits intertwined with red ribbon; the same slippers adorned her tiny, crossed feet but the feet themselves were bare and looking at them one might fancy that she had on dark, silky stockings. The sofa stood in a different position, nearer the wall; and on the table he saw on a Chinese tray a bright - coloured, round - bellied coffee pot beside a cut glass sugar bowl and two blue China cups. The guitar was lying there, too, and blue - grey smoke rose in a thin coil from a big, aromatic candle.

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch went up to the sofa and bent over Colibri, but before he had time to utter a word she held out her hand and, still laughing in her handkerchief, put her little, rough fingers into his hair and instantly ruffled the well - arranged curls on the top of his head.

  “What next?” exclaimed Kuzma Vassilyevitch, not altogether pleased by such unceremoniousness. “Oh, you naughty girl!”

  Colibri took the handkerchief from her face.

  “Not nice so; better now.” She moved away to the further end of the sofa and drew her feet up under her. “Sit down ... there.”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat down on the spot indicated.

  “Why do you move away?” he said, after a brief silence. “Surely you are not afraid of me?”

  Colibri curled herself up and looked at him sideways.

  “I am not afraid ... no.”

  “You must not be shy with me,” Kuzma Vassilyevitch said in an admonishing tone. “Do you remember your promise yesterday to give me a kiss?”

  Colibri put her arms round her knees, laid her head on them and looked at him again.

  “I remember.”

  “I should hope so. And you must keep your word.”

  “Yes ... I must.”

  “In that case,” Kuzma Vassilyevitch was beginning, and he moved nearer.

  Colibri freed her plaits which she was holding tight with her knees and with one of them gave him a flick on his hand.

  “Not so fast, sir!”

  Kuzma Vassilyevitch was embarrassed.

  “What eyes she has, the rogue!” he muttered, as though to himself. “But,” he went on, raising his voice, “why did you call me ... if that is how it is?”