Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  “What,” say we, “and was his face green also?”

  “Yes, his face, and his hair, and even his eyes.”

  Our son had never lied to us; but this time my wife and I had our doubts.

  “Thou must have fallen asleep in the forest, in the heat of the day, and have seen that old man in thy dreams.”

  “I wasn’t asleep at all,” says he. “Why, don’t you believe me?” says he. “See here, I have one of the nuts left in my pocket.”

  Yákoff pulled the nut out of his pocket and showed it to us. — The kernel was small, in the nature of a chestnut, and rather rough; it did not resemble our ordinary nuts. I laid it aside, and intended to show it to the doctor … but it got lost…. I did not find it again.

  Well, sir, so we sent him to the seminary, and, as I have already informed you, he rejoiced us by his success. So my spouse and I assumed that he would turn out a fine man! When he came for a sojourn at home it was a pleasure to look at him; he was so comely, and there was no mischief about him; — every one liked him, every one congratulated us. Only he was still rather thin of body, and there was no real good rosiness in his face. So then, he was already in his nineteenth year, and his education would soon be finished. When suddenly we receive from him a letter. — He writes to us: “Dear father and mother, be not wroth with me, permit me to be a layman; my heart does not incline to the ecclesiastical profession, I dread the responsibility, I am afraid I shall sin — doubts have taken hold upon me! Without your parental permission and blessing I shall venture on nothing — but one thing I will tell you; I am afraid of myself, for I have begun to think a great deal.”

  I assure you, my dear sir, that this letter made me very sad, — as though a boar - spear had pricked my heart, — for I saw that I should have no one to take my place! My eldest son was a monk; and this one wanted to abandon his vocation altogether. I was also pained because priests from our family have lived in our parish for close upon two hundred years. But I thought to myself: “There’s no use in kicking against the pricks; evidently, so it was predestined for him. What sort of a pastor would he be if he has admitted doubt to his mind?” I took counsel with my wife, and wrote to him in the following sense:

  “Think it over well, my son Yákoff; measure ten times before you cut off once — there are great difficulties in the worldly service, cold and hunger, and scorn for our caste! And thou must know beforehand that no one will lend a hand to aid; so see to it that thou dost not repine afterward. My desire, as thou knowest, has always been that thou shouldst succeed me; but if thou really hast come to cherish doubts as to thy calling and hast become unsteady in the faith, then it is not my place to restrain thee. The Lord’s will be done! Thy mother and I will not refuse thee our blessing.”

  Yákoff answered me with a grateful letter. “Thou hast rejoiced me, dear father,” said he. “It is my intention to devote myself to the profession of learning, and I have some protection; I shall enter the university and become a doctor, for I feel a strong bent for science.” I read Yáshka’s letter and became sadder than before; but I did not share my grief with any one. My old woman caught a severe cold about that time and died — from that same cold, or the Lord took her to Himself because He loved her, I know not which. I used to weep and weep because I was a lonely widower — but what help was there for that? So it had to be, you know. And I would have been glad to go into the earth … but it is hard … it will not open. And I was expecting my son; for he had notified me: “Before I go to Moscow,” he said, “I shall look in at home.” And he did come to the parental roof, but did not remain there long. It seemed as though something were urging him on; he would have liked, apparently, to fly on wings to Moscow, to his beloved university! I began to question him as to his doubts. “What was the cause of them?” I asked. But I did not get much out of him. One idea had pushed itself into his head, and that was the end of it! “I want to help my neighbours,” he said. — Well, sir, he left me. I don’t believe he took a penny with him, only a few clothes. He had such reliance on himself! And not without reason. He passed an excellent examination, matriculated as student, obtained lessons in private houses…. He was very strong on the ancient languages! And what think you? He took it into his head to send me money. I cheered up a little, — not on account of the money, of course, — I sent that back to him, and even scolded him; but I cheered up because I saw that the young fellow would make his way in the world. But my rejoicing did not last long….

  He came to me for his first vacation…. And, what marvel is this? I do not recognise my Yákoff! He had grown so tiresome and surly, — you couldn’t get a word out of him. And his face had changed also: he had grown about ten years older. He had been taciturn before, there’s no denying that! At the slightest thing he would grow shy and blush like a girl…. But when he raised his eyes, you could see that all was bright in his soul! But now it was quite different. He was not shy, but he held aloof, like a wolf, and was always looking askance. He had neither a smile nor a greeting for any one — he was just like a stone! If I undertook to interrogate him, he would either remain silent or snarl. I began to wonder whether he had taken to drink — which God forbid! — or had conceived a passion for cards; or whether something in the line of a weakness for women had happened to him. In youth love - longings act powerfully, — well, and in such a large city as Moscow bad examples and occasions are not lacking. But no; nothing of that sort was discernible. His drink was kvas and water; he never looked at the female sex — and had no intercourse with people in general. And what was most bitter of all to me, he did not have his former confidence in me; a sort of indifference had made its appearance, just as though everything belonging to him had become loathsome to him. I turned the conversation on the sciences, on the university, but even there could get no real answer. He went to church, but he was not devoid of peculiarities there also; everywhere he was grim and scowling, but in church he seemed always to be grinning.

  After this fashion he spent six weeks with me, then went back to Moscow. From Moscow he wrote to me twice, and it seemed to me, from his letters, as though he were regaining his sensibilities. But picture to yourself my surprise, my dear sir! Suddenly, in the very middle of the winter, just before the Christmas holidays, he presents himself before me!

  “How didst thou get here? How is this? What’s the matter? I know that thou hast no vacation at this time. — Dost thou come from Moscow?” — I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “And how about … the university?”

  “I have left the university.”

  “Thou hast left it?”

  “Just so.”

  “For good?”

  “For good.”

  “But art thou ill, pray, Yákoff?”

  “No, father,” says he, “I am not ill; but just don’t bother me and question me, dear father, or I will go away from here — and that’s the last thou wilt ever see of me.”

  Yákoff tells me that he is not ill, but his face is such that I am fairly frightened. It was dreadful, dark — not human, actually! — His cheeks were drawn, his cheek - bones projected, he was mere skin and bone; his voice sounded as though it proceeded from a barrel … while his eyes…. O Lord and Master! what eyes! — menacing, wild, incessantly darting from side to side, and it was impossible to catch them; his brows were knit, his lips seemed to be twisted on one side…. What had happened to my Joseph Most Fair, to my quiet lad? I cannot comprehend it. “Can he have gone crazy?” I say to myself. He roams about like a spectre by night, he does not sleep, — and then, all of a sudden, he will take to staring into a corner as though he were completely benumbed…. It was enough to scare one!

  Although he had threatened to leave the house if I did not leave him in peace, yet surely I was his father! My last hope was ruined — yet I was to hold my tongue! So one day, availing myself of an opportunity, I began to entreat Yákoff with tears, I began to adjure him by the memory of his dead mother:

  “Tell me,”
I said, “as thy father in the flesh and in the spirit, Yásha, what aileth thee? Do not kill me; explain thyself, lighten thy heart! Can it be that thou hast ruined some Christian soul? If so, repent!”

  “Well, dear father,” he suddenly says to me (this took place toward nightfall), “thou hast moved me to compassion. I will tell thee the whole truth. I have not ruined any Christian soul — but my own soul is going to perdition.”

  “How is that?”

  “In this way….” And thereupon Yákoff raised his eyes to mine for the first time. — ”It is going on four months now,” he began…. But suddenly he broke off and began to breathe heavily.

  “What about the fourth month? Tell me, do not make me suffer!”

  “This is the fourth month that I have been seeing him.”

  “Him? Who is he?”

  “Why, the person … whom it is awkward to mention at night.”

  I fairly turned cold all over and fell to quaking.

  “What?!” I said, “dost thou see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And dost thou see him now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?” And I did not dare to turn round, and we both spoke in a whisper.

  “Why, yonder …” and he indicated the spot with his eyes … “yonder, in the corner.”

  I summoned up my courage and looked at the corner; there was nothing there.

  “Why, good gracious, there is nothing there, Yákoff!”

  “Thou dost not see him, but I do.”

  Again I glanced round … again nothing. Suddenly there recurred to my mind the little old man in the forest who had given him the chestnut. “What does he look like?” I said…. “Is he green?”

  “No, he is not green, but black.”

  “Has he horns?”

  “No, he is like a man, — only all black.”

  As Yákoff speaks he displays his teeth in a grin and turns as pale as a corpse, and huddles up to me in terror; and his eyes seem on the point of popping out of his head, and he keeps staring at the corner.

  “Why, it is a shadow glimmering faintly,” I say. “That is the blackness from a shadow, but thou mistakest it for a man.”

  “Nothing of the sort! — And I see his eyes: now he is rolling up the whites, now he is raising his hand, he is calling me.”

  “Yákoff, Yákoff, thou shouldst try to pray; this obsession would disperse. Let God arise and His enemies shall be scattered!”

  “I have tried,” says he, “but it has no effect.”

  “Wait, wait, Yákoff, do not lose thy courage. I will fumigate with incense; I will recite a prayer; I will sprinkle holy water around thee.”

  Yákoff merely waved his hand. “I believe neither in thy incense nor in holy water; they don’t help worth a farthing. I cannot get rid of him now. Ever since he came to me last summer, on one accursed day, he has been my constant visitor, and he cannot be driven away, Understand this, father, and do not wonder any longer at my behaviour — and do not torment me.”

  “On what day did he come to thee?” I ask him, and all the while I am making the sign of the cross over him. “Was it not when thou didst write about thy doubts?”

  Yákoff put away my hand.

  “Let me alone, dear father,” says he, “don’t excite me to wrath lest worse should come of it. I’m not far from laying hands on myself, as it is.”

  You can imagine, my dear sir, how I felt when I heard that…. I remember that I wept all night. “How have I deserved such wrath from the Lord?” I thought to myself.

  At this point Father Alexyéi drew from his pocket a checked handkerchief and began to blow his nose, and stealthily wiped his eyes, by the way.

  A bad time began for us then [he went on]. I could think of but one thing: how to prevent him from running away, or — which the Lord forbid! — of actually doing himself some harm! I watched his every step, and was afraid to enter into conversation. — And there dwelt near us at that time a neighbour, the widow of a colonel, Márfa Sávishna was her name; I cherished a great respect for her, because she was a quiet, sensible woman, in spite of the fact that she was young and comely. I was in the habit of going to her house frequently, and she did not despise my vocation. Not knowing, in my grief and anguish, what to do, I just told her all about it. — At first she was greatly alarmed, and even thoroughly frightened; but later on she became thoughtful. For a long time she deigned to sit thus, in silence; and then she expressed a wish to see my son and converse with him. And I felt that I ought without fail to comply with her wish; for it was not feminine curiosity which prompted it in this case, but something else.

  On returning home I began to persuade Yákoff. “Come with me to see the colonel’s widow,” I said to him.

  He began to flourish his legs and arms!

  “I won’t go to her,” says he, “not on any account! What shall I talk to her about?” He even began to shout at me. But at last I conquered him, and hitching up my little sledge, I drove him to Márfa Sávishna’s, and, according to our compact, I left him alone with her. I was surprised at his having consented so speedily. Well, never mind, — we shall see. Three or four hours later my Yákoff returns.

  “Well,” I ask, “how did our little neighbour please thee?”

  He made me no answer. I asked him again.

  “She is a virtuous woman,” I said. — ”I suppose she was amiable with thee?”

  “Yes,” he says, “she is not like the others.”

  I saw that he seemed to have softened a little. And I made up my mind to question him then and there….

  “And how about the obsession?” I said.

  Yákoff looked at me as though I had lashed him with a whip, and again made no reply. I did not worry him further, and left the room; and an hour later I went to the door and peeped through the keyhole…. And what do you think? — My Yásha was asleep! He was lying on the couch and sleeping. I crossed myself several times in succession. “May the Lord send Márfa Sávishna every blessing!” I said. “Evidently, she has managed to touch his embittered heart, the dear little dove!”

  The next day I see Yákoff take his cap…. I think to myself: “Shall I ask him whither he is going? — But no, better not ask … it certainly must be to her!”… And, in point of fact, Yákoff did set off for Márfa Sávishna’s house — and sat with her still longer than before; and on the day following he did it again! Then again, the next day but one! My spirits began to revive, for I saw that a change was coming over my son, and his face had grown quite different, and it was becoming possible to look into his eyes: he did not turn away. He was just as depressed as ever, but his former despair and terror had disappeared. But before I had recovered my cheerfulness to any great extent everything again broke off short! Yákoff again became wild, and again it was impossible to approach him. He sat locked up in his little room, and went no more to the widow’s.

  “Can it be possible,” I thought, “that he has hurt her feelings in some way, and she has forbidden him the house? — But no,” I thought … “although he is unhappy he would not dare to do such a thing; and besides, she is not that sort of woman.”

  At last I could endure it no longer, and I interrogated him: “Well, Yákoff, how about our neighbour?… Apparently thou hast forgotten her altogether.”

  But he fairly roared at me: — ”Our neighbour? Dost thou want him to jeer at me?”

  “What?” I say. — Then he even clenched his fists and … got perfectly furious.

  “Yes!” he says; and formerly he had only towered up after a fashion, but now he began to laugh and show his teeth. — ”Away! Begone!”

  To whom these words were addressed I know not! My legs would hardly bear me forth, to such a degree was I frightened. Just imagine: his face was the colour of red copper, he was foaming at the mouth, his voice was hoarse, exactly as though some one were choking him!… And that very same day I went — I, the orphan of orphans — to Márfa Sávishna … and found her in great affliction. Even
her outward appearance had undergone a change: she had grown thin in the face. But she would not talk with me about my son. Only one thing she did say: that no human aid could effect anything in that case. “Pray, father,” she said, — and then she presented me with one hundred rubles, — ”for the poor and sick of your parish,” she said. And again she repeated: “Pray!” — O Lord! As if I had not prayed without that — prayed day and night!

  Here Father Alexyéi again pulled out his handkerchief, and again wiped away his tears, but not by stealth this time, and after resting for a little while, he resumed his cheerless narrative.

  Yákoff and I then began to descend as a snowball rolls down hill, and both of us could see that an abyss lay at the foot of the hill; but how were we to hold back, and what measures could we take? And it was utterly impossible to conceal this; my entire parish was greatly disturbed, and said: “The priest’s son has gone mad; he is possessed of devils, — and the authorities ought to be informed of all this.” — And people infallibly would have informed the authorities had not my parishioners taken pity on me … for which I thank them. In the meantime winter was drawing to an end, and spring was approaching. — And such a spring as God sent! — fair and bright, such as even the old people could not remember: the sun shone all day long, there was no wind, and the weather was warm! And then a happy thought occurred to me: to persuade Yákoff to go off with me to do reverence to Mitrofány, in Vorónezh. “If that last remedy is of no avail,” I thought, “well, then, there is but one hope left — the grave!”

  So I was sitting one day on the porch just before evening, and the sunset glow was flaming in the sky, and the larks were warbling, and the apple - trees were in bloom, and the grass was growing green…. I was sitting and meditating how I could communicate my intention to Yákoff. Suddenly, lo and behold! he came out on the porch; he stood, gazed around, sighed, and sat down on the step by my side. I was even frightened out of joy, but I did nothing except hold my tongue. But he sits and looks at the sunset glow, and not a word does he utter either. But it seemed to me as though he had become softened, the furrows on his brow had been smoothed away, his eyes had even grown bright…. A little more, it seemed, and a tear would have burst forth! On beholding such a change in him I — excuse me! — grew bold.