Books: On the Eve
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Ivan Turgenev >> On the Eve
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'I don't understand what you say,' he commented at last. 'Do you
suppose I'm a cobbler or a watchmaker? Hey! I'm an officer, an
official, so there.'
'I don't doubt that----' Shubin was beginning.
'What I say is,' continued the stranger, putting him aside with his
powerful arm, like a twig out of the path--'why didn't you sing again
when we shouted _bis_? And I'll go away directly, this minute, only I
tell you what I want, this fraulein, not that madam, no, not her, but
this one or that one (he pointed to Elena and Zoya) must give me _einen
Kuss_, as we say in German, a kiss, in fact; eh? That's not much to
ask.'
'_Einen Kuss_, that's not much,' came again from the ranks of his
companions, '_Ih! der Stakramenter!_' cried one tipsy German, bursting
with laughter.
Zoya clutched at Insarov's arm, but he broke away from her, and stood
directly facing the insolent giant.
'You will please to move off,' he said in a voice not loud but sharp.
The German gave a heavy laugh, 'Move off? Well, I like that. Can't I
walk where I please? Move off? Why should I move off?'
'Because you have dared to annoy a lady,' said Insarov, and suddenly
he turned white, 'because you're drunk.'
'Eh? me drunk? Hear what he says. _Horen Sie das, Herr Provisor_?
I'm an officer, and he dares . . . Now I demand _satisfaction_. _Einen
Kuss will ich_.'
'If you come another step nearer----' began Insarov.
'Well? What then'
'I'll throw you in the water!'
'In the water? _Herr Je_! Is that all? Well, let us see that, that
would be very curious, too.'
The officer lifted his fists and moved forward, but suddenly something
extraordinary happened. He uttered an exclamation, his whole bulky
person staggered, rose from the ground, his legs kicking in the air,
and before the ladies had time to shriek, before any one had time to
realise how it had happened, the officer's massive figure went plop
with a heavy splash, and at once disappeared under the eddying water.
'Oh!' screamed the ladies with one voice. '_Mein Gott_!' was heard
from the other side. An instant passed . . . and a round head, all
plastered over with wet hair, showed above water, it was blowing
bubbles, this head; and floundering with two hands just at its very
lips. 'He will be drowned, save him! save him!' cried Anna Vassilyevna
to Insarov, who was standing with his legs apart on the bank,
breathing heavily.
'He will swim out,' he answered with contemptuous and unsympathetic
indifference. 'Let us go on,' he added, taking Anna Vassilyevna by
the arm. 'Come, Uvar Ivanovitch, Elena Nikolaevna.'
'A--a--o--o' was heard at that instant, the plaint of the hapless
German who had managed to get hold of the rushes on the bank.
They all followed Insarov, and had to pass close by the party. But,
deprived of their leader, the rowdies were subdued and did not utter a
word; but one, the boldest of them, muttered, shaking his head
menacingly: 'All right . . . we shall see though . . . after that';
but one of the others even took his hat off. Insarov struck them as
formidable, and rightly so; something evil, something dangerous could
be seen in his face. The Germans hastened to pull out their comrade,
who, directly he had his feet on dry ground, broke into tearful abuse
and shouted after the 'Russian scoundrels,' that he would make a
complaint, that he would go to Count Von Kizerits himself, and so on.
But the 'Russian scoundrels' paid no attention to his vociferations,
and hurried on as fast as they could to the castle. They were all
silent, as they walked through the garden, though Anna Vassilyevna
sighed a little. But when they reached the carriages and stood still,
they broke into an irrepressible, irresistible fit of Homeric
laughter. First Shubin exploded, shrieking as if he were mad,
Bersenyev followed with his gurgling guffaw, then Zoya fell into thin
tinkling little trills, Anna Vassilyevna too suddenly broke down,
Elena could not help smiling, and even Insarov at last could not
resist it. But the loudest, longest, most persistent laugh was Uvar
Ivanovitch's; he laughed till his sides ached, till he choked and
panted. He would calm down a little, then would murmur through his
tears: 'I--thought--what's that splash--and there--he--went plop.' And
with the last word, forced out with convulsive effort, his whole frame
was shaking with another burst of laughter. Zoya made him worse. 'I
saw his legs,' she said, 'kicking in the air.' 'Yes, yes,' gasped Uvar
Ivanovitch, 'his legs, his legs--and then splash!--there he plopped
in!'
'And how did Mr. Insarov manage it? why the German was three times
his size?' said Zoya.
'I'll tell you,' answered Uvar Ivanovitch, rubbing his eyes, 'I
saw; with one arm about his waist, he tripped him up, and he went plop!
I heard--a splash--there he went.'
Long after the carriages had started, long after the castle of
Tsaritsino was out of sight, Uvar Ivanovitch was still unable to
regain his composure. Shubin, who was again with him in the carriage,
began to cry shame on him at last.
Insarov felt ashamed. He sat in the coach facing Elena (Bersenyev had
taken his seat on the box), and he said nothing; she too was silent.
He thought that she was condemning his action; but she did not condemn
him. She had been scared at the first minute; then the expression of
his face had impressed her; afterwards she pondered on it all. It was
not quite clear to her what the nature of her reflections was. The
emotion she had felt during the day had passed away; that she
realised; but its place had been taken by another feeling which she
did not yet fully understand. The _partie de plaisir_ had been
prolonged too late; insensibly evening passed into night. The carriage
rolled swiftly along, now beside ripening cornfields, where the air
was heavy and fragrant with the smell of wheat; now beside wide
meadows, from which a sudden wave of freshness blew lightly in the
face. The sky seemed to lie like smoke over the horizon. At last the
moon rose, dark and red. Anna Vassilyevna was dozing; Zoya had poked
her head out of window and was staring at the road. It occurred to
Elena at last that she had not spoken to Insarov for more than an
hour. She turned to him with a trifling question; he at once answered
her, delighted. Dim sounds began stirring indistinctly in the air, as
though thousands of voices were talking in the distance; Moscow was
coming to meet them. Lights twinkled afar off; they grew more and
more frequent; at last there was the grating of the cobbles under
their wheels. Anna Vassilyevna awoke, every one in the carriage began
talking, though no one could hear what was said; everything was
drowned in the rattle of the cobbles under the two carriages, and the
hoofs of the eight horses. Long and wearisome seemed the journey from
Moscow to Kuntsovo; all the party were asleep or silent, leaning with
their heads pressed into their respective corners; Elena did not close
her eyes; she kept them fixed on Insarov's dimly-outlined figure. A
mood of sadness had come upon Shubin; the breeze was blowing into his
eyes and irritating him; he retired into the collar of his cloak and
was on the point of tears. Uvar Ivanovitch was snoring blissfully,
rocking from side to side. The carriages came to a standstill at last.
Two men-servants lifted Anna Vassilyevna out of the carriage; she was
all to pieces, and at parting from her fellow travellers, announced
that she was 'nearly dead'; they began thanking her, but she only
repeated, 'nearly dead.' Elena for the first time pressed Insarov's
hand at parting, and for a long while she sat at her window before
undressing; Shubin seized an opportunity to whisper to Bersenyev:
'There, isn't he a hero; he can pitch drunken Germans into the river!'
'While you didn't even do that,' retorted Bersenyev, and he started
homewards with Insarov.
The dawn was already showing in the sky when the two friends reached
their lodging. The sun had not yet risen, but already the chill of
daybreak was in the air, a grey dew covered the grass, and the first
larks were trilling high, high up in the shadowy infinity of air,
whence like a solitary eye looked out the great, last star.
XVI
Soon after her acquaintance with Insarov, Elena (for the fifth or
sixth time) began a diary. Here are some extracts from it:
'_June_. . . . Andrei Petrovitch brings me books, but I can't read them.
I'm ashamed to confess it to him; but I don't like to give back the
books, tell lies, say I have read them. I feel that would mortify him.
He is always watching me. He seems devoted to me. A very good man,
Andrei Petrovitch. . . . What is it I want? Why is my heart so heavy,
so oppressed? Why do I watch the birds with envy as they fly past? I
feel that I could fly with them, fly, where I don't know, but far from
here. And isn't that desire sinful? I have here mother, father, home.
Don't I love them? No, I don't love them, as I should like to love.
It's dreadful to put that in words, but it's the truth. Perhaps I am a
great sinner; perhaps that is why I am so sad, why I have no peace.
Some hand seems laid on me, weighing me down, as though I were in
prison, and the walls would fall on me directly. Why is it others
don't feel this? Whom shall I love, if I am cold to my own people?
It's clear, papa is right; he reproaches me for loving nothing but
cats and dogs. I must think about that. I pray very little; I must
pray. . . . Ah, I think I should know how to love! ... I am still shy
with Mr. Insarov. I don't know why; I believe I'm not schoolgirlish
generally, and he is so simple and kind. Sometimes he has a very
serious face. He can't give much thought to us. I feel that, and am
ashamed in a way to take up his time. With Andrei Petrovitch it's
quite a different thing. I am ready to chat with him the whole day
long. But he too always talks of Insarov. And such terrible facts he
tells me about him! I saw him in a dream last night with a dagger in
his hand. And he seemed to say to me, "I will kill you and I will kill
myself!" What silliness!
'Oh, if some one would say to me: "There, that's what you must do!"
Being good--isn't much; doing good . . . yes, that's the great
thing in life. But how is one to do good? Oh, if I could learn to
control myself! I don't know why I am so often thinking of Mr.
Insarov. When he comes and sits and listens intently, but makes no
effort, no exertion himself, I look at him, and feel pleased, and
that's all, and when he goes, I always go over his words, and feel
vexed with myself, and upset even. I can't tell why. (He speaks French
badly and isn't ashamed of it--I like that.) I always think a lot
about new people, though. As I talked to him, I suddenly was reminded
of our butler, Vassily, who rescued an old cripple out of a hut that
was on fire, and was almost killed himself. Papa called him a brave
fellow, mamma gave him five roubles, and I felt as though I could fall
at his feet. And he had a simple face--stupid-looking even--and he
took to drink later on. . . .
'I gave a penny to-day to a beggar woman, and she said to me, "Why are
you so sorrowful?" I never suspected I looked sorrowful. I think it
must come from being alone, always alone, for better, for worse!
There is no one to stretch out a hand to me. Those who come to me, I
don't want; and those I would choose--pass me by.
'. . . I don't know what's the matter with me to-day; my head is
confused, I want to fall on my knees and beg and pray for mercy. I
don't know by whom or how, but I feel as if I were being tortured, and
inwardly I am shrieking in revolt; I weep and can't be quiet. . . . O
my God, subdue these outbreaks in me! Thou alone canst aid me, all
else is useless; my miserable alms-giving, my studies can do nothing,
nothing, nothing to help me. I should like to go out as a servant
somewhere, really; that would do me good.
'What is my youth for, what am I living for, why have I a soul, what
is it all for?
'. . . Insarov, Mr. Insarov--upon my word I don't know how to
write--still interests me, I should like to know what he has within,
in his soul? He seems so open, so easy to talk to, but I can see
nothing. Sometimes he looks at me with such searching eyes--or is that
my fancy? Paul keeps teasing me. I am angry with Paul. What does he
want? He's in love with me . . . but his love's no good to me. He's
in love with Zoya too. I'm unjust to him; he told me yesterday I
didn't know how to be unjust by halves . . . that's true. It's very
horrid.
'Ah, I feel one needs unhappiness, or poverty or sickness, or else one
gets conceited directly.
'. . . What made Andrei Petrovitch tell me to-day about those two
Bulgarians! He told me it as it were with some intention. What have I
to do with Mr. Insarov? I feel cross with Andrei Petrovitch.
'. . . I take my pen and don't know how to begin. How unexpectedly he
began to talk to me in the garden to-day! How friendly and confiding
he was! How quickly it happened! As if we were old, old friends and
had only just recognised each other. How could I have not understood
him before? How near he is to me now! And--what's so wonderful--I feel
ever so much calmer now. It's ludicrous; yesterday I was angry with
Andrei Petrovitch, and angry with him, I even called him _Mr. Insarov_,
and to-day . . . Here at last is a true man; some one one may depend
upon. He won't tell lies; he's the first man I have met who never
tells lies; all the others tell lies, everything's lying. Andrei
Petrovitch, dear good friend, why do I wrong you? No! Andrei
Petrovitch is more learned than he is, even, perhaps more
intellectual. But I don't know, he seems so small beside him. When he
speaks of his country he seems taller, and his face grows handsome,
and his voice is like steel, and ... no ... it seems as though there
were no one in the world before whom he would flinch. And he doesn't
only talk. . . . he has acted and he will act I shall ask him. . . .
How suddenly he turned to me and smiled! ... It's only brothers that
smile like that! Ah, how glad I am! When he came the first time, I
never dreamt that we should so soon get to know each other. And now I
am even pleased that I remained indifferent to him at first.
Indifferent? Am I not indifferent then now? . . . It's long since I
have felt such inward peace. I feel so quiet, so quiet. And there's
nothing to write? I see him often and that's all. What more is there
to write?
'. . . Paul shuts himself up, Andrei Petrovitch has taken to coming
less often. . . . poor fellow! I fancy he . . . But that can never be,
though. I like talking to Andrei Petrovitch; never a word of self,
always of something sensible, useful. Very different from Shubin.
Shubin's as fine as a butterfly, and admires his own finery; which
butterflies don't do. But both Shubin and Andrei Petrovitch . , . I
know what I mean.
'. . . He enjoys coming to us, I see that. But why? what does he find
in me? It's true our tastes are alike; he and I, both of us don't
care for poetry; neither of us knows anything of art. But how much
better he is than I! He is calm, I am in perpetual excitement; he
has chosen his path, his aim--while I--where am I going? where is my
home? He is calm, but all his thoughts are far away. The time will
come, and he will leave us for ever, will go home, there over the sea.
Well? God grant he may! Any way I shall be glad that I knew him, while
he was here.
'Why isn't he a Russian? No, he could not be Russian.
'Mamma too likes him; she says: an unassuming young man. Dear mamma!
She does not understand him. Paul says nothing; he guessed I didn't
like his hints, but he's jealous of him. Spiteful boy! And what right
has he? Did I ever . . . All that's nonsense! What makes all that
come into my head?
'. . . Isn't it strange though, that up till now, up to twenty, I have
never loved any one! I believe that the reason why D.'s (I shall call
him D.--I like that name Dmitri) soul is so clear, is that he is
entirely given up to his work, his ideal. What has he to trouble
about? When any one has utterly . . . utterly . . . given himself up,
he has little sorrow, he is not responsible for anything. It's not _I_
want, but _it_ wants. By the way, he and I both love the same flowers.
I picked a rose this morning, one leaf fell, he picked it up.... I
gave him the whole rose.
'. . . D. often comes to us. Yesterday he spent the whole evening. He
wants to teach me Bulgarian. I feel happy with him, quite at home,
more than at home.
'. . . The days fly past. ... I am happy, and somehow discontent and I
am thankful to God, and tears are not far off. Oh these hot bright
days!
'. . . I am still light-hearted as before, and only at times, and only
a little, sad. I am happy. Am I happy?
'. . . It will be long before I forget the expedition yesterday. What
strange, new, terrible impressions when he suddenly took that great
giant and flung him like a ball into the water. I was not frightened
. . . yet he frightened me. And afterwards--what an angry face, almost
cruel! How he said, "He will swim out!" It gave me a shock. So I
did not understand him. And afterwards when they all laughed, when I
was laughing, how I felt for him! He was ashamed, I felt that he was
ashamed before me. He told me so afterwards in the carriage in the
dark, when I tried to get a good view of him and was afraid of him.
Yes, he is not to be trifled with, and he is a splendid champion. But
why that wicked look, those trembling lips, that angry fire in his
eyes? Or is it, perhaps, inevitable? Isn't it possible to be a man, a
hero, and to remain soft and gentle? "Life is a coarse business," he
said to me once lately. I repeated that saying to Andrei Petrovitch;
he did not agree with D. Which of them is right? But the beginning of
that day! How happy I was, walking beside him, even without speaking.
. . . But I am glad of what happened. I see that it was quite as it
should be.
'. . . Restlessness again ... I am not quite well. . . . All these
days I have written nothing in this book, because I have had no wish
to write. I felt, whatever I write, it won't be what is in my heart.
. . . And what is in my heart? I have had a long talk with him, which
revealed a great deal. He told me his plan (by the way, I know now how
he got the wound in his neck. . . . Good God! when I think he was
actually condemned to death, that he was only just saved, that he was
wounded. . . . ) He prophesies war and will be glad of it. And for all
that, I never saw D. so depressed. What can he ... he! ... be
depressed by? Papa arrived home from town and came upon us two. He
looked rather queerly at us. Andrei Petrovitch came; I noticed he had
grown very thin and pale. He reproved me, saying I behave too coldly
and inconsiderately to Shubin. I had utterly forgotten Paul's
existence. I will see him, and try to smooth over my offence. He is
nothing to me now . . . nor any one else in the world. Andrei
Petrovitch talked to me in a sort of commiserating way. What does it
all mean? Why is everything around me and within me so dark? I feel as
if about me and within me, something mysterious were happening, for
which I want to find the right word. ... I did not sleep all night;
my head aches. What's the good of writing? He went away so quickly
to-day and I wanted to talk to him. . . . He almost seems to avoid me.
Yes, he avoids me.
'. . . The word is found, light has dawned on me! My God, have pity
on me. . . . I love him!'
XVII
On the very day on which Elena had written this last fatal line in her
diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenyev's room, and Bersenyev was
standing before him with a look of perplexity on his face. Insarov had
just announced his intention of returning to Moscow the next day.
'Upon my word!' cried Bersenyev. 'Why, the finest part of the
summer is just beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What a sudden
decision! Or have you had news of some sort?'
'I have had no news,' replied Insarov; 'but on thinking things over, I
find I cannot stop here.'
'How can that be?'
'Andrei Petrovitch,' said Insarov, 'be so kind . . . don't
insist, please, I am very sorry myself to be leaving you, but it can't
be helped.'
Bersenyev looked at him intently.
'I know,' he said at last, 'there's no persuading you. And so, it's a
settled matter,
'Is it?
'Absolutely settled,' replied Insarov, getting up and going away.
Bersenyev walked about the room, then took his hat and set off for the
Stahovs.
'You have something to tell me,' Elena said to him, directly they were
left alone.
'Yes, how did you guess?'
'Never mind; tell me what it is.'
Bersenyev told her of Insarov's intention.
Elena turned white.
'What does it mean?' she articulated with effort
'You know,' observed Bersenyev, 'Dmitri Nikanorovitch does not care to
give reasons for his actions. But I think ... let us sit down, Elena
Nikolaevna, you don't seem very well. ... I fancy I can guess what is
the real cause of this sudden departure.'
'What--what cause?' repeated Elena, and unconsciously she gripped
tightly Bersenyev's hand in her chill ringers.
'You see,' began Bersenyev, with a pathetic smile, 'how can I explain
to you? I must go back to last spring, to the time when I began to be
more intimate with Insarov. I used to meet him then at the house of a
relative, who had a daughter, a very pretty girl I thought that
Insarov cared for her, and I told him so. He laughed, and answered
that I was mistaken, that he was quite heart-whole, but if anything of
that sort did happen to him, he should run away directly, as he did
not want, in his own words, for the sake of personal feeling, to be
false to his cause and his duty. "I am a Bulgarian," he said, "and I
have no need of a Russian love----"
'Well--so--now you----' whispered Elena. She involuntarily turned away
her head, like a man expecting a blow, but she still held the hand she
had clutched.
'I think,' he said, and his own voice sank, 'I think that what I
fancied then has really happened now.'
'That is--you think--don't torture me!' broke suddenly from
Elena.
'I think,' Bersenyev continued hurriedly, 'that Insarov is in love now
with a Russian girl, and he is resolved to go, according to his word.'
Elena clasped his hand still tighter, and her head drooped still
lower, as if she would hide from other eyes the flush of shame which
suddenly blazed over her face and neck.
'Andrei Petrovitch, you are kind as an angel,' she said, 'but will he
come to say goodbye?'
'Yes, I imagine so; he will be sure to come. He wouldn't like to go
away----'
'Tell him, tell him----'
But here the poor girl broke down; tears rushed streaming from her
eyes, and she ran out of the room.
'So that's how she loves him,' thought Bersenyev, as he walked slowly
home. 'I didn't expect that; I didn't think she felt so strongly. I
am kind, she says:' he pursued his reflections: . . . 'Who can
tell what feelings, what impulse drove me to tell Elena all that? It
was not kindness; no, not kindness. It was all the accursed desire to
make sure whether the dagger is really in the wound. I ought to be
content. They love each other, and I have been of use to them. . . .
The future go-between between science and the Russian public Shubin
calls me; it seems as though it had been decreed at my birth that I
should be a go-between. But if I'm mistaken? No, I'm not
mistaken----'
It was bitter for Andrei Petrovitch, and he could not turn his mind to
Raumer.
The next day at two o'clock Insarov arrived at the Stahovs'. As though
by express design, there was a visitor in Anna Vassilyevna's
drawing-room at the time, the wife of a neighbouring chief-priest, an
excellent and worthy woman, though she had had a little unpleasantness
with the police, because she thought fit, in the hottest part of the
day, to bathe in a lake near the road, along which a certain dignified
general's family used often to be passing. The presence of an outside
person was at first even a relief to Elena, from whose face every
trace of colour vanished, directly she heard Insarov's step; but her
heart sank at the thought that he might go without a word with her
alone. He, too, seemed confused, and avoided meeting her eyes. 'Surely
he will not go directly,' thought Elena. Insarov was, in fact, turning
to take leave of Anna Vassilyevna; Elena hastily rose and called him
aside to the window. The priest's wife was surprised, and tried to
turn round; but she was so tightly laced that her stays creaked at
every movement, and she stayed where she was.
'Listen,' said Elena hurriedly; 'I know what you have come for;
Andrei Petrovitch told me of your intention, but I beg, I entreat you,
do not say good-bye to us to-day, but come here to-morrow rather
earlier, at eleven. I must have a few words with you.'
Insarov bent his head without speaking.
'I will not keep you. . . . You promise me?'
Again Insarov bowed, but said nothing.
'Lenotchka, come here,' said Anna Vassilyevna, 'look, what a
charming reticule.'
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