Books: On the Eve
I >>
Ivan Turgenev >> On the Eve
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 | 9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14
'Leave off,' replied Bersenyev. 'Was it worth while to waste your
time on such a ----' He could not at once fix on a suitable word.
'Disgusting thing, you mean? No, my dear fellow, excuse me, if
anything ought to go to the exhibition, it's that group.'
'It's simply disgusting,' repeated Bersenyev. 'And besides, it's
nonsense. You have absolutely no such degrading tendencies to which,
unhappily, our artists have such a frequent bent. You have simply
libelled yourself.'
'Do you think so?' said Shubin gloomily. 'I have none of them, and if
they come upon me, the fault is all one person's. Do you know,' he
added, tragically knitting his brows, 'that I have been trying
drinking?'
'Nonsense?'
'Yes, I have, by God,' rejoined Shubin; and suddenly grinning and
brightening,--'but I didn't like it, my dear boy, the stuff sticks in
my throat, and my head afterwards is a perfect drum. The great
Lushtchihin himself--Harlampy Lushtchihin--the greatest drunkard in
Moscow, and a Great Russian drunkard too, declared there was nothing
to be made of me. In his words, the bottle does not speak to me.'
Bersenyev was just going to knock the group over but Shubin stopped
him.
'That'll do, my dear boy, don't smash it; it will serve as a lesson,
a scare-crow.'
Bersenyev laughed.
'If that's what it is, I will spare your scarecrow then,' he said. And
now, 'Long live eternal true art!'
'Long live true art!' put in Shubin. 'By art the good is better and
the bad is not all loss!'
The friends shook hands warmly and parted.
XXI
Elena's first sensation on awakening was one of happy consternation.
'Is it possible? Is it possible?' she asked herself, and her heart
grew faint with happiness. Recollections came rushing on her . . . she
was overwhelmed by them. Then again she was enfolded by the blissful
peace of triumph. But in the course of the morning, Elena gradually
became possessed by a spirit of unrest, and for the remainder of the
day she felt listless and weary. It was true she knew now what she
wanted, but that made it no easier for her. That never-to-be forgotten
meeting had cast her for ever out of the old groove; she was no
longer at the same standpoint, she was far away, and yet everything
went on about her in its accustomed order, everything pursued its own
course as though nothing were changed; the old life moved on its old
way, reckoning on Elena's interest and co-operation as of old. She
tried to begin a letter to Insarov, but that too was a failure; the
words came on to paper either lifeless or false. Her diary she had put
an end to by drawing a thick stroke under the last line. That was the
past, and every thought, all her soul, was turned now to the future.
Her heart was heavy. To sit with her mother who suspected nothing, to
listen to her, answer her and talk to her, seemed to Elena something
wicked; she felt the presence of a kind of falseness in her, she
suffered though she had nothing to blush for; more than once an almost
irresistible desire sprang up in her heart to tell everything without
reserve, whatever might come of it afterwards. 'Why,' she thought,
'did not Dmitri take me away then, from that little chapel, wherever
he wanted to go? Didn't he tell me I was his wife before God? What am
I here for?' She suddenly began to feel shy of every one, even of Uvar
Ivanovitch, who was flourishing his fingers in more perplexity than
ever. Now everything about her seemed neither sweet nor friendly, nor
even a dream, but, like a nightmare, lay, an immovable dead load, on
her heart; seeming to reproach her and be indignant with her, and not
to care to know about her. . . .'You are ours in spite of
everything,' she seemed to hear. Even her poor pets, her ill-used
birds and animals looked at her--so at least she fancied--with
suspicion and hostility. She felt conscience-stricken and ashamed of
her feelings. 'This is my home after all,' she thought, 'my family, my
country.' . . . 'No, it's no longer your country, nor your family,'
another voice affirmed within her. Terror was overmastering her, and
she was vexed with her own feebleness. The trial was only beginning
and she was losing patience already. . . Was this what she had
promised?
She did not soon gain control of herself. But a week passed and then
another. . . . Elena became a little calmer, and grew used to her new
position. She wrote two little notes to Insarov, and carried them
herself to the post: she could not for anything--through shame and
through pride--have brought herself to confide in a maid. She was
already beginning to expect him in person. . . . But instead of
Insarov, one fine morning Nikolai Artemyevitch made his appearance.
XXII
No one in the house of the retired lieutenant of guards, Stahov, had
ever seen him so sour, and at the same time so self-confident and
important as on that day. He walked into the drawing-room in his
overcoat and hat, with long deliberate stride, stamping with his
heels; he approached the looking-glass and took a long look at himself,
shaking his head and biting his lips with imperturbable severity. Anna
Vassilyevna met him with obvious agitation and secret delight (she
never met him otherwise); he did not even take off his hat, nor greet
her, and in silence gave Elena his doe-skin glove to kiss. Anna
Vassilyevna began questioning him about the progress of his cure; he
made her no reply. Uvar Ivanovitch made his appearance; he glanced at
him and said, 'bah!' He usually behaved coldly and haughtily to
Uvar Ivanovitch, though he acknowledged in him 'traces of the true
Stahov blood.' Almost all Russian families of the nobility are
convinced, as is well known, of the existence of exceptional
hereditary characteristics, peculiar to them alone; we have more than
once heard discussions 'among ourselves' of the Podsalaskinsky
'noses,' and the 'Perepreyevsky' necks. Zoya came in and sat down
facing Nikolai Artemyevitch. He grunted, sank into an armchair, asked
for coffee, and only then took off his hat. Coffee was brought him; he
drank a cup, and looking at everybody in turn, he growled between his
teeth, '_Sortes, s'il vous plait_,' and turning to his wife he added,
'_et vous, madame, restez, je vous prie_.'
They all left the room, except Anna Vassilyevna. Her head was
trembling with agitation. The solemnity of Nikolai Artemyevitch's
preparations impressed her. She was expecting something extraordinary.
'What is it?' she cried, directly the door was closed.
Nikolai Artemyevitch flung an indifferent glance at Anna Vassilyevna.
'Nothing special; what a way you have of assuming the air of a victim
at once!' he began, quite needlessly dropping the corners of his
mouth at every word. 'I only want to forewarn you that we shall have
a new guest dining here to-day.'
'Who is it?'
'Kurnatovsky, Yegor Andreyevitch. You don't know him. The head
secretary in the senate.'
'He is to dine with us to-day?'
'Yes.'
'And was it only to tell me this that you made every one go away?'
Nikolai Artemyevitch again flung a glance--this time one of irony--at
Anna Vassilyevna.
'Does that surprise you? Defer your surprise a little.'
He ceased speaking. Anna Vassilyevna too was silent for a little time.
'I could have wished----' she was beginning.
'I know you have always looked on me as an "immoral" man,' began
Nikolai Artemyevitch suddenly.
'I!' muttered Anna Vassilyevna, astounded.
'And very likely you are right. I don't wish to deny that I have in
fact sometimes given you just grounds for dissatisfaction' ("my
greys!" flashed through Anna Vassilyevna's head), 'though you must
yourself allow, that in the condition, as you are aware, of your
constitution----'
'And I make no complaint against you, Nikolai Artemyevitch.'
'_C'est possible_. In any case, I have no intention of justifying
myself. Time will justify me. But I regard it as my duty to prove to
you that I understand my duties, and know how to care for--for the
welfare of the family entrusted--entrusted to me.'
'What's the meaning of all this?' Anna Vassilyevna was thinking. (She
could not guess that the preceding evening at the English club a
discussion had arisen in a corner of the smoking-room as to the
incapacity of Russians to make speeches. 'Which of us can speak?
Mention any one!' one of the disputants had exclaimed. 'Well,
Stahov, for instance,' had answered the other, pointing to Nikolai
Artemyevitch, who stood up on the spot almost squealing with delight.)
'For instance,' pursued Nikolai Artemyevitch, 'my daughter Elena.
Don't you consider that the time has come for her to take a decisive
step along the path--to be married, I mean to say. All these
intellectual and philanthropic pursuits are all very well, but only up
to a certain point, up to a certain age. It's time for her to drop her
mistiness, to get out of the society of all these artists, scholars,
and Montenegrins, and do like everybody else.'
'How am I to understand you?' asked Anna Vassilyevna.
'Well, if you will kindly listen,' answered Nikolai Artemyevitch,
still with the same dropping of the corners of his lips, 'I will tell
you plainly, without beating about the bush. I have made acquaintance,
I have become intimate with this young man, Mr. Kurnatovsky, in the
hope of having him for a son-in-law. I venture to think that when you
see him, you will not accuse me of partiality or precipitate
judgment.' (Nikolai Artemyevitch was admiring his own eloquence as he
talked.) 'Of excellent education--educated in the highest legal
college--excellent manners, thirty-three years old, and
upper-secretary, a councillor, and a Stanislas cross on his neck. You,
I hope, will do me the justice to allow that I do not belong to the
number of those _peres de famille_ who are mad for position; but you
yourself told me that Elena Nikolaevna likes practical business men;
Yegor Andreyevitch is in the first place a business man; now on the
other side, my daughter has a weakness for generous actions; so let me
tell you that Yegor Andreyevitch, directly he had attained the
possibility--you understand me--the possibility of living without
privation on his salary, at once gave up the yearly income assigned
him by his father, for the benefit of his brothers.'
'Who is his father?' inquired Anna Vassilyevna.
'His father? His father is a man well-known in his own line, of the
highest moral character, _un vrai stoicien_, a retired major, I think,
overseer of all the estates of the Count B----'
'Ah!' observed Anna Vassilyevna.
'Ah! why ah?' interposed Nikolai Artemyevitch. 'Can you be infected
with prejudice?'
'Why, I said nothing----' Anna Vassilyevna was beginning.
'No, you said, ah!--However that may be, I have thought it well to
acquaint you with my way of thinking; and I venture to think--I
venture to hope Mr. Kurnatovsky will be received _a bras ouverts_. He
is no Montenegrin vagrant.'
'Of course; I need only call Vanka the cook and order a few extra
dishes.'
'You are aware that I will not enter into that,' said Nikolai
Artemyevitch; and he got up, put on his hat, and whistling (he had
heard some one say that whistling was only permissible in a country
villa and a riding court) went out for a stroll in the garden. Shubin
watched him out of the little window of his lodge, and in silence put
out his tongue at him.
At ten minutes to four, a hackney-carriage drove up to the steps of
the Stahovs's villa, and a man, still young, of prepossessing
appearance, simply and elegantly dressed, stepped out of it
and sent up his name. This was Yegor Andreyevitch Kurnatovsky.
This was what, among other things, Elena wrote next day to Insarov:
'Congratulate me, dear Dmitri, I have a suitor. He dined with us
yesterday: papa made his acquaintance at the English club, I fancy,
and invited him. Of course he did not come yesterday as a suitor. But
good mamma, to whom papa had made known his hopes, whispered in my ear
what this guest was. His name is Yegor Andreyevitch Kurnatovsky; he
is upper-secretary to the Senate. I will first describe to you his
appearance. He is of medium height, shorter than you, and a good
figure; his features are regular, he is close-cropped, and wears large
whiskers. His eyes are rather small (like yours), brown, and quick;
he has a flat wide mouth; in his eyes and on his lips there is a
perpetual sort of official smile; it seems to be always on duty
there. He behaves very simply and speaks precisely, and everything
about him is precise; he moves, laughs, and eats as though he were
doing a duty. "How carefully she has studied him!" you are thinking,
perhaps, at this minute. Yes; so as to be able to describe him to
you. And besides, who wouldn't study her suitor! There's something of
iron in him--and dull and empty at the same time--and honest; they say
he is really very honest. You, too, are made of iron; but not like
this man. At dinner he sat next me, and facing us sat Shubin. At first
the conversation turned on commercial undertakings; they say he is
very clever in business matters, and was almost throwing up his
government post to take charge of a large manufacturing business. Pity
he didn't do it! Then Shubin began to talk about the theatre; Mr.
Kurnatovsky declared and--I must confess--without false modesty, that
he has no ideas about art. That reminded me of you--but I thought;
no, Dmitri and I are ignorant of art in a very different way though.
This man seemed to mean, "I know nothing of it, and it's quite
superfluous, still it may be admitted in a well-ordered state." He
seems, however, to think very little about Petersburg and _comme il
faut_: he once even called himself one of the proletariat. 'We are
working people,' he said; I thought if Dmitri had said that, I
shouldn't have liked it; but he may talk about himself, he may boast
if he likes. With me he is very attentive; but I kept feeling that a
very, very condescending superior was talking with me. When he means
to praise any one, he says So-and-so is a man of principle--that's his
favourite word. He seems to be self-confident, hardworking, capable of
self-sacrifice (you see, I am impartial), that's to say, of
sacrificing his own interest; but he is a great despot. It would be
woeful to fall into his power! At dinner they began talking about
bribes.
'"I know," he said, "that in many cases the man who accepts a bribe
is not to blame; he cannot do otherwise. Still, if he is found out,
he must be punished without mercy."' I cried, "Punish an innocent
man!" '"Yes; for the sake of principle." '"What principle?" asked
Shubin. Kurnatovsky seemed annoyed or surprised, and said, "That
needs no explanation."
'Papa, who seems to worship him, put in "of course not"; and to my
vexation the conversation stopped there. In the evening Bersenyev came
and got into a terrific argument with him. I have never seen our good
Andrei Petrovitch so excited. Mr. Kurnatovsky did not at all deny the
utility of science, universities, and so on, but still I understood
Andrei Petrovitch's indignation. The man looks at it all as a sort of
gymnastics. Shubin came up to me after dinner, and said, "This fellow
here and some one else (he can never bring himself to utter your name)
are both practical men, but see what a difference; there's the real
living ideal given to life; and here there's not even a feeling of
duty, simply official honesty and activity without anything inside
it." Shubin is clever, and I remembered his words to tell you; but to
my mind there is nothing in common between you. You have _faith_, and
he has not; for a man cannot _have faith_ in himself only.
'He did not go away till late; but mamma had time to inform me that
he was pleased with me, and papa is in ecstasies. Did he say, I
wonder, that I was a woman of principle? I was almost telling mamma
that I was very sorry, but I had a husband already. Why is it papa
dislikes you so? Mamma, we could soon manage to bring round.
'Oh, my dear one! I have described this gentleman in such detail to
deaden my heartache. I don't live without you; I am constantly seeing
you, hearing you. I look forward to seeing you--only not at our
house, as you intended--fancy how wretched and ill at ease we should
be!--but you know where I wrote to you--in that wood. Oh, my dear
one! How I love you!'
XXIII
Three weeks after Kurnatovsky's first visit, Anna Vassilyevna, to
Elena's great delight, returned to Moscow, to her large wooden house
near Prechistenka; a house with columns, white lyres and wreaths over
every window, with an attic, offices, a palisade, a huge green court,
a well in the court and a dog's kennel near the well. Anna
Vassilyevna had never left her country villa so early, but this year
with the first autumn chills her face swelled; Nikolai Artemyevitch
for his part, having finished his cure, began to want his wife;
besides, Augustina Christianovna had gone away on a visit to her
cousin in Revel; a family of foreigners, known as 'living statues,'
_des poses plastiques_, had come to Moscow, and the description of them
in the _Moscow Gazette_ had aroused Anna Vassilyevna's liveliest
curiosity. In short, to stay longer at the villa seemed inconvenient,
and even, in Nikolai Artemyevitch's words, incompatible with the
fulfilment of his 'cherished projects.' The last fortnight seemed very
long to Elena. Kurnatovsky came over twice on Sundays; on other days
he was busy. He came really to see Elena, but talked more to Zoya, who
was much pleased with him. '_Das ist ein Mann_!' she thought to
herself, as she looked at his full manly face and listened to his
self-confident, condescending talk. To her mind, no one had such a
wonderful voice, no one could pronounce so nicely, 'I had the
hon-our,' or, 'I am most de-lighted.' Insarov did not come to the
Stahovs, but Elena saw him once in secret in a little copse by the
Moskva river, where she arranged to meet him. They hardly had time to
say more than a few words to each other. Shubin returned to Moscow
with Anna Vassilyevna; Bersenyev, a few days later.
Insarov was sitting in his room, and for the third time looking
through the letters brought him from Bulgaria by hand; they were
afraid to send them by post. He was much disturbed by them. Events
were developing rapidly in the East; the occupation of the
Principalities by Russian troops had thrown all men's minds into a
ferment; the storm was growing--already could be felt the breath of
approaching inevitable war. The fire was kindling all round, and no
one could foresee how far it would go--where it would stop. Old
wrongs, long cherished hopes--all were astir again. Insarov's heart
throbbed eagerly; his hopes too were being realised. 'But is it not
too soon, will it not be in vain?' he thought, tightly clasping his
hands. 'We are not ready, but so be it! I must go.'
Something rustled lightly at the door, it flew quickly open, and into
the room ran Elena.
Insarov, all in a tremor, rushed to her, fell on his knees before her,
clasped her waist and pressed it close against his head.
'You didn't expect me?' she said, hardly able to draw her breath,
she had run quickly up the stairs. 'Dear one! dear one!--so this is
where you live? I've quickly found you. The daughter of your landlord
conducted me. We arrived the day before yesterday. I meant to write to
you, but I thought I had better come myself. I have come for a quarter
of an hour. Get up, shut the door.'
He got up, quickly shut the door, returned to her and took her by the
hands. He could not speak; he was choking with delight. She looked
with a smile into his eyes . . . there was such rapture in them . . .
she felt shy.
'Stay,' she said, fondly taking her hand away from him, 'let me take
off my hat.'
She untied the strings of her hat, flung it down, slipped the cape off
her shoulders, tidied her hair, and sat down on the little old sofa.
Insarov gazed at her, without stirring, like one enchanted.
'Sit down,' she said, not lifting her eyes to him and motioning him to
a place beside her.
Insarov sat down, not on the sofa, but on the floor at her feet.
'Come, take off my gloves,' she said in an uncertain voice. She felt
afraid.
He began first to unbutton and then to draw off one glove; he drew it
half off and greedily pressed his lips to the slender, soft wrist,
which was white under it.
Elena shuddered, and would have pushed him back with the other hand;
he began kissing the other hand too. Elena drew it away, he threw back
his head, she looked into his face, bent above him, and their lips
touched.
An instant passed . . . she broke away, got up, whispered 'No, no,'
and went quickly up to the writing-table.
'I am mistress here, you know, so you ought not to have any secrets
from me,' she said, trying to seem at ease, and standing with her back
to him. 'What a lot of papers! what are these letters?'
Insarov knitted his brows. 'Those letters?' he said, getting up, 'you
can read them.'
Elena turned them over in her hand. 'There are so many of them, and
the writing is so fine, and I have to go directly ... let them be.
They're not from a rival, eh? ... and they're not in Russian,' she
added, turning over the thin sheets.
Insarov came close to her and fondly touched her waist. She turned
suddenly to him, smiled brightly at him and leant against his
shoulder.
'Those letters are from Bulgaria, Elena; my friends write to me, they
want me to come.'
'Now? To them?'
'Yes . . . now, while there is still time, while it is still possible
to come.'
All at once she flung both arms round his neck, 'You will take me
with you, yes?'
He pressed her to his heart. 'O my sweet girl, O my heroine, how you
said that! But isn't it wicked, isn't it mad for me, a homeless,
solitary man, to drag you with me . . . and out there too!'
She shut his mouth. . . . 'Sh--or I shall be angry, and never come to
see you again. Why isn't it all decided, all settled between us?
Am I not your wife? Can a wife be parted from her husband?'
'Wives don't go into war,' he said with a half-mournful smile.
'Oh yes, when they can't stay behind, and I cannot stay here?'
'Elena, my angel! . . but think, I have, perhaps, to leave Moscow in a
fortnight. I can't think of university lectures, or finishing my
work.'
'What!' interrupted Elena, 'you have to go soon? If you like, I
will stop at once this minute with you for ever, and not go home,
shall I? Shall we go at once?'
Insarov clasped her in his arms with redoubled warmth. 'May God so
reward me then,' he cried, 'if I am doing wrong! From to-day, we are
one for ever!'
'Am I to stay?' asked Elena.
'No, my pure girl; no, my treasure. You shall go back home to-day,
only keep yourself in readiness. This is a matter we can't manage
straight off; we must plan it out well. We want money, a passport----'
'I have money,' put in Elena. 'Eighty roubles.'
'Well, that's not much,' observed Insarov; 'but everything's a
help.'
'But I can get more. I will borrow. I will ask mamma. . . . No, I
won't ask mamma for any. . . . But I can sell my watch. ... I have
earrings, too, and two bracelets . . . and lace.'
'Money's not the chief difficulty, Elena; the passport; your
passport, how about that?'
'Yes, how about it? Is a passport absolutely necessary?'
'Absolutely.'
Elena laughed. 'What a queer idea! I remember when I was little ... a
maid of ours ran away. She was caught, and forgiven, and lived with us
a long while . . . but still every one used to call her Tatyana, the
runaway. I never thought then that I too might perhaps be a runaway
like her.'
'Elena, aren't you ashamed?'
'Why? Of course it's better to go with a passport. But if we can't----'
'We will settle all that later, later, wait a little,' said Insarov.
'Let me look about; let me think a little. We will talk over
everything together thoroughly. I too have money.'
Elena pushed back the hair that fell over on his forehead.
'O Dmitri! how glorious it will be for us two to set off together!'
'Yes,' said Insarov, 'but there, when we get there----'
'Well?' put in Elena, 'and won't it be glorious to die together too?
but no, why should we die? We will live, we are young. How old are
you? Twenty-six?'
'Yes, twenty-six.'
'And I am twenty. There is plenty of time before us. Ah, you tried to
run away from me? You did not want a Russian's love, you Bulgarian!
Let me see you trying to escape from me now! What would have become
of us, if I hadn't come to you then!'
'Elena, you know what forced me to go away.'
'I know; you were in love, and you were afraid. But surely you must
have suspected that you were loved?'
'I swear on my honour, Elena, I didn't.'
She gave him a quick unexpected kiss. 'There, I love you for that too.
And goodbye.'
'You can't stop longer?' asked Insarov.
'No, dearest. Do you think it's easy for me to get out alone? The
quarter of an hour was over long ago.' She put on her cape and hat.
'And you come to us to-morrow evening. No, the day after to-morrow. We
shall be constrained and dreary, but we can't help that; at
least we shall see each other. Good-bye. Let me go.'
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 | 9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14