[Illustration]
_The greatest of Russian authors was born in 1818, and, expatriated
from Russia, died in the suburbs of Paris in 1883. His literary method
reversed the usual process. The plot of a story was something he never
thought of. His short stories are wonderful character drawings of
individuals or groups that show a complete, a brooding absorption in
his subjects. The spirit of the great Slav race lives in his work, and
though his stories are sombre his characters have a vitality that only
genius can give. An aristocrat, and possessed of some means, Turgenev’s
stories concern themselves with the old racial traits of character, but
do not touch on the revolutionary element._
[Illustration]
THE RENDEZVOUS
BY IVAN TURGENEV
Translated by Herman Bernstein. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.
I was sitting in a birch grove in autumn, near the middle of September.
It had been drizzling ever since morning; occasionally the sun shone
warmly--the weather was changeable. Now the sky was overcast with
watery white clouds, now it suddenly cleared up for an instant, and
then the bright, soft azure, like a beautiful eye, appeared from beyond
the dispersed clouds. I was sitting looking about me and listening.
The leaves were slightly rustling over my head; and by their very
rustle one could tell what season of the year it was. It was not the
gay, laughing palpitation of spring; not a soft whispering, nor the
lingering chatter of summer, nor the timid and cold lisping of late
autumn, but a barely audible, drowsy prattle. A faint breeze was
whisking over the tree-tops. The interior of the grove, moist from the
rain, was forever changing, as the sun shone or hid beyond the clouds;
now the grove was all illuminated as if everything in it had burst
into a smile; the trunks of the birch trees suddenly assumed the soft
reflection of white silk; the small leaves which lay scattered on the
ground all at once became variegated and flashed up like red gold; and
the pretty stalks of the tall, branchy ferns, already tinted in their
autumn hue, resembling the color of overripe grapes, appeared here and
there tangling and crossing one another. Now again everything suddenly
turned blue; the bright colors died out instantaneously, the birch
trees stood all white, lustreless, like snow which had not yet been
touched by the coldly playing rays of the winter sun--and stealthily,
slyly, a drizzling rain began to sprinkle and whisper over the forest.
The leaves on the birches were almost all green yet, though they had
turned somewhat pale; only here and there stood a solitary young little
birch, all red or all golden, and one should have seen how brightly
these birches flushed in the sun when its rays suddenly appeared
gliding and flashing through the dense net of the thin branches which
had just been washed around by the sparkling rain. Not a single bird
was heard; all had found shelter, and were silent; only rarely the
mocking voice of the bluebird sang out like a little steel bell. Before
stopping in this birch forest I passed with my dog through a poplar
grove. I confess I am not very fond of the poplar tree with its pale
lilac-colored trunk and its grayish-green, metallic leaves, which
it lifts high and spreads in the air like a trembling fan--I do not
like the constant shaking of its round, untidy leaves, which are so
awkwardly attached to long stems. The poplar is pretty only on certain
summer evenings when, rising high amid the low shrubbery, it stands
against the red rays of the setting sun, shining and trembling, bathed
from root to top in uniform yellowish purple--or when, on a clear
windy day, it rocks noisily, lisping against the blue sky, and each
leaf seems as if eager to tear itself away, to fly and hurry off into
the distance. But in general I do not like this tree, and, therefore,
not stopping to rest in the poplar grove, I made my way to the birch
forest, and seated myself under a tree whose branches started near the
ground, and thus could protect me from the rain. Having admired the
surrounding view, I fell asleep--I slept that tranquil, sweet sleep
which is familiar to hunters only.
I can not say how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes the entire
interior of the forest was filled with sunshine, and everywhere the
bright blue sky was flashing through the cheerfully droning leaves; the
clouds disappeared, driven asunder by the wind which had begun to play;
the weather was clear now, and one felt in the air that peculiar, dry
freshness which, filling the heart with a certain vigorous sensation,
almost always predicts a quiet, clear night after a rainy day. I was
about to rise and try my luck at hunting again, when my eyes suddenly
fell on a motionless human figure. I gazed at it fixedly; it was a
young peasant girl. She was sitting some twenty feet away from me, her
head bowed pensively and her hands dropped on her knees; in one hand,
which was half open, lay a heavy bunch of field flowers, and every time
she breathed the flowers were softly gliding over her checkered skirt.
A clear white shirt, buttoned at the neck and the wrists, fell in
short, soft folds about her waist; large yellow beads were hanging down
from her neck on her bosom in two rows. She was not at all bad-looking.
Her heavy fair hair, of a beautiful ash color, parted in two neatly
combed half-circles from under a narrow, dark-red head-band, which was
pulled down almost to her ivory-white forehead; the rest of her face
was slightly tanned with the golden sunburn peculiar to a tender skin.
I could not see her eyes--she did not lift them; but I saw her thin,
high eyebrows, her long lashes; these were moist, and on her cheek
gleamed a dried-up teardrop, which had stopped near her somewhat pale
lips. Her entire small head was very charming; even her somewhat thick
and round nose did not spoil it. I liked especially the expression of
her face; it was so simple and gentle, so sad and so full of childish
perplexity before her own sadness. She was apparently waiting for some
one. Something cracked faintly in the forest. Immediately she raised
her head and looked around; her eyes flashed quickly before me in the
transparent shade--they were large, bright, and shy like a deer’s. She
listened for a few seconds, not moving her wide-open eyes from the
spot whence the faint sound had come; she heaved a sigh, turned her
head slowly, bent down still lower and began to examine the flowers.
Her eyelids turned red, her lips quivered bitterly and a new teardrop
rolled down from under her heavy eyelashes, stopping and sparkling
on her cheek. Thus quite a long while passed; the poor girl did not
stir--only occasionally she moved her hands and listened--listened all
the time. Something cracked once more in the forest--she startled. This
time the noise did not stop, it was becoming more distinct, it was
nearing--at last firm footsteps were heard. She straightened herself,
and it seemed as if she lost her courage, for her eyes began to quiver.
The figure of a man appeared through the jungle. She looked fixedly,
suddenly flushed, and, smiling joyously and happily, seemed about
to rise, but she immediately cast down her head again, turned pale,
confused--only then she lifted her quivering, almost prayerful, eyes to
the man as he paused beside her.
I looked at him from my hiding-place with curiosity. I confess he did
not produce a pleasant impression upon me. He was, by all appearances,
a spoiled valet of some rich young man. His clothes betokened a claim
to taste and smart carelessness. He wore a short top-coat of bronze
color, which evidently belonged to his master, and which was buttoned
up to the very top; he had on a pink necktie with lilac-colored edges;
and his black velvet cap, trimmed with gold stripes, was pulled over
his very eyebrows. The round collar of his white shirt propped his
ears up and cut his cheeks mercilessly, and the starched cuffs covered
his hands up to his red, crooked fingers, which were ornamented with
silver and gold rings, set with forget-me-nots of turquoise. His red,
fresh, impudent face belonged to those countenances which, as far as I
have observed, are almost always repulsive to men, but, unfortunately,
are often admired by women. Apparently trying to give an expression of
contempt and of weariness to his rough features, he was forever closing
his small, milky-gray eyes, knitting his brows, lowering the corners
of his lips, yawning forcedly, and, with careless, although not too
clever, ease, now adjusting his reddish, smartly twisted temple-curls,
now fingering the yellow hair which bristled upon his thick upper
lip--in a word, he was making an insufferable display of himself. He
started to do this as soon as he noticed the young peasant girl who was
awaiting him. He advanced to her slowly, with large strides, then stood
for a while, twitched his shoulders, thrust both hands into the pockets
of his coat, and, casting a quick and indifferent glance at the poor
girl, sank down on the ground.
“Well?” he began, continuing to look aside, shaking his foot and
yawning. “Have you waited long?”
The girl could not answer him at once.
“Long, Victor Alexandrovich,” she said at last, in a scarcely audible
voice.
“Ah!” He removed his cap, majestically passed his hand over his thick,
curly hair whose roots started almost at his eyebrows, and, looking
around with dignity, covered his precious head again cautiously. “And I
almost forgot all about it. Besides, you see, it’s raining.” He yawned
again. “I have a lot of work to do; you can’t look after everything,
and he is yet scolding. We are leaving to-morrow--”
“To-morrow?” uttered the girl, and fixed a frightened look upon him.
“To-morrow.--Come, come, come, please,” he replied quickly, vexed,
noticing that she quivered, and bowed her head in silence. “Please,
Akulina, don’t cry. You know I can’t bear it” (and he twitched his
flat nose). “If you don’t stop, I’ll leave you right away. What
nonsense--to whimper!”
“Well, I shan’t, I shan’t,” said Akulina hastily, swallowing the tears
with an effort. “So you’re going away to-morrow?” she added, after a
brief silence. “When will it please God to have me meet you again,
Victor Alexandrovich?”
“We’ll meet, we’ll meet again. If it isn’t next year, it’ll be later.
My master, it seems, wants to enter the service in St. Petersburg,” he
went on, pronouncing the words carelessly and somewhat indistinctly.
“And it may be that we’ll go abroad.”
“You will forget me, Victor Alexandrovich,” said Akulina sadly.
“No--why should I? I’ll not forget you, only you had rather be
sensible; don’t make a fool of yourself; obey your father.--And I’ll
not forget you.--Oh, no; oh, no.” And he stretched himself calmly and
yawned again.
“Do not forget me, Victor Alexandrovich,” she resumed in a beseeching
voice. “I have loved you so much, it seems--all, it seems, for
you.--You tell me to obey father, Victor Alexandrovich.--How am I to
obey my father--?”
“How’s that?” He pronounced these words as if from the stomach, lying
on his back and holding his hands under his head.
“Why, Victor Alexandrovich--you know it yourself--”
She fell silent. Victor fingered his steel watch-chain.
“Akulina, you are not a foolish girl,” he said at last, “therefore
don’t talk nonsense. It’s for your own good, do you understand me? Of
course, you are not foolish, you’re not altogether a peasant, so to
say, and your mother wasn’t always a peasant either. Still, you are
without education--therefore you must obey when you are told to.”
“But it’s terrible, Victor Alexandrovich.”
“Oh, what nonsense, my dear--what is she afraid of! What is that you
have there,” he added, moving closer to her, “flowers?”
“Flowers,” replied Akulina sadly. “I have picked some field tansies,”
she went on, with some animation. “They’re good for the calves. And
here I have some marigolds--for scrofula. Here, look, what a pretty
flower! I haven’t seen such a pretty flower in all my life. Here are
forget-me-nots, and--and these I have picked for you,” she added,
taking from under the tansies a small bunch of cornflowers, tied around
with a thin blade of grass; “do you want them?”
Victor stretched out his hand lazily, took the flowers, smelt them
carelessly, and began to turn them around in his fingers, looking up
with thoughtful importance. Akulina gazed at him. There was so much
tender devotion, reverent obedience, and love in her pensive eyes.
She at once feared him, and yet she dared not cry, and inwardly she
bade him farewell, and admired him for the last time; and he lay
there, stretched out like a sultan, and endured her admiration with
magnanimous patience and condescension. I confess I was filled with
indignation as I looked at his red face, which betrayed satisfied
selfishness through his feigned contempt and indifference. Akulina was
so beautiful at this moment. All her soul opened before him trustingly
and passionately--it reached out to him, caressed him, and he.... He
dropped the cornflowers on the grass, took out from the side-pocket of
his coat a round glass in a bronze frame and began to force it into his
eye; but no matter how hard he tried to hold it with his knitted brow,
his raised cheek, and even with his nose, the glass dropped out and
fell into his hands.
“What’s this?” asked Akulina at last, with surprise.
“A lorgnette,” he replied importantly.
“What is it for?”
“To see better.”
“Let me see it.”
Victor frowned, but gave her the glass.
“Look out; don’t break it.”
“Don’t be afraid, I’ll not break it.” She lifted it timidly to her eye.
“I can’t see anything,” she said naively.
“Shut your eye,” he retorted in the tone of a dissatisfied teacher. She
closed the eye before which she held the glass.
“Not that eye, not that one, you fool! The other one!” exclaimed
Victor, and, not allowing her to correct her mistake, he took the
lorgnette away from her.
Akulina blushed, laughed slightly, and turned away.
“It seems it’s not for us.”
“Of course not!”
The poor girl maintained silence, and heaved a deep sigh.
“Oh, Victor Alexandrovich, how will I get along without you?” she said
suddenly.
Victor wiped the lorgnette and put it back into his pocket.
“Yes, yes,” he said at last. “At first it will really be hard for you.”
He tapped her on the shoulder condescendingly; she quietly took his
hand from her shoulder and kissed it. “Well, yes, yes, you are indeed
a good girl,” he went on, with a self-satisfied smile; “but it can’t
be helped! Consider it yourself! My master and I can’t stay here, can
we? Winter is near, and to pass the winter in the country is simply
nasty--you know it yourself. It’s a different thing in St. Petersburg!
There are such wonders over there that you could not imagine even
in your dreams, you silly.--What houses, what streets, and society,
education--it’s something wonderful!--” Akulina listened to him with
close attention, slightly opening her lips like a child. “However,”
he added, wriggling on the ground, “why do I say all this to you? You
can’t understand it anyway!”
“Why not, Victor Alexandrovich? I understood, I understood everything.”
“Just think of her!”
Akulina cast down her eyes.
“You did not speak to me like this before, Victor Alexandrovich,” she
said, without lifting her eyes.
“Before?--Before! Just think of her!--Before!” he remarked,
indignantly.
Both grew silent.
“However, it’s time for me to go,” said Victor, and leaned on his
elbow, about to rise.
“Wait a little,” said Akulina in an imploring voice.
“What for? I have already said to you, Good-by!”
“Wait,” repeated Akulina.
Victor again stretched himself on the ground and began to whistle.
Akulina kept looking at him steadfastly. I could see that she was
growing agitated by degrees--her lips twitched, her pale cheeks were
reddening.
“Victor Alexandrovich,” she said at last in a broken voice, “it’s a sin
for you, it’s a sin, Victor Alexandrovich, by God!”
“What’s a sin?” he asked, knitting his brows. He raised his head and
turned to her.
“It’s a sin, Victor Alexandrovich. If you would only say a good word to
me before leaving--if you would only say one word to me, miserable
little orphan that I am--”
“But what shall I say to you?”
“I don’t know. You know that better than I do, Victor Alexandrovich.
Here you are going away--if you would only say one word.--What have I
done to deserve this?”
“How strange you are! What can I say?”
“If only one word--”
“There she’s firing away one and the same thing,” he muttered with
vexation, and got up.
“Don’t be angry, Victor Alexandrovich,” she added hastily, unable to
repress her tears.
“I’m not angry--only you are foolish.--What do you want? I can’t marry
you! I can’t, can I? Well, then, what do you want? What?” He stared at
her, as if awaiting an answer, and opened his fingers wide.
“I want nothing--nothing,” she replied, stammering, not daring to
outstretch her trembling hands to him, “but simply so, at least one
word, at parting--”
And the tears began to stream from her eyes.
“Well, there you are, she’s started crying,” said Victor indifferently,
pulling the cap over his eyes.
“I don’t want anything,” she went on, sobbing and covering her face
with her hands; “but how will I feel now at home, how will I feel? And
what will become of me, what will become of me, wretched one that I am?
They’ll marry the poor little orphan off to a man she does not like. My
poor little head!”
“Keep on singing, keep on singing,” muttered Victor in a low voice,
stirring restlessly.
“If you only said one word, just one: ‘Akulina--I--’”
Sudden heart-rending sobs interrupted her. She fell with her face
upon the grass and cried bitterly, bitterly--All her body shook
convulsively, the back of her neck seemed to rise.--The long-suppressed
sorrow at last burst forth in a stream of tears. Victor stood a while
near her, then he shrugged his shoulders, turned around and walked off
with large steps.
A few moments went by. She grew silent, lifted her head, looked around
and clasped her hands; she was about to run after him, but her feet
failed her--she fell down on her knees. I could not endure it any
longer and rushed over to her; but before she had time to look at me,
she suddenly seemed to have regained her strength--and with a faint
cry she rose and disappeared behind the trees, leaving the scattered
flowers on the ground.
I stood a while, picked up the bunch of cornflowers, and walked out of
the grove to the field. The sun was low in the pale, clear sky; its
rays seemed to have faded and turned cold; they did not shine now, they
spread in an even, almost watery, light. There was only a half-hour
left until evening, and twilight was setting in. A violent wind was
blowing fast toward me across the yellow, dried-up stubble-field; the
small withered leaves were carried quickly past me across the road; the
side of the grove which stood like a wall by the field trembled and
flashed clearly, but not brightly; everywhere on the reddish grass,
on the blades, and the straw, innumerable autumn cobwebs flashed and
trembled. I stopped. I began to feel sad; it seemed a dismal fear of
approaching winter was stealing through the gay, though fresh, smile
of fading nature. High above me, a cautious raven flew by, heavily and
sharply cutting the air with his wings; then he turned his head, looked
at me sidewise, and, croaking abruptly, disappeared beyond the forest;
a large flock of pigeons rushed past me from a barn, and, suddenly
whirling about in a column, they came down and stationed themselves
bustlingly upon the field--a sign of spring autumn! Somebody rode by
beyond the bare hillock, making much noise with an empty wagon.
I returned home, but the image of poor Akulina did not leave my
mind for a long time, and the cornflowers, long withered, are in my
possession to this day.
THE COUNTING-HOUSE
BY IVAN TURGENEV
Translated by Constance Garnett.
It was autumn. For some hours I had been strolling across country with
my gun, and should probably not have returned till evening to the
tavern on the Kursk high-road, where my three-horse trap was awaiting
me, had not an exceedingly fine and persistent rain, which had worried
me all day with the obstinacy and ruthlessness of some old maiden lady,
driven me at last to seek at least a temporary shelter somewhere in the
neighborhood. While I was still deliberating in which direction to go,
my eye suddenly fell on a low shanty near a field sown with peas. I
went up to the shanty, glanced under the thatched roof, and saw an old
man so infirm that he reminded me at once of the dying goat Robinson
Crusoe found in some cave on his island. The old man was squatting
on his heels, his little dim eyes half closed, while hurriedly, but
carefully, like a hare (the poor fellow had not a single tooth), he
munched a dry, hard pea, incessantly rolling it from side to side. He
was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not notice my entrance.
“Grandfather! hey, grandfather!” said I. He ceased munching, lifted his
eyebrows high, and with an effort opened his eyes.
“What?” he mumbled in a broken voice.
“Where is there a village near?” I asked.
The old man fell to munching again. He had not heard me. I repeated my
question louder than before.
“A village?--But what do you want?”
“Why, shelter from the rain?”
“What?”
“Shelter from the rain.”
“Ah!” He scratched his sunburnt neck. “Well, now, you go,” he said
suddenly, waving his hands indefinitely, “so--as you go by the
copse--see, as you go--there’ll be a road; you pass it by, and keep
right on to the right; keep right on, keep right on, keep right
on.--Well, there will be Ananyevo. Or else you’d go to Sitovka.”
I followed the old man with difficulty. His mustaches muffled his
voice, and his tongue too did not obey him readily.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
“What?”
“Where are you from?”
“Ananyevo.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m watchman.”
“Why, what are you watching?”
“The peas.”