A Desperate Character and Other Stories

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A DESPERATE CHARACTER
AND OTHER STORIES

BY IVAN TURGENEV

Translated from the Russian
By CONSTANCE GARNETT

1899

THE NOVELS OF IVAN TURGENEV

Complete in Fifteen Volumes.

i. Rudin.
ii. A House of Gentlefolk.
iii. On the Eve.
iv. Fathers and Children.
v. Smoke.
vi. & vii. Virgin Soil. 2 Vols.
viii, & ix. A Sportsman's Sketches. 2 Vols.
x. Dream Tales and Prose Poems.
xi. The Torrents of Spring and other Stories.
xii. A Lear of the Steppes and other Stories.
xiii. The Diary of a Superfluous Man and other Stories.
xiv. A Desperate Character and other Tales.
xv. The Jew and other Stories.

TO JOSEPH CONRAD

WHOSE ART IN ESSENCE OFTEN RECALLS

THE ART AND ESSENCE OF TURGENEV

INTRODUCTION

The six tales now translated for the English reader were written by
Turgenev at various dates between 1847 and 1881. Their chronological
order is:--

_Pyetushkov_, 1847

_The Brigadier_, 1867

_A Strange Story_, 1869

_Punin and Baburin_, 1874

_Old Portraits_, 1881

_A Desperate Character_, 1881

_Pyetushkov_ is the work of a young man of twenty-nine, and its lively,
unstrained realism is so bold, intimate, and delicate as to contradict
the flattering compliment that the French have paid to one another--that
Turgenev had need to dress his art by the aid of French mirrors.

Although _Pyetushkov_ shows us, by a certain open _naivete_ of style,
that a youthful hand is at work, it is the hand of a young master,
carrying out the realism of the 'forties'--that of Gogol, Balzac, and
Dickens--straightway, with finer point, to find a perfect equilibrium
free from any bias or caricature. The whole strength and essence of the
realistic method has been developed in _Pyetushkov_ to its just limits.
The Russians are _instinctive_ realists, and carry the warmth of life
into their pages, which warmth the French seem to lose in clarifying
their impressions and crystallising them in art. _Pyetushkov_ is not
exquisite: it is irresistible. Note how the reader is transported bodily
into Pyetushkov's stuffy room, and how the major fairly boils out of the
two pages he lives in! (pp. 301, 302). That is _realism_ if you like. A
woman will see the point of _Pyetushkov_ very quickly. Onisim and
Vassilissa and the aunt walk and chatter around the stupid Pyetushkov,
and glance at him significantly in a manner that reveals everything
about these people's world. All the servants who appear in the tales in
this volume are hit off so marvellously that one sees the lower-class
world, which is such a mystery to certain refined minds, has no secrets
for Turgenev.

Of a different, and to our taste more fascinating, _genre_ is _The
Brigadier_. It is greater art because life's prosaic growth is revealed
not merely realistically, but also poetically, life as a tiny part of
the great universe around it. The tale is a microcosm of Turgenev's own
nature; his love of Nature, his tender sympathy for all humble, ragged,
eccentric, despised human creatures; his unfaltering keenness of gaze
into character, his fine sense of proportion, mingle in. _The
Brigadier_, to create for us a sense of the pitiableness of man's tiny
life, of the mere human seed which springs and spreads a while on earth,
and dies under the menacing gaze of the advancing years. 'Out of the
sweetness came forth strength' is perhaps the best saying by which one
can define Turgenev's peculiar merits in _The Brigadier_.

_Punin and Baburin_ presents to us again one of those ragged ones, one
of 'the poor in spirit,' the idealist Punin, a character whose portrait
challenges Dostoievsky's skill on the latter's own ground. That
delicious Punin! and that terrible grandmother's scene with Baburin! How
absolutely Slav is the blending of irony and kindness in the treatment
of Punin, Cucumber, and Pyetushkov, few English readers will understand.
All the characters in _Punin and Baburin_ are so strongly drawn, so
intensely alive, that, like Rembrandt's portraits, they make the living
people, who stand looking at them, absurdly grey and lifeless by
comparison! Baburin is a Nihilist before the times of Nihilism, he is a
type of the strong characters that arose later in the movement of the
'eighties.'

A pre-Nihilistic type is also the character of Sophie in _A Strange
Story_. But the chief value of this last psychological study is that it
gives the English mind a clue to the fundamental distinction that marks
off the Russian people from the peoples of the West. Sophie's
words--'You spoke of the will--that's what must be broken' (p.
61)--define most admirably the deepest aspiration of the Russian soul.
To be lowly and suffering, to be despised, sick, to be under the lash of
fate, to be trampled under foot by others, _to be_ unworthy, all this
secret desire of the Russian soul implies that the Russian has little
_will_, that he finds it easier to resign himself than to make the
effort to be powerful, triumphant, worthy. It is from the resignation
and softness of the Russian nature that all its characteristic virtues
spring. Whereas religion with the English mind is largely an anxiety to
be moral, to be _right_ and righteous, to be 'a chosen vessel of the
Lord,' religion with the Russian implies a genuine abasement and loss of
self, a bowing before the will of Heaven, and true brotherly love. The
Western mind rises to greatness by concentrating the will-power in
action, by assertion of all its inner force, by shutting out forcibly
whatever might dominate or distract or weaken it. But the Russian mind,
through its lack of character, will-power, and hardness, rises to
greatness in its acceptance of life, and in its sympathy with all the
unfortunate, the wretched, the poor in spirit. Of course in practical
life the Russian lacks many of the useful virtues the Western peoples
possess and has most of their vices; but certainly his pity, charity,
and brotherliness towards men more unfortunate than himself largely
spring from his fatalistic acceptance of his own unworthiness and
weakness. So in Sophie's case the desire for self-sacrifice, and her
impregnable conviction that to suffer and endure is _right_, is truly
Russian in the sense of letting the individuality go _with_ the stream
of fate, not _against_ it. And hence the formidable spirit of the
youthful generation that sacrificed itself in the Nihilistic movement:
the strenuous action of 'the youth' once set in movement, the spirit of
self-sacrifice impelled it calmly towards its goal despite all the
forces and threats of fate. Sophie is indeed an early Nihilist born
before her time.

We have said that the lack of will in the Russian nature is at the root
of Russian virtues and vices, and in this connection it is curious to
remark that a race's soul seems often to grow out of the race's
_aspiration towards what it is not in life_. Is not the French
intellect, for example, so cool, clear-headed, so delicately analytic of
its own motives, that through the principle of _counterpoise_ it strives
to lose itself and release itself in continual rhetoric and emotional
positions? Is not the German mind so alive to the material facts of
life, to the necessity of getting hold of concrete advantages in life,
and of not letting them go, that it deliberately slackens the bent bow,
and plunges itself and relaxes itself in floods of abstractions, and
idealisations, and dreams of sentimentality? Assuredly it is because the
Russian is so inwardly discontented with his own actions that he is such
a keen and incisive critic of everything _false_ and exaggerated, that
he despises all French rhetoric and German sentimentalism. And in this
sense it is that the Russian's lack of will comes in to deepen his soul.
He surrenders himself thereby to the universe, and, as do the Asiatics,
does not let the tiny shadow of his fate, dark though it may be, shut
out the universe so thoroughly from his consciousness, as does the
aggressive struggling will-power of the Western man striving to let his
individuality have full play. The Russian's attitude may indeed be
compared to a bowl which catches and sustains what life brings it; and
the Western man's to a bowl inverted to ward off what drops from the
impassive skies. The mental attitude of the Russian peasant indeed
implies that in blood he is nearer akin to the Asiatics than Russian
ethnologists have wished to allow. Certainly in the inner life of
thought, intellectually, morally, and emotionally, he is a half-way
house between the Western and Eastern races, just as geographically he
spreads over the two continents. By natural law his destiny calls him
towards the East. Should he one day spread his rule further and further
among the Asiatics and hold the keys of an immense Asiatic empire, well!
future English philosophers may feel thereat a curious fatalistic
satisfaction.

EDWARD GARNETT.

_October_ 1899.

CONTENTS

PAGE
A DESPERATE CHARACTER 1
A STRANGE STORY 40
PUNIN AND BABURIN 77
OLD PORTRAITS 172
THE BRIGADIER 210
PYETUSHKOV 248

A DESPERATE CHARACTER

I

... We were a party of eight in the room, and we were talking of
contemporary affairs and men.

'I don't understand these men!' observed A.: 'they're such desperate
fellows.... Really desperate.... There has never been anything like
it before.'

'Yes, there has,' put in P., a man getting on in years, with grey hair,
born some time in the twenties of this century: 'there were desperate
characters in former days too, only they were not like the desperate
fellows of to-day. Of the poet Yazikov some one has said that he had
enthusiasm, but not applied to anything--an enthusiasm without an
object. So it was with those people--their desperateness was without an
object. But there, if you'll allow me, I'll tell you the story of my
nephew, or rather cousin, Misha Poltyev. It may serve as an example of
the desperate characters of those days.

He came into God's world, I remember, in 1828, at his father's native
place and property, in one of the sleepiest corners of a sleepy province
of the steppes. Misha's father, Andrei Nikolaevitch Poltyev, I remember
well to this day. He was a genuine old-world landowner, a God-fearing,
sedate man, fairly--for those days--well educated, just a little
cracked, to tell the truth--and, moreover, he suffered from epilepsy....
That too is an old-world, gentlemanly complaint.... Andrei
Nikolaevitch's fits were, however, slight, and generally ended in sleep
and depression. He was good-hearted, and of an affable demeanour, not
without a certain stateliness: I always pictured to myself the tsar
Mihail Fedorovitch as like him. The whole life of Andrei Nikolaevitch
was passed in the punctual fulfilment of every observance established
from old days, in strict conformity with all the usages of the old
orthodox holy Russian mode of life. He got up and went to bed, ate his
meals, and went to his bath, rejoiced or was wroth (both very rarely, it
is true), even smoked his pipe and played cards (two great
innovations!), not after his own fancy, not in a way of his own, but
according to the custom and ordinance of his fathers--with due decorum
and formality. He was tall, well built, and stout; his voice was soft
and rather husky, as is so often the case with virtuous people in
Russia; he was scrupulously neat in his dress and linen, and wore white
cravats and full-skirted snuff-coloured coats, but his noble blood was
nevertheless evident; no one could have taken him for a priest's son or
a merchant! At all times, on all possible occasions, and in all possible
contingencies, Andrei Nikolaevitch knew without fail what ought to be
done, what was to be said, and precisely what expressions were to be
used; he knew when he ought to take medicine, and just what he ought to
take; what omens were to be believed and what might be disregarded ...
in fact, he knew everything that ought to be done.... For as everything
had been provided for and laid down by one's elders, one had only to be
sure not to imagine anything of one's self.... And above all, without
God's blessing not a step to be taken!--It must be confessed that a
deadly dulness reigned supreme in his house, in those low-pitched, warm,
dark rooms, that so often resounded with the singing of liturgies and
all-night services, and had the smell of incense and Lenten dishes
almost always hanging about them!

Andrei Nikolaevitch--no longer in his first youth--married a young
lady of a neighbouring family, without fortune, a very nervous and
sickly person, who had had a boarding-school education. She played the
piano fairly, spoke boarding-school French, was easily moved to
enthusiasm, and still more easily to melancholy and even tears....
She was of unbalanced character, in fact. She regarded her life as
wasted, could not care for her husband, who, 'of course,' did not
understand her; but she respected him, ... she put up with him; and
being perfectly honest and perfectly cold, she never even dreamed of
another 'affection.' Besides, she was always completely engrossed in
the care, first, of her own really delicate health, secondly, of the
health of her husband, whose fits always inspired in her something
like superstitious horror, and lastly, of her only son, Misha, whom
she brought up herself with great zeal. Andrei Nikolaevitch did not
oppose his wife's looking after Misha, on the one condition of his
education never over-stepping the lines laid down, once and for all,
within which everything must move in his house! Thus, for instance, at
Christmas-time, and at New Year, and St. Vassily's eve, it was
permissible for Misha to dress up and masquerade with the servant
boys--and not only permissible, but even a binding duty.... But, at
any other time, God forbid! and so on, and so on.

II

I remember Misha at thirteen. He was a very pretty boy, with rosy little
cheeks and soft lips (indeed he was soft and plump-looking all over),
with prominent liquid eyes, carefully brushed and combed, caressing and
modest--a regular little girl! There was only one thing about him I did
not like: he rarely laughed; but when he did laugh, his teeth--large
white teeth, pointed like an animal's--showed disagreeably, and the
laugh itself had an abrupt, even savage, almost animal sound, and there
were unpleasant gleams in his eyes. His mother was always praising him
for being so obedient and well behaved, and not caring to make friends
with rude boys, but always preferring feminine society. 'A mother's
darling, a milksop,' his father, Andrei Nikolaevitch, would call him;
'but he's always ready to go into the house of God.... And that I am
glad to see.' Only one old neighbour, who had been a police captain,
once said before me, speaking of Misha, 'Mark my words, he'll be a
rebel.' And this saying, I remember, surprised me very much at the time.
The old police captain, it is true, used to see rebels on all sides.

Just such an exemplary youth Misha continued to be till the eighteenth
year of his age, up to the death of his parents, both of whom he lost
almost on the same day. As I was all the while living constantly at
Moscow, I heard nothing of my young kinsman. An acquaintance coming from
his province did, it is true, inform me that Misha had sold the paternal
estate for a trifling sum; but this piece of news struck me as too
wildly improbable! And behold, all of a sudden, one autumn morning there
flew into the courtyard of my house a carriage, with a pair of splendid
trotting horses, and a coachman of monstrous size on the box; and in the
carriage, wrapped in a cloak of military cut, with a beaver collar two
yards deep, and with a foraging cap cocked on one side, _a la diable
m'emporte_, sat ... Misha! On catching sight of me (I was standing at
the drawing-room window, gazing in astonishment at the flying equipage),
he laughed his abrupt laugh, and jauntily flinging back his cloak, he
jumped out of the carriage and ran into the house.

'Misha! Mihail Andreevitch!' I was beginning, ... 'Is it you?'

'Call me Misha,'--he interrupted me. 'Yes, it's I, ... I, in my own
person.... I have come to Moscow ... to see the world ... and show
myself. And here I am, come to see you. What do you say to my
horses?... Eh?' he laughed again.

Though it was seven years since I had seen Misha last, I recognised him
at once. His face had remained just as youthful and as pretty as
ever--there was no moustache even visible; only his cheeks looked a
little swollen under his eyes, and a smell of spirits came from his
lips. 'Have you been long in Moscow?' I inquired.

'I supposed you were at home in the country, looking after the
place.' ...

'Eh! The country I threw up at once! As soon as my parents died--may
their souls rest in peace--(Misha crossed himself scrupulously, without
a shade of mockery) at once, without a moment's delay, ... _ein, zwei,
drei!_ ha, ha! I let it go cheap, damn it! A rascally fellow turned up.
But it's no matter! Anyway, I am living as I fancy, and amusing other
people. But why are you staring at me like that? Was I, really, to go
dragging on in the same old round, do you suppose? ... My dear fellow,
couldn't I have a glass of something?'

Misha spoke fearfully quick and hurriedly, and, at the same time, as
though he were only just waked up from sleep.

'Misha, upon my word!' I wailed; 'have you no fear of God? What do you
look like? What an attire! And you ask for a glass too! And to sell such
a fine estate for next to nothing....'

'God I fear always, and do not forget,' he broke in.... 'But He is good,
you know--God is.... He will forgive! And I am good too.... I have
never yet hurt any one in my life. And drink is good too; and as for
hurting,... it never hurt any one either. And my get-up is quite the most
correct thing.... Uncle, would you like me to show you I can walk
straight? Or to do a little dance?'

'Oh, spare me, please! A dance, indeed! You'd better sit down.'

'As to that, I'll sit down with pleasure.... But why do you say nothing
of my greys? Just look at them, they're perfect lions! I've got them on
hire for the time, but I shall buy them for certain, ... and the
coachman too.... It's ever so much cheaper to have one's own horses. And
I had the money, but I lost it yesterday at faro. It's no matter, I'll
make it up to-morrow. Uncle, ... how about that little glass?'

I was still unable to get over my amazement. 'Really, Misha, how old are
you? You ought not to be thinking about horses or cards, ... but going
into the university or the service.'

Misha first laughed again, then gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

'Well, uncle, I see you're in a melancholy humour to-day. I'll come
back another time. But I tell you what: you come in the evening to
Sokolniki. I've a tent pitched there. The gypsies sing, ... such
goings-on.... And there's a streamer on the tent, and on the streamer,
written in large letters: "The Troupe of Poltyev's Gypsies." The
streamer coils like a snake, the letters are of gold, attractive for
every one to read. A free entertainment--whoever likes to come! ... No
refusal! I'm making the dust fly in Moscow ... to my glory! ... Eh? will
you come? Ah, I've one girl there ... a serpent! Black as your boot,
spiteful as a dog, and eyes ... like living coals! One can never tell
what she's going to do--kiss or bite! ... Will you come, uncle? ...
Well, good-bye, till we meet!'

And with a sudden embrace, and a smacking kiss on my shoulder, Misha
darted away into the courtyard, and into the carriage, waved his cap
over his head, hallooed,--the monstrous coachman leered at him over his
beard, the greys dashed off, and all vanished!

The next day I--like a sinner--set off to Sokolniki, and did actually
see the tent with the streamer and the inscription. The drapery of the
tent was raised; from it came clamour, creaking, and shouting. Crowds of
people were thronging round it. On a carpet spread on the ground sat
gypsies, men and women, singing and beating drums, and in the midst of
them, in a red silk shirt and velvet breeches, was Misha, holding a
guitar, dancing a jig. 'Gentlemen! honoured friends! walk in, please!
the performance is just beginning! Free to all!' he was shouting in a
high, cracked voice. 'Hey! champagne! pop! a pop on the head! pop up to
the ceiling! Ha! you rogue there, Paul de Kock!'

Luckily he did not see me, and I hastily made off.

I won't enlarge on my astonishment at the spectacle of this
transformation. But, how was it actually possible for that quiet and
modest boy to change all at once into a drunken buffoon? Could it all
have been latent in him from childhood, and have come to the surface
directly the yoke of his parents' control was removed? But that he had
made the dust fly in Moscow, as he expressed it--of that, certainly,
there could be no doubt. I have seen something of riotous living in my
day; but in this there was a sort of violence, a sort of frenzy of
self-destruction, a sort of desperation!

III

For two months these diversions continued.... And once more I was
standing at my drawing-room window, looking into the courtyard.... All
of a sudden--what could it mean? ... there came slowly stepping in at the
gate a pilgrim ... a squash hat pulled down on his forehead, his hair
combed out straight to right and left below it, a long gown, a leather
belt ... Could it be Misha? He it was!

I went to meet him on the steps.... 'What's this masquerade for?'
I demanded.

'It's not a masquerade, uncle,' Misha answered with a deep sigh: since
all I had I've squandered to the last farthing--and a great repentance
too has come upon me--so I have resolved to go to the Sergiev monastery
of the Holy Trinity to expiate my sins in prayer. For what refuge was
left me? ... And so I have come to you to say good-bye, uncle, like a
prodigal son.'

I looked intently at Misha. His face was just the same, rosy and fresh
(indeed it remained almost unchanged to the end), and the eyes, liquid,
affectionate, and languishing--and the hands, as small and white.... But
he smelt of spirits.

'Well,' I pronounced at last, 'it's a good thing to do--since there's
nothing else to be done. But why is it you smell of spirits?'

'A relic of the past,' answered Misha, and he suddenly laughed, but
immediately pulled himself up, and, making a straight, low bow--a monk's
bow--he added: 'Won't you help me on my way? I'm going, see, on foot to
the monastery....'

'When?'

'To-day ... at once.'

'Why be in such a hurry?'

'Uncle, my motto always was, "Make haste, make haste!"'

'But what is your motto now?'

'It's the same now.... Only, make haste towards _good_!'

And so Misha went off, leaving me to ponder on the vicissitudes of
human destiny.

But he soon reminded me of his existence. Two months after his visit, I
got a letter from him, the first of those letters, of which later on he
furnished me with so abundant a supply. And note a peculiar fact: I
have seldom seen a neater, more legible handwriting than that
unbalanced fellow's. And the wording of his letters was exceedingly
correct, just a little flowery. Invariable entreaties for assistance,
always attended with resolutions to reform, vows, and promises on his
honour.... All of it seemed--and perhaps was--sincere. Misha's
signature to his letters was always accompanied by peculiar strokes,
flourishes, and stops, and he made great use of marks of exclamation.
In this first letter Misha informed me of a new 'turn in his fortune.'
(Later on he used to refer to these turns as plunges, ... and frequent
were the plunges he took.) He was starting for the Caucasus on active
service for his tsar and his country in the capacity of a cadet! And,
though a certain benevolent aunt had entered into his impecunious
position, and had sent him an inconsiderable sum, still he begged me to
assist him in getting his equipment. I did what he asked, and for two
years I heard nothing more of him.

I must own I had the gravest doubts as to his having gone to the
Caucasus. But it turned out that he really had gone there, had, by
favour, got into the T---- regiment as a cadet, and had been serving in
it for those two years. A perfect series of legends had sprung up there
about him. An officer of his regiment related them to me.

IV

I learned a great deal which I should never have expected of him.--I
was, of course, hardly surprised that as a military man, as an officer,
he was not a success, that he was in fact worse than useless; but what I
had not anticipated was that he was by no means conspicuous for much
bravery; that in battle he had a downcast, woebegone air, seemed
half-depressed, half-bewildered. Discipline of every sort worried him,
and made him miserable; he was daring to the point of insanity when only
his _own personal_ safety was in question; no bet was too mad for him to
accept; but do harm to others, kill, fight, he could not, possibly
because his heart was too good--or possibly because his 'cottonwool'
education (so he expressed it), had made him too soft. Himself he was
quite ready to murder in any way at any moment.... But others--no.
'There's no making him out,' his comrades said of him; 'he's a flabby
creature, a poor stick--and yet such a desperate fellow--a perfect
madman!' I chanced in later days to ask Misha what evil spirit
drove him, forced him, to drink to excess, risk his life, and so
on. He always had one answer--'wretchedness.'

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