A Desperate Character and Other Stories
I >>
Ivan Turgenev >> A Desperate Character and Other Stories
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16
'I'm coming, my good girl, I'm coming,' the crazy pilgrim responded
obediently, and, bending his whole body forward, he got up from the
seat. 'Here's only this chain to fasten....'
I once more approached Sophia, and told her my name. I began beseeching
her to listen to me, to say one word to me. I pointed to the rain,
which was coming down in bucketsful. I begged her to have some care for
her health, the health of her companion. I mentioned her father.... But
she seemed possessed by a sort of wrathful, a sort of vindictive
excitement: without paying the slightest attention to me, setting her
teeth and breathing hard, she urged on the distracted vagrant in an
undertone, in soft insistent words, girt him up, fastened on his
chains, pulled on to his hair a child's cloth cap with a broken peak,
stuck his staff in his hand, slung a wallet on her own shoulder, and
went with him out at the gate into the street.... To stop her actually
I had not the right, and it would have been of no use; and at my last
despairing call she did not even turn round. Supporting the 'man of
God' under his arm, she stepped rapidly over the black mud of the
street; and in a few moments, across the dim dusk of the foggy morning,
through the thick network of falling raindrops, I saw the last glimpse
of the two figures, the crazy pilgrim and Sophie.... They turned the
corner of a projecting hut, and vanished for ever.
* * * * *
I went back to my room. I fell to pondering. I could not understand it;
I could not understand how such a girl, well brought up, young, and
wealthy, could throw up everything and every one, her own home, her
family, her friends, break with all her habits, with all the comforts of
life, and for what? To follow a half-insane vagrant, to become his
servant! I could not for an instant entertain the idea that the
explanation of such a step was to be found in any prompting, however
depraved, of the heart, in love or passion.... One had but to glance at
the repulsive figure of the 'man of God' to dismiss such a notion
entirely! No, Sophie had remained pure; and to her all things were pure;
I could not understand what Sophie had done; but I did not blame her,
as, later on, I have not blamed other girls who too have sacrificed
everything for what they thought the truth, for what they held to be
their vocation. I could not help regretting that Sophie had chosen just
_that_ path; but also I could not refuse her admiration, respect even.
In good earnest she had talked of self-sacrifice, of abasement ... in
_her_, words were not opposed to acts. She had sought a leader, a guide,
and had found him, ... and, my God, what a guide!
Yes, she had lain down to be trampled, trodden under foot.... In the
process of time, a rumour reached me that her family had succeeded at
last in finding out the lost sheep, and bringing her home. But at home
she did not live long, and died, like a 'Sister of Silence,' without
having spoken a word to any one.
Peace to your heart, poor, enigmatic creature! Vassily Nikititch is
probably on his crazy wanderings still; the iron health of such
people is truly marvellous. Perhaps, though, his epilepsy may have
done for him.
BADEN-BADEN, 1869.
PUNIN AND BABURIN
PIOTR PETROVITCH'S STORY
... I am old and ill now, and my thoughts brood oftenest upon death,
every day coming nearer; rarely I think of the past, rarely I turn the
eyes of my soul behind me. Only from time to time--in winter, as I sit
motionless before the glowing fire, in summer, as I pace with slow tread
along the shady avenue--I recall past years, events, faces; but it is
not on my mature years nor on my youth that my thoughts rest at such
times. They either carry me back to my earliest childhood, or to the
first years of boyhood. Now, for instance, I see myself in the country
with my stern and wrathful grandmother--I was only twelve--and two
figures rise up before my imagination....
But I will begin my story consecutively, and in proper order.
I
1830
The old footman Filippitch came in, on tiptoe, as usual, with a cravat
tied up in a rosette, with tightly compressed lips, 'lest his breath
should be smelt,' with a grey tuft of hair standing up in the very
middle of his forehead. He came in, bowed, and handed my grandmother on
an iron tray a large letter with an heraldic seal. My grandmother put on
her spectacles, read the letter through....
'Is he here?' she asked.
'What is my lady pleased ...' Filippitch began timidly.
'Imbecile! The man who brought the letter--is he here?'
'He is here, to be sure he is.... He is sitting in the counting-house.'
My grandmother rattled her amber rosary beads....
'Tell him to come to me.... And you, sir,' she turned to me, 'sit
still.'
As it was, I was sitting perfectly still in my corner, on the stool
assigned to me.
My grandmother kept me well in hand!
* * * * *
Five minutes later there came into the room a man of five-and-thirty,
black-haired and swarthy, with broad cheek-bones, a face marked with
smallpox, a hook nose, and thick eyebrows, from under which the small
grey eyes looked out with mournful composure. The colour of the eyes and
their expression were out of keeping with the Oriental cast of the rest
of the face. The man was dressed in a decent, long-skirted coat. He
stopped in the doorway, and bowed--only with his head.
'So your name's Baburin?' queried my grandmother, and she added to
herself: '_Il a l'air d'un armenien._'
'Yes, it is,' the man answered in a deep and even voice. At the first
brusque sound of my grandmother's voice his eyebrows faintly quivered.
Surely he had not expected her to address him as an equal?
'Are you a Russian? orthodox?'
'Yes.'
My grandmother took off her spectacles, and scanned Baburin from head
to foot deliberately. He did not drop his eyes, he merely folded his
hands behind his back. What particularly struck my fancy was his beard;
it was very smoothly shaven, but such blue cheeks and chin I had never
seen in my life!
'Yakov Petrovitch,' began my grandmother, 'recommends you strongly
in his letter as sober and industrious; why, then, did you leave
his service?'
'He needs a different sort of person to manage his estate, madam.'
'A different ... sort? That I don't quite understand.'
My grandmother rattled her beads again. 'Yakov Petrovitch writes to me
that there are two peculiarities about you. What peculiarities?'
Baburin shrugged his shoulders slightly.
'I can't tell what he sees fit to call peculiarities. Possibly that
I ... don't allow corporal punishment.'
My grandmother was surprised. 'Do you mean to say Yakov Petrovitch
wanted to flog you?'
Baburin's swarthy face grew red to the roots of his hair.
'You have not understood me right, madam. I make it a rule not to employ
corporal punishment ... with the peasants.'
My grandmother was more surprised than ever; she positively threw up
her hands.
'Ah!' she pronounced at last, and putting her head a little on one side,
once more she scrutinised Baburin attentively. 'So that's your rule, is
it? Well, that's of no consequence whatever to me; I don't want an
overseer, but a counting-house clerk, a secretary. What sort of a hand
do you write?'
'I write well, without mistakes in spelling.'
'That too is of no consequence to me. The great thing for me is for it
to be clear, and without any of those new copybook letters with tails,
that I don't like. And what's your other peculiarity?'
Baburin moved uneasily, coughed....
'Perhaps ... the gentleman has referred to the fact that I am not
alone.'
'You are married?'
'Oh no ... but ...'
My grandmother knit her brows.
'There is a person living with me ... of the male sex ... a comrade, a
poor friend, from whom I have never parted ... for ... let me see ...
ten years now.'
'A relation of yours?'
'No, not a relation--a friend. As to work, there can be no possible
hindrance occasioned by him,' Baburin made haste to add, as though
foreseeing objections. 'He lives at my cost, occupies the same room with
me; he is more likely to be of use, as he is well educated--speaking
without flattery, extremely so, in fact--and his morals are exemplary.'
My grandmother heard Baburin out, chewing her lips and half
closing her eyes.
'He lives at your expense?'
'Yes.'
'You keep him out of charity?'
'As an act of justice ... as it's the duty of one poor man to help
another poor man.'
'Indeed! It's the first time I've heard that. I had supposed till now
that that was rather the duty of rich people.'
'For the rich, if I may venture to say so, it is an entertainment ... but
for such as we ...'
'Well, well, that's enough, that's enough,' my grandmother cut him
short; and after a moment's thought she queried, speaking through her
nose, which was always a bad sign, 'And what age is he, your protege?'
'About my own age.'
'Really, I imagined that you were bringing him up.'
'Not so; he is my comrade--and besides ...'
'That's enough,' my grandmother cut him short a second time. 'You're a
philanthropist, it seems. Yakov Petrovitch is right; for a man in your
position it's something very peculiar. But now let's get to business.
I'll explain to you what your duties will be. And as regards wages....
_Que faites vous ici?_' added my grandmother suddenly, turning her dry,
yellow face to me:--'Allez etudier votre devoir de mythologie._'
I jumped up, went up to kiss my grandmother's hand, and went out,--not
to study mythology, but simply into the garden.
* * * * *
The garden on my grandmother's estate was very old and large, and was
bounded on one side by a flowing pond, in which there were not only
plenty of carp and eels, but even loach were caught, those renowned
loach, that have nowadays disappeared almost everywhere. At the head
of this pond was a thick clump of willows; further and higher, on both
sides of a rising slope, were dense bushes of hazel, elder,
honeysuckle, and sloe-thorn, with an undergrowth of heather and clover
flowers. Here and there between the bushes were tiny clearings,
covered with emerald-green, silky, fine grass, in the midst of which
squat funguses peeped out with their comical, variegated pink, lilac,
and straw-coloured caps, and golden balls of 'hen-dazzle' blazed in
light patches. Here in spring-time the nightingales sang, the
blackbirds whistled, the cuckoos called; here in the heat of summer it
was always cool--and I loved to make my way into the wilderness and
thicket, where I had favourite secret spots, known--so, at least, I
imagined--only to me.
On coming out of my grandmother's room I made straight for one of these
spots, which I had named 'Switzerland.' But what was my astonishment
when, before I had reached 'Switzerland,' I perceived through the
delicate network of half-dry twigs and green branches that some one
besides me had found it out! A long, long figure in a long, loose coat
of yellow frieze and a tall cap was standing in the very spot I loved
best of all! I stole up a little nearer, and made out the face, which
was utterly unknown to me, also very long and soft, with small reddish
eyes, and a very funny nose; drawn out as long as a pod of peas, it
positively over-hung the full lips; and these lips, quivering and
forming a round O, were giving vent to a shrill little whistle, while
the long fingers of the bony hands, placed facing one another on the
upper part of the chest, were rapidly moving with a rotatory action.
From time to time the motion of the hands subsided, the lips ceased
whistling and quivering, the head was bent forward as though listening.
I came still nearer, examined him still more closely.... The stranger
held in each hand a small flat cup, such as people use to tease
canaries and make them sing. A twig snapped under my feet; the stranger
started, turned his dim little eyes towards the copse, and was
staggering away ... but he stumbled against a tree, uttered an
exclamation, and stood still.
I came out into the open space. The stranger smiled.
'Good morning,' said I.
'Good morning, little master!'
I did not like his calling me little master. Such familiarity!
'What are you doing here?' I asked sternly.
'Why, look here,' he responded, never leaving off smiling, 'I'm calling
the little birds to sing.' He showed me his little cups. 'The
chaffinches answer splendidly! You, at your tender years, take delight,
no doubt, in the feathered songsters' notes! Listen, I beg; I will begin
chirping, and they'll answer me directly--it's so delightful!'
He began rubbing his little cups. A chaffinch actually did chirp in
response from a mountain ash near. The stranger laughed without a sound,
and winked at me.
The laugh and the wink--every gesture of the stranger, his weak,
lisping voice, his bent knees and thin hands, his very cap and long
frieze coat--everything about him suggested good-nature, something
innocent and droll.
'Have you been here long?' I asked.
'I came to-day.'
'Why, aren't you the person of whom ...'
'Mr. Baburin spoke to the lady here. The same, the same.'
'Your friend's name's Baburin, and what's yours?'
'I'm Punin. Punin's my name; Punin. He's Baburin and I'm Punin.' He set
the little cups humming again. 'Listen, listen to the chaffinch.... How
it carols!'
This queer creature took my fancy 'awfully' all at once. Like almost all
boys, I was either timid or consequential with strangers, but I felt
with this man as if I had known him for ages.
'Come along with me,' I said to him; 'I know a place better than
this; there's a seat there; we can sit down, and we can see the dam
from there.'
'By all means let us go,' my new friend responded in his singing voice.
I let him pass before me. As he walked he rolled from side to side,
tripped over his own feet, and his head fell back.
I noticed on the back of his coat, under the collar, there hung a small
tassel. 'What's that you've got hanging there?' I asked.
'Where?' he questioned, and he put his hand up to the collar to feel.
'Ah, the tassel? Let it be! I suppose it was sewn there for ornament!
It's not in the way.'
I led him to the seat, and sat down; he settled himself beside me. 'It's
lovely here!' he commented, and he drew a deep, deep sigh. 'Oh, how
lovely! You have a most splendid garden! Oh, o--oh!'
I looked at him from one side. 'What a queer cap you've got!' I couldn't
help exclaiming. 'Show it me here!'
'By all means, little master, by all means.' He took off the cap; I was
holding out my hand, but I raised my eyes, and--simply burst out
laughing. Punin was completely bald; not a single hair was to be seen on
the high conical skull, covered with smooth white skin. He passed his
open hand over it, and he too laughed. When he laughed he seemed, as it
were, to gulp, he opened his mouth wide, closed his eyes--and vertical
wrinkles flitted across his forehead in three rows, like waves. 'Eh,'
said he at last, 'isn't it quite like an egg?'
'Yes, yes, exactly like an egg!' I agreed with enthusiasm. 'And have you
been like that long?'
'Yes, a long while; but what hair I used to have!--A golden fleece like
that for which the Argonauts sailed over the watery deeps.'
Though I was only twelve, yet, thanks to my mythological studies, I knew
who the Argonauts were; I was the more surprised at hearing the name on
the lips of a man dressed almost in rags.
'You must have learned mythology, then?' I queried, as I twisted his cap
over and over in my hands. It turned out to be wadded, with a
mangy-looking fur trimming, and a broken cardboard peak.
'I have studied that subject, my dear little master; I've had time
enough for everything in my life! But now restore to me my covering, it
is a protection to the nakedness of my head.'
He put on the cap, and, with a downward slope of his whitish eyebrows,
asked me who I was, and who were my parents.
'I'm the grandson of the lady who owns this place,' I answered. 'I live
alone with her. Papa and mamma are dead.'
Punin crossed himself. 'May the kingdom of heaven be theirs! So then,
you're an orphan; and the heir, too. The noble blood in you is visible
at once; it fairly sparkles in your eyes, and plays like this ... sh ...
sh ... sh ...' He represented with his fingers the play of the blood.
'Well, and do you know, your noble honour, whether my friend has come to
terms with your grandmamma, whether he has obtained the situation he was
promised?'
'I don't know.'
Punin cleared his throat. 'Ah! if one could be settled here, if only for
a while! Or else one may wander and wander far, and find not a place to
rest one's head; the disquieting alarms of life are unceasing, the soul
is confounded....'
'Tell me,' I interrupted: 'are you of the clerical profession?'
Punin turned to me and half closed his eyelids. 'And what may be the
cause of that question, gentle youth?'
'Why, you talk so--well, as they read in church.'
'Because I use the old scriptural forms of expression? But that ought
not to surprise you. Admitting that in ordinary conversation such forms
of expression are not always in place; but when one soars on the wings
of inspiration, at once the language too grows more exalted. Surely your
teacher--the professor of Russian literature--you do have lessons in
that, I suppose?--surely he teaches you that, doesn't he?'
'No, he doesn't,' I responded. 'When we stay in the country I have no
teacher. In Moscow I have a great many teachers.'
'And will you be staying long in the country?'
'Two months, not longer; grandmother says that I'm spoilt in the
country, though I have a governess even here.'
'A French governess?'
'Yes.'
Punin scratched behind his ear. 'A mamselle, that's to say?'
'Yes; she's called Mademoiselle Friquet.' I suddenly felt it
disgraceful for me, a boy of twelve, to have not a tutor, but a
governess, like a little girl! 'But I don't mind her,' I added
contemptuously. 'What do I care!'
Punin shook his head. 'Ah, you gentlefolk, you gentlefolk! you're too
fond of foreigners! You have turned away from what is Russian,--towards
all that's strange. You've turned your hearts to those that come from
foreign parts....'
'Hullo! Are you talking in verse?' I asked.
'Well, and why not? I can do that always, as much as you please; for it
comes natural to me....'
But at that very instant there sounded in the garden behind us a loud
and shrill whistle. My new acquaintance hurriedly got up from the bench.
'Good-bye, little sir; that's my friend calling me, looking for me....
What has he to tell me? Good-bye--excuse me....'
He plunged into the bushes and vanished, while I sat on some time longer
on the seat. I felt perplexity and another feeling, rather an agreeable
one ... I had never met nor spoken to any one like this before.
Gradually I fell to dreaming, but recollected my mythology and sauntered
towards the house.
* * * * *
At home, I learned that my grandmother had arranged to take Baburin; he
had been assigned a small room in the servants' quarters, overlooking
the stable-yard. He had at once settled in there with his friend.
When I had drunk my tea, next morning, without asking leave of
Mademoiselle Friquet, I set off to the servants' quarters. I wanted to
have another chat with the queer fellow I had seen the day before.
Without knocking at the door--the very idea of doing so would never have
occurred to us--I walked straight into the room. I found in it not the
man I was looking for, not Punin, but his protector--the philanthropist,
Baburin. He was standing before the window, without his outer garment,
his legs wide apart. He was busily engaged in rubbing his head and neck
with a long towel.
'What do you want?' he observed, keeping his hands still raised, and
knitting his brows.
'Punin's not at home, then?' I queried in the most free-and-easy manner,
without taking off my cap.
'Mr. Punin, Nikander Vavilitch, at this moment, is not at home, truly,'
Baburin responded deliberately; 'but allow me to make an observation,
young man: it's not the proper thing to come into another person's room
like this, without asking leave.'
I! ... young man! ... how dared he! ... I grew crimson with fury.
'You cannot be aware who I am,' I rejoined, in a manner no longer
free-and-easy, but haughty. 'I am the grandson of the mistress here.'
'That's all the same to me,' retorted Baburin, setting to work with his
towel again. 'Though you are the seignorial grandson, you have no right
to come into other people's rooms.'
'Other people's? What do you mean? I'm--at home here--everywhere.'
'No, excuse me: here--I'm at home; since this room has been assigned to
me, by agreement, in exchange for my work.'
'Don't teach me, if you please,' I interrupted: 'I know better than
you what ...'
'You must be taught,' he interrupted in his turn, 'for you're at an age
when you ... I know my duties, but I know my rights too very well, and
if you continue to speak to me in that way, I shall have to ask you to
go out of the room....'
There is no knowing how our dispute would have ended if Punin had not at
that instant entered, shuffling and shambling from side to side. He most
likely guessed from the expression of our faces that some unpleasantness
had passed between us, and at once turned to me with the warmest
expressions of delight.
'Ah! little master! little master!' he cried, waving his hands wildly,
and going off into his noiseless laugh: 'the little dear! come to pay me
a visit! here he's come, the little dear!' (What's the meaning of it? I
thought: can he be speaking in this familiar way to me?) 'There, come
along, come with me into the garden. I've found something there.... Why
stay in this stuffiness here! let's go!'
I followed Punin, but in the doorway I thought it as well to turn round
and fling a glance of defiance at Baburin, as though to say, I'm not
afraid of you!
He responded in the same way, and positively snorted into the
towel--probably to make me thoroughly aware how utterly he despised me!
What an insolent fellow your friend is!' I said to Punin, directly the
door had closed behind me.
Almost with horror, Punin turned his plump face to me.
'To whom did you apply that expression?' he asked me, with round eyes.
'Why, to him, of course.... What's his name? that ... Baburin.'
'Paramon Semyonevitch?'
'Why, yes; that ... blackfaced fellow.'
'Eh ... eh ... eh ...!' Punin protested, with caressing reproachfulness.
'How can you talk like that, little master! Paramon Semyonevitch is the
most estimable man, of the strictest principles, an extraordinary
person! To be sure, he won't allow any disrespect to him, because--he
knows his own value. That man possesses a vast amount of knowledge--and
it's not a place like this he ought to be filling! You must, my dear,
behave very courteously to him; do you know, he's ...' here Punin bent
down quite to my ear,--'a republican!'
I stared at Punin. This I had not at all expected. From Keidanov's
manual and other historical works I had gathered the fact that at some
period or other, in ancient times, there had existed republicans, Greeks
and Romans. For some unknown reason I had always pictured them all in
helmets, with round shields on their arms, and big bare legs; but that
in real life, in the actual present, above all, in Russia, in the
province of X----, one could come across republicans--that upset all my
notions, and utterly confounded them!
'Yes, my dear, yes; Paramon Semyonitch is a republican,' repeated Punin;
'there, so you'll know for the future how one should speak of a man like
that! But now let's go into the garden. Fancy what I've found there! A
cuckoo's egg in a redstart's nest! a lovely thing!'
I went into the garden with Punin; but mentally I kept repeating:
'republican! re ... pub ... lican!'
'So,' I decided at last--'that's why he has such a blue chin!'
* * * * *
My attitude to these two persons--Punin and Baburin--took definite shape
from that very day. Baburin aroused in me a feeling of hostility with
which there was, however, in a short time, mingled something akin to
respect. And wasn't I afraid of him! I never got over being afraid of
him even when the sharp severity of his manner with me at first had
quite disappeared. It is needless to say that of Punin I had no fear; I
did not even respect him; I looked upon him--not to put too fine a point
on it--as a buffoon; but I loved him with my whole soul! To spend hours
at a time in his company, to be alone with him, to listen to his
stories, became a genuine delight to me. My grandmother was anything but
pleased at this _intimite_ with a person of the 'lower classes'--_du
commun_; but, whenever I could break away, I flew at once to my queer,
amusing, beloved friend. Our meetings became more frequent after the
departure of Mademoiselle Friquet, whom my grandmother sent back to
Moscow in disgrace because, in conversation with a military staff
captain, visiting in the neighbourhood, she had had the insolence to
complain of the dulness which reigned in our household. And Punin, for
his part, was not bored by long conversations with a boy of twelve; he
seemed to seek them of himself. How often have I listened to his
stories, sitting with him in the fragrant shade, on the dry, smooth
grass, under the canopy of the silver poplars, or among the reeds above
the pond, on the coarse, damp sand of the hollow bank, from which the
knotted roots protruded, queerly interlaced, like great black veins,
like snakes, like creatures emerging from some subterranean region!
Punin told me the whole story of his life in minute detail, describing
all his happy adventures, and all his misfortunes, with which I always
felt the sincerest sympathy! His father had been a deacon;--'a splendid
man--but, under the influence of drink, stern to the last extreme.'
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16