Turgenev Collection: Smoke. Virgin Soil

Author: I. Turgenev
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2000-11-01
Features: In the early 1950s, Moscow had a large family of the Osnin dukes. They were in dire straits, nearly destitute. They were descendants of the pure-blooded Rurik royal family, unlike those Tatar and Georgian dukes. In Russian chronicles, the names of the Osnin family members often appeared in the annals of the early Moscow grand dukes, the founders of Russian territory. They once owned vast hereditary estates and many manors, and were repeatedly rewarded for "loyalty and injury," qualified to attend the meeting of the Great Noble Duma, and one was even granted the privilege of adding the suffix "ovich" to his name when signing. Later, their enemies slandered them for practicing "sorcery," and they were disgraced. Their property was "completely confiscated," their titles and dignities revoked, and each family member was exiled to remote corners of the land. The Osnin family suffered a heavy blow and never recovered. Although they were later pardoned and recalled, their "Moscow residence" and "furniture" were returned, but it was too late. This family had fallen into poverty, declined, and even during the reigns of Peter and Catherine, they failed to rise again. They gradually declined, worsened, and even some members of the family became private managers, directors of wine offices, and chiefs of police stations. The Osnin family we are talking about consisted of a couple and five children, living in a wooden cottage near the Dog Market Square. The striped porch faced the main street, and the gate was adorned with a green lion and other decorations indicating noble status. The family barely made ends meet, often buying vegetables on credit, frequently lacking firewood in winter, and unable to afford candles. The duke himself was lethargic and foolish, once a handsome dandy, but now completely unkempt. Most people only hired him in Moscow for an outdated sinecure, with a small salary, a strange title, and no actual duties. He spent his days doing nothing but smoking, always wearing a robe, and constantly sighing. His wife was a sickly, irritable woman, always worrying about household chores, how to get her children into government schools, and how to maintain contact with her acquaintances in St. Petersburg. She was absolutely unwilling to settle for the status quo and was not accustomed to leaving the court.
Lytvinov's father had once known the Osnins in Moscow and had helped them a little, once lending them about three hundred rubles. At the time, Lytvinov, still a university student, often visited them, as his residence was not far from theirs. It wasn’t the proximity that attracted him, nor was it the unattractive lifestyle of the Osnins that tempted him. His visits to the Osnins began after he fell in love with Irina, the eldest daughter of the family. Irina was only seventeen years old and had just dropped out of the noble girls' school because of an unpleasant incident with the principal. Her mother had sent her home. The cause of the dispute was that Irina was supposed to recite a welcoming poem in French at the graduation ceremony, but at the last minute, another girl, the daughter of a tax collector, replaced her. The duchess couldn’t stand the humiliation in public, and Irina herself couldn’t forgive the principal’s injustice. Irina had been dreaming of the day she would stand before the crowd and deliver a speech that would capture everyone’s attention, and then Moscow would start talking about her, really talking about her Irina. She was a tall, slender girl with delicate shoulders and slightly flat breasts. Her skin was as white as jade and as smooth as fine porcelain, a rare sight among girls her age. She had thick, light-yellow hair, streaked with darker shades, giving it a unique charm. Her features were regular and refined, but she still retained a hint of innocence. However, in the slow movement of her beautiful neck and her lazy, almost indifferent smile, one could see the nervousness of a young lady. Her thin, smiling lips and small, thin hooked nose gave the impression of a certain arrogance and passion, something dangerous to herself and others. What was astonishing, truly astonishing, were her eyes: a faint greenish iron-gray gaze full of emotion, with long, slender eyelashes like those of an Egyptian goddess, and high-arched eyebrows. The expression in her eyes was also strange; they seemed to gaze at you thoughtfully from some unknown depth and distant place. Irina was a bright and capable student at school, but she was moody, liked to give orders, and was fearless. A female class monitor had predicted that her passions would destroy her ("vospassionsvousperdront"). Another female class monitor had cursed her as cold and heartless, an "une jeune fille sans c?ur." Her classmates thought Irina was proud and calculating. Her younger siblings were a bit afraid of her, her mother distrusted her, and her father always felt uncomfortable under her mysterious gaze. Yet, both parents unconsciously respected her, not because of her character, but because she had somehow inspired in them—a reason unknown to anyone—a special, vague expectation.
The next morning, Lytvinov had another discussion with the banker about the unpredictable fluctuations in our exchange rates and the best ways to transfer money abroad. He had just returned to the hotel when the doorman handed him a letter. He recognized Irina’s handwriting and, for some reason, had an ill omen even before opening it. He returned to his room. The letter Lytvinov saw (written in French) read as follows:
"Dear! I have thought about your proposal all night. I do not want to deceive you. Since you have been honest with me, I will be honest with you: I cannot run away with you, I am not strong enough. I feel guilty toward you, and this second guilt is worse than the first. I despise myself, I despise my weakness, I scold myself endlessly, but I cannot change. It was I who ruined your happiness. Now you have every right to see me as a fickle woman. I took the initiative to come to you, to make you a solemn promise. But what is the use of proving this to myself now? I am afraid, I hate myself, but I have no other choice, I have no, no. I do not intend to defend myself, nor do I want to tell you that I have also been deeply in love with you—none of it matters. But I must tell you, again and again: I am yours, always yours. Whenever you wish, you can take me, without reward, without constraint. I belong to you. But to run away, to abandon everything? No! No! No! I once begged you to save me, I once hoped to erase all the old grievances, as if burning them to ashes. It seems I am beyond saving now; it seems I have been poisoned too deeply; it seems this is the inevitable result of breathing smoke and dust for years! I hesitated for a long time before writing this letter; the thought of what decision you might make terrified me, and I can only hope for your love for me. In my case, it is shameful not to tell you the truth, especially if you may have already taken the first step to realize our plan. Alas! The plan may be beautiful, but it is impossible to realize. Oh, my friend, you can see me as a frivolous and weak woman, you can despise me, but do not abandon me, do not abandon your Irina! I cannot live without this upper class, and yet living in it, I cannot live without you. We will soon be returning to St. Petersburg, and you should go there too. Live there, we will find you a job, your past efforts will not be wasted, they will surely find use. As long as you are by my side, as long as you love me, love the original me, full of flaws and weaknesses. You must know that no one’s heart is as tenderly loyal to you as Irina’s. Come to me soon, without you, I will have no peace for a moment. Yours, yours, yours—H."
Lytvinov felt a surge of blood rush to his head, as if struck by a hammer, then slowly, heavily, it flowed into his heart, where it solidified like a stone. He read Irina’s letter again, just as he had done in Moscow, and with exhaustion, collapsed onto the sofa, remaining motionless. The dark abyss suddenly surrounded him from all sides, and he stared blankly into the darkness, despairingly. It was another deception, no, worse than deception. It was a lie, the collapse of a base life, everything uprooted, completely destroyed, the last pillar, the only thing he could hold onto, also shattered!
"You follow us to St. Petersburg," he muttered to himself with bitter laughter, "we will find you a job there."
"Promote me to a section chief? Who are we? This is her old illness returning! This is her ugly secret, a secret I don’t know but she wants to completely eliminate and burn away! This is that world full of plots and secret entanglements, the world of of Belisarkaya, Dorisarkaya, and others. How good a future, how glorious a role is waiting for me! To live by her side, to visit her often, to share the melancholy of this fashionable noblewoman’s debauchery, she hates the upper class but cannot live without it; you will be her family friend, of course, and also that of the other adult, until her whims are satisfied, until the commoner friend loses his appeal, and is replaced by that fat general or Mr. Finikov, and so on—all of this is possible, pleasant, and perhaps even beneficial. She didn’t talk about my talents needing a place to be useful? But my plan cannot be realized! It cannot be realized!"
A wild impulse suddenly arose in Lytvinov’s heart, like the wind before a thunderstorm. Every word in Irina’s letter infuriated him, her solemn declaration of her unwavering love making him feel even more insulted.
"Absolutely not," he shouted, "I will not let her play with my life so callously."
At lunch, Nedzhdanov couldn’t help but glance frequently at Mariana and Marklov. They sat together, both lowering their eyes, pressing their lips together, with grim, almost menacing expressions on their faces. Nedzhdanov was particularly puzzled: how could Marklov be the brother of Sipyaginova? They were so dissimilar. Unless for one thing: both had darker skin. But for Sipyaginova, the dull tone of her face, hands, and shoulders was part of her beauty, while her brother’s skin was simply black, which polite people called bronze in the eyes of Russians, like the color of leather boots. Marklov had curly hair, a slightly hooked nose, wide lips, sunken cheeks, a concave abdomen, and hands with prominent veins. He looked thin and strong; his speech was incoherent, his voice loud and grating. His gaze was listless, his expression gloomy, he was clearly a man with a temper! He ate very little, mostly rolling bread into balls, occasionally glancing up at Kalmeyev. Kalmeyev, who had just returned from the city, was looking for the governor over something unpleasant, but he it now, only boasting wildly. Sipyaginova, as usual, only called him to stop when he went off-topic, though she thought "qu’ilestunaffreuxreactiomnaire," she couldn’t help laughing at his witty remarks and jokes. Kalmeyev mentioned in passing that he had heard the peasants—oui, oui! les simples mouchiks—give the lawyers a nickname, and he was delighted.
"Liars! Liars!" he exclaimed repeatedly,, "Cepeupleestdelicieux！” Then he told a story about how he had visited a people’s school once and asked the students a question: "What is an ostrich?" No one could answer, not even the teacher. So he asked another question: "What is a monkey?" and quoted a line from Hemni?er: "Monkeys are truly foolish, only mimicking the faces of beasts!" Again, no one could answer. This was the so-called people’s school!"