Read Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Online
Authors: IVAN TURGENEV
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (392 page)
THE BANQUET OF THE SUPREME BEING
One day the Supreme Being took it into his head to give a great banquet in his palace of azure.
All the virtues were invited. Only the virtues … men he did not ask … only ladies.
There were a great many of them, great and small. The lesser virtues were more agreeable and genial than the great ones; but they all appeared in good humour, and chatted amiably together, as was only becoming for near relations and friends.
But the Supreme Being noticed two charming ladies who seemed to be totally unacquainted.
The Host gave one of the ladies his arm and led her up to the other.
‘Beneficence!’ he said, indicating the first.
‘Gratitude!’ he added, indicating the second.
Both the virtues were amazed beyond expression; ever since the world had stood, and it had been standing a long time, this was the first time they had met.
Dec. 1878.
Yellowish - grey sand, soft at the top, hard, grating below … sand without end, where - ever one looks.
And above this sandy desert, above this sea of dead dust, rises the immense head of the Egyptian sphinx.
What would they say, those thick, projecting lips, those immutable, distended, upturned nostrils, and those eyes, those long, half - drowsy, half - watchful eyes under the double arch of the high brows?
Something they would say. They are speaking, truly, but only Oedipus can solve the riddle and comprehend their mute speech.
Stay, but I know those features … in them there is nothing Egyptian. White, low brow, prominent cheek - bones, nose short and straight, handsome mouth and white teeth, soft moustache and curly beard, and those wide - set, not large eyes … and on the head the cap of hair parted down the middle…. But it is thou, Karp, Sidor, Semyon, peasant of Yaroslav, of Ryazan, my countryman, flesh and blood, Russian! Art thou, too, among the sphinxes?
Wouldst thou, too, say somewhat? Yes, and thou, too, art a sphinx.
And thy eyes, those colourless, deep eyes, are speaking too … and as mute and enigmatic is their speech.
But where is thy Oedipus?
Alas! it’s not enough to don the peasant smock to become thy Oedipus, oh
Sphinx of all the Russias!
Dec. 1878.
I stood before a chain of beautiful mountains forming a semicircle. A young, green forest covered them from summit to base.
Limpidly blue above them was the southern sky; on the heights the sunbeams rioted; below, half - hidden in the grass, swift brooks were babbling.
And the old fable came to my mind, how in the first century after Christ’s birth, a Greek ship was sailing on the Aegean Sea.
The hour was mid - day…. It was still weather. And suddenly up aloft, above the pilot’s head, some one called distinctly, ‘When thou sailest by the island, shout in a loud voice, “Great Pan is dead!”‘
The pilot was amazed … afraid. But when the ship passed the island, he obeyed, he called, ‘Great Pan is dead!’
And, at once, in response to his shout, all along the coast (though the island was uninhabited), sounded loud sobs, moans, long - drawn - out, plaintive wailings. ‘Dead! dead is great Pan!’ I recalled this story … and a strange thought came to. ‘What if I call an invocation?’
But in the sight of the exultant beauty around me, I could not think of death, and with all my might I shouted, ‘Great Pan is arisen! arisen!’ And at once, wonder of wonders, in answer to my call, from all the wide half - circle of green mountains came peals of joyous laughter, rose the murmur of glad voices and the clapping of hands. ‘He is arisen! Pan is arisen!’ clamoured fresh young voices. Everything before me burst into sudden laughter, brighter than the sun on high, merrier than the brooks that babbled among the grass. I heard the hurried thud of light steps, among the green undergrowth there were gleams of the marble white of flowing tunics, the living flush of bare limbs…. It was the nymphs, nymphs, dryads, Bacchantes, hastening from the heights down to the plain….
All at once they appear at every opening in the woods. Their curls float about their god - like heads, their slender hands hold aloft wreaths and cymbals, and laughter, sparkling, Olympian laughter, comes leaping, dancing with them….
Before them moves a goddess. She is taller and fairer than the rest; a quiver on her shoulder, a bow in her hands, a silvery crescent moon on her floating tresses….
‘Diana, is it thou?’
But suddenly the goddess stopped … and at once all the nymphs following her stopped. The ringing laughter died away.
I see the face of the hushed goddess overspread with a deadly pallor; I saw her feet grew rooted to the ground, her lips parted in unutterable horror; her eyes grew wide, fixed on the distance … What had she seen? What was she gazing upon?
I turned where she was gazing …
And on the distant sky - line, above the low strip of fields, gleamed, like a point of fire the golden cross on the white bell - tower of a Christian church…. That cross the goddess had caught sight of.
I heard behind me a long, broken sigh, like the quiver of a broken string, and when I turned again, no trace was left of the nymphs…. The broad forest was green as before, and only here and there among the thick network of branches, were fading gleams of something white; whether the nymphs’ white robes, or a mist rising from the valley, I know not.
But how I mourned for those vanished goddesses!
Dec. 1878.
A prisoner, condemned to confinement for life, broke out of his prison and took to head - long flight…. After him, just on his heels flew his gaolers in pursuit.
He ran with all his might…. His pursuers began to be left behind.
But behold, before him was a river with precipitous banks, a narrow, but deep river…. And he could not swim!
A thin rotten plank had been thrown across from one bank to the other. The fugitive already had his foot upon it…. But it so happened that just there beside the river stood his best friend and his bitterest enemy.
His enemy said nothing, he merely folded his arms; but the friend shrieked at the top of his voice: ‘Heavens! What are you doing? Madman, think what you’re about! Don’t you see the plank’s utterly rotten? It will break under your weight, and you will inevitably perish!’
‘But there is no other way to cross … and don’t you hear them in pursuit?’ groaned the poor wretch in despair, and he stepped on to the plank.
‘I won’t allow it!… No, I won’t allow you to rush to destruction!’ cried the zealous friend, and he snatched the plank from under the fugitive. The latter instantly fell into the boiling torrent, and was drowned.
The enemy smiled complacently, and walked away; but the friend sat down on the bank, and fell to weeping bitterly over his poor … poor friend!
To blame himself for his destruction did not however occur to him … not for an instant.
‘He would not listen to me! He would not listen!’ he murmured dejectedly.
‘Though indeed,’ he added at last. ‘He would have had, to be sure, to languish his whole life long in an awful prison! At any rate, he is out of suffering now! He is better off now! Such was bound to be his fate, I suppose!
‘And yet I am sorry, from humane feeling!’
And the kind soul continued to sob inconsolably over the fate of his misguided friend.
Dec. 1878.
I saw myself, in dream, a youth, almost a boy, in a low - pitched wooden church. The slim wax candles gleamed, spots of red, before the old pictures of the saints.
A ring of coloured light encircled each tiny flame. Dark and dim it was in the church…. But there stood before me many people. All fair - haired, peasant heads. From time to time they began swaying, falling, rising again, like the ripe ears of wheat, when the wind of summer passes in slow undulation over them.
All at once some man came up from behind and stood beside me.
I did not turn towards him; but at once I felt that this man was Christ.
Emotion, curiosity, awe overmastered me suddenly. I made an effort … and looked at my neighbour.
A face like every one’s, a face like all men’s faces. The eyes looked a little upwards, quietly and intently. The lips closed, but not compressed; the upper lip, as it were, resting on the lower; a small beard parted in two. The hands folded and still. And the clothes on him like every one’s.
‘What sort of Christ is this?’ I thought. ‘Such an ordinary, ordinary man!
It can’t be!’
I turned away. But I had hardly turned my eyes away from this ordinary man when I felt again that it really was none other than Christ standing beside me.
Again I made an effort over myself…. And again the same face, like all men’s faces, the same everyday though unknown features.
And suddenly my heart sank, and I came to myself. Only then I realised that just such a face — a face like all men’s faces — is the face of Christ.
Dec. 1878.
Have you seen an old grey stone on the seashore, when at high tide, on a sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon it on all sides — break and frolic and caress it — and sprinkle over its sea - mossed head the scattered pearls of sparkling foam?
The stone is still the same stone; but its sullen surface blossoms out into bright colours.
They tell of those far - off days when the molten granite had but begun to harden, and was all aglow with the hues of fire.
Even so of late was my old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of fresh girls’ souls … and under their caressing touch it flushed with long - faded colours, the traces of burnt - out fires!
The waves have ebbed back … but the colours are not yet dull, though a cutting wind is drying them.
May 1879.
I stood on the top of a sloping hillside; before me, a gold and silver sea of shifting colour, stretched the ripe rye.
But no little wavelets ran over that sea; no stir of wind was in the stifling air; a great storm was gathering.
Near me the sun still shone with dusky fire; but beyond the rye, not very far away, a dark - blue storm - cloud lay, a menacing mass over full half of the horizon.
All was hushed … all things were faint under the malignant glare of the last sun rays. No sound, no sight of a bird; even the sparrows hid themselves. Only somewhere close by, persistently a great burdock leaf flapped and whispered.
How strong was the smell of the wormwood in the hedges! I looked at the dark - blue mass … there was a vague uneasiness at my heart. ‘Come then, quickly, quickly!’ was my thought, ‘flash, golden snake, and roll thunder! move, hasten, break into floods, evil storm - cloud; cut short this agony of suspense!’
But the storm - cloud did not move. It lay as before, a stifling weight upon the hushed earth … and only seemed to swell and darken.
And lo, over its dead dusky - blue, something darted in smooth, even flight, like a white handkerchief or a handful of snow. It was a white dove flying from the direction of the village.
It flew, flew on straight … and plunged into the forest. Some instants passed by — still the same cruel hush…. But, look! Two handkerchiefs gleam in the air, two handfuls of snow are floating back, two white doves are winging their way homewards with even flight.
And now at last the storm has broken, and the tumult has begun!
I could hardly get home. The wind howled, tossing hither and thither in frenzy; before it scudded low red clouds, torn, it seemed, into shreds; everything was whirled round in confusion; the lashing rain streamed in furious torrents down the upright trunks, flashes of lightning were blinding with greenish light, sudden peals of thunder boomed like cannon - shots, the air was full of the smell of sulphur….
But under the overhanging roof, on the sill of the dormer window, side by side sat two white doves, the one who flew after his mate, and the mate he brought back, saved, perhaps, from destruction.
They sit ruffling up their feathers, and each feels his mate’s wing against his wing….
They are happy! And I am happy, seeing them…. Though I am alone … alone, as always.
May 1879.