Liza by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

(_Leisure Hour Series_.)

FATHERS AND SONS.
SMOKE.
LIZA.
ON THE EVE.
DIMITRI ROUDINE.
SPRING FLOODS; LEAR.
VIRGIN SOIL.
ANNALS OF A SPORTSMAN.

_LEISURE HOUR SERIES_

LIZA

OR

"A NEST OF NOBLES"

_A NOVEL_

BY IVAN S. TURGENIEFF

_TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN_

BY W.R.S. RALSTON

1873

DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR BY HIS FRIEND THE TRANSLATOR.

PREFACE.

The author of the _Dvoryanskoe Gnyezdo_, or "Nest of Nobles," of which
a translation is now offered to the English reader under the title of
"Liza," is a writer of whom Russia may well be proud.[A] And that, not
only because he is a consummate artist,--entitled as he is to take
high rank among those of European fame, so accurate is he in his
portrayal of character, and so quick to seize and to fix even its most
fleeting expression; so vividly does he depict by a few rapid touches
the appearance of the figures whom he introduces upon his canvas, the
nature of the scenes among which they move,--he has other and even
higher claims than these to the respect and admiration of Russian
readers. For he is a thoroughly conscientious worker; one who, amid
all his dealings with fiction, has never swerved from his regard for
what is real and true; one to whom his own country and his own people
are very dear, but who has neither timidly bowed to the prejudices of
his countrymen, nor obstinately shut his eyes to their faults.

[Footnote A: Notwithstanding the unencouraging opinion expressed by
Mr. Ralston in this preface, of the probable fate of "Fathers and
Children," and "Smoke," with the English public, both have been
translated in America and have met with very fair success. Of course,
even more may be hoped for the author's other works.]

His first prose work, the "Notes of a Sportsman" (_Zapiski
Okhotnika_), a collection of sketches of country life, made a deep and
lasting impression upon the minds of the educated classes in Russia,
so vigorous were its attacks upon the vices of that system of slavery
which was then prevalent. Those attacks had all the more weight,
inasmuch as the book was by no means exclusively devoted to them. It
dealt with many other subjects connected with provincial life; and
the humor and the pathos and the picturesqueness with which they were
treated would of themselves have been sufficient to commend it to the
very favorable attention of his countrymen. But the sad pictures he
drew in it, occasionally and almost as it were accidentally, of the
wretched position occupied by the great masses of the people, then
groaning under the weight of that yoke which has since been removed,
stirred the heart of Russian society with a thrill of generous horror
and sympathy; and the effect thus produced was all the more permanent
inasmuch as it was attained by thoroughly legitimate means. Far
from exaggerating the ills of which he wrote, or describing them in
sensational and declamatory language, he treated them in a style
that sometimes seemed almost cold in its reticence and freedom from
passion. The various sketches of which the volume was composed
appeared at intervals in a Russian magazine, called the _Contemporary
(Sovremennik)_, about three-and-twenty years ago, and were read in it
with avidity; but when the first edition of the collected work was
exhausted, the censors refused to grant permission to the author to
print a second, and so for many years the complete book was not to be
obtained in Russia without great difficulty. Now that the good fight
of emancipation has been fought, and the victory--thanks to the
present Emperor--has been won, M. Turgenieff has every reason for
looking back with pride upon that phase of the struggle; and his
countrymen may well have a feeling of regard, as well as of respect,
for him--the upper-classes as for one who has helped them to recognize
their duty; the lower, as for a very generous supporter in their time
of trouble.

M. Turgenieff has written a great number of very charming short
stories, most of them having reference to Russia and Russian life; for
though he has lived in Germany for many years, his thoughts, whenever
he takes up his pen, almost always seem to go back to his native land.
Besides these, as well as a number of critical essays, plays, and
poems, he has brought out several novels, or rather novelettes, for
none of them have attained to three-volume dimensions. Of these, the
most remarkable are the one I have now translated, which appeared
about eleven years ago, and the two somewhat polemical stories, called
"Fathers and Children" (_Otsui i Dyeti_) and "Smoke" (_Duim_). The
first of the three I may leave to speak for itself, merely adding that
I trust that--although it appears under all the disadvantages by
which even the most conscientious of translations must always be
attended--it may be looked upon by English readers with somewhat of
the admiration which I have long felt for the original, on account of
the artistic finish of its execution, the purity of its tone, and the
delicacy and the nobleness of the sentiment by which it is pervaded.

The story of "Fathers and Children" conveys a vigorous and excessively
clever description of the change that has taken place of late years in
the thoughts and feelings of the educated classes of Russian society
One of the most interesting chapters in "Liza"--one which may
be skipped by readers who care for nothing but incident in a
story--describes a conversation which takes place between the hero
and one of his old college friends. The sketch of the disinterested
student, who has retained in mature life all the enthusiasm of his
college days, is excellent, and is drawn in a very kindly spirit.
But in "Fathers and Children" an exaggeration of this character is
introduced, serving as a somewhat scare-crow-like embodiment of the
excessively hard thoughts and very irreverent speculations in which
the younger thinkers of the new school indulge. This character is
developed in the story into dimensions which must be styled inordinate
if considered from a purely artistic point of view; but the story
ought not to be so regarded. Unfortunately for its proper appreciation
among us, it cannot be judged aright, except by readers who possess a
thorough knowledge of what was going on in Russia a few years ago, and
who take a keen and lively interest in the subjects which were then
being discussed there. To all others, many of its chapters will
seem too unintelligible and wearisome, both linked together into
interesting unity by the slender thread of its story, beautiful as
many of its isolated passages are. The same objection may be made
to "Smoke." Great spaces in that work are devoted to caricatures of
certain persons and opinions of note in Russia, but utterly unknown
in England--pictures which either delight or irritate the author's
countrymen, according to the tendency of their social and political
speculations, but which are as meaningless to the untutored English
eye as a collection of "H.B."'s drawings would be to a Russian who had
never studied English politics. Consequently neither of these stories
is likely ever to be fully appreciated among us[A].

[Footnote A: A detailed account of both of these stories, as well as
of several other works by M. Turgenieff, will be found in the number
of the _North British Review_ for March, 1869.]

The last novelette which M. Turgenieff has published, "The Unfortunate
One" (_Neschastnaya_) is free from the drawbacks by which, as far as
English readers are concerned, "Fathers and Children" and "Smoke,"
are attended; but it is exceedingly sad and painful. It is said to be
founded on a true story, a fact which may account for an intensity
of gloom in its coloring, the darkness of which would otherwise seem
almost unartistically overcharged.

Several of M. Turgenieff's works have already been translated into
English. The "Notes of a Sportsman" appeared about fourteen years
ago, under the title of "Russian Life in the Interior[A];" but,
unfortunately, the French translation from which they were (with all
due acknowledgment) rendered, was one which had been so "cooked" for
the Parisian market, that M. Turgenieff himself felt bound to protest
against it vigorously. It is the more unfortunate inasmuch as an
admirable French translation of the work was afterwards made by M.
Delaveau[B].

[Footnote A: "Russian Life in the Interior." Edited by J.D.
Meiklejohn. Black, Edinburg, 1855.]

[Footnote B: "Recits d'un Chasseur." Traduits par H. Delavea, Paris,
1858.]

Still more vigorously had M. Turgenieff to protest against an English
translation of "Smoke," which appeared a few months ago.

The story of "Fathers and Children" has also appeared in English[A];
but as the translation was published on the other side of the
Atlantic, it has as yet served but little to make M. Turgenieff's name
known among us.

[Footnote A: "Fathers and Sons." Translated from the Russian by Eugene
Schuyler. New York 1867.]

The French and German translations of M. Turgenieff's works are
excellent. From the French versions of M. Delaveau, M. Xavier Marmier,
M. Prosper Merimee, M. Viardot, and several others, a very good idea
may be formed by the general reader of M. Turgenieffs merits. For
my own part, I wish cordially to thank the French and the German
translators of the _Dvoryanskoe Gnyezdo_ for the assistance their
versions rendered me while I was preparing the present translation of
that story. The German version, by M. Paul Fuchs,[A] is wonderfully
literal. The French version, by Count Sollogub and M.A. de Calonne,
which originally appeared in the _Revue Contemporaine_, without being
quite so close, is also very good indeed.[B]

[Footnote A: Das adelige Nest. Von I.S. Turgenieff. Aus dem Russicher
ubersetzt von Paul Fuchs. Leipzig, 1862.]

[Footnote B: Une Nichee de Gentilshommes. Paris, 1862]

I, too, have kept as closely as I possibly could to the original.
Indeed, the first draft of the translation was absolutely literal,
regardless of style or even idiom. While in that state, it was revised
by the Russian friend who assisted me in my translation of Krilofs
Fables--M. Alexander Onegine--and to his painstaking kindness I am
greatly indebted for the hope I venture to entertain that I have not
"traduced" the author I have undertaken to translate. It may be as
well to state that in the few passages in which my version differs
designedly from the ordinary text of the original, I have followed the
alterations which M. Turgenieff made with his own hand in the copy
of the story on which I worked, and the title of the story has been
altered to its present form with his consent.

I may as well observe also, that while I have inserted notes where
I thought their presence unavoidable, I have abstained as much as
possible from diverting the reader's attention from the story by
obtrusive asterisks, referring to what might seem impertinent
observations at the bottom of the page. The Russian forms of name I
have religiously preserved, even to the extent of using such a form as
Ivanich, as well as Ivanovich, when it is employed by the author.

INNER TEMPLE, June 1, 1869.

LIZA.

I.

A beautiful spring day was drawing to a close. High aloft in the clear
sky floated small rosy clouds, which seemed never to drift past, but
to be slowly absorbed into the blue depths beyond.

At an open window, in a handsome mansion situated in one of the
outlying streets of O., the chief town of the government of that
name--it was in the year 1842--there were sitting two ladies, the one
about fifty years old, the other an old woman of seventy.

The name of the first was Maria Dmitrievna Kalitine. Her husband, who
had formerly occupied the post of Provincial Procurator, and who was
well known in his day as a good man of business--a man of bilious
temperament, confident, resolute, and enterprising--had been dead
ten years. He had received a good education, and had studied at the
university, but as the family from which he sprang was a poor one, he
had early recognized the necessity of making a career for himself and
of gaining money.

Maria Dmitrievna married him for love. He was good-looking, he had
plenty of sense, and, when he liked, he could be very agreeable. Maria
Dmitrievna, whose maiden name was Pestof, lost her parents while she
was still a child. She spent several years in an Institute at Moscow,
and then went to live with her brother and one of her aunts at
Pokrovskoe, a family estate situated fifteen versts from O. Soon
afterwards her brother was called away on duty to St. Petersburgh, and,
until a sudden death put an end to his career, he kept his aunt and
sister with only just enough for them to live upon. Maria Dmitrievna
inherited Pokrovskoe, but she did not long reside there. In the second
year of her marriage with Kalitine, who had succeeded at the end of
a few days in gaining her affections, Pokrovskoe was exchanged for
another estate--one of much greater intrinsic value, but unattractive
in appearance, and not provided with a mansion. At the same time
Kalitine purchased a house in the town of O., and there he and his
wife permanently established themselves. A large garden was attached
to it, extending in one direction to the fields outside the town, "so
that," Kalitine, who was by no means an admirer of rural tranquillity,
used to say, "there is no reason why we should go dragging ourselves
off into the country." Maria Dmitrievna often secretly regretted her
beautiful Pokrovskoe, with its joyous brook, its sweeping meadows, and
its verdant woods, but she never opposed her husband in any thing,
having the highest respect for his judgment and his knowledge of the
world. And when he died, after fifteen years of married life, leaving
behind him a son and two daughters, Maria Dmitrievna had grown
so accustomed to her house and to a town life, that she had no
inclination to change her residence.

In her youth Maria Dmitrievna had enjoyed the reputation of being a
pretty blonde, and even in her fiftieth year her features were not
unattractive, though they had lost somewhat of their fineness and
delicacy. She was naturally sensitive and impressionable, rather than
actually good-hearted, and even in her years of maturity she continued
to behave in the manner peculiar to "Institute girls;" she denied
herself no indulgence, she was easily put out of temper, and she would
even burst into tears if her habits were interfered with. On the other
hand, she was gracious and affable when all her wishes were fulfilled,
and when nobody opposed her in any thing. Her house was the
pleasantest in the town; and she had a handsome income, the greater
part of which was derived from her late husband's earnings, and the
rest from her own property. Her two daughters lived with her; her son
was being educated in one of the best of the crown establishments at
St. Petersburgh.

The old lady who was sitting at the window with Maria Dmitrievna was
her father's sister, the aunt with whom she had formerly spent so many
lonely years at Pokrovskoe. Her name was Marfa Timofeevna Pestof.
She was looked upon as an original, being a woman of an independent
character, who bluntly told the truth to every one, and who, although
her means were very small, behaved in society just as she would have
done had she been rolling in wealth. She never could abide the late
Kalitine, and as soon as her niece married him she retired to her own
modest little property, where she spent ten whole years in a peasant's
smoky hut. Maria Dmitrievna was rather afraid of her. Small in
stature, with black hair, a sharp nose, and eyes which even in old age
were still keen, Marfa Timofeevna walked briskly, held herself
bolt upright, and spoke quickly but distinctly, and with a loud,
high-pitched voice. She always wore a white cap, and a white
_kofta_[A] always formed part of her dress.

[Footnote A: A sort of jacket.]

"What is the matter?" she suddenly asked. "What are you sighing
about?"

"Nothing," replied Maria Dmitrievna. "What lovely clouds!"

"You are sorry for them, I suppose?"

Maria Dmitrievna made no reply.

"Why doesn't Gedeonovsky come?" continued Marfa Timofeevna, rapidly
plying her knitting needles. (She was making a long worsted scarf.)
"He would have sighed with you. Perhaps he would have uttered some
platitude or other."

"How unkindly you always speak of him! Sergius Petrovich is--a most
respectable man."

"Respectable!" echoed the old lady reproachfully.

"And then," continued Maria Dmitrievna, "how devoted he was to my dear
husband! Why, he can never think of him without emotion."

"He might well be that, considering that your husband pulled him out
of the mud by the ears," growled Marfa Timofeevna, the needles moving
quicker than ever under her fingers. "He looks so humble," she began
anew after a time. "His head is quite grey, and yet he never opens his
mouth but to lie or to slander. And, forsooth, he is a councillor of
state! Ah, well, to be sure, he is a priest's son."[A]

[Footnote A: _Popovich_, or son of a pope; a not over respectful
designation in Russia.]

"Who is there who is faultless, aunt? It is true that he has this
weakness. Sergius Petrovich has not had a good education, I admit--he
cannot speak French--but I beg leave to say that I think him
exceedingly agreeable."

"Oh, yes, he fawns on you like a dog. As to his not speaking French,
that's no great fault. I am not very strong in the French 'dialect'
myself. It would be better if he spoke no language at all; he wouldn't
tell lies then. But of course, here he is, in the very nick of time,"
continued Marfa Timofeevna, looking down the street. "Here comes
your agreeable man, striding along. How spindle-shanked he is, to be
sure--just like a stork!"

Maria Dmitrievna arranged her curls. Marfa Timofeevna looked at her
with a quiet smile.

"Isn't that a grey hair I see, my dear? You should scold Pelagia.
Where can her eyes be?"

"That's just like you, aunt," muttered Maria Dmitrievna, in a tone of
vexation, and thrumming with her fingers on the arm of her chair.

"Sergius Petrovich Gedeonovsky!" shrilly announced a rosy-cheeked
little Cossack,[A] who suddenly appeared at the door.

[Footnote A: A page attired in a sort of Cossack dress.]

II.

A tall man came into the room, wearing a good enough coat, rather
short trousers, thick grey gloves, and two cravats--a black one
outside, a white one underneath. Every thing belonging to him was
suggestive of propriety and decorum, from his well-proportioned face,
with locks carefully smoothed down over the temples, to his heelless
and never-creaking boots. He bowed first to the mistress of the house,
then to Marfa Timofeevna, and afterwards, having slowly taken off his
gloves, he approached Maria Dmitrievna and respectfully kissed her
hand twice. After that he leisurely subsided into an easy-chair, and
asked, as he smilingly rubbed together the tips of his fingers--

"Is Elizaveta quite well?"

"Yes," replied Maria Dmitrievna, "she is in the garden."

"And Elena Mikhailovna?"

"Lenochka is in the garden also. Have you any news?"

"Rather!" replied the visitor, slowly screwing up his eyes, and
protruding his lips. "Hm! here is a piece of news, if you please, and
a very startling one, too. Fedor Ivanovich Lavretsky has arrived."

"Fedia!" exclaimed Marfa Timofeevna. "You're inventing, are you not?"

"Not at all. I have seen him with my own eyes."

"That doesn't prove any thing."

"He's grown much more robust," continued Gedeonovsky, looking as if
he had not heard Marfa Timofeevna's remark; "his shoulders have
broadened, and his cheeks are quite rosy."

"Grown more robust," slowly repeated Maria Dmitrievna. "One would
think he hadn't met with much to make him robust."

"That is true indeed," said Gedeonovsky. "Any one else, in his place,
would have scrupled to show himself in the world."

"And why, I should like to know?" broke in Marfa Timofeevna. "What
nonsense you are talking! A man comes back to his home. Where else
would you have him betake himself? And, pray, in what has he been to
blame?"

"A husband is always to blame, madam, if you will allow me to say so,
when his wife behaves ill."

"You only say that, _batyushka_,[A] because you have never been
married."

[Footnote A: Father.]

Gedeonovsky's only reply was a forced smile. For a short time he
remained silent, but presently he said, "May I be allowed to be so
inquisitive as to ask for whom this pretty scarf is intended?"

Marfa Timofeevna looked up at him quickly.

"For whom is it intended?" she said. "For a man who never slanders,
who does not intrigue, and who makes up no falsehoods--if, indeed,
such a man is to be found in the world. I know Fedia thoroughly well;
the only thing for which he is to blame is that he spoilt his wife. To
be sure he married for love; and from such love-matches no good ever
comes," added the old lady, casting a side glance at Maria Dmitrievna.
Then, standing up, she added: "But now you can whet your teeth on whom
you will; on me, if you like. I'm off. I won't hinder you any longer."
And with these words she disappeared.

"She is always like that," said Maria Dmitrievna following her aunt
with her eyes--"always."

"What else can be expected of her at her time of life?" replied
Gedeonovsky. "Just see now! 'Who does not intrigue?' she was pleased
to say. But who is there nowadays who doesn't intrigue? It is the
custom of the present age. A friend of mine--a most respectable man,
and one, I may as well observe, of no slight rank--used to say,
'Nowadays, it seems, if a hen wants a grain of corn she approaches it
cunningly, watches anxiously for an opportunity of sidling up to it.'
But when I look at you, dear lady, I recognize in you a truly angelic
nature. May I be allowed to kiss your snow-white hand?"

Maria Dmitrievna slightly smiled, and held out her plump hand to
Gedeonovsky, keeping the little finger gracefully separated from the
rest; and then, after he had raised her hand to his lips, she drew her
chair closer to his, bent a little towards him, and asked, in a low
voice--

"So you have seen him? And is he really well and in good spirits?"

"In excellent spirits," replied Gedeonovsky in a whisper.

"You haven't heard where his wife is now?"

"A short time ago she was in Paris; but she is gone away, they say,
and is now in Italy."

"Really it is shocking--Fedia's position. I can't think how he manages
to bear it. Every one, of course, has his misfortunes; but his
affairs, one may say, have become known all over Europe."

Gedeonovsky sighed.

"Quite so, quite so! They say she has made friends with artists and
pianists; or, as they call them there, with lions and other wild
beasts. She has completely lost all sense of shame--"

"It's very, very sad," said Maria Dmitrievna; "especially for a
relation. You know, don't you, Sergius Petrovich, that he is a
far-away cousin of mine?"

"To be sure, to be sure! You surely don't suppose I could be ignorant
of any thing that concerns your family."

"Will he come to see us? What do you think?"

"One would suppose so; but afterwards, I am told, he will go and live
on his estate in the country."

Maria Dmitrievna lifted her eyes towards heaven.

"Oh, Sergius Petrovich, Sergius Petrovich! how often I think how
necessary it is for us women to behave circumspectly!"

"There are women and women, Maria Dmitrievna. There are,
unfortunately, some who are--of an unstable character; and then there
is a certain time of life--and, besides, good principles have not been
instilled into them when they were young."

Here Sergius Petrovich drew from his pocket a blue handkerchief, of a
check pattern, and began to unfold it.

"Such women, in fact, do exist."

Here Sergius Petrovich applied a corner of the handkerchief to each of
his eyes in turn.

"But, generally speaking, if one reflects--that is to say--The dust in
the streets is something extraordinary," he ended by saying.

"_Maman, maman_," exclaimed a pretty little girl of eleven, who
came running into the room, "Vladimir Nikolaevich is coming here on
horseback."

Maria Dmitrievna rose from her chair. Sergius Petrovich also got up
and bowed.

"My respects to Elena Mikhailovna," he said; and, discreetly retiring
to a corner, he betook himself to blowing his long straight nose.

"What a lovely horse he has!" continued the little girl. "He was at
the garden gate just now, and he told me and Liza that he would come
up to the front door."

The sound of hoofs was heard, and a well appointed cavalier, mounted
on a handsome bay horse, rode up to the house, and stopped in front of
the open window.

III.

"Good-evening, Maria Dmitrievna!" exclaimed the rider's clear and
pleasant voice. "How do you like my new purchase?"

Maria Dmitrievna went to the window.

"Good-evening, Woldemar! Ah, what a splendid horse! From whom did you
buy it?"

"From our remount-officer. He made me pay dear for it, the rascal."

"What is it's name?"

"Orlando. But that's a stupid name. I want to change it. _Eh bien, eh
bien, mon garcon_. What a restless creature it is!"

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