An Unhappy Girl Page #2

"An Unhappy Girl" is a poignant short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores the inner life of a young woman named Liza, who grapples with her feelings of discontentment and isolation. Set against the backdrop of 19th-century Russian society, the narrative delves into themes of unfulfilled dreams, the struggles of youth, and the quest for identity. Liza's interactions with the people around her reveal her emotional turmoil and longing for genuine connection, ultimately highlighting the complexities of human relationships and the profound sense of loneliness that can accompany them. Turgenev's sensitive portrayal of his characters invites readers to reflect on their own experiences of unhappiness and the search for meaning in life.

								

stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth wide, and with a metallic
chuckle, he gave himself a smart slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up
in front as he did so.

'Ivan Demianitch?' my friend inquired through the door.

'The same, at your service,' the new comer responded. 'What are you up
to? At your toilette? That's right! that's right!' (The voice of the man
addressed as Ivan Demianitch had the same harsh, metallic note as his
laugh.) 'I've trudged all this way to give your little brother his
lesson; and he's got a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. He
can't do his work. So I've looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.'

Ivan Demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again dealt
himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a check handkerchief
out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, ferociously rolling his eyes,
spat into the handkerchief, and ejaculated with the whole force of his
lungs: 'Tfoo-o-o!'

Fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us, asked us
if we were acquainted.

'Not a bit of it!' Ivan Demianitch boomed at once: 'the veteran of the
year twelve has not that honour!'

Fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the 'veteran of the
year twelve,' he pronounced: 'Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, professor of...
various subjects.'

'Precisely so, various they are, precisely,' Mr. Ratsch chimed in. 'Come
to think of it, what is there I haven't taught, and that I'm not
teaching now, for that matter! Mathematics and geography and statistics
and Italian book-keeping, ha-ha ha-ha! and music! You doubt it, my dear
sir?'--he pounced suddenly upon me--'ask Alexander Daviditch if I'm not
first-rate on the bassoon. I should be a poor sort of Bohemian--Czech, I
should say--if I weren't! Yes, sir, I'm a Czech, and my native place is
ancient Prague! By the way, Alexander Daviditch, why haven't we seen you
for so long! We ought to have a little duet... ha-ha! Really!'

'I was at your place the day before yesterday, Ivan Demianitch,' replied
Fustov.

'But I call that a long while, ha-ha!'

When Mr. Ratsch laughed, his white eyes shifted from side to side in a
strange, restless way.

'You're surprised, young man, I see, at my behaviour,' he addressed me
again. 'But that's because you don't understand my temperament. You must
just ask our good friend here, Alexander Daviditch, to tell you about
me. What'll he tell you? He'll tell you old Ratsch is a simple,
good-hearted chap, a regular Russian, in heart, if not in origin, ha-ha!
At his christening named Johann Dietrich, but always called Ivan
Demianitch! What's in my mind pops out on my tongue; I wear my heart, as
they say, on my sleeve. Ceremony of all sorts I know naught about and
don't want to neither! Can't bear it! You drop in on me one day of an
evening, and you'll see for yourself. My good woman--my wife, that
is--has no nonsense about her either; she'll cook and bake you...
something wonderful! Alexander Daviditch, isn't it the truth I'm
telling?'

Fustov only smiled, and I remained silent.

'Don't look down on the old fellow, but come round,' pursued Mr. Ratsch.
'But now...' (he pulled a fat silver watch out of his pocket and put it
up to one of his goggle eyes)'I'd better be toddling on, I suppose. I've
another chick expecting me.... Devil knows what I'm teaching him,...
mythology, by God! And he lives a long way off, the rascal, at the Red
Gate! No matter; I'll toddle off on foot. Thanks to your brother's
cutting his lesson, I shall be the fifteen kopecks for sledge hire to
the good! Ha-ha! A very good day to you, gentlemen, till we meet
again!... Eh?... We must have a little duet!' Mr. Ratsch bawled from the
passage putting on his goloshes noisily, and for the last time we heard
his metallic laugh.

V

'What a strange man!' I said, turning to Fustov, who had already set to
work at his turning-lathe. 'Can he be a foreigner? He speaks Russian so
fluently.'

'He is a foreigner; only he's been thirty years in Russia. As long ago
as 1802, some prince or other brought him from abroad... in the capacity
of secretary... more likely, valet, one would suppose. He does speak
Russian fluently, certainly.'

'With such go, such far-fetched turns and phrases,' I put in.

'Well, yes. Only very unnaturally too. They're all like that, these
Russianised Germans.'

'But he's a Czech, isn't he?'

'I don't know; may be. He talks German with his wife.'

'And why does he call himself a veteran of the year twelve? Was he in
the militia, or what?'

'In the militia! indeed! At the time of the fire he remained in Moscow
and lost all his property.... That was all he did.'

'But what did he stay in Moscow for?'

Fustov still went on with his turning.

'The Lord knows. I have heard that he was a spy on our side; but that
must be nonsense. But it's a fact that he received compensation from the
treasury for his losses.'

'He wears some sort of uniform.... I suppose he's in government service
then?'

'Yes. Professor in the cadet's corps. He has the rank of a petty
councillor.'

'What's his wife like?'

'A German settled here, daughter of a sausagemaker... or butcher....'

'And do you often go to see him?'

'Yes.'

'What, is it pleasant there?'

'Rather pleasant.'

'Has he any children?'

'Yes. Three by the German, and a son and daughter by his first wife.'

'And how old is the eldest daughter?'

'About five-and-twenty,'

I fancied Fustov bent lower over his lathe, and the wheel turned more
rapidly, and hummed under the even strokes of his feet.

'Is she good-looking?'

'That's a matter of taste. She has a remarkable face, and she's
altogether... a remarkable person.'

'Aha!' thought I. Fustov continued his work with special earnestness,
and to my next question he only responded by a grunt.

'I must make her acquaintance,' I decided.

VI

A few days later, Fustov and I set off to Mr. Ratsch's to spend the
evening. He lived in a wooden house with a big yard and garden, in
Krivoy Place near the Pretchistensky boulevard. He came out into the
passage, and meeting us with his characteristic jarring guffaw and
noise, led us at once into the drawing-room, where he presented me to a
stout lady in a skimpy canvas gown, Eleonora Karpovna, his wife.
Eleonora Karpovna had most likely in her first youth been possessed of
what the French for some unknown reason call beauté du diable,
that is to say, freshness; but when I made her acquaintance, she
suggested involuntarily to the mind a good-sized piece of meat, freshly
laid by the butcher on a clean marble table. Designedly I used the word
'clean'; not only our hostess herself seemed a model of cleanliness, but
everything about her, everything in the house positively shone, and
glittered; everything had been scoured, and polished, and washed: the
samovar on the round table flashed like fire; the curtains before the
windows, the table-napkins were crisp with starch, as were also the
little frocks and shirts of Mr. Ratsch's four children sitting there,
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