An Unhappy Girl Page #3

"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.

								

stout, chubby little creatures, exceedingly like their mother, with
coarsely moulded, sturdy faces, curls on their foreheads, and red,
shapeless fingers. All the four of them had rather flat noses, large,
swollen-looking lips, and tiny, light-grey eyes.

'Here's my squadron!' cried Mr. Ratsch, laying his heavy hand on the
children's heads one after another. 'Kolia, Olga, Sashka and Mashka!
This one's eight, this one's seven, that one's four, and this one's only
two! Ha! ha! ha! As you can see, my wife and I haven't wasted our time!
Eh, Eleonora Karpovna?'

'You always say things like that,' observed Eleonora Karpovna and she
turned away.

'And she's bestowed such Russian names on her squallers!' Mr. Ratsch
pursued. 'The next thing, she'll have them all baptized into the
Orthodox Church! Yes, by Jove! She's so Slavonic in her sympathies, 'pon
my soul, she is, though she is of German blood! Eleonora Karpovna, are
you Slavonic?'

Eleonora Karpovna lost her temper.

'I'm a petty councillor's wife, that's what I am! And so I'm a Russian
lady and all you may say....'

'There, the way she loves Russia, it's simply awful!' broke in Ivan
Demianitch. 'A perfect volcano, ho, ho!'

'Well, and what of it?' pursued Eleonora Karpovna. 'To be sure I love
Russia, for where else could I obtain noble rank? And my children too
are nobly born, you know. Kolia, sitze ruhig mit den Füssen!'

Ratsch waved his hand to her.

'There, there, princess, don't excite yourself! But where's the nobly
born Viktor? To be sure, he's always gadding about! He'll come across
the inspector one of these fine days! He'll give him a talking-to! Das
ist ein Bummler, Fiktor!'

'Dem Fiktov kann ich nicht kommandiren, Ivan Demianitch. Sie wissen
wohl!' grumbled Eleonora Karpovna.

I looked at Fustov, as though wishing finally to arrive at what induced
him to visit such people... but at that instant there came into the room
a tall girl in a black dress, the elder daughter of Mr. Ratsch, to whom
Fustov had referred.... I perceived the explanation of my friend's
frequent visits.

VII

There is somewhere, I remember, in Shakespeare, something about 'a white
dove in a flock of black crows'; that was just the impression made on me
by the girl, who entered the room. Between the world surrounding her and
herself there seemed to be too little in common; she herself seemed
secretly bewildered and wondering how she had come there. All the
members of Mr. Ratsch's family looked self-satisfied, simple-hearted,
healthy creatures; her beautiful, but already careworn, face bore the
traces of depression, pride and morbidity. The others, unmistakable
plebeians, were unconstrained in their manners, coarse perhaps, but
simple; but a painful uneasiness was manifest in all her indubitably
aristocratic nature. In her very exterior there was no trace of the type
characteristic of the German race; she recalled rather the children of
the south. The excessively thick, lustreless black hair, the hollow,
black, lifeless but beautiful eyes, the low, prominent brow, the
aquiline nose, the livid pallor of the smooth skin, a certain tragic
line near the delicate lips, and in the slightly sunken cheeks,
something abrupt, and at the same time helpless in the movements,
elegance without gracefulness... in Italy all this would not have struck
me as exceptional, but in Moscow, near the Pretchistensky boulevard, it
simply astonished me! I got up from my seat on her entrance; she flung
me a swift, uneasy glance, and dropping her black eyelashes, sat down
near the window 'like Tatiana.' (Pushkin's Oniegin was then fresh
in every one's mind.) I glanced at Fustov, but my friend was standing
with his back to me, taking a cup of tea from the plump hands of
Eleonora Karpovna. I noticed further that the girl as she came in seemed
to bring with her a breath of slight physical chillness.... 'What a
statue!' was my thought.

VIII

'Piotr Gavrilitch,' thundered Mr. Ratsch, turning to me, 'let me
introduce you to my... to my... my number one, ha, ha, ha! to Susanna
Ivanovna!'

I bowed in silence, and thought at once: 'Why, the name too is not the
same sort as the others,' while Susanna rose slightly, without smiling
or loosening her tightly clasped hands.

'And how about the duet?' Ivan Demianitch pursued: 'Alexander Daviditch?
eh? benefactor! Your zither was left with us, and I've got the bassoon
out of its case already. Let us make sweet music for the honourable
company!' (Mr. Ratsch liked to display his Russian; he was continually
bursting out with expressions, such as those which are strewn broadcast
about the ultra-national poems of Prince Viazemsky.) 'What do you say?
Carried?' cried Ivan Demianitch, seeing Fustov made no objection.
'Kolka, march into the study, and look sharp with the music-stand! Olga,
this way with the zither! And oblige us with candles for the stands,
better-half!' (Mr. Ratsch turned round and round in the room like a
top.) 'Piotr Gavrilitch, you like music, hey? If you don't care for it,
you must amuse yourself with conversation, only mind, not above a
whisper! Ha, ha ha! But what ever's become of that silly chap, Viktor?
He ought to be here to listen too! You spoil him completely, Eleonora
Karpovna.'

Eleonora Karpovna fired up angrily.

'Aber was kann ich denn, Ivan Demianitch...'

'All right, all right, don't squabble! Bleibe ruhig, hast verstanden?
Alexander Daviditch! at your service, sir!'

The children had promptly done as their father had told them. The
music-stands were set up, the music began. I have already mentioned that
Fustov played the zither extremely well, but that instrument has always
produced the most distressing impression upon me. I have always fancied,
and I fancy still, that there is imprisoned in the zither the soul of a
decrepit Jew money-lender, and that it emits nasal whines and complaints
against the merciless musician who forces it to utter sounds. Mr.
Ratsch's performance, too, was not calculated to give me much pleasure;
moreover, his face became suddenly purple, and assumed a malignant
expression, while his whitish eyes rolled viciously, as though he were
just about to murder some one with his bassoon, and were swearing and
threatening by way of preliminary, puffing out chokingly husky, coarse
notes one after another. I placed myself near Susanna, and waiting for a
momentary pause, I asked her if she were as fond of music as her papa.

She turned away, as though I had given her a shove, and pronounced
abruptly, 'Who?'

'Your father,' I repeated,'Mr. Ratsch.'

'Mr. Ratsch is not my father.'

'Not your father! I beg your pardon... I must have misunderstood... But
I remember, Alexander Daviditch...'

Susanna looked at me intently and shyly.

'You misunderstood Mr. Fustov. Mr. Ratsch is my stepfather.'

I was silent for a while.

'And you don't care for music?' I began again.

Susanna glanced at me again. Undoubtedly there was something suggesting
a wild creature in her eyes. She obviously had not expected nor desired
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