Andrei Kolosov

"Andrei Kolosov" is a short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores themes of love, longing, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows the titular character, Andrei Kolosov, who grapples with his feelings for a woman he cannot have, revealing the depths of his emotional turmoil and the societal constraints that shape his experiences. Turgenev's lyrical prose captures the nuances of Kolosov's internal struggles, ultimately reflecting on the nature of desire and the bittersweet aspects of life. Through this poignant tale, Turgenev offers a rich exploration of the human condition.

• Novel

								
In a small, decently furnished room several young men were sitting
before the fire. The winter evening was only just beginning; the
samovar was boiling on the table, the conversation had hardly taken a
definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. They
began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from
ordinary people. Every one expounded his views to the best of his
abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. A small,
pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his companions,
sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and
addressed us all (I was one of the disputants) in the following
words:--

'Gentlemen! all your profound remarks are excellent in their own way,
but unprofitable.

Every one, as usual, hears his opponent's views, and every one retains
his own convictions. But it's not the first time we have met, nor the
first time we have argued, and so we have probably by now had ample
opportunity for expressing our own views and learning those of others.
Why, then, do you take so much trouble?'

Uttering these words, the small man carelessly flicked the ash off his
cigar into the fireplace, dropped his eyelids, and smiled serenely. We
all ceased speaking.

'Well, what are we to do then, according to you?' said one of us; 'play
cards, or what? go to sleep? break up and go home?'

'Playing cards is agreeable, and sleep's always salutary,' retorted the
small man; 'but it's early yet to break up and go home. You didn't
understand me, though. Listen: I propose, if it comes to that, that
each of you should describe some exceptional personality, tell us of
any meeting you may have had with any remarkable man. I can assure you
even the feeblest description has far more sense in it than the finest
argument.'

We pondered.

'It's a strange thing,' observed one of us, an inveterate jester;
'except myself I don't know a single exceptional person, and with my
life you are all, I fancy, familiar already. However, if you insist--'

'No!' cried another, 'we don't! But, I tell you what,' he added,
addressing the small man, 'you begin. You have put a stopper on all of
us, you're the person to fill the gap. Only mind, if we don't care for
your story, we shall hiss you.'

'If you like,' answered the small man. He stood close to the fire; we
sat round him and kept quiet. The small man looked at all of us,
glanced at the ceiling, and began as follows:--

'Ten years ago, my dear friends, I was a student at Moscow. My father,
a virtuous landowner of the steppes, had handed me over to a retired
German professor, who, for a hundred roubles a month, undertook to
lodge and board me, and to watch over my morals. This German was the
fortunate possessor of an exceedingly solemn and decorous manner; at
first I went in considerable awe of him. But on returning home one
evening, I saw, with indescribable emotion, my preceptor sitting with
three or four companions at a round table, on which there stood a
fair-sized collection of empty bottles and half-full glasses. On seeing
me, my revered preceptor got up, and, waving his arms and stammering,
presented me to the honourable company, who all promptly offered me a
glass of punch. This agreeable spectacle had a most illuminating effect
on my intelligence; my future rose before me in the most seductive
images. And, as a fact, from that memorable day I enjoyed unbounded
freedom, and all but worried my preceptor to death. He had a wife who
always smelt of smoke and pickled cucumbers; she was still youngish,
but had not a single front tooth in her head. All German women, as we
know, very quickly lose those indispensable ornaments of the human
frame. I mention her, solely because she fell passionately in love with
me and fed me almost into my grave.'

'To the point, to the point,' we shouted. 'Surely it's not your own
adventures you're going to tell us?'

'No, gentlemen!' the small man replied composedly. 'I am an ordinary
mortal. And so I lived at my German's, as the saying is, in clover. I
did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home I did
positively nothing. In a very short time, I had got to know all my
comrades and was on intimate terms with all of them. Among my new
friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a
town provost on the retired list. His name was Bobov. This Bobov got in
the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. I, too ... do you
know, I didn't like him, nor dislike him; I was more or less
indifferent.... I must tell I hadn't in all Moscow a single relation,
except an old uncle, who used sometimes to ask me for money. I never
went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women; I also avoided all
acquaintance with the parents of my college friends, ever after one
such parent (in my presence) pulled his son's hair--because a button
was off his uniform, while at the very time I hadn't more than six
buttons on my whole coat. In comparison with many of my comrades, I
passed for being a person of wealth; my father used to send me every
now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently I not
only enjoyed a position of independence, but I was continually
surrounded by toadies and flatterers.... What am I saying?--why, for
that matter, so was my bobtail dog Armishka, who, in spite of his
setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a
gun reduced him to indescribable misery. Like every young man, however,
I was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after
bringing forth a dozen more or less shapeless poems, passes off in a
peaceful and propitious manner. I wanted something, strove towards
something, and dreamed of something; I'll own I didn't know precisely
what it was I dreamed of. Now I understand what was lacking:--I felt my
loneliness, thirsted for the society of so-called live people; the word
Life waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache I listened to the
sound of it.... Valerian Nikitich, pass me a cigarette.'

Lighting the cigarette, the small man continued:

'One fine morning Bobov came running to me, out of breath: "Do you
know, old man, the great news? Kolosov has arrived." "Kolosov? and who
on earth is Mr. Kolosov?"

'"You don't know him? Andriusha Kolosov! Come, old boy, let's go to him
directly. He came back last night from a holiday engagement." "But what
sort of fellow is he?" "An exceptional man, my boy, let me assure you!"
"An exceptional man," I answered; "then you go alone. I'll stop at
home. I know your exceptional men! A half-tipsy rhymester with an
everlastingly ecstatic smile!" ... "Oh no! Kolosov's not like that." I
was on the point of observing that it was for Mr. Kolosov to call on
me; but, I don't know why, I obeyed Bobov and went. Bobov conducted me
to one of the very dirtiest, crookedest, and narrowest streets in
Moscow.... The house in which Kolosov lodged was built in the

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