Andrei Kolosov Page #2

"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

								

old-fashioned style, rambling and uncomfortable. We went into the
courtyard; a fat peasant woman was hanging out clothes on a line
stretched from the house to the fence.... Children were squalling on
the wooden staircase...'

'Get on! get on!' we objected plaintively.

'I see, gentlemen, you don't care for the agreeable, and cling solely
to the profitable. As you please! We groped our way through a dark and
narrow passage to Kolosov's room; we went in. You have most likely an
approximate idea of what a poor student's room is like. Directly facing
the door Kolosov was sitting on a chest of drawers, smoking a pipe. He
gave his hand to Bobov in a friendly way, and greeted me affably. I
looked at Kolosov and at once felt irresistibly drawn to him.
Gentlemen! Bobov was right: Kolosov really was a remarkable person. Let
me describe a little more in detail.... He was rather tall, slender,
graceful, and exceedingly good-looking. His face... I find it very
difficult to describe his face. It is easy to describe all the features
one by one; but how is one to convey to any one else what constitutes
the distinguishing characteristic, the essence of just that face?'

'What Byron calls "the music of the face,"' observed a tightly
buttoned-up, pallid gentleman.

'Quite so.... And therefore I will confine myself to a single remark:
the especial "something" to which I have just referred consisted in
Kolosov's case in a carelessly gay and fearless expression of face, and
also in an exceedingly captivating smile. He did not remember his
parents, and had had a wretched bringing-up in the house of a distant
relative, who had been degraded from the service for taking bribes. Up
to the age of fifteen, he had lived in the country; then he found his
way into Moscow, and after two years spent in the care of an old deaf
priest's wife, he entered the university and began to get his living by
lessons. He gave instruction in history, geography, and Russian
grammar, though he had only a dim notion of these branches of science;
but in the first place, there is an abundance of 'textbooks' among us
in Russia, of the greatest usefulness to teachers; and secondly, the
requirements of the respectable merchants, who confided their
children's education to Kolosov, were exceedingly limited. Kolosov was
neither a wit nor a humorist; but you cannot imagine how readily we all
fell under that fellow's sway. We felt a sort of instinctive admiration
of him; his words, his looks, his gestures were all so full of the
charm of youth that all his comrades were head over ears in love with
him. The professors considered him as a fairly intelligent lad, but 'of
no marked abilities,' and lazy.

Kolosov's presence gave a special harmony to our evening reunions.
Before him, our liveliness never passed into vulgar riotousness; if we
were all melancholy--this half childlike melancholy, in his presence,
led on to quiet, sometimes fairly sensible, conversation, and never
ended in dejected boredom. You are smiling, gentlemen--I understand
your smile; no doubt, many of us since then have turned out pretty
cads! But youth ... youth....'

    'Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story!
    The days of our youth are the days of our glory....'

commented the same pallid gentleman.

'By Jove, what a memory he's got! and all from Byron!' observed the
storyteller. 'In one word, Kolosov was the soul of our set. I was
attached to him by a feeling stronger than any I have ever felt for any
woman. And yet, I don't feel ashamed even now to remember that strange
love--yes, love it was, for I recollect I went through at that time all
the tortures of that passion, jealousy, for instance. Kolosov liked us
all equally, but was particularly friendly with a silent,
flaxen-haired, and unobtrusive youth, called Gavrilov. From Gavrilov he
was almost inseparable; he would often speak to him in a whisper, and
used to disappear with him out of Moscow, no one knew where, for two or
three days at a time.... Kolosov did not care to be questioned, and I
was lost in surmises. It was not simple curiosity that disturbed me. I
longed to become the friend, the attendant squire of Kolosov; I was
jealous of Gavrilov; I envied him; I could never find an explanation to
satisfy me of Kolosov's strange absences. Meanwhile he had none of that
air of mysteriousness about him, which is the proud possession of
youths endowed with vanity, pallor, black hair, and 'expressive' eyes,
nor had he anything of that studied carelessness under which we are
given to understand that vast forces are slumbering; no, he was quite
open and free; but when he was possessed by passion, an intense,
impulsive energy was apparent in everything about him; only he did not
waste his energies in vain, and never under any circumstances became
high-flown or affected. By the way ... tell me the truth, hasn't it
happened to you to sit smoking a pipe with an air of as weary solemnity
as if you had just resolved on a grand achievement, while you were
simply pondering on what colour to choose for your next pair of
trousers?... But the point is, that I was the first to observe in
Kolosov, always cheerful and friendly as he was, these instinctive,
passionate impulses.... They may well say that love is penetrating. I
made up my mind at all hazards to get into his confidence. It was no
use for me to lay myself out to please Kolosov; I had such a childlike
adoration for him that he could have no doubt of my devotion ... but to
my indescribable vexation, I had, at last, to yield to the conviction
that Kolosov avoided closer intimacy with me, that he was as it were
oppressed by my uninvited attachment. Once, when with obvious
displeasure he asked me to lend him money--the very next day he
returned me the loan with ironical gratitude. During the whole winter
my relations with Kolosov were utterly unchanged; I often compared
myself with Gavrilov, and could not make out in what respect he was
better than I.... But suddenly everything was changed. In the middle of
April, Gavrilov fell ill, and died in the arms of Kolosov, who never
left his room for an instant, and went nowhere for a whole week
afterwards. We were all grieved for poor Gavrilov; the pale, silent lad
seemed to have had a foreboding of his end. I too grieved sincerely for
him, but my heart ached with expectation of something.... One ever
memorable evening ... I was alone, lying on the sofa, gazing idly at
the ceiling ... some one rapidly opened the door of my room and stood
still in the doorway; I raised my head; before me stood Kolosov.

He slowly came in and sat down beside me. 'I have come to you,' he
began in a rather thick voice, 'because you care more for me than any
of the others do.... I have lost my best friend'--his voice shook a
little--'and I feel lonely.... None of you knew Gavrilov ... none of
you knew....' He got up, paced up and down the room, came rapidly
towards me again.... 'Will you take his place?' he said, and gave me
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