Andrei Kolosov Page #3

"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

								

his hand. I leaped up and flung myself on his breast. My genuine
delight touched him.... I did not know what to say, I was choking....
Kolosov looked at me and softly laughed. We had tea. At tea he talked
of Gavrilov; I heard that that timid, gentle boy had saved Kolosov's
life, and I could not but own to myself that in Gavrilov's place I
couldn't have resisted chattering about it--boasting of my luck. It
struck eight. Kolosov got up, went to the window, drummed on the panes,
turned swiftly round to me, tried to say something ... and sat down on
a chair without a word. I took his hand. 'Kolosov, truly, truly I
deserve your confidence!' He looked straight into my eyes. 'Well, if
so,' he brought out at last, 'take your cap and come along.' 'Where
to?' 'Gavrilov did not ask me.' I was silent at once. 'Can you play at
cards?' 'Yes.'

We went out, took a cab to one of the gates of the town. At the gate we
got out. Kolosov went on in front very quickly; I followed him. We
walked along the highroad. After we had gone three-quarters of a mile,
Kolosov turned off. Meanwhile night had come on. On the right in the
fog were the twinkling lights, the innumerable church-spires of the
immense city; on the left, two white horses were grazing in a meadow
skirting the forest: before us stretched fields covered with greyish
mists. I followed Kolosov in silence. He stopped all at once, stretched
his hand out in front of him, and said: 'Here, this is where we are
going.' I saw a small dark house; two little windows showed a dim light
in the fog. 'In this house,' Kolosov went on, 'lives a man called
Sidorenko, a retired lieutenant, with his sister, an old maid, and his
daughter. I shall pass you off as a relation of mine--you must sit
down and play at cards with him.' I nodded without a word.

I wanted to show Kolosov that I could be as silent as Gavrilov.... But
I will own I was suffering agonies of curiosity. As we went up to the
steps of the house, I caught sight, at a lighted window, of the slender
figure of a girl.... She seemed waiting for us and vanished at once. We
went into a dark and narrow passage. A crooked, hunchback old woman
came to meet us, and looked at me with astonishment. 'Is Ivan
Semyonitch at home?' inquired Kolosov. 'He is at home.'... 'He is at
home!' called a deep masculine voice from within. We went into the
dining-room, if dining-room one can call the long, rather dirty room; a
small old piano huddled unassumingly in a corner beside the stove; a
few chairs stood out along the walls which had once been yellow. In the
middle of the room stood a tall, stooping man of fifty, in a greasy
dressing-gown. I looked at him more attentively: a morose looking
countenance, hair standing up like a brush, a low forehead, grey eyes,
immense whiskers, thick lips.... 'A nice customer!' I thought. 'It's a
longish time since we've seen you, Andrei Nikolaevitch,' he observed,
holding out his hideous red hand, 'a longish time it is! And where's
Sevastian Sevastianovitch?' 'Gavrilov is dead,' answered Kolosov
mournfully. 'Dead! you don't say so! And who's this?' 'My relation--I
have the honour to present to you Nikolai Alexei....' 'All right, all
right,' Ivan Semyonitch cut him short, 'delighted, delighted. And does
he play cards?' 'Play, of course he does!' 'Ah, then, that's capital;
we'll sit down directly. Hey! Matrona Semyonovna--where are you? the
card-table--quick!... And tea!' With these words Mr. Sidorenko walked
into the next room. Kolosov looked at me. 'Listen,' he said, 'you can't
think how ashamed I am!'... I shut him up. 'Come, you there, what's
your name, this way,' called Ivan Semyonitch. I went into the
drawing-room. The drawing-room was even smaller than the dining-room.
On the walls hung some monstrosities of portraits; in front of the
sofa, of which the stuffing protruded in several places, stood a green
table; on the sofa sat Ivan Semyonitch, already shuffling the cards.
Near him on the extreme edge of a low chair sat a spare woman in a
white cap and a black gown, yellow and wrinkled, with short-sighted
eyes and thin cat-like lips. 'Here,' said Ivan Semyonitch, 'let me
introduce him; the first man's dead; Andrei Nikolaevitch has brought us
another; let's see how he plays!' The old lady bowed awkwardly and
cleared her throat. I looked round; Kolosov was no longer in the room.
'Stop that coughing, Matrona Semyonovna; sheep cough,' grumbled
Sidorenko. I sat down; the game began. Mr. Sidorenko got fearfully hot
and furious at my slightest mistake; he pelted his sister with abusive
epithets, but she had apparently had time to get used to her brother's
amenities, and only blinked in response. But when he announced to
Matrona Semyonovna that she was 'Antichrist,' the poor old woman fired
up. 'Ivan Semyonitch,' she protested with heat, 'you were the death of
your wife, Anfisa Karpovna, but you shan't worry me into my grave!'
'Indeed?' 'No! you shan't.' 'Indeed?' 'No! you shan't.' They kept it up
in this fashion for some time. My position was, as you perceive, not
merely an unenviable one: it was positively idiotic. I couldn't
conceive what had induced Kolosov to bring me.... I have never been a
good card-player; but on that occasion I was aware myself that I was
playing excruciatingly badly. 'No!' the retired lieutenant repeated
continually,' you can't hold a candle to Sevastianovitch! No! you play
carelessly!' I, you may be sure, was inwardly wishing him at the devil.
This torture continued for two hours; they beat me hollow. Before the
end of the last rubber, I heard a slight sound behind my chair--I
looked round and saw Kolosov; beside him stood a girl of seventeen, who
was watching me with a scarcely perceptible smile. 'Fill me my pipe,
Varia,' muttered Ivan Semyonitch. The girl promptly flew off into the
other room. She was not very pretty, rather pale, rather thin; but
never before or since have I seen such hair, such eyes. We finished the
rubber somehow; I paid up, Sidorenko lighted his pipe and grumbled:

'Well, now it's time for supper!' Kolosov presented me to Varia, that
is, to Varvara Ivanovna, the daughter of Ivan Semyonitch. Varia was
embarrassed; I too was embarrassed. But in a few minutes Kolosov, as
usual, had got everything and everyone into full swing; he sat Varia
down to the piano, begged her to play a dance tune, and proceeded to
dance a Cossack dance in competition with Ivan Semyonitch. The
lieutenant uttered little shrieks, stamped and cut such incredible
capers that even Matrona Semyonovna burst out laughing and retreated to
her own room upstairs. The hunchback old woman laid the table; we sat
down to supper. At supper Kolosov told all sorts of nonsensical
stories; the lieutenant's guffaws were deafening; I peeped from under
my eyelids at Varia. She never took her eyes off Kolosov ... and from
the expression of her face alone, I could divine that she both loved
him and was loved by him. Her lips were slightly parted, her head bent
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