Andrei Kolosov Page #6

"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

								

divining my thoughts, nodded his head affirmatively. Directly after tea
I got up and took leave. 'You, my good sir, we shall see again,'
observed the lieutenant. I did not say a word in reply.... I began to
feel simply frightened of the man.

On the steps a cold and trembling hand clutched at mine; I looked
round: Varia. 'I must speak to you,' she whispered. 'Come to-morrow
rather earlier, straight into the garden. After dinner papa is asleep;
no one will interfere with us.' I pressed her hand without a word, and
we parted.

Next day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, I was in Ivan Semyonitch's
garden. In the morning I had not seen Kolosov, though he had come to
see me. It was a grey autumn day, but soft and warm. Delicate yellow
blades of grass nodded over the blanching turf; the nimble tomtits were
hopping about the bare dark-brown twigs; some belated larks were
hurriedly running about the paths; a hare was creeping cautiously about
among the greens; a herd of cattle wandered lazily over the stubble. I
found Varia in the garden under the apple-tree on the little
garden-seat; she was wearing a dark dress, rather creased; her weary
eyes, the dejected droop of her hair, seemed to express genuine
suffering.

I sat down beside her. We were both silent. For a long while she kept
twisting a twig in her hand; she bent her head, and uttered: 'Andrei
Nikolaevitch....' I noticed at once, by the twitching of her lips, that
she was getting ready to cry, and began consoling her, assuring her
hotly of Andrei's devotion.... She heard me, nodded her head
mournfully, articulated some indistinct words, and then was silent but
did not cry. The first moments I had dreaded most of all had gone off
fairly well. She began little by little to talk about Andrei. 'I know
that he does not love me now,' she repeated: 'God be with him! I can't
imagine how I am to live without him.... I don't sleep at nights, I
keep weeping.... What am I to do! What am I to do! ...' Her eyes filled
with tears. 'I thought him so kind ... and here ...' Varia wiped her
eyes, cleared her throat, and sat up. 'It seems such a little while
ago,' she went on: 'he was reading to me out of Pushkin, sitting with
me on this bench....' Varia's naïve communicativeness touched me. I
listened in silence to her confessions; my soul was slowly filled with
a bitter, torturing bliss; I could not take my eyes off that pale face,
those long, wet eyelashes, and half-parted, rather parched lips.... And
meanwhile I felt ... Would you care to hear a slight psychological
analysis of my emotions at that moment? in the first place I was
tortured by the thought that it was not I that was loved, not I that as
making Varia suffer: secondly, I was delighted at her confidence; I
knew she would be grateful to me for giving her an opportunity of
expressing her sorrow: thirdly, I was inwardly vowing to myself to
bring Kolosov and Varia together again, and was deriving consolation
from the consciousness of my magnanimity ... in the fourth place, I
hoped, by my self-sacrifice, to touch Varia's heart; and then ... You
see I do not spare myself; no, thank God! it's high time!

But from the bell-tower of the monastery near it struck five o'clock;
the evening was coming on rapidly. Varia got up hastily, thrust a
little note into my hand, and went off towards the house. I overtook
her, promised to bring Andrei to her, and stealthily, like a happy
lover, crept out by the little gate into the field. On the note was
written in an unsteady hand the words: To Andrei Nikolaevitch.

Next day I set off early in the morning to Kolosov's. I'm bound to
confess that, although I assured myself that my intentions were not
only honourable, but positively brimful of great-hearted
self-sacrifice, I was yet conscious of a certain awkwardness, even
timidity. I arrived at Kolosov's. There was with him a fellow called
Puzyritsin, a former student who had never taken his degree, one of
those authors of sensational novels of the so-called 'Moscow' or 'grey'
school. Puzyritsin was a very good-natured and shy person, and was
always preparing to be an hussar, in spite of his thirty-three years.
He belonged to that class of people who feel it absolutely necessary,
once in the twenty-four hours, to utter a phrase after the pattern of,
'The beautiful always falls into decay in the flower of its splendour;
such is the fate of the beautiful in the world,' in order to smoke his
pipe with redoubled zest all the rest of the day in a circle of 'good
comrades.' On this account he was called an idealist. Well, so
Puzyritsin was sitting with Kolosov reading him some 'fragment.' I
began to listen; it was all about a youth, who loves a maiden, kills
her, and so on. At last Puzyritsin finished and retreated. His absurd
production, solemnly bawling voice, his presence altogether, had put
Kolosov into a mood of sarcastic irritability. I felt that I had come
at an unlucky moment, but there was nothing to be done for it; without
any kind of preface, I handed Andrei Varia's note.

Kolosov looked at me in perplexity, tore open the note, ran his eyes
over it, said nothing, but smiled composedly. 'Oh, ho!' he said at
last; 'so you've been at Ivan Semyonitch's?'

'Yes, I was there yesterday, alone,' I answered abruptly and
resolutely.

'Ah!...' observed Kolosov ironically, and he lighted his pipe.
'Andrei,' I said to him, 'aren't you sorry for her?... If you had seen
her tears...'

And I launched into an eloquent description of my visit of the previous
day. I was genuinely moved. Kolosov did not speak, and smoked his pipe.

'You sat with her under the apple-tree in the garden,' he said at last.
'I remember in May I, too, used to sit with her on that seat.... The
apple-tree was in blossom, the fresh white flowers fell upon us
sometimes; I held both Varia's hands... we were happy then.... Now the
apple-blossom is over, and the apples on the tree are sour.'

I flew into a passion of noble indignation, began reproaching Andrei
for coldness, for cruelty, argued with him that he had no right to
abandon a girl so suddenly, after awakening in her a multitude of new
emotions; I begged him at least to go and say good-bye to Varia.
Kolosov heard me to the end.

'Admitting,' he said to me, when, agitated and exhausted, I flung
myself into an armchair, 'that you, as my friend, may be allowed to
criticise me. But hear my defence, at least, though...'

Here he paused for a little while and smiled curiously. 'Varia's an
excellent girl,' he went on, 'and has done me no wrong whatever.... On
the contrary, I am greatly, very greatly indebted to her. I have left
off going to see her for a very simple reason--I have left off caring
for her....'

'But why? why?' I interrupted him.

'Goodness knows why. While I loved her, I was entirely hers; I never
thought of the future, and everything, my whole life, I shared with her
... now this passion has died out in me.... Well, you would tell me to
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes