Knock, Knock, Knock

"Knock, Knock, Knock" is a lesser-known work by the acclaimed Russian author Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, known for his deep insights into human nature and societal dynamics. This narrative centers around the themes of love, existential reflection, and the complexities of personal relationships within the backdrop of 19th-century Russia. Turgenev’s lyrical prose and keen psychological exploration invite readers to delve into the characters’ motivations and emotions, making it a poignant examination of life’s enduring questions.

								
I

We all settled down in a circle and our good friend Alexandr
Vassilyevitch Ridel (his surname was German but he was Russian to the
marrow of his bones) began as follows:

I am going to tell you a story, friends, of something that happened to
me in the 'thirties ... forty years ago as you see. I will be
brief--and don't you interrupt me.

I was living at the time in Petersburg and had only just left the
University. My brother was a lieutenant in the horse-guard artillery.
His battery was stationed at Krasnoe Selo--it was summer time. My
brother lodged not at Krasnoe Selo itself but in one of the
neighbouring villages; I stayed with him more than once and made the
acquaintance of all his comrades. He was living in a fairly decent
cottage, together with another officer of his battery, whose name was
Ilya Stepanitch Tyeglev. I became particularly friendly with him.

Marlinsky is out of date now--no one reads him--and even his name is
jeered at; but in the 'thirties his fame was above everyone's--and in
the opinion of the young people of the day Pushkin could not hold
candle to him. He not only enjoyed the reputation of being the
foremost Russian writer; but--something much more difficult and more
rarely met with--he did to some extent leave his mark on his
generation. One came across heroes à la Marlinsky everywhere,
especially in the provinces and especially among infantry and
artillery men; they talked and corresponded in his language; behaved
with gloomy reserve in society--"with tempest in the soul and flame in
the blood" like Lieutenant Byelosov in the "Frigate Hope."
Women's hearts were "devoured" by them. The adjective applied to them
in those days was "fatal." The type, as we all know, survived for many
years, to the days of Petchorin. [Footnote: The leading character in
Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time.--Translator's Note.] All
sorts of elements were mingled in that type. Byronism, romanticism,
reminiscences of the French Revolution, of the Dekabrists--and the
worship of Napoleon; faith in destiny, in one's star, in strength of
will; pose and fine phrases--and a miserable sense of the emptiness of
life; uneasy pangs of petty vanity--and genuine strength and daring;
generous impulses--and defective education, ignorance; aristocratic
airs--and delight in trivial foppery.... But enough of these general
reflections. I promised to tell you the story.

II

Lieutenant Tyeglev belonged precisely to the class of those "fatal"
individuals, though he did not possess the exterior commonly
associated with them; he was not, for instance, in the least like
Lermontov's "fatalist." He was a man of medium height, fairly solid
and round-shouldered, with fair, almost white eyebrows and eyelashes;
he had a round, fresh, rosy-cheeked face, a turn-up nose, a low
forehead with the hair growing thick over the temples, and full,
well-shaped, always immobile lips: he never laughed, never even smiled.
Only when he was tired and out of heart he showed his square teeth,
white as sugar. The same artificial immobility was imprinted on all his
features: had it not been for that, they would have had a good-natured
expression. His small green eyes with yellow lashes were the
only thing not quite ordinary in his face: his right eye was very
slightly higher than his left and the left eyelid drooped a little,
which made his eyes look different, strange and drowsy. Tyeglev's
countenance, which was not, however, without a certain attractiveness,
almost always wore an expression of discontent mingled with
perplexity, as though he were chasing within himself a gloomy thought
which he was never able to catch. At the same time he did not give one
the impression of being stuck up: he might rather have been taken for
an aggrieved than a haughty man. He spoke very little, hesitatingly,
in a husky voice, with unnecessary repetitions. Unlike most
"fatalists," he did not use particularly elaborate expressions in
speaking and only had recourse to them in writing; his handwriting was
quite like a child's. His superiors regarded him as an officer of no
great merit--not particularly capable and not over-zealous. The
brigadier-general, a man of German extraction, used to say of him: "He
has punctuality but not precision." With the soldiers, too, Tyeglev
had the character of being neither one thing nor the other. He lived
modestly, in accordance with his means. He had been left an orphan at
nine years old: his father and mother were drowned when they were
being ferried across the Oka in the spring floods. He had been
educated at a private school, where he had the reputation of being one
of the slowest and quietest of the boys, and at his own earnest desire
and through the good offices of a cousin who was a man of influence,
he obtained a commission in the horse-guards artillery; and, though
with some difficulty, passed his examination first as an ensign and
then as a second lieutenant. His relations with other officers were
somewhat strained. He was not liked, was rarely visited--and he
hardly went to see anyone. He felt the presence of strangers a
constraint; he instantly became awkward and unnatural ... he had no
instinct for comradeship and was not on really intimate terms with
anyone. But he was respected, and respected not for his character nor
for his intelligence and education--but because the stamp which
distinguishes "fatal" people was discerned in him. No one of his
fellow officers expected that Tyeglev would make a career or
distinguish himself in any way; but that Tyeglev might do something
extraordinary or that Tyeglev might become a Napoleon was not
considered impossible. For that is a matter of a man's "star"--and he
was regarded as a "man of destiny," just as there are "men of sighs"
and "of tears."

III

Two incidents that marked the first steps in his career did a great
deal to strengthen his "fatal" reputation. On the very first day after
receiving his commission--about the middle of March--he was walking
with other newly promoted officers in full dress uniform along the
embankment. The spring had come early that year, the Neva was melting;
the bigger blocks of ice had gone but the whole river was choked up
with a dense mass of thawing icicles. The young men were talking and
laughing ... suddenly one of them stopped: he saw a little dog some
twenty paces from the bank on the slowly moving surface of the river.
Perched on a projecting piece of ice it was whining and trembling all
over. "It will be drowned," said the officer through his teeth. The
dog was slowly being carried past one of the sloping gangways that led
down to the river. All at once Tyeglev without saying a word ran down
this gangway and over the thin ice, sinking in and leaping out again,
reached the dog, seized it by the scruff of the neck and getting
safely back to the bank, put it down on the pavement. The danger to

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