Lieutenant Yergunov's Story

"Lieutenant Yergunov's Story" is a poignant short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores themes of love, duty, and the complexities of human emotion. The narrative follows Lieutenant Yergunov, who reflects on his experiences and the relationships he has formed amidst the backdrop of military life. Through Yergunov's introspective journey, Turgenev delves into the contradictions of loyalty and desire, ultimately revealing the profound impact of personal choices and the weight of societal expectations. The story captures the essence of Turgenev's literary style, characterized by deep psychological insight and a rich exploration of character.

								
I

That evening Kuzma Vassilyevitch Yergunov told us his story again. He
used to repeat it punctually once a month and we heard it every time
with fresh satisfaction though we knew it almost by heart, in all its
details. Those details overgrew, if one may so express it, the
original trunk of the story itself as fungi grow over the stump of a
tree. Knowing only too well the character of our companion, we did not
trouble to fill in his gaps and incomplete statements. But now Kuzma
Vassilyevitch is dead and there will be no one to tell his story and
so we venture to bring it before the notice of the public.

II

It happened forty years ago when Kuzma Vassilyevitch was young. He
said of himself that he was at that time a handsome fellow and a dandy
with a complexion of milk and roses, red lips, curly hair, and eyes
like a falcon's. We took his word for it, though we saw nothing of
that sort in him; in our eyes Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a man of very
ordinary exterior, with a simple and sleepy-looking face and a heavy,
clumsy figure. But what of that? There is no beauty the years will not
mar! The traces of dandyism were more clearly preserved in Kuzma
Vassilyevitch. He still in his old age wore narrow trousers with
straps, laced in his corpulent figure, cropped the back of his head,
curled his hair over his forehead and dyed his moustache with Persian
dye, which had, however, a tint rather of purple, and even of green,
than of black. With all that Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a very worthy
gentleman, though at preference he did like to "steal a peep," that
is, look over his neighbour's cards; but this he did not so much from
greed as carefulness, for he did not like wasting his money. Enough of
these parentheses, however; let us come to the story itself.

III

It happened in the spring at Nikolaev, at that time a new town, to
which Kuzma Vassilyevitch had been sent on a government commission.
(He was a lieutenant in the navy.) He had, as a trustworthy and
prudent officer, been charged by the authorities with the task of
looking after the construction of ship-yards and from time to time
received considerable sums of money, which for security he invariably
carried in a leather belt on his person. Kuzma Vassilyevitch certainly
was distinguished by his prudence and, in spite of his youth, his
behaviour was exemplary; he studiously avoided every impropriety of
conduct, did not touch cards, did not drink and, even fought shy of
society so that of his comrades, the quiet ones called him "a regular
girl" and the rowdy ones called him a muff and a noodle. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch had only one failing, he had a tender heart for the fair
sex; but even in that direction he succeeded in restraining his
impulses and did not allow himself to indulge in any "foolishness." He
got up and went to bed early, was conscientious in performing his
duties and his only recreation consisted in rather long evening walks
about the outskirts of Nikolaev. He did not read as he thought it
would send the blood to his head; every spring he used to drink a
special decoction because he was afraid of being too full-blooded.
Putting on his uniform and carefully brushing himself Kuzma
Vassilyevitch strolled with a sedate step alongside the fences of
orchards, often stopped, admired the beauties of nature, gathered
flowers as souvenirs and found a certain pleasure in doing so; but he
felt acute pleasure only when he happened to meet "a charmer," that
is, some pretty little workgirl with a shawl flung over her shoulders,
with a parcel in her ungloved hand and a gay kerchief on her head.
Being as he himself expressed it of a susceptible but modest
temperament Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not address the "charmer," but
smiled ingratiatingly at her and looked long and attentively after
her.... Then he would heave a deep sigh, go home with the same sedate
step, sit down at the window and dream for half an hour, carefully
smoking strong tobacco out of a meerschaum pipe with an amber
mouthpiece given him by his godfather, a police superintendent of
German origin. So the days passed neither gaily nor drearily.

IV

Well, one day, as he was returning home along an empty side-street at
dusk Kuzma Vassilyevitch heard behind him hurried footsteps and
incoherent words mingled with sobs. He looked round and saw a girl
about twenty with an extremely pleasing but distressed and tear-stained
face. She seemed to have been overtaken by some great and unexpected
grief. She was running and stumbling as she ran, talking to herself,
exclaiming, gesticulating; her fair hair was in disorder and her shawl
(the burnous and the mantle were unknown in those days) had slipped off
her shoulders and was kept on by one pin. The girl was dressed like a
young lady, not like a workgirl.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch stepped aside; his feeling of compassion
overpowered his fear of doing something foolish and, when she caught
him up, he politely touched the peak of his shako, and asked her the
cause of her tears.

"For," he added, and he laid his hand on his cutlass, "I, as an
officer, may be able to help you."

The girl stopped and apparently for the first moment did not clearly
understand what he wanted of her; but at once, as though glad of the
opportunity of expressing herself, began speaking in slightly
imperfect Russian.

"Oh, dear, Mr. Officer," she began and tears rained down her charming
cheeks, "it is beyond everything! It's awful, it is beyond words! We
have been robbed, the cook has carried off everything, everything,
everything, the dinner service, the lock-up box and our clothes....
Yes, even our clothes, and stockings and linen, yes ... and aunt's
reticule. There was a twenty-five-rouble note and two appliqué spoons
in it ... and her pelisse, too, and everything.... And I told all that
to the police officer and the police officer said, 'Go away, I don't
believe you, I don't believe you. I won't listen to you. You are the
same sort yourselves.' I said, 'Why, but the pelisse ...' and he, 'I
won't listen to you, I won't listen to you.' It was so insulting, Mr.
Officer! 'Go away,' he said, 'get along,' but where am I to go?"

The girl sobbed convulsively, almost wailing, and utterly distracted
leaned against Kuzma Vassilyevitch's sleeve.... He was overcome with
confusion in his turn and stood rooted to the spot, only repeating
from time to time, "There, there!" while he gazed at the delicate nape
of the dishevelled damsel's neck, as it shook from her sobs.

"Will you let me see you home?" he said at last, lightly touching her
shoulder with his forefinger, "here in the street, you understand, it
is quite impossible. You can explain your trouble to me and of course
I will make every effort ... as an officer."

The girl raised her head and seemed for the first time to see the
young man who might be said to be holding her in his arms. She was
disconcerted, turned away, and still sobbing moved a little aside.

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