Lieutenant Yergunov's Story Page #4
"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.
ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own four walls. Madame Fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and ungraciously. Persons in straitened circumstances like Madame Fritsche particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and Kuzma Vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... Only once he let himself go and presented Emilie with a light pink fichu of real French material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a candle. He began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat's tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. Kuzma Vassilyevitch was forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win the respect of the ladies from Riga, but had even failed to gain their confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal something from him they would converse in German in his presence. Emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all, some of the rooms in Madame Fritsche's house, which was a fairly large one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened to him. For all that, Kuzma Vassilyevitch did not give up his visits; on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing living people, anyway. His vanity was gratified by Emilie's continuing to call him Florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, "wie die Augen eines Paradiesvogels!" XI One day in the very height of summer, Kuzma Vassilyevitch, who had spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors and workmen, dragged himself tired and exhausted to the little gate that had become so familiar to him. He knocked and was admitted. He shambled into the so-called drawing-room and immediately lay down on the sofa. Emilie went up to him and mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief. "How tired he is, poor pet! How hot he is!" she said commiseratingly. "Good gracious! You might at least unbutton your collar. My goodness, how your throat is pulsing!" "I am done up, my dear," groaned Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "I've been on my feet all the morning, in the baking sun. It's awful! I meant to go home. But there those vipers, the contractors, would find me! While here with you it is cool.... I believe I could have a nap." "Well, why not? Go to sleep, my little chick; no one will disturb you here." ... "But I am really ashamed." "What next! Why ashamed? Go to sleep. And I'll sing you ... what do you call it? ... I'll sing you to bye-bye, 'Schlaf, mein Kindchen, Schlafe!'" She began singing. "I should like a drink of water first." "Here is a glass of water for you. Fresh as crystal! Wait, I'll put a pillow under your head.... And here is this to keep the flies off." She covered his face with a handkerchief. "Thank you, my little cupid.... I'll just have a tiny doze ... that's all." Kuzma Vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. "Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlafe," sang Emilie, swaying from side to side and softly laughing at her song and her movements. "What a big baby I have got!" she thought. "A boy!" XII An hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. He fancied in his sleep that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. He fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. Emilie was on her knees close beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. She jumped up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her pocket. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stretched. "I've had a good long snooze, it seems!" he observed, yawning. "Come here, meine züsse Fräulein!" Emilie went up to him. He sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her pocket and took out a small pair of scissors. "Ach, Herr Je!" Emilie could not help exclaiming. "It's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "Why, of course. What did you think it was ... a pistol? Oh, how funny you look! You're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing up at the back.... And he doesn't laugh.... Oh, oh! And his eyes are puffy.... Oh!" Emilie went off into a giggle. "Come, that's enough," muttered Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he got up from the sofa. "That's enough giggling about nothing. If you can't think of anything more sensible, I'll go home.... I'll go home," he repeated, seeing that she was still laughing. Emilie subsided. "Come, stay; I won't.... Only you must brush your hair." "No, never mind.... Don't trouble. I'd better go," said Kuzma Vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap. Emilie pouted. "Fie, how cross he is! A regular Russian! All Russians are cross. Now he is going. Fie! Yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he gives me nothing and goes away." "I haven't any money on me," Kuzma Vassilyevitch muttered grumpily in the doorway. "Good-bye." Emilie looked after him and shook her finger. "No money! Do you hear, do you hear what he says? Oh, what deceivers these Russians are! But wait a bit, you pug.... Auntie, come here, I have something to tell you." That evening as Kuzma Vassilyevitch was undressing to go to bed, he noticed that the upper edge of his leather belt had come unsewn for about three inches. Like a careful man he at once procured a needle and thread, waxed the thread and stitched up the hole himself. He paid, however, no attention to this apparently trivial circumstance. XIII The whole of the next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch devoted to his official duties; he did not leave the house even after dinner and right into the night was scribbling and copying out his report to his superior officer, mercilessly disregarding the rules of spelling, always putting an exclamation mark after the word but and a semi-colon after however. Next morning a barefoot Jewish boy in a tattered gown brought him a letter from Emilie--the first letter that Kuzma Vassilyevitch had received from her. "Mein allerliebstep Florestan," she wrote to him, "can you really so cross with your Zuckerpüppchen be that you came not yesterday? Please be not cross if you wish not your merry Emilie to weep very bitterly and come, be sure, at 5 o'clock to-day." (The figure 5 was surrounded with two wreaths.) "I will be very, very glad. Your amiable Emilie."
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"Lieutenant Yergunov's Story Books." Literature.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2025. Web. 15 Mar. 2025. <https://www.literature.com/book/lieutenant_yergunovs_story_3922>.
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