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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