Lieutenant Yergunov's Story Page #6

"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.

								


"Oh, yes!" She flung back her mane of hair, put her head on one side
and struck several chords, looking carefully at the tips of her
fingers and at the top of the guitar ... then suddenly began singing
in a voice unexpectedly strong and agreeable, but guttural and to the
ears of Kuzma Vassilyevitch rather savage. "Oh, you pretty kitten," he
thought. She sang a mournful song, utterly un-Russian and in a
language quite unknown to Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He used to declare that
the sounds "Kha, gha" kept recurring in it and at the end she repeated
a long drawn-out "sintamar" or "sintsimar," or something of the sort,
leaned her head on her hand, heaved a sigh and let the guitar drop on
her knee. "Good?" she asked, "want more?"

"I should be delighted," answered Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "But why do you
look like that, as though you were grieving? You'd better have some
sorbet."

"No ... you. And I will again.... It will be more merry." She sang
another song, that sounded like a dance, in the same unknown language.
Again Kuzma Vassilyevitch distinguished the same guttural sounds. Her
swarthy fingers fairly raced over the strings, "like little spiders,"
and she ended up this time with a jaunty shout of "Ganda" or "Gassa,"
and with flashing eyes banged on the table with her little fist.

XVI

Kuzma Vassilyevitch sat as though he were in a dream. His head was
going round. It was all so unexpected.... And the scent, the
singing ... the candles in the daytime ... the sorbet flavoured with
vanilla. And Colibri kept coming closer to him, too; her hair shone and
rustled, and there was a glow of warmth from her--and that melancholy
face.... "A russalka!" thought Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He felt somewhat
awkward.

"Tell me, my pretty, what put it into your head to invite me to-day?"

"You are young, pretty ... such I like."

"So that's it! But what will Emilie say? She wrote me a letter: she is
sure to be back directly."

"You not tell her ... nothing! Trouble! She will kill!"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch laughed.

"As though she were so fierce!"

Colibri gravely shook her head several times.

"And to Madame Fritsche, too, nothing. No, no, no!" She tapped herself
lightly on the forehead. "Do you understand, officer?"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch frowned.

"It's a secret, then?"

"Yes ... yes."

"Very well.... I won't say a word. Only you ought to give me a kiss
for that."

"No, afterwards ... when you are gone."

"That's a fine idea!" Kuzma Vassilyevitch was bending down to her but
she slowly drew herself back and stood stiffly erect like a snake
startled in the grass. Kuzma Vassilyevitch stared at her. "Well!" he
said at last, "you are a spiteful thing! All right, then."

Colibri pondered and turned to the lieutenant.... All at once there
was the muffled sound of tapping repeated three times at even
intervals somewhere in the house. Colibri laughed, almost snorted.

"To-day--no, to-morrow--yes. Come to-morrow."

"At what time?"

"Seven ... in the evening."

"And what about Emilie?"

"Emilie ... no; will not be here."

"You think so? Very well. Only, to-morrow you will tell me?"

"What?" (Colibri's face assumed a childish expression every time she
asked a question.)

"Why you have been hiding away from me all this time?"

"Yes ... yes; everything shall be to-morrow; the end shall be."

"Mind now! And I'll bring you a present."

"No ... no need."

"Why not? I see you like fine clothes."

"No need. This ... this ... this ..." she pointed to her dress, her
rings, her bracelets, and everything about her, "it is all my own. Not
a present. I do not take."

"As you like. And now must I go?"

"Oh, yes."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch got up. Colibri got up, too.

"Good-bye, pretty little doll! And when will you give me a kiss?"

Colibri suddenly gave a little jump and swiftly flinging both arms
round his neck, gave him not precisely a kiss but a peck at his lips.
He tried in his turn to kiss her but she instantly darted back and
stood behind the sofa.

"To-morrow at seven o'clock, then?" he said with some confusion.

She nodded and taking a tress of her long hair with her two fingers,
bit it with her sharp teeth.

Kuzma Vassilyevitch kissed his hand to her, went out and shut the door
after him. He heard Colibri run up to it at once.... The key clicked
in the lock.

XVII

There was no one in Madame Fritsche's drawing-room. Kuzma
Vassilyevitch made his way to the passage at once. He did not want to
meet Emilie. Madame Fritsche met him on the steps.

"Ah, you are going, Mr. Lieutenant?" she said, with the same affected
and sinister smile. "You won't wait for Emilie?"

Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on his cap.

"I haven't time to wait any longer, madam. I may not come to-morrow,
either. Please tell her so."

"Very good, I'll tell her. But I hope you haven't been dull, Mr.
Lieutenant?"

"No, I have not been dull."

"I thought not. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Kuzma Vassilyevitch returned home and stretching himself on his bed
sank into meditation. He was unutterably perplexed. "What marvel is
this?" he cried more than once. And why did Emilie write to him? She
had made an appointment and not come! He took out her letter, turned
it over in his hands, sniffed it: it smelt of tobacco and in one place
he noticed a correction. But what could he deduce from that? And was
it possible that Madame Fritsche knew nothing about it? And
she.... Who was she? Yes, who was she? The fascinating Colibri,
that "pretty doll," that "little image," was always before him and he
looked forward with impatience to the following evening, though
secretly he was almost afraid of this "pretty doll" and "little
image."

XVIII

Next day Kuzma Vassilyevitch went shopping before dinner, and, after
persistent haggling, bought a tiny gold cross on a little velvet
ribbon. "Though she declares," he thought, "that she never takes
presents, we all know what such sayings mean; and if she really is so
disinterested, Emilie won't be so squeamish." So argued this Don Juan
of Nikolaev, who had probably never heard of the original Don Juan and
knew nothing about him. At six o'clock in the evening Kuzma
Vassilyevitch shaved carefully and sending for a hairdresser he knew,
told him to pomade and curl his topknot, which the latter did with
peculiar zeal, not sparing the government note paper for curlpapers;
then Kuzma Vassilyevitch put on a smart new uniform, took into his
right hand a pair of new wash-leather gloves, and, sprinkling himself
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