Old Portraits Page #4

"Old Portraits" is a collection of short stories by Russian author Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, showcasing his mastery of character exploration and psychological depth. Published in the 19th century, these narratives often reflect on themes of love, memory, and the passage of time, set against the backdrop of Russian society. Turgenev's rich prose and keen observations illuminate the complexities of human relationships, revealing the subtle interplay between past and present as characters grapple with their desires and regrets. This collection underscores Turgenev’s reputation as a poignant observer of the human condition.

• Novel

								

Sergeitch ordered the poet to be turned out of the house, after being
put, as a preliminary measure, in the snow--it was winter-time--to
sober him.

'Yes,' Alexey Sergeitch used to say, 'my day is over; I was a spirited
steed, but I've run my last race now. Then, I used to keep poets at my
expense, and I used to buy pictures and books of the Jews, geese of the
best breeds, and pouter-pigeons of pure blood.... I used to go in for
everything! Though dogs I never did care for keeping, because it goes
with drinking, foulness, and buffoonery! I was a young man of spirit,
not to be outdone. That there should be anything of Teliegin's and not
first-rate ... why, it was not to be thought of! And I had a splendid
stud of horses. And my horses came--from what stock do you think, young
sir? Why, from none other than the celebrated stables of the Tsar, Ivan
Alexeitch, brother of Peter the Great ... it's the truth I'm telling
you! All fawn-coloured stallions, sleek--their manes to their knees,
their tails to their hoofs.... Lions! And all that was--and is buried in
the past. Vanity of vanities--and every kind of vanity! But still--why
regret it? Every man has his limits set him. There's no flying above the
sky, no living in the water, no getting away from the earth.... We'll
live a bit longer, anyway!'

And the old man would smile again and sniff his Spanish snuff.

The peasants liked him; he was, in their words, a kind master, not
easily angered. Only they, too, repeated that he was a worn-out steed.
In former days Alexey Sergeitch used to go into everything himself--he
used to drive out to the fields, and to the mill, and to the dairy, and
peep into the granaries and the peasants' huts; every one knew his
racing droshky, upholstered in crimson plush, and drawn by a tall mare,
with a broad white star all over her forehead, called 'Beacon,' of the
same famous breed. Alexey Sergeitch used to drive her himself, the ends
of the reins crushed up in his fists. But when his seventieth year came,
the old man let everything go, and handed over the management of the
estate to the bailiff Antip, of whom he was secretly afraid, and whom he
called Micromegas (a reminiscence of Voltaire!), or simply, plunderer.
'Well, plunderer, what have you to say? Have you stacked a great deal in
the barn?' he would ask with a smile, looking straight into the
plunderer's eyes. 'All, by your good favour, please your honour,' Antip
would respond cheerfully. 'Favour's all very well, only you mind what I
say, Micromegas! don't you dare touch the peasants, my subjects, out of
my sight! If they come to complain ... I've a cane, you see, not far
off!' 'Your cane, your honour, Alexey Sergeitch, I always keep well in
mind,' Antip Micromegas would respond, stroking his beard. 'All right,
don't forget it.' And the master and the bailiff would laugh in each
other's faces. With the servants, and with the serfs in general, his
'subjects' (Alexey Sergeitch liked that word) he was gentle in his
behaviour. 'Because, think a little, nephew; nothing of their own, but
the cross on their neck--and that copper--and daren't hanker after other
people's goods ... how can one expect sense of them?' It is needless to
state that of the so-called 'serf question' no one even dreamed in those
days; it could not disturb the peace of mind of Alexey Sergeitch: he was
quite happy in the possession of his 'subjects'; but he was severe in
his censure of bad masters, and used to call them the enemies of their
order. He divided the nobles generally into three classes: the prudent,
'of whom there are too few'; the prodigal, 'of whom there are quite
enough'; and the senseless, 'of whom there are shoals and shoals.'

'And if any one of them is harsh and oppressive with his subjects'--he
would say--'then he sins against God, and is guilty before men!'

Yes, the house-serfs had an easy life of it with the old man; the
'subjects out of sight' no doubt fared worse, in spite of the cane with
which he threatened Micromegas. And what a lot there were of them, those
house-serfs, in his house! And for the most part sinewy, hairy,
grumbling old fellows, with stooping shoulders, in long-skirted nankeen
coats, belted round the waist, with a strong, sour smell always clinging
to them. And on the women's side, one could hear nothing but the patter
of bare feet, the swish of petticoats. The chief valet was called
Irinarh, and Alexey Sergeitch always called him in a long-drawn-out
call: 'I-ri-na-a-arh!' The others he called: 'Boy! Lad! Whoever's there
of the men!' Bells he could not endure: 'It's not an eating-house, God
forbid!' And what used to surprise me was that whatever time Alexey
Sergeitch called his valet, he always promptly made his appearance, as
though he had sprung out of the earth, and with a scrape of his heels,
his hands behind his back, would stand before his master, a surly, as it
were angry, but devoted servant!

Alexey Sergeitch was liberal beyond his means; but he did not like to be
called 'benefactor.' 'Benefactor to you, indeed, sir! ... I'm doing
myself a benefit, and not you, sir!' (when he was angry or indignant, he
always addressed people with greater formality). 'Give to a beggar
once,' he used to say, 'and give him twice, and three times.... And--if
he should come a fourth time, give to him still--only then you might say
too: "It's time, my good man, you found work for something else, not
only for your mouth."' 'But, uncle,' one asked, sometimes, 'suppose even
after that the beggar came again, a fifth time?' 'Oh, well, give again
the fifth time.' He used to have the sick, who came to him for aid,
treated at his expense, though he had no faith in doctors himself, and
never sent for them. 'My mother,' he declared, 'used to cure illnesses
of all sorts with oil and salt--she gave it internally, and rubbed it on
too--it always answered splendidly. And who was my mother? She was born
in the days of Peter the Great--only fancy that!'

Alexey Sergeitch was a Russian in everything; he liked none but Russian
dishes, he was fond of Russian songs, but the harmonica--a
'manufactured contrivance'--he hated; he liked looking at the
serf-girls' dances and the peasant-women's jigs; in his youth, I was
told, he had been an enthusiastic singer and a dashing dancer; he liked
steaming himself in the bath, and steamed himself so vigorously that
Irinarh, who, serving him as bathman, used to beat him with a bundle of
birch-twigs steeped in beer, to rub him with a handful of tow, and then
with a woollen cloth--the truly devoted Irinarh used to say every time,
as he crept off his shelf red as a 'new copper image': 'Well, this time
I, the servant of God, Irinarh Tolobiev, have come out alive. How will
it be next time?'

And Alexey Sergeitch spoke excellent Russian, a little old-fashioned,
but choice and pure as spring water, continually interspersing his
remarks with favourite expressions: ''Pon my honour, please God,
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