Old Portraits

"Old Portraits" is a collection of short stories by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, exploring themes of nostalgia, memory, and the passage of time. Through a series of rich character studies and evocative settings, Turgenev reflects on the lives and relationships of individuals, often highlighting the impact of the past on the present. The narratives delve into the emotional landscapes of the characters, revealing deep insights into human nature and the fleeting nature of beauty and youth. Turgenev's lyrical prose captures the essence of Russian society in the 19th century, making this work a poignant meditation on life, love, and loss.

								
About forty versts from our village there dwelt, many years ago, the
great-uncle of my mother, a retired Sergeant of the Guards and a fairly
wealthy landed proprietor, Alexyéi Sergyéitch Telyégin, on his ancestral
estate, Sukhodól. He never went anywhere himself, and therefore did not
visit us; but I was sent to pay my respects to him a couple of times a
year, at first with my governor, and later on alone. Alexyéi Sergyéitch
always received me very cordially, and I spent three or four days with
him. He was already an old man when I made his acquaintance; I remember
that I was twelve years old at my first visit, and he was already over
seventy. He had been born under the Empress Elizabeth, in the last year
of her reign. He lived alone with his wife, Malánya Pávlovna; she was
ten years younger than he. They had had two daughters who had been
married long before, and rarely visited Sukhodól; there had been
quarrels between them and their parents,[28] and Alexyéi Sergyéitch
hardly ever mentioned them.

I see that ancient, truly noble steppe home as though it stood before me
now. Of one story, with a huge mezzanine,[29] erected at the beginning
of the present century from wonderfully thick pine beams--such beams
were brought at that epoch from the Zhízdrin pine forests; there is no
trace of them nowadays!--it was very spacious and contained a multitude
of rooms, which were decidedly low-ceiled and dark, it is true, and the
windows were mere slits in the walls, for the sake of warmth. As was
proper, the offices and the house-serfs' cottages surrounded the
manor-house on all sides, and a park adjoined it, small but with fine
fruit-trees, pellucid apples and seedless pears; for ten versts round
about stretched out the flat, black-loam steppe. There was no lofty
object for the eye: neither a tree nor a belfry; only here and there a
windmill reared itself aloft with holes in its wings; it was a regular
Sukhodól! (Dry Valley). Inside the house the rooms were filled with
ordinary, plain furniture; rather unusual was a verst-post which stood
on a window-sill in the hall, and bore the following inscription:

"If thou walkest 68 times around this hall,[30] thou wilt have gone a
verst; if thou goest 87 times from the extreme corner of the
drawing-room to the right corner of the billiard-room, thou wilt have
gone a verst,"--and so forth. But what most impressed the guest who
arrived for the first time was the great number of pictures hung on the
walls, for the most part the work of so-called Italian masters: ancient
landscapes, and mythological and religious subjects. But as all these
pictures had turned very black, and had even become warped, all that met
the eye was patches of flesh-colour, or a billowy red drapery on an
invisible body--or an arch which seemed suspended in the air, or a
dishevelled tree with blue foliage, or the bosom of a nymph with a large
nipple, like the cover of a soup-tureen; a sliced watermelon, with black
seeds; a turban, with a feather above a horse's head; or the gigantic,
light-brown leg of some apostle or other, with a muscular calf and
up-turned toes, suddenly protruded itself. In the drawing-room, in the
place of honour, hung a portrait of the Empress Katherine II, full
length, a copy from Lampi's well-known portrait--the object of special
reverence, one may say adoration, for the master of the house. From the
ceiling depended crystal chandeliers in bronze fittings, very small and
very dusty.

Alexyéi Sergyéitch himself was a very squat, pot-bellied, little old
man, with a plump, but agreeable face all of one colour, with sunken
lips and very vivacious little eyes beneath lofty eyebrows. He brushed
his scanty hair over the back of his head; it was only since the year
1812 that he had discarded powder. Alexyéi Sergyéitch always wore a grey
"redingote" with three capes which fell over his shoulders, a striped
waistcoat, chamois-leather breeches and dark-red morocco short boots
with a heart-shaped cleft, and a tassel at the top of the leg; he wore a
white muslin neckerchief, a frill, lace cuffs, and two golden English
"onions,"[31] one in each pocket of his waistcoat. In his right hand he
generally held an enamelled snuff-box with "Spanish" snuff, while his
left rested on a cane with a silver handle which had been worn quite
smooth with long use. Alexyéi Sergyéitch had a shrill, nasal voice, and
was incessantly smiling, amiably, but somewhat patronisingly, not
without a certain self-satisfied pompousness. He also laughed in an
amiable manner, with a fine, thin laugh like a string of wax pearls. He
was courteous and affable, in the ancient manner of Katherine's day, and
moved his hands slowly and with a circular motion, also in ancient
style. On account of his weak legs he could not walk, but he was wont
to trip with hurried little steps from one arm-chair to another
arm-chair, in which he suddenly seated himself--or, rather, he fell into
it, as softly as though he had been a pillow.

As I have already said, Alexyéi Sergyéitch never went anywhere, and
associated very little with the neighbours, although he was fond of
society,--for he was loquacious! He had plenty of society in his own
house, it is true: divers Nikanór Nikanóritches, Sevastyéi
Sevastyéitches, Fedúlitches, and Mikhéitches, all poverty-stricken petty
nobles, in threadbare kazák coats and short jackets, frequently from his
own noble shoulders, dwelt beneath his roof, not to mention the poor
gentlewomen in cotton-print gowns, with black kerchiefs on their
shoulders, and worsted reticules in their tightly-clenched
fingers,--divers Avdótiya Sávishnas, Pelagéya Mirónovnas, and plain
Feklúskas and Arínkas, who received asylum in the women's wing. No less
than fifteen persons ever sat down to Alexyéi Sergyéitch's table ... he
was so hospitable!--Among all these parasites two individuals stood
forth with special prominence: a dwarf named Janus or the Two-faced, a
Dane,--or, as some asserted, of Jewish extraction,--and crazy Prince L.
In contrast to the customs of that day the dwarf did not in the least
serve as a butt for the guests, and was not a jester; on the contrary,
he maintained constant silence, wore an irate and surly mien,
contracted his brows in a frown, and gnashed his teeth as soon as any
one addressed a question to him. Alexyéi Sergyéitch also called him a
philosopher, and even respected him. At table he was always the first to
be served after the guests and the master and mistress of the
house.--"God has wronged him," Alexyéi Sergyéitch was wont to say: "that
was the Lord's will; but it is not my place to wrong him."

"Why is he a philosopher?" I asked one day. (Janus did not like me. No
sooner would I approach him, than he would begin to snarl and growl
hoarsely, "Stranger! don't bother me!")

"But God have mercy, why isn't he a philosopher?" replied Alexyéi
Sergyéitch. "Just observe, my little gentleman, how finely he holds his

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