Old Portraits Page #4

"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.

								

poetaster, whom Alexyéi Sergyéitch had harboured in his house because he
seemed to him a delicate and even subtle man; he wore shoes with knots
of ribbon, pronounced his o's broadly, and, raising his eyes to
heaven, he sighed frequently. In addition to all these merits,
Górmitch-Gormítzky spoke French passably well, for he had been educated
in a Jesuit college, while Alexyéi Sergyéitch only "understood" it. But
having once drunk himself dead-drunk in a dram-shop, this same subtle
Gormítzky displayed outrageous violence. He thrashed "to flinders"
Alexyéi Sergyéitch's valet, the cook, two laundresses who happened
along, and even an independent carpenter, and smashed several panes in
the windows, yelling lustily the while: "Here now, I'll just show these
Russian sluggards, these unlicked katzápy!"[37]--And what strength that
puny little man displayed! Eight men could hardly control him! For this
turbulence Alexyéi Sergyéitch gave orders that the rhymster should be
flung out of the house, after he had preliminarily been rolled in the
snow (it happened in the winter), to sober him.

"Yes," Alexyéi Sergyéitch was wont to say, "my day is over; the horse is
worn out. I used to keep poets at my expense, and I used to buy pictures
and books from the Jews--and my geese were quite as good as those of
Mukhán, and I had genuine slate-coloured tumbler-pigeons.... I was an
amateur of all sorts of things! Except that I never was a dog-fancier,
because of the drunkenness and the clownishness! I was mettlesome,
untamable! God forbid that a Telyégin should be anything but first-class
in everything! And I had a splendid horse-breeding establishment.... And
those horses came ... whence, thinkest thou, my little sir?--From those
very renowned studs of the Tzar Iván Alexyéitch, the brother of Peter
the Great.... I'm telling you the truth! All stallions, dark brown in
colour, with manes to their knees, tails to their hoofs.... Lions!
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity! But what's the use of regretting it?
Every man has his limit fixed for him.--You cannot fly higher than
heaven, nor live in the water, nor escape from the earth.... Let us live
on a while longer, at any rate!"

And again the old man smiled and took a pinch of his Spanish tobacco.

His peasants loved him. Their master was kind, according to them, and
not a heart-breaker.--Only, they also repeated that he was a worn-out
steed. Formerly Alexyéi Sergyéitch had gone into everything himself: he
had ridden out into the fields, and to the flour-mill, and to the
oil-mill and the storehouses, and looked in to the peasants' cottages;
every one was familiar with his racing-drozhky,[38] upholstered in
crimson plush and drawn by a well-grown horse with a broad blaze
extending clear across its forehead, named "Lantern"--from that same
famous breeding establishment. Alexyéi Sergyéitch drove him himself with
the ends of the reins wound round his fists. But when his seventieth
birthday came the old man gave up everything, and entrusted the
management of his estate to the peasant bailiff Antíp, of whom he
secretly stood in awe and called Micromegas (memories of Voltaire!), or
simply "robber."

"Well, robber, hast thou gathered a big lot of stolen goods?" he would
say, looking the robber straight in the eye.

"Everything is according to your grace," Antíp would reply merrily.

"Grace is all right, only just look out for thyself, Micromegas! Don't
dare to touch my peasants, my subjects behind my back! They will make
complaint ... my cane is not far off, seest thou?"

"I always keep your little cane well in mind, dear little father Alexyéi
Sergyéitch," replied Antíp-Micromegas, stroking his beard.

"That's right, keep it in mind!" and master and bailiff laughed in each
other's faces.

With his house-serfs, with his serfs in general, with his "subjects"
(Alexyéi Sergyéitch loved that word), he dealt gently.--"Because, judge
for thyself, little nephew, if thou hast nothing of thine own save the
cross on thy neck,[39] and that a brass one, don't hanker after other
folks' things.... What sense is there in that?" There is no denying the
fact that no one even thought of the so-called problem of the serfs at
that epoch; and it could not disturb Alexyéi Sergyéitch. He very calmly
ruled his "subjects"; but he condemned bad landed proprietors and called
them the enemies of their class.

He divided the nobles in general into three categories: the judicious,
"of whom there are not many"; the profligate, "of whom there is a goodly
number"; and the licentious, "of whom there are enough to dam a pond."
And if any one of them was harsh and oppressive to his subjects, that
man was guilty in the sight of God, and culpable in the sight of
men!--Yes; the house-serfs led an easy life in the old man's house; the
"subjects behind his back" were less well off, as a matter of course,
despite the cane wherewith he threatened Micromegas.--And how many there
were of them--of those house-serfs--in his manor! And for the most part
they were old, sinewy, hairy, grumbling, stoop-shouldered, clad in
long-skirted nankeen kaftans, and imbued with a strong acrid odour! And
in the women's department nothing was to be heard but the trampling of
bare feet, and the rustling of petticoats.--The head valet was named
Irinárkh, and Alexyéi Sergyéitch always summoned him with a
long-drawn-out call: "I-ri-na-a-árkh!"--He called the others: "Young
fellow! Boy! What subject is there?!"--He could not endure bells. "God
have mercy, this is no tavern!" And what amazed me was, that no matter
at what time Alexyéi Sergyéitch called his valet, the man instantly
presented himself, just as though he had sprung out of the earth, and
placing his heels together, and putting his hands behind his back, stood
before his master a grim and, as it were, an irate but zealous servant!

Alexyéi Sergyéitch was lavish beyond his means; but he did not like to
be called "benefactor."--"What sort of a benefactor am I to you, sir?...
I'm doing myself a favour, not you, my good sir!" (When he was angry or
indignant he always called people "you.")--"To a beggar give once, give
twice, give thrice," he was wont to say.... "Well, and if he returns for
the fourth time--give to him yet again, only add therewith: 'My good
man, thou shouldst work with something else besides thy mouth all the
time.'"

"Uncle," I used to ask him, "what if the beggar should return for the
fifth time after that?"

"Why, then, do thou give to him for the fifth time."

The sick people who appealed to him for aid he had cured at his own
expense, although he himself did not believe in doctors, and never sent
for them.--"My deceased mother," he asserted, "used to heal all maladies
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