The Brigadier Page #2

"The Brigadier" by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev is a novella that explores themes of honor, duty, and the complexities of human relationships within a military context. Set against the backdrop of 19th-century Russia, the story follows the experiences of a retired brigadier who grapples with memories of his past service and the impact of those experiences on his current life. Turgenev's nuanced characterizations and keen observations provide insight into the struggles of identity and social status, ultimately revealing the deep emotional currents that shape the lives of his characters.

• Novel

								

purpose,' Narkiz was beginning to explain to me, but he glanced ahead,
and suddenly exclaimed: 'Aha! but our poor folk are here already ...
they keep it up, it seems.'

I craned my head to look from behind him, and saw on the floating
platform, on the very seat of which he had been speaking, two persons
sitting with their backs to us; they were placidly fishing.

'Who are they?' I asked.

'Neighbours,' Narkiz responded, with displeasure. 'They've nothing to
eat at home, and so here they come to us.'

'Are they allowed to?'

'The old master allowed them.... Nikolai Petrovitch maybe won't give
them permission.... The long one is a superannuated deacon--quite a
silly creature; and as for the other, that's a little stouter--he's a
brigadier.'

'A brigadier?' I repeated, wondering. This 'brigadier's' attire was
almost worse than the deacon's.

'I assure you he's a brigadier. And he did have a fine property once.
But now he has only a corner given him out of charity, and he lives ...
on what God sends him. But, by the way, what are we to do? They've taken
the best place.... We shall have to disturb our precious visitors.'

'No, Narkiz, please don't disturb them. We'll sit here a little aside;
they won't interfere with us. I should like to make acquaintance with
the brigadier.'

'As you like. Only, as far as acquaintance goes ... you needn't expect
much satisfaction from it, sir; he's grown very weak in his head, and in
conversation he's silly as a little child. As well he may be; he's past
his eightieth year.'

'What's his name?'

'Vassily Fomitch. Guskov's his surname.'

'And the deacon?'

'The deacon? ... his nickname's Cucumber. Every one about here calls him
so; but what his real name is--God knows! A foolish creature! A regular
ne'er-do-well.'

'Do they live together?'

'No; but there--the devil has tied them together, it seems.'

V

We approached the platform. The brigadier cast one glance upon us ...
and promptly fixed his eyes on the float; Cucumber jumped up, pulled
back his rod, took off his worn-out clerical hat, passed a trembling
hand over his rough yellow hair, made a sweeping bow, and gave vent to a
feeble little laugh. His bloated face betrayed him an inveterate
drunkard; his staring little eyes blinked humbly. He gave his neighbour
a poke in the ribs, as though to let him know that they must clear
out.... The brigadier began to move on the seat.

'Sit still, I beg; don't disturb yourselves,' I hastened to say. 'You
won't interfere with us in the least. We'll take up our position here;
sit still.'

Cucumber wrapped his ragged smock round him, twitched his shoulders, his
lips, his beard.... Obviously he felt our presence oppressive and he
would have been glad to slink away, ... but the brigadier was again lost
in the contemplation of his float.... The 'ne'er-do-weel' coughed twice,
sat down on the very edge of the seat, put his hat on his knees, and,
tucking his bare legs up under him, he discreetly dropped in his line.

'Any bites?' Narkiz inquired haughtily, as in leisurely fashion he
unwound his reel.

'We've caught a matter of five loaches,' answered Cucumber in a cracked
and husky voice: 'and he took a good-sized perch.'

'Yes, a perch,' repeated the brigadier in a shrill pipe.

VI

I fell to watching closely--not him, but his reflection in the pond. It
was as clearly reflected as in a looking-glass--a little darker, a
little more silvery. The wide stretch of pond wafted a refreshing
coolness upon us; a cool breath of air seemed to rise, too, from the
steep, damp bank; and it was the sweeter, as in the dark blue, flooded
with gold, above the tree tops, the stagnant sultry heat hung, a burden
that could be felt, over our heads. There was no stir in the water near
the dike; in the shade cast by the drooping bushes on the bank, water
spiders gleamed, like tiny bright buttons, as they described their
everlasting circles; at long intervals there was a faint ripple just
perceptible round the floats, when a fish was 'playing' with the worm.
Very few fish were taken; during a whole hour we drew up only two
loaches and an eel. I could not say why the brigadier aroused my
curiosity; his rank could not have any influence on me; ruined noblemen
were not even at that time looked upon as a rarity, and his appearance
presented nothing remarkable. Under the warm cap, which covered the
whole upper part of his head down to his ears and his eyebrows, could be
seen a smooth, red, clean-shaven, round face, with a little nose, little
lips, and small, clear grey eyes. Simplicity and weakness of character,
and a sort of long-standing, helpless sorrow, were visible in that meek,
almost childish face; the plump, white little hands with short fingers
had something helpless, incapable about them too.... I could not
conceive how this forlorn old man could once have been an officer, could
have maintained discipline, have given his commands--and that, too, in
the stern days of Catherine! I watched him; now and then he puffed out
his cheeks and uttered a feeble whistle, like a little child; sometimes
he screwed up his eyes painfully, with effort, as all decrepit people
will. Once he opened his eyes wide and lifted them.... They stared at me
from out of the depths of the water--and strangely touching and even
full of meaning their dejected glance seemed to me.

VII

I tried to begin a conversation with the brigadier ... but Narkiz had
not misinformed me; the poor old man certainly had become weak in his
intellect. He asked me my surname, and after repeating his inquiry
twice, pondered and pondered, and at last brought out: 'Yes, I fancy
there was a judge of that name here. Cucumber, wasn't there a judge
about here of that name, hey?' 'To be sure there was, Vassily Fomitch,
your honour,' responded Cucumber, who treated him altogether as a child.
'There was, certainly. But let me have your hook; your worm must have
been eaten off.... Yes, so it is.'

'Did you know the Lomov family?' the brigadier suddenly asked me in a
cracked voice.

'What Lomov family is that?'

'Why, Fiodor Ivanitch, Yevstigney Ivanitch, Alexey Ivanitch the Jew, and
Fedulia Ivanovna the plunderer, ... and then, too ...'

The brigadier suddenly broke off and looked down confused.

They were the people he was most intimate with,' Narkiz whispered,
bending towards me; 'it was through them, through that same Alexey
Ivanitch, that he called a Jew, and through a sister of Alexey
Ivanitch's, Agrafena Ivanovna, as you may say, that he lost all his
property.'

'What are you saying there about Agrafena Ivanovna?' the brigadier
called out suddenly, and his head was raised, his white eyebrows were
frowning.... 'You'd better mind! And why Agrafena, pray? Agrippina
Ivanovna--that's what you should call her.'

'There--there--there, sir,' Cucumber was beginning to falter.

'Don't you know the verses the poet Milonov wrote about her?' the old
man went on, suddenly getting into a state of excitement, which was a
complete surprise to me. 'No hymeneal lights were kindled,' he began
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