Three Portraits Page #7

"Three Portraits" is a novella by Russian author Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, exploring themes of art, identity, and the impact of social change. The narrative revolves around three distinct portraits of a young woman that reveal different aspects of her character and the perceptions of those who behold them. Through these portraits, Turgenev delves into the complexities of human relationships and the elusive nature of beauty and truth, while reflecting on the cultural tensions of 19th-century Russia. The work showcases Turgenev's signature lyrical prose and his keen insight into the human condition.

								

say, and only tried all he could to follow her wishes. Two months passed
by. Every trace of self-reliance, of will, disappeared at last in Olga.
Rogatchov, feeble and tongue-tied, could be no support to her. She had
no wish even to resist the enchantment, and with a sinking heart she
surrendered unconditionally to Vassily....

Olga Ivanovna may very likely then have known something of the bliss of
love; but it was not for long. Though Vassily--for lack of other
occupation--did not drop her, and even attached himself to her and
looked after her fondly, Olga herself was so utterly distraught that she
found no happiness even in love and yet could not tear herself away from
Vassily. She began to be frightened at everything, did not dare to
think, could talk of nothing, gave up reading, and was devoured by
misery. Sometimes Vassily succeeded in carrying her along with him and
making her forget everything and every one. But the very next day he
would find her pale, speechless, with icy hands, and a fixed smile on
her lips.... There followed a time of some difficulty for Vassily; but
no difficulties could dismay him. He concentrated himself like a skilled
gambler. He could not in the least rely upon Olga Ivanovna; she was
continually betraying herself, turning pale, blushing, weeping... her
new part was utterly beyond her powers. Vassily toiled for two: in his
restless and boisterous gaiety, only an experienced observer could have
detected something strained and feverish. He played his brothers,
sisters, the Rogatchovs, the neighbours, like pawns at chess. He was
everlastingly on the alert. Not a single glance, a single movement, was
lost on him, yet he appeared the most heedless of men. Every morning he
faced the fray, and every evening he scored a victory. He was not the
least oppressed by such a fearful strain of activity. He slept four
hours out of the twenty-four, ate very little, and was healthy, fresh,
and good-humoured.

Meantime the wedding-day was approaching. Vassily succeeded in
persuading Pavel Afanasievitch himself of the necessity of delay. Then
he despatched him to Moscow to make various purchases, while he was
himself in correspondence with friends in Petersburg. He took all this
trouble, not so much from sympathy for Olga Ivanovna, as from a natural
bent and liking for bustle and agitation.... Besides, he was beginning
to be sick of Olga Ivanovna, and more than once after a violent outbreak
of passion for her, he would look at her, as he sometimes did at
Rogatchov. Lutchinov always remained a riddle to every one. In the
coldness of his relentless soul you felt the presence of a strange
almost southern fire, and even in the wildest glow of passion a breath
of icy chill seemed to come from the man.

Before other people he supported Olga Ivanovna as before. But when they
were alone, he played with her like a cat with a mouse, or frightened
her with sophistries, or was wearily, malignantly bored, or again flung
himself at her feet, swept her away, like a straw in a hurricane... and
there was no feigning at such moments in his passion... he really was
moved himself.

One day, rather late in the evening, Vassily was sitting alone in his
room, attentively reading over the last letters he had received from
Petersburg, when suddenly he heard a faint creak at the door, and Olga
Ivanovna's maid, Palashka, came in.

'What do you want?' Vassily asked her rather crossly.

'My mistress begs you to come to her.'

'I can't just now. Go along.... Well what are you standing there for?'
he went on, seeing that Palashka did not go away.

'My mistress told me to say that she very particularly wants to see
you,' she said.

'Why, what's the matter?'

'Would your honour please to see for yourself....'

Vassily got up, angrily flung the letters into a drawer, and went in to
Olga Ivanovna. She was sitting alone in a corner, pale and passive.

'What do you want?' he asked her, not quite politely.

Olga looked at him and closed her eyes.

'What's the matter? what is it, Olga?'

He took her hand.... Olga Ivanovna's hand was cold as ice... She tried
to speak... and her voice died away. The poor woman had no possible
doubt of her condition left her.

Vassily was a little disconcerted. Olga Ivanovna's room was a couple of
steps from Anna Pavlovna's bedroom. Vassily cautiously sat down by Olga,
kissed and chafed her hands, comforted her in whispers. She listened to
him, and silently, faintly, shuddered. In the doorway stood Palashka,
stealthily wiping her eyes. In the next room they heard the heavy, even
ticking of the clock, and the breathing of some one asleep. Olga
Ivanovna's numbness dissolved at last into tears and stifled sobs. Tears
are like a storm; after them one is always calmer. When Olga Ivanovna
had quieted down a little, and only sobbed convulsively at intervals,
like a child, Vassily knelt before her with caresses and tender
promises, soothed her completely, gave her something to drink, put her
to bed, and went away. He did not undress all night; wrote two or three
letters, burnt two or three papers, took out a gold locket containing
the portrait of a black-browed, black-eyed woman with a bold, voluptuous
face, scrutinised her features slowly, and walked up and down the room
pondering.

Next day, at breakfast, he saw with extreme displeasure poor Olga's red
and swollen eyes and pale, agitated face. After breakfast he proposed a
stroll in the garden to her. Olga followed Vassily, like a submissive
sheep. When two hours afterwards she came in from the garden she quite
broke down; she told Anna Pavlovna she was unwell, and went to lie down
on her bed. During their walk Vassily had, with a suitable show of
remorse, informed her that he was secretly married--he was really as
much a bachelor as I am. Olga Ivanovna did not fall into a swoon--people
don't fall into swoons except on the stage--but she turned all at once
stony, though she herself was so far from hoping to marry Vassily
Ivanovitch that she was even afraid to think about it. Vassily had begun
to explain to her the inevitableness of her parting from him and
marrying Rogatchov. Olga Ivanovna looked at him in dumb horror. Vassily
talked in a cool, business-like, practical way, blamed himself,
expressed his regret, but concluded all his remarks with the following
words: 'There's no going back on the past; we've got to act.'

Olga was utterly overwhelmed; she was filled with terror and shame; a
dull, heavy despair came upon her; she longed for death, and waited in
agony for Vassily's decision.

'We must confess everything to my mother,' he said to her at last.

Olga turned deadly pale; her knees shook under her.

'Don't be afraid, don't be afraid,' repeated Vassily, 'trust to me, I
won't desert you... I will make everything right... rely upon me.'

The poor woman looked at him with love... yes, with love, and deep, but
hopeless devotion.

'I will arrange everything, everything,' Vassily said to her at
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes