Yakov Pasinkov Page #11

"Yakov Pasinkov" is a short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores the life and struggles of a rural Russian peasant. The narrative focuses on the titular character, Yakov, who grapples with the harsh realities of peasant life, including poverty, social injustice, and personal despair. Through a blend of poignant character study and social commentary, Turgenev sheds light on the emotional and psychological impacts of societal constraints on individuals. The story reflects Turgenev's deep empathy for the plight of the lower classes and his critique of the broader socio-economic conditions of 19th-century Russia.

								


'Yes.... In my husband's absence, you understand, I'm obliged to look
after business matters.'

'Maman!' Lidia was beginning.

'Quoi, mon enfant?'

'Non--rien.... Je te dirai après.'

Sophia Nikolaevna smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

'Tell me, please,' Sophia Nikolaevna began again; 'do you remember, you
had a friend ... what was his name? he had such a good-natured face ...
he was always reading poetry; such an enthusiastic--'

'Not Pasinkov?'

'Yes, yes, Pasinkov ... where is he now?'

'He is dead.'

'Dead?' repeated Sophia Nikolaevna; 'what a pity!...'

'Have I seen him?' the little girl asked in a hurried whisper.

'No, Lidia, you've never seen him.--What a pity!' repeated Sophia
Nikolaevna.

'You regret him ...' I began; 'what if you had known him, as I knew
him?... But, why did you speak of him, may I ask?'

'Oh, I don't know....' (Sophia Nikolaevna dropped her eyes.) 'Lidia,'
she added; 'run away to your nurse.'

'You'll call me when I may come back?' asked the little girl.

'Yes.'

The little girl went away. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.

'Tell me, please, all you know about Pasinkov.' I began telling her his
story. I sketched in brief words the whole life of my friend; tried, as
far as I was able, to give an idea of his soul; described his last
meeting with me and his end.

'And a man like that,' I cried, as I finished my story--'has left us,
unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that's no great loss. What is the
use of man's appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such
a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having
once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest
in one woman's heart worthy of him!... Such as I may well know nothing
of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but Pasinkov!... And yet
haven't I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with
him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some faults
in a man--conceit, for instance, or frivolity--are essential to gain a
woman's devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible
on earth, as something strange and terrible?'

Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern,
searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows
contracted from time to time.

'What makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that no
woman ever loved your friend?'

'Because I know it, know it for a fact.'

Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. She
seemed to be struggling with herself.

'You are mistaken,' she began at last; 'I know a woman who loved your
dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day
... and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.'

'Who is this woman? may I know?'

'My sister, Varia.'

'Varvara Nikolaevna!' I cried in amazement.

'Yes.'

'What? Varvara Nikolaevna?' I repeated, 'that...'

'I will finish your sentence,' Sophia Nikolaevna took me up; 'that girl
you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your friend;
that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till this day
no one has known of this but me; Varia would die before she would
betray her secret. In our family we know how to suffer in silence.'

I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikolaevna, involuntarily
pondering on the bitter significance of her last words.

'You have surprised me,' I observed at last. 'But do you know, Sophia
Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, I
might surprise you too....'

'I don't understand you,' she rejoined slowly, and with some
embarrassment.

'You certainly don't understand me,' I said, hastily getting up; 'and
so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something ...'

'But what is it?' she inquired.

'Don't be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me.'

I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag I had
taken off Pasinkov, and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the following
note--

'This my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. In
it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its
contents; you can read it. He wore it because he loved you
passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now,
when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?'

Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.

'Well?' I queried; 'didn't she send any message?'

'No.'

I was silent for a little.

'Did she read my note?'

'No doubt she did; the maid took it to her.'

'Unapproachable,' I thought, remembering Pasinkov's last words. 'All
right, you can go,' I said aloud.

Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go.

'There's a girl ...' he began, 'here to see you.'

'What girl?'

Elisei hesitated.

'Didn't my master say anything to you?'

'No.... What is it?'

'When my master was in Novgorod,' he went on, fingering the door-post,
'he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. So here is this girl,
wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I said to her,
"Come along; if the master allows it, I'll let you see him."

'Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But ... what is she like?'

'An ordinary girl... working class... Russian.'

'Did Yakov Ivanitch care for her?'

'Well, yes ... he was fond of her. And she...when she heard my master
was dead, she was terribly upset. She's a good sort of girl.'

'Ask her in, ask her in.'

Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in a
striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid
her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.

'What's the matter?' Elisei said to her; 'go on, don't be afraid.'

I went up to her and took her by the hand.

'What is your name?' I asked her.

'Masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me.

She looked about two- or three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather
simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and
very pretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed.

'You knew Yakov Ivanitch?' I pursued.

'I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief,
and the tears stood in her eyes.

I asked her to sit down.

She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of
ceremony. Elisei went out.

'You became acquainted with him in Novgorod?'

'Yes, in Novgorod,' she answered, clasping her hands under her
kerchief. 'I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei
Timofeitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia,
promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no
more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn't wish it.'

'Have you relations in Novgorod?'

'Yes.'

'Did you live with them?'

'I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards
mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a
lot of children: and so I moved. I always rested my hopes on Yakov
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