Yakov Pasinkov Page #4

"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.

								

I saw Pasinkov sitting on a bench under a high lilac-bush. He was
reading. I glanced at the cover of the book as I passed, and read
Schiller's Werke on the back. I stopped short.

'Do you mean to say you know German?' I questioned Pasinkov....

I feel ashamed to this day as I recall all the arrogance there was in
the very sound of my voice.... Pasinkov softly raised his small but
expressive eyes and looked at me.

'Yes,' he answered; 'do you?'

'I should hope so!' I retorted, feeling insulted at the question, and I
was about to go on my way, but something held me back.

'What is it you are reading of Schiller?' I asked, with the same
haughty insolence.

'At this moment I am reading "Resignation," a beautiful poem. Would you
like me to read it to you? Come and sit here by me on the bench.'

I hesitated a little, but I sat down. Pasinkov began reading. He knew

German far better than I did. He had to explain the meaning of several
lines for me. But already I felt no shame at my ignorance and his
superiority to me. From that day, from the very hour of our reading
together in the garden, in the shade of the lilac-bush, I loved
Pasinkov with my whole soul, I attached myself to him and fell
completely under his sway.

I have a vivid recollection of his appearance in those days. He changed
very little, however, later on. He was tall, thin, and rather awkwardly
built, with a long back, narrow shoulders, and a hollow chest, which
made him look rather frail and delicate, although as a fact he had
nothing to complain of on the score of health. His large, dome-shaped
head was carried a little on one side; his soft, flaxen hair straggled
in lank locks about his slender neck. His face was not handsome, and
might even have struck one as absurd, owing to the long, full, and
reddish nose, which seemed almost to overhang his wide, straight mouth.
But his open brow was splendid; and when he smiled, his little grey
eyes gleamed with such mild and affectionate goodness, that every one
felt warmed and cheered at heart at the very sight of him. I remember
his voice too, soft and even, with a peculiar sort of sweet huskiness
in it. He spoke, as a rule, little, and with noticeable difficulty. But
when he warmed up, his words flowed freely, and--strange to say!--his
voice grew still softer, his glance seemed turned inward and lost its
fire, while his whole face faintly glowed. On his lips the words
'goodness,' 'truth,' 'life,' 'science,' 'love,' however
enthusiastically they were uttered, never rang with a false note.
Without strain, without effort, he stepped into the realm of the ideal;
his pure soul was at any moment ready to stand before the 'holy shrine
of beauty'; it awaited only the welcoming call, the contact of another
soul.... Pasinkov was an idealist, one of the last idealists whom it
has been my lot to come across. Idealists, as we all know, are all but
extinct in these days; there are none of them, at any rate, among the
young people of to day. So much the worse for the young people of
to-day!

About three years I spent with Pasinkov, 'soul in soul,' as the saying
is.

I was the confidant of his first love. With what grateful sympathy and
intentness I listened to his avowal! The object of his passion was a
niece of Winterkeller's, a fair-haired, pretty little German, with a
chubby, almost childish little face, and confidingly soft blue eyes.
She was very kind and sentimental: she loved Mattison, Uhland, and
Schiller, and repeated their verses very sweetly in her timid, musical
voice. Pasinkov's love was of the most platonic. He only saw his
beloved on Sundays, when she used to come and play at forfeits with the
Winterkeller children, and he had very little conversation with her.
But once, when she said to him, 'mein lieber, lieber Herr Jacob!' he
did not sleep all night from excess of bliss. It never even struck him
at the time that she called all his schoolfellows 'mein lieber.' I
remember, too, his grief and dejection when the news suddenly reached
us that Fräulein Frederike--that was her name--was going to be married
to Herr Kniftus, the owner of a prosperous butcher's shop, a very
handsome man, and well educated too; and that she was marrying him, not
simply in submission to parental authority, but positively from love.
It was a bitter blow for Pasinkov, and his sufferings were particularly
severe on the day of the young people's first visit. The former
Fräulein, now Frau, Frederike presented him, once more addressing him
as 'lieber Herr Jacob,' to her husband, who was all splendour from top
to toe; his eyes, his black hair brushed up into a tuft, his forehead
and his teeth, and his coat buttons, and the chain on his waistcoat,
everything, down to the boots on his rather large, turned-out feet,
shone brilliantly. Pasinkov pressed Herr Kniftus's hand, and wished him
(and the wish was sincere, that I am certain) complete and enduring
happiness. This took place in my presence. I remember with what
admiration and sympathy I gazed at Yakov. I thought him a hero!.... And
afterwards, what mournful conversations passed between us. 'Seek
consolation in art,' I said to him. 'Yes,' he answered me; 'and in
poetry.' 'And in friendship,' I added. 'And in friendship,' he
repeated. Oh, happy days!...

It was a grief to me to part from Pasinkov. Just before I left school,
he had, after prolonged efforts and difficulties, after a
correspondence often amusing, succeeded in obtaining his certificates
of birth and baptism and his passport, and had entered the university.
He still went on living at Winterkeller's expense; but instead of
home-made jackets and breeches, he was provided now with ordinary
attire, in return for lessons on various subjects, which he gave the
younger pupils. Pasinkov was unchanged in his behaviour to me up to the
end of my time at the school, though the difference in our ages began
to be more noticeable, and I, I remember, grew jealous of some of his
new student friends. His influence on me was most beneficial. It was a
pity it did not last longer. To give a single instance: as a child I
was in the habit of telling lies.... In Yakov's presence I could not
bring my tongue to utter an untruth. What I particularly loved was
walking alone with him, or pacing by his side up and down the room,
listening while he, not looking at me, read poetry in his soft, intense
voice. It positively seemed to me that we were slowly, gradually,
getting away from the earth, and soaring away to some radiant, glorious
land of mystery.... I remember one night. We were sitting together
under the same lilac-bush; we were fond of that spot. All our
companions were asleep; but we had softly got up, dressed, fumbling in
the dark, and stealthily stepped out 'to dream.' It was fairly warm out
of doors, but a fresh breeze blew now and then and made us huddle
closer together. We talked, we talked a lot, and with much warmth--so
much so, that we positively interrupted each other, though we did not
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