Yakov Pasinkov Page #9

"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.

								

    Will you find living....
    I'll own I should be sorry
    That they should grieve for me.]

'Splendid thing!' said Pasinkov, directly I had finished the last
verse. 'Splendid thing!

But, it's queer,' he added, after a brief pause, 'it's queer you should
have chanced just on that.... Queer.'

I began to read another poem, but Pasinkov was not listening to me; he
looked away, and twice he repeated again: 'Queer!'

I let the book drop on my knees.

'"There is a girl, their neighbour,"' he whispered, and turning to me
he asked--'I say, do you remember Sophia Zlotnitsky?'

I turned red.

'I should think I did!'

'She was married, I suppose?...'

'To Asanov, long, long ago. I wrote to you about it.'

       *       *       *       *       *

    But if either of them is living,
    Say I am lazy about writing,
    That our regiment has been sent forward,
    And that they must not expect me home.

    There is a girl, their neighbour....
    As you remember, it's long
    Since we parted.... She will not
    Ask for me.... All the same,
    You tell her all the truth,
    Don't spare her empty heart--
    Let her weep a little....
    It will not hurt her much!

'To be sure, to be sure, so you did. Did her father forgive her in the
end?'

'He forgave her; but he would not receive Asanov.'

'Obstinate old fellow! Well, and are they supposed to be happy?'

'I don't know, really... I fancy they 're happy. They live in the
country, in ---- province. I've never seen them, though I have been
through their parts.'

'And have they any children?'

'I think so.... By the way, Pasinkov?...' I began questioningly.

He glanced at me.

'Confess--do you remember, you were unwilling to answer my question at
the time--did you tell her I cared for her?'

'I told her everything, the whole truth.... I always told her the
truth. To be hypocritical with her would have been a sin!'

Pasinkov was silent for a while.

'Come, tell me,' he began again: 'did you soon get over caring for her,
or not?'

'Not very soon, but I got over it. What's the good of sighing in vain?'

Pasinkov turned over, facing me.

'Well, I, brother,' he began--and his lips were quivering--'am no match
for you there; I've not got over caring for her to this day.'

'What!' I cried in indescribable amazement; 'did you love her?'

'I loved her,' said Pasinkov slowly, and he put both hands behind his
head. 'How I loved her, God only knows. I've never spoken of it to any
one, to any one in the world, and I never meant to ... but there! "On
earth, so they tell me, I have not long to stay." ... What does it
matter?'

Pasinkov's unexpected avowal so utterly astonished me that I could
positively say nothing. I could only wonder, 'Is it possible? how was
it I never suspected it?'

'Yes,' he went on, as though speaking to himself, 'I loved her. I never
ceased to love her even when I knew her heart was Asanov's. But how
bitter it was for me to know that! If she had loved you, I should at
least have rejoiced for you; but Asanov.... How did he make her care
for him? It was just his luck! And change her feelings, cease to care,
she could not! A true heart does not change....'

I recalled Asanov's visit after the fatal dinner, Pasinkov's
intervention, and I could not help flinging up my hands in
astonishment.

'You learnt it all from me, poor fellow!' I cried; 'and you undertook
to go and see her then!'

'Yes,' Pasinkov began again; 'that explanation with her ... I shall
never forget it.' It was then I found out, then I realised the meaning
of the word I had chosen for myself long before: resignation. But still
she has remained my constant dream, my ideal.... And he's to be pitied
who lives without an ideal!'

I looked at Pasinkov; his eyes, fastened, as it were, on the distance,
shone with feverish brilliance.

'I loved her,' he went on, 'I loved her, her, calm, true,
unapproachable, incorruptible; when she went away, I was almost mad
with grief.... Since then I have never cared for any one.'...

And suddenly turning, he pressed his face into the pillow, and began
quietly weeping.

I jumped up, bent over him, and began trying to comfort him....

'It's no matter,' he said, raising his head and shaking back his hair;
'it's nothing; I felt a little bitter, a little sorry ... for myself,
that is.... But it's all no matter. It's all the fault of those verses.
Read me something else, more cheerful.'

I took up Lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the pages; but, as
fate would have it, I kept coming across poems likely to agitate
Pasinkov again. At last I read him 'The Gifts of Terek.'

'Jingling rhetoric!' said my poor friend, with the tone of a preceptor;
'but there are fine passages. Since I saw you, brother, I've tried my
hand at poetry, and began one poem--"The Cup of Life"--but it didn't
come off! It's for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create.... But
I'm rather tired; I'll sleep a little--what do you say? What a splendid
thing sleep is, come to think of it! All our life's a dream, and the
best thing in it is dreaming too.'

'And poetry?' I queried.

'Poetry's a dream too, but a dream of paradise.'

Pasinkov closed his eyes.

I stood for a little while at his bedside. I did not think he would get
to sleep quickly, but soon his breathing became more even and
prolonged. I went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down
on the sofa. For a long while I mused on what Pasinkov had told me,
recalled many things, wondered; at last I too fell asleep....

Some one touched me; I started up; before me stood Elisei.

'Come in to my master,' he said.

I got up at once.

'What's the matter with him?'

'He's delirious.'

'Delirious? And hasn't it ever been so before with him?'

'Yes, he was delirious last night, too; only to-day it is something
terrible.'

I went to Pasinkov's room. He was not lying down, but sitting up in
bed, his whole body bent forward. He was slowly gesticulating with his
hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow
voice, like the whispering of rushes. His eyes were wandering. The
gloomy light of a night light, set on the floor, and shaded off by a
book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling; Pasinkov's face seemed
paler than ever in the half darkness.

I went up to him, called him by his name--he did not answer. I began
listening to his whispering: he was talking of Siberia, of its forests.
From time to time there was sense in his ravings.

'What trees!' he whispered; 'right up to the sky. What frost on them!
Silver ... snowdrifts.... And here are little tracks ... that's a
hare's leaping, that's a white weasel... No, it's my father running
with my papers. Here he is!... Here he is! Must go; the moon is
shining. Must go, look for my papers.... Ah! A flower, a crimson
flower--there's Sophia.... Oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is
crackling.... Ah, no; it's the stupid bullfinches hopping in the
bushes, whistling.... See, the redthroats! Cold.... Ah! here's
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