Dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turgenev
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Ivan Turgenev >> Dream Tales and Prose Poems
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Emotion, curiosity, awe overmastered me suddenly. I made an effort ... and
looked at my neighbour.
A face like every one's, a face like all men's faces. The eyes looked a
little upwards, quietly and intently. The lips closed, but not compressed;
the upper lip, as it were, resting on the lower; a small beard parted in
two. The hands folded and still. And the clothes on him like every one's.
'What sort of Christ is this?' I thought. 'Such an ordinary, ordinary man!
It can't be!'
I turned away. But I had hardly turned my eyes away from this ordinary man
when I felt again that it really was none other than Christ standing beside
me.
Again I made an effort over myself.... And again the same face, like all
men's faces, the same everyday though unknown features.
And suddenly my heart sank, and I came to myself. Only then I realised that
just such a face--a face like all men's faces--is the face of Christ.
_Dec. 1878._
II
[1879-1882]
THE STONE
Have you seen an old grey stone on the seashore, when at high tide, on a
sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon it on all sides--break and
frolic and caress it--and sprinkle over its sea-mossed head the scattered
pearls of sparkling foam?
The stone is still the same stone; but its sullen surface blossoms out into
bright colours.
They tell of those far-off days when the molten granite had but begun to
harden, and was all aglow with the hues of fire.
Even so of late was my old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of
fresh girls' souls ... and under their caressing touch it flushed with
long-faded colours, the traces of burnt-out fires!
The waves have ebbed back ... but the colours are not yet dull, though a
cutting wind is drying them.
_May 1879._
THE DOVES
I stood on the top of a sloping hillside; before me, a gold and silver sea
of shifting colour, stretched the ripe rye.
But no little wavelets ran over that sea; no stir of wind was in the
stifling air; a great storm was gathering.
Near me the sun still shone with dusky fire; but beyond the rye, not very
far away, a dark-blue storm-cloud lay, a menacing mass over full half of
the horizon.
All was hushed ... all things were faint under the malignant glare of
the last sun rays. No sound, no sight of a bird; even the sparrows hid
themselves. Only somewhere close by, persistently a great burdock leaf
flapped and whispered.
How strong was the smell of the wormwood in the hedges! I looked at the
dark-blue mass ... there was a vague uneasiness at my heart. 'Come then,
quickly, quickly!' was my thought, 'flash, golden snake, and roll thunder!
move, hasten, break into floods, evil storm-cloud; cut short this agony of
suspense!'
But the storm-cloud did not move. It lay as before, a stifling weight upon
the hushed earth ... and only seemed to swell and darken.
And lo, over its dead dusky-blue, something darted in smooth, even flight,
like a white handkerchief or a handful of snow. It was a white dove flying
from the direction of the village.
It flew, flew on straight ... and plunged into the forest. Some instants
passed by--still the same cruel hush.... But, look! Two handkerchiefs gleam
in the air, two handfuls of snow are floating back, two white doves are
winging their way homewards with even flight.
And now at last the storm has broken, and the tumult has begun!
I could hardly get home. The wind howled, tossing hither and thither in
frenzy; before it scudded low red clouds, torn, it seemed, into shreds;
everything was whirled round in confusion; the lashing rain streamed
in furious torrents down the upright trunks, flashes of lightning were
blinding with greenish light, sudden peals of thunder boomed like
cannon-shots, the air was full of the smell of sulphur....
But under the overhanging roof, on the sill of the dormer window, side by
side sat two white doves, the one who flew after his mate, and the mate he
brought back, saved, perhaps, from destruction.
They sit ruffling up their feathers, and each feels his mate's wing against
his wing....
They are happy! And I am happy, seeing them.... Though I am alone ...
alone, as always.
_May 1879._
TO-MORROW! TO-MORROW!
How empty, dull, and useless is almost every day when it is spent! How few
the traces it leaves behind it! How meaningless, how foolish those hours as
they coursed by one after another!
And yet it is man's wish to exist; he prizes life, he rests hopes on it, on
himself, on the future.... Oh, what blessings he looks for from the future!
But why does he imagine that other coming days will not be like this day he
has just lived through?
Nay, he does not even imagine it. He likes not to think at all, and he does
well.
'Ah, to-morrow, to-morrow!' he comforts himself, till 'to-morrow' pitches
him into the grave.
Well, and once in the grave, thou hast no choice, thou doest no more
thinking.
_May 1879._
NATURE
I dreamed I had come into an immense underground temple with lofty arched
roof. It was filled with a sort of underground uniform light.
In the very middle of the temple sat a majestic woman in a flowing robe
of green colour. Her head propped on her hand, she seemed buried in deep
thought.
At once I was aware that this woman was Nature herself; and a thrill of
reverent awe sent an instantaneous shiver through my inmost soul.
I approached the sitting figure, and making a respectful bow, 'O common
Mother of us all!' I cried, 'of what is thy meditation? Is it of the future
destinies of man thou ponderest? or how he may attain the highest possible
perfection and happiness?'
The woman slowly turned upon me her dark menacing eyes. Her lips moved, and
I heard a ringing voice like the clang of iron.
'I am thinking how to give greater power to the leg-muscles of the flea,
that he may more easily escape from his enemies. The balance of attack and
defence is broken.... It must be restored.'
'What,' I faltered in reply, 'what is it thou art thinking upon? But are
not we, men, thy favourite children?'
The woman frowned slightly. 'All creatures are my children,' she
pronounced, 'and I care for them alike, and all alike I destroy.'
'But right ... reason ... justice ...' I faltered again.
'Those are men's words,' I heard the iron voice saying. 'I know not right
nor wrong.... Reason is no law for me--and what is justice?--I have given
thee life, I shall take it away and give to others, worms or men ... I care
not.... Do thou meanwhile look out for thyself, and hinder me not!'
I would have retorted ... but the earth uttered a hollow groan and
shuddered, and I awoke.
_August 1879._
'HANG HIM!'
'It happened in 1803,' began my old acquaintance, 'not long before
Austerlitz. The regiment in which I was an officer was quartered in
Moravia.
'We had strict orders not to molest or annoy the inhabitants; as it was,
they regarded us very dubiously, though we were supposed to be allies.
'I had a servant, formerly a serf of my mother's, Yegor, by name. He was a
quiet, honest fellow; I had known him from a child, and treated him as a
friend.
'Well, one day, in the house where I was living, I heard screams of abuse,
cries, and lamentations; the woman of the house had had two hens stolen,
and she laid the theft at my servant's door. He defended himself, called me
to witness.... "Likely he'd turn thief, he, Yegor Avtamonov!" I assured the
woman of Yegor's honesty, but she would not listen to me.
'All at once the thud of horses' hoofs was heard along the street; the
commander-in-chief was riding by with his staff. He was riding at a walking
pace, a stout, corpulent man, with drooping head, and epaulettes hanging on
his breast.
'The woman saw him, and rushing before his horse, flung herself on her
knees, and, bare-headed and all in disorder, she began loudly complaining
of my servant, pointing at him.
'"General!" she screamed; "your Excellency! make an inquiry! help me! save
me! this soldier has robbed me!"
'Yegor stood at the door of the house, bolt upright, his cap in his hand,
he even arched his chest and brought his heels together like a sentry, and
not a word! Whether he was abashed at all the general's suite halting there
in the middle of the street, or stupefied by the calamity facing him, I
can't say, but there stood my poor Yegor, blinking and white as chalk!
'The commander-in-chief cast an abstracted and sullen glance at him,
growled angrily, "Well?" ... Yegor stood like a statue, showing his teeth
as if he were grinning! Looking at him from the side, you'd say the fellow
was laughing!
'Then the commander-in-chief jerked out: "Hang him!" spurred his horse, and
moved on, first at a walking-pace, then at a quick trot. The whole staff
hurried after him; only one adjutant turned round on his saddle and took a
passing glance at Yegor.
'To disobey was impossible.... Yegor was seized at once and led off to
execution.
'Then he broke down altogether, and simply gasped out twice, "Gracious
heavens! gracious heavens!" and then in a whisper, "God knows, it wasn't
me!"
'Bitterly, bitterly he cried, saying good-bye to me. I was in despair.
"Yegor! Yegor!" I cried, "how came it you said nothing to the general?"
'"God knows, it wasn't me!" the poor fellow repeated, sobbing. The woman
herself was horrified. She had never expected such a dreadful termination,
and she started howling on her own account! She fell to imploring all and
each for mercy, swore the hens had been found, that she was ready to clear
it all up....
'Of course, all that was no sort of use. Those were war-times, sir!
Discipline! The woman sobbed louder and louder.
'Yegor, who had received absolution from the priest, turned to me.
'"Tell her, your honour, not to upset herself.... I've forgiven her."'
My acquaintance, as he repeated this, his servant's last words, murmured,
'My poor Yegor, dear fellow, a real saint!' and the tears trickled down his
old cheeks.
_August 1879._
WHAT SHALL I THINK?...
What shall I think when I come to die, if only I am in a condition to think
anything then?
Shall I think how little use I have made of my life, how I have slumbered,
dozed through it, how little I have known how to enjoy its gifts?
'What? is this death? So soon? Impossible! Why, I have had no time to do
anything yet.... I have only been making ready to begin!'
Shall I recall the past, and dwell in thought on the few bright moments I
have lived through--on precious images and faces?
Will my ill deeds come back to my mind, and will my soul be stung by the
burning pain of remorse too late?
Shall I think of what awaits me beyond the grave ... and in truth does
anything await me there?
No.... I fancy I shall try not to think, and shall force myself to take
interest in some trifle simply to distract my own attention from the
menacing darkness, which is black before me.
I once saw a dying man who kept complaining they would not let him have
hazel-nuts to munch!... and only in the depths of his fast-dimming eyes,
something quivered and struggled like the torn wing of a bird wounded to
death....
_August 1879._
'HOW FAIR, HOW FRESH WERE THE ROSES ...'
Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten
... but the first line has stuck in my memory--
'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'
Now is winter; the frost has iced over the window-panes; in the dark room
burns a solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner; and in my head the
line keeps echoing and echoing--
'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'
And I see myself before the low window of a Russian country house. The
summer evening is slowly melting into night, the warm air is fragrant of
mignonette and lime-blossom; and at the window, leaning on her arm, her
head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, and silently, intently gazes
into the sky, as though looking for new stars to come out. What candour,
what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, what moving innocence in the parted
questioning lips, how calmly breathes that still-growing, still-untroubled
bosom, how pure and tender the profile of the young face! I dare not speak
to her; but how dear she is to me, how my heart beats!
'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'
But here in the room it gets darker and darker.... The candle burns dim and
gutters, dancing shadows quiver on the low ceiling, the cruel crunch of the
frost is heard outside, and within the dreary murmur of old age....
'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'
There rise up before me other images. I hear the merry hubbub of home life
in the country. Two flaxen heads, bending close together, look saucily at
me with their bright eyes, rosy cheeks shake with suppressed laughter,
hands are clasped in warm affection, young kind voices ring one above the
other; while a little farther, at the end of the snug room, other hands,
young too, fly with unskilled fingers over the keys of the old piano, and
the Lanner waltz cannot drown the hissing of the patriarchal samovar ...
'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'
The candle flickers and goes out.... Whose is that hoarse and hollow cough?
Curled up, my old dog lies, shuddering at my feet, my only companion....
I'm cold ... I'm frozen ... and all of them are dead ... dead ...
'_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._'
_Sept. 1879._
ON THE SEA
I was going from Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two
passengers; I and a little female monkey, whom a Hamburg merchant was
sending as a present to his English partner.
She was fastened by a light chain to one of the seats on deck, and was
moving restlessly and whining in a little plaintive pipe like a bird's.
Every time I passed by her she stretched out her little, black, cold hand,
and peeped up at me out of her little mournful, almost human eyes. I took
her hand, and she ceased whining and moving restlessly about.
There was a dead calm. The sea stretched on all sides like a motionless
sheet of leaden colour. It seemed narrowed and small; a thick fog overhung
it, hiding the very mast-tops in cloud, and dazing and wearying the eyes
with its soft obscurity. The sun hung, a dull red blur in this obscurity;
but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light.
Long, straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff, passed one
after another over the sea from the ship's prow, and broadening as they
passed, and wrinkling and widening, were smoothed out again with a shake,
and vanished. The foam flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels;
white as milk, with a faint hiss it broke up into serpentine eddies, and
then melted together again and vanished too, swallowed up by the mist.
Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's whine rang the small bell at the
stern.
From time to time a porpoise swam up, and with a sudden roll disappeared
below the scarcely ruffled surface.
And the captain, a silent man with a gloomy, sunburnt face, smoked a short
pipe and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea.
To all my inquiries he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was obliged
to turn to my sole companion, the monkey.
I sat down beside her; she ceased whining, and again held out her hand to
me.
The clinging fog oppressed us both with its drowsy dampness; and buried
in the same unconscious dreaminess, we sat side by side like brother and
sister.
I smile now ... but then I had another feeling.
We are all children of one mother, and I was glad that the poor little
beast was soothed and nestled so confidingly up to me, as to a brother.
_November 1879._
N.N.
Calmly and gracefully thou movest along the path of life, tearless and
smileless, and scarce a heedless glance of indifferent attention ruffles
thy calm.
Thou art good and wise ... and all things are remote from thee, and of no
one hast thou need.
Thou art fair, and no one can say, whether thou prizest thy beauty or not.
No sympathy hast thou to give; none dost thou desire.
Thy glance is deep, and no thought is in it; in that clear depth is
emptiness.
So in the Elysian field, to the solemn strains of Gluck's melodies, move
without grief or bliss the graceful shades.
_November 1879._
STAY!
Stay! as I see thee now, abide for ever in my memory!
From thy lips the last inspired note has broken. No light, no flash is
in thy eyes; they are dim, weighed down by the load of happiness, of the
blissful sense of the beauty, it has been thy glad lot to express--the
beauty, groping for which thou hast stretched out thy yearning hands, thy
triumphant, exhausted hands!
What is the radiance--purer and higher than the sun's radiance--all about
thy limbs, the least fold of thy raiment?
What god's caressing breath has set thy scattered tresses floating?
His kiss burns on thy brow, white now as marble.
This is it, the mystery revealed, the mystery of poesy, of life, of love!
This, this is immortality! Other immortality there is none, nor need be.
For this instant thou art immortal.
It passes, and once more thou art a grain of dust, a woman, a child.... But
why need'st thou care! For this instant, thou art above, thou art outside
all that is passing, temporary. This thy instant will never end. Stay!
and let me share in thy immortality; shed into my soul the light of thy
eternity!
_November 1879._
THE MONK
I used to know a monk, a hermit, a saint. He lived only for the sweetness
of prayer; and steeping himself in it, he would stand so long on the cold
floor of the church that his legs below the knees grew numb and senseless
as blocks of wood. He did not feel them; he stood on and prayed.
I understood him, and perhaps envied him; but let him too understand me and
not condemn me; me, for whom his joys are inaccessible.
He has attained to annihilating himself, his hateful _ego_; but I too; it's
not from egoism, I pray not.
My _ego_, may be, is even more burdensome and more odious to me, than his
to him.
He has found wherein to forget himself ... but I, too, find the same,
though not so continuously.
He does not lie ... but neither do I lie.
_November 1879._
WE WILL STILL FIGHT ON
What an insignificant trifle may sometimes transform the whole man!
Full of melancholy thought, I walked one day along the highroad.
My heart was oppressed by a weight of gloomy apprehension; I was
overwhelmed by dejection. I raised my head.... Before me, between two rows
of tall poplars, the road darted like an arrow into the distance.
And across it, across this road, ten paces from me, in the golden light of
the dazzling summer sunshine, a whole family of sparrows hopped one after
another, hopped saucily, drolly, self-reliantly!
One of them, in particular, skipped along sideways with desperate energy,
puffing out his little bosom and chirping impudently, as though to say he
was not afraid of any one! A gallant little warrior, really!
And, meanwhile, high overhead in the heavens hovered a hawk, destined,
perhaps, to devour that little warrior.
I looked, laughed, shook myself, and the mournful thoughts flew right away:
pluck, daring, zeal for life I felt anew. Let him, too, hover over me, _my_
hawk.... We will fight on, and damn it all!
_November 1879._
PRAYER
Whatever a man pray for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces
to this: 'Great God, grant that twice two be not four.'
Only such a prayer is a real prayer from person to person. To pray
to the Cosmic Spirit, to the Higher Being, to the Kantian, Hegelian,
quintessential, formless God is impossible and unthinkable.
But can even a personal, living, imaged God make twice two not be four?
Every believer is bound to answer, _he can_, and is bound to persuade
himself of it.
But if reason sets him revolting against this senselessness?
Then Shakespeare comes to his aid: 'There are more things in heaven and
earth, Horatio,' etc.
And if they set about confuting him in the name of truth, he has but to
repeat the famous question, 'What is truth?' And so, let us drink and be
merry, and say our prayers.
_July 1881._
THE RUSSIAN TONGUE
In days of doubt, in days of dreary musings on my country's fate, thou
alone art my stay and support, mighty, true, free Russian speech! But for
thee, how not fall into despair, seeing all that is done at home? But who
can think that such a tongue is not the gift of a great people!
_June 1882._
THE END
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