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A Reckless Character by Ivan Turgenev

I >> Ivan Turgenev >> A Reckless Character




"Thou hast been in the garden, thou hast been out, thy clothing is damp
with rain."

"No.... I do not know ... I do not think ... that I have been out of
doors ..." replied Muzio, in broken accents, as though astonished at
Fabio's advent, and at his agitation.

Fabio grasped him by the arm.--"And why art thou playing that melody
again? Hast thou had another dream?"

Muzio glanced at Fabio with the same surprise as before, and made no
answer.

"Come, answer me!"

"The moon is steel, like a circular shield....
The river gleams like a snake....
The friend is awake, the enemy sleeps--
The hawk seizes the chicken in his claws....
Help!"

mumbled Muzio, in a singsong, as though in a state of unconsciousness.

Fabio retreated a couple of paces, fixed his eyes on Muzio, meditated
for a space ... and returned to his house, to the bed-chamber.

With her head inclined upon her shoulder, and her arms helplessly
outstretched, Valeria was sleeping heavily. He did not speedily succeed
in waking her ... but as soon as she saw him she flung herself on his
neck, and embraced him convulsively; her whole body was quivering.

"What aileth thee, my dear one, what aileth thee?" said Fabio
repeatedly, striving to soothe her.

But she continued to lie as in a swoon on his breast. "Akh, what
dreadful visions I see!" she whispered, pressing her face against him.

Fabio attempted to question her ... but she merely trembled....

The window-panes were reddening with the first gleams of dawn when, at
last, she fell asleep in his arms.




VIII


On the following day Muzio disappeared early in the morning, and Valeria
informed her husband that she intended to betake herself to the
neighbouring monastery, where dwelt her spiritual father--an aged and
stately monk, in whom she cherished unbounded confidence. To Fabio's
questions she replied that she desired to alleviate by confession her
soul, which was oppressed with the impressions of the last few days. As
he gazed at Valeria's sunken visage, as he listened to her faint voice,
Fabio himself approved of her plan: venerable Father Lorenzo might be
able to give her useful advice, disperse her doubts.... Under the
protection of four escorts, Valeria set out for the monastery, but Fabio
remained at home; and while awaiting the return of his wife, he roamed
about the garden, trying to understand what had happened to her, and
feeling the unremitting terror and wrath and pain of indefinite
suspicions.... More than once he entered the pavilion; but Muzio had not
returned, and the Malay stared at Fabio like a statue, with an
obsequious inclination of his head, and a far-away grin--at least, so it
seemed to Fabio--a far-away grin on his bronze countenance.

In the meantime Valeria had narrated everything in confession to her
confessor, being less ashamed than frightened. The confessor listened to
her attentively, blessed her, absolved her from her involuntary
sins,--but thought to himself: "Magic, diabolical witchcraft ... things
cannot be left in this condition".... and accompanied Valeria to her
villa, ostensibly for the purpose of definitely calming and comforting
her.

At the sight of the confessor Fabio was somewhat startled; but the
experienced old man had already thought out beforehand how he ought to
proceed. On being left alone with Fabio, he did not, of course, betray
the secrets of the confessional; but he advised him to banish from his
house, if that were possible, his invited guest who, by his tales,
songs, and his whole conduct, had upset Valeria's imagination. Moreover,
in the old man's opinion, Muzio had not been firm in the faith in days
gone by, as he now recalled to mind; and after having sojourned so long
in regions not illuminated by the light of Christianity, he might have
brought thence the infection of false doctrines; he might even have
dabbled in magic; and therefore, although old friendship did assert its
rights, still wise caution pointed to parting as indispensable.

Fabio thoroughly agreed with the venerable monk. Valeria even beamed all
over when her husband communicated to her her confessor's counsel; and
accompanied by the good wishes of both husband and wife, and provided
with rich gifts for the monastery and the poor, Father Lorenzo wended
his way home.

Fabio had intended to have an explanation with Muzio directly after
supper, but his strange guest did not return to supper. Then Fabio
decided to defer the interview with Muzio until the following day, and
husband and wife withdrew to their bed-chamber.




IX


Valeria speedily fell asleep; but Fabio could not get to sleep. In the
nocturnal silence all that he had seen, all that he had felt, presented
itself to him in a still more vivid manner; with still greater
persistence did he ask himself questions, to which, as before, he found
no answer. Was Muzio really a magician? And had he already poisoned
Valeria? She was ill ... but with what malady? While he was engrossed in
painful meditations, with his head propped on his hand and restraining
his hot breathing, the moon again rose in the cloudless sky; and
together with its rays, through the semi-transparent window-panes, in
the direction of the pavilion, there began to stream in--or did Fabio
merely imagine it?--there began to stream in a breath resembling a
faint, perfumed current of air....

Now an importunate, passionate whisper began to make itself heard ...
and at that same moment he noticed that Valeria was beginning to stir
slightly. He started, gazed; she rose, thrust first one foot, then the
other from the bed, and, like a somnambulist, with her dull eyes
strained straight ahead, and her arms extended before her, she advanced
toward the door into the garden! Fabio instantly sprang through the
other door of the bedroom, and briskly running round the corner of the
house, he closed the one which led into the garden.... He had barely
succeeded in grasping the handle when he felt some one trying to open
the door from within, throwing their force against it ... more and more
strongly ... then frightened moans resounded.

* * * * *

"But Muzio cannot have returned from the town, surely," flashed through
Fabio's head, and he darted into the pavilion....

What did he behold?

Coming to meet him, along the path brilliantly flooded with the radiance
of the moonlight, also with arms outstretched and lifeless eyes staring
widely--was Muzio.... Fabio ran up to him, but the other, without
noticing him, walked on, advancing with measured steps, and his
impassive face was smiling in the moonlight like the face of the Malay.
Fabio tried to call him by name ... but at that moment he heard a window
bang in the house behind him.... He glanced round....

In fact, the window of the bedroom was open from top to bottom, and with
one foot thrust across the sill stood Valeria in the window ... and her
arms seemed to be seeking Muzio, her whole being was drawn toward him.

Unspeakable wrath flooded Fabio's breast in a suddenly-invading
torrent.--"Accursed sorcerer!" he yelled fiercely, and seizing Muzio by
the throat with one hand, he fumbled with the other for the dagger in
his belt, and buried its blade to the hilt in his side.

Muzio uttered a piercing shriek, and pressing the palm of his hand to
the wound, fled, stumbling, back to the pavilion.... But at that same
instant, when Fabio stabbed him, Valeria uttered an equally piercing
shriek and fell to the ground like one mowed down.

Fabio rushed to her, raised her up, carried her to the bed, spoke to
her....

For a long time she lay motionless; but at last she opened her eyes,
heaved a deep sigh, convulsively and joyously, like a person who has
just been saved from inevitable death,--caught sight of her husband, and
encircling his neck with her arms, pressed herself to his breast.

"Thou, thou, it is thou," she stammered. Gradually the clasp of her arms
relaxed, her head sank backward, and whispering, with a blissful
smile:--"Thank God, all is over.... But how weary I am!"--she fell into
a profound but not heavy slumber.




X


Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking his eyes from her pale,
emaciated, but already tranquil face, he began to reflect upon what had
taken place ... and also upon how he ought to proceed now. What was he
to do? If he had slain Muzio--and when he recalled how deeply the blade
of his dagger had penetrated he could not doubt that he had done
so--then it was impossible to conceal the fact. He must bring it to the
knowledge of the Duke, of the judges ... but how was he to explain, how
was he to narrate such an incomprehensible affair? He, Fabio, had slain
in his own house his relative, his best friend! People would ask, "What
for? For what cause?..." But what if Muzio were not slain?--Fabio had
not the strength to remain any longer in uncertainty, and having made
sure that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously rose from his arm-chair,
left the house, and directed his steps toward the pavilion. All was
silent in it; only in one window was a light visible. With sinking heart
he opened the outer door--(a trace of bloody fingers still clung to it,
and on the sand of the path drops of blood made black patches)--
raversed the first dark chamber ... and halted on the threshold,
petrified with astonishment.

In the centre of the room, on a Persian rug, with a brocade cushion
under his head, covered with a wide scarlet shawl with black figures,
lay Muzio, with all his limbs stiffly extended. His face, yellow as wax,
with closed eyes and lids which had become blue, was turned toward the
ceiling, and no breath was to be detected: he seemed to be dead. At his
feet, also enveloped in a scarlet shawl, knelt the Malay. He held in his
left hand a branch of some unfamiliar plant, resembling a fern, and
bending slightly forward, he was gazing at his master, never taking his
eyes from him. A small torch, thrust into the floor, burned with a
greenish flame, and was the only light in the room. Its flame did not
flicker nor smoke.

The Malay did not stir at Fabio's entrance, but merely darted a glance
at him and turned his eyes again upon Muzio. From time to time he
raised himself a little, and lowered the branch, waving it through the
air,--and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved, as though uttering
inaudible words. Between Muzio and the Malay there lay upon the floor
the dagger with which Fabio had stabbed his friend. The Malay smote the
blood-stained blade with his bough. One minute passed ... then another.
Fabio approached the Malay, and bending toward him, he said in a low
voice: "Is he dead?"--The Malay bowed his head, and disengaging his
right hand from beneath the shawl, pointed imperiously to the door.
Fabio was about to repeat his question, but the imperious hand repeated
its gesture, and Fabio left the room, raging arid marvelling but
submitting.

He found Valeria asleep, as before, with a still more tranquil face. He
did not undress, but seated himself by the window, propped his head on
his hand, and again became immersed in thought. The rising sun found him
still in the same place. Valeria had not wakened.




XI


Fabio was intending to wait until she should awake, and then go to
Ferrara--when suddenly some one tapped lightly at the door of the
bedroom. Fabio went out and beheld before him his aged major-domo,
Antonio.

"Signor," began the old man, "the Malay has just informed us that Signor
Muzio is ailing and desires to remove with all his effects to the town;
and therefore he requests that you will furnish him with the aid of some
persons to pack his things--and that you will send, about dinner-time,
both pack-and saddle-horses and a few men as guard. Do you permit?"

"Did the Malay tell thee that?" inquired Fabio. "In what manner? For he
is dumb."

"Here, signor, is a paper on which he wrote all this in our language,
very correctly."

"And Muzio is ill, sayest thou?"

"Yes, very ill, and he cannot be seen."

"Has not a physician been sent for?"

"No; the Malay would not allow it."

"And was it the Malay who wrote this for thee?"

"Yes, it was he."

Fabio was silent for a space.

"Very well, take the necessary measures," he said at last.

Antonio withdrew.

Fabio stared after his servant in perplexity.--"So he was not
killed?"--he thought ... and he did not know whether to rejoice or to
grieve.--"He is ill?"--But a few hours ago he had beheld him a corpse!

Fabio returned to Valeria. She was awake, and raised her head. The
husband and wife exchanged a long, significant look.

"Is he already dead?" said Valeria suddenly.--Fabio shuddered.

"What ... he is not?--Didst thou.... Has he gone away?" she went on.

Fabio's heart was relieved.--"Not yet; but he is going away to-day."

"And I shall never, never see him again?"

"Never."

"And those visions will not be repeated?"

"No."

Valeria heaved another sigh of relief; a blissful smile again made its
appearance on her lips. She put out both hands to her husband.

"And we shall never speak of him, never, hearest thou, my dear one. And
I shall not leave this room until he is gone. But now do thou send me my
serving-women ... and stay: take that thing!"--she pointed to a pearl
necklace which lay on the night-stand, the necklace which Muzio had
given her,---"and throw it immediately into our deep well. Embrace me--I
am thy Valeria--and do not come to me until ... that man is gone."

Fabio took the necklace--its pearls seemed to have grown dim--and
fulfilled his wife's behest. Then he began to roam about the garden,
gazing from a distance at the pavilion, around which the bustle of
packing was already beginning. Men were carrying out chests, lading
horses ... but the Malay was not among them. An irresistible feeling
drew Fabio to gaze once more on what was going on in the pavilion. He
recalled the fact that in its rear facade there was a secret door
through which one might penetrate to the interior of the chamber where
Muzio had been lying that morning. He stole up to that door, found it
unlocked, and pushing aside the folds of a heavy curtain, darted in an
irresolute glance.




XII


Muzio was no longer lying on the rug. Dressed in travelling attire, he
was sitting in an arm-chair, but appeared as much of a corpse as at
Fabio's first visit. The petrified head had fallen against the back of
the chair, the hands lay flat, motionless, and yellow on the knees. His
breast did not heave. Round about the chair, on the floor strewn with
dried herbs, stood several flat cups filled with a dark liquid which
gave off a strong, almost suffocating odour,--the odour of musk. Around
each cup was coiled a small, copper-coloured serpent, which gleamed here
and there with golden spots; and directly in front of Muzio, a couple of
paces distant from him, rose up the tall figure of the Malay, clothed in
a motley-hued mantle of brocade, girt about with a tiger's tail, with a
tall cap in the form of a horned tiara on his head.

But he was not motionless: now he made devout obeisances and seemed to
be praying, again he drew himself up to his full height, even stood on
tiptoe; now he threw his hands apart in broad and measured sweep, now he
waved them urgently in the direction of Muzio, and seemed to be menacing
or commanding with them, as he contracted his brows in a frown and
stamped his foot. All these movements evidently cost him great effort,
and even caused him suffering: he breathed heavily, the sweat streamed
from his face. Suddenly he stood stock-still on one spot, and inhaling
the air into his lungs and scowling, he stretched forward, then drew
toward him his clenched fists, as though he were holding reins in
them ... and to Fabio's indescribable horror, Muzio's head slowly
separated itself from the back of the chair and reached out after the
Malay's hands.... The Malay dropped his hands, and Muzio's head again
sank heavily backward; the Malay repeated his gestures, and the obedient
head repeated them after him. The dark liquid in the cups began to
seethe with a faint sound; the very cups themselves emitted a faint
tinkling, and the copper snakes began to move around each of them in
undulating motion. Then the Malay advanced a pace, and elevating his
eyebrows very high and opening his eyes until they were of huge size, he
nodded his head at Muzio ... and the eyelids of the corpse began to
flutter, parted unevenly, and from beneath them the pupils, dull as lead,
revealed themselves. With proud triumph and joy--a joy that was almost
malicious--beamed the face of the Malay; he opened his lips widely, and
from the very depths of his throat a prolonged roar wrested itself with
an effort.... Muzio's lips parted also, and a faint groan trembled on
them in reply to that inhuman sound.

But at this point Fabio could endure it no longer: he fancied that he
was witnessing some devilish incantations! He also uttered a shriek and
started off at a run homeward, without looking behind him,--homeward as
fast as he could go, praying and crossing himself as he ran.




XIII


Three hours later Antonio presented himself before him with the report
that everything was ready, all the things were packed, and Signor Muzio
was preparing to depart. Without uttering a word in answer to his
servant, Fabio stepped out on the terrace, whence the pavilion was
visible. Several pack-horses were grouped in front of it; at the porch
itself a powerful black stallion, with a roomy saddle adapted for two
riders, was drawn up. There also stood the servants with bared heads and
the armed escort. The door of the pavilion opened and, supported by the
Malay, Muzio made his appearance. His face was deathlike, and his arms
hung down like those of a corpse,--but he walked ... yes! he put one
foot before the other, and once mounted on the horse, he held himself
upright, and got hold of the reins by fumbling. The Malay thrust his
feet into the stirrups, sprang up behind him on the saddle, encircled
his waist with his arm,--and the whole procession set out. The horses
proceeded at a walk, and when they made the turn in front of the house,
Fabio fancied that on Muzio's dark countenance two small white patches
gleamed.... Could it be that he had turned his eyes that way?--The Malay
alone saluted him ... mockingly, but as usual.

Did Valeria see all this? The shutters of her windows were closed ...
but perhaps she was standing behind them.




XIV


At dinner-time she entered the dining-room, and was very quiet and
affectionate; but she still complained of being weary. Yet there was no
agitation about her, nor any of her former constant surprise and secret
fear; and when, on the day after Muzio's departure, Fabio again set
about her portrait, he found in her features that pure expression, the
temporary eclipse of which had so disturbed him ... and his brush flew
lightly and confidently over the canvas.

Husband and wife began to live their life as of yore. Muzio had vanished
for them as though he had never existed. And both Fabio and Valeria
seemed to have entered into a compact not to recall him by a single
sound, not to inquire about his further fate; and it remained a mystery
for all others as well. Muzio really did vanish, as though he had sunk
through the earth. One day Fabio thought himself bound to relate to
Valeria precisely what had occurred on that fateful night ... but she,
probably divining his intention, held her breath, and her eyes narrowed
as though she were anticipating a blow.... And Fabio understood her: he
did not deal her that blow.

One fine autumnal day Fabio was putting the finishing touches to the
picture of his Cecilia; Valeria was sitting at the organ, and her
fingers were wandering over the keys.... Suddenly, contrary to her own
volition, from beneath her fingers rang out that Song of Love Triumphant
which Muzio had once played,--and at that same instant, for the first
time since her marriage, she felt within her the palpitation of a new,
germinating life.... Valeria started and stopped short....

What was the meaning of this? Could it be....

With this word the manuscript came to an end.






CLARA MILITCH

A TALE

(1882)




I


In the spring of 1878 there lived in Moscow, in a small wooden house on
Shabolovka Street, a young man five-and-twenty years of age, Yakoff
Aratoff by name. With him lived his aunt, an old maid, over fifty years
of age, his father's sister, Platonida Ivanovna. She managed his
housekeeping and took charge of his expenditures, of which Aratoff was
utterly incapable. He had no other relations. Several years before, his
father, a petty and not wealthy noble of the T---- government, had
removed to Moscow, together with him and Platonida Ivanovna who, by the
way, was always called Platosha; and her nephew called her so too. When
he quitted the country where all of them had constantly dwelt hitherto,
old Aratoff had settled in the capital with the object of placing his
son in the university, for which he had himself prepared him; he
purchased for a trifling sum a small house on one of the remote streets,
and installed himself therein with all his books and "preparations." And
of books and preparations he had many, for he was a man not devoid of
learning ... "a supernatural eccentric," according to the words of his
neighbours. He even bore among them the reputation of a magician: he had
even received the nickname of "the insect-observer." He busied himself
with chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany, and medicine; he treated
voluntary patients with herbs and metallic powders of his own
concoction, after the method of Paracelsus. With those same powders he
had sent into the grave his young, pretty, but already too delicate
wife, whom he had passionately loved, and by whom he had had an only
son. With those same metallic powders he had wrought considerable havoc
with the health of his son also, which, on the contrary, he had wished
to reinforce, as he detected in his organisation anaemia and a tendency
to consumption inherited from his mother. The title of "magician" he had
acquired, among other things, from the fact that he considered himself a
great-grandson--not in the direct line, of course--of the famous Bruce,
in whose honour he had named his son Yakoff.[51] He was the sort of man
who is called "very good-natured," but of a melancholy temperament,
fussy, and timid, with a predilection for everything that was mysterious
or mystical.... "Ah!" uttered in a half-whisper was his customary
exclamation; and he died with that exclamation on his lips, two years
after his removal to Moscow.

His son Yakoff did not, in outward appearance, resemble his father, who
had been homely in person, clumsy and awkward; he reminded one rather of
his mother. There were the same delicate, pretty features, the same soft
hair of ashblonde hue, the same plump, childish lips, and large,
languishing, greenish-grey eyes, and feathery eyelashes. On the other
hand in disposition he resembled his father; and his face, which did not
resemble his father's, bore the stamp of his father's expression; and he
had angular arms, and a sunken chest, like old Aratoff, who, by the way,
should hardly be called an old man, since he did not last to the age of
fifty. During the latter's lifetime Yakoff had already entered the
university, in the physico-mathematical faculty; but he did not finish
his course,--not out of idleness, but because, according to his ideas, a
person can learn no more in the university than he can teach himself at
home; and he did not aspire to a diploma, as he was not intending to
enter the government service. He avoided his comrades, made acquaintance
with hardly any one, was especially shy of women, and lived a very
isolated life, immersed in his books. He was shy of women, although he
had a very tender heart, and was captivated by beauty.... He even
acquired the luxury of an English keepsake, and (Oh, for shame!) admired
the portraits of divers, bewitching Gulnares and Medoras which "adorned"
it.... But his inborn modesty constantly restrained him. At home he
occupied his late father's study, which had also been his bedroom; and
his bed was the same on which his father had died.

The great support of his whole existence, his unfailing comrade and
friend, was his aunt, that Platosha, with whom he exchanged barely ten
words a day, but without whom he could not take a step. She was a
long-visaged, long-toothed being, with pale eyes in a pale face, and an
unvarying expression partly of sadness, partly of anxious alarm.
Eternally attired in a grey gown, and a grey shawl which was redolent of
camphor, she wandered about the house like a shadow, with noiseless
footsteps; she sighed, whispered prayers--especially one, her favourite,
which consisted of two words: "Lord, help!"--and managed the
housekeeping very vigorously, hoarding every kopek and buying everything
herself. She worshipped her nephew; she was constantly fretting about
his health, was constantly in a state of alarm, not about herself but
about him, and as soon as she thought there was anything the matter with
him, she would quietly approach and place on his writing-table a cup of
herb-tea, or stroke his back with her hands, which were as soft as
wadding.

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