First love, and other stories by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Author:Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev [Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Russia -- Social life and customs -- Fiction, Short stories, Russian -- Translations into English, Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich, 1818-1883 -- Translations into English, Russian fiction -- Translations into English
Published: 2018-03-29T16:00:00+00:00

“Are you such a ... punctual man?”

“I try to be a punctual man,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“In our sedate era, every honourable man must be sedate and punctual.”

“That is perfectly just,”—remarked Ipátoff.—“Isn’t that true Iván Ílitch?”

Iván Ílitch merely glanced at Ipátoff; but Egór Kapítonitch remarked:

“Yes, that’s so.”

“‘Tis a pity,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna;—“precisely what we lack is a jeune premier. You know how to act comedy, I suppose?”

“I have never put my powers in that line to the test.”

“I am convinced that you would act well. You have that sort of bearing ... a stately mien, which is indispensable in a jeune premier. My brother and I are preparing to set up a theatre here. However, we shall not act comedies only: we shall act all sorts of things—dramas, ballets, and even tragedies. Why wouldn’t Másha do for Cleopatra or Phèdre? Just look at her!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round.... Márya Pávlovna was gazing thoughtfully into the distance, as she stood leaning her head against the door, with folded arms.... At that moment, her regular features really did suggest the faces of ancient statues. She did not catch Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s last words; but, perceiving that the glances of all present were suddenly directed to her, she immediately divined what was going on, blushed, and was about to retreat into the drawing-room.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna briskly grasped her by the hand and, with the coquettish caressing action of a kitten, drew her toward her, and kissed that almost masculine hand. Márya Pávlovna flushed more vividly than before.

“Thou art always playing pranks, Nádya,”—she said.

“Didn’t I speak the truth about thee? I am ready to appeal to all.... Well, enough, enough, I won’t do it again. But I will say again,”—went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna, addressing Vladímir Sergyéitch,—“that it is a pity you are going away. We have a jeune premier, it is true; he calls himself so, but he is very bad.”

“Who is he? permit me to inquire.”

“Bodryakóff the poet. How can a poet be a jeune premier? In the first place, he dresses in the most frightful way; in the second place, he writes epigrams, and gets shy in the presence of every woman, even in mine. He lisps, one of his hands is always higher than his head, and I don’t know what besides. Tell me, please, M’sieu Astákhoff, are all poets like that?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch drew himself up slightly.

“I have never known a single one of them, personally; but I must confess that I have never sought acquaintance with them.”

“Yes, you certainly are a positive man. We shall have to take Bodryakóff; there’s nothing else to be done. Other jeunes premiers are even worse. That one, at all events, will learn his part by heart. Másha, in addition to tragic rôles, will fill the post of prima donna.... You haven’t heard her sing, have you, M’sieu Astákhoff?”

“No,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, displaying his teeth in a smile; “and I did not know....”

“What is the matter with thee to-day, Nádya?”—said Márya Pávlovna, with a look of displeasure.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna sprang to her feet.

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