



Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Garcia, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team










THE JEW AND OTHER STORIES

BY IVAN TURGENEV



_Translated from the Russian_
_By CONSTANCE GARNETT_







TO THE MEMORY OF STEPNIAK
WHOSE LOVE OF TURGENEV
SUGGESTED THIS TRANSLATION






INTRODUCTION

In studying the Russian novel it is amusing to note the childish
attitude of certain English men of letters to the novel in general,
their depreciation of its influence and of the public's 'inordinate'
love of fiction. Many men of letters to-day look on the novel as a mere
story-book, as a series of light-, amusing pictures for their
'idle hours,' and on memoirs, biographies, histories, criticism, and
poetry as the age's _serious_ contribution to literature. Whereas
the reverse is the case. The most serious and significant of all
literary forms the modern world has evolved is the novel; and brought to
its highest development, the novel shares with poetry to-day the honour
of being the supreme instrument of the great artist's literary skill.

To survey the field of the novel as a mere pleasure-garden marked out
for the crowd's diversion--a field of recreation adorned here and there
by the masterpieces of a few great men--argues in the modern critic
either an academical attitude to literature and life, or a one-eyed
obtuseness, or merely the usual insensitive taste. The drama in all but
two countries has been willy-nilly abandoned by artists as a coarse
playground for the great public's romps and frolics, but the novel can
be preserved exactly so long as the critics understand that to exercise
a delicate art is the one _serious_ duty of the artistic life. It
is no more an argument against the vital significance of the novel that
tens of thousands of people--that everybody, in fact--should to-day
essay that form of art, than it is an argument against poetry that for
all the centuries droves and flocks of versifiers and scribblers and
rhymesters have succeeded in making the name of poet a little foolish in
worldly eyes. The true function of poetry! That can only be vindicated
in common opinion by the severity and enthusiasm of critics in stripping
bare the false, and in hailing as the true all that is animated by the
living breath of beauty. The true function of the novel! That can only
be supported by those who understand that the adequate representation
and criticism of human life would be impossible for modern men were the
novel to go the way of the drama, and be abandoned to the mass of vulgar
standards. That the novel is the most insidious means of mirroring human
society Cervantes in his great classic revealed to seventeenth-century
Europe. Richardson and Fielding and Sterne in their turn, as great
realists and impressionists, proved to the eighteenth century that the
novel is as flexible as life itself. And from their days to the days of
Henry James the form of the novel has been adapted by European genius to
the exact needs, outlook, and attitude to life of each successive
generation. To the French, especially to Flaubert and Maupassant, must
be given the credit of so perfecting the novel's technique that it has
become the great means of cosmopolitan culture. It was, however,
reserved for the youngest of European literatures, for the Russian
school, to raise the novel to being the absolute and triumphant
expression by the national genius of the national soul.

Turgenev's place in modern European literature is best defined by saying
that while he stands as a great classic in the ranks of the great
novelists, along with Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Balzac, Dickens,
Thackeray, Meredith, Tolstoi, Flaubert, Maupassant, he is the greatest
of them all, in the sense that he is the supreme artist. As has been
recognised by the best French critics, Turgenev's art is both wider in
its range and more beautiful in its form than the work of any modern
European artist. The novel modelled by Turgenev's hands, the Russian
novel, became _the_ great modern instrument for showing 'the very
age and body of the time his form and pressure.' To reproduce human life
in all its subtlety as it moves and breathes before us, and at the same
time to assess its values by the great poetic insight that reveals man's
relations to the universe around him,--that is an art only transcended
by Shakespeare's own in its unique creation of a universe of great human
types. And, comparing Turgenev with the European masters, we see that if
he has made the novel both more delicate and more powerful than their
example shows it, it is because as the supreme artist he filled it with
the breath of poetry where others in general spoke the word of prose.
Turgenev's horizon always broadens before our eyes: where Fielding and
Richardson speak for the country and the town, Turgenev speaks for the
nation. While Balzac makes defile before us an endless stream of human
figures, Turgenev's characters reveal themselves as wider apart in the
range of their spirit, as more mysteriously alive in their inevitable
essence, than do Meredith's or Flaubert's, than do Thackeray's or
Maupassant's. Where Tolstoi uses an immense canvas in _War and
Peace_, wherein Europe may see the march of a whole generation,
Turgenev in _Fathers and Children_ concentrates in the few words of
a single character, Bazarov, the essence of modern science's attitude to
life, that scientific spirit which has transformed both European life
and thought. It is, however, superfluous to draw further parallels
between Turgenev and his great rivals. In England alone, perhaps, is it
necessary to say to the young novelist that the novel can become
anything, can be anything, according to the hands that use it. In its
application to life, its future development can by no means be gauged.
It is the most complex of all literary instruments, the chief method
to-day of analysing the complexities of modern life. If you love your
art, if you would exalt it, treat it absolutely seriously. If you would
study it in its highest form, the form the greatest artist of our time
has perfected--remember Turgenev.

EDWARD GARNETT.

November 1899.






CONTENTS

THE JEW

AN UNHAPPY GIRL

THE DUELLIST

THREE PORTRAITS

ENOUGH







THE JEW


...'Tell us a story, colonel,' we said at last to Nikolai Ilyitch.

The colonel smiled, puffed out a coil of tobacco smoke between his
moustaches, passed his hand over his grey hair, looked at us and
considered. We all had the greatest liking and respect for Nikolai
Ilyitch, for his good-heartedness, common sense, and kindly indulgence
to us young fellows. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, stoutly-built man;
his dark face, 'one of the splendid Russian faces,' [Footnote: Lermontov
in the _Treasurer's Wife_.--AUTHOR'S NOTE.] straight-forward,
clever glance, gentle smile, manly and mellow voice--everything about
him pleased and attracted one.

'All right, listen then,' he began.

It happened in 1813, before Dantzig. I was then in the E---- regiment of
cuirassiers, and had just, I recollect, been promoted to be a cornet. It
is an exhilarating occupation--fighting; and marching too is good enough
in its way, but it is fearfully slow in a besieging army. There one sits
the whole blessed day within some sort of entrenchment, under a tent, on
mud or straw, playing cards from morning till night. Perhaps, from
simple boredom, one goes out to watch the bombs and redhot bullets
flying.

At first the French kept us amused with sorties, but they quickly
subsided. We soon got sick of foraging expeditions too; we were
overcome, in fact, by such deadly dulness that we were ready to howl for
sheer _ennui_. I was not more than nineteen then; I was a healthy
young fellow, fresh as a daisy, thought of nothing but getting all the
fun I could out of the French... and in other ways too... you
understand what I mean... and this is what happened. Having nothing to
do, I fell to gambling. All of a sudden, after dreadful losses, my luck
turned, and towards morning (we used to play at night) I had won an
immense amount. Exhausted and sleepy, I came out into the fresh air, and
sat down on a mound. It was a splendid, calm morning; the long lines of
our fortifications were lost in the mist; I gazed till I was weary, and
then began to doze where I was sitting.

A discreet cough waked me: I opened my eyes, and saw standing before me
a Jew, a man of forty, wearing a long-skirted grey wrapper, slippers,
and a black smoking-cap. This Jew, whose name was Girshel, was
continually hanging about our camp, offering his services as an agent,
getting us wine, provisions, and other such trifles. He was a thinnish,
red-haired, little man, marked with smallpox; he blinked incessantly
with his diminutive little eyes, which were reddish too; he had a long
crooked nose, and was always coughing.

He began fidgeting about me, bowing obsequiously.

'Well, what do you want?' I asked him at last.

'Oh, I only--I've only come, sir, to know if I can't be of use to your
honour in some way...'

'I don't want you; you can go.'

'At your honour's service, as you desire.... I thought there might be,
sir, something....'

'You bother me; go along, I tell you.'

'Certainly, sir, certainly. But your honour must permit me to
congratulate you on your success....'

'Why, how did you know?'

'Oh, I know, to be sure I do.... An immense sum... immense....Oh! how
immense....'

Girshel spread out his fingers and wagged his head.

'But what's the use of talking,' I said peevishly; 'what the devil's the
good of money here?'

'Oh! don't say that, your honour; ay, ay, don't say so. Money's a
capital thing; always of use; you can get anything for money, your
honour; anything! anything! Only say the word to the agent, he'll get
you anything, your honour, anything! anything!'

'Don't tell lies, Jew.'

'Ay! ay!' repeated Girshel, shaking his side-locks. 'Your honour doesn't
believe me.... Ay... ay....' The Jew closed his eyes and slowly wagged
his head to right and to left.... 'Oh, I know what his honour the
officer would like.... I know,... to be sure I do!'

The Jew assumed an exceedingly knowing leer.

'Really!'

The Jew glanced round timorously, then bent over to me.

'Such a lovely creature, your honour, lovely!...' Girshel again closed
his eyes and shot out his lips.

'Your honour, you've only to say the word... you shall see for
yourself... whatever I say now, you'll hear... but you won't believe...
better tell me to show you... that's the thing, that's the thing!'

I did not speak; I gazed at the Jew.

'Well, all right then; well then, very good; so I'll show you then....'

Thereupon Girshel laughed and slapped me lightly on the shoulder, but
skipped back at once as though he had been scalded.

'But, your honour, how about a trifle in advance?'

'But you're taking me in, and will show me some scarecrow?'

'Ay, ay, what a thing to say!' the Jew pronounced with unusual warmth,
waving his hands about. 'How can you! Why... if so, your honour, you
order me to be given five hundred... four hundred and fifty lashes,' he
added hurriedly....' You give orders--'

At that moment one of my comrades lifted the edge of his tent and called
me by name. I got up hurriedly and flung the Jew a gold coin.

'This evening, this evening,' he muttered after me.

I must confess, my friends, I looked forward to the evening with some
impatience. That very day the French made a sortie; our regiment marched
to the attack. The evening came on; we sat round the fires... the
soldiers cooked porridge. My comrades talked. I lay on my cloak, drank
tea, and listened to my comrades' stories. They suggested a game of
cards--I refused to take part in it. I felt excited. Gradually the
officers dispersed to their tents; the fires began to die down; the
soldiers too dispersed, or went to sleep on the spot; everything was
still. I did not get up. My orderly squatted on his heels before the
fire, and was beginning to nod. I sent him away. Soon the whole camp was
hushed. The sentries were relieved. I still lay there, as it were
waiting for something. The stars peeped out. The night came on. A long
while I watched the dying flame.... The last fire went out. 'The damned
Jew was taking me in,' I thought angrily, and was just going to get up.

'Your honour,'... a trembling voice whispered close to my ear.

I looked round: Girshel. He was very pale, he stammered, and whispered
something.

'Let's go to your tent, sir.' I got up and followed him. The Jew shrank
into himself, and stepped warily over the short, damp grass. I observed
on one side a motionless, muffled-up figure. The Jew beckoned to
her--she went up to him. He whispered to her, turned to me, nodded his
head several times, and we all three went into the tent. Ridiculous to
relate, I was breathless.

'You see, your honour,' the Jew whispered with an effort, 'you see.
She's a little frightened at the moment, she's frightened; but I've told
her his honour the officer's a good man, a splendid man.... Don't be
frightened, don't be frightened,' he went on--'don't be frightened....'

The muffled-up figure did not stir. I was myself in a state of dreadful
confusion, and didn't know what to say. Girshel too was fidgeting
restlessly, and gesticulating in a strange way....

'Any way,' I said to him, 'you get out....' Unwillingly, as it seemed,
Girshel obeyed.

I went up to the muffled-up figure, and gently took the dark hood off
her head. There was a conflagration in Dantzig: by the faint, reddish,
flickering glow of the distant fire I saw the pale face of a young
Jewess. Her beauty astounded me. I stood facing her, and gazed at her in
silence. She did not raise her eyes. A slight rustle made me look round.
Girshel was cautiously poking his head in under the edge of the tent. I
waved my hand at him angrily,... he vanished.

'What's your name?' I said at last.

'Sara,' she answered, and for one instant I caught in the darkness the
gleam of the whites of her large, long-shaped eyes and little, even,
flashing teeth.

I snatched up two leather cushions, flung them on the ground, and asked
her to sit down. She slipped off her shawl, and sat down. She was
wearing a short Cossack jacket, open in front, with round, chased silver
buttons, and full sleeves. Her thick black hair was coiled twice round
her little head. I sat down beside her and took her dark, slender hand.
She resisted a little, but seemed afraid to look at me, and there was a
catch in her breath. I admired her Oriental profile, and timidly pressed
her cold, shaking fingers.

'Do you know Russian?'

'Yes... a little.'

'And do you like Russians?'

'Yes, I like them.'

'Then, you like me too?'

'Yes, I like you.'

I tried to put my arm round her, but she moved away quickly....

'No, no, please, sir, please...'

'Oh, all right; look at me, any way.'

She let her black, piercing eyes rest upon me, and at once turned away
with a smile, and blushed.

I kissed her hand ardently. She peeped at me from under her eyelids and
softly laughed.

'What is it?'

She hid her face in her sleeve and laughed more than before.

Girshel showed himself at the entrance of the tent and shook his finger
at her. She ceased laughing.

'Go away!' I whispered to him through my teeth; 'you make me sick!'

Girshel did not go away.

I took a handful of gold pieces out of my trunk, stuffed them in his
hand and pushed him out.

'Your honour, me too....' she said.

I dropped several gold coins on her lap; she pounced on them like a cat.

'Well, now I must have a kiss.'

'No, please, please,' she faltered in a frightened and beseeching voice.

'What are you frightened of?'

'I'm afraid.'

'Oh, nonsense....'

'No, please.'

She looked timidly at me, put her head a little on one side and clasped
her hands. I let her alone.

'If you like... here,' she said after a brief silence, and she raised
her hand to my lips. With no great eagerness, I kissed it. Sara laughed
again.

My blood was boiling. I was annoyed with myself and did not know what to
do. Really, I thought at last, what a fool I am.

I turned to her again.

'Sara, listen, I'm in love with you.'

'I know.'

'You know? And you're not angry? And do you like me too?'

Sara shook her head.

'No, answer me properly.'

'Well, show yourself,' she said.

I bent down to her. Sara laid her hands on my shoulders, began
scrutinising my face, frowned, smiled.... I could not contain myself,
and gave her a rapid kiss on her cheek. She jumped up and in one bound
was at the entrance of the tent.

'Come, what a shy thing you are!'

She did not speak and did not stir.

'Come here to me....'

'No, sir, good-bye. Another time.'

Girshel again thrust in his curly head, and said a couple of words to
her; she bent down and glided away, like a snake.

I ran out of the tent in pursuit of her, but could not get another
glimpse of her nor of Girshel.

The whole night long I could not sleep a wink.

The next night we were sitting in the tent of our captain; I was
playing, but with no great zest. My orderly came in.

'Some one's asking for you, your honour.'

'Who is it?'

'A Jew.'

'Can it be Girshel?' I wondered. I waited till the end of the rubber,
got up and went out. Yes, it was so; I saw Girshel.

'Well,' he questioned me with an ingratiating smile, 'your honour, are
you satisfied?'

'Ah, you------!' (Here the colonel glanced round. 'No ladies present, I
believe.... Well, never mind, any way.') 'Ah, bless you!' I responded,
'so you're making fun of me, are you?'

'How so?'

'How so, indeed! What a question!'

'Ay, ay, your honour, you're too bad,' Girshel said reproachfully, but
never ceasing smiling. 'The girl is young and modest.... You frightened
her, indeed, you did.'

'Queer sort of modesty! why did she take money, then?'

'Why, what then? If one's given money, why not take it, sir?'

'I say, Girshel, let her come again, and I '11 let you off... only,
please, don't show your stupid phiz inside my tent, and leave us in
peace; do you hear?'

Girshel's eyes sparkled.

'What do you say? You like her?'

'Well, yes.'

'She's a lovely creature! there's not another such anywhere. And have
you something for me now?'

'Yes, here, only listen; fair play is better than gold. Bring her and
then go to the devil. I'll escort her home myself.'

'Oh, no, sir, no, that's impossible, sir,' the Jew rejoined hurriedly.
'Ay, ay, that's impossible. I'll walk about near the tent, your honour,
if you like; I'll... I'll go away, your honour, if you like, a
little.... I'm ready to do your honour a service.... I'll move away...
to be sure, I will.'

'Well, mind you do.... And bring her, do you hear?'

'Eh, but she's a beauty, your honour, eh? your honour, a beauty, eh?'

Girshel bent down and peeped into my eyes.

'She's good-looking.'

'Well, then, give me another gold piece.'

I threw him a coin; we parted.

The day passed at last. The night came on. I had been sitting for a long
while alone in my tent. It was dark outside. It struck two in the town.
I was beginning to curse the Jew.... Suddenly Sara came in, alone. I
jumped up took her in my arms... put my lips to her face.... It was cold
as ice. I could scarcely distinguish her features.... I made her sit
down, knelt down before her, took her hands, touched her waist.... She
did not speak, did not stir, and suddenly she broke into loud,
convulsive sobbing. I tried in vain to soothe her, to persuade her....
She wept in torrents.... I caressed her, wiped her tears; as before, she
did not resist, made no answer to my questions and wept--wept, like a
waterfall. I felt a pang at my heart; I got up and went out of the tent.

Girshel seemed to pop up out of the earth before me.

'Girshel,' I said to him, 'here's the money I promised you. Take Sara
away.'

The Jew at once rushed up to her. She left off weeping, and clutched
hold of him.

'Good-bye, Sara,'I said to her. 'God bless you, good-bye. We'll see each
other again some other time.'

Girshel was silent and bowed humbly. Sara bent down, took my hand and
pressed it to her lips; I turned away....

For five or six days, my friends, I kept thinking of my Jewess. Girshel
did not make his appearance, and no one had seen him in the camp. I
slept rather badly at nights; I was continually haunted by wet, black
eyes, and long eyelashes; my lips could not forget the touch of her
cheek, smooth and fresh as a downy plum. I was sent out with a foraging
party to a village some distance away. While my soldiers were ransacking
the houses, I remained in the street, and did not dismount from my
horse. Suddenly some one caught hold of my foot....

'Mercy on us, Sara!'

She was pale and excited.

'Your honour... help us, save us, your soldiers are insulting us....
Your honour....'

She recognised me and flushed red.

'Why, do you live here?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

Sara pointed to a little, old house. I set spurs to my horse and
galloped up. In the yard of the little house an ugly and tattered Jewess
was trying to tear out of the hands of my long sergeant, Siliavka, three
hens and a duck. He was holding his booty above his head, laughing; the
hens clucked and the duck quacked.... Two other cuirassiers were loading
their horses with hay, straw, and sacks of flour. Inside the house I
heard shouts and oaths in Little-Russian.... I called to my men and told
them to leave the Jews alone, not to take anything from them. The
soldiers obeyed, the sergeant got on his grey mare, Proserpina, or, as
he called her, 'Prozherpila,' and rode after me into the street.

'Well,' I said to Sara, 'are you pleased with me?'

She looked at me with a smile.

'What has become of you all this time?'

She dropped her eyes.

'I will come to you to-morrow.'

'In the evening?'

'No, sir, in the morning.'

'Mind you do, don't deceive me.'

'No... no, I won't.'

I looked greedily at her. By daylight she seemed to me handsomer than
ever. I remember I was particularly struck by the even, amber tint of
her face and the bluish lights in her black hair.... I bent down from my
horse and warmly pressed her little hand.

'Good-bye, Sara... mind you come.'

'Yes.'

She went home; I told the sergeant to follow me with the party, and
galloped off.

The next day I got up very early, dressed, and went out of the tent. It
was a glorious morning; the sun had just risen and every blade of grass
was sparkling in the dew and the crimson glow. I clambered on to a high
breastwork, and sat down on the edge of an embrasure. Below me a stout,
cast-iron cannon stuck out its black muzzle towards the open country. I
looked carelessly about me... and all at once caught sight of a bent
figure in a grey wrapper, a hundred paces from me. I recognised Girshel.
He stood without moving for a long while in one place, then suddenly ran
a little on one side, looked hurriedly and furtively round... uttered a
cry, squatted down, cautiously craned his neck and began looking round
again and listening. I could see all his actions very clearly. He put
his hand into his bosom, took out a scrap of paper and a pencil, and
began writing or drawing something. Girshel continually stopped, started
like a hare, attentively scrutinised everything around him, and seemed
to be sketching our camp. More than once he hid his scrap of paper, half
closed his eyes, sniffed at the air, and again set to work. At last, the
Jew squatted down on the grass, took off his slipper, and stuffed the
paper in it; but he had not time to regain his legs, when suddenly, ten
steps from him, there appeared from behind the <DW72> of an earthwork the
whiskered countenance of the sergeant Siliavka, and gradually the whole
of his long clumsy figure rose up from the ground. The Jew stood with
his back to him. Siliavka went quickly up to him and laid his heavy paw
on his shoulder. Girshel seemed to shrink into himself. He shook like a
leaf and uttered a feeble cry, like a hare's. Siliavka addressed him
threateningly, and seized him by the collar. I could not hear their
conversation, but from the despairing gestures of the Jew, and his
supplicating appearance, I began to guess what it was. The Jew twice
flung himself at the sergeant's feet, put his hand in his pocket, pulled
out a torn check handkerchief, untied a knot, and took out gold
coins.... Siliavka took his offering with great dignity, but did not
leave off dragging the Jew by the collar. Girshel made a sudden bound
and rushed away; the sergeant sped after him in pursuit. The Jew ran