On the eve: A novel

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

‘... Paul shuts himself up, Andrei Petrovitch has taken to coming less often.... poor fellow! I fancy he... But that can never be, though. I like talking to Andrei Petrovitch; never a word of self, always of something sensible, useful. Very different from Shubin. Shubin’s as fine as a butterfly, and admires his own finery; which butterflies don’t do. But both Shubin and Andrei Petrovitch.... I know what I mean.

‘... He enjoys coming to us, I see that. But why? what does he find in me? It’s true our tastes are alike; he and I, both of us don’t care for poetry; neither of us knows anything of art. But how much better he is than I! He is calm, I am in perpetual excitement; he has chosen his path, his aim—while I—where am I going? where is my home? He is calm, but all his thoughts are far away. The time will come, and he will leave us for ever, will go home, there over the sea. Well? God grant he may! Any way I shall be glad that I knew him, while he was here.

‘Why isn’t he a Russian? No, he could not be Russian.

‘Mamma too likes him; she says: an unassuming young man. Dear mamma! She does not understand him. Paul says nothing; he guessed I didn’t like his hints, but he’s jealous of him. Spiteful boy! And what right has he? Did I ever... All that’s nonsense! What makes all that come into my head?

‘... Isn’t it strange though, that up till now, up to twenty, I have never loved any one! I believe that the reason why D.’s (I shall call him D.—I like that name Dmitri) soul is so clear, is that he is entirely given up to his work, his ideal. What has he to trouble about? When any one has utterly... utterly... given himself up, he has little sorrow, he is not responsible for anything. It’s not I want, but it wants. By the way, he and I both love the same flowers. I picked a rose this morning, one leaf fell, he picked it up.... I gave him the whole rose.

‘... D. often comes to us. Yesterday he spent the whole evening. He wants to teach me Bulgarian. I feel happy with him, quite at home, more than at home.

‘... The days fly past.... I am happy, and somehow discontent and I am thankful to God, and tears are not far off. Oh these hot bright days!

‘... I am still light-hearted as before, and only at times, and only a little, sad. I am happy. Am I happy?

‘... It will be long before I forget the expedition yesterday. What strange, new, terrible impressions when he suddenly took that great giant and flung him like a ball into the water. I was not frightened ... yet he frightened me. And afterwards—what an angry face, almost cruel! How he said, “He will swim out!” It gave me a shock. So I did not understand him. And afterwards when they all laughed, when I was laughing, how I felt for him! He was ashamed, I felt that he was ashamed before me. He told me so afterwards in the carriage in the dark, when I tried to get a good view of him and was afraid of him. Yes, he is not to be trifled with, and he is a splendid champion. But why that wicked look, those trembling lips, that angry fire in his eyes? Or is it, perhaps, inevitable? Isn’t it possible to be a man, a hero, and to remain soft and gentle? “Life is a coarse business,” he said to me once lately. I repeated that saying to Andrei Petrovitch; he did not agree with D. Which of them is right? But the beginning of that day! How happy I was, walking beside him, even without speaking. ... But I am glad of what happened. I see that it was quite as it should be.

‘... Restlessness again... I am not quite well.... All these days I have written nothing in this book, because I have had no wish to write. I felt, whatever I write, it won’t be what is in my heart. ... And what is in my heart? I have had a long talk with him, which revealed a great deal. He told me his plan (by the way, I know now how he got the wound in his neck.... Good God! when I think he was actually condemned to death, that he was only just saved, that he was wounded.... ) He prophesies war and will be glad of it. And for all that, I never saw D. so depressed. What can he... he!... be depressed by? Papa arrived home from town and came upon us two. He looked rather queerly at us. Andrei Petrovitch came; I noticed he had grown very thin and pale. He reproved me, saying I behave too coldly and inconsiderately to Shubin. I had utterly forgotten Paul’s existence. I will see him, and try to smooth over my offence. He is nothing to me now... nor any one else in the world. Andrei Petrovitch talked to me in a sort of commiserating way. What does it all mean? Why is everything around me and within me so dark? I feel as if about me and within me, something mysterious were happening, for which I want to find the right word.... I did not sleep all night; my head aches. What’s the good of writing? He went away so quickly to-day and I wanted to talk to him.... He almost seems to avoid me. Yes, he avoids me.