BY IVAN TURGENEV
Translated from the Russian
By CONSTANCE GARNETT
VOLUME II
CONTENTS
XV. TATYANA BORISSOVNA AND HER NEPHEW
XVI. DEATH
XVII. THE SINGERS
XVIII. PIOTR PETROVITCH KARATAEV
XIX. THE TRYST
XX. THE HAMLET OF THE SHTCHIGRI DISTRICT
XXI. TCHERTOP-HANOV AND NEDOPYUSKIN
XXII. THE END OF TCHERTOP-HANOV
XXIII. A LIVING RELIC
XXIV. THE RATTLING OF WHEELS
XXV. EPILOGUE: THE FOREST AND THE STEPPE
Give me your hand, gentle reader, and come along with me. It is gloriousweather; there is a tender blue in the May sky; the smooth young leavesof the willows glisten as though they had been polished; the wide evenroad is all covered with that delicate grass with the little reddishstalk that the sheep are so fond of nibbling; to right and to left, overthe long sloping hillsides, the green rye is softly waving; the shadowsof small clouds glide in thin long streaks over it. In the distance isthe dark mass of forests, the glitter of ponds, yellow patches ofvillage; larks in hundreds are soaring, singing, falling headlong withoutstretched necks, hopping about the clods; the crows on the highroadstand still, look at you, peck at the earth, let you drive close up, andwith two hops lazily move aside. On a hill beyond a ravine a peasant isploughing; a piebald colt, with a cropped tail and ruffled mane, isrunning on unsteady legs after its mother; its shrill whinnying reachesus. We drive on into the birch wood, and drink in the strong, sweet,fresh fragrance. Here we are at the boundaries. The coachman gets down;the horses snort; the trace-horses look round; the centre horse in theshafts switches his tail, and turns his head up towards the wooden yokeabove it... the great gate opens creaking; the coachman seatshimself.... Drive on! the village is before us. Passing five homesteads,and turning off to the right, we drop down into a hollow and drive alonga dyke, the farther side of a small pond; behind the round tops of thelilacs and apple-trees a wooden roof, once red, with two chimneys, comesinto sight; the coachman keeps along the hedge to the left, and to thespasmodic and drowsy baying of three pug dogs he drives through the wideopen gates, whisks smartly round the broad courtyard past the stable andthe barn, gallantly salutes the old housekeeper, who is steppingsideways over the high lintel in the open doorway of the storehouse, andpulls up at last before the steps of a dark house with light windows....We are at Tatyana Borissovna's. And here she is herself opening thewindow and nodding at us.... 'Good day, ma'am!'
Tatyana Borissovna is a woman of fifty, with large, prominent grey eyes,a rather broad nose, rosy cheeks and a double chin. Her face is brimmingover with friendliness and kindness. She was once married, but was soonleft a widow. Tatyana Borissovna is a very remarkable woman. She liveson her little property, never leaving it, mixes very little with herneighbours, sees and likes none but young people. She was the daughterof very poor landowners, and received no education; in other words, she