Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Knock, Knock, Knock – Contents
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XVI
“Well?” I asked him. “Have you found Ilya Stepanitch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“Here, not far away.”
“How … have you found him? Is he alive?”
“To be sure. I have been talking to him.” (A load was lifted from my heart.) “His honour was sitting in his great-coat under a birch tree … and he was all right. I put it to him, ‘Won’t you come home, Ilya Stepanitch; Alexandr Vassilitch is very much worried about you.’ And he said to me, ‘What does he want to worry for! I want to be in the fresh air. My head aches. Go home,’ he said, ‘and I will come later.'”
“And you left him?” I cried, clasping my hands.
“What else could I do? He told me to go … how could I stay?”
All my fears came back to me at once.
“Take me to him this minute–do you hear? This minute! O Semyon, Semyon, I did not expect this of you! You say he is not far off?”
“He is quite close, here, where the copse begins–he is sitting there. It is not more than five yards from the river bank. I found him as I came alongside the river.”
“Well, take me to him, take me to him.”
Semyon set off ahead of me. “This way, sir…. We have only to get down to the river and it is close there.”
But instead of getting down to the river we got into a hollow and found ourselves before an empty shed.
“Hey, stop!” Semyon cried suddenly. “I must have come too far to the right…. We must go that way, more to the left….”
We turned to the left–and found ourselves among such high, rank weeds that we could scarcely get out…. I could not remember such a tangled growth of weeds anywhere near our village. And then all at once a marsh was squelching under our feet, and we saw little round moss-covered hillocks which I had never noticed before either…. We turned back–a small hill was sharply before us and on the top of it stood a shanty–and in it someone was snoring. Semyon and I shouted several times into the shanty; something stirred at the further end of it, the straw rustled–and a hoarse voice shouted, “I am on guard.”
We turned back again … fields and fields, endless fields…. I felt ready to cry…. I remembered the words of the fool in King Lear: “This night will turn us all to fools or madmen.”
“Where are we to go?” I said in despair to Semyon.
“The devil must have led us astray, sir,” answered the distracted servant. “It’s not natural … there’s mischief at the bottom of it!”
I would have checked him but at that instant my ear caught a sound, distinct but not loud, that engrossed my whole attention. There was a faint “pop” as though someone had drawn a stiff cork from a narrow bottle-neck. The sound came from somewhere not far off. Why the sound seemed to me strange and peculiar I could not say, but at once I went towards it.
Semyon followed me. Within a few minutes something tall and broad loomed in the fog.
“The copse! here is the copse!” Semyon cried, delighted. “Yes, here … and there is the master sitting under the birch-tree…. There he is, sitting where I left him. That’s he, surely enough!”
I looked intently. A man really was sitting with his back towards us, awkwardly huddled up under the birch-tree. I hurriedly approached and recognised Tyeglev’s great-coat, recognised his figure, his head bowed on his breast. “Tyeglev!” I cried … but he did not answer.
“Tyeglev!” I repeated, and laid my hand on his shoulder. Then he suddenly lurched forward, quickly and obediently, as though he were waiting for my touch, and fell onto the grass. Semyon and I raised him at once and turned him face upwards. It was not pale, but was lifeless and motionless; his clenched teeth gleamed white–and his eyes, motionless, too, and wide open, kept their habitual, drowsy and “different” look.
“Good God!” Semyon said suddenly and showed me his hand stained crimson with blood…. The blood was coming from under Tyeglev’s great-coat, from the left side of his chest.
He had shot himself from a small, single-barreled pistol which was lying beside him. The faint pop I had heard was the sound made by the fatal shot.
< < < Chapter XV
Chapter XVII > > >
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Ivan Turgenev – Knock, Knock, Knock – Contents
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