Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
BURMISTER
About fifteen versts from my estate lives a man I know, a young landowner, a retired guards officer, Arkady Pavlych Penochkin. There is a lot of game on his estate, the house was built according to the plans of a French architect, the people are dressed in English, he sets excellent dinners, he receives guests kindly, but still you are reluctant to go to him. He is a reasonable and positive person, he received, as usual, an excellent upbringing, served, got used to being in high society, and now he is engaged in farming with great success. Arkady Pavlych, in his own words, is strict, but fair, cares about the welfare of his subjects and punishes them - for their own good. “They must be treated like children,” he says in this case, “ignorance, mon cher; il faut prendre cela en consideration.”[1] He himself, in the case of the so-called sad necessity, avoids sharp and impetuous movements and does not like to raise his voice, but rather pokes his hand directly, calmly saying: “After all, I asked you, my dear” or: “What’s wrong with you, my friend, come to your senses?” “—and he only slightly clenches his teeth and twists his mouth. He is small in stature, smartly built, very handsome in appearance, and keeps his hands and nails very neat; his rosy lips and cheeks radiate health. He laughs sonorously and carefree, squinting his light brown eyes friendly. He dresses well and with taste; subscribes to French books, drawings and newspapers, but is not much of a reader: he barely got through The Eternal Jew. He plays cards skillfully. In general, Arkady Pavlych is considered one of the most educated nobles and the most enviable suitors of our province; the ladies are crazy about him and especially praise his manners. He behaves surprisingly well, is as careful as a cat, and has never been involved in any kind of mischief, although on occasion he makes himself known and likes to puzzle and cut off a timid person. He absolutely disdains bad company - he is afraid of being compromised; but in a cheerful hour he declares himself a fan of Epicurus, although in general he speaks poorly of philosophy, calling it the vague food of German minds, and sometimes just nonsense. He also loves music; at cards he sings through clenched teeth, but with feeling; He also remembers something else from Lucia and La Somnambula, but he takes something high. In winter he travels to St. Petersburg. His house is in extraordinary order; even the coachmen submitted to his influence and every day they not only wipe their collars and clean their coats, but also wash their own faces. Arkady Pavlych's servants, it's true, look at him from under their brows, but here in Rus' you can't tell a sullen person from a sleepy one. Arkady Pavlych speaks in a soft and pleasant voice, with emphasis and as if with pleasure, passing every word through his beautiful, perfumed mustache; also uses a lot of French expressions, such as: “Mais c'est impauable!”[2], “Mais comment donc!”[3], etc. With all that, I, at least, am not too willing to visit him, and If it weren’t for the black grouse and the partridges, I probably would have become completely unacquainted with him. A strange uneasiness takes possession of you in his house; even comfort does not please you, and every time in the evening when a curly-haired valet in a blue livery with coat of arms buttons appears in front of you and begins to obsequiously pull off your boots, you feel as if instead of his pale and gaunt figure suddenly appeared before you amazingly wide the cheekbones and incredibly blunt nose of a young, stalwart guy, who had just been taken from the plow by the master, but who had already managed to rip the newly awarded nankeen caftan at the seams in ten places - you would have been incredibly happy and would have willingly run the risk of losing your own leg, along with your boot, right down to the swivel itself...
Despite my dislike for Arkady Pavlych, I once had to spend the night with him. The next day, early in the morning, I ordered my stroller to be stored, but he did not want to let me go without breakfast in the English style and took me to his office. Along with tea, we were served cutlets, soft-boiled eggs, butter, honey, cheese, etc. Two valets, wearing clean white gloves, quickly and silently warned us of our slightest desires. We sat on a Persian sofa. Arkady Pavlych was wearing wide silk trousers, a black velvet jacket, a beautiful fairy with a blue tassel and Chinese yellow shoes without backs. He drank tea, laughed, looked at his nails, smoked, put pillows under his side and generally felt in excellent spirits. Having had a hearty breakfast and with visible pleasure, Arkady Pavlych poured himself a glass of red wine, raised it to his lips and suddenly frowned.
- Why isn’t the wine heated? - he asked one of the valets in a rather harsh voice.
The valet was confused, stopped dead in his tracks and turned pale.
- I’m asking you, my dear? - Arkady Pavlych continued calmly, not taking his eyes off him.
The unfortunate valet hesitated in place, twirled his napkin and did not say a word. Arkady Pavlych lowered his head and looked at him thoughtfully from under his brows.
“Pardon, mon cher,” he said with a pleasant smile, touching my knee in a friendly manner, and again stared at the valet. “Well, go,” he added after a short silence, raised his eyebrows and rang the bell.
return 1
My dear; we must take this into account (French)
return 2
Funny! (French)
return 3
Why! (French)
