# The Sweet-Scented Name/Turandina

original title: Турандина
Turandina
I
PETER ANTÒNOVITCH BULANIN was spending the summer in the country with the family of his cousin, a teacher of philology. Bulanin himself was a young advocate of thirty years of age, having finished his course at the University only two years before.
The past year had been a comparatively fortunate one. He had successfully defended two criminal cases on the nomination of the Court, as well as a civil case undertaken at the instigation of his own heart. All three cases had been won by his brilliant pleading. The jury had acquitted the young man who had killed his father out of pity because the old man fasted too assiduously and suffered in consequence; they had acquitted the poor seamstress who had thrown vitriol at the girl her lover wished to marry; and in the civil court the judge had awarded the plaintiff a hundred and fifty roubles, saying ​that his rights were indisputable, though the defendant asserted that the sum had previously been paid. For all this good work Peter Antònovitch himself had received only fifteen roubles, this money having been paid to him by the man who had received the hundred and fifty.
But, as will be understood, one cannot live a whole year on fifteen roubles, and Peter Antònovitch had to fall back on his own resources, that is, on the money his father sent him from home. As far as the law was concerned there was as yet nothing for him but fame.
But his fame was not at present great, and as his receipts from his father were but moderate Peter Antònovitch often fell into a despondent and elegiac mood. He looked on life rather pessimistically, and captivated young ladies by the eloquent pallor of his face and by the sarcastic utterances which he gave forth on every possible occasion.
One evening, after a sharp thunder-storm had cleared and refreshed the air, Peter Antònovitch went out for a walk alone. He wandered along the narrow field-paths until he found himself far from home.
A picture of entrancing beauty stretched ​itself out before him, canopied by the bright-blue dome of heaven besprinkled with scattered cloudlets and illumined by the soft and tender rays of the departing sun. The narrow path by which he had come led along the high bank of a stream rippling along in the winding curves of its narrow bed—the shallow water of the stream was transparent and gave a pleasant sense of cool freshness. It looked as if one need only step into it to be at once filled with the joy of simple happiness, to feel as full of life and easy grace of movement as the rosy-bodied boys bathing there.
Not far away were the shades of the quiet forest; beyond the river lay an immense semi-circular plain, dotted here and there with woods and villages, a dusty ribbon of a road curving snake-like across it. On the distant horizon gleamed golden stars, the crosses of far-away churches and belfries shining in the sunlight.
Everything looked fresh and sweet and simple, yet Peter Antònovitch was sad. And it seemed to him that his sadness was but intensified by the beauty around; as if some evil tempter were seeking to allure him to evil by some entrancing vision.
For to Peter Antònovitch all this earthly ​beauty, all this enchantment of the eyes, all this delicate sweetness pouring itself into his young and vigorous body, was only as a veil of golden tissue spread out by the devil to hide from the simple gaze of man the impurity, the imperfection, and the evil of Nature.
This life, adorning itself in beauty and breathing forth perfumes, was in reality, thought Peter Antònovitch, only the dull prosaic iron chain of cause and effect—the burdensome slavery from which mankind could never get free.
Tortured by such thoughts Peter Antònovitch had often felt himself as unhappy as if in him there had awakened the soul of some ancient monster who had howled piteously outside the village at night. And now he thought:
"If only a fairy-tale could come into one's life and for a time upset the ordered arrangement of pre-determined Fate! Oh, fairy-tale, fashioned by the wayward desires of men who are in captivity to life and who cannot be reconciled to their captivity—sweet fairy-tale, where art thou?"
He remembered an article he had read the day before in a magazine, written by the Minister of Education; some words in it ​had specially haunted his memory. The article spoke of the old fairy-tale tradition of the forest enchantress, Turandina. She had loved a shepherd and had left for him her enchanted home, and with him had lived some happy years on earth until she had been recalled by the mysterious voices of the forest. She had gone away, but the happy years had remained as a grateful memory to mankind.
Peter Antònovitch gave himself up to the fancy—oh for the fairy-tale, for a few enchanted years, a few days …! And he cried aloud and said:
"Turandina, where art thou?"
II
The sun was low down in the sky. The calm of even had fallen on the spreading fields. The neighbouring forest was hushed. No sound was heard, the air was still, and the grass still sparkling with raindrops was motionless.
It was a moment when the desires of a man fulfil themselves, the one moment which perhaps comes once in his life to every man. It seemed that all around was waiting in a tension of expectation.
​Looking before him into the shining misty vapour, Peter Antònovitch cried again:
"Turandina, where art thou?"
And under the spell of the silence that encompassed him, his own separate individual will became one with the great universal Will, and with great power and authority he spoke as only once in his life a man has power to speak:
"Turandina, come!"
And in a sweet and gentle voice he heard the answer:
"I am here."
Peter Antònovitch trembled and looked about. Everything seemed again quite ordinary and his soul was as usual the soul of a poor human being, separate from the universal Soul—he was again an ordinary man, just like you and me, who dwell in days and hours of time. Yet before him stood she whom he had called.
She was a beautiful maiden, wearing a narrow circlet of gold upon her head, and dressed in a short white garment. Her long plaits of hair came below her waist and seemed to have taken to themselves the golden rays of the sunlight. Her eyes, as she gazed intently at the young man, were ​as blue as if in them a heaven revealed itself, more clear and pure than the skies of earth. Her features were so regular and her hands and feet so well-formed, so perfect were the lines of the figure revealed by the folds of her dress that she seemed an embodiment of perfect maiden loveliness. She would have seemed like an angel from heaven had not her heavy black eyebrows met and so disclosed her witchery; if her skin had not been dark as if tanned by the rays of a burning sun.
Peter Antònovitch could not speak for wonder at her, and she spoke first:
"Thou didst call me and so I came to thee. Thou calledst to me just when I was in need of an earthly shelter in the world of men. Thou wilt take me to thy home. I have nothing of my own except this crown upon my brow, this dress, and this wallet in my hand."
She spoke quietly, so quietly that the tones of her voice could not have been heard above earthly sounds. But so clear was her speech and so tender its tone that even the most indifferent man would have been touched by the least sound of her voice.
When she spoke about going home with him and of her three possessions, Peter ​Antònovitch saw that she held in her hand a little bag of red leather drawn together by a golden cord—a very simple and beautiful little bag; something like those in which ladies carry their opera-glasses to the theatre.
Then he asked:
"And who art thou?"
"I am Turandina, the daughter of King Turandon. My father loved me greatly, but I did that which was not for me to do—out of simple curiosity I disclosed the future of mankind. For this my father was displeased with me and drove me from his kingdom. Some day I shall be forgiven and recalled to my father's home. But now for a time I must dwell among men, and to me have been given these three things: a golden crown, the sign of my birth; a white garment, my poor covering; and this wallet, which contains all that I shall need. It is good that I have met with thee. Thou art a man who defendeth the unhappy, and who devoteth his life to the triumph of Truth among men. Take me with thee to thy home; thou wilt never regret thy deed."
Peter Antònovitch did not know what to do or what to think. One thing was clear: ​this maiden, dressed so lightly, speaking so strangely, must be sheltered by him; he could not leave her alone in the forest, far from any human dwelling.
He thought she might be a runaway, hiding her real name and inventing some unlikely story. Perhaps she had escaped from an asylum, or from her own home.
There was nothing in her face or in her appearance, however, except her scanty clothing and her words, to indicate anything strange in her mind. She was perfectly quiet and calm. If she called herself Turandina it was doubtless because she had heard some one mention the name, or she might even have read the fairy-story of Turandina.
III
With such thoughts in his mind Peter Antònovitch said to the beautiful unknown:
"Very well, dear young lady, I will take you home with me. But I ought to warn you that I do not live alone, and therefore I advise you to tell me your real name. I'm afraid that my relatives will not believe that you are the daughter of King Turandon. As far as I know there is no such king at the present time."
​Turandina smiled as she said:
"I have told thee the truth, whether thy people believe it or not. It is sufficient for me that thou shouldst believe. And if thou believest me, thou wilt defend me from all evil and from all unhappiness, for thou art a man who hast chosen for thyself the calling in which thou canst uphold the truth and defend the weak."
Peter Antònovitch shrugged his shoulders.
"If you persist in this story," answered he, "I must wash my hands of the matter, and I cannot be answerable for any possible consequences. Of course I will take you home with me until you can find a more suitable place, and I will do all I can to help you. But as a lawyer I very strongly advise you not to hide your real name."
Turandina listened to him with a smile, and when he stopped speaking she said:
"Do not be at all anxious; everything will be well. Thou wilt see that I shall bring happiness to thee if thou canst show me kindness and love. And do not speak to me so much about my real name. I have spoken the truth to thee, and more I may not say, it is forbidden me to tell thee all. Take me home with thee. Night is coming on; I have journeyed far and am in need of rest."
​Peter Antònovitch was quick to apologise.
"Ah, pardon me, please. I am sorry that this is such an out-of-the-way place; it's quite impossible to get a carriage."
He began to walk in the direction of his home, and Turandina went with him. She did not walk as though she were tired; her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, though they had to walk over stiff clay and sharp stones, and the moist grass and rain-soaked pathway did not seem to soil her little feet.
When they reached the high bank of the river and could see the first houses of the village, Peter Antònovitch glanced uneasily at his companion and said somewhat awkwardly:
"Pardon me, dear young lady …"
Turandina looked at him, and with a little frown interrupted him, saying reproachfully:
"Hast thou forgotten who I am and what is my name? I am Turandina, and not 'dear young lady.' I am the daughter of King Turandon."
"Your pardon, please, Mademoiselle Turandina—it is a very beautiful name, though it is never used now—I wanted to ask you a question."
​"Why dost thou speak so to me?" asked Turandina, interrupting him once more. "Speak not as to one of the young ladies of thy acquaintance. Say 'thou' to me, and address me as a true knight would speak to his fair lady."
She spoke with such insistence and authority that Peter Antònovitch felt compelled to obey. And when he turned to Turandina and for the first time spoke to her intimately and called her by her name, he at once felt more at ease.
"Turandina, hast thou not a dress to wear? My people would expect thee to wear an ordinary dress."
Turandina smiled once more and said:
"I don't know. Isn't my one garment enough? I was told that in this wallet I should find everything that I should need in the world of men. Take it and look within; perhaps thou wilt find there what thou desirest."
With these words she held out to him her little bag. And as he pulled apart the cord and opened it, Peter Antònovitch thought to himself, "It will be good if some one has put in some kind of frock for her."
He put his hand into the wallet and feeling something soft he drew out a small parcel, ​so small that Turandina could have closed her hand over it. And when he unwrapped the parcel, there was just what he wanted, a dress such as most young girls were wearing at that time.
He helped Turandina to put it on, and he fastened it for her, for, of course, it buttoned at the back.
"Is that all right now?" asked Turandina.
Peter Antònovitch looked regretfully at the little bag. It looked much too small to hold a pair of shoes. But he put in his hand again and thought, "A pair of sandals would do nicely."
His fingers touched a little strap, and he drew forth a tiny pair of golden sandals. And then he dried her feet and put on the sandals and fastened the straps for her.
"Now is everything all right?" asked Turandina again.
There was such a humility in her voice and gesture as she spoke that Peter Antònovitch felt quite happy. It would be quite easy to manage her now, he thought. So he said, "Oh yes; we can get a hat later on."
IV
And so there came a fairy-story into the life of a man. Of course, it seemed sometimes as if the young lawyer's life were quite unsuited for such a thing. His relatives were utterly unable to believe the account their young guest gave of herself, and even Peter Antònovitch himself lacked faith. Many times he begged Turandina to tell him her real name, and he played various tricks on her to trap her into confessing that her story was not really true. But Turandina was never angry at his persistence. She smiled sweetly and simply, and with great patience said over and over again:
"I have told you the truth."
"But where is the land over which King Turandon reigns?" Peter Antònovitch would ask.
"It is far away," Turandina would answer, "and yet if you wish it, it is near also. But none of you can go thither. Only we who have been born in the enchanted kingdom of King Turandon can ever get to that wonderful country."
"But can you not show me how to go there?" asked Peter Antònovitch.
"No, I cannot," answered Turandina.
​"And can you return yourself?" said he.
"Now, I cannot," said she, "but when my father calls me, I shall return."
There was no sadness in her voice and expression, nor any joy, as she spoke of her expulsion from the enchanted land and of her return. Her voice was always calm and gentle. She looked on all she saw with inquiring eyes, as if seeing everything for the first time, but with a quiet calmness, as if knowing that she would soon become accustomed to all new and strange things, and would easily recognise them again. When she once knew a thing she never made a mistake nor confused it with anything else. All ordinary rules of conduct that people told her or that she herself noticed, were lightly and easily followed, as if she had been accustomed to them from her childhood. She remembered names and faces of people after having once seen them.
Turandina never quarrelled with any one, and she never said anything untrue. When she was advised to use the ordinary Society evasions she shook her head and said:
"One must never say what is untrue. The earth hears everything."
At home and in the company of others Turandina behaved with such dignity and ​graciousness that all who could believe in a fairy-tale were obliged to believe that they were in the presence of a beautiful princess, the daughter of a great and wise king.
But the fairy-tale was somewhat difficult to reconcile with the ordinary life of the young lawyer and his people. There was a perpetual struggle between the two, and many difficulties arose in consequence.
V
When Turandina had been living with the family for a few days, an official came to the house and said to the servant:
"They say there's a young lady visitor here. She must send in her passport and have it signed."
The servant told her mistress, who spoke to her husband about the matter. He asked Peter Antònovitch about the passport, and the latter went to find Turandina and ask her. Turandina was sitting on the verandah reading a book with much enjoyment.
"Turandina," said Peter Antònovitch, going out to her. "The police have sent to ask for your passport. It must be sent to be signed."
​Turandina listened very attentively to what Peter Antònovitch had to say. And then she asked:
"What is a passport?"
"Oh, a passport," said he, "don't you know, is—a passport. A paper on which is written your name and your father's name, your age, your rank. You can't possibly live anywhere without a passport."
"If it's necessary," said Turandina calmly, "then, of course, it ought to be in my little bag. Look, there's the bag, take it and see if the passport is inside."
And in the wonderful little bag there was found a passport—a small book in a brown cover, which had been obtained in the province of Astrakhan, in which was inscribed the name of the Princess Tamara Timofeevna Turandon, seventeen years of age, and unmarried. Everything was in order: the seal, the official signature, the signature of the princess herself, and so on, just as in all passport books.
Peter Antònovitch looked at Turandina and smiled:
"So that's who you are," said he, "you are a princess, and your name is Tamara."
But Turandina shook her head.
"No," said she, "I've never been called ​Tamara. That passport doesn't tell the truth; it's only for the police and for those people who do not know and cannot know the truth. I am Turandina, the daughter of King Turandon. Since I have lived in this world I have learnt that people here don't want to know the truth. I don't know anything about the passport. Whoever put it in my little bag must have known that I should need it. But for thee, my word should be enough."
After the passport had been signed Turandina was known as the princess, or Tamara Timofeevna, but her own people continued to call her Turandina.
VI
Her own people—for they came to be her own people. The fairy-tale came into a man's life, and as often happens in a fairy-tale, so it now occurred in life. Peter Antònovitch fell in love with Turandina and Turandina loved him also. He made up his mind to marry her, and this led to slight difficulties in the family.
The teacher-cousin and his wife said:
"In spite of her mysterious origin and her obstinate silence about her family, your ​Turandina is a very dear girl, beautiful, intelligent, very good and capable, and well brought up. In short, she is everything that one could wish. But you ought to remember that you have no money, and neither has she.
"It will be difficult for two people to live in Petersburg on the money your father allows you.
"Especially with a princess.
"You must remember that in spite of her sweet ways she's probably accustomed to live in good style.
"She has very small soft hands. True, she has been very modest here, and you say she was barefoot when you met her first and had very little clothing. But we don't know what kind of garments she will want to wear in a town."
Peter Antònovitch himself was rather pessimistic at first. But by and by he remembered how he had found a dress for Turandina in the little bag. A bold thought came into his mind, and he smiled and said:
"I found a house-frock for Turandina in her little bag. Perhaps if I were to rummage in it again I might find a ball-dress for her."
But the teacher's wife, a kind young ​woman with a genius for housekeeping, said:
"Much better if you could find some money. If only she had five hundred roubles we could manage to get her a good trousseau."
"We ought to find five hundred thousand—for a princess's dowry," said Peter Antònovitch, laughing.
"Oh, a hundred thousand would be quite enough for you," laughed his cousin in reply.
Just then Turandina came quietly up the steps leading from the garden, and Peter Antònovitch called to her and said:
"Turandina, show me your little bag, dear. Perhaps you have a hundred thousand roubles there."
Turandina held out her little bag to him and said:
"If it's necessary, you will find it in the bag."
And Peter Antònovitch again put his hand into the little bag and drew forth a large packet of notes. He began to count them, but without counting he could see they represented a large quantity of money.
VII
So this great fairy-tale came into the young man's life. And though it didn't seem well suited to the taking-in of a fairy-tale, yet room was found for it somewhere. The fairy-tale bought a place in his life—with its own charm and the treasures of the enchanted bag.
Turandina and the young lawyer were married. And Turandina had first a little son and then a daughter. The boy was like his mother, and grew up to be a gentle dreamy child. The girl was like her father, gay and intelligent.
And so the years went by. Every summer, when the days were at their longest, a strange melancholy overshadowed Turandina. She used to go out in the mornings to the edge of the forest and stand there listening to the forest voices. And after some time she would walk home again slowly and sadly.
And once, standing there at midday, she heard a loud voice calling to her:
"Turandina, come. Your father has forgiven you."
And so she went away and never returned. Her little son was then seven years old and her daughter three.
​Thus the fairy-tale departed from this life and never came back. But Turandina's little son never forgot his mother.
Sometimes he would wander away by himself so as to be quite alone. And when he came home again there was such an expression upon his face that the teacher's wife said to her husband in a whisper:
"He has been with Turandina."