Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated)

by Ivan Turgenev

  ‘Ah! Constantin,’ said Darya Mihailovna, when Pandalevsky came into the drawing - room, ‘is Alexandrine coming?’

  ‘Alexandra Pavlovna asked me to thank you, and they will be extremely delighted,’ replied Konstantin Diomiditch, bowing affably in all directions, and running his plump white hand with its triangular cut nails through his faultlessly arranged hair.

  ‘And is Volintsev coming too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, according to you, African Semenitch,’ continued Darya Mihailovna, turning to Pigasov, ‘all young ladies are affected?’

  Pigasov’s mouth twitched, and he plucked nervously at his elbow.

  ‘I say,’ he began in a measured voice — in his most violent moods of exasperation he always spoke slowly and precisely. ‘I say that young ladies, in general — of present company, of course, I say nothing.’

  ‘But that does not prevent your thinking of them,’ put in Darya Mihailovna.

  ‘I say nothing of them,’ repeated Pigasov. ‘All young ladies, in general, are affected to the most extreme point — affected in the expression of their feelings. If a young lady is frightened, for instance, or pleased with anything, or distressed, she is certain first to throw her person into some such elegant attitude (and Pigasov threw his figure into an unbecoming pose and spread out his hands) and then she shrieks — ah! or she laughs or cries. I did once though (and here Pigasov smiled complacently) succeed in eliciting a genuine, unaffected expression of emotion from a remarkably affected young lady!’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  Pigasov’s eyes sparkled.

  ‘I poked her in the side with an aspen stake, from behind. She did shriek, and I said to her, “Bravo, bravo! that’s the voice of nature, that was a genuine shriek! Always do like that for the future!”‘

  Every one in the room laughed.

  ‘What nonsense you talk, African Semenitch,’ cried Darya Mihailovna. ‘Am I to believe that you would poke a girl in the side with a stake!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, with a stake, a very big stake, like those that are used in the defence of a fort.’

  ‘Mais c’est un horreur ce que vous dites la, Monsieur,’ cried Mlle. Boncourt, looking angrily at the boys, who were in fits of laughter.

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t believe him,’ said Darya Mihailovna. ‘Don’t you know him?’

  But the offended French lady could not be pacified for a long while, and kept muttering something to herself.

  ‘You need not believe me,’ continued Pigasov coolly, ‘but I assure you I told the simple truth. Who should know if not I? After that perhaps you won’t believe that our neighbour, Madame Tchepuz, Elena Antonovna, told me herself, mind herself, that she had murdered her nephew?’

  ‘What an invention!’

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute! Listen and judge for yourselves. Mind, I don’t want to slander her, I even like her as far as one can like a woman. She hasn’t a single book in her house except a calendar, and she can’t read except aloud, and that exercise throws her into a violent perspiration, and she complains then that her eyes feel bursting out of her head.... In short, she’s a capital woman, and her servant girls grow fat. Why should I slander her?’

  ‘You see,’ observed Darya Mihailovna, ‘African Semenitch has got on his hobbyhorse, now he will not be off it to - night.’

  ‘My hobby! But women have three at least, which they are never off, except, perhaps, when they’re asleep.’

  ‘What three hobbies are those?’

  ‘Reproof, reproach, recrimination.’

  ‘Do you know, African Semenitch,’ began Darya Mihailovna, ‘you cannot be so bitter against women for nothing. Some woman or other must have — — ’

  ‘Done me an injury, you mean?’ Pigasov interrupted.

  Darya Mihailovna was rather embarrassed; she remembered Pigasov’s unlucky marriage, and only nodded.

  ‘One woman certainly did me an injury,’ said Pigasov, ‘though she was a good, very good one.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘My mother,’ said Pigasov, dropping his voice.

  ‘Your mother? What injury could she have done you?’

  ‘She brought me into the world.’

  Darya Mihailovna frowned.

  ‘Our conversation,’ she said, ‘seems to have taken a gloomy turn. Constantin, play us Thalberg’s new etude. I daresay the music will soothe African Semenitch. Orpheus soothed savage beasts.’

  Konstantin Diomiditch took his seat at the piano, and played the etude very fairly well. Natalya Alexyevna at first listened attentively, then she bent over her work again.

  ‘Merci, c’est charmant,’ observed Darya Mihailovna, ‘I love Thalberg. Il est si distingue. What are you thinking of, African Semenitch?’

  ‘I thought,’ began African Semenitch slowly, ‘that there are three kinds of egoists; the egoists who live themselves and let others live; the egoists who live themselves and don’t let others live; and the egoists who don’t live themselves and don’t let others live. Women, for the most part, belong to the third class.’

  ‘That’s polite! I am very much astonished at one thing, African Semenitch; your confidence in your convictions; of course you can never be mistaken.’

  ‘Who says so? I make mistakes; a man, too, may be mistaken. But do you know the difference between a man’s mistakes and a woman’s? Don’t you know? Well, here it is; a man may say, for example, that twice two makes not four, but five, or three and a half; but a woman will say that twice two makes a wax candle.’

  ‘I fancy I’ve heard you say that before. But allow me to ask what connection had your idea of the three kinds of egoists with the music you have just been hearing?’

  ‘None at all, but I did not listen to the music.’

  ‘Well, “incurable I see you are, and that is all about it,”‘ answered Darya Mihailovna, slightly altering Griboyedov’s line. ‘What do you like, since you don’t care for music? Literature?’

  ‘I like literature, only not our contemporary literature.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. I crossed the Oka lately in a ferry boat with a gentleman. The ferry got fixed in a narrow place; they had to drag the carriages ashore by hand. This gentleman had a very heavy coach. While the ferrymen were straining themselves to drag the coach on to the bank, the gentleman groaned so, standing in the ferry, that one felt quite sorry for him.... Well, I thought, here’s a fresh illustration of the system of division of labour! That’s just like our modern literature; other people do the work, and it does the groaning.’

  Darya Mihailovna smiled.

  ‘And that is called expressing contemporary life,’ continued Pigasov indefatigably, ‘profound sympathy with the social question and so on. ... Oh, how I hate those grand words!’

  ‘Well, the women you attack so — they at least don’t use grand words.’

  Pigasov shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘They don’t use them because they don’t understand them.’

  Darya Mihailovna flushed slightly.

  ‘You are beginning to be impertinent, African Semenitch!’ she remarked with a forced smile.

  There was complete stillness in the room.

  ‘Where is Zolotonosha?’ asked one of the boys suddenly of Bassistoff.

  ‘In the province of Poltava, my dear boy,’ replied Pigasov, ‘in the centre of Little Russia.’ (He was glad of an opportunity of changing the conversation.) ‘We were talking of literature,’ he continued, ‘if I had money to spare, I would at once become a Little Russian poet.’

  ‘What next? a fine poet you would make!’ retorted Darya Mihailovna. ‘Do you know Little Russian?’

  ‘Not a bit; but it isn’t necessary.’

  ‘Not necessary?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not necessary. You need only take a sheet of paper and write at the top “A Ballad,” then begin like this, “Heigho, alack, my destiny!” or “the Cossack Nalivaiko was sitting on a hill and then on the mo
untain, under the green tree the birds are singing, grae, voropae, gop, gop!” or something of that kind. And the thing’s done. Print it and publish it. The Little Russian will read it, drop his head into his hands and infallibly burst into tears — he is such a sensitive soul!’

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Bassistoff. ‘What are you saying? It’s too absurd for anything. I have lived in Little Russia, I love it and know the language... “grae, grae, voropae” is absolute nonsense.’

  ‘It may be, but the Little Russian will weep all the same. You speak of the “language.”... But is there a Little Russian language? Is it a language, in your opinion? an independent language? I would pound my best friend in a mortar before I’d agree to that.’

  Bassistoff was about to retort.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ said Darya Mihailovna, ‘you know that you will hear nothing but paradoxes from him.’

  Pigasov smiled ironically. A footman came in and announced the arrival of Alexandra Pavlovna and her brother.

  Darya Mihailovna rose to meet her guests.

  ‘How do you do, Alexandrine?’ she began, going up to her, ‘how good of you to come!... How are you, Sergei Pavlitch?’

  Volintsev shook hands with Darya Mihailovna and went up to Natalya Alexyevna.

  ‘But how about that baron, your new acquaintance, is he coming to - day?’ asked Pigasov.

  ‘Yes, he is coming.’

  ‘He is a great philosopher, they say; he is just brimming over with Hegel, I suppose?’

  Darya Mihailovna made no reply, and making Alexandra Pavlovna sit down on the sofa, established herself near her.

  ‘Philosophies,’ continued Pigasov, ‘are elevated points of view! That’s another abomination of mine; these elevated points of view. And what can one see from above? Upon my soul, if you want to buy a horse, you don’t look at it from a steeple!’

  ‘This baron was going to bring you an essay?’ said Alexandra Pavlovna.

  ‘Yes, an essay,’ replied Darya Mihailovna, with exaggerated carelessness, ‘on the relation of commerce to manufactures in Russia. ... But don’t be afraid; we will not read it here.... I did not invite you for that. Le baron est aussi aimable que savant. And he speaks Russian beautifully! C’est un vrai torrent... il vous entraine!

  ‘He speaks Russian so beautifully,’ grumbled Pigasov, ‘that he deserves a eulogy in French.’

  ‘You may grumble as you please, African Semenitch.... It’s in keeping with your ruffled locks.... I wonder, though, why he does not come. Do you know what, messieurs et mesdames’ added Darya Mihailovna, looking round, ‘we will go into the garden. There is still nearly an hour to dinner - time and the weather is glorious.’

  All the company rose and went into the garden.

  Darya Mihailovna’s garden stretched right down to the river. There were many alleys of old lime - trees in it, full of sunlight and shade and fragrance and glimpses of emerald green at the ends of the walks, and many arbours of acacias and lilacs.

  Volintsev turned into the thickest part of the garden with Natalya and Mlle. Boncourt. He walked beside Natalya in silence. Mlle. Boncourt followed a little behind.

  ‘What have you been doing to - day?’ asked Volintsev at last, pulling the ends of his handsome dark brown moustache.

  In features he resembled his sister strikingly; but there was less movement and life in his expression, and his soft beautiful eyes had a melancholy look.

  ‘Oh! nothing,’ answered Natalya, ‘I have been listening to Pigasov’s sarcasms, I have done some embroidery on canvas, and I’ve been reading.’

  ‘And what have you been reading?’

  ‘Oh! I read — a history of the Crusades,’ said Natalya, with some hesitation.

  Volintsev looked at her.

  ‘Ah!’ he ejaculated at last, ‘that must be interesting.’

  He picked a twig and began to twirl it in the air. They walked another twenty paces.

  ‘What is this baron whom your mother has made acquaintance with?’ began Volintsev again.

  ‘A Gentleman of the Bedchamber, a new arrival; maman speaks very highly of him.’

  ‘Your mother is quick to take fancies to people.’

  ‘That shows that her heart is still young,’ observed Natalya.

  ‘Yes. I shall soon bring you your mare. She is almost quite broken in now. I want to teach her to gallop, and I shall manage it soon.’

  ‘Merci!... But I’m quite ashamed. You are breaking her in yourself ... and they say it’s so hard!’

  ‘To give you the least pleasure, you know, Natalya Alexyevna, I am ready... I... not in such trifles — — ’

  Volintsev grew confused.

  Natalya looked at him with friendly encouragement, and again said ‘merci!’

  ‘You know,’ continued Sergei Pavlitch after a long pause, ‘that not such things.... But why am I saying this? you know everything, of course.’

  At that instant a bell rang in the house.

  ‘Ah! la cloche du diner!’ cried Mlle. Boncourt, ‘rentrons.’

  ‘Quel dommage,’ thought the old French lady to herself as she mounted the balcony steps behind Volintsev and Natalya, ‘quel dommage que ce charmant garcon ait si peu de ressources dans la conversation,’ which may be translated, ‘you are a good fellow, my dear boy, but rather a fool.’

  The baron did not arrive to dinner. They waited half - an - hour for him. Conversation flagged at the table. Sergei Pavlitch did nothing but gaze at Natalya, near whom he was sitting, and zealously filled up her glass with water. Pandalevsky tried in vain to entertain his neighbour, Alexandra Pavlovna; he was bubbling over with sweetness, but she hardly refrained from yawning.

  Bassistoff was rolling up pellets of bread and thinking of nothing at all; even Pigasov was silent, and when Darya Mihailovna remarked to him that he had not been very polite to - day, he replied crossly, ‘When am I polite? that’s not in my line;’ and smiling grimly he added, ‘have a little patience; I am only kvas, you know, du simple Russian kvas; but your Gentleman of the Bedchamber — — ’

  ‘Bravo!’ cried Darya Mihailovna, ‘Pigasov is jealous, he is jealous already!’

  But Pigasov made her no rejoinder, and only gave her a rather cross look.

  Seven o’clock struck, and they were all assembled again in the drawing - room.

  ‘He is not coming, clearly,’ said Darya Mihailovna.

  But, behold, the rumble of a carriage was heard: a small tarantass drove into the court, and a few instants later a footman entered the drawing - room and gave Darya Mihailovna a note on a silver salver. She glanced through it, and turning to the footman asked:

  ‘But where is the gentleman who brought this letter?’

  ‘He is sitting in the carriage. Shall I ask him to come up?’

  ‘Ask him to do so.’

  The man went out.

  ‘Fancy, how vexatious!’ continued Darya Mihailovna, ‘the baron has received a summons to return at once to Petersburg. He has sent me his essay by a certain Mr. Rudin, a friend of his. The baron wanted to introduce him to me — he speaks very highly of him. But how vexatious it is! I had hoped the baron would stay here for some time.’

  ‘Dmitri Nikolaitch Rudin,’ announced the servant

  III

  A man of about thirty - five entered, of a tall, somewhat stooping figure, with crisp curly hair and swarthy complexion, an irregular but expressive and intelligent face, a liquid brilliance in his quick, dark blue eyes, a straight, broad nose, and well - curved lips. His clothes were not new, and were somewhat small, as though he had outgrown them.

  He walked quickly up to Darya Mihailovna, and with a slight bow told her that he had long wished to have the honour of an introduction to her, and that his friend the baron greatly regretted that he could not take leave of her in person.

  The thin sound of Rudin’s voice seemed out of keeping with his tall figure and broad chest.

  ‘Pray be seated... very delighted,’ murmured Darya Mihailovna, and,
after introducing him to the rest of the company, she asked him whether he belonged to those parts or was a visitor.

  ‘My estate is in the T — — province,’ replied Rudin, holding his hat on his knees. ‘I have not been here long. I came on business and stayed for a while in your district town.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘With the doctor. He was an old chum of mine at the university.’

  ‘Ah! the doctor. He is highly spoken of. He is skilful in his work, they say. But have you known the baron long?’

  ‘I met him last winter in Moscow, and I have just been spending about a week with him.’

  ‘He is a very clever man, the baron.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Darya Mihailovna sniffed at her little crushed - up handkerchief steeped in eau de cologne.

  ‘Are you in the government service?’ she asked.

  ‘Who? I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. I have retired.’

  There followed a brief pause. The general conversation was resumed.

  ‘If you will allow me to be inquisitive,’ began Pigasov, turning to Rudin, ‘do you know the contents of the essay which his excellency the baron has sent?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘This essay deals with the relations to commerce — or no, of manufactures to commerce in our country.... That was your expression, I think, Darya Mihailovna?’