One day, according to his custom, Lavretzky was sitting at the
Kalitins'. A fatiguingly-hot day had been followed by so fine an
evening, that Marya Dmitrievna, despite her aversion to the fresh air,
had ordered all the windows and doors into the garden to be opened, and
had announced that she would not play cards, that it was a sin to play
cards in such weather, and one must enjoy nature. Panshin was the only
visitor. Tuned up by the evening, and unwilling to sing before
Lavretzky, yet conscious of an influx of artistic emotions, he turned to
poetry: he recited well, but with too much self-consciousness, and with
unnecessary subtleties, several of Lermontoff's poems (at that time,
Pushkin had not yet become fashionable again)--and, all at once, as
though ashamed of his expansiveness, he began, apropos of the familiar
"Thought," to upbraid and reprove the present generation; in that
connection, not missing the opportunity to set forth, how he would turn
everything around in his own way, if the power were in his hands.
"Russia," said he,--"has lagged behind Europe; she must catch up with it.
People assert, that we are young--that is nonsense; and moreover, that we
possess no inventive genius: X ... himself admits that we have not even
invented a mouse-trap. Consequently, we are compelled, willy-nilly, to
borrow from others. 'We are ill,'--says Lermontoff,--I agree with him;
but we are ill because we have only half converted ourselves into
Europeans; that is where we have made our mistake, and that is what we
must be cured of." ("_Le cadastre_,"--thought Lavretzky).--"The best
heads among us,"--he went on,--"_les meilleurs tetes_--have long since
become convinced of this; all nations are, essentially, alike; only
introduce good institutions, and there's an end of the matter. One may
even conform to the existing national life; that is our business, the
business of men ..." (he came near saying: "of statesmen") "who are in
the service; but, in case of need, be not uneasy: the institutions will
transform that same existence." Marya Dmitrievna, with emotion, backed
up Panshin. "What a clever man this is,"--she thought,--"talking in my
house!" Liza said nothing, as she leaned against a window-frame;
Lavretzky also maintained silence; Marfa Timofeevna, who was playing
cards in the corner with her friend, muttered something to herself.
Panshin strode up and down the room, and talked eloquently, but with a
secret spite: he seemed to be scolding not the whole race, but certain
individuals of his acquaintance. In the Kalitins' garden, in a large
lilac-bush, dwelt a nightingale, whose first evening notes rang forth in
the intervals of this eloquent harangue; the first stars lighted up in
the rosy sky, above the motionless crests of the lindens. Lavretzky
rose, and began to reply to Panshin; an argument ensued. Lavretzky
defended the youth and independence of Russia; he surrendered himself,
his generation as sacrifice,--but upheld the new men, their convictions,
and their desires; Panshin retorted in a sharp and irritating way,
declared that clever men must reform everything, and went so far, at
last, that, forgetting his rank of Junior Gentleman of the Imperial
Bedchamber, and his official career, he called Lavretzky a "laggard
conservative," he even hinted,--in a very remote way, it is true,--at his
false position in society. Lavretzky did not get angry, did not raise
his voice (he remembered that Mikhalevitch also had called him a
laggard--only, a Voltairian)--and calmly vanquished Panshin on every
point. He demonstrated to him the impossibility of leaps and supercilious
reforms, unjustified either by a knowledge of the native land or actual
faith in an ideal, even a negative ideal; he cited, as an example, his
own education, and demanded, first of all, a recognition of national
truth and submission to it,--that submission without which even boldness
against falsehood is impossible; he did not evade, in conclusion, the
reproach--merited, in his opinion--of frivolous waste of time and
strength.
"All that is very fine!"--exclaimed the enraged Panshin, at last:--"Here,
you have returned to Russia,--what do you intend to do?"
"Till the soil,"--replied Lavretzky:--"and try to till it as well as
possible."
"That is very praiseworthy, there's no disputing that,"--rejoined
Panshin:--"and I have been told, that you have already had great success
in that direction; but you must admit, that not every one is fitted for
that sort of occupation...."
"_Une nature poetique_,"--began Marya Dmitrievna,--"of course, cannot
till the soil ... _et puis_, you are called, Vladimir Nikolaitch, to do
everything _en grand_."
This was too much even for Panshin: he stopped short, and the
conversation stopped short also. He tried to turn it on the beauty of the
starry sky, on Schubert's music--but, for some reason, it would not run
smoothly; he ended, by suggesting to Marya Dmitrievna, that he should
play picquet with her.--"What! on such an evening?"--she replied feebly;
but she ordered the cards to be brought.
Panshin, with a crackling noise, tore open the fresh pack, while Liza
and Lavretzky, as though in pursuance of an agreement, both rose, and
placed themselves beside Marfa Timofeevna. They both, suddenly, felt so
very much at ease that they were even afraid to be left alone
together,--and, at the same time, both felt that the embarrassment which
they had experienced during the last few days had vanished, never more to
return. The old woman stealthily patted Lavretzky on the cheek, slyly
screwed up her eyes, and shook her head several times, remarking in a
whisper: "Thou hast got the best of the clever fellow, thanks."
Everything in the room became still; the only sound was the faint
crackling of the wax candles, and, now and then, the tapping of hands on
the table, and an exclamation, or the reckoning of the spots,--and the
song, mighty, resonant to the verge of daring, of the nightingale, poured
in a broad stream through the window, in company with the dewy coolness.