One day Lavretsky was as usual at the Kalitines'. An overpoweringly
hot afternoon had been followed by such a beautiful evening that
Madame Kalitine, notwithstanding her usual aversion to a draught,
ordered all the windows and the doors leading into the garden to be
opened. Moreover, she announced that she was not going to play cards,
that it would be a sin to do so in such lovely weather, and that it
was a duty to enjoy the beauties of nature.
Panshine was the only stranger present. Influenced by the evening,
and feeling a flow of artistic emotion, but not wishing to sing in
Lavretsky's presence, he threw himself into poetry He read--and read
well, only with too much consciousness, and with needlessly subtle
distinctions--some of Lermontof's poems (Pushkin had not then
succeeded in getting back into fashion). Suddenly, as if ashamed of
his emotion, he began in reference to the well-known _Duma_,[A] to
blame and attack the new generation, not losing the opportunity which
the subject afforded him of setting forth how, if the power lay in his
hands, he would alter everything his own way.
[Footnote A: For the poem, so-called, see note at end of chapter.]
"Russia," he said, "has lagged behind Europe, and must be driven up
alongside of it. We are told that ours is a young country. That is all
nonsense. Besides, we have no inventive power. Khomakof[A] himself
admits that we have never invented so much as a mousetrap.
Consequently we are obliged to imitate others, whether we like it or
no."
[Footnote A: A poet, who was one of the leaders of the Slavophile
party.]
"'We are ill,' says Lermontof, and I agree with him. But we are ill
because we have only half become Europeans. With that which has
wounded us we must be cured." ("_Le cadastre_" thought Lavretsky.)
"Among us," he continued, "the best heads, _les meilleures têtes_,
have long been convinced of this. In reality, all peoples are alike;
only introduce good institutions, and the affair is settled. To be
sure, one may make some allowance for the existing life of the nation;
that is our business, the business of the people who are" (he all but
said "statesmen") "in the public service; but if need arises, don't be
uneasy. Those institutions will modify that life itself."
Maria Dmitrievna admiringly agreed with him. "What a clever man to
have talking in my house!" she thought. Liza kept silence, leaning
back in the recess of the window. Lavretsky kept silence too. Marfa
Timofeevna, who was playing cards in a corner with her friend,
grumbled something to herself. Panshine walked up and down the room,
speaking well, but with a sort of suppressed malice. It seemed as if
he was blaming, not so much a whole generation, as some individuals
of his acquaintance. A nightingale had made its home in a large lilac
bush which stood in the Kalitines' garden, and the first notes of its
even-song made themselves heard during the pauses in the eloquent
harangue; the first stars began to kindle in the rose-stained sky
above the motionless tops of the lime trees. Presently Lavretsky rose
and began to reply to Panshine. A warm dispute soon commenced.
Lavretsky spoke in defence of the youth of Russia, and of the capacity
of the country to suffice for itself. He surrendered himself and his
contemporaries, but he stood up for the new generation, and their
wishes and convictions. Panshine replied incisively and irritably,
declared that clever people were bound to reform every thing, and
at length was carried away to such an extent that, forgetting his
position as a chamberlain, and his proper line of action as a member
of the civil service, he called Lavretsky a retrogade conservative,
and alluded--very distantly it is true--to his false position in
society. Lavretsky did not lose his temper, nor did he raise
his voice; he remembered that Mikhalevich also had called him a
retrograde, and, at the same time a disciple of Voltaire; but he
calmly beat Panshine on every point. He proved the impracticability
of reforming by sudden bounds, and of introducing changes haughtily
schemed on the heights of official self-complacency--changes which
were not justified by any intimate acquaintance with the country, nor
by a living faith in any ideal, not even in one of negation, and in
illustration of this he adduced his own education. He demanded
before every thing else that the true spirit of the nation should be
recognized, and that it should be looked up to with that humility
without which no courage is possible, not even that wherewith to
oppose falsehood. Finally he did not attempt to make any defence
against what he considered a deserved reproach, that of giving way to
a wasteful and inconsiderate expenditure of both time and strength.
"All that is very fine!" at last exclaimed Panshine with vexation.
"But here are you, just returned to Russia; what do you intend to do?"
"To cultivate the soil," replied Lavretsky; "and to cultivate it as
well as possible."
"No doubt that is very praiseworthy," answered Panshine, "and I hear
you have already had great success in that line; but you must admit
that every one is not fitted for such an occupation--"
"_Une nature poétique_," said Maria Dmitrievna, "certainly cannot
go cultivating the soil--_et puis_, it is your vocation, Vladimir
Nikolaevich, to do every thing _en grand_."
This was too much even for Panshine, who grew confused, and changed
the conversation. He tried to turn it on the beauty of the starry
heavens, on Schubert's music, but somehow his efforts did not prove
successful. He ended by offering to play at piquet with Maria
Dmitrievna. "What! on such an evening as this?" she feebly objected;
but then she ordered the cards to be brought.
Panshine noisily tore open a new pack; and Liza and Lavretsky, as if
by mutual consent, both rose from their seats and placed themselves
near Marfa Timofeevna. They both suddenly experienced a great feeling
of happiness, mingled with a sense of mutual dread, which made them
glad of the presence of a third person; at the same time, they both
felt that the uneasiness from which they had suffered during the last
few days had disappeared, and would return no more.
The old lady stealthily tapped Lavretsky on the cheek, screwed up her
eyes with an air of pleasant malice, and shook her head repeatedly,
saying in a whisper, "You've done for the genius--thanks!" Then all
became still in the room. Nothing was to be heard but the faint
crackling of the wax lights, and sometimes the fall of a hand on the
table, or an exclamation on the score of points, and the song of the
nightingale which, powerful, almost insolently loud, flowed in a great
wave through the window, together with the dewy freshness of the
night.
* * * * *
NOTE.--The following is a tolerably literal translation of the poem of
Lermontof's to which allusion is made on p. 208, and which created no
slight sensation when it first appeared, in the year 1838:--