"A Nest of Nobles" ("Dvorianskoe Gniezdo"), published in 1858,
brought Turgenev a European reputation. Of all his novels, "A
Nest of Nobles" is probably the best. It has all the love of
detail that is peculiar to the Slavonic mind, a trait which is
largely responsible for that feeling of pessimism that
pervades the writings of all those who have listened to the
"still, sad music of humanity." Yet Turgenev is not typical of
that Russian school of novelists of which Tolstoy and Gorki
are distinguished examples; rather he belongs to the school of
Thackeray, George Eliot, and Dickens.
_I.--A Student's Marriage_
Fedor Ivanitch Lavretsky came of an ancient noble family. His father, a
strangely whimsical man, determined that his son should grow up a
Spartan. A gymnastic instructor was his principal teacher, although he
also studied natural science, mathematics, and international law. Music,
as a pursuit unworthy of a man, was discarded. The female sex he was
taught to hold in contempt, and all the gentler arts and emotions were
rigorously repressed. The boy was conscious of defects in his education,
and from his eighteenth year set himself to remedy them as far as he
could. His father died when he was twenty-two, and young Lavretsky
determined to go to Moscow, in the hope that diligent study might enable
him to regain the ground lost in youth.
The whole tendency of his education had been to make him into a shy man:
he could not get on with people; with an unquenchable thirst for love in
his heart, he had never yet dared to look a woman in the face. Robust,
rosy-cheeked, bearded, and taciturn, he produced a strange impression on
his companions, who did not suspect that this outwardly austere man was
inwardly almost a child. He appeared to them to be a queer kind of
pedant; they did not care for him, made no overtures to him, and he
avoided them. During the first two years he spent at the University he
only became fairly intimate with one student, Mihalevitch by name, for
he took lessons in Latin.
One day at the theatre he saw in a box in the front tier a young girl
leaning her elbow on the velvet of the box. The light of youth and life
played in every feature of her lovely dark oval face; subtle
intelligence was expressed in the splendid eyes which gazed softly and
attentively from under her fine brows, in the swift smile of her
sensitive lips, in the very poise of her head, her hands, her neck.
Suddenly the door of her box opened, and a man came in--it was
Mihalevitch. The appearance of this man, almost his only acquaintance in
Moscow, on the society of the girl who had suddenly absorbed his whole
attention, struck him as curious and significant. The performance ceased
to interest Lavretsky, and at one pathetic part he involuntarily looked
at his beauty: she was bending forward, her cheeks glowing. Under the
influence of his persistent gaze her eyes slowly turned and rested on
him.
All night he was haunted by those eyes. The skilfully constructed
barriers were broken down at last; he was in a shiver and a fever, and
the next day he went to Mihalevitch, from whom he learnt that her name
was Barbara Paulovna Korobyin. Mihalevitch offered to introduce him;
Lavretsky blushed, muttered something unintelligible, and ran away. For
five whole days he struggled with his timidity; on the sixth he got into
a new uniform and placed himself at Mihalevitch's disposal.
Paul Petrovitch Korobyin was a retired major-general. With the intention
of improving his pecuniary position, he devised a new method of
speculating with public funds--an excellent method in itself--but he
neglected to bribe in the right place. Information was laid against him,
and as a result of the subsequent inquiry he was advised to retire from
active service. In Moscow he lived the life of a retired general on 2750
roubles a year.
His daughter at this time was nineteen years old, and the general found
her expenses an ever-increasing tax upon his slender resources. He was
therefore glad to throw no obstacle in Lavretsky's way--having
discovered that he was wealthy--when, six months after their first
meeting, he proposed for his daughter's hand.
Barbara Paulovna had much practical sense, and a very great love of
comfort, together with a great faculty of obtaining it for herself. What
charming travelling knick-knacks appeared from various corners of the
luxurious carriage that she had purchased to convey them to Lavretsky's
country home! And how delightfully she herself made coffee in the
morning! Lavretsky, however, was not disposed to be observant at that
time: he was blissful, drunk with happiness; he gave himself up to it
like a child; indeed, he was as innocent as a child, this young
Hercules. Not in vain was the whole personality of his young wife
breathing with fascination; not in vain was her promise to the senses of
a mysterious luxury of untold bliss: her fulfilment was richer than her
promise.
Barbara Paulovna had no mind to establish herself permanently at
Lavriky. The idea of staying in that out-of-the-way corner of the
steppes never entered her head for an instant. In September she carried
her husband off to St. Petersburg, where they passed two winters; the
summer they spent at Tsarskoe Selo. They made many acquaintances, went
out, and entertained a good deal, and gave the most charming dances and
musical evenings. Barbara Paulovna attracted guests as fire attracts
moths.
Fedor Ivanitch did not altogether like such a frivolous life. He was
unwilling to enter the government service, as his wife suggested; still,
he remained in St. Petersburg for her pleasure. He soon discovered,
however, that no one hindered him from being alone; that it was not for
nothing that he had the quietest and most comfortable study in St.
Petersburg; that his tender wife was ever ready to aid him to be alone.
In the course of time a son was born to them, but the poor child did not
live long--it died in the spring, and in the summer Lavretsky took his
wife abroad. One summer and autumn they spent in Germany and
Switzerland, and for the winter they went to Paris.
In Paris Barbara Paulovna made herself a little nest as quickly and as
cleverly as in St. Petersburg. She soon drew round herself
acquaintances--at first only Russians, afterwards Frenchmen with very
excellent manners and fine-sounding names. All of them brought their
friends, and _la belle Mme. de Lavretsky_ was soon known from Chausée
d'Antin to Rue de Lille.
Fedor Ivanitch still busied himself with study, and set to work
translating a well-known treatise on irrigation. "I am not wasting my
time," he thought; "it is all of use; but next winter I must, without
fail, return to Russia and get to work." An unexpected incident broke up
his plans.
_II.--Separation_
Lavretsky had the most absolute confidence in his wife's every action
and thought. She was always as calm, affectionate, and confidential with
him as she had been from the first. It was therefore with a feeling of
stupefaction that, going one day into her boudoir during her absence, he
picked up from the floor a note that disclosed her infidelity. He read
it absent-mindedly, and did not understand what he had read. He read it
a second time--his head began to swim, the ground to sway under his
feet.
He had so blindly believed in her; the possibility of deception, of
treason, had never presented itself to his mind. He could not
understand. This young Frenchman, almost the most insignificant of all
his wife's acquaintances! The fear was borne in upon him that perhaps
she had never been worthy of the trust he had reposed in her. To
complete it all, he had been hoping in a few months to become a father.
All that night he wandered, half-distraught, about the streets of Paris
and in the open country beyond. In the morning he went to an hotel and
sent the incriminating note to his wife, with the following letter:
"The enclosed scraps of paper will explain everything to you. I cannot
see you again; I imagine that you, too, would hardly desire an interview
with me. I am assigning you fifteen thousand francs a year; I cannot
give more. Send your address to the office of the estate. Do what you
please. Live where you please. I wish you happiness!"
A long letter came back in reply: it put the finishing touch--his last
doubts vanished. She did not attempt to defend herself; her only desire
was to see him; she besought him not to condemn her irrevocably.
Three days later Lavretsky left Paris. For a time he followed his wife's
movements, as chronicled in Paris society papers. He learnt that a
daughter had been born to him. Finally a tragi-comic story was reported
with acclamation in all the papers; his wife played an unenviable part
in it. Barbara Paulovna had become a notoriety. He ceased to follow her
movements. Scepticism, half formed already by the experiences of his
life and by his education, took complete possession of his heart, and he
became indifferent to everything.
Four years passed by till he felt himself able to return to his own
country and to meet his own people. He went to the town of O----, where
lived his cousin, Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin, with her two daughters,
Elizabeth and Helena, and her aunt, Marfa Timofyevna Petrov.
_III.--A New Friendship_
Lavretsky stayed a few days in O---- before going to take up his
residence, as he proposed doing, at Vassilyevskoe, a small estate of his
some twenty miles distant. Mounting the steps of Kalitin's house to say
good-bye before departing, he met Elizabeth coming down.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To service. It is Sunday."
"Why do you go to church?"
Lisa looked at him in silent amazement.
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to say that. I have come to say
good-bye to you; I am starting for my village in an hour."
"Well, mind you don't forget us," said Lisa, and went down the steps.
"And don't forget me. And listen," he added; "you are going to church;
while you are there, pray for me too."
Lisa stopped short and turned to face him. "Certainly," she said,
looking straight at him; "I will pray for you too. Good-bye."
In the drawing-room he found Marya Dmitrievna alone. She began to gossip
about a young man whom he had met the previous day, Vladimir Nikolaitch
Panshin.
"I will tell you a secret, my dear cousin: he is simply crazy about my
Lisa. Well, he is of good family, has a capital position, and is a
clever fellow; and if it is God's will, I for my part shall be well
pleased." She launched into a description of her cares and anxieties and
maternal sentiments. Lavretsky listened in silence, turning his hat in
his hands. Finally he rose, took his leave, and went upstairs to say
good-bye to Marfa Timofyevna.
"Tell me, please," he began; "Marya Dmitrievna has just been talking to
me about this--what's his name?--Panshin? What sort of man is he?"
"What a chatterbox she is, Lord save us! She told you, I suppose, as a
secret that he has turned up as a suitor, and so far, there's nothing to
tell, thank God! But already she's gossipping about him."
"Why thank God?"
"Because I don't like the fine young gentleman; and so what is there to
be glad of in it?
"Well, shall we see you again soon?" the old lady asked, as he rose to
depart.
"Very likely, aunt; it's not so far, you know."
"Well, go, then, and God be with you. And Lisa's not going to marry
Panshin; don't you trouble yourself--that's not the sort of husband she
deserves."
* * * * *
Lavretsky lived alone at Vassilyevskoe, and often rode into O------ to
see his cousins. He saw a good deal of Lisa's music-master, an old
German named Christopher Theodor Lemm, and, finding much in common with
him, invited him to stay for a few days.
"Maestro," said Lavretsky one morning at breakfast, "you will soon have
to compose a triumphal cantata."
"On what occasion?"
"On the nuptials of M. Panshin and Lisa. It seems to me things are in a
fair way with them already."
"That will never be," cried Lemm.
"Why?"
"Because it is impossible."
"What, then, do you find amiss with the match?"
"Everything is amiss, everything. At the age of nineteen Lisavetta is a
girl of high principles, serious, of lofty feelings, and he--he is a
dilettante, in a word."
"But suppose she loves him?"
"No, she does not love him; that is to say, she is very pure in heart,
and does not know herself what it means--love. Mme. de Kalitin tells her
that he is a fine young man, and she obeys because she is quite a child.
She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not--that is, his soul is
not beautiful...."
It sometimes happens that two people who are acquainted but not on
intimate terms all of a sudden grow more intimate in a few minutes. This
was exactly what came to pass with Lavretsky and Lisa. "So he is like
that," was her thought as she turned a friendly glance at him. "So you
are like that," he, too, was thinking. And thus he was not very much
surprised when she began to speak to him about his wife.
"You will forgive me--I ought not to dare to speak of it to you... but
how could you... why did you separate from her?"
Lavretsky shuddered. He looked at Lisa and sat down beside her. "My
child," he began, "do not touch on that woman; your hands are tender,
but it will hurt me just the same."
"I know," Lisa continued as though she had not heard. "I know she has
been to blame. I don't want to defend her; but what God has joined, how
can you put asunder? You must forgive, if you wish to be forgiven."
"She is perfectly contented with her position, I assure you. But her
name ought never to be uttered by you. You are too pure. You are not
capable of understanding such a creature."
"Then, if she is like that, why did you marry her?"
Lavretsky got up quickly from his seat. "Why did I marry her? I was
young and inexperienced; I was deceived, I was carried away by a
beautiful exterior. I knew no women, I knew nothing. God grant that you
may make a happier marriage."
At that moment Marya Dmitrievna came in. Lavretsky did not again succeed
in being alone with Lisa, but he looked at her in such a way that she
felt her heart at rest, and a little ashamed and sorry for him. Before
he left, he had obtained from his cousin a promise that she would come
over to Vassilyevskoe one day with her daughters.
When they came Lavretsky made further opportunities to talk with Lisa,
while the others were fishing. He led the conversation round to Panshin.
"Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart," said Lisa, "and he is clever;
mother likes him."
"And do you like him?"
"He is nice; why should I not like him?"
"Ah!" A half ironical, half mournful expression crossed his face. "Well,
may God grant them happiness," he muttered as though to himself.
Lisa flushed. "You are mistaken, Fedor Ivanitch. You are wrong in
thinking--but don't you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?"
"No, I don't."
"Why?"
"I think he has no heart."
"What makes you think he has no heart?"
"I may be mistaken--time will show, however."
Lisa grew thoughtful. Lavretsky began to talk to her about his daily
life at Vassilyevskoe. He felt a need to talk to her, to share with her
everything that was passing in his heart; she listened so sweetly, so
attentively. Her few replies and observations seemed to him so
intelligent....
_IV.--Love and Duty_
Glancing one day at a bundle of French newspapers that had been lying on
the table unopened for a fortnight, Lavretsky suddenly came upon a
paragraph announcing "Mournful intelligence: That charming, fascinating
Moscow lady, Mme. Lavretsky, died suddenly yesterday."
He hastened over to O----and communicated the news to Lisa, requesting
her to keep it secret for a time. They walked in the garden; Lavretsky
discussed his newly won freedom.
"Stop!" said Lisa, "don't talk like that. Of what use is your freedom to
you? You ought to be thinking of forgiveness."
"I forgave her long ago."
"You don't understand! You ought to be seeking to be forgiven."
"You are right," said Lavretsky after a pause; "what good is my freedom
to me?"
"When did you get that paper?" said Lisa without heeding his question.
"The day after your visit."
"And is it possible that you did not shed tears?"
"What is there to weep over now? Though, indeed, who knows? I might
perhaps have been more grieved a fortnight sooner."
"A fortnight?" said Lisa. "But what has happened, then, in the last
fortnight?"
Lavretsky made no reply, and suddenly Lisa flushed violently.
"Yes, yes! you guess why. In the course of this fortnight I have come to
know the value of a pure woman's heart. But I am glad I showed you that
paper," Lavretsky continued after a pause; "already I have grown used to
hiding nothing from you, and I hope that you will repay me with the same
confidence...."
Lavretsky was not a young man; he could not long delude himself as to
the nature of the feeling inspired in him by Lisa. He was brought that
day to the final conviction that he loved her.
"Have I really nothing better to do," he thought, "at the age of
thirty-five, than to put my soul into a woman's keeping again? But Lisa
is not like her; she would not demand degrading sacrifices from me; she
would not tempt me away from my duties; she would herself incite me to
hard, honest work, and we should walk hand in hand towards a noble aim.
That's all very fine," he concluded his reflections, "but the worst of
it is that she does not in the least wish to walk hand in hand with me.
But she doesn't in the least love Panshin either... a poor consolation!"
Painful days followed for Fedor Ivanitch. He found himself in a
continual fever. Every morning he made for the post and tore open
letters and papers; nowhere did he find confirmation or disproof of the
fateful news.
Late one night he found himself wandering aimlessly around the outskirts
of O----. Rambling over the dewy grass he came across a narrow path
leading to a little gate which he found open. Wandering in, he found, to
his amazement, that he was in the Kalitins' garden. In Lisa's room a
candle shone behind the white curtains; all else was dark. The light
vanished as he looked.
"Sleep well, my sweet girl," he whispered, sitting motionless, his eyes
fixed on the darkened window. Suddenly a light appeared in one of the
windows of the ground floor, then another. Who could it be? Lavretsky
rose... he caught a glimpse of a well-known face. Lisa entered the
drawing-room--she drew near the open door, and stood on the threshold, a
light, slender figure, all in white.
"Lisa!" broke hardly audibly from his lips. She started, and began to
gaze into the darkness. "Lisa!" he repeated louder, and came out of the
shadow.
She raised her head in alarm, and shrank back. "Is it you?" she said.
"You here?"
"I--I--listen to me," whispered Lavretsky, and seizing her hand he led
her to a seat. She followed him unresisting. Her pale face, her fixed
eyes, and all her gestures expressed an unutterable bewilderment.
Lavretsky stood before her. "I did not mean to come here," he began;
"something brought me. I--I love you," he uttered, in involuntary
terror. She tried to get up--she could not; she covered her face with
her hands.
"Lisa!" murmured Lavretsky. "Lisa," he repeated, and fell at her feet.
Her shoulders began to heave slightly.
"What is it?" he urged, and he heard a subdued sob. His heart stood
still... he knew the meaning of those tears. "Can it be that you love
me?" he whispered, and caressed her knees.
"Get up!" he heard her voice. "Get up, Fedor Ivanitch. What are we
doing?"
He got up and sat beside her on the seat.
"It frightens me; what we are doing?" she repeated.
"I love you," he said again. "I am ready to devote my whole life to
you."
She shuddered again as though something had stung her, and lifted her
eyes towards heaven.
"All that is in God's hands," she said.
"But you love me, Lisa? We shall be happy."
She dropped her eyes. He softly drew her to him, and her head sank on to
his shoulder--he bent his head a little and touched her pale lips....
On the following day Lavretsky drove over to Vassilyevskoe. The first
thing that struck him on entering was the scent of patchouli, always
distasteful to him. There were some travelling trunks in the hall. He
crossed the threshold of the drawing-room--a lady arose from the sofa,
made a step forward, and fell at his feet. He caught his breath... he
leaned against the wall for support.... It was Barbara Paulovna!
A torrent of words told him that, stricken by remorse, she had
determined to break every tie with her sins. A serious illness had given
rise to the rumour of her death. She had taken advantage of this to give
up everything. Would he not spare her for their little daughter's sake?
Lavretsky listened to the flood of eloquence in silence. He did not
believe one word of her protestations. His wrath choked him: this blow
had fallen so suddenly upon him.
* * * * *
Lisa bent forward in her chair and covered her face with her hands.
"This is how we were to meet again," he brought out at last. It was in
Marfa Timofyevna's room that they met once more. Lisa took her hands
from her face. "Yes!" she said faintly. "We were quickly punished."
"Punished!" said Lavretsky. "What had you done to be punished?" His
heart ached with pity and love. "Yes, all is over before it had begun."
"We must forget all that," she brought out at last. "It is left for us
to do our duty. You, Fedor Ivanitch, must be reconciled with your wife."
"Lisa!"
"I beg you to do so: by that alone can you expiate..."
"Lisa, for God's sake!--to be reconciled to her now!"
"I do not ask of you--do not live with her if you cannot. Remember your
little girl; do it for my sake."
"Very well," Lavretsky muttered between his clenched teeth; "I will do
that; in that I shall fulfil my duty. But you--what does your duty
consist in?"
"That I know myself."