... but he has no character... and he will remain all his life half a
savant, half a man of the world, that is to say, a dilettante, that is
to say, to speak plainly,--neither one thing nor the other. ... But it’s
a pity!’
‘That was my own idea,’ observed Darya Mihailovna. ‘I read his
article.... _Entre nous... cela a assez peu de fond!_’
‘Who else have you here?’ asked Rudin, after a pause.
Darya Mihailovna knocked off the ash of her cigarette with her little
finger.
‘Oh, there is hardly any one else. Madame Lipin, Alexandra Pavlovna,
whom you saw yesterday; she is very sweet--but that is all. Her brother
is also a capital fellow--_un parfait honnête homme_. The Prince Garin
you know. Those are all. There are two or three neighbours besides, but
they are really good for nothing. They either give themselves airs or
are unsociable, or else quite unsuitably free and easy. The ladies, as
you know, I see nothing of. There is one other of our neighbours said
to be a very cultivated, even a learned, man, but a dreadfully queer
creature, a whimsical character. _Alexandrine_ knows him, and I fancy
is not indifferent to him.... Come, you ought to talk to her, Dmitri
Nikolaitch; she’s a sweet creature. She only wants developing.’
‘I liked her very much,’ remarked Rudin.
‘A perfect child, Dmitri Nikolaitch, an absolute baby. She has been
married, _mais c’est tout comme_.... If I were a man, I should only fall
in love with women like that.’
‘Really?’
‘Certainly. Such women are at least fresh, and freshness cannot be put
on.’
‘And can everything else?’ Rudin asked, and he laughed--a thing which
rarely happened with him. When he laughed his face assumed a strange,
almost aged appearance, his eyes disappeared, his nose was wrinkled up.
‘And who is this queer creature, as you call him, to whom Madame Lipin
is not indifferent?’ he asked.
‘A certain Lezhnyov, Mihailo Mihailitch, a landowner here.’
Rudin seemed astonished; he raised his head.
‘Lezhnyov--Mihailo Mihailitch?’ he questioned. ‘Is he a neighbour of
yours?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
Rudin did not speak for a minute.
‘I used to know him long ago. He is a rich man, I suppose?’ he added,
pulling the fringe on his chair.
‘Yes, he is rich, though he dresses shockingly, and drives in a racing
droshky like a bailiff. I have been anxious to get him to come here;
he is spoken of as clever; I have some business with him.... You know I
manage my property myself.’
Rudin bowed assent.
‘Yes; I manage it myself,’ Darya Mihailovna continued. ‘I don’t
introduce any foreign crazes, but prefer what is our own, what is
Russian, and, as you see, things don’t seem to do badly,’ she added,
with a wave of her hand.
‘I have always been persuaded,’ observed Rudin urbanely, ‘of the
absolutely mistaken position of those people who refuse to admit the
practical intelligence of women.’
Darya Mihailovna smiled affably.
‘You are very good to us,’ was her comment ‘But what was I going to say?
What were we speaking of? Oh, yes; Lezhnyov: I have some business with
him about a boundary. I have several times invited him here, and even
to-day I am expecting him; but there’s no knowing whether he’ll come...
he’s such a strange creature.’
The curtain before the door was softly moved aside and the steward came
in, a tall man, grey and bald, in a black coat, a white cravat, and a
white waistcoat.
‘What is it?’ inquired Darya Mihailovna, and, turning a little towards
Rudin, she added in a low voice, ‘_n’est ce pas, comme il ressemble à
Canning?_’
‘Mihailo Mihailitch Lezhnyov is here,’ announced the steward. ‘Will you
see him?’
‘Good Heavens!’ exclaimed Darya Mihailovna, ‘speak of the devil----ask
him up.’
The steward went away.
‘He’s such an awkward creature. Now he has come, it’s at the wrong
moment; he has interrupted our talk.’
Rudin got up from his seat, but Darya Mihailovna stopped him.
‘Where are you going? We can discuss the matter as well before you. And
I want you to analyse him too, as you did Pigasov. When you talk, _vous
gravez comme avec un burin_. Please stay.’ Rudin was going to protest,
but after a moment’s thought he sat down.
Mihailo Mihailitch, whom the reader already knows, came into the room.
He wore the same grey overcoat, and in his sunburnt hands he carried the
same old foraging cap. He bowed tranquilly to Darya Mihailovna, and came
up to the tea-table.
‘At last you have favoured me with a visit, Monsieur Lezhnyov!’ began
Darya Mihailovna. ‘Pray sit down. You are already acquainted, I hear,’
she continued, with a gesture in Rudin’s direction.
Lezhnyov looked at Rudin and smiled rather queerly.
‘I know Mr. Rudin,’ he assented, with a slight bow.
‘We were together at the university,’ observed Rudin in a low voice,
dropping his eyes.
‘And we met afterwards also,’ remarked Lezhnyov coldly.
Darya Mihailovna looked at both in some perplexity and asked Lezhnyov to
sit down. He sat down.
‘You wanted to see me,’ he began, ‘on the subject of the boundary?’
‘Yes; about the boundary. But I also wished to see you in any case. We
are near neighbours, you know, and all but relations.’
‘I am much obliged to you,’ returned Lezhnyov. ‘As regards the boundary,
we have perfectly arranged that matter with your manager; I have agreed
to all his proposals.’
‘I knew that. But he told me that the contract could not be signed
without a personal interview with you.’
‘Yes; that is my rule. By the way, allow me to ask: all your peasants, I
believe, pay rent?’
‘Just so.’
‘And you trouble yourself about boundaries! That’s very praiseworthy.’
Lezhnyov did not speak for a minute.
‘Well, I have come for a personal interview,’ he said at last.
Darya Mihailovna smiled.
‘I see you have come. You say that in such a tone.... You could not have
been very anxious to come to see me.’
‘I never go anywhere,’ rejoined Lezhnyov phlegmatically.
‘Not anywhere? But you go to see Alexandra Pavlovna.’
‘I am an old friend of her brother’s.’
‘Her brother’s! However, I never wish to force any one.... But pardon
me, Mihailo Mihailitch, I am older than you, and I may be allowed to
give you advice; what charm do you find in such an unsociable way of
living? Or is my house in particular displeasing to you? You dislike
me?’
‘I don’t know you, Darya Mihailovna, and so I can’t dislike you. You
have a splendid house; but I will confess to you frankly I don’t like to
have to stand on ceremony. And I haven’t a respectable suit, I haven’t
any gloves, and I don’t belong to your set.’
‘By birth, by education, you belong to it, Mihailo Mihailitch! _vous
êtes des notres_.’
‘Birth and education are all very well, Darya Mihailovna; that’s not the
question.’
‘A man ought to live with his fellows, Mihailo Mihailitch! What pleasure
is there in sitting like Diogenes in his tub?’
‘Well, to begin with, he was very well off there, and besides, how do
you know I don’t live with my fellows?’
Darya Mihailovna bit her lip.
‘That’s a different matter! It only remains for me to express my regret
that I have not the honour of being included in the number of your
friends.’
‘Monsieur Lezhnyov,’ put in Rudin, ‘seems to carry to excess a laudable
sentiment--the love of independence.’
Lezhnyov made no reply, he only looked at Rudin. A short silence
followed.
‘And so,’ began Lezhnyov, getting up, ‘I may consider our business as
concluded, and tell your manager to send me the papers.’
‘You may,... though I confess you are so uncivil I ought really to
refuse you.’
‘But you know this rearrangement of the boundary is far more in your
interest than in mine.’
Darya Mihailovna shrugged her shoulders.
‘You will not even have luncheon here?’ she asked.
‘Thank you; I never take luncheon, and I am in a hurry to get home.’
Darya Mihailovna got up.
‘I will not detain you,’ she said, going to the window. ‘I will not
venture to detain you.’
Lezhnyov began to take leave.
‘Good-bye, Monsieur Lezhnyov! Pardon me for having troubled you.’
‘Oh, not at all!’ said Lezhnyov, and he went away.
‘Well, what do you say to that?’ Darya Mihailovna asked of Rudin. ‘I had
heard he was eccentric, but really that was beyond everything!’
‘His is the same disease as Pigasov’s,’ observed Rudin, ‘the desire of
being original. One affects to be a Mephistopheles--the other a cynic.
In all that, there is much egoism, much vanity, but little truth, little
love. Indeed, there is even calculation of a sort in it. A man puts on
a mask of indifference and indolence so that some one will be sure to
think. “Look at that man; what talents he has thrown away!” But if
you come to look at him more attentively, there is no talent in him
whatever.’
‘_Et de deux!_’ was Darya Mihailovna’s comment. ‘You are a terrible man
at hitting people off. One can hide nothing from you.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Rudin.... ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I ought not
really to speak about Lezhnyov; I loved him, loved him as a friend...
but afterwards, through various misunderstandings...’
‘You quarrelled?’
‘No. But we parted, and parted, it seems, for ever.’
‘Ah, I noticed that the whole time of his visit you were not quite
yourself.... But I am much indebted to you for this morning. I have
spent my time extremely pleasantly. But one must know where to stop.
I will let you go till lunch time and I will go and look after my
business. My secretary, you saw him--Constantin, _c’est lui qui est mon
secrétaire_--must be waiting for me by now. I commend him to you; he is
an excellent, obliging young man, and quite enthusiastic about you.
_Au revoir, cher_ Dmitri Nikolaitch! How grateful I am to the baron for
having made me acquainted with you!’
And Darya Mihailovna held out her hand to Rudin. He first pressed it,
then raised it to his lips and went away to the drawing-room and from
there to the terrace. On the terrace he met Natalya.
V
Darya Mihailovna’s daughter, Natalya Alexyevna, at a first glance might
fail to please. She had not yet had time to develop; she was thin, and
dark, and stooped slightly. But her features were fine and regular,
though too large for a girl of seventeen. Specially beautiful was her
pure, smooth forehead above fine eyebrows, which seemed broken in the
middle. She spoke little, but listened to others, and fixed her eyes
on them as though she were forming her own conclusions. She would often
stand with listless hands, motionless and deep in thought; her face
at such moments showed that her mind was at work within.... A scarcely
perceptible smile would suddenly appear on her lips and vanish again;
then she would slowly raise her large dark eyes. ‘_Qu’avez vous?_’
Mlle. Boncourt would ask her, and then she would begin to scold her,
saying that it was improper for a young girl to be absorbed and
to appear absent-minded. But Natalya was not absent-minded; on the
contrary, she studied diligently; she read and worked eagerly. Her
feelings were strong and deep, but reserved; even as a child she seldom
cried, and now she seldom even sighed and only grew slightly pale when
anything distressed her. Her mother considered her a sensible, good sort
of girl, calling her in a joke ‘_mon honnête homme de fille_’ but had
not a very high opinion of her intellectual abilities. ‘My Natalya
happily is cold,’ she used to say, ‘not like me--and it is better so.
She will be happy.’ Darya Mihailovna was mistaken. But few mothers
understand their daughters.
Natalya loved Darya Mihailovna, but did not fully confide in her.
‘You have nothing to hide from me,’ Darya Mihailovna said to her once,
‘or else you would be very reserved about it; you are rather a close
little thing.’
Natalya looked her mother in the face and thought, ‘Why shouldn’t I be
reserved?’
When Rudin met her on the terrace she was just going indoors with Mlle.
Boncourt to put on her hat and go out into the garden. Her morning
occupations were over. Natalya was not treated as a school-girl now.
Mlle. Boncourt had not given her lessons in mythology and geography for
a long while; but Natalya had every morning to read historical books,
travels, or other instructive works with her. Darya Mihailovna selected
them, ostensibly on a special system of her own. In reality she simply
gave Natalya everything which the French bookseller forwarded her from
Petersburg, except, of course, the novels of Dumas Fils and Co. These
novels Darya Mihailovna read herself. Mlle. Boncourt looked specially
severely and sourly through her spectacles when Natalya was reading
historical books; according to the old French lady’s ideas all history
was filled with _impermissible_ things, though for some reason or other
of all the great men of antiquity she herself knew only one--Cambyses,
and of modern times--Louis XIV. and Napoleon, whom she could not endure.
But Natalya read books too, the existence of which Mlle. Boncourt did
not suspect; she knew all Pushkin by heart.
Natalya flushed slightly at meeting Rudin.
‘Are you going for a walk?’ he asked her.
‘Yes. We are going into the garden.’
‘May I come with you?’
Natalya looked at Mlle. Boncourt
‘_Mais certainement, monsieur; avec plaisir_,’ said the old lady
promptly.
Rudin took his hat and walked with them.
Natalya at first felt some awkwardness in walking side by side with
Rudin on the same little path; afterwards she felt more at ease. He
began to question her about her occupations and how she liked the
country. She replied not without timidity, but without that hasty
bashfulness which is so often taken for modesty. Her heart was beating.
‘You are not bored in the country?’ asked Rudin, taking her in with a
sidelong glance.
‘How can one be bored in the country? I am very glad we are here. I am
very happy here.’
‘You are happy--that is a great word. However, one can understand it;
you are young.’
Rudin pronounced this last phrase rather strangely; either he envied
Natalya or he was sorry for her.
‘Yes! youth!’ he continued, ‘the whole aim of science is to reach
consciously what is bestowed on youth for nothing.’
Natalya looked attentively at Rudin; she did not understand him.
‘I have been talking all this morning with your mother,’ he went on;
‘she is an extraordinary woman. I understand why all our poets sought
her friendship. Are you fond of poetry?’ he added, after a pause.
‘He is putting me through an examination,’ thought Natalya, and aloud:
‘Yes, I am very fond of it.’
‘Poetry is the language of the gods. I love poems myself. But poetry is
not only in poems; it is diffused everywhere, it is around us. Look at
those trees, that sky--on all sides there is the breath of beauty, and of
life, and where there is life and beauty, there is poetry also.’
‘Let us sit down. Here on this bench,’ he added. ‘Here--so. I somehow
fancy that when you are more used to me (and he looked her in the face
with a smile) ‘we shall be friends, you and I. What do you think?’
‘He treats me like a school-girl,’ Natalya reflected again, and, not
knowing what to say, she asked him whether he intended to remain long in
the country.
‘All the summer and autumn, and perhaps the winter too. I am a very poor
man, you know; my affairs are in confusion, and, besides, I am tired now
of wandering from place to place. The time has come to rest.’
Natalya was surprised.
‘Is it possible you feel that it is time for you to rest?’ she asked him
timidly.
Rudin turned so as to face Natalya.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean,’ she replied in some embarrassment, ‘that others may rest; but
you... you ought to work, to try to be useful. Who, if not you----’
‘I thank you for your flattering opinion,’ Rudin interrupted her. ‘To be
useful... it is easy to say!’ (He passed his hand over his face.) ‘To be
useful!’ he repeated. ‘Even if I had any firm conviction, how could I
be useful?--even if I had faith in my own powers, where is one to find
true, sympathetic souls?’
And Rudin waved his hand so hopelessly, and let his head sink so
gloomily, that Natalya involuntarily asked herself, were those really
his--those enthusiastic words full of the breath of hope, she had heard
the evening before.
‘But no,’ he said, suddenly tossing back his lion-like mane, ‘that is
all folly, and you are right. I thank you, Natalya Alexyevna, I thank
you truly.’ (Natalya absolutely did not know what he was thanking her
for.) ‘Your single phrase has recalled to me my duty, has pointed out
to me my path.... Yes, I must act. I must not bury my talent, if I have
any; I must not squander my powers on talk alone--empty, profitless
talk--on mere words,’ and his words flowed in a stream. He spoke nobly,
ardently, convincingly, of the sin of cowardice and indolence, of the
necessity of action. He lavished reproaches on himself, maintained that
to discuss beforehand what you mean to do is as unwise as to prick with
a pin the swelling fruit, that it is only a vain waste of strength
and sap. He declared that there was no noble idea which would not gain
sympathy, that the only people who remained misunderstood were those who
either did not know themselves what they wanted, or were not worthy
to be understood. He spoke at length, and ended by once more thanking
Natalya Alexyevna, and utterly unexpectedly pressed her hand,
exclaiming. ‘You are a noble, generous creature!’
This outburst horrified Mlle. Boncourt, who in spite of her forty years’
residence in Russia understood Russian with difficulty, and was only
moved to admiration by the splendid rapidity and flow of words on
Rudin’s lips. In her eyes, however, he was something of the nature of
a virtuoso or artist; and from people of that kind, according to her
notions, it was impossible to demand a strict adherence to propriety.
She got up and drew her skirts with a jerk around her, observed to
Natalya that it was time to go in, especially as M. Volinsoff (so she
spoke of Volintsev) was to be there to lunch.
‘And here he is,’ she added, looking up one of the avenues which led to
the house, and in fact Volintsev appeared not far off.
He came up with a hesitating step, greeted all of them from a distance,
and with an expression of pain on his face he turned to Natalya and
said:
‘Oh, you are having a walk?’
‘Yes,’ answered Natalya, ‘we were just going home.’
‘Ah!’ was Volintsev’s reply. ‘Well, let us go,’ and they all walked
towards the house.
‘How is your sister?’ Rudin inquired, in a specially cordial tone, of
Volintsev. The evening before, too, he had been very gracious to him.
‘Thank you; she is quite well. She will perhaps be here to-day.... I
think you were discussing something when I came up?’
‘Yes; I have had a conversation with Natalya Alexyevna. She said one
thing to me which affected me strongly.’
Volintsev did not ask what the one thing was, and in profound silence
they all returned to Darya Mihailovna’s house.
Before dinner the party was again assembled in the drawing-room.
Pigasov, however, did not come. Rudin was not at his best; he did
nothing but press Pandalevsky to play Beethoven. Volintsev was silent
and stared at the floor. Natalya did not leave her mother’s side, and
was at times lost in thought, and then bent over her work. Bassistoff
did not take his eyes off Rudin, constantly on the alert for him to say
something brilliant. About three hours were passed in this way rather
monotonously. Alexandra Pavlovna did not come to dinner, and when they
rose from table Volintsev at once ordered his carriage to be ready, and
slipped away without saying good-bye to any one.
His heart was heavy. He had long loved Natalya, and was repeatedly
resolving to make her an offer.... She was kindly disposed to him,--but
her heart remained unmoved; he saw that clearly. He did not hope to
inspire in her a tenderer sentiment, and was only waiting for the time
when she should be perfectly at home with him and intimate with him.
What could have disturbed him? what change had he noticed in these two
days? Natalya had behaved to him exactly the same as before....
Whether it was that some idea had come upon him that he perhaps did not
know Natalya’s character at all--that she was more a stranger to him
than he had thought,--or jealousy had begun to work in him, or he had
some dim presentiment of ill... anyway, he suffered, though he tried to
reason with himself.
When he came in to his sister’s room, Lezhnyov was sitting with her.
‘Why have you come back so early?’ asked Alexandra Pavlovna.
‘Oh! I was bored.’
‘Was Rudin there?’
‘Yes.’
Volintsev flung down his cap and sat down. Alexandra Pavlovna turned
eagerly to him.
‘Please, Serezha, help me to convince this obstinate man (she signified
Lezhnyov) that Rudin is extraordinarily clever and eloquent.’
Volintsev muttered something.
‘But I am not disputing at all with you,’ Lezhnyov began. ‘I have no
doubt of the cleverness and eloquence of Mr. Rudin; I only say that I
don’t like him.’
‘But have you seen him?’ inquired Volintsev.
‘I saw him this morning at Darya Mihallovna’s. You know he is her
first favourite now. The time will come when she will part with
him--Pandalevsky is the only man she will never part with--but now he is
supreme. I saw him, to be sure! He was sitting there,--and she showed me
off to him, “see, my good friend, what queer fish we have here!” But I
am not a prize horse, to be trotted out on show, so I took myself off.’
‘But how did you come to be there?’
‘About a boundary; but that was all nonsense; she simply wanted to
have a look at my physiognomy. She’s a fine lady,--that’s explanation
enough!’
‘His superiority is what offends you--that’s what it is!’ began
Alexandra Pavlovna warmly, ‘that’s what you can’t forgive. But I am
convinced that besides his cleverness he must have an excellent heart as
well. You should see his eyes when he----’
‘“Of purity exalted speaks,”’ quoted Lezhnyov.
‘You make me angry, and I shall cry. I am heartily sorry I did not go
to Darya Mihailovna’s, but stopped with you. You don’t deserve it. Leave
off teasing me,’ she added, in an appealing voice, ‘You had much better
tell me about his youth.’
‘Rudin’s youth?’
‘Yes, of course. Didn’t you tell me you knew him well, and had known him
a long time?’
Lezhnyov got up and walked up and down the room.
‘Yes,’ he began, ‘I do know him well. You want me to tell you about
his youth? Very well. He was born in T----, and was the son of a poor
landowner, who died soon after. He was left alone with his mother. She
was a very good woman, and she idolised him; she lived on nothing but
oatmeal, and every penny she had she spent on him. He was educated in
Moscow, first at the expense of some uncle, and afterwards, when he was
grown up and fully fledged, at the expense of a rich prince whose favour
he had courted--there, I beg your pardon, I won’t do it again--with whom
he had made friends. Then he went to the university. At the university
I got to know him and we became intimate friends. I will tell you
about our life in those days some other time, I can’t now. Then he went
abroad....’
Lezhnyov continued to walk up and down the room; Alexandra Pavlovna
followed him with her eyes.
‘While he was abroad,’ he continued, ‘Rudin wrote very rarely to his
mother, and paid her altogether only one visit for ten days.... The old
lady died without him, cared for by strangers; but up to her death
she never took her eyes off his portrait. I went to see her when I was
staying in T----. She was a kind and hospitable woman; she always used
to feast me on cherry jam. She loved her Mitya devotedly. People of the
Petchorin type tell us that we always love those who are least capable
of feeling love themselves; but it’s my idea that all mothers love their
children especially when they are absent. Afterwards I met Rudin
abroad. Then he was connected with a lady, one of our countrywomen, a
bluestocking, no longer young, and plain, as a bluestocking is bound to
be. He lived a good while with her, and at last threw her over--or no, I
beg pardon,--she threw him over. It was then that I too threw him over.
That’s all.’
Lezhnyov ceased speaking, passed his hand over his brow, and dropped
into a chair as if he were exhausted.
‘Do you know, Mihailo Mihailitch,’ began Alexandra Pavlovna, ‘you are
a spiteful person, I see; indeed you are no better than Pigasov. I am
convinced that all you have told me is true, that you have not made up
anything, and yet in what an unfavourable light you have put it all! The
poor old mother, her devotion, her solitary death, and that lady--What
does it all amount to? You know that it’s easy to put the life of the
best of men in such colours--and without adding anything, observe--that
every one would be shocked! But that too is slander of a kind!’