Sipiagin had barely crossed the threshold when Paklin jumped up, and
rushing across to Nejdanov began showering congratulations upon him.
“What a fine catch!” he exclaimed laughing, scarcely able to stand
still. “Do you know who he is? He’s quite a celebrity, a chamberlain,
one of our pillars of society, a future minister!”
“I have never heard of him,” Nejdanov remarked dejectedly.
Paklin threw up his arms in despair.
“That’s just where we are mistaken, Alexai Dmitritch! We never know
anyone. We want to do things, to turn the whole world upside down,
and are living outside this very world, amidst two or three friends,
jostling each other in our narrow little circle!”
“Excuse me,” Nejdanov put in. “I don’t think that is quite true. We
certainly do not go amongst the enemy, but are constantly mixing with
our own kind, and with the masses.”
“Just a minute!” Paklin interrupted, in his turn. “Talking of enemies
reminds me of Goethe’s lines—
_Wer den Dichter will versteh’n Muss im Dichter’s lande geh’n._
and I say—
_Wer den Feinde will versteh’n Muss im Feinde’s lande geh’n._
To turn one’s back on one’s enemies, not to try and understand their
manner of life, is utterly stupid! Yes, utterly stu-pid! If I want to
shoot a wolf in the forest, I must first find out his haunts. You talked
of coming in contact with the people just now. My dear boy! In 1862 the
Poles formed their revolutionary bands in the forest; we are just about
to enter that same forest, I mean the people, where it is no less dark
and dense than in the other.”
“Then what would you have us do?”
“The Hindus cast themselves under the wheels of the Juggernaut,” Paklin
continued; “they were mangled to pieces and died in ecstasy. We, also,
have our Juggernaut—it crushes and mangles us, but there is no ecstasy
in it.”
“Then what would you have us do?” Nejdanov almost screamed at him.
“Would you have us write preachy novels?”
Paklin folded his arms and put his head on one side.
“You, at any rate, could write novels. You have a decidedly literary
turn of mind. All right, I won’t say anything about it. I know you don’t
like it being mentioned. I know it is not very exciting to write the
sort of stuff wanted, and in the modern style too. ‘“Oh, I love you,”
she bounded—’”
“It’s all the same to me,” he replied, scratching himself.
“That is precisely why I advise you to get to know all sorts and
conditions, beginning from the very highest. We must not be entirely
dependent on people like Ostrodumov! They are very honest, worthy folk,
but so hopelessly stupid! You need only look at our friend. The very
soles of his boots are not like those worn by intelligent people. Why
did he hurry away just now? Only because he did not want to be in the
same room with an aristocrat, to breathe the same air—”
“Please don’t talk like that about Ostrodumov before me!” Nejdanov burst
out. “He wears thick boots because they are cheaper!”
“I did not mean it in that sense,” Paklin began.
“If he did not wish to remain in the same room with an aristocrat,”
Nejdanov continued, raising his voice, “I think it very praiseworthy on
his part, and what is more, he is capable of sacrificing himself, will
face death, if necessary, which is more than you or I will ever do!”
Paklin made a sad grimace, and pointed to his scraggy, crippled legs.
“Now do I look like a warrior, my dear Alexai Dmitritch? But enough of
this. I am delighted that you met this Sipiagin, and can even foresee
something useful to our cause as a result of it. You will find yourself
in the highest society, will come in contact with those wonderful
beauties one hears about, women with velvety bodies on steel springs, as
it says in ‘Letters on Spain’. Get to know them, my dear fellow. If you
were at all inclined to be an Epicurean, I should really be afraid to
let you go. But those are not the objects with which you are going, are
they?”
“I am going away,” Nejdanov said, “to earn my living. And to get away
from you all,” he added to himself.
“Of course, of course! That is why I advise you to learn. Fugh! What a
smell this gentleman has left behind him!” Paklin sniffed the air. “The
very ambrosia that the governor’s wife longed for in Gogol’s ‘Revisor’!”
“He discussed me with Prince G.,” Nejdanov remarked dejectedly. “I
suppose he knows my whole history now.”
“You need not suppose; you may be quite sure of it! But what does it
matter? I wouldn’t mind betting that that was the very reason for his
wanting to engage you. You will be able to hold your own with the best
of them. You are an aristocrat yourself by blood, and consequently
an equal. However, I have stayed too long. I must go back to the
exploiter’s, to my office. Goodbye.”
Paklin went to the door, but stopped and turned back.
“I say, Aliosha,” he began in a persuasive tone of voice, “you have only
just refused me, and I know you will not be short of money now; but, all
the same, do allow me to sacrifice just a little for the cause. I can’t
do anything else, so let me help with my pocket! I have put ten roubles
on the table. Will you take them?”
Nejdanov remained motionless, and did not say anything. “Silence means
consent! Thanks!” Paklin exclaimed gaily and vanished.
Nejdanov was left alone. He continued gazing out into the narrow, gloomy
court, unpenetrated by the sun even in summer, and he felt sad and
gloomy at heart.
We already know that Nejdanov’s father was Prince G., a rich
adjutant-general. His mother was the daughter of the general’s
governess, a pretty girl who died on the day of Nejdanov’s birth. He
received his early education in a boarding school kept by a certain
Swiss, a very energetic and severe pedagogue, after which he entered the
university. His great ambition was to study law, but his father, who
had a violent hatred for nihilists, made him go in for history and
philology, or for “aesthetics” as Nejdanov put it with a bitter smile.
His father used to see him about four times a year in all, but was,
nevertheless, interested in his welfare, and when he died, left him a
sum of six thousand roubles “in memory of Nastinka” his mother. Nejdanov
received the interest on this money from his brothers the Princes G.,
which they were pleased to call an allowance.
Paklin had good reason to call him an aristocrat. Everything about him
betokened his origin. His tiny ears, hands, feet, his small but fine
features, delicate skin, wavy hair; his very voice was pleasant,
although it was slightly guttural. He was highly strung, frightfully
conceited, very susceptible, and even capricious. The false position he
had been placed in from childhood had made him sensitive and irritable,
but his natural generosity had kept him from becoming suspicious
and mistrustful. This same false position was the cause of an utter
inconsistency, which permeated his whole being. He was fastidiously
accurate and horribly squeamish, tried to be cynical and coarse in
his speech, but was an idealist by nature. He was passionate and
pure-minded, bold and timid at the same time, and, like a repentant
sinner, ashamed of his sins; he was ashamed alike of his timidity and
his purity, and considered it his duty to scoff at all idealism. He had
an affectionate heart, but held himself aloof from everybody, was easily
exasperated, but never bore ill-will. He was furious with his father
for having made him take up “aesthetics,” openly interested himself in
politics and social questions, professed the most extreme views (which
meant more to him than mere words), but secretly took a delight in art,
poetry, beauty in all its manifestations, and in his inspired moments
wrote verses. It is true that he carefully hid the copy-book in which
they were written, and none of his St. Petersburg friends, with
the exception of Paklin, and he only by his peculiar intuitiveness,
suspected its existence. Nothing hurt or offended Nejdanov more than the
smallest allusion to his poetry, which he regarded as an unpardonable
weakness in himself. His Swiss schoolmaster had taught him a great many
things, and he was not afraid of hard work. He applied himself readily
and zealously, but did not work consecutively. All his friends loved
him. They were attracted by his natural sense of justice, his kindness,
and his pure-mindedness, but Nejdanov was not born under a lucky star,
and did not find life an easy matter. He was fully conscious of this
fact and felt utterly lonely in spite of the untiring devotion of his
friends.
He stood meditating at the window. Sad, oppressive thoughts rose up in
his mind one after another about the prospective journey, the new and
unexpected change that was coming into his life. He had no regrets at
the thought of leaving St. Petersburg, as he would leave nothing behind
that was especially dear to him, and he knew that he would be back in
the autumn; but he was pervaded by the spirit of indecision, and an
involuntary melancholy came over him.
“A fine tutor I shall make!” flashed across his mind. “Am I cut out for
a schoolmaster?” He was ready to reproach himself for having undertaken
the duties of a tutor, and would have been unjust in doing so. Nejdanov
was sufficiently cultured, and, in spite of his uncertain temperament,
children grew readily fond of him and he of them. His depression was
due to that feeling which takes possession of one before any change
of place, a feeling experienced by all melancholy, dreaming people and
unknown to those of energetic, sanguine temperaments, who always rejoice
at any break in the humdrum of their daily existence, and welcome a
change of abode with pleasure. Nejdanov was so lost in his meditations
that his thoughts began quite unconsciously to take the form of words.
His wandering sensations began to arrange themselves into measured
cadences.
“Damn!” he exclaimed aloud. “I’m wandering off into poetry!” He shook
himself and turned away from the window. He caught sight of Paklin’s
ten-rouble note, put it in his pocket, and began pacing up and down the
room.
“I must get some money in advance,” he thought to himself. “What a good
thing this gentleman suggested it. A hundred roubles... a hundred from
my brothers—their excellencies.... I want fifty to pay my debts, fifty
or seventy for the journey—and the rest Ostrodumov can have. Then there
are Paklin’s ten roubles in addition, and I dare say I can get something
from Merkulov—”
In the midst of these calculations the rhythmic cadences began to
reassert themselves. He stood still, as if rooted to the spot, with
fixed gaze. After a while his hands involuntarily found their way to the
table drawer, from which he pulled out a much-used copy-book. He dropped
into a chair with the same fixed look, humming softly to himself and
every now and again shaking back his wavy hair, began writing line after
line, sometimes scratching out and rewriting.
The door leading into the passage opened slightly and Mashurina’s head
appeared. Nejdanov did not notice her and went on writing. Mashurina
stood looking at him intently for some time, shook her head, and drew
it back again. Nejdanov sat up straight, and suddenly catching sight of
her, exclaimed with some annoyance: “Oh, is that you?” and thrust the
copy-book into the drawer again.
Mashurina came into the room with a firm step.
“Ostrodumov asked me to come,” she began deliberately.
“He would like to know when we can have the money. If you could get it
today, we could start this evening.”
“I can’t get it today,” Nejdanov said with a frown. “Please come
tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Very well.”
Mashurina was silent for a while and then extended her hand.
“I am afraid I interrupted you. I am so sorry. But then... I am going
away... who knows if we shall ever meet again.... I wanted to say
goodbye to you.”
Nejdanov pressed her cold, red fingers. “You know the man who was here
today,” he began. “I have come to terms with him, and am going with him.
His place is down in the province of S., not far from the town itself.”
A glad smile lit up Mashurina’s face.
“Near S. did you say? Then we may see each other again perhaps. They
might send us there!” Mashurina sighed. “Oh, Alexai Dmitritch—”
“What is it?” Nejdanov asked.
Mashurina looked intense.
“Oh, nothing. Goodbye. It’s nothing.” She squeezed Nejdanov’s hand a
second time and went out.
“There is not a soul in St. Petersburg who is so attached to me as
this eccentric person,” he thought. “I wish she had not interrupted me
though. However, I suppose it’s for the best.”
The next morning Nejdanov called at Sipiagin’s townhouse and was shown
into a magnificent study, furnished in a rather severe style, but
quite in keeping with the dignity of a statesman of liberal views. The
gentleman himself was sitting before an enormous bureau, piled up
with all sorts of useless papers, arrayed in the strictest order, and
numerous ivory paper-knives, which had never been known to cut anything.
During the space of an hour Nejdanov listened to the wise, courteous,
patronising speeches of his host, received a hundred roubles, and ten
days later was leaning back in the plush seat of a reserved first-class
compartment, side by side with this same wise, liberal politician, being
borne along to Moscow on the jolting lines of the Nikolaevsky Railway.
V
In the drawing room of a large stone house with a Greek front—built in
the twenties of the present century by Sipiagin’s father, a
well-known landowner, who was distinguished by the free use of his
fists—Sipiagin’s wife, Valentina Mihailovna, a very beautiful woman,
having been informed by telegram of her husband’s arrival, sat expecting
him every moment. The room was decorated in the best modern taste.
Everything in it was charming and inviting, from the walls hung in
variegated cretonne and beautiful curtains, to the various porcelain,
bronze, and crystal knickknacks arranged upon the tables and cabinets;
the whole blending together into a subdued harmony and brightened by
the rays of the May sun, which was streaming in through the wide-open
windows. The still air, laden with the scent of lily-of-the-valley
(large bunches of these beautiful spring flowers were placed about the
room), was stirred from time to time by a slight breeze from without,
blowing gently over the richly grown garden.
What a charming picture! And the mistress herself, Valentina Mihailovna
Sipiagina, put the finishing touch to it, gave it meaning and life. She
was a tall woman of about thirty, with dark brown hair, a fresh dark
complexion, resembling the Sistine Madonna, with wonderfully deep,
velvety eyes. Her pale lips were somewhat too full, her shoulders
perhaps too square, her hands rather too large, but, for all that,
anyone seeing her as she flitted gracefully about the drawing room,
bending from her slender waist to sniff at the flowers with a smile on
her lips, or arranging some Chinese vase, or quickly readjusting her
glossy hair before the looking-glass, half-closing her wonderful eyes,
anyone would have declared that there could not be a more fascinating
creature.
A pretty curly-haired boy of about nine burst into the room and stopped
suddenly on catching sight of her. He was dressed in a Highland costume,
his legs bare, and was very much befrizzled and pomaded.
“What do you want, Kolia?” Valentina Mihailovna asked. Her voice was as
soft and velvety as her eyes.
“Mamma,” the boy began in confusion, “auntie sent me to get some
lilies-of-the-valley for her room.... She hasn’t got any—”
Valentina Mihailovna put her hand under her little boy’s chin and raised
his pomaded head.
“Tell auntie that she can send to the gardener for flowers. These are
mine. I don’t want them to be touched. Tell her that I don’t like to
upset my arrangements. Can you repeat what I said?”
“Yes, I can,” the boy whispered.
“Well, repeat it then.”
“I will say... I will say... that you don’t want.”
Valentina Mihailovna laughed, and her laugh, too, was soft.
“I see that one can’t give you messages as yet. But never mind, tell her
anything you like.”
The boy hastily kissed his mother’s hand, adorned with rings, and rushed
out of the room.
Valentina Mihailovna looked after him, sighed, walked up to a golden
wire cage, on one side of which a green parrot was carefully holding
on with its beak and claws. She teased it a little with the tip of her
finger, then dropped on to a narrow couch, and picking up a number of
the “Revue des Deux Mondes” from a round carved table, began turning
over its pages.
A respectful cough made her look round. A handsome servant in livery and
a white cravat was standing by the door.
“What do you want, Agafon?” she asked in the same soft voice.
“Simion Petrovitch Kollomietzev is here. Shall I show him in?”
“Certainly. And tell Mariana Vikentievna to come to the drawing room.”
Valentina Mihailovna threw the “Revue des Deux Mondes” on the table,
raised her eyes upwards as if thinking—a pose which suited her
extremely.
From the languid, though free and easy, way in which Simion Petrovitch
Kollomietzev, a young man of thirty-two, entered the room; from the way
in which he brightened suddenly, bowed slightly to one side, and drew
himself up again gracefully; from the manner in which he spoke, not
too harshly, nor too gently; from the respectful way in which he kissed
Valentina Mihailovna’s hand, one could see that the new-comer was not
a mere provincial, an ordinary rich country neighbour, but a St.
Petersburg grandee of the highest society. He was dressed in the latest
English fashion. A corner of the coloured border of his white cambric
pocket handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket of his tweed coat,
a monocle dangled on a wide black ribbon, the pale tint of his suede
gloves matched his grey checked trousers. He was clean shaven, and his
hair was closely cropped. His features were somewhat effeminate, with
his large eyes, set close together, his small flat nose, full red lips,
betokening the amiable disposition of a well-bred nobleman. He was
effusion itself, but very easily turned spiteful, and even vulgar, when
any one dared to annoy him, or to upset his religious, conservative,
or patriotic principles. Then he became merciless. All his elegance
vanished like smoke, his soft eyes assumed a cruel expression, ugly
words would flow from his beautiful mouth, and he usually got the best
of an argument by appealing to the authorities.
His family had once been simple gardeners. His great-grandfather
was called Kolomientzov after the place in which he was born; his
grandfather used to sign himself Kolomietzev; his father added another
_l_ and wrote himself Kollomietzev, and finally Simion Petrovitch
considered himself to be an aristocrat of the bluest blood, with
pretensions to having descended from the well-known Barons von
Gallenmeier, one of whom had been a field-marshal in the Thirty Years’
War. Simion Petrovitch was a chamberlain, and served in the ministerial
court. His patriotism had prevented him from entering the diplomatic
service, for which he was cut out by his personal appearance,
education, knowledge of the world, and his success with women. _Mais
quitter la Russie? Jamais!_ Kollomietzev was rich and had a great many
influential friends. He passed for a promising, reliable young man _un
peu fèodal dans ses opinions_, as Prince B. said of him, and Prince
B. was one of the leading lights in St. Petersburg official circles.
Kollomietzev had come away on a two months’ leave to look after his
estate, that is, to threaten and oppress his peasants a little more.
“You can’t get on without that!” he used to say.
“I thought that your husband would have been here by now,” he began,
rocking himself from one leg to the other. He suddenly drew himself up
and looked down sideways—a very dignified pose.
Valentina Mihailovna made a grimace.
“Would you not have come otherwise?”
Kollomietzev drew back a pace, horrified at the imputation.
“Valentina Mihailovna!” he exclaimed. “How can you possibly say such a
thing?”
“Well, never mind. Sit down. My husband will be here soon. I have sent
the carriage to the station to meet him. If you wait a little, you will
be rewarded by seeing him. What time is it?”
“Half-past two,” Kollomietzev replied, taking a large gold enamelled
watch out of his waistcoat pocket and showing it to Valentina
Mihailovna. “Have you seen this watch? A present from Michael, the
Servian Prince Obrenovitch. Look, here are his initials. We are great
friends—go out hunting a lot together. Such a splendid fellow, with an
iron hand, just what an administrator ought to be. He will never allow
himself to be made a fool of. Not he! Oh dear no!”
Kollomietzev dropped into an armchair, crossed his legs, and began
leisurely pulling off his left glove.
“We are badly in need of such a man as Michael in our province here,” he
remarked.
“Why? Are you dissatisfied with things here?”
Kollomietzev made a wry face.
“It’s this abominable county council! What earthly use is it? Only
weakens the government and sets people thinking the wrong way.” (He
gesticulated with his left hand, freed from the pressure of the glove.)
“And arouses false hopes.” (Kollomietzev blew on his hand.) “I have
already mentioned this in St. Petersburg, _mais bah!_ they won’t listen to
me. Even your husband—but then he is known to be a confirmed liberal!”
Valentina Mihailovna sat up straight.
“What do I hear? You opposed to the government, Monsieur Kollomietzev?”
“I—not in the least! Never! What an idea! _Mais j’ai mon franc parler._
I occasionally allow myself to criticise, but am always obedient.”
“And I, on the contrary, never criticise and am never obedient.”
“_Ah! Mais c’est un mot!_ Do let me repeat it to my friend _Ladislas_.
_Vous savez_, he is writing a society novel, read me some of it.
Charming! _Nous aurons enfin le grand monde russe peint par lui-même.”_
“Where is it to be published?”
“In the ‘Russian Messenger’, of course. It is our ‘Revue des Deux
Mondes’. I see you take it, by the way.”
“Yes, but I think it rather dull of late.”
“Perhaps, perhaps it is. ‘The Russian Messenger’, too, has also gone off
a bit,” using a colloquial expression.
Kollomietzev laughed. It amused him to have said “gone off a bit.” _“Mais
c’est un journal qui se respecte,”_ he continued, “and that is the main
thing. I am sorry to say that I interest myself very little in Russian
literature nowadays. It has grown so horribly vulgar. A cook is now
made the heroine of a novel. A mere cook, _parole d’honneur_! Of course,
I shall read Ladislas’ novel. _Il y aura le petit mot pour rire_, and he
writes with a purpose! He will completely crush the nihilists, and I
quite agree with him. His ideas _sont très correctes_.”
“That is more than can be said of his past,” Valentina Mihailovna
remarked.
_“Ah! jeton une voile sur les erreurs de sa jeunesse!”_ Kollomietzev
exclaimed, pulling off his other glove.
Valentina Mihailovna half-closed her exquisite eyes and looked at him
coquettishly.
“Simion Petrovitch!” she exclaimed, “why do you use so many French words
when speaking Russian? It seems to me rather old-fashioned, if you will
excuse my saying so.”
“But, my dear lady, not everyone is such a master of our native tongue
as you are, for instance. I have a very great respect for the
Russian language. There is nothing like it for giving commands or for
governmental purposes. I like to keep it pure and uncorrupted by other
languages and bow before Karamzin; but as for an everyday language, how
can one use Russian? For instance, how would you say, in Russian, _de
tout à l’heure, c’est un mot_? You could not possibly say ‘this is a
word,’ could you?”
“You might say ‘a happy expression.’”
Kollomietzev laughed.
“A happy expression! My dear Valentina Mihailovna. Don’t you feel that
it savours of the schoolroom; that all the salt has gone out of it?”
“I am afraid you will not convince me. I wonder where Mariana is?” She
rang the bell and a servant entered.
“I asked to have Mariana Vikentievna sent here. Has she not been told?”
The servant had scarcely time to reply when a young girl appeared behind
him in the doorway. She had on a loose dark blouse, and her hair was
cut short. It was Mariana Vikentievna Sinitska, Sipiagin’s niece on the
mother’s side.