The room into which the servant conducted Nejdanov was beautifully neat
and spacious, with wide-open windows looking on to the garden. A gentle
breeze stirred the white curtains, blowing them out high like sails
and letting them fall again. Golden reflections glided lightly over the
ceiling; the whole room was filled with the moist freshness of spring.
Nejdanov dismissed the servant, unpacked his trunk, washed, and changed.
The journey had thoroughly exhausted him. The constant presence of a
stranger during the last two days, the many fruitless discussions, had
completely upset his nerves. A certain bitterness, which was neither
boredom nor anger, accumulated mysteriously in the depths of his being.
He was annoyed with himself for his lack of courage, but his heart
ached. He went up to the window and looked out into the garden. It was
an old-fashioned garden, with rich dark soil, such as one rarely sees
around Moscow, laid out on the slope of a hill into four separate parts.
In front of the house there was a flower garden, with straight gravel
paths, groups of acacias and lilac, and round flower beds. To the left,
past the stable yard, as far down as the barn, there was an orchard,
thickly planted with apples, pears, plums, currants, and raspberries.
Beyond the flower garden, in front of the house, there was a large
square walk, thickly interlaced with lime trees. To the right, the view
was shut out by an avenue of silver poplars; a glimpse of an orangery
could be seen through a group of weeping willows. The whole garden was
clothed in its first green leaves; the loud buzz of summer insects
was not yet heard; the leaves rustled gently, chaffinches twittered
everywhere; two doves sat cooing on a tree; the note of a solitary
cuckoo was heard first in one place, then in another; the friendly
cawing of rooks was carried from the distance beyond the mill pond,
sounding like the creaking of innumerable cart wheels. Light clouds
floated dreamily over this gentle stillness, spreading themselves out
like the breasts of some huge, lazy birds.
Nejdanov gazed and listened, drinking in the cool air through
half-parted lips.
His depression left him and a wonderful calmness entered his soul.
Meanwhile he was being discussed in the bedroom below. Sipiagin was
telling his wife how he had met him, what Prince G. had said of him, and
the gist of their talks on the journey.
“A clever chap!” he repeated, “and well educated, too. It’s true he’s a
revolutionist, but what does it matter? These people are ambitious, at
any rate. As for Kolia, he is too young to be spoiled by any of this
nonsense.”
Valentina Mihailovna listened to her husband affectionately; an amused
smile played on her lips, as if he were telling her of some naughty
amusing prank. It was pleasant to her to think that her _seigneur et
maître_, such a respectable man, of important position, could be as
mischievous as a boy of twenty. Standing before the looking-glass in a
snow-white shirt and blue silk braces, Sipiagin was brushing his hair
in the English fashion with two brushes, while Valentina Mihailovna,
her feet tucked under her, was sitting on a narrow Turkish couch,
telling him various news about the house, the paper mill, which, alas,
was not going well, as was to be expected; about the possibilities of
changing the cook, about the church, of which the plaster had come off;
about Mariana, Kollomietzev....
Between husband and wife there existed the fullest confidence and good
understanding; they certainly lived in “love and harmony,” as people
used to say in olden days. When Sipiagin, after finishing his toilet,
asked chivalrously for his wife’s hand and she gave him both, and
watched him with an affectionate pride as he kissed them in turn, the
feeling expressed in their faces was good and true, although in her it
shone out of a pair of eyes worthy of Raphael, and in him out of the
ordinary eyes of a mere official.
On the stroke of five Nejdanov went down to dinner, which was announced
by a Chinese gong, not by a bell. The whole company was already
assembled in the dining room. Sipiagin welcomed him again from behind
his high cravat, and showed him to a place between Anna Zaharovna and
Kolia. Anna Zaharovna was an old maid, a sister of Sipiagin’s father;
she exhaled a smell of camphor, like a garment that had been put away
for a long time, and had a nervous, dejected look. She had acted as
Kolia’s nurse or governess, and her wrinkled face expressed displeasure
when Nejdanov sat down between her and her charge. Kolia looked sideways
at his new neighbour; the intelligent boy soon saw that his tutor was
shy and uncomfortable, that he did not raise his eyes, and scarcely ate
anything. This pleased Kolia, who had been afraid that his tutor would
be cross and severe. Valentina Mihailovna also watched Nejdanov.
“He looks like a student,” she thought to herself. “He’s not accustomed
to society, but has a very interesting face, and the colour of his hair
is like that of the apostle whose hair the old Italian masters always
painted red—and his hands are clean!” Indeed, everybody at the table
stared at Nejdanov, but they had mercy on him, and left him in peace
for the time being. He was conscious of this, and was pleased and angry
about it at the same time.
Sipiagin and Kollomietzev carried on the conversation. They talked about
the county council, the governor, the highway tax, the peasants buying
out the land, about mutual Moscow and St. Petersburg acquaintances,
Katkov’s lyceum, which was just coming into fashion, about the
difficulty of getting labour, penalties, and damage caused by cattle,
even of Bismarck, the war of 1866, and Napoleon III., whom Kollomietzev
called a hero. Kollomietzev gave vent to the most retrograde opinions,
going so far as to propose, in jest it is true, a toast given by a
certain friend of his on a names-day banquet, “I drink to the only
principle I acknowledge, the whip and Roedeger!”
Valentina Mihailovna frowned, and remarked that it was _de très mauvais
goût_.
Sipiagin, on the contrary, expressed the most liberal views, refuted
Kollomietzev’s arguments politely, though with a certain amount of
disdain, and even chaffed him a little.
“Your terror of emancipation, my dear Simion Petrovitch,” he said, “puts
me in mind of our much respected friend, Alexai Ivanovitch Tveritinov,
and the petition he sent in, in the year 1860. He insisted on reading
it in every drawing room in St. Petersburg. There was one rather good
sentence in it about our liberated serf, who was to march over the face
of the fatherland bearing a torch in his hand. You should have seen our
dear Alexai Ivanovitch, blowing out his cheeks and blinking his little
eyes, pronounce in his babyish voice, ‘T-torch! t-torch! Will march with
a t-torch!’ Well, the emancipation is now an established fact, but where
is the peasant with the torch?”
“Tveritinov was only slightly wrong,” Kollomietzev said solemnly. “Not
the peasants will march with the torch, but others.”
At the words, Nejdanov, who until then had scarcely noticed Mariana,
who sat a little to one side, exchanged glances with her, and instantly
felt that this solemn girl and he were of the same convictions, of the
same stamp. She had made no impression on him whatever when Sipiagin
had introduced them; then why did he exchange glances with her in
particular? He wondered if it was not disgraceful to sit and listen
to such views without protesting and by reason of his silence letting
others think that he shared them. Nejdanov looked at Mariana a second
time, and her eyes seemed to say, “Wait a while... the time is not
ripe.... It isn’t worth it... later on... there is plenty of time in
store.”
He was happy to think that she understood him, and began following the
conversation again. Valentina Mihailovna supported her husband, and was,
if anything, even more radical in her expressions than he. She could not
understand, “simply could not un-der-stand, how an educated young man
could hold such antiquated views.”
“However,” she added, “I am convinced that you only say these things for
the sake of argument. And you, Alexai Dmitritch,” she added to Nejdanov,
with a smile (he wondered how she had learned his Christian name and
his father’s name), “I know, do not share Simion Petrovitch’s fears; my
husband told me about your talks on the journey.”
Nejdanov blushed, bent over his plate, and mumbled something; he did not
feel shy, but was simply unaccustomed to conversing with such brilliant
personages. Madame Sipiagin continued smiling to him; her husband nodded
his head patronisingly. Kollomietzev stuck his monocle between his
eyebrow and nose and stared at the student who dared not to share his
“fears.” But it was difficult to embarrass Nejdanov in this way; on the
contrary, he instantly sat up straight, and in his turn fixed his
gaze on the fashionable official. Just as instinctively as he had
felt Mariana to be a comrade, so he felt Kollomietzev to be an enemy!
Kollomietzev felt it too; he removed his monocle, turned away, and
tried to laugh carelessly—but it did not come off somehow. Only Anna
Zaharovna, who secretly worshipped him, was on his side, and became even
angrier than before with the unwelcome neighbour separating her from
Kolia.
Soon after this dinner came to an end. The company went out on the
terrace to drink coffee. Sipiagin and Kollomietzev lit up cigars.
Sipiagin offered Nejdanov a regalia, but the latter refused.
“Why, of course!” Sipiagin exclaimed; “I’ve forgotten that you only
smoke your own particular cigarettes!”
“A curious taste!” Kollomietzev muttered between his teeth.
Nejdanov very nearly burst out, “I know the difference between a regalia
and a cigarette quite well, but I don’t want to be under an obligation
to anyone!” but he contained himself and held his peace. He put down
this second piece of insolence to his enemy’s account.
“Mariana!” Madame Sipiagin suddenly called, “don’t be on ceremony with
our new friend... smoke your cigarette if you like. All the more so,
as I hear,” she added, turning to Nejdanov, “that among you all young
ladies smoke.”
“Yes,” Nejdanov remarked dryly. This was the first remark he had made to
Madame Sipiagina.
“I don’t smoke,” she continued, screwing up her velvety eyes
caressingly. “I suppose I am behind the times.”
Mariana slowly and carefully took out a cigarette, a box of matches,
and began to smoke, as if on purpose to spite her aunt. Nejdanov took a
light from Mariana and also began smoking.
It was a beautiful evening. Kolia and Anna Zaharovna went into the
garden; the others remained for some time longer on the terrace enjoying
the fresh air. The conversation was very lively. Kollomietzev condemned
modern literature, and on this subject, too, Sipiagin showed himself
a liberal. He insisted on the utter freedom and independence of
literature, pointed out its uses, instanced Chateaubriand, whom the
Emperor Alexander Pavlitch had invested with the order of St. Andrew!
Nejdanov did not take part in the discussion; Madame Sipiagina watched
him with an expression of approval and surprise at his modesty.
They all went in to drink tea in the drawing room.
“Alexai Dmitritch,” Sipiagin said to Nejdanov, “we are addicted to the
bad habit of playing cards in the evening, and even play a forbidden
game, stukushka.... I won’t ask you to join us, but perhaps Mariana will
be good enough to play you something on the piano. You like music, I
hope.” And without waiting for an answer Sipiagin took up a pack of
cards. Mariana sat down at the piano and played, rather indifferently,
several of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words”. _Charmant! Charmant! quel
touché!_ Kollomietzev called out from the other end of the room, but
the exclamation was only due to politeness, and Nejdanov, in spite of
Sipiagin’s remark, showed no passion for music.
Meanwhile Sipiagin, his wife, Kollomietzev, and Anna Zaharovna sat
down to cards. Kolia came to say goodnight, and, receiving his parents’
blessing and a large glass of milk instead of tea, went off to bed. His
father called after him to inform him that tomorrow he was to begin his
lessons with Alexai Dmitritch. A little later, seeing Nejdanov wandering
aimlessly about the room and turning over the photographic albums,
apparently without any interest, Sipiagin begged him not to be on
ceremony and retire if he wished, as he was probably tired after the
journey, and to remember that the ruling principle of their house was
liberty.
Nejdanov took advantage of this and bowing to all present went out. In
the doorway he knocked against Mariana, and, looking into her eyes, was
convinced a second time that they would be comrades, although she
showed no sign of pleasure at seeing him, but, on the contrary, frowned
heavily.
When he went in, his room was filled with a sweet freshness; the windows
had stood wide open all day. In the garden, opposite his window, a
nightingale was trilling out its sweet song; the evening sky became
covered with the warm glow of the rising moon behind the rounded tops of
the lime trees. Nejdanov lit a candle; a grey moth fluttered in from the
dark garden straight to the flame; she circled round it, whilst a gentle
breeze from without blew on them both, disturbing the yellow-bluish
flame of the candle.
“How strange!” Nejdanov thought, lying in bed; “they seem good,
liberal-minded people, even humane... but I feel so troubled in my
heart. This chamberlain... Kollomietzev.... However, morning is wiser
than evening.... It’s no good being sentimental.”
At this moment the watchman knocked loudly with his stick and called
out, “I say there—”
“Take care,” answered another doleful voice. “Fugh! Heavens! It’s like
being in prison!” Nejdanov exclaimed.