Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (18 page)

‘Bravo, bravo!’ cried Bassistoff, ‘that is justly spoken! And as regards Rudin’s influence, I swear to you, that man not only knows how to move you, he lifts you up, he does not let you stand still, he stirs you to the depths and sets you on fire!’

‘You hear?’ continued Lezhnyov, turning to Pigasov; ‘what further proof do you want? You attack philosophy; speaking of it, you cannot find words contemptuous enough. I myself am not excessively devoted to it, and I know little enough about it; but our principal misfortunes do not come from philosophy! The Russian will never be infected with philosophical hair - splittings and nonsense; he has too much common - sense for that; but we must not let every sincere effort after truth and knowledge be attacked under the name of philosophy. Rudin’s misfortune is that he does not understand Russia, and that, certainly, is a great misfortune. Russia can do without every one of us, but not one of us can do without her. Woe to him who thinks he can, and woe twofold to him who actually does do without her! Cosmopolitanism is all twaddle, the cosmopolitan is a nonentity — worse than a nonentity; without nationality is no art, nor truth, nor life, nor anything. You cannot even have an ideal face without individual expression; only a vulgar face can be devoid of it. But I say again, that is not Rudin’s fault; it is his fate — a cruel and unhappy fate — for which we cannot blame him. It would take us too far if we tried to trace why Rudins spring up among us. But for what is fine in him, let us be grateful to him. That is pleasanter than being unfair to him, and we have been unfair to him. It’s not our business to punish him, and it’s not needed; he has punished himself far more cruelly than he deserved. And God grant that unhappiness may have blotted out all the harm there was in him, and left only what was fine! I drink to the health of Rudin! I drink to the comrade of my best years, I drink to youth, to its hopes, its endeavours, its faith, and its honesty, to all that our hearts beat for at twenty; we have known, and shall know, nothing better than that in life.... I drink to that golden time — to the health of Rudin!’

All clinked glasses with Lezhnyov. Bassistoff, in his enthusiasm, almost cracked his glass and drained it off at a draught. Alexandra Pavlovna pressed Lezhnyov’s hand.

‘Why, Mihailo Mihailitch, I did not suspect you were an orator,’ remarked Pigasov; ‘it was equal to Mr. Rudin himself; even I was moved by it.’

‘I am not at all an orator,’ replied Lezhnyov, not without annoyance, ‘but to move you, I fancy, would be difficult. But enough of Rudin; let us talk of something else. What of — what’s his name — Pandalevsky? is he still living at Darya Mihailovna’s?’ he concluded, turning to Bassistoff.

‘Oh yes, he is still there. She has managed to get him a very profitable place.’

Lezhnyov smiled.

‘That’s a man who won’t die in want, one can count upon that.’

Supper was over. The guests dispersed. When she was left alone with her husband, Alexandra Pavlovna looked smiling into his face.

‘How splendid you were this evening, Misha,’ she said, stroking his forehead, ‘how cleverly and nobly you spoke! But confess, you exaggerated a little in Rudin’s praise, as in old days you did in attacking him.’

‘I can’t let them hit a man when he’s down. And in those days I was afraid he was turning your head.’

‘No,’ replied Alexandra Pavlovna naively, ‘he always seemed too learned for me. I was afraid of him, and never knew what to say in his presence. But wasn’t Pigasov nasty in his ridicule of him to - day?’

‘Pigasov?’ responded Lezhnyov. ‘That was just why I stood up for Rudin so warmly, because Pigasov was here. He dare to call Rudin a sponge indeed! Why, I consider the part he plays — Pigasov I mean — is a hundred times worse! He has an independent property, and he sneers at every one, and yet see how he fawns upon wealthy or distinguished people! Do you know that that fellow, who abuses everything and every one with such scorn, and attacks philosophy and women, do you know that when he was in the service, he took bribes and that sort of thing! Ugh! That’s what he is!’

‘Is it possible?’ cried Alexandra Pavlovna, ‘I should never have expected that! Misha,’ she added, after a short pause, ‘I want to ask you —
 
— ’

‘What?’

‘What do you think, will my brother be happy with Natalya?’

‘How can I tell you?... there’s every likelihood of it. She will take the lead... there’s no reason to hide the fact between us... she is cleverer than he is; but he’s a capital fellow, and loves her with all his soul. What more would you have? You see we love one another and are happy, aren’t we?’

Alexandra Pavlovna smiled and pressed his hand.

On the same day on which all that has been described took place in Alexandra Pavlovna’s house, in one of the remote districts of Russia, a wretched little covered cart, drawn by three village horses was crawling along the high road in the sultry heat. On the front seat was perched a grizzled peasant in a ragged cloak, with his legs hanging slanting on the shaft; he kept flicking with the reins, which were of cord, and shaking the whip. Inside the cart there was sitting on a shaky portmanteau a tall man in a cap and old dusty cloak. It was Rudin. He sat with bent head, the peak of his cap pulled over his eyes. The jolting of the cart threw him from side to side; but he seemed utterly unconscious, as though he were asleep. At last he drew himself up.

‘When are we coming to a station?’ he inquired of the peasant sitting in front.

‘Just over the hill, little father,’ said the peasant, with a still more violent shaking of the reins. ‘There’s a mile and a half farther to go, not more.... Come! there! look about you.... I’ll teach you,’ he added in a shrill voice, setting to work to whip the right - hand horse.

‘You seem to drive very badly,’ observed Rudin; ‘we have been crawling along since early morning, and we have not succeeded in getting there yet. You should have sung something.’

‘Well, what would you have, little father? The horses, you see yourself, are overdone... and then the heat; and I can’t sing. I’m not a coachman.... Hullo, you little sheep!’ cried the peasant, suddenly turning to a man coming along in a brown smock and bark shoes downtrodden at heel. ‘Get out of the way!’

‘You’re a nice driver!’ muttered the man after him, and stood still. ‘You wretched Muscovite,’ he added in a voice full of contempt, shook his head and limped away.

‘What are you up to?’ sang out the peasant at intervals, pulling at the shaft - horse. ‘Ah, you devil! Get on!’

The jaded horses dragged themselves at last up to the posting - station. Rudin crept out of the cart, paid the peasant (who did not bow to him, and kept shaking the coins in the palm of his hand a long while — evidently there was too little drink - money) and himself carried the portmanteau into the posting - station.

A friend of mine who has wandered a great deal about Russia in his time made the observation that if the pictures hanging on the walls of a posting - station represent scenes from ‘the Prisoner of the Caucasus,’ or Russian generals, you may get horses soon; but if the pictures depict the life of the well - known gambler George de Germany, the traveller need not hope to get off quickly; he will have time to admire to the full the hair
a la cockatoo
, the white open waistcoat, and the exceedingly short and narrow trousers of the gambler in his youth, and his exasperated physiognomy, when in his old age he kills his son, waving a chair above him, in a cottage with a narrow staircase. In the room into which Rudin walked precisely these pictures were hanging out of ‘Thirty Years, or the Life of a Gambler.’ In response to his call the superintendent appeared, who had just waked up (by the way, did any one ever see a superintendent who had not just been asleep?), and without even waiting for Rudin’s question, informed him in a sleepy voice that there were no horses.

‘How can you say there are no horses,’ said Rudin, ‘when you don’t even know where I am going? I came here with village horses.’

‘We have no horses for anywhere,’ answered the superintendent. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To Sk —
 
— .’

‘We have no horses,’ repeated the superintendent, and he went away.

Rudin, vexed, went up to the window and threw his cap on the table. He was not much changed, but had grown rather yellow in the last two years; silver threads shone here and there in his curls, and his eyes, still magnificent, seemed somehow dimmed, fine lines, the traces of bitter and disquieting emotions, lay about his lips and on his temples. His clothes were shabby and old, and he had no linen visible anywhere. His best days were clearly over: as the gardeners say, he had gone to seed.

He began reading the inscriptions on the walls — the ordinary distraction of weary travellers; suddenly the door creaked and the superintendent came in.

‘There are no horses for Sk —
 
— , and there won’t be any for a long time,’ he said, ‘but here are some ready to go to V —
 
— .’

‘To V —
 
— ?’ said Rudin. ‘Why, that’s not on my road at all. I am going to Penza, and V —
 
— lies, I think, in the direction of Tamboff.’

‘What of that? you can get there from Tamboff, and from V —
 
— you won’t be at all out of your road.’

Rudin thought a moment.

‘Well, all right,’ he said at last, ‘tell them to put the horses to. It is the same to me; I will go to Tamboff.’

The horses were soon ready. Rudin carried his own portmanteau, climbed into the cart, and took his seat, his head hanging as before. There was something helpless and pathetically submissive in his bent figure.... And the three horses went off at a slow trot.

EPILOGUE

Some years had passed by.

It was a cold autumn day. A travelling carriage drew up at the steps of the principal hotel of the government town of C —
 
— ; a gentleman yawning and stretching stepped out of it. He was not elderly, but had had time to acquire that fulness of figure which habitually commands respect. He went up the staircase to the second story, and stopped at the entrance to a wide corridor. Seeing no one before him he called out in a loud voice asking for a room. A door creaked somewhere, and a long waiter jumped up from behind a low screen, and came forward with a quick flank movement, an apparition of a glossy back and tucked - up sleeves in the half - dark corridor. The traveller went into the room and at once throwing off his cloak and scarf, sat down on the sofa, and with his fists propped on his knees, he first looked round as though he were hardly awake yet, and then gave the order to send up his servant. The hotel waiter made a bow and disappeared. The traveller was no other than Lezhnyov. He had come from the country to C —
 
— about some conscription business.

Lezhnyov’s servant, a curly - headed, rosy - cheeked youth in a grey cloak, with a blue sash round the waist, and soft felt shoes, came into the room.

‘Well, my boy, here we are,’ Lezhnyov said, ‘and you were afraid all the while that a wheel would come off.’

‘We are here,’ replied the boy, trying to smile above the high collar of his cloak, ‘but the reason why the wheel did not come off —
 
— ’

‘Is there no one in here?’ sounded a voice in the corridor.

Lezhnyov started and listened.

‘Eh? who is there?’ repeated the voice.

Lezhnyov got up, walked to the door, and quickly threw it open.

Before him stood a tall man, bent and almost completely grey, in an old frieze coat with bronze buttons.

‘Rudin!’ he cried in an excited voice.

Rudin turned round. He could not distinguish Lezhnyov’s features, as he stood with his back to the light, and he looked at him in bewilderment.

‘You don’t know me?’ said Lezhnyov.

‘Mihailo Mihailitch!’ cried Rudin, and held out his hand, but drew it back again in confusion. Lezhnyov made haste to snatch it in both of his.

‘Come, come in!’ he said to Rudin, and drew him into the room.

‘How you have changed!’ exclaimed Lezhnyov after a brief silence, involuntarily dropping his voice.

‘Yes, they say so!’ replied Rudin, his eyes straying about the room. ‘The years... and you not much. How is Alexandra — your wife?’

‘She is very well, thank you. But what fate brought you here?’

‘It is too long a story. Strictly speaking, I came here by chance. I was looking for a friend. But I am very glad...’

‘Where are you going to dine?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. At some restaurant. I must go away from here to - day.’

‘You must.’

Rudin smiled significantly.

‘Yes, I must. They are sending me off to my own place, to my home.’

‘Dine with me.’

Rudin for the first time looked Lezhnyov straight in the face.

‘You invite me to dine with you?’ he said.

‘Yes, Rudin, for the sake of old times and old comradeship. Will you? I did not expect to meet you, and God only knows when we shall see each other again. I cannot part from you like this!’

‘Very well, I agree!’

Lezhnyov pressed Rudin’s hand, and calling his servant, ordered dinner, and told him to have a bottle of champagne put in ice.

In the course of dinner, Lezhnyov and Rudin, as though by agreement, kept talking of their student days, recalling many things and many friends — dead and living. At first Rudin spoke with little interest, but when he had drunk a few glasses of wine his blood grew warmer. At last the waiter took away the last dish, Lezhnyov got up, closed the door, and coming back to the table, sat down facing Rudin, and quietly rested his chin on his hands.

‘Now, then,’ he began, ‘tell me all that has happened to you since I saw you last.’

Rudin looked at Lezhnyov.

‘Good God!’ thought Lezhnyov, ‘how he has changed, poor fellow!’

Rudin’s features had undergone little change since we saw him last at the posting - station, though approaching old age had had time to set its mark upon them; but their expression had become different. His eyes had a changed look; his whole being, his movements, which were at one time slow, at another abrupt and disconnected, his crushed, benumbed manner of speaking, all showed an utter exhaustion, a quiet and secret dejection, very different from the half - assumed melancholy which he had affected once, as it is generally affected by youth, when full of hopes and confident vanity.

‘Tell you all that has happened to me?’ he said; ‘I could not tell you all, and it is not worth while. I am worn out; I have wandered far — in spirit as well as in flesh. What friends I have made — good God! How many things, how many men I have lost faith in! Yes, how many!’ repeated Rudin, noticing that Lezhnyov was looking in his face with a kind of special sympathy. ‘How many times have my own words grown hateful to me! I don’t mean now on my own lips, but on the lips of those who had adopted my opinions! How many times have I passed from the petulance of a child to the dull insensibility of a horse who does not lash his tail when the whip cuts him!... How many times I have been happy and hopeful, and have made enemies and humbled myself for nothing! How many times I have taken flight like an eagle — and returned crawling like a snail whose shell has been crushed!... Where have I not been! What roads have I not travelled!... And the roads are often dirty,’ added Rudin, slightly turning away. ‘You know ...’ he was continuing.... ‘Listen,’ interrupted Lezhnyov. ‘We used once to say “Dmitri and Mihail” to one another. Let us revive the old habit,... will you? Let us drink to those days!’

Rudin started and drew himself up a little, and there was a gleam in his eyes of something no word can express.

‘Let us drink to them,’ he said. ‘I thank you, brother, we will drink to them!’

Lezhnyov and Rudin drained their glasses.

‘You know, Mihail,’ Rudin began again with a smile and a stress on the name, ‘there is a worm in me which gnaws and worries me and never lets me be at peace till the end. It brings me into collision with people, — at first they fall under my influence, but afterwards...’

Rudin waved his hand in the air.

‘Since I parted from you, Mihail, I have seen much, have experienced many changes.... I have begun life, have started on something new twenty times — and here — you see!’

‘You had no stability,’ said Lezhnyov, as though to himself.

‘As you say, I had no stability. I never was able to construct anything; and it’s a difficult thing, brother, to construct when one has to create the very ground under one’s feet, to make one’s own foundation for one’s self! All my adventures — that is, speaking accurately, all my failures, I will not describe. I will tell of two or three incidents — those incidents of my life when it seemed as if success were smiling on me, or rather when I began to hope for success — which is not altogether the same thing...’

Rudin pushed back his grey and already sparse locks with the same gesture which he used once to toss back his thick, dark curls.

‘Well, I will tell you, Mihail,’ he began. ‘In Moscow I came across a rather strange man. He was very wealthy and was the owner of extensive estates. His chief and only passion was love of science, universal science. I have never yet been able to arrive at how this passion arose in him! It fitted him about as well as a saddle on a cow. He managed with difficulty to maintain himself at his mental elevation, he was almost without the power of speech, he only rolled his eyes with expression and shook his head significantly. I never met, brother, a poorer and less gifted nature than his.... In the Smolensk province there are places like that — nothing but sand and a few tufts of grass which no animal can eat. Nothing succeeded in his hands; everything seemed to slip away from him; but he was still mad on making everything plain complicated. If it had depended on his arrangements, his people would have eaten standing on their heads. He worked, and wrote, and read indefatigably. He devoted himself to science with a kind of stubborn perseverance, a terrible patience; his vanity was immense, and he had a will of iron. He lived alone, and had the reputation of an eccentric. I made friends with him... and he liked me. I quickly, I must own, saw through him; but his zeal attracted me. Besides, he was the master of such resources; so much good might be done, so much real usefulness through him.... I was installed in his house and went with him to the country. My plans, brother, were on a vast scale; I dreamed of various reforms, innovations...’

‘Just as at the Lasunsky’s, do you remember, Dmitri?’ responded Lezhnyov, with an indulgent smile.

‘Ah, but then I knew in my heart that nothing would come of my words; but this time... an altogether different field of activity lay open before me.... I took with me books on agriculture... to tell the truth, I did not read one of them through.... Well, I set to work. At first it did not progress as I had expected; but afterwards it did get on in a way. My new friend looked on and said nothing; he did not interfere with me, at least not to any noticeable extent. He accepted my suggestions, and carried them out, but with a stubborn sullenness, a secret want of faith; and he bent everything his own way. He prized extremely every idea of his own. He got to it with difficulty, like a ladybird on a blade of grass, and he would sit and sit upon it, as though pluming his wings and getting ready for a flight, and suddenly he would fall off and begin crawling again.... Don’t be surprised at these comparisons; at that time they were always crowding on my imagination. So I struggled on there for two years. The work did not progress much in spite of all my efforts. I began to be tired of it, my friend bored me; I had come to sneer at him, and he stifled me like a featherbed; his want of faith had changed into a dumb resentment; a feeling of hostility had laid hold of both of us; we could scarcely now speak of anything; he quietly but incessantly tried to show me that he was not under my influence; my arrangements were either set aside or altogether transformed. I realised, at last, that I was playing the part of a toady in the noble landowner’s house by providing him with intellectual amusement. It was very bitter to me to have wasted my time and strength for nothing, most bitter to feel that I had again and again been deceived in my expectations. I knew very well what I was losing if I went away; but I could not control myself, and one day after a painful and revolting scene of which I was a witness, and which showed my friend in a most disadvantageous light, I quarrelled with him finally, went away, and threw up this newfangled pedant, made of a queer compound of our native flour kneaded up with German treacle.’

‘That is, you threw up your daily bread, Dmitri,’ said Lezhnyov, laying both hands on Rudin’s shoulders.

‘Yes, and again I was turned adrift, empty - handed and penniless, to fly whither I listed. Ah! let us drink!’

‘To your health!’ said Lezhnyov, getting up and kissing Rudin on the forehead. ‘To your health and to the memory of Pokorsky. He, too, knew how to be poor.’

‘Well, that was number one of my adventures,’ began Rudin, after a short pause. ‘Shall I go on?’

‘Go on, please.’

‘Ah! I have no wish for talking. I am tired of talking, brother.... However, so be it. After knocking about in various parts — by the way, I might tell you how I became the secretary of a benevolent dignitary, and what came of that; but that would take me too long.... After knocking about in various parts, I resolved to become at last — don’t smile, please — a practical business man. The opportunity came in this way. I became friendly with — he was much talked of at one time — a man called Kurbyev.’

‘Oh, I never heard of him. But, really, Dmitri, with your intelligence, how was it you did not suspect that to be a business man was not the business for you?’