Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (6 page)

‘
Merci, c’est charmant
,’ observed Darya Mihailovna, ‘I love Thalberg.
Il est si distingue
. What are you thinking of, African Semenitch?’

‘I thought,’ began African Semenitch slowly, ‘that there are three kinds of egoists; the egoists who live themselves and let others live; the egoists who live themselves and don’t let others live; and the egoists who don’t live themselves and don’t let others live. Women, for the most part, belong to the third class.’

‘That’s polite! I am very much astonished at one thing, African Semenitch; your confidence in your convictions; of course you can never be mistaken.’

‘Who says so? I make mistakes; a man, too, may be mistaken. But do you know the difference between a man’s mistakes and a woman’s? Don’t you know? Well, here it is; a man may say, for example, that twice two makes not four, but five, or three and a half; but a woman will say that twice two makes a wax candle.’

‘I fancy I’ve heard you say that before. But allow me to ask what connection had your idea of the three kinds of egoists with the music you have just been hearing?’

‘None at all, but I did not listen to the music.’

‘Well, “incurable I see you are, and that is all about it,”‘ answered Darya Mihailovna, slightly altering Griboyedov’s line. ‘What do you like, since you don’t care for music? Literature?’

‘I like literature, only not our contemporary literature.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll tell you why. I crossed the Oka lately in a ferry boat with a gentleman. The ferry got fixed in a narrow place; they had to drag the carriages ashore by hand. This gentleman had a very heavy coach. While the ferrymen were straining themselves to drag the coach on to the bank, the gentleman groaned so, standing in the ferry, that one felt quite sorry for him.... Well, I thought, here’s a fresh illustration of the system of division of labour! That’s just like our modern literature; other people do the work, and it does the groaning.’

Darya Mihailovna smiled.

‘And that is called expressing contemporary life,’ continued Pigasov indefatigably, ‘profound sympathy with the social question and so on. ... Oh, how I hate those grand words!’

‘Well, the women you attack so — they at least don’t use grand words.’

Pigasov shrugged his shoulders.

‘They don’t use them because they don’t understand them.’

Darya Mihailovna flushed slightly.

‘You are beginning to be impertinent, African Semenitch!’ she remarked with a forced smile.

There was complete stillness in the room.

‘Where is Zolotonosha?’ asked one of the boys suddenly of Bassistoff.

‘In the province of Poltava, my dear boy,’ replied Pigasov, ‘in the centre of Little Russia.’ (He was glad of an opportunity of changing the conversation.) ‘We were talking of literature,’ he continued, ‘if I had money to spare, I would at once become a Little Russian poet.’

‘What next? a fine poet you would make!’ retorted Darya Mihailovna. ‘Do you know Little Russian?’

‘Not a bit; but it isn’t necessary.’

‘Not necessary?’

‘Oh no, it’s not necessary. You need only take a sheet of paper and write at the top “A Ballad,” then begin like this, “Heigho, alack, my destiny!” or “the Cossack Nalivaiko was sitting on a hill and then on the mountain, under the green tree the birds are singing, grae, voropae, gop, gop!” or something of that kind. And the thing’s done. Print it and publish it. The Little Russian will read it, drop his head into his hands and infallibly burst into tears — he is such a sensitive soul!’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Bassistoff. ‘What are you saying? It’s too absurd for anything. I have lived in Little Russia, I love it and know the language... “grae, grae, voropae” is absolute nonsense.’

‘It may be, but the Little Russian will weep all the same. You speak of the “language.”... But is there a Little Russian language? Is it a language, in your opinion? an independent language? I would pound my best friend in a mortar before I’d agree to that.’

Bassistoff was about to retort.

‘Leave him alone!’ said Darya Mihailovna, ‘you know that you will hear nothing but paradoxes from him.’

Pigasov smiled ironically. A footman came in and announced the arrival of Alexandra Pavlovna and her brother.

Darya Mihailovna rose to meet her guests.

‘How do you do, Alexandrine?’ she began, going up to her, ‘how good of you to come!... How are you, Sergei Pavlitch?’

Volintsev shook hands with Darya Mihailovna and went up to Natalya Alexyevna.

‘But how about that baron, your new acquaintance, is he coming to - day?’ asked Pigasov.

‘Yes, he is coming.’

‘He is a great philosopher, they say; he is just brimming over with Hegel, I suppose?’

Darya Mihailovna made no reply, and making Alexandra Pavlovna sit down on the sofa, established herself near her.

‘Philosophies,’ continued Pigasov, ‘are elevated points of view! That’s another abomination of mine; these elevated points of view. And what can one see from above? Upon my soul, if you want to buy a horse, you don’t look at it from a steeple!’

‘This baron was going to bring you an essay?’ said Alexandra Pavlovna.

‘Yes, an essay,’ replied Darya Mihailovna, with exaggerated carelessness, ‘on the relation of commerce to manufactures in Russia. ... But don’t be afraid; we will not read it here.... I did not invite you for that.
Le baron est aussi aimable que savant
. And he speaks Russian beautifully!
C’est un vrai torrent... il vous entraine
!

‘He speaks Russian so beautifully,’ grumbled Pigasov, ‘that he deserves a eulogy in French.’

‘You may grumble as you please, African Semenitch.... It’s in keeping with your ruffled locks.... I wonder, though, why he does not come. Do you know what,
messieurs et mesdames
’ added Darya Mihailovna, looking round, ‘we will go into the garden. There is still nearly an hour to dinner - time and the weather is glorious.’

All the company rose and went into the garden.

Darya Mihailovna’s garden stretched right down to the river. There were many alleys of old lime - trees in it, full of sunlight and shade and fragrance and glimpses of emerald green at the ends of the walks, and many arbours of acacias and lilacs.

Volintsev turned into the thickest part of the garden with Natalya and Mlle. Boncourt. He walked beside Natalya in silence. Mlle. Boncourt followed a little behind.

‘What have you been doing to - day?’ asked Volintsev at last, pulling the ends of his handsome dark brown moustache.

In features he resembled his sister strikingly; but there was less movement and life in his expression, and his soft beautiful eyes had a melancholy look.

‘Oh! nothing,’ answered Natalya, ‘I have been listening to Pigasov’s sarcasms, I have done some embroidery on canvas, and I’ve been reading.’

‘And what have you been reading?’

‘Oh! I read — a history of the Crusades,’ said Natalya, with some hesitation.

Volintsev looked at her.

‘Ah!’ he ejaculated at last, ‘that must be interesting.’

He picked a twig and began to twirl it in the air. They walked another twenty paces.

‘What is this baron whom your mother has made acquaintance with?’ began Volintsev again.

‘A Gentleman of the Bedchamber, a new arrival;
maman
speaks very highly of him.’

‘Your mother is quick to take fancies to people.’

‘That shows that her heart is still young,’ observed Natalya.

‘Yes. I shall soon bring you your mare. She is almost quite broken in now. I want to teach her to gallop, and I shall manage it soon.’

‘
Merci
!... But I’m quite ashamed. You are breaking her in yourself ... and they say it’s so hard!’

‘To give you the least pleasure, you know, Natalya Alexyevna, I am ready... I... not in such trifles —
 
— ’

Volintsev grew confused.

Natalya looked at him with friendly encouragement, and again said ‘
merci
!’

‘You know,’ continued Sergei Pavlitch after a long pause, ‘that not such things.... But why am I saying this? you know everything, of course.’

At that instant a bell rang in the house.

‘Ah!
la cloche du diner
!’ cried Mlle. Boncourt, ‘
rentrons
.’

‘
Quel dommage
,’ thought the old French lady to herself as she mounted the balcony steps behind Volintsev and Natalya, ‘
quel dommage que ce charmant garcon ait si peu de ressources dans la conversation
,’ which may be translated, ‘you are a good fellow, my dear boy, but rather a fool.’

The baron did not arrive to dinner. They waited half - an - hour for him. Conversation flagged at the table. Sergei Pavlitch did nothing but gaze at Natalya, near whom he was sitting, and zealously filled up her glass with water. Pandalevsky tried in vain to entertain his neighbour, Alexandra Pavlovna; he was bubbling over with sweetness, but she hardly refrained from yawning.

Bassistoff was rolling up pellets of bread and thinking of nothing at all; even Pigasov was silent, and when Darya Mihailovna remarked to him that he had not been very polite to - day, he replied crossly, ‘When am I polite? that’s not in my line;’ and smiling grimly he added, ‘have a little patience; I am only kvas, you know,
du simple
Russian kvas; but your Gentleman of the Bedchamber —
 
— ’

‘Bravo!’ cried Darya Mihailovna, ‘Pigasov is jealous, he is jealous already!’

But Pigasov made her no rejoinder, and only gave her a rather cross look.

Seven o’clock struck, and they were all assembled again in the drawing - room.

‘He is not coming, clearly,’ said Darya Mihailovna.

But, behold, the rumble of a carriage was heard: a small tarantass drove into the court, and a few instants later a footman entered the drawing - room and gave Darya Mihailovna a note on a silver salver. She glanced through it, and turning to the footman asked:

‘But where is the gentleman who brought this letter?’

‘He is sitting in the carriage. Shall I ask him to come up?’

‘Ask him to do so.’

The man went out.

‘Fancy, how vexatious!’ continued Darya Mihailovna, ‘the baron has received a summons to return at once to Petersburg. He has sent me his essay by a certain Mr. Rudin, a friend of his. The baron wanted to introduce him to me — he speaks very highly of him. But how vexatious it is! I had hoped the baron would stay here for some time.’

‘Dmitri Nikolaitch Rudin,’ announced the servant

III

A man of about thirty - five entered, of a tall, somewhat stooping figure, with crisp curly hair and swarthy complexion, an irregular but expressive and intelligent face, a liquid brilliance in his quick, dark blue eyes, a straight, broad nose, and well - curved lips. His clothes were not new, and were somewhat small, as though he had outgrown them.

He walked quickly up to Darya Mihailovna, and with a slight bow told her that he had long wished to have the honour of an introduction to her, and that his friend the baron greatly regretted that he could not take leave of her in person.

The thin sound of Rudin’s voice seemed out of keeping with his tall figure and broad chest.

‘Pray be seated... very delighted,’ murmured Darya Mihailovna, and, after introducing him to the rest of the company, she asked him whether he belonged to those parts or was a visitor.

‘My estate is in the T —
 
— province,’ replied Rudin, holding his hat on his knees. ‘I have not been here long. I came on business and stayed for a while in your district town.’

‘With whom?’

‘With the doctor. He was an old chum of mine at the university.’

‘Ah! the doctor. He is highly spoken of. He is skilful in his work, they say. But have you known the baron long?’

‘I met him last winter in Moscow, and I have just been spending about a week with him.’

‘He is a very clever man, the baron.’

‘Yes.’

Darya Mihailovna sniffed at her little crushed - up handkerchief steeped in
eau de cologne
.

‘Are you in the government service?’ she asked.

‘Who? I?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. I have retired.’

There followed a brief pause. The general conversation was resumed.

‘If you will allow me to be inquisitive,’ began Pigasov, turning to Rudin, ‘do you know the contents of the essay which his excellency the baron has sent?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘This essay deals with the relations to commerce — or no, of manufactures to commerce in our country.... That was your expression, I think, Darya Mihailovna?’

‘Yes, it deals with’... began Darya Mihailovna, pressing her hand to her forehead.

‘I am, of course, a poor judge of such matters,’ continued Pigasov, ‘but I must confess that to me even the title of the essay seems excessively (how could I put it delicately?) excessively obscure and complicated.’

‘Why does it seem so to you?’

Pigasov smiled and looked across at Darya Mihailovna.

‘Why, is it clear to you?’ he said, turning his foxy face again towards Rudin.

‘To me? Yes.’

‘H’m. No doubt you must know better.’

‘Does your head ache?’ Alexandra Pavlovna inquired of Darya Mihailovna.

‘No. It is only my —
c’est nerveux
.’

‘Allow me to inquire,’ Pigasov was beginning again in his nasal tones, ‘your friend, his excellency Baron Muffel — I think that’s his name?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Does his excellency Baron Muffel make a special study of political economy, or does he only devote to that interesting subject the hours of leisure left over from his social amusements and his official duties?’

Rudin looked steadily at Pigasov.

‘The baron is an amateur on this subject,’ he replied, growing rather red, ‘but in his essay there is much that is interesting and just.’

‘I am not able to dispute it with you; I have not read the essay. But I venture to ask — the work of your friend Baron Muffel is no doubt founded more upon general propositions than upon facts?’

‘It contains both facts and propositions founded upon the facts.’

‘Yes, yes. I must tell you that, in my opinion — and I’ve a right to give my opinion, on occasion; I spent three years at Dorpat... all these, so - called general propositions, hypotheses, these systems — excuse me, I am a provincial, I speak the truth bluntly — are absolutely worthless. All that’s only theorising — only good for misleading people. Give us facts, sir, and that’s enough!’

‘Really!’ retorted Rudin, ‘why, but ought not one to give the significance of the facts?’

‘General propositions,’ continued Pigasov, ‘they’re my abomination, these general propositions, theories, conclusions. All that’s based on so - called convictions; every one is talking about his convictions, and attaches importance to them, prides himself on them. Ah!’

And Pigasov shook his fist in the air. Pandalevsky laughed.

‘Capital!’ put in Rudin, ‘it follows that there is no such thing as conviction according to you?’

‘No, it doesn’t exist.’

‘Is that your conviction?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you say that there are none then? Here you have one at the very first turn.’

All in the room smiled and looked at one another.

‘One minute, one minute, but —
 
— ,’ Pigasov was beginning.

But Darya Mihailovna clapped her hands crying, ‘Bravo, bravo, Pigasov’s beaten!’ and she gently took Rudin’s hat from his hand.

‘Defer your delight a little, madam; there’s plenty of time!’ Pigasov began with annoyance. ‘It’s not sufficient to say a witty word, with a show of superiority; you must prove, refute. We had wandered from the subject of our discussion.’

‘With your permission,’ remarked Rudin, coolly, ‘the matter is very simple. You do not believe in the value of general propositions — you do not believe in convictions?’

‘I don’t believe in them, I don’t believe in anything!’

‘Very good. You are a sceptic.’

‘I see no necessity for using such a learned word. However —
 
— ’

‘Don’t interrupt!’ interposed Darya Mihailovna.

‘At him, good dog!’ Pandalevsky said to himself at the same instant, and smiled all over.

‘That word expresses my meaning,’ pursued Rudin. ‘You understand it; why not make use of it? You don’t believe in anything. Why do you believe in facts?’

‘Why? That’s good! Facts are matters of experience, every one knows what facts are. I judge of them by experience, by my own senses.’

‘But may not your senses deceive you? Your senses tell you that the sun goes round the earth,... but perhaps you don’t agree with Copernicus? You don’t even believe in him?’

Again a smile passed over every one’s face, and all eyes were fastened on Rudin. ‘He’s by no means a fool,’ every one was thinking.

‘You are pleased to keep on joking,’ said Pigasov. ‘Of course that’s very original, but it’s not to the point.’

‘In what I have said hitherto,’ rejoined Rudin, ‘there is, unfortunately, too little that’s original. All that has been well known a very long time, and has been said a thousand times. That is not the pith of the matter.’

‘What is then?’ asked Pigasov, not without insolence.

In discussions he always first bantered his opponent, then grew cross, and finally sulked and was silent.

‘Here it is,’ continued Rudin. ‘I cannot help, I own, feeling sincere regret when I hear sensible people attack —
 
— ’

‘Systems?’ interposed Pigasov.

‘Yes, with your leave, even systems. What frightens you so much in that word? Every system is founded on a knowledge of fundamental laws, the principles of life —
 
— ’

‘But there is no knowing them, no discovering them.’

‘One minute. Doubtless they are not easy for every one to get at, and to make mistakes is natural to man. However, you will certainly agree with me that Newton, for example, discovered some at least of these fundamental laws? He was a genius, we grant you; but the grandeur of the discoveries of genius is that they become the heritage of all. The effort to discover universal principles in the multiplicity of phenomena is one of the radical characteristics of human thought, and all our civilisation —
 
— ’

‘That’s what you’re driving at!’ Pigasov broke in in a drawling tone. ‘I am a practical man and all these metaphysical subtleties I don’t enter into and don’t want to enter into.’

‘Very good! That’s as you prefer. But take note that your very desire to be exclusively a practical man is itself your sort of system — your theory.’

‘Civilisation you talk about!’ blurted in Pigasov; ‘that’s another admirable notion of yours! Much use in it, this vaunted civilisation! I would not give a brass farthing for your civilisation!’

‘But what a poor sort of argument, African Semenitch!’ observed Darya Mihailovna, inwardly much pleased by the calmness and perfect good - breeding of her new acquaintance. ‘
Cest un homme comme il faut
,’ she thought, looking with well - disposed scrutiny at Rudin; ‘we must be nice to him!’ Those last words she mentally pronounced in Russian.

‘I will not champion civilisation,’ continued Rudin after a short pause, ‘it does not need my championship. You don’t like it, every one to his own taste. Besides, that would take us too far. Allow me only to remind you of the old saying, “Jupiter, you are angry; therefore you are in the wrong.” I meant to say that all those onslaughts upon systems — general propositions — are especially distressing, because together with these systems men repudiate knowledge in general, and all science and faith in it, and consequently also faith in themselves, in their own powers. But this faith is essential to men; they cannot exist by their sensations alone they are wrong to fear ideas and not to trust in them. Scepticism is always characterised by barrenness and impotence.’

‘That’s all words!’ muttered Pigasov.

‘Perhaps so. But allow me to point out to you that when we say “that’s all words!” we often wish ourselves to avoid the necessity of saying anything more substantial than mere words.’

‘What?’ said Pigasov, winking his eyes.

‘You understood what I meant,’ retorted Rudin, with involuntary, but instantly repressed impatience. ‘I repeat, if man has no steady principle in which he trusts, no ground on which he can take a firm stand, how can he form a just estimate of the needs, the tendencies and the future of his country? How can he know what he ought to do, if —
 
— ’

‘I leave you the field,’ ejaculated Pigasov abruptly, and with a bow he turned away without looking at any one.

Rudin stared at him, and smiled slightly, saying nothing.

‘Aha! he has taken to flight!’ said Darya Mihailovna. ‘Never mind, Dmitri...! I beg your pardon,’ she added with a cordial smile, ‘what is your paternal name?’

‘Nikolaitch.’

‘Never mind, my dear Dmitri Nikolaitch, he did not deceive any of us. He wants to make a show of not wishing to argue any more. He is conscious that he cannot argue with you. But you had better sit nearer to us and let us have a little talk.’

Rudin moved his chair up.

‘How is it we have not met till now?’ was Darya Mihailovna’s question. ‘That is what surprises me. Have you read this book?
C’est de Tocqueville, vous savez
?’

And Darya Mihailovna held out the French pamphlet to Rudin.