crushed, and only a two-hour exhortation from her husband enabled her to
control herself until her son's departure. When at last he was gone she
broke down. Vassily Ivanovitch bent his grey head against her grey head.
"There's no hope for it," she moaned. "Only I am left you, unchanged for
ever, as you for me."
-III.--The Duel-
The two friends journeyed as far as X---- together. There Arkady left
his companion in order to see Katya. Bazaroff, determined to cure
himself of his passion for Madame Odintsov, made the rest of the journey
alone, and took up his quarters once more in the house of Nicolai
Petrovitch.
The fact of Arkady's absence did not tend to improve matters between
Pavel Petrovitch and Bazaroff. After a week the aristocrat's antipathy
passed all bounds. That night he knocked at Bazaroff's door, and,
gaining admittance, begged in his most delicate manner for five minutes'
conversation.
"I want to hear your views on the subject of duelling," he said.
Bazaroff, for once, was taken by surprise.
"My view is," he said at last, "that I should not, in practice, allow
myself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction."
"Your words save me from rather a deplorable necessity. I have made up
my mind to fight you."
Bazaroff opened his eyes wide. "Me?"
"Undoubtedly."
"What for, pray?"
"I cannot endure you; to my idea your presence here is superfluous, I
despise you; and if that is not enough for you..."
Pavel Petrovitch's eyes glittered.... Bazaroff's, too, were flashing.
"Very good," he assented; "no need of further explanations. You've a
whim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this
pleasure, but--so be it!"
The details of the duel were arranged there and then, eight paces and
two shots each. The following morning they met at the place agreed upon,
and, having marked off the ground, they took up their stations. Bazaroff
watched Pavel Petrovitch take careful aim.... "He's aiming straight at
my nerves," he thought; "and doesn't he blink down it carefully, the
ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation, though! I'm going to look at his
watch-chain."
Something whizzed sharply by his ear, and at the same instant there was
the sound of a shot. Bazaroff, without taking aim, pressed the spring.
Pavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A
stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers. Bazaroff
became the doctor at once, and, flinging aside his pistol, fell on his
knees beside his late antagonist, and began with professional skill to
attend to his wound. At that moment Nicolai Petrovitch drove up.
"What does this mean?" he asked, rushing to the side of his brother.
"It is nothing," answered Pavel Petrovitch, faintly. "I had a little
dispute with Mr. Bazaroff, and I have had to pay for it a little. I am
the only person to blame in all this.... Mr. Bazaroff has behaved most
honourably."
After that incident Bazaroff's stay in the house any longer was an
impossibility. He left the same day, calling at Madame Odintsov's house
on his way home to see Arkady. He found his friend engaged to Katya and
in the seventh heaven of delight. Madame Odintsov would have had him
stay.
"Why should you not stay now?" she said. "Stay... it's exciting talking
to you... one seems walking on the edge of a precipice. At first one
feels timid, but one gains courage as one goes on. Do stay."
"Thanks for the suggestion," he retorted, "and for your flattering
opinion of my conversational talent. But I think I have already been
moving too long in a sphere which is not my own. Flying fishes can hold
out for a time in the air, but soon they must splash back into the
water; allow me, too, to paddle in my own element."
Madame Odintsov looked at Bazaroff. His pale face was twitching with a
bitter smile. "This man did love me!" she thought, and she felt pity for
him, and held out her hand to him with sympathy.
He, too, understood her. "No!" he said, stepping back a pace. "I am a
poor man, but I have never taken charity so far. Good-bye and good luck
to you."
"I am certain we are not seeing each other for the last time," she
declared, with an unconscious gesture.
"Anything may happen!" answered Bazaroff, and he bowed and went away.
-IV.--The Passing of Bazaroff-
Bazaroff's old parents were all the more overjoyed at their son's
arrival, as it was quite unexpected. His mother was greatly excited and
his father, touching his neck with his fingers, turned his head round as
though he were trying whether it were properly screwed on, and then, all
at once, he opened his wide mouth and went off into a perfectly
noiseless chuckle.
"I've come to you for six whole weeks, governor," Bazaroff said to him.
"I want to work, so please don't hinder me now."
But though his father and mother almost effaced themselves, scarcely
daring to ask him a question, even to discover what he would like for
dinner, the fever of work fell away. It was replaced by dreary boredom
or vague restlessness. He began to seek the society of his father and to
smoke with him in silence. Now and again he even assisted at some of the
medical operations which his father conducted as a charity. Once he
pulled a tooth out from a pedlar's head, and Vassily Ivanovitch never
ceased boasting about the extraordinary feat.
One day in a neighbouring village, the news was brought them that a
peasant had died of typhus. Three days later Bazaroff came into his
father's room and asked him if he had any caustic to burn a cut in his
finger.
"What sort of a cut? where is it?"
"Here, on my finger. I have been dissecting that peasant who died of
typhus fever."
Vassily Ivanovitch suddenly turned quite white. All that day he watched
his son's face stealthily. On the third day Bazaroff could not touch his
food.
"Have you no appetite? And your head?" he at last asked, timidly; "does
it ache?"
"Yes, of course it aches."
"Don't be angry, please," continued Vassily Ivanovitch. "Won't you let
me feel your pulse?"
Bazaroff got up. "I can tell you without feeling my pulse," he said. "I
am feverish."
"Has there been any shivering?"
"Yes, there's been shivering, too; I'll go and lie down."
Bazaroff did not get up again all day, and passed the whole night in
heavy, half-unconscious slumber. At one o'clock in the morning, opening
his eyes with an effort, he saw, by the light of a lamp, his father's
pale face bending over him, and told him to go away. The old man begged
his pardon, but he quickly came back on tiptoe, and, half hidden by the
cupboard door, he gazed persistently at his son. His wife did not go to
bed either, and, leaving the study door open a very little, she kept
coming up to it to listen "how Enyusha was breathing" and to look at
Vassily Ivanovitch. She could see nothing but his motionless bent back,
but even that afforded her some faint consolation.
In the morning Bazaroff spoke to his father in a slow, drowsy voice.
"Governor, I am in a bad way; I've got the infection, and in a few days
you will have to bury me."
Vassily Ivanovitch staggered back as if someone had aimed a blow at his
leg.
"God have mercy on you! What do you mean? You have only caught a cold.
I've sent for the doctor and you'll soon be cured."
"Come, that's humbug. I've got the typhus; you can see it in my arm. You
told me you'd sent for the doctor. You did that to comfort yourself...
comfort me, too; send a messenger to Madame Odintsov; she's a lady with
an estate... Do you know?" (Vassily Ivanovitch nodded.) "Yevgeny
Bazaroff, say, sends his greetings, and sends word he is dying. Will you
do that?"
"Yes, I will do it... But it is an impossible thing for you to die...
Think only! Where would divine justice be after that?"
"I know nothing about that; only you send the messenger."
He turned his face painfully to the wall, while Vassily Ivanovitch went
out of the study, and, struggling as far as his wife's bedroom, simply
dropped down on to his knees before the holy pictures.
"Pray, Arina, pray for us," he murmured. "Our son is dying."
Bazaroff got worse every hour. He was in the agonies of high fever. His
mother and father watched over him, combing his hair and giving him
gulps of tea. The old man was tormented by a special anguish. He wished
his son to take the sacrament, though, knowing his attitude towards
religion, he dared not ask him. At last he could keep back the words no
longer. As in a broken voice he begged his son to see a priest, a
strange look came over Bazaroff's face.
"I won't refuse if that can be any comfort to you, but I'll wait a
little."
There was the sound of carriage wheels outside. Vassily Ivanovitch
rushed to the door. A lady in a black veil and a black mantle,
accompanied by a little German doctor in spectacles, got out of the
carriage.
"I am Madame Odintsov," said the lady. "Your son is still living? I have
a doctor with me."
"Benefactress!" cried Vassily Ivanovitch, snatching her hand and placing
it convulsively to his lips. "Still living; my Yevgeny is living, and
now he will be saved! Wife! wife!... An angel from heaven has come to
us."
But when the doctor came out from examining his patient he breathed the
news that there was no hope, and Vassily Ivanovitch conducted Madame
Odintsov to his son's room. As she looked at Bazaroff she felt simply
dismayed, with a sort of cold and suffocating dismay; the thought that
she would not have felt like that if she had really loved him flashed
instantaneously through her brain.
"Thanks," said Bazaroff from the bed. "I did not expect this. It's a
deed of mercy. So we have seen each other again as you promised.... I
loved you! there was no sense in that even before, and less than ever
now. Love is a form, and my own form is already breaking up."
Madame Odintsov gave an involuntary shudder.
"Noble-hearted!" he whispered. "Oh, how young and fresh and pure... in
this loathsome room! Well, good-bye.... I thought I wouldn't die; I'd
break down so many things. I wouldn't die; why should I? There were
problems to solve, and I was a giant! And now all the problem for the
giant is how to die decently.... My father will tell you what a man
Russia is losing.... That's nonsense, but don't contradict the old man.
Whatever toy will comfort a child... you know. And be kind to mother.
People like them are not to be found in your great world.... I was
needed by Russia.... No, it's clear I wasn't needed. And who is needed?"
Bazaroff put his hand to his brow. Madame Odintsov bent down to him.
"Yevgeny Vassilyvitch, I am here...." He at once took his hand away and
raised himself.
"Good-bye," he said, with a sudden force, and his eyes gleamed with
their last light. "Good-bye.... Listen.... You know I didn't kiss you
then.... Breathe on the dying lamp, and let it go out...."
She put her lips on his forehead.
"Enough!" he murmured, and dropped back on to the pillow. "Now...
darkness...."
Madame Odintsov went softly out. "Well?" Vassily Ivanovitch asked her in
a whisper. "He has fallen asleep," she answered, hardly audible. But
Bazaroff was not fated to awaken. That night he breathed his last. A
universal lamentation arose in the house. Vassily Ivanovitch was seized
by a sudden frenzy.
"I said I should rebel," he shrieked hoarsely, his face inflamed and
distorted, shaking his fist in the air, as though threatening someone;
"and I rebel, I rebel!"
But his wife, all in tears, hung upon his neck, and both fell on their
faces together. "Side by side," said one of the servants afterwards,
"they drooped their poor heads like lambs at noonday...."
* * * * *
There is a little grave in the graveyard, surrounded by an iron railing;
two young fir-trees have been planted, one at each end. Yevgeny Bazaroff
is buried in this tomb. Often from the little village not far off two
quite feeble old people come to visit it--a husband and wife. At the
iron railing they fall down and remain on their knees, and long and
bitterly they weep and yearn and intently they gaze at the dumb stone
under which their son is lying.... Can it be that their prayers, their
tears are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred, devoted love, is not
all-powerful?
Oh, no! however passionate, sinning, and rebellious the heart hidden in
the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep serenely at us with their
innocent eyes; they tell us not of eternal peace alone, that great peace
of "indifferent" nature; they tell us, too, of eternal reconciliation
and of life without end.
* * * * *
A Nest of Nobles
"A Nest of Nobles" ("Dvorianskoe Gniezdo"), published in 1858,
brought Turgenev a European reputation. Of all his novels, "A
Nest of Nobles" is probably the best. It has all the love of
detail that is peculiar to the Slavonic mind, a trait which is
largely responsible for that feeling of pessimism that
pervades the writings of all those who have listened to the
"still, sad music of humanity." Yet Turgenev is not typical of
that Russian school of novelists of which Tolstoy and Gorki
are distinguished examples; rather he belongs to the school of
Thackeray, George Eliot, and Dickens.
-I.--A Student's Marriage-
Fedor Ivanitch Lavretsky came of an ancient noble family. His father, a
strangely whimsical man, determined that his son should grow up a
Spartan. A gymnastic instructor was his principal teacher, although he
also studied natural science, mathematics, and international law. Music,
as a pursuit unworthy of a man, was discarded. The female sex he was
taught to hold in contempt, and all the gentler arts and emotions were
rigorously repressed. The boy was conscious of defects in his education,
and from his eighteenth year set himself to remedy them as far as he
could. His father died when he was twenty-two, and young Lavretsky
determined to go to Moscow, in the hope that diligent study might enable
him to regain the ground lost in youth.
The whole tendency of his education had been to make him into a shy man:
he could not get on with people; with an unquenchable thirst for love in
his heart, he had never yet dared to look a woman in the face. Robust,
rosy-cheeked, bearded, and taciturn, he produced a strange impression on
his companions, who did not suspect that this outwardly austere man was
inwardly almost a child. He appeared to them to be a queer kind of
pedant; they did not care for him, made no overtures to him, and he
avoided them. During the first two years he spent at the University he
only became fairly intimate with one student, Mihalevitch by name, for
he took lessons in Latin.
One day at the theatre he saw in a box in the front tier a young girl
leaning her elbow on the velvet of the box. The light of youth and life
played in every feature of her lovely dark oval face; subtle
intelligence was expressed in the splendid eyes which gazed softly and
attentively from under her fine brows, in the swift smile of her
sensitive lips, in the very poise of her head, her hands, her neck.
Suddenly the door of her box opened, and a man came in--it was
Mihalevitch. The appearance of this man, almost his only acquaintance in
Moscow, on the society of the girl who had suddenly absorbed his whole
attention, struck him as curious and significant. The performance ceased
to interest Lavretsky, and at one pathetic part he involuntarily looked
at his beauty: she was bending forward, her cheeks glowing. Under the
influence of his persistent gaze her eyes slowly turned and rested on
him.
All night he was haunted by those eyes. The skilfully constructed
barriers were broken down at last; he was in a shiver and a fever, and
the next day he went to Mihalevitch, from whom he learnt that her name
was Barbara Paulovna Korobyin. Mihalevitch offered to introduce him;
Lavretsky blushed, muttered something unintelligible, and ran away. For
five whole days he struggled with his timidity; on the sixth he got into
a new uniform and placed himself at Mihalevitch's disposal.
Paul Petrovitch Korobyin was a retired major-general. With the intention
of improving his pecuniary position, he devised a new method of
speculating with public funds--an excellent method in itself--but he
neglected to bribe in the right place. Information was laid against him,
and as a result of the subsequent inquiry he was advised to retire from
active service. In Moscow he lived the life of a retired general on 2750
roubles a year.
His daughter at this time was nineteen years old, and the general found
her expenses an ever-increasing tax upon his slender resources. He was
therefore glad to throw no obstacle in Lavretsky's way--having
discovered that he was wealthy--when, six months after their first
meeting, he proposed for his daughter's hand.
Barbara Paulovna had much practical sense, and a very great love of
comfort, together with a great faculty of obtaining it for herself. What
charming travelling knick-knacks appeared from various corners of the
luxurious carriage that she had purchased to convey them to Lavretsky's
country home! And how delightfully she herself made coffee in the
morning! Lavretsky, however, was not disposed to be observant at that
time: he was blissful, drunk with happiness; he gave himself up to it
like a child; indeed, he was as innocent as a child, this young
Hercules. Not in vain was the whole personality of his young wife
breathing with fascination; not in vain was her promise to the senses of
a mysterious luxury of untold bliss: her fulfilment was richer than her
promise.
Barbara Paulovna had no mind to establish herself permanently at
Lavriky. The idea of staying in that out-of-the-way corner of the
steppes never entered her head for an instant. In September she carried
her husband off to St. Petersburg, where they passed two winters; the
summer they spent at Tsarskoe Selo. They made many acquaintances, went
out, and entertained a good deal, and gave the most charming dances and
musical evenings. Barbara Paulovna attracted guests as fire attracts
moths.
Fedor Ivanitch did not altogether like such a frivolous life. He was
unwilling to enter the government service, as his wife suggested; still,
he remained in St. Petersburg for her pleasure. He soon discovered,
however, that no one hindered him from being alone; that it was not for
nothing that he had the quietest and most comfortable study in St.
Petersburg; that his tender wife was ever ready to aid him to be alone.
In the course of time a son was born to them, but the poor child did not
live long--it died in the spring, and in the summer Lavretsky took his
wife abroad. One summer and autumn they spent in Germany and
Switzerland, and for the winter they went to Paris.
In Paris Barbara Paulovna made herself a little nest as quickly and as
cleverly as in St. Petersburg. She soon drew round herself
acquaintances--at first only Russians, afterwards Frenchmen with very
excellent manners and fine-sounding names. All of them brought their
friends, and -la belle Mme. de Lavretsky- was soon known from Chausée
d'Antin to Rue de Lille.
Fedor Ivanitch still busied himself with study, and set to work
translating a well-known treatise on irrigation. "I am not wasting my
time," he thought; "it is all of use; but next winter I must, without
fail, return to Russia and get to work." An unexpected incident broke up
his plans.
-II.--Separation-
Lavretsky had the most absolute confidence in his wife's every action
and thought. She was always as calm, affectionate, and confidential with
him as she had been from the first. It was therefore with a feeling of
stupefaction that, going one day into her boudoir during her absence, he
picked up from the floor a note that disclosed her infidelity. He read
it absent-mindedly, and did not understand what he had read. He read it
a second time--his head began to swim, the ground to sway under his
feet.
He had so blindly believed in her; the possibility of deception, of
treason, had never presented itself to his mind. He could not
understand. This young Frenchman, almost the most insignificant of all
his wife's acquaintances! The fear was borne in upon him that perhaps
she had never been worthy of the trust he had reposed in her. To
complete it all, he had been hoping in a few months to become a father.
All that night he wandered, half-distraught, about the streets of Paris
and in the open country beyond. In the morning he went to an hotel and
sent the incriminating note to his wife, with the following letter:
"The enclosed scraps of paper will explain everything to you. I cannot
see you again; I imagine that you, too, would hardly desire an interview
with me. I am assigning you fifteen thousand francs a year; I cannot
give more. Send your address to the office of the estate. Do what you
please. Live where you please. I wish you happiness!"
A long letter came back in reply: it put the finishing touch--his last
doubts vanished. She did not attempt to defend herself; her only desire
was to see him; she besought him not to condemn her irrevocably.
Three days later Lavretsky left Paris. For a time he followed his wife's
movements, as chronicled in Paris society papers. He learnt that a
daughter had been born to him. Finally a tragi-comic story was reported
with acclamation in all the papers; his wife played an unenviable part
in it. Barbara Paulovna had become a notoriety. He ceased to follow her
movements. Scepticism, half formed already by the experiences of his
life and by his education, took complete possession of his heart, and he
became indifferent to everything.
Four years passed by till he felt himself able to return to his own
country and to meet his own people. He went to the town of O----, where
lived his cousin, Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin, with her two daughters,
Elizabeth and Helena, and her aunt, Marfa Timofyevna Petrov.
-III.--A New Friendship-
Lavretsky stayed a few days in O---- before going to take up his
residence, as he proposed doing, at Vassilyevskoe, a small estate of his
some twenty miles distant. Mounting the steps of Kalitin's house to say
good-bye before departing, he met Elizabeth coming down.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"To service. It is Sunday."
"Why do you go to church?"
Lisa looked at him in silent amazement.
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to say that. I have come to say
good-bye to you; I am starting for my village in an hour."
"Well, mind you don't forget us," said Lisa, and went down the steps.
"And don't forget me. And listen," he added; "you are going to church;
while you are there, pray for me too."
Lisa stopped short and turned to face him. "Certainly," she said,
looking straight at him; "I will pray for you too. Good-bye."
In the drawing-room he found Marya Dmitrievna alone. She began to gossip
about a young man whom he had met the previous day, Vladimir Nikolaitch
Panshin.
"I will tell you a secret, my dear cousin: he is simply crazy about my
Lisa. Well, he is of good family, has a capital position, and is a
clever fellow; and if it is God's will, I for my part shall be well
pleased." She launched into a description of her cares and anxieties and
maternal sentiments. Lavretsky listened in silence, turning his hat in
his hands. Finally he rose, took his leave, and went upstairs to say
good-bye to Marfa Timofyevna.
"Tell me, please," he began; "Marya Dmitrievna has just been talking to
me about this--what's his name?--Panshin? What sort of man is he?"
"What a chatterbox she is, Lord save us! She told you, I suppose, as a
secret that he has turned up as a suitor, and so far, there's nothing to
tell, thank God! But already she's gossipping about him."
"Why thank God?"
"Because I don't like the fine young gentleman; and so what is there to
be glad of in it?
"Well, shall we see you again soon?" the old lady asked, as he rose to
depart.
"Very likely, aunt; it's not so far, you know."
"Well, go, then, and God be with you. And Lisa's not going to marry
Panshin; don't you trouble yourself--that's not the sort of husband she
deserves."
* * * * *
Lavretsky lived alone at Vassilyevskoe, and often rode into O------ to
see his cousins. He saw a good deal of Lisa's music-master, an old
German named Christopher Theodor Lemm, and, finding much in common with
him, invited him to stay for a few days.
"Maestro," said Lavretsky one morning at breakfast, "you will soon have
to compose a triumphal cantata."
"On what occasion?"
"On the nuptials of M. Panshin and Lisa. It seems to me things are in a
fair way with them already."
"That will never be," cried Lemm.
"Why?"
"Because it is impossible."
"What, then, do you find amiss with the match?"
"Everything is amiss, everything. At the age of nineteen Lisavetta is a
girl of high principles, serious, of lofty feelings, and he--he is a
dilettante, in a word."
"But suppose she loves him?"
"No, she does not love him; that is to say, she is very pure in heart,
and does not know herself what it means--love. Mme. de Kalitin tells her
that he is a fine young man, and she obeys because she is quite a child.
She can only love what is beautiful, and he is not--that is, his soul is
not beautiful...."
It sometimes happens that two people who are acquainted but not on
intimate terms all of a sudden grow more intimate in a few minutes. This
was exactly what came to pass with Lavretsky and Lisa. "So he is like
that," was her thought as she turned a friendly glance at him. "So you
are like that," he, too, was thinking. And thus he was not very much
surprised when she began to speak to him about his wife.
"You will forgive me--I ought not to dare to speak of it to you... but
how could you... why did you separate from her?"
Lavretsky shuddered. He looked at Lisa and sat down beside her. "My
child," he began, "do not touch on that woman; your hands are tender,
but it will hurt me just the same."
"I know," Lisa continued as though she had not heard. "I know she has
been to blame. I don't want to defend her; but what God has joined, how
can you put asunder? You must forgive, if you wish to be forgiven."
"She is perfectly contented with her position, I assure you. But her
name ought never to be uttered by you. You are too pure. You are not
capable of understanding such a creature."
"Then, if she is like that, why did you marry her?"
Lavretsky got up quickly from his seat. "Why did I marry her? I was
young and inexperienced; I was deceived, I was carried away by a
beautiful exterior. I knew no women, I knew nothing. God grant that you
may make a happier marriage."
At that moment Marya Dmitrievna came in. Lavretsky did not again succeed
in being alone with Lisa, but he looked at her in such a way that she
felt her heart at rest, and a little ashamed and sorry for him. Before
he left, he had obtained from his cousin a promise that she would come
over to Vassilyevskoe one day with her daughters.
When they came Lavretsky made further opportunities to talk with Lisa,
while the others were fishing. He led the conversation round to Panshin.
"Vladimir Nikolaitch has a good heart," said Lisa, "and he is clever;
mother likes him."
"And do you like him?"
"He is nice; why should I not like him?"
"Ah!" A half ironical, half mournful expression crossed his face. "Well,
may God grant them happiness," he muttered as though to himself.
Lisa flushed. "You are mistaken, Fedor Ivanitch. You are wrong in
thinking--but don't you like Vladimir Nikolaitch?"
"No, I don't."
"Why?"
"I think he has no heart."
"What makes you think he has no heart?"
"I may be mistaken--time will show, however."
Lisa grew thoughtful. Lavretsky began to talk to her about his daily
life at Vassilyevskoe. He felt a need to talk to her, to share with her
everything that was passing in his heart; she listened so sweetly, so
attentively. Her few replies and observations seemed to him so
intelligent....
-IV.--Love and Duty-
Glancing one day at a bundle of French newspapers that had been lying on
the table unopened for a fortnight, Lavretsky suddenly came upon a
paragraph announcing "Mournful intelligence: That charming, fascinating
Moscow lady, Mme. Lavretsky, died suddenly yesterday."
He hastened over to O----and communicated the news to Lisa, requesting
her to keep it secret for a time. They walked in the garden; Lavretsky
discussed his newly won freedom.
"Stop!" said Lisa, "don't talk like that. Of what use is your freedom to
you? You ought to be thinking of forgiveness."
"I forgave her long ago."
"You don't understand! You ought to be seeking to be forgiven."
"You are right," said Lavretsky after a pause; "what good is my freedom
to me?"
"When did you get that paper?" said Lisa without heeding his question.
"The day after your visit."
"And is it possible that you did not shed tears?"
"What is there to weep over now? Though, indeed, who knows? I might
perhaps have been more grieved a fortnight sooner."
"A fortnight?" said Lisa. "But what has happened, then, in the last
fortnight?"
Lavretsky made no reply, and suddenly Lisa flushed violently.
"Yes, yes! you guess why. In the course of this fortnight I have come to
know the value of a pure woman's heart. But I am glad I showed you that
paper," Lavretsky continued after a pause; "already I have grown used to
hiding nothing from you, and I hope that you will repay me with the same
confidence...."
Lavretsky was not a young man; he could not long delude himself as to
the nature of the feeling inspired in him by Lisa. He was brought that
day to the final conviction that he loved her.
"Have I really nothing better to do," he thought, "at the age of
thirty-five, than to put my soul into a woman's keeping again? But Lisa
is not like her; she would not demand degrading sacrifices from me; she
would not tempt me away from my duties; she would herself incite me to
hard, honest work, and we should walk hand in hand towards a noble aim.
That's all very fine," he concluded his reflections, "but the worst of
it is that she does not in the least wish to walk hand in hand with me.
But she doesn't in the least love Panshin either... a poor consolation!"
Painful days followed for Fedor Ivanitch. He found himself in a
continual fever. Every morning he made for the post and tore open
letters and papers; nowhere did he find confirmation or disproof of the
fateful news.
Late one night he found himself wandering aimlessly around the outskirts
of O----. Rambling over the dewy grass he came across a narrow path
leading to a little gate which he found open. Wandering in, he found, to
his amazement, that he was in the Kalitins' garden. In Lisa's room a
candle shone behind the white curtains; all else was dark. The light
vanished as he looked.
"Sleep well, my sweet girl," he whispered, sitting motionless, his eyes
fixed on the darkened window. Suddenly a light appeared in one of the
windows of the ground floor, then another. Who could it be? Lavretsky
rose... he caught a glimpse of a well-known face. Lisa entered the
drawing-room--she drew near the open door, and stood on the threshold, a
light, slender figure, all in white.
"Lisa!" broke hardly audibly from his lips. She started, and began to
gaze into the darkness. "Lisa!" he repeated louder, and came out of the
shadow.
She raised her head in alarm, and shrank back. "Is it you?" she said.
"You here?"
"I--I--listen to me," whispered Lavretsky, and seizing her hand he led
her to a seat. She followed him unresisting. Her pale face, her fixed
eyes, and all her gestures expressed an unutterable bewilderment.
Lavretsky stood before her. "I did not mean to come here," he began;
"something brought me. I--I love you," he uttered, in involuntary
terror. She tried to get up--she could not; she covered her face with
her hands.
"Lisa!" murmured Lavretsky. "Lisa," he repeated, and fell at her feet.
Her shoulders began to heave slightly.
"What is it?" he urged, and he heard a subdued sob. His heart stood
still... he knew the meaning of those tears. "Can it be that you love
me?" he whispered, and caressed her knees.
"Get up!" he heard her voice. "Get up, Fedor Ivanitch. What are we
doing?"
He got up and sat beside her on the seat.
"It frightens me; what we are doing?" she repeated.
"I love you," he said again. "I am ready to devote my whole life to
you."
She shuddered again as though something had stung her, and lifted her
eyes towards heaven.
"All that is in God's hands," she said.
"But you love me, Lisa? We shall be happy."
She dropped her eyes. He softly drew her to him, and her head sank on to
his shoulder--he bent his head a little and touched her pale lips....
On the following day Lavretsky drove over to Vassilyevskoe. The first
thing that struck him on entering was the scent of patchouli, always
distasteful to him. There were some travelling trunks in the hall. He
crossed the threshold of the drawing-room--a lady arose from the sofa,
made a step forward, and fell at his feet. He caught his breath... he
leaned against the wall for support.... It was Barbara Paulovna!
A torrent of words told him that, stricken by remorse, she had
determined to break every tie with her sins. A serious illness had given
rise to the rumour of her death. She had taken advantage of this to give
up everything. Would he not spare her for their little daughter's sake?
Lavretsky listened to the flood of eloquence in silence. He did not
believe one word of her protestations. His wrath choked him: this blow
had fallen so suddenly upon him.
* * * * *
Lisa bent forward in her chair and covered her face with her hands.
"This is how we were to meet again," he brought out at last. It was in
Marfa Timofyevna's room that they met once more. Lisa took her hands
from her face. "Yes!" she said faintly. "We were quickly punished."
"Punished!" said Lavretsky. "What had you done to be punished?" His
heart ached with pity and love. "Yes, all is over before it had begun."
"We must forget all that," she brought out at last. "It is left for us
to do our duty. You, Fedor Ivanitch, must be reconciled with your wife."
"Lisa!"
"I beg you to do so: by that alone can you expiate..."
"Lisa, for God's sake!--to be reconciled to her now!"
"I do not ask of you--do not live with her if you cannot. Remember your
little girl; do it for my sake."
"Very well," Lavretsky muttered between his clenched teeth; "I will do
that; in that I shall fulfil my duty. But you--what does your duty
consist in?"
"That I know myself."
Lavretsky started: "You cannot be making up your mind to marry Panshin?"
Lisa gave an almost imperceptible smile--"Oh, no!" she said.
"Now you see for yourself, Fedor Ivanitch, as I told you before, that
happiness does not depend on us, but on God."
* * * * *
Smoke
Considered simply as stories, "Fathers and Sons" and "Smoke"
are to all intents and purposes independent of each other, yet
in important particulars the latter is a sequel to the first.
Once on his arrival at St. Petersburg, Turgenev was met with
the words, "Just see what your Nihilists are doing! They have
almost gone so far as to burn the city." Thus again he took up
the question of social reform, and in "Smoke" ("Dim") he views
with apprehension the actions of the so-called
"intellectuals," who would make themselves responsible for the
shaping of future Russia. Charlatans among the leaders of the
new thought, and society dilettantism, both came under his
merciless lash. In his opinion the men and ideas in the two
camps are no more than smoke--dirty, evil-smelling smoke. The
entire atmosphere is gloomy, and throughout is only relieved
by the character of Irina, the most exquisite piece of
feminine psychology in the whole range of Turgenev's novels.
-I.--A Broken Idyll-
Early in the fifties there was living in Moscow, in very straitened
circumstances, almost in poverty, the numerous family of the Princes
Osinin. These were real princes--not Tartar-Georgians, but pure-blooded
descendants of Rurik. Time, however, had dealt hardly with them. They
had fallen under the ban of the Empire, and retained nothing but their
name and the pride of their nobility.
The family of Osinins consisted of a husband and wife and five children.
It was living near the dog's place, in a one-storied little wooden house
with a striped portico looking on to the street, green lions on the
gates, and all the other pretensions of nobility, though it could hardly
make both ends meet, was constantly in debt at the green-grocer's, and
often sitting without firewood or candles in the winter. Though their
pride kept them aloof from the society of their neighbours, their
straitened circumstances compelled them to receive certain people to
whom they were under obligations. Among the number of these was Grigory
Mihalovitch Litvinov, a young student of Moscow, the son of a retired
official of plebeian extraction, who had once lent the Osinins three
hundred roubles. Litvinov called frequently at the house, and fell
desperately in love with the eldest daughter, Irina.
Irina was only seventeen, and as beautiful as the dawn. Her thick fair
hair was mingled with darker tresses; the languid curves of her lovely
neck, and her smile--half indifferent, half weary--betrayed the nervous
temperament of a delicate girl; but in the lines of those fine, faintly
smiling lips there was something wilful and passionate, something
dangerous to herself and others. Her dark grey eyes, with shining lashes
and bold sweep of eyebrow, had a strange look in them; they seemed
looking out intently and thoughtfully--looking out from some unknown
depth and distance. Litvinov fell in love with Irina from the moment he
saw her (he was only three years older than she was), but for a long
while he failed to obtain not only a response, but even a hearing. She
treated him with hostility, and the more he showed his love, the greater
was her coldness, the more malignant her indifference. She tortured him
in this way for two months. Then everything was transformed in one day.
Worn out by this cold torture, Litvinov was one night about to depart in
despair. Without saying good-bye, he began to look for his hat. "Stay,"
sounded suddenly in a soft whisper. With throbbing heart he looked
round, hardly believing his ears. Before him he saw Irina, transformed.
"Stay," she repeated; "don't go. I want to be with you."
From that moment of the discovery of her love, Irina was changed. She,
who before had been proud and cruel, became at once as docile as a lamb,
as soft as silk, and boundlessly kind.
"Ah, love me, love me, my sweet, my saviour," she would whisper to him,
with her arms about his neck.
In this new dream of happiness the days flew, the weeks passed; the
future came ever nearer with the glorious hope of their happiness, and
then, suddenly, an event occurred which scattered all their dreams and
plans like light roadside dust. The Court came to Moscow, and the
Osinins, despite their poverty, determined to attend the customary great
ball in the Hall of Nobility. At first Irina resolutely refused to go,
and Litvinov was called in by the prince to use his persuasion.
"Very well, then, I will go," she said, when she had listened to his
arguments; "only remember, it is you yourself who desired it."
She spoke so strangely that he feared he had offended her.
"Irina, darling, you seem to be angry."
Irina laughed.
"Oh, no! I am not angry. Only, Grisha..." (She fastened her eyes on him,
and he thought he had never before seen such an expression in them.)
"Perhaps it must be," she added, in an undertone.
"But, Irina, you love me, dear?"
"I love you," she answered, with almost solemn gravity, and she clasped
his hand firmly like a man.
She went to the ball in a simple white dress, wearing a bunch of
heliotrope, the gift of her lover. When he called the following day,
Litvinov heard from the prince of the impression Irina had created; how
all the great noblemen from St. Petersburg, and even the Czar himself,
had commented upon her beauty. But Irina herself he did not see. She had
a bad headache, the prince explained. The following day he was again
denied a sight of her, and as he turned once more from the house he saw
a great personage drive up in a magnificent carriage. A dread foreboding
seized him. Dull stupefaction, and thoughts scurrying like mice, vague
terror, and the numbness of expectation and the weight of crushed tears
in his heavy-laden breast, on his lips the forced, empty smile, and a
meaningless prayer--addressed to no one....
As he walked down the street his servant touched him on the shoulder,
handing him a note. He recognised Irina's writing. He tore open the
envelope all at once. On a small sheet of notepaper were the following
lines:
"Forgive me, Grigory Mihalovitch. All is over between us; I am going
away to Petersburg. I am dreadfully unhappy, but the thing is done. It
seems my fate... but no, I do not want to justify myself. My
presentiments have been realised. Forgive me, forget me! I am not worthy
of you.--Irina. Be magnanimous: do not try to see me."
The blow almost broke Litvinov's heart. A rich cousin of the Princess
Osinin, struck by the impression created by the girl at the ball, had
taken her to Petersburg, to use her as a pawn in his struggle for power.
Utterly crushed, Litvinov threw up the University and went home to his
father in the country. He heard of her occasionally, encircled in
splendour. Her name was mentioned with curiosity, respect, and envy, and
at last came the news of her marriage to General Ratmirov.
-II--Temptation-
Ten years had passed--ten years during which much had happened to
Litvinov. He had served in the Crimea, and, after almost dying of
typhus, had been invalided home. Observation had shown him that his
father's management of their property was so old-fashioned that it did
not yield a tenth of the revenue it might yield in skillful hands. He
determined to go abroad to study agriculture and technology, so that he
might properly manage the estate. In various parts of Europe, in England
as well, he had travelled and studied, and now he found himself at
Baden, his work concluded, ready to take up his duties.
He was at Baden for two reasons: first, because he was espoused to his
cousin, Tatyana Petrovna Shestov, whom he had grown to dearly love, and
who had promised to be his comrade and friend "for better or worse," as
the English say. And he was at Baden, also, because Tatyana's aunt,
Kapitolina Markovna Shestov, an old unmarried lady of fifty-five, a
good-natured, honest, eccentric soul--a democrat, sworn opponent of
aristocracy and fashionable society--could not resist the temptation of
gazing for once on the aristocratic society which sunned itself in such
a fashionable place as Baden.
While he was expecting the arrival of his betrothed, Litvinov found
himself compelled to pass his time in the society of his
fellow-countrymen--ardent young Russian Liberals of both sexes, bubbling
over with new theories and enthusiasm, and ready to talk for hours
together on the political and social regeneration of their native
country. As far as possible, he avoided their society, and escaped into
the solitudes of the mountains. It was during one of these lonely
excursions that, feeling hungry, he made his way to the old castle, and,
seating himself at one of the little white-painted tables of the
restaurant, ordered a light breakfast. While he was seated there, there
was a loud tramping of horses, and a party of young Russian
generals--persons of the highest society, of weight and
importance--arrived, and with much noise and ostentation summoned the
obsequious waiters to attend to their wants. Litvinov made haste to
drink off his glass of milk, paid for it, and, putting his hat on, was
just making off past the party of generals...
"Grigory Mihalovitch," he heard a woman's voice, "don't you recognise
me?"
He stopped involuntarily. That voice... that voice had too often set his
heart beating in the past... He turned round and saw Irina.
Litvinov knew her at once, though she had changed since he saw her that
last time ten years ago, though she had been transformed from a girl
into a woman.
"Irina Pavlovna," he uttered, irresolutely.
"You know me? How glad I am! how glad--" She stopped, blushing. "Let me
introduce you to my husband."
One of the young generals, Ratmirov by name, almost the most elegant of
all, got up from his seat at the introduction, and bowed with a
dandified air. Litvinov would have escaped, but Irina insisted on his
sitting down. For a time he had to listen to the empty, meaningless talk
of the company, hardly able to say a word to Irina. At last his clean
plebeian pride revolted. He rose to his feet, somehow took leave of
Irina and her husband, and walked rapidly away, trying to brace and
soothe his nerves by violent exercise.
"Oh, Tatyana, Tatyana!" he cried passionately to himself. "You are my
guardian angel! you only my good genius! I love you only, and will love
you for ever, and I will not go to see her. Forget her altogether! Let
her amuse herself with her generals."
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