Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (139 page)

“Go on!” Sipiagin exclaimed again. “You are not cold, Mr. Paklin? Go on!”

The two carriages rolled away.

For about ten minutes neither Sipiagin nor Paklin pronounced a single word. The unfortunate Sila, in his shabby little coat and crumpled cap, looked even more wretched than usual in contrast to the rich background of dark blue silk with which the carriage was upholstered. He looked around in silence at the delicate pale blue blinds, which flew up instantly at the mere press of a button, at the soft white sheep - skin rug at their feet, at the mahogany box in front with a movable desk for letters and even a shelf for books. (Boris Andraevitch never worked in his carriage, but he liked people to think that he did, after the manner of Thiers, who always worked when travelling.) Paklin felt shy. Sipiagin glanced at him once or twice over his clean - shaven cheek, and with a pompous deliberation pulled out of a side - pocket a silver cigar - case with a curly monogram and a Slavonic band and offered him... really offered him a cigar, holding it gently between the second and third fingers of a hand neatly clad in an English glove of yellow dogskin.

“I don’t smoke,” Paklin muttered.

“Really!” Sipiagin exclaimed and lighted the cigar himself, an excellent regalia.

“I must tell you... my dear Mr. Paklin,” he began, puffing gracefully at his cigar and sending out delicate rings of delicious smoke, “that I am... really... very grateful to you. I might have... seemed... a little severe... last night... which does not really... do justice to my character... believe me.” (Sipiagin purposely hesitated over his speech.) “But just put yourself in my place, Mr. Paklin!” (Sipiagin rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.) “The position I occupy places me... so to speak... before the public eye, and suddenly, without any warning... my wife’s brother... compromises himself... and me, in this impossible way! Well, Mr. Paklin? But perhaps you think that it’s nothing?”

“I am far from thinking that, your excellency.”

“You don’t happen to know exactly why... and where he was arrested?”

“I heard that he was arrested in T. district.”

“Who told you so?”

“A certain person.”

“Of course it could hardly have been a bird. But who was this person?”

“An assistant... of the director of the governor’s office — ”

“What’s his name?”

“The director’s?”

“No, the assistant’s.”

“His name is... Ulyashevitch. He is a very honest man, your excellency. As soon as I heard of the affair, I hastened to tell you.”

“Yes, yes. I am very grateful to you indeed. But what utter madness! downright madness! Don’t you think so, Mr. Paklin?”

“Utter madness!” Paklin exclaimed, while the perspiration rolled down his back in a hot stream, “it just shows,” he continued, “the folly of not understanding the peasant. Mr. Markelov, so far as I know him, has a very kind and generous heart, but he has no conception of what the Russian peasant is really like.” (Paklin glanced at Sipiagin who sat slightly turned towards him, gazing at him with a cold, though not unfriendly, light in his eyes.) “The Russian peasant can never be induced to revolt except by taking advantage of that devotion of his to some high authority, some tsar. Some sort of legend must be invented — you remember Dmitrius the pretender — some sort of royal sign must be shown him, branded on the breast.”

“Just like Pugatchev,” Sipiagin interrupted him in a tone of voice which seemed to imply that he had not yet forgotten his history and that it was really not necessary for Paklin to go on. “What madness! what madness!” he added, and became wrapped in the contemplation of the rings of smoke as they rose quickly one after another from the end of his cigar.

“Your excellency,” Paklin began apologetically, “I have just said that I didn’t smoke... but it was not true. I do smoke and your cigar smells so nice — ”

“Eh? What?” Sipiagin asked as if waking up; and without giving Paklin time to repeat his request, he proved in the most unmistakable manner that he had heard every word, and had merely asked his questions for the sake of dignity, by offering him his cigar - case.

Paklin took a cigar gratefully and lighted it with care.

“Here’s a good opportunity,” he thought, but Sipiagin had anticipated him.

“I remember your saying...” he began carelessly, stopping to look at his cigar and pulling his hat lower over his forehead, “you spoke... of... of that friend of yours, who married my ... niece. Do you ever see them? They’ve settled not far from here, eh?”

(“Take care! be on your guard, Sila!” Paklin thought.)

“I have only seen them once, your excellency. They are living.. . certainly... not very far from here.”

“You quite understand, I hope,” Sipiagin continued in the same tone, “that I can take no further serious interest — as I explained to you — either in that frivolous girl or in your friend. Heaven knows that I have no prejudices, but really, you will agree with me, this is too much! So foolish, you know. However, I suppose they were more drawn together by politics.. .” (“politics!” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders) “than by any other feeling!”

“I think so too, your excellency!”

“Yes, Mr. Nejdanov was certainly revolutionary. To do him justice he made no secret of his opinions.”

“Nejdanov,” Paklin ventured, “may have been carried away, but his heart — ”

“Is good,” Sipiagin put in; “I know, like Markelov’s. They all have good hearts. He has no doubt also been mixed up in this affair... and will be implicated.... I suppose I shall have to intercede for him too!”

Paklin clasped his hands to his breast.

“Oh, your excellency! Extend your protection to him! He fully... deserves... your sympathy.”

Sipiagin snorted.

“You think so?”

“At any rate if not for him... for your niece’s sake; for his wife!” (“Heavens! What lies I’m telling,” Paklin thought.)

Sipiagin half - closed his eyes.

“I see that you’re a very devoted friend. That’s a very good quality, very praiseworthy, young man. And so you said they lived in this neighbourhood?”

“Yes, your excellency; in a large establishment — ” Here Paklin bit his tongue.

“Why, of course, at Solomin’s! that’s where they are! However, I knew it all along. I’ve been told so; I’ve already been informed.” (Mr. Sipiagin did not know this in the least, and no one had told him, but recollecting Solomin’s visit and their midnight interview, he promptly threw out this bait, which caught Paklin at once.)

“Since you know that,” he began and bit his tongue a second time ... But it was already too late. A single glance at Sipiagin made him realise that he had been playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse.

“I must say, your excellency,” the unfortunate Paklin stammered out; “I must say, that I really know nothing — ”

“But I ask you no questions! Really! What do you take me and yourself for?” Sipiagin asked haughtily, and promptly withdrew into his ministerial heights.

And Paklin again felt himself a mean little ensnared creature. Until that moment he had kept the cigar in the corner of his mouth away from Sipiagin and puffed at it quietly, blowing the smoke to one side; now he took it out of his mouth and ceased smoking altogether.

“My God!” he groaned inwardly, while the perspiration streamed down his back more and more, “what have I done? I have betrayed everything and everybody... I have been duped, been bought over by a good cigar!! I am a traitor! What shall I do now to help matters? Oh God!”

But there was nothing to be done. Sipiagin dozed off in a haughty, dignified, ministerial manner, enveloped in his stately cloak.

XXXV

THE governor of S. was one of those good - natured, happy - go - lucky, worldly generals who, endowed with wonderfully clean, snow - white bodies and souls to match, of good breeding and education, are turned out of a mill where they are never ground down to becoming the “shepherds of the people.” Nevertheless they prove themselves capable of a tolerable amount of administrative ability — do little work, but are forever sighing after St. Petersburg and paying court to all the pretty women of the place. These are men who in some unaccountable way become useful to their province and manage to leave pleasant memories behind them. The governor had only just got out of bed, and was comfortably seated before his dressing - table in his night - shirt and silk dressing - gown, bathing his face and neck with eau - de - cologne after having removed a whole collection of charms and coins dangling from it, when he was informed of the arrival of Sipiagin and Kollomietzev upon some urgent business. He was very familiar with Sipiagin, having known him from childhood and constantly run across him in St. Petersburg drawing - rooms, and lately he had begun to ejaculate a respectful “Ah!” every time his name occurred to him — as if he saw in him a future statesman. Kollomietzev he did not know so well and respected less in consequence of various unpleasant complaints that had been made against him; however, he looked upon him as a man qui fera chemin in any case.

He ordered his guests to be shown into his study, where he soon joined them, as he was, in his silk dressing - gown, and not so much as excusing himself for receiving them in such an unofficial costume, shook hands with them heartily. Only Sipiagin and Kollomietzev appeared in the governor’s study; Paklin remained in the drawing - room. On getting out of the carriage he had tried to slip away, muttering that he had some business at home, but Sipiagin had detained him with a polite firmness (Kollomietzev had rushed up to him and whispered in his ear: “Ne le lacher pas! Tonnerre de tonnerres!”) and taken him in. He had not, however, taken him to the study, but had asked him, with the same polite firmness, to wait in the drawing - room until he was wanted. Even here Paklin had hoped to escape, but a robust gendarme at Kollomietzev’s instruction appeared in the doorway; so Paklin remained.

“I dare say you’ve guessed what has brought me to you, Voldemar,” Sipiagin began.

“No, my dear, no, I can’t,” the amiable Epicurean replied, while a smile of welcome played about his rosy cheeks, showing a glimpse of shiny teeth, half hidden by his silky moustache.

“What? Don’t you know about Markelov?”

“What do you mean? What Markelov?” the governor repeated with the same joyful expression on his face. He did not remember, in the first place, that the man who was arrested yesterday was called Markelov, and, in the second, he had quite forgotten that Sipiagin’s wife had a brother of that name. “But why are you standing, Boris? Sit down. Would you like some tea?”

Sipiagin’s mind was far from tea.

When at last he explained why they had both appeared, the governor uttered an exclamation of pain and struck himself on the forehead, while his face assumed a sympathetic expression.

“Dear me! what a misfortune! And he’s here now — today.... You know we never keep that sort with us for more than one night at the outside, but the chief of police is out of town, so your brother - in - law has been detained. He is to be sent on tomorrow. Dear me! what a dreadful thing! What your wife must have gone through! What would you like me to do?”

“I would like to have an interview with him here, if it is not against the law.”

“My dear boy! laws are not made for men like you. I do feel so sorry for you.... C’est affreux, tu sais!”

He gave a peculiar ring. An adjutant appeared.

“My dear baron, do please make some arrangement there...” He told him what he wanted and the baron vanished. “Only think, mon cher ami, the peasants nearly killed him. They tied his hands behind him, flung him in a cart, and brought him here! And he’s not in the least bit angry or indignant with them you know! He was so calm altogether that I was amazed! But you will see for yourself. C’est un fanatique tranquille.”

“Ce sont les pires,” Kollomietzev remarked sarcastically. The governor looked up at him from under his eyebrows. “By the way, I must have a word with you, Simion Petrovitch.”

“Yes; what about?”

“I don’t like things at all — ”

“What things?”

“You know that peasant who owed you money and came here to complain — ”

“Well?”

“He’s hanged himself.”

“When?”

“It’s of no consequence when; but it’s an ugly affair.”

Kollomietzev merely shrugged his shoulders and moved away to the window with a graceful swing of the body. At this moment the adjutant brought in Markelov.

The governor had been right; he was unnaturally calm. Even his habitual moroseness had given place to an expression of weary indifference, which did not change when he caught sight of his brother - in - law. Only in the glance which he threw on the German adjutant, who was escorting him, there was a momentary flash of the old hatred he felt towards such people. His coat had been torn in several places and hurriedly stitched up with coarse thread; his forehead, eyebrows, and the bridge of his nose were covered with small scars caked with clotted blood. He had not washed, but had combed his hair.

“Sergai Mihailovitch!” Sipiagin began excitedly, taking a step or two towards him and extending his right hand, only so that he might touch him or stop him if he made a movement in advance, “Sergai Mihailovitch! I am not here to tell you of our amazement, our deep distress — you can have no doubt of that! You wanted to ruin yourself and have done so! But I’ve come to tell you... that... that... to give you the chance of hearing sound common - sense through the voice of honour and friendship. You can still mitigate your lot and, believe me, I will do all in my power to help you, as the honoured head of this province can bear witness!” At this point Sipiagin raised his voice. “A real penitence of your wrongs and a full confession without reserve which will be duly presented in the proper quarters — ”

“Your excellency,” Markelov exclaimed suddenly, turning towards the governor — the very sound of his voice was calm, though it was a little hoarse; “I thought that you wanted to see me in order to cross - examine me again, but if I have been brought here solely by Mr. Sipiagin’s wish, then please order me to be taken back again. We cannot understand one another. All he says is so much Greek to me.”

“Greek, eh!” Kollomietzev shrieked. “And to set peasants rioting, is that Greek too? Is that Greek too, eh?

“What have you here, your excellency? A landowner of the secret police? And how zealous he is!” Markelov remarked, a faint smile of pleasure playing about his pale lips.

Kollomietzev stamped and raged, but the governor stopped him.

“It serves you right, Simion Petrovitch. You shouldn’t interfere in what is not your business.”

“Not my business... not my business... It seems to me that it’s the business of every nobleman — ”

Markelov scanned Kollomietzev coldly and slowly, as if for the last time and then turned to Sipiagin.

“If you really want to know my views, my dear brother - in - law, here they are. I admit that the peasants had a right to arrest me and give me up if they disapproved of what I preached to them. They were free to do what they wanted. I came to them, not they to me. As for the government — if it does send me to Siberia, I’ll go without grumbling, although I don’t consider myself guilty. The government does its work, defends itself. Are you satisfied?”

Sipiagin wrung his hands in despair.

“Satisfied!! What a word! That’s not the point, and it is not for us to judge the doings of the government. The question, my dear Sergai, is whether you feel” (Sipiagin had decided to touch the tender strings) “the utter unreasonableness, senselessness, of your undertaking and are prepared to repent; and whether I can answer for you at all, my dear Sergai.”

Markelov frowned.

“I have said all I have to say and don’t want to repeat it.”

“But don’t you repent? Don’t you repent?”

“Oh, leave me alone with your repentance! You want to steal into my very soul? Leave that, at any rate, to me.”

Sipiagin shrugged his shoulders.

“You were always like that; never would listen to common - sense. You have a splendid chance of getting out of this quietly, honourably...

“Quietly, honourably,” Markelov repeated savagely. “We know those words. They are always flung at a man when he’s wanted to do something mean! That is what these fine phrases are for!”

“We sympathise with you,” Sipiagin continued reproachfully, “and you hate us.”

“Fine sympathy! To Siberia and hard labour with us; that is your sympathy. Oh, let me alone! let me alone! for Heaven’s sake!”

Markelov lowered his head.

He was agitated at heart, though externally calm. He was most of all tortured by the fact that he had been betrayed — and by whom? By Eremy of Goloplok! That same Eremy whom he had trusted so much! That Mendely the sulky had not followed him, had really not surprised him. Mendely was drunk and was consequently afraid. But Eremy! For Markelov, Eremy stood in some way as the personification of the whole Russian people, and Eremy had deceived him! Had he been mistaken about the thing he was striving for? Was Kisliakov a liar? And were Vassily Nikolaevitch’s orders all stupid? And all the articles, books, works of socialists and thinkers, every letter of which had seemed to him invincible truth, were they all nonsense too? Was it really so? And the beautiful simile of the abscess awaiting the prick of the lancet — was that, too, nothing more than a phrase? “No! no!” he whispered to himself, and the colour spread faintly over his bronze - coloured face; “no! All these things are true, true... only I am to blame. I did not know how to do things, did not put things in the right way! I ought simply to have given orders, and if anyone had tried to hinder, or object — put a bullet through his head! there is nothing else to be done! He who is against us has no right to live. Don’t they kill spies like dogs, worse than dogs?”

All the details of his capture rose up in Markelov’s mind. First the silence, the leers, then the shrieks from the back of the crowd... someone coming up sideways as if bowing to him, then that sudden rush, when he was knocked down. His own cries of “What are you doing, my boys?” and their shouts, “A belt! A belt! tie him up!” Then the rattling of his bones... unspeakable rage... filth in his mouth, his nostrils... “Shove him in the cart! shove him in the cart!” someone roared with laughter..

“I didn’t go about it in the right way...” That was the thing that most tormented him. That he had fallen under the wheel was his personal misfortune and had nothing to do with the cause — it was possible to bear that... but Eremy! Eremy!!

While Markelov was standing with his head sunk on his breast, Sipiagin drew the governor aside and began talking to him in undertones. He flourished two fingers across his forehead, as though he would suggest that the unfortunate man was not quite right in his head, in order to arouse if not sympathy, at any rate indulgence towards the madman. The governor shrugged his shoulders, opened and shut his eyes, regretted his inability to do anything, but made some sort of promise in the end. “Tous les egards... certainement, tous les egards,” the soft, pleasant words flowed through his scented moustache. “But you know the law, my boy!”

“Of course I do!” Sipiagin responded with a sort of submissive severity.

While they were talking in the corner, Kollomietzev could scarcely stand still in one spot. He walked up and down, hummed and hawed, showed every sign of impatience. At last he went up to Sipiagin, saying hastily, “Vous oublier l’autre!”

“Oh, yes!” Sipiagin exclaimed loudly. “Merci de me l’avoir rappele. Your excellency,” he said, turning to the governor (he purposely addressed his friend Voldemar in this formal way, so as not to compromise the prestige of authority in Markelov’s presence), “I must draw your attention to the fact that my brother - in - law’s mad attempt has certain ramifications, and one of these branches, that is to say, one of the suspected persons, is to be found not very far from here, in this town. I’ve brought another with me,” he added in a whisper, “he’s in the drawing - room. Have him brought in here.”