Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (57 page)

XXIX

Nikolai Artemyevitch was walking up and down in his study with a scowl on his face. Shubin was sitting at the window with his legs crossed, tranquilly smoking a cigar.

‘Leave off tramping from corner to corner, please,’ he observed, knocking the ash off his cigar. ‘I keep expecting you to speak; there’s a rick in my neck from watching you. Besides, there’s something artificial, melodramatic in your striding.’

‘You can never do anything but joke,’ responded Nikolai Artemyevitch. ‘You won’t enter into my position, you refuse to realise that I am used to that woman, that I am attached to her in fact, that her absence is bound to distress me. Here it’s October, winter is upon us. ... What can she be doing in Revel?’

‘She must be knitting stockings — for herself; for herself — not for you.’

‘You may laugh, you may laugh; but I tell you I know no woman like her. Such honesty; such disinterestedness.’

‘Has she cashed that bill yet?’ inquired Shubin.

‘Such disinterestedness,’ repeated Nikolai Artemyevitch; ‘it’s astonishing. They tell me there are a million other women in the world, but I say, show me the million; show me the million, I say;
ces femmes, qu’on me les montre
! And she doesn’t write — that’s what’s killing me!’

‘You’re eloquent as Pythagoras,’ remarked Shubin; ‘but do you know what I would advise you?’

‘What?’

‘When Augustina Christianovna comes back — you take my meaning?’

‘Yes, yes; well, what?’

‘When you see her again — you follow the line of my thought?’

‘Yes, yes, to be sure.’

‘Try beating her; see what that would do.’

Nikolai Artemyevitch turned away exasperated.

‘I thought he was really going to give me some practical advice. But what can one expect from him! An artist, a man of no principles —
 
— ’

‘No principles! By the way, I’m told your favourite Mr. Kurnatovsky, the man of principle, cleaned you out of a hundred roubles last night. That was hardly delicate, you must own now.’

‘What of it? We were playing high. Of course, I might expect — but they understand so little how to appreciate him in this house —
 
— ’

‘That he thought: get what I can!’ put in Shubin: ‘whether he’s to be my father - in - law or not, is still on the knees of the gods, but a hundred roubles is worth something to a man who doesn’t take bribes.’

‘Father - in - law! How the devil am I his father - in - law?
Vous revez, mon cher
. Of course, any other girl would be delighted with such a suitor. Only consider: a man of spirit and intellect, who has gained a position in the world, served in two provinces —
 
— ’

‘Led the governor in one of them by the nose,’ remarked Shubin.

‘Very likely. To be sure, that’s how it should be. Practical, a business man —
 
— ’

‘And a capital hand at cards,’ Shubin remarked again.

‘To be sure, and a capital hand at cards. But Elena Nikolaevna.... Is there any understanding her? I should be glad to know if there is any one who would undertake to make out what it is she wants. One day she’s cheerful, another she’s dull; all of a sudden she’s so thin there’s no looking at her, and then suddenly she’s well again, and all without any apparent reason —
 
— ’

A disagreeable - looking man - servant came in with a cup of coffee, cream and sugar on a tray.

‘The father is pleased with a suitor,’ pursued Nikolai Artemyevitch, breaking off a lump of sugar; ‘but what is that to the daughter! That was all very well in the old patriarchal days, but now we have changed all that.
Nous avons change tout ca
. Nowadays a young girl talks to any one she thinks fit, reads what she thinks fit; she goes about Moscow alone without a groom or a maid, just as in Paris; and all that is permitted. The other day I asked, “Where is Elena Nikolaevna?” I’m told she has gone out. Where? No one knows. Is that — the proper thing?’

‘Take your coffee, and let the man go,’ said Shubin. ‘You say yourself that one ought not
devant les domestiques
’ he added in an undertone.

The servant gave Shubin a dubious look, while Nikolai Artemyevitch took the cup of coffee, added some cream, and seized some ten lumps of sugar.

‘I was just going to say when the servant came in,’ he began, ‘that I count for nothing in this house. That’s the long and short of the matter. For nowadays every one judges from appearances; one man’s an empty - headed fool, but gives himself airs of importance, and he’s respected; while another, very likely, has talents which might — which might gain him great distinction, but through modesty —
 
— ’

‘Aren’t you a born statesman?’ asked Shubin in a jeering voice.

‘Give over playing the fool!’ Nikolai Artemyevitch cried with heat. ‘You forget yourself! Here you have another proof that I count for nothing in this house, nothing!’

‘Anna Vassilyevna ill - uses you... poor fellow!’ said Shubin, stretching. ‘Ah, Nikolai Artemyevitch, we’re a pair of sinners! You had much better be getting a little present ready for Anna Vassilyevna, It’s her birthday in a day or two, and you know how she appreciates the least attention on your part.’

‘Yes, yes,’ answered Nikolai Artemyevitch hastily. ‘I’m much obliged to you for reminding me. Of course, of course; to be sure. I have a little thing, a dressing - case, I bought it the other day at Rosenstrauch’s; but I don’t know really if it will do.’

‘I suppose you bought it for her, the lady at Revel?’

‘Why, certainly. — I had some idea.’

‘Well, in that case, it will be sure to do.’ Shubin got up from his seat.

‘Are we going out this evening, Pavel Yakovlitch, eh?’ Nikolai Artemyevitch asked with an amicable leer.

‘Why yes, you are going to your club.’

‘After the club... after the club.’

Shubin stretched himself again.

‘No, Nikolai Artemyevitch, I want to work to - morrow. Another time.’ And he walked off.

Nikolai Artemyevitch scowled, walked twice up and down the room, took a velvet box with the dressing - case out of the bureau and looked at it a long while, rubbing it with a silk handkerchief. Then he sat down before a looking - glass and began carefully arranging his thick black hair, turning his head to right and to left with a dignified countenance, his tongue pressed into his cheek, never taking his eyes off his parting. Some one coughed behind his back; he looked round and saw the manservant who had brought him in his coffee.

‘What do you want?’ he asked him.

‘Nikolai Artemyevitch,’ said the man with a certain solemnity, ‘you are our master?’

‘I know that; what next!’

‘Nikolai Artemyevitch, graciously do not be angry with me; but I, having been in your honour’s service from a boy, am bound in dutiful devotion to bring you —
 
— ’

‘Well what is it?’

The man shifted uneasily as he stood.

‘You condescended to say, your honour,’ he began, ‘that your honour did not know where Elena Nikolaevna was pleased to go. I have information about that.’

‘What lies are you telling, idiot?’

‘That’s as your honour likes, but T saw our young lady three days ago, as she was pleased to go into a house!’

‘Where? what? what house?’

‘In a house, near Povarsky. Not far from here. I even asked the doorkeeper who were the people living there.’

Nikolai Artemyevitch stamped with his feet.

‘Silence, scoundrel! How dare you?... Elena Nikolaevna, in the goodness of her heart, goes to visit the poor and you... Be off, fool!’

The terrified servant was rushing to the door.

‘Stop!’ cried Nikolai Artemyevitch. ‘What did the doorkeeper say to you?’

‘Oh no — nothing — he said nothing — He told me — a stu — student —
 
— ’

‘Silence, scoundrel! Listen, you dirty beast; if you ever breathe a word in your dreams even —
 
— ’

‘Mercy on us —
 
— ’

‘Silence! if you blab — if any one — if I find out — you shall find no hiding - place even underground! Do you hear? You can go!’

The man vanished.

‘Good Heavens, merciful powers! what does it mean?’ thought Nikolai Artemyevitch when he was left alone. ‘What did that idiot tell me? Eh? I shall have to find out, though, what house it is, and who lives there. I must go myself. Has it come to this!...
Un laquais! Quelle humiliation!
’

And repeating aloud: ‘
Un laquais!
’ Nikolai Artemyevitch shut the dressing - case up in the bureau, and went up to Anna Vassilyevna. He found her in bed with her face tied up. But the sight of her sufferings only irritated him, and he very soon reduced her to tears.

XXX

Meanwhile the storm gathering in the East was breaking. Turkey had declared war on Russia; the time fixed for the evacuation of the Principalities had already expired, the day of the disaster of Sinope was not far off. The last letters received by Insarov summoned him urgently to his country. His health was not yet restored; he coughed, suffered from weakness and slight attacks of fever, but he was scarcely ever at home. His heart was fired, he no longer thought of his illness. He was for ever rushing about Moscow, having secret interviews with various persons, writing for whole nights, disappearing for whole days; he had informed his landlord that he was going away shortly, and had presented him already with his scanty furniture. Elena too on her side was getting ready for departure. One wet evening she was sitting in her room, and listening with involuntary depression to the sighing of the wind, while she hemmed handkerchiefs. Her maid came in and told her that her father was in her mother’s room and sent for her there. ‘Your mamma is crying,’ she whispered after the retreating Elena, ‘and your papa is angry.’

Elena gave a slight shrug and went into Anna Vassflyevna’s room. Nikolai Artemyevitch’s kind - hearted spouse was half lying on a reclining chair, sniffing a handkerchief steeped in
eau de Cologne
; he himself was standing at the hearth, every button buttoned up, in a high, hard cravat, with a stiffly starched collar; his deportment had a vague suggestion of some parliamentary orator. With an orator’s wave of the arm he motioned his daughter to a chair, and when she, not understanding his gesture, looked inquiringly at him, he brought out with dignity, without turning his head: ‘I beg you to be seated.’ Nikolai Artemyevitch always used the formal plural in addressing his wife, but only on extraordinary occasions in addressing his daughter.

Elena sat down.

Anna Vassilyevna blew her nose tearfully. Nikolai Artemyevitch thrust his fingers between his coat - buttons.

‘I sent for you, Elena Nikolaevna,’ he began after a protracted silence, ‘in order to have an explanation with you, or rather in order to ask you for an explanation. I am displeased with you — or no — that is too little to say: your behaviour is a pain and an outrage to me — to me and to your mother — your mother whom you see here.’

Nikolai Artemyevitch was giving vent only to the few bass notes in his voice. Elena gazed in silence at him, then at Anna Vassilyevna and turned pale.

‘There was a time,’ Nikolai Artemyevitch resumed, ‘when daughters did not allow themselves to look down on their parents — when the parental authority forced the disobedient to tremble. That time has passed, unhappily: so at least many persons imagine; but let me tell you, there are still laws which do not permit — do not permit — in fact there are still laws. I beg you to mark that: there are still laws —
 
— ’

‘But, papa,’ Elena was beginning.

‘I beg you not to interrupt me. Let us turn in thought to the past. I and Anna Vassilyevna have performed our duty. I and Anna Vassilyevna have spared nothing in your education: neither care nor expense. What you have gained from our care — is a different question; but I had the right to expect — I and Anna Vassilyevna had the right to expect that you would at least hold sacred the principles of morality which we have —
que nous avons inculques
, which we have instilled into you, our only daughter. We had the right to expect that no new “ideas” could touch that, so to speak, holy shrine. And what do we find? I am not now speaking of frivolities characteristic of your sex, and age, but who could have anticipated that you could so far forget yourself —
 
— ’

‘Papa,’ said Elena, ‘I know what you are going to say —
 
—
 
— ’

‘No, you don’t know what I am going to say!’ cried Nikolai Artemyevitch in a falsetto shriek, suddenly losing the majesty of his oratorical pose, the smooth dignity of his speech, and his bass notes. ‘You don’t know, vile hussy!’

‘For mercy’s sake,
Nicolas
,’ murmured Anna Vassilyevna, ‘
vous me faites mourir
?’

‘Don’t tell me
que je vous fais mourir
, Anna Vassilyevna!
You can’t conceive what you will hear directly! Prepare yourself for the worst, I warn you!’

Anna Vassilyevna seemed stupefied.

‘No,’ resumed Nikolai Artemyevitch, turning to Elena, ‘you don’t know what I am going to say!’

‘I am to blame towards you —
 
— ’ she began.

‘Ah, at last!’

‘I am to blame towards you,’ pursued Elena, ‘for not having long ago confessed —
 
— ’

‘But do you know,’ Nikolai Artemyevitch interrupted, ‘that I can crush you with one word?’

Elena raised her eyes to look at him.

‘Yes, madam, with one word! It’s useless to look at me!’ (He crossed his arms on his breast.) ‘Allow me to ask you, do you know a certain house near Povarsky? Have you visited that house?’ (He stamped.) ‘Answer me, worthless girl, and don’t try to hide the truth. People, people, servants,
madam, de vils laquais
have seen you, as you went in there, to your —
 
— ’

Elena was crimson, her eyes were blazing.

‘I have no need to hide anything,’ she declared. ‘Yes, I have visited that house.’

‘Exactly! Do you hear, do you hear, Anna Vassilyevna? And you know, I presume, who lives there?’

‘Yes, I know; my husband.’

Nikolai Artemyevitch’s eyes were starting out of his head.

‘Your —
 
— ’

‘My husband,’ repeated Elena; ‘I am married to Dmitri Nikanorovitch Insarov.’

‘You? — married?’ — was all Anna Vassilyevna could articulate.

‘Yes, mamma.... Forgive me. A fortnight ago, we were secretly married.’

Anna Vassilyevna fell back in her chair; Nikolai Artemyevitch stepped two paces back.

‘Married! To that vagrant, that Montenegrin! the daughter of Nikolai Stahov of the higher nobility married to a vagrant, a nobody, without her parents’ sanction! And you imagine I shall let the matter rest, that I shall not make a complaint, that I will allow you — that you — that —
 
— To the nunnery with you, and he shall go to prison, to hard labour! Anna Vassilyevna, inform her at once that you will cut off her inheritance!’

‘Nikolai Artemyevitch, for God’s sake,’ moaned Anna Vassilyevna.

‘And when and how was this done? Who married you? where? how? Good God! what will all our friends think, what will the world say! And you, shameless hypocrite, could go on living under your parents’ roof after such an act! Had you no fear of — the wrath of heaven?’

‘Papa’ said Elena (she was trembling from head to foot but her voice was steady), ‘you are at liberty to do with me as you please, but you need not accuse me of shamelessness, and hypocrisy. I did not want — to give you pain before, but I should have had to tell you all myself in a few days, because we are going away — my husband and I — from here next week.’

‘Going away? Where to?’

‘To his own country, to Bulgaria.’

‘To the Turks!’ cried Anna Vassilyevna and fell into a swoon.

Elena ran to her mother.

‘Away!’ clamoured Nikolai Artemyevitch, seizing his daughter by the arm, ‘away, unworthy girl!’

But at that instant the door of the room opened, and a pale face with glittering eyes appeared: it was the face of Shubin.

‘Nikolai Artemyevitch!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Augustina Christianovna is here and is asking for you!’

Nikolai Artemyevitch turned round infuriated, threatening Shubin with his fist; he stood still a minute and rapidly went out of the room.

Elena fell at her mother’s feet and embraced her knees.

Uvar Ivanovitch was lying on his bed. A shirt without a collar, fastened with a heavy stud enfolded his thick neck and fell in full flowing folds over the almost feminine contours of his chest, leaving visible a large cypress - wood cross and an amulet. His ample limbs were covered with the lightest bedclothes. On the little table by the bedside a candle was burning dimly beside a jug of kvas, and on the bed at Uvar ivanovitch’s feet was sitting Shubin in a dejected pose.

‘Yes,’ he was saying meditatively, ‘she is married and getting ready to go away. Your nephew was bawling and shouting for the benefit of the whole house; he had shut himself up for greater privacy in his wife’s bedroom, but not merely the maids and the footmen, the coachman even could hear it all! Now he’s just tearing and raving round; he all but gave me a thrashing, he’s bringing a father’s curse on the scene now, as cross as a bear with a sore head; but that’s of no importance. Anna Vassilyevna’s crushed, but she’s much more brokenhearted at her daughter leaving her than at her marriage.’

Uvar Ivanovitch flourished his fingers.

‘A mother,’ he commented, ‘to be sure.’

‘Your nephew,’ resumed Shubin, ‘threatens to lodge a complaint with the Metropolitan and the General - Governor and the Minister, but it will end by her going. A happy thought to ruin his own daughter! He’ll crow a little and then lower his colours.’

‘They’d no right,’ observed Uvar Ivanovitch, and he drank out of the jug.

‘To be sure. But what a storm of criticism, gossip, and comments will be raised in Moscow! She’s not afraid of them.... Besides she’s above them. She’s going away... and it’s awful to think where she’s going — to such a distance, such a wilderness! What future awaits her there? I seem to see her setting off from a posting station in a snow - storm with thirty degrees of frost. She’s leaving her country, and her people; but I understand her doing it. Whom is she leaving here behind her? What people has she seen? Kurnatovsky and Bersenyev and our humble selves; and these are the best she’s seen. What is there to regret about it? One thing’s bad; I’m told her husband — the devil, how that word sticks in my throat! — Insarov, I’m told, is spitting blood; that’s a bad lookout. I saw him the other day: his face — you could model Brutus from it straight off. Do you know who Brutus was, Uvar Ivanovitch?’

‘What is there to know? a man to be sure.’

‘Precisely so: he was a “man.” Yes he’s a wonderful face, but unhealthy, very unhealthy.’

‘For fighting... it makes no difference,’ observed Uvar Ivanovitch.

‘For fighting it makes no difference, certainly; you are pleased to express yourself with great justice to - day; but for living it makes all the difference. And you see she wants to live with him a little while.’

‘A youthful affair,’ responded Uvar Ivanovitch.

‘Yes, a youthful, glorious, bold affair. Death, life, conflict, defeat, triumph, love, freedom, country.... Good God, grant as much to all of us! That’s a very different thing from sitting up to one’s neck in a bog, and pretending it’s all the same to you, when in fact it really is all the same. While there — the strings are tuned to the highest pitch, to play to all the world or to break!’

Shubin’s head sank on to his breast.

‘Yes,’ he resumed, after a prolonged silence, ‘Insarov deserves her. What nonsense, though! No one deserves her... Insarov... Insarov ... What’s the use of pretended modesty? We’ll own he’s a fine fellow, he stands on his own feet, though up to the present he has done no more than we poor sinners; and are we such absolutely worthless dirt? Am I such dirt, Uvar Ivanovitch? Has God been hard on me in every way? Has He given me no talents, no abilities? Who knows, perhaps, the name of Pavel Shubin will in time be a great name? You see that bronze farthing there lying on your table. Who knows; some day, perhaps in a century, that bronze will go to a statue of Pavel Shubin, raised in his honour by a grateful posterity!’

Uvar Ivanovitch leaned on his elbow and stared at the enthusiastic artist.