Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (72 page)

‘You must be careful,’ observed Anna Sergyevna; ‘Porfiry Platonitch and I will beat you. And you, Katya,’ she added, ‘play something to Arkady Nikolaevitch; he is fond of music, and we can listen, too.’

Katya went unwillingly to the piano; and Arkady, though he certainly was fond of music, unwillingly followed her; it seemed to him that Madame Odintsov was sending him away, and already, like every young man at his age, he felt a vague and oppressive emotion surging up in his heart, like the forebodings of love. Katya raised the top of the piano, and not looking at Arkady, she said in a low voice —

‘What am I to play you?’

‘What you like,’ answered Arkady indifferently.

‘What sort of music do you like best?’ repeated Katya, without changing her attitude.

‘Classical,’ Arkady answered in the same tone of voice.

‘Do you like Mozart?’

‘Yes, I like Mozart.’

Katya pulled out Mozart’s Sonata - Fantasia in C minor. She played very well, though rather over correctly and precisely. She sat upright and immovable, her eyes fixed on the notes, and her lips tightly compressed, only at the end of the sonata her face glowed, her hair came loose, and a little lock fell on to her dark brow.

Arkady was particularly struck by the last part of the sonata, the part in which, in the midst of the bewitching gaiety of the careless melody, the pangs of such mournful, almost tragic suffering, suddenly break in.... But the ideas stirred in him by Mozart’s music had no reference to Katya. Looking at her, he simply thought, ‘Well, that young lady doesn’t play badly, and she’s not bad - looking either.’

When she had finished the sonata, Katya without taking her hands from the keys, asked, ‘Is that enough?’ Arkady declared that he could not venture to trouble her again, and began talking to her about Mozart; he asked her whether she had chosen that sonata herself, or some one had recommended it to her. But Katya answered him in monosyllables; she withdrew into herself, went back into her shell. When this happened to her, she did not very quickly come out again; her face even assumed at such times an obstinate, almost stupid expression. She was not exactly shy, but diffident, and rather overawed by her sister, who had educated her, and who had no suspicion of the fact. Arkady was reduced at last to calling Fifi to him, and with an affable smile patting him on the head to give himself an appearance of being at home.

Katya set to work again upon her flowers.

Bazarov meanwhile was losing and losing. Anna Sergyevna played cards in masterly fashion; Porfiry Platonitch, too, could hold his own in the game. Bazarov lost a sum which, though trifling in itself, was not altogether pleasant for him. At supper Anna Sergyevna again turned the conversation on botany.

‘We will go for a walk to - morrow morning,’ she said to him; ‘I want you to teach me the Latin names of the wild flowers and their species.’

‘What use are the Latin names to you?’ asked Bazarov.

‘Order is needed in everything,’ she answered.

‘What an exquisite woman Anna Sergyevna is!’ cried Arkady, when he was alone with his friend in the room assigned to them.

‘Yes,’ answered Bazarov, ‘a female with brains. Yes, and she’s seen life too.’

‘In what sense do you mean that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?’

‘In a good sense, a good sense, my dear friend, Arkady Nikolaevitch! I’m convinced she manages her estate capitally too. But what’s splendid is not her, but her sister.’

‘What, that little dark thing?’

‘Yes, that little dark thing. She now is fresh and untouched, and shy and silent, and anything you like. She’s worth educating and developing. You might make something fine out of her; but the other’s — a stale loaf.’

Arkady made no reply to Bazarov, and each of them got into bed with rather singular thoughts in his head.

Anna Sergyevna, too, thought of her guests that evening. She liked Bazarov for the absence of gallantry in him, and even for his sharply defined views. She found in him something new, which she had not chanced to meet before, and she was curious.

Anna Sergyevna was a rather strange creature. Having no prejudices of any kind, having no strong convictions even, she never gave way or went out of her way for anything. She had seen many things very clearly; she had been interested in many things, but nothing had completely satisfied her; indeed, she hardly desired complete satisfaction. Her intellect was at the same time inquiring and indifferent; her doubts were never soothed to forgetfulness, and they never grew strong enough to distract her. Had she not been rich and independent, she would perhaps have thrown herself into the struggle, and have known passion. But life was easy for her, though she was bored at times, and she went on passing day after day with deliberation, never in a hurry, placid, and only rarely disturbed. Dreams sometimes danced in rainbow colours before her eyes even, but she breathed more freely when they died away, and did not regret them. Her imagination indeed overstepped the limits of what is reckoned permissible by conventional morality; but even then her blood flowed as quietly as ever in her fascinatingly graceful, tranquil body. Sometimes coming out of her fragrant bath all warm and enervated, she would fall to musing on the nothingness of life, the sorrow, the labour, the malice of it.... Her soul would be filled with sudden daring, and would flow with generous ardour, but a draught would blow from a half - closed window, and Anna Sergyevna would shrink into herself, and feel plaintive and almost angry, and there was only one thing she cared for at that instant — to get away from that horrid draught.

Like all women who have not succeeded in loving, she wanted something, without herself knowing what. Strictly speaking, she wanted nothing; but it seemed to her that she wanted everything. She could hardly endure the late Odintsov (she had married him from prudential motives, though probably she would not have consented to become his wife if she had not considered him a good sort of man), and had conceived a secret repugnance for all men, whom she could only figure to herself as slovenly, heavy, drowsy, and feebly importunate creatures. Once, somewhere abroad, she had met a handsome young Swede, with a chivalrous expression, with honest blue eyes under an open brow; he had made a powerful impression on her, but it had not prevented her from going back to Russia.

‘A strange man this doctor!’ she thought as she lay in her luxurious bed on lace pillows under a light silk coverlet.... Anna Sergyevna had inherited from her father a little of his inclination for splendour. She had fondly loved her sinful but good - natured father, and he had idolised her, used to joke with her in a friendly way as though she were an equal, and to confide in her fully, to ask her advice. Her mother she scarcely remembered.

‘This doctor is a strange man!’ she repeated to herself. She stretched, smiled, clasped her hands behind her head, then ran her eyes over two pages of a stupid French novel, dropped the book — and fell asleep, all pure and cold, in her pure and fragrant linen.

The following morning Anna Sergyevna went off botanising with Bazarov directly after lunch, and returned just before dinner; Arkady did not go off anywhere, and spent about an hour with Katya. He was not bored with her; she offered of herself to repeat the sonata of the day before; but when Madame Odintsov came back at last, when he caught sight of her, he felt an instantaneous pang at his heart. She came through the garden with a rather tired step; her cheeks were glowing and her eyes shining more brightly than usual under her round straw hat. She was twirling in her fingers the thin stalk of a wildflower, a light mantle had slipped down to her elbows, and the wide gray ribbons of her hat were clinging to her bosom. Bazarov walked behind her, self - confident and careless as usual, but the expression of his face, cheerful and even friendly as it was, did not please Arkady. Muttering between his teeth, ‘Good - morning!’ Bazarov went away to his room, while Madame Odintsov shook Arkady’s hand abstractedly, and also walked past him.

‘Good - morning!’ thought Arkady ... ‘As though we had not seen each other already to - day!’

CHAPTER XVII

Time, it is well known, sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a worm; but man is wont to be particularly happy when he does not even notice whether it passes quickly or slowly. It was in that way Arkady and Bazarov spent a fortnight at Madame Odintsov’s. The good order she had established in her house and in her life partly contributed to this result. She adhered strictly to this order herself, and forced others to submit to it. Everything during the day was done at a fixed time. In the morning, precisely at eight o’clock, all the party assembled for tea; from morning - tea till lunch - time every one did what he pleased, the hostess herself was engaged with her bailiff (the estate was on the rent - system), her steward, and her head housekeeper. Before dinner the party met again for conversation or reading; the evening was devoted to walking, cards, and music; at half - past ten Anna Sergyevna retired to her own room, gave her orders for the following day, and went to bed. Bazarov did not like this measured, somewhat ostentatious punctuality in daily life, ‘like moving along rails,’ he pronounced it to be; the footmen in livery, the decorous stewards, offended his democratic sentiments. He declared that if one went so far, one might as well dine in the English style at once — in tail - coats and white ties. He once spoke plainly upon the subject to Anna Sergyevna. Her attitude was such that no one hesitated to speak his mind freely before her. She heard him out; and then her comment was, ‘From your point of view, you are right — and perhaps, in that respect, I am too much of a lady; but there’s no living in the country without order, one would be devoured by ennui,’ and she continued to go her own way. Bazarov grumbled, but the very reason life was so easy for him and Arkady at Madame Odintsov’s was that everything in the house ‘moved on rails.’ For all that, a change had taken place in both the young men since the first days of their stay at Nikolskoe. Bazarov, in whom Anna Sergyevna was obviously interested, though she seldom agreed with him, began to show signs of an unrest, unprecedented in him; he was easily put out of temper, and unwilling to talk, he looked irritated, and could not sit still in one place, just as though he were possessed by some secret longing; while Arkady, who had made up his mind conclusively that he was in love with Madame Odintsov, had begun to yield to a gentle melancholy. This melancholy did not, however, prevent him from becoming friendly with Katya; it even impelled him to get into friendly, affectionate terms with her.
‘She
does not appreciate me? So be it!... But here is a good creature, who does not repulse me,’ he thought, and his heart again knew the sweetness of magnanimous emotions. Katya vaguely realised that he was seeking a sort of consolation in her company, and did not deny him or herself the innocent pleasure of a half - shy, half - confidential friendship. They did not talk to each other in Anna Sergyevna’s presence; Katya always shrank into herself under her sister’s sharp eyes; while Arkady, as befits a man in love, could pay attention to nothing else when near the object of his passion; but he was happy with Katya alone. He was conscious that he did not possess the power to interest Madame Odintsov; he was shy and at a loss when he was left alone with her, and she did not know what to say to him, he was too young for her. With Katya, on the other hand, Arkady felt at home; he treated her condescendingly, encouraged her to express the impressions made on her by music, reading novels, verses, and other such trifles, without noticing or realising that these trifles were what interested him too. Katya, on her side, did not try to drive away melancholy. Arkady was at his ease with Katya, Madame Odintsov with Bazarov, and thus it usually came to pass that the two couples, after being a little while together, went off on their separate ways, especially during the walks. Katya adored nature, and Arkady loved it, though he did not dare to acknowledge it; Madame Odintsov was, like Bazarov, rather indifferent to the beauties of nature. The almost continual separation of the two friends was not without its consequences; the relations between them began to change. Bazarov gave up talking to Arkady about Madame Odintsov, gave up even abusing her ‘aristocratic ways’; Katya, it is true, he praised as before, and only advised him to restrain her sentimental tendencies, but his praises were hurried, his advice dry, and in general he talked less to Arkady than before ... he seemed to avoid him, seemed ill at ease with him.

Arkady observed it all, but he kept his observations to himself.

The real cause of all this ‘newness’ was the feeling inspired in Bazarov by Madame Odintsov, a feeling which tortured and maddened him, and which he would at once have denied, with scornful laughter and cynical abuse, if any one had ever so remotely hinted at the possibility of what was taking place in him. Bazarov had a great love for women and for feminine beauty; but love in the ideal, or, as he expressed it, romantic sense, he called lunacy, unpardonable imbecility; he regarded chivalrous sentiments as something of the nature of deformity or disease, and had more than once expressed his wonder that Toggenburg and all the minnesingers and troubadours had not been put into a lunatic asylum. ‘If a woman takes your fancy,’ he used to say, ‘try and gain your end; but if you can’t — well, turn your back on her — there are lots of good fish in the sea.’ Madame Odintsov had taken his fancy; the rumours about her, the freedom and independence of her ideas, her unmistakable liking for him, all seemed to be in his favour, but he soon saw that with her he would not ‘gain his ends,’ and to turn his back on her he found, to his own bewilderment, beyond his power. His blood was on fire directly if he merely thought of her; he could easily have mastered his blood, but something else was taking root in him, something he had never admitted, at which he had always jeered, at which all his pride revolted. In his conversations with Anna Sergyevna he expressed more strongly than ever his calm contempt for everything idealistic; but when he was alone, with indignation he recognised idealism in himself. Then he would set off to the forest and walk with long strides about it, smashing the twigs that came in his way, and cursing under his breath both her and himself; or he would get into the hay - loft in the barn, and, obstinately closing his eyes, try to force himself to sleep, in which, of course, he did not always succeed. Suddenly his fancy would bring before him those chaste hands twining one day about his neck, those proud lips responding to his kisses, those intellectual eyes dwelling with tenderness — yes, with tenderness — on his, and his head went round, and he forgot himself for an instant, till indignation boiled up in him again. He caught himself in all sorts of ‘shameful’ thoughts, as though he were driven on by a devil mocking him. Sometimes he fancied that there was a change taking place in Madame Odintsov too; that there were signs in the expression of her face of something special; that, perhaps ... but at that point he would stamp, or grind his teeth, and clench his fists.

Meanwhile Bazarov was not altogether mistaken. He had struck Madame Odintsov’s imagination; he interested her, she thought a great deal about him. In his absence, she was not dull, she was not impatient for his coming, but she always grew more lively on his appearance; she liked to be left alone with him, and she liked talking to him, even when he irritated her or offended her taste, her refined habits. She was, as it were, eager at once to sound him and to analyse herself.

One day walking in the garden with her, he suddenly announced, in a surly voice, that he intended going to his father’s place very soon.... She turned white, as though something had given her a pang, and such a pang, that she wondered and pondered long after, what could be the meaning of it. Bazarov had spoken of his departure with no idea of putting her to the test, of seeing what would come of it; he never ‘fabricated.’ On the morning of that day he had an interview with his father’s bailiff, who had taken care of him when he was a child, Timofeitch. This Timofeitch, a little old man of much experience and astuteness, with faded yellow hair, a weather - beaten red face, and tiny tear - drops in his shrunken eyes, unexpectedly appeared before Bazarov, in his shortish overcoat of stout greyish - blue cloth, girt with a strip of leather, and in tarred boots.

‘Hullo, old man; how are you?’ cried Bazarov.

‘How do you do, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?’ began the little old man, and he smiled with delight, so that his whole face was all at once covered with wrinkles.

‘What have you come for? They sent for me, eh?’

‘Upon my word, sir, how could we?’ mumbled Timofeitch. (He remembered the strict injunctions he had received from his master on starting.) ‘We were sent to the town on business, and we’d heard news of your honour, so here we turned off on our way, that’s to say — to have a look at your honour ... as if we could think of disturbing you!’

‘Come, don’t tell lies!’ Bazarov cut him short. ‘Is this the road to the town, do you mean to tell me?’ Timofeitch hesitated, and made no answer. ‘Is my father well?’

‘Thank God, yes.’

‘And my mother?’

‘Anna Vlasyevna too, glory be to God.’

‘They are expecting me, I suppose?’

The little old man held his tiny head on one side.

‘Ah, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, it makes one’s heart ache to see them; it does really.’

‘Come, all right, all right! shut up! Tell them I’m coming soon.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Timofeitch, with a sigh.

As he went out of the house, he pulled his cap down on his head with both hands, clambered into a wretched - looking racing droshky, and went off at a trot, but not in the direction of the town.

On the evening of the same day, Madame Odintsov was sitting in her own room with Bazarov, while Arkady walked up and down the hall listening to Katya’s playing. The princess had gone upstairs to her own room; she could not bear guests as a rule, and ‘especially this new riff - raff lot,’ as she called them. In the common rooms she only sulked; but she made up for it in her own room by breaking out into such abuse before her maid that the cap danced on her head, wig and all. Madame Odintsov was well aware of all this.

‘How is it you are proposing to leave us?’ she began; ‘how about your promise?’

Bazarov started. ‘What promise?’

‘Have you forgotten? You meant to give me some lessons in chemistry.’

‘It can’t be helped! My father expects me; I can’t loiter any longer. However, you can read Pelouse et Frémy,
Notions générales de Chimie;
it’s a good book, and clearly written. You will find everything you need in it.’

‘But do you remember; you assured me a book cannot take the place of ... I’ve forgotten how you put it, but you know what I mean ... do you remember?’

‘It can’t be helped!’ repeated Bazarov.

‘Why go away?’ said Madame Odintsov, dropping her voice.

He glanced at her. Her head had fallen on to the back of her easy - chair, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were folded on her bosom. She seemed paler in the light of the single lamp covered with a perforated paper shade. An ample white gown hid her completely in its soft folds; even the tips of her feet, also crossed, were hardly seen.

‘And why stay?’ answered Bazarov.

Madame Odintsov turned her head slightly. ‘You ask why. Have you not enjoyed yourself with me? Or do you suppose you will not be missed here?’

‘I am sure of it.’

Madame Odintsov was silent a minute. ‘You are wrong in thinking that. But I don’t believe you. You could not say that seriously.’ Bazarov still sat immovable. ‘Yevgeny Vassilyitch, why don’t you speak?’

‘Why, what am I to say to you? People are not generally worth being missed, and I less than most.’

‘Why so?’

‘I’m a practical, uninteresting person. I don’t know how to talk.’

‘You are fishing, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.’

‘That’s not a habit of mine. Don’t you know yourself that I’ve nothing in common with the elegant side of life, the side you prize so much?’

Madame Odintsov bit the corner of her handkerchief.

‘You may think what you like, but I shall be dull when you go away.’

‘Arkady will remain,’ remarked Bazarov. Madame Odintsov shrugged her shoulders slightly. ‘I shall be dull,’ she repeated.

‘Really? In any case you will not feel dull for long.’

‘What makes you suppose that?’

‘Because you told me yourself that you are only dull when your regular routine is broken in upon. You have ordered your existence with such unimpeachable regularity that there can be no place in it for dulness or sadness ... for any unpleasant emotions.’