Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (86 page)

‘Thanks,’ he said painfully, ‘I did not expect this. It’s a deed of mercy. So we have seen each other again, as you promised.’

‘Anna Sergyevna has been so kind,’ began Vassily Ivanovitch ...

‘Father, leave us alone. Anna Sergyevna, you will allow it, I fancy, now?’

With a motion of his head, he indicated his prostrate helpless frame.

Vassily Ivanovitch went out.

‘Well, thanks,’ repeated Bazarov. ‘This is royally done. Monarchs, they say, visit the dying too.’

‘Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I hope —
 
— ’

‘Ah, Anna Sergyevna, let us speak the truth. It’s all over with me. I’m under the wheel. So it turns out that it was useless to think of the future. Death’s an old joke, but it comes fresh to every one. So far I’m not afraid ... but there, senselessness is coming, and then it’s all up! —
 
— ’ he waved his hand feebly. ‘Well, what had I to say to you ... 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. Better say how lovely you are! And now here you stand, so beautiful ...’

Anna Sergyevna gave an involuntary shudder.

‘Never mind, don’t be uneasy.... Sit down there.... Don’t come close to me; you know, my illness is catching.’

Anna Sergyevna swiftly crossed the room, and sat down in the armchair near the sofa on which Bazarov was lying.

‘Noble - hearted!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, how near, and how young, and fresh, and pure ... in this loathsome room!... Well, good - bye! live long, that’s the best of all, and make the most of it while there is time. You see what a hideous spectacle; the worm half - crushed, but writhing still. And, you see, I thought too: 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, though that makes no difference to any one either.... Never mind; I’m not going to turn tail.’

Bazarov was silent, and began feeling with his hand for the glass. Anna Sergyevna gave him some drink, not taking off her glove, and drawing her breath timorously.

‘You will forget me,’ he began again; ‘the dead’s no companion for the living. 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 the child ... you know. And be kind to mother. People like them aren’t to be found in your great world if you look by daylight with a candle.... I was needed by Russia.... No, it’s clear, I wasn’t needed. And who is needed? The shoemaker’s needed, the tailor’s needed, the butcher ... gives us meat ... the butcher ... wait a little, I’m getting mixed.... There’s a forest here ...’

Bazarov put his hand to his brow.

Anna Sergyevna bent down to him. ‘Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I am here ...’

He at once took his hand away, and raised himself.

‘Good - bye,’ he said with 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 ...’

Anna Sergyevna put her lips to his forehead.

‘Enough!’ he murmured, and dropped back on to the pillow. ‘Now ... darkness ...’

Anna Sergyevna went softly out. ‘Well?’ Vassily Ivanovitch asked her in a whisper.

‘He has fallen asleep,’ she answered, hardly audibly. Bazarov was not fated to awaken. Towards evening he sank into complete unconsciousness, and the following day he died. Father Alexey performed the last rites of religion over him. When they anointed him with the last unction, when the holy oil touched his breast, one eye opened, and it seemed as though at the sight of the priest in his vestments, the smoking censers, the light before the image, something like a shudder of horror passed over the death - stricken face. When at last he had breathed his last, and there arose a universal lamentation in the house, Vassily Ivanovitch was seized by a sudden frenzy. ‘I said I should rebel,’ he shrieked hoarsely, with his face inflamed and distorted, shaking his fist in the air, as though threatening some one; ‘and I rebel, I rebel!’ But Arina Vlasyevna, all in tears, hung upon his neck, and both fell on their faces together. ‘Side by side,’ Anfisushka related afterwards in the servants’ room, ‘they dropped their poor heads like lambs at noonday ...’

But the heat of noonday passes, and evening comes and night, and then, too, the return to the kindly refuge, where sleep is sweet for the weary and heavy laden....

CHAPTER XXVIII

Six months had passed by. White winter had come with the cruel stillness of unclouded frosts, the thick - lying, crunching snow, the rosy rime on the trees, the pale emerald sky, the wreaths of smoke above the chimneys, the clouds of steam rushing out of the doors when they are opened for an instant, with the fresh faces, that look stung by the cold, and the hurrying trot of the chilled horses. A January day was drawing to its close; the cold evening was more keen than ever in the motionless air, and a lurid sunset was rapidly dying away. There were lights burning in the windows of the house at Maryino; Prokofitch in a black frockcoat and white gloves, with a special solemnity, laid the table for seven. A week before in the small parish church two weddings had taken place quietly, and almost without witnesses — Arkady and Katya’s, and Nikolai Petrovitch and Fenitchka’s; and on this day Nikolai Petrovitch was giving a farewell dinner to his brother, who was going away to Moscow on business. Anna Sergyevna had gone there also directly after the ceremony was over, after making very handsome presents to the young people.

Precisely at three o’clock they all gathered about the table. Mitya was placed there too; with him appeared a nurse in a cap of glazed brocade. Pavel Petrovitch took his seat between Katya and Fenitchka; the ‘husbands’ took their places beside their wives. Our friends had changed of late; they all seemed to have grown stronger and better looking; only Pavel Petrovitch was thinner, which gave even more of an elegant and ‘grand seigneur’ air to his expressive features.... And Fenitchka too was different. In a fresh silk gown, with a wide velvet head - dress on her hair, with a gold chain round her neck, she sat with deprecating immobility, respectful towards herself and everything surrounding her, and smiled as though she would say, ‘I beg your pardon; I’m not to blame.’ And not she alone — all the others smiled, and also seemed apologetic; they were all a little awkward, a little sorry, and in reality very happy. They all helped one another with humorous attentiveness, as though they had all agreed to rehearse a sort of artless farce. Katya was the most composed of all; she looked confidently about her, and it could be seen that Nikolai Petrovitch was already devotedly fond of her. At the end of dinner he got up, and, his glass in his hand, turned to Pavel Petrovitch.

‘You are leaving us ... you are leaving us, dear brother,’ he began; ‘not for long, to be sure; but still, I cannot help expressing what I ... what we ... how much I ... how much we.... There, the worst of it is, we don’t know how to make speeches. Arkady, you speak.’

‘No, daddy, I’ve not prepared anything.’

‘As though I were so well prepared! Well, brother, I will simply say, let us embrace you, wish you all good luck, and come back to us as quickly as you can!’

Pavel Petrovitch exchanged kisses with every one, of course not excluding Mitya; in Fenitchka’s case, he kissed also her hand, which she had not yet learned to offer properly, and drinking off the glass which had been filled again, he said with a deep sigh, ‘May you be happy, my friends!
Farewell!’
This English finale passed unnoticed; but all were touched.

‘To the memory of Bazarov,’ Katya whispered in her husband’s ear, as she clinked glasses with him. Arkady pressed her hand warmly in response, but he did not venture to propose this toast aloud.

The end, would it seem? But perhaps some one of our readers would care to know what each of the characters we have introduced is doing in the present, the actual present. We are ready to satisfy him.

Anna Sergyevna has recently made a marriage, not of love but of good sense, with one of the future leaders of Russia, a very clever man, a lawyer, possessed of vigorous practical sense, a strong will, and remarkable fluency — still young, good - natured, and cold as ice. They live in the greatest harmony together, and will live perhaps to attain complete happiness ... perhaps love. The Princess K —
 
— is dead, forgotten the day of her death. The Kirsanovs, father and son, live at Maryino; their fortunes are beginning to mend. Arkady has become zealous in the management of the estate, and the ‘farm’ now yields a fairly good income. Nikolai Petrovitch has been made one of the mediators appointed to carry out the emancipation reforms, and works with all his energies; he is for ever driving about over his district; delivers long speeches (he maintains the opinion that the peasants ought to be ‘brought to comprehend things,’ that is to say, they ought to be reduced to a state of quiescence by the constant repetition of the same words); and yet, to tell the truth, he does not give complete satisfaction either to the refined gentry, who talk with
chic,
or depression of the
emancipation
(pronouncing it as though it were French), nor of the uncultivated gentry, who unceremoniously curse ‘the damned
‘mancipation.’
He is too soft - hearted for both sets. Katerina Sergyevna has a son, little Nikolai, while Mitya runs about merrily and talks fluently. Fenitchka, Fedosya Nikolaevna, after her husband and Mitya, adores no one so much as her daughter - in - law, and when the latter is at the piano, she would gladly spend the whole day at her side.

A passing word of Piotr. He has grown perfectly rigid with stupidity and dignity, but he too is married, and received a respectable dowry with his bride, the daughter of a market - gardener of the town, who had refused two excellent suitors, only because they had no watch; while Piotr had not only a watch — he had a pair of kid shoes.

In the Brühl Terrace in Dresden, between two and four o’clock — the most fashionable time for walking — you may meet a man about fifty, quite grey, and looking as though he suffered from gout, but still handsome, elegantly dressed, and with that special stamp, which is only gained by moving a long time in the higher strata of society. That is Pavel Petrovitch. From Moscow he went abroad for the sake of his health, and has settled for good at Dresden, where he associates most with English and Russian visitors. With English people he behaves simply, almost modestly, but with dignity; they find him rather a bore, but respect him for being, as they say,
‘a perfect gentleman.’
With Russians he is more free and easy, gives vent to his spleen, and makes fun of himself and them, but that is done by him with great amiability, negligence, and propriety. He holds Slavophil views; it is well known that in the highest society this is regarded as
très distingué!
He reads nothing in Russian, but on his writing table there is a silver ashpan in the shape of a peasant’s plaited shoe. He is much run after by our tourists. Matvy Ilyitch Kolyazin, happening to be in temporary opposition, paid him a majestic visit; while the natives, with whom, however, he is very little seen, positively grovel before him. No one can so readily and quickly obtain a ticket for the court chapel, for the theatre, and such things as
der Herr Baron von Kirsanoff
. He does everything good - naturedly that he can; he still makes some little noise in the world; it is not for nothing that he was once a great society lion; — but life is a burden to him ... a heavier burden than he suspects himself. One need but glance at him in the Russian church, when, leaning against the wall on one side, he sinks into thought, and remains long without stirring, bitterly compressing his lips, then suddenly recollects himself, and begins almost imperceptibly crossing himself....

Madame Kukshin, too, went abroad. She is in Heidelberg, and is now studying not natural science, but architecture, in which, according to her own account, she has discovered new laws. She still fraternises with students, especially with the young Russians studying natural science and chemistry, with whom Heidelberg is crowded, and who, astounding the naïve German professors at first by the soundness of their views of things, astound the same professors no less in the sequel by their complete inefficiency and absolute idleness. In company with two or three such young chemists, who don’t know oxygen from nitrogen, but are filled with scepticism and self - conceit, and, too, with the great Elisyevitch, Sitnikov roams about Petersburg, also getting ready to be great, and in his own conviction continues the ‘work’ of Bazarov. There is a story that some one recently gave him a beating; but he was avenged upon him; in an obscure little article, hidden in an obscure little journal, he has hinted that the man who beat him was a coward. He calls this irony. His father bullies him as before, while his wife regards him as a fool ... and a literary man.

There is a small village graveyard in one of the remote corners of Russia. Like almost all our graveyards, it presents a wretched appearance; the ditches surrounding it have long been overgrown; the grey wooden crosses lie fallen and rotting under their once painted gables; the stone slabs are all displaced, as though some one were pushing them up from behind; two or three bare trees give a scanty shade; the sheep wander unchecked among the tombs.... But among them is one untouched by man, untrampled by beast, only the birds perch upon it and sing at daybreak. An iron railing runs round it; two young fir - trees have been planted, one at each end. Yevgeny Bazarov 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. Supporting one another, they move to it with heavy steps; they go up to the railing, fall down, and remain on their knees, and long and bitterly they weep, and yearn and intently gaze at the dumb stone, under which their son is lying; they exchange some brief word, wipe away the dust from the stone, set straight a branch of a fir - tree, and pray again, and cannot tear themselves from this place, where they seem to be nearer to their son, to their memories of him.... 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, of that great peace of ‘indifferent’ nature; tell us too of eternal reconciliation and of life without end.