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Youth
By
Leo Tolstoy
Contents
I.
WHAT I CONSIDER TO HAVE BEEN THE BEGINNING OF MY YOUTH..
VII. THE EXPEDITION T=
O THE
MONASTERY
IX. HOW I PREPARED MY=
SELF FOR
THE EXAMINATIONS
X. THE EXAMINATION IN=
HISTORY
XI. MY EXAMINATION IN
MATHEMATICS
XII. MY EXAMINATION I=
N LATIN
XIV. HOW WOLODA AND D=
UBKOFF
AMUSED THEMSELVES
XVII. I GET READY TO =
PAY SOME
CALLS
XXII. INTIMATE CONVER=
SATION
WITH MY FRIEND
XXV. I BECOME BETTER
ACQUAINTED WITH THE NECHLUDOFFS
XXIX. RELATIONS BETWE=
EN THE
GIRLS AND OURSELVES
XXXIV. MY FATHER'S SE=
COND
MARRIAGE
XXXV. HOW WE RECEIVED=
THE
NEWS
XXXVII. AFFAIRS OF TH=
E HEART
XL. MY FRIENDSHIP WIT=
H THE
NECHLUDOFFS
XLI. MY FRIENDSHIP WI=
TH THE
NECHLUDOFFS
I. WHAT I CONSIDER TO HAVE
BEEN THE BEGINNING OF MY YOUTH=
I have said that =
my
friendship with Dimitri opened up for me a new view of my life and of its a=
im
and relations. The essence of that view lay in the conviction that the dest=
iny
of man is to strive for moral improvement, and that such improvement is at =
once
easy, possible, and lasting. Hitherto, however, I had found pleasure only in
the new ideas which I discovered to arise from that conviction, and in the
forming of brilliant plans for a moral, active future, while all the time my
life had been continuing along its old petty, muddled, pleasure-seeking cou=
rse,
and the same virtuous thoughts which I and my adored friend Dimitri ("=
my
own marvellous Mitia," as I used to call him to myself in a whisper) h=
ad
been wont to exchange with one another still pleased my intellect, but left=
my
sensibility untouched. Nevertheless there came a moment when those thoughts
swept into my head with a sudden freshness and force of moral revelation wh=
ich
left me aghast at the amount of time which I had been wasting, and made me =
feel
as though I must at once--that very second--apply those thoughts to life, w=
ith
the firm intention of never again changing them.
It is from that
moment that I date the beginning of my youth.
I was then nearly
sixteen. Tutors still attended to give me lessons, St. Jerome still acted as
general supervisor of my education, and, willy-nilly, I was being prepared =
for
the University. In addition to my studies, my occupations included certain
vague dreamings and ponderings, a number of gymnastic exercises to make mys=
elf
the finest athlete in the world, a good deal of aimless, thoughtless wander=
ing
through the rooms of the house (but more especially along the maidservants'
corridor), and much looking at myself in the mirror. From the latter, howev=
er,
I always turned away with a vague feeling of depression, almost of repulsio=
n.
Not only did I feel sure that my exterior was ugly, but I could derive no c=
omfort
from any of the usual consolations under such circumstances. I could not sa=
y,
for instance, that I had at least an expressive, clever, or refined face, f=
or
there was nothing whatever expressive about it. Its features were of the mo=
st
humdrum, dull, and unbecoming type, with small grey eyes which seemed to me,
whenever I regarded them in the mirror, to be stupid rather than clever. Of
manly bearing I possessed even less, since, although I was not exactly smal=
l of
stature, and had, moreover, plenty of strength for my years, every feature =
in
my face was of the meek, sleepy-looking, indefinite type. Even refinement w=
as
lacking in it, since, on the contrary, it precisely resembled that of a sim=
ple-looking
moujik, while I also had the same big hands and feet as he. At the time, all
this seemed to me very shameful.
Easter of the year
when I entered the University fell late in April, so that the examinations =
were
fixed for St. Thomas's Week, [Easter week.] and I had to spend Good Friday =
in
fasting and finally getting myself ready for the ordeal.
Following upon wet
snow (the kind of stuff which Karl Ivanitch used to describe as "a chi=
ld
following, its father"), the weather had for three days been bright and
mild and still. Not a clot of snow was now to be seen in the streets, and t=
he
dirty slush had given place to wet, shining pavements and coursing rivulets.
The last icicles on the roofs were fast melting in the sunshine, buds were
swelling on the trees in the little garden, the path leading across the
courtyard to the stables was soft instead of being a frozen ridge of mud, a=
nd
mossy grass was showing green between the stones around the entrance-steps.=
It
was just that particular time in spring when the season exercises the stron=
gest
influence upon the human soul--when clear sunlight illuminates everything, =
yet
sheds no warmth, when rivulets run trickling under one's feet, when the air=
is
charged with an odorous freshness, and when the bright blue sky is streaked
with long, transparent clouds.
For some reason or
another the influence of this early stage in the birth of spring always see=
ms
to me more perceptible and more impressive in a great town than in the coun=
try.
One sees less, but one feels more. I was standing near the window--through =
the
double frames of which the morning sun was throwing its mote-flecked beams =
upon
the floor of what seemed to me my intolerably wearisome schoolroom--and wor=
king
out a long algebraical equation on the blackboard. In one hand I was holdin=
g a ragged,
long-suffering "Algebra" and in the other a small piece of chalk =
which
had already besmeared my hands, my face, and the elbows of my jacket. Nicol=
a,
clad in an apron, and with his sleeves rolled up, was picking out the putty
from the window-frames with a pair of nippers, and unfastening the screws. =
The
window looked out upon the little garden. At length his occupation and the
noise which he was making over it arrested my attention. At the moment I wa=
s in
a very cross, dissatisfied frame of mind, for nothing seemed to be going ri=
ght
with me. I had made a mistake at the very beginning of my algebra, and so
should have to work it out again; twice I had let the chalk drop. I was
conscious that my hands and face were whitened all over; the sponge had rol=
led
away into a corner; and the noise of Nicola's operations was fast getting o=
n my
nerves. I had a feeling as though I wanted to fly into a temper and grumble=
at some
one, so I threw down chalk and "Algebra" alike, and began to pace=
the
room. Then suddenly I remembered that to-day we were to go to confession, a=
nd
that therefore I must refrain from doing anything wrong. Next, with equal
suddenness I relapsed into an extraordinarily goodhumoured frame of mind, a=
nd
walked across to Nicola.
"Let me help you, Nicola," I said, trying to speak as pleasantly as I possibly coul= d. The idea that I was performing a meritorious action in thus suppressing my ill-temper and offering to help him increased my good-humour all the more.<= o:p>
By this time the putty had been chipped out, and the screws removed, yet, though Nicola pull= ed with might and main at the cross-piece, the window-frame refused to budge.<= o:p>
"If it comes=
out
as soon as he and I begin to pull at it together," I thought, "it
will be rather a shame, as then I shall have nothing more of the kind to do
to-day."
Suddenly the frame
yielded a little at one side, and came out.
"Where shall=
I
put it?" I said.
"Let ME see =
to
it, if you please," replied Nicola, evidently surprised as well as,
seemingly, not over-pleased at my zeal. "We must not leave it here, but
carry it away to the lumber-room, where I keep all the frames stored and
numbered."
"Oh, but I c=
an
manage it," I said as I lifted it up. I verily believe that if the
lumber-room had been a couple of versts away, and the frame twice as heavy =
as
it was, I should have been the more pleased. I felt as though I wanted to t=
ire
myself out in performing this service for Nicola. When I returned to the ro=
om
the bricks and screws had been replaced on the windowsill, and Nicola was
sweeping the debris, as well as a few torpid flies, out of the open window.=
The
fresh, fragrant air was rushing into and filling all the room, while with it
came also the dull murmur of the city and the twittering of sparrows in the
garden. Everything was in brilliant light, the room looked cheerful, and a =
gentle
spring breeze was stirring Nicola's hair and the leaves of my "Algebra=
."
Approaching the window, I sat down upon the sill, turned my eyes downwards
towards the garden, and fell into a brown study.
Something new to =
me,
something extraordinarily potent and unfamiliar, had suddenly invaded my so=
ul.
The wet ground on which, here and there, a few yellowish stalks and blades =
of
bright-green grass were to be seen; the little rivulets glittering in the
sunshine, and sweeping clods of earth and tiny chips of wood along with the=
m;
the reddish twigs of the lilac, with their swelling buds, which nodded just
beneath the window; the fussy twitterings of birds as they fluttered in the
bush below; the blackened fence shining wet from the snow which had lately
melted off it; and, most of all, the raw, odorous air and radiant sunlight-=
-all
spoke to me, clearly and unmistakably, of something new and beautiful, of
something which, though I cannot repeat it here as it was then expressed to=
me,
I will try to reproduce so far as I understood it. Everything spoke to me of
beauty, happiness, and virtue--as three things which were both easy and
possible for me--and said that no one of them could exist without the other
two, since beauty, happiness, and virtue were one. "How did I never co=
me
to understand that before?" I cried to myself. "How did I ever ma=
nage
to be so wicked? Oh, but how good, how happy, I could be--nay, I WILL be--in
the future! At once, at once--yes, this very minute--I will become another
being, and begin to live differently!" For all that, I continued sitti=
ng
on the window-sill, continued merely dreaming, and doing nothing. Have you
ever, on a summer's day, gone to bed in dull, rainy weather, and, waking ju=
st at
sunset, opened your eyes and seen through the square space of the window--t=
he
space where the linen blind is blowing up and down, and beating its rod upon
the window-sill--the rain-soaked, shadowy, purple vista of an avenue of
lime-trees, with a damp garden path lit up by the clear, slanting beams of =
the
sun, and then suddenly heard the joyous sounds of bird life in the garden, =
and
seen insects flying to and fro at the open window, and glittering in the
sunlight, and smelt the fragrance of the rain-washed air, and thought to
yourself, "Am I not ashamed to be lying in bed on such an evening as
this?" and, leaping joyously to your feet, gone out into the garden and
revelled in all that welter of life? If you have, then you can imagine for
yourself the overpowering sensation which was then possessing me.
"To-day I wi=
ll
make my confession and purge myself of every sin," I thought to myself.
"Nor will I ever commit another one." At this point I recalled all
the peccadilloes which most troubled my conscience. "I will go to chur=
ch
regularly every Sunday, as well as read the Gospel at the close of every ho=
ur
throughout the day. What is more, I will set aside, out of the cheque which=
I
shall receive each month after I have gone to the University, two-and-a-half
roubles" (a tenth of my monthly allowance) "for people who are po=
or
but not exactly beggars, yet without letting any one know anything about it.
Yes, I will begin to look out for people like that--orphans or old women--at
once, yet never tell a soul what I am doing for them.
"Also, I will
have a room here of my very own (St. Jerome's, probably), and look after it
myself, and keep it perfectly clean. I will never let any one do anything f=
or
me, for every one is just a human being like myself. Likewise I will walk e=
very
day, not drive, to the University. Even if some one gives me a drozhki [Rus=
sian
phaeton.] I will sell it, and devote the money to the poor. Everything I wi=
ll
do exactly and always" (what that "always" meant I could not
possibly have said, but at least I had a vivid consciousness of its connoti=
ng
some kind of prudent, moral, and irreproachable life). "I will get up =
all
my lectures thoroughly, and go over all the subjects beforehand, so that at=
the
end of my first course I may come out top and write a thesis. During my sec=
ond
course also I will get up everything beforehand, so that I may soon be tran=
sferred
to the third course, and at eighteen come out top in the examinations, and
receive two gold medals, and go on to be Master of Arts, and Doctor, and the
first scholar in Europe. Yes, in all Europe I mean to be the first
scholar.--Well, what next?" I asked myself at this point. Suddenly it
struck me that dreams of this sort were a form of pride--a sin which I shou=
ld
have to confess to the priest that very evening, so I returned to the origi=
nal
thread of my meditations. "When getting up my lectures I will go to the
Vorobievi Gori, [Sparrow Hills--a public park near Moscow.] and choose some
spot under a tree, and read my lectures over there. Sometimes I will take w=
ith
me something to eat--cheese or a pie from Pedotti's, or something of the ki=
nd.
After that I will sleep a little, and then read some good book or other, or=
else
draw pictures or play on some instrument (certainly I must learn to play the
flute). Perhaps SHE too will be walking on the Vorobievi Gori, and will
approach me one day and say, 'Who are you?' and I shall look at her, oh, so
sadly, and say that I am the son of a priest, and that I am happy only when=
I
am there alone, quite alone. Then she will give me her hand, and say someth=
ing
to me, and sit down beside me. So every day we shall go to the same spot, a=
nd
be friends together, and I shall kiss her. But no! That would not be right!=
On
the contrary, from this day forward I never mean to look at a woman again.
Never, never again do I mean to walk with a girl, nor even to go near one i=
f I can
help it. Yet, of course, in three years' time, when I have come of age, I s=
hall
marry. Also, I mean to take as much exercise as ever I can, and to do gymna=
stics
every day, so that, when I have turned twenty-five, I shall be stronger even
than Rappo. On my first day's training I mean to hold out half a pood [The =
Pood
=3D 40 Russian pounds.] at arm's length for five minutes, and the next day
twenty-one pounds, and the third day twenty-two pounds, and so on, until at
last I can hold out four poods in each hand, and be stronger even than a
porter. Then, if ever any one should try to insult me or should begin to sp=
eak
disrespectfully of HER, I shall take him so, by the front of his coat, and =
lift
him up an arshin [The arshin =3D 2 feet 3 inches.] or two with one hand, an=
d just
hold him there, so that he may feel my strength and cease from his conduct.=
Yet
that too would not be right. No, no, it would not matter; I should not hurt
him, merely show him that I--"
Let no one blame =
me
because the dreams of my youth were as foolish as those of my childhood and
boyhood. I am sure that, even if it be my fate to live to extreme old age a=
nd
to continue my story with the years, I, an old man of seventy, shall be fou=
nd
dreaming dreams just as impossible and childish as those I am dreaming now.=
I
shall be dreaming of some lovely Maria who loves me, the toothless old man,=
as
she might love a Mazeppa; of some imbecile son who, through some extraordin=
ary
chance, has suddenly become a minister of state; of my suddenly receiving a=
windfall
of a million of roubles. I am sure that there exists no human being, no hum=
an
age, to whom or to which that gracious, consolatory power of dreaming is
totally a stranger. Yet, save for the one general feature of magic and
impossibility, the dreams of each human being, of each age of man, have the=
ir
own distinguishing characteristics. At the period upon which I look as havi=
ng
marked the close of my boyhood and the beginning of my youth, four leading
sentiments formed the basis of my dreams. The first of those sentiments was
love for HER--for an imaginary woman whom I always pictured the same in my
dreams, and whom I somehow expected to meet some day and somewhere. This sh=
e of
mine had a little of Sonetchka in her, a little of Masha as Masha could look
when she stood washing linen over the clothes-tub, and a little of a certai=
n woman
with pearls round her fair white neck whom I had once seen long, long ago a=
t a
theatre, in a box below our own. My second sentiment was a craving for love=
. I
wanted every one to know me and to love me. I wanted to be able to utter my
name--Nicola Irtenieff--and at once to see every one thunderstruck at it, a=
nd
come crowding round me and thanking me for something or another, I hardly k=
new
what. My third sentiment was the expectation of some extraordinary, glorious
happiness that was impending--some happiness so strong and assured as to ve=
rge
upon ecstasy. Indeed, so firmly persuaded was I that very, very soon some u=
nexpected
chance would suddenly make me the richest and most famous man in the world =
that
I lived in constant, tremulous expectation of this magic good fortune befal=
ling
me. I was always thinking to myself that "IT is beginning," and t=
hat
I should go on thereafter to attain everything that a man could wish for. C=
onsequently,
I was for ever hurrying from place to place, in the belief that "IT&qu=
ot;
must be "beginning" just where I happened not to be. Lastly, my
fourth and principal sentiment of all was abhorrence of myself, mingled wit=
h regret--yet
a regret so blended with the certain expectation of happiness to which I ha=
ve
referred that it had in it nothing of sorrow. It seemed to me that it would=
be
so easy and natural for me to tear myself away from my past and to remake
it--to forget all that had been, and to begin my life, with all its relatio=
ns,
anew--that the past never troubled me, never clung to me at all. I even fou=
nd a
certain pleasure in detesting the past, and in seeing it in a darker light =
than
the true one. This note of regret and of a curious longing for perfection w=
ere the
chief mental impressions which I gathered from that new stage of my growth-=
-impressions
which imparted new principles to my view of myself, of men, and of God's wo=
rld.
O good and consoling voice, which in later days, in sorrowful days when my =
soul
yielded silently to the sway of life's falseness and depravity, so often ra=
ised
a sudden, bold protest against all iniquity, as well as mercilessly exposed=
the
past, commanded, nay, compelled, me to love only the pure vista of the pres=
ent,
and promised me all that was fair and happy in the future! O good and conso=
ling
voice! Surely the day will never come when you are silent?
PAPA was seldom at
home that spring. Yet, whenever he was so, he seemed extraordinarily cheerf=
ul
as he either strummed his favourite pieces on the piano or looked roguishly=
at
us and made jokes about us all, not excluding even Mimi. For instance, he w=
ould
say that the Tsarevitch himself had seen Mimi at the rink, and fallen so mu=
ch
in love with her that he had presented a petition to the Synod for divorce;=
or
else that I had been granted an appointment as secretary to the Austrian am=
bassador--a
piece of news which he imparted to us with a perfectly grave face. Next, he
would frighten Katenka with some spiders (of which she was very much afraid=
),
engage in an animated conversation with our friends Dubkoff and Nechludoff,=
and
tell us and our guests, over and over again, his plans for the year. Althou=
gh
these plans changed almost from day to day, and were for ever contradicting=
one
another, they seemed so attractive that we were always glad to listen to th=
em,
and Lubotshka, in particular, would glue her eyes to his face, so as not to=
lose
a single word. One day his plan would be that he should leave my brother and
myself at the University, and go and live with Lubotshka in Italy for two
years. Next, the plan would be that he should buy an estate on the south co=
ast
of the Crimea, and take us for an annual visit there; next, that we should
migrate en masse to St. Petersburg; and so forth. Yet, in addition to this
unusual cheerfulness of his, another change had come over him of late--a ch=
ange
which greatly surprised me. This was that he had had some fashionable cloth=
es
made--an olive-coloured frockcoat, smart trousers with straps at the sides,=
and
a long wadded greatcoat which fitted him to perfection. Often, too, there w=
as a
delightful smell of scent about him when he came home from a party--more
especially when he had been to see a lady of whom Mimi never spoke but with=
a
sigh and a face that seemed to say: "Poor orphans! How dreadful! It is=
a
good thing that SHE is gone now!" and so on, and so on. From Nicola (f=
or
Papa never spoke to us of his gambling) I had learnt that he (Papa) had been
very fortunate in play that winter, and so had won an extraordinary amount =
of
money, all of which he had placed in the bank after vowing that he would pl=
ay
no more that spring. Evidently, it was his fear of being unable to resist a=
gain
doing so that was rendering him anxious to leave for the country as soon as
possible. Indeed, he ended by deciding not to wait until I had entered the =
University,
but to take the girls to Petrovskoe immediately after Easter, and to leave
Woloda and myself to follow them at a later season.
All that winter,
until the opening of spring, Woloda had been inseparable from Dubkoff, whil=
e at
the same time the pair of them had cooled greatly towards Dimitri. Their ch=
ief
amusements (so I gathered from conversations overheard) were continual drin=
king
of champagne, sledge-driving past the windows of a lady with whom both of t=
hem appeared
to be in love, and dancing with her--not at children's parties, either, but=
at
real balls! It was this last fact which, despite our love for one another,
placed a vast gulf between Woloda and myself. We felt that the distance bet=
ween
a boy still taking lessons under a tutor and a man who danced at real, grow=
n-up
balls was too great to allow of their exchanging mutual ideas. Katenka, too,
seemed grown-up now, and read innumerable novels; so that the idea that she
would some day be getting married no longer seemed to me a joke. Yet, though
she and Woloda were thus grown-up, they never made friends with one another,
but, on the contrary, seemed to cherish a mutual contempt. In general, when
Katenka was at home alone, nothing but novels amused her, and they but
slightly; but as soon as ever a visitor of the opposite sex called, she at =
once
grew lively and amiable, and used her eyes for saying things which I could =
not
then understand. It was only later, when she one day informed me in
conversation that the only thing a girl was allowed to indulge in was
coquetry--coquetry of the eyes, I mean--that I understood those strange
contortions of her features which to every one else had seemed a matter for=
no
surprise at all. Lubotshka also had begun to wear what was almost a long
dress--a dress which almost concealed her goose-shaped feet; yet she still
remained as ready a weeper as ever. She dreamed now of marrying, not a huss=
ar,
but a singer or an instrumentalist, and accordingly applied herself to her
music with greater diligence than ever. St. Jerome, who knew that he was go=
ing
to remain with us only until my examinations were over, and so had obtained=
for
himself a new post in the family of some count or another, now looked with
contempt upon the members of our household. He stayed indoors very little, =
took
to smoking cigarettes (then all the rage), and was for ever whistling lively
tunes on the edge of a card. Mimi daily grew more and more despondent, as
though, now that we were beginning to grow up, she looked for nothing good =
from
any one or anything.
When, on the day =
of
which I am speaking, I went in to luncheon I found only Mimi, Katenka,
Lubotshka, and St. Jerome in the dining-room. Papa was away, and Woloda in =
his
own room, doing some preparation work for his examinations in company with a
party of his comrades: wherefore he had requested that lunch should be sent=
to
him there. Of late, Mimi had usually taken the head of the table, and as no=
ne
of us had any respect for her, luncheon had lost most of its refinement and
charm. That is to say, the meal was no longer what it had been in Mamma's or
our grandmother's time, namely, a kind of rite which brought all the family=
together
at a given hour and divided the day into two halves. We allowed ourselves to
come in as late as the second course, to drink wine in tumblers (St. Jerome
himself set us the example), to roll about on our chairs, to depart without
saying grace, and so on. In fact, luncheon had ceased to be a family ceremo=
ny.
In the old days at Petrovskoe, every one had been used to wash and dress for
the meal, and then to repair to the drawing-room as the appointed hour (two
o'clock) drew near, and pass the time of waiting in lively conversation. Ju=
st
as the clock in the servants' hall was beginning to whirr before striking t=
he
hour, Foka would enter with noiseless footsteps, and, throwing his napkin o=
ver
his arm and assuming a dignified, rather severe expression, would say in lo=
ud,
measured tones: "Luncheon is ready!" Thereupon, with pleased, che=
erful
faces, we would form a procession--the elders going first and the juniors
following, and, with much rustling of starched petticoats and subdued creak=
ing
of boots and shoes--would proceed to the dining-room, where, still talking =
in
undertones, the company would seat themselves in their accustomed places. O=
r,
again, at Moscow, we would all of us be standing before the table ready-lai=
d in
the hall, talking quietly among ourselves as we waited for our grandmother,
whom the butler, Gabriel, had gone to acquaint with the fact that luncheon =
was ready.
Suddenly the door would open, there would come the faint swish of a dress a=
nd
the sound of footsteps, and our grandmother--dressed in a mob-cap trimmed w=
ith
a quaint old lilac bow, and wearing either a smile or a severe expression on
her face according as the state of her health inclined her--would issue from
her room. Gabriel would hasten to precede her to her arm-chair, the other
chairs would make a scraping sound, and, with a feeling as though a cold sh=
iver
(the precursor of appetite) were running down one's back, one would seize u=
pon
one's damp, starched napkin, nibble a morsel or two of bread, and, rubbing
one's hands softly under the table, gaze with eager, radiant impatience at =
the
steaming plates of soup which the butler was beginning to dispense in order=
of ranks
and ages or according to the favour of our grandmother.
On the present
occasion, however, I was conscious of neither excitement nor pleasure when I
went in to luncheon. Even the mingled chatter of Mimi, the girls, and St.
Jerome about the horrible boots of our Russian tutor, the pleated dresses w=
orn
by the young Princesses Kornakoff, and so forth (chatter which at any other
time would have filled me with a sincerity of contempt which I should have =
been
at no pains to conceal--at all events so far as Lubotshka and Katenka were
concerned), failed to shake the benevolent frame of mind into which I had
fallen. I was unusually good-humoured that day, and listened to everything =
with
a smile and a studied air of kindness. Even when I asked for the kvas I did=
so
politely, while I lost not a moment in agreeing with St. Jerome when he tol=
d me
that it was undoubtedly more correct to say "Je peux" than "=
Je
puis." Yet, I must confess to a certain disappointment at finding that=
no
one paid any particular attention to my politeness and good-humour. After
luncheon, Lubotshka showed me a paper on which she had written down a list =
of
her sins: upon which I observed that, although the idea was excellent so fa=
r as
it went, it would be still better for her to write down her sins on her
SOUL--"a very different matter."
"Why is it 'a
very different matter'?" asked Lubotshka.
"Never mind:
that is all right; you do not understand me," and I went upstairs to my
room, telling St. Jerome that I was going to work, but in reality purposing=
to
occupy the hour and a half before confession time in writing down a list of=
my
daily tasks and duties which should last me all my life, together with a
statement of my life's aim, and the rules by which I meant unswervingly to =
be
guided.
I TOOK some sheet=
s of
paper, and tried, first of all, to make a list of my tasks and duties for t=
he
coming year. The paper needed ruling, but, as I could not find the ruler, I=
had
to use a Latin dictionary instead. The result was that, when I had drawn the
pen along the edge of the dictionary and removed the latter, I found that, =
in
place of a line, I had only made an oblong smudge on the paper, since the
dictionary was not long enough to reach across it, and the pen had slipped
round the soft, yielding corner of the book. Thereupon I took another piece=
of paper,
and, by carefully manipulating the dictionary, contrived to rule what at le=
ast
RESEMBLED lines. Dividing my duties into three sections--my duties to mysel=
f,
my duties to my neighbour, and my duties to God--I started to indite a list=
of
the first of those sections, but they seemed to me so numerous, and therefo=
re
requiring to be divided into so many species and subdivisions, that I thoug=
ht I
had better first of all write down the heading of "Rules of My Life&qu=
ot;
before proceeding to their detailed inscription. Accordingly, I proceeded to
write "Rules of My Life" on the outside of the six sheets of paper
which I had made into a sort of folio, but the words came out in such a cro=
oked
and uneven scrawl that for long I sat debating the question, "Shall I
write them again?"--for long, sat in agonised contemplation of the rag=
ged handwriting
and disfigured title-page. Why was it that all the beauty and clarity which=
my
soul then contained came out so misshapenly on paper (as in life itself) ju=
st
when I was wishing to apply those qualities to what I was thinking at the
moment?
"The priest =
is
here, so please come downstairs and hear his directions," said Nicola =
as
he entered.
Hurriedly conceal=
ing
my folio under the table-cloth, I looked at myself in the mirror, combed my
hair upwards (I imagined this to give me a pensive air), and descended to t=
he
divannaia, [Room with divans, or ante-room] where the table stood covered w=
ith
a cloth and had an ikon and candles placed upon it. Papa entered just as I =
did,
but by another door: whereupon the priest--a grey-headed old monk with a
severe, elderly face--blessed him, and Papa kissed his small, squat, wizene=
d hand.
I did the same.
"Go and call
Woldemar," said Papa. "Where is he? Wait a minute, though. Perhap=
s he
is preparing for the Communion at the University?"
"No, he is w=
ith
the Prince," said Katenka, and glanced at Lubotshka. Suddenly the latt=
er
blushed for some reason or another, and then frowned. Finally, pretending t=
hat
she was not well, she left the room, and I followed her. In the drawing-room
she halted, and began to pencil something fresh on her paper of peccadilloe=
s.
"Well, what =
new
sin have you gone and committed?" I asked.
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
she replied with another blush. All at once we heard Dimitri's voice raised=
in
the hall as he took his leave of Woloda.
"It seems to=
me
you are always experiencing some new temptation," said Katenka, who had
entered the room behind us, and now stood looking at Lubotshka.
What was the matt=
er
with my sister I could not conceive, but she was now so agitated that the t=
ears
were starting from her eyes. Finally her confusion grew uncontrollable, and
vented itself in rage against both herself and Katenka, who appeared to be
teasing her.
"Any one can=
see
that you are a FOREIGNER!" she cried (nothing offended Katenka so much=
as
to be called by that term, which is why Lubotshka used it). "Just beca=
use
I have the secret of which you know," she went on, with anger ringing
through her tone, "you purposely go and upset me! Please do understand
that it is no joking matter."
"Do you know
what she has gone and written on her paper, Nicolinka?" cried Katenka,
much infuriated by the term "foreigner." "She has written do=
wn
that--"
"Oh, I never
could have believed that you could be so cruel!" exclaimed Lubotshka, =
now
bursting into open sobbing as she moved away from us. "You chose that
moment on purpose! You spend your whole time in trying to make me sin! I'll
never go to YOU again for sympathy and advice!"
With these and ot=
her
disjointed impressions in my mind, I returned to the divannaia. As soon as
every one had reassembled, the priest rose and prepared to read the prayer
before confession. The instant that the silence was broken by the stern,
expressive voice of the monk as he recited the prayer--and more especially =
when
he addressed to us the words: "Reveal thou all thy sins without shame,
concealment, or extenuation, and let thy soul be cleansed before God: for if
thou concealest aught, then great will be thy sin"--the same sensation=
of reverent
awe came over me as I had felt during the morning. I even took a certain
pleasure in recognising this condition of mine, and strove to preserve it, =
not
only by restraining all other thoughts from entering my brain, but also by
consciously exerting myself to feel no other sensation than this same one of
reverence.
Papa was the firs=
t to
go to confession. He remained a long, long time in the room which had belon=
ged
to our grandmother, and during that time the rest of us kept silence in the
divannaia, or only whispered to one another on the subject of who should
precede whom. At length, the voice of the priest again reading the prayer
sounded from the doorway, and then Papa's footsteps. The door creaked as he
came out, coughing and holding one shoulder higher than the other, in his u=
sual
way, and for the moment he did not look at any of us.
"YOU go now,
Luba," he said presently, as he gave her cheek a mischievous pinch.
"Mind you tell him everything. You are my greatest sinner, you know.&q=
uot;
Lubotshka went red
and pale by turns, took her memorandum paper out of her apron, replaced it,=
and
finally moved away towards the doorway with her head sunk between her shoul=
ders
as though she expected to receive a blow upon it from above. She was not lo=
ng
gone, and when she returned her shoulders were shaking with sobs.
At length--next a=
fter
the excellent Katenka (who came out of the doorway with a smile on her
face)--my turn arrived. I entered the dimly-lighted room with the same vague
feeling of awe, the same conscious eagerness to arouse that feeling more and
more in my soul, that had possessed me up to the present moment. The priest,
standing in front of a reading-desk, slowly turned his face to me.
I was not more th=
an
five minutes in the room, but came out from it happy and (so I persuaded
myself) entirely cleansed--a new, a morally reborn individual. Despite the =
fact
that the old surroundings of my life now struck me as unfamiliar (even thou=
gh
the rooms, the furniture, and my own figure--would to heavens that I could =
have
changed my outer man for the better in the same way that I believed myself =
to
have changed my inner I--were the same as before), I remained in that
comfortable attitude of mine until the very moment of bedtime.
Yet, no sooner ha=
d I
begun to grow drowsy with the conning over of my sins than in a flash I
recollected a particularly shameful sin which I had suppressed at confession
time. Instantly the words of the prayer before confession came back to my
memory and began sounding in my ears. My peace was gone for ever. "For=
if
thou concealest aught, then great will be thy sin." Each time that the
phrase recurred to me I saw myself a sinner for whom no punishment was
adequate. Long did I toss from side to side as I considered my position, wh=
ile
expecting every moment to be visited with the divine wrath--to be struck wi=
th
sudden death, perhaps!--an insupportable thought! Then suddenly the reassur=
ing
thought occurred to me: "Why should I not drive out to the monastery w=
hen
the morning comes, and see the priest again, and make a second
confession?" Thereafter I grew calmer.
VII. THE EXPEDITION TO THE
MONASTERY
Several times that
night I woke in terror at the thought that I might be oversleeping myself, =
and
by six o'clock was out of bed, although the dawn was hardly peeping in at t=
he
window. I put on my clothes and boots (all of which were lying tumbled and
unbrushed beside the bed, since Nicola, of course had not been in yet to ti=
dy
them up), and, without a prayer said or my face washed, emerged, for the fi=
rst
time in my life, into the street ALONE.
Over the way, beh=
ind the
green roof of a large building, the dim, cold dawn was beginning to blush r=
ed.
The keen frost of the spring morning which had stiffened the pools and mud =
and
made them crackle under my feet now nipped my face and hands also. Not a cab
was to be seen, though I had counted upon one to make the journey out and h=
ome
the quicker. Only a file of waggons was rumbling along the Arbat Prospect, =
and
a couple of bricklayers talking noisily together as they strode along the p=
avement.
However, after walking a verst or so I began to meet men and women taking
baskets to market or going with empty barrels to fetch the day's water supp=
ly;
until at length, at the cross streets near the Arbat Gate, where a pieman h=
ad
set up his stall and a baker was just opening his shop, I espied an old cab=
man
shaking himself after indulging in a nap on the box of his be-scratched old
blue-painted, hobble-de-hoy wreck of a drozhki. He seemed barely awake as he
asked twenty copecks as the fare to the monastery and back, but came to him=
self
a moment afterwards, just as I was about to get in, and, touching up his ho=
rse
with the spare end of the reins, started to drive off and leave me. "My
horse wants feeding," he growled, "I can't take you,
barin.[Sir]"
With some difficu=
lty
and a promise of FORTY copecks I persuaded him to stop. He eyed me narrowly=
as
he pulled up, but nevertheless said: "Very well. Get in, barin." I
must confess that I had some qualms lest he should drive me to a quiet corn=
er
somewhere, and then rob me, but I caught hold of the collar of his ragged
driving-coat, close to where his wrinkled neck showed sadly lean above his
hunched-up back, and climbed on to the blue-painted, curved, rickety scat. =
As
we set off along Vozdvizhenka Street, I noticed that the back of the drozhk=
i was
covered with a strip of the same greenish material as that of which his coat
was made. For some reason or another this reassured me, and I no longer fel=
t nervous
of being taken to a quiet spot and robbed.
The sun had risen=
to
a good height, and was gilding the cupolas of the churches, when we arrived=
at
the monastery. In the shade the frost had not yet given, but in the open
roadway muddy rivulets of water were coursing along, and it was through
fast-thawing mire that the horse went clip-clopping his way. Alighting, and
entering the monastery grounds, I inquired of the first monk whom I met whe=
re I
could find the priest whom I was seeking.
"His cell is
over there," replied the monk as he stopped a moment and pointed towar=
ds a
little building up to which a flight of steps led.
"I respectfu=
lly
thank you," I said, and then fell to wondering what all the monks (who=
at
that moment began to come filing out of the church) must be thinking of me =
as
they glanced in my direction. I was neither a grown-up nor a child, while my
face was unwashed, my hair unbrushed, my clothes tumbled, and my boots
unblacked and muddy. To what class of persons were the brethren assigning
me--for they stared at me hard enough? Nevertheless I proceeded in the
direction which the young priest had pointed out to me.
An old man with b=
ushy
grey eyebrows and a black cassock met me on the narrow path to the cells, a=
nd
asked me what I wanted. For a brief moment I felt inclined to say
"Nothing," and then run back to the drozhki and drive away home; =
but,
for all its beetling brows, the face of the old man inspired confidence, an=
d I
merely said that I wished to see the priest (whom I named).
"Very well,
young sir; I will take you to him," said the old man as he turned roun=
d.
Clearly he had guessed my errand at a stroke. "The father is at matins=
at
this moment, but he will soon be back," and, opening a door, the old m=
an
led me through a neat hall and corridor, all lined with clean matting, to a
cell.
"Please to w=
ait
here," he added, and then, with a kind, reassuring glance, departed.
The little room in
which I found myself was of the smallest possible dimensions, but extremely
neat and clean. Its furniture only consisted of a small table (covered with=
a
cloth, and placed between two equally small casement-windows, in which stood
two pots of geraniums), a stand of ikons, with a lamp suspended in front of
them, a bench, and two chairs. In one corner hung a wall clock, with little
flowers painted on its dial, and brass weights to its chains, while upon two
nails driven into a screen (which, fastened to the ceiling with whitewashed
pegs, probably concealed the bed) hung a couple of cassocks. The windows lo=
oked
out upon a whitewashed wall, about two arshins distant, and in the space
between them there grew a small lilac-bush.
Not a sound
penetrated from without, and in the stillness the measured, friendly stroke=
of
the clock's pendulum seemed to beat quite loudly. The instant that I found
myself alone in this calm retreat all other thoughts and recollections left=
my
head as completely as though they had never been there, and I subsided into=
an
inexpressibly pleasing kind of torpor. The rusty alpaca cassocks with their
frayed linings, the worn black leather bindings of the books with their met=
al
clasps, the dull-green plants with their carefully watered leaves and soil,
and, above all, the abrupt, regular beat of the pendulum, all spoke to me i=
ntimately
of some new life hitherto unknown to me--a life of unity and prayer, of cal=
m,
restful happiness.
"The months,=
the
years, may pass," I thought to myself, "but he remains alone--alw=
ays
at peace, always knowing that his conscience is pure before God, that his
prayer will be heard by Him." For fully half an hour I sat on that cha=
ir,
trying not to move, not even to breathe loudly, for fear I should mar the
harmony of the sounds which were telling me so much, and ever the pendulum
continued to beat the same--now a little louder to the right, now a little
softer to the left.
VIII. THE SECOND CONFESSI=
ON
Suddenly the soun=
d of
the priest's footsteps roused me from this reverie.
"Good mornin=
g to
you," he said as he smoothed his grey hair with his hand. "What c=
an I
do for you?"
I besought him to
give me his blessing, and then kissed his small, wizened hand with great
fervour. After I had explained to him my errand he said nothing, but moved =
away
towards the ikons, and began to read the exhortation: whereupon I overcame =
my
shame, and told him all that was in my heart. Finally he laid his hands upo=
n my
head, and pronounced in his even, resonant voice the words: "My son, m=
ay
the blessing of Our Heavenly Father be upon thee, and may He always preserve
thee in faithfulness, loving-kindness, and meekness. Amen."
I was entirely ha=
ppy.
Tears of joy coursed down my face as I kissed the hem of his cassock and th=
en
raised my head again. The face of the priest expressed perfect tranquillity=
. So
keenly did I feel the joy of reconciliation that, fearing in any way to dis=
pel
it, I took hasty leave of him, and, without looking to one side of me or the
other (in order that my attention might not be distracted), left the grounds
and re-entered the rickety, battered drozhki. Yet the joltings of the vehic=
le
and the variety of objects which flitted past my eyes soon dissipated that
feeling, and I became filled with nothing but the idea that the priest must
have thought me the finest-spirited young man he had ever met, or ever would
meet, in the whole of his life. Indeed, I reflected, there could not be many
such as myself--of that I felt sure, and the conviction produced in me the =
kind
of complacency which craves for self-communication to another. I had a great
desire to unbosom myself to some one, and as there was no one else to speak=
to,
I addressed myself to the cabman.
"Was I very =
long
gone?" I asked him.
"No, not very
long," he replied. He seemed to have grown more cheerful under the
influence of the sunshine. "Yet now it is a good while past my horse's
feeding-time. You see, I am a night cabman."
"Well, I only
seemed to myself to be about a minute," I went on. "Do you know w=
hat
I went there for?" I added, changing my seat to the well of the drozhk=
i,
so as to be nearer the driver.
"What busine=
ss
is it of mine? I drive a fare where he tells me to go," he replied.
"Yes, but, a=
ll
the same, what do you think I went there for?" I persisted.
"I expect so=
me
one you know is going to be buried there, so you went to see about a plot f=
or
the grave."
"No, no, my
friend. Still, DO you know what I went there for?"
"No, of cour=
se I
cannot tell, barin," he repeated.
His voice seemed =
to
me so kind that I decided to edify him by relating the cause of my expediti=
on,
and even telling him of the feeling which I had experienced.
"Shall I tell
you?" I said. "Well, you see,"--and I told him all, as well =
as
inflicted upon him a description of my fine sentiments. To this day I blush=
at
the recollection.
"Well,
well!" said the cabman non-committally, and for a long while afterward=
s he
remained silent and motionless, except that at intervals he adjusted the sk=
irt
of his coat each time that it was jerked from beneath his leg by the joltin=
gs
of his huge boot on the drozhki's step. I felt sure that he must be thinkin=
g of
me even as the priest had done. That is to say, that he must be thinking th=
at
no such fine-spirited young man existed in the world as I. Suddenly he shot=
at
me:
"I tell you
what, barin. You ought to keep God's affairs to yourself."
"What?"=
I
said.
"Those affai=
rs
of yours--they are God's business," he repeated, mumbling the words wi=
th
his toothless lips.
"No, he has =
not
understood me," I thought to myself, and said no more to him till we
reached home.
Although it was n=
ot
my original sense of reconciliation and reverence, but only a sort of
complacency at having experienced such a sense, that lasted in me during the
drive home (and that, too, despite the distraction of the crowds of people =
who
now thronged the sunlit streets in every direction), I had no sooner reached
home than even my spurious complacency was shattered, for I found that I ha=
d not
the forty copecks wherewith to pay the cabman! To the butler, Gabriel, I
already owed a small debt, and he refused to lend me any more. Seeing me tw=
ice
run across the courtyard in quest of the money, the cabman must have divine=
d the
reason, for, leaping from his drozhki, he--notwithstanding that he had seem=
ed
so kind--began to bawl aloud (with an evident desire to punch my head) that
people who do not pay for their cab-rides are swindlers.
None of my family
were yet out of bed, so that, except for the servants, there was no one from
whom to borrow the forty copecks. At length, on my most sacred, sacred word=
of
honour to repay (a word to which, as I could see from his face, he did not
altogether trust), Basil so far yielded to his fondness for me and his
remembrance of the many services I had done him as to pay the cabman. Thus =
all
my beautiful feelings ended in smoke. When I went upstairs to dress for chu=
rch
and go to Communion with the rest I found that my new clothes had not yet c=
ome
home, and so I could not wear them. Then I sinned headlong. Donning my other
suit, I went to Communion in a sad state of mental perturbation, and filled
with complete distrust of all my finer impulses.
IX. HOW I PREPARED MYSELF=
FOR
THE EXAMINATIONS
On the Thursday i=
n Easter
week Papa, my sister, Katenka, and Mimi went away into the country, and no =
one
remained in my grandmother's great house but Woloda, St. Jerome, and myself.
The frame of mind which I had experienced on the day of my confession and
during my subsequent expedition to the monastery had now completely passed
away, and left behind it only a dim, though pleasing, memory which daily be=
came
more and more submerged by the impressions of this emancipated existence.
The folio endorsed
"Rules of My Life" lay concealed beneath a pile of school-books.
Although the idea of the possibility of framing rules, for every occasion i=
n my
life and always letting myself be guided by them still pleased me (since it
appeared an idea at once simple and magnificent, and I was determined to ma=
ke
practical application of it), I seemed somehow to have forgotten to put it =
into
practice at once, and kept deferring doing so until such and such a moment.=
At
the same time, I took pleasure in the thought that every idea which now ent=
ered
my head could be allotted precisely to one or other of my three sections of=
tasks
and duties--those for or to God, those for or to my neighbour, and those fo=
r or
to myself. "I can always refer everything to them," I said to mys=
elf,
"as well as the many, many other ideas which occur to me on one subjec=
t or
another." Yet at this period I often asked myself, "Was I better =
and
more truthful when I only believed in the power of the human intellect, or =
am I
more so now, when I am losing the faculty of developing that power, and am =
in
doubt both as to its potency and as to its importance?" To this I could
return no positive answer.
The sense of free=
dom,
combined with the spring-like feeling of vague expectation to which I have
referred already, so unsettled me that I could not keep myself in hand--cou=
ld
make none but the sorriest of preparations for my University ordeal. Thus I=
was
busy in the schoolroom one morning, and fully aware that I must work hard,
seeing that to-morrow was the day of my examination in a subject of which I=
had
the two whole questions still to read up; yet no sooner had a breath of spr=
ing
come wafted through the window than I felt as though there were something q=
uite
different that I wished to recall to my memory. My hands laid down my book,=
my feet
began to move of themselves, and to set me walking up and down the room, an=
d my
head felt as though some one had suddenly touched in it a little spring and=
set
some machine in motion--so easily and swiftly and naturally did all sorts of
pleasing fancies of which I could catch no more than the radiancy begin
coursing through it. Thus one hour, two hours, elapsed unperceived. Even if=
I sat
down determinedly to my book, and managed to concentrate my whole attention
upon what I was reading, suddenly there would sound in the corridor the
footsteps of a woman and the rustle of her dress. Instantly everything would
escape my mind, and I would find it impossible to remain still any longer,
however much I knew that the woman could only be either Gasha or my grandmo=
ther's
old sewing-maid moving about in the corridor. "Yet suppose it should be
SHE all at once?" I would say to myself. "Suppose IT is beginning
now, and I were to lose it?" and, darting out into the corridor, I wou=
ld
find, each time, that it was only Gasha. Yet for long enough afterwards I c=
ould
not recall my attention to my studies. A little spring had been touched in =
my
head, and a strange mental ferment started afresh. Again, that evening I was
sitting alone beside a tallow candle in my room. Suddenly I looked up for a
moment--to snuff the candle, or to straighten myself in my chair--and at on=
ce became
aware of nothing but the darkness in the corners and the blank of the open
doorway. Then, I also became conscious how still the house was, and felt as=
though
I could do nothing else than go on listening to that stillness, and gazing =
into
the black square of that open doorway, and gradually sinking into a brown s=
tudy
as I sat there without moving. At intervals, however, I would get up, and go
downstairs, and begin wandering through the empty rooms. Once I sat a long
while in the small drawing-room as I listened to Gasha playing "The
Nightingale" (with two fingers) on the piano in the large drawing-room,
where a solitary candle burned. Later, when the moon was bright, I felt obl=
iged
to get out of bed and to lean out of the window, so that I might gaze into =
the
garden, and at the lighted roof of the Shaposnikoff mansion, the straight t=
ower
of our parish church, and the dark shadows of the fence and the lilac-bush
where they lay black upon the path. So long did I remain there that, when I=
at
length returned to bed, it was ten o'clock in the morning before I could op=
en
my eyes again.
In short, had it =
not
been for the tutors who came to give me lessons, as well as for St. Jerome =
(who
at intervals, and very grudgingly, applied a spur to my self-conceit) and, =
most
of all, for the desire to figure as "clever" in the eyes of my fr=
iend
Nechludoff (who looked upon distinctions in University examinations as a ma=
tter
of first-rate importance)--had it not been for all these things, I say, the
spring and my new freedom would have combined to make me forget everything =
I had
ever learnt, and so to go through the examinations to no purpose whatsoever=
.
X. THE EXAMINATION IN HIS=
TORY
ON the 16th of Ap=
ril
I entered, for the first time, and under the wing of St. Jerome, the great =
hall
of the University. I had driven there with St. Jerome in our smart phaeton =
and
wearing the first frockcoat of my life, while the whole of my other
clothes--even down to my socks and linen--were new and of a grander sort. W=
hen
a Swiss waiter relieved me of my greatcoat, and I stood before him in all t=
he
beauty of my attire, I felt almost sorry to dazzle him so. Yet I had no soo=
ner
entered the bright, carpeted, crowded hall, and caught sight of hundreds of
other young men in gymnasium [The Russian gymnasium =3D the English grammar=
or secondary
school.] uniforms or frockcoats (of whom but a few threw me an indifferent
glance), as well as, at the far end, of some solemn-looking professors who =
were
seated on chairs or walking carelessly about among some tables, than I at o=
nce
became disabused of the notion that I should attract the general attention,
while the expression of my face, which at home, and even in the vestibule of
the University buildings, had denoted only a kind of vague regret that I sh=
ould
have to present so important and distinguished an appearance, became exchan=
ged
for an expression of the most acute nervousness and dejection. However, I s=
oon
picked up again when I perceived sitting at one of the desks a very badly, =
untidily
dressed gentleman who, though not really old, was almost entirely grey. He =
was
occupying a seat quite at the back of the hall and a little apart from the
rest, so I hastened to sit down beside him, and then fell to looking at the
candidates for examination, and to forming conclusions about them. Many
different figures and faces were there to be seen there; yet, in my opinion,
they all seemed to divide themselves into three classes. First of all, there
were youths like myself, attending for examination in the company of their
parents or tutors. Among such I could see the youngest Iwin (accompanied by
Frost) and Ilinka Grap (accompanied by his old father). All youths of this =
class
wore the early beginnings of beards, sported prominent linen, sat quietly in
their places, and never opened the books and notebooks which they had broug=
ht
with them, but gazed at the professors and examination tables with
ill-concealed nervousness. The second class of candidates were young men in
gymnasium uniforms. Several of them had attained to the dignity of shaving,=
and
most of them knew one another. They talked loudly, called the professors by
their names and surnames, occupied themselves in getting their subjects rea=
dy,
exchanged notebooks, climbed over desks, fetched themselves pies and sandwi=
ches
from the vestibule, and ate them then and there merely lowering their heads=
to
the level of a desk for propriety's sake. Lastly, the third class of candid=
ates
(which seemed a small one) consisted of oldish men--some of them in frock
coats, but the majority in jackets, and with no linen to be seen. These
preserved a serious demeanour, sat by themselves, and had a very dingy look.
The man who had afforded me consolation by being worse dressed than myself
belonged to this class. Leaning forward upon his elbows, and running his
fingers through his grey, dishevelled hair as he read some book or another,=
he
had thrown me only a momentary glance--and that not a very friendly one--fr=
om a
pair of glittering eyes. Then, as I sat down, he had frowned grimly, and st=
uck
a shiny elbow out to prevent me from coming any nearer. On the other hand, =
the
gymnasium men were over-sociable, and I felt rather afraid of their proximi=
ty.
One of them did not hesitate to thrust a book into my hands, saying, "=
Give
that to that fellow over there, will you?" while another of them excla=
imed
as he pushed past me, "By your leave, young fellow!" and a third =
made
use of my shoulder as a prop when he wanted to scramble over a desk. All th=
is seemed
to me a little rough and unpleasant, for I looked upon myself as immensely
superior to such fellows, and considered that they ought not to treat me wi=
th
such familiarity. At length, the names began to be called out. The gymnasium
men walked out boldly, answered their questions (apparently) well, and came
back looking cheerful. My own class of candidates were much more diffident,=
as
well as appeared to answer worse. Of the oldish men, some answered well, and
some very poorly. When the name "Semenoff" was called out my
neighbour with the grey hair and glittering eyes jostled me roughly, stepped
over my legs, and went up to one of the examiners' tables. It was plain from
the aspect of the professors that he answered well and with assurance, yet,=
on
returning to his place, he did not wait to see where he was placed on the l=
ist,
but quietly collected his notebooks and departed. Several times I shuddered=
at
the sound of the voice calling out the names, but my turn did not come in e=
xact
alphabetical order, though already names had begun to be called beginning w=
ith
"I."
"Ikonin and
Tenieff!" suddenly shouted some one from the professors' end of the ha=
ll.
"Go on, Ikon=
in!
You are being called," said a tall, red-faced gymnasium student near m=
e.
"But who is this BARtenieff or MORtenieff or somebody? I don't know
him."
"It must be
you," whispered St. Jerome loudly in my ear.
"MY name is
IRtenieff," I said to the red-faced student. "Do you think that w=
as
the name they were calling out?"
"Yes. Why on
earth don't you go up?" he replied. "Lord, what a dandy!" he
added under his breath, yet not so quietly but that I failed to hear the wo=
rds
as they came wafted to me from below the desk. In front of me walked Ikonin=
--a tall
young man of about twenty-five, who was one of those whom I had classed as
oldish men. He wore a tight brown frockcoat and a blue satin tie, and had w=
isps
of flaxen hair carefully brushed over his collar in the peasant style. His
appearance had already caught my attention when we were sitting among the
desks, and had given me an impression that he was not bad-looking. Also I h=
ad
noticed that he was very talkative. Yet what struck me most about his
physiognomy was a tuft, of queer red hairs which he had under his chin, as =
well
as, still more, a strange habit of continually unbuttoning his waistcoat an=
d scratching
his chest under his shirt.
Behind the table =
to
which we were summoned sat three Professors, none of whom acknowledged our
salutations. A youngish professor was shuffling a bundle of tickets like a =
pack
of cards; another one, with a star on his frockcoat, was gazing hard at a
gymnasium student, who was repeating something at great speed about Charles=
the
Great, and adding to each of his sentences the word nakonetz [=3D the Engli=
sh
colloquialism "you know."] while a third one--an old man in
spectacles--proceeded to bend his head down as we approached, and, peering =
at
us through his glasses, pointed silently to the tickets. I felt his glance =
go
over both myself and Ikonin, and also felt sure that something about us had
displeased him (perhaps it was Ikonin's red hairs), for, after taking anoth=
er
look at the pair of us, he motioned impatiently to us to be quick in taking=
our
tickets. I felt vexed and offended--firstly, because none of the professors=
had
responded to our bows, and, secondly, because they evidently coupled me with
Ikonin under the one denomination of "candidates," and so were
condemning me in advance on account of Ikonin's red hairs. I took my ticket
boldly and made ready to answer, but the professor's eye passed over my head
and alighted upon Ikonin. Accordingly, I occupied myself in reading my tick=
et.
The questions printed on it were all familiar to me, so, as I silently awai=
ted
my turn, I gazed at what was passing near me, Ikonin seemed in no way diffi=
dent--rather
the reverse, for, in reaching for his ticket, he threw his body half-way ac=
ross
the table. Then he gave his long hair a shake, and rapidly conned over what=
was
written on his ticket. I think he had just opened his mouth to answer when =
the
professor with the star dismissed the gymnasium student with a word of
commendation, and then turned and looked at Ikonin. At once the latter seem=
ed
taken back, and stopped short. For about two minutes there was a dead silen=
ce.
"Well?"
said the professor in the spectacles.
Once more Ikonin
opened his mouth, and once more remained silent.
"Come! You a=
re
not the only one to be examined. Do you mean to answer or do you not?"
said the youngish professor, but Ikonin did not even look at him. He was ga=
zing
fixedly at his ticket and uttered not a single word. The professor in the
spectacles scanned him through his glasses, then over them, then without th=
em
(for, indeed, he had time to take them off, to wipe their lenses carefully,=
and
to replace them). Still not a word from Ikonin. All at once, however, a smi=
le
spread itself over his face, and he gave his long hair another shake. Next =
he reached
across the table, laid down his ticket, looked at each of the professors in
turn and then at myself, and finally, wheeling round on his heels, made a
gesture with his hand and returned to the desks. The professors stared blan=
kly
at one another.
"Bless the
fellow!" said the youngish professor. "What an original!"
It was now my tur=
n to
move towards the table, but the professors went on talking in undertones am=
ong
themselves, as though they were unaware of my presence. At the moment, I fe=
lt
firmly persuaded that the three of them were engrossed solely with the ques=
tion
of whether I should merely PASS the examination or whether I should pass it
WELL, and that it was only swagger which made them pretend that they did not
care either way, and behave as though they had not seen me.
When at length the
professor in the spectacles turned to me with an air of indifference, and
invited me to answer, I felt hurt, as I looked at him, to think that he sho=
uld
have so undeceived me: wherefore I answered brokenly at first. In time,
however, things came easier to my tongue, and, inasmuch as all the questions
bore upon Russian history (which I knew thoroughly), I ended with eclat, and
even went so far, in my desire to convince the professors that I was not Ik=
onin
and that they must not in anyway confound me with him, as to offer to draw a
second ticket. The professor in the spectacles, however, merely nodded his
head, said "That will do," and marked something in his register. =
On
returning to the desks, I at once learnt from the gymnasium men (who somehow
seemed to know everything) that I had been placed fifth.
XI. MY EXAMINATION IN
MATHEMATICS
AT the subsequent
examinations, I made several new acquaintances in addition to the Graps (wh=
om I
considered unworthy of my notice) and Iwin (who for some reason or other
avoided me). With some of these new friends I grew quite intimate, and even
Ikonin plucked up sufficient courage to inform me, when we next met, that he
would have to undergo re-examination in history--the reason for his failure
this time being that the professor of that faculty had never forgiven him f=
or
last year's examination, and had, indeed, "almost killed" him for=
it.
Semenoff (who was destined for the same faculty as myself--the faculty of
mathematics) avoided every one up to the very close of the examinations. Al=
ways
leaning forward upon his elbows and running his fingers through his grey ha=
ir,
he sat silent and alone. Nevertheless, when called up for examination in
mathematics (he had no companion to accompany him), he came out second. The
first place was taken by a student from the first gymnasium--a tall, dark,
lanky, pale-faced fellow who wore a black folded cravat and had his cheeks =
and
forehead dotted all over with pimples. His hands were shapely and slender, =
but
their nails were so bitten to the quick that the finger-ends looked as thou=
gh they
had been tied round with strips of thread. All this seemed to me splendid, =
and
wholly becoming to a student of the first gymnasium. He spoke to every one,=
and
we all made friends with him. To me in particular his walk, his every movem=
ent,
his lips, his dark eyes, all seemed to have in them something extraordinary=
and
magnetic.
On the day of the
mathematical examination I arrived earlier than usual at the hall. I knew t=
he
syllabus well, yet there were two questions in the algebra which my tutor h=
ad
managed to pass over, and which were therefore quite unknown to me. If I
remember rightly, they were the Theory of Combinations and Newton's Binomia=
l. I
seated myself on one of the back benches and pored over the two questions, =
but,
inasmuch as I was not accustomed to working in a noisy room, and had even l=
ess
time for preparation than I had anticipated, I soon found it difficult to t=
ake
in all that I was reading.
"Here he is.
This way, Nechludoff," said Woloda's familiar voice behind me.
I turned and saw =
my
brother and Dimitri--their gowns unbuttoned, and their hands waving a greet=
ing
to me--threading their way through the desks. A moment's glance would have
sufficed to show any one that they were second-course students--persons to =
whom
the University was as a second home. The mere look of their open gowns
expressed at once disdain for the "mere candidate" and a knowledge
that the "mere candidate's" soul was filled with envy and admirat=
ion
of them. I was charmed to think that every one near me could now see that I
knew two real second-course students: wherefore I hastened to meet them
half-way.
Woloda, of course,
could not help vaunting his superiority a little.
"Hullo, you
smug!" he said. "Haven't you been examined yet?"
"No."
"Well, what =
are
you reading? Aren't you sufficiently primed?"
"Yes, except=
in
two questions. I don't understand them at all."
"Eh,
what?"--and Woloda straightway began to expound to me Newton's Binomia=
l,
but so rapidly and unintelligibly that, suddenly reading in my eyes certain
misgivings as to the soundness of his knowledge, he glanced also at Dimitri=
's
face. Clearly, he saw the same misgivings there, for he blushed hotly, thou=
gh
still continuing his involved explanations.
"No; hold on,
Woloda, and let me try and do it," put in Dimitri at length, with a gl=
ance
at the professors' corner as he seated himself beside me.
I could see that =
my
friend was in the best of humours. This was always the case with him when he
was satisfied with himself, and was one of the things in him which I liked
best. Inasmuch as he knew mathematics well and could speak clearly, he hamm=
ered
the question so thoroughly into my head that I can remember it to this day.
Hardly had he finished when St. Jerome said to me in a loud whisper, "A
vous, Nicolas," and I followed Ikonin out from among the desks without
having had an opportunity of going through the OTHER question of which I was
ignorant. At the table which we now approached were seated two professors,
while before the blackboard stood a gymnasium student, who was working some
formula aloud, and knocking bits off the end of the chalk with his too vigo=
rous
strokes. He even continued writing after one of the Professors had said to =
him
"Enough!" and bidden us draw our tickets. "Suppose I get the=
Theory
of Combinations?" I thought to myself as my tremulous fingers took a
ticket from among a bundle wrapped in torn paper. Ikonin, for his part, rea=
ched
across the table with the same assurance, and the same sidelong movement of=
his
whole body, as he had done at the previous examination. Taking the topmost
ticket without troubling to make further selection, he just glanced at it, =
and
then frowned angrily.
"I always dr=
aw
this kind of thing," he muttered.
I looked at mine.
Horrors! It was the Theory of Combinations!
"What have y=
ou
got?" whispered Ikonin at this point.
I showed him.
"Oh, I know
that," he said.
"Will you ma=
ke
an exchange, then?"
"No. Besides=
, it
would be all the same for me if I did," he contrived to whisper just as
the professor called us up to the blackboard. "I don't feel up to anyt=
hing
to-day."
"Then everyt=
hing
is lost!" I thought to myself. Instead of the brilliant result which I=
had
anticipated I should be for ever covered with shame--more so even than Ikon=
in!
Suddenly, under the very eyes of the professor, Ikonin turned to me, snatch=
ed
my ticket out of my hands, and handed me his own. I looked at his ticket. It
was Newton's Binomial!
The professor was=
a
youngish man, with a pleasant, clever expression of face--an effect chiefly=
due
to the prominence of the lower part of his forehead.
"What? Are y=
ou
exchanging tickets, gentlemen?" he said.
"No. He only
gave me his to look at, professor," answered Ikonin--and, sure enough,=
the
word "professor" was the last word that he uttered there. Once ag=
ain,
he stepped backwards towards me from the table, once again he looked at eac=
h of
the professors in turn and then at myself, once again he smiled faintly, and
once again he shrugged his shoulders as much as to say, "It is no use,=
my
good sirs." Then he returned to the desks. Subsequently, I learnt that
this was the third year he had vainly attempted to matriculate.
I answered my
question well, for I had just read it up; and the professor, kindly informi=
ng
me that I had done even better than was required, placed me fifth.
XII. MY EXAMINATION IN LA=
TIN
All went well unt=
il
my examination in Latin. So far, a gymnasium student stood first on the lis=
t,
Semenoff second, and myself third. On the strength of it I had begun to swa=
gger
a little, and to think that, for all my youth, I was not to be despised.
From the first da=
y of
the examinations, I had heard every one speak with awe of the Professor of
Latin, who appeared to be some sort of a wild beast who battened on the
financial ruin of young men (of those, that is to say, who paid their own f=
ees)
and spoke only in the Greek and Latin tongues. However, St. Jerome, who had
coached me in Latin, spoke encouragingly, and I myself thought that, since I
could translate Cicero and certain parts of Horace without the aid of a
lexicon, I should do no worse than the rest. Yet things proved otherwise. A=
ll
the morning the air had been full of rumours concerning the tribulations of
candidates who had gone up before me: rumours of how one young fellow had b=
een accorded
a nought, another one a single mark only, a third one greeted with abuse and
threatened with expulsion, and so forth. Only Semenoff and the first gymnas=
ium
student had, as usual, gone up quietly, and returned to their seats with fi=
ve
marks credited to their names. Already I felt a prescience of disaster when
Ikonin and myself found ourselves summoned to the little table at which the
terrible professor sat in solitary grandeur.
The terrible
professor turned out to be a little thin, bilious-looking man with hair long
and greasy and a face expressive of extraordinary sullenness. Handing Ikoni=
n a
copy of Cicero's Orations, he bid him translate. To my great astonishment
Ikonin not only read off some of the Latin, but even managed to construe a =
few
lines to the professor's prompting. At the same time, conscious of my
superiority over such a feeble companion, I could not help smiling a little,
and even looking rather contemptuous, when it came to a question of analysi=
s,
and Ikonin, as on previous occasions, plunged into a silence which promised
never to end. I had hoped to please the professor by that knowing, slightly=
sarcastic
smile of mine, but, as a matter of fact, I contrived to do quite the contra=
ry.
"Evidently y=
ou
know better than he, since you are laughing," he said to me in bad
Russian. "Well, we shall see. Tell me the answer, then."
Later I learnt th=
at
the professor was Ikonin's guardian, and that Ikonin actually lived with hi=
m. I
lost no time in answering the question in syntax which had been put to Ikon=
in,
but the professor only pulled a long face and turned away from me.
"Well, your =
turn
will come presently, and then we shall see how much you know," he
remarked, without looking at me, but proceeding to explain to Ikonin the po=
int
on which he had questioned him.
"That will
do," he added, and I saw him put down four marks to Ikonin in his
register. "Come!" I thought to myself. "He cannot be so stri=
ct
after all."
When Ikonin had t=
aken
his departure the professor spent fully five minutes--five minutes which se=
emed
to me five hours--in setting his books and tickets in order, in blowing his
nose, in adjusting and sprawling about on his chair, in gazing down the hal=
l,
and in looking here, there, and everywhere--in doing everything, in fact,
except once letting his eye rest upon me. Yet even that amount of dissimula=
tion
did not seem to satisfy him, for he next opened a book, and pretended to re=
ad
it, for all the world as though I were not there at all. I moved a little
nearer him, and gave a cough.
"Ah, yes! You
too, of course! Well, translate me something," he remarked, handing me=
a
book of some kind. "But no; you had better take this," and, turni=
ng
over the leaves of a Horace, he indicated to me a passage which I should ne=
ver
have imagined possible of translation.
"I have not prepared this,&quo=
t; I
said.
"Oh! Then you
only wish to answer things which you have got by heart, do you? Indeed? No,=
no;
translate me that."
I started to grope
for the meaning of the passage, but each questioning look which I threw at =
the
professor was met by a shake of the head, a profound sigh, and an exclamati=
on
of "No, no!" Finally he banged the book to with such a snap that =
he
caught his finger between the covers. Angrily releasing it, he handed me a
ticket containing questions in grammar, and, flinging himself back in his
chair, maintained a menacing silence. I should have tried to answer the
questions had not the expression of his face so clogged my tongue that noth=
ing
seemed to come from it right.
"No, no! Tha=
t's
not it at all!" he suddenly exclaimed in his horrible accent as he alt=
ered
his posture to one of leaning forward upon the table and playing with the g=
old
signet-ring which was nearly slipping from the little finger of his left ha=
nd.
"That is not the way to prepare for serious study, my good sir. Fellows
like yourself think that, once they have a gown and a blue collar to their
backs, they have reached the summit of all things and become students. No, =
no,
my dear sir. A subject needs to be studied FUNDAMENTALLY," and so on, =
and
so on.
During this speech
(which was uttered with a clipped sort of intonation) I went on staring dul=
ly
at his lowered eyelids. Beginning with a fear lest I should lose my place as
third on the list, I went on to fear lest I should pass at all. Next, these
feelings became reinforced by a sense of injustice, injured self-respect, a=
nd
unmerited humiliation, while the contempt which I felt for the professor as
some one not quite (according to my ideas) "comme il faut"--a fact
which I deduced from the shortness, strength, and roundness of his
nails--flared up in me more and more and turned all my other feelings to sh=
eer
animosity. Happening, presently, to glance at me, and to note my quivering =
lips
and tear-filled eyes, he seemed to interpret my agitation as a desire to be
accorded my marks and dismissed: wherefore, with an air of relenting, he sa=
id
(in the presence of another professor who had just approached):
"Very well; I
will accord you a 'pass'" (which signified two marks), "although =
you
do not deserve it. I do so simply out of consideration for your youth, and =
in
the hope that, when you begin your University career, you will learn to be =
less
light-minded."
The concluding
phrase, uttered in the hearing of the other professor (who at once turned h=
is
eyes upon me, as though remarking, "There! You see, young man!")
completed my discomfiture. For a moment, a mist swam before my eyes--a mist=
in
which the terrible professor seemed to be far away, as he sat at his table
while for an instant a wild idea danced through my brain. "What if I D=
ID
do such a thing?" I thought to myself. "What would come of it?&qu=
ot;
However, I did not do the thing in question, but, on the contrary, made a b=
ow
of peculiar reverence to each of the professors, and with a slight smile on=
my
face--presumably the same smile as that with which I had derided Ikonin--tu=
rned
away from the table.
This piece of
unfairness affected me so powerfully at the time that, had I been a free ag=
ent,
I should have attended for no more examinations. My ambition was gone (since
now I could not possibly be third), and I therefore let the other examinati=
ons
pass without any exertion, or even agitation, on my part. In the general li=
st I
still stood fourth, but that failed to interest me, since I had reasoned th=
ings
out to myself, and come to the conclusion that to try for first place was
stupid--even "bad form:" that, in fact, it was better to pass nei=
ther
very well nor very badly, as Woloda had done. This attitude I decided to
maintain throughout the whole of my University career, notwithstanding that=
it was
the first point on which my opinion had differed from that of my friend
Dimitri.
Yet, to tell the
truth, my thoughts were already turning towards a uniform, a
"mortar-board," and the possession of a drozhki of my own, a room=
of
my own, and, above all, freedom of my own. And certainly the prospect had i=
ts
charm.
XIII. I BECOME GROWN-UP=
span>
When, on May 8th,=
I
returned home from the final, the divinity, examination, I found my
acquaintance, the foreman from Rozonoff's, awaiting me. He had called once
before to fit me for my gown, as well as for a tunic of glossy black cloth =
(the
lapels of which were, on that occasion, only sketched in chalk), but to-day=
he
had come to bring me the clothes in their finished state, with their gilt
buttons wrapped in tissue paper.
Donning the garme=
nts,
and finding them splendid (notwithstanding that St. Jerome assured me that =
the
back of the tunic wrinkled badly), I went downstairs with a complacent smile
which I was powerless to banish from my face, and sought Woloda, trying the
while to affect unconsciousness of the admiring looks of the servants, who =
came
darting out of the hall and corridor to gaze upon me with ravished eyes.
Gabriel, the butler, overtook me in the salle, and, after congratulating me
with much empressement, handed me, according to instructions from my father,
four bank-notes, as well as informed me that Papa had also given orders tha=
t, from
that day forth, the groom Kuzma, the phaeton, and the bay horse Krassavchik
were to be entirely at my disposal. I was so overjoyed at this not altogeth=
er
expected good-fortune that I could no longer feign indifference in Gabriel's
presence, but, flustered and panting, said the first thing which came into =
my
head ("Krassavchik is a splendid trotter," I think it was). Then,
catching sight of the various heads protruding from the doors of the hall a=
nd
corridor, I felt that I could bear no more, and set off running at full spe=
ed
across the salle, dressed as I was in the new tunic, with its shining gilt
buttons. Just as I burst into Woloda's room, I heard behind me the voices of
Dubkoff and Nechludoff, who had come to congratulate me, as well as to prop=
ose a
dinner somewhere and the drinking of much champagne in honour of my matricu=
lation.
Dimitri informed me that, though he did not care for champagne, he would
nevertheless join us that evening and drink my health, while Dubkoff remark=
ed
that I looked almost like a colonel, and Woloda omitted to congratulate me =
at
all, merely saying in an acid way that he supposed we should now--i.e. in t=
wo
days time--be off into the country. The truth was that Woloda, though pleas=
ed
at my matriculation, did not altogether like my becoming as grown-up as
himself. St. Jerome, who also joined us at this moment, said in a very pomp=
ous
manner that his duties were now ended, and that, although he did not know
whether they had been well done or ill, at least he had done his best, and =
must
depart to-morrow to his Count's. In replying to their various remarks I cou=
ld
feel, in spite of myself, a pleased, agreeable, faintly self-sufficient smi=
le
playing over my countenance, as well as could remark that that smile,
communicated itself to those to whom I was speaking.
So here was I wit=
hout
a tutor, yet with my own private drozhki, my name printed on the list of
students, a sword and belt of my own, and a chance of an occasional salute =
from
officials! In short, I was grownup and, I suppose, happy.
Finally, we arran=
ged
to go out and dine at five o'clock, but since Woloda presently went off to
Dubkoff's, and Dimitri disappeared in his usual fashion (saying that there =
was
something he MUST do before dinner), I was left with two whole hours still =
at
my disposal. For a time I walked through the rooms of the house, and looked=
at
myself in all the mirrors--firstly with the tunic buttoned, then with it un=
buttoned,
and lastly with only the top button fastened. Each time it looked splendid.
Eventually, though anxious not to show any excess of delight, I found myself
unable to refrain from crossing over to the coach-house and stables to gaze=
at
Krassovchik, Kuzma, and the drozhki. Then I returned and once more began my
tour of the rooms, where I looked at myself in all the mirrors as before, a=
nd
counted my money over in my pocket--my face smiling happily the while. Yet =
not
an hour had elapsed before I began to feel slightly ennuye--to feel a shade=
of
regret that no one was present to see me in my splendid position. I began to
long for life and movement, and so sent out orders for the drozhki to be go=
t ready,
since I had made up my mind to drive to the Kuznetski Bridge and make some
purchases.
In this connectio=
n I
recalled how, after matriculating, Woloda had gone and bought himself a
lithograph of horses by Victor Adam and some pipes and tobacco: wherefore I
felt that I too must do the same. Amid glances showered upon me from every
side, and with the sunlight reflected from my buttons, cap-badge, and sword=
, I
drove to the Kuznetski Bridge, where, halting at a Picture shop, I entered =
it
with my eyes looking to every side. It was not precisely horses by Adam whi=
ch I
meant to buy, since I did not wish to be accused of too closely imitating
Woloda; wherefore, out of shame for causing the obsequious shopmen such agi=
tation
as I appeared to do, I made a hasty selection, and pitched upon a water-col=
our
of a woman's head which I saw displayed in the window--price twenty roubles.
Yet no sooner had I paid the twenty roubles over the counter than my heart
smote me for having put two such beautifully dressed shop-assistants to so =
much
trouble for such a trifle. Moreover, I fancied that they were regarding me =
with
some disdain. Accordingly, in my desire to show them what manner of man I w=
as,
I turned my attention to a silver trifle which I saw displayed in a show-ca=
se,
and, recognising that it was a porte-crayon (price eighteen roubles), reque=
sted
that it should forthwith be wrapped in paper for me. Next, the money paid, =
and
the information acquired that splendid pipes and tobacco were to be obtaine=
d in
an adjacent emporium, I bowed to the two shopmen politely, and issued into =
the
street with the picture under my arm. At the shop next door (which had pain=
ted
on its sign-board a negro smoking a cigar) I bought (likewise out of a desi=
re
to imitate no one) some Turkish tobacco, a Stamboul hookah, and two pipes. =
On
coming out of the shop, I had just entered the drozhki when I caught sight =
of Semenoff,
who was walking hurriedly along the pavement with his head bent down. Vexed
that he should not have recognised me, I called out to him pretty loudly,
"Hold on a minute!" and, whipping up the drozhki, soon overtook h=
im.
"How do you
do?" I said.
"My respects=
to
you," he replied, but without stopping.
"Why are you=
not
in your University uniform?" I next inquired.
At this he stopped
short with a frown, and parted his white teeth as though the sun were hurti=
ng
his eyes. The next moment, however, he threw a glance of studied indifferen=
ce
at my drozhki and uniform, and continued on his way.
From the Kuznetski
Bridge, I drove to a confectioner's in Tverskaia Street, and, much as I sho=
uld
have liked it to be supposed that it was the newspapers which most interest=
ed
me, I had no choice but to begin falling upon tartlet after tartlet. In fac=
t,
for all my bashfulness before a gentleman who kept regarding me with some
curiosity from behind a newspaper, I ate with great swiftness a tartlet of =
each
of the eight different sorts which the confectioner kept.
On reaching home,=
I
experienced a slight touch of stomach-ache, but paid no attention to it, and
set to work to inspect my purchases. Of these, the picture so much displeas=
ed
me that, instead of having it framed and hung in my room, as Woloda had done
with his, I took pains to hide it behind a chest of drawers, where no one c=
ould
see it. Likewise, though I also found the porte-crayon distasteful, I was a=
ble,
as I laid it on my table, to comfort myself with the thought that it was at
least a SILVER article--so much capital, as it were--and likely to be very =
useful
to a student. As for the smoking things, I decided to put them into use at =
once,
and try their capabilities.
Unsealing the four
packages, and carefully filling the Stamboul pipe with some fine-cut,
reddish-yellow Turkish tobacco, I applied a hot cinder to it, and, taking t=
he
mouthpiece between my first and second fingers (a position of the hand which
greatly caught my fancy), started to inhale the smoke.
The smell of the
tobacco seemed delightful, yet something burnt my mouth and caught me by the
breath. Nevertheless, I hardened my heart, and continued to draw abundant f=
umes
into my interior. Then I tried blowing rings and retaining the smoke. Soon =
the
room became filled with blue vapours, while the pipe started to crackle and=
the
tobacco to fly out in sparks. Presently, also, I began to feel a smarting i=
n my
mouth and a giddiness in my head. Accordingly, I was on the point of stoppi=
ng
and going to look at myself and my pipe in the mirror, when, to my surprise=
, I
found myself staggering about. The room was whirling round and round, and a=
s I
peered into the mirror (which I reached only with some difficulty) I percei=
ved
that my face was as white as a sheet. Hardly had I thrown myself down upon a
sofa when such nausea and faintness swept over me that, making up my mind t=
hat
the pipe had proved my death, I expected every moment to expire. Terribly
frightened, I tried to call out for some one to come and help me, and to se=
nd
for the doctor.
However, this pan=
ic
of mine did not last long, for I soon understood what the matter with me wa=
s,
and remained lying on the sofa with a racking headache and my limbs relaxed=
as
I stared dully at the stamp on the package of tobacco, the Pipe-tube coiled=
on
the floor, and the odds and ends of tobacco and confectioner's tartlets whi=
ch
were littered about. "Truly," I thought to myself in my dejection=
and
disillusionment, "I cannot be quite grown-up if I cannot smoke as other
fellows do, and should be fated never to hold a chibouk between my first and
second fingers, or to inhale and puff smoke through a flaxen moustache!&quo=
t;
When Dimitri call=
ed
for me at five o'clock, he found me in this unpleasant predicament. After
drinking a glass of water, however, I felt nearly recovered, and ready to go
with him.
"So much for
your trying to smoke!" said he as he gazed at the remnants of my debau=
ch.
"It is a silly thing to do, and waste of money as well. I long ago
promised myself never to smoke. But come along; we have to call for
Dubkoff."
XIV. HOW WOLODA AND DUBKO=
FF
AMUSED THEMSELVES
THE moment that
Dimitri entered my room I perceived from his face, manner of walking, and t=
he
signs which, in him, denoted ill-humour--a blinking of the eyes and a grim
holding of his head to one side, as though to straighten his collar--that he
was in the coldly-correct frame of mind which was his when he felt dissatis=
fied
with himself. It was a frame of mind, too, which always produced a chilling
effect upon my feelings towards him. Of late I had begun to observe and
appraise my friend's character a little more, but our friendship had in no =
way suffered
from that, since it was still too young and strong for me to be able to look
upon Dimitri as anything but perfect, no matter in what light I regarded hi=
m.
In him there were two personalities, both of which I thought beautiful. One,
which I loved devotedly, was kind, mild, forgiving, gay, and conscious of b=
eing
those various things. When he was in this frame of mind his whole exterior,=
the
very tone of his voice, his every movement, appeared to say: "I am kin=
d and
good-natured, and rejoice in being so, and every one can see that I so
rejoice." The other of his two personalities--one which I had only just
begun to apprehend, and before the majesty of which I bowed in spirit--was =
that
of a man who was cold, stern to himself and to others, proud, religious to =
the
point of fanaticism, and pedantically moral. At the present moment he was, =
as I
say, this second personality.
With that frankne=
ss
which constituted a necessary condition of our relations I told him, as soo=
n as
we entered the drozhki, how much it depressed and hurt me to see him, on th=
is
my fete-day in a frame of mind so irksome and disagreeable to me.
"What has up=
set
you so?" I asked him. "Will you not tell me?"
"My dear
Nicolas," was his slow reply as he gave his head a nervous twitch to o=
ne
side and blinked his eyes, "since I have given you my word never to
conceal anything from you, you have no reason to suspect me of secretivenes=
s.
One cannot always be in exactly the same mood, and if I seem at all put out,
that is all there is to say about it."
"What a
marvellously open, honourable character his is!" I thought to myself, =
and
dropped the subject.
We drove the rest=
of
the way to Dubkoff's in silence. Dubkoff's flat was an unusually fine one--=
or,
at all events, so it seemed to me. Everywhere were rugs, pictures, gardenia=
s,
striped hangings, photographs, and curved settees, while on the walls hung
guns, pistols, pouches, and the mounted heads of wild beasts. It was the
appearance of this apartment which made me aware whom, it was that Woloda h=
ad
imitated in the scheme of his own sitting-room. We found Dubkoff and Woloda
engaged in cards, while seated also at the table, and watching the game with
close attention, was a gentleman whom I did not know, but who appeared to b=
e of
no great importance, judging by the modesty of his attitude. Dubkoff himself
was in a silk dressing-gown and soft slippers, while Woloda--seated opposite
him on a divan--was in his shirtsleeves, as well as (to judge by his flushed
face and the impatient, cursory glance which he gave us for a second as he
looked up from the cards) much taken up with the game. On seeing me, he
reddened still more.
"Well, it is=
for
you to deal," he remarked to Dubkoff. In an instant I divined that he =
did
not altogether relish my becoming acquainted with the fact that he gambled.=
Yet
his expression had nothing in it of confusion--only a look which seemed to =
me
to say: "Yes, I play cards, and if you are surprised at that, it is on=
ly
because you are so young. There is nothing wrong about it--it is a necessit=
y at
our age." Yes, I at once divined and understood that.
Instead of dealin=
g,
however, Dubkoff rose and shook hands with us; after which he bade us both =
be
seated, and then offered us pipes, which we declined.
"Here is our
DIPLOMAT, then--the hero of the day!" he said to me, "Good Lord! =
how
you look like a colonel!"
"H-m!" I
muttered in reply, though once more feeling a complacent smile overspread my
countenance.
I stood in that a=
we
of Dubkoff which a sixteen-year-old boy naturally feels for a
twenty-seven-year-old man of whom his elders say that he is a very clever y=
oung
man who can dance well and speak French, and who, though secretly despising
one's youth, endeavours to conceal the fact. Yet, despite my respect for hi=
m, I
somehow found it difficult and uncomfortable, throughout my acquaintanceship
with him, to look him in the eyes, I have since remarked that there are thr=
ee
kinds of men whom I cannot face easily, namely those who are much better th=
an
myself, those who are much worse, and those between whom and myself there i=
s a
mutual determination not to mention some particular thing of which we are b=
oth aware.
Dubkoff may have been a much better fellow than myself, or he may have been=
a
much worse; but the point was that he lied very frequently without recognis=
ing
the fact that I was aware of his doing so, yet had determined not to mention
it.
"Let us play
another round," said Woloda, hunching one shoulder after the manner of
Papa, and reshuffling the cards.
"How persist=
ent
you are!" said Dubkoff. "We can play all we want to afterwards. W=
ell,
one more round, then."
During the play, I
looked at their hands. Woloda's hands were large and red, whilst in the cro=
ok
of the thumb and the way in which the other fingers curved themselves round=
the
cards as he held them they so exactly resembled Papa's that now and then I
could not help thinking that Woloda purposely held the cards thus so as to =
look
the more like a grownup. Yet the next moment, looking at his face, I could =
see
that he had not a thought in his mind beyond the game. Dubkoff's hands, on =
the contrary,
were small, puffy, and inclined to clench themselves, as well as extremely =
neat
and small-fingered. They were just the kind of hands which generally display
rings, and which are most to be seen on persons who are both inclined to use
them and fond of objets de vertu.
Woloda must have
lost, for the gentleman who was watching the play remarked that Vladimir
Petrovitch had terribly bad luck, while Dubkoff reached for a note book, wr=
ote
something in it, and then, showing Woloda what he had written, said:
"Is that
right?"
"Yes." =
said
Woloda, glancing with feigned carelessness at the note book. "Now let =
us
go."
Woloda took Dubko=
ff,
and I gave Dimitri a lift in my drozhki.
"What were t=
hey
playing at?" I inquired of Dimitri.
"At piquet. =
It
is a stupid game. In fact, all such games are stupid."
"And were th=
ey
playing for much?"
"No, not very
much, but more than they ought to."
"Do you ever
play yourself?"
"No; I swore
never to do so; but Dubkoff will play with any one he can get hold of."=
;
"He ought no=
t to
do that," I remarked. "So Woloda does not play so well as he
does?"
"Perhaps Dub= koff ought not to, as you say, yet there is nothing especially bad about it all.= He likes playing, and plays well, but he is a good fellow all the same."<= o:p>
"I had no id=
ea
of this," I said.
"We must not
think ill of him," concluded Dimitri, "since he is a simply splen=
did
fellow. I like him very much, and always shall like him, in spite of his
weakness."
For some reason or
another the idea occurred to me that, just BECAUSE Dimitri stuck up so stou=
tly
for Dubkoff, he neither liked nor respected him in reality, but was determi=
ned,
out of stubbornness and a desire not to be accused of inconstancy, never to=
own
to the fact. He was one of those people who love their friends their life l=
ong,
not so much because those friends remain always dear to them, as because,
having once--possibly mistakenly--liked a person, they look upon it as dish=
onourable
to cease ever to do so.
XV. I AM FETED AT DINNER<=
/span>
Dubkoff and Woloda
knew every one at the restaurant by name, and every one, from the waiters to
the proprietor, paid them great respect. No time was lost in allotting us a
private room, where a bottle of iced champagne-upon which I tried to look w=
ith
as much indifference as I could--stood ready waiting for us, and where we w=
ere
served with a most wonderful repast selected by Dubkoff from the French men=
u.
The meal went off most gaily and agreeably, notwithstanding that Dubkoff, as
usual, told us blood-curdling tales of doubtful veracity (among others, a t=
ale of
how his grandmother once shot dead three robbers who were attacking her--a
recital at which I blushed, closed my eyes, and turned away from the narrat=
or),
and that Woloda reddened visibly whenever I opened my mouth to speak--which=
was
the more uncalled for on his part, seeing that never once, so far as I can
remember, did I say anything shameful. After we had been given champagne, e=
very
one congratulated me, and I drank "hands across" with Dimitri and
Dubkoff, and wished them joy. Since, however, I did not know to whom the bo=
ttle
of champagne belonged (it was explained to me later that it was common
property), I considered that, in return, I ought to treat my friends out of=
the
money which I had never ceased to finger in my pocket. Accordingly, I
stealthily extracted a ten-rouble note, and, beckoning the waiter to my sid=
e,
handed him the money, and told him in a whisper (yet not so softly but that
every one could hear me, seeing that every one was staring at me in dead
silence) to "bring, if you please, a half-bottle of champagne." At
this Woloda reddened again, and began to fidget so violently, and to gaze u=
pon myself
and every one else with such a distracted air, that I felt sure I had someh=
ow
put my foot in it. However, the half-bottle came, and we drank it with great
gusto. After that, things went on merrily. Dubkoff continued his unending f=
airy
tales, while Woloda also told funny stories--and told them well, too--in a =
way
I should never have credited him: so that our laughter rang long and loud.
Their best efforts lay in imitation, and in variants of a certain well-known
saw. "Have you ever been abroad?" one would say to the other, for=
instance.
"No," the one interrogated would reply, "but my brother plays
the fiddle." Such perfection had the pair attained in this species of
comic absurdity that they could answer any question by its means, while they
would also endeavour to unite two absolutely unconnected matters without a
previous question having been asked at all, yet say everything with a perfe=
ctly
serious face and produce a most comic effect. I too began to try to be funn=
y,
but as soon as ever I spoke they either looked at me askance or did not loo=
k at
me until I had finished: so that my anecdotes fell flat. Yet, though Dubkoff
always remarked, "Our DIPLOMAT is lying, brother," I felt so
exhilarated with the champagne and the company of my elders that the remark
scarcely touched me. Only Dimitri, though he drank level with the rest of u=
s,
continued in the same severe, serious frame of mind--a fact which put a cer=
tain
check upon the general hilarity.
"Now, look h=
ere,
gentlemen," said Dubkoff at last. "After dinner we ought to take =
the
DIPLOMAT in hand. How would it be for him to go with us to see Auntie? Ther=
e we
could put him through his paces."
"Ah, but
Nechludoff will not go there," objected Woloda.
"O unbearabl=
e,
insupportable man of quiet habits that you are!" cried Dubkoff, turnin=
g to
Dimitri. "Yet come with us, and you shall see what an excellent lady my
dear Auntie is."
"I will neit=
her
go myself nor let him go," replied Dimitri.
"Let whom go?
The DIPLOMAT? Why, you yourself saw how he brightened up at the very mentio=
n of
Auntie."
"It is not so
much that I WILL NOT LET HIM go," continued Dimitri, rising and beginn=
ing
to pace the room without looking at me, "as that I neither wish him nor
advise him to go. He is not a child now, and if he must go he can go
alone--without you. Surely you are ashamed of this, Dubkoff?--ashamed of al=
ways
wanting others to do all the wrong things that you yourself do?"
"But what is
there so very wrong in my inviting you all to come and take a cup of tea wi=
th
my Aunt?" said Dubkoff, with a wink at Woloda. "If you don't like=
us
going, it is your affair; yet we are going all the same. Are you coming,
Woloda?"
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
assented Woloda. "We can go there, and then return to my rooms and
continue our piquet."
"Do you want=
to
go with them or not?" said Dimitri, approaching me.
"No," I
replied, at the same time making room for him to sit down beside me on the
divan. "I did not wish to go in any case, and since you advise me not =
to,
nothing on earth will make me go now. Yet," I added a moment later,
"I cannot honestly say that I have NO desire to go. All I say is that =
I am
glad I am not going."
"That is
right," he said. "Live your own life, and do not dance to any one=
's
piping. That is the better way."
This little tiff =
not
only failed to mar our hilarity, but even increased it. Dimitri suddenly
reverted to the kindly mood which I loved best--so great (as I afterwards
remarked on more than one occasion) was the influence which the consciousne=
ss
of having done a good deed exercised upon him. At the present moment the so=
urce
of his satisfaction was the fact that he had stopped my expedition to
"Auntie's." He grew extraordinarily gay, called for another bottl=
e of
champagne (which was against his rules), invited some one who was a perfect
stranger into our room, plied him with wine, sang "Gaudeamus igitur,&q=
uot;
requested every one to join him in the chorus, and proposed that we should =
and
rink at the Sokolniki. [Mews.]
"Let us enjoy
ourselves to-night," he said with a laugh. "It is in honour of his
matriculation that you now see me getting drunk for the first time in my
life."
Yet somehow this
merriment sat ill upon him. He was like some good-natured father or tutor w=
ho
is pleased with his young charges, and lets himself go for their amusement,=
yet
at the same time tries to show them that one can enjoy oneself decently and=
in
an honourable manner. However, his unexpected gaiety had an infectious
influence upon myself and my companions, and the more so because each of us=
had
now drunk about half a bottle of champagne.
It was in this
pleasing frame of mind that I went out into the main salon to smoke a cigar=
ette
which Dubkoff had given me. In rising I noticed that my head seemed to swim=
a
little, and that my legs and arms retained their natural positions only whe=
n I
bent my thoughts determinedly upon them. At other moments my legs would dev=
iate
from the straight line, and my arms describe strange gestures. I concentrat=
ed
my whole attention upon the members in question, forced my hands first to r=
aise
themselves and button my tunic, and then to smooth my hair (though they ruf=
fled
my locks in doing so), and lastly commanded my legs to march me to the door=
--a
function which they duly performed, though at one time with too much
reluctance, and at another with too much ABANDON (the left leg, in particul=
ar,
coming to a halt every moment on tiptoe). Some one called out to me,
"Where are you going to? They will bring you a cigar-light directly,&q=
uot;
but I guessed the voice to be Woloda's, and, feeling satisfied, somehow, th=
at I
had succeeded in divining the fact, merely smiled airily in reply, and
continued on my way.
In the main salon=
I
perceived sitting at a small table a short, squat gentleman of the professi=
onal
type. He had a red moustache, and was engaged in eating something or anothe=
r,
while by his side sat a tall, clean-shaven individual with whom he was carr=
ying
on a conversation in French. Somehow the aspect of these two persons disple=
ased
me; yet I decided, for all that, to light my cigarette at the candelabrum w=
hich
was standing before them. Looking from side to side, to avoid meeting their
gaze, I approached the table, and applied my cigarette to the flame. When it
was fairly alight, I involuntarily threw a glance at the gentleman who was
eating, and found his grey eyes fixed upon me with an expression of intense
displeasure. Just as I was turning away his red moustache moved a little, a=
nd
he said in French:
"I do not li=
ke
people to smoke when I am dining, my good sir."
I murmured someth=
ing
inaudible.
"No, I do not
like it at all," he went on sternly, and with a glance at his clean-sh=
aven
companion, as though inviting him to admire the way in which he was about to
deal with me. "I do not like it, my good sir, nor do I like people who
have the impudence to puff their smoke up one's very nose."
By this time I had
gathered that it was myself he was scolding, and at first felt as though I =
had
been altogether in the wrong.
"I did not m=
ean
to inconvenience you," I said.
"Well, if you
did not suppose you were being impertinent, at least I did! You are a cad,
young sir!" he shouted in reply.
"But what ri=
ght
have you to shout at me like that?" I exclaimed, feeling that it was n=
ow
HE that was insulting ME, and growing angry accordingly.
"This much
right," he replied, "that I never allow myself to be overlooked by
any one, and that I always teach young fellows like yourself their manners.
What is your name, young sir, and where do you live?"
At this I felt so hurt that my teeth chattered, and I felt as though I were choking. Yet all = the while I was conscious of being in the wrong, and so, instead of offering any further rudeness to the offended one, humbly told him my name and address.<= o:p>
"And MY name,
young sir," he returned, "is Kolpikoff, and I will trouble you to=
be
more polite to me in future.--However, You will hear from me again"
("vous aurez de mes nouvelles"--the conversation had been carried=
on
wholly in French), was his concluding remark.
To this I replied,
"I shall be delighted," with an infusion of as much hauteur as I
could muster into my tone. Then, turning on my heel, I returned with my
cigarette--which had meanwhile gone out--to our own room.
I said nothing,
either to my brother or my friends, about what had happened (and the more so
because they were at that moment engaged in a dispute of their own), but sat
down in a corner to think over the strange affair. The words, "You are=
a
cad, young sir," vexed me more and more the longer that they sounded i=
n my
ears. My tipsiness was gone now, and, in considering my conduct during the
dispute, the uncomfortable thought came over me that I had behaved like a
coward.
"Yet what ri=
ght
had he to attack me?" I reflected. "Why did he not simply intimat=
e to
me that I was annoying him? After all, it may have been he that was in the
wrong. Why, too, when he called me a young cad, did I not say to him, 'A ca=
d,
my good sir, is one who takes offence'? Or why did I not simply tell him to
hold his tongue? That would have been the better course. Or why did I not
challenge him to a duel? No, I did none of those things, but swallowed his
insults like a wretched coward."
Still the words,
"You are a cad, young sir," kept sounding in my ears with maddeni=
ng
iteration. "I cannot leave things as they are," I at length decid=
ed
as I rose to my feet with the fixed intention of returning to the gentleman=
and
saying something outrageous to him--perhaps, also, of breaking the candelab=
rum
over his head if occasion offered. Yet, though I considered the advisabilit=
y of
this last measure with some pleasure, it was not without a good deal of tre=
pidation
that I re-entered the main salon. As luck would have it, M. Kolpikoff was no
longer there, but only a waiter engaged in clearing the table. For a moment=
I
felt like telling the waiter the whole story, and explaining to him my
innocence in the matter, but for some reason or another I thought better of=
it,
and once more returned, in the same hazy condition of mind, to our own room=
.
"What has be=
come
of our DIPLOMAT?" Dubkoff was just saying. "Upon him now hang the
fortunes of Europe."
"Oh, leave me
alone," I said, turning moodily away. Then, as I paced the room, somet=
hing
made me begin to think that Dubkoff was not altogether a good fellow.
"There is nothing very much to admire in his eternal jokes and his
nickname of 'DIPLOMAT,'" I reflected. "All he thinks about is to =
win
money from Woloda and to go and see his 'Auntie.' There is nothing very nic=
e in
all that. Besides, everything he says has a touch of blackguardism in it, a=
nd
he is forever trying to make people laugh. In my opinion he is simply stupid
when he is not absolutely a brute." I spent about five minutes in these
reflections, and felt my enmity towards Dubkoff continually increasing. For=
his
part, he took no notice of me, and that angered me the more. I actually felt
vexed with Woloda and Dimitri because they went on talking to him.
"I tell you
what, gentlemen: the DIPLOMAT ought to be christened," said Dubkoff
suddenly, with a glance and a smile which seemed to me derisive, and even t=
reacherous.
"Yet, O Lord, what a poor specimen he is!"
"You yourself
ought to be christened, and you yourself are a sorry specimen!" I reto=
rted
with an evil smile, and actually forgetting to address him as "thou.&q=
uot;
[In Russian as in French, the second person singular is the form of speech =
used
between intimate friends.]
This reply eviden=
tly
surprised Dubkoff, but he turned away good-humouredly, and went on talking =
to
Woloda and Dimitri. I tried to edge myself into the conversation, but, sinc=
e I
felt that I could not keep it up, I soon returned to my corner, and remained
there until we left.
When the bill had
been paid and wraps were being put on, Dubkoff turned to Dimitri and said:
"Whither are Orestes and Pedalion going now? Home, I suppose, to talk
about love. Well, let US go and see my dear Auntie. That will be far more
entertaining than your sour company."
"How dare you
speak like that, and laugh at us?" I burst out as I approached him with
clenched fists. "How dare you laugh at feelings which you do not
understand? I will not have you do it! Hold your tongue!" At this poin=
t I
had to hold my own, for I did not know what to say next, and was, moreover,=
out
of breath with excitement. At first Dubkoff was taken aback, but presently =
he
tried to laugh it off, and to take it as a joke. Finally I was surprised to=
see
him look crestfallen, and lower his eyes.
"I NEVER lau=
gh
at you or your feelings. It is merely my way of speaking," he said
evasively.
"Indeed?&quo=
t; I
cried; yet the next moment I felt ashamed of myself and sorry for him, since
his flushed, downcast face had in it no other expression than one of genuine
pain.
"What is the
matter with you?" said Woloda and Dimitri simultaneously. "No one=
was
trying to insult you."
"Yes, he DID=
try
to insult me!" I replied.
"What an
extraordinary fellow your brother is!" said Dubkoff to Woloda. At that
moment he was passing out of the door, and could not have heard what I said.
Possibly I should have flung myself after him and offered him further insul=
t,
had it not been that just at that moment the waiter who had witnessed my
encounter with Kolpikoff handed me my greatcoat, and I at once quietened
down--merely making such a pretence of having had a difference with Dimitri=
as
was necessary to make my sudden appeasement appear nothing extraordinary. N=
ext
day, when I met Dubkoff at Woloda's, the quarrel was not raked up, yet he a=
nd I
still addressed each other as "you," and found it harder than eve=
r to
look one another in the face.
The remembrance o=
f my
scene with Kolpikoff--who, by the way, never sent me "de ses
nouvelles," either the following day or any day afterwards--remained f=
or
years a keen and unpleasant memory. Even so much as five years after it had
happened I would begin fidgeting and muttering to myself whenever I remembe=
red
the unavenged insult, and was fain to comfort myself with the satisfaction =
of
recollecting the sort of young fellow I had shown myself to be in my subseq=
uent
affair with Dubkoff. In fact, it was only later still that I began to regard
the matter in another light, and both to recall with comic appreciation my =
passage
of arms with Kolpikoff, and to regret the undeserved affront which I had
offered my good friend Dubkoff.
When, at a later =
hour
on the evening of the dinner, I told Dimitri of my affair with Kolpikoff, w=
hose
exterior I described in detail, he was astounded.
"That is the
very man!" he cried. "Don't you know that this precious Kolpikoff=
is
a known scamp and sharper, as well as, above all things, a coward, and that=
he
was expelled from his regiment by his brother officers because, having had =
his
face slapped, he would not fight? But how came you to let him get away?&quo=
t;
he added, with a kindly smile and glance. "Surely he could not have sa=
id
more to you than he did when he called you a cad?"
"No," I
admitted with a blush.
"Well, it was
not right, but there is no great harm done," said Dimitri consolingly.=
Long afterwards, =
when
thinking the matter over at leisure, I suddenly came to the conclusion that=
it
was quite possible that Kolpikoff took the opportunity of vicariously wiping
off upon me the slap in the face which he had once received, just as I myse=
lf
took the opportunity of vicariously wiping off upon the innocent Dubkoff the
epithet "cad" which Kolpikoff had just applied to me.
XVII. I GET READY TO PAY =
SOME
CALLS
On awaking next
morning my first thoughts were of the affair with Kolpikoff. Once again I
muttered to myself and stamped about the room, but there was no help for it.
To-day was the last day that I was to spend in Moscow, and it was to be spe=
nt,
by Papa's orders, in my paying a round of calls which he had written out fo=
r me
on a piece of paper--his first solicitude on our account being not so much =
for
our morals or our education as for our due observance of the convenances. O=
n the
piece of paper was written in his swift, broken hand-writing: "(1) Pri=
nce
Ivan Ivanovitch WITHOUT FAIL; (2) the Iwins WITHOUT FAIL; (3) Prince Michae=
l;
(4) the Princess Nechludoff and Madame Valakhina if you wish." Of cour=
se I
was also to call upon my guardian, upon the rector, and upon the professors=
.
These last-mentio=
ned
calls, however, Dimitri advised me not to pay: saying that it was not only
unnecessary to do so, but not the thing. However, there were the other visi=
ts
to be got through. It was the first two on the list--those marked as to be =
paid
"WITHOUT FAIL"--that most alarmed me. Prince Ivan Ivanovitch was a
commander-in-chief, as well as old, wealthy, and a bachelor. Consequently, I
foresaw that vis-a-vis conversation between him and myself--myself a
sixteen-year-old student!--was not likely to be interesting. As for the Iwi=
ns,
they too were rich--the father being a departmental official of high rank w=
ho
had only on one occasion called at our house during my grandmother's time. =
Since
her death, I had remarked that the younger Iwin had fought shy of us, and
seemed to give himself airs. The elder of the pair, I had heard, had now
finished his course in jurisprudence, and gone to hold a post in St.
Petersburg, while his brother Sergius (the former object of my worship) was
also in St. Petersburg, as a great fat cadet in the Corps of Pages.
When I was a young
man, not only did I dislike intercourse with people who thought themselves
above me, but such intercourse was, for me, an unbearable torture, owing pa=
rtly
to my constant dread of being snubbed, and partly to my straining every fac=
ulty
of my intellect to prove to such people my independence. Yet, even if I fai=
led
to fulfil the latter part of my father's instructions, I felt that I must c=
arry
out the former. I paced my room and eyed my clothes ready disposed on chair=
s--the
tunic, the sword, and the cap. Just as I was about to set forth, old Grap
called to congratulate me, bringing with him Ilinka. Grap pere was a
Russianised German and an intolerably effusive, sycophantic old man who was
more often than not tipsy. As a rule, he visited us only when he wanted to =
ask
for something, and although Papa sometimes entertained him in his study, old
Grap never came to dinner with us. With his subserviency and begging
propensities went such a faculty of good-humour and a power of making himse=
lf
at home that every one looked upon his attachment to us as a great honour. =
For
my part, however, I never liked him, and felt ashamed when he was speaking.=
I was much put ou=
t by
the arrival of these visitors, and made no effort to conceal the fact. Upon
Ilinka I had been so used to look down, and he so used to recognise my righ=
t to
do so, that it displeased me to think that he was now as much a matriculated
student as myself. In some way he appeared to me to have made a POINT of
attaining that equality. I greeted the pair coldly, and, without offering t=
hem
any refreshment (since it went against the grain to do so, and I thought th=
ey
could ask for anything, if they wanted it, without my first inviting them to
state their requirements), gave orders for the drozhki to be got ready. Ili=
nka was
a good-natured, extremely moral, and far from stupid young fellow; yet, for=
all
that, what people call a person of moods. That is to say, for no apparent
reason he was for ever in some PRONOUNCED frame of mind--now lachrymose, now
frivolous, now touchy on the very smallest point. At the present moment he
appeared to be in the last-named mood. He kept looking from his father to m=
yself
without speaking, except when directly addressed, at which times he smiled =
the
self-deprecatory, forced smile under which he was accustomed to conceal his
feelings, and more especially that feeling of shame for his father which he
must have experienced in our house.
"So, Nicolas
Petrovitch," the old man said to me, following me everywhere about the
room as I went through the operation of dressing, while all the while his f=
at
fingers kept turning over and over a silver snuff-box with which my grandmo=
ther
had once presented me, "as soon as ever I heard from my son that you h=
ad
passed your examinations so well (though of course your abilities are
well-known to everyone), I at once came to congratulate you, my dear boy. W=
hy,
I have carried you on my shoulders before now, and God knows that I love yo=
u as
though you were my own son. My Ilinka too has always been fond of you, and
feels quite at home with you."
Meanwhile the said
Ilinka remained sitting silently by the window, apparently absorbed in
contemplation of my three-cornered cap, and every now and then angrily
muttering something in an undertone.
"Now, I also
wanted to ask you, Nicolas Petrovitch." His father went on, "whet=
her
my son did well in the examinations? He tells me that he is going to be in =
the
same faculty as yourself, and that therefore you will be able to keep an ey=
e on
him, and advise him, and so on."
"Oh, yes, I
suppose he passed well," I replied, with a glance at Ilinka, who,
conscious of my gaze, reddened violently and ceased to move his lips about.
"And might he spend the day with you?" was the father's next requ=
est,
which he made with a deprecatory smile, as though he stood in actual awe of=
me,
yet always keeping so close to me, wherever I moved, that the fumes of the
drink and tobacco in which he had been indulging were constantly perceptibl=
e to
my nostrils. I felt greatly vexed at his placing me in such a false position
towards his son, as well as at his distracting my attention from what was, =
to
me, a highly important operation--namely, the operation of dressing; while,
over and above all, I was annoyed by the smell of liquor with which he foll=
owed
me about. Accordingly, I said very coldly that I could not have the pleasur=
e of
Ilinka's company that day, since I should be out.
"Ah! I suppo=
se
you are going to see your sister?" put in Ilinka with a smile, but wit=
hout
looking at me. "Well, I too have business to attend to." At this I
felt even more put out, as well as pricked with compunction; so, to soften =
my
refusal a little, I hastened to say that the reason why I should not be at =
home
that day was that I had to call upon the PRINCE Ivan Ivanovitch, the PRINCE=
SS
Kornakoff, and the Monsieur Iwin who held such an influential post, as well=
as,
probably, to dine with the PRINCESS Nechludoff (for I thought that, on lear=
ning
what important folk I was in the habit of mixing with, the Graps would no
longer think it worth while to pretend to me). However, just as they were
leaving, I invited Ilinka to come and see me another day; but he only murmu=
red
something unintelligible, and it was plain that he meant never to set foot =
in
the house again.
When they had
departed, I set off on my round of calls. Woloda, whom I had asked that mor=
ning
to come with me, in order that I might not feel quite so shy as when altoge=
ther
alone, had declined on the ground that for two brothers to be seen driving =
in
one drozhki would appear so horribly "proper."
Accordingly I set=
off
alone. My first call on the route lay at the Valakhin mansion. It was now t=
hree
years since I had seen Sonetchka, and my love for her had long become a thi=
ng
of the past, yet there still lingered in my heart a sort of clear, touching
recollection of our bygone childish affection. At intervals, also, during t=
hose
three years, I had found myself recalling her memory with such force and
vividness that I had actually shed tears, and imagined myself to be in love
with her again, but those occasions had not lasted more than a few minutes =
at a
time, and had been long in recurring.
I knew that Sonet=
chka
and her mother had been abroad--that, in fact, they had been so for the last
two years. Also, I had heard that they had been in a carriage accident, and
that Sonetchka's face had been so badly cut with the broken glass that her
beauty was marred. As I drove to their house, I kept recalling the old
Sonetchka to my mind, and wondering what she would look like when I met her.
Somehow I imagined that, after her two years' sojourn abroad, she would look
very tall, with a beautiful waist, and, though sedate and imposing, extreme=
ly attractive.
Somehow, also, my imagination refused to picture her with her face disfigur=
ed
with scars, but, on the contrary, since I had read somewhere of a lover who
remained true to his adored one in spite of her disfigurement with smallpox,
strove to imagine that I was in love with Sonetchka, for the purpose of pri=
ding
myself on holding to my troth in spite of her scars--Yet, as a matter of fa=
ct,
I was not really in love with her during that drive, but having once stirre=
d up
in myself old MEMORIES of love, felt PREPARED to fall into that condition, =
and
the more so because, of late, my conscience had often been pricking me for =
having
discarded so many of my old flames.
The Valakhins liv=
ed
in a neat little wooden mansion approached by a courtyard. I gained admitta=
nce
by ringing a bell (then a rarity in Moscow), and was received by a mincing,
smartly-attired page. He either could not or made no attempt to inform me
whether there was any one at home, but, leaving me alone in the dark hall, =
ran
off down a still darker corridor. For a long time I waited in solitude in t=
his
gloomy place, out of which, in addition to the front door and the corridor,=
there
only opened a door which at the moment was closed. Rather surprised at the
dismal appearance of the house, I came to the conclusion that the reason was
that its inmates were still abroad. After five minutes, however, the door
leading into the salon was opened by the page boy, who then conducted me in=
to a
neat, but not richly furnished, drawing-room, where presently I was joined =
by
Sonetchka.
She was now seven=
teen
years old, and very small and thin, as well as of an unhealthy pallor of fa=
ce.
No scars at all were visible, however, and the beautiful, prominent eyes and
bright, cheerful smile were the same as I had known and loved in my childho=
od.
I had not expected her to look at all like this, and therefore could not at
once lavish upon her the sentiment which I had been preparing on the way. S=
he
gave me her hand in the English fashion (which was then as much a novelty a=
s a
door-bell), and, bestowing upon mine a frank squeeze, sat down on the sofa =
by
my side.
"Ah! how gla=
d I
am to see you, my dear Nicolas!" she said as she looked me in the face
with an expression of pleasure so sincere that in the words "my dear
Nicolas" I caught the purely friendly rather than the patronising note=
. To
my surprise she seemed to me simpler, kinder, and more sisterly after her
foreign tour than she had been before it. True, I could now see that she had
two small scars between her nose and temples, but her wonderful eyes and sm=
ile
fitted in exactly with my recollections, and shone as of old.
"But how gre=
atly
you have changed!" she went on. "You are quite grown-up now. And
I-I-well, what do you think of me?"
"I should ne=
ver
have known you," I replied, despite the fact that at the moment I was
thinking that I should have known her anywhere and always.
"Why? Am I g=
rown
so ugly?" she inquired with a movement of her head.
"Oh, no,
decidedly not!" I hastened to reply. "But you have grown taller a=
nd
older. As for being uglier, why, you are even--
"Yes, yes; n=
ever
mind. Do you remember our dances and games, and St. Jerome, and Madame
Dorat?" (As a matter of fact, I could not recollect any Madame Dorat, =
but
saw that Sonetchka was being led away by the joy of her childish recollecti=
ons,
and mixing them up a little). "Ah! what a lovely time it was!" she
went on--and once more there shone before me the same eyes and smile as I h=
ad
always carried in my memory. While she had been speaking, I had been thinki=
ng
over my position at the present moment, and had come to the conclusion that=
I
was in love with her. The instant, however, that I arrived at that result my
careless, happy mood vanished, a mist seemed to arise before me which conce=
aled
even her eyes and smile, and, blushing hotly, I became tongue-tied and
ill-at-ease.
"But times a=
re
different now," she went on with a sigh and a little lifting of her
eyebrows. "Everything seems worse than it used to be, and ourselves to=
o.
Is it not so, Nicolas?"
I could return he=
r no
answer, but sat silently looking at her.
"Where are t=
hose
Iwins and Kornakoffs now? Do you remember them?" she continued, lookin=
g, I
think, with some curiosity at my blushing, downcast countenance. "What
splendid times we used to have!"
Still I could not
answer her.
The next moment, I
was relieved from this awkward position by the entry of old Madame Valakhin
into the room. Rising, I bowed, and straightway recovered my faculty of spe=
ech.
On the other hand, an extraordinary change now took place in Sonetchka. All=
her
gaiety and bonhomie disappeared, her smile became quite a different one, an=
d,
except for the point of her shortness of stature, she became just the lady =
from
abroad whom I had expected to find in her. Yet for this change there was no=
apparent
reason, since her mother smiled every whit as pleasantly, and expressed in =
her
every movement just the same benignity, as of old. Seating herself in her
arm-chair, the old lady signed to me to come and sit beside her; after which
she said something to her daughter in English, and Sonetchka left the room-=
-a
fact which still further helped to relieve me. Madame then inquired after my
father and brother, and passed on to speak of her great bereavement--the lo=
ss
of her husband. Presently, however, she seemed to become sensible of the fa=
ct
that I was not helping much in the conversation, for she gave me a look as =
much
as to say: "If, now, my dear boy, you were to get up, to take your lea=
ve, and
to depart, it would be well." But a curious circumstance had overtaken=
me.
While she had been speaking of her bereavement, I had recalled to myself, n=
ot
only the fact that I was in love, but the probability that the mother knew =
of
it: whereupon such a fit of bashfulness had come upon me that I felt powerl=
ess
to put any member of my body to its legitimate use. I knew that if I were to
rise and walk I should have to think where to plant each foot, what to do w=
ith
my head, what with my hands, and so on. In a word, I foresaw that I should =
be
very much as I had been on the night when I partook too freely of champagne,
and therefore, since I felt uncertain of being able to manage myself if I D=
ID
rise, I ended by feeling UNABLE to rise. Meanwhile, I should say, Sonetchka=
had
returned to the room with her work, and seated herself in a far corner--a
corner whence, as I was nevertheless sensible, she could observe me. Madame
must have felt some surprise as she gazed at my crimson face and noted my
complete immobility, but I decided that it was better to continue sitting in
that absurd position than to risk something unpleasant by getting up and
walking. Thus I sat on and on, in the hope that some unforeseen chance would
deliver me from my predicament. That unforeseen chance at length presented
itself in the person of an unforeseen young man, who entered the room with =
an
air of being one of the household, and bowed to me politely as he did so: w=
hereupon
Madame rose, excused herself to me for having to speak with her "homme
d'affaires," and finally gave me a glance which said: "Well, if y=
ou
DO mean to go on sitting there for ever, at least I can't drive you away.&q=
uot;
Accordingly, with a great effort I also rose, but, finding it impossible to=
do
any leave-taking, moved away towards the door, followed by the pitying glan=
ces
of mother and daughter. All at once I stumbled over a chair, although it was
lying quite out of my route: the reason for my stumbling being that my whole
attention was centred upon not tripping over the carpet. Driving through the
fresh air, however--where at first I muttered and fidgeted about so much th=
at
Kuzma, my coachman, asked me what was the matter--I soon found this feeling
pass away, and began to meditate quietly concerning my love for Sonetchka a=
nd
her relations with her mother, which had appeared to me rather strange. Whe=
n,
afterwards, I told my father that mother and daughter had not seemed on the
best of terms with one another, he said:
"Yes, Madame
leads the poor girl an awful life with her meanness. Yet," added my fa=
ther
with a greater display of feeling than a man might naturally conceive for a
mere relative, "she used to be such an original, dear, charming woman!=
I
cannot think what has made her change so much. By the way, you didn't notic=
e a
secretary fellow about, did you? Fancy a Russian lady having an affaire wit=
h a
secretary!"
"Yes, I saw
him," I replied.
"And was he =
at
least good-looking?"
"No, not at
all."
"It is
extraordinary!" concluded Papa, with a cough and an irritable hoist of=
his
shoulder.
"Well, I am =
in
love!" was my secret thought to myself as I drove along in my drozhki.=
MY second call on=
the
route lay at the Kornakoffs', who lived on the first floor of a large mansi=
on
facing the Arbat. The staircase of the building looked extremely neat and
orderly, yet in no way luxurious--being lined only with drugget pinned down
with highly-polished brass rods. Nowhere were there any flowers or mirrors =
to be
seen. The salon, too, with its polished floor, which I traversed on my way =
to
the drawing-room, was decorated in the same cold, severe, unostentatious st=
yle.
Everything in it looked bright and solid, but not new, and pictures,
flower-stands, and articles of bric-a-brac were wholly absent. In the
drawing-room I found some of the young princesses seated, but seated with t=
he
sort of correct, "company" air about them which gave one the
impression that they sat like that only when guests were expected.
"Mamma will =
be
here presently," the eldest of them said to me as she seated herself b=
y my
side. For the next quarter of an hour, this young lady entertained me with =
such
an easy flow of small-talk that the conversation never flagged a moment. Yet
somehow she made so patent the fact that she was just entertaining me that I
felt not altogether pleased. Amongst other things, she told me that their
brother Stephen (whom they called Etienne, and who had been two years at the
College of Cadets) had now received his commission. Whenever she spoke of h=
im, and
more particularly when she told me that he had flouted his mother's wishes =
by
entering the Hussars, she assumed a nervous air, and immediately her sister=
s,
sitting there in silence, also assumed a nervous air. When, again, she spok=
e of
my grandmother's death, she assumed a MOURNFUL air, and immediately the oth=
ers
all did the same. Finally, when she recalled how I had once struck St. Jero=
me
and been expelled from the room, she laughed and showed her bad teeth, and =
immediately
all the other princesses laughed and showed their bad teeth too.
Next, the
Princess-Mother herself entered--a little dried-up woman, with a wandering
glance and a habit of always looking at somebody else when she was addressi=
ng
one. Taking my hand, she raised her own to my lips for me to kiss it--which=
otherwise,
not supposing it to be necessary, I should not have done.
"How pleased=
I
am to see you!" she said with her usual clearness of articulation as s=
he
gazed at her daughters. "And how like your mother you look! Does he no=
t,
Lise?"
Lise assented, th=
ough
I knew for a fact that I did not resemble my mother in the least.
"And what a
grown-up you have become! My Etienne, you will remember, is your second cou=
sin.
No, not second cousin--what is it, Lise? My mother was Barbara Dimitrievna,
daughter of Dimitri Nicolaevitch, and your grandmother was Natalia
Nicolaevna."
"Then he is =
our
THIRD cousin, Mamma," said the eldest girl.
"Oh, how you
always confuse me!" was her mother's angry reply. "Not third cous=
in,
but COUSIN GERMAN--that is your relationship to Etienne. He is an officer n=
ow.
Did you know it? It is not well that he should have his own way too much. Y=
ou
young men need keeping in hand, or--! Well, you are not vexed because your =
old
aunt tells you the plain truth? I always kept Etienne strictly in hand, for=
I
found it necessary to do so."
"Yes, that is
how our relationship stands," she went on. "Prince Ivan Ivanovitc=
h is
my uncle, and your late mother's uncle also. Consequently I must have been =
your
mother's first cousin--no, second cousin. Yes, that is it. Tell me, have you
been to call on Prince Ivan yet?"
I said no, but th=
at I
was just going to.
"Ah, is it
possible?" she cried. "Why, you ought to have paid him the first =
call
of all! Surely you know that he stands to you in the position of a father? =
He
has no children of his own, and his only heirs are yourself and my children.
You ought to pay him all possible deference, both because of his age, and
because of his position in the world, and because of everything else. I know
that you young fellows of the present day think nothing of relationships and
are not fond of old men, yet do you listen to me, your old aunt, for I am f=
ond
of you, and was fond of your mother, and had a great--a very great-liking a=
nd
respect for your grandmother. You must not fail to call upon him on any
account."
I said that I wou=
ld
certainly go, and since my present call seemed to me to have lasted long
enough, I rose, and was about to depart, but she restrained me.
"No, wait a
minute," she cried. "Where is your father, Lise? Go and tell him =
to
come here. He will be so glad to see you," she added, turning to me.
Two minutes later
Prince Michael entered. He was a short, thick-set gentleman, very slovenly
dressed and ill-shaven, yet wearing such an air of indifference that he loo=
ked
almost a fool. He was not in the least glad to see me--at all events he did=
not
intimate that he was; but the Princess (who appeared to stand in considerab=
le
awe of him) hastened to say:
"Is not Wold=
emar
here" (she seemed to have forgotten my name) "exactly like his
mother?" and she gave her husband a glance which forced him to guess w=
hat
she wanted. Accordingly he approached me with his usual passionless,
half-discontented expression, and held out to me an unshaven cheek to kiss.=
"Why, you are
not dressed yet, though you have to go out soon!" was the Princess's n=
ext
remark to him in the angry tone which she habitually employed in conversati=
on
with her domestics. "It will only mean your offending some one again, =
and
trying to set people against you."
"In a moment=
, in
a moment, mother," said Prince Michael, and departed. I also made my b=
ows
and departed.
This was the first
time I had heard of our being related to Prince Ivan Ivanovitch, and the ne=
ws
struck me unpleasantly.
As for the prospe=
ct
of my call upon the Prince, it seemed even more unpleasant. However, the or=
der
of my route took me first to the Iwins, who lived in a large and splendid
mansion in Tverskaia Street. It was not without some nervousness that I ent=
ered
the great portico where a Swiss major-domo stood armed with his staff of
office.
To my inquiry as =
to
whether any one was at home he replied: "Whom do you wish to see, sir?=
The
General's son is within."
"And the Gen=
eral
himself?" I asked with forced assurance.
"I must repo=
rt
to him your business first. What may it be, sir?" said the major-domo =
as
he rang a bell. Immediately the gaitered legs of a footman showed themselve=
s on
the staircase above; whereupon I was seized with such a fit of nervousness =
that
I hastily bid the lacquey say nothing about my presence to the General, sin=
ce I
would first see his son. By the time I had reached the top of the long
staircase, I seemed to have grown extremely small (metaphorically, I mean, =
not
actually), and had very much the same feeling within me as had possessed my
soul when my drozhki drew up to the great portico, namely, a feeling as tho=
ugh
drozhki, horse, and coachman had all of them grown extremely small too. I f=
ound
the General's son lying asleep on a sofa, with an open book before him. His
tutor, Monsieur Frost, under whose care he still pursued his studies at hom=
e,
had entered behind me with a sort of boyish tread, and now awoke his pupil.
Iwin evinced no particular pleasure at seeing me, while I also seemed to no=
tice
that, while talking to me, he kept looking at my eyebrows. Although he was
perfectly polite, I conceived that he was "entertaining" me much =
as
the Princess Valakhin had done, and that he not only felt no particular lik=
ing
for me, but even that he considered my acquaintance in no way necessary to =
one
who possessed his own circle of friends. All this arose out of the idea tha=
t he
was regarding my eyebrows. In short, his bearing towards me appeared to be =
(as
I recognised with an awkward sensation) very much the same as my own towards
Ilinka Grap. I began to feel irritated, and to interpret every fleeting gla=
nce
which he cast at Monsieur Frost as a mute inquiry: "Why has this fellow
come to see me?"
After some
conversation he remarked that his father and mother were at home. Would I n=
ot
like to visit them too?
"First I wil=
l go
and dress myself," he added as he departed to another room,
notwithstanding that he had seemed to be perfectly well dressed (in a new
frockcoat and white waistcoat) in the present one. A few minutes later he
reappeared in his University uniform, buttoned up to the chin, and we went
downstairs together. The reception rooms through which we passed were lofty=
and
of great size, and seemed to be richly furnished with marble and gilt
ornaments, chintz-covered settees, and a number of mirrors. Presently Madame
Iwin met us, and we went into a little room behind the drawing-room, where,
welcoming me in very friendly fashion, she seated herself by my side, and b=
egan
to inquire after my relations.
Closer acquaintan=
ce
with Madame (whom I had seen only twice before, and that but for a moment on
each occasion) impressed me favourably. She was tall, thin, and very pale, =
and
looked as though she suffered from chronic depression and fatigue. Yet, tho=
ugh
her smile was a sad one, it was very kind, and her large, mournful eyes, wi=
th a
slight cast in their vision, added to the pathos and attractiveness of her
expression. Her attitude, while not precisely that of a hunchback, made her
whole form droop, while her every movement expressed languor. Likewise, tho=
ugh
her speech was deliberate, the timbre of her voice, and the manner in which=
she
lisped her r's and l's, were very pleasing to the ear. Finally, she did not
"ENTERTAIN" me. Unfortunately, the answers which I returned to her
questions concerning my relations seemed to afford her a painful interest, =
and
to remind her of happier days: with the result that when, presently, her son
left the room, she gazed at me in silence for a moment, and then burst into
tears. As I sat there in mute bewilderment, I could not conceive what I had
said to bring this about. At first I felt sorry for her as she sat there
weeping with downcast eyes. Next I began to think to myself: "Ought I =
not
to try and comfort her, and how ought that to be done?" Finally, I beg=
an
to feel vexed with her for placing me in such an awkward position. "Su=
rely
my appearance is not so moving as all that?" I reflected. "Or is =
she
merely acting like this to see what I shall do under the circumstances?&quo=
t;
"Yet it would
not do for me to go," I continued to myself, "for that would look=
too
much as though I were fleeing to escape her tears." Accordingly I began
fidgeting about on my seat, in order to remind her of my presence.
"Oh, how foo=
lish
of me!" at length she said, as she gazed at me for a moment and tried =
to
smile. "There are days when one weeps for no reason whatever." She
felt about for her handkerchief, and then burst out weeping more violently =
than
before.
"Oh dear! How
silly of me to be for ever crying like this! Yet I was so fond of your moth=
er!
We were such friends! We-we--"
At this point she
found her handkerchief, and, burying her face in it, went on crying. Once m=
ore
I found myself in the same protracted dilemma. Though vexed, I felt sorry f=
or
her, since her tears appeared to be genuine--even though I also had an idea
that it was not so much for my mother that she was weeping as for the fact =
that
she was unhappy, and had known happier days. How it would all have ended I =
do
not know, had not her son reappeared and said that his father desired to see
her. Thereupon she rose, and was just about to leave the room, when the Gen=
eral
himself entered. He was a small, grizzled, thick-set man, with bushy black
eyebrows, a grey, close-cropped head, and a very stern, haughty expression =
of
countenance.
I rose and bowed =
to
him, but the General (who was wearing three stars on his green frockcoat) n=
ot
only made no response to my salutation, but scarcely even looked at me; so =
that
all at once I felt as though I were not a human being at all, but only some
negligible object such as a settee or window; or, if I were a human being, =
as
though I were quite indistinguishable from such a negligible object.
"Then you ha=
ve
not yet written to the Countess, my dear?" he said to his wife in Fren=
ch,
and with an imperturbable, yet determined, expression on his countenance.
"Good-bye,
Monsieur Irtenieff," Madame said to me, in her turn, as she made a pro=
ud
gesture with her head and looked at my eyebrows just as her son had done. I=
bowed
to her, and again to her husband, but my second salutation made no more
impression upon him than if a window had just been opened or closed.
Nevertheless the younger Iwin accompanied me to the door, and on the way to=
ld
me that he was to go to St. Petersburg University, since his father had been
appointed to a post in that city (and young Iwin named a very high office in
the service).
"Well, his P=
apa
may do whatsoever he likes," I muttered to myself as I climbed into the
drozhki, "but at all events I will never set foot in that house again.=
His
wife weeps and looks at me as though I were the embodiment of woe, while th=
at
old pig of a General does not even give me a bow. However, I will get even =
with
him some day." How I meant to do that I do not know, but my words
nevertheless came true.
Afterwards, I
frequently found it necessary to remember the advice of my father when he s=
aid
that I must cultivate the acquaintanceship of the Iwins, and not expect a m=
an
in the position of General Iwin to pay any attention to a boy like myself. =
But
I had figured in that position long enough.
XXI. PRINCE IVAN
IVANOVITCH
"Now for the
last call--the visit to Nikitskaia Street," I said to Kuzma, and we
started for Prince Ivan Ivanovitch's mansion.
Towards the end, a
round of calls usually brings one a certain amount of self-assurance:
consequently I was approaching the Prince's abode in quite a tranquil frame=
of
mind, when suddenly I remembered the Princess Kornakoff's words that I was =
his
heir, and at the same moment caught sight of two carriages waiting at the
portico. Instantly, my former nervousness returned.
Both the old
major-domo who opened the door to me, and the footman who took my coat, and=
the
two male and three female visitors whom I found in the drawing-room, and, m=
ost
of all, Prince Ivan Ivanovitch himself (whom I found clad in a
"company" frockcoat and seated on a sofa) seemed to look at me as=
at
an HEIR, and so to eye me with ill-will. Yet the Prince was very gracious a=
nd,
after kissing me (that is to say, after pressing his cold, dry, flabby lips=
to
my cheek for a second), asked me about my plans and pursuits, jested with m=
e,
inquired whether I still wrote verses of the kind which I used to indite in
honour of my grandmother's birthdays, and invited me to dine with him that =
day.
Nevertheless, in proportion as he grew the kinder, the more did I feel
persuaded that his civility was only intended to conceal from me the fact t=
hat
he disliked the idea of my being his heir. He had a custom (due to his false
teeth, of which his mouth possessed a complete set) of raising his upper li=
p a little
as he spoke, and producing a slight whistling sound from it; and whenever, =
on
the present occasion, he did so it seemed to me that he was saying to himse=
lf:
"A boy, a boy--I know it! And my heir, too--my heir!"
When we were
children, we had been used to calling the Prince "dear Uncle;" but
now, in my capacity of heir, I could not bring my tongue to the phrase, whi=
le
to say "Your Highness," as did one of the other visitors, seemed
derogatory to my self-esteem. Consequently, never once during that visit di=
d I
call him anything at all. The personage, however, who most disturbed me was=
the
old Princess who shared with me the position of prospective inheritor, and =
who
lived in the Prince's house. While seated beside her at dinner, I felt firm=
ly
persuaded that the reason why she would not speak to me was that she dislik=
ed
me for being her co-heir, and that the Prince, for his part, paid no attent=
ion to
our side of the table for the reason that the Princess and myself hoped to
succeed him, and so were alike distasteful in his sight.
"You cannot
think how I hated it all!" I said to Dimitrieff the same evening, in a
desire to make a parade of disliking the notion of being an heir (somehow I
thought it the thing to do). "You cannot think how I loathed the whole=
two
hours that I spent there!--Yet he is a fine-looking old fellow, and was very
kind to me," I added--wishing, among other things, to disabuse my frie=
nd
of any possible idea that my loathing had arisen out of the fact that I had
felt so small. "It is only the idea that people may be classing me with
the Princess who lives with him, and who licks the dust off his boots. He i=
s a
wonderful old man, and good and considerate to everybody, but it is awful to
see how he treats the Princess. Money is a detestable thing, and ruins all
human relations.
"Do you know=
, I
think it would be far the best thing for me to have an open explanation with
the Prince," I went on; "to tell him that I respect him as a man,=
but
think nothing of being his heir, and that I desire him to leave me nothing,
since that is the only condition on which I can, in future, visit his
house."
Instead of bursti=
ng
out laughing when I said this, Dimitri pondered awhile in silence, and then
answered:
"You are wro=
ng.
Either you ought to refrain from supposing that people may be classing you =
with
this Princess of whom you speak, or, if you DO suppose such a thing, you ou=
ght
to suppose further that people are thinking what you yourself know quite
well--namely, that such thoughts are so utterly foreign to your nature that=
you
despise them and would never make them a basis for action. Suppose, however,
that people DO suppose you to suppose such a thing--Well, to sum up," =
he
added, feeling that he was getting a little mixed in his pronouncements,
"you had much better not suppose anything of the kind."
My friend was
perfectly right, though it was not until long, long afterwards that experie=
nce
of life taught me the evil that comes of thinking--still worse, of saying--=
much
that seems very fine; taught me that there are certain thoughts which should
always be kept to oneself, since brave words seldom go with brave deeds. I
learnt then that the mere fact of giving utterance to a good intention often
makes it difficult, nay, impossible, to carry that good intention into effe=
ct.
Yet how is one to refrain from giving utterance to the brave, self-sufficie=
nt
impulses of youth? Only long afterwards does one remember and regret them, =
even
as one incontinently plucks a flower before its blooming, and subsequently
finds it lying crushed and withered on the ground.
The very next mor=
ning
I, who had just been telling my friend Dimitri that money corrupts all human
relations, and had (as we have seen) squandered the whole of my cash on
pictures and Turkish pipes, accepted a loan of twenty roubles which he
suggested should pay for my travelling expenses into the country, and remai=
ned
a long while thereafter in his debt!
XXII. INTIMATE CONVERSATI=
ON
WITH MY FRIEND
THIS conversation=
of
ours took place in a phaeton on the way to Kuntsevo. Dimitri had invited me=
in
the morning to go with him to his mother's, and had called for me after
luncheon; the idea being that I should spend the evening, and perhaps also =
pass
the night, at the country-house where his family lived. Only when we had le=
ft
the city and exchanged its grimy streets and the unbearably deafening clatt=
er
of its pavements for the open vista of fields and the subdued grinding of c=
arriage-wheels
on a dusty high road (while the sweet spring air and prospect enveloped us =
on
every side) did I awake from the new impressions and sensations of freedom =
into
which the past two days had plunged me. Dimitri was in his kind and sociable
mood. That is to say, he was neither frowning nor blinking nervously nor
straightening his neck in his collar. For my own part, I was congratulating
myself on those noble sentiments which I have expressed above, in the belief
that they had led him to overlook my shameful encounter with Kolpikoff, and=
to
refrain from despising me for it. Thus we talked together on many an intima=
te
subject which even a friend seldom mentions to a friend. He told me about h=
is
family whose acquaintance I had not yet made--about his mother, his aunt, a=
nd
his sister, as also about her whom Woloda and Dubkoff believed to be his
"flame," and always spoke of as "the lady with the chestnut
locks." Of his mother he spoke with a certain cold and formal
commendation, as though to forestall any further mention of her; his aunt he
extolled enthusiastically, though with a touch of condescension in his tone;
his sister he scarcely mentioned at all, as though averse to doing so in my
presence; but on the subject of "the lady with the chestnut locks"
(whose real name was Lubov Sergievna, and who was a grown-up young lady liv=
ing
on a family footing with the Nechludoffs) he discoursed with animation.
"Yes, she is=
a
wonderful woman," he said with a conscious reddening of the face, yet
looking me in the eyes with dogged temerity. "True, she is no longer
young, and even rather elderly, as well as by no means good-looking; but as=
for
loving a mere featherhead, a mere beauty--well, I never could understand th=
at,
for it is such a silly thing to do." (Dimitri said this as though he h=
ad
just discovered a most novel and extraordinary truth.) "I am certain, =
too,
that such a soul, such a heart and principles, as are hers are not to be fo=
und
elsewhere in the world of the present day." (I do not know whence he h=
ad
derived the habit of saying that few good things were discoverable in the w=
orld
of the present day, but at all events he loved to repeat the expression, an=
d it
somehow suited him.)
"Only, I am
afraid," he went on quietly, after thus annihilating all such men as w=
ere
foolish enough to admire mere beauty, "I am afraid that you will not
understand or realise her quickly. She is modest, even secretive, and by no
means fond of exhibiting her beautiful and surprising qualities. Now, my
mother--who, as you will see, is a noble, sensible woman--has known Lubov
Sergievna, for many years; yet even to this day she does not properly
understand her. Shall I tell you why I was out of temper last evening when =
you
were questioning me? Well, you must know that the day before yesterday Lubov
asked me to accompany her to Ivan Yakovlevitch's (you have heard of him, I
suppose? the fellow who seems to be mad, but who, in reality, is a very
remarkable man). Well, Lubov is extremely religious, and understands Ivan
Yakovlevitch to the full. She often goes to see him, and converses with him,
and gives him money for the poor--money which she has earned herself. She i=
s a marvellous
woman, as you will see. Well, I went with her to Ivan's, and felt very grat=
eful
to her for having afforded me the opportunity of exchanging a word with so
remarkable a man; but my mother could not understand our action at all, and
discerned in it only superstition. Consequently, last night she and I
quarrelled for the first time in our lives. A very bitter one it was,
too," he concluded, with a convulsive shrug of his shoulders, as though
the mention of it recalled the feelings which he had then experienced.
"And what are
your intentions about it all?" I inquired, to divert him from such a
disagreeable recollection. "That is to say, how do you imagine it is g=
oing
to turn out? Do you ever speak to her about the future, or about how your l=
ove
or friendship are going to end?"
"Do you mean=
, do
I intend to marry her eventually?" he inquired, in his turn, with a
renewed blush, but turning himself round and looking me boldly in the face.=
"Yes,
certainly," I replied as I settled myself down. "We are both of u=
s grown-up,
as well as friends, so we may as well discuss our future life as we drive
along. No one could very well overlook or overhear us now."
"Why should I
NOT marry her?" he went on in response to my reassuring reply. "I=
t is
my aim--as it should be the aim of every honourable man--to be as good and =
as
happy as possible; and with her, if she should still be willing when I have=
become
more independent, I should be happier and better than with the greatest bea=
uty
in the world."
Absorbed in such
conversation, we hardly noticed that we were approaching Kuntsevo, or that =
the
sky was becoming overcast and beginning to threaten rain. On the right, the=
sun
was slowly sinking behind the ancient trees of the Kuntsevo park--one half =
of
its brilliant disc obscured with grey, subluminous cloud, and the other half
sending forth spokes of flaming light which threw the old trees into striki=
ng relief
as they stood there with their dense crowns of green showing against a blue
patch of sky. The light and shimmer of that patch contrasted sharply with t=
he
heavy pink cloud which lay massed above a young birch-tree visible on the
horizon before us, while, a little further to the right, the parti-coloured
roofs of the Kuntsevo mansion could be seen projecting above a belt of trees
and undergrowth--one side of them reflecting the glittering rays of the sun,
and the other side harmonising with the more louring portion of the heavens.
Below us, and to the left, showed the still blue of a pond where it lay
surrounded with pale-green laburnums--its dull, concave-looking depths
repeating the trees in more sombre shades of colour over the surface of a
hillock. Beyond the water spread the black expanse of a ploughed field, with
the straight line of a dark-green ridge by which it was bisected running fa=
r into
the distance, and there joining the leaden, threatening horizon.
On either side of=
the
soft road along which the phaeton was pursuing the even tenour of its way,
bright-green, tangled, juicy belts of rye were sprouting here and there into
stalk. Not a motion was perceptible in the air, only a sweet freshness, and
everything looked extraordinarily clear and bright. Near the road I could s=
ee a
little brown path winding its way among the dark-green, quarter-grown stems=
of
rye, and somehow that path reminded me vividly of our village, and somehow
(through some connection of thought) the idea of that village reminded me
vividly of Sonetchka, and so of the fact that I was in love with her.
Notwithstanding my
fondness for Dimitri and the pleasure which his frankness had afforded me, I
now felt as though I desired to hear no more about his feelings and intenti=
ons
with regard to Lubov Sergievna, but to talk unstintedly about my own love f=
or
Sonetchka, who seemed to me an object of affection of a far higher order. Y=
et
for some reason or another I could not make up my mind to tell him straight=
out
how splendid it would seem when I had married Sonetchka and we were living =
in
the country--of how we should have little children who would crawl about the
floor and call me Papa, and of how delighted I should be when he, Dimitri,
brought his wife, Lubov Sergievna, to see us, wearing an expensive gown.
Accordingly, instead of saying all that, I pointed to the setting sun, and
merely remarked: "Look, Dimitri! How splendid!"
To this, however,
Dimitri made no reply, since he was evidently dissatisfied at my answering =
his
confession (which it had cost him much to make) by directing his attention =
to
natural objects (to which he was, in general, indifferent). Upon him Nature=
had
an effect altogether different to what she had upon myself, for she affected
him rather by her industry than by her beauty--he loved her rather with his
intellect than with his senses.
"I am absolu=
tely
happy," I went on, without noticing that he was altogether taken up wi=
th
his own thoughts and oblivious of anything that I might be saying. "You
will remember how told you about a girl with whom I used to be in love when=
was
a little boy? Well, I saw her again only this morning, and am now infatuated
with her." Then I told him--despite his continued expression of
indifference--about my love, and about all my plans for my future connubial
happiness. Strangely enough, no sooner had I related in detail the whole
strength of my feelings than I instantly became conscious of its diminution=
.
The rain overtook=
us
just as we were turning into the avenue of birch-trees which led to the hou=
se,
but it did not really wet us. I only knew that it was raining by the fact t=
hat
I felt a drop fall, first on my nose, and then on my hand, and heard someth=
ing
begin to patter upon the young, viscous leaves of the birch-trees as, droop=
ing
their curly branches overhead, they seemed to imbibe the pure, shining drops
with an avidity which filled the whole avenue with scent. We descended from=
the
carriage, so as to reach the house the quicker through the garden, but found
ourselves confronted at the entrance-door by four ladies, two of whom were
knitting, one reading a book, and the fourth walking to and fro with a litt=
le
dog. Thereupon, Dimitri began to present me to his mother, sister, and aunt=
, as
well as to Lubov Sergievna. For a moment they remained where they were, but
almost instantly the rain became heavier.
"Let us go i=
nto
the verandah; you can present him to us there," said the lady whom I t=
ook
to be Dimitri's mother, and we all of us ascended the entrance-steps.
From the first, t=
he
member of this company who struck me the most was Lubov Sergievna, who, hol=
ding
a lapdog in her arms and wearing stout laced boots, was the last of the four
ladies to ascend the staircase, and twice stopped to gaze at me intently and
then kiss her little dog. She was anything but good-looking, since she was
red-haired, thin, short, and slightly crooked. What made her plain face all=
the
plainer was the queer way in which her hair was parted to one side (it look=
ed like
the wigs which bald women contrive for themselves). However much I should h=
ave
liked to applaud my friend, I could not find a single comely feature in her.
Even her brown eyes, though expressive of good-humour, were small and
dull--were, in fact, anything but pretty; while her hands (those most
characteristic of features), were though neither large nor ill-shaped, coar=
se
and red.
As soon as we rea=
ched
the verandah, each of the ladies, except Dimitri's sister Varenika--who also
had been regarding me attentively out of her large, dark-grey eyes--said a =
few
words to me before resuming her occupation, while Varenika herself began to
read aloud from a book which she held on her lap and steadied with her fing=
er.
The Princess Maria
Ivanovna was a tall, well-built woman of forty. To judge by the curls of
half-grey hair which descended below her cap one might have taken her for m=
ore,
but as soon as ever one observed the fresh, extraordinarily tender, and alm=
ost
wrinkleless face, as well as, most of all, the lively, cheerful sparkle of =
the
large eyes, one involuntarily took her for less. Her eyes were black and ve=
ry
frank, her lips thin and slightly severe, her nose regular and slightly
inclined to the left, and her hands ringless, large, and almost like those =
of a
man, but with finely tapering fingers. She wore a dark-blue dress fastened =
to
the throat and sitting closely to her firm, still youthful waist--a waist w=
hich
she evidently pinched. Lastly, she held herself very upright, and was knitt=
ing
a garment of some kind. As soon as I stepped on to the verandah she took me=
by
the hand, drew me to her as though wishing to scrutinise me more closely, a=
nd
said, as she gazed at me with the same cold, candid glance as her son's, th=
at
she had long known me by report from Dimitri, and that therefore, in order =
to
make my acquaintance thoroughly, she had invited me to stay these twenty-fo=
ur hours
in her house.
"Do just as =
you
please here," she said, "and stand on no ceremony whatever with u=
s,
even as we shall stand on none with you. Pray walk, read, listen, or sleep =
as
the mood may take you."
Sophia Ivanovna w=
as
an old maid and the Princess's younger sister, though she looked the elder =
of
the two. She had that exceedingly overstuffed appearance which old maids al=
ways
present who are short of stature but wear corsets. It seemed as though her
healthiness had shifted upwards to the point of choking her, her short, fat
hands would not meet below her projecting bust, and the line of her waist w=
as scarcely
visible at all.
Notwithstanding t=
hat
the Princess Maria Ivanovna had black hair and eyes, while Sophia Ivanovna =
had
white hair and large, vivacious, tranquilly blue eyes (a rare combination),
there was a great likeness between the two sisters, for they had the same
expression, nose, and lips. The only difference was that Sophia's nose and =
lips
were a trifle coarser than Maria's, and that, when she smiled, those featur=
es
inclined towards the right, whereas Maria's inclined towards the left. Soph=
ia,
to judge by her dress and coiffure, was still youthful at heart, and would =
never
have displayed grey curls, even if she had possessed them. Yet at first her
glance and bearing towards me seemed very proud, and made me nervous, where=
as I
at once felt at home with the Princess. Perhaps it was only Sophia's stoutn=
ess
and a certain resemblance to portraits of Catherine the Great that gave her=
, in
my eyes, a haughty aspect, but at all events I felt quite intimidated when =
she
looked at me intently and said, "Friends of our friends are our friends
also." I became reassured and changed my opinion about her only when,
after saying those words, she opened her mouth and sighed deeply. It may be
that she owed her habit of sighing after every few words--with a great
distention of the mouth and a slight drooping of her large blue eyes--to her
stoutness, yet it was none the less one which expressed so much good-humour
that I at once lost all fear of her, and found her actually attractive. Her=
eyes
were charming, her voice pleasant and musical, and even the flowing lines of
her fullness seemed to my youthful vision not wholly lacking in beauty.
I had imagined th=
at
Lubov Sergievna, as my friend's friend, would at once say something friendly
and familiar to me; yet, after gazing at me fixedly for a while, as though =
in
doubt whether the remark she was about to make to me would not be too frien=
dly,
she at length asked me what faculty I was in. After that she stared at me as
before, in evident hesitation as to whether or not to say something civil a=
nd
familiar, until, remarking her perplexity, I besought her with a look to sp=
eak freely.
Yet all she then said was, "They tell me the Universities pay very lit=
tle
attention to science now," and turned away to call her little dog.
All that evening =
she
spoke only in disjointed fragments of this kind--fragments which had no
connection either with the point or with one another; yet I had such faith =
in
Dimitri, and he so often kept looking from her to me with an expression whi=
ch
mutely asked me, "Now, what do you think of that?" that, though I
entirely failed to persuade myself that in Lubov Sergievna there was anythi=
ng
to speak of, I could not bear to express the thought, even to myself.
As for the last
member of the family, Varenika, she was a well-developed girl of sixteen. T=
he
only good features in her were a pair of dark-grey eyes,--which, in their
expression of gaiety mingled with quiet attention, greatly resembled those =
of
her aunt--a long coil of flaxen hair, and extremely delicate, beautiful han=
ds.
"I expect,
Monsieur Nicolas, you find it wearisome to hear a story begun from the
middle?" said Sophia Ivanovna with her good-natured sigh as she turned
over some pieces of clothing which she was sewing. The reading aloud had ce=
ased
for the moment because Dimitri had left the room on some errand or another.=
"Or perhaps =
you
have read Rob Roy before?" she added.
At that period I
thought it incumbent upon me, in virtue of my student's uniform, to reply i=
n a
very "clever and original" manner to every question put to me by
people whom I did not know very well, and regarded such short, clear answer=
s as
"Yes," "No," "I like it," or "I do not c=
are for
it," as things to be ashamed of. Accordingly, looking down at my new a=
nd
fashionably-cut trousers and the glittering buttons of my tunic, I replied =
that
I had never read Rob Roy, but that it interested me greatly to hear it, sin=
ce I
preferred to read books from the middle rather than from the beginning.
"It is twice=
as
interesting," I added with a self-satisfied smirk; "for then one =
can
guess what has gone before as well as what is to come after."
The Princess smil=
ed
what I thought was a forced smile, but one which I discovered later to be h=
er
only one.
"Well, perha=
ps
that is true," she said. "But tell me, Nicolas (you will not be
offended if I drop the Monsieur)--tell me, are you going to be in town long?
When do you go away?"
"I do not kn=
ow
quite. Perhaps to-morrow, or perhaps not for some while yet," I replied
for some reason or another, though I knew perfectly well that in reality we
were to go to-morrow.
"I wish you
could stop longer, both for your own sake and for Dimitri's," she said=
in
a meditative manner. "At your age friendship is a weak thing."
I felt that every=
one
was looking at me, and waiting to see what I should say--though certainly
Varenika made a pretence of looking at her aunt's work. I felt, in fact, as
though I were being put through an examination, and that it behoved me to
figure in it as well as possible.
"Yes, to ME
Dimitri's friendship is most useful," I replied, "but to HIM mine
cannot be of any use at all, since he is a thousand times better than I.&qu=
ot;
(Dimitri could not hear what I said, or I should have feared his detecting =
the
insincerity of my words.)
Again the Princess
smiled her unnatural, yet characteristically natural, smile.
"Just listen=
to
him!" she said. "But it is YOU who are the little monster of
perfection."
"'Monster of
perfection,'" I thought to myself. "That is splendid. I must make=
a
note of it."
"Yet, to dis=
miss
yourself, he has been extraordinarily clever in that quarter," she wen=
t on
in a lower tone (which pleased me somehow) as she indicated Lubov Sergievna
with her eyes, "since he has discovered in our poor little Auntie"
(such was the pet name which they gave Lubov) "all sorts of perfections
which I, who have known her and her little dog for twenty years, had never =
yet
suspected. Varenika, go and tell them to bring me a glass of water," s=
he
added, letting her eyes wander again. Probably she had bethought her that it
was too soon, or not entirely necessary, to let me into all the family secr=
ets.
"Yet no--let HIM go, for he has nothing to do, while you are reading. =
Pray
go to the door, my friend," she said to me, "and walk about fifte=
en
steps down the passage. Then halt and call out pretty loudly, 'Peter, bring
Maria Ivanovna a glass of iced water'"--and she smiled her curious smi=
le
once more.
"I expect she
wants to say something about me in my absence," I thought to myself as=
I
left the room. "I expect she wants to remark that she can see very cle=
arly
that I am a very, very clever young man."
Hardly had I take=
n a
dozen steps when I was overtaken by Sophia Ivanovna, who, though fat and sh=
ort
of breath, trod with surprising lightness and agility.
"Merci, mon
cher," she said. "I will go and tell them myself."
SOPHIA IVANOVNA, =
as I
afterwards came to know her, was one of those rare, young-old women who are
born for family life, but to whom that happiness has been denied by fate.
Consequently all that store of their love which should have been poured out
upon a husband and children becomes pent up in their hearts, until they
suddenly decide to let it overflow upon a few chosen individuals. Yet so
inexhaustible is that store of old maids' love that, despite the number of
individuals so selected, there still remains an abundant surplus of affecti=
on
which they lavish upon all by whom they are surrounded--upon all, good or b=
ad, whom
they may chance to meet in their daily life.
Of love there are
three kinds--love of beauty, the love which denies itself, and practical lo=
ve.
Of the desire of a
young man for a young woman, as well as of the reverse instance, I am not n=
ow
speaking, for of such tendresses I am wary, seeing that I have been too unh=
appy
in my life to have been able ever to see in such affection a single spark of
truth, but rather a lying pretence in which sensuality, connubial relations,
money, and the wish to bind hands or to unloose them have rendered feeling =
such
a complex affair as to defy analysis. Rather am I speaking of that love for=
a
human being which, according to the spiritual strength of its possessor,
concentrates itself either upon a single individual, upon a few, or upon
many--of love for a mother, a father, a brother, little children, a friend,=
a
compatriot--of love, in short, for one's neighbour.
Love of beauty
consists in a love of the sense of beauty and of its expression. People who
thus love conceive the object of their affection to be desirable only in so=
far
as it arouses in them that pleasurable sensation of which the consciousness=
and
the expression soothes the senses. They change the object of their love
frequently, since their principal aim consists in ensuring that the voluptu=
ous
feeling of their adoration shall be constantly titillated. To preserve in
themselves this sensuous condition, they talk unceasingly, and in the most
elegant terms, on the subject of the love which they feel, not only for its=
immediate
object, but also for objects upon which it does not touch at all. This coun=
try
of ours contains many such individuals--individuals of that well-known class
who, cultivating "the beautiful," not only discourse of their cul=
t to
all and sundry, but speak of it pre-eminently in FRENCH. It may seem a stra=
nge
and ridiculous thing to say, but I am convinced that among us we have had in
the past, and still have, a large section of society--notably women--whose =
love
for their friends, husbands, or children would expire to-morrow if they were
debarred from dilating upon it in the tongue of France!
Love of the second
kind--renunciatory love--consists in a yearning to undergo self-sacrifice f=
or
the object beloved, regardless of any consideration whether such self-sacri=
fice
will benefit or injure the object in question. "There is no evil which=
I
would not endure to show both the world and him or her whom I adore my
devotion." There we have the formula of this kind of love. People who =
thus
love never look for reciprocity of affection, since it is a finer thing to
sacrifice yourself for one who does not comprehend you. Also, they are alwa=
ys painfully
eager to exaggerate the merits of their sacrifice; usually constant in their
love, for the reason that they would find it hard to forego the kudos of the
deprivations which they endure for the object beloved; always ready to die,=
to
prove to him or to her the entirety of their devotion; but sparing of such
small daily proofs of their love as call for no special effort of
self-immolation. They do not much care whether you eat well, sleep well, ke=
ep
your spirits up, or enjoy good health, nor do they ever do anything to obta=
in
for you those blessings if they have it in their power; but, should you be
confronting a bullet, or have fallen into the water, or stand in danger of
being burnt, or have had your heart broken in a love affair--well, for all
these things they are prepared if the occasion should arise. Moreover, peop=
le addicted
to love of such a self-sacrificing order are invariably proud of their love,
exacting, jealous, distrustful, and--strange to tell--anxious that the obje=
ct
of their adoration should incur perils (so that they may save it from calam=
ity,
and console it thereafter) and even be vicious (so that they may purge it of
its vice).
Suppose, now, that
you are living in the country with a wife who loves you in this self-sacrif=
icing
manner. You may be healthy and contented, and have occupations which intere=
st
you, while, on the other hand, your wife may be too weak to superintend the
household work (which, in consequence, will be left to the servants), or to
look after the children (who, in consequence, will be left to the nurses), =
or
to put her heart into any work whatsoever: and all because she loves nobody=
and
nothing but yourself. She may be patently ill, yet she will say not a word =
to
you about it, for fear of distressing you. She may be patently ennuyee, yet=
for
your sake she will be prepared to be so for the rest of her life. She may be
patently depressed because you stick so persistently to your occupations
(whether sport, books, farming, state service, or anything else) and see
clearly that they are doing you harm; yet, for all that, she will keep sile=
nce,
and suffer it to be so. Yet, should you but fall sick--and, despite her own
ailments and your prayers that she will not distress herself in vain, your
loving wife will remain sitting inseparably by your bedside. Every moment y=
ou
will feel her sympathetic gaze resting upon you and, as it were, saying:
"There! I told you so, but it is all one to me, and I shall not leave
you." In the morning you maybe a little better, and move into another
room. The room, however, will be insufficiently warmed or set in order; the
soup which alone you feel you could eat will not have been cooked; nor will=
any
medicine have been sent for. Yet, though worn out with night watching, your
loving wife will continue to regard you with an expression of sympathy, to =
walk
about on tiptoe, and to whisper unaccustomed and obscure orders to the
servants. You may wish to be read to--and your loving wife will tell you wi=
th a
sigh that she feels sure you will be unable to hear her reading, and only g=
row
angry at her awkwardness in doing it; wherefore you had better not be read =
to
at all. You may wish to walk about the room--and she will tell you that it
would be far better for you not to do so. You may wish to talk with some
friends who have called--and she will tell you that talking is not good for
you. At nightfall the fever may come upon you again, and you may wish to be=
left
alone whereupon your loving wife, though wasted, pale, and full of yawns, w=
ill
go on sitting in a chair opposite you, as dusk falls, until her very slight=
est
movement, her very slightest sound, rouses you to feelings of anger and
impatience. You may have a servant who has lived with you for twenty years,=
and
to whom you are attached, and who would tend you well and to your satisfact=
ion
during the night, for the reason that he has been asleep all day and is,
moreover, paid a salary for his services; yet your wife will not suffer him=
to
wait upon you. No; everything she must do herself with her weak, unaccustom=
ed
fingers (of which you follow the movements with suppressed irritation as th=
ose
pale members do their best to uncork a medicine bottle, to snuff a candle, =
to pour
out physic, or to touch you in a squeamish sort of way). If you are an
impatient, hasty sort of man, and beg of her to leave the room, you will he=
ar
by the vexed, distressed sounds which come from her that she is humbly sobb=
ing
and weeping behind the door, and whispering foolishness of some kind to the
servant. Finally if you do not die, your loving wife--who has not slept dur=
ing
the whole three weeks of your illness (a fact of which she will constantly
remind you)--will fall ill in her turn, waste away, suffer much, and become
even more incapable of any useful pursuit than she was before; while by the
time that you have regained your normal state of health she will express to=
you
her self-sacrificing affection only by shedding around you a kind of benign=
ant
dullness which involuntarily communicates itself both to yourself and to ev=
ery
one else in your vicinity.
The third kind of
love--practical love--consists of a yearning to satisfy every need, every
desire, every caprice, nay, every vice, of the being beloved. People who lo=
ve
thus always love their life long, since, the more they love, the more they =
get
to know the object beloved, and the easier they find the task of loving
it--that is to say, of satisfying its desires. Their love seldom finds
expression in words, but if it does so, it expresses itself neither with
assurance nor beauty, but rather in a shamefaced, awkward manner, since peo=
ple
of this kind invariably have misgivings that they are loving unworthily. Pe=
ople
of this kind love even the faults of their adored one, for the reason that =
those
faults afford them the power of constantly satisfying new desires. They look
for their affection to be returned, and even deceive themselves into believ=
ing
that it is returned, and are happy accordingly: yet in the reverse case they
will still continue to desire happiness for their beloved one, and try by e=
very
means in their power--whether moral or material, great or small--to provide=
it.
Such practical lo=
ve
it was--love for her nephew, for her niece, for her sister, for Lubov
Sergievna, and even for myself, because I loved Dimitri--that shone in the
eyes, as well as in the every word and movement, of Sophia Ivanovna.
Only long afterwa=
rds
did I learn to value her at her true worth. Yet even now the question occur=
red
to me: "What has made Dimitri--who throughout has tried to understand =
love
differently to other young fellows, and has always had before his eyes the
gentle, loving Sophia Ivanovna--suddenly fall so deeply in love with the
incomprehensible Lubov Sergievna, and declare that in his aunt he can only =
find
good QUALITIES? Verily it is a true saying that 'a prophet hath no honour i=
n his
own country.' One of two things: either every man has in him more of bad th=
an
of good, or every man is more receptive to bad than to good. Lubov Sergievn=
a he
has not known for long, whereas his aunt's love he has known since the day =
of
his birth."
XXV. I BECOME BETTER
ACQUAINTED WITH THE NECHLUDOFFS
WHEN I returned to
the verandah, I found that they were not talking of me at all, as I had
anticipated. On the contrary, Varenika had laid aside the book, and was eng=
aged
in a heated dispute with Dimitri, who, for his part, was walking up and down
the verandah, and frowningly adjusting his neck in his collar as he did so.=
The
subject of the quarrel seemed to be Ivan Yakovlevitch and superstition, but=
it
was too animated a difference for its underlying cause not to be something
which concerned the family much more nearly. Although the Princess and Lubo=
v Sergievna
were sitting by in silence, they were following every word, and evidently
tempted at times to take part in the dispute; yet always, just when they we=
re
about to speak, they checked themselves, and left the field clear for the t=
wo
principles, Dimitri and Varenika. On my entry, the latter glanced at me with
such an indifferent air that I could see she was wholly absorbed in the qua=
rrel
and did not care whether she spoke in my presence or not. The Princess too
looked the same, and was clearly on Varenika's side, while Dimitri began, i=
f anything,
to raise his voice still more when I appeared, and Lubov Sergievna, for her
part, observed to no one in particular: "Old people are quite right wh=
en
they say, 'Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait.'"
Nevertheless this
quotation did not check the dispute, though it somehow gave me the impressi=
on
that the side represented by the speaker and her friend was in the wrong.
Although it was a little awkward for me to be present at a petty family
difference, the fact that the true relations of the family revealed themsel=
ves
during its progress, and that my presence did nothing to hinder that
revelation, afforded me considerable gratification.
How often it happ=
ens
that for years one sees a family cover themselves over with a conventional
cloak of decorum, and preserve the real relations of its members a secret f=
rom
every eye! How often, too, have I remarked that, the more impenetrable (and
therefore the more decorous) is the cloak, the harsher are the relations wh=
ich
it conceals! Yet, once let some unexpected question--often a most trivial o=
ne
(the colour of a woman's hair, a visit, a man's horses, and so forth)--aris=
e in
that family circle, and without any visible cause there will also arise an =
ever-growing
difference, until in time the cloak of decorum becomes unequal to confining=
the
quarrel within due bounds, and, to the dismay of the disputants and the
astonishment of the auditors, the real and ill-adjusted relations of the fa=
mily
are laid bare, and the cloak, now useless for concealment, is bandied from =
hand
to hand among the contending factions until it serves only to remind one of=
the
years during which it successfully deceived one's perceptions. Sometimes to=
strike
one's head violently against a ceiling hurts one less than just to graze so=
me
spot which has been hurt and bruised before: and in almost every family the=
re
exists some such raw and tender spot. In the Nechludoff family that spot was
Dimitri's extraordinary affection for Lubov Sergievna, which aroused in the
mother and sister, if not a jealous feeling, at all events a sense of hurt
family pride. This was the grave significance which underlay, for all those
present, the seeming dispute about Ivan Yakovlevitch and superstition.
"In anything
that other people deride and despise you invariably profess to see something
extraordinarily good!" Varenika was saying in her clear voice, as she
articulated each syllable with careful precision.
"Indeed?&quo=
t;
retorted Dimitri with an impatient toss of his head. "Now, in the first
place, only a most unthinking person could ever speak of DESPISING such a
remarkable man as Ivan Yakovlevitch, while, in the second place, it is YOU =
who
invariably profess to see nothing good in what confronts you."
Meanwhile Sophia
Ivanovna kept looking anxiously at us as she turned first to her nephew, and
then to her niece, and then to myself. Twice she opened her mouth as though=
to
say what was in her mind and drew a deep sigh.
"Varia, PLEA=
SE
go on reading," she said at length, at the same time handing her niece=
the
book, and patting her hand kindly. "I wish to know whether he ever fou=
nd
HER again" (as a matter of fact, the novel in question contained not a
word about any one finding any one else). "And, Mitia dear," she
added to her nephew, despite the glum looks which he was throwing at her for
having interrupted the logical thread of his deductions, "you had bett=
er
let me poultice your cheek, or your teeth will begin to ache again."
After that the
reading was resumed. Yet the quarrel had in no way dispelled the calm
atmosphere of family and intellectual harmony which enveloped this circle of
ladies.
Clearly deriving =
its
inspiration and character from the Princess Maria Ivanovna, it was a circle
which, for me, had a wholly novel and attractive character of logicalness
mingled with simplicity and refinement. That character I could discern in t=
he
daintiness, good taste, and solidity of everything about me, whether the
handbell, the binding of the book, the settee, or the table. Likewise, I
divined it in the upright, well-corseted pose of the Princess, in her penda=
nt
curls of grey hair, in the manner in which she had, at our first introducti=
on, called
me plain "Nicolas" and "he," in the occupations of the
ladies (the reading and the sewing of garments), and in the unusual whitene=
ss of
their hands. Those hands, en passant, showed a family feature common to
all--namely, the feature that the flesh of the palm on the outer side was r=
osy
in colour, and divided by a sharp, straight line from the pure whiteness of=
the
upper portion of the hand. Still more was the character of this feminine ci=
rcle
expressed in the manner in which the three ladies spoke Russian and
French--spoke them, that is to say, with perfect articulation of syllables =
and
pedantic accuracy of substantives and prepositions. All this, and more
especially the fact that the ladies treated me as simply and as seriously a=
s a
real grown-up--telling me their opinions, and listening to my own (a thing =
to
which I was so little accustomed that, for all my glittering buttons and bl=
ue
facings, I was in constant fear of being told: "Surely you do not think
that we are talking SERIOUSLY to you? Go away and learn something")--a=
ll
this, I say, caused me to feel an entire absence of restraint in this socie=
ty.
I ventured at times to rise, to move about, and to talk boldly to each of t=
he
ladies except Varenika (whom I always felt it was unbecoming, or even
forbidden, for me to address unless she first spoke to me).
As I listened to =
her
clear, pleasant voice reading aloud, I kept glancing from her to the path of
the flower-garden, where the rain-spots were making small dark circles in t=
he
sand, and thence to the lime-trees, upon the leaves of which the rain was
pattering down in large detached drops shed from the pale, shimmering edge =
of
the livid blue cloud which hung suspended over us. Then I would glance at h=
er again,
and then at the last purple rays of the setting sun where they were throwing
the dense clusters of old, rain-washed birches into brilliant relief. Yet a=
gain
my eyes would return to Varenika, and, each time that they did so, it struc=
k me
afresh that she was not nearly so plain as at first I had thought her.
"How I wish =
that
I wasn't in love already!" I reflected, "or that Sonetchka was
Varenika! How nice it would be if suddenly I could become a member of this
family, and have the three ladies for my mother, aunt, and wife
respectively!" All the time that these thoughts kept passing through my
head I kept attentively regarding Varenika as she read, until somehow I fel=
t as
though I were magnetising her, and that presently she must look at me. Sure
enough, at length she raised her head, threw me a glance, and, meeting my e=
yes,
turned away.
"The rain do=
es
not seem to stop," she remarked.
Suddenly a new
feeling came over me. I began to feel as though everything now happening to=
me
was a repetition of some similar occurrence before--as though on some previ=
ous
occasion a shower of rain had begun to fall, and the sun had set behind
birch-trees, and I had been looking at her, and she had been reading aloud,=
and
I had magnetised her, and she had looked up at me. Yes, all this I seemed t=
o recall
as though it had happened once before.
"Surely she =
is
not--SHE?" was my thought. "Surely IT is not beginning?" How=
ever,
I soon decided that Varenika was not the "SHE" referred to, and t=
hat
"it" was not "beginning." "In the first place,&quo=
t; I
said to myself, "Varenika is not at all BEAUTIFUL. She is just an ordi=
nary
girl whose acquaintance I have made in the ordinary way, whereas the she wh=
om I
shall meet somewhere and some day and in some not ordinary way will be anyt=
hing
but ordinary. This family pleases me so much only because hitherto I have n=
ever
seen anybody. Such things will always be happening in the future, and I sha=
ll
see many more such families during my life."
AT tea time the
reading came to an end, and the ladies began to talk among themselves of
persons and things unknown to me. This I conceived them to be doing on purp=
ose
to make me conscious (for all their kind demeanour) of the difference which
years and position in the world had set between them and myself. In general
discussions, however, in which I could take part I sought to atone for my l=
ate
silence by exhibiting that extraordinary cleverness and originality to whic=
h I
felt compelled by my University uniform. For instance, when the conversation
turned upon country houses, I said that Prince Ivan Ivanovitch had a villa =
near
Moscow which people came to see even from London and Paris, and that it
contained balustrading which had cost 380,000 roubles. Likewise, I remarked
that the Prince was a very near relation of mine, and that, when lunching w=
ith
him the same day, he had invited me to go and spend the entire summer with =
him
at that villa, but that I had declined, since I knew the villa well, and had
stayed in it more than once, and that all those balustradings and bridges d=
id
not interest me, since I could not bear ornamental work, especially in the
country, where I liked everything to be wholly countrified. After delivering
myself of this extraordinary and complicated romance, I grew confused, and
blushed so much that every one must have seen that I was lying. Both Vareni=
ka,
who was handing me a cup of tea, and Sophia Ivanovna, who had been gazing a=
t me
throughout, turned their heads away, and began to talk of something else wi=
th
an expression which I afterwards learnt that good-natured people assume whe=
n a
very young man has told them a manifest string of lies--an expression which
says, "Yes, we know he is lying, and why he is doing it, the poor young
fellow!"
What I had said a=
bout
Prince Ivan Ivanovitch having a country villa, I had related simply because=
I
could find no other pretext for mentioning both my relationship to the Prin=
ce
and the fact that I had been to luncheon with him that day; yet why I had s=
aid
all I had about the balustrading costing 380,000 roubles, and about my havi=
ng
several times visited the Prince at that villa (I had never once been
there--more especially since the Prince possessed no residences save in Mos=
cow
and Naples, as the Nechludoffs very well knew), I could not possibly tell y=
ou.
Neither in childhood nor in adolescence nor in riper years did I ever remar=
k in
myself the vice of falsehood--on the contrary, I was, if anything, too
outspoken and truthful. Yet, during this first stage of my manhood, I often
found myself seized with a strange and unreasonable tendency to lie in the =
most
desperate fashion. I say advisedly "in the most desperate fashion,&quo=
t;
for the reason that I lied in matters in which it was the easiest thing in =
the
world to detect me. On the whole I think that a vain-glorious desire to app=
ear
different from what I was, combined with an impossible hope that the lie wo=
uld
never be found out, was the chief cause of this extraordinary impulse.
After tea, since =
the
rain had stopped and the after-glow of sunset was calm and clear, the Princ=
ess
proposed that we should go and stroll in the lower garden, and admire her
favourite spots there. Following my rule to be always original, and conceiv=
ing
that clever people like myself and the Princess must surely be above the
banalities of politeness, I replied that I could not bear a walk with no ob=
ject
in view, and that, if I DID walk, I liked to walk alone. I had no idea that=
this
speech was simply rude; all I thought was that, even as nothing could be mo=
re
futile than empty compliments, so nothing could be more pleasing and origin=
al
than a little frank brusquerie. However, though much pleased with my answer=
, I
set out with the rest of the company.
The Princess's
favourite spot of all was at the very bottom of the lower garden, where a
little bridge spanned a narrow piece of swamp. The view there was very
restricted, yet very intimate and pleasing. We are so accustomed to confound
art with nature that, often enough, phenomena of nature which are never to =
be
met with in pictures seem to us unreal, and give us the impression that nat=
ure
is unnatural, or vice versa; whereas phenomena of nature which occur with t=
oo
much frequency in pictures seem to us hackneyed, and views which are to be =
met
with in real life, but which appear to us too penetrated with a single idea=
or
a single sentiment, seem to us arabesques. The view from the Princess's
favourite spot was as follows. On the further side of a small lake, over-gr=
own with
weeds round its edges, rose a steep ascent covered with bushes and with huge
old trees of many shades of green, while, overhanging the lake at the foot =
of
the ascent, stood an ancient birch tree which, though partly supported by s=
tout
roots implanted in the marshy bank of the lake, rested its crown upon a tal=
l,
straight poplar, and dangled its curved branches over the smooth surface of=
the
pond--both branches and the surrounding greenery being reflected therein as=
in
a mirror.
"How
lovely!" said the Princess with a nod of her head, and addressing no o=
ne
in particular.
"Yes,
marvellous!" I replied in my desire to show that had an opinion of my =
own
on every subject. "Yet somehow it all looks to me so terribly like a
scheme of decoration."
The Princess went=
on
gazing at the scene as though she had not heard me, and turning to her sist=
er
and Lubov Sergievna at intervals, in order to point out to them its
details--especially a curved, pendent bough, with its reflection in the wat=
er,
which particularly pleased her. Sophia Ivanovna observed to me that it was =
all
very beautiful, and that she and her sister would sometimes spend hours
together at this spot; yet it was clear that her remarks were meant merely =
to
please the Princess. I have noticed that people who are gifted with the fac=
ulty
of loving are seldom receptive to the beauties of nature. Lubov Sergievna a=
lso
seemed enraptured, and asked (among other things), "How does that birch
tree manage to support itself? Has it stood there long?" Yet the next
moment she became absorbed in contemplation of her little dog Susetka, whic=
h, with
its stumpy paws pattering to and fro upon the bridge in a mincing fashion,
seemed to say by the expression of its face that this was the first time it=
had
ever found itself out of doors. As for Dimitri, he fell to discoursing very
logically to his mother on the subject of how no view can be beautiful of w=
hich
the horizon is limited. Varenika alone said nothing. Glancing at her, I saw
that she was leaning over the parapet of the bridge, her profile turned tow=
ards
me, and gazing straight in front of her. Something seemed to be interesting=
her
deeply, or even affecting her, since it was clear that she was oblivious to=
her
surroundings, and thinking neither of herself nor of the fact that any one
might be regarding her. In the expression of her large eyes there was nothi=
ng
but wrapt attention and quiet, concentrated thought, while her whole attitu=
de
seemed so unconstrained and, for all her shortness, so dignified that once =
more
some recollection or another touched me and once more I asked myself, "=
;Is
IT, then, beginning?" Yet again I assured myself that I was already in
love with Sonetchka, and that Varenika was only an ordinary girl, the siste=
r of
my friend. Though she pleased me at that moment, I somehow felt a vague des=
ire
to show her, by word or deed, some small unfriendliness.
"I tell you
what, Dimitri," I said to my friend as I moved nearer to Varenika, so =
that
she might overhear what I was going to say, "it seems to me that, even=
if
there had been no mosquitos here, there would have been nothing to commend =
this
spot; whereas "--and here I slapped my cheek, and in very truth
annihilated one of those insects--"it is simply awful."
"Then you do=
not
care for nature?" said Varenika without turning her head.
"I think it a
foolish, futile pursuit," I replied, well satisfied that I had said
something to annoy her, as well as something original. Varenika only raised=
her
eyebrows a little, with an expression of pity, and went on gazing in front =
of
her as calmly as before.
I felt vexed with
her. Yet, for all that, the rusty, paint-blistered parapet on which she was
leaning, the way in which the dark waters of the pond reflected the drooping
branch of the overhanging birch tree (it almost seemed to me as though bran=
ch
and its reflection met), the rising odour of the swamp, the feeling of crus=
hed
mosquito on my cheek, and her absorbed look and statuesque pose--many times
afterwards did these things recur with unexpected vividness to my recollect=
ion.
WHEN we returned =
to the
house from our stroll, Varenika declined to sing as she usually did in the
evenings, and I was conceited enough to attribute this to my doing, in the
belief that its reason lay in what I had said on the bridge. The Nechludoffs
never had supper, and went to bed early, while to-night, since Dimitri had =
the
toothache (as Sophia Ivanovna had foretold), he departed with me to his room
even earlier than usual. Feeling that I had done all that was required of m=
e by
my blue collar and gilt buttons, and that every one was very pleased with m=
e, I
was in a gratified, complacent mood, while Dimitri, on the other hand, was
rendered by his quarrel with his sister and the toothache both taciturn and
gloomy. He sat down at the table, got out a couple of notebooks--a diary and
the copy-book in which it was his custom every evening to inscribe the tasks
performed by or awaiting him--and, continually frowning and touching his ch=
eek
with his hand, continued writing for a while.
"Oh, DO leav=
e me
alone!" he cried to the maid whom Sophia Ivanovna sent to ask him whet=
her
his teeth were still hurting him, and whether he would not like to have a
poultice made. Then, saying that my bed would soon be ready for me and that=
he
would be back presently, he departed to Lubov Sergievna's room.
"What a pity
that Varenika is not good-looking and, in general, Sonetchka!" I refle=
cted
when I found myself alone. "How nice it would be if, after I have left=
the
University, I could go to her and offer her my hand! I would say to her,
'Princess, though no longer young, and therefore unable to love passionatel=
y, I
will cherish you as a dear sister. And you,' I would continue to her mother=
, 'I
greatly respect; and you, Sophia Ivanovna, I value highly. Therefore say to=
me,
Varenika (since I ask you to be my wife), just the simple and direct word Y=
ES.'
And she would give me her hand, and I should press it, and say, 'Mine is a =
love
which depends not upon words, but upon deeds.' And suppose," next came
into my head, "that Dimitri should suddenly fall in love with Lubotshka
(as Lubotshka has already done with him), and should desire to marry her? T=
hen
either one or the other of us would have to resign all thought of marriage.
Well, it would be splendid, for in that case I should act thus. As soon as I
had noticed how things were, I should make no remark, but go to Dimitri and
say, 'It is no use, my friend, for you and I to conceal our feelings from o=
ne
another. You know that my love for your sister will terminate only with my
life. Yet I know all; and though you have deprived me of all hope, and have
rendered me an unhappy man, so that Nicolas Irtenieff will have to bewail h=
is
misery for the rest of his existence, yet do you take my sister,' and I sho=
uld
lay his hand in Lubotshka's. Then he would say to me, 'No, not for all the =
world!'
and I should reply, 'Prince Nechludoff, it is in vain for you to attempt to
outdo me in nobility. Not in the whole world does there exist a more
magnanimous being than Nicolas Irtenieff.' Then I should salute him and dep=
art.
In tears Dimitri and Lubotshka would pursue me, and entreat me to accept th=
eir
sacrifice, and I should consent to do so, and, perhaps, be happy ever
afterwards--if only I were in love with Varenika." These fancies tickl=
ed
my imagination so pleasantly that I felt as though I should like to communi=
cate
them to my friend; yet, despite our mutual vow of frankness, I also felt as
though I had not the physical energy to do so.
Dimitri returned =
from
Lubov Sergievna's room with some toothache capsules which she had given him,
yet in even greater pain, and therefore in even greater depression, than
before. Evidently no bedroom had yet been prepared for me, for presently the
boy who acted as Dimitri's valet arrived to ask him where I was to sleep.
"Oh, go to t=
he
devil!" cried Dimitri, stamping his foot. "Vasika, Vasika,
Vasika!" he went on, the instant that the boy had left the room, with a
gradual raising of his voice at each repetition. "Vasika, lay me out a=
bed
on the floor."
"No, let ME
sleep on the floor," I objected.
"Well, it is=
all
one. Lie anywhere you like," continued Dimitri in the same angry tone.
"Vasika, why don't you go and do what I tell you?"
Evidently Vasika =
did
not understand what was demanded of him, for he remained where he was.
"What is the
matter with you? Go and lay the bed, Vasika, I tell you!" shouted Dimi=
tri,
suddenly bursting into a sort of frenzy; yet Vasika still did not understan=
d,
but, blushing hotly, stood motionless.
"So you are
determined to drive me mad, are you?"--and leaping from his chair and
rushing upon the boy, Dimitri struck him on the head with the whole weight =
of
his fist, until the boy rushed headlong from the room. Halting in the doorw=
ay,
Dimitri glanced at me, and the expression of fury and pain which had sat fo=
r a
moment on his countenance suddenly gave place to such a boyish, kindly,
affectionate, yet ashamed, expression that I felt sorry for him, and
reconsidered my intention of leaving him to himself. He said nothing, but f=
or a
long time paced the room in silence, occasionally glancing at me with the s=
ame
deprecatory expression as before. Then he took his notebook from the table,
wrote something in it, took off his jacket and folded it carefully, and, st=
epping
into the corner where the ikon hung, knelt down and began to say his prayer=
s,
with his large white hands folded upon his breast. So long did he pray that
Vasika had time to bring a mattress and spread it, under my whispered
directions, on the floor. Indeed, I had undressed and laid myself down upon=
the
mattress before Dimitri had finished. As I contemplated his slightly rounded
back and the soles of his feet (which somehow seemed to stick out in my
direction in a sort of repentant fashion whenever he made his obeisances), I
felt that I liked him more than ever, and debated within myself whether or =
not
I should tell him all I had been fancying concerning our respective sisters.
When he had finished his prayers, he lay down upon the bed near me, and,
propping himself upon his elbow, looked at me in silence, with a kindly, ye=
t abashed,
expression. Evidently he found it difficult to do this, yet meant thus to
punish himself. Then I smiled and returned his gaze, and he smiled back at =
me.
"Why do you =
not
tell me that my conduct has been abominable?" he said. "You have =
been
thinking so, have you not?"
"Yes," I
replied; and although it was something quite different which had been in my
mind, it now seemed to me that that was what I had been thinking. "Yes=
, it
was not right of you, nor should I have expected it of you." It please=
d me
particularly at that moment to call him by the familiar second person singu=
lar.
"But how are your teeth now?" I added.
"Oh, much
better. Nicolinka, my friend," he went on, and so feelingly that it
sounded as though tears were standing in his eyes, "I know and feel th=
at I
am bad, but God sees how I try to be better, and how I entreat Him to make =
me
so. Yet what am I to do with such an unfortunate, horrible nature as mine? =
What
am I to do with it? I try to keep myself in hand and to rule myself, but
suddenly it becomes impossible for me to do so--at all events, impossible f=
or
me to do so unaided. I need the help and support of some one. Now, there is
Lubov Sergievna; SHE understands me, and could help me in this, and I know =
by
my notebook that I have greatly improved in this respect during the past ye=
ar. Ah,
my dear Nicolinka"--he spoke with the most unusual and unwonted tender=
ness,
and in a tone which had grown calmer now that he had made his
confession--"how much the influence of a woman like Lubov could do for=
me!
Think how good it would be for me if I could have a friend like her to live
with when I have become independent! With her I should be another man."=
;
And upon that Dim=
itri
began to unfold to me his plans for marriage, for a life in the country, and
for continual self-discipline.
"Yes, I will
live in the country," he said, "and you shall come to see me when=
you
have married Sonetchka. Our children shall play together. All this may seem=
to
you stupid and ridiculous, yet it may very well come to pass."
"Yes, it very
well may" I replied with a smile, yet thinking how much nicer it would=
be
if I married his sister.
"I tell you
what," he went on presently; "you only imagine yourself to be in =
love
with Sonetchka, whereas I can see that it is all rubbish, and that you do n=
ot
really know what love means."
I did not protest,
for, in truth, I almost agreed with him, and for a while we lay without
speaking.
"Probably you
have noticed that I have been in my old bad humour today, and have had a na=
sty
quarrel with Varia?" he resumed. "I felt bad about it
afterwards--more particularly since it occurred in your presence. Although =
she
thinks wrongly on some subjects, she is a splendid girl and very good, as y=
ou
will soon recognise."
His quick transit=
ion
from mention of my love affairs to praise of his sister pleased me extremel=
y,
and made me blush, but I nevertheless said nothing more about his sister, a=
nd
we went on talking of other things.
Thus we chattered
until the cocks had crowed twice. In fact, the pale dawn was already lookin=
g in
at the window when at last Dimitri lay down upon his bed and put out the
candle.
"Well, now f=
or
sleep," he said.
"Yes," I
replied, "but--"
"But what?&q=
uot;
"Now nice it=
is
to be alive in the daylight!"
"Yes, it IS a
splendid thing!" he replied in a voice which, even in the darkness,
enabled me to see the expression of his cheerful, kindly eyes and boyish sm=
ile.
Next day Woloda a=
nd
myself departed in a post-chaise for the country. Turning over various Mosc=
ow
recollections in my head as we drove along, I suddenly recalled Sonetchka
Valakhin--though not until evening, and when we had already covered five st=
ages
of the road. "It is a strange thing," I thought, "that I sho=
uld
be in love, and yet have forgotten all about it. I must start and think abo=
ut
her," and straightway I proceeded to do so, but only in the way that o=
ne
thinks when travelling--that is to say, disconnectedly, though vividly. Thu=
s I
brought myself to such a condition that, for the first two days after our
arrival home, I somehow considered it incumbent upon me always to appear sad
and moody in the presence of the household, and especially before Katenka, =
whom
I looked upon as a great connoisseur in matters of this kind, and to whom I
threw out a hint of the condition in which my heart was situated. Yet, for =
all
my attempts at dissimulation and assiduous adoption of such signs of love
sickness as I had occasionally observed in other people, I only succeeded f=
or
two days (and that at intervals, and mostly towards evening) in reminding
myself of the fact that I was in love, and finally, when I had settled down
into the new rut of country life and pursuits, I forgot about my affection =
for
Sonetchka altogether.
We arrived at
Petrovskoe in the night time, and I was then so soundly asleep that I saw
nothing of the house as we approached it, nor yet of the avenue of birch tr=
ees,
nor yet of the household--all of whom had long ago betaken themselves to bed
and to slumber. Only old hunchbacked Foka--bare-footed, clad in some sort o=
f a
woman's wadded nightdress, and carrying a candlestick--opened the door to u=
s.
As soon as he saw who we were, he trembled all over with joy, kissed us on =
the
shoulders, hurriedly put on his felt slippers, and started to dress himself=
properly.
I passed in a semi-waking condition through the porch and up the steps, but=
in
the hall the lock of the door, the bars and bolts, the crooked boards of the
flooring, the chest, the ancient candelabrum (splashed all over with grease=
as
of old), the shadows thrown by the crooked, chill, recently-lighted stump of
candle, the perennially dusty, unopened window behind which I remembered so=
rrel
to have grown--all was so familiar, so full of memories, so intimate of asp=
ect,
so, as it were, knit together by a single idea, that I suddenly became
conscious of a tenderness for this quiet old house. Involuntarily I asked
myself, "How have we, the house and I, managed to remain apart so
long?" and, hurrying from spot to spot, ran to see if all the other ro=
oms
were still the same. Yes, everything was unchanged, except that everything =
had become
smaller and lower, and I myself taller, heavier, and more filled out. Yet, =
even
as I was, the old house received me back into its arms, and aroused in me w=
ith every
board, every window, every step of the stairs, and every sound the shadows =
of
forms, feelings, and events of the happy but irrevocable past. When we ente=
red
our old night nursery, all my childish fears lurked once more in the darkne=
ss
of the corners and doorway. When we passed into the drawing-room, I could f=
eel
the old calm motherly love diffusing itself from every object in the apartm=
ent.
In the breakfast-room, the noisy, careless merriment of childhood seemed me=
rely
to be waiting to wake to life again. In the divannaia (whither Foka first
conducted us, and where he had prepared our beds) everything--mirror, scree=
n,
old wooden ikon, the lumps on the walls covered with white paper--seemed to
speak of suffering and of death and of what would never come back to us aga=
in.
We got into bed, =
and
Foka, bidding us good-night, retired.
"It was in t=
his
room that Mamma died, was it not?" said Woloda.
I made no reply, =
but
pretended to be asleep. If I had said anything I should have burst into tea=
rs.
On awaking next morning, I beheld Papa sitting on Woloda's bed in his dress=
ing
gown and slippers and smoking a cigar. Leaping up with a merry hoist of the
shoulders, he came over to me, slapped me on the back with his great hand, =
and
presented me his cheek to press my lips to.
"Well done,
DIPLOMAT!" he said in his most kindly jesting tone as he looked at me =
with
his small bright eyes. "Woloda tells me you have passed the examinatio=
ns
well for a youngster, and that is a splendid thing. Unless you start and pl=
ay
the fool, I shall have another fine little fellow in you. Thanks, my dear b=
oy.
Well, we will have a grand time of it here now, and in the winter, perhaps,=
we
shall move to St. Petersburg. I only wish the hunting was not over yet, or I
could have given you some amusement in THAT way. Can you shoot, Woldemar?
However, whether there is any game or not, I will take you out some day. Ne=
xt winter,
if God pleases, we will move to St. Petersburg, and you shall meet people, =
and
make friends, for you are now my two young grown-ups. I have been telling
Woldemar that you are just starting on your careers, whereas my day is ende=
d.
You are old enough now to walk by yourselves, but, whenever you wish to con=
fide
in me, pray do so, for I am no longer your nurse, but your friend. At least=
, I
will be your friend and comrade and adviser as much as I can and more than =
that
I cannot do. How does that fall in with your philosophy, eh, Koko? Well or =
ill,
eh?"
Of course I said =
that
it fell in with it entirely, and, indeed, I really thought so. That morning
Papa had a particularly winning, bright, and happy expression on his face, =
and
these new relations between us, as of equals and comrades, made me love him=
all
the more.
"Now, tell
me," he went on, "did you call upon all our kinsfolk and the Iwin=
s?
Did you see the old man, and what did he say to you? And did you go to Prin=
ce
Ivan's?"
We continued talk=
ing
so long that, before we were fully dressed, the sun had left the window of =
the
divannaia, and Jakoff (the same old man who of yore had twirled his fingers
behind his back and always repeated his words) had entered the room and
reported to Papa that the carriage was ready.
"Where are y=
ou
going to?" I asked Papa.
"Oh, I had
forgotten all about it!" he replied, with a cough and the usual hoisti=
ng
of his shoulder. "I promised to go and call upon Epifanova to-day. You
remember Epifanova--'la belle Flamande'--don't you, who used to come and see
your Mamma? They are nice people." And with a self-conscious shrug of =
his
shoulders (so it appeared to me) Papa left the room.
During our
conversation, Lubotshka had more than once come to the door and asked "=
;Can
I come in?" but Papa had always shouted to her that she could not do s=
o,
since we were not dressed yet.
"What
rubbish!" she replied. "Why, I have seen you in your dressing-gow=
n."
"Never mind;=
you
cannot see your brothers without their inexpressibles," rejoined Papa.
"If they each of them just go to the door, let that be enough for you.=
Now
go. Even for them to SPEAK to you in such a neglige costume is
unbecoming."
"How unbeara=
ble
you are!" was Lubotshka's parting retort. "Well, at least hurry up
and come down to the drawing-room, for Mimi wants to see them."
As soon as Papa h=
ad
left the room, I hastened to array myself in my student's uniform, and to
repair to the drawing-room.
Woloda, on the ot=
her
hand, was in no hurry, but remained sitting on his bed and talking to Jakoff
about the best places to find plover and snipe. As I have said, there was
nothing in the world he so much feared as to be suspected of any affection =
for
his father, brother, and sister; so that, to escape any expression of that
feeling, he often fell into the other extreme, and affected a coldness which
shocked people who did not comprehend its cause. In the hall, I collided wi=
th
Papa, who was hurrying towards the carriage with short, rapid steps. He had=
a
new and fashionable Moscow greatcoat on, and smelt of scent. On seeing me, =
he gave
a cheerful nod, as much as to say, "Do you remark my splendour?" =
and
once again I was struck with the happy expression of face which I had noted
earlier in the morning.
The drawing-room
looked the same lofty, bright room as of Yore, with its brown English piano,
and its large open windows looking on to the green trees and yellowish-red
paths of the garden. After kissing Mimi and Lubotshka, I was approaching
Katenka for the same purpose when it suddenly struck me that it might be
improper for me to salute her in that fashion. Accordingly I halted, silent=
and
blushing. Katenka, for her part, was quite at her ease as she held out a wh=
ite
hand to me and congratulated me on my passing into the University. The same
thing took place when Woloda entered the drawing-room and met Katenka. Inde=
ed, it
was something of a problem how, after being brought up together and seeing =
one
another daily, we ought now, after this first separation, to meet again.
Katenka had grown better-looking than any of us, yet Woloda seemed not at a=
ll
confused as, with a slight bow to her, he crossed over to Lubotshka, made a
jesting remark to her, and then departed somewhere on some solitary expedit=
ion.
XXIX. RELATIONS BETWEEN T=
HE
GIRLS AND OURSELVES
OF the girls Wolo=
da
took the strange view that, although he wished that they should have enough=
to
eat, should sleep well, be well dressed, and avoid making such mistakes in
French as would shame him before strangers, he would never admit that they
could think or feel like human beings, still less that they could converse =
with
him sensibly about anything. Whenever they addressed to him a serious quest=
ion
(a thing, by the way, which he always tried to avoid), such as asking his
opinion on a novel or inquiring about his doings at the University, he
invariably pulled a grimace, and either turned away without speaking or
answered with some nonsensical French phrase--"Comme c'est tres
jolie!" or the like. Or again, feigning to look serious and stolidly w=
ise,
he would say something absolutely meaningless and bearing no relation whate=
ver
to the question asked him, or else suddenly exclaim, with a look of pretend=
ed
unconsciousness, the word bulku or poyechali or kapustu, [Respectively,
"roll of butter," "away," and "cabbage."] or
something of the kind; and when, afterwards, I happened to repeat these wor=
ds
to him as having been told me by Lubotshka or Katenka, he would always rema=
rk:
"Hm! So you
actually care about talking to them? I can see you are a duffer
still"--and one needed to see and near him to appreciate the profound,
immutable contempt which echoed in this remark. He had been grown-up now two
years, and was in love with every good-looking woman that he met; yet, desp=
ite
the fact that he came in daily contact with Katenka (who during those two y=
ears
had been wearing long dresses, and was growing prettier every day), the
possibility of his falling in love with her never seemed to enter his head.
Whether this proceeded from the fact that the prosaic recollections of
childhood were still too fresh in his memory, or whether from the aversion
which very young people feel for everything domestic, or whether from the
common human weakness which, at a first encounter with anything fair and
pretty, leads a man to say to himself, "Ah! I shall meet much more of =
the
same kind during my life," but at all events Woloda had never yet look=
ed
upon Katenka with a man's eyes.
All that summer
Woloda appeared to find things very wearisome--a fact which arose out of th=
at
contempt for us all which, as I have said, he made no effort to conceal. His
expression of face seemed to be constantly saying, "Phew! how it bores=
me
to have no one to speak to!"
The first thing in
the morning he would go out shooting, or sit reading a book in his room, and
not dress until luncheon time. Indeed, if Papa was not at home, he would ta=
ke
his book into that meal, and go on reading it without addressing so much as=
a
single word to any one of us, who felt, somehow, guilty in his presence. In=
the
evening, too, he would stretch himself on a settee in the drawing-room, and
either go to sleep, propped on his elbow, or tell us farcical stories--some=
times
stories so improper as to make Mimi grow angry and blush, and ourselves die
with laughter. At other times he would not condescend to address a single s=
erious
word to any member of the family except Papa or (occasionally) myself. Invo=
luntarily
I offended against his view of girls, seeing that I was not so afraid of
seeming affectionate as he, and, moreover, had not such a profound and
confirmed contempt for young women. Yet several times that summer, when dri=
ven
by lack of amusement to try and engage Lubotshka and Katenka in conversatio=
n, I
always encountered in them such an absence of any capacity for logical
thinking, and such an ignorance of the simplest, most ordinary matters (as,=
for
instance, the nature of money, the subjects studied at universities, the ef=
fect
of war, and so forth), as well as such indifference to my explanations of s=
uch
matters, that these attempts of mine only ended in confirming my unfavourab=
le opinion
of feminine ability.
I remember one
evening when Lubotshka kept repeating some unbearably tedious passage on the
piano about a hundred times in succession, while Woloda, who was dozing on a
settee in the drawing-room, kept addressing no one in particular as he
muttered, "Lord! how she murders it! WHAT a musician! WHAT a
Beethoven!" (he always pronounced the composer's name with especial
irony). "Wrong again! Now--a second time! That's it!" and so on.
Meanwhile Katenka and I were sitting by the tea-table, and somehow she bega=
n to
talk about her favourite subject--love. I was in the right frame of mind to
philosophise, and began by loftily defining love as the wish to acquire in
another what one does not possess in oneself. To this Katenka retorted that=
, on
the contrary, love is not love at all if a girl desires to marry a man for =
his
money alone, but that, in her opinion, riches were a vain thing, and true l=
ove
only the affection which can stand the test of separation (this I took to b=
e a hint
concerning her love for Dubkoff). At this point Woloda, who must have been =
listening
all the time, raised himself on his elbow, and cried out some rubbish or
another; and I felt that he was right.
Apart from the
general faculties (more or less developed in different persons) of intellec=
t,
sensibility, and artistic feeling, there also exists (more or less develope=
d in
different circles of society, and especially in families) a private or
individual faculty which I may call APPREHENSION. The essence of this facul=
ty
lies in sympathetic appreciation of proportion, and in identical understand=
ing
of things. Two individuals who possess this faculty and belong to the same
social circle or the same family apprehend an expression of feeling precise=
ly to
the same point, namely, the point beyond which such expression becomes mere
phrasing. Thus they apprehend precisely where commendation ends and irony
begins, where attraction ends and pretence begins, in a manner which would =
be
impossible for persons possessed of a different order of apprehension. Pers=
ons
possessed of identical apprehension view objects in an identically ludicrou=
s,
beautiful, or repellent light; and in order to facilitate such identical
apprehension between members of the same social circle or family, they usua=
lly
establish a language, turns of speech, or terms to define such shades of
apprehension as exist for them alone. In our particular family such
apprehension was common to Papa, Woloda, and myself, and was developed to t=
he
highest pitch, Dubkoff also approximated to our coterie in apprehension, but
Dimitri, though infinitely more intellectual than Dubkoff, was grosser in t=
his respect.
With no one, however, did I bring this faculty to such a point as with Wolo=
da,
who had grown up with me under identical conditions. Papa stood a long way =
from
us, and much that was to us as clear as "two and two make four" w=
as
to him incomprehensible. For instance, I and Woloda managed to establish
between ourselves the following terms, with meanings to correspond. Izium
[Raisins.] meant a desire to boast of one's money; shishka [Bump or swellin=
g.]
(on pronouncing which one had to join one's fingers together, and to put a
particular emphasis upon the two sh's in the word) meant anything fresh,
healthy, and comely, but not elegant; a substantive used in the plural mean=
t an
undue partiality for the object which it denoted; and so forth, and so fort=
h.
At the same time, the meaning depended considerably upon the expression of =
the face
and the context of the conversation; so that, no matter what new expression=
one
of us might invent to define a shade of feeling the other could immediately
understand it by a hint alone. The girls did not share this faculty of
apprehension, and herein lay the chief cause of our moral estrangement, and=
of
the contempt which we felt for them.
It may be that th=
ey
too had their "apprehension," but it so little ran with ours that,
where we already perceived the "phrasing," they still saw only the
feeling--our irony was for them truth, and so on. At that time I had not yet
learnt to understand that they were in no way to blame for this, and that
absence of such apprehension in no way prevented them from being good and
clever girls. Accordingly I looked down upon them. Moreover, having once lit
upon my precious idea of "frankness," and being bent upon applyin=
g it
to the full in myself, I thought the quiet, confiding nature of Lubotshka
guilty of secretiveness and dissimulation simply because she saw no necessi=
ty
for digging up and examining all her thoughts and instincts. For instance, =
the
fact that she always signed the sign of the cross over Papa before going to
bed, that she and Katenka invariably wept in church when attending requiem =
masses
for Mamma, and that Katenka sighed and rolled her eyes about when playing t=
he
piano--all these things seemed to me sheer make-believe, and I asked myself:
"At what period did they learn to pretend like grown-up people, and how
can they bring themselves to do it?"
XXX. HOW I EMPLOYED MY TI=
ME
Nevertheless, the
fact that that summer I developed a passion for music caused me to become
better friends with the ladies of our household than I had been for years. =
In
the spring, a young fellow came to see us, armed with a letter of introduct=
ion,
who, as soon as ever he entered the drawing-room, fixed his eyes upon the
piano, and kept gradually edging his chair closer to it as he talked to Mimi
and Katenka. After discoursing awhile of the weather and the amenities of
country life, he skilfully directed the conversation to piano-tuners, music,
and pianos generally, and ended by saying that he himself played--and in tr=
uth he
did sit down and perform three waltzes, with Mimi, Lubotshka, and Katenka
grouped about the instrument, and watching him as he did so. He never came =
to
see us again, but his playing, and his attitude when at the piano, and the =
way
in which he kept shaking his long hair, and, most of all, the manner in whi=
ch
he was able to execute octaves with his left hand as he first of all played
them rapidly with his thumb and little finger, and then slowly closed those
members, and then played the octaves afresh, made a great impression upon m=
e.
This graceful gesture of his, together with his easy pose and his shaking of
hair and successful winning of the ladies' applause by his talent, ended by=
firing
me to take up the piano. Convinced that I possessed both talent and a passi=
on
for music, I set myself to learn, and, in doing so, acted just as millions =
of
the male--still more, of the female--sex have done who try to teach themsel=
ves
without a skilled instructor, without any real turn for the art, or without=
the
smallest understanding either of what the art can give or of what ought to =
be
done to obtain that gift. For me music (or rather, piano-playing) was simpl=
y a
means of winning the ladies' good graces through their sensibility. With the
help of Katenka I first learnt the notes (incidentally breaking several of =
them
with my clumsy fingers), and then--that is to say, after two months of hard
work, supplemented by ceaseless twiddling of my rebellious fingers on my kn=
ees
after luncheon, and on the pillow when in bed--went on to "pieces,&quo=
t;
which I played (so Katenka assured me) with "soul" ("avec am=
e"),
but altogether regardless of time.
My range of pieces
was the usual one--waltzes, galops, "romances," "arrangement=
s,"
etcetera; all of them of the class of delightful compositions of which any =
one
with a little healthy taste could point out a selection among the better cl=
ass
works contained in any volume of music and say, "These are what you ou=
ght
NOT to play, seeing that anything worse, less tasteful, and more silly has
never yet been included in any collection of music,"--but which (proba=
bly
for that very reason) are to be found on the piano of every Russian lady. T=
rue,
we also possessed an unfortunate volume which contained Beethoven's
"Sonate Pathetique" and the C minor Sonata (a volume lamed for li=
fe
by the ladies--more especially by Lubotshka, who used to discourse music fr=
om it
in memory of Mamma), as well as certain other good pieces which her teacher=
in
Moscow had given her; but among that collection there were likewise
compositions of the teacher's own, in the shape of clumsy marches and
galops--and these too Lubotshka used to play! Katenka and I cared nothing f=
or
serious works, but preferred, above all things, "Le Fou" and
"The Nightingale"--the latter of which Katenka would play until h=
er
fingers almost became invisible, and which I too was beginning to execute w=
ith
much vigour and some continuity. I had adopted the gestures of the young ma=
n of
whom I have spoken, and frequently regretted that there were no strangers
present to see me play. Soon, however, I began to realise that Liszt and
Kalkbrenner were beyond me, and that I should never overtake Katenka.
Accordingly, imagining that classical music was easier (as well as, partly,=
for
the sake of originality), I suddenly came to the conclusion that I loved
abstruse German music. I began to go into raptures whenever Lubotshka played
the "Sonate Pathetique," and although (if the truth be told) that
work had for years driven me to the verge of distraction, I set myself to p=
lay
Beethoven, and to talk of him as "Beethoven." Yet through all this
chopping and changing and pretence (as I now conceive) there may have run i=
n me
a certain vein of talent, since music sometimes affected me even to tears, =
and
things which particularly pleased me I could strum on the piano afterwards =
(in
a certain fashion) without the score; so that, had any one taught me at that
period to look upon music as an end, a grace, in itself, and not merely as a
means for pleasing womenfolk with the velocity and pseudo-sentiment of one's
playing, I might possibly have become a passable musician.
The reading of Fr=
ench
novels (of which Woloda had brought a large store with him from Moscow) was
another of my amusements that summer. At that period Monte Cristo and Taine=
's
works had just appeared, while I also revelled in stories by Sue, Dumas, and
Paul de Kock. Even their most unnatural personages and events were for me as
real as actuality, and not only was I incapable of suspecting an author of
lying, but, in my eyes, there existed no author at all. That is to say, the
various personages and events of a book paraded themselves before me on the=
printed
page as personages and events that were alive and real; and although I had
never in my life met such characters as I there read about, I never for a
second doubted that I should one day do so. I discovered in myself all the
passions described in every novel, as well as a likeness to all the
characters--heroes and villains impartially--who figured therein, just as a
suspicious man finds in himself the signs of every possible disease when
reading a book on medicine. I took pleasure both in the cunning designs, the
glowing sentiments, the tumultuous events, and the character-drawing of the=
se works.
A good man was of the goodness, a bad man of the badness, possible only to =
the
imagination of early youth. Likewise I found great pleasure in the fact tha=
t it
was all written in French, and that I could lay to heart the fine words whi=
ch
the fine heroes spoke, and recall them for use some day when engaged in some
noble deed. What quantities of French phrases I culled from those books for
Kolpikoff's benefit if I should ever meet him again, as well as for HERS, w=
hen
at length I should find her and reveal to her my love! For them both I prep=
ared
speeches which should overcome them as soon as spoken! Upon novels, too, I =
founded
new ideals of the moral qualities which I wished to attain. First of all, I
wished to be NOBLE in all my deeds and conduct (I use the French word noble
instead of the Russian word blagorodni for the reason that the former has a
different meaning to the latter--as the Germans well understood when they
adopted noble as nobel and differentiated it from ehrlich); next, to be
strenuous; and lastly, to be what I was already inclined to be, namely, com=
me
il faut. I even tried to approximate my appearance and bearing to that of t=
he
heroes who possessed these qualities. In particular I remember how in one of
the hundred or so novels which I read that summer there was a very strenuou=
s hero
with heavy eyebrows, and that I so greatly wished to resemble him (I felt t=
hat
I did so already from a moral point of view) that one day, when looking at =
my
eyebrows in the glass, I conceived the idea of clipping them, in order to m=
ake
them grow bushier. Unfortunately, after I had started to do so, I happened =
to
clip one spot rather shorter than the rest, and so had to level down the re=
st
to it-with the result that, to my horror, I beheld myself eyebrow-less, and
anything but presentable. However, I comforted myself with the reflection t=
hat
my eyebrows would soon sprout again as bushy as my hero's, and was only per=
plexed
to think how I could explain the circumstance to the household when they ne=
xt
perceived my eyebrow-less condition. Accordingly I borrowed some gunpowder =
from
Woloda, rubbed it on my temples, and set it alight. The powder did not fire
properly, but I succeeded in singeing myself sufficiently to avert all
suspicion of my pranks. And, indeed, afterwards, when I had forgotten all a=
bout
my hero, my eyebrows grew again, and much thicker than they had been before=
.
SEVERAL times in =
the
course of this narrative I have hinted at an idea corresponding to the above
French heading, and now feel it incumbent upon me to devote a whole chapter=
to
that idea, which was one of the most ruinous, lying notions which ever beca=
me
engrafted upon my life by my upbringing and social milieu.
The human race ma=
y be
divided into several categories--rich and poor, good and bad, military and
civilian, clever and stupid, and so forth, and so forth. Yet each man has h=
is
own favourite, fundamental system of division which he unconsciously uses to
class each new person with whom he meets. At the time of which I am speakin=
g,
my own favourite, fundamental system of division in this respect was into
people "comme il faut" and people "comme il ne faut
pas"--the latter subdivided, again, into people merely not "comme=
il
faut" and the lower orders. People "comme il faut" I respect=
ed,
and looked upon as worthy to consort with me as my equals; the second of the
above categories I pretended merely to despise, but in reality hated, and
nourished towards them a kind of feeling of offended personality; while the
third category had no existence at all, so far as I was concerned, since my
contempt for them was too complete. This "comme il faut"-ness of =
mine
lay, first and foremost, in proficiency in French, especially conversational
French. A person who spoke that language badly at once aroused in me a feel=
ing
of dislike. "Why do you try to talk as we do when you haven't a notion=
how
to do it?" I would seem to ask him with my most venomous and quizzing =
smile.
The second condition of "comme il faut"-ness was long nails that =
were
well kept and clean; the third, ability to bow, dance, and converse; the
fourth--and a very important one--indifference to everything, and a constant
air of refined, supercilious ennui. Moreover, there were certain general si=
gns
which, I considered, enabled me to tell, without actually speaking to a man,
the class to which he belonged. Chief among these signs (the others being t=
he
fittings of his rooms, his gloves, his handwriting, his turn-out, and so fo=
rth)
were his feet. The relation of boots to trousers was sufficient to determin=
e,
in my eyes, the social status of a man. Heelless boots with angular toes, w=
edded
to narrow, unstrapped trouser-ends--these denoted the vulgarian. Boots with
narrow, round toes and heels, accompanied either by tight trousers strapped=
under
the instep and fitting close to the leg or by wide trousers similarly strap=
ped,
but projecting in a peak over the toe--these meant the man of mauvais genre;
and so on, and so on.
It was a curious
thing that I who lacked all ability to become "comme il faut," sh=
ould
have assimilated the idea so completely as I did. Possibly it was the fact =
that
it had cost me such enormous labour to acquire that brought about its stren=
uous
development in my mind. I hardly like to think how much of the best and mos=
t valuable
time of my first sixteen years of existence I wasted upon its acquisition. =
Yet
every one whom I imitated--Woloda, Dubkoff, and the majority of my
acquaintances--seemed to acquire it easily. I watched them with envy, and
silently toiled to become proficient in French, to bow gracefully and witho=
ut
looking at the person whom I was saluting, to gain dexterity in small-talk =
and dancing,
to cultivate indifference and ennui, and to keep my fingernails well trimmed
(though I frequently cut my finger-ends with the scissors in so doing). And=
all
the time I felt that so much remained to be done if I was ever to attain my
end! A room, a writing-table, an equipage I still found it impossible to
arrange "comme il faut," however much I fought down my aversion t=
o practical
matters in my desire to become proficient. Yet everything seemed to arrange
itself properly with other people, just as though things could never have b=
een
otherwise! Once I remember asking Dubkoff, after much zealous and careful
labouring at my finger-nails (his own were extraordinarily good), whether h=
is
nails had always been as now, or whether he had done anything to make them =
so:
to which he replied that never within his recollection had he done anything=
to
them, and that he could not imagine a gentleman's nails possibly being
different. This answer incensed me greatly, for I had not yet learnt that o=
ne
of the chief conditions of "comme il faut"-ness was to hold one's
tongue about the labour by which it had been acquired. "Comme il
faut"-ness I looked upon as not only a great merit, a splendid accompl=
ishment,
an embodiment of all the perfection which must strive to attain, but as the=
one
indispensable condition without which there could never be happiness, nor
glory, nor any good whatsoever in this world. Even the greatest artist or
savant or benefactor of the human race would at that time have won from me =
no
respect if he had not also been "comme il faut." A man possessed =
of
"comme il faut"-ness stood higher than, and beyond all possible
equality with, such people, and might well leave it to them to paint pictur=
es,
to compose music, to write books, or to do good. Possibly he might commend =
them
for so doing (since why should not merit be commended where-ever it be foun=
d?),
but he could never stand ON A LEVEL with them, seeing that he was "com=
me
il faut" and they were not--a quite final and sufficient reason. In fa=
ct,
I actually believe that, had we possessed a brother or a father or a mother=
who
had not been "comme il faut," I should have declared it to be a g=
reat
misfortune for us, and announced that between myself and them there could n=
ever
be anything in common. Yet neither waste of the golden hours which I consum=
ed
in constantly endeavouring to observe the many arduous, unattainable condit=
ions
of "comme il faut"-ness (to the exclusion of any more serious
pursuit), nor dislike of and contempt for nine-tenths of the human race, nor
disregard of all the beauty that lay outside the narrow circle of "com=
me
il faut"-ness comprised the whole of the evil which the idea wrought in
me. The chief evil of all lay in the notion acquired that a man need not st=
rive
to become a tchinovnik, [Official.] a coachbuilder, a soldier, a savant, or
anything useful, so long only as he was "comme il faut "--that by
attaining the latter quality he had done all that was demanded of him, and =
was
even superior to most people.
Usually, at a giv=
en
period in youth, and after many errors and excesses, every man recognises t=
he
necessity of his taking an active part in social life, and chooses some bra=
nch
of labour to which to devote himself. Only with the "comme il faut&quo=
t;
man does this rarely happen. I have known, and know, very, very many
people--old, proud, self-satisfied, and opinionated--who to the question (i=
f it
should ever present itself to them in their world) "Who have you been,=
and
what have you ever done?" would be unable to reply otherwise than by
saying,
"Je fus un h=
omme
tres comme il faut,"
Such a fate was
awaiting myself.
Despite the confu=
sion
of ideas raging in my head, I was at least young, innocent, and free that
summer--consequently almost happy.
Sometimes I would
rise quite early in the morning, for I slept on the open verandah, and the
bright, horizontal beams of the morning sun would wake me up. Dressing myse=
lf
quickly, I would tuck a towel and a French novel under my arm, and go off to
bathe in the river in the shade of a birch tree which stood half a verst fr=
om
the house. Next, I would stretch myself on the grass and read--raising my e=
yes
from time to time to look at the surface of the river where it showed blue =
in
the shade of the trees, at the ripples caused by the first morning breeze, =
at
the yellowing field of rye on the further bank, and at the bright-red sheen=
of
the sunlight as it struck lower and lower down the white trunks of the
birch-trees which, ranged in ranks one behind the other, gradually receded =
into
the remote distance of the home park. At such moments I would feel joyously
conscious of having within me the same young, fresh force of life as nature=
was
everywhere exuding around me. When, however, the sky was overcast with grey
clouds of morning and I felt chilly after bathing, I would often start to w=
alk
at random through the fields and woods, and joyously trail my wet boots in =
the
fresh dew. All the while my head would be filled with vivid dreams concerni=
ng
the heroes of my last-read novel, and I would keep picturing to myself some
leader of an army or some statesman or marvellously strong man or devoted l=
over
or another, and looking round me in, a nervous expectation that I should su=
ddenly
descry HER somewhere near me, in a meadow or behind a tree. Yet, whenever t=
hese
rambles led me near peasants engaged at their work, all my ignoring of the
existence of the "common people" did not prevent me from experien=
cing
an involuntary, overpowering sensation of awkwardness; so that I always tri=
ed
to avoid their seeing me. When the heat of the day had increased, it was not
infrequently my habit--if the ladies did not come out of doors for their
morning tea--to go rambling through the orchard and kitchen-garden, and to
pluck ripe fruit there. Indeed, this was an occupation which furnished me w=
ith
one of my greatest pleasures. Let any one go into an orchard, and dive into=
the
midst of a tall, thick, sprouting raspberry-bed. Above will be seen the cle=
ar,
glowing sky, and, all around, the pale-green, prickly stems of raspberry-tr=
ees
where they grow mingled together in a tangle of profusion. At one's feet
springs the dark-green nettle, with its slender crown of flowers, while the
broad-leaved burdock, with its bright-pink, prickly blossoms, overtops the
raspberries (and even one's head) with its luxuriant masses, until, with the
nettle, it almost meets the pendent, pale-green branches of the old apple-t=
rees
where apples, round and lustrous as bone, but as yet unripe, are mellowing =
in
the heat of the sun. Below, again, are seen young raspberry-shoots, twining=
themselves
around the partially withered, leafless parent plant, and stretching their
tendrils towards the sunlight, with green, needle-shaped blades of grass and
young, dew-coated pods peering through last year's leaves, and growing juic=
ily
green in the perennial shade, as though they care nothing for the bright
sunshine which is playing on the leaves of the apple-trees above them. In t=
his
density there is always moisture--always a smell of confined, perpetual sha=
de,
of cobwebs, fallen apples (turning black where they roll on the mouldy sod)=
, raspberries,
and earwigs of the kind which impel one to reach hastily for more fruit when
one has inadvertently swallowed a member of that insect tribe with the last
berry. At every step one's movements keep flushing the sparrows which always
make their home in these depths, and one hears their fussy chirping and the
beating of their tiny, fluttering wings against the stalks, and catches the=
low
buzzing of a bumble bee somewhere, and the sound of the gardener's footsteps
(it is half-daft Akim) on the path as he hums his eternal sing-song to hims=
elf.
Then one mutters under one's breath, "No! Neither he nor any one else
shall find me here!" yet still one goes on stripping juicy berries from
their conical white pilasters, and cramming them into one's mouth. At lengt=
h, one's
legs soaked to the knees as one repeats, over and over again, some rubbish
which keeps running in one's head, and one's hands and nether limbs (despite
the protection of one's wet trousers) thoroughly stung with the nettles, one
comes to the conclusion that the sun's rays are beating too straight upon o=
ne's
head for eating to be any longer desirable, and, sinking down into the tang=
le
of greenery, one remains there--looking and listening, and continuing in
mechanical fashion to strip off one or two of the finer berries and swallow
them.
At eleven o'clock=
--that
is to say, when the ladies had taken their morning tea and settled down to
their occupations--I would repair to the drawing-room. Near the first windo=
w,
with its unbleached linen blind lowered to exclude the sunshine, but through
the chink of which the sun kept throwing brilliant circles of light which h=
urt
the eye to look at them, there would be standing a screen, with flies quiet=
ly
parading the whiteness of its covering. Behind it would be seated Mimi, sha=
king
her head in an irritable manner, and constantly shifting from spot to spot =
to
avoid the sunshine as at intervals it darted her from somewhere and laid a
streak of flame upon her hand or face. Through the other three windows the =
sun
would be throwing three squares of light, crossed with the shadows of the
window-frames, and where one of these patches marked the unstained floor of=
the
room there would be lying, in accordance with invariable custom, Milka, with
her ears pricked as she watched the flies promenading the lighted space. Se=
ated
on a settee, Katenka would be knitting or reading aloud as from time to time
she gave her white sleeves (looking almost transparent in the sunshine) an
impatient shake, or tossed her head with a frown to drive away some fly whi=
ch
had settled upon her thick auburn hair and was now buzzing in its tangles.
Lubotshka would either be walking up and down the room (her hands clasped
behind her) until the moment should arrive when a movement would be made to=
wards
the garden, or playing some piece of which every note had long been familia=
r to
me. For my own part, I would sit down somewhere, and listen to the music or=
the
reading until such time as I myself should have an opportunity of performin=
g on
the piano. After luncheon I would condescend to take the girls out riding
(since to go for a mere walk at that hour seemed to me unsuitable to my yea=
rs
and position in the world), and these excursions of ours--in which I often =
took
my companions through unaccustomed spots and dells--were very pleasant. Ind=
eed,
on some of these occasions I grew quite boyish, and the girls would praise =
my
riding and daring, and pretend that I was their protector. In the evening, =
if
we had no guests with us, tea (served in the dim verandah), would be follow=
ed
by a walk round the homestead with Papa, and then I would stretch myself on=
my
usual settee, and read and ponder as of old, as I listened to Katenka or
Lubotshka playing. At other times, if I was alone in the drawing-room and
Lubotshka was performing some old-time air, I would find myself laying my b=
ook
down, and gazing through the open doorway on to the balcony at the pendent,=
sinuous
branches of the tall birch-trees where they stood overshadowed by the coming
night, and at the clear sky where, if one looked at it intently enough, mis=
ty,
yellowish spots would appear suddenly, and then disappear again. Next, as I
listened to the sounds of the music wafted from the salon, and to the creak=
ing
of gates and the voices of the peasant women when the cattle returned to the
village, I would suddenly bethink me of Natalia Savishna and of Mamma and of
Karl Ivanitch, and become momentarily sad. But in those days my spirit was =
so
full of life and hope that such reminiscences only touched me in passing, a=
nd
soon fled away again.
After supper and
(sometimes) a night stroll with some one in the garden (for I was afraid to
walk down the dark avenues by myself), I would repair to my solitary
sleeping-place on the verandah--a proceeding which, despite the countless
mosquitos which always devoured me, afforded me the greatest pleasure. If t=
he
moon was full, I frequently spent whole nights sitting up on my mattress,
looking at the light and shade, listening to the sounds or stillness, dream=
ing
of one matter and another (but more particularly of the poetic, voluptuous
happiness which, in those days, I believed was to prove the acme of my
felicity) and lamenting that until now it had only been given to me to IMAG=
INE things.
No sooner had every one dispersed, and I had seen lights pass from the
drawing-room to the upper chambers (whence female voices would presently be
heard, and the noise of windows opening and shutting), than I would depart =
to
the verandah, and walk up and down there as I listened attentively to the
sounds from the slumbering mansion. To this day, whenever I feel any
expectation (no matter how small and baseless) of realising a fraction of s=
ome
happiness of which I may be dreaming, I somehow invariably fail to picture =
to
myself what the imagined happiness is going to be like.
At the least soun=
d of
bare footsteps, or of a cough, or of a snore, or of the rattling of a windo=
w,
or of the rustling of a dress, I would leap from my mattress, and stand
furtively gazing and listening, thrown, without any visible cause, into ext=
reme
agitation. But the lights would disappear from the upper rooms, the sounds =
of
footsteps and talking give place to snores, the watchman begin his nightly
tapping with his stick, the garden grow brighter and more mysterious as the
streaks of light vanished from the windows, the last candle pass from the
pantry to the hall (throwing a glimmer into the dewy garden as it did so), =
and
the stooping figure of Foka (decked in a nightcap, and carrying the candle)=
become
visible to my eyes as he went to his bed. Often I would find a great and fe=
arful
pleasure in stealing over the grass, in the black shadow of the house, unti=
l I
had reached the hall window, where I would stand listening with bated breat=
h to
the snoring of the boy, to Foka's gruntings (in the belief that no one heard
him), and to the sound of his senile voice as he drawled out the evening
prayers. At length even his candle would be extinguished, and the window
slammed down, so that I would find myself utterly alone; whereupon, glancing
nervously from side to side, lest haply I should see the white woman standi=
ng
near a flower-bed or by my couch, I would run at full speed back to the ver=
andah.
Then, and only then, I would lie down with my face to the garden, and, cove=
ring
myself over, so far as possible, from the mosquitos and bats, fall to gazin=
g in
front of me as I listened to the sounds of the night and dreamed of love and
happiness.
At such times
everything would take on for me a different meaning. The look of the old bi=
rch
trees, with the one side of their curling branches showing bright against t=
he
moonlit sky, and the other darkening the bushes and carriage-drive with the=
ir
black shadows; the calm, rich glitter of the pond, ever swelling like a sou=
nd;
the moonlit sparkle of the dewdrops on the flowers in front of the verandah=
; the
graceful shadows of those flowers where they lay thrown upon the grey
stonework; the cry of a quail on the far side of the pond; the voice of some
one walking on the high road; the quiet, scarcely audible scrunching of two=
old
birch trees against one another; the humming of a mosquito at my car under =
the
coverlet; the fall of an apple as it caught against a branch and rustled am=
ong
the dry leaves; the leapings of frogs as they approached almost to the
verandah-steps and sat with the moon shining mysteriously on their green
backs--all these things took on for me a strange significance--a significan=
ce
of exceeding beauty and of infinite love. Before me would rise SHE, with lo=
ng
black tresses and a high bust, but always mournful in her fairness, with ba=
re
hands and voluptuous arms. She loved me, and for one moment of her love I w=
ould
sacrifice my whole life!--But the moon would go on rising higher and higher,
and shining brighter and brighter, in the heavens; the rich sparkle of the =
pond
would swell like a sound, and become ever more and more brilliant, while the
shadows would grow blacker and blacker, and the sheen of the moon more and =
more
transparent: until, as I looked at and listened to all this, something would
say to me that SHE with the bare hands and voluptuous arms did not represent
ALL happiness, that love for her did not represent ALL good; so that, the m=
ore
I gazed at the full, high-riding moon, the higher would true beauty and
goodness appear to me to lie, and the purer and purer they would seem--the
nearer and nearer to Him who is the source of all beauty and all goodness. =
And
tears of a sort of unsatisfied, yet tumultuous, joy would fill my eyes.
Always, too, I was
alone; yet always, too, it seemed to me that, although great, mysterious Na=
ture
could draw the shining disc of the moon to herself, and somehow hold in some
high, indefinite place the pale-blue sky, and be everywhere around me, and =
fill
of herself the infinity of space, while I was but a lowly worm, already def=
iled
with the poor, petty passions of humanity--always it seemed to me that, nev=
ertheless,
both Nature and the moon and I were one.
XXXIII.
OUR NEIGHBOURS
ON the first day
after our arrival, I had been greatly astonished that Papa should speak of =
our
neighbours, the Epifanovs, as "nice people," and still more so th=
at
he should go to call upon them. The fact was that we had long been at law o=
ver
some land with this family. When a child, I had more than once heard Papa
raging over the litigation, abusing the Epifanovs, and warning people (so I
understood him) against them. Likewise, I had heard Jakoff speak of them as
"our enemies" and "black people" and could remember Mam=
ma
requesting that their names should never be mentioned in her presence, nor,
indeed, in the house at all.
From these data I=
, as
a child, had arrived at the clear and assured conviction that the Epifanovs
were foemen of ours who would at any time stab or strangle both Papa and his
sons if they should ever come across them, as well as that they were
"black people", in the literal sense of the term. Consequently, w=
hen,
in the year that Mamma died, I chanced to catch sight of Avdotia ("La
Belle Flamande") on the occasion of a visit which she paid to my mothe=
r, I
found it hard to believe that she did not come of a family of negroes. All =
the
same, I had the lowest possible opinion of the family, and, for all that we=
saw
much of them that summer, continued to be strongly prejudiced against them.=
As
a matter of fact, their household only consisted of the mother (a widow of
fifty, but a very well-preserved, cheery old woman), a beautiful daughter n=
amed
Avdotia, and a son, Peter, who was a stammerer, unmarried, and of very seri=
ous
disposition.
For the last twen=
ty
years before her husband's death, Madame Epifanov had lived apart from
him--sometimes in St. Petersburg, where she had relatives, but more frequen=
tly
at her village of Mitishtchi, which stood some three versts from ours. Yet =
the
neighbourhood had taken to circulating such horrible tales concerning her m=
ode
of life that Messalina was, by comparison, a blameless child: which was why=
my
mother had requested her name never to be mentioned. As a matter of fact, n=
ot
one-tenth part of the most cruel of all gossip--the gossip of country-house=
s--is
worthy of credence; and although, when I first made Madame's acquaintance, =
she
had living with her in the house a clerk named Mitusha, who had been promot=
ed
from a serf, and who, curled, pomaded, and dressed in a frockcoat of Circas=
sian
pattern, always stood behind his mistress's chair at luncheon, while from t=
ime
to time she invited her guests to admire his handsome eyes and mouth, there=
was
nothing for gossip to take hold of. I believe, too, that since the time--ten
years earlier--when she had recalled her dutiful son Peter from the service,
she had wholly changed her mode of living. It seems her property had never =
been
a large one--merely a hundred souls or so--[This refers, of course, to the =
days
of serfdom.]and that during her previous life of gaiety she had spent a gre=
at
deal. Consequently, when, some ten years ago, those portions of the property
which had been mortgaged and re-mortgaged had been foreclosed upon and
compulsorily sold by auction, she had come to the conclusion that all these=
unpleasant
details of distress upon and valuation of her property had been due not so =
much
to failure to pay the interest as to the fact that she was a woman: wherefo=
re
she had written to her son (then serving with his regiment) to come and save
his mother from her embarrassments, and he, like a dutiful son--conceiving =
that
his first duty was to comfort his mother in her old age--had straightway
resigned his commission (for all that he had been doing well in his profess=
ion,
and was hoping soon to become independent), and had come to join her in the
country.
Despite his plain
face, uncouth demeanour, and fault of stuttering, Peter was a man of unswer=
ving
principles and of the most extraordinary good sense. Somehow--by small
borrowings, sundry strokes of business, petitions for grace, and promises to
repay--he contrived to carry on the property, and, making himself overseer,
donned his father's greatcoat (still preserved in a drawer), dispensed with
horses and carriages, discouraged guests from calling at Mitishtchi, fashio=
ned
his own sleighs, increased his arable land and curtailed that of the serfs,=
felled
his own timber, sold his produce in person, and saw to matters generally.
Indeed, he swore, and kept his oath, that, until all outstanding debts were
paid, he would never wear any clothes than his father's greatcoat and a
corduroy jacket which he had made for himself, nor yet ride in aught but a
country waggon, drawn by peasants' horses. This stoical mode of life he sou=
ght
to apply also to his family, so far as the sympathetic respect which he con=
ceived
to be his mother's due would allow of; so that, although, in the drawing-ro=
om,
he would show her only stuttering servility, and fulfil all her wishes, and
blame any one who did not do precisely as she bid them, in his study or his=
office
he would overhaul the cook if she had served up so much as a duck without h=
is
orders, or any one responsible for sending a serf (even though at Madame's =
own
bidding) to inquire after a neighbour's health or for despatching the peasa=
nt
girls into the wood to gather wild raspberries instead of setting them to w=
eed
the kitchen-garden.
Within four years
every debt had been repaid, and Peter had gone to Moscow and returned thenc=
e in
a new jacket and tarantass. [A two-wheeled carriage.] Yet, despite this
flourishing position of affairs, he still preserved the stoical tendencies =
in
which, to tell the truth, he took a certain vague pride before his family a=
nd
strangers, since he would frequently say with a stutter: "Any one who
REALLY wishes to see me will be glad to see me even in my dressing-gown, an=
d to
eat nothing but shtchi [Cabbage-soup.] and kasha [Buckwheat gruel.] at my
table." "That is what I eat myself," he would add. In his ev=
ery
word and movement spoke pride based upon a consciousness of having sacrific=
ed
himself for his mother and redeemed the property, as well as contempt for a=
ny
one who had not done something of the same kind.
The mother and
daughter were altogether different characters from Peter, as well as altoge=
ther
different from one another. The former was one of the most agreeable, unifo=
rmly
good-tempered, and cheerful women whom one could possibly meet. Anything
attractive and genuinely happy delighted her. Even the faculty of being ple=
ased
with the sight of young people enjoying themselves (it is only in the
best-natured of elderly folk that one meets with that TRAIT) she possessed =
to
the full. On the other hand, her daughter was of a grave turn of mind. Rath=
er,
she was of that peculiarly careless, absent-minded, gratuitously distant
bearing which commonly distinguishes unmarried beauties. Whenever she tried=
to
be gay, her gaiety somehow seemed to be unnatural to her, so that she alway=
s appeared
to be laughing either at herself or at the persons to whom she was speaking=
or
at the world in general--a thing which, possibly, she had no real intention=
of
doing. Often I asked myself in astonishment what she could mean when she sa=
id
something like, "Yes, I know how terribly good-looking I am," or,
"Of course every one is in love with me," and so forth. Her mother
was a person always busy, since she had a passion for housekeeping, gardeni=
ng,
flowers, canaries, and pretty trinkets. Her rooms and garden, it is true, w=
ere
small and poorly fitted-up, yet everything in them was so neat and methodic=
al,
and bore such a general air of that gentle gaiety which one hears expressed=
in a
waltz or polka, that the word "toy" by which guests often express=
ed their
praise of it all exactly suited her surroundings. She herself was a
"toy"--being petite, slender, fresh-coloured, small, and pretty-h=
anded,
and invariably gay and well-dressed. The only fault in her was that a slight
over-prominence of the dark-blue veins on her little hands rather marred the
general effect of her appearance. On the other hand, her daughter scarcely =
ever
did anything at all. Not only had she no love for trifling with flowers and
trinkets, but she neglected her personal exterior, and only troubled to dre=
ss
herself well when guests happened to call. Yet, on returning to the room in
society costume, she always looked extremely handsome--save for that cold, =
uniform
expression of eyes and smile which is common to all beauties. In fact, her
strictly regular, beautiful face and symmetrical figure always seemed to be
saying to you, "Yes, you may look at me."
At the same time,=
for
all the mother's liveliness of disposition and the daughter's air of
indifference and abstraction, something told one that the former was incapa=
ble
of feeling affection for anything that was not pretty and gay, but that
Avdotia, on the contrary, was one of those natures which, once they love, a=
re
willing to sacrifice their whole life for the man they adore.
XXXIV. MY FATHER'S SECOND
MARRIAGE
MY father was
forty-eight when he took as his second wife Avdotia Vassilievna Epifanov.
I suspect that wh=
en,
that spring, he had departed for the country with the girls, he had been in
that communicatively happy, sociable mood in which gamblers usually find
themselves who have retired from play after winning large stakes. He had fe=
lt
that he still had a fortune left to him which, so long as he did not squand=
er
it on gaming, might be used for our advancement in life. Moreover, it was
springtime, he was unexpectedly well supplied with ready money, he was alon=
e,
and he had nothing to do. As he conversed with Jakoff on various matters, a=
nd remembered
both the interminable suit with the Epifanovs and Avdotia's beauty (it was a
long while since he had seen her), I can imagine him saying: "How do y=
ou
think we ought to act in this suit, Jakoff? My idea is simply to let the cu=
rsed
land go. Eh? What do you think about it?" I can imagine, too, how, thus
interrogated, Jakoff twirled his fingers behind his back in a deprecatory s=
ort
of way, and proceeded to argue that it all the same, "Peter Alexandrit=
ch,
we are in the right." Nevertheless, I further conjecture, Papa ordered=
the
dogcart to be got ready, put on his fashionable olive-coloured driving-coat,
brushed up the remnants of his hair, sprinkled his clothes with scent, and,
greatly pleased to think that he was acting a la seignior (as well as, even=
more,
revelling in the prospect of soon seeing a pretty woman), drove off to visit
his neighbours.
I can imagine, to=
o,
that when the flustered housemaid ran to inform Peter Vassilievitch that
Monsieur Irtenieff himself had called, Peter answered angrily, "Well, =
what
has he come for?" and, stepping softly about the house, first went into
his study to put on his old soiled jacket, and then sent down word to the c=
ook
that on no account whatever--no, not even if she were ordered to do so by t=
he
mistress herself--was she to add anything to luncheon.
Since, later, I o=
ften
saw Papa with Peter, I can form a very good idea of this first interview
between them. I can imagine that, despite Papa's proposal to end the suit i=
n a
peaceful manner, Peter was morose and resentful at the thought of having
sacrificed his career to his mother, and at Papa having done nothing of the
kind--a by no means surprising circumstance, Peter probably said to himself.
Next, I can see Papa taking no notice of this ill-humour, but cracking quips
and jests, while Peter gradually found himself forced to treat him as a
humorist with whom he felt offended one moment and inclined to be reconciled
the next. Indeed, with his instinct for making fun of everything, Papa often
used to address Peter as "Colonel;" and though I can remember Pet=
er
once replying, with an unusually violent stutter and his face scarlet with
indignation, that he had never been a c-c-colonel, but only a l-l-lieutenan=
t,
Papa called him "Colonel" again before another five minutes were =
out.
Lubotshka told me
that, up to the time of Woloda's and my arrival from Moscow, there had been
daily meetings with the Epifanovs, and that things had been very lively, si=
nce
Papa, who had a genius for arranging, everything with a touch of originality
and wit, as well as in a simple and refined manner, had devised shooting and
fishing parties and fireworks for the Epifanovs' benefit. All these
festivities--so said Lubotshka--would have gone off splendidly but for the
intolerable Peter, who had spoilt everything by his puffing and stuttering.
After our coming, however, the Epifanovs only visited us twice, and we went
once to their house, while after St. Peter's Day (on which, it being Papa's=
nameday,
the Epifanovs called upon us in common with a crowd of other guests) our
relations with that family came entirely to an end, and, in future, only Pa=
pa
went to see them.
During the brief
period when I had opportunities of seeing Papa and Dunetchka (as her mother
called Avdotia) together, this is what I remarked about them. Papa remained
unceasingly in the same buoyant mood as had so greatly struck me on the day
after our arrival. So gay and youthful and full of life and happy did he se=
em
that the beams of his felicity extended themselves to all around him, and
involuntarily communicated to them a similar frame of mind. He never stirred
from Avdotia's side so long as she was in the room, but either kept on plyi=
ng her
with sugary-sweet compliments which made me feel ashamed for him or, with h=
is
gaze fixed upon her with an air at once passionate and complacent, sat hitc=
hing
his shoulder and coughing as from time to time he smiled and whispered
something in her ear. Yet throughout he wore the same expression of railler=
y as
was peculiar to him even in the most serious matters.
As a rule, Avdotia
herself seemed to catch the infection of the happiness which sparkled at th=
is
period in Papa's large blue eyes; yet there were moments also when she woul=
d be
seized with such a fit of shyness that I, who knew the feeling well, was fu=
ll
of sympathy and compassion as I regarded her embarrassment. At moments of t=
his
kind she seemed to be afraid of every glance and every movement--to be
supposing that every one was looking at her, every one thinking of no one b=
ut her,
and that unfavourably. She would glance timidly from one person to another,=
the
colour coming and going in her cheeks, and then begin to talk loudly and
defiantly, but, for the most part, nonsense; until presently, realising thi=
s,
and supposing that Papa and every one else had heard her, she would blush m=
ore
painfully than ever. Yet Papa never noticed her nonsense, for he was too mu=
ch
taken up with coughing and with gazing at her with his look of happy,
triumphant devotion. I noticed, too, that, although these fits of shyness
attacked Avdotia, without any visible cause, they not infrequently ensued u=
pon
Papa's mention of one or another young and beautiful woman. Frequent transi=
tions
from depression to that strange, awkward gaiety of hers to which I have
referred before the repetition of favourite words and turns of speech of
Papa's; the continuation of discussions with others which Papa had already
begun--all these things, if my father had not been the principal actor in t=
he
matter and I had been a little older, would have explained to me the relati=
ons
subsisting between him and Avdotia. At the time, however, I never surmised
them--no, not even when Papa received from her brother Peter a letter which=
so
upset him that not again until the end of August did he go to call upon the
Epifanovs'. Then, however, he began his visits once more, and ended by
informing us, on the day before Woloda and I were to return to Moscow, that=
he
was about to take Avdotia Vassilievna Epifanov to be his wife.
XXXV. HOW WE RECEIVED THE
NEWS
Yet, even on the =
eve
of the official announcement, every one had learnt of the matter, and was
discussing it. Mimi never left her room that day, and wept copiously. Katen=
ka
kept her company, and only came out for luncheon, with a grieved expression=
on
her face which was manifestly borrowed from her mother. Lubotshka, on the
contrary, was very cheerful, and told us after luncheon that she knew of a
splendid secret which she was going to tell no one.
"There is
nothing so splendid about your secret," said Woloda, who did not in the
least share her satisfaction. "If you were capable of any serious thou=
ght
at all, you would understand that it is a very bad lookout for us."
Lubotshka stared =
at
him in amazement, and said no more. After the meal was over, Woloda made a
feint of taking me by the arm, and then, fearing that this would seem too m=
uch
like "affection," nudged me gently by the elbow, and beckoned me
towards the salon.
"You know, I
suppose, what the secret is of which Lubotshka was speaking?" he said =
when
he was sure that we were alone. It was seldom that he and I spoke together =
in
confidence: with the result that, whenever it came about, we felt a kind of
awkwardness in one another's presence, and "boys began to jump about&q=
uot;
in our eyes, as Woloda expressed it. On the present occasion, however, he
answered the excitement in my eyes with a grave, fixed look which said:
"You need not be surprised, for we are brothers, and we have to consid=
er
an important family matter." I understood him, and he went on:
"You know, I
suppose, that Papa is going to marry Avdotia Epifanov?"
I nodded, for I h=
ad
already heard so. "Well, it is not a good thing," continued Wolod=
a.
"Why so?&quo=
t;
"Why?" =
he
repeated irritably. "Because it will be so pleasant, won't it, to have
this stuttering 'colonel' and all his family for relations! Certainly she s=
eems
nice enough, as yet; but who knows what she will turn out to be later? It w=
on't
matter much to you or myself, but Lubotshka will soon be making her debut, =
and
it will hardly be nice for her to have such a 'belle mere' as this--a woman=
who
speaks French badly, and has no manners to teach her."
Although it seemed
odd to hear Woloda criticising Papa's choice so coolly, I felt that he was
right.
"Why is he
marrying her?" I asked.
"Oh, it is a
hole-and-corner business, and God only knows why," he answered. "=
All
I know is that her brother, Peter, tried to make conditions about the marri=
age,
and that, although at first Papa would not hear of them, he afterwards took
some fancy or knight-errantry or another into his head. But, as I say, it i=
s a
hole-and-corner business. I am only just beginning to understand my father
"--the fact that Woloda called Papa "my father" instead of
"Papa" somehow hurt me--"and though I can see that he is kind
and clever, he is irresponsible and frivolous to a degree that--Well, the w=
hole
thing is astonishing. He cannot so much as look upon a woman calmly. You
yourself know how he falls in love with every one that he meets. You know i=
t,
and so does Mimi."
"What do you
mean?" I said.
"What I say.=
Not
long ago I learnt that he used to be in love with Mimi herself when he was a
young man, and that he used to send her poetry, and that there really was
something between them. Mimi is heart-sore about it to this day"--and
Woloda burst out laughing.
"Impossible!=
"
I cried in astonishment.
"But the
principal thing at this moment," went on Woloda, becoming serious agai=
n,
and relapsing into French, "is to think how delighted all our relations
will be with this marriage! Why, she will probably have children!"
Woloda's prudence=
and
forethought struck me so forcibly that I had no answer to make. Just at this
moment Lubotshka approached us.
"So you
know?" she said with a joyful face.
"Yes," =
said
Woloda. "Still, I am surprised at you, Lubotshka. You are no longer a =
baby
in long clothes. Why should you be so pleased because Papa is going to marr=
y a
piece of trash?"
At this Lubotshka=
's
face fell, and she became serious.
"Oh,
Woloda!" she exclaimed. "Why 'a piece of trash' indeed? How can y=
ou dare
to speak of Avdotia like that? If Papa is going to marry her she cannot be
'trash.'"
"No, not tra=
sh,
so to speak, but--"
"No 'buts' at
all!" interrupted Lubotshka, flaring up. "You have never heard me
call the girl whom you are in love with 'trash!' How, then, can you speak s=
o of
Papa and a respectable woman? Although you are my elder brother, I won't al=
low
you to speak like that! You ought not to!"
"Mayn't I ev=
en
express an opinion about--"
"No, you
mayn't!" repeated Lubotshka. "No one ought to criticise such a fa=
ther
as ours. Mimi has the right to, but not you, however much you may be the el=
dest
brother."
"Oh you don't
understand anything," said Woloda contemptuously. "Try and do so.=
How
can it be a good thing that a 'Dunetchka' of an Epifanov should take the pl=
ace
of our dead Mamma?"
For a moment
Lubotshka was silent. Then the tears suddenly came into her eyes.
"I knew that=
you
were conceited, but I never thought that you could be cruel," she said,
and left us.
"Pshaw!"
said Woloda, pulling a serio-comic face and make-believe, stupid eyes.
"That's what comes of arguing with them." Evidently he felt that =
he
was at fault in having so far forgot himself as to descend to discuss matte=
rs
at all with Lubotshka.
Next day the weat=
her
was bad, and neither Papa nor the ladies had come down to morning tea when I
entered the drawing-room. There had been cold rain in the night, and remnan=
ts
of the clouds from which it had descended were still scudding across the sk=
y,
with the sun's luminous disc (not yet risen to any great height) showing
faintly through them. It was a windy, damp, grey morning. The door into the
garden was standing open, and pools left by the night's rain were drying on=
the
damp-blackened flags of the terrace. The open door was swinging on its iron
hinges in the wind, and all the paths looked wet and muddy. The old birch t=
rees
with their naked white branches, the bushes, the turf, the nettles, the
currant-trees, the elders with the pale side of their leaves turned
upwards--all were dashing themselves about, and looking as though they were
trying to wrench themselves free from their roots. From the avenue of
lime-trees showers of round, yellow leaves were flying through the air in
tossing, eddying circles, and strewing the wet road and soaked aftermath of=
the
hayfield with a clammy carpet. At the moment, my thoughts were wholly taken=
up
with my father's approaching marriage and with the point of view from which
Woloda regarded it. The future seemed to me to bode no good for any of us. I
felt distressed to think that a woman who was not only a stranger but young
should be going to associate with us in so many relations of life, without
having any right to do so--nay, that this young woman was going to usurp the
place of our dead mother. I felt depressed, and kept thinking more and more=
that
my father was to blame in the matter. Presently I heard his voice and Wolod=
a's
speaking together in the pantry, and, not wishing to meet Papa just then, h=
ad just
left the room when I was pursued by Lubotshka, who said that Papa wanted to=
see
me.
He was standing in
the drawing-room, with his hand resting on the piano, and was gazing in my
direction with an air at once grave and impatient. His face no longer wore =
the
youthful, gay expression which had struck me for so long, but, on the contr=
ary,
looked sad. Woloda was walking about the room with a pipe in his hand. I
approached my father, and bade him good morning.
"Well, my
children," he said firmly, with a lift of his head and in the peculiar=
ly
hurried manner of one who wishes to announce something obviously unwelcome,=
but
no longer admitting of reconsideration, "you know, I suppose, that I am
going to marry Avdotia Epifanov." He paused a moment. "Hitherto I=
had
had no desire for any one to succeed your mother, but"--and again he
paused--"it-it is evidently my fate. Dunetchka is an excellent, kind g=
irl,
and no longer in her first youth. I hope, therefore, my children, that you =
will
like her, and she, I know, will be sincerely fond of you, for she is a good
woman. And now," he went on, addressing himself more particularly to
Woloda and myself, and having the appearance of speaking hurriedly in order=
to
prevent us from interrupting him, "it is time for you to depart, while=
I
myself am going to stay here until the New Year, and then to follow you to
Moscow with"--again he hesitated a moment--"my wife and
Lubotshka." It hurt me to see my father standing as though abashed and=
at
fault before us, so I moved a little nearer him, but Woloda only went on
walking about the room with his head down, and smoking.
"So, my
children, that is what your old father has planned to do," concluded
Papa--reddening, coughing, and offering Woloda and myself his hands. Tears =
were
in his eyes as he said this, and I noticed, too, that the hand which he was
holding out to Woloda (who at that moment chanced to be at the other end of=
the
room) was shaking slightly. The sight of that shaking hand gave me an
unpleasant shock, for I remembered that Papa had served in 1812, and had be=
en,
as every one knew, a brave officer. Seizing the great veiny hand, I covered=
it
with kisses, and he squeezed mine hard in return. Then, with a sob amid his
tears, he suddenly threw his arms around Lubotshka's dark head, and kissed =
her again
and again on the eyes. Woloda pretended that he had dropped his pipe, and,
bending down, wiped his eyes furtively with the back of his hand. Then,
endeavouring to escape notice, he left the room.
THE wedding was to
take place in two weeks' time, but, as our lectures had begun already, Wolo=
da
and myself were forced to return to Moscow at the beginning of September. T=
he
Nechludoffs had also returned from the country, and Dimitri (with whom, on
parting, I had made an agreement that we should correspond frequently with =
the
result, of course, that we had never once written to one another) came to s=
ee
us immediately after our arrival, and arranged to escort me to my first lec=
ture
on the morrow.
It was a beautifu=
l sunny
day. No sooner had I entered the auditorium than I felt my personality enti=
rely
disappear amid the swarm of light-hearted youths who were seething tumultuo=
usly
through every doorway and corridor under the influence of the sunlight pour=
ing
through the great windows. I found the sense of being a member of this huge=
community
very pleasing, yet there were few among the throng whom I knew, and that on=
ly
on terms of a nod and a "How do you do, Irtenieff?"
All around me men
were shaking hands and chatting together--from every side came expressions =
of
friendship, laughter, jests, and badinage. Everywhere I could feel the tie
which bound this youthful society in one, and everywhere, too, I could feel
that it left me out. Yet this impression lasted for a moment only, and was
succeeded, together with the vexation which it had caused, by the idea that=
it
was best that I should not belong to that society, but keep to my own circl=
e of
gentlemen; wherefore I proceeded to seat myself upon the third bench, with,=
as
neighbours, Count B., Baron Z., the Prince R., Iwin, and some other young m=
en
of the same class with none of whom, however, was acquainted save with Iwin=
and
Count B. Yet the look which these young gentlemen threw at me at once made =
me
feel that I was not of their set, and I turned to observe what was going on
around me. Semenoff, with grey, matted hair, white teeth, and tunic flying
open, was seated a little distance off, and leaning forward on his elbows a=
s he
nibbled a pen, while the gymnasium student who had come out first in the ex=
aminations
had established himself on the front bench, and, with a black stock coming
half-way up his cheek, was toying with the silver watch-chain which adorned=
his
satin waistcoat. On a bench in a raised part of the hall I could descry Iko=
nin
(evidently he had contrived to enter the University somehow!), and hear him
fussily proclaiming, in all the glory of blue piped trousers which complete=
ly
hid his boots, that he was now seated on Parnassus. Ilinka--who had surpris=
ed
me by giving me a bow not only cold, but supercilious, as though to remind =
me
that here we were all equals--was just in front of me, with his legs restin=
g in
free and easy style on another bench (a hit, somehow I thought, at myself),=
and
conversing with a student as he threw occasional glances in my direction.
Iwin's set by my side were talking in French, yet every word which I overhe=
ard
of their conversation seemed to me both stupid and incorrect ("Ce n'est
pas francais," I thought to myself), while all the attitudes, utteranc=
es,
and doings of Semenoff, Ilinka, and the rest struck me as uniformly coarse,
ungentlemanly, and "comme il ne faut pas."
Thus, attached to=
no
particular set, I felt isolated and unable to make friends, and so grew
resentful. One of the students on the bench in front of me kept biting his
nails, which were raw to the quick already, and this so disgusted me that I
edged away from him. In short, I remember finding my first day a most
depressing affair.
When the professor
entered, and there was a general stir and a cessation of chatter, I remember
throwing a scornful glance at him, as also that he began his discourse with=
a
sentence which I thought devoid of meaning. I had expected the lecture to b=
e,
from first to last, so clever that not a word ought to be taken from or add=
ed
to it. Disappointed in this, I at once proceeded to draw beneath the heading
"First Lecture" with which I had adorned my beautifully-bound
notebook no less than eighteen faces in profile, joined together in a sort =
of
chaplet, and only occasionally moved my hand along the page in order to give
the professor (who, I felt sure, must be greatly interested in me) the impr=
ession
that I was writing something. In fact, at this very first lecture I came to=
the
decision which I maintained to the end of my course, namely, that it was
unnecessary, and even stupid, to take down every word said by every profess=
or.
At subsequent
lectures, however, I did not feel my isolation so strongly, since I made
several acquaintances and got into the way of shaking hands and entering in=
to
conversation. Yet for some reason or another no real intimacy ever sprang up
between us, and I often found myself depressed and only feigning cheerfulne=
ss.
With the set which comprised Iwin and "the aristocrats," as they =
were
generally known, I could not make any headway at all, for, as I now remembe=
r, I
was always shy and churlish to them, and nodded to them only when they nodd=
ed
to me; so that they had little inducement to desire my acquaintance. With m=
ost
of the other students, however, this arose from quite a different cause. As
soon as ever I discerned friendliness on the part of a comrade, I at once g=
ave
him to understand that I went to luncheon with Prince Ivan Ivanovitch and k=
ept
my own drozhki. All this I said merely to show myself in the most favourable
light in his eyes, and to induce him to like me all the more; yet almost
invariably the only result of my communicating to him the intelligence
concerning the drozhki and my relationship to Prince Ivan Ivanovitch was th=
at,
to my astonishment, he at once adopted a cold and haughty bearing towards m=
e.
Among us we had a
Crown student named Operoff--a very modest, industrious, and clever young
fellow, who always offered one his hand like a slab of wood (that is to say,
without closing his fingers or making the slightest movement with them); wi=
th
the result that his comrades often did the same to him in jest, and called =
it
the "deal board" way of shaking hands. He and I nearly always sat
next to one another, and discussed matters generally. In particular he plea=
sed
me with the freedom with which he would criticise the professors as he poin=
ted
out to me with great clearness and acumen the merits or demerits of their
respective ways of teaching and made occasional fun of them. Such remarks I
found exceedingly striking and diverting when uttered in his quiet, mincing
voice. Nevertheless he never let a lecture pass without taking careful note=
s of
it in his fine handwriting, and eventually we decided to join forces, and t=
o do
our preparation together. Things had progressed to the point of his always
looking pleased when I took my usual seat beside him when, unfortunately, I=
one
day found it necessary to inform him that, before her death, my mother had
besought my father never to allow us to enter for a government scholarship,=
as
well as that I myself considered Crown students, no matter how clever, to
be-"well, they are not GENTLEMEN," I concluded, though beginning =
to
flounder a little and grow red. At the moment Operoff said nothing, but at
subsequent lectures he ceased to greet me or to offer me his board-like han=
d,
and never attempted to talk to me, but, as soon as ever I sat down, he would
lean his head upon his arm, and purport to be absorbed in his notebooks. I =
was
surprised at this sudden coolness, but looked upon it as infra dig, "p=
our
un jeune homme de bonne maison" to curry favour with a mere Crown stud=
ent
of an Operoff, and so left him severely alone--though I confess that his al=
oofness
hurt my feelings. On one occasion I arrived before him, and, since the lect=
ure
was to be delivered by a popular professor whom students came to hear who d=
id
not usually attend such functions, I found almost every seat occupied.
Accordingly I secured Operoff's place for myself by spreading my notebooks =
on
the desk before it; after which I left the room again for a moment. When I
returned I perceived that my paraphernalia had been relegated to the bench
behind, and the place taken by Operoff himself. I remarked to him that I had
already secured it by placing my notebooks there.
"I know noth=
ing
about that," he replied sharply, yet without looking up at me.
"I tell you I
placed my notebooks there," I repeated, purposely trying to bluster, in
the hope of intimidating him. "Every one saw me do it," I added,
including the students near me in my glance. Several of them looked at me w=
ith
curiosity, yet none of them spoke.
"Seats canno=
t be
booked here," said Operoff. "Whoever first sits down in a place k=
eeps
it," and, settling himself angrily where he was, he flashed at me a gl=
ance
of defiance.
"Well, that =
only
means that you are a cad," I said.
I have an idea th=
at
he murmured something about my being "a stupid young idiot," but I
decided not to hear it. What would be the use, I asked myself, of my hearing
it? That we should brawl like a couple of manants over less than nothing? (I
was very fond of the word manants, and often used it for meeting awkward
junctures.) Perhaps I should have said something more had not, at that mome=
nt,
a door slammed and the professor (dressed in a blue frockcoat, and shuffling
his feet as he walked) ascended the rostrum.
Nevertheless, when
the examination was about to come on, and I had need of some one's notebook=
s,
Operoff remembered his promise to lend me his, and we did our preparation
together.
XXXVII. AFFAIRS OF THE HE=
ART
Affaires du coeur
exercised me greatly that winter. In fact, I fell in love three times. The
first time, I became passionately enamoured of a buxom lady whom I used to =
see
riding at Freitag's riding-school; with the result that every day when she =
was
taking a lesson there (that is to say, every Tuesday and Friday) I used to =
go
to gaze at her, but always in such a state of trepidation lest I should be =
seen
that I stood a long way off, and bolted directly I thought her likely to
approach the spot where I was standing. Likewise, I used to turn round so
precipitately whenever she appeared to be glancing in my direction that I n=
ever
saw her face well, and to this day do not know whether she was really beaut=
iful
or not.
Dubkoff, who was
acquainted with her, surprised me one day in the riding-school, where I was
lurking concealed behind the lady's grooms and the fur wraps which they were
holding, and, having heard from Dimitri of my infatuation, frightened me so
terribly by proposing to introduce me to the Amazon that I fled incontinent=
ly
from the school, and was prevented by the mere thought that possibly he had
told her about me from ever entering the place again, or even from hiding
behind her grooms, lest I should encounter her.
Whenever I fell in
love with ladies whom I did not know, and especially married women, I
experienced a shyness a thousand times greater than I had ever felt with
Sonetchka. I dreaded beyond measure that my divinity should learn of my
passion, or even of my existence, since I felt sure that, once she had done=
so,
she would be so terribly offended that I should never be forgiven for my
presumption. And indeed, if the Amazon referred to above had ever come to k=
now
how I used to stand behind the grooms and dream of seizing her and carrying=
her
off to some country spot--if she had ever come to know how I should have li=
ved
with her there, and how I should have treated her, it is probable that she
would have had very good cause for indignation! But I always felt that, onc=
e I
got to know her, she would straightway divine these thoughts, and consider
herself insulted by my acquaintance.
As my second affa=
ire
du coeur, I, (for the third time) fell in love with Sonetchka when I saw he=
r at
her sister's. My second passion for her had long since come to an end, but I
became enamoured of her this third time through Lubotshka sending me a
copy-book in which Sonetchka had copied some extracts from Lermontoff's The
Demon, with certain of the more subtly amorous passages underlined in red i=
nk
and marked with pressed flowers. Remembering how Woloda had been wont to ki=
ss
his inamorata's purse last year, I essayed to do the same thing now; and
really, when alone in my room in the evenings and engaged in dreaming as I
looked at a flower or occasionally pressed it to my lips, I would feel a
certain pleasantly lachrymose mood steal over me, and remain genuinely in l=
ove (or
suppose myself to be so) for at least several days.
Finally, my third
affaire du coeur that winter was connected with the lady with whom Woloda w=
as
in love, and who used occasionally to visit at our house. Yet, in this dams=
el,
as I now remember, there was not a single beautiful feature to be found--or=
, at
all events, none of those which usually pleased me. She was the daughter of=
a
well-known Moscow lady of light and leading, and, petite and slender, wore =
long
flaxen curls after the English fashion, and could boast of a transparent pr=
ofile.
Every one said that she was even cleverer and more learned than her mother,=
but
I was never in a position to judge of that, since, overcome with craven
bashfulness at the mere thought of her intellect and accomplishments, I nev=
er
spoke to her alone but once, and then with unaccountable trepidation. Wolod=
a's
enthusiasm, however (for the presence of an audience never prevented him fr=
om
giving vent to his rapture), communicated itself to me so strongly that I a=
lso
became enamoured of the lady. Yet, conscious that he would not be pleased t=
o know
that two brothers were in love with the same girl, I never told him of my
condition. On the contrary, I took special delight in the thought that our
mutual love for her was so pure that, though its object was, in both cases,=
the
same charming being, we remained friends and ready, if ever the occasion sh=
ould
arise, to sacrifice ourselves for one another. Yet I have an idea that, as
regards self-sacrifice, he did not quite share my views, for he was so
passionately in love with the lady that once he was for giving a member of =
the
diplomatic corps, who was said to be going to marry her, a slap in the face=
and
a challenge to a duel; but, for my part, I would gladly have sacrificed my
feelings for his sake, seeing that the fact that the only remark I had ever
addressed to her had been on the subject of the dignity of classical music,=
and
that my passion, for all my efforts to keep it alive, expired the following=
week,
would have rendered it the more easy for me to do so.
As regards those
worldly delights to which I had intended, on entering the University, to
surrender myself in imitation of my brother, I underwent a complete
disillusionment that winter. Woloda danced a great deal, and Papa also went=
to
balls with his young wife, but I appeared to be thought either too young or
unfitted for such delights, and no one invited me to the houses where balls
were being given. Yet, in spite of my vow of frankness with Dimitri, I never
told him (nor any one else) how much I should have liked to go to those dan=
ces,
and how I felt hurt at being forgotten and (apparently) taken for the
philosopher that I pretended to be.
Nevertheless, a
reception was to be given that winter at the Princess Kornakoff's, and to it
she sent us personal invitations--to myself among the rest! Consequently, I=
was
to attend my first ball. Before starting, Woloda came into my room to see h=
ow I
was dressing myself--an act on his part which greatly surprised me and took=
me
aback. In my opinion (it must be understood) solicitude about one's dress w=
as a
shameful thing, and should be kept under, but he seemed to think it a thing=
so
natural and necessary that he said outright that he was afraid I should be =
put out
of countenance on that score. Accordingly, he bid me don my patent leather
boots, and was horrified to find that I wanted to put on gloves of peau de
chamois. Next, he adjusted my watch-chain in a particular manner, and carri=
ed
me off to a hairdresser's near the Kuznetski Bridge to have my locks coiffu=
red.
That done, he withdrew to a little distance and surveyed me.
"Yes, he loo=
ks
right enough now" said he to the hairdresser. "Only--couldn't you
smooth those tufts of his in front a little?" Yet, for all that Monsie=
ur
Charles treated my forelocks with one essence and another, they persisted in
rising up again when ever I put on my hat. In fact, my curled and tonsured
figure seemed to me to look far worse than it had done before. My only hope=
of
salvation lay in an affectation of untidiness. Only in that guise would my
exterior resemble anything at all. Woloda, apparently, was of the same opin=
ion,
for he begged me to undo the curls, and when I had done so and still looked
unpresentable, he ceased to regard me at all, but throughout the drive to t=
he Kornakoffs
remained silent and depressed.
Nevertheless, I
entered the Kornakoffs' mansion boldly enough, and it was only when the
Princess had invited me to dance, and I, for some reason or another (though=
I
had driven there with no other thought in my head than to dance well), had
replied that I never indulged in that pastime, that I began to blush, and, =
left
solitary among a crowd of strangers, became plunged in my usual insuperable=
and
ever-growing shyness. In fact, I remained silent on that spot almost the wh=
ole evening!
Nevertheless, whi=
le a
waltz was in progress, one of the young princesses came to me and asked me,
with the sort of official kindness common to all her family, why I was not
dancing. I can remember blushing hotly at the question, but at the same time
feeling--for all my efforts to prevent it--a self-satisfied smile steal ove=
r my
face as I began talking, in the most inflated and long-winded French, such
rubbish as even now, after dozens of years, it shames me to recall. It must=
have
been the effect of the music, which, while exciting my nervous sensibility,
drowned (as I supposed) the less intelligible portion of my utterances. Any=
how,
I went on speaking of the exalted company present, and of the futility of m=
en
and women, until I had got myself into such a tangle that I was forced to s=
top
short in the middle of a word of a sentence which I found myself powerless =
to
conclude.
Even the
worldly-minded young Princess was shocked by my conduct, and gazed at me in
reproach; whereat I burst out laughing. At this critical moment, Woloda, who
had remarked that I was conversing with great animation, and probably was
curious to know what excuses I was making for not dancing, approached us wi=
th
Dubkoff. Seeing, however, my smiling face and the Princess's frightened mie=
n,
as well as overhearing the appalling rubbish with which I concluded my spee=
ch,
he turned red in the face, and wheeled round again. The Princess also rose =
and
left me. I continued to smile, but in such a state of agony from the
consciousness of my stupidity that I felt ready to sink into the floor.
Likewise I felt that, come what might, I must move about and say something,=
in order
to effect a change in my position. Accordingly I approached Dubkoff, and as=
ked
him if he had danced many waltzes with her that night. This I feigned to sa=
y in
a gay and jesting manner, yet in reality I was imploring help of the very
Dubkoff to whom I had cried "Hold your tongue!" on the night of t=
he
matriculation dinner. By way of answer, he made as though he had not heard =
me,
and turned away. Next, I approached Woloda, and said with an effort and in a
similar tone of assumed gaiety: "Hullo, Woloda! Are you played out
yet?" He merely looked at me as much as to say, "You wouldn't spe=
ak
to me like that if we were alone," and left me without a word, in the =
evident
fear that I might continue to attach myself to his person.
"My God! Eve=
n my
own brother deserts me!" I thought to myself.
Yet somehow I had=
not
the courage to depart, but remained standing where I was until the very end=
of
the evening. At length, when every one was leaving the room and crowding in=
to
the hall, and a footman slipped my greatcoat on to my shoulders in such a w=
ay
as to tilt up my cap, I gave a dreary, half-lachrymose smile, and remarked =
to
no one in particular: "Comme c'est gracieux!"
NOTWITHSTANDING t=
hat,
as yet, Dimitri's influence had kept me from indulging in those customary
students' festivities known as kutezhi or "wines," that winter sa=
w me
participate in such a function, and carry away with me a not over-pleasant
impression of it. This is how it came about.
At a lecture soon
after the New Year, Baron Z.--a tall, light-haired young fellow of very ser=
ious
demeanour and regular features--invited us all to spend a sociable evening =
with
him. By "us all", I mean all the men more or less "comme il
faut", of our course, and exclusive of Grap, Semenoff, Operoff, and
commoners of that sort. Woloda smiled contemptuously when he heard that I w=
as
going to a "wine" of first course men, but I looked to derive gre=
at
and unusual pleasure from this, to me, novel method of passing the time.
Accordingly, punctually at the appointed hour of eight I presented myself at
the Baron's.
Our host, in an o=
pen
tunic and white waistcoat, received his guests in the brilliantly lighted s=
alon
and drawing-room of the small mansion where his parents lived--they having
given up their reception rooms to him for the evening for purposes of this
party. In the corridor could be seen the heads and skirts of inquisitive
domestics, while in the dining-room I caught a glimpse of a dress which I
imagined to belong to the Baroness herself. The guests numbered a score, and
were all of them students except Herr Frost (in attendance upon Iwin) and a
tall, red-faced gentleman who was superintending the feast and who was intr=
oduced
to every one as a relative of the Baron's and a former student of the
University of Dorpat. At first, the excessive brilliancy and formal
appointments of the reception-rooms had such a chilling effect upon this
youthful company that every one involuntarily hugged the walls, except a few
bolder spirits and the ex-Dorpat student, who, with his waistcoat already
unbuttoned, seemed to be in every room, and in every corner of every room, =
at
once, and filled the whole place with his resonant, agreeable, never-ceasing
tenor voice. The remainder of the guests preferred either to remain silent =
or
to talk in discreet tones of professors, faculties, examinations, and other
serious and interesting matters. Yet every one, without exception, kept
watching the door of the dining-room, and, while trying to conceal the fact,
wearing an expression which said: "Come! It is time to begin." I =
too
felt that it was time to begin, and awaited the beginning with pleasurable =
impatience.
After footmen had
handed round tea among the guests, the Dorpat student asked Frost in Russia=
n:
"Can you make
punch, Frost?"
"Oh ja!"
replied Frost with a joyful flourish of his heels, and the other went on:
"Then do you=
set
about it" (they addressed each other in the second person singular, as
former comrades at Dorpat). Frost accordingly departed to the dining-room, =
with
great strides of his bowed, muscular legs, and, after some walking backwards
and forwards, deposited upon the drawing-room table a large punchbowl, acco=
mpanied
by a ten-pound sugar loaf supported on three students' swords placed crossw=
ise.
Meanwhile, the Baron had been going round among his guests as they sat
regarding the punch-bowl, and addressing them, with a face of immutable
gravity, in the formula: "I beg of you all to drink of this loving-cup=
in
student fashion, that there may be good-fellowship among the members of our=
course.
Unbutton your waistcoats, or take them off altogether, as you please."
Already the Dorpat student had divested himself of his tunic and rolled up =
his
white shirt-sleeves above his elbows, and now, planting his feet firmly apa=
rt,
he proceeded to set fire to the rum in the punch-bowl.
"Gentlemen, =
put
out the candles!" he cried with a sudden shout so loud and insistent t=
hat
we seemed all of us to be shouting at once. However, we still went on silen=
tly
regarding the punch-bowl and the white shirt of the Dorpat student, with a
feeling that a moment of great solemnity was approaching.
"Put out the
lights, Frost, I tell you!" the Dorpat student shouted again. Evidently
the punch was now sufficiently burnt. Accordingly every one helped to
extinguish the candles, until the room was in total darkness save for a spot
where the white shirts and hands of the three students supporting the sugar=
loaf
on their crossed swords were lit up by the lurid flames from the bowl. Yet =
the
Dorpat student's tenor voice was not the only one to be heard, for in diffe=
rent
quarters of the room resounded chattering and laughter. Many had taken off
their tunics (especially students whose garments were of fine cloth and
perfectly new), and I now did the same, with a consciousness that
"IT" was "beginning." There had been no great festivity=
as
yet, but I felt assured that things would go splendidly when once we had be=
gun
drinking tumblers of the potion that was now in course of preparation.
At length, the pu=
nch
was ready, and the Dorpat student, with much bespattering of the table as he
did so, ladled the liquor into tumblers, and cried: "Now, gentlemen,
please!" When we had each of us taken a sticky tumbler of the stuff in=
to
our hands, the Dorpat student and Frost sang a German song in which the word
"Hoch!" kept occurring again and again, while we joined, in hapha=
zard
fashion, in the chorus. Next we clinked glasses together, shouted something=
in
praise of punch, crossed hands, and took our first drink of the sweet, stro=
ng
mixture. After that there was no further waiting; the "wine" was =
in
full swing. The first glassful consumed, a second was poured out. Yet, for =
all
that I began to feel a throbbing in my temples, and that the flames seemed =
to
be turning purple, and that every one around me was laughing and shouting,
things seemed lacking in real gaiety, and I somehow felt that, as a matter =
of
fact, we were all of us finding the affair rather dull, and only PRETENDING=
to
be enjoying it. The Dorpat student may have been an exception, for he conti=
nued
to grow more and more red in the face and more and more ubiquitous as he fi=
lled
up empty glasses and stained the table with fresh spots of the sweet, sticky
stuff. The precise sequence of events I cannot remember, but I can recall
feeling strongly attracted towards Frost and the Dorpat student that evenin=
g,
learning their German song by heart, and kissing them each on their
sticky-sweet lips; also that that same evening I conceived a violent hatred
against the Dorpat student, and was for pushing him from his chair, but tho=
ught
better of it; also that, besides feeling the same spirit of independence
towards the rest of the company as I had felt on the night of the matricula=
tion
dinner, my head ached and swam so badly that I thought each moment would be=
my
last; also that, for some reason or another, we all of us sat down on the f=
loor
and imitated the movements of rowers in a boat as we sang in chorus, "=
Down
our mother stream the Volga;" also that I conceived this procedure on =
our
part to be uncalled for; also that, as I lay prone upon the floor, I crosse=
d my
legs and began wriggling about like a tsigane; [Gipsy dancer.] also that I
ricked some one's neck, and came to the conclusion that I should never have
done such a thing if I had not been drunk; also that we had some supper and
another kind of liquor, and that I then went to the door to get some fresh =
air;
also that my head seemed suddenly to grow chill, and that I noticed, as I d=
rove
away, that the scat of the vehicle was so sharply aslant and slippery that =
for
me to retain my position behind Kuzma was impossible; also that he seemed to
have turned all flabby, and to be waving about like a dish clout. But what I
remember best is that throughout the whole of that evening I never ceased to
feel that I was acting with excessive stupidity in pretending to be enjoying
myself, to like drinking a great deal, and to be in no way drunk, as well as
that every one else present was acting with equal stupidity in pretending t=
hose
same things. All the time I had a feeling that each one of my companions was
finding the festivities as distasteful as I was myself; but, in the belief =
that
he was the only one doing so, felt himself bound to pretend that he was very
merry, in order not to mar the general hilarity. Also, strange to state, I =
felt
that I ought to keep up this pretence for the sole reason that into a punch=
-bowl
there had been poured three bottles of champagne at nine roubles the bottle=
and
ten bottles of rum at four--making seventy roubles in all, exclusive of the
supper. So convinced of my folly did I feel that, when, at next day's lectu=
re,
those of my comrades who had been at Baron Z.'s party seemed not only in no=
way
ashamed to remember what they had done, but even talked about it so that ot=
her
students might hear of their doings, I felt greatly astonished. They all
declared that it had been a splendid "wine," that Dorpat students=
were
just the fellows for that kind of thing, and that there had been consumed a=
t it
no less than forty bottles of rum among twenty guests, some of whom had dro=
pped
senseless under the table! That they should care to talk about such things
seemed strange enough, but that they should care to lie about them seemed
absolutely unintelligible.
XL. MY FRIENDSHIP WITH THE
NECHLUDOFFS
That winter, too,=
I
saw a great deal both of Dimitri who often looked us up, and of his family,
with whom I was beginning to stand on intimate terms.
The Nechludoffs (=
that
is to say, mother, aunt, and daughter) always spent their evenings at home,=
at
which time the Princess liked young men to visit her--at all events young m=
en
of the kind whom she described as able to spend an evening without playing
cards or dancing. Yet such young fellows must have been few and far between,
for, although I went to the Nechludoffs almost every evening, I seldom found
other guests present. Thus, I came to know the members of this family and t=
heir
several dispositions well enough to be able to form clear ideas as to their
mutual relations, and to be quite at home amid the rooms and furniture of t=
heir
house. Indeed, so long as no other guests were present, I felt entirely at =
my
ease. True, at first I used to feel a little uncomfortable when left alone =
in
the room with Varenika, for I could not rid myself of the idea that, though=
far
from pretty, she wished me to fall in love with her; but in time this
nervousness of mine began to lessen, since she always looked so natural, and
talked to me so exactly as though she were conversing with her brother or L=
ubov
Sergievna, that I came to look upon her simply as a person to whom it was i=
n no
way dangerous or wrong to show that I took pleasure in her company. Through=
out
the whole of our acquaintance she appeared to me merely a plain, though not
positively ugly, girl, concerning whom one would never ask oneself the
question,
"Am I, or am=
I
not, in love with her?" Sometimes I would talk to her direct, but more
often I did so through Dimitri or Lubov Sergievna; and it was the latter me=
thod
which afforded me the most pleasure. I derived considerable gratification f=
rom
discoursing when she was there, from hearing her sing, and, in general, from
knowing that she was in the same room as myself; but it was seldom now that=
any
thoughts of what our future relations might ever be, or that any dreams of
self-sacrifice for my friend if he should ever fall in love with my sister,
came into my head. If any such ideas or fancies occurred to me, I felt
satisfied with the present, and drove away all thoughts about the future.
Yet, in spite of =
this
intimacy, I continued to look upon it as my bounden duty to keep the
Nechludoffs in general, and Varenika in particular, in ignorance of my true
feelings and tastes, and strove always to appear altogether another young m=
an
than what I really was--to appear, indeed, such a young man as could never
possibly have existed. I affected to be "soulful" and would go off
into raptures and exclamations and impassioned gestures whenever I wished i=
t to
be thought that anything pleased me, while, on the other hand, I tried alwa=
ys
to seem indifferent towards any unusual circumstance which I myself perceiv=
ed
or which I had had pointed out to me. I aimed always at figuring both as a =
sarcastic
cynic divorced from every sacred tie and as a shrewd observer, as well as at
being accounted logical in all my conduct, precise and methodical in all my
ways of life, and at the same time contemptuous of all materiality. I may
safely say that I was far better in reality than the strange being into who=
m I
attempted to convert myself; yet, whatever I was or was not, the Nechludoffs
were unfailingly kind to me, and (happily for myself) took no notice (as it=
now
appears) of my play-acting. Only Lubov Sergievna, who, I believe, really
believed me to be a great egoist, atheist, and cynic, had no love for me, b=
ut frequently
disputed what I said, flew into tempers, and left me petrified with her
disjointed, irrelevant utterances. Yet Dimitri held always to the same stra=
nge,
something more than friendly, relations with her, and used to say not only =
that
she was misunderstood by every one, but that she did him a world of good. T=
his,
however, did not prevent the rest of his family from finding fault with his
infatuation.
Once, when talkin=
g to
me about this incomprehensible attachment, Varenika explained the matter th=
us:
"You see, Dimitri is a selfish person. He is very proud, and, for all =
his
intellect, very fond of praise, and of surprising people, and of always bei=
ng
FIRST, while little Auntie" (the general nickname for Lubov Sergievna)
"is innocent enough to admire him, and at the same time devoid of the =
tact
to conceal her admiration. Consequently she flatters his vanity--not out of=
pretence,
but sincerely."
This dictum I lai=
d to
heart, and, when thinking it over afterwards, could not but come to the
conclusion that Varenika was very sensible; wherefore I was glad to award h=
er
promotion thenceforth in my regard. Yet, though I was always glad enough to
assign her any credit which might arise from my discovering in her character
any signs of good sense or other moral qualities, I did so with strict
moderation, and never ran to any extreme pitch of enthusiasm in the process.
Thus, when Sophia Ivanovna (who was never weary of discussing her niece)
related to me how, four years ago, Varenika had suddenly given away all her
clothes to some peasant children without first asking permission to do so, =
so
that the garments had subsequently to be recovered, I did not at once accep=
t the
fact as entitling Varenika to elevation in my opinion, but went on giving h=
er
good advice about the unpracticalness of such views on property.
When other guests
were present at the Nechludoffs (among them, sometimes, Woloda and Dubkoff)=
I
used to withdraw myself to a remote plane, and, with the complacency and qu=
iet
consciousness of strength of an habitue of the house, listen to what others
were saying without putting in a remark myself. Yet everything that these o=
thers
said seemed to me so immeasurably stupid that I used to feel inwardly amazed
that such a clever, logical woman as the Princess, with her equally logical=
family,
could listen to and answer such rubbish. Had it, however, entered into my h=
ead
to compare what, others said with what I myself said when there alone, I sh=
ould
probably have ceased to feel surprise. Still less should I have continued to
feel surprise had I not believed that the women of our own household--Avdot=
ia,
Lubotshka, and Katenka--were superior to the rest of their sex, for in that
case I should have remembered the kind of things over which Avdotia and Kat=
enka
would laugh and jest with Dubkoff from one end of an evening to the other. I
should have remembered that seldom did an evening pass but Dubkoff would fi=
rst
have, an argument about something, and then read in a sententious voice eit=
her
some verses beginning "Au banquet de la vie, infortune convive" or
extracts from The Demon. In short, I should have remembered what nonsense t=
hey
used to chatter for hours at a time.
It need hardly be
said that, when guests were present, Varenika paid less attention to me than
when we were alone, as well as that I was deprived of the reading and music
which I so greatly loved to hear. When talking to guests, she lost, in my e=
yes,
her principal charm--that of quiet seriousness and simplicity. I remember h=
ow
strange it used to seem to me to hear her discoursing on theatres and the
weather to my brother Woloda! I knew that of all things in the world he most
despised and shunned banality, and that Varenika herself used to make fun of
forced conversations on the weather and similar matters. Why, then, when me=
eting
in society, did they both of them talk such intolerable nothings, and, as it
were, shame one another? After talks of this kind I used to feel silently
resentful against Woloda, as well as next day to rally Varenika on her
overnight guests. Yet one result of it was that I derived all the greater
pleasure from being one of the Nechludoffs' family circle. Also, for some
reason or another I began to prefer meeting Dimitri in his mother's
drawing-room to being with him alone.
XLI. MY FRIENDSHIP WITH T=
HE
NECHLUDOFFS
At this period,
indeed, my friendship with Dimitri hung by a hair. I had been criticising h=
im
too long not to have discovered faults in his character, for it is only in
first youth that we love passionately and therefore love only perfect peopl=
e.
As soon as the mists engendered by love of this kind begin to dissolve, and=
to
be penetrated by the clear beams of reason, we see the object of our adorat=
ion
in his true shape, and with all his virtues and failings exposed. Some of t=
hose
failings strike us with the exaggerated force of the unexpected, and combine
with the instinct for novelty and the hope that perfection may yet be found=
in
a fellow-man to induce us not only to feel coldness, but even aversion, tow=
ards
the late object of our adoration. Consequently, desiring it no longer, we
usually cast it from us, and pass onwards to seek fresh perfection. For the
circumstance that that was not what occurred with respect to my own relatio=
n to
Dimitri, I was indebted to his stubborn, punctilious, and more critical than
impulsive attachment to myself--a tie which I felt ashamed to break. Moreov=
er,
our strange vow of frankness bound us together. We were afraid that, if we
parted, we should leave in one another's power all the incriminatory moral =
secrets
of which we had made mutual confession. At the same time, our rule of frank=
ness
had long ceased to be faithfully observed, but, on the contrary, proved a
frequent cause of constraint, and brought about strange relations between u=
s.
Almost every time
that winter that I went upstairs to Dimitri's room, I used to find there a
University friend of his named Bezobiedoff, with whom he appeared to be very
much taken up. Bezobiedoff was a small, slight fellow, with a face pitted o=
ver
with smallpox, freckled, effeminate hands, and a huge flaxen moustache much=
in
need of the comb. He was invariably dirty, shabby, uncouth, and uninteresti=
ng.
To me, Dimitri's relations with him were as unintelligible as his relations=
with
Lubov Sergievna, and the only reason he could have had for choosing such a =
man
for his associate was that in the whole University there was no worse-looki=
ng
student than Bezobiedoff. Yet that alone would have been sufficient to make
Dimitri extend him his friendship, and, as a matter of fact, in all his
intercourse with this fellow he seemed to be saying proudly: "I care
nothing who a man may be. In my eyes every one is equal. I like him, and
therefore he is a desirable acquaintance." Nevertheless I could not
imagine how he could bring himself to do it, nor how the wretched Bezobiedo=
ff
ever contrived to maintain his awkward position. To me the friendship seeme=
d a
most distasteful one.
One night, I went=
up
to Dimitri's room to try and get him to come down for an evening's talk in =
his
mother's drawing-room, where we could also listen to Varenika's reading and
singing, but Bezobiedoff had forestalled me there, and Dimitri answered me
curtly that he could not come down, since, as I could see for myself, he ha=
d a
visitor with him.
"Besides,&qu=
ot;
he added, "what is the fun of sitting there? We had much better stay H=
ERE
and talk."
I scarcely relish=
ed
the prospect of spending a couple of hours in Bezobiedoff's company, yet co=
uld
not make up my mind to go down alone; wherefore, cursing my friend's vagari=
es,
I seated myself in a rocking-chair, and began rocking myself silently to and
fro. I felt vexed with them both for depriving me of the pleasures of the d=
rawing-room,
and my only hope as I listened irritably to their conversation was that
Bezobiedoff would soon take his departure. "A nice guest indeed to be
sitting with!" I thought to myself when a footman brought in tea and
Dimitri had five times to beg Bezobiedoff to have a cup, for the reason that
the bashful guest thought it incumbent upon him always to refuse it at first
and to say, "No, help yourself." I could see that Dimitri had to =
put
some restraint upon himself as he resumed the conversation. He tried to
inveigle me also into it, but I remained glum and silent.
"I do not me=
an
to let my face give any one the suspicion that I am bored" was my ment=
al
remark to Dimitri as I sat quietly rocking myself to and fro with measured
beat. Yet, as the moments passed, I found myself--not without a certain
satisfaction--growing more and more inwardly hostile to my friend. "Wh=
at a
fool he is!" I reflected. "He might be spending the evening agree=
ably
with his charming family, yet he goes on sitting with this brute!--will go =
on
doing so, too, until it is too late to go down to the drawing-room!" H=
ere
I glanced at him over the back of my chair, and thought the general look of=
his
attitude and appearance so offensive and repellant that at the moment I cou=
ld
gladly have offered him some insult, even a most serious one.
At last Bezobiedo=
ff
rose, but Dimitri could not easily let such a delightful friend depart, and
asked him to stay the night. Fortunately, Bezobiedoff declined the invitati=
on,
and departed. Having seen him off, Dimitri returned, and, smiling a faintly
complacent smile as he did so, and rubbing his hands together (in all
probability partly because he had sustained his character for eccentricity,=
and
partly because he had got rid of a bore), started to pace the room, with an
occasional glance at myself. I felt more offended with him than ever. "=
;How
can he go on walking about the room and grinning like that?" was my in=
ward
reflection.
"What are yo= u so angry about?" he asked me suddenly as he halted in front of my chair.<= o:p>
"I am not in=
the
least angry," I replied (as people always do answer under such
circumstances). "I am merely vexed that you should play-act to me, and=
to
Bezobiedoff, and to yourself."
"What
rubbish!" he retorted. "I never play-act to any one."
"I have in m=
ind
our rule of frankness," I replied, "when I tell you that I am cer=
tain
you cannot bear this Bezobiedoff any more than I can. He is an absolute cad,
yet for some inexplicable reason or another it pleases you to masquerade be=
fore
him."
"Not at all!=
To
begin with, he is a splendid fellow, and--"
"But I tell =
you
it IS so. I also tell you that your friendship for Lubov Sergievna is found=
ed
on the same basis, namely, that she thinks you a god."
"And I tell =
you
once more that it is not so."
"Oh, I know =
it
for myself," I retorted with the heat of suppressed anger, and designi=
ng
to disarm him with my frankness. "I have told you before, and I repeat=
it
now, that you always seem to like people who say pleasant things to you, but
that, as soon as ever I come to examine your friendship, I invariably find =
that
there exists no real attachment between you."
"Oh, but you=
are
wrong," said Dimitri with an angry straightening of the neck in his
collar. "When I like people, neither their praise nor their blame can =
make
any difference to my opinion of them."
"Well, dread=
ful
though it may seem to you, I confess that I myself often used to hate my fa=
ther
when he abused me, and to wish that he was dead. In the same way, you--&quo=
t;
"Speak for
yourself. I am very sorry that you could ever have been so--"
"No, no!&quo=
t; I
cried as I leapt from my chair and faced him with the courage of exasperati=
on.
"It is for YOURSELF that you ought to feel sorry--sorry because you ne=
ver
told me a word about this fellow. You know that was not honourable of you.
Nevertheless, I will tell YOU what I think of you," and, burning to wo=
und
him even more than he had wounded me, I set out to prove to him that he was
incapable of feeling any real affection for anybody, and that I had the bes=
t of
grounds (as in very truth I believed I had) for reproaching him. I took gre=
at
pleasure in telling him all this, but at the same time forgot that the only=
conceivable
purpose of my doing so--to force him to confess to the faults of which I had
accused him--could not possibly be attained at the present moment, when he =
was
in a rage. Had he, on the other hand, been in a condition to argue calmly, I
should probably never have said what I did.
The dispute was
verging upon an open quarrel when Dimitri suddenly became silent, and left =
the
room. I pursued him, and continued what I was saying, but he did not answer=
. I
knew that his failings included a hasty temper, and that he was now fightin=
g it
down; wherefore I cursed his good resolutions the more in my heart.
This, then, was w=
hat
our rule of frankness had brought us to--the rule that we should "tell=
one
another everything in our minds, and never discuss one another with a third
person!" Many a time we had exaggerated frankness to the pitch of maki=
ng
mutual confession of the most shameless thoughts, and of shaming ourselves =
by
voicing to one another proposals or schemes for attaining our desires; yet
those confessions had not only failed to draw closer the tie which united u=
s,
but had dissipated sympathy and thrust us further apart, until now pride wo=
uld
not allow him to expose his feelings even in the smallest detail, and we
employed in our quarrel the very weapons which we had formerly surrendered =
to
one another--the weapons which could strike the shrewdest blows!
Notwithstanding t=
hat
Papa had not meant to return to Moscow before the New Year, he arrived in
October, when there was still good riding to hounds to be had in the countr=
y.
He alleged as his reason for changing his mind that his suit was shortly to
come on before the Senate, but Mimi averred that Avdotia had found herself =
so
ennuyee in the country, and had so often talked about Moscow and pretended =
to
be unwell, that Papa had decided to accede to her wishes. "You see, she
never really loved him--she and her love only kept buzzing about his ears
because she wanted to marry a rich man," added Mimi with a pensive sigh
which said: "To think what a certain other person could have done for =
him
if only he had valued her!"
Yet that
"certain other person" was unjust to Avdotia, seeing that the
latter's affection for Papa--the passionate, devoted love of self-abandonme=
nt--revealed
itself in her every look and word and movement. At the same time, that love=
in
no way hindered her, not only from being averse to parting with her adored
husband, but also from desiring to visit Madame Annette's and order there a
lovely cap, a hat trimmed with a magnificent blue ostrich feather, and a bl=
ue
Venetian velvet bodice which was to expose to the public gaze the snowy, we=
ll shaped
breast and arms which no one had yet gazed upon except her husband and maid=
s.
Of course Katenka sided with her mother and, in general, there became
established between Avdotia and ourselves, from the day of her arrival, the
most extraordinary and burlesque order of relations. As soon as she stepped
from the carriage, Woloda assumed an air of great seriousness and ceremony,
and, advancing towards her with much bowing and scraping, said in the tone =
of
one who is presenting something for acceptance:
"I have the honour to greet the arrival of our dear Mamma, and to kiss her hand."<= o:p>
"Ah, my dear
son!" she replied with her beautiful, unvarying smile.
"And do not
forget the younger son," I said as I also approached her hand, with an
involuntary imitation of Woloda's voice and expression.
Had our stepmother
and ourselves been certain of any mutual affection, that expression might h=
ave
signified contempt for any outward manifestation of our love. Had we been
ill-disposed towards one another, it might have denoted irony, or contempt =
for
pretence, or a desire to conceal from Papa (standing by the while) our real
relations, as well as many other thoughts and sentiments. But, as a matter =
of
fact, that expression (which well consorted with Avdotia's own spirit) simp=
ly signified
nothing at all--simply concealed the absence of any definite relations betw=
een
us. In later life I often had occasion to remark, in the case of other fami=
lies
whose members anticipated among themselves relations not altogether harmoni=
ous,
the sort of provisional, burlesque relations which they formed for daily us=
e;
and it was just such relations as those which now became established between
ourselves and our stepmother. We scarcely ever strayed beyond them, but were
polite to her, conversed with her in French, bowed and scraped before her, =
and called
her "chere Maman"--a term to which she always responded in a tone=
of
similar lightness and with her beautiful, unchanging smile. Only the lachry=
mose
Lubotshka, with her goose feet and artless prattle, really liked our
stepmother, or tried, in her naive and frequently awkward way, to bring her=
and
ourselves together: wherefore the only person in the world for whom, besides
Papa, Avdotia had a spark of affection was Lubotshka. Indeed, Avdotia always
treated her with a kind of grave admiration and timid deference which great=
ly
surprised me.
From the first
Avdotia was very fond of calling herself our stepmother and hinting that, s=
ince
children and servants usually adopt an unjust and hostile attitude towards a
woman thus situated, her own position was likely to prove a difficult one. =
Yet,
though she foresaw all the unpleasantness of her predicament, she did nothi=
ng
to escape from it by (for instance) conciliating this one, giving presents =
to
that other one, and forbearing to grumble--the last a precaution which it w=
ould
have been easy for her to take, seeing that by nature she was in no way exa=
cting,
as well as very good-tempered. Yet, not only did she do none of these thing=
s,
but her expectation of difficulties led her to adopt the defensive before s=
he
had been attacked. That is to say, supposing that the entire household was
designing to show her every kind of insult and annoyance, she would see plo=
ts
where no plots were, and consider that her most dignified course was to suf=
fer
in silence--an attitude of passivity as regards winning AFfection which of
course led to DISaffection. Moreover, she was so totally lacking in that
faculty of "apprehension" to which I have already referred as bei=
ng
highly developed in our household, and all her customs were so utterly oppo=
sed to
those which had long been rooted in our establishment, that those two facts
alone were bound to go against her. From the first, her mode of life in our
tidy, methodical household was that of a person only just arrived there.
Sometimes she went to bed late, sometimes early; sometimes she appeared at
luncheon, sometimes she did not; sometimes she took supper, sometimes she
dispensed with it. When we had no guests with us she more often than not wa=
lked
about the house in a semi-nude condition, and was not ashamed to appear bef=
ore
us--even before the servants--in a white chemise, with only a shawl thrown =
over
her bare shoulders. At first this Bohemianism pleased me, but before very l=
ong it
led to my losing the last shred of respect which I felt for her. What struc=
k me
as even more strange was the fact that, according as we had or had not gues=
ts,
she was two different women. The one (the woman figuring in society) was a
young and healthy, but rather cold, beauty, a person richly dressed, neither
stupid nor clever, and unfailingly cheerful. The other woman (the one in
evidence when no guests were present) was considerably past her first youth=
, languid,
depressed, slovenly, and ennuyee, though affectionate. Frequently, as I loo=
ked
at her when, smiling, rosy with the winter air, and happy in the consciousn=
ess
of her beauty, she came in from a round of calls and, taking off her hat, w=
ent to
look at herself in a mirror; or when, rustling in her rich, decollete ball
dress, and at once shy and proud before the servants, she was passing to her
carriage; or when, at one of our small receptions at home, she was sitting
dressed in a high silken dress finished with some sort of fine lace about h=
er
soft neck, and flashing her unvarying, but lovely, smile around her--as I
looked at her at such times I could not help wondering what would have been
said by persons who had been ravished to behold her thus if they could have
seen her as I often saw her, namely, when, waiting in the lonely midnight h=
ours
for her husband to return from his club, she would walk like a shadow from =
room
to room, with her hair dishevelled and her form clad in a sort of dressing-=
jacket.
Presently, she would sit down to the piano and, her brows all puckered with=
the
effort, play over the only waltz that she knew; after which she would pick =
up a
novel, read a few pages somewhere in the middle of it, and throw it aside.
Next, repairing in person to the dining-room, so as not to disturb the
servants, she would get herself a cucumber and some cold veal, and eat it
standing by the window-sill--then once more resume her weary, aimless, gloo=
my
wandering from room to room. But what, above all other things, caused
estrangement between us was that lack of understanding which expressed itse=
lf
chiefly in the peculiar air of indulgent attention with which she would lis=
ten when
any one was speaking to her concerning matters of which she had no knowledg=
e. It
was not her fault that she acquired the unconscious habit of bending her he=
ad
down and smiling slightly with her lips only when she found it necessary to
converse on topics which did not interest her (which meant any topic except
herself and her husband); yet that smile and that inclination of the head, =
when
incessantly repeated, could become unbearably wearisome. Also, her peculiar
gaiety--which always sounded as though she were laughing at herself, at you,
and at the world in general--was gauche and anything but infectious, while =
her
sympathy was too evidently forced. Lastly, she knew no reticence with regar=
d to
her ceaseless rapturising to all and sundry concerning her love for Papa.
Although she only spoke the truth when she said that her whole life was bou=
nd
up with him, and although she proved it her life long, we considered such
unrestrained, continual insistence upon her affection for him bad form, and
felt more ashamed for her when she was descanting thus before strangers even
than we did when she was perpetrating bad blunders in French. Yet, although=
, as
I have said, she loved her husband more than anything else in the world, an=
d he
too had a great affection for her (or at all events he had at first, and wh=
en
he saw that others besides himself admired her beauty), it seemed almost as
though she purposely did everything most likely to displease him--simply to
prove to him the strength of her love, her readiness to sacrifice herself f=
or
his sake, and the fact that her one aim in life was to win his affection! S=
he
was fond of display, and my father too liked to see her as a beauty who exc=
ited
wonder and admiration; yet she sacrificed her weakness for fine clothes to =
her
love for him, and grew more and more accustomed to remain at home in a plain
grey blouse. Again, Papa considered freedom and equality to be indispensable
conditions of family life, and hoped that his favourite Lubotshka and his
kind-hearted young wife would become sincere friends; yet once again Avdotia
sacrificed herself by considering it incumbent upon her to pay the "re=
al
mistress of the house," as she called Lubotshka, an amount of deference
which only shocked and annoyed my father. Likewise, he played cards a great=
deal
that winter, and lost considerable sums towards the end of it, wherefore,
unwilling, as usual, to let his gambling affairs intrude upon his family li=
fe,
he began to preserve complete secrecy concerning his play; yet Avdotia, tho=
ugh
often ailing, as well as, towards the end of the winter, enceinte, consider=
ed
herself bound always to sit up (in a grey blouse, and with her hair
dishevelled) for my father when, at, say, four or five o'clock in the morni=
ng,
he returned home from the club ashamed, depleted in pocket, and weary. She
would ask him absent-mindedly whether he had been fortunate in play, and li=
sten
with indulgent attention, little nods of her head, and a faint smile upon h=
er face
as he told her of his doings at the club and begged her, for about the
hundredth time, never to sit up for him again. Yet, though Papa's winnings =
or
losings (upon which his substance practically depended) in no way interested
her, she was always the first to meet him when he returned home in the small
hours of the morning. This she was incited to do, not only by the strength =
of
her devotion, but by a certain secret jealousy from which she suffered. No =
one
in the world could persuade her that it was REALLY from his club, and not f=
rom
a mistress's, that Papa came home so late. She would try to read love secre=
ts
in his face, and, discerning none there, would sigh with a sort of enjoymen=
t of
her grief, and give herself up once more to the contemplation of her
unhappiness.
As the result of
these and many other constant sacrifices which occurred in Papa's relations
with his wife during the latter months of that winter (a time when he lost
much, and was therefore out of spirits), there gradually grew up between the
two an intermittent feeling of tacit hostility--of restrained aversion to t=
he
object of devotion of the kind which expresses itself in an unconscious
eagerness to show the object in question every possible species of petty
annoyance.
The winter had pa=
ssed
imperceptibly and the thaw begun when the list of examinations was posted at
the University, and I suddenly remembered that I had to return answers to
questions in eighteen subjects on which I had heard lectures delivered, but
with regard to some of which I had taken no notes and made no preparation
whatever. It seems strange that the question "How am I going to pass?&=
quot;
should never have entered my head, but the truth is that all that winter I =
had
been in such a state of haze through the delights of being both grown-up and
"comme il faut" that, whenever the question of the examinations h=
ad
occurred to me, I had mentally compared myself with my comrades, and though=
t to
myself, "They are certain to pass, and as most of them are not 'comme =
il
faut,' and I am therefore their personal superior, I too am bound to come o=
ut all
right." In fact, the only reason why I attended lectures at all was th=
at I
might become an habitue of the University, and obtain Papa's leave to go in=
and
out of the house. Moreover, I had many acquaintances now, and often enjoyed
myself vastly at the University. I loved the racket, talking, and laughter =
in
the auditorium, the opportunities for sitting on a back bench, and letting =
the
measured voice of the professor lure one into dreams as one contemplated on=
e's
comrades, the occasional runnings across the way for a snack and a glass of
vodka (sweetened by the fearful joy of knowing that one might be hauled bef=
ore
the professor for so doing), the stealthy closing of the door as one return=
ed
to the auditorium, and the participation in "course versus course"
scuffles in the corridors. All this was very enjoyable.
By the time, howe=
ver,
that every one had begun to put in a better attendance at lectures, and the
professor of physics had completed his course and taken his leave of us unt=
il
the examinations came on, and the students were busy collecting their noteb=
ooks
and arranging to do their preparation in parties, it struck me that I also =
had
better prepare for the ordeal. Operoff, with whom I still continued on bowi=
ng,
but otherwise most frigid, terms, suddenly offered not only to lend me his =
notebooks,
but to let me do my preparation with himself and some other students. I tha=
nked
him, and accepted the invitation--hoping by that conferment of honour
completely to dissipate our old misunderstanding; but at the same time I
requested that the gatherings should always be held at my home, since my
quarters were so splendid! To this the students replied that they meant to =
take
turn and turn about--sometimes to meet at one fellow's place, sometimes at
another's, as might be most convenient.
The first of our
reunions was held at Zuchin's, who had a small partition-room in a large
building on the Trubni Boulevard. The opening night I arrived late, and ent=
ered
when the reading aloud had already begun. The little apartment was thick wi=
th
tobacco-smoke, while on the table stood a bottle of vodka, a decanter, some
bread, some salt, and a shin-bone of mutton. Without rising, Zuchin asked m=
e to
have some vodka and to doff my tunic.
"I expect you
are not accustomed to such entertainment," he added.
Every one was wea=
ring
a dirty cotton shirt and a dickey. Endeavouring not to show my contempt for=
the
company, I took off my tunic, and lay down in a sociable manner on the sofa.
Zuchin went on reading aloud and correcting himself with the help of notebo=
oks,
while the others occasionally stopped him to ask a question, which he always
answered with ability, correctness, and precision. I listened for a time wi=
th
the rest, but, not understanding much of it, since I had not been present a=
t what
had been read before, soon interpolated a question.
"Hullo, old
fellow! It will be no good for you to listen if you do not know the
subject," said Zuchin. "I will lend you my notebooks, and then you
can read it up by to-morrow, and I will explain it to you."
I felt rather ash=
amed
of my ignorance. Also, I felt the truth of what he said; so I gave up
listening, and amused myself by observing my new comrades. According to my
classification of humanity, into persons "comme il faut" and pers=
ons
not "comme il faut," they evidently belonged to the latter catego=
ry,
and so aroused in me not only a feeling of contempt, but also a certain
sensation of personal hostility, for the reason that, though not "comm=
e il
faut," they accounted me their equal, and actually patronised me in a =
sort
of good-humoured fashion. What in particular excited in me this feeling was
their feet, their dirty nails and fingers, a particularly long talon on
Operoff's obtrusive little finger, their red shirts, their dickeys, the cha=
ff
which they good-naturedly threw at one another, the dirty room, a habit whi=
ch Zuchin
had of continually snuffling and pressing a finger to his nose, and, above =
all,
their manner of speaking--that is to say, their use and intonation of words.
For instance, they said "flat" for fool, "just the ticket&qu=
ot;
for exactly, "grandly" for splendidly, and so on--all of which se=
emed
to me either bookish or disagreeably vulgar. Still more was my "comme =
il
faut" refinement disturbed by the accents which they put upon certain
Russian--and, still more, upon foreign--words. Thus they said dieYATelnost =
for
DIEyatelnost, NARochno for naROChno, v'KAMinie for v'kaMINie, SHAKespeare f=
or
ShakesPEARe, and so forth.
Yet, for all their
insuperably repellent exterior, I could detect something good in these fell=
ows,
and envied them the cheerful good-fellowship which united them in one.
Consequently, I began to feel attracted towards them, and made up my mind t=
hat,
come what might, I would become of their number. The kind and honourable
Operoff I knew already, and now the brusque, but exceptionally clever, Zuch=
in
(who evidently took the lead in this circle) began to please me greatly. He=
was
a dark, thick-set little fellow, with a perennially glistening, polished fa=
ce,
but one that was extremely lively, intellectual, and independent in its exp=
ression.
That expression it derived from a low, but prominent, forehead, deep black
eyes, short, bristly hair, and a thick, dark beard which looked as though it
stood in constant need of trimming. Although, too, he seemed to think nothi=
ng
of himself (a trail which always pleased me in people), it was clear that he
never let his brain rest. He had one of those expressive faces which, a few
hours after you have seen them for the first time, change suddenly and enti=
rely
to your view. Such a change took place, in my eyes, with regard to Zuchin's
face towards the end of that evening. Suddenly, I seemed to see new wrinkles
appear upon its surface, its eyes grow deeper, its smile become a different
one, and the whole face assume such an altered aspect that I scarcely
recognised it.
When the reading =
was
ended, Zuchin, the other students, and myself manifested our desire to be
"comrades all" by drinking vodka until little remained in the bot=
tle.
Thereupon Zuchin asked if any one had a quarter-rouble to spare, so that he
could send the old woman who looked after him to buy some more; yet, on my
offering to provide the money, he made as though he had not heard me, and
turned to Operoff, who pulled out a purse sewn with bugles, and handed him =
the
sum required.
"And mind you
don't get drunk," added the giver, who himself had not partaken of the
vodka.
"By
heavens!" answered Zuchin as he sucked the marrow out of a mutton bone=
(I
remember thinking that it must be because he ate marrow that he was so clev=
er).
"By heavens!" he went on with a slight smile (and his smile was of
the kind that one involuntarily noticed, and somehow felt grateful for),
"even if I did get drunk, there would be no great harm done. I wonder
which of us two could look after himself the better--you or I? Anyway I am
willing to make the experiment," and he slapped his forehead with mock
boastfulness. "But what a pity it is that Semenoff has disappeared! He=
has
gone and completely hidden himself somewhere."
Sure enough, the
grey-haired Semenoff who had comforted me so much at my first examination by
being worse dressed than myself, and who, after passing the second examinat=
ion,
had attended his lectures regularly during the first month, had disappeared
thereafter from view, and never been seen at the University throughout the
latter part of the course.
"Where is
he?" asked some one.
"I do not
know" replied Zuchin. "He has escaped my eye altogether. Yet what=
fun
I used to have with him! What fire there was in the man! and what an intell=
ect!
I should be indeed sorry if he has come to grief--and come to grief he prob=
ably
has, for he was no mere boy to take his University course in instalments.&q=
uot;
After a little
further conversation, and agreeing to meet again the next night at Zuchin's,
since his abode was the most central point for us all, we began to disperse.
As, one by one, we left the room, my conscience started pricking me because
every one seemed to be going home on foot, whereas I had my drozhki.
Accordingly, with some hesitation I offered Operoff a lift. Zuchin came to =
the
door with us, and, after borrowing a rouble of Operoff, went off to make a
night of it with some friends. As we drove along, Operoff told me a good de=
al
about Zuchin's character and mode of life, and on reaching home it was long
before I could get to sleep for thinking of the new acquaintances I had mad=
e.
For many an hour, as I lay awake, I kept wavering between the respect which=
their
knowledge, simplicity, and sense of honour, as well as the poetry of their
youth and courage, excited in my regard, and the distaste which I felt for
their outward man. In spite of my desire to do so, it was at that time
literally impossible for me to associate with them, since our ideas were too
wholly at variance. For me, life's meaning and charm contained an infinitud=
e of
shades of which they had not an inkling, and vice versa. The greatest obsta=
cles
of all, however, to our better acquaintance I felt to be the twenty roubles'
worth of cloth in my tunic, my drozhki, and my white linen shirt; and they =
appeared
to me most important obstacles, since they made me feel as though I had unw=
ittingly
insulted these comrades by displaying such tokens of my wealth. I felt guil=
ty
in their eyes, and as though, whether I accepted or rejected their acquittal
and took a line of my own, I could never enter into equal and unaffected
relations with them. Yet to such an extent did the stirring poetry of the
courage which I could detect in Zuchin (in particular) overshadow the coars=
e,
vicious side of his nature that the latter made no unpleasant impression up=
on
me.
For a couple of w=
eeks
I visited Zuchin's almost every night for purposes of work. Yet I did very
little there, since, as I have said, I had lost ground at the start, and, n=
ot
having sufficient grit in me to catch up my companions by solitary study, w=
as
forced merely to PRETEND that I was listening to and taking in all they were
reading. I have an idea, too, that they divined my pretence, since I often
noticed that they passed over points which they themselves knew without fir=
st
inquiring of me whether I did the same. Yet, day by day, I was coming to re=
gard
the vulgarity of this circle with more indulgence, to feel increasingly dra=
wn
towards its way of life, and to find in it much that was poetical. Only my =
word
of honour to Dimitri that I would never indulge in dissipation with these n=
ew
comrades kept me from deciding also to share their diversions.
Once, I thought I
would make a display of my knowledge of literature, particularly French
literature, and so led the conversation to that theme. Judge, then, of my
surprise when I discovered that not only had my companions been reading the
foreign passages in Russian, but that they had studied far more foreign wor=
ks
than I had, and knew and could appraise English, and even Spanish, writers =
of
whom I had never so much as heard! Likewise, Pushkin and Zhukovski represen=
ted
to them LITERATURE, and not, as to myself, certain books in yellow covers w=
hich
I had once read and studied when a child. For Dumas and Sue they had an alm=
ost
equal contempt, and, in general, were competent to form much better and cle=
arer
judgments on literary matters than I was, for all that I refused to recogni=
se
the fact. In knowledge of music, too, I could not beat them, and was astoni=
shed
to find that Operoff played the violin, and another student the cello and
piano, while both of them were members of the University orchestra, and
possessed a wide knowledge of and appreciation of good music. In short, with
the exception of the French and German languages, my companions were better
posted at every point than I was, yet not the least proud of the fact. True=
, I
might have plumed myself on my position as a man of the world, but Woloda e=
xcelled
me even in that. Wherein, then, lay the height from which I presumed to look
down upon these comrades? In my acquaintanceship with Prince Ivan Ivanovitc=
h?
In my ability to speak French? In my drozhki? In my linen shirt? In my
finger-nails? "Surely these things are all rubbish," was the thou=
ght
which would come flitting through my head under the influence of the envy w=
hich
the good-fellowship and kindly, youthful gaiety displayed around me excited=
in
my breast. Every one addressed his interlocutor in the second person singul=
ar.
True, the familiarity of this address almost approximated to rudeness, yet =
even
the boorish exterior of the speaker could not conceal a constant endeavour
never to hurt another one's feelings. The terms "brute" or "=
swine,"
when used in this good-natured fashion, only convulsed me, and gave me caus=
e for
inward merriment. In no way did they offend the person addressed, or prevent
the company at large from remaining on the most sincere and friendly footin=
g.
In all their intercourse these youths were delicate and forbearing in a way
that only very poor and very young men can be. However much I might detect =
in
Zuchin's character and amusements an element of coarseness and profligacy, I
could also detect the fact that his drinking-bouts were of a very different
order to the puerility with burnt rum and champagne in which I had particip=
ated
at Baron Z.'s.
Although I do not
know what class of society Zuchin belonged to, I know that, without the help
either of means or social position, he had matriculated from the Seventh
Gymnasium. At that time he was eighteen--though he looked much older--and v=
ery
clever, especially in his powers of assimilation. To him it was easier to
survey the whole of some complicated subject, to foresee its various parts =
and
deductions, than to use that knowledge, when gained, for reasoning out the
exact laws to which those deductions were due. He knew that he was clever, =
and
of the fact he was proud; yet from that very pride arose the circumstance t=
hat
he treated every one with unvarying simplicity and good-nature. Moreover, h=
is
experience of life must have been considerable, for already he had squander=
ed
much love, friendship, activity, and money. Though poor and moving only in =
the
lower ranks of society, there was nothing which he had ever attempted for w=
hich
he did not thenceforth feel the contempt, the indifference, or the utter di=
sregard
which were bound to result from his attaining his goal too easily. In fact,=
the
very ardour with which he applied himself to a new pursuit seemed to be due=
to
his contempt for what he had already attained, since his abilities always l=
ed
him to success, and therefore to a certain right to despise it. With the
sciences it was the same. Though little interested in them, and taking no
notes, he knew mathematics thoroughly, and was uttering no vain boast when =
he
said that he could beat the professor himself. Much of what he heard said in
lectures he thought rubbish, yet with his peculiar habit of unconsciously
practical roguishness he feigned to subscribe to all that the professors
thought important, and every professor adored him. True, he was outspoken to
the authorities, but they none the less respected him. Besides disliking and
despising the sciences, he despised all who laboured to attain what he hims=
elf
had mastered so easily, since the sciences, as he understood them, did not
occupy one-tenth part of his powers. In fact, life, as he saw it from the
student's standpoint, contained nothing to which he could devote himself
wholly, and his impetuous, active nature (as he himself often said) demanded
life complete: wherefore he frequented the drinking-bout in so far as he co=
uld
afford it, and surrendered himself to dissipation chiefly out of a desire to
get as far away from himself as possible. Consequently, just as the examina=
tions
were approaching, Operoff's prophecy to me came true, for Zuchin wasted two
whole weeks in this fashion, and we had to do the latter part of our
preparation at another student's. Yet at the first examination he reappeared
with pale, haggard face and tremulous hands, and passed brilliantly into the
second course!
The company of
roisterers of which Zuchin had been the leader since its formation at the
beginning of the term consisted of eight students, among whom, at first, had
been numbered Ikonin and Semenoff; but the former had left under the strain=
of
the continuous revelry in which the band had indulged in the early part of =
the
term, and the latter seceded later for reasons which were never wholly
explained. In its early days this band had been looked upon with awe by all=
the
fellows of our course, and had had its exploits much discussed. Of these
exploits the leading heroes had been Zuchin and, towards the end of the ter=
m, Semenoff,
but the latter had come to be generally shunned, and to cause disturbances =
on
the rare occasions when he attended a lecture. Just before the examinations
began, he rounded off his drinking exploits in a most energetic and original
fashion, as I myself had occasion to witness (through my acquaintanceship w=
ith
Zuchin). This is how it was. One evening we had just assembled at Zuchin's,=
and
Operoff, reinforcing a candlestick with a candle stuck in a bottle, had just
plunged his nose into his notebooks and begun to read aloud in his thin voi=
ce
from his neatly-written notes on physics, when the landlady entered the roo=
m, and
informed Zuchin that some one had brought a note for him... [The remainder =
of
this chapter is omitted in the original.]
At length the fir=
st
examination--on differentials and integrals--drew near, but I continued in a
vague state which precluded me from forming any clear idea of what was awai=
ting
me. Every evening, after consorting with Zuchin and the rest, the thought w=
ould
occur to me that there was something in my convictions which I must
change--something wrong and mistaken; yet every morning the daylight would =
find
me again satisfied to be "comme il faut," and desirous of no chan=
ge
whatsoever.
Such was the fram=
e of
mind in which I attended for the first examination. I seated myself on the
bench where the princes, counts, and barons always sat, and began talking to
them in French, with the not unnatural result that I never gave another tho=
ught
to the answers which I was shortly to return to questions in a subject of w=
hich
I knew nothing. I gazed supinely at other students as they went up to be ex=
amined,
and even allowed myself to chaff some of them.
"Well,
Grap," I said to Ilinka (who, from our first entry into the University,
had shaken off my influence, had ceased to smile when I spoke to him, and
always remained ill-disposed towards me), "have you survived the
ordeal?"
"Yes,"
retorted Ilinka. "Let us see if YOU can do so."
I smiled
contemptuously at the answer, notwithstanding that the doubt which he had
expressed had given me a momentary shock. Once again, however, indifference
overlaid that feeling, and I remained so entirely absent-minded and supine
that, the very moment after I had been examined (a mere formality for me, a=
s it
turned out) I was making a dinner appointment with Baron Z. When called out
with Ikonin, I smoothed the creases in my uniform, and walked up to the
examiner's table with perfect sang froid.
True, a slight sh=
iver
of apprehension ran down my back when the young professor--the same one as =
had
examined me for my matriculation--looked me straight in the face as I reach=
ed
across to the envelope containing the tickets. Ikonin, though taking a tick=
et
with the same plunge of his whole body as he had done at the previous
examinations, did at least return some sort of an answer this time, though a
poor one. I, on the contrary, did just as he had done on the two previous
occasions, or even worse, since I took a second ticket, yet for a second ti=
me
returned no answer. The professor looked me compassionately in the face, and
said in a quiet, but determined, voice:
"You will not
pass into the second course, Monsieur Irtenieff. You had better not complete
the examinations. The faculty must be weeded out. The same with you, Monsie=
ur
Ikonin."
Ikonin implored l=
eave
to finish the examinations, as a great favour, but the professor replied th=
at
he (Ikonin) was not likely to do in two days what he had not succeeded in d=
oing
in a year, and that he had not the smallest chance of passing. Ikonin renew=
ed
his humble, piteous appeals, but the professor was inexorable.
"You can go,
gentlemen," he remarked in the same quiet, resolute voice.
I was only too gl=
ad
to do so, for I felt ashamed of seeming, by my silent presence, to be joini=
ng
in Ikonin's humiliating prayers for grace. I have no recollection of how I
threaded my way through the students in the hall, nor of what I replied to
their questions, nor of how I passed into the vestibule and departed home. I
was offended, humiliated, and genuinely unhappy.
For three days I
never left my room, and saw no one, but found relief in copious tears. I sh=
ould
have sought a pistol to shoot myself if I had had the necessary determinati=
on
for the deed. I thought that Ilinka Grap would spit in my face when he next=
met
me, and that he would have the right to do so; that Operoff would rejoice a=
t my
misfortune, and tell every one of it; that Kolpikoff had justly shamed me t=
hat
night at the restaurant; that my stupid speeches to Princess Kornikoff had =
had
their fitting result; and so on, and so on. All the moments in my life whic=
h had
been for me most difficult and painful recurred to my mind. I tried to blame
some one for my calamity, and thought that some one must have done it on
purpose--must have conspired a whole intrigue against me. Next, I murmured =
against
the professors, against my comrades, Woloda, Dimitri, and Papa (the last for
having sent me to the University at all). Finally, I railed at Providence f=
or
ever having let me see such ignominy. Believing myself ruined for ever in t=
he
eyes of all who knew me, I besought Papa to let me go into the hussars or to
the Caucasus. Naturally, Papa was anything but pleased at what had happened;
yet, on seeing my passionate grief, he comforted me by saying that, though =
it was
a bad business, it might yet be mended by my transferring to another facult=
y.
Woloda, who also saw nothing very terrible in my misfortune, added that at
least I should not be put out of countenance in a new faculty, since I shou=
ld
have new comrades there. As for the ladies of the household, they neither k=
new
nor cared what either an examination or a plucking meant, and condoled with=
me
only because they saw me in such distress. Dimitri came to see me every day,
and was very kind and consolatory throughout; but for that very reason he
seemed to me to have grown colder than before. It always hurt me and made me
feel uncomfortable when he came up to my room and seated himself in silence=
beside
me, much as a doctor might scat himself by the bedside of an awkward patien=
t.
Sophia Ivanovna and Varenika sent me books for which I had expressed a wish=
, as
also an invitation to go and see them, but in that very thoughtfulness of
theirs I saw only proud, humiliating condescension to one who had fallen be=
yond
forgiveness. Although, in three days' time, I grew calmer, it was not until=
we
departed for the country that I left the house, but spent the time in nursi=
ng
my grief and wandering, fearful of all the household, through the various
rooms.
One evening, as I=
was
sitting deep in thought and listening to Avdotia playing her waltz, I sudde=
nly
leapt to my feet, ran upstairs, got out the copy-book whereon I had once
inscribed "Rules of My Life," opened it, and experienced my first
moment of repentance and moral resolution. True, I burst into tears once mo=
re,
but they were no longer tears of despair. Pulling myself together, I set ab=
out
writing out a fresh set of rules, in the assured conviction that never again
would I do a wrong action, waste a single moment on frivolity, or alter the
rules which I now decided to frame.
How long that mor=
al
impulse lasted, what it consisted of, and what new principles I devised for=
my
moral growth I will relate when speaking of the ensuing and happier portion=
of
my early manhood.