Rudin: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

IT was a quiet summer morning. The sun stood already pretty high in
the clear sky but the fields were still sparkling with dew; a fresh
breeze blew fragrantly from the scarce awakened valleys and in the
forest, still damp and hushed, the birds were merrily carolling their
morning song. On the ridge of a swelling upland, which was covered
from base to summit with blossoming rye, a little village was to be
seen. Along a narrow by-road to this little village a young woman was
walking in a white muslin gown, and a round straw hat, with a parasol
in her hand. A page boy followed her some distance behind.

She moved without haste and as though she were enjoying the walk. The
high nodding rye all round her moved in long softly rustling waves,
taking here a shade of silvery green and there a ripple of red; the
larks were trilling overhead. The young woman had come from her own
estate, which was not more than a mile from the village to which she
was turning her steps. Her name was Alexandra Pavlovna Lipin. She was
a widow, childless, and fairly well off, and lived with her brother, a
retired cavalry officer, Sergei Pavlitch Volintsev. He was unmarried
and looked after her property.

Alexandra Pavlovna reached the village and, stopping at the last hut,
a very old and low one, she called up the boy and told him to go in
and ask after the health of its mistress. He quickly came back
accompanied by a decrepit old peasant with a white beard.

'Well, how is she?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Well, she is still alive,' began the old man.

'Can I go in?'

'Of course; yes.'

Alexandra Pavlovna went into the hut. It was narrow, stifling, and
smoky inside. Some one stirred and began to moan on the stove which
formed the bed. Alexandra Pavlovna looked round and discerned in the
half darkness the yellow wrinkled face of the old woman tied up in a
checked handkerchief. Covered to the very throat with a heavy overcoat
she was breathing with difficulty, and her wasted hands were
twitching.

Alexandra Pavlovna went close up to the old woman and laid her fingers
on her forehead; it was burning hot.

'How do you feel, Matrona?' she inquired, bending over the bed.

'Oh, oh!' groaned the old woman, trying to make her out, 'bad, very
bad, my dear! My last hour has come, my darling!'

'God is merciful, Matrona; perhaps you will be better soon. Did you
take the medicine I sent you?'

The old woman groaned painfully, and did not answer. She had hardly
heard the question.

'She has taken it,' said the old man who was standing at the door.

Alexandra Pavlovna turned to him.

'Is there no one with her but you?' she inquired.

'There is the girl--her granddaughter, but she always keeps away. She
won't sit with her; she's such a gad-about. To give the old woman a
drink of water is too much trouble for her. And I am old; what use can
I be?'

'Shouldn't she be taken to me--to the hospital?'

'No. Why take her to the hospital? She would die just the same. She
has lived her life; it's God's will now seemingly. She will never get
up again. How could she go to the hospital? If they tried to lift her
up, she would die.'

'Oh!' moaned the sick woman, 'my pretty lady, don't abandon my
little orphan; our master is far away, but you----'

She could not go on, she had spent all her strength in saying so much.

'Do not worry yourself,' replied Alexandra Pavlovna, 'everything shall
be done. Here is some tea and sugar I have brought you. If you can
fancy it you must drink some. Have you a samovar, I wonder?' she
added, looking at the old man.

'A samovar? We haven't a samovar, but we could get one.'

'Then get one, or I will send you one. And tell your granddaughter not
to leave her like this. Tell her it's shameful.'

The old man made no answer but took the parcel of tea and sugar with
both hands.

'Well, good-bye, Matrona!' said Alexandra Pavlovna, 'I will come and
see you again; and you must not lose heart but take your medicine
regularly.'

The old woman raised her head and drew herself a little towards
Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Give me your little hand, dear lady,' she muttered.

Alexandra Pavlovna did not give her hand; she bent over her and kissed
her on the forehead.

'Take care, now,' she said to the old man as she went out, 'and give
her the medicine without fail, as it is written down, and give her
some tea to drink.'

Again the old man made no reply, but only bowed.

Alexandra Pavlovna breathed more freely when she came out into the
fresh air. She put up her parasol and was about to start homewards,
when suddenly there appeared round the corner of a little hut a man
about thirty, driving a low racing droshky and wearing an old overcoat
of grey linen, and a foraging cap of the same. Catching sight of
Alexandra Pavlovna he at once stopped his horse and turned round
towards her. His broad and colourless face with its small light grey
eyes and almost white moustache seemed all in the same tone of colour
as his clothes.

'Good-morning!' he began, with a lazy smile; 'what are you doing
here, if I may ask?'

'I have been visiting a sick woman . . . And where have you come from,
Mihailo Mihailitch?'

The man addressed as Mihailo Mihailitch looked into her eyes and
smiled again.

'You do well,' he said, 'to visit the sick, but wouldn't it be better
for you to take her into the hospital?'

'She is too weak; impossible to move her.'

'But don't you intend to give up your hospital?'

'Give it up? Why?'

'Oh, I thought so.'

'What a strange notion! What put such an idea into your head?'

'Oh, you are always with Madame Lasunsky now, you know, and seem to be
under her influence. And in her words--hospitals, schools, and all
that sort of things, are mere waste of time--useless fads.
Philanthropy ought to be entirely personal, and education too, all
that is the soul's work . . . that's how she expresses herself, I
believe. From whom did she pick up that opinion I should like to
know?'

Alexandra Pavlovna laughed.

'Darya Mihailovna is a clever woman, I like and esteem her very much;
but she may make mistakes, and I don't put faith in everything she
says.'

'And it's a very good thing you don't,' rejoined Mihailo Mihailitch,
who all the while remained sitting in his droshky, 'for she doesn't
put much faith in what she says herself. I'm very glad I met you.'

'Why?'

'That's a nice question! As though it wasn't always delightful to meet
you? To-day you look as bright and fresh as this morning.'

Alexandra Pavlovna laughed again.

'What are you laughing at?'

'What, indeed! If you could see with what a cold and indifferent face
you brought out your compliment! I wonder you didn't yawn over the
last word!'

'A cold face. . . . You always want fire; but fire is of no use at
all. It flares and smokes and goes out.'

'And warms,' . . . put in Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Yes . . . and burns.'

'Well, what if it does burn! That's no great harm either! It's
better anyway than----'

'Well, we shall see what you will say when you do get nicely burnt one
day,' Mihailo Mihailitch interrupted her in a tone of vexation and
made a cut at the horse with the reins, 'Good-bye.'

'Mihailo Mihailitch, stop a minute!' cried Alexandra Pavlovna, 'when
are you coming to see us?'

'To-morrow; my greetings to your brother.'

And the droshky rolled away.

Alexandra Pavlovna looked after Mihailo Mihailitch.

'What a sack!' she thought. Sitting huddled up and covered with dust,
his cap on the back of his head and tufts of flaxen hair straggling
from beneath it, he looked strikingly like a huge sack of flour.

Alexandra Pavlovna turned tranquilly back along the path homewards.
She was walking with downcast eyes. The tramp of a horse near made her
stop and raise her head. . . . Her brother had come on horseback to
meet her; beside him was walking a young man of medium height, wearing
a light open coat, a light tie, and a light grey hat, and carrying a
cane in his hand. He had been smiling for a long time at Alexandra
Pavlovna, even though he saw that she was absorbed in thought and
noticing nothing, and when she stopped he went up to her and in a tone
of delight, almost of emotion, cried:

'Good-morning, Alexandra Pavlovna, good-morning!'

'Ah! Konstantin Diomiditch! good-morning!' she replied. 'You have
come from Darya Mihailovna?'

'Precisely so, precisely so,' rejoined the young man with a radiant
face, 'from Darya Mihailovna. Darya Mihailovna sent me to you; I
preferred to walk. . . . It's such a glorious morning, and the distance
is only three miles. When I arrived, you were not at home. Your
brother told me you had gone to Semenovka; and he was just going out
to the fields; so you see I walked with him to meet you. Yes, yes.
How very delightful!'

The young man spoke Russian accurately and grammatically but with a
foreign accent, though it was difficult to determine exactly what
accent it was. In his features there was something Asiatic. His long
hook nose, his large expressionless prominent eyes, his thick red
lips, and retreating forehead, and his jet black hair,--everything
about him suggested an Oriental extraction; but the young man gave his
surname as Pandalevsky and spoke of Odessa as his birthplace, though
he was brought up somewhere in White Russia at the expense of a rich
and benevolent widow.

Another widow had obtained a government post for him. Middle-aged
ladies were generally ready to befriend Konstantin Diomiditch; he knew
well how to court them and was successful in coming across them. He
was at this very time living with a rich lady, a landowner, Darya
Mihailovna Lasunsky, in a position between that of a guest and of a
dependant. He was very polite and obliging, full of sensibility and
secretly given to sensuality, he had a pleasant voice, played well on
the piano, and had the habit of gazing intently into the eyes of any
one he was speaking to. He dressed very neatly, and wore his clothes a
very long time, shaved his broad chin carefully, and arranged his hair
curl by curl.

Alexandra Pavlovna heard his speech to the end and turned to her
brother.

'I keep meeting people to-day; I have just been talking to Lezhnyov.'

'Oh, Lezhnyov! was he driving somewhere?'

'Yes, and fancy; he was in a racing droshky, and dressed in a kind of
linen sack, all covered with dust. . . . What a queer creature he is!'

'Perhaps so; but he's a capital fellow.'

'Who? Mr. Lezhnyov?' inquired Pandalevsky, as though he were surprised.

'Yes, Mihailo Mihailitch Lezhnyov,' replied Volintsev. 'Well,
good-bye; it's time I was off to the field; they are sowing your
buckwheat. Mr. Pandalevsky will escort you home.' And Volintsev rode
off at a trot.

'With the greatest of pleasure!' cried Konstantin Diomiditch,
offering Alexandra Pavlovna his arm.

She took it and they both turned along the path to her house.

Walking with Alexandra Pavlovna on his arm seemed to afford Konstantin
Diomiditch great delight; he moved with little steps, smiling, and his
Oriental eyes were even be-dimmed by a slight moisture, though this
indeed was no rare occurrence with them; it did not mean much for
Konstantin Diomiditch to be moved and dissolve into tears. And who
would not have been pleased to have on his arm a pretty, young and
graceful woman? Of Alexandra Pavlovna the whole of her district was
unanimous in declaring that she was charming, and the district was not
wrong. Her straight, ever so slightly tilted nose would have been
enough alone to drive any man out of his senses, to say nothing of her
velvety dark eyes, her golden brown hair, the dimples in her smoothly
curved cheeks, and her other beauties. But best of all was the sweet
expression of her face; confiding, good and gentle, it touched and
attracted at the same time. Alexandra Pavlovna had the glance and the
smile of a child; other ladies found her a little simple. . . . Could
one wish for anything more?

'Darya Mihailovna sent you to me, did you say?' she asked Pandalevsky.

'Yes; she sent me,' he answered, pronouncing the letter _s_ like the
English _th_. 'She particularly wishes and told me to beg you very
urgently to be so good as to dine with her to-day. She is expecting a
new guest whom she particularly wishes you to meet'

'Who is it?'

'A certain Muffel, a baron, a gentleman of the bed-chamber from
Petersburg. Darya Mihailovna made his acquaintance lately at the
Prince Garin's, and speaks of him in high terms as an agreeable and
cultivated young man. His Excellency the baron is interested, too, in
literature, or more strictly speaking----ah! what an exquisite
butterfly! pray look at it!----more strictly speaking, in political
economy. He has written an essay on some very interesting question,
and wants to submit it to Darya Mihailovna's criticism.'

'An article on political economy?'

'From the literary point of view, Alexandra Pavlovna, from the
literary point of view. You are well aware, I suppose, that in that
line Darya Mihailovna is an authority. Zhukovsky used to ask her
advice, and my benefactor, who lives at Odessa, that benevolent old
man, Roxolan Mediarovitch Ksandrika----No doubt you know the name of
that eminent man?'

'No; I have never heard of him.'

'You never heard of such a man? surprising! I was going to say that
Roxolan Mediarovitch always had the very highest opinion of Darya
Mihailovna's knowledge of Russian!

'Is this baron a pedant then?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Not in the very least. Darya Mihailovna says, on the contrary, that
you see that he belongs to the best society at once. He spoke of
Beethoven with such eloquence that even the old prince was quite
delighted by it. That, I own, I should like to have heard; you know
that is in my line. Allow me to offer you this lovely wild-flower.'

Alexandra Pavlovna took the flower, and when she had walked a few
steps farther, let it drop on the path. They were not more than two
hundred paces from her house. It had been recently built and
whitewashed, and looked out hospitably with its wide light windows
from the thick foliage of the old limes and maples.

'So what message do you give me for Darya Mihailovna?' began
Pandalevsky, slightly hurt at the fate of the flower he had given her.
'Will you come to dinner? She invites your brother too.'

'Yes; we will come, most certainly. And how is Natasha?'

'Natalya Alexyevna is well, I am glad to say. But we have already
passed the road that turns off to Darya Mihailovna's. Allow me to bid
you good-bye.'

Alexandra Pavlovna stopped. 'But won't you come in?' she said in a
hesitating voice.

'I should like to, indeed, but I am afraid it is late. Darya
Mihailovna wishes to hear a new etude of Thalberg's, so I must
practise and have it ready. Besides, I am doubtful, I must confess,
whether my visit could afford you any pleasure.'

'Oh, no! why?'

Pandalevsky sighed and dropped his eyes expressively.

'Good-bye, Alexandra Pavlovna!' he said after a slight pause; then he
bowed and turned back.

Alexandra Pavlovna turned round and went home.

Konstantin Diomiditch, too, walked homewards. All softness had
vanished at once from his face; a self-confident, almost hard
expression came into it. Even his walk was changed; his steps were
longer and he trod more heavily. He had walked about two miles,
carelessly swinging his cane, when all at once he began to smile
again: he saw by the roadside a young, rather pretty peasant girl, who
was driving some calves out of an oat-field. Konstantin Diomiditch
approached the girl as warily as a cat, and began to speak to her. She
said nothing at first, only blushed and laughed, but at last she hid
her face in her sleeve, turned away, and muttered:

'Go away, sir; upon my word . . .'

Konstantin Diomiditch shook his finger at her and told her to bring
him some cornflowers.

'What do you want with cornflowers?--to make a wreath?' replied the
girl; 'come now, go along then.'

'Stop a minute, my pretty little dear,' Konstantin Diomiditch was
beginning.

'There now, go along,' the girl interrupted him, 'there are the young
gentlemen coming.'

Konstantin Diomiditch looked round. There really were Vanya and Petya,
Darya Mihailovna's sons, running along the road; after them walked
their tutor, Bassistoff, a young man of two-and-twenty, who had only
just left college. Bassistoff was a well-grown youth, with a simple
face, a large nose, thick lips, and small pig's eyes, plain and
awkward, but kind, good, and upright. He dressed untidily and wore his
hair long--not from affectation, but from laziness; he liked eating
and he liked sleeping, but he also liked a good book, and an earnest
conversation, and he hated Pandalevsky from the depths of his soul.

Darya Mihailovna's children worshipped Bassistoff, and yet were not in
the least afraid of him; he was on a friendly footing with all the
rest of the household, a fact which was not altogether pleasing to its
mistress, though she was fond of declaring that for her social
prejudices did not exist.

'Good-morning, my dears,' began Konstantin Diomiditch, 'how early you
have come for your walk to-day! But I,' he added, turning to
Bassistoff, 'have been out a long while already; it's my passion--to
enjoy nature.'

'We saw how you were enjoying nature,' muttered Bassistoff.

'You are a materialist, God knows what you are imagining! I know you.'
When Pandalevsky spoke to Bassistoff or people like him, he grew
slightly irritated, and pronounced the letter _s_ quite clearly, even
with a slight hiss.

'Why, were you asking your way of that girl, am I to suppose?' said
Bassistoff, shifting his eyes to right and to left.

He felt that Pandalevsky was looking him straight in the face, and
this fact was exceedingly unpleasant to him. 'I repeat, a materialist
and nothing more.'

'You certainly prefer to see only the prosaic side in everything.'

'Boys!' cried Bassistoff suddenly, 'do you see that willow at the
corner? let's see who can get to it first. One! two! three! and away!'

The boys set off at full speed to the willow. Bassistoff rushed after
them.

'What a lout!' thought Pandalevsky, 'he is spoiling those boys. A
perfect peasant!'

And looking with satisfaction at his own neat and elegant figure,
Konstantin Diomiditch struck his coat-sleeve twice with his open hand,
pulled up his collar, and went on his way. When he had reached his own
room, he put on an old dressing-gown and sat down with an anxious face
to the piano.

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