Rudin: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

About two years had passed. The first days of May had come. Alexandra
Pavlovna, no longer Lipin but Lezhnyov, was sitting on the balcony of
her house; she had been married to Mihailo Mihailitch for more than a
year. She was as charming as ever, and had only grown a little stouter
of late. In front of the balcony, from which there were steps leading
into the garden, a nurse was walking about carrying a rosy-cheeked
baby in her arms, in a white cloak, with a white cap on his head.
Alexandra Pavlovna kept her eyes constantly on him. The baby did not
cry, but sucked his thumb gravely and looked about him. He was already
showing himself a worthy son of Mihailo Mihailitch.

On the balcony, near Alexandra Pavlovna, was sitting our old friend,
Pigasov. He had grown noticeably greyer since we parted from him, and
was bent and thin, and he lisped when he spoke; one of his front teeth
had gone; and this lisp gave still greater asperity to his words. . . .
His spitefulness had not decreased with years, but his sallies were
less lively, and he more frequently repeated himself. Mihailo
Mihailitch was not at home; they were expecting him in to tea. The sun
had already set. Where it had gone down, a streak of pale gold and of
lemon colour stretched across the distant horizon; on the opposite
quarter of the sky was a stretch of dove-colour below and crimson
lilac above. Light clouds seemed melting away overhead. There was
every promise of prolonged fine weather.

Suddenly Pigasov burst out laughing.

'What is it, African Semenitch?' inquired Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Oh, yesterday I heard a peasant say to his wife--she had been
chattering away--"don't squeak!" I liked that immensely. And after
all, what can a woman talk about? I never, you know, speak of present
company. Our ancestors were wiser than we. The beauty in their
stories always sits at the window with a star on her brow and never
utters a syllable. That's how it ought to be. Think of it! the day
before yesterday, our marshal's wife--she might have sent a
pistol-shot into my head!--says to me she doesn't like my tendencies!
Tendencies! Come, wouldn't it be better for her and for every one if
by some beneficent ordinance of nature she were suddenly deprived of
the use of her tongue?'

'Oh, you are always like that, African Semenitch; you are always
attacking us poor . . . Do you know it's a misfortune of a sort,
really? I am sorry for you.'

'A misfortune! Why do you say that? To begin with, in my opinion,
there are only three misfortunes: to live in winter in cold lodgings,
in summer to wear tight shoes, and to spend the night in a room where
a baby cries whom you can't get rid of with Persian powder; and
secondly, I am now the most peaceable of men. Why, I'm a model! You
know how properly I behave!'

'Fine behaviour, indeed! Only yesterday Elena Antonovna complained to
me of you,'

'Well! And what did she tell you, if I may know?'

'She told me that far one whole morning you would make no reply to all
her questions but "what? what?" and always in the same squeaking
voice.'

Pigasov laughed.

'But that was a happy idea, you'll allow, Alexandra Pavlovna, eh?'

'Admirable, indeed! Can you really have behaved so rudely to a lady,
African Semenitch?'

'What! Do you regard Elena Antonovna as a lady?'

'What do you regard her as?'

'A drum, upon my word, an ordinary drum such as they beat with
sticks.'

'Oh,' interrupted Alexandra Pavlovna, anxious to change the
conversation, 'they tell me one may congratulate you.'

'Upon what?'

'The end of your lawsuit. The Glinovsky meadows are yours.'

'Yes, they are mine,' replied Pigasov gloomily.

'You have been trying to gain this so many years, and now you seem
discontented.'

'I assure you, Alexandra Pavlovna,' said Pigasov slowly, 'nothing can
be worse and more injurious than good-fortune that comes too late. It
cannot give you pleasure in any way, and it deprives you of the
right--the precious right--of complaining and cursing Providence. Yes,
madam, it's a cruel and insulting trick--belated fortune.'

Alexandra Pavlovna only shrugged her shoulders.

'Nurse,' she began, 'I think it's time to put Misha to bed. Give him
to me.'

While Alexandra Pavlovna busied herself with her son, Pigasov walked
off muttering to the other corner of the balcony.

Suddenly, not far off on the road that ran the length of the garden,
Mihailo Mihailitch made his appearance driving his racing droshky. Two
huge house-dogs ran before the horse, one yellow, the other grey, both
only lately obtained. They incessantly quarrelled, and were
inseparable companions. An old pug-dog came out of the gate to meet
them. He opened his mouth as if he were going to bark, bat ended by
yawning and turning back again with a friendly wag of the tail.

'Look here, Sasha,' cried Lezhnyov, from the distance, to his wife,
'whom I am bringing you.'

Alexandra Pavlovna did not at once recognise the man who was sitting
behind her husband's back.

'Ah! Mr. Bassistoff!' she cried at last

'It's he,' answered Lezhnyov; 'and he has brought such glorious news.
Wait a minute, you shall know directly.'

And he drove into the courtyard.

Some minutes later he came with Bassistoff into the balcony.

'Hurrah!' he cried, embracing his wife, 'Serezha is going to be
married.'

'To whom?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna, much agitated.

'To Natalya, of course. Our friend has brought the news from Moscow,
and there is a letter for you.'

'Do you hear, Misha,' he went on, snatching his son into his arms,
'your uncle's going to be married? What criminal indifference! he only
blinks his eyes!'

'He is sleepy,' remarked the nurse.

'Yes,' said Bassistoff, going up to Alexandra Pavlovna, 'I have come
to-day from Moscow on business for Darya Mihailovna--to go over the
accounts on the estate. And here is the letter.'

Alexandra Pavlovna opened her brother's letter in haste. It consisted
of a few lines only. In the first transport of joy he informed his
sister that he had made Natalya an offer, and received her consent and
Darya Mihailovna's; and he promised to write more by the next post,
and sent embraces and kisses to all. It was clear he was writing in a
state of delirium.

Tea was served, Bassistoff sat down. Questions were showered upon him.
Every one, even Pigasov, was delighted at the news he had brought.

'Tell me, please,' said Lezhnyov among the rest, 'rumours reached us
of a certain Mr. Kortchagin. That was all nonsense, I suppose?'

Kortchagin was a handsome young man, a society lion, excessively
conceited and important; he behaved with extraordinary dignity, just
as if he had not been a living man, but his own statue set up by
public subscription.

'Well, no, not altogether nonsense,' replied Bassistoff with a smile;
'Darya Mihailovna was very favourable to him; but Natalya Alexyevna
would not even hear of him.'

'I know him,' put in Pigasov, 'he's a double dummy, a noisy dummy, if
you like! If all people were like that, it would need a large sum of
money to induce one to consent to live--upon my word!'

'Very likely,' answered Bassistoff; 'but he plays a leading part in
society.'

'Well, never mind him!' cried Alexandra Pavlovna. 'Peace be with him!
Ah! how glad I am for my brother I And Natalya, is she bright and
happy?'

'Yes. She is quiet, as she always is. You know her--but she seems
contented.'

The evening was spent in friendly and lively talk. They sat down to
supper.

'Oh, by the way,' inquired Lezhnyov of Bassistoff, as he poured him
out some Lafitte, 'do you know where Rudin is?'

'I don't know for certain now. He came last winter to Moscow for a
short time, and then went with a family to Simbirsk. I corresponded
with him for some time; in his last letter he informed me he was
leaving Simbirsk--he did not say where he was going--and since then I
have heard nothing of him.'

'He is all right!' put in Pigasov. 'He is staying somewhere
sermonising. That gentleman will always find two or three adherents
everywhere, to listen to him open-mouthed and lend him money. You will
see he will end by dying in some out-of-the-way corner in the arms of
an old maid in a wig, who will believe he is the greatest genius in
the world.'

'You speak very harshly of him,' remarked Bassistoff, in a displeased
undertone.

'Not a bit harshly,' replied Pigasov; 'but perfectly fairly. In my
opinion, he is simply nothing else than a sponge. I forgot to tell
you,' he continued, turning to Lezhnyov, 'that I have made the
acquaintance of that Terlahov, with whom Rudin travelled abroad. Yes!
Yes! What he told me of him, you cannot imagine--it's simply
screaming! It's a remarkable fact that all Rudin's friends and
admirers become in time his enemies.'

'I beg you to except me from the number of such friends!' interposed
Bassistoff warmly.

'Oh, you--that's a different thing! I was not speaking of you.'

'But what did Terlahov tell you?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Oh, he told me a great deal; there's no remembering it all. But the
best of all was an anecdote of what happened to Rudin. As he was
incessantly developing (these gentlemen always are developing; other
people simply sleep and eat; but they manage their sleeping and eating
in the intervals of development; isn't that it, Mr. Bassistoff?'
Bassistoff made no reply.) 'And so, as he was continually developing,
Rudin arrived at the conclusion, by means of philosophy, that he ought
to fall in love. He began to look about for a sweetheart worthy of
such an astonishing conclusion. Fortune smiled upon him. He made the
acquaintance of a very pretty French dressmaker. The whole incident
occurred in a German town on the Rhine, observe. He began to go and
see her, to take her various books, to talk to her of Nature and
Hegel. Can you fancy the position of the dressmaker? She took him for
an astronomer. However, you know he's not a bad-looking fellow--and a
foreigner, a Russian, of course--he took her fancy. Well, at last he
invited her to a rendezvous, and a very poetical rendezvous, in a boat
on the river. The Frenchwoman agreed; dressed herself in her best and
went out with him in a boat. So they spent two hours. How do you think
he was occupied all that time? He patted the Frenchwoman on the head,
gazed thoughtfully at the sky, and frequently repeated that he felt
for her the tenderness of a father. The Frenchwoman went back home in
a fury, and she herself told the story to Terlahov afterwards! That's
the kind of fellow he is.'

And Pigasov broke into a loud laugh.

'You old cynic!' said Alexandra Pavlovna in a tone of annoyance, 'but
I am more and more convinced that even those who attack Rudin cannot
find any harm to say of him.'

'No harm? Upon my word! and his perpetual living at other people's
expense, his borrowing money. . . . Mihailo Mihailitch, he borrowed of
you too, no doubt, didn't he?'

'Listen, African Semenitch!' began Lezhnyov, and his face assumed a
serious expression, 'listen; you know, and my wife knows, that the
last time I saw him I felt no special attachment for Rudin, and I even
often blamed him. For all that (Lezhnyov filled up the glasses with
champagne) this is what I suggest to you now; we have just drunk to
the health of my dear brother and his future bride; I propose that you
drink now to the health of Dmitri Rudin!'

Alexandra Pavlovna and Pigasov looked in astonishment at Lezhnyov, but
Bassistoff sat wide-eyed, blushing and trembling all over with delight.

'I know him well,' continued Lezhnyov, 'I am well aware of his
faults. They are the more conspicuous because he himself is not
on a small scale.'

'Rudin has character, genius!' cried Bassistoff.

'Genius, very likely he has!' replied Lezhnyov, 'but as for character
. . . That's just his misfortune, that there's no character in him. . .
But that's not the point. I want to speak of what is good, of what
is rare in him. He has enthusiasm; and believe me, who am a phlegmatic
person enough, that is the most precious quality in our times. We have
all become insufferably reasonable, indifferent, and slothful; we are
asleep and cold, and thanks to any one who will wake us up and warm
us! It is high time! Do you remember, Sasha, once when I was talking
to you about him, I blamed him for coldness? I was right, and wrong
too, then. The coldness is in his blood--that is not his fault--and
not in his head. He is not an actor, as I called him, nor a cheat, nor
a scoundrel; he lives at other people's expense, not like a swindler,
but like a child. . . . Yes; no doubt he will die somewhere in poverty
and want; but are we to throw stones at him for that? He never does
anything himself precisely, he has no vital force, no blood; but who
has the right to say that he has not been of use? that his words have
not scattered good seeds in young hearts, to whom nature has not
denied, as she has to him, powers for action, and the faculty of
carrying out their own ideas? Indeed, I myself, to begin with, have
gained all that from him. . . . Sasha knows what Rudin did for me in
my youth. I also maintained, I recollect, that Rudin's words could not
produce an effect on men; but I was speaking then of men like myself,
at my present age, of men who have already lived and been broken in by
life. One false note in a man's eloquence, and the whole harmony is
spoiled for us; but a young man's ear, happily, is not so over-fine,
not so trained. If the substance of what he hears seems fine to him,
what does he care about the intonation! The intonation he will supply
for himself!'

'Bravo, bravo!' cried Bassistoff, 'that is justly spoken! And as
regards Rudin's influence, I swear to you, that man not only knows how
to move you, he lifts you up, he does not let you stand still, he
stirs you to the depths and sets you on fire!'

'You hear?' continued Lezhnyov, turning to Pigasov; 'what further
proof do you want? You attack philosophy; speaking of it, you cannot
find words contemptuous enough. I myself am not excessively devoted to
it, and I know little enough about it; but our principal misfortunes
do not come from philosophy! The Russian will never be infected with
philosophical hair-splittings and nonsense; he has too much
common-sense for that; but we must not let every sincere effort after
truth and knowledge be attacked under the name of philosophy. Rudin's
misfortune is that he does not understand Russia, and that, certainly,
is a great misfortune. Russia can do without every one of us, but not
one of us can do without her. Woe to him who thinks he can, and woe
twofold to him who actually does do without her! Cosmopolitanism is
all twaddle, the cosmopolitan is a nonentity--worse than a nonentity;
without nationality is no art, nor truth, nor life, nor anything. You
cannot even have an ideal face without individual expression; only a
vulgar face can be devoid of it. But I say again, that is not Rudin's
fault; it is his fate--a cruel and unhappy fate--for which we cannot
blame him. It would take us too far if we tried to trace why Rudins
spring up among us. But for what is fine in him, let us be grateful to
him. That is pleasanter than being unfair to him, and we have been
unfair to him. It's not our business to punish him, and it's not
needed; he has punished himself far more cruelly than he deserved. And
God grant that unhappiness may have blotted out all the harm there was
in him, and left only what was fine! I drink to the health of Rudin! I
drink to the comrade of my best years, I drink to youth, to its hopes,
its endeavours, its faith, and its honesty, to all that our hearts
beat for at twenty; we have known, and shall know, nothing better than
that in life. . . . I drink to that golden time--to the health of
Rudin!'

All clinked glasses with Lezhnyov. Bassistoff, in his enthusiasm,
almost cracked his glass and drained it off at a draught. Alexandra
Pavlovna pressed Lezhnyov's hand.

'Why, Mihailo Mihailitch, I did not suspect you were an orator,'
remarked Pigasov; 'it was equal to Mr. Rudin himself; even I was moved
by it.'

'I am not at all an orator,' replied Lezhnyov, not without annoyance,
'but to move you, I fancy, would be difficult. But enough of Rudin;
let us talk of something else. What of--what's his name--Pandalevsky?
is he still living at Darya Mihailovna's?' he concluded, turning to
Bassistoff.

'Oh yes, he is still there. She has managed to get him a very
profitable place.'

Lezhnyov smiled.

'That's a man who won't die in want, one can count upon that.'

Supper was over. The guests dispersed. When she was left alone with
her husband, Alexandra Pavlovna looked smiling into his face.

'How splendid you were this evening, Misha,' she said, stroking his
forehead, 'how cleverly and nobly you spoke! But confess, you
exaggerated a little in Rudin's praise, as in old days you did in
attacking him.'

'I can't let them hit a man when he's down. And in those days I was
afraid he was turning your head.'

'No,' replied Alexandra Pavlovna naively, 'he always seemed too
learned for me. I was afraid of him, and never knew what to say in his
presence. But wasn't Pigasov nasty in his ridicule of him to-day?'

'Pigasov?' responded Lezhnyov. 'That was just why I stood up for Rudin
so warmly, because Pigasov was here. He dare to call Rudin a sponge
indeed! Why, I consider the part he plays--Pigasov I mean--is a
hundred times worse! He has an independent property, and he sneers at
every one, and yet see how he fawns upon wealthy or distinguished
people! Do you know that that fellow, who abuses everything and every
one with such scorn, and attacks philosophy and women, do you know
that when he was in the service, he took bribes and that sort of
thing! Ugh! That's what he is!'

'Is it possible?' cried Alexandra Pavlovna, 'I should never have
expected that! Misha,' she added, after a short pause, 'I want to ask
you----'

'What?'

'What do you think, will my brother be happy with Natalya?'

'How can I tell you? . . . there's every likelihood of it. She will
take the lead . . . there's no reason to hide the fact between us . . .
she is cleverer than he is; but he's a capital fellow, and loves her
with all his soul. What more would you have? You see we love one
another and are happy, aren't we?'

Alexandra Pavlovna smiled and pressed his hand.

On the same day on which all that has been described took place in
Alexandra Pavlovna's house, in one of the remote districts of Russia,
a wretched little covered cart, drawn by three village horses was
crawling along the high road in the sultry heat. On the front seat was
perched a grizzled peasant in a ragged cloak, with his legs hanging
slanting on the shaft; he kept flicking with the reins, which were of
cord, and shaking the whip. Inside the cart there was sitting on a
shaky portmanteau a tall man in a cap and old dusty cloak. It was
Rudin. He sat with bent head, the peak of his cap pulled over his
eyes. The jolting of the cart threw him from side to side; but he
seemed utterly unconscious, as though he were asleep. At last he drew
himself up.

'When are we coming to a station?' he inquired of the peasant sitting
in front.

'Just over the hill, little father,' said the peasant, with a still
more violent shaking of the reins. 'There's a mile and a half farther
to go, not more. . . . Come! there! look about you. . . . I'll teach
you,' he added in a shrill voice, setting to work to whip the
right-hand horse.

'You seem to drive very badly,' observed Rudin; 'we have been
crawling along since early morning, and we have not succeeded in
getting there yet. You should have sung something.'

'Well, what would you have, little father? The horses, you see
yourself, are overdone . . . and then the heat; and I can't sing. I'm
not a coachman. . . . Hullo, you little sheep!' cried the peasant,
suddenly turning to a man coming along in a brown smock and bark shoes
downtrodden at heel. 'Get out of the way!'

'You're a nice driver!' muttered the man after him, and stood still.
'You wretched Muscovite,' he added in a voice full of contempt, shook
his head and limped away.

'What are you up to?' sang out the peasant at intervals, pulling at
the shaft-horse. 'Ah, you devil! Get on!'

The jaded horses dragged themselves at last up to the posting-station.
Rudin crept out of the cart, paid the peasant (who did not bow to him,
and kept shaking the coins in the palm of his hand a long
while--evidently there was too little drink-money) and himself carried
the portmanteau into the posting-station.

A friend of mine who has wandered a great deal about Russia in his
time made the observation that if the pictures hanging on the walls of
a posting-station represent scenes from 'the Prisoner of the
Caucasus,' or Russian generals, you may get horses soon; but if the
pictures depict the life of the well-known gambler George de Germany,
the traveller need not hope to get off quickly; he will have time to
admire to the full the hair _a la cockatoo_, the white open waistcoat,
and the exceedingly short and narrow trousers of the gambler in his
youth, and his exasperated physiognomy, when in his old age he kills
his son, waving a chair above him, in a cottage with a narrow
staircase. In the room into which Rudin walked precisely these
pictures were hanging out of 'Thirty Years, or the Life of a
Gambler.' In response to his call the superintendent appeared, who had
just waked up (by the way, did any one ever see a superintendent who
had not just been asleep?), and without even waiting for Rudin's
question, informed him in a sleepy voice that there were no horses.

'How can you say there are no horses,' said Rudin, 'when you don't
even know where I am going? I came here with village horses.'

'We have no horses for anywhere,' answered the superintendent. 'But
where are you going?'

'To Sk----.'

'We have no horses,' repeated the superintendent, and he went away.

Rudin, vexed, went up to the window and threw his cap on the table. He
was not much changed, but had grown rather yellow in the last two
years; silver threads shone here and there in his curls, and his eyes,
still magnificent, seemed somehow dimmed, fine lines, the traces of
bitter and disquieting emotions, lay about his lips and on his
temples. His clothes were shabby and old, and he had no linen visible
anywhere. His best days were clearly over: as the gardeners say, he
had gone to seed.

He began reading the inscriptions on the walls--the ordinary
distraction of weary travellers; suddenly the door creaked and the
superintendent came in.

'There are no horses for Sk----, and there won't be any for a long
time,' he said, 'but here are some ready to go to V----.'

'To V----?' said Rudin. 'Why, that's not on my road at all. I am going
to Penza, and V---- lies, I think, in the direction of Tamboff.'

'What of that? you can get there from Tamboff, and from V---- you
won't be at all out of your road.'

Rudin thought a moment.

'Well, all right,' he said at last, 'tell them to put the horses to.
It is the same to me; I will go to Tamboff.'

The horses were soon ready. Rudin carried his own portmanteau, climbed
into the cart, and took his seat, his head hanging as before. There
was something helpless and pathetically submissive in his bent
figure . . . . And the three horses went off at a slow trot.

Back to chapter list of: Rudin