Bab Bab 13 · 第13章

The villa in which Avdotia, or Evdoksia, Nikitishna Kukshin resided

was one of the usual Moscow pattern, and stood in one of the recently

consumed streets (for as we know, every fifth year sees each of our

provincial capitals burnt to the ground) of the town of ----. Beside

the front door there hung (over a cracked, crooked visiting-card)

a bell-handle, while in the hall the visitors were met by a female

who constituted, not exactly a maidservant, but a mob-capped "lady

companion." And it need hardly be added that these two phenomena, the

bell-handle and the "lady companion," constituted clear evidence of the

"progressiveness" of the hostess's views.

On Sitnikov inquiring whether Avdotia Nikitishna were within, a shrill

voice interrupted him from an adjoining room:

"Is that you, Victor? Pray enter."

The female in the mob-cap disappeared.

"I have not come alone," Sitnikov responded as, after an inquiring

glance at Arkady and Bazarov, he divested himself of his greatcoat, and

revealed thereunder a sort of sack jacket.

"Never mind," the voice replied. "_Entrez, s'il vous plaît._"

The young men did as bidden, and found themselves in a room which

resembled a workshop rather than a parlour. On tables were piled

promiscuous papers, letters and Russian magazines (most of the

latter uncut); everywhere on the floor were to be seen gleaming the

fag-ends of cigarettes; and on a leather-padded sofa a lady--youngish,

flaxen-haired, and clad in a _négligée_ soiled silk gown--was lolling

in a semi-recumbent position. About her stumpy wrists were clasped a

large pair of bracelets, and over her head was thrown a lace mantilla.

Rising, she draped her shoulders carelessly in a velvet tippet with

faded ermine trimming, and, saying indolently, "Good day, Victor,"

pressed Sitnikov's hand.

"Bazarov--Kirsanov," he said in abrupt imitation of the former;

whereupon she responded, "How do you do?" and then added, as she

fixed upon Bazarov a pair of large eyes between which glimmered a

correspondingly small, pink, upturned nose: "I have met you before."

That said, she pressed his hand even as she had done Sitnikov's.

Bazarov frowned, for though the plain, insignificant features of

the emancipated lady contained nothing actually to repel, there was

something in their mien which produced upon the beholder the sort of

unpleasant impression which might have inclined him to ask her: "Are

you hungry, or bored, or afraid? At all events, what is it you want?"

Also, like Sitnikov, she kept pawing the air as she spoke, and her

every word, her every gesture, revealed such a lack of control as at

times amounted to sheer awkwardness. In short, though she conceived

herself to be just a simple, good-hearted creature, her bearing was of

the kind to lead the beholder to reflect that, no matter what she did,

it was not what she had intended to do, and that everything was done

(to use the children's term) "on purpose"--that is to say, non-simply

and non-naturally.

"Yes, I have met you before, Bazarov," she repeated (like many other

contemporary females of Moscow and the provinces, she had adopted the

fashion of calling men by their surnames alone on first introduction).

"Will you have a cigar?"

"I thank you," interposed Sitnikov (who had deposited his person in an

armchair, and crossed his legs). "Also, pray give us some luncheon,

for we are absolutely ravenous. Also, you might order us a bottle of

champagne."

"You Sybarite!" exclaimed Evdoksia with a smile (a smile always brought

her upper gum prominently into view). "Is he not, Bazarov?"

"No; it is merely that I love the comforts of life," protested Sitnikov

pompously. "Nor need that in any way prevent me from being a Liberal."

"But it does, it does," cried Evdoksia. However, she gave orders to

her servant to see both to the luncheon and to the champagne. "What is

_your_ opinion on the matter?" she added, turning to Bazarov. "I feel

convinced that you share mine."

"No, I do not," he replied. "On the contrary, I think that, even from

the chemical point of view, a piece of meat is better than a piece of

bread."

"Then you study chemistry?" she exclaimed. "Chemistry is _my_ passion

also. In fact, I have invented a special liniment."

"A liniment? You?"

"Yes, I. And please guess its use. It is for making unbreakable dolls

and pipe-bowls. You see that, like yourself, I am of a practical turn

of mind. But, as yet, I have not completed my course of study. It

still remains for me to read up my Liebig. _Apropos_, have you seen an

article in the _Viedomosti_ on Woman's Work--an article by Kisliakov?

If not, you should read it (for I presume that you take an interest in

the Feminine Question, and also in the Question of the Schools?). But

what is your friend's line? _Apropos_, what is his name?"

These questions Madame Kukshin, as it were, mouthed, and did so with an

affected carelessness which waited for no reply, even as a spoilt child

propounds conundrums to its nurse.

"My name is Arkady Nikolaievitch Kirsanov," Arkady answered for

himself. "And my particular line is doing nothing at all."

Evdoksia tittered.

"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Then you do not even smoke? Victor, I am

furious with you!"

"Why?" enquired Sitnikov.

"Because I have just heard that you are again standing up for Georges

Sand, that played-out woman. How is she even to be compared (that

creature, who lacks a single idea on education or physiology or

anything else) with Emerson? In fact, I believe that never in her life

has she so much as _heard_ of embryology--though in these days no one

can get on without it." The speaker flung out her arms in an expressive

gesture. "But what a splendid article was that of Elisievitch's!

He is indeed a talented gentleman!" (This was another habit of

Evdoksia's--the habit of persistently using the term "gentleman" for

the ordinary word "man"). "Bazarov, pray come and sit beside me on the

sofa. You may not know it, but I am dreadfully afraid of you."

"Why are you afraid of me (if you will forgive my curiosity)?"

"Because you are a dangerous gentleman--you are a critic so caustic

that in your presence my confusion leads me to begin speaking like

a lady-landowner of the Steppes. _Apropos_, I am a lady-landowner

myself; for, though I employ a local steward named Erothei (a sort of

Cooper's 'Pathfinder,' but compounded with a blend of independence in

his composition), I retain the ultimate reins of management in my own

hands. But how unbearable this town is!--yes, even though I have made

it my permanent home, seeing that nothing else was to be done!"

"The town is what a town always is," remarked Bazarov indifferently.

"But its interests are so petty!" continued Evdoksia.

"_That_ is what troubles me. Once upon a time I used to winter in

Moscow, but now good Monsieur Kukshin has to dwell there alone. And

Moscow itself is, is--well, not what it used to be. As a matter of

fact, I contemplate going abroad. I have spent the whole year in making

my preparations for the journey."

"You will go to Paris, I presume?"

"Yes, and to Heidelberg."

"Why to Heidelberg?"

"Because there the great Herr Bunsen[1] has his home."

Bazarov could not think of a suitable reply.

"Do you know Pierre Sapozhnikov?" continued she.

"No, I do not."

"He is always to be found at Lydia Khostatov's."

"Even with her I am not acquainted."

"Well, Sapozhnikov is going to escort me on my travels. For at least I

am free--I have no children, thank God! Why I should have put in that

'Thank God!' I scarcely know."

She rolled another cigarette between her nicotine-stained fingers,

licked it, placed it between her lips, and struck a match. The servant

entered with a tray.

"Ah! Here comes luncheon! Will you have some? Victor, pray uncork the

bottle. It is your function to do so."

"Mine, yes, mine," he hummed; then gave another of his shrill giggles.

"Have you any good-looking ladies in this town?" Bazarov asked after a

third glassful of champagne.

"Yes," replied Evdoksia. "But uniformly they are futile. For example, a

friend of mine, a Madame Odintsov, is not bad-looking, and has nothing

against her except a doubtful reputation (a thing of no consequence

in itself); but, alas! she combines with it such a complete lack of

freedom, or of breadth of view, or, in fact, of anything! The system

of bringing up women needs a radical change. I myself have given much

thought to the matter, and come to the conclusion that our women are

ill-educated."

"Yes; the only thing to be done with them is to hold them in contempt,"

agreed Sitnikov. To him any opportunity of despising, of expressing

scornful sentiments, was the most agreeable of sensations. Yet, though

he thus chose women for his especial censure, he little suspected that

before many months were over he himself would be grovelling at the feet

of a wife--and doing so merely for the reason that she had been born a

Princess Durdoleosov!

"No, to none of them would our conversation convey anything," he

continued. "Nor is there a single one of them upon whom the attention

of a serious-minded man would be anything but thrown away."

"Scarcely need they _desire_ to have anything conveyed to them by our

conversation," remarked Bazarov.

"Of whom are you speaking?" interposed Evdoksia.

"Of the smart women of the day."

"What? I suppose you agree with Proudhon's[2] opinion on the subject?"

Bazarov drew himself up.

"I agree with no man's opinions," he remarked. "I have some of my own."

"_A bas les autorités!_" cried Sitnikov, delighted at this unlooked-for

opportunity of showing off in the presence of the man whom he

worshipped.

"But even Macaulay----" began Madame Kukshin.

"_A bas_ Macaulay!" roared Sitnikov. "How can you defend those dolls of

ours?"

"I am not defending them at all," said Madame Kukshin. "I am merely

standing up for the rights of women--rights which I have sworn to

defend to the last drop of my blood."

"_A bas_----" began Sitnikov--then paused. "I do not reject them," he

added in a lower tone.

"But you _do_ reject them, for you are a Slavophil, as I can see very

clearly."

"On the contrary, I am _not_ a Slavophil; although, of course, I----"

"But you _are_ a Slavophil: you believe in the principles of the

_Domostroi_,[3] and would like always to be holding over women a

scourge."

"A scourge is not a bad thing in its proper place," observed Bazarov.

"But, seeing that we have reached the last drop of, of----"

"Of what?" said Evdoksia.

"Of champagne, most respected Avdotia Nikitishna--not of your blood."

"Never when I hear my sex abused can I listen with indifference,"

resumed Evdoksia. "It is all too horrible, too horrible! Instead of

attacking us, people ought to read Michel's[4] _De l'Amour_. What a

wonderful work it is! Let us talk of love."

She posed her arm gracefully upon the tumbled cushions of the sofa.

There fell a sudden silence.

"What is there to say concerning love?" at length said Bazarov. "In

passing, you mentioned a certain Madame Odintsov (I think that was the

name?). Who is she?"

"A very charming woman," squeaked Sitnikov, "as well as clever, rich,

and a widow. Unfortunately, she is not sufficiently _developed_, and

a closer acquaintance with our Evdoksia would do her a world of good.

Evdoksia, I drink to your health! Let us sing the honours. 'Et toc, et

toc, et tin, tin, tin! Et toc, et toc, et tin, tin, tin!'"

"You scamp, Victor!"

The luncheon proved a lengthy affair, for to the first bottle of

champagne there succeeded a second, and to the latter a third, and to

that a fourth. Meanwhile Evdoksia kept up an unceasing flow of chatter,

and received effective assistance from Sitnikov. In particular did

the pair discuss the nature of marriage ("the outcome of prejudice

and vice"), the question whether people are born "single," and the

consistency of "individuality." Then Evdoksia seated herself at the

piano, and, red in the face with wine which she had drunk, clattered

her flat finger-nails upon the keys, and essayed hoarsely to sing,

first of all some gipsy ditties, and then the ballad, "Dreaming Granada

lies asleep"; while, throwing a scarf over his head to represent the

dying lover, Sitnikov joined her at the words "Your lips meet mine in a

burning kiss."

At length Arkady could stand it no longer.

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this is sheer Bedlam!"

As for Bazarov, he yawned, for he had done little more than interject

a satirical word or two--his attention had been devoted, rather, to

the champagne. At length he rose, and, accompanied by Arkady, left the

house without so much as a word of farewell to the hostess. Sitnikov

pursued the pair.

"Ah, ha!" he exclaimed as he skipped about the roadway. "Did I not tell

you that she would prove a most remarkable personality? Would that more

of our women were like her! In her way, she is a moral phenomenon."

"And your father's establishment?" remarked Bazarov as he pointed

to a tavern which they happened to be passing. "Is that also a moral

phenomenon?"

Sitnikov vented another of his shrill giggles. But, being also ashamed

of his origin, he felt at a loss whether to plume himself upon, or to

take offence at, Bazarov's unexpected pleasantry.

[1] Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811-1899), chemist and physicist; inventor

of Bunsen's burner and magnesium light; and originator (with Kirchhov)

of spectrum analysis.

[2] Pierre Joseph Proudhon (1809-1865), a French doctrinaire who taught

that anarchy is the culmination of all social progress.

[3] A curious old sixteenth-century work which, usually attributed to

the monk Sylvester, purports to be a "guide to household management,"

and, incidentally, gives a terrible picture of the power of the Russian

husband over his wife.

[4] Louise Michel (1830-1906), a French anarchist long resident in

London.