Bab Bab 17 · 第17章

As we know, time either flies like a bird or crawls like a snail. Thus

a man is in best case when he fails to notice either the rapidity or

the slowness of its flight. Similarly did Bazarov and Arkady spend

their fortnight at Madame Odintsov's. Of this another contributory

cause was the fact that alike in her household and in her daily life

she maintained a _régime_ to which she herself strictly adhered, and

to which she constrained others to adhere; so that the daily domestic

round accomplished itself according to a fixed programme. At eight

o'clock the company would assemble for breakfast; whereafter, until

luncheon time, individuals could do whatsoever they chose (the hostess

herself devoting her attention to her steward--she administered her

estate on the _obrok_ or tithes system--her household servants, and her

head housekeeper). Next, before dinner, the company would reassemble

for conversation or for reading aloud; and the rest of the evening

would be devoted to a walk, to cards, or to music. Lastly, at half-past

ten Anna Sergievna would withdraw to her room, issue her orders for the

following day, and retire to bed.

But to Bazarov this measured, slightly formal regularity was not wholly

agreeable. "Somehow it reminds one of running on a pair of rails," he

used to declare; while so much did the sight of liveried lacqueys and

graded serfs offend his democratic instincts that once he averred that

one might as well dine in the English fashion outright, and wear white

ties and black tail-coats. These views he expressed to Anna Sergievna

(something in her always led men to lay bare their opinions in her

presence); and, after she had heard him out, she said: "From your

point of view, the matter is as you say, and perhaps I play the fine

lady too much; but in the country one cannot live anyhow; such a course

always leads one to grow slovenly."

So she continued her _régime_ as before. Yet, though Bazarov grumbled,

he and Arkady found that to that very formality they owed the fact that

everything in the establishment "ran as on rails." In passing it may be

mentioned that between the two young men there had taken place a change

which dated from the day of their arrival at Nikolsköe, and manifested

itself, as regards Bazarov (for whom Anna Sergievna evidently

entertained a liking, though seldom did she agree with his _dicta_), in

the form of an unwonted captiousness which led him easily to lose his

temper, to speak always with reluctance, to glare about him, and to be

as unable to sit still as though mines had been exploding beneath his

seat. As for Arkady (now come finally to the conclusion that he was in

love with Madame Odintsov), the change manifested itself, rather, in

his falling a prey to a melancholy which in no way prevented him from

making friends with Katia, and even helped him to maintain with her

kindly and cordial relations.

"Whereas Madame cares nothing for me," he would reflect, "_this_

good-hearted creature does not give me the cold shoulder."

And these reflections would cause his heart to taste once more the

sensuous joy of "magnanimity." Dimly Katia herself divined that

her society afforded him a sort of comfort; wherefore she saw no

reason to deny either him or herself the pleasure of this innocent,

half-diffident, half-trustful _camaraderie_. True, in the presence,

and under the keen eye, of the elder sister (who always caused Katia

to retire precipitately into her shell) the pair never exchanged a

single word (indeed, as a man in love, Arkady could not well have

paid attention to any one but the object of his adoration while in

the latter's vicinity); but as soon as he found himself alone with

Katia he began, to a certain degree, really to enjoy himself. That is

to say, whereas he knew himself to be incompetent to interest Madame

(seeing that whenever he found himself alone with her he blushed and

lost his head, while she, on her side, did not know what to say to him,

so jejune was his mind as compared with her own), in Katia's presence

he felt perfectly at home, and could treat her with condescension,

and let her expound to him the impressions which she derived from

music and the reading of tales, poems, and other "trifles." Nor did

he notice, nor would he have consented to recognise had he noticed,

the fact that those same "trifles" interested him as much as they did

Katia. At the same time, the latter in no way acted as a clog upon his

melancholy; wherefore, just as Madame was at her ease with Bazarov,

so the young man was at his with Katia, and, after a short period of

joint converse, the two couples would usually diverge. This happened

especially during walks, and the more readily in that, whereas Katia

adored nature, and Arkady too loved it (though he would never have

admitted the fact), to Madame and Bazarov the charms of the natural

world represented more or less a matter of indifference. Hardly need I

add that from this constant separation between Arkady and Bazarov there

flowed inevitable results which brought about in the relations of the

pair a gradual change. That is to say, Bazarov ceased to discourse on

Madame Odintsov--he ceased even to censure her for her "aristocratic

manners"; and while, with regard to Katia, he sang her praises as usual

(at the same time advising the placing of a check upon her sentimental

tendencies), he took to uttering these encomiums only in a half-hearted

and a perfunctory way, and, in general, to lecturing his pupil less

than he had formerly done. Rather, he seemed to avoid him, to feel in

some way uncomfortable in his presence.

These things Arkady duly noted, but kept his observations to himself.

The real cause of the innovation was the feeling which Madame Odintsov

inspired in Bazarov's breast, and which he found to be a torture and

a madness to him. Yet, had any one hinted to him, ever so distantly,

that what was taking place in his soul could ever have been possible,

he would have denied it with a contemptuous laugh and a cynical

imprecation, seeing that, though a great devotee of feminine society

and feminine beauty, he looked upon love in the ideal, the "romantic"

(to use his own term) aspect as unpardonable folly, and upon the

sentiment of chivalry as a sort of aberration or malady which moved

him frequently to express his astonishment that Toggenburg and his

Minnesingers and troubadours never ended by being clapped in a madhouse.

"Should a woman please you," he would say, "strive to attain your goal;

but if you cannot attain that goal, waste no further trouble--just turn

away. For the world does not rest upon a single keystone."

In similar fashion Madame Odintsov "pleased" Bazarov: yet, though the

widespread reports in circulation about her might, with the freedom

and independence of her views and the undoubted _penchant_ which she

entertained for himself, have been reckoned to tell in his favour, he

soon discovered that, in her case, the "goal" was _not_ to be attained.

Also, he found to his surprise that he could not "turn away"--rather,

that the mere thought of her made his blood boil. True, that symptom,

if it had been the only one, might have been dealt with; but there

became implanted in him something else--something which he had hitherto

refused to admit, something of which he had hitherto made sport,

but something which now aroused his pride. Therefore, although, when

conversing with Anna Sergievna, he poured added scorn upon everything

"romantic," he recognised, during his hours of solitude, that even

in his own personality there lurked an element of "Romanticism." And

at such times there was nothing for it but to rush out of doors into

the woods, and to stride along at a pace which snapped off chance-met

boughs, and found vent in curses at both them and himself. Or he would

seek a hayloft or stable, and, stubbornly closing his eyes, strive to

woo sleep, and almost invariably fail. Yet, as he sat there, there

would come to him delusions that those proud lips _had_ once responded

to his kisses, that those chaste arms _had_ embraced his neck, that

those soulful eyes _had_ gazed tenderly--yes, tenderly--into his: and

at such times his head would whirl, and for a second or two, and until

his discontent returned, he would relapse into a state of trance, and,

as though urged by a demon, think thoughts of unavowable import. Again,

there were times when he would conceive a change similar to his own to

have taken place in _her_, and the expression of her face already to

be charged with a special significance. Yet, this point reached, he

would end merely by stamping his feet, grinding his teeth, and mentally

shaking his fist at himself.

Once, when walking with her in the garden, he announced to her in curt,

gruff tones that he intended soon to depart for his father's place;

whereupon Anna Sergievna turned pale, as though something had pricked

her heart, and pricked it in such a manner as to surprise even herself,

and to leave her wondering what it could portend. Yet not for the sake

of testing her, nor of seeing what might possibly come of it, had he

mentioned his purposed departure (never at any time did he indulge

in "scheming"). Rather, the reason was that, earlier that morning,

he had had an interview with his father's steward, Timotheitch, a

rough, but quick-witted, old fellow who, in past days, had acted as

his nurse, and had now presented himself--with tousled, flaxen hair,

red, weather-beaten face, watery, sunken eyes, short, stout jacket of

grey-blue cloth, leathern girdle, and tarred boots--at Nikolsköe.

"Good-day to you, ancient!" had been Bazarov's greeting.

"Good-day to _you, batiushka_!" had responded the old man with a

gleeful smile which had covered his face with wrinkles.

"And how is it that I see you here?" Bazarov had continued. "Is it that

they have sent you to fetch me?"

"By no means, pardon me, _batiushka_!" Timotheitch had stammered out

this denial for the reason that he had suddenly recollected certain

strict injunctions imposed upon him before starting. "No, it is merely

that I am on my way to the town on affairs connected with the estate,

and turned aside a little to pay my respects to your honour. No, not to

disturb you at all--oh dear no!"

"Do not lie," Bazarov had said. "Is _this_ the way to the town?"

Timotheitch, cringing, had returned no reply.

"And how is my father?" Bazarov had continued.

"Quite well, thank God!"

"And my mother?"

"Your mother is the same, thank God!"

"And they are, I suppose, expecting me?"

The old man had cocked his head with a knowing air.

"Evgenii Vasilitch, why should they _not_ be expecting you? Yes, as God

is my trust, I know that their hearts are simply aching for a sight of

you."

"Well, well! Do not make too long a stay of it, but tell them that I

will come presently."

"I will, _batiushka_."

Yet it had been with a sigh that Timotheitch had replaced his cap

on his head with both hands, left the house, remounted the shabby

_drozhki_ which he had left waiting at the gates, and disappeared at a

trot--though _not_ in the direction of the town.

The same evening saw Madame sitting in her boudoir with Bazarov, and

Arkady pacing the salon, and listening to Katia's music. As for the

Princess, she had gone to bed, for she could not abide the presence

of guests--least of all, of "those upstarts and good-for-nothings" as

she termed our friends. In fact, though she confined herself, in the

drawing-room or the dining-room, to sulking, she resorted, when alone

with her maid in the bedroom, to abuse of Arkady and Bazarov which made

her cap and her false front fairly dance on her head. These things, of

course, Madame Odintsov knew.

"Why need you depart?" she said to Bazarov. "Have you forgotten your

promise?"

Bazarov started.

"What promise?" he asked.

"Then you _have_ forgotten it! I mean the promise to give me a few

lessons in chemistry?"

"How can I fulfil it? My father is expecting me at home, and I ought

not to stay a day longer. You had better read through _Notions

Générales de Chimie_, by Pelouse and Frémy. It is an excellent work,

and clearly written--the very thing you want."

"But you said that no book can adequately replace--I forget the exact

phrase you used, but you know what I mean, do you not?"

"I cannot help myself," he muttered.

"Nevertheless, why go?" She lowered her voice as she spoke. Bazarov

glanced at her as she leant back in her chair and crossed her arms

(which were bare to the elbow), and saw that by the light of the lamp

(softened with a shade of pleated paper) she was looking paler than

usual--also that the outlines of her figure were almost buried in a

soft white gown, from underneath which there peeped forth the tips of

her toes, posed crosswise.

"What reason should I have for remaining?" he replied.

She gave her head the faintest toss.

"What reason should you have?" she re-echoed. "Well, are you not happy

here? Do you think that there will be no one to regret your departure?"

"There will be no one. Of that I am certain."

"Then you are wrong," came the reply after a pause. "But I do not

believe you--I have an idea that you are not speaking seriously."

Bazarov said nothing.

"Why do you not answer me?" she persisted.

"What is there to say? In general, to regret people's absence is not

worth while, and, least of all, the absence of people like myself."

"Why, again?"

"Because I am a prosaic and eminently uninteresting individual. Nor do

I know how to talk."

"But you know how to play the esquire?"

"No, not even that. And, as you know, the softer aspect of life, the

aspect which you hold so dear, lies altogether beyond me."

Madame Odintsov nibbled the corner of her handkerchief.

"Think what you like," she said, "but at least _I_ shall find things

dull when you are gone."

"Arkady will remain," he hazarded.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Nevertheless I shall find the time wearisome," she repeated.

"Not for long."

"Why not?"

"Because, as you have very truly said, things never seem dull to you

save when your _régime_ is infringed. In fact, with such faultless

regularity have you ordered your life that there abides in it no room

for dullness or depression or any other burdensome feeling."

"And I too am faultless, I suppose--I have ordered my life too

regularly ever to err?"

"I daresay. Take an example of it. In a few minutes it will be ten

o'clock; when, as I know by experience, you will request me to leave

your presence."

"Oh no, I shall not. You may remain. By the way, please open that

window. The room is simply stifling."

Bazarov rose and unfastened the casement, which swung backwards with a

snap, for the reason that he had not expected it to open so easily, and

that his hands were trembling. Into the aperture glanced the soft, warm

night with its vista of dark vault of heaven, faintly rustling trees,

and pure, free, sweet-scented air.

"Also, please pull down the blind, and then resume your seat. I wish to

have a little further talk with you before you go. Tell me something

about yourself--a person to whom, by the way, you never refer."

"I would rather converse with you on more profitable subjects."

"What modesty! Nevertheless I wish to learn something of you, and of

your family, and of the father for whose sake you are soon going to

abandon me."

"Why the word 'abandon'?" reflected Bazarov. Then he added aloud:

"Things of that kind interest no one--least of all you. I and my people

are obscure folk."

"Whereas I, you imagine, am an aristocrat?"

Bazarov looked up.

"Yes," he replied with emphasis.

She smiled.

"Then I can see that your knowledge of me is small," she remarked.

"But of course--you believe all human beings to be identical, and

therefore not worth the trouble of studying. Some day I will tell you

my history. But first tell me yours."

"You say that my knowledge of you is small?" queried Bazarov. "You may

be right. Possibly _every_ human being is an enigma. Let us take an

example of that. You have withdrawn from society, and find it irksome,

and limit your visitors' list to a couple of students. Yet why, with

your intellect and your beauty, do you live in the country?"

"Why?" came the sharp rejoinder. "But first be so good as to explain

what you mean by my 'beauty.'"

Bazarov frowned.

"That lies beside the point," he muttered. "The point is that I cannot

understand why you settle in a rural spot of this kind."

"You cannot understand it, you cannot explain it?"

"No. There is only one possible explanation: and that is that you

remain here because you are a person of self-indulgence who love

comfort and the amenities of life, and are indifferent to aught else."

Again Madame Odintsov smiled.

"Then you are still determined to believe that I am incapable of being

moved?" she said.

Bazarov glanced at her from under his brows.

"By curiosity, yes," he said. "But by nothing else."

"Indeed? Then I cease to wonder that you and I do not get on together.

You are exactly like myself."

"That you and I do not get on together?" echoed Bazarov vaguely.

"Yes. But I had forgotten--you must be longing to retire?"

Bazarov rose. The lamp was casting a dim light, while into the

fragrant, darkened, isolated room there came wafted at intervals, under

the swinging blind, the sensuous freshness of the night, and the sounds

of its mysterious whisperings. Madame Odintsov did not stir. Over her

was stealing the same strange agitation which had infected Bazarov.

Suddenly he realised that he was alone with a young and beautiful woman.

"Need you go?" she asked slowly.

He made no reply--he merely resumed his seat.

"Then you think me a spoilt, pampered, indolent person?" she continued

in the same slow tone as she fixed her eyes upon the window. "Yet this

much I know about myself: that I am very unhappy."

"Unhappy? For what reason? Because you attach too much importance to

petty slanders?"

She frowned. Somehow she felt vexed that he should have understood her

thus.

"No; things of that kind do not disturb me," she said. "Never should

I allow them to do so--I am too proud. The reason why I am unhappy is

that I have no wish, no enthusiasm, to live. I daresay you will not

believe me, and will think that a mere 'petty aristocrat,' a person who

is lapped in lace and seated in an armchair, is saying all this (and I

will not conceal from you that I love what you call 'the comforts of

life'): yet all the while I feel as though I had no desire to continue

my existence. Pray reconcile that contradiction if you can. But perhaps

you consider what I say 'Romanticism'?"

Bazarov shook his head.

"You are yet young," he said. "Also, you are rich and independent. What

more could you have? What more do you desire?"

"What more?" she re-echoed with a sigh. "I do not know. I only know

that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a

long, long time. Yes, I am growing old," she continued as she drew

the ends of her mantilla around her bare shoulders. In doing so, she

glanced at Bazarov. Her eyes met his, and the faintest of blushes stole

into her face. "Behind me lie many memories--memories of my life in St.

Petersburg, of a period of wealth followed by poverty, of my father's

death, of my marriage, of my travels abroad--yes, many such memories

there are. Yet none of them are worth cherishing. And before me lies

only a weary road with no goal to it, along which I have no desire to

travel."

"You are disenchanted," said Bazarov.

"No," she replied with a shiver. "Rather, I am dissatisfied. Oh that I

could form a strong attachment of some kind!"

"To fall in love _might_ save you," remarked Bazarov. "But you are

incapable of that. That is where your misfortune lies."

Madame dropped her eyes upon the sleeve of her mantilla.

"I am incapable of falling in love?" she murmured.

"Not altogether. Moreover, I did wrong to call it a misfortune: for the

person most to be pitied is the person who meets with that experience."

"What experience do you mean?"

"The experience of falling in love."

"How come you to know that?"

"By hearsay," he replied irritably, while to himself he added: "You are

a mere coquette whom sheer idleness is leading to weary and madden me."

And his heart swelled within him.

"On the other hand," he went on, "it may be that you are too exacting?"

As he spoke he bent forward and fell to playing with the tassels of his

chair.

"Possibly I am," she agreed. "But, you see, I conceive that it ought to

be everything or nothing. 'A life for a life.' 'Take my all, give your

all, and put a truce to regrets and any thought of return.' That is the

best rule."

"Indeed?" queried Bazarov. "Well, it is not a bad rule, and I am

surprised that you should have failed to attain your desire."

"Self-surrender, you think, is an easy thing?"

"Not if one considers matters first, and appraises oneself, and

sets upon oneself a definite value. It is only surrender _without_

consideration that is easy."

"But how could one not value oneself? If one had value, no one would

desire one's surrender."

"That would not be your concern nor mine: some one else's business

would it be to determine our respective values. The one thing that

would immediately concern us would be to know _how_ to surrender."

Madame Odintsov sat up sharply.

"I still believe you to be speaking from experience," she said.

"No; words, idle words--words not meant to be taken personally."

"Then you yourself might be capable of surrendering?"

"I might. But in any case I should not care to boast."

Both remained silent for a moment. From the drawing-room came the notes

of the piano.

"How late Katia is playing!" remarked Anna Sergievna.

Bazarov raised his head.

"Yes, it _is_ late," he said. "Time for you to go to rest."

"Wait a moment, however. Why should you hurry away? I have something

more to say to you."

"What may it be?"

"Wait," she repeated. As she did so, her eyes gazed at him as though

studying his personality. For a few moments he paced the room--then

suddenly approached her, said "Good night," squeezed her hand until she

could have shrieked with the pain, and departed.

Raising her fingers to her lips, she blew after him a kiss. Then,

rising with an abrupt, convulsive movement, she ran towards the door

as though to call him back. But at that moment her maid entered with

a decanter on a silver tray, and Madame halted, bid the maid begone,

reseated herself, and sank into a reverie. Her hair, like a winding

black snake, had broken loose from its fastenings. Dimly illumined by

the lamp, she sat motionless, save that at intervals she chafed her

hands, for the night air was beginning to grow chilly.

Two hours later Bazarov re-entered his bedroom in a state of

dishevelment and despondency, and with his boots soaked with dew.

Arkady was seated, fully dressed, at the writing-table, with a book in

his hands.

"So you are not in bed yet?" Bazarov remarked irritably.

Arkady's only reply was to ask the counter-question:

"You have been sitting with Anna Sergievna, have you not?"

"I have," replied Bazarov. "I was sitting there while you and Katia

were playing the piano."

"Oh, _I_ was not playing," retorted Arkady. Then he stopped, for he

felt the tears to be very near his eyes, and had no wish to let them

fall in the presence of his satirical mentor.