Chapter 20

"I am bored; I want to work, but I can't work here. I will come to your place again; I have left all my apparatus there, too. In your house one can, at any rate, shut oneself up; while here my father repeats to me, 'My study is at your disposal--nobody shall interfere with you,' and all the time he himself is never a yard away. It's the same thing, too, with mother. I hear her sighing the other side of the wall, and if one goes in to her, one's nothing to say to her."

Vassily Ivanovitch was dumbfounded when he broke the news to him.

"Very good..." he faltered, "very good.... I had thought you were to be with us... a little longer. Three days.... After three years, it's rather little; rather little, Yevgeny!"

"But I tell you I'm coming back directly. It's necessary for me to go."

"Necessary.... Very good. Arina and I, of course, did not anticipate this. She has just begged some flowers from a neighbour; she meant to decorate the room for you. Liberty... is the great thing; that's my rule.... I don't want to hamper you... not..."

He suddenly ceased and rushed from the room. He had to tell his old wife; that was the trying task that lay before him. She was utterly crushed, and only a two-hour exhortation from her husband enabled her to control herself until her son's departure. When at last he was gone she broke down. Vassily Ivanovitch bent his grey head against her grey head.

"There's no hope for it," she moaned. "Only I am left you, unchanged for ever, as you for me."

_III.--The Duel_

The two friends journeyed as far as X---- together. There Arkady left his companion in order to see Katya. Bazaroff, determined to cure himself of his passion for Madame Odintsov, made the rest of the journey alone, and took up his quarters once more in the house of Nicolai Petrovitch.

The fact of Arkady's absence did not tend to improve matters between Pavel Petrovitch and Bazaroff. After a week the aristocrat's antipathy passed all bounds. That night he knocked at Bazaroff's door, and, gaining admittance, begged in his most delicate manner for five minutes' conversation.

"I want to hear your views on the subject of duelling," he said. Bazaroff, for once, was taken by surprise.

"My view is," he said at last, "that I should not, in practice, allow myself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction."

"Your words save me from rather a deplorable necessity. I have made up my mind to fight you."

Bazaroff opened his eyes wide. "Me?"

"Undoubtedly."

"What for, pray?"

"I cannot endure you; to my idea your presence here is superfluous, I despise you; and if that is not enough for you..."

Pavel Petrovitch's eyes glittered.... Bazaroff's, too, were flashing.

"Very good," he assented; "no need of further explanations. You've a whim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this pleasure, but--so be it!"

The details of the duel were arranged there and then, eight paces and two shots each. The following morning they met at the place agreed upon, and, having marked off the ground, they took up their stations. Bazaroff watched Pavel Petrovitch take careful aim.... "He's aiming straight at my nerves," he thought; "and doesn't he blink down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation, though! I'm going to look at his watch-chain."

Something whizzed sharply by his ear, and at the same instant there was the sound of a shot. Bazaroff, without taking aim, pressed the spring. Pavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers. Bazaroff became the doctor at once, and, flinging aside his pistol, fell on his knees beside his late antagonist, and began with professional skill to attend to his wound. At that moment Nicolai Petrovitch drove up.

"What does this mean?" he asked, rushing to the side of his brother.

"It is nothing," answered Pavel Petrovitch, faintly. "I had a little dispute with Mr. Bazaroff, and I have had to pay for it a little. I am the only person to blame in all this.... Mr. Bazaroff has behaved most honourably."

After that incident Bazaroff's stay in the house any longer was an impossibility. He left the same day, calling at Madame Odintsov's house on his way home to see Arkady. He found his friend engaged to Katya and in the seventh heaven of delight. Madame Odintsov would have had him stay.

"Why should you not stay now?" she said. "Stay... it's exciting talking to you... one seems walking on the edge of a precipice. At first one feels timid, but one gains courage as one goes on. Do stay."

"Thanks for the suggestion," he retorted, "and for your flattering opinion of my conversational talent. But I think I have already been moving too long in a sphere which is not my own. Flying fishes can hold out for a time in the air, but soon they must splash back into the water; allow me, too, to paddle in my own element."

Madame Odintsov looked at Bazaroff. His pale face was twitching with a bitter smile. "This man did love me!" she thought, and she felt pity for him, and held out her hand to him with sympathy.

He, too, understood her. "No!" he said, stepping back a pace. "I am a poor man, but I have never taken charity so far. Good-bye and good luck to you."

"I am certain we are not seeing each other for the last time," she declared, with an unconscious gesture.

"Anything may happen!" answered Bazaroff, and he bowed and went away.

_IV.--The Passing of Bazaroff_

Bazaroff's old parents were all the more overjoyed at their son's arrival, as it was quite unexpected. His mother was greatly excited and his father, touching his neck with his fingers, turned his head round as though he were trying whether it were properly screwed on, and then, all at once, he opened his wide mouth and went off into a perfectly noiseless chuckle.

"I've come to you for six whole weeks, governor," Bazaroff said to him. "I want to work, so please don't hinder me now."

But though his father and mother almost effaced themselves, scarcely daring to ask him a question, even to discover what he would like for dinner, the fever of work fell away. It was replaced by dreary boredom or vague restlessness. He began to seek the society of his father and to smoke with him in silence. Now and again he even assisted at some of the medical operations which his father conducted as a charity. Once he pulled a tooth out from a pedlar's head, and Vassily Ivanovitch never ceased boasting about the extraordinary feat.

One day in a neighbouring village, the news was brought them that a peasant had died of typhus. Three days later Bazaroff came into his father's room and asked him if he had any caustic to burn a cut in his finger.

"What sort of a cut? where is it?"

"Here, on my finger. I have been dissecting that peasant who died of typhus fever."

Vassily Ivanovitch suddenly turned quite white. All that day he watched his son's face stealthily. On the third day Bazaroff could not touch his food.

"Have you no appetite? And your head?" he at last asked, timidly; "does it ache?"

"Yes, of course it aches."

"Don't be angry, please," continued Vassily Ivanovitch. "Won't you let me feel your pulse?"

Bazaroff got up. "I can tell you without feeling my pulse," he said. "I am feverish."

"Has there been any shivering?"

"Yes, there's been shivering, too; I'll go and lie down."

Bazaroff did not get up again all day, and passed the whole night in heavy, half-unconscious slumber. At one o'clock in the morning, opening his eyes with an effort, he saw, by the light of a lamp, his father's pale face bending over him, and told him to go away. The old man begged his pardon, but he quickly came back on tiptoe, and, half hidden by the cupboard door, he gazed persistently at his son. His wife did not go to bed either, and, leaving the study door open a very little, she kept coming up to it to listen "how Enyusha was breathing" and to look at Vassily Ivanovitch. She could see nothing but his motionless bent back, but even that afforded her some faint consolation.

In the morning Bazaroff spoke to his father in a slow, drowsy voice.

"Governor, I am in a bad way; I've got the infection, and in a few days you will have to bury me."

Vassily Ivanovitch staggered back as if someone had aimed a blow at his leg.

"God have mercy on you! What do you mean? You have only caught a cold. I've sent for the doctor and you'll soon be cured."

"Come, that's humbug. I've got the typhus; you can see it in my arm. You told me you'd sent for the doctor. You did that to comfort yourself... comfort me, too; send a messenger to Madame Odintsov; she's a lady with an estate... Do you know?" (Vassily Ivanovitch nodded.) "Yevgeny Bazaroff, say, sends his greetings, and sends word he is dying. Will you do that?"

"Yes, I will do it... But it is an impossible thing for you to die... Think only! Where would divine justice be after that?"

"I know nothing about that; only you send the messenger."

He turned his face painfully to the wall, while Vassily Ivanovitch went out of the study, and, struggling as far as his wife's bedroom, simply dropped down on to his knees before the holy pictures.

"Pray, Arina, pray for us," he murmured. "Our son is dying."

Bazaroff got worse every hour. He was in the agonies of high fever. His mother and father watched over him, combing his hair and giving him gulps of tea. The old man was tormented by a special anguish. He wished his son to take the sacrament, though, knowing his attitude towards religion, he dared not ask him. At last he could keep back the words no longer. As in a broken voice he begged his son to see a priest, a strange look came over Bazaroff's face.

"I won't refuse if that can be any comfort to you, but I'll wait a little."

There was the sound of carriage wheels outside. Vassily Ivanovitch rushed to the door. A lady in a black veil and a black mantle, accompanied by a little German doctor in spectacles, got out of the carriage.

"I am Madame Odintsov," said the lady. "Your son is still living? I have a doctor with me."

"Benefactress!" cried Vassily Ivanovitch, snatching her hand and placing it convulsively to his lips. "Still living; my Yevgeny is living, and now he will be saved! Wife! wife!... An angel from heaven has come to us."

But when the doctor came out from examining his patient he breathed the news that there was no hope, and Vassily Ivanovitch conducted Madame Odintsov to his son's room. As she looked at Bazaroff she felt simply dismayed, with a sort of cold and suffocating dismay; the thought that she would not have felt like that if she had really loved him flashed instantaneously through her brain.

"Thanks," said Bazaroff from the bed. "I did not expect this. It's a deed of mercy. So we have seen each other again as you promised.... I loved you! there was no sense in that even before, and less than ever now. Love is a form, and my own form is already breaking up."

Madame Odintsov gave an involuntary shudder.

"Noble-hearted!" he whispered. "Oh, how young and fresh and pure... in this loathsome room! Well, good-bye.... I thought I wouldn't die; I'd break down so many things. I wouldn't die; why should I? There were problems to solve, and I was a giant! And now all the problem for the giant is how to die decently.... My father will tell you what a man Russia is losing.... That's nonsense, but don't contradict the old man. Whatever toy will comfort a child... you know. And be kind to mother. People like them are not to be found in your great world.... I was needed by Russia.... No, it's clear I wasn't needed. And who is needed?"

Bazaroff put his hand to his brow. Madame Odintsov bent down to him. "Yevgeny Vassilyvitch, I am here...." He at once took his hand away and raised himself.

"Good-bye," he said, with a sudden force, and his eyes gleamed with their last light. "Good-bye.... Listen.... You know I didn't kiss you then.... Breathe on the dying lamp, and let it go out...."

She put her lips on his forehead.

"Enough!" he murmured, and dropped back on to the pillow. "Now... darkness...."

Madame Odintsov went softly out. "Well?" Vassily Ivanovitch asked her in a whisper. "He has fallen asleep," she answered, hardly audible. But Bazaroff was not fated to awaken. That night he breathed his last. A universal lamentation arose in the house. Vassily Ivanovitch was seized by a sudden frenzy.

"I said I should rebel," he shrieked hoarsely, his face inflamed and distorted, shaking his fist in the air, as though threatening someone; "and I rebel, I rebel!"

But his wife, all in tears, hung upon his neck, and both fell on their faces together. "Side by side," said one of the servants afterwards, "they drooped their poor heads like lambs at noonday...."

* * * * *

There is a little grave in the graveyard, surrounded by an iron railing; two young fir-trees have been planted, one at each end. Yevgeny Bazaroff is buried in this tomb. Often from the little village not far off two quite feeble old people come to visit it--a husband and wife. At the iron railing they fall down and remain on their knees, and long and bitterly they weep and yearn and intently they gaze at the dumb stone under which their son is lying.... Can it be that their prayers, their tears are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred, devoted love, is not all-powerful?

Oh, no! however passionate, sinning, and rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep serenely at us with their innocent eyes; they tell us not of eternal peace alone, that great peace of "indifferent" nature; they tell us, too, of eternal reconciliation and of life without end.

* * * * *

A Nest of Nobles

"A Nest of Nobles" ("Dvorianskoe Gniezdo"), published in 1858, brought Turgenev a European reputation. Of all his novels, "A Nest of Nobles" is probably the best. It has all the love of detail that is peculiar to the Slavonic mind, a trait which is largely responsible for that feeling of pessimism that pervades the writings of all those who have listened to the "still, sad music of humanity." Yet Turgenev is not typical of that Russian school of novelists of which Tolstoy and Gorki are distinguished examples; rather he belongs to the school of Thackeray, George Eliot, and Dickens.

_I.--A Student's Marriage_

Fedor Ivanitch Lavretsky came of an ancient noble family. His father, a strangely whimsical man, determined that his son should grow up a Spartan. A gymnastic instructor was his principal teacher, although he also studied natural science, mathematics, and international law. Music, as a pursuit unworthy of a man, was discarded. The female sex he was taught to hold in contempt, and all the gentler arts and emotions were rigorously repressed. The boy was conscious of defects in his education, and from his eighteenth year set himself to remedy them as far as he could. His father died when he was twenty-two, and young Lavretsky determined to go to Moscow, in the hope that diligent study might enable him to regain the ground lost in youth.

The whole tendency of his education had been to make him into a shy man: he could not get on with people; with an unquenchable thirst for love in his heart, he had never yet dared to look a woman in the face. Robust, rosy-cheeked, bearded, and taciturn, he produced a strange impression on his companions, who did not suspect that this outwardly austere man was inwardly almost a child. He appeared to them to be a queer kind of pedant; they did not care for him, made no overtures to him, and he avoided them. During the first two years he spent at the University he only became fairly intimate with one student, Mihalevitch by name, for he took lessons in Latin.

One day at the theatre he saw in a box in the front tier a young girl leaning her elbow on the velvet of the box. The light of youth and life played in every feature of her lovely dark oval face; subtle intelligence was expressed in the splendid eyes which gazed softly and attentively from under her fine brows, in the swift smile of her sensitive lips, in the very poise of her head, her hands, her neck.

Suddenly the door of her box opened, and a man came in--it was Mihalevitch. The appearance of this man, almost his only acquaintance in Moscow, on the society of the girl who had suddenly absorbed his whole attention, struck him as curious and significant. The performance ceased to interest Lavretsky, and at one pathetic part he involuntarily looked at his beauty: she was bending forward, her cheeks glowing. Under the influence of his persistent gaze her eyes slowly turned and rested on him.

All night he was haunted by those eyes. The skilfully constructed barriers were broken down at last; he was in a shiver and a fever, and the next day he went to Mihalevitch, from whom he learnt that her name was Barbara Paulovna Korobyin. Mihalevitch offered to introduce him; Lavretsky blushed, muttered something unintelligible, and ran away. For five whole days he struggled with his timidity; on the sixth he got into a new uniform and placed himself at Mihalevitch's disposal.

Paul Petrovitch Korobyin was a retired major-general. With the intention of improving his pecuniary position, he devised a new method of speculating with public funds--an excellent method in itself--but he neglected to bribe in the right place. Information was laid against him, and as a result of the subsequent inquiry he was advised to retire from active service. In Moscow he lived the life of a retired general on 2750 roubles a year.

His daughter at this time was nineteen years old, and the general found her expenses an ever-increasing tax upon his slender resources. He was therefore glad to throw no obstacle in Lavretsky's way--having discovered that he was wealthy--when, six months after their first meeting, he proposed for his daughter's hand.

Barbara Paulovna had much practical sense, and a very great love of comfort, together with a great faculty of obtaining it for herself. What charming travelling knick-knacks appeared from various corners of the luxurious carriage that she had purchased to convey them to Lavretsky's country home! And how delightfully she herself made coffee in the morning! Lavretsky, however, was not disposed to be observant at that time: he was blissful, drunk with happiness; he gave himself up to it like a child; indeed, he was as innocent as a child, this young Hercules. Not in vain was the whole personality of his young wife breathing with fascination; not in vain was her promise to the senses of a mysterious luxury of untold bliss: her fulfilment was richer than her promise.

Barbara Paulovna had no mind to establish herself permanently at Lavriky. The idea of staying in that out-of-the-way corner of the steppes never entered her head for an instant. In September she carried her husband off to St. Petersburg, where they passed two winters; the summer they spent at Tsarskoe Selo. They made many acquaintances, went out, and entertained a good deal, and gave the most charming dances and musical evenings. Barbara Paulovna attracted guests as fire attracts moths.

Fedor Ivanitch did not altogether like such a frivolous life. He was unwilling to enter the government service, as his wife suggested; still, he remained in St. Petersburg for her pleasure. He soon discovered, however, that no one hindered him from being alone; that it was not for nothing that he had the quietest and most comfortable study in St. Petersburg; that his tender wife was ever ready to aid him to be alone.

In the course of time a son was born to them, but the poor child did not live long--it died in the spring, and in the summer Lavretsky took his wife abroad. One summer and autumn they spent in Germany and Switzerland, and for the winter they went to Paris.

In Paris Barbara Paulovna made herself a little nest as quickly and as cleverly as in St. Petersburg. She soon drew round herself acquaintances--at first only Russians, afterwards Frenchmen with very excellent manners and fine-sounding names. All of them brought their friends, and _la belle Mme. de Lavretsky_ was soon known from Chausée d'Antin to Rue de Lille.

Fedor Ivanitch still busied himself with study, and set to work translating a well-known treatise on irrigation. "I am not wasting my time," he thought; "it is all of use; but next winter I must, without fail, return to Russia and get to work." An unexpected incident broke up his plans.

_II.--Separation_

Lavretsky had the most absolute confidence in his wife's every action and thought. She was always as calm, affectionate, and confidential with him as she had been from the first. It was therefore with a feeling of stupefaction that, going one day into her boudoir during her absence, he picked up from the floor a note that disclosed her infidelity. He read it absent-mindedly, and did not understand what he had read. He read it a second time--his head began to swim, the ground to sway under his feet.

He had so blindly believed in her; the possibility of deception, of treason, had never presented itself to his mind. He could not understand. This young Frenchman, almost the most insignificant of all his wife's acquaintances! The fear was borne in upon him that perhaps she had never been worthy of the trust he had reposed in her. To complete it all, he had been hoping in a few months to become a father.

All that night he wandered, half-distraught, about the streets of Paris and in the open country beyond. In the morning he went to an hotel and sent the incriminating note to his wife, with the following letter:

"The enclosed scraps of paper will explain everything to you. I cannot see you again; I imagine that you, too, would hardly desire an interview with me. I am assigning you fifteen thousand francs a year; I cannot give more. Send your address to the office of the estate. Do what you please. Live where you please. I wish you happiness!"

A long letter came back in reply: it put the finishing touch--his last doubts vanished. She did not attempt to defend herself; her only desire was to see him; she besought him not to condemn her irrevocably.

Three days later Lavretsky left Paris. For a time he followed his wife's movements, as chronicled in Paris society papers. He learnt that a daughter had been born to him. Finally a tragi-comic story was reported with acclamation in all the papers; his wife played an unenviable part in it. Barbara Paulovna had become a notoriety. He ceased to follow her movements. Scepticism, half formed already by the experiences of his life and by his education, took complete possession of his heart, and he became indifferent to everything.

Four years passed by till he felt himself able to return to his own country and to meet his own people. He went to the town of O----, where lived his cousin, Marya Dmitrievna Kalitin, with her two daughters, Elizabeth and Helena, and her aunt, Marfa Timofyevna Petrov.

_III.--A New Friendship_

Lavretsky stayed a few days in O---- before going to take up his residence, as he proposed doing, at Vassilyevskoe, a small estate of his some twenty miles distant. Mounting the steps of Kalitin's house to say good-bye before departing, he met Elizabeth coming down.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To service. It is Sunday."

"Why do you go to church?"

Lisa looked at him in silent amazement.

"I beg your pardon; I did not mean to say that. I have come to say good-bye to you; I am starting for my village in an hour."

"Well, mind you don't forget us," said Lisa, and went down the steps.

"And don't forget me. And listen," he added; "you are going to church; while you are there, pray for me too."

Lisa stopped short and turned to face him. "Certainly," she said, looking straight at him; "I will pray for you too. Good-bye."