Chapter 14

The footman left the room respectfully and Solomin sent for Pavel, had a talk with him, ran across to the factory once more, then putting on a black coat with a very long waist, which had been made by a provincial tailor, and a shabby top-hat which instantly gave his face a wooden expression, took his seat in the phaeton. He suddenly remembered that he had forgotten his gloves, and called out to the “never-failing” Pavel, who brought him a pair of newly-washed white kid ones, the fingers of which were so stretched at the tips that they looked like long biscuits. Solomin thrust the gloves into his pocket and gave the order to start. Then the footman jumped onto the box with an unnecessary amount of alacrity, the well-bred coachman sang out in a falsetto voice, and the horses started off at a gallop.

While the horses were bearing Solomin along to Sipiagin’s, that gentleman was sitting in his drawing-room with a halfcut political pamphlet on his knee, discussing him with his wife. He confided to her that he had written to him with the express purpose of trying to get him away from the merchant’s factory to his own, which was in a very bad way and needed reorganising. Sipiagin would not for a moment entertain the idea that Solomin would refuse to come, or even so much as appoint another day, though he had himself suggested it.

“But ours is a paper-mill, not a spinning-mill,” Valentina Mihailovna remarked.

“It’s all the same, my dear, machines are used in both, and he’s a mechanic.”

“But supposing he turns out to be a specialist!”

“My dear! In the first place there are no such things as specialists in Russia; in the second, I’ve told you that he’s a mechanic!”

Valentina Mihailovna smiled.

“Do be careful, my dear. You’ve been unfortunate once already with young men; mind you don’t make a second mistake.”

“Are you referring to Nejdanov? I don’t think I’ve been altogether mistaken with regard to him. He has been a good tutor to Kolia. And then you know _non bis in idem_! Excuse my being pedantic.... It means, things don’t repeat themselves!”

“Don’t you think so? Well, _I_ think that everything in the world repeats itself ... especially what’s in the nature of things ... and particularly among young people.”

_“Que voulez-vous dire?”_ asked Sipiagin, flinging the pamphlet on the table with a graceful gesture of the hand.

_“Ouvrez les yeux, et vous verrez!”_ Madame Sipiagina replied. They always spoke to one another in French.

“H’m!” Sipiagin grunted. “Are you referring to that student?”

“Yes, I’m referring to him.”

“H’m! Has he got anything on here, eh?” (He passed his hand over his forehead.)

“Open your eyes!”

“Is it Mariana, eh?” (The second “eh” was pronounced more through the nose than the first one.)

“Open your eyes, I tell you!”

Sipiagin frowned.

“We must talk about this later on. I should just like to say now that this Solomin may feel rather uncomfortable.... You see, he is not used to society. We must be nice to him so as to make him feel at his ease. Of course, I don’t mean this for you, you’re such a dear, that I think you could fascinate anyone if you chose. _J’en sais quelque chose, madame!_ I mean this for the others, if only for——”

He pointed to a fashionable grey hat lying on a shelf. It belonged to Mr. Kollomietzev, who had been in Arjanov since the morning.

“_Il est très cassant_ you know. He has far too great a contempt for the people for my liking. And he has been so frightfully quarrelsome and irritable of late. Is his little affair _there_ not getting on well?”

Sipiagin nodded his head in some indefinite direction, but his wife understood him.

“Open your eyes, I tell you again!”

Sipiagin stood up.

“Eh?” (This “eh” was pronounced in a quite different tone, much lower.) “Is that how the land lies? They had better take care I don’t open them too wide!”

“That is your own affair, my dear. But as for that new young man of yours, you may be quite easy about him. I will see that everything is all right. Every precaution will be taken.”

It turned out that no precautions were necessary, however. Solomin was not in the least alarmed or embarrassed.

As soon as he was announced Sipiagin jumped up, exclaiming in a voice loud enough to be heard in the hall, “Show him in, of course show him in!” He then went up to the drawing-room door and stood waiting. No sooner had Solomin crossed the threshold, almost knocking against Sipiagin, when the latter extended both his hands, saying with an amiable smile and a friendly shake of the head, “How very nice of you to come.... I can hardly thank you enough.” Then he led him up to Valentina Mihailovna.

“Allow me to introduce you to my wife,” he said, gently pressing his hand against Solomin’s back, pushing him towards her as it were. “My dear, here is our best local engineer and manufacturer, Vassily... Fedosaitch Solomin.”

Madame Sipiagina stood up, raised her wonderful eyelashes, smiled sweetly as to an acquaintance, extended her hand with the palm upwards, her elbow pressed against her waist, her head bent a little to the right, in the attitude of a suppliant. Solomin let the husband and wife go through their little comedy, shook hands with them both, and sat down at the first invitation to do so. Sipiagin began to fuss about him, asking if he would like anything, but Solomin assured him that he wanted nothing and was not in the least bit tired from the journey.

“Then may we go to the factory?” Sipiagin asked, a little shame-faced, not daring to believe in so much condescension on the part of his guest.

“As soon as you like, I’m quite ready,” Solomin replied. “How awfully good of you! Shall we drive or would you like to walk?”

“Is it a long way?”

“About half a mile.”

“It’s hardly worthwhile bringing out the carriage.”

“Very well. Ivan! my hat and stick! Make haste! And you’ll see about some dinner, little one, won’t you? My hat, quick!”

Sipiagin was far more excited than his visitor, and calling out once more, “Why don’t they give me my hat,” he, the stately dignitary, rushed out like a frolicsome schoolboy. While her husband was talking to Solomin, Valentina Mihailovna looked at him stealthily, trying to make out this new “young man.” He was sitting in an armchair, quite at his ease, his bare hands laid on his knee (he had not put on the gloves after all), calmly, although not without a certain amount of curiosity, looking around at the furniture and pictures. “I don’t understand,” she thought, “he’s a plebeian—quite a plebeian—and yet behaves so naturally!” Solomin did indeed carry himself naturally, not with any view to effect, as much as to say “Look what a splendid fellow I am!” but as a man whose thoughts and feelings are simple, direct, and strong at the same time. Madame Sipiagina wanted to say something to him, but was surprised to find that she did not quite know how to begin.

“Heavens!” she thought. “This mechanic is making me quite nervous!”

“My husband must be very grateful to you,” she remarked at last. “It was so good of you to sacrifice a few hours of your valuable time—”

“My time is not so very valuable, madame,” he observed. “Besides, I’ve not come here for long.”

_“Voilà où l’ours a montré sa patte,”_ she thought in French, but at this moment her husband appeared in the doorway, his hat on his head and a walking stick in his hand.

“Are you ready, Vassily Fedosaitch?” he asked in a free and easy tone, half turned towards him.

Solomin rose, bowed to Valentina Mihailovna, and walked out behind Sipiagin.

“This way, this way, Vassily Fedosaitch!” Sipiagin called out, just as if they were groping their way through a tangled forest and Solomin needed a guide. “This way! Do be careful, there are some steps here, Vassily Fedosaitch!”

“If you want to call me by my father’s Christian name,” Solomin said slowly, “then it isn’t Fedosaitch, but Fedotitch.”

Sipiagin was taken aback and looked at him over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Vassily Fedotitch.”

“Please don’t mention it.”

As soon as they got outside they ran against Kollomietzev.

“Where are you off to?” the latter asked, looking askance at Solomin. “Are you going to the factory? _C’est là l’individu en question?_”

Sipiagin opened his eyes wide and shook his head slightly by way of warning.

“Yes, we’re going to the factory. I want to show all my sins and transgressions to this gentleman, who is an engineer. Allow me to introduce you. Mr. Kollomietzev, a neighbouring landowner, Mr. Solomin.”

Kollomietzev nodded his head twice in an off-hand manner without looking at Solomin, but the latter looked at him and there was a sinister gleam in his half-closed eyes.

“May I come with you?” Kollomietzev asked. “You know I’m always ready to learn.”

“Certainly, if you like.”

They went out of the courtyard into the road and had scarcely taken twenty steps when they ran across a priest in a woven cassock, who was wending his way homeward. Kollomietzev left his two companions and, going up to him with long, firm strides, asked for his blessing and gave him a sounding smack on his moist, red hand, much to the discomfiture of the priest, who did not in the least expect this sort of outburst. He then turned to Solomin and gave him a defiant look. He had evidently heard something about him and wanted to show off and get some fun out of this learned scoundrel.

_“C’est une manifestation, mon cher?”_ Sipiagin muttered through his teeth.

Kollomietzev giggled.

_“Oui, mon cher, une manifestation nécessaire par temps qui court!”_

They got to the factory and were met by a Little Russian with an enormous beard and false teeth, who had taken the place of the former manager, a German, whom Sipiagin had dismissed. This man was there in a temporary capacity and understood absolutely nothing; he merely kept on saying “Just so... yes... that’s it,” and sighing all the time. They began inspecting the place. Several of the workmen knew Solomin by sight and bowed to him. He even called out to one of them, “Hallo, Gregory! You here?” Solomin was soon convinced that the place was going badly. Money was simply thrown away for no reason whatever. The machines turned out to be of a very poor kind; many of them were quite superfluous and a great many necessary ones were lacking. Sipiagin kept looking into Solomin’s face, trying to guess his opinion, asked a few timid questions, wanted to know if he was at any rate satisfied with the order of the place.

“Oh, the order is all right,” Solomin replied, “but I doubt if you can get anything out of it.”

Not only Sipiagin, but even Kollomietzev felt, that in the factory Solomin was quite at home, was familiar with every little detail, was master there in fact. He laid his hand on a machine as a rider on his horse’s neck; he poked a wheel with his finger and it either stood still or began whirling round; he took some paper pulp out of a vat and it instantly revealed all its defects.

Solomin said very little, took no notice of the Little Russian at all, and went out without saying anything. Sipiagin and Kollomietzev followed him.

Sipiagin was so upset that he did not let any one accompany him. He stamped and ground his teeth with rage.

“I can see by your face,” he said turning to Solomin, “that you are not pleased with the place. Of course, I know that it’s not in a very excellent condition and doesn’t pay as yet. But please ... give me your candid opinion as to what you consider to be the principal failings and as to what one could do to improve matters.”

“Paper-manufacturing is not in my line,” Solomin began, “but I can tell you one thing. I doubt if the aristocracy is cut out for industrial enterprises.”

“Do you consider it degrading for the aristocracy?” Kollomietzev asked.

Solomin smiled his habitual broad smile.

“Oh dear no! What is there degrading about it? And even if there were, I don’t think the aristocracy would be overly particular.”

“What do you mean?”

“I only meant,” Solomin continued, calmly, “that the gentry are not used to that kind of business. A knowledge of commerce is needed for that; everything has to be put on a different footing, you want technical training for it. The gentry don’t understand this. We see them starting woollen, cotton, and other factories all over the place, but they nearly always fall into the hands of the merchants in the end. It’s a pity, because the merchants are even worse sweaters. But it can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“To listen to you one would think that all questions of finance were above our nobility!” Kollomietzev exclaimed.

“Oh no! On the other hand the nobility are masters at it. For getting concessions for railways, founding banks, exempting themselves from some tax, or anything like that, there is no one to beat them! They make huge fortunes. I hinted at that just now, but it seemed to offend you. I had regular industrial enterprises in my mind when I spoke; I say _regular_, because founding private public houses, petty little grocers’ shops, or lending the peasants corn or money at a hundred or a hundred and fifty percent, as many of our landed gentry are now doing, I cannot consider as genuine financial enterprises.”

Kollomietzev did not say anything. He belonged to that new species of money-lending landlord whom Markelov had mentioned in his last talk with Nejdanov, and was the more inhuman in his demands that he had no personal dealings with the peasants themselves. He never allowed them into his perfumed European study, and conducted all his business with them through his manager. He was boiling with rage while listening to Solomin’s slow, impartial speech, but he held his peace; only the working of the muscles of his face betrayed what was passing within him.

“But allow me, Vassily Fedotitch,” Sipiagin began; “what you have just said may have been quite true in former days, when the nobility had quite different privileges and were altogether in a different position; but now, after all the beneficial reforms in our present industrial age, why should not the nobility turn their attention and bring their abilities into enterprises of this nature? Why shouldn’t they be able to understand what is understood by a simple illiterate merchant? They are not suffering from lack of education and one might even claim, without any exaggeration, that they are, in a certain sense, the representatives of enlightenment and progress.”

Boris Andraevitch spoke very well; his eloquence would have made a great stir in St. Petersburg, in his department, or maybe in higher quarters, but it produced no effect whatever on Solomin.

“The nobility cannot manage these things,” Solomin repeated.

“But why, I should like to know? Why?” Kollomietzev almost shouted.

“Because there is too much of the bureaucrat about them.”

“Bureaucrat?” Kollomietzev laughed maliciously. “I don’t think you quite realise what you’re saying, Mr. Solomin.”

Solomin continued smiling.

“What makes you think so, Mr. Kolomentzev?” (Kollomietzev shuddered at hearing his name thus mutilated.) “I assure you that I always realise what I am saying.”

“Then please explain what you meant just now!”

“With pleasure. I think that every bureaucrat is an outsider and was always such. The nobility have now become ‘outsiders.’”

Kollomietzev laughed louder than ever.

“But, my dear sir, I really don’t understand what you mean!”

“So much the worse for you. Perhaps you will if you try hard enough.”

“Sir!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Sipiagin interposed hastily, trying to catch someone’s eye, “please, please... Kallomeitzeff, _je vous prie de vous calmer_. I suppose dinner will soon be ready. Come along, gentlemen!”

“Valentina Mihailovna!” Kollomietzev cried out five minutes later, rushing into her boudoir. “I really don’t know what your husband is doing! He has brought us one nihilist and now he’s bringing us another! Only this one is much worse!”

“But why?”

“He is advocating the most awful things, and what do you think? He has been talking to your husband for a whole hour, and not once, _not once_, did he address him as Your Excellency! _Le vagabond!_”

XXIV

Just before dinner Sipiagin called his wife into the library. He wanted to have a talk with her alone. He seemed worried. He told her that the factory was really in a bad way, that Solomin struck him as a capable man, although a little stiff, and thought it was necessary to continue being _aux petits soins_ with him.

“How I should like to get hold of him!” he repeated once or twice. Sipiagin was very much annoyed at Kollomietzev’s being there. “Devil take the man! He sees nihilists everywhere and is always wanting to suppress them! Let him do it at his own house I He simply can’t hold his tongue!”

Valentina Mihailovna said that she would be delighted to be _aux petits soins_ with the new visitor, but it seemed to her that he had no need of these _petits soins_ and took no notice of them; not rudely in any way, but he was quite indifferent; very remarkable in a man _du commun_.

“Never mind.... Be nice to him just the same!” Sipiagin begged of her.

Valentina Mihailovna promised to do what he wanted and fulfilled her promise conscientiously. She began by having a _tête-à-tête_ with Kollomietzev. What she said to him remains a secret, but he came to the table with the air of a man who had made up his mind to be discreet and submissive at all costs. This “resignation” gave his whole bearing a slight touch of melancholy; and what dignity... oh, what dignity there was in every one of his movements! Valentina Mihailovna introduced Solomin to everybody (he looked more attentively at Mariana than at any of the others), and made him sit beside her on her right at table. Kollomietzev sat on her left, and as he unfolded his serviette screwed up his face and smiled, as much as to say, “Well, now let us begin our little comedy!” Sipiagin sat on the opposite side and watched him with some anxiety. By a new arrangement of Madame Sipiagina, Nejdanov was not put next to Mariana as usual, but between Anna Zaharovna and Sipiagin. Mariana found her card (as the dinner was a stately one) on her serviette between Kollomietzev and Kolia. The dinner was excellently served; there was even a “menu”—a painted card lay before each person.

Directly soup was finished, Sipiagin again brought the conversation round to his factory, and from there went on to Russian manufacture in general. Solomin, as usual, replied very briefly. As soon as he began speaking, Mariana fixed her eyes upon him. Kollomietzev, who was sitting beside her, turned to her with various compliments (he had been asked not to start a dispute), but she did not listen to him; and indeed he pronounced all his pleasantries in a half-hearted manner, merely to satisfy his own conscience. He realised that there was something between himself and this young girl that could not be crossed.

As for Nejdanov, something even worse had come to pass between him and the master of the house. For Sipiagin, Nejdanov had become simply a piece of furniture, or an empty space that he quite ignored. These new relations had taken place so quickly and unmistakably that when Nejdanov pronounced a few words in answer to a remark of Anna Zaharovna’s, Sipiagin looked round in amazement, as if wondering where the sound came from.

Sipiagin evidently possessed some of the characteristics for which certain of the great Russian bureaucrats are celebrated for.

After the fish, Valentina Mihailovna, who had been lavishing all her charms on Solomin, said to her husband in English that she noticed their visitor did not drink wine and might perhaps like some beer. Sipiagin called aloud for ale, while Solomin calmly turned towards Valentina Mihailovna, saying, “You may not be aware, madame, that I spent over two years in England and can understand and speak English. I only mentioned it in case you should wish to say anything private before me.” Valentina Mihailovna laughed and assured him that this precaution was altogether unnecessary, since he would hear nothing but good of himself; inwardly she thought Solomin’s action rather strange, but delicate in its own way.

At this point Kollomietzev could no longer contain himself. “And so you’ve been in England,” he began, “and no doubt studied the manners and customs there. Do you think them worth imitating?”

“Some yes, others no.”

“Brief but not clear,” Kollomietzev remarked, trying not to notice the signs Sipiagin was making to him. “You were speaking of the nobility this morning.... No doubt you’ve had the opportunity of studying the English landed gentry, as they call them there.”

“No, I had no such opportunity. I moved in quite a different sphere. But I formed my own ideas about these gentlemen.”

“Well, do you think that such a landed gentry is impossible among us? Or that we ought not to want it in any case?”

“In the first place, I certainly do think it impossible, and in the second, it’s hardly worthwhile wanting such a thing.”

“But why, my dear sir?” Kollomietzev asked; the polite tone was intended to soothe Sipiagin, who sat very uneasily on his chair.

“Because in twenty or thirty years your landed gentry won’t be here in any case.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because by that time the land will fall into the hands of people in no way distinguished by their origin.”

“Do you mean the merchants?”

“For the most part probably the merchants.”

“But how will it happen?”

“They’ll buy it, of course.”

“From the gentry?”

“Yes; from the gentry.”

Kollomietzev smiled condescendingly. “If you recollect you said the very same thing about factories that you’re now saying about the land.”

“And it’s quite true.”

“You will no doubt be very pleased about it!”

“Not at all. I’ve already told you that the people won’t be any the better off for the change.”

Kollomietzev raised his hand slightly. “What solicitude on the part of the people, imagine!”

“Vassily Fedotitch!” Sipiagin called out as loudly as he could, “they have brought you some beer! _Voyons, Siméon!_” he added in an undertone.

But Kollomietzev would not be suppressed.

“I see you haven’t a very high opinion of the merchant class,” he began again, turning to Solomin, “but they’ve sprung from the people.”

“So they have.”

“I thought that you considered everything about the people, or relating to the people, as above criticism!”

“Not at all! You are quite mistaken. The masses can be condemned for a great many things, though they are not always to blame. Our merchant is an exploiter and uses his capital for that purpose. He thinks that people are always trying to get the better of him, so he tries to get the better of them. But the people—”

“Well, what about the people?” Kollomietzev asked in falsetto.

“The people are asleep.”

“And would you like to wake them?”

“That would not be a bad thing to do.”

“Aha! aha! So that’s what—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Sipiagin exclaimed imperatively. He felt that the moment had come to put an end to the discussion, and he did put an end to it. With a slight gesture of his right hand, while the elbow remained propped on the table, he delivered a long and detailed speech. He praised the conservatives on the one hand and approved of the liberals on the other, giving the preference to the latter as he counted himself of their numbers. He spoke highly of the people, but drew attention to some of their weaknesses; expressed his full confidence in the government, but asked himself whether _all_ its officials were faithfully fulfilling its benevolent designs. He acknowledged the importance of literature, but declared that without the utmost caution it was dangerous. He turned to the West with hope, then became doubtful; he turned to the East, first sighed, then became enthusiastic. Finally he proposed a toast in honour of the trinity: Religion, Agriculture, and Industry!

“Under the wing of authority!” Kollomietzev added sternly.