Virgin Soil. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
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to myself,” Valentina Mihailovna interrupted him; “I am also interested in these questions. I am not quite an old lady yet.”
“Of course. So am I in a way,” Kollomietzev put in hastily. “Only I would forbid such things being talked about!”
“Forbid them being talked about?” Mariana asked in astonishment.
“Yes! I would say to the public, ‘Interest yourselves in these things as much as you like, but talk about them … shhh …’ ” He layed his finger on his lips.
“I would, at any rate, forbid speaking through the press under any conditions!”
Valentina Mihailovna laughed.
“What? Would you have a commission appointed by the ministers for settling these questions?
“Why not? Don’t you think we could do it better than these ignorant, hungry loafers who know nothing and imagine themselves to be men of genius? We could appoint Boris Andraevitch as president.”
Valentina Mihailovna laughed louder still.
“You had better take care, Boris Andraevitch is sometimes such a Jacobin—”
“Jacko, jacko, jacko,” the parrot screamed. Valentina Mihailovna waved her handkerchief at him. “Don’t interrupt an intelligent conversation! Mariana, do teach him manners!”
Mariana turned to the cage and began stroking the parrot’s neck with her finger; the parrot stretched towards her.
“Yes,” Valentina Mihailovna continued, “Boris Andraevitch astonishes me, too, sometimes. There is a certain strain in him … a certain strain … of the tribune.”
“C’est parce qu’il est orateur!” Kollomietzev exclaimed enthusiastically in French. “Your husband is a marvellous orator and is accustomed to success … ses propres paroles le grisent … and then his desire for popularity. By the way, he is rather annoyed just now, is he not? Il boude? Eh?”
Valentina Mihailovna looked at Mariana.
“I haven’t noticed it,” she said after a pause. “Yes,” Kollomietzev continued pensively, “he was rather overlooked at Easter.”
Valentina Mihailovna indicated Mariana with her eyes. Kollomietzev smiled and screwed up his eyes, conveying to her that he understood. “Mariana Vikentievna,” he exclaimed suddenly, in an unnecessarily loud tone of voice, “do you intend teaching at the school again this year?”
Mariana turned round from the cage.
“Are you interested to know, Simion Petrovitch?”
“Certainly. I am very much interested.”
“Would you forbid it?”
“I would forbid nihilists even so much as to think of schools. I would put all schools into the hands of the clergy, and with an eye on them I wouldn’t mind running one myself!”
“Really! I haven’t the slightest idea what I shall do this year. Last year things were not at all successful. Besides, how can you get a school together in the summer?”
Mariana blushed deeply all the time she was speaking, as if it cost her some effort. She was still very self-conscious.
“Are you not sufficiently prepared?” Valentina Mihailovna asked sarcastically.
“Perhaps not.”
“Heavens!” Kollomietzev exclaimed. “What do I hear? Oh ye gods! Is preparation necessary to teach peasants the alphabet?”
At this moment Kolia ran into the drawing room shouting “Mamma! mamma! Papa has come!” And after him, waddling on her stout little legs, appeared an old grey-haired lady in a cap and yellow shawl, and also announced that Boris had come.
This lady was Sipiagin’s aunt, and was called Anna Zaharovna. Everyone in the drawing room rushed out into the hall, down the stairs, and on to the steps of the portico. A long avenue of chipped yews ran straight from these steps to the high road—a carriage and four was already rolling up the avenue straight towards them. Valentina Mihailovna, standing in front, waved her pocket handkerchief, Kolia shrieked with delight, the coachman adroitly pulled up the steaming horses, a footman came down headlong from the box and almost pulled the carriage door off its hinges in his effort to open it—and then, with a condescending smile on his lips, in his eyes, over the whole of his face, Boris Andraevitch, with one graceful gesture of the shoulders, dropped his cloak and sprang to the ground. Valentina Mihailovna gracefully threw her arms round his neck and they kissed three times. Kolia stamped his little feet and pulled at his father’s coat from behind, but Boris Andraevitch first kissed Anna Zaharovna, quickly threw off his uncomfortable, ugly Scotch cap, greeted Mariana and Kollomietzev, who had also come out (he gave Kollomietzev a hearty shake of the hand in the English fashion), and then turned to his little son, lifted him under the arms, and kissed him.
During this scene Nejdanov half guiltily scrambled out of the carriage and, without removing his cap, stood quietly near the front wheel, looking out from under his eyebrows. Valentina Mihailovna, when embracing her husband, had cast a penetrating look over his shoulder at this new figure. Sipiagin had informed her that he was bringing a tutor.
Everyone continued exchanging greetings and shaking hands with the newly-arrived host as they all moved up the broad stairs, lined on either side with the principal men and maid servants. They did not come forward to kiss the master’s hand (an Asiatic custom they had abandoned long ago), but bowed respectfully. Sipiagin responded to their salutations with a slight movement of the nose and eyebrows, rather than an inclination of the head.
Nejdanov followed the stream up the wide stairs. As soon as they reached the hall, Sipiagin, who had been searching for Nejdanov with his eyes, introduced him to his wife, Anna Zaharovna, and Mariana, and said to Kolia, “This is your tutor. Mind you do as he tells you. Give him your hand.” Kolia extended his hand timidly, stared at him fixedly, but finding nothing particularly interesting about his tutor, turned to his “papa” again. Nejdanov felt uncomfortable, just as he had done at the theatre. He wore an old shabby coat, and his face and hands were covered with dust from the journey. Valentina Mihailovna said something kindly to him, but he did not quite catch what it was and did not reply. He noticed that she was very bright, and clung to her husband affectionately. He did not like Kolia’s befrizzled and pomaded head, and when his eye fell on Kollomietzev, thought, “What a sleek individual.” He paid no attention to the others. Sipiagin turned his head once or twice in a dignified manner, as if looking round at his worldly belongings, a pose that set off to perfection his long drooping whiskers and somewhat small round neck. Then he shouted to one of the servants in a loud resonant voice, not at all husky from the journey, “Ivan! Take this gentleman to the green room and see to his luggage afterwards!” He then told Nejdanov that he could change and rest awhile, and that dinner would be served at five o’clock. Nejdanov bowed and followed Ivan to the “green” room, which was situated on the second floor.
The whole company went into the drawing room. The host was welcomed all over again. An old blind nurse appeared and made him a courtesy. Out of consideration for her years, Sipiagin gave her his hand to kiss. He then begged Kollomietzev to excuse him, and retired to his own room accompanied by his wife.
VII
The room into which the servant conducted Nejdanov was beautifully neat and spacious, with wide-open windows looking on to the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the white curtains, blowing them out high like sails and letting them fall again. Golden reflections glided lightly over the ceiling; the whole room was filled with the moist freshness of spring. Nejdanov dismissed the servant, unpacked his trunk, washed, and changed. The journey had thoroughly exhausted him. The constant presence of a stranger during