by Leo Tolstoy
After we had talked a while, Ivin said that his mother and father were at home and asked if I wouldn’t like to go downstairs with him and see them.
‘Just a moment and I’ll get dressed,’ he added, going into another room, even though he was well dressed in his own room in a new frock coat and white waistcoat. He returned a few minutes later in a uniform coat buttoned all the way up, and we went downstairs. The front rooms we passed through were extraordinarily large with high ceilings and, it seemed to me, luxuriously decorated, all in mirrors and marble and gold and muslin dust covers. Mme Ivina entered a small room behind the drawing room at the same time that we did. She greeted me in a warmly kindred way, sat me down next to herself and asked with sympathetic concern about everyone in our family.
I had only seen Mme Ivina briefly a few times before, but now I looked at her carefully and liked her very much. She was short and slender with a very pale complexion and seemed to be permanently sad and weary. Her smile was wistful but extraordinarily kind. Her eyes were large, tired and slightly slanted, which gave her an even more wistful and appealing expression. She sat with her back straight but somehow let her whole body sag, and all her gestures drooped. Her speech was languid, but the timbre of her voice with its blurred pronunciation of r and l was very pleasant. She wasn’t just trying to divert me. My answers about my relatives evidently had a melancholy interest for her, as if while listening to me she were sadly recalling better times. Her son went off somewhere, and she silently gazed at me for a minute or two, and then suddenly started to cry. I sat there beside her and had no idea at all what to say or do. She continued to cry without looking at me. First I was sorry for her, and then I thought, ‘Perhaps I should console her, but how?’ and finally I became vexed with her for putting me in such an awkward position. ‘Do I really look so pitiful,’ I thought, ‘or is she doing it on purpose just to see how I’ll act in such a situation?
‘To leave now would be awkward, as if I were running from her tears,’ I continued to think. I shifted in my chair, if only to remind her of my presence.
‘Oh, how silly of me!’ she said, glancing at me and starting to smile. ‘There are days when you just cry for no reason at all.’
She started to look for her handkerchief next to her on the sofa, and then suddenly started to cry even harder.
‘Oh, my goodness! How ridiculous of me to keep crying. I loved your mother so much, and she and I … were such friends … and …’
She found her handkerchief, covered her face with it and continued to cry. The awkwardness of my position returned and lasted a long time. I felt both annoyed and even more sorry for her. Her tears seemed genuine, and I kept thinking that she wasn’t so much crying about my mother as about the fact that things weren’t good for her now, but that once, in those days, they had been much better. I don’t know how it would have ended, had not the young Ivin come back in and said that the old Ivin was asking for her. She got up and was about to go when Ivin himself came into the room. He was a short, sturdy gentleman with thick black eyebrows, completely grey close-cropped hair and an extraordinarily hard, severe set to his mouth.
I stood and bowed to him, but Ivin, who had three stars on his green coat, not only didn’t respond to my bow but barely glanced at me, so that I suddenly felt I wasn’t a human being but some object undeserving of attention – a chair or a window, or if a human being, then one who was no different at all from a chair or a window.
‘But you still haven’t written to the countess, my dear,’ he said to his wife in French with an impassive but hard expression on his face.
‘Goodbye, Monsieur Irteneff,’ Mme Ivina said with a proud nod, while looking, just like her son, at my eyebrows. I bowed again to her and to her husband, and once again my bow had the same effect on the old Ivin as if a window had just been opened or shut. The student Ivin saw me out, however, and on the way told me that he might transfer to Petersburg University, since his father had received an appointment in the capital (he named a very important position).
‘Well, it may be what Papa wished,’ I grumbled to myself as I got into the droshky, ‘but I’ll never set foot in that house again. That ninny looks at me and starts to cry as if I were some sort of wretch, while Ivin, the swine, won’t acknowledge my bow. I’ll give him …’ Just what I intended to give him I’ve absolutely no idea, but those were the words that came out.
Afterwards I frequently had to endure the admonitions of my father, who said it was essential to cultivate that acquaintance, and that I couldn’t expect someone in Ivin’s position to concern himself with a boy like me, but I held firmly to my own view of it a long time, just the same.
TWENTY-ONE
Prince Ivan Ivanych
‘Well, now to Nikitinskaya Street for our last call,’ I said to Kuzma, and we set off for the home of Prince Ivan Ivanych.
Having at that point passed through the ordeal of several calls, I was becoming more self-confident, and as I drove up to the prince’s was even in a fairly calm mood – until I suddenly remembered Princess Kornakova’s words about my being an heir, and saw two carriages by the front steps and felt my earlier timidity return.
It seemed to me that the old doorman who opened the door for me, and the footman who took my overcoat, and the three ladies and two gentlemen whom I found in the drawing room, and especially Prince Ivan Ivanych himself, who was sitting on the sofa in a civilian frock coat – it seemed to me that they all regarded me as an heir and therefore with hostility. The prince was very affectionate with me, kissed me – that is, put his soft, dry, cold lips against my cheek for a second – enquired about my studies and plans, joked with me, asked me if I had written any more verses like the ones I wrote for Grandmother’s name-day, and said that I should stay for dinner. But the more affectionate he was, the more it seemed to me that he was doing it only to keep from showing how disagreeable it was for him to think of me as his heir. Because of the false teeth that filled his mouth, he had the habit of raising his upper lip towards his nose after he said something and producing a slight snuffling sound, as if he were drawing his lip up to his nostrils, and whenever he did that now it seemed to me that he was saying to himself, ‘You, you boy, as if I needed you to tell me that you’re my heir, my heir,’ and so on.
When we were children, we called Prince Ivan Ivanych ‘Grandfather’, but now that I was an heir I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘Grandfather’ to him, whereas to address him as ‘your highness’, as one of the gentlemen there was doing, seemed demeaning to me, so I tried the whole time of our conversation to call him nothing at all. But I was made most uncomfortable by the old princess, his sister, who was his heir, too, and who lived in his house. I sat next to her at dinner and the whole time assumed that she wasn’t talking to me because she resented me for being as much an heir of the prince as she was, and that the prince wasn’t paying any attention to our side of the table because we – the princess and I – were heirs and equally repellent to him.
‘Yes, you won’t believe how unpleasant it was for me,’ I said to Dmitry later that day, wishing to brag to him about my distaste at being an heir (a very laudable feeling, I thought) – ‘you won’t believe how unpleasant it was to spend those two whole hours at the prince’s today. He’s a splendid man and was very affectionate with me,’ I said, wanting to impress on my friend in passing that I wasn’t saying any of it because I had felt humiliated by the prince, ‘but the idea that people could regard me the same way they do the princess who lives in his house and grovels at his feet is a dreadful one. He’s a wonderful old man and is extraordinarily kind and considerate with everyone, so it was painful to see how badly he maltreats the princess. Money’s a vile thing and the bane of all relationships! You know, I think it would be far better to have a frank talk with the prince,’ I said, ‘and tell him that I respect him as a man, but that I’m not thinking about the inheritance, and ask him not to leave me anything, for that
would be the only way I could visit him.’
Dmitry didn’t burst out laughing when I told him that, but instead lapsed into thought, and then, after remaining silent a few minutes, he said to me, ‘You know what? You’re wrong. Or rather, you shouldn’t assume at all that everyone regards you the same way they do that princess of yours, or if you do assume that, then assume further that you do know what they might think about you, and that those thoughts of theirs are so remote from you that you hold them in contempt and won’t do anything on their basis. You assume that they assume that you assume this … In short,’ he concluded, sensing that he was getting muddled, ‘it would be far better to assume nothing at all.’
My friend was absolutely right. It was only much, much later that experience taught me how harmful it is to think – and even more harmful to say – a great deal that seems very noble but should remain forever hidden from everyone in the heart of each, and how rarely noble words correspond to noble actions. I’m convinced that once a good intention has been uttered, it is for that very reason difficult, if not in most cases even impossible, to carry it out. But how to resist giving voice to the smugly noble impulses of youth? It’s only long afterwards that you remember and regret them, much as you might regret a flower you picked – you couldn’t resist – before it had bloomed, and then afterwards saw faded and trampled on the ground.
When it turned out the next morning before we left for the country that I had squandered all my money on various pictures and Stambouline pipes, I, who had just been telling Dmitry, my friend, that money is the bane of all relationships, took the twenty-five paper roubles he offered me for the journey and then for a very long time failed to pay him back.
TWENTY-TWO
A Heart-to-Heart Talk with My Friend
Our conversation took place in Dmitry’s phaeton on our way to Kuntsevo.46 After advising me not to call on his mother that morning, he had come by after dinner to take me to spend the whole evening and even all night at the dacha47 where his family lived. It was only after we had driven out of the city, and the dirty, motley streets and deafening clatter of the cobblestone pavement had been replaced by a broad vista of open fields and the soft crunch of the phaeton’s wheels on the dusty road, and I was surrounded on every side by fragrant spring air and space – it was only then that I started to recover from the various new impressions and awareness of freedom that had so completely confused me the last two days. Dmitry was mild and amiable and didn’t keep adjusting his cravat with his neck, or nervously blink or squint. I was pleased with the noble sentiments I had shared with him, supposing that on their account he had completely forgiven me for the shameful episode with Kolpikov and didn’t scorn me for it, and we chatted amiably about many other heartfelt things that are usually left unsaid, whatever the circumstances. Dmitry talked about his family, with whom I was still unacquainted – about his mother, aunt and sister, and about the one whom Volodya and Dubkov considered my friend’s passion and referred to as the ‘redhead’. Of his mother he spoke with rather cold and solemn praise, as if to forestall any objection on the subject; of his aunt, he spoke with delight but also a certain condescension; of his sister he said very little, as if he were embarrassed to talk about her with me; but of the ‘redhead’, whose name was Lyubov Sergeyevna, and who was a no longer young woman living in the Nekhlyudov household thanks to some sort of family connection, he spoke with animation.
‘Yes, she’s a remarkable young woman,’ he said, blushing in embarrassment, but at the same time looking me in the eye with greater boldness, ‘or no longer young, but quite old and not good-looking at all, but it’s so foolish, such nonsense to care about beauty! I can’t understand it, it’s so silly,’ he said, as if he had just discovered the most extraordinary new truth. ‘But what a soul, heart and principles … I’m sure you won’t find another young woman like her in the world today.’ I don’t know from whom Dmitry acquired the habit of saying that everything good is rare in the world today, but he liked to repeat that expression and somehow it suited him. ‘Only I’m afraid,’ he calmly resumed, having utterly demolished with his reason any who might be so foolish as to love beauty, ‘I’m afraid that you won’t understand or appreciate her right away: she’s modest and even reticent, and doesn’t like to show off her wonderful, excellent qualities. Take Mama, who, as you’ll see, is an excellent and clever woman – she has known Lyubov Sergeyevna for several years and can’t understand her and doesn’t want to. Even yesterday I … I’ll tell you why I was out of sorts when you asked. The day before yesterday Lyubov Sergeyevna wanted me to go with her to see Ivan Yakovlevich48 – you’ve probably heard about Ivan Yakovlevich, who’s supposed to be insane, but who’s actually a remarkable man. Lyubov Sergeyevna is extremely religious, I should tell you, and understands Ivan Yakovlevich perfectly. She goes to see him often and talks to him and gives him money for the poor that she herself has earned. She’s an amazing woman, as you’ll see. Well, I went with her to see Ivan Yakovlevich, and am very grateful to her that I met that remarkable man. But Mama just doesn’t want to understand that and regards it as superstition. And yesterday she and I had an argument for the first time in our lives, and quite a heated one,’ he concluded with a shuddering movement of his head, as if recalling how he felt during the argument.
‘Well, what’s your view of it, then? That is, what do you think will come of it? Or don’t you talk to Lyubov Sergeyevna about the future and where your love or friendship will lead?’ I asked, wishing to distract him from his unpleasant memory.
‘Are you asking if I’m thinking of marrying her?’ he said, blushing again but turning to look me boldly in the face.
‘Well, really,’ I thought, reassuring myself, ‘it’s just fine. We’re grown-ups, two friends riding in a phaeton and discussing our future lives. Anyone would enjoy looking at and listening to us.’
‘Well, why not?’ he went on after I had replied in the affirmative. ‘After all, my goal, like that of any reasonable person, is to be as happy and good as possible, and with her – but only if it’s what she wants after I’m completely independent – I’ll be both happier and better than with the greatest beauty in the world.’
Absorbed in conversation, we didn’t notice that we were approaching Kuntsevo, nor see that the sky was starting to cloud over, and that it was about to rain. The sun was already low on our right above the old trees of the Kuntsevo orchard, and half its brilliant red disc was covered by a grey, weakly translucent storm cloud, while from the other half fragmented rays burst forth in fiery sprays to illuminate with startling brightness the orchard’s old trees, their dense green crowns motionless against the clear, luminous azure of the sky. The brilliance of the light in that part of the sky was in stark contrast to the dark purple cloud spread before us over a young birch grove on the horizon.
Already visible a little to the right behind the trees and shrubs were the varicoloured roofs of the dachas, some reflecting brilliant sunlight, others taking on the sombre aspect of the sky’s other half. Below us on the left lay a still, blue pond surrounded by pale-green crack willows darkly reflected in its dull, seemingly convex surface. Spread out on a low hill behind the pond was a blackening fallow field transected by the straight line of an untilled, bright-green boundary strip reaching all the way to the horizon, now leaden with the gathering storm. On either side of the soft road along which the phaeton rhythmically swayed, juicy tufts of rye shone a crisp green, and here and there were already beginning to push up spikes. The air was completely still with a fresh fragrance, and the motionless green of the trees, leaves and rye was unusually bright and clean. It seemed that every leaf and blade of grass was living its own separate, full and happy life. Near the road I noticed a blackish path winding through the dark-green rye now almost knee-high, and for some reason the path reminded me with extraordinary vividness of our village, and then, by an odd linkage of thought, the memory of the village reminded me extraordinari
ly vividly of Sonyechka and that I was in love with her.
Despite my friendship with Dmitry and the pleasure his candour had given me, I didn’t want to know any more about his feelings and intentions in regard to Lyubov Sergeyevna, but urgently wanted to tell him about my own love for Sonyechka, which seemed to me to be of a much loftier kind. But for some reason I decided not to tell him just then how fine I thought it would be when, after marrying Sonyechka, I would live in the country and have little children who would crawl around the floor and call me Papa, and how glad I would be when he and his wife, Lyubov Sergeyevna, came to visit me in their travelling clothes – instead of all that I said, while pointing to the setting sun, ‘Look, Dmitry, how beautiful it is!’
Dmitry said nothing, evidently displeased that in response to his admission, which very likely had cost him an effort, I had directed his attention to nature, to which he was mostly cold. Nature had a completely different effect on him than on me: he was impressed not so much by its beauty as by its fascination; he loved it more with his mind than his heart.
‘I’m very happy,’ I immediately added, paying no attention to the fact that he was clearly preoccupied with his own thoughts and completely indifferent to whatever I might say. ‘I told you once, you remember, about a young lady I was in love with as a child – well, I saw her again today,’ I continued with animation, ‘and now I’m definitely in love with her …’
