Rudin

Darya Mihailovna was exhausted at last and letting her head fall on the cushions of her easy-chair she fixed her eyes on Rudin and was silent.

'I understand now,' began Rudin, speaking slowly, 'I understand why you come every summer into the country. This period of rest is essential for you; the peace of the country after your life in the capital refreshes and strengthens you. I am convinced that you must be profoundly sensitive to the beauties of nature.'

Darya Mihailovna gave Rudin a sidelong look.

'Nature—yes—yes—of course.... I am passionately fond of it; but do you know, Dmitri Nikolaitch, even in the country one cannot do without society. And here there is practically none. Pigasov is the most intelligent person here.'

'The cross old gentleman who was here last night?' inquired Rudin.

'Yes.... In the country though, even he is of use—he sometimes makes one laugh.'

'He is by no means stupid,' returned Rudin, 'but he is on the wrong path. I don't know whether you will agree with me, Darya Mihailovna, but in negation—in complete and universal negation—there is no salvation to be found? Deny everything and you will easily pass for a man of ability; it's a well-known trick. Simple-hearted people are quite ready to conclude that you are worth more than what you deny. And that's often an error. In the first place, you can pick holes in anything; and secondly, even if you are right in what you say, it's the worse for you; your intellect, directed by simple negation, grows colourless and withers up. While you gratify your vanity, you are deprived of the true consolations of thought; life—the essence of life—evades your petty and jaundiced criticism, and you end by scolding and becoming ridiculous. Only one who loves has the right to censure and find fault.'

'Voila, Monsieur Pigasov enterre,' observed Darya Mihailovna. 'What a genius you have for defining a man! But Pigasov certainly would not have even understood you. He loves nothing but his own individuality.'

'And he finds fault with that so as to have the right to find fault with others,' Rudin put in.

Darya Mihailovna laughed.

'"He judges the sound," as the saying is, "the sound by the sick." By the way, what do you think of the baron?'

'The baron? He is an excellent man, with a good heart and a knowledge ... but he has no character... and he will remain all his life half a savant, half a man of the world, that is to say, a dilettante, that is to say, to speak plainly,—neither one thing nor the other. ... But it's a pity!'

'That was my own idea,' observed Darya Mihailovna. 'I read his article.... Entre nous... cela a assez peu de fond!'

'Who else have you here?' asked Rudin, after a pause.

Darya Mihailovna knocked off the ash of her cigarette with her little finger.

'Oh, there is hardly any one else. Madame Lipin, Alexandra Pavlovna, whom you saw yesterday; she is very sweet—but that is all. Her brother is also a capital fellow—un parfait honnete homme. The Prince Garin you know. Those are all. There are two or three neighbours besides, but they are really good for nothing. They either give themselves airs or are unsociable, or else quite unsuitably free and easy. The ladies, as you know, I see nothing of. There is one other of our neighbours said to be a very cultivated, even a learned, man, but a dreadfully queer creature, a whimsical character. Alexandrine, knows him, and I fancy is not indifferent to him.... Come, you ought to talk to her, Dmitri Nikolaitch; she's a sweet creature. She only wants developing.'

'I liked her very much,' remarked Rudin.

'A perfect child, Dmitri Nikolaitch, an absolute baby. She has been married, mais c'est tout comme.... If I were a man, I should only fall in love with women like that.'

'Really?'

'Certainly. Such women are at least fresh, and freshness cannot be put on.'

'And can everything else?' Rudin asked, and he laughed—a thing which rarely happened with him. When he laughed his face assumed a strange, almost aged appearance, his eyes disappeared, his nose was wrinkled up.

'And who is this queer creature, as you call him, to whom Madame Lipin is not indifferent?' he asked.

'A certain Lezhnyov, Mihailo Mihailitch, a landowner here.'

Rudin seemed astonished; he raised his head.

'Lezhnyov—Mihailo Mihailitch?' he questioned. 'Is he a neighbour of yours?'

'Yes. Do you know him?'

Rudin did not speak for a minute.

'I used to know him long ago. He is a rich man, I suppose?' he added, pulling the fringe on his chair.

'Yes, he is rich, though he dresses shockingly, and drives in a racing droshky like a bailiff. I have been anxious to get him to come here; he is spoken of as clever; I have some business with him.... You know I manage my property myself.'

Rudin bowed assent.

'Yes; I manage it myself,' Darya Mihailovna continued. 'I don't introduce any foreign crazes, but prefer what is our own, what is Russian, and, as you see, things don't seem to do badly,' she added, with a wave of her hand.

'I have always been persuaded,' observed Rudin urbanely, 'of the absolutely mistaken position of those people who refuse to admit the practical intelligence of women.'

Darya Mihailovna smiled affably.

'You are very good to us,' was her comment 'But what was I going to say? What were we speaking of? Oh, yes; Lezhnyov: I have some business with him about a boundary. I have several times invited him here, and even to-day I am expecting him; but there's no knowing whether he'll come... he's such a strange creature.'

The curtain before the door was softly moved aside and the steward came in, a tall man, grey and bald, in a black coat, a white cravat, and a white waistcoat.

'What is it?' inquired Darya Mihailovna, and, turning a little towards Rudin, she added in a low voice, 'n'est ce pas, comme il ressemble a Canning?'

'Mihailo Mihailitch Lezhnyov is here,' announced the steward. 'Will you see him?'

'Good Heavens!' exclaimed Darya Mihailovna, 'speak of the devil——ask him up.'

The steward went away.

'He's such an awkward creature. Now he has come, it's at the wrong moment; he has interrupted our talk.'

Rudin got up from his seat, but Darya Mihailovna stopped him.

'Where are you going? We can discuss the matter as well before you. And I want you to analyse him too, as you did Pigasov. When you talk, vous gravez comme avec un burin. Please stay.' Rudin was going to protest, but after a moment's thought he sat down.

Mihailo Mihailitch, whom the reader already knows, came into the room. He wore the same grey overcoat, and in his sunburnt hands he carried the same old foraging cap. He bowed tranquilly to Darya Mihailovna, and came up to the tea-table.

'At last you have favoured me with a visit, Monsieur Lezhnyov!' began Darya Mihailovna. 'Pray sit down. You are already acquainted, I hear,' she continued, with a gesture in Rudin's direction.

Lezhnyov looked at Rudin and smiled rather queerly.

'I know Mr. Rudin,' he assented, with a slight bow.

'We were together at the university,' observed Rudin in a low voice, dropping his eyes.

'And we met afterwards also,' remarked Lezhnyov coldly.

Darya Mihailovna looked at both in some perplexity and asked Lezhnyov to sit down He sat down.

'You wanted to see me,' he began, 'on the subject of the boundary?'

'Yes; about the boundary. But I also wished to see you in any case. We are near neighbours, you know, and all but relations.'