Virgin Soil (Volume 1)/Chapter 1

by Ivan Turgenev

PART I

Virgin Soil should be turned up not by a harrow skimming over the surface, but by a plough biting deep into the earth.─From the Notebook of a Farmer.

I

At one o'clock on a spring day of 1868, in Petersburg, a man of twenty-seven, carelessly and shabbily dressed, was mounting the back stairs of a five-storied house in Officers' Street. Tramping heavily with his over-shoes trodden down at heel, and slowly rolling his bulky, ungainly person as he moved, this man at last reached the very top of the stairs. He stopped before a half-open door, hanging off its hinges, and without ringing the bell, merely giving a noisy sigh, he swung into a small, dark anteroom.

'Is Nezhdanov at home?' he called in a deep and loud voice.

'He 's not─I'm here, come in,' came from the next room another voice, a woman's, also rather gruff.

'Mashurina?' queried the new-comer.

'Yes, it's me. And you─Ostrodumov?'

'Pimen Ostrodumov', he answered, and first carefully pulling off his rubber over-shoes, and then hanging his threadbare little old cloak on a nail, he went into the room from which the woman's voice had come.

This room, low-pitched and dirty, with its walls coloured a dingy green, was dimly lighted by two dusty windows. The only furniture in it was a small iron bedstead in the corner, a table in the middle, a few chairs, and a bookcase crammed with books. Near the table was sitting a woman of thirty, bareheaded, in a black woollen gown, smoking a cigarette. When she saw Ostrodumov come in, she held out her broad red hand to him without speaking. He shook it, also without speaking, and, sinking into a chair, he pulled a half-smoked cigar out of his side pocket Mashurina gave him a light, he began smoking, and without saying a word, or even exchanging glances, they both set to puffing rings of bluish smoke into the close air, which was already saturated with tobacco fumes.

These two people had something in common, though in features they were not alike. About their slovenly figures, with coarse lips, and teeth, and noses (Ostrodumov was marked with smallpox too), there was an air of honesty and stoicism and industry.

'Have you seen Nezhdanov?' Ostrodumov inquired at last.

'Yes; he'll be here directly. He 's gone to the library with the books.'

Ostrodumov turned aside and spat.

'How is it he's for ever gadding about now ? There's no finding him.'

Mashurina took out another cigarette.

'He's bored,' she pronounced, carefully lighting it.

'Bored!' repeated Ostrodumov reproachfully. ' What self-indulgence! One would think we'd no work for him to do. Here are we praying we may get through all the work decently somehow, and he's bored!'

'Any letter come from Moscow?' inquired Mashurina, after a brief pause.

'Yes . . . the day before yesterday.'

'Have you read it?'

Ostrodumov merely nodded.

'Well . . . what's the news?'

'Oh some one will have to go there soon.'

Mashurina took the cigarette out of her mouth.

'Why so? Everything's all right there, I'm told.'

'Yes, it's all right. Only one man's shown he's not to be depended on. So that . . . we must shift him, or else get rid of him altogether. Oh, and there are other things. They ask for you, too.'

In the letter?'

'Yes.'

Mashurina shook back her heavy hair. Twisted up carelessly into a small knot behind, it fell in front over her forehead and eyebrows.

'Ah, well', she declared; 'since the order's given, it's no use discussing it!'

'Of course not. Only it can't be done without money; and where are we to get the money?'

Mashurina pondered. 'Nezhdanov will have to produce it,' she said in an undertone, as though to herself.

'That's the very thing I've come about,' observed Ostrodumov.

'Have you got the letter with you?' Mashurina asked suddenly.

'Yes. Would you like to read it?'

'Yes, give it me . . . no, you needn't, though. We'll read it together . . . afterwards.'

'I tell the truth,' muttered Ostrodumov; 'you needn't doubt it.'

'Well, I don't doubt it.'

And both sank into silence again; and as before, only the rings of smoke floated from their silent lips, and coiling feebly rose above their dishevelled heads.

The thud of over-shoes was heard in the anteroom.

'Here he is!' whispered Mashurina.

The door was opened slightly, and in the crack was thrust a head but not the head of Nezhdanov.

It was a little round head with rough black hair, a broad, wrinkled forehead, very keen, little brown eyes under bushy eyebrows, a nose pointing in the air like a duck's, and a tiny, rosy, comical mouth. This head took a look round, nodded, smiled─showing a number of tiny white teeth─and came into the room, accompanied by its rickety little body, short arms, and somewhat bandy and lame little legs. Directly Mashurina and Ostrodumov caught sight of this head, the faces of both expressed a sort of condescending contempt, as though each of them were inwardly saying, 'Oh! it's only he!' and they did not utter a single word, did not stir a muscle. However, the reception accorded him not only failed to embarrass the visitor, but apparently afforded him positive gratification.

'What's the meaning of this?' he said in a squeaky voice. 'A duet? Why not a trio? And where's the first tenor?'

'Do you mean to inquire after Nezhdanov, Mr. Paklin?' replied Ostrodumov with a serious face.

'Precisely so, Mr. Ostrodumov; I mean him.'

'He'll be here directly, most likely, Mr Paklin.'

'It's very delightful to hear that, Mr. Ostrodumov.'

The little cripple turned to Mashurina. She sat scowling, and went on deliberately puffing at her cigarette.

'How are you, dear . . . dear . . . There, how annoying! I always forget your name and your father's.'

Mashurina shrugged her shoulders.

'And there's no need whatever to know them! You know my surname. What more do you want? And what a question: how are you! Can't you see I'm alive all right?'

'True, most true!' cried Paklin, his nostrils dilating and his eyebrows twitching; 'if you weren't alive, your humble servant would not have the pleasure of seeing you here and talking to you! Put my question down to a bad old-fashioned habit. But as for your name and your father's . . . You know it's rather awkward to say baldly, Mashurina! I'm aware, it's true, that you even sign your letters so: Bonaparte! that's to say, Mashurina! But still, in conversation———'

'But who asks you to talk tome?'

Paklin laughed nervously, as though he were choking.

'There, that's enough, my dear creature—shake hands, don't be cross; don't I know you've the best heart in the world? and I've a good heart, too . . . Eh?'

Paklin held out his hand. . . . Mashurina looked at him darkly. She shook hands with him, however.

'If you positively must know my name,' she said, with the same gloomy face, 'by all means; my name's Fekla.'

'And mine, Pimen,' Ostrodumov added in his bass.

'Ah! that's very . . . very instructive! But that being so, tell me, O Fekla! and you, O Pimen! tell me why you behave with such unfriendliness, such persistent unfriendliness, to me, while I———'

'Mashurina thinks', Ostrodumov interrupted, 'and she's not the only one who thinks it, that as you look at every subject from the ridiculous side, there's no relying upon you.'

Paklin turned sharply round on his heels.

'There she—that's the mistake people are continually making in criticising me, most honoured Pimen! In the first place, I'm not always laughing; and secondly, that would not in the least prevent your being able to rely upon me, which is proved, indeed, by the flattering confidence I've more than once enjoyed in your ranks! I'm an honest man, most reverend Pimen!'

Ostrodumov muttered something between his teeth, while Paklin shook his head and repeated, now without the faintest trace of a smile, 'No! I'm not always laughing! I'm anything but a light-hearted person! You need only look at me!'

Ostrodumov did look at him. And, in fact, when Paklin was not laughing, when he was silent, his face wore an expression almost of dejection, almost of terror; it became humorous and even malicious directly he opened his mouth. Ostrodumov said nothing, however.

Paklin again turned to Mashurina.

'Well, and how are your studies progressing? Are you successful in your truly philanthropic art? I should guess it's a difficult job helping the inexperienced citizen on his first entrance into the light of day?'

'No, not at all difficult, so long as he's not much bigger than you,' answered Mashurina, who had just taken her diploma as a midwife; and she smiled complacently. A year and a half before, she had left her own people, a family of poor nobles in South Russia, and had come to Petersburg with six roubles in her pocket; she had entered a lying-in institution, and by unceasing hard work had gained the coveted diploma. She was a single woman . . . and a very chaste single woman. Nothing wonderful in that, some sceptic will say, remembering what has been said of her exterior. Something wonderful and rare, let us be permitted to say.

Paklin laughed again when he heard her retort.

'You 're a smart person, my dear!' he cried. 'You had me there nicely! I deserve it. Why did I stay such a shrimp! But what can have become of our host?'

Paklin purposely changed the subject. He had never been able to resign himself to his diminutive stature and his unsightly little person altogether. He felt it the more keenly as he was a passionate admirer of women. What would he not have given to attract them! The consciousness of his pitiful exterior was a much sorer wound to him than his humble origin, or his unenviable position in society. Paklin's father had been simply a tradesman, who, through shifty dodges of one sort and another, had risen to the rank of titular councillor. He had been a successful go-between in legal business, and a speculator and agent for houses and property. He had made a respectable fortune; but drank heavily towards the end of his life, and left nothing at his death. Young Paklin (he had been named Sila Samsonitch, that is, Strength, son of Samson, which he also regarded as a jeer at his expense) had been educated at commercial school, where he learned German thoroughly. After various rather disagreeable experiences, he got at last into a private business house for a salary of about a hundred and fifty pounds a year. On that sum he kept himself, a sick aunt, and a humpbacked sister. At the time of our story he was just twenty-eight. Paklin was acquainted with a number of students, young men who liked him for his cynical wit, the light-hearted venom of his audacious talk, and his one-sided but genuine and unpedantic learning. Only occasionally he suffered at their hands. One day he was somehow late at a political gathering. . . . As he came in, he began at once hurriedly making excuses. . . .

'Poor Paklin was afeared!' sang out some one in a corner, and they all roared with laughter. Paklin at last laughed himself, though his heart was sore. 'He spoke the truth, the ruffian!' he thought to himself. He made Nezhdanov's acquaintance at a Greek eating-house, where he used to go and dine, and where he constantly expressed very free and bold opinions. He used to declare that the chief cause of his democratic frame of mind was the execrable Greek cookery, which upset his liver.

'Yes . . . really . . . what has become of our host?' repeated Paklin. ' I've noticed for some time past he's seemed out of spirits. Can he be in love?─Heaven forfend!'

Mashurina scowled.

'He's gone to the library for some books; he's no time to be in love and no one to be in love with.'

'How about you?' almost broke from Paklin's lips. 'I want to see him,' he uttered aloud, because I have to talk to him about an important affair.'

'What sort of affair?' put in Ostrodumov. 'Our affairs?'

'Perhaps yours . . . that is, our common affairs.'

Ostrodumov hummed. In his heart he was doubtful, but then he reflected, 'Who can tell? He's such a slippery eel!'

'Here he comes at last,' said Mashurina suddenly, and in her small unlovely eyes, that were fastened on the door of the anteroom, there was a flash of something warm and tender, a kind of deep inward spot of light. . . .

The door opened, and this time there entered a young man of three-and-twenty, a cap on his head and a bundle of books under his arm—Nezhdanov himself.