# Virgin Soil (Garnett)/Volume 1/Chapter 8

VIII
Nezhdanov woke up early, and without waiting for a servant to make his appearance he dressed and went out into the garden. It was very large and beautiful, this garden, and was kept in splendid order; hired labourers were scraping the paths with spades; among the intense green of the bushes peeped the red kerchiefs of peasant-girls armed with rakes. Nezhdanov made his way to the lake: the fog of early morning had already disappeared from it, but the mist still clung about in parts, in shady nooks in the banks. The sun, not yet high in the sky, beat with rosy light over the broad, silky, leaden-hued surface. Some carpenters were busily at work near the washing-platform; a new, freshly painted boat lay there, feebly rocking from side to side, stirring a faint eddy in the water about it. The men's voices were heard seldom, and in reserved fashion: about everything there was a feeling of morning, of the peace and rapid progress of morning work, ​a feeling of order and regularity of life. And behold, at a bend of the avenue Nezhdanov saw before him the very personification of order and regularity─Sipyagin.
He wore an overcoat of a pea-green colour, made like a dressing-gown, and a striped cap; he leaned on an English bamboo cane, and his freshly shaven face was beaming with satisfaction; he had come out to look round his estate. Sipyagin greeted Nezhdanov cordially.
'Aha!' he cried, 'I see you 're one of the young and early!' (He probably meant by this not very appropriate saying to express his approval of the fact that Nezhdanov had, like himself, not stayed late in bed.) 'We drink tea all together in the dining-room at eight, and lunch at twelve; at ten you will give Kolya your first lesson in Russian, and at two the history lesson. To-morrow, the 9th of May, is his name-day, and there will be no lessons; but I should like you to begin to-day.'
Nezhdanov bowed, while Sipyagin parted from him in the French fashion, raising his hand several times in rapid succession to his lips and nose, and walked on, smartly swinging his cane and whistling, not at all like an important official or dignitary, but like a good-natured Russian country gentleman.
Till eight o'clock Nezhdanov stayed in the ​garden enjoying the shade of the old trees, the freshness of the air, the song of the birds; the booming of the gong summoned him to the house, and he found the whole party in the dining-room. Valentina Mihalovna behaved very affably to him; in her morning dress she struck him as perfectly beautiful. Marianna's face wore its usual absorbed and sullen expression. At ten o'clock exactly the first lesson took place in the presence of Valentina Mihalovna; she had first inquired of Nezhdanov whether she would be in his way, and she behaved the whole time very discreetly. Kolya turned out to be an intelligent boy; after the first inevitable awkwardness and hesitation, the lesson went off satisfactorily. Valentina Mihalovna was left apparently well content with Nezhdanov, and several times she addressed him in an ingratiating manner. He held off . . . but not too much so. Valentina Mihalovna was present also at the second lesson, on Russian history. She declared with a smile that on that subject she needed a teacher no less than Kolya himself, and behaved as quietly and sedately as during the first lesson. From three till five o'clock, Nezhdanov sat in his own room, wrote letters to Petersburg, and felt neither well nor ill: he was free from boredom and from depression; his overwrought nerves were ​gradually being soothed. They were unhinged again at dinner-time, though Kallomyetsev was absent, and the ingratiating friendliness of his hostess was unchanged; but that very friendliness rather irritated Nezhdanov. Moreover, his neighbour, the old maiden lady Anna Zaharovna, was obviously sulky and antagonistic, while Marianna was still serious, and Kolya even kicked him rather too unceremoniously. Sipyagin, too, seemed out of spirits. He was very much dissatisfied with the overseer of his paper-mill, a German whom he had engaged at a high salary. Sipyagin began abusing Germans in general, declaring that he was, to a certain extent, a Slavophil, though not a fanatic, and mentioned a young Russian, a certain Solomin, who, it was rumoured, had brought a neighbouring merchant's factory into excellent working order; he had a great desire to make the acquaintance of this Solomin. Towards evening Kallomyetsev, whose property was only eight miles from Arzhano, Sipyagin's village, arrived. There arrived, too, a Mediator, one of those landowners so aptly described by Lermontov in two famous lines:
'A cravat to the ears, and a coat to the heels,
A moustache and a squeak, and eyes muddy and thick.
There came, too, another neighbour with a ​dejected, toothless countenance, but exceedingly sprucely dressed; and the district practitioner, a very ignorant doctor, who liked to show off with learned terms; he asserted, for instance, that he preferred Kukolnik to Pushkin because there was so much 'protoplasm' in Kukolnik. They sat down to play cards. Nezhdanov withdrew to his own room and read and wrote till after midnight.
The following day, the 9th of May, was Kolya's patron saint's day. The whole family in three open carriages, with grooms on footboards up behind, drove to church, though it was not a quarter of a mile off. Everything was done in grand and pompous style. Sipyagin had put on the ribbon of his order; Valentina Mihalovna was dressed in a charming Parisian gown of a pale lilac colour,and in church, during the service, she said her prayers over a tiny prayer-book bound in crimson velvet; this little book completely dumbfoundered several old men, one of whom could not resist asking his neighbour: 'Is it a witch's charm, God forgive her, she's using, or what, eh?' The scent of the flowers that filled the church was blended with the powerful odour of new peasants' coats smelling of sulphur, tarred boots, and bast shoes, and above these and other smells rose the overwhelming sweetness of the incense. The ​deacons and choristers sang with astounding conscientiousness with the aid of some factory hands who had joined them; they even made an effort at part-singing! There was a moment when every one present felt . . . something like dismay. The tenor voice (it belonged to a factory hand, Klima, a man in a galloping consumption), all alone and unsupported, broke into a chromatic series of flat minor notes; they were terrible, those notes, but if they had been cut out the whole concert would promptly have gone to pieces. . . . However, the thing was got through somehow. Father Ciprian, a priest of the most respectable appearance, in full vestments, delivered a very edifying discourse from a manuscript book; unfortunately, the conscientious father had thought it necessary to introduce the names of some wise Assyrian kings, the pronunciation of which cost him great pains, and though he succeeded in proving some degree of erudition, he was hot and perspiring from the exertion. Nezhdanov, who had not been at church for a long while, hid himself in a corner among the peasant women; they scarcely glanced at him, crossing themselves persistently, bowing low, and discreetly wiping their babies' noses; but the little peasant girls in new coats, and strings of glass drops on their foreheads, and the boys in belted ​smocks, with embroidered shoulder-straps and red gussets, stared intently at the new worshipper, turning right round facing him. . . . And Nezhdanov looked at them, and various were his thoughts.
After the service, which lasted a very long while─for the thanksgiving of St. Nikolai the Wonder-worker, as is well known, is almost the most lengthy of all the services of the Orthodox Church─all the clergy, at Sipyagin's invitation, moved across to the manor-house. After performing a few more rites proper to the occasion─even sprinkling the rooms with holy water─they were regaled with a copious lunch, during which the edifying but rather exhausting conversation usual at such times was maintained. Both the master and the mistress of the house, though they never lunched at that time of the day, ate and drank a little. Sipyagin went so far as to tell an anecdote, thoroughly proper, but mirth-moving, and this, in face of his red ribbon and his dignity, produced an impression which might be described as comforting, and moved Father Ciprian to a sense of gratitude and amazement. In return, and also to show that he too on occasion could impart some piece of information, Father Ciprian described a conversation he had had with the bishop, when the latter made a tour of his diocese, and ​summoned all the priests of the district to see him at the monastery in the town. 'He was severe, very severe with us,' Father Ciprian declared; 'first he cross-questioned us about our parish, our arrangements, and then he began an examination . . . He turned to me: "What's your church's dedication-day?" "The Transfiguration of our Saviour," said I. "And do you know the anthem for that day?" "I should hope so, indeed!" "Sing it!" Well, I began at once: "Thou wert transfigured on the mountain, O Christ our Lord. . ." "Stop! what is the Transfiguration, and how must we understand it?" "In one word," said I, "Christ wished to show Himself to His disciples in His glory!" "Good," said he, "here's a little image for you to wear in memory of me." I fell at his feet. "I thank your Reverence!" . . . So he did not send me empty away.'
'I have the honour of his Reverence's personal acquaintance,' Sipyagin observed majestically. 'A most worthy pastor!'
'Most worthy indeed!' Father Ciprian re-echoed. 'Though he makes a mistake in putting too much trust in the diocesan superintendents. . .'
Valentina Mihalovna mentioned the peasant school, referring to Marianna as the future schoolmistress; the deacon (the supervision of ​the school was intrusted to his charge), a man of Titanic build, with long waving hair vaguely recalling the combed tail of an Orlov horse, tried to express his approval; but not reckoning on the strength of his lungs, brought out such a deep note that he intimidated himself and alarmed the others. Soon after this the clergy retired.
Kolya in his new short jacket with gold buttons was the hero of the day; he received presents and congratulations; his hands were kissed on the front stairs and the back stairs, by factory-hands, house-servants, old women and young women, and peasants─the latter, just as in the old serf days, were buzzing round tables laid out before the house with pies and pots of vodka. Kolya was abashed, and delighted, and proud, and shy, all at once; he caressed his parents and ran out of the room; but at dinner Sipyagin ordered up champagne, and before drinking to his son's health he made a speech. He spoke of the significance of 'serving one's country,' and the way he would wish his Nikolai (so he dubbed him) to go . . . and what was due from him: first, to his family; secondly, to his class, to society; thirdly, to the people,─yes, gentlemen, to the people; and fourthly, to the government! Gradually warming up, Sipyagin rose at last to ​genuine eloquence, while, like Robert Peel, he thrust one hand into a fold of his dress-coat; he became impressive at the word 'science,' and ended his speech by the Latin exclamation laboremus, which he at once translated into Russian. Kolya, with a glass in his hand, had to go the length of the table to thank his father, and be kissed by every one. Again it happened to Nezhdanov to exchange a look with Marianna. . . They were both, probably, feeling the same thing.. . . But they did not speak to one another.
Everything he saw struck Nezhdanov, however, more as amusing and even interesting than as vexatious and distasteful, while the courteous lady of the house, Valentina Mihalovna, impressed him as a clever woman who knew she was playing a part and was at the same time secretly glad that there was another person clever and penetrating enough to comprehend her.. . . Nezhdanov probably did not suspect how greatly his vanity was flattered by her attitude to him.
The next day lessons began again, and daily life moved on its accustomed way.
A week passed by imperceptibly.. . . What were Nezhdanov's experiences and reflections can best be understood by an extract from a letter to Silin, his best friend, who had been a ​schoolfellow of his at the gymnasium. Silin did not live in Petersburg, but in a remote provincial town, with a well-to-do relative, on whom he was utterly dependent. His position was such that it was no use for him even to dream of getting away from there; he was a weakly, timid, and limited man, but of a singularly pure nature. He took no interest in politics, had read some few middling books, played on the flute to while away the time, and was afraid of young ladies. Silin loved Nezhdanov passionately─he was in general fervent in his attachments. To no one did Nezhdanov reveal himself so unreservedly as to Vladimir Silin; when he wrote to him he always felt as if he were in communion with some dear and intimate being inhabiting another world, or with his own conscience. Nezhdanov could not even imagine the possibility of living with Silin again as a comrade in the same town.. . . He would most likely have grown colder to him at once, they had so little in common; but he wrote a great deal to him with eagerness and complete openness. With others─on paper at least─he was always, as it were, showing off or artificial; with Silin─never! Silin, who was a poor hand with his pen, answered very little, in short awkward sentences; nor did Nezhdanov need voluminous replies; he knew ​without that that his friend drank in every word of his, as the dust in the road drinks in a drop of rain, kept his secrets as a holy thing, and, buried in a dreary solitude from which he would never emerge, simply lived in his friend's life. To no one in the world had Nezhdanov spoken of his relations with him: they were very precious to him.
'Well, dear friend─my pure Vladimir,' so he wrote to him─he always called him pure, and with good reason─'congratulate me: I have fallen into a snug berth, and can now rest and rally my forces. I am living as a tutor in the house of a rich swell, Sipyagin. I'm teaching his little son, feeding sumptuously (I have never been so well fed in my life!), sleeping soundly, walking to my heart's content in lovely country, and, what is the chief thing, I have escaped for a time from the care of my Petersburg friends; and though at first I was devoured by the most savage ennui, now I feel somehow better. Soon I must set to the work you know of (as the proverb has it: If you call yourself a mushroom you must go into the basket), and that's just what they let me come here for; but meanwhile I can lead a delicious animal existence, grow fat, and perhaps write verses, if the fit takes me. Impressions of the country, as they call it, I put off for another time. The estate seems ​well managed, though the factory, perhaps, is in rather a bad way. As for the peasants, some seem rather unapproachable; and the hired servants have all such decorous faces. But we will go into all that later on. The people of the house are cultivated, liberal; Sipyagin is always so condescending─oh! so condescending; and then all of a sudden he flies off into eloquence─a most highly cultivated person! The lady of the house is a perfect beauty─a sly puss, I should fancy; she fairly watches over one; and oh, isn't she soft!─not a bone in her body! I am afraid of her; you know what my manners are like with ladies! There are neighbours─wretched creatures─and one old lady, who worries me.. . . But I am most interested in a girl─whether she is a relation or a companion, goodness knows; I have hardly spoken two words to her, but I feel she's made of the same clay as myself. . .'
Here followed a description of Marianna's appearance and all her ways; then he went on:
'That she's unhappy, proud, self-conscious, reserved, and, most of all, unhappy, I feel no doubt about. Why she's unhappy, so far I don't know. That she's honest is clear to me: whether she is good-natured is still a question. Are there any entirely good-natured women ​who are not stupid? And is it necessary there should be? However, I know little enough of women in general. The lady of the house does not like her . . . and she reciprocates.. . . But which of them is in the right I don't know. I should suppose that it's rather the lady who is in the wrong . . . seeing that she's so very polite to her, while the girl's very eyebrows twitch with nervousness when she speaks to her patroness. Yes, she's a very nervous creature; in that, too, she's like me. And she's out of joint like me, though probably not in just the same way.
'When all this is a little clearer I will write to you. . .
'She scarcely ever speaks to me, as I said just now; but in the few words she has addressed to me (always suddenly and unexpectedly) there is a sort of rough frankness.. . . I like it.
'By the way, is your relation still keeping you on short commons? Isn't he beginning to think of his end?