Part 27 (1/2)

'That's a man who won't die in want, one can count upon that.'

Supper was over. The guests dispersed. When she was left alone with her husband, Alexandra Pavlovna looked smiling into his face.

'How splendid you were this evening, Misha,' she said, stroking his forehead, 'how cleverly and n.o.bly you spoke! But confess, you exaggerated a little in Rudin's praise, as in old days you did in attacking him.'

'I can't let them hit a man when he's down. And in those days I was afraid he was turning your head.'

'No,' replied Alexandra Pavlovna naively, 'he always seemed too learned for me. I was afraid of him, and never knew what to say in his presence.

But wasn't Pigasov nasty in his ridicule of him to-day?'

'Pigasov?' responded Lezhnyov. 'That was just why I stood up for Rudin so warmly, because Pigasov was here. He dare to call Rudin a sponge indeed! Why, I consider the part he plays--Pigasov I mean--is a hundred times worse! He has an independent property, and he sneers at every one, and yet see how he fawns upon wealthy or distinguished people! Do you know that that fellow, who abuses everything and every one with such scorn, and attacks philosophy and women, do you know that when he was in the service, he took bribes and that sort of thing! Ugh! That's what he is!'

'Is it possible?' cried Alexandra Pavlovna, 'I should never have expected that! Misha,' she added, after a short pause, 'I want to ask you----'

'What?'

'What do you think, will my brother be happy with Natalya?'

'How can I tell you?... there's every likelihood of it. She will take the lead... there's no reason to hide the fact between us... she is cleverer than he is; but he's a capital fellow, and loves her with all his soul. What more would you have? You see we love one another and are happy, aren't we?'

Alexandra Pavlovna smiled and pressed his hand.

On the same day on which all that has been described took place in Alexandra Pavlovna's house, in one of the remote districts of Russia, a wretched little covered cart, drawn by three village horses was crawling along the high road in the sultry heat. On the front seat was perched a grizzled peasant in a ragged cloak, with his legs hanging slanting on the shaft; he kept flicking with the reins, which were of cord, and shaking the whip. Inside the cart there was sitting on a shaky portmanteau a tall man in a cap and old dusty cloak. It was Rudin.

He sat with bent head, the peak of his cap pulled over his eyes. The jolting of the cart threw him from side to side; but he seemed utterly unconscious, as though he were asleep. At last he drew himself up.

'When are we coming to a station?' he inquired of the peasant sitting in front.

'Just over the hill, little father,' said the peasant, with a still more violent shaking of the reins. 'There's a mile and a half farther to go, not more.... Come! there! look about you.... I'll teach you,' he added in a shrill voice, setting to work to whip the right-hand horse.

'You seem to drive very badly,' observed Rudin; 'we have been crawling along since early morning, and we have not succeeded in getting there yet. You should have sung something.'

'Well, what would you have, little father? The horses, you see yourself, are overdone... and then the heat; and I can't sing. I'm not a coachman.... Hullo, you little sheep!' cried the peasant, suddenly turning to a man coming along in a brown smock and bark shoes downtrodden at heel. 'Get out of the way!'

'You're a nice driver!' muttered the man after him, and stood still.

'You wretched Muscovite,' he added in a voice full of contempt, shook his head and limped away.

'What are you up to?' sang out the peasant at intervals, pulling at the shaft-horse. 'Ah, you devil! Get on!'

The jaded horses dragged themselves at last up to the posting-station.

Rudin crept out of the cart, paid the peasant (who did not bow to him, and kept shaking the coins in the palm of his hand a long while--evidently there was too little drink-money) and himself carried the portmanteau into the posting-station.

A friend of mine who has wandered a great deal about Russia in his time made the observation that if the pictures hanging on the walls of a posting-station represent scenes from 'the Prisoner of the Caucasus,'

or Russian generals, you may get horses soon; but if the pictures depict the life of the well-known gambler George de Germany, the traveller need not hope to get off quickly; he will have time to admire to the full the hair _a la c.o.c.katoo_, the white open waistcoat, and the exceedingly short and narrow trousers of the gambler in his youth, and his exasperated physiognomy, when in his old age he kills his son, waving a chair above him, in a cottage with a narrow staircase. In the room into which Rudin walked precisely these pictures were hanging out of 'Thirty Years, or the Life of a Gambler.' In response to his call the superintendent appeared, who had just waked up (by the way, did any one ever see a superintendent who had not just been asleep?), and without even waiting for Rudin's question, informed him in a sleepy voice that there were no horses.

'How can you say there are no horses,' said Rudin, 'when you don't even know where I am going? I came here with village horses.'