Instead of dancing (he was a bad dancer) Arkadi chats with her during the mazurka, 'permeated by the happiness of being near her, talking to her, looking at her eyes, her lovely brow, all her endearing dignified, clever face. She said little, but from some of her observations Arkadi concluded that this young woman had already contrived to feel and think a great many things.
'Who was that you were standing with,' she asked him, 'when M'sieu' Sitnikov brought you to me?'
' 'Oh, so you noticed him?' Arkadi asked in his turn. 'He has a splendid face, hasn't he? He's a certain Bazarov, a friend of mine.'
Arkadi fell to talking about this 'friend' of his. He spoke of him in such detail, and with such enthusiasm, that Mme.
Odintsov turned toward him and gave him an attentive look. . . .
'The Governor came up to Mme. Odintsov, announced that supper was ready, and, with a careworn face, offered her his arm. As she went away, she turned to give a last smile and nod to Arkadi. He bowed low, followed her with his eyes (how graceful her waist seemed to him, the grayish luster of black silk apparently poured over it!). . . .
'Well?' Bazarov questioned him as soon as Arkadi had rejoined him in the corner. 'Have a good time? A gentleman has been telling me just now that this lady is—my, my, my! But then the gentleman himself strikes me as very much of a fool. Well, now, according to you, is she really—my, my, my?'
T don't quite understand that definition,' answered Arkadi.
'Oh, now! What innocence!'
'In that case, I don't understand the gentleman you quote. Mme. Odintsov is indisputably most endearing, but she behaves so coldly and austerely, that — '
''Still waters—you know!' Bazarov put in quickly. 'She's cold, you say. That's just where the taste comes in. For you like ice cream, don't you?'
''Perhaps,' Arkadi muttered. T can't judge about that. She wishes to make your acquaintance and asked me to bring you to see her.'
T can imagine how you've painted me! However, you did the right thing. Take me along. Whatever she may be—whether she's simply a provincial lioness, or an 'emancipated woman,' a la Kukshina [Eudoxia], the fact remains that she's got a pair of shoulders whose like I've not set eyes on for a long while.' '
This is Turgenev at his best, the delicate and vivid paintbrush (that gray gloss is great), a marvelous sense of color and light, and shade. The my-my-my is the famous Russian exclamation
sprawled out in an armchair just like Sitnikov, began talking with an exaggerated unrestraint, while Mme. Odintsov kept her clear eyes fixed on him.' Bazarov, the confirmed plebian, is going to fall madly in love with the aristocratic Anna.
Turgenev now uses the device which is beginning to pall—the pause for a biographical sketch where the past of the young widow Anna Odintsov is described. (Her marriage to Odintsov had lasted six years until his death.) She sees the charm of Bazarov through the rough exterior. An important observation on Turgenev's part is: Vulgarity alone repelled her, and no one could have accused Bazarov of vulgarity.
With Bazarov and Arkadi we now visit Anna's charming country seat. They will spend a fortnight there. The estate, Nikolskoe, is situated a few miles from the city, and from there Bazarov intends to travel on to his father's country place. It will be noted that he has left his microscope and other belongings at the Kirsanov place, Maryino, a little trick carefully prepared by Turgenev in order to get Bazarov back to the Kirsanovs so as to complete the Uncle Pavel-Fenichka-Bazarov theme.
There are some splendid little scenes in these Nikolskoe chapters, such as the appearance of Katya, and the greyhound:
'A beautiful greyhound bitch with a blue collar on ran into the drawing room, tapping on the floor with her nails, immediately followed by a girl of eighteen, black-haired and swarthy, with a somewhat round but pleasing face and small dark eyes. She was carrying a basket filled with flowers.
' 'And here's my Katya,' said Anna, indicating her with a motion of her head. Katya made a slight curtsy, settled down beside her sister, and began sorting the flowers. . . .
'When Katya spoke, she had a very endearing smile, timid
and candid, and looked up from under her eyebrows with a
sort of humorous severity. Everything about her still had
the greenness of youth : her voice and the bloom on her
whole face, and her rosy hands with the whitish circles on
the palms, and her shoulders just the least bit narrow. She
was constantly blushing and breathing rapidly.'
We now expect from Bazarov and Anna a few good
conversations, and indeed we get them: conversation
number one in chapter 16 ('Yes. That seems to surprise
you—why?'—that kind of thing), conversation number two
in the next chapter, and number three in chapter 18. In
conversation number one Bazarov expresses the stock
ideas of progressive young men of the time, and Anna is
calm and elegant and languid. Notice the charming
description of her aunt:
'Princess Kh., a wizened little woman with a pinched-up
face that looked like a small clenched fist, and staring
malicious eyes under a gray scratch wig, came in, and
scarcely bowing to the guests, she sank into a roomy
velvet-covered armchair upon which none but she had the
right to sit. Katya put a footstool under her feet; the old
A page from Nabokov's lecture on
woman did not thank her, did not even glance at her, her
map of Bazarov's travels.
hands merely stirred under the yellow shawl, which
practically covered her whole wizened body. The Princess
was fond of yellow; her cap, too, had bright yellow ribbons.'
57
We had Schubert played by Arkadi's father. Now Katya plays Mozart's Fantasia in C minor: Turgenev's detailed references to music were one of the things that irritated so dreadfully his enemy Dostoevski. Later they go botanizing and then we pause again for some additional characterization of Anna. That doctor is a strange man, she reflects.
Shortly Bazarov is horribly in love: 'His blood was on fire directly if he merely thought of her; he could easily have mastered his blood, but something else had gotten into him, something he had never admitted, at which he had always jeered, at which all his pride revolted. . . . Suddenly he would imagine that those chaste arms would one day twine about his neck, that those proud lips would respond to his kisses, those clever eyes would dwell with tenderness—yes, with tenderness—
