Chapter 1. Fathers and Sons
Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev , translated by
Richard Hare.
Chapter 1.
"WELL, PYOTR, STILL NOT IN SIGHT?" WAS THE
QUESTION ASKED ON 20th May, 1859, by a gentleman
of about forty, wearing a dusty overcoat and
checked trousers, who came out hatless into
the low porch of the posting station at X.
He was speaking to his servant, a chubby young
fellow with whitish down growing on his chin
and with dim little eyes.
The servant, in whom everything--the turquoise
ring in his ear, the hair plastered down with
grease and the polite flexibility of his movements--indicated
a man of the new improved generation, glanced
condescendingly along the road and answered,
"No, sir, definitely not in sight."
"Not in sight?" repeated his master.
"No, sir," replied the servant again.
His master sighed and sat down on a little
bench. We will introduce him to the reader
while he sits, with his feet tucked in, looking
thoughtfully around.
His name was Nikolai Petrovich Kirsanov. He
owned, about twelve miles from the posting
station, a fine property of two hundred serfs
or, as he called it--since he had arranged
the division of his land with the peasants--a
"farm" of nearly five thousand acres. His
father, a general in the army, who had served
in 1812, a crude, almost illiterate, but good-natured
type of Russian, had stuck to a routine job
all his life, first commanding a brigade and
later a division, and lived permanently in
the provinces, where by virtue of his rank
he was able to play a certain part. Nikolai
Petrovich was born in south Russia, as was
his elder brother Pavel, of whom we shall
hear more; till the age of fourteen he was
educated at home, surrounded by cheap tutors,
free-and-easy but fawning adjutants, and all
the usual regimental and staff people. His
mother, a member of the Kolyazin family, was
called Agatha as a girl, but as a general's
wife her name was Agafoklea Kuzminishna Kirsanov;
she was a domineering military lady, wore
gorgeous caps and rustling silk dresses; in
church she was the first to go up to the cross,
she talked a lot in a loud voice, let her
children kiss her hand every morning and gave
them her blessing at night--in fact, she enjoyed
her life and got as much out of it as she
could. As a general's son, Nikolai Petrovich--though
so far from brave that he had even been called
a "funk"--was intended, like his brother Pavel,
to enter the army; but he broke his leg on
the very day he obtained a commission and
after spending two months in bed he never
got rid of a slight limp for the rest of his
life. His father gave him up as a bad job
and let him go in for the civil service. He
took him to Petersburg as soon as he was eighteen
and placed him in the university there. His
brother happened at the same time to become
an officer in a guards regiment. The young
men started to share a flat together, and
were kept under the remote supervision of
a cousin on their mother's side, Ilya Kolyazin,
an important official. Their father returned
to his division and to his wife and only occasionally
wrote to his sons on large sheets of grey
paper, scrawled over in an ornate clerkly
handwriting; the bottom of these sheets was
adorned with a scroll enclosing the words,
"Pyotr Kirsanov, Major-General." In 1835 Nikolai
Petrovich graduated from the university, and
in the same year General Kirsanov was put
on the retired list after an unsuccessful
review, and came with his wife to live in
Petersburg. He was about to take a house in
the Tavrichesky Gardens, and had joined the
English club, when he suddenly died of an
apoplectic fit. Agafoklea Kuzminishna soon
followed him to the grave; she could not adapt
herself to a dull life in the capital and
was consumed by the boredom of retirement
from regimental existence. Meanwhile Nikolai
Petrovich, during his parents' lifetime and
much to their distress, had managed to fall
in love with the daughter of his landlord,
a petty official called Prepolovensky. She
was an attractive and, as they call it, well-educated
girl; she used to read the serious articles
in the science column of the newspapers. He
married her as soon as the period of mourning
for his parents was over, and leaving the
civil service, where his father had secured
him a post through patronage, he started to
live very happily with his Masha, first in
a country villa near the Forestry Institute,
afterwards in Petersburg in a pretty little
flat with a clean staircase and a draughty
drawing room, and finally in the country where
he settled down and where in due course his
son, Arkady, was born. Husband and wife lived
well and peacefully; they were hardly ever
separated, they read together, they sang and
played duets together on the piano, she grew
flowers and looked after the poultry yard,
he busied himself with the estate and sometimes
hunted, while Arkady went on growing in the
same happy and peaceful way. Ten years passed
like a dream. Then in 1847 Kirsanov's wife
died. He hardly survived this blow and his
hair turned grey in a few weeks; he was preparing
to travel abroad, if possible to distract
his thoughts . . . but then came the year
1848. He returned unwillingly to the country
and after a rather long penod of inactivity
he began to take an interest in improving
his estate. In 1855 he brought his son to
the university and spent three winters in
Petersburg with him, hardly going out anywhere
and trying to make acquaintance with Arkady's
young comrades. The last winter he was unable
to go, and here we see him in May, 1859, already
entirely grey-haired, plump and rather bent,
waiting for his son, who had just taken his
university degree, as once he had taken it
himself.
The servant, from a feeling of propriety,
and perhaps also because he was anxious to
escape from his master's eye, had gone over
to the gate and was smoking a pipe. Nikolai
Petrovich bowed his head and began to stare
at the crumbling steps; a big mottled hen
walked sedately towards him, treading firmly
with its thick yellow legs; a dirty cat cast
a disapproving look at him, as she twisted
herself coyly round the railing. The sun was
scorching; a smell of hot rye bread was wafted
from the dim entrance of the posting station.
Nikolai Petrovich started musing. "My son
. . . a graduate . . . Arkasha . . ." kept
on turning round in his mind; he tried to
think of something else, but the same thoughts
returned. He remembered his dead wife. "She
did not live to see it," he murmured sadly.
A plump blue pigeon flew on to the road and
hurriedly started to drink water from a puddle
near the well. Nikolai Petrovich began to
watch it, but his ear had already caught the
sound of approaching wheels . . .
"It sounds as if they're coming, sir," announced
the servant, emerging from the gateway.
Nikolai Petrovich jumped up and fixed his
eyes on the road. A carriage appeared with
three posting horses abreast; inside it he
caught a glimpse of the band of a student's
cap and the familiar outline of a dear face
. . .
"Arkasha! Arkasha!" cried Kirsanov, and he
ran out into the road, waving his arms . . . A
few moments later his lips were pressed to
the beardless dusty sunburnt cheek of the
young graduate.
Chapter 2
"LET ME SHAKE MYSELF FIRST, DADDY," SAID ARKADY,
IN A VOICE rather tired from traveling but
boyish and resonant, as he responded gaily
to his father's greetings; "I'm covering you
with dust."
"Never mind, never mind," repeated Nikolai
Petrovich, smiling tenderly, and struck the
collar of his son's cloak and his own greatcoat
with his hand. "Let me have a look at you;
just show yourself," he added, moving back
from him, and then hurried away towards the
station yard, calling out, "This way, this
way, bring the horses along at once.
Nikolai Petrovich seemed much more excited
than his son; he was really rather confused
and shy. Arkady stopped him.
"Daddy," he said, "let me introduce you to
my great friend, Bazarov, about whom I wrote
to you so often. He has kindly agreed to come
to stay with us."
Nikolai Petrovich turned round quickly and
going up to a tall man in a long, loose rough
coat with tassels, who had just climbed out
of the carriage, he warmly pressed the ungloved
red hand which the latter did not at once
hold out to him.
"I am delighted," he began, "and grateful
for your kind intention to visit us; I hope--please
tell me your name and patronymic."
"Evgeny Vassilyev," answered Bazarov in a
lazy but manly voice, and turning back the
collar of his rough overcoat he showed his
whole face. It was long and thin with a broad
forehead, a nose flat at the base and sharper
at the end, large greenish eyes and sand-colored,
drooping side whiskers; it was enlivened by
a calm smile and looked self-confident and
intelligent.
"I hope, my dear Evgeny Vassilich, that you
won't be bored staying with us," continued
Nikolai Petrovich.
Bazarov's thin lips moved slightly, but he
made no answer and merely took off his cap.
His fair hair, long and thick, did not hide
the prominent bumps on his broad skull.
"Well, Arkady," Nikolai Petrovich began again,
turning to his son, "would you rather have
the horses brought round at once or would
you like to rest?"
"We'll rest at home, Daddy; tell them to harness
the horses."
"At once, at once," his father exclaimed.
"Hey, Pyotr, do you hear? Get a move on, my
boy." Pyotr, who as a perfectly modern servant
had not kissed his master's hand but only
bowed to him from a distance, vanished again
through the gates.
"I came here with the carriage, but there
are three horses for your tarantass also,"
said Nikolai Petrovich fussily, while Arkady
drank some water from an iron bucket brought
to him by the woman in charge of the station,
and Bazarov began smoking a pipe and went
up to the driver, who was unharnessing the
horses. "There are only two seats in the carriage,
and I don't know how your friend . . ."
"He will go in the tarantass," interrupted
Arkady in an undertone. "Don't stand on ceremony
with him, please. He's a splendid fellow,
so simple--you will see."
Nikolai Petrovich's coachman brought the horses
round.
"Well, make haste, bushy beard!" said Bazarov,
addressing the driver.
"Do you hear, Mitya," chipped in another driver,
standing with his hands behind him thrust
into the slits of his sheepskin coat, "what
the gentleman just called you? That's just
what you are--a bushy beard."
Mitya only jerked his hat and pulled the reins
off the steaming horses.
"Hurry up, lads, lend a hand!" cried Nikolai
Petrovich. "There'll be something to drink
our health with!"
In a few minutes the horses were harnessed;
father and son took their places in the carriage:
Pyotr climbed on to the box; Bazarov jumped
into the tarantass, leaned his head back against
the leather cushion--and both vehicles rolled
away.
Chapter 3
"SO HERE YOU ARE, A GRADUATE AT LAST--AND
HOME AGAIN," said Nikolai Petrovich, touching
Arkady now on the shoulder, now on the knee.
"At last!"
"And how is uncle? Is he well?" asked Arkady,
who in spite of the genuine, almost childish
joy which filled him, wanted as soon as possible
to turn the conversation from an emotional
to a more commonplace level.
"Quite well. He wanted to come with me to
meet you, but for some reason he changed his
mind."
"And did you have a long wait for me?" asked
Arkady.
"Oh, about five hours."
"You dear old daddy!"
Arkady turned round briskly to his father
and gave him a resounding kiss on the cheek.
Nikolai Petrovich laughed quietly.
"I've got a splendid horse for you," he began.
"You will see for yourself. And your room
has been freshly papered."
"And is there a room ready for Bazarov?"
"We will find one all right."
"Please, Daddy, be kind to him. I can't tell
you how much I value his friendship."
"You met him only recently?"
"Quite recently."
"That's how I didn't see him last winter.
What is he studying?"
"His chief subject is--natural science. But
he knows everything. Next year he wants to
take his doctor's degree."
"Ah! he's in the medical faculty," remarked
Nikolai Petrovich, and fell silent. "Pyotr,"
he went on, stretching out his hand, "aren't
those our peasants driving along?"
Pyotr looked aside to where his master was
pointing. A few carts, drawn by unbridled
horses, were rolling rapidly along a narrow
side-track. In each cart were seated one or
two peasants in unbuttoned sheepskin coats.
"Just so, sir," replied Pyotr.
"Where are they going--to the town?"
"To the town, I suppose--to the pub," Pyotr
added contemptuously, and half turned towards
the coachman as if including him in the reproach.
But the latter did not turn a hair; he was
a man of the old type and did not share the
latest views of the younger generation.
"The peasants have given me a lot of trouble
this year," went on Nikolai Petrovich, turning
to his son. "They won't pay their rent. What
is one to do?"
"And are you satisfied with your hired laborers?"
"Yes," said Nikolai Petrovich between his
teeth. "But they're being set against me,
that's the worst of it, and they don't really
work properly; they spoil the tools. However,
they've managed to plough the land. We shall
manage somehow--there will be enough flour
to go round. Are you starting to be interested
in agriculture?"
"What a pity you have no shade," remarked
Arkady, without answering the last question.
"I have had a big awning put up on the north
side over the veranda," said Nikolai Petrovich;
"now we can even have dinner in the open air."
"Won't it be rather too like a summer villa?
. . . But that's a minor matter. What air
there is here! How wonderful it smells. Really
it seems to me no air in the world is so sweetly
scented as here! And the sky too . . ." Arkady
suddenly stopped, cast a quick look behind
him and did not finish his sentence.
"Naturally," observed Nikolai Petrovich, "you
were born here, so everything is bound to
strike you with a special----"
"Really, Daddy, it makes absolutely no difference
where a person is born."
"Still----"
"No, it makes no difference at all."
Nikolai Petrovich glanced sideways at his
son, and the carriage went on half a mile
farther before their conversation was renewed.
"I forget if I wrote to you," began Nikolai
Petrovich, "that your old nurse Yegorovna
has died."
"Really? Poor old woman! And is Prokovich
still alive?"
"Yes, and not changed a bit. He grumbles as
much as ever. Indeed, you won't find many
changes at Maryino."
"Have you still the same bailiff?"
"Well, I have made a change there. I decided
it was better not to keep around me any freed
serfs who had been house servants; at least
not to entrust them with any responsible jobs."
Arkady glanced towards Pyotr. "Il est libre
en effet," said Nikolai Petrovich in an undertone,
"but as you see, he's only a valet. My new
bailiff is a townsman--he seems fairly efficient.
I pay him 250 rubles a year. But," added Nikolai
Petrovich, rubbing his forehead and eyebrows
with his hand (which was always with him a
sign of embarrassment), "I told you just now
you would find no changes at Maryino, . . . That's
not quite true . . . I think it my duty to
tell you in advance, though . . . ."
He hesitated for a moment and then went on
in French.
"A severe moralist would consider my frankness
improper, but in the first place I can't conceal
it, and then, as you know, I have always had
my own particular principles about relations
between father and son. Of course you have
a right to blame me. At my age . . . To cut
a long story short, that--that girl about
whom you've probably heard . . . ."
"Fenichka?" inquired Arkady casually.
Nikolai Petrovich blushed.
"Don't mention her name so loudly, please
. . . Well, yes . . . she lives with me now.
I have installed her in the house . . . there
were two small rooms available. Of course,
all that can be altered."
"But why, Daddy; what for?'
"Your friend will be staying with us . . . it
will be awkward."
"Please don't worry about Bazarov. He's above
all that."
"Well, but you too," added Nikolai Petrovich.
"Unfortunately the little side-wing is in
such a bad state."
"For goodness' sake, Daddy," interposed Arkady.
"You needn't apologize. Are you ashamed?"
"Of course, I ought to be ashamed," answered
Nikolai Petrovich, turning redder and redder.
"Enough of that, Daddy, please don't . . ." Arkady
smiled affectionately. "What a thing to apologize
for," he thought to himself, and his heart
was filled with a feeling of indulgent tenderness
for his kind, soft-hearted father, mixed with
a sense of secret superiority. "Please stop
that," he repeated once more, instinctively
enjoying the awareness of his own more emancipated
outlook.
Nikolai Petrovich looked at his son through
the fingers of the hand with which he was
again rubbing his forehead, and a pang seized
his heart . . . but he immediately reproached
himself for it.
"Here are our own meadows at last," he remarked
after a long silence.
"And that is our forest over there, isn't
it?" asked Arkady.
"Yes. But I have sold it. This year they will
cut it down for timber."
"Why did you sell it?"
"We need the money; besides, that land will
be taken over by the peasants."
"Who don't pay their rent?"
"That's their affair; anyhow they will pay
it some day."
"It's a pity about the forest," said Arkady,
and began to look around him.
The country through which they were driving
could not possibly be called picturesque.
Field after field stretched right up to the
horizon, now gently sloping upwards, then
slanting down again; in some places woods
were visible and winding ravines, planted
with low scrubby bushes, vividly reminiscent
of the way in which they were represented
on the old maps of Catherine's times. They
passed by little streams with hollow banks
and ponds with narrow dams, small villages
with low huts under dark and often crumbling
roofs, and crooked barns with walls woven
out of dry twigs and with gaping doorways
opening on to neglected threshing floors;
and churches, some brick-built with the stucco
covering peeling off in patches, others built
of wood, near crosses fallen crooked in the
overgrown graveyards. Gradually Arkady's heart
began to sink. As if to complete the picture,
the peasants whom they met were all in rags
and mounted on the most wretched-looking little
horses; the willows, with their broken branches
and trunks stripped of bark, stood like tattered
beggars along the roadside; lean and shaggy
cows, pinched with hunger, were greedily tearing
up grass along the ditches. They looked as
if they had just been snatched out of the
clutches of some terrifying murderous monster;
and the pitiful sight of these emaciated animals
in the setting of that gorgeous spring day
conjured up, like a white ghost, the vision
of interminable joyless winter with its storms,
frosts and snows . . . "No," thought Arkady,
"this country is far from rich, and the people
seem neither contented nor industrious; we
just can't let things go on like this; reforms
are indispensable . . . but how are we to
execute them, how should we begin?"
Such were Arkady's thoughts . . . but even
while he was thinking, the spring regained
its sway. All around lay a sea of golden green--everything,
trees, bushes and grass, vibrated and stirred
in gentle waves under the breath of the warm
breeze; from every side the larks were pouring
out their loud continuous trills; the plovers
were calling as they glided over the low-lying
meadows or noiselessly ran over the tufts
of grass; the crows strutted about in the
low spring corn, looking picturesquely black
against its tender green; they disappeared
in the already whitening rye, only from time
to time their heads peeped out from among
its misty waves. Arkady gazed and gazed and
his thoughts grew slowly fainter and died
away . . . He flung off his overcoat and turned
round with such a bright boyish look that
his father hugged him once again.
"We're not far away now," remarked Nikolai
Petrovich. "As soon as we get to the top of
this hill the house will be in sight. We shall
have a fine life together, Arkasha; you will
help me to farm the land, if only it doesn't
bore you. We must draw close to each other
now and get to know each other better, mustn't
we?"
"Of course," murmured Arkady. "But what a
wonderful day it is!"
"To welcome you home, my dear one. Yes, this
is spring in all its glory. Though I agree
with Pushkin--do you remember, in Evgeny Onegin,
"'To me how sad your coming is,
Spring, spring, sweet time of love!
What----'"
"Arkady," shouted Bazarov's voice from the
tarantass, "give me a match. I've got nothing
to light my pipe with."
Nikolai Petrovich fell silent, while Arkady,
who had been listening to him with some surprise
but not without sympathy, hurriedly pulled
a silver matchbox out of his pocket and told
Pyotr to take it over to Bazarov.
"Do you want a cigar?" shouted Bazarov again.
"Thanks," answered Arkady.
Pyotr came back to the carriage and handed
him, together with the matchbox, a thick black
cigar, which Arkady started to smoke at once,
spreading around him such a strong and acrid
smell of cheap tobacco that Nikolai Petrovich,
who had never been a smoker, was forced to
turn away his head, which he did unobtrusively,
to avoid hurting his son's feelings.
A quarter of an hour later both carriages
drew up in front of the porch of a new wooden
house, painted grey, with a red iron roof.
This was Maryino, also known as New Hamlet,
or as the peasants had nicknamed it, Landless
Farm.
Chapter 4
NO CROWD OF HOUSE SERVANTS RAN OUT TO MEET
THEIR MASTER; there appeared only a little
twelve-year-old girl, and behind her a young
lad, very like Pyotr, came out of the house;
he was dressed in a grey livery with white
armorial buttons and was the servant of Pavel
Petrovich Kirsanov. He silently opened the
carriage door and unbuttoned the apron of
the tarantass. Nikolai Petrovich with his
son and Bazarov walked through a dark and
almost empty hall, through the door of which
they caught a glimpse of a young woman's face,
and into a drawing room furnished in the most
modern style.
"Well, here we are at home," said Nikolai
Petrovich, removing his cap and shaking back
his hair. "Now the main thing is to have supper
and then to rest."
"It wouldn't be a bad thing to have a meal,
certainly," said Bazarov, stretching himself,
and he sank on to a sofa.
"Yes, yes, let us have supper at once," exclaimed
Nikolai Petrovich, and for no apparent reason
stamped his foot. "Ah, here comes Prokovich,
just at the right moment."
A man of sixty entered, white-haired, thin
and swarthy, dressed in a brown coat with
brass buttons and a pink neckerchief. He grinned,
went up to kiss Arkady's hand, and after bowing
to the guest, retreated to the door and put
his hands behind his back.
"Here he is, Prokovich," began Nikolai Petrovich;
"at last he has come back to us . . . Well?
How do you find him?"
"As well as could be," said the old man, and
grinned again. Then he quickly knitted his
bushy eyebrows. "Do you want supper served?"
he asked solemnly.
"Yes, yes, please. But don't you want to go
to your room first, Evgeny Vassilich?"
"No, thanks. There's no need. Only tell them
to carry my little trunk in there and this
garment, too," he added, taking off his loose
overcoat.
"Certainly. Prokovich, take the gentleman's
coat." (Prokovich, with a puzzled look, picked
up Bazarov's "garment" with both hands, and
holding it high above his head went out on
tiptoe.) "And you, Arkady, are you going to
your room for a moment?"
"Yes, I must wash," answered Arkady, and was
just moving towards the door when at that
moment there entered the drawing room a man
of medium height, dressed in a dark English
suit, a fashionable low cravat and patent
leather shoes, Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov. He
looked about forty-five; his closely cropped
grey hair shone with a dark luster like unpolished
silver; his ivory-colored face, without wrinkles,
had exceptionally regular and clear features,
as though carved by a sharp and delicate chisel,
and showed traces of outstanding beauty; particularly
fine were his shining, dark almond-shaped
eyes. The whole figure of Arkady's uncle,
graceful and aristocratic, had preserved the
flexibility of youth and that air of striving
upwards, away from the earth, which usually
disappears when people are over thirty.
Pavel Petrovich drew from his trouser pocket
his beautiful hand with its long pink nails,
a hand which looked even more beautiful against
the snowy white cuff buttoned with a single
large opal, and stretched it out to his nephew.
After a preliminary European hand shake, he
kissed him three times in the Russian style;
in fact he touched his cheek three times with
his perfumed mustache, and said, "Welcome!"
Nikolai Petrovich introduced him to Bazarov;
Pavel Petrovich responded with a slight inclination
of his supple body and a slight smile, but
he did not give him his hand and even put
it back in his pocket.
"I began to think that you weren't coming
today," he began in a pleasant voice, with
an amiable swing and shrug of the shoulders;
his smile showed his splendid white teeth.
"Did anything go wrong on the road?"
"Nothing went wrong," answered Arkady. "Only
we dawdled a bit. So now we're as hungry as
wolves. Make Prokovich hurry up, Daddy; I'll
be back in a moment."
"Wait, I'm coming with you," exclaimed Bazarov,
suddenly pulling himself off the sofa. Both
the young men went out.
"Who is he?" asked Pavel Petrovich.
"A friend of Arkasha's; according to him a
very clever young man."
"Is he going to stay with us?"
"Yes."
"That unkempt creature!"
"Well, yes."
Pavel Petrovich drummed on the table with
his finger tips. "I fancy Arkady s'est dégourdi,"
he observed. "I'm glad he has come back."
At supper there was little conversation. Bazarov
uttered hardly a word, but ate a lot. Nikolai
Petrovich told various anecdotes about what
he called his farming career, talked about
the forthcoming government measures, about
committees, deputations, the need to introduce
new machinery, etc. Pavel Petrovich paced
slowly up and down the dining room (he never
ate supper), occasionally sipping from a glass
of red wine and less often uttering some remark
or rather exclamation, such as "Ah! aha! hm!"
Arkady spoke about the latest news from Petersburg,
but he was conscious of being a bit awkward,
with that awkwardness which usually overcomes
a youth when he has just stopped being a child
and has come back to a place where they are
accustomed to regard and treat him as a child.
He made his sentences quite unnecessarily
long, avoided the word "Daddy," and even sometimes
replaced it by the word "Father," mumbled
between his teeth; with exaggerated carelessness
he poured into his glass far more wine than
he really wanted and drank it all. Prokovich
did not take his eyes off him and kept on
chewing his lips. After supper they all separated
at once.
"Your uncle's a queer fellow," Bazarov said
to Arkady, as he sat in his dressing gown
by the bed, smoking a short pipe. "All that
smart dandyism in the country. Just think
of it! And his nails, his nails--they ought
to be sent to an exhibition!"
"Why, of course you don't know," replied Arkady;
"he was a great figure in his day. I'll tell
you his story sometime. He was extremely handsome,
and used to turn all the women's heads."
"Oh, that's it! So he keeps it up for the
sake of old times. What a pity there's no
one for him to fascinate here! I kept on looking
at his astonishing collar, just like marble--and
his chin, so meticulously shaved. Come, come,
Arkady, isn't it ridiculous?"
"Perhaps it is, but he's a good man really."
"An archaic survival! But your father is a
splendid fellow. He wastes his time reading
poetry and knows precious little about farming,
but he's kindhearted."
"My father has a heart of gold."
"Did you notice how shy he was?"
Arkady shook his head, as if he were not shy
himself.
"It's something astonishing," went on Bazarov,
"these old romantic idealists! They go on
developing their nervous systems till they
get highly strung and irritable, then they
lose their balance completely. Well, good
night. In my room there's an English washstand,
but the door won't fasten. Anyhow, that ought
to be encouraged--English washstands--they
stand for progress!"
Bazarov went out, and a sense of peaceful
happiness stole over Arkady. It was sweet
to fall asleep in one's own home, in the familiar
bed, under the quilt which had been worked
by loving hands, perhaps the hands of his
old nurse, those gentle, good and tireless
hands. Arkady remembered Yegorovna, and sighed
and wished, "God rest her soul" . . . for
himself he said no prayer.
Both he and Bazarov soon fell asleep, but
others in the house remained awake much longer.
Nikolai Petrovich was agitated by his son's
return. He lay in bed but did not put out
the candles, and propping his head in his
hands he went on thinking. His brother was
sitting till long after midnight in his study,
in a wide armchair in front of the fireplace,
in which some embers glowed faintly. Pavel
Petrovich had not undressed, but some red
Chinese slippers had replaced his patent leather
shoes. He held in his hand the last number
of Galignani, but he was not reading it; he
gazed fixedly into the fireplace, where a
bluish flame flickered, dying down and flaring
up again at intervals . . . God knows where
his thoughts were wandering, but they were
not wandering only in the past; his face had
a stern and concentrated expression, unlike
that of a man who is solely absorbed in his
memories. And in a little back room, on a
large chest, sat a young woman in a blue jacket
with a white kerchief thrown over her dark
hair; this was Fenichka; she was now listening,
now dozing, now looking across towards the
open door, through which a child's bed was
visible and the regular breathing of a sleeping
infant could be heard.
Chapter 5
THE NEXT MORNING BAZAROV WOKE UP EARLIER THAN
ANYONE else and went out of the house. "Ugh!"
he thought, "this isn't much of a place!"
When Nikolai Petrovich had divided his estate
with his peasants, he had to set aside for
his new manor house four acres of entirely
flat and barren land. He had built a house,
offices and farm buildings, laid out a garden,
dug a pond and sunk two wells; but the young
trees had not flourished, very little water
had collected in the pond, and the well water
had a brackish taste. Only one arbor of lilac
and acacia had grown up properly; the family
sometimes drank tea or dined there. In a few
minutes Bazarov had explored all the little
paths in the garden; he went into the cattle
yard and the stables, discovered two farm
boys with whom he made friends at once, and
went off with them to a small swamp about
a mile from the house in order to search for
frogs.
"What do you want frogs for, sir?" asked one
of the boys.
"I'll tell you what for," answered Bazarov,
who had a special capacity for winning the
confidence of lower-class people, though he
never cringed to them and indeed treated them
casually; "I shall cut the frog open to see
what goes on inside him, and then, as you
and I are much the same as frogs except that
we walk on legs, I shall learn what is going
on inside us as well."
"And why do you want to know that?"
"In order not to make a mistake if you're
taken ill and I have to cure you."
"Are you a doctor, then?"
"Yes."
"Vaska, did you hear that? The gentleman says
that you and I are just like frogs; that's
queer."
"I'm frightened of frogs," remarked Vaska,
a boy of seven with flaxen hair and bare feet,
dressed in a grey smock with a high collar.
"What are you frightened of? Do they bite?"
"There, paddle along into the water, you philosophers,"
said Bazarov.
Meanwhile Nikolai Petrovich had also awakened
and had gone to see Arkady, whom he found
dressed. Father and son went out on to the
terrace under the shelter of the awning; the
samovar was already boiling on the table near
the balustrade among great bunches of lilac.
A little girl appeared, the same one who had
first met them on their arrival the evening
before. In a shrill voice she said, "Fedosya
Nikolayevna is not very well and she can't
come; she told me to ask you, will you pour
out tea yourself or should she send Dunyasha?"
"I'll pour myself, of course," interposed
Nikolai Petrovich hurriedly. "Arkady, how
do you like your tea, with cream or with lemon?"
"With cream," answered Arkady, then after
a brief pause he muttered questioningly, "Daddy?"
Nikolai Petrovich looked at his son with embarrassment.
"Well?" he said.
Arkady lowered his eyes.
"Excuse me, Daddy, if my question seems to
you indiscreet," he began; "but you yourself
by your frank talk yesterday encouraged me
to be frank . . . you won't be angry?"
"Go on."
"You make me bold enough to ask you, isn't
the reason why Fen . . . isn't it only because
I'm here that she won't come to pour out tea?"
Nikolai Petrovich turned slightly aside.
"Perhaps," he at length answered, "she supposes
. . . she feels ashamed."
Arkady glanced quickly at his father. "She
has no reason to feel ashamed. In the first
place, you know my point of view," (Arkady
much enjoyed pronouncing these words) "and
secondly, how could I want to interfere in
the smallest way with your life and habits?
Besides, I'm sure you couldn't make a bad
choice; if you allow her to live under the
same roof with you, she must be worthy of
it; in any case, it's not for a son to judge
his father--particularly for me, and with
such a father, who has always let me do everything
I wanted."
Arkady's voice trembled to start with; he
felt he was being magnanimous and realized
at the same time that he was delivering something
like a lecture to his father; but the sound
of his own voice has a powerful effect on
any man, and Arkady pronounced the last words
firmly and even emphatically.
"Thank you, Arkasha," said Nikolai Petrovich
thickly, and his fingers again passed over
his eyebrows. "What you suppose is in fact
quite true. Of course if this girl hadn't
deserved . . . it's not just a frivolous fancy.
It's awkward for me to talk to you about this,
but you understand that it's difficult for
her to come here in your presence, especially
on the first day of your arrival."
"In that case I'll go to her myself!" exclaimed
Arkady, with a fresh onrush of generous excitement,
and he jumped up from his seat. "I will explain
to her that she has no need to feel ashamed
in front of me."
Nikolai Petrovich got up also.
"Arkady," he began, "please . . . how is it
possible . . . there . . . I haven't told
you yet . . ."
But Arkady was no longer listening to him;
he had run off the terrace. Nikolai Petrovich
gazed after him and sank into a chair overwhelmed
with confusion. His heart began to throb . . . Did
he realize at that moment the inevitable strangeness
of his future relations with his son? Was
he aware that Arkady might have shown him
more respect if he had never mentioned that
subject at all? Did he reproach himself for
weakness? It is hard to say. All these feelings
moved within him. though in the state of vague
sensations only, but the flush remained on
his face, and his heart beat rapidly.
Then came the sound of hurrying footsteps
and Arkady appeared on the terrace. "We have
introduced ourselves, Daddy!" he cried with
an expression of affectionate and good-natured
triumph on his face. "Fedosya Nikolayevna
is really not very well today, and she will
come out a little later. But why didn't you
tell me I have a brother? I should have kissed
him last night as I kissed him just now!"
Nikolai Petrovich tried to say something,
tried to rise and open wide his arms. Arkady
flung himself on his neck.
"What's this? Embracing again!" sounded the
voice of Pavel Petrovich behind them.
Father and son were both equally glad to see
him at that moment; there are situations,
however touching, from which one nevertheless
wants to escape as quickly as possible.
"Why are you surprised at that?" said Nikolai
Petrovich gaily. "What ages I've been waiting
for Arkasha. I haven't had time to look at
him properly since yesterday."
Arkady went up to his uncle and again felt
on his cheeks the touch of that perfumed mustache.
Pavel Petrovich sat down at the table. He
was wearing another elegant English suit with
a bright little fez on his head. That fez
and the carelessly tied little cravat suggested
the freedom of country life, but the stiff
collar of his shirt--not white, it is true,
but striped, as is correct with morning dress--stood
up as inexorably as ever against his well-shaved
chin.
"Where is your new friend?" he asked Arkady.
"He's not in the house; he usually gets up
early and goes off somewhere. The main thing
is not to pay any attention to him; he dislikes
ceremony."
"Yes, that's obvious," Pavel Petrovich began,
slowly spreading butter on his bread. "Is
he going to stay long with us?"
"Possibly. He came here on his way to his
father's."
"And where does his father live?"
"In our province, about sixty-five miles from
here. He has a small property there. He used
to be an army doctor."
"Tut, tut, tut! Of course. I kept on asking
myself, 'Where have I heard that name before,
Bazarov?' Nikolai, don't you remember, there
was a surgeon called Bazarov in our father's
division."
"I believe there was."
"Exactly. So that surgeon is his father. Hm!"
Pavel Petrovich pulled his mustache. "Well,
and Monsieur Bazarov, what is he?" he asked
in a leisurely tone.
"What is Bazarov?" Arkady smiled. "Would you
like me to tell you, uncle, what he really
is?"
"Please do, nephew."
"He is a nihilist!"
"What?" asked Nikolai Petrovich, while Pavel
Petrovich lifted his knife in the air with
a small piece of butter on the tip and remained
motionless.
"He is a nihilist," repeated Arkady.
"A nihilist," said Nikolai Petrovich. "That
comes from the Latin nihil, nothing, as far
as I can judge; the word must mean a man who
. . . who recognizes nothing?"
"Say--who respects nothing," interposed Pavel
Petrovich and lowered his knife with the butter
on it.
"Who regards everything from the critical
point of view," said Arkady.
"Isn't that exactly the same thing?" asked
Pavel Petrovich.
"No, it's not the same thing. A nihilist is
a person who does not bow down to any authority,
who does not accept any principle on faith,
however much that principle may be revered."
"Well, and is that good?" asked Pavel Petrovich.
"That depends, uncle dear. For some it is
good, for others very bad."
"Indeed. Well, I see that's not in our line.
We old-fashioned people think that without
principles, taken as you say on faith, one
can't take a step or even breathe. Vous avez
changé tout cela; may God grant you health
and a general's rank, and we shall be content
to look on and admire your . . . what was
the name?"
"Nihilists," said Arkady, pronouncing very
distinctly.
"Yes, there used to be Hegelists and now there
are nihilists. We shall see how you will manage
to exist in the empty airless void; and now
ring, please, brother Nikolai, it's time for
me to drink my cocoa."
Nikolai Petrovich rang the bell and called,
"Dunyasha!" But instead of Dunyasha, Fenichka
herself appeared on the terrace. She was a
young woman of about twenty-three with a soft
white skin, dark hair and eyes, childishly
pouting lips and plump little hands. She wore
a neat cotton dress; a new blue kerchief lay
lightly over her soft shoulders. She carried
a large cup of cocoa and setting it down in
front of Pavel Petrovich, she was overcome
with confusion; the hot blood rushed in a
wave of crimson under the delicate skin of
her charming face. She lowered her eyes and
stood by the table slightly pressing it with
her finger tips. She looked as if she were
ashamed of having come in and somehow felt
at the same time that she had a right to come.
Pavel Petrovich frowned and Nikolai Petrovich
looked embarrassed. "Good morning, Fenichka,"
he muttered through his teeth.
"Good morning," she replied in a voice not
loud but resonant, and casting a quick glance
at Arkady, who gave her a friendly smile,
she went quietly away. She had a slightly
swaying walk, but that also suited her.
For some minutes silence reigned on the terrace.
Pavel Petrovich was sipping his cocoa; suddenly
he raised his head. "Here is Mr. Nihilist
coming over to visit us," he murmured.
Bazarov was in fact approaching through the
garden, striding over the flower beds. His
linen coat and trousers were bespattered with
mud; a clinging marsh plant was twined round
the crown of his old round hat, in his right
hand he held a small bag in which something
alive was wriggling. He walked quickly up
to the terrace and said with a nod, "Good
morning, gentlemen; sorry I was late for tea;
I'll join you in a moment. I just have to
put these prisoners away."
"What have you there, leeches?" asked Pavel
Petrovich.
"No, frogs."
"Do you eat them or keep them for breeding?"
"For experiments," answered Bazarov indifferently,
and went into the house.
"So he's going to cut them up," observed Pavel
Petrovich; "he has no faith in principles,
but he has faith in frogs."
Arkady looked sadly at his uncle; Nikolai
Petrovich almost imperceptibly shrugged his
shoulders. Pavel Petrovich himself felt that
his epigram had misfired and he began to talk
about farming and the new bailiff who had
come to him the evening before to complain
that a laborer, Foma, was "debauched," and
had become unmanageable. "He's such an Æsop,"
he remarked. "He announces to everyone that
he's a worthless fellow; he wants to have
a good time and then he'll suddenly leave
his job on account of some stupidity."
Chapter 6
BAZAROV CAME BACK, SAT DOWN AT THE TABLE AND
BEGAN to drink tea hurriedly. Both brothers
watched him in silence, and Arkady glanced
furtively from one to the other.
"Did you walk far this morning?" asked Nikolai
Petrovich at last.
"To where you've got a little marsh near an
aspen wood. I scared away five snipe. You
might shoot them, Arkady."
"So you're not a sportsman yourself?"
"No."
"Isn't physics your special subject?" asked
Pavel Petrovich in his turn.
"Yes, physics, and natural science in general."
"They say the Teutons have lately had great
success in that line."
"Yes, the Germans are our teachers in it,"
Bazarov answered carelessly.
Pavel Petrovich had used the word "Teutons"
instead of "Germans" with an ironical intention,
which, however, no one noticed.
"Have you such a high opinion of Germans?"
asked Pavel Petrovich with exaggerated politeness.
He was beginning to feel a concealed irritation.
Bazarov's complete nonchalance disgusted his
aristocratic nature. This surgeon's son was
not only self-assured, he even answered abruptly
and unwillingly and there was something coarse
and almost insolent in the tone of his voice.
"Their scientists are a clever lot."
"Ah, yes. I expect you hold a less flattering
opinion about Russian scientists."
"Very likely."
"That is very praiseworthy self-denial," said
Pavel Petrovich, drawing himself up and throwing
back his head. "But how is it that Arkady
Nikolaich was telling us just now that you
acknowledge no authorities? Don't you even
believe in them?"
"Why should I acknowledge them, or believe
in them? If they tell me the truth, I agree--that's
all."
"And do all Germans tell the truth?" murmured
Pavel Petrovich, and his face took on a distant,
detached expression, as if he had withdrawn
to some misty height.
"Not all," answered Bazarov with a short yawn,
obviously not wanting to prolong the discussion.
Pavel Petrovich looked at Arkady, as if he
wanted to say, "How polite your friend is."
"As far as I'm concerned," he began again
with some effort, "I plead guilty of not liking
Germans. There's no need to mention Russian
Germans, we all know what sort of creatures
they are. But even German Germans don't appeal
to me. Formerly there were a few Germans here
and there; well, Schiller for instance, or
Goethe--my brother is particularly fond of
them--but nowadays they all seem to have turned
into chemists and materialists . . ."
"A decent chemist is twenty times more useful
than any poet," interrupted Bazarov.
"Oh, indeed!" remarked Pavel Petrovich, and
as if he were falling asleep he slightly raised
his eyebrows. "So you don't acknowledge art?"
"The art of making money or of advertising
pills!" cried Bazarov, with a contemptuous
laugh.
"Ah, just so; you like joking, I see. So you
reject all that Very well. So you believe
in science only?"
"I have already explained to you that I don't
believe in anything; and what is science--science
in the abstract? There are sciences, as there
are trades and professions, but abstract science
just doesn't exist."
"Excellent. Well, and do you maintain the
same negative attitude towards other traditions
which have become generally accepted for human
conduct?"
"What is this, a cross-examination?" asked
Bazarov.
Pavel Petrovich turned a little pale . . . Nikolai
Petrovich felt that the moment had come for
him to intervene in the conversation.
"Sometime we should discuss this subject with
you in greater detail, my dear Evgeny Vassilich;
we will hear your views and express our own.
I must say I'm personally very glad you are
studying natural science. I heard that Liebig
made some wonderful discoveries about improving
the soil. You can help me in my agricultural
work and give me some useful advice."
"I'm at your service, Nikolai Petrovich, but
Liebig is quite above our heads. We must first
learn the alphabet and only then begin to
read, and we haven't yet grasped the a b c."
"You are a nihilist all right," thought Nikolai
Petrovich, and added aloud, "All the same
I hope you will let me apply to you occasionally.
And now, brother, I think it's time for us
to go and have our talk with the bailiff."
Pavel Petrovich rose from his seat. "Yes,"
he said, without looking at anyone; "it's
sad to have lived like this for five years
in the country, far from mighty intellects!
You turn into a fool straight away. You try
not to forget what you have learned--and then
one fine day it turns out to be all rubbish,
and they tell you that experienced people
have nothing to do with such nonsense, and
that you, if you please, are an antiquated
old simpleton. What's to be done? Obviously
young people are cleverer than we."
Pavel Petrovich turned slowly on his heels
and went out; Nikolai Petrovich followed him.
"Is he always like that?" Bazarov coolly asked
Arkady directly the door had closed behind
the two brothers.
"I must say, Evgeny, you were unnecessarily
rude to him," remarked Arkady. "You hurt his
feelings."
"Well, am I to humor them, these provincial
aristocrats? Why, it's all personal vanity,
smart habits, and foppery. He should have
continued his career in Petersburg if that's
his turn of mind . . . But enough of him!
I've found a rather rare specimen of water
beetle, Dytiscus marginatus--do you know it?
I'll show you."
"I promised to tell you his story . . ." began
Arkady.
"The story of the beetle?"
"Come, come, Evgeny--the story of my uncle.
You'll see he's not the kind of man you take
him for. He deserves pity rather than ridicule."
"I don't dispute, but why do you worry about
him?"
"One should be just, Evgeny."
"How does that follow?"
"No, listen . . ."
And Arkady told him his uncle's story. The
reader will find it in the following chapter.
Chapter 7
PAVEL PETROVICH KIRSANOV WAS EDUCATED FIRST
AT HOME, LIKE his younger brother, and afterwards
in the Corps of Pages. From childhood he was
distinguished by his remarkable beauty; he
was self-confident, rather ironical, and had
a biting sense of humor; he could not fail
to please people. He began to be received
everywhere directly he had obtained his commission
as an officer. He was pampered by society,
and indulged in every kind of whim and folly,
but that did not make him any less attractive.
Women went crazy about him, men called him
a fop and secretly envied him. He shared a
flat with his brother, whom he loved sincerely
although he was most unlike him. Nikolai Petrovich
was rather lame, had small, agreeable but
somewhat melancholy features, little black
eyes and soft thin hair; he enjoyed being
lazy, but he also liked reading and was shy
in society. Pavel Petrovich did not spend
a single evening at home, prided himself on
his boldness and agility (he was just bringing
gymnastics into fashion among the young men
of his set), and had read in all five or six
French books. At twenty-eight he was already
a captain; a brilliant career lay before him.
Suddenly all that was changed.
In those days there used to appear occasionally
in Petersburg society a woman who has even
now not been forgotten--Princess R. She had
a well-educated and respectable, but rather
stupid husband, and no children. She used
suddenly to travel abroad and equally suddenly
return to Russia, and in general she led an
eccentric life. She was reputed to be a frivolous
coquette, abandoned herself keenly to every
kind of pleasure, danced to exhaustion, laughed
and joked with young men whom she used to
receive before dinner in a dimly lit drawing
room, but at night she wept and said prayers,
finding no peace anywhere, and often paced
her room till morning, wringing her hands
in anguish, or sat, pale and cold, reading
a psalter. Day came and she turned again into
a lady of fashion, she went about again, laughed,
chatted and literally flung herself into any
activity which could afford her the slightest
distraction. She had a wonderful figure; her
hair, golden in color and heavy like gold,
fell below her knees, yet no one would have
called her a beauty; the only striking feature
in her whole face was her eyes--and even her
eyes were grey and not large--but their glance
was swift and deeply penetrating, carefree
to the point of audacity and thoughtful to
the verge of melancholy--an enigmatic glance.
Something extraordinary shone in those eyes
even when her tongue was chattering the emptiest
gossip. She dressed equisitely. Pavel Petrovich
met her at a ball, danced a mazurka with her,
in the course of which she did not utter a
single sensible word, and fell passionately
in love with her. Accustomed to making conquests,
he succeeded with her also, but his easy triumph
did not damp his enthusiasm. On the contrary,
he found himself in a still closer and more
tormenting bondage to this woman, in whom,
even when she surrendered herself without
reserve, there seemed always to remain something
mysterious and unattainable, to which no one
could penetrate. What was hidden in that soul--God
alone knows! It seemed as if she were in the
grip of some strange powers, unknown even
to herself; they seemed to play with her at
will and her limited mind was not strong enough
to master their caprices. Her whole behavior
was a maze of inconsistencies; the only letters
which could have aroused her husband's just
suspicions she wrote to a man who was almost
a stranger to her, and her love had always
an element of sadness; she no longer laughed
and joked with the man whom she had chosen,
but listened to him and looked at him in bewilderment.
Sometimes this bewilderment would change suddenly
into a cold horror; her face would take on
a wild, deathlike expression and she would
lock herself up in her bedroom; her maid,
putting her ear to the keyhole, could hear
her smothered sobs. More than once, as he
returned home after a tender meeting, Kirsanov
felt within him that heart-rending, bitter
gloom which follows the consciousness of total
failure. "What more do I want?" he asked himself,
but his heart was heavy. He once gave her
a ring which had a sphinx engraved in the
stone.
"What is this?" she asked. "A sphinx?"
"Yes," he answered, "and that sphinx is--you."
"Me?" she asked, and slowly looked at him
with her enigmatic eyes. "Do you know, that
is very flattering," she added with a meaningless
smile, while her eyes still looked as strangely
as before.
Pavel Petrovich suffered even while Princess
R. loved him, but when she became cold to
him, and that happened quite soon, he almost
went out of his mind. He tortured himself,
he was jealous, he gave her no rest but followed
her everywhere. She grew sick of his persistent
pursuit of her and went abroad. He resigned
from his regiment in spite of the entreaties
of his friends and the advice of his superior
officers, and he followed the princess abroad;
four years he spent in foreign countries,
at one time pursuing her, at other times trying
to lose sight of her; he was ashamed of himself,
he was indignant at his own lack of resolution--but
nothing helped. Her image--that incomprehensible,
almost meaningless, but fascinating image--was
too deeply rooted in his heart. In Baden he
once more revived his former relationship
with her; it seemed as though she had never
before loved him so passionately . . . but
in a month it was all over; the flame flared
up for the last time and then died out forever.
Foreseeing the inevitable separation, he wanted
at least to remain her friend, as if lasting
friendship with such a woman were possible
. . . She left Baden secretly and from that
time permanently avoided meeting Kirsanov.
He returned to Russia and tried to live as
before, but he could not adapt himself to
his old routine. He wandered from place to
place like one possessed; he still went out
to parties and retained the habits of a man
of the world; he could boast of two or three
more conquests; but he no longer expected
anything from himself or from others, and
he undertook nothing new. He grew old and
grey, spending all his evenings at the club,
embittered and bored--arguing indifferently
in bachelor society became a necessity for
him, and that was a bad sign. Of course the
thought of marriage never even occurred to
him. Ten years passed in this way, grey and
fruitless years, but they sped by terribly
quickly. Nowhere does time fly as it does
in Russia; in prison, they say, it flies even
faster. One day when he was dining at his
club, Pavel Petrovich heard that Princess
R. was dead. She had died in Paris in a state
bordering on insanity. He rose from the table
and paced about the rooms for a long time,
occasionally standing motionless behind the
cardplayers, but he returned home no earlier
than usual. A few weeks later he received
a packet on which his name had been written;
it contained the ring which he had given to
the princess. She had drawn lines in the shape
of a cross over the sphinx and sent him a
message to say that the solution of the enigma
was the cross.
This happened at the beginning of the year
1848, at the same time as Nikolai Petrovich
came to Petersburg after the death of his
wife. Pavel Petrovich had hardly seen his
brother since the latter had settled in the
country; Nikolai Petrovich's marriage had
coincided with the very first days of Pavel
Petrovich's acquaintance with the princess.
When he returned from abroad, he went to the
country, intending to stay two months with
his brother and to take pleasure in his happiness,
but he could stand it for only a week. The
difference between them was too great. In
1848 this difference had diminished; Nikolai
Petrovich had lost his wife, Pavel Petrovich
had abandoned his memories; after the death
of the princess he tried not to think about
her. But for Nikolai there remained the feeling
of a well-spent life, and his son was growing
up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary,
a lonely bachelor, was entering into that
indefinite twilight period of regrets which
resemble hopes and of hopes which are akin
to regrets, when youth is over and old age
has not yet started.
This time was harder for Pavel Petrovich than
for other people, for in losing his past he
lost everything he had.
"I won't ask you to come to Maryino now,"
Nikolai Petrovich said to him one day (he
had called his property by that name in honor
of his wife); "you found it dull there even
when my dear wife was alive, and now, I fear,
you would be bored to death."
"I was stupid and fidgety then," answered
Pavel Petrovich. "Since then I have calmed
down, if not grown wiser. Now, on the contrary,
if you will let me, I am ready to settle down
with you for good."
Instead of answering, Nikolai Petrovich embraced
him; but a year and a half elapsed after this
conversation before Pavel Petrovich finally
decided to carry out his intention. Once he
was settled in the country, however, he would
not leave it, even during those three winters
which Nikolai spent in Petersburg with his
son. He began to read, chiefly in English;
indeed he organized his whole life in an English
manner, rarely met his neighbors and went
only out to the local elections, and then
he was usually silent, though he occasionally
teased and alarmed landowners of the old school
by his liberal sallies, and he held himself
aloof from members of the younger generation.
Both generations regarded him as "stuck up,"
and both respected him for his excellent aristocratic
manners, for his reputation as a lady killer,
for the fact that he was always perfectly
dressed and always stayed in the best room
in the best hotel; for the fact that he knew
about good food and had once even dined with
the Duke of Wellington at Louis Philippe's
table; for the fact that he took with him
everywhere a real silver dressing case and
a portable bath; for the fact that he smelt
of some unusual and strikingly "distinguished"
perfume; for the fact that he played whist
superbly and always lost; lastly they respected
him for his incorruptible honesty. Ladies
found him enchantingly romantic, but he did
not cultivate the society of ladies . . .
"So you see, Evgeny," remarked Arkady, as
he finished his story, "how unjustly you judge
my uncle. Not to mention that he has more
than once helped my father out of financial
troubles, given him all his money--perhaps
you don't know, the property was never divided
up--he's happy to help anyone; incidentally
he is always doing something for the peasants;
it is true, when he talks to them, he screws
up his face and sniffs eau de Cologne. . . "
"Nerves, obviously," interrupted Bazarov.
"Perhaps, but his heart is in the right place.
And he's far from stupid. What a lot of useful
advice he has given me . . . especially . . . especially
about relations with women."
"Aha! If you burn your mouth with hot milk,
you'll even blow on water--we know that!"
"Well," continued Arkady, "in a word, he's
profoundly unhappy--it's a crime to despise
him."
"And who is despising him?" retorted Bazarov.
"Still, I must say that a man who has staked
his whole life on the one card of a woman's
love, and when that card fails, turns sour
and lets himself drift till he's fit for nothing,
is not really a man. You say he's unhappy;
you know better than I do; but he certainly
hasn't got rid of all his foibles. I'm sure
that he imagines he is busy and useful because
he reads Galignani and once a month saves
a peasant from being flogged."
"But remember his education, the age in which
he grew up," said Arkady.
"Education?" ejaculated Bazarov. "Everyone
should educate himself, as I've done, for
instance . . . And as for the age, why should
I depend upon it? Let it rather depend on
me. No, my dear fellow, that's all emptiness
and loose living. And what are these mysterious
relations between a man and a woman? We physiologists
know what they are. You study the anatomy
of the eye; and where does it come in, that
enigmatic look you talk about? That's all
romanticism, rubbish, and moldy æsthetics.
We had much better go and examine the beetle."
And the two friends went off to Bazarov's
room, which was already pervaded by a kind
of medical surgical smell, mixed with the
reek of cheap tobacco.
Chapter 8
PAVEL PETROVICH DID NOT STAY LONG AT HIS BROTHER'S
INTERVIEW with the bailiff, a tall, thin man
with the soft voice of a consumptive and cunning
eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovich's remarks
answered, "Indeed, certainly, sir," and tried
to show up the peasants as thieves and drunkards.
The estate had only just started to be run
on the new system, whose mechanism still creaked
like an ungreased wheel and cracked in places
like homemade furniture of raw, unseasoned
wood. Nikolai Petrovich did not lose heart
but he often sighed and felt discouraged;
he realized that things could not be improved
without more money, and his money was almost
all spent. Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel
Petrovich had helped his brother more than
once; several times, seeing him perplexed,
racking his brains, not knowing which way
to turn, Pavel Petrovich had moved towards
the window, and with his hands thrust into
his pockets had muttered between his teeth,
"Mais je puis vous donner de l'argent," and
gave him money; but today he had none left
himself and he preferred to go away. The petty
disputes of agricultural management wearied
him; besides, he could not help feeling that
Nikolai Petrovich, with all his zeal and hard
work, did not set about things in the right
way, although he could not point out exactly
what were his brother's mistakes. "My brother
is not practical enough," he would say to
himself; "they cheat him." On the other hand,
Nikolai Petrovich had the highest opinion
of Pavel Petrovich's practical capacity and
was always asking for his advice. "I'm a mild,
weak person, I've spent my life in the depths
of the country," he used to say, "while you
haven't seen so much of the world for nothing;
you understand people, you see through them
with an eagle's eye." In answer to such words,
Pavel Petrovich only turned aside but did
not contradict his brother.
Leaving Nikolai Petrovich in the study, he
walked along the corridor which separated
the front portion of the house from the back;
on reaching a low door he stopped and hesitated
for a moment, then, pulling at his mustache,
he knocked on it.
"Who is there? Come in," called out Fenichka's
voice.
"It is me," said Pavel Petrovich, and opened
the door. Fenichka jumped up from the chair
on which she was sitting with her baby, and
putting him into the arms of a girl who at
once carried him out of the room, she hastily
straightened her kerchief.
"Excuse me for disturbing you," began Pavel
Petrovich without looking at her; "I only
wanted to ask you . . . as they are sending
into the town today . . . to see that they
buy some green tea for me."
"Certainly," answered Fenichka, "how much
tea do you want?"
"Oh, half a pound will be enough, I should
think. I see you have made some changes here,"
he added, casting a rapid look around and
at Fenichka's face. "Those curtains," he went
on, seeing that she did not understand him.
"Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovich
kindly gave them to me, but they've been hung
up for quite a long time."
"Yes, and I haven't been to see you for a
long time. Now it is all very nice here."
"Thanks to Nikolai Petrovich's kindness,"
murmured Fenichka.
"You are more comfortable here than in the
little side-wing where you used to be?" inquired
Pavel Petrovich politely but without any trace
of a smile.
"Certainly, it is better here."
"Who has been put in your place now?"
"The laundrymaids are there now."
"Ah!"
Pavel Petrovich was silent. "Now he will go,"
thought Fenichka; but he did not go and she
stood in front of him rooted to the spot,
moving her fingers nervously.
"Why did you send your little one away?" said
Pavel Petrovich at last. "I love children;
do let me see him."
Fenichka blushed all over with confusion and
joy. She was frightened of Pavel Petrovich;
he hardly ever spoke to her.
"Dunyasha," she called. "Will you bring Mitya,
please?" (Fenichka was polite to every member
of the household.) "But wait a moment; he
must have a frock on." Fenichka was going
towards the door.
"That doesn't matter," remarked Pavel Petrovich.
"I shall be back in a moment," answered Fenichka,
and she went out quickly.
Pavel Petrovich was left alone and this time
he looked round with special attention. The
small, low room in which he found himself
was very clean and cosy. It smelt of the freshly
painted floor and of camomile flowers. Along
the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs,
bought by the late General Kirsanov in Poland
during a campaign; in one corner was a little
bedstead under a muslin canopy alongside a
chest with iron clamps and a curved lid. In
the opposite corner a little lamp was burning
in front of a big, dark picture of St. Nicholas
the Miracle-Worker; a tiny porcelain egg hung
over the saint's breast suspended by a red
ribbon from his halo; on the window sills
stood carefully tied greenish glass jars filled
with last year's jam; Fenichka had herself
written in big letters on their paper covers
the word "Gooseberry;" it was the favorite
jam of Nikolai Petrovich. A cage containing
a short-tailed canary hung on a long cord
from the ceiling; he constantly chirped and
hopped about, and the cage kept on swinging
and shaking, while hemp seeds fell with a
light tap onto the floor. On the wall just
above a small chest of drawers hung some rather
bad photographs of Nikolai Petrovich taken
in various positions; there, too, was a most
unsuccessful photograph of Fenichka; it showed
an eyeless face smiling with effort in a dingy
frame--nothing more definite could be distinguished--and
above Fenichka, General Yermolov, in a Caucasian
cloak, scowled menacingly at distant mountains,
from under a little silk shoe for pins which
fell right over his forehead.
Five minutes passed; a sound of rustling and
whispering could be heard in the next room.
Pavel Petrovich took from the chest of drawers
a greasy book, an odd volume of Masalsky's
Musketeer, and turned over a few pages . . . The
door opened and Fenichka came in with Mitya
in her arms. She bad dressed him in a little
red shirt with an embroidered collar, had
combed his hair and washed his face; he was
breathing heavily, his whole body moved up
and down, and he waved his little hands in
the air as all healthy babies do; but his
smart shirt obviously impressed him and his
plump little person radiated delight. Fenichka
had also put her own hair in order and rearranged
her kerchief; but she might well have remained
as she was. Indeed, is there anything more
charming in the world than a beautiful young
mother with a healthy child in her arms?
"What a chubby little fellow," said Pavel
Petrovich, graciously tickling Mitya's double
chin with the tapering nail of his forefinger;
the baby stared at the canary and laughed.
"That's uncle," said Fenichka, bending her
face over him and slightly rocking him, while
Dunyasha quietly set on the window sill a
smoldering candle, putting a coin under it.
"How many months old is he?" asked Pavel Petrovich.
"Six months, it will be seven on the eleventh
of this month."
"Isn't it eight, Fedosya Nikolayevna?" Dunyasha
interrupted timidly.
"No, seven. What an idea!"
The baby laughed again, stared at the chest
and suddenly seized his mother's nose and
mouth with all his five little fingers. "Naughty
little one," said Fenichka without drawing
her face away.
"He's like my brother," said Pavel Petrovich.
"Who else should he be like?" thought Fenichka.
"Yes," continued Pavel Petrovich as though
speaking to himself. "An unmistakable likeness."
He looked attentively, almost sadly at Fenichka.
"That's uncle," she repeated, this time in
a whisper.
"Ah, Pavel, there you are!" suddenly resounded
the voice of Nikolai Petrovich.
Pavel Petrovich turned hurriedly round with
a frown on his face, but his brother looked
at him with such delight and gratitude that
he could not help responding to his smile.
"You've got a splendid little boy," he said,
and looked at his watch. "I came in here to
ask about some tea . . ."
Then, assuming an expression of indifference,
Pavel Petrovich at once left the room.
"Did he come here of his own accord?" Nikolai
Petrovich asked Fenichka.
"Yes, he just knocked and walked in."
"Well, and has Arkasha come to see you again?"
"No. Hadn't I better move into the side-wing
again, Nikolai Petrovich?"
"Why should you?"
"I wonder whether it wouldn't be better just
at first."
"No," said Nikolai Petrovich slowly, and rubbed
his forehead. "We should have done it sooner
. . . How are you, little balloon?" he said,
suddenly brightening, and went up to the child
and kissed him on the cheek; then he bent
lower and pressed his lips to Fenichka's hand,
which lay white as milk on Mitya's little
red shirt.
"Nikolai Petrovich, what are you doing?" she
murmured, lowering her eyes, then quietly
looked up again; her expression was charming
as she peeped from under her eyelids and smiled
tenderly and rather stupidly.
Nikolai Petrovich had made Fenichka's acquaintance
in the following way. Three years ago he had
once stayed the night at an inn in a remote
provincial town. He was pleasantly surprised
by the cleanliness of the room assigned to
him and the freshness of the bed linen; surely
there must be a German woman in charge, he
thought at first; but the housekeeper turned
out to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty,
neatly dressed, with a good-looking, sensible
face and a measured way of talking. He got
into conversation with her at tea and liked
her very much. Nikolai Petrovich at that time
had only just moved into his new home, and
not wishing to keep serfs in the house, he
was looking for wage servants; the housekeeper
at the inn complained about the hard times
and the small number of visitors to that town;
he offered her the post of housekeeper in
his home and she accepted it. Her husband
had long been dead; he had left her with an
only daughter, Fenichka. Within a fortnight
Arina Savishna (that was the new housekeeper's
name) arrived with her daughter at Maryino
and was installed in the side-wing. Nikolai
Petrovich had made a good choice. Arina brought
order into the household. No one talked about
Fenichka, who was then seventeen, and hardly
anyone saw her; she lived in quiet seclusion
and only on Sundays Nikolai Petrovich used
to notice the delicate profile of her pale
face somewhere in a corner of the church.
Thus another year passed.
One morning Arina came into his study, and
after bowing low as usual, asked him if he
could help her daughter, as a spark from the
stove had flown into her eye. Nikolai Petrovich,
like many homeloving country people, had studied
simple remedies and had even procured a homeopathic
medicine chest. He at once told Arina to bring
the injured girl to him. Fenichka was much
alarmed when she heard that the master had
sent for her, but she followed her mother.
Nikolai Petrovich led her to the window and
took her head between his hands. After thoroughly
examining her red and swollen eye, he made
up a poultice at once, and tearing his handkerchief
in strips showed her how it should be applied.
Fenichka listened to all he said and turned
to go out. "Kiss the master's hand, you silly
girl," said Arina. Nikolai Petrovich did not
hold out his hand and in confusion himself
kissed her bent head on the parting of the
hair. Fenichka's eye soon healed, but the
impression she had made on Nikolai Petrovich
did not pass away so quickly. He had constant
visions of that pure, gentle, timidly raised
face; he felt that soft hair under the palms
of his hands, and saw those innocent, slightly
parted lips, through which pearly teeth gleamed
with moist brilliance in the sunshine. He
began to watch her very attentively in church
and tried to get into conversation with her.
At first she was extremely shy with him, and
one day, meeting him towards evening on a
narrow footpath crossing a rye field, she
ran into the tall, thick rye, overgrown with
cornflowers and wormwood, to avoid meeting
him face to face. He caught sight of her small
head through the golden network of ears of
rye, from which she was peering out like a
wild animal, and called out to her affectionately,
"Good evening, Fenichka. I won't bite."
"Good evening," murmured Fenichka, without
emerging from her hiding place.
By degrees she began to feel more at ease
with him, but she was still a shy girl when
suddenly her mother, Arina, died of cholera.
What was to become of Fenichka? She had inherited
from her mother a love of order, tidiness
and regularity, but she was so young, so alone
in the world; Nikolai Petrovich was so genuinely
kind and considerate . . . There is no need
to describe what followed . . .
"So my brother came to see you?" Nikolai Petrovich
asked her. "He just knocked and came in?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's good. Let me give Mitya a swing."
And Nikolai Petrovich began to toss him almost
up to the ceiling, to the vast delight of
the baby, and to the considerable anxiety
of his mother, who each time he flew upwards
stretched out her arms towards his little
bare legs.
Meanwhile Pavel Petrovich had gone back to
his elegant study, which was decorated with
handsome blue wallpaper, and with weapons
hanging from a multicolored Persian carpet
fixed to the wall; it had walnut furniture,
upholstered in dark green velvet, a Renaissance
bookcase of ancient black oak, bronze statuettes
on the magnificent writing desk, an open hearth
. . . He threw himself on the sofa, clasped
his hands behind his head and remained motionless,
looking at the ceiling with an expression
verging on despair. Perhaps because he wanted
to hide even from the walls whatever was reflected
in his face, or for some other reason, he
rose, drew the heavy window curtains and again
threw himself on the sofa.
Chapter 9
ON 
THAT SAME DAY BAZAROV MET FENICHKA. HE WAS
WALKING with Arkady in the garden and explaining
to him why some of the trees, particularly
the oaks, were growing badly.
"You would do better to plant silver poplars
here, or firs and perhaps limes, with some
extra black earth. The arbor there has grown
up well," he added, "because it's acacia and
lilac; they're good shrubs, they don't need
looking after. Ah! there's someone inside."
In the arbor Fenichka was sitting with Dunyasha
and Mitya. Bazarov stopped and Arkady nodded
to Fenichka like an old friend.
"Who's that?" Bazarov asked him directly they
had passed by. "What a pretty girl!"
"Whom do you mean?"
"You must know; only one of them is pretty."
Arkady, not without embarrassment, explained
to him briefly who Fenichka was.
"Aha!" remarked Bazarov. "That shows your
father's got good taste. I like your father;
ay, ay! He's a good fellow. But we must make
friends," he added, and turned back towards
the arbor.
"Evgeny," cried Arkady after him in bewilderment,
"be careful what you do, for goodness' sake."
"Don't worry," said Bazarov. "I'm an experienced
man, not a country bumpkin."
Going up to Fenichka, he took off his cap.
"May I introduce myself?" he began, making
a polite bow. "I'm a friend of Arkady Nikolayevich
and a harmless person."
Fenichka got up from the garden seat and looked
at him without speaking.
"What a wonderful baby," continued Bazarov.
"Don't be uneasy, my praises have never brought
the evil eye. Why are his cheeks so flushed?
Is he cutting his teeth?"
"Yes," murmured Fenichka, "he has cut four
teeth already and now the gums are swollen
again."
"Show me . . . don't be afraid, I'm a doctor."
Bazarov took the baby in his arms, and to
the great astonishment of both Fenichka and
Dunyasha the child made no resistance and
was not even frightened.
"I see, I see . . . It's nothing, he'll have
a good set of teeth. If anything goes wrong
you just tell me. And are you quite well yourself?"
"Very well, thank God."
"Thank God, that's the main thing. And you?"
he added, turning to Dunyasha.
Dunyasha, who behaved very primly inside the
house and was frivolous out of doors, only
giggled in reply.
"Well, that's all right. Here's your young
hero."
Fenichka took back the baby in her arms.
"How quiet he was with you," she said in an
undertone. "Children are always good with
me," answered Bazarov. "I have a way with
them."
"Children know who loves them," remarked Dunyasha.
"Yes, they certainly do," Fenichka added.
"Mitya won't allow some people to touch him,
not for anything."
"Will he come to me?" asked Arkady, who after
standing at a distance for some time had come
to join them. He tried to entice Mitya into
his arms, but Mitya threw back his head and
screamed, much to Fenichka's confusion.
"Another day, when he's had time to get accustomed
to me," said Arkady graciously, and the two
friends walked away.
"What's her name?" asked Bazarov.
"Fenichka . . . Fedosya," answered Arkady.
"And her father's name? One must know that,
too."
"Nikolayevna."
"Good. What I like about her is that she's
not too embarrassed. Some people, I suppose,
would think ill of her on that account. But
what rubbish! Why should she be embarrassed?
She's a mother and she's quite right."
"She is in the right," observed Arkady, "but
my father . . ."
"He's right, too," interposed Bazarov.
"Well, no, I don't think so."
"I suppose an extra little heir is not to
your liking."
"You ought to be ashamed to attribute such
thoughts to me!" retorted Arkady hotly. "I
don't consider my father in the wrong from
that point of view; as I see it, he ought
to marry her."
"Well, well," said Bazarov calmly, "how generous-minded
we are! So you still attach significance to
marriage; I didn't expect that from you."
The friends walked on a few steps in silence.
"I've seen all round your father's place,"
began Bazarov again. "The cattle are bad,
the horses are broken down, the buildings
aren't up to much, and the workmen look like
professional loafers; and the bailiff is either
a fool or a knave, I haven't yet found out
which."
"You are very severe today, Evgeny Vassilich."
"And the good peasants are taking your father
in properly; you know the proverb 'the Russian
peasant will cheat God himself.'"
"I begin to agree with my uncle," remarked
Arkady. "You certainly have a poor opinion
of Russians."
"As if that mattered! The only good quality
of a Russian is to have the lowest possible
opinion about himself. What matters is that
twice two make four and the rest is all rubbish."
"And is nature rubbish?" said Arkady, gazing
pensively at the colored fields in the distance,
beautifully lit up in the mellow rays of the
sinking sun.
"Nature, too, is rubbish in the sense you
give to it. Nature is not a temple but a workshop,
and man is the workman in it."
At that moment the long drawn-out notes of
a cello floated out to them from the house.
Someone was playing Schubert's Expectation
with feeling, though with an untrained hand,
and the sweet melody flowed like honey through
the air.
"What is that?" exclaimed Bazarov in amazement.
"My father."
"Your father plays the cello?"
"Yes."
"And how old is your father?"
"Forty-four."
Bazarov suddenly roared with laughter.
"What are you laughing at?"
"My goodness! A man of forty-four, a father
of a family, in this province, plays on the
cello!"
Bazarov went on laughing, but, much as he
revered his friend's example, this time Arkady
did not even smile.
Chapter 10
A FORTNIGHT PASSED BY. LIFE AT MARYINO PURSUED
ITS NORMAL course, while Arkady luxuriously
enjoyed himself and Bazarov worked. Everyone
in the house had grown accustomed to Bazarov,
to his casual behavior, to his curt and abrupt
manner of speaking. Fenichka indeed, felt
so much at ease with him that one night she
had him awakened; Mitya had been seized by
convulsions; Bazarov had gone, half-joking
and half-yawning as usual, had sat with her
for two hours and relieved the child. On the
other hand, Pavel Petrovich had grown to hate
Bazarov with all the strength of his soul;
he regarded him as conceited, impudent, cynical
and vulgar, he suspected that Bazarov had
no respect for him, that he all but despised
him--him, Pavel Kirsanov! Nikolai Petrovich
was rather frightened of the young "Nihilist"
and doubted the benefit of his influence on
Arkady, but he listened keenly to what he
said and was glad to be present during his
chemical and scientific experiments. Bazarov
had brought a microscope with him and busied
himself with it for hours. The servants also
took to him, though he made fun of them; they
felt that he was more like one of themselves,
and not a master. Dunyasha was always ready
to giggle with him and used to cast significant
sidelong glances at him when she skipped past
like a squirrel. Pyotr, who was vain and stupid
to the highest degree, with a constant forced
frown on his brow, and whose only merit consisted
in the fact that he looked polite, could spell
out a page of reading and assiduously brushed
his coat--even he grinned and brightened up
when Bazarov paid any attention to him; the
farm boys simply ran after "the doctor" like
puppies. Only old Prokovich disliked him;
at table he handed him dishes with a grim
expression; he called him "butcher" and "upstart"
and declared that with his huge whiskers he
looked like a pig in a sty. Prokovich in his
own way was quite as much of an aristocrat
as Pavel Petrovich.
The best days of the year had come--the early
June days. The weather was lovely; in the
distance, it is true, cholera was threatening,
but the inhabitants of that province had grown
used to its periodic ravages. Bazarov used
to get up very early and walk for two or three
miles, not for pleasure--he could not bear
walking without an object--but in order to
collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes
he took Arkady with him. On the way home an
argument often sprang up, in which Arkady
was usually defeated in spite of talking more
than his companion.
One day they had stayed out rather late. Nikolai
Petrovich had gone into the garden to meet
them, and as he reached the arbor he suddenly
heard the quick steps and voices of the two
young men; they were walking on the other
side of the arbor and could not see him.
"You don't know my father well enough," Arkady
was saying. "Your father is a good fellow,"
said Bazarov, "but his day is over; his song
has been sung to extinction."
Nikolai Petrovich listened intently . . . Arkady
made no reply.
The man whose day was over stood still for
a minute or two, then quietly returned to
the house.
"The day before yesterday I saw him reading
Pushkin," Bazarov went on meanwhile. "Please
explain to him how utterly useless that is.
After all he's not a boy, it's high time he
got rid of such rubbish. And what an idea
to be romantic in our times! Give him something
sensible to read."
"What should I give him?" asked Arkady.
"Oh, I think Büchner's Stoff und Kraft to
start with."
"I think so too," remarked Arkady approvingly.
"Stoff und Kraft is written in popular language
. . ."
"So it seems," said Nikolai Petrovich the
same day after dinner to his brother, as they
sat in his study, "you and I are behind the
times, our day is over. Well . . . perhaps
Bazarov is right; but one thing, I must say,
hurts me; I was so hoping just now to get
on really close and friendly terms with Arkady,
and it turns out that I've lagged behind while
he has gone forward, and we simply can't understand
one another."
"But how has he gone forward? And in what
way is he so different from us?" exclaimed
Pavel Petrovich impatiently. "It's that grand
seigneur of a nihilist who has knocked such
ideas into his head. I loathe that doctor
fellow; in my opinion he's nothing but a charlatan;
I'm sure that in spite of all his tadpoles
he knows precious little even in medicine."
"No, brother, you mustn't say that; Bazarov
is clever and knows his subject."
"And so disagreeably conceited," Pavel Petrovich
broke in again.
"Yes," observed Nikolai Petrovich, "he is
conceited. Evidently one can't manage without
it, that's what I failed to take into account.
I thought I was doing everything to keep up
with the times; I divided the land with the
peasants, started a model farm, so that I'm
even described as a "Rebel" all over the province;
I read, I study, I try in every way to keep
abreast of the demands of the day--and they
say my day is over. And brother, I really
begin to think that it is."
"Why is that?"
"I'll tell you why. I was sitting and reading
Pushkin today . . . I remember, it happened
to be The Gypsies . . . Suddenly Arkady comes
up to me and silently, with such a kind pity
in his face, as gently as if I were a baby,
takes the book away from me and puts another
one in front of me instead . . . a German
book . . . smiles and goes out, carrying Pushkin
off with him."
"Well, really! What book did he give you?"
"This one."
And Nikolai Petrovich pulled out of his hip
pocket the ninth edition of Büchner's well-known
treatise.
Pavel Petrovich turned it over in his hands.
"Hm!" he growled, "Arkady Nikolayevich is
taking your education in hand. Well, have
you tried to read it?"
"Yes, I tried."
"What did you think of it?"
"Either I'm stupid, or it's all nonsense.
I suppose I must be stupid."
"But you haven't forgotten your German?" asked
Pavel Petrovich.
"Oh, I understand the language all right."
Pavel Petrovich again fingered the book and
glanced across at his brother. Both were silent.
"Oh, by the way," began Nikolai Petrovich,
evidently wanting to change the subject--"I've
had a letter from Kolyazin."
"From Matvei Ilyich?"
"Yes. He has come to inspect the province.
He's quite a bigwig now, he writes to say
that as a relation he wants to see us again,
and invites you, me and Arkady to go to stay
in the town."
"Are you going?" asked Pavel Petrovich.
"No. Are you?"
"No. I shan't go. What is the sense of dragging
oneself forty miles on a wild-goose chase.
Mathieu wants to show off to us in all his
glory. Let him go to the devil! He'll have
the whole province at his feet, so he can
get on without us. It's a grand honor--a privy
councilor! If I had continued in the service,
drudging along in that dreary routine, I should
have been a general-adjutant by now. Besides,
you and I are behind the times."
"Yes, brother; it seems the time has come
to order a coffin, and to cross the arms over
one's chest," remarked Nikolai Petrovich with
a sigh.
"Well, I shan't give in quite so soon," muttered
his brother. "I've got a quarrel with this
doctor creature in front of me, I'm sure of
that."
The quarrel materialized that very evening
at tea. Pavel Petrovich came into the drawing
room all keyed up, irritable and determined.
He was only waiting for a pretext to pounce
upon his enemy, but for some time no such
pretext arose. As a rule Bazarov spoke little
in the presence of the "old Kirsanovs" (that
was what he called the brothers), and that
evening he felt in a bad humor and drank cup
after cup of tea without saying a word. Pavel
Petrovich was burning with impatience; his
wishes were fulfilled at last.
The conversation turned to one of the neighboring
landowners. "Rotten aristocratic snob," observed
Bazarov casually; he had met him in Petersburg.
"Allow me to ask you," began Pavel Petrovich,
and his lips were trembling, "do you attach
an identical meaning to the words 'rotten'
and 'aristocrat'?"
"I said 'aristocratic snob,'" replied Bazarov,
lazily swallowing a sip of tea.
"Precisely, but I imagine you hold the same
opinion of aristocrats as of aristocratic
snobs. I think it my duty to tell you that
I do not share that opinion. I venture to
say that I am well known to be a man of liberal
views and devoted to progress, but for that
very reason I respect aristocrats--real aristocrats.
Kindly remember, sir," (at these words Bazarov
lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel Petrovich)
"kindly remember, sir," he repeated sharply,
"the English aristocracy. They did not abandon
one iota of their rights, and for that reason
they respect the rights of others; they demand
the fulfillment of what is due to them, and
therefore they respect their own duties. The
aristocracy gave freedom to England, and they
maintain it for her."
"We've heard that story many times; what are
you trying to prove by it?"
"I am tryin' to prove by that, sir," (when
Pavel Petrovich became angry he intentionally
clipped his words, though of course he knew
very well that such forms are not strictly
grammatical. This whim indicated a survival
from the period of Alexander I. The great
ones of that time, on the rare occasions when
they spoke their own language, made use of
such distortions as if seeking to show thereby
that though they were genuine Russians, yet
at the same time as grands seigneurs they
could afford to ignore the grammatical rules
of scholars) "I am tryin' to prove by that,
sir, that without a sense of personal dignity,
without self-respect--and these two feelings
are developed in the aristocrat--there is
no firm foundation for the social . . . bien
public . . . for the social structure. Personal
character, my good sir, that is the chief
thing; a man's personality must be as strong
as a rock since everything else is built up
on it. I am well aware, for instance, that
you choose to consider my habits, my dress,
even my tidiness, ridiculous; but all this
comes from a sense of self-respect and of
duty--yes, from a sense of duty. I live in
the wilds of the country, but I refuse to
lower myself. I respect the dignity of man
in myself."
"Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovich," muttered
Bazarov, "you respect yourself and you sit
with folded hands; what sort of benefit is
that to the bien public? If you didn't respect
yourself, you'd do just the same.
Pavel Petrovich turned pale. "That is quite
another question. There is absolutely no need
for me to explain to you now why I sit here
with folded hands, as you are pleased to express
yourself. I wish only to tell you that aristocracy--is
a principle, and that only depraved or stupid
people can live in our time without principles.
I said as much to Arkady the day after he
came home, and I repeat it to you now. Isn't
that so, Nikolai?"
Nikolai Petrovich nodded his head.
"Aristocracy, liberalism, progress, principles,"
said Bazarov. "Just think what a lot of foreign
. . . and useless words! To a Russian they're
no good for anything!"
"What is good for Russians according to you?
If we listen to you, we shall find ourselves
beyond the pale of humanity, outside human
laws. Doesn't the logic of history demand
. . ."
"What's the use of that logic to us? We can
get along without it."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, this. You don't need logic, I suppose,
to put a piece of bread in your mouth when
you're hungry. For what do we need those abstractions?"
Pavel Petrovich raised his hands. "I simply
don't understand you after all that. You insult
the Russian people. I fail to understand how
it is possible not to acknowledge principles,
rules! By virtue of what can you act?"
"I already told you, uncle dear, that we don't
recognize any authorities," interposed Arkady.
"We act by virtue of what we recognize as
useful," went on Bazarov. "At present the
most useful thing is denial, so we deny--"
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"What? Not only art, poetry . . . but . . . the
thought is appalling . . ."
"Everything," repeated Bazarov with indescribable
composure.
Pavel Petrovich stared at him. He had not
expected this, and Arkady even blushed with
satisfaction.
"But allow me," began Nikolai Petrovich. "You
deny everything, or to put it more precisely,
you destroy everything . . . But one must
construct, too, you know."
"That is not our business . . . we must first
clear the ground."
"The present condition of the people demands
it," added Arkady rather sententiously; "we
must fulfill those demands, we have no right
to yield to the satisfaction of personal egotism."
That last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov;
it smacked of philosophy, or romanticism,
for Bazarov called philosophy a kind of romanticism--but
he did not judge it necessary to correct his
young disciple.
"No, no!" cried Pavel Petrovich with sudden
vehemence. "I can't believe that you young
men really know the Russian people, that you
represent their needs and aspirations! No,
the Russian people are not what you imagine
them to be. They hold tradition sacred, they
are a patriarchal people, they cannot live
without faith . . ."
"I'm not going to argue with you," interrupted
Bazarov. "I'm even ready to agree that there
you are right."
"And if I am right . . ."
"It proves nothing, all the same."
"Exactly, it proves nothing," repeated Arkady
with the assurance of an experienced chess
player who, having foreseen an apparently
dangerous move on the part of his adversary,
is not in the least put out by it.
"How can it prove nothing?" mumbled Pavel
Petrovich in consternation. "In that case
you must be going against your own people."
"And what if we are?" exclaimed Bazarov. "The
people imagine that when it thunders the prophet
Ilya is riding across the sky in his chariot.
What then? Are we to agree with them? Besides,
if they are Russian, so am I."
"No, you are not a Russian after what you
have said. I can't admit you have any right
to call yourself a Russian."
"My grandfather ploughed the land," answered
Bazarov with haughty pride. "Ask any one of
your peasants which of us--you or me--he would
more readily acknowledge as a fellow countryman.
You don't even know how to talk to them."
"While you talk to them and despise them at
the same time."
"What of that, if they deserve contempt! You
find fault with my point of view, but what
makes you think it came into being by chance,
that it's not a product of that very national
spirit which you are championing?"
"What an idea! How can we need nihilists?"
"Whether they are needed or not--is not for
us to decide. Why, even you imagine you're
not a useless person."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please!"
cried Nikolai Petrovich, getting up.
Pavel Petrovich smiled, and laying his hand
on his brother's shoulder, made him sit down
again.
"Don't be alarmed," he said, "I shan't forget
myself, thanks to that sense of dignity which
is so cruelly ridiculed by our friend--our
friend, the doctor. Allow me to point out,"
he resumed, turning again to Bazarov, "you
probably think that your doctrine is a novelty?
That is an illusion of yours. The materialism
which you preach, was more than once in vogue
before and has always proved inadequate . . . ."
"Yet another foreign word!" broke in Bazarov.
He was beginning to feel angry and his face
looked peculiarly copper-colored and coarse.
"In the first place, we preach nothing; that's
not in our line . . ."
"What do you do, then?"
"This is what we do. Not long ago we used
to say that our officials took bribes, that
we had no roads, no commerce, no real justice.
. . ."
"Oh, I see, you are reformers--that's the
right name, I think. I, too, should agree
with many of your reforms, but . . ."
"Then we suspected that talk and only talk
about our social diseases was not worth while,
that it led to nothing but hypocrisy and pedantry;
we saw that our leading men, our so-called
advanced people and reformers, are worthless;
that we busy ourselves with rubbish, talk
nonsense about art, about unconscious creation,
parliamentarianism, trial by jury, and the
devil knows what--when the real question is
daily bread, when the grossest superstitions
are stifling us, when all our business enterprises
crash simply because there aren't enough honest
men to carry them on, while the very emancipation
which our government is struggling to organize
will hardly come to any good, because our
peasant is happy to rob even himself so long
as he can get drunk at the pub."
"Yes," broke in Pavel Petrovich, "indeed,
you were convinced of all this and you therefore
decided to undertake nothing serious yourselves."
"We decided to undertake nothing," repeated
Bazarov grimly. He suddenly felt annoyed with
himself for having been so expansive in front
of this gentleman.
"But to confine yourselves to abuse."
"To confine ourselves to abuse."
"And that is called nihilism?"
"And that is called nihilism," Bazarov repeated
again, this time in a particularly insolent
tone.
Pavel Petrovich screwed up his eyes a little.
"So that's it," he murmured in a strangely
composed voice. "Nihilism is to cure all our
woes, and you--you are our saviors and heroes.
Very well--but why do you find fault with
others, including the reformers? Don't you
do as much talking as anyone else?"
"Whatever faults we may have, that is not
one of them," muttered Bazarov between his
teeth.
"What then, do you act? Are you preparing
for action?"
Bazarov made no reply. A tremor passed through
Pavel Petrovich, but he at once regained control
of himself.
"Hm!. . . Action, destruction . . ." he went
on. "But how can you destroy without even
knowing why?"
"We shall destroy because we are a force,"
remarked Arkady.
Pavel Petrovich looked at his nephew and laughed.
"Yes, a force can't be called to account for
itself," said Arkady, drawing himself up.
"Unhappy boy," groaned Pavel Petrovich, who
could no longer maintain his show of firmness.
"Can't you realize the kind of thing you are
encouraging in Russia with your shallow doctrine!
No, it's enough to try the patience of an
angel! Force! There's force in the savage
Kalmuk, in the Mongol, but what is that to
us? What is dear to us is civilization, yes,
yes, my good sir, its fruits are precious
to us. And don't you tell me these fruits
are worthless; the poorest dauber, un barbouilleur,
the man who plays dance music for five farthings
an evening, even they are of more use than
you because they stand for civilization and
not for brute Mongolian force! You fancy yourselves
as advanced people, and yet you're only fit
for the Kalmuk's dirty hovel! Force! And remember,
you forceful gentlemen, that you're only four
men and a half, and the others--are millions,
who won't let you trample their sacred beliefs
under foot, but will crush you instead!"
"If we're crushed, that's in store for us,"
said Bazarov. "But it's an open question.
We're not so few as you suppose."
"What? You seriously suppose you can set yourself
up against a whole people?"
"All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a
penny candle," answered Bazarov.
"Indeed! First comes an almost Satanic pride,
then cynical jeers--so that is what attracts
the young, what takes by storm the inexperienced
hearts of boys! Here is one of them sitting
beside you, ready to worship the ground beneath
your feet. Look at him. (Arkady turned aside
and frowned.) And this plague has already
spread far and wide. I am told that in Rome
our artists don't even enter the Vatican.
Raphael they regard as a fool, because, of
course, he is an authority; and these artists
are themselves disgustingly sterile and weak,
men whose imagination can soar no higher than
Girls at a Fountain--and even the girls are
abominably drawn! They are fine fellows in
your view, I suppose?"
"To my mind," retorted Bazarov, "Raphael isn't
worth a brass farthing, and they're no better
than he."
"Bravo, bravo! Listen, Arkady . . . that is
how modern young men should express themselves!
And if you come to think of it, they're bound
to follow you. Formerly young men had to study.
If they didn't want to be called fools they
had to work hard whether they liked it or
not. But now they need only say 'Everything
in the world is rubbish!' and the trick is
done. Young men are delighted. And, to be
sure, they were only sheep before, but now
they have suddenly turned into Nihilists."
"You have departed from your praiseworthy
sense of personal dignity," remarked Bazarov
phlegmatically, while Arkady had turned hot
all over and his eyes were flashing. "Our
argument has gone too far . . . better cut
it short, I think. I shall be quite ready
to agree with you," he added, getting up,
"when you can show me a single institution
in our present mode of life, in the family
or in society, which does not call for complete
and ruthless destruction."
"I can show you millions of such institutions!"
cried Pavel Petrovich--"millions! Well, take
the commune, for instance."
A cold smile distorted Bazarov's lips. "Well,
you had better talk to your brother about
the commune. I should think he has seen by
now what the commune is like in reality--its
mutual guarantees, its sobriety and suchlike."
"Well, the family, the family as it exists
among our peasants," cried Pavel Petrovich.
"On that subject, too, I think it will be
better for you not to enter into too much
detail. You know how the head of the family
chooses his daughters-in-law? Take my advice,
Pavel Petrovich, allow yourself a day or two
to think it all over; you'll hardly find anything
straight away. Go through the various classes
of our society and examine them carefully,
meanwhile Arkady and I will----"
"Will go on abusing everything," broke in
Pavel Petrovich.
"No, we will go on dissecting frogs. Come,
Arkady; good-by for the present, gentlemen!"
The two friends walked off. The brothers were
left alone and at first only looked at each
other.
"So that," began Pavel Petrovich, "that is
our modern youth! Those young men are our
heirs!"
"Our heirs!" repeated Nikolai Petrovich with
a weary smile. He had been sitting as if on
thorns throughout the argument, and only from
time to time cast a sad furtive glance at
Arkady. "Do you know what I was reminded of,
brother? I once quarreled with our mother;
she shouted and wouldn't listen to me. At
last I said to her, 'Of course you can't understand
me; we belong to two different generations.'
She was terribly offended, but I thought,
'It can't be helped--a bitter pill, but she
has to swallow it.' So now our turn has come,
and our successors can tell us: 'You don't
belong to our generation; swallow your pill.'"
"You are much too generous and modest," replied
Pavel Petrovich. "I'm convinced, on the contrary,
that you and I are far more in the right than
these young gentlemen, although perhaps we
express ourselves in more old-fashioned language--vieilli--and
are not so insolently conceited . . . and
the airs these young people give themselves!
You ask one 'Would you like white wine or
red?' 'It is my custom to prefer red,' he
answers in a deep voice and with a face as
solemn as if the whole world were looking
at him that moment . . ."
"Do you want any more tea?" asked Fenichka,
putting her head in at the door; she had not
wanted to come into the drawing room while
the noisy dispute was going on.
"No, you can tell them to take away the samovar,"
answered Nikolai Petrovich, and he got up
to meet her. Pavel Petrovich said "bonsoir"
to him abruptly, and went to his own study.
Chapter 11
HALF AN HOUR LATER NIKOLAI PETROVICH WENT
INTO THE garden to his favorite arbor. He
was filled with melancholy thoughts. For the
first time he saw clearly the distance separating
him from his son and he foresaw that it would
grow wider every day. So they were spent in
vain, those winters in Petersburg, when sometimes
he had pored for whole days on end over the
latest books; in vain had he listened to the
talk of the young men, and rejoiced when he
succeeded in slipping a few of his own words
into heated discussions.
"My brother says we are right," he thought,
"and laying aside all vanity, it even seems
to me that they are further from the truth
than we are, though all the same I feel they
have something behind them which we lack,
some superiority over us . . . is it youth?
No, it can't only be that; their superiority
may be that they show fewer traces of the
slaveowner than we do."
Nikolai Petrovich's head sank despondently,
and he passed his hand over his face.
"But to renounce poetry, to have no feeling
for art, for nature . . ."
And he looked round, as though trying to understand
how it was possible to have no feeling for
nature. It was already evening; the sun was
hidden behind a small clump of aspens which
grew about a quarter of a mile from the garden;
its shadow stretched indefinitely across the
motionless fields. A little peasant on a white
pony was riding along the dark narrow path
near the wood; his whole figure was clearly
visible even to the patch on his shoulder,
although he was in the shade; the pony's hoofs
rose and fell with graceful distinctness.
The sun's rays on the farther side fell full
on the clump of trees, and piercing through
them threw such a warm light on the aspen
trunks that they looked like pines, and their
leaves seemed almost dark blue, while above
them rose a pale blue sky, tinged by the red
sunset glow. The swallows flew high; the wind
had quite died down, some late bees hummed
lazily among the lilac blossoms, a swarm of
midges hung like a cloud over a solitary branch
which stood out against the sky. "How beautiful,
my God!" thought Nikolai Petrovich, and his
favorite verses almost rose to his lips; then
he remembered Arkady's Stoff und Kraft--and
remained silent, but he still sat there, abandoning
himself to the sad consolation of solitary
thought. He was fond of dreaming, and his
country life had developed that tendency in
him. How short a time ago he had been dreaming
like this, waiting for his son at the posting
station, and how much had changed since that
day; their relations, then indeterminate,
had now been defined--and how defined! His
dead wife came back to his imagination, but
not as he had known her for so many years,
not as a good domesticated housewife, but
as a young girl with a slim waist, an innocent
inquiring look and a tightly twisted pigtail
on her childish neck. He remembered how he
had seen her for the first time. He was still
a student then. He had met her on the staircase
of his lodgings, and running into her by accident
he tried to apologize but could only mutter
"Pardon, Monsieur," while she bowed, smiled,
then suddenly seemed frightened and ran away,
glanced quickly back at him, looked serious
and blushed. Afterwards the first timid visits,
the hints, the half-smiles and embarrassment;
the uncertain sadness, the ups and downs and
at last that overwhelming joy . . . where
had it all vanished away? She had been his
wife, he had been happy as few on earth are
happy . . . "But," he mused, "those sweet
fleeting moments, why could one not live an
eternal undying life in them?"
He made no effort to clarify his thoughts,
but he felt that he longed to hold that blissful
time by something stronger than memory; he
longed to feel his Marya near him, to sense
her warmth and breathing; already he could
fancy her actual presence . . .
"Nikolai Petrovich," came the sound of Fenichka's
voice close by. "Where are you?"
He started. He felt no remorse, no shame.
He never admitted even the possibility of
comparison between his wife and Fenichka,
but he was sorry that she had thought of coming
to look for him. Her voice had brought back
to him at once his grey hairs, his age, his
daily existence . . .
The enchanted world arising out of the dim
mists of the past, into which he had just
stepped, quivered--and disappeared.
"I'm here," he answered; "I'm coming. You
run along." "There they are, traces of the
slaveowner," flashed through his mind. Fenichka
peeped into the arbor without speaking to
him and went away again; and he noticed with
surprise that night had fallen while he was
dreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed,
and Fenichka's face had glimmered in front
of him, so pale and slight. He got up and
was about to go home, but the emotions stirring
his heart could not be calmed so soon, and
he began walking slowly about the garden,
sometimes meditatively surveying the ground,
then raising his eyes to the sky where multitudes
of stars were twinkling. He went on walking
till he was almost tired out, but the restlessness
within him, a yearning vague melancholy excitement,
was still not appeased. Oh, how Bazarov would
have laughed at him if he had known what was
happening to him then! Even Arkady would have
condemned him. He, a man of forty-four, an
agriculturist and a landowner, was shedding
tears, tears without reason; it was a hundred
times worse than playing the cello.
Nikolai Petrovich still walked up and down
and could not make up his mind to go into
the house, into the cosy peaceful nest, which
looked at him so hospitably from its lighted
windows; he had not the strength to tear himself
away from the darkness, the garden, the sensation
of fresh air on his face, and from that sad
restless excitement.
At a turn in the path he met Pavel Petrovich.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked Nikolai
Petrovich. "You are as white as a ghost; you
must be unwell. Why don't you go to bed?"
Nikolai said a few words to his brother about
his state of mind and moved away. Pavel Petrovich
walked on to the end of the garden, also deep
in thought, and he, too, raised his eyes to
the sky--but his beautiful dark eyes reflected
only the light of the stars. He was not born
a romantic idealist, and his fastidiously
dry though ardent soul, with its tinge of
French scepticism, was not addicted to dreaming
. . .
"Do you know what?" Bazarov was saying to
Arkady that very night. "I've had a splendid
idea. Your father was saying today that he
had received an invitation from that illustrious
relative of yours. Your father doesn't want
to go, but why shouldn't we be off to X? You
know the man invites you as well. You see
what fine weather it is; we'll stroll around
and look at the town. Let's have a jaunt for
five or six days, no more.
"And you'll come back here afterwards?"
"No, I must go to my father's. You know he
lives about twenty miles from X. I've not
seen him or my mother for a long time; I must
cheer the old people up. They've been good
to me, my father particularly; he's awfully
funny. I'm their only one. "Will you stay
long with them?"
"I don't think so. It will be dull, of course.
"And you'll come to us again on your way back."
"I don't know . . . we'll see. Well, what
do you say? Shall we go?"
"If you like," answered Arkady languidly.
In his heart he was overjoyed by his friend's
suggestion, but thought it a duty to conceal
his feeling. He was not a nihilist for nothing!
The next day he set off with Bazarov to X.
The younger members of the household at Maryino
were sorry about their departure; Dunyasha
even wept . . . but the older people breathed
more freely.
Chapter 12
THE TOWN OF X. TO WHICH OUR FRIENDS SET OFF
WAS UNDER THE jurisdiction of a governor,
who was still a young man, and who was at
once progressive and despotic, as so often
happens with Russians. Before the end of the
first year of his governorship, he had managed
to quarrel not only with the marshal of nobility,
a retired guards-officer, who kept open house
and a stud of horses, but even with his own
subordinates. The resulting feuds at length
grew to such proportions that the ministry
in Petersburg found it necessary to send a
trusted official with a commission to investigate
everything on the spot. The choice of the
authorities fell on Matvei Ilyich Kolyazin,
the son of that Kolyazin under whose protection
the brothers Kirsanov had been when they were
students in Petersburg. He was also a "young
man," that is to say, he was only just over
forty, but he was well on the way to becoming
a statesman and already wore two stars on
his breast--admittedly, one of them was a
foreign star and not of the first magnitude.
Like the governor, upon whom he had come to
pass judgment, he was considered a "progressive,"
and though he was already a bigwig he was
not altogether like the majority of bigwigs.
Of himself he had the highest opinion, his
vanity knew no bounds, but his manners were
simple, he had a friendly face, he listened
indulgently and laughed so good-naturedly
that on first acquaintance he might even have
been taken for "a jolly good fellow." On important
occasions, however, he knew, so to speak,
how to make his authority felt. "Energy is
essential," he used to say then; "l'energie
est la première qualité d'un homme d'état"
yet in spite of all that, he was habitually
cheated, and any thoroughly experienced official
could twist him round his finger. Matvei Ilyich
used to speak with great respect about Guizot,
and tried to impress everyone with the idea
that he did not belong to the class of routine
officials and old-fashioned bureaucrats, that
not a single phenomenon of social life escaped
his attention . . . He was quite at home with
phrases of the latter kind. He even followed
(with a certain casual condescension, it is
true) the development of contemporary literature--as
a grown-up man who meets a crowd of street
urchins will sometimes join them out of curiosity.
In reality, Matvei Ilyich had not got much
further than those politicians of the time
of Alexander I, who used to prepare for an
evening party at Madame Svyechin's by reading
a page of Condillac; only his methods were
different and more modern. He was a skillful
courtier, and extremely cunning hypocrite,
and little more; he had no aptitude for handling
public affairs, and his intellect was scanty,
but he knew how to manage his own affairs
successfully; no one could get the better
of him there, and of course, that is a most
important thing.
Matvei Ilyich received Arkady with the amiability,
or should we say playfulness, characteristic
of the enlightened higher official. He was
astonished, however, when he heard that both
the cousins he had invited had stayed at home
in the country. "Your father was always a
queer fellow," he remarked, playing with the
tassels of his magnificent velvet dressing
gown, and turning suddenly to a young official
in a faultlessly buttoned-up uniform, he shouted
with an air of concern, "What?" The young
man, whose lips were almost glued together
from prolonged silence, came forward and looked
in perplexity at his chief . . . But having
embarrassed his subordinate, Matvei Ilyich
paid him no further attention. Our higher
officials are fond of upsetting their subordinates,
and they resort to quite varied means of achieving
that end. The following method, among others,
is often used, "is quite a favorite," as the
English say: a high official suddenly ceases
to understand the simplest words and pretends
to be deaf; he asks, for instance, what day
of the week it is.
He is respectfully informed, "Today's Friday,
your Excellency."
"Eh? What? What's that? What do you say?"
the great man repeats with strained attention.
"Today's Friday, your Excellency."
"Eh? What? What's Friday? What Friday?"
"Friday, your Excellency, the day of the week."
"What, are you presuming to teach me something?"
Matvei Ilyich remained a higher official,
though he considered himself a liberal.
"I advise you, my dear boy, to go and call
on the governor," he said to Arkady. "You
understand I don't advise you to do so on
account of any old-fashioned ideas about the
necessity of paying respect to the authorities,
but simply because the governor is a decent
fellow; besides, you probably want to get
to know the society here . . . You're not
a bear, I hope? And he's giving a large ball
the day after tomorrow."
"Will you be at the ball?" inquired Arkady.
"He gives it in my honor," answered Matvei
Ilyich, almost pityingly. "Do you dance?"
"Yes, I dance, but not well."
"That's a pity! There are pretty women here,
and it's a shame for a young man not to dance.
Of course I don't say that because of any
old conventions; I would never suggest that
a man's wit lies in his feet, but Byronism
has become ridiculous-- il a fait son temps."
"But, uncle, it's not because of Byronism
that I don't . . ."
"I'll introduce you to some of the local ladies
and take you under my wing," interrupted Matvei
Ilyich, and he laughed a self-satisfied laugh.
"You'll find it warm, eh?"
A servant entered and announced the arrival
of the superintendent of government institutions,
an old man with tender eyes and deep lines
round his mouth, who was extremely fond of
nature, especially on summer days, when, to
use his words, every little busy bee takes
a little bribe from every little flower."
Arkady withdrew.
He found Bazarov at the inn where they were
staying, and took a long time to persuade
him to accompany him to the governor's.
"Well, it can't be helped," said Bazarov at
last. "It's no good doing things by halves.
We came to look at the landowners, so let
us look at them!"
The governor received the young men affably,
but he did not ask them to sit down, nor did
he sit down himself. He was perpetually fussing
and hurrying; every morning he put on a tight
uniform and an extremely stiff cravat; he
never ate or drank enough; he could never
stop making arrangements. He invited Kirsanov
and Bazarov to his ball, and within a few
minutes he invited them a second time, taking
them for brothers and calling them Kisarov.
They were on their way back from the governor's,
when suddenly a short man in Slav national
dress jumped out of a passing carriage and
crying "Evgeny Vassilich," rushed up to Bazarov.
"Ah, it's you, Herr Sitnikov," remarked Bazarov,
still walking along the pavement. "What chance
brought you here?"
"Just fancy, quite by accident," the man replied,
and returning to the carriage, he waved his
arms several times and shouted, "Follow, follow
us! My father had business here," he went
on, jumping across the gutter, "and so he
asked me to come . . . I heard today you had
arrived and have already been to visit you."
(In fact on returning home the friends did
find there a card with the corners turned
down, bearing the name Sitnikov, in French
on one side, and in Slavonic characters on
the other.) "I hope you are not coming from
the governor's."
"It's no use hoping. We've come straight from
him."
"Ah, in that case I will call on him, too
. . . Evgeny Vassilich, introduce me to your
. . . to the. . . ."
"Sitnikov, Kirsanov," mumbled Bazarov, without
stopping.
"I am much honored," began Sitnikov, stepping
sideways, smirking and pulling off his overelegant
gloves. "I have heard so much . . . I am an
old acquaintance of Evgeny Vassilich and I
may say--his disciple. I owe to him my regeneration..."
Arkady looked at Bazarov's disciple. There
was an expression of excited stupidity in
the small but agreeable features of his well-groomed
face; his little eyes, which looked permanently
surprised, had a staring uneasy look, his
laugh, too, was uneasy--an abrupt wooden laugh.
"Would you believe it," he continued, "when
Evgeny Vassilich for the first time said before
me that we should acknowledge no authorities,
I felt such enthusiasm . . . my eyes were
opened! By the way, Evgeny Vassilich, you
simply must get to know a lady here who is
really capable of understanding you and for
whom your visit would be a real treat; you
may have heard of her?"
"Who is it?" grunted Bazarov unwillingly.
"Kukshina, Eudoxie, Evdoksya Kukshina. She's
a remarkable nature, émancipeé in the true
sense of the word, an advanced woman. Do you
know what? Let us all go and visit her now.
She lives only two steps from here . . . We
will have lunch there. I suppose you have
not lunched yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, that's splendid. She has separated,
you understand, from her husband; she is not
dependent on anyone."
"Is she pretty?" Bazarov broke in.
"N--no, one couldn't say that."
"Then what the devil are you asking us to
see her for?"
"Ha! You must have your joke . . . she will
give us a bottle of champagne."
"So that's it. The practical man shows himself
at once. By the way, is your father still
in the vodka business?"
"Yes," said Sitnikov hurriedly and burst into
a shrill laugh. "Well, shall we go?"
"You wanted to meet people, go along," said
Arkady in an undertone.
"And what do you say about it, Mr. Kirsanov?"
interposed Sitnikov. "You must come too--we
can't go without you."
"But how can we burst in upon her all at once?"
"Never mind about that. Kukshina is a good
sort!"
"Will there be a bottle of champagne?" asked
Bazarov.
"Three!" cried Sitnikov, "I'll answer for
that."
"What with?"
"My own head."
"Better with your father's purse. However,
we'll come along."
Chapter 13
THE SMALL DETACHED HOUSE IN MOSCOW STYLE INHABITED
BY Avdotya Nikitishna--or Evdoksya Kukshina,
stood in one of those streets of X. which
had been lately burnt down (it is well known
that our Russian provincial towns are burnt
down once every five years). At the door,
above a visiting card nailed on at a slant,
hung a bell handle, and in the hall the visitors
were met by someone in a cap, not quite a
servant nor quite a companion--unmistakable
signs of the progressive aspirations of the
lady of the house. Sitnikov asked if Avdotya
Nikitishna was at home.
"Is that you, Viktor?" sounded a shrill voice
from the other room. "Come in!"
The woman in the cap disappeared at once.
"I'm not alone," said Sitnikov, casting a
sharp look at Arkady and Bazarov as he briskly
pulled off his cloak, beneath which appeared
something like a leather jacket.
"No matter," answered the voice. "Entrez."
The young men went in. The room which they
entered was more like a working study than
a drawing room. Papers, letters, fat issues
of Russian journals, for the most part uncut,
lay thrown about on dusty tables; white cigarette
ends were scattered all over the place. A
lady, still young, was half lying on a leather-covered
sofa; her blonde hair was disheveled and she
was wearing a crumpled silk dress, with heavy
bracelets on her short arms and a lace kerchief
over her head. She rose from the sofa, and
carelessly drawing over her shoulders a velvet
cape trimmed with faded ermine, she murmured
languidly, "Good morning, Viktor," and held
out her hand to Sitnikov.
"Bazarov, Kirsanov," he announced abruptly,
successfully imitating Bazarov's manner.
"So glad to meet you," answered Madame Kukshina,
fixing on Bazarov her round eyes, between
which appeared a forlorn little turned-up
red nose, "I know you," she added, and pressed
his hand.
Bazarov frowned. There was nothing definitely
ugly in the small plain figure of the emancipated
woman; but her facial expression produced
an uncomfortable effect on the spectator.
One felt impelled to ask her, "What's the
matter, are you hungry? Or bored? Or shy?
Why are you fidgeting?" Both she and Sitnikov
had the same nervous manner. Her movements
and speech were very unconstrained and at
the same time awkward; she evidently regarded
herself as a good-natured simple creature,
yet all the time, whatever she did, it always
struck one that it was not exactly what she
wanted to do; everything with her seemed,
as children say, done on purpose, that is,
not spontaneously or simply.
"Yes, yes, I know you, Bazarov," she repeated.
(She had the habit--peculiar to many provincial
and Moscow ladies--of calling men by their
bare surnames from the moment she first met
them.) "Would you like a cigar?"
"A cigar is all very well," interjected Sitnikov,
who was already lolling in an armchair with
his legs in the air, "but give us some lunch.
We're frightfully hungry; and tell them to
bring us up a little bottle of champagne."
"You sybarite," cried Evdoksya with a laugh.
(When she laughed the gums showed over her
upper teeth.) "Isn't it true, Bazarov, he's
a sybarite?"
"I like comfort in life," pronounced Sitnikov
gravely. "But that doesn't prevent me from
being a liberal."
"It does, though, it does!" exclaimed Evdoksya,
and nevertheless gave instructions to her
maid both about the lunch and about the champagne.
"What do you think about that?" she added,
turning to Bazarov. "I'm sure you share my
opinion."
"Well, no," retorted Bazarov; "a piece of
meat is better than a piece of bread even
from the point of view of chemistry."
"You are studying chemistry? That's my passion.
I've invented a new sort of paste."
"A paste? You?"
"Yes. And do you know what it's for? To make
dolls' heads, so that they can't break. I'm
practical also, you see. But it's not quite
ready yet. I've still got to read Liebig.
By the way, have you read Kislyakov's article
on female labor in the Moscow News? Please
read it. Of course you're interested in the
woman's question--and in the schools, too?
What does your friend do? What is his name?"
Madame Kukshina poured out her questions one
after another, with affected negligence, without
waiting for the answers; spoilt children talk
like that to their nurses.
"My name is Arkady Nikolaich Kirsanov, and
I do nothing." Evdoksya giggled. "Oh, how
charming! What, don't you smoke? Viktor, you
know I'm very angry with you."
"What for?"
"They tell me you've begun praising George
Sand. A backward woman and nothing else! How
can people compare her with Emerson? She hasn't
a single idea about education or physiology
or anything. I'm sure she's never even heard
of embryology and in these days what can be
done without that? (Evdoksya actually threw
up her hands.) Oh, what a wonderful article
Elisyevich has written about it! He's a gentleman
of genius. (Evdoksya constantly used the word
"gentleman" instead of the word "man.") Bazarov,
sit by me on the sofa. You don't know, perhaps,
but I'm awfully afraid of you."
"And why, may I ask?"
"You're a dangerous gentleman, you're such
a critic. My God, how absurd! I'm talking
like some provincial landowner--but I really
am one. I manage my property myself, and just
imagine, my bailiff Yerofay--he's a wonderful
type, just like Fenimore Cooper's Pathfinder--there's
something so spontaneous about him! I've come
to settle down here; it's an intolerable town,
isn't it? But what is one to do?"
"The town's like any other town," remarked
Bazarov coolly.
"All its interests are so petty, that's what
is so dreadful! I used to spend the winters
in Moscow . . . but now my lawful husband
Monsieur Kukshin lives there. And besides,
Moscow nowadays--I don't know, it's not what
it was. I'm thinking of going abroad--I almost
went last year."
"To Paris, I suppose," said Bazarov.
"To Paris and to Heidelberg."
"Why to Heidelberg?"
"How can you ask! Bunsen lives there!"
Bazarov could find no reply to that one.
"Pierre Sapozhnikov . . . do you know him?"
"No, I don't."
"Not know Pierre Sapozhnikov . . . he's always
at Lydia Khostatov's."
"I don't know her either."
"Well, he undertook to escort me. Thank God
I'm independent--I've no children . . . what
did I say? Thank God! Never mind though!"
Evdoksya rolled a cigarette between her fingers,
brown with tobacco stains, put it across her
tongue, licked it and started to smoke. The
maid came in with a tray.
"Ah, here's lunch! Will you have an apéritif
first? Viktor, open the bottle; that's in
your line."
"Yes, it's in my line," mumbled Sitnikov,
and again uttered a piercing convulsive laugh.
"Are there any pretty women here?" asked Bazarov,
as he drank down a third glass.
"Yes, there are," answered Evdoksya, "but
they're all so empty-headed. For instance,
my friend Odintsova is nice looking. It's
a pity she's got such a reputation . . . Of
course that wouldn't matter, but she has no
independent views, no breadth of outlook,
nothing . . . of that kind. The whole system
of education wants changing. I've thought
a lot about it; our women are so badly educated."
"There's nothing to be done with them," interposed
Sitnikov; "one ought to despise them and I
do despise them utterly and completely." (The
possibility of feeling and expressing contempt
was the most agreeable sensation to Sitnikov;
he attacked women in particular, never suspecting
that it would be his fate a few months later
to cringe to his wife merely because she had
been born a princess Durdoleosov.) "Not one
of them would be capable of understanding
our conversation; not one of them deserves
to be spoken about by serious men like us."
"But there's no need whatsoever for them to
understand our conversation," remarked Bazarov.
"Whom do you mean?" sad Evdoksya.
"Pretty women."
"What? Do you then share the ideas of Proudhon?"
Bazarov drew himself up haughtily.
"I share no one's ideas; I have my own."
"Damn all authorities!" shouted Sitnikov,
delighted to have an opportunity of expressing
himself boldly in front of the man he slavishly
admired.
"But even Macaulay . . . ," Madame Kukshina
was trying to say.
"Damn Macaulay!" thundered Sitnikov. "Are
you going to stand up for those silly females?"
"Not for silly females, no, but for the rights
of women which I have sworn to defend to the
last drop of my blood."
"Damn . . . ," but here Sitnikov stopped.
"But I don't deny you that," he said.
"No, I see you're a Slavophil!"
"No, I'm not a Slavophil, though, of course
. . . ."
"No, no, no! You are a Slavophil. You're a
supporter of patriarchal despotism. You want
to have the whip in your hand!"
"A whip is a good thing," said Bazarov, "but
we've got to the last drop . . ."
"Of what?" interrupted Evdoksya.
"Of champagne, most honored Avdotya Nikitishna,
of champagne--not of your blood."
"I can never listen calmly when women are
attacked," went on Evdoksya. "It's awful,
awful. Instead of attacking them you should
read Michelet's book De l'Amour! That's something
exquisite! Gentlemen, let us talk about love,"
added Evdoksya, letting her arm rest on the
crumpled sofa cushion.
A sudden silence followed.
"No, why should we talk of love?" said Bazarov.
"But you mentioned just now a Madame Odintsov
. . . That was the name, I think--who is the
lady?"
"She's charming, delightful," squeaked Sitnikov.
"I'll introduce you. Clever, rich, a widow.
It's a pity she's not yet advanced enough;
she ought to see more of our Evdoksya. I drink
to your health, Eudoxie, clink glasses! Et
toc et toc et tin-tin-tin! Et toc, et toc,
et tin-tin-tin!"
"Viktor, you're a rascal!"
The lunch was prolonged. The first bottle
of champagne was followed by another, by a
third, and even by a fourth . . . Evdoksya
chattered away without drawing breath; Sitnikov
seconded her. They talked a lot about whether
marriage was a prejudice or a crime, whether
men were born equal or not, and precisely
what constitutes individuality. Finally things
went so far that Evdoksya, flushed from the
wine she had drunk, began tapping with her
flat finger tips on a discordant piano, and
singing in a husky voice, first gipsy songs,
then Seymour Schiff's song Granada lies slumbering,
while Sitnikov tied a scarf round his head
and represented the dying lover at the words
"And thy lips to mine
In burning kiss entwine. . ."
Arkady could stand no more. "Gentlemen, this
is approaching bedlam," he remarked aloud.
Bazarov, who at rare intervals had thrown
a sarcastic word or two into the conversation--he
paid more attention to the champagne--yawned
loudly, rose to his feet and without taking
leave of their hostess, he walked off with
Arkady. Sitnikov jumped up and followed them.
"Well, what do you think of her?" he asked,
hopping obsequiously from one side to another.
"As I told you, a remarkable personality!
If only we had more women like that! She is,
in her own way, a highly moral phenomenon."
"And is that establishment of your father's
also a moral phenomenon?" muttered Bazarov,
pointing to a vodka shop which they were passing
at that moment.
Sitnikov again gave vent to his shrill laugh.
He was much ashamed of his origin, and hardly
knew whether to feel flattered or offended
by Bazarov's unexpected familiarity.
Chapter 14
TWO DAYS LATER THE GOVERNOR'S BALL TOOK PLACE.
MATVEI Ilyich was the real hero of the occasion.
The marshal of nobility announced to all and
sundry that he had come only out of respect
for him, while the governor, even at the ball,
and even while he was standing still, continued
to "make arrangements." The amiability of
Matvei Ilyich's manner was equaled only by
his dignity. He behaved graciously to everyone,
to some with a shade of disgust, to others
with a shade of respect, he was gallant, "en
vrai chevalier français," to all the ladies,
and was continually bursting into hearty resounding
laughter, in which no one else joined, as
befits a high official. He slapped Arkady
on the back and called him "nephew" loudly,
bestowed on Bazarov--who was dressed in a
shabby frock coat--an absent-minded but indulgent
sidelong glance, and an indistinct but affable
grunt in which the words "I" and "very" were
vaguely distinguishable; held out a finger
to Sitnikov and smiled at him though his head
had already turned round to greet someone
else; even to Madame Kukshina, who appeared
at the ball without a crinoline, wearing dirty
gloves and a bird of paradise in her hair,
he said "enchanté." There were crowds of
people and plenty of men dancers; most of
the civilians stood in rows along the walls,
but the officers danced assiduously, especially
one who had spent six weeks in Paris, where
he had mastered several daring exclamations
such as--zut, Ah fichtre, pst, pst, mon bibi,
and so on. He pronounced them perfectly with
real genuine Parisian chic, and at the same
time he said "si j'aurais" instead of "si
j'avais," and "absolument" in the sense of
"absolutely," expressed himself in fact in
that great Russo-French jargon which the French
laugh at when they have no reason to assure
us that we speak French like angels--"comme
des anges."
Arkady danced badly, as we already know, and
Bazarov did not dance at all. They both took
up their position in a corner, where Sitnikov
joined them. With an expression of contemptuous
mockery on his face, he uttered one spiteful
remark after another, looked insolently around
him, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying
himself. Suddenly his face changed, and turning
to Arkady he said in a rather embarrassed
tone, "Odintsova has arrived."
Arkady looked round and saw a tall woman in
a black dress standing near the door. He was
struck by her dignified bearing. Her bare
arms lay gracefully across her slim waist;
light sprays of fuchsia hung from her shining
hair over her sloping shoulders; her clear
eyes looked out from under a prominent white
forehead; their expression was calm and intelligent--calm
but not pensive--and her lips showed a scarcely
perceptible smile. A sort of affectionate
and gentle strength emanated from her face.
"Do you know her?" Arkady asked Sitnikov.
"Very well. Would you like me to introduce
you?"
"Please . . . after this quadrille."
Bazarov also noticed Madame Odintsov.
"What a striking figure," he said. "She's
not like the other females."
When the quadrille was over, Sitnikov led
Arkady over to Madame Odintsov. But he hardly
seemed to know her at all, and stumbled over
his words, while she looked at him in some
surprise. But she looked pleased when she
heard Arkady's family name, and she asked
him whether he was not the son of Nikolai
Petrovich.
"Yes!"
"I have seen your father twice and heard a
lot about him," she went on. "I am very glad
to meet you."
At this moment some adjutant rushed up to
her and asked her for a quadrille. She accepted.
"Do you dance then?" asked Arkady respectfully.
"Yes, and why should you suppose I don't dance?
Do you think I'm too old?"
"Please, how could I possibly . . . but in
that case may I ask you for a mazurka?"
Madame Odintsov smiled graciously. "Certainly,"
she said, and looked at Arkady, not exactly
patronizingly but in the way married sisters
look at very young brothers. She was in fact
not much older than Arkady--she was twenty-nine--but
in her presence he felt like a schoolboy,
so that the difference in their ages seemed
to matter much more. Matvei Ilyich came up
to her in a majestic manner and started to
pay her compliments. Arkady moved aside, but
he still watched her; he could not take his
eyes off her even during the quadrille. She
talked to her partner as easily as she had
to the grand official, slightly turning her
head and eyes, and once or twice she laughed
softly. Her nose--like most Russian noses--was
rather thick, and her complexion was not translucently
clear; nevertheless Arkady decided that he
had never before met such a fascinating woman.
The sound of her voice clung to his ears,
the very folds of her dress seemed to fall
differently--more gracefully and amply than
on other women--and her movements were wonderfully
flowing and at the same time natural.
Arkady was overcome by shyness when at the
first sounds of the mazurka he took a seat
beside his parther; he wanted to talk to her,
but he only passed his hand through his hair
and could not find a single word to say. But
his shyness and agitation soon passed; Madame
Odintsov's tranquillity communicated itself
to him; within a quarter of an hour he was
telling her freely about his father, his uncle,
his life in Petersburg and in the country.
Madame Odintsov listened to him with courteous
sympathy, slowly opening and closing her fan.
The conversation was broken off when her partners
claimed her; Sitnikov, among others, asked
her to dance twice. She came back, sat down
again, took up her fan, and did not even breathe
more rapidly, while Arkady started talking
again, penetrated through and through by the
happiness of being near her, talking to her,
looking at her eyes, her lovely forehead and
her whole charming, dignified and intelligent
face. She said little, but her words showed
an understanding of life; judging by some
of her remarks Arkady came to the conclusion
that this young woman had already experienced
and thought a great deal . . .
"Who is that you were standing with," she
asked him, "when Mr. Sitnikov brought you
over to me?"
"So you noticed him?" asked Arkady in his
turn. "He has a wonderful face, hasn't he?
That's my friend Bazarov."
Arkady went on to discuss "his friend." He
spoke of him in such detail and with so much
enthusiasm that Madame Odintsov turned round
and looked at him attentively. Meanwhile the
mazurka was drawing to a close. Arkady was
sorry to leave his partner, he had spent almost
an hour with her so happily! Certainly he
had felt the whole time as though she were
showing indulgence to him, as though he ought
to be grateful to her . . . but young hearts
are not weighed down by that feeling.
The music stopped.
"Merci," murmured Madame Odintsov, rising.
"You promised to pay me a visit; bring your
friend with you. I am very curious to meet
a man who has the courage to believe in nothing."
The governor came up to Madame Odintsov, announced
that supper was ready, and with a worried
look offered her his arm. As she went out,
she turned to smile once more at Arkady. He
bowed low, followed her with his eyes (how
graceful her figure seemed to him, how radiant
in the sober luster of the black silk folds!)
and he was conscious of some kind of refreshing
humility of soul as he thought, "This very
minute she has forgotten my existence."
"Well?" Bazarov asked Arkady as soon as he
had returned to the corner. "Did you have
a good time? A man has just told me that your
lady is--oh never mind what--but the fellow
is probably a fool. What do you think? Is
she?"
"I don't understand what you mean," said Arkady.
"My goodness, what innocence!"
"In that case I don't understand the man you
quote. Madame Odintsov is very charming, but
she is so cold and reserved that . . ."
"Still waters run deep, you know," interposed
Bazarov. "You say she is cold; that just adds
to the flavor. You like ices, I expect."
"Perhaps," muttered Arkady. "I can't express
any opinion about that. She wants to meet
you and asked me to bring you over to visit
her."
"I can imagine how you described me! Never
mind, you did well. Take me along. Whoever
she may be, whether she's just a provincial
climber or an 'emancipated' woman like Kukshina--anyhow
she's got a pair of shoulders the like of
which I haven't seen for a long time."
Arkady was hurt by Bazarov's cynicism, but--as
often happens--he did not blame his friend
for those particular things which he disliked
in him . . .
"Why do you disagree with free thought for
women?" he asked in a low voice.
"Because, my lad, as far as I can see, free-thinking
women are all monsters."
The conversation was cut short at this point.
Both young men left immediately after supper.
They were pursued by a nervously angry but
fainthearted laugh from Madame Kukshina, whose
vanity had been deeply wounded by the fact
that neither of them had paid the slightest
attention to her. She stayed later than anyone
else at the ball, and at four o'clock in the
morning she was dancing a polka-mazurka in
Parisian style with Sitnikov. The governor's
ball culminated in this edifying spectacle.
Chapter 15
"WE'LL SOON SEE TO WHAT SPECIES OF MAMMAL
THIS SPECIMEN belongs," Bazarov said to Arkady
the following day as they mounted the staircase
of the hotel where Madame Odintsov was staying.
"I can smell something wrong here."
"I'm surprised at you," cried Arkady. "What?
You, of all people, Bazarov, clinging to that
narrow morality which . . ."
"What a funny fellow you are!" said Bazarov
carelessly, cutting him short. "Don't you
know that in my dialect and for my purpose
'something wrong' means 'something right'?
That's just my advantage. Didn't you tell
me yourself this morning that she made a strange
marriage, though, to my mind to marry a rich
old man is far from a strange thing to do--but
on the contrary, sensible enough. I don't
believe the gossip of the town, but I should
like to think, as our enlightened governor
says, that it's just."
Arkady made no answer, and knocked at the
door of the apartment. A young servant in
livery ushered the two friends into a large
room, furnished in bad taste like all Russian
hotel rooms, but filled with flowers. Madame
Odintsov soon appeared in a simple morning
dress. In the light of the spring sunshine
she looked even younger than before. Arkady
introduced Bazarov, and noticed with concealed
astonishment that he seemed embarrassed, while
Madame Odintsov remained perfectly calm, as
she had been on the previous day. Bazarov
was himself conscious of feeling embarrassed
and was annoyed about it. "What an idea! Frightened
of a female," he thought, and lolling in an
armchair, quite like Sitnikov, he began to
talk in an exaggeratedly casual manner, while
Madame Odintsov kept her clear eyes fixed
on him.
Anna Sergeyevna Odintsova was the daughter
of Sergei Nikolayevich Loktev, notorious for
his personal beauty, speculations and gambling,
who after fifteen years of a stormy and sensational
life in Petersburg and Moscow, ended by ruining
himself completely at cards and was obliged
to retire to the country, where soon afterwards
he died, leaving a very small property to
his two daughters--Anna, a girl of twenty
at that time, and Katya, a child of twelve.
Their mother, who belonged to an impoverished
princely family, had died in Petersburg while
her husband was still in his heyday. Anna's
position after her father's death was a very
difficult one. The brilliant education which
she had received in Petersburg had not fitted
her for the cares of domestic and household
economy--nor for an obscure life buried in
the country. She knew no one in the whole
neighborhood, and there was no one she could
consult. Her father had tried to avoid all
contact with his neighbors; he despised them
in his way and they despised him in theirs.
However, she did not lose her head, and promptly
sent for a sister of her mother's, Princess
Avdotya Stepanovna X.--a spiteful, arrogant
old lady who, on installing herself in her
niece's house, appropriated the best rooms
for herself, grumbled and scolded from morning
till night and refused to walk a step, even
in the garden, without being attended by her
one and only serf, a surly footman in a threadbare
pea-green livery with light-blue trimming
and a three-cornered hat. Anna patiently put
up with all her aunt's caprices, gradually
set to work on her sister's education and,
it seemed, was already reconciled to the idea
of fading away in the wilderness . . . But
fate had decreed otherwise. She happened to
be seen by a certain Odintsov, a wealthy man
of forty-six, an eccentric hypochondriac,
swollen, heavy and sour, but not stupid and
quite good-natured; he fell in love with her
and proposed marriage. She agreed to become
his wife, and they lived together for six
years; then he died, leaving her all his property.
For nearly a year after his death Anna Sergeyevna
remained in the country; then she went abroad
with her sister, but stayed only in Germany;
she soon grew tired of it and came back to
live at her beloved Nikolskoe, nearly thirty
miles from the town of X. Her house was magnificent,
luxuriously furnished and had a beautiful
garden with conservatories; her late husband
had spared no expense to gratify his wishes.
Anna Sergeyevna rarely visited the town, and
as a rule only on business; even then she
did not stay long. She was not popular in
the province; there had been a fearful outcry
when she married Odintsov; all sorts of slanderous
stories were invented about her; it was asserted
that she had helped her father in his gambling
escapades and even that she had gone abroad
for a special reason to conceal some unfortunate
consequences . . . "You understand?" the indignant
gossips would conclude. "She has been through
fire and water," they said of her, to which
a noted provincial wit added "And through
the brass instruments." All this talk reached
her, but she turned a deaf ear to it; she
had an independent and sufficiently determined
character.
Madame Odintsov sat leaning back in her armchair,
her hands folded, and listened to Bazarov.
Contrary to his habit, he was talking a lot
and was obviously trying to interest her--which
also surprised Arkady. He could not be sure
whether Bazarov had achieved his object, for
it was difficult to learn from Anna Sergeyevna's
face what impression was being made on her;
it retained the same gracious refined look;
her bright eyes shone with attention, but
it was an unruffled attention. During the
first minutes of the visit, Bazarov's awkward
manners had impressed her disagreeably, like
a bad smell, or a discordant sound; but she
saw at once that he was nervous and that flattered
her. Only the commonplace was repulsive to
her, and no one would have accused Bazarov
of being commonplace. Arkady had several surprises
in store for him that day. He had expected
that Bazarov would talk to an intelligent
woman like Madame Odintsov about his convictions
and views; she herself had expressed a desire
to hear the man "who dares to believe in nothing,"
but instead of that Bazarov talked about medicine,
about homeopathy and about botany. It turned
out that Madame Odintsov had not wasted her
time in solitude; she had read a number of
good books and herself spoke an excellent
Russian. She turned the conversation to music,
but, observing that Bazarov had no appreciation
of art, quietly turned it back to botany,
although Arkady was just launching out on
a discourse about the significance of national
melodies. Madame Odintsov continued to treat
him as though he were a younger brother; she
seemed to appreciate his good nature and youthful
simplicity--and that was all. A lively conversation
went on for over three hours, ranging freely
over a variety of subjects.
At last the friends got up and began to take
their leave. Anna Sergeyevna looked at them
kindly, held out her beautiful white hand
to each in turn, and after a moment's thought,
said with a diffident but delightful smile,
"If you are not afraid of being bored, gentlemen,
come and see me at Nikolskoe."
"Oh, Anna Sergeyevna," cried Arkady, "that
will be the greatest happiness for me."
"And you, Monsieur Bazarov?"
Bazarov only bowed--and Arkady had yet another
surprise; he noticed that his friend was blushing.
"Well," he said to him in the street, "do
you still think she's . . ."
"Who can tell! Just see how frozen she is!"
answered Bazaroy; then after a short pause
he added, "She's a real Grand Duchess, a commanding
sort of person; she only needs a train behind
her, and a crown on her head."
"Our Grand Duchesses can't talk Russian like
that," observed Arkady.
"She has known ups and downs, my lad; she's
been hard up."
"Anyhow, she's delightful," said Arkady.
"What a magnificent body," went on Bazarov.
"How I should like to see it on the dissecting
table."
"Stop, for heaven's sake, Evgeny! You go too
far!"
"Well, don't get angry, you baby! I meant
it's first-rate. We must go to stay with her."
"When?"
"Well, why not the day after tomorrow. What
is there to do here? Drink champagne with
Kukshina? Listen to your cousin, the liberal
statesman? . . . Let's be off the day after
tomorrow. By the way--my father's little place
is not far from there. This Nikolskoe is on
the X. road, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. Why hesitate? Leave that to fools--and
intellectuals. I say--what a splendid body!"
Three days later the two friends were driving
along the road to Nikolskoe. The day was bright
and not too hot, and the plump post horses
trotted smartly along, flicking their tied
and plaited tails. Arkady looked at the road,
and, without knowing why, he smiled.
"Congratulate me," exclaimed Bazarov suddenly.
"Today's the 22nd of June, my saint's day.
Let us see how he will watch over me. They
expect me home today," he added, dropping
his voice . . . "Well, they can wait--what
does it matter!"
Chapter 16
THE COUNTRY HOUSE IN WHICH ANNA SERGEYEVNA
LIVED STOOD on the slope of a low hill not
far from a yellow stone church with a green
roof, white columns, and decorated with a
fresco over the main entrance, representing
The Resurrection of Christ in the Italian
style. Especially remarkable for its voluminous
contours was the figure of a swarthy soldier
in a helmet, sprawling in the foreground of
the picture. Behind the church stretched a
long village street with chimneys peeping
out here and there from thatched roofs. The
manor house was built in the same style as
the church, the style now famous as that of
Alexander I; the whole house was painted yellow,
and it had a green roof, white columns and
a pediment with a coat of arms carved on it.
The provincial architect had designed both
buildings according to the instructions of
the late Odintsov, who could not endure--as
he expressed it--senseless and arbitrary innovations.
The house was flanked on both sides by the
dark trees of an old garden; an avenue of
clipped pines led up to the main entrance,
Our friends were met in the hall by two tall
footmen in livery; one of them ran at once
to fetch the butler. The butler, a stout man
in a black tail coat, promptly appeared and
led the visitors up a staircase covered with
rugs into a specially prepared room in which
two beds had been arranged with every kind
of toilet accessory. It was evident that order
reigned in the house; everything was clean,
and there was everywhere a peculiar dignified
fragrance such as one encounters in ministerial
reception rooms.
"Anna Sergeyevna asks you to come to see her
in half an hour," the butler announced. "Have
you any orders to give meanwhile?"
"No orders, my good sir," answered Bazarov,
"but perhaps you will kindly trouble yourself
to bring a glass of vodka."
"Certainly, sir," said the butler, looking
rather surprised, and went out, his boots
creaking.
"What grand genre," remarked Bazarov, "that's
what you call it in your set, I think. A Grand
Duchess complete."
"A nice Grand Duchess," answered Arkady, "to
invite straight away such great aristocrats
as you and me to stay with her."
"Especially me, a future doctor and a doctor's
son, and grandson of a village priest . . . you
know that, I suppose . . . a village priest's
grandson, like the statesman Speransky," added
Bazarov, after a brief silence, pursing his
lips. "Anyhow, she gives herself the best
of everything, this pampered lady! Shan't
we soon find ourselves wearing tail coats?"
Arkady only shrugged his shoulders . . . but
he, too, felt a certain embarrassment.
Half an hour later Bazarov and Arkady made
their way together into the drawing room.
It was a large lofty room, luxuriously furnished
but with little personal taste. Heavy expensive
furniture stood in a conventional stiff arrangement
along the walls, which were covered in a buff
wall paper decorated with golden arabesques.
Odintsov had ordered the furniture from Moscow
through a wine merchant who was a friend and
agent of his. Over a sofa in the center of
one wall hung a portrait of a flabby fair-haired
man, which seemed to look disapprovingly at
the visitors. "It must be the late husband,"
whispered Bazarov to Arkady. "Shall we dash
off?" But at that moment the hostess entered.
She wore a light muslin dress; her hair, smoothly
brushed back behind her ears, imparted a girlish
expression to her pure, fresh face.
"Thank you for keeping your promise," she
began. "You must stay a little while; you
won't find it so bad here. I will introduce
you to my sister; she plays the piano well.
That's a matter of indifference to you, Monsieur
Bazarov, but you, Monsieur Kirsanov, are fond
of music, I believe. Apart from my sister,
an old aunt lives with me, and a neighbor
sometimes comes over to play cards. That makes
up our whole circle. And now let us sit down."
Madame Odintsov delivered this whole little
speech very fluently and distinctly, as if
she had learned it by heart; then she turned
to Arkady. It appeared that her mother had
known Arkady's mother and had even been her
confidante in her love for Nikolai Petrovich.
Arkady began to talk with warm feeling about
his dead mother; meanwhile Bazarov sat and
looked through some albums. "What a tame cat
I've become," he thought.
A beautiful white wolfhound with a blue collar
ran into the drawing room and tapped on the
floor with its paws; it was followed by a
girl of eighteen with a round and pleasing
face and small dark eyes. In her hands she
held a basket filled with flowers.
"This is my Katya," said Madame Odintsov,
nodding in her direction.
Katya made a slight curtsey, sat down beside
her sister and began arranging the flowers.
The wolfhound, whose name was Fifi, went up
to both visitors in turn, wagging its tail
and thrusting its cold nose into their hands.
"Did you pick them all yourself?" asked Madame
Odintsov.
"Yes," answered Katya.
"Is auntie coming down for tea?"
"She's coming."
When Katya spoke, her face had a charming
smile, at once bashful and candid, and she
looked up from under her eyebrows with a kind
of amusing severity. Everything about her
was naive and undeveloped, her voice, the
downy bloom on her face, the rosy hands with
white palms and the rather narrow shoulders
. . . she was constantly blushing and she
breathed quickly.
Madame Odintsov turned to Bazarov. "You are
looking at pictures out of politeness, Evgeny
Vassilich," she began. "It doesn't interest
you, so you had better come and join us, and
we will have a discussion about something."
Bazarov moved nearer. "What have you decided
to discuss?" he muttered.
"Whatever you like. I warn you, I am dreadfully
argumentative."
"You?"
"Yes. That seems to surprise you. Why?"
"Because, so far as I can judge, you have
a calm and cool temperament and to be argumentative
one needs to get excited."
"How have you managed to sum me up so quickly?
In the first place I am impatient and persistent--you
should ask Katya; and secondly I am very easily
carried away."
Bazarov looked at Anna Sergeyevna.
"Perhaps. You know best. Very well, if you
want a discussion--so be it. I was looking
at the views of Swiss mountains in your albums,
and you remarked that they couldn't interest
me. You said that because you suppose I have
no artistic feeling--and it is true I have
none; but those views might interest me from
a geological standpoint, for studying the
formation of mountains, for instance."
"Excuse me; but as a geologist, you would
rather study a book, some special work on
the subject and not a drawing."
"The drawing shows me at one glance what might
be spread over ten pages in a book."
Anna Sergeyevna was silent for a few moments.
"So you have no feeling whatsoever for art?"
she said, leaning her elbow on the table and
by so doing bringing her face nearer to Bazarov.
"How do you manage without it?"
"Why, what is it needed for, may I ask?"
"Well, at least to help one to know and understand
people."
Bazarov smiled. "In the first place, experience
of life does that, and in the second, I assure
you the study of separate individuals is not
worth the trouble it involves. All people
resemble each other, in soul as well as in
body; each of us has a brain, spleen, heart
and lungs of similar construction; the so-called
moral qualities are the same in all of us;
the slight variations are insignificant. It
is enough to have one single human specimen
in order to judge all the others. People are
like trees in a forest; no botanist would
think of studying each individual birch tree."
Katya, who was arranging the flowers one by
one in a leisurely way, raised her eyes to
Bazarov with a puzzled expression, and meeting
his quick casual glance, she blushed right
up to her ears. Anna Sergeyevna shook her
head.
"The trees in a forest," she repeated. "Then
according to you there is no difference between
a stupid and an intelligent person, or between
a good and a bad one."
"No, there is a difference, as there is between
the sick and the healthy. The lungs of a consumptive
person are not in the same condition as yours
or mine, although their construction is the
same. We know more or less what causes physical
ailments; but moral diseases are caused by
bad education, by all the rubbish with which
people's heads are stuffed from childhood
onwards, in short, by the disordered state
of society. Reform society, and there will
be no diseases."
Bazarov said all this with an air as though
he were all the while thinking to himself.
"Believe me or not as you wish, it's all the
same to me!" He slowly passed his long fingers
over his whiskers and his eyes strayed round
the room.
"And you suppose," said Anna Sergeyevna, "that
when society is reformed there will be no
longer any stupid or wicked people?"
"At any rate, in a properly organized society
it will make no difference whether a man is
stupid or clever, bad or good."
"Yes, I understand. They will all have the
same spleen."
"Exactly, madam."
Madame Odintsov turned to Arkady. "And what
is your opinion, Arkady Nikolayevich?"
"I agree with Evgeny," he answered.
Katya looked at him from under her eyelids.
"You amaze me, gentlemen," commented Madame
Odintsov, "but we will talk about this again.
I hear my aunt now coming in to tea--we must
spare her."
Anna Sergeyevna's aunt, Princess X., a small
shriveled woman with a pinched-up face like
a fist, with staring bad-tempered eyes under
her grey brows, came in, and scarcely bowing
to the guests, sank into a broad velvet-covered
armchair, in which no one except herself was
privileged to sit. Katya put a stool under
her feet; the old lady did not thank her or
even look at her, only her hands shook under
the yellow shawl which almost covered her
decrepit body. The princess liked yellow,
even her cap had yellow ribbons.
"How did you sleep, auntie?" asked Madame
Odintsov, raising her voice.
"That dog here again," mumbled the old lady
in reply, and noticing that Fifi was making
two hesitating steps in her direction, she
hissed loudly.
Katya called Fifi and opened the door for
her. Fifi rushed out gaily, imagining she
was going to be taken for a walk, but when
she found herself left alone outside the door
she began to scratch and whine. The princess
frowned. Katya rose to go out . . .
"I expect tea is ready," said Madame Odintsov.
"Come, gentlemen; auntie, will you go in to
tea?"
The princess rose from her chair without speaking
and led the way out of the drawing room. They
all followed her into the dining room. A little
Cossack page drew back noisily from the table
a chair covered with cushions, also dedicated
to the princess, who sank into it. Katya,
who poured out tea, handed her first a cup
decorated with a coat of arms. The old lady
helped herself to honey, which she put in
her cup (she considered it both sinful and
extravagant to drink tea with sugar in it,
although she never spent a penny of her own
on anything), and suddenly asked in a hoarse
voice, "And what does Prince Ivan write?"
No one made any reply. Bazarov and Arkady
soon observed that the family paid no attention
to her although they treated her respectfully.
"They put up with her because of her princely
family," thought Bazarov. After tea Anna Sergeyevna
suggested that they should go out for a walk,
but it began to rain a little, and the whole
party, except the princess, returned to the
drawing room. The neighbor arrived, the devoted
cardplayer; his name was Porfiri Platonich,
a plump greyish little man with short spindly
legs, very polite and jocular. Anna Sergeyevna,
who still talked principally to Bazarov, asked
him whether he would like to play an old-fashioned
game of preference with them. Bazarov accepted,
saying that he certainly needed to prepare
himself in advance for the duties in store
for him as a country doctor.
"You must be careful," remarked Anna Sergeyevna;
"Porfiri Platonich and I will defeat you.
And you, Katya," she added, "play something
to Arkady Nikolaich; he's fond of music, and
we shall enjoy listening too."
Katya went unwillingly to the piano, and Arkady,
although he was genuinely fond of music, unwillingly
followed her; it seemed to him that Madame
Odintsov was getting rid of him, and he felt
already like most young men of his age, a
vague and oppressive excitement, like a foretaste
of love. Katya lifted the lid of the piano,
and without looking at Arkady, asked in an
undertone "What am I to play to you?"
"What you like," answered Arkady indifferently.
"What sort of music do you prefer?" went on
Katya, without changing her attitude.
"Classical," answered Arkady in the same tone
of voice.
"Do you like Mozart?"
"Yes, I like Mozart."
Katya pulled out Mozart's Sonata Fantasia
in C minor. She played very well, although
a little too precisely and drily. She sat
upright and motionless without taking her
eyes off the music, her lips tightly compressed,
and only towards the end of the sonata her
face started to glow, her hair loosened and
a little lock fell over her dark brow.
Arkady was especially struck by the last part
of the sonata, the part where the enchanting
gaiety of the careless melody at its height
is suddenly broken into by the pangs of such
a sad and almost tragic suffering . . . but
the ideas inspired in him by the sounds of
Mozart were not related to Katya. Looking
at her, he merely thought, "Well, that young
lady doesn't play too badly, and she's not
bad looking, either."
When she had finished the sonata, Katya, without
taking her hands from the keys, asked, "Is
that enough?"
Arkady said that he would not venture to trouble
her further, and began talking to her about
Mozart; he asked her whether she had chosen
that sonata herself, or someone else had recommended
it to her. But Katya answered him in monosyllables
and withdrew into herself. When this happened,
she did not come out again quickly; at such
times her face took on an obstinate, almost
stupid expression. She was not exactly shy,
but she was diffident and rather overawed
by her sister, who had educated her, but who
never even suspected that such a feeling existed
in Katya. Arkady was at length reduced to
calling Fifi over to him and stroking her
on the head with a benevolent smile in order
to create the impression of being at his ease.
Katya went on arranging her flowers.
Meanwhile Bazarov was losing and losing. Anna
Sergeyevna played cards with masterly skill;
Porfiri Platonich also knew how to hold his
own. Bazarov lost a sum, which though trifling
in itself, was none too pleasant for him.
At supper Anna Sergeyevna again turned the
conversation to botany.
"Let us go for a walk tomorrow morning," she
said to him; "I want you to teach me the Latin
names of several wild plants and their species."
"What's the good of the Latin names to you?"
asked Bazarov.
"Order is needed for everything," she answered.
"What a wonderful woman Anna Sergeyevna is!"
cried Arkady, when he was alone in their room
with his friend.
"Yes," answered Bazarov, "a female with brains;
and she's seen life too."
"In what sense do you mean that, Evgeny Vassilich?"
"In a good sense, in a good sense, my worthy
Arkady Nikolayevich! I'm sure she also manages
her estate very efficiently. But what is wonderful
is not her, but her sister."
"What? That little dark creature?"
"Yes, the little dark creature--she's fresh,
untouched and shy and silent, anything you
want . . . one could work on her and make
something out of her--but the other--she's
an experienced hand."
Arkady did not answer Bazarov, and each of
them got into bed occupied with his own particular
thoughts.
Anna Sergeyevna was also thinking about her
guests that evening. She liked Bazarov for
his absence of flattery and for his definite
downright views. She found in him something
new, which she had not met before, and she
was curious. Anna Sergeyevna was a rather
strange person. Having no prejudices at all,
and no strong convictions either, she neither
avoided things nor went out of her way to
secure anything special. She was clear-sighted
and she had many interests, but nothing completely
satisfied her; indeed, she hardly desired
any complete satisfaction. Her mind was at
once inquiring and indifferent; though her
doubts were never soothed by forgetfulness,
they never grew powerful enough to agitate
her disagreeably. Had she not been rich and
independent, she would probably have thrown
herself into the struggle and experienced
passion . . . But life ran easily for her,
although she was sometimes bored, and she
went on from day to day without hurrying and
only rarely feeling disturbed. Rainbow-colored
visions sometimes glowed before her eyes,
but she breathed more peacefully when they
faded away, and she did not hanker after them.
Her imagination certainly overstepped the
limits of conventional morality, but all the
time her blood flowed as quietly as ever in
her charmingly graceful, tranquil body. Sometimes,
emerging from her fragrant bath, warm and
languid, she would start musing on the emptiness
of life, its sorrow, labor and vindictiveness
. . . her soul would be filled with sudden
daring and burn with generous ardor; but then
a draught would blow from a half-open window
and Anna Sergeyevna would shrink back into
herself with a plaintive, almost angry feeling,
and there was only one thing she needed at
that particular moment--to get away from that
nasty draught.
Like all women who have not succeeded in loving,
she wanted something without knowing what
it was. Actually she wanted nothing, though
it seemed to her that she wanted everything.
She could hardly endure the late Odintsov
(she married him for practical reasons though
she might not have agreed to become his wife
if she had not regarded him as a good-natured
man), and she had conceived a hidden repugnance
for all men, whom she could think of only
as slovenly, clumsy, dull, feebly irritating
creatures. Once, somewhere abroad, she had
met a handsome young Swede with a chivalrous
expression and with honest eyes under an open
brow; he made a strong impression on her,
but that had not prevented her from returning
to Russia.
"A strange man this doctor," she thought as
she lay in her magnificent bed, on lace pillows
under a light silk eiderdown. Anna Sergeyevna
had inherited from her father some of his
passion for luxury. She had been devoted to
him, and he had idolized her, used to joke
with her as though she were a friend and equal,
confided his secrets to her and asked her
advice. Her mother she scarcely remembered.
"This doctor is a strange man," she repeated
to herself. She stretched, smiled, clasped
her hands behind her head, ran her eyes over
two pages of a stupid French novel, dropped
the book--and fell asleep, pure and cold in
her clean and fragrant linen.
The following morning Anna Sergeyevna went
off botanizing with Bazarov immediately after
breakfast and returned just before dinner;
Arkady did not go out anywhere, but spent
about an hour with Katya. He was not bored
in her company. She offered of her own accord
to play the Mozart sonata again; but when
Madame Odintsov came back at last and he caught
sight of her, he felt a sudden pain in his
heart . . . She walked through the garden
with a rather tired step, her cheeks were
burning and her eyes shone more brightly than
usual under her round straw hat. She was twirling
in her fingers the thin stalk of some wild
flower, her light shawl had slipped down to
her elbows, and the broad grey ribbons of
her hat hung over her bosom. Bazarov walked
behind her, self-confident and casual as ever,
but Arkady disliked the expression of his
face, although it was cheerful and even affectionate.
Bazarov muttered "Good day" between his teeth
and went straight to his room, and Madame
Odintsov shook Arkady's hand absent-mindedly
and also walked past him.
"Why good day?" thought Arkady. "As if we
had not seen each other already today!"
Chapter 17
AS WE ALL KNOW, TIME SOMETIMES FLIES LIKE
A BIRD, AND sometimes crawls like a worm,
but people may be unusually happy when they
do not even notice whether time has passed
quickly or slowly; in this way Arkady and
Bazarov spent a whole fortnight with Madame
Odintsov. Such a result was achieved partly
by the order and regularity which she had
established in her house and mode of life.
She adhered strictly to this order herself
and obliged others to submit to it as well.
Everything during the day was done at a fixed
time. In the morning, at eight o'clock precisely,
the whole party assembled for tea; from then
till breakfast everyone did what he liked,
the hostess herself was engaged with her bailiff
(the estate was run on the rental system),
her butler, and her head housekeeper. Before
dinner the party met again for conversation
or reading; the evening was devoted to walking,
cards, or music; at half-past ten Anna Sergeyevna
retired to her own room, gave her orders for
the next day and went to bed. Bazarov did
not care for this measured and rather formal
regularity in daily life, like "gliding along
rails" he called it; livened footmen and stately
butlers offended his democratic sentiments.
He declared that once you went so far you
might as well dine in the English style--in
tail coats and white ties. He once spoke out
his views on the subject to Anna Sergeyevna.
Her manner was such that people never hesitated
to say what they thought in front of her.
She heard him out, and then remarked, "From
your point of view you are right--and perhaps
in that way I am too much of a lady--but one
must lead an orderly life in the country;
otherwise one is overcome by boredom,"--and
she continued to go her own way. Bazarov grumbled,
but both he and Arkady found life easy at
Madame Odintsov's just because everything
in the house ran so smoothly "on rails." Nevertheless
some change had occurred in both the young
men since the first days of their stay at
Nikolskoe. Bazarov, whose company Anna Sergeyevna
obviously enjoyed, though she rarely agreed
with him, began to show quite unprecedented
signs of unrest; he was easily irritated,
spoke with reluctance, often looked angry,
and could not sit still in one place, as if
moved about by some irresistible desire; while
Arkady, who had conclusively made up his mind
that he was in love with Madame Odintsov,
began to abandon himself to a quiet melancholy.
This melancholy, however, did not prevent
him from making friends with Katya; it even
helped him to develop a more affectionate
relationship with her. "She does not appreciate
me!" he thought. "So be it . . . ! but here
is a kind person who does not repulse me,"
and his heart again knew the sweetness of
generous emotions. Katya vaguely understood
that he was seeking a kind of consolation
in her company, and did not deny him or herself
the innocent pleasure of a shy confidential
friendship. They did not talk to each other
in Anna Sergeyevna's presence; Katya always
shrank into herself under her sister's sharp
eyes, while Arkady naturally could pay attention
to nothing else when he was close to the object
of his love; but he felt happy with Katya
when he was alone with her. He knew that it
was beyond his power to interest Madame Odintsov;
he was shy and at a loss when he was left
in her company, nor had she anything special
to say to him; he was too young for her. On
the other hand, with Katya Arkady felt quite
at home; he treated her indulgently, encouraged
her to talk about her own impressions of music,
novels, verses and other trifles, without
noticing or acknowledging that these trifles
interested him also. Katya, for her part,
did not interfere with his melancholy. Arkady
felt at ease with Katya, and Madame Odintsov
with Bazarov, so it usually happened that
after the two couples had been together for
a while, they went off on their separate ways,
especially during walks. Katya adored nature,
and so did Arkady, though he did not dare
to admit it; Madame Odintsov, like Bazarov,
was rather indifferent to natural beauties.
The continued separation of the two friends
produced its consequences; their relationship
began to change. Bazarov gave up talking to
Arkady about Madame Odintsov, he even stopped
abusing her "aristocratic habits"; however,
he continued to praise Katya, and advised
Arkady only to restrain her sentimental tendencies,
but his praises were hurried and perfunctory,
his advice was dry, and in general he talked
much less to Arkady than before . . . he seemed
to avoid him, he was ill at ease in his presence
. . .
Arkady observed all this, but kept his observations
to himself.
The real cause of all this "novelty" was the
feeling inspired in Bazarov by Madame Odintsov,
a feeling which at once tortured and maddened
him, and which he would have promptly denied
with contemptuous laughter and cynical abuse
if anyone had even remotely hinted at the
possibility of what was happening within him.
Bazarov was very fond of women and of feminine
beauty, but love in the ideal, or as he called
it romantic, sense, he described as idiocy,
unpardonable folly; he regarded chivalrous
feelings as a kind of deformity or disease,
and had more than once expressed his amazement
that Toggenburg and all the minnesingers and
troubadours had not been shut up in a lunatic
asylum. "If a woman appeals to you," he used
to say, "try to gain your end; and if you
can't--well, just turn your back on her--there
are lots more good fish in the sea." Madame
Odintsov appealed to him; the rumors he had
heard about her, the freedom and independence
of her ideas, her obvious liking for him--all
seemed to be in his favor; but he soon saw
that with her he could not "gain his end,"
and as for turning his back on her, he found,
to his own amazement, he had no strength to
do so. His blood was on fire directly he thought
about her; he could easily have mastered bis
blood, but something else was taking possession
of him, something he had never allowed, at
which he had always scoffed and at which his
pride revolted. In his conversations with
Anna Sergeyevna he expressed more strongly
than ever his calm indifference to any kind
of "romanticism"; but when he was alone he
indignantly recognized romanticism in himself.
Then he would go off into the forest, and
stride about smashing the twigs which came
in his way and cursing under his breath both
her and himself; or he would go into the hayloft
in the barn, and obstinately closing his eyes,
force himself to sleep, in which, of course,
he did not always succeed. Suddenly he would
imagine those chaste hands twining themselves
around his neck, those proud lips responding
to his kisses, those intelligent eyes looking
with tenderness--yes, with tenderness--into
his, and his head went round, and he forgot
himself for a moment, till indignation boiled
up again within him. He caught himself indulging
in all sorts of "shameful thoughts," as though
a devil were mocking at him. It seemed to
him sometimes that a change was also taking
place in Madame Odintsov, that her face expressed
something unusual, that perhaps . . . but
at that point he would stamp on the ground,
grind his teeth or clench his fist.
Meanwhile he was not entirely mistaken. He
had struck Madame Odintsov's imagination;
he interested her; she thought a lot about
him. In his absence she was not exactly bored,
she did not wait for him with impatience,
but when he appeared she immediately became
livelier; she enjoyed being left alone with
him and she enjoyed talking to him, even when
he annoyed her or offended her taste and her
refined habits. She seemed eager both to test
him and to analyse herself.
One day, walking with her in the garden, he
abruptly announced in a surly voice that he
intended to leave very soon to go to his father's
place . . . She turned white, as if something
had pricked her heart; she was surprised at
the sudden pain she felt and pondered long
afterwards on what it could mean. Bazarov
had told her about his departure without any
idea of trying out the effect of the news
upon her; he never fabricated stories. That
same morning he had seen his father's bailiff,
Timofeich, who had looked after him as a child.
This Timofeich, an experienced and astute
little old man, with faded yellow hair, a
weather-beaten red face and with tiny teardrops
in his shrunken eyes, had appeared quite unexpectedly
in front of Bazarov, in his short coat of
thick grey-blue cloth, leather girdle and
tarred boots.
"Hullo, old man, how are you?" exclaimed Bazarov.
"How do you do, Evgeny Vassilich?" began the
little old man, smiling with joy, so that
his whole face was immediately covered with
wrinkles.
"What have you come here for? They sent you
to find me, eh?"
"Fancy that, sir! How is it possible?" mumbled
Timofeich (he remembered the strict injunctions
he had received from his master before he
left). "We were sent to town on the master's
business and heard news of your honor, so
we turned off on the way--well--to have a
look at your honor . . . as if we could think
of disturbing you!"
"Now then, don't lie!" Bazarov cut him short.
"It's no use your pretending this is on the
road to the town."
Timofeich hesitated and said nothing.
"Is my father well?"
"Thank God, yes!"
"And my mother?"
"Arina Vlasyevna too, glory be to God."
"They're expecting me, I suppose."
The old man leaned his little head on one
side.
"Oh, Evgeny Vassilich, how they wait for you!
Believe me, it makes the heart ache to see
them."
"All right, all right, don't rub it in. Tell
them I'm coming soon."
"I obey," answered Timofeich with a sigh.
As he left the house he pulled his cap down
with both hands over his head, then clambered
into a dilapidated racing carriage, and went
off at a trot, but not in the direction of
the town.
On the evening of that day Madame Odintsov
was sitting in one room with Bazarov while
Arkady walked up and down the hall listening
to Katya playing the piano. The princess had
gone upstairs to her own room; she always
loathed visitors, but she resented particularly
the "new raving lunatics," as she called them.
In the main rooms she only sulked, but she
made up for that in her own room by bursting
into such a torrent of abuse in front of her
maid that the cap danced on her head, wig
and all. Madame Odintsov knew all about this.
"How is it that you are proposing to leave
us," she began; "what about your promises?"
Bazarov made a movement of surprise. "What
promises?"
"Have you forgotten? You intended to give
me some chemistry lessons."
"It can't be helped! My father expects me;
I can't put it off any longer. Besides, you
can read Pelouse et Frémy, Notions Générales
de Chimie; it's a good book and clearly written.
You will find in it all you need."
"But you remember you assured me that a book
can't take the place of . . . I forget how
you put it, but you know what I mean . . . don't
you remember?"
"It can't be helped," repeated Bazarov.
"Why should you go?" said Madame Odintsov,
dropping her voice.
He glanced at her. Her head had fallen on
the back of the armchair and her arms, bare
to the elbow, were folded over her bosom.
She seemed paler in the light of the single
lamp covered with a translucent paper shade.
A broad white dress covered her completely
in its soft folds; even the tips of her feet,
also crossed, were hardly visible.
"And why should I stay?" answered Bazarov.
Madame Odintsov turned her head slightly.
"You ask why. Have you not enjoyed staying
here? Or do you think no one will miss you
when you are gone?"
"I am sure of that."
Madame Odintsov was silent for a moment. "You
are wrong in thinking so. But I don't believe
you. You can't say that seriously." Bazarov
continued to sit motionless. "Evgeny Vassilich,
why don't you speak?"
"What am I to say to you? There is no point
in missing people, and that applies to me
even more than to most."
"Why so?"
"I'm a straightforward uninteresting person.
I don't know how to talk."
"You are fishing for compliments, Evgeny Vassilich."
"That's not my custom. Don't you know yourself
that the graceful side of life, which you
value so highly, is beyond my reach?"
Madame Odintsov bit the corner of her handkerchief.
"You may think what you like, but I shall
find it dull when you go away."
"Arkady will stay on," remarked Bazarov. Madame
Odintsov slightly shrugged her shoulders.
"It will be dull for me," she repeated.
"Really? In any case you won't feel like that
for long."
"What makes you suppose so?"
"Because you told me yourself that you are
bored only when your orderly routine is disturbed.
You have organized your life with such impeccable
regularity that there can't be any place left
in it for boredom or sadness . . . for any
painful emotions."
"And do you consider that I am so impeccable
. . . I mean, that I have organized my life
so thoroughly . . ."
"I should think so! For example, in five minutes
the clock will strike ten and I already know
in advance that you will turn me out of the
room."
"No, I won't turn you out, Evgeny Vassilich.
You may stay. Open that window . . . I feel
half stifled."
Bazarov got up and pushed the window; it flew
wide open with a crash . . . he had not expected
it to open so easily; also, his hands were
trembling. The soft dark night looked into
the room, with its nearly black sky, its faintly
rustling trees, and the fresh fragrance of
the pure open air.
"Draw the blind and sit down," said Madame
Odintsov. "I want to have a talk with you
before you go away. Tell me something about
yourself; you never talk about yourself."
"I try to talk to you about useful subjects,
Anna Sergeyevna."
"You are very modest . . . but I should like
to know something about you, about your family
and your father, for whom you are forsaking
us."
"Why is she talking like this?" thought Bazarov.
"All that is very uninteresting," he said
aloud, "particularly for you. We are obscure
people."
"You regard me as an aristocrat?"
Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Madame
Odintsov.
"Yes," he said with exaggerated harshness.
She smiled. "I see you know me very little,
though of course you maintain that all people
are alike and that it is not worth while studying
individuals. I will tell the story of my life
sometime . . . but first tell me yours."
"I know you very little," repeated Bazarov.
"Perhaps you are right; perhaps really everyone
is a riddle. You, for instance; you avoid
society, you find it tedious--and you invited
two students to stay with you. What makes
you, with your beauty and your intelligence,
live permanently in the country?"
"What? What did you say?" Madame Odintsov
interposed eagerly, "with . . . my beauty?"
Bazarov frowned. "Never mind about that,"
he muttered; "I wanted to say that I don't
properly understand why you settled in the
country!"
"You don't understand it . . . yet you explain
it to yourself somehow?"
"Yes . . . I suppose that you prefer to remain
in one place because you are self-indulgent,
very fond of comfort and ease and very indifferent
to everything else."
Madame Odintsov smiled again.
"You absolutely refuse to believe that I am
capable of being carried away by anything?"
Bazarov glanced at her from under his brows.
"By curiosity--perhaps, but in no other way."
"Indeed? Well, now I understand why we have
become such friends, you are just like me--"
"We have become friends . . . ," Bazarov muttered
in a hollow voice.
"Yes. . . . Why, I had forgotten that you
want to go away."
Bazarov got up. The lamp burned dimly in the
darkening, isolated fragrant room; the blind
swayed from time to time and let in the stimulating
freshness of the night and its mysterious
whispers. Madame Odintsov did not stir, but
a hidden excitement gradually took possession
of her . . . It communicated itself to Bazarov.
He suddenly felt he was alone with a young
and beautiful woman . . .
"Where are you going?" she said slowly. He
made no answer and sank into a chair.
"And so you consider me a placid, pampered,
self-indulgent creature," she continued in
the same tone and without taking her eyes
off the window. "But I know so much about
myself that I am unhappy."
"You unhappy! What for? Surely you can't attach
any importance to slanderous gossip!"
Madame Odintsov frowned. She was upset that
he had understood her words in that way.
"Such gossip does not even amuse me, Evgeny
Vassilich, and I am too proud to allow it
to disturb me. I am unhappy because . . . I
have no desires, no love of life. You look
at me suspiciously; you think those are the
words of an aristocrat who sits in lace on
a velvet chair. I don't deny for a moment
that I like what you call comfort, and at
the same time I have little desire to live.
Reconcile that contradiction as best you can.
Of course it is all sheer romanticism to you."
Bazarov shook his head; "You are healthy,
independent and rich; what more is left? What
do you want?"
"What do I want," repeated Madame Odintsov
and sighed. "I am very tired, I am old, I
feel as if I had lived a very long time. Yes,
I am old--" she added, softly drawing the
ends of her shawl over her bare arms. Her
eyes met Bazarov's and she blushed slightly.
"So many memories are behind me; life in Petersburg,
wealth, then poverty, then my father's death,
marriage, then traveling abroad, as was inevitable
. . . so many memories and so little worth
remembering, and in front of me--a long, long
road without a goal . . . I have not even
the desire to go on."
"Are you so disappointed?" asked Bazarov.
"No," answered Madame Odintsov, speaking with
deliberation, "but I am dissatisfied. I think
if I were strongly attached to something . . ."
"You want to fall in love," Bazarov interrupted
her, "but you can't love. That is your unhappiness."
Madame Odintsov started looking at the shawl
over her sleeve.
"Am I incapable of love?" she murmured.
"Hardly! But I was wrong in calling it unhappiness.
On the contrary, a person should rather be
pitied when that happens to him."
"When what happens to him?"
"Falling in love."
"And how do you know that?"
"I have heard it," answered Bazarov angrily.
"You are flirting," he thought. "You're bored
and are playing with me for want of anything
better to do, while I . . ." Truly his heart
was torn.
"Besides, you may be expecting too much,"
he said, leaning forward with his whole body
and playing with the fringe of his chair.
"Perhaps. I want everything or nothing. A
life for a life, taking one and giving up
another without hesitation and beyond recall.
Or else better have nothing!"
"Well," observed Bazarov, "those are fair
terms, and I'm surprised that so far you . . . haven't
found what you want."
"And do you think it would be easy to give
oneself up entirely to anything?"
"Not easy, if you start reflecting, waiting,
estimating your value, appraising yourself,
I mean; but to give oneself unreasoningly
is very easy."
"How can one help valuing oneself? If I have
no value, then who needs my devotion?"
"That is not my affair; it is for another
person to investigate my value. The main thing
is to know how to devote oneself."
Madame Odintsov leaned forward from the back
of her chair.
"You speak as if you had experienced it all
yourself," she said. "It happened to come
up in the course of our conversation; but
all that, as you know, is not in my line."
"But could you devote yourself unreservedly?"
"I don't know. I don't want to boast."
Madame Odintsov said nothing and Bazarov remained
silent. The sounds of the piano floated up
to them from the drawing room.
"How is it that Katya is playing so late?"
observed Madame Odintsov.
Bazarov got up.
"Yes, it really is late now, time for you
to go to bed."
"Wait a little, why should you hurry? . . . I
want to say one word to you."
"What is it?"
"Wait a little," whispered Madame Odintsov.
Her eyes rested on Bazarov; it seemed as if
she was examining him attentively.
He walked across the room, then suddenly came
up to her, hurriedly said "Good-by," squeezed
her hand so that she almost screamed and went
out. She raised her compressed fingers to
her lips, breathed on them, then rose impulsively
from her armchair and moved rapidly towards
the door, as if she wanted to bring Bazarov
back . . . A maid entered the room carrying
a decanter on a silver tray. Madame Odintsov
stood still, told the maid she could go, and
sat down again deep in thought. Her hair slipped
loose and fell in a dark coil over her shoulders.
The lamp went on burning for a long time in
her room while she still sat there motionless,
only from time to time rubbing her hands which
were bitten by the cold night air.
Bazarov returned to his bedroom two hours
later, his boots wet with dew, looking disheveled
and gloomy. He found Arkady sitting at the
writing desk with a book in his hands, his
coat buttoned up to the neck.
"Not in bed yet?" he exclaimed with what sounded
like annoyance.
"You were sitting a long time with Anna Sergeyevna
this evening," said Arkady without answering
his question.
"Yes, I sat with her all the time you were
playing the piano with Katerina Sergeyevna."
"I was not playing . . ." began Arkady and
stopped. He felt that tears were rising in
his eyes and he did not want to cry in front
of his sarcastic friend.
Chapter 18
THE
NEXT DAY WHEN MADAME ODINTSOV CAME DOWN TO
TEA, Bazarov sat for a long time bending over
his cup, then suddenly glanced up at her . . . she
turned towards him as if he had touched her,
and he fancied that her face was paler since
the night before. She soon went off to her
own room and did not reappear till breakfast.
It had rained since early morning, so that
there was no question of going for walks.
The whole party assembled in the drawing room.
Arkady took up the last number of a journal
and began to read. The princess, as usual,
first tried to express angry amazement by
her facial expression, as though he were doing
something indecent, then glared angrily at
him, but he paid no attention to her.
"Evgeny Vassilich," said Anna Sergeyevna,
"let us go to my room. I want to ask you . . . you
mentioned a textbook yesterday..."
She got up and went to the door. The princess
looked round as if she wanted to say, "Look
at me; see how shocked I am!" and again stared
at Arkady, but he merely raised his head,
and exchanging glances with Katya, near whom
he was sitting, he went on reading.
Madame Odintsov walked quickly into her study.
Bazarov followed her without raising his eyes,
and only listening to the delicate swish and
rustle of her silk dress gliding in front
of him. Madame Odintsov sat down in the same
armchair in which she had sat the evening
before, and Bazarov also sat down in his former
place.
"Well, what is that book called?" she began
after a short silence.
"Pelouse et Fré, Notions Générales . . . ," answered
Bazarov. "However, I might recommend to you
also Ganot, Traité élémentaire de Physique
Expérimentale. In that book the illustrations
are clearer, and as a complete textbook--"
Madame Odintsov held out her hand.
"Evgeny Vassilich, excuse me, but I didn't
invite you here to discuss textbooks. I wanted
to go on with our conversation of last night.
You went away so suddenly . . . It won't bore
you?"
"I am at your service, Anna Sergeyevna. But
what were we talking about last night?"
Madame Odintsov cast a sidelong glance at
Bazarov.
"We were talking about happiness, I believe.
I told you about myself. By the way, I just
mentioned the word 'happiness.' Tell me, why
is it that even when we are enjoying, for
instance, music, a beautiful evening, or a
conversation with agreeable people, it all
seems to be rather a hint of immeasurable
happiness existing somewhere apart, rather
than genuine happiness, such, I mean, as we
ourselves can really possess? Why is it? Or
perhaps you never experience that kind of
feeling?"
"You know the saying, 'Happiness is where
we are not,'" replied Bazarov. "Besides, you
told me yesterday that you are discontented.
But it is as you say, no such ideas ever enter
my head."
"Perhaps they seem ridiculous to you?"
"No, they just don't enter my head."
"Really. Do you know, I should very much like
to know what you do think about?"
"How? I don't understand you."
"Listen, I have long wanted to have a frank
talk with you. There is no need to tell you--for
you know it yourself--that you are not an
ordinary person; you are still young--your
whole life lies before you. For what are you
preparing yourself? What future awaits you?
I mean to say, what purpose are you aiming
at, in what direction are you moving, what
is in your heart? In short, who and what are
you?"
"You surprise me, Anna Sergeyevna. You know,
that I am studying natural science and who
I . . ."
"Yes, who are you?"
"I have already told you that I am going to
be a district doctor."
Anna Sergeyevna made an impatient movement.
"What do you say that for? You don't believe
it yourself. Arkady might answer me in that
way, but not you."
"How does Arkady come in?"
"Stop! Is it possible you could content yourself
with such a humble career, and aren't you
always declaring that medicine doesn't exist
for you? You--with your ambition--a district
doctor! You answer me like that in order to
put me off because you have no confidence
in me. But you know, Evgeny Vassilich, I should
be able to understand you; I also have been
poor and ambitious, like you; perhaps I went
through the same trials as you."
"That's all very well, Anna Sergeyevna, but
you must excuse me . . . I am not in the habit
of talking freely about myself in general,
and there is such a gulf between you and me
. . ."
"In what way, a gulf? Do you mean to tell
me again that I am an aristocrat? Enough of
that, Evgeny Vassilich; I thought I had convinced
you . . ."
"And apart from all that," broke in Bazarov,
"how can we want to talk and think about the
future, which for the most part doesn't depend
on ourselves? If an opportunity turns up of
doing something--so much the better, and if
it doesn't turn up--at least one can be glad
that one didn't idly gossip about it beforehand."
"You call a friendly conversation gossip!
Or perhaps you consider me as a woman unworthy
of your confidence? I know you despise us
all!"
"I don't despise you, Anna Sergeyevna, and
you know that."
"No, I don't know anything . . . but let us
suppose so. I understand your disinclination
to talk about your future career, but as to
what is taking place within you now . . ."
"Taking place!" repeated Bazarov. "As if I
were some kind of government or society! In
any case, it is completely uninteresting,
and besides, can a person always speak out
loud of everything which 'takes place' within
him!"
"But I don't see why you shouldn't speak freely,
about everything you have in your heart."
"Can you?" asked Bazarov.
"I can," answered Anna Sergeyevna, after a
moment's hesitation.
Bazarov bowed his head. "You are luckier than
I."
"As you like," she continued, "but still something
tells me that we did not get to know each
other for nothing, that we shall become good
friends. I am sure that your--how shall I
say--your constraint, your reserve, will disappear
eventually."
"So you have noticed in me reserve . . . and,
how did you put it--constraint?"
"Yes."
Bazarov got up and went to the window.
"And would you like to know the reason for
this reserve, would you like to know what
is happening within me?"
"Yes," repeated Madame Odintsov, with a sort
of dread which she did not quite understand.
"And you will not be angry?"
"No."
"No?" Bazarov was standing with his back to
her. "Let me tell you then that I love you
like a fool, like a madman . . . There, you've
got that out of me."
Madame Odintsov raised both her hands in front
of her, while Bazarov pressed his forehead
against the windowpane. He was breathing hard;
his whole body trembled visibly. But it was
not the trembling of youthful timidity, not
the sweet awe of the first declaration that
possessed him: it was passion beating within
him, a powerful heavy passion not unlike fury
and perhaps akin to it . . . Madame Odintsov
began to feel both frightened and sorry for
him.
"Evgeny Vassilich . . . ," she murmured, and
her voice rang with unconscious tenderness.
He quickly turned round, threw a devouring
look at her--and seizing both her hands, he
suddenly pressed her to him.
She did not free herself at once from his
embrace, but a moment later she was standing
far away in a corner and looking from there
at Bazarov. He rushed towards her . . .
"You misunderstood me," she whispered in hurried
alarm. It seemed that if he had made one more
step she would have screamed . . . Bazarov
bit his lips and went out.
Half an hour later a maid gave Anna Sergeyevna
a note from Bazarov; it consisted merely of
one line: "Am I to leave today, or can I stop
till tomorrow?"
"Why should you leave? I did not understand
you--you did not understand me," Anna Sergeyevna
answered, but to herself she thought "I did
not understand myself either."
She did not show herself till dinnertime,
and kept walking up and down her room, with
her arms behind her back, sometimes stopping
in front of the window or the mirror, and
sometimes slowly rubbing her handkerchief
over her neck, on which she still seemed to
feel a burning spot. She asked herself what
had impelled her to get that out of him, as
Bazarov had expressed it, to secure his confidence,
and whether she had really suspected nothing
. . . "I am to blame," she concluded aloud,
"but I could not have foreseen this." She
became pensive and blushed when she recalled
Bazarov's almost animal face when he had rushed
at her . . .
"Or?" she suddenly uttered aloud, stopped
short and shook her curls . . . she caught
sight of herself in the mirror; her tossed-back
head, with a mysterious smile on the half-closed,
half-open eyes and lips, told her, it seemed,
in a flash something at which she herself
felt confused . . .
"No," she decided at last. "God alone knows
what it would lead to; he couldn't be trifled
with; after all, peace is better than anything
else in the world."
Her own peace of mind was not deeply disturbed;
but she felt sad and once even burst into
tears, without knowing why--but not on account
of the insult she had just experienced. She
did not feel insulted; she was more inclined
to feel guilty. Under the influence of various
confused impulses, the consciousness that
life was passing her by, the craving for novelty,
she had forced herself to move on to a certain
point, forced herself also to look beyond
it--and there she had seen not even an abyss,
but only sheer emptiness . . . or something
hideous.
Chapter 19
IN SPITE OF HER MA5TERLY SELF-CONTROL AND
SUPERIORITY TO every kind of prejudice, Madame
Odintsov felt awkward when she entered the
dining room for dinner. However, the meal
went off quite satisfactorily. Porfiri Platonich
turned up and told various anecdotes; he had
just returned from the town. Among other things,
he announced that the governor had ordered
his secretaries on special commissions to
wear spurs, in case he might want to send
them off somewhere on horseback, at greater
speed. Arkady talked in an undertone to Katya,
and attended diplomatically to the princess.
Bazarov maintained a grim and obstinate silence.
Madame Odintsov glanced at him twice, not
furtively, but straight in his face, which
looked stern and choleric, with downcast eyes
and a contemptuous determination stamped on
every feature, and she thought: "No . . . no
. . . no." After dinner, she went with the
whole company into the garden, and seeing
that Bazarov wanted to speak to her, she walked
a few steps to one side and stopped. He approached
her, but even then he did not raise his eyes
and said in a husky voice: "I have to apologize
to you, Anna Sergeyevna. You must be furious
with me."
"No, I'm not angry with you, Evgeny Vassilich,
but I'm upset."
"So much the worse. In any case I've been
punished enough. I find myself, I'm sure you
will agree, in a very stupid position. You
wrote to me, 'Why go away?' But I can't stay
and I don't want to. Tomorrow I shall no longer
be here."
"Evgeny Vassilich, why are you . . ."
"Why am I going away?"
"No, I didn't mean that."
"The past won't return, Anna Sergeyevna, but
sooner or later this was bound to happen.
Therefore I must go. I can imagine only one
condition which would have enabled me to stay:
but that condition will never be. For surely--excuse
my impudence--you don't love me and never
will love me?"
Bazarov's eyes glittered for a moment from
under his dark brows.
Anna Sergeyevna did not answer him.
"I'm afraid of this man," was the thought
that flashed through her mind.
"Farewell then," muttered Bazarov, as if he
guessed her thought, and he turned back to
the house.
Anna Sergeyevna followed him slowly, and calling
Katya to her, she took her arm. She kept Katya
by her side till the evening. She did not
play cards and kept on laughing, which was
not at all in keeping with her pale and worried
face. Arkady was perplexed, and looked at
her, as young people do, constantly wondering:
"What can it mean?" Bazarov shut himself up
in his room and only reappeared at teatime.
Anna Sergeyevna wanted to say a kind word
to him, but she could not bring herself to
address him . . .
An unexpected incident rescued her from her
embarrassment: the butler announced the arrival
of Sitnikov.
Words can hardly describe the strange figure
cut by the young champion of progress as he
fluttered into the room. He had decided with
his characteristic impudence to go to the
country to visit a woman whom he hardly knew,
who had never invited him, but with whom,
as he had ascertained, such talented people
and intimate friends of his were staying;
nevertheless, he was trembling to the marrow
of his bones with fright, and instead of bringing
out the excuses and compliments which he had
learned by heart beforehand, he muttered something
idiotic about Evdoksya Kukshina having sent
him to inquire after Anna Sergeyevna's health
and that Arkady Nikolayevich had always spoken
to him in terms of the highest praise . . . At
this point he faltered and lost his presence
of mind so completely that he sat down on
his hat. However, since no one turned him
out, and Anna Sergeyevna even introduced him
to her aunt and sister, he soon recovered
himself and began to chatter to his heart's
content. The introduction of something commonplace
is often useful in life; it relieves an overstrained
tension, and sobers down self-confident or
self-sacrificing feelings by recalling how
closely it is related to them. With Sitnikov's
appearance everything became somehow duller,
more trivial--and easier: they all even ate
supper with a better appetite, and went to
bed half an hour earlier than usual.
"I can now repeat to you," said Arkady, as
he lay down in bed, to Bazarov, who was also
undressing, "what you once said to me: 'Why
are you so melancholy? It looks as though
you were fulfilling some sacred duty.'"
For some time past a tone of artificially
free-and-easy banter had sprung up between
the two young men, always a sure sign of secret
dissatisfaction or of unexpressed suspicion.
"I'm going to my father's place tomorrow,"
said Bazarov.
Arkady raised himself and leaned on his elbow.
He felt both surprised and somehow pleased.
"Ah," he remarked, "and is that why you are
sad?"
Bazarov yawned. "If you know too much, you
grow old."
"And what about Anna Sergeyevna?"
"What about her?"
"I mean, will she let you go?"
"I'm not in her employment."
Arkady became thoughtful while Bazarov lay
down and turned his face to the wall. Some
minutes passed in silence.
"Evgeny!" suddenly exclaimed Arkady.
"Well?"
"I shall also leave tomorrow."
Bazarov made no answer.
"Only I shall go home," continued Arkady.
"We will go together as far as Khokhlovsky,
and there you can get horses at Fedot's. I
should have been delighted to meet your people,
but I'm afraid I should only get in their
way and yours. Of course you're coming back
to stay with us?"
"I've left all my things with you," said Bazarov,
without turning round.
"Why doesn't he ask me why I'm going away?--and
just as suddenly as he is?" thought Arkady.
"As a matter of fact, why am I going, and
why is he?" he went on reflecting. He could
find no satisfactory answer to his own question,
though his heart was filled with some bitter
feeling. He felt he would find it hard to
part from this life to which he had grown
so accustomed; but for him to stay on alone
would also be queer. "Something has happened
between them," he reasoned to himself; "what's
the good of my hanging around here after he
has gone? Obviously I should bore her stiff,
and lose even the little that remains for
me." He began to conjure up a picture of Anna
Sergeyevna; then other features gradually
eclipsed the lovely image of the young widow.
"I'm sorry about Katya too," Arkady whispered
to his pillow, on which a tear had already
fallen . . . Suddenly he shook back his hair
and said aloud: "What the devil brought that
idiotic Sitnikov here?"
Bazarov started to move about in his bed,
and then made the following answer: "I see
you're still stupid, my boy. Sitnikovs are
indispensable to us. For me, don't you understand--I
need such blockheads. In fact, it's not for
the gods to bake bricks . . ."
"Oho!" thought Arkady, and only then he saw
in a flash the whole fathomless depth of Bazarov's
conceit. "So you and I are gods, in that case?
At least, you're a god, but I suppose I'm
one of the blockheads."
"Yes," repeated Bazarov gloomily. "You're
still stupid."
Madame Odintsov expressed no particular surprise
when Arkady told her the next day that he
was going with Bazarov; she seemed tired and
preoccupied. Katya looked at him with silent
gravity. The princess went so far as to cross
herself under her shawl, so that he could
not help noticing it; but Sitnikov, on the
other hand, was most disconcerted. He had
just appeared for. breakfast in a smart new
costume, not this time in the Slavophil fashion;
the previous evening he had astonished the
man appointed to look after him by the quantity
of linen he had brought, and now all of a
sudden his comrades were deserting him! He
took a few quick steps, darted round like
a hunted hare on the edge of a wood, and abruptly,
almost with terror, almost with a wail, he
announced that he also proposed to leave.
Madame Odintsov made no attempt to detain
him.
"My carriage is very comfortable," added the
unlucky young man, turning to Arkady; "I can
take you, while Evgeny Vassilich takes your
tarantass, so that will be even more convenient."
"But really, it's quite off your road, and
it's a long way to where I live."
"Never mind, that's nothing; I've plenty of
time, besides I have business in that direction."
"Selling vodka?" asked Arkady, rather too
contemptuously. But Sitnikov was already reduced
to such despair that he did not even laugh
as he usually did. "I assure you, my carriage
is extremely comfortable," he muttered, "and
there will be room for everyone."
"Don't upset Monsieur Sitnikov by refusing
. . . ," murmured Anna Sergeyevna.
Arkady glanced at her and bowed his head significantly.
The visitors left after breakfast. As she
said good-by to Bazarov, Madame Odintsov held
out her hand to him, and said, "We shall meet
again, shan't we?"
"As you command," answered Bazarov.
"In that case, we shall."
Arkady was the first to go out into the porch;
he climbed into Sitnikov's carriage. The butler
tucked him in respectfully, but Arkady would
gladly have struck him or burst into tears.
Bazarov seated himself in the tarantass. When
they reached Khokhlovsky, Arkady waited till
Fedot, the keeper of the posting station,
had harnessed the horses, then going up to
the tarantass, he said with his old smile
to Bazarov, "Evgeny, take me with you, I want
to come to your place."
"Get in," muttered Bazarov between his teeth.
Sitnikov, who had been walking up and down
by the wheels of his carriage, whistling boldly,
could only open his mouth and gape when he
heard these words; while Arkady coolly pulled
his luggage out of the carriage, took his
seat beside Bazarov, and, bowing politely
to his former traveling companion, shouted,
"Drive off!" The tarantass rolled away and
was soon out of sight . . . Sitnikov, utterly
confused, looked at his coachman, but he was
flicking his whip round the tail of the off-side
horse. Finally Sitnikov jumped into his carriage--and
yelling at two passing peasants, "Put on your
caps, fools!" he drove to the town, where
he arrived very late, and where the next day,
at Madame Kukshin's he spoke severely about
two "disgustingly stuck-up and ignorant fellows."
Sitting in the tarantass alongside Bazarov,
Arkady pressed his friend's hand warmly, and
for a long time he said nothing. It seemed
as though Bazarov appreciated both Arkady's
action and his silence. He had not slept at
all the previous night, neither had he smoked,
and for several days he had scarcely eaten
anything. His thin profile stood out darkly
and sharply from under his cap, which was
pulled down over his eyebrows.
"Well, brother," he said at last, "give me
a cigar . . . but look, I say, is my tongue
yellow?"
"It's yellow," answered Arkady.
"Hm--yes . . . and the cigar has no taste.
The machine is out of gear."
"You have certainly changed lately," observed
Arkady.
"That's nothing; we shall soon recover. One
thing bothers me--my mother is so softhearted;
if your tummy doesn't grow round as a barrel
and you don't eat ten times a day, she's in
despair. My father's all right, he's been
everywhere and known all the ups and downs.
No, I can't smoke," he added, and flung the
cigar away into the dusty road.
"Do you think it's another sixteen miles to
your place?" asked Arkady.
"Yes, but ask this wise man." He pointed to
the peasant sitting on the box, a laborer
of Fedot's.
But the wise man only answered: "Who's to
know? miles aren't measured hereabouts," and
went on swearing under his breath at the shaft
horse for "kicking with her headpiece," by
which he meant, jerking her head.
"Yes, yes," began Bazarov, "it's a lesson
for you, my young friend, an instructive example.
The devil knows what rubbish it is. Every
man hangs by a thread, any minute the abyss
may open under his feet, and yet he must go
and invent for himself all kinds of troubles
and spoil his life."
"What are you hinting at?" asked Arkady.
"I'm not hinting at anything; I'm saying plainly
that we both behaved like fools. What's the
use of talking about it? But I've noticed
in hospital work, the man who's angry with
his illness--he's sure to get over it."
"I don't quite understand you," remarked Arkady,
"it seems you have nothing to complain about."
"Well, if you don't quite understand me, I'll
tell you this; to my mind it's better to break
stones on the road than to let a woman get
the mastery of even the end of one's little
finger. That's all . . . ," Bazarov was about
to utter his favorite word "romanticism,"
but checked himself and said "rubbish." "You
won't believe me now, but I'll tell you; you
and I fell into feminine society and very
nice we found it; but we throw off that sort
of society--it's like taking a dip in cold
water on a hot day. A man has no time for
these trifles. A man must be untamed, says
an old Spanish proverb. Now you, my wise friend,"
he added, addressing the peasant on the box.
"I suppose you have a wife?"
The peasant turned his dull bleary-eyed face
towards the two young friends.
"A wife? Yes. How could it be otherwise?"
"Do you beat her?"
"My wife? Anything may happen. We don't beat
her without a reason."
"That's fine. Well, and does she beat you?"
The peasant tugged at the reins. "What things
you say, sir. You like a joke." He was obviously
offended.
"You hear, Arkady Nikolayevich. But we've
been properly beaten--that's what comes of
being educated people."
Arkady gave a forced laugh, while Bazarov
turned away and did not open his mouth again
for the rest of the journey.
Those sixteen miles seemed to Arkady quite
like double the distance. But at last on the
slope of some rising ground the little village
where Bazarov's parents lived came into sight.
Close to it, in a young birch copse, stood
a small house with a thatched roof. Two peasants
with their hats on stood near the first hut
swearing at each other. "You're a great swine,"
said one, "you're worse than a little sucking
pig." "And your wife's a witch," retorted
the other.
"By their unconstrained behavior," remarked
Bazarov to Arkady, "and by the playfulness
of their phraseology, you can guess that my
father's peasants are not overmuch oppressed.
But there he is himself coming out on the
steps of the house. He must have heard the
bells; it's him all right, I recognize his
figure; ay! ay! only how grey he's grown,
poor old chap!"
Chapter 20
BAZAROV
LEANED OUT OF THE TARANTASS, WHILE ARKADY
stretched out his head from behind his companion's
back and saw standing on the steps of the
little house a tall thinnish man with ruffled
hair and a sharp aquiline nose, dressed in
an old military coat, not buttoned up. He
stood with his legs wide apart, smoking a
long pipe and screwing up his eyes to keep
the sun out of them.
The horses stopped.
"Arrived at last!" exclaimed Bazarov's father,
still continuing to smoke, though the pipe
was fairly jumping up and down between his
fingers. "Come, get out, get out, let me hug
you."
He began embracing his son . . . "Enyusha,
Enyusha," resounded a woman's quavering voice.
The door flew open and on the threshold appeared
a plump little old woman in a white cap and
short colored jacket. She cried, staggered,
and would probably have fallen if Bazarov
had not supported her. Her plump little hands
were instantly twined round his neck, her
head was pressed to his breast, and there
followed a complete hush, only interrupted
by the sound of her broken sobs.
Old Bazarov breathed hard and screwed up his
eyes more than before.
"There, that's enough, enough, Arisha! leave
off!" he said, exchanging a look with Arkady,
who remained standing motionless by the tarantass,
while even the peasant on the box turned his
head away. "That's quite unnecessary! Please
leave off."
"Ah, Vassily Ivanich," faltered the old woman,
"for what ages, my dear one, my darling, Enyushenka
. . . ," and without unclasping her hands,
she drew back her wrinkled face, wet with
tears, and overwhelmed with tenderness, and
looked at him with blissful and somehow comic
eyes and then again fell on his neck.
"Well, yes of course, that's all in the nature
of things," remarked Vassily Ivanich. "Only
we had better come indoors. Here's a visitor
arrived with Evgeny. You must excuse this,"
he added, turning to Arkady and slightly scraping
the ground with his foot: "You understand,
a woman's weakness, and well, a mother's heart."
His own lips and eyebrows were quivering and
his chin shook--but obviously he was trying
to master his feelings and to appear almost
indifferent. Arkady bowed.
"Let's go in, mother, really," said Bazarov,
and he led the enfeebled old woman into the
house. He put her in a comfortable armchair,
once more hurriedly embraced his father, and
introduced Arkady to him.
"Heartily glad to make your acquaintance,"
said Vassily Ivanich, "but you mustn't expect
anything grand: we live very simply here,
like military people. Arina Vlasyevna, pray
calm yourself; what faintheartedness! Our
guest will think ill of you."
"My good sir," said the old woman through
her tears, "I haven't the honor of knowing
your name and your father's."
"Arkady Nikolayevich," interposed Vassily
Ivanich solemnly, in a low voice.
"Excuse a foolish old woman like me." She
blew her nose, and bending her head from left
to right, she carefully wiped one eye after
the other. "You must excuse me. I really thought
I should die, that I should not live to see
again my darling--"
"Well and here we have lived to see him again,
madam," put in Vassily Ivanovich. "Tanyushka,"
he said, turning to a bare-legged little girl
of thirteen in a bright red cotton dress,
who was shyly peeping in at the door, "bring
your mistress a glass of water--on a tray,
do you hear?--and you, gentlemen," he added
with a kind of old-fashioned playfulness--"allow
me to invite you into the study of a retired
veteran."
"Just once more let me embrace you, Enyushka,"
groaned Arina Vlasyevna. Bazarov bent down
to her. "Gracious, how handsome you've grown!"
"Well, I don't know about being handsome,"
remarked Vassily Ivanovich. "But he's a man,
as the saying goes--ommfay. And now I hope,
Arina Vlasyevna, having satisfied your maternal
heart, you will turn your thoughts to satisfying
the appetites of our dear guests, because,
as you know, even nightingales can't be fed
on fairy tales."
The old lady rose from her chair. "This very
minute, Vassily Ivanovich, the table shall
be laid. I will myself run to the kitchen
and order the samovar to be brought in; everything
will be ready, everything. Why, for three
whole years I have not seen him, have not
been able to give him food or drink--is that
nothing?"
"Well, you see to things, little hostess,
bustle about, don't put us to shame; and you,
gentlemen, I beg you to follow me. Here is
Timofeich come to pay his respects to you,
Evgeny. And the old dog, I dare say he too
is delighted. Ay, aren't you delighted, old
dog? Be so good as to follow me."
And Vassily Ivanovich went bustling ahead,
shuffling and flapping with his down-at-heel
slippers.
His whole house consisted of six tiny rooms.
One of these--the one into which he led our
friends--was called the study. A thick-legged
table, littered with papers blackened by an
ancient accumulation of dust as if they had
been smoked, occupied the whole space between
the two windows; on the walls hung Turkish
firearms, whips, a saber, two maps, some anatomical
diagrams, a portrait of Hufeland, a monogram
woven out of hair in a blackened frame, and
a diploma under glass; a leather sofa, torn
and worn hollow in places, stood between two
huge cupboards of Karelian birchwood; on the
shelves, books, little boxes, stuffed birds,
jars and phials were crowded together in confusion;
in one corner lay a broken electric battery.
"I warned you, my dear guest," began Vassily
Ivanovich, "that we live, so to speak, bivouacking
. . ."
"Now stop that, what are you apologizing for?"
Bazarov interrupted. "Kirsanov knows very
well that we're not Croesuses and that you
don't live in a palace. Where are we going
to put him, that's the question?"
"To be sure, Evgeny, there's an excellent
room in the little wing; he will be very comfortable
there."
"So you've had a wing built on?"
"Of course, where the bathhouse is," put in
Timofeich. "That is next to the bathroom,"
Vassily Ivanovich added hurriedly. "It's summer
now . . . I will run over there at once and
arrange things; and you, Timofeich, bring
in their luggage meanwhile. Of course I hand
over my study to you, Evgeny. Suum cuique."
"There you have him! A most comical old chap
and very good-natured," remarked Bazarov,
as soon as Vassily Ivanovich had gone. "Just
as queer a fish as yours, only in a different
way. He chatters too much."
"And your mother seems a wonderful woman,"
remarked Arkady.
"Yes, there's no humbug about her. You just
see what a dinner she'll give us."
"They weren't expecting you today, sir, they've
not brought any beef," observed Timofeich,
who was just dragging in Bazarov's trunk.
"We shall manage all right even without beef;
you can't squeeze water from a stone. Poverty,
they say, is no crime."
"How many serfs has your father?" asked Arkady
suddenly. "The property is not his, but mother's;
there are fifteen serfs, if I remember."
"Twenty-two in all," added Timofeich in a
dissatisfied tone. The shuffling of slippers
was heard and Vassily Ivanovich reappeared.
"In a few minutes your room will be ready
to receive you," he exclaimed triumphantly.
"Arkady--Nikolaich? I think that's how I should
call you. And here is your servant," he added,
indicating a boy with close-cropped hair,
who had come in with him, wearing a long blue
caftan with holes in the elbows and a pair
of boots which did not belong to him. "His
name is Fedka, I repeat again, though my son
has forbidden it, you must not expect anything
grand. But this fellow knows how to fill a
pipe. You smoke, of course?"
"I prefer to smoke cigars," answered Arkady.
"And you're quite right there. I like cigars
myself, but in these remote parts it is extremely
difficult to get them."
"Enough crying poverty," interrupted Bazarov.
"You had better sit down on the sofa here
and let us have a look at you."
Vassily Ivanovich laughed and sat down. His
face was very much like his son's, only his
brow was lower and narrower, his mouth rather
wider, and he never stopped making restless
movements, shrugged his shoulders as though
his coat cut him under the armpits, blinked,
cleared his throat and gesticulated with his
fingers, whereas his son's most striking characteristic
was the nonchalant immobility of his manner.
"Crying poverty," repeated Vassily Ivanovich.
"You must suppose, Evgeny, that I want our
guest, so to speak, to take pity on us, by
making out that we live in such a wilderness.
On the contrary I maintain that for a thinking
man there is no such thing as a wilderness.
At least I try, as far as possible, not to
grow rusty, so to speak, not to fall behind
the times."
Vassily Ivanovich drew out of his pocket a
new yellow silk handkerchief, which he had
found time to snatch up when he ran over to
Arkady's room, and flourishing it in the air,
he went on: "I am not speaking now of the
fact that I, for instance, at the cost of
quite considerable sacrifices to myself, have
put my peasants on the rent system and given
up my land to them in return for half the
proceeds. I considered it my duty; common
sense alone demands that it should be done,
though other landowners don't even think about
doing it. But I speak now of the sciences,
of education."
"Yes, I see you have here the Friend of Health
for 1855," remarked Bazarov.
"That was sent me by an old comrade as a friendly
gesture," Vassily Ivanovich hastily announced;
"but we have, for instance, some idea even
of phrenology," he added, addressing himself
principally to Arkady, and pointing out a
small plaster head on the cupboard, divided
into numbered squares; "even Sch¨nlein is
not unknown to us--and Rademacher."
"Do people still believe in Rademacher in
this province?" inquired Bazarov.
Vassily Ivanovich cleared his throat. "In
this province . . . of course gentlemen, you
know better; how could we keep pace with you?
You are here to take our places. Even in my
time, there was a so-called humoralist Hoffman,
and a certain Brown with his vitalism--they
seemed very ridiculous to us, but they, too,
had great reputations at one time. Someone
new has taken Rademacher's place with you;
you bow down to him, but in another twenty
years it will probably be his turn to be laughed
at."
"For your consolation I can tell you," said
Bazarov, "that we nowadays laugh at medicine
altogether and bow down to nobody."
"How do you mean? Surely you want to be a
doctor."
"Yes, but the one doesn't prevent the other."
Vassily Ivanovich poked his middle finger
into his pipe, where a little smoldering ash
was left. "Well, perhaps, perhaps--I'm not
going to dispute. What am I? A retired army
doctor, valla too; and now farming has fallen
to my lot. I served in your grandfather's
brigade," he addressed himself to Arkady again.
"Yes, yes, I have seen many sights in my time.
And I mixed with every kind of society. I
myself, the man you see before you, have felt
the pulse of Prince Wittgenstein and of Zhukovsky!
They were in the southern army, the fourteenth,
you understand" (and here Vassily Ivanovich
pursed his lips significantly). "I knew them
all inside out. Well, well, but my work was
only on one side; stick to your lancet and
be content! Your grandfather was a very honorable
man and a real soldier."
"Confess, he was a regular blockhead," remarked
Bazarov lazily.
"Ah, Evgeny, how can you use such an expression?
Do consider . . . of course General Kirsanov
was not one of those . . ."
"Well, drop him," interrupted Bazarov. "As
I was driving along I was pleased to see your
birch plantation; it has sprung up admirably."
Vassily Ivanovich brightened. "And you must
see the little garden I've got now. I planted
every tree myself. I have fruit, raspberries
and all kinds of medicinal herbs. However
much you young gentlemen may know, old Paracelsus
spoke the sacred truth; in herbis, verbis
et lapidibus . . . I've retired from practice,
as you know, but at least twice a week something
happens to bring me back to my old work. They
come for advice--I can't drive them away--and
sometimes the poor people need help. Indeed
there are no doctors here at all. One of the
neighbors here, a retired major, just imagine
it, he doctors the people too. I ask the question:
'Has he studied medicine?' They answer: 'No,
he hasn't studied, he does it more from philanthropy'
. . . ha! ha! from philanthropy! What do you
think of that? Ha! ha!"
"Fedka! fill me a pipe!" said Bazarov sternly.
"And there's another doctor here who had just
visited a patient," continued Vassily Ivanovich
in a kind of desperation, "but the patient
had already gone ad patres; the servant wouldn't
let the doctor in, and tells him: 'You're
no longer needed.' He never expected this,
got confused and asked: 'Well, did your master
hiccup before he died?' 'Yes.' 'Did he hiccup
much?' 'Yes.' 'Ah, well, that's all right,'
and off he went again. Ha! ha! ha!"
The old man laughed alone. Arkady managed
to show a smile on his face. Bazarov merely
stretched himself. The conversation continued
in this way for about an hour. Arkady found
time to go to his room which turned out to
be the anteroom to the bathroom, but it was
very cosy and clean. At last Tanyushka came
in and announced that dinner was ready.
Vassily Ivanovich was the first to get up.
"Come, gentlemen, you must pardon me generously
if I have bored you. Maybe my good wife will
give you better satisfaction."
The dinner, though hastily prepared, was very
good and even abundant; only the wine was
not quite up to the mark; it was sherry, almost
black, bought by Timofeich in the town from
a well-known merchant, and it had a flavor
of copper or resin; the flies also were a
nuisance. On ordinary days a serf boy used
to keep driving them away with a big green
branch, but on this occasion Vassily Ivanovich
had sent him away for fear of adverse criticism
from the younger generation. Arina Vlasyevna
had changed her dress, and was wearing a high
cap with silk ribbons and a pale blue flowered
shawl. She started crying again as soon as
she caught sight of her Enyusha, but her husband
did not need to admonish her; she herself
made haste to dry her tears in order not to
spoil her shawl. Only the young men ate; the
host and hostess had both dined long ago.
Fedka waited at table, obviously encumbered
by his unfamiliar boots; he was helped by
a woman with a masculine cast of face and
one eye, called Anfisushka; she fulfilled
the duties of housekeeper, poultry woman and
laundress. Vassily Ivanovich walked up and
down throughout the dinner, and with a perfectly
contented and even blissful face talked about
the grave anxieties he had felt about Napoleon's
policy and the complications of the Italian
question. Arina Vlasyevna took no notice of
Arkady and did not press him to eat; leaning
her round face on her little fist, her full
cherry-colored lips and the little moles on
her cheeks and over her eyebrows adding to
her extremely kind, good-natured expression,
she did not take her eyes off her son and
constantly sighed; she was dying to know for
how long he would stay, but she was afraid
to ask him. "What if he stays for two days?"
she thought, and her heart sank. After the
roast Vassily Ivanovich disappeared for a
moment and returned with an opened half-bottle
of champagne.
"Here," he exclaimed, "though we do live in
the wilds, we have something to make merry
with on festive occasions!" He poured out
three full glasses and a little wineglass,
proposed the health of "our invaluable guests,"
and at once tossed off his glass in military
fashion and made Arina Vlasyevna drink her
wineglass to the last drop. When the time
came for the sweet preserves, Arkady, who
could not bear anything sweet, thought it
his duty, however, to taste four different
kinds which had been freshly made--all the
more since Bazarov flatly refused them and
began at once to smoke a cigar. Afterwards
tea was served with cream, butter and rolls;
then Vassily Ivanovich took them all out into
the garden to admire the beauty of the evening.
As they passed a garden seat he whispered
to Arkady, "This is the spot where I love
to meditate as I watch the sunset; it suits
a recluse like me. And there, a little farther
off, I have planted some of the trees beloved
by Horace."
"What trees?" asked Bazarov, overhearing,
"Oh . . . acacias."
Bazarov began to yawn.
"I suppose it is time our travelers were in
the embrace of Morpheus," observed Vassily
Ivanovich.
"In other words, it's time for bed," Bazarov
interposed. "That's a correct judgment; it
certainly is high time!"
Saying good night to his mother, he kissed
her on the forehead while she embraced him
and secretly behind his back she gave him
her blessing three times. Vassily Ivanovich
showed Arkady to his room and wished him "as
refreshing repose as I also enjoyed at your
happy years." In fact Arkady slept extremely
well in his bathhouse; it smelt of mint, and
two crickets behind the stove rivaled each
other in their prolonged drowsy chirping.
Vassily Ivanovich went from Arkady's room
to his own study and, settling down on the
sofa at his son's feet, was looking forward
to having a chat with him; but Bazarov sent
him away at once, saying he felt sleepy, but
he did not fall asleep till morning. With
wide-open eyes he stared angrily into the
darkness; memories of childhood had no power
over him, and besides he had not yet been
able to rid himself of the impression of his
recent bitter experiences. Arina Vlasyevna
first prayed to her heart's content, then
she had a long, long conversation with Anfisushka,
who stood rooted to the spot in front of her
mistress, and fixing her solitary eye upon
her, communicated in a mysterious whisper
all her observations and conjectures about
Evgeny Vassilevich. The old lady's head was
giddy with happiness, wine and tobacco smoke;
her husband tried to talk to her--but with
a wave of the hand he gave it up.
Arina Vlasyevna was a genuine Russian lady
of olden times; she ought to have lived two
centuries before, in the ancient Moscow days.
She was very devout and emotional; she believed
in fortunetelling, charms, dreams and omens
of every conceivable kind; she believed in
the prophecies of crazy people, in house spirits,
in wood spirits, in unlucky meetings, in the
evil eye, in popular remedies; she ate specially
prepared salt on Holy Thursday and believed
that the end of the world was close at hand;
she believed that if on Easter Sunday the
candles did not go out at Vespers, then there
would be a good crop of buckwheat, and that
a mushroom will not grow after a human eye
has seen it; she believed that the devil likes
to be where there is water, and that every
Jew has a blood-stained spot on his breast;
she was afraid of mice, of snakes, of frogs,
of sparrows, of leeches, of thunder, of cold
water, of draughts, of horses, of goats, of
red-haired people and of black cats; she regarded
crickets and dogs as unclean animals; she
never ate veal, pigeons, crayfish, cheese,
asparagus, Jerusalem artichokes, hares, or
watermelons because a cut watermelon suggested
the head of John the Baptist; she could not
speak of oysters without a shudder; she enjoyed
eating--but strictly observed fasts; she slept
ten hours out of the twenty-four--and never
went to bed at all if Vassily Ivanovich had
so much as a headache; she had never read
a single book except Alexis or the Cottage
in the Forest; she wrote one or at most two
letters in a year, but she was an expert housewife,
knew all about preserving and jam making,
though she touched nothing with her own hands
and was usually reluctant to move from her
place. Arina Vlasyevna was very kindhearted
and in her own way far from stupid. She knew
that the world is divided into masters whose
duty it is to command, and simple people whose
duty it is to serve--and so she felt no disgust
for servile behavior or bowing to the ground;
but she treated affectionately and gently
those in subjection to her, never let a single
beggar go away empty-handed, and never spoke
ill of anyone, though she was fond of gossip.
In her youth she had been very pretty, had
played the clavichord and spoken a little
French; but in the course of many years of
wandering with her husband, whom she had married
against her will, she had grown stout and
forgotten both music and French. Her son she
loved and feared unutterably; she had handed
over the management of her little estate to
Vassily Ivanovich--and she no longer took
any part in it; she would groan, wave her
handkerchief and raise her eyebrows higher
and higher in horror directly her old husband
began to discuss impending land reforms and
his own plans. She was apprehensive, always
expecting some great calamity, and would weep
at once whenever she remembered anything sad
. . . Nowadays such women have almost ceased
to exist. God knows whether this should be
a cause for rejoicing!
Chapter 21
ON GETTING UP, ARKADY OPENED THE WINDOW, AND
THE FIRST object which met his eyes was Vassily
Ivanovich. In a Turkish dressing gown tied
round the waist with a pocket handkerchief,
the old man was zealously digging his kitchen
garden. He noticed his young visitor and leaning
on his spade he called out, "Good health to
you! How did you sleep?"
"Splendidly," answered Arkady.
"And here I am, as you see, like some Cincinnatus,
preparing a bed for late turnips. The time
has come now--and thank God for it!--when
everyone should secure his sustenance by the
work of his own hands: it is useless to rely
on others; one must labor oneself. So it turns
out that Jean Jacques Rousseau is right. Half
an hour ago, my dear young sir, you could
have seen me in an entirely different position.
One peasant woman, who complained of looseness--that's
how they express it, but in our language,
dysentery--I--how shall I express it? I injected
her with opium; and for another I extracted
a tooth. I offered her an anesthetic, but
she refused. I do all that gratis-- anamatyer.
However, I'm used to it; you see I'm a plebeian,
homo nous--not one of the old stock, not like
my wife . . . But wouldn't you like to come
over here in the shade and breathe the morning
freshness before having tea?"
Arkady went out to him.
"Welcome once more!" said Vassily Ivanovich,
raising his hand in a military salute to the
greasy skullcap which covered his head. "You,
I know, are accustomed to luxury and pleasures,
but even the great ones of this world do not
disdain to spend a brief time under a cottage
roof."
"Gracious heavens," protested Arkady, "as
if I were a great one of this world! And I'm
not accustomed to luxury either."
"Pardon me, pardon me," replied Vassily Ivanovich
with an amiable grimace. "Though I am a back
number now, I also have knocked about the
world--I know a bird by its flight. I am something
of a psychologist in my way, and a physiognomist.
If I had not, I venture to say, been granted
that gift, I should have come to grief long
ago; a little man like me would have been
blotted out. I must tell you without flattery,
the friendship I observe between you and my
son sincerely delights me. I have just seen
him; he got up very early as he habitually
does--you probably know that--and ran off
for a ramble in the neighborhood. Permit me
to be so inquisitive--have you known my Evgeny
long?"
"Since last winter."
"Indeed. And permit me to question you further--but
why shouldn't we sit down? Permit me as a
father to ask you frankly: what is your opinion
of my Evgeny?"
"Your son is one of the most remarkable men
I have ever met," answered Arkady emphatically.
Vassily Ivanovich's eyes suddenly opened wide,
and a slight flush suffused his cheeks. The
spade dropped from his hand.
"And so you expect . . . ," he began.
"I'm convinced," interrupted Arkady, "that
your son has a great future before him, that
he will do honor to your name. I've felt sure
of that ever since I met him."
"How--how did it happen?" articulated Vassily
Ivanovich with some effort. An enthusiastic
smile parted his broad lips and would not
leave them.
"Would you like me to tell you how we met?"
"Yes . . . and all about it--"
Arkady began his story and spoke of Bazarov
with even greater warmth, even greater enthusiasm
than he had done on that evening when he danced
a mazurka with Madame Odintsov.
Vassily Ivanovich listened and listened, blew
his nose, rolled his handkerchief up into
a ball with both hands, cleared his throat,
ruffled up his hair--and at length could contain
himself no longer; he bent down to Arkady
and kissed him on the shoulder. "You have
made me perfectly happy," he said, without
ceasing to smile. "I ought to tell you, I
. . . idolize my son; I won't even speak of
my old wife--naturally, a mother--but I dare
not show my feelings in front of him, because
he disapproves of that. He is opposed to every
demonstration of emotion; many people even
find fault with him for such strength of character,
and take it for a sign of pride or lack of
feeling; but people like him ought not to
be judged by any ordinary standards, ought
they? Look at this, for example; others in
his place would have been a constant drag
on their parents; but he--would you believe
it?--from the day he was born he has never
taken a farthing more than he could help,
that's God's truth."
"He is a disinterested, honest man," remarked
Arkady.
"Exactly so, disinterested. And I not only
idolize him, Arkady Nikolaich, I am proud
of him, and the height of my only ambition
is that some day there will be the following
words in his biography: 'The son of an ordinary
army doctor, who was able, however, to recognize
his talent early and spared no pains for his
education . . .'" The old man's voice broke.
Arkady pressed his hand.
"What do you think?" inquired Vassily Ivanovich
after a short silence, "surely he will not
attain in the sphere of medicine the celebrity
which you prophesy for him?"
"Of course, not in medicine, though even there
he will be one of the leading scientific men."
"In what then, Arkady Nikolaich?"
"It would be hard to say now, but he will
be famous."
"He will be famous," repeated the old man,
and he relapsed into thought.
"Arina Vlasyevna sent me to call you in to
tea," announced Anfisushka, passing by with
a huge dish of ripe raspberries.
Vassily Ivanovich started. "And will the cream
be cooled for the raspberries?"
"Yes."
"Be sure it is cold! Don't stand on ceremony.
Arkady Nikolaich--take some more. How is it
Evgeny doesn't come back?"
"I'm here," called Bazarov's voice from inside
Arkady's room.
Vassily Ivanovich turned round quickly.
"Aha, you wanted to pay a visit to your friend;
but you were too late, amice, and we have
already had a long conversation. Now we must
go in to tea; mother has sent for us. By the
way, I want to have a talk with you."
"What about?"
"There's a peasant here; he's suffering from
icterus . . ."
"You mean jaundice?"
"Yes, a chronic and very obstinate case of
icterus. I have prescribed him centaury and
St. John's wort, told him to eat carrots,
given him soda; but all those are palliative
measures; we need some more radical treatment.
Although you laugh at medicine, I'm sure you
can give me some practical advice. But we
will talk about that later. Now let us go
and drink tea."
Vassily Ivanovich jumped up briskly from the
garden seat and hummed the air from Robert
le Diable.
"The law, the law we set ourselves,
To live, to live, for pleasure."
"Astonishing vitality," observed Bazarov,
moving away from the window.
Midday arrived. The sun was burning from under
a thin veil of unbroken whitish clouds. All
was still; only the cocks in the village broke
the silence by their vigorous crowing, which
produced in everyone who heard it a strange
sense of drowsiness and tedium; and from somewhere
high up in a treetop sounded the plaintive
and persistent chirp of a young hawk. Arkady
and Bazarov lay in the shade of a small haystack,
and put under themselves two armfuls of rustling
dry but still green and fragrant grass.
"That poplar tree," began Bazarov, "reminds
me of my childhood; it grows on the edge of
the pit where the brick shed used to be, and
in those days I firmly believed that the poplar
and the pit possessed the peculiar power of
a talisman; I never felt dull when I was near
them. I did not understand then that I was
not dull just because I was a child. Well,
now I'm grown up, the talisman no longer works."
"How long did you live here altogether?" asked
Arkady.
"Two years on end; after that we traveled
about. We led a roving life, chiefly wandering
from town to town."
"And has this house been standing long?"
"Yes. My grandfather built it, my mother's
father."
"Who was he, your grandfather?"
"The devil knows--some kind of second-major.
He served under Suvorov and always told stories
about marching across the Alps--inventions
probably."
"You have a portrait of Suvorov hanging in
the drawing room. I like such little houses
as yours, old-fashioned and warm; and they
always have a special kind of scent about
them."
"A smell of lamp oil and clover," remarked
Bazarov, yawning. "And the flies in these
dear little houses . . . fugh!"
"Tell me," began Arkady after a short pause,
"were they strict with you as a child?"
"You see what my parents are like. They're
not a severe sort."
"Are you fond of them, Evgeny?"
"I am, Arkady."
"How they adore you!"
Bazarov was silent for a while. "Do you know
what I'm thinking about?" he said at last,
clasping his hands behind his head.
"No. What is it?"
"I'm thinking how happy life is for my parents!
My father at the age of sixty can fuss around,
chat about 'palliative measures,' heal people;
he plays the magnanimous master with the peasants--has
a gay time in fact; and my mother is happy
too; her day is so crammed with all sorts
of jobs, with sighs and groans, that she hasn't
a moment to think about herself; while I...
."
"While you?"
"While I think; here I lie under a haystack
. . . The tiny narrow space I occupy is so
minutely small in comparison with the rest
of space where I am not and which has nothing
to do with me; and the portion of time in
which it is my lot to live is so insignificant
beside the eternity where I have not been
and will not be . . . And in this atom, in
this mathematical point, the blood circulates,
the brain works and wants something . . . how
disgusting! how petty!"
"Allow me to point out that what you say applies
generally to everyone."
"You're right," interrupted Bazarov. "I wanted
to say that they, my parents I mean, are occupied
and don't worry about their own nothingness;
it doesn't sicken them . . . while I . . . I
feel nothing but boredom and anger."
"Anger? Why anger?"
"Why? How can you ask why? Have you forgotten?"
"I remember everything, but still I can't
agree that you have any right to be angry.
You're unhappy, I realize, but . . ."
"Ugh! I can see, Arkady Nikolaich, that you
regard love like all modern young men; cluck,
cluck, cluck, you call to the hen, and the
moment the hen comes near, off you run! I'm
not like that. But enough of it all. It's
a shame to talk about what can't be helped."
He turned over on his side. "Ah, there goes
a brave ant dragging along a half-dead fly.
Take her away, brother, take her! Don't pay
any attention to her resistance; take full
advantage of your animal privilege to be without
pity--not like us self-destructive creatures!"
"What are you talking about, Evgeny? When
did you destroy yourself?"
Bazarov raised his head.
"That's the only thing I'm proud of. I have
not crushed myself, so a little woman can't
crush me. Amen! It's all over. You won't hear
another word from me about it."
Both friends lay for a time in silence.
"Yes," began Bazarov, "man is a strange animal.
When one gets a side view from a distance
of the dumb life our 'fathers' lead here,
one thinks: what could be better? You eat
and drink and know you are acting in the most
righteous and sensible way. If not, you're
devoured by the tedium of it. One wants to
have dealings with people even if it's only
to abuse them."
"One ought to arrange one's life so that every
moment of it becomes significant," remarked
Arkady thoughtfully.
"I dare say. The significant may be deceptive
but sweet, though it's even quite possible
to put up with the insignificant . . . But
petty squabbles, petty squabbles . . . that's
a misery."
"Petty squabbles don't exist for the man who
refuses to recognize them as such."
"Hm . . . what you have said is a commonplace
turned upside-down."
"What? What do you mean by that phrase?"
"I'll explain; to say for instance that education
is beneficial, that's a commonplace, but to
say that education is harmful is a commonplace
turned upside-down. It sounds more stylish,
but fundamentally it's one and the same thing!"
"But where is the truth--on which side?"
"Where? I answer you like an echo; where?"
"You're in a melancholy mood today, Evgeny."
"Really? The sun must have melted my brain
and I ought not to have eaten so many raspberries
either."
"In that case it wouldn't be a bad plan to
doze a bit," remarked Arkady.
"Certainly. Only don't look at me; everyone
has a stupid face when he's asleep."
"But isn't it all the same to you what people
think of you?"
"I don't quite know how to answer you. A real
man ought not to worry about such things;
a real man is not meant to be thought about,
but is someone who must be either obeyed or
hated."
"It's odd! I don't hate anyone," observed
Arkady after a pause.
"And I hate so many. You're a tenderhearted
listless creature; how could you hate anyone
. . . ? You're timid, you haven't much self-reliance."
"And you," interrupted Arkady, "do you rely
on yourself? Have you a high opinion of yourself?"
Bazarov paused. "When I meet a man who can
hold his own beside me," he said with slow
deliberation, "then I'll change my opinion
of myself. Hatred! You said, for instance,
today as we passed the cottage of our bailiff
Philip--the one that's so neat and clean--well,
you said, Russia will achieve perfection when
the poorest peasant has a house like that,
and every one of us ought to help to bring
it about . . . And I felt such a hatred for
this poorest peasant, this Philip or Sidor,
for whom I have to be ready to sacrifice my
skin and who won't even thank me for it--and
why should he thank me? Well, suppose he lives
in a clean house, while weeds grow out of
me--so, what next?"
"That's enough, Evgeny . . . listening to
you today one would be driven to agree with
those who reproach us for absence of principles."
"You talk like your uncle. Principles don't
exist in general--you haven't yet managed
to understand even that much!--but there are
sensations. Everything depends on them."
"How is that?"
"Well, take me for instance; I adopt a negative
attitude by virtue of my sensations; I like
to deny, my brain is made like that--and there's
nothing more to it. Why does chemistry appeal
to me? Why do you like apples?--also by virtue
of our sensations. It's all the same thing.
People will never penetrate deeper than that.
Not everyone would tell you so, and another
time I shouldn't tell you so myself."
"What, and is honesty also--a sensation?"
"I should think so."
"Evgeny . . . !" began Arkady in a dejected
tone.
"Well? What? That's not to your taste?" broke
in Bazarov. "No, brother. If you've made up
your mind to mow down everything--don't spare
your own legs . . . ! But we've philosophized
enough. 'Nature heaps up the silence of sleep,'
said Pushkin."
"He never said anything of the kind," retorted
Arkady.
"Well, if he didn't, he might have and ought
to have said it as a poet. By the way, he
must have served in the army."
"Pushkin was never in the army!"
"Why, on every page of his one reads, to arms!
to arms! for Russia's honor!"
"What legends you invent! Really, it's positive
slander."
"Slander? There's a weighty matter. He's found
a solemn word to frighten me with. Whatever
slander you may utter against a man, you may
be sure he deserves twenty times worse than
that in reality."
"We had better go to sleep," said Arkady with
vexation.
"With the greatest of pleasure," answered
Bazarov.
But neither of them slept. Some kind of almost
hostile feeling had taken hold of both young
men. Five minutes later, they opened their
eyes and glanced at each other in silence.
"Look," said Arkady suddenly, "a dry maple
leaf has broken off and is falling to the
ground; its movements are exactly like a butterfly's
flight. Isn't it strange? Such a gloomy dead
thing so like the most care-free and lively
one."
"Oh, my friend Arkady Nikolaich," exclaimed
Bazarov, "one thing I implore of you; no beautiful
talk."
"I talk as I best know how to . . . yes, really
this is sheer despotism. A thought came into
my head; why shouldn't I express it?"
"All right, and why shouldn't I express my
thoughts? I think that sort of beautiful talk
is positively indecent."
"And what is decent? Abuse?"
"Ah, so I see clearly you intend to follow
in your uncle's footsteps. How pleased that
idiot would be if he could hear you now!"
"What did you call Pavel Petrovich?"
"I called him, as he deserves to be called,
an idiot."
"Really, this is unbearable," cried Arkady.
"Aha! family feeling spoke out," remarked
Bazarov coolly. "I've noticed how obstinately
it clings to people. A man is ready to give
up everything and break with every prejudice;
but to admit, for instance, that his brother
who steals other people's handkerchiefs is
a thief--that's beyond his power. And as a
matter of fact--to think--my brother, mine--and
no genius--that's more than one can swallow!"
"A simple sense of justice spoke in me and
no family feeling at all," retorted Arkady
vehemently. "But since you don't understand
such a feeling, as it's not among your sensations,
you're in no position to judge it!"
"In other words, Arkady Kirsanov is too exalted
for my understanding. I bow down to him and
say no more."
"That's enough, Evgeny; we shall end by quarreling."
"Ah, Arkady, do me a favor, let's quarrel
properly for once, to the bitter end, to the
point of destruction."
"But then perhaps we should end by . . ."
"By fighting?" broke in Bazarov. "Well? Here
in the hay, in such idyllic surroundings,
far from the world and from human eyes, it
wouldn't matter. But you'd be no match for
me. I'd have you by the throat at once . . ."
Barazov stretched out his long tough fingers.
Arkady turned round and prepared, as if joking,
to resist . . . But his friend's face struck
him as so sinister--he saw such a grim threat
in the crooked smile which twisted his lips,
in his glaring eyes, that he felt instinctively
taken aback . . .
"So that is where you have got to," said the
voice of Vassily Ivanovich at this moment,
and the old army doctor appeared before the
young men dressed in a homemade linen jacket,
with a straw hat, also homemade, on his head.
"I've been looking for you everywhere . . . But
you've picked out a splendid place and you're
perfectly employed. Lying on the earth and
gazing up to heaven--do you know there's a
special significance in that?"
"I gaze up to heaven only when I want to sneeze,"
growled Bazarov, and turning to Arkady, he
added in an undertone: "A pity he interrupted
us."
"Well, that's enough," whispered Arkady, and
secretly squeezed his friend's hand. But no
friendship can withstand such shocks for long.
"I look at you, my youthful friends," said
Vassily Ivanovich meanwhile, shaking his head
and leaning his folded arms on a skillfully
bent stick which he himself had carved with
a Turk's figure for a knob. "I look, and I
can't refrain from admiration. You have so
much strength, such youthful bloom, abilities
and talents! Truly . . . A Castor and Pollux."
"Get along with you--shooting off into mythology!"
said Bazarov. "You can see he was a Latin
scholar in his day. Why, I seem to remember,
you won the silver medal for Latin composition,
didn't you?"
"The Dioscuri, the Dioscuri!"; repeated Vassily
Ivanovich.
"Come, stop that, father; don't go sentimental."
"Just once in an age, surely it's permissible,"
murmured the old man. "Anyhow, I have not
been searching for you, gentlemen, in order
to pay you compliments, but in order to tell
you, in the first place, that we shall soon
be dining; and secondly, I wanted to warn
you, Evgeny . . . you are a sensible man,
you know the world and you know what women
are, and therefore you will excuse . . . your
mother wanted a service held for you in thanksgiving,
for your arrival. Don't imagine that I'm asking
you to attend that service--it's already over;
but Father Alexei . . ."
"The parson?"
"Well, yes, the priest; he is--to dine with
us . . . I did not expect this and was not
even in favor of it--but somehow it turned
out like that--he misunderstood me--and, well,
Arina Vlasyevna--besides, he's a worthy and
reasonable man."
"I suppose he won't eat my share at dinner?"
inquired Bazarov.
Vassily Ivanovich laughed. "The things you
say!"
"Well, I ask nothing more. I'm ready to sit
down at table with anyone."
Vassily Ivanovich set his hat straight.
"I was sure in advance," he said, "that you
were above all such prejudices. Here am I,
an old man of sixty-two, and even I have none."
(Vassily Ivanovich dared not confess that
he had himself wanted the thanksgiving service--he
was no less devout than his wife.) "And Father
Alexei very much wanted to make your acquaintance.
You will like him, you'll see. He doesn't
mind playing cards even, and he sometimes--but
this is between ourselves--goes so far as
to smoke a pipe."
"Fancy that. We'll have a round of whist after
dinner and I'll beat him."
"Ha! ha! ha! we shall see; that's an open
question."
"Well, won't it remind you of old times?"
said Bazarov with a peculiar emphasis.
Vassily Ivanovich's bronzed cheeks blushed
with confusion. "For shame, Evgeny, . . . Let
bygones be bygones. Well, I'm ready to confess
before this gentleman, I had that very passion
in my youth--and how I paid for it too . . . ! But
how hot it is. May I sit down with you? I
hope I shan't be in your way."
"Not in the least," answered Arkady.
Vassily Ivanovich lowered himself, sighing,
into the hay. "Your present quarters, my dear
sirs," he began, "remind me of my military
bivouacking existence, the halts of the field
hospital somewhere like this under a haystack--and
even for that we thanked God." He sighed.
"What a lot I've experienced in my time. For
instance, if you allow me, I will tell you
a curious episode about the plague in Bessarabia."
"For which you won the Vladimir cross?" interposed
Bazarov. "We know--we know . . . By the way,
why aren't you wearing it?"
"Why, I told you that I have no prejudices,"
muttered Vassily Ivanovich (only the evening
before he had had the red ribbon unpicked
from his coat) and he started to tell his
story about the plague. "Why, he has fallen
asleep," he whispered suddenly to Arkady,
pointing to Evgeny, and winked good-naturedly.
"Evgeny, get up!" he added loudly. "Let's
go in to dinner."
Father Alexei, a handsome stout man with thick,
carefully combed hair, with an embroidered
belt round his mauve silk cassock, appeared
to be a very skillful and adaptable person.
He made haste to be the first to offer his
hand to Arkady and Bazarov, as though realizing
in advance that they did not want his blessing,
and in general he behaved without constraint.
He neither betrayed his own opinions nor provoked
the other members of the company; he made
an appropriate joke about seminary Latin and
stood up in defense of his bishop; he drank
two glasses of wine and refused a third; he
accepted a cigar from Arkady, but did not
smoke it on the spot, saying he would take
it home with him. Only he had a somewhat unpleasant
habit of raising his hand from time to time,
slowly and carefully, to catch the flies on
his face, and sometimes managing to squash
them. He took his seat at the green card table
with a measured expression of satisfaction,
and ended by winning from Bazarov two and
a half rubles in notes (they had no idea of
how to reckon in silver in Arina Vlasyevna's
house). She sat, as before, close to her son--she
did not play cards--and as before she leaned
her cheek on her little clenched hand; she
got up only to order some fresh sweetmeat
to be served. She was afraid to caress Bazarov,
and he gave her no encouragement, for he did
nothing to invite her caresses; and besides,
Vassily Ivanovich had advised her not to "disturb"
him too much. "Young men are not fond of that
sort of thing," he explained to her. (There
is no need to say what dinner was like that
day; Timofeich in person had galloped off
at dawn to procure some special Circassian
beef; the bailiff had gone off in another
direction for turbot, perch and crayfish;
for mushrooms alone the peasant woman had
been paid forty-two kopeks in copper); but
Arina Vlasyevna's eyes, looking steadfastly
at Bazarov, expressed not devotion and tenderness
alone, for sorrow was visible in them also,
mingled with curiosity and fear, and with
a trace of humble reproachfulness.
Bazarov, however, was in no state of mind
to analyze the exact expression of his mother's
eyes; he seldom turned to her and then only
with some short question. Once he asked her
for her hand "for luck"; she quietly placed
her soft little hand on his rough broad palm.
"Well," she asked after waiting for a time,
"did it help?"
"Worse luck than before," he answered with
a careless smile. "He plays too rashly," pronounced
Father Alexei, as it were compassionately,
and stroked his handsome beard.
"That was Napoleon's principle, good Father,
Napoleon's," interposed Vassily Ivanovich,
leading with an ace.
"But it brought him to the isle of St. Helena,"
observed Father Alexei, and trumped his ace.
"Wouldn't you like some black-currant tea,
Enyushka?" asked Arina Vlasyevna.
Bazarov merely shrugged his shoulders.
"No!" he said to Arkady the following day,
"I go away from here tomorrow. I'm bored;
I want to work but I can't here. I will come
again to your place; I left all my apparatus
there. In your house at least one can shut
oneself up, but here my father keeps on repeating
to me, 'My study is at your disposal--nobody
shall interfere with you,' and all the time
he himself is hardly two steps away. And I'm
ashamed somehow to shut myself away from him.
It's the same thing with my mother. I hear
how she sighs on the other side of the wall,
and then if one goes in to see her--one has
nothing to say."
"She will be most upset," said Arkady, "and
so will he."
"I shall come back to them."
"When?"
"Well, when I'm on my way to Petersburg."
"I feel particularly sorry for your mother."
"How's that? Has she won your heart with her
raspberries?"
Arkady lowered his eyes.
"You don't understand your mother, Evgeny.
She's not only a very good woman, she's really
very wise. This morning she talked to me for
half an hour, and so interestingly, so much
to the point."
"I suppose she was expatiating about me the
whole time."
"We didn't talk about you only."
"Maybe as an outsider you see more. If a woman
can keep up a conversation for half an hour,
it's already a good sign. But I'm going away,
all the same."
"It won't be easy for you to break the news
to them. They are making plans for us a fortnight
ahead."
"No; it won't be easy. Some devil drove me
to tease my father today; he had one of his
rent-paying peasants flogged the other day
and quite rightly too--yes, yes, don't look
at me in such horror--he did right because
that peasant is a frightful thief and drunkard;
only my father had no idea that I, as they
say, became aware of the facts. He was very
much embarrassed, and now I shall have to
upset him as well . . . Never mind! He'll
get over it."
Bazarov said, "Never mind," but the whole
day passed before he could bring himself to
tell Vassily Ivanovich about his decision.
At last when he was just saying good night
to him in the study, he remarked with a strained
yawn: "Oh yes . . . I almost forgot to tell
you--will you send to Fedot's for our horses
tomorrow?"
Vassily Ivanovich was dumbfounded.
"Is Mr. Kirsanov leaving us then?"
"Yes, and I'm going with him."
Vassily Ivanovich almost reeled over. "You
are going away?"
"Yes . . . I must. Make the arrangements about
the horses, please."
"Very good . . . to the posting station . . . very
good--only--only--why is it?"
"I must go to stay with him for a short time.
Afterwards I will come back here again."
"Ah! for a short time . . . very good."
Vassily Ivanovich took out his handkerchief
and as he blew his nose bent himself almost
double to the ground. "All right, it will--all
be done. I had thought you were going to stay
with us . . . a little longer. Three days
. . . after three years. . . that's rather
little, rather little, Evgeny."
"But I tell you I'm coming back soon. I have
to go."
"You have to . . . Well! Duty comes before
everything else . . . So you want the horses
sent? All right. Of course Anna and I never
expected this. She has just managed to get
some flowers from a neighbor; she wanted to
decorate your room." (Vassily Ivanovich did
not even mention that every morning the moment
it was light he consulted with Timofeich,
and standing with his bare feet in slippers,
pulling out with trembling fingers one crumpled
ruble note after another, entrusted him with
various purchases, particularly of good things
to eat, and of red wine, which, as far as
he could observe, the young men liked extremely.)
"Liberty--is the main thing--that is my principle
. . . one has no right to interfere. . . no
. . ."
He suddenly fell silent and made for the door.
"We shall soon see each other again, father,
really."
But Vassily Ivanovich did not turn round,
he only waved his hand and went out. When
he got back to the bedroom, he found his wife
in bed and began to say his prayers in a whisper
in order not to wake her up. She woke, however.
"Is that you, Vassily Ivanovich?" she asked.
"Yes, little mother."
"Have you come from Enyusha? Do you know,
I'm afraid he may not be comfortable on that
sofa. I told Anfisushka to put out for him
your traveling mattress and the new pillows;
I should have given him our feather bed, but
I seem to remember he doesn't like sleeping
soft."
"Never mind, little mother, don't you worry.
He's all right. Lord have mercy on us sinners,"
he continued his prayer in a low voice. Vassily
Ivanovich felt sorry for his old wife; he
did not wish to tell her overnight what sorrow
there was in store for her.
Bazarov and Arkady left on the following day.
From early morning the house was filled with
gloom; Anfisushka let the dishes slip out
of her hand; even Fedka became bewildered
and at length took off his boots. Vassily
Ivanovich fussed more than ever; obviously
he was trying to make the best of it, talked
loudly and stamped his feet, but his face
looked haggard and he continually avoided
looking his son in the eyes. Arina Vlasyevna
wept quietly; she would have broken down and
lost all control of herself if her husband
had not spent twc whole hours exhorting her
early that morning. When Bazarov, after repeated
promises to come back within a month at the
latest, tore himself at last from the embraces
detaining him, and took his seat in the tarantass,
when the horses started, the bell rang and
the wheels were moving--and when it was no
longer any use gazing after them, when the
dust had settled down, and Timofeich, all
bent and tottering as he walked, had crept
back to his little room; when the old people
were left alone in the house, which also seemed
to have suddenly shrunk and grown decrepit--Vassily
Ivanovich, who a few moments before had been
heartily waving his handkerchief on the steps,
sank into a chair and his head fell on his
breast.
"He has abandoned us, cast us off!" he muttered.
"Abandoned us, he only feels bored with us
now. Alone, all alone, like a solitary finger,"
he repeated several times, stretching out
his hand with the forefinger standing out
from the others.
Then Arina Vlasyevna came up to him and leaning
her grey head against his grey head, she said:
"What can we do, Vasya? A son is a piece broken
off. He's like a falcon that flies home and
flies away again when it wants; but you and
I are like mushrooms growing in the hollow
of a tree, we sit side by side without moving
from the same place. Only I will never change
for you, and you will always be the same for
me."
Vassily Ivanovich took his hands from his
face and embraced his wife, his friend, more
warmly than he had ever embraced her in his
youth; she comforted him in his sorrow.
Chapter 22
IN SILENCE, ONLY RARELY EXCHANGING A FEW WORDS,
OUR friends traveled as far as Fedot's.
Bazarov was not altogether pleased with himself,
and Arkady was displeased with him. He also
felt gripped by that melancholy without a
cause, which only very young people experience.
The coachman changed the horses and getting
up on to the box, inquired: "To the right
or to the left?"
Arkady shuddered. The road to the right led
to the town, and from there home; the road
to the left led to Madame Odintsov's place.
He looked at Bazarov. "Evgeny," he asked,
"to the left?"
Bazarov turned away.
"What folly is this?" he muttered.
"I know it is folly," answered Arkady. "But
what harm does it do? It's not for the first
time."
Bazarov pulled his cap down over his forehead.
"As you like," he said at last.
"Turn to the left," shouted Arkady.
The tarantass rolled off in the direction
of Nikolskoe. But having decided on committing
the folly, the friends maintained an even
more obstinate silence than before, and seemed
positively bad tempered.
Already, by the manner in which the butler
met them in the porch of Madame Odintsov's
house, the friends could guess that they had
acted injudiciously in giving way so suddenly
to a passing caprice. They were obviously
not expected. They sat for quite a long time
in the drawing room with rather stupid faces.
At length Madame Odintsov came in to them.
She greeted them with her usual politeness,
but showed surprise at their rapid return,
and judging by the, deliberation of her gestures
and words, she was not over pleased about
it. They hastened to explain that they had
only called there on their way, and within
four hours must continue their journey to
the town. She confined herself to a mild exclamation,
asked Arkady to convey her greetings to his
father, and sent for her aunt. The princess
appeared, looking half asleep, which gave
her wrinkled old face an even more hostile
expression. Katya was unwell and did not leave
her room. Arkady suddenly realized that he
was at least as anxious to see Katya as to
see Anna Sergeyevna herself. The four hours
passed in small talk about one thing or another;
Anna Sergeyevna both listened and talked without
smiling. It was only when they were already
saying good-by that her former friendliness
seemed somehow to light up again in her.
"I have an attack of spleen just now," she
said, "but don't pay any attention to that,
and come here again--I say that to both of
you--before long."
Both Bazarov and Arkady responded with a silent
bow, took their seats in the carriage, and
without stopping again anywhere, drove straight
home to Maryino, where they arrived safely
on the evening of the following day. During
the whole journey neither of them so much
as mentioned the name of Madame Odintsov;
Bazarov, in particular, hardly opened his
mouth, and kept staring sideways at the road
with a kind of embittered concentration.
At Maryino everyone was overjoyed to see them.
The prolonged absence of his son had begun
to make Nikolai Petrovich uneasy; he uttered
a joyful exclamation and bounced up and down
on the sofa, dangling his legs, when Fenichka
ran in to him with sparkling eyes and announced
the arrival of the "young gentlemen"; even
Pavel Petrovich felt to some degree pleasantly
excited, and smiled indulgently as he shook
hands with the returned wanderers. Talk and
questions followed quickly; Arkady talked
most, especially at supper, which lasted till
long after midnight. Nikolai Petrovich ordered
up some bottles of porter which had just been
brought from Moscow, and he himself made merry
till his cheeks turned purple, laughing repeatedly
with a rather childlike but nervous laughter.
Even the servants were affected by the general
gaiety. Dunyasha ran up and down like one
possessed, slamming doors from time to time;
while Pyotr at three o'clock in the morning
was still trying to play a Cossack waltz on
the guitar. The strings emitted their sweet
and plaintive sounds in the motionless air,
but except for some short preliminary flourishes
the cultured valet's efforts failed to produce
any tune; nature had granted him no more talent
for music than it had for anything else.
But meanwhile things had not been going too
well at Maryino, and poor Nikolai Petrovich
was having a hard time. Every day difficulties
arose on the farm--senseless, distressing
difficulties. The troubles with the hired
laborers had become intolerable. Some gave
notice or asked for higher wages, while others
walked off with wages they had received in
advance; the horses fell sick; the harness
was damaged as though it had been burnt; the
work was carelessly done; a threshing machine
ordered from Moscow turned out to be unusable
because it was too heavy; another winnowing
machine was ruined the very first time it
was used; half the cattle sheds were burned
down because a blind old woman on the farm
went with a blazing firebrand in windy weather
to fumigate her cow . . . of course, the old
woman maintained that the whole mishap was
due to the master's plan of introducing new-fangled
cheeses and dairy products. The bailiff suddenly
turned lazy and began to grow fat as every
Russian grows fat when he gets an easy living.
When he caught sight of Nikolai Petrovich
in the distance, he would try to demonstrate
his zeal by throwing a stick at a passing
pig, or by threatening some half-naked ragamuffin,
but for the rest of the time he was generally
asleep. The peasants who had been put on the
rent system did not pay in time and stole
wood from the forest; almost every night the
watchmen caught peasants' horses in the farm
meadows and sometimes removed them after a
scrimmage. Nikolai Petrovich would fix a money
fine for damages, but the matter usually ended
by the horses being returned to their owners
after they had been kept for a day or two
on the master's forage. On top of all this
the peasants began to quarrel among themselves;
brothers asked for their property to be divided,
their wives could not get on together in one
house; suddenly a quarrel would flare up,
they would all rise to their feet, as though
at a given signal, would run to the porch
of the estate office, and crawl in front of
the master, often in a drunken state with
battered faces, demanding justice and retribution;
an uproar and clamor would ensue, the shrill
screams of the women mingling with the curses
of the men. The contending parties had to
be examined, and one had to shout oneself
hoarse, knowing in advance that it was in
any case quite impossible to reach a just
settlement. There were not enough hands for
the harvest; a neighboring yeoman, in the
most benevolent manner, contracted to supply
him with reapers for a commission of two rubles
per acre--and cheated him in the most shameless
way; his peasant women demanded exorbitant
prices, and meanwhile the corn got spoiled;
the harvest was not in the common ownership,
but at the same time the Council of Guardians
issued threats and demanded immediate and
full payment of interest due . . .
"It's beyond my power!" exclaimed Nikolai
Petrovich several times in despair. "I can't
flog them myself; to send for the police--is
against my principles, but without the fear
of punishment you can do absolutely nothing
with them!"
"Du calme, du calme," Pavel Petrovich would
remark on these occasions, but he hummed to
himself, frowned and twisted his mustache.
Bazarov held himself aloof from all the "squabbles,"
and indeed as a guest it was not incumbent
on him to meddle in other people's affairs.
On the day after his arrival in Maryino he
set to work on his frogs, his infusoria, and
his chemical experiments, and spent all his
time over them. Arkady, on the contrary, considered
it his duty, if not to help his father, at
least to create an impression of being ready
to help him. He listened to him patiently
and sometimes gave his advice, not that he
expected it to be acted upon, but in order
to show his concern. The details of agricultural
management were not repugnant to him; he even
indulged in pleasant dreams about agricultural
work, but at this time his mind was preoccupied
with other ideas. To his own surprise Arkady
found he was thinking incessantly of Nikolskoe;
formerly he would have just shrugged his shoulders
if anyone had told him he could feel bored
under the same roof as Bazarov--particularly
in his own home--but now he was bored and
longed to get away. He tried walking till
he was tired out, but that did not help either.
One day when talking to his father, he found
out that Nikolai Petrovich possessed a number
of quite interesting letters, written to his
wife by Madame Odintsov's mother, and Arkady
gave him no peace until he had taken out the
letters, for which Nikolai Petrovich was obliged
to rummage in twenty different drawers and
boxes. Having gained possession of these crumbling
papers, Arkady somehow calmed down as if he
had secured a clearer vision of the goal towards
which he ought now to move. "'I say that to
both of you,'" he kept on repeating to himself,
"those were the words she added. I shall go
there, I shall go, hang it all!" Then he recalled
his last visit, the cold reception and his
previous embarrassment, and shyness overwhelmed
him. But the adventurous daring of youth,
the secret desire to try his luck, to test
his powers independently without anyone else's
protection--prevailed at last. Before ten
days had passed after his return to Maryino,
on the pretext of going to study the organization
of Sunday schools, he galloped off again to
the town, and from there on to Nikolskoe.
Uninterruptedly urging the driver forward,
he dashed on like a young officer riding into
battle; he felt at once frightened and lighthearted
and breathless with impatience. "The main
thing is--I mustn't think," he kept on saying
to himself. His driver happened to be a high-spirited
fellow, who stopped in front of every inn
and exclaimed, "A drink?" or "What about a
drink?" but, to make up for that, after the
drink he did not spare his horses. At length
there came into sight the high roof of the
familiar house . . . "What shall I do?" suddenly
flashed through Arkady's mind. "Anyhow, I
can't turn back now!" The three horses sped
gaily on; the driver yelled and whistled at
them. Already the little bridge was echoing
under the wheels and the horses' hoofs, and
the avenue of lopped pines was drawing nearer
. . . he caught a glimpse of a woman's pink
dress moving among the dark green trees, and
a young face peeped out from under the light
fringe of a parasol . . . he recognized Katya,
and she recognized him. Arkady ordered the
driver to stop the galloping horses, jumped
out of the carriage and went up to her.
"It's you!" she murmured and slowly blushed
all over; "let us go to my sister, she's here
in the garden; she will be pleased to see
you."
Katya led Arkady into the garden. His meeting
with her struck him as a particularly happy
omen; he was delighted to see her, as though
she were someone close to his heart. Everything
had happened so agreeably; no butler, no formal
announcement. At a turn in the path he caught
sight of Anna Sergeyevna. She was standing
with her back to him; hearing his footsteps,
she gently turned round.
Arkady would have felt embarrassed again,
but the first words which she uttered immediately
set him at ease. "Welcome, you runaway!" she
said in her smooth caressing voice, and came
forward to meet him, smiling and screwing
up her eyes from the sun and breeze. "Where
did you find him, Katya?"
"I have brought you something, Anna Sergeyevna,"
he began, "which you certainly don't expect
. . ."
"You have brought yourself; that's better
than anything else."
Chapter 23
HAVING SEEN ARKADY OFF WITH IRONICAL SYMPATHY,
AND GIVEN him to understand that he was not
in the least deceived about the real object
of his journey, Bazarov shut himself up in
solitude, and set to work with feverish intensity.
He no longer argued with Pavel Petrovich,
particularly since the latter assumed in his
presence an oppressively aristocratic manner
and expressed his opinions more by inarticulate
sounds than by words. Only on one occasion
Pavel Petrovich fell into a controversy with
the nihilist over the then much discussed
question about the rights of the nobles in
the Baltic provinces, but he quickly stopped
himself, remarking with a chilly politeness:
"However, we cannot understand one another;
I, at least, have not the honor of understanding
you."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Bazarov. "A
human being can understand everything--how
the ether vibrates, and what's going on in
the sun; but how another person can blow his
nose differently from him, that he's incapable
of understanding."
"What, is that a joke?" remarked Pavel Petrovich
in a questioning tone and walked away.
However, he sometimes asked permission to
be present at Bazarov's experiments and once
even placed his perfumed face, washed with
the finest soap, over the microscope, in order
to see how a transparent protozoon swallowed
a green speck and busily chewed it with two
very adroit organs which were in its throat.
Nikolai Petrovich visited Bazarov much oftener
than his brother; he would have come every
day "to learn," as he expressed it, if the
worries of his farm had not kept him too busy.
He did not interfere with the young research
worker; he used to sit down in a corner of
the room and watch attentively, occasionally
permitting himself some discreet question.
During dinner and supper he used to try to
turn the conversation to physics, geology
or chemistry, since all other subjects, even
agriculture, to say nothing of politics, might
lead, if not to collisions, at least to mutual
dissatisfaction. Nikolai Petrovich guessed
that his brother's dislike of Bazarov had
not diminished. A minor incident, among many
others, confirmed his surmise. Cholera began
to break out in some places in the neighborhood,
and even "carried off" two people from Maryino
itself. One night Pavel Petrovich had a rather
severe attack of illness. He was in pain till
the morning, but he never asked for Bazarov's
help; when he met him the next day, in reply
to his question why he had not sent for him,
he answered, still very pale, but perfectly
brushed and shaved. "Surely I remember you
said yourself you don't believe in medicine."
So the days passed. Bazarov went on working
obstinately and grimly . . . and meanwhile
there was in Nikolai Petrovich's house one
person to whom, if he did not open his heart,
he was at least glad to talk . . . that person
was Fenichka.
He used to meet her chiefly in the early morning,
in the garden or the farmyard; he never went
to see her in her room and she had only once
come to his door to inquire--should she give
Mitya his bath or not? She not only had confidence
in him and was not afraid of him, she felt
freer and more at ease with him than she did
with Nikolai Petrovich himself. It is hard
to say how this came about; perhaps because
unconsciously she felt in Bazarov the absence
of anything aristocratic, of all that superiority
which at once attracts and overawes. In her
eyes he was both an excellent doctor and a
simple man. She attended to her baby in his
presence without any embarrassment, and once
when she was suddenly overcome by giddiness
and headache she took a spoonful of medicine
from his hands. When Nikolai Petrovich was
there she kept Bazarov somehow at a distance;
she did this not out of hypocrisy but from
a definite sense of propriety. Of Pavel Petrovich
she was more afraid than ever; for some time
he had begun to watch her, and would suddenly
appear, as if he had sprung out of the earth
behind her back, in his English suit with
an impassive vigilant face and with his hands
in his pockets.
"It's like having cold water thrown over one,"
said Fenichka to Dunyasha, who sighed in response
and thought of another "heartless" man. Bazarov,
without the faintest suspicion of the fact,
had become the "cruel tyrant" of her heart.
Fenichka liked Bazarov, and he liked her also.
His face was even transformed when he talked
to her; it took on an open kindly expression,
and his habitual nonchalance was modified
by a kind of jocular attentiveness. Fenichka
was growing prettier every day. There is a
period in the life of young women when they
suddenly begin to expand and blossom like
summer roses; such a time had come for Fenichka.
Everything contributed to it, even the June
heat which was then at its height. Dressed
in a light white dress, she seemed herself
whiter and more graceful; the sun had not
tanned her skin; but the heat, from which
she could not protect herself, spread a slight
flush over her cheeks and ears and a gentle
languor through her whole body, reflected
in the dreamy expression of her charming eyes.
She was almost unable to work and kept on
sighing and complaining with a comic helplessness.
"You should go oftener to bathe," Nikolai
Petrovich told her. He had arranged a large
bathing place covered with an awning in the
only one of his ponds which had not yet completely
dried up.
"Oh, Nikolai Petrovich! But you die before
you get to the pond and on the way back you
die again. You see, there's no shade in the
garden."
"That's true, there's no shade," said Nikolai
Petrovich, wiping his forehead.
One day at seven o'clock in the morning, Bazarov
was returning from a walk and encountered
Fenichka in the lilac arbor, which had long
ceased to flower but was still thick with
green leaves. She was sitting on the bench
and had as usual thrown a white kerchief over
her head; beside her lay a whole heap of red
and white roses still wet with dew. He said
good morning to her.
"Oh, Evgeny Vassilich!" she said and lifted
the edge of her kerchief a little in order
to look at him, in doing which her arm was
bared to the elbow.
"What are you doing here?" said Bazarov, sitting
down beside her. "Are you making a bouquet?"
"Yes, for the table at lunch. Nikolai Petrovich
likes it."
"But lunch is still a long way off. What a
mass of flowers."
"I gathered them now, for it will be hot later
on and one can't go out. Even now one can
only just breathe. I feel quite weak from
the heat. I'm quite afraid I may get ill."
"What an idea! Let me feel your pulse."
Bazarov took her hand, felt for the evenly
throbbing pulse but did not even start to
count its beats.
"You'll live a hundred years," he said, dropping
her hand.
"Ah, God forbid!" she cried.
"But why? Don't you want a long life?"
"Well, but a hundred years! We had an old
woman of eighty-five near us--and what a martyr
she was! Dirty, deaf, bent, always coughing,
she was only a burden to herself. What kind
of a life is that?"
"So it's better to be young."
"Well, isn't it?"
"But why is it better? Tell me!"
"How can you ask why? Why, here am I, now
I'm young, I can do everything--come and go
and carry, and I don't need to ask anyone
for anything . . . What can be better?"
"But it's all the same to me, whether I'm
young or old."
"How do you mean--all the same? It's impossible
what you say."
"Well, judge for yourself, Fedosya Nikolayevna,
what good is my youth to me? I live alone,
a solitary man . . ."
"That always depends on you."
"It doesn't all depend on me! At least someone
ought to take pity on me."
Fenichka looked sideways at Bazarov, but said
nothing. "What's that book you have?" she
said, after a short pause.
"That? It's a scientific book, a difficult
one."
"Are you still studying? Don't you find it
dull? I should think you must know everything
already."
"Evidently not everything. You try to read
a little of it."
"But I don't understand a word of it. Is it
Russian?" asked Fenichka, taking the heavily
bound book in both hands. "How thick it is!"
"Yes, it's Russian."
"All the same I shan't understand anything."
"Well and I don't want you to understand it.
I want to look at you while you are reading.
When you read the tip of your nose moves so
nicely."
Fenichka, who had started to spell out in
a low voice an article "On Creosote" she had
chanced upon, laughed and threw down the book
. . . it slipped from the bench to the ground.
"I like it too when you laugh," remarked Bazarov.
"Oh, stop!"
"I like it when you talk. It's like a little
brook babbling."
Fenichka turned her head away.
"What a one you are!" she murmured, as she
went on sorting out the flowers. "And how
can you like listening to me? You have talked
with such clever ladies."
"Ah, Fedosya Nikolayevna! Believe me, all
the clever ladies in the world aren't worth
your little elbow."
"There now, what will you invent next!" whispered
Fenichka, clasping her hands together.
Bazarov picked up the book from the ground.
"That's a medical book. Why do you throw it
away?"
"Medical?" repeated Fenichka, and turned round
to him. "Do you know, ever since you gave
me those drops--do you remember?--Mitya has
slept so well. I really don't know how to
thank you; you are so good, really."
"But actually you have to pay doctors," said
Bazarov with a smile. "Doctors, you know yourself,
are grasping people."
Fenichka raised her eyes which seemed still
darker from the whitish reflection cast on
the upper part of her face, and looked at
Bazarov. She did not know whether he was joking
or not.
"If you want, we shall be very glad . . . I
shall have to ask Nikolai Petrovich . . ."
"You think I want money?" interrupted Bazarov.
"No, I don't want money from you."
"What then?" asked Fenichka.
"What?" repeated Bazarov. "Guess."
"As if I'm likely to guess."
"Well, I will tell you; I want--one of those
roses." Fenichka laughed again and even threw
up her hands--so amused she was by Bazarov's
request. She laughed and at the same time
she felt flattered. Bazarov was watching her
intently. "By all means," she said at length,
and bending over the bench she began to pick
out some roses. "Which will you have--a red
or a white one?"
"Red, and not too large."
She sat up again. "Here, take it," she said,
but at once drew back her outstretched hand,
and biting her lips, looked towards the entrance
of the summerhouse and then listened.
"What is it?" asked Bazarov. "Nikolai Petrovich?"
"No--he has gone to the fields . . . and I'm
not afraid of him . . . but Pavel Petrovich
. . . I fancied ." .
"What?"
"It seemed to me he was passing by. No . . . it
was no one. Take it." Fenichka gave Bazarov
the rose.
"What makes you afraid of Pavel Petrovich?"
"He always frightens me. One talks--and he
says nothing, but just looks knowing. Of course,
you don't like him either. You remember you
were always quarreling with him. I don't know
what you quarreled about, but I can see you
turning him this way and that . . ."
Fenichka showed with her hands how in her
opinion Bazarov turned Pavel Petrovich round
about.
Bazarov smiled. "And if he defeated me," he
asked, "would you stand up for me?"
"How could I stand up for you? But no, one
doesn't get the better of you."
"You think so? But I know a hand which, if
it wanted to, could knock me down with one
finger."
"What hand is that?"
"Why, don't you know really? Smell the wonderful
scent of this rose you gave me."
Fenichka stretched her little neck forward
and put her face close to the flower, . . . The
kerchief slipped from her hair on to her shoulders,
disclosing a soft mass of black shining and
slightly ruffled hair.
"Wait a moment; I want to smell it with you,"
said Bazarov; he bent down and kissed her
vigorously on her parted lips.
She shuddered, pushed him back with both her
hands on his breast, but pushed weakly, so
that he was able to renew and prolong his
kiss.
A dry cough made itself heard behind the lilac
bushes. Fenichka instantly moved away to the
other end of the bench. Pavel Petrovich showed
himself in the entrance, bowed slightly, muttered
in a tone of sorrowful anger, "You are here!"
and walked away. Fenichka at once gathered
up all her roses and went out of the summerhouse.
"That was wrong of you, Evgeny Vassilich,"
she whispered as she left; there was a tone
of sincere reproach in her whisper.
Bazarov remembered another recent scene and
he felt both ashamed and contemptuously annoyed.
But he shook his head at once, ironically
congratulated himself on his formal assumption
of the rôle of a Don Juan, and went back
to his own room.
Pavel Petrovich went out of the garden and
made his way with slow steps to the wood.
He stayed there quite a long time, and when
he returned to lunch, Nikolai Petrovich inquired
anxiously whether he felt unwell; his face
had turned so dark.
"You know I sometimes suffer from bilious
attacks," Pavel Petrovich answered calmly.
Chapter 24
TWO HOURS LATER HE KNOCKED AT BAZAROV'S DOOR.
"I must apologize for hindering you in your
scientific researches," he began, seating
himself in a chair by the window and leaning
with both hands on a handsome walking-stick
with an ivory knob (he usually walked without
a stick), "but I am obliged to ask you to
spare me five minutes of your time . . . no
more."
"All my time is at your disposal," answered
Bazarov, whose face quickly changed its expression
the moment Pavel Petrovich crossed the threshold.
"Five minutes will be enough for me. I have
come to put one question to you."
"A question? What about?"
"I will tell you if you will be good enough
to listen to me. At the beginning of your
stay in my brother's house, before I had renounced
the pleasure of conversing with you, I had
occasion to hear your opinion on many subjects;
but as far as I can remember, neither between
us, nor in my presence, was the subject of
singlecombats or dueling discussed. Allow
me to hear what are your views on that subject?"
Bazarov, who had stood up to meet Pavel Petrovich,
sat down on the edge of the table and folded
his arms.
"My view is," he said, "that from the theoretical
point of view dueling is absurd; but from
the practical point of view--well, that's
quite another matter."
"So, you mean to say, if I understand you
rightly, that whatever theoretical views you
may hold about dueling, you would in practice
not allow yourself to be insulted without
demanding satisfaction?"
"You have guessed my meaning completely."
"Very good. I am very glad to hear that from
you. Your words release me from a state of
uncertainty . . "
"Of indecision, do you mean?"
"That is all the same; I express myself in
order to be understood; I . . . am not a seminary
rat. Your words have saved me from a rather
grievous necessity. I have made up my mind
to fight you."
Bazarov opened his eyes wide.
"Me?"
"Undoubtedly you."
"And what for, may I ask?"
"I could explain the reason to you," began
Pavel Petrovich, "but I prefer to keep silent
about it. To my mind your presence here is
superfluous. I find you intolerable, I despise
you, and if that is not enough for you . . ."
Pavel Petrovich's eyes flashed . . . Bazarov's
too were glittering.
"Very good," he said. "Further explanations
are unnecessary. You've taken it into your
head to try out on me your chivalrous spirit.
I could refuse you this pleasure--but it can't
be helped!"
"I am sensible of my obligations to you,"
answered Pavel Petrovich, "and I may count
then on your accepting my challenge, without
compelling me to resort to violent measures?"
"That means, speaking without metaphor, to
that stick?" Bazarov remarked coolly. "That
is entirely correct. You have no need to insult
me; indeed it would not be quite safe . . . you
can remain a gentleman . . . I accept your
challenge also like a gentleman."
"Excellent," observed Pavel Petrovich, and
put his stick down in the corner. "We will
say a few words now about the conditions of
our duel; but I should first like to know
whether you consider it necessary to resort
to the formality of a trifling dispute which
might serve as a pretext for my challenge?"
"No, it's better without formalities."
"I also think so. I suggest it is also inappropriate
to dwell further on the real reason for our
skirmish. We cannot endure one another. What
more is necessary?"
"What more is necessary?" repeated Bazarov
ironically. "As regards the conditions of
the duel itself, since we shall have no seconds--for
where could we get them?"
"Exactly, where could we get any?"
"I therefore have the honor to put the following
proposals to you; we shall fight early tomorrow
morning, at six, let us say, behind the plantation,
with pistols, at a distance of ten paces . . ."
"At ten paces? That will do; we can still
hate each other at that distance."
"We could make it eight," remarked Pavel Petrovich.
"We could; why not?"
"We fire twice, and to be prepared for everything,
let each put a letter in his pocket, accepting
responsibility for his own end."
"I don't quite agree with that," said Bazarov.
"It smacks too much of a French novel, a bit
unreal."
"Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it
would be unpleasant to incur the suspicion
of murder?"
"I agree. But there is a means of avoiding
that painful accusation. We shall have no
seconds, but we could have a witness."
"And who, may I ask?"
"Why, Pyotr."
"Which Pyotr?"
"Your brother's valet. He's a man standing
at the height of contemporary culture, who
would play his part in such an affair with
all the necessary ; repeated Vassily comilfo."
"I think you are joking, sir."
"Not in the least. If you think over my suggestion
you will be convinced that it is full of common
sense and simplicity. Murder will out--but
I can undertake to prepare Pyotr in a suitable
manner and bring him to the field of battle."
"You persist in joking," said Pavel Petrovich,
getting up from his chair. "But after the
courteous readiness you have shown, I have
no right to claim . . . so everything is arranged
. . . by the way, I suppose you have no pistols?"
"How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovich?
I'm not an army man."
"In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest
assured that I have not shot with them for
five years."
"That's a very consoling piece of news.--"
Pavel Petrovich picked up his stick . . . "And
now, my dear sir, it only remains for me to
thank you and to leave you to your studies.
I have the honor to take leave of you."
"Until we have the pleasure of meeting again,
my dear sir," said Bazarov, conducting his
visitor to the door.
Pavel Petrovich went out; Bazarov remained
standing for a moment in front of the door,
then suddenly exclaimed, "What the devil--
How fine and how stupid! A pretty farce we've
been acting; like trained dogs dancing on
their hind legs. But it was out of the question
to refuse; I really believe he would have
struck me, and then . . ." (Bazarov turned
pale at the very thought; all his pride stood
up on end.) "I might have had to strangle
him like a kitten." He went back to his microscope,
but his heart was beating fast and the composure
so essential for accurate observation had
disappeared. "He saw us today," he thought,
"but can it be that he would do all this on
account of his brother? And how serious a
matter is it--a kiss? There must be something
else in it. Bah! Isn't he in love with her
himself? Obviously he's in love--it's as clear
as daylight. What a mess, just think . . . it's
a bad business!" he decided at last. "It's
bad from whatever angle one looks at it. In
the first place to risk a bullet through one's
brain, and then in any case to go away from
here; and what about Arkady . . . and that
good-natured creature Nikolai Petrovich? It's
a bad business."
The day passed in a peculiar calm and dullness.
Fenichka gave no sign of life at all; she
sat in her little room like a mouse in its
hole. Nikolai Petrovich had a careworn look.
He had just heard that his wheat crop on which
he had set high hopes had begun to show signs
of blight, Pavel Petrovich overwhelmed everyone,
even Prokovich, with his icy politeness. Bazarov
began a letter to his father, but tore it
up and threw it under the table. "If I die,"
he thought, "they will hear about it; but
I shan't die; no, I shall struggle along in
this world for a long time yet." He gave Pyotr
an order to come to him on important business
the next morning as soon as it was light.
Pyotr imagined that Bazarov wanted to take
him to Petersburg. Bazarov went to bed late,
and all night long he was oppressed by disordered
dreams . . . Madame Odintsov kept on appearing
in them; now she was his mother and she was
followed by a kitten with black whiskers,
and this kitten was really Fenichka; then
Pavel Petrovich took the shape of a great
forest, with which he had still to fight.
Pyotr woke him at four o'clock; he dressed
at once and went out with him.
It was a lovely fresh morning; tiny flecked
clouds stood overhead like fleecy lambs in
the clear blue sky; fine dewdrops lay on the
leaves and grass, sparkling like silver on
the spiders' webs; the damp dark earth seemed
still to preserve the rosy traces of the dawn;
the songs of larks poured down from all over
the sky. Bazarov walked as far as the plantation,
sat down in the shade at its edge and only
then disclosed to Pyotr the nature of the
service he expected from him. The cultured
valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov quieted
him down by the assurance that he would have
nothing to do except to stand at a distance
and look on, and that he would not incur any
sort of responsibility. "And besides," he
added, "only think what an important part
you have to play." Pyotr threw up his hands,
cast down his eyes, and leaned against a birch
tree, looking green with terror.
The road from Maryino skirted the plantation;
a light dust lay on it, untouched by wheel
or foot since the previous day. Bazarov found
himself staring along this road, picking and
chewing a piece of grass, and he kept on repeating
to himself: "What a piece of idiocy!" The
morning chill made him shiver twice . . . Pyotr
looked at him dismally, but Bazarov only smiled;
he was not frightened.
The tramp of horses' hoofs could be heard
coming along the road . . . A peasant came
into sight from behind the trees. He was driving
before him two horses hobbled together, and
as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather
strangely, without removing his cap, which
evidently disturbed Pyotr, as an unlucky omen.
"There's someone else up early too," thought
Bazarov, "but he at least has got up for work
while we . . ."
"It seems the gentleman is coming," whispered
Pyotr suddenly.
Bazarov raised his head and caught sight of
Pavel Petrovich. Dressed in a light checked
coat and snow-white trousers, he was walking
quickly along the road; under his arm he carried
a box wrapped in green cloth.
"Excuse me, I think I have kept you waiting,"
he said, bowing first to Bazarov and then
to Pyotr, whom he treated respectfully at
that moment as representing some kind of second.
"I did not want to wake up my man."
"It doesn't matter," said Bazarov. "We've
only just arrived ourselves."
"Ah! so much the better!" Pavel Petrovich
looked around. "There's no one in sight; no
one to interfere with us . . we can proceed?"
"Let us proceed."
"You don't demand any more explanations, I
suppose."
"No, I don't."
"Would you like to load?" inquired Pavel Petrovich,
taking the pistols out of the box.
"No; you load, and I will measure out the
paces. My legs are longer," added Bazarov
with a smile. "One, two, three . . ."
"Evgeny Vassilich," stammered Pyotr with difficulty
(he was trembling as if he had fever), "say
what you like, but I am going farther off."
"Four, five . . . all right, move away, my
good fellow; you can even stand behind a tree
and stop up your ears, only don't shut your
eyes; and if anyone falls, run and pick him
up. Six . . . seven . . . eight . . ." Bazarov
stopped. "Is that enough?" he asked, turning
to Pavel Petrovich, "or shall I add two paces
more?"
"As you like," replied the latter, pressing
the second bullet into the barrel.
"Well, we'll make two paces more," Bazarov
drew a line on the ground with the toe of
his boot. "There's the barrier. By the way,
how many paces may each of us go back from
the barrier? That's an important question
too. It was not discussed yesterday."
"I suppose, ten," replied Pavel Petrovich,
handing Bazarov both pistols. "Will you be
so good as to choose?"
"I will be so good. But you must admit, Pavel
Petrovich, that our duel is unusual to the
point of absurdity. Only look at the face
of our second."
"You are disposed to laugh at everything,"
answered Pavel Petrovich. "I don't deny the
strangeness of our duel, but I think it is
my duty to warn you that I intend to fight
seriously. A bon entendeur, salut!"
"Oh! I don't doubt that we've made up our
minds to do away with each other; but why
not laugh and unite utile dulci? So you can
talk to me in French and I'll reply in Latin."
"I intend to fight seriously," repeated Pavel
Petrovich and he walked off to his place.
Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces
from the barrier and stood still.
"Are you ready?" asked Pavel Petrovich.
"Perfectly."
"We can approach each other."
Bazarov moved slowly forward and Pavel Petrovich
walked towards him, his left hand thrust in
his pocket, gradually raising the muzzle of
his pistol . . . "He's aiming straight at
my nose," thought Bazarov, "and how carefully
he screws up his eyes, the scoundrel! Not
an agreeable sensation. I'd better look at
his watch-chain Something whizzed by sharply
close to Bazarov's ear, and a shot rang out
at that moment. "I heard it, so it must be
all right," managed to flash through Bazarov's
brain. He took one more step, and without
taking aim, pressed the trigger.
Pavel Petrovich swayed slightly and clutched
at his thigh. A thin stream of blood began
to trickle down his white trousers.
Bazarov threw his pistol aside and went up
to his antagonist. "Are you wounded?" he asked.
"You had the right to call me up to the barrier,"
said Pavel Petrovich. "This is a trifle. According
to our agreement, each of us has the right
to one more shot."
"Well, but excuse me, we'll leave that to
another time," answered Bazarov, and caught
hold of Pavel Petrovich, who was beginning
to turn pale. "Now I'm no longer a duelist
but a doctor, and first of all I must have
a look at your wound. Pyotr! Come here, Pyotr!
Where have you hidden yourself?"
"What nonsense . . . I need help from nobody,"
said Pavel Petrovich jerkily, "and--we must--again
. . ." He tried to pull at his mustache, but
his hand failed him, his eyes grew dim, and
he fainted.
"Here's a pretty pass. A fainting-fit! What
next!" Bazarov exclaimed involuntarily as
he laid Pavel Petrovich on the grass. "Let's
see what is wrong." He pulled out a handkerchief,
wiped away the blood, and began to feel around
the wound . . . "The bone's not touched,"
he muttered through his teeth, "the bullet
didn't go deep; only one muscle vastus externus
grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks.
Fainting! Oh these nervous people! Fancy,
what a delicate skin."
"Is he killed?" whispered the trembling voice
of Pyotr behind his back.
Bazarov looked round.
"Go for some water quickly, my good fellow,
and he'll outlive you and me yet."
But the perfect servant failed apparently
to understand his words and did not move from
the spot. Pavel Petrovich slowly opened his
eyes. "He's dying," murmured Pyotr and started
crossing himself. "You are right . . . what
an idiotic face!" remarked the wounded gentleman
with a forced smile.
"Go and fetch the water, damn you!" shouted
Bazarov.
"There's no need . . . it was a momentary
vertigo. Help me to sit up . . . there, that's
right . . . I only need something to bind
up this scratch, and I can reach home on foot,
or else you can send for a droshky for me.
The duel, if you agree, need not be renewed.
You have behaved honorably . . . today, today--take
note."
"There's no need to recall the past," answered
Bazarov, "and as regards the future, it's
not worth breaking your head about that either,
for I intend to move off from here immediately.
Let me bind up your leg now; your wound--is
not dangerous, but it's always better to stop
the bleeding. But first I must bring this
corpse to his senses."
Bazarov shook Pyotr by the collar and sent
him off to fetch a droshky.
"Mind you don't frighten my brother," Pavel
Petrovich said to him; "don't inform him on
any account."
Pyotr dashed off, and while he was running
for a droshky, the two antagonists sat on
the ground in silence. Pavel Petrovich tried
not to look at Bazarov; he did not want to
be reconciled to him in any case; he felt
ashamed of his own arrogance, of his failure;
he was ashamed of the whole affair he had
arranged even though he realized it could
not have ended more auspiciously. "At least
he won't go on hanging around here," he consoled
himself by thinking: "one should be thankful
even for that." The prolonged silence was
oppressive and awkward. Both of them felt
ill at ease; each was conscious that the other
understood him. For friends such a feeling
is agreeable, but for those who are not friends
it is most unpleasant, especially when it
is impossible either to come to an understanding
or to separate.
"Haven't I bound up your leg too tight?" asked
Bazarov at last.
"No, not at all, it's excellent," answered
Pavel Petrovich, and added after a pause,
"we can't deceive my brother, he will have
to be told that we quarreled about politics."
"Very good," said Bazarov. "You can say that
I cursed all Anglomaniacs."
"All right. What do you suppose that man thinks
about us now?" continued Pavel Petrovich,
pointing at the same peasant who had driven
the hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes
before the duel, and who was now going back
again along the same road and took off his
cap at the sight of the "masters."
"Who knows him!" answered Bazarov. "Most likely
of all he thinks about nothing. The Russian
peasant is that mysterious unknown person
about whom Mrs. Radcliffe used to say so much.
Who can understand him? He doesn't understand
himself."
"Ah, so that's what you think," Pavel Petrovich
began, then suddenly exclaimed, "Look what
your fool of a Pyotr has done! Here's my brother
galloping towards us."
Bazarov turned round and saw Nikolai Petrovich
sitting in a droshky, his face pale. He jumped
out before it had stopped and ran up to his
brother.
"What does this mean?" he called out in an
agitated voice. "Evgeny Vassilich, what is
this?"
"Nothing," answered Pavel Petrovich, "they
have alarmed you quite unnecessarily. We had
a little dispute, Mr. Bazarov and I--and I
have had to pay for it a little."
"But for heaven's sake, what was it all about?"
"How shall I explain? Mr. Bazarov alluded
disrespectfully to Sir Robert Peel. I hasten
to add that I am the only person to blame
in all this, and Mr. Bazarov has behaved honorably.
I challenged him."
"But you're covered with blood!"
"Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins?
But this bloodletting positively does me good.
Isn't that so, doctor? Help me to get into
the droshky and don't give way to gloomy thoughts.
I shall be quite well tomorrow. That's it;
excellent. Drive off, coachman."
Nikolai Petrovich followed the droshky on
foot. Bazarov lagged behind . . .
"I must ask you to look after my brother,"
Nikolai Petrovich said to him, "until we get
another doctor from the town."
Bazarov nodded his head without speaking.
An hour later Pavel Petrovich was already
lying in bed with a skillfully bandaged leg.
The whole house was upset; Fenichka felt ill;
Nikolai Petrovich was silently wringing his
hands, while Pavel Petrovich laughed and joked,
especially with Bazarov; he had put on a fine
cambric nightshirt, an elegant morning jacket,
and a fez; he did not allow the blinds to
be drawn down, and humorously complained about
the necessity of not being allowed to eat.
Towards night, however, he grew feverish;
his head ached. The doctor arrived from the
town. (Nikolai Petrovich would not listen
to his brother, nor did Bazarov want him to;
he sat the whole day in his room, looking
yellow and angry, and only went in to the
invalid for as brief a visit as possible;
twice he happened to meet Fenichka, but she
shrank away from him in horror.) The new doctor
advised a cooling diet; he confirmed, however,
Bazarov's assurance that there was no danger.
Nikolai Petrovich told him that his brother
had hurt himself accidentally, to which the
doctor replied "Hm!" but on having twenty-five
silver rubles slipped into his hand on the
spot, he remarked, "You don't say so! Well,
such things often happen, of course."
No one in the house went to bed or undressed.
Nikolai Petrovich from time to time went in
on tiptoe to his brother's room and tiptoed
out again; Pavel Petrovich dozed, sighed a
little, told his brother in French "Couchez-vous,"
and asked for something to drink. Nikolai
Petrovich sent Fenichka in to him once with
a glass of lemonade; Pavel Petrovich looked
at her intently and drank off the glass to
the last drop. Towards morning the fever had
increased a little; a slight delirium started.
At first Pavel Petrovich uttered incoherent
words; then suddenly he opened his eyes, and
seeing his brother beside his bed, anxiously
leaning over him, he murmured, "Don't you
think, Nikolai, Fenichka has something in
common with Nellie?"
"What Nellie, Pavel dear?"
"How can you ask that? With Princess R . Especially
in the upper part of the face. C'est de la
même famille."
Nikolai Petrovich made no answer, but inwardly
he marveled at the persistent vitality of
old passions in a man. "This is what happens
when it comes to the surface," he thought.
"Ah, how I love that empty creature!" groaned
Pavel Petrovich, mournfully clasping his hands
behind his head. "I can't bear that any insolent
upstart should dare to touch . . ." he muttered
a few minutes later.
Nikolai Petrovich only sighed; he never even
suspected to whom these words referred.
Bazarov came to see him on the following day
at eight o'clock. He had already managed to
pack and had set free all his frogs, insects
and birds.
"You have come to say good-by to me?" said
Nikolai Petrovich, getting up to meet him.
"Exactly."
"I understand and fully approve of you. My
poor brother is of course to blame; but he
has been punished for it. He told me that
he made it impossible for you to act otherwise.
I believe that you could not avoid this duel,
which . . . which to some extent is explained
by the almost constant antagonism of your
different points of view." (Nikolai Petrovich
began to get rather mixed up in his words.)
"My brother is a man of the old school, hot-tempered
and obstinate . . . thank God that it has
only ended in this way. I have taken all possible
precautions to avoid publicity."
"I'll leave you my address, in case there's
any fuss," said Bazarov casually.
"I hope there will be no fuss, Evgeny Vassilich
. . . I am very sorry that your stay in my
house should have come to . . . such an end.
It distresses me all the more on account of
Arkady's . . ."
"I expect I shall see him," replied Bazarov,
in whom every kind of "explanation" and "pronouncement"
always aroused a feeling of impatience. "In
case I don't, may I ask you to say good-by
to him for me and to accept the expression
of my regret."
"And I, too, ask . . ." began Nikolai Petrovich
with a bow. But Bazarov did not wait for him
to finish his sentence and went out of the
room.
On hearing that Bazarov was going, Pavel Petrovich
expressed a desire to see him and shook him
by the hand. But even then Bazarov remained
as cold as ice; he realized that Pavel Petrovich
wanted to display magnanimity. He found no
opportunity of saying good-by to Fenichka;
he only exchanged glances with her from the
window. Her face struck him by its sad look.
"She'll come to grief, probably," he said
to himself, "though she may pull through somehow!"
Pyotr, however, was so overcome that he wept
on his shoulder, until Bazarov cooled him
down by asking if he had a constant water
supply in his eyes; and Dunyasha felt obliged
to run away into the plantation to hide her
emotion. The originator of all this distress
climbed into a country cart, lit a cigar,
and when, three miles further on at a bend
in the road, he saw for the last time the
Kirsanovs' farmstead and its new manor house
standing together on the sky line, he merely
spat and muttering, "Damned noblemen," wrapped
himself more tightly in his cloak.
Pavel Petrovich was soon better; but he had
to lie in bed for about a week. He bore his
captivity, as he called it, fairly patiently,
though he took great trouble over his toilet
and had everything scented with eau de Cologne.
Nikolai Petrovich read papers to him; Fenichka
waited on him as before, brought him soup,
lemonade, boiled eggs and tea; but a secret
dread seized her every time she came into
his room. Pavel Petrovich's unexpected action
had alarmed everyone in the house, and her
most of all; Prokovich was the only person
not troubled by it, and he discoursed on how
gentlemen used to fight in his day only with
real gentlemen, but such low scoundrels they
would have ordered to be horsewhipped in the
stables for their insolence.
Fenichka's conscience scarcely reproached
her, but she was tormented at times by the
thought of the real cause of the quarrel;
and Pavel Petrovich, too, looked at her so
strangely . . . so that even when her back
was turned she felt his eyes fixed on her.
She grew thinner from constant inward agitation
and, as it happened, became still more charming.
One day--the incident took place in the early
morning--Pavel Petrovich felt better and moved
from his bed to the sofa, while Nikolai Petrovich,
having previously made inquiries about his
brother's health, went off to the threshing
floor. Fenichka brought him a cup of tea,
and setting it down on a little table, was
about to withdraw, Pavel Petrovich detained
her.
"Where are you going in such a hurry, Fedosya
Nikolayevna," he began, "are you so busy?"
"No . . . yes, I have to pour out tea."
"Dunyasha will do that without you; sit down
for a little while with an invalid. By the
way, I must have a talk with you."
Fenichka sat down on the edge of an armchair
without speaking.
"Listen," said Pavel Petrovich, pulling at
his mustache, "I have wanted to ask you for
a long time; you seem somehow afraid of me."
"I . . . ?"
"Yes, you. You never look me in the face,
as if your conscience were not clear."
Fenichka blushed but looked up at Pavel Petrovich.
He seemed so strange to her and her heart
began quietly throbbing. "Surely you have
a clear conscience?" he asked her.
"Why should it not be clear?" she whispered.
"Why indeed. Besides, whom could you have
wronged? Me? That is unlikely. Any other people
living in the house? That is also a fantastic
idea. Could it be my brother? But surely you
love him?"
"I love him."
"With your whole soul, with your whole heart?"
"I love Nikolai Petrovich with my whole heart."
"Truly? Look at me, Fenichka." (He called
her by that name for the first time.) . . . "You
know, it is a great sin to tell lies!"
"I am not lying, Pavel Petrovich. If I did
not love Nikolai Petrovich, there would be
no point in my living any longer."
"And you will never give him up for anyone
else?"
"For whom else could I give him up?"
"For whom indeed! Well, what about that gentleman
who has just gone away from here?"
Fenichka got up.
"My God, Pavel Petrovich, why are you torturing
me? What have I done to you? How can you say
such things?"
"Fenichka," said Pavel Petrovich in a sad
voice, "you know I saw . . ."
"What did you see?"
"Well, there . . . in the summerhouse."
Fenichka blushed to the roots of her hair
and to her ears. "How can I be blamed for
that?" she pronounced with an effort.
Pavel Petrovich raised himself up. "You were
not to blame? No? Not at all?"
"I love Nikolai Petrovich and no one else
in the world and I shall always love him!"
cried Fenichka with sudden force, while sobs
rose in her throat. "As for what you saw,
I will say on the dreadful day of last judgment
that I am innocent of any blame for it and
always was, and I would rather die at once
if people can suspect me of any such thing
against my benefactor, Nikolai Petrovich . . ."
But here her voice failed, and at the same
moment she felt that Pavel Petrovich was seizing
and pressing her hand . . . She looked at
him and was almost petrified. He had turned
even paler than before; his eyes were shining,
and most surprising of all--one large solitary
tear was rolling down his cheek. "Fenichka!"
he said in a strange whisper. "Love him, love
my brother! He is such a good kind man. Don't
give him up for anyone, don't listen to anyone
else's talk. Only think, what can be more
terrible than to love and not to be loved
in return. Never leave my poor Nikolai!" Fenichka's
eyes were dry and her fright had vanished--so
great was her amazement. But what were her
feelings when Pavel Petrovich, Pavel Petrovich
of all people, pressed her hand to his lips
and seemed to pierce into it without kissing
it, only breathing convulsively from time
to time . . .
"Good heavens!" she thought, "is he suffering
from some attack?"
At that moment his whole ruined life stirred
within him.
The staircase creaked under rapidly approaching
footsteps. . . . He pushed her away from him
and let his head drop back on the pillow.
The door opened, and Nikolai Petrovich came
in, looking cheerful, fresh and ruddy. Mitya,
just as fresh and rosy as his father, with
nothing but his little shirt on, was frisking
about in his arms, snatching with bare little
toes at the buttons of his rough country coat.
Fenichka simply flung herself upon him and
clasping him and her son together in her arms,
dropped her head on his shoulder. Nikolai
Petrovich was astonished; Fenichka, so shy
and modest, never demonstrated her feelings
for him in front of a third person.
"What's the matter?" he said, and glancing
at his brother he handed Mitya to her. "You
don't feel worse?" he asked, going up to Pavel
Petrovich, who buried his face in a cambric
handkerchief.
"No . . . not at all . . . on the contrary,
I am much better."
"You shouldn't have been in such a hurry to
move to the sofa. Where are you going?" added
Nikolai Petrovich, turning towards Fenichka,
but she had already closed the door behind
her. "I was bringing my young hero in to show
you; he has been crying for his uncle. Why
did she carry him off? What's wrong with you,
though? Has anything happened between you?"
"Brother!" said Pavel Petrovich gravely. "Give
me your word to carry out my one request."
"What request, tell me."
"It is very important; it seems to me the
whole happiness of your life depends on it.
I have been thinking a lot all this time about
what I want to say to you now . . . Brother,
do your duty, the duty of an honest and generous
man, put an end to the scandal and the bad
example you are setting--you, the best of
men!"
"What do you mean, Pavel?"
"Marry Fenichka . . . she loves you; she is--the
mother of your son."
Nikolai Petrovich moved a step backwards and
threw up his hands. "You say that, Pavel?
You, whom I always took for the most relentless
opponent of such marriages! You say that!
But don't you know that it was only out of
respect for you that I have not done what
you rightly called my duty!"
"Your respect for me was quite mistaken in
this case," said Pavel Petrovich with a weary
smile. "I begin to think that Bazarov was
right when he accused me of being an aristocratic
snob. No, dear brother, let us stop worrying
ourselves about the opinion of the outside
world; we are elderly humble people by now;
it's high time we laid aside all these empty
vanities. We must do our duty, just as you
say, and maybe we shall find happiness that
way in addition."
Nikolai Petrovich rushed over to embrace his
brother. "You have really opened my eyes,"
he exclaimed. "I was right in always maintaining
that you are the kindest and wisest man in
the world, and now I see you are just as reasonable
as you are generous-minded."
"Softly, softly," Pavel Petrovich interrupted
him. "Don't knock the leg of your reasonable
brother who at close on fifty has been fighting
a duel like a young lieutenant. So, then,
the matter is settled; Fenichka is to be my
. . . belle-soeur."
"My darling Pavel! But what will Arkady say?"
"Arkady? He'll be enthusiastic, of course!
Marriage is not a principle for him, but on
the other hand his sentiment of equality will
be gratified. Yes, and after all what is the
good of caste divisions au dix-neuvième siècle?"
"Ah, Pavel, Pavel! let me kiss you once more!
Don't be afraid, I'll be careful."
The brothers embraced each other.
"What do you think, shouldn't you tell her
straight away what you intend to do?"
"Why should we hurry?" answered Nikolai Petrovich.
"Did you have a conversation with her?"
"A conversation, between us? Quelle idée!"
"Well, that's all right. First of all, you
must get well; it won't run away from us,
and meanwhile we must think it over and consider
. . ."
"But surely you have made up your mind?"
"Of course I have, and I thank you from the
bottom of my heart. I will leave you now;
you must rest; any excitement is bad for you
. . . But we will talk it over another time.
Go to sleep, my dear, and God grant you good
health!"
"Why does he thank me like that?" thought
Pavel Petrovich, when he was left alone. "As
if it did not depend on himself! Then as soon
as he marries I will go away somewhere, far
from here, to Dresden or Florence, and I will
live there till I expire." Pavel Petrovich
moistened his forehead with eau de Cologne
and closed his eyes. Lit up by the brilliant
daylight, his beautiful emaciated head lay
on the white pillow like the head of a dead
man . . . And indeed he was a dead man.
Chapter 25
AT NIKOLSKOE KATYA AND ARKADY WERE SITTING
IN THE GARDEN on a turf seat in the shade
of a tall ash tree; Fifi had placed herself
on the ground near them, giving her long body
that graceful curve which is known among sportsmen
as the "hare's bend." Both Arkady and Katya
were silent; he held in his hands a half-open
book, while she was picking out of a basket
some remaining crumbs of white bread and throwing
them to the small family of sparrows which
with their peculiar cowardly impudence were
chirping and hopping around right up to her
feet. A faint breeze, stirring the ash leaves,
kept gently moving pale gold patches of sunlight
up and down across the shady path and over
Fifi's back; an unbroken shadow fell on Arkady
and Katya; only from time to time a bright
streak gleamed in her hair. Both were silent,
but the way in which they were silent and
sitting together indicated a certain confidential
friendliness; each of them seemed not to be
thinking of the other, while secretly rejoicing
at each other's presence. Their faces, too,
had changed since we saw them last; Arkady
seemed more composed and Katya brighter and
more self-confident.
"Don't you think," began Arkady, "that the
ash has been very well named in Russian Yasen;
not a single other tree is so light and translucently
clear (yasno) against the sky."
Katya raised her eyes upwards and murmured,
"Yes," and Arkady thought, "Well, she doesn't
reproach me for talking poetically."
"I don't care for Heine," said Katya, glancing
at the book which Arkady held in his hands,
"either when he laughs or when he weeps. I
like him when he is thoughtful and sad."
"And I like him when he laughs," remarked
Arkady.
"Those are the relics of your old satirical
tendency." ("Relics," thought Arkady. "If
Bazarov could have heard that!") "Wait a bit;
we shall transform you.
"Who will transform me? You?"
"Who? My sister, Porfiry Platonovich, whom
you've stopped quarreling with, my aunt, whom
you escorted to church the day before yesterday."
"Well, I couldn't refuse. But, as for Anna
Sergeyevna, you remember she agreed with Evgeny
in a great many things."
"My sister was under his influence then, just
as you were."
"As I was! Have you noticed that I've already
shaken off his influence?"
Katya remained silent.
"I know," continued Arkady, "you never liked
him."
"I'm unable to judge him."
"Do you know, Katerina Sergeyevna, every time
I hear that answer, I don't believe it . . . there
is no one beyond the capacity of judgment
of any of us! That is just a pretext for getting
out of it."
"Well, I'll tell you then, he is . . . not
because I don't like him, but I feel he is
quite alien to me, and I am alien to him . . . and
you too are alien to him."
"Why is that?"
"How can I tell you? He's a wild beast, while
we are both domestic animals."
"And am I a domestic animal?"
Katya nodded her head.
Arkady scratched his ear. "Listen, Katerina
Sergeyevna, surely that is in the nature of
an insult."
"Why, would you rather be wild?"
"Not wild, but powerful, energetic."
"It's no good wishing to be that . . . your
friend, you see, doesn't wish for it, but
he has it."
"Hm! So you suppose he had a great influence
on Anna Sergeyevna?"
"Yes. But no one can keep the upper hand of
her for long," added Katya in a low voice.
"Why do you think that?"
"She's very proud . . . I didn't mean to say
that . . she values her independence very
much."
"Who doesn't value it?" asked Arkady, and
the thought flashed through his mind: "What
is it for?" The same thought occurred to Katya.
Young people who are friendly and often together
constantly find themselves thinking the same
thoughts.
Arkady smiled and, coming a little closer
to Katya, he said in a whisper: "Confess,
you are a little afraid of her."
"Of whom?"
"Of her," repeated Arkady significantly.
"And how about you?" asked Katya in her turn.
"I am also. Please note I said, I am also."
Katya wagged her finger at him threateningly.
"I wonder at that," she began; "my sister
has never felt so friendly towards you as
just now; much more than when you first came
here."
"Fancy that!"
"And you haven't noticed it? Aren't you glad
about it?"
Arkady became thoughtful.
"How have I succeeded in winning Anna Sergeyevna's
favor? Could it be because I brought her your
mother's letters?"
"Both for that and for other reasons which
I won't tell you."
"Why?"
"I shan't say."
"Oh, I know, you're very obstinate."
"Yes, I am."
"And observant."
Katya cast a sidelong glance at Arkady. "Perhaps
so; does that annoy you? What are you thinking
about?"
"I'm wondering how you have grown to be so
observant as you certainly are. You are so
shy and distrustful; you keep everyone at
a distance . . ."
"I live so much alone; that in itself leads
to thoughtfulness. But do I keep everyone
at a distance?"
Arkady flung a grateful glance at Katya.
"That's all very well," he went on; "but people
in your position--I mean with your fortune,
seldom possess that gift; it is hard for them,
as it is for emperors, to get at the truth."
"But, you see, I am not rich."
Arkady was surprised and did not at once understand
Katya. "Why, as a matter of fact, the property
is all her sister's!" struck him suddenly;
the thought was not disagreeable to him.
"How nicely you said that," he remarked.
"What?"
"You said it nicely, simply, without either
being ashamed or making much of it. By the
way, I imagine there must always be something
special, a kind of pride in the feeling of
a person who knows and says that he is poor."
"I have never experienced anything of that
sort, thanks to my sister. I referred to my
position just now only because it happened
to come up in our conversation."
"Well, but you must admit that even you have
something of that pride I spoke of just now."
"For instance?"
"For instance, surely you--excuse my question--you
wouldn't be willing to marry a rich man?"
"If I loved him very much . . . no, probably
even then I wouldn't marry him."
"There, you see!" cried Arkady, and after
a moment's pause he added, "And why wouldn't
you marry him?"
"Because even in the ballads unequal matches
are always unlucky."
"Perhaps you want to dominate, or . . ."
"Oh, no! What's the good of that? On the contrary,
I'm ready to obey; only inequality is difficult.
But to keep one's self-respect and to obey--that
I can understand; that is happiness; but a
subordinate existence . . . no, I've had enough
of that as it is."
"Had enough of that," repeated Arkady after
Katya. "You're not Anna Sergeyevna's sister
for nothing; you're just as independent as
she is; but you're more reserved. I'm sure
you would never be the first to express your
feelings, however strong or sacred . . ."
"Well, what would you expect?" asked Katya.
"You are equally intelligent; you have as
much character, if not more, than she . . ."
"Don't compare me with my sister, please,"
interrupted Katya hurriedly; "it puts me too
much at a disadvantage. You seem to forget
that my sister is beautiful and clever and
. . . you in particular, Arkady Nikolaich,
ought not to say such things and with such
a serious face too."
"What does that mean? 'You in particular.'
And what makes you conclude that I'm joking?"
"Of course you're joking."
"Do you think so? But what if I'm convinced
of what I say? If I find that I've not even
put it strongly enough?"
"I don't understand you."
"Really? Well, now I see that I certainly
overestimated your powers of observation."
"How is that?"
Arkady made no answer and turned away, but
Katya searched for a few more crumbs in the
basket and began throwing them to the sparrows;
but she moved her arm too vigorously and the
birds flew away without stopping to pick them
up.
"Katerina Sergeyevna," began Arkady suddenly,
"it is probably a matter of indifference to
you; but you should know, I would not exchange
you, neither for your sister, nor for anyone
else in the world."
He got up and walked quickly away, as if he
were frightened by the words which had burst
from his lips.
Katya let her two hands drop together with
the basket, on to her knees, and with bowed
head she gazed for some time after Arkady.
Gradually a crimson flush spread a little
to her cheeks, but her lips did not smile,
and her dark eyes had a look of perplexity
and of some other still undefined feeling.
"Are you alone?" sounded the voice of Anna
Sergeyevna, quite close to her. "I thought
you came into the garden with Arkady."
Katya slowly raised her eyes to her sister
(elegantly, almost elaborately dressed, she
was standing on the path and tickling Fifi's
ears with the tip of her parasol) and slowly
answered, "I'm alone."
"So I see," answered the other sister with
a laugh. "I suppose he has gone back to his
room."
"Yes."
"Were you reading together?"
"Yes."
Anna Sergeyevna took Katya under the chin
and raised her face.
"You didn't quarrel, I hope."
"No," said Katya, quietly moving away her
sister's hand.
"How solemnly you answer. I thought I should
find him here and was going to suggest a walk
with him. He keeps on asking me about it.
They have brought your new shoes from the
town; go and try them on; I noticed yesterday
that your old ones are quite worn out. Really
you don't pay enough attention to these things;
but all the same you've got such lovely little
feet! And your hands are good . . . only rather
large; so you must make the most of your feet.
But you're not a flirt."
Anna Sergeyevna went farther down the path,
her beautiful dress rustling slightly as she
walked.
Katya rose from the bench, and taking Heine
with her, also went off--only not to try on
the new shoes.
"Lovely little feet," she thought, as she
slowly and lightly mounted the stone steps
of the terrace which were burning from the
heat of the sun. "Lovely little feet, you
call them . . . Well, he shall be at my feet."
But a feeling of shame came over her at once,
and she ran swiftly upstairs.
Arkady was going along the passage to his
room when he was overtaken by the butler,
who announced that Mr. Bazarov was sitting
in his room.
"Evgeny!" muttered Arkady in a startled tone.
"Has he been here long?"
"He has arrived only this minute, and gave
orders not to be announced to Anna Sergeyevna
but to be shown straight up to you."
"Can any misfortune have happened at home?"
thought Arkady, and running hurriedly up the
stairs he opened the door at once. The sight
of Bazarov immediately reassured him, though
a more experienced eye would probably have
discerned signs of inward excitement in the
sunken but still energetic face of the unexpected
visitor. With a dusty cloak over his shoulders,
and a cap on his head, he was sitting by the
window; he did not even get up when Arkady
flung himself on his neck with loud exclamations.
"Well, how unexpected! What good luck has
brought you?" he kept on repeating, bustling
about the room like someone who both imagines
and wants to show that he is pleased. "I suppose
everything is all right at home; they're all
well, aren't they?"
"Everything is all right there, but not everyone
is well," said Bazarov. "But don't go on chattering,
get them to bring me some kvass, sit down
and listen to what I'm going to tell you,
in a few, but, I hope, fairly vigorous sentences."
Arkady kept quiet while Bazarov told him about
his duel with Pavel Petrovich. Arkady was
greatly surprised and even upset, but he did
not think it necessary to show this; he asked
only whether his uncle's wound was really
not serious, and on receiving the reply that
it was--most interesting, though not from
a medical point of view--he gave a forced
smile, but he felt sick at heart and somehow
ashamed. Bazarov seemed to understand him.
"Yes, brother," he said, "you see what comes
of living with feudal people. One becomes
feudal oneself and takes part in knightly
tournaments. Well, so I set off for my father's
place," Bazarov concluded, "and on the way
I turned in here . . . to tell you all this,
I should say, if I didn't think it a useless
and stupid lie. No, I turned in here--the
devil knows why. You see it's sometimes a
good thing for a man to take himself by the
scruff of the neck and pull himself away,
like a radish out of its bed; that's what
I've just done . . . But I wanted to take
one more look at what I've parted company
with, at the bed where I've been sitting."
"I hope that those words don't apply to me,"
retorted Arkady excitedly. "I hope you don't
think of parting from me."
Bazarov looked at him intently; his eyes were
almost piercing.
"Would that upset you so much? It strikes
me that you have parted from me already; you
look so fresh and smart . . . your affairs
with Anna Sergeyevna must be proceeding very
well."
"What do you mean by my affairs with Anna
Sergeyevna?"
"Why, didn't you come here from the town on
her account, my little bird? By the way, how
are those Sunday schools getting on? Do you
mean to tell me you're not in love with her?
Or have you already reached the stage of being
bashful about it?"
"Evgeny, you know I've always been frank with
you; I can assure you, I swear to you, you're
making a mistake."
"Hm! A new story," remarked Bazarov under
his breath, "but you needn't get agitated
about it, for it's a matter of complete indifference
to me. A romantic would say: I feel that our
roads are beginning to branch out in different
directions, but I will simply say that we're
tired of each other."
"Evgeny . . ."
"There's no harm in that, my good soul; one
gets tired of plenty of other things in the
world! And now I think we had better say good-by.
Ever since I've been here I've felt so disgusting,
just as if I'd been reading Gogol's letters
to the wife of the Governor of Kaluga. By
the way, I didn't tell them to unharness the
horses."
"Good heavens, that's impossible!"
"And why?"
"I say nothing of myself, but it would be
the height of discourtesy to Anna Sergeyevna,
who will certainly want to see you."
"Well, you're mistaken there."
"On the contrary, I'm convinced that I'm right,"
retorted Arkady. "And what are you pretending
for? For that matter, haven't you come here
because of her?"
"That might even be true, but you're mistaken
all the same." But Arkady was right. Anna
Sergeyevna wanted to see Bazarov and sent
a message to him to that effect through the
butler. Bazarov changed his clothes before
he went to her; it turned out that he had
packed his new suit in such a way as to be
able to take it out easily.
Madame Odintsov received him, not in the room
where he had so unexpectedly declared his
love to her, but in the drawing room. She
held her finger tips out to him amiably, but
her face showed signs of involuntary tension.
"Anna Sergeyevna," Bazarov hastened to say,
"first of all I must set your mind at rest.
Before you stands a simple mortal, who came
to his senses long ago, and hopes that other
people too have forgotten his follies. I am
going away for a long time, and though I'm
by no means a soft creature, I should be sorry
to carry away with me the thought that you
remember me with abhorrence."
Anna Sergeyevna gave a deep sigh like one
who has just climbed to the top of a high
mountain, and her face lit up with a smile.
She held out her hand to Bazarov a second
time and responded to his pressure.
"Let bygones be bygones," she said, "all the
more so, since, to say what is on my conscience,
I was also to blame then, either for flirting
or for something else. In a word, let us be
friends as we were before. The other was a
dream, wasn't it? And who remembers dreams?"
"Who remembers them? And besides, love . . . surely
it's an imaginary feeling."
"Indeed? I am very pleased to hear that."
Anna Sergeyevna expressed herself thus and
so did Bazarov; they both thought they were
speaking the truth. Was the truth, the whole
truth, to be found in their words? They themselves
did not know, much less could the author.
But a conversation ensued between them, just
as if they believed one another completely.
Anna Sergeyevna asked Bazarov, among other
things, what he had been doing at the Kirsanovs'.
He was on the point of telling her about his
duel with Pavel Petrovich, but he checked
himself with the thought that she might suppose
he was trying to make himself interesting,
and answered that he had been working the
whole time.
"And I," observed Anna Sergeyevna, "had a
fit of depression to start with, goodness
knows why; I even planned to go abroad, just
fancy! But that passed off; your friend Arkady
Nikolaich arrived, and I settled down to my
routine again, to my proper function."
"And what is that function, may I ask?"
"To be an aunt, guardian, mother--call it
what you like. Incidentally, do you know I
used not to understand before your close friendship
with Arkady Nikolaich; I found him rather
insignificant. But now I have got to know
him better, and I recognize his intelligence
. . . but he is young, so young, it's a great
thing . . . not like you and me, Evgeny Vassilich."
"Is he still shy in your presence?" asked
Bazarov.
"But was he . . ." began Anna Sergeyevna,
and after a short pause she went on. "He has
grown more trustful now; he talks to me; formerly
he used to avoid me; though, as a matter of
fact, I didn't seek his society either. He
is more Katya's friend."
Bazarov felt vexed. "A woman can't help being
a hypocrite," he thought.
"You say he used to avoid you," he said aloud
with a cold smile; "but probably it's no secret
to you that he was in love with you?"
"What? He too?" ejaculated Anna Sergeyevna.
"He too," repeated Bazarov, with a submissive
bow. "Can it be that you didn't know it and
that I've told you something new?"
Anna Sergeyevna lowered her eyes. "You are
mistaken, Evgeny Vassilich."
"I don't think so. But perhaps I ought not
to have mentioned it."
"And don't you try to fool me any more," he
added to himself.
"Why not mention it? But I imagine that here
as well you attach too much importance to
a transitory impression. I begin to suspect
that you are inclined to exaggerate."
"We had better not talk about that, Anna Sergeyevna."
"And why?" she replied, but herself diverted
the conversation into another channel. She
still felt ill at ease with Bazarov, though
she had both told and assured herself that
everything was forgotten. While exchanging
the simplest remarks with him, even when she
joked with him, she was conscious of an embarrassed
fear. Thus do people on a steamer at sea talk
and laugh carelessly, for all the world as
if they were on dry land; but the moment there
is some hitch, if the smallest sign appears
of something unusual, there emerges at once
on every face an expression of peculiar alarm,
revealing the constant awareness of constant
danger.
Anna Sergeyevna's conversation with Bazarov
did not last long. She began to he absorbed
in her own thoughts, to answer absentmindedly
and ended by suggesting that they should go
into the hall, where they found the princess
and Katya.
"But where is Arkady Nikolaich?" asked the
hostess, and on hearing that he had not been
seen for more than an hour, she sent someone
to look for him. He was not found at once;
he had hidden himself away in the wildest
part of the garden, and with his chin propped
on his folded hands, he was sitting wrapped
in thought. His thoughts were deep and serious,
but not mournful. He knew that Anna Sergeyevna
was sitting alone with Bazarov, and he felt
no jealousy as he had before; on the contrary,
his face slowly brightened; it seemed as if
he was at once wondering and rejoicing and
deciding to do something.
Chapter 26
THE 
LATE ODINTSOV HAD DISLIKED INNOVATIONS, BUT
HE admitted "a certain play of ennobled taste"
and had consequently erected in his garden,
between the hothouse and the lake, a building
in the style of a Creek temple, made of Russian
brick. Along the windowless back wall of this
temple or gallery were placed six niches for
statues, which Odintsov proceeded to order
from abroad. These statues were intended to
represent Solitude, Silence, Meditation, Melancholy,
Modesty and Sensibility. One of them, the
Goddess of Silence, with her finger on her
lips, had been delivered and placed in position;
but on the very same day some of the farm
boys knocked off her nose, and although the
neighboring plasterer undertook to make her
a new nose, "twice as good as the previous
one," Odintsov ordered her to be removed,
and she could still be seen in the corner
of the threshing barn, where she had stood
for many years, a source of superstitious
terror to the peasant women. The front part
of the temple had long ago been overgrown
with thick bushes; only the capitals of the
columns could be seen above the thick green.
Inside the temple itself it was cool even
at midday. Anna Sergeyevna did not like visiting
this place ever since she had seen a snake
there; but Katya often came and sat on a wide
stone seat constructed under one of the niches.
Here, surrounded by shade and coolness, she
used to read and work, or give herself up
to that sensation of perfect peace, known
probably to everyone, the charm of which consists
in the half-conscious mute listening to that
vast current of life which uninterruptedly
flows both around us and within us.
On the day after Bazarov's arrival, Katya
was sitting on her favorite stone seat, and
Arkady was sitting beside her again. He had
begged her to come with him to the temple.
It was about an hour before lunchtime; the
dewy morning had given place to a hot day.
Arkady's face retained the expression of the
preceding day; Katya looked preoccupied. Her
sister, immediately after their morning tea,
had called her into her study, and after some
preliminary caresses--which always rather
alarmed Katya--advised her to be more guarded
in her behavior with Arkady, and to avoid
solitary talks with him, which had attracted
the attention of her aunt and the household.
Apart from that, Anna Sergeyevna was still
in a bad mood from the evening before, and
Katya herself felt embarrassed, as if she
had done something wrong. When she yielded
to Arkady's entreaties, she said to herself
that it was for the last time.
"Katerina Sergeyevna," he began with a sort
of bashful carelessness, "ever since I have
had the happiness of living under the same
roof with you, I have discussed many things
with you, but meanwhile there is one very
important question--for me--which I have not
yet touched on. You remarked yesterday that
I have been transformed here," he went on,
at once catching and avoiding the inquiring
look which Katya fixed on him. "In fact I
have changed a lot, and you know that better
than anyone else--you to whom above all I
owe this change."
"I . . . ? Me . . . ?" said Katya.
"I am no longer now the conceited boy I was
when I arrived here," went on Arkady. "I've
not reached the age of twenty-three for nothing;
as before I want to be useful, I want to devote
all my powers to the truth; but I don't look
for my ideals where I used to look before;
they have shown themselves to me . . . so
much nearer. Up till now I failed to understand
myself, I set myself tasks which were beyond
my strength . . . My eyes have recently been
opened, thanks to one feeling . . . I'm not
expressing myself quite clearly, but I hope
you understand me . . ."
Katya made no reply, but she stopped looking
at Arkady.
"I suppose," he began again, this time in
a more agitated voice, while above his head
a chaffinch sang its song heedlessly among
the leaves of a birch tree, "I suppose it
is the duty of every honest person to be absolutely
frank with those . . . with those people,
who . . . in a word, with those who are near
to him, and so I . . . I intend . . ."
But at this point Arkady's eloquence abandoned
him; he fumbled for words, stammered and was
obliged to pause for a while. Katya still
did not raise her eyes. It seemed as though
she did not even understand what he was leading
up to with all this, as though she were awaiting
something.
"I foresee that I shall surprise you," began
Arkady, pulling himself together again with
an effort; "all the more since this feeling
is connected in a certain way--in a certain
way, remember--with you. You reproached me
yesterday, you remember, for a lack of seriousness,"
Arkady went on with the air of a person who
has walked into a swamp, feels that he is
sinking in deeper and deeper at every step,
and yet hurries forward in the hope of crossing
it quicker; "that reproach is often aimed
. . . often falls . . . on young men even
when they no longer deserve it; and if I had
more self-confidence . . ." ("Come, help me,
do help me," Arkady was thinking in desperation,
but Katya kept her head averted as before.)
"If I could hope . . ."
"If I could feel convinced of what you said,"
sounded at that moment the clear voice of
Anna Sergeyevna.
Arkady fell silent at once and Katya turned
pale. Alongside the very bushes which screened
the temple ran a little path. Anna Sergeyevna
was walking along it accompanied by Bazarov.
Katya and Arkady could not see them, but they
heard every word, the rustle of their clothes,
their very breathing. They walked on a few
steps and then, as if on purpose, stopped
right opposite the temple.
"You see," continued Anna Sergeyevna, "you
and I made a mistake; we have both passed
our first youthful stage, I particularly;
we have seen life, we are tired; we are both
intelligent--why pretend otfierwise?--at first
we were interested in each other, our curiosity
was aroused . . . and afterwards. . ."
"And afterwards my interest fell flat," interposed
Bazarov.
"You know that was not the cause of our misunderstanding.
But however that may be, we did not need each
other, that's the main thing; there was in
us . . . how shall I put it? . . . too much
of the same thing. We did not realize that
straight away. Now Arkady, on the contrary
. . ."
"Do you need him?" asked Bazarov.
"Stop, Evgeny Vassilich. You say he is not
indifferent to me, and it always seemed to
me that he liked me. I know that I could well
be his aunt, but I don't want to conceal from
you that I have begun to think about him more
often. In that fresh youthful feeling there
is a special charm . . ."
"The word fascination is more often used in
such cases," interrupted Bazarov; a violent
suppressed bitterness could be detected in
the steady but hollow tone of his voice. "Arkady
was secretive with me about something yesterday,
and wouldn't talk about either you or your
sister . . . that's a serious symptom."
"He's just like a brother with Katya," remarked
Anna Sergeyevna, "and I like that in him,
though perhaps I ought not to have let them
become so intimate."
"Is that idea prompted by your feelings . . . as
a sister?" said Bazarov, dragging out his
words.
"Of course . . . but why are we standing here?
Let us go on. What a strange talk we're having,
aren't we? I could never have believed I should
talk to you like this. You know, I'm afraid
of you . . . and at the same time I trust
you, because at bottom you are very good."
"In the first place, I'm far from good; and
in the second place I no longer mean anything
to you, and you tell me that I am good . . . It's
just like placing a wreath of flowers round
the head of a corpse."
"Evgeny Vassilich, we are not masters . . ." began
Anna Sergeyevna; but a gust of wind blew across,
started the leaves rustling and carried away
her words.
"Of course, you are free," said Bazarov after
a pause. Nothing more could be distinguished;
the steps went farther away . . . all became
quiet again.
Arkady turned to Katya. She was sitting in
the same position, but her head bent still
lower.
"Katerina Sergeyevna," he said; his voice
shook and he clenched his hands; "I love you--forever
and irrevocably, and I love no one except
you. I wanted to tell you this, to find out
what you will say and to ask you to marry
me, because, of course, I'm not rich and I
feel ready for any kind of sacrifice . . . You
don't answer? You don't believe me? Do you
think I'm talking lightly? But remember these
last days! Surely you must be convinced by
now that everything else--you understand me--absolutely
everything else has vanished long ago and
left no trace? Look at me, say one word to
me . . . I love . . . I love you . . . believe
me."
Katya turned her eyes to Arkady with a grave
and radiant look, and after a long reflective
pause, she murmured, smiling slightly, "Yes."
Arkady jumped up from the seat.
"Yes! You said 'yes,' Katerina Sergeyevna!
What does that word mean? Just that I love
you, that you believe me . . . or . . . I
daren't go on . ."
"Yes," repeated Katya, and this time he understood
her. He seized her large beautiful hands and,
breathless with enthusiasm, he pressed them
to his heart. He could hardly stand on his
feet, and only kept on repeating, "Katya,
Katya . . ." and she began to weep in such
an innocent way, smiling gently at her own
tears. Whoever has not seen such tears in
the eyes of a beloved person has not yet experienced
to what an extent, overwhelmed with gratitude
and awe, a human being may find happiness
on earth.
The next day in the early morning, Anna Sergeyevna
sent a message asking Bazarov to come to her
study, and with a strained laugh she handed
him a folded sheet of notepaper. It was a
letter from Arkady, in which he asked for
her sister's hand in marriage.
Bazarov quickly read through the letter, and
could only with some effort conceal the malicious
impulse which at once flared up within him.
"So there it is," he remarked, "and apparently
you thought no longer ago than yesterday that
his feelings for Katerina Sergeyevna were
of the brotherly sort. What do you intend
to do now?"
"What would you advise me to do?" asked Anna
Sergeyevna, continuing to laugh.
"Well, I suppose," answered Bazarov, also
with a laugh, though he felt anything but
gay and no more wanted to laugh than she did;
"I suppose you ought to give the young people
your blessing. It's a good match from every
point of view; Kirsanov is tolerably well
off, he's the only son, and his father's a
good-natured fellow; he won't object."
Madame Odintsov walked up and down the room.
Her face flushed and turned pale by turns.
"You think so?" she said. "Well, I see no
obstacles . . . I'm glad for Katya . . . and
for Arkady Nikolaich. Of course, I shall wait
for his father's answer. I will send him in
person to him. So it turns out that I was
right yesterday when I told you that we have
both become old people. . . . How was it I
noticed nothing? That surprises me."
Anna Sergeyevna laughed again and quickly
turned her head away.
"The younger generation of today has grown
painfully cunning," remarked Bazarov, and
he also gave a short laugh. "Good-by," he
began again after a short silence. "I hope
you will bring this affair to the most agreeable
conclusion; and I will rejoice from a distance."
Madame Odintsov turned to him quickly. "Are
you going away? Why shouldn't you stay now?
Do stay . . . it's such fun talking to you
. . . one seems to be walking on the edge
of a precipice. At first one feels timid,
but one gets somehow exhilarated as one goes
along. Won't you stay?"
"Thank you for the invitation, Anna Sergeyevna,
and for your flattering opinion of my conversational
talents. But I find I've already been moving
around for too long in a sphere which is alien
to me. Flying fish can hold out for a time
in the air, but soon they have to splash back
into the water; you must allow me too to flop
down into my natural element."
Madame Odintsov looked at Bazarov. A bitter
smile twisted his pale face. "This man loved
me," she thought, and she felt sorry for him
and held out her hand with sympathy.
But he too understood her. "No," he said,
stepping back a pace. "I'm a poor man, but
I've never accepted charity so far. Good-by
and good luck."
"I am sure that we are not seeing each other
for the last time," said Anna Sergeyevna with
an unconscious movement.
"Anything can happen in this world," answered
Bazarov, and he bowed and went out.
"So you propose to build yourself a nest?"
he said the same day to Arkady, crouching
on the floor as he packed his trunk. "Well,
it's a good thing. Only you needn't have been
such a humbug about it. I expected you'd go
in quite a different direction. Perhaps, though,
it took you unawares?"
"I certainly didn't expect this when I left
you," answered Arkady; "but why are you being
a humbug yourself and calling it a 'good thing,'
as if I didn't know your opinion of marriage?"
"Ah, my dear friend," said Bazarov, "how you
express yourself. You see what I'm doing;
there happened to be an empty space in my
trunk, and I'm putting hay into it; that's
how it is with the luggage of our life; we
would stuff it up with anything rather than
leave a void. Don't be offended, please; you
probably remember what I always thought of
Katerina Sergeyevna. Many a young lady is
called intelligent simply because she can
sigh intelligently; but yours can hold her
own, and indeed she'll hold it so well that
she'll have you under her thumb--well, and
that's quite as it should be." He slammed
the lid and got up from the floor. "And now
I say again, farewell . . . because it's useless
to deceive ourselves; we are parting forever,
and you know it yourself . . . you acted sensibly;
you were not made for our bitter, rough, lonely
existence. There's no daring in you, no hatred,
though you've got youthful dash and youthful
fervor; that's not enough for our business.
Your sort, the nobility, can never go farther
than noble resignation or noble indignation,
but those things are trifles. For instance,
you won't fight--and yet you fancy yourselves
as brave fellows--but we want to fight. So
there! Our dust would get into your eyes,
our mud would soil you, but you're not up
to our standard, you unconsciously admire
yourselves and you enjoy finding fault with
yourselves; but we're fed up with all that--we
want something else! We want to smash people!
You're a fine fellow, but all the same you're
a mild little liberal gentleman--ay volatoo,
as my parent would say."
"You are bidding good-by to me for ever, Evgeny,"
said Arkady sadly, "and you have nothing else
to say to me."
Bazarov scratched the back of his head.
"Yes, Arkady, I have other things to say to
you, but I won't say them, because that's
romanticism--that means sentimental trash.
But you hurry up and marry, settle down in
your nest and have as many children as you
like. They'll have the gumption to be born
in a better time than you and me. Aha! I see
the horses are ready. It's time to go. I've
said good-by to everyone . . . well, what's
this? Embracing, eh?"
Arkady threw himself on the neck of his former
teacher and friend, and tears fairly streamed
from his eyes.
"That's what comes of being young!" remarked
Bazarov calmly. "But I rely on Katerina Sergeyevna.
You'll see how quickly she can console you."
"Farewell, brother," he called out to Arkady,
as he was already climbing into the cart,
and pointing to a pair of jackdaws, sitting
side by side on the roof of the stables, he
added, "There you are! Learn from the example."
"What does that mean?" asked Arkady.
"What? Are you so weak in natural history
or have you forgotten that the jackdaw is
a most respectable family bird! An example
to you . . . ! Good-by."
The cart creaked and rolled away.
Bazarov spoke the truth. Talking that evening
with Katya, Arkady had completely forgotten
about his former teacher. He had already begun
to follow her lead, and Katya felt this and
was not surprised. He was to set off the next
day to Maryino to see Nikolai Petrovich. Anna
Sergeyevna had no wish to hamper the freedom
of the young people, but on account of decorum
she did not leave them alone for too long.
She generously kept the princess out of their
way; the old lady had been reduced to a state
of tearful frenzy by the news of the approaching
marriage. At first Anna Sergeyevna was afraid
that the sight of their happiness would prove
rather upsetting to herself, but it turned
out to the contrary; it not only did not upset
her to see their happiness, it occupied her
mind, and in the end it even soothed her heart.
This outcome both gladdened and grieved Anna
Sergeyevna. "Evidently Bazarov was right,"
she thought, "I have curiosity, nothing but
curiosity, and love of a quiet life, and egoism
. . ."
"Children," she said aloud, "do you think
love is an imaginary feeling?"
But neither Katya nor Arkady even understood
her. They were shy with her; the fragment
of conversation which they had accidentally
overheard haunted their minds. But Anna Sergeyevna
soon relieved their anxieties, and that was
not difficult for her; she had set her own
mind at rest.
Chapter 27
BAZAROV'S OLD PARENTS WERE ALL THE MORE OVERJOYED
BY their son's sudden arrival on account of
its complete unexpectedness. Arina Vlasyevna
was so agitated, continually bustling about
all over the house, that Vassily Ivanovich
said she was like a partridge; the short flat
tail of her little jacket certainly gave her
a birdlike look. He himself made noises and
bit the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, or,
clutching his neck with his fingers, turned
his head round, as though he were trying to
find out if it was properly screwed on, then
suddenly opened his wide mouth and laughed
noiselessly.
"I've come to stay with you for six whole
weeks, old man," Bazarov said to him. "I want
to work, so please don't interrupt me."
"You will forget what my face looks like,
that's how I will interrupt you!" answered
Vassily Ivanovich.
He kept his promise. After installing his
son in his study as before, he almost hid
himself away from him and he restrained his
wife from any kind of superfluous demonstration
of affection. "Last time Enyushka visited
us, little mother, we bored him a little;
we must be wiser this time." Arina Vlasyevna
agreed with her husband, but she gained nothing
thereby, since she saw her son only at meals
and was in the end afraid to say a word to
him.
"Enyushenka," she would sometimes start to
say--but before he had time to look round
she would nervously finger the tassels of
her handbag and murmur, "Never mind, I only
. . . ." and afterwards she would go to Vassily
Ivanovich and ask him, her cheek leaning on
her hand, "If only you could find out, darling,
what Enyusha would like best for dinner today,
beet-root soup or cabbage broth?" "But why
didn't you ask him yourself?" "Oh, he'll get
tired of me!" Bazarov, however, soon ceased
to shut himself up; his fever for work abated
and was replaced by painful boredom and a
vague restlessness. A strange weariness began
to show itself in all his movements; even
his walk, once so firm, bold and impetuous,
was changed. He gave up his solitary rambles
and began to seek company; he drank tea in
the drawing room, strolled about the kitchen
garden with Vassily Ivanovich, smoked a pipe
with him in silence and once even inquired
after Father Alexei. At first Vassily Ivanovich
rejoiced at this change, but his joy was short-lived.
"Enyusha is breaking my heart," he plaintively
confided to his wife. "It's not that he's
dissatisfied or angry--that would be almost
nothing; but he's distressed, he's downcast--and
that is terrible. He's always silent; if only
he would start to scold us; he's growing thin,
and he's lost all the color in his face."
"Lord have mercy on us!" whispered the old
woman. "I would hang a charm round his neck,
but of course he won't allow it."
Vassily Ivanovich tried several times in a
very tactful manner to question Bazarov about
his work, his health, and about Arkady . . . But
Bazarov's replies were reluctant and casual,
and once, noticing that his father was trying
gradually to lead up to something in the conversation,
he remarked in a vexed tone, "Why do you always
seem to be following me about on tiptoe? That
way is even worse than the old one."
"Well, well, I didn't mean anything!" hurriedly
answered poor Vassily Ivanovich. So his diplomatic
hints remained fruitless.
One day, talking about the approaching liberation
of the serfs, he hoped to arouse his son's
sympathy by making some remarks about progress;
but Bazarov only answered indifferently, "Yesterday
I was walking along the fence and heard our
peasant boys, instead of singing an old folk
song, bawling some street ditty about 'the
time has come for love' . . . that's what
your progress amounts to."
Sometimes Bazarov went into the village and
in his usual bantering tone got into conversation
with some peasant. "Well," he would say to
him, "expound your views on life to me, brother;
after all, they say the whole strength and
future of Russia lies in your hands, that
a new era in history will be started by you--that
you will give us our real language and our
laws." The peasant either answered nothing,
or pronounced a few words like these, "Oh,
we'll try . . . also, because, you see, in
our position . . ."
"You explain to me what your world is," Bazarov
interrupted, "and is it the same world which
is said to rest on three fishes?"
"No, batyushka, it's the land that rests on
three fishes," the peasant explained soothingly
in a good-natured patriarchal sing-song voice;
"and over against our 'world' we know there's
the master's will, because you are our fathers.
And the stricter the master's rule, the better
it is for the peasant."
After hearing such a reply one day, Bazarov
shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and
turned away, while the peasant walked homewards.
"What was he talking about?" inquired another
peasant, a surly middle-aged man who from
the door of his hut had witnessed at a distance
the conversation with Bazarov. "Was it about
arrears of taxes?"
"Arrears? No fear of that, brother," answered
the first peasant, and his voice had lost
every trace of the patriarchal sing-song;
on the contrary, a note of scornful severity
could be detected in it. "He was just chattering
about something, felt like exercising his
tongue. Of course, he's a gentleman. What
can he understand?"
"How could he understand!" answered the other
peasant, and pushing back their caps and loosening
their belts they both started discussing their
affairs and their needs. Alas! Bazarov, shrugging
his shoulders contemptuously, he who knew
how to talk to the peasants (as he had boasted
in his dispute with Pavel Petrovich), the
self-confident Bazarov did not for a moment
suspect that in their eyes he was all the
same a kind of buffoon . . . .
However, he found an occupation for himself
at last. One day Vassily Ivanovich was bandaging
a peasant's injured leg in his presence, but
the old man's hands trembled and he could
not manage the bandages; his son helped him
and from that time regularly took part in
his father's practice, though without ceasing
to joke both about the remedies he himself
advised and about his father, who immediately
applied them. But Bazarov's gibes did not
upset Vassily Ivanovich in the least; they
even comforted him. Holding his greasy dressing
gown with two fingers over his stomach and
smoking his pipe, he listened to Bazarov with
enjoyment, and the more malicious his sallies,
the more good-humoredly did his delighted
father chuckle, showing all his discolored
black teeth. He even used to repeat these
often blunt or pointless witticisms, and for
instance, with no reason at all, went on saying
for several days, "Well, that's a far away
business," simply because his son, on hearing
that he was going to the early church service,
had used that expression. "Thank God, he has
got over his melancholy," he whispered to
his wife. "How he went for me today, it was
marvelous!" Besides, the idea of having such
an assistant filled him with enthusiasm and
pride. "Yes, yes," he said to a peasant woman
wearing a man's cloak and a horn-shaped hood,
as he handed her a bottle of Goulard's extract
or a pot of white ointment, "you, my dear,
ought to be thanking God every minute that
my son is staying with me; you will be treated
now by the most up-to-date scientific methods;
do you know what that means? The Emperor of
the French, Napoleon, even he has no better
doctor." But the peasant woman, who had come
to complain that she felt queer all over (though
she was unable to explain what she meant by
these words), only bowed low and fumbled in
her bosom where she had four eggs tied up
in the corner of a towel.
Once Bazarov pulled out a tooth for a traveling
pedlar of cloth, and although this tooth was
quite an ordinary specimen, Vassily Ivanovich
preserved it like some rare object and incessantly
repeated, as he showed it to Father Alexei,
"Only look, what roots! The strength Evgeny
has! That pedlar was just lifted up in the
air . . . even if it had been an oak, he would
have rooted it up!"
"Admirable!" Father Alexei would comment at
last, not knowing what to answer or how to
get rid of the ecstatic old man.
One day a peasant from a neighboring village
brought over to Vassily Ivanovich his brother,
who was stricken with typhus. The unhappy
man, lying flat on a truss of straw, was dying;
his body was covered with dark patches, he
had long ago lost consciousness. Vassily Ivanovich
expressed his regret that no one had taken
any steps to secure medical aid earlier and
said it was impossible to save the man. In
fact the peasant never got his brother home
again; he died as he was, lying in the cart.
Three days later Bazarov came into his father's
room and asked him if he had any silver nitrate.
"Yes; what do you want it for?"
"I want it . . . to burn out a cut."
"For whom?"
"For myself."
"How for yourself? What is that? What sort
of a cut? Where is it?"
"Here, on my finger. I went today to the village
where they brought that peasant with typhus,
you know. They wanted to open the body for
some reason, and I've had no practice at that
sort of thing for a long time."
"Well?"
"Well, so I asked the district doctor to help;
and so I cut myself."
Vassily Ivanovich suddenly turned completely
white, and without saying a word rushed into
his study and returned at once with a piece
of silver nitrate in his hand. Bazarov was
about to take it and go away.
"For God's sake," muttered Vassily Ivanovich,
"let me do it myself."
Bazarov smiled.
"What a devoted practitioner you are!"
"Don't laugh, please. Show me your finger.
It's a small cut. Am I hurting you?"
"Press harder; don't be afraid."
Vassily Ivanovich stopped.
"What do you think, Evgeny; wouldn't it be
better to burn it with a hot iron?"
"That ought to have been done sooner, now
really even the silver nitrate is useless.
If I've caught the infection, it's too late
now."
"How . . . too late . . . ?" murmured Vassily
Ivanovich almost inaudibly.
"I should think so! It's over four hours ago."
Vassily Ivanovich burned the cut a little
more.
"But hadn't the district doctor got any caustic?"
"No."
"How can that be, good heavens! A doctor who
is without such an indispensable thing!"
"You should have seen his lancets," remarked
Bazarov, and went out.
Till late that evening and all the following
day Vassily Ivanovich kept seizing on every
possible pretext to go into his son's room,
and though, far from mentioning the cut, he
even tried to talk about the most irrelevant
subjects, he looked so persistently into his
son's face and watched him with so much anxiety
that Bazarov lost patience and threatened
to leave the house. Vassily Ivanovich then
promised not to bother him, and he did this
the more readily since Arina Vlasyevna, from
whom, of course, he had kept it all secret,
was beginning to worry him about why he did
not sleep and what trouble had come over him.
For two whole days he held firm, though he
did not at all like the look of his son, whom
he kept watching on the sly . . . but on the
third day at dinner he could bear it no longer.
Bazarov was sitting with downcast eyes and
had not touched a single dish.
"Why don't you eat, Evgeny?" he inquired,
putting on a perfectly carefree expression.
"The food, I think, is very well prepared."
"I don't want anything, so I don't eat."
"You have no appetite? And your head," he
added timidly, "does it ache?"
"Yes, of course it aches."
Arina Vlasyevna sat bolt upright and became
very alert.
"Please don't be angry, Evgeny," went on Vassily
Ivanovich, "but won't you let me feel your
pulse?"
Bazarov got up.
"I can tell you without feeling my pulse,
I'm feverish."
"And have you been shivering?"
"Yes, I've been shivering. I'll go and lie
down; and you can send me in some lime-flower
tea. I must have caught cold."
"Of course, I heard you coughing last night,"
murmured Arina Vlasyevna.
"I've caught cold," repeated Bazarov, and
left the room.
Arina Vlasyevna busied herself with the preparation
of the lime-flower tea, while Vassily Ivanovich
went into the next room and desperately clutched
at his hair in silence.
Bazarov did not get up again that day and
passed the whole night in heavy half-conscious
slumber. At one o'clock in the morning, opening
his eyes with an effort, he saw by the light
of a lamp his father's pale face bending over
him, and told him to go away; the old man
obeyed, but immediately returned on tiptoe,
and half-hidden behind the cupboard door he
gazed persistently at his son. Arina Vlasyevna
did not go to bed either, and leaving the
study door a little open, she kept coming
up to it to listen "how Enyusha was breathing,"
and to look at Vassily Ivanovich. She could
see only his motionless bent back, but even
that have her some kind of consolation. In
the morning Bazarov tried to get up; he was
seized with giddiness, and his nose began
to bleed; he lay down again. Vassily Ivanovich
waited on him in silence; Arina Vlasyevna
went up to him and asked him how he felt.
He answered, "Better," and turned his face
to the wall. Vassily Ivanovich made a gesture
to his wife with both hands; she bit her lip
to stop herself from crying and left the room.
The whole house seemed to have suddenly darkened;
every person had a drawn face and a strange
stillness reigned; the servants carried off
from the courtyard into the village a loudly
crowing cock, who for a long time was unable
to grasp what they were doing with him. Bazarov
continued to lie with his face to the wall.
Vassily Ivanovich tried to ask him various
questions, but they wearied Bazarov, and the
old man sank back in his chair, only occasionally
cracking the joints of his fingers. He went
into the garden for a few minutes, stood there
like a stone idol, as though overwhelmed with
unutterable amazement (a bewildered expression
never left his face), then went back again
to his son, trying to avoid his wife's questions.
At last she caught him by the arm, and convulsively,
almost threateningly, asked, "What is wrong
with him?" Then he collected his thoughts
and forced himself to smile at her in reply,
but to his own horror, instead of smiling,
he suddenly started to laugh. He had sent
for a doctor at daybreak. He thought it necessary
to warn his son about this, in case he might
be angry.
Bazarov abruptly turned round on the sofa,
looked fixedly with dim eyes at his father
and asked for something to drink.
Vassily Ivanovich gave him some water and
in so doing felt his forehead; it was burning.
"Listen, old man," began Bazarov in a slow
husky voice, "I'm in a bad way. I've caught
the infection and in a few days you'll have
to bury me."
Vassily Ivanovich staggered as though someone
had knocked his legs from under him.
"Evgeny," he muttered, "what are you saying?
God have mercy on you! You've caught cold
. . ."
"Stop that," interrupted Bazarov in the same
slow, deliberate voice; "a doctor has no right
to talk like that. I've all the symptoms of
infection, you can see for yourself."
"What symptoms . . . of infection, Evgeny?
. . . Good heavens!"
"Well, what's this?" said Bazarov, and pulling
up his shirt sleeve he showed his father the
ominous red patches coming out on his arm.
Vassily Ivanovich trembled and turned cold
from fear.
"Supposing," he said at last, "supposing . . . even
supposing . . . there is something like an
infection . . ."
"Blood poisoning," repeated Bazarov severely
and distinctly; "have you forgotten your textbooks?"
"Well, yes, yes, as you like . . . all the
same we shall cure you!"
"Oh, that's rubbish. And it's not the point.
I never expected to die so soon; it's a chance,
a very unpleasant one, to tell the truth.
You and mother must now take advantage of
your strong religious faith; here's an opportunity
of putting it to the test." He drank a little
more water. "But I want to ask you one thing--while
my brain is still under control. Tomorrow
or ,the day after, you know, my brain will
cease to function. I'm not quite certain even
now, if I'm expressing myself clearly. While
I was lying here I kept on imagining that
red dogs were running round me, and you made
them point at me, as if I were a blackcock.
I thought I was drunk. Do you understand me
all right?"
"Of course, Evgeny, you talk perfectly clearly."
"So much the better. You told me you'd sent
for the doctor . . . you did that to console
yourself . . . now console me too; send a
messenger . . ."
"To Arkady Nikolaich?" interposed the old
man.
"Who's Arkady Nikolaich?" said Bazarov with
some hesitation . . . "Oh, yes, that little
fledgeling! No, leave him alone, he's turned
into a jackdaw now. Don't look surprised,
I'm not raving yet. But you send a messenger
to Madame Odintsov, Anna Sergeyevna, she's
a landowner near by--do you know?" (Vassily
Ivanovich nodded his head.) "Say 'Evgeny Bazarov
sends his greetings, and sent to say he is
dying.' Will you do that?"
"I will . . . But is it a possible thing,
that you should die, you, Evgeny . . . judge
for yourself. Where would divine justice be
after that?"
"I don't know; only you send the messenger."
"I'll send him this minute, and I'll write
a letter myself."
"No, why? Say, I send my greetings, and nothing
more is necessary. And now I'll go back to
my dogs. How strange! I want to fix my thoughts
on death, and nothing comes of it. I see a
kind of patch . . . and nothing more."
He turned over heavily towards the wall; and
Vassily Ivanovich went out of the study and,
struggling as far as his wife's bedroom, collapsed
on his knees in front of the sacred images.
"Pray, Arina, pray to God!" he groaned. "Our
son is dying."
The doctor, that same district doctor who
had been without any caustic, arrived, and
after examining the patient, advised them
to persevere with a cooling treatment and
threw in a few words about the possibility
of recovery.
"Have you ever seen people in my state not
setting off for the Elysian fields?" asked
Bazarov, and suddenly snatching the leg of
a heavy table standing near his sofa, he swung
it round and pushed it away.
"There's strength enough," he murmured. "It's
all there still, and I must die . . . An old
man has time at least to outgrow the habit
of living, but I . . . well, let me try to
deny death. It will deny me, and that's the
end of it! Who's crying there?" he added after
a pause. "Mother? Poor mother! Whom will she
feed now with her wonderful cabbage soup?
And I believe you're whimpering too, Vassily
Ivanovich! Why, if Christianity doesn't help
you, be a philosopher, a Stoic, and that sort
of thing! Surely you prided yourself on being
a philosopher?"
"What kind of philosopher am I!" sobbed Vassily
Ivanovich, and the tears streamed down his
cheeks.
Bazarov got worse with every hour; the disease
progressed rapidly, as usually happens in
cases of surgical poisoning. He had not yet
lost consciousness and understood what was
said to him; he still struggled. "I don't
want to start raving," he muttered, clenching
his fists; "what rubbish it all is!" And then
he said abruptly, "Come, take ten from eight,
what remains?" Vassily Ivanovich wandered
about like one possessed, proposing first
one remedy, then another, and ended by doing
nothing except cover up his son's feet. "Try
wrapping up in cold sheets . . . emetic . . . mustard
plasters on the stomach . . . bleeding," he
said with an effort. The doctor, whom he had
begged to stay, agreed with everything he
said, gave the patient lemonade to drink,
and for himself asked for a pipe and for something
"warming and strengthening"--meaning vodka.
Arina Vlasyevna sat on a low stool near the
door and only went out from time to time to
pray. A few days previously, a little mirror
had slipped out of her hands and broken, and
she had always considered this as a bad omen;
even Anfisushka was unable to say anything
to her. Timofeich had gone off to Madame Odintsov's
place.
The night passed badly for Bazarov . . . High
fever tortured him. Towards the morning he
felt a little easier. He asked Arina Vlasyevna
to comb his hair, kissed her hand and swallowed
a few sips of tea. Vassily Ivanovich revived
a little.
"Thank God!" he repeated, "the crisis is near
. . . the crisis is coming."
"There, think of that!" muttered Bazarov.
"What a lot a word can do! He's found one;
he said 'crisis' and is comforted. It's an
astounding thing how human beings have faith
in words. You tell a man, for instance, that
he's a fool, and even if you don't thrash
him he'll be miserable; call him a clever
fellow, and he'll be delighted even if you
go off without paying him."
This little speech of Bazarov's, recalling
his old sallies, greatly moved Vassily Ivanovich.
"Bravo! splendidly said, splendid!" he exclaimed,
making as though to clap his hands.
Bazarov smiled ruefully.
"Well, so do you think the crisis is over
or approaching?"
"You're better, that's what I see, that's
what rejoices me.
"Very well; there's never any harm in rejoicing.
And, do you remember, did you send the message
to her?"
"Of course I did."
The change for the better did not last long.
The disease resumed its onslaughts. Vassily
Ivanovich was sitting close to Bazarov. The
old man seemed to be tormented by some particular
anguish. He tried several times to speak--but
could not.
"Evgeny!" he ejaculated at last, "My son,
my dear, beloved son!"
This unexpected outburst produced an effect
on Bazarov . . . He turned his head a little,
evidently trying to fight against the load
of oblivion weighing down on him, and said,
"What is it, father?"
"Evgeny," went on Vassily Ivanovich, and fell
on his knees in front of his son, who had
not opened his eyes and could not see him.
"You're better now; please God, you will recover;
but make good use of this interval, comfort
your mother and me, fulfill your duty as a
Christian! How hard it is for me to say this
to you--how terrible; but still more terrible
would be . . . forever and ever, Evgeny . . . just
think what . . ."
The old man's voice broke and a strange look
passed over his son's face, though he still
lay with his eyes closed.
"I won't refuse, if it's going to bring any
comfort to you, he muttered at last; "but
it seems to me there's no need to hurry about
it. You say yourself, I'm better."
"Yes, Evgeny, you're better, certainly, but
who knows, all that is in God's hands, and
in fulfilling your duty . ."
"No, I'll wait a bit," interrupted Bazarov.
"I agree with you that the crisis has come.
But if we're mistaken, what then? Surely they
give the sacrament to people who are already
unconscious."
"For heaven's sake, Evgeny, . ."
"I'll wait, I want to sleep now. Don't disturb
me."
And he laid his head back on the pillow. The
old man rose from his knees, sat down on a
chair and clutching at his chin began to bite
his fingers. . . ."
The sound of a carriage on springs, a sound
so remarkably distinguishable in the depths
of the country, suddenly struck upon his hearing.
The light wheels rolled nearer and nearer;
the snorting of the horses was already audible.
. . . Vassily Ivanovich jumped up and ran
to the window. A two-seated carriage harnessed
with four horses was driving into the courtyard
of his little house. Without stopping to consider
what this could mean, feeling a kind of senseless
outburst of joy, he ran out into the porch
. . . A livened groom was opening the carriage
door; a lady in a black shawl, her face covered
with a black veil, stepped out of it . . .
"I am Madame Odintsov," she murmured. "Is
Evgeny Vassilich still alive? Are you his
father? I have brought a doctor with me."
"Benefactress!" exclaimed Vassily Ivanovich,
and seizing her hand, he pressed it convulsively
to his lips, while the doctor brought by Anna
Sergeyevna, a little man in spectacles, with
a German face, climbed very deliberately out
of the carriage. "He's still alive, my Evgeny
is alive and now he will be saved! Wife! Wife!
An angel from heaven has come to us . . ."
"What is this, my God!" stammered the old
woman, running out of the drawing room, and
understanding nothing, she fell on the spot
in the hall at Anna Sergeyevna's feet and
began kissing her skirt like a mad woman.
"What are you doing?" protested Anna Sergeyevna;
but Arina Vlasyevna did not heed her and Vassily
Ivanovich could only repeat, "An angel! An
angel!"
"Wo ist der Kranke? Where is the patient?"
said the doctor at last in some indignation.
Vassily Ivanovich came to his senses.
"Here, this way, please follow me, werthester
Herr Kollege," he added, remembering his old
habits.
"Ah!" said the German with a sour grin.
Vassily Ivanovich led him into the study.
"A doctor from Anna Sergeyevna Odintsov,"
he said, bending right down to his son's ear,
"and she herself is here."
Bazarov suddenly opened his eyes.
"What did you say?"
"I tell you that Anna Sergeyevna is here and
has brought this gentleman, a doctor, with
her."
Bazarov's eyes looked round the room.
"She is here . . . I want to see her."
"You will see her, Evgeny; but first we must
have a talk with the doctor. I will tell him
the whole history of your illness, as Sidor
Sidorich (this was the district doctor's name)
has gone, and we will have a little consultation."
Bazarov glanced at the German.
"Well, talk away quickly, only not in Latin;
you see I know the meaning of 'jam moritur.'"
"Der Herr scheint des Deutschen mächtig zu
sein," began the new disciple of Aesculapius,
turning to Vassily Ivanovich."
"Ich . . . gabe . . . We had better speak
Russian," said the old man.
"Ah! so that's how it is . . . by all means
. . ." And the consultation began.
Half an hour later Anna Sergeyevna, accompanied
by Vassily Ivanovich, entered the study. The
doctor managed to whisper to her that it was
hopeless even to think that the patient might
recover.
She looked at Bazarov, and stopped short in
the doorway--so abruptly was she struck by
his inflamed and at the same time deathlike
face and by his dim eyes fixed on her. She
felt a pang of sheer terror, a cold and exhausting
terror; the thought that she would not have
felt like this if she had really loved him--flashed
for a moment through her mind.
"Thank you," he said in a strained voice;
"I never expected this. It is a good deed.
So we see each other once more, as you promised."
"Anna Sergeyevna was so good . . ." began
Vassily Ivanovich.
"Father, leave us alone . . . Anna Sergeyevna,
you will allow it, I think, now . . ." With
a motion of his head he indicated his prostrate
helpless body.
Vassily Ivanovich went out.
"Well, thank you," repeated Bazarov. "This
is royally done. They say that emperors also
visit the dying."
"Evgeny Vassilich, I hope . . ."
"Ah, Anna Sergeyevna, let's speak the truth.
It's all over with me. I've fallen under the
wheel. So it turns out that there was no point
in thinking about the future. Death is an
old joke, but it comes like new to everyone.
So far I'm not afraid . . . but soon I'll
lose consciousness and that's the end!" (He
waved his hand feebly.) "Well, what have I
to say to you . . . I loved you? That had
no sense even before, and less than ever now.
Love is a form, but my own form is already
dissolving. Better for me to say--how wonderful
you are! And now you stand there, so beautiful.
. ."
Anna Sergeyevna involuntarily shuddered.
"Never mind, don't be agitated . . . Sit down
over there . . . Don't come close to me; you
know my disease is infectious."
Anna Sergeyevna walked quickly across the
room and sat down in the armchair near the
sofa on which Bazarov was lying.
"Noble-hearted," he whispered. "Oh, how near,
and how young, fresh and pure . . . in this
disgusting room! Well, good-by! Live long,
that's best of all, and made the most of it
while there is time. You see, what a hideous
spectacle, a worm, half-crushed, but writhing
still. Of course I also thought, I'll break
down so many things, I won't die, why should
I? There are problems for me to solve, and
I'm a giant! And now the only problem of this
giant is how to die decently, though that
too makes no difference to anyone . . . Never
mind; I'm not going to wag my tail."
Barazov fell silent and began feeling with
his hand for the glass. Anna Sergeyevna gave
him some water to drink, without taking off
her glove and breathing apprehensively.
"You will forget me," he began again. "The
dead is no companion for the living. My father
will tell you what a man Russia has lost in
me . . . That's nonsense, but don't disillusion
the old man. Whatever toy comforts the child
. . . you know. And be kind to my mother.
People like them can't be found in your great
world even if you search for them by day with
a torch . . . Russia needed me . . . no, clearly
I wasn't needed. And who is needed? The shoemaker's
needed, the tailor's needed, the butcher . . . sells
meat . . . the butcher--wait a bit, I'm getting
mixed up . . . there's a forest here . . ."
Bazarov put his hand on his forehead.
Anna Sergeyevna bent over him. "Evgeny Vassilich,
I am here . . ."
He at once took his hand away and raised himself.
"Good-by," he said with sudden force, and
his eyes flashed with a parting gleam. "Good-by
. . . Listen . . . you know I never kissed
you then . . . Breathe on the dying lamp and
let it go out."
Anna Sergeyevna touched his forehead with
her lips.
"Enough," he murmured, and fell back on the
pillow. "And now . . . darkness . . ."
Anna Sergeyevna slipped softly out.
"Well?" Vassily Ivanovich asked her in a whisper.
"He has fallen asleep," she answered, almost
inaudibly.
Bazarov was not destined to awaken again.
Towards evening he sank into a complete coma,
and the following day he died. Father Alexei
performed the last rites of religion over
him. When they anointed him, and the holy
oil touched his breast, one of his eyes opened,
and it seemed as though, at the sight of the
priest in his vestments, of the smoking censer,
of the candle burning in front of the image,
something like a shudder of horror passed
through his death-stricken face. When at last
he had stopped breathing and a general lamentation
arose in the house, Vassily Ivanovich was
seized by a sudden fit of frenzy.
"I said I should rebel!" he shouted hoarsely,
his face red and distorted, and shaking his
fist in the air as if he were threatening
someone. "And I rebel, I rebel!"
But Arina Vlasyevna, all in tears, flung her
arms round his neck and both fell on their
knees together. "So side by side," related
Anfisushka afterwards in the servants' room,
"they bowed their poor heads like lambs in
the heat of noon-day. . ."
But the heat of noonday passes and is followed
by evening and night, and there comes the
return to a quiet refuge where sleep is sweet
for the tormented and weary . . .
Chapter 28
SIX MONTHS PASSED. WHITE WINTER HAD SET IN
WITH THE CRUEL stillness of cloudless frosts,
with its thick crunching snow, rosy hoarfrost
on the trees, pale emerald sky, wreaths of
smoke curling above the chimneys, steam emerging
from momentarily opened doors, with those
fresh faces which look bitten by cold, and
the hurried trot of shivering horses. A January
day was drawing to its close; the evening
cold pierced keenly through the motionless
air, and a brilliant sunset was rapidly dying
away. Lights were burning in the windows of
the house at Maryino; Prokovich in a black
tail coat and white gloves, with an air of
unusual solemnity, was laying the table for
seven. A week earlier in the small parish
church, two weddings had taken place quietly,
almost without witnesses--Arkady's marriage
to Katya and that of Nikolai Petrovich to
Fenichka; and on this day Nikolai Petrovich
was giving a farewell dinner for his brother,
who was going away to Moscow on some business.
Anna Sergeyevna had also gone there directly
the wedding was over, after making generous
presents to the young couple.
Punctually at three o'clock the whole company
assembled at the table. Mitya was brought
along too and with him appeared a nurse in
an embroidered peasant headdress. Pavel Petrovich
sat between Katya and Fenichka; the husbands
sat next to their wives. Our friends had somewhat
changed lately; they all seemed to have grown
better looking and stronger; only Pavel Petrovich
had become thinner, which, incidentally, still
further enhanced the elegant and "grand seigneur"
quality of his expressive features . . . Fenichka,
too, was different. In a fresh-colored silk
dress with a wide velvet headdress on her
hair, and a gold chain round her neck, she
sat respectfully motionless, respectful towards
herself and everyone around her, and smiled,
as if she wanted to say: "Excuse me, I'm not
to blame." And not only she--the others also
all smiled and seemed to excuse themselves;
they all felt a little awkward, a little sad,
but fundamentally happy. They all helped each
other with an amusing attentiveness, as if
they had agreed in advance to act some good-natured
comedy. Katya was quieter than any of the
others; she looked confidently around her,
and it was already noticeable that Nikolai
Petrovich had managed to become quite devoted
to her. Just before the dinner was over he
stood up and, holding his glass in his hand,
turned to Pavel Petrovich.
"You are leaving us . . . you are leaving
us, dear brother," he began, "not for long,
of course; but still I can't help telling
you what I . . . what we . . . how much I
. . . how much we . . . That's the worst of
it, we don't know how to make speeches. Arkady,
you speak."
"No, daddy, I'm not prepared for it."
"And I'm so well prepared! Well, brother,
I simply say, allow us to embrace you, to
wish you all the best, and come back to us
soon!"
Pavel Petrovich exchanged kisses with everyone,
not excluding Mitya, of course; moreover,
he kissed Fenichka's hand, which she had not
yet learned to offer properly, and drinking
off his refilled glass, he said with a deep
sigh: "Be happy, my friends! Farewell!" This
English ending passed unnoticed; but everyone
was deeply touched.
"To Bazarov's memory," whispered Katya in
her husband's ear as she clinked glasses with
him. Arkady pressed her hand warmly in response,
but he did not venture to propose that toast
aloud.
This would seem to be the end; but perhaps
some of our readers would care to know what
each of the characters we have introduced
is doing now, at the present moment. We are
ready to satisfy that interest.
Anna Sergeyevna has recently married again,
not for love but out of reasonable conviction,
a man who may be one of the future leaders
of Russia, a very clever lawyer with vigorous
practical sense, a strong will and a remarkable
gift of eloquence--still young, good-natured,
and cold as ice. They live very harmoniously
together and may live to the point of attaining
happiness . . . perhaps even love. Princess
X. is dead, forgotten on the day of her death.
The Kirsanovs, father and son, live at Maryino.
Their fortunes are beginning to mend. Arkady
has become assiduous in the management of
the estate, and the "farm" now yields a fairly
substantial income. Nikolai Petrovich has
become one of the arbitrators in the land
reforms and works with all his energy; he
is constantly driving about the district,
delivers long speeches (he belongs to those
who believe that the peasants must be "made
to understand," meaning that by frequent repetition
of the same words they should be brought into
a state of quiescence); and yet, to tell the
truth, he does not fully satisfy either the
cultured landowners, talking with a hiss or
with a sigh about the emancipation (pronouncing
it like a French word) or the uncultured ones
who without ceremony curse the "damned emancipation."
He is too softhearted for either set. Katerina
Sergeyevna has a son, Kolya, and Mitya already
runs about fearlessly, and talks a lot. Fenichka,
Fedosya Nikolaevna, after her husband and
Mitya, adores no one so much as her daughter-in-law,
and when Katerina plays the piano, she would
gladly spend the whole day at her side. A
passing word about Pyotr. He has grown quite
rigid with stupidity and self-importance,
and pronounces all his o's like u's, but he
too is married, and received a respectable
dowry with his wife, the daughter of a market
gardener in the town, who had refused two
excellent suitors, only because they had no
watches; while Pyotr not only had a watch--he
even had a pair of patent leather shoes.
In Dresden on the Brühl terrace, between
two and four o'clock--the most fashionable
time for walking--you may meet a man of about
fifty, already quite grey and looking as though
he suffered from gout, but still handsome,
elegantly dressed and with that special style
which comes only to those who have long been
accustomed to move in the higher ranks of
society. This man is Pavel Petrovich. From
Moscow he went abroad for his health, and
has settled down in Dresden, where he associates
chiefly with English people and with Russian
visitors. With the English he behaves simply,
almost modestly, but with dignity; they find
him a trifle boring but respect him for being,
as they say, "a perfect gentleman." With Russians
he is more free and easy, gives vent to his
spleen, makes fun of them and of himself,
but he does all this very agreeably, with
an air of ease and civility. He holds Slavophil
views; this is known to be regarded in the
best society as très distingué. He reads
nothing in Russian, but on his writing-desk
there stands a silver ash tray in the shape
of a peasant's plaited shoe. He is much sought
after by our Russian tourists. Matvei Ilyich
Kolyazin, happening to be "in temporary opposition,"
paid him a ceremonious visit on his way to
a Bohemian watering place; and the local population,
with whom, incidentally, he has little to
do, treat him with an almost awestruck veneration.
No one can so readily and quickly secure tickets
for the court choir and the theater as the
Herr Baron von Kirsanov. He does as much good
as he can; he still causes some stir in the
world, not for nothing was he once such a
great social lion; but his life is a burden
to him . . . a heavier burden than he himself
suspects. One should look at him in the Russian
church: when leaning against the wall on one
side, he stands absorbed in thought without
stirring for a long time, bitterly compressing
his lips, then suddenly recollects himself
and begins almost imperceptibly to cross himself
. . .
Madame Kukshina also settled abroad. She is
now in Heidelberg, and is no longer studying
natural history but has turned to architecture,
in which, according to her own account, she
has discovered new laws. As before, she associates
with students, especially with young Russians
studying physics and chemistry with whom Heidelberg
is crowded, and who at first astonish the
naïve German professors by their sober outlook
on things, but later on astound the same professors
by their complete incapability and absolute
laziness. In company with two or three such
young chemistry students, who cannot distinguish
oxygen from nitrogen, but are brimming over
with destructive criticism and conceit, Sitnikov,
together with the great Elisyevich, also prepares
to become a great man; he roams about in Petersburg,
convinced that he is carrying on the "task"
of Bazarov. There is a story that someone
recently gave him a beating, but that he secured
his revenge: in an obscure little article,
hidden away in some obscure little periodical,
he hinted that the man who had beaten him
was--a coward. He calls this irony. His father
bullies him as before, while his wife regards
him as a fool . . . and a literary man.
There is a small village graveyard in one
of the remote corners of Russia. Like almost
all our graveyards, it has a melancholy look;
the ditches surrounding it have long been
overgrown; grey wooden crosses have fallen
askew and rotted under their once painted
gables; the gravestones are all out of position,
just as if someone had pushed them from below;
two or three bare trees hardly provide some
meager shade; the sheep wander unchecked among
the tombs . . . But among them is one grave
untouched by human beings and not trampled
on by any animal; only the birds perch on
it and sing at daybreak. An iron railing surrounds
it and two young fir trees have been planted
there, one at each end; Evgeny Bazarov is
buried in this tomb. Often from the near-by
village two frail old people come to visit
it--a husband and wife. Supporting one another,
they walk with heavy steps; they go up to
the iron railing, fall on their knees and
weep long and bitterly, and gaze intently
at the silent stone under which their son
lies buried; they exchange a few words, wipe
away the dust from the stone or tidy up some
branches of a fir tree, then start to pray
again and cannot tear themselves away from
that place where they seem to be nearer to
their son, to their memories of him . . . Can
it be that their prayers and their tears are
fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred devoted
love, is not all powerful? Oh, no! However
passionate, sinful or rebellious the heart
hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over
it peep at us serenely with their innocent
eyes; they tell us not only of eternal peace,
of that great peace of "indifferent" nature;
they tell us also of eternal reconciliation
and of life without end.
