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Fathers and Sons

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev · English · Gutenberg #47935 · 477,272 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Fathers and Sons

Author: Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Translator: C. J. Hogarth


        
Release date: January 10, 2015 [eBook #47935]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHERS AND SONS ***
FATHERS AND SONS

BY

IVAN S. TURGENEV

Translated from the Russian by C.J. Hogarth


LONDON & TORONTO

PUBLISHED BY J.M. DENT & SONS LTD & IN NEW YORK

BY E.P. DUTTON & CO

1921




INTRODUCTION


In this masterly unromantic novel, Turgenev drew a character, Bazarov,
who served to express what he taught us to call Nihilism, and made
a movement into a man. In Russia itself the effect of the story was
astonishing. The portrait of Bazarov was immediately and angrily
resented as a cold travesty. The portraits of the "backwoodsmen," or
retired aristocrats, fared no better. Turgenev had indeed roused the
ire of both sides, only too surely.

The Petrovitchs, typical figures as he designed them of the Russian
nobility, were intended he confessed to breathe "feebleness,
nonchalance, narrowness of mind." His sense of fitness made him paint
with extreme care these choice representatives of their class. They
were the pick, and if they were humanly ineffective, what of their
weaker kind? "Si la crême est mauvaise, que sera le lait?" as he
put it. The bitterest criticism came, however, from the side of the
revolutionaries and incompatibles. They felt in Turgenev the sharper
artistry and the intimate irony as if he had only used these qualities
in dealing with the specific case of Bazarov; whereas they were
temperamental effects of his narrative art. He was ready to assert
himself one of the party of youth. He was at one with Bazarov, he
declared, in nearly all his ideas, a chief exception being Bazarov's
ideas on art, which in truth are apt to be more crudely delivered than
the rest of that iconoclast's destructive opinions. Bazarov, he said
once and again, was his favourite child.

It is nearly forty years now (in 1921) since the novel appeared in
_The Russian Messenger_, a weekly which was the recognised exponent
of the new movement. That proverbial period has lent a softer cast
to the lineaments of the people in the group, as time touches the
canvas of the pictures in an old country-house gallery. But the
interesting thing is to find that history in the large has terribly and
irresistibly confirmed the history in little that Turgenev drew, with a
sure instinct, for the potential anticipations of his saga.

But we should be wrong if we mistook its clear pervading realities
for those of a tract-novel, or a document of any one particular
generation. It is as its title declares in a sense another fable of
the inevitable coil and recoil of the two generations. The sympathetic
power of Turgenev is shown in his instinctive understanding of them
both. An aristocrat by training, he was saved as Tolstoi was from
sterilising his imaginative and dramatic powers by any sense of caste
and privilege. He loved the play of human nature, knew how to reckon
with its foibles, its pride, habitual prejudices, and all tragic and
comic susceptibilities. So he drew Bazarov, as a protagonist of the
revolt against the old order and the protective habit of age. When
Bazarov enters the house of Arkady's father, he is like Don Quixote
entering the inn of his direst probation. If the parallel seems a
trifle fantastic, it was yet one that Turgenev would let pass, since he
affirmed that Don Quixote himself was, in his inimitable extravagance,
a type of the eternal spirit of revolution. And one would like, if
there were room for it, to print as preamble to _Fathers and Sons_, the
essay in which its writer has compared the deeper essentials of Hamlet
and Quixote.

We must be satisfied instead to recall the direct event of the novel,
as it falls in his own record. The present writer, some years ago,
spent a spring at Ventnor in the Isle of Wight, and found the house
on the sea-brink in which he stayed had been occupied by Turgenev at
one time. Then and there it was, in 1860 and at Ventnor, that he had
the first idea of this novel; and it is scarcely being too fanciful
to think that he imagined the home environment and the spacious vista
of the Russian provinces more fondly and more freely, because of his
being at a long remove from them in that small and confined seaside
nook of Ventnor. Already, we must remember, the liberation of the serf
had taken place; and the ferment of liberal ideas was working in the
new generation. As we look back, we see in our wisdom after the event,
having realised Turgenev for the novelist he was--an artist who was
for ever adjusting the moment to the permanent in art--that it was
inevitable he should write this book, this tragi-comedy of age and
youth, of the old order and the new, the conservating fathers and the
revolutionary sons.

E. R.

The following is the list of Turgenev's chief works:

/#
      ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF WORKS: Russian Life in the Interior:
      or, the Experiences of a Sportsman, from French version, by
      J. D. Meiklejohn, 1855; Annals of a Sportsman, from French
      version, by F. P. Abbott, 1855; Tales from the Notebook of a
      Sportsman, from the Russian, by E. Richter, 1895; Fathers and
      Sons, from the Russian, by E. Schuyler, 1867, 1883; Smoke:
      or, Life at Baden, from French version, 1868, by W. F. West,
      1872, 1883; Liza: or, a Nest of Nobles, from the Russian, by
      W. R. S. Ralston, 1869, 1873, 1884; On the Eve, a tale, from
      the Russian, by C. E. Turner, 1871; Dimitri Roudine, from
      French and German versions, 1873, 1883; Spring Floods, from the
      Russian, by S. M. Batts, 1874; from the Russian, by E. Richter,
      1895; A Lear of the Steppe, from the French, by W. H. Browne,
      1874; Virgin Soil, from the French, by T. S. Perry, 1877, 1883,
      by A. W. Dilke, 1878; Poems in Prose, from the Russian, 1883;
      Senilia, Poems in Prose, with a Biographical Sketch of the
      Author, by S. J. Macmillan, 1890; First Love, and Punin and
      Baburin, from the Russian, with a Biographical Introduction,
      by S. Jerrold, 1884; Mumu, and the Diary of a Superfluous Man,
      from the Russian, by H. Gersoni, 1884; Annouchka, a tale,
      from the French version, by F. P. Abbott, 1884; from the
      Russian (with An Unfortunate Woman), by H. Gersoni, 1886; The
      Unfortunate One, from the Russian, by A. R. Thompson, 1888 (see
      above for Gersoni's translation); The Watch, from the Russian,
      by J. E. Williams, 1893.

      WORKS: Novels, translated by Constance Garnett, 15 vols.,
      1894-99, 1906, 1921. Novels and Stories, translated by Isabel
      F. Hapgood, with an Introduction by Henry James, 1903, etc.

      LIFE: See above, Biographical Introductions to Poems in Prose
      and First Love; E. M. Arnold, Tourguéneff and his French
      Circle, translated from the work of E. Halperine-Kaminsky,
      1898; J. A. T. Lloyd, Two Russian Reformers: Ivan Turgenev, Leo
      Tolstoy, 1910.
#/



I


"Well, Peter? Cannot you see them yet?" asked a _barin_[1] of about
forty who, hatless, and clad in a dusty jacket over a pair of tweed
breeches, stepped on to the verandah of a posting-house on the 20th
day of May, 1859. The person addressed was the _barin's_ servant--a
round-cheeked young fellow with small, dull eyes and a chin adorned
with a tuft of pale-coloured down.

Glancing along the high road in a supercilious manner, the servant
(in whom everything, from the turquoise ear-ring to the dyed, pomaded
hair and the mincing gait, revealed the modern, the rising generation)
replied: "No, _barin_, I cannot."

"Is that so?" queried the _barin_.

"Yes," the servant affirmed.

The _barin_ sighed, and seated himself upon a bench. While he is
sitting there with his knees drawn under him and his eyes moodily
glancing to right and left, the reader may care to become better
acquainted with his personality.

His name was Nikolai Petrovitch Kirsanov, and he owned (some fifteen
versts from the posting-house) a respectable little property of about
two hundred souls (or, as, after that he had apportioned his peasantry
allotments, and set up a "farm," he himself expressed it, a property
"of two thousand _desiatini_"[2]). His father, one of the generals
of 1812, had spent his life exclusively in military service as the
commander, first of a brigade, and then of a division; and always he
had been quartered in the provinces, where his rank had enabled him to
cut a not inconspicuous figure. As for Nikolai Petrovitch himself, he
was born in Southern Russia (as also was his elder brother, Paul--of
whom presently), and, until his fourteenth year, received his education
amid a circle of hard-up governors, free-and-easy aides-de-camp, and
sundry staff and regimental officers. His mother came of the family of
the Koliazins, and, known in maidenhood as Agathe, and subsequently as
Agathoklea Kuzminishna Kirsanov, belonged to the type of "officer's
lady." That is to say, she wore pompous mobcaps and rustling silk
dresses, was always the first to approach the cross in church, talked
volubly and in a loud tone, of set practice admitted her sons to kiss
her hand in the morning, and never failed to bless them before retiring
to rest at night. In short, she lived the life which suited her. As
the son of a general, Nikolai Petrovitch was bound--though he evinced
no particular bravery, and might even have seemed a coward--to follow
his brother Paul's example by entering the army; but unfortunately,
owing to the fact that, on the very day when there arrived the news of
his commission, he happened to break his leg, it befell that, after
two months in bed, he rose to his feet a permanently lamed man. When
his father had finished wringing his hands over the mischance, he sent
his son to acquire a civilian education; whence it came about that
Nikolai, at eighteen, found himself a student at the University of
St. Petersburg. At the same period his brother obtained a commission
in one of the regiments of Guards; and, that being so, their father
apportioned the two young men a joint establishment, and placed it
under the more or less detached supervision of Ilya Koliazin, their
maternal uncle and a leading _tchinovnik_.[3] That done, the father
returned to his division and his wife, and only at rare intervals
sent his sons sheets of grey foolscap (scrawled and re-scrawled in
flamboyant calligraphy) to which there was appended, amid a bower of
laborious flourishes, the signature "Piotr Kirsanov, Major-General."
In the year 1835 Nikolai Petrovitch obtained his university degree;
and in the same year General Kirsanov was retired for incompetence
at a review, and decided to transfer his quarters to St. Petersburg.
Unfortunately, just as he was on the point both of renting a house
near the Tavritchesky Gardens and of being enrolled as a member of
the English Club, a stroke put an end to his career, and Agathoklea
Kuzminishna followed him soon afterwards, since never had she succeeded
in taking to the dull life of the capital, but always had hankered
after the old provincial existence. Already during his parents'
lifetime, and to their no small vexation, Nikolai Petrovitch had
contrived to fall in love with the daughter of a certain _tchinovnik_
named Prepolovensky, the landlord of his flat; and since the maiden was
not only comely, but one of the type known as "advanced" (that is to
say, she perused an occasional "Science" article in one newspaper or
another), he married her out of hand as soon as the term of mourning
was ended, and, abandoning the Ministry of Provincial Affairs to which,
through his father's influence, he had been posted, embarked upon
connubial felicity in a villa adjoining the Institute of Forestry.
Thence, after a while, the couple removed to a diminutive, but in
every way respectable, flat which could boast of a spotless vestibule
and an icy-cold drawing-room; and thence, again, they migrated to the
country, where they settled for good, and where, in due time, they
had born to them a son Arkady. The existence of husband and wife
was one of perfect comfort and tranquillity. Almost never were they
parted from one another, they read together, they played the piano
together, and they sang duets. Also, she would garden or superintend
the poultry-yard, and he would set forth a-hunting, or see to the
management of the estate. Meanwhile Arkady led an existence of equal
calm and comfort, and grew, and waxed fat; until, in 1847, when ten
years had been passed in this idyllic fashion, Kirsanov's wife breathed
her last. The blow proved almost more than the husband could bear--so
much so that his head turned grey in a few weeks. Yet, though he sought
distraction for his thoughts by going abroad, he felt constrained, in
the following year, to return home, where, after a prolonged period of
inaction, he took up the subject of Industrial Reform. Next, in 1855,
he sent his son to the University of St. Petersburg, and, for the same
reason, spent the following three winters in the capital, where he
seldom went out, but spent the greater part of his time in endeavouring
to fraternise with his son's youthful acquaintances. The fourth winter,
however, he was prevented by various circumstances from spending in St.
Petersburg; and thus in the May of 1859 we see him--grey-headed, dusty,
a trifle bent, and wholly middle-aged--awaiting his son's home-coming
after the elevation of the latter (in Nikolai's own footsteps) to the
dignity of a graduate.

Presently either a sense of decency or (more probably) a certain
disinclination to remain immediately under his master's eye led the
servant to withdraw to the entrance gates, and there to light a pipe.
Nikolai Petrovitch, however, continued sitting with head bent, and his
eyes contemplating the ancient steps of the verandah, up which a stout
speckled hen was tap-tapping its way on a pair of splayed yellow legs,
and thereby causing an untidy, but fastidious-looking, cat to regard
it from the balustrade with marked disapproval. Meanwhile the sun
beat fiercely down, and from the darkened interior of a neighbouring
granary came a smell as of hot rye straw. Nikolai Petrovitch sank
into a reverie. "My son Arkady a graduate!"--the words kept passing
and repassing through his mind. Again and again he tried to think of
something else, but always the same thought returned to him. Until
eventually he reverted to the memory of his dead wife. "Would that she
were still with me!" was his yearning reflection. Presently a fat blue
pigeon alighted upon the roadway, and fell to taking a hasty drink from
a pool beside the well. And almost at the instant that the spectacle of
the bird caught Nikolai Petrovitch's eye, his ear caught the sound of
approaching wheels.

"They are coming, I think," hazarded the servant as he stepped forward
through the gates.

Nikolai Petrovitch sprang to his feet, and strained his eyes along the
road. Yes, coming into view there was a _tarantass_,[4] drawn by three
stagehorses; and in the _tarantass_ there could be seen the band of a
student's cap and the outlines of a familiar, well-beloved face.

"Arkasha, Arkasha!" was Kirsanov's cry as, running forward, he
waved his arms. A few moments later he was pressing his lips to the
sun-tanned, dusty, hairless cheek of the newly-fledged graduate.


[1] Gentleman or squire.

[2] The _desiatin_ = 2.86 acres.

[3] Civil servant.

[4] A species of four-wheeled carriage.




II


"Yes, but first give me a rub down, dearest Papa," said Arkady in a
voice which, though a little hoarsened with travelling, was yet clear
and youthful. "See! I am covering you with dust!" he added as joyously
he returned his father's caresses.

"Oh, but that will not matter," said Nikolai Petrovitch with a loving,
reassuring smile as he gave the collar of his son's blue cloak a
couple of pats, and then did the same by his own jacket. Thereafter,
gently withdrawing from his son's embrace, and beginning to lead the
way towards the inn yard, he added: "Come this way, come this way. The
horses will soon be ready."

His excitement seemed even to outdo his son's, so much did he stammer
and stutter, and, at times, find himself at a loss for a word. Arkady
stopped him.

"Papa," he said, "first let me introduce my good friend Bazarov, who is
the comrade whom I have so often mentioned in letters to you, and who
has been kind enough to come to us for a visit."

At once Nikolai Petrovitch wheeled round, and, approaching a tall man
who, clad in a long coat with a tasselled belt, had just alighted from
the _tarantass_, pressed the bare red hand which, after a pause, the
stranger offered him.

"I am indeed glad to see you!" was Nikolai Petrovitch's greeting, "I am
indeed grateful to you for your kindness in paying us this visit! Alas,
I hope that, that----But first might I inquire your name?"

"Evgenii Vasiliev," replied the other in slow, but virile, accents
as, turning down the collar of his coat, he revealed his face more
clearly. Long and thin, with a high forehead which looked flattened
at the top and became sharpened towards the nose, the face had large,
greenish eyes and long, sandy whiskers. The instant that the features
brightened into a smile, however, they betokened self-assurance and
intellect.

"My dearest Evgenii Vasiliev", Nikolai Petrovitch continued, "I trust
that whilst you are with us you will not find time hang heavy upon your
hands."

Bazarov gave his lips a slight twitch, but vouchsafed no reply
beyond raising his cap--a movement which revealed the fact that the
prominent convolutions of the skull were by no means concealed by the
superincumbent mass of indeterminate-coloured hair.

"Now, Arkady," went on Nikolai Petrovitch as he turned to his son,
"shall we have the horses harnessed at once, or should you prefer to
rest a little?"

"Let us rest at home, Papa. So pray have the horses put to."

"I will," his father agreed. "Peter! Bestir yourself, my good fellow!"

Being what is known as a "perfectly trained servant," Peter had neither
approached nor shaken hands with the young _barin_, but contented
himself with a distant bow. He now vanished through the yard gates.

"Though I have come in the _koliaska_," said Nikolai Petrovitch, "I
have brought three fresh horses for the _tarantass_."

Arkady then drank some water from a yellow bowl proffered by the
landlord, while Bazarov lighted a pipe, and approached the ostler, who
was engaged in unharnessing the stagehorses.

"Only two can ride in the _koliaska_," continued Nikolai Petrovitch;
"wherefore I am rather in a difficulty to know how your friend will----"

"Oh, he can travel in the _tarantass_," interrupted Arkady. "Moreover,
do not stand on any ceremony with him, for, wonderful though he is, he
is also quite simple, as you will find for yourself."

Nikolai Petrovitch's coachman brought out the horses, and Bazarov
remarked to the ostler:

"Come, bestir yourself, fat-beard!"

"Did you hear that, Mitiusha?" added another ostler who was standing
with his hands thrust into the back slits of his blouse. "The _barin_
has just called you a fat-beard. And a fat-beard you are."

For answer Mitiusha merely cocked his cap to one side and drew the
reins from the back of the sweating shafts-horse.

"Quick now, my good fellows!" cried Nikolai Petrovitch. "Bear a hand,
all of you, and for each there will be a glassful of _vodka_."

Naturally, it was not long before the horses were harnessed, and then
father and son seated themselves in the _koliaska_, Peter mounted the
box of that vehicle, and Bazarov stepped into the _tarantass_, and
lolled his head against the leather cushion at the back. Finally the
cortège moved away.




III


"To think that you are now a graduate and home again!" said Nikolai
Petrovitch as he tapped Arkady on the knee, and then on the shoulder.
"There now, there now!"

"And how is Uncle? Is he quite well?" asked Arkady--the reason for the
question being that though he felt filled with a genuine, an almost
childish delight at his return, he also felt conscious of an instinct
that the conversation were best diverted from the emotional to the
prosaic.

"Yes, your uncle is quite well. As a matter of fact, he also had
arranged to come and meet you, but at the last moment changed his mind."

"Did you have very long to wait?" continued Arkady.

"About five hours."

"Dearest Papa!" cried Arkady as, leaning over towards his father, he
imprinted upon his cheek a fervent kiss. Nikolai Petrovitch smiled
quietly.

"I have got a splendid horse for you," he next remarked. "Presently you
shall see him. Also, your room has been entirely repapered."

"And have you a room for Bazarov as well?"

"One shall be found for him."

"Oh--and pray humour him in every way you can. I could not express to
you how much I value his friendship."

"But you have not known him very long, have you?"

"No--not very long."

"I thought not, for I do not remember to have seen him in St.
Petersburg last winter. In what does he most interest himself?"

"Principally in natural science. But, to tell the truth, he knows
practically _everything_, and is to become a doctor next year."

"Oh! So he is in the Medical Faculty?" Nikolai Petrovitch remarked;
after which there was silence for a moment.

"Peter," went on Nikolai, pointing with his hand, "are not those
peasants there some of our own?"

Peter glanced in the direction indicated, and saw a few waggons
proceeding along a narrow by-road. The teams were bridleless, and in
each waggon were seated some two or three _muzhiks_ with their blouses
unbuttoned.

"Yes, they are some of our own," Peter responded.

"Then whither can they be going? To the town?"

"Yes--or to the tavern." This last was added contemptuously, and with
a wink to the coachman that was designed to enlist that functionary's
sympathy: but as the functionary in question was one of the old school
which takes no share in the modern movement, he stirred not a muscle of
his face.

"This year my peasants have been giving me a good deal of trouble,"
Nikolai Petrovitch continued to his son. "Persistently do they refuse
to pay their tithes. What ought to be done with them?"

"And do you find your hired workmen satisfactory?"

"Not altogether," muttered Nikolai Petrovitch. "You see, they have
become spoilt, more's the pity! Any real energy seems quite to have
left them, and they not only ruin my implements, but also leave the
land untilled. Does estate-management interest you?"

"The thing we most lack here is shade," remarked Arkady in evasion of
the question.

"Ah, but I have had an awning added to the north balcony, so that we
can take our meals in the open air."

"But that will give the place rather the look of a villa, will it not?
Things of that sort never prove effectual. But oh, the air here! How
good it smells! Yes, in my opinion, things never smell elsewhere as
they do here. And oh, the sky!"

Suddenly Arkady stopped, threw a glance of apprehension in the
direction of the _tarantass_, and relapsed into silence.

"I quite agree with you," replied Nikolai Petrovitch. "You see, the
reason is that you were born here, and that therefore the place is
bound to have for you a special significance."

"But no significance can attach to the place of a man's birth, Papa."

"Indeed?"

"Oh no. None whatsoever."

Nikolai Petrovitch glanced at the speaker, and for fully half a verst
let the vehicle proceed without the conversation between them being
renewed. At length Nikolai Petrovitch observed:

"I cannot remember whether I wrote to tell you that your old nurse,
Egorovna, is dead."

"Dead? Oh, the poor old woman! But Prokofitch--is _he_ still alive?"

"He is so, and in no way changed--that is to say, he grumbles as much
as ever. In fact, you will find that no _really_ important alterations
have taken place at Marino."

"And have you the same steward as before?"

"No; I have appointed a fresh one, for I came to the conclusion that
I could not have any freed serfs about the place. That is to say,
I did not feel as though I could trust such fellows with posts of
responsibility." Arkady indicated Peter with his eyes, and Nikolai
Petrovitch therefore subdued his voice a little. "He? Oh, _il est
libre, en effet_. You see, he is my valet. But as regards a steward,
I have appointed a _miestchanin_,[1] at a salary of 250 roubles a
year, and he seems at least capable. But"--and here Nikolai Petrovitch
rubbed his forehead, which gesture with him always implied inward
agitation--"I ought to say that, though I have told you that you will
find no alterations of importance at Marino, the statement is not
strictly true, seeing that it is my duty to warn you that, that----"
Nikolai Petrovitch hesitated again--then added in French: "Perhaps by a
stern moralist my frankness might be considered misplaced; yet I will
not conceal from you, nor can you fail to be aware, that always I have
had ideas of my own on the subject of the relations which ought to
subsist between a father and his son. At the same time, this is not to
say that you have not the right to _judge_ me. Rather, it is that at my
age----Well, to put matters bluntly, the girl whom you will have heard
me speak of----"

"You mean Thenichka?" said Arkady.

Nikolai Petrovitch's face went red.

"Do not speak of her so loudly," he advised. "Yes, _she_ is living with
us. I took her in because two of our smaller rooms were available. But
of course the arrangement must be changed."

"Why must it, Papa?"

"Because this friend of yours is coming, and also because--well, it
might make things awkward."

"Do not disturb yourself on Bazarov's account. He is altogether
superior to such things."

"Yes, so you say; but the mischief lies in the fact that the wing is so
small."

"Papa, Papa!" protested Arkady. "Almost one would think that you
considered yourself to blame for something; whereas you have _nothing_
to reproach yourself with."

"Ah, but I have," responded Nikolai Petrovitch. His face had turned
redder than ever.

"No, you have _not_, Papa," repeated Arkady with a loving smile, while
adding to himself with a feeling of indulgent tenderness for his good,
kind father, as well as with a certain sense of "superiority": "Why is
he making these excuses?"

"I beg of you to say no more," he continued with an involuntary feeling
of exultation in being "grown up" and "emancipated." As he did so
Nikolai Petrovitch glanced at him from under the fingers of the hand
which was still rubbing his brows. At the same moment something seemed
to give his heart a stab. Mentally, as before, he blamed himself.

"Here our fields begin," he observed after a pause.

"I see," rejoined Arkady. "And that is our forest in front, I suppose?"

"It is so. Only, only--I have sold it, and this year it is to be
removed."

"Why have you sold it?"

"Because I needed the money. Moreover, the land which it occupies must
go to the peasants."

"What? To the peasants who pay you no tithes?"

"Possibly. But some day they will pay me."

"I regret the forest's loss," said Arkady, and then resumed his
contemplation of the landscape.

The scenery which the party were traversing could not have been called
picturesque, for, with slight undulations, only fields, fields, and
again fields, stretched to the very horizon. True, a few patches of
copse were visible, but the ditches, with their borderings of low,
sparse brushwood, recalled the antique land-measurement of Katherine's
day. Also, streams ran pent between abruptly sloping banks, hamlets
with dwarfed huts (of which the blackened roofs were, for the most
part, cracked in half) stood cheek by jowl with crazy grinding-byres
of plaited willow, empty threshing-floors had their gates sagging,
and from churches of wood or of brick which stood amid dilapidated
graveyards the stucco was peeling, and the crosses were threatening at
any moment to fall. As he gazed at the scene Arkady's heart contracted.
Moreover, the peasants encountered on the road looked ragged, and were
riding sorry nags, while the laburnum trees which stood ranged like
miserable beggars by the roadside had their bark hanging in strips,
and their boughs shattered. Lastly, the lean, mud-encrusted cows which
could be seen hungrily cropping the herbage in the ditches were so
"staring" of coat that the animals might just have been rescued from
the talons of some terrible, death-dealing monster; and as one gazed at
those weak, pitiful beasts, almost one could fancy that one saw uprisen
from amid the beauty of spring, the pale phantoms of Winter--its storms
and its frost and its snow.

"Evidently this is not a rich district," reflected Arkady. "Rather,
it is a district which gives one the impression neither of abundance
nor of hard work. Yet can it be left as it is? No! Education is what
we need. But how is that education to be administered, or, for that
matter, to be introduced?"

Thus Arkady. Yet, even as the thought passed through his mind, Spring
seemed once more to regain possession of her kingdom, and everything
around him grew golden-green, and trees, shrubs, and herbage started
to wave and glimmer under the soft, warm breath of the vernal zephyrs,
and larks took to pouring out their souls in endless, ringing strains,
and siskins, circling high over sunken ponds, uttered their cry, then
skimmed the hillocks in silence, and handsome black rooks stalked
among the tender green of the short corn-shoots, or settled among the
pale-white, smokelike ripples of the young rye, whence at intervals
they protruded their heads.

Arkady gazed and gazed; and gradually, as he did so, his late thoughts
grew dimmer and disappeared, and, throwing off his travelling-cloak,
he peered so joyously, with such a boyish air, into his father's face
that Nikolai Petrovitch bestowed upon him yet another embrace.

"We have but little further to go now," he remarked. "In fact, when
once we have topped that rise the house will come into view. And what
a time we are going to have together, Arkasha! For you will be able
to help me with the estate (if you care to, that is to say?), and you
and I will draw nearer to one another, and make one another's better
acquaintance."

"We will!" cried Arkady. "And what splendid weather for us both!"

"Yes; specially for your home-coming is spring in all its glory. Yet I
am not sure that I do not agree with Pushkin where he says, in _Eugène
Onegin_:

/$
    "How sad to me is your coming,
     O spring, spring, season of love!"
$/

"Arkady," shouted Bazarov from the _tarantass_, "please send me a match
or two, for I have nothing to light my pipe with."

Instantly Nikolai Petrovitch ceased quoting poetry, and Arkady (who
had listened with considerable surprise, though also with a certain
measure of sympathy, to his father) hastened to produce from his pocket
a silver matchbox, and to dispatch the same by the hand of Peter.

"In return, would you care to have a cigar?" called Bazarov.

"I should," replied Arkady.

The result was that when Peter returned to the _koliaska_ he handed
Arkady not only the matchbox, but also a fat black cigar. This Arkady
lit at leisure, and then proceeded to diffuse around him so strong and
acrid an odour of tobacco that Nikolai Petrovitch (a non-smoker from
birth) found himself forced to avert his nose (though he did this
covertly, for fear of offending his son).

A quarter of an hour later the vehicles drew up at the steps of a new
wooden mansion, painted grey, and roofed with red sheet-iron. The
mansion was Marino, or Novaia Sloboda, or, to quote the peasants' name,
"Bobili Chutor."


[1] A member of the trading or shopkeeping class.




IV


There issued on to the verandah to greet the arrivals no throng of
household serfs--only a solitary girl of twelve. Presently, however,
she was joined by a young fellow much resembling Peter, but dressed
in a grey livery coat to which embossed, silver-gilt buttons were
attached. This was Paul Kirsanov's valet. In silence he opened the door
of the _koliaska_, and unhooked the apron of the _tarantass_; whereupon
the three gentlemen alighted, passed through a dark, bare hall (the
face of a young woman peered at them for a moment from behind a door),
and entered a drawing-room upholstered in the latest fashion.

"So here we are at home again!" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, taking
off his cap, and shaking back his hair. "Let us have supper, and then
for bed, bed!"

"Yes, something to eat would undoubtedly be welcome," remarked Bazarov
as, yawning, he seated himself upon a sofa.

"Quite so; I will have supper served at once." Nikolai Petrovitch,
for no apparent reason, tripped over his own feet. "And here comes
Prokofitch," he added.

As he spoke entered a man of about sixty who, white-haired, and of
thin, swarthy features, was wearing a cinnamon-coloured tail-coat
with brass buttons and a crimson collar. He smiled with delight as he
approached and shook hands with Arkady. Then, with a bow to the guest,
he retired to the doorway, and folded his hands behind his back.

"So here is the young master, Prokofitch!" said Nikolai Petrovitch.
"He is home at last. And how, think you, is he looking?"

"Very well, very well," the old man said with another smile. The next
moment, however, he knit his shaggy brows, and suggested: "Shall I lay
the table?"

"If you please, if you please." Nikolai Petrovitch turned to Bazarov.

"Before supper," he said, "would you care to go to your room?"

"I thank you, no. But please have my trunk conveyed thither, and also
this wrap." And Bazarov divested himself of his cloak.

"Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's cloak."

The old butler received the garment gingerly, held it well away from
him with both hands, and left the room on tiptoe.

"And you, Arkady?" continued Nikolai Petrovitch. "Do you not wish to go
to your room?"

"Yes; for a wash I should be thankful," was Arkady's reply as he moved
towards the door. At that moment it opened to admit a man of medium
height who was dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionably low
collar, and a pair of patent leather boots. This was Paul Petrovitch
Kirsanov. Although forty-five, he had close-cropped grey hair of the
sheen of new silver, and his sallow, unwrinkled face was as clear-cut
and regular of outline as though carved with a light, fine chisel.
Still retaining traces of remarkable comeliness, his bright, black,
oblong eyes had a peculiar attraction, and his every well-bred, refined
feature showed that symmetry of youth, that air of superiority to the
rest of the world which usually disappears when once the twenties have
been passed.

Drawing from his trouser pocket a slender hand the long, pink nails
of which looked all the slenderer for the snowy whiteness of the
superimposed cuff and large opal sleeve-link, he offered it to his
nephew; after which, this prefatory European "handshake" over, he
thrice kissed Arkady in the Russian fashion--that is to say, touched
his nephew's cheek with his perfumed moustache, and murmured: "I
congratulate you."

Next Nikolai Petrovitch presented to him Bazarov. Inclining his supple
figure with a faint smile, Paul Petrovitch this time did not offer his
hand. On the contrary, he replaced it in his pocket.

"I was beginning to think that you never meant to arrive," he said with
an amiable hoist of his shoulders and a display of some beautiful white
teeth. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," replied Arkady, "except that we lingered a little. For the
same reason are we as hungry as wolves; so pray tell Prokofitch to be
quick, Papa, and I shall be back in a moment."

"Wait; I will go with you," added Bazarov as he rose from the sofa; and
the two young men left the room together.

"Who is your guest?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

"A friend of Arkady's, and, according to Arkady's showing, a man of
intellect."

"He is going to stay here?"

"He is."

"A long-haired fellow like that?"

"Certainly."

In that particular direction Paul Petrovitch said no more, but, tapping
the table with his finger-nails, added:

"_Je pense que notre Arkady s'est dégourdi._[1] And in any case I am
pleased to see him back again."

At supper little was said. In particular did Bazarov scarcely speak,
though he ate heartily; and only Nikolai Petrovitch proved garrulous as
he related various incidents in what he termed his "agricultural life,"
and gossiped of forthcoming administrative measures, committees,
deputations, the need of introducing machinery, and other such topics.

For his part, Paul Petrovitch paced the room (he never took supper),
and sipped a glassful of red wine, and occasionally interjected some
such remark--rather, exclamation--as "Ah!" or "Oh, ho!" or "H'm!"
Arkady's contribution consisted of a little St. Petersburg gossip, even
though, throughout, he was conscious of a touch of that awkwardness
which overtakes a young man when, just ceased to be a boy, he returns
to the spot where hitherto he has ranked as a mere child. In other
words, he drawled his phrases unnecessarily, carefully avoided the use
of the term "Papasha,"[2] and, once, even went so far as to substitute
for it the term "Otety"[3]--though, true, he pronounced it with some
difficulty. Lastly, in his excessive desire to seem at his ease, he
helped himself to more wine than was good for him, and tasted some of
every brand. Meanwhile Prokofitch chewed his lips, and never removed
his eyes from his young master.

Supper over, the company dispersed.

"A queer fellow is that uncle of yours," Bazarov said to Arkady as,
clad in a dressing-gown, he seated himself by his friend's bed, and
sucked at a short pipe. "To think of encountering such elegance in the
country! He would take a prize with his finger-nails."

"You do not know him yet," said Arkady. "In his day he was a leading
lion, and some time or another I will tell you his history. Yes, many
and many a woman has lost her head over his good looks."

"Then I should think that he has nothing to live on save memories,"
observed Bazarov. "At all events, there is no one _here_ for him to
enslave. I looked him over to-night, and never in my life have beheld
a collar of such marvellous gloss, or a chin so perfectly shaven. Yet
such things can come to look ridiculous, do not you think?"

"Yes--perhaps they can. But he is such an excellent fellow in himself!"

"Oh, certainly--a truly archangelic personage! Your father, too, is
excellent; for though he may read foolish poetry, and though his ideas
on the subject of industry may be few, his heart is in the right place."

"He is a man with a heart of gold."

"Nevertheless, did you notice his nervousness to-night?"

Arkady nodded as though to himself such a weakness was a perfect
stranger.

"Curious indeed!" commented Bazarov. "Ah, you elderly Romanticists!
You over-develop the nervous system until the balance is upset. Now,
good-night. In my room there is an English washstand, yet the door
will not shut! But such things (English washstands I mean) need to be
encouraged: they represent 'progress.'"

And Bazarov departed, while Arkady surrendered himself to a sensation
of comfort. How pleasant was it to be sinking to sleep in one's
comfortable home, and in one's own familiar bed, and under a well-known
coverlet worked by loving hands--perhaps those of his good, kind,
tireless old nurse! And at the thought of Egorovna he sighed, and
commended her soul to the Heavenly Powers. But for himself he did not
pray.

Soon both he and Bazarov were asleep; but certain other members of the
household there were who remained wakeful. In particular had Nikolai
Petrovitch been greatly excited by his son's return; and though he went
to bed, he left the candle burning, and, resting with his head on his
hands, lay thinking deeply.

Also, his brother sat up in his study until nearly midnight. Seated
in an ample armchair before a corner where a marble stove was
smouldering, he had effected no alteration in his costume beyond
having exchanged his patent leather boots for a pair of heelless, red
felt slippers. Lastly, he was holding, though not reading, the latest
number of _Galignani_, and his eyes were fixed upon the stove, where
a quivering blue spurt of flame kept alternately disappearing and
bursting forth again. Whither his thoughts were wandering God only
knows; but that they were not meandering through the past alone was
proved by the fact that in his expression there was a concentrated
gloom which is never in evidence when a man's mind is occupied with
memories and no more.

Finally, seated on a chest in a small room at the back of the house,
and wearing a blue dressing-jacket and, thrown over her dark hair,
a white scarf, was the girl Thenichka. As she sat there she kept
listening, and starting, and gazing towards an open door which at once
afforded a glimpse of an infant's cot and admitted the sound of a
sleeping child's respiration.


[1] "I think that our friend Arkady has acquired some polish."

[2] Dear Papa.

[3] Father.




V


Next morning Bazarov was the first to awake and go out of doors.

"Ah," thought he to himself as he gazed about him, "this is _not_ much
of a place to look at."

When apportioning allotments to his peasantry, Nikolai Petrovitch had
found himself forced to exclude from the new "farm" four _desiatins_
of level, naked land, and upon this space had built himself a house,
quarters for his servants, and a homestead. Also, he had laid out
a garden, dug a pond, and sunk two wells. But the young trees had
fared badly, very little water had risen in the pond, and the wells
had developed a brackish taste. The only vegetation to attain robust
growth was a clump of lilacs and acacias, under the shade of which the
household was accustomed to take tea or to dine. Within a few minutes
Bazarov had traversed all the paths in the garden, visited the stables
and the cattlesheds, and made friends with two young household serfs
whom he happened to encounter, and with whom he set forth to catch
frogs in a marsh about a verst from the manor.

"For what do you want frogs, _barin_?" asked one of the lads.

"To make them useful," replied Bazarov (who possessed a peculiar gift
for winning the confidence of his inferiors, even though he never
cozened them, but, on the contrary, always treated them with asperity).
"You see, I like to open them, and then to observe what their insides
are doing. You and I are frogs too, except that we walk upon our hind
legs. Thus the operation helps me to understand what is taking place in
ourselves."

"And what good will that do you?"

"This. That if you should fall sick, and I should have to treat you, I
might avoid some mistakes."

"Then you are a doctor?"

"I am."

"Listen to that, Vasika! The _barin_ says that you and I too are frogs.
My word!"

"I don't like frogs," remarked Vasika, a barefooted boy of seven with
a head as white as tow, and a costume made up of a grey blouse and a
stiff collar.

"_Why_ don't you like them?" asked Bazarov. "Do you think they will
bite you? Nay! Into the water, my young philosophers!"

Nikolai Petrovitch too had left his bed, and, on going to visit Arkady,
found him fully dressed; wherefore father and son proceeded to repair
to the terrace, and there seated themselves under the shade of the
awning. Amid nosegays of lilac, a tea-urn was simmering on a table
by the balustrade, and presently there appeared upon the scene also
the damsel who, on the previous night, had met the arrivals on the
verandah. She announced in shrill tones:

"Theodosia Nikolaevna is not very well this morning, and cannot come to
breakfast. So she has told me to ask you whether you will pour out tea
for yourselves, or whether she is to send Duniasha?"

"I will pour it out myself," Nikolai Petrovitch replied with some
haste. "Will you have cream or lemon in your tea, Arkady?"

"Cream," he replied. After a pause he continued:

"Papasha----"

Nikolai Petrovitch glanced confusedly in his direction.

"Yes?" said he.

Arkady lowered his eyes.

"Pardon me if my question should seem to you indiscreet," he began,
"but, owing to your frankness of last night, I am emboldened to return
it. You will not take offence, will you?"

"Oh no! Pray go on."

"Then I feel encouraged to ask you whether it--whether it is because
I am here that she--that is to say, Thenichka--has not joined us at
breakfast?"

Nikolai Petrovitch slightly averted his face.

"It may be so," he said at length. "At all events, I presume that--that
she prefers, she prefers--in fact, that she is shy."

Arkady glanced at his father.

"But why should she be shy?" he inquired. "In the first place, you know
my views" (he uttered the words with no little complacency), "and, in
the second place, surely you cannot suppose that I would by a hair's
breadth intrude upon your life and your habits? No; sure am I that
never could you make a bad choice; and if you have asked this girl
to reside under your roof, that is tantamount to saying that she has
well deserved it. In any case, moreover, it is not for a son to summon
his father to judgment--least of all for me, who possess a father
like yourself, a father who has never restricted his son's freedom of
action."

At first Arkady's voice had trembled a little, since not only did he
feel that he was doing the "magnanimous," but also he knew that he
was delivering something like a "lecture" to his father; but such an
effect does the sound of his own voice exercise upon a human being that
towards the end Arkady pronounced his words firmly, and even with a
certain degree of _empressement_.

"I thank you, Arkady," Nikolai Petrovitch said faintly as his fingers
began their customary perambulation of his forehead. "Nor is your
conjecture mistaken, for if this girl had not deserved the invitation,
I should not, of course, have--in other words, as you imply, this is no
frivolous whim on my part. Nor need I have spoken of the matter, were
it not that I desired you to understand that she might possibly have
felt embarrassed at meeting you on the very day after your arrival."

"Then let _me_ go and meet _her_," exclaimed Arkady with another access
of "magnanimity" as he sprang from his chair. "Yes, let _me_ go and
explain to her why she need not shun me."

Nikolai Petrovitch also rose.

"Arkady," he began, "pray do me a favour. Hitherto I had not warned you
that----"

But, without listening to him, Arkady darted from the terrace. For
a moment or two Nikolai Petrovitch gazed after him--then, overcome
with confusion, relapsed into a chair. His heart was beating rapidly.
Whether or not he was picturing to himself a strangeness of future
relations with his son; whether he was imagining that, had his son
refrained from interfering, the latter might have paid him more respect
in future; whether he was reproaching himself for his own weakness--it
is difficult to say what his thoughts were. Probably in them there was
a combination of the feelings just indicated, if only in the form of
apprehensions. Yet those apprehensions cannot have been deeply rooted,
as was proved by the fact that, for all the beating of his heart, the
colour had not left his face.

Soon hasty footsteps were heard approaching, and Arkady reappeared on
the terrace.

"I have made her acquaintance!" he shouted with a kindly,
good-humoured, triumphant expression. "That Theodosia Nikolaievna is
not well to-day is a fact; but also it is a fact that she is going to
appear later. And why did you not tell me that I had a little brother?
Otherwise I should have gone and kissed him last night, even as I have
done this moment."

Nikolai Petrovitch tried to say something--to rise and to make an
explanation of some sort; but Arkady cut him short by falling upon his
neck.

"What is this? Again embracing?" said Paul Petrovitch behind them.

As a matter of fact, neither father nor son was ill-pleased to see
him appear, for, however touching such situations may be, one may be
equally glad to escape from them.

"At what are you surprised?" asked Nikolai Petrovitch gaily. "Remember
that I have not seen Arkesha for several centuries--at all events, not
since last night!"

"Oh, I am not surprised," said Paul Petrovitch. "On the contrary, I
should not mind embracing him myself."

And Arkady, on approaching his uncle, felt once more upon his cheek the
impression of a perfumed moustache. Paul Petrovitch then sat down to
table. Clad in an elegant morning suit of English cut, he was flaunting
on his head a diminutive fez which helped the carelessly folded tie to
symbolise the freedom of a country life. At the same time, the stiff
collar of the shirt (which was striped, not white, as best befitted
a matutinal toilet) supported with its usual rigour an immaculately
shaven chin.

"Well, Arkady?" said he. "Where is your new friend?"

"Out somewhere. He seldom misses going for an early morning walk.
But the great thing is to take no notice of him, for he detests all
ceremony."

"So I have perceived." And with his usual deliberateness Paul
Petrovitch began to butter a piece of bread. "Will he be staying here
very long?"

"Well, as long as he may care to stay. As a matter of fact, he is going
on to his father's place."

"And where does his father live?"

"Some eighty versts from here, in the same province as ourselves. I
believe he has a small property, and used to be an army doctor."

"H'm! Ever since last night I have been asking myself where I can have
heard the name before. Nikolai, do you remember whether there was a
doctor of that name in our father's division?"

"Yes, there used to be."

"Then that doctor will be this fellow's father. H'm!" And Paul
Petrovitch twitched his moustache. "What exactly is your Bazarov?" he
enquired of Arkady.

"What _is_ he?" Arkady repeated smiling. "Do you really want me to tell
you what he is, Uncle?"

"If you please, my nephew."

"He is a Nihilist."

"A what?" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, while even Paul Petrovitch
paused in the act of raising a knife to the edge of which there was a
morsel of butter adhering.

"A Nihilist," repeated Arkady.

"A Nihilist?" queried Nikolai Petrovitch. "I imagine that that must
be a term derived from the Latin _nihil_ or 'nothing.' It denotes,
I presume, a man who--a man who--well, a man who declines to accept
_anything_."

"Or a man who declines to _respect_ anything," hazarded Paul Petrovitch
as he re-applied himself to the butter.

"No, a man who treats things solely from the critical point of view,"
corrected Arkady.

"But the two things are one and the same, are they not?" queried Paul
Petrovitch.

"Oh no. A Nihilist is a man who declines to bow to authority, or to
accept any principle on trust, however sanctified it may be."

"And to what can that lead?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

"It depends upon the individual. In one man's case, it may lead to
good; in that of another, to evil."

"I see. But we elders view things differently. We folk of the
older generation believe that without principles" (Paul Petrovitch
pronounced the word softly, and with a French accent, whereas Arkady
had pronounced it with an emphasis on the leading syllable)--"without
principles it is impossible to take a single step in life, or to draw a
single breath. _Mais vous avez changé tout cela._ God send you health
and a general's rank, Messieurs Nihil--how do you pronounce it?"

"Ni-hi-lists," said Arkady distinctly.

"Quite so (formerly we had Hegelists, and now they have become
Nihilists)--God send you health and a general's rank, but also let us
see how you will contrive to exist in an absolute void, an airless
vacuum. Pray ring the bell, brother Nikolai, for it is time for me to
take my cocoa."

Nikolai Petrovitch did as requested, and also shouted for Duniasha;
but, instead of the latter, there issued on to the terrace Thenichka
in person. A young woman of twenty-three, she was pale, and
gentle-looking, with dark eyes and hair, a pair of childishly red,
pouting lips, and delicate hands. Also, she was clad in a clean
cotton gown, a new blue kerchief was thrown lightly over her rounded
shoulders, and she was carrying in front of her a large cup of cocoa.
Shyly she placed the latter before Paul Petrovitch, while a warm, rosy
current of blood suffused the exquisite skin of her comely face, and
then she remained standing by the table, with lowered eyes and the
tips of her fingers touching its surface. Yet, though she looked as
though she were regretting having come, she looked as though she felt
that she had a right to be there.

Paul Petrovitch frowned, and Nikolai Petrovitch looked confused.

"Good morning, Thenichka," the latter muttered.

"Good morning," she replied in a low, clear voice. Then she glanced
askance at Arkady, and he smiled at her in friendly fashion. Finally
she departed with a quiet step and slightly careless gait--the latter a
peculiarity of hers.

Silence reigned on the terrace. For a while Paul Petrovitch drank his
cocoa. Then he suddenly raised his head, and muttered:

"Monsieur Nihilist is about to give us the pleasure of his company."

True enough, Bazarov could be seen stepping across the flowerbeds. On
his linen jacket and trousers was a thick coating of mud, to the crown
of his ancient circular hat clung a piece of sticky marshweed, and in
his hand he was holding a small bag. Also, something in the bag kept
stirring as though it were alive. Approaching the terrace with rapid
strides, he nodded to the company and said:

"Good morning, gentlemen! Pardon me for being so late. I shall be back
presently, but first my captures must be stowed away."

"What are those captures?" Paul Petrovitch inquired. "Leeches?"

"No, frogs."

"Do you eat them? Or do you breed them?"

"I catch them for purposes of experiment," was Bazarov's only reply as
carelessly he entered the house.

"In other words, he vivisects them," was Paul Petrovitch's comment. "In
other words, he believes in frogs more than in principles."

Arkady threw his uncle a reproachful look, and even Nikolai Petrovitch
shrugged his shoulders, so that Paul Petrovitch himself felt his _bon
mot_ to have been out of place, and hastened to divert the subject to
the estate and the new steward.




VI


Bazarov, returning, seated himself at the table, and fell to drinking
tea. The brothers contemplated him in silence. Arkady glanced covertly
from his father to his uncle, and back again.

"Have you walked far this morning?" at length Nikolai Petrovitch
inquired.

"To a marsh beside an aspen coppice. By the way, Arkady, I flushed five
head of woodcock. Perhaps you would like to go and shoot them?"

"Then you yourself are no sportsman?"

"No."

"That is to say, you prefer physics to anything else?" This from Paul
Petrovitch.

"Yes, I prefer physics--in fact, the natural sciences in general--to
anything else."

"Well, I am told that the _Germanics_ have made great strides in that
department?" (Paul Petrovitch used the term "Germanics" instead of
"Germans" ironically, but no one noticed it.)

"True," was Bazarov's careless reply. "In fact, the Germans are, in the
same respect, our masters."

"You think highly of the Germans?" Paul Petrovitch's tone was now
studiously polite, for he was beginning to feel irritated with the
man--his aristocratic nature could not altogether stomach Bazarov's
absolute lack of ceremony, the fact that this doctor's son not only
knew no diffidence, but actually returned snappish and reluctant
answers, and infused a _brusquerie_ akin to rudeness into his tone.

"At least the savants of that part of the world have some energy in
them," retorted Bazarov.

"Quite so. And your opinion of our Russian savants is--well, perhaps
less flattering?"

"It is, with your leave."

"That constitutes a piece of laudable modesty on your part," Paul
Petrovitch observed with a slight hitch of his figure and a toss of his
head. "But how comes it about that Arkady has just told us that you
recognise no authorities whatsoever? Do you not trust authorities?"

"Why should I? Is anything in the world trustworthy? Certainly, should
I be told a fact, I agree with it, but that is all."

"Oh! Then the Germans confine themselves solely to facts?" Paul
Petrovitch's face had now assumed an expression of detachment, as
though he had suddenly become withdrawn to the ultimate heights of the
empyrean.

"No, not all Germans," replied Bazarov with a passing yawn. Clearly
he had no mind to continue the controversy. Meanwhile Paul Petrovitch
glanced at Arkady as much as to say: "Admit that your friend has
beautiful manners!"

"For my own part," he continued, ostentatiously, and with an effort,
"I, a fallible mortal, do _not_ favour the Germans. Of course, I am not
including in that category the _Russo_-Germans, who, as we know, are
birds of passage. Rather, it is the Germans of Germany proper whom I
cannot abide. Once upon a time they used to produce men like Schiller
and like--what's his name?--Goethe: for both of which authors my
brother has a marked predilection. But now the German nation has become
a nation solely of chemists and materialists."

"A good chemist is worth a score of your poets," remarked Bazarov.

"Quite so." Paul Petrovitch hitched his eyebrows a little, as though he
had come near to falling asleep. "Er--I take it then that you decline
to recognise art, but believe only in science?"

"I have told you that I believe in nothing at all. What after all, is
science--that is to say, science in the mass? A science may exist, even
as a trade or a profession may exist; but with regard to science in the
mass, there is no such thing."

"Very good. And, with regard to such other postulates as usually are
granted in human affairs, the attitude which you adopt is negative in
the same degree?"

"What is this?" suddenly countered Bazarov. "Is it an examination in
tenets?"

Paul Petrovitch turned pale, and Nikolai Petrovitch thought it time to
intervene in the dispute.

"Nay, we will debate the subject later," he said. "And then, while
recognising your views, good Evgenii Vasilitch, we will state our own.
Individually speaking, I am delighted that you should be interested in
the natural sciences. For instance, I am told that recently Liebig[1]
has made some surprising discoveries in the matter of the improvement
of soils. Consequently you might be able to help me in my agricultural
labours, and to give me much useful advice."

"Always I shall be at your service, Nikolai Petrovitch," replied
Bazarov. "But what has Liebig to do with us? First the alphabet should
be learnt before we try to read books. We have not even reached the
letter A."

"You are a Nihilist--that is plain enough," reflected Nikolai
Petrovitch; while aloud he added: "Yet allow me to seek your occasional
assistance. Brother Paul, I believe it is time that we interviewed our
steward."

Paul Petrovitch rose from his chair.

"Yes," he said, without looking at any one in particular, "it is indeed
a terrible thing to have lived five years in the country, and to have
stood remote from superior intellects! If one is _ab origine_ a fool,
one becomes so more than ever, seeing that, however much one may try
not to forget what one has learnt, there will dawn upon one, sooner
or later, the revelation that one's knowledge is all rubbish, that
sensible men have ceased to engage in such futilities, and that one has
lagged far behind the times. But, in such a case, what is one to do?
Evidently the younger generation know more than we do."

And, slowly turning on his heel, he moved away as slowly, with Nikolai
Petrovitch following in his wake.

"Does Paul Petrovitch always reside here?" asked Bazarov when the door
had closed upon the pair.

"Yes, he does. But look here, Evgenii. You adopted too sharp a tone
with my uncle. You have offended him."

"What? Am I to fawn upon these rustic aristocrats, even though their
attitude is one purely of conceit and subservience to custom? If such
be Paul Petrovitch's bent, he had better have continued his career in
St. Petersburg. Never mind him, however. Do you know, I have found a
splendid specimen of the water beetle _dytiscus marginatus_. Are you
acquainted with it? I will show it you."

"Did I not promise to tell you his history?" observed Arkady musingly.

"Whose history? The water beetle's?"

"No; my uncle's. At least you will see from it that he is not the man
you take him for, but a man who deserves pity rather than ridicule."

"I am not prepared to dispute it. But how come you to be so devoted to
him?"

"Always one ought to be fair."

"The connection I do not see."

"Then listen."

And Arkady related the story to be found in the following chapter.


[1] Justus Freiherr von Liebig (1803-1873), the great German
chemist--in particular, the founder of agricultural chemistry.




VII


"Like his brother, Paul Petrovitch Kirsanov received his early
education at home, and entered the Imperial Corps of Pages.
Distinguished from boyhood for his good looks, he had, in addition,
a nature of the self-confident, quizzical, amusingly sarcastic type
which never fails to please. As soon, therefore, as he had received
his officer's commission, he began to go everywhere in society, to
set the pace, to amuse himself, to play the rake, and to squander his
money. Yet these things somehow consorted well with his personality,
and women went nearly mad over him, while men called him 'Fate,' and
secretly detested him. Meanwhile he rented a flat with his brother, for
whom, in spite of their dissimilarity, he had a genuine affection. The
dissimilarity in question lay, among other things, in the fact that,
while Nikolai Petrovitch halted, had small, kindly, rather melancholy
features and narrow black eyes, and was of a disposition prone to
reading omnivorously, to bestirring himself but little, and to feeling
nervous when attending social functions, Paul Petrovitch never spent a
single evening at home, but was renowned for his physical dexterity and
daring (he it was who made gymnastics the rage among the gilded youth
of his day), and read, at most, five or six French novels. Indeed, by
the time that he reached his twenty-eighth year Paul had risen to be
a captain, and before him there seemed to lie a brilliant career; but
everything suddenly underwent a change, as shall be related forthwith.

"Among the society of St. Petersburg of that period there was
accustomed to appear, and to disappear, at irregular intervals a
certain Princess R. whose memory survives to this day. Though wedded to
a highly placed and very presentable (albeit slightly stupid) husband,
she had no children, and spent her time between making unexpected
visits abroad and unexpected returns to Russia. In short, she led a
very curious life, and the world in general accounted her a coquette,
in that she devoted herself to every sort of pleasure, and danced at
balls until she could dance no more, and laughed and jested with young
men whom she received before dinner in the half-light of a darkened
drawing-room. Yet, strangely enough, as the night advanced she would
fall to weeping and praying and wringing her hands, and, unable to
rest, would pace her room until break of day, or sit huddled, pale and
cold, over the Psalter. But no sooner would daylight have appeared than
she would once more become a woman of the world, and drive, and laugh,
and chatter, and fling herself upon anything which seemed to offer
any sort of distraction. Also, her power to charm was extraordinary;
for though no one could have called her a beauty (seeing that the one
good feature of her face lay in her eyes--and even then it was not the
small, grey eyes themselves which attracted, but the glance which they
emitted), she had hair of the colour and weight of gold which reached
to her knees. That glance!--it was a glance which could be careless to
the point of daring or meditative to the point of melancholy; a glance
so enigmatical that, even when her tongue was lisping fatuous nonsense,
there gleamed in her aspect something intangible and out of the common.
Finally, she dressed with exquisite taste.

"This woman Paul Petrovitch met at a ball; and at it he danced a
mazurka with her. Yet, though, during the dance, she uttered not a
single word of sense, he straightway fell in love with her, and, being
a man accustomed to conquests, attained his end in this case also.
Yet, strangely enough, the facility of his triumph in no way chilled
him, but led him on to become more and more resolutely, more and more
painfully, attached, and that though she was a woman in whom, even
after she had made the great surrender, there still remained something
as immutably veiled, as radically intangible, as before--something
which no one had yet succeeded in penetrating. What was in that soul
God alone knows. Almost would it seem as though she were subservient
to a mysterious force of which the existence was absolutely unknown
to her, but which sported with her as it willed, and whose whims
her mentality was powerless to control. At all events, her conduct
constituted a series of inconsistencies, and even the few letters which
she wrote to Paul Petrovitch--missives which would undoubtedly have
aroused her husband's suspicions had he seen them--were written to a
man who was practically a stranger to her. And in time her love began
to be succeeded by fits of despondency; she ceased to smile and jest
with the lover whom she had selected, and looked at him, and listened
to his voice, with reluctance. In fact, there were moments--for the
most part, unexpected moments--when this reluctance bordered upon chill
horror, and her face assumed a wild, corpse-like expression, and she
would shut herself up in her bedroom, whence her maid, with ear glued
to the keyhole, would hear issue sounds as of dull, hopeless sobbing.
Paul Petrovitch himself frequently found that, when returning home
after one of these tender interviews, there was naught within his
breast save the bitter, galling sensation which comes of final and
irrevocable failure. 'What more could I want?' he would say to himself
in his bewilderment; yet always he spoke with an aching heart.

"It happened that on one occasion he gave her a ring having a stone
carved in the figure of the Sphinx.

"'What?' she exclaimed. 'Do you offer me the Sphinx?'

"'I do,' he replied. 'The Sphinx is yourself.'

"'I?' she queried with a slow lift of her enigmatical eyes. 'You are
indeed flattering!'

"With the words went the ghost of a smile, while her eyes looked
stranger than ever.

"Even during the time that the Princess loved him things were difficult
for Paul Petrovitch; but when she cooled in her affection for him (as
soon happened) he came near to going out of his mind. Distracted with
jealousy, he allowed her no rest, but followed her to such an extent
that at length, worn out with his persistent overtures, she betook
herself on a tour abroad. Yet even then Paul Petrovitch listened to
neither the prayers of his friends nor the advice of his superior
officers, but, resigning his commission, set out on the Princess's
track. Thus four years were spent in hunting her down, and losing sight
of her again: and though, throughout, he felt ashamed of his conduct,
and disgusted with his lack of spirit, all was of no avail--her image,
the baffling, bewitching, alluring image which ever flitted before
his eyes, had implanted itself too deeply in his breast. At last--it
was at Baden--the pair once more came together; and though it seemed
that never had she loved him as she did now, before a month was over
another rupture had occurred, and, this time, a final one, as, with a
last flicker, the flame died down and went out. True, that the parting
would come he had foreseen; yet still he sought to be friends with her
(as though friendship with such a woman could have been possible!), and
only the fact that she quietly withdrew from Baden, and thenceforth
studiously avoided him, baffled his purpose. Returning to Russia, he
endeavoured to resume his former mode of life: but neither by hook nor
crook could he regain the old rut. As a man with a poisoned system
wanders hither and thither, so did he drive out, and retain all the
customs of a society _habitué_. Nay, he could even have boasted of
two or three new conquests. But no. What he wanted was obtainable
neither through himself nor others, since his whole power of initiative
was gone, and his head gradually growing grey. To sit at his club,
to consume his soul in jaundice and _ennui_, to engage in bachelor
disputes which failed to interest him--such was now become his sole
occupation. And, as we know, it is an occupation which constitutes the
worst of signs. Nor, for that matter, seems he to marriage to have
given a thought.

"Thus ten years elapsed in colourless, fruitless pursuits. Yet Paul
found time pass swiftly, indeed, with amazing swiftness, for nowhere
in the world does it fly as it does in Russia (in prison only is its
passage said to be still swifter); wherefore there came at length a
night when, while dining at his club, he heard that the Princess was
dead--that she had died in Paris in a state bordering upon insanity.
Rising from the table, he fell to pacing the rooms of the club with a
face like that of a corpse, and only at intervals halting to watch the
tables of the card-players; until, his usual time for returning home
having arrived, he departed. Soon after he had reached his flat there
was delivered for him a package containing the ring which he had given
to the Princess. The Sphinx on it was marked with a mark like the sign
of the cross, and enclosed also was a message to say that through the
cross had the enigma become solved.

"These things took place just at the time (early in '48) when Nikolai
Petrovitch had lost his wife, and removed to St. Petersburg; and
since, also, the period of Nikolai's marriage had coincided with the
earlier days of Paul's acquaintance with the Princess, Paul had not
seen his brother since the day when the latter had settled in the
country. True, on returning from abroad, Paul had paid Nikolai a visit
with the intention of staying with him for a couple of months, as a
congratulatory compliment on his happiness; but the visit had lasted
a week only, since the difference in the position of the two brothers
had been too great, and even now, though that difference had diminished
somewhat, owing to the fact that Nikolai Petrovitch had lost his wife,
and Paul Petrovitch his memories (after the Princess's death he made
it his rule to try and forget her)--even now, I say, there existed the
difference that, whereas Nikolai Petrovitch could look back upon a
life well spent, and had a son rising to manhood, Paul Petrovitch was
still a lonely bachelor, and, moreover, entering upon that dim, murky
period when regrets come to resemble hopes, and hopes are beginning to
resemble regrets, and youth is fled, and old age is fast approaching.
To Paul Petrovitch that period was particularly painful, in that, in
losing his past, he had lost his all.

"'I shall not invite you to come to Marino,' were Nikolai Petrovitch's
words to his brother. 'Even when my wife was alive, you found the place
tedious; and now it would kill you.'

"'Ah, but in those days I was young and foolish and full of vanity,'
replied Paul Petrovitch. 'Even though I may not have grown wiser, at
least am I quieter. So, if you should be willing, I will gladly come
and make your place my permanent home.'

"For answer Nikolai Petrovitch embraced him; and though a year and a
half elapsed before Paul Petrovitch decided to carry out his intention,
once settled on the estate, he has never left it--no, not even during
the three winters spent by Nikolai Petrovitch with his son in St.
Petersburg. Meanwhile he has taken to reading books--more especially
English books, and, in general, to ordering his life on the English
pattern. Rarely, also, does he call upon his neighbours, but confines
his excursions, for the most part, to attending election meetings,
where, as a rule, he holds his tongue, but occasionally amuses himself
by angering and alarming the older generation of landowners with
Liberal sallies. From the representatives of the younger generation he
holds entirely aloof. Yet both parties, though they reckon him haughty,
accord him respect. They do so because of his refined, aristocratic
manners, and of what they have heard concerning his former conquests,
and of the fact that he dresses with exquisite taste, that he always
occupies the best suites in the best hotels, that he dines sumptuously
every day, that once he took dinner with the Duke of Wellington at the
Court of Louis Philippe, that invariably he takes about with him a
silver _nécessaire_ and a travelling bath, that he diffuses rare and
agreeable perfumes, that he is a first-rate and universally successful
whist-player, and that his honour is irreproachable. The ladies too
look upon him as a man of charming melancholy: but with their sex he
has long ceased to have anything to do.

"You see, then, Evgenii," wound up Arkady, "that you have judged my
uncle very unfairly. Moreover, I have omitted to say that several times
he has saved my father from ruin by making over to him the whole of
his money (for they do not share the estate), and that he is always
ready to help any one, and, in particular, that he stands up stoutly
for the peasants, even though, when speaking to them, he pulls a wry
face, and, before beginning the interview, scents himself well with
eau-de-Cologne."

"We all know what nerves like his mean," remarked Bazarov.

"Perhaps so. Yet his heart is in the right place; nor is he in any
way a fool. To myself especially has he given much useful advice,
especially on the subject of women."

"Ah, ha! 'Scalded with milk, one blows to cool another's water.' That
is a truism."

"Finally, and to put matters shortly," resumed Arkady, "he is a man
desperately unhappy, not one who ought to be despised."

"_Who_ is despising him?" exclaimed Bazarov. "All that I say is that a
man who has staked his whole upon a woman's love, and, on losing the
throw, has turned crusty, and let himself drift to such an extent as
to become good for nothing--I say that such a man is not a man, a male
creature at all. He is unhappy, you say; and certainly you know him
better than I do; but it is clear also that he has not yet cleansed
himself of the fool. In other words, certain am I that, just because he
occasionally reads _Galignani_, and because, once a month, he saves a
peasant from distress for debt, he believes himself really to be a man
of action."

"But think of his upbringing!" expostulated Arkady. "Think of the
period in which he has lived his life!"

"His upbringing?" retorted Bazarov. "Why, a man ought to _bring
himself_ up, even as I had to do. And with regard to his period,
why should I, or any other man, be dependent upon periods? Rather,
we ought to make periods dependent upon _us_. No, no, friend!
Sensuality and frivolity it is that are at fault. For of what do the
so-called mysterious relations between a man and a woman consist? As
physiologists, we know precisely of what they consist. And take the
anatomy of the eye. What in it justifies the guesswork whereof you
speak? Such talk is so much Romanticism and nonsense and unsoundness
and artificiality. Let us go and inspect that beetle."

And the two friends departed to Bazarov's room, where he had already
succeeded in creating a medical-surgical atmosphere which consorted
well with the smell of cheap tobacco.




VIII


At his brother's interview with the steward (the latter was a tall,
thin man of shifty eyes who to every remark of Nikolai's replied in
an unctuous, mellifluous voice: "Very well, if so it please you")
Paul Petrovitch did not long remain present. Recently the system of
estate-management had been reorganised on a new footing, and was
creaking as loudly as an ungreased cartwheel or furniture which has
been fashioned of unseasoned wood. For the same reason, though never
actually giving way to melancholy, Nikolai Petrovitch often indulged
in moodiness and sighing, for the reason that it was clear that his
affairs would never prosper without money, and that the bulk of the
latter had disappeared. As for Arkady's statement that frequently Paul
Petrovitch had come to his brother's assistance, it had been perfectly
true, for on more than one occasion had Paul been moved by the sight of
his brother's perplexity to walk slowly to the window, to plunge a hand
into his pocket, to mutter, "_Mais je puis vous donner de l'argent_,"
and, lastly, to suit the action to the word. But on the day of which
we are speaking Paul had no spare cash himself; wherefore he preferred
to remove himself elsewhere, and the more so in that the _minutiæ_ of
estate-management wearied him, and that he felt certain that, though
powerless to suggest a better way of doing business than the present
one, he knew at least that Nikolai's was at fault.

"He is not sufficiently practical," would be his reflection. "He lets
these fellows cheat him right and left."

On the other hand, Nikolai had a high opinion of Paul's practicality,
and always sought his advice.

"I am a weak, easy-going fellow," he would say, "and have spent the
whole of my life in retirement; whereas you cannot have lived in the
world for nothing--you know it well, and have the eye of an eagle."

To this Paul Petrovitch would make no reply: he would merely turn away
without attempting to undeceive his brother.

After leaving Nikolai Petrovitch's study, Paul traversed the corridor
which separated the front portion of the house from the rear, and, on
reaching a low doorway, halted in seeming indecision, tugged at his
moustache for a moment, then tapped with his knuckles upon the panels.

"Who is there?" replied Thenichka from within. "Pray enter."

"It is I," said Paul Petrovitch as he opened the door.

Springing from the chair on which she had been seated with her baby,
she handed the latter to the nurse-girl (who at once bore it from the
room), and hastened to rearrange her bodice.

"Pardon me for having disturbed you," said Paul Petrovitch without
looking at her, "but my object in coming here is to ask you (for I
understand that you are sending in to the town to-day) if you would
procure me a little green tea for my own personal use."

"I will," replied Thenichka. "How much ought I to have ordered?"

"I think that half a pound will suffice. But what a change!" he went on
glancing around the room with an eye which included also in its purview
Thenichka's features. "It is those curtains that I am referring to,"
he explained on seeing that she had failed to grasp his meaning.

"Yes--those curtains. They were given me by Nikolai Petrovitch himself,
and have been hung a long while."

"But it is a long time, remember, since last I paid you a visit. The
room looks indeed comfortable, does it not?"

"Yes, thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch's kindness," whispered Thenichka.

"And you find things better here than in the wing?" continued Paul
Petrovitch politely--also, without the least shadow of a smile.

"I do."

"And who is lodged in the wing in your place?"

"The laundry women."

"Ah!"

Paul Petrovitch relapsed into silence, while Thenichka thought to
herself: "I suppose he will go presently." So far from doing so,
however, he remained where he was, and she had to continue standing
in front of him with her fingers nervelessly locking and unlocking
themselves.

"Why have you had the little one taken away?" at length he inquired. "I
love children. Pray show him to me."

Thenichka reddened with confusion and pleasure; and that though Paul
Petrovitch was accustomed to make her nervous, so seldom did he address
her.

"Duniasha!" she cried (Duniasha she addressed, as she did every one
in the house, in the second person plural[1]). "Bring Mitia here, and
be quick about it! But first put on his clothes." With that she moved
towards the door.

"Never mind, never mind," said Paul Petrovitch.

"But I shall soon be back." And she disappeared.

Left alone, Paul looked about him with keen attention. The small,
low room in which he was waiting was clean and comfortable, and
redolent of balm, camomile, and furniture polish. Against the walls
stood straight-backed, lyre-shaped chairs which the late General had
purchased during the period of the Polish campaign; in one corner
stood a bedstead under a muslin coverlet, with, flanking it, a large,
iron-clamped, convex-lidded chest; in the opposite corner burnt a
lamp before a massive, smoke-blackened _ikon_ of Saint Nikolai the
Miracle Worker--the Saint's halo suspended by a red riband, and a tiny
china egg resting on his breast; on the window-sills were ranged some
carefully sealed jars of last year's jam, which filtered the light to
green, and of which the parchment covers were inscribed, in Thenichka's
large handwriting, "Gooseberry"--a jam of which Nikolai Petrovitch
was particularly fond; from the ceiling hung, by a long cord, a cage
containing a short-tailed siskin which kept up such a perpetual
twittering and hopping that its cage rocked to and fro as it sang, and
stray hemp seeds came pattering lightly to the floor; on the wall space
above a small chest of drawers hung a few poorly executed photographs
of Nikolai Petrovitch in various attitudes (the work of a travelling
photographer); alongside these photographs hung a very unsuccessful one
of Thenichka herself, since it revealed nothing but an eyeless face
peering painfully from a dark frame; and, lastly, above the portrait
of Thenichka hung a picture of Ermolov in a big cloak and a portentous
frown--the latter directed principally towards a distant mountain range
of the Caucasus, while over the forehead of the portrait dangled a
silken pincushion in the shape of a shoe.

For five minutes or so there came from the adjoining room a sound as of
rustling and whispering. From the chest of drawers Paul Petrovitch took
up a greasy, dog's-eared volume of Masalsky's _The Strielitsi_, and
turned over a few of its pages. Suddenly the door opened, and Thenichka
entered with Mitia, whom she had now vested in a red robe and beaded
collar, while his little head had been brushed, and also his face
washed. Though he was breathing stertorously, and wriggling his whole
body about, and twitching his tiny arms after the manner of all healthy
children, the dainty robe had had its effect, and his face was puckered
with delight. Also, Thenichka had tidied her own hair, and rearranged
her bodice--well enough though she would have done as she was. For,
in all the world, is there a more entrancing spectacle than that of a
young, handsome mother with, in her arms, a healthy child?

"What a little beauty!" Paul Petrovitch exclaimed indulgently as he
tickled Mitia's double chin with the tip of his forefinger. The baby
fixed its eyes upon the siskin, and smiled.

"This is Uncle," said Thenichka as she bent over the boy and gave him
a gentle shake. For fumigating purposes Duniasha deposited upon the
window-sill a lighted candle, and, beneath it, a two-kopeck piece.

"How old is he?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

"Six months. On the eleventh of this month he will be seven."

"No, eight, will he not, Theodosia Nikolaievna?" timidly corrected
Duniasha.

"No, seven."

Here the infant crowed, fixed his eyes upon the chest in the corner,
and suddenly closed his five tiny fingers upon his mother's mouth and
nose.

"The little rascal!" she said, without, however, freeing her features
from his grasp.

"He is very like my brother," commented Paul Petrovitch.

"Whom else should he be like?" she thought.

"Yes," he continued, half to himself. "Undoubtedly I see the likeness."
He gazed pensively, almost mournfully, at the young mother.

"This is Uncle," again she said to the child: but this time she said it
under her breath.

"Oh, here you are, Paul!" cried Nikolai Petrovitch from behind them.

Paul Petrovitch faced about and knit his brows. But so joyously, and
with such a grateful expression, was his brother regarding the trio
that Paul could only respond with a smile.

"He is a fine little fellow, this baby of yours," the elder brother
observed. Then, glancing at his watch, he added: "I came here merely to
arrange about the purchase of some tea." With which he assumed an air
of indifference, and left the room.

"He came here of his own accord, did he?" was Nikolai Petrovitch's
first inquiry.

"Yes, of his own accord," the girl replied. "He just knocked at the
door and entered."

"And what of Arkasha? Has he too been to see you?"

"No, Nikolai Petrovitch. By the way, might I return to the rooms in the
wing of the house?"

"Why do you want to?"

"Because they suit me better than these."

"I think not," said Nikolai Petrovitch, rubbing his forehead with an
air of indecision. "Before there was a reason for your being there, but
that reason no longer exists."

"Good morning, little rascal!" was his next remark as, with a sudden
access of animation, he approached and kissed the baby's cheek. Then,
bending a little, he pressed his lips to Thenichka's hand--a hand,
against the red of Mitia's robe, as white as milk.

"Why have you done that, Nikolai Petrovitch?" she murmured with
downcast eyes. Yet when she raised them, their expression, as she
glanced from under her brows and smiled her caressing, but slightly
vacant, smile, was charming indeed!

Of the circumstances of Nikolai Petrovitch's first meeting with
Thenichka the following may be related. Three years ago it had fallen
to his lot to spend a night at an inn in a remote country town; and,
while doing so, he had been struck with the cleanliness of the room
assigned him, and also with the freshness of the bed-linen. "Clearly,"
he had thought to himself, "the landlady must be a German." But, as it
had turned out, she was not a German, but a Russian of about fifty,
well-dressed, and possessed both of a comely, intelligent countenance
and of a refined manner of speaking. When breakfast was over, he had
had a long conversation with her, and conceived for her a great liking.
Now, as fate would have it, he had just removed to his new house, and,
owing to a reluctance to continue keeping bonded serfs, was on the
look-out for hired domestics; while she, for her part, was in despair
over the question of the hard times, which caused only a limited
number of visitors to resort to the town. In the end, therefore,
Nikolai Petrovitch proposed to her to come to his house as housekeeper;
and to this proposal, (since her husband was dead, and her family
consisted only of a young daughter named Thenichka) she eventually
agreed. Accordingly, within two weeks Arina Savishna (such was the
new housekeeper's name) arrived at Marino with her child, and took up
her abode in the wing of the new manor-house; nor was it long before
she had put the place to rights. To Thenichka, however, then a girl
of sixteen, she never referred; and few people even caught a glimpse
of the maiden, since she lived a life so modest and retired that only
on Sundays could Nikolai Petrovitch contemplate the delicate profile
of her face in an aisle of the parish church. More than a year thus
elapsed.

But one morning Arina entered his study, bowed to him as usual, and
requested him to be so good as to come and help her with her daughter,
one of whose eyes had been injured with a spark from the stove. It so
happened that, like most men of sedentary habit, Nikolai Petrovitch had
picked up a smattering of medicine--nay, he had even compiled a list
of homoeopathic remedies for one and another emergency; wherefore he
hastened to order Arina to produce the sufferer. As soon as she heard
that the _barin_ had sent for her, Thenichka turned very nervous, but
followed her mother as in duty bound; whereupon Nikolai Petrovitch
led her to the window, took her head in his hands, and, after an
inspection of the red, inflamed eye, wrote out a prescription for a
lotion, compounded the stuff himself, and, lastly, tore off a portion
of his handkerchief, and showed her how best the eye could be bathed.
Meanwhile Thenichka listened attentively, and then tried to leave the
room. "But the idea of going away without kissing the _barin's_ hand,
foolish one!" cried Arina; whereupon, in lieu of offering the girl
his hand, Nikolai Petrovitch felt so embarrassed that in the end he
himself kissed her bent head at the spot where the hair lay parted.
Soon Thenichka's eye healed, but the impression produced upon Nikolai
Petrovitch did not pass away so quickly. Continually there flitted
before him a pure, tender, timidly upturned face; continually he could
feel between the palms of his hands soft coils of hair; continually
appearing to his vision there would be a pair of innocent, half-parted
lips between which a set of pearl-like teeth flashed back the sunlight.
Consequently he began to observe the girl more in church, and to try
to engage her in conversation. But shyness always overcame her, and,
on one occasion when she happened to meet him on a narrow path through
a rye field, she turned aside, and plunged into the mass of tall
grain and undergrowth of cornflowers and wormwood. Yet, despite her
endeavours to escape, his eye discerned her head amid the golden mesh
of cornblades, and he called to her, as she gazed at him with wild eyes:

"Good morning, Thenichka! I shall not hurt you."

"Good morning, _barin_!" she whispered in reply, but did not leave her
retreat.

As time went on, however, she grew more accustomed to his presence; and
by the time that she was beginning really to get over her bashfulness,
her mother died of cholera. Here was a dilemma indeed! For what was
to be done with the young Thenichka, who had inherited her mother's
love of orderliness, and also her mother's good sense and natural
refinement? In the end, she was so young and lonely, and Nikolai
Petrovitch was so good-hearted and modest, that the inevitable came
about. The rest need not be related.

"So my brother has been to you?" he inquired again. "You say that he
just knocked at the door and entered?"

"Yes, he just knocked at the door and entered."

"Good! Now, hand me Mitia."

And Nikolai Petrovitch fell to tossing the baby up and down towards the
ceiling--a proceeding which greatly delighted the little one, but as
greatly disquieted the mother, who, at each upward flight, stretched
her hands in the direction of the infant's naked toes.

Meanwhile Paul Petrovitch returned to his study, of which the walls
were lined with a paper of red wild roses, and hung with weapons; the
floor was covered with a striped Persian carpet; and the furniture,
consisting of a Renaissance bookcase in old black oak, a handsome
writing-table, a few bronze statuettes, and a stove, was constructed,
for the most part, of hazelwood, and upholstered in dark-green velvet.
Stretching himself upon a sofa, he clasped his hands behind his head,
and remained staring at the ceiling. Did presently the thoughts which
were passing through his mind need to be concealed even from the walls,
seeing that he rose, unhooked the heavy curtains from before the
windows, and replaced himself upon the sofa?


[1] Used, as in French, in formal speech or that of a person addressing
a social superior.




IX


The same day also saw Bazarov make Thenichka's acquaintance. This was
when he was walking in the garden with Arkady, and discussing the
question of why certain trees in the garden, especially oaks, had not
prospered as they might have done. Said he:

"You ought to plant the place with as many silver poplars as you can,
and also with Norwegian firs--limes too, if loam should first be added.
For instance, the reason why this clump has done so well is that it is
made up of lilacs and acacias, of which neither require much room. But
hullo! There is some one sitting there!"

The persons seated in the arbour were Thenichka, Duniasha, and little
Mitia. Bazarov halted, and Arkady nodded to Thenichka as to an old
acquaintance. Then the pair passed on again, and Bazarov inquired of
his companion:

"Who was she?"

"To whom are you referring?"

"You know to whom. My word, she _is_ good-looking!"

Arkady explained, with a touch of embarrassment, the identity of
Thenichka.

"Ah!" Bazarov remarked. "Then your father has not at all bad taste.
Indeed, I commend it. But what a young dog he is! I too must be
introduced."

And he turned back in the direction of the arbour.

"Evgenii!" exclaimed Arkady nervously as he followed his friend. "For
God's sake be careful what you do!"

"You need not be alarmed. I know what is what. I am no rustic."

And, approaching Thenichka, he doffed his cap.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said with a polite bow. "I am a
friend of Arkady's, and a perfectly harmless individual."

Rising from her seat, Thenichka gazed at him in silence.

"Oh, and what a fine baby!" he continued. "Pray do not disturb
yourself. Never yet have I cast upon a child an evil spell. But why are
his cheeks so red? Is he cutting teeth?"

"Yes," replied Thenichka. "He has now cut four of them, and the gums
are a little swelled."

"Then let me see them. Do not be afraid. I am a doctor."

With that he took the baby into his arms, and both Thenichka and
Duniasha were astonished at the fact that it made no resistance, showed
no fear.

"I see," he continued. "Well, everything is going right with him, and
he will have plenty of teeth. Nevertheless, should he in any way ail,
please let me know. Are you yourself well?"

"Yes, thank God!"

"'Thank God,' say I too, for health on the part of the mother is
the chief point of all. And you?" he added, turning to Duniasha.
The latter, ultra-prim of demeanour in the drawing-room, and
ultra-frivolous of behaviour in the kitchen, answered with a giggle.

"Well, you _look_ all right. Here! Take your hero back again."

He replaced the baby in Thenichka's arms.

"How quiet he has been with you!" she exclaimed under her breath.

"Always children are quiet with me," he remarked. "You see, I know how
to handle them."

"And _they_ know when people are fond of them," put in Duniasha.

"True," assented Thenichka. "Though it is seldom that Mitia will go to
any one's arms but mine."

"Would he come to me?" ventured Arkady, who, until now standing in
the background, at this moment came forward towards the arbour. But
on his attempting to wheedle Mitia to his arms, the infant threw back
its head, and started to cry--a circumstance which greatly perturbed
Thenichka.

"Another time--when he has come to be more used to me," said Arkady
indulgently. And the two friends departed.

"What is her name?" asked Bazarov.

"Thenichka--Theodosia," replied Arkady.

"And her patronymic?"

"Nikolaievna."

"_Bene_! What I like about her is her total absence of shyness. True,
that is a _trait_ which some might have condemned in her, but I say,
'What rubbish!' For why need she be bashful? She is a mother, and
therefore justified."

"I agree," said Arkady. "And my father----"

"Also is justified," concluded Bazarov.

"No, I do not agree in that respect."

"You do not altogether welcome a superfluous heir?"

"For shame, Evgenii!" cried Arkady heatedly. "How can you impute such
motives? What I mean is that my father is not justified from _one_
point of view. That is to say, he ought to marry her."

"Oh, ho!" said Bazarov quietly. "How high and mighty we are getting! So
you still attribute importance to the marriage rite? This I should not
have expected of you."

For some paces the friends walked on in silence. Then Bazarov
continued:

"I have been inspecting your father's establishment. The cattle look
poor, the horses seem broken-down, the buildings have a tipsy air, the
workmen manifest a tendency to loaf, and I cannot yet determine whether
the new steward is a fool or a rogue."

"You are censorious to-day?"

"I am; and the reason is that these good peasants are cheating your
father--exemplifying the proverb that 'The Russian _muzhik_ will break
even the back of God.'"

"Soon I shall have to agree with my uncle in his opinion that you think
but poorly of Russia."

"Rubbish! The Russian's very best point is that he holds a poor opinion
of _himself_. Two and two make four. Nothing but that matters."

"And is nature also rubbish?" queried Arkady with a musing glance at
the mottled fields where they lay basking in the soft, kindly rays of
the morning sun.

"Nature _is_ rubbish--at least in the sense in which _you_ understand
her. She is not a church, but a workshop wherein man is the labourer."

At this moment there came wafted to their ears the long-drawn strains
of a violoncello, on which a sensitive, but inexperienced, hand was
playing Schubert's _Erwartung_. Like honey did the voluptuous melody
suffuse the air.

"Who is the musician?" asked Bazarov in astonishment.

"My father."

"What? Your father plays the 'cello?"

"He does."

"At his age?"

"Yes--he is only forty-four."

Bazarov burst out laughing.

"Why do you laugh?" asked Arkady.

"Pardon me, but the idea that your father--a man of forty-four, a
paterfamilias, and a notable in the county--should play the 'cello!"

And he continued laughing, though Arkady, for all his reverence for his
mentor, failed to accomplish even a smile.




X


During the next two weeks life at Marino pursued its normal course.
Arkady took things easily, and Bazarov worked. In passing, it may be
said that, for all his careless manner and abrupt, laconic speech, the
latter had become an accepted phenomenon in the house. In particular
had Thenichka so completely lost her shyness of him that one night
she sent to awake him because Mitia had been seized with convulsions;
whereupon Bazarov arrived, and, half-joking, half-yawning, according
to his usual manner, helped her for two hours in the task of attending
to the baby. Only Paul Petrovitch disliked the man with the whole
strength of his soul, for he accounted him a proud, cynical, conceited
plebeian, and suspected him not only of failing to respect, but even of
holding in contempt, the personality of Paul Petrovitch Kirsanov. Also,
Nikolai Petrovitch stood in slight awe of the young Nihilist, since he
doubted the likelihood of any good accruing from Bazarov's influence
over Arkady. Yet always he would listen with pleasure to Bazarov's
discourses, and gladly attend the chemical or physical experiments with
which the young doctor (who had brought a microscope with him) would
occupy himself for hours at a stretch. On the other hand, in spite of
Bazarov's domineering manner, all the servants had become attached
to him, for they felt him to be less a _barin_ than their brother;
and in particular did Duniasha readily joke and talk with him, and
throw him many meaning glances as she sped past in quail-like fashion,
while Peter himself, though a man full of conceit and stupidity, with
a forehead perpetually puckered, and a dignity which consisted of a
deferential demeanour, a practice of reading journals syllable by
syllable, and a habit of constantly brushing his coat; even Peter,
I say, would brighten and strike an attitude when he was noticed
by Bazarov. In fact, the only servant to disapprove of Bazarov was
old Prokofitch, the butler, who looked sour whenever he handed the
young doctor a dish, and called him a "sharper" and a "flaunter," and
declared that, for all his whiskers, Bazarov was no better than "a
dressed-up pig," whereas he, Prokofitch, was practically as good an
aristocrat as Paul Petrovitch himself.

In the early days of June, the best season of the year, the weather
became beautiful. True, from afar there came threatenings of cholera,
but to the local inhabitants such visitations had become a commonplace.
Each day Bazarov rose early to set forth upon a tramp of some two or
three versts; nor were those tramps undertaken merely for the sake of
the exercise (he could not abide aimless expeditions), but, rather,
for the sake of collecting herbs and insects. Sometimes, too, he would
succeed in inducing Arkady to accompany him; and whenever this was the
case the pair would, on the way back, engage in some dispute which
always left Arkady vanquished in spite of his superior profusion of
argument.

One morning the pair lingered considerably by the way, and Nikolai
Petrovitch set out across the garden to meet them. Just as he reached
the arbour, he heard their voices and brisk footsteps approaching,
though he himself was invisible to the returning friends.

"You do not understand my father," Arkady was saying.

Nikolai Petrovitch halted instead of revealing himself.

"Oh, he is a good fellow enough," replied Bazarov. "But also he is a
man on the shelf, a man whose song has been sung."

Though Nikolai Petrovitch strained his ears, he failed to catch
Arkady's reply. So the "man on the shelf" lingered for a minute or
two--then walked slowly back to the house.

"For the past three days I have noted him reading Pushkin," continued
Bazarov. "You ought to explain to him that no good can come of that,
for he is no longer a boy, and ought to have shaken himself free of
such fiddlesticks. Who would desire to be a Romanticist? Give him
something _practical_."

"For instance?"

"Let me consider. For a start, give him Büchner's[1] _Stoff und Kraft_."

"Good!" Arkady's tone was approving. "_Stoff und Kraft_ is at least
written in a popular style."

The same day Nikolai Petrovitch was sitting with his brother. At length
he said:

"I find that you and I are men on the shelf, that our songs have been
sung. Eh? And perhaps Bazarov is right. Yet I confess that one thing
hurts me: and that is that, though I had hoped to draw nearer to
Arkady, I am being left in the rear, and he is for ever marching ahead.
No longer do he and I understand one another."

"And why is he for ever marching ahead?" asked Paul Petrovitch
indignantly. "How comes he to stand at such a distance from us? The
reason is simply the ideas which that precious 'Nihilist' is putting
into his head. For myself, I detest the fellow, and think him a
charlatan. Also, I am certain that, in spite of his frogs, he is making
no real progress in physics."

"We ought not to say that, brother. For my own part, I look upon him as
a man of culture and ability."

"If so, a detestably conceited one."

"Perhaps he _is_ conceited," Nikolai Petrovitch allowed. "But then it
would appear that nothing can be done without something of the kind.
What I cannot make out is the following. As you know, I have done
everything possible to keep up with the times--I have organised my
peasantry, I have set up such a farm that throughout the province I am
known as 'Fine Kirsanov,' persistently I read and educate myself, in
general I try to march abreast of the needs of the day. Yet, though I
do all this, I am now given to understand that my day is past and gone!
And, brother, I do not say that I am not partially inclined to accept
that view."

"For what reason?"

"For the following. To-day, as I was reading Pushkin (I think it was
'The Gipsies' that I had lighted upon), there suddenly entered the room
Arkady. Silently, and with an air of kindly regret, and as gently as a
child, he withdrew the book from my hand, and laid before me another
book--a German production of some kind. That done, he gave me another
smile, and departed with my volume of Pushkin under his arm."

"Good gracious! And what might be the book which he has given you?"

"This."

Nikolai Petrovitch extracted from the tail pocket of his frock-coat a
copy (ninth edition) of Büchner's well-known work.

Paul Petrovitch turned it over in his hands.

"H'm!" he grunted. "Arkady does indeed seem solicitous for your
education! Have you tried reading the book?"

"Yes."

"And how do you like it?"

"Well, either I am a fool or the thing is rubbish. Of the two views,
the former seems to me the most probable."

"It is not because you have forgotten your German, I suppose?"

"Oh no. I understand the language perfectly."

Again Paul Petrovitch turned over the book, and again he glanced at his
brother from under his brows. A moment's silence ensued.

"By the way," continued Nikolai Petrovitch with an evident desire to
change the conversation, "I have received a letter from Koliazin."

"From Matvei Ilyitch?"

"From the same. It seems that he has just arrived at ----, for the
purpose of carrying out the Revision[2] of the province, and he writes
very civilly that, as our kinsman, he would be glad to see Arkady and
you and myself."

"Do you intend to accept his invitation?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

"I do not. Do you?"

"No. We have no need to drag ourselves fifty versts to eat blanc-mange.
The good Mathieu wants to show off a little--that is all. He can
do without us. But what an honour to be a Privy Councillor! Had I
continued in the Service, continued hauling at the old tow-rope, I
myself might have been Adjutant-General! As it is, I, like yourself, am
on the shelf."

"Yes, brother. Clearly it is time that we ordered our tombstones, and
folded our hands upon our breasts."

A sigh concluded Nikolai Petrovitch's speech.

"But _I_ do not intend to give in so soon," muttered his brother.
"There is first going to be a skirmish between that chirurgeon of
Arkady's and myself. That I can see beyond a doubt."

And, sure enough, the "skirmish" occurred the same evening. Ready for
battle as soon he repaired to the drawing-room for tea, Paul Petrovitch
entered angrily, but firmly, and sat waiting for an excuse to advance
upon the foe. Yet for a while that excuse hung fire, since Bazarov
never said much in the presence of "the old Kirsanovs," and to-night
was feeling out of spirits, and drank his tea in absolute silence.
However, Paul Petrovitch was so charged with impatience that his wish
was bound to attain fulfilment.

It happened that the conversation became turned upon a neighbouring
landowner.

"He is just a petty aristocrat," Bazarov drily remarked (it seemed that
he and the landowner had met in St. Petersburg).

"Allow me," put in Paul Petrovitch, his lips quivering. "In your view,
do the terms 'good-for-nothing' and 'aristocrat' connote the same
thing?"

"I said '_petty_ aristocrat,'" replied Bazarov as he lazily sipped his
tea.

"Quite so. Then I take it that you hold the same opinion of aristocrats
as of 'petty aristocrats'? Well, I may remark that your opinion is not
mine. And to that I would add that, while I myself possess a reputation
for Liberal and progressive views, I possess that reputation for the
very reason that I can respect _real_ aristocrats. For instance, my
dear sir" (the latter term was so heatedly uttered that Bazarov raised
his eyebrows), "for instance, my dear sir, take the aristocracy of
England. While yielding upon their rights not an iota, they yet know
how to respect the rights of others. While demanding fulfilment of
obligations due to themselves, they yet fulfil their own obligations.
And for those reasons it is to her aristocratic caste that England
stands indebted for her freedom. It is because the English aristocratic
caste itself supports that freedom."

"A tale which we have heard many times before!" commented Bazarov. "But
what are you seeking to prove?"

"I am seeking to prove this," replied Paul Petrovitch. "That without
a certain sense of personal dignity, without a sense of self-respect
(both of which senses are inborn in the true aristocrat), the social
edifice, the _bien public_, cannot rest upon a durable basis. It is
_personality_ that matters, my dear sir: and the human personality
requires to be as firm as a rock, in that there rests upon it the
entire structure of society. For example, I know that you ridicule
my customs, my dress, my fastidious tastes. Yet do those very things
proceed from that sense of duty--yes, of duty, I repeat--to which I
have just alluded. In other words, I may live in the depths of the
country, yet I do not let myself go. For I respect in myself the man."

"Allow me, Paul Petrovitch," said Bazarov. "You say that you respect
yourself. Very good. Yet you can sit there with your hands folded!
How will _that_ benefit the _bien public_, seeing that inaction would
scarcely seem to argue self-respect?"

Paul Petrovitch blanched a little.

"That is another question altogether," he said. "However, I do not
feel called upon to explain the reason why I sit with my hands folded
(according to your own estimable term). It will suffice merely to
remark that in the aristocratic idea there is contained a _principle_,
and that nowadays men who live without principles are as destitute of
morality as they are of moral substance. The same thing did I say to
Arkady on the day after his arrival, and I say it now to you. You agree
with me, Nikolai, do you not?"

Nikolai Petrovitch nodded assent, while Bazarov exclaimed:

"The aristocratic idea, forsooth! Liberalism, progress, principles!
Why, have you ever considered the vanity of those terms? The Russian of
to-day does not need them."

"Then what, in your opinion, does he need? To listen to you, one would
suppose that we stood wholly divorced from humanity and humanity's
laws; whereas, pardon me, the logic of history demands----"

"What has that logic to do with us? We can get on quite well without
it."

"How can we do so?"

"Even as I have said. When you want to put a piece of bread into your
mouth do you need logic for the purpose? What have these abstractions
to do with ourselves?"

Paul Petrovitch waved his hand in disgust.

"I cannot understand you," he said. "You seem to me to be insulting
the Russian people. How you or any one else can decline to recognise
principles and precepts is a thing which passes my comprehension. For
what other basis for action in life have we got?"

Arkady put in a word.

"Both I and Bazarov have told you," he said, "that we recognise no
authority of any sort."

"Rather, that we recognise no basis for action save the useful,"
corrected Bazarov. "At present the course most useful is denial.
Therefore we deny."

"Deny everything?"

"Deny everything."

"What? Both poetry and art and--I find it hard to express it?----"

"I repeat, _everything_," said Bazarov with an ineffable expression of
_insouciance_.

Paul Petrovitch stared. He had not quite expected this. For his part,
Arkady reddened with pleasure.

"Allow me," interposed Nikolai Petrovitch. "You say that you deny
everything--rather, that you would consign everything to destruction.
But also you ought to construct."

"That is not our business," said Bazarov. "First must the site be
cleared."

"Yes; for the present condition of the people demands it," affirmed
Arkady. "And that demand we are bound to fulfil, seeing that no one
has the right merely to devote himself to the satisfaction of his own
personal egotism."

With this last Bazarov did not seem altogether pleased, since the
phrase smacked too much of philosophy--rather, of "Romanticism," as
Bazarov termed that science; but he did not trouble to confute his
pupil.

"No, no!" Paul Petrovitch exclaimed with sudden heat. "I _cannot_
believe that gentlemen of your type possess sufficient knowledge of the
people to be rightful representatives of its demands and aspirations.
For the Russian people is not what you think it to be. It holds
traditions sacred, and is patriarchal, and cannot live without faith."

"I will not dispute that," observed Bazarov. "Nay, I will even agree
that you are right."

"And, granting that I am right----"

"You have proved nothing."

"Yes, proved nothing," echoed Arkady with the assurance of a
chess-player who, having foreseen a dangerous move on the part of his
opponent, awaits the attack with expert composure.

"But how have I proved nothing?" muttered Paul Petrovitch, rather taken
aback. "Do you mean to say that you are opposed to, not in favour of,
the people?"

"Good gracious! Do not the common folk believe, when it thunders, that
the Prophet Elijah is going up to Heaven in his chariot? You and I do
not agree with that? The point is that the people is Russian, and that
I am the same."

"Not after what you have just said! Henceforth must I decline to
recognise you as any countryman of mine."

With a sort of indolent _hauteur_ Bazarov replied:

"With his own hand did my grandfather guide the plough. Ask, therefore,
of your favourite peasant which of us two--you or myself--he rates most
truly as his countryman. Why, you do not know even how to speak to him!"

"And you, while speaking to him, despise him."

"Should he merit contempt, yes. Reprobate, therefore, my views as much
as you like, but who told you that they have come to me fortuitously
rather than been derived from the very national spirit of which you are
so ardent an upholder?"

"Phaugh! We need you Nihilists, do we not?"

"Not ours is it to decide the need or otherwise, seeing that even a man
like yourself considers that he has a use."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" interposed Nikolai Petrovitch as he rose to his
feet. "I beg of you to indulge in no personalities!"

Paul Petrovitch smiled. Then, laying his hand upon his brother's
shoulder, he forced him to resume his seat.

"Do not be alarmed," he said. "That very sense of dignity at which this
gentleman pokes such bitter fun will keep me from forgetting myself."

And he turned to Bazarov again.

"Do you suppose your doctrine to be a new one?" he continued. "If so,
you are wasting your time. More than once has the Materialism which you
preach been mooted; and each time it has been proved bankrupt."

"Another foreign term!" muttered Bazarov. He was now beginning to lose
his temper, and his face had turned a dull, copperish tint. "In the
first place, we Nihilists preach nothing at all. For to preach is not
our custom."

"What, then, is your custom?"

"To proclaim facts such as that our civil servants accept bribes, that
we lack highways, commerce, and a single upright judge, and that----"

"Of course, of course! In other words, you and yours are to act as our
'censors' (I believe that to be the correct term?). Well, I agree with
many of your censures, but----"

"Other tenets which we hold are that to chatter, and to do nothing but
chatter, concerning our differences is not worth the trouble, seeing
that it is a pursuit which merely leads to pettiness and doctrinairism;
that beyond question are our so-called leaders and censors not worth
their salt, seeing that they engage in sheer futilities, and waste
their breath on discussions on art and still life and Parliamentarism
and legal points and the devil only knows what, when all the time it is
the bread of subsistence alone that matters, and we are being stifled
with gross superstition, and all our commercial enterprises are failing
for want of honest directors, and the freedom of which the Government
is for ever prating is destined never to become a reality, for the
reason that, so long as the Russian peasant is allowed to go and drink
himself to death in a dram-shop, he is ready to submit to any sort of
despoilment."

"You have decided, then, you feel conscious, that your true _métier_ is
to apply yourselves seriously to nothing?"

"Even so," came the sullen reply, for Bazarov had suddenly become vexed
with himself for having exposed his mind with such completeness to this
_barin_.

"You have decided merely to deny everything?"

"We have decided merely to deny everything."

"And that you call Nihilism?"

"That we call Nihilism." In Bazarov's repetition of Paul Petrovitch's
words there echoed, this time, a note of pride.

Paul Petrovitch knit his brows.

"So, so!" he said in a voice that was curiously calm. "Nihilism
is designed to combat our every ill, and you alone are to act as
our saviours and our heroes! Well, well! But in what consider you
yourselves and your censorious friends to excel the rest of us? For you
chatter as much as does every one else."

"No, no!" muttered Bazarov. "At least we are not guilty of _that_,
however we may err in other ways."

"You do things, then? At all events, you are preparing to do things?"

Bazarov did not reply, although, in his excitement, Paul Petrovitch had
started up and then quickly recovered his self-command.

"H'm!" continued Paul Petrovitch. "With you to act is to demolish.
But how is such demolition to benefit when you do not even know its
purpose?"

"We demolish because we are a force," interposed Arkady.

Paul Petrovitch stared--then smiled.

"And a force need render account to no one," added Arkady with a
self-conscious straightening of his form.

"Fool!" gasped Paul Petrovitch. Evidently he could contain himself
no longer. "Have you ever considered _what_ you are maintaining with
your miserable creed? Even an angel would lose patience! 'A force,'
forsooth! You might as well say that the wild Kalmuck, or the barbaric
Mongol, represents a force. What boots such a force? Civilisation and
its fruits are what we value. And do not tell me that those fruits
are to be overlooked, seeing that even the meanest _barbouilleur_,[3]
the meanest piano-player who ever earned five kopecks a night, is of
more use to society than you. For men of that kind at least stand for
culture rather than for some rude, Mongolian propelling-power. Yes, you
may look upon yourselves as 'the coming race,' yet you are fit but to
sit in a Kalmuck shanty. 'A force,' forsooth! Good and 'forceful' sirs,
I beg to tell you that you number but four men and a boy, whereas those
others number millions, and are folk of the kind who will not permit
such as _you_ to trample upon their sacred beliefs, but will first
trample upon your worthy selves."

"Let them trample upon us," retorted Bazarov. "We are more in number
than you think."

"What? You really believe that you will succeed in inoculating the
nation as a whole?"

"From a little candle," replied Bazarov, "there arose, as you know, the
conflagration of Moscow."[4]

"A pride almost Satanic in its nature, and then banter! And thus you
would seek to attract our youth, _thus_ you would attempt to win the
inexperienced hearts of our boys! For sitting beside you is one of
those very boys, and he is absolutely worshipping you!" (Upon this
Arkady knit his brows, and averted his head a little.) "Yes, the
canker has spread far already. For instance, they tell me that in Rome
our artists decline to enter the Vatican, and look upon Raphael as
next-door to a fool, just because he is an 'authority'! Yet those very
artists are themselves so barren and impotent that their fancy cannot
rise above 'Girls at Fountains,' and so forth, villainously executed!
And such artists you account fine fellows, I presume?"

"Like those artists," said Bazarov, "I consider Raphael to be worth not
a copper groat. And as for the artists themselves, I appraise them at
about a similar sum."

"Bravo, bravo!" cried Paul Petrovitch. "Listen, O Arkady--listen to
the way in which the young men of the present day ought to express
themselves! Surely our youth will now rally to your side? For once upon
a time they had to go to school, since they did not like to be taken
for dunces, and therefore worked at their studies; but now they have
but to say: 'Everything in the world is rubbish,' and, behold! the
trick is done. They consider that delightful--and naturally! In other
words, the blockheads of former days are become the Nihilists of the
present."

"Your self-sufficiency--I mean, your self-respect--is carrying you
away," Bazarov remarked nonchalantly (as for Arkady, his eyes had
flashed, and his whole form was quivering with indignation). "But our
dispute has gone far enough. Let us end it. Whenever you may feel that
you can point out to me a single institution in our family or our
public life which does not call for complete and unsparing rejection, I
shall be pleased to accept your view."

"Of institutions of that kind I could cite you millions," exclaimed
Paul Petrovitch. "For example, take the village commune."

Bazarov's lips twisted themselves into a contemptuous smile.

"The village commune," said he, "is a subject which you would do better
to discuss with your brother, since he is learning by experience the
meaning of that commune, and of its circular guarantee, and of its
enforced sobriety and other contrivances."

"Take the family, then--yes, take the family, since at least among the
peasantry it is still a surviving institution."

"And that question, too, I should imagine were best not dissected by
you in detail. But see here, Paul Petrovitch. Allow yourself a minimum
of two days to think over these things (you will need quite that amount
of time to do so); and cite to yourself in succession our various
social conditions, and give them your best attention. Meanwhile Arkady
and myself will go and----"

"Go and make sport of everything, I presume?"

"No, go and dissect frogs. Come, Arkady! _Au revoir_, gentlemen."

And the two friends departed. Left alone, the brothers looked at one
another.

"So," at last said Paul Petrovitch, "you see the young men of the
day--you see our successors!"

"Our successors--yes," re-echoed Nikolai Petrovitch despondently.
Throughout the conversation he had been sitting simply on pins and
needles; throughout it he had dared do no more than throw an occasional
pained glance at Arkady. "My brother, there came to me just now a
curious reminiscence. It was of a quarrel which once I had with my
mother. During the contest she raised a great outcry, and refused to
listen to a single word I said; until at length I told her that for
her to understand me was impossible, seeing that she and I came of
different generations. Of course this angered her yet more, but I
thought to myself: 'What else could I do? The pill must have been a
bitter one, but it was necessary that she should swallow it.' And now
_our_ turn is come; now is it for _us_ to be told by our heirs that we
come of a different generation from theirs, and must kindly swallow the
pill."

"You are too magnanimous and retiring," expostulated Paul Petrovitch.
"For my part, I feel sure that we are more in the right than these
two youngsters, even though we may express ourselves in old-fashioned
terms, and lack their daring self-sufficiency. Indeed, what a puffed-up
crowd is the youth of to-day! Should you ask one of them whether he
will take white wine or red, he will reply, in a bass voice, and with
a face as though the whole universe were looking at him: 'Red is my
customary rule.'"

"Should you like some more tea?" interrupted Thenichka, who had been
peeping through the doorway, but had not dared to enter during the
progress of the dispute.

"No," was Nikolai Petrovitch's reply as he rose to meet her. "So you
can order the _samovar_ to be removed."

Meanwhile, with a brief "_Bon soir_," Paul Petrovitch betook himself to
his study.


[1] Ludwig Büchner (1824-1899), German physician and materialist
philosopher.

[2] _i.e._ the census-taking of the serf population.

[3] Scribbler.

[4] In 1812.




XI


Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovitch sought his favourite arbour.
Despondent thoughts were thronging through his brain, for the rift
between himself and his son was only too evident. Also, he knew that
that rift would widen from day to day. For nothing had he spent whole
days, during those winters in St. Petersburg, in the perusal of modern
works! For nothing had he listened to the young men's discourses! For
nothing had he been delighted when he had been able to interpolate a
word into their tempestuous debates!

"My brother says that we are more in the right than they," he
reflected. "And certainly I too can say without vanity that I believe
these young fellows to stand at a greater distance from the truth than
ourselves. Yet also I believe that they have in them something which
we lack--something which gives them an advantage over us. What is that
something? Is it youth? No, it is not youth alone. Is it that there
hovers about them less of the _barin_ than hovers about ourselves?
Possibly!"

Bending his head, he passed his hand over his face.

"Yet to reject poetry!" he muttered. "To fail to sympathise with art
and nature!"

And he gazed around as though he were trying to understand how any
one could be out of sympathy with the natural world. Evening was just
closing in, and the sun sinking behind a small aspen copse which,
situated half a verst from the garden, was trailing long shadows over
the motionless fields. Along the narrow, dark track beside the copse
a peasant on a white pony was trotting; and though the pair were
overshadowed by the trees, the rider was as clearly visible, even to a
patch on his shoulder, as the twinkling legs of his steed. Piercing
the tangled aspens, the sun's beams were bathing the trunks in so
brilliant a glow that trunks and beams were one bright mass, and only
the foliage on the boughs above formed a dusky blur against the lighter
tints of the flame-coloured sky. Overhead bats were whirling; the wind
had sunk to rest; a few late-homing bees were buzzing somnolently,
sluggishly amid the lilac blossoms; and a pillared swarm of gnats was
dancing over a projecting bough.

"O God, how fair!" was Nikolai's involuntary thought as his lips
breathed a favourite couplet.

Suddenly he remembered Arkady and _Stoff und Kraft_; and though
he continued to sit where he was, he quoted poetry no more, but
surrendered his mind wholly to the play of his lonely, irregular,
mournful thoughts. At all times he was a man fond of dreaming; and
to this tendency his life in the country had added confirmation. To
think of what only a short while ago he had been dreaming as he waited
for his son on the post-house verandah! For since that hour a change
had come about, and in the vague relations between himself and his
son there had dawned a more definite phase. Next, he saw before him
his dead wife. Yet he saw her, not as she had appeared to him during
the later years of her life--that is to say, as a kindly, thrifty
_châtelaine_--but as a young girl slim of figure and innocently
inquiring of eye. Yes, there flitted before his vision a picture only
of neatly plaited tresses falling over a childish neck. And he thought
of his first meeting with her when, as a student, he had encountered
her on the staircase leading to his suite of rooms. He remembered how,
having accidentally brushed against her, he had stopped to apologise,
but had only succeeded in muttering "Pardon, _monsieur_"; where-upon
she had bowed, and smiled, and fled as in sudden alarm--but only
to turn, the next moment, at the bend of the staircase, to look
swiftly back, and then, as swiftly, to blush, and assume a more demure
demeanour. Ah, those first timid meetings, those half-spoken words,
those bashful smiles, those alternate fits of rapture and despair, that
courtship that was destined to be crowned with swooning joy! Whither
was it all fled? True, she had become his wife, and had conferred upon
him such happiness as falls to the lot of few men on earth; but ever
the thought recurred to him, and recurred again: "Why could those days
of sweetness not have lasted for ever, so that we might have lived a
life which should never have known death?"

He made no attempt to co-ordinate his thoughts. The predominant feeling
in his mind was that he would give worlds to be able to connect himself
with those blessed days by something stronger than the mere power of
memory. He wanted to feel his Maria near him once more, to scent her
dear breath. A curious mood had him in its grip.

"Nikolai Petrovitch!" came the voice of Thenichka from a spot somewhere
in the vicinity. "Where are you?"

As he heard the call, a feeling that was neither vexation nor shame
passed over him. No comparison between his dead wife and Thenichka was
possible, yet he gave a start, and felt a passing regret that Thenichka
had seized _that_ moment to seek him. For in some way did the sound
of her voice bring back to him his grey hairs, his old age, all that
constituted the present. So for an instant the enchanted world which
he had just entered, and which he had just seen emerge from the misty
waves of the past, quivered--then disappeared.

"I am here, Thenichka," he called. "Please go away. I will come
presently."

"Another reminder that I am a _barin_," he reflected.

Thenichka retired, and suddenly he became aware of the fact that since
the moment when he had sunk into a reverie nightfall had come. Yes,
all around him there lay a motionless obscurity, with, gleaming amid
it, as a small, pale blur, Thenichka's face. Rising, he started to
return to the house, but his unstrung nerves could not calm themselves,
and, glancing now at the ground, now towards the heavens where there
swarmed myriads of twinkling stars, he fell to pacing the garden. He
continued this pacing until he was almost worn out; for still did the
vague, despondent, insistent sense of agitation refuse to leave his
breast. Could Bazarov have divined his thoughts, how the Nihilist would
have laughed! And even Arkady would have condemned him. For from the
eyes of Nikolai Petrovitch--from the eyes of a man of forty-four who
was the proprietor of an estate and a household--there were welling
slow, uncalled-for tears. This was a hundred times worse than the
'cello-playing!

And still he continued his pacing, for he could not make up his mind
to enter the peaceful, inviting retreat which beckoned to him so
cheerfully with its lighted windows, and to leave the darkness of the
garden, to forego the touch of fresh air upon his face, to throw off
his present mood of sadness and emotion.

At a turn in the path he encountered Paul Petrovitch.

"What is the matter with you?" Paul inquired. "You are looking as white
as a ghost. Are you ill? Why not go to bed?"

Nikolai Petrovitch explained to him in a few words his frame of
mind--then moved towards the house. Paul Petrovitch sauntered down
towards the other end of the garden, and ever and anon, as he did so,
indulged in wrapt contemplation of the heavens. Yet, save for the
reflection of the starlight, there was nothing to be seen in his dark,
handsome eyes; for he had not been born a Romanticist, and his drily
fastidious, passionate, Frenchified, misanthropic soul was incapable
of castle-building.

"I tell you what," Bazarov said to Arkady the same night. "A splendid
idea has come into my head. You know that to-day your father said that
a certain eminent relation had sent him an invitation which he had no
intention of accepting. Well, how would it be if you and I were to
accept it, seeing that you too have been included in the honour? The
weather has turned beautiful, and we might drive over and look at the
town, and thus, incidentally, secure a few days' uninterrupted talk
together."

"Should you then return here?"

"No. I should go on to my father's. You see, he lives thirty versts
away only, and it is a long time since last I saw either him or my
mother. Moreover, the old folk deserve to be humoured a little, seeing
that they have been very good to me--especially my father--and that I
am their only son."

"And shall you stay long?"

"No. Staying in that place is dull work."

"Then pay us a second visit on your way back?"

"I will if possible. We will go, then, eh?"

"At your pleasure," Arkady replied with a show of indifference. But, as
a matter of fact, he was delighted with Bazarov's proposal; and only
the thought that he must keep up his "Nihilism" prevented him from
manifesting his feelings.

So, the next day, the pair set out for the town of ----; while with one
consent the youth of Marino broke into lamentations over their going,
and Duniasha even went so far as to weep. Only their elders breathed
more freely.




XII


The town of ----, whither our friends now proceeded, lay under the
dominion of one of those young, progressive, despotic provincial
governors who afflict Russia in an unending sequence. As early as the
first year of his rule this particular potentate had succeeded in
quarrelling, not only with the President of the Provincial Council (who
was a retired staff officer, a horse breeder, and an agriculturist),
but also with his whole gubernatorial staff of _tchinovniks_: with
the result that at the time of our story the commotion therefrom had
attained a pitch which had just necessitated the sending down of
a commissary empowered to hold an investigation. The Government's
choice for this purpose had fallen upon Matvei Ilyitch Koliazin, the
son of the Koliazin who had once acted as guardian to the brothers
Kirsanov, and a man of the younger school--that is to say, a man who,
though a little over forty, still aimed at attaining the dignity of a
statesman, and having a breast covered with stars (including at least
one of a foreign minor order), and who, also like the Governor whom
he had come to examine, was accounted a Progressive, and held a high
opinion of himself. Yet never did Matvei allow his boundless vanity
to prevent him from affecting a stereotyped air of simplicity and
good humour, or from listening indulgently to anything that might be
said to him, or from cultivating so pleasant a laugh that everywhere
he contrived to pass for "not a bad sort of a fellow." True, he could
on important occasions (if I may quote the trite saying) "make dust
fly" ("Energy is indispensable for a State worker," was a frequent saw
of his--"_L'énergie est la première qualité d'un homme d'état_");
yet almost invariably did he end by being set down as a fool, while
_tchinovniks_ of more experience rode roughshod over him. Amongst other
things, he had a custom of expressing a great respect for Guizot,[1]
and also of striving to convince every one that he (Koliazin) was not
one of "your men of routine, your retired bureaucrats," but, rather, a
man who noted "every new and more important phenomenon of our social
life." In fact, such phrases he had at his finger ends, and also he
studied (though with a sort of careless pomposity only) the development
of contemporary literature. Lastly, it not seldom befell that, on
meeting a street procession of students, he would, though maturer of
years than the majority of its members, add himself to its ranks. In
short, only his circumstances and his epoch caused Matvei Ilyitch in
any way to differ from those officials of the Alexandrine period who,
before setting out to attend a reception at Madame Svietchin's[2] (then
resident in St. Petersburg), would read a few pages of Condillac's[3]
works. Yet, though an adroit courtier, Matvei was a mere glittering
fraud, since, save that he knew how to hold his own against all comers
(though, certainly, that is a great achievement in life), he was, in
all matters of State, a complete stranger to common sense.

On the present occasion he welcomed Arkady with all the _bonhomie_,
all the jocosity, of an "enlightened" bigwig. Nevertheless his face
fell a little when he learned that the other relatives whom he had
invited had preferred remaining in the country. "Your father always
was a queer fish," he remarked as he parted the tails of a velvet
"cutaway." And, having said this, he turned to a young _tchinovnik_ in
a tightly buttoned uniform, and asked him irritably what he wanted;
at which onslaught the young _tchinovnik_ (whose lips looked as
though a confirmed habit of keeping their own counsel had gummed them
permanently together) straightened himself with a sharp, apprehensive
look at his superior. But, once Matvei had effected this "settling" of
his subordinate, the great man paid the little one no further attention.

In passing, I may observe that to most of our bigwigs is this species
of "settling" very dear, and that many are the expedients resorted
to for its achievement. Particularly is the following method "quite
a favourite," as the English say--in other words, much in request.
Suddenly a given bigwig will cease to be able to grasp with his
intelligence even the simplest sentence, and assume an air of abysmal
density. For example, he will inquire what the day of the week may be,
and be told (with great and stammering deference) that the day is, say,
Friday.

"What?" will roar the bigwig with an air of being forced to strain his
ears to the utmost. "Eh? what do you say?"

"I-It is F-Friday, your E-E-Excellency."

"Eh, what? Friday? What mean you by Friday?"

"Y-Your Excellency, F-Friday is, is--F-F-Friday is a day in the week."

"Come, come! You need not have taken so much time to tell me _that_."

Matvei Ilyitch was just such a bigwig, although he called himself a
Liberal.

"My good fellow," he now continued to Arkady, "I should advise you to
go and leave your card upon the Governor. Of course you understand that
my reason for counselling you to adopt this procedure is, not that I
in any way hold with any bygone ideas about kow-towing to authority,
but, rather, because the Governor is a good fellow, and I know that you
would like to see a little society. For you too are not a bear, I hope?
No? Well, the Governor is giving a grand ball the day after to-morrow."

"And shall you be there?" asked Arkady.

"I shall, of course, receive tickets for it," replied Matvei Ilyitch
with an assumed air of regret. "You dance, I presume?"

"I do--though very badly."

"Never mind, never mind. There exists here plenty of good society, and
it would never do for a young fellow like yourself to be a non-dancer.
Again I say this, not because I in any way revere antiquated notions,
nor yet because I think that intellect ought to go kicking its heels
about, but because Byronism has become absurd--_il a fait son temps_."

"But I belong to neither the Byronists nor----"

"Well, well! I will introduce you to some of our ladies--I myself will
take you under my wing." And Matvei Ilyitch smiled in a self-satisfied
way. "In fact, you shall have a gay time here."

At this point a servant entered to announce the President of the
Provincial Treasury. The latter, a mild-eyed veteran with wrinkles
around his lips and a great love for nature, was accustomed to remark
on summer days that "of every little flower each little bee is now
taking its toll." So Arkady seized the occasion to depart.

He found Bazarov at the hotel where the pair were putting up, and had
great difficulty in persuading him to join in the projected call upon
the Governor.

"Well, well!" eventually said Bazarov. "I have laid a hand upon the
tow-rope, so it ill becomes me to complain of its weight. As we are
here to inspect the local lions, let us inspect them."

To the young men the Governor accorded a civil enough welcome, but
neither bade them be seated nor set the example himself. A man in
a perpetual hurry and ferment, he, on rising in the morning, was
accustomed to don a tight uniform and stiff collar, and then to give
himself up to such an orgy of orders-giving that he never finished
a single meal. As the result, he was known throughout the province
as "Bardeloue"--in reference, be it said, not to the great French
preacher,[4] but to _burda_, fermented liquor. After inviting Arkady
and Bazarov to the coming ball, the Governor, two minutes later,
repeated the invitation as though he had never given it; while likewise
he mistook the pair for brothers, and addressed them throughout as "the
Messieurs _Kaiserov_."

Subsequently, as the pair were proceeding homewards, a man of small
stature, and dressed in a "Slavophil" costume, leapt from a passing
_drozhki_, and, with a cry of "Evgenii Vasilitch!" flung himself upon
Bazarov.

"Is that you, Herr Sitnikov?" remarked Bazarov without even checking
his stride. "What chance brings you hither?"

"A pure accident," was the other's reply as, turning to the _drozhki_,
he signed to the coachman to follow at a foot's pace. "You see, I had
business to do with my father, and he invited me to pay him a visit."
Sitnikov hopped across a puddle. "Also, on learning of your arrival,
I have been to call at your place." (True enough, on subsequently
reaching the hotel, the two friends found awaiting them Sitnikov's
visiting-card, with the corners turned down, and one side of it
inscribed with his name in the French fashion, and the other with his
name in Slavonic characters.)

"You are from the Governor's, I suppose?" continued the little man. "I
sincerely hope not, however."

"Your hopes are vain."

"Then I too, alas, must pay him my _devoirs_. But first introduce me to
your friend."

"Sitnikov--Kirsanov," responded Bazarov without halting.

"Delighted!" minced Sitnikov as he stepped back, struck an attitude,
and hurriedly doffed his super-elegant gloves. "I have heard much of
you, Monsieur Kirsanov. I too am an old acquaintance--I might even say,
an old pupil--of Evgenii Vasilitch's. Through him it was that I came by
my spiritual regeneration."

Arkady glanced at Bazarov's "old pupil," and saw that he had small,
dull, pleasant, nervous features; also that his narrow, sunken eyes
expressed a great restlessness, and that his lips were parted in a
perpetual smile of a wooden and ingratiating order.

"Do you know," Sitnikov continued, "when Evgenii Vasilitch first told
me that we ought to ignore every species of authority I experienced
a sense of rapture, I felt as though I had suddenly ripened. 'Ah,' I
thought, 'at last have I found my man!' By the way, Evgenii Vasilitch,
you _must_ come and see a certain lady of my acquaintance--one who,
beyond all others, is the person to understand you, and to look upon
your coming as a red-letter event. Perhaps you have heard of her
already?"

"No. Who is she?" asked Bazarov reluctantly.

"A Madame Kukshin--a Madame, I should say, _Evdoksia_ Kukshin. And she
is not merely a remarkable character and a woman of light and leading;
she is also representative of the _émancipée_, in the best sense of the
word. But look here. How would it be if all three of us were to go and
see her? She lives only two steps away, and she would give us luncheon.
You have not lunched already, I presume?"

"No, we have not."

"Then the arrangement would suit us all. By the way, she is
independent, but a married woman."

"Good-looking?" queried Bazarov.

"N-No--one could not exactly say that."

"Then why ask us to go and see her?"

"Ah, ha! You _will_ have your jest, I see. But remember that she will
stand us a bottle of champagne."

"The practicality of the man!"

Sitnikov gave a shrill giggle.

"Shall we go?" he added.

"I cannot decide."

Here Arkady put in a word.

"We have come to inspect the local people," he remarked, "so let us
inspect them."

"True enough," seconded Sitnikov. "And, of course, _you_ must come,
Monsieur Kirsanov. We could not go without you."

"What? Are all three of us to descend upon her?"

"What matter? She herself is an odd person."

"And you say that she will stand us a bottle of champagne."

"Yes; or even a bottle apiece," asserted Sitnikov. "I will go bail upon
that."

"Go bail with what?"

"With my head."

"Your purse would have been better; but lead on."


[1] François Pierre Guillaume Guizot (1787-1874), the great French
minister, ambassador, _littérateur_, and educationalist.

[2] Madame Svietchin (1782-1857), wife of the Russian General
Svietchin. For more than forty years she maintained a famous salon.

[3] Etienne Bonnot de Mably de Condillac (1715-1780), a French
philosopher who based knowledge solely upon the physical senses.

[4] Louis Bourdaloue (1632-1704), a professor in the Jesuit College of
Bourges.




XIII


The villa in which Avdotia, or Evdoksia, Nikitishna Kukshin resided
was one of the usual Moscow pattern, and stood in one of the recently
consumed streets (for as we know, every fifth year sees each of our
provincial capitals burnt to the ground) of the town of ----. Beside
the front door there hung (over a cracked, crooked visiting-card)
a bell-handle, while in the hall the visitors were met by a female
who constituted, not exactly a maidservant, but a mob-capped "lady
companion." And it need hardly be added that these two phenomena, the
bell-handle and the "lady companion," constituted clear evidence of the
"progressiveness" of the hostess's views.

On Sitnikov inquiring whether Avdotia Nikitishna were within, a shrill
voice interrupted him from an adjoining room:

"Is that you, Victor? Pray enter."

The female in the mob-cap disappeared.

"I have not come alone," Sitnikov responded as, after an inquiring
glance at Arkady and Bazarov, he divested himself of his greatcoat, and
revealed thereunder a sort of sack jacket.

"Never mind," the voice replied. "_Entrez, s'il vous plaît._"

The young men did as bidden, and found themselves in a room which
resembled a workshop rather than a parlour. On tables were piled
promiscuous papers, letters and Russian magazines (most of the
latter uncut); everywhere on the floor were to be seen gleaming the
fag-ends of cigarettes; and on a leather-padded sofa a lady--youngish,
flaxen-haired, and clad in a _négligée_ soiled silk gown--was lolling
in a semi-recumbent position. About her stumpy wrists were clasped a
large pair of bracelets, and over her head was thrown a lace mantilla.
Rising, she draped her shoulders carelessly in a velvet tippet with
faded ermine trimming, and, saying indolently, "Good day, Victor,"
pressed Sitnikov's hand.

"Bazarov--Kirsanov," he said in abrupt imitation of the former;
whereupon she responded, "How do you do?" and then added, as she
fixed upon Bazarov a pair of large eyes between which glimmered a
correspondingly small, pink, upturned nose: "I have met you before."

That said, she pressed his hand even as she had done Sitnikov's.

Bazarov frowned, for though the plain, insignificant features of
the emancipated lady contained nothing actually to repel, there was
something in their mien which produced upon the beholder the sort of
unpleasant impression which might have inclined him to ask her: "Are
you hungry, or bored, or afraid? At all events, what is it you want?"
Also, like Sitnikov, she kept pawing the air as she spoke, and her
every word, her every gesture, revealed such a lack of control as at
times amounted to sheer awkwardness. In short, though she conceived
herself to be just a simple, good-hearted creature, her bearing was of
the kind to lead the beholder to reflect that, no matter what she did,
it was not what she had intended to do, and that everything was done
(to use the children's term) "on purpose"--that is to say, non-simply
and non-naturally.

"Yes, I have met you before, Bazarov," she repeated (like many other
contemporary females of Moscow and the provinces, she had adopted the
fashion of calling men by their surnames alone on first introduction).
"Will you have a cigar?"

"I thank you," interposed Sitnikov (who had deposited his person in an
armchair, and crossed his legs). "Also, pray give us some luncheon,
for we are absolutely ravenous. Also, you might order us a bottle of
champagne."

"You Sybarite!" exclaimed Evdoksia with a smile (a smile always brought
her upper gum prominently into view). "Is he not, Bazarov?"

"No; it is merely that I love the comforts of life," protested Sitnikov
pompously. "Nor need that in any way prevent me from being a Liberal."

"But it does, it does," cried Evdoksia. However, she gave orders to
her servant to see both to the luncheon and to the champagne. "What is
_your_ opinion on the matter?" she added, turning to Bazarov. "I feel
convinced that you share mine."

"No, I do not," he replied. "On the contrary, I think that, even from
the chemical point of view, a piece of meat is better than a piece of
bread."

"Then you study chemistry?" she exclaimed. "Chemistry is _my_ passion
also. In fact, I have invented a special liniment."

"A liniment? You?"

"Yes, I. And please guess its use. It is for making unbreakable dolls
and pipe-bowls. You see that, like yourself, I am of a practical turn
of mind. But, as yet, I have not completed my course of study. It
still remains for me to read up my Liebig. _Apropos_, have you seen an
article in the _Viedomosti_ on Woman's Work--an article by Kisliakov?
If not, you should read it (for I presume that you take an interest in
the Feminine Question, and also in the Question of the Schools?). But
what is your friend's line? _Apropos_, what is his name?"

These questions Madame Kukshin, as it were, mouthed, and did so with an
affected carelessness which waited for no reply, even as a spoilt child
propounds conundrums to its nurse.

"My name is Arkady Nikolaievitch Kirsanov," Arkady answered for
himself. "And my particular line is doing nothing at all."

Evdoksia tittered.

"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Then you do not even smoke? Victor, I am
furious with you!"

"Why?" enquired Sitnikov.

"Because I have just heard that you are again standing up for Georges
Sand, that played-out woman. How is she even to be compared (that
creature, who lacks a single idea on education or physiology or
anything else) with Emerson? In fact, I believe that never in her life
has she so much as _heard_ of embryology--though in these days no one
can get on without it." The speaker flung out her arms in an expressive
gesture. "But what a splendid article was that of Elisievitch's!
He is indeed a talented gentleman!" (This was another habit of
Evdoksia's--the habit of persistently using the term "gentleman" for
the ordinary word "man"). "Bazarov, pray come and sit beside me on the
sofa. You may not know it, but I am dreadfully afraid of you."

"Why are you afraid of me (if you will forgive my curiosity)?"

"Because you are a dangerous gentleman--you are a critic so caustic
that in your presence my confusion leads me to begin speaking like
a lady-landowner of the Steppes. _Apropos_, I am a lady-landowner
myself; for, though I employ a local steward named Erothei (a sort of
Cooper's 'Pathfinder,' but compounded with a blend of independence in
his composition), I retain the ultimate reins of management in my own
hands. But how unbearable this town is!--yes, even though I have made
it my permanent home, seeing that nothing else was to be done!"

"The town is what a town always is," remarked Bazarov indifferently.

"But its interests are so petty!" continued Evdoksia.

"_That_ is what troubles me. Once upon a time I used to winter in
Moscow, but now good Monsieur Kukshin has to dwell there alone. And
Moscow itself is, is--well, not what it used to be. As a matter of
fact, I contemplate going abroad. I have spent the whole year in making
my preparations for the journey."

"You will go to Paris, I presume?"

"Yes, and to Heidelberg."

"Why to Heidelberg?"

"Because there the great Herr Bunsen[1] has his home."

Bazarov could not think of a suitable reply.

"Do you know Pierre Sapozhnikov?" continued she.

"No, I do not."

"He is always to be found at Lydia Khostatov's."

"Even with her I am not acquainted."

"Well, Sapozhnikov is going to escort me on my travels. For at least I
am free--I have no children, thank God! Why I should have put in that
'Thank God!' I scarcely know."

She rolled another cigarette between her nicotine-stained fingers,
licked it, placed it between her lips, and struck a match. The servant
entered with a tray.

"Ah! Here comes luncheon! Will you have some? Victor, pray uncork the
bottle. It is your function to do so."

"Mine, yes, mine," he hummed; then gave another of his shrill giggles.

"Have you any good-looking ladies in this town?" Bazarov asked after a
third glassful of champagne.

"Yes," replied Evdoksia. "But uniformly they are futile. For example, a
friend of mine, a Madame Odintsov, is not bad-looking, and has nothing
against her except a doubtful reputation (a thing of no consequence
in itself); but, alas! she combines with it such a complete lack of
freedom, or of breadth of view, or, in fact, of anything! The system
of bringing up women needs a radical change. I myself have given much
thought to the matter, and come to the conclusion that our women are
ill-educated."

"Yes; the only thing to be done with them is to hold them in contempt,"
agreed Sitnikov. To him any opportunity of despising, of expressing
scornful sentiments, was the most agreeable of sensations. Yet, though
he thus chose women for his especial censure, he little suspected that
before many months were over he himself would be grovelling at the feet
of a wife--and doing so merely for the reason that she had been born a
Princess Durdoleosov!

"No, to none of them would our conversation convey anything," he
continued. "Nor is there a single one of them upon whom the attention
of a serious-minded man would be anything but thrown away."

"Scarcely need they _desire_ to have anything conveyed to them by our
conversation," remarked Bazarov.

"Of whom are you speaking?" interposed Evdoksia.

"Of the smart women of the day."

"What? I suppose you agree with Proudhon's[2] opinion on the subject?"

Bazarov drew himself up.

"I agree with no man's opinions," he remarked. "I have some of my own."

"_A bas les autorités!_" cried Sitnikov, delighted at this unlooked-for
opportunity of showing off in the presence of the man whom he
worshipped.

"But even Macaulay----" began Madame Kukshin.

"_A bas_ Macaulay!" roared Sitnikov. "How can you defend those dolls of
ours?"

"I am not defending them at all," said Madame Kukshin. "I am merely
standing up for the rights of women--rights which I have sworn to
defend to the last drop of my blood."

"_A bas_----" began Sitnikov--then paused. "I do not reject them," he
added in a lower tone.

"But you _do_ reject them, for you are a Slavophil, as I can see very
clearly."

"On the contrary, I am _not_ a Slavophil; although, of course, I----"

"But you _are_ a Slavophil: you believe in the principles of the
_Domostroi_,[3] and would like always to be holding over women a
scourge."

"A scourge is not a bad thing in its proper place," observed Bazarov.
"But, seeing that we have reached the last drop of, of----"

"Of what?" said Evdoksia.

"Of champagne, most respected Avdotia Nikitishna--not of your blood."

"Never when I hear my sex abused can I listen with indifference,"
resumed Evdoksia. "It is all too horrible, too horrible! Instead of
attacking us, people ought to read Michel's[4] _De l'Amour_. What a
wonderful work it is! Let us talk of love."

She posed her arm gracefully upon the tumbled cushions of the sofa.

There fell a sudden silence.

"What is there to say concerning love?" at length said Bazarov. "In
passing, you mentioned a certain Madame Odintsov (I think that was the
name?). Who is she?"

"A very charming woman," squeaked Sitnikov, "as well as clever, rich,
and a widow. Unfortunately, she is not sufficiently _developed_, and
a closer acquaintance with our Evdoksia would do her a world of good.
Evdoksia, I drink to your health! Let us sing the honours. 'Et toc, et
toc, et tin, tin, tin! Et toc, et toc, et tin, tin, tin!'"

"You scamp, Victor!"

The luncheon proved a lengthy affair, for to the first bottle of
champagne there succeeded a second, and to the latter a third, and to
that a fourth. Meanwhile Evdoksia kept up an unceasing flow of chatter,
and received effective assistance from Sitnikov. In particular did
the pair discuss the nature of marriage ("the outcome of prejudice
and vice"), the question whether people are born "single," and the
consistency of "individuality." Then Evdoksia seated herself at the
piano, and, red in the face with wine which she had drunk, clattered
her flat finger-nails upon the keys, and essayed hoarsely to sing,
first of all some gipsy ditties, and then the ballad, "Dreaming Granada
lies asleep"; while, throwing a scarf over his head to represent the
dying lover, Sitnikov joined her at the words "Your lips meet mine in a
burning kiss."

At length Arkady could stand it no longer.

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this is sheer Bedlam!"

As for Bazarov, he yawned, for he had done little more than interject
a satirical word or two--his attention had been devoted, rather, to
the champagne. At length he rose, and, accompanied by Arkady, left the
house without so much as a word of farewell to the hostess. Sitnikov
pursued the pair.

"Ah, ha!" he exclaimed as he skipped about the roadway. "Did I not tell
you that she would prove a most remarkable personality? Would that more
of our women were like her! In her way, she is a moral phenomenon."

"And your father's establishment?" remarked Bazarov as he pointed
to a tavern which they happened to be passing. "Is that also a moral
phenomenon?"

Sitnikov vented another of his shrill giggles. But, being also ashamed
of his origin, he felt at a loss whether to plume himself upon, or to
take offence at, Bazarov's unexpected pleasantry.


[1] Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811-1899), chemist and physicist; inventor
of Bunsen's burner and magnesium light; and originator (with Kirchhov)
of spectrum analysis.

[2] Pierre Joseph Proudhon (1809-1865), a French doctrinaire who taught
that anarchy is the culmination of all social progress.

[3] A curious old sixteenth-century work which, usually attributed to
the monk Sylvester, purports to be a "guide to household management,"
and, incidentally, gives a terrible picture of the power of the Russian
husband over his wife.

[4] Louise Michel (1830-1906), a French anarchist long resident in
London.




XIV


A few days later, the ball was held at the Governor's, and Matvei
Ilyitch figured thereat as the guest of honour. For his part, the
President of the Provincial Council (who was at loggerheads with the
Governor) explained at large that only out of respect for Matvei had
he deigned to be present, while the Governor continued, even when
stationary, his usual process of orders-giving. With Matvei's suavity
of demeanour nothing could be compared save his pomposity. Upon every
man he smiled--upon some with a hint of superciliousness, upon others
with a shade of deference; whilst to the ladies he bowed and scraped
_en vrai chevalier français_, and laughed, throughout, the great,
resonant, conspicuous laugh which a bigwig ought to do. Again, he
clapped Arkady upon the back, addressed him loudly as "young nephew,"
and honoured Bazarov (who had been with difficulty coaxed into an
ancient tail-coat) both with a distant, yet faintly condescending,
glance which skimmed that individual's cheek, and with a vague,
but affable, murmur in which there could be distinguished only the
fragments "I," "Yes," and "'xtremely." Lastly, he accorded Sitnikov
a finger and a smile (in the very act, turning his head away), and
bestowed upon Madame Kukshin (who had appeared minus a crinoline and
in dirty gloves, but with a bird of paradise stuck in her hair) an
"_Enchanté_!" The throng present was immense; nor was a sufficiency
of cavaliers lacking. True, most of the civilian element crowded
against the walls, but the military section danced with enthusiasm,
especially an officer who, being fresh from six weeks in Paris, where
he had become acquainted with daring cries of the type of "Zut!"
"Ah, fichtrrre!" "Pst, pst, mon bibi!" and so forth, pronounced these
quips to perfection, with true Parisian _chic_; while also he said
"_Si j'aurais_" for "_Si j'avais_," and "_absolument_" in the sense of
"certainly." In short, he employed that Franco-Russian jargon which
affords the French such intense amusement whenever they do not think it
more prudent to assure their Russian friends that the latter speak the
tongue of France _comme des anges_.

As we know, Arkady was a poor dancer, and Bazarov did not dance at all;
wherefore the pair sought a corner, and were there joined by Sitnikov.
Summoning to his visage his accustomed smile of contempt, and emitting
remarks mordantly sarcastic in their nature, the great Sitnikov glanced
haughtily about him, and appeared to derive some genuine pleasure from
thus striking an attitude. But suddenly his face underwent a change.
Turning to Arkady, he said in a self-conscious way: "Here is Madame
Odintsov just entering."

Looking up, Arkady beheld, halted in the doorway, a tall woman in
a black gown. In particular was he struck with the dignity of her
carriage, and with the manner in which her bare arms hung beside
her upright figure. From her gleaming hair to her sloping shoulders
trailed sprays of fuchsia flowers, while quietly, intelligently--I say
_quietly_, not dreamily--there gazed, with a barely perceptible smile,
from under a white and slightly prominent forehead a pair of brilliant
eyes. In general, the countenance suggested latent, but gentle, kindly
force.

"Do you know her?" Arkady inquired.

"I do--intimately," replied Sitnikov. "Shall I introduce you?"

"If you please; but only when this quadrille has come to an end."

Bazarov's attention also had been caught by this Madame Odintsov.

"What a face!" he exclaimed. "No other woman in the room has one
anything like it."

As soon, therefore, as the quadrille was over, Sitnikov conducted
Arkady to Madame Odintsov; and though at first--whether through the
excessive "intimacy" of Sitnikov's acquaintance, or whether through the
fact that he happened to stumble over his words--she gazed at him with
a shade of astonishment, she no sooner heard Arkady's family name than
her face brightened, and she inquired whether he was the son of Nikolai
Petrovitch.

"I am," replied Arkady.

"Then I have twice had the pleasure of meeting your father. Also, I
have heard much about him, and shall be most glad to know you."

At this point an aide-de-camp sidled up, and requested the honour of a
quadrille: which request she granted.

"Then you dance?" exclaimed Arkady, but with great deference.

"I do. What made you think that I do not? Is it that I look too old?"

"Oh no, pardon me! By no means! Then perhaps I too might ask for a
mazurka?"

Smiling indulgently, she replied, "If you wish," and then looked at him
not so much in a "superior" manner as in that of a married sister who
is regarding a very, very young brother. Though she was not greatly
older than Arkady (she had just attained her twenty-ninth year), her
presence made him feel the veriest schoolboy, and caused the difference
of years to seem infinitely greater than it was. Next, Matvei Ilyitch
approached her with a majestic air and a few obsequious words;
whereupon Arkady moved away a little, while continuing to observe her.
In fact, not until the quadrille was over did he find himself able
to withdraw his eyes from her bewitching person. Throughout, her
conversation with her partner and the guest of honour was accompanied
with small movements of the head and eyes, and twice she uttered a
low laugh. True, her nose erred a little on the side of thickness
(as do those of most Russian women), nor was the colour of her skin
unimpeachable; yet Arkady came to the conclusion that never in his life
had he encountered a woman so charming of personality. Continuously
the sound of her voice murmured in his ears, and the very folds of her
dress looked different from those of other women--they seemed to hang
straighter and more symmetrically, and her every movement was smooth
and natural.

Nevertheless, when the strains of the mazurka struck up, and, reseating
himself beside his partner, he prepared to enter into conversation
with her, he felt a distinct touch of diffidence. Nor, though he kept
passing his hand over his hair, could he find a word to say. However,
this timidity, this state of agitation, did not last long, for soon her
calmness infected him, and within a quarter of an hour he was talking
to her of his father, his uncle, and life in St. Petersburg and the
country. For her part, she listened with kindly interest, while gently
opening and closing her fan. Thus only at moments when other cavaliers
came to ask her for dances (Sitnikov did this twice) did Arkady's
chatter become interrupted; and whenever she returned to her place,
to reseat herself with her bosom heaving not a whit more rapidly than
it had done before, he would plunge into renewed conversation, so
delighted was he at the fact that he had found some one to sympathise
with him, to whom he could talk, at whose beautiful eyes and forehead
and gentle, refined, intellectual features he could gaze at leisure.
She herself said little, but her every word showed a knowledge of life
which pointed to the fact that already this young woman had thought and
felt much.

"Who was the man with you before Sitnikov brought you to me?" she
inquired.

"So you noticed my friend?" exclaimed Arkady. "Has he not a splendid
face? His name is Bazarov."

And, once launched upon the subject, Arkady descanted so fully, and
with such enthusiasm, that Madame Odintsov turned to observe his friend
more closely. But soon the mazurka began to draw to a close, and Arkady
found himself regretting the prospect of losing the companion with whom
he had spent such a pleasant hour. True, he had felt, throughout, that
he was being treated with condescension, and ought to be grateful; but
upon young hearts such an obligation does not press with any great
weight.

The music stopped with a jerk.

"_Merci_!" said Madame Odintsov--then rose. "You have promised to come
and see me. Also, bring with you your friend, for I am filled with
curiosity to behold a man who has the temerity to believe in nothing."

Next, the Governor approached Madame with a distraught air and an
intimation that supper was ready; whereupon she took his proffered arm,
and, as she departed, turned with a last smile and nod to Arkady, who,
in answer, bowed and stood following her with his eyes. How straight
her figure looked under the sheen of her black gown!

"Already she will have forgotten my existence," he thought to himself,
while an exquisite humility pervaded his soul. Then he rejoined Bazarov
in their joint corner.

"Well?" his friend said. "Have you enjoyed yourself? Some man or other
has just been telling me that the lady in question is---- But in all
probability the man was a fool. What do _you_ think of her?"

"The allusion escapes me," replied Arkady.

"Come, come, young innocence!"

"Or at all events your informant's meaning escapes me. Madame is nice,
but as cold and formal as, as----"

"As a stagnant pool," concluded Bazarov. "Yes, we all know the sort of
thing. You say that she is cold, but that is purely a matter of taste.
Perhaps you yourself like ice?"

"Perhaps I do," the other muttered. "But of such things I am no judge;
and in any case she wishes to make your acquaintance as well as mine,
and has asked me to bring you with me to call."

"The description of me which you gave is easily imagined! On the other
hand, you did rightly to offer her us both, for no matter who she may
be--whether a provincial lioness or only an '_émancipée_' like the
Kukshin woman, she has at least such a pair of shoulders as I have not
seen this many a day."

Arkady recoiled from this cynicism, yet, as often happens in such
cases, started to reproach his friend for something wholly unconnected
with the utterance which had given umbrage.

"Why do you refuse women freedom of thought?" he asked under his breath.

"For the reason, dear sir, that, according to my observation of life,
no woman, unless she be a freak, thinks _with_ freedom."

And here the conversation terminated, for supper had come to an end,
and the friends departed. As they left the room Madame Kukshin followed
them with a nervous and wrathful, yet slightly apprehensive, smile in
her eyes. The reason of this was that she felt wounded in her conceit
at the fact that neither of the young men had taken any notice of her.
Nevertheless, she remained at the ball until most of the rest of the
company had left; whereafter, it being four o'clock in the morning, she
danced a polka-mazurka, _à la Parisienne_, with Sitnikov, and with this
edifying spectacle brought the Governor's fête to a close.




XV


"Now let us see to what category of mortals to assign this young
person," said Bazarov to Arkady as, on the following day, the pair
mounted the staircase of the hotel where Madame Odintsov was staying.
"Somehow I seem to scent impropriety in the air."

"You surprise me!" burst forth Arkady. "Do _you_, Bazarov, do _you_
hold with the narrow-minded morality which----"

"Idiot!" exclaimed Bazarov contemptuously. "Do you not know that
both in our jargon and in the understanding of the ordinary person
the term 'improper' has now come to mean the same as 'proper'? In
any case I seem to scent money here. You yourself told me, did you
not, that Madame's marriage was a very strange one?--though, for my
part, I look upon marrying a rich old man as anything but a strange
proceeding--rather, as a measure of prudence. True, I place little
reliance upon the gossip of townsfolk, but at least I prefer to suppose
that that gossip has, as our cultured Governor would say, 'a basis in
fact.'"

Arkady did not respond, but knocked at the door of Madame's suite;
and, the door having been opened, a liveried man-servant ushered the
visitors into a large, hideously furnished room of the type which
is always to be found in Russian hotels--the only exception in the
present case being that the apartment was adorned with flowers.
Presently Madame herself entered, clad in a plain morning gown, and
looking even younger in the spring sunlight than she had done in the
ballroom. Arkady duly presented Bazarov, and, as he did so, remarked
with surprise that his friend seemed confused, while Madame was as
imperturbable as ever. This _gaucherie_ on his part Bazarov realised,
and felt vexed at.

"Phaugh!" he thought to himself. "The idea that I should be afraid of a
woman!"

Yet, like Sitnikov, he could only subside into a chair, and fall to
talking with an exaggerated emphasis to the woman who sat with her
brilliant eyes riveted with such attention upon him.

Anna Sergievna Odintsov had had for father one Sergei Nikolaievitch
Loktev, a well-known gambler, speculator, and beau. After fifteen years
of flaunting it in St. Petersburg and Moscow, and dissipating his whole
substance, he had been forced to retire to the country, where soon
afterwards he had died and left to his daughter Anna (aged twenty) and
his daughter Katerina (aged twelve) only a small joint competence.
As for the girls' mother (who had come of the impoverished house of
the Princes X.), she had expired during the heyday of her husband's
career in St. Petersburg. Anna's position after her father's death was
therefore a very difficult one, for the brilliant education which she
had received in the capital had in no way fitted her for the care of
a household and an estate, nor yet for the endurance of a life in the
country. Moreover, she possessed not a single acquaintance in that
country neighbourhood, nor any one to whom to turn for advice, since
her father had done his best to avoid associating with his neighbours,
in that he had despised them as much as they, in their several ways,
had despised him. Howbeit, Anna kept her head, and straightway sent
for her mother's sister, the Princess Avdotia Stepanovna X., who, a
malicious, presuming old woman, annexed, on the day of her arrival, all
the best rooms in the house, raged and stormed from morning till night,
and even declined to walk in the garden unless she could be accompanied
by her only serf, a sullen-looking lacquey who wore a faded green
livery, a blue collar, and a three-cornered hat. Nevertheless Anna put
up with these tantrums of her aunt's, superintended the education of
her sister, and resigned herself to the idea of living in seclusion for
the rest of her life. But fate had ordained otherwise. That is to say,
a certain Odintsov--a rich, bloated, unwieldy, soured, semi-imbecile
hypochondriac of forty-six who was, nevertheless, neither stupid nor
cruel--happened to see her, and became so enamoured that he offered her
marriage: and to this proposal she consented. For six years the pair
lived together, before the husband died, leaving her all his property.
The following year she spent in the country; after which she went
abroad with her sister--but only as far as Germany, since she quickly
wearied of foreign parts, and was only too thankful to return to her
beloved Nikolsköe, which lay some forty versts from the provincial town
of ----. At Nikolsköe she had at her disposal a splendid, tastefully
furnished mansion, a beautiful garden, and a range of orangeries (the
late Odintsov having denied himself in nothing); but inasmuch as she
made but rare appearances in the town, and then only on flying visits
connected with business, the provincial gentry conceived a grudge
against her, and took to gossiping of her marriage with Odintsov, and
relating such impossible tales as that she had assisted her father in
his nefarious schemes, that she had had her reasons for going abroad,
and that certain unfortunate results of that tour had had to be
concealed. "I tell you," the ardent retailer of such fables would say,
"that she has been through the mill right enough." Eventually these
rumours reached her ears, but she ignored them altogether, since her
nature was at once bold and independent.

Seating herself at full length in an armchair, and crossing one hand
over the other, she set herself to listen to Bazarov's harangue.
Contrary to his usual custom, he spoke without restraint, for he
was clearly anxious to interest his listener. Arkady again felt
surprised at this, though he failed to detect whether or not Bazarov
was succeeding in his aim, seeing that Anna Sergievna's face gave no
clue to the effect produced, so fixedly did her features retain their
faintly polite expression, so unvaryingly did her beautiful eyes
reflect unruffled attention. True, at first Bazarov's vehemence gave
her an unpleasant impression as of a bad smell or a jarring note; but
in time she began to understand that it came of his being ill at ease,
and she felt flattered at the fact. Only the paltry repelled her; and
no one could well have accused Bazarov of that quality. Indeed wonders
were never to cease for Arkady, since, though he had expected Bazarov
to talk to Madame Odintsov as to a woman of intellect--to speak to her
of his views and convictions (seeing that she had expressed a desire
to behold a man who had "the temerity to believe in nothing"), he
discoursed only on medicine, homoeopathy, and botany. At the same time,
Madame had not wasted her life of solitude, but had read a large number
of standard works, and could express herself in the best of Russian;
and though at one point she diverted the conversation to music, she
no sooner perceived that he declined to recognise the existence of
the art than she returned to botany, even though Arkady would gladly
have continued the discussion of the importance of national melodies.
In passing, her treatment of Arkady as a younger brother remained
the same. What she valued in him was, evidently, the good humour and
simplicity of youth--nothing more. Thus there was held, for three
hours, an animated, but intermittent, discursive conversation.

At length the friends rose to say farewell. With a kindly glance Anna
Sergievna offered them her beautiful white hand; then, after a moment's
reflection, said irresolutely, but with a pleasant smile:

"If neither of you fear finding the time tedious, will you come and pay
me a visit at Nikolsköe?"

"I should deem it the greatest pleasure!" cried Arkady.

"And you, Monsieur Bazarov?"

Bazarov merely bowed: which again surprised Arkady, while also he
noticed that his friend's face looked flushed.

"Well?" the younger man said as the pair issued into the street. "Are
you still of the opinion that she is, is----?"

"I cannot say. But what an icicle she has made of herself!" There was
a pause. "At all events, she is an imposing personage, a _grande dame_
who lacks but a train to her gown and a coronet to her head."

"But none of our _grandes dames_ speak Russian as she does," remarked
Arkady.

"No; for she has undergone a rebirth, and eaten of our bread."

"And what a charm is hers!"

"You mean, what a splendid body--the very thing for a dissecting
theatre!"

"Stop, stop, for God's sake! Her body differs from all other women's."

"No need to lose your temper, young innocent. Have I not said that she
stands in the front rank of women? Yes, we must pay her that visit."

"When?"

"The day after to-morrow. Nothing else is to be done here, for we
need not stay to drink champagne with the Kukshin woman, and listen
to the harangues of your kinsman, the Liberal bigwig. Not we! The day
after to-morrow, therefore, let us give the whole thing the go-by. _A
propos_, my father's place lies near Nikolsköe. For Nikolsköe is on the
---- road, is it not?"

"It is."

"_Optime!_ Then we shall gain nothing by delay: only fools and clever
people procrastinate. Her anatomy, I repeat, is splendid."

Within three days, in bright, but not too warm, weather, the two
friends were bowling along the road to Nikolsköe. With a will did the
well-fed stage horses trot out, and lightly swish their flanks with
their plaited, knotted tails; and as Arkady glanced along the road, he,
for some unknown reason, smiled.

"Congratulate me!" cried Bazarov of a sudden. "To-day is the 22nd of
June--the feast of my Patron Saint. Certainly he looks after me, does
he not?" Then the speaker added in a lower tone: "But to-day, also,
they are expecting me at home.... Well, let them expect me."




XVI


The manor-house in which Anna Sergievna resided stood on an open
hillock, and close to a yellow stone church with a green roof, white
columns, and an entrance surmounted by a fresco representative of Our
Lord's Resurrection--the latter executed in the "Italian" style, and
having as its most noticeable feature the figure of a swarthy warrior
whose rounded contours filled the entire foreground. Behind the church,
the village extended into two long wings, and had thatched roofs
surmounted by a medley of chimneys; while the manor-house itself was
built in a style homogeneous with the design of the church--that is
to say, in the style commonly known as "Alexandrine," and embracing
yellow-painted walls, a green roof, white columns, and a front
adorned with a coat-of-arms. In fact, both buildings had been erected
by a provincial architect to the order of the late Odintsov, a man
impatient (so he himself always expressed it) of "vain and arbitrary
innovations." Lastly, to right and left of the house there showed the
trees of an antique garden, while an avenue of clipped firs led the way
to the principal entrance.

The friends having been met in the hall by two strapping lacqueys in
livery, one of the latter immediately ran for the butler; who (a stout
man in a black tail-coat) proceeded to usher the guests up a carpeted
staircase, and into a room which contained a couple of beds and the
usual appurtenances of the toilet. Evidently neatness was the order of
the day in the establishment, for everything was both spotlessly clean
and as fragrant as the chamber wherein a Minister of State holds his
receptions.

"Anna Sergievna will be glad to see you in half an hour," the butler
said. "Meanwhile, have you any orders for me?"

"No, worthy one," replied Bazarov. "Except that you might so far
condescend as to bring me a small glassful of _vodka_."

"It shall be done, sir," said the butler with a shade of hesitation;
whereafter he departed with creaking boots.

"What grandeur!" commented Bazarov. "In your opinion, how ought our
hostess to be addressed? In the style of a duchess?"

"Yes, and of a very great duchess," replied Arkady. "The more so,
seeing that she has invited such influential aristocrats as ourselves
to visit her."

"I presume that you are referring to your humble servant--a future
doctor, the son of a doctor, and the grandson of a sexton? By the
way, are you aware that my grandparent was a sexton, even as was
Speransky's?"[1] A smile curled his lips. "Thus you see that the lady
is mistaken, woefully mistaken. We haven't such a thing as a tail-coat,
have we?"

Arkady shrugged his shoulders bravely; but he too was feeling a little
awe-stricken.

At the close of the half-hour the pair entered the drawing-room, which
they found to be a large, lofty apartment of rich, but tasteless,
appointments. Against the walls, in the usual affected style, stood
heavy, expensive furniture, the walls themselves were hung with brown
curtains to which were florid gilt borders (all these things the late
Odintsov had ordered through a Muscovite friend who kept a wineshop),
and above a divan in the centre of the room hung a portrait of a
wrinkled, sandy-haired individual who seemed to be regarding the
newcomers with extreme distaste.

"_He_," whispered Bazarov.

The hostess herself then entered. She was clad in a light dress, and
had her hair dressed behind the ears--a style which communicated to
her pure, fresh countenance an air of almost girlish juvenility.

"Thank you for having kept your promise," she said. "And now that you
are come, I think that you will find the time not altogether dull. For
one thing, I intend to introduce you to my sister, who is a skilful
piano-player (of course, Monsieur Bazarov, to you such things are a
matter of indifference, but you, Monsieur Kirsanov, I know, adore the
art of music). Also, an elderly aunt lives with me as my companion, and
at intervals a neighbour looks in for a game of cards. You see our home
circle. Now let us seat ourselves."

Madame delivered this little speech with the precision of a lesson
which she had learnt by heart, and then turned to converse with Arkady.
On finding that her mother had known his, and that the latter had
made the former her confidant during her love affair with Nikolai
Petrovitch, the lad fell to speaking enthusiastically of his dead
parent, while Bazarov applied himself to the inspection of some albums.

"What a domesticated individual I am!" thought he to himself.

Presently, with much pattering of paws, there burst into the room a
splendid Russian greyhound with a blue collar; and it was followed by
a young girl of eighteen with a dark complexion, dark hair, a round,
but pleasant, face, and small, dark eyes. She was carrying a basket of
flowers.

"My sister Katia," said Madame Odintsov, indicating the girl with her
head.

Katia seated herself beside Madame, and fell to arranging her flowers;
while the greyhound (whose name was Fifi) approached each of the guests
in turn, laid his cold nose in their hands, and wagged his tail.

"Have you gathered those flowers yourself?" asked Madame Odintsov.

"Yes, Anna Sergievna," the girl replied.

"And is your aunt going to join us at tea?"

"Yes."

These replies of Katia's were accompanied with a frank, but gentle
and bashful, smile, and an upward glance half grave, half sportive.
Everything in her betokened youth and freshness--her voice, the down on
her cheeks, her little pink hands with their white, dimpled palms, and
the slightly contracted shoulders. Also, she blushed without ceasing,
and drew her breath with a fluttering respiration.

Presently Madame Odintsov turned to Bazarov.

"Surely it is only out of politeness that you are looking at those
photographs?" she said. "They cannot possibly interest you. Pray move
nearer to us, and let us engage in an argument."

Bazarov approached her.

"What shall we argue about?" he inquired.

"About anything you like. But first let me warn you that I am a
redoubtable opponent."

"You?"

"Yes, certainly. You look surprised? Why so?"

"Because, so far as I can tell, your temperament is one of the cold and
lethargic order, whereas argument needs impulsiveness."

"How have you contrived so quickly to appraise me? To begin with, I am
both impatient and exacting. Ask Katia if I am not. Also, I am easily
moved to impulse."

Bazarov darted a glance at her.

"Possibly," he said. "Certainly you ought to know best. But, since
you desire to argue, let us argue. While looking at those views of
Saxon Switzerland, I heard you remark that they could not interest
me. This you said, I presume, because you suppose me to be lacking in
the artistic sense. Well, I am so. But might not those pictures be
interesting to me solely from the geological point of view--from the
standpoint of an observer, say, of the formation of mountains?"

"Pardon me, but, as a geologist, you would prefer to resort to some
special work on that science, not to a few pictures."

"Oh, not necessarily. For a picture may instantly present what a book
could set forth only in a hundred pages."

Anna Sergievna made no reply.

"Well," she resumed, leaning forward upon the table--a movement which
brought her face closer to Bazarov's, "since you possess not a grain of
the artistic instinct, how do you contrive to get on without it?"

"Rather, I would ask you: What is the artistic instinct able to effect?"

"It is able at least to help one to examine and to instruct one's
fellow man."

Bazarov smiled.

"In the first place," he retorted, "the prime requisite in that
connection is experience of life; and, in the second place, the study
of detached personalities is scarcely worth the trouble. For all we
human beings are alike, in body as in spirit. In each of us there is an
identical brain, an identical spleen, an identical heart, an identical
pair of lungs, an identical stock of the so-called moral qualities
(trifling variations between which we need not take into account).
Therefore from a single specimen of the human race may all the rest be
judged. In fact, human beings are like trees in a forest. You never
find a botanist studying its individual trunks."

Katia, who had been arranging her flowers, glanced at Bazarov in
amazement, and, in so doing, encountered his keen, contemptuous gaze,
and blushed to her ears. Anna Sergievna shook her head.

"Trees in a forest!" she exclaimed. "Think you, then, that there is no
difference between the wise man and the fool, the good and the bad?"

"No, I do not," replied Bazarov. "On the contrary, I believe that such
differences do exist. The point is that they exist only as between
the sound and the ailing. For instance, a consumptive's lungs are not
as yours and mine; yet they have been fashioned precisely as our own
have been. Also, whereas, to a certain extent, we know whence bodily
disorders arise, _moral_ disorders come of faulty education, the
thousand and one follies with which the human brain is afflicted, in
short, any irregular condition of the social body. Rectify that body,
and moral sickness will soon cease to be."

Speaking as though he were saying to himself, "Believe me or not as you
like, it is all one to me," Bazarov drew his long fingers through his
whiskers, while his eyes glowed like coals.

"Then you think," pursued Anna Sergievna, "that, once the social body
has been rectified, stupid and evil people will cease to exist?"

"At all events, once the social body is properly organised, the
fact that a man be wise or stupid, good or bad, will cease to be of
importance."

"Ah! I understand! That is because we all possess an identical spleen?"

"Precisely so, madam."

She turned to Arkady.

"And what is your opinion, Arkady Nikolaievitch?" she enquired.

"I agree with Evgenii," was his reply as, in his turn, he received a
glance of astonishment from Katia.

"I am surprised, gentlemen," said Madame. "However, I can hear my aunt
approaching, so let us spare her ears, and discuss this later."

Anna Sergievna's aunt--a small, spare woman with a mallet-shaped face,
a pair of narrow, malicious eyes, and a grey false front--bestowed
scarcely so much as a bow upon the guests, but at once relapsed into a
huge velvet armchair which no one but herself was allowed to use. And
even when Katia hastened to place for her a footstool, the old woman
did not thank her, nor even look at her, but chafed her hands under the
yellow shawl which covered the whole of her frail figure. Beyond all
things was she fond of yellow; wherefore she had had her cap trimmed
with ribands of the same hue.

"Have you slept well, Auntie?" Madame Odintsov inquired with a raising
of her voice.

"That dog is here again!" the old woman muttered on noticing that Fifi
was taking an irresolute step or two in her direction. "Turn the beast
out, I say! Out with it!"

Calling Fifi, Katia opened the door for the animal to leave the room;
whereupon, though it bounded out in joyous mood (under the impression
that it was about to be taken for a walk), it no sooner found itself
marooned outside than it fell to whining and scratching at the panels;
which caused the Princess to frown, and necessitated Katia's exit to
rectify matters.

"Tea is ready, I believe," Madame Odintsov continued. "Gentlemen, pray
come. Will you have some tea, Auntie?"

The Princess rose from her chair in silence, and headed a procession
to the dining-room, where a Cossack footman pulled a padded armchair
from under the table (like the last, it was reserved for the Princess
alone), and she subsided into its depths. Katia poured out tea, and
handed her aunt the first cup--a cup adorned with a coat-of-arms;
whereafter the old woman added some honey to the beverage (she looked
upon tea-drinking with sugar as a sin of extravagance, and the more
so since never at any time would she consent to spend an unnecessary
kopeck), and then asked hoarsely:

"What has Prince Ivan to say in his letter?"

No one answered, and in time Bazarov and Arkady apprised the fact that,
though treated, certainly, with respect, the old woman attracted no
one's serious attention.

"They keep her here for show," Bazarov reflected. "She is kept because
she comes of a princely house."

Tea over, Anna Sergievna proposed a walk; but since at that moment a
drop of rain came pattering down, the company (with the exception of
the Princess) returned to the drawing-room. Presently the neighbour
addicted to a game of cards came in, and proved to be one Porphyri
Platonitch--a stout, grey-headed, affable, diverting individual who,
in addition, could boast of a pair of legs as shapely as though turned
with a lathe. Anna Sergievna then inquired of Bazarov (with whom she
had again been in conversation) whether he would care to join them in
the old-fashioned game of "Preferences"; and he consented on the ground
that he could not too soon prepare himself for the post of a district
physician.

"But take care," remarked his hostess. "Porphyri Platonitch and I
are not unlikely to beat you. Meanwhile, do you, Katia, go and play
something on the piano for the benefit of Arkady Nikolaievitch. I know
that he loves music, and we too shall be glad to listen to you."

Reluctantly Katia approached the piano; nor, in spite of Arkady's
fondness for music, did he follow her any more eagerly.

The truth of it was that he felt himself to be being "got rid of" by
Madame Odintsov, and already there was simmering in his heart, as in
the heart of any young man of his age, that vague, oppressive feeling
which is the harbinger of love.

Raising the lid of the piano, Katia murmured under her breath, and
without looking at Arkady:

"What shall I play?"

"Anything you wish," he replied with indifference.

"But what sort of music do you _prefer_?" she persisted with unchanged
attitude.

"Classical music," was the reply delivered with equal nonchalance.

"Mozart?"

"Certainly--Mozart."

So Katia produced the Viennese master's Sonata-Fantasia in C minor.
She played it well, but coldly, and not with any excess of precision.
Likewise, she kept her lips compressed, her eyes upon the keys, and
her form erect and motionless. Only towards the close of the piece did
her face kindle at all, while at the same moment a tiny curl detached
itself from her loosely-bound hair, and fell over her dusky forehead.

Arkady also felt moved by the closing portion of the Sonata--the
portion where the charming, careless gaiety of the melody gives place
to sudden bursts of mournful, almost tragic lamentation. Yet the
thoughts which Mozart's strains aroused in him bore no relation to
Katia. He merely looked at her now and then, and reflected:

"She plays well; nor is she bad-looking."

The Sonata over, Katia inquired, without removing her hands from the
keyboard: "Is that enough?" and Arkady replied that he would not think
of troubling her further. Then he went on to talk of Mozart, and to
ask her whether she herself had selected the Sonata, or whether it had
been selected for her by some one. Katia answered in monosyllables, and
from time to time went into hiding, retired into herself; and on each
occasion of this sort she made her reappearance but reluctantly, and
with a face composed to a stubborn, almost a stupid, air. Yet she was
not timid so much as diffident and a trifle overawed by the presence of
the sister who had brought her up (not that the sister in question ever
suspected it). Finally, she returned to her flowers, and Arkady found
himself reduced to calling Fifi to his side, and stroking the dog's
head with a kindly smile.

As for Bazarov, he had to pay forfeit after forfeit, for Anna Sergievna
was fairly clever at cards, and Porphyri Platonitch was a player
fully able to look after himself. Consequently the young doctor rose
a loser, not by a considerable sum, but by one which, at all events,
was sufficient to be scarcely agreeable. After supper Anna Sergievna
started a discussion on botany.

"I wish you would take me for a walk to-morrow morning," she said. "I
want you to teach me the Latin names of our field flowers, and also
their characteristics."

"But how could the Latin names benefit you?" he inquired.

"System is in all things necessary," she replied.

"A truly wonderful woman!" Arkady commented the same evening, on
finding himself alone with his friend in the bedroom.

"Yes," replied Bazarov. "She certainly possesses brains. Also, she has
dreamed dreams."

"In what sense?"

"In the best sense, my friend--in the very best sense, O Arkady
Nikolaievitch. Certain also am I that she manages her property well.
But the marvellous phenomenon is not she, but her sister."

"What? That hoyden?"

"Yes, that hoyden. The hoyden contains an element of freshness and
virginity and timidity and reticence and anything else you like which
makes her really an object worthy of interest. Of the one you could
make whatsoever you might desire, whereas of the other there is
nothing to be said save that she represents a yesterday's loaf."

Arkady made no reply, and soon the two men were asleep and dreaming
their own dreams.

The same night Anna Sergievna devoted much thought to her two guests.
Bazarov she liked both for his total lack of affectation and for
the piquancy of his criticisms; so that she seemed to divine in him
something new, something which had hitherto remained unknown to her
experience. All of which excited her curiosity.

And she too was a strange being. Free from all prejudice, and devoid
of all strong beliefs, she rendered obeisance to nothing, and had
in view no goal. Again, though much was open to her sight, and much
interested her, nothing really satisfied her, and she had no wish
for such satisfaction, since her intellect was at once inquiring
and indifferent, and harboured doubts which never merged into
insensibility, and aspirations which never swelled into unrest. True,
if she had been dowered with less wealth and independence, she might
have plunged into the fray, and learnt the nature of passion; but, as
things stood, she took life unhastingly, and, though often finding
it tedious, spent her days in a deliberate, rarely agitated manner.
True, at times rainbow colours gleamed even before _her_ eyes; yet
no sooner had they faded than she would draw her breath as before,
and in no way regret their disappearance. Again, though, at times,
her imagination exceeded the bounds of what is considered permissible
by conventional morality, her blood still coursed tranquilly through
her lethargic and bewitchingly shaped frame; and only when she was
issuing in a warm and tender glow from her comfortable bathroom would
she fall to pondering upon the futility of life, its sorrow and toil
and cruelty, and feel her soul swell to sudden temerity, and begin to
seethe with noble aspirations. Yet even then, let but a draught happen
to blow in her direction from an open window, and at once she would
shrug her shoulders, commiserate herself, come very near to losing her
temper, and become conscious of nothing but the thought that the one
thing necessary was to ensure that by hook or by crook that abominable
draught should be averted.

Again, like all women who have never known what it is to fall in
love, she was sensible of a persistent yearning for something wholly
undefined. There was nothing that she actually lacked, yet she seemed
to lack everything. The late Odintsov she had merely tolerated (the
marriage having been one _de convenance_ only--though she would never
have consented to become his wife had he not also been kindly of
heart), and from the experience she had derived a certain aversion to
the male sex in general, which she conceived to be composed exclusively
of creatures slovenly, idle, wearisome, and weakly exacting in their
habits. In fact, only once had she met (it was somewhere abroad) a
man who had in any way attracted her. He had been a young Swede of a
knightly countenance, honest blue eyes, and an open brow; but, for all
the impression that he had made upon her, the impression in question
had not prevented her from shortly afterwards returning to Russia.

"A strange man, that Bazarov," she thought to herself as she reposed
in her magnificent bed with its lace-embroidered pillows and its light
silken coverlet. It may be said, that, in addition to having inherited
her late father's fastidious and luxurious tastes, she still cherished
for that wayward, but kindhearted, parent a considerable affection,
since during his lifetime he had not only adored her and cracked jokes
with her on equal terms, but also accorded her his whole confidence,
and made it his invariable custom to seek her advice. Of her mother she
had but the scantiest of remembrance.

"Yes, a strange man is that Bazarov," she repeated; after which she
stretched her limbs, smiled, clasped her hands behind her head, ran an
eye over the pages of two foolish French novels, let fall the second
of these volumes from her hands, and relapsed into slumber--a cold,
spotless figure in spotless, fragrant white.

When breakfast was over next morning, she set forth upon the botanising
expedition with Bazarov; to return home just before luncheon time.
Meanwhile Arkady did not leave the house, but spent an hour with Katia,
nor found the time wearisome, seeing that of her own accord Katia
volunteered to repeat the Sonata. Yet the instant that his eyes beheld
Madame Odintsov returning his heart leapt within him. She was crossing
the garden with a slightly tired step, but with her cheeks rosy of hue,
her eyes shining under her round straw hat with even greater brilliancy
than usual, and her fingers twirling between them the stalk of some
field flower. Also, her light mantilla had slipped to her shoulders,
and the broad ribands of her hat were floating over her bosom.
Behind her walked Bazarov with his usual air of superciliousness 

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