{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_30723/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_30723","id":"gutenberg_30723","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30723","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Russian Literature","Domestic fiction","Fathers and sons -- Fiction","Historical fiction","Nihilism (Philosophy) -- Fiction","Russia -- Social conditions -- 1801-1917 -- Fiction","Russia -- Social life and customs -- 1533-1917 -- Fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by Ron Swanson from page images generously made available\nby Internet Archive/American Libraries\n(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustration.\n      See 30723-h.htm or 30723-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/30723/pg30723-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/30723/30723-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive/American Libraries. See\n      http://www.archive.org/details/harvardclassicss19elio\n\n\n\n\n\nFATHERS AND CHILDREN\n\n\n[Frontispiece: AVENUE AT SPASSKOE, TURGENEV'S ESTATE]\n\n\nThe Harvard Classics\nShelf of Fiction\n[From Vol. 19]\nSelected by Charles W. Eliot Ll.D.\n\n\nFATHERS AND CHILDREN\n\nby\n\nIVAN TURGENEV\n\nTranslated by Constance Garnett\n\nEdited with Notes and Introductions by William Allan Neilson Ph.D.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nP. F. Collier & Son\nNew York\n\nPublished under special arrangement with\nThe Macmillan Company\n\nCopyright, 1917\nBy P. F. Collier & Son\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\nCRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS:\n   I. BY EMILE MELCHIOR, VICOMTE DE VOG\u00dc\u00c9\n  II. BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS\n III. BY K. WALISZEWSKI\n  IV. BY RICHARD H. P. CURLE\n   V. BY MAURICE BARING\n\nLIST OF CHARACTERS\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\n\nIvan Sergyevitch Turgenev came of an old stock of the Russian nobility.\nHe was born in Orel, in the province of Orel, which lies more than a\nhundred miles south of Moscow, on October 28, 1818. His education was\nbegun by tutors at home in the great family mansion in the town of\nSpask, and he studied later at the universities of Moscow, St.\nPetersburg, and Berlin. The influence of the last, and of the\ncompatriots with whom he associated there, was very great; and when he\nreturned to Moscow in 1841, he was ambitious to teach Hegel to the\nstudents there. Before this could be arranged, however, he entered the\nMinistry of the Interior at St. Petersburg. While there his interests\nturned more and more toward literature. He wrote verses and comedies,\nread George Sand, and made the acquaintance of Dostoevsky and the\ncritic Bielinski. His mother, a tyrannical woman with an ungovernable\ntemper, was eager that he should make a brilliant official career; so,\nwhen he resigned from the Ministry in 1845, she showed her disapproval\nby cutting down his allowance and thus forcing him to support himself\nby the profession he had chosen.\n\nTurgenev was an enthusiastic hunter; and it was his experiences in the\nwoods of his native province that supplied the material for \"A\nSportsman's Sketches,\" the book that first brought him reputation. The\nfirst of these papers appeared in 1847, and in the same year he left\nRussia in the train of Pauline Viardot, a singer and actress, to whom\nhe had been devoted for three or four years and with whom he maintained\nrelations for the rest of his life. For a year or two he lived chiefly\nin Paris or at a country house at Courtavenel in Brie, which belonged\nto Madame Viardot; but in 1850 he returned to Russia. His experiences\nwere not such as to induce him to repatriate himself permanently. He\nfound Dostoevsky banished to Siberia and Bielinski dead; and himself\nunder suspicion by the government on account of the popularity of \"A\nSportsman's Sketches.\" For praising Gogol, who had just died, he was\narrested and imprisoned for a short time, and for the next two years\nkept under police surveillance. Meantime he continued to write, and by\nthe time that the close of the Crimean War made it possible for him\nagain to go to western Europe, he was recognized as standing at the\nhead of living Russian authors. His mother was now dead, the estates\nwere settled, and with an income of about $5,000 a year he became a\nwanderer. He had, or imagined he had, very bad health, and the eminent\nspecialists he consulted sent him from one resort to another, to Rome,\nthe Isle of Wight, Soden, and the like. When Madame Viardot left the\nstage in 1864 and took up her residence at Baden-Baden, he followed her\nand built there a small house for himself. They returned to France\nafter the Franco-Prussian War, and bought a villa at Bougival, near\nParis, and this was his home for the rest of his life. Here, on\nSeptember 3, 1883, he died after a long delirium due to his suffering\nfrom cancer of the spinal cord. His body was taken to St. Petersburg\nand was buried with national honors.\n\nThe two works by Turgenev contained in the present volume are\ncharacteristic in their concern with social and political questions,\nand in the prominence in both of them of heroes who fail in action.\nTurgenev preaches no doctrine in his novels, has no remedy for the\nuniverse; but he sees clearly certain weaknesses of the Russian\ncharacter and exposes these with absolute candor yet without\nunkindness. Much as he lived abroad, his books are intensely Russian;\nyet of the great Russian novelists he alone rivals the masters of\nwestern Europe in the matter of form. In economy of means,\ncondensation, felicity of language, and excellence of structure he\nsurpasses all his countrymen; and \"Fathers and Children\" and \"A House\nof Gentlefolk\" represent his great and delicate art at its best.\n\nW. A. N.\n\n\n\n\nCRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS\n\n\n\n\nI\nBY EMILE MELCHIOR, VICOMTE DE VOG\u00dc\u00c9\n\n\nIvan Sergyevitch (Turgenev) has given us a most complete picture of\nRussian society. The same general types are always brought forward;\nand, as later writers have presented exactly similar ones, with but few\nmodifications, we are forced to believe them true to life. First, the\npeasant: meek, resigned, dull, pathetic in suffering, like a child who\ndoes not know why he suffers; naturally sharp and tricky when not\nstupefied by liquor; occasionally roused to violent passion. Then, the\nintelligent middle class: the small landed proprietors of two\ngenerations. The old proprietor is ignorant and good-natured, of\nrespectable family, but with coarse habits; hard, from long experience\nof serfdom, servile himself, but admirable in all other relations of\nlife.\n\nThe young man of this class is of quite a different type. His\nintellectual growth having been too rapid, he sometimes plunges into\nNihilism. He is often well educated, melancholy, rich in ideas but poor\nin executive ability; always preparing and expecting to accomplish\nsomething of importance, filled with vague and generous projects for\nthe public good. This is the chosen type of hero in all Russian novels.\nGogol introduced it, and Tolstoy prefers it above all others.\n\nThe favorite hero of young girls and romantic women is neither the\nbrilliant officer, the artist, nor rich lord, but almost universally\nthis provincial Hamlet, conscientious, cultivated, intelligent, but of\nfeeble will, who, returning from his studies in foreign lands, is full\nof scientific theories about the improvement of mankind and the good of\nthe lower classes, and eager to apply these theories on his own estate.\nIt is quite necessary that he should have an estate of his own. He will\nhave the hearty sympathy of the reader in his efforts to improve the\ncondition of his dependents.\n\nThe Russians well understand the conditions of the future prosperity of\ntheir country; but, as they themselves acknowledge, they know not how\nto go to work to accomplish it.\n\nIn regard to the women of this class, Turgenev, strange to say, has\nlittle to say of the mothers. This probably reveals the existence of\nsome old wound, some bitter experience of his own. Without a single\nexception, all the mothers in his novels are either wicked or\ngrotesque. He reserves the treasures of his poetic fancy for the young\ngirls of his creation. To him the young girl of the country province is\nthe corner-stone of the fabric of society. Reared in the freedom of\ncountry life, placed in the most healthy social conditions, she is\nconscientious, frank, affectionate, without being romantic; less\nintelligent than man, but more resolute. In each of his romances an\nirresolute man is invariably guided by a woman of strong will.\n\nSuch are, generally speaking, the characters the author describes,\nwhich bear so unmistakably the stamp of nature that one cannot refrain\nfrom saying as he closes the book, \"These must be portraits from life!\"\nwhich criticism is always the highest praise, the best sanction of\nworks of the imagination.--From \"Turgenev\", in \"The Russian Novelists,\"\ntranslated by J. L. Edmands (1887).\n\n\n\n\nII\nBY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS\n\n\nTurgenev was of that great race which has more than any other fully and\nfreely uttered human nature, without either false pride or false shame\nin its nakedness. His themes were oftenest those of the French\nnovelist, but how far he was from handling them in the French manner\nand with the French spirit! In his hands sin suffered no dramatic\npunishment; it did not always show itself as unhappiness, in the\npersonal sense, but it was always unrest, and without the hope of\npeace. If the end did not appear, the fact that it must be miserable\nalways appeared. Life showed itself to me in different colors after I\nhad once read Turgenev; it became more serious, more awful, and with\nmystical responsibilities I had not known before. My gay American\nhorizons were bathed in the vast melancholy of the Slav, patient,\nagnostic, trustful. At the same time nature revealed herself to me\nthrough him with an intimacy she had not hitherto shown me. There are\npassages in this wonderful writer alive with a truth that seems drawn\nfrom the reader's own knowledge: who else but Turgenev and one's own\nmost secret self ever felt all the rich, sad meaning of the night air\ndrawing in at the open window, of the fires burning in the darkness on\nthe distant fields? I try in vain to give some notion of the subtle\nsympathy with nature which scarcely put itself into words with him. As\nfor the people of his fiction, though they were of orders and\ncivilizations so remote from my experience, they were of the eternal\nhuman types whose origin and potentialities every one may find in his\nown heart, and I felt their verity in every touch.\n\nI cannot describe the satisfaction his work gave me; I can only impart\nsome sense of it, perhaps, by saying that it was like a happiness I had\nbeen waiting for all my life, and now that it had come, I was richly\ncontent forever. I do not mean to say that the art of Turgenev\nsurpasses the art of Bj\u00f6rnson; I think Bj\u00f6rnson is quite as fine and\ntrue. But the Norwegian deals with simple and primitive circumstances\nfor the most part, and always with a small world; and the Russian has\nto do with human nature inside of its conventional shells, and his\nscene is often as large as Europe. Even when it is as remote as Norway,\nit is still related to the great capitals by the history if not the\nactuality of the characters. Most of Turgenev's books I have read many\ntimes over, all of them I have read more than twice. For a number of\nyears I read them again and again without much caring for other\nfiction. It was only the other day that I read \"Smoke\" through once\nmore, with no diminished sense of its truth, but with somewhat less\nthan my first satisfaction in its art. Perhaps this was because I had\nreached the point through my acquaintance with Tolstoy where I was\nimpatient even of the artifice that hid itself. In \"Smoke\" I was now\naware of an artifice that kept out of sight, but was still always\npresent somewhere, invisibly operating the story.--From \"My Literary\nPassions\" (1895).\n\n\n\n\nIII\nBY K. WALISZEWSKI\n\n\nThe second novel of the series, \"Fathers and Children,\" stirred up a\nstorm the suddenness and violence of which it is not easy, nowadays, to\nunderstand. The figure of Bazarov, the first \"Nihilist\"--thus baptized\nby an inversion of epithet which was to win extraordinary success--is\nmerely intended to reveal a mental condition which, though the fact had\nbeen insufficiently recognized, had already existed for some years. The\nepithet itself had been in constant use since 1829, when Nadi\u00e9jdine\napplied it to Pushkin, Polevo\u00ef, and some other subverters of the\nclassic tradition. Turgenev only extended its meaning by a new\ninterpretation, destined to be perpetuated by the tremendous success of\n\"Fathers and Children.\" There is nothing, or hardly anything, in\nBazarov, of the terrible revolutionary whom we have since learnt to\nlook for under this title. Turgenev was not the man to call up such a\nfigure. He was far too dreamy, too gentle, too good-natured a being.\nAlready, in the character of Roudine, he had failed, in the strangest\nway, to catch the likeness of Bakounine, that fiery organiser of\ninsurrection, whom all Europe knew, and whom he had selected as his\nmodel. Conceive Corot or Millet trying to paint some figure out of the\nLast Judgment after Michael Angelo! Bazarov is the Nihilist in his\nfirst phase, \"in course of becoming,\" as the Germans would say, and he\nis a pupil of the German universities. When Turgenev shaped the\ncharacter, he certainly drew on his own memories of his stay at Berlin,\nat a time when Bruno Bauer was laying it down as a dogma that no\neducated man ought to have opinions on any subject, and when Max\nStirner was convincing the young Hegelians that ideas were mere smoke\nand dust, seeing that the only reality in existence was the individual\n_Ego_. These teachings, eagerly received by the Russian youth, were\ndestined to produce a state of moral decomposition, the earliest\nsymptoms of which were admirably analysed by Turgenev.\n\nBazarov is a very clever man, but clever in thought, and especially in\nword, only. He scorns art, women, and family life. He does not know\nwhat the point of honour means. He is a cynic in his love affairs, and\nindifferent in his friendships. He has no respect even for paternal\ntenderness, but he is full of contradictions, even to the extent of\nfighting a duel about nothing at all, and sacrificing his life for the\nfirst peasant he meets. And in this the resemblance is true, much more\ngeneral, indeed, than the model selected would lead one to imagine; so\ngeneral, in fact, that, apart from the question of art, Turgenev--he\nhas admitted it himself--felt as if he were drawing his own portrait;\nand therefore it is, no doubt, that he has made his hero so\nsympathetic.--From \"A History of Russian Literature\" (1900).\n\n\n\n\nIV\nBY RICHARD H. P. CURLE\n\n\nBut for the best expression of the bewilderment of life we have to turn\nto the portrait of a man, to the famous Bazarov of \"Fathers and\nChildren.\" Turgenev raises through him the eternal problem--Has\npersonality any hold, has life any meaning at all? The reality of this\nfigure, his contempt for nature, his egoism, his strength, his mothlike\nweakness are so convincing that before his philosophy all other\nphilosophies seem to pale. He is the one who sees the life-illusion,\nand yet, knowing that it is the mask of night, grasps at it, loathing\nhimself. You can hate Bazarov, you cannot have contempt for him. He is\na man of genius, rid of sentiment and hope, believing in nothing but\nhimself, to whom come, as from the darkness, all the violent questions\nof life and death. \"Fathers and Children\" is simply an exposure of our\npower to mould our own lives. Bazarov is a man of astonishing\nintellect--he is the pawn of an emotion he despises; he is a man of\ngigantic will--he can do nothing but destroy his own beliefs; he is a\nman of intense life--he cannot avoid the first, brainless touch of\ndeath. It is the hopeless fight of mind against instinct, of\ndetermination against fate, of personality against impersonality.\nBazarov disdaining everyone, sick of all smallness, is roused to fury\nby the obvious irritations of Pavel Petrovitch. Savagely announcing the\ncreed of nihilism and the end of romance, he has only to feel the calm,\naristocratic smile of Madame Odintsov fixed on him and he suffers all\nthe agony of first love. Determining to live and create, he has only to\nplay with death for a moment, and he is caught. But though he is the\nmost positive of all Turgenev's male portraits, there are others\nlinking up the chain of delusion. There is Rudin, typical of the unrest\nof the idealist; there is Nezhdanov (\"Virgin Soil\"), typical of the\nself-torture of the anarchist. There is Shubin (\"On the Eve\"), hiding\nhis misery in laughter, and Lavretsky (\"A House of Gentlefolk\"), hiding\nhis misery in silence. It is not necessary to search for further\nexamples. Turgenev put his hand upon the dark things. He perceived\ncharacter, struggling in the \"clutch of circumstances,\" the tragic\nmoments, the horrible conflicts of personality. His figures have that\ncapability of suffering which (as someone has said) is the true sign of\nlife. They seem like real people, dazed and uncertain. No action of\ntheirs ever surprises you, because in each of them he has made you hear\nan inward soliloquy.--From \"Turgenev and the Life-Illusion,\" in \"The\nFortnightly Review\" (April, 1910).\n\n\n\n\nV\nBY MAURICE BARING\n\n\nTurgenev did for Russian literature what Byron did for English\nliterature; he led the genius of Russia on a pilgrimage throughout all\nEurope. And in Europe his work reaped a glorious harvest of praise.\nFlaubert was astounded by him, George Sand looked up to him as to a\nmaster, Taine spoke of his work as being the finest artistic production\nsince Sophocles. In Turgenev's work, Europe not only discovered\nTurgenev, but it discovered Russia, the simplicity and the naturalness\nof the Russian character; and this came as a revelation. For the first\ntime Europe came across the Russian woman whom Pushkin was the first to\npaint; for the first time Europe came into contact with the Russian\nsoul; and it was the sharpness of this revelation which accounts for\nthe fact of Turgenev having received in the west an even greater meed\nof praise than he was perhaps entitled to.\n\nIn Russia Turgenev attained almost instant popularity. His \"Sportsman's\nSketches\" and his \"Nest of Gentlefolk\" made him not only famous but\nuniversally popular. In 1862 the publication of his masterpiece\n\"Fathers and Children\" dealt his reputation a blow. The revolutionary\nelements in Russia regarded his hero, Bazarov, as a calumny and a\nlibel; whereas the reactionary elements in Russia looked upon \"Fathers\nand Children\" as a glorification of Nihilism. Thus he satisfied nobody.\nHe fell between two stools. This, perhaps, could only happen in Russia\nto this extent; and for that same reason as that which made Russian\ncriticism didactic. The conflicting elements of Russian society were so\nterribly in earnest in fighting their cause, that anyone whom they did\nnot regard as definitely for them was at once considered an enemy, and\nan impartial delineation of any character concerned in the political\nstruggle was bound to displease both parties. If a novelist drew a\nNihilist, he must be one or the other, a hero or a scoundrel, if either\nthe revolutionaries or the reactionaries were to be pleased. If in\nEngland the militant suffragists suddenly had a huge mass of educated\nopinion behind them and a still larger mass of educated public opinion\nagainst them, and some one were to draw in a novel an impartial picture\nof a suffragette, the same thing would happen. On a small scale, as far\nas the suffragettes are concerned, it has happened in the case of Mr.\nWells. But if Turgenev's popularity suffered a shock in Russia from\nwhich it with difficulty recovered, in western Europe it went on\nincreasing. Especially in England, Turgenev became the idol of all that\nwas eclectic, and admiration for Turgenev a hallmark of good taste....\n\n\"Fathers and Children\" is as beautifully constructed as a drama of\nSophocles; the events move inevitably to a tragic close. There is not a\ntouch of banality from beginning to end, and not an unnecessary word;\nthe portraits of the old father and mother, the young Kirsanov, and all\nthe minor characters are perfect; and amidst the trivial crowd Bazarov\nstands out like Lucifer, the strongest--the only strong character--that\nTurgenev created, the first Nihilist--for if Turgenev was not the first\nto invent the word, he was the first to apply it in this sense.\n\nBazarov is the incarnation of the Lucifer type that recurs again and\nagain in Russian history and fiction, in sharp contrast to the meek,\nhumble type of Ivan Durak. Lermontov's Pechorin was in some respects an\nanticipation of Bazarov; so were the many Russian rebels. He is the man\nwho denies, to whom art is a silly toy, who detests abstractions,\nknowledge, and the love of Nature; he believes in nothing; he bows to\nnothing; he can break, but he cannot bend; he does break, and that is\nthe tragedy, but, breaking, he retains his invincible pride, and\n\n  \"not cowardly puts off his helmet,\"\n\nand he dies \"valiantly vanquished.\"\n\nIn the pages which describe his death Turgenev reaches the high-water\nmark of his art, his moving quality, his power, his reserve. For manly\npathos they rank among the greatest scenes in literature, stronger than\nthe death of Colonel Newcome and the best of Thackeray. Among English\nnovelists it is, perhaps, only Meredith who has struck such strong,\npiercing chords, nobler than anything in Daudet or Maupassant, more\nreserved than anything in Victor Hugo, and worthy of the great poets,\nof the tragic pathos of Goethe and Dante. The character of Bazarov, as\nhas been said, created a sensation and endless controversy. The\nrevolutionaries thought him a caricature and a libel, the reactionaries\na scandalous glorification of the Devil; and impartial men such as\nDostoevsky, who knew the revolutionaries at first hand, thought the\ntype unreal. It is impossible that Bazarov was not like the Nihilists\nof the sixties; but in any case as a figure in fiction, whatever the\nfact may be, he lives and will continue to live....--From \"An Outline\nof Russian Literature\" (1914).\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF CHARACTERS\n\n\nNIKOLAI PETROVITCH KIRSANOV, a landowner.\n\nPAVEL PETROVITCH KIRSANOV, his brother.\n\nARKADY (ARKASHA) NIKOLAEVITCH (_or_ NIKOLAITCH), his son.\n\nYEVGENY (ENYUSHA) VASSILYEVITCH (_or_ VASSILYITCH) BAZAROV, friend of\nArkady.\n\nVASSILY IVANOVITCH (_or_ IVANITCH), father of Bazarov.\n\nARINA VLASYEVNA, mother of Bazarov.\n\nFEDOSYA (FENITCHKA) NIKOLAEVNA, second wife of Nikolai.\n\nANNA SERGYEVNA ODINTSOV, a wealthy widow.\n\nKATYA SERGYEVNA, her sister.\n\nPORFIRY PLATONITCH, her neighbor.\n\nMATVY ILYITCH KOLYAZIN, government commissioner.\n\nEVDOKSYA (_or_ AVDOTYA) NIKITISHNA KUKSHIN, an emancipated lady.\n\nVIKTOR SITNIKOV, a would-be liberal.\n\nPIOTR (_pron. P-yotr_), servant to Nikolai.\n\nPROKOFITCH, head servant to Nikolai.\n\nDUNYASHA, a maid servant.\n\nMITYA, infant of Fedosya.\n\nTIMOFEITCH, manager for Vassily.\n\n\n\n\nFATHERS AND CHILDREN\nA NOVEL\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n'Well, Piotr, not in sight yet?' was the question asked on May the\n20th, 1859, by a gentleman of a little over forty, in a dusty coat and\nchecked trousers, who came out without his hat on to the low steps of\nthe posting station at S----. He was addressing his servant, a chubby\nyoung fellow, with whitish down on his chin, and little, lack-lustre\neyes.\n\nThe servant, in whom everything--the turquoise ring in his ear, the\nstreaky hair plastered with grease, and the civility of his\nmovements--indicated a man of the new, improved generation, glanced\nwith an air of indulgence along the road, and made answer:\n\n'No, sir; not in sight.'\n\n'Not in sight?' repeated his master.\n\n'No, sir,' responded the man a second time.\n\nHis master sighed, and sat down on a little bench. We will introduce\nhim to the reader while he sits, his feet tucked under him, gazing\nthoughtfully round.\n\nHis name was Nikolai Petrovitch Kirsanov. He had, twelve miles from the\nposting station, a fine property of two hundred souls, or, as he\nexpressed it--since he had arranged the division of his land with the\npeasants, and started 'a farm'--of nearly five thousand acres. His\nfather, a general in the army, who served in 1812, a coarse,\nhalf-educated, but not ill-natured man, a typical Russian, had been in\nharness all his life, first in command of a brigade, and then of a\ndivision, and lived constantly in the provinces, where, by virtue of\nhis rank, he played a fairly important part. Nikolai Petrovitch was\nborn in the south of Russia like his elder brother, Pavel, of whom more\nhereafter. He was educated at home till he was fourteen, surrounded by\ncheap tutors, free-and-easy but toadying adjutants, and all the usual\nregimental and staff set. His mother, one of the Kolyazin family, as a\ngirl called Agathe, but as a general's wife Agathokleya Kuzminishna\nKirsanov, was one of those military ladies who take their full share of\nthe duties and dignities of office. She wore gorgeous caps and rustling\nsilk dresses; in church she was the first to advance to the cross; she\ntalked a great deal in a loud voice, let her children kiss her hand in\nthe morning, and gave them her blessing at night--in fact, she got\neverything out of life she could. Nikolai Petrovitch, as a general's\nson--though so far from being distinguished by courage that he even\ndeserved to be called 'a funk'--was intended, like his brother Pavel,\nto enter the army; but he broke his leg on the very day when the news\nof his commission came, and, after being two months in bed, retained a\nslight limp to the end of his days. His father gave him up as a bad\njob, and let him go into the civil service. He took him to Petersburg\ndirectly he was eighteen, and placed him in the university. His brother\nhappened about the same time to be made an officer in the Guards. The\nyoung men started living together in one set of rooms, under the remote\nsupervision of a cousin on their mother's side, Ilya Kolyazin, an\nofficial of high rank. Their father returned to his division and his\nwife, and only rarely sent his sons large sheets of grey paper,\nscrawled over in a bold clerkly hand. At the bottom of these sheets\nstood in letters, enclosed carefully in scroll-work, the words, 'Piotr\nKirsanov, General-Major.' In 1835 Nikolai Petrovitch left the\nuniversity, a graduate, and in the same year General Kirsanov was put\non to the retired list after an unsuccessful review, and came to\nPetersburg with his wife to live. He was about to take a house in the\nTavrichesky Gardens, and had joined the English club, but he died\nsuddenly of an apoplectic fit. Agathokleya Kuzminishna soon followed\nhim; she could not accustom herself to a dull life in the capital; she\nwas consumed by the ennui of existence away from the regiment.\nMeanwhile Nikolai Petrovitch had already, in his parents' lifetime and\nto their no slight chagrin, had time to fall in love with the daughter\nof his landlord, a petty official, Prepolovensky. She was a pretty and,\nas it is called, 'advanced' girl; she used to read the serious articles\nin the 'Science' column of the journals. He married her directly the\nterm of mourning was over; and leaving the civil service in which his\nfather had by favour procured him a post, was perfectly blissful with\nhis Masha, first in a country villa near the Lyesny Institute,\nafterwards in town in a pretty little flat with a clean staircase and a\ndraughty drawing-room, and then in the country, where he settled\nfinally, and where in a short time a son, Arkady, was born to him. The\nyoung couple lived very happily and peacefully; they were scarcely ever\napart; they read together, sang and played duets together on the piano;\nshe tended her flowers and looked after the poultry-yard; he sometimes\nwent hunting, and busied himself with the estate, while Arkady grew and\ngrew in the same happy and peaceful way. Ten years passed like a dream.\nIn 1847 Kirsanov's wife died. He almost succumbed to this blow; in a\nfew weeks his hair was grey; he was getting ready to go abroad, if\npossible to distract his mind ... but then came the year 1848. He\nreturned unwillingly to the country, and, after a rather prolonged\nperiod of inactivity, began to take an interest in improvements in the\nmanagement of his land. In 1855 he brought his son to the university;\nhe spent three winters with him in Petersburg, hardly going out\nanywhere, and trying to make acquaintance with Arkady's young\ncompanions. The last winter he had not been able to go, and here we\nhave him in the May of 1859, already quite grey, stoutish, and rather\nbent, waiting for his son, who had just taken his degree, as once he\nhad taken it himself.\n\nThe servant, from a feeling of propriety, and perhaps, too, not anxious\nto remain under the master's eye, had gone to the gate, and was smoking\na pipe. Nikolai Petrovitch bent his head, and began staring at the\ncrumbling steps; a big mottled fowl walked sedately towards him,\ntreading firmly with its great yellow legs; a muddy cat gave him an\nunfriendly look, twisting herself coyly round the railing. The sun was\nscorching; from the half-dark passage of the posting station came an\nodour of hot rye-bread. Nikolai Petrovitch fell to dreaming. 'My son\n... a graduate ... Arkasha ...' were the ideas that continually came\nround again and again in his head; he tried to think of something else,\nand again the same thoughts returned. He remembered his dead wife....\n'She did not live to see it!' he murmured sadly. A plump, dark-blue\npigeon flew into the road, and hurriedly went to drink in a puddle near\nthe well. Nikolai Petrovitch began looking at it, but his ear had\nalready caught the sound of approaching wheels.\n\n'It sounds as if they're coming sir,' announced the servant, popping in\nfrom the gateway.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch jumped up, and bent his eyes on the road. A carriage\nappeared with three posting-horses harnessed abreast; in the carriage\nhe caught a glimpse of the blue band of a student's cap, the familiar\noutline of a dear face.\n\n'Arkasha! Arkasha!' cried Kirsanov, and he ran waving his hands.... A\nfew instants later, his lips were pressed to the beardless, dusty,\nsunburnt-cheek of the youthful graduate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n'Let me shake myself first, daddy,' said Arkady, in a voice tired from\ntravelling, but boyish and clear as a bell, as he gaily responded to\nhis father's caresses; 'I am covering you with dust.'\n\n'Never mind, never mind,' repeated Nikolai Petrovitch, smiling\ntenderly, and twice he struck the collar of his son's cloak and his own\ngreatcoat with his hand. 'Let me have a look at you; let me have a look\nat you,' he added, moving back from him, but immediately he went with\nhurried steps towards the yard of the station, calling, 'This way, this\nway; and horses at once.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch seemed far more excited than his son; he seemed a\nlittle confused, a little timid. Arkady stopped him.\n\n'Daddy,' he said, 'let me introduce you to my great friend, Bazarov,\nabout whom I have so often written to you. He has been so good as to\npromise to stay with us.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch went back quickly, and going up to a tall man in a\nlong, loose, rough coat with tassels, who had only just got out of the\ncarriage, he warmly pressed the ungloved red hand, which the latter did\nnot at once hold out to him.\n\n'I am heartily glad,' he began, 'and very grateful for your kind\nintention of visiting us.... Let me know your name, and your father's.'\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyev,' answered Bazarov, in a lazy but manly voice; and\nturning back the collar of his rough coat, he showed Nikolai Petrovitch\nhis whole face. It was long and lean, with a broad forehead, a nose\nflat at the base and sharper at the end, large greenish eyes, and\ndrooping whiskers of a sandy colour; it was lighted up by a tranquil\nsmile, and showed self-confidence and intelligence.\n\n'I hope, dear Yevgeny Vassilyitch, you won't be dull with us,'\ncontinued Nikolai Petrovitch.\n\nBazarov's thin lips moved just perceptibly, though he made no reply,\nbut merely took off his cap. His long, thick hair did not hide the\nprominent bumps on his head.\n\n'Then, Arkady,' Nikolai Petrovitch began again, turning to his son,\n'shall the horses be put to at once? or would you like to rest?'\n\n'We will rest at home, daddy; tell them to harness the horses.'\n\n'At once, at once,' his father assented. 'Hey, Piotr, do you hear? Get\nthings ready, my good boy; look sharp.'\n\nPiotr, who as a modernised servant had not kissed the young master's\nhand, but only bowed to him from a distance, again vanished through the\ngateway.\n\n'I came here with the carriage, but there are three horses for your\ncoach too,' said Nikolai Petrovitch fussily, while Arkady drank some\nwater from an iron dipper brought him by the woman in charge of the\nstation, and Bazarov began smoking a pipe and went up to the driver,\nwho was taking out the horses; 'there are only two seats in the\ncarriage, and I don't know how your friend' ...\n\n'He will go in the coach,' interposed Arkady in an undertone. 'You must\nnot stand on ceremony with him, please. He's a splendid fellow, so\nsimple--you will see.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch's coachman brought the horses round.\n\n'Come, hurry up, bushy beard!' said Bazarov, addressing the driver.\n\n'Do you hear, Mityuha,' put in another driver, standing by with his\nhands thrust behind him into the opening of his sheepskin coat, 'what\nthe gentleman called you? It's a bushy beard you are too.'\n\nMityuha only gave a jog to his hat and pulled the reins off the heated\nshaft-horse.\n\n'Look sharp, look sharp, lads, lend a hand,' cried Nikolai Petrovitch;\n'there'll be something to drink our health with!'\n\nIn a few minutes the horses were harnessed; the father and son were\ninstalled in the carriage; Piotr climbed up on to the box; Bazarov\njumped into the coach, and nestled his head down into the leather\ncushion; and both the vehicles rolled away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n'So here you are, a graduate at last, and come home again,' said\nNikolai Petrovitch, touching Arkady now on the shoulder, now on the\nknee. 'At last!'\n\n'And how is uncle? quite well?' asked Arkady, who, in spite of the\ngenuine, almost childish delight filling his heart, wanted as soon as\npossible to turn the conversation from the emotional into a commonplace\nchannel.\n\n'Quite well. He was thinking of coming with me to meet you, but for\nsome reason or other he gave up the idea.'\n\n'And how long have you been waiting for me?' inquired Arkady.\n\n'Oh, about five hours.'\n\n'Dear old dad!'\n\nArkady turned round quickly to his father, and gave him a sounding kiss\non the cheek. Nikolai Petrovitch gave vent to a low chuckle.\n\n'I have got such a capital horse for you!' he began. 'You will see. And\nyour room has been fresh papered.'\n\n'And is there a room for Bazarov?'\n\n'We will find one for him too.'\n\n'Please, dad, make much of him. I can't tell you how I prize his\nfriendship.'\n\n'Have you made friends with him lately?'\n\n'Yes, quite lately.'\n\n'Ah, that's how it is I did not see him last winter. What does he\nstudy?'\n\n'His chief subject is natural science. But he knows everything. Next\nyear he wants to take his doctor's degree.'\n\n'Ah! he's in the medical faculty,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, and he\nwas silent for a little. 'Piotr,' he went on, stretching out his hand,\n'aren't those our peasants driving along?'\n\nPiotr looked where his master was pointing. Some carts harnessed with\nunbridled horses were moving rapidly along a narrow by-road. In each\ncart there were one or two peasants in sheepskin coats, unbuttoned.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Piotr.\n\n'Where are they going,--to the town?'\n\n'To the town, I suppose. To the gin-shop,' he added contemptuously,\nturning slightly towards the coachman, as though he would appeal to\nhim. But the latter did not stir a muscle; he was a man of the old\nstamp, and did not share the modern views of the younger generation.\n\n'I have had a lot of bother with the peasants this year,' pursued\nNikolai Petrovitch, turning to his son. 'They won't pay their rent.\nWhat is one to do?'\n\n'But do you like your hired labourers?'\n\n'Yes,' said Nikolai Petrovitch between his teeth. 'They're being set\nagainst me, that's the mischief; and they don't do their best. They\nspoil the tools. But they have tilled the land pretty fairly. When\nthings have settled down a bit, it will be all right. Do you take an\ninterest in farming now?'\n\n'You've no shade; that's a pity,' remarked Arkady, without answering\nthe last question.\n\n'I have had a great awning put up on the north side over the balcony,'\nobserved Nikolai Petrovitch; 'now we can have dinner even in the open\nair.'\n\n'It'll be rather too like a summer villa.... Still, that's all\nnonsense. What air though here! How delicious it smells! Really I fancy\nthere's nowhere such fragrance in the world as in the meadows here! And\nthe sky too.'\n\nArkady suddenly stopped short, cast a stealthy look behind him, and\nsaid no more.\n\n'Of course,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, 'you were born here, and so\neverything is bound to strike you in a special----'\n\n'Come, dad, that makes no difference where a man is born.'\n\n'Still----'\n\n'No; it makes absolutely no difference.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch gave a sidelong glance at his son, and the carriage\nwent on a half-a-mile further before the conversation was renewed\nbetween them.\n\n'I don't recollect whether I wrote to you,' began Nikolai Petrovitch,\n'your old nurse, Yegorovna, is dead.'\n\n'Really? Poor thing! Is Prokofitch still living?'\n\n'Yes, and not a bit changed. As grumbling as ever. In fact, you won't\nfind many changes at Maryino.'\n\n'Have you still the same bailiff?'\n\n'Well, to be sure there is a change there. I decided not to keep about\nme any freed serfs, who have been house servants, or, at least, not to\nintrust them with duties of any responsibility.' (Arkady glanced\ntowards Piotr.) '_Il est libre, en effet_,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch\nin an undertone; 'but, you see, he's only a valet. Now I have a\nbailiff, a townsman; he seems a practical fellow. I pay him two hundred\nand fifty roubles a year. But,' added Nikolai Petrovitch, rubbing his\nforehead and eyebrows with his hand, which was always an indication\nwith him of inward embarrassment, 'I told you just now that you would\nnot find changes at Maryino.... That's not quite correct. I think it my\nduty to prepare you, though....'\n\nHe hesitated for an instant, and then went on in French.\n\n'A severe moralist would regard my openness, as improper; but, in the\nfirst place, it can't be concealed, and secondly, you are aware I have\nalways had peculiar ideas as regards the relation of father and son.\nThough, of course, you would be right in blaming me. At my age.... In\nshort ... that ... that girl, about whom you have probably heard\nalready ...'\n\n'Fenitchka?' asked Arkady easily.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch blushed. 'Don't mention her name aloud, please....\nWell ... she is living with me now. I have installed her in the house\n... there were two little rooms there. But that can all be changed.'\n\n'Goodness, daddy, what for?'\n\n'Your friend is going to stay with us ... it would be awkward ...'\n\n'Please don't be uneasy on Bazarov's account. He's above all that.'\n\n'Well, but you too,' added Nikolai Petrovitch. 'The little lodge is so\nhorrid--that's the worst of it.'\n\n'Goodness, dad,' interposed Arkady, 'it's as if you were apologising; I\nwonder you're not ashamed.'\n\n'Of course, I ought to be ashamed,' answered Nikolai Petrovitch,\nflushing more and more.\n\n'Nonsense, dad, nonsense; please don't!' Arkady smiled affectionately.\n'What a thing to apologise for!' he thought to himself, and his heart\nwas filled with a feeling of condescending tenderness for his kind,\nsoft-hearted father, mixed with a sense of secret superiority. 'Please,\nstop,' he repeated once more, instinctively revelling in a\nconsciousness of his own advanced and emancipated condition.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch glanced at him from under the fingers of the hand\nwith which he was still rubbing his forehead, and there was a pang in\nhis heart.... But at once he blamed himself for it.\n\n'Here are our meadows at last,' he said after a long silence.\n\n'And that in front is our forest, isn't it?' asked Arkady.\n\n'Yes. Only I have sold the timber. This year they will cut it down.'\n\n'Why did you sell it?'\n\n'The money was needed; besides, that land is to go to the peasants.'\n\n'Who don't pay you their rent?'\n\n'That's their affair; besides, they will pay it some day.'\n\n'I am sorry about the forest,' observed Arkady, and he began to look\nabout him.\n\nThe country through which they were driving could not be called\npicturesque. Fields upon fields stretched all along to the very\nhorizon, now sloping gently upwards, then dropping down again; in some\nplaces woods were to be seen, and winding ravines, planted with low,\nscanty bushes, recalling vividly the representation of them on the\nold-fashioned maps of the times of Catherine. They came upon little\nstreams too with hollow banks; and tiny lakes with narrow dykes; and\nlittle villages, with low hovels under dark and often tumble-down\nroofs, and slanting barns with walls woven of brushwood and gaping\ndoorways beside neglected threshing-floors; and churches, some\nbrick-built, with stucco peeling off in patches, others wooden, with\ncrosses fallen askew, and overgrown grave-yards. Slowly Arkady's heart\nsunk. To complete the picture, the peasants they met were all in\ntatters and on the sorriest little nags; the willows, with their trunks\nstripped of bark, and broken branches, stood like ragged beggars along\nthe roadside; cows lean and shaggy and looking pinched up by hunger,\nwere greedily tearing at the grass along the ditches. They looked as\nthough they had just been snatched out of the murderous clutches of\nsome threatening monster; and the piteous state of the weak, starved\nbeasts in the midst of the lovely spring day, called up, like a white\nphantom, the endless, comfortless winter with its storms, and frosts,\nand snows.... 'No,' thought Arkady, 'this is not a rich country; it\ndoes not impress one by plenty or industry; it can't, it can't go on\nlike this, reforms are absolutely necessary ... but how is one to carry\nthem out, how is one to begin?'\n\nSuch were Arkady's reflections; ... but even as he reflected, the\nspring regained its sway. All around was golden green, all--trees,\nbushes, grass--shone and stirred gently in wide waves under the soft\nbreath of the warm wind; from all sides flooded the endless trilling\nmusic of the larks; the peewits were calling as they hovered over the\nlow-lying meadows, or noiselessly ran over the tussocks of grass; the\nrooks strutted among the half-grown short spring-corn, standing out\nblack against its tender green; they disappeared in the already\nwhitening rye, only from time to time their heads peeped out amid its\ngrey waves. Arkady gazed and gazed, and his reflections grew slowly\nfainter and passed away.... He flung off his cloak and turned to his\nfather, with a face so bright and boyish, that the latter gave him\nanother hug.\n\n'We're not far off now,' remarked Nikolai Petrovitch; 'we have only to\nget up this hill, and the house will be in sight. We shall get on\ntogether splendidly, Arkasha; you shall help me in farming the estate,\nif only it isn't a bore to you. We must draw close to one another now,\nand learn to know each other thoroughly, mustn't we!'\n\n'Of course,' said Arkady; 'but what an exquisite day it is to-day!'\n\n'To welcome you, my dear boy. Yes, it's spring in its full loveliness.\nThough I agree with Pushkin--do you remember in Yevgeny Onyegin--\n\n  'To me how sad thy coming is,\n   Spring, spring, sweet time of love!\n   What ...'\n\n'Arkady!' called Bazarov's voice from the coach, 'send me a match; I've\nnothing to light my pipe with.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch stopped, while Arkady, who had begun listening to\nhim with some surprise, though with sympathy too, made haste to pull a\nsilver matchbox out of his pocket, and sent it to Bazarov by Piotr.\n\n'Will you have a cigar?' shouted Bazarov again.\n\n'Thanks,' answered Arkady.\n\nPiotr returned to the carriage, and handed him with the match-box a\nthick black cigar, which Arkady began to smoke promptly, diffusing\nabout him such a strong and pungent odour of cheap tobacco, that\nNikolai Petrovitch, who had never been a smoker from his youth up, was\nforced to turn away his head, as imperceptibly as he could for fear of\nwounding his son.\n\nA quarter of an hour later, the two carriages drew up before the steps\nof a new wooden house, painted grey, with a red iron roof. This was\nMaryino, also known as New-Wick, or, as the peasants had nicknamed it,\nPoverty Farm.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nNo crowd of house-serfs ran out on to the steps to meet the gentlemen;\na little girl of twelve years old made her appearance alone. After her\nthere came out of the house a young lad, very like Piotr, dressed in a\ncoat of grey livery, with white armorial buttons, the servant of Pavel\nPetrovitch Kirsanov. Without speaking, he opened the door of the\ncarriage, and unbuttoned the apron of the coach. Nikolai Petrovitch\nwith his son and Bazarov walked through a dark and almost empty hall,\nfrom behind the door of which they caught a glimpse of a young woman's\nface, into a drawing-room furnished in the most modern style.\n\n'Here we are at home,' said Nikolai Petrovitch, taking off his cap, and\nshaking back his hair. 'That's the great thing; now we must have supper\nand rest.'\n\n'A meal would not come amiss, certainly,' observed Bazarov, stretching,\nand he dropped on to a sofa.\n\n'Yes, yes, let us have supper, supper directly.' Nikolai Petrovitch\nwith no apparent reason stamped his foot. 'And here just at the right\nmoment comes Prokofitch.'\n\nA man about sixty entered, white-haired, thin, and swarthy, in a\ncinnamon-coloured dress-coat with brass buttons, and a pink\nneckerchief. He smirked, went up to kiss Arkady's hand, and bowing to\nthe guest retreated to the door, and put his hands behind him.\n\n'Here he is, Prokofitch,' began Nikolai Petrovitch; 'he's come back to\nus at last.... Well, how do you think him looking?'\n\n'As well as could be,' said the old man, and was grinning again, but he\nquickly knitted his bushy brows. 'You wish supper to be served?' he\nsaid impressively.\n\n'Yes, yes, please. But won't you like to go to your room first, Yevgeny\nVassilyitch?'\n\n'No, thanks; I don't care about it. Only give orders for my little box\nto be taken there, and this garment, too,' he added, taking off his\nfrieze overcoat.\n\n'Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's coat.' (Prokofitch, with\nan air of perplexity, picked up Bazarov's 'garment' in both hands, and\nholding it high above his head, retreated on tiptoe.) 'And you, Arkady,\nare you going to your room for a minute?'\n\n'Yes, I must wash,' answered Arkady, and was just moving towards the\ndoor, but at that instant there came into the drawing-room a man of\nmedium height, dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionable low\ncravat, and kid shoes, Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov. He looked about\nforty-five: his close-cropped, grey hair shone with a dark lustre, like\nnew silver; his face, yellow but free from wrinkles, was exceptionally\nregular and pure in line, as though carved by a light and delicate\nchisel, and showed traces of remarkable beauty; specially fine were his\nclear, black, almond-shaped eyes. The whole person of Arkady's uncle,\nwith its aristocratic elegance, had preserved the gracefulness of youth\nand that air of striving upwards, away from earth, which for the most\npart is lost after the twenties are past.\n\nPavel Petrovitch took out of his trouser pocket his exquisite hand with\nits long tapering pink nails, a hand which seemed still more exquisite\nfrom the snowy whiteness of the cuff, buttoned with a single, big opal,\nand gave it to his nephew. After a preliminary handshake in the\nEuropean style, he kissed him thrice after the Russian fashion, that is\nto say, he touched his cheek three times with his perfumed moustaches,\nand said, 'Welcome.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch presented him to Bazarov; Pavel Petrovitch greeted\nhim with a slight inclination of his supple figure, and a slight smile,\nbut he did not give him his hand, and even put it back into his pocket.\n\n'I had begun to think you were not coming to-day,' he began in a\nmusical voice, with a genial swing and shrug of the shoulders, as he\nshowed his splendid white teeth. 'Did anything happen on the road.'\n\n'Nothing happened,' answered Arkady; 'we were rather slow. But we're as\nhungry as wolves now. Hurry up Prokofitch, dad; and I'll be back\ndirectly.'\n\n'Stay, I'm coming with you,' cried Bazarov, pulling himself up suddenly\nfrom the sofa. Both the young men went out.\n\n'Who is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'A friend of Arkasha's; according to him, a very clever fellow.'\n\n'Is he going to stay with us?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'That unkempt creature?'\n\n'Why, yes.'\n\nPavel Petrovitch drummed with his finger tips on the table. 'I fancy\nArkady _s'est d\u00e9gourdi_,' he remarked. 'I'm glad he has come back.'\n\nAt supper there was little conversation. Bazarov especially said\nnothing, but he ate a great deal. Nikolai Petrovitch related various\nincidents in what he called his career as a farmer, talked about the\nimpending government measures, about committees, deputations, the\nnecessity of introducing machinery, etc. Pavel Petrovitch paced slowly\nup and down the dining-room (he never ate supper), sometimes sipping at\na wineglass of red wine, and less often uttering some remark or rather\nexclamation, of the nature of 'Ah! aha! hm!' Arkady told some news from\nPetersburg, but he was conscious of a little awkwardness, that\nawkwardness, which usually overtakes a youth when he has just ceased to\nbe a child, and has come back to a place where they are accustomed to\nregard him and treat him as a child. He made his sentences quite\nunnecessarily long, avoided the word 'daddy,' and even sometimes\nreplaced it by the word 'father,' mumbled, it is true, between his\nteeth; with an exaggerated carelessness he poured into his glass far\nmore wine than he really wanted, and drank it all off. Prokofitch did\nnot take his eyes off him, and kept chewing his lips. After supper they\nall separated at once.\n\n'Your uncle's a queer fish,' Bazarov said to Arkady, as he sat in his\ndressing-gown by his bedside, smoking a short pipe. 'Only fancy such\nstyle in the country! His nails, his nails--you ought to send them to\nan exhibition!'\n\n'Why of course, you don't know,' replied Arkady. 'He was a great swell\nin his own day, you know. I will tell you his story one day. He was\nvery handsome, you know, used to turn all the women's heads.'\n\n'Oh, that's it, is it? So he keeps it up in memory of the past. It's a\npity there's no one for him to fascinate here though. I kept staring at\nhis exquisite collars. They're like marble, and his chin's shaved\nsimply to perfection. Come, Arkady Nikolaitch, isn't that ridiculous?'\n\n'Perhaps it is; but he's a splendid man, really.'\n\n'An antique survival! But your father's a capital fellow. He wastes his\ntime reading poetry, and doesn't know much about farming, but he's a\ngood-hearted fellow.'\n\n'My father's a man in a thousand.'\n\n'Did you notice how shy and nervous he is?'\n\nArkady shook his head as though he himself were not shy and nervous.\n\n'It's something astonishing,' pursued Bazarov, 'these old idealists,\nthey develop their nervous systems till they break down ... so balance\nis lost. But good-night. In my room there's an English washstand, but\nthe door won't fasten. Anyway that ought to be encouraged--an English\nwashstand stands for progress!'\n\nBazarov went away, and a sense of great happiness came over Arkady.\nSweet it is to fall asleep in one's own home, in the familiar bed,\nunder the quilt worked by loving hands, perhaps a dear nurse's hands,\nthose kind, tender, untiring hands. Arkady remembered Yegorovna, and\nsighed and wished her peace in heaven.... For himself he made no\nprayer.\n\nBoth he and Bazarov were soon asleep, but others in the house were\nawake long after. His son's return had agitated Nikolai Petrovitch. He\nlay down in bed, but did not put out the candles, and his head propped\non his hand, he fell into long reveries. His brother was sitting long\nafter midnight in his study, in a wide armchair before the fireplace,\non which there smouldered some faintly glowing embers. Pavel Petrovitch\nwas not undressed, only some red Chinese slippers had replaced the kid\nshoes on his feet. He held in his hand the last number of _Galignani_,\nbut he was not reading; he gazed fixedly into the grate, where a bluish\nflame flickered, dying down, then flaring up again.... God knows where\nhis thoughts were rambling, but they were not rambling in the past\nonly; the expression of his face was concentrated and surly, which is\nnot the way when a man is absorbed solely in recollections. In a small\nback room there sat, on a large chest, a young woman in a blue dressing\njacket with a white kerchief thrown over her dark hair, Fenitchka. She\nwas half listening, half dozing, and often looked across towards the\nopen door through which a child's cradle was visible, and the regular\nbreathing of a sleeping baby could be heard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nThe next morning Bazarov woke up earlier than any one and went out of\nthe house. 'Oh, my!' he thought, looking about him, 'the little place\nisn't much to boast of!' When Nikolai Petrovitch had divided the land\nwith his peasants, he had had to build his new manor-house on four\nacres of perfectly flat and barren land. He had built a house, offices,\nand farm buildings, laid out a garden, dug a pond, and sunk two wells;\nbut the young trees had not done well, very little water had collected\nin the pond, and that in the wells tasted brackish. Only one arbour of\nlilac and acacia had grown fairly well; they sometimes had tea and\ndinner in it. In a few minutes Bazarov had traversed all the little\npaths of the garden; he went into the cattle-yard and the stable,\nrouted out two farm-boys, with whom he made friends at once, and set\noff with them to a small swamp about a mile from the house to look for\nfrogs.\n\n'What do you want frogs for, sir?' one of the boys asked him.\n\n'I'll tell you what for,' answered Bazarov, who possessed the special\nfaculty of inspiring confidence in people of a lower class, though he\nnever tried to win them, and behaved very casually with them; 'I shall\ncut the frog open, and see what's going on in his inside, and then, as\nyou and I are much the same as frogs, only that we walk on legs, I\nshall know what's going on inside us too.'\n\n'And what do you want to know that for?'\n\n'So as not to make a mistake, if you're taken ill, and I have to cure\nyou.'\n\n'Are you a doctor then?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Vaska, do you hear, the gentleman says you and I are the same as\nfrogs, that's funny!'\n\n'I'm afraid of frogs,' observed Vaska, a boy of seven, with a head as\nwhite as flax, and bare feet, dressed in a grey smock with a stand-up\ncollar.\n\n'What is there to be afraid of? Do they bite?'\n\n'There, paddle into the water, philosophers,' said Bazarov.\n\nMeanwhile Nikolai Petrovitch too had waked up, and gone in to see\nArkady, whom he found dressed. The father and son went out on to the\nterrace under the shelter of the awning; near the balustrade, on the\ntable, among great bunches of lilacs, the samovar was already boiling.\nA little girl came up, the same who had been the first to meet them at\nthe steps on their arrival the evening before. In a shrill voice she\nsaid--\n\n'Fedosya Nikolaevna is not quite well, she cannot come; she gave orders\nto ask you, will you please to pour out tea yourself, or should she\nsend Dunyasha?'\n\n'I will pour out myself, myself,' interposed Nikolai Petrovitch\nhurriedly. 'Arkady, how do you take your tea, with cream, or with\nlemon?'\n\n'With cream,' answered Arkady; and after a brief silence, he uttered\ninterrogatively, 'Daddy?'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch in confusion looked at his son.\n\n'Well?' he said.\n\nArkady dropped his eyes.\n\n'Forgive me, dad, if my question seems unsuitable to you,' he began,\n'but you yourself, by your openness yesterday, encourage me to be open\n... you will not be angry ...?'\n\n'Go on.'\n\n'You give me confidence to ask you.... Isn't the reason, Fen ... isn't\nthe reason she will not come here to pour out tea, because I'm here?'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch turned slightly away.\n\n'Perhaps,' he said, at last, 'she supposes ... she is ashamed.'\n\nArkady turned a rapid glance on his father.\n\n'She has no need to be ashamed. In the first place, you are aware of my\nviews' (it was very sweet to Arkady to utter that word); 'and secondly,\ncould I be willing to hamper your life, your habits in the least thing?\nBesides, I am sure you could not make a bad choice; if you have allowed\nher to live under the same roof with you, she must be worthy of it; in\nany case, a son cannot judge his father,--least of all, I, and least of\nall such a father who, like you, has never hampered my liberty in\nanything.'\n\nArkady's voice had been shaky at the beginning; he felt himself\nmagnanimous, though at the same time he realised he was delivering\nsomething of the nature of a lecture to his father; but the sound of\none's own voice has a powerful effect on any man, and Arkady brought\nout his last words resolutely, even with emphasis.\n\n'Thanks, Arkasha,' said Nikolai Petrovitch thickly, and his fingers\nagain strayed over his eyebrows and forehead. 'Your suppositions are\njust in fact. Of course, if this girl had not deserved.... It is not a\nfrivolous caprice. It's not easy for me to talk to you about this; but\nyou will understand that it is difficult for her to come here, in your\npresence, especially the first day of your return.'\n\n'In that case I will go to her,' cried Arkady, with a fresh rush of\nmagnanimous feeling, and he jumped up from his seat. 'I will explain to\nher that she has no need to be ashamed before me.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch too got up.\n\n'Arkady,' he began, 'be so good ... how can ... there ... I have not\ntold you yet ...'\n\nBut Arkady did not listen to him, and ran off the terrace. Nikolai\nPetrovitch looked after him, and sank into his chair overcome by\nconfusion. His heart began to throb. Did he at that moment realise the\ninevitable strangeness of the future relations between him and his son?\nWas he conscious that Arkady would perhaps have shown him more respect\nif he had never touched on this subject at all? Did he reproach himself\nfor weakness?--it is hard to say; all these feelings were within him,\nbut in the state of sensations--and vague sensations--while the flush\ndid not leave his face, and his heart throbbed.\n\nThere was the sound of hurrying footsteps, and Arkady came on to the\nterrace. 'We have made friends, dad!' he cried, with an expression of a\nkind of affectionate and good-natured triumph on his face. 'Fedosya\nNikolaevna is not quite well to-day really, and she will come a little\nlater. But why didn't you tell me I had a brother? I should have kissed\nhim last night, as I have kissed him just now.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch tried to articulate something, tried to get up and\nopen his arms. Arkady flung himself on his neck.\n\n'What's this? embracing again?' sounded the voice of Pavel Petrovitch\nbehind them.\n\nFather and son were equally rejoiced at his appearance at that instant;\nthere are positions, genuinely affecting, from which one longs to\nescape as soon as possible.\n\n'Why should you be surprised at that?' said Nikolai Petrovitch gaily.\n'Think what ages I have been waiting for Arkasha. I've not had time to\nget a good look at him since yesterday.'\n\n'I'm not at all surprised,' observed Pavel Petrovitch; 'I feel not\nindisposed to be embracing him myself.'\n\nArkady went up to his uncle, and again felt his cheeks caressed by his\nperfumed moustache. Pavel Petrovitch sat down to the table. He wore an\nelegant morning suit in the English style, and a gay little fez on his\nhead. This fez and the carelessly tied little cravat carried a\nsuggestion of the freedom of country life, but the stiff collars of his\nshirt--not white, it is true, but striped, as is correct in morning\ndress--stood up as inexorably as ever against his well-shaved chin.\n\n'Where's your new friend?' he asked Arkady.\n\n'He's not in the house; he usually gets up early and goes off\nsomewhere. The great thing is, we mustn't pay any attention to him; he\ndoesn't like ceremony.'\n\n'Yes, that's obvious.' Pavel Petrovitch began deliberately spreading\nbutter on his bread. 'Is he going to stay long with us?'\n\n'Perhaps. He came here on the way to his father's.'\n\n'And where does his father live?'\n\n'In our province, sixty-four miles from here. He has a small property\nthere. He was formerly an army doctor.'\n\n'Tut, tut, tut! To be sure, I kept asking myself, \"Where have I heard\nthat name, Bazarov?\" Nikolai, do you remember, in our father's division\nthere was a surgeon Bazarov?'\n\n'I believe there was.'\n\n'Yes, yes, to be sure. So that surgeon was his father. Hm!' Pavel\nPetrovitch pulled his moustaches. 'Well, and what is Mr. Bazarov\nhimself?' he asked, deliberately.\n\n'What is Bazarov?' Arkady smiled. 'Would you like me, uncle, to tell\nyou what he really is?'\n\n'If you will be so good, nephew.'\n\n'He's a nihilist.'\n\n'Eh?' inquired Nikolai Petrovitch, while Pavel Petrovitch lilted a\nknife in the air with a small piece of butter on its tip, and remained\nmotionless.\n\n'He's a nihilist,' repeated Arkady.\n\n'A nihilist,' said Nikolai Petrovitch. 'That's from the Latin, _nihil_,\n_nothing_, as far as I can judge; the word must mean a man who ... who\naccepts nothing?'\n\n'Say, \"who respects nothing,\"' put in Pavel Petrovitch, and he set to\nwork on the butter again.\n\n'Who regards everything from the critical point of view,' observed\nArkady.\n\n'Isn't that just the same thing?' inquired Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'No, it's not the same thing. A nihilist is a man who does not bow down\nbefore any authority, who does not take any principle on faith,\nwhatever reverence that principle may be enshrined in.'\n\n'Well, and is that good?' interrupted Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'That depends, uncle. Some people it will do good to, but some people\nwill suffer for it.'\n\n'Indeed. Well, I see it's not in our line. We are old-fashioned people;\nwe imagine that without principles, taken as you say on faith, there's\nno taking a step, no breathing. _Vous avez chang\u00e9 tout cela_. God give\nyou good health and the rank of a general, while we will be content to\nlook on and admire, worthy ... what was it?'\n\n'Nihilists,' Arkady said, speaking very distinctly.\n\n'Yes. There used to be Hegelists, and now there are nihilists. We shall\nsee how you will exist in void, in vacuum; and now ring, please,\nbrother Nikolai Petrovitch; it's time I had my cocoa.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch rang the bell and called, 'Dunyasha!' But instead of\nDunyasha, Fenitchka herself came on to the terrace. She was a young\nwoman about three-and-twenty, with a white soft skin, dark hair and\neyes, red, childishly-pouting lips, and little delicate hands. She wore\na neat print dress; a new blue kerchief lay lightly on her plump\nshoulders. She carried a large cup of cocoa, and setting it down before\nPavel Petrovitch, she was overwhelmed with confusion: the hot blood\nrushed in a wave of crimson over the delicate skin of her pretty face.\nShe dropped her eyes, and stood at the table, leaning a little on the\nvery tips of her fingers. It seemed as though she were ashamed of\nhaving come in, and at the same time felt that she had a right to come.\n\nPavel Petrovitch knitted his brows severely, while Nikolai Petrovitch\nlooked embarrassed.\n\n'Good morning, Fenitchka,' he muttered through his teeth.\n\n'Good morning,' she replied in a voice not loud but resonant, and with\na sidelong glance at Arkady, who gave her a friendly smile, she went\ngently away. She walked with a slightly rolling gait, but even that\nsuited her.\n\nFor some minutes silence reigned on the terrace. Pavel Petrovitch\nsipped his cocoa; suddenly he raised his head. 'Here is Sir Nihilist\ncoming towards us,' he said in an undertone.\n\nBazarov was in fact approaching through the garden, stepping over the\nflower-beds. His linen coat and trousers were besmeared with mud;\nclinging marsh weed was twined round the crown of his old round hat; in\nhis right hand he held a small bag; in the bag something alive was\nmoving. He quickly drew near the terrace, and said with a nod, 'Good\nmorning, gentlemen; sorry I was late for tea; I'll be back directly; I\nmust just put these captives away.'\n\n'What have you there--leeches?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'No, frogs.'\n\n'Do you eat them--or keep them?'\n\n'For experiment,' said Bazarov indifferently, and he went off into the\nhouse.\n\n'So he's going to cut them up,' observed Pavel Petrovitch. 'He has no\nfaith in principles, but he has faith in frogs.'\n\nArkady looked compassionately at his uncle; Nikolai Petrovitch shrugged\nhis shoulders stealthily. Pavel Petrovitch himself felt that his\nepigram was unsuccessful, and began to talk about husbandry and the new\nbailiff, who had come to him the evening before to complain that a\nlabourer, Foma, 'was deboshed,' and quite unmanageable. 'He's such an\n\u00c6sop,' he said among other things; 'in all places he has protested\nhimself a worthless fellow; he's not a man to keep his place; he'll\nwalk off in a huff like a fool.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nBazarov came back, sat down to the table, and began hastily drinking\ntea. The two brothers looked at him in silence, while Arkady stealthily\nwatched first his father and then his uncle.\n\n'Did you walk far from here?' Nikolai Petrovitch asked at last.\n\n'Where you've a little swamp near the aspen wood. I started some\nhalf-dozen snipe; you might slaughter them; Arkady.'\n\n'Aren't you a sportsman then?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Is your special study physics?' Pavel Petrovitch in his turn inquired.\n\n'Physics, yes; and natural science in general.'\n\n'They say the Teutons of late have had great success in that line.'\n\n'Yes; the Germans are our teachers in it,' Bazarov answered carelessly.\n\nThe word Teutons instead of Germans, Pavel Petrovitch had used with\nironical intention; none noticed it however.\n\n'Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?' said Pavel Petrovitch,\nwith exaggerated courtesy. He was beginning to feel a secret\nirritation. His aristocratic nature was revolted by Bazarov's absolute\nnonchalance. This surgeon's son was not only not overawed, he even gave\nabrupt and indifferent answers, and in the tone of his voice there was\nsomething churlish, almost insolent.\n\n'The scientific men there are a clever lot.'\n\n'Ah, ah. To be sure, of Russian scientific men you have not such a\nflattering opinion, I dare say?'\n\n'That is very likely.'\n\n'That's very praiseworthy self-abnegation,' Pavel Petrovitch declared,\ndrawing himself up, and throwing his head back. 'But how is this?\nArkady Nikolaitch was telling us just now that you accept no\nauthorities? Don't you believe in _them_?'\n\n'And how am I accepting them? And what am I to believe in? They tell me\nthe truth, I agree, that's all.'\n\n'And do all Germans tell the truth?' said Pavel Petrovitch, and his\nface assumed an expression as unsympathetic, as remote, as if he had\nwithdrawn to some cloudy height.\n\n'Not all,' replied Bazarov, with a short yawn. He obviously did not\ncare to continue the discussion.\n\nPavel Petrovitch glanced at Arkady, as though he would say to him,\n'Your friend's polite, I must say.' 'For my own part,' he began again,\nnot without some effort, 'I am so unregenerate as not to like Germans.\nRussian Germans I am not speaking of now; we all know what sort of\ncreatures they are. But even German Germans are not to my liking. In\nformer days there were some here and there; they had--well, Schiller,\nto be sure, Goethe ... my brother--he takes a particularly favourable\nview of them.... But now they have all turned chemists and materialists\n...'\n\n'A good chemist is twenty times as useful as any poet,' broke in\nBazarov.\n\n'Oh, indeed,' commented Pavel Petrovitch, and, as though falling\nasleep, he faintly raised his eyebrows. 'You don't acknowledge art\nthen, I suppose?'\n\n'The art of making money or of advertising pills!' cried Bazarov, with\na contemptuous laugh.\n\n'Ah, ah. You are pleased to jest, I see. You reject all that, no doubt?\nGranted. Then you believe in science only?'\n\n'I have already explained to you that I don't believe in anything; and\nwhat is science--science in the abstract? There are sciences, as there\nare trades and crafts; but abstract science doesn't exist at all.'\n\n'Very good. Well, and in regard to the other traditions accepted in\nhuman conduct, do you maintain the same negative attitude?'\n\n'What's this, an examination?' asked Bazarov.\n\nPavel Petrovitch turned slightly pale.... Nikolai Petrovitch thought it\nhis duty to interpose in the conversation.\n\n'We will converse on this subject with you more in detail some day,\ndear Yevgeny Vassilyitch; we will hear your views, and express our own.\nFor my part, I am heartily glad you are studying the natural sciences.\nI have heard that Liebig has made some wonderful discoveries in the\namelioration of soils. You can be of assistance to me in my\nagricultural labours; you can give me some useful advice.'\n\n'I am at your service, Nikolai Petrovitch; but Liebig's miles over our\nheads! One has first to learn the a b c, and then begin to read, and we\nhaven't set eyes on the alphabet yet.'\n\n'You are certainly a nihilist, I see that,' thought Nikolai Petrovitch.\n'Still, you will allow me to apply to you on occasion,' he added aloud.\n'And now I fancy, brother, it's time for us to be going to have a talk\nwith the bailiff.'\n\nPavel Petrovitch got up from his seat.\n\n'Yes,' he said, without looking at any one; 'it's a misfortune to live\nfive years in the country like this, far from mighty intellects! You\nturn into a fool directly. You may try not to forget what you've been\ntaught, but--in a snap!--they'll prove all that's rubbish, and tell you\nthat sensible men have nothing more to do with such foolishness, and\nthat you, if you please, are an antiquated old fogey. What's to be\ndone? Young people, of course, are cleverer than we are!'\n\nPavel Petrovitch turned slowly on his heels, and slowly walked away;\nNikolai Petrovitch went after him.\n\n'Is he always like that?' Bazarov coolly inquired of Arkady directly\nthe door had closed behind the two brothers.\n\n'I must say, Yevgeny, you weren't nice to him,' remarked Arkady. 'You\nhave hurt his feelings.'\n\n'Well, am I going to consider them, these provincial aristocrats! Why,\nit's all vanity, dandy habits, fatuity. He should have continued his\ncareer in Petersburg, if that's his bent. But there, enough of him!\nI've found a rather rare species of a water-beetle, _Dytiscus\nmarginatus_; do you know it? I will show you.'\n\n'I promised to tell you his story,' began Arkady.\n\n'The story of the beetle?'\n\n'Come, don't, Yevgeny. The story of my uncle. You will see he's not the\nsort of man you fancy. He deserves pity rather than ridicule.'\n\n'I don't dispute it; but why are you worrying over him?'\n\n'One ought to be just, Yevgeny.'\n\n'How does that follow?'\n\n'No; listen ...'\n\nAnd Arkady told him his uncle's story. The reader will find it in the\nfollowing chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nPavel Petrovitch Kirsanov was educated first at home, like his younger\nbrother, and afterwards in the Corps of Pages. From childhood he was\ndistinguished by remarkable beauty; moreover he was self-confident,\nsomewhat ironical, and had a rather biting humour; he could not fail to\nplease. He began to be seen everywhere, directly he had received his\ncommission as an officer. He was much admired in society, and he\nindulged every whim, even every caprice and every folly, and gave\nhimself airs, but that too was attractive in him. Women went out of\ntheir senses over him; men called him a coxcomb, and were secretly\njealous of him. He lived, as has been related already, in the same\napartments as his brother, whom he loved sincerely, though he was not\nat all like him. Nikolai Petrovitch was a little lame, he had small,\npleasing features of a rather melancholy cast, small, black eyes, and\nthin, soft hair; he liked being lazy, but he also liked reading, and\nwas timid in society.\n\nPavel Petrovitch did not spend a single evening at home, prided himself\non his ease and audacity (he was just bringing gymnastics into fashion\namong young men in society), and had read in all some five or six\nFrench books. At twenty-eight he was already a captain; a brilliant\ncareer awaited him. Suddenly everything was changed.\n\nAt that time, there was sometimes seen in Petersburg society a woman\nwho has even yet not been forgotten. Princess R----. She had a\nwell-educated, well-bred, but rather stupid husband, and no children.\nShe used suddenly to go abroad, and suddenly return to Russia, and led\nan eccentric life in general. She had the reputation of being a\nfrivolous coquette, abandoned herself eagerly to every sort of\npleasure, danced to exhaustion, laughed and jested with young men, whom\nshe received in the dim light of her drawing-room before dinner; while\nat night she wept and prayed, found no peace in anything, and often\npaced her room till morning, wringing her hands in anguish, or sat,\npale and chill, over a psalter. Day came, and she was transformed again\ninto a grand lady; again she went out, laughed, chattered, and simply\nflung herself headlong into anything which could afford her the\nslightest distraction. She was marvellously well-proportioned, her hair\ncoloured like gold and heavy as gold hung below her knees, but no one\nwould have called her a beauty; in her whole face the only good point\nwas her eyes, and even her eyes were not good--they were grey, and not\nlarge--but their glance was swift and deep, unconcerned to the point of\naudacity, and thoughtful to the point of melancholy--an enigmatic\nglance. There was a light of something extraordinary in them, even\nwhile her tongue was lisping the emptiest of inanities. She dressed\nwith elaborate care. Pavel Petrovitch met her at a ball, danced a\nmazurka with her, in the course of which she did not utter a single\nrational word, and fell passionately in love with her. Being accustomed\nto make conquests, in this instance, too, he soon attained his object,\nbut his easy success did not damp his ardour. On the contrary, he was\nin still more torturing, still closer bondage to this woman, in whom,\neven at the very moment when she surrendered herself utterly, there\nseemed always something still mysterious and unattainable, to which\nnone could penetrate. What was hidden in that soul--God knows! It\nseemed as though she were in the power of mysterious forces,\nincomprehensible even to herself; they seemed to play on her at will;\nher intellect was not powerful enough to master their caprices. Her\nwhole behaviour presented a series of inconsistencies; the only letters\nwhich could have awakened her husband's just suspicions, she wrote to a\nman who was almost a stranger to her, whilst her love had always an\nelement of melancholy; with a man she had chosen as a lover, she ceased\nto laugh and to jest, she listened to him, and gazed at him with a look\nof bewilderment. Sometimes, for the most part suddenly, this\nbewilderment passed into chill horror; her face took a wild, death-like\nexpression; she locked herself up in her bedroom, and her maid, putting\nher ear to the keyhole, could hear her smothered sobs. More than once,\nas he went home after a tender interview, Kirsanov felt within him that\nheartrending, bitter vexation which follows on a total failure.\n\n'What more do I want?' he asked himself, while his heart was heavy. He\nonce gave her a ring with a sphinx engraved on the stone.\n\n'What's that?' she asked; 'a sphinx?'\n\n'Yes,' he answered, 'and that sphinx is you.'\n\n'I?' she queried, and slowly raising her enigmatical glance upon him.\n'Do you know that's awfully flattering?' she added with a meaningless\nsmile, while her eyes still kept the same strange look.\n\nPavel Petrovitch suffered even while Princess R---- loved him; but when\nshe grew cold to him, and that happened rather quickly, he almost went\nout of his mind. He was on the rack, and he was jealous; he gave her no\npeace, followed her about everywhere; she grew sick of his pursuit of\nher, and she went abroad. He resigned his commission in spite of the\nentreaties of his friends and the exhortations of his superiors, and\nfollowed the princess; four years he spent in foreign countries, at one\ntime pursuing her, at another time intentionally losing sight of her.\nHe was ashamed of himself, he was disgusted with his own lack of spirit\n... but nothing availed. Her image, that incomprehensible, almost\nmeaningless, but bewitching image, was deeply rooted in his heart. At\nBaden he once more regained his old footing with her; it seemed as\nthough she had never loved him so passionately ... but in a month it\nwas all at an end: the flame flickered up for the last time and went\nout for ever. Foreseeing inevitable separation, he wanted at least to\nremain her friend, as though friendship with such a woman was\npossible.... She secretly left Baden, and from that time steadily\navoided Kirsanov. He returned to Russia, and tried to live his former\nlife again; but he could not get back into the old groove. He wandered\nfrom place to place like a man possessed; he still went into society;\nhe still retained the habits of a man of the world; he could boast of\ntwo or three fresh conquests; but he no longer expected anything much\nof himself or of others, and he undertook nothing. He grew old and\ngrey; spending all his evenings at the club, jaundiced and bored, and\narguing in bachelor society became a necessity for him--a bad sign, as\nwe all know. Marriage, of course, he did not even think of. Ten years\npassed in this way; they passed by colourless and fruitless--and\nquickly, fearfully quickly. Nowhere does time fly past as in Russia; in\nprison they say it flies even faster. One day at dinner at the club,\nPavel Petrovitch heard of the death of the Princess R----. She had died\nat Paris in a state bordering on insanity.\n\nHe got up from the table, and a long time he paced about the rooms of\nthe club, or stood stockstill near the card-players, but he did not go\nhome earlier than usual. Some time later he received a packet addressed\nto him; in it was the ring he had given the princess. She had drawn\nlines in the shape of a cross over the sphinx and sent him word that\nthe solution of the enigma--was the cross.\n\nThis happened at the beginning of the year 1848, at the very time when\nNikolai Petrovitch came to Petersburg, after the loss of his wife.\nPavel Petrovitch had scarcely seen his brother since the latter had\nsettled in the country; the marriage of Nikolai Petrovitch had\ncoincided with the very first days of Pavel Petrovitch's acquaintance\nwith the princess. When he came back from abroad, he had gone to him\nwith the intention of staying a couple of months with him, in\nsympathetic enjoyment of his happiness, but he had only succeeded in\nstanding a week of it. The difference in the positions of the two\nbrothers was too great. In 1848, this difference had grown less;\nNikolai Petrovitch had lost his wife, Pavel Petrovitch had lost his\nmemories; after the death of the princess he tried not to think of her.\nBut to Nikolai, there remained the sense of a well-spent life, his son\nwas growing up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a solitary\nbachelor, was entering upon that indefinite twilight period of regrets\nthat are akin to hopes, and hopes that are akin to regrets, when youth\nis over, while old age has not yet come.\n\nThis time was harder for Pavel Petrovitch than for another man; in\nlosing his past, he lost everything.\n\n'I will not invite you to Maryino now,' Nikolai Petrovitch said to him\none day, (he had called his property by that name in honour of his\nwife); 'you were dull there in my dear wife's time, and now I think you\nwould be bored to death.'\n\n'I was stupid and fidgety then,' answered Pavel Petrovitch; 'since then\nI have grown quieter, if not wiser. On the contrary, now, if you will\nlet me, I am ready to settle with you for good.'\n\nFor all answer Nikolai Petrovitch embraced him; but a year and a half\npassed after this conversation, before Pavel Petrovitch made up his\nmind to carry out his intention. When he was once settled in the\ncountry, however, he did not leave it, even during the three winters\nwhich Nikolai Petrovitch spent in Petersburg with his son. He began to\nread, chiefly English; he arranged his whole life, roughly speaking, in\nthe English style, rarely saw the neighbours, and only went out to the\nelection of marshals, where he was generally silent, only occasionally\nannoying and alarming land-owners of the old school by his liberal\nsallies, and not associating with the representatives of the younger\ngeneration. Both the latter and the former considered him 'stuck up';\nand both parties respected him for his fine aristocratic manners; for\nhis reputation for successes in love; for the fact that he was very\nwell dressed and always stayed in the best room in the best hotel; for\nthe fact that he generally dined well, and had once even dined with\nWellington at Louis Philippe's table; for the fact that he always took\neverywhere with him a real silver dressing-case and a portable bath;\nfor the fact that he always smelt of some exceptionally 'good form'\nscent; for the fact that he played whist in masterly fashion, and\nalways lost; and lastly, they respected him also for his incorruptible\nhonesty. Ladies considered him enchantingly romantic, but he did not\ncultivate ladies' acquaintance....\n\n'So you see, Yevgeny,' observed Arkady, as he finished his story, 'how\nunjustly you judge of my uncle! To say nothing of his having more than\nonce helped my father out of difficulties, given him all his money--the\nproperty, perhaps you don't know, wasn't divided--he's glad to help any\none, among other things he always sticks up for the peasants; it's\ntrue, when he talks to them he frowns and sniffs eau de cologne.' ...\n\n'His nerves, no doubt,' put in Bazarov.\n\n'Perhaps; but his heart is very good. And he's far from being stupid.\nWhat useful advice he has given me especially ... especially in regard\nto relations with women.'\n\n'Aha! a scalded dog fears cold water, we know that!'\n\n'In short,' continued Arkady, 'he's profoundly unhappy, believe me;\nit's a sin to despise him.'\n\n'And who does despise him?' retorted Bazarov. 'Still, I must say that a\nfellow who stakes his whole life on one card--a woman's love--and when\nthat card fails, turns sour, and lets himself go till he's fit for\nnothing, is not a man, but a male. You say he's unhappy; you ought to\nknow best; to be sure, he's not got rid of all his fads. I'm convinced\nthat he solemnly imagines himself a superior creature because he reads\nthat wretched _Galignani_, and once a month saves a peasant from a\nflogging.'\n\n'But remember his education, the age in which he grew up,' observed\nArkady.\n\n'Education?' broke in Bazarov. 'Every man must educate himself, just as\nI've done, for instance.... And as for the age, why should I depend on\nit? Let it rather depend on me. No, my dear fellow, that's all\nshallowness, want of backbone! And what stuff it all is, about these\nmysterious relations between a man and woman? We physiologists know\nwhat these relations are. You study the anatomy of the eye; where does\nthe enigmatical glance you talk about come in there? That's all\nromantic, nonsensical, \u00e6sthetic rot. We had much better go and look at\nthe beetle.'\n\nAnd the two friends went off to Bazarov's room, which was already\npervaded by a sort of medico-surgical odour, mingled with the smell of\ncheap tobacco.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nPavel Petrovitch did not long remain present at his brother's interview\nwith his bailiff, a tall, thin man with a sweet consumptive voice and\nknavish eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovitch's remarks answered,\n'Certainly, sir,' and tried to make the peasants out to be thieves and\ndrunkards. The estate had only recently been put on to the new reformed\nsystem, and the new mechanism worked, creaking like an ungreased wheel,\nwarping and cracking like homemade furniture of unseasoned wood.\nNikolai Petrovitch did not lose heart, but often he sighed, and was\ngloomy; he felt that the thing could not go on without money, and his\nmoney was almost all spent. Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel\nPetrovitch had more than once helped his brother; more than once,\nseeing him struggling and cudgelling his brains, at a loss which way to\nturn, Pavel Petrovitch moved deliberately to the window, and with his\nhands thrust into his pockets, muttered between his teeth, '_mais je\npuis vous de l'argent_,' and gave him money; but to-day he had none\nhimself, and he preferred to go away. The petty details of agricultural\nmanagement worried him; besides, it constantly struck him that Nikolai\nPetrovitch, for all his zeal and industry, did not set about things in\nthe right way, though he would not have been able to point out\nprecisely where Nikolai Petrovitch's mistake lay. 'My brother's not\npractical enough,' he reasoned to himself; 'they impose upon him.'\nNikolai Petrovitch, on the other hand, had the highest opinion of Pavel\nPetrovitch's practical ability, and always asked his advice. 'I'm a\nsoft, weak fellow, I've spent my life in the wilds,' he used to say;\n'while you haven't seen so much of the world for nothing, you see\nthrough people; you have an eagle eye.' In answer to which Pavel\nPetrovitch only turned away, but did not contradict his brother.\n\nLeaving Nikolai Petrovitch in his study, he walked along the corridor,\nwhich separated the front part of the house from the back; when he had\nreached a low door, he stopped in hesitation, then pulling his\nmoustaches, he knocked at it.\n\n'Who's there? Come in,' sounded Fenitchka's voice.\n\n'It's I,' said Pavel Petrovitch, and he opened the door.\n\nFenitchka jumped up from the chair on which she was sitting with her\nbaby, and giving him into the arms of a girl, who at once carried him\nout of the room, she put straight her kerchief hastily.\n\n'Pardon me, if I disturb you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, not looking at\nher; 'I only wanted to ask you ... they are sending into the town\nto-day, I think ... please let them buy me some green tea.'\n\n'Certainly,' answered Fenitchka; 'how much do you desire them to buy?'\n\n'Oh, half a pound will be enough, I imagine. You have made a change\nhere, I see,' he added, with a rapid glance round him, which glided\nover Fenitchka's face too. 'The curtains here,' he explained, seeing\nshe did not understand him.\n\n'Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovitch was so good as to make me a\npresent of them; but they have been put up a long while now.'\n\n'Yes, and it's a long while since I have been to see you. Now it is\nvery nice here.'\n\n'Thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch's kindness,' murmured Fenitchka.\n\n'You are more comfortable here than in the little lodge you used to\nhave?' inquired Pavel Petrovitch urbanely, but without the slightest\nsmile.\n\n'Certainly, it's more comfortable.'\n\n'Who has been put in your place now?'\n\n'The laundry-maids are there now.'\n\n'Ah!'\n\nPavel Petrovitch was silent. 'Now he is going,' thought Fenitchka; but\nhe did not go, and she stood before him motionless.\n\n'What did you send your little one away for?' said Pavel Petrovitch at\nlast. 'I love children; let me see him.'\n\nFenitchka blushed all over with confusion and delight. She was afraid\nof Pavel Petrovitch; he had scarcely ever spoken to her.\n\n'Dunyasha,' she called; 'will you bring Mitya, please.' (Fenitchka did\nnot treat any one in the house familiarly.) 'But wait a minute, he must\nhave a frock on,' Fenitchka was going towards the door.\n\n'That doesn't matter,' remarked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'I will be back directly,' answered Fenitchka, and she went out\nquickly.\n\nPavel Petrovitch was left alone, and he looked round this time with\nspecial attention. The small low-pitched room in which he found himself\nwas very clean and snug. It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of\ncamomile. Along the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought\nby the late general on his campaign in Poland; in one corner was a\nlittle bedstead under a muslin canopy beside an iron-clamped chest with\na convex lid. In the opposite corner a little lamp was burning before a\nbig dark picture of St. Nikolai the wonder-worker; a tiny porcelain egg\nhung by a red ribbon from the protruding gold halo down to the saint's\nbreast; by the windows greenish glass jars of last year's jam carefully\ntied down could be seen; on their paper covers Fenitchka herself had\nwritten in big letters 'Gooseberry'; Nikolai Petrovitch was\nparticularly fond of that preserve. On a long cord from the ceiling a\ncage hung with a short-tailed siskin in it; he was constantly chirping\nand hopping about, the cage was constantly shaking and swinging, while\nhempseeds fell with a light tap on to the floor. On the wall just above\na small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai\nPetrovitch in various attitudes, taken by an itinerant photographer;\nthere too hung a photograph of Fenitchka herself, which was an absolute\nfailure; it was an eyeless face wearing a forced smile, in a dingy\nframe, nothing more could be made out; while above Fenitchka, General\nYermolov, in a Circassian cloak, scowled menacingly upon the Caucasian\nmountains in the distance, from beneath a little silk shoe for pins\nwhich fell right on to his brows.\n\nFive minutes passed; bustling and whispering could be heard in the next\nroom. Pavel Petrovitch took up from the chest of drawers a greasy book,\nan odd volume of Masalsky's _Musketeer_, and turned over a few\npages.... The door opened, and Fenitchka came in with Mitya in her\narms. She had put on him a little red smock with embroidery on the\ncollar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathing\nheavily, his whole body working, and his little hands waving in the\nair, as is the way with all healthy babies; but his smart smock\nobviously impressed him, an expression of delight was reflected in\nevery part of his little fat person. Fenitchka had put her own hair too\nin order, and had arranged her kerchief; but she might well have\nremained as she was. And really is there anything in the world more\ncaptivating than a beautiful young mother with a healthy baby in her\narms?\n\n'What a chubby fellow!' said Pavel Petrovitch graciously, and he\ntickled Mitya's little double chin with the tapering nail of his\nforefinger. The baby stared at the siskin, and chuckled.\n\n'That's uncle,' said Fenitchka, bending her face down to him and\nslightly rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set in the window a\nsmouldering perfumed stick, putting a halfpenny under it.\n\n'How many months old is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'Six months; it will soon be seven, on the eleventh.'\n\n'Isn't it eight, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' put in Dunyasha, with some\ntimidity.\n\n'No, seven; what an idea!' The baby chuckled again, stared at the\nchest, and suddenly caught hold of his mother's nose and mouth with all\nhis five little fingers. 'Saucy mite,' said Fenitchka, not drawing her\nface away.\n\n'He's like my brother,' observed Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'Who else should he be like?' thought Fenitchka.\n\n'Yes,' continued Pavel Petrovitch, as though speaking to himself;\n'there's an unmistakable likeness.' He looked attentively, almost\nmournfully, at Fenitchka.\n\n'That's uncle,' she repeated, in a whisper this time.\n\n'Ah! Pavel! so you're here!' was heard suddenly the voice of Nikolai\nPetrovitch.\n\nPavel Petrovitch turned hurriedly round, frowning; but his brother\nlooked at him with such delight, such gratitude, that he could not help\nresponding to his smile.\n\n'You've a splendid little cherub,' he said, and looking at his watch,\n'I came in here to speak about some tea.'\n\nAnd, assuming an expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovitch at once\nwent out of the room.\n\n'Did he come of himself?' Nikolai Petrovitch asked Fenitchka.\n\n'Yes; he knocked and came in.'\n\n'Well, and has Arkasha been in to see you again?'\n\n'No. Hadn't I better move into the lodge, Nikolai Petrovitch?'\n\n'Why so?'\n\n'I wonder whether it wouldn't be best just for the first.'\n\n'N ... no,' Nikolai Petrovitch brought out hesitatingly, rubbing his\nforehead. 'We ought to have done it before.... How are you, fatty?' he\nsaid, suddenly brightening, and going up to the baby, he kissed him on\nthe cheek; then he bent a little and pressed his lips to Fenitchka's\nhand, which lay white as milk upon Mitya's little red smock.\n\n'Nikolai Petrovitch! what are you doing?' she whispered, dropping her\neyes, then slowly raising them. Very charming was the expression of her\neyes when she peeped, as it were, from under her lids, and smiled\ntenderly and a little foolishly.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch had made Fenitchka's acquaintance in the following\nmanner. He had once happened three years before to stay a night at an\ninn in a remote district town. He was agreeably struck by the cleanness\nof the room assigned to him, the freshness of the bed-linen. Surely the\nwoman of the house must be a German? was the idea that occurred to him;\nbut she proved to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty, neatly dressed,\nof a good-looking, sensible countenance and discreet speech. He entered\ninto conversation with her at tea; he liked her very much. Nikolai\nPetrovitch had at that time only just moved into his new home, and not\nwishing to keep serfs in the house, he was on the look-out for\nwage-servants; the woman of the inn on her side complained of the small\nnumber of visitors to the town, and the hard times; he proposed to her\nto come into his house in the capacity of housekeeper; she consented.\nHer husband had long been dead, leaving her an only daughter,\nFenitchka. Within a fortnight Arina Savishna (that was the new\nhousekeeper's name) arrived with her daughter at Maryino and installed\nherself in the little lodge. Nikolai Petrovitch's choice proved a\nsuccessful one. Arina brought order into the household. As for\nFenitchka, who was at that time seventeen, no one spoke of her, and\nscarcely any one saw her; she lived quietly and sedately, and only on\nSundays Nikolai Petrovitch noticed in the church somewhere in a side\nplace the delicate profile of her white face. More than a year passed\nthus.\n\nOne morning, Arina came into his study, and bowing low as usual, she\nasked him if he could do anything for her daughter, who had got a spark\nfrom the stove in her eye. Nikolai Petrovitch, like all stay-at-home\npeople, had studied doctoring and even compiled a homoeopathic guide.\nHe at once told Arina to bring the patient to him. Fenitchka was much\nfrightened when she heard the master had sent for her; however, she\nfollowed her mother. Nikolai Petrovitch led her to the window and took\nher head in his two hands. After thoroughly examining her red and\nswollen eye, he prescribed a fomentation, which he made up himself at\nonce, and tearing his handkerchief in pieces, he showed her how it\nought to be applied. Fenitchka listened to all he had to say, and then\nwas going. 'Kiss the master's hand, silly girl,' said Arina. Nikolai\nPetrovitch did not give her his hand, and in confusion himself kissed\nher bent head on the parting of her hair. Fenitchka's eye was soon well\nagain, but the impression she had made on Nikolai Petrovitch did not\npass away so quickly. He was for ever haunted by that pure, delicate,\ntimidly raised face; he felt on the palms of his hands that soft hair,\nand saw those innocent, slightly parted lips, through which pearly\nteeth gleamed with moist brilliance in the sunshine. He began to watch\nher with great attention in church, and tried to get into conversation\nwith her. At first she was shy of him, and one day meeting him at the\napproach of evening in a narrow footpath through a field of rye, she\nran into the tall thick rye, overgrown with cornflowers and wormwood,\nso as not to meet him face to face. He caught sight of her little head\nthrough a golden network of ears of rye, from which she was peeping out\nlike a little animal, and called affectionately to her--\n\n'Good-evening, Fenitchka! I don't bite.'\n\n'Good-evening,' she whispered, not coming out of her ambush.\n\nBy degrees she began to be more at home with him, but was still shy in\nhis presence, when suddenly her mother, Arina, died of cholera. What\nwas to become of Fenitchka? She inherited from her mother a love for\norder, regularity, and respectability; but she was so young, so alone.\nNikolai Petrovitch was himself so good and considerate.... It's\nneedless to relate the rest....\n\n'So my brother came in to see you?' Nikolai Petrovitch questioned her.\n'He knocked and came in?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Well, that's a good thing. Let me give Mitya a swing.'\n\nAnd Nikolai Petrovitch began tossing him almost up to the ceiling, to\nthe huge delight of the baby, and to the considerable uneasiness of the\nmother, who every time he flew up stretched her arms up towards his\nlittle bare legs.\n\nPavel Petrovitch went back to his artistic study, with its walls\ncovered with handsome bluish-grey hangings, with weapons hanging upon a\nvariegated Persian rug nailed to the wall; with walnut furniture,\nupholstered in dark green velveteen, with a _renaissance_ bookcase of\nold black oak, with bronze statuettes on the magnificent writing-table,\nwith an open hearth. He threw himself on the sofa, clasped his hands\nbehind his head, and remained without moving, looking with a face\nalmost of despair at the ceiling. Whether he wanted to hide from the\nvery walls that which was reflected in his face, or for some other\nreason, he got up, drew the heavy window curtains, and again threw\nhimself on the sofa.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nOn the same day Bazarov made acquaintance with Fenitchka. He was\nwalking with Arkady in the garden, and explaining to him why some of\nthe trees, especially the oaks, had not done well.\n\n'You ought to have planted silver poplars here by preference, and\nspruce firs, and perhaps limes, giving them some loam. The arbour there\nhas done well,' he added, 'because it's acacia and lilac; they're\naccommodating good fellows, those trees, they don't want much care. But\nthere's some one in here.'\n\nIn the arbour was sitting Fenitchka, with Dunyasha and Mitya. Bazarov\nstood still, while Arkady nodded to Fenitchka like an old friend.\n\n'Who's that?' Bazarov asked him directly they had passed by. 'What a\npretty girl!'\n\n'Whom are you speaking of?'\n\n'You know; only one of them was pretty.'\n\nArkady, not without embarrassment, explained to him briefly who\nFenitchka was.\n\n'Aha!' commented Bazarov; 'your father's got good taste, one can see. I\nlike him, your father, ay, ay! He's a jolly fellow. We must make\nfriends though,' he added, and turned back towards the arbour.\n\n'Yevgeny!' Arkady cried after him in dismay; 'mind what you are about,\nfor mercy's sake.'\n\n'Don't worry yourself,' said Bazarov; 'I know how to behave myself--I'm\nnot a booby.'\n\nGoing up to Fenitchka, he took off his cap.\n\n'Allow me to introduce myself,' he began, with a polite bow. 'I'm a\nharmless person, and a friend of Arkady Nikolaevitch's.'\n\nFenitchka got up from the garden seat and looked at him without\nspeaking.\n\n'What a splendid baby!' continued Bazarov; 'don't be uneasy, my praises\nhave never brought ill-luck yet. Why is it his cheeks are so flushed?\nIs he cutting his teeth?'\n\n'Yes,' said Fenitchka; 'he has cut four teeth already, and now the gums\nare swollen again.'\n\n'Show me, and don't be afraid, I'm a doctor.'\n\nBazarov took the baby up in his arms, and to the great astonishment\nboth of Fenitchka and Dunyasha the child made no resistance, and was\nnot frightened.\n\n'I see, I see.... It's nothing, everything's as it should be; he will\nhave a good set of teeth. If anything goes wrong, tell me. And are you\nquite well yourself?'\n\n'Quite, thank God.'\n\n'Thank God, indeed--that's the great thing. And you?' he added, turning\nto Dunyasha.\n\nDunyasha, a girl very prim in the master's house, and a romp outside\nthe gates, only giggled in answer.\n\n'Well, that's all right. Here's your gallant fellow.'\n\nFenitchka received the baby in her arms.\n\n'How good he was with you!' she commented in an undertone.\n\n'Children are always good with me.' answered Bazarov; 'I have a way\nwith them.'\n\n'Children know who loves them,' remarked Dunyasha.\n\n'Yes, they certainly do,' Fenitchka said. 'Why, Mitya will not go to\nsome people for anything.'\n\n'Will he come to me?' asked Arkady, who, after standing in the distance\nfor some time, had gone up to the arbour.\n\nHe tried to entice Mitya to come to him, but Mitya threw his head back\nand screamed, to Fenitchka's great confusion.\n\n'Another day, when he's had time to get used to me,' said Arkady\nindulgently, and the two friends walked away.\n\n'What's her name?' asked Bazarov.\n\n'Fenitchka ... Fedosya,' answered Arkady.\n\n'And her father's name? One must know that too.'\n\n'Nikolaevna.'\n\n'_Bene_. What I like in her is that she's not too embarrassed. Some\npeople, I suppose, would think ill of her for it. What nonsense! What\nis there to embarrass her? She's a mother--she's all right.'\n\n'She's all right,' observed Arkady,--'but my father.'\n\n'And he's right too,' put in Bazarov.\n\n'Well, no, I don't think so.'\n\n'I suppose an extra heir's not to your liking?'\n\n'I wonder you're not ashamed to attribute such ideas to me!' retorted\nArkady hotly; 'I don't consider my father wrong from that point of\nview; I think he ought to marry her.'\n\n'Hoity-toity!' responded Bazarov tranquilly. 'What magnanimous fellows\nwe are! You still attach significance to marriage; I did not expect\nthat of you.'\n\nThe friends walked a few paces in silence.\n\n'I have looked at all your father's establishment,' Bazarov began\nagain. 'The cattle are inferior, the horses are broken down; the\nbuildings aren't up to much, and the workmen look confirmed loafers;\nwhile the superintendent is either a fool, or a knave, I haven't quite\nfound out which yet.'\n\n'You are rather hard on everything to-day, Yevgeny Vassilyevitch.'\n\n'And the dear good peasants are taking your father in to a dead\ncertainty. You know the Russian proverb, \"The Russian peasant will\ncheat God Himself.\"'\n\n'I begin to agree with my uncle,' remarked Arkady; 'you certainly have\na poor opinion of Russians.'\n\n'As though that mattered! The only good point in a Russian is his\nhaving the lowest possible opinion of himself. What does matter is that\ntwo and two make four, and the rest is all foolery.'\n\n'And is nature foolery?' said Arkady, looking pensively at the\nbright-coloured fields in the distance, in the beautiful soft light of\nthe sun, which was not yet high up in the sky.\n\n'Nature, too, is foolery in the sense you understand it. Nature's not a\ntemple, but a workshop, and man's the workman in it.'\n\nAt that instant, the long drawn notes of a violoncello floated out to\nthem from the house. Some one was playing Schubert's _Expectation_ with\nmuch feeling, though with an untrained hand, and the melody flowed with\nhoney sweetness through the air.\n\n'What's that?' cried Bazarov in amazement.\n\n'It's my father.'\n\n'Your father plays the violoncello?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And how old is your father?'\n\n'Forty-four.'\n\nBazarov suddenly burst into a roar of laughter.\n\n'What are you laughing at?'\n\n'Upon my word, a man of forty-four, a _paterfamilias_ in this\nout-of-the-way district, playing on the violoncello!'\n\nBazarov went on laughing; but much as he revered his master, this time\nArkady did not even smile.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nAbout a fortnight passed by. Life at Maryino went on its accustomed\ncourse, while Arkady was lazy and enjoyed himself, and Bazarov worked.\nEvery one in the house had grown used to him, to his careless manners,\nand his curt and abrupt speeches. Fenitchka, in particular, was so far\nat home with him that one night she sent to wake him up; Mitya had had\nconvulsions; and he had gone, and, half joking, half-yawning as usual,\nhe stayed two hours with her and relieved the child. On the other hand\nPavel Petrovitch had grown to detest Bazarov with all the strength of\nhis soul; he regarded him as stuck-up, impudent, cynical, and vulgar;\nhe suspected that Bazarov had no respect for him, that he had all but a\ncontempt for him--him, Pavel Kirsanov!\n\nNikolai Petrovitch was rather afraid of the young 'nihilist,' and was\ndoubtful whether his influence over Arkady was for the good; but he was\nglad to listen to him, and was glad to be present at his scientific and\nchemical experiments. Bazarov had brought with him a microscope, and\nbusied himself for hours together with it. The servants, too, took to\nhim, though he made fun of them; they felt, all the same, that he was\none of themselves, not a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle\nwith him, and used to cast significant and stealthy glances at him when\nshe skipped by like a rabbit; Piotr, a man vain and stupid to the last\ndegree, for ever wearing an affected frown on his brow, a man whose\nwhole merit consisted in the fact that he looked civil, could spell out\na page of reading, and was diligent in brushing his coat--even he\nsmirked and brightened up directly Bazarov paid him any attention; the\nboys on the farm simply ran after the 'doctor' like puppies. The old\nman Prokofitch was the only one who did not like him; he handed him the\ndishes at table with a surly face, called him a 'butcher' and 'an\nupstart,' and declared that with his great whiskers he looked like a\npig in a stye. Prokofitch in his own way was quite as much of an\naristocrat as Pavel Petrovitch.\n\nThe best days of the year had come--the first days of June. The weather\nkept splendidly fine; in the distance, it is true, the cholera was\nthreatening, but the inhabitants of that province had had time to get\nused to its visits. Bazarov used to get up very early and go out for\ntwo or three miles, not for a walk--he couldn't bear walking without an\nobject--but to collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he\ntook Arkady with him.\n\nOn the way home an argument usually sprang up, and Arkady was usually\nvanquished in it, though he said more than his companion.\n\nOne day they had lingered rather late; Nikolai Petrovitch went to meet\nthem in the garden, and as he reached the arbour he suddenly heard the\nquick steps and voices of the two young men. They were walking on the\nother side of the arbour, and could not see him.\n\n'You don't know my father well enough,' said Arkady.\n\n'Your father's a nice chap,' said Bazarov, 'but he's behind the times;\nhis day is done.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch listened intently.... Arkady made no answer.\n\nThe man whose day was done remained two minutes motionless, and stole\nslowly home.\n\n'The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,' Bazarov was\ncontinuing meanwhile. 'Explain to him, please, that that's no earthly\nuse. He's not a boy, you know; it's time to throw up that rubbish. And\nwhat an idea to be a romantic at this time of day! Give him something\nsensible to read.'\n\n'What ought I to give him?' asked Arkady.\n\n'Oh, I think B\u00fcchner's _Stoff und Kraft_ to begin with.'\n\n'I think so too,' observed Arkady approving, '_Stoff und Kraft_ is\nwritten in popular language....'\n\n'So it seems,' Nikolai Petrovitch said the same day after dinner to his\nbrother, as he sat in his study, 'you and I are behind the times, our\nday's over. Well, well. Perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing I\nconfess, makes me feel sore; I did so hope, precisely now, to get on to\nsuch close intimate terms with Arkady, and it turns out I'm left\nbehind, and he has gone forward, and we can't understand one another.'\n\n'How has he gone forward? And in what way is he so superior to us\nalready?' cried Pavel Petrovitch impatiently. 'It's that high and\nmighty gentleman, that nihilist, who's knocked all that into his head.\nI hate that doctor fellow; in my opinion, he's simply a quack; I'm\nconvinced, for all his tadpoles, he's not got very far even in\nmedicine.'\n\n'No, brother, you mustn't say that; Bazarov is clever, and knows his\nsubject.'\n\n'And his conceit's something revolting,' Pavel Petrovitch broke in\nagain.\n\n'Yes,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, 'he is conceited. But there's no\ndoing without that, it seems; only that's what I did not take into\naccount. I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I\nhave started a model farm; I have done well by the peasants, so that I\nam positively called a \"Red Radical\" all over the province; I read, I\nstudy, I try in every way to keep abreast with the requirements of the\nday--and they say my day's over. And, brother, I begin to think that it\nis.'\n\n'Why so?'\n\n'I'll tell you why. This morning I was sitting reading Pushkin.... I\nremember, it happened to be _The Gipsies_ ... all of a sudden Arkady\ncame up to me, and, without speaking, with such a kindly compassion on\nhis face, as gently as if I were a baby, took the book away from me,\nand laid another before me--a German book ... smiled, and went away,\ncarrying Pushkin off with him.'\n\n'Upon my word! What book did he give you?'\n\n'This one here.'\n\nAnd Nikolai Petrovitch pulled the famous treatise of B\u00fcchner, in the\nninth edition, out of his coat-tail pocket.\n\nPavel Petrovitch turned it over in his hands. 'Hm!' he growled. 'Arkady\nNikolaevitch is taking your education in hand. Well, did you try\nreading it?'\n\n'Yes, I tried it.'\n\n'Well, what did you think of it?'\n\n'Either I'm stupid, or it's all--nonsense. I must be stupid, I\nsuppose.'\n\n'Haven't you forgotten your German?' queried Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'Oh, I understand the German.'\n\nPavel Petrovitch again turned the book over in his hands, and glanced\nfrom under his brows at his brother. Both were silent.\n\n'Oh, by the way,' began Nikolai Petrovitch, obviously wishing to change\nthe subject, 'I've got a letter from Kolyazin.'\n\n'Matvy Ilyitch?'\n\n'Yes. He has come to----to inspect the province. He's quite a bigwig\nnow; and writes to me that, as a relation, he should like to see us\nagain, and invites you and me and Arkady to the town.'\n\n'Are you going?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'No; are you?'\n\n'No, I shan't go either. Much object there would be in dragging oneself\nover forty miles on a wild-goose chase. _Mathieu_ wants to show himself\nin all his glory. Damn him! he will have the whole province doing him\nhomage; he can get on without the likes of us. A grand dignity, indeed,\na privy councillor! If I had stayed in the service, if I had drudged on\nin official harness, I should have been a general-adjutant by now.\nBesides, you and I are behind the times, you know.'\n\n'Yes, brother; it's time, it seems, to order a coffin and cross one's\narms on ones breast,' remarked Nikolai Petrovitch, with a sigh.\n\n'Well, I'm not going to give in quite so soon,' muttered his brother.\n'I've got a tussle with that doctor fellow before me, I feel sure of\nthat.'\n\nA tussle came off that same day at evening tea. Pavel Petrovitch came\ninto the drawing-room, all ready for the fray, irritable and\ndetermined. He was only waiting for an excuse to fall upon the enemy;\nbut for a long while an excuse did not present itself. As a rule,\nBazarov said little in the presence of the 'old Kirsanovs' (that was\nhow he spoke of the brothers), and that evening he felt out of humour,\nand drank off cup after cup of tea without a word. Pavel Petrovitch was\nall aflame with impatience; his wishes were fulfilled at last.\n\nThe conversation turned on one of the neighbouring landowners. 'Rotten\naristocratic snob,' observed Bazarov indifferently. He had met him in\nPetersburg.\n\n'Allow me to ask you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, and his lips were\ntrembling, 'according to your ideas, have the words \"rotten\" and\n\"aristocrat\" the same meaning?'\n\n'I said \"aristocratic snob,\"' replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip\nof tea.\n\n'Precisely so; but I imagine you have the same opinion of aristocrats\nas of aristocratic snobs. I think it my duty to inform you that I do\nnot share that opinion. I venture to assert that every one knows me for\na man of liberal ideas and devoted to progress; but, exactly for that\nreason, I respect aristocrats--real aristocrats. Kindly remember, sir'\n(at these words Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel\nPetrovitch), 'kindly remember, sir,' he repeated, with acrimony--'the\nEnglish aristocracy. They do not abate one iota of their rights, and\nfor that reason they respect the rights of others; they demand the\nperformance of what is due to them, and for that reason they perform\ntheir own duties. The aristocracy has given freedom to England, and\nmaintains it for her.'\n\n'We've heard that story a good many times,' replied Bazarov; 'but what\nare you trying to prove by that?'\n\n'I am tryin' to prove by that, sir' (when Pavel Petrovitch was angry he\nintentionally clipped his words in this way, though, of course, he knew\nvery well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. In this\nfashionable whim could be discerned a survival of the habits of the\ntimes of Alexander. The exquisites of those days, on the rare occasions\nwhen they spoke their own language, made use of such slipshod forms; as\nmuch as to say, 'We, of course, are born Russians, at the same time we\nare great swells, who are at liberty to neglect the rules of\nscholars'); 'I am tryin' to prove by that, sir, that without the sense\nof personal dignity, without self-respect--and these two sentiments are\nwell developed in the aristocrat--there is no secure foundation for the\nsocial ... _bien public_ ... the social fabric. Personal character,\nsir--that is the chief thing; a man's personal character must be firm\nas a rock, since everything is built on it. I am very well aware, for\ninstance, that you are pleased to consider my habits, my dress, my\nrefinements, in fact, ridiculous; but all that proceeds from a sense of\nself-respect, from a sense of duty--yes, indeed, of duty. I live in the\ncountry, in the wilds, but I will not lower myself. I respect the\ndignity of man in myself.'\n\n'Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovitch,' commented Bazarov; 'you respect\nyourself, and sit with your hands folded; what sort of benefit does\nthat do to the _bien public_? If you didn't respect yourself, you'd do\njust the same.'\n\nPavel Petrovitch turned white. 'That's a different question. It's\nabsolutely unnecessary for me to explain to you now why I sit with\nfolded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to\ntell you that aristocracy is a principle, and in our days none but\nimmoral or silly people can live without principles. I said that to\nArkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it now. Isn't it so,\nNikolai?'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch nodded his head.\n\n'Aristocracy, Liberalism, progress, principles,' Bazarov was saying\nmeanwhile; 'if you think of it, what a lot of foreign ... and useless\nwords! To a Russian they're good for nothing.'\n\n'What is good for something according to you? If we listen to you, we\nshall find ourselves outside humanity, outside its laws. Come--the\nlogic of history demands ...'\n\n'But what's that logic to us? We can get on without that too.'\n\n'How do you mean?'\n\n'Why, this. You don't need logic, I hope, to put a bit of bread in your\nmouth when you're hungry. What's the object of these abstractions to\nus?'\n\nPavel Petrovitch raised his hands in horror.\n\n'I don't understand you, after that. You insult the Russian people. I\ndon't understand how it's possible not to acknowledge principles,\nrules! By virtue of what do you act then?'\n\n'I've told you already, uncle, that we don't accept any authorities,'\nput in Arkady.\n\n'We act by virtue of what we recognise as beneficial,' observed\nBazarov. 'At the present time, negation is the most beneficial of\nall--and we deny----'\n\n'Everything?'\n\n'Everything!'\n\n'What? not only art and poetry ... but even ... horrible to say ...'\n\n'Everything,' repeated Bazarov, with indescribable composure.\n\nPavel Petrovitch stared at him. He had not expected this; while Arkady\nfairly blushed with delight.\n\n'Allow me, though,' began Nikolai Petrovitch. 'You deny everything; or,\nspeaking more precisely, you destroy everything.... But one must\nconstruct too, you know.'\n\n'That's not our business now.... The ground wants clearing first.'\n\n'The present condition of the people requires it,' added Arkady, with\ndignity; 'we are bound to carry out these requirements, we have no\nright to yield to the satisfaction of our personal egoism.'\n\nThis last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov; there was a flavour of\nphilosophy, that is to say, romanticism about it, for Bazarov called\nphilosophy, too, romanticism, but he did not think it necessary to\ncorrect his young disciple.\n\n'No, no!' cried Pavel Petrovitch, with sudden energy. 'I'm not willing\nto believe that you, young men, know the Russian people really, that\nyou are the representatives of their requirements, their efforts! No;\nthe Russian people is not what you imagine it. Tradition it holds\nsacred; it is a patriarchal people; it cannot live without faith ...'\n\n'I'm not going to dispute that,' Bazarov interrupted. 'I'm even ready\nto agree that in that you're right.'\n\n'But if I am right ...'\n\n'And, all the same, that proves nothing.'\n\n'It just proves nothing,' repeated Arkady, with the confidence of a\npractised chess-player, who has foreseen an apparently dangerous move\non the part of his adversary, and so is not at all taken aback by it.\n\n'How does it prove nothing?' muttered Pavel Petrovitch, astounded. 'You\nmust be going against the people then?'\n\n'And what if we are?' shouted Bazarov. 'The people imagine that, when\nit thunders, the prophet Ilya's riding across the sky in his chariot.\nWhat then? Are we to agree with them? Besides, the people's Russian;\nbut am I not Russian too?'\n\n'No, you are not Russian, after all you have just been saying! I can't\nacknowledge you as Russian.'\n\n'My grandfather ploughed the land,' answered Bazarov with haughty\npride. 'Ask any one of your peasants which of us--you or me--he'd more\nreadily acknowledge as a fellow-countryman. You don't even know how to\ntalk to them.'\n\n'While you talk to him and despise him at the same time.'\n\n'Well, suppose he deserves contempt. You find fault with my attitude,\nbut how do you know that I have got it by chance, that it's not a\nproduct of that very national spirit, in the name of which you wage war\non it?'\n\n'What an idea! Much use in nihilists!'\n\n'Whether they're of use or not, is not for us to decide. Why, even you\nsuppose you're not a useless person.'\n\n'Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please!' cried Nikolai\nPetrovitch, getting up.\n\nPavel Petrovitch smiled, and laying his hand on his brother's shoulder,\nforced him to sit down again.\n\n'Don't be uneasy,' he said; 'I shall not forget myself, just through\nthat sense of dignity which is made fun of so mercilessly by our\nfriend--our friend, the doctor. Let me ask,' he resumed, turning again\nto Bazarov; 'you suppose, possibly, that your doctrine is a novelty?\nThat is quite a mistake. The materialism you advocate has been more\nthan once in vogue already, and has always proved insufficient ...'\n\n'A foreign word again!' broke in Bazarov. He was beginning to feel\nvicious, and his face assumed a peculiar coarse coppery hue. 'In the\nfirst place, we advocate nothing; that's not our way.'\n\n'What do you do, then?'\n\n'I'll tell you what we do. Not long ago we used to say that our\nofficials took bribes, that we had no roads, no commerce, no real\njustice ...'\n\n'Oh, I see, you are reformers--that's what that's called, I fancy. I\ntoo should agree to many of your reforms, but ...'\n\n'Then we suspected that talk, perpetual talk, and nothing but talk,\nabout our social diseases, was not worth while, that it all led to\nnothing but superficiality and pedantry; we saw that our leading men,\nso-called advanced people and reformers, are no good; that we busy\nourselves over foolery, talk rubbish about art, unconscious\ncreativeness, parliamentarism, trial by jury, and the deuce knows what\nall; while, all the while, it's a question of getting bread to eat,\nwhile we're stifling under the grossest superstition, while all our\nenterprises come to grief, simply because there aren't honest men\nenough to carry them on, while the very emancipation our Government's\nbusy upon will hardly come to any good, because peasants are glad to\nrob even themselves to get drunk at the gin-shop.'\n\n'Yes,' interposed Pavel Petrovitch, 'yes; you were convinced of all\nthis, and decided not to undertake anything seriously, yourselves.'\n\n'We decided not to undertake anything,' repeated Bazarov grimly. He\nsuddenly felt vexed with himself for having, without reason, been so\nexpansive before this gentleman.\n\n'But to confine yourselves to abuse?'\n\n'To confine ourselves to abuse.'\n\n'And that is called nihilism?'\n\n'And that's called nihilism,' Bazarov repeated again, this time with\npeculiar rudeness.\n\nPavel Petrovitch puckered up his face a little. 'So that's it!' he\nobserved in a strangely composed voice. 'Nihilism is to cure all our\nwoes, and you, you are our heroes and saviours. But why do you abuse\nothers, those reformers even? Don't you do as much talking as every one\nelse?'\n\n'Whatever faults we have, we do not err in that way,' Bazarov muttered\nbetween his teeth.\n\n'What, then? Do you act, or what? Are you preparing for action?'\n\nBazarov made no answer. Something like a tremor passed over Pavel\nPetrovitch, but he at once regained control of himself.\n\n'Hm! ... Action, destruction ...' he went on. 'But how destroy without\neven knowing why?'\n\n'We shall destroy, because we are a force,' observed Arkady.\n\nPavel Petrovitch looked at his nephew and laughed.\n\n'Yes, a force is not to be called to account,' said Arkady, drawing\nhimself up.\n\n'Unhappy boy!' wailed Pavel Petrovitch, he was positively incapable of\nmaintaining his firm demeanour any longer. 'If you could only realise\nwhat it is you are doing for your country. No; it's enough to try the\npatience of an angel! Force! There's force in the savage Kalmuck, in\nthe Mongolian; but what is it to us? What is precious to us is\ncivilisation; yes, yes, sir, its fruits are precious to us. And don't\ntell me those fruits are worthless; the poorest dauber, _un\nbarbouilleur_, the man who plays dance music for five farthings an\nevening, is of more use than you, because they are the representatives\nof civilisation, and not of brute Mongolian force! You fancy yourselves\nadvanced people, and all the while you are only fit for the Kalmuck's\nhovel! Force! And recollect, you forcible gentlemen, that you're only\nfour men and a half, and the others are millions, who won't let you\ntrample their sacred traditions under foot, who will crush you and walk\nover you!'\n\n'If we're crushed, serve us right,' observed Bazarov. 'But that's an\nopen question. We are not so few as you suppose.'\n\n'What? You seriously suppose you will come to terms with a whole\npeople?'\n\n'All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a farthing dip,' answered\nBazarov.\n\n'Yes, yes. First a pride almost Satanic, then ridicule--that, that's\nwhat it is attracts the young, that's what gains an ascendancy over the\ninexperienced hearts of boys! Here's one of them sitting beside you,\nready to worship the ground under your feet. Look at him! (Arkady\nturned away and frowned.) And this plague has spread far already. I\nhave been told that in Rome our artists never set foot in the Vatican.\nRaphael they regard as almost a fool, because, if you please, he's an\nauthority; while they're all the while most disgustingly sterile and\nunsuccessful, men whose imagination does not soar beyond 'Girls at a\nFountain,' however they try! And the girls even out of drawing. They\nare fine fellows to your mind, are they not?'\n\n'To my mind,' retorted Bazarov, 'Raphael's not worth a brass farthing;\nand they're no better than he.'\n\n'Bravo! bravo! Listen, Arkady ... that's how young men of to-day ought\nto express themselves! And if you come to think of it, how could they\nfail to follow you! In old days, young men had to study; they didn't\nwant to be called dunces, so they had to work hard whether they liked\nit or not. But now, they need only say, \"Everything in the world is\nfoolery!\" and the trick's done. Young men are delighted. And, to be\nsure, they were simply geese before, and now they have suddenly turned\nnihilists.'\n\n'Your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity has given way,' remarked\nBazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady was hot all over, and his eyes\nwere flashing. 'Our argument has gone too far; it's better to cut it\nshort, I think. I shall be quite ready to agree with you,' he added,\ngetting up, 'when you bring forward a single institution in our present\nmode of life, in family or in social life, which does not call for\ncomplete and unqualified destruction.'\n\n'I will bring forward millions of such institutions,' cried Pavel\nPetrovitch--'millions! Well--the Mir, for instance.'\n\nA cold smile curved Bazarov's lips. 'Well, as regards the Mir,' he\ncommented; 'you had better talk to your brother. He has seen by now, I\nshould fancy, what sort of thing the Mir is in fact--its common\nguarantee, its sobriety, and other features of the kind.'\n\n'The family, then, the family as it exists among our peasants!' cried\nPavel Petrovitch.\n\n'And that subject, too, I imagine, it will be better for yourselves not\nto go into in detail. Don't you realise all the advantages of the head\nof the family choosing his daughters-in-law? Take my advice, Pavel\nPetrovitch, allow yourself two days to think about it; you're not\nlikely to find anything on the spot. Go through all our classes, and\nthink well over each, while I and Arkady will ...'\n\n'Will go on turning everything into ridicule,' broke in Pavel\nPetrovitch.\n\n'No, will go on dissecting frogs. Come, Arkady; good-bye for the\npresent, gentlemen!'\n\nThe two friends walked off. The brothers were left alone, and at first\nthey only looked at one another.\n\n'So that,' began Pavel Petrovitch, 'so that's what our young men of\nthis generation are! They are like that--our successors!'\n\n'Our successors!' repeated Nikolai Petrovitch, with a dejected smile.\nHe had been sitting on thorns, all through the argument, and had done\nnothing but glance stealthily, with a sore heart, at Arkady. 'Do you\nknow what I was reminded of, brother? I once had a dispute with our\npoor mother; she stormed, and wouldn't listen to me. At last I said to\nher, \"Of course, you can't understand me; we belong,\" I said, \"to two\ndifferent generations.\" She was dreadfully offended, while I thought,\n\"There's no help for it. It's a bitter pill, but she has to swallow\nit.\" You see, now, our turn has come, and our successors can say to us,\n\"You are not of our generation; swallow your pill.\"'\n\n'You are beyond everything in your generosity and modesty,' replied\nPavel Petrovitch. 'I'm convinced, on the contrary, that you and I are\nfar more in the right than these young gentlemen, though we do perhaps\nexpress ourselves in old-fashioned language, _vieilli_, and have not\nthe same insolent conceit.... And the swagger of the young men\nnowadays! You ask one, \"Do you take red wine or white?\" \"It is my\ncustom to prefer red!\" he answers in a deep bass, with a face as solemn\nas if the whole universe had its eyes on him at that instant....'\n\n'Do you care for any more tea?' asked Fenitchka, putting her head in at\nthe door; she had not been able to make up her mind to come into the\ndrawing-room while there was the sound of voices in dispute there.\n\n'No, you can tell them to take the samovar,' answered Nikolai\nPetrovitch, and he got up to meet her. Pavel Petrovitch said '_bon\nsoir_' to him abruptly, and went away to his study.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nHalf an hour later Nikolai Petrovitch went into the garden to his\nfavourite arbour. He was overtaken by melancholy thoughts. For the\nfirst time he realised clearly the distance between him and his son; he\nforesaw that every day it would grow wider and wider. In vain, then,\nhad he spent whole days sometimes in the winter at Petersburg over the\nnewest books; in vain had he listened to the talk of the young men; in\nvain had he rejoiced when he succeeded in putting in his word too in\ntheir heated discussions. 'My brother says we are right,' he thought,\n'and apart from all vanity, I do think myself that they are further\nfrom the truth than we are, though at the same time I feel there is\nsomething behind them we have not got, some superiority over us.... Is\nit youth? No; not only youth. Doesn't their superiority consist in\nthere being fewer traces of the slaveowner in them than in us?'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch's head sank despondently, and he passed his hand\nover his face.\n\n'But to renounce poetry?' he thought again; 'to have no feeling for\nart, for nature ...'\n\nAnd he looked round, as though trying to understand how it was possible\nto have no feeling for nature. It was already evening; the sun was\nhidden behind a small copse of aspens which lay a quarter of a mile\nfrom the garden; its shadow stretched indefinitely across the still\nfields. A peasant on a white nag went at a trot along the dark, narrow\npath close beside the copse; his whole figure was clearly visible even\nto the patch on his shoulder, in spite of his being in the shade; the\nhorse's hoofs flew along bravely. The sun's rays from the farther side\nfell full on the copse, and piercing through its thickets, threw such a\nwarm light on the aspen trunks that they looked like pines, and their\nleaves were almost a dark blue, while above them rose a pale blue sky,\nfaintly tinged by the glow of sunset. The swallows flew high; the wind\nhad quite died away, belated bees hummed slowly and drowsily among the\nlilac blossom; a swarm of midges hung like a cloud over a solitary\nbranch which stood out against the sky. 'How beautiful, my God!'\nthought Nikolai Petrovitch, and his favourite verses were almost on his\nlips; he remembered Arkady's _Stoff und Kraft_--and was silent, but\nstill he sat there, still he gave himself up to the sorrowful\nconsolation of solitary thought. He was fond of dreaming; his country\nlife had developed the tendency in him. How short a time ago, he had\nbeen dreaming like this, waiting for his son at the posting station,\nand what a change already since that day; their relations that were\nthen undefined, were defined now--and how defined! Again his dead wife\ncame back to his imagination, but not as he had known her for many\nyears, not as the good domestic housewife, but as a young girl with a\nslim figure, innocently inquiring eyes, and a tight twist of hair on\nher childish neck. He remembered how he had seen her for the first\ntime. He was still a student then. He had met her on the staircase of\nhis lodgings, and, jostling by accident against her, he tried to\napologise, and could only mutter, '_Pardon, monsieur_,' while she\nbowed, smiled, and suddenly seemed frightened, and ran away, though at\nthe bend of the staircase she had glanced rapidly at him, assumed a\nserious air, and blushed. Afterwards, the first timid visits, the\nhalf-words, the half-smiles, and embarrassment; and melancholy, and\nyearnings, and at last that breathing rapture.... Where had it all\nvanished? She had been his wife, he had been happy as few on earth are\nhappy.... 'But,' he mused, 'these sweet first moments, why could one\nnot live an eternal, undying life in them?'\n\nHe did not try to make his thought clear to himself; but he felt that\nhe longed to keep that blissful time by something stronger than memory;\nhe longed to feel his Marya near him again to have the sense of her\nwarmth and breathing, and already he could fancy that over him....\n\n'Nikolai Petrovitch,' came the sound of Fenitchka's voice close by him;\n'where are you?'\n\nHe started. He felt no pang, no shame. He never even admitted the\npossibility of comparison between his wife and Fenitchka, but he was\nsorry she had thought of coming to look for him. Her voice had brought\nback to him at once his grey hairs, his age, his reality....\n\nThe enchanted world into which he was just stepping, which was just\nrising out of the dim mists of the past, was shaken--and vanished.\n\n'I'm here,' he answered; 'I'm coming, run along.' 'There it is, the\ntraces of the slave owner,' flashed through his mind. Fenitchka peeped\ninto the arbour at him without speaking, and disappeared; while he\nnoticed with astonishment that the night had come on while he had been\ndreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed. Fenitchka's face had\nglimmered so pale and slight before him. He got up, and was about to go\nhome; but the emotion stirred in his heart could not be soothed at\nonce, and he began slowly walking about the garden, sometimes looking\nat the ground at his feet, and then raising his eyes towards the sky\nwhere swarms of stars were twinkling. He walked a great deal, till he\nwas almost tired out, while the restlessness within him, a kind of\nyearning, vague, melancholy restlessness, still was not appeased. Oh,\nhow Bazarov would have laughed at him, if he had known what was passing\nwithin him then! Arkady himself would have condemned him. He, a man\nforty-four years old, an agriculturist and a farmer, was shedding\ntears, causeless tears; this was a hundred times worse than the\nvioloncello.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch continued walking, and could not make up his mind to\ngo into the house, into the snug peaceful nest, which looked out at him\nso hospitably from all its lighted windows; he had not the force to\ntear himself away from the darkness, the garden, the sense of the fresh\nair in his face, from that melancholy, that restless craving.\n\nAt a turn in the path, he was met by Pavel Petrovitch. 'What's the\nmatter with you?' he asked Nikolai Petrovitch; 'you are as white as a\nghost; you are not well; why don't you go to bed?'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch explained to him briefly his state of feeling and\nmoved away. Pavel Petrovitch went to the end of the garden, and he too\ngrew thoughtful, and he too raised his eyes toward the heavens. But in\nhis beautiful dark eyes, nothing was reflected but the light of the\nstars. He was not born an idealist, and his fastidiously dry and\nsensuous soul, with its French tinge of cynicism was not capable of\ndreaming....\n\n'Do you know what?' Bazarov was saying to Arkady the same night. 'I've\ngot a splendid idea. Your father was saying to-day that he'd had an\ninvitation from your illustrious relative. Your father's not going; let\nus be off to X----; you know the worthy man invites you too. You see\nwhat fine weather it is; we'll stroll about and look at the town. We'll\nhave five or six days' outing, and enjoy ourselves.'\n\n'And you'll come back here again?'\n\n'No; I must go to my father's. You know, he lives about twenty-five\nmiles from X----. I've not seen him for a long while, and my mother\ntoo; I must cheer the old people up. They've been good to me,\nespecially my father; he's awfully funny. I'm their only one too.'\n\n'And will you be long with them?'\n\n'I don't suppose so. It will be dull, of course.'\n\n'And you'll come to us on your way back?'\n\n'I don't know ... I'll see. Well, what do you say? Shall we go?'\n\n'If you like,' observed Arkady languidly.\n\nIn his heart he was highly delighted with his friend's suggestion, but\nhe thought it a duty to conceal his feeling. He was not a nihilist for\nnothing!\n\nThe next day he set off with Bazarov to X----. The younger part of the\nhousehold at Maryino were sorry at their going; Dunyasha even cried ...\nbut the old folks breathed more easily.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nThe town of X---- to which our friends set off was in the jurisdiction\nof a governor who was a young man, and at once a progressive and a\ndespot, as often happens with Russians. Before the end of the first\nyear of his government, he had managed to quarrel not only with the\nmarshal of nobility, a retired officer of the guards, who kept open\nhouse and a stud of horses, but even with his own subordinates. The\nfeuds arising from this cause assumed at last such proportions that the\nministry in Petersburg had found it necessary to send down a trusted\npersonage with a commission to investigate it all on the spot. The\nchoice of the authorities fell upon Matvy Ilyitch Kolyazin, the son of\nthe Kolyazin, under whose protection the brothers Kirsanov had once\nfound themselves. He, too, was a 'young man'; that is to say, he had\nnot long passed forty, but he was already on the high road to becoming\na statesman, and wore a star on each side of his breast--one, to be\nsure, a foreign star, not of the first magnitude. Like the governor,\nwhom he had come down to pass judgment upon, he was reckoned a\nprogressive; and though he was already a bigwig, he was not like the\nmajority of bigwigs. He had the highest opinion of himself; his vanity\nknew no bounds, but he behaved simply, looked affable, listened\ncondescendingly, and laughed so good-naturedly, that on a first\nacquaintance he might even be taken for 'a jolly good fellow.' On\nimportant occasions, however, he knew, as the saying is, how to make\nhis authority felt. 'Energy is essential,' he used to say then,\n'_l'\u00e9nergie est la premi\u00e8re qualit\u00e9 d'un homme d'\u00e9tat_;' and for all\nthat, he was usually taken in, and any moderately experienced official\ncould turn him round his finger. Matvy Ilyitch used to speak with great\nrespect of Guizot, and tried to impress every one with the idea that he\ndid not belong to the class of _routiniers_ and high-and-dry\nbureaucrats, that not a single phenomenon of social life passed\nunnoticed by him.... All such phrases were very familiar to him. He\neven followed, with dignified indifference, it is true, the development\nof contemporary literature; so a grown-up man who meets a procession of\nsmall boys in the street will sometimes walk after it. In reality,\nMatvy Ilyitch had not got much beyond those political men of the days\nof Alexander, who used to prepare for an evening party at Madame\nSvyetchin's by reading a page of Condillac; only his methods were\ndifferent, more modern. He was an adroit courtier, a great hypocrite,\nand nothing more; he had no special aptitude for affairs, and no\nintellect, but he knew how to manage his own business successfully; no\none could get the better of him there, and, to be sure, that's the\nprincipal thing.\n\nMatvy Ilyitch received Arkady with the good-nature, we might even call\nit playfulness, characteristic of the enlightened higher official. He\nwas astonished, however, when he heard that the cousins he had invited\nhad remained at home in the country. 'Your father was always a queer\nfellow,' he remarked, playing with the tassels of his magnificent\nvelvet dressing-gown, and suddenly turning to a young official in a\ndiscreetly buttoned-up uniform, he cried, with an air of concentrated\nattention, 'What?' The young man, whose lips were glued together from\nprolonged silence, got up and looked in perplexity at his chief. But,\nhaving nonplussed his subordinate, Matvy Ilyitch paid him no further\nattention. Our higher officials are fond as a rule of nonplussing their\nsubordinates; the methods to which they have recourse to attain that\nend are rather various. The following means, among others, is in great\nvogue, '_is quite a favourite_,' as the English say; a high official\nsuddenly ceases to understand the simplest words, assuming total\ndeafness. He will ask, for instance, What's to-day?'\n\nHe is respectfully informed, 'To-day's Friday, your Ex-s-s-s-lency.'\n\n'Eh? What? What's that? What do you say?' the great man repeats with\nintense attention.\n\n'To-day's Friday, your Ex--s--s--lency.'\n\n'Eh? What? What's Friday? What Friday?'\n\n'Friday, your Ex--s--s--s--lency, the day of the week.'\n\n'What, do you pretend to teach me, eh?'\n\nMatvy Ilyitch was a higher official all the same, though he was\nreckoned a liberal.\n\n'I advise you, my dear boy, to go and call on the Governor,' he said to\nArkady; 'you understand, I don't advise you to do so because I adhere\nto old-fashioned ideas of the necessity of paying respect to\nauthorities, but simply because the Governor's a very decent fellow;\nbesides, you probably want to make acquaintance with the society\nhere.... You're not a bear, I hope? And he's giving a great ball the\nday after to-morrow.'\n\n'Will you be at the ball?' inquired Arkady.\n\n'He gives it in my honour,' answered Matvy Ilyitch, almost pityingly.\n'Do you dance?'\n\n'Yes; I dance, but not well.'\n\n'That's a pity! There are pretty girls here, and it's a disgrace for a\nyoung man not to dance. Again, I don't say that through any\nold-fashioned ideas; I don't in the least imagine that a man's wit lies\nin his feet, but Byronism is ridiculous, _il a fait son temps_.'\n\n'But, uncle, it's not through Byronism, I ...'\n\n'I will introduce you to the ladies here; I will take you under my\nwing,' interrupted Matvy Ilyitch, and he laughed complacently. 'You'll\nfind it warm, eh?'\n\nA servant entered and announced the arrival of the superintendent of\nthe Crown domains, a mild-eyed old man, with deep creases round his\nmouth, who was excessively fond of nature, especially on a summer day,\nwhen, in his words, 'every little busy bee takes a little bribe from\nevery little flower.' Arkady withdrew.\n\nHe found Bazarov at the tavern where they were staying, and was a long\nwhile persuading him to go with him to the Governor's. 'Well, there's\nno help for it,' said Bazarov at last. 'It's no good doing things by\nhalves. We came to look at the gentry; let's look at them!'\n\nThe Governor received the young men affably, but he did not ask them to\nsit down, nor did he sit down himself. He was in an everlasting fuss\nand hurry; in the morning he used to put on a tight uniform and an\nexcessively stiff cravat; he never ate or drank enough; he was for ever\nmaking arrangements. He invited Kirsanov and Bazarov to his ball, and\nwithin a few minutes invited them a second time, regarding them as\nbrothers, and calling them Kisarov.\n\nThey were on their way home from the Governor's, when suddenly a short\nman, in a Slavophil national dress, leaped out of a trap that was\npassing them, and crying, 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' dashed up to Bazarov.\n\n'Ah! it's you, Herr Sitnikov,' observed Bazarov, still stepping along\non the pavement; 'by what chance did you come here?'\n\n'Fancy, absolutely by chance,' he replied, and returning to the trap,\nhe waved his hand several times, and shouted, 'Follow, follow us! My\nfather had business here,' he went on, hopping across the gutter, 'and\nso he asked me.... I heard to-day of your arrival, and have already\nbeen to see you....' (The friends did, in fact, on returning to their\nroom, find there a card, with the corners turned down, bearing the name\nof Sitnikov, on one side in French, on the other in Slavonic\ncharacters.) 'I hope you are not coming from the Governor's?'\n\n'It's no use to hope; we come straight from him.'\n\n'Ah! in that case I will call on him too.... Yevgeny Vassilyitch,\nintroduce me to your ... to the ...'\n\n'Sitnikov, Kirsanov,' mumbled Bazarov, not stopping.\n\n'I am greatly flattered,' began Sitnikov, walking sidewise, smirking,\nand hurriedly pulling off his really over-elegant gloves. 'I have heard\nso much.... I am an old acquaintance of Yevgeny Vassilyitch, and, I may\nsay--his disciple. I am indebted to him for my regeneration....'\n\nArkady looked at Bazarov's disciple. There was an expression of\nexcitement and dulness imprinted on the small but pleasant features of\nhis well-groomed face; his small eyes, that seemed squeezed in, had a\nfixed and uneasy look, and his laugh, too, was uneasy--a sort of short,\nwooden laugh.\n\n'Would you believe it,' he pursued, 'when Yevgeny Vassilyitch for the\nfirst time said before me that it was not right to accept any\nauthorities, I felt such enthusiasm ... as though my eyes were opened!\nHere, I thought, at last I have found a man! By the way, Yevgeny\nVassilyitch, you positively must come to know a lady here, who is\nreally capable of understanding you, and for whom your visit would be a\nreal festival; you have heard of her, I suppose?'\n\n'Who is it?' Bazarov brought out unwillingly.\n\n'Kukshina, _Eudoxie_, Evdoksya Kukshin. She's a remarkable nature,\n_\u00e9mancip\u00e9e_ in the true sense of the word, an advanced woman. Do you\nknow what? We'll all go together to see her now. She lives only two\nsteps from here. We will have lunch there. I suppose you have not\nlunched yet?'\n\n'No; not yet.'\n\n'Well, that's capital. She has separated, you understand, from her\nhusband; she is not dependent on any one.'\n\n'Is she pretty?' Bazarov cut in.\n\n'N-no, one couldn't say that.'\n\n'Then, what the devil are you asking us to see her for?'\n\n'Fie; you must have your joke.... She will give us a bottle of\nchampagne.'\n\n'Oh, that's it. One can see the practical man at once. By the way, is\nyour father still in the gin business?'\n\n'Yes,' said Sitnikov, hurriedly, and he gave a shrill spasmodic laugh.\n'Well? Will you come?'\n\n'I don't really know.'\n\n'You wanted to see people, go along,' said Arkady in an undertone.\n\n'And what do you say to it, Mr. Kirsanov?' Sitnikov put in. 'You must\ncome too; we can't go without you.'\n\n'But how can we burst in upon her all at once?'\n\n'That's no matter. Kukshina's a brick!'\n\n'There will be a bottle of champagne?' asked Bazarov.\n\n'Three!' cried Sitnikov; 'that I answer for.'\n\n'What with?'\n\n'My own head.'\n\n'Your father's purse would be better. However, we are coming.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThe small gentleman's house in the Moscow style, in which Avdotya\nNikitishna, otherwise Evdoksya, Kukshin, lived, was in one of the\nstreets of X----, which had been lately burnt down; it is well known\nthat our provincial towns are burnt down every five years. At the door,\nabove a visiting card nailed on all askew, there was a bell-handle to\nbe seen, and in the hall the visitors were met by some one, not exactly\na servant, nor exactly a companion, in a cap--unmistakable tokens of\nthe progressive tendencies of the lady of the house. Sitnikov inquired\nwhether Avdotya Nikitishna was at home.\n\n'Is that you, _Victor_?' sounded a shrill voice from the adjoining\nroom. 'Come in.'\n\nThe woman in the cap disappeared at once.\n\n'I'm not alone,' observed Sitnikov, with a sharp look at Arkady and\nBazarov as he briskly pulled off his overcoat, beneath which appeared\nsomething of the nature of a coachman's velvet jacket.\n\n'No matter,' answered the voice. '_Entrez_.'\n\nThe young men went in. The room into which they walked was more like a\nworking study than a drawing-room. Papers, letters, fat numbers of\nRussian journals, for the most part uncut, lay at random on the dusty\ntables; white cigarette ends lay scattered in every direction. On a\nleather-covered sofa, a lady, still young, was half reclining. Her fair\nhair was rather dishevelled; she wore a silk gown, not perfectly tidy,\nheavy bracelets on her short arms, and a lace handkerchief on her head.\nShe got up from the sofa, and carelessly drawing a velvet cape trimmed\nwith yellowish ermine over her shoulders, she said languidly,\n'Good-morning, _Victor_,' and pressed Sitnikov's hand.\n\n'Bazarov, Kirsanov,' he announced abruptly in imitation of Bazarov.\n\n'Delighted,' answered Madame Kukshin, and fixing on Bazarov a pair of\nround eyes, between which was a forlorn little turned-up red nose, 'I\nknow you,' she added, and pressed his hand too.\n\nBazarov scowled. There was nothing repulsive in the little plain person\nof the emancipated woman; but the expression of her face produced a\ndisagreeable effect on the spectator. One felt impelled to ask her,\n'What's the matter; are you hungry? Or bored? Or shy? What are you in a\nfidget about?' Both she and Sitnikov had always the same uneasy air.\nShe was extremely unconstrained, and at the same time awkward; she\nobviously regarded herself as a good-natured, simple creature, and all\nthe while, whatever she did, it always struck one that it was not just\nwhat she wanted to do; everything with her seemed, as children say,\ndone on purpose, that's to say, not simply, not naturally.\n\n'Yes, yes, I know you, Bazarov,' she repeated. (She had the\nhabit--peculiar to many provincial and Moscow ladies--of calling men by\ntheir surnames from the first day of acquaintance with them.) 'Will you\nhave a cigar?'\n\n'A cigar's all very well,' put in Sitnikov, who by now was lolling in\nan armchair, his legs in the air; 'but give us some lunch. We're\nawfully hungry; and tell them to bring us up a little bottle of\nchampagne.'\n\n'Sybarite,' commented Evdoksya, and she laughed. (When she laughed the\ngum showed above her upper teeth.) 'Isn't it true, Bazarov; he's a\nSybarite?'\n\n'I like comfort in life,' Sitnikov brought out, with dignity. 'That\ndoes not prevent my being a Liberal.'\n\n'No, it does; it does prevent it!' cried Evdoksya. She gave directions,\nhowever, to her maid, both as regards the lunch and the champagne.\n\n'What do you think about it?' she added, turning to Bazarov. 'I'm\npersuaded you share my opinion.'\n\n'Well, no,' retorted Bazarov; 'a piece of meat's better than a piece of\nbread even from the chemical point of view.'\n\n'You are studying chemistry? That is my passion. I've even invented a\nnew sort of composition myself.'\n\n'A composition? You?'\n\n'Yes. And do you know for what purpose? To make dolls' heads so that\nthey shouldn't break. I'm practical, too, yon see. But everything's not\nquite ready yet. I've still to read Liebig. By the way, have you read\nKislyakov's article on Female Labour, in the _Moscow Gazette_? Read it\nplease. You're interested in the woman question, I suppose? And in the\nschools too? What does your friend do? What is his name?'\n\nMadame Kukshin shed her questions one after another with affected\nnegligence, not waiting for an answer; spoilt children talk so to their\nnurses.\n\n'My name's Arkady Nikolaitch Kirsanov,' said Arkady, 'and I'm doing\nnothing.'\n\nEvdoksya giggled. 'How charming! What, don't you smoke? Victor, do you\nknow, I'm very angry with you.'\n\n'What for?'\n\n'They tell me you've begun singing the praises of George Sand again. A\nretrograde woman, and nothing else! How can people compare her with\nEmerson! She hasn't an idea on education, nor physiology, nor anything.\nShe'd never, I'm persuaded, heard of embryology, and in these\ndays--what can be done without that?' (Evdoksya even threw up her\nhands.) 'Ah, what a wonderful article Elisyevitch has written on that\nsubject! He's a gentleman of genius.' (Evdoksya constantly made use of\nthe word 'gentleman' instead of the word 'man.') 'Bazarov, sit by me on\nthe sofa. You don't know, perhaps, I'm awfully afraid of you.'\n\n'Why so? Allow me to ask.'\n\n'You're a dangerous gentleman; you're such a critic. Good God! yes!\nwhy, how absurd, I'm talking like some country lady. I really am a\ncountry lady, though. I manage my property myself; and only fancy, my\nbailiff Erofay's a wonderful type, quite like Cooper's Pathfinder;\nsomething in him so spontaneous! I've come to settle here finally; it's\nan intolerable town, isn't it? But what's one to do?'\n\n'The town's like every town,' Bazarov remarked coolly.\n\n'All its interests are so petty, that's what's so awful! I used to\nspend the winters in Moscow ... but now my lawful spouse, Monsieur\nKukshin's residing there. And besides, Moscow nowadays ... there, I\ndon't know--it's not the same as it was. I'm thinking of going abroad;\nlast year I was on the point of setting off.'\n\n'To Paris, I suppose?' queried Bazarov.\n\n'To Paris and to Heidelberg.'\n\n'Why to Heidelberg?'\n\n'How can you ask? Why, Bunsen's there!'\n\nTo this Bazarov could find no reply.\n\n'_Pierre_ Sapozhnikov ... do you know him?'\n\n'No, I don't.'\n\n'Not know _Pierre_ Sapozhnikov ... he's always at Lidia Hestatov's.'\n\n'I don't know her either.'\n\n'Well, it was he undertook to escort me. Thank God, I'm independent;\nI've no children.... What was that I said: _thank God!_ It's no matter\nthough.'\n\nEvdoksya rolled a cigarette up between her fingers, which were brown\nwith tobacco stains, put it to her tongue, licked it up, and began\nsmoking. The maid came in with a tray.\n\n'Ah, here's lunch! Will you have an appetiser first? Victor, open the\nbottle; that's in your line.'\n\n'Yes, it's in my line,' muttered Sitnikov, and again he gave vent to\nthe same convulsive laugh.\n\n'Are there any pretty women here?' inquired Bazarov, as he drank off a\nthird glass.\n\n'Yes, there are,' answered Evdoksya; 'but they're all such empty-headed\ncreatures. _Mon amie_, Odintsova, for instance, is nice-looking. It's a\npity her reputation's rather doubtful.... That wouldn't matter, though,\nbut she's no independence in her views, no width, nothing ... of all\nthat. The whole system of education wants changing. I've thought a\ngreat deal about it, our women are very badly educated.'\n\n'There's no doing anything with them,' put in Sitnikov; 'one ought to\ndespise them, and I do despise them fully and completely!' (The\npossibility of feeling and expressing contempt was the most agreeable\nsensation to Sitnikov; he used to attack women in especial, never\nsuspecting that it was to be his fate a few months later to be cringing\nbefore his wife merely because she had been born a princess\nDurdoleosov.) 'Not a single one of them would be capable of\nunderstanding our conversation; not a single one deserves to be spoken\nof by serious men like us!'\n\n'But there's not the least need for them to understand our\nconversation,' observed Bazarov.\n\n'Whom do you mean?' put in Evdoksya.\n\n'Pretty women.'\n\n'What? Do you adopt Proudhon's ideas, then?'\n\nBazarov drew himself up haughtily. 'I don't adopt any one's ideas; I\nhave my own.'\n\n'Damn all authorities!' shouted Sitnikov, delighted to have a chance of\nexpressing himself boldly before the man he slavishly admired.\n\n'But even Macaulay,' Madame Kukshin was beginning ...\n\n'Damn Macaulay,' thundered Sitnikov. 'Are you going to stand up for the\nsilly hussies?'\n\n'For silly hussies, no, but for the rights of women, which I have sworn\nto defend to the last drop of my blood.'\n\n'Damn!'--but here Sitnikov stopped. 'But I don't deny them,' he said.\n\n'No, I see you're a Slavophil.'\n\n'No, I'm not a Slavophil, though, of course ...'\n\n'No, no, no! You are a Slavophil. You're an advocate of patriarchal\ndespotism. You want to have the whip in your hand!'\n\n'A whip's an excellent thing,' remarked Bazarov; 'but we've got to the\nlast drop.'\n\n'Of what?' interrupted Evdoksya.\n\n'Of champagne, most honoured Avdotya Nikitishna, of champagne--not of\nyour blood.'\n\n'I can never listen calmly when women are attacked,' pursued Evdoksya.\n'It's awful, awful. Instead of attacking them, you'd better read\nMichelet's book, _De l'amour_. That's exquisite! Gentlemen, let us talk\nof love,' added Evdoksya, letting her arm fall languidly on the rumpled\nsofa cushion.\n\nA sudden silence followed. 'No, why should we talk of love,' said\nBazarov; 'but you mentioned just now a Madame Odintsov ... That was\nwhat you called her, I think? Who is that lady?'\n\n'She's charming, charming!' piped Sitnikov. 'I will introduce you.\nClever, rich, a widow. It's a pity, she's not yet advanced enough; she\nought to see more of our Evdoksya. I drink to your health, _Evdoxie!_\nLet us clink glasses! _Et toc, et toc, et tin-tin-tin! Et toc, et toc,\net tin-tin-tin!!!_'\n\n'Victor, you're a wretch.'\n\nThe lunch dragged on a long while. The first bottle of champagne was\nfollowed by another, a third, and even a fourth.... Evdoksya chattered\nwithout pause; Sitnikov seconded her. They had much discussion upon the\nquestion whether marriage was a prejudice or a crime, and whether men\nwere born equal or not, and precisely what individuality consists in.\nThings came at last to Evdoksya, flushed from the wine she had drunk,\ntapping with her flat finger-tips on the keys of a discordant piano,\nand beginning to sing in a hoarse voice, first gipsy songs, and then\nSeymour Schiff's song, 'Granada lies slumbering'; while Sitnikov tied a\nscarf round his head, and represented the dying lover at the words--\n\n  'And thy lips to mine\n   In burning kiss entwine.'\n\nArkady could not stand it at last. 'Gentlemen, it's getting something\nlike Bedlam,' he remarked aloud. Bazarov, who had at rare intervals put\nin an ironical word in the conversation--he paid more attention to the\nchampagne--gave a loud yawn, got up, and, without taking leave of their\nhostess, he walked off with Arkady. Sitnikov jumped up and followed\nthem.\n\n'Well, what do you think of her?' he inquired, skipping obsequiously\nfrom right to left of them. 'I told you, you see, a remarkable\npersonality! If we only had more women like that! She is, in her own\nway, an expression of the highest morality.'\n\n'And is that establishment of your governor's an expression of the\nhighest morality too?' observed Bazarov, pointing to a ginshop which\nthey were passing at that instant.\n\nSitnikov again went off into a shrill laugh. He was greatly ashamed of\nhis origin, and did not know whether to feel flattered or offended at\nBazarov's unexpected familiarity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nA few days later the ball at the Governor's took place. Matvy Ilyitch\nwas the real 'hero of the occasion.' The marshal of nobility declared\nto all and each that he had come simply out of respect for him; while\nthe Governor, even at the ball, even while he remained perfectly\nmotionless, was still 'making arrangements.' The affability of Matvy\nIlyitch's demeanour could only be equalled by its dignity. He was\ngracious to all, to some with a shade of disgust, to others with a\nshade of respect; he was all bows and smiles '_en vrai chevalier\nfran\u00e7ais_' before the ladies, and was continually giving vent to a\nhearty, sonorous, unshared laugh, such as befits a high official. He\nslapped Arkady on the back, and called him loudly 'nephew'; vouchsafed\nBazarov--who was attired in a rather old evening coat--a sidelong\nglance in passing--absent but condescending--and an indistinct but\naffable grunt, in which nothing could be distinguished but 'I ...' and\n'very much'; gave Sitnikov a finger and a smile, though with his head\nalready averted; even to Madame Kukshin, who made her appearance at the\nball with dirty gloves, no crinoline, and a bird of Paradise in her\nhair, he said '_enchant\u00e9_.' There were crowds of people, and no lack of\ndancing men; the civilians were for the most part standing close along\nthe walls, but the officers danced assiduously, especially one of them\nwho had spent six weeks in Paris, where he had mastered various daring\ninterjections of the kind of--'_zut_,' '_Ah, fichtr-re_,' '_pst, pst,\nmon bibi_,' and such. He pronounced them to perfection with genuine\nParisian _chic_, and at the same time he said '_si j'aurais_' for '_si\nj'avais_,' '_absolument_' in the sense of 'absolutely,' expressed\nhimself, in fact, in that Great Russo-French jargon which the French\nridicule so when they have no reason for assuring us that we speak\nFrench like angels, '_comme des anges_.'\n\nArkady, as we are aware, danced badly, while Bazarov did not dance at\nall; they both took up their position in a corner; Sitnikov joined\nhimself on to them, with an expression of contemptuous scorn on his\nface, and giving vent to spiteful comments, he looked insolently about\nhim, and seemed to be really enjoying himself. Suddenly his face\nchanged, and turning to Arkady, he said, with some show of\nembarrassment it seemed, 'Odintsova is here!'\n\nArkady looked round, and saw a tall woman in a black dress standing at\nthe door of the room. He was struck by the dignity of her carriage. Her\nbare arms lay gracefully beside her slender waist; gracefully some\nlight sprays of fuchsia drooped from her shining hair on to her sloping\nshoulders; her clear eyes looked out from under a rather overhanging\nwhite brow, with a tranquil and intelligent expression--tranquil it was\nprecisely, not pensive--and on her lips was a scarcely perceptible\nsmile. There was a kind of gracious and gentle force about her face.\n\n'Do you know her?' Arkady asked Sitnikov.\n\n'Intimately. Would you like me to introduce you?'\n\n'Please ... after this quadrille.'\n\nBazarov's attention, too, was directed to Madame Odintsov.\n\n'That's a striking figure,' he remarked. 'Not like the other females.'\n\nAfter waiting till the end of the quadrille, Sitnikov led Arkady up to\nMadame Odintsov; but he hardly seemed to be intimately acquainted with\nher; he was embarrassed in his sentences, while she looked at him in\nsome surprise. But her face assumed an expression of pleasure when she\nheard Arkady's surname. She asked him whether he was not the son of\nNikolai Petrovitch.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'I have seen your father twice, and have heard a great deal about him,'\nshe went on; 'I am glad to make your acquaintance.'\n\nAt that instant some adjutant flew up to her and begged for a\nquadrille. She consented.\n\n'Do you dance then?' asked Arkady respectfully.\n\n'Yes, I dance. Why do you suppose I don't dance? Do you think I am too\nold?'\n\n'Really, how could I possibly.... But in that case, let me ask you for\na mazurka.'\n\nMadame Odintsov smiled graciously. 'Certainly,' she said, and she\nlooked at Arkady not exactly with an air of superiority, but as married\nsisters look at very young brothers. Madame Odintsov was a little older\nthan Arkady--she was twenty-nine--but in her presence he felt himself a\nschoolboy, a little student, so that the difference in age between them\nseemed of more consequence. Matvy Ilyitch approached her with a\nmajestic air and ingratiating speeches. Arkady moved away, but he still\nwatched her; he could not take his eyes off her even during the\nquadrille. She talked with equal ease to her partner and to the grand\nofficial, softly turned her head and eyes, and twice laughed softly.\nHer nose--like almost all Russian noses--was a little thick; and her\ncomplexion was not perfectly clear; Arkady made up his mind, for all\nthat, that he had never before met such an attractive woman. He could\nnot get the sound of her voice out of his ears; the very folds of her\ndress seemed to hang upon her differently from all the rest--more\ngracefully and amply--and her movements were distinguished by a\npeculiar smoothness and naturalness.\n\nArkady felt some timidity in his heart when at the first sounds of the\nmazurka he began to sit it out beside his partner; he had prepared to\nenter into a conversation with her, but he only passed his hand through\nhis hair, and could not find a single word to say. But his timidity and\nagitation did not last long; Madame Odintsov's tranquillity gained upon\nhim too; before a quarter of an hour had passed he was telling her\nfreely about his father, his uncle, his life in Petersburg and in the\ncountry. Madame Odintsov listened to him with courteous sympathy,\nslightly opening and closing her fan; his talk was broken off when\npartners came for her; Sitnikov, among others, twice asked her. She\ncame back, sat down again, took up her fan, and her bosom did not even\nheave more rapidly, while Arkady fell to chattering again, filled\nthrough and through by the happiness of being near her, talking to her,\nlooking at her eyes, her lovely brow, all her sweet, dignified, clever\nface. She said little, but her words showed a knowledge of life; from\nsome of her observations Arkady gathered that this young woman had\nalready felt and thought much....\n\n'Who is that you were standing with?' she asked him, 'when Mr. Sitnikov\nbrought you to me?'\n\n'Did you notice him?' Arkady asked in his turn. 'He has a splendid\nface, hasn't he? That's Bazarov, my friend.'\n\nArkady fell to discussing 'his friend.' He spoke of him in such detail,\nand with such enthusiasm, that Madame Odintsov turned towards him and\nlooked attentively at him. Meanwhile, the mazurka was drawing to a\nclose. Arkady felt sorry to part from his partner; he had spent nearly\nan hour so happily with her! He had, it is true, during the whole time\ncontinually felt as though she were condescending to him, as though he\nought to be grateful to her ... but young hearts are not weighed down\nby that feeling.\n\nThe music stopped. '_Merci_,' said Madame Odintsov, getting up. 'You\npromised to come and see me; bring your friend with you. I shall be\nvery curious to see the man who has the courage to believe in nothing.'\n\nThe Governor came up to Madame Odintsov, announced that supper was\nready, and, with a careworn face, offered her his arm. As she went\naway, she turned to give a last smile and bow to Arkady. He bowed low,\nlooked after her (how graceful her figure seemed to him, draped in the\ngreyish lustre of the black silk!), and thinking, 'This minute she has\nforgotten my existence,' was conscious of an exquisite humility in his\nsoul.\n\n'Well?' Bazarov questioned him, directly he had gone back to him in the\ncorner. 'Did you have a good time? A gentleman has just been talking to\nme about that lady; he said, \"She's--oh, fie! fie!\" but I fancy the\nfellow was a fool. What do you think, what is she?--oh, fie! fie!'\n\n'I don't quite understand that definition,' answered Arkady.\n\n'Oh, my! What innocence!'\n\n'In that case, I don't understand the gentleman you quote. Madame\nOdintsov is very sweet, no doubt, but she behaves so coldly and\nseverely, that....'\n\n'Still waters ... you know!' put in Bazarov. 'That's just what gives it\npiquancy. You like ices, I expect?'\n\n'Perhaps,' muttered Arkady. 'I can't give an opinion about that. She\nwishes to make your acquaintance, and has asked me to bring you to see\nher.'\n\n'I can imagine how you've described me! But you did very well. Take me.\nWhatever she may be--whether she's simply a provincial lioness, or\n\"advanced\" after Kukshina's fashion--any way she's got a pair of\nshoulders such as I've not set eyes on for a long while.'\n\nArkady was wounded by Bazarov's cynicism, but--as often happens--he\nreproached his friend not precisely for what he did not like in him ...\n\n'Why are you unwilling to allow freethinking in women?' he said in a\nlow voice.\n\n'Because, my boy, as far as my observations go, the only freethinkers\namong women are frights.'\n\nThe conversation was cut short at this point. Both the young men went\naway immediately after supper. They were pursued by a nervously\nmalicious, but somewhat faint-hearted laugh from Madame Kukshin; her\nvanity had been deeply wounded by neither of them having paid any\nattention to her. She stayed later than any one at the ball, and at\nfour o'clock in the morning she was dancing a polka-mazurka with\nSitnikov in the Parisian style. This edifying spectacle was the final\nevent of the Governor's ball.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\n'Let's see what species of mammalia this specimen belongs to,' Bazarov\nsaid to Arkady the following day, as they mounted the staircase of the\nhotel in which Madame Odintsov was staying. 'I scent out something\nwrong here.'\n\n'I'm surprised at you!' cried Arkady. 'What? You, you, Bazarov,\nclinging to the narrow morality, which ...'\n\n'What a funny fellow you are!' Bazarov cut him short, carelessly.\n'Don't you know that \"something wrong\" means \"something right\" in my\ndialect and for me? It's an advantage for me, of course. Didn't you\ntell me yourself this morning that she made a strange marriage, though,\nto my mind, to marry a rich old man is by no means a strange thing to\ndo, but, on the contrary, very sensible. I don't believe the gossip of\nthe town; but I should like to think, as our cultivated Governor says,\nthat it's well-grounded.'\n\nArkady made no answer, and knocked at the door of the apartments. A\nyoung servant in livery, conducted the two friends in to a large room,\nbadly furnished, like all rooms in Russian hotels, but filled with\nflowers. Soon Madame Odintsov herself appeared in a simple morning\ndress. She seemed still younger by the light of the spring sunshine.\nArkady presented Bazarov, and noticed with secret amazement that he\nseemed embarrassed, while Madame Odintsov remained perfectly tranquil,\nas she had been the previous day. Bazarov himself was conscious of\nbeing embarrassed, and was irritated by it. 'Here's a go!--frightened\nof a petticoat!' he thought, and lolling, quite like Sitnikov, in an\neasy-chair, he began talking with an exaggerated appearance of ease,\nwhile Madame Odintsov kept her clear eyes fixed on him.\n\nAnna Sergyevna Odintsov was the daughter of Sergay Nikolaevitch Loktev,\nnotorious for his personal beauty, his speculations, and his gambling\npropensities, who after cutting a figure and making a sensation for\nfifteen years in Petersburg and Moscow, finished by ruining himself\ncompletely at cards, and was forced to retire to the country, where,\nhowever, he soon after died, leaving a very small property to his two\ndaughters--Anna, a girl of twenty, and Katya, a child of twelve. Their\nmother, who came of an impoverished line of princes--the H----s-- had\ndied at Petersburg when her husband was in his heydey. Anna's position\nafter her father's death was very difficult. The brilliant education\nshe had received in Petersburg had not fitted her for putting up with\nthe cares of domestic life and economy,--for an obscure existence in\nthe country. She knew positively no one in the whole neighbourhood, and\nthere was no one she could consult. Her father had tried to avoid all\ncontact with the neighbours; he despised them in his way, and they\ndespised him in theirs. She did not lose her head, however, and\npromptly sent for a sister of her mother's Princess Avdotya Stepanovna\nH----, a spiteful and arrogant old lady, who, on installing herself in\nher niece's house, appropriated all the best rooms for her own use,\nscolded and grumbled from morning till night, and would not go a walk\neven in the garden unattended by her one serf, a surly footman in a\nthreadbare pea-green livery with light blue trimming and a\nthree-cornered hat. Anna put up patiently with all her aunt's whims,\ngradually set to work on her sister's education, and was, it seemed,\nalready getting reconciled to the idea of wasting her life in the\nwilds.... But destiny had decreed another fate for her. She chanced to\nbe seen by Odintsov, a very wealthy man of forty-six, an eccentric\nhypochondriac, stout, heavy, and sour, but not stupid, and not\nill-natured; he fell in love with her, and offered her his hand. She\nconsented to become his wife, and he lived six years with her, and on\nhis death settled all his property upon her. Anna Sergyevna remained in\nthe country for nearly a year after his death; then she went abroad\nwith her sister, but only stopped in Germany; she got tired of it, and\ncame back to live at her favourite Nikolskoe, which was nearly thirty\nmiles from the town of X----. There she had a magnificent, splendidly\nfurnished house and a beautiful garden, with conservatories; her late\nhusband had spared no expense to gratify his fancies. Anna Sergyevna\nwent very rarely to the town, generally only on business, and even then\nshe did not stay long. She was not liked in the province; there had\nbeen a fearful outcry at her marriage with Odintsov, all sorts of\nfictions were told about her; it was asserted that she had helped her\nfather in his cardsharping tricks, and even that she had gone abroad\nfor excellent reasons, that it had been necessary to conceal the\nlamentable consequences ... 'You understand?' the indignant gossips\nwould wind up. 'She has gone through the fire,' was said of her; to\nwhich a noted provincial wit usually added: 'And through all the other\nelements?' All this talk reached her; but she turned a deaf ear to it;\nthere was much independence and a good deal of determination in her\ncharacter.\n\nMadame Odintsov sat leaning back in her easy-chair, and listened with\nfolded hands to Bazarov. He, contrary to his habit, was talking a good\ndeal, and obviously trying to interest her--again a surprise for\nArkady. He could not make up his mind whether Bazarov was attaining his\nobject. It was difficult to conjecture from Anna Sergyevna's face what\nimpression was being made on her; it retained the same expression,\ngracious and refined; her beautiful eyes were lighted up by attention,\nbut by quiet attention. Bazarov's bad manners had impressed her\nunpleasantly for the first minutes of the visit like a bad smell or a\ndiscordant sound; but she saw at once that he was nervous, and that\neven flattered her. Nothing was repulsive to her but vulgarity, and no\none could have accused Bazarov of vulgarity. Arkady was fated to meet\nwith surprises that day. He had expected that Bazarov would talk to a\nclever woman like Madame Odintsov about his opinions and his views; she\nhad herself expressed a desire to listen to the man 'who dares to have\nno belief in anything'; but, instead of that, Bazarov talked about\nmedicine, about homoeopathy, and about botany. It turned out that\nMadame Odintsov had not wasted her time in solitude; she had read a\ngood many excellent books, and spoke herself in excellent Russian. She\nturned the conversation upon music; but noticing that Bazarov did not\nappreciate art, she quietly brought it back to botany, even though\nArkady was just launching into a discourse upon the significance of\nnational melodies. Madame Odintsov treated him as though he were a\nyounger brother; she seemed to appreciate his good-nature and youthful\nsimplicity--and that was all. For over three hours, a lively\nconversation was kept up, ranging freely over various subjects.\n\nThe friends at last got up and began to take leave. Anna Sergyevna\nlooked cordially at them, held out her beautiful, white hand to both,\nand, after a moment's thought, said with a doubtful but delightful\nsmile. 'If you are not afraid of being dull, gentlemen, come and see me\nat Nikolskoe.'\n\n'Oh, Anna Sergyevna,' cried Arkady, 'I shall think it the greatness\nhappiness ...'\n\n'And you, Monsieur Bazarov?'\n\nBazarov only bowed, and a last surprise was in store for Arkady; he\nnoticed that his friend was blushing.\n\n'Well?' he said to him in the street; 'are you still of the same\nopinion--that she's ...'\n\n'Who can tell? See how correct she is!' retorted Bazarov; and after a\nbrief pause he added, 'She's a perfect grand-duchess, a royal\npersonage. She only needs a train on behind, and a crown on her head.'\n\n'Our grand-duchesses don't talk Russian like that,' remarked Arkady.\n\n'She's seen ups and downs, my dear boy; she's known what it is to be\nhard up!'\n\n'Any way, she's charming,' observed Arkady.\n\n'What a magnificent body!' pursued Bazarov. 'Shouldn't I like to see it\non the dissecting-table.'\n\n'Hush, for mercy's sake, Yevgeny! that's beyond everything.'\n\n'Well, don't get angry, you baby. I meant it's first-rate. We must go\nto stay with her.'\n\n'When?'\n\n'Well, why not the day after to-morrow. What is there to do here? Drink\nchampagne with Kukshina. Listen to your cousin, the Liberal\ndignitary?... Let's be off the day after to-morrow. By the way, too--my\nfather's little place is not far from there. This Nikolskoe's on the\nS---- road, isn't it?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Optime, why hesitate? leave that to fools and prigs! I say, what a\nsplendid body!'\n\nThree days later the two friends were driving along the road to\nNikolskoe. The day was bright, and not too hot, and the sleek\nposting-horses trotted smartly along, switching their tied and plaited\ntails. Arkady looked at the road, and not knowing why, he smiled.\n\n'Congratulate me,' cried Bazarov suddenly, 'to-day's the 22nd of June,\nmy guardian angel's day. Let's see how he will watch over me. To-day\nthey expect me home,' he added, dropping his voice.... 'Well, they can\ngo on expecting.... What does it matter!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThe country-house in which Anna Sergyevna lived stood on an exposed\nhill at no great distance from a yellow stone church with a green roof,\nwhite columns, and a fresco over the principal entrance representing\nthe 'Resurrection of Christ' in the 'Italian' style. Sprawling in the\nforeground of the picture was a swarthy warrior in a helmet, specially\nconspicuous for his rotund contours. Behind the church a long village\nstretched in two rows, with chimneys peeping out here and there above\nthe thatched roofs. The manor-house was built in the same style as the\nchurch, the style known among us as that of Alexander; the house too\nwas painted yellow, and had a green roof, and white columns, and a\npediment with an escutcheon on it. The architect had designed both\nbuildings with the approval of the deceased Odintsov, who could not\nendure--as he expressed it--idle and arbitrary innovations. The house\nwas enclosed on both sides by the dark trees of an old garden; an\navenue of lopped pines led up to the entrance.\n\nOur friends were met in the hall by two tall footmen in livery; one of\nthem at once ran for the steward. The steward, a stout man in a black\ndress coat, promptly appeared and led the visitors by a staircase\ncovered with rugs to a special room, in which two bedsteads were\nalready prepared for them with all necessaries for the toilet. It was\nclear that order reigned supreme in the house; everything was clean,\neverywhere there was a peculiar delicate fragrance, just as there is in\nthe reception rooms of ministers.\n\n'Anna Sergyevna asks you to come to her in half-an-hour,' the steward\nannounced; 'will there be orders to give meanwhile?'\n\n'No orders,' answered Bazarov; 'perhaps you will be so good as to\ntrouble yourself to bring me a glass of vodka.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' said the steward, looking in some perplexity, and he\nwithdrew, his boots creaking as he walked.\n\n'What _grand genre_!' remarked Bazarov. 'That's what it's called in\nyour set, isn't it? She's a grand-duchess, and that's all about it.'\n\n'A nice grand-duchess,' retorted Arkady, 'at the very first meeting she\ninvited such great aristocrats as you and me to stay with her.'\n\n'Especially me, a future doctor, and a doctor's son, and a village\nsexton's grandson.... You know, I suppose, I'm the grandson of a\nsexton? Like the great Speransky,' added Bazarov after a brief pause,\ncontracting his lips. 'At any rate she likes to be comfortable; oh,\ndoesn't she, this lady! Oughtn't we to put on evening dress?'\n\nArkady only shrugged his shoulders ... but he too was conscious of a\nlittle nervousness.\n\nHalf-an-hour later Bazarov and Arkady went together into the\ndrawing-room. It was a large lofty room, furnished rather luxuriously\nbut without particularly good taste. Heavy expensive furniture stood in\nthe ordinary stiff arrangement along the walls, which were covered with\ncinnamon-coloured paper with gold flowers on it; Odintsov had ordered\nthe furniture from Moscow through a friend and agent of his, a spirit\nmerchant. Over a sofa in the centre of one wall hung a portrait of a\nfaded light-haired man--and it seemed to look with displeasure at the\nvisitors. 'It must be the late lamented,' Bazarov whispered to Arkady,\nand turning up his nose, he added, 'Hadn't we better bolt ...?' But at\nthat instant the lady of the house entered. She wore a light bar\u00e8ge\ndress; her hair smoothly combed back behind her ears gave a girlish\nexpression to her pure and fresh face.\n\n'Thank you for keeping your promise,' she began. 'You must stay a\nlittle while with me; it's really not bad here. I will introduce you to\nmy sister; she plays the piano well. That is a matter of indifference\nto you, Monsieur Bazarov; but you, I think, Monsieur Kirsanov, are fond\nof music. Besides my sister I have an old aunt living with me, and one\nof our neighbours comes in sometimes to play cards; that makes up all\nour circle. And now let us sit down.'\n\nMadame Odintsov delivered all this little speech with peculiar\nprecision, as though she had learned it by heart; then she turned to\nArkady. It appeared that her mother had known Arkady's mother, and had\neven been her confidante in her love for Nikolai Petrovitch. Arkady\nbegan talking with great warmth of his dead mother; while Bazarov fell\nto turning over albums. 'What a tame cat I'm getting!' he was thinking\nto himself.\n\nA beautiful greyhound with a blue collar on, ran into the drawing-room,\ntapping on the floor with his paws, and after him entered a girl of\neighteen, black-haired and dark-skinned, with a rather round but\npleasing face, and small dark eyes. In her hands she held a basket\nfilled with flowers.\n\n'This is my Katya,' said Madame Odintsov, indicating her with a motion\nof her head. Katya made a slight curtsey, placed herself beside her\nsister, and began picking out flowers. The greyhound, whose name was\nFifi, went up to both of the visitors, in turn wagging his tail, and\nthrusting his cold nose into their hands.\n\n'Did you pick all that yourself?' asked Madame Odintsov.\n\n'Yes,' answered Katya.\n\n'Is auntie coming to tea?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nWhen Katya spoke, she had a very charming smile, sweet, timid, and\ncandid, and looked up from under her eyebrows with a sort of humorous\nseverity. Everything about her was still young and undeveloped; the\nvoice, and the bloom on her whole face, and the rosy hands, with white\npalms, and the rather narrow shoulders.... She was constantly blushing\nand getting out of breath.\n\nMadame Odintsov turned to Bazarov. 'You are looking at pictures from\npoliteness, Yevgeny Vassilyitch,' she began. That does not interest\nyou. You had better come nearer to us, and let us have a discussion\nabout something.'\n\nBazarov went closer. 'What subject have you decided upon for\ndiscussion?' he said.\n\n'What you like. I warn you, I am dreadfully argumentative.'\n\n'You?'\n\n'Yes. That seems to surprise you. Why?'\n\n'Because, as far as I can judge, you have a calm, cool character, and\none must be impulsive to be argumentative.'\n\n'How can you have had time to understand me so soon? In the first\nplace, I am impatient and obstinate--you should ask Katya; and\nsecondly, I am very easily carried away.'\n\nBazarov looked at Anna Sergyevna. 'Perhaps; you must know best. And so\nyou are inclined for a discussion--by all means. I was looking through\nthe views of the Saxon mountains in your album, and you remarked that\nthat couldn't interest me. You said so, because you suppose me to have\nno feeling for art, and as a fact I haven't any; but these views might\nbe interesting to me from a geological standpoint, for the formation of\nthe mountains, for instance.'\n\n'Excuse me; but as a geologist, you would sooner have recourse to a\nbook, to a special work on the subject, and not to a drawing.'\n\n'The drawing shows me at a glance what would be spread over ten pages\nin a book.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna was silent for a little.\n\n'And so you haven't the least artistic feeling?' she observed, putting\nher elbow on the table, and by that very action bringing her face\nnearer to Bazarov. 'How can you get on without it?'\n\n'Why, what is it wanted for, may I ask?'\n\n'Well, at least to enable one to study and understand men.'\n\nBazarov smiled. 'In the first place, experience of life does that; and\nin the second, I assure you, studying separate individuals is not worth\nthe trouble. All people are like one another, in soul as in body; each\nof us has brain, spleen, heart, and lungs made alike; and the so-called\nmoral qualities are the same in all; the slight variations are of no\nimportance. A single human specimen is sufficient to judge of all by.\nPeople are like trees in a forest; no botanist would think of studying\neach individual birch-tree.'\n\nKatya, who was arranging the flowers, one at a time in a leisurely\nfashion, lifted her eyes to Bazarov with a puzzled look, and meeting\nhis rapid and careless glance, she crimsoned up to her ears. Anna\nSergyevna shook her head.\n\n'The trees in a forest,' she repeated. 'Then according to you there is\nno difference between the stupid and the clever person, between the\ngood-natured and ill-natured?'\n\n'No, there is a difference, just as between the sick and the healthy.\nThe lungs of a consumptive patient are not in the same condition as\nyours and mine, though they are made on the same plan. We know\napproximately what physical diseases come from; moral diseases come\nfrom bad education, from all the nonsense people's heads are stuffed\nwith from childhood up, from the defective state of society; in short,\nreform society, and there will be no diseases.'\n\nBazarov said all this with an air, as though he were all the while\nthinking to himself, 'Believe me or not, as you like, it's all one to\nme!' He slowly passed his fingers over his whiskers, while his eyes\nstrayed about the room.\n\n'And you conclude,' observed Anna Sergyevna, 'that when society is\nreformed, there will be no stupid nor wicked people?'\n\n'At any rate, in a proper organisation of society, it will be\nabsolutely the same whether a man is stupid or clever, wicked or good.'\n\n'Yes, I understand; they will all have the same spleen.'\n\n'Precisely so, madam.'\n\nMadame Odintsov turned to Arkady. 'And what is your opinion, Arkady\nNikolaevitch?'\n\n'I agree with Yevgeny,' he answered.\n\nKatya looked up at him from under her eyelids.\n\n'You amaze me, gentlemen,' commented Madame Odintsov, 'but we will have\nmore talk together. But now I hear my aunt coming to tea; we must spare\nher.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna's aunt, Princess H----, a thin little woman with a\npinched-up face, drawn together like a fist, and staring\nill-natured-looking eyes under a grey front, came in, and, scarcely\nbowing to the guests, she dropped into a wide velvet covered arm-chair,\nupon which no one but herself was privileged to sit. Katya put a\nfootstool under her feet; the old lady did not thank her, did not even\nlook at her, only her hands shook under the yellow shawl, which almost\ncovered her feeble body. The Princess liked yellow; her cap, too, had\nbright yellow ribbons.\n\n'How have you slept, aunt?' inquired Madame Odintsov, raising her\nvoice.\n\n'That dog in here again,' the old lady muttered in reply, and noticing\nFifi was making two hesitating steps in her direction, she cried,\n'Ss----ss!'\n\nKatya called Fifi and opened the door for him.\n\nFifi rushed out delighted, in the expectation of being taken out for a\nwalk; but when he was left alone outside the door, he began scratching\nand whining. The princess scowled. Katya was about to go out....\n\n'I expect tea is ready,' said Madame Odintsov.\n\n'Come gentlemen; aunt, will you go in to tea?'\n\nThe princess got up from her chair without speaking and led the way out\nof the drawing-room. They all followed her in to the dining-room. A\nlittle page in livery drew back, with a scraping sound, from the table,\nan arm-chair covered with cushions, devoted to the princess's use; she\nsank into it; Katya in pouring out the tea handed her first a cup\nemblazoned with a heraldic crest. The old lady put some honey in her\ncup (she considered it both sinful and extravagant to drink tea with\nsugar in it, though she never spent a farthing herself on anything),\nand suddenly asked in a hoarse voice, 'And what does Prince Ivan\nwrite?'\n\nNo one made her any reply. Bazarov and Arkady soon guessed that they\npaid no attention to her though they treated her respectfully.\n\n'Because of her grand family,' thought Bazarov....\n\nAfter tea, Anna Sergyevna suggested they should go out for a walk; but\nit began to rain a little, and the whole party, with the exception of\nthe princess, returned to the drawing-room. The neighbour, the devoted\ncard-player, arrived; his name was Porfiry Platonitch, a stoutish,\ngreyish man with short, spindly legs, very polite and ready to be\namused. Anna Sergyevna, who still talked principally with Bazarov,\nasked him whether he'd like to try a contest with them in the\nold-fashioned way at preference? Bazarov assented, saying 'that he\nought to prepare himself beforehand for the duties awaiting him as a\ncountry doctor.'\n\n'You must be careful,' observed Anna Sergyevna; 'Porfiry Platonitch and\nI will beat you. And you, Katya,' she added, 'play something to Arkady\nNikolaevitch; he is fond of music, and we can listen, too.'\n\nKatya went unwillingly to the piano; and Arkady, though he certainly\nwas fond of music, unwillingly followed her; it seemed to him that\nMadame Odintsov was sending him away, and already, like every young man\nat his age, he felt a vague and oppressive emotion surging up in his\nheart, like the forebodings of love. Katya raised the top of the piano,\nand not looking at Arkady, she said in a low voice--\n\n'What am I to play you?'\n\n'What you like,' answered Arkady indifferently.\n\n'What sort of music do you like best?' repeated Katya, without changing\nher attitude.\n\n'Classical,' Arkady answered in the same tone of voice.\n\n'Do you like Mozart?'\n\n'Yes, I like Mozart.'\n\nKatya pulled out Mozart's Sonata-Fantasia in C minor. She played very\nwell, though rather over correctly and precisely. She sat upright and\nimmovable, her eyes fixed on the notes, and her lips tightly\ncompressed, only at the end of the sonata her face glowed, her hair\ncame loose, and a little lock fell on to her dark brow.\n\nArkady was particularly struck by the last part of the sonata, the part\nin which, in the midst of the bewitching gaiety of the careless melody,\nthe pangs of such mournful, almost tragic suffering, suddenly break\nin.... But the ideas stirred in him by Mozart's music had no reference\nto Katya. Looking at her, he simply thought, 'Well, that young lady\ndoesn't play badly, and she's not bad-looking either.'\n\nWhen she had finished the sonata, Katya without taking her hands from\nthe keys, asked, 'Is that enough?' Arkady declared that he could not\nventure to trouble her again, and began talking to her about Mozart; he\nasked her whether she had chosen that sonata herself, or some one had\nrecommended it to her. But Katya answered him in monosyllables; she\nwithdrew into herself, went back into her shell. When this happened to\nher, she did not very quickly come out again; her face even assumed at\nsuch times an obstinate, almost stupid expression. She was not exactly\nshy, but diffident, and rather overawed by her sister, who had educated\nher, and who had no suspicion of the fact. Arkady was reduced at last\nto calling Fifi to him, and with an affable smile patting him on the\nhead to give himself an appearance of being at home.\n\nKatya set to work again upon her flowers.\n\nBazarov meanwhile was losing and losing. Anna Sergyevna played cards in\nmasterly fashion; Porfiry Platonitch, too, could hold his own in the\ngame. Bazarov lost a sum which, though trifling in itself, was not\naltogether pleasant for him. At supper Anna Sergyevna again turned the\nconversation on botany.\n\n'We will go for a walk to-morrow morning,' she said to him; 'I want you\nto teach me the Latin names of the wild flowers and their species.'\n\n'What use are the Latin names to you?' asked Bazarov.\n\n'Order is needed in everything,' she answered.\n\n'What an exquisite woman Anna Sergyevna is!' cried Arkady, when he was\nalone with his friend in the room assigned to them.\n\n'Yes,' answered Bazarov, 'a female with brains. Yes, and she's seen\nlife too.'\n\n'In what sense do you mean that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?'\n\n'In a good sense, a good sense, my dear friend, Arkady Nikolaevitch!\nI'm convinced she manages her estate capitally too. But what's splendid\nis not her, but her sister.'\n\n'What, that little dark thing?'\n\n'Yes, that little dark thing. She now is fresh and untouched, and shy\nand silent, and anything you like. She's worth educating and\ndeveloping. You might make something fine out of her; but the\nother's--a stale loaf.'\n\nArkady made no reply to Bazarov, and each of them got into bed with\nrather singular thoughts in his head.\n\nAnna Sergyevna, too, thought of her guests that evening. She liked\nBazarov for the absence of gallantry in him, and even for his sharply\ndefined views. She found in him something new, which she had not\nchanced to meet before, and she was curious.\n\nAnna Sergyevna was a rather strange creature. Having no prejudices of\nany kind, having no strong convictions even, she never gave way or went\nout of her way for anything. She had seen many things very clearly; she\nhad been interested in many things, but nothing had completely\nsatisfied her; indeed, she hardly desired complete satisfaction. Her\nintellect was at the same time inquiring and indifferent; her doubts\nwere never soothed to forgetfulness, and they never grew strong enough\nto distract her. Had she not been rich and independent, she would\nperhaps have thrown herself into the struggle, and have known passion.\nBut life was easy for her, though she was bored at times, and she went\non passing day after day with deliberation, never in a hurry, placid,\nand only rarely disturbed. Dreams sometimes danced in rainbow colours\nbefore her eyes even, but she breathed more freely when they died away,\nand did not regret them. Her imagination indeed overstepped the limits\nof what is reckoned permissible by conventional morality; but even then\nher blood flowed as quietly as ever in her fascinatingly graceful,\ntranquil body. Sometimes coming out of her fragrant bath all warm and\nenervated, she would fall to musing on the nothingness of life, the\nsorrow, the labour, the malice of it.... Her soul would be filled with\nsudden daring, and would flow with generous ardour, but a draught would\nblow from a half-closed window, and Anna Sergyevna would shrink into\nherself, and feel plaintive and almost angry, and there was only one\nthing she cared for at that instant--to get away from that horrid\ndraught.\n\nLike all women who have not succeeded in loving, she wanted something,\nwithout herself knowing what. Strictly speaking, she wanted nothing;\nbut it seemed to her that she wanted everything. She could hardly\nendure the late Odintsov (she had married him from prudential motives,\nthough probably she would not have consented to become his wife if she\nhad not considered him a good sort of man), and had conceived a secret\nrepugnance for all men, whom she could only figure to herself as\nslovenly, heavy, drowsy, and feebly importunate creatures. Once,\nsomewhere abroad, she had met a handsome young Swede, with a chivalrous\nexpression, with honest blue eyes under an open brow; he had made a\npowerful impression on her, but it had not prevented her from going\nback to Russia.\n\n'A strange man this doctor!' she thought as she lay in her luxurious\nbed on lace pillows under a light silk coverlet.... Anna Sergyevna had\ninherited from her father a little of his inclination for splendour.\nShe had fondly loved her sinful but good-natured father, and he had\nidolised her, used to joke with her in a friendly way as though she\nwere an equal, and to confide in her fully, to ask her advice. Her\nmother she scarcely remembered.\n\n'This doctor is a strange man!' she repeated to herself. She stretched,\nsmiled, clasped her hands behind her head, then ran her eyes over two\npages of a stupid French novel, dropped the book--and fell asleep, all\npure and cold, in her pure and fragrant linen.\n\nThe following morning Anna Sergyevna went off botanising with Bazarov\ndirectly after lunch, and returned just before dinner; Arkady did not\ngo off anywhere, and spent about an hour with Katya. He was not bored\nwith her; she offered of herself to repeat the sonata of the day\nbefore; but when Madame Odintsov came back at last, when he caught\nsight of her, he felt an instantaneous pang at his heart. She came\nthrough the garden with a rather tired step; her cheeks were glowing\nand her eyes shining more brightly than usual under her round straw\nhat. She was twirling in her fingers the thin stalk of a wildflower, a\nlight mantle had slipped down to her elbows, and the wide gray ribbons\nof her hat were clinging to her bosom. Bazarov walked behind her,\nself-confident and careless as usual, but the expression of his face,\ncheerful and even friendly as it was, did not please Arkady. Muttering\nbetween his teeth, 'Good-morning!' Bazarov went away to his room, while\nMadame Odintsov shook Arkady's hand abstractedly, and also walked past\nhim.\n\n'Good-morning!' thought Arkady ... 'As though we had not seen each\nother already to-day!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nTime, it is well known, sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls\nlike a worm; but man is wont to be particularly happy when he does not\neven notice whether it passes quickly or slowly. It was in that way\nArkady and Bazarov spent a fortnight at Madame Odintsov's. The good\norder she had established in her house and in her life partly\ncontributed to this result. She adhered strictly to this order herself,\nand forced others to submit to it. Everything during the day was done\nat a fixed time. In the morning, precisely at eight o'clock, all the\nparty assembled for tea; from morning-tea till lunch-time every one did\nwhat he pleased, the hostess herself was engaged with her bailiff (the\nestate was on the rent-system), her steward, and her head housekeeper.\nBefore dinner the party met again for conversation or reading; the\nevening was devoted to walking, cards, and music; at half-past ten Anna\nSergyevna retired to her own room, gave her orders for the following\nday, and went to bed. Bazarov did not like this measured, somewhat\nostentatious punctuality in daily life, 'like moving along rails,' he\npronounced it to be; the footmen in livery, the decorous stewards,\noffended his democratic sentiments. He declared that if one went so\nfar, one might as well dine in the English style at once--in tail-coats\nand white ties. He once spoke plainly upon the subject to Anna\nSergyevna. Her attitude was such that no one hesitated to speak his\nmind freely before her. She heard him out; and then her comment was,\n'From your point of view, you are right--and perhaps, in that respect,\nI am too much of a lady; but there's no living in the country without\norder, one would be devoured by ennui,' and she continued to go her own\nway. Bazarov grumbled, but the very reason life was so easy for him and\nArkady at Madame Odintsov's was that everything in the house 'moved on\nrails.' For all that, a change had taken place in both the young men\nsince the first days of their stay at Nikolskoe. Bazarov, in whom Anna\nSergyevna was obviously interested, though she seldom agreed with him,\nbegan to show signs of an unrest, unprecedented in him; he was easily\nput out of temper, and unwilling to talk, he looked irritated, and\ncould not sit still in one place, just as though he were possessed by\nsome secret longing; while Arkady, who had made up his mind\nconclusively that he was in love with Madame Odintsov, had begun to\nyield to a gentle melancholy. This melancholy did not, however, prevent\nhim from becoming friendly with Katya; it even impelled him to get into\nfriendly, affectionate terms with her. '_She_ does not appreciate me?\nSo be it!... But here is a good creature, who does not repulse me,' he\nthought, and his heart again knew the sweetness of magnanimous\nemotions. Katya vaguely realised that he was seeking a sort of\nconsolation in her company, and did not deny him or herself the\ninnocent pleasure of a half-shy, half-confidential friendship. They did\nnot talk to each other in Anna Sergyevna's presence; Katya always\nshrank into herself under her sister's sharp eyes; while Arkady, as\nbefits a man in love, could pay attention to nothing else when near the\nobject of his passion; but he was happy with Katya alone. He was\nconscious that he did not possess the power to interest Madame\nOdintsov; he was shy and at a loss when he was left alone with her, and\nshe did not know what to say to him, he was too young for her. With\nKatya, on the other hand, Arkady felt at home; he treated her\ncondescendingly, encouraged her to express the impressions made on her\nby music, reading novels, verses, and other such trifles, without\nnoticing or realising that these trifles were what interested him too.\nKatya, on her side, did not try to drive away melancholy. Arkady was at\nhis ease with Katya, Madame Odintsov with Bazarov, and thus it usually\ncame to pass that the two couples, after being a little while together,\nwent off on their separate ways, especially during the walks. Katya\nadored nature, and Arkady loved it, though he did not dare to\nacknowledge it; Madame Odintsov was, like Bazarov, rather indifferent\nto the beauties of nature. The almost continual separation of the two\nfriends was not without its consequences; the relations between them\nbegan to change. Bazarov gave up talking to Arkady about Madame\nOdintsov, gave up even abusing her 'aristocratic ways'; Katya, it is\ntrue, he praised as before, and only advised him to restrain her\nsentimental tendencies, but his praises were hurried, his advice dry,\nand in general he talked less to Arkady than before ... he seemed to\navoid him, seemed ill at ease with him.\n\nArkady observed it all, but he kept his observations to himself.\n\nThe real cause of all this 'newness' was the feeling inspired in\nBazarov by Madame Odintsov, a feeling which tortured and maddened him,\nand which he would at once have denied, with scornful laughter and\ncynical abuse, if any one had ever so remotely hinted at the\npossibility of what was taking place in him. Bazarov had a great love\nfor women and for feminine beauty; but love in the ideal, or, as he\nexpressed it, romantic sense, he called lunacy, unpardonable\nimbecility; he regarded chivalrous sentiments as something of the\nnature of deformity or disease, and had more than once expressed his\nwonder that Toggenburg and all the minnesingers and troubadours had not\nbeen put into a lunatic asylum. 'If a woman takes your fancy,' he used\nto say, 'try and gain your end; but if you can't--well, turn your back\non her--there are lots of good fish in the sea.' Madame Odintsov had\ntaken his fancy; the rumours about her, the freedom and independence of\nher ideas, her unmistakable liking for him, all seemed to be in his\nfavour, but he soon saw that with her he would not 'gain his ends,' and\nto turn his back on her he found, to his own bewilderment, beyond his\npower. His blood was on fire directly if he merely thought of her; he\ncould easily have mastered his blood, but something else was taking\nroot in him, something he had never admitted, at which he had always\njeered, at which all his pride revolted. In his conversations with Anna\nSergyevna he expressed more strongly than ever his calm contempt for\neverything idealistic; but when he was alone, with indignation he\nrecognised idealism in himself. Then he would set off to the forest and\nwalk with long strides about it, smashing the twigs that came in his\nway, and cursing under his breath both her and himself; or he would get\ninto the hay-loft in the barn, and, obstinately closing his eyes, try\nto force himself to sleep, in which, of course, he did not always\nsucceed. Suddenly his fancy would bring before him those chaste hands\ntwining one day about his neck, those proud lips responding to his\nkisses, those intellectual eyes dwelling with tenderness--yes, with\ntenderness--on his, and his head went round, and he forgot himself for\nan instant, till indignation boiled up in him again. He caught himself\nin all sorts of 'shameful' thoughts, as though he were driven on by a\ndevil mocking him. Sometimes he fancied that there was a change taking\nplace in Madame Odintsov too; that there were signs in the expression\nof her face of something special; that, perhaps ... but at that point\nhe would stamp, or grind his teeth, and clench his fists.\n\nMeanwhile Bazarov was not altogether mistaken. He had struck Madame\nOdintsov's imagination; he interested her, she thought a great deal\nabout him. In his absence, she was not dull, she was not impatient for\nhis coming, but she always grew more lively on his appearance; she\nliked to be left alone with him, and she liked talking to him, even\nwhen he irritated her or offended her taste, her refined habits. She\nwas, as it were, eager at once to sound him and to analyse herself.\n\nOne day walking in the garden with her, he suddenly announced, in a\nsurly voice, that he intended going to his father's place very soon....\nShe turned white, as though something had given her a pang, and such a\npang, that she wondered and pondered long after, what could be the\nmeaning of it. Bazarov had spoken of his departure with no idea of\nputting her to the test, of seeing what would come of it; he never\n'fabricated.' On the morning of that day he had an interview with his\nfather's bailiff, who had taken care of him when he was a child,\nTimofeitch. This Timofeitch, a little old man of much experience and\nastuteness, with faded yellow hair, a weather-beaten red face, and tiny\ntear-drops in his shrunken eyes, unexpectedly appeared before Bazarov,\nin his shortish overcoat of stout greyish-blue cloth, girt with a strip\nof leather, and in tarred boots.\n\n'Hullo, old man; how are you?' cried Bazarov.\n\n'How do you do, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?' began the little old man, and he\nsmiled with delight, so that his whole face was all at once covered\nwith wrinkles.\n\n'What have you come for? They sent for me, eh?'\n\n'Upon my word, sir, how could we?' mumbled Timofeitch. (He remembered\nthe strict injunctions he had received from his master on starting.)\n'We were sent to the town on business, and we'd heard news of your\nhonour, so here we turned off on our way, that's to say--to have a look\nat your honour ... as if we could think of disturbing you!'\n\n'Come, don't tell lies!' Bazarov cut him short. 'Is this the road to\nthe town, do you mean to tell me?' Timofeitch hesitated, and made no\nanswer. 'Is my father well?'\n\n'Thank God, yes.'\n\n'And my mother?'\n\n'Anna Vlasyevna too, glory be to God.'\n\n'They are expecting me, I suppose?'\n\nThe little old man held his tiny head on one side.\n\n'Ah, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, it makes one's heart ache to see them; it\ndoes really.'\n\n'Come, all right, all right! shut up! Tell them I'm coming soon.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' answered Timofeitch, with a sigh.\n\nAs he went out of the house, he pulled his cap down on his head with\nboth hands, clambered into a wretched-looking racing droshky, and went\noff at a trot, but not in the direction of the town.\n\nOn the evening of the same day, Madame Odintsov was sitting in her own\nroom with Bazarov, while Arkady walked up and down the hall listening\nto Katya's playing. The princess had gone upstairs to her own room; she\ncould not bear guests as a rule, and 'especially this new riff-raff\nlot,' as she called them. In the common rooms she only sulked; but she\nmade up for it in her own room by breaking out into such abuse before\nher maid that the cap danced on her head, wig and all. Madame Odintsov\nwas well aware of all this.\n\n'How is it you are proposing to leave us?' she began; 'how about your\npromise?'\n\nBazarov started. 'What promise?'\n\n'Have you forgotten? You meant to give me some lessons in chemistry.'\n\n'It can't be helped! My father expects me; I can't loiter any longer.\nHowever, you can read Pelouse et Fr\u00e9my, _Notions g\u00e9n\u00e9rales de Chimie_;\nit's a good book, and clearly written. You will find everything you\nneed in it.'\n\n'But do you remember; you assured me a book cannot take the place of\n... I've forgotten how you put it, but you know what I mean ... do you\nremember?'\n\n'It can't be helped!' repeated Bazarov.\n\n'Why go away?' said Madame Odintsov, dropping her voice.\n\nHe glanced at her. Her head had fallen on to the back of her\neasy-chair, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were folded on her bosom.\nShe seemed paler in the light of the single lamp covered with a\nperforated paper shade. An ample white gown hid her completely in its\nsoft folds; even the tips of her feet, also crossed, were hardly seen.\n\n'And why stay?' answered Bazarov.\n\nMadame Odintsov turned her head slightly. 'You ask why. Have you not\nenjoyed yourself with me? Or do you suppose you will not be missed\nhere?'\n\n'I am sure of it.'\n\nMadame Odintsov was silent a minute. 'You are wrong in thinking that.\nBut I don't believe you. You could not say that seriously.' Bazarov\nstill sat immovable. 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, why don't you speak?'\n\n'Why, what am I to say to you? People are not generally worth being\nmissed, and I less than most.'\n\n'Why so?'\n\n'I'm a practical, uninteresting person. I don't know how to talk.'\n\n'You are fishing, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.'\n\n'That's not a habit of mine. Don't you know yourself that I've nothing\nin common with the elegant side of life, the side you prize so much?'\n\nMadame Odintsov bit the corner of her handkerchief.\n\n'You may think what you like, but I shall be dull when you go away.'\n\n'Arkady will remain,' remarked Bazarov. Madame Odintsov shrugged her\nshoulders slightly. 'I shall be dull,' she repeated.\n\n'Really? In any case you will not feel dull for long.'\n\n'What makes you suppose that?'\n\n'Because you told me yourself that you are only dull when your regular\nroutine is broken in upon. You have ordered your existence with such\nunimpeachable regularity that there can be no place in it for dulness\nor sadness ... for any unpleasant emotions.'\n\n'And do you consider I am so unimpeachable ... that's to say, that I\nhave ordered my life with such regularity?'\n\n'I should think so. Here's an example; in a few minutes it will strike\nten, and I know beforehand that you will drive me away.'\n\n'No; I'm not going to drive you away, Yevgeny Vassilyitch. You may\nstay. Open that window.... I feel half-stifled.'\n\nBazarov got up and gave a push to the window. It flew up with a loud\ncrash.... He had not expected it to open so easily; besides, his hands\nwere shaking. The soft, dark night looked in to the room with its\nalmost black sky, its faintly rustling trees, and the fresh fragrance\nof the pure open air.\n\n'Draw the blind and sit down,' said Madame Odintsov; 'I want to have a\ntalk with you before you go away. Tell me something about yourself; you\nnever talk about yourself.'\n\n'I try to talk to you upon improving subjects, Anna Sergyevna.'\n\n'You are very modest.... But I should like to know something about you,\nabout your family, about your father, for whom you are forsaking us.'\n\n'Why is she talking like that?' thought Bazarov.\n\n'All that's not in the least interesting,' he uttered aloud,\n'especially for you; we are obscure people....'\n\n'And you regard me as an aristocrat?'\n\nBazarov lifted his eyes to Madame Odintsov.\n\n'Yes,' he said, with exaggerated sharpness.\n\nShe smiled. 'I see you know me very little, though you do maintain that\nall people are alike, and it's not worth while to study them. I will\ntell you my life some time or other ... but first you tell me yours.'\n\n'I know you very little,' repeated Bazarov. 'Perhaps you are right;\nperhaps, really, every one is a riddle. You, for instance; you avoid\nsociety, you are oppressed by it, and you have invited two students to\nstay with you. What makes you, with your intellect, with your beauty,\nlive in the country?'\n\n'What? What was it you said?' Madame Odintsov interposed eagerly. 'With\nmy ... beauty?'\n\nBazarov scowled. 'Never mind that,' he muttered; 'I meant to say that I\ndon't exactly understand why you have settled in the country?'\n\n'You don't understand it.... But you explain it to yourself in some\nway?'\n\n'Yes ... I assume that you remain continually in the same place because\nyou indulge yourself, because you are very fond of comfort and ease,\nand very indifferent to everything else.'\n\nMadame Odintsov smiled again. 'You would absolutely refuse to believe\nthat I am capable of being carried away by anything?'\n\nBazarov glanced at her from under his brows.\n\n'By curiosity, perhaps; but not otherwise.'\n\n'Really? Well, now I understand why we are such friends; you are just\nlike me, you see.'\n\n'We are such friends ...' Bazarov articulated in a choked voice.\n\n'Yes!... Why, I'd forgotten you wanted to go away.'\n\nBazarov got up. The lamp burnt dimly in the middle of the dark,\nluxurious, isolated room; from time to time the blind was shaken, and\nthere flowed in the freshness of the insidious night; there was heard\nits mysterious whisperings. Madame Odintsov did not move in a single\nlimb; but she was gradually possessed by concealed emotion.\n\nIt communicated itself to Bazarov. He was suddenly conscious that he\nwas alone with a young and lovely woman....\n\n'Where are you going?' she said slowly.\n\nHe answered nothing, and sank into a chair.\n\n'And so you consider me a placid, pampered, spoiled creature,' she went\non in the same voice, never taking her eyes off the window. 'While I\nknow so much about myself, that I am unhappy.'\n\n'You unhappy? What for? Surely you can't attach any importance to idle\ngossip?'\n\nMadame Odintsov frowned. It annoyed her that he had given such a\nmeaning to her words.\n\n'Such gossip does not affect me, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, and I am too\nproud to allow it to disturb me. I am unhappy because ... I have no\ndesires, no passion for life. You look at me incredulously; you think\nthat's said by an \"aristocrat,\" who is all in lace, and sitting in a\nvelvet armchair. I don't conceal the fact: I love what you call\ncomfort, and at the same time I have little desire to live. Explain\nthat contradiction as best you can. But all that's romanticism in your\neyes.'\n\nBazarov shook his head. 'You are in good health, independent, rich;\nwhat more would you have? What do you want?'\n\n'What do I want,' echoed Madame Odintsov, and she sighed, 'I am very\ntired, I am old, I feel as if I have had a very long life. Yes, I am\nold,' she added, softly drawing the ends of her lace over her bare\narms. Her eyes met Bazarov's eyes, and she faintly blushed. 'Behind me\nI have already so many memories: my life in Petersburg, wealth, then\npoverty, then my father's death, marriage, then the inevitable tour in\ndue order.... So many memories, and nothing to remember, and before me,\nbefore me--a long, long road, and no goal.... I have no wish to go on.'\n\n'Are you so disillusioned?' queried Bazarov.\n\n'No, but I am dissatisfied,' Madame Odintsov replied, dwelling on each\nsyllable. 'I think if I could interest myself strongly in\nsomething....'\n\n'You want to fall in love,' Bazarov interrupted her, 'and you can't\nlove; that's where your unhappiness lies.'\n\nMadame Odintsov began to examine the sleeve of her lace.\n\n'Is it true I can't love?' she said.\n\n'I should say not! Only I was wrong in calling that an unhappiness. On\nthe contrary, any one's more to be pitied when such a mischance befalls\nhim.'\n\n'Mischance, what?'\n\n'Falling in love.'\n\n'And how do you come to know that?'\n\n'By hearsay,' answered Bazarov angrily.\n\n'You're flirting,' he thought; 'you're bored, and teasing me for want\nof something to do, while I ...' His heart really seemed as though it\nwere being torn to pieces.\n\n'Besides, you are perhaps too exacting,' he said, bending his whole\nframe forward and playing with the fringe of the chair.\n\n'Perhaps. My idea is everything or nothing. A life for a life. Take\nmine, give up thine, and that without regret or turning back. Or else\nbetter have nothing.'\n\n'Well?' observed Bazarov; 'that's fair terms, and I'm surprised that so\nfar you ... have not found what you wanted.'\n\n'And do you think it would be easy to give oneself up wholly to\nanything whatever?'\n\n'Not easy, if you begin reflecting, waiting and attaching value to\nyourself, prizing yourself, I mean; but to give oneself up without\nreflection is very easy.'\n\n'How can one help prizing oneself? If I am of no value, who could need\nmy devotion?'\n\n'That's not my affair; that's the other's business to discover what is\nmy value. The chief thing is to be able to devote oneself.'\n\nMadame Odintsov bent forward from the back of her chair. 'You speak,'\nshe began, 'as though you had experienced all that.'\n\n'It happened to come up, Anna Sergyevna; all that, as you know, is not\nin my line.'\n\n'But you could devote yourself?'\n\n'I don't know. I shouldn't like to boast.'\n\nMadame Odintsov said nothing, and Bazarov was mute. The sounds of the\npiano floated up to them from the drawing-room.\n\n'How is it Katya is playing so late?' observed Madame Odintsov.\n\nBazarov got up. 'Yes, it is really late now; it's time for you to go to\nbed.'\n\n'Wait a little; why are you in a hurry?... I want to say one word to\nyou.'\n\n'What is it?'\n\n'Wait a little,' whispered Madame Odintsov. Her eyes rested on Bazarov;\nit seemed as though she were examining him attentively.\n\nHe walked across the room, then suddenly went up to her, hurriedly said\n'Good-bye,' squeezed her hand so that she almost screamed, and was\ngone. She raised her crushed fingers to her lips, breathed on them, and\nsuddenly, impulsively getting up from her low chair, she moved with\nrapid steps towards the door, as though she wished to bring Bazarov\nback.... A maid came into the room with a decanter on a silver tray.\nMadame Odintsov stood still, told her she could go, and sat down again,\nand again sank into thought. Her hair slipped loose and fell in a dark\ncoil down her shoulders. Long after the lamp was still burning in Anna\nSergyevna's room, and for long she stayed without moving, only from\ntime to time chafing her hands, which ached a little from the cold of\nthe night.\n\nBazarov went back two hours later to his bed-room with his boots wet\nwith dew, dishevelled and ill-humoured. He found Arkady at the\nwriting-table with a book in his hands, his coat buttoned up to the\nthroat.\n\n'You're not in bed yet?' he said, in a tone, it seemed, of annoyance.\n\n'You stopped a long while with Anna Sergyevna this evening,' remarked\nArkady, not answering him.\n\n'Yes, I stopped with her all the while you were playing the piano with\nKatya Sergyevna.'\n\n'I did not play ...' Arkady began, and he stopped. He felt the tears\nwere coming into his eyes, and he did not like to cry before his\nsarcastic friend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nThe following morning when Madame Odintsov came down to morning tea,\nBazarov sat a long while bending over his cup, then suddenly he glanced\nup at her.... She turned to him as though he had struck her a blow, and\nhe fancied that her face was a little paler since the night before. She\nquickly went off to her own room, and did not appear till lunch. It\nrained from early morning; there was no possibility of going for a\nwalk. The whole company assembled in the drawing-room. Arkady took up\nthe new number of a journal and began reading it aloud. The princess,\nas was her habit, tried to express her amazement in her face, as though\nhe were doing something improper, then glared angrily at him; but he\npaid no attention to her.\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyitch' said Anna Sergyevna, 'come to my room.... I want\nto ask you.... You mentioned a textbook yesterday ...'\n\nShe got up and went to the door. The princess looked round with an\nexpression that seemed to say, 'Look at me; see how shocked I am!' and\nagain glared at Arkady; but he raised his voice, and exchanging glances\nwith Katya, near whom he was sitting, he went on reading.\n\nMadame Odintsov went with rapid steps to her study. Bazarov followed\nher quickly, not raising his eyes, and only with his ears catching the\ndelicate swish and rustle of her silk gown gliding before him. Madame\nOdintsov sank into the same easy-chair in which she had sat the\nprevious evening, and Bazarov took up the same position as before.\n\n'What was the name of that book?' she began, after a brief silence.\n\n'Pelouse et Fr\u00e9my, _Notions g\u00e9n\u00e9rales_,' answered Bazarov. 'I might\nthough recommend you also Ganot, _Trait\u00e9 \u00e9l\u00e9mentaire de physique\n\u00e9xp\u00e9rimentale_. In that book the illustrations are clearer, and in\ngeneral it's a text-book.'\n\nMadame Odintsov stretched out her hand. 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I beg\nyour pardon, but I didn't invite you in here to discuss text-books. I\nwanted to continue our conversation of last night. You went away so\nsuddenly.... It will not bore you ...'\n\n'I am at your service, Anna Sergyevna. But what were we talking about\nlast night?'\n\nMadame Odintsov flung a sidelong glance at Bazarov.\n\n'We were talking of happiness, I believe. I told you about myself. By\nthe way, I mentioned the word \"happiness.\" Tell me why it is that even\nwhen we are enjoying music, for instance, or a fine evening, or a\nconversation with sympathetic people, it all seems an intimation of\nsome measureless happiness existing apart somewhere rather than actual\nhappiness--such, I mean, as we ourselves are in possession of? Why is\nit? Or perhaps you have no feeling like that?'\n\n'You know the saying, \"Happiness is where we are not,\"' replied\nBazarov; 'besides, you told me yesterday you are discontented. I\ncertainly never have such ideas come into my head.'\n\n'Perhaps they seem ridiculous to you?'\n\n'No; but they don't come into my head.'\n\n'Really? Do you know, I should very much like to know what you do think\nabout?'\n\n'What? I don't understand.'\n\n'Listen; I have long wanted to speak openly to you. There's no need to\ntell you--you are conscious of it yourself--that you are not an\nordinary man; you are still young--all life is before you. What are you\npreparing yourself for? What future is awaiting you? I mean to\nsay--what object do you want to attain? What are you going forward to?\nWhat is in your heart? in short, who are you? What are you?'\n\n'You surprise me, Anna Sergyevna. You are aware that I am studying\nnatural science, and who I ...'\n\n'Well, who are you?'\n\n'I have explained to you already that I am going to be a district\ndoctor.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna made a movement of impatience.\n\n'What do you say that for? You don't believe it yourself. Arkady might\nanswer me in that way, but not you.'\n\n'Why, in what is Arkady ...'\n\n'Stop! Is it possible you could content yourself with such a humble\ncareer, and aren't you always maintaining yourself that you don't\nbelieve in medicine? You--with your ambition--a district doctor! You\nanswer me like that to put me off, because you have no confidence in\nme. But, do you know, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, that I could understand you;\nI have been poor myself, and ambitious, like you; I have been perhaps\nthrough the same trials as you.'\n\n'That is all very well, Anna Sergyevna, but you must pardon me for ...\nI am not in the habit of talking freely about myself at any time as a\nrule, and between you and me there is such a gulf ...'\n\n'What sort of gulf? You mean to tell me again that I am an aristocrat?\nNo more of that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch; I thought I had proved to\nyou ...'\n\n'And even apart from that,' broke in Bazarov, 'what could induce one to\ntalk and think about the future, which for the most part does not\ndepend on us? If a chance turns up of doing something--so much the\nbetter; and if it doesn't turn up--at least one will be glad one didn't\ngossip idly about it beforehand.'\n\n'You call a friendly conversation idle gossip?... Or perhaps you\nconsider me as a woman unworthy of your confidence? I know you despise\nus all.'\n\n'I don't despise you, Anna Sergyevna, and you know that.'\n\n'No, I don't know anything ... but let us suppose so. I understand your\ndisinclination to talk of your future career; but as to what is taking\nplace within you now ...'\n\n'Taking place!' repeated Bazarov, 'as though I were some sort of\ngovernment or society! In any case, it is utterly uninteresting; and\nbesides, can a man always speak of everything that \"takes place\" in\nhim?'\n\n'Why, I don't see why you can't speak freely of everything you have in\nyour heart.'\n\n'Can _you_?' asked Bazarov.\n\n'Yes,' answered Anna Sergyevna, after a brief hesitation.\n\nBazarov bowed his head. 'You are more fortunate than I am.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna looked at him questioningly. 'As you please,' she went\non, 'but still something tells me that we have not come together for\nnothing; that we shall be great friends. I am sure this--what should I\nsay, constraint, reticence in you will vanish at last.'\n\n'So you have noticed reticence ... as you expressed it ... constraint?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nBazarov got up and went to the window. 'And would you like to know the\nreason of this reticence? Would you like to know what is passing within\nme?'\n\n'Yes,' repeated Madame Odintsov, with a sort of dread she did not at\nthe time understand.\n\n'And you will not be angry?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'No?' Bazarov was standing with his back to her. 'Let me tell you then\nthat I love you like a fool, like a madman.... There, you've forced it\nout of me.'\n\nMadame Odintsov held both hands out before her; but Bazarov was leaning\nwith his forehead pressed against the window pane. He breathed hard;\nhis whole body was visibly trembling. But it was not the tremor of\nyouthful timidity, not the sweet alarm of the first declaration that\npossessed him; it was passion struggling in him, strong and\npainful--passion not unlike hatred, and perhaps akin to it.... Madame\nOdintsov felt both afraid and sorry for him.\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' she said, and there was the ring of unconscious\ntenderness in her voice.\n\nHe turned quickly, flung a searching look on her, and snatching both\nher hands, he drew her suddenly to his breast.\n\nShe did not at once free herself from his embrace, but an instant\nlater, she was standing far away in a corner, and looking from there at\nBazarov. He rushed at her ...\n\n'You have misunderstood me,' she whispered hurriedly, in alarm. It\nseemed if he had made another step she would have screamed.... Bazarov\nbit his lips, and went out.\n\nHalf-an-hour after, a maid gave Anna Sergyevna a note from Bazarov; it\nconsisted simply of one line: 'Am I to go to-day, or can I stop till\nto-morrow?'\n\n'Why should you go? I did not understand you--you did not understand\nme,' Anna Sergyevna answered him, but to herself she thought: 'I did\nnot understand myself either.'\n\nShe did not show herself till dinner-time, and kept walking to and fro\nin her room, stopping sometimes at the window, sometimes at the\nlooking-glass, and slowly rubbing her handkerchief over her neck, on\nwhich she still seemed to feel a burning spot. She asked herself what\nhad induced her to 'force' Bazarov's words, his confidence, and whether\nshe had suspected nothing ... 'I am to blame,' she decided aloud, 'but\nI could not have foreseen this.' She fell to musing, and blushed\ncrimson, remembering Bazarov's almost animal face when he had rushed at\nher....\n\n'Oh?' she uttered suddenly aloud, and she stopped short and shook back\nher curls.... She caught sight of herself in the glass; her head thrown\nback, with a mysterious smile on the half-closed, half-opened eyes and\nlips, told her, it seemed, in a flash something at which she herself\nwas confused....\n\n'No,' she made up her mind at last. 'God knows what it would lead to;\nhe couldn't be played with; peace is anyway the best thing in the\nworld.'\n\nHer peace of mind was not shaken; but she felt gloomy, and even shed a\nfew tears once though she could not have said why--certainly not for\nthe insult done her. She did not feel insulted; she was more inclined\nto feel guilty. Under the influence of various vague emotions, the\nsense of life passing by, the desire of novelty, she had forced herself\nto go up to a certain point, forced herself to look behind herself, and\nhad seen behind her not even an abyss, but what was empty ... or\nrevolting.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nGreat as was Madame Odintsov's self-control, and superior as she was to\nevery kind of prejudice, she felt awkward when she went into the\ndining-room to dinner. The meal went off fairly successfully, however.\nPorfiry Platonovitch made his appearance and told various anecdotes; he\nhad just come back from the town. Among other things, he informed them\nthat the governor had ordered his secretaries on special commissions to\nwear spurs, in case he might send them off anywhere for greater speed\non horseback. Arkady talked in an undertone to Katya, and\ndiplomatically attended to the princess's wants. Bazarov maintained a\ngrim and obstinate silence. Madame Odintsov looked at him twice, not\nstealthily, but straight in the face, which was bilious and forbidding,\nwith downcast eyes, and contemptuous determination stamped on every\nfeature, and thought: 'No ... no ... no.' ... After dinner, she went\nwith the whole company into the garden, and seeing that Bazarov wanted\nto speak to her, she took a few steps to one side and stopped. He went\nup to her, but even then did not raise his eyes, and said hoarsely--\n\n'I have to apologise to you, Anna Sergyevna. You must be in a fury with\nme.'\n\n'No, I'm not angry with you, Yevgeny Vassilyitch,' answered Madame\nOdintsov; 'but I am sorry.'\n\n'So much the worse. Any way, I'm sufficiently punished. My position,\nyou will certainly agree, is most foolish. You wrote to me, \"Why go\naway?\" But I cannot stay, and don't wish to. To-morrow I shall be\ngone.'\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, why are you ...'\n\n'Why am I going away?'\n\n'No; I didn't mean to say that.'\n\n'There's no recalling the past, Anna Sergyevna ... and this was bound\nto come about sooner or later. Consequently I must go. I can only\nconceive of one condition upon which I could remain; but that condition\nwill never be. Excuse my impertinence, but you don't love me, and you\nnever will love me, I suppose?'\n\nBazarov's eyes glittered for an instant under their dark brows.\n\nAnna Sergyevna did not answer him. 'I'm afraid of this man,' flashed\nthrough her brain.\n\n'Good-bye, then,' said Bazarov, as though he guessed her thought, and\nhe went back into the house.\n\nAnna Sergyevna walked slowly after him, and calling Katya to her, she\ntook her arm. She did not leave her side till quite evening. She did\nnot play cards, and was constantly laughing, which did not at all\naccord with her pale and perplexed face. Arkady was bewildered, and\nlooked on at her as all young people look on--that's to say, he was\nconstantly asking himself, 'What is the meaning of that?' Bazarov shut\nhimself up in his room; he came back to tea, however. Anna Sergyevna\nlonged to say some friendly word to him, but she did not know how to\naddress him....\n\nAn unexpected incident relieved her from her embarrassment; a steward\nannounced the arrival of Sitnikov.\n\nIt is difficult to do justice in words to the strange figure cut by the\nyoung apostle of progress as he fluttered into the room. Though, with\nhis characteristic impudence, he had made up his mind to go into the\ncountry to visit a woman whom he hardly knew, who had never invited\nhim; but with whom, according to information he had gathered, such\ntalented and intimate friends were staying, he was nevertheless\ntrembling to the marrow of his bones; and instead of bringing out the\napologies and compliments he had learned by heart beforehand, he\nmuttered some absurdity about Evdoksya Kukshin having sent him to\ninquire after Anna Sergyevna's health, and Arkady Nikolaevitch's too,\nhaving always spoken to him in the highest terms.... At this point he\nfaltered and lost his presence of mind so completely that he sat down\non his own hat. However, since no one turned him out, and Anna\nSergyevna even presented him to her aunt and her sister, he soon\nrecovered himself and began to chatter volubly. The introduction of the\ncommonplace is often an advantage in life; it relieves over-strained\ntension, and sobers too self-confident or self-sacrificing emotions by\nrecalling its close kinship with them. With Sitnikov's appearance\neverything became somehow duller and simpler; they all even ate a more\nsolid supper, and retired to bed half-an-hour earlier than usual.\n\n'I might now repeat to you,' said Arkady, as he lay down in bed, to\nBazarov, who was also undressing, what you once said to me, 'Why are\nyou so melancholy? One would think you had fulfilled some sacred duty.'\nFor some time past a sort of pretence of free-and-easy banter had\nsprung up between the two young men, which is always an unmistakable\nsign of secret displeasure or unexpressed suspicions.\n\n'I'm going to my father's to-morrow,' said Bazarov.\n\nArkady raised himself and leaned on his elbow. He felt both surprised,\nand for some reason or other pleased. 'Ah!' he commented, 'and is that\nwhy you're sad?'\n\nBazarov yawned. 'You'll get old if you know too much.'\n\n'And Anna Sergyevna?' persisted Arkady.\n\n'What about Anna Sergyevna?'\n\n'I mean, will she let you go?'\n\n'I'm not her paid man.'\n\nArkady grew thoughtful, while Bazarov lay down and turned with his face\nto the wall.\n\nSome minutes went by in silence. 'Yevgeny?' cried Arkady suddenly.\n\n'Well?'\n\n'I will leave with you to-morrow too.'\n\nBazarov made no answer.\n\n'Only I will go home,' continued Arkady. 'We will go together as far as\nHohlovsky, and there you can get horses at Fedot's. I should be\ndelighted to make the acquaintance of your people, but I'm afraid of\nbeing in their way and yours. You are coming to us again later, of\ncourse?'\n\n'I've left all my things with you,' Bazarov said, without turning\nround.\n\n'Why doesn't he ask me why I am going, and just as suddenly as he?'\nthought Arkady. 'In reality, why am I going, and why is he going?' he\npursued his reflections. He could find no satisfactory answer to his\nown question, though his heart was filled with some bitter feeling. He\nfelt it would be hard to part from this life to which he had grown so\naccustomed; but for him to remain alone would be rather odd. 'Something\nhas passed between them,' he reasoned to himself; 'what good would it\nbe for me to hang on after he's gone? She's utterly sick of me; I'm\nlosing the last that remained to me.' He began to imagine Anna\nSergyevna to himself, then other features gradually eclipsed the lovely\nimage of the young widow.\n\n'I'm sorry to lose Katya too!' Arkady whispered to his pillow, on which\na tear had already fallen.... All at once he shook back his hair and\nsaid aloud--\n\n'What the devil made that fool of a Sitnikov turn up here?'\n\nBazarov at first stirred a little in his bed, then he uttered the\nfollowing rejoinder: 'You're still a fool, my boy, I see. Sitnikovs are\nindispensable to us. I--do you understand? I need dolts like him. It's\nnot for the gods to bake bricks, in fact!'...\n\n'Oho!' Arkady thought to himself, and then in a flash all the\nfathomless depths of Bazarov's conceit dawned upon him. 'Are you and I\ngods then? at least, you're a god; am not I a dolt then?'\n\n'Yes,' repeated Bazarov; 'you're still a fool.'\n\nMadame Odintsov expressed no special surprise when Arkady told her the\nnext day that he was going with Bazarov; she seemed tired and absorbed.\nKatya looked at him silently and seriously; the princess went so far as\nto cross herself under her shawl so that he could not help noticing it.\nSitnikov, on the other hand, was completely disconcerted. He had only\njust come in to lunch in a new and fashionable get-up, not on this\noccasion of a Slavophil cut; the evening before he had astonished the\nman told off to wait on him by the amount of linen he had brought with\nhim, and now all of a sudden his comrades were deserting him! He took a\nfew tiny steps, doubled back like a hunted hare at the edge of a copse,\nand abruptly, almost with dismay, almost with a wail, announced that he\nproposed going too. Madame Odintsov did not attempt to detain him.\n\n'I have a very comfortable carriage,' added the luckless young man,\nturning to Arkady; 'I can take you, while Yevgeny Vassilyitch can take\nyour coach, so it will be even more convenient.'\n\n'But, really, it's not at all in your way, and it's a long way to my\nplace.'\n\n'That's nothing, nothing; I've plenty of time; besides, I have business\nin that direction.'\n\n'Gin-selling?' asked Arkady, rather too contemptuously.\n\nBut Sitnikov was reduced to such desperation that he did not even laugh\nas usual. 'I assure you, my carriage is exceedingly comfortable,' he\nmuttered; 'and there will be room for all.'\n\n'Don't wound Monsieur Sitnikov by a refusal,' commented Anna Sergyevna.\n\nArkady glanced at her, and bowed his head significantly.\n\nThe visitors started off after lunch. As she said good-bye to Bazarov,\nMadame Odintsov held out her hand to him, and said, 'We shall meet\nagain, shan't we?'\n\n'As you command,' answered Bazarov.\n\n'In that case, we shall.'\n\nArkady was the first to descend the steps; he got into Sitnikov's\ncarriage. A steward tucked him in respectfully, but he could have\nkilled him with pleasure, or have burst into tears.\n\nBazarov took his seat in the coach. When they reached Hohlovsky, Arkady\nwaited till Fedot, the keeper of the posting-station, had put in the\nhorses, and going up to the coach, he said, with his old smile, to\nBazarov, 'Yevgeny, take me with you; I want to come to you.'\n\n'Get in,' Bazarov brought out through his teeth.\n\nSitnikov, who had been walking to and fro round the wheels of his\ncarriage, whistling briskly, could only gape when he heard these\nwords; while Arkady coolly pulled his luggage out of the carriage,\ntook his seat beside Bazarov, and bowing politely to his former\nfellow-traveller, he called, 'Whip up!' The coach rolled away, and was\nsoon out of sight.... Sitnikov, utterly confused, looked at his\ncoachman, but the latter was flicking his whip about the tail of the\noff horse. Then Sitnikov jumped into the carriage, and growling at two\npassing peasants, 'Put on your caps, idiots!' he drove to the town,\nwhere he arrived very late, and where, next day, at Madame Kukshin's,\nhe dealt very severely with two 'disgusting stuck-up churls.'\n\nWhen he was seated in the coach by Bazarov, Arkady pressed his hand\nwarmly, and for a long while he said nothing. It seemed as though\nBazarov understood and appreciated both the pressure and the silence.\nHe had not slept all the previous night, and had not smoked, and had\neaten scarcely anything for several days. His profile, already thinner,\nstood out darkly and sharply under his cap, which was pulled down to\nhis eyebrows.\n\n'Well, brother,' he said at last, 'give us a cigarette. But look, I\nsay, is my tongue yellow?'\n\n'Yes, it is,' answered Arkady.\n\n'Hm ... and the cigarette's tasteless. The machine's out of gear.'\n\n'You look changed lately certainly,' observed Arkady.\n\n'It's nothing! we shall soon be all right. One thing's a bother--my\nmother's so tender-hearted; if you don't grow as round as a tub, and\neat ten times a day, she's quite upset. My father's all right, he's\nknown all sorts of ups and downs himself. No, I can't smoke,' he added,\nand he flung the cigarette into the dust of the road.\n\n'Do you think it's twenty miles?' asked Arkady.\n\n'Yes. But ask this sage here.' He indicated the peasant sitting on the\nbox, a labourer of Fedot's.\n\nBut the sage only answered, 'Who's to know--miles hereabout aren't\nmeasured,' and went on swearing in an undertone at the shaft horse for\n'kicking with her head-piece,' that is, shaking with her head down.\n\n'Yes, yes,' began Bazarov; 'it's a lesson to you, my young friend, an\ninstructive example. God knows, what rot it is? Every man hangs on a\nthread, the abyss may open under his feet any minute, and yet he must\ngo and invent all sorts of discomforts for himself, and spoil his\nlife.'\n\n'What are you alluding to?' asked Arkady.\n\n'I'm not alluding to anything; I'm saying straight out that we've both\nbehaved like fools. What's the use of talking about it! Still, I've\nnoticed in hospital practice, the man who's furious at his\nillness--he's sure to get over it.'\n\n'I don't quite understand you,' observed Arkady; 'I should have thought\nyou had nothing to complain of.'\n\n'And since you don't quite understand me, I'll tell you this--to my\nmind, it's better to break stones on the highroad than to let a woman\nhave the mastery of even the end of one's little finger. That's all\n...' Bazarov was on the point of uttering his favourite word,\n'romanticism,' but he checked himself, and said, 'rubbish. You don't\nbelieve me now, but I tell you; you and I have been in feminine\nsociety, and very nice we found it; but to throw up society like that\nis for all the world like a dip in cold water on a hot day. A man\nhasn't time to attend to such trifles; a man ought not to be tame, says\nan excellent Spanish proverb. Now, you, I suppose, my sage friend,' he\nadded, turning to the peasant sitting on the box--'you've a wife?'\n\nThe peasant showed both the friends his dull blear-eyed face.\n\n'A wife? Yes. Every man has a wife.'\n\n'Do you beat her?'\n\n'My wife? Everything happens sometimes. We don't beat her without good\nreason!'\n\n'That's excellent. Well, and does she beat you?'\n\nThe peasant gave a tug at the reins. 'That's a strange thing to say,\nsir. You like your joke.'... He was obviously offended.\n\n'You hear, Arkady Nikolaevitch! But we have taken a beating ... that's\nwhat comes of being educated people.'\n\nArkady gave a forced laugh, while Bazarov turned away, and did not open\nhis mouth again the whole journey.\n\nThe twenty miles seemed to Arkady quite forty. But at last, on the\nslope of some rising ground, appeared the small hamlet where Bazarov's\nparents lived. Beside it, in a young birch copse, could be seen a small\nhouse with a thatched roof.\n\nTwo peasants stood with their hats on at the first hut, abusing each\nother. 'You're a great sow,' said one; 'and worse than a little sucking\npig.'\n\n'And your wife's a witch,' retorted the other.\n\n'From their unconstrained behaviour,' Bazarov remarked to Arkady, 'and\nthe playfulness of their retorts, you can guess that my father's\npeasants are not too much oppressed. Why, there he is himself coming\nout on the steps of his house. They must have heard the bells. It's he;\nit's he--I know his figure. Ay, ay! how grey he's grown though, poor\nchap!'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nBazarov leaned out of the coach, while Arkady thrust his head out\nbehind his companion's back, and caught sight on the steps of the\nlittle manor-house of a tall, thinnish man with dishevelled hair, and a\nthin hawk nose, dressed in an old military coat not buttoned up. He was\nstanding, his legs wide apart, smoking a long pipe and screwing up his\neyes to keep the sun out of them.\n\nThe horses stopped.\n\n'Arrived at last,' said Bazarov's father, still going on smoking though\nthe pipe was fairly dancing up and down between his fingers. 'Come, get\nout; get out; let me hug you.'\n\nHe began embracing his son ... 'Enyusha, Enyusha,' was heard a\ntrembling woman's voice. The door was flung open, and in the doorway\nwas seen a plump, short, little old woman in a white cap and a short\nstriped jacket. She moaned, staggered, and would certainly have fallen,\nhad not Bazarov supported her. Her plump little hands were instantly\ntwined round his neck, her head was pressed to his breast, and there\nwas a complete hush. The only sound heard was her broken sobs.\n\nOld Bazarov breathed hard and screwed his eyes up more than ever.\n\n'There, that's enough, that's enough, Arisha! give over,' he said,\nexchanging a glance with Arkady, who remained motionless in the coach,\nwhile the peasant on the box even turned his head away; 'that's not at\nall necessary, please give over.'\n\n'Ah, Vassily Ivanitch,' faltered the old woman, 'for what ages, my dear\none, my darling, Enyusha,' ... and, not unclasping her hands, she drew\nher wrinkled face, wet with tears and working with tenderness, a little\naway from Bazarov, and gazed at him with blissful and comic-looking\neyes, and again fell on his neck.\n\n'Well, well, to be sure, that's all in the nature of things,' commented\nVassily Ivanitch, 'only we'd better come indoors. Here's a visitor come\nwith Yevgeny. You must excuse it,' he added, turning to Arkady, and\nscraping with his foot; 'you understand, a woman's weakness; and well,\na mother's heart ...'\n\nHis lips and eyebrows too were twitching, and his beard was quivering\n... but he was obviously trying to control himself and appear almost\nindifferent.\n\n'Let's come in, mother, really,' said Bazarov, and he led the enfeebled\nold woman into the house. Putting her into a comfortable armchair, he\nonce more hurriedly embraced his father and introduced Arkady to him.\n\n'Heartily glad to make your acquaintance,' said Vassily Ivanovitch,\n'but you mustn't expect great things; everything here in my house is\ndone in a plain way, on a military footing. Arina Vlasyevna, calm\nyourself, pray; what weakness! The gentleman our guest will think ill\nof you.'\n\n'My dear sir,' said the old lady through her tears, 'your name and your\nfather's I haven't the honour of knowing....'\n\n'Arkady Nikolaitch,' put in Vassily Ivanitch solemnly, in a low voice.\n\n'You must excuse a silly old woman like me.' The old woman blew her\nnose, and bending her head to right and to left, carefully wiped one\neye after the other. 'You must excuse me. You see, I thought I should\ndie, that I should not live to see my da .. arling.'\n\n'Well, here we have lived to see him, madam,' put in Vassily\nIvanovitch. 'Tanyushka,' he turned to a bare-legged little girl of\nthirteen in a bright red cotton dress, who was timidly peeping in at\nthe door, 'bring your mistress a glass of water--on a tray, do you\nhear?--and you, gentlemen,' he added, with a kind of old-fashioned\nplayfulness, 'let me ask you into the study of a retired old veteran.'\n\n'Just once more let me embrace you, Enyusha,' moaned Arina Vlasyevna.\nBazarov bent down to her. 'Why, what a handsome fellow you have grown!'\n\n'Well, I don't know about being handsome,' remarked Vassily Ivanovitch,\n'but he's a man, as the saying is, _ommfay_. And now I hope, Arina\nVlasyevna, that having satisfied your maternal heart, you will turn\nyour thoughts to satisfying the appetites of our dear guests, because,\nas you're aware, even nightingales can't be fed on fairy tales.'\n\nThe old lady got up from her chair. 'This minute, Vassily Ivanovitch,\nthe table shall be laid. I will run myself to the kitchen and order the\nsamovar to be brought in; everything shall be ready, everything. Why, I\nhave not seen him, not given him food or drink these three years; is\nthat nothing?'\n\n'There, mind, good mother, bustle about; don't put us to shame; while\nyou, gentlemen, I beg you to follow me. Here's Timofeitch come to pay\nhis respects to you, Yevgeny. He, too, I daresay, is delighted, the old\ndog. Eh, aren't you delighted, old dog? Be so good as to follow me.'\n\nAnd Vassily Ivanovitch went bustling forward, scraping and flapping\nwith his slippers trodden down at heel.\n\nHis whole house consisted of six tiny rooms. One of them--the one to\nwhich he led our friends--was called the study. A thick-legged table,\nlittered over with papers black with the accumulation of ancient dust\nas though they had been smoked, occupied all the space between the two\nwindows; on the walls hung Turkish firearms, whips, a sabre, two maps,\nsome anatomical diagrams, a portrait of Hoffland, a monogram woven in\nhair in a blackened frame, and a diploma under glass; a leather sofa,\ntorn and worn into hollows in parts, was placed between two huge\ncupboards of birch-wood; on the shelves books, boxes, stuffed birds,\njars, and phials were huddled together in confusion; in one corner\nstood a broken galvanic battery.\n\n'I warned you, my dear Arkady Nikolaitch,' began Vassily Ivanitch,\n'that we live, so to say, bivouacking....'\n\n'There, stop that, what are you apologising for?' Bazarov interrupted.\n'Kirsanov knows very well we're not Croesuses, and that you have no\nbutler. Where are we going to put him, that's the question?'\n\n'To be sure, Yevgeny; I have a capital room there in the little lodge;\nhe will be very comfortable there.'\n\n'Have you had a lodge put up then?'\n\n'Why, where the bath-house is,' put in Timofeitch.\n\n'That is next to the bathroom,' Vassily Ivanitch added hurriedly. 'It's\nsummer now ... I will run over there at once, and make arrangements;\nand you, Timofeitch, meanwhile bring in their things. You, Yevgeny, I\nshall of course offer my study. _Suum cuique_.'\n\n'There you have him! A comical old chap, and very good-natured,'\nremarked Bazarov, directly Vassily Ivanitch had gone. 'Just such a\nqueer fish as yours, only in another way. He chatters too much.'\n\n'And your mother seems an awfully nice woman,' observed Arkady.\n\n'Yes, there's no humbug about her. You'll see what a dinner she'll give\nus.'\n\n'They didn't expect you to-day, sir; they've not brought any beef?'\nobserved Timofeitch, who was just dragging in Bazarov's box.\n\n'We shall get on very well without beef. It's no use crying for the\nmoon. Poverty, they say, is no vice.'\n\n'How many serfs has your father?' Arkady asked suddenly.\n\n'The estate's not his, but mother's; there are fifteen serfs, if I\nremember.'\n\n'Twenty-two in all,' Timofeitch added, with an air of displeasure.\n\nThe flapping of slippers was heard, and Vassily Ivanovitch reappeared.\n'In a few minutes your room will be ready to receive you,' he cried\ntriumphantly. Arkady ... Nikolaitch? I think that is right? And here is\nyour attendant,' he added, indicating a short-cropped boy, who had come\nin with him in a blue full-skirted coat with ragged elbows and a pair\nof boots which did not belong to him. 'His name is Fedka. Again, I\nrepeat, even though my son tells me not to, you mustn't expect great\nthings. He knows how to fill a pipe, though. You smoke, of course?'\n\n'I generally smoke cigars,' answered Arkady.\n\n'And you do very sensibly. I myself give the preference to cigars, but\nin these solitudes it is exceedingly difficult to obtain them.'\n\n'There, that's enough humble pie,' Bazarov interrupted again. 'You'd\nmuch better sit here on the sofa and let us have a look at you.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch laughed and sat down. He was very like his son in\nface, only his brow was lower and narrower, and his mouth rather wider,\nand he was for ever restless, shrugging up his shoulder as though his\ncoat cut him under the armpits, blinking, clearing his throat, and\ngesticulating with his fingers, while his son was distinguished by a\nkind of nonchalant immobility.\n\n'Humble-pie!' repeated Vassily Ivanovitch. 'You must not imagine,\nYevgeny, I want to appeal, so to speak, to our guest's sympathies by\nmaking out we live in such a wilderness. Quite the contrary, I maintain\nthat for a thinking man nothing is a wilderness. At least, I try as far\nas possible not to get rusty, so to speak, not to fall behind the age.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch drew out of his pocket a new yellow silk\nhandkerchief, which he had had time to snatch up on the way to Arkady's\nroom, and flourishing it in the air, he proceeded: 'I am not now\nalluding to the fact that, for example, at the cost of sacrifices not\ninconsiderable for me, I have put my peasants on the rent-system and\ngiven up my land to them on half profits. I regarded that as my duty;\ncommon sense itself enjoins such a proceeding, though other proprietors\ndo not even dream of it; I am alluding to the sciences, to culture.'\n\n'Yes; I see you have here _The Friend of Health_ for 1855,' remarked\nBazarov.\n\n'It's sent me by an old comrade out of friendship,' Vassily Ivanovitch\nmade haste to answer; 'but we have, for instance, some idea even of\nphrenology,' he added, addressing himself principally, however, to\nArkady, and pointing to a small plaster head on the cupboard, divided\ninto numbered squares; 'we are not unacquainted even with Schenlein and\nRademacher.'\n\n'Why do people still believe in Rademacher in this province?' asked\nBazarov.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch cleared his throat. 'In this province.... Of course,\ngentlemen, you know best; how could we keep pace with you? You are here\nto take our places. In my day, too, there was some sort of a\nHumouralist school, Hoffmann, and Brown too with his vitalism--they\nseemed very ridiculous to us, but, of course, they too had been great\nmen at one time or other. Some one new has taken the place of\nRademacher with you; you bow down to him, but in another twenty years\nit will be his turn to be laughed at.'\n\n'For your consolation I will tell you,' observed Bazarov, 'that\nnowadays we laugh at medicine altogether, and don't bow down to any\none.'\n\n'How's that? Why, you're going to be a doctor, aren't you?'\n\n'Yes, but the one fact doesn't prevent the other.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch poked his third finger into his pipe, where a little\nsmouldering ash was still left. 'Well, perhaps, perhaps--I am not going\nto dispute. What am I? A retired army-doctor, _volla-too_; now fate has\nmade me take to farming. I served in your grandfather's brigade,' he\naddressed himself again to Arkady; 'yes, yes, I have seen many sights\nin my day. And I was thrown into all kinds of society, brought into\ncontact with all sorts of people! I myself, the man you see before you\nnow, have felt the pulse of Prince Wittgenstein and of Zhukovsky! They\nwere in the southern army, in the fourteenth, you understand' (and here\nVassily Ivanovitch pursed his mouth up significantly). 'Well, well, but\nmy business was on one side; stick to your lancet, and let everything\nelse go hang! Your grandfather was a very honourable man, a real\nsoldier.'\n\n'Confess, now, he was rather a blockhead,' remarked Bazarov lazily.\n\n'Ah, Yevgeny, how can you use such an expression! Do consider.... Of\ncourse, General Kirsanov was not one of the ...'\n\n'Come, drop him,' broke in Bazarov; 'I was pleased as I was driving\nalong here to see your birch copse; it has shot up capitally.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch brightened up. 'And you must see what a little\ngarden I've got now! I planted every tree myself. I've fruit, and\nraspberries, and all kinds of medicinal herbs. However clever you young\ngentlemen may be, old Paracelsus spoke the holy truth: _in herbis\nverbis et lapidibus_.... I've retired from practice, you know, of\ncourse, but two or three times a week it will happen that I'm brought\nback to my old work. They come for advice--I can't drive them away.\nSometimes the poor have recourse to me for help. And indeed there are\nno doctors here at all. There's one of the neighbours here, a retired\nmajor, only fancy, he doctors the people too. I asked the question,\n\"Has he studied medicine?\" And they told me, \"No, he's not studied; he\ndoes it more from philanthropy.\"... Ha! ha! ha! from philanthropy! What\ndo you think of that? Ha! ha! ha!'\n\n'Fedka, fill me a pipe!' said Bazarov rudely.\n\n'And there's another doctor here who just got to a patient,' Vassily\nIvanovitch persisted in a kind of desperation, 'when the patient had\ngone _ad patres_; the servant didn't let the doctor speak; you're no\nlonger wanted, he told him. He hadn't expected this, got confused, and\nasked, \"Why, did your master hiccup before his death?\" \"Yes.\" \"Did he\nhiccup much?\" \"Yes.\" \"Ah, well, that's all right,\" and off he set back\nagain. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nThe old man was alone in his laughter; Arkady forced a smile on his\nface. Bazarov simply stretched. The conversation went on in this way\nfor about an hour; Arkady had time to go to his room, which turned out\nto be the anteroom attached to the bathroom, but was very snug and\nclean. At last Tanyusha came in and announced that dinner was ready.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch was the first to get up. 'Come, gentlemen. You must\nbe magnanimous and pardon me if I've bored you. I daresay my good wife\nwill give you more satisfaction.'\n\nThe dinner, though prepared in haste, turned out to be very good, even\nabundant; only the wine was not quite up to the mark; it was almost\nblack sherry, bought by Timofeitch in the town at a well-known\nmerchant's, and had a faint coppery, resinous taste, and the flies were\na great nuisance. On ordinary days a serf-boy used to keep driving them\naway with a large green branch; but on this occasion Vassily Ivanovitch\nhad sent him away through dread of the criticism of the younger\ngeneration. Arina Vlasyevna had had time to dress: she had put on a\nhigh cap with silk ribbons and a pale blue flowered shawl. She broke\ndown again directly she caught sight of her Enyusha, but her husband\nhad no need to admonish her; she made haste to wipe away her tears\nherself, for fear of spotting her shawl. Only the young men ate\nanything; the master and mistress of the house had dined long ago.\nFedka waited at table, obviously encumbered by having boots on for the\nfirst time; he was assisted by a woman of a masculine cast of face and\none eye, by name Anfisushka, who performed the duties of housekeeper,\npoultry-woman, and laundress. Vassily Ivanovitch walked up and down\nduring the whole of dinner, and with a perfectly happy, positively\nbeatific countenance, talked about the serious anxiety he felt at\nNapoleon's policy, and the intricacy of the Italian question. Arina\nVlasyevna took no notice of Arkady. She did not press him to eat;\nleaning her round face, to which the full cherry-coloured lips and the\nlittle moles on the cheeks and over the eyebrows gave a very simple\ngood-natured expression, on her little closed fist, she did not take\nher eyes off her son, and kept constantly sighing; she was dying to\nknow for how long he had come, but she was afraid to ask him.\n\n'What if he says for two days,' she thought, and her heart sank. After\nthe roast Vassily Ivanovitch disappeared for an instant, and returned\nwith an opened half-bottle of champagne. 'Here,' he cried, 'though we\ndo live in the wilds, we have something to make merry with on festive\noccasions!' He filled three champagne glasses and a little wineglass,\nproposed the health of 'our inestimable guests,' and at once tossed off\nhis glass in military fashion; while he made Arina Vlasyevna drink her\nwineglass to the last drop. When the time came in due course for\npreserves, Arkady, who could not bear anything sweet, thought it his\nduty, however, to taste four different kinds which had been freshly\nmade, all the more as Bazarov flatly refused them and began at once\nsmoking a cigarette. Then tea came on the scene with cream, butter, and\ncracknels; then Vassily Ivanovitch took them all into the garden to\nadmire the beauty of the evening. As they passed a garden seat he\nwhispered to Arkady--\n\n'At this spot I love to meditate, as I watch the sunset; it suits a\nrecluse like me. And there, a little farther off, I have planted some\nof the trees beloved of Horace.'\n\n'What trees?' asked Bazarov, overhearing.\n\n'Oh ... acacias.'\n\nBazarov began to yawn.\n\n'I imagine it's time our travellers were in the arms of Morpheus,'\nobserved Vassily Ivanovitch.\n\n'That is, it's time for bed,' Bazarov put in. 'That's a correct idea.\nIt is time, certainly.'\n\nAs he said good-night to his mother, he kissed her on the forehead,\nwhile she embraced him, and stealthily behind his back she gave him her\nblessing three times. Vassily Ivanovitch conducted Arkady to his room,\nand wished him 'as refreshing repose as I enjoyed at your happy years.'\nAnd Arkady did as a fact sleep excellently in his bath-house; there was\na smell of mint in it, and two crickets behind the stove rivalled each\nother in their drowsy chirping. Vassily Ivanovitch went from Arkady's\nroom to his study, and perching on the sofa at his son's feet, he was\nlooking forward to having a chat with him; but Bazarov at once sent him\naway, saying he was sleepy, and did not fall asleep till morning. With\nwide open eyes he stared vindictively into the darkness; the memories\nof childhood had no power over him; and besides, he had not yet had\ntime to get rid of the impression of his recent bitter emotions. Arina\nVlasyevna first prayed to her heart's content, then she had a long,\nlong conversation with Anfisushka, who stood stock-still before her\nmistress, and fixing her solitary eye upon her, communicated in a\nmysterious whisper all her observations and conjectures in regard to\nYevgeny Vassilyevitch. The old lady's head was giddy with happiness and\nwine and tobacco smoke; her husband tried to talk to her, but with a\nwave of his hand gave it up in despair.\n\nArina Vlasyevna was a genuine Russian gentlewoman of the olden times;\nshe ought to have lived two centuries before, in the old Moscow days.\nShe was very devout and emotional; she believed in fortune-telling,\ncharms, dreams, and omens of every possible kind; she believed in the\nprophecies of crazy people, in house-spirits, in wood-spirits, in\nunlucky meetings, in the evil eye, in popular remedies, she ate\nspecially prepared salt on Holy Thursday, and believed that the end of\nthe world was at hand; she believed that if on Easter Sunday the lights\ndid not go out at vespers, then there would be a good crop of\nbuckwheat, and that a mushroom will not grow after it has been looked\non by the eye of man; she believed that the devil likes to be where\nthere is water, and that every Jew has a blood-stained patch on his\nbreast; she was afraid of mice, of snakes, of frogs, of sparrows, of\nleeches, of thunder, of cold water, of draughts, of horses, of goats,\nof red-haired people, and black cats, and she regarded crickets and\ndogs as unclean beasts; she never ate veal, doves, crayfishes, cheese,\nasparagus, artichokes, hares, nor water-melons, because a cut\nwater-melon suggested the head of John the Baptist, and of oysters she\ncould not speak without a shudder; she was fond of eating--and fasted\nrigidly; she slept ten hours out of the twenty-four--and never went to\nbed at all if Vassily Ivanovitch had so much as a headache; she had\nnever read a single book except _Alexis or the Cottage in the Forest_;\nshe wrote one, or at the most two letters in a year, but was great in\nhousewifery, preserving, and jam-making, though with her own hands she\nnever touched a thing, and was generally disinclined to move from her\nplace. Arina Vlasyevna was very kindhearted, and in her way not at all\nstupid. She knew that the world is divided into masters whose duty it\nis to command, and simple folk whose duty it is to serve them--and so\nshe felt no repugnance to servility and prostrations to the ground; but\nshe treated those in subjection to her kindly and gently, never let a\nsingle beggar go away empty-handed, and never spoke ill of any one,\nthough she was fond of gossip. In her youth she had been pretty, had\nplayed the clavichord, and spoken French a little; but in the course of\nmany years' wanderings with her husband, whom she had married against\nher will, she had grown stout, and forgotten music and French. Her son\nshe loved and feared unutterably; she had given up the management of\nthe property to Vassily Ivanovitch--and now did not interfere in\nanything; she used to groan, wave her handkerchief, and raise her\neyebrows higher and higher with horror directly her old husband began\nto discuss the impending government reforms and his own plans. She was\napprehensive, and constantly expecting some great misfortune, and began\nto weep directly she remembered anything sorrowful.... Such women are\nnot common nowadays. God knows whether we ought to rejoice!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nOn getting up Arkady opened the window, and the first object that met\nhis view was Vassily Ivanovitch. In an Oriental dressing-gown girt\nround the waist with a pocket-handkerchief he was industriously digging\nin his garden. He perceived his young visitor, and leaning on his\nspade, he called, 'The best of health to you! How have you slept?'\n\n'Capitally,' answered Arkady.\n\n'Here am I, as you see, like some Cincinnatus, marking out a bed for\nlate turnips. The time has come now--and thank God for it!--when every\none ought to obtain his sustenance with his own hands; it's useless to\nreckon on others; one must labour oneself. And it turns out that Jean\nJacques Rousseau is right. Half an hour ago, my dear young gentleman,\nyou might have seen me in a totally different position. One peasant\nwoman, who complained of looseness--that's how they express it, but in\nour language, dysentery--I ... how can I express it best? I\nadministered opium, and for another I extracted a tooth. I proposed an\nan\u00e6sthetic to her ... but she would not consent. All that I do\n_gratis_--_anamatyer_ (_en amateur_). I'm used to it, though; you see,\nI'm a plebeian, _homo novus_--not one of the old stock, not like my\nspouse.... Wouldn't you like to come this way into the shade, to\nbreathe the morning freshness a little before tea?'\n\nArkady went out to him.\n\n'Welcome once again,' said Vassily Ivanovitch, raising his hand in a\nmilitary salute to the greasy skull-cap which covered his head. 'You, I\nknow, are accustomed to luxury, to amusements, but even the great ones\nof this world do not disdain to spend a brief space under a cottage\nroof.'\n\n'Good heavens,' protested Arkady, 'as though I were one of the great\nones of this world! And I'm not accustomed to luxury.'\n\n'Pardon me, pardon me,' rejoined Vassily Ivanovitch with a polite\nsimper. 'Though I am laid on the shelf now, I have knocked about the\nworld too--I can tell a bird by its flight. I am something of a\npsychologist too in my own way, and a physiognomist. If I had not, I\nwill venture to say, been endowed with that gift, I should have come to\ngrief long ago; I should have stood no chance, a poor man like me. I\ntell you without flattery, I am sincerely delighted at the friendship I\nobserve between you and my son. I have just seen him; he got up as he\nusually does--no doubt you are aware of it--very early, and went a\nramble about the neighbourhood. Permit me to inquire--have you known my\nson long?'\n\n'Since last winter.'\n\n'Indeed. And permit me to question you further--but hadn't we better\nsit down? Permit me, as a father, to ask without reserve, What is your\nopinion of my Yevgeny?'\n\n'Your son is one of the most remarkable men I have ever met,' Arkady\nanswered emphatically.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch's eyes suddenly grew round, and his cheeks were\nsuffused with a faint flush. The spade fell out of his hand.\n\n'And so you expect,' he began ...\n\n'I'm convinced,' Arkady put in, 'that your son has a great future\nbefore him; that he will do honour to your name. I've been certain of\nthat ever since I first met him.'\n\n'How ... how was that?' Vassily Ivanovitch articulated with an effort.\nHis wide mouth was relaxed in a triumphant smile, which would not leave\nit.\n\n'Would you like me to tell you how we met?'\n\n'Yes ... and altogether....'\n\nArkady began to tell his tale, and to talk of Bazarov with even greater\nwarmth, even greater enthusiasm than he had done on the evening when he\ndanced a mazurka with Madame Odintsov.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch listened and listened, blinked, and rolled his\nhandkerchief up into a ball in both his hands, cleared his throat,\nruffled up his hair, and at last could stand it no longer; he bent down\nto Arkady and kissed him on his shoulder. 'You have made me perfectly\nhappy,' he said, never ceasing to smile. 'I ought to tell you, I ...\nidolise my son; my old wife I won't speak of--we all know what mothers\nare!--but I dare not show my feelings before him, because he doesn't\nlike it. He is averse to every kind of demonstration of feeling; many\npeople even find fault with him for such firmness of character, and\nregard it as a proof of pride or lack of feeling, but men like him\nought not to be judged by the common standard, ought they? And here,\nfor example, many another fellow in his place would have been a\nconstant drag on his parents; but he, would you believe it? has never\nfrom the day he was born taken a farthing more than he could help,\nthat's God's truth!'\n\n'He is a disinterested, honest man,' observed Arkady.\n\n'Exactly so; he is disinterested. And I don't only idolise him, Arkady\nNikolaitch, I am proud of him, and the height of my ambition is that\nsome day there will be the following lines in his biography: \"The son\nof a simple army-doctor, who was, however, capable of divining his\ngreatness betimes, and spared nothing for his education ...\"' The old\nman's voice broke.\n\nArkady pressed his hand.\n\n'What do you think,' inquired Vassily Ivanovitch, after a short\nsilence, 'will it be in the career of medicine that he will attain the\ncelebrity you anticipate for him?'\n\n'Of course, not in medicine, though even in that department he will be\none of the leading scientific men.'\n\n'In what then, Arkady Nikolaitch?'\n\n'It would he hard to say now, but he will be famous.'\n\n'He will be famous!' repeated the old man, and he sank into a reverie.\n\n'Arina Vlasyevna sent me to call you in to tea,' announced Anfisushka,\ncoming by with an immense dish of ripe raspberries.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch started. 'And will there be cooled cream for the\nraspberries?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Cold now, mind! Don't stand on ceremony, Arkady Nikolaitch; take some\nmore. How is it Yevgeny doesn't come?'\n\n'I'm here,' was heard Bazarov's voice from Arkady's room.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch turned round quickly. 'Aha! you wanted to pay a\nvisit to your friend; but you were too late, _amice_, and we have\nalready had a long conversation with him. Now we must go in to tea,\nmother summons us. By the way, I want to have a little talk with you.'\n\n'What about?'\n\n'There's a peasant here; he's suffering from icterus....\n\n'You mean jaundice?'\n\n'Yes, a chronic and very obstinate case of icterus. I have prescribed\nhim centaury and St. John's wort, ordered him to eat carrots, given him\nsoda; but all that's merely palliative measures; we want some more\ndecided treatment. Though you do laugh at medicine, I am certain you\ncan give me practical advice. But we will talk of that later. Now come\nin to tea.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch jumped up briskly from the garden seat, and hummed\nfrom _Robert le Diable_--\n\n  'The rule, the rule we set ourselves,\n   To live, to live for pleasure!'\n\n'Singular vitality!' observed Bazarov, going away from the window.\n\nIt was midday. The sun was burning hot behind a thin veil of unbroken\nwhitish clouds. Everything was hushed; there was no sound but the cocks\ncrowing irritably at one another in the village, producing in every one\nwho heard them a strange sense of drowsiness and ennui; and somewhere,\nhigh up in a tree-top, the incessant plaintive cheep of a young hawk.\nArkady and Bazarov lay in the shade of a small haystack, putting under\nthemselves two armfuls of dry and rustling, but still greenish and\nfragrant grass.\n\n'That aspen-tree,' began Bazarov, 'reminds me of my childhood; it grows\nat the edge of the clay-pits where the bricks were dug, and in those\ndays I believed firmly that that clay-pit and aspen-tree possessed a\npeculiar talismanic power; I never felt dull near them. I did not\nunderstand then that I was not dull, because I was a child. Well, now\nI'm grown up, the talisman's lost its power.'\n\n'How long did you live here altogether?' asked Arkady.\n\n'Two years on end; then we travelled about. We led a roving life,\nwandering from town to town for the most part.'\n\n'And has this house been standing long?'\n\n'Yes. My grandfather built it--my mother's father.'\n\n'Who was he--your grandfather?'\n\n'Devil knows. Some second-major. He served with Suvorov, and was always\ntelling stories about the crossing of the Alps--inventions probably.'\n\n'You have a portrait of Suvorov hanging in the drawing-room. I like\nthese dear little houses like yours; they're so warm and old-fashioned;\nand there's always a special sort of scent about them.'\n\n'A smell of lamp-oil and clover,' Bazarov remarked, yawning. 'And the\nflies in those dear little houses.... Faugh!'\n\n'Tell me,' began Arkady, after a brief pause, 'were they strict with\nyou when you were a child?'\n\n'You can see what my parents are like. They're not a severe sort.'\n\n'Are you fond of them, Yevgeny?'\n\n'I am, Arkady.'\n\n'How fond they are of you!'\n\nBazarov was silent for a little. 'Do you know what I'm thinking about?'\nhe brought out at last, clasping his hands behind his head.\n\n'No. What is it?'\n\n'I'm thinking life is a happy thing for my parents. My father at sixty\nis fussing around, talking about \"palliative\" measures, doctoring\npeople, playing the bountiful master with the peasants--having a\nfestive time, in fact; and my mother's happy too; her day's so chockful\nof duties of all sorts, and sighs and groans that she's no time even to\nthink of herself; while I ...'\n\n'While you?'\n\n'I think; here I lie under a haystack.... The tiny space I occupy is so\ninfinitely small in comparison with the rest of space, in which I am\nnot, and which has nothing to do with me; and the period of time in\nwhich it is my lot to live is so petty beside the eternity in which I\nhave not been, and shall not be.... And in this atom, this mathematical\npoint, the blood is circulating, the brain is working and wanting\nsomething.... Isn't it loathsome? Isn't it petty?'\n\n'Allow me to remark that what you're saying applies to men in general.'\n\n'You are right,' Bazarov cut in. 'I was going to say that they now--my\nparents, I mean--are absorbed and don't trouble themselves about their\nown nothingness; it doesn't sicken them ... while I ... I feel nothing\nbut weariness and anger.'\n\n'Anger? why anger?'\n\n'Why? How can you ask why? Have you forgotten?'\n\n'I remember everything, but still I don't admit that you have any right\nto be angry. You're unlucky, I'll allow, but ...'\n\n'Pooh! then you, Arkady Nikolaevitch, I can see, regard love like all\nmodern young men; cluck, cluck, cluck you call to the hen, but if the\nhen comes near you, you run away. I'm not like that. But that's enough\nof that. What can't be helped, it's shameful to talk about.' He turned\nover on his side. 'Aha! there goes a valiant ant dragging off a\nhalf-dead fly. Take her, brother, take her! Don't pay attention to her\nresistance; it's your privilege as an animal to be free from the\nsentiment of pity--make the most of it--not like us conscientious\nself-destructive animals!'\n\n'You shouldn't say that, Yevgeny! When have you destroyed yourself?'\n\nBazarov raised his head. 'That's the only thing I pride myself on. I\nhaven't crushed myself, so a woman can't crush me. Amen! It's all over!\nYou shall not hear another word from me about it.'\n\nBoth the friends lay for some time in silence.\n\n'Yes,' began Bazarov, 'man's a strange animal. When one gets a side\nview from a distance of the dead-alive life our \"fathers\" lead here,\none thinks, What could be better? You eat and drink, and know you are\nacting in the most reasonable, most judicious manner. But if not,\nyou're devoured by ennui. One wants to have to do with people if only\nto abuse them.'\n\n'One ought so to order one's life that every moment in it should be of\nsignificance,' Arkady affirmed reflectively.\n\n'I dare say! What's of significance is sweet, however mistaken; one\ncould make up one's mind to what's insignificant even. But pettiness,\npettiness, that's what's insufferable.'\n\n'Pettiness doesn't exist for a man so long as he refuses to recognise\nit.'\n\n'H'm ... what you've just said is a common-place reversed.'\n\n'What? What do you mean by that term?'\n\n'I'll tell you; saying, for instance, that education is beneficial,\nthat's a common-place; but to say that education is injurious, that's a\ncommon-place turned upside down. There's more style about it, so to\nsay, but in reality it's one and the same.'\n\n'And the truth is--where, which side?'\n\n'Where? Like an echo I answer, Where?'\n\n'You're in a melancholy mood to-day, Yevgeny.'\n\n'Really? The sun must have softened my brain, I suppose, and I can't\nstand so many raspberries either.'\n\n'In that case, a nap's not a bad thing,' observed Arkady.\n\n'Certainly; only don't look at me; every man's face is stupid when he's\nasleep.'\n\n'But isn't it all the same to you what people think of you?'\n\n'I don't know what to say to you. A real man ought not to care; a real\nman is one whom it's no use thinking about, whom one must either obey\nor hate.'\n\n'It's funny! I don't hate anybody,' observed Arkady, after a moment's\nthought.\n\n'And I hate so many. You are a soft-hearted, mawkish creature; how\ncould you hate any one?... You're timid; you don't rely on yourself\nmuch.'\n\n'And you,' interrupted Arkady, 'do you expect much of yourself? Have\nyou a high opinion of yourself?'\n\nBazarov paused. 'When I meet a man who can hold his own beside me,' he\nsaid, dwelling on every syllable, 'then I'll change my opinion of\nmyself. Yes, hatred! You said, for instance, to-day as we passed our\nbailiff Philip's cottage--it's the one that's so nice and clean--well,\nyou said, Russia will come to perfection when the poorest peasant has a\nhouse like that, and every one of us ought to work to bring it\nabout.... And I felt such a hatred for this poorest peasant, this\nPhilip or Sidor, for whom I'm to be ready to jump out of my skin, and\nwho won't even thank me for it ... and why should he thank me? Why,\nsuppose he does live in a clean house, while the nettles are growing\nout of me,--well what do I gain by it?'\n\n'Hush, Yevgeny ... if one listened to you to-day one would be driven to\nagreeing with those who reproach us for want of principles.'\n\n'You talk like your uncle. There are no general principles--you've not\nmade out that even yet! There are feelings. Everything depends on\nthem.'\n\n'How so?'\n\n'Why, I, for instance, take up a negative attitude, by virtue of my\nsensations; I like to deny--my brain's made on that plan, and that's\nall about it! Why do I like chemistry? Why do you like apples?--by\nvirtue of our sensations. It's all the same thing. Deeper than that men\nwill never penetrate. Not every one will tell you that, and, in fact, I\nshan't tell you so another time.'\n\n'What? and is honesty a matter of the senses?'\n\n'I should rather think so.'\n\n'Yevgeny!' Arkady was beginning in a dejected voice ...\n\n'Well? What? Isn't it to your taste?' broke in Bazarov. 'No, brother.\nIf you've made up your mind to mow down everything, don't spare your\nown legs. But we've talked enough metaphysics. \"Nature breathes the\nsilence of sleep,\" said Pushkin.'\n\n'He never said anything of the sort,' protested Arkady.\n\n'Well, if he didn't, as a poet he might have--and ought to have said\nit. By the way, he must have been a military man.'\n\n'Pushkin never was a military man!'\n\n'Why, on every page of him there's, \"To arms! to arms! for Russia's\nhonour!\"'\n\n'Why, what stories you invent! I declare, it's positive calumny.'\n\n'Calumny? That's a mighty matter! What a word he's found to frighten me\nwith! Whatever charge you make against a man, you may be certain he\ndeserves twenty times worse than that in reality.'\n\n'We had better go to sleep,' said Arkady, in a tone of vexation.\n\n'With the greatest pleasure,' answered Bazarov. But neither of them\nslept. A feeling almost of hostility had come over both the young men.\nFive minutes later, they opened their eyes and glanced at one another\nin silence.\n\n'Look,' said Arkady suddenly, 'a dry maple leaf has come off and is\nfalling to the earth; its movement is exactly like a butterfly's\nflight. Isn't it strange? Gloom and decay--like brightness and life.'\n\n'Oh, my friend, Arkady Nikolaitch!' cried Bazarov, 'one thing I entreat\nof you; no fine talk.'\n\n'I talk as best I can.... And, I declare, its perfect despotism. An\nidea came into my head; why shouldn't I utter it?'\n\n'Yes; and why shouldn't I utter my ideas? I think that fine talk's\npositively indecent.'\n\n'And what is decent? Abuse?'\n\n'Ha! ha! you really do intend, I see, to walk in your uncle's\nfootsteps. How pleased that worthy imbecile would have been if he had\nheard you!'\n\n'What did you call Pavel Petrovitch?'\n\n'I called him, very justly, an imbecile.'\n\n'But this is unbearable!' cried Arkady.\n\n'Aha! family feeling spoke there,' Bazarov commented coolly. 'I've\nnoticed how obstinately it sticks to people. A man's ready to give up\neverything and break with every prejudice; but to admit that his\nbrother, for instance, who steals handkerchiefs, is a thief--that's too\nmuch for him. And when one comes to think of it: my brother, mine--and\nno genius ... that's an idea no one can swallow.'\n\n'It was a simple sense of justice spoke in me and not in the least\nfamily feeling,' retorted Arkady passionately. 'But since that's a\nsense you don't understand, since you haven't that sensation, you can't\njudge of it.'\n\n'In other words, Arkady Kirsanov is too exalted for my comprehension. I\nbow down before him and say no more.'\n\n'Don't, please, Yevgeny; we shall really quarrel at last.'\n\n'Ah, Arkady! do me a kindness. I entreat you, let us quarrel for once\nin earnest....'\n\n'But then perhaps we should end by ...'\n\n'Fighting?' put in Bazarov. 'Well? Here, on the hay, in these idyllic\nsurroundings, far from the world and the eyes of men, it wouldn't\nmatter. But you'd be no match for me. I'll have you by the throat in a\nminute.'\n\nBazarov spread out his long, cruel fingers.... Arkady turned round and\nprepared, as though in jest, to resist.... But his friend's face struck\nhim as so vindictive--there was such menace in grim earnest in the\nsmile that distorted his lips, and in his glittering eyes, that he felt\ninstinctively afraid.\n\n'Ah! so this is where you have got to!' the voice of Vassily Ivanovitch\nwas heard saying at that instant, and the old army-doctor appeared\nbefore the young men, garbed in a home-made linen pea-jacket, with a\nstraw hat, also home-made, on his head. 'I've been looking everywhere\nfor you.... Well, you've picked out a capital place, and you're\nexcellently employed. Lying on the \"earth, gazing up to heaven.\" Do you\nknow, there's a special significance in that?'\n\n'I never gaze up to heaven except when I want to sneeze,' growled\nBazarov, and turning to Arkady he added in an undertone. 'Pity he\ninterrupted us.'\n\n'Come, hush!' whispered Arkady, and he secretly squeezed his friend's\nhand. But no friendship can long stand such shocks.\n\n'I look at you, my youthful friends,' Vassily Ivanovitch was saying\nmeantime, shaking his head, and leaning his folded arms on a rather\ncunningly bent stick of his own carving, with a Turk's figure for a\ntop,--'I look, and I cannot refrain from admiration. You have so much\nstrength, such youth and bloom, such abilities, such talents!\nPositively, a Castor and Pollux!'\n\n'Get along with you--going off into mythology!' commented Bazarov. 'You\ncan see at once that he was a great Latinist in his day! Why, I seem to\nremember, you gained the silver medal for Latin prose--didn't you?'\n\n'The Dioscuri, the Dioscuri!' repeated Vassily Ivanovitch.\n\n'Come, shut up, father; don't show off.'\n\n'Once in a way it's surely permissible,' murmured the old man.\n'However, I have not been seeking for you, gentlemen, to pay you\ncompliments; but with the object, in the first place, of announcing to\nyou that we shall soon be dining; and secondly, I wanted to prepare\nyou, Yevgeny.... You are a sensible man, you know the world, and you\nknow what women are, and consequently you will excuse.... Your mother\nwished to have a Te Deum sung on the occasion of your arrival. You must\nnot imagine that I am inviting you to attend this thanksgiving--it is\nover indeed now; but Father Alexey ...'\n\n'The village parson?'\n\n'Well, yes, the priest; he ... is to dine ... with us.... I did not\nanticipate this, and did not even approve of it ... but it somehow came\nabout ... he did not understand me.... And, well ... Arina Vlasyevna\n... Besides, he's a worthy, reasonable man.'\n\n'He won't eat my share at dinner, I suppose?' queried Bazarov.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch laughed. 'How you talk!'\n\n'Well, that's all I ask. I'm ready to sit down to table with any man.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch set his hat straight. 'I was certain before I\nspoke,' he said, 'that you were above any kind of prejudice. Here am I,\nan old man at sixty-two, and I have none.' (Vassily Ivanovitch did not\ndare to confess that he had himself desired the thanksgiving service.\nHe was no less religious than his wife.) 'And Father Alexey very much\nwanted to make your acquaintance. You will like him, you'll see. He's\nno objection even to cards, and he sometimes--but this is between\nourselves ... positively smokes a pipe.'\n\n'All right. We'll have a round of whist after dinner, and I'll clean\nhim out.'\n\n'He! he! he! We shall see! That remains to be seen.'\n\n'I know you're an old hand,' said Bazarov, with a peculiar emphasis.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch's bronzed cheeks were suffused with an uneasy flush.\n\n'For shame, Yevgeny.... Let bygones be bygones. Well, I'm ready to\nacknowledge before this gentleman I had that passion in my youth; and I\nhave paid for it too! How hot it is, though! Let me sit down with you.\nI shan't be in your way, I hope?'\n\n'Oh, not at all,' answered Arkady.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch lowered himself, sighing, into the hay. 'Your\npresent quarters remind me, my dear sirs,' he began, 'of my military\nbivouacking existence, the ambulance halts, somewhere like this under a\nhaystack, and even for that we were thankful.' He sighed. 'I had many,\nmany experiences in my life. For example, if you will allow me, I will\ntell you a curious episode of the plague in Bessarabia.'\n\n'For which you got the Vladimir cross?' put in Bazarov. 'We know, we\nknow.... By the way, why is it you're not wearing it?'\n\n'Why, I told you that I have no prejudices,' muttered Vassily\nIvanovitch (he had only the evening before had the red ribbon unpicked\noff his coat), and he proceeded to relate the episode of the plague.\n'Why, he's fallen asleep,' he whispered all at once to Arkady, pointing\nto Yevgeny, and winking good-naturedly. 'Yevgeny! get up,' he went on\naloud. 'Let's go in to dinner.'\n\nFather Alexey, a good-looking stout man with thick, carefully-combed\nhair, with an embroidered girdle round his lilac silk cassock, appeared\nto be a man of much tact and adaptability. He made haste to be the\nfirst to offer his hand to Arkady and Bazarov, as though understanding\nbeforehand that they did not want his blessing, and he behaved himself\nin general without constraint. He neither derogated from his own\ndignity, nor gave offence to others; he vouchsafed a passing smile at\nthe seminary Latin, and stood up for his bishop; drank two small\nglasses of wine, but refused a third; accepted a cigar from Arkady, but\ndid not proceed to smoke it, saying he would take it home with him. The\nonly thing not quite agreeable about him was a way he had of constantly\nraising his hand with care and deliberation to catch the flies on his\nface, sometimes succeeding in smashing them. He took his seat at the\ngreen table, expressing his satisfaction at so doing in measured terms,\nand ended by winning from Bazarov two roubles and a half in paper\nmoney; they had no idea of even reckoning in silver in the house of\nArina Vlasyevna.... She was sitting, as before, near her son (she did\nnot play cards), her cheek, as before, propped on her little fist; she\nonly got up to order some new dainty to be served. She was afraid to\ncaress Bazarov, and he gave her no encouragement, he did not invite her\ncaresses; and besides, Vassily Ivanovitch had advised her not to\n'worry' him too much. 'Young men are not fond of that sort of thing,'\nhe declared to her. (It's needless to say what the dinner was like that\nday; Timofeitch in person had galloped off at early dawn for beef; the\nbailiff had gone off in another direction for turbot, gremille, and\ncrayfish; for mushrooms alone forty-two farthings had been paid the\npeasant women in copper); but Arina Vlasyevna's eyes, bent steadfastly\non Bazarov, did not express only devotion and tenderness; in them was\nto be seen sorrow also, mingled with awe and curiosity; there was to be\nseen too a sort of humble reproachfulness.\n\nBazarov, however, was not in a humour to analyse the exact expression\nof his mother's eyes; he seldom turned to her, and then only with some\nshort question. Once he asked her for her hand 'for luck'; she gently\nlaid her soft, little hand on his rough, broad palm.\n\n'Well,' she asked, after waiting a little, 'has it been any use?'\n\n'Worse luck than ever,' he answered, with a careless laugh.\n\n'He plays too rashly,' pronounced Father Alexey, as it were\ncompassionately, and he stroked his beard.\n\n'Napoleon's rule, good Father, Napoleon's rule,' put in Vassily\nIvanovitch, leading an ace.\n\n'It brought him to St. Helena, though,' observed Father Alexey, as he\ntrumped the ace.\n\n'Wouldn't you like some currant tea, Enyusha?' inquired Arina\nVlasyevna.\n\nBazarov merely shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'No!' he said to Arkady the next day. I'm off from here to-morrow. I'm\nbored; I want to work, but I can't work here. I will come to your place\nagain; I've left all my apparatus there too. In your house one can at\nany rate shut oneself up. While here my father repeats to me, \"My study\nis at your disposal--nobody shall interfere with you,\" and all the time\nhe himself is never a yard away. And I'm ashamed somehow to shut myself\naway from him. It's the same thing too with mother. I hear her sighing\nthe other side of the wall, and if one goes in to her, one's nothing to\nsay to her.'\n\n'She will be very much grieved,' observed Arkady, 'and so will he.'\n\n'I shall come back again to them.'\n\n'When?'\n\n'Why, when on my way to Petersburg.'\n\n'I feel sorry for your mother particularly.'\n\n'Why's that? Has she won your heart with strawberries, or what?'\n\nArkady dropped his eyes. 'You don't understand your mother, Yevgeny.\nShe's not only a very good woman, she's very clever really. This\nmorning she talked to me for half-an-hour, and so sensibly,\ninterestingly.'\n\n'I suppose she was expatiating upon me all the while?'\n\n'We didn't talk only about you.'\n\n'Perhaps; lookers-on see most. If a woman can keep up half-an-hour's\nconversation, it's always a hopeful sign. But I'm going, all the same.'\n\n'It won't be very easy for you to break it to them. They are always\nmaking plans for what we are to do in a fortnight's time.'\n\n'No; it won't be easy. Some demon drove me to tease my father to-day;\nhe had one of his rent-paying peasants flogged the other day, and quite\nright too--yes, yes, you needn't look at me in such horror--he did\nquite right, because he's an awful thief and drunkard; only my father\nhad no idea that I, as they say, was cognisant of the facts. He was\ngreatly perturbed, and now I shall have to upset him more than ever....\nNever mind! Never say die! He'll get over it!'\n\nBazarov said, 'Never mind'; but the whole day passed before he could\nmake up his mind to inform Vassily Ivanovitch of his intentions. At\nlast, when he was just saying good-night to him in the study, he\nobserved, with a feigned yawn--\n\n'Oh ... I was almost forgetting to tell you.... Send to Fedot's for our\nhorses to-morrow.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch was dumbfounded. 'Is Mr. Kirsanov leaving us, then?'\n\n'Yes; and I'm going with him.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch positively reeled. 'You are going?'\n\n'Yes ... I must. Make the arrangements about the horses, please.'\n\n'Very good....' faltered the old man; 'to Fedot's ... very good ...\nonly ... only.... How is it?'\n\n'I must go to stay with him for a little time. I will come back again\nlater.'\n\n'Ah! For a little time ... very good.' Vassily Ivanovitch drew out his\nhandkerchief, and, blowing his nose, doubled up almost to the ground.\n'Well ... everything shall be done. I had thought you were to be with\nus ... a little longer. Three days.... After three years, it's rather\nlittle; rather little, Yevgeny!'\n\n'But, I tell you, I'm coming back directly. It's necessary for me to\ngo.'\n\n'Necessary.... Well! Duty before everything. So the horses shall be in\nreadiness. Very good. Arina and I, of course, did not anticipate this.\nShe has just begged some flowers from a neighbour; she meant to\ndecorate the room for you.' (Vassily Ivanovitch did not even mention\nthat every morning almost at dawn he took counsel with Timofeitch,\nstanding with his bare feet in his slippers, and pulling out with\ntrembling fingers one dog's-eared rouble note after another, charged\nhim with various purchases, with special reference to good things to\neat, and to red wine, which, as far as he could observe, the young men\nliked extremely.) 'Liberty ... is the great thing; that's my rule.... I\ndon't want to hamper you ... not ...'\n\nHe suddenly ceased, and made for the door.\n\n'We shall soon see each other again, father, really.'\n\nBut Vassily Ivanovitch, without turning round, merely waved his hand\nand was gone. When he got back to his bedroom he found his wife in bed,\nand began to say his prayers in a whisper, so as not to wake her up.\nShe woke, however. 'Is that you, Vassily Ivanovitch?' she asked.\n\n'Yes, mother.'\n\n'Have you come from Enyusha? Do you know, I'm afraid of his not being\ncomfortable on that sofa. I told Anfisushka to put him on your\ntravelling mattress and the new pillows; I should have given him our\nfeather-bed, but I seem to remember he doesn't like too soft a bed....'\n\n'Never mind, mother; don't worry yourself. He's all right. Lord, have\nmercy on me, a sinner,' he went on with his prayer in a low voice.\nVassily Ivanovitch was sorry for his old wife; he did not mean to tell\nher over night what a sorrow there was in store for her.\n\nBazarov and Arkady set off the next day. From early morning all was\ndejection in the house; Anfisushka let the tray slip out of her hands;\neven Fedka was bewildered, and was reduced to taking off his boots.\nVassily Ivanitch was more fussy than ever; he was obviously trying to\nput a good face on it, talked loudly, and stamped with his feet, but\nhis face looked haggard, and his eyes were continually avoiding his\nson. Arina Vlasyevna was crying quietly; she was utterly crushed, and\ncould not have controlled herself at all if her husband had not spent\ntwo whole hours early in the morning exhorting her. When Bazarov, after\nrepeated promises to come back certainly not later than in a month's\ntime, tore himself at last from the embraces detaining him, and took\nhis seat in the coach; when the horses had started, the bell was\nringing, and the wheels were turning round, and when it was no longer\nany good to look after them, and the dust had settled, and Timofeitch,\nall bent and tottering as he walked, had crept back to his little room;\nwhen the old people were left alone in their little house, which seemed\nsuddenly to have grown shrunken and decrepit too, Vassily Ivanovitch,\nafter a few more moments of hearty waving of his handkerchief on the\nsteps, sank into a chair, and his head dropped on to his breast. 'He\nhas cast us off; he has forsaken us,' he faltered; 'forsaken us; he was\ndull with us. Alone, alone!' he repeated several times. Then Arina\nVlasyevna went up to him, and, leaning her grey head against his grey\nhead, said, 'There's no help for it, Vasya! A son is a separate piece\ncut off. He's like the falcon that flies home and flies away at his\npleasure; while you and I are like funguses in the hollow of a tree, we\nsit side by side, and don't move from our place. Only I am left you\nunchanged for ever, as you for me.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch took his hands from his face and clasped his wife,\nhis friend, as warmly as he had never clasped in youth; she comforted\nhim in his grief.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nIn silence, only rarely exchanging a few insignificant words, our\nfriends travelled as far as Fedot's. Bazarov was not altogether pleased\nwith himself. Arkady was displeased with him. He was feeling, too, that\ncauseless melancholy which is only known to very young people. The\ncoachman changed the horses, and getting up on to the box, inquired,\n'To the right or to the left?'\n\nArkady started. The road to the right led to the town, and from there\nhome; the road to the left led to Madame Odintsov's.\n\nHe looked at Bazarov.\n\n'Yevgeny,' he queried; 'to the left?'\n\nBazarov turned away. 'What folly is this?' he muttered.\n\n'I know it's folly,' answered Arkady.... 'But what does that matter?\nIt's not the first time.'\n\nBazarov pulled his cap down over his brows. 'As you choose,' he said at\nlast. 'Turn to the left,' shouted Arkady.\n\nThe coach rolled away in the direction of Nikolskoe. But having\nresolved on the folly, the friends were even more obstinately silent\nthan before, and seemed positively ill-humoured.\n\nDirectly the steward met them on the steps of Madame Odintsov's house,\nthe friends could perceive that they had acted injudiciously in giving\nway so suddenly to a passing impulse. They were obviously not expected.\nThey sat rather a long while, looking rather foolish, in the\ndrawing-room. Madame Odintsov came in to them at last. She greeted them\nwith her customary politeness, but was surprised at their hasty return;\nand, so far as could be judged from the deliberation of her gestures\nand words, she was not over pleased at it. They made haste to announce\nthat they had only called on their road, and must go on farther, to the\ntown, within four hours. She confined herself to a light exclamation,\nbegged Arkady to remember her to his father, and sent for her aunt. The\nprincess appeared very sleepy, which gave her wrinkled old face an even\nmore ill-natured expression. Katya was not well; she did not leave her\nroom. Arkady suddenly realised that he was at least as anxious to see\nKatya as Anna Sergyevna herself. The four hours were spent in\ninsignificant discussion of one thing and another; Anna Sergyevna both\nlistened and spoke without a smile. It was only quite at parting that\nher former friendliness seemed, as it were, to revive.\n\n'I have an attack of spleen just now,' she said; 'but you must not pay\nattention to that, and come again--I say this to both of you--before\nlong.'\n\nBoth Bazarov and Arkady responded with a silent bow, took their seats\nin the coach, and without stopping again anywhere, went straight home\nto Maryino, where they arrived safely on the evening of the following\nday. During the whole course of the journey neither one nor the other\neven mentioned the name of Madame Odintsov; Bazarov, in particular,\nscarcely opened his mouth, and kept staring in a side direction away\nfrom the road, with a kind of exasperated intensity.\n\nAt Maryino every one was exceedingly delighted to see them. The\nprolonged absence of his son had begun to make Nikolai Petrovitch\nuneasy; he uttered a cry of joy, and bounced about on the sofa,\ndangling his legs, when Fenitchka ran to him with sparkling eyes, and\ninformed him of the arrival of the 'young gentlemen'; even Pavel\nPetrovitch was conscious of some degree of agreeable excitement, and\nsmiled condescendingly as he shook hands with the returned wanderers.\nTalk, questions followed; Arkady talked most, especially at supper,\nwhich was prolonged long after midnight. Nikolai Petrovitch ordered up\nsome bottles of porter which had only just been sent from Moscow, and\npartook of the festive beverage till his cheeks were crimson, and he\nkept laughing in a half-childish, half-nervous little chuckle. Even the\nservants were infected by the general gaiety. Dunyasha ran up and down\nlike one possessed, and was continually slamming doors; while Piotr\nwas, at three o'clock in the morning, still attempting to strum a\nCossack waltz on the guitar. The strings gave forth a sweet and\nplaintive sound in the still air; but with the exception of a small\npreliminary flourish, nothing came of the cultured valet's efforts;\nnature had given him no more musical talent than all the rest of the\nworld.\n\nBut meanwhile things were not going over harmoniously at Maryino, and\npoor Nikolai Petrovitch was having a bad time of it. Difficulties on\nthe farm sprang up every day--senseless, distressing difficulties. The\ntroubles with the hired labourers had become insupportable. Some asked\nfor their wages to be settled, or for an increase of wages, while\nothers made off with the wages they had received in advance; the horses\nfell sick; the harness fell to pieces as though it were burnt; the work\nwas carelessly done; a threshing machine that had been ordered from\nMoscow turned out to be useless from its great weight, another was\nruined the first time it was used; half the cattle sheds were burnt\ndown through an old blind woman on the farm going in windy weather with\na burning brand to fumigate her cow ... the old woman, it is true,\nmaintained that the whole mischief could be traced to the master's plan\nof introducing newfangled cheeses and milk-products. The overseer\nsuddenly turned lazy, and began to grow fat, as every Russian grows fat\nwhen he gets a snug berth. When he caught sight of Nikolai Petrovitch\nin the distance, he would fling a stick at a passing pig, or threaten a\nhalf-naked urchin, to show his zeal, but the rest of the time he was\ngenerally asleep. The peasants who had been put on the rent system did\nnot bring their money at the time due, and stole the forest-timber;\nalmost every night the keepers caught peasants' horses in the meadows\nof the 'farm,' and sometimes forcibly bore them off. Nikolai Petrovitch\nwould fix a money fine for damages, but the matter usually ended after\nthe horses had been kept a day or two on the master's forage by their\nreturning to their owners. To crown all, the peasants began quarrelling\namong themselves; brothers asked for a division of property, their\nwives could not get on together in one house; all of a sudden the\nsquabble, as though at a given signal, came to a head, and at once the\nwhole village came running to the counting-house steps, crawling to the\nmaster often drunken and with battered face, demanding justice and\njudgment; then arose an uproar and clamour, the shrill wailing of the\nwomen mixed with the curses of the men. Then one had to examine the\ncontending parties, and shout oneself hoarse, knowing all the while\nthat one could never anyway arrive at a just decision.... There were\nnot hands enough for the harvest; a neighbouring small owner, with the\nmost benevolent countenance, contracted to supply him with reapers for\na commission of two roubles an acre, and cheated him in the most\nshameless fashion; his peasant women demanded unheard-of sums, and the\ncorn meanwhile went to waste; and here they were not getting on with\nthe mowing, and there the Council of Guardians threatened and demanded\nprompt payment, in full, of interest due....\n\n'I can do nothing!' Nikolai Petrovitch cried more than once in despair.\n'I can't flog them myself; and as for calling in the police captain, my\nprinciples don't allow of it, while you can do nothing with them\nwithout the fear of punishment!'\n\n'_Du calme_, _du calme_,' Pavel Petrovitch would remark upon this, but\neven he hummed to himself, knitted his brows, and tugged at his\nmoustache.\n\nBazarov held aloof from these matters, and indeed as a guest it was not\nfor him to meddle in other people's business. The day after his arrival\nat Maryino, he set to work on his frogs, his infusoria, and his\nchemical experiments, and was for ever busy with them. Arkady, on the\ncontrary, thought it his duty, if not to help his father, at least to\nmake a show of being ready to help him. He gave him a patient hearing,\nand once offered him some advice, not with any idea of its being acted\nupon, but to show his interest. Farming details did not arouse any\naversion in him; he used even to dream with pleasure of work on the\nland, but at this time his brain was swarming with other ideas. Arkady,\nto his own astonishment, thought incessantly of Nikolskoe; in former\ndays he would simply have shrugged his shoulders if any one had told\nhim that he could ever feel dull under the same roof as Bazarov--and\nthat roof his father's! but he actually was dull and longed to get\naway. He tried going long walks till he was tired, but that was no use.\nIn conversation with his father one day, he found out that Nikolai\nPetrovitch had in his possession rather interesting letters, written by\nMadame Odintsov's mother to his wife, and he gave him no rest till he\ngot hold of the letters, for which Nikolai Petrovitch had to rummage in\ntwenty drawers and boxes. Having gained possession of these\nhalf-crumbling papers, Arkady felt, as it were, soothed, just as though\nhe had caught a glimpse of the goal towards which he ought now to go.\n'I mean that for both of you,' he was constantly whispering--she had\nadded that herself! 'I'll go, I'll go, hang it all!' But he recalled\nthe last visit, the cold reception, and his former embarrassment, and\ntimidity got the better of him. The 'go-ahead' feeling of youth, the\nsecret desire to try his luck, to prove his powers in solitude, without\nthe protection of any one whatever, gained the day at last. Before ten\ndays had passed after his return to Maryino, on the pretext of studying\nthe working of the Sunday schools, he galloped off to the town again,\nand from there to Nikolskoe. Urging the driver on without intermission,\nhe flew along, like a young officer riding to battle; and he felt both\nfrightened and light-hearted, and was breathless with impatience. 'The\ngreat thing is--one mustn't think,' he kept repeating to himself. His\ndriver happened to be a lad of spirit; he halted before every public\nhouse, saying, 'A drink or not a drink?' but, to make up for it, when\nhe had drunk he did not spare his horses. At last the lofty roof of the\nfamiliar house came in sight.... 'What am I to do?' flashed through\nArkady's head. 'Well, there's no turning back now!' The three horses\ngalloped in unison; the driver whooped and whistled at them. And now\nthe bridge was groaning under the hoofs and wheels, and now the avenue\nof lopped pines seemed running to meet them.... There was a glimpse of\na woman's pink dress against the dark green, a young face from under\nthe light fringe of a parasol.... He recognised Katya, and she\nrecognised him. Arkady told the driver to stop the galloping horses,\nleaped out of the carriage, and went up to her. 'It's you!' she cried,\ngradually flushing all over; 'let us go to my sister, she's here in the\ngarden; she will be pleased to see you.'\n\nKatya led Arkady into the garden. His meeting with her struck him as a\nparticularly happy omen; he was delighted to see her, as though she\nwere of his own kindred. Everything had happened so splendidly; no\nsteward, no formal announcement. At a turn in the path he caught sight\nof Anna Sergyevna. She was standing with her back to him. Hearing\nfootsteps, she turned slowly round.\n\nArkady felt confused again, but the first words she uttered soothed him\nat once. 'Welcome back, runaway!' she said in her even, caressing\nvoice, and came to meet him, smiling and frowning to keep the sun and\nwind out of her eyes. 'Where did you pick him up, Katya?'\n\n'I have brought you something, Anna Sergyevna,' he began, 'which you\ncertainly don't expect.'\n\n'You have brought yourself; that's better than anything.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nHaving seen Arkady off with ironical compassion, and given him to\nunderstand that he was not in the least deceived as to the real object\nof his journey, Bazarov shut himself up in complete solitude; he was\novertaken by a fever for work. He did not dispute now with Pavel\nPetrovitch, especially as the latter assumed an excessively\naristocratic demeanour in his presence, and expressed his opinions more\nin inarticulate sounds than in words. Only on one occasion Pavel\nPetrovitch fell into a controversy with the _nihilist_ on the subject\nof the question then much discussed of the rights of the nobles of the\nBaltic province; but suddenly he stopped of his own accord, remarking\nwith chilly politeness, 'However, we cannot understand one another; I,\nat least, have not the honour of understanding you.'\n\n'I should think not!' cried Bazarov. 'A man's capable of understanding\nanything--how the \u00e6ther vibrates, and what's going on in the sun--but\nhow any other man can blow his nose differently from him, that he's\nincapable of understanding.'\n\n'What, is that an epigram?' observed Pavel Petrovitch inquiringly, and\nhe walked away.\n\nHowever, he sometimes asked permission to be present at Bazarov's\nexperiments, and once even placed his perfumed face, washed with the\nvery best soap, near the microscope to see how a transparent infusoria\nswallowed a green speck, and busily munched it with two very rapid sort\nof clappers which were in its throat. Nikolai Petrovitch visited\nBazarov much oftener than his brother; he would have come every day, as\nhe expressed it, to 'study,' if his worries on the farm had not taken\noff his attention. He did not hinder the young man in his scientific\nresearches; he used to sit down somewhere in a corner of the room and\nlook on attentively, occasionally permitting himself a discreet\nquestion. During dinner and supper-time he used to try to turn the\nconversation upon physics, geology, or chemistry, seeing that all other\ntopics, even agriculture, to say nothing of politics, might lead, if\nnot to collisions, at least to mutual unpleasantness. Nikolai\nPetrovitch surmised that his brother's dislike for Bazarov was no less.\nAn unimportant incident, among many others, confirmed his surmises. The\ncholera began to make its appearance in some places in the\nneighbourhood, and even 'carried off' two persons from Maryino itself.\nIn the night Pavel Petrovitch happened to have rather severe symptoms.\nHe was in pain till the morning, but did not have recourse to Bazarov's\nskill. And when he met him the following day, in reply to his question,\n'Why he had not sent for him?' answered, still quite pale, but\nscrupulously brushed and shaved, 'Why, I seem to recollect you said\nyourself you didn't believe in medicine.' So the days went by. Bazarov\nwent on obstinately and grimly working ... and meanwhile there was in\nNikolai Petrovitch's house one creature to whom, if he did not open his\nheart, he at least was glad to talk.... That creature was Fenitchka.\n\nHe used to meet her for the most part early in the morning, in the\ngarden, or the farmyard; he never used to go to her room to see her,\nand she had only once been to his door to inquire--ought she to let\nMitya have his bath or not? It was not only that she confided in him,\nthat she was not afraid of him--she was positively freer and more at\nher ease in her behaviour with him than with Nikolai Petrovitch\nhimself. It is hard to say how it came about; perhaps it was because\nshe unconsciously felt the absence in Bazarov of all gentility, of all\nthat superiority which at once attracts and overawes. In her eyes he\nwas both an excellent doctor and a simple man. She looked after her\nbaby without constraint in his presence; and once when she was suddenly\nattacked with giddiness and headache--she took a spoonful of medicine\nfrom his hand. Before Nikolai Petrovitch she kept, as it were, at a\ndistance from Bazarov; she acted in this way not from hypocrisy, but\nfrom a kind of feeling of propriety. Pavel Petrovitch she was more\nafraid of than ever; for some time he had begun to watch her, and would\nsuddenly make his appearance, as though he sprang out of the earth\nbehind her back, in his English suit, with his immovable vigilant face,\nand his hands in his pockets. 'It's like a bucket of cold water on\none,' Fenitchka complained to Dunyasha, and the latter sighed in\nresponse, and thought of another 'heartless' man. Bazarov, without the\nleast suspicion of the fact, had become the _cruel tyrant_ of her\nheart.\n\nFenitchka liked Bazarov; but he liked her too. His face was positively\ntransformed when he talked to her; it took a bright, almost kind\nexpression, and his habitual nonchalance was replaced by a sort of\njesting attentiveness. Fenitchka was growing prettier every day. There\nis a time in the life of young women when they suddenly begin to expand\nand blossom like summer roses; this time had come for Fenitchka.\nDressed in a delicate white dress, she seemed herself slighter and\nwhiter; she was not tanned by the sun; but the heat, from which she\ncould not shield herself, spread a slight flush over her cheeks and\nears, and, shedding a soft indolence over her whole body, was reflected\nin a dreamy languor in her pretty eyes. She was almost unable to work;\nher hands seem to fall naturally into her lap. She scarcely walked at\nall, and was constantly sighing and complaining with comic\nhelplessness.\n\n'You should go oftener to bathe,' Nikolai Petrovitch told her. He had\nmade a large bath covered in with an awning in one of his ponds which\nhad not yet quite disappeared.\n\n'Oh, Nikolai Petrovitch! But by the time one gets to the pond, one's\nutterly dead, and, coming back, one's dead again. You see, there's no\nshade in the garden.'\n\n'That's true, there's no shade,' replied Nikolai Petrovitch, rubbing\nhis forehead.\n\nOne day at seven o'clock in the morning Bazarov, returning from a walk,\ncame upon Fenitchka in the lilac arbour, which was long past flowering,\nbut was still thick and green. She was sitting on the garden seat, and\nhad as usual thrown a white kerchief over her head; near her lay a\nwhole heap of red and white roses still wet with dew. He said good\nmorning to her.\n\n'Ah! Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' she said, and lifted the edge of her\nkerchief a little to look at him, in doing which her arm was left bare\nto the elbow.\n\n'What are you doing here?' said Bazarov, sitting down beside her. 'Are\nyou making a nosegay?'\n\n'Yes, for the table at lunch. Nikolai Petrovitch likes it.'\n\n'But it's a long while yet to lunch time. What a heap of flowers!'\n\n'I gathered them now, for it will be hot then, and one can't go out.\nOne can only just breathe now. I feel quite weak with the heat. I'm\nreally afraid whether I'm not going to be ill.'\n\n'What an idea! Let me feel your pulse.' Bazarov took her hand, felt for\nthe evenly-beating pulse, but did not even begin to count its throbs.\n'You'll live a hundred years!' he said, dropping her hand.\n\n'Ah, God forbid!' she cried.\n\n'Why? Don't you want a long life?'\n\n'Well, but a hundred years! There was an old woman near us eighty-five\nyears old--and what a martyr she was! Dirty and deaf and bent and\ncoughing all the time; nothing but a burden to herself. That's a\ndreadful life!'\n\n'So it's better to be young?'\n\n'Well, isn't it?'\n\n'But why is it better? Tell me!'\n\n'How can you ask why? Why, here I now, while I'm young, I can do\neverything--go and come and carry, and needn't ask any one for\nanything.... What can be better?'\n\n'And to me it's all the same whether I'm young or old.'\n\n'How do you mean--it's all the same? It's not possible what you say.'\n\n'Well, judge for yourself, Fedosya Nikolaevna, what good is my youth to\nme. I live alone, a poor lonely creature ...'\n\n'That always depends on you.'\n\n'It doesn't at all depend on me! At least, some one ought to take pity\non me.'\n\nFenitchka gave a sidelong look at Bazarov, but said nothing. 'What's\nthis book you have?' she asked after a short pause.\n\n'That? That's a scientific book, very difficult.'\n\n'And are you still studying? And don't you find it dull? You know\neverything already I should say.'\n\n'It seems not everything. You try to read a little.'\n\n'But I don't understand anything here. Is it Russian?' asked Fenitchka,\ntaking the heavily bound book in both hands. 'How thick it is!'\n\n'Yes, it's Russian.'\n\n'All the same, I shan't understand anything.'\n\n'Well, I didn't give it you for you to understand it. I wanted to look\nat you while you were reading. When you read, the end of your little\nnose moves so nicely.'\n\nFenitchka, who had set to work to spell out in a low voice the article\non 'Creosote' she had chanced upon, laughed and threw down the book ...\nit slipped from the seat on to the ground.\n\n'Nonsense!'\n\n'I like it too when you laugh,' observed Bazarov.\n\n'I like it when you talk. It's just like a little brook babbling.'\n\nFenitchka turned her head away. 'What a person you are to talk!' she\ncommented, picking the flowers over with her finger. 'And how can you\ncare to listen to me? You have talked with such clever ladies.'\n\n'Ah, Fedosya Nikolaevna! believe me; all the clever ladies in the world\nare not worth your little elbow.'\n\n'Come, there's another invention!' murmured Fenitchka, clasping her\nhands.\n\nBazarov picked the book up from the ground.\n\n'That's a medical book; why do you throw it away?'\n\n'Medical?' repeated Fenitchka, and she turned to him again. 'Do you\nknow, ever since you gave me those drops--do you remember?--Mitya has\nslept so well! I really can't think how to thank you; you are so good,\nreally.'\n\n'But you have to pay doctors,' observed Bazarov with a smile. 'Doctors,\nyou know yourself, are grasping people.'\n\nFenitchka raised her eyes, which seemed still darker from the whitish\nreflection cast on the upper part of her face, and looked at Bazarov.\nShe did not know whether he was joking or not.\n\n'If you please, we shall be delighted.... I must ask Nikolai\nPetrovitch ...'\n\n'Why, do you think I want money?' Bazarov interposed. 'No; I don't want\nmoney from you.'\n\n'What then?' asked Fenitchka.\n\n'What?' repeated Bazarov. 'Guess!'\n\n'A likely person I am to guess!'\n\n'Well, I will tell you; I want ... one of those roses.'\n\nFenitchka laughed again, and even clapped her hands, so amusing\nBazarov's request seemed to her. She laughed, and at the same time felt\nflattered. Bazarov was looking intently at her.\n\n'By all means,' she said at last; and, bending down to the seat, she\nbegan picking over the roses. 'Which will you have--a red one or a\nwhite one?'\n\n'Red, and not too large.'\n\nShe sat up again. 'Here, take it,' she said, but at once drew back her\noutstretched hand, and, biting her lips, looked towards the entrance of\nthe arbour, then listened.\n\n'What is it?' asked Bazarov. 'Nikolai Petrovitch?'\n\n'No ... Mr. Kirsanov has gone to the fields ... besides, I'm not afraid\nof him ... but Pavel Petrovitch ... I fancied ...'\n\n'What?'\n\n'I fancied he was coming here. No ... it was no one. Take it.'\nFenitchka gave Bazarov the rose.\n\n'On what grounds are you afraid of Pavel Petrovitch?'\n\n'He always scares me. And I know you don't like him. Do you remember,\nyou always used to quarrel with him? I don't know what your quarrel was\nabout, but I can see you turn him about like this and like that.'\n\nFenitchka showed with her hands how in her opinion Bazarov turned Pavel\nPetrovitch about.\n\nBazarov smiled. 'But if he gave me a beating,' he asked, 'would you\nstand up for me?'\n\n'How could I stand up for you? but no, no one will get the better of\nyou.'\n\n'Do you think so? But I know a hand which could overcome me if it\nliked.'\n\n'What hand?'\n\n'Why, don't you know, really? Smell, how delicious this rose smells you\ngave me.'\n\nFenitchka stretched her little neck forward, and put her face close to\nthe flower.... The kerchief slipped from her head on to her shoulders;\nher soft mass of dark, shining, slightly ruffled hair was visible.\n\n'Wait a minute; I want to smell it with you,' said Bazarov. He bent\ndown and kissed her vigorously on her parted lips.\n\nShe started, pushed him back with both her hands on his breast, but\npushed feebly, and he was able to renew and prolong his kiss.\n\nA dry cough was heard behind the lilac bushes. Fenitchka instantly\nmoved away to the other end of the seat. Pavel Petrovitch showed\nhimself, made a slight bow, and saying with a sort of malicious\nmournfulness, 'You are here,' he retreated. Fenitchka at once gathered\nup all her roses and went out of the arbour. 'It was wrong of you,\nYevgeny Vassilyevitch,' she whispered as she went. There was a note of\ngenuine reproach in her whisper.\n\nBazarov remembered another recent scene, and he felt both shame and\ncontemptuous annoyance. But he shook his head directly, ironically\ncongratulated himself 'on his final assumption of the part of the gay\nLothario,' and went off to his own room.\n\nPavel Petrovitch went out of the garden, and made his way with\ndeliberate steps to the copse. He stayed there rather a long while; and\nwhen he returned to lunch, Nikolai Petrovitch inquired anxiously\nwhether he were quite well--his face looked so gloomy.\n\n'You know, I sometimes suffer with my liver,' Pavel Petrovitch answered\ntranquilly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nTwo hours later he knocked at Bazarov's door.\n\n'I must apologise for hindering you in your scientific pursuits,' he\nbegan, seating himself on a chair in the window, and leaning with both\nhands on a handsome walking-stick with an ivory knob (he usually walked\nwithout a stick), 'but I am constrained to beg you to spare me five\nminutes of your time ... no more.'\n\n'All my time is at your disposal,' answered Bazarov, over whose face\nthere passed a quick change of expression directly Pavel Petrovitch\ncrossed the threshold.\n\n'Five minutes will be enough for me. I have come to put a single\nquestion to you.'\n\n'A question? What is it about?'\n\n'I will tell you, if you will kindly hear me out. At the commencement\nof your stay in my brother's house, before I had renounced the pleasure\nof conversing with you, it was my fortune to hear your opinions on many\nsubjects; but so far as my memory serves, neither between us, nor in my\npresence, was the subject of single combats and duelling in general\nbroached. Allow me to hear what are your views on that subject?'\n\nBazarov, who had risen to meet Pavel Petrovitch, sat down on the edge\nof the table and folded his arms.\n\n'My view is,' he said, 'that from the theoretical standpoint, duelling\nis absurd; from the practical standpoint, now--it's quite a different\nmatter.'\n\n'That is, you mean to say, if I understand you right, that whatever\nyour theoretical views on duelling, you would not in practice allow\nyourself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction?'\n\n'You have guessed my meaning absolutely.'\n\n'Very good. I am very glad to hear you say so. Your words relieve me\nfrom a state of incertitude.'\n\n'Of uncertainty, you mean to say.'\n\n'That is all the same! I express myself so as to be understood; I ...\nam not a seminary rat. Your words save me from a rather deplorable\nnecessity. I have made up my mind to fight you.'\n\nBazarov opened his eyes wide. 'Me?'\n\n'Undoubtedly.'\n\n'But what for, pray?'\n\n'I could explain the reason to you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, 'but I\nprefer to be silent about it. To my idea your presence here is\nsuperfluous; I cannot endure you; I despise you; and if that is not\nenough for you ...'\n\nPavel Petrovitch's eyes glittered ... Bazarov's too were flashing.\n\n'Very good,' he assented. 'No need of further explanations. You've a\nwhim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this\npleasure, but--so be it!'\n\n'I am sensible of my obligation to you,' replied Pavel Petrovitch; 'and\nmay reckon then on your accepting my challenge without compelling me to\nresort to violent measures.'\n\n'That means, speaking without metaphor, to that stick?' Bazarov\nremarked coolly. 'That is precisely correct. It's quite unnecessary for\nyou to insult me. Indeed, it would not be a perfectly safe proceeding.\nYou can remain a gentleman.... I accept your challenge, too, like a\ngentleman.'\n\n'That is excellent,' observed Pavel Petrovitch, putting his stick in\nthe corner. 'We will say a few words directly about the conditions of\nour duel; but I should like first to know whether you think it\nnecessary to resort to the formality of a trifling dispute, which might\nserve as a pretext for my challenge?'\n\n'No; it's better without formalities.'\n\n'I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into the\nreal grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one another. What more\nis necessary?'\n\n'What more, indeed?' repeated Bazarov ironically.\n\n'As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that we shall\nhave no seconds--for where could we get them?'\n\n'Exactly so; where could we get them?'\n\n'Then I have the honour to lay the following proposition before you:\nThe combat to take place early to-morrow, at six, let us say, behind\nthe copse, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces....'\n\n'At ten paces? that will do; we hate one another at that distance.'\n\n'We might have it eight,' remarked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'We might.'\n\n'To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put a letter\nin his pocket, in which he accuses himself of his end.'\n\n'Now, that I don't approve of at all,' observed Bazarov. 'There's a\nslight flavour of the French novel about it, something not very\nplausible.'\n\n'Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it would be unpleasant to incur\na suspicion of murder?'\n\n'I agree as to that. But there is a means of avoiding that painful\nreproach. We shall have no seconds, but we can have a witness.'\n\n'And whom, allow me to inquire?'\n\n'Why, Piotr.'\n\n'What Piotr?'\n\n'Your brother's valet. He's a man who has attained to the acme of\ncontemporary culture, and he will perform his part with all the\n_comilfo_ (_comme il faut_) necessary in such cases.'\n\n'I think you are joking, sir.'\n\n'Not at all. If you think over my suggestion, you will be convinced\nthat it's full of common-sense and simplicity. You can't hide a candle\nunder a bushel; but I'll undertake to prepare Piotr in a fitting\nmanner, and bring him on to the field of battle.'\n\n'You persist in jesting still,' Pavel Petrovitch declared, getting up\nfrom his chair. 'But after the courteous readiness you have shown me, I\nhave no right to pretend to lay down.... And so, everything is\narranged.... By the way, perhaps you have no pistols?'\n\n'How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovitch? I'm not in the army.'\n\n'In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that it's five\nyears now since I shot with them.'\n\n'That's a very consoling piece of news.'\n\nPavel Petrovitch took up his stick.... 'And now, my dear sir, it only\nremains for me to thank you and to leave you to your studies. I have\nthe honour to take leave of you.'\n\n'Till we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,' said\nBazarov, conducting his visitor to the door.\n\nPavel Petrovitch went out, while Bazarov remained standing a minute\nbefore the door, and suddenly exclaimed, 'Pish, well, I'm dashed! how\nfine, and how foolish! A pretty farce we've been through! Like trained\ndogs dancing on their hind-paws. But to decline was out of the\nquestion; why, I do believe he'd have struck me, and then ...' (Bazarov\nturned white at the very thought; all his pride was up in arms at\nonce)--'then it might have come to my strangling him like a cat.' He\nwent back to his microscope, but his heart was beating, and the\ncomposure necessary for taking observations had disappeared. 'He caught\nsight of us to-day,' he thought; 'but would he really act like this on\nhis brother's account? And what a mighty matter is it--a kiss? There\nmust be something else in it. Bah! isn't he perhaps in love with her\nhimself? To be sure, he's in love; it's as clear as day. What a\ncomplication! It's a nuisance!' he decided at last; 'it's a bad job,\nlook at it which way you will. In the first place, to risk a bullet\nthrough one's brains, and in any case to go away; and then Arkady ...\nand that dear innocent pussy, Nikolai Petrovitch. It's a bad job, an\nawfully bad job.'\n\nThe day passed in a kind of peculiar stillness and languor. Fenitchka\ngave no sign of her existence; she sat in her little room like a mouse\nin its hole. Nikolai Petrovitch had a careworn air. He had just heard\nthat blight had begun to appear in his wheat, upon which he had in\nparticular rested his hopes. Pavel Petrovitch overwhelmed every one,\neven Prokofitch, with his icy courtesy. Bazarov began a letter to his\nfather, but tore it up, and threw it under the table.\n\n'If I die,' he thought, 'they will find it out; but I'm not going to\ndie. No, I shall struggle along in this world a good while yet.' He\ngave Piotr orders to come to him on important business the next morning\ndirectly it was light. Piotr imagined that he wanted to take him to\nPetersburg with him. Bazarov went late to bed, and all night long he\nwas harassed by disordered dreams.... Madame Odintsov kept appearing in\nthem, now she was his mother, and she was followed by a kitten with\nblack whiskers, and this kitten seemed to be Fenitchka; then Pavel\nPetrovitch took the shape of a great wood, with which he had yet to\nfight. Piotr waked him up at four o'clock; he dressed at once, and went\nout with him.\n\nIt was a lovely, fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds hovered overhead in\nlittle curls of foam on the pale clear blue; a fine dew lay in drops on\nthe leaves and grass, and sparkled like silver on the spiders' webs;\nthe damp, dark earth seemed still to keep traces of the rosy dawn; from\nthe whole sky the songs of larks came pouring in showers. Bazarov\nwalked as far as the copse, sat down in the shade at its edge, and only\nthen disclosed to Piotr the nature of the service he expected of him.\nThe refined valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov soothed him by the\nassurance that he would have nothing to do but stand at a distance and\nlook on, and that he would not incur any sort of responsibility. 'And\nmeantime,' he added, 'only think what an important part you have to\nplay!' Piotr threw up his hands, looked down, and leaned against a\nbirch-tree, looking green with terror.\n\nThe road from Maryino skirted the copse; a light dust lay on it,\nuntouched by wheel or foot since the previous day. Bazarov\nunconsciously stared along this road, picked and gnawed a blade of\ngrass, while he kept repeating to himself, 'What a piece of foolery!'\nThe chill of the early morning made him shiver twice.... Piotr looked\nat him dejectedly, but Bazarov only smiled; he was not afraid.\n\nThe tramp of horses' hoofs was heard along the road.... A peasant came\ninto sight from behind the trees. He was driving before him two horses\nhobbled together, and as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather\nstrangely, without touching his cap, which it was easy to see disturbed\nPiotr, as an unlucky omen. 'There's some one else up early too,'\nthought Bazarov; 'but he at least has got up for work, while we ...'\n\n'Fancy the gentleman's coming,' Piotr faltered suddenly.\n\nBazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovitch. Dressed in a light\ncheck jacket and snow-white trousers, he was walking rapidly along the\nroad; under his arm he carried a box wrapped up in green cloth.\n\n'I beg your pardon, I believe I have kept you waiting,' he observed,\nbowing first to Bazarov, then to Piotr, whom he treated respectfully at\nthat instant, as representing something in the nature of a second. 'I\nwas unwilling to wake my man.'\n\n'It doesn't matter,' answered Bazarov; 'we've only just arrived\nourselves.'\n\n'Ah! so much the better!' Pavel Petrovitch took a look round. 'There's\nno one in sight; no one hinders us. We can proceed?'\n\n'Let us proceed.'\n\n'You do not, I presume, desire any fresh explanations?'\n\n'No, I don't.'\n\n'Would you like to load?' inquired Pavel Petrovitch, taking the pistols\nout of the box.\n\n'No; you load, and I will measure out the paces. My legs are longer,'\nadded Bazarov with a smile. 'One, two, three.'\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyevitch,' Piotr faltered with an effort (he shaking as\nthough he were in a fever), 'say what you like, I am going farther\noff.'\n\n'Four ... five.... Good. Move away, my good fellow, move away; you may\nget behind a tree even, and stop up your ears, only don't shut your\neyes; and if any one falls, run and pick him up. Six ... seven ...\neight....' Bazarov stopped. 'Is that enough?' he said, turning to Pavel\nPetrovitch; 'or shall I add two paces more?'\n\n'As you like,' replied the latter, pressing down the second bullet.\n\n'Well, we'll make it two paces more.' Bazarov drew a line on the ground\nwith the toe of his boot. 'There's the barrier then. By the way, how\nmany paces may each of us go back from the barrier? That's an important\nquestion too. That point was not discussed yesterday.'\n\n'I imagine, ten,' replied Pavel Petrovitch, handing Bazarov both\npistols. 'Will you be so good as to choose?'\n\n'I will be so good. But, Pavel Petrovitch, you must admit our combat is\nsingular to the point of absurdity. Only look at the countenance of our\nsecond.'\n\n'You are disposed to laugh at everything,' answered Pavel Petrovitch.\n'I acknowledge the strangeness of our duel, but I think it my duty to\nwarn you that I intend to fight seriously. _A bon entendeur, salut!_'\n\n'Oh! I don't doubt that we've made up our minds to make away with each\nother; but why not laugh too and unite _utile dulci_? You talk to me in\nFrench, while I talk to you in Latin.'\n\n'I am going to fight in earnest,' repeated Pavel Petrovitch, and he\nwalked off to his place. Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces from\nthe barrier, and stood still.\n\n'Are you ready?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'Perfectly.'\n\n'We can approach one another.'\n\nBazarov moved slowly forward, and Pavel Petrovitch, his left hand\nthrust in his pocket, walked towards him, gradually raising the muzzle\nof his pistol.... 'He's aiming straight at my nose,' thought Bazarov,\n'and doesn't he blink down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable\nsensation though. I'm going to look at his watch chain.'\n\nSomething whizzed sharply by his very ear, and at the same instant\nthere was the sound of a shot. 'I heard it, so it must be all right,'\nhad time to flash through Bazarov's brain. He took one more step, and\nwithout taking aim, pressed the spring.\n\nPavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A\nstream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers.\n\nBazarov flung aside the pistol, and went up to his antagonist. 'Are you\nwounded?' he said.\n\n'You had the right to call me up to the barrier,' said Pavel\nPetrovitch, 'but that's of no consequence. According to our agreement,\neach of us has the right to one more shot.'\n\n'All right, but, excuse me, that'll do another time,' answered Bazarov,\ncatching hold of Pavel Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale.\n'Now, I'm not a duellist, but a doctor, and I must have a look at your\nwound before anything else. Piotr! come here, Piotr! where have you got\nto?'\n\n'That's all nonsense.... I need no one's aid,' Pavel Petrovitch\ndeclared jerkily, 'and ... we must ... again ...' He tried to pull at\nhis moustaches, but his hand failed him, his eyes grew dim, and he lost\nconsciousness.\n\n'Here's a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!' Bazarov cried\nunconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the grass. 'Let's have a\nlook what's wrong.' He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood,\nand began feeling round the wound.... 'The bone's not touched,' he\nmuttered through his teeth; 'the ball didn't go deep; one muscle,\n_vastus externus_, grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks!...\nAnd to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what\na delicate skin!'\n\n'Is he killed?' the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling behind his\nback.\n\nBazarov looked round. 'Go for some water as quick as you can, my good\nfellow, and he'll outlive us yet.'\n\nBut the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, and he did\nnot stir. Pavel Petrovitch slowly opened his eyes. 'He will die!'\nwhispered Piotr, and he began crossing himself.\n\n'You are right ... What an imbecile countenance!' remarked the wounded\ngentleman with a forced smile.\n\n'Well, go for the water, damn you!' shouted Bazarov.\n\n'No need.... It was a momentary _vertigo_.... Help me to sit up ...\nthere, that's right.... I only need something to bind up this scratch,\nand I can reach home on foot, or you can send a droshky for me. The\nduel, if you are willing, shall not be renewed. You have behaved\nhonourably ... to-day, to-day--observe.'\n\n'There's no need to recall the past,' rejoined Bazarov; 'and as regards\nthe future, it's not worth while for you to trouble your head about\nthat either, for I intend being off without delay. Let me bind up your\nleg now; your wound's not serious, but it's always best to stop\nbleeding. But first I must bring this corpse to his senses.'\n\nBazarov shook Piotr by the collar, and sent him for a droshky.\n\n'Mind you don't frighten my brother,' Pavel Petrovitch said to him;\n'don't dream of informing him.'\n\nPiotr flew off; and while he was running for a droshky, the two\nantagonists sat on the ground and said nothing. Pavel Petrovitch tried\nnot to look at Bazarov; he did not want to be reconciled to him in any\ncase; he was ashamed of his own haughtiness, of his failure; he was\nashamed of the whole position he had brought about, even while he felt\nit could not have ended in a more favourable manner. 'At any rate,\nthere will be no scandal,' he consoled himself by reflecting, 'and for\nthat I am thankful.' The silence was prolonged, a silence distressing\nand awkward. Both of them were ill at ease. Each was conscious that the\nother understood him. That is pleasant to friends, and always very\nunpleasant to those who are not friends, especially when it is\nimpossible either to have things out or to separate.\n\n'Haven't I bound up your leg too tight?' inquired Bazarov at last.\n\n'No, not at all; it's capital,' answered Pavel Petrovitch; and after a\nbrief pause, he added, 'There's no deceiving my brother; we shall have\nto tell him we quarrelled over politics.'\n\n'Very good,' assented Bazarov. 'You can say I insulted all\nanglomaniacs.'\n\n'That will do capitally. What do you imagine that man thinks of us\nnow?' continued Pavel Petrovitch, pointing to the same peasant, who had\ndriven the hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes before the duel,\nand going back again along the road, took off his cap at the sight of\nthe 'gentlefolk.'\n\n'Who can tell!' answered Bazarov; 'it's quite likely he thinks nothing.\nThe Russian peasant is that mysterious unknown about whom Mrs.\nRadcliffe used to talk so much. Who is to understand him! He doesn't\nunderstand himself!'\n\n'Ah! so that's your idea!' Pavel Petrovitch began; and suddenly he\ncried, 'Look what your fool of a Piotr has done! Here's my brother\ngalloping up to us!'\n\nBazarov turned round and saw the pale face of Nikolai Petrovitch, who\nwas sitting in the droshky. He jumped out of it before it had stopped,\nand rushed up to his brother.\n\n'What does this mean?' he said in an agitated voice. 'Yevgeny\nVassilyitch, pray, what is this?'\n\n'Nothing,' answered Pavel Petrovitch; 'they have alarmed you for\nnothing. I had a little dispute with Mr. Bazarov, and I have had to pay\nfor it a little.'\n\n'But what was it all about, mercy on us!'\n\n'How can I tell you? Mr. Bazarov alluded disrespectfully to Sir Robert\nPeel. I must hasten to add that I am the only person to blame in all\nthis, while Mr. Bazarov has behaved most honourably. I called him out.'\n\n'But you're covered with blood, good Heavens!'\n\n'Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins? But this blood-letting\nis positively beneficial to me. Isn't that so, doctor? Help me to get\ninto the droshky, and don't give way to melancholy. I shall be quite\nwell to-morrow. That's it; capital. Drive on, coachman.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch walked after the droshky; Bazarov was remaining\nwhere he was....\n\n'I must ask you to look after my brother,' Nikolai Petrovitch said to\nhim, 'till we get another doctor from the town.'\n\nBazarov nodded his head without speaking. In an hour's time Pavel\nPetrovitch was already lying in bed with a skilfully bandaged leg. The\nwhole house was alarmed; Fenitchka fainted. Nikolai Petrovitch kept\nstealthily wringing his hands, while Pavel Petrovitch laughed and\njoked, especially with Bazarov; he had put on a fine cambric\nnight-shirt, an elegant morning wrapper, and a fez, did not allow the\nblinds to be drawn down, and humorously complained of the necessity of\nbeing kept from food.\n\nTowards night, however, he began to be feverish; his head ached. The\ndoctor arrived from the town. (Nikolai Petrovitch would not listen to\nhis brother, and indeed Bazarov himself did not wish him to; he sat the\nwhole day in his room, looking yellow and vindictive, and only went in\nto the invalid for as brief a time as possible; twice he happened to\nmeet Fenitchka, but she shrank away from him with horror.) The new\ndoctor advised a cooling diet; he confirmed, however, Bazarov's\nassertion that there was no danger. Nikolai Petrovitch told him his\nbrother had wounded himself by accident, to which the doctor responded,\n'Hm!' but having twenty-five silver roubles slipped into his hand on\nthe spot, he observed, 'You don't say so! Well, it's a thing that often\nhappens, to be sure.'\n\nNo one in the house went to bed or undressed. Nikolai Petrovitch kept\ngoing in to his brother on tiptoe, retreating on tiptoe again; the\nlatter dozed, moaned a little, told him in French, _Couchez-vous_, and\nasked for drink. Nikolai Petrovitch sent Fenitchka twice to take him a\nglass of lemonade; Pavel Petrovitch gazed at her intently, and drank\noff the glass to the last drop. Towards morning the fever had increased\na little; there was slight delirium. At first Pavel Petrovitch uttered\nincoherent words; then suddenly he opened his eyes, and seeing his\nbrother near his bed bending anxiously over him, he said, 'Don't you\nthink, Nikolai, Fenitchka has something in common with Nellie?'\n\n'What Nellie, Pavel dear?'\n\n'How can you ask? Princess R----. Especially in the upper part of the\nface. _C'est de la m\u00eame famille._'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch made no answer, while inwardly he marvelled at the\npersistence of old passions in man. 'It's like this when it comes to\nthe surface,' he thought.\n\n'Ah, how I love that light-headed creature!' moaned Pavel Petrovitch,\nclasping his hands mournfully behind his head. 'I can't bear any\ninsolent upstart to dare to touch ...' he whispered a few minutes\nlater.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch only sighed; he did not even suspect to whom these\nwords referred.\n\nBazarov presented himself before him at eight o'clock the next day. He\nhad already had time to pack, and to set free all his frogs, insects,\nand birds.\n\n'You have come to say good-bye to me?' said Nikolai Petrovitch, getting\nup to meet him.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'I understand you, and approve of you fully. My poor brother, of\ncourse, is to blame; and he is punished for it. He told me himself that\nhe made it impossible for you to act otherwise. I believe that you\ncould not avoid this duel, which ... which to some extent is explained\nby the almost constant antagonism of your respective views.' (Nikolai\nPetrovitch began to get a little mixed up in his words.) 'My brother is\na man of the old school, hot-tempered and obstinate.... Thank God that\nit has ended as it has. I have taken every precaution to avoid\npublicity.'\n\n'I'm leaving you my address, in case there's any fuss,' Bazarov\nremarked casually.\n\n'I hope there will be no fuss, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.... I am very sorry\nyour stay in my house should have such a ... such an end. It is the\nmore distressing to me through Arkady's ...'\n\n'I shall be seeing him, I expect,' replied Bazarov, in whom\n'explanations' and 'protestations' of every sort always aroused a\nfeeling of impatience; 'in case I don't, I beg you to say good-bye to\nhim for me, and accept the expression of my regret.'\n\n'And I beg ...' answered Nikolai Petrovitch. But Bazarov went off\nwithout waiting for the end of his sentence.\n\nWhen he heard of Bazarov's going, Pavel Petrovitch expressed a desire\nto see him, and shook his hand. But even then he remained as cold as\nice; he realised that Pavel Petrovitch wanted to play the magnanimous.\nHe did not succeed in saying good-bye to Fenitchka; he only exchanged\nglances with her at the window. Her face struck him as looking\ndejected. 'She'll come to grief, perhaps,' he said to himself.... 'But\nwho knows? she'll pull through somehow, I dare say!' Piotr, however,\nwas so overcome that he wept on his shoulder, till Bazarov damped him\nby asking if he'd a constant supply laid on in his eyes; while Dunyasha\nwas obliged to run away into the wood to hide her emotion. The\noriginator of all this woe got into a light cart, smoked a cigar, and\nwhen at the third mile, at the bend in the road, the Kirsanovs' farm,\nwith its new house, could be seen in a long line, he merely spat, and\nmuttering, 'Cursed snobs!' wrapped himself closer in his cloak.\n\nPavel Petrovitch was soon better; but he had to keep his bed about a\nweek. He bore his captivity, as he called it, pretty patiently, though\nhe took great pains over his toilette, and had everything scented with\neau-de-cologne. Nikolai Petrovitch used to read him the journals;\nFenitchka waited on him as before, brought him lemonade, soup, boiled\neggs, and tea; but she was overcome with secret dread whenever she went\ninto his room. Pavel Petrovitch's unexpected action had alarmed every\none in the house, and her more than any one; Prokofitch was the only\nperson not agitated by it; he discoursed upon how gentlemen in his day\nused to fight, but only with real gentlemen; low curs like that they\nused to order a horsewhipping in the stable for their insolence.\n\nFenitchka's conscience scarcely reproached her; but she was tormented\nat times by the thought of the real cause of the quarrel; and Pavel\nPetrovitch too looked at her so strangely ... that even when her back\nwas turned, she felt his eyes upon her. She grew thinner from constant\ninward agitation, and, as is always the way, became still more\ncharming.\n\nOne day--the incident took place in the morning--Pavel Petrovitch felt\nbetter and moved from his bed to the sofa, while Nikolai Petrovitch,\nhaving satisfied himself he was better, went off to the\nthreshing-floor. Fenitchka brought him a cup of tea, and setting it\ndown on a little table, was about to withdraw. Pavel Petrovitch\ndetained her.\n\n'Where are you going in such a hurry, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' he began;\n'are you busy?'\n\n'... I have to pour out tea.'\n\n'Dunyasha will do that without you; sit a little while with a poor\ninvalid. By the way, I must have a little talk with you.'\n\nFenitchka sat down on the edge of an easy-chair, without speaking.\n\n'Listen,' said Pavel Petrovitch, tugging at his moustaches; 'I have\nlong wanted to ask you something; you seem somehow afraid of me?'\n\n'I?'\n\n'Yes, you. You never look at me, as though your conscience were not at\nrest.'\n\nFenitchka crimsoned, but looked at Pavel Petrovitch. He impressed her\nas looking strange, and her heart began throbbing slowly.\n\n'Is your conscience at rest?' he questioned her.\n\n'Why should it not be at rest?' she faltered.\n\n'Goodness knows why! Besides, whom can you have wronged? Me? That is\nnot likely. Any other people in the house here? That, too, is something\nincredible. Can it be my brother? But you love him, don't you?'\n\n'I love him.'\n\n'With your whole soul, with your whole heart?'\n\n'I love Nikolai Petrovitch with my whole heart.'\n\n'Truly? Look at me, Fenitchka.' (It was the first time he had called\nher that name.) 'You know, it's a great sin telling lies!'\n\n'I am not telling lies, Pavel Petrovitch. Not love Nikolai\nPetrovitch--I shouldn't care to live after that.'\n\n'And will you never give him up for any one?'\n\n'For whom could I give him up?'\n\n'For whom indeed! Well, how about that gentleman who has just gone away\nfrom here?'\n\nFenitchka got up. 'My God, Pavel Petrovitch, what are you torturing me\nfor? What have I done to you? How can such things be said?'...\n\n'Fenitchka,' said Pavel Petrovitch, in a sorrowful voice, 'you know I\nsaw ...'\n\n'What did you see?'\n\n'Well, there ... in the arbour.'\n\nFenitchka crimsoned to her hair and to her ears. 'How was I to blame\nfor that?' she articulated with an effort.\n\nPavel Petrovitch raised himself up. 'You were not to blame? No? Not at\nall?'\n\n'I love Nikolai Petrovitch, and no one else in the world, and I shall\nalways love him!' cried Fenitchka with sudden force, while her throat\nseemed fairly breaking with sobs. 'As for what you saw, at the dreadful\nday of judgment I will say I'm not to blame, and wasn't to blame for\nit, and I would rather die at once if people can suspect me of such a\nthing against my benefactor, Nikolai Petrovitch.'\n\nBut here her voice broke, and at the same time she felt that Pavel\nPetrovitch was snatching and pressing her hand.... She looked at him,\nand was fairly petrified. He had turned even paler than before; his\neyes were shining, and what was most marvellous of all, one large\nsolitary tear was rolling down his cheek.\n\n'Fenitchka!' he was saying in a strange whisper; 'love him, love my\nbrother! Don't give him up for any one in the world; don't listen to\nany one else! Think what can be more terrible than to love and not be\nloved! Never leave my poor Nikolai!'\n\nFenitchka's eyes were dry, and her terror had passed away, so great was\nher amazement. But what were her feelings when Pavel Petrovitch, Pavel\nPetrovitch himself, put her hand to his lips and seemed to pierce into\nit without kissing it, and only heaving convulsive sighs from time to\ntime....\n\n'Goodness,' she thought, 'isn't it some attack coming on him?'...\n\nAt that instant his whole ruined life was stirred up within him.\n\nThe staircase creaked under rapidly approaching footsteps.... He pushed\nher away from him, and let his head drop back on the pillow. The door\nopened, and Nikolai Petrovitch entered, cheerful, fresh, and ruddy.\nMitya, as fresh and ruddy as his father, in nothing but his little\nshirt, was frisking on his shoulder, catching the big buttons of his\nrough country coat with his little bare toes.\n\nFenitchka simply flung herself upon him, and clasping him and her son\ntogether in her arms, dropped her head on his shoulder. Nikolai\nPetrovitch was surprised; Fenitchka, the reserved and staid Fenitchka,\nhad never given him a caress in the presence of a third person.\n\n'What's the matter?' he said, and, glancing at his brother, he gave her\nMitya. 'You don't feel worse?' he inquired, going up to Pavel\nPetrovitch.\n\nHe buried his face in a cambric handkerchief. 'No ... not at all ... on\nthe contrary, I am much better.'\n\n'You were in too great a hurry to move on to the sofa. Where are you\ngoing?' added Nikolai Petrovitch, turning round to Fenitchka; but she\nhad already closed the door behind her. 'I was bringing in my young\nhero to show you, he's been crying for his uncle. Why has she carried\nhim off? What's wrong with you, though? Has anything passed between\nyou, eh?'\n\n'Brother!' said Pavel Petrovitch solemnly.\n\nNikolai Petrovitch started. He felt dismayed, he could not have said\nwhy himself.\n\n'Brother,' repeated Pavel Petrovitch, 'give me your word that you will\ncarry out my one request.'\n\n'What request? Tell me.'\n\n'It is very important; the whole happiness of your life, to my idea,\ndepends on it. I have been thinking a great deal all this time over\nwhat I want to say to you now.... Brother, do your duty, the duty of an\nhonest and generous man; put an end to the scandal and bad example you\nare setting--you, the best of men!'\n\n'What do you mean, Pavel?'\n\n'Marry Fenitchka.... She loves you; she is the mother of your son.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch stepped back a pace, and flung up his hands. 'Do you\nsay that, Pavel? you whom I have always regarded as the most determined\nopponent of such marriages! You say that? Don't you know that it has\nsimply been out of respect for you that I have not done what you so\nrightly call my duty?'\n\n'You were wrong to respect me in that case,' Pavel Petrovitch\nresponded, with a weary smile. 'I begin to think Bazarov was right in\naccusing me of snobbishness. No dear brother, don't let us worry\nourselves about appearances and the world's opinion any more; we are\nold folks and humble now; it's time we laid aside vanity of all kinds.\nLet us, just as you say, do our duty; and mind, we shall get happiness\nthat way into the bargain.'\n\nNikolai Petrovitch rushed to embrace his brother.\n\n'You have opened my eyes completely!' he cried. 'I was right in always\ndeclaring you the wisest and kindest-hearted fellow in the world, and\nnow I see you are just as reasonable as you are noble-hearted.'\n\n'Quietly, quietly,' Pavel Petrovitch interrupted him; 'don't hurt the\nleg of your reasonable brother, who at close upon fifty has been\nfighting a duel like an ensign. So, then, it's a settled matter;\nFenitchka is to be my ... _belle soeur_.'\n\n'My dearest Pavel! But what will Arkady say?'\n\n'Arkady? he'll be in ecstasies, you may depend upon it! Marriage is\nagainst his principles, but then the sentiment of equality in him will\nbe gratified. And, after all, what sense have class distinctions _au\ndix-neuvi\u00e8me si\u00e8cle_?'\n\n'Ah, Pavel, Pavel! let me kiss you once more! Don't be afraid, I'll be\ncareful.'\n\nThe brothers embraced each other.\n\n'What do you think, should you not inform her of your intention now?'\nqueried Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'Why be in a hurry?' responded Nikolai Petrovitch. 'Has there been any\nconversation between you?'\n\n'Conversation between us? _Quelle id\u00e9e!_'\n\n'Well, that is all right then. First of all, you must get well, and\nmeanwhile there's plenty of time. We must think it over well, and\nconsider ...'\n\n'But your mind is made up, I suppose?'\n\n'Of course, my mind is made up, and I thank you from the bottom of my\nheart. I will leave you now; you must rest; any excitement is bad for\nyou.... But we will talk it over again. Sleep well, dear heart, and God\nbless you!'\n\n'What is he thanking me like that for?' thought Pavel Petrovitch, when\nhe was left alone. 'As though it did not depend on him! I will go away\ndirectly he is married, somewhere a long way off--to Dresden or\nFlorence, and will live there till I----'\n\nPavel Petrovitch moistened his forehead with eau de cologne, and closed\nhis eyes. His beautiful, emaciated head, the glaring daylight shining\nfull upon it, lay on the white pillow like the head of a dead man....\nAnd indeed he was a dead man.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nAt Nikolskoe Katya and Arkady were sitting in the garden on a turf seat\nin the shade of a tall ash tree; Fifi had placed himself on the ground\nnear them, giving his slender body that graceful curve, which is known\namong dog-fanciers as 'the hare bend.' Both Arkady and Katya were\nsilent; he was holding a half-open book in his hands, while she was\npicking out of a basket the few crumbs of bread left in it, and\nthrowing them to a small family of sparrows, who with the frightened\nimpudence peculiar to them were hopping and chirping at her very feet.\nA faint breeze stirring in the ash leaves kept slowly moving pale-gold\nflecks of sunlight up and down over the path and Fifi's tawny back; a\npatch of unbroken shade fell upon Arkady and Katya; only from time to\ntime a bright streak gleamed on her hair. Both were silent, but the\nvery way in which they were silent, in which they were sitting\ntogether, was expressive of confidential intimacy; each of them seemed\nnot even to be thinking of his companion, while secretly rejoicing in\nhis presence. Their faces, too, had changed since we saw them last;\nArkady looked more tranquil, Katya brighter and more daring.\n\n'Don't you think,' began Arkady, 'that the ash has been very well named\nin Russian _yasen_; no other tree is so lightly and brightly\ntransparent (_yasno_) against the air as it is.'\n\nKatya raised her eyes to look upward, and assented, 'Yes'; while Arkady\nthought, 'Well, she does not reproach me for _talking finely_.'\n\n'I don't like Heine,' said Katya, glancing towards the book which\nArkady was holding in his hands, 'either when he laughs or when he\nweeps; I like him when he's thoughtful and melancholy.'\n\n'And I like him when he laughs,' remarked Arkady.\n\n'That's the relics left in you of your old satirical tendencies.'\n('Relics!' thought Arkady--'if Bazarov had heard that?') 'Wait a\nlittle; we shall transform you.'\n\n'Who will transform me? You?'\n\n'Who?--my sister; Porfiry Platonovitch, whom you've given up\nquarrelling with; auntie, whom you escorted to church the day before\nyesterday.'\n\n'Well, I couldn't refuse! And as for Anna Sergyevna, she agreed with\nYevgeny in a great many things, you remember?'\n\n'My sister was under his influence then, just as you were.'\n\n'As I was? Do you discover, may I ask, that I've shaken off his\ninfluence now?'\n\nKatya did not speak.\n\n'I know,' pursued Arkady, 'you never liked him.'\n\n'I can have no opinion about him.'\n\n'Do you know, Katerina Sergyevna, every time I hear that answer I\ndisbelieve it.... There is no man that every one of us could not have\nan opinion about! That's simply a way of getting out of it.'\n\n'Well, I'll say, then, I don't.... It's not exactly that I don't like\nhim, but I feel that he's of a different order from me, and I am\ndifferent from him ... and you too are different from him.'\n\n'How's that?'\n\n'How can I tell you.... He's a wild animal, and you and I are tame.'\n\n'Am I tame too?'\n\nKatya nodded.\n\nArkady scratched his ear. 'Let me tell you, Katerina Sergyevna, do you\nknow, that's really an insult?'\n\n'Why, would you like to be a wild----'\n\n'Not wild, but strong, full of force.'\n\n'It's no good wishing for that.... Your friend, you see, doesn't wish\nfor it, but he has it.'\n\n'Hm! So you imagine he had a great influence on Anna Sergyevna?'\n\n'Yes. But no one can keep the upper hand of her for long,' added Katya\nin a low voice.\n\n'Why do you think that?'\n\n'She's very proud.... I didn't mean that ... she values her\nindependence a great deal.'\n\n'Who doesn't value it?' asked Arkady, and the thought flashed through\nhis mind, 'What good is it?' 'What good is it?' it occurred to Katya to\nwonder too. When young people are often together on friendly terms,\nthey are constantly stumbling on the same ideas.\n\nArkady smiled, and, coming slightly closer to Katya, he said in a\nwhisper, 'Confess that you are a little afraid of her.'\n\n'Of whom?'\n\n'Her,' repeated Arkady significantly.\n\n'And how about you?' Katya asked in her turn.\n\n'I am too, observe I said, I am _too_.'\n\nKatya threatened him with her finger. 'I wonder at that,' she began;\n'my sister has never felt so friendly to you as just now; much more so\nthan when you first came.'\n\n'Really!'\n\n'Why, haven't you noticed it? Aren't you glad of it?'\n\nArkady grew thoughtful.\n\n'How have I succeeded in gaining Anna Sergyevna's good opinion? Wasn't\nit because I brought her your mother's letters?'\n\n'Both that and other causes, which I shan't tell you.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'I shan't say.'\n\n'Oh! I know; you're very obstinate.'\n\n'Yes, I am.'\n\n'And observant.'\n\nKatya gave Arkady a sidelong look. 'Perhaps so; does that irritate you?\nWhat are you thinking of?'\n\n'I am wondering how you have come to be as observant as in fact you\nare. You are so shy so reserved; you keep every one at a distance.'\n\n'I have lived a great deal alone; that drives one to reflection. But do\nI really keep every one at a distance?'\n\nArkady flung a grateful glance at Katya.\n\n'That's all very well,' he pursued; 'but people in your position--I\nmean in your circumstances--don't often have that faculty; it is hard\nfor them, as it is for sovereigns, to get at the truth.'\n\n'But, you see, I am not rich.'\n\nArkady was taken aback, and did not at once understand Katya. 'Why, of\ncourse, the property's all her sister's!' struck him suddenly; the\nthought was not unpleasing to him. 'How nicely you said that!' he\ncommented.\n\n'What?'\n\n'You said it nicely, simply, without being ashamed or making a boast of\nit. By the way, I imagine there must always be something special, a\nkind of pride of a sort in the feeling of any man, who knows and says\nhe is poor.'\n\n'I have never experienced anything of that sort, thanks to my sister. I\nonly referred to my position just now because it happened to come up.'\n\n'Well; but you must own you have a share of that pride I spoke of just\nnow.'\n\n'For instance?'\n\n'For instance, you--forgive the question--you wouldn't marry a rich\nman, I fancy, would you?'\n\n'If I loved him very much.... No, I think even then I wouldn't marry\nhim.'\n\n'There! you see!' cried Arkady, and after a short pause he added, 'And\nwhy wouldn't you marry him?'\n\n'Because even in the ballads unequal matches are always unlucky.'\n\n'You want to rule, perhaps, or ...'\n\n'Oh, no! why should I? On the contrary, I am ready to obey; only\ninequality is intolerable. To respect one's self and obey, that I can\nunderstand, that's happiness; but a subordinate existence ... No, I've\nhad enough of that as it is.'\n\n'Enough of that as it is,' Arkady repeated after Katya. 'Yes, yes,' he\nwent on, 'you're not Anna Sergyevna's sister for nothing; you're just\nas independent as she is; but you're more reserved. I'm certain you\nwouldn't be the first to give expression to your feeling, however\nstrong and holy it might be ...'\n\n'Well, what would you expect?' asked Katya.\n\n'You're equally clever; and you've as much, if not more, character than\nshe.'\n\n'Don't compare me with my sister, please,' interposed Katya hurriedly;\n'that's too much to my disadvantage. You seem to forget my sister's\nbeautiful and clever, and ... you in particular, Arkady Nikolaevitch,\nought not to say such things, and with such a serious face too.'\n\n'What do you mean by \"you in particular\"--and what makes you suppose I\nam joking?'\n\n'Of course, you are joking.'\n\n'You think so? But what if I'm persuaded of what I say? If I believe I\nhave not put it strongly enough even?'\n\n'I don't understand you.'\n\n'Really? Well, now I see; I certainly took you to be more observant\nthan you are.'\n\n'How?'\n\nArkady made no answer, and turned away, while Katya looked for a few\nmore crumbs in the basket, and began throwing them to the sparrows; but\nshe moved her arm too vigorously, and they flew away, without stopping\nto pick them up.\n\n'Katerina Sergyevna!' began Arkady suddenly; 'it's of no consequence to\nyou, probably; but, let me tell you, I put you not only above your\nsister, but above every one in the world.'\n\nHe got up and went quickly away, as though he were frightened at the\nwords that had fallen from his lips.\n\nKatya let her two hands drop together with the basket on to her lap,\nand with bent head she stared a long while after Arkady. Gradually a\ncrimson flush came faintly out upon her cheeks; but her lips did not\nsmile and her dark eyes had a look of perplexity and some other, as yet\nundefined, feeling.\n\n'Are you alone?' she heard the voice of Anna Sergyevna near her; 'I\nthought you came into the garden with Arkady.'\n\nKatya slowly raised her eyes to her sister (elegantly, even elaborately\ndressed, she was standing in the path and tickling Fifi's ears with the\ntip of her open parasol), and slowly replied, 'Yes, I'm alone.'\n\n'So I see,' she answered with a smile; 'I suppose he has gone to his\nroom.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Have you been reading together?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna took Katya by the chin and lifted her face up.\n\n'You have not been quarrelling, I hope?'\n\n'No,' said Katya, and she quietly removed her sister's hand.\n\n'How solemnly you answer! I expected to find him here, and meant to\nsuggest his coming a walk with me. That's what he is always asking for.\nThey have sent you some shoes from the town; go and try them on; I\nnoticed only yesterday your old ones are quite shabby. You never think\nenough about it, and you have such charming little feet! Your hands are\nnice too ... though they're large; so you must make the most of your\nlittle feet. But you're not vain.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna went farther along the path with a light rustle of her\nbeautiful gown; Katya got up from the grass, and, taking Heine with\nher, went away too--but not to try on her shoes.\n\n'Charming little feet!' she thought, as she slowly and lightly mounted\nthe stone steps of the terrace, which were burning with the heat of the\nsun; 'charming little feet you call them.... Well, he shall be at\nthem.'\n\nBut all at once a feeling of shame came upon her, and she ran swiftly\nupstairs.\n\nArkady had gone along the corridor to his room; a steward had overtaken\nhim, and announced that Mr. Bazarov was in his room.\n\n'Yevgeny!' murmured Arkady, almost with dismay; 'has he been here\nlong?'\n\n'Mr. Bazarov arrived this minute, sir, and gave orders not to announce\nhim to Anna Sergyevna, but to show him straight up to you.'\n\n'Can any misfortune have happened at home?' thought Arkady, and running\nhurriedly up the stairs, he at once opened the door. The sight of\nBazarov at once reassured him, though a more experienced eye might very\nprobably have discerned signs of inward agitation in the sunken, though\nstill energetic face of the unexpected visitor. With a dusty cloak over\nhis shoulders, with a cap on his head, he was sitting at the window; he\ndid not even get up when Arkady flung himself with noisy exclamations\non his neck.\n\n'This is unexpected! What good luck brought you?' he kept repeating,\nbustling about the room like one who both imagines himself and wishes\nto show himself delighted. 'I suppose everything's all right at home;\nevery one's well, eh?'\n\n'Everything's all right, but not every one's well,' said Bazarov.\n'Don't be a chatterbox, but send for some kvass for me, sit down, and\nlisten while I tell you all about it in a few, but, I hope, pretty\nvigorous sentences.'\n\nArkady was quiet while Bazarov described his duel with Pavel\nPetrovitch. Arkady was very much surprised, and even grieved, but he\ndid not think it necessary to show this; he only asked whether his\nuncle's wound was really not serious; and on receiving the reply that\nit was most interesting, but not from a medical point of view, he gave\na forced smile, but at heart he felt both wounded and as it were\nashamed. Bazarov seemed to understand him.\n\n'Yes, my dear fellow,' he commented, 'you see what comes of living with\nfeudal personages. You turn a feudal personage yourself, and find\nyourself taking part in knightly tournaments. Well, so I set off for my\nfather's,' Bazarov wound up, 'and I've turned in here on the way ... to\ntell you all this, I should say, if I didn't think a useless lie a\npiece of foolery. No, I turned in here--the devil only knows why. You\nsee, it's sometimes a good thing for a man to take himself by the\nscruff of the neck and pull himself up, like a radish out of its bed;\nthat's what I've been doing of late.... But I wanted to have one more\nlook at what I'm giving up, at the bed where I've been planted.'\n\n'I hope those words don't refer to me,' responded Arkady with some\nemotion; 'I hope you don't think of giving me up?'\n\nBazarov turned an intent, almost piercing look upon him.\n\n'Would that be such a grief to you? It strikes me _you_ have given me\nup already, you look so fresh and smart.... Your affair with Anna\nSergyevna must be getting on successfully.'\n\n'What do you mean by my affair with Anna Sergyevna?'\n\n'Why, didn't you come here from the town on her account, chicken? By\nthe way, how are those Sunday schools getting on? Do you mean to tell\nme you're not in love with her? Or have you already reached the stage\nof discretion?'\n\n'Yevgeny, you know I have always been open with you; I can assure you,\nI will swear to you, you're making a mistake.'\n\n'Hm! That's another story,' remarked Bazarov in an undertone. 'But you\nneedn't be in a taking, it's a matter of absolute indifference to me. A\nsentimentalist would say, \"I feel that our paths are beginning to\npart,\" but I will simply say that we're tired of each other.'\n\n'Yevgeny ...'\n\n'My dear soul, there's no great harm in that. One gets tired of much\nmore than that in this life. And now I suppose we'd better say\ngood-bye, hadn't we? Ever since I've been here I've had such a\nloathsome feeling, just as if I'd been reading Gogol's effusions to the\ngovernor of Kalouga's wife. By the way, I didn't tell them to take the\nhorses out.'\n\n'Upon my word, this is too much!'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'I'll say nothing of myself; but that would be discourteous to the last\ndegree to Anna Sergyevna, who will certainly wish to see you.'\n\n'Oh, you're mistaken there.'\n\n'On the contrary, I am certain I'm right,' retorted Arkady. 'And what\nare you pretending for? If it comes to that, haven't you come here on\nher account yourself?'\n\n'That may be so, but you're mistaken any way.'\n\nBut Arkady was right. Anna Sergyevna desired to see Bazarov, and sent a\nsummons to him by a steward. Bazarov changed his clothes before going\nto her; it turned out that he had packed his new suit so as to be able\nto get it out easily.\n\nMadame Odintsov received him not in the room where he had so\nunexpectedly declared his love to her, but in the drawing-room. She\nheld her finger tips out to him cordially, but her face betrayed an\ninvoluntary sense of tension.\n\n'Anna Sergyevna,' Bazarov hastened to say, 'before everything else I\nmust set your mind at rest. Before you is a poor mortal, who has come\nto his senses long ago, and hopes other people too have forgotten his\nfollies. I am going away for a long while; and though, as you will\nallow, I'm by no means a very soft creature, it would be anything but\ncheerful for me to carry away with me the idea that you remember me\nwith repugnance.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna gave a deep sigh like one who has just climbed up a high\nmountain, and her face was lighted up by a smile. She held out her hand\na second time to Bazarov, and responded to his pressure.\n\n'Let bygones be bygones,' she said. 'I am all the readier to do so\nbecause, speaking from my conscience, I was to blame then too for\nflirting or something. In a word, let us be friends as before. That was\na dream, wasn't it? And who remembers dreams?'\n\n'Who remembers them? And besides, love ... you know, is a purely\nimaginary feeling.'\n\n'Really? I am very glad to hear that.'\n\nSo Anna Sergyevna spoke, and so spoke Bazarov; they both supposed they\nwere speaking the truth. Was the truth, the whole truth, to be found in\ntheir words? They could not themselves have said, and much less could\nthe author. But a conversation followed between them precisely as\nthough they completely believed one another.\n\nAnna Sergyevna asked Bazarov, among other things, what he had been\ndoing at the Kirsanovs'. He was on the point of telling her about his\nduel with Pavel Petrovitch, but he checked himself with the thought\nthat she might imagine he was trying to make himself interesting, and\nanswered that he had been at work all the time.\n\n'And I,' observed Anna Sergyevna, 'had a fit of depression at first,\ngoodness knows why; I even made plans for going abroad, fancy!... Then\nit passed off, your friend Arkady Nikolaitch came, and I fell back into\nmy old routine, and took up my real part again.'\n\n'What part is that, may I ask?'\n\n'The character of aunt, guardian, mother--call it what you like. By the\nway, do you know I used not quite to understand your close friendship\nwith Arkady Nikolaitch; I thought him rather insignificant. But now I\nhave come to know him better, and to see that he is clever.... And he's\nyoung, he's young ... that's the great thing ... not like you and me,\nYevgeny Vassilyitch.'\n\n'Is he still as shy in your company?' queried Bazarov.\n\n'Why, was he?' ... Anna Sergyevna began, and after a brief pause she\nwent on: 'He has grown more confiding now; he talks to me. He used to\navoid me before. Though, indeed, I didn't seek his society either. He's\nmore friends with Katya.'\n\nBazarov felt irritated. 'A woman can't help humbugging, of course!' he\nthought. 'You say he used to avoid you,' he said aloud, with a chilly\nsmile; 'but it is probably no secret to you that he was in love with\nyou?'\n\n'What! he too?' fell from Anna Sergyevna's lips.\n\n'He too,' repeated Bazarov, with a submissive bow. 'Can it be you\ndidn't know it, and I've told you something new?'\n\nAnna Sergyevna dropped her eyes. 'You are mistaken, Yevgeny\nVassilyitch.'\n\n'I don't think so. But perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it.' 'And\ndon't you try telling me lies again for the future,' he added to\nhimself.\n\n'Why not? But I imagine that in this too you are attributing too much\nimportance to a passing impression. I begin to suspect you are inclined\nto exaggeration.'\n\n'We had better not talk about it, Anna Sergyevna.'\n\n'Oh, why?' she retorted; but she herself led the conversation into\nanother channel. She was still ill at ease with Bazarov, though she had\ntold him, and assured herself that everything was forgotten. While she\nwas exchanging the simplest sentences with him, even while she was\njesting with him, she was conscious of a faint spasm of dread. So\npeople on a steamer at sea talk and laugh carelessly, for all the world\nas though they were on dry land; but let only the slightest hitch\noccur, let the least sign be seen of anything out of the common, and at\nonce on every face there comes out an expression of peculiar alarm,\nbetraying the constant consciousness of constant danger.\n\nAnna Sergyevna's conversation with Bazarov did not last long. She began\nto seem absorbed in thought, answered abstractedly, and suggested at\nlast that they should go into the hall, where they found the princess\nand Katya. 'But where is Arkady Nikolaitch?' inquired the lady of the\nhouse; and on hearing that he had not shown himself for more than an\nhour, she sent for him. He was not very quickly found; he had hidden\nhimself in the very thickest part of the garden, and with his chin\npropped on his folded hands, he was sitting lost in meditation. They\nwere deep and serious meditations, but not mournful. He knew Anna\nSergyevna was sitting alone with Bazarov, and he felt no jealousy, as\nonce he had; on the contrary, his face slowly brightened; he seemed to\nbe at once wondering and rejoicing, and resolving on something.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nThe deceased Odintsov had not liked innovations, but he had tolerated\n'the fine arts within a certain sphere,' and had in consequence put up\nin his garden, between the hothouse and the lake, an erection after the\nfashion of a Greek temple, made of Russian brick. Along the dark wall\nat the back of this temple or gallery were placed six niches for\nstatues, which Odintsov had proceeded to order from abroad. These\nstatues were to represent Solitude, Silence, Meditation, Melancholy,\nModesty, and Sensibility. One of them, the goddess of Silence, with her\nfinger on her lip, had been sent and put up; but on the very same day\nsome boys on the farm had broken her nose; and though a plasterer of\nthe neighbourhood undertook to make her a new nose 'twice as good as\nthe old one,' Odintsov ordered her to be taken away, and she was still\nto be seen in the corner of the threshing barn, where she had stood\nmany long years, a source of superstitious terror to the peasant women.\nThe front part of the temple had long ago been overgrown with thick\nbushes; only the pediments of the columns could be seen above the dense\ngreen. In the temple itself it was cool even at mid-day. Anna Sergyevna\nhad not liked visiting this place ever since she had seen a snake\nthere; but Katya often came and sat on the wide stone seat under one of\nthe niches. Here, in the midst of the shade and coolness, she used to\nread and work, or to give herself up to that sensation of perfect\npeace, known, doubtless, to each of us, the charm of which consists in\nthe half-unconscious, silent listening to the vast current of life that\nflows for ever both around us and within us.\n\nThe day after Bazarov's arrival Katya was sitting on her favourite\nstone seat, and beside her again was sitting Arkady. He had besought\nher to come with him to the 'temple.'\n\nThere was about an hour still to lunch-time; the dewy morning had\nalready given place to a sultry day. Arkady's face retained the\nexpression of the preceding day; Katya had a preoccupied look. Her\nsister had, directly after their morning tea, called her into her room,\nand after some preliminary caresses, which always scared Katya a\nlittle, she had advised her to be more guarded in her behaviour with\nArkady, and especially to avoid solitary talks with him, as likely to\nattract the notice of her aunt and all the household. Besides this,\neven the previous evening Anna Sergyevna had not been herself; and\nKatya herself had felt ill at ease, as though she were conscious of\nsome fault in herself. As she yielded to Arkady's entreaties, she said\nto herself that it was for the last time.\n\n'Katerina Sergyevna,' he began with a sort of bashful easiness, 'since\nI've had the happiness of living in the same house with you, I have\ndiscussed a great many things with you; but meanwhile there is one,\nvery important ... for me ... one question, which I have not touched\nupon up till now. You remarked yesterday that I have been changed\nhere,' he went on, at once catching and avoiding the questioning glance\nKatya was turning upon him. 'I have changed certainly a great deal, and\nyou know that better than any one else--you to whom I really owe this\nchange.'\n\n'I?... Me?...' said Katya.\n\n'I am not now the conceited boy I was when I came here,' Arkady went\non. 'I've not reached twenty-three for nothing; as before, I want to be\nuseful, I want to devote all my powers to the truth; but I no longer\nlook for my ideals where I did; they present themselves to me ... much\ncloser to hand. Up till now I did not understand myself; I set myself\ntasks which were beyond my powers.... My eyes have been opened lately,\nthanks to one feeling.... I'm not expressing myself quite clearly, but\nI hope you understand me.'\n\nKatya made no reply, but she ceased looking at Arkady.\n\n'I suppose,' he began again, this time in a more agitated voice, while\nabove his head a chaffinch sang its song unheeding among the leaves of\nthe birch--'I suppose it's the duty of every one to be open with those\n... with those people who ... in fact, with those who are near to him,\nand so I ... I resolved ...'\n\nBut here Arkady's eloquence deserted him; he lost the thread,\nstammered, and was forced to be silent for a moment. Katya still did\nnot raise her eyes. She seemed not to understand what he was leading up\nto in all this, and to be waiting for something.\n\n'I foresee I shall surprise you,' began Arkady, pulling himself\ntogether again with an effort, 'especially since this feeling relates\nin a way ... in a way, notice ... to you. You reproached me, if you\nremember, yesterday with a want of seriousness,' Arkady went on, with\nthe air of a man who has got into a bog, feels that he is sinking\nfurther and further in at every step, and yet hurries onwards in the\nhope of crossing it as soon as possible; 'that reproach is often aimed\n... often falls ... on young men even when they cease to deserve it;\nand if I had more self-confidence ...' ('Come, help me, do help me!'\nArkady was thinking, in desperation; but, as before, Katya did not turn\nher head.) 'If I could hope ...'\n\n'If I could feel sure of what you say,' was heard at that instant the\nclear voice of Anna Sergyevna.\n\nArkady was still at once, while Katya turned pale. Close by the bushes\nthat screened the temple ran a little path. Anna Sergyevna was walking\nalong it escorted by Bazarov. Katya and Arkady could not see them, but\nthey heard every word, the rustle of their clothes, their very\nbreathing. They walked on a few steps, and, as though on purpose, stood\nstill just opposite the temple.\n\n'You see,' pursued Anna Sergyevna, 'you and I made a mistake; we are\nboth past our first youth, I especially so; we have seen life, we are\ntired; we are both--why affect not to know it?--clever; at first we\ninterested each other, curiosity was aroused ... and then ...'\n\n'And then I grew stale,' put in Bazarov.\n\n'You know that was not the cause of our misunderstanding. But, however,\nit was to be, we had no need of one another, that's the chief point;\nthere was too much ... what shall I say? ... that was alike in us. We\ndid not realise it all at once. Now, Arkady ...'\n\n'So you need him?' queried Bazarov.\n\n'Hush, Yevgeny Vassilyitch. You tell me he is not indifferent to me,\nand it always seemed to me he liked me. I know that I might well be his\naunt, but I don't wish to conceal from you that I have come to think\nmore often of him. In such youthful, fresh feeling there is a special\ncharm ...'\n\n'The word _fascination_ is most usual in such cases,' Bazarov\ninterrupted; the effervescence of his spleen could be heard in his\nchoked though steady voice. 'Arkady was mysterious over something with\nme yesterday, and didn't talk either of you or your sister.... That's a\nserious symptom.'\n\n'He is just like a brother with Katya,' commented Anna Sergyevna, 'and\nI like that in him, though, perhaps, I ought not to have allowed such\nintimacy between them.'\n\n'That idea is prompted by ... your feelings as a sister?' Bazarov\nbrought out, drawling.\n\n'Of course ... but why are we standing still? Let us go on. What a\nstrange talk we are having, aren't we? I could never have believed I\nshould talk to you like this. You know, I am afraid of you ... and at\nthe same time I trust you, because in reality you are so good.'\n\n'In the first place, I am not in the least good; and in the second\nplace, I have lost all significance for you, and you tell me I am\ngood.... It's like a laying a wreath of flowers on the head of a\ncorpse.'\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, we are not responsible ...' Anna Sergyevna began;\nbut a gust of wind blew across, set the leaves rustling, and carried\naway her words. 'Of course, you are free ...' Bazarov declared after a\nbrief pause. Nothing more could be distinguished; the steps retreated\n... everything was still.\n\nArkady turned to Katya. She was sitting in the same position, but her\nhead was bent still lower. 'Katerina Sergyevna,' he said with a shaking\nvoice, and clasping his hands tightly together, 'I love you for ever\nand irrevocably, and I love no one but you. I wanted to tell you this,\nto find out your opinion of me, and to ask for your hand, since I am\nnot rich, and I feel ready for any sacrifice.... You don't answer me?\nYou don't believe me? Do you think I speak lightly? But remember these\nlast days! Surely for a long time past you must have known that\neverything--understand me--everything else has vanished long ago and\nleft no trace? Look at me, say one word to me ... I love ... I love you\n... believe me!'\n\nKatya glanced at Arkady with a bright and serious look, and after long\nhesitation, with the faintest smile, she said, 'Yes.'\n\nArkady leapt up from the stone seat. 'Yes! You said Yes, Katerina\nSergyevna! What does that word mean? Only that I do love you, that you\nbelieve me ... or ... or ... I daren't go on ...'\n\n'Yes,' repeated Katya, and this time he understood her. He snatched her\nlarge beautiful hands, and, breathless with rapture, pressed them to\nhis heart. He could scarcely stand on his feet, and could only repeat,\n'Katya, Katya ...' while she began weeping in a guileless way, smiling\ngently at her own tears. No one who has not seen those tears in the\neyes of the beloved, knows yet to what a point, faint with shame and\ngratitude, a man may be happy on earth.\n\nThe next day, early in the morning, Anna Sergyevna sent to summon\nBazarov to her boudoir, and with a forced laugh handed him a folded\nsheet of notepaper. It was a letter from Arkady; in it he asked for her\nsister's hand.\n\nBazarov quickly scanned the letter, and made an effort to control\nhimself, that he might not show the malignant feeling which was\ninstantaneously aflame in his breast.\n\n'So that's how it is,' he commented; 'and you, I fancy, only yesterday\nimagined he loved Katerina Sergyevna as a brother. What are you\nintending to do now?'\n\n'What do you advise me?' asked Anna Sergyevna, still laughing.\n\n'Well, I suppose,' answered Bazarov, also with a laugh, though he felt\nanything but cheerful, and had no more inclination to laugh than she\nhad; 'I suppose you ought to give the young people your blessing. It's\na good match in every respect; Kirsanov's position is passable, he's\nthe only son, and his father's a good-natured fellow, he won't try to\nthwart him.'\n\nMadame Odintsov walked up and down the room. By turns her face flushed\nand grew pale. 'You think so,' she said. 'Well, I see no obstacles ...\nI am glad for Katya ... and for Arkady Nikolaevitch too. Of course, I\nwill wait for his father's answer. I will send him in person to him.\nBut it turns out, you see, that I was right yesterday when I told you\nwe were both old people.... How was it I saw nothing? That's what\namazes me!' Anna Sergyevna laughed again, and quickly turned her head\naway.\n\n'The younger generation have grown awfully sly,' remarked Bazarov, and\nhe too laughed. 'Good-bye,' he began again after a short silence. 'I\nhope you will bring the matter to the most satisfactory conclusion; and\nI will rejoice from a distance.'\n\nMadame Odintsov turned quickly to him. 'You are not going away? Why\nshould you not stay _now_? Stay ... it's exciting talking to you ...\none seems walking on the edge of a precipice. At first one feels timid,\nbut one gains courage as one goes on. Do stay.'\n\n'Thanks for the suggestion, Anna Sergyevna, and for your flattering\nopinion of my conversational talents. But I think I have already been\nmoving too long in a sphere which is not my own. Flying fishes can hold\nout for a time in the air; but soon they must splash back into the\nwater; allow me, too, to paddle in my own element.'\n\nMadame Odintsov looked at Bazarov. His pale face was twitching with a\nbitter smile. 'This man did love me!' she thought, and she felt pity\nfor him, and held out her hand to him with sympathy.\n\nBut he too understood her. 'No!' he said, stepping back a pace. 'I'm a\npoor man, but I've never taken charity so far. Good-bye, and good luck\nto you.'\n\n'I am certain we are not seeing each other for the last time,' Anna\nSergyevna declared with an unconscious gesture.\n\n'Anything may happen!' answered Bazarov, and he bowed and went away.\n\n'So you are thinking of making yourself a nest?' he said the same day\nto Arkady, as he packed his box, crouching on the floor. 'Well, it's a\ncapital thing. But you needn't have been such a humbug. I expected\nsomething from you in quite another quarter. Perhaps, though, it took\nyou by surprise yourself?'\n\n'I certainly didn't expect this when I parted from you,' answered\nArkady; 'but why are you a humbug yourself, calling it \"a capital\nthing,\" as though I didn't know your opinion of marriage.'\n\n'Ah, my dear fellow,' said Bazarov, 'how you talk! You see what I'm\ndoing; there seems to be an empty space in the box, and I am putting\nhay in; that's how it is in the box of our life; we would stuff it up\nwith anything rather than have a void. Don't be offended, please; you\nremember, no doubt, the opinion I have always had of Katerina\nSergyevna. Many a young lady's called clever simply because she can\nsigh cleverly; but yours can hold her own, and, indeed, she'll hold it\nso well that she'll have you under her thumb--to be sure, though,\nthat's quite as it ought to be.' He slammed the lid to, and got up from\nthe floor. 'And now, I say again, good-bye, for it's useless to deceive\nourselves--we are parting for good, and you know that yourself ... you\nhave acted sensibly; you're not made for our bitter, rough, lonely\nexistence. There's no dash, no hate in you, but you've the daring of\nyouth and the fire of youth. Your sort, you gentry, can never get\nbeyond refined submission or refined indignation, and that's no good.\nYou won't fight--and yet you fancy yourselves gallant chaps--but we\nmean to fight. Oh well! Our dust would get into your eyes, our mud\nwould bespatter you, but yet you're not up to our level, you're\nadmiring yourselves unconsciously, you like to abuse yourselves; but\nwe're sick of that--we want something else! we want to smash other\npeople! You're a capital fellow; but you're a sugary, liberal snob for\nall that--_ay volla-too_, as my parent is fond of saying.'\n\n'You are parting from me for ever, Yevgeny,' responded Arkady\nmournfully; 'and have you nothing else to say to me?'\n\nBazarov scratched the back of his head. 'Yes, Arkady, yes, I have other\nthings to say to you, but I'm not going to say them, because that's\nsentimentalism--that means, mawkishness. And you get married as soon as\nyou can; and build your nest, and get children to your heart's content.\nThey'll have the wit to be born in a better time than you and me. Aha!\nI see the horses are ready. Time's up! I've said good-bye to every\none.... What now? embracing, eh?'\n\nArkady flung himself on the neck of his former leader and friend, and\nthe tears fairly gushed from his eyes.\n\n'That's what comes of being young!' Bazarov commented calmly. 'But I\nrest my hopes on Katerina Sergyevna. You'll see how quickly she'll\nconsole you! Good-bye, brother!' he said to Arkady when he had got into\nthe light cart, and, pointing to a pair of jackdaws sitting side by\nside on the stable roof, he added, 'That's for you! follow that\nexample.'\n\n'What does that mean?' asked Arkady.\n\n'What? Are you so weak in natural history, or have you forgotten that\nthe jackdaw is a most respectable family bird? An example to you!...\nGood-bye!'\n\nThe cart creaked and rolled away.\n\nBazarov had spoken truly. In talking that evening with Katya, Arkady\ncompletely forgot about his former teacher. He already began to follow\nher lead, and Katya was conscious of this, and not surprised at it. He\nwas to set off the next day for Maryino, to see Nikolai Petrovitch.\nAnna Sergyevna was not disposed to put any constraint on the young\npeople, and only on account of the proprieties did not leave them by\nthemselves for too long together. She magnanimously kept the princess\nout of their way; the latter had been reduced to a state of tearful\nfrenzy by the news of the proposed marriage. At first Anna Sergyevna\nwas afraid the sight of their happiness might prove rather trying to\nherself, but it turned out quite the other way; this sight not only did\nnot distress her, it interested her, it even softened her at last. Anna\nSergyevna felt both glad and sorry at this. 'It is clear that Bazarov\nwas right,' she thought; 'it has been curiosity, nothing but curiosity,\nand love of ease, and egoism ...'\n\n'Children,' she said aloud, 'what do you say, is love a purely\nimaginary feeling?'\n\nBut neither Katya nor Arkady even understood her. They were shy with\nher; the fragment of conversation they had involuntarily overheard\nhaunted their minds. But Anna Sergyevna soon set their minds at rest;\nand it was not difficult for her--she had set her own mind at rest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nBazarov's old parents were all the more overjoyed by their son's\narrival, as it was quite unexpected. Arina Vlasyevna was greatly\nexcited, and kept running backwards and forwards in the house, so that\nVassily Ivanovitch compared her to a 'hen partridge'; the short tail of\nher abbreviated jacket did, in fact, give her something of a birdlike\nappearance. He himself merely growled and gnawed the amber mouthpiece\nof his pipe, or, clutching his neck with his fingers, turned his head\nround, as though he were trying whether it were properly screwed on,\nthen all at once he opened his wide mouth and went off into a perfectly\nnoiseless chuckle.\n\n'I've come to you for six whole weeks, governor,' Bazarov said to him.\n'I want to work, so please don't hinder me now.'\n\n'You shall forget my face completely, if you call that hindering you!'\nanswered Vassily Ivanovitch.\n\nHe kept his promise. After installing his son as before in his study,\nhe almost hid himself away from him, and he kept his wife from all\nsuperfluous demonstrations of tenderness. 'On Enyusha's first visit, my\ndear soul,' he said to her, 'we bothered him a little; we must be wiser\nthis time.' Arina Vlasyevna agreed with her husband, but that was small\ncompensation since she saw her son only at meals, and was now\nabsolutely afraid to address him. 'Enyushenka,' she would say\nsometimes--and before he had time to look round, she was nervously\nfingering the tassels of her reticule and faltering, 'Never mind, never\nmind, I only----' and afterwards she would go to Vassily Ivanovitch\nand, her cheek in her hand, would consult him: 'If you could only find\nout, darling, which Enyusha would like for dinner to-day--cabbage-broth\nor beetroot-soup?'--'But why didn't you ask him yourself?'--'Oh, he\nwill get sick of me!' Bazarov, however, soon ceased to shut himself up;\nthe fever of work fell away, and was replaced by dreary boredom or\nvague restlessness. A strange weariness began to show itself in all his\nmovements; even his walk, firm, bold and strenuous, was changed. He\ngave up walking in solitude, and began to seek society; he drank tea in\nthe drawing-room, strolled about the kitchen-garden with Vassily\nIvanovitch, and smoked with him in silence; once even asked after\nFather Alexey. Vassily Ivanovitch at first rejoiced at this change, but\nhis joy was not long-lived. 'Enyusha's breaking my heart,' he\ncomplained in secret to his wife; 'it's not that he's discontented or\nangry--that would be nothing; he's sad, he's sorrowful--that's what's\nso terrible. He's always silent. If he'd only abuse us; he's growing\nthin, he's lost his colour.'--'Mercy on us, mercy on us!' whispered the\nold woman; 'I would put an amulet on his neck, but, of course, he won't\nallow it.' Vassily Ivanovitch several times attempted in the most\ncircumspect manner to question Bazarov about his work, about his\nhealth, and about Arkady.... But Bazarov's replies were reluctant and\ncasual; and, once noticing that his father was trying gradually to lead\nup to something in conversation, he said to him in a tone of vexation:\n'Why do you always seem to be walking round me on tiptoe? That way's\nworse than the old one.'--'There, there, I meant nothing!' poor Vassily\nIvanovitch answered hurriedly. So his diplomatic hints remained\nfruitless. He hoped to awaken his son's sympathy one day by beginning\n_\u00e0 propos_ of the approaching emancipation of the peasantry, to talk\nabout progress; but the latter responded indifferently: 'Yesterday I\nwas walking under the fence, and I heard the peasant boys here, instead\nof some old ballad, bawling a street song. That's what progress is.'\n\nSometimes Bazarov went into the village, and in his usual bantering\ntone entered into conversation with some peasant: 'Come,' he would say\nto him, 'expound your views on life to me, brother; you see, they say\nall the strength and future of Russia lies in your hands, a new epoch\nin history will be started by you--you give us our real language and\nour laws.'\n\nThe peasant either made no reply, or articulated a few words of this\nsort, 'Well, we'll try ... because, you see, to be sure....'\n\n'You explain to me what your _mir_ is,' Bazarov interrupted; 'and is it\nthe same _mir_ that is said to rest on three fishes?'\n\n'That, little father, is the earth that rests on three fishes,' the\npeasant would declare soothingly, in a kind of patriarchal,\nsimple-hearted sing-song; 'and over against ours, that's to say, the\n_mir_, we know there's the master's will; wherefore you are our\nfathers. And the stricter the master's rule, the better for the\npeasant.'\n\nAfter listening to such a reply one day, Bazarov shrugged his shoulders\ncontemptuously and turned away, while the peasant sauntered slowly\nhomewards.\n\n'What was he talking about?' inquired another peasant of middle age and\nsurly aspect, who at a distance from the door of his hut had been\nfollowing his conversation with Bazarov.--'Arrears? eh?'\n\n'Arrears, no indeed, mate!' answered the first peasant, and now there\nwas no trace of patriarchal singsong in his voice; on the contrary,\nthere was a certain scornful gruffness to be heard in it: 'Oh, he\nclacked away about something or other; wanted to stretch his tongue a\nbit. Of course, he's a gentleman; what does he understand?'\n\n'What should he understand!' answered the other peasant, and jerking\nback their caps and pushing down their belts, they proceeded to\ndeliberate upon their work and their wants. Alas! Bazarov, shrugging\nhis shoulders contemptuously, Bazarov, who knew how to talk to peasants\n(as he had boasted in his dispute with Pavel Petrovitch), did not in\nhis self-confidence even suspect that in their eyes he was all the\nwhile something of the nature of a buffooning clown.\n\nHe found employment for himself at last, however. One day Vassily\nIvanovitch bound up a peasant's wounded leg before him, but the old\nman's hands trembled, and he could not manage the bandages; his son\nhelped him, and from time to time began to take a share in his\npractice, though at the same time he was constantly sneering both at\nthe remedies he himself advised and at his father, who hastened to make\nuse of them. But Bazarov's jeers did not in the least perturb Vassily\nIvanovitch; they were positively a comfort to him. Holding his greasy\ndressing-gown across his stomach with two fingers, and smoking his\npipe, he used to listen with enjoyment to Bazarov; and the more\nmalicious his sallies, the more good-humouredly did his delighted\nfather chuckle, showing every one of his black teeth. He used even to\nrepeat these sometimes flat or pointless retorts, and would, for\ninstance, for several days constantly without rhyme or reason,\nreiterate, 'Not a matter of the first importance!' simply because his\nson, on hearing he was going to matins, had made use of that\nexpression. 'Thank God! he has got over his melancholy!' he whispered\nto his wife; 'how he gave it to me to-day, it was splendid!' Moreover,\nthe idea of having such an assistant excited him to ecstasy, filled him\nwith pride. 'Yes, yes,' he would say to some peasant woman in a man's\ncloak, and a cap shaped like a horn, as he handed her a bottle of\nGoulard's extract or a box of white ointment, 'you ought to be thanking\nGod, my good woman, every minute that my son is staying with me; you\nwill be treated now by the most scientific, most modern method. Do you\nknow what that means? The Emperor of the French, Napoleon, even, has no\nbetter doctor.' And the peasant woman, who had come to complain that\nshe felt so sort of queer all over (the exact meaning of these words\nshe was not able, however, herself to explain), merely bowed low and\nrummaged in her bosom, where four eggs lay tied up in the corner of a\ntowel.\n\nBazarov once even pulled out a tooth for a passing pedlar of cloth; and\nthough this tooth was an average specimen, Vassily Ivanovitch preserved\nit as a curiosity, and incessantly repeated, as he showed it to Father\nAlexey, 'Just look, what a fang! The force Yevgeny has! The pedlar\nseemed to leap into the air. If it had been an oak, he'd have rooted it\nup!'\n\n'Most promising!' Father Alexey would comment at last, not knowing what\nanswer to make, and how to get rid of the ecstatic old man.\n\nOne day a peasant from a neighbouring village brought his brother to\nVassily Ivanovitch, ill with typhus. The unhappy man, lying flat on a\ntruss of straw, was dying; his body was covered with dark patches, he\nhad long ago lost consciousness. Vassily Ivanovitch expressed his\nregret that no one had taken steps to procure medical aid sooner, and\ndeclared there was no hope. And, in fact, the peasant did not get his\nbrother home again; he died in the cart.\n\nThree days later Bazarov came into his father's room and asked him if\nhe had any caustic.\n\n'Yes; what do you want it for?'\n\n'I must have some ... to burn a cut.'\n\n'For whom?'\n\n'For myself.'\n\n'What, yourself? Why is that? What sort of a cut? Where is it?'\n\n'Look here, on my finger. I went to-day to the village, you know, where\nthey brought that peasant with typhus fever. They were just going to\nopen the body for some reason or other, and I've had no practice of\nthat sort for a long while.'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'Well, so I asked the district doctor about it; and so I dissected it.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch all at once turned quite white, and, without\nuttering a word, rushed to his study, from which he returned at once\nwith a bit of caustic in his hand. Bazarov was about to take it and go\naway.\n\n'For mercy's sake,' said Vassily Ivanovitch, 'let me do it myself.'\n\nBazarov smiled. 'What a devoted practitioner!'\n\n'Don't laugh, please. Show me your finger. The cut is not a large one.\nDo I hurt?'\n\n'Press harder; don't be afraid.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch stopped. 'What do you think, Yevgeny; wouldn't it be\nbetter to burn it with hot iron?'\n\n'That ought to have been done sooner; the caustic even is useless,\nreally, now. If I've taken the infection, it's too late now.'\n\n'How ... too late ...' Vassily Ivanovitch could scarcely articulate the\nwords.\n\n'I should think so! It's more than four hours ago.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch burnt the cut a little more. 'But had the district\ndoctor no caustic?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'How was that, good Heavens? A doctor not have such an indispensable\nthing as that!'\n\n'You should have seen his lancets,' observed Bazarov as he walked away.\n\nUp till late that evening, and all the following day, Vassily\nIvanovitch kept catching at every possible excuse to go into his son's\nroom; and though far from referring to the cut--he even tried to talk\nabout the most irrelevant subjects--he looked so persistently into his\nface, and watched him in such trepidation, that Bazarov lost patience\nand threatened to go away. Vassily Ivanovitch gave him a promise not to\nbother him, the more readily as Arina Vlasyevna, from whom, of course,\nhe kept it all secret, was beginning to worry him as to why he did not\nsleep, and what had come over him. For two whole days he held himself\nin, though he did not at all like the look of his son, whom he kept\nwatching stealthily, ... but on the third day, at dinner, he could bear\nit no longer. Bazarov sat with downcast looks, and had not touched a\nsingle dish.\n\n'Why don't you eat, Yevgeny?' he inquired, putting on an expression of\nthe most perfect carelessness. 'The food, I think, is very nicely\ncooked.'\n\n'I don't want anything, so I don't eat.'\n\n'Have you no appetite? And your head?' he added timidly; 'does it\nache?'\n\n'Yes. Of course, it aches.'\n\nArina Vlasyevna sat up and was all alert.\n\n'Don't be angry, please, Yevgeny,' continued Vassily Ivanovitch; 'won't\nyou let me feel your pulse?'\n\nBazarov got up. 'I can tell you without feeling my pulse; I'm\nfeverish.'\n\n'Has there been any shivering?'\n\n'Yes, there has been shivering too. I'll go and lie down, and you can\nsend me some lime-flower tea. I must have caught cold.'\n\n'To be sure, I heard you coughing last night,' observed Arina\nVlasyevna.\n\n'I've caught cold,' repeated Bazarov, and he went away.\n\nArina Vlasyevna busied herself about the preparation of the decoction\nof lime-flowers, while Vassily Ivanovitch went into the next room and\nclutched at his hair in silent desperation.\n\nBazarov did not get up again that day, and passed the whole night in\nheavy, half-unconscious torpor. At one o'clock in the morning, opening\nhis eyes with an effort, he saw by the light of a lamp his father's\npale face bending over him, and told him to go away. The old man begged\nhis pardon, but he quickly came back on tiptoe, and half-hidden by the\ncupboard door, he gazed persistently at his son. Arina Vlasyevna did\nnot go to bed either, and leaving the study door just open a very\nlittle, she kept coming up to it to listen 'how Enyusha was breathing,'\nand to look at Vassily Ivanovitch. She could see nothing but his\nmotionless bent back, but even that afforded her some faint\nconsolation. In the morning Bazarov tried to get up; he was seized with\ngiddiness, his nose began to bleed; he lay down again. Vassily\nIvanovitch waited on him in silence; Arina Vlasyevna went in to him and\nasked him how he was feeling. He answered, 'Better,' and turned to the\nwall. Vassily Ivanovitch gesticulated at his wife with both hands; she\nbit her lips so as not to cry, and went away. The whole house seemed\nsuddenly darkened; every one looked gloomy; there was a strange hush; a\nshrill cock was carried away from the yard to the village, unable to\ncomprehend why he should be treated so. Bazarov still lay, turned to\nthe wall. Vassily Ivanovitch tried to address him with various\nquestions, but they fatigued Bazarov, and the old man sank into his\narmchair, motionless, only cracking his finger-joints now and then. He\nwent for a few minutes into the garden, stood there like a statue, as\nthough overwhelmed with unutterable bewilderment (the expression of\namazement never left his face all through), and went back again to his\nson, trying to avoid his wife's questions. She caught him by the arm at\nlast and passionately, almost menacingly, said, 'What is wrong with\nhim?' Then he came to himself, and forced himself to smile at her in\nreply; but to his own horror, instead of a smile, he found himself\ntaken somehow by a fit of laughter. He had sent at daybreak for a\ndoctor. He thought it necessary to inform his son of this, for fear he\nshould be angry. Bazarov suddenly turned over on the sofa, bent a fixed\ndull look on his father, and asked for drink.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch gave him some water, and as he did so felt his\nforehead. It seemed on fire.\n\n'Governor,' began Bazarov, in a slow, drowsy voice; 'I'm in a bad way;\nI've got the infection, and in a few days you'll have to bury me.'\n\nVassily Ivanovitch staggered back, as though some one had aimed a blow\nat his legs.\n\n'Yevgeny!' he faltered; 'what do you mean!... God have mercy on you!\nYou've caught cold!'\n\n'Hush!' Bazarov interposed deliberately. 'A doctor can't be allowed to\ntalk like that. There's every symptom of infection; you know yourself.'\n\n'Where are the symptoms ... of infection Yevgeny?... Good Heavens!'\n\n'What's this?' said Bazarov, and, pulling up his shirtsleeve, he showed\nhis father the ominous red patches coming out on his arm.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch was shaking and chill with terror.\n\n'Supposing,' he said at last, 'even supposing ... if even there's\nsomething like ... infection ...'\n\n'Py\u00e6mia,' put in his son.\n\n'Well, well ... something of the epidemic ...'\n\n'Py\u00e6mia,' Bazarov repeated sharply and distinctly; 'have you forgotten\nyour text-books?'\n\n'Well, well--as you like.... Anyway, we will cure you!'\n\n'Come, that's humbug. But that's not the point. I didn't expect to die\nso soon; it's a most unpleasant incident, to tell the truth. You and\nmother ought to make the most of your strong religious belief; now's\nthe time to put it to the test.' He drank off a little water. 'I want\nto ask you about one thing ... while my head is still under my control.\nTo-morrow or next day my brain, you know, will send in its resignation.\nI'm not quite certain even now whether I'm expressing myself clearly.\nWhile I've been lying here, I've kept fancying red dogs were running\nround me, while you were making them point at me, as if I were a\nwoodcock. Just as if I were drunk. Do you understand me all right?'\n\n'I assure you, Yevgeny, you are talking perfectly correctly.'\n\n'All the better. You told me you'd sent for the doctor. You did that to\ncomfort yourself ... comfort me too; send a messenger ...'\n\n'To Arkady Nikolaitch?' put in the old man.\n\n'Who's Arkady Nikolaitch?' said Bazarov, as though in doubt.... 'Oh,\nyes! that chicken! No, let him alone; he's turned jackdaw now. Don't be\nsurprised; that's not delirium yet. You send a messenger to Madame\nOdintsov, Anna Sergyevna; she's a lady with an estate.... Do you know?'\n(Vassily Ivanovitch nodded.) 'Yevgeny Bazarov, say, sends his\ngreetings, and sends word he is dying. Will you do that?'\n\n'Yes, I will do it.... But is it a possible thing for you to die,\nYevgeny?... Think only! Where would divine justice be after that?'\n\n'I know nothing about that; only you send the messenger.'\n\n'I'll send this minute, and I'll write a letter myself.'\n\n'No, why? Say I sent greetings; nothing more is necessary. And now I'll\ngo back to my dogs. Strange! I want to fix my thoughts on death, and\nnothing comes of it. I see a kind of blur ... and nothing more.'\n\nHe turned painfully back to the wall again; while Vassily Ivanovitch\nwent out of the study, and struggling as far as his wife's bedroom,\nsimply dropped down on to his knees before the holy pictures.\n\n'Pray, Arina, pray for us!' he moaned; 'our son is dying.'\n\nThe doctor, the same district doctor who had had no caustic, arrived,\nand after looking at the patient, advised them to persevere with a\ncooling treatment, and at that point said a few words of the chance of\nrecovery.\n\n'Have you ever chanced to see people in my state _not_ set off for\nElysium?' asked Bazarov, and suddenly snatching the leg of a heavy\ntable that stood near his sofa, he swung it round, and pushed it away.\n'There's strength, there's strength,' he murmured; 'everything's here\nstill, and I must die!... An old man at least has time to be weaned\nfrom life, but I ... Well, go and try to disprove death. Death will\ndisprove you, and that's all! Who's crying there?' he added, after a\nshort pause--'Mother? Poor thing! Whom will she feed now with her\nexquisite beetroot-soup? You, Vassily Ivanovitch, whimpering too, I do\nbelieve! Why, if Christianity's no help to you, be a philosopher, a\nStoic, or what not! Why, didn't you boast you were a philosopher?'\n\n'Me a philosopher!' wailed Vassily Ivanovitch, while the tears fairly\nstreamed down his cheeks.\n\nBazarov got worse every hour; the progress of the disease was rapid, as\nis usually the way in cases of surgical poisoning. He still had not\nlost consciousness, and understood what was said to him; he was still\nstruggling. 'I don't want to lose my wits,' he muttered, clenching his\nfists; 'what rot it all is!' And at once he would say, 'Come, take ten\nfrom eight, what remains?' Vassily Ivanovitch wandered about like one\npossessed, proposed first one remedy, then another, and ended by doing\nnothing but cover up his son's feet. 'Try cold pack ... emetic ...\nmustard plasters on the stomach ... bleeding,' he would murmur with an\neffort. The doctor, whom he had entreated to remain, agreed with him,\nordered the patient lemonade to drink, and for himself asked for a pipe\nand something 'warming and strengthening'--that's to say, brandy. Arina\nVlasyevna sat on a low stool near the door, and only went out from time\nto time to pray. A few days before, a looking-glass had slipped out of\nher hands and been broken, and this she had always considered an omen\nof evil; even Anfisushka could say nothing to her. Timofeitch had gone\noff to Madame Odintsov's.\n\nThe night passed badly for Bazarov.... He was in the agonies of high\nfever. Towards morning he was a little easier. He asked for Arina\nVlasyevna to comb his hair, kissed her hand, and swallowed two gulps of\ntea. Vassily Ivanovitch revived a little.\n\n'Thank God!' he kept declaring; 'the crisis is coming, the crisis is at\nhand!'\n\n'There, to think now!' murmured Bazarov; 'what a word can do! He's\nfound it; he's said \"crisis,\" and is comforted. It's an astounding\nthing how man believes in words. If he's told he's a fool, for\ninstance, though he's not thrashed, he'll be wretched; call him a\nclever fellow, and he'll be delighted if you go off without paying\nhim.'\n\nThis little speech of Bazarov's, recalling his old retorts, moved\nVassily Ivanovitch greatly.\n\n'Bravo! well said, very good!' he cried, making as though he were\nclapping his hands.\n\nBazarov smiled mournfully.\n\n'So what do you think,' he said; 'is the crisis over, or coming?'\n\n'You are better, that's what I see, that's what rejoices me,' answered\nVassily Ivanovitch.\n\n'Well, that's good; rejoicings never come amiss. And to her, do you\nremember? did you send?'\n\n'To be sure I did.'\n\nThe change for the better did not last long. The disease resumed its\nonslaughts. Vassily Ivanovitch was sitting by Bazarov. It seemed as\nthough the old man were tormented by some special anguish. He was\nseveral times on the point of speaking--and could not.\n\n'Yevgeny!' he brought out at last; 'my son, my one, dear son!'\n\nThis unfamiliar mode of address produced an effect on Bazarov. He\nturned his head a little, and, obviously trying to fight against the\nload of oblivion weighing upon him, he articulated: 'What is it,\nfather?'\n\n'Yevgeny,' Vassily Ivanovitch went on, and he fell on his knees before\nBazarov, though the latter had closed his eyes and could not see him.\n'Yevgeny, you are better now; please God, you will get well, but make\nuse of this time, comfort your mother and me, perform the duty of a\nChristian! What it means for me to say this to you, it's awful; but\nstill more awful ... for ever and ever, Yevgeny ... think a little,\nwhat ...'\n\nThe old man's voice broke, and a strange look passed over his son's\nface, though he still lay with closed eyes.\n\n'I won't refuse, if that can be any comfort to you,' he brought out at\nlast; 'but it seems to me there's no need to be in a hurry. You say\nyourself I am better.'\n\n'Oh, yes, Yevgeny, better certainly; but who knows, it is all in God's\nhands, and in doing the duty ...'\n\n'No, I will wait a bit,' broke in Bazarov. 'I agree with you that the\ncrisis has come. And if we're mistaken, well! they give the sacrament\nto men who're unconscious, you know.'\n\n'Yevgeny, I beg.'\n\n'I'll wait a little. And now I want to go to sleep. Don't disturb me.'\nAnd he laid his head back on the pillow.\n\nThe old man rose from his knees, sat down in the armchair, and,\nclutching his beard, began biting his own fingers ...\n\nThe sound of a light carriage on springs, that sound which is\npeculiarly impressive in the wilds of the country, suddenly struck upon\nhis hearing. Nearer and nearer rolled the light wheels; now even the\nneighing of the horses could be heard.... Vassily Ivanovitch jumped up\nand ran to the little window. There drove into the courtyard of his\nlittle house a carriage with seats for two, with four horses harnessed\nabreast. Without stopping to consider what it could mean, with a rush\nof a sort of senseless joy, he ran out on to the steps.... A groom in\nlivery was opening the carriage doors; a lady in a black veil and a\nblack mantle was getting out of it ...\n\n'I am Madame Odintsov,' she said. 'Yevgeny Vassilvitch is still living?\nYou are his father? I have a doctor with me.'\n\n'Benefactress!' cried Vassily Ivanovitch, and snatching her hand, he\npressed it convulsively to his lips, while the doctor brought by Anna\nSergyevna, a little man in spectacles, of German physiognomy, stepped\nvery deliberately out of the carriage. 'Still living, my Yevgeny is\nliving, and now he will be saved! Wife! wife!... An angel from heaven\nhas come to us....'\n\n'What does it mean, good Lord!' faltered the old woman, running out of\nthe drawing-room; and, comprehending nothing, she fell on the spot in\nthe passage at Anna Sergyevna's feet, and began kissing her garments\nlike a mad woman.\n\n'What are you doing!' protested Anna Sergyevna; but Arina Vlasyevna did\nnot heed her, while Vassily Ivanovitch could only repeat, 'An angel! an\nangel!'\n\n'_Wo ist der Kranke?_ and where is the patient?' said the doctor at\nlast, with some impatience.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch recovered himself. 'Here, here, follow me,\nw\u00fcrdigster Herr Collega,' he added through old associations.\n\n'Ah!' articulated the German, grinning sourly.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch led him into the study. 'The doctor from Anna\nSergyevna Odintsov,' he said, bending down quite to his son's ear, 'and\nshe herself is here.'\n\nBazarov suddenly opened his eyes. 'What did you say?'\n\n'I say that Anna Sergyevna is here, and has brought this gentleman, a\ndoctor, to you.'\n\nBazarov moved his eyes about him. 'She is here.... I want to see her.'\n\n'You shall see her, Yevgeny; but first we must have a little talk with\nthe doctor. I will tell him the whole history of your illness since\nSidor Sidoritch' (this was the name of the district doctor) 'has gone,\nand we will have a little consultation.'\n\nBazarov glanced at the German. 'Well, talk away quickly, only not in\nLatin; you see, I know the meaning of _jam moritur_.'\n\n'_Der Herr scheint des Deutschen m\u00e4chtig zu sein_,' began the new\nfollower of \u00c6sculapius, turning to Vassily Ivanovitch.\n\n'_Ich_ ... _gabe_ ... We had better speak Russian,' said the old man.\n\n'Ah, ah! so that's how it is.... To be sure ...' And the consultation\nbegan.\n\nHalf-an-hour later Anna Sergyevna, conducted by Vassily Ivanovitch,\ncame into the study. The doctor had had time to whisper to her that it\nwas hopeless even to think of the patient's recovery.\n\nShe looked at Bazarov ... and stood still in the doorway, so greatly\nwas she impressed by the inflamed, and at the same time deathly face,\nwith its dim eyes fastened upon her. She felt simply dismayed, with a\nsort of cold and suffocating dismay; the thought that she would not\nhave felt like that if she had really loved him flashed instantaneously\nthrough her brain.\n\n'Thanks,' he said painfully, 'I did not expect this. It's a deed of\nmercy. So we have seen each other again, as you promised.'\n\n'Anna Sergyevna has been so kind,' began Vassily Ivanovitch ...\n\n'Father, leave us alone. Anna Sergyevna, you will allow it, I fancy,\nnow?'\n\nWith a motion of his head, he indicated his prostrate helpless frame.\n\nVassily Ivanovitch went out.\n\n'Well, thanks,' repeated Bazarov. 'This is royally done. Monarchs, they\nsay, visit the dying too.'\n\n'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I hope----'\n\n'Ah, Anna Sergyevna, let us speak the truth. It's all over with me. I'm\nunder the wheel. So it turns out that it was useless to think of the\nfuture. Death's an old joke, but it comes fresh to every one. So far\nI'm not afraid ... but there, senselessness is coming, and then it's\nall up!----' he waved his hand feebly. 'Well, what had I to say to\nyou ... I loved you! there was no sense in that even before, and less\nthan ever now. Love is a form, and my own form is already breaking\nup. Better say how lovely you are! And now here you stand, so\nbeautiful ...'\n\nAnna Sergyevna gave an involuntary shudder.\n\n'Never mind, don't be uneasy.... Sit down there.... Don't come close to\nme; you know, my illness is catching.'\n\nAnna Sergyevna swiftly crossed the room, and sat down in the armchair\nnear the sofa on which Bazarov was lying.\n\n'Noble-hearted!' he whispered. 'Oh, how near, and how young, and fresh,\nand pure ... in this loathsome room!... Well, good-bye! live long,\nthat's the best of all, and make the most of it while there is time.\nYou see what a hideous spectacle; the worm half-crushed, but writhing\nstill. And, you see, I thought too: I'd break down so many things, I\nwouldn't die, why should I! there were problems to solve, and I was a\ngiant! And now all the problem for the giant is how to die decently,\nthough that makes no difference to any one either.... Never mind; I'm\nnot going to turn tail.'\n\nBazarov was silent, and began feeling with his hand for the glass. Anna\nSergyevna gave him some drink, not taking off her glove, and drawing\nher breath timorously.\n\n'You will forget me,' he began again; 'the dead's no companion for the\nliving. My father will tell you what a man Russia is losing.... That's\nnonsense, but don't contradict the old man. Whatever toy will comfort\nthe child ... you know. And be kind to mother. People like them aren't\nto be found in your great world if you look by daylight with a\ncandle.... I was needed by Russia.... No, it's clear, I wasn't needed.\nAnd who is needed? The shoemaker's needed, the tailor's needed, the\nbutcher ... gives us meat ... the butcher ... wait a little, I'm\ngetting mixed.... There's a forest here ...'\n\nBazarov put his hand to his brow.\n\nAnna Sergyevna bent down to him. 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I am here ...'\n\nHe at once took his hand away, and raised himself.\n\n'Good-bye,' he said with sudden force, and his eyes gleamed with their\nlast light. 'Good-bye.... Listen ... you know I didn't kiss you\nthen.... Breathe on the dying lamp, and let it go out ...'\n\nAnna Sergyevna put her lips to his forehead.\n\n'Enough!' he murmured, and dropped back on to the pillow. 'Now ...\ndarkness ...'\n\nAnna Sergyevna went softly out. 'Well?' Vassily Ivanovitch asked her in\na whisper.\n\n'He has fallen asleep,' she answered, hardly audibly. Bazarov was not\nfated to awaken. Towards evening he sank into complete unconsciousness,\nand the following day he died. Father Alexey performed the last rites\nof religion over him. When they anointed him with the last unction,\nwhen the holy oil touched his breast, one eye opened, and it seemed as\nthough at the sight of the priest in his vestments, the smoking\ncensers, the light before the image, something like a shudder of horror\npassed over the death-stricken face. When at last he had breathed his\nlast, and there arose a universal lamentation in the house, Vassily\nIvanovitch was seized by a sudden frenzy. 'I said I should rebel,' he\nshrieked hoarsely, with his face inflamed and distorted, shaking his\nfist in the air, as though threatening some one; 'and I rebel, I\nrebel!' But Arina Vlasyevna, all in tears, hung upon his neck, and both\nfell on their faces together. 'Side by side,' Anfisushka related\nafterwards in the servants' room, 'they dropped their poor heads like\nlambs at noonday ...'\n\nBut the heat of noonday passes, and evening comes and night, and then,\ntoo, the return to the kindly refuge, where sleep is sweet for the\nweary and heavy laden....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nSix months had passed by. White winter had come with the cruel\nstillness of unclouded frosts, the thick-lying, crunching snow, the\nrosy rime on the trees, the pale emerald sky, the wreaths of smoke\nabove the chimneys, the clouds of steam rushing out of the doors when\nthey are opened for an instant, with the fresh faces, that look stung\nby the cold, and the hurrying trot of the chilled horses. A January day\nwas drawing to its close; the cold evening was more keen than ever in\nthe motionless air, and a lurid sunset was rapidly dying away. There\nwere lights burning in the windows of the house at Maryino; Prokofitch\nin a black frockcoat and white gloves, with a special solemnity, laid\nthe table for seven. A week before in the small parish church two\nweddings had taken place quietly, and almost without witnesses--Arkady\nand Katya's, and Nikolai Petrovitch and Fenitchka's; and on this day\nNikolai Petrovitch was giving a farewell dinner to his brother, who was\ngoing away to Moscow on business. Anna Sergyevna had gone there also\ndirectly after the ceremony was over, after making very handsome\npresents to the young people.\n\nPrecisely at three o'clock they all gathered about the table. Mitya was\nplaced there too; with him appeared a nurse in a cap of glazed brocade.\nPavel Petrovitch took his seat between Katya and Fenitchka; the\n'husbands' took their places beside their wives. Our friends had\nchanged of late; they all seemed to have grown stronger and better\nlooking; only Pavel Petrovitch was thinner, which gave even more of an\nelegant and 'grand seigneur' air to his expressive features.... And\nFenitchka too was different. In a fresh silk gown, with a wide velvet\nhead-dress on her hair, with a gold chain round her neck, she sat with\ndeprecating immobility, respectful towards herself and everything\nsurrounding her, and smiled as though she would say, 'I beg your\npardon; I'm not to blame.' And not she alone--all the others smiled,\nand also seemed apologetic; they were all a little awkward, a little\nsorry, and in reality very happy. They all helped one another with\nhumorous attentiveness, as though they had all agreed to rehearse a\nsort of artless farce. Katya was the most composed of all; she looked\nconfidently about her, and it could be seen that Nikolai Petrovitch was\nalready devotedly fond of her. At the end of dinner he got up, and, his\nglass in his hand, turned to Pavel Petrovitch.\n\n'You are leaving us ... you are leaving us, dear brother,' he began;\n'not for long, to be sure; but still, I cannot help expressing what I\n... what we ... how much I ... how much we.... There, the worst of it\nis, we don't know how to make speeches. Arkady, you speak.'\n\n'No, daddy, I've not prepared anything.'\n\n'As though I were so well prepared! Well, brother, I will simply say,\nlet us embrace you, wish you all good luck, and come back to us as\nquickly as you can!'\n\nPavel Petrovitch exchanged kisses with every one, of course not\nexcluding Mitya; in Fenitchka's case, he kissed also her hand, which\nshe had not yet learned to offer properly, and drinking off the glass\nwhich had been filled again, he said with a deep sigh, 'May you be\nhappy, my friends! _Farewell!_' This English finale passed unnoticed;\nbut all were touched.\n\n'To the memory of Bazarov,' Katya whispered in her husband's ear, as\nshe clinked glasses with him. Arkady pressed her hand warmly in\nresponse, but he did not venture to propose this toast aloud.\n\nThe end, would it seem? But perhaps some one of our readers would care\nto know what each of the characters we have introduced is doing in the\npresent, the actual present. We are ready to satisfy him.\n\nAnna Sergyevna has recently made a marriage, not of love but of good\nsense, with one of the future leaders of Russia, a very clever man, a\nlawyer, possessed of vigorous practical sense, a strong will, and\nremarkable fluency--still young, good-natured, and cold as ice. They\nlive in the greatest harmony together, and will live perhaps to attain\ncomplete happiness ... perhaps love. The Princess K---- is dead,\nforgotten the day of her death. The Kirsanovs, father and son, live at\nMaryino; their fortunes are beginning to mend. Arkady has become\nzealous in the management of the estate, and the 'farm' now yields a\nfairly good income. Nikolai Petrovitch has been made one of the\nmediators appointed to carry out the emancipation reforms, and works\nwith all his energies; he is for ever driving about over his district;\ndelivers long speeches (he maintains the opinion that the peasants\nought to be 'brought to comprehend things,' that is to say, they ought\nto be reduced to a state of quiescence by the constant repetition of\nthe same words); and yet, to tell the truth, he does not give complete\nsatisfaction either to the refined gentry, who talk with _chic_, or\ndepression of the _emancipation_ (pronouncing it as though it were\nFrench), nor of the uncultivated gentry, who unceremoniously curse 'the\ndamned _'mancipation_.' He is too soft-hearted for both sets. Katerina\nSergyevna has a son, little Nikolai, while Mitya runs about merrily and\ntalks fluently. Fenitchka, Fedosya Nikolaevna, after her husband and\nMitya, adores no one so much as her daughter-in-law, and when the\nlatter is at the piano, she would gladly spend the whole day at her\nside.\n\nA passing word of Piotr. He has grown perfectly rigid with stupidity\nand dignity, but he too is married, and received a respectable dowry\nwith his bride, the daughter of a market-gardener of the town, who had\nrefused two excellent suitors, only because they had no watch; while\nPiotr had not only a watch--he had a pair of kid shoes.\n\nIn the Br\u00fchl Terrace in Dresden, between two and four o'clock--the most\nfashionable time for walking--you may meet a man about fifty, quite\ngrey, and looking as though he suffered from gout, but still handsome,\nelegantly dressed, and with that special stamp, which is only gained by\nmoving a long time in the higher strata of society. That is Pavel\nPetrovitch. From Moscow he went abroad for the sake of his health, and\nhas settled for good at Dresden, where he associates most with English\nand Russian visitors. With English people he behaves simply, almost\nmodestly, but with dignity; they find him rather a bore, but respect\nhim for being, as they say, _'a perfect gentleman.'_ With Russians he\nis more free and easy, gives vent to his spleen, and makes fun of\nhimself and them, but that is done by him with great amiability,\nnegligence, and propriety. He holds Slavophil views; it is well known\nthat in the highest society this is regarded as _tr\u00e8s distingu\u00e9_! He\nreads nothing in Russian, but on his writing table there is a silver\nashpan in the shape of a peasant's plaited shoe. He is much run after\nby our tourists. Matvy Ilyitch Kolyazin, happening to be in temporary\nopposition, paid him a majestic visit; while the natives, with whom,\nhowever, he is very little seen, positively grovel before him. No one\ncan so readily and quickly obtain a ticket for the court chapel, for\nthe theatre, and such things as _der Herr Baron von Kirsanoff_. He does\neverything good-naturedly that he can; he still makes some little noise\nin the world; it is not for nothing that he was once a great society\nlion;--but life is a burden to him ... a heavier burden than he\nsuspects himself. One need but glance at him in the Russian church,\nwhen, leaning against the wall on one side, he sinks into thought, and\nremains long without stirring, bitterly compressing his lips, then\nsuddenly recollects himself, and begins almost imperceptibly crossing\nhimself....\n\nMadame Kukshin, too, went abroad. She is in Heidelberg, and is now\nstudying not natural science, but architecture, in which, according to\nher own account, she has discovered new laws. She still fraternises\nwith students, especially with the young Russians studying natural\nscience and chemistry, with whom Heidelberg is crowded, and who,\nastounding the na\u00efve German professors at first by the soundness of\ntheir views of things, astound the same professors no less in the\nsequel by their complete inefficiency and absolute idleness. In company\nwith two or three such young chemists, who don't know oxygen from\nnitrogen, but are filled with scepticism and self-conceit, and, too,\nwith the great Elisyevitch, Sitnikov roams about Petersburg, also\ngetting ready to be great, and in his own conviction continues the\n'work' of Bazarov. There is a story that some one recently gave him a\nbeating; but he was avenged upon him; in an obscure little article,\nhidden in an obscure little journal, he has hinted that the man who\nbeat him was a coward. He calls this irony. His father bullies him as\nbefore, while his wife regards him as a fool ... and a literary man.\n\nThere is a small village graveyard in one of the remote corners of\nRussia. Like almost all our graveyards, it presents a wretched\nappearance; the ditches surrounding it have long been overgrown; the\ngrey wooden crosses lie fallen and rotting under their once painted\ngables; the stone slabs are all displaced, as though some one were\npushing them up from behind; two or three bare trees give a scanty\nshade; the sheep wander unchecked among the tombs.... But among them is\none untouched by man, untrampled by beast, only the birds perch upon it\nand sing at daybreak. An iron railing runs round it; two young\nfir-trees have been planted, one at each end. Yevgeny Bazarov is buried\nin this tomb. Often from the little village not far off, two quite\nfeeble old people come to visit it--a husband and wife. Supporting one\nanother, they move to it with heavy steps; they go up to the railing,\nfall down, and remain on their knees, and long and bitterly they weep,\nand yearn and intently gaze at the dumb stone, under which their son is\nlying; they exchange some brief word, wipe away the dust from the\nstone, set straight a branch of a fir-tree, and pray again, and cannot\ntear themselves from this place, where they seem to be nearer to their\nson, to their memories of him.... Can it be that their prayers, their\ntears are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred, devoted love, is not\nall-powerful? Oh, no! However passionate, sinning, and rebellious the\nheart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep serenely at\nus with their innocent eyes; they tell us not of eternal peace alone,\nof that great peace of 'indifferent' nature; tell us too of eternal\nreconciliation and of life without end.","title":"Fathers and Children","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":74881}