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Title: Fathers and Children

Author: Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Editor: William Allan Neilson

Translator: Constance Garnett

Release date: December 21, 2009 [eBook #30723]
Most recently updated: March 21, 2019

Language: English

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http://www.archive.org/details/harvardclassicss19elio

AVENUE AT SPASSKOE, TURGENEV'S ESTATE

THE HARVARD CLASSICS
SHELF OF FICTION
[From Vol. 19]

SELECTED BY CHARLES W ELIOT LL D

FATHERS AND CHILDREN
BY

IVAN TURGENEV

TRANSLATED BY CONSTANCE GARNETT

EDITED WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS
BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON PH D

P F COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

Published under special arrangement with
The Macmillan Company

Copyright, 1917
By P. F. COLLIER & SON

CONTENTS

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS:
I. BY EMILE MELCHIOR, VICOMTE DE VOGÜÉ
II. BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
III. BY K. WALISZEWSKI
IV. BY RICHARD H. P. CURLE
V. BY MAURICE BARING

LIST OF CHARACTERS

FATHERS AND CHILDREN

CHAPTERS
I V IX XIII XVII XXI XXV
II VI X XIV XVIII XXII XXVI
III VII XI XV XIX XXIII XXVII
IV VIII XII XVI XX XXIV XXVIII

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Ivan Sergyevitch Turgenev came of an old stock of the Russian nobility. He
was born in Orel, in the province of Orel, which lies more than a hundred
miles south of Moscow, on October 28, 1818. His education was begun by
tutors at home in the great family mansion in the town of Spask, and he
studied later at the universities of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Berlin. The

influence of the last, and of the compatriots with whom he associated there,
was very great; and when he returned to Moscow in 1841, he was ambitious
to teach Hegel to the students there. Before this could be arranged, however,
he entered the Ministry of the Interior at St. Petersburg. While there his
interests turned more and more toward literature. He wrote verses and
comedies, read George Sand, and made the acquaintance of Dostoevsky and
the critic Bielinski. His mother, a tyrannical woman with an ungovernable
temper, was eager that he should make a brilliant official career; so, when
he resigned from the Ministry in 1845, she showed her disapproval by
cutting down his allowance and thus forcing him to support himself by the
profession he had chosen.

Turgenev was an enthusiastic hunter; and it was his experiences in the
woods of his native province that supplied the material for "A Sportsman's
Sketches," the book that first brought him reputation. The first of these
papers appeared in 1847, and in the same year he left Russia in the train of
Pauline Viardot, a singer and actress, to whom he had been devoted for
three or four years and with whom he maintained relations for the rest of his
life. For a year or two he lived chiefly in Paris or at a country house at
Courtavenel in Brie, which belonged to Madame Viardot; but in 1850 he
returned to Russia. His experiences were not such as to induce him to
repatriate himself permanently. He found Dostoevsky banished to Siberia
and Bielinski dead; and himself under suspicion by the government on
account of the popularity of "A Sportsman's Sketches." For praising Gogol,
who had just died, he was arrested and imprisoned for a short time, and for
the next two years kept under police surveillance. Meantime he continued
to write, and by the time that the close of the Crimean War made it possible
for him again to go to western Europe, he was recognized as standing at the
head of living Russian authors. His mother was now dead, the estates were
settled, and with an income of about $5,000 a year he became a wanderer.
He had, or imagined he had, very bad health, and the eminent specialists he
consulted sent him from one resort to another, to Rome, the Isle of Wight,
Soden, and the like. When Madame Viardot left the stage in 1864 and took
up her residence at Baden-Baden, he followed her and built there a small
house for himself. They returned to France after the Franco-Prussian War,
and bought a villa at Bougival, near Paris, and this was his home for the rest
of his life. Here, on September 3, 1883, he died after a long delirium due to

his suffering from cancer of the spinal cord. His body was taken to St.
Petersburg and was buried with national honors.

The two works by Turgenev contained in the present volume are
characteristic in their concern with social and political questions, and in the
prominence in both of them of heroes who fail in action. Turgenev preaches
no doctrine in his novels, has no remedy for the universe; but he sees
clearly certain weaknesses of the Russian character and exposes these with
absolute candor yet without unkindness. Much as he lived abroad, his books
are intensely Russian; yet of the great Russian novelists he alone rivals the
masters of western Europe in the matter of form. In economy of means,
condensation, felicity of language, and excellence of structure he surpasses
all his countrymen; and "Fathers and Children" and "A House of
Gentlefolk" represent his great and delicate art at its best.

W. A. N.

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

I

BY EMILE MELCHIOR, VICOMTE DE VOGÜÉ

Ivan Sergyevitch (Turgenev) has given us a most complete picture of
Russian society. The same general types are always brought forward; and,
as later writers have presented exactly similar ones, with but few
modifications, we are forced to believe them true to life. First, the peasant:
meek, resigned, dull, pathetic in suffering, like a child who does not know
why he suffers; naturally sharp and tricky when not stupefied by liquor;

occasionally roused to violent passion. Then, the intelligent middle class:
the small landed proprietors of two generations. The old proprietor is
ignorant and good-natured, of respectable family, but with coarse habits;
hard, from long experience of serfdom, servile himself, but admirable in all
other relations of life.

The young man of this class is of quite a different type. His intellectual
growth having been too rapid, he sometimes plunges into Nihilism. He is
often well educated, melancholy, rich in ideas but poor in executive ability;
always preparing and expecting to accomplish something of importance,
filled with vague and generous projects for the public good. This is the
chosen type of hero in all Russian novels. Gogol introduced it, and Tolstoy
prefers it above all others.

The favorite hero of young girls and romantic women is neither the brilliant
officer, the artist, nor rich lord, but almost universally this provincial
Hamlet, conscientious, cultivated, intelligent, but of feeble will, who,
returning from his studies in foreign lands, is full of scientific theories about
the improvement of mankind and the good of the lower classes, and eager
to apply these theories on his own estate. It is quite necessary that he should
have an estate of his own. He will have the hearty sympathy of the reader in
his efforts to improve the condition of his dependents.

The Russians well understand the conditions of the future prosperity of their
country; but, as they themselves acknowledge, they know not how to go to
work to accomplish it.

In regard to the women of this class, Turgenev, strange to say, has little to
say of the mothers. This probably reveals the existence of some old wound,
some bitter experience of his own. Without a single exception, all the
mothers in his novels are either wicked or grotesque. He reserves the
treasures of his poetic fancy for the young girls of his creation. To him the
young girl of the country province is the corner-stone of the fabric of
society. Reared in the freedom of country life, placed in the most healthy
social conditions, she is conscientious, frank, affectionate, without being
romantic; less intelligent than man, but more resolute. In each of his
romances an irresolute man is invariably guided by a woman of strong will.

Such are, generally speaking, the characters the author describes, which
bear so unmistakably the stamp of nature that one cannot refrain from
saying as he closes the book, "These must be portraits from life!" which
criticism is always the highest praise, the best sanction of works of the
imagination.—From "Turgenev", in "The Russian Novelists," translated by
J. L. Edmands (1887).

II

BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

Turgenev was of that great race which has more than any other fully and
freely uttered human nature, without either false pride or false shame in its
nakedness. His themes were oftenest those of the French novelist, but how
far he was from handling them in the French manner and with the French
spirit! In his hands sin suffered no dramatic punishment; it did not always
show itself as unhappiness, in the personal sense, but it was always unrest,
and without the hope of peace. If the end did not appear, the fact that it must
be miserable always appeared. Life showed itself to me in different colors
after I had once read Turgenev; it became more serious, more awful, and
with mystical responsibilities I had not known before. My gay American
horizons were bathed in the vast melancholy of the Slav, patient, agnostic,
trustful. At the same time nature revealed herself to me through him with an
intimacy she had not hitherto shown me. There are passages in this
wonderful writer alive with a truth that seems drawn from the reader's own
knowledge: who else but Turgenev and one's own most secret self ever felt
all the rich, sad meaning of the night air drawing in at the open window, of
the fires burning in the darkness on the distant fields? I try in vain to give
some notion of the subtle sympathy with nature which scarcely put itself
into words with him. As for the people of his fiction, though they were of
orders and civilizations so remote from my experience, they were of the
eternal human types whose origin and potentialities every one may find in
his own heart, and I felt their verity in every touch.

I cannot describe the satisfaction his work gave me; I can only impart some
sense of it, perhaps, by saying that it was like a happiness I had been
waiting for all my life, and now that it had come, I was richly content
forever. I do not mean to say that the art of Turgenev surpasses the art of
Björnson; I think Björnson is quite as fine and true. But the Norwegian
deals with simple and primitive circumstances for the most part, and always
with a small world; and the Russian has to do with human nature inside of
its conventional shells, and his scene is often as large as Europe. Even when
it is as remote as Norway, it is still related to the great capitals by the
history if not the actuality of the characters. Most of Turgenev's books I
have read many times over, all of them I have read more than twice. For a
number of years I read them again and again without much caring for other
fiction. It was only the other day that I read "Smoke" through once more,
with no diminished sense of its truth, but with somewhat less than my first
satisfaction in its art. Perhaps this was because I had reached the point
through my acquaintance with Tolstoy where I was impatient even of the
artifice that hid itself. In "Smoke" I was now aware of an artifice that kept
out of sight, but was still always present somewhere, invisibly operating the
story.—From "My Literary Passions" (1895).

III

BY K. WALISZEWSKI

The second novel of the series, "Fathers and Children," stirred up a storm
the suddenness and violence of which it is not easy, nowadays, to
understand. The figure of Bazarov, the first "Nihilist"—thus baptized by an
inversion of epithet which was to win extraordinary success—is merely
intended to reveal a mental condition which, though the fact had been
insufficiently recognized, had already existed for some years. The epithet
itself had been in constant use since 1829, when Nadiéjdine applied it to
Pushkin, Polevoï, and some other subverters of the classic tradition.
Turgenev only extended its meaning by a new interpretation, destined to be

perpetuated by the tremendous success of "Fathers and Children." There is
nothing, or hardly anything, in Bazarov, of the terrible revolutionary whom
we have since learnt to look for under this title. Turgenev was not the man
to call up such a figure. He was far too dreamy, too gentle, too good-natured
a being. Already, in the character of Roudine, he had failed, in the strangest
way, to catch the likeness of Bakounine, that fiery organiser of insurrection,
whom all Europe knew, and whom he had selected as his model. Conceive
Corot or Millet trying to paint some figure out of the Last Judgment after
Michael Angelo! Bazarov is the Nihilist in his first phase, "in course of
becoming," as the Germans would say, and he is a pupil of the German
universities. When Turgenev shaped the character, he certainly drew on his
own memories of his stay at Berlin, at a time when Bruno Bauer was laying
it down as a dogma that no educated man ought to have opinions on any
subject, and when Max Stirner was convincing the young Hegelians that
ideas were mere smoke and dust, seeing that the only reality in existence
was the individual Ego. These teachings, eagerly received by the Russian
youth, were destined to produce a state of moral decomposition, the earliest
symptoms of which were admirably analysed by Turgenev.

Bazarov is a very clever man, but clever in thought, and especially in word,
only. He scorns art, women, and family life. He does not know what the
point of honour means. He is a cynic in his love affairs, and indifferent in
his friendships. He has no respect even for paternal tenderness, but he is full
of contradictions, even to the extent of fighting a duel about nothing at all,
and sacrificing his life for the first peasant he meets. And in this the
resemblance is true, much more general, indeed, than the model selected
would lead one to imagine; so general, in fact, that, apart from the question
of art, Turgenev—he has admitted it himself—felt as if he were drawing his
own portrait; and therefore it is, no doubt, that he has made his hero so
sympathetic.—From "A History of Russian Literature" (1900).

IV

BY RICHARD H. P. CURLE

But for the best expression of the bewilderment of life we have to turn to
the portrait of a man, to the famous Bazarov of "Fathers and Children."
Turgenev raises through him the eternal problem—Has personality any
hold, has life any meaning at all? The reality of this figure, his contempt for
nature, his egoism, his strength, his mothlike weakness are so convincing
that before his philosophy all other philosophies seem to pale. He is the one
who sees the life-illusion, and yet, knowing that it is the mask of night,
grasps at it, loathing himself. You can hate Bazarov, you cannot have
contempt for him. He is a man of genius, rid of sentiment and hope,
believing in nothing but himself, to whom come, as from the darkness, all
the violent questions of life and death. "Fathers and Children" is simply an
exposure of our power to mould our own lives. Bazarov is a man of
astonishing intellect—he is the pawn of an emotion he despises; he is a man
of gigantic will—he can do nothing but destroy his own beliefs; he is a man
of intense life—he cannot avoid the first, brainless touch of death. It is the
hopeless fight of mind against instinct, of determination against fate, of
personality against impersonality. Bazarov disdaining everyone, sick of all
smallness, is roused to fury by the obvious irritations of Pavel Petrovitch.
Savagely announcing the creed of nihilism and the end of romance, he has
only to feel the calm, aristocratic smile of Madame Odintsov fixed on him
and he suffers all the agony of first love. Determining to live and create, he
has only to play with death for a moment, and he is caught. But though he is
the most positive of all Turgenev's male portraits, there are others linking up
the chain of delusion. There is Rudin, typical of the unrest of the idealist;
there is Nezhdanov ("Virgin Soil"), typical of the self-torture of the
anarchist. There is Shubin ("On the Eve"), hiding his misery in laughter,
and Lavretsky ("A House of Gentlefolk"), hiding his misery in silence. It is
not necessary to search for further examples. Turgenev put his hand upon
the dark things. He perceived character, struggling in the "clutch of
circumstances," the tragic moments, the horrible conflicts of personality.
His figures have that capability of suffering which (as someone has said) is
the true sign of life. They seem like real people, dazed and uncertain. No
action of theirs ever surprises you, because in each of them he has made
you hear an inward soliloquy.—From "Turgenev and the Life-Illusion," in
"The Fortnightly Review" (April, 1910).

V

BY MAURICE BARING

Turgenev did for Russian literature what Byron did for English literature; he
led the genius of Russia on a pilgrimage throughout all Europe. And in
Europe his work reaped a glorious harvest of praise. Flaubert was
astounded by him, George Sand looked up to him as to a master, Taine
spoke of his work as being the finest artistic production since Sophocles. In
Turgenev's work, Europe not only discovered Turgenev, but it discovered
Russia, the simplicity and the naturalness of the Russian character; and this
came as a revelation. For the first time Europe came across the Russian
woman whom Pushkin was the first to paint; for the first time Europe came
into contact with the Russian soul; and it was the sharpness of this
revelation which accounts for the fact of Turgenev having received in the
west an even greater meed of praise than he was perhaps entitled to.

In Russia Turgenev attained almost instant popularity. His "Sportsman's
Sketches" and his "Nest of Gentlefolk" made him not only famous but
universally popular. In 1862 the publication of his masterpiece "Fathers and
Children" dealt his reputation a blow. The revolutionary elements in Russia
regarded his hero, Bazarov, as a calumny and a libel; whereas the
reactionary elements in Russia looked upon "Fathers and Children" as a
glorification of Nihilism. Thus he satisfied nobody. He fell between two
stools. This, perhaps, could only happen in Russia to this extent; and for
that same reason as that which made Russian criticism didactic. The
conflicting elements of Russian society were so terribly in earnest in
fighting their cause, that anyone whom they did not regard as definitely for
them was at once considered an enemy, and an impartial delineation of any
character concerned in the political struggle was bound to displease both
parties. If a novelist drew a Nihilist, he must be one or the other, a hero or a
scoundrel, if either the revolutionaries or the reactionaries were to be
pleased. If in England the militant suffragists suddenly had a huge mass of

educated opinion behind them and a still larger mass of educated public
opinion against them, and some one were to draw in a novel an impartial
picture of a suffragette, the same thing would happen. On a small scale, as
far as the suffragettes are concerned, it has happened in the case of Mr.
Wells. But if Turgenev's popularity suffered a shock in Russia from which it
with difficulty recovered, in western Europe it went on increasing.
Especially in England, Turgenev became the idol of all that was eclectic,
and admiration for Turgenev a hallmark of good taste....

"Fathers and Children" is as beautifully constructed as a drama of
Sophocles; the events move inevitably to a tragic close. There is not a touch
of banality from beginning to end, and not an unnecessary word; the
portraits of the old father and mother, the young Kirsanov, and all the minor
characters are perfect; and amidst the trivial crowd Bazarov stands out like
Lucifer, the strongest—the only strong character—that Turgenev created,
the first Nihilist—for if Turgenev was not the first to invent the word, he
was the first to apply it in this sense.

Bazarov is the incarnation of the Lucifer type that recurs again and again in
Russian history and fiction, in sharp contrast to the meek, humble type of
Ivan Durak. Lermontov's Pechorin was in some respects an anticipation of
Bazarov; so were the many Russian rebels. He is the man who denies, to
whom art is a silly toy, who detests abstractions, knowledge, and the love of
Nature; he believes in nothing; he bows to nothing; he can break, but he
cannot bend; he does break, and that is the tragedy, but, breaking, he retains
his invincible pride, and

"not cowardly puts off his helmet,"

and he dies "valiantly vanquished."

In the pages which describe his death Turgenev reaches the high-water
mark of his art, his moving quality, his power, his reserve. For manly pathos
they rank among the greatest scenes in literature, stronger than the death of
Colonel Newcome and the best of Thackeray. Among English novelists it is,
perhaps, only Meredith who has struck such strong, piercing chords, nobler
than anything in Daudet or Maupassant, more reserved than anything in
Victor Hugo, and worthy of the great poets, of the tragic pathos of Goethe

and Dante. The character of Bazarov, as has been said, created a sensation
and endless controversy. The revolutionaries thought him a caricature and a
libel, the reactionaries a scandalous glorification of the Devil; and impartial
men such as Dostoevsky, who knew the revolutionaries at first hand,
thought the type unreal. It is impossible that Bazarov was not like the
Nihilists of the sixties; but in any case as a figure in fiction, whatever the
fact may be, he lives and will continue to live....—From "An Outline of
Russian Literature" (1914).

LIST OF CHARACTERS

NIKOLAI PETROVITCH KIRSANOV, a landowner.

PAVEL PETROVITCH KIRSANOV, his brother.

ARKADY (ARKASHA) NIKOLAEVITCH (or NIKOLAITCH), his son.

YEVGENY (ENYUSHA) VASSILYEVITCH (or VASSILYITCH) BAZAROV, friend of
Arkady.

VASSILY IVANOVITCH (or IVANITCH), father of Bazarov.

ARINA VLASYEVNA, mother of Bazarov.

FEDOSYA (FENITCHKA) NIKOLAEVNA, second wife of Nikolai.

ANNA SERGYEVNA ODINTSOV, a wealthy widow.

KATYA SERGYEVNA, her sister.

PORFIRY PLATONITCH, her neighbor.

MATVY ILYITCH KOLYAZIN, government commissioner.

EVDOKSYA (or AVDOTYA) NIKITISHNA KUKSHIN, an emancipated lady.

VIKTOR SITNIKOV, a would-be liberal.

PIOTR (pron. P-yotr), servant to Nikolai.

PROKOFITCH, head servant to Nikolai.

DUNYASHA, a maid servant.

MITYA, infant of Fedosya.

TIMOFEITCH, manager for Vassily.

FATHERS AND CHILDREN
A NOVEL

CHAPTER I

'Well, Piotr, not in sight yet?' was the question asked on May the 20th,
1859, by a gentleman of a little over forty, in a dusty coat and checked
trousers, who came out without his hat on to the low steps of the posting
station at S——. He was addressing his servant, a chubby young fellow,
with whitish down on his chin, and little, lack-lustre eyes.

The servant, in whom everything—the turquoise ring in his ear, the streaky
hair plastered with grease, and the civility of his movements—indicated a
man of the new, improved generation, glanced with an air of indulgence
along the road, and made answer:

'No, sir; not in sight.'

'Not in sight?' repeated his master.

'No, sir,' responded the man a second time.

His master sighed, and sat down on a little bench. We will introduce him to
the reader while he sits, his feet tucked under him, gazing thoughtfully
round.

His name was Nikolai Petrovitch Kirsanov. He had, twelve miles from the
posting station, a fine property of two hundred souls, or, as he expressed it
—since he had arranged the division of his land with the peasants, and
started 'a farm'—of nearly five thousand acres. His father, a general in the
army, who served in 1812, a coarse, half-educated, but not ill-natured man,
a typical Russian, had been in harness all his life, first in command of a
brigade, and then of a division, and lived constantly in the provinces,
where, by virtue of his rank, he played a fairly important part. Nikolai
Petrovitch was born in the south of Russia like his elder brother, Pavel, of
whom more hereafter. He was educated at home till he was fourteen,
surrounded by cheap tutors, free-and-easy but toadying adjutants, and all
the usual regimental and staff set. His mother, one of the Kolyazin family,
as a girl called Agathe, but as a general's wife Agathokleya Kuzminishna
Kirsanov, was one of those military ladies who take their full share of the
duties and dignities of office. She wore gorgeous caps and rustling silk
dresses; in church she was the first to advance to the cross; she talked a
great deal in a loud voice, let her children kiss her hand in the morning, and
gave them her blessing at night—in fact, she got everything out of life she
could. Nikolai Petrovitch, as a general's son—though so far from being
distinguished by courage that he even deserved to be called 'a funk'—was
intended, like his brother Pavel, to enter the army; but he broke his leg on
the very day when the news of his commission came, and, after being two
months in bed, retained a slight limp to the end of his days. His father gave
him up as a bad job, and let him go into the civil service. He took him to
Petersburg directly he was eighteen, and placed him in the university. His
brother happened about the same time to be made an officer in the Guards.
The young men started living together in one set of rooms, under the remote
supervision of a cousin on their mother's side, Ilya Kolyazin, an official of
high rank. Their father returned to his division and his wife, and only rarely
sent his sons large sheets of grey paper, scrawled over in a bold clerkly
hand. At the bottom of these sheets stood in letters, enclosed carefully in
scroll-work, the words, 'Piotr Kirsanov, General-Major.' In 1835 Nikolai
Petrovitch left the university, a graduate, and in the same year General
Kirsanov was put on to the retired list after an unsuccessful review, and
came to Petersburg with his wife to live. He was about to take a house in
the Tavrichesky Gardens, and had joined the English club, but he died
suddenly of an apoplectic fit. Agathokleya Kuzminishna soon followed

him; she could not accustom herself to a dull life in the capital; she was
consumed by the ennui of existence away from the regiment. Meanwhile
Nikolai Petrovitch had already, in his parents' lifetime and to their no slight
chagrin, had time to fall in love with the daughter of his landlord, a petty
official, Prepolovensky. She was a pretty and, as it is called, 'advanced' girl;
she used to read the serious articles in the 'Science' column of the journals.
He married her directly the term of mourning was over; and leaving the
civil service in which his father had by favour procured him a post, was
perfectly blissful with his Masha, first in a country villa near the Lyesny
Institute, afterwards in town in a pretty little flat with a clean staircase and a
draughty drawing-room, and then in the country, where he settled finally,
and where in a short time a son, Arkady, was born to him. The young couple
lived very happily and peacefully; they were scarcely ever apart; they read
together, sang and played duets together on the piano; she tended her
flowers and looked after the poultry-yard; he sometimes went hunting, and
busied himself with the estate, while Arkady grew and grew in the same
happy and peaceful way. Ten years passed like a dream. In 1847 Kirsanov's
wife died. He almost succumbed to this blow; in a few weeks his hair was
grey; he was getting ready to go abroad, if possible to distract his mind ...
but then came the year 1848. He returned unwillingly to the country, and,
after a rather prolonged period of inactivity, began to take an interest in
improvements in the management of his land. In 1855 he brought his son to
the university; he spent three winters with him in Petersburg, hardly going
out anywhere, and trying to make acquaintance with Arkady's young
companions. The last winter he had not been able to go, and here we have
him in the May of 1859, already quite grey, stoutish, and rather bent,
waiting for his son, who had just taken his degree, as once he had taken it
himself.

The servant, from a feeling of propriety, and perhaps, too, not anxious to
remain under the master's eye, had gone to the gate, and was smoking a
pipe. Nikolai Petrovitch bent his head, and began staring at the crumbling
steps; a big mottled fowl walked sedately towards him, treading firmly with
its great yellow legs; a muddy cat gave him an unfriendly look, twisting
herself coyly round the railing. The sun was scorching; from the half-dark
passage of the posting station came an odour of hot rye-bread. Nikolai
Petrovitch fell to dreaming. 'My son ... a graduate ... Arkasha ...' were the

ideas that continually came round again and again in his head; he tried to
think of something else, and again the same thoughts returned. He
remembered his dead wife.... 'She did not live to see it!' he murmured sadly.
A plump, dark-blue pigeon flew into the road, and hurriedly went to drink
in a puddle near the well. Nikolai Petrovitch began looking at it, but his ear
had already caught the sound of approaching wheels.

'It sounds as if they're coming sir,' announced the servant, popping in from
the gateway.

Nikolai Petrovitch jumped up, and bent his eyes on the road. A carriage
appeared with three posting-horses harnessed abreast; in the carriage he
caught a glimpse of the blue band of a student's cap, the familiar outline of
a dear face.

'Arkasha! Arkasha!' cried Kirsanov, and he ran waving his hands.... A few
instants later, his lips were pressed to the beardless, dusty, sunburnt-cheek
of the youthful graduate.

CHAPTER II

'Let me shake myself first, daddy,' said Arkady, in a voice tired from
travelling, but boyish and clear as a bell, as he gaily responded to his
father's caresses; 'I am covering you with dust.'

'Never mind, never mind,' repeated Nikolai Petrovitch, smiling tenderly,
and twice he struck the collar of his son's cloak and his own greatcoat with
his hand. 'Let me have a look at you; let me have a look at you,' he added,
moving back from him, but immediately he went with hurried steps towards
the yard of the station, calling, 'This way, this way; and horses at once.'

Nikolai Petrovitch seemed far more excited than his son; he seemed a little
confused, a little timid. Arkady stopped him.

'Daddy,' he said, 'let me introduce you to my great friend, Bazarov, about
whom I have so often written to you. He has been so good as to promise to
stay with us.'

Nikolai Petrovitch went back quickly, and going up to a tall man in a long,
loose, rough coat with tassels, who had only just got out of the carriage, he
warmly pressed the ungloved red hand, which the latter did not at once hold
out to him.

'I am heartily glad,' he began, 'and very grateful for your kind intention of
visiting us.... Let me know your name, and your father's.'

'Yevgeny Vassilyev,' answered Bazarov, in a lazy but manly voice; and
turning back the collar of his rough coat, he showed Nikolai Petrovitch his
whole face. It was long and lean, with a broad forehead, a nose flat at the
base and sharper at the end, large greenish eyes, and drooping whiskers of a
sandy colour; it was lighted up by a tranquil smile, and showed self-
confidence and intelligence.

'I hope, dear Yevgeny Vassilyitch, you won't be dull with us,' continued
Nikolai Petrovitch.

Bazarov's thin lips moved just perceptibly, though he made no reply, but
merely took off his cap. His long, thick hair did not hide the prominent
bumps on his head.

'Then, Arkady,' Nikolai Petrovitch began again, turning to his son, 'shall the
horses be put to at once? or would you like to rest?'

'We will rest at home, daddy; tell them to harness the horses.'

'At once, at once,' his father assented. 'Hey, Piotr, do you hear? Get things
ready, my good boy; look sharp.'

Piotr, who as a modernised servant had not kissed the young master's hand,
but only bowed to him from a distance, again vanished through the
gateway.

'I came here with the carriage, but there are three horses for your coach too,'
said Nikolai Petrovitch fussily, while Arkady drank some water from an
iron dipper brought him by the woman in charge of the station, and Bazarov
began smoking a pipe and went up to the driver, who was taking out the
horses; 'there are only two seats in the carriage, and I don't know how your
friend' ...

'He will go in the coach,' interposed Arkady in an undertone. 'You must not
stand on ceremony with him, please. He's a splendid fellow, so simple—you
will see.'

Nikolai Petrovitch's coachman brought the horses round.

'Come, hurry up, bushy beard!' said Bazarov, addressing the driver.

'Do you hear, Mityuha,' put in another driver, standing by with his hands
thrust behind him into the opening of his sheepskin coat, 'what the
gentleman called you? It's a bushy beard you are too.'

Mityuha only gave a jog to his hat and pulled the reins off the heated shaft-
horse.

'Look sharp, look sharp, lads, lend a hand,' cried Nikolai Petrovitch; 'there'll
be something to drink our health with!'

In a few minutes the horses were harnessed; the father and son were
installed in the carriage; Piotr climbed up on to the box; Bazarov jumped
into the coach, and nestled his head down into the leather cushion; and both
the vehicles rolled away.

CHAPTER III

'So here you are, a graduate at last, and come home again,' said Nikolai
Petrovitch, touching Arkady now on the shoulder, now on the knee. 'At
last!'

'And how is uncle? quite well?' asked Arkady, who, in spite of the genuine,
almost childish delight filling his heart, wanted as soon as possible to turn
the conversation from the emotional into a commonplace channel.

'Quite well. He was thinking of coming with me to meet you, but for some
reason or other he gave up the idea.'

'And how long have you been waiting for me?' inquired Arkady.

'Oh, about five hours.'

'Dear old dad!'

Arkady turned round quickly to his father, and gave him a sounding kiss on
the cheek. Nikolai Petrovitch gave vent to a low chuckle.

'I have got such a capital horse for you!' he began. 'You will see. And your
room has been fresh papered.'

'And is there a room for Bazarov?'

'We will find one for him too.'

'Please, dad, make much of him. I can't tell you how I prize his friendship.'

'Have you made friends with him lately?'

'Yes, quite lately.'

'Ah, that's how it is I did not see him last winter. What does he study?'

'His chief subject is natural science. But he knows everything. Next year he
wants to take his doctor's degree.'

'Ah! he's in the medical faculty,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, and he was
silent for a little. 'Piotr,' he went on, stretching out his hand, 'aren't those our
peasants driving along?'

Piotr looked where his master was pointing. Some carts harnessed with
unbridled horses were moving rapidly along a narrow by-road. In each cart
there were one or two peasants in sheepskin coats, unbuttoned.

'Yes, sir,' replied Piotr.

'Where are they going,—to the town?'

'To the town, I suppose. To the gin-shop,' he added contemptuously, turning
slightly towards the coachman, as though he would appeal to him. But the
latter did not stir a muscle; he was a man of the old stamp, and did not share
the modern views of the younger generation.

'I have had a lot of bother with the peasants this year,' pursued Nikolai
Petrovitch, turning to his son. 'They won't pay their rent. What is one to do?'

'But do you like your hired labourers?'

'Yes,' said Nikolai Petrovitch between his teeth. 'They're being set against
me, that's the mischief; and they don't do their best. They spoil the tools.
But they have tilled the land pretty fairly. When things have settled down a
bit, it will be all right. Do you take an interest in farming now?'

'You've no shade; that's a pity,' remarked Arkady, without answering the last
question.

'I have had a great awning put up on the north side over the balcony,'
observed Nikolai Petrovitch; 'now we can have dinner even in the open air.'

'It'll be rather too like a summer villa.... Still, that's all nonsense. What air
though here! How delicious it smells! Really I fancy there's nowhere such
fragrance in the world as in the meadows here! And the sky too.'

Arkady suddenly stopped short, cast a stealthy look behind him, and said no
more.

'Of course,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, 'you were born here, and so
everything is bound to strike you in a special——'

'Come, dad, that makes no difference where a man is born.'

'Still——'

'No; it makes absolutely no difference.'

Nikolai Petrovitch gave a sidelong glance at his son, and the carriage went
on a half-a-mile further before the conversation was renewed between them.

'I don't recollect whether I wrote to you,' began Nikolai Petrovitch, 'your old
nurse, Yegorovna, is dead.'

'Really? Poor thing! Is Prokofitch still living?'

'Yes, and not a bit changed. As grumbling as ever. In fact, you won't find
many changes at Maryino.'

'Have you still the same bailiff?'

'Well, to be sure there is a change there. I decided not to keep about me any
freed serfs, who have been house servants, or, at least, not to intrust them
with duties of any responsibility.' (Arkady glanced towards Piotr.) 'Il est
libre, en effet,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch in an undertone; 'but, you see,
he's only a valet. Now I have a bailiff, a townsman; he seems a practical
fellow. I pay him two hundred and fifty roubles a year. But,' added Nikolai
Petrovitch, rubbing his forehead and eyebrows with his hand, which was
always an indication with him of inward embarrassment, 'I told you just
now that you would not find changes at Maryino.... That's not quite correct.
I think it my duty to prepare you, though....'

He hesitated for an instant, and then went on in French.

'A severe moralist would regard my openness, as improper; but, in the first
place, it can't be concealed, and secondly, you are aware I have always had
peculiar ideas as regards the relation of father and son. Though, of course,
you would be right in blaming me. At my age.... In short ... that ... that girl,
about whom you have probably heard already ...'

'Fenitchka?' asked Arkady easily.

Nikolai Petrovitch blushed. 'Don't mention her name aloud, please.... Well
... she is living with me now. I have installed her in the house ... there were
two little rooms there. But that can all be changed.'

'Goodness, daddy, what for?'

'Your friend is going to stay with us ... it would be awkward ...'

'Please don't be uneasy on Bazarov's account. He's above all that.'

'Well, but you too,' added Nikolai Petrovitch. 'The little lodge is so horrid—
that's the worst of it.'

'Goodness, dad,' interposed Arkady, 'it's as if you were apologising; I
wonder you're not ashamed.'

'Of course, I ought to be ashamed,' answered Nikolai Petrovitch, flushing
more and more.

'Nonsense, dad, nonsense; please don't!' Arkady smiled affectionately.
'What a thing to apologise for!' he thought to himself, and his heart was
filled with a feeling of condescending tenderness for his kind, soft-hearted
father, mixed with a sense of secret superiority. 'Please, stop,' he repeated
once more, instinctively revelling in a consciousness of his own advanced
and emancipated condition.

Nikolai Petrovitch glanced at him from under the fingers of the hand with
which he was still rubbing his forehead, and there was a pang in his heart....
But at once he blamed himself for it.

'Here are our meadows at last,' he said after a long silence.

'And that in front is our forest, isn't it?' asked Arkady.

'Yes. Only I have sold the timber. This year they will cut it down.'

'Why did you sell it?'

'The money was needed; besides, that land is to go to the peasants.'

'Who don't pay you their rent?'

'That's their affair; besides, they will pay it some day.'

'I am sorry about the forest,' observed Arkady, and he began to look about
him.

The country through which they were driving could not be called
picturesque. Fields upon fields stretched all along to the very horizon, now
sloping gently upwards, then dropping down again; in some places woods
were to be seen, and winding ravines, planted with low, scanty bushes,
recalling vividly the representation of them on the old-fashioned maps of
the times of Catherine. They came upon little streams too with hollow
banks; and tiny lakes with narrow dykes; and little villages, with low hovels
under dark and often tumble-down roofs, and slanting barns with walls
woven of brushwood and gaping doorways beside neglected threshing-
floors; and churches, some brick-built, with stucco peeling off in patches,
others wooden, with crosses fallen askew, and overgrown grave-yards.
Slowly Arkady's heart sunk. To complete the picture, the peasants they met
were all in tatters and on the sorriest little nags; the willows, with their
trunks stripped of bark, and broken branches, stood like ragged beggars
along the roadside; cows lean and shaggy and looking pinched up by
hunger, were greedily tearing at the grass along the ditches. They looked as
though they had just been snatched out of the murderous clutches of some
threatening monster; and the piteous state of the weak, starved beasts in the
midst of the lovely spring day, called up, like a white phantom, the endless,
comfortless winter with its storms, and frosts, and snows.... 'No,' thought
Arkady, 'this is not a rich country; it does not impress one by plenty or
industry; it can't, it can't go on like this, reforms are absolutely necessary ...
but how is one to carry them out, how is one to begin?'

Such were Arkady's reflections; ... but even as he reflected, the spring
regained its sway. All around was golden green, all—trees, bushes, grass—
shone and stirred gently in wide waves under the soft breath of the warm
wind; from all sides flooded the endless trilling music of the larks; the
peewits were calling as they hovered over the low-lying meadows, or
noiselessly ran over the tussocks of grass; the rooks strutted among the half-
grown short spring-corn, standing out black against its tender green; they
disappeared in the already whitening rye, only from time to time their heads
peeped out amid its grey waves. Arkady gazed and gazed, and his
reflections grew slowly fainter and passed away.... He flung off his cloak
and turned to his father, with a face so bright and boyish, that the latter gave
him another hug.

'We're not far off now,' remarked Nikolai Petrovitch; 'we have only to get up
this hill, and the house will be in sight. We shall get on together splendidly,
Arkasha; you shall help me in farming the estate, if only it isn't a bore to
you. We must draw close to one another now, and learn to know each other
thoroughly, mustn't we!'

'Of course,' said Arkady; 'but what an exquisite day it is to-day!'

'To welcome you, my dear boy. Yes, it's spring in its full loveliness. Though
I agree with Pushkin—do you remember in Yevgeny Onyegin—

'To me how sad thy coming is,
Spring, spring, sweet time of love!
What ...'

'Arkady!' called Bazarov's voice from the coach, 'send me a match; I've
nothing to light my pipe with.'

Nikolai Petrovitch stopped, while Arkady, who had begun listening to him
with some surprise, though with sympathy too, made haste to pull a silver
matchbox out of his pocket, and sent it to Bazarov by Piotr.

'Will you have a cigar?' shouted Bazarov again.

'Thanks,' answered Arkady.

Piotr returned to the carriage, and handed him with the match-box a thick
black cigar, which Arkady began to smoke promptly, diffusing about him
such a strong and pungent odour of cheap tobacco, that Nikolai Petrovitch,
who had never been a smoker from his youth up, was forced to turn away
his head, as imperceptibly as he could for fear of wounding his son.

A quarter of an hour later, the two carriages drew up before the steps of a
new wooden house, painted grey, with a red iron roof. This was Maryino,
also known as New-Wick, or, as the peasants had nicknamed it, Poverty
Farm.

CHAPTER IV

No crowd of house-serfs ran out on to the steps to meet the gentlemen; a
little girl of twelve years old made her appearance alone. After her there
came out of the house a young lad, very like Piotr, dressed in a coat of grey
livery, with white armorial buttons, the servant of Pavel Petrovitch
Kirsanov. Without speaking, he opened the door of the carriage, and
unbuttoned the apron of the coach. Nikolai Petrovitch with his son and
Bazarov walked through a dark and almost empty hall, from behind the
door of which they caught a glimpse of a young woman's face, into a
drawing-room furnished in the most modern style.

'Here we are at home,' said Nikolai Petrovitch, taking off his cap, and
shaking back his hair. 'That's the great thing; now we must have supper and
rest.'

'A meal would not come amiss, certainly,' observed Bazarov, stretching, and
he dropped on to a sofa.

'Yes, yes, let us have supper, supper directly.' Nikolai Petrovitch with no
apparent reason stamped his foot. 'And here just at the right moment comes
Prokofitch.'

A man about sixty entered, white-haired, thin, and swarthy, in a cinnamon-
coloured dress-coat with brass buttons, and a pink neckerchief. He smirked,
went up to kiss Arkady's hand, and bowing to the guest retreated to the
door, and put his hands behind him.

'Here he is, Prokofitch,' began Nikolai Petrovitch; 'he's come back to us at
last.... Well, how do you think him looking?'

'As well as could be,' said the old man, and was grinning again, but he
quickly knitted his bushy brows. 'You wish supper to be served?' he said
impressively.

'Yes, yes, please. But won't you like to go to your room first, Yevgeny
Vassilyitch?'

'No, thanks; I don't care about it. Only give orders for my little box to be
taken there, and this garment, too,' he added, taking off his frieze overcoat.

'Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's coat.' (Prokofitch, with an air of
perplexity, picked up Bazarov's 'garment' in both hands, and holding it high
above his head, retreated on tiptoe.) 'And you, Arkady, are you going to
your room for a minute?'

'Yes, I must wash,' answered Arkady, and was just moving towards the door,
but at that instant there came into the drawing-room a man of medium
height, dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionable low cravat, and kid
shoes, Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov. He looked about forty-five: his close-
cropped, grey hair shone with a dark lustre, like new silver; his face, yellow
but free from wrinkles, was exceptionally regular and pure in line, as
though carved by a light and delicate chisel, and showed traces of
remarkable beauty; specially fine were his clear, black, almond-shaped
eyes. The whole person of Arkady's uncle, with its aristocratic elegance,
had preserved the gracefulness of youth and that air of striving upwards,
away from earth, which for the most part is lost after the twenties are past.

Pavel Petrovitch took out of his trouser pocket his exquisite hand with its
long tapering pink nails, a hand which seemed still more exquisite from the
snowy whiteness of the cuff, buttoned with a single, big opal, and gave it to
his nephew. After a preliminary handshake in the European style, he kissed
him thrice after the Russian fashion, that is to say, he touched his cheek
three times with his perfumed moustaches, and said, 'Welcome.'

Nikolai Petrovitch presented him to Bazarov; Pavel Petrovitch greeted him
with a slight inclination of his supple figure, and a slight smile, but he did
not give him his hand, and even put it back into his pocket.

'I had begun to think you were not coming to-day,' he began in a musical
voice, with a genial swing and shrug of the shoulders, as he showed his
splendid white teeth. 'Did anything happen on the road.'

'Nothing happened,' answered Arkady; 'we were rather slow. But we're as
hungry as wolves now. Hurry up Prokofitch, dad; and I'll be back directly.'

'Stay, I'm coming with you,' cried Bazarov, pulling himself up suddenly
from the sofa. Both the young men went out.

'Who is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.

'A friend of Arkasha's; according to him, a very clever fellow.'

'Is he going to stay with us?'

'Yes.'

'That unkempt creature?'

'Why, yes.'

Pavel Petrovitch drummed with his finger tips on the table. 'I fancy Arkady
s'est dégourdi,' he remarked. 'I'm glad he has come back.'

At supper there was little conversation. Bazarov especially said nothing, but
he ate a great deal. Nikolai Petrovitch related various incidents in what he
called his career as a farmer, talked about the impending government

measures, about committees, deputations, the necessity of introducing
machinery, etc. Pavel Petrovitch paced slowly up and down the dining-
room (he never ate supper), sometimes sipping at a wineglass of red wine,
and less often uttering some remark or rather exclamation, of the nature of
'Ah! aha! hm!' Arkady told some news from Petersburg, but he was
conscious of a little awkwardness, that awkwardness, which usually
overtakes a youth when he has just ceased to be a child, and has come back
to a place where they are accustomed to regard him and treat him as a child.
He made his sentences quite unnecessarily long, avoided the word 'daddy,'
and even sometimes replaced it by the word 'father,' mumbled, it is true,
between his teeth; with an exaggerated carelessness he poured into his glass
far more wine than he really wanted, and drank it all off. Prokofitch did not
take his eyes off him, and kept chewing his lips. After supper they all
separated at once.

'Your uncle's a queer fish,' Bazarov said to Arkady, as he sat in his dressing-
gown by his bedside, smoking a short pipe. 'Only fancy such style in the
country! His nails, his nails—you ought to send them to an exhibition!'

'Why of course, you don't know,' replied Arkady. 'He was a great swell in
his own day, you know. I will tell you his story one day. He was very
handsome, you know, used to turn all the women's heads.'

'Oh, that's it, is it? So he keeps it up in memory of the past. It's a pity there's
no one for him to fascinate here though. I kept staring at his exquisite
collars. They're like marble, and his chin's shaved simply to perfection.
Come, Arkady Nikolaitch, isn't that ridiculous?'

'Perhaps it is; but he's a splendid man, really.'

'An antique survival! But your father's a capital fellow. He wastes his time
reading poetry, and doesn't know much about farming, but he's a good-
hearted fellow.'

'My father's a man in a thousand.'

'Did you notice how shy and nervous he is?'

Arkady shook his head as though he himself were not shy and nervous.

'It's something astonishing,' pursued Bazarov, 'these old idealists, they
develop their nervous systems till they break down ... so balance is lost. But
good-night. In my room there's an English washstand, but the door won't
fasten. Anyway that ought to be encouraged—an English washstand stands
for progress!'

Bazarov went away, and a sense of great happiness came over Arkady.
Sweet it is to fall asleep in one's own home, in the familiar bed, under the
quilt worked by loving hands, perhaps a dear nurse's hands, those kind,
tender, untiring hands. Arkady remembered Yegorovna, and sighed and
wished her peace in heaven.... For himself he made no prayer.

Both he and Bazarov were soon asleep, but others in the house were awake
long after. His son's return had agitated Nikolai Petrovitch. He lay down in
bed, but did not put out the candles, and his head propped on his hand, he
fell into long reveries. His brother was sitting long after midnight in his
study, in a wide armchair before the fireplace, on which there smouldered
some faintly glowing embers. Pavel Petrovitch was not undressed, only
some red Chinese slippers had replaced the kid shoes on his feet. He held in
his hand the last number of Galignani, but he was not reading; he gazed
fixedly into the grate, where a bluish flame flickered, dying down, then
flaring up again.... God knows where his thoughts were rambling, but they
were not rambling in the past only; the expression of his face was
concentrated and surly, which is not the way when a man is absorbed solely
in recollections. In a small back room there sat, on a large chest, a young
woman in a blue dressing jacket with a white kerchief thrown over her dark
hair, Fenitchka. She was half listening, half dozing, and often looked across
towards the open door through which a child's cradle was visible, and the
regular breathing of a sleeping baby could be heard.

CHAPTER V

The next morning Bazarov woke up earlier than any one and went out of
the house. 'Oh, my!' he thought, looking about him, 'the little place isn't
much to boast of!' When Nikolai Petrovitch had divided the land with his
peasants, he had had to build his new manor-house on four acres of
perfectly flat and barren land. He had built a house, offices, and farm
buildings, laid out a garden, dug a pond, and sunk two wells; but the young
trees had not done well, very little water had collected in the pond, and that
in the wells tasted brackish. Only one arbour of lilac and acacia had grown
fairly well; they sometimes had tea and dinner in it. In a few minutes
Bazarov had traversed all the little paths of the garden; he went into the
cattle-yard and the stable, routed out two farm-boys, with whom he made
friends at once, and set off with them to a small swamp about a mile from
the house to look for frogs.

'What do you want frogs for, sir?' one of the boys asked him.

'I'll tell you what for,' answered Bazarov, who possessed the special faculty
of inspiring confidence in people of a lower class, though he never tried to
win them, and behaved very casually with them; 'I shall cut the frog open,
and see what's going on in his inside, and then, as you and I are much the
same as frogs, only that we walk on legs, I shall know what's going on
inside us too.'

'And what do you want to know that for?'

'So as not to make a mistake, if you're taken ill, and I have to cure you.'

'Are you a doctor then?'

'Yes.'

'Vaska, do you hear, the gentleman says you and I are the same as frogs,
that's funny!'

'I'm afraid of frogs,' observed Vaska, a boy of seven, with a head as white as
flax, and bare feet, dressed in a grey smock with a stand-up collar.

'What is there to be afraid of? Do they bite?'

'There, paddle into the water, philosophers,' said Bazarov.

Meanwhile Nikolai Petrovitch too had waked up, and gone in to see
Arkady, whom he found dressed. The father and son went out on to the
terrace under the shelter of the awning; near the balustrade, on the table,
among great bunches of lilacs, the samovar was already boiling. A little girl
came up, the same who had been the first to meet them at the steps on their
arrival the evening before. In a shrill voice she said—

'Fedosya Nikolaevna is not quite well, she cannot come; she gave orders to
ask you, will you please to pour out tea yourself, or should she send
Dunyasha?'

'I will pour out myself, myself,' interposed Nikolai Petrovitch hurriedly.
'Arkady, how do you take your tea, with cream, or with lemon?'

'With cream,' answered Arkady; and after a brief silence, he uttered
interrogatively, 'Daddy?'

Nikolai Petrovitch in confusion looked at his son.

'Well?' he said.

Arkady dropped his eyes.

'Forgive me, dad, if my question seems unsuitable to you,' he began, 'but
you yourself, by your openness yesterday, encourage me to be open ... you
will not be angry ...?'

'Go on.'

'You give me confidence to ask you.... Isn't the reason, Fen ... isn't the
reason she will not come here to pour out tea, because I'm here?'

Nikolai Petrovitch turned slightly away.

'Perhaps,' he said, at last, 'she supposes ... she is ashamed.'

Arkady turned a rapid glance on his father.

'She has no need to be ashamed. In the first place, you are aware of my
views' (it was very sweet to Arkady to utter that word); 'and secondly, could
I be willing to hamper your life, your habits in the least thing? Besides, I am
sure you could not make a bad choice; if you have allowed her to live under
the same roof with you, she must be worthy of it; in any case, a son cannot
judge his father,—least of all, I, and least of all such a father who, like you,
has never hampered my liberty in anything.'

Arkady's voice had been shaky at the beginning; he felt himself
magnanimous, though at the same time he realised he was delivering
something of the nature of a lecture to his father; but the sound of one's own
voice has a powerful effect on any man, and Arkady brought out his last
words resolutely, even with emphasis.

'Thanks, Arkasha,' said Nikolai Petrovitch thickly, and his fingers again
strayed over his eyebrows and forehead. 'Your suppositions are just in fact.
Of course, if this girl had not deserved.... It is not a frivolous caprice. It's
not easy for me to talk to you about this; but you will understand that it is
difficult for her to come here, in your presence, especially the first day of
your return.'

'In that case I will go to her,' cried Arkady, with a fresh rush of
magnanimous feeling, and he jumped up from his seat. 'I will explain to her
that she has no need to be ashamed before me.'

Nikolai Petrovitch too got up.

'Arkady,' he began, 'be so good ... how can ... there ... I have not told you yet
...'

But Arkady did not listen to him, and ran off the terrace. Nikolai Petrovitch
looked after him, and sank into his chair overcome by confusion. His heart

began to throb. Did he at that moment realise the inevitable strangeness of
the future relations between him and his son? Was he conscious that Arkady
would perhaps have shown him more respect if he had never touched on
this subject at all? Did he reproach himself for weakness?—it is hard to say;
all these feelings were within him, but in the state of sensations—and vague
sensations—while the flush did not leave his face, and his heart throbbed.

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps, and Arkady came on to the
terrace. 'We have made friends, dad!' he cried, with an expression of a kind
of affectionate and good-natured triumph on his face. 'Fedosya Nikolaevna
is not quite well to-day really, and she will come a little later. But why
didn't you tell me I had a brother? I should have kissed him last night, as I
have kissed him just now.'

Nikolai Petrovitch tried to articulate something, tried to get up and open his
arms. Arkady flung himself on his neck.

'What's this? embracing again?' sounded the voice of Pavel Petrovitch
behind them.

Father and son were equally rejoiced at his appearance at that instant; there
are positions, genuinely affecting, from which one longs to escape as soon
as possible.

'Why should you be surprised at that?' said Nikolai Petrovitch gaily. 'Think
what ages I have been waiting for Arkasha. I've not had time to get a good
look at him since yesterday.'

'I'm not at all surprised,' observed Pavel Petrovitch; 'I feel not indisposed to
be embracing him myself.'

Arkady went up to his uncle, and again felt his cheeks caressed by his
perfumed moustache. Pavel Petrovitch sat down to the table. He wore an
elegant morning suit in the English style, and a gay little fez on his head.
This fez and the carelessly tied little cravat carried a suggestion of the
freedom of country life, but the stiff collars of his shirt—not white, it is
true, but striped, as is correct in morning dress—stood up as inexorably as
ever against his well-shaved chin.

'Where's your new friend?' he asked Arkady.

'He's not in the house; he usually gets up early and goes off somewhere. The
great thing is, we mustn't pay any attention to him; he doesn't like
ceremony.'

'Yes, that's obvious.' Pavel Petrovitch began deliberately spreading butter on
his bread. 'Is he going to stay long with us?'

'Perhaps. He came here on the way to his father's.'

'And where does his father live?'

'In our province, sixty-four miles from here. He has a small property there.
He was formerly an army doctor.'

'Tut, tut, tut! To be sure, I kept asking myself, "Where have I heard that
name, Bazarov?" Nikolai, do you remember, in our father's division there
was a surgeon Bazarov?'

'I believe there was.'

'Yes, yes, to be sure. So that surgeon was his father. Hm!' Pavel Petrovitch
pulled his moustaches. 'Well, and what is Mr. Bazarov himself?' he asked,
deliberately.

'What is Bazarov?' Arkady smiled. 'Would you like me, uncle, to tell you
what he really is?'

'If you will be so good, nephew.'

'He's a nihilist.'

'Eh?' inquired Nikolai Petrovitch, while Pavel Petrovitch lilted a knife in the
air with a small piece of butter on its tip, and remained motionless.

'He's a nihilist,' repeated Arkady.

'A nihilist,' said Nikolai Petrovitch. 'That's from the Latin, nihil, nothing, as
far as I can judge; the word must mean a man who ... who accepts nothing?'

'Say, "who respects nothing,"' put in Pavel Petrovitch, and he set to work on
the butter again.

'Who regards everything from the critical point of view,' observed Arkady.

'Isn't that just the same thing?' inquired Pavel Petrovitch.

'No, it's not the same thing. A nihilist is a man who does not bow down
before any authority, who does not take any principle on faith, whatever
reverence that principle may be enshrined in.'

'Well, and is that good?' interrupted Pavel Petrovitch.

'That depends, uncle. Some people it will do good to, but some people will
suffer for it.'

'Indeed. Well, I see it's not in our line. We are old-fashioned people; we
imagine that without principles, taken as you say on faith, there's no taking
a step, no breathing. Vous avez changé tout cela. God give you good health
and the rank of a general, while we will be content to look on and admire,
worthy ... what was it?'

'Nihilists,' Arkady said, speaking very distinctly.

'Yes. There used to be Hegelists, and now there are nihilists. We shall see
how you will exist in void, in vacuum; and now ring, please, brother
Nikolai Petrovitch; it's time I had my cocoa.'

Nikolai Petrovitch rang the bell and called, 'Dunyasha!' But instead of
Dunyasha, Fenitchka herself came on to the terrace. She was a young
woman about three-and-twenty, with a white soft skin, dark hair and eyes,
red, childishly-pouting lips, and little delicate hands. She wore a neat print
dress; a new blue kerchief lay lightly on her plump shoulders. She carried a
large cup of cocoa, and setting it down before Pavel Petrovitch, she was
overwhelmed with confusion: the hot blood rushed in a wave of crimson

over the delicate skin of her pretty face. She dropped her eyes, and stood at
the table, leaning a little on the very tips of her fingers. It seemed as though
she were ashamed of having come in, and at the same time felt that she had
a right to come.

Pavel Petrovitch knitted his brows severely, while Nikolai Petrovitch
looked embarrassed.

'Good morning, Fenitchka,' he muttered through his teeth.

'Good morning,' she replied in a voice not loud but resonant, and with a
sidelong glance at Arkady, who gave her a friendly smile, she went gently
away. She walked with a slightly rolling gait, but even that suited her.

For some minutes silence reigned on the terrace. Pavel Petrovitch sipped his
cocoa; suddenly he raised his head. 'Here is Sir Nihilist coming towards us,'
he said in an undertone.

Bazarov was in fact approaching through the garden, stepping over the
flower-beds. His linen coat and trousers were besmeared with mud; clinging
marsh weed was twined round the crown of his old round hat; in his right
hand he held a small bag; in the bag something alive was moving. He
quickly drew near the terrace, and said with a nod, 'Good morning,
gentlemen; sorry I was late for tea; I'll be back directly; I must just put these
captives away.'

'What have you there—leeches?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.

'No, frogs.'

'Do you eat them—or keep them?'

'For experiment,' said Bazarov indifferently, and he went off into the house.

'So he's going to cut them up,' observed Pavel Petrovitch. 'He has no faith in
principles, but he has faith in frogs.'

Arkady looked compassionately at his uncle; Nikolai Petrovitch shrugged
his shoulders stealthily. Pavel Petrovitch himself felt that his epigram was

unsuccessful, and began to talk about husbandry and the new bailiff, who
had come to him the evening before to complain that a labourer, Foma, 'was
deboshed,' and quite unmanageable. 'He's such an Æsop,' he said among
other things; 'in all places he has protested himself a worthless fellow; he's
not a man to keep his place; he'll walk off in a huff like a fool.'

CHAPTER VI

Bazarov came back, sat down to the table, and began hastily drinking tea.
The two brothers looked at him in silence, while Arkady stealthily watched
first his father and then his uncle.

'Did you walk far from here?' Nikolai Petrovitch asked at last.

'Where you've a little swamp near the aspen wood. I started some half-
dozen snipe; you might slaughter them; Arkady.'

'Aren't you a sportsman then?'

'No.'

'Is your special study physics?' Pavel Petrovitch in his turn inquired.

'Physics, yes; and natural science in general.'

'They say the Teutons of late have had great success in that line.'

'Yes; the Germans are our teachers in it,' Bazarov answered carelessly.

The word Teutons instead of Germans, Pavel Petrovitch had used with
ironical intention; none noticed it however.

'Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?' said Pavel Petrovitch, with
exaggerated courtesy. He was beginning to feel a secret irritation. His
aristocratic nature was revolted by Bazarov's absolute nonchalance. This
surgeon's son was not only not overawed, he even gave abrupt and
indifferent answers, and in the tone of his voice there was something
churlish, almost insolent.

'The scientific men there are a clever lot.'

'Ah, ah. To be sure, of Russian scientific men you have not such a flattering
opinion, I dare say?'

'That is very likely.'

'That's very praiseworthy self-abnegation,' Pavel Petrovitch declared,
drawing himself up, and throwing his head back. 'But how is this? Arkady
Nikolaitch was telling us just now that you accept no authorities? Don't you
believe in them?'

'And how am I accepting them? And what am I to believe in? They tell me
the truth, I agree, that's all.'

'And do all Germans tell the truth?' said Pavel Petrovitch, and his face
assumed an expression as unsympathetic, as remote, as if he had withdrawn
to some cloudy height.

'Not all,' replied Bazarov, with a short yawn. He obviously did not care to
continue the discussion.

Pavel Petrovitch glanced at Arkady, as though he would say to him, 'Your
friend's polite, I must say.' 'For my own part,' he began again, not without
some effort, 'I am so unregenerate as not to like Germans. Russian Germans
I am not speaking of now; we all know what sort of creatures they are. But
even German Germans are not to my liking. In former days there were
some here and there; they had—well, Schiller, to be sure, Goethe ... my
brother—he takes a particularly favourable view of them.... But now they
have all turned chemists and materialists ...'

'A good chemist is twenty times as useful as any poet,' broke in Bazarov.

'Oh, indeed,' commented Pavel Petrovitch, and, as though falling asleep, he
faintly raised his eyebrows. 'You don't acknowledge art then, I suppose?'

'The art of making money or of advertising pills!' cried Bazarov, with a
contemptuous laugh.

'Ah, ah. You are pleased to jest, I see. You reject all that, no doubt? Granted.
Then you believe in science only?'

'I have already explained to you that I don't believe in anything; and what is
science—science in the abstract? There are sciences, as there are trades and
crafts; but abstract science doesn't exist at all.'

'Very good. Well, and in regard to the other traditions accepted in human
conduct, do you maintain the same negative attitude?'

'What's this, an examination?' asked Bazarov.

Pavel Petrovitch turned slightly pale.... Nikolai Petrovitch thought it his
duty to interpose in the conversation.

'We will converse on this subject with you more in detail some day, dear
Yevgeny Vassilyitch; we will hear your views, and express our own. For my
part, I am heartily glad you are studying the natural sciences. I have heard
that Liebig has made some wonderful discoveries in the amelioration of
soils. You can be of assistance to me in my agricultural labours; you can
give me some useful advice.'

'I am at your service, Nikolai Petrovitch; but Liebig's miles over our heads!
One has first to learn the a b c, and then begin to read, and we haven't set
eyes on the alphabet yet.'

'You are certainly a nihilist, I see that,' thought Nikolai Petrovitch. 'Still,
you will allow me to apply to you on occasion,' he added aloud. 'And now I
fancy, brother, it's time for us to be going to have a talk with the bailiff.'

Pavel Petrovitch got up from his seat.

'Yes,' he said, without looking at any one; 'it's a misfortune to live five years
in the country like this, far from mighty intellects! You turn into a fool
directly. You may try not to forget what you've been taught, but—in a snap!
—they'll prove all that's rubbish, and tell you that sensible men have
nothing more to do with such foolishness, and that you, if you please, are an
antiquated old fogey. What's to be done? Young people, of course, are
cleverer than we are!'

Pavel Petrovitch turned slowly on his heels, and slowly walked away;
Nikolai Petrovitch went after him.

'Is he always like that?' Bazarov coolly inquired of Arkady directly the door
had closed behind the two brothers.

'I must say, Yevgeny, you weren't nice to him,' remarked Arkady. 'You have
hurt his feelings.'

'Well, am I going to consider them, these provincial aristocrats! Why, it's all
vanity, dandy habits, fatuity. He should have continued his career in
Petersburg, if that's his bent. But there, enough of him! I've found a rather
rare species of a water-beetle, Dytiscus marginatus; do you know it? I will
show you.'

'I promised to tell you his story,' began Arkady.

'The story of the beetle?'

'Come, don't, Yevgeny. The story of my uncle. You will see he's not the sort
of man you fancy. He deserves pity rather than ridicule.'

'I don't dispute it; but why are you worrying over him?'

'One ought to be just, Yevgeny.'

'How does that follow?'

'No; listen ...'

And Arkady told him his uncle's story. The reader will find it in the
following chapter.

CHAPTER VII

Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov was educated first at home, like his younger
brother, and afterwards in the Corps of Pages. From childhood he was
distinguished by remarkable beauty; moreover he was self-confident,
somewhat ironical, and had a rather biting humour; he could not fail to
please. He began to be seen everywhere, directly he had received his
commission as an officer. He was much admired in society, and he indulged
every whim, even every caprice and every folly, and gave himself airs, but
that too was attractive in him. Women went out of their senses over him;
men called him a coxcomb, and were secretly jealous of him. He lived, as
has been related already, in the same apartments as his brother, whom he
loved sincerely, though he was not at all like him. Nikolai Petrovitch was a
little lame, he had small, pleasing features of a rather melancholy cast,
small, black eyes, and thin, soft hair; he liked being lazy, but he also liked
reading, and was timid in society.

Pavel Petrovitch did not spend a single evening at home, prided himself on
his ease and audacity (he was just bringing gymnastics into fashion among
young men in society), and had read in all some five or six French books.
At twenty-eight he was already a captain; a brilliant career awaited him.
Suddenly everything was changed.

At that time, there was sometimes seen in Petersburg society a woman who
has even yet not been forgotten. Princess R——. She had a well-educated,
well-bred, but rather stupid husband, and no children. She used suddenly to
go abroad, and suddenly return to Russia, and led an eccentric life in

general. She had the reputation of being a frivolous coquette, abandoned
herself eagerly to every sort of pleasure, danced to exhaustion, laughed and
jested with young men, whom she received in the dim light of her drawing-
room before dinner; while at night she wept and prayed, found no peace in
anything, and often paced her room till morning, wringing her hands in
anguish, or sat, pale and chill, over a psalter. Day came, and she was
transformed again into a grand lady; again she went out, laughed, chattered,
and simply flung herself headlong into anything which could afford her the
slightest distraction. She was marvellously well-proportioned, her hair
coloured like gold and heavy as gold hung below her knees, but no one
would have called her a beauty; in her whole face the only good point was
her eyes, and even her eyes were not good—they were grey, and not large—
but their glance was swift and deep, unconcerned to the point of audacity,
and thoughtful to the point of melancholy—an enigmatic glance. There was
a light of something extraordinary in them, even while her tongue was
lisping the emptiest of inanities. She dressed with elaborate care. Pavel
Petrovitch met her at a ball, danced a mazurka with her, in the course of
which she did not utter a single rational word, and fell passionately in love
with her. Being accustomed to make conquests, in this instance, too, he
soon attained his object, but his easy success did not damp his ardour. On
the contrary, he was in still more torturing, still closer bondage to this
woman, in whom, even at the very moment when she surrendered herself
utterly, there seemed always something still mysterious and unattainable, to
which none could penetrate. What was hidden in that soul—God knows! It
seemed as though she were in the power of mysterious forces,
incomprehensible even to herself; they seemed to play on her at will; her
intellect was not powerful enough to master their caprices. Her whole
behaviour presented a series of inconsistencies; the only letters which could
have awakened her husband's just suspicions, she wrote to a man who was
almost a stranger to her, whilst her love had always an element of
melancholy; with a man she had chosen as a lover, she ceased to laugh and
to jest, she listened to him, and gazed at him with a look of bewilderment.
Sometimes, for the most part suddenly, this bewilderment passed into chill
horror; her face took a wild, death-like expression; she locked herself up in
her bedroom, and her maid, putting her ear to the keyhole, could hear her
smothered sobs. More than once, as he went home after a tender interview,

Kirsanov felt within him that heartrending, bitter vexation which follows on
a total failure.

'What more do I want?' he asked himself, while his heart was heavy. He
once gave her a ring with a sphinx engraved on the stone.

'What's that?' she asked; 'a sphinx?'

'Yes,' he answered, 'and that sphinx is you.'

'I?' she queried, and slowly raising her enigmatical glance upon him. 'Do
you know that's awfully flattering?' she added with a meaningless smile,
while her eyes still kept the same strange look.

Pavel Petrovitch suffered even while Princess R—— loved him; but when
she grew cold to him, and that happened rather quickly, he almost went out
of his mind. He was on the rack, and he was jealous; he gave her no peace,
followed her about everywhere; she grew sick of his pursuit of her, and she
went abroad. He resigned his commission in spite of the entreaties of his
friends and the exhortations of his superiors, and followed the princess; four
years he spent in foreign countries, at one time pursuing her, at another time
intentionally losing sight of her. He was ashamed of himself, he was
disgusted with his own lack of spirit ... but nothing availed. Her image, that
incomprehensible, almost meaningless, but bewitching image, was deeply
rooted in his heart. At Baden he once more regained his old footing with
her; it seemed as though she had never loved him so passionately ... but in a
month it was all at an end: the flame flickered up for the last time and went
out for ever. Foreseeing inevitable separation, he wanted at least to remain
her friend, as though friendship with such a woman was possible.... She
secretly left Baden, and from that time steadily avoided Kirsanov. He
returned to Russia, and tried to live his former life again; but he could not
get back into the old groove. He wandered from place to place like a man
possessed; he still went into society; he still retained the habits of a man of
the world; he could boast of two or three fresh conquests; but he no longer
expected anything much of himself or of others, and he undertook nothing.
He grew old and grey; spending all his evenings at the club, jaundiced and
bored, and arguing in bachelor society became a necessity for him—a bad
sign, as we all know. Marriage, of course, he did not even think of. Ten

years passed in this way; they passed by colourless and fruitless—and
quickly, fearfully quickly. Nowhere does time fly past as in Russia; in
prison they say it flies even faster. One day at dinner at the club, Pavel
Petrovitch heard of the death of the Princess R——. She had died at Paris in
a state bordering on insanity.

He got up from the table, and a long time he paced about the rooms of the
club, or stood stockstill near the card-players, but he did not go home earlier
than usual. Some time later he received a packet addressed to him; in it was
the ring he had given the princess. She had drawn lines in the shape of a
cross over the sphinx and sent him word that the solution of the enigma—
was the cross.

This happened at the beginning of the year 1848, at the very time when
Nikolai Petrovitch came to Petersburg, after the loss of his wife. Pavel
Petrovitch had scarcely seen his brother since the latter had settled in the
country; the marriage of Nikolai Petrovitch had coincided with the very first
days of Pavel Petrovitch's acquaintance with the princess. When he came
back from abroad, he had gone to him with the intention of staying a couple
of months with him, in sympathetic enjoyment of his happiness, but he had
only succeeded in standing a week of it. The difference in the positions of
the two brothers was too great. In 1848, this difference had grown less;
Nikolai Petrovitch had lost his wife, Pavel Petrovitch had lost his
memories; after the death of the princess he tried not to think of her. But to
Nikolai, there remained the sense of a well-spent life, his son was growing
up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a solitary bachelor, was entering
upon that indefinite twilight period of regrets that are akin to hopes, and
hopes that are akin to regrets, when youth is over, while old age has not yet
come.

This time was harder for Pavel Petrovitch than for another man; in losing
his past, he lost everything.

'I will not invite you to Maryino now,' Nikolai Petrovitch said to him one
day, (he had called his property by that name in honour of his wife); 'you
were dull there in my dear wife's time, and now I think you would be bored
to death.'

'I was stupid and fidgety then,' answered Pavel Petrovitch; 'since then I have
grown quieter, if not wiser. On the contrary, now, if you will let me, I am
ready to settle with you for good.'

For all answer Nikolai Petrovitch embraced him; but a year and a half
passed after this conversation, before Pavel Petrovitch made up his mind to
carry out his intention. When he was once settled in the country, however,
he did not leave it, even during the three winters which Nikolai Petrovitch
spent in Petersburg with his son. He began to read, chiefly English; he
arranged his whole life, roughly speaking, in the English style, rarely saw
the neighbours, and only went out to the election of marshals, where he was
generally silent, only occasionally annoying and alarming land-owners of
the old school by his liberal sallies, and not associating with the
representatives of the younger generation. Both the latter and the former
considered him 'stuck up'; and both parties respected him for his fine
aristocratic manners; for his reputation for successes in love; for the fact
that he was very well dressed and always stayed in the best room in the best
hotel; for the fact that he generally dined well, and had once even dined
with Wellington at Louis Philippe's table; for the fact that he always took
everywhere with him a real silver dressing-case and a portable bath; for the
fact that he always smelt of some exceptionally 'good form' scent; for the
fact that he played whist in masterly fashion, and always lost; and lastly,
they respected him also for his incorruptible honesty. Ladies considered him
enchantingly romantic, but he did not cultivate ladies' acquaintance....

'So you see, Yevgeny,' observed Arkady, as he finished his story, 'how
unjustly you judge of my uncle! To say nothing of his having more than
once helped my father out of difficulties, given him all his money—the
property, perhaps you don't know, wasn't divided—he's glad to help any
one, among other things he always sticks up for the peasants; it's true, when
he talks to them he frowns and sniffs eau de cologne.' ...

'His nerves, no doubt,' put in Bazarov.

'Perhaps; but his heart is very good. And he's far from being stupid. What
useful advice he has given me especially ... especially in regard to relations
with women.'

'Aha! a scalded dog fears cold water, we know that!'

'In short,' continued Arkady, 'he's profoundly unhappy, believe me; it's a sin
to despise him.'

'And who does despise him?' retorted Bazarov. 'Still, I must say that a
fellow who stakes his whole life on one card—a woman's love—and when
that card fails, turns sour, and lets himself go till he's fit for nothing, is not a
man, but a male. You say he's unhappy; you ought to know best; to be sure,
he's not got rid of all his fads. I'm convinced that he solemnly imagines
himself a superior creature because he reads that wretched Galignani, and
once a month saves a peasant from a flogging.'

'But remember his education, the age in which he grew up,' observed
Arkady.

'Education?' broke in Bazarov. 'Every man must educate himself, just as I've
done, for instance.... And as for the age, why should I depend on it? Let it
rather depend on me. No, my dear fellow, that's all shallowness, want of
backbone! And what stuff it all is, about these mysterious relations between
a man and woman? We physiologists know what these relations are. You
study the anatomy of the eye; where does the enigmatical glance you talk
about come in there? That's all romantic, nonsensical, æsthetic rot. We had
much better go and look at the beetle.'

And the two friends went off to Bazarov's room, which was already
pervaded by a sort of medico-surgical odour, mingled with the smell of
cheap tobacco.

CHAPTER VIII

Pavel Petrovitch did not long remain present at his brother's interview with
his bailiff, a tall, thin man with a sweet consumptive voice and knavish
eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovitch's remarks answered, 'Certainly, sir,' and
tried to make the peasants out to be thieves and drunkards. The estate had
only recently been put on to the new reformed system, and the new
mechanism worked, creaking like an ungreased wheel, warping and
cracking like homemade furniture of unseasoned wood. Nikolai Petrovitch
did not lose heart, but often he sighed, and was gloomy; he felt that the
thing could not go on without money, and his money was almost all spent.
Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel Petrovitch had more than once helped
his brother; more than once, seeing him struggling and cudgelling his
brains, at a loss which way to turn, Pavel Petrovitch moved deliberately to
the window, and with his hands thrust into his pockets, muttered between
his teeth, 'mais je puis vous de l'argent,' and gave him money; but to-day he
had none himself, and he preferred to go away. The petty details of
agricultural management worried him; besides, it constantly struck him that
Nikolai Petrovitch, for all his zeal and industry, did not set about things in
the right way, though he would not have been able to point out precisely
where Nikolai Petrovitch's mistake lay. 'My brother's not practical enough,'
he reasoned to himself; 'they impose upon him.' Nikolai Petrovitch, on the
other hand, had the highest opinion of Pavel Petrovitch's practical ability,
and always asked his advice. 'I'm a soft, weak fellow, I've spent my life in
the wilds,' he used to say; 'while you haven't seen so much of the world for
nothing, you see through people; you have an eagle eye.' In answer to which
Pavel Petrovitch only turned away, but did not contradict his brother.

Leaving Nikolai Petrovitch in his study, he walked along the corridor,
which separated the front part of the house from the back; when he had
reached a low door, he stopped in hesitation, then pulling his moustaches,
he knocked at it.

'Who's there? Come in,' sounded Fenitchka's voice.

'It's I,' said Pavel Petrovitch, and he opened the door.

Fenitchka jumped up from the chair on which she was sitting with her baby,
and giving him into the arms of a girl, who at once carried him out of the
room, she put straight her kerchief hastily.

'Pardon me, if I disturb you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, not looking at her; 'I
only wanted to ask you ... they are sending into the town to-day, I think ...
please let them buy me some green tea.'

'Certainly,' answered Fenitchka; 'how much do you desire them to buy?'

'Oh, half a pound will be enough, I imagine. You have made a change here,
I see,' he added, with a rapid glance round him, which glided over
Fenitchka's face too. 'The curtains here,' he explained, seeing she did not
understand him.

'Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovitch was so good as to make me a
present of them; but they have been put up a long while now.'

'Yes, and it's a long while since I have been to see you. Now it is very nice
here.'

'Thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch's kindness,' murmured Fenitchka.

'You are more comfortable here than in the little lodge you used to have?'
inquired Pavel Petrovitch urbanely, but without the slightest smile.

'Certainly, it's more comfortable.'

'Who has been put in your place now?'

'The laundry-maids are there now.'

'Ah!'

Pavel Petrovitch was silent. 'Now he is going,' thought Fenitchka; but he did
not go, and she stood before him motionless.

'What did you send your little one away for?' said Pavel Petrovitch at last. 'I
love children; let me see him.'

Fenitchka blushed all over with confusion and delight. She was afraid of
Pavel Petrovitch; he had scarcely ever spoken to her.

'Dunyasha,' she called; 'will you bring Mitya, please.' (Fenitchka did not
treat any one in the house familiarly.) 'But wait a minute, he must have a
frock on,' Fenitchka was going towards the door.

'That doesn't matter,' remarked Pavel Petrovitch.

'I will be back directly,' answered Fenitchka, and she went out quickly.

Pavel Petrovitch was left alone, and he looked round this time with special
attention. The small low-pitched room in which he found himself was very
clean and snug. It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of camomile. Along
the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought by the late general on
his campaign in Poland; in one corner was a little bedstead under a muslin
canopy beside an iron-clamped chest with a convex lid. In the opposite
corner a little lamp was burning before a big dark picture of St. Nikolai the
wonder-worker; a tiny porcelain egg hung by a red ribbon from the
protruding gold halo down to the saint's breast; by the windows greenish
glass jars of last year's jam carefully tied down could be seen; on their paper
covers Fenitchka herself had written in big letters 'Gooseberry'; Nikolai
Petrovitch was particularly fond of that preserve. On a long cord from the
ceiling a cage hung with a short-tailed siskin in it; he was constantly
chirping and hopping about, the cage was constantly shaking and swinging,
while hempseeds fell with a light tap on to the floor. On the wall just above
a small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai
Petrovitch in various attitudes, taken by an itinerant photographer; there too
hung a photograph of Fenitchka herself, which was an absolute failure; it
was an eyeless face wearing a forced smile, in a dingy frame, nothing more
could be made out; while above Fenitchka, General Yermolov, in a
Circassian cloak, scowled menacingly upon the Caucasian mountains in the
distance, from beneath a little silk shoe for pins which fell right on to his
brows.

Five minutes passed; bustling and whispering could be heard in the next
room. Pavel Petrovitch took up from the chest of drawers a greasy book, an
odd volume of Masalsky's Musketeer, and turned over a few pages.... The
door opened, and Fenitchka came in with Mitya in her arms. She had put on
him a little red smock with embroidery on the collar, had combed his hair
and washed his face; he was breathing heavily, his whole body working,

and his little hands waving in the air, as is the way with all healthy babies;
but his smart smock obviously impressed him, an expression of delight was
reflected in every part of his little fat person. Fenitchka had put her own
hair too in order, and had arranged her kerchief; but she might well have
remained as she was. And really is there anything in the world more
captivating than a beautiful young mother with a healthy baby in her arms?

'What a chubby fellow!' said Pavel Petrovitch graciously, and he tickled
Mitya's little double chin with the tapering nail of his forefinger. The baby
stared at the siskin, and chuckled.

'That's uncle,' said Fenitchka, bending her face down to him and slightly
rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set in the window a smouldering
perfumed stick, putting a halfpenny under it.

'How many months old is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.

'Six months; it will soon be seven, on the eleventh.'

'Isn't it eight, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' put in Dunyasha, with some timidity.

'No, seven; what an idea!' The baby chuckled again, stared at the chest, and
suddenly caught hold of his mother's nose and mouth with all his five little
fingers. 'Saucy mite,' said Fenitchka, not drawing her face away.

'He's like my brother,' observed Pavel Petrovitch.

'Who else should he be like?' thought Fenitchka.

'Yes,' continued Pavel Petrovitch, as though speaking to himself; 'there's an
unmistakable likeness.' He looked attentively, almost mournfully, at
Fenitchka.

'That's uncle,' she repeated, in a whisper this time.

'Ah! Pavel! so you're here!' was heard suddenly the voice of Nikolai
Petrovitch.

Pavel Petrovitch turned hurriedly round, frowning; but his brother looked at
him with such delight, such gratitude, that he could not help responding to
his smile.

'You've a splendid little cherub,' he said, and looking at his watch, 'I came in
here to speak about some tea.'

And, assuming an expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovitch at once went
out of the room.

'Did he come of himself?' Nikolai Petrovitch asked Fenitchka.

'Yes; he knocked and came in.'

'Well, and has Arkasha been in to see you again?'

'No. Hadn't I better move into the lodge, Nikolai Petrovitch?'

'Why so?'

'I wonder whether it wouldn't be best just for the first.'

'N ... no,' Nikolai Petrovitch brought out hesitatingly, rubbing his forehead.
'We ought to have done it before.... How are you, fatty?' he said, suddenly
brightening, and going up to the baby, he kissed him on the cheek; then he
bent a little and pressed his lips to Fenitchka's hand, which lay white as
milk upon Mitya's little red smock.

'Nikolai Petrovitch! what are you doing?' she whispered, dropping her eyes,
then slowly raising them. Very charming was the expression of her eyes
when she peeped, as it were, from under her lids, and smiled tenderly and a
little foolishly.

Nikolai Petrovitch had made Fenitchka's acquaintance in the following
manner. He had once happened three years before to stay a night at an inn
in a remote district town. He was agreeably struck by the cleanness of the
room assigned to him, the freshness of the bed-linen. Surely the woman of
the house must be a German? was the idea that occurred to him; but she
proved to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty, neatly dressed, of a good-

looking, sensible countenance and discreet speech. He entered into
conversation with her at tea; he liked her very much. Nikolai Petrovitch had
at that time only just moved into his new home, and not wishing to keep
serfs in the house, he was on the look-out for wage-servants; the woman of
the inn on her side complained of the small number of visitors to the town,
and the hard times; he proposed to her to come into his house in the
capacity of housekeeper; she consented. Her husband had long been dead,
leaving her an only daughter, Fenitchka. Within a fortnight Arina Savishna
(that was the new housekeeper's name) arrived with her daughter at
Maryino and installed herself in the little lodge. Nikolai Petrovitch's choice
proved a successful one. Arina brought order into the household. As for
Fenitchka, who was at that time seventeen, no one spoke of her, and
scarcely any one saw her; she lived quietly and sedately, and only on
Sundays Nikolai Petrovitch noticed in the church somewhere in a side place
the delicate profile of her white face. More than a year passed thus.

One morning, Arina came into his study, and bowing low as usual, she
asked him if he could do anything for her daughter, who had got a spark
from the stove in her eye. Nikolai Petrovitch, like all stay-at-home people,
had studied doctoring and even compiled a homoeopathic guide. He at once
told Arina to bring the patient to him. Fenitchka was much frightened when
she heard the master had sent for her; however, she followed her mother.
Nikolai Petrovitch led her to the window and took her head in his two
hands. After thoroughly examining her red and swollen eye, he prescribed a
fomentation, which he made up himself at once, and tearing his
handkerchief in pieces, he showed her how it ought to be applied. Fenitchka
listened to all he had to say, and then was going. 'Kiss the master's hand,
silly girl,' said Arina. Nikolai Petrovitch did not give her his hand, and in
confusion himself kissed her bent head on the parting of her hair.
Fenitchka's eye was soon well again, but the impression she had made on
Nikolai Petrovitch did not pass away so quickly. He was for ever haunted
by that pure, delicate, timidly raised face; he felt on the palms of his hands
that soft hair, and saw those innocent, slightly parted lips, through which
pearly teeth gleamed with moist brilliance in the sunshine. He began to
watch her with great attention in church, and tried to get into conversation
with her. At first she was shy of him, and one day meeting him at the
approach of evening in a narrow footpath through a field of rye, she ran into

the tall thick rye, overgrown with cornflowers and wormwood, so as not to
meet him face to face. He caught sight of her little head through a golden
network of ears of rye, from which she was peeping out like a little animal,
and called affectionately to her—

'Good-evening, Fenitchka! I don't bite.'

'Good-evening,' she whispered, not coming out of her ambush.

By degrees she began to be more at home with him, but was still shy in his
presence, when suddenly her mother, Arina, died of cholera. What was to
become of Fenitchka? She inherited from her mother a love for order,
regularity, and respectability; but she was so young, so alone. Nikolai
Petrovitch was himself so good and considerate.... It's needless to relate the
rest....

'So my brother came in to see you?' Nikolai Petrovitch questioned her. 'He
knocked and came in?'

'Yes.'

'Well, that's a good thing. Let me give Mitya a swing.'

And Nikolai Petrovitch began tossing him almost up to the ceiling, to the
huge delight of the baby, and to the considerable uneasiness of the mother,
who every time he flew up stretched her arms up towards his little bare legs.

Pavel Petrovitch went back to his artistic study, with its walls covered with
handsome bluish-grey hangings, with weapons hanging upon a variegated
Persian rug nailed to the wall; with walnut furniture, upholstered in dark
green velveteen, with a renaissance bookcase of old black oak, with bronze
statuettes on the magnificent writing-table, with an open hearth. He threw
himself on the sofa, clasped his hands behind his head, and remained
without moving, looking with a face almost of despair at the ceiling.
Whether he wanted to hide from the very walls that which was reflected in
his face, or for some other reason, he got up, drew the heavy window
curtains, and again threw himself on the sofa.

CHAPTER IX

On the same day Bazarov made acquaintance with Fenitchka. He was
walking with Arkady in the garden, and explaining to him why some of the
trees, especially the oaks, had not done well.

'You ought to have planted silver poplars here by preference, and spruce
firs, and perhaps limes, giving them some loam. The arbour there has done
well,' he added, 'because it's acacia and lilac; they're accommodating good
fellows, those trees, they don't want much care. But there's some one in
here.'

In the arbour was sitting Fenitchka, with Dunyasha and Mitya. Bazarov
stood still, while Arkady nodded to Fenitchka like an old friend.

'Who's that?' Bazarov asked him directly they had passed by. 'What a pretty
girl!'

'Whom are you speaking of?'

'You know; only one of them was pretty.'

Arkady, not without embarrassment, explained to him briefly who
Fenitchka was.

'Aha!' commented Bazarov; 'your father's got good taste, one can see. I like
him, your father, ay, ay! He's a jolly fellow. We must make friends though,'
he added, and turned back towards the arbour.

'Yevgeny!' Arkady cried after him in dismay; 'mind what you are about, for
mercy's sake.'

'Don't worry yourself,' said Bazarov; 'I know how to behave myself—I'm
not a booby.'

Going up to Fenitchka, he took off his cap.

'Allow me to introduce myself,' he began, with a polite bow. 'I'm a harmless
person, and a friend of Arkady Nikolaevitch's.'

Fenitchka got up from the garden seat and looked at him without speaking.

'What a splendid baby!' continued Bazarov; 'don't be uneasy, my praises
have never brought ill-luck yet. Why is it his cheeks are so flushed? Is he
cutting his teeth?'

'Yes,' said Fenitchka; 'he has cut four teeth already, and now the gums are
swollen again.'

'Show me, and don't be afraid, I'm a doctor.'

Bazarov took the baby up in his arms, and to the great astonishment both of
Fenitchka and Dunyasha the child made no resistance, and was not
frightened.

'I see, I see.... It's nothing, everything's as it should be; he will have a good
set of teeth. If anything goes wrong, tell me. And are you quite well
yourself?'

'Quite, thank God.'

'Thank God, indeed—that's the great thing. And you?' he added, turning to
Dunyasha.

Dunyasha, a girl very prim in the master's house, and a romp outside the
gates, only giggled in answer.

'Well, that's all right. Here's your gallant fellow.'

Fenitchka received the baby in her arms.

'How good he was with you!' she commented in an undertone.

'Children are always good with me.' answered Bazarov; 'I have a way with
them.'

'Children know who loves them,' remarked Dunyasha.

'Yes, they certainly do,' Fenitchka said. 'Why, Mitya will not go to some
people for anything.'

'Will he come to me?' asked Arkady, who, after standing in the distance for
some time, had gone up to the arbour.

He tried to entice Mitya to come to him, but Mitya threw his head back and
screamed, to Fenitchka's great confusion.

'Another day, when he's had time to get used to me,' said Arkady
indulgently, and the two friends walked away.

'What's her name?' asked Bazarov.

'Fenitchka ... Fedosya,' answered Arkady.

'And her father's name? One must know that too.'

'Nikolaevna.'

'Bene. What I like in her is that she's not too embarrassed. Some people, I
suppose, would think ill of her for it. What nonsense! What is there to
embarrass her? She's a mother—she's all right.'

'She's all right,' observed Arkady,—'but my father.'

'And he's right too,' put in Bazarov.

'Well, no, I don't think so.'

'I suppose an extra heir's not to your liking?'

'I wonder you're not ashamed to attribute such ideas to me!' retorted Arkady
hotly; 'I don't consider my father wrong from that point of view; I think he
ought to marry her.'

'Hoity-toity!' responded Bazarov tranquilly. 'What magnanimous fellows we
are! You still attach significance to marriage; I did not expect that of you.'

The friends walked a few paces in silence.

'I have looked at all your father's establishment,' Bazarov began again. 'The
cattle are inferior, the horses are broken down; the buildings aren't up to
much, and the workmen look confirmed loafers; while the superintendent is
either a fool, or a knave, I haven't quite found out which yet.'

'You are rather hard on everything to-day, Yevgeny Vassilyevitch.'

'And the dear good peasants are taking your father in to a dead certainty.
You know the Russian proverb, "The Russian peasant will cheat God
Himself."'

'I begin to agree with my uncle,' remarked Arkady; 'you certainly have a
poor opinion of Russians.'

'As though that mattered! The only good point in a Russian is his having the
lowest possible opinion of himself. What does matter is that two and two
make four, and the rest is all foolery.'

'And is nature foolery?' said Arkady, looking pensively at the bright-
coloured fields in the distance, in the beautiful soft light of the sun, which
was not yet high up in the sky.

'Nature, too, is foolery in the sense you understand it. Nature's not a temple,
but a workshop, and man's the workman in it.'

At that instant, the long drawn notes of a violoncello floated out to them
from the house. Some one was playing Schubert's Expectation with much
feeling, though with an untrained hand, and the melody flowed with honey
sweetness through the air.

'What's that?' cried Bazarov in amazement.

'It's my father.'

'Your father plays the violoncello?'

'Yes.'

'And how old is your father?'

'Forty-four.'

Bazarov suddenly burst into a roar of laughter.

'What are you laughing at?'

'Upon my word, a man of forty-four, a paterfamilias in this out-of-the-way
district, playing on the violoncello!'

Bazarov went on laughing; but much as he revered his master, this time
Arkady did not even smile.

CHAPTER X

About a fortnight passed by. Life at Maryino went on its accustomed
course, while Arkady was lazy and enjoyed himself, and Bazarov worked.
Every one in the house had grown used to him, to his careless manners, and
his curt and abrupt speeches. Fenitchka, in particular, was so far at home
with him that one night she sent to wake him up; Mitya had had
convulsions; and he had gone, and, half joking, half-yawning as usual, he
stayed two hours with her and relieved the child. On the other hand Pavel

Petrovitch had grown to detest Bazarov with all the strength of his soul; he
regarded him as stuck-up, impudent, cynical, and vulgar; he suspected that
Bazarov had no respect for him, that he had all but a contempt for him—
him, Pavel Kirsanov!

Nikolai Petrovitch was rather afraid of the young 'nihilist,' and was doubtful
whether his influence over Arkady was for the good; but he was glad to
listen to him, and was glad to be present at his scientific and chemical
experiments. Bazarov had brought with him a microscope, and busied
himself for hours together with it. The servants, too, took to him, though he
made fun of them; they felt, all the same, that he was one of themselves, not
a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle with him, and used to cast
significant and stealthy glances at him when she skipped by like a rabbit;
Piotr, a man vain and stupid to the last degree, for ever wearing an affected
frown on his brow, a man whose whole merit consisted in the fact that he
looked civil, could spell out a page of reading, and was diligent in brushing
his coat—even he smirked and brightened up directly Bazarov paid him any
attention; the boys on the farm simply ran after the 'doctor' like puppies.
The old man Prokofitch was the only one who did not like him; he handed
him the dishes at table with a surly face, called him a 'butcher' and 'an
upstart,' and declared that with his great whiskers he looked like a pig in a
stye. Prokofitch in his own way was quite as much of an aristocrat as Pavel
Petrovitch.

The best days of the year had come—the first days of June. The weather
kept splendidly fine; in the distance, it is true, the cholera was threatening,
but the inhabitants of that province had had time to get used to its visits.
Bazarov used to get up very early and go out for two or three miles, not for
a walk—he couldn't bear walking without an object—but to collect
specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he took Arkady with him.

On the way home an argument usually sprang up, and Arkady was usually
vanquished in it, though he said more than his companion.

One day they had lingered rather late; Nikolai Petrovitch went to meet them
in the garden, and as he reached the arbour he suddenly heard the quick
steps and voices of the two young men. They were walking on the other
side of the arbour, and could not see him.

'You don't know my father well enough,' said Arkady.

'Your father's a nice chap,' said Bazarov, 'but he's behind the times; his day
is done.'

Nikolai Petrovitch listened intently.... Arkady made no answer.

The man whose day was done remained two minutes motionless, and stole
slowly home.

'The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,' Bazarov was
continuing meanwhile. 'Explain to him, please, that that's no earthly use.
He's not a boy, you know; it's time to throw up that rubbish. And what an
idea to be a romantic at this time of day! Give him something sensible to
read.'

'What ought I to give him?' asked Arkady.

'Oh, I think Büchner's Stoff und Kraft to begin with.'

'I think so too,' observed Arkady approving, 'Stoff und Kraft is written in
popular language....'

'So it seems,' Nikolai Petrovitch said the same day after dinner to his
brother, as he sat in his study, 'you and I are behind the times, our day's
over. Well, well. Perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing I confess, makes
me feel sore; I did so hope, precisely now, to get on to such close intimate
terms with Arkady, and it turns out I'm left behind, and he has gone
forward, and we can't understand one another.'

'How has he gone forward? And in what way is he so superior to us
already?' cried Pavel Petrovitch impatiently. 'It's that high and mighty
gentleman, that nihilist, who's knocked all that into his head. I hate that
doctor fellow; in my opinion, he's simply a quack; I'm convinced, for all his
tadpoles, he's not got very far even in medicine.'

'No, brother, you mustn't say that; Bazarov is clever, and knows his subject.'

'And his conceit's something revolting,' Pavel Petrovitch broke in again.

'Yes,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, 'he is conceited. But there's no doing
without that, it seems; only that's what I did not take into account. I thought
I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I have started a model
farm; I have done well by the peasants, so that I am positively called a "Red
Radical" all over the province; I read, I study, I try in every way to keep
abreast with the requirements of the day—and they say my day's over. And,
brother, I begin to think that it is.'

'Why so?'

'I'll tell you why. This morning I was sitting reading Pushkin.... I remember,
it happened to be The Gipsies ... all of a sudden Arkady came up to me, and,
without speaking, with such a kindly compassion on his face, as gently as if
I were a baby, took the book away from me, and laid another before me—a
German book ... smiled, and went away, carrying Pushkin off with him.'

'Upon my word! What book did he give you?'

'This one here.'

And Nikolai Petrovitch pulled the famous treatise of Büchner, in the ninth
edition, out of his coat-tail pocket.

Pavel Petrovitch turned it over in his hands. 'Hm!' he growled. 'Arkady
Nikolaevitch is taking your education in hand. Well, did you try reading it?'

'Yes, I tried it.'

'Well, what did you think of it?'

'Either I'm stupid, or it's all—nonsense. I must be stupid, I suppose.'

'Haven't you forgotten your German?' queried Pavel Petrovitch.

'Oh, I understand the German.'

Pavel Petrovitch again turned the book over in his hands, and glanced from
under his brows at his brother. Both were silent.

'Oh, by the way,' began Nikolai Petrovitch, obviously wishing to change the
subject, 'I've got a letter from Kolyazin.'

'Matvy Ilyitch?'

'Yes. He has come to——to inspect the province. He's quite a bigwig now;
and writes to me that, as a relation, he should like to see us again, and
invites you and me and Arkady to the town.'

'Are you going?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.

'No; are you?'

'No, I shan't go either. Much object there would be in dragging oneself over
forty miles on a wild-goose chase. Mathieu wants to show himself in all his
glory. Damn him! he will have the whole province doing him homage; he
can get on without the likes of us. A grand dignity, indeed, a privy
councillor! If I had stayed in the service, if I had drudged on in official
harness, I should have been a general-adjutant by now. Besides, you and I
are behind the times, you know.'

'Yes, brother; it's time, it seems, to order a coffin and cross one's arms on
ones breast,' remarked Nikolai Petrovitch, with a sigh.

'Well, I'm not going to give in quite so soon,' muttered his brother. 'I've got
a tussle with that doctor fellow before me, I feel sure of that.'

A tussle came off that same day at evening tea. Pavel Petrovitch came into
the drawing-room, all ready for the fray, irritable and determined. He was
only waiting for an excuse to fall upon the enemy; but for a long while an
excuse did not present itself. As a rule, Bazarov said little in the presence of
the 'old Kirsanovs' (that was how he spoke of the brothers), and that
evening he felt out of humour, and drank off cup after cup of tea without a
word. Pavel Petrovitch was all aflame with impatience; his wishes were
fulfilled at last.

The conversation turned on one of the neighbouring landowners. 'Rotten
aristocratic snob,' observed Bazarov indifferently. He had met him in

Petersburg.

'Allow me to ask you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, and his lips were trembling,
'according to your ideas, have the words "rotten" and "aristocrat" the same
meaning?'

'I said "aristocratic snob,"' replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip of tea.

'Precisely so; but I imagine you have the same opinion of aristocrats as of
aristocratic snobs. I think it my duty to inform you that I do not share that
opinion. I venture to assert that every one knows me for a man of liberal
ideas and devoted to progress; but, exactly for that reason, I respect
aristocrats—real aristocrats. Kindly remember, sir' (at these words Bazarov
lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel Petrovitch), 'kindly remember, sir,' he
repeated, with acrimony—'the English aristocracy. They do not abate one
iota of their rights, and for that reason they respect the rights of others; they
demand the performance of what is due to them, and for that reason they
perform their own duties. The aristocracy has given freedom to England,
and maintains it for her.'

'We've heard that story a good many times,' replied Bazarov; 'but what are
you trying to prove by that?'

'I am tryin' to prove by that, sir' (when Pavel Petrovitch was angry he
intentionally clipped his words in this way, though, of course, he knew very
well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. In this fashionable whim
could be discerned a survival of the habits of the times of Alexander. The
exquisites of those days, on the rare occasions when they spoke their own
language, made use of such slipshod forms; as much as to say, 'We, of
course, are born Russians, at the same time we are great swells, who are at
liberty to neglect the rules of scholars'); 'I am tryin' to prove by that, sir, that
without the sense of personal dignity, without self-respect—and these two
sentiments are well developed in the aristocrat—there is no secure
foundation for the social ... bien public ... the social fabric. Personal
character, sir—that is the chief thing; a man's personal character must be
firm as a rock, since everything is built on it. I am very well aware, for
instance, that you are pleased to consider my habits, my dress, my
refinements, in fact, ridiculous; but all that proceeds from a sense of self-

respect, from a sense of duty—yes, indeed, of duty. I live in the country, in
the wilds, but I will not lower myself. I respect the dignity of man in
myself.'

'Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovitch,' commented Bazarov; 'you respect
yourself, and sit with your hands folded; what sort of benefit does that do to
the bien public? If you didn't respect yourself, you'd do just the same.'

Pavel Petrovitch turned white. 'That's a different question. It's absolutely
unnecessary for me to explain to you now why I sit with folded hands, as
you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to tell you that aristocracy
is a principle, and in our days none but immoral or silly people can live
without principles. I said that to Arkady the day after he came home, and I
repeat it now. Isn't it so, Nikolai?'

Nikolai Petrovitch nodded his head.

'Aristocracy, Liberalism, progress, principles,' Bazarov was saying
meanwhile; 'if you think of it, what a lot of foreign ... and useless words! To
a Russian they're good for nothing.'

'What is good for something according to you? If we listen to you, we shall
find ourselves outside humanity, outside its laws. Come—the logic of
history demands ...'

'But what's that logic to us? We can get on without that too.'

'How do you mean?'

'Why, this. You don't need logic, I hope, to put a bit of bread in your mouth
when you're hungry. What's the object of these abstractions to us?'

Pavel Petrovitch raised his hands in horror.

'I don't understand you, after that. You insult the Russian people. I don't
understand how it's possible not to acknowledge principles, rules! By virtue
of what do you act then?'

'I've told you already, uncle, that we don't accept any authorities,' put in
Arkady.

'We act by virtue of what we recognise as beneficial,' observed Bazarov. 'At
the present time, negation is the most beneficial of all—and we deny——'

'Everything?'

'Everything!'

'What? not only art and poetry ... but even ... horrible to say ...'

'Everything,' repeated Bazarov, with indescribable composure.

Pavel Petrovitch stared at him. He had not expected this; while Arkady
fairly blushed with delight.

'Allow me, though,' began Nikolai Petrovitch. 'You deny everything; or,
speaking more precisely, you destroy everything.... But one must construct
too, you know.'

'That's not our business now.... The ground wants clearing first.'

'The present condition of the people requires it,' added Arkady, with dignity;
'we are bound to carry out these requirements, we have no right to yield to
the satisfaction of our personal egoism.'

This last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov; there was a flavour of
philosophy, that is to say, romanticism about it, for Bazarov called
philosophy, too, romanticism, but he did not think it necessary to correct his
young disciple.

'No, no!' cried Pavel Petrovitch, with sudden energy. 'I'm not willing to
believe that you, young men, know the Russian people really, that you are
the representatives of their requirements, their efforts! No; the Russian
people is not what you imagine it. Tradition it holds sacred; it is a
patriarchal people; it cannot live without faith ...'

'I'm not going to dispute that,' Bazarov interrupted. 'I'm even ready to agree
that in that you're right.'

'But if I am right ...'

'And, all the same, that proves nothing.'

'It just proves nothing,' repeated Arkady, with the confidence of a practised
chess-player, who has foreseen an apparently dangerous move on the part of
his adversary, and so is not at all taken aback by it.

'How does it prove nothing?' muttered Pavel Petrovitch, astounded. 'You
must be going against the people then?'

'And what if we are?' shouted Bazarov. 'The people imagine that, when it
thunders, the prophet Ilya's riding across the sky in his chariot. What then?
Are we to agree with them? Besides, the people's Russian; but am I not
Russian too?'

'No, you are not Russian, after all you have just been saying! I can't
acknowledge you as Russian.'

'My grandfather ploughed the land,' answered Bazarov with haughty pride.
'Ask any one of your peasants which of us—you or me—he'd more readily
acknowledge as a fellow-countryman. You don't even know how to talk to
them.'

'While you talk to him and despise him at the same time.'

'Well, suppose he deserves contempt. You find fault with my attitude, but
how do you know that I have got it by chance, that it's not a product of that
very national spirit, in the name of which you wage war on it?'

'What an idea! Much use in nihilists!'

'Whether they're of use or not, is not for us to decide. Why, even you
suppose you're not a useless person.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please!' cried Nikolai Petrovitch,
getting up.

Pavel Petrovitch smiled, and laying his hand on his brother's shoulder,
forced him to sit down again.

'Don't be uneasy,' he said; 'I shall not forget myself, just through that sense
of dignity which is made fun of so mercilessly by our friend—our friend,
the doctor. Let me ask,' he resumed, turning again to Bazarov; 'you suppose,
possibly, that your doctrine is a novelty? That is quite a mistake. The
materialism you advocate has been more than once in vogue already, and
has always proved insufficient ...'

'A foreign word again!' broke in Bazarov. He was beginning to feel vicious,
and his face assumed a peculiar coarse coppery hue. 'In the first place, we
advocate nothing; that's not our way.'

'What do you do, then?'

'I'll tell you what we do. Not long ago we used to say that our officials took
bribes, that we had no roads, no commerce, no real justice ...'

'Oh, I see, you are reformers—that's what that's called, I fancy. I too should
agree to many of your reforms, but ...'

'Then we suspected that talk, perpetual talk, and nothing but talk, about our
social diseases, was not worth while, that it all led to nothing but
superficiality and pedantry; we saw that our leading men, so-called
advanced people and reformers, are no good; that we busy ourselves over
foolery, talk rubbish about art, unconscious creativeness, parliamentarism,
trial by jury, and the deuce knows what all; while, all the while, it's a
question of getting bread to eat, while we're stifling under the grossest
superstition, while all our enterprises come to grief, simply because there
aren't honest men enough to carry them on, while the very emancipation our
Government's busy upon will hardly come to any good, because peasants
are glad to rob even themselves to get drunk at the gin-shop.'

'Yes,' interposed Pavel Petrovitch, 'yes; you were convinced of all this, and
decided not to undertake anything seriously, yourselves.'

'We decided not to undertake anything,' repeated Bazarov grimly. He
suddenly felt vexed with himself for having, without reason, been so
expansive before this gentleman.

'But to confine yourselves to abuse?'

'To confine ourselves to abuse.'

'And that is called nihilism?'

'And that's called nihilism,' Bazarov repeated again, this time with peculiar
rudeness.

Pavel Petrovitch puckered up his face a little. 'So that's it!' he observed in a
strangely composed voice. 'Nihilism is to cure all our woes, and you, you
are our heroes and saviours. But why do you abuse others, those reformers
even? Don't you do as much talking as every one else?'

'Whatever faults we have, we do not err in that way,' Bazarov muttered
between his teeth.

'What, then? Do you act, or what? Are you preparing for action?'

Bazarov made no answer. Something like a tremor passed over Pavel
Petrovitch, but he at once regained control of himself.

'Hm! ... Action, destruction ...' he went on. 'But how destroy without even
knowing why?'

'We shall destroy, because we are a force,' observed Arkady.

Pavel Petrovitch looked at his nephew and laughed.

'Yes, a force is not to be called to account,' said Arkady, drawing himself up.

'Unhappy boy!' wailed Pavel Petrovitch, he was positively incapable of
maintaining his firm demeanour any longer. 'If you could only realise what
it is you are doing for your country. No; it's enough to try the patience of an
angel! Force! There's force in the savage Kalmuck, in the Mongolian; but
what is it to us? What is precious to us is civilisation; yes, yes, sir, its fruits
are precious to us. And don't tell me those fruits are worthless; the poorest
dauber, un barbouilleur, the man who plays dance music for five farthings
an evening, is of more use than you, because they are the representatives of
civilisation, and not of brute Mongolian force! You fancy yourselves
advanced people, and all the while you are only fit for the Kalmuck's hovel!
Force! And recollect, you forcible gentlemen, that you're only four men and
a half, and the others are millions, who won't let you trample their sacred
traditions under foot, who will crush you and walk over you!'

'If we're crushed, serve us right,' observed Bazarov. 'But that's an open
question. We are not so few as you suppose.'

'What? You seriously suppose you will come to terms with a whole people?'

'All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a farthing dip,' answered
Bazarov.

'Yes, yes. First a pride almost Satanic, then ridicule—that, that's what it is
attracts the young, that's what gains an ascendancy over the inexperienced
hearts of boys! Here's one of them sitting beside you, ready to worship the
ground under your feet. Look at him! (Arkady turned away and frowned.)
And this plague has spread far already. I have been told that in Rome our
artists never set foot in the Vatican. Raphael they regard as almost a fool,
because, if you please, he's an authority; while they're all the while most
disgustingly sterile and unsuccessful, men whose imagination does not soar
beyond 'Girls at a Fountain,' however they try! And the girls even out of
drawing. They are fine fellows to your mind, are they not?'

'To my mind,' retorted Bazarov, 'Raphael's not worth a brass farthing; and
they're no better than he.'

'Bravo! bravo! Listen, Arkady ... that's how young men of to-day ought to
express themselves! And if you come to think of it, how could they fail to

follow you! In old days, young men had to study; they didn't want to be
called dunces, so they had to work hard whether they liked it or not. But
now, they need only say, "Everything in the world is foolery!" and the
trick's done. Young men are delighted. And, to be sure, they were simply
geese before, and now they have suddenly turned nihilists.'

'Your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity has given way,' remarked
Bazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady was hot all over, and his eyes were
flashing. 'Our argument has gone too far; it's better to cut it short, I think. I
shall be quite ready to agree with you,' he added, getting up, 'when you
bring forward a single institution in our present mode of life, in family or in
social life, which does not call for complete and unqualified destruction.'

'I will bring forward millions of such institutions,' cried Pavel Petrovitch
—'millions! Well—the Mir, for instance.'

A cold smile curved Bazarov's lips. 'Well, as regards the Mir,' he
commented; 'you had better talk to your brother. He has seen by now, I
should fancy, what sort of thing the Mir is in fact—its common guarantee,
its sobriety, and other features of the kind.'

'The family, then, the family as it exists among our peasants!' cried Pavel
Petrovitch.

'And that subject, too, I imagine, it will be better for yourselves not to go
into in detail. Don't you realise all the advantages of the head of the family
choosing his daughters-in-law? Take my advice, Pavel Petrovitch, allow
yourself two days to think about it; you're not likely to find anything on the
spot. Go through all our classes, and think well over each, while I and
Arkady will ...'

'Will go on turning everything into ridicule,' broke in Pavel Petrovitch.

'No, will go on dissecting frogs. Come, Arkady; good-bye for the present,
gentlemen!'

The two friends walked off. The brothers were left alone, and at first they
only looked at one another.

'So that,' began Pavel Petrovitch, 'so that's what our young men of this
generation are! They are like that—our successors!'

'Our successors!' repeated Nikolai Petrovitch, with a dejected smile. He had
been sitting on thorns, all through the argument, and had done nothing but
glance stealthily, with a sore heart, at Arkady. 'Do you know what I was
reminded of, brother? I once had a dispute with our poor mother; she
stormed, and wouldn't listen to me. At last I said to her, "Of course, you
can't understand me; we belong," I said, "to two different generations." She
was dreadfully offended, while I thought, "There's no help for it. It's a bitter
pill, but she has to swallow it." You see, now, our turn has come, and our
successors can say to us, "You are not of our generation; swallow your
pill."'

'You are beyond everything in your generosity and modesty,' replied Pavel
Petrovitch. 'I'm convinced, on the contrary, that you and I are far more in
the right than these young gentlemen, though we do perhaps express
ourselves in old-fashioned language, vieilli, and have not the same insolent
conceit.... And the swagger of the young men nowadays! You ask one, "Do
you take red wine or white?" "It is my custom to prefer red!" he answers in
a deep bass, with a face as solemn as if the whole universe had its eyes on
him at that instant....'

'Do you care for any more tea?' asked Fenitchka, putting her head in at the
door; she had not been able to make up her mind to come into the drawing-
room while there was the sound of voices in dispute there.

'No, you can tell them to take the samovar,' answered Nikolai Petrovitch,
and he got up to meet her. Pavel Petrovitch said 'bon soir' to him abruptly,
and went away to his study.

CHAPTER XI

Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovitch went into the garden to his favourite
arbour. He was overtaken by melancholy thoughts. For the first time he
realised clearly the distance between him and his son; he foresaw that every
day it would grow wider and wider. In vain, then, had he spent whole days
sometimes in the winter at Petersburg over the newest books; in vain had he
listened to the talk of the young men; in vain had he rejoiced when he
succeeded in putting in his word too in their heated discussions. 'My brother
says we are right,' he thought, 'and apart from all vanity, I do think myself
that they are further from the truth than we are, though at the same time I
feel there is something behind them we have not got, some superiority over
us.... Is it youth? No; not only youth. Doesn't their superiority consist in
there being fewer traces of the slaveowner in them than in us?'

Nikolai Petrovitch's head sank despondently, and he passed his hand over
his face.

'But to renounce poetry?' he thought again; 'to have no feeling for art, for
nature ...'

And he looked round, as though trying to understand how it was possible to
have no feeling for nature. It was already evening; the sun was hidden
behind a small copse of aspens which lay a quarter of a mile from the
garden; its shadow stretched indefinitely across the still fields. A peasant on
a white nag went at a trot along the dark, narrow path close beside the
copse; his whole figure was clearly visible even to the patch on his
shoulder, in spite of his being in the shade; the horse's hoofs flew along
bravely. The sun's rays from the farther side fell full on the copse, and
piercing through its thickets, threw such a warm light on the aspen trunks

that they looked like pines, and their leaves were almost a dark blue, while
above them rose a pale blue sky, faintly tinged by the glow of sunset. The
swallows flew high; the wind had quite died away, belated bees hummed
slowly and drowsily among the lilac blossom; a swarm of midges hung like
a cloud over a solitary branch which stood out against the sky. 'How
beautiful, my God!' thought Nikolai Petrovitch, and his favourite verses
were almost on his lips; he remembered Arkady's Stoff und Kraft—and was
silent, but still he sat there, still he gave himself up to the sorrowful
consolation of solitary thought. He was fond of dreaming; his country life
had developed the tendency in him. How short a time ago, he had been
dreaming like this, waiting for his son at the posting station, and what a
change already since that day; their relations that were then undefined, were
defined now—and how defined! Again his dead wife came back to his
imagination, but not as he had known her for many years, not as the good
domestic housewife, but as a young girl with a slim figure, innocently
inquiring eyes, and a tight twist of hair on her childish neck. He
remembered how he had seen her for the first time. He was still a student
then. He had met her on the staircase of his lodgings, and, jostling by
accident against her, he tried to apologise, and could only mutter, 'Pardon,
monsieur,' while she bowed, smiled, and suddenly seemed frightened, and
ran away, though at the bend of the staircase she had glanced rapidly at him,
assumed a serious air, and blushed. Afterwards, the first timid visits, the
half-words, the half-smiles, and embarrassment; and melancholy, and
yearnings, and at last that breathing rapture.... Where had it all vanished?
She had been his wife, he had been happy as few on earth are happy.... 'But,'
he mused, 'these sweet first moments, why could one not live an eternal,
undying life in them?'

He did not try to make his thought clear to himself; but he felt that he
longed to keep that blissful time by something stronger than memory; he
longed to feel his Marya near him again to have the sense of her warmth
and breathing, and already he could fancy that over him....

'Nikolai Petrovitch,' came the sound of Fenitchka's voice close by him;
'where are you?'

He started. He felt no pang, no shame. He never even admitted the
possibility of comparison between his wife and Fenitchka, but he was sorry
she had thought of coming to look for him. Her voice had brought back to
him at once his grey hairs, his age, his reality....

The enchanted world into which he was just stepping, which was just rising
out of the dim mists of the past, was shaken—and vanished.

'I'm here,' he answered; 'I'm coming, run along.' 'There it is, the traces of the
slave owner,' flashed through his mind. Fenitchka peeped into the arbour at
him without speaking, and disappeared; while he noticed with astonishment
that the night had come on while he had been dreaming. Everything around
was dark and hushed. Fenitchka's face had glimmered so pale and slight
before him. He got up, and was about to go home; but the emotion stirred in
his heart could not be soothed at once, and he began slowly walking about
the garden, sometimes looking at the ground at his feet, and then raising his
eyes towards the sky where swarms of stars were twinkling. He walked a
great deal, till he was almost tired out, while the restlessness within him, a
kind of yearning, vague, melancholy restlessness, still was not appeased.
Oh, how Bazarov would have laughed at him, if he had known what was
passing within him then! Arkady himself would have condemned him. He, a
man forty-four years old, an agriculturist and a farmer, was shedding tears,
causeless tears; this was a hundred times worse than the violoncello.

Nikolai Petrovitch continued walking, and could not make up his mind to
go into the house, into the snug peaceful nest, which looked out at him so
hospitably from all its lighted windows; he had not the force to tear himself
away from the darkness, the garden, the sense of the fresh air in his face,
from that melancholy, that restless craving.

At a turn in the path, he was met by Pavel Petrovitch. 'What's the matter
with you?' he asked Nikolai Petrovitch; 'you are as white as a ghost; you are
not well; why don't you go to bed?'

Nikolai Petrovitch explained to him briefly his state of feeling and moved
away. Pavel Petrovitch went to the end of the garden, and he too grew
thoughtful, and he too raised his eyes toward the heavens. But in his
beautiful dark eyes, nothing was reflected but the light of the stars. He was

not born an idealist, and his fastidiously dry and sensuous soul, with its
French tinge of cynicism was not capable of dreaming....

'Do you know what?' Bazarov was saying to Arkady the same night. 'I've
got a splendid idea. Your father was saying to-day that he'd had an
invitation from your illustrious relative. Your father's not going; let us be off
to X——; you know the worthy man invites you too. You see what fine
weather it is; we'll stroll about and look at the town. We'll have five or six
days' outing, and enjoy ourselves.'

'And you'll come back here again?'

'No; I must go to my father's. You know, he lives about twenty-five miles
from X——. I've not seen him for a long while, and my mother too; I must
cheer the old people up. They've been good to me, especially my father; he's
awfully funny. I'm their only one too.'

'And will you be long with them?'

'I don't suppose so. It will be dull, of course.'

'And you'll come to us on your way back?'

'I don't know ... I'll see. Well, what do you say? Shall we go?'

'If you like,' observed Arkady languidly.

In his heart he was highly delighted with his friend's suggestion, but he
thought it a duty to conceal his feeling. He was not a nihilist for nothing!

The next day he set off with Bazarov to X——. The younger part of the
household at Maryino were sorry at their going; Dunyasha even cried ... but
the old folks breathed more easily.

CHAPTER XII

The town of X—— to which our friends set off was in the jurisdiction of a
governor who was a young man, and at once a progressive and a despot, as
often happens with Russians. Before the end of the first year of his
government, he had managed to quarrel not only with the marshal of
nobility, a retired officer of the guards, who kept open house and a stud of
horses, but even with his own subordinates. The feuds arising from this
cause assumed at last such proportions that the ministry in Petersburg had
found it necessary to send down a trusted personage with a commission to
investigate it all on the spot. The choice of the authorities fell upon Matvy
Ilyitch Kolyazin, the son of the Kolyazin, under whose protection the
brothers Kirsanov had once found themselves. He, too, was a 'young man';
that is to say, he had not long passed forty, but he was already on the high
road to becoming a statesman, and wore a star on each side of his breast—
one, to be sure, a foreign star, not of the first magnitude. Like the governor,
whom he had come down to pass judgment upon, he was reckoned a
progressive; and though he was already a bigwig, he was not like the
majority of bigwigs. He had the highest opinion of himself; his vanity knew
no bounds, but he behaved simply, looked affable, listened
condescendingly, and laughed so good-naturedly, that on a first
acquaintance he might even be taken for 'a jolly good fellow.' On important
occasions, however, he knew, as the saying is, how to make his authority
felt. 'Energy is essential,' he used to say then, 'l'énergie est la première
qualité d'un homme d'état;' and for all that, he was usually taken in, and any
moderately experienced official could turn him round his finger. Matvy
Ilyitch used to speak with great respect of Guizot, and tried to impress
every one with the idea that he did not belong to the class of routiniers and
high-and-dry bureaucrats, that not a single phenomenon of social life passed
unnoticed by him.... All such phrases were very familiar to him. He even
followed, with dignified indifference, it is true, the development of
contemporary literature; so a grown-up man who meets a procession of
small boys in the street will sometimes walk after it. In reality, Matvy
Ilyitch had not got much beyond those political men of the days of
Alexander, who used to prepare for an evening party at Madame

Svyetchin's by reading a page of Condillac; only his methods were
different, more modern. He was an adroit courtier, a great hypocrite, and
nothing more; he had no special aptitude for affairs, and no intellect, but he
knew how to manage his own business successfully; no one could get the
better of him there, and, to be sure, that's the principal thing.

Matvy Ilyitch received Arkady with the good-nature, we might even call it
playfulness, characteristic of the enlightened higher official. He was
astonished, however, when he heard that the cousins he had invited had
remained at home in the country. 'Your father was always a queer fellow,' he
remarked, playing with the tassels of his magnificent velvet dressing-gown,
and suddenly turning to a young official in a discreetly buttoned-up
uniform, he cried, with an air of concentrated attention, 'What?' The young
man, whose lips were glued together from prolonged silence, got up and
looked in perplexity at his chief. But, having nonplussed his subordinate,
Matvy Ilyitch paid him no further attention. Our higher officials are fond as
a rule of nonplussing their subordinates; the methods to which they have
recourse to attain that end are rather various. The following means, among
others, is in great vogue, 'is quite a favourite,' as the English say; a high
official suddenly ceases to understand the simplest words, assuming total
deafness. He will ask, for instance, What's to-day?'

He is respectfully informed, 'To-day's Friday, your Ex-s-s-s-lency.'

'Eh? What? What's that? What do you say?' the great man repeats with
intense attention.

'To-day's Friday, your Ex—s—s—lency.'

'Eh? What? What's Friday? What Friday?'

'Friday, your Ex—s—s—s—lency, the day of the week.'

'What, do you pretend to teach me, eh?'

Matvy Ilyitch was a higher official all the same, though he was reckoned a
liberal.

'I advise you, my dear boy, to go and call on the Governor,' he said to
Arkady; 'you understand, I don't advise you to do so because I adhere to
old-fashioned ideas of the necessity of paying respect to authorities, but
simply because the Governor's a very decent fellow; besides, you probably
want to make acquaintance with the society here.... You're not a bear, I
hope? And he's giving a great ball the day after to-morrow.'

'Will you be at the ball?' inquired Arkady.

'He gives it in my honour,' answered Matvy Ilyitch, almost pityingly. 'Do
you dance?'

'Yes; I dance, but not well.'

'That's a pity! There are pretty girls here, and it's a disgrace for a young man
not to dance. Again, I don't say that through any old-fashioned ideas; I don't
in the least imagine that a man's wit lies in his feet, but Byronism is
ridiculous, il a fait son temps.'

'But, uncle, it's not through Byronism, I ...'

'I will introduce you to the ladies here; I will take you under my wing,'
interrupted Matvy Ilyitch, and he laughed complacently. 'You'll find it
warm, eh?'

A servant entered and announced the arrival of the superintendent of the
Crown domains, a mild-eyed old man, with deep creases round his mouth,
who was excessively fond of nature, especially on a summer day, when, in
his words, 'every little busy bee takes a little bribe from every little flower.'
Arkady withdrew.

He found Bazarov at the tavern where they were staying, and was a long
while persuading him to go with him to the Governor's. 'Well, there's no
help for it,' said Bazarov at last. 'It's no good doing things by halves. We
came to look at the gentry; let's look at them!'

The Governor received the young men affably, but he did not ask them to
sit down, nor did he sit down himself. He was in an everlasting fuss and

hurry; in the morning he used to put on a tight uniform and an excessively
stiff cravat; he never ate or drank enough; he was for ever making
arrangements. He invited Kirsanov and Bazarov to his ball, and within a
few minutes invited them a second time, regarding them as brothers, and
calling them Kisarov.

They were on their way home from the Governor's, when suddenly a short
man, in a Slavophil national dress, leaped out of a trap that was passing
them, and crying, 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' dashed up to Bazarov.

'Ah! it's you, Herr Sitnikov,' observed Bazarov, still stepping along on the
pavement; 'by what chance did you come here?'

'Fancy, absolutely by chance,' he replied, and returning to the trap, he
waved his hand several times, and shouted, 'Follow, follow us! My father
had business here,' he went on, hopping across the gutter, 'and so he asked
me.... I heard to-day of your arrival, and have already been to see you....'
(The friends did, in fact, on returning to their room, find there a card, with
the corners turned down, bearing the name of Sitnikov, on one side in
French, on the other in Slavonic characters.) 'I hope you are not coming
from the Governor's?'

'It's no use to hope; we come straight from him.'

'Ah! in that case I will call on him too.... Yevgeny Vassilyitch, introduce me
to your ... to the ...'

'Sitnikov, Kirsanov,' mumbled Bazarov, not stopping.

'I am greatly flattered,' began Sitnikov, walking sidewise, smirking, and
hurriedly pulling off his really over-elegant gloves. 'I have heard so much....
I am an old acquaintance of Yevgeny Vassilyitch, and, I may say—his
disciple. I am indebted to him for my regeneration....'

Arkady looked at Bazarov's disciple. There was an expression of excitement
and dulness imprinted on the small but pleasant features of his well-
groomed face; his small eyes, that seemed squeezed in, had a fixed and
uneasy look, and his laugh, too, was uneasy—a sort of short, wooden laugh.

'Would you believe it,' he pursued, 'when Yevgeny Vassilyitch for the first
time said before me that it was not right to accept any authorities, I felt such
enthusiasm ... as though my eyes were opened! Here, I thought, at last I
have found a man! By the way, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, you positively must
come to know a lady here, who is really capable of understanding you, and
for whom your visit would be a real festival; you have heard of her, I
suppose?'

'Who is it?' Bazarov brought out unwillingly.

'Kukshina, Eudoxie, Evdoksya Kukshin. She's a remarkable nature,
émancipée in the true sense of the word, an advanced woman. Do you know
what? We'll all go together to see her now. She lives only two steps from
here. We will have lunch there. I suppose you have not lunched yet?'

'No; not yet.'

'Well, that's capital. She has separated, you understand, from her husband;
she is not dependent on any one.'

'Is she pretty?' Bazarov cut in.

'N-no, one couldn't say that.'

'Then, what the devil are you asking us to see her for?'

'Fie; you must have your joke.... She will give us a bottle of champagne.'

'Oh, that's it. One can see the practical man at once. By the way, is your
father still in the gin business?'

'Yes,' said Sitnikov, hurriedly, and he gave a shrill spasmodic laugh. 'Well?
Will you come?'

'I don't really know.'

'You wanted to see people, go along,' said Arkady in an undertone.

'And what do you say to it, Mr. Kirsanov?' Sitnikov put in. 'You must come
too; we can't go without you.'

'But how can we burst in upon her all at once?'

'That's no matter. Kukshina's a brick!'

'There will be a bottle of champagne?' asked Bazarov.

'Three!' cried Sitnikov; 'that I answer for.'

'What with?'

'My own head.'

'Your father's purse would be better. However, we are coming.'

CHAPTER XIII

The small gentleman's house in the Moscow style, in which Avdotya
Nikitishna, otherwise Evdoksya, Kukshin, lived, was in one of the streets of
X——, which had been lately burnt down; it is well known that our
provincial towns are burnt down every five years. At the door, above a
visiting card nailed on all askew, there was a bell-handle to be seen, and in
the hall the visitors were met by some one, not exactly a servant, nor
exactly a companion, in a cap—unmistakable tokens of the progressive
tendencies of the lady of the house. Sitnikov inquired whether Avdotya
Nikitishna was at home.

'Is that you, Victor?' sounded a shrill voice from the adjoining room. 'Come
in.'

The woman in the cap disappeared at once.

'I'm not alone,' observed Sitnikov, with a sharp look at Arkady and Bazarov
as he briskly pulled off his overcoat, beneath which appeared something of
the nature of a coachman's velvet jacket.

'No matter,' answered the voice. 'Entrez.'

The young men went in. The room into which they walked was more like a
working study than a drawing-room. Papers, letters, fat numbers of Russian
journals, for the most part uncut, lay at random on the dusty tables; white
cigarette ends lay scattered in every direction. On a leather-covered sofa, a
lady, still young, was half reclining. Her fair hair was rather dishevelled;
she wore a silk gown, not perfectly tidy, heavy bracelets on her short arms,
and a lace handkerchief on her head. She got up from the sofa, and
carelessly drawing a velvet cape trimmed with yellowish ermine over her
shoulders, she said languidly, 'Good-morning, Victor,' and pressed
Sitnikov's hand.

'Bazarov, Kirsanov,' he announced abruptly in imitation of Bazarov.

'Delighted,' answered Madame Kukshin, and fixing on Bazarov a pair of
round eyes, between which was a forlorn little turned-up red nose, 'I know
you,' she added, and pressed his hand too.

Bazarov scowled. There was nothing repulsive in the little plain person of
the emancipated woman; but the expression of her face produced a
disagreeable effect on the spectator. One felt impelled to ask her, 'What's the
matter; are you hungry? Or bored? Or shy? What are you in a fidget about?'
Both she and Sitnikov had always the same uneasy air. She was extremely
unconstrained, and at the same time awkward; she obviously regarded
herself as a good-natured, simple creature, and all the while, whatever she
did, it always struck one that it was not just what she wanted to do;
everything with her seemed, as children say, done on purpose, that's to say,
not simply, not naturally.

'Yes, yes, I know you, Bazarov,' she repeated. (She had the habit—peculiar
to many provincial and Moscow ladies—of calling men by their surnames

from the first day of acquaintance with them.) 'Will you have a cigar?'

'A cigar's all very well,' put in Sitnikov, who by now was lolling in an
armchair, his legs in the air; 'but give us some lunch. We're awfully hungry;
and tell them to bring us up a little bottle of champagne.'

'Sybarite,' commented Evdoksya, and she laughed. (When she laughed the
gum showed above her upper teeth.) 'Isn't it true, Bazarov; he's a Sybarite?'

'I like comfort in life,' Sitnikov brought out, with dignity. 'That does not
prevent my being a Liberal.'

'No, it does; it does prevent it!' cried Evdoksya. She gave directions,
however, to her maid, both as regards the lunch and the champagne.

'What do you think about it?' she added, turning to Bazarov. 'I'm persuaded
you share my opinion.'

'Well, no,' retorted Bazarov; 'a piece of meat's better than a piece of bread
even from the chemical point of view.'

'You are studying chemistry? That is my passion. I've even invented a new
sort of composition myself.'

'A composition? You?'

'Yes. And do you know for what purpose? To make dolls' heads so that they
shouldn't break. I'm practical, too, yon see. But everything's not quite ready
yet. I've still to read Liebig. By the way, have you read Kislyakov's article
on Female Labour, in the Moscow Gazette? Read it please. You're interested
in the woman question, I suppose? And in the schools too? What does your
friend do? What is his name?'

Madame Kukshin shed her questions one after another with affected
negligence, not waiting for an answer; spoilt children talk so to their nurses.

'My name's Arkady Nikolaitch Kirsanov,' said Arkady, 'and I'm doing
nothing.'

Evdoksya giggled. 'How charming! What, don't you smoke? Victor, do you
know, I'm very angry with you.'

'What for?'

'They tell me you've begun singing the praises of George Sand again. A
retrograde woman, and nothing else! How can people compare her with
Emerson! She hasn't an idea on education, nor physiology, nor anything.
She'd never, I'm persuaded, heard of embryology, and in these days—what
can be done without that?' (Evdoksya even threw up her hands.) 'Ah, what a
wonderful article Elisyevitch has written on that subject! He's a gentleman
of genius.' (Evdoksya constantly made use of the word 'gentleman' instead
of the word 'man.') 'Bazarov, sit by me on the sofa. You don't know,
perhaps, I'm awfully afraid of you.'

'Why so? Allow me to ask.'

'You're a dangerous gentleman; you're such a critic. Good God! yes! why,
how absurd, I'm talking like some country lady. I really am a country lady,
though. I manage my property myself; and only fancy, my bailiff Erofay's a
wonderful type, quite like Cooper's Pathfinder; something in him so
spontaneous! I've come to settle here finally; it's an intolerable town, isn't
it? But what's one to do?'

'The town's like every town,' Bazarov remarked coolly.

'All its interests are so petty, that's what's so awful! I used to spend the
winters in Moscow ... but now my lawful spouse, Monsieur Kukshin's
residing there. And besides, Moscow nowadays ... there, I don't know—it's
not the same as it was. I'm thinking of going abroad; last year I was on the
point of setting off.'

'To Paris, I suppose?' queried Bazarov.

'To Paris and to Heidelberg.'

'Why to Heidelberg?'

'How can you ask? Why, Bunsen's there!'

To this Bazarov could find no reply.

'Pierre Sapozhnikov ... do you know him?'

'No, I don't.'

'Not know Pierre Sapozhnikov ... he's always at Lidia Hestatov's.'

'I don't know her either.'

'Well, it was he undertook to escort me. Thank God, I'm independent; I've
no children.... What was that I said: thank God! It's no matter though.'

Evdoksya rolled a cigarette up between her fingers, which were brown with
tobacco stains, put it to her tongue, licked it up, and began smoking. The
maid came in with a tray.

'Ah, here's lunch! Will you have an appetiser first? Victor, open the bottle;
that's in your line.'

'Yes, it's in my line,' muttered Sitnikov, and again he gave vent to the same
convulsive laugh.

'Are there any pretty women here?' inquired Bazarov, as he drank off a third
glass.

'Yes, there are,' answered Evdoksya; 'but they're all such empty-headed
creatures. Mon amie, Odintsova, for instance, is nice-looking. It's a pity her
reputation's rather doubtful.... That wouldn't matter, though, but she's no
independence in her views, no width, nothing ... of all that. The whole
system of education wants changing. I've thought a great deal about it, our
women are very badly educated.'

'There's no doing anything with them,' put in Sitnikov; 'one ought to despise
them, and I do despise them fully and completely!' (The possibility of
feeling and expressing contempt was the most agreeable sensation to
Sitnikov; he used to attack women in especial, never suspecting that it was

to be his fate a few months later to be cringing before his wife merely
because she had been born a princess Durdoleosov.) 'Not a single one of
them would be capable of understanding our conversation; not a single one
deserves to be spoken of by serious men like us!'

'But there's not the least need for them to understand our conversation,'
observed Bazarov.

'Whom do you mean?' put in Evdoksya.

'Pretty women.'

'What? Do you adopt Proudhon's ideas, then?'

Bazarov drew himself up haughtily. 'I don't adopt any one's ideas; I have my
own.'

'Damn all authorities!' shouted Sitnikov, delighted to have a chance of
expressing himself boldly before the man he slavishly admired.

'But even Macaulay,' Madame Kukshin was beginning ...

'Damn Macaulay,' thundered Sitnikov. 'Are you going to stand up for the
silly hussies?'

'For silly hussies, no, but for the rights of women, which I have sworn to
defend to the last drop of my blood.'

'Damn!'—but here Sitnikov stopped. 'But I don't deny them,' he said.

'No, I see you're a Slavophil.'

'No, I'm not a Slavophil, though, of course ...'

'No, no, no! You are a Slavophil. You're an advocate of patriarchal
despotism. You want to have the whip in your hand!'

'A whip's an excellent thing,' remarked Bazarov; 'but we've got to the last
drop.'

'Of what?' interrupted Evdoksya.

'Of champagne, most honoured Avdotya Nikitishna, of champagne—not of
your blood.'

'I can never listen calmly when women are attacked,' pursued Evdoksya.
'It's awful, awful. Instead of attacking them, you'd better read Michelet's
book, De l'amour. That's exquisite! Gentlemen, let us talk of love,' added
Evdoksya, letting her arm fall languidly on the rumpled sofa cushion.

A sudden silence followed. 'No, why should we talk of love,' said Bazarov;
'but you mentioned just now a Madame Odintsov ... That was what you
called her, I think? Who is that lady?'

'She's charming, charming!' piped Sitnikov. 'I will introduce you. Clever,
rich, a widow. It's a pity, she's not yet advanced enough; she ought to see
more of our Evdoksya. I drink to your health, Evdoxie! Let us clink glasses!
Et toc, et toc, et tin-tin-tin! Et toc, et toc, et tin-tin-tin!!!'

'Victor, you're a wretch.'

The lunch dragged on a long while. The first bottle of champagne was
followed by another, a third, and even a fourth.... Evdoksya chattered
without pause; Sitnikov seconded her. They had much discussion upon the
question whether marriage was a prejudice or a crime, and whether men
were born equal or not, and precisely what individuality consists in. Things
came at last to Evdoksya, flushed from the wine she had drunk, tapping
with her flat finger-tips on the keys of a discordant piano, and beginning to
sing in a hoarse voice, first gipsy songs, and then Seymour Schiff's song,
'Granada lies slumbering'; while Sitnikov tied a scarf round his head, and
represented the dying lover at the words—

'And thy lips to mine
In burning kiss entwine.'

Arkady could not stand it at last. 'Gentlemen, it's getting something like
Bedlam,' he remarked aloud. Bazarov, who had at rare intervals put in an
ironical word in the conversation—he paid more attention to the champagne

—gave a loud yawn, got up, and, without taking leave of their hostess, he
walked off with Arkady. Sitnikov jumped up and followed them.

'Well, what do you think of her?' he inquired, skipping obsequiously from
right to left of them. 'I told you, you see, a remarkable personality! If we
only had more women like that! She is, in her own way, an expression of
the highest morality.'

'And is that establishment of your governor's an expression of the highest
morality too?' observed Bazarov, pointing to a ginshop which they were
passing at that instant.

Sitnikov again went off into a shrill laugh. He was greatly ashamed of his
origin, and did not know whether to feel flattered or offended at Bazarov's
unexpected familiarity.

CHAPTER XIV

A few days later the ball at the Governor's took place. Matvy Ilyitch was the
real 'hero of the occasion.' The marshal of nobility declared to all and each
that he had come simply out of respect for him; while the Governor, even at
the ball, even while he remained perfectly motionless, was still 'making
arrangements.' The affability of Matvy Ilyitch's demeanour could only be
equalled by its dignity. He was gracious to all, to some with a shade of
disgust, to others with a shade of respect; he was all bows and smiles 'en
vrai chevalier français' before the ladies, and was continually giving vent to
a hearty, sonorous, unshared laugh, such as befits a high official. He slapped
Arkady on the back, and called him loudly 'nephew'; vouchsafed Bazarov—
who was attired in a rather old evening coat—a sidelong glance in passing
—absent but condescending—and an indistinct but affable grunt, in which

nothing could be distinguished but 'I ...' and 'very much'; gave Sitnikov a
finger and a smile, though with his head already averted; even to Madame
Kukshin, who made her appearance at the ball with dirty gloves, no
crinoline, and a bird of Paradise in her hair, he said 'enchanté.'. There were
crowds of people, and no lack of dancing men; the civilians were for the
most part standing close along the walls, but the officers danced
assiduously, especially one of them who had spent six weeks in Paris,
where he had mastered various daring interjections of the kind of—'zut,'
'Ah, fichtr-re,' 'pst, pst, mon bibi,' and such. He pronounced them to
perfection with genuine Parisian chic, and at the same time he said 'si
j'aurais' for 'si j'avais,' 'absolument' in the sense of 'absolutely,' expressed
himself, in fact, in that Great Russo-French jargon which the French
ridicule so when they have no reason for assuring us that we speak French
like angels, 'comme des anges.'

Arkady, as we are aware, danced badly, while Bazarov did not dance at all;
they both took up their position in a corner; Sitnikov joined himself on to
them, with an expression of contemptuous scorn on his face, and giving
vent to spiteful comments, he looked insolently about him, and seemed to
be really enjoying himself. Suddenly his face changed, and turning to
Arkady, he said, with some show of embarrassment it seemed, 'Odintsova is
here!'

Arkady looked round, and saw a tall woman in a black dress standing at the
door of the room. He was struck by the dignity of her carriage. Her bare
arms lay gracefully beside her slender waist; gracefully some light sprays of
fuchsia drooped from her shining hair on to her sloping shoulders; her clear
eyes looked out from under a rather overhanging white brow, with a
tranquil and intelligent expression—tranquil it was precisely, not pensive—
and on her lips was a scarcely perceptible smile. There was a kind of
gracious and gentle force about her face.

'Do you know her?' Arkady asked Sitnikov.

'Intimately. Would you like me to introduce you?'

'Please ... after this quadrille.'

Bazarov's attention, too, was directed to Madame Odintsov.

'That's a striking figure,' he remarked. 'Not like the other females.'

After waiting till the end of the quadrille, Sitnikov led Arkady up to
Madame Odintsov; but he hardly seemed to be intimately acquainted with
her; he was embarrassed in his sentences, while she looked at him in some
surprise. But her face assumed an expression of pleasure when she heard
Arkady's surname. She asked him whether he was not the son of Nikolai
Petrovitch.

'Yes.'

'I have seen your father twice, and have heard a great deal about him,' she
went on; 'I am glad to make your acquaintance.'

At that instant some adjutant flew up to her and begged for a quadrille. She
consented.

'Do you dance then?' asked Arkady respectfully.

'Yes, I dance. Why do you suppose I don't dance? Do you think I am too
old?'

'Really, how could I possibly.... But in that case, let me ask you for a
mazurka.'

Madame Odintsov smiled graciously. 'Certainly,' she said, and she looked at
Arkady not exactly with an air of superiority, but as married sisters look at
very young brothers. Madame Odintsov was a little older than Arkady—she
was twenty-nine—but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a little
student, so that the difference in age between them seemed of more
consequence. Matvy Ilyitch approached her with a majestic air and
ingratiating speeches. Arkady moved away, but he still watched her; he
could not take his eyes off her even during the quadrille. She talked with
equal ease to her partner and to the grand official, softly turned her head
and eyes, and twice laughed softly. Her nose—like almost all Russian noses
—was a little thick; and her complexion was not perfectly clear; Arkady

made up his mind, for all that, that he had never before met such an
attractive woman. He could not get the sound of her voice out of his ears;
the very folds of her dress seemed to hang upon her differently from all the
rest—more gracefully and amply—and her movements were distinguished
by a peculiar smoothness and naturalness.

Arkady felt some timidity in his heart when at the first sounds of the
mazurka he began to sit it out beside his partner; he had prepared to enter
into a conversation with her, but he only passed his hand through his hair,
and could not find a single word to say. But his timidity and agitation did
not last long; Madame Odintsov's tranquillity gained upon him too; before a
quarter of an hour had passed he was telling her freely about his father, his
uncle, his life in Petersburg and in the country. Madame Odintsov listened
to him with courteous sympathy, slightly opening and closing her fan; his
talk was broken off when partners came for her; Sitnikov, among others,
twice asked her. She came back, sat down again, took up her fan, and her
bosom did not even heave more rapidly, while Arkady fell to chattering
again, filled through and through by the happiness of being near her, talking
to her, looking at her eyes, her lovely brow, all her sweet, dignified, clever
face. She said little, but her words showed a knowledge of life; from some
of her observations Arkady gathered that this young woman had already felt
and thought much....

'Who is that you were standing with?' she asked him, 'when Mr. Sitnikov
brought you to me?'

'Did you notice him?' Arkady asked in his turn. 'He has a splendid face,
hasn't he? That's Bazarov, my friend.'

Arkady fell to discussing 'his friend.' He spoke of him in such detail, and
with such enthusiasm, that Madame Odintsov turned towards him and
looked attentively at him. Meanwhile, the mazurka was drawing to a close.
Arkady felt sorry to part from his partner; he had spent nearly an hour so
happily with her! He had, it is true, during the whole time continually felt as
though she were condescending to him, as though he ought to be grateful to
her ... but young hearts are not weighed down by that feeling.

The music stopped. 'Merci,' said Madame Odintsov, getting up. 'You
promised to come and see me; bring your friend with you. I shall be very
curious to see the man who has the courage to believe in nothing.'

The Governor came up to Madame Odintsov, announced that supper was
ready, and, with a careworn face, offered her his arm. As she went away, she
turned to give a last smile and bow to Arkady. He bowed low, looked after
her (how graceful her figure seemed to him, draped in the greyish lustre of
the black silk!), and thinking, 'This minute she has forgotten my existence,'
was conscious of an exquisite humility in his soul.

'Well?' Bazarov questioned him, directly he had gone back to him in the
corner. 'Did you have a good time? A gentleman has just been talking to me
about that lady; he said, "She's—oh, fie! fie!" but I fancy the fellow was a
fool. What do you think, what is she?—oh, fie! fie!'

'I don't quite understand that definition,' answered Arkady.

'Oh, my! What innocence!'

'In that case, I don't understand the gentleman you quote. Madame Odintsov
is very sweet, no doubt, but she behaves so coldly and severely, that....'

'Still waters ... you know!' put in Bazarov. 'That's just what gives it
piquancy. You like ices, I expect?'

'Perhaps,' muttered Arkady. 'I can't give an opinion about that. She wishes to
make your acquaintance, and has asked me to bring you to see her.'

'I can imagine how you've described me! But you did very well. Take me.
Whatever she may be—whether she's simply a provincial lioness, or
"advanced" after Kukshina's fashion—any way she's got a pair of shoulders
such as I've not set eyes on for a long while.'

Arkady was wounded by Bazarov's cynicism, but—as often happens—he
reproached his friend not precisely for what he did not like in him ...

'Why are you unwilling to allow freethinking in women?' he said in a low
voice.

'Because, my boy, as far as my observations go, the only freethinkers
among women are frights.'

The conversation was cut short at this point. Both the young men went
away immediately after supper. They were pursued by a nervously
malicious, but somewhat faint-hearted laugh from Madame Kukshin; her
vanity had been deeply wounded by neither of them having paid any
attention to her. She stayed later than any one at the ball, and at four o'clock
in the morning she was dancing a polka-mazurka with Sitnikov in the
Parisian style. This edifying spectacle was the final event of the Governor's
ball.

CHAPTER XV

'Let's see what species of mammalia this specimen belongs to,' Bazarov said
to Arkady the following day, as they mounted the staircase of the hotel in
which Madame Odintsov was staying. 'I scent out something wrong here.'

'I'm surprised at you!' cried Arkady. 'What? You, you, Bazarov, clinging to
the narrow morality, which ...'

'What a funny fellow you are!' Bazarov cut him short, carelessly. 'Don't you
know that "something wrong" means "something right" in my dialect and
for me? It's an advantage for me, of course. Didn't you tell me yourself this
morning that she made a strange marriage, though, to my mind, to marry a
rich old man is by no means a strange thing to do, but, on the contrary, very
sensible. I don't believe the gossip of the town; but I should like to think, as
our cultivated Governor says, that it's well-grounded.'

Arkady made no answer, and knocked at the door of the apartments. A
young servant in livery, conducted the two friends in to a large room, badly
furnished, like all rooms in Russian hotels, but filled with flowers. Soon
Madame Odintsov herself appeared in a simple morning dress. She seemed
still younger by the light of the spring sunshine. Arkady presented Bazarov,
and noticed with secret amazement that he seemed embarrassed, while
Madame Odintsov remained perfectly tranquil, as she had been the previous
day. Bazarov himself was conscious of being embarrassed, and was irritated
by it. 'Here's a go!—frightened of a petticoat!' he thought, and lolling, quite
like Sitnikov, in an easy-chair, he began talking with an exaggerated
appearance of ease, while Madame Odintsov kept her clear eyes fixed on
him.

Anna Sergyevna Odintsov was the daughter of Sergay Nikolaevitch Loktev,
notorious for his personal beauty, his speculations, and his gambling
propensities, who after cutting a figure and making a sensation for fifteen
years in Petersburg and Moscow, finished by ruining himself completely at
cards, and was forced to retire to the country, where, however, he soon after
died, leaving a very small property to his two daughters—Anna, a girl of
twenty, and Katya, a child of twelve. Their mother, who came of an
impoverished line of princes—the H——s— had died at Petersburg when
her husband was in his heydey. Anna's position after her father's death was
very difficult. The brilliant education she had received in Petersburg had not
fitted her for putting up with the cares of domestic life and economy,—for
an obscure existence in the country. She knew positively no one in the
whole neighbourhood, and there was no one she could consult. Her father
had tried to avoid all contact with the neighbours; he despised them in his
way, and they despised him in theirs. She did not lose her head, however,
and promptly sent for a sister of her mother's Princess Avdotya Stepanovna
H——, a spiteful and arrogant old lady, who, on installing herself in her
niece's house, appropriated all the best rooms for her own use, scolded and
grumbled from morning till night, and would not go a walk even in the
garden unattended by her one serf, a surly footman in a threadbare pea-
green livery with light blue trimming and a three-cornered hat. Anna put up
patiently with all her aunt's whims, gradually set to work on her sister's
education, and was, it seemed, already getting reconciled to the idea of
wasting her life in the wilds.... But destiny had decreed another fate for her.

She chanced to be seen by Odintsov, a very wealthy man of forty-six, an
eccentric hypochondriac, stout, heavy, and sour, but not stupid, and not ill-
natured; he fell in love with her, and offered her his hand. She consented to
become his wife, and he lived six years with her, and on his death settled all
his property upon her. Anna Sergyevna remained in the country for nearly a
year after his death; then she went abroad with her sister, but only stopped
in Germany; she got tired of it, and came back to live at her favourite
Nikolskoe, which was nearly thirty miles from the town of X——. There
she had a magnificent, splendidly furnished house and a beautiful garden,
with conservatories; her late husband had spared no expense to gratify his
fancies. Anna Sergyevna went very rarely to the town, generally only on
business, and even then she did not stay long. She was not liked in the
province; there had been a fearful outcry at her marriage with Odintsov, all
sorts of fictions were told about her; it was asserted that she had helped her
father in his cardsharping tricks, and even that she had gone abroad for
excellent reasons, that it had been necessary to conceal the lamentable
consequences ... 'You understand?' the indignant gossips would wind up.
'She has gone through the fire,' was said of her; to which a noted provincial
wit usually added: 'And through all the other elements?' All this talk
reached her; but she turned a deaf ear to it; there was much independence
and a good deal of determination in her character.

Madame Odintsov sat leaning back in her easy-chair, and listened with
folded hands to Bazarov. He, contrary to his habit, was talking a good deal,
and obviously trying to interest her—again a surprise for Arkady. He could
not make up his mind whether Bazarov was attaining his object. It was
difficult to conjecture from Anna Sergyevna's face what impression was
being made on her; it retained the same expression, gracious and refined;
her beautiful eyes were lighted up by attention, but by quiet attention.
Bazarov's bad manners had impressed her unpleasantly for the first minutes
of the visit like a bad smell or a discordant sound; but she saw at once that
he was nervous, and that even flattered her. Nothing was repulsive to her
but vulgarity, and no one could have accused Bazarov of vulgarity. Arkady
was fated to meet with surprises that day. He had expected that Bazarov
would talk to a clever woman like Madame Odintsov about his opinions
and his views; she had herself expressed a desire to listen to the man 'who
dares to have no belief in anything'; but, instead of that, Bazarov talked

about medicine, about homoeopathy, and about botany. It turned out that
Madame Odintsov had not wasted her time in solitude; she had read a good
many excellent books, and spoke herself in excellent Russian. She turned
the conversation upon music; but noticing that Bazarov did not appreciate
art, she quietly brought it back to botany, even though Arkady was just
launching into a discourse upon the significance of national melodies.
Madame Odintsov treated him as though he were a younger brother; she
seemed to appreciate his good-nature and youthful simplicity—and that was
all. For over three hours, a lively conversation was kept up, ranging freely
over various subjects.

The friends at last got up and began to take leave. Anna Sergyevna looked
cordially at them, held out her beautiful, white hand to both, and, after a
moment's thought, said with a doubtful but delightful smile. 'If you are not
afraid of being dull, gentlemen, come and see me at Nikolskoe.'

'Oh, Anna Sergyevna,' cried Arkady, 'I shall think it the greatness happiness
...'

'And you, Monsieur Bazarov?'

Bazarov only bowed, and a last surprise was in store for Arkady; he noticed
that his friend was blushing.

'Well?' he said to him in the street; 'are you still of the same opinion—that
she's ...'

'Who can tell? See how correct she is!' retorted Bazarov; and after a brief
pause he added, 'She's a perfect grand-duchess, a royal personage. She only
needs a train on behind, and a crown on her head.'

'Our grand-duchesses don't talk Russian like that,' remarked Arkady.

'She's seen ups and downs, my dear boy; she's known what it is to be hard
up!'

'Any way, she's charming,' observed Arkady.

'What a magnificent body!' pursued Bazarov. 'Shouldn't I like to see it on
the dissecting-table.'

'Hush, for mercy's sake, Yevgeny! that's beyond everything.'

'Well, don't get angry, you baby. I meant it's first-rate. We must go to stay
with her.'

'When?'

'Well, why not the day after to-morrow. What is there to do here? Drink
champagne with Kukshina. Listen to your cousin, the Liberal dignitary?...
Let's be off the day after to-morrow. By the way, too—my father's little
place is not far from there. This Nikolskoe's on the S—— road, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Optime, why hesitate? leave that to fools and prigs! I say, what a splendid
body!'

Three days later the two friends were driving along the road to Nikolskoe.
The day was bright, and not too hot, and the sleek posting-horses trotted
smartly along, switching their tied and plaited tails. Arkady looked at the
road, and not knowing why, he smiled.

'Congratulate me,' cried Bazarov suddenly, 'to-day's the 22nd of June, my
guardian angel's day. Let's see how he will watch over me. To-day they
expect me home,' he added, dropping his voice.... 'Well, they can go on
expecting.... What does it matter!'

CHAPTER XVI

The country-house in which Anna Sergyevna lived stood on an exposed hill
at no great distance from a yellow stone church with a green roof, white
columns, and a fresco over the principal entrance representing the
'Resurrection of Christ' in the 'Italian' style. Sprawling in the foreground of
the picture was a swarthy warrior in a helmet, specially conspicuous for his
rotund contours. Behind the church a long village stretched in two rows,
with chimneys peeping out here and there above the thatched roofs. The
manor-house was built in the same style as the church, the style known
among us as that of Alexander; the house too was painted yellow, and had a
green roof, and white columns, and a pediment with an escutcheon on it.
The architect had designed both buildings with the approval of the deceased
Odintsov, who could not endure—as he expressed it—idle and arbitrary
innovations. The house was enclosed on both sides by the dark trees of an
old garden; an avenue of lopped pines led up to the entrance.

Our friends were met in the hall by two tall footmen in livery; one of them
at once ran for the steward. The steward, a stout man in a black dress coat,
promptly appeared and led the visitors by a staircase covered with rugs to a
special room, in which two bedsteads were already prepared for them with
all necessaries for the toilet. It was clear that order reigned supreme in the
house; everything was clean, everywhere there was a peculiar delicate
fragrance, just as there is in the reception rooms of ministers.

'Anna Sergyevna asks you to come to her in half-an-hour,' the steward
announced; 'will there be orders to give meanwhile?'

'No orders,' answered Bazarov; 'perhaps you will be so good as to trouble
yourself to bring me a glass of vodka.'

'Yes, sir,' said the steward, looking in some perplexity, and he withdrew, his
boots creaking as he walked.

'What grand genre!' remarked Bazarov. 'That's what it's called in your set,
isn't it? She's a grand-duchess, and that's all about it.'

'A nice grand-duchess,' retorted Arkady, 'at the very first meeting she
invited such great aristocrats as you and me to stay with her.'

'Especially me, a future doctor, and a doctor's son, and a village sexton's
grandson.... You know, I suppose, I'm the grandson of a sexton? Like the
great Speransky,' added Bazarov after a brief pause, contracting his lips. 'At
any rate she likes to be comfortable; oh, doesn't she, this lady! Oughtn't we
to put on evening dress?'

Arkady only shrugged his shoulders ... but he too was conscious of a little
nervousness.

Half-an-hour later Bazarov and Arkady went together into the drawing-
room. It was a large lofty room, furnished rather luxuriously but without
particularly good taste. Heavy expensive furniture stood in the ordinary stiff
arrangement along the walls, which were covered with cinnamon-coloured
paper with gold flowers on it; Odintsov had ordered the furniture from
Moscow through a friend and agent of his, a spirit merchant. Over a sofa in
the centre of one wall hung a portrait of a faded light-haired man—and it
seemed to look with displeasure at the visitors. 'It must be the late
lamented,' Bazarov whispered to Arkady, and turning up his nose, he added,
'Hadn't we better bolt ...?' But at that instant the lady of the house entered.
She wore a light barège dress; her hair smoothly combed back behind her
ears gave a girlish expression to her pure and fresh face.

'Thank you for keeping your promise,' she began. 'You must stay a little
while with me; it's really not bad here. I will introduce you to my sister; she
plays the piano well. That is a matter of indifference to you, Monsieur
Bazarov; but you, I think, Monsieur Kirsanov, are fond of music. Besides
my sister I have an old aunt living with me, and one of our neighbours
comes in sometimes to play cards; that makes up all our circle. And now let
us sit down.'

Madame Odintsov delivered all this little speech with peculiar precision, as
though she had learned it by heart; then she turned to Arkady. It appeared
that her mother had known Arkady's mother, and had even been her
confidante in her love for Nikolai Petrovitch. Arkady began talking with
great warmth of his dead mother; while Bazarov fell to turning over albums.
'What a tame cat I'm getting!' he was thinking to himself.

A beautiful greyhound with a blue collar on, ran into the drawing-room,
tapping on the floor with his paws, and after him entered a girl of eighteen,
black-haired and dark-skinned, with a rather round but pleasing face, and
small dark eyes. In her hands she held a basket filled with flowers.

'This is my Katya,' said Madame Odintsov, indicating her with a motion of
her head. Katya made a slight curtsey, placed herself beside her sister, and
began picking out flowers. The greyhound, whose name was Fifi, went up
to both of the visitors, in turn wagging his tail, and thrusting his cold nose
into their hands.

'Did you pick all that yourself?' asked Madame Odintsov.

'Yes,' answered Katya.

'Is auntie coming to tea?'

'Yes.'

When Katya spoke, she had a very charming smile, sweet, timid, and
candid, and looked up from under her eyebrows with a sort of humorous
severity. Everything about her was still young and undeveloped; the voice,
and the bloom on her whole face, and the rosy hands, with white palms, and
the rather narrow shoulders.... She was constantly blushing and getting out
of breath.

Madame Odintsov turned to Bazarov. 'You are looking at pictures from
politeness, Yevgeny Vassilyitch,' she began. That does not interest you. You
had better come nearer to us, and let us have a discussion about something.'

Bazarov went closer. 'What subject have you decided upon for discussion?'
he said.

'What you like. I warn you, I am dreadfully argumentative.'

'You?'

'Yes. That seems to surprise you. Why?'

'Because, as far as I can judge, you have a calm, cool character, and one
must be impulsive to be argumentative.'

'How can you have had time to understand me so soon? In the first place, I
am impatient and obstinate—you should ask Katya; and secondly, I am very
easily carried away.'

Bazarov looked at Anna Sergyevna. 'Perhaps; you must know best. And so
you are inclined for a discussion—by all means. I was looking through the
views of the Saxon mountains in your album, and you remarked that that
couldn't interest me. You said so, because you suppose me to have no
feeling for art, and as a fact I haven't any; but these views might be
interesting to me from a geological standpoint, for the formation of the
mountains, for instance.'

'Excuse me; but as a geologist, you would sooner have recourse to a book,
to a special work on the subject, and not to a drawing.'

'The drawing shows me at a glance what would be spread over ten pages in
a book.'

Anna Sergyevna was silent for a little.

'And so you haven't the least artistic feeling?' she observed, putting her
elbow on the table, and by that very action bringing her face nearer to
Bazarov. 'How can you get on without it?'

'Why, what is it wanted for, may I ask?'

'Well, at least to enable one to study and understand men.'

Bazarov smiled. 'In the first place, experience of life does that; and in the
second, I assure you, studying separate individuals is not worth the trouble.
All people are like one another, in soul as in body; each of us has brain,
spleen, heart, and lungs made alike; and the so-called moral qualities are the
same in all; the slight variations are of no importance. A single human
specimen is sufficient to judge of all by. People are like trees in a forest; no
botanist would think of studying each individual birch-tree.'

Katya, who was arranging the flowers, one at a time in a leisurely fashion,
lifted her eyes to Bazarov with a puzzled look, and meeting his rapid and
careless glance, she crimsoned up to her ears. Anna Sergyevna shook her
head.

'The trees in a forest,' she repeated. 'Then according to you there is no
difference between the stupid and the clever person, between the good-
natured and ill-natured?'

'No, there is a difference, just as between the sick and the healthy. The lungs
of a consumptive patient are not in the same condition as yours and mine,
though they are made on the same plan. We know approximately what
physical diseases come from; moral diseases come from bad education,
from all the nonsense people's heads are stuffed with from childhood up,
from the defective state of society; in short, reform society, and there will
be no diseases.'

Bazarov said all this with an air, as though he were all the while thinking to
himself, 'Believe me or not, as you like, it's all one to me!' He slowly passed
his fingers over his whiskers, while his eyes strayed about the room.

'And you conclude,' observed Anna Sergyevna, 'that when society is
reformed, there will be no stupid nor wicked people?'

'At any rate, in a proper organisation of society, it will be absolutely the
same whether a man is stupid or clever, wicked or good.'

'Yes, I understand; they will all have the same spleen.'

'Precisely so, madam.'

Madame Odintsov turned to Arkady. 'And what is your opinion, Arkady
Nikolaevitch?'

'I agree with Yevgeny,' he answered.

Katya looked up at him from under her eyelids.

'You amaze me, gentlemen,' commented Madame Odintsov, 'but we will
have more talk together. But now I hear my aunt coming to tea; we must
spare her.'

Anna Sergyevna's aunt, Princess H——, a thin little woman with a pinched-
up face, drawn together like a fist, and staring ill-natured-looking eyes
under a grey front, came in, and, scarcely bowing to the guests, she dropped
into a wide velvet covered arm-chair, upon which no one but herself was
privileged to sit. Katya put a footstool under her feet; the old lady did not
thank her, did not even look at her, only her hands shook under the yellow
shawl, which almost covered her feeble body. The Princess liked yellow;
her cap, too, had bright yellow ribbons.

'How have you slept, aunt?' inquired Madame Odintsov, raising her voice.

'That dog in here again,' the old lady muttered in reply, and noticing Fifi
was making two hesitating steps in her direction, she cried, 'Ss——ss!'

Katya called Fifi and opened the door for him.

Fifi rushed out delighted, in the expectation of being taken out for a walk;
but when he was left alone outside the door, he began scratching and
whining. The princess scowled. Katya was about to go out....

'I expect tea is ready,' said Madame Odintsov.

'Come gentlemen; aunt, will you go in to tea?'

The princess got up from her chair without speaking and led the way out of
the drawing-room. They all followed her in to the dining-room. A little page
in livery drew back, with a scraping sound, from the table, an arm-chair
covered with cushions, devoted to the princess's use; she sank into it; Katya
in pouring out the tea handed her first a cup emblazoned with a heraldic
crest. The old lady put some honey in her cup (she considered it both sinful
and extravagant to drink tea with sugar in it, though she never spent a
farthing herself on anything), and suddenly asked in a hoarse voice, 'And
what does Prince Ivan write?'

No one made her any reply. Bazarov and Arkady soon guessed that they
paid no attention to her though they treated her respectfully.

'Because of her grand family,' thought Bazarov....

After tea, Anna Sergyevna suggested they should go out for a walk; but it
began to rain a little, and the whole party, with the exception of the
princess, returned to the drawing-room. The neighbour, the devoted card-
player, arrived; his name was Porfiry Platonitch, a stoutish, greyish man
with short, spindly legs, very polite and ready to be amused. Anna
Sergyevna, who still talked principally with Bazarov, asked him whether
he'd like to try a contest with them in the old-fashioned way at preference?
Bazarov assented, saying 'that he ought to prepare himself beforehand for
the duties awaiting him as a country doctor.'

'You must be careful,' observed Anna Sergyevna; 'Porfiry Platonitch and I
will beat you. And you, Katya,' she added, 'play something to Arkady
Nikolaevitch; he is fond of music, and we can listen, too.'

Katya went unwillingly to the piano; and Arkady, though he certainly was
fond of music, unwillingly followed her; it seemed to him that Madame
Odintsov was sending him away, and already, like every young man at his
age, he felt a vague and oppressive emotion surging up in his heart, like the
forebodings of love. Katya raised the top of the piano, and not looking at
Arkady, she said in a low voice—

'What am I to play you?'

'What you like,' answered Arkady indifferently.

'What sort of music do you like best?' repeated Katya, without changing her
attitude.

'Classical,' Arkady answered in the same tone of voice.

'Do you like Mozart?'

'Yes, I like Mozart.'

Katya pulled out Mozart's Sonata-Fantasia in C minor. She played very
well, though rather over correctly and precisely. She sat upright and
immovable, her eyes fixed on the notes, and her lips tightly compressed,
only at the end of the sonata her face glowed, her hair came loose, and a
little lock fell on to her dark brow.

Arkady was particularly struck by the last part of the sonata, the part in
which, in the midst of the bewitching gaiety of the careless melody, the
pangs of such mournful, almost tragic suffering, suddenly break in.... But
the ideas stirred in him by Mozart's music had no reference to Katya.
Looking at her, he simply thought, 'Well, that young lady doesn't play badly,
and she's not bad-looking either.'

When she had finished the sonata, Katya without taking her hands from the
keys, asked, 'Is that enough?' Arkady declared that he could not venture to
trouble her again, and began talking to her about Mozart; he asked her
whether she had chosen that sonata herself, or some one had recommended
it to her. But Katya answered him in monosyllables; she withdrew into
herself, went back into her shell. When this happened to her, she did not
very quickly come out again; her face even assumed at such times an
obstinate, almost stupid expression. She was not exactly shy, but diffident,
and rather overawed by her sister, who had educated her, and who had no
suspicion of the fact. Arkady was reduced at last to calling Fifi to him, and
with an affable smile patting him on the head to give himself an appearance
of being at home.

Katya set to work again upon her flowers.

Bazarov meanwhile was losing and losing. Anna Sergyevna played cards in
masterly fashion; Porfiry Platonitch, too, could hold his own in the game.
Bazarov lost a sum which, though trifling in itself, was not altogether
pleasant for him. At supper Anna Sergyevna again turned the conversation
on botany.

'We will go for a walk to-morrow morning,' she said to him; 'I want you to
teach me the Latin names of the wild flowers and their species.'

'What use are the Latin names to you?' asked Bazarov.

'Order is needed in everything,' she answered.

'What an exquisite woman Anna Sergyevna is!' cried Arkady, when he was
alone with his friend in the room assigned to them.

'Yes,' answered Bazarov, 'a female with brains. Yes, and she's seen life too.'

'In what sense do you mean that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?'

'In a good sense, a good sense, my dear friend, Arkady Nikolaevitch! I'm
convinced she manages her estate capitally too. But what's splendid is not
her, but her sister.'

'What, that little dark thing?'

'Yes, that little dark thing. She now is fresh and untouched, and shy and
silent, and anything you like. She's worth educating and developing. You
might make something fine out of her; but the other's—a stale loaf.'

Arkady made no reply to Bazarov, and each of them got into bed with rather
singular thoughts in his head.

Anna Sergyevna, too, thought of her guests that evening. She liked Bazarov
for the absence of gallantry in him, and even for his sharply defined views.
She found in him something new, which she had not chanced to meet
before, and she was curious.

Anna Sergyevna was a rather strange creature. Having no prejudices of any
kind, having no strong convictions even, she never gave way or went out of
her way for anything. She had seen many things very clearly; she had been
interested in many things, but nothing had completely satisfied her; indeed,
she hardly desired complete satisfaction. Her intellect was at the same time
inquiring and indifferent; her doubts were never soothed to forgetfulness,
and they never grew strong enough to distract her. Had she not been rich
and independent, she would perhaps have thrown herself into the struggle,
and have known passion. But life was easy for her, though she was bored at
times, and she went on passing day after day with deliberation, never in a
hurry, placid, and only rarely disturbed. Dreams sometimes danced in

rainbow colours before her eyes even, but she breathed more freely when
they died away, and did not regret them. Her imagination indeed
overstepped the limits of what is reckoned permissible by conventional
morality; but even then her blood flowed as quietly as ever in her
fascinatingly graceful, tranquil body. Sometimes coming out of her fragrant
bath all warm and enervated, she would fall to musing on the nothingness
of life, the sorrow, the labour, the malice of it.... Her soul would be filled
with sudden daring, and would flow with generous ardour, but a draught
would blow from a half-closed window, and Anna Sergyevna would shrink
into herself, and feel plaintive and almost angry, and there was only one
thing she cared for at that instant—to get away from that horrid draught.

Like all women who have not succeeded in loving, she wanted something,
without herself knowing what. Strictly speaking, she wanted nothing; but it
seemed to her that she wanted everything. She could hardly endure the late
Odintsov (she had married him from prudential motives, though probably
she would not have consented to become his wife if she had not considered
him a good sort of man), and had conceived a secret repugnance for all
men, whom she could only figure to herself as slovenly, heavy, drowsy, and
feebly importunate creatures. Once, somewhere abroad, she had met a
handsome young Swede, with a chivalrous expression, with honest blue
eyes under an open brow; he had made a powerful impression on her, but it
had not prevented her from going back to Russia.

'A strange man this doctor!' she thought as she lay in her luxurious bed on
lace pillows under a light silk coverlet.... Anna Sergyevna had inherited
from her father a little of his inclination for splendour. She had fondly loved
her sinful but good-natured father, and he had idolised her, used to joke
with her in a friendly way as though she were an equal, and to confide in
her fully, to ask her advice. Her mother she scarcely remembered.

'This doctor is a strange man!' she repeated to herself. She stretched, smiled,
clasped her hands behind her head, then ran her eyes over two pages of a
stupid French novel, dropped the book—and fell asleep, all pure and cold,
in her pure and fragrant linen.

The following morning Anna Sergyevna went off botanising with Bazarov
directly after lunch, and returned just before dinner; Arkady did not go off

anywhere, and spent about an hour with Katya. He was not bored with her;
she offered of herself to repeat the sonata of the day before; but when
Madame Odintsov came back at last, when he caught sight of her, he felt an
instantaneous pang at his heart. She came through the garden with a rather
tired step; her cheeks were glowing and her eyes shining more brightly than
usual under her round straw hat. She was twirling in her fingers the thin
stalk of a wildflower, a light mantle had slipped down to her elbows, and
the wide gray ribbons of her hat were clinging to her bosom. Bazarov
walked behind her, self-confident and careless as usual, but the expression
of his face, cheerful and even friendly as it was, did not please Arkady.
Muttering between his teeth, 'Good-morning!' Bazarov went away to his
room, while Madame Odintsov shook Arkady's hand abstractedly, and also
walked past him.

'Good-morning!' thought Arkady ... 'As though we had not seen each other
already to-day!'

CHAPTER XVII

Time, it is well known, sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a
worm; but man is wont to be particularly happy when he does not even
notice whether it passes quickly or slowly. It was in that way Arkady and
Bazarov spent a fortnight at Madame Odintsov's. The good order she had
established in her house and in her life partly contributed to this result. She
adhered strictly to this order herself, and forced others to submit to it.
Everything during the day was done at a fixed time. In the morning,
precisely at eight o'clock, all the party assembled for tea; from morning-tea
till lunch-time every one did what he pleased, the hostess herself was
engaged with her bailiff (the estate was on the rent-system), her steward,
and her head housekeeper. Before dinner the party met again for

conversation or reading; the evening was devoted to walking, cards, and
music; at half-past ten Anna Sergyevna retired to her own room, gave her
orders for the following day, and went to bed. Bazarov did not like this
measured, somewhat ostentatious punctuality in daily life, 'like moving
along rails,' he pronounced it to be; the footmen in livery, the decorous
stewards, offended his democratic sentiments. He declared that if one went
so far, one might as well dine in the English style at once—in tail-coats and
white ties. He once spoke plainly upon the subject to Anna Sergyevna. Her
attitude was such that no one hesitated to speak his mind freely before her.
She heard him out; and then her comment was, 'From your point of view,
you are right—and perhaps, in that respect, I am too much of a lady; but
there's no living in the country without order, one would be devoured by
ennui,' and she continued to go her own way. Bazarov grumbled, but the
very reason life was so easy for him and Arkady at Madame Odintsov's was
that everything in the house 'moved on rails.' For all that, a change had
taken place in both the young men since the first days of their stay at
Nikolskoe. Bazarov, in whom Anna Sergyevna was obviously interested,
though she seldom agreed with him, began to show signs of an unrest,
unprecedented in him; he was easily put out of temper, and unwilling to
talk, he looked irritated, and could not sit still in one place, just as though
he were possessed by some secret longing; while Arkady, who had made up
his mind conclusively that he was in love with Madame Odintsov, had
begun to yield to a gentle melancholy. This melancholy did not, however,
prevent him from becoming friendly with Katya; it even impelled him to
get into friendly, affectionate terms with her. 'She does not appreciate me?
So be it!... But here is a good creature, who does not repulse me,' he
thought, and his heart again knew the sweetness of magnanimous emotions.
Katya vaguely realised that he was seeking a sort of consolation in her
company, and did not deny him or herself the innocent pleasure of a half-
shy, half-confidential friendship. They did not talk to each other in Anna
Sergyevna's presence; Katya always shrank into herself under her sister's
sharp eyes; while Arkady, as befits a man in love, could pay attention to
nothing else when near the object of his passion; but he was happy with
Katya alone. He was conscious that he did not possess the power to interest
Madame Odintsov; he was shy and at a loss when he was left alone with
her, and she did not know what to say to him, he was too young for her.
With Katya, on the other hand, Arkady felt at home; he treated her

condescendingly, encouraged her to express the impressions made on her by
music, reading novels, verses, and other such trifles, without noticing or
realising that these trifles were what interested him too. Katya, on her side,
did not try to drive away melancholy. Arkady was at his ease with Katya,
Madame Odintsov with Bazarov, and thus it usually came to pass that the
two couples, after being a little while together, went off on their separate
ways, especially during the walks. Katya adored nature, and Arkady loved
it, though he did not dare to acknowledge it; Madame Odintsov was, like
Bazarov, rather indifferent to the beauties of nature. The almost continual
separation of the two friends was not without its consequences; the relations
between them began to change. Bazarov gave up talking to Arkady about
Madame Odintsov, gave up even abusing her 'aristocratic ways'; Katya, it is
true, he praised as before, and only advised him to restrain her sentimental
tendencies, but his praises were hurried, his advice dry, and in general he
talked less to Arkady than before ... he seemed to avoid him, seemed ill at
ease with him.

Arkady observed it all, but he kept his observations to himself.

The real cause of all this 'newness' was the feeling inspired in Bazarov by
Madame Odintsov, a feeling which tortured and maddened him, and which
he would at once have denied, with scornful laughter and cynical abuse, if
any one had ever so remotely hinted at the possibility of what was taking
place in him. Bazarov had a great love for women and for feminine beauty;
but love in the ideal, or, as he expressed it, romantic sense, he called lunacy,
unpardonable imbecility; he regarded chivalrous sentiments as something of
the nature of deformity or disease, and had more than once expressed his
wonder that Toggenburg and all the minnesingers and troubadours had not
been put into a lunatic asylum. 'If a woman takes your fancy,' he used to
say, 'try and gain your end; but if you can't—well, turn your back on her—
there are lots of good fish in the sea.' Madame Odintsov had taken his
fancy; the rumours about her, the freedom and independence of her ideas,
her unmistakable liking for him, all seemed to be in his favour, but he soon
saw that with her he would not 'gain his ends,' and to turn his back on her he
found, to his own bewilderment, beyond his power. His blood was on fire
directly if he merely thought of her; he could easily have mastered his
blood, but something else was taking root in him, something he had never

admitted, at which he had always jeered, at which all his pride revolted. In
his conversations with Anna Sergyevna he expressed more strongly than
ever his calm contempt for everything idealistic; but when he was alone,
with indignation he recognised idealism in himself. Then he would set off
to the forest and walk with long strides about it, smashing the twigs that
came in his way, and cursing under his breath both her and himself; or he
would get into the hay-loft in the barn, and, obstinately closing his eyes, try
to force himself to sleep, in which, of course, he did not always succeed.
Suddenly his fancy would bring before him those chaste hands twining one
day about his neck, those proud lips responding to his kisses, those
intellectual eyes dwelling with tenderness—yes, with tenderness—on his,
and his head went round, and he forgot himself for an instant, till
indignation boiled up in him again. He caught himself in all sorts of
'shameful' thoughts, as though he were driven on by a devil mocking him.
Sometimes he fancied that there was a change taking place in Madame
Odintsov too; that there were signs in the expression of her face of
something special; that, perhaps ... but at that point he would stamp, or
grind his teeth, and clench his fists.

Meanwhile Bazarov was not altogether mistaken. He had struck Madame
Odintsov's imagination; he interested her, she thought a great deal about
him. In his absence, she was not dull, she was not impatient for his coming,
but she always grew more lively on his appearance; she liked to be left
alone with him, and she liked talking to him, even when he irritated her or
offended her taste, her refined habits. She was, as it were, eager at once to
sound him and to analyse herself.

One day walking in the garden with her, he suddenly announced, in a surly
voice, that he intended going to his father's place very soon.... She turned
white, as though something had given her a pang, and such a pang, that she
wondered and pondered long after, what could be the meaning of it.
Bazarov had spoken of his departure with no idea of putting her to the test,
of seeing what would come of it; he never 'fabricated.' On the morning of
that day he had an interview with his father's bailiff, who had taken care of
him when he was a child, Timofeitch. This Timofeitch, a little old man of
much experience and astuteness, with faded yellow hair, a weather-beaten
red face, and tiny tear-drops in his shrunken eyes, unexpectedly appeared

before Bazarov, in his shortish overcoat of stout greyish-blue cloth, girt
with a strip of leather, and in tarred boots.

'Hullo, old man; how are you?' cried Bazarov.

'How do you do, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?' began the little old man, and he
smiled with delight, so that his whole face was all at once covered with
wrinkles.

'What have you come for? They sent for me, eh?'

'Upon my word, sir, how could we?' mumbled Timofeitch. (He remembered
the strict injunctions he had received from his master on starting.) 'We were
sent to the town on business, and we'd heard news of your honour, so here
we turned off on our way, that's to say—to have a look at your honour ... as
if we could think of disturbing you!'

'Come, don't tell lies!' Bazarov cut him short. 'Is this the road to the town,
do you mean to tell me?' Timofeitch hesitated, and made no answer. 'Is my
father well?'

'Thank God, yes.'

'And my mother?'

'Anna Vlasyevna too, glory be to God.'

'They are expecting me, I suppose?'

The little old man held his tiny head on one side.

'Ah, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, it makes one's heart ache to see them; it does
really.'

'Come, all right, all right! shut up! Tell them I'm coming soon.'

'Yes, sir,' answered Timofeitch, with a sigh.

As he went out of the house, he pulled his cap down on his head with both
hands, clambered into a wretched-looking racing droshky, and went off at a
trot, but not in the direction of the town.

On the evening of the same day, Madame Odintsov was sitting in her own
room with Bazarov, while Arkady walked up and down the hall listening to
Katya's playing. The princess had gone upstairs to her own room; she could
not bear guests as a rule, and 'especially this new riff-raff lot,' as she called
them. In the common rooms she only sulked; but she made up for it in her
own room by breaking out into such abuse before her maid that the cap
danced on her head, wig and all. Madame Odintsov was well aware of all
this.

'How is it you are proposing to leave us?' she began; 'how about your
promise?'

Bazarov started. 'What promise?'

'Have you forgotten? You meant to give me some lessons in chemistry.'

'It can't be helped! My father expects me; I can't loiter any longer. However,
you can read Pelouse et Frémy, Notions générales de Chimie; it's a good
book, and clearly written. You will find everything you need in it.'

'But do you remember; you assured me a book cannot take the place of ...
I've forgotten how you put it, but you know what I mean ... do you
remember?'

'It can't be helped!' repeated Bazarov.

'Why go away?' said Madame Odintsov, dropping her voice.

He glanced at her. Her head had fallen on to the back of her easy-chair, and
her arms, bare to the elbow, were folded on her bosom. She seemed paler in
the light of the single lamp covered with a perforated paper shade. An
ample white gown hid her completely in its soft folds; even the tips of her
feet, also crossed, were hardly seen.

'And why stay?' answered Bazarov.

Madame Odintsov turned her head slightly. 'You ask why. Have you not
enjoyed yourself with me? Or do you suppose you will not be missed here?'

'I am sure of it.'

Madame Odintsov was silent a minute. 'You are wrong in thinking that. But
I don't believe you. You could not say that seriously.' Bazarov still sat
immovable. 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, why don't you speak?'

'Why, what am I to say to you? People are not generally worth being
missed, and I less than most.'

'Why so?'

'I'm a practical, uninteresting person. I don't know how to talk.'

'You are fishing, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.'

'That's not a habit of mine. Don't you know yourself that I've nothing in
common with the elegant side of life, the side you prize so much?'

Madame Odintsov bit the corner of her handkerchief.

'You may think what you like, but I shall be dull when you go away.'

'Arkady will remain,' remarked Bazarov. Madame Odintsov shrugged her
shoulders slightly. 'I shall be dull,' she repeated.

'Really? In any case you will not feel dull for long.'

'What makes you suppose that?'

'Because you told me yourself that you are only dull when your regular
routine is broken in upon. You have ordered your existence with such
unimpeachable regularity that there can be no place in it for dulness or
sadness ... for any unpleasant emotions.'

'And do you consider I am so unimpeachable ... that's to say, that I have
ordered my life with such regularity?'

'I should think so. Here's an example; in a few minutes it will strike ten, and
I know beforehand that you will drive me away.'

'No; I'm not going to drive you away, Yevgeny Vassilyitch. You may stay.
Open that window.... I feel half-stifled.'

Bazarov got up and gave a push to the window. It flew up with a loud
crash.... He had not expected it to open so easily; besides, his hands were
shaking. The soft, dark night looked in to the room with its almost black
sky, its faintly rustling trees, and the fresh fragrance of the pure open air.

'Draw the blind and sit down,' said Madame Odintsov; 'I want to have a talk
with you before you go away. Tell me something about yourself; you never
talk about yourself.'

'I try to talk to you upon improving subjects, Anna Sergyevna.'

'You are very modest.... But I should like to know something about you,
about your family, about your father, for whom you are forsaking us.'

'Why is she talking like that?' thought Bazarov.

'All that's not in the least interesting,' he uttered aloud, 'especially for you;
we are obscure people....'

'And you regard me as an aristocrat?'

Bazarov lifted his eyes to Madame Odintsov.

'Yes,' he said, with exaggerated sharpness.

She smiled. 'I see you know me very little, though you do maintain that all
people are alike, and it's not worth while to study them. I will tell you my
life some time or other ... but first you tell me yours.'

'I know you very little,' repeated Bazarov. 'Perhaps you are right; perhaps,
really, every one is a riddle. You, for instance; you avoid society, you are
oppressed by it, and you have invited two students to stay with you. What
makes you, with your intellect, with your beauty, live in the country?'

'What? What was it you said?' Madame Odintsov interposed eagerly. 'With
my ... beauty?'

Bazarov scowled. 'Never mind that,' he muttered; 'I meant to say that I don't
exactly understand why you have settled in the country?'

'You don't understand it.... But you explain it to yourself in some way?'

'Yes ... I assume that you remain continually in the same place because you
indulge yourself, because you are very fond of comfort and ease, and very
indifferent to everything else.'

Madame Odintsov smiled again. 'You would absolutely refuse to believe
that I am capable of being carried away by anything?'

Bazarov glanced at her from under his brows.

'By curiosity, perhaps; but not otherwise.'

'Really? Well, now I understand why we are such friends; you are just like
me, you see.'

'We are such friends ...' Bazarov articulated in a choked voice.

'Yes!... Why, I'd forgotten you wanted to go away.'

Bazarov got up. The lamp burnt dimly in the middle of the dark, luxurious,
isolated room; from time to time the blind was shaken, and there flowed in
the freshness of the insidious night; there was heard its mysterious
whisperings. Madame Odintsov did not move in a single limb; but she was
gradually possessed by concealed emotion.

It communicated itself to Bazarov. He was suddenly conscious that he was
alone with a young and lovely woman....

'Where are you going?' she said slowly.

He answered nothing, and sank into a chair.

'And so you consider me a placid, pampered, spoiled creature,' she went on
in the same voice, never taking her eyes off the window. 'While I know so
much about myself, that I am unhappy.'

'You unhappy? What for? Surely you can't attach any importance to idle
gossip?'

Madame Odintsov frowned. It annoyed her that he had given such a
meaning to her words.

'Such gossip does not affect me, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, and I am too proud to
allow it to disturb me. I am unhappy because ... I have no desires, no
passion for life. You look at me incredulously; you think that's said by an
"aristocrat," who is all in lace, and sitting in a velvet armchair. I don't
conceal the fact: I love what you call comfort, and at the same time I have
little desire to live. Explain that contradiction as best you can. But all that's
romanticism in your eyes.'

Bazarov shook his head. 'You are in good health, independent, rich; what
more would you have? What do you want?'

'What do I want,' echoed Madame Odintsov, and she sighed, 'I am very
tired, I am old, I feel as if I have had a very long life. Yes, I am old,' she
added, softly drawing the ends of her lace over her bare arms. Her eyes met
Bazarov's eyes, and she faintly blushed. 'Behind me I have already so many
memories: my life in Petersburg, wealth, then poverty, then my father's
death, marriage, then the inevitable tour in due order.... So many memories,
and nothing to remember, and before me, before me—a long, long road, and
no goal.... I have no wish to go on.'

'Are you so disillusioned?' queried Bazarov.

'No, but I am dissatisfied,' Madame Odintsov replied, dwelling on each
syllable. 'I think if I could interest myself strongly in something....'

'You want to fall in love,' Bazarov interrupted her, 'and you can't love; that's
where your unhappiness lies.'

Madame Odintsov began to examine the sleeve of her lace.

'Is it true I can't love?' she said.

'I should say not! Only I was wrong in calling that an unhappiness. On the
contrary, any one's more to be pitied when such a mischance befalls him.'

'Mischance, what?'

'Falling in love.'

'And how do you come to know that?'

'By hearsay,' answered Bazarov angrily.

'You're flirting,' he thought; 'you're bored, and teasing me for want of
something to do, while I ...' His heart really seemed as though it were being
torn to pieces.

'Besides, you are perhaps too exacting,' he said, bending his whole frame
forward and playing with the fringe of the chair.

'Perhaps. My idea is everything or nothing. A life for a life. Take mine, give
up thine, and that without regret or turning back. Or else better have
nothing.'

'Well?' observed Bazarov; 'that's fair terms, and I'm surprised that so far you
... have not found what you wanted.'

'And do you think it would be easy to give oneself up wholly to anything
whatever?'

'Not easy, if you begin reflecting, waiting and attaching value to yourself,
prizing yourself, I mean; but to give oneself up without reflection is very
easy.'

'How can one help prizing oneself? If I am of no value, who could need my
devotion?'

'That's not my affair; that's the other's business to discover what is my
value. The chief thing is to be able to devote oneself.'

Madame Odintsov bent forward from the back of her chair. 'You speak,' she
began, 'as though you had experienced all that.'

'It happened to come up, Anna Sergyevna; all that, as you know, is not in
my line.'

'But you could devote yourself?'

'I don't know. I shouldn't like to boast.'

Madame Odintsov said nothing, and Bazarov was mute. The sounds of the
piano floated up to them from the drawing-room.

'How is it Katya is playing so late?' observed Madame Odintsov.

Bazarov got up. 'Yes, it is really late now; it's time for you to go to bed.'

'Wait a little; why are you in a hurry?... I want to say one word to you.'

'What is it?'

'Wait a little,' whispered Madame Odintsov. Her eyes rested on Bazarov; it
seemed as though she were examining him attentively.

He walked across the room, then suddenly went up to her, hurriedly said
'Good-bye,' squeezed her hand so that she almost screamed, and was gone.
She raised her crushed fingers to her lips, breathed on them, and suddenly,
impulsively getting up from her low chair, she moved with rapid steps
towards the door, as though she wished to bring Bazarov back.... A maid
came into the room with a decanter on a silver tray. Madame Odintsov
stood still, told her she could go, and sat down again, and again sank into
thought. Her hair slipped loose and fell in a dark coil down her shoulders.
Long after the lamp was still burning in Anna Sergyevna's room, and for

long she stayed without moving, only from time to time chafing her hands,
which ached a little from the cold of the night.

Bazarov went back two hours later to his bed-room with his boots wet with
dew, dishevelled and ill-humoured. He found Arkady at the writing-table
with a book in his hands, his coat buttoned up to the throat.

'You're not in bed yet?' he said, in a tone, it seemed, of annoyance.

'You stopped a long while with Anna Sergyevna this evening,' remarked
Arkady, not answering him.

'Yes, I stopped with her all the while you were playing the piano with Katya
Sergyevna.'

'I did not play ...' Arkady began, and he stopped. He felt the tears were
coming into his eyes, and he did not like to cry before his sarcastic friend.

CHAPTER XVIII

The following morning when Madame Odintsov came down to morning
tea, Bazarov sat a long while bending over his cup, then suddenly he
glanced up at her.... She turned to him as though he had struck her a blow,
and he fancied that her face was a little paler since the night before. She
quickly went off to her own room, and did not appear till lunch. It rained
from early morning; there was no possibility of going for a walk. The whole
company assembled in the drawing-room. Arkady took up the new number
of a journal and began reading it aloud. The princess, as was her habit, tried
to express her amazement in her face, as though he were doing something
improper, then glared angrily at him; but he paid no attention to her.

'Yevgeny Vassilyitch' said Anna Sergyevna, 'come to my room.... I want to
ask you.... You mentioned a textbook yesterday ...'

She got up and went to the door. The princess looked round with an
expression that seemed to say, 'Look at me; see how shocked I am!' and
again glared at Arkady; but he raised his voice, and exchanging glances
with Katya, near whom he was sitting, he went on reading.

Madame Odintsov went with rapid steps to her study. Bazarov followed her
quickly, not raising his eyes, and only with his ears catching the delicate
swish and rustle of her silk gown gliding before him. Madame Odintsov
sank into the same easy-chair in which she had sat the previous evening,
and Bazarov took up the same position as before.

'What was the name of that book?' she began, after a brief silence.

'Pelouse et Frémy, Notions générales,' answered Bazarov. 'I might though
recommend you also Ganot, Traité élémentaire de physique éxpérimentale.
In that book the illustrations are clearer, and in general it's a text-book.'

Madame Odintsov stretched out her hand. 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I beg your
pardon, but I didn't invite you in here to discuss text-books. I wanted to
continue our conversation of last night. You went away so suddenly.... It
will not bore you ...'

'I am at your service, Anna Sergyevna. But what were we talking about last
night?'

Madame Odintsov flung a sidelong glance at Bazarov.

'We were talking of happiness, I believe. I told you about myself. By the
way, I mentioned the word "happiness." Tell me why it is that even when
we are enjoying music, for instance, or a fine evening, or a conversation
with sympathetic people, it all seems an intimation of some measureless
happiness existing apart somewhere rather than actual happiness—such, I
mean, as we ourselves are in possession of? Why is it? Or perhaps you have
no feeling like that?'

'You know the saying, "Happiness is where we are not,"' replied Bazarov;
'besides, you told me yesterday you are discontented. I certainly never have
such ideas come into my head.'

'Perhaps they seem ridiculous to you?'

'No; but they don't come into my head.'

'Really? Do you know, I should very much like to know what you do think
about?'

'What? I don't understand.'

'Listen; I have long wanted to speak openly to you. There's no need to tell
you—you are conscious of it yourself—that you are not an ordinary man;
you are still young—all life is before you. What are you preparing yourself
for? What future is awaiting you? I mean to say—what object do you want
to attain? What are you going forward to? What is in your heart? in short,
who are you? What are you?'

'You surprise me, Anna Sergyevna. You are aware that I am studying natural
science, and who I ...'

'Well, who are you?'

'I have explained to you already that I am going to be a district doctor.'

Anna Sergyevna made a movement of impatience.

'What do you say that for? You don't believe it yourself. Arkady might
answer me in that way, but not you.'

'Why, in what is Arkady ...'

'Stop! Is it possible you could content yourself with such a humble career,
and aren't you always maintaining yourself that you don't believe in
medicine? You—with your ambition—a district doctor! You answer me like
that to put me off, because you have no confidence in me. But, do you
know, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, that I could understand you; I have been poor

myself, and ambitious, like you; I have been perhaps through the same trials
as you.'

'That is all very well, Anna Sergyevna, but you must pardon me for ... I am
not in the habit of talking freely about myself at any time as a rule, and
between you and me there is such a gulf ...'

'What sort of gulf? You mean to tell me again that I am an aristocrat? No
more of that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch; I thought I had proved to you ...'

'And even apart from that,' broke in Bazarov, 'what could induce one to talk
and think about the future, which for the most part does not depend on us?
If a chance turns up of doing something—so much the better; and if it
doesn't turn up—at least one will be glad one didn't gossip idly about it
beforehand.'

'You call a friendly conversation idle gossip?... Or perhaps you consider me
as a woman unworthy of your confidence? I know you despise us all.'

'I don't despise you, Anna Sergyevna, and you know that.'

'No, I don't know anything ... but let us suppose so. I understand your
disinclination to talk of your future career; but as to what is taking place
within you now ...'

'Taking place!' repeated Bazarov, 'as though I were some sort of government
or society! In any case, it is utterly uninteresting; and besides, can a man
always speak of everything that "takes place" in him?'

'Why, I don't see why you can't speak freely of everything you have in your
heart.'

'Can you?' asked Bazarov.

'Yes,' answered Anna Sergyevna, after a brief hesitation.

Bazarov bowed his head. 'You are more fortunate than I am.'

Anna Sergyevna looked at him questioningly. 'As you please,' she went on,
'but still something tells me that we have not come together for nothing; that
we shall be great friends. I am sure this—what should I say, constraint,
reticence in you will vanish at last.'

'So you have noticed reticence ... as you expressed it ... constraint?'

'Yes.'

Bazarov got up and went to the window. 'And would you like to know the
reason of this reticence? Would you like to know what is passing within
me?'

'Yes,' repeated Madame Odintsov, with a sort of dread she did not at the
time understand.

'And you will not be angry?'

'No.'

'No?' Bazarov was standing with his back to her. 'Let me tell you then that I
love you like a fool, like a madman.... There, you've forced it out of me.'

Madame Odintsov held both hands out before her; but Bazarov was leaning
with his forehead pressed against the window pane. He breathed hard; his
whole body was visibly trembling. But it was not the tremor of youthful
timidity, not the sweet alarm of the first declaration that possessed him; it
was passion struggling in him, strong and painful—passion not unlike
hatred, and perhaps akin to it.... Madame Odintsov felt both afraid and sorry
for him.

'Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' she said, and there was the ring of unconscious
tenderness in her voice.

He turned quickly, flung a searching look on her, and snatching both her
hands, he drew her suddenly to his breast.

She did not at once free herself from his embrace, but an instant later, she
was standing far away in a corner, and looking from there at Bazarov. He

rushed at her ...

'You have misunderstood me,' she whispered hurriedly, in alarm. It seemed
if he had made another step she would have screamed.... Bazarov bit his
lips, and went out.

Half-an-hour after, a maid gave Anna Sergyevna a note from Bazarov; it
consisted simply of one line: 'Am I to go to-day, or can I stop till to-
morrow?'

'Why should you go? I did not understand you—you did not understand
me,' Anna Sergyevna answered him, but to herself she thought: 'I did not
understand myself either.'

She did not show herself till dinner-time, and kept walking to and fro in her
room, stopping sometimes at the window, sometimes at the looking-glass,
and slowly rubbing her handkerchief over her neck, on which she still
seemed to feel a burning spot. She asked herself what had induced her to
'force' Bazarov's words, his confidence, and whether she had suspected
nothing ... 'I am to blame,' she decided aloud, 'but I could not have foreseen
this.' She fell to musing, and blushed crimson, remembering Bazarov's
almost animal face when he had rushed at her....

'Oh?' she uttered suddenly aloud, and she stopped short and shook back her
curls.... She caught sight of herself in the glass; her head thrown back, with
a mysterious smile on the half-closed, half-opened eyes and lips, told her, it
seemed, in a flash something at which she herself was confused....

'No,' she made up her mind at last. 'God knows what it would lead to; he
couldn't be played with; peace is anyway the best thing in the world.'

Her peace of mind was not shaken; but she felt gloomy, and even shed a
few tears once though she could not have said why—certainly not for the
insult done her. She did not feel insulted; she was more inclined to feel
guilty. Under the influence of various vague emotions, the sense of life
passing by, the desire of novelty, she had forced herself to go up to a certain
point, forced herself to look behind herself, and had seen behind her not
even an abyss, but what was empty ... or revolting.

CHAPTER XIX

Great as was Madame Odintsov's self-control, and superior as she was to
every kind of prejudice, she felt awkward when she went into the dining-
room to dinner. The meal went off fairly successfully, however. Porfiry
Platonovitch made his appearance and told various anecdotes; he had just
come back from the town. Among other things, he informed them that the
governor had ordered his secretaries on special commissions to wear spurs,
in case he might send them off anywhere for greater speed on horseback.
Arkady talked in an undertone to Katya, and diplomatically attended to the
princess's wants. Bazarov maintained a grim and obstinate silence. Madame
Odintsov looked at him twice, not stealthily, but straight in the face, which
was bilious and forbidding, with downcast eyes, and contemptuous
determination stamped on every feature, and thought: 'No ... no ... no.' ...
After dinner, she went with the whole company into the garden, and seeing
that Bazarov wanted to speak to her, she took a few steps to one side and
stopped. He went up to her, but even then did not raise his eyes, and said
hoarsely—

'I have to apologise to you, Anna Sergyevna. You must be in a fury with
me.'

'No, I'm not angry with you, Yevgeny Vassilyitch,' answered Madame
Odintsov; 'but I am sorry.'

'So much the worse. Any way, I'm sufficiently punished. My position, you
will certainly agree, is most foolish. You wrote to me, "Why go away?" But
I cannot stay, and don't wish to. To-morrow I shall be gone.'

'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, why are you ...'

'Why am I going away?'

'No; I didn't mean to say that.'

'There's no recalling the past, Anna Sergyevna ... and this was bound to
come about sooner or later. Consequently I must go. I can only conceive of
one condition upon which I could remain; but that condition will never be.
Excuse my impertinence, but you don't love me, and you never will love
me, I suppose?'

Bazarov's eyes glittered for an instant under their dark brows.

Anna Sergyevna did not answer him. 'I'm afraid of this man,' flashed
through her brain.

'Good-bye, then,' said Bazarov, as though he guessed her thought, and he
went back into the house.

Anna Sergyevna walked slowly after him, and calling Katya to her, she took
her arm. She did not leave her side till quite evening. She did not play
cards, and was constantly laughing, which did not at all accord with her
pale and perplexed face. Arkady was bewildered, and looked on at her as all
young people look on—that's to say, he was constantly asking himself,
'What is the meaning of that?' Bazarov shut himself up in his room; he came
back to tea, however. Anna Sergyevna longed to say some friendly word to
him, but she did not know how to address him....

An unexpected incident relieved her from her embarrassment; a steward
announced the arrival of Sitnikov.

It is difficult to do justice in words to the strange figure cut by the young
apostle of progress as he fluttered into the room. Though, with his
characteristic impudence, he had made up his mind to go into the country to
visit a woman whom he hardly knew, who had never invited him; but with
whom, according to information he had gathered, such talented and intimate
friends were staying, he was nevertheless trembling to the marrow of his
bones; and instead of bringing out the apologies and compliments he had
learned by heart beforehand, he muttered some absurdity about Evdoksya

Kukshin having sent him to inquire after Anna Sergyevna's health, and
Arkady Nikolaevitch's too, having always spoken to him in the highest
terms.... At this point he faltered and lost his presence of mind so
completely that he sat down on his own hat. However, since no one turned
him out, and Anna Sergyevna even presented him to her aunt and her sister,
he soon recovered himself and began to chatter volubly. The introduction of
the commonplace is often an advantage in life; it relieves over-strained
tension, and sobers too self-confident or self-sacrificing emotions by
recalling its close kinship with them. With Sitnikov's appearance everything
became somehow duller and simpler; they all even ate a more solid supper,
and retired to bed half-an-hour earlier than usual.

'I might now repeat to you,' said Arkady, as he lay down in bed, to Bazarov,
who was also undressing, what you once said to me, 'Why are you so
melancholy? One would think you had fulfilled some sacred duty.' For
some time past a sort of pretence of free-and-easy banter had sprung up
between the two young men, which is always an unmistakable sign of secret
displeasure or unexpressed suspicions.

'I'm going to my father's to-morrow,' said Bazarov.

Arkady raised himself and leaned on his elbow. He felt both surprised, and
for some reason or other pleased. 'Ah!' he commented, 'and is that why
you're sad?'

Bazarov yawned. 'You'll get old if you know too much.'

'And Anna Sergyevna?' persisted Arkady.

'What about Anna Sergyevna?'

'I mean, will she let you go?'

'I'm not her paid man.'

Arkady grew thoughtful, while Bazarov lay down and turned with his face
to the wall.

Some minutes went by in silence. 'Yevgeny?' cried Arkady suddenly.

'Well?'

'I will leave with you to-morrow too.'

Bazarov made no answer.

'Only I will go home,' continued Arkady. 'We will go together as far as
Hohlovsky, and there you can get horses at Fedot's. I should be delighted to
make the acquaintance of your people, but I'm afraid of being in their way
and yours. You are coming to us again later, of course?'

'I've left all my things with you,' Bazarov said, without turning round.

'Why doesn't he ask me why I am going, and just as suddenly as he?'
thought Arkady. 'In reality, why am I going, and why is he going?' he
pursued his reflections. He could find no satisfactory answer to his own
question, though his heart was filled with some bitter feeling. He felt it
would be hard to part from this life to which he had grown so accustomed;
but for him to remain alone would be rather odd. 'Something has passed
between them,' he reasoned to himself; 'what good would it be for me to
hang on after he's gone? She's utterly sick of me; I'm losing the last that
remained to me.' He began to imagine Anna Sergyevna to himself, then
other features gradually eclipsed the lovely image of the young widow.

'I'm sorry to lose Katya too!' Arkady whispered to his pillow, on which a
tear had already fallen.... All at once he shook back his hair and said aloud
—

'What the devil made that fool of a Sitnikov turn up here?'

Bazarov at first stirred a little in his bed, then he uttered the following
rejoinder: 'You're still a fool, my boy, I see. Sitnikovs are indispensable to
us. I—do you understand? I need dolts like him. It's not for the gods to bake
bricks, in fact!'...

'Oho!' Arkady thought to himself, and then in a flash all the fathomless
depths of Bazarov's conceit dawned upon him. 'Are you and I gods then? at
least, you're a god; am not I a dolt then?'

'Yes,' repeated Bazarov; 'you're still a fool.'

Madame Odintsov expressed no special surprise when Arkady told her the
next day that he was going with Bazarov; she seemed tired and absorbed.
Katya looked at him silently and seriously; the princess went so far as to
cross herself under her shawl so that he could not help noticing it. Sitnikov,
on the other hand, was completely disconcerted. He had only just come in
to lunch in a new and fashionable get-up, not on this occasion of a
Slavophil cut; the evening before he had astonished the man told off to wait
on him by the amount of linen he had brought with him, and now all of a
sudden his comrades were deserting him! He took a few tiny steps, doubled
back like a hunted hare at the edge of a copse, and abruptly, almost with
dismay, almost with a wail, announced that he proposed going too. Madame
Odintsov did not attempt to detain him.

'I have a very comfortable carriage,' added the luckless young man, turning
to Arkady; 'I can take you, while Yevgeny Vassilyitch can take your coach,
so it will be even more convenient.'

'But, really, it's not at all in your way, and it's a long way to my place.'

'That's nothing, nothing; I've plenty of time; besides, I have business in that
direction.'

'Gin-selling?' asked Arkady, rather too contemptuously.

But Sitnikov was reduced to such desperation that he did not even laugh as
usual. 'I assure you, my carriage is exceedingly comfortable,' he muttered;
'and there will be room for all.'

'Don't wound Monsieur Sitnikov by a refusal,' commented Anna Sergyevna.

Arkady glanced at her, and bowed his head significantly.

The visitors started off after lunch. As she said good-bye to Bazarov,
Madame Odintsov held out her hand to him, and said, 'We shall meet again,
shan't we?'

'As you command,' answered Bazarov.

'In that case, we shall.'

Arkady was the first to descend the steps; he got into Sitnikov's carriage. A
steward tucked him in respectfully, but he could have killed him with
pleasure, or have burst into tears.

Bazarov took his seat in the coach. When they reached Hohlovsky, Arkady
waited till Fedot, the keeper of the posting-station, had put in the horses,
and going up to the coach, he said, with his old smile, to Bazarov, 'Yevgeny,
take me with you; I want to come to you.'

'Get in,' Bazarov brought out through his teeth.

Sitnikov, who had been walking to and fro round the wheels of his carriage,
whistling briskly, could only gape when he heard these words; while
Arkady coolly pulled his luggage out of the carriage, took his seat beside
Bazarov, and bowing politely to his former fellow-traveller, he called,
'Whip up!' The coach rolled away, and was soon out of sight.... Sitnikov,
utterly confused, looked at his coachman, but the latter was flicking his
whip about the tail of the off horse. Then Sitnikov jumped into the carriage,
and growling at two passing peasants, 'Put on your caps, idiots!' he drove to
the town, where he arrived very late, and where, next day, at Madame
Kukshin's, he dealt very severely with two 'disgusting stuck-up churls.'

When he was seated in the coach by Bazarov, Arkady pressed his hand
warmly, and for a long while he said nothing. It seemed as though Bazarov
understood and appreciated both the pressure and the silence. He had not
slept all the previous night, and had not smoked, and had eaten scarcely
anything for several days. His profile, already thinner, stood out darkly and
sharply under his cap, which was pulled down to his eyebrows.

'Well, brother,' he said at last, 'give us a cigarette. But look, I say, is my
tongue yellow?'

'Yes, it is,' answered Arkady.

'Hm ... and the cigarette's tasteless. The machine's out of gear.'

'You look changed lately certainly,' observed Arkady.

'It's nothing! we shall soon be all right. One thing's a bother—my mother's
so tender-hearted; if you don't grow as round as a tub, and eat ten times a
day, she's quite upset. My father's all right, he's known all sorts of ups and
downs himself. No, I can't smoke,' he added, and he flung the cigarette into
the dust of the road.

'Do you think it's twenty miles?' asked Arkady.

'Yes. But ask this sage here.' He indicated the peasant sitting on the box, a
labourer of Fedot's.

But the sage only answered, 'Who's to know—miles hereabout aren't
measured,' and went on swearing in an undertone at the shaft horse for
'kicking with her head-piece,' that is, shaking with her head down.

'Yes, yes,' began Bazarov; 'it's a lesson to you, my young friend, an
instructive example. God knows, what rot it is? Every man hangs on a
thread, the abyss may open under his feet any minute, and yet he must go
and invent all sorts of discomforts for himself, and spoil his life.'

'What are you alluding to?' asked Arkady.

'I'm not alluding to anything; I'm saying straight out that we've both
behaved like fools. What's the use of talking about it! Still, I've noticed in
hospital practice, the man who's furious at his illness—he's sure to get over
it.'

'I don't quite understand you,' observed Arkady; 'I should have thought you
had nothing to complain of.'

'And since you don't quite understand me, I'll tell you this—to my mind, it's
better to break stones on the highroad than to let a woman have the mastery
of even the end of one's little finger. That's all ...' Bazarov was on the point
of uttering his favourite word, 'romanticism,' but he checked himself, and
said, 'rubbish. You don't believe me now, but I tell you; you and I have been
in feminine society, and very nice we found it; but to throw up society like
that is for all the world like a dip in cold water on a hot day. A man hasn't
time to attend to such trifles; a man ought not to be tame, says an excellent
Spanish proverb. Now, you, I suppose, my sage friend,' he added, turning to
the peasant sitting on the box—'you've a wife?'

The peasant showed both the friends his dull blear-eyed face.

'A wife? Yes. Every man has a wife.'

'Do you beat her?'

'My wife? Everything happens sometimes. We don't beat her without good
reason!'

'That's excellent. Well, and does she beat you?'

The peasant gave a tug at the reins. 'That's a strange thing to say, sir. You
like your joke.'... He was obviously offended.

'You hear, Arkady Nikolaevitch! But we have taken a beating ... that's what
comes of being educated people.'

Arkady gave a forced laugh, while Bazarov turned away, and did not open
his mouth again the whole journey.

The twenty miles seemed to Arkady quite forty. But at last, on the slope of
some rising ground, appeared the small hamlet where Bazarov's parents
lived. Beside it, in a young birch copse, could be seen a small house with a
thatched roof.

Two peasants stood with their hats on at the first hut, abusing each other.
'You're a great sow,' said one; 'and worse than a little sucking pig.'

'And your wife's a witch,' retorted the other.

'From their unconstrained behaviour,' Bazarov remarked to Arkady, 'and the
playfulness of their retorts, you can guess that my father's peasants are not
too much oppressed. Why, there he is himself coming out on the steps of his
house. They must have heard the bells. It's he; it's he—I know his figure.
Ay, ay! how grey he's grown though, poor chap!'

CHAPTER XX

Bazarov leaned out of the coach, while Arkady thrust his head out behind
his companion's back, and caught sight on the steps of the little manor-
house of a tall, thinnish man with dishevelled hair, and a thin hawk nose,
dressed in an old military coat not buttoned up. He was standing, his legs
wide apart, smoking a long pipe and screwing up his eyes to keep the sun
out of them.

The horses stopped.

'Arrived at last,' said Bazarov's father, still going on smoking though the
pipe was fairly dancing up and down between his fingers. 'Come, get out;
get out; let me hug you.'

He began embracing his son ... 'Enyusha, Enyusha,' was heard a trembling
woman's voice. The door was flung open, and in the doorway was seen a
plump, short, little old woman in a white cap and a short striped jacket. She
moaned, staggered, and would certainly have fallen, had not Bazarov
supported her. Her plump little hands were instantly twined round his neck,
her head was pressed to his breast, and there was a complete hush. The only
sound heard was her broken sobs.

Old Bazarov breathed hard and screwed his eyes up more than ever.

'There, that's enough, that's enough, Arisha! give over,' he said, exchanging
a glance with Arkady, who remained motionless in the coach, while the
peasant on the box even turned his head away; 'that's not at all necessary,
please give over.'

'Ah, Vassily Ivanitch,' faltered the old woman, 'for what ages, my dear one,
my darling, Enyusha,' ... and, not unclasping her hands, she drew her
wrinkled face, wet with tears and working with tenderness, a little away
from Bazarov, and gazed at him with blissful and comic-looking eyes, and
again fell on his neck.

'Well, well, to be sure, that's all in the nature of things,' commented Vassily
Ivanitch, 'only we'd better come indoors. Here's a visitor come with
Yevgeny. You must excuse it,' he added, turning to Arkady, and scraping
with his foot; 'you understand, a woman's weakness; and well, a mother's
heart ...'

His lips and eyebrows too were twitching, and his beard was quivering ...
but he was obviously trying to control himself and appear almost
indifferent.

'Let's come in, mother, really,' said Bazarov, and he led the enfeebled old
woman into the house. Putting her into a comfortable armchair, he once
more hurriedly embraced his father and introduced Arkady to him.

'Heartily glad to make your acquaintance,' said Vassily Ivanovitch, 'but you
mustn't expect great things; everything here in my house is done in a plain
way, on a military footing. Arina Vlasyevna, calm yourself, pray; what
weakness! The gentleman our guest will think ill of you.'

'My dear sir,' said the old lady through her tears, 'your name and your
father's I haven't the honour of knowing....'

'Arkady Nikolaitch,' put in Vassily Ivanitch solemnly, in a low voice.

'You must excuse a silly old woman like me.' The old woman blew her
nose, and bending her head to right and to left, carefully wiped one eye
after the other. 'You must excuse me. You see, I thought I should die, that I
should not live to see my da .. arling.'

'Well, here we have lived to see him, madam,' put in Vassily Ivanovitch.
'Tanyushka,' he turned to a bare-legged little girl of thirteen in a bright red
cotton dress, who was timidly peeping in at the door, 'bring your mistress a
glass of water—on a tray, do you hear?—and you, gentlemen,' he added,
with a kind of old-fashioned playfulness, 'let me ask you into the study of a
retired old veteran.'

'Just once more let me embrace you, Enyusha,' moaned Arina Vlasyevna.
Bazarov bent down to her. 'Why, what a handsome fellow you have grown!'

'Well, I don't know about being handsome,' remarked Vassily Ivanovitch,
'but he's a man, as the saying is, ommfay. And now I hope, Arina Vlasyevna,
that having satisfied your maternal heart, you will turn your thoughts to
satisfying the appetites of our dear guests, because, as you're aware, even
nightingales can't be fed on fairy tales.'

The old lady got up from her chair. 'This minute, Vassily Ivanovitch, the
table shall be laid. I will run myself to the kitchen and order the samovar to
be brought in; everything shall be ready, everything. Why, I have not seen
him, not given him food or drink these three years; is that nothing?'

'There, mind, good mother, bustle about; don't put us to shame; while you,
gentlemen, I beg you to follow me. Here's Timofeitch come to pay his
respects to you, Yevgeny. He, too, I daresay, is delighted, the old dog. Eh,
aren't you delighted, old dog? Be so good as to follow me.'

And Vassily Ivanovitch went bustling forward, scraping and flapping with
his slippers trodden down at heel.

His whole house consisted of six tiny rooms. One of them—the one to
which he led our friends—was called the study. A thick-legged table,
littered over with papers black with the accumulation of ancient dust as
though they had been smoked, occupied all the space between the two

windows; on the walls hung Turkish firearms, whips, a sabre, two maps,
some anatomical diagrams, a portrait of Hoffland, a monogram woven in
hair in a blackened frame, and a diploma under glass; a leather sofa, torn
and worn into hollows in parts, was placed between two huge cupboards of
birch-wood; on the shelves books, boxes, stuffed birds, jars, and phials were
huddled together in confusion; in one corner stood a broken galvanic
battery.

'I warned you, my dear Arkady Nikolaitch,' began Vassily Ivanitch, 'that we
live, so to say, bivouacking....'

'There, stop that, what are you apologising for?' Bazarov interrupted.
'Kirsanov knows very well we're not Croesuses, and that you have no butler.
Where are we going to put him, that's the question?'

'To be sure, Yevgeny; I have a capital room there in the little lodge; he will
be very comfortable there.'

'Have you had a lodge put up then?'

'Why, where the bath-house is,' put in Timofeitch.

'That is next to the bathroom,' Vassily Ivanitch added hurriedly. 'It's summer
now ... I will run over there at once, and make arrangements; and you,
Timofeitch, meanwhile bring in their things. You, Yevgeny, I shall of course
offer my study. Suum cuique.'

'There you have him! A comical old chap, and very good-natured,' remarked
Bazarov, directly Vassily Ivanitch had gone. 'Just such a queer fish as yours,
only in another way. He chatters too much.'

'And your mother seems an awfully nice woman,' observed Arkady.

'Yes, there's no humbug about her. You'll see what a dinner she'll give us.'

'They didn't expect you to-day, sir; they've not brought any beef?' observed
Timofeitch, who was just dragging in Bazarov's box.

'We shall get on very well without beef. It's no use crying for the moon.
Poverty, they say, is no vice.'

'How many serfs has your father?' Arkady asked suddenly.

'The estate's not his, but mother's; there are fifteen serfs, if I remember.'

'Twenty-two in all,' Timofeitch added, with an air of displeasure.

The flapping of slippers was heard, and Vassily Ivanovitch reappeared. 'In a
few minutes your room will be ready to receive you,' he cried triumphantly.
Arkady ... Nikolaitch? I think that is right? And here is your attendant,' he
added, indicating a short-cropped boy, who had come in with him in a blue
full-skirted coat with ragged elbows and a pair of boots which did not
belong to him. 'His name is Fedka. Again, I repeat, even though my son
tells me not to, you mustn't expect great things. He knows how to fill a pipe,
though. You smoke, of course?'

'I generally smoke cigars,' answered Arkady.

'And you do very sensibly. I myself give the preference to cigars, but in
these solitudes it is exceedingly difficult to obtain them.'

'There, that's enough humble pie,' Bazarov interrupted again. 'You'd much
better sit here on the sofa and let us have a look at you.'

Vassily Ivanovitch laughed and sat down. He was very like his son in face,
only his brow was lower and narrower, and his mouth rather wider, and he
was for ever restless, shrugging up his shoulder as though his coat cut him
under the armpits, blinking, clearing his throat, and gesticulating with his
fingers, while his son was distinguished by a kind of nonchalant immobility.

'Humble-pie!' repeated Vassily Ivanovitch. 'You must not imagine, Yevgeny,
I want to appeal, so to speak, to our guest's sympathies by making out we
live in such a wilderness. Quite the contrary, I maintain that for a thinking
man nothing is a wilderness. At least, I try as far as possible not to get rusty,
so to speak, not to fall behind the age.'

Vassily Ivanovitch drew out of his pocket a new yellow silk handkerchief,
which he had had time to snatch up on the way to Arkady's room, and
flourishing it in the air, he proceeded: 'I am not now alluding to the fact
that, for example, at the cost of sacrifices not inconsiderable for me, I have
put my peasants on the rent-system and given up my land to them on half
profits. I regarded that as my duty; common sense itself enjoins such a
proceeding, though other proprietors do not even dream of it; I am alluding
to the sciences, to culture.'

'Yes; I see you have here The Friend of Health for 1855,' remarked Bazarov.

'It's sent me by an old comrade out of friendship,' Vassily Ivanovitch made
haste to answer; 'but we have, for instance, some idea even of phrenology,'
he added, addressing himself principally, however, to Arkady, and pointing
to a small plaster head on the cupboard, divided into numbered squares; 'we
are not unacquainted even with Schenlein and Rademacher.'

'Why do people still believe in Rademacher in this province?' asked
Bazarov.

Vassily Ivanovitch cleared his throat. 'In this province.... Of course,
gentlemen, you know best; how could we keep pace with you? You are here
to take our places. In my day, too, there was some sort of a Humouralist
school, Hoffmann, and Brown too with his vitalism—they seemed very
ridiculous to us, but, of course, they too had been great men at one time or
other. Some one new has taken the place of Rademacher with you; you bow
down to him, but in another twenty years it will be his turn to be laughed
at.'

'For your consolation I will tell you,' observed Bazarov, 'that nowadays we
laugh at medicine altogether, and don't bow down to any one.'

'How's that? Why, you're going to be a doctor, aren't you?'

'Yes, but the one fact doesn't prevent the other.'

Vassily Ivanovitch poked his third finger into his pipe, where a little
smouldering ash was still left. 'Well, perhaps, perhaps—I am not going to

dispute. What am I? A retired army-doctor, volla-too; now fate has made
me take to farming. I served in your grandfather's brigade,' he addressed
himself again to Arkady; 'yes, yes, I have seen many sights in my day. And I
was thrown into all kinds of society, brought into contact with all sorts of
people! I myself, the man you see before you now, have felt the pulse of
Prince Wittgenstein and of Zhukovsky! They were in the southern army, in
the fourteenth, you understand' (and here Vassily Ivanovitch pursed his
mouth up significantly). 'Well, well, but my business was on one side; stick
to your lancet, and let everything else go hang! Your grandfather was a very
honourable man, a real soldier.'

'Confess, now, he was rather a blockhead,' remarked Bazarov lazily.

'Ah, Yevgeny, how can you use such an expression! Do consider.... Of
course, General Kirsanov was not one of the ...'

'Come, drop him,' broke in Bazarov; 'I was pleased as I was driving along
here to see your birch copse; it has shot up capitally.'

Vassily Ivanovitch brightened up. 'And you must see what a little garden
I've got now! I planted every tree myself. I've fruit, and raspberries, and all
kinds of medicinal herbs. However clever you young gentlemen may be,
old Paracelsus spoke the holy truth: in herbis verbis et lapidibus.... I've
retired from practice, you know, of course, but two or three times a week it
will happen that I'm brought back to my old work. They come for advice—I
can't drive them away. Sometimes the poor have recourse to me for help.
And indeed there are no doctors here at all. There's one of the neighbours
here, a retired major, only fancy, he doctors the people too. I asked the
question, "Has he studied medicine?" And they told me, "No, he's not
studied; he does it more from philanthropy."... Ha! ha! ha! from
philanthropy! What do you think of that? Ha! ha! ha!'

'Fedka, fill me a pipe!' said Bazarov rudely.

'And there's another doctor here who just got to a patient,' Vassily
Ivanovitch persisted in a kind of desperation, 'when the patient had gone ad
patres; the servant didn't let the doctor speak; you're no longer wanted, he
told him. He hadn't expected this, got confused, and asked, "Why, did your

master hiccup before his death?" "Yes." "Did he hiccup much?" "Yes." "Ah,
well, that's all right," and off he set back again. Ha! ha! ha!'

The old man was alone in his laughter; Arkady forced a smile on his face.
Bazarov simply stretched. The conversation went on in this way for about
an hour; Arkady had time to go to his room, which turned out to be the
anteroom attached to the bathroom, but was very snug and clean. At last
Tanyusha came in and announced that dinner was ready.

Vassily Ivanovitch was the first to get up. 'Come, gentlemen. You must be
magnanimous and pardon me if I've bored you. I daresay my good wife will
give you more satisfaction.'

The dinner, though prepared in haste, turned out to be very good, even
abundant; only the wine was not quite up to the mark; it was almost black
sherry, bought by Timofeitch in the town at a well-known merchant's, and
had a faint coppery, resinous taste, and the flies were a great nuisance. On
ordinary days a serf-boy used to keep driving them away with a large green
branch; but on this occasion Vassily Ivanovitch had sent him away through
dread of the criticism of the younger generation. Arina Vlasyevna had had
time to dress: she had put on a high cap with silk ribbons and a pale blue
flowered shawl. She broke down again directly she caught sight of her
Enyusha, but her husband had no need to admonish her; she made haste to
wipe away her tears herself, for fear of spotting her shawl. Only the young
men ate anything; the master and mistress of the house had dined long ago.
Fedka waited at table, obviously encumbered by having boots on for the
first time; he was assisted by a woman of a masculine cast of face and one
eye, by name Anfisushka, who performed the duties of housekeeper,
poultry-woman, and laundress. Vassily Ivanovitch walked up and down
during the whole of dinner, and with a perfectly happy, positively beatific
countenance, talked about the serious anxiety he felt at Napoleon's policy,
and the intricacy of the Italian question. Arina Vlasyevna took no notice of
Arkady. She did not press him to eat; leaning her round face, to which the
full cherry-coloured lips and the little moles on the cheeks and over the
eyebrows gave a very simple good-natured expression, on her little closed
fist, she did not take her eyes off her son, and kept constantly sighing; she

was dying to know for how long he had come, but she was afraid to ask
him.

'What if he says for two days,' she thought, and her heart sank. After the
roast Vassily Ivanovitch disappeared for an instant, and returned with an
opened half-bottle of champagne. 'Here,' he cried, 'though we do live in the
wilds, we have something to make merry with on festive occasions!' He
filled three champagne glasses and a little wineglass, proposed the health of
'our inestimable guests,' and at once tossed off his glass in military fashion;
while he made Arina Vlasyevna drink her wineglass to the last drop. When
the time came in due course for preserves, Arkady, who could not bear
anything sweet, thought it his duty, however, to taste four different kinds
which had been freshly made, all the more as Bazarov flatly refused them
and began at once smoking a cigarette. Then tea came on the scene with
cream, butter, and cracknels; then Vassily Ivanovitch took them all into the
garden to admire the beauty of the evening. As they passed a garden seat he
whispered to Arkady—

'At this spot I love to meditate, as I watch the sunset; it suits a recluse like
me. And there, a little farther off, I have planted some of the trees beloved
of Horace.'

'What trees?' asked Bazarov, overhearing.

'Oh ... acacias.'

Bazarov began to yawn.

'I imagine it's time our travellers were in the arms of Morpheus,' observed
Vassily Ivanovitch.

'That is, it's time for bed,' Bazarov put in. 'That's a correct idea. It is time,
certainly.'

As he said good-night to his mother, he kissed her on the forehead, while
she embraced him, and stealthily behind his back she gave him her blessing
three times. Vassily Ivanovitch conducted Arkady to his room, and wished
him 'as refreshing repose as I enjoyed at your happy years.' And Arkady did

as a fact sleep excellently in his bath-house; there was a smell of mint in it,
and two crickets behind the stove rivalled each other in their drowsy
chirping. Vassily Ivanovitch went from Arkady's room to his study, and
perching on the sofa at his son's feet, he was looking forward to having a
chat with him; but Bazarov at once sent him away, saying he was sleepy,
and did not fall asleep till morning. With wide open eyes he stared
vindictively into the darkness; the memories of childhood had no power
over him; and besides, he had not yet had time to get rid of the impression
of his recent bitter emotions. Arina Vlasyevna first prayed to her heart's
content, then she had a long, long conversation with Anfisushka, who stood
stock-still before her mistress, and fixing her solitary eye upon her,
communicated in a mysterious whisper all her observations and conjectures
in regard to Yevgeny Vassilyevitch. The old lady's head was giddy with
happiness and wine and tobacco smoke; her husband tried to talk to her, but
with a wave of his hand gave it up in despair.

Arina Vlasyevna was a genuine Russian gentlewoman of the olden times;
she ought to have lived two centuries before, in the old Moscow days. She
was very devout and emotional; she believed in fortune-telling, charms,
dreams, and omens of every possible kind; she believed in the prophecies of
crazy people, in house-spirits, in wood-spirits, in unlucky meetings, in the
evil eye, in popular remedies, she ate specially prepared salt on Holy
Thursday, and believed that the end of the world was at hand; she believed
that if on Easter Sunday the lights did not go out at vespers, then there
would be a good crop of buckwheat, and that a mushroom will not grow
after it has been looked on by the eye of man; she believed that the devil
likes to be where there is water, and that every Jew has a blood-stained
patch on his breast; she was afraid of mice, of snakes, of frogs, of sparrows,
of leeches, of thunder, of cold water, of draughts, of horses, of goats, of red-
haired people, and black cats, and she regarded crickets and dogs as unclean
beasts; she never ate veal, doves, crayfishes, cheese, asparagus, artichokes,
hares, nor water-melons, because a cut water-melon suggested the head of
John the Baptist, and of oysters she could not speak without a shudder; she
was fond of eating—and fasted rigidly; she slept ten hours out of the
twenty-four—and never went to bed at all if Vassily Ivanovitch had so
much as a headache; she had never read a single book except Alexis or the
Cottage in the Forest; she wrote one, or at the most two letters in a year, but

was great in housewifery, preserving, and jam-making, though with her own
hands she never touched a thing, and was generally disinclined to move
from her place. Arina Vlasyevna was very kindhearted, and in her way not
at all stupid. She knew that the world is divided into masters whose duty it
is to command, and simple folk whose duty it is to serve them—and so she
felt no repugnance to servility and prostrations to the ground; but she
treated those in subjection to her kindly and gently, never let a single beggar
go away empty-handed, and never spoke ill of any one, though she was
fond of gossip. In her youth she had been pretty, had played the clavichord,
and spoken French a little; but in the course of many years' wanderings with
her husband, whom she had married against her will, she had grown stout,
and forgotten music and French. Her son she loved and feared unutterably;
she had given up the management of the property to Vassily Ivanovitch—
and now did not interfere in anything; she used to groan, wave her
handkerchief, and raise her eyebrows higher and higher with horror directly
her old husband began to discuss the impending government reforms and
his own plans. She was apprehensive, and constantly expecting some great
misfortune, and began to weep directly she remembered anything
sorrowful.... Such women are not common nowadays. God knows whether
we ought to rejoice!

CHAPTER XXI

On getting up Arkady opened the window, and the first object that met his
view was Vassily Ivanovitch. In an Oriental dressing-gown girt round the
waist with a pocket-handkerchief he was industriously digging in his
garden. He perceived his young visitor, and leaning on his spade, he called,
'The best of health to you! How have you slept?'

'Capitally,' answered Arkady.

'Here am I, as you see, like some Cincinnatus, marking out a bed for late
turnips. The time has come now—and thank God for it!—when every one
ought to obtain his sustenance with his own hands; it's useless to reckon on
others; one must labour oneself. And it turns out that Jean Jacques Rousseau
is right. Half an hour ago, my dear young gentleman, you might have seen
me in a totally different position. One peasant woman, who complained of
looseness—that's how they express it, but in our language, dysentery—I ...
how can I express it best? I administered opium, and for another I extracted
a tooth. I proposed an anæsthetic to her ... but she would not consent. All
that I do gratis—anamatyer (en amateur). I'm used to it, though; you see,
I'm a plebeian, homo novus—not one of the old stock, not like my spouse....
Wouldn't you like to come this way into the shade, to breathe the morning
freshness a little before tea?'

Arkady went out to him.

'Welcome once again,' said Vassily Ivanovitch, raising his hand in a military
salute to the greasy skull-cap which covered his head. 'You, I know, are
accustomed to luxury, to amusements, but even the great ones of this world
do not disdain to spend a brief space under a cottage roof.'

'Good heavens,' protested Arkady, 'as though I were one of the great ones of
this world! And I'm not accustomed to luxury.'

'Pardon me, pardon me,' rejoined Vassily Ivanovitch with a polite simper.
'Though I am laid on the shelf now, I have knocked about the world too—I
can tell a bird by its flight. I am something of a psychologist too in my own
way, and a physiognomist. If I had not, I will venture to say, been endowed
with that gift, I should have come to grief long ago; I should have stood no
chance, a poor man like me. I tell you without flattery, I am sincerely
delighted at the friendship I observe between you and my son. I have just
seen him; he got up as he usually does—no doubt you are aware of it—very
early, and went a ramble about the neighbourhood. Permit me to inquire—
have you known my son long?'

'Since last winter.'

'Indeed. And permit me to question you further—but hadn't we better sit
down? Permit me, as a father, to ask without reserve, What is your opinion
of my Yevgeny?'

'Your son is one of the most remarkable men I have ever met,' Arkady
answered emphatically.

Vassily Ivanovitch's eyes suddenly grew round, and his cheeks were
suffused with a faint flush. The spade fell out of his hand.

'And so you expect,' he began ...

'I'm convinced,' Arkady put in, 'that your son has a great future before him;
that he will do honour to your name. I've been certain of that ever since I
first met him.'

'How ... how was that?' Vassily Ivanovitch articulated with an effort. His
wide mouth was relaxed in a triumphant smile, which would not leave it.

'Would you like me to tell you how we met?'

'Yes ... and altogether....'

Arkady began to tell his tale, and to talk of Bazarov with even greater
warmth, even greater enthusiasm than he had done on the evening when he
danced a mazurka with Madame Odintsov.

Vassily Ivanovitch listened and listened, blinked, and rolled his
handkerchief up into a ball in both his hands, cleared his throat, ruffled up
his hair, and at last could stand it no longer; he bent down to Arkady and
kissed him on his shoulder. 'You have made me perfectly happy,' he said,
never ceasing to smile. 'I ought to tell you, I ... idolise my son; my old wife
I won't speak of—we all know what mothers are!—but I dare not show my
feelings before him, because he doesn't like it. He is averse to every kind of
demonstration of feeling; many people even find fault with him for such
firmness of character, and regard it as a proof of pride or lack of feeling, but
men like him ought not to be judged by the common standard, ought they?
And here, for example, many another fellow in his place would have been a
constant drag on his parents; but he, would you believe it? has never from
the day he was born taken a farthing more than he could help, that's God's
truth!'

'He is a disinterested, honest man,' observed Arkady.

'Exactly so; he is disinterested. And I don't only idolise him, Arkady
Nikolaitch, I am proud of him, and the height of my ambition is that some
day there will be the following lines in his biography: "The son of a simple
army-doctor, who was, however, capable of divining his greatness betimes,
and spared nothing for his education ..."' The old man's voice broke.

Arkady pressed his hand.

'What do you think,' inquired Vassily Ivanovitch, after a short silence, 'will
it be in the career of medicine that he will attain the celebrity you anticipate
for him?'

'Of course, not in medicine, though even in that department he will be one
of the leading scientific men.'

'In what then, Arkady Nikolaitch?'

'It would he hard to say now, but he will be famous.'

'He will be famous!' repeated the old man, and he sank into a reverie.

'Arina Vlasyevna sent me to call you in to tea,' announced Anfisushka,
coming by with an immense dish of ripe raspberries.

Vassily Ivanovitch started. 'And will there be cooled cream for the
raspberries?'

'Yes.'

'Cold now, mind! Don't stand on ceremony, Arkady Nikolaitch; take some
more. How is it Yevgeny doesn't come?'

'I'm here,' was heard Bazarov's voice from Arkady's room.

Vassily Ivanovitch turned round quickly. 'Aha! you wanted to pay a visit to
your friend; but you were too late, amice, and we have already had a long
conversation with him. Now we must go in to tea, mother summons us. By
the way, I want to have a little talk with you.'

'What about?'

'There's a peasant here; he's suffering from icterus....

'You mean jaundice?'

'Yes, a chronic and very obstinate case of icterus. I have prescribed him
centaury and St. John's wort, ordered him to eat carrots, given him soda; but
all that's merely palliative measures; we want some more decided treatment.
Though you do laugh at medicine, I am certain you can give me practical
advice. But we will talk of that later. Now come in to tea.'

Vassily Ivanovitch jumped up briskly from the garden seat, and hummed
from Robert le Diable—

'The rule, the rule we set ourselves,
To live, to live for pleasure!'

'Singular vitality!' observed Bazarov, going away from the window.

It was midday. The sun was burning hot behind a thin veil of unbroken
whitish clouds. Everything was hushed; there was no sound but the cocks
crowing irritably at one another in the village, producing in every one who
heard them a strange sense of drowsiness and ennui; and somewhere, high
up in a tree-top, the incessant plaintive cheep of a young hawk. Arkady and
Bazarov lay in the shade of a small haystack, putting under themselves two
armfuls of dry and rustling, but still greenish and fragrant grass.

'That aspen-tree,' began Bazarov, 'reminds me of my childhood; it grows at
the edge of the clay-pits where the bricks were dug, and in those days I
believed firmly that that clay-pit and aspen-tree possessed a peculiar
talismanic power; I never felt dull near them. I did not understand then that
I was not dull, because I was a child. Well, now I'm grown up, the
talisman's lost its power.'

'How long did you live here altogether?' asked Arkady.

'Two years on end; then we travelled about. We led a roving life, wandering
from town to town for the most part.'

'And has this house been standing long?'

'Yes. My grandfather built it—my mother's father.'

'Who was he—your grandfather?'

'Devil knows. Some second-major. He served with Suvorov, and was
always telling stories about the crossing of the Alps—inventions probably.'

'You have a portrait of Suvorov hanging in the drawing-room. I like these
dear little houses like yours; they're so warm and old-fashioned; and there's
always a special sort of scent about them.'

'A smell of lamp-oil and clover,' Bazarov remarked, yawning. 'And the flies
in those dear little houses.... Faugh!'

'Tell me,' began Arkady, after a brief pause, 'were they strict with you when
you were a child?'

'You can see what my parents are like. They're not a severe sort.'

'Are you fond of them, Yevgeny?'

'I am, Arkady.'

'How fond they are of you!'

Bazarov was silent for a little. 'Do you know what I'm thinking about?' he
brought out at last, clasping his hands behind his head.

'No. What is it?'

'I'm thinking life is a happy thing for my parents. My father at sixty is
fussing around, talking about "palliative" measures, doctoring people,
playing the bountiful master with the peasants—having a festive time, in
fact; and my mother's happy too; her day's so chockful of duties of all sorts,
and sighs and groans that she's no time even to think of herself; while I ...'

'While you?'

'I think; here I lie under a haystack.... The tiny space I occupy is so
infinitely small in comparison with the rest of space, in which I am not, and
which has nothing to do with me; and the period of time in which it is my
lot to live is so petty beside the eternity in which I have not been, and shall
not be.... And in this atom, this mathematical point, the blood is circulating,
the brain is working and wanting something.... Isn't it loathsome? Isn't it
petty?'

'Allow me to remark that what you're saying applies to men in general.'

'You are right,' Bazarov cut in. 'I was going to say that they now—my
parents, I mean—are absorbed and don't trouble themselves about their own
nothingness; it doesn't sicken them ... while I ... I feel nothing but weariness
and anger.'

'Anger? why anger?'

'Why? How can you ask why? Have you forgotten?'

'I remember everything, but still I don't admit that you have any right to be
angry. You're unlucky, I'll allow, but ...'

'Pooh! then you, Arkady Nikolaevitch, I can see, regard love like all modern
young men; cluck, cluck, cluck you call to the hen, but if the hen comes
near you, you run away. I'm not like that. But that's enough of that. What
can't be helped, it's shameful to talk about.' He turned over on his side.
'Aha! there goes a valiant ant dragging off a half-dead fly. Take her, brother,
take her! Don't pay attention to her resistance; it's your privilege as an
animal to be free from the sentiment of pity—make the most of it—not like
us conscientious self-destructive animals!'

'You shouldn't say that, Yevgeny! When have you destroyed yourself?'

Bazarov raised his head. 'That's the only thing I pride myself on. I haven't
crushed myself, so a woman can't crush me. Amen! It's all over! You shall
not hear another word from me about it.'

Both the friends lay for some time in silence.

'Yes,' began Bazarov, 'man's a strange animal. When one gets a side view
from a distance of the dead-alive life our "fathers" lead here, one thinks,
What could be better? You eat and drink, and know you are acting in the
most reasonable, most judicious manner. But if not, you're devoured by
ennui. One wants to have to do with people if only to abuse them.'

'One ought so to order one's life that every moment in it should be of
significance,' Arkady affirmed reflectively.

'I dare say! What's of significance is sweet, however mistaken; one could
make up one's mind to what's insignificant even. But pettiness, pettiness,
that's what's insufferable.'

'Pettiness doesn't exist for a man so long as he refuses to recognise it.'

'H'm ... what you've just said is a common-place reversed.'

'What? What do you mean by that term?'

'I'll tell you; saying, for instance, that education is beneficial, that's a
common-place; but to say that education is injurious, that's a common-place
turned upside down. There's more style about it, so to say, but in reality it's
one and the same.'

'And the truth is—where, which side?'

'Where? Like an echo I answer, Where?'

'You're in a melancholy mood to-day, Yevgeny.'

'Really? The sun must have softened my brain, I suppose, and I can't stand
so many raspberries either.'

'In that case, a nap's not a bad thing,' observed Arkady.

'Certainly; only don't look at me; every man's face is stupid when he's
asleep.'

'But isn't it all the same to you what people think of you?'

'I don't know what to say to you. A real man ought not to care; a real man is
one whom it's no use thinking about, whom one must either obey or hate.'

'It's funny! I don't hate anybody,' observed Arkady, after a moment's
thought.

'And I hate so many. You are a soft-hearted, mawkish creature; how could
you hate any one?... You're timid; you don't rely on yourself much.'

'And you,' interrupted Arkady, 'do you expect much of yourself? Have you a
high opinion of yourself?'

Bazarov paused. 'When I meet a man who can hold his own beside me,' he
said, dwelling on every syllable, 'then I'll change my opinion of myself.

Yes, hatred! You said, for instance, to-day as we passed our bailiff Philip's
cottage—it's the one that's so nice and clean—well, you said, Russia will
come to perfection when the poorest peasant has a house like that, and
every one of us ought to work to bring it about.... And I felt such a hatred
for this poorest peasant, this Philip or Sidor, for whom I'm to be ready to
jump out of my skin, and who won't even thank me for it ... and why should
he thank me? Why, suppose he does live in a clean house, while the nettles
are growing out of me,—well what do I gain by it?'

'Hush, Yevgeny ... if one listened to you to-day one would be driven to
agreeing with those who reproach us for want of principles.'

'You talk like your uncle. There are no general principles—you've not made
out that even yet! There are feelings. Everything depends on them.'

'How so?'

'Why, I, for instance, take up a negative attitude, by virtue of my sensations;
I like to deny—my brain's made on that plan, and that's all about it! Why do
I like chemistry? Why do you like apples?—by virtue of our sensations. It's
all the same thing. Deeper than that men will never penetrate. Not every one
will tell you that, and, in fact, I shan't tell you so another time.'

'What? and is honesty a matter of the senses?'

'I should rather think so.'

'Yevgeny!' Arkady was beginning in a dejected voice ...

'Well? What? Isn't it to your taste?' broke in Bazarov. 'No, brother. If you've
made up your mind to mow down everything, don't spare your own legs.
But we've talked enough metaphysics. "Nature breathes the silence of
sleep," said Pushkin.'

'He never said anything of the sort,' protested Arkady.

'Well, if he didn't, as a poet he might have—and ought to have said it. By
the way, he must have been a military man.'

'Pushkin never was a military man!'

'Why, on every page of him there's, "To arms! to arms! for Russia's
honour!"'

'Why, what stories you invent! I declare, it's positive calumny.'

'Calumny? That's a mighty matter! What a word he's found to frighten me
with! Whatever charge you make against a man, you may be certain he
deserves twenty times worse than that in reality.'

'We had better go to sleep,' said Arkady, in a tone of vexation.

'With the greatest pleasure,' answered Bazarov. But neither of them slept. A
feeling almost of hostility had come over both the young men. Five minutes
later, they opened their eyes and glanced at one another in silence.

'Look,' said Arkady suddenly, 'a dry maple leaf has come off and is falling
to the earth; its movement is exactly like a butterfly's flight. Isn't it strange?
Gloom and decay—like brightness and life.'

'Oh, my friend, Arkady Nikolaitch!' cried Bazarov, 'one thing I entreat of
you; no fine talk.'

'I talk as best I can.... And, I declare, its perfect despotism. An idea came
into my head; why shouldn't I utter it?'

'Yes; and why shouldn't I utter my ideas? I think that fine talk's positively
indecent.'

'And what is decent? Abuse?'

'Ha! ha! you really do intend, I see, to walk in your uncle's footsteps. How
pleased that worthy imbecile would have been if he had heard you!'

'What did you call Pavel Petrovitch?'

'I called him, very justly, an imbecile.'

'But this is unbearable!' cried Arkady.

'Aha! family feeling spoke there,' Bazarov commented coolly. 'I've noticed
how obstinately it sticks to people. A man's ready to give up everything and
break with every prejudice; but to admit that his brother, for instance, who
steals handkerchiefs, is a thief—that's too much for him. And when one
comes to think of it: my brother, mine—and no genius ... that's an idea no
one can swallow.'

'It was a simple sense of justice spoke in me and not in the least family
feeling,' retorted Arkady passionately. 'But since that's a sense you don't
understand, since you haven't that sensation, you can't judge of it.'

'In other words, Arkady Kirsanov is too exalted for my comprehension. I
bow down before him and say no more.'

'Don't, please, Yevgeny; we shall really quarrel at last.'

'Ah, Arkady! do me a kindness. I entreat you, let us quarrel for once in
earnest....'

'But then perhaps we should end by ...'

'Fighting?' put in Bazarov. 'Well? Here, on the hay, in these idyllic
surroundings, far from the world and the eyes of men, it wouldn't matter.
But you'd be no match for me. I'll have you by the throat in a minute.'

Bazarov spread out his long, cruel fingers.... Arkady turned round and
prepared, as though in jest, to resist.... But his friend's face struck him as so
vindictive—there was such menace in grim earnest in the smile that
distorted his lips, and in his glittering eyes, that he felt instinctively afraid.

'Ah! so this is where you have got to!' the voice of Vassily Ivanovitch was
heard saying at that instant, and the old army-doctor appeared before the
young men, garbed in a home-made linen pea-jacket, with a straw hat, also
home-made, on his head. 'I've been looking everywhere for you.... Well,
you've picked out a capital place, and you're excellently employed. Lying

on the "earth, gazing up to heaven." Do you know, there's a special
significance in that?'

'I never gaze up to heaven except when I want to sneeze,' growled Bazarov,
and turning to Arkady he added in an undertone. 'Pity he interrupted us.'

'Come, hush!' whispered Arkady, and he secretly squeezed his friend's hand.
But no friendship can long stand such shocks.

'I look at you, my youthful friends,' Vassily Ivanovitch was saying
meantime, shaking his head, and leaning his folded arms on a rather
cunningly bent stick of his own carving, with a Turk's figure for a top,—'I
look, and I cannot refrain from admiration. You have so much strength,
such youth and bloom, such abilities, such talents! Positively, a Castor and
Pollux!'

'Get along with you—going off into mythology!' commented Bazarov. 'You
can see at once that he was a great Latinist in his day! Why, I seem to
remember, you gained the silver medal for Latin prose—didn't you?'

'The Dioscuri, the Dioscuri!' repeated Vassily Ivanovitch.

'Come, shut up, father; don't show off.'

'Once in a way it's surely permissible,' murmured the old man. 'However, I
have not been seeking for you, gentlemen, to pay you compliments; but
with the object, in the first place, of announcing to you that we shall soon
be dining; and secondly, I wanted to prepare you, Yevgeny.... You are a
sensible man, you know the world, and you know what women are, and
consequently you will excuse.... Your mother wished to have a Te Deum
sung on the occasion of your arrival. You must not imagine that I am
inviting you to attend this thanksgiving—it is over indeed now; but Father
Alexey ...'

'The village parson?'

'Well, yes, the priest; he ... is to dine ... with us.... I did not anticipate this,
and did not even approve of it ... but it somehow came about ... he did not

understand me.... And, well ... Arina Vlasyevna ... Besides, he's a worthy,
reasonable man.'

'He won't eat my share at dinner, I suppose?' queried Bazarov.

Vassily Ivanovitch laughed. 'How you talk!'

'Well, that's all I ask. I'm ready to sit down to table with any man.'

Vassily Ivanovitch set his hat straight. 'I was certain before I spoke,' he said,
'that you were above any kind of prejudice. Here am I, an old man at sixty-
two, and I have none.' (Vassily Ivanovitch did not dare to confess that he
had himself desired the thanksgiving service. He was no less religious than
his wife.) 'And Father Alexey very much wanted to make your
acquaintance. You will like him, you'll see. He's no objection even to cards,
and he sometimes—but this is between ourselves ... positively smokes a
pipe.'

'All right. We'll have a round of whist after dinner, and I'll clean him out.'

'He! he! he! We shall see! That remains to be seen.'

'I know you're an old hand,' said Bazarov, with a peculiar emphasis.

Vassily Ivanovitch's bronzed cheeks were suffused with an uneasy flush.

'For shame, Yevgeny.... Let bygones be bygones. Well, I'm ready to
acknowledge before this gentleman I had that passion in my youth; and I
have paid for it too! How hot it is, though! Let me sit down with you. I
shan't be in your way, I hope?'

'Oh, not at all,' answered Arkady.

Vassily Ivanovitch lowered himself, sighing, into the hay. 'Your present
quarters remind me, my dear sirs,' he began, 'of my military bivouacking
existence, the ambulance halts, somewhere like this under a haystack, and
even for that we were thankful.' He sighed. 'I had many, many experiences
in my life. For example, if you will allow me, I will tell you a curious
episode of the plague in Bessarabia.'

'For which you got the Vladimir cross?' put in Bazarov. 'We know, we
know.... By the way, why is it you're not wearing it?'

'Why, I told you that I have no prejudices,' muttered Vassily Ivanovitch (he
had only the evening before had the red ribbon unpicked off his coat), and
he proceeded to relate the episode of the plague. 'Why, he's fallen asleep,' he
whispered all at once to Arkady, pointing to Yevgeny, and winking good-
naturedly. 'Yevgeny! get up,' he went on aloud. 'Let's go in to dinner.'

Father Alexey, a good-looking stout man with thick, carefully-combed hair,
with an embroidered girdle round his lilac silk cassock, appeared to be a
man of much tact and adaptability. He made haste to be the first to offer his
hand to Arkady and Bazarov, as though understanding beforehand that they
did not want his blessing, and he behaved himself in general without
constraint. He neither derogated from his own dignity, nor gave offence to
others; he vouchsafed a passing smile at the seminary Latin, and stood up
for his bishop; drank two small glasses of wine, but refused a third;
accepted a cigar from Arkady, but did not proceed to smoke it, saying he
would take it home with him. The only thing not quite agreeable about him
was a way he had of constantly raising his hand with care and deliberation
to catch the flies on his face, sometimes succeeding in smashing them. He
took his seat at the green table, expressing his satisfaction at so doing in
measured terms, and ended by winning from Bazarov two roubles and a
half in paper money; they had no idea of even reckoning in silver in the
house of Arina Vlasyevna.... She was sitting, as before, near her son (she
did not play cards), her cheek, as before, propped on her little fist; she only
got up to order some new dainty to be served. She was afraid to caress
Bazarov, and he gave her no encouragement, he did not invite her caresses;
and besides, Vassily Ivanovitch had advised her not to 'worry' him too
much. 'Young men are not fond of that sort of thing,' he declared to her. (It's
needless to say what the dinner was like that day; Timofeitch in person had
galloped off at early dawn for beef; the bailiff had gone off in another
direction for turbot, gremille, and crayfish; for mushrooms alone forty-two
farthings had been paid the peasant women in copper); but Arina
Vlasyevna's eyes, bent steadfastly on Bazarov, did not express only
devotion and tenderness; in them was to be seen sorrow also, mingled with

awe and curiosity; there was to be seen too a sort of humble
reproachfulness.

Bazarov, however, was not in a humour to analyse the exact expression of
his mother's eyes; he seldom turned to her, and then only with some short
question. Once he asked her for her hand 'for luck'; she gently laid her soft,
little hand on his rough, broad palm.

'Well,' she asked, after waiting a little, 'has it been any use?'

'Worse luck than ever,' he answered, with a careless laugh.

'He plays too rashly,' pronounced Father Alexey, as it were compassionately,
and he stroked his beard.

'Napoleon's rule, good Father, Napoleon's rule,' put in Vassily Ivanovitch,
leading an ace.

'It brought him to St. Helena, though,' observed Father Alexey, as he
trumped the ace.

'Wouldn't you like some currant tea, Enyusha?' inquired Arina Vlasyevna.

Bazarov merely shrugged his shoulders.

'No!' he said to Arkady the next day. I'm off from here to-morrow. I'm
bored; I want to work, but I can't work here. I will come to your place
again; I've left all my apparatus there too. In your house one can at any rate
shut oneself up. While here my father repeats to me, "My study is at your
disposal—nobody shall interfere with you," and all the time he himself is
never a yard away. And I'm ashamed somehow to shut myself away from
him. It's the same thing too with mother. I hear her sighing the other side of
the wall, and if one goes in to her, one's nothing to say to her.'

'She will be very much grieved,' observed Arkady, 'and so will he.'

'I shall come back again to them.'

'When?'

'Why, when on my way to Petersburg.'

'I feel sorry for your mother particularly.'

'Why's that? Has she won your heart with strawberries, or what?'

Arkady dropped his eyes. 'You don't understand your mother, Yevgeny.
She's not only a very good woman, she's very clever really. This morning
she talked to me for half-an-hour, and so sensibly, interestingly.'

'I suppose she was expatiating upon me all the while?'

'We didn't talk only about you.'

'Perhaps; lookers-on see most. If a woman can keep up half-an-hour's
conversation, it's always a hopeful sign. But I'm going, all the same.'

'It won't be very easy for you to break it to them. They are always making
plans for what we are to do in a fortnight's time.'

'No; it won't be easy. Some demon drove me to tease my father to-day; he
had one of his rent-paying peasants flogged the other day, and quite right
too—yes, yes, you needn't look at me in such horror—he did quite right,
because he's an awful thief and drunkard; only my father had no idea that I,
as they say, was cognisant of the facts. He was greatly perturbed, and now I
shall have to upset him more than ever.... Never mind! Never say die! He'll
get over it!'

Bazarov said, 'Never mind'; but the whole day passed before he could make
up his mind to inform Vassily Ivanovitch of his intentions. At last, when he
was just saying good-night to him in the study, he observed, with a feigned
yawn—

'Oh ... I was almost forgetting to tell you.... Send to Fedot's for our horses
to-morrow.'

Vassily Ivanovitch was dumbfounded. 'Is Mr. Kirsanov leaving us, then?'

'Yes; and I'm going with him.'

Vassily Ivanovitch positively reeled. 'You are going?'

'Yes ... I must. Make the arrangements about the horses, please.'

'Very good....' faltered the old man; 'to Fedot's ... very good ... only ...
only.... How is it?'

'I must go to stay with him for a little time. I will come back again later.'

'Ah! For a little time ... very good.' Vassily Ivanovitch drew out his
handkerchief, and, blowing his nose, doubled up almost to the ground. 'Well
... everything shall be done. I had thought you were to be with us ... a little
longer. Three days.... After three years, it's rather little; rather little,
Yevgeny!'

'But, I tell you, I'm coming back directly. It's necessary for me to go.'

'Necessary.... Well! Duty before everything. So the horses shall be in
readiness. Very good. Arina and I, of course, did not anticipate this. She has
just begged some flowers from a neighbour; she meant to decorate the room
for you.' (Vassily Ivanovitch did not even mention that every morning
almost at dawn he took counsel with Timofeitch, standing with his bare feet
in his slippers, and pulling out with trembling fingers one dog's-eared
rouble note after another, charged him with various purchases, with special
reference to good things to eat, and to red wine, which, as far as he could
observe, the young men liked extremely.) 'Liberty ... is the great thing; that's
my rule.... I don't want to hamper you ... not ...'

He suddenly ceased, and made for the door.

'We shall soon see each other again, father, really.'

But Vassily Ivanovitch, without turning round, merely waved his hand and
was gone. When he got back to his bedroom he found his wife in bed, and
began to say his prayers in a whisper, so as not to wake her up. She woke,
however. 'Is that you, Vassily Ivanovitch?' she asked.

'Yes, mother.'

'Have you come from Enyusha? Do you know, I'm afraid of his not being
comfortable on that sofa. I told Anfisushka to put him on your travelling
mattress and the new pillows; I should have given him our feather-bed, but I
seem to remember he doesn't like too soft a bed....'

'Never mind, mother; don't worry yourself. He's all right. Lord, have mercy
on me, a sinner,' he went on with his prayer in a low voice. Vassily
Ivanovitch was sorry for his old wife; he did not mean to tell her over night
what a sorrow there was in store for her.

Bazarov and Arkady set off the next day. From early morning all was
dejection in the house; Anfisushka let the tray slip out of her hands; even
Fedka was bewildered, and was reduced to taking off his boots. Vassily
Ivanitch was more fussy than ever; he was obviously trying to put a good
face on it, talked loudly, and stamped with his feet, but his face looked
haggard, and his eyes were continually avoiding his son. Arina Vlasyevna
was crying quietly; she was utterly crushed, and could not have controlled
herself at all if her husband had not spent two whole hours early in the
morning exhorting her. When Bazarov, after repeated promises to come
back certainly not later than in a month's time, tore himself at last from the
embraces detaining him, and took his seat in the coach; when the horses had
started, the bell was ringing, and the wheels were turning round, and when
it was no longer any good to look after them, and the dust had settled, and
Timofeitch, all bent and tottering as he walked, had crept back to his little
room; when the old people were left alone in their little house, which
seemed suddenly to have grown shrunken and decrepit too, Vassily
Ivanovitch, after a few more moments of hearty waving of his handkerchief
on the steps, sank into a chair, and his head dropped on to his breast. 'He
has cast us off; he has forsaken us,' he faltered; 'forsaken us; he was dull
with us. Alone, alone!' he repeated several times. Then Arina Vlasyevna
went up to him, and, leaning her grey head against his grey head, said,
'There's no help for it, Vasya! A son is a separate piece cut off. He's like the
falcon that flies home and flies away at his pleasure; while you and I are
like funguses in the hollow of a tree, we sit side by side, and don't move
from our place. Only I am left you unchanged for ever, as you for me.'

Vassily Ivanovitch took his hands from his face and clasped his wife, his
friend, as warmly as he had never clasped in youth; she comforted him in
his grief.

CHAPTER XXII

In silence, only rarely exchanging a few insignificant words, our friends
travelled as far as Fedot's. Bazarov was not altogether pleased with himself.
Arkady was displeased with him. He was feeling, too, that causeless
melancholy which is only known to very young people. The coachman
changed the horses, and getting up on to the box, inquired, 'To the right or
to the left?'

Arkady started. The road to the right led to the town, and from there home;
the road to the left led to Madame Odintsov's.

He looked at Bazarov.

'Yevgeny,' he queried; 'to the left?'

Bazarov turned away. 'What folly is this?' he muttered.

'I know it's folly,' answered Arkady.... 'But what does that matter? It's not
the first time.'

Bazarov pulled his cap down over his brows. 'As you choose,' he said at
last. 'Turn to the left,' shouted Arkady.

The coach rolled away in the direction of Nikolskoe. But having resolved
on the folly, the friends were even more obstinately silent than before, and
seemed positively ill-humoured.

Directly the steward met them on the steps of Madame Odintsov's house,
the friends could perceive that they had acted injudiciously in giving way so
suddenly to a passing impulse. They were obviously not expected. They sat
rather a long while, looking rather foolish, in the drawing-room. Madame
Odintsov came in to them at last. She greeted them with her customary
politeness, but was surprised at their hasty return; and, so far as could be
judged from the deliberation of her gestures and words, she was not over
pleased at it. They made haste to announce that they had only called on
their road, and must go on farther, to the town, within four hours. She
confined herself to a light exclamation, begged Arkady to remember her to
his father, and sent for her aunt. The princess appeared very sleepy, which
gave her wrinkled old face an even more ill-natured expression. Katya was
not well; she did not leave her room. Arkady suddenly realised that he was
at least as anxious to see Katya as Anna Sergyevna herself. The four hours
were spent in insignificant discussion of one thing and another; Anna
Sergyevna both listened and spoke without a smile. It was only quite at
parting that her former friendliness seemed, as it were, to revive.

'I have an attack of spleen just now,' she said; 'but you must not pay
attention to that, and come again—I say this to both of you—before long.'

Both Bazarov and Arkady responded with a silent bow, took their seats in
the coach, and without stopping again anywhere, went straight home to
Maryino, where they arrived safely on the evening of the following day.
During the whole course of the journey neither one nor the other even
mentioned the name of Madame Odintsov; Bazarov, in particular, scarcely
opened his mouth, and kept staring in a side direction away from the road,
with a kind of exasperated intensity.

At Maryino every one was exceedingly delighted to see them. The
prolonged absence of his son had begun to make Nikolai Petrovitch uneasy;
he uttered a cry of joy, and bounced about on the sofa, dangling his legs,
when Fenitchka ran to him with sparkling eyes, and informed him of the
arrival of the 'young gentlemen'; even Pavel Petrovitch was conscious of
some degree of agreeable excitement, and smiled condescendingly as he
shook hands with the returned wanderers. Talk, questions followed; Arkady
talked most, especially at supper, which was prolonged long after midnight.

Nikolai Petrovitch ordered up some bottles of porter which had only just
been sent from Moscow, and partook of the festive beverage till his cheeks
were crimson, and he kept laughing in a half-childish, half-nervous little
chuckle. Even the servants were infected by the general gaiety. Dunyasha
ran up and down like one possessed, and was continually slamming doors;
while Piotr was, at three o'clock in the morning, still attempting to strum a
Cossack waltz on the guitar. The strings gave forth a sweet and plaintive
sound in the still air; but with the exception of a small preliminary flourish,
nothing came of the cultured valet's efforts; nature had given him no more
musical talent than all the rest of the world.

But meanwhile things were not going over harmoniously at Maryino, and
poor Nikolai Petrovitch was having a bad time of it. Difficulties on the farm
sprang up every day—senseless, distressing difficulties. The troubles with
the hired labourers had become insupportable. Some asked for their wages
to be settled, or for an increase of wages, while others made off with the
wages they had received in advance; the horses fell sick; the harness fell to
pieces as though it were burnt; the work was carelessly done; a threshing
machine that had been ordered from Moscow turned out to be useless from
its great weight, another was ruined the first time it was used; half the cattle
sheds were burnt down through an old blind woman on the farm going in
windy weather with a burning brand to fumigate her cow ... the old woman,
it is true, maintained that the whole mischief could be traced to the master's
plan of introducing newfangled cheeses and milk-products. The overseer
suddenly turned lazy, and began to grow fat, as every Russian grows fat
when he gets a snug berth. When he caught sight of Nikolai Petrovitch in
the distance, he would fling a stick at a passing pig, or threaten a half-naked
urchin, to show his zeal, but the rest of the time he was generally asleep.
The peasants who had been put on the rent system did not bring their
money at the time due, and stole the forest-timber; almost every night the
keepers caught peasants' horses in the meadows of the 'farm,' and
sometimes forcibly bore them off. Nikolai Petrovitch would fix a money
fine for damages, but the matter usually ended after the horses had been
kept a day or two on the master's forage by their returning to their owners.
To crown all, the peasants began quarrelling among themselves; brothers
asked for a division of property, their wives could not get on together in one
house; all of a sudden the squabble, as though at a given signal, came to a

head, and at once the whole village came running to the counting-house
steps, crawling to the master often drunken and with battered face,
demanding justice and judgment; then arose an uproar and clamour, the
shrill wailing of the women mixed with the curses of the men. Then one had
to examine the contending parties, and shout oneself hoarse, knowing all
the while that one could never anyway arrive at a just decision.... There
were not hands enough for the harvest; a neighbouring small owner, with
the most benevolent countenance, contracted to supply him with reapers for
a commission of two roubles an acre, and cheated him in the most
shameless fashion; his peasant women demanded unheard-of sums, and the
corn meanwhile went to waste; and here they were not getting on with the
mowing, and there the Council of Guardians threatened and demanded
prompt payment, in full, of interest due....

'I can do nothing!' Nikolai Petrovitch cried more than once in despair. 'I
can't flog them myself; and as for calling in the police captain, my
principles don't allow of it, while you can do nothing with them without the
fear of punishment!'

'Du calme, du calme,' Pavel Petrovitch would remark upon this, but even he
hummed to himself, knitted his brows, and tugged at his moustache.

Bazarov held aloof from these matters, and indeed as a guest it was not for
him to meddle in other people's business. The day after his arrival at
Maryino, he set to work on his frogs, his infusoria, and his chemical
experiments, and was for ever busy with them. Arkady, on the contrary,
thought it his duty, if not to help his father, at least to make a show of being
ready to help him. He gave him a patient hearing, and once offered him
some advice, not with any idea of its being acted upon, but to show his
interest. Farming details did not arouse any aversion in him; he used even to
dream with pleasure of work on the land, but at this time his brain was
swarming with other ideas. Arkady, to his own astonishment, thought
incessantly of Nikolskoe; in former days he would simply have shrugged
his shoulders if any one had told him that he could ever feel dull under the
same roof as Bazarov—and that roof his father's! but he actually was dull
and longed to get away. He tried going long walks till he was tired, but that
was no use. In conversation with his father one day, he found out that

Nikolai Petrovitch had in his possession rather interesting letters, written by
Madame Odintsov's mother to his wife, and he gave him no rest till he got
hold of the letters, for which Nikolai Petrovitch had to rummage in twenty
drawers and boxes. Having gained possession of these half-crumbling
papers, Arkady felt, as it were, soothed, just as though he had caught a
glimpse of the goal towards which he ought now to go. 'I mean that for both
of you,' he was constantly whispering—she had added that herself! 'I'll go,
I'll go, hang it all!' But he recalled the last visit, the cold reception, and his
former embarrassment, and timidity got the better of him. The 'go-ahead'
feeling of youth, the secret desire to try his luck, to prove his powers in
solitude, without the protection of any one whatever, gained the day at last.
Before ten days had passed after his return to Maryino, on the pretext of
studying the working of the Sunday schools, he galloped off to the town
again, and from there to Nikolskoe. Urging the driver on without
intermission, he flew along, like a young officer riding to battle; and he felt
both frightened and light-hearted, and was breathless with impatience. 'The
great thing is—one mustn't think,' he kept repeating to himself. His driver
happened to be a lad of spirit; he halted before every public house, saying,
'A drink or not a drink?' but, to make up for it, when he had drunk he did
not spare his horses. At last the lofty roof of the familiar house came in
sight.... 'What am I to do?' flashed through Arkady's head. 'Well, there's no
turning back now!' The three horses galloped in unison; the driver whooped
and whistled at them. And now the bridge was groaning under the hoofs and
wheels, and now the avenue of lopped pines seemed running to meet
them.... There was a glimpse of a woman's pink dress against the dark
green, a young face from under the light fringe of a parasol.... He
recognised Katya, and she recognised him. Arkady told the driver to stop
the galloping horses, leaped out of the carriage, and went up to her. 'It's
you!' she cried, gradually flushing all over; 'let us go to my sister, she's here
in the garden; she will be pleased to see you.'

Katya led Arkady into the garden. His meeting with her struck him as a
particularly happy omen; he was delighted to see her, as though she were of
his own kindred. Everything had happened so splendidly; no steward, no
formal announcement. At a turn in the path he caught sight of Anna
Sergyevna. She was standing with her back to him. Hearing footsteps, she
turned slowly round.

Arkady felt confused again, but the first words she uttered soothed him at
once. 'Welcome back, runaway!' she said in her even, caressing voice, and
came to meet him, smiling and frowning to keep the sun and wind out of
her eyes. 'Where did you pick him up, Katya?'

'I have brought you something, Anna Sergyevna,' he began, 'which you
certainly don't expect.'

'You have brought yourself; that's better than anything.'

CHAPTER XXIII

Having seen Arkady off with ironical compassion, and given him to
understand that he was not in the least deceived as to the real object of his
journey, Bazarov shut himself up in complete solitude; he was overtaken by
a fever for work. He did not dispute now with Pavel Petrovitch, especially
as the latter assumed an excessively aristocratic demeanour in his presence,
and expressed his opinions more in inarticulate sounds than in words. Only
on one occasion Pavel Petrovitch fell into a controversy with the nihilist on
the subject of the question then much discussed of the rights of the nobles
of the Baltic province; but suddenly he stopped of his own accord,
remarking with chilly politeness, 'However, we cannot understand one
another; I, at least, have not the honour of understanding you.'

'I should think not!' cried Bazarov. 'A man's capable of understanding
anything—how the æther vibrates, and what's going on in the sun—but how
any other man can blow his nose differently from him, that he's incapable of
understanding.'

'What, is that an epigram?' observed Pavel Petrovitch inquiringly, and he
walked away.

However, he sometimes asked permission to be present at Bazarov's
experiments, and once even placed his perfumed face, washed with the very
best soap, near the microscope to see how a transparent infusoria swallowed
a green speck, and busily munched it with two very rapid sort of clappers
which were in its throat. Nikolai Petrovitch visited Bazarov much oftener
than his brother; he would have come every day, as he expressed it, to
'study,' if his worries on the farm had not taken off his attention. He did not
hinder the young man in his scientific researches; he used to sit down
somewhere in a corner of the room and look on attentively, occasionally
permitting himself a discreet question. During dinner and supper-time he
used to try to turn the conversation upon physics, geology, or chemistry,
seeing that all other topics, even agriculture, to say nothing of politics,
might lead, if not to collisions, at least to mutual unpleasantness. Nikolai
Petrovitch surmised that his brother's dislike for Bazarov was no less. An
unimportant incident, among many others, confirmed his surmises. The
cholera began to make its appearance in some places in the neighbourhood,
and even 'carried off' two persons from Maryino itself. In the night Pavel
Petrovitch happened to have rather severe symptoms. He was in pain till the
morning, but did not have recourse to Bazarov's skill. And when he met him
the following day, in reply to his question, 'Why he had not sent for him?'
answered, still quite pale, but scrupulously brushed and shaved, 'Why, I
seem to recollect you said yourself you didn't believe in medicine.' So the
days went by. Bazarov went on obstinately and grimly working ... and
meanwhile there was in Nikolai Petrovitch's house one creature to whom, if
he did not open his heart, he at least was glad to talk.... That creature was
Fenitchka.

He used to meet her for the most part early in the morning, in the garden, or
the farmyard; he never used to go to her room to see her, and she had only
once been to his door to inquire—ought she to let Mitya have his bath or
not? It was not only that she confided in him, that she was not afraid of him
—she was positively freer and more at her ease in her behaviour with him
than with Nikolai Petrovitch himself. It is hard to say how it came about;
perhaps it was because she unconsciously felt the absence in Bazarov of all
gentility, of all that superiority which at once attracts and overawes. In her
eyes he was both an excellent doctor and a simple man. She looked after her
baby without constraint in his presence; and once when she was suddenly

attacked with giddiness and headache—she took a spoonful of medicine
from his hand. Before Nikolai Petrovitch she kept, as it were, at a distance
from Bazarov; she acted in this way not from hypocrisy, but from a kind of
feeling of propriety. Pavel Petrovitch she was more afraid of than ever; for
some time he had begun to watch her, and would suddenly make his
appearance, as though he sprang out of the earth behind her back, in his
English suit, with his immovable vigilant face, and his hands in his pockets.
'It's like a bucket of cold water on one,' Fenitchka complained to Dunyasha,
and the latter sighed in response, and thought of another 'heartless' man.
Bazarov, without the least suspicion of the fact, had become the cruel tyrant
of her heart.

Fenitchka liked Bazarov; but he liked her too. His face was positively
transformed when he talked to her; it took a bright, almost kind expression,
and his habitual nonchalance was replaced by a sort of jesting attentiveness.
Fenitchka was growing prettier every day. There is a time in the life of
young women when they suddenly begin to expand and blossom like
summer roses; this time had come for Fenitchka. Dressed in a delicate white
dress, she seemed herself slighter and whiter; she was not tanned by the
sun; but the heat, from which she could not shield herself, spread a slight
flush over her cheeks and ears, and, shedding a soft indolence over her
whole body, was reflected in a dreamy languor in her pretty eyes. She was
almost unable to work; her hands seem to fall naturally into her lap. She
scarcely walked at all, and was constantly sighing and complaining with
comic helplessness.

'You should go oftener to bathe,' Nikolai Petrovitch told her. He had made a
large bath covered in with an awning in one of his ponds which had not yet
quite disappeared.

'Oh, Nikolai Petrovitch! But by the time one gets to the pond, one's utterly
dead, and, coming back, one's dead again. You see, there's no shade in the
garden.'

'That's true, there's no shade,' replied Nikolai Petrovitch, rubbing his
forehead.

One day at seven o'clock in the morning Bazarov, returning from a walk,
came upon Fenitchka in the lilac arbour, which was long past flowering, but
was still thick and green. She was sitting on the garden seat, and had as
usual thrown a white kerchief over her head; near her lay a whole heap of
red and white roses still wet with dew. He said good morning to her.

'Ah! Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' she said, and lifted the edge of her kerchief a
little to look at him, in doing which her arm was left bare to the elbow.

'What are you doing here?' said Bazarov, sitting down beside her. 'Are you
making a nosegay?'

'Yes, for the table at lunch. Nikolai Petrovitch likes it.'

'But it's a long while yet to lunch time. What a heap of flowers!'

'I gathered them now, for it will be hot then, and one can't go out. One can
only just breathe now. I feel quite weak with the heat. I'm really afraid
whether I'm not going to be ill.'

'What an idea! Let me feel your pulse.' Bazarov took her hand, felt for the
evenly-beating pulse, but did not even begin to count its throbs. 'You'll live
a hundred years!' he said, dropping her hand.

'Ah, God forbid!' she cried.

'Why? Don't you want a long life?'

'Well, but a hundred years! There was an old woman near us eighty-five
years old—and what a martyr she was! Dirty and deaf and bent and
coughing all the time; nothing but a burden to herself. That's a dreadful
life!'

'So it's better to be young?'

'Well, isn't it?'

'But why is it better? Tell me!'

'How can you ask why? Why, here I now, while I'm young, I can do
everything—go and come and carry, and needn't ask any one for anything....
What can be better?'

'And to me it's all the same whether I'm young or old.'

'How do you mean—it's all the same? It's not possible what you say.'

'Well, judge for yourself, Fedosya Nikolaevna, what good is my youth to
me. I live alone, a poor lonely creature ...'

'That always depends on you.'

'It doesn't at all depend on me! At least, some one ought to take pity on me.'

Fenitchka gave a sidelong look at Bazarov, but said nothing. 'What's this
book you have?' she asked after a short pause.

'That? That's a scientific book, very difficult.'

'And are you still studying? And don't you find it dull? You know
everything already I should say.'

'It seems not everything. You try to read a little.'

'But I don't understand anything here. Is it Russian?' asked Fenitchka,
taking the heavily bound book in both hands. 'How thick it is!'

'Yes, it's Russian.'

'All the same, I shan't understand anything.'

'Well, I didn't give it you for you to understand it. I wanted to look at you
while you were reading. When you read, the end of your little nose moves
so nicely.'

Fenitchka, who had set to work to spell out in a low voice the article on
'Creosote' she had chanced upon, laughed and threw down the book ... it
slipped from the seat on to the ground.

'Nonsense!'

'I like it too when you laugh,' observed Bazarov.

'I like it when you talk. It's just like a little brook babbling.'

Fenitchka turned her head away. 'What a person you are to talk!' she
commented, picking the flowers over with her finger. 'And how can you
care to listen to me? You have talked with such clever ladies.'

'Ah, Fedosya Nikolaevna! believe me; all the clever ladies in the world are
not worth your little elbow.'

'Come, there's another invention!' murmured Fenitchka, clasping her hands.

Bazarov picked the book up from the ground.

'That's a medical book; why do you throw it away?'

'Medical?' repeated Fenitchka, and she turned to him again. 'Do you know,
ever since you gave me those drops—do you remember?—Mitya has slept
so well! I really can't think how to thank you; you are so good, really.'

'But you have to pay doctors,' observed Bazarov with a smile. 'Doctors, you
know yourself, are grasping people.'

Fenitchka raised her eyes, which seemed still darker from the whitish
reflection cast on the upper part of her face, and looked at Bazarov. She did
not know whether he was joking or not.

'If you please, we shall be delighted.... I must ask Nikolai Petrovitch ...'

'Why, do you think I want money?' Bazarov interposed. 'No; I don't want
money from you.'

'What then?' asked Fenitchka.

'What?' repeated Bazarov. 'Guess!'

'A likely person I am to guess!'

'Well, I will tell you; I want ... one of those roses.'

Fenitchka laughed again, and even clapped her hands, so amusing Bazarov's
request seemed to her. She laughed, and at the same time felt flattered.
Bazarov was looking intently at her.

'By all means,' she said at last; and, bending down to the seat, she began
picking over the roses. 'Which will you have—a red one or a white one?'

'Red, and not too large.'

She sat up again. 'Here, take it,' she said, but at once drew back her
outstretched hand, and, biting her lips, looked towards the entrance of the
arbour, then listened.

'What is it?' asked Bazarov. 'Nikolai Petrovitch?'

'No ... Mr. Kirsanov has gone to the fields ... besides, I'm not afraid of him
... but Pavel Petrovitch ... I fancied ...'

'What?'

'I fancied he was coming here. No ... it was no one. Take it.' Fenitchka gave
Bazarov the rose.

'On what grounds are you afraid of Pavel Petrovitch?'

'He always scares me. And I know you don't like him. Do you remember,
you always used to quarrel with him? I don't know what your quarrel was
about, but I can see you turn him about like this and like that.'

Fenitchka showed with her hands how in her opinion Bazarov turned Pavel
Petrovitch about.

Bazarov smiled. 'But if he gave me a beating,' he asked, 'would you stand
up for me?'

'How could I stand up for you? but no, no one will get the better of you.'

'Do you think so? But I know a hand which could overcome me if it liked.'

'What hand?'

'Why, don't you know, really? Smell, how delicious this rose smells you
gave me.'

Fenitchka stretched her little neck forward, and put her face close to the
flower.... The kerchief slipped from her head on to her shoulders; her soft
mass of dark, shining, slightly ruffled hair was visible.

'Wait a minute; I want to smell it with you,' said Bazarov. He bent down and
kissed her vigorously on her parted lips.

She started, pushed him back with both her hands on his breast, but pushed
feebly, and he was able to renew and prolong his kiss.

A dry cough was heard behind the lilac bushes. Fenitchka instantly moved
away to the other end of the seat. Pavel Petrovitch showed himself, made a
slight bow, and saying with a sort of malicious mournfulness, 'You are here,'
he retreated. Fenitchka at once gathered up all her roses and went out of the
arbour. 'It was wrong of you, Yevgeny Vassilyevitch,' she whispered as she
went. There was a note of genuine reproach in her whisper.

Bazarov remembered another recent scene, and he felt both shame and
contemptuous annoyance. But he shook his head directly, ironically
congratulated himself 'on his final assumption of the part of the gay
Lothario,' and went off to his own room.

Pavel Petrovitch went out of the garden, and made his way with deliberate
steps to the copse. He stayed there rather a long while; and when he
returned to lunch, Nikolai Petrovitch inquired anxiously whether he were
quite well—his face looked so gloomy.

'You know, I sometimes suffer with my liver,' Pavel Petrovitch answered
tranquilly.

CHAPTER XXIV

Two hours later he knocked at Bazarov's door.

'I must apologise for hindering you in your scientific pursuits,' he began,
seating himself on a chair in the window, and leaning with both hands on a
handsome walking-stick with an ivory knob (he usually walked without a
stick), 'but I am constrained to beg you to spare me five minutes of your
time ... no more.'

'All my time is at your disposal,' answered Bazarov, over whose face there
passed a quick change of expression directly Pavel Petrovitch crossed the
threshold.

'Five minutes will be enough for me. I have come to put a single question to
you.'

'A question? What is it about?'

'I will tell you, if you will kindly hear me out. At the commencement of
your stay in my brother's house, before I had renounced the pleasure of
conversing with you, it was my fortune to hear your opinions on many
subjects; but so far as my memory serves, neither between us, nor in my
presence, was the subject of single combats and duelling in general
broached. Allow me to hear what are your views on that subject?'

Bazarov, who had risen to meet Pavel Petrovitch, sat down on the edge of
the table and folded his arms.

'My view is,' he said, 'that from the theoretical standpoint, duelling is
absurd; from the practical standpoint, now—it's quite a different matter.'

'That is, you mean to say, if I understand you right, that whatever your
theoretical views on duelling, you would not in practice allow yourself to be
insulted without demanding satisfaction?'

'You have guessed my meaning absolutely.'

'Very good. I am very glad to hear you say so. Your words relieve me from a
state of incertitude.'

'Of uncertainty, you mean to say.'

'That is all the same! I express myself so as to be understood; I ... am not a
seminary rat. Your words save me from a rather deplorable necessity. I have
made up my mind to fight you.'

Bazarov opened his eyes wide. 'Me?'

'Undoubtedly.'

'But what for, pray?'

'I could explain the reason to you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, 'but I prefer to
be silent about it. To my idea your presence here is superfluous; I cannot
endure you; I despise you; and if that is not enough for you ...'

Pavel Petrovitch's eyes glittered ... Bazarov's too were flashing.

'Very good,' he assented. 'No need of further explanations. You've a whim to
try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this pleasure, but—so
be it!'

'I am sensible of my obligation to you,' replied Pavel Petrovitch; 'and may
reckon then on your accepting my challenge without compelling me to
resort to violent measures.'

'That means, speaking without metaphor, to that stick?' Bazarov remarked
coolly. 'That is precisely correct. It's quite unnecessary for you to insult me.
Indeed, it would not be a perfectly safe proceeding. You can remain a
gentleman.... I accept your challenge, too, like a gentleman.'

'That is excellent,' observed Pavel Petrovitch, putting his stick in the corner.
'We will say a few words directly about the conditions of our duel; but I
should like first to know whether you think it necessary to resort to the
formality of a trifling dispute, which might serve as a pretext for my
challenge?'

'No; it's better without formalities.'

'I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into the real
grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one another. What more is
necessary?'

'What more, indeed?' repeated Bazarov ironically.

'As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that we shall have no
seconds—for where could we get them?'

'Exactly so; where could we get them?'

'Then I have the honour to lay the following proposition before you: The
combat to take place early to-morrow, at six, let us say, behind the copse,
with pistols, at a distance of ten paces....'

'At ten paces? that will do; we hate one another at that distance.'

'We might have it eight,' remarked Pavel Petrovitch.

'We might.'

'To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put a letter in his
pocket, in which he accuses himself of his end.'

'Now, that I don't approve of at all,' observed Bazarov. 'There's a slight
flavour of the French novel about it, something not very plausible.'

'Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it would be unpleasant to incur a
suspicion of murder?'

'I agree as to that. But there is a means of avoiding that painful reproach.
We shall have no seconds, but we can have a witness.'

'And whom, allow me to inquire?'

'Why, Piotr.'

'What Piotr?'

'Your brother's valet. He's a man who has attained to the acme of
contemporary culture, and he will perform his part with all the comilfo
(comme il faut) necessary in such cases.'

'I think you are joking, sir.'

'Not at all. If you think over my suggestion, you will be convinced that it's
full of common-sense and simplicity. You can't hide a candle under a
bushel; but I'll undertake to prepare Piotr in a fitting manner, and bring him
on to the field of battle.'

'You persist in jesting still,' Pavel Petrovitch declared, getting up from his
chair. 'But after the courteous readiness you have shown me, I have no right
to pretend to lay down.... And so, everything is arranged.... By the way,
perhaps you have no pistols?'

'How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovitch? I'm not in the army.'

'In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that it's five years now
since I shot with them.'

'That's a very consoling piece of news.'

Pavel Petrovitch took up his stick.... 'And now, my dear sir, it only remains
for me to thank you and to leave you to your studies. I have the honour to
take leave of you.'

'Till we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,' said Bazarov,
conducting his visitor to the door.

Pavel Petrovitch went out, while Bazarov remained standing a minute
before the door, and suddenly exclaimed, 'Pish, well, I'm dashed! how fine,
and how foolish! A pretty farce we've been through! Like trained dogs
dancing on their hind-paws. But to decline was out of the question; why, I
do believe he'd have struck me, and then ...' (Bazarov turned white at the
very thought; all his pride was up in arms at once)—'then it might have
come to my strangling him like a cat.' He went back to his microscope, but
his heart was beating, and the composure necessary for taking observations
had disappeared. 'He caught sight of us to-day,' he thought; 'but would he
really act like this on his brother's account? And what a mighty matter is it
—a kiss? There must be something else in it. Bah! isn't he perhaps in love
with her himself? To be sure, he's in love; it's as clear as day. What a
complication! It's a nuisance!' he decided at last; 'it's a bad job, look at it
which way you will. In the first place, to risk a bullet through one's brains,
and in any case to go away; and then Arkady ... and that dear innocent
pussy, Nikolai Petrovitch. It's a bad job, an awfully bad job.'

The day passed in a kind of peculiar stillness and languor. Fenitchka gave
no sign of her existence; she sat in her little room like a mouse in its hole.
Nikolai Petrovitch had a careworn air. He had just heard that blight had
begun to appear in his wheat, upon which he had in particular rested his
hopes. Pavel Petrovitch overwhelmed every one, even Prokofitch, with his
icy courtesy. Bazarov began a letter to his father, but tore it up, and threw it
under the table.

'If I die,' he thought, 'they will find it out; but I'm not going to die. No, I
shall struggle along in this world a good while yet.' He gave Piotr orders to
come to him on important business the next morning directly it was light.
Piotr imagined that he wanted to take him to Petersburg with him. Bazarov
went late to bed, and all night long he was harassed by disordered dreams....
Madame Odintsov kept appearing in them, now she was his mother, and she
was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten seemed to be
Fenitchka; then Pavel Petrovitch took the shape of a great wood, with which
he had yet to fight. Piotr waked him up at four o'clock; he dressed at once,
and went out with him.

It was a lovely, fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds hovered overhead in
little curls of foam on the pale clear blue; a fine dew lay in drops on the
leaves and grass, and sparkled like silver on the spiders' webs; the damp,
dark earth seemed still to keep traces of the rosy dawn; from the whole sky
the songs of larks came pouring in showers. Bazarov walked as far as the
copse, sat down in the shade at its edge, and only then disclosed to Piotr the
nature of the service he expected of him. The refined valet was mortally
alarmed; but Bazarov soothed him by the assurance that he would have
nothing to do but stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not
incur any sort of responsibility. 'And meantime,' he added, 'only think what
an important part you have to play!' Piotr threw up his hands, looked down,
and leaned against a birch-tree, looking green with terror.

The road from Maryino skirted the copse; a light dust lay on it, untouched
by wheel or foot since the previous day. Bazarov unconsciously stared
along this road, picked and gnawed a blade of grass, while he kept repeating
to himself, 'What a piece of foolery!' The chill of the early morning made
him shiver twice.... Piotr looked at him dejectedly, but Bazarov only smiled;
he was not afraid.

The tramp of horses' hoofs was heard along the road.... A peasant came into
sight from behind the trees. He was driving before him two horses hobbled
together, and as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather strangely,
without touching his cap, which it was easy to see disturbed Piotr, as an
unlucky omen. 'There's some one else up early too,' thought Bazarov; 'but
he at least has got up for work, while we ...'

'Fancy the gentleman's coming,' Piotr faltered suddenly.

Bazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovitch. Dressed in a light check
jacket and snow-white trousers, he was walking rapidly along the road;
under his arm he carried a box wrapped up in green cloth.

'I beg your pardon, I believe I have kept you waiting,' he observed, bowing
first to Bazarov, then to Piotr, whom he treated respectfully at that instant,
as representing something in the nature of a second. 'I was unwilling to
wake my man.'

'It doesn't matter,' answered Bazarov; 'we've only just arrived ourselves.'

'Ah! so much the better!' Pavel Petrovitch took a look round. 'There's no
one in sight; no one hinders us. We can proceed?'

'Let us proceed.'

'You do not, I presume, desire any fresh explanations?'

'No, I don't.'

'Would you like to load?' inquired Pavel Petrovitch, taking the pistols out of
the box.

'No; you load, and I will measure out the paces. My legs are longer,' added
Bazarov with a smile. 'One, two, three.'

'Yevgeny Vassilyevitch,' Piotr faltered with an effort (he shaking as though
he were in a fever), 'say what you like, I am going farther off.'

'Four ... five.... Good. Move away, my good fellow, move away; you may
get behind a tree even, and stop up your ears, only don't shut your eyes; and
if any one falls, run and pick him up. Six ... seven ... eight....' Bazarov
stopped. 'Is that enough?' he said, turning to Pavel Petrovitch; 'or shall I add
two paces more?'

'As you like,' replied the latter, pressing down the second bullet.

'Well, we'll make it two paces more.' Bazarov drew a line on the ground
with the toe of his boot. 'There's the barrier then. By the way, how many
paces may each of us go back from the barrier? That's an important question
too. That point was not discussed yesterday.'

'I imagine, ten,' replied Pavel Petrovitch, handing Bazarov both pistols.
'Will you be so good as to choose?'

'I will be so good. But, Pavel Petrovitch, you must admit our combat is
singular to the point of absurdity. Only look at the countenance of our
second.'

'You are disposed to laugh at everything,' answered Pavel Petrovitch. 'I
acknowledge the strangeness of our duel, but I think it my duty to warn you
that I intend to fight seriously. A bon entendeur, salut!'

'Oh! I don't doubt that we've made up our minds to make away with each
other; but why not laugh too and unite utile dulci? You talk to me in French,
while I talk to you in Latin.'

'I am going to fight in earnest,' repeated Pavel Petrovitch, and he walked off
to his place. Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces from the barrier, and
stood still.

'Are you ready?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.

'Perfectly.'

'We can approach one another.'

Bazarov moved slowly forward, and Pavel Petrovitch, his left hand thrust in
his pocket, walked towards him, gradually raising the muzzle of his pistol....
'He's aiming straight at my nose,' thought Bazarov, 'and doesn't he blink
down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation though. I'm going
to look at his watch chain.'

Something whizzed sharply by his very ear, and at the same instant there
was the sound of a shot. 'I heard it, so it must be all right,' had time to flash
through Bazarov's brain. He took one more step, and without taking aim,
pressed the spring.

Pavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A stream of
blood began to trickle down his white trousers.

Bazarov flung aside the pistol, and went up to his antagonist. 'Are you
wounded?' he said.

'You had the right to call me up to the barrier,' said Pavel Petrovitch, 'but
that's of no consequence. According to our agreement, each of us has the
right to one more shot.'

'All right, but, excuse me, that'll do another time,' answered Bazarov,
catching hold of Pavel Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale. 'Now,
I'm not a duellist, but a doctor, and I must have a look at your wound before
anything else. Piotr! come here, Piotr! where have you got to?'

'That's all nonsense.... I need no one's aid,' Pavel Petrovitch declared jerkily,
'and ... we must ... again ...' He tried to pull at his moustaches, but his hand
failed him, his eyes grew dim, and he lost consciousness.

'Here's a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!' Bazarov cried
unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the grass. 'Let's have a look
what's wrong.' He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and
began feeling round the wound.... 'The bone's not touched,' he muttered
through his teeth; 'the ball didn't go deep; one muscle, vastus externus,
grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks!... And to faint! Oh, these
nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!'

'Is he killed?' the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling behind his back.

Bazarov looked round. 'Go for some water as quick as you can, my good
fellow, and he'll outlive us yet.'

But the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, and he did not
stir. Pavel Petrovitch slowly opened his eyes. 'He will die!' whispered Piotr,
and he began crossing himself.

'You are right ... What an imbecile countenance!' remarked the wounded
gentleman with a forced smile.

'Well, go for the water, damn you!' shouted Bazarov.

'No need.... It was a momentary vertigo.... Help me to sit up ... there, that's
right.... I only need something to bind up this scratch, and I can reach home
on foot, or you can send a droshky for me. The duel, if you are willing, shall
not be renewed. You have behaved honourably ... to-day, to-day—observe.'

'There's no need to recall the past,' rejoined Bazarov; 'and as regards the
future, it's not worth while for you to trouble your head about that either, for

I intend being off without delay. Let me bind up your leg now; your
wound's not serious, but it's always best to stop bleeding. But first I must
bring this corpse to his senses.'

Bazarov shook Piotr by the collar, and sent him for a droshky.

'Mind you don't frighten my brother,' Pavel Petrovitch said to him; 'don't
dream of informing him.'

Piotr flew off; and while he was running for a droshky, the two antagonists
sat on the ground and said nothing. Pavel Petrovitch tried not to look at
Bazarov; he did not want to be reconciled to him in any case; he was
ashamed of his own haughtiness, of his failure; he was ashamed of the
whole position he had brought about, even while he felt it could not have
ended in a more favourable manner. 'At any rate, there will be no scandal,'
he consoled himself by reflecting, 'and for that I am thankful.' The silence
was prolonged, a silence distressing and awkward. Both of them were ill at
ease. Each was conscious that the other understood him. That is pleasant to
friends, and always very unpleasant to those who are not friends, especially
when it is impossible either to have things out or to separate.

'Haven't I bound up your leg too tight?' inquired Bazarov at last.

'No, not at all; it's capital,' answered Pavel Petrovitch; and after a brief
pause, he added, 'There's no deceiving my brother; we shall have to tell him
we quarrelled over politics.'

'Very good,' assented Bazarov. 'You can say I insulted all anglomaniacs.'

'That will do capitally. What do you imagine that man thinks of us now?'
continued Pavel Petrovitch, pointing to the same peasant, who had driven
the hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes before the duel, and going
back again along the road, took off his cap at the sight of the 'gentlefolk.'

'Who can tell!' answered Bazarov; 'it's quite likely he thinks nothing. The
Russian peasant is that mysterious unknown about whom Mrs. Radcliffe
used to talk so much. Who is to understand him! He doesn't understand
himself!'

'Ah! so that's your idea!' Pavel Petrovitch began; and suddenly he cried,
'Look what your fool of a Piotr has done! Here's my brother galloping up to
us!'

Bazarov turned round and saw the pale face of Nikolai Petrovitch, who was
sitting in the droshky. He jumped out of it before it had stopped, and rushed
up to his brother.

'What does this mean?' he said in an agitated voice. 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch,
pray, what is this?'

'Nothing,' answered Pavel Petrovitch; 'they have alarmed you for nothing. I
had a little dispute with Mr. Bazarov, and I have had to pay for it a little.'

'But what was it all about, mercy on us!'

'How can I tell you? Mr. Bazarov alluded disrespectfully to Sir Robert Peel.
I must hasten to add that I am the only person to blame in all this, while Mr.
Bazarov has behaved most honourably. I called him out.'

'But you're covered with blood, good Heavens!'

'Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins? But this blood-letting is
positively beneficial to me. Isn't that so, doctor? Help me to get into the
droshky, and don't give way to melancholy. I shall be quite well to-morrow.
That's it; capital. Drive on, coachman.'

Nikolai Petrovitch walked after the droshky; Bazarov was remaining where
he was....

'I must ask you to look after my brother,' Nikolai Petrovitch said to him, 'till
we get another doctor from the town.'

Bazarov nodded his head without speaking. In an hour's time Pavel
Petrovitch was already lying in bed with a skilfully bandaged leg. The
whole house was alarmed; Fenitchka fainted. Nikolai Petrovitch kept
stealthily wringing his hands, while Pavel Petrovitch laughed and joked,
especially with Bazarov; he had put on a fine cambric night-shirt, an elegant

morning wrapper, and a fez, did not allow the blinds to be drawn down, and
humorously complained of the necessity of being kept from food.

Towards night, however, he began to be feverish; his head ached. The
doctor arrived from the town. (Nikolai Petrovitch would not listen to his
brother, and indeed Bazarov himself did not wish him to; he sat the whole
day in his room, looking yellow and vindictive, and only went in to the
invalid for as brief a time as possible; twice he happened to meet Fenitchka,
but she shrank away from him with horror.) The new doctor advised a
cooling diet; he confirmed, however, Bazarov's assertion that there was no
danger. Nikolai Petrovitch told him his brother had wounded himself by
accident, to which the doctor responded, 'Hm!' but having twenty-five silver
roubles slipped into his hand on the spot, he observed, 'You don't say so!
Well, it's a thing that often happens, to be sure.'

No one in the house went to bed or undressed. Nikolai Petrovitch kept
going in to his brother on tiptoe, retreating on tiptoe again; the latter dozed,
moaned a little, told him in French, Couchez-vous, and asked for drink.
Nikolai Petrovitch sent Fenitchka twice to take him a glass of lemonade;
Pavel Petrovitch gazed at her intently, and drank off the glass to the last
drop. Towards morning the fever had increased a little; there was slight
delirium. At first Pavel Petrovitch uttered incoherent words; then suddenly
he opened his eyes, and seeing his brother near his bed bending anxiously
over him, he said, 'Don't you think, Nikolai, Fenitchka has something in
common with Nellie?'

'What Nellie, Pavel dear?'

'How can you ask? Princess R——. Especially in the upper part of the face.
C'est de la même famille.'

Nikolai Petrovitch made no answer, while inwardly he marvelled at the
persistence of old passions in man. 'It's like this when it comes to the
surface,' he thought.

'Ah, how I love that light-headed creature!' moaned Pavel Petrovitch,
clasping his hands mournfully behind his head. 'I can't bear any insolent
upstart to dare to touch ...' he whispered a few minutes later.

Nikolai Petrovitch only sighed; he did not even suspect to whom these
words referred.

Bazarov presented himself before him at eight o'clock the next day. He had
already had time to pack, and to set free all his frogs, insects, and birds.

'You have come to say good-bye to me?' said Nikolai Petrovitch, getting up
to meet him.

'Yes.'

'I understand you, and approve of you fully. My poor brother, of course, is
to blame; and he is punished for it. He told me himself that he made it
impossible for you to act otherwise. I believe that you could not avoid this
duel, which ... which to some extent is explained by the almost constant
antagonism of your respective views.' (Nikolai Petrovitch began to get a
little mixed up in his words.) 'My brother is a man of the old school, hot-
tempered and obstinate.... Thank God that it has ended as it has. I have
taken every precaution to avoid publicity.'

'I'm leaving you my address, in case there's any fuss,' Bazarov remarked
casually.

'I hope there will be no fuss, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.... I am very sorry your
stay in my house should have such a ... such an end. It is the more
distressing to me through Arkady's ...'

'I shall be seeing him, I expect,' replied Bazarov, in whom 'explanations' and
'protestations' of every sort always aroused a feeling of impatience; 'in case
I don't, I beg you to say good-bye to him for me, and accept the expression
of my regret.'

'And I beg ...' answered Nikolai Petrovitch. But Bazarov went off without
waiting for the end of his sentence.

When he heard of Bazarov's going, Pavel Petrovitch expressed a desire to
see him, and shook his hand. But even then he remained as cold as ice; he
realised that Pavel Petrovitch wanted to play the magnanimous. He did not

succeed in saying good-bye to Fenitchka; he only exchanged glances with
her at the window. Her face struck him as looking dejected. 'She'll come to
grief, perhaps,' he said to himself.... 'But who knows? she'll pull through
somehow, I dare say!' Piotr, however, was so overcome that he wept on his
shoulder, till Bazarov damped him by asking if he'd a constant supply laid
on in his eyes; while Dunyasha was obliged to run away into the wood to
hide her emotion. The originator of all this woe got into a light cart, smoked
a cigar, and when at the third mile, at the bend in the road, the Kirsanovs'
farm, with its new house, could be seen in a long line, he merely spat, and
muttering, 'Cursed snobs!' wrapped himself closer in his cloak.

Pavel Petrovitch was soon better; but he had to keep his bed about a week.
He bore his captivity, as he called it, pretty patiently, though he took great
pains over his toilette, and had everything scented with eau-de-cologne.
Nikolai Petrovitch used to read him the journals; Fenitchka waited on him
as before, brought him lemonade, soup, boiled eggs, and tea; but she was
overcome with secret dread whenever she went into his room. Pavel
Petrovitch's unexpected action had alarmed every one in the house, and her
more than any one; Prokofitch was the only person not agitated by it; he
discoursed upon how gentlemen in his day used to fight, but only with real
gentlemen; low curs like that they used to order a horsewhipping in the
stable for their insolence.

Fenitchka's conscience scarcely reproached her; but she was tormented at
times by the thought of the real cause of the quarrel; and Pavel Petrovitch
too looked at her so strangely ... that even when her back was turned, she
felt his eyes upon her. She grew thinner from constant inward agitation,
and, as is always the way, became still more charming.

One day—the incident took place in the morning—Pavel Petrovitch felt
better and moved from his bed to the sofa, while Nikolai Petrovitch, having
satisfied himself he was better, went off to the threshing-floor. Fenitchka
brought him a cup of tea, and setting it down on a little table, was about to
withdraw. Pavel Petrovitch detained her.

'Where are you going in such a hurry, Fedosya Nikolaevna?' he began; 'are
you busy?'

'... I have to pour out tea.'

'Dunyasha will do that without you; sit a little while with a poor invalid. By
the way, I must have a little talk with you.'

Fenitchka sat down on the edge of an easy-chair, without speaking.

'Listen,' said Pavel Petrovitch, tugging at his moustaches; 'I have long
wanted to ask you something; you seem somehow afraid of me?'

'I?'

'Yes, you. You never look at me, as though your conscience were not at
rest.'

Fenitchka crimsoned, but looked at Pavel Petrovitch. He impressed her as
looking strange, and her heart began throbbing slowly.

'Is your conscience at rest?' he questioned her.

'Why should it not be at rest?' she faltered.

'Goodness knows why! Besides, whom can you have wronged? Me? That is
not likely. Any other people in the house here? That, too, is something
incredible. Can it be my brother? But you love him, don't you?'

'I love him.'

'With your whole soul, with your whole heart?'

'I love Nikolai Petrovitch with my whole heart.'

'Truly? Look at me, Fenitchka.' (It was the first time he had called her that
name.) 'You know, it's a great sin telling lies!'

'I am not telling lies, Pavel Petrovitch. Not love Nikolai Petrovitch—I
shouldn't care to live after that.'

'And will you never give him up for any one?'

'For whom could I give him up?'

'For whom indeed! Well, how about that gentleman who has just gone away
from here?'

Fenitchka got up. 'My God, Pavel Petrovitch, what are you torturing me
for? What have I done to you? How can such things be said?'...

'Fenitchka,' said Pavel Petrovitch, in a sorrowful voice, 'you know I saw ...'

'What did you see?'

'Well, there ... in the arbour.'

Fenitchka crimsoned to her hair and to her ears. 'How was I to blame for
that?' she articulated with an effort.

Pavel Petrovitch raised himself up. 'You were not to blame? No? Not at all?'

'I love Nikolai Petrovitch, and no one else in the world, and I shall always
love him!' cried Fenitchka with sudden force, while her throat seemed fairly
breaking with sobs. 'As for what you saw, at the dreadful day of judgment I
will say I'm not to blame, and wasn't to blame for it, and I would rather die
at once if people can suspect me of such a thing against my benefactor,
Nikolai Petrovitch.'

But here her voice broke, and at the same time she felt that Pavel Petrovitch
was snatching and pressing her hand.... She looked at him, and was fairly
petrified. He had turned even paler than before; his eyes were shining, and
what was most marvellous of all, one large solitary tear was rolling down
his cheek.

'Fenitchka!' he was saying in a strange whisper; 'love him, love my brother!
Don't give him up for any one in the world; don't listen to any one else!
Think what can be more terrible than to love and not be loved! Never leave
my poor Nikolai!'

Fenitchka's eyes were dry, and her terror had passed away, so great was her
amazement. But what were her feelings when Pavel Petrovitch, Pavel

Petrovitch himself, put her hand to his lips and seemed to pierce into it
without kissing it, and only heaving convulsive sighs from time to time....

'Goodness,' she thought, 'isn't it some attack coming on him?'...

At that instant his whole ruined life was stirred up within him.

The staircase creaked under rapidly approaching footsteps.... He pushed her
away from him, and let his head drop back on the pillow. The door opened,
and Nikolai Petrovitch entered, cheerful, fresh, and ruddy. Mitya, as fresh
and ruddy as his father, in nothing but his little shirt, was frisking on his
shoulder, catching the big buttons of his rough country coat with his little
bare toes.

Fenitchka simply flung herself upon him, and clasping him and her son
together in her arms, dropped her head on his shoulder. Nikolai Petrovitch
was surprised; Fenitchka, the reserved and staid Fenitchka, had never given
him a caress in the presence of a third person.

'What's the matter?' he said, and, glancing at his brother, he gave her Mitya.
'You don't feel worse?' he inquired, going up to Pavel Petrovitch.

He buried his face in a cambric handkerchief. 'No ... not at all ... on the
contrary, I am much better.'

'You were in too great a hurry to move on to the sofa. Where are you
going?' added Nikolai Petrovitch, turning round to Fenitchka; but she had
already closed the door behind her. 'I was bringing in my young hero to
show you, he's been crying for his uncle. Why has she carried him off?
What's wrong with you, though? Has anything passed between you, eh?'

'Brother!' said Pavel Petrovitch solemnly.

Nikolai Petrovitch started. He felt dismayed, he could not have said why
himself.

'Brother,' repeated Pavel Petrovitch, 'give me your word that you will carry
out my one request.'

'What request? Tell me.'

'It is very important; the whole happiness of your life, to my idea, depends
on it. I have been thinking a great deal all this time over what I want to say
to you now.... Brother, do your duty, the duty of an honest and generous
man; put an end to the scandal and bad example you are setting—you, the
best of men!'

'What do you mean, Pavel?'

'Marry Fenitchka.... She loves you; she is the mother of your son.'

Nikolai Petrovitch stepped back a pace, and flung up his hands. 'Do you say
that, Pavel? you whom I have always regarded as the most determined
opponent of such marriages! You say that? Don't you know that it has
simply been out of respect for you that I have not done what you so rightly
call my duty?'

'You were wrong to respect me in that case,' Pavel Petrovitch responded,
with a weary smile. 'I begin to think Bazarov was right in accusing me of
snobbishness. No dear brother, don't let us worry ourselves about
appearances and the world's opinion any more; we are old folks and humble
now; it's time we laid aside vanity of all kinds. Let us, just as you say, do
our duty; and mind, we shall get happiness that way into the bargain.'

Nikolai Petrovitch rushed to embrace his brother.

'You have opened my eyes completely!' he cried. 'I was right in always
declaring you the wisest and kindest-hearted fellow in the world, and now I
see you are just as reasonable as you are noble-hearted.'

'Quietly, quietly,' Pavel Petrovitch interrupted him; 'don't hurt the leg of
your reasonable brother, who at close upon fifty has been fighting a duel
like an ensign. So, then, it's a settled matter; Fenitchka is to be my ... belle
soeur.'

'My dearest Pavel! But what will Arkady say?'

'Arkady? he'll be in ecstasies, you may depend upon it! Marriage is against
his principles, but then the sentiment of equality in him will be gratified.
And, after all, what sense have class distinctions au dix-neuvième siècle?'

'Ah, Pavel, Pavel! let me kiss you once more! Don't be afraid, I'll be
careful.'

The brothers embraced each other.

'What do you think, should you not inform her of your intention now?'
queried Pavel Petrovitch.

'Why be in a hurry?' responded Nikolai Petrovitch. 'Has there been any
conversation between you?'

'Conversation between us? Quelle idée!'

'Well, that is all right then. First of all, you must get well, and meanwhile
there's plenty of time. We must think it over well, and consider ...'

'But your mind is made up, I suppose?'

'Of course, my mind is made up, and I thank you from the bottom of my
heart. I will leave you now; you must rest; any excitement is bad for you....
But we will talk it over again. Sleep well, dear heart, and God bless you!'

'What is he thanking me like that for?' thought Pavel Petrovitch, when he
was left alone. 'As though it did not depend on him! I will go away directly
he is married, somewhere a long way off—to Dresden or Florence, and will
live there till I——'

Pavel Petrovitch moistened his forehead with eau de cologne, and closed
his eyes. His beautiful, emaciated head, the glaring daylight shining full
upon it, lay on the white pillow like the head of a dead man.... And indeed
he was a dead man.

CHAPTER XXV

At Nikolskoe Katya and Arkady were sitting in the garden on a turf seat in
the shade of a tall ash tree; Fifi had placed himself on the ground near them,
giving his slender body that graceful curve, which is known among dog-
fanciers as 'the hare bend.' Both Arkady and Katya were silent; he was
holding a half-open book in his hands, while she was picking out of a
basket the few crumbs of bread left in it, and throwing them to a small
family of sparrows, who with the frightened impudence peculiar to them
were hopping and chirping at her very feet. A faint breeze stirring in the ash
leaves kept slowly moving pale-gold flecks of sunlight up and down over
the path and Fifi's tawny back; a patch of unbroken shade fell upon Arkady
and Katya; only from time to time a bright streak gleamed on her hair. Both
were silent, but the very way in which they were silent, in which they were
sitting together, was expressive of confidential intimacy; each of them
seemed not even to be thinking of his companion, while secretly rejoicing
in his presence. Their faces, too, had changed since we saw them last;
Arkady looked more tranquil, Katya brighter and more daring.

'Don't you think,' began Arkady, 'that the ash has been very well named in
Russian yasen; no other tree is so lightly and brightly transparent (yasno)
against the air as it is.'

Katya raised her eyes to look upward, and assented, 'Yes'; while Arkady
thought, 'Well, she does not reproach me for talking finely.'

'I don't like Heine,' said Katya, glancing towards the book which Arkady
was holding in his hands, 'either when he laughs or when he weeps; I like
him when he's thoughtful and melancholy.'

'And I like him when he laughs,' remarked Arkady.

'That's the relics left in you of your old satirical tendencies.' ('Relics!'
thought Arkady—'if Bazarov had heard that?') 'Wait a little; we shall

transform you.'

'Who will transform me? You?'

'Who?—my sister; Porfiry Platonovitch, whom you've given up quarrelling
with; auntie, whom you escorted to church the day before yesterday.'

'Well, I couldn't refuse! And as for Anna Sergyevna, she agreed with
Yevgeny in a great many things, you remember?'

'My sister was under his influence then, just as you were.'

'As I was? Do you discover, may I ask, that I've shaken off his influence
now?'

Katya did not speak.

'I know,' pursued Arkady, 'you never liked him.'

'I can have no opinion about him.'

'Do you know, Katerina Sergyevna, every time I hear that answer I
disbelieve it.... There is no man that every one of us could not have an
opinion about! That's simply a way of getting out of it.'

'Well, I'll say, then, I don't.... It's not exactly that I don't like him, but I feel
that he's of a different order from me, and I am different from him ... and
you too are different from him.'

'How's that?'

'How can I tell you.... He's a wild animal, and you and I are tame.'

'Am I tame too?'

Katya nodded.

Arkady scratched his ear. 'Let me tell you, Katerina Sergyevna, do you
know, that's really an insult?'

'Why, would you like to be a wild——'

'Not wild, but strong, full of force.'

'It's no good wishing for that.... Your friend, you see, doesn't wish for it, but
he has it.'

'Hm! So you imagine he had a great influence on Anna Sergyevna?'

'Yes. But no one can keep the upper hand of her for long,' added Katya in a
low voice.

'Why do you think that?'

'She's very proud.... I didn't mean that ... she values her independence a
great deal.'

'Who doesn't value it?' asked Arkady, and the thought flashed through his
mind, 'What good is it?' 'What good is it?' it occurred to Katya to wonder
too. When young people are often together on friendly terms, they are
constantly stumbling on the same ideas.

Arkady smiled, and, coming slightly closer to Katya, he said in a whisper,
'Confess that you are a little afraid of her.'

'Of whom?'

'Her,' repeated Arkady significantly.

'And how about you?' Katya asked in her turn.

'I am too, observe I said, I am too.'

Katya threatened him with her finger. 'I wonder at that,' she began; 'my
sister has never felt so friendly to you as just now; much more so than when
you first came.'

'Really!'

'Why, haven't you noticed it? Aren't you glad of it?'

Arkady grew thoughtful.

'How have I succeeded in gaining Anna Sergyevna's good opinion? Wasn't
it because I brought her your mother's letters?'

'Both that and other causes, which I shan't tell you.'

'Why?'

'I shan't say.'

'Oh! I know; you're very obstinate.'

'Yes, I am.'

'And observant.'

Katya gave Arkady a sidelong look. 'Perhaps so; does that irritate you?
What are you thinking of?'

'I am wondering how you have come to be as observant as in fact you are.
You are so shy so reserved; you keep every one at a distance.'

'I have lived a great deal alone; that drives one to reflection. But do I really
keep every one at a distance?'

Arkady flung a grateful glance at Katya.

'That's all very well,' he pursued; 'but people in your position—I mean in
your circumstances—don't often have that faculty; it is hard for them, as it
is for sovereigns, to get at the truth.'

'But, you see, I am not rich.'

Arkady was taken aback, and did not at once understand Katya. 'Why, of
course, the property's all her sister's!' struck him suddenly; the thought was
not unpleasing to him. 'How nicely you said that!' he commented.

'What?'

'You said it nicely, simply, without being ashamed or making a boast of it.
By the way, I imagine there must always be something special, a kind of
pride of a sort in the feeling of any man, who knows and says he is poor.'

'I have never experienced anything of that sort, thanks to my sister. I only
referred to my position just now because it happened to come up.'

'Well; but you must own you have a share of that pride I spoke of just now.'

'For instance?'

'For instance, you—forgive the question—you wouldn't marry a rich man, I
fancy, would you?'

'If I loved him very much.... No, I think even then I wouldn't marry him.'

'There! you see!' cried Arkady, and after a short pause he added, 'And why
wouldn't you marry him?'

'Because even in the ballads unequal matches are always unlucky.'

'You want to rule, perhaps, or ...'

'Oh, no! why should I? On the contrary, I am ready to obey; only inequality
is intolerable. To respect one's self and obey, that I can understand, that's
happiness; but a subordinate existence ... No, I've had enough of that as it
is.'

'Enough of that as it is,' Arkady repeated after Katya. 'Yes, yes,' he went on,
'you're not Anna Sergyevna's sister for nothing; you're just as independent
as she is; but you're more reserved. I'm certain you wouldn't be the first to
give expression to your feeling, however strong and holy it might be ...'

'Well, what would you expect?' asked Katya.

'You're equally clever; and you've as much, if not more, character than she.'

'Don't compare me with my sister, please,' interposed Katya hurriedly;
'that's too much to my disadvantage. You seem to forget my sister's
beautiful and clever, and ... you in particular, Arkady Nikolaevitch, ought
not to say such things, and with such a serious face too.'

'What do you mean by "you in particular"—and what makes you suppose I
am joking?'

'Of course, you are joking.'

'You think so? But what if I'm persuaded of what I say? If I believe I have
not put it strongly enough even?'

'I don't understand you.'

'Really? Well, now I see; I certainly took you to be more observant than you
are.'

'How?'

Arkady made no answer, and turned away, while Katya looked for a few
more crumbs in the basket, and began throwing them to the sparrows; but
she moved her arm too vigorously, and they flew away, without stopping to
pick them up.

'Katerina Sergyevna!' began Arkady suddenly; 'it's of no consequence to
you, probably; but, let me tell you, I put you not only above your sister, but
above every one in the world.'

He got up and went quickly away, as though he were frightened at the
words that had fallen from his lips.

Katya let her two hands drop together with the basket on to her lap, and
with bent head she stared a long while after Arkady. Gradually a crimson
flush came faintly out upon her cheeks; but her lips did not smile and her
dark eyes had a look of perplexity and some other, as yet undefined, feeling.

'Are you alone?' she heard the voice of Anna Sergyevna near her; 'I thought
you came into the garden with Arkady.'

Katya slowly raised her eyes to her sister (elegantly, even elaborately
dressed, she was standing in the path and tickling Fifi's ears with the tip of
her open parasol), and slowly replied, 'Yes, I'm alone.'

'So I see,' she answered with a smile; 'I suppose he has gone to his room.'

'Yes.'

'Have you been reading together?'

'Yes.'

Anna Sergyevna took Katya by the chin and lifted her face up.

'You have not been quarrelling, I hope?'

'No,' said Katya, and she quietly removed her sister's hand.

'How solemnly you answer! I expected to find him here, and meant to
suggest his coming a walk with me. That's what he is always asking for.
They have sent you some shoes from the town; go and try them on; I
noticed only yesterday your old ones are quite shabby. You never think
enough about it, and you have such charming little feet! Your hands are nice
too ... though they're large; so you must make the most of your little feet.
But you're not vain.'

Anna Sergyevna went farther along the path with a light rustle of her
beautiful gown; Katya got up from the grass, and, taking Heine with her,
went away too—but not to try on her shoes.

'Charming little feet!' she thought, as she slowly and lightly mounted the
stone steps of the terrace, which were burning with the heat of the sun;
'charming little feet you call them.... Well, he shall be at them.'

But all at once a feeling of shame came upon her, and she ran swiftly
upstairs.

Arkady had gone along the corridor to his room; a steward had overtaken
him, and announced that Mr. Bazarov was in his room.

'Yevgeny!' murmured Arkady, almost with dismay; 'has he been here long?'

'Mr. Bazarov arrived this minute, sir, and gave orders not to announce him
to Anna Sergyevna, but to show him straight up to you.'

'Can any misfortune have happened at home?' thought Arkady, and running
hurriedly up the stairs, he at once opened the door. The sight of Bazarov at
once reassured him, though a more experienced eye might very probably
have discerned signs of inward agitation in the sunken, though still
energetic face of the unexpected visitor. With a dusty cloak over his
shoulders, with a cap on his head, he was sitting at the window; he did not
even get up when Arkady flung himself with noisy exclamations on his
neck.

'This is unexpected! What good luck brought you?' he kept repeating,
bustling about the room like one who both imagines himself and wishes to
show himself delighted. 'I suppose everything's all right at home; every
one's well, eh?'

'Everything's all right, but not every one's well,' said Bazarov. 'Don't be a
chatterbox, but send for some kvass for me, sit down, and listen while I tell
you all about it in a few, but, I hope, pretty vigorous sentences.'

Arkady was quiet while Bazarov described his duel with Pavel Petrovitch.
Arkady was very much surprised, and even grieved, but he did not think it
necessary to show this; he only asked whether his uncle's wound was really
not serious; and on receiving the reply that it was most interesting, but not
from a medical point of view, he gave a forced smile, but at heart he felt
both wounded and as it were ashamed. Bazarov seemed to understand him.

'Yes, my dear fellow,' he commented, 'you see what comes of living with
feudal personages. You turn a feudal personage yourself, and find yourself
taking part in knightly tournaments. Well, so I set off for my father's,'
Bazarov wound up, 'and I've turned in here on the way ... to tell you all this,
I should say, if I didn't think a useless lie a piece of foolery. No, I turned in
here—the devil only knows why. You see, it's sometimes a good thing for a
man to take himself by the scruff of the neck and pull himself up, like a
radish out of its bed; that's what I've been doing of late.... But I wanted to

have one more look at what I'm giving up, at the bed where I've been
planted.'

'I hope those words don't refer to me,' responded Arkady with some
emotion; 'I hope you don't think of giving me up?'

Bazarov turned an intent, almost piercing look upon him.

'Would that be such a grief to you? It strikes me you have given me up
already, you look so fresh and smart.... Your affair with Anna Sergyevna
must be getting on successfully.'

'What do you mean by my affair with Anna Sergyevna?'

'Why, didn't you come here from the town on her account, chicken? By the
way, how are those Sunday schools getting on? Do you mean to tell me
you're not in love with her? Or have you already reached the stage of
discretion?'

'Yevgeny, you know I have always been open with you; I can assure you, I
will swear to you, you're making a mistake.'

'Hm! That's another story,' remarked Bazarov in an undertone. 'But you
needn't be in a taking, it's a matter of absolute indifference to me. A
sentimentalist would say, "I feel that our paths are beginning to part," but I
will simply say that we're tired of each other.'

'Yevgeny ...'

'My dear soul, there's no great harm in that. One gets tired of much more
than that in this life. And now I suppose we'd better say good-bye, hadn't
we? Ever since I've been here I've had such a loathsome feeling, just as if
I'd been reading Gogol's effusions to the governor of Kalouga's wife. By the
way, I didn't tell them to take the horses out.'

'Upon my word, this is too much!'

'Why?'

'I'll say nothing of myself; but that would be discourteous to the last degree
to Anna Sergyevna, who will certainly wish to see you.'

'Oh, you're mistaken there.'

'On the contrary, I am certain I'm right,' retorted Arkady. 'And what are you
pretending for? If it comes to that, haven't you come here on her account
yourself?'

'That may be so, but you're mistaken any way.'

But Arkady was right. Anna Sergyevna desired to see Bazarov, and sent a
summons to him by a steward. Bazarov changed his clothes before going to
her; it turned out that he had packed his new suit so as to be able to get it
out easily.

Madame Odintsov received him not in the room where he had so
unexpectedly declared his love to her, but in the drawing-room. She held
her finger tips out to him cordially, but her face betrayed an involuntary
sense of tension.

'Anna Sergyevna,' Bazarov hastened to say, 'before everything else I must
set your mind at rest. Before you is a poor mortal, who has come to his
senses long ago, and hopes other people too have forgotten his follies. I am
going away for a long while; and though, as you will allow, I'm by no
means a very soft creature, it would be anything but cheerful for me to carry
away with me the idea that you remember me with repugnance.'

Anna Sergyevna gave a deep sigh like one who has just climbed up a high
mountain, and her face was lighted up by a smile. She held out her hand a
second time to Bazarov, and responded to his pressure.

'Let bygones be bygones,' she said. 'I am all the readier to do so because,
speaking from my conscience, I was to blame then too for flirting or
something. In a word, let us be friends as before. That was a dream, wasn't
it? And who remembers dreams?'

'Who remembers them? And besides, love ... you know, is a purely
imaginary feeling.'

'Really? I am very glad to hear that.'

So Anna Sergyevna spoke, and so spoke Bazarov; they both supposed they
were speaking the truth. Was the truth, the whole truth, to be found in their
words? They could not themselves have said, and much less could the
author. But a conversation followed between them precisely as though they
completely believed one another.

Anna Sergyevna asked Bazarov, among other things, what he had been
doing at the Kirsanovs'. He was on the point of telling her about his duel
with Pavel Petrovitch, but he checked himself with the thought that she
might imagine he was trying to make himself interesting, and answered that
he had been at work all the time.

'And I,' observed Anna Sergyevna, 'had a fit of depression at first, goodness
knows why; I even made plans for going abroad, fancy!... Then it passed
off, your friend Arkady Nikolaitch came, and I fell back into my old
routine, and took up my real part again.'

'What part is that, may I ask?'

'The character of aunt, guardian, mother—call it what you like. By the way,
do you know I used not quite to understand your close friendship with
Arkady Nikolaitch; I thought him rather insignificant. But now I have come
to know him better, and to see that he is clever.... And he's young, he's
young ... that's the great thing ... not like you and me, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.'

'Is he still as shy in your company?' queried Bazarov.

'Why, was he?' ... Anna Sergyevna began, and after a brief pause she went
on: 'He has grown more confiding now; he talks to me. He used to avoid me
before. Though, indeed, I didn't seek his society either. He's more friends
with Katya.'

Bazarov felt irritated. 'A woman can't help humbugging, of course!' he
thought. 'You say he used to avoid you,' he said aloud, with a chilly smile;
'but it is probably no secret to you that he was in love with you?'

'What! he too?' fell from Anna Sergyevna's lips.

'He too,' repeated Bazarov, with a submissive bow. 'Can it be you didn't
know it, and I've told you something new?'

Anna Sergyevna dropped her eyes. 'You are mistaken, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.'

'I don't think so. But perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it.' 'And don't
you try telling me lies again for the future,' he added to himself.

'Why not? But I imagine that in this too you are attributing too much
importance to a passing impression. I begin to suspect you are inclined to
exaggeration.'

'We had better not talk about it, Anna Sergyevna.'

'Oh, why?' she retorted; but she herself led the conversation into another
channel. She was still ill at ease with Bazarov, though she had told him, and
assured herself that everything was forgotten. While she was exchanging
the simplest sentences with him, even while she was jesting with him, she
was conscious of a faint spasm of dread. So people on a steamer at sea talk
and laugh carelessly, for all the world as though they were on dry land; but
let only the slightest hitch occur, let the least sign be seen of anything out of
the common, and at once on every face there comes out an expression of
peculiar alarm, betraying the constant consciousness of constant danger.

Anna Sergyevna's conversation with Bazarov did not last long. She began
to seem absorbed in thought, answered abstractedly, and suggested at last
that they should go into the hall, where they found the princess and Katya.
'But where is Arkady Nikolaitch?' inquired the lady of the house; and on
hearing that he had not shown himself for more than an hour, she sent for
him. He was not very quickly found; he had hidden himself in the very
thickest part of the garden, and with his chin propped on his folded hands,
he was sitting lost in meditation. They were deep and serious meditations,

but not mournful. He knew Anna Sergyevna was sitting alone with Bazarov,
and he felt no jealousy, as once he had; on the contrary, his face slowly
brightened; he seemed to be at once wondering and rejoicing, and resolving
on something.

CHAPTER XXVI

The deceased Odintsov had not liked innovations, but he had tolerated 'the
fine arts within a certain sphere,' and had in consequence put up in his
garden, between the hothouse and the lake, an erection after the fashion of a
Greek temple, made of Russian brick. Along the dark wall at the back of
this temple or gallery were placed six niches for statues, which Odintsov
had proceeded to order from abroad. These statues were to represent
Solitude, Silence, Meditation, Melancholy, Modesty, and Sensibility. One of
them, the goddess of Silence, with her finger on her lip, had been sent and
put up; but on the very same day some boys on the farm had broken her
nose; and though a plasterer of the neighbourhood undertook to make her a
new nose 'twice as good as the old one,' Odintsov ordered her to be taken
away, and she was still to be seen in the corner of the threshing barn, where
she had stood many long years, a source of superstitious terror to the
peasant women. The front part of the temple had long ago been overgrown
with thick bushes; only the pediments of the columns could be seen above
the dense green. In the temple itself it was cool even at mid-day. Anna
Sergyevna had not liked visiting this place ever since she had seen a snake
there; but Katya often came and sat on the wide stone seat under one of the
niches. Here, in the midst of the shade and coolness, she used to read and
work, or to give herself up to that sensation of perfect peace, known,
doubtless, to each of us, the charm of which consists in the half-
unconscious, silent listening to the vast current of life that flows for ever
both around us and within us.

The day after Bazarov's arrival Katya was sitting on her favourite stone
seat, and beside her again was sitting Arkady. He had besought her to come
with him to the 'temple.'

There was about an hour still to lunch-time; the dewy morning had already
given place to a sultry day. Arkady's face retained the expression of the
preceding day; Katya had a preoccupied look. Her sister had, directly after
their morning tea, called her into her room, and after some preliminary
caresses, which always scared Katya a little, she had advised her to be more
guarded in her behaviour with Arkady, and especially to avoid solitary talks
with him, as likely to attract the notice of her aunt and all the household.
Besides this, even the previous evening Anna Sergyevna had not been
herself; and Katya herself had felt ill at ease, as though she were conscious
of some fault in herself. As she yielded to Arkady's entreaties, she said to
herself that it was for the last time.

'Katerina Sergyevna,' he began with a sort of bashful easiness, 'since I've
had the happiness of living in the same house with you, I have discussed a
great many things with you; but meanwhile there is one, very important ...
for me ... one question, which I have not touched upon up till now. You
remarked yesterday that I have been changed here,' he went on, at once
catching and avoiding the questioning glance Katya was turning upon him.
'I have changed certainly a great deal, and you know that better than any
one else—you to whom I really owe this change.'

'I?... Me?...' said Katya.

'I am not now the conceited boy I was when I came here,' Arkady went on.
'I've not reached twenty-three for nothing; as before, I want to be useful, I
want to devote all my powers to the truth; but I no longer look for my ideals
where I did; they present themselves to me ... much closer to hand. Up till
now I did not understand myself; I set myself tasks which were beyond my
powers.... My eyes have been opened lately, thanks to one feeling.... I'm not
expressing myself quite clearly, but I hope you understand me.'

Katya made no reply, but she ceased looking at Arkady.