Fathers and Sons Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev 2285 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fathers and Sons
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: Fathers and Sons

Author: Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

Translator: C. J. Hogarth

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

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47935

Credits: Produced by Annemie Arnst, Ema Majhut and Marc D'Hooghe
(Images generously made available by the Bodleian Library,
Oxford)

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

FATHERS AND SONS

BY

IVAN S. TURGENEV
Translated from the Russian by C.J. Hogarth

LONDON & TORONTO

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

BY E.P. DUTTON & CO

1921

INTRODUCTION

In this masterly unromantic novel, Turgenev drew a character, Bazarov,
who served to express what he taught us to call Nihilism, and made a
movement into a man. In Russia itself the effect of the story was
astonishing. The portrait of Bazarov was immediately and angrily resented
as a cold travesty. The portraits of the "backwoodsmen," or retired
aristocrats, fared no better. Turgenev had indeed roused the ire of both
sides, only too surely.
The Petrovitchs, typical figures as he designed them of the Russian nobility,
were intended he confessed to breathe "feebleness, nonchalance,
narrowness of mind." His sense of fitness made him paint with extreme care
these choice representatives of their class. They were the pick, and if they
were humanly ineffective, what of their weaker kind? "Si la crême est
mauvaise, que sera le lait?" as he put it. The bitterest criticism came,
however, from the side of the revolutionaries and incompatibles. They felt
in Turgenev the sharper artistry and the intimate irony as if he had only used
these qualities in dealing with the specific case of Bazarov; whereas they
were temperamental effects of his narrative art. He was ready to assert
himself one of the party of youth. He was at one with Bazarov, he declared,

in nearly all his ideas, a chief exception being Bazarov's ideas on art, which
in truth are apt to be more crudely delivered than the rest of that iconoclast's
destructive opinions. Bazarov, he said once and again, was his favourite
child.
It is nearly forty years now (in 1921) since the novel appeared in The
Russian Messenger, a weekly which was the recognised exponent of the
new movement. That proverbial period has lent a softer cast to the
lineaments of the people in the group, as time touches the canvas of the
pictures in an old country-house gallery. But the interesting thing is to find
that history in the large has terribly and irresistibly confirmed the history in
little that Turgenev drew, with a sure instinct, for the potential anticipations
of his saga.
But we should be wrong if we mistook its clear pervading realities for those
of a tract-novel, or a document of any one particular generation. It is as its
title declares in a sense another fable of the inevitable coil and recoil of the
two generations. The sympathetic power of Turgenev is shown in his
instinctive understanding of them both. An aristocrat by training, he was
saved as Tolstoi was from sterilising his imaginative and dramatic powers
by any sense of caste and privilege. He loved the play of human nature,
knew how to reckon with its foibles, its pride, habitual prejudices, and all
tragic and comic susceptibilities. So he drew Bazarov, as a protagonist of
the revolt against the old order and the protective habit of age. When
Bazarov enters the house of Arkady's father, he is like Don Quixote entering
the inn of his direst probation. If the parallel seems a trifle fantastic, it was
yet one that Turgenev would let pass, since he affirmed that Don Quixote
himself was, in his inimitable extravagance, a type of the eternal spirit of
revolution. And one would like, if there were room for it, to print as
preamble to Fathers and Sons, the essay in which its writer has compared
the deeper essentials of Hamlet and Quixote.
We must be satisfied instead to recall the direct event of the novel, as it falls
in his own record. The present writer, some years ago, spent a spring at
Ventnor in the Isle of Wight, and found the house on the sea-brink in which
he stayed had been occupied by Turgenev at one time. Then and there it
was, in 1860 and at Ventnor, that he had the first idea of this novel; and it is
scarcely being too fanciful to think that he imagined the home environment
and the spacious vista of the Russian provinces more fondly and more

freely, because of his being at a long remove from them in that small and
confined seaside nook of Ventnor. Already, we must remember, the
liberation of the serf had taken place; and the ferment of liberal ideas was
working in the new generation. As we look back, we see in our wisdom
after the event, having realised Turgenev for the novelist he was—an artist
who was for ever adjusting the moment to the permanent in art—that it was
inevitable he should write this book, this tragi-comedy of age and youth, of
the old order and the new, the conservating fathers and the revolutionary
sons.
E. R.
The following is the list of Turgenev's chief works:
ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF WORKS: Russian Life in the Interior: or, the
Experiences of a Sportsman, from French version, by J. D. Meiklejohn, 1855; Annals
of a Sportsman, from French version, by F. P. Abbott, 1855; Tales from the Notebook
of a Sportsman, from the Russian, by E. Richter, 1895; Fathers and Sons, from the
Russian, by E. Schuyler, 1867, 1883; Smoke: or, Life at Baden, from French version,
1868, by W. F. West, 1872, 1883; Liza: or, a Nest of Nobles, from the Russian, by W.
R. S. Ralston, 1869, 1873, 1884; On the Eve, a tale, from the Russian, by C. E.
Turner, 1871; Dimitri Roudine, from French and German versions, 1873, 1883;
Spring Floods, from the Russian, by S. M. Batts, 1874; from the Russian, by E.
Richter, 1895; A Lear of the Steppe, from the French, by W. H. Browne, 1874; Virgin
Soil, from the French, by T. S. Perry, 1877, 1883, by A. W. Dilke, 1878; Poems in
Prose, from the Russian, 1883; Senilia, Poems in Prose, with a Biographical Sketch of
the Author, by S. J. Macmillan, 1890; First Love, and Punin and Baburin, from the
Russian, with a Biographical Introduction, by S. Jerrold, 1884; Mumu, and the Diary
of a Superfluous Man, from the Russian, by H. Gersoni, 1884; Annouchka, a tale,
from the French version, by F. P. Abbott, 1884; from the Russian (with An
Unfortunate Woman), by H. Gersoni, 1886; The Unfortunate One, from the Russian,
by A. R. Thompson, 1888 (see above for Gersoni's translation); The Watch, from the
Russian, by J. E. Williams, 1893.
WORKS: Novels, translated by Constance Garnett, 15 vols., 1894-99, 1906, 1921.
Novels and Stories, translated by Isabel F. Hapgood, with an Introduction by Henry
James, 1903, etc.
LIFE: See above, Biographical Introductions to Poems in Prose and First Love; E. M.
Arnold, Tourguéneff and his French Circle, translated from the work of E. Halperine-
Kaminsky, 1898; J. A. T. Lloyd, Two Russian Reformers: Ivan Turgenev, Leo Tolstoy,
1910.

I

"Well, Peter? Cannot you see them yet?" asked a barin[1] of about forty
who, hatless, and clad in a dusty jacket over a pair of tweed breeches,
stepped on to the verandah of a posting-house on the 20th day of May,
1859. The person addressed was the barin's servant—a round-cheeked
young fellow with small, dull eyes and a chin adorned with a tuft of pale-
coloured down.
Glancing along the high road in a supercilious manner, the servant (in
whom everything, from the turquoise ear-ring to the dyed, pomaded hair
and the mincing gait, revealed the modern, the rising generation) replied:
"No, barin, I cannot."
"Is that so?" queried the barin.
"Yes," the servant affirmed.
The barin sighed, and seated himself upon a bench. While he is sitting there
with his knees drawn under him and his eyes moodily glancing to right and
left, the reader may care to become better acquainted with his personality.
His name was Nikolai Petrovitch Kirsanov, and he owned (some fifteen
versts from the posting-house) a respectable little property of about two
hundred souls (or, as, after that he had apportioned his peasantry allotments,
and set up a "farm," he himself expressed it, a property "of two thousand
desiatini"[2]). His father, one of the generals of 1812, had spent his life
exclusively in military service as the commander, first of a brigade, and
then of a division; and always he had been quartered in the provinces,
where his rank had enabled him to cut a not inconspicuous figure. As for
Nikolai Petrovitch himself, he was born in Southern Russia (as also was his
elder brother, Paul—of whom presently), and, until his fourteenth year,
received his education amid a circle of hard-up governors, free-and-easy
aides-de-camp, and sundry staff and regimental officers. His mother came
of the family of the Koliazins, and, known in maidenhood as Agathe, and
subsequently as Agathoklea Kuzminishna Kirsanov, belonged to the type of
"officer's lady." That is to say, she wore pompous mobcaps and rustling silk
dresses, was always the first to approach the cross in church, talked volubly
and in a loud tone, of set practice admitted her sons to kiss her hand in the
morning, and never failed to bless them before retiring to rest at night. In
short, she lived the life which suited her. As the son of a general, Nikolai
Petrovitch was bound—though he evinced no particular bravery, and might

even have seemed a coward—to follow his brother Paul's example by
entering the army; but unfortunately, owing to the fact that, on the very day
when there arrived the news of his commission, he happened to break his
leg, it befell that, after two months in bed, he rose to his feet a permanently
lamed man. When his father had finished wringing his hands over the
mischance, he sent his son to acquire a civilian education; whence it came
about that Nikolai, at eighteen, found himself a student at the University of
St. Petersburg. At the same period his brother obtained a commission in one
of the regiments of Guards; and, that being so, their father apportioned the
two young men a joint establishment, and placed it under the more or less
detached supervision of Ilya Koliazin, their maternal uncle and a leading
tchinovnik.[3] That done, the father returned to his division and his wife, and
only at rare intervals sent his sons sheets of grey foolscap (scrawled and re-
scrawled in flamboyant calligraphy) to which there was appended, amid a
bower of laborious flourishes, the signature "Piotr Kirsanov, Major-
General." In the year 1835 Nikolai Petrovitch obtained his university
degree; and in the same year General Kirsanov was retired for
incompetence at a review, and decided to transfer his quarters to St.
Petersburg. Unfortunately, just as he was on the point both of renting a
house near the Tavritchesky Gardens and of being enrolled as a member of
the English Club, a stroke put an end to his career, and Agathoklea
Kuzminishna followed him soon afterwards, since never had she succeeded
in taking to the dull life of the capital, but always had hankered after the old
provincial existence. Already during his parents' lifetime, and to their no
small vexation, Nikolai Petrovitch had contrived to fall in love with the
daughter of a certain tchinovnik named Prepolovensky, the landlord of his
flat; and since the maiden was not only comely, but one of the type known
as "advanced" (that is to say, she perused an occasional "Science" article in
one newspaper or another), he married her out of hand as soon as the term
of mourning was ended, and, abandoning the Ministry of Provincial Affairs
to which, through his father's influence, he had been posted, embarked upon
connubial felicity in a villa adjoining the Institute of Forestry. Thence, after
a while, the couple removed to a diminutive, but in every way respectable,
flat which could boast of a spotless vestibule and an icy-cold drawing-
room; and thence, again, they migrated to the country, where they settled
for good, and where, in due time, they had born to them a son Arkady. The
existence of husband and wife was one of perfect comfort and tranquillity.

Almost never were they parted from one another, they read together, they
played the piano together, and they sang duets. Also, she would garden or
superintend the poultry-yard, and he would set forth a-hunting, or see to the
management of the estate. Meanwhile Arkady led an existence of equal
calm and comfort, and grew, and waxed fat; until, in 1847, when ten years
had been passed in this idyllic fashion, Kirsanov's wife breathed her last.
The blow proved almost more than the husband could bear—so much so
that his head turned grey in a few weeks. Yet, though he sought distraction
for his thoughts by going abroad, he felt constrained, in the following year,
to return home, where, after a prolonged period of inaction, he took up the
subject of Industrial Reform. Next, in 1855, he sent his son to the
University of St. Petersburg, and, for the same reason, spent the following
three winters in the capital, where he seldom went out, but spent the greater
part of his time in endeavouring to fraternise with his son's youthful
acquaintances. The fourth winter, however, he was prevented by various
circumstances from spending in St. Petersburg; and thus in the May of 1859
we see him—grey-headed, dusty, a trifle bent, and wholly middle-aged—
awaiting his son's home-coming after the elevation of the latter (in Nikolai's
own footsteps) to the dignity of a graduate.
Presently either a sense of decency or (more probably) a certain
disinclination to remain immediately under his master's eye led the servant
to withdraw to the entrance gates, and there to light a pipe. Nikolai
Petrovitch, however, continued sitting with head bent, and his eyes
contemplating the ancient steps of the verandah, up which a stout speckled
hen was tap-tapping its way on a pair of splayed yellow legs, and thereby
causing an untidy, but fastidious-looking, cat to regard it from the
balustrade with marked disapproval. Meanwhile the sun beat fiercely down,
and from the darkened interior of a neighbouring granary came a smell as of
hot rye straw. Nikolai Petrovitch sank into a reverie. "My son Arkady a
graduate!"—the words kept passing and repassing through his mind. Again
and again he tried to think of something else, but always the same thought
returned to him. Until eventually he reverted to the memory of his dead
wife. "Would that she were still with me!" was his yearning reflection.
Presently a fat blue pigeon alighted upon the roadway, and fell to taking a
hasty drink from a pool beside the well. And almost at the instant that the
spectacle of the bird caught Nikolai Petrovitch's eye, his ear caught the
sound of approaching wheels.

"They are coming, I think," hazarded the servant as he stepped forward
through the gates.
Nikolai Petrovitch sprang to his feet, and strained his eyes along the road.
Yes, coming into view there was a tarantass,[4] drawn by three stagehorses;
and in the tarantass there could be seen the band of a student's cap and the
outlines of a familiar, well-beloved face.
"Arkasha, Arkasha!" was Kirsanov's cry as, running forward, he waved his
arms. A few moments later he was pressing his lips to the sun-tanned, dusty,
hairless cheek of the newly-fledged graduate.
[1] Gentleman or squire.
[2] The desiatin = 2.86 acres.
[3] Civil servant.
[4] A species of four-wheeled carriage.

II

"Yes, but first give me a rub down, dearest Papa," said Arkady in a voice
which, though a little hoarsened with travelling, was yet clear and youthful.
"See! I am covering you with dust!" he added as joyously he returned his
father's caresses.
"Oh, but that will not matter," said Nikolai Petrovitch with a loving,
reassuring smile as he gave the collar of his son's blue cloak a couple of
pats, and then did the same by his own jacket. Thereafter, gently
withdrawing from his son's embrace, and beginning to lead the way towards
the inn yard, he added: "Come this way, come this way. The horses will
soon be ready."
His excitement seemed even to outdo his son's, so much did he stammer
and stutter, and, at times, find himself at a loss for a word. Arkady stopped
him.
"Papa," he said, "first let me introduce my good friend Bazarov, who is the
comrade whom I have so often mentioned in letters to you, and who has
been kind enough to come to us for a visit."

At once Nikolai Petrovitch wheeled round, and, approaching a tall man
who, clad in a long coat with a tasselled belt, had just alighted from the
tarantass, pressed the bare red hand which, after a pause, the stranger
offered him.
"I am indeed glad to see you!" was Nikolai Petrovitch's greeting, "I am
indeed grateful to you for your kindness in paying us this visit! Alas, I hope
that, that——But first might I inquire your name?"
"Evgenii Vasiliev," replied the other in slow, but virile, accents as, turning
down the collar of his coat, he revealed his face more clearly. Long and
thin, with a high forehead which looked flattened at the top and became
sharpened towards the nose, the face had large, greenish eyes and long,
sandy whiskers. The instant that the features brightened into a smile,
however, they betokened self-assurance and intellect.
"My dearest Evgenii Vasiliev", Nikolai Petrovitch continued, "I trust that
whilst you are with us you will not find time hang heavy upon your hands."
Bazarov gave his lips a slight twitch, but vouchsafed no reply beyond
raising his cap—a movement which revealed the fact that the prominent
convolutions of the skull were by no means concealed by the
superincumbent mass of indeterminate-coloured hair.
"Now, Arkady," went on Nikolai Petrovitch as he turned to his son, "shall
we have the horses harnessed at once, or should you prefer to rest a little?"
"Let us rest at home, Papa. So pray have the horses put to."
"I will," his father agreed. "Peter! Bestir yourself, my good fellow!"
Being what is known as a "perfectly trained servant," Peter had neither
approached nor shaken hands with the young barin, but contented himself
with a distant bow. He now vanished through the yard gates.
"Though I have come in the koliaska," said Nikolai Petrovitch, "I have
brought three fresh horses for the tarantass."
Arkady then drank some water from a yellow bowl proffered by the
landlord, while Bazarov lighted a pipe, and approached the ostler, who was
engaged in unharnessing the stagehorses.

"Only two can ride in the koliaska," continued Nikolai Petrovitch;
"wherefore I am rather in a difficulty to know how your friend will——"
"Oh, he can travel in the tarantass," interrupted Arkady. "Moreover, do not
stand on any ceremony with him, for, wonderful though he is, he is also
quite simple, as you will find for yourself."
Nikolai Petrovitch's coachman brought out the horses, and Bazarov
remarked to the ostler:
"Come, bestir yourself, fat-beard!"
"Did you hear that, Mitiusha?" added another ostler who was standing with
his hands thrust into the back slits of his blouse. "The barin has just called
you a fat-beard. And a fat-beard you are."
For answer Mitiusha merely cocked his cap to one side and drew the reins
from the back of the sweating shafts-horse.
"Quick now, my good fellows!" cried Nikolai Petrovitch. "Bear a hand, all
of you, and for each there will be a glassful of vodka."
Naturally, it was not long before the horses were harnessed, and then father
and son seated themselves in the koliaska, Peter mounted the box of that
vehicle, and Bazarov stepped into the tarantass, and lolled his head against
the leather cushion at the back. Finally the cortège moved away.

III

"To think that you are now a graduate and home again!" said Nikolai
Petrovitch as he tapped Arkady on the knee, and then on the shoulder.
"There now, there now!"
"And how is Uncle? Is he quite well?" asked Arkady—the reason for the
question being that though he felt filled with a genuine, an almost childish
delight at his return, he also felt conscious of an instinct that the
conversation were best diverted from the emotional to the prosaic.

"Yes, your uncle is quite well. As a matter of fact, he also had arranged to
come and meet you, but at the last moment changed his mind."
"Did you have very long to wait?" continued Arkady.
"About five hours."
"Dearest Papa!" cried Arkady as, leaning over towards his father, he
imprinted upon his cheek a fervent kiss. Nikolai Petrovitch smiled quietly.
"I have got a splendid horse for you," he next remarked. "Presently you
shall see him. Also, your room has been entirely repapered."
"And have you a room for Bazarov as well?"
"One shall be found for him."
"Oh—and pray humour him in every way you can. I could not express to
you how much I value his friendship."
"But you have not known him very long, have you?"
"No—not very long."
"I thought not, for I do not remember to have seen him in St. Petersburg last
winter. In what does he most interest himself?"
"Principally in natural science. But, to tell the truth, he knows practically
everything, and is to become a doctor next year."
"Oh! So he is in the Medical Faculty?" Nikolai Petrovitch remarked; after
which there was silence for a moment.
"Peter," went on Nikolai, pointing with his hand, "are not those peasants
there some of our own?"
Peter glanced in the direction indicated, and saw a few waggons proceeding
along a narrow by-road. The teams were bridleless, and in each waggon
were seated some two or three muzhiks with their blouses unbuttoned.
"Yes, they are some of our own," Peter responded.
"Then whither can they be going? To the town?"
"Yes—or to the tavern." This last was added contemptuously, and with a
wink to the coachman that was designed to enlist that functionary's
sympathy: but as the functionary in question was one of the old school

which takes no share in the modern movement, he stirred not a muscle of
his face.
"This year my peasants have been giving me a good deal of trouble,"
Nikolai Petrovitch continued to his son. "Persistently do they refuse to pay
their tithes. What ought to be done with them?"
"And do you find your hired workmen satisfactory?"
"Not altogether," muttered Nikolai Petrovitch. "You see, they have become
spoilt, more's the pity! Any real energy seems quite to have left them, and
they not only ruin my implements, but also leave the land untilled. Does
estate-management interest you?"
"The thing we most lack here is shade," remarked Arkady in evasion of the
question.
"Ah, but I have had an awning added to the north balcony, so that we can
take our meals in the open air."
"But that will give the place rather the look of a villa, will it not? Things of
that sort never prove effectual. But oh, the air here! How good it smells!
Yes, in my opinion, things never smell elsewhere as they do here. And oh,
the sky!"
Suddenly Arkady stopped, threw a glance of apprehension in the direction
of the tarantass, and relapsed into silence.
"I quite agree with you," replied Nikolai Petrovitch. "You see, the reason is
that you were born here, and that therefore the place is bound to have for
you a special significance."
"But no significance can attach to the place of a man's birth, Papa."
"Indeed?"
"Oh no. None whatsoever."
Nikolai Petrovitch glanced at the speaker, and for fully half a verst let the
vehicle proceed without the conversation between them being renewed. At
length Nikolai Petrovitch observed:
"I cannot remember whether I wrote to tell you that your old nurse,
Egorovna, is dead."

"Dead? Oh, the poor old woman! But Prokofitch—is he still alive?"
"He is so, and in no way changed—that is to say, he grumbles as much as
ever. In fact, you will find that no really important alterations have taken
place at Marino."
"And have you the same steward as before?"
"No; I have appointed a fresh one, for I came to the conclusion that I could
not have any freed serfs about the place. That is to say, I did not feel as
though I could trust such fellows with posts of responsibility." Arkady
indicated Peter with his eyes, and Nikolai Petrovitch therefore subdued his
voice a little. "He? Oh, il est libre, en effet. You see, he is my valet. But as
regards a steward, I have appointed a miestchanin,[1] at a salary of 250
roubles a year, and he seems at least capable. But"—and here Nikolai
Petrovitch rubbed his forehead, which gesture with him always implied
inward agitation—"I ought to say that, though I have told you that you will
find no alterations of importance at Marino, the statement is not strictly
true, seeing that it is my duty to warn you that, that——" Nikolai Petrovitch
hesitated again—then added in French: "Perhaps by a stern moralist my
frankness might be considered misplaced; yet I will not conceal from you,
nor can you fail to be aware, that always I have had ideas of my own on the
subject of the relations which ought to subsist between a father and his son.
At the same time, this is not to say that you have not the right to judge me.
Rather, it is that at my age——Well, to put matters bluntly, the girl whom
you will have heard me speak of——"
"You mean Thenichka?" said Arkady.
Nikolai Petrovitch's face went red.
"Do not speak of her so loudly," he advised. "Yes, she is living with us. I
took her in because two of our smaller rooms were available. But of course
the arrangement must be changed."
"Why must it, Papa?"
"Because this friend of yours is coming, and also because—well, it might
make things awkward."
"Do not disturb yourself on Bazarov's account. He is altogether superior to
such things."

"Yes, so you say; but the mischief lies in the fact that the wing is so small."
"Papa, Papa!" protested Arkady. "Almost one would think that you
considered yourself to blame for something; whereas you have nothing to
reproach yourself with."
"Ah, but I have," responded Nikolai Petrovitch. His face had turned redder
than ever.
"No, you have not, Papa," repeated Arkady with a loving smile, while
adding to himself with a feeling of indulgent tenderness for his good, kind
father, as well as with a certain sense of "superiority": "Why is he making
these excuses?"
"I beg of you to say no more," he continued with an involuntary feeling of
exultation in being "grown up" and "emancipated." As he did so Nikolai
Petrovitch glanced at him from under the fingers of the hand which was still
rubbing his brows. At the same moment something seemed to give his heart
a stab. Mentally, as before, he blamed himself.
"Here our fields begin," he observed after a pause.
"I see," rejoined Arkady. "And that is our forest in front, I suppose?"
"It is so. Only, only—I have sold it, and this year it is to be removed."
"Why have you sold it?"
"Because I needed the money. Moreover, the land which it occupies must
go to the peasants."
"What? To the peasants who pay you no tithes?"
"Possibly. But some day they will pay me."
"I regret the forest's loss," said Arkady, and then resumed his contemplation
of the landscape.
The scenery which the party were traversing could not have been called
picturesque, for, with slight undulations, only fields, fields, and again fields,
stretched to the very horizon. True, a few patches of copse were visible, but
the ditches, with their borderings of low, sparse brushwood, recalled the
antique land-measurement of Katherine's day. Also, streams ran pent
between abruptly sloping banks, hamlets with dwarfed huts (of which the

blackened roofs were, for the most part, cracked in half) stood cheek by
jowl with crazy grinding-byres of plaited willow, empty threshing-floors
had their gates sagging, and from churches of wood or of brick which stood
amid dilapidated graveyards the stucco was peeling, and the crosses were
threatening at any moment to fall. As he gazed at the scene Arkady's heart
contracted. Moreover, the peasants encountered on the road looked ragged,
and were riding sorry nags, while the laburnum trees which stood ranged
like miserable beggars by the roadside had their bark hanging in strips, and
their boughs shattered. Lastly, the lean, mud-encrusted cows which could be
seen hungrily cropping the herbage in the ditches were so "staring" of coat
that the animals might just have been rescued from the talons of some
terrible, death-dealing monster; and as one gazed at those weak, pitiful
beasts, almost one could fancy that one saw uprisen from amid the beauty
of spring, the pale phantoms of Winter—its storms and its frost and its
snow.
"Evidently this is not a rich district," reflected Arkady. "Rather, it is a
district which gives one the impression neither of abundance nor of hard
work. Yet can it be left as it is? No! Education is what we need. But how is
that education to be administered, or, for that matter, to be introduced?"
Thus Arkady. Yet, even as the thought passed through his mind, Spring
seemed once more to regain possession of her kingdom, and everything
around him grew golden-green, and trees, shrubs, and herbage started to
wave and glimmer under the soft, warm breath of the vernal zephyrs, and
larks took to pouring out their souls in endless, ringing strains, and siskins,
circling high over sunken ponds, uttered their cry, then skimmed the
hillocks in silence, and handsome black rooks stalked among the tender
green of the short corn-shoots, or settled among the pale-white, smokelike
ripples of the young rye, whence at intervals they protruded their heads.
Arkady gazed and gazed; and gradually, as he did so, his late thoughts grew
dimmer and disappeared, and, throwing off his travelling-cloak, he peered
so joyously, with such a boyish air, into his father's face that Nikolai
Petrovitch bestowed upon him yet another embrace.
"We have but little further to go now," he remarked. "In fact, when once we
have topped that rise the house will come into view. And what a time we are
going to have together, Arkasha! For you will be able to help me with the

estate (if you care to, that is to say?), and you and I will draw nearer to one
another, and make one another's better acquaintance."
"We will!" cried Arkady. "And what splendid weather for us both!"
"Yes; specially for your home-coming is spring in all its glory. Yet I am not
sure that I do not agree with Pushkin where he says, in Eugène Onegin:
"How sad to me is your coming,
O spring, spring, season of love!"
"Arkady," shouted Bazarov from the tarantass, "please send me a match or
two, for I have nothing to light my pipe with."
Instantly Nikolai Petrovitch ceased quoting poetry, and Arkady (who had
listened with considerable surprise, though also with a certain measure of
sympathy, to his father) hastened to produce from his pocket a silver
matchbox, and to dispatch the same by the hand of Peter.
"In return, would you care to have a cigar?" called Bazarov.
"I should," replied Arkady.
The result was that when Peter returned to the koliaska he handed Arkady
not only the matchbox, but also a fat black cigar. This Arkady lit at leisure,
and then proceeded to diffuse around him so strong and acrid an odour of
tobacco that Nikolai Petrovitch (a non-smoker from birth) found himself
forced to avert his nose (though he did this covertly, for fear of offending
his son).
A quarter of an hour later the vehicles drew up at the steps of a new wooden
mansion, painted grey, and roofed with red sheet-iron. The mansion was
Marino, or Novaia Sloboda, or, to quote the peasants' name, "Bobili
Chutor."
[1] A member of the trading or shopkeeping class.

IV

There issued on to the verandah to greet the arrivals no throng of household
serfs—only a solitary girl of twelve. Presently, however, she was joined by
a young fellow much resembling Peter, but dressed in a grey livery coat to
which embossed, silver-gilt buttons were attached. This was Paul
Kirsanov's valet. In silence he opened the door of the koliaska, and
unhooked the apron of the tarantass; whereupon the three gentlemen
alighted, passed through a dark, bare hall (the face of a young woman
peered at them for a moment from behind a door), and entered a drawing-
room upholstered in the latest fashion.
"So here we are at home again!" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, taking off
his cap, and shaking back his hair. "Let us have supper, and then for bed,
bed!"
"Yes, something to eat would undoubtedly be welcome," remarked Bazarov
as, yawning, he seated himself upon a sofa.
"Quite so; I will have supper served at once." Nikolai Petrovitch, for no
apparent reason, tripped over his own feet. "And here comes Prokofitch," he
added.
As he spoke entered a man of about sixty who, white-haired, and of thin,
swarthy features, was wearing a cinnamon-coloured tail-coat with brass
buttons and a crimson collar. He smiled with delight as he approached and
shook hands with Arkady. Then, with a bow to the guest, he retired to the
doorway, and folded his hands behind his back.
"So here is the young master, Prokofitch!" said Nikolai Petrovitch. "He is
home at last. And how, think you, is he looking?"
"Very well, very well," the old man said with another smile. The next
moment, however, he knit his shaggy brows, and suggested: "Shall I lay the
table?"
"If you please, if you please." Nikolai Petrovitch turned to Bazarov.
"Before supper," he said, "would you care to go to your room?"
"I thank you, no. But please have my trunk conveyed thither, and also this
wrap." And Bazarov divested himself of his cloak.
"Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's cloak."

The old butler received the garment gingerly, held it well away from him
with both hands, and left the room on tiptoe.
"And you, Arkady?" continued Nikolai Petrovitch. "Do you not wish to go
to your room?"
"Yes; for a wash I should be thankful," was Arkady's reply as he moved
towards the door. At that moment it opened to admit a man of medium
height who was dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionably low collar, and
a pair of patent leather boots. This was Paul Petrovitch Kirsanov. Although
forty-five, he had close-cropped grey hair of the sheen of new silver, and his
sallow, unwrinkled face was as clear-cut and regular of outline as though
carved with a light, fine chisel. Still retaining traces of remarkable
comeliness, his bright, black, oblong eyes had a peculiar attraction, and his
every well-bred, refined feature showed that symmetry of youth, that air of
superiority to the rest of the world which usually disappears when once the
twenties have been passed.
Drawing from his trouser pocket a slender hand the long, pink nails of
which looked all the slenderer for the snowy whiteness of the superimposed
cuff and large opal sleeve-link, he offered it to his nephew; after which, this
prefatory European "handshake" over, he thrice kissed Arkady in the
Russian fashion—that is to say, touched his nephew's cheek with his
perfumed moustache, and murmured: "I congratulate you."
Next Nikolai Petrovitch presented to him Bazarov. Inclining his supple
figure with a faint smile, Paul Petrovitch this time did not offer his hand. On
the contrary, he replaced it in his pocket.
"I was beginning to think that you never meant to arrive," he said with an
amiable hoist of his shoulders and a display of some beautiful white teeth.
"What happened to you?"
"Nothing," replied Arkady, "except that we lingered a little. For the same
reason are we as hungry as wolves; so pray tell Prokofitch to be quick,
Papa, and I shall be back in a moment."
"Wait; I will go with you," added Bazarov as he rose from the sofa; and the
two young men left the room together.
"Who is your guest?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

"A friend of Arkady's, and, according to Arkady's showing, a man of
intellect."
"He is going to stay here?"
"He is."
"A long-haired fellow like that?"
"Certainly."
In that particular direction Paul Petrovitch said no more, but, tapping the
table with his finger-nails, added:
"Je pense que notre Arkady s'est dégourdi.[1] And in any case I am pleased
to see him back again."
At supper little was said. In particular did Bazarov scarcely speak, though
he ate heartily; and only Nikolai Petrovitch proved garrulous as he related
various incidents in what he termed his "agricultural life," and gossiped of
forthcoming administrative measures, committees, deputations, the need of
introducing machinery, and other such topics.
For his part, Paul Petrovitch paced the room (he never took supper), and
sipped a glassful of red wine, and occasionally interjected some such
remark—rather, exclamation—as "Ah!" or "Oh, ho!" or "H'm!" Arkady's
contribution consisted of a little St. Petersburg gossip, even though,
throughout, he was conscious of a touch of that awkwardness which
overtakes a young man when, just ceased to be a boy, he returns to the spot
where hitherto he has ranked as a mere child. In other words, he drawled his
phrases unnecessarily, carefully avoided the use of the term "Papasha,"[2]
and, once, even went so far as to substitute for it the term "Otety"[3]—
though, true, he pronounced it with some difficulty. Lastly, in his excessive
desire to seem at his ease, he helped himself to more wine than was good
for him, and tasted some of every brand. Meanwhile Prokofitch chewed his
lips, and never removed his eyes from his young master.
Supper over, the company dispersed.
"A queer fellow is that uncle of yours," Bazarov said to Arkady as, clad in a
dressing-gown, he seated himself by his friend's bed, and sucked at a short

pipe. "To think of encountering such elegance in the country! He would
take a prize with his finger-nails."
"You do not know him yet," said Arkady. "In his day he was a leading lion,
and some time or another I will tell you his history. Yes, many and many a
woman has lost her head over his good looks."
"Then I should think that he has nothing to live on save memories,"
observed Bazarov. "At all events, there is no one here for him to enslave. I
looked him over to-night, and never in my life have beheld a collar of such
marvellous gloss, or a chin so perfectly shaven. Yet such things can come to
look ridiculous, do not you think?"
"Yes—perhaps they can. But he is such an excellent fellow in himself!"
"Oh, certainly—a truly archangelic personage! Your father, too, is excellent;
for though he may read foolish poetry, and though his ideas on the subject
of industry may be few, his heart is in the right place."
"He is a man with a heart of gold."
"Nevertheless, did you notice his nervousness to-night?"
Arkady nodded as though to himself such a weakness was a perfect
stranger.
"Curious indeed!" commented Bazarov. "Ah, you elderly Romanticists! You
over-develop the nervous system until the balance is upset. Now, good-
night. In my room there is an English washstand, yet the door will not shut!
But such things (English washstands I mean) need to be encouraged: they
represent 'progress.'"
And Bazarov departed, while Arkady surrendered himself to a sensation of
comfort. How pleasant was it to be sinking to sleep in one's comfortable
home, and in one's own familiar bed, and under a well-known coverlet
worked by loving hands—perhaps those of his good, kind, tireless old
nurse! And at the thought of Egorovna he sighed, and commended her soul
to the Heavenly Powers. But for himself he did not pray.
Soon both he and Bazarov were asleep; but certain other members of the
household there were who remained wakeful. In particular had Nikolai
Petrovitch been greatly excited by his son's return; and though he went to

bed, he left the candle burning, and, resting with his head on his hands, lay
thinking deeply.
Also, his brother sat up in his study until nearly midnight. Seated in an
ample armchair before a corner where a marble stove was smouldering, he
had effected no alteration in his costume beyond having exchanged his
patent leather boots for a pair of heelless, red felt slippers. Lastly, he was
holding, though not reading, the latest number of Galignani, and his eyes
were fixed upon the stove, where a quivering blue spurt of flame kept
alternately disappearing and bursting forth again. Whither his thoughts were
wandering God only knows; but that they were not meandering through the
past alone was proved by the fact that in his expression there was a
concentrated gloom which is never in evidence when a man's mind is
occupied with memories and no more.
Finally, seated on a chest in a small room at the back of the house, and
wearing a blue dressing-jacket and, thrown over her dark hair, a white scarf,
was the girl Thenichka. As she sat there she kept listening, and starting, and
gazing towards an open door which at once afforded a glimpse of an infant's
cot and admitted the sound of a sleeping child's respiration.
[1] "I think that our friend Arkady has acquired some polish."
[2] Dear Papa.
[3] Father.

V

Next morning Bazarov was the first to awake and go out of doors.
"Ah," thought he to himself as he gazed about him, "this is not much of a
place to look at."
When apportioning allotments to his peasantry, Nikolai Petrovitch had
found himself forced to exclude from the new "farm" four desiatins of
level, naked land, and upon this space had built himself a house, quarters
for his servants, and a homestead. Also, he had laid out a garden, dug a
pond, and sunk two wells. But the young trees had fared badly, very little

water had risen in the pond, and the wells had developed a brackish taste.
The only vegetation to attain robust growth was a clump of lilacs and
acacias, under the shade of which the household was accustomed to take tea
or to dine. Within a few minutes Bazarov had traversed all the paths in the
garden, visited the stables and the cattlesheds, and made friends with two
young household serfs whom he happened to encounter, and with whom he
set forth to catch frogs in a marsh about a verst from the manor.
"For what do you want frogs, barin?" asked one of the lads.
"To make them useful," replied Bazarov (who possessed a peculiar gift for
winning the confidence of his inferiors, even though he never cozened
them, but, on the contrary, always treated them with asperity). "You see, I
like to open them, and then to observe what their insides are doing. You and
I are frogs too, except that we walk upon our hind legs. Thus the operation
helps me to understand what is taking place in ourselves."
"And what good will that do you?"
"This. That if you should fall sick, and I should have to treat you, I might
avoid some mistakes."
"Then you are a doctor?"
"I am."
"Listen to that, Vasika! The barin says that you and I too are frogs. My
word!"
"I don't like frogs," remarked Vasika, a barefooted boy of seven with a head
as white as tow, and a costume made up of a grey blouse and a stiff collar.
"Why don't you like them?" asked Bazarov. "Do you think they will bite
you? Nay! Into the water, my young philosophers!"
Nikolai Petrovitch too had left his bed, and, on going to visit Arkady, found
him fully dressed; wherefore father and son proceeded to repair to the
terrace, and there seated themselves under the shade of the awning. Amid
nosegays of lilac, a tea-urn was simmering on a table by the balustrade, and
presently there appeared upon the scene also the damsel who, on the
previous night, had met the arrivals on the verandah. She announced in
shrill tones:

"Theodosia Nikolaevna is not very well this morning, and cannot come to
breakfast. So she has told me to ask you whether you will pour out tea for
yourselves, or whether she is to send Duniasha?"
"I will pour it out myself," Nikolai Petrovitch replied with some haste.
"Will you have cream or lemon in your tea, Arkady?"
"Cream," he replied. After a pause he continued:
"Papasha——"
Nikolai Petrovitch glanced confusedly in his direction.
"Yes?" said he.
Arkady lowered his eyes.
"Pardon me if my question should seem to you indiscreet," he began, "but,
owing to your frankness of last night, I am emboldened to return it. You will
not take offence, will you?"
"Oh no! Pray go on."
"Then I feel encouraged to ask you whether it—whether it is because I am
here that she—that is to say, Thenichka—has not joined us at breakfast?"
Nikolai Petrovitch slightly averted his face.
"It may be so," he said at length. "At all events, I presume that—that she
prefers, she prefers—in fact, that she is shy."
Arkady glanced at his father.
"But why should she be shy?" he inquired. "In the first place, you know my
views" (he uttered the words with no little complacency), "and, in the
second place, surely you cannot suppose that I would by a hair's breadth
intrude upon your life and your habits? No; sure am I that never could you
make a bad choice; and if you have asked this girl to reside under your roof,
that is tantamount to saying that she has well deserved it. In any case,
moreover, it is not for a son to summon his father to judgment—least of all
for me, who possess a father like yourself, a father who has never restricted
his son's freedom of action."
At first Arkady's voice had trembled a little, since not only did he feel that
he was doing the "magnanimous," but also he knew that he was delivering

something like a "lecture" to his father; but such an effect does the sound of
his own voice exercise upon a human being that towards the end Arkady
pronounced his words firmly, and even with a certain degree of
empressement.
"I thank you, Arkady," Nikolai Petrovitch said faintly as his fingers began
their customary perambulation of his forehead. "Nor is your conjecture
mistaken, for if this girl had not deserved the invitation, I should not, of
course, have—in other words, as you imply, this is no frivolous whim on
my part. Nor need I have spoken of the matter, were it not that I desired you
to understand that she might possibly have felt embarrassed at meeting you
on the very day after your arrival."
"Then let me go and meet her," exclaimed Arkady with another access of
"magnanimity" as he sprang from his chair. "Yes, let me go and explain to
her why she need not shun me."
Nikolai Petrovitch also rose.
"Arkady," he began, "pray do me a favour. Hitherto I had not warned you
that——"
But, without listening to him, Arkady darted from the terrace. For a moment
or two Nikolai Petrovitch gazed after him—then, overcome with confusion,
relapsed into a chair. His heart was beating rapidly. Whether or not he was
picturing to himself a strangeness of future relations with his son; whether
he was imagining that, had his son refrained from interfering, the latter
might have paid him more respect in future; whether he was reproaching
himself for his own weakness—it is difficult to say what his thoughts were.
Probably in them there was a combination of the feelings just indicated, if
only in the form of apprehensions. Yet those apprehensions cannot have
been deeply rooted, as was proved by the fact that, for all the beating of his
heart, the colour had not left his face.
Soon hasty footsteps were heard approaching, and Arkady reappeared on
the terrace.
"I have made her acquaintance!" he shouted with a kindly, good-humoured,
triumphant expression. "That Theodosia Nikolaievna is not well to-day is a
fact; but also it is a fact that she is going to appear later. And why did you

not tell me that I had a little brother? Otherwise I should have gone and
kissed him last night, even as I have done this moment."
Nikolai Petrovitch tried to say something—to rise and to make an
explanation of some sort; but Arkady cut him short by falling upon his
neck.
"What is this? Again embracing?" said Paul Petrovitch behind them.
As a matter of fact, neither father nor son was ill-pleased to see him appear,
for, however touching such situations may be, one may be equally glad to
escape from them.
"At what are you surprised?" asked Nikolai Petrovitch gaily. "Remember
that I have not seen Arkesha for several centuries—at all events, not since
last night!"
"Oh, I am not surprised," said Paul Petrovitch. "On the contrary, I should
not mind embracing him myself."
And Arkady, on approaching his uncle, felt once more upon his cheek the
impression of a perfumed moustache. Paul Petrovitch then sat down to
table. Clad in an elegant morning suit of English cut, he was flaunting on
his head a diminutive fez which helped the carelessly folded tie to
symbolise the freedom of a country life. At the same time, the stiff collar of
the shirt (which was striped, not white, as best befitted a matutinal toilet)
supported with its usual rigour an immaculately shaven chin.
"Well, Arkady?" said he. "Where is your new friend?"
"Out somewhere. He seldom misses going for an early morning walk. But
the great thing is to take no notice of him, for he detests all ceremony."
"So I have perceived." And with his usual deliberateness Paul Petrovitch
began to butter a piece of bread. "Will he be staying here very long?"
"Well, as long as he may care to stay. As a matter of fact, he is going on to
his father's place."
"And where does his father live?"
"Some eighty versts from here, in the same province as ourselves. I believe
he has a small property, and used to be an army doctor."

"H'm! Ever since last night I have been asking myself where I can have
heard the name before. Nikolai, do you remember whether there was a
doctor of that name in our father's division?"
"Yes, there used to be."
"Then that doctor will be this fellow's father. H'm!" And Paul Petrovitch
twitched his moustache. "What exactly is your Bazarov?" he enquired of
Arkady.
"What is he?" Arkady repeated smiling. "Do you really want me to tell you
what he is, Uncle?"
"If you please, my nephew."
"He is a Nihilist."
"A what?" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, while even Paul Petrovitch paused
in the act of raising a knife to the edge of which there was a morsel of butter
adhering.
"A Nihilist," repeated Arkady.
"A Nihilist?" queried Nikolai Petrovitch. "I imagine that that must be a term
derived from the Latin nihil or 'nothing.' It denotes, I presume, a man who
—a man who—well, a man who declines to accept anything."
"Or a man who declines to respect anything," hazarded Paul Petrovitch as
he re-applied himself to the butter.
"No, a man who treats things solely from the critical point of view,"
corrected Arkady.
"But the two things are one and the same, are they not?" queried Paul
Petrovitch.
"Oh no. A Nihilist is a man who declines to bow to authority, or to accept
any principle on trust, however sanctified it may be."
"And to what can that lead?" asked Paul Petrovitch.
"It depends upon the individual. In one man's case, it may lead to good; in
that of another, to evil."

"I see. But we elders view things differently. We folk of the older generation
believe that without principles" (Paul Petrovitch pronounced the word
softly, and with a French accent, whereas Arkady had pronounced it with an
emphasis on the leading syllable)—"without principles it is impossible to
take a single step in life, or to draw a single breath. Mais vous avez changé
tout cela. God send you health and a general's rank, Messieurs Nihil—how
do you pronounce it?"
"Ni-hi-lists," said Arkady distinctly.
"Quite so (formerly we had Hegelists, and now they have become Nihilists)
—God send you health and a general's rank, but also let us see how you will
contrive to exist in an absolute void, an airless vacuum. Pray ring the bell,
brother Nikolai, for it is time for me to take my cocoa."
Nikolai Petrovitch did as requested, and also shouted for Duniasha; but,
instead of the latter, there issued on to the terrace Thenichka in person. A
young woman of twenty-three, she was pale, and gentle-looking, with dark
eyes and hair, a pair of childishly red, pouting lips, and delicate hands. Also,
she was clad in a clean cotton gown, a new blue kerchief was thrown lightly
over her rounded shoulders, and she was carrying in front of her a large cup
of cocoa. Shyly she placed the latter before Paul Petrovitch, while a warm,
rosy current of blood suffused the exquisite skin of her comely face, and
then she remained standing by the table, with lowered eyes and the tips of
her fingers touching its surface. Yet, though she looked as though she were
regretting having come, she looked as though she felt that she had a right to
be there.
Paul Petrovitch frowned, and Nikolai Petrovitch looked confused.
"Good morning, Thenichka," the latter muttered.
"Good morning," she replied in a low, clear voice. Then she glanced
askance at Arkady, and he smiled at her in friendly fashion. Finally she
departed with a quiet step and slightly careless gait—the latter a peculiarity
of hers.
Silence reigned on the terrace. For a while Paul Petrovitch drank his cocoa.
Then he suddenly raised his head, and muttered:
"Monsieur Nihilist is about to give us the pleasure of his company."

True enough, Bazarov could be seen stepping across the flowerbeds. On his
linen jacket and trousers was a thick coating of mud, to the crown of his
ancient circular hat clung a piece of sticky marshweed, and in his hand he
was holding a small bag. Also, something in the bag kept stirring as though
it were alive. Approaching the terrace with rapid strides, he nodded to the
company and said:
"Good morning, gentlemen! Pardon me for being so late. I shall be back
presently, but first my captures must be stowed away."
"What are those captures?" Paul Petrovitch inquired. "Leeches?"
"No, frogs."
"Do you eat them? Or do you breed them?"
"I catch them for purposes of experiment," was Bazarov's only reply as
carelessly he entered the house.
"In other words, he vivisects them," was Paul Petrovitch's comment. "In
other words, he believes in frogs more than in principles."
Arkady threw his uncle a reproachful look, and even Nikolai Petrovitch
shrugged his shoulders, so that Paul Petrovitch himself felt his bon mot to
have been out of place, and hastened to divert the subject to the estate and
the new steward.

VI

Bazarov, returning, seated himself at the table, and fell to drinking tea. The
brothers contemplated him in silence. Arkady glanced covertly from his
father to his uncle, and back again.
"Have you walked far this morning?" at length Nikolai Petrovitch inquired.
"To a marsh beside an aspen coppice. By the way, Arkady, I flushed five
head of woodcock. Perhaps you would like to go and shoot them?"
"Then you yourself are no sportsman?"

"No."
"That is to say, you prefer physics to anything else?" This from Paul
Petrovitch.
"Yes, I prefer physics—in fact, the natural sciences in general—to anything
else."
"Well, I am told that the Germanics have made great strides in that
department?" (Paul Petrovitch used the term "Germanics" instead of
"Germans" ironically, but no one noticed it.)
"True," was Bazarov's careless reply. "In fact, the Germans are, in the same
respect, our masters."
"You think highly of the Germans?" Paul Petrovitch's tone was now
studiously polite, for he was beginning to feel irritated with the man—his
aristocratic nature could not altogether stomach Bazarov's absolute lack of
ceremony, the fact that this doctor's son not only knew no diffidence, but
actually returned snappish and reluctant answers, and infused a brusquerie
akin to rudeness into his tone.
"At least the savants of that part of the world have some energy in them,"
retorted Bazarov.
"Quite so. And your opinion of our Russian savants is—well, perhaps less
flattering?"
"It is, with your leave."
"That constitutes a piece of laudable modesty on your part," Paul Petrovitch
observed with a slight hitch of his figure and a toss of his head. "But how
comes it about that Arkady has just told us that you recognise no authorities
whatsoever? Do you not trust authorities?"
"Why should I? Is anything in the world trustworthy? Certainly, should I be
told a fact, I agree with it, but that is all."
"Oh! Then the Germans confine themselves solely to facts?" Paul
Petrovitch's face had now assumed an expression of detachment, as though
he had suddenly become withdrawn to the ultimate heights of the
empyrean.

"No, not all Germans," replied Bazarov with a passing yawn. Clearly he had
no mind to continue the controversy. Meanwhile Paul Petrovitch glanced at
Arkady as much as to say: "Admit that your friend has beautiful manners!"
"For my own part," he continued, ostentatiously, and with an effort, "I, a
fallible mortal, do not favour the Germans. Of course, I am not including in
that category the Russo-Germans, who, as we know, are birds of passage.
Rather, it is the Germans of Germany proper whom I cannot abide. Once
upon a time they used to produce men like Schiller and like—what's his
name?—Goethe: for both of which authors my brother has a marked
predilection. But now the German nation has become a nation solely of
chemists and materialists."
"A good chemist is worth a score of your poets," remarked Bazarov.
"Quite so." Paul Petrovitch hitched his eyebrows a little, as though he had
come near to falling asleep. "Er—I take it then that you decline to recognise
art, but believe only in science?"
"I have told you that I believe in nothing at all. What after all, is science—
that is to say, science in the mass? A science may exist, even as a trade or a
profession may exist; but with regard to science in the mass, there is no
such thing."
"Very good. And, with regard to such other postulates as usually are granted
in human affairs, the attitude which you adopt is negative in the same
degree?"
"What is this?" suddenly countered Bazarov. "Is it an examination in
tenets?"
Paul Petrovitch turned pale, and Nikolai Petrovitch thought it time to
intervene in the dispute.
"Nay, we will debate the subject later," he said. "And then, while
recognising your views, good Evgenii Vasilitch, we will state our own.
Individually speaking, I am delighted that you should be interested in the
natural sciences. For instance, I am told that recently Liebig[1] has made
some surprising discoveries in the matter of the improvement of soils.
Consequently you might be able to help me in my agricultural labours, and
to give me much useful advice."

"Always I shall be at your service, Nikolai Petrovitch," replied Bazarov.
"But what has Liebig to do with us? First the alphabet should be learnt
before we try to read books. We have not even reached the letter A."
"You are a Nihilist—that is plain enough," reflected Nikolai Petrovitch;
while aloud he added: "Yet allow me to seek your occasional assistance.
Brother Paul, I believe it is time that we interviewed our steward."
Paul Petrovitch rose from his chair.
"Yes," he said, without looking at any one in particular, "it is indeed a
terrible thing to have lived five years in the country, and to have stood
remote from superior intellects! If one is ab origine a fool, one becomes so
more than ever, seeing that, however much one may try not to forget what
one has learnt, there will dawn upon one, sooner or later, the revelation that
one's knowledge is all rubbish, that sensible men have ceased to engage in
such futilities, and that one has lagged far behind the times. But, in such a
case, what is one to do? Evidently the younger generation know more than
we do."
And, slowly turning on his heel, he moved away as slowly, with Nikolai
Petrovitch following in his wake.
"Does Paul Petrovitch always reside here?" asked Bazarov when the door
had closed upon the pair.
"Yes, he does. But look here, Evgenii. You adopted too sharp a tone with
my uncle. You have offended him."
"What? Am I to fawn upon these rustic aristocrats, even though their
attitude is one purely of conceit and subservience to custom? If such be
Paul Petrovitch's bent, he had better have continued his career in St.
Petersburg. Never mind him, however. Do you know, I have found a
splendid specimen of the water beetle dytiscus marginatus. Are you
acquainted with it? I will show it you."
"Did I not promise to tell you his history?" observed Arkady musingly.
"Whose history? The water beetle's?"
"No; my uncle's. At least you will see from it that he is not the man you take
him for, but a man who deserves pity rather than ridicule."

"I am not prepared to dispute it. But how come you to be so devoted to
him?"
"Always one ought to be fair."
"The connection I do not see."
"Then listen."
And Arkady related the story to be found in the following chapter.
[1] Justus Freiherr von Liebig (1803-1873), the great German chemist—in
particular, the founder of agricultural chemistry.

VII

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

"Among the society of St. Petersburg of that period there was accustomed
to appear, and to disappear, at irregular intervals a certain Princess R. whose
memory survives to this day. Though wedded to a highly placed and very
presentable (albeit slightly stupid) husband, she had no children, and spent
her time between making unexpected visits abroad and unexpected returns
to Russia. In short, she led a very curious life, and the world in general
accounted her a coquette, in that she devoted herself to every sort of
pleasure, and danced at balls until she could dance no more, and laughed
and jested with young men whom she received before dinner in the half-
light of a darkened drawing-room. Yet, strangely enough, as the night
advanced she would fall to weeping and praying and wringing her hands,
and, unable to rest, would pace her room until break of day, or sit huddled,
pale and cold, over the Psalter. But no sooner would daylight have appeared
than she would once more become a woman of the world, and drive, and
laugh, and chatter, and fling herself upon anything which seemed to offer
any sort of distraction. Also, her power to charm was extraordinary; for
though no one could have called her a beauty (seeing that the one good
feature of her face lay in her eyes—and even then it was not the small, grey
eyes themselves which attracted, but the glance which they emitted), she
had hair of the colour and weight of gold which reached to her knees. That
glance!—it was a glance which could be careless to the point of daring or
meditative to the point of melancholy; a glance so enigmatical that, even
when her tongue was lisping fatuous nonsense, there gleamed in her aspect
something intangible and out of the common. Finally, she dressed with
exquisite taste.
"This woman Paul Petrovitch met at a ball; and at it he danced a mazurka
with her. Yet, though, during the dance, she uttered not a single word of
sense, he straightway fell in love with her, and, being a man accustomed to
conquests, attained his end in this case also. Yet, strangely enough, the
facility of his triumph in no way chilled him, but led him on to become
more and more resolutely, more and more painfully, attached, and that
though she was a woman in whom, even after she had made the great
surrender, there still remained something as immutably veiled, as radically
intangible, as before—something which no one had yet succeeded in
penetrating. What was in that soul God alone knows. Almost would it seem
as though she were subservient to a mysterious force of which the existence
was absolutely unknown to her, but which sported with her as it willed, and

whose whims her mentality was powerless to control. At all events, her
conduct constituted a series of inconsistencies, and even the few letters
which she wrote to Paul Petrovitch—missives which would undoubtedly
have aroused her husband's suspicions had he seen them—were written to a
man who was practically a stranger to her. And in time her love began to be
succeeded by fits of despondency; she ceased to smile and jest with the
lover whom she had selected, and looked at him, and listened to his voice,
with reluctance. In fact, there were moments—for the most part, unexpected
moments—when this reluctance bordered upon chill horror, and her face
assumed a wild, corpse-like expression, and she would shut herself up in
her bedroom, whence her maid, with ear glued to the keyhole, would hear
issue sounds as of dull, hopeless sobbing. Paul Petrovitch himself
frequently found that, when returning home after one of these tender
interviews, there was naught within his breast save the bitter, galling
sensation which comes of final and irrevocable failure. 'What more could I
want?' he would say to himself in his bewilderment; yet always he spoke
with an aching heart.
"It happened that on one occasion he gave her a ring having a stone carved
in the figure of the Sphinx.
"'What?' she exclaimed. 'Do you offer me the Sphinx?'
"'I do,' he replied. 'The Sphinx is yourself.'
"'I?' she queried with a slow lift of her enigmatical eyes. 'You are indeed
flattering!'
"With the words went the ghost of a smile, while her eyes looked stranger
than ever.
"Even during the time that the Princess loved him things were difficult for
Paul Petrovitch; but when she cooled in her affection for him (as soon
happened) he came near to going out of his mind. Distracted with jealousy,
he allowed her no rest, but followed her to such an extent that at length,
worn out with his persistent overtures, she betook herself on a tour abroad.
Yet even then Paul Petrovitch listened to neither the prayers of his friends
nor the advice of his superior officers, but, resigning his commission, set
out on the Princess's track. Thus four years were spent in hunting her down,
and losing sight of her again: and though, throughout, he felt ashamed of his

conduct, and disgusted with his lack of spirit, all was of no avail—her
image, the baffling, bewitching, alluring image which ever flitted before his
eyes, had implanted itself too deeply in his breast. At last—it was at Baden
—the pair once more came together; and though it seemed that never had
she loved him as she did now, before a month was over another rupture had
occurred, and, this time, a final one, as, with a last flicker, the flame died
down and went out. True, that the parting would come he had foreseen; yet
still he sought to be friends with her (as though friendship with such a
woman could have been possible!), and only the fact that she quietly
withdrew from Baden, and thenceforth studiously avoided him, baffled his
purpose. Returning to Russia, he endeavoured to resume his former mode of
life: but neither by hook nor crook could he regain the old rut. As a man
with a poisoned system wanders hither and thither, so did he drive out, and
retain all the customs of a society habitué. Nay, he could even have boasted
of two or three new conquests. But no. What he wanted was obtainable
neither through himself nor others, since his whole power of initiative was
gone, and his head gradually growing grey. To sit at his club, to consume
his soul in jaundice and ennui, to engage in bachelor disputes which failed
to interest him—such was now become his sole occupation. And, as we
know, it is an occupation which constitutes the worst of signs. Nor, for that
matter, seems he to marriage to have given a thought.
"Thus ten years elapsed in colourless, fruitless pursuits. Yet Paul found time
pass swiftly, indeed, with amazing swiftness, for nowhere in the world does
it fly as it does in Russia (in prison only is its passage said to be still
swifter); wherefore there came at length a night when, while dining at his
club, he heard that the Princess was dead—that she had died in Paris in a
state bordering upon insanity. Rising from the table, he fell to pacing the
rooms of the club with a face like that of a corpse, and only at intervals
halting to watch the tables of the card-players; until, his usual time for
returning home having arrived, he departed. Soon after he had reached his
flat there was delivered for him a package containing the ring which he had
given to the Princess. The Sphinx on it was marked with a mark like the
sign of the cross, and enclosed also was a message to say that through the
cross had the enigma become solved.
"These things took place just at the time (early in '48) when Nikolai
Petrovitch had lost his wife, and removed to St. Petersburg; and since, also,

the period of Nikolai's marriage had coincided with the earlier days of
Paul's acquaintance with the Princess, Paul had not seen his brother since
the day when the latter had settled in the country. True, on returning from
abroad, Paul had paid Nikolai a visit with the intention of staying with him
for a couple of months, as a congratulatory compliment on his happiness;
but the visit had lasted a week only, since the difference in the position of
the two brothers had been too great, and even now, though that difference
had diminished somewhat, owing to the fact that Nikolai Petrovitch had lost
his wife, and Paul Petrovitch his memories (after the Princess's death he
made it his rule to try and forget her)—even now, I say, there existed the
difference that, whereas Nikolai Petrovitch could look back upon a life well
spent, and had a son rising to manhood, Paul Petrovitch was still a lonely
bachelor, and, moreover, entering upon that dim, murky period when regrets
come to resemble hopes, and hopes are beginning to resemble regrets, and
youth is fled, and old age is fast approaching. To Paul Petrovitch that period
was particularly painful, in that, in losing his past, he had lost his all.
"'I shall not invite you to come to Marino,' were Nikolai Petrovitch's words
to his brother. 'Even when my wife was alive, you found the place tedious;
and now it would kill you.'
"'Ah, but in those days I was young and foolish and full of vanity,' replied
Paul Petrovitch. 'Even though I may not have grown wiser, at least am I
quieter. So, if you should be willing, I will gladly come and make your
place my permanent home.'
"For answer Nikolai Petrovitch embraced him; and though a year and a half
elapsed before Paul Petrovitch decided to carry out his intention, once
settled on the estate, he has never left it—no, not even during the three
winters spent by Nikolai Petrovitch with his son in St. Petersburg.
Meanwhile he has taken to reading books—more especially English books,
and, in general, to ordering his life on the English pattern. Rarely, also, does
he call upon his neighbours, but confines his excursions, for the most part,
to attending election meetings, where, as a rule, he holds his tongue, but
occasionally amuses himself by angering and alarming the older generation
of landowners with Liberal sallies. From the representatives of the younger
generation he holds entirely aloof. Yet both parties, though they reckon him
haughty, accord him respect. They do so because of his refined, aristocratic
manners, and of what they have heard concerning his former conquests, and

of the fact that he dresses with exquisite taste, that he always occupies the
best suites in the best hotels, that he dines sumptuously every day, that once
he took dinner with the Duke of Wellington at the Court of Louis Philippe,
that invariably he takes about with him a silver nécessaire and a travelling
bath, that he diffuses rare and agreeable perfumes, that he is a first-rate and
universally successful whist-player, and that his honour is irreproachable.
The ladies too look upon him as a man of charming melancholy: but with
their sex he has long ceased to have anything to do.
"You see, then, Evgenii," wound up Arkady, "that you have judged my
uncle very unfairly. Moreover, I have omitted to say that several times he
has saved my father from ruin by making over to him the whole of his
money (for they do not share the estate), and that he is always ready to help
any one, and, in particular, that he stands up stoutly for the peasants, even
though, when speaking to them, he pulls a wry face, and, before beginning
the interview, scents himself well with eau-de-Cologne."
"We all know what nerves like his mean," remarked Bazarov.
"Perhaps so. Yet his heart is in the right place; nor is he in any way a fool.
To myself especially has he given much useful advice, especially on the
subject of women."
"Ah, ha! 'Scalded with milk, one blows to cool another's water.' That is a
truism."
"Finally, and to put matters shortly," resumed Arkady, "he is a man
desperately unhappy, not one who ought to be despised."
"Who is despising him?" exclaimed Bazarov. "All that I say is that a man
who has staked his whole upon a woman's love, and, on losing the throw,
has turned crusty, and let himself drift to such an extent as to become good
for nothing—I say that such a man is not a man, a male creature at all. He is
unhappy, you say; and certainly you know him better than I do; but it is
clear also that he has not yet cleansed himself of the fool. In other words,
certain am I that, just because he occasionally reads Galignani, and
because, once a month, he saves a peasant from distress for debt, he
believes himself really to be a man of action."
"But think of his upbringing!" expostulated Arkady. "Think of the period in
which he has lived his life!"

"His upbringing?" retorted Bazarov. "Why, a man ought to bring himself up,
even as I had to do. And with regard to his period, why should I, or any
other man, be dependent upon periods? Rather, we ought to make periods
dependent upon us. No, no, friend! Sensuality and frivolity it is that are at
fault. For of what do the so-called mysterious relations between a man and
a woman consist? As physiologists, we know precisely of what they consist.
And take the anatomy of the eye. What in it justifies the guesswork whereof
you speak? Such talk is so much Romanticism and nonsense and
unsoundness and artificiality. Let us go and inspect that beetle."
And the two friends departed to Bazarov's room, where he had already
succeeded in creating a medical-surgical atmosphere which consorted well
with the smell of cheap tobacco.

VIII

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

"He is not sufficiently practical," would be his reflection. "He lets these
fellows cheat him right and left."
On the other hand, Nikolai had a high opinion of Paul's practicality, and
always sought his advice.
"I am a weak, easy-going fellow," he would say, "and have spent the whole
of my life in retirement; whereas you cannot have lived in the world for
nothing—you know it well, and have the eye of an eagle."
To this Paul Petrovitch would make no reply: he would merely turn away
without attempting to undeceive his brother.
After leaving Nikolai Petrovitch's study, Paul traversed the corridor which
separated the front portion of the house from the rear, and, on reaching a
low doorway, halted in seeming indecision, tugged at his moustache for a
moment, then tapped with his knuckles upon the panels.
"Who is there?" replied Thenichka from within. "Pray enter."
"It is I," said Paul Petrovitch as he opened the door.
Springing from the chair on which she had been seated with her baby, she
handed the latter to the nurse-girl (who at once bore it from the room), and
hastened to rearrange her bodice.
"Pardon me for having disturbed you," said Paul Petrovitch without looking
at her, "but my object in coming here is to ask you (for I understand that
you are sending in to the town to-day) if you would procure me a little
green tea for my own personal use."
"I will," replied Thenichka. "How much ought I to have ordered?"
"I think that half a pound will suffice. But what a change!" he went on
glancing around the room with an eye which included also in its purview
Thenichka's features. "It is those curtains that I am referring to," he
explained on seeing that she had failed to grasp his meaning.
"Yes—those curtains. They were given me by Nikolai Petrovitch himself,
and have been hung a long while."
"But it is a long time, remember, since last I paid you a visit. The room
looks indeed comfortable, does it not?"

"Yes, thanks to Nikolai Petrovitch's kindness," whispered Thenichka.
"And you find things better here than in the wing?" continued Paul
Petrovitch politely—also, without the least shadow of a smile.
"I do."
"And who is lodged in the wing in your place?"
"The laundry women."
"Ah!"
Paul Petrovitch relapsed into silence, while Thenichka thought to herself: "I
suppose he will go presently." So far from doing so, however, he remained
where he was, and she had to continue standing in front of him with her
fingers nervelessly locking and unlocking themselves.
"Why have you had the little one taken away?" at length he inquired. "I love
children. Pray show him to me."
Thenichka reddened with confusion and pleasure; and that though Paul
Petrovitch was accustomed to make her nervous, so seldom did he address
her.
"Duniasha!" she cried (Duniasha she addressed, as she did every one in the
house, in the second person plural[1]). "Bring Mitia here, and be quick about
it! But first put on his clothes." With that she moved towards the door.
"Never mind, never mind," said Paul Petrovitch.
"But I shall soon be back." And she disappeared.
Left alone, Paul looked about him with keen attention. The small, low room
in which he was waiting was clean and comfortable, and redolent of balm,
camomile, and furniture polish. Against the walls stood straight-backed,
lyre-shaped chairs which the late General had purchased during the period
of the Polish campaign; in one corner stood a bedstead under a muslin
coverlet, with, flanking it, a large, iron-clamped, convex-lidded chest; in the
opposite corner burnt a lamp before a massive, smoke-blackened ikon of
Saint Nikolai the Miracle Worker—the Saint's halo suspended by a red
riband, and a tiny china egg resting on his breast; on the window-sills were
ranged some carefully sealed jars of last year's jam, which filtered the light
to green, and of which the parchment covers were inscribed, in Thenichka's

large handwriting, "Gooseberry"—a jam of which Nikolai Petrovitch was
particularly fond; from the ceiling hung, by a long cord, a cage containing a
short-tailed siskin which kept up such a perpetual twittering and hopping
that its cage rocked to and fro as it sang, and stray hemp seeds came
pattering lightly to the floor; on the wall space above a small chest of
drawers hung a few poorly executed photographs of Nikolai Petrovitch in
various attitudes (the work of a travelling photographer); alongside these
photographs hung a very unsuccessful one of Thenichka herself, since it
revealed nothing but an eyeless face peering painfully from a dark frame;
and, lastly, above the portrait of Thenichka hung a picture of Ermolov in a
big cloak and a portentous frown—the latter directed principally towards a
distant mountain range of the Caucasus, while over the forehead of the
portrait dangled a silken pincushion in the shape of a shoe.
For five minutes or so there came from the adjoining room a sound as of
rustling and whispering. From the chest of drawers Paul Petrovitch took up
a greasy, dog's-eared volume of Masalsky's The Strielitsi, and turned over a
few of its pages. Suddenly the door opened, and Thenichka entered with
Mitia, whom she had now vested in a red robe and beaded collar, while his
little head had been brushed, and also his face washed. Though he was
breathing stertorously, and wriggling his whole body about, and twitching
his tiny arms after the manner of all healthy children, the dainty robe had
had its effect, and his face was puckered with delight. Also, Thenichka had
tidied her own hair, and rearranged her bodice—well enough though she
would have done as she was. For, in all the world, is there a more
entrancing spectacle than that of a young, handsome mother with, in her
arms, a healthy child?
"What a little beauty!" Paul Petrovitch exclaimed indulgently as he tickled
Mitia's double chin with the tip of his forefinger. The baby fixed its eyes
upon the siskin, and smiled.
"This is Uncle," said Thenichka as she bent over the boy and gave him a
gentle shake. For fumigating purposes Duniasha deposited upon the
window-sill a lighted candle, and, beneath it, a two-kopeck piece.
"How old is he?" asked Paul Petrovitch.
"Six months. On the eleventh of this month he will be seven."

"No, eight, will he not, Theodosia Nikolaievna?" timidly corrected
Duniasha.
"No, seven."
Here the infant crowed, fixed his eyes upon the chest in the corner, and
suddenly closed his five tiny fingers upon his mother's mouth and nose.
"The little rascal!" she said, without, however, freeing her features from his
grasp.
"He is very like my brother," commented Paul Petrovitch.
"Whom else should he be like?" she thought.
"Yes," he continued, half to himself. "Undoubtedly I see the likeness." He
gazed pensively, almost mournfully, at the young mother.
"This is Uncle," again she said to the child: but this time she said it under
her breath.
"Oh, here you are, Paul!" cried Nikolai Petrovitch from behind them.
Paul Petrovitch faced about and knit his brows. But so joyously, and with
such a grateful expression, was his brother regarding the trio that Paul could
only respond with a smile.
"He is a fine little fellow, this baby of yours," the elder brother observed.
Then, glancing at his watch, he added: "I came here merely to arrange about
the purchase of some tea." With which he assumed an air of indifference,
and left the room.
"He came here of his own accord, did he?" was Nikolai Petrovitch's first
inquiry.
"Yes, of his own accord," the girl replied. "He just knocked at the door and
entered."
"And what of Arkasha? Has he too been to see you?"
"No, Nikolai Petrovitch. By the way, might I return to the rooms in the wing
of the house?"
"Why do you want to?"
"Because they suit me better than these."

"I think not," said Nikolai Petrovitch, rubbing his forehead with an air of
indecision. "Before there was a reason for your being there, but that reason
no longer exists."
"Good morning, little rascal!" was his next remark as, with a sudden access
of animation, he approached and kissed the baby's cheek. Then, bending a
little, he pressed his lips to Thenichka's hand—a hand, against the red of
Mitia's robe, as white as milk.
"Why have you done that, Nikolai Petrovitch?" she murmured with
downcast eyes. Yet when she raised them, their expression, as she glanced
from under her brows and smiled her caressing, but slightly vacant, smile,
was charming indeed!
Of the circumstances of Nikolai Petrovitch's first meeting with Thenichka
the following may be related. Three years ago it had fallen to his lot to
spend a night at an inn in a remote country town; and, while doing so, he
had been struck with the cleanliness of the room assigned him, and also
with the freshness of the bed-linen. "Clearly," he had thought to himself,
"the landlady must be a German." But, as it had turned out, she was not a
German, but a Russian of about fifty, well-dressed, and possessed both of a
comely, intelligent countenance and of a refined manner of speaking. When
breakfast was over, he had had a long conversation with her, and conceived
for her a great liking. Now, as fate would have it, he had just removed to his
new house, and, owing to a reluctance to continue keeping bonded serfs,
was on the look-out for hired domestics; while she, for her part, was in
despair over the question of the hard times, which caused only a limited
number of visitors to resort to the town. In the end, therefore, Nikolai
Petrovitch proposed to her to come to his house as housekeeper; and to this
proposal, (since her husband was dead, and her family consisted only of a
young daughter named Thenichka) she eventually agreed. Accordingly,
within two weeks Arina Savishna (such was the new housekeeper's name)
arrived at Marino with her child, and took up her abode in the wing of the
new manor-house; nor was it long before she had put the place to rights. To
Thenichka, however, then a girl of sixteen, she never referred; and few
people even caught a glimpse of the maiden, since she lived a life so modest
and retired that only on Sundays could Nikolai Petrovitch contemplate the
delicate profile of her face in an aisle of the parish church. More than a year
thus elapsed.

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

orderliness, and also her mother's good sense and natural refinement? In the
end, she was so young and lonely, and Nikolai Petrovitch was so good-
hearted and modest, that the inevitable came about. The rest need not be
related.
"So my brother has been to you?" he inquired again. "You say that he just
knocked at the door and entered?"
"Yes, he just knocked at the door and entered."
"Good! Now, hand me Mitia."
And Nikolai Petrovitch fell to tossing the baby up and down towards the
ceiling—a proceeding which greatly delighted the little one, but as greatly
disquieted the mother, who, at each upward flight, stretched her hands in the
direction of the infant's naked toes.
Meanwhile Paul Petrovitch returned to his study, of which the walls were
lined with a paper of red wild roses, and hung with weapons; the floor was
covered with a striped Persian carpet; and the furniture, consisting of a
Renaissance bookcase in old black oak, a handsome writing-table, a few
bronze statuettes, and a stove, was constructed, for the most part, of
hazelwood, and upholstered in dark-green velvet. Stretching himself upon a
sofa, he clasped his hands behind his head, and remained staring at the
ceiling. Did presently the thoughts which were passing through his mind
need to be concealed even from the walls, seeing that he rose, unhooked the
heavy curtains from before the windows, and replaced himself upon the
sofa?
[1] Used, as in French, in formal speech or that of a person addressing a social
superior.

IX

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

"You ought to plant the place with as many silver poplars as you can, and
also with Norwegian firs—limes too, if loam should first be added. For
instance, the reason why this clump has done so well is that it is made up of
lilacs and acacias, of which neither require much room. But hullo! There is
some one sitting there!"
The persons seated in the arbour were Thenichka, Duniasha, and little
Mitia. Bazarov halted, and Arkady nodded to Thenichka as to an old
acquaintance. Then the pair passed on again, and Bazarov inquired of his
companion:
"Who was she?"
"To whom are you referring?"
"You know to whom. My word, she is good-looking!"
Arkady explained, with a touch of embarrassment, the identity of
Thenichka.
"Ah!" Bazarov remarked. "Then your father has not at all bad taste. Indeed,
I commend it. But what a young dog he is! I too must be introduced."
And he turned back in the direction of the arbour.
"Evgenii!" exclaimed Arkady nervously as he followed his friend. "For
God's sake be careful what you do!"
"You need not be alarmed. I know what is what. I am no rustic."
And, approaching Thenichka, he doffed his cap.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said with a polite bow. "I am a friend of
Arkady's, and a perfectly harmless individual."
Rising from her seat, Thenichka gazed at him in silence.
"Oh, and what a fine baby!" he continued. "Pray do not disturb yourself.
Never yet have I cast upon a child an evil spell. But why are his cheeks so
red? Is he cutting teeth?"
"Yes," replied Thenichka. "He has now cut four of them, and the gums are a
little swelled."
"Then let me see them. Do not be afraid. I am a doctor."

With that he took the baby into his arms, and both Thenichka and Duniasha
were astonished at the fact that it made no resistance, showed no fear.
"I see," he continued. "Well, everything is going right with him, and he will
have plenty of teeth. Nevertheless, should he in any way ail, please let me
know. Are you yourself well?"
"Yes, thank God!"
"'Thank God,' say I too, for health on the part of the mother is the chief
point of all. And you?" he added, turning to Duniasha. The latter, ultra-prim
of demeanour in the drawing-room, and ultra-frivolous of behaviour in the
kitchen, answered with a giggle.
"Well, you look all right. Here! Take your hero back again."
He replaced the baby in Thenichka's arms.
"How quiet he has been with you!" she exclaimed under her breath.
"Always children are quiet with me," he remarked. "You see, I know how to
handle them."
"And they know when people are fond of them," put in Duniasha.
"True," assented Thenichka. "Though it is seldom that Mitia will go to any
one's arms but mine."
"Would he come to me?" ventured Arkady, who, until now standing in the
background, at this moment came forward towards the arbour. But on his
attempting to wheedle Mitia to his arms, the infant threw back its head, and
started to cry—a circumstance which greatly perturbed Thenichka.
"Another time—when he has come to be more used to me," said Arkady
indulgently. And the two friends departed.
"What is her name?" asked Bazarov.
"Thenichka—Theodosia," replied Arkady.
"And her patronymic?"
"Nikolaievna."
"Bene! What I like about her is her total absence of shyness. True, that is a
trait which some might have condemned in her, but I say, 'What rubbish!'

For why need she be bashful? She is a mother, and therefore justified."
"I agree," said Arkady. "And my father——"
"Also is justified," concluded Bazarov.
"No, I do not agree in that respect."
"You do not altogether welcome a superfluous heir?"
"For shame, Evgenii!" cried Arkady heatedly. "How can you impute such
motives? What I mean is that my father is not justified from one point of
view. That is to say, he ought to marry her."
"Oh, ho!" said Bazarov quietly. "How high and mighty we are getting! So
you still attribute importance to the marriage rite? This I should not have
expected of you."
For some paces the friends walked on in silence. Then Bazarov continued:
"I have been inspecting your father's establishment. The cattle look poor,
the horses seem broken-down, the buildings have a tipsy air, the workmen
manifest a tendency to loaf, and I cannot yet determine whether the new
steward is a fool or a rogue."
"You are censorious to-day?"
"I am; and the reason is that these good peasants are cheating your father—
exemplifying the proverb that 'The Russian muzhik will break even the back
of God.'"
"Soon I shall have to agree with my uncle in his opinion that you think but
poorly of Russia."
"Rubbish! The Russian's very best point is that he holds a poor opinion of
himself. Two and two make four. Nothing but that matters."
"And is nature also rubbish?" queried Arkady with a musing glance at the
mottled fields where they lay basking in the soft, kindly rays of the morning
sun.
"Nature is rubbish—at least in the sense in which you understand her. She is
not a church, but a workshop wherein man is the labourer."

At this moment there came wafted to their ears the long-drawn strains of a
violoncello, on which a sensitive, but inexperienced, hand was playing
Schubert's Erwartung. Like honey did the voluptuous melody suffuse the
air.
"Who is the musician?" asked Bazarov in astonishment.
"My father."
"What? Your father plays the 'cello?"
"He does."
"At his age?"
"Yes—he is only forty-four."
Bazarov burst out laughing.
"Why do you laugh?" asked Arkady.
"Pardon me, but the idea that your father—a man of forty-four, a
paterfamilias, and a notable in the county—should play the 'cello!"
And he continued laughing, though Arkady, for all his reverence for his
mentor, failed to accomplish even a smile.

X

During the next two weeks life at Marino pursued its normal course. Arkady
took things easily, and Bazarov worked. In passing, it may be said that, for
all his careless manner and abrupt, laconic speech, the latter had become an
accepted phenomenon in the house. In particular had Thenichka so
completely lost her shyness of him that one night she sent to awake him
because Mitia had been seized with convulsions; whereupon Bazarov
arrived, and, half-joking, half-yawning, according to his usual manner,
helped her for two hours in the task of attending to the baby. Only Paul
Petrovitch disliked the man with the whole strength of his soul, for he
accounted him a proud, cynical, conceited plebeian, and suspected him not
only of failing to respect, but even of holding in contempt, the personality

of Paul Petrovitch Kirsanov. Also, Nikolai Petrovitch stood in slight awe of
the young Nihilist, since he doubted the likelihood of any good accruing
from Bazarov's influence over Arkady. Yet always he would listen with
pleasure to Bazarov's discourses, and gladly attend the chemical or physical
experiments with which the young doctor (who had brought a microscope
with him) would occupy himself for hours at a stretch. On the other hand, in
spite of Bazarov's domineering manner, all the servants had become
attached to him, for they felt him to be less a barin than their brother; and in
particular did Duniasha readily joke and talk with him, and throw him many
meaning glances as she sped past in quail-like fashion, while Peter himself,
though a man full of conceit and stupidity, with a forehead perpetually
puckered, and a dignity which consisted of a deferential demeanour, a
practice of reading journals syllable by syllable, and a habit of constantly
brushing his coat; even Peter, I say, would brighten and strike an attitude
when he was noticed by Bazarov. In fact, the only servant to disapprove of
Bazarov was old Prokofitch, the butler, who looked sour whenever he
handed the young doctor a dish, and called him a "sharper" and a "flaunter,"
and declared that, for all his whiskers, Bazarov was no better than "a
dressed-up pig," whereas he, Prokofitch, was practically as good an
aristocrat as Paul Petrovitch himself.
In the early days of June, the best season of the year, the weather became
beautiful. True, from afar there came threatenings of cholera, but to the
local inhabitants such visitations had become a commonplace. Each day
Bazarov rose early to set forth upon a tramp of some two or three versts;
nor were those tramps undertaken merely for the sake of the exercise (he
could not abide aimless expeditions), but, rather, for the sake of collecting
herbs and insects. Sometimes, too, he would succeed in inducing Arkady to
accompany him; and whenever this was the case the pair would, on the way
back, engage in some dispute which always left Arkady vanquished in spite
of his superior profusion of argument.
One morning the pair lingered considerably by the way, and Nikolai
Petrovitch set out across the garden to meet them. Just as he reached the
arbour, he heard their voices and brisk footsteps approaching, though he
himself was invisible to the returning friends.
"You do not understand my father," Arkady was saying.

Nikolai Petrovitch halted instead of revealing himself.
"Oh, he is a good fellow enough," replied Bazarov. "But also he is a man on
the shelf, a man whose song has been sung."
Though Nikolai Petrovitch strained his ears, he failed to catch Arkady's
reply. So the "man on the shelf" lingered for a minute or two—then walked
slowly back to the house.
"For the past three days I have noted him reading Pushkin," continued
Bazarov. "You ought to explain to him that no good can come of that, for he
is no longer a boy, and ought to have shaken himself free of such
fiddlesticks. Who would desire to be a Romanticist? Give him something
practical."
"For instance?"
"Let me consider. For a start, give him Büchner's[1] Stoff und Kraft."
"Good!" Arkady's tone was approving. "Stoff und Kraft is at least written in
a popular style."
The same day Nikolai Petrovitch was sitting with his brother. At length he
said:
"I find that you and I are men on the shelf, that our songs have been sung.
Eh? And perhaps Bazarov is right. Yet I confess that one thing hurts me:
and that is that, though I had hoped to draw nearer to Arkady, I am being
left in the rear, and he is for ever marching ahead. No longer do he and I
understand one another."
"And why is he for ever marching ahead?" asked Paul Petrovitch
indignantly. "How comes he to stand at such a distance from us? The reason
is simply the ideas which that precious 'Nihilist' is putting into his head. For
myself, I detest the fellow, and think him a charlatan. Also, I am certain
that, in spite of his frogs, he is making no real progress in physics."
"We ought not to say that, brother. For my own part, I look upon him as a
man of culture and ability."
"If so, a detestably conceited one."
"Perhaps he is conceited," Nikolai Petrovitch allowed. "But then it would
appear that nothing can be done without something of the kind. What I

cannot make out is the following. As you know, I have done everything
possible to keep up with the times—I have organised my peasantry, I have
set up such a farm that throughout the province I am known as 'Fine
Kirsanov,' persistently I read and educate myself, in general I try to march
abreast of the needs of the day. Yet, though I do all this, I am now given to
understand that my day is past and gone! And, brother, I do not say that I
am not partially inclined to accept that view."
"For what reason?"
"For the following. To-day, as I was reading Pushkin (I think it was 'The
Gipsies' that I had lighted upon), there suddenly entered the room Arkady.
Silently, and with an air of kindly regret, and as gently as a child, he
withdrew the book from my hand, and laid before me another book—a
German production of some kind. That done, he gave me another smile, and
departed with my volume of Pushkin under his arm."
"Good gracious! And what might be the book which he has given you?"
"This."
Nikolai Petrovitch extracted from the tail pocket of his frock-coat a copy
(ninth edition) of Büchner's well-known work.
Paul Petrovitch turned it over in his hands.
"H'm!" he grunted. "Arkady does indeed seem solicitous for your
education! Have you tried reading the book?"
"Yes."
"And how do you like it?"
"Well, either I am a fool or the thing is rubbish. Of the two views, the
former seems to me the most probable."
"It is not because you have forgotten your German, I suppose?"
"Oh no. I understand the language perfectly."
Again Paul Petrovitch turned over the book, and again he glanced at his
brother from under his brows. A moment's silence ensued.
"By the way," continued Nikolai Petrovitch with an evident desire to change
the conversation, "I have received a letter from Koliazin."

"From Matvei Ilyitch?"
"From the same. It seems that he has just arrived at ——, for the purpose of
carrying out the Revision[2] of the province, and he writes very civilly that,
as our kinsman, he would be glad to see Arkady and you and myself."
"Do you intend to accept his invitation?" asked Paul Petrovitch.
"I do not. Do you?"
"No. We have no need to drag ourselves fifty versts to eat blanc-mange. The
good Mathieu wants to show off a little—that is all. He can do without us.
But what an honour to be a Privy Councillor! Had I continued in the
Service, continued hauling at the old tow-rope, I myself might have been
Adjutant-General! As it is, I, like yourself, am on the shelf."
"Yes, brother. Clearly it is time that we ordered our tombstones, and folded
our hands upon our breasts."
A sigh concluded Nikolai Petrovitch's speech.
"But I do not intend to give in so soon," muttered his brother. "There is first
going to be a skirmish between that chirurgeon of Arkady's and myself.
That I can see beyond a doubt."
And, sure enough, the "skirmish" occurred the same evening. Ready for
battle as soon he repaired to the drawing-room for tea, Paul Petrovitch
entered angrily, but firmly, and sat waiting for an excuse to advance upon
the foe. Yet for a while that excuse hung fire, since Bazarov never said
much in the presence of "the old Kirsanovs," and to-night was feeling out of
spirits, and drank his tea in absolute silence. However, Paul Petrovitch was
so charged with impatience that his wish was bound to attain fulfilment.
It happened that the conversation became turned upon a neighbouring
landowner.
"He is just a petty aristocrat," Bazarov drily remarked (it seemed that he and
the landowner had met in St. Petersburg).
"Allow me," put in Paul Petrovitch, his lips quivering. "In your view, do the
terms 'good-for-nothing' and 'aristocrat' connote the same thing?"
"I said 'petty aristocrat,'" replied Bazarov as he lazily sipped his tea.

"Quite so. Then I take it that you hold the same opinion of aristocrats as of
'petty aristocrats'? Well, I may remark that your opinion is not mine. And to
that I would add that, while I myself possess a reputation for Liberal and
progressive views, I possess that reputation for the very reason that I can
respect real aristocrats. For instance, my dear sir" (the latter term was so
heatedly uttered that Bazarov raised his eyebrows), "for instance, my dear
sir, take the aristocracy of England. While yielding upon their rights not an
iota, they yet know how to respect the rights of others. While demanding
fulfilment of obligations due to themselves, they yet fulfil their own
obligations. And for those reasons it is to her aristocratic caste that England
stands indebted for her freedom. It is because the English aristocratic caste
itself supports that freedom."
"A tale which we have heard many times before!" commented Bazarov.
"But what are you seeking to prove?"
"I am seeking to prove this," replied Paul Petrovitch. "That without a
certain sense of personal dignity, without a sense of self-respect (both of
which senses are inborn in the true aristocrat), the social edifice, the bien
public, cannot rest upon a durable basis. It is personality that matters, my
dear sir: and the human personality requires to be as firm as a rock, in that
there rests upon it the entire structure of society. For example, I know that
you ridicule my customs, my dress, my fastidious tastes. Yet do those very
things proceed from that sense of duty—yes, of duty, I repeat—to which I
have just alluded. In other words, I may live in the depths of the country,
yet I do not let myself go. For I respect in myself the man."
"Allow me, Paul Petrovitch," said Bazarov. "You say that you respect
yourself. Very good. Yet you can sit there with your hands folded! How will
that benefit the bien public, seeing that inaction would scarcely seem to
argue self-respect?"
Paul Petrovitch blanched a little.
"That is another question altogether," he said. "However, I do not feel called
upon to explain the reason why I sit with my hands folded (according to
your own estimable term). It will suffice merely to remark that in the
aristocratic idea there is contained a principle, and that nowadays men who
live without principles are as destitute of morality as they are of moral

substance. The same thing did I say to Arkady on the day after his arrival,
and I say it now to you. You agree with me, Nikolai, do you not?"
Nikolai Petrovitch nodded assent, while Bazarov exclaimed:
"The aristocratic idea, forsooth! Liberalism, progress, principles! Why, have
you ever considered the vanity of those terms? The Russian of to-day does
not need them."
"Then what, in your opinion, does he need? To listen to you, one would
suppose that we stood wholly divorced from humanity and humanity's laws;
whereas, pardon me, the logic of history demands——"
"What has that logic to do with us? We can get on quite well without it."
"How can we do so?"
"Even as I have said. When you want to put a piece of bread into your
mouth do you need logic for the purpose? What have these abstractions to
do with ourselves?"
Paul Petrovitch waved his hand in disgust.
"I cannot understand you," he said. "You seem to me to be insulting the
Russian people. How you or any one else can decline to recognise
principles and precepts is a thing which passes my comprehension. For
what other basis for action in life have we got?"
Arkady put in a word.
"Both I and Bazarov have told you," he said, "that we recognise no
authority of any sort."
"Rather, that we recognise no basis for action save the useful," corrected
Bazarov. "At present the course most useful is denial. Therefore we deny."
"Deny everything?"
"Deny everything."
"What? Both poetry and art and—I find it hard to express it?——"
"I repeat, everything," said Bazarov with an ineffable expression of
insouciance.

Paul Petrovitch stared. He had not quite expected this. For his part, Arkady
reddened with pleasure.
"Allow me," interposed Nikolai Petrovitch. "You say that you deny
everything—rather, that you would consign everything to destruction. But
also you ought to construct."
"That is not our business," said Bazarov. "First must the site be cleared."
"Yes; for the present condition of the people demands it," affirmed Arkady.
"And that demand we are bound to fulfil, seeing that no one has the right
merely to devote himself to the satisfaction of his own personal egotism."
With this last Bazarov did not seem altogether pleased, since the phrase
smacked too much of philosophy—rather, of "Romanticism," as Bazarov
termed that science; but he did not trouble to confute his pupil.
"No, no!" Paul Petrovitch exclaimed with sudden heat. "I cannot believe
that gentlemen of your type possess sufficient knowledge of the people to
be rightful representatives of its demands and aspirations. For the Russian
people is not what you think it to be. It holds traditions sacred, and is
patriarchal, and cannot live without faith."
"I will not dispute that," observed Bazarov. "Nay, I will even agree that you
are right."
"And, granting that I am right——"
"You have proved nothing."
"Yes, proved nothing," echoed Arkady with the assurance of a chess-player
who, having foreseen a dangerous move on the part of his opponent, awaits
the attack with expert composure.
"But how have I proved nothing?" muttered Paul Petrovitch, rather taken
aback. "Do you mean to say that you are opposed to, not in favour of, the
people?"
"Good gracious! Do not the common folk believe, when it thunders, that the
Prophet Elijah is going up to Heaven in his chariot? You and I do not agree
with that? The point is that the people is Russian, and that I am the same."
"Not after what you have just said! Henceforth must I decline to recognise
you as any countryman of mine."

With a sort of indolent hauteur Bazarov replied:
"With his own hand did my grandfather guide the plough. Ask, therefore, of
your favourite peasant which of us two—you or myself—he rates most
truly as his countryman. Why, you do not know even how to speak to him!"
"And you, while speaking to him, despise him."
"Should he merit contempt, yes. Reprobate, therefore, my views as much as
you like, but who told you that they have come to me fortuitously rather
than been derived from the very national spirit of which you are so ardent
an upholder?"
"Phaugh! We need you Nihilists, do we not?"
"Not ours is it to decide the need or otherwise, seeing that even a man like
yourself considers that he has a use."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" interposed Nikolai Petrovitch as he rose to his
feet. "I beg of you to indulge in no personalities!"
Paul Petrovitch smiled. Then, laying his hand upon his brother's shoulder,
he forced him to resume his seat.
"Do not be alarmed," he said. "That very sense of dignity at which this
gentleman pokes such bitter fun will keep me from forgetting myself."
And he turned to Bazarov again.
"Do you suppose your doctrine to be a new one?" he continued. "If so, you
are wasting your time. More than once has the Materialism which you
preach been mooted; and each time it has been proved bankrupt."
"Another foreign term!" muttered Bazarov. He was now beginning to lose
his temper, and his face had turned a dull, copperish tint. "In the first place,
we Nihilists preach nothing at all. For to preach is not our custom."
"What, then, is your custom?"
"To proclaim facts such as that our civil servants accept bribes, that we lack
highways, commerce, and a single upright judge, and that——"
"Of course, of course! In other words, you and yours are to act as our
'censors' (I believe that to be the correct term?). Well, I agree with many of
your censures, but——"

"Other tenets which we hold are that to chatter, and to do nothing but
chatter, concerning our differences is not worth the trouble, seeing that it is
a pursuit which merely leads to pettiness and doctrinairism; that beyond
question are our so-called leaders and censors not worth their salt, seeing
that they engage in sheer futilities, and waste their breath on discussions on
art and still life and Parliamentarism and legal points and the devil only
knows what, when all the time it is the bread of subsistence alone that
matters, and we are being stifled with gross superstition, and all our
commercial enterprises are failing for want of honest directors, and the
freedom of which the Government is for ever prating is destined never to
become a reality, for the reason that, so long as the Russian peasant is
allowed to go and drink himself to death in a dram-shop, he is ready to
submit to any sort of despoilment."
"You have decided, then, you feel conscious, that your true métier is to
apply yourselves seriously to nothing?"
"Even so," came the sullen reply, for Bazarov had suddenly become vexed
with himself for having exposed his mind with such completeness to this
barin.
"You have decided merely to deny everything?"
"We have decided merely to deny everything."
"And that you call Nihilism?"
"That we call Nihilism." In Bazarov's repetition of Paul Petrovitch's words
there echoed, this time, a note of pride.
Paul Petrovitch knit his brows.
"So, so!" he said in a voice that was curiously calm. "Nihilism is designed
to combat our every ill, and you alone are to act as our saviours and our
heroes! Well, well! But in what consider you yourselves and your
censorious friends to excel the rest of us? For you chatter as much as does
every one else."
"No, no!" muttered Bazarov. "At least we are not guilty of that, however we
may err in other ways."
"You do things, then? At all events, you are preparing to do things?"

Bazarov did not reply, although, in his excitement, Paul Petrovitch had
started up and then quickly recovered his self-command.
"H'm!" continued Paul Petrovitch. "With you to act is to demolish. But how
is such demolition to benefit when you do not even know its purpose?"
"We demolish because we are a force," interposed Arkady.
Paul Petrovitch stared—then smiled.
"And a force need render account to no one," added Arkady with a self-
conscious straightening of his form.
"Fool!" gasped Paul Petrovitch. Evidently he could contain himself no
longer. "Have you ever considered what you are maintaining with your
miserable creed? Even an angel would lose patience! 'A force,' forsooth!
You might as well say that the wild Kalmuck, or the barbaric Mongol,
represents a force. What boots such a force? Civilisation and its fruits are
what we value. And do not tell me that those fruits are to be overlooked,
seeing that even the meanest barbouilleur,[3] the meanest piano-player who
ever earned five kopecks a night, is of more use to society than you. For
men of that kind at least stand for culture rather than for some rude,
Mongolian propelling-power. Yes, you may look upon yourselves as 'the
coming race,' yet you are fit but to sit in a Kalmuck shanty. 'A force,'
forsooth! Good and 'forceful' sirs, I beg to tell you that you number but four
men and a boy, whereas those others number millions, and are folk of the
kind who will not permit such as you to trample upon their sacred beliefs,
but will first trample upon your worthy selves."
"Let them trample upon us," retorted Bazarov. "We are more in number than
you think."
"What? You really believe that you will succeed in inoculating the nation as
a whole?"
"From a little candle," replied Bazarov, "there arose, as you know, the
conflagration of Moscow."[4]
"A pride almost Satanic in its nature, and then banter! And thus you would
seek to attract our youth, thus you would attempt to win the inexperienced
hearts of our boys! For sitting beside you is one of those very boys, and he
is absolutely worshipping you!" (Upon this Arkady knit his brows, and

averted his head a little.) "Yes, the canker has spread far already. For
instance, they tell me that in Rome our artists decline to enter the Vatican,
and look upon Raphael as next-door to a fool, just because he is an
'authority'! Yet those very artists are themselves so barren and impotent that
their fancy cannot rise above 'Girls at Fountains,' and so forth, villainously
executed! And such artists you account fine fellows, I presume?"
"Like those artists," said Bazarov, "I consider Raphael to be worth not a
copper groat. And as for the artists themselves, I appraise them at about a
similar sum."
"Bravo, bravo!" cried Paul Petrovitch. "Listen, O Arkady—listen to the way
in which the young men of the present day ought to express themselves!
Surely our youth will now rally to your side? For once upon a time they had
to go to school, since they did not like to be taken for dunces, and therefore
worked at their studies; but now they have but to say: 'Everything in the
world is rubbish,' and, behold! the trick is done. They consider that
delightful—and naturally! In other words, the blockheads of former days
are become the Nihilists of the present."
"Your self-sufficiency—I mean, your self-respect—is carrying you away,"
Bazarov remarked nonchalantly (as for Arkady, his eyes had flashed, and
his whole form was quivering with indignation). "But our dispute has gone
far enough. Let us end it. Whenever you may feel that you can point out to
me a single institution in our family or our public life which does not call
for complete and unsparing rejection, I shall be pleased to accept your
view."
"Of institutions of that kind I could cite you millions," exclaimed Paul
Petrovitch. "For example, take the village commune."
Bazarov's lips twisted themselves into a contemptuous smile.
"The village commune," said he, "is a subject which you would do better to
discuss with your brother, since he is learning by experience the meaning of
that commune, and of its circular guarantee, and of its enforced sobriety and
other contrivances."
"Take the family, then—yes, take the family, since at least among the
peasantry it is still a surviving institution."

"And that question, too, I should imagine were best not dissected by you in
detail. But see here, Paul Petrovitch. Allow yourself a minimum of two days
to think over these things (you will need quite that amount of time to do so);
and cite to yourself in succession our various social conditions, and give
them your best attention. Meanwhile Arkady and myself will go and——"
"Go and make sport of everything, I presume?"
"No, go and dissect frogs. Come, Arkady! Au revoir, gentlemen."
And the two friends departed. Left alone, the brothers looked at one
another.
"So," at last said Paul Petrovitch, "you see the young men of the day—you
see our successors!"
"Our successors—yes," re-echoed Nikolai Petrovitch despondently.
Throughout the conversation he had been sitting simply on pins and
needles; throughout it he had dared do no more than throw an occasional
pained glance at Arkady. "My brother, there came to me just now a curious
reminiscence. It was of a quarrel which once I had with my mother. During
the contest she raised a great outcry, and refused to listen to a single word I
said; until at length I told her that for her to understand me was impossible,
seeing that she and I came of different generations. Of course this angered
her yet more, but I thought to myself: 'What else could I do? The pill must
have been a bitter one, but it was necessary that she should swallow it.' And
now our turn is come; now is it for us to be told by our heirs that we come
of a different generation from theirs, and must kindly swallow the pill."
"You are too magnanimous and retiring," expostulated Paul Petrovitch. "For
my part, I feel sure that we are more in the right than these two youngsters,
even though we may express ourselves in old-fashioned terms, and lack
their daring self-sufficiency. Indeed, what a puffed-up crowd is the youth of
to-day! Should you ask one of them whether he will take white wine or red,
he will reply, in a bass voice, and with a face as though the whole universe
were looking at him: 'Red is my customary rule.'"
"Should you like some more tea?" interrupted Thenichka, who had been
peeping through the doorway, but had not dared to enter during the progress
of the dispute.

"No," was Nikolai Petrovitch's reply as he rose to meet her. "So you can
order the samovar to be removed."
Meanwhile, with a brief "Bon soir," Paul Petrovitch betook himself to his
study.

[1] Ludwig Büchner (1824-1899), German physician and materialist philosopher.
[2] i.e. the census-taking of the serf population.
[3] Scribbler.
[4] In 1812.

XI

Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovitch sought his favourite arbour.
Despondent thoughts were thronging through his brain, for the rift between
himself and his son was only too evident. Also, he knew that that rift would
widen from day to day. For nothing had he spent whole days, during those
winters in St. Petersburg, in the perusal of modern works! For nothing had
he listened to the young men's discourses! For nothing had he been
delighted when he had been able to interpolate a word into their
tempestuous debates!
"My brother says that we are more in the right than they," he reflected.
"And certainly I too can say without vanity that I believe these young
fellows to stand at a greater distance from the truth than ourselves. Yet also
I believe that they have in them something which we lack—something
which gives them an advantage over us. What is that something? Is it
youth? No, it is not youth alone. Is it that there hovers about them less of
the barin than hovers about ourselves? Possibly!"
Bending his head, he passed his hand over his face.
"Yet to reject poetry!" he muttered. "To fail to sympathise with art and
nature!"
And he gazed around as though he were trying to understand how any one
could be out of sympathy with the natural world. Evening was just closing
in, and the sun sinking behind a small aspen copse which, situated half a
verst from the garden, was trailing long shadows over the motionless fields.
Along the narrow, dark track beside the copse a peasant on a white pony
was trotting; and though the pair were overshadowed by the trees, the rider
was as clearly visible, even to a patch on his shoulder, as the twinkling legs

of his steed. Piercing the tangled aspens, the sun's beams were bathing the
trunks in so brilliant a glow that trunks and beams were one bright mass,
and only the foliage on the boughs above formed a dusky blur against the
lighter tints of the flame-coloured sky. Overhead bats were whirling; the
wind had sunk to rest; a few late-homing bees were buzzing somnolently,
sluggishly amid the lilac blossoms; and a pillared swarm of gnats was
dancing over a projecting bough.
"O God, how fair!" was Nikolai's involuntary thought as his lips breathed a
favourite couplet.
Suddenly he remembered Arkady and Stoff und Kraft; and though he
continued to sit where he was, he quoted poetry no more, but surrendered
his mind wholly to the play of his lonely, irregular, mournful thoughts. At
all times he was a man fond of dreaming; and to this tendency his life in the
country had added confirmation. To think of what only a short while ago he
had been dreaming as he waited for his son on the post-house verandah! For
since that hour a change had come about, and in the vague relations
between himself and his son there had dawned a more definite phase. Next,
he saw before him his dead wife. Yet he saw her, not as she had appeared to
him during the later years of her life—that is to say, as a kindly, thrifty
châtelaine—but as a young girl slim of figure and innocently inquiring of
eye. Yes, there flitted before his vision a picture only of neatly plaited
tresses falling over a childish neck. And he thought of his first meeting with
her when, as a student, he had encountered her on the staircase leading to
his suite of rooms. He remembered how, having accidentally brushed
against her, he had stopped to apologise, but had only succeeded in
muttering "Pardon, monsieur"; where-upon she had bowed, and smiled, and
fled as in sudden alarm—but only to turn, the next moment, at the bend of
the staircase, to look swiftly back, and then, as swiftly, to blush, and assume
a more demure demeanour. Ah, those first timid meetings, those half-
spoken words, those bashful smiles, those alternate fits of rapture and
despair, that courtship that was destined to be crowned with swooning joy!
Whither was it all fled? True, she had become his wife, and had conferred
upon him such happiness as falls to the lot of few men on earth; but ever the
thought recurred to him, and recurred again: "Why could those days of
sweetness not have lasted for ever, so that we might have lived a life which
should never have known death?"

He made no attempt to co-ordinate his thoughts. The predominant feeling in
his mind was that he would give worlds to be able to connect himself with
those blessed days by something stronger than the mere power of memory.
He wanted to feel his Maria near him once more, to scent her dear breath. A
curious mood had him in its grip.
"Nikolai Petrovitch!" came the voice of Thenichka from a spot somewhere
in the vicinity. "Where are you?"
As he heard the call, a feeling that was neither vexation nor shame passed
over him. No comparison between his dead wife and Thenichka was
possible, yet he gave a start, and felt a passing regret that Thenichka had
seized that moment to seek him. For in some way did the sound of her
voice bring back to him his grey hairs, his old age, all that constituted the
present. So for an instant the enchanted world which he had just entered,
and which he had just seen emerge from the misty waves of the past,
quivered—then disappeared.
"I am here, Thenichka," he called. "Please go away. I will come presently."
"Another reminder that I am a barin," he reflected.
Thenichka retired, and suddenly he became aware of the fact that since the
moment when he had sunk into a reverie nightfall had come. Yes, all around
him there lay a motionless obscurity, with, gleaming amid it, as a small,
pale blur, Thenichka's face. Rising, he started to return to the house, but his
unstrung nerves could not calm themselves, and, glancing now at the
ground, now towards the heavens where there swarmed myriads of
twinkling stars, he fell to pacing the garden. He continued this pacing until
he was almost worn out; for still did the vague, despondent, insistent sense
of agitation refuse to leave his breast. Could Bazarov have divined his
thoughts, how the Nihilist would have laughed! And even Arkady would
have condemned him. For from the eyes of Nikolai Petrovitch—from the
eyes of a man of forty-four who was the proprietor of an estate and a
household—there were welling slow, uncalled-for tears. This was a hundred
times worse than the 'cello-playing!
And still he continued his pacing, for he could not make up his mind to
enter the peaceful, inviting retreat which beckoned to him so cheerfully
with its lighted windows, and to leave the darkness of the garden, to forego

the touch of fresh air upon his face, to throw off his present mood of
sadness and emotion.
At a turn in the path he encountered Paul Petrovitch.
"What is the matter with you?" Paul inquired. "You are looking as white as
a ghost. Are you ill? Why not go to bed?"
Nikolai Petrovitch explained to him in a few words his frame of mind—
then moved towards the house. Paul Petrovitch sauntered down towards the
other end of the garden, and ever and anon, as he did so, indulged in wrapt
contemplation of the heavens. Yet, save for the reflection of the starlight,
there was nothing to be seen in his dark, handsome eyes; for he had not
been born a Romanticist, and his drily fastidious, passionate, Frenchified,
misanthropic soul was incapable of castle-building.
"I tell you what," Bazarov said to Arkady the same night. "A splendid idea
has come into my head. You know that to-day your father said that a certain
eminent relation had sent him an invitation which he had no intention of
accepting. Well, how would it be if you and I were to accept it, seeing that
you too have been included in the honour? The weather has turned
beautiful, and we might drive over and look at the town, and thus,
incidentally, secure a few days' uninterrupted talk together."
"Should you then return here?"
"No. I should go on to my father's. You see, he lives thirty versts away only,
and it is a long time since last I saw either him or my mother. Moreover, the
old folk deserve to be humoured a little, seeing that they have been very
good to me—especially my father—and that I am their only son."
"And shall you stay long?"
"No. Staying in that place is dull work."
"Then pay us a second visit on your way back?"
"I will if possible. We will go, then, eh?"
"At your pleasure," Arkady replied with a show of indifference. But, as a
matter of fact, he was delighted with Bazarov's proposal; and only the
thought that he must keep up his "Nihilism" prevented him from
manifesting his feelings.

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

XII

The town of ——, whither our friends now proceeded, lay under the
dominion of one of those young, progressive, despotic provincial governors
who afflict Russia in an unending sequence. As early as the first year of his
rule this particular potentate had succeeded in quarrelling, not only with the
President of the Provincial Council (who was a retired staff officer, a horse
breeder, and an agriculturist), but also with his whole gubernatorial staff of
tchinovniks: with the result that at the time of our story the commotion
therefrom had attained a pitch which had just necessitated the sending down
of a commissary empowered to hold an investigation. The Government's
choice for this purpose had fallen upon Matvei Ilyitch Koliazin, the son of
the Koliazin who had once acted as guardian to the brothers Kirsanov, and a
man of the younger school—that is to say, a man who, though a little over
forty, still aimed at attaining the dignity of a statesman, and having a breast
covered with stars (including at least one of a foreign minor order), and
who, also like the Governor whom he had come to examine, was accounted
a Progressive, and held a high opinion of himself. Yet never did Matvei
allow his boundless vanity to prevent him from affecting a stereotyped air
of simplicity and good humour, or from listening indulgently to anything
that might be said to him, or from cultivating so pleasant a laugh that
everywhere he contrived to pass for "not a bad sort of a fellow." True, he
could on important occasions (if I may quote the trite saying) "make dust
fly" ("Energy is indispensable for a State worker," was a frequent saw of his
—"L'énergie est la première qualité d'un homme d'état"); yet almost
invariably did he end by being set down as a fool, while tchinovniks of
more experience rode roughshod over him. Amongst other things, he had a
custom of expressing a great respect for Guizot,[1] and also of striving to
convince every one that he (Koliazin) was not one of "your men of routine,

your retired bureaucrats," but, rather, a man who noted "every new and
more important phenomenon of our social life." In fact, such phrases he had
at his finger ends, and also he studied (though with a sort of careless
pomposity only) the development of contemporary literature. Lastly, it not
seldom befell that, on meeting a street procession of students, he would,
though maturer of years than the majority of its members, add himself to its
ranks. In short, only his circumstances and his epoch caused Matvei Ilyitch
in any way to differ from those officials of the Alexandrine period who,
before setting out to attend a reception at Madame Svietchin's[2] (then
resident in St. Petersburg), would read a few pages of Condillac's[3] works.
Yet, though an adroit courtier, Matvei was a mere glittering fraud, since,
save that he knew how to hold his own against all comers (though,
certainly, that is a great achievement in life), he was, in all matters of State,
a complete stranger to common sense.
On the present occasion he welcomed Arkady with all the bonhomie, all the
jocosity, of an "enlightened" bigwig. Nevertheless his face fell a little when
he learned that the other relatives whom he had invited had preferred
remaining in the country. "Your father always was a queer fish," he
remarked as he parted the tails of a velvet "cutaway." And, having said this,
he turned to a young tchinovnik in a tightly buttoned uniform, and asked
him irritably what he wanted; at which onslaught the young tchinovnik
(whose lips looked as though a confirmed habit of keeping their own
counsel had gummed them permanently together) straightened himself with
a sharp, apprehensive look at his superior. But, once Matvei had effected
this "settling" of his subordinate, the great man paid the little one no further
attention.
In passing, I may observe that to most of our bigwigs is this species of
"settling" very dear, and that many are the expedients resorted to for its
achievement. Particularly is the following method "quite a favourite," as the
English say—in other words, much in request. Suddenly a given bigwig
will cease to be able to grasp with his intelligence even the simplest
sentence, and assume an air of abysmal density. For example, he will
inquire what the day of the week may be, and be told (with great and
stammering deference) that the day is, say, Friday.
"What?" will roar the bigwig with an air of being forced to strain his ears to
the utmost. "Eh? what do you say?"

"I-It is F-Friday, your E-E-Excellency."
"Eh, what? Friday? What mean you by Friday?"
"Y-Your Excellency, F-Friday is, is—F-F-Friday is a day in the week."
"Come, come! You need not have taken so much time to tell me that."
Matvei Ilyitch was just such a bigwig, although he called himself a Liberal.
"My good fellow," he now continued to Arkady, "I should advise you to go
and leave your card upon the Governor. Of course you understand that my
reason for counselling you to adopt this procedure is, not that I in any way
hold with any bygone ideas about kow-towing to authority, but, rather,
because the Governor is a good fellow, and I know that you would like to
see a little society. For you too are not a bear, I hope? No? Well, the
Governor is giving a grand ball the day after to-morrow."
"And shall you be there?" asked Arkady.
"I shall, of course, receive tickets for it," replied Matvei Ilyitch with an
assumed air of regret. "You dance, I presume?"
"I do—though very badly."
"Never mind, never mind. There exists here plenty of good society, and it
would never do for a young fellow like yourself to be a non-dancer. Again I
say this, not because I in any way revere antiquated notions, nor yet because
I think that intellect ought to go kicking its heels about, but because
Byronism has become absurd—il a fait son temps."
"But I belong to neither the Byronists nor——"
"Well, well! I will introduce you to some of our ladies—I myself will take
you under my wing." And Matvei Ilyitch smiled in a self-satisfied way. "In
fact, you shall have a gay time here."
At this point a servant entered to announce the President of the Provincial
Treasury. The latter, a mild-eyed veteran with wrinkles around his lips and a
great love for nature, was accustomed to remark on summer days that "of
every little flower each little bee is now taking its toll." So Arkady seized
the occasion to depart.

He found Bazarov at the hotel where the pair were putting up, and had great
difficulty in persuading him to join in the projected call upon the Governor.
"Well, well!" eventually said Bazarov. "I have laid a hand upon the tow-
rope, so it ill becomes me to complain of its weight. As we are here to
inspect the local lions, let us inspect them."
To the young men the Governor accorded a civil enough welcome, but
neither bade them be seated nor set the example himself. A man in a
perpetual hurry and ferment, he, on rising in the morning, was accustomed
to don a tight uniform and stiff collar, and then to give himself up to such an
orgy of orders-giving that he never finished a single meal. As the result, he
was known throughout the province as "Bardeloue"—in reference, be it
said, not to the great French preacher,[4] but to burda, fermented liquor.
After inviting Arkady and Bazarov to the coming ball, the Governor, two
minutes later, repeated the invitation as though he had never given it; while
likewise he mistook the pair for brothers, and addressed them throughout as
"the Messieurs Kaiserov."
Subsequently, as the pair were proceeding homewards, a man of small
stature, and dressed in a "Slavophil" costume, leapt from a passing drozhki,
and, with a cry of "Evgenii Vasilitch!" flung himself upon Bazarov.
"Is that you, Herr Sitnikov?" remarked Bazarov without even checking his
stride. "What chance brings you hither?"
"A pure accident," was the other's reply as, turning to the drozhki, he signed
to the coachman to follow at a foot's pace. "You see, I had business to do
with my father, and he invited me to pay him a visit." Sitnikov hopped
across a puddle. "Also, on learning of your arrival, I have been to call at
your place." (True enough, on subsequently reaching the hotel, the two
friends found awaiting them Sitnikov's visiting-card, with the corners
turned down, and one side of it inscribed with his name in the French
fashion, and the other with his name in Slavonic characters.)
"You are from the Governor's, I suppose?" continued the little man. "I
sincerely hope not, however."
"Your hopes are vain."

"Then I too, alas, must pay him my devoirs. But first introduce me to your
friend."
"Sitnikov—Kirsanov," responded Bazarov without halting.
"Delighted!" minced Sitnikov as he stepped back, struck an attitude, and
hurriedly doffed his super-elegant gloves. "I have heard much of you,
Monsieur Kirsanov. I too am an old acquaintance—I might even say, an old
pupil—of Evgenii Vasilitch's. Through him it was that I came by my
spiritual regeneration."
Arkady glanced at Bazarov's "old pupil," and saw that he had small, dull,
pleasant, nervous features; also that his narrow, sunken eyes expressed a
great restlessness, and that his lips were parted in a perpetual smile of a
wooden and ingratiating order.
"Do you know," Sitnikov continued, "when Evgenii Vasilitch first told me
that we ought to ignore every species of authority I experienced a sense of
rapture, I felt as though I had suddenly ripened. 'Ah,' I thought, 'at last have
I found my man!' By the way, Evgenii Vasilitch, you must come and see a
certain lady of my acquaintance—one who, beyond all others, is the person
to understand you, and to look upon your coming as a red-letter event.
Perhaps you have heard of her already?"
"No. Who is she?" asked Bazarov reluctantly.
"A Madame Kukshin—a Madame, I should say, Evdoksia Kukshin. And she
is not merely a remarkable character and a woman of light and leading; she
is also representative of the émancipée, in the best sense of the word. But
look here. How would it be if all three of us were to go and see her? She
lives only two steps away, and she would give us luncheon. You have not
lunched already, I presume?"
"No, we have not."
"Then the arrangement would suit us all. By the way, she is independent,
but a married woman."
"Good-looking?" queried Bazarov.
"N-No—one could not exactly say that."
"Then why ask us to go and see her?"

"Ah, ha! You will have your jest, I see. But remember that she will stand us
a bottle of champagne."
"The practicality of the man!"
Sitnikov gave a shrill giggle.
"Shall we go?" he added.
"I cannot decide."
Here Arkady put in a word.
"We have come to inspect the local people," he remarked, "so let us inspect
them."
"True enough," seconded Sitnikov. "And, of course, you must come,
Monsieur Kirsanov. We could not go without you."
"What? Are all three of us to descend upon her?"
"What matter? She herself is an odd person."
"And you say that she will stand us a bottle of champagne."
"Yes; or even a bottle apiece," asserted Sitnikov. "I will go bail upon that."
"Go bail with what?"
"With my head."
"Your purse would have been better; but lead on."
[1] François Pierre Guillaume Guizot (1787-1874), the great French minister,
ambassador, littérateur, and educationalist.
[2] Madame Svietchin (1782-1857), wife of the Russian General Svietchin. For
more than forty years she maintained a famous salon.
[3] Etienne Bonnot de Mably de Condillac (1715-1780), a French philosopher
who based knowledge solely upon the physical senses.
[4] Louis Bourdaloue (1632-1704), a professor in the Jesuit College of Bourges.

XIII

The villa in which Avdotia, or Evdoksia, Nikitishna Kukshin resided was
one of the usual Moscow pattern, and stood in one of the recently consumed
streets (for as we know, every fifth year sees each of our provincial capitals
burnt to the ground) of the town of ——. Beside the front door there hung
(over a cracked, crooked visiting-card) a bell-handle, while in the hall the
visitors were met by a female who constituted, not exactly a maidservant,
but a mob-capped "lady companion." And it need hardly be added that these
two phenomena, the bell-handle and the "lady companion," constituted
clear evidence of the "progressiveness" of the hostess's views.
On Sitnikov inquiring whether Avdotia Nikitishna were within, a shrill
voice interrupted him from an adjoining room:
"Is that you, Victor? Pray enter."
The female in the mob-cap disappeared.
"I have not come alone," Sitnikov responded as, after an inquiring glance at
Arkady and Bazarov, he divested himself of his greatcoat, and revealed
thereunder a sort of sack jacket.
"Never mind," the voice replied. "Entrez, s'il vous plaît."
The young men did as bidden, and found themselves in a room which
resembled a workshop rather than a parlour. On tables were piled
promiscuous papers, letters and Russian magazines (most of the latter
uncut); everywhere on the floor were to be seen gleaming the fag-ends of
cigarettes; and on a leather-padded sofa a lady—youngish, flaxen-haired,
and clad in a négligée soiled silk gown—was lolling in a semi-recumbent
position. About her stumpy wrists were clasped a large pair of bracelets, and
over her head was thrown a lace mantilla. Rising, she draped her shoulders
carelessly in a velvet tippet with faded ermine trimming, and, saying
indolently, "Good day, Victor," pressed Sitnikov's hand.
"Bazarov—Kirsanov," he said in abrupt imitation of the former; whereupon
she responded, "How do you do?" and then added, as she fixed upon
Bazarov a pair of large eyes between which glimmered a correspondingly
small, pink, upturned nose: "I have met you before."
That said, she pressed his hand even as she had done Sitnikov's.

Bazarov frowned, for though the plain, insignificant features of the
emancipated lady contained nothing actually to repel, there was something
in their mien which produced upon the beholder the sort of unpleasant
impression which might have inclined him to ask her: "Are you hungry, or
bored, or afraid? At all events, what is it you want?" Also, like Sitnikov, she
kept pawing the air as she spoke, and her every word, her every gesture,
revealed such a lack of control as at times amounted to sheer awkwardness.
In short, though she conceived herself to be just a simple, good-hearted
creature, her bearing was of the kind to lead the beholder to reflect that, no
matter what she did, it was not what she had intended to do, and that
everything was done (to use the children's term) "on purpose"—that is to
say, non-simply and non-naturally.
"Yes, I have met you before, Bazarov," she repeated (like many other
contemporary females of Moscow and the provinces, she had adopted the
fashion of calling men by their surnames alone on first introduction). "Will
you have a cigar?"
"I thank you," interposed Sitnikov (who had deposited his person in an
armchair, and crossed his legs). "Also, pray give us some luncheon, for we
are absolutely ravenous. Also, you might order us a bottle of champagne."
"You Sybarite!" exclaimed Evdoksia with a smile (a smile always brought
her upper gum prominently into view). "Is he not, Bazarov?"
"No; it is merely that I love the comforts of life," protested Sitnikov
pompously. "Nor need that in any way prevent me from being a Liberal."
"But it does, it does," cried Evdoksia. However, she gave orders to her
servant to see both to the luncheon and to the champagne. "What is your
opinion on the matter?" she added, turning to Bazarov. "I feel convinced
that you share mine."
"No, I do not," he replied. "On the contrary, I think that, even from the
chemical point of view, a piece of meat is better than a piece of bread."
"Then you study chemistry?" she exclaimed. "Chemistry is my passion also.
In fact, I have invented a special liniment."
"A liniment? You?"

"Yes, I. And please guess its use. It is for making unbreakable dolls and
pipe-bowls. You see that, like yourself, I am of a practical turn of mind.
But, as yet, I have not completed my course of study. It still remains for me
to read up my Liebig. Apropos, have you seen an article in the Viedomosti
on Woman's Work—an article by Kisliakov? If not, you should read it (for I
presume that you take an interest in the Feminine Question, and also in the
Question of the Schools?). But what is your friend's line? Apropos, what is
his name?"
These questions Madame Kukshin, as it were, mouthed, and did so with an
affected carelessness which waited for no reply, even as a spoilt child
propounds conundrums to its nurse.
"My name is Arkady Nikolaievitch Kirsanov," Arkady answered for
himself. "And my particular line is doing nothing at all."
Evdoksia tittered.
"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Then you do not even smoke? Victor, I am
furious with you!"
"Why?" enquired Sitnikov.
"Because I have just heard that you are again standing up for Georges Sand,
that played-out woman. How is she even to be compared (that creature, who
lacks a single idea on education or physiology or anything else) with
Emerson? In fact, I believe that never in her life has she so much as heard
of embryology—though in these days no one can get on without it." The
speaker flung out her arms in an expressive gesture. "But what a splendid
article was that of Elisievitch's! He is indeed a talented gentleman!" (This
was another habit of Evdoksia's—the habit of persistently using the term
"gentleman" for the ordinary word "man"). "Bazarov, pray come and sit
beside me on the sofa. You may not know it, but I am dreadfully afraid of
you."
"Why are you afraid of me (if you will forgive my curiosity)?"
"Because you are a dangerous gentleman—you are a critic so caustic that in
your presence my confusion leads me to begin speaking like a lady-
landowner of the Steppes. Apropos, I am a lady-landowner myself; for,
though I employ a local steward named Erothei (a sort of Cooper's
'Pathfinder,' but compounded with a blend of independence in his

composition), I retain the ultimate reins of management in my own hands.
But how unbearable this town is!—yes, even though I have made it my
permanent home, seeing that nothing else was to be done!"
"The town is what a town always is," remarked Bazarov indifferently.
"But its interests are so petty!" continued Evdoksia.
"That is what troubles me. Once upon a time I used to winter in Moscow,
but now good Monsieur Kukshin has to dwell there alone. And Moscow
itself is, is—well, not what it used to be. As a matter of fact, I contemplate
going abroad. I have spent the whole year in making my preparations for
the journey."
"You will go to Paris, I presume?"
"Yes, and to Heidelberg."
"Why to Heidelberg?"
"Because there the great Herr Bunsen[1] has his home."
Bazarov could not think of a suitable reply.
"Do you know Pierre Sapozhnikov?" continued she.
"No, I do not."
"He is always to be found at Lydia Khostatov's."
"Even with her I am not acquainted."
"Well, Sapozhnikov is going to escort me on my travels. For at least I am
free—I have no children, thank God! Why I should have put in that 'Thank
God!' I scarcely know."
She rolled another cigarette between her nicotine-stained fingers, licked it,
placed it between her lips, and struck a match. The servant entered with a
tray.
"Ah! Here comes luncheon! Will you have some? Victor, pray uncork the
bottle. It is your function to do so."
"Mine, yes, mine," he hummed; then gave another of his shrill giggles.

"Have you any good-looking ladies in this town?" Bazarov asked after a
third glassful of champagne.
"Yes," replied Evdoksia. "But uniformly they are futile. For example, a
friend of mine, a Madame Odintsov, is not bad-looking, and has nothing
against her except a doubtful reputation (a thing of no consequence in
itself); but, alas! she combines with it such a complete lack of freedom, or
of breadth of view, or, in fact, of anything! The system of bringing up
women needs a radical change. I myself have given much thought to the
matter, and come to the conclusion that our women are ill-educated."
"Yes; the only thing to be done with them is to hold them in contempt,"
agreed Sitnikov. To him any opportunity of despising, of expressing
scornful sentiments, was the most agreeable of sensations. Yet, though he
thus chose women for his especial censure, he little suspected that before
many months were over he himself would be grovelling at the feet of a wife
—and doing so merely for the reason that she had been born a Princess
Durdoleosov!
"No, to none of them would our conversation convey anything," he
continued. "Nor is there a single one of them upon whom the attention of a
serious-minded man would be anything but thrown away."
"Scarcely need they desire to have anything conveyed to them by our
conversation," remarked Bazarov.
"Of whom are you speaking?" interposed Evdoksia.
"Of the smart women of the day."
"What? I suppose you agree with Proudhon's[2] opinion on the subject?"
Bazarov drew himself up.
"I agree with no man's opinions," he remarked. "I have some of my own."
"A bas les autorités!" cried Sitnikov, delighted at this unlooked-for
opportunity of showing off in the presence of the man whom he
worshipped.
"But even Macaulay——" began Madame Kukshin.
"A bas Macaulay!" roared Sitnikov. "How can you defend those dolls of
ours?"

"I am not defending them at all," said Madame Kukshin. "I am merely
standing up for the rights of women—rights which I have sworn to defend
to the last drop of my blood."
"A bas——" began Sitnikov—then paused. "I do not reject them," he added
in a lower tone.
"But you do reject them, for you are a Slavophil, as I can see very clearly."
"On the contrary, I am not a Slavophil; although, of course, I——"
"But you are a Slavophil: you believe in the principles of the Domostroi,[3]
and would like always to be holding over women a scourge."
"A scourge is not a bad thing in its proper place," observed Bazarov. "But,
seeing that we have reached the last drop of, of——"
"Of what?" said Evdoksia.
"Of champagne, most respected Avdotia Nikitishna—not of your blood."
"Never when I hear my sex abused can I listen with indifference," resumed
Evdoksia. "It is all too horrible, too horrible! Instead of attacking us, people
ought to read Michel's[4] De l'Amour. What a wonderful work it is! Let us
talk of love."
She posed her arm gracefully upon the tumbled cushions of the sofa.
There fell a sudden silence.
"What is there to say concerning love?" at length said Bazarov. "In passing,
you mentioned a certain Madame Odintsov (I think that was the name?).
Who is she?"
"A very charming woman," squeaked Sitnikov, "as well as clever, rich, and
a widow. Unfortunately, she is not sufficiently developed, and a closer
acquaintance with our Evdoksia would do her a world of good. Evdoksia, I
drink to your health! Let us sing the honours. 'Et toc, et toc, et tin, tin, tin!
Et toc, et toc, et tin, tin, tin!'"
"You scamp, Victor!"
The luncheon proved a lengthy affair, for to the first bottle of champagne
there succeeded a second, and to the latter a third, and to that a fourth.
Meanwhile Evdoksia kept up an unceasing flow of chatter, and received

effective assistance from Sitnikov. In particular did the pair discuss the
nature of marriage ("the outcome of prejudice and vice"), the question
whether people are born "single," and the consistency of "individuality."
Then Evdoksia seated herself at the piano, and, red in the face with wine
which she had drunk, clattered her flat finger-nails upon the keys, and
essayed hoarsely to sing, first of all some gipsy ditties, and then the ballad,
"Dreaming Granada lies asleep"; while, throwing a scarf over his head to
represent the dying lover, Sitnikov joined her at the words "Your lips meet
mine in a burning kiss."
At length Arkady could stand it no longer.
"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this is sheer Bedlam!"
As for Bazarov, he yawned, for he had done little more than interject a
satirical word or two—his attention had been devoted, rather, to the
champagne. At length he rose, and, accompanied by Arkady, left the house
without so much as a word of farewell to the hostess. Sitnikov pursued the
pair.
"Ah, ha!" he exclaimed as he skipped about the roadway. "Did I not tell you
that she would prove a most remarkable personality? Would that more of
our women were like her! In her way, she is a moral phenomenon."
"And your father's establishment?" remarked Bazarov as he pointed to a
tavern which they happened to be passing. "Is that also a moral
phenomenon?"
Sitnikov vented another of his shrill giggles. But, being also ashamed of his
origin, he felt at a loss whether to plume himself upon, or to take offence at,
Bazarov's unexpected pleasantry.
[1] Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811-1899), chemist and physicist; inventor of
Bunsen's burner and magnesium light; and originator (with Kirchhov) of
spectrum analysis.
[2] Pierre Joseph Proudhon (1809-1865), a French doctrinaire who taught that
anarchy is the culmination of all social progress.
[3] A curious old sixteenth-century work which, usually attributed to the monk
Sylvester, purports to be a "guide to household management," and, incidentally,
gives a terrible picture of the power of the Russian husband over his wife.
[4] Louise Michel (1830-1906), a French anarchist long resident in London.

XIV

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

remarks mordantly sarcastic in their nature, the great Sitnikov glanced
haughtily about him, and appeared to derive some genuine pleasure from
thus striking an attitude. But suddenly his face underwent a change. Turning
to Arkady, he said in a self-conscious way: "Here is Madame Odintsov just
entering."
Looking up, Arkady beheld, halted in the doorway, a tall woman in a black
gown. In particular was he struck with the dignity of her carriage, and with
the manner in which her bare arms hung beside her upright figure. From her
gleaming hair to her sloping shoulders trailed sprays of fuchsia flowers,
while quietly, intelligently—I say quietly, not dreamily—there gazed, with
a barely perceptible smile, from under a white and slightly prominent
forehead a pair of brilliant eyes. In general, the countenance suggested
latent, but gentle, kindly force.
"Do you know her?" Arkady inquired.
"I do—intimately," replied Sitnikov. "Shall I introduce you?"
"If you please; but only when this quadrille has come to an end."
Bazarov's attention also had been caught by this Madame Odintsov.
"What a face!" he exclaimed. "No other woman in the room has one
anything like it."
As soon, therefore, as the quadrille was over, Sitnikov conducted Arkady to
Madame Odintsov; and though at first—whether through the excessive
"intimacy" of Sitnikov's acquaintance, or whether through the fact that he
happened to stumble over his words—she gazed at him with a shade of
astonishment, she no sooner heard Arkady's family name than her face
brightened, and she inquired whether he was the son of Nikolai Petrovitch.
"I am," replied Arkady.
"Then I have twice had the pleasure of meeting your father. Also, I have
heard much about him, and shall be most glad to know you."
At this point an aide-de-camp sidled up, and requested the honour of a
quadrille: which request she granted.
"Then you dance?" exclaimed Arkady, but with great deference.
"I do. What made you think that I do not? Is it that I look too old?"

"Oh no, pardon me! By no means! Then perhaps I too might ask for a
mazurka?"
Smiling indulgently, she replied, "If you wish," and then looked at him not
so much in a "superior" manner as in that of a married sister who is
regarding a very, very young brother. Though she was not greatly older than
Arkady (she had just attained her twenty-ninth year), her presence made
him feel the veriest schoolboy, and caused the difference of years to seem
infinitely greater than it was. Next, Matvei Ilyitch approached her with a
majestic air and a few obsequious words; whereupon Arkady moved away a
little, while continuing to observe her. In fact, not until the quadrille was
over did he find himself able to withdraw his eyes from her bewitching
person. Throughout, her conversation with her partner and the guest of
honour was accompanied with small movements of the head and eyes, and
twice she uttered a low laugh. True, her nose erred a little on the side of
thickness (as do those of most Russian women), nor was the colour of her
skin unimpeachable; yet Arkady came to the conclusion that never in his
life had he encountered a woman so charming of personality. Continuously
the sound of her voice murmured in his ears, and the very folds of her dress
looked different from those of other women—they seemed to hang
straighter and more symmetrically, and her every movement was smooth
and natural.
Nevertheless, when the strains of the mazurka struck up, and, reseating
himself beside his partner, he prepared to enter into conversation with her,
he felt a distinct touch of diffidence. Nor, though he kept passing his hand
over his hair, could he find a word to say. However, this timidity, this state
of agitation, did not last long, for soon her calmness infected him, and
within a quarter of an hour he was talking to her of his father, his uncle, and
life in St. Petersburg and the country. For her part, she listened with kindly
interest, while gently opening and closing her fan. Thus only at moments
when other cavaliers came to ask her for dances (Sitnikov did this twice)
did Arkady's chatter become interrupted; and whenever she returned to her
place, to reseat herself with her bosom heaving not a whit more rapidly than
it had done before, he would plunge into renewed conversation, so
delighted was he at the fact that he had found some one to sympathise with
him, to whom he could talk, at whose beautiful eyes and forehead and
gentle, refined, intellectual features he could gaze at leisure. She herself

said little, but her every word showed a knowledge of life which pointed to
the fact that already this young woman had thought and felt much.
"Who was the man with you before Sitnikov brought you to me?" she
inquired.
"So you noticed my friend?" exclaimed Arkady. "Has he not a splendid
face? His name is Bazarov."
And, once launched upon the subject, Arkady descanted so fully, and with
such enthusiasm, that Madame Odintsov turned to observe his friend more
closely. But soon the mazurka began to draw to a close, and Arkady found
himself regretting the prospect of losing the companion with whom he had
spent such a pleasant hour. True, he had felt, throughout, that he was being
treated with condescension, and ought to be grateful; but upon young hearts
such an obligation does not press with any great weight.
The music stopped with a jerk.
"Merci!" said Madame Odintsov—then rose. "You have promised to come
and see me. Also, bring with you your friend, for I am filled with curiosity
to behold a man who has the temerity to believe in nothing."
Next, the Governor approached Madame with a distraught air and an
intimation that supper was ready; whereupon she took his proffered arm,
and, as she departed, turned with a last smile and nod to Arkady, who, in
answer, bowed and stood following her with his eyes. How straight her
figure looked under the sheen of her black gown!
"Already she will have forgotten my existence," he thought to himself,
while an exquisite humility pervaded his soul. Then he rejoined Bazarov in
their joint corner.
"Well?" his friend said. "Have you enjoyed yourself? Some man or other
has just been telling me that the lady in question is—— But in all
probability the man was a fool. What do you think of her?"
"The allusion escapes me," replied Arkady.
"Come, come, young innocence!"
"Or at all events your informant's meaning escapes me. Madame is nice, but
as cold and formal as, as——"

"As a stagnant pool," concluded Bazarov. "Yes, we all know the sort of
thing. You say that she is cold, but that is purely a matter of taste. Perhaps
you yourself like ice?"
"Perhaps I do," the other muttered. "But of such things I am no judge; and
in any case she wishes to make your acquaintance as well as mine, and has
asked me to bring you with me to call."
"The description of me which you gave is easily imagined! On the other
hand, you did rightly to offer her us both, for no matter who she may be—
whether a provincial lioness or only an 'émancipée' like the Kukshin
woman, she has at least such a pair of shoulders as I have not seen this
many a day."
Arkady recoiled from this cynicism, yet, as often happens in such cases,
started to reproach his friend for something wholly unconnected with the
utterance which had given umbrage.
"Why do you refuse women freedom of thought?" he asked under his
breath.
"For the reason, dear sir, that, according to my observation of life, no
woman, unless she be a freak, thinks with freedom."
And here the conversation terminated, for supper had come to an end, and
the friends departed. As they left the room Madame Kukshin followed them
with a nervous and wrathful, yet slightly apprehensive, smile in her eyes.
The reason of this was that she felt wounded in her conceit at the fact that
neither of the young men had taken any notice of her. Nevertheless, she
remained at the ball until most of the rest of the company had left;
whereafter, it being four o'clock in the morning, she danced a polka-
mazurka, à la Parisienne, with Sitnikov, and with this edifying spectacle
brought the Governor's fête to a close.

XV

"Now let us see to what category of mortals to assign this young person,"
said Bazarov to Arkady as, on the following day, the pair mounted the

staircase of the hotel where Madame Odintsov was staying. "Somehow I
seem to scent impropriety in the air."
"You surprise me!" burst forth Arkady. "Do you, Bazarov, do you hold with
the narrow-minded morality which——"
"Idiot!" exclaimed Bazarov contemptuously. "Do you not know that both in
our jargon and in the understanding of the ordinary person the term
'improper' has now come to mean the same as 'proper'? In any case I seem
to scent money here. You yourself told me, did you not, that Madame's
marriage was a very strange one?—though, for my part, I look upon
marrying a rich old man as anything but a strange proceeding—rather, as a
measure of prudence. True, I place little reliance upon the gossip of
townsfolk, but at least I prefer to suppose that that gossip has, as our
cultured Governor would say, 'a basis in fact.'"
Arkady did not respond, but knocked at the door of Madame's suite; and,
the door having been opened, a liveried man-servant ushered the visitors
into a large, hideously furnished room of the type which is always to be
found in Russian hotels—the only exception in the present case being that
the apartment was adorned with flowers. Presently Madame herself entered,
clad in a plain morning gown, and looking even younger in the spring
sunlight than she had done in the ballroom. Arkady duly presented Bazarov,
and, as he did so, remarked with surprise that his friend seemed confused,
while Madame was as imperturbable as ever. This gaucherie on his part
Bazarov realised, and felt vexed at.
"Phaugh!" he thought to himself. "The idea that I should be afraid of a
woman!"
Yet, like Sitnikov, he could only subside into a chair, and fall to talking with
an exaggerated emphasis to the woman who sat with her brilliant eyes
riveted with such attention upon him.
Anna Sergievna Odintsov had had for father one Sergei Nikolaievitch
Loktev, a well-known gambler, speculator, and beau. After fifteen years of
flaunting it in St. Petersburg and Moscow, and dissipating his whole
substance, he had been forced to retire to the country, where soon
afterwards he had died and left to his daughter Anna (aged twenty) and his
daughter Katerina (aged twelve) only a small joint competence. As for the

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

Eventually these rumours reached her ears, but she ignored them altogether,
since her nature was at once bold and independent.
Seating herself at full length in an armchair, and crossing one hand over the
other, she set herself to listen to Bazarov's harangue. Contrary to his usual
custom, he spoke without restraint, for he was clearly anxious to interest his
listener. Arkady again felt surprised at this, though he failed to detect
whether or not Bazarov was succeeding in his aim, seeing that Anna
Sergievna's face gave no clue to the effect produced, so fixedly did her
features retain their faintly polite expression, so unvaryingly did her
beautiful eyes reflect unruffled attention. True, at first Bazarov's vehemence
gave her an unpleasant impression as of a bad smell or a jarring note; but in
time she began to understand that it came of his being ill at ease, and she
felt flattered at the fact. Only the paltry repelled her; and no one could well
have accused Bazarov of that quality. Indeed wonders were never to cease
for Arkady, since, though he had expected Bazarov to talk to Madame
Odintsov as to a woman of intellect—to speak to her of his views and
convictions (seeing that she had expressed a desire to behold a man who
had "the temerity to believe in nothing"), he discoursed only on medicine,
homoeopathy, and botany. At the same time, Madame had not wasted her
life of solitude, but had read a large number of standard works, and could
express herself in the best of Russian; and though at one point she diverted
the conversation to music, she no sooner perceived that he declined to
recognise the existence of the art than she returned to botany, even though
Arkady would gladly have continued the discussion of the importance of
national melodies. In passing, her treatment of Arkady as a younger brother
remained the same. What she valued in him was, evidently, the good
humour and simplicity of youth—nothing more. Thus there was held, for
three hours, an animated, but intermittent, discursive conversation.
At length the friends rose to say farewell. With a kindly glance Anna
Sergievna offered them her beautiful white hand; then, after a moment's
reflection, said irresolutely, but with a pleasant smile:
"If neither of you fear finding the time tedious, will you come and pay me a
visit at Nikolsköe?"
"I should deem it the greatest pleasure!" cried Arkady.
"And you, Monsieur Bazarov?"

Bazarov merely bowed: which again surprised Arkady, while also he
noticed that his friend's face looked flushed.
"Well?" the younger man said as the pair issued into the street. "Are you
still of the opinion that she is, is——?"
"I cannot say. But what an icicle she has made of herself!" There was a
pause. "At all events, she is an imposing personage, a grande dame who
lacks but a train to her gown and a coronet to her head."
"But none of our grandes dames speak Russian as she does," remarked
Arkady.
"No; for she has undergone a rebirth, and eaten of our bread."
"And what a charm is hers!"
"You mean, what a splendid body—the very thing for a dissecting theatre!"
"Stop, stop, for God's sake! Her body differs from all other women's."
"No need to lose your temper, young innocent. Have I not said that she
stands in the front rank of women? Yes, we must pay her that visit."
"When?"
"The day after to-morrow. Nothing else is to be done here, for we need not
stay to drink champagne with the Kukshin woman, and listen to the
harangues of your kinsman, the Liberal bigwig. Not we! The day after to-
morrow, therefore, let us give the whole thing the go-by. A propos, my
father's place lies near Nikolsköe. For Nikolsköe is on the ---- road, is it
not?"
"It is."
"Optime! Then we shall gain nothing by delay: only fools and clever people
procrastinate. Her anatomy, I repeat, is splendid."
Within three days, in bright, but not too warm, weather, the two friends
were bowling along the road to Nikolsköe. With a will did the well-fed
stage horses trot out, and lightly swish their flanks with their plaited,
knotted tails; and as Arkady glanced along the road, he, for some unknown
reason, smiled.

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

XVI

The manor-house in which Anna Sergievna resided stood on an open
hillock, and close to a yellow stone church with a green roof, white
columns, and an entrance surmounted by a fresco representative of Our
Lord's Resurrection—the latter executed in the "Italian" style, and having as
its most noticeable feature the figure of a swarthy warrior whose rounded
contours filled the entire foreground. Behind the church, the village
extended into two long wings, and had thatched roofs surmounted by a
medley of chimneys; while the manor-house itself was built in a style
homogeneous with the design of the church—that is to say, in the style
commonly known as "Alexandrine," and embracing yellow-painted walls, a
green roof, white columns, and a front adorned with a coat-of-arms. In fact,
both buildings had been erected by a provincial architect to the order of the
late Odintsov, a man impatient (so he himself always expressed it) of "vain
and arbitrary innovations." Lastly, to right and left of the house there
showed the trees of an antique garden, while an avenue of clipped firs led
the way to the principal entrance.
The friends having been met in the hall by two strapping lacqueys in livery,
one of the latter immediately ran for the butler; who (a stout man in a black
tail-coat) proceeded to usher the guests up a carpeted staircase, and into a
room which contained a couple of beds and the usual appurtenances of the
toilet. Evidently neatness was the order of the day in the establishment, for
everything was both spotlessly clean and as fragrant as the chamber
wherein a Minister of State holds his receptions.
"Anna Sergievna will be glad to see you in half an hour," the butler said.
"Meanwhile, have you any orders for me?"

"No, worthy one," replied Bazarov. "Except that you might so far
condescend as to bring me a small glassful of vodka."
"It shall be done, sir," said the butler with a shade of hesitation; whereafter
he departed with creaking boots.
"What grandeur!" commented Bazarov. "In your opinion, how ought our
hostess to be addressed? In the style of a duchess?"
"Yes, and of a very great duchess," replied Arkady. "The more so, seeing
that she has invited such influential aristocrats as ourselves to visit her."
"I presume that you are referring to your humble servant—a future doctor,
the son of a doctor, and the grandson of a sexton? By the way, are you
aware that my grandparent was a sexton, even as was Speransky's?"[1] A
smile curled his lips. "Thus you see that the lady is mistaken, woefully
mistaken. We haven't such a thing as a tail-coat, have we?"
Arkady shrugged his shoulders bravely; but he too was feeling a little awe-
stricken.
At the close of the half-hour the pair entered the drawing-room, which they
found to be a large, lofty apartment of rich, but tasteless, appointments.
Against the walls, in the usual affected style, stood heavy, expensive
furniture, the walls themselves were hung with brown curtains to which
were florid gilt borders (all these things the late Odintsov had ordered
through a Muscovite friend who kept a wineshop), and above a divan in the
centre of the room hung a portrait of a wrinkled, sandy-haired individual
who seemed to be regarding the newcomers with extreme distaste.
"He," whispered Bazarov.
The hostess herself then entered. She was clad in a light dress, and had her
hair dressed behind the ears—a style which communicated to her pure,
fresh countenance an air of almost girlish juvenility.
"Thank you for having kept your promise," she said. "And now that you are
come, I think that you will find the time not altogether dull. For one thing, I
intend to introduce you to my sister, who is a skilful piano-player (of
course, Monsieur Bazarov, to you such things are a matter of indifference,
but you, Monsieur Kirsanov, I know, adore the art of music). Also, an
elderly aunt lives with me as my companion, and at intervals a neighbour

looks in for a game of cards. You see our home circle. Now let us seat
ourselves."
Madame delivered this little speech with the precision of a lesson which she
had learnt by heart, and then turned to converse with Arkady. On finding
that her mother had known his, and that the latter had made the former her
confidant during her love affair with Nikolai Petrovitch, the lad fell to
speaking enthusiastically of his dead parent, while Bazarov applied himself
to the inspection of some albums.
"What a domesticated individual I am!" thought he to himself.
Presently, with much pattering of paws, there burst into the room a splendid
Russian greyhound with a blue collar; and it was followed by a young girl
of eighteen with a dark complexion, dark hair, a round, but pleasant, face,
and small, dark eyes. She was carrying a basket of flowers.
"My sister Katia," said Madame Odintsov, indicating the girl with her head.
Katia seated herself beside Madame, and fell to arranging her flowers;
while the greyhound (whose name was Fifi) approached each of the guests
in turn, laid his cold nose in their hands, and wagged his tail.
"Have you gathered those flowers yourself?" asked Madame Odintsov.
"Yes, Anna Sergievna," the girl replied.
"And is your aunt going to join us at tea?"
"Yes."
These replies of Katia's were accompanied with a frank, but gentle and
bashful, smile, and an upward glance half grave, half sportive. Everything
in her betokened youth and freshness—her voice, the down on her cheeks,
her little pink hands with their white, dimpled palms, and the slightly
contracted shoulders. Also, she blushed without ceasing, and drew her
breath with a fluttering respiration.
Presently Madame Odintsov turned to Bazarov.
"Surely it is only out of politeness that you are looking at those
photographs?" she said. "They cannot possibly interest you. Pray move
nearer to us, and let us engage in an argument."

Bazarov approached her.
"What shall we argue about?" he inquired.
"About anything you like. But first let me warn you that I am a redoubtable
opponent."
"You?"
"Yes, certainly. You look surprised? Why so?"
"Because, so far as I can tell, your temperament is one of the cold and
lethargic order, whereas argument needs impulsiveness."
"How have you contrived so quickly to appraise me? To begin with, I am
both impatient and exacting. Ask Katia if I am not. Also, I am easily moved
to impulse."
Bazarov darted a glance at her.
"Possibly," he said. "Certainly you ought to know best. But, since you
desire to argue, let us argue. While looking at those views of Saxon
Switzerland, I heard you remark that they could not interest me. This you
said, I presume, because you suppose me to be lacking in the artistic sense.
Well, I am so. But might not those pictures be interesting to me solely from
the geological point of view—from the standpoint of an observer, say, of
the formation of mountains?"
"Pardon me, but, as a geologist, you would prefer to resort to some special
work on that science, not to a few pictures."
"Oh, not necessarily. For a picture may instantly present what a book could
set forth only in a hundred pages."
Anna Sergievna made no reply.
"Well," she resumed, leaning forward upon the table—a movement which
brought her face closer to Bazarov's, "since you possess not a grain of the
artistic instinct, how do you contrive to get on without it?"
"Rather, I would ask you: What is the artistic instinct able to effect?"
"It is able at least to help one to examine and to instruct one's fellow man."
Bazarov smiled.

"In the first place," he retorted, "the prime requisite in that connection is
experience of life; and, in the second place, the study of detached
personalities is scarcely worth the trouble. For all we human beings are
alike, in body as in spirit. In each of us there is an identical brain, an
identical spleen, an identical heart, an identical pair of lungs, an identical
stock of the so-called moral qualities (trifling variations between which we
need not take into account). Therefore from a single specimen of the human
race may all the rest be judged. In fact, human beings are like trees in a
forest. You never find a botanist studying its individual trunks."
Katia, who had been arranging her flowers, glanced at Bazarov in
amazement, and, in so doing, encountered his keen, contemptuous gaze, and
blushed to her ears. Anna Sergievna shook her head.
"Trees in a forest!" she exclaimed. "Think you, then, that there is no
difference between the wise man and the fool, the good and the bad?"
"No, I do not," replied Bazarov. "On the contrary, I believe that such
differences do exist. The point is that they exist only as between the sound
and the ailing. For instance, a consumptive's lungs are not as yours and
mine; yet they have been fashioned precisely as our own have been. Also,
whereas, to a certain extent, we know whence bodily disorders arise, moral
disorders come of faulty education, the thousand and one follies with which
the human brain is afflicted, in short, any irregular condition of the social
body. Rectify that body, and moral sickness will soon cease to be."
Speaking as though he were saying to himself, "Believe me or not as you
like, it is all one to me," Bazarov drew his long fingers through his
whiskers, while his eyes glowed like coals.
"Then you think," pursued Anna Sergievna, "that, once the social body has
been rectified, stupid and evil people will cease to exist?"
"At all events, once the social body is properly organised, the fact that a
man be wise or stupid, good or bad, will cease to be of importance."
"Ah! I understand! That is because we all possess an identical spleen?"
"Precisely so, madam."
She turned to Arkady.
"And what is your opinion, Arkady Nikolaievitch?" she enquired.

"I agree with Evgenii," was his reply as, in his turn, he received a glance of
astonishment from Katia.
"I am surprised, gentlemen," said Madame. "However, I can hear my aunt
approaching, so let us spare her ears, and discuss this later."
Anna Sergievna's aunt—a small, spare woman with a mallet-shaped face, a
pair of narrow, malicious eyes, and a grey false front—bestowed scarcely so
much as a bow upon the guests, but at once relapsed into a huge velvet
armchair which no one but herself was allowed to use. And even when
Katia hastened to place for her a footstool, the old woman did not thank her,
nor even look at her, but chafed her hands under the yellow shawl which
covered the whole of her frail figure. Beyond all things was she fond of
yellow; wherefore she had had her cap trimmed with ribands of the same
hue.
"Have you slept well, Auntie?" Madame Odintsov inquired with a raising of
her voice.
"That dog is here again!" the old woman muttered on noticing that Fifi was
taking an irresolute step or two in her direction. "Turn the beast out, I say!
Out with it!"
Calling Fifi, Katia opened the door for the animal to leave the room;
whereupon, though it bounded out in joyous mood (under the impression
that it was about to be taken for a walk), it no sooner found itself marooned
outside than it fell to whining and scratching at the panels; which caused the
Princess to frown, and necessitated Katia's exit to rectify matters.
"Tea is ready, I believe," Madame Odintsov continued. "Gentlemen, pray
come. Will you have some tea, Auntie?"
The Princess rose from her chair in silence, and headed a procession to the
dining-room, where a Cossack footman pulled a padded armchair from
under the table (like the last, it was reserved for the Princess alone), and she
subsided into its depths. Katia poured out tea, and handed her aunt the first
cup—a cup adorned with a coat-of-arms; whereafter the old woman added
some honey to the beverage (she looked upon tea-drinking with sugar as a
sin of extravagance, and the more so since never at any time would she
consent to spend an unnecessary kopeck), and then asked hoarsely:
"What has Prince Ivan to say in his letter?"

No one answered, and in time Bazarov and Arkady apprised the fact that,
though treated, certainly, with respect, the old woman attracted no one's
serious attention.
"They keep her here for show," Bazarov reflected. "She is kept because she
comes of a princely house."
Tea over, Anna Sergievna proposed a walk; but since at that moment a drop
of rain came pattering down, the company (with the exception of the
Princess) returned to the drawing-room. Presently the neighbour addicted to
a game of cards came in, and proved to be one Porphyri Platonitch—a stout,
grey-headed, affable, diverting individual who, in addition, could boast of a
pair of legs as shapely as though turned with a lathe. Anna Sergievna then
inquired of Bazarov (with whom she had again been in conversation)
whether he would care to join them in the old-fashioned game of
"Preferences"; and he consented on the ground that he could not too soon
prepare himself for the post of a district physician.
"But take care," remarked his hostess. "Porphyri Platonitch and I are not
unlikely to beat you. Meanwhile, do you, Katia, go and play something on
the piano for the benefit of Arkady Nikolaievitch. I know that he loves
music, and we too shall be glad to listen to you."
Reluctantly Katia approached the piano; nor, in spite of Arkady's fondness
for music, did he follow her any more eagerly.
The truth of it was that he felt himself to be being "got rid of" by Madame
Odintsov, and already there was simmering in his heart, as in the heart of
any young man of his age, that vague, oppressive feeling which is the
harbinger of love.
Raising the lid of the piano, Katia murmured under her breath, and without
looking at Arkady:
"What shall I play?"
"Anything you wish," he replied with indifference.
"But what sort of music do you prefer?" she persisted with unchanged
attitude.
"Classical music," was the reply delivered with equal nonchalance.

"Mozart?"
"Certainly—Mozart."
So Katia produced the Viennese master's Sonata-Fantasia in C minor. She
played it well, but coldly, and not with any excess of precision. Likewise,
she kept her lips compressed, her eyes upon the keys, and her form erect
and motionless. Only towards the close of the piece did her face kindle at
all, while at the same moment a tiny curl detached itself from her loosely-
bound hair, and fell over her dusky forehead.
Arkady also felt moved by the closing portion of the Sonata—the portion
where the charming, careless gaiety of the melody gives place to sudden
bursts of mournful, almost tragic lamentation. Yet the thoughts which
Mozart's strains aroused in him bore no relation to Katia. He merely looked
at her now and then, and reflected:
"She plays well; nor is she bad-looking."
The Sonata over, Katia inquired, without removing her hands from the
keyboard: "Is that enough?" and Arkady replied that he would not think of
troubling her further. Then he went on to talk of Mozart, and to ask her
whether she herself had selected the Sonata, or whether it had been selected
for her by some one. Katia answered in monosyllables, and from time to
time went into hiding, retired into herself; and on each occasion of this sort
she made her reappearance but reluctantly, and with a face composed to a
stubborn, almost a stupid, air. Yet she was not timid so much as diffident
and a trifle overawed by the presence of the sister who had brought her up
(not that the sister in question ever suspected it). Finally, she returned to her
flowers, and Arkady found himself reduced to calling Fifi to his side, and
stroking the dog's head with a kindly smile.
As for Bazarov, he had to pay forfeit after forfeit, for Anna Sergievna was
fairly clever at cards, and Porphyri Platonitch was a player fully able to
look after himself. Consequently the young doctor rose a loser, not by a
considerable sum, but by one which, at all events, was sufficient to be
scarcely agreeable. After supper Anna Sergievna started a discussion on
botany.
"I wish you would take me for a walk to-morrow morning," she said. "I
want you to teach me the Latin names of our field flowers, and also their

characteristics."
"But how could the Latin names benefit you?" he inquired.
"System is in all things necessary," she replied.
"A truly wonderful woman!" Arkady commented the same evening, on
finding himself alone with his friend in the bedroom.
"Yes," replied Bazarov. "She certainly possesses brains. Also, she has
dreamed dreams."
"In what sense?"
"In the best sense, my friend—in the very best sense, O Arkady
Nikolaievitch. Certain also am I that she manages her property well. But the
marvellous phenomenon is not she, but her sister."
"What? That hoyden?"
"Yes, that hoyden. The hoyden contains an element of freshness and
virginity and timidity and reticence and anything else you like which makes
her really an object worthy of interest. Of the one you could make
whatsoever you might desire, whereas of the other there is nothing to be
said save that she represents a yesterday's loaf."
Arkady made no reply, and soon the two men were asleep and dreaming
their own dreams.
The same night Anna Sergievna devoted much thought to her two guests.
Bazarov she liked both for his total lack of affectation and for the piquancy
of his criticisms; so that she seemed to divine in him something new,
something which had hitherto remained unknown to her experience. All of
which excited her curiosity.
And she too was a strange being. Free from all prejudice, and devoid of all
strong beliefs, she rendered obeisance to nothing, and had in view no goal.
Again, though much was open to her sight, and much interested her,
nothing really satisfied her, and she had no wish for such satisfaction, since
her intellect was at once inquiring and indifferent, and harboured doubts
which never merged into insensibility, and aspirations which never swelled
into unrest. True, if she had been dowered with less wealth and
independence, she might have plunged into the fray, and learnt the nature of

passion; but, as things stood, she took life unhastingly, and, though often
finding it tedious, spent her days in a deliberate, rarely agitated manner.
True, at times rainbow colours gleamed even before her eyes; yet no sooner
had they faded than she would draw her breath as before, and in no way
regret their disappearance. Again, though, at times, her imagination
exceeded the bounds of what is considered permissible by conventional
morality, her blood still coursed tranquilly through her lethargic and
bewitchingly shaped frame; and only when she was issuing in a warm and
tender glow from her comfortable bathroom would she fall to pondering
upon the futility of life, its sorrow and toil and cruelty, and feel her soul
swell to sudden temerity, and begin to seethe with noble aspirations. Yet
even then, let but a draught happen to blow in her direction from an open
window, and at once she would shrug her shoulders, commiserate herself,
come very near to losing her temper, and become conscious of nothing but
the thought that the one thing necessary was to ensure that by hook or by
crook that abominable draught should be averted.
Again, like all women who have never known what it is to fall in love, she
was sensible of a persistent yearning for something wholly undefined.
There was nothing that she actually lacked, yet she seemed to lack
everything. The late Odintsov she had merely tolerated (the marriage
having been one de convenance only—though she would never have
consented to become his wife had he not also been kindly of heart), and
from the experience she had derived a certain aversion to the male sex in
general, which she conceived to be composed exclusively of creatures
slovenly, idle, wearisome, and weakly exacting in their habits. In fact, only
once had she met (it was somewhere abroad) a man who had in any way
attracted her. He had been a young Swede of a knightly countenance, honest
blue eyes, and an open brow; but, for all the impression that he had made
upon her, the impression in question had not prevented her from shortly
afterwards returning to Russia.
"A strange man, that Bazarov," she thought to herself as she reposed in her
magnificent bed with its lace-embroidered pillows and its light silken
coverlet. It may be said, that, in addition to having inherited her late father's
fastidious and luxurious tastes, she still cherished for that wayward, but
kindhearted, parent a considerable affection, since during his lifetime he
had not only adored her and cracked jokes with her on equal terms, but also

accorded her his whole confidence, and made it his invariable custom to
seek her advice. Of her mother she had but the scantiest of remembrance.
"Yes, a strange man is that Bazarov," she repeated; after which she stretched
her limbs, smiled, clasped her hands behind her head, ran an eye over the
pages of two foolish French novels, let fall the second of these volumes
from her hands, and relapsed into slumber—a cold, spotless figure in
spotless, fragrant white.
When breakfast was over next morning, she set forth upon the botanising
expedition with Bazarov; to return home just before luncheon time.
Meanwhile Arkady did not leave the house, but spent an hour with Katia,
nor found the time wearisome, seeing that of her own accord Katia
volunteered to repeat the Sonata. Yet the instant that his eyes beheld
Madame Odintsov returning his heart leapt within him. She was crossing
the garden with a slightly tired step, but with her cheeks rosy of hue, her
eyes shining under her round straw hat with even greater brilliancy than
usual, and her fingers twirling between them the stalk of some field flower.
Also, her light mantilla had slipped to her shoulders, and the broad ribands
of her hat were floating over her bosom. Behind her walked Bazarov with
his usual air of superciliousness and self-assurance, while on his face there
was an expression cheerful, and even good-humoured. Yet somehow,
Arkady did not like that expression.
Muttering "Good-morning," Bazarov passed towards his room, while
Madame Odintsov accorded the young man a negligent handshake—then
similarly continued her way.
"'Good morning!'" thought Arkady to himself. "One would think that she
and I had made one another's acquaintance only to-day!"
[1] Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811-1899), chemist and physicist; inventor of
Bunsen's burner and magnesium light; and originator (with Kirchhov) of
spectrum analysis.

XVII

As we know, time either flies like a bird or crawls like a snail. Thus a man
is in best case when he fails to notice either the rapidity or the slowness of
its flight. Similarly did Bazarov and Arkady spend their fortnight at
Madame Odintsov's. Of this another contributory cause was the fact that
alike in her household and in her daily life she maintained a régime to
which she herself strictly adhered, and to which she constrained others to
adhere; so that the daily domestic round accomplished itself according to a
fixed programme. At eight o'clock the company would assemble for
breakfast; whereafter, until luncheon time, individuals could do whatsoever
they chose (the hostess herself devoting her attention to her steward—she
administered her estate on the obrok or tithes system—her household
servants, and her head housekeeper). Next, before dinner, the company
would reassemble for conversation or for reading aloud; and the rest of the
evening would be devoted to a walk, to cards, or to music. Lastly, at half-
past ten Anna Sergievna would withdraw to her room, issue her orders for
the following day, and retire to bed.
But to Bazarov this measured, slightly formal regularity was not wholly
agreeable. "Somehow it reminds one of running on a pair of rails," he used
to declare; while so much did the sight of liveried lacqueys and graded serfs
offend his democratic instincts that once he averred that one might as well
dine in the English fashion outright, and wear white ties and black tail-
coats. These views he expressed to Anna Sergievna (something in her
always led men to lay bare their opinions in her presence); and, after she
had heard him out, she said: "From your point of view, the matter is as you
say, and perhaps I play the fine lady too much; but in the country one
cannot live anyhow; such a course always leads one to grow slovenly."
So she continued her régime as before. Yet, though Bazarov grumbled, he
and Arkady found that to that very formality they owed the fact that
everything in the establishment "ran as on rails." In passing it may be
mentioned that between the two young men there had taken place a change
which dated from the day of their arrival at Nikolsköe, and manifested
itself, as regards Bazarov (for whom Anna Sergievna evidently entertained
a liking, though seldom did she agree with his dicta), in the form of an
unwonted captiousness which led him easily to lose his temper, to speak
always with reluctance, to glare about him, and to be as unable to sit still as
though mines had been exploding beneath his seat. As for Arkady (now

come finally to the conclusion that he was in love with Madame Odintsov),
the change manifested itself, rather, in his falling a prey to a melancholy
which in no way prevented him from making friends with Katia, and even
helped him to maintain with her kindly and cordial relations.
"Whereas Madame cares nothing for me," he would reflect, "this good-
hearted creature does not give me the cold shoulder."
And these reflections would cause his heart to taste once more the sensuous
joy of "magnanimity." Dimly Katia herself divined that her society afforded
him a sort of comfort; wherefore she saw no reason to deny either him or
herself the pleasure of this innocent, half-diffident, half-trustful
camaraderie. True, in the presence, and under the keen eye, of the elder
sister (who always caused Katia to retire precipitately into her shell) the
pair never exchanged a single word (indeed, as a man in love, Arkady could
not well have paid attention to any one but the object of his adoration while
in the latter's vicinity); but as soon as he found himself alone with Katia he
began, to a certain degree, really to enjoy himself. That is to say, whereas he
knew himself to be incompetent to interest Madame (seeing that whenever
he found himself alone with her he blushed and lost his head, while she, on
her side, did not know what to say to him, so jejune was his mind as
compared with her own), in Katia's presence he felt perfectly at home, and
could treat her with condescension, and let her expound to him the
impressions which she derived from music and the reading of tales, poems,
and other "trifles." Nor did he notice, nor would he have consented to
recognise had he noticed, the fact that those same "trifles" interested him as
much as they did Katia. At the same time, the latter in no way acted as a
clog upon his melancholy; wherefore, just as Madame was at her ease with
Bazarov, so the young man was at his with Katia, and, after a short period
of joint converse, the two couples would usually diverge. This happened
especially during walks, and the more readily in that, whereas Katia adored
nature, and Arkady too loved it (though he would never have admitted the
fact), to Madame and Bazarov the charms of the natural world represented
more or less a matter of indifference. Hardly need I add that from this
constant separation between Arkady and Bazarov there flowed inevitable
results which brought about in the relations of the pair a gradual change.
That is to say, Bazarov ceased to discourse on Madame Odintsov—he
ceased even to censure her for her "aristocratic manners"; and while, with

regard to Katia, he sang her praises as usual (at the same time advising the
placing of a check upon her sentimental tendencies), he took to uttering
these encomiums only in a half-hearted and a perfunctory way, and, in
general, to lecturing his pupil less than he had formerly done. Rather, he
seemed to avoid him, to feel in some way uncomfortable in his presence.
These things Arkady duly noted, but kept his observations to himself.
The real cause of the innovation was the feeling which Madame Odintsov
inspired in Bazarov's breast, and which he found to be a torture and a
madness to him. Yet, had any one hinted to him, ever so distantly, that what
was taking place in his soul could ever have been possible, he would have
denied it with a contemptuous laugh and a cynical imprecation, seeing that,
though a great devotee of feminine society and feminine beauty, he looked
upon love in the ideal, the "romantic" (to use his own term) aspect as
unpardonable folly, and upon the sentiment of chivalry as a sort of
aberration or malady which moved him frequently to express his
astonishment that Toggenburg and his Minnesingers and troubadours never
ended by being clapped in a madhouse.
"Should a woman please you," he would say, "strive to attain your goal; but
if you cannot attain that goal, waste no further trouble—just turn away. For
the world does not rest upon a single keystone."
In similar fashion Madame Odintsov "pleased" Bazarov: yet, though the
widespread reports in circulation about her might, with the freedom and
independence of her views and the undoubted penchant which she
entertained for himself, have been reckoned to tell in his favour, he soon
discovered that, in her case, the "goal" was not to be attained. Also, he
found to his surprise that he could not "turn away"—rather, that the mere
thought of her made his blood boil. True, that symptom, if it had been the
only one, might have been dealt with; but there became implanted in him
something else—something which he had hitherto refused to admit,
something of which he had hitherto made sport, but something which now
aroused his pride. Therefore, although, when conversing with Anna
Sergievna, he poured added scorn upon everything "romantic," he
recognised, during his hours of solitude, that even in his own personality
there lurked an element of "Romanticism." And at such times there was
nothing for it but to rush out of doors into the woods, and to stride along at

a pace which snapped off chance-met boughs, and found vent in curses at
both them and himself. Or he would seek a hayloft or stable, and,
stubbornly closing his eyes, strive to woo sleep, and almost invariably fail.
Yet, as he sat there, there would come to him delusions that those proud lips
had once responded to his kisses, that those chaste arms had embraced his
neck, that those soulful eyes had gazed tenderly—yes, tenderly—into his:
and at such times his head would whirl, and for a second or two, and until
his discontent returned, he would relapse into a state of trance, and, as
though urged by a demon, think thoughts of unavowable import. Again,
there were times when he would conceive a change similar to his own to
have taken place in her, and the expression of her face already to be
charged with a special significance. Yet, this point reached, he would end
merely by stamping his feet, grinding his teeth, and mentally shaking his
fist at himself.
Once, when walking with her in the garden, he announced to her in curt,
gruff tones that he intended soon to depart for his father's place; whereupon
Anna Sergievna turned pale, as though something had pricked her heart,
and pricked it in such a manner as to surprise even herself, and to leave her
wondering what it could portend. Yet not for the sake of testing her, nor of
seeing what might possibly come of it, had he mentioned his purposed
departure (never at any time did he indulge in "scheming"). Rather, the
reason was that, earlier that morning, he had had an interview with his
father's steward, Timotheitch, a rough, but quick-witted, old fellow who, in
past days, had acted as his nurse, and had now presented himself—with
tousled, flaxen hair, red, weather-beaten face, watery, sunken eyes, short,
stout jacket of grey-blue cloth, leathern girdle, and tarred boots—at
Nikolsköe.
"Good-day to you, ancient!" had been Bazarov's greeting.
"Good-day to you, batiushka!" had responded the old man with a gleeful
smile which had covered his face with wrinkles.
"And how is it that I see you here?" Bazarov had continued. "Is it that they
have sent you to fetch me?"
"By no means, pardon me, batiushka!" Timotheitch had stammered out this
denial for the reason that he had suddenly recollected certain strict
injunctions imposed upon him before starting. "No, it is merely that I am on

my way to the town on affairs connected with the estate, and turned aside a
little to pay my respects to your honour. No, not to disturb you at all—oh
dear no!"
"Do not lie," Bazarov had said. "Is this the way to the town?"
Timotheitch, cringing, had returned no reply.
"And how is my father?" Bazarov had continued.
"Quite well, thank God!"
"And my mother?"
"Your mother is the same, thank God!"
"And they are, I suppose, expecting me?"
The old man had cocked his head with a knowing air.
"Evgenii Vasilitch, why should they not be expecting you? Yes, as God is
my trust, I know that their hearts are simply aching for a sight of you."
"Well, well! Do not make too long a stay of it, but tell them that I will come
presently."
"I will, batiushka."
Yet it had been with a sigh that Timotheitch had replaced his cap on his
head with both hands, left the house, remounted the shabby drozhki which
he had left waiting at the gates, and disappeared at a trot—though not in the
direction of the town.
The same evening saw Madame sitting in her boudoir with Bazarov, and
Arkady pacing the salon, and listening to Katia's music. As for the Princess,
she had gone to bed, for she could not abide the presence of guests—least
of all, of "those upstarts and good-for-nothings" as she termed our friends.
In fact, though she confined herself, in the drawing-room or the dining-
room, to sulking, she resorted, when alone with her maid in the bedroom, to
abuse of Arkady and Bazarov which made her cap and her false front fairly
dance on her head. These things, of course, Madame Odintsov knew.
"Why need you depart?" she said to Bazarov. "Have you forgotten your
promise?"

Bazarov started.
"What promise?" he asked.
"Then you have forgotten it! I mean the promise to give me a few lessons in
chemistry?"
"How can I fulfil it? My father is expecting me at home, and I ought not to
stay a day longer. You had better read through Notions Générales de
Chimie, by Pelouse and Frémy. It is an excellent work, and clearly written
—the very thing you want."
"But you said that no book can adequately replace—I forget the exact
phrase you used, but you know what I mean, do you not?"
"I cannot help myself," he muttered.
"Nevertheless, why go?" She lowered her voice as she spoke. Bazarov
glanced at her as she leant back in her chair and crossed her arms (which
were bare to the elbow), and saw that by the light of the lamp (softened
with a shade of pleated paper) she was looking paler than usual—also that
the outlines of her figure were almost buried in a soft white gown, from
underneath which there peeped forth the tips of her toes, posed crosswise.
"What reason should I have for remaining?" he replied.
She gave her head the faintest toss.
"What reason should you have?" she re-echoed. "Well, are you not happy
here? Do you think that there will be no one to regret your departure?"
"There will be no one. Of that I am certain."
"Then you are wrong," came the reply after a pause. "But I do not believe
you—I have an idea that you are not speaking seriously."
Bazarov said nothing.
"Why do you not answer me?" she persisted.
"What is there to say? In general, to regret people's absence is not worth
while, and, least of all, the absence of people like myself."
"Why, again?"

"Because I am a prosaic and eminently uninteresting individual. Nor do I
know how to talk."
"But you know how to play the esquire?"
"No, not even that. And, as you know, the softer aspect of life, the aspect
which you hold so dear, lies altogether beyond me."
Madame Odintsov nibbled the corner of her handkerchief.
"Think what you like," she said, "but at least I shall find things dull when
you are gone."
"Arkady will remain," he hazarded.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Nevertheless I shall find the time wearisome," she repeated.
"Not for long."
"Why not?"
"Because, as you have very truly said, things never seem dull to you save
when your régime is infringed. In fact, with such faultless regularity have
you ordered your life that there abides in it no room for dullness or
depression or any other burdensome feeling."
"And I too am faultless, I suppose—I have ordered my life too regularly
ever to err?"
"I daresay. Take an example of it. In a few minutes it will be ten o'clock;
when, as I know by experience, you will request me to leave your
presence."
"Oh no, I shall not. You may remain. By the way, please open that window.
The room is simply stifling."
Bazarov rose and unfastened the casement, which swung backwards with a
snap, for the reason that he had not expected it to open so easily, and that
his hands were trembling. Into the aperture glanced the soft, warm night
with its vista of dark vault of heaven, faintly rustling trees, and pure, free,
sweet-scented air.

"Also, please pull down the blind, and then resume your seat. I wish to have
a little further talk with you before you go. Tell me something about
yourself—a person to whom, by the way, you never refer."
"I would rather converse with you on more profitable subjects."
"What modesty! Nevertheless I wish to learn something of you, and of your
family, and of the father for whose sake you are soon going to abandon
me."
"Why the word 'abandon'?" reflected Bazarov. Then he added aloud:
"Things of that kind interest no one—least of all you. I and my people are
obscure folk."
"Whereas I, you imagine, am an aristocrat?"
Bazarov looked up.
"Yes," he replied with emphasis.
She smiled.
"Then I can see that your knowledge of me is small," she remarked. "But of
course—you believe all human beings to be identical, and therefore not
worth the trouble of studying. Some day I will tell you my history. But first
tell me yours."
"You say that my knowledge of you is small?" queried Bazarov. "You may
be right. Possibly every human being is an enigma. Let us take an example
of that. You have withdrawn from society, and find it irksome, and limit
your visitors' list to a couple of students. Yet why, with your intellect and
your beauty, do you live in the country?"
"Why?" came the sharp rejoinder. "But first be so good as to explain what
you mean by my 'beauty.'"
Bazarov frowned.
"That lies beside the point," he muttered. "The point is that I cannot
understand why you settle in a rural spot of this kind."
"You cannot understand it, you cannot explain it?"
"No. There is only one possible explanation: and that is that you remain
here because you are a person of self-indulgence who love comfort and the

amenities of life, and are indifferent to aught else."
Again Madame Odintsov smiled.
"Then you are still determined to believe that I am incapable of being
moved?" she said.
Bazarov glanced at her from under his brows.
"By curiosity, yes," he said. "But by nothing else."
"Indeed? Then I cease to wonder that you and I do not get on together. You
are exactly like myself."
"That you and I do not get on together?" echoed Bazarov vaguely.
"Yes. But I had forgotten—you must be longing to retire?"
Bazarov rose. The lamp was casting a dim light, while into the fragrant,
darkened, isolated room there came wafted at intervals, under the swinging
blind, the sensuous freshness of the night, and the sounds of its mysterious
whisperings. Madame Odintsov did not stir. Over her was stealing the same
strange agitation which had infected Bazarov. Suddenly he realised that he
was alone with a young and beautiful woman.
"Need you go?" she asked slowly.
He made no reply—he merely resumed his seat.
"Then you think me a spoilt, pampered, indolent person?" she continued in
the same slow tone as she fixed her eyes upon the window. "Yet this much I
know about myself: that I am very unhappy."
"Unhappy? For what reason? Because you attach too much importance to
petty slanders?"
She frowned. Somehow she felt vexed that he should have understood her
thus.
"No; things of that kind do not disturb me," she said. "Never should I allow
them to do so—I am too proud. The reason why I am unhappy is that I have
no wish, no enthusiasm, to live. I daresay you will not believe me, and will
think that a mere 'petty aristocrat,' a person who is lapped in lace and seated
in an armchair, is saying all this (and I will not conceal from you that I love
what you call 'the comforts of life'): yet all the while I feel as though I had

no desire to continue my existence. Pray reconcile that contradiction if you
can. But perhaps you consider what I say 'Romanticism'?"
Bazarov shook his head.
"You are yet young," he said. "Also, you are rich and independent. What
more could you have? What more do you desire?"
"What more?" she re-echoed with a sigh. "I do not know. I only know that I
feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.
Yes, I am growing old," she continued as she drew the ends of her mantilla
around her bare shoulders. In doing so, she glanced at Bazarov. Her eyes
met his, and the faintest of blushes stole into her face. "Behind me lie many
memories—memories of my life in St. Petersburg, of a period of wealth
followed by poverty, of my father's death, of my marriage, of my travels
abroad—yes, many such memories there are. Yet none of them are worth
cherishing. And before me lies only a weary road with no goal to it, along
which I have no desire to travel."
"You are disenchanted," said Bazarov.
"No," she replied with a shiver. "Rather, I am dissatisfied. Oh that I could
form a strong attachment of some kind!"
"To fall in love might save you," remarked Bazarov. "But you are incapable
of that. That is where your misfortune lies."
Madame dropped her eyes upon the sleeve of her mantilla.
"I am incapable of falling in love?" she murmured.
"Not altogether. Moreover, I did wrong to call it a misfortune: for the
person most to be pitied is the person who meets with that experience."
"What experience do you mean?"
"The experience of falling in love."
"How come you to know that?"
"By hearsay," he replied irritably, while to himself he added: "You are a
mere coquette whom sheer idleness is leading to weary and madden me."
And his heart swelled within him.
"On the other hand," he went on, "it may be that you are too exacting?"

As he spoke he bent forward and fell to playing with the tassels of his chair.
"Possibly I am," she agreed. "But, you see, I conceive that it ought to be
everything or nothing. 'A life for a life.' 'Take my all, give your all, and put
a truce to regrets and any thought of return.' That is the best rule."
"Indeed?" queried Bazarov. "Well, it is not a bad rule, and I am surprised
that you should have failed to attain your desire."
"Self-surrender, you think, is an easy thing?"
"Not if one considers matters first, and appraises oneself, and sets upon
oneself a definite value. It is only surrender without consideration that is
easy."
"But how could one not value oneself? If one had value, no one would
desire one's surrender."
"That would not be your concern nor mine: some one else's business would
it be to determine our respective values. The one thing that would
immediately concern us would be to know how to surrender."
Madame Odintsov sat up sharply.
"I still believe you to be speaking from experience," she said.
"No; words, idle words—words not meant to be taken personally."
"Then you yourself might be capable of surrendering?"
"I might. But in any case I should not care to boast."
Both remained silent for a moment. From the drawing-room came the notes
of the piano.
"How late Katia is playing!" remarked Anna Sergievna.
Bazarov raised his head.
"Yes, it is late," he said. "Time for you to go to rest."
"Wait a moment, however. Why should you hurry away? I have something
more to say to you."
"What may it be?"

"Wait," she repeated. As she did so, her eyes gazed at him as though
studying his personality. For a few moments he paced the room—then
suddenly approached her, said "Good night," squeezed her hand until she
could have shrieked with the pain, and departed.
Raising her fingers to her lips, she blew after him a kiss. Then, rising with
an abrupt, convulsive movement, she ran towards the door as though to call
him back. But at that moment her maid entered with a decanter on a silver
tray, and Madame halted, bid the maid begone, reseated herself, and sank
into a reverie. Her hair, like a winding black snake, had broken loose from
its fastenings. Dimly illumined by the lamp, she sat motionless, save that at
intervals she chafed her hands, for the night air was beginning to grow
chilly.
Two hours later Bazarov re-entered his bedroom in a state of dishevelment
and despondency, and with his boots soaked with dew. Arkady was seated,
fully dressed, at the writing-table, with a book in his hands.
"So you are not in bed yet?" Bazarov remarked irritably.
Arkady's only reply was to ask the counter-question:
"You have been sitting with Anna Sergievna, have you not?"
"I have," replied Bazarov. "I was sitting there while you and Katia were
playing the piano."
"Oh, I was not playing," retorted Arkady. Then he stopped, for he felt the
tears to be very near his eyes, and had no wish to let them fall in the
presence of his satirical mentor.

XVIII

When Madame Odintsov entered the breakfast-room next morning, Bazarov
had been sitting over his cup for a considerable time. He glanced sharply at
her as she opened the door, and she turned in his direction as inevitably as
though he had signed to her to do so. Somehow her face looked pale, and it
was not long before she returned to her boudoir, whence she issued again

only at luncheon time. Since dawn the weather had been too rainy to admit
of outdoor expeditions, and therefore the party adjourned to the drawing-
room, where Arkady began to read aloud the latest number of some journal,
while the Princess manifested her usual surprise at his conduct (as though it
had been conduct of an indecent nature!), and fixed upon him a gaze which,
though one of lasting malignancy, proved also to be one of which he took
not the slightest notice.
"Pray come to my boudoir, Evgenii Vasilitch," said Anna Sergievna. "I have
something to ask you. I think that last night you mentioned some textbook
or another?"
Rising, she moved towards the door, whilst the Princess stared around the
room as much as to say: "Dear, dear! This does surprise me!" Then she
brought her eyes back to Arkady, who, raising his voice, and bending
towards Katia (by whose side he was sitting), continued his reading as
before.
Meanwhile Madame Odintsov walked hurriedly to her boudoir, and
Bazarov followed with his eyes fixed upon the floor, and his ears open to no
sound but the faint rustling of a silk dress. Arrived at her destination,
Madame seated herself in the chair which she had occupied overnight, and
Bazarov also took a seat where he had sat on the occasion in question.
"What is the title of the book?" she asked after a brief pause.
"Notions Générales, by Pelouse and Frémy. I can also recommend Ganot's
Traité Élémentaire de Physique Expérimentale, which is more detailed in its
plates than the other work, and, in general, is——"
But Madame Odintsov held up her hand.
"Pardon me," she interrupted. "I have not brought you here to discuss
textbooks. I have brought you here to renew our conversation of last night,
at the point where you left the room so abruptly. I hope that I shall not
weary you?"
"I am entirely at your service. What was it we were discussing?"
She glanced at him.
"Happiness, I think," she said. "In fact, I was speaking to you of myself.
The reason why I mention happiness is the following. Why is it that when

one is enjoying, say, a piece of music, or a beautiful summer evening, or a
conversation with a sympathetic companion, the occasion seems rather a
hint at an infinite felicity existent elsewhere than a real felicity actually
being experienced? Perhaps, however, you have never encountered such a
phenomenon?"
"'Where we are not, there do we wish to be,'—you know the proverb. Last
night you said that you are dissatisfied. Such a thought never enters into my
head."
"Is it that such thoughts seem to you ridiculous?"
"No—rather, that they never occur to me."
"Indeed? Well, to know what your thoughts are is a thing which I greatly
wish to attain."
"I do not understand you."
"Then listen. For a long time past I have been wishing to have this out with
you. Do not tell me—you yourself know that it is useless to do so—that you
are a man apart. As a matter of fact, you are a man still young, with all your
life before you. I wish to know for what you are preparing, and what future
awaits you, and what is the goal which you are seeking to reach, and
whither you are travelling, and what you have in your mind—in short, who
and what you are."
"I am surprised! Already you know that I dabble in natural science; while,
as regards my future——"
"Yes? As regards your future?"
"I have told you that I purpose to become a district physician."
Anna Sergievna waved her hand impatiently.
"Why tell me that, when you yourself do not believe it? It is for Arkady to
return me such answers, not you."
"And is Arkady in any way——?"
"Wait. Do you mean to tell me that such a modest rôle will really satisfy
you, when you yourself have asserted that the science of medicine does not
exist? No, no! You have given me that answer for the reason that you desire

to keep me at arm's length, that you have no faith in me. Then let me tell
you that I am capable of understanding you, that I too have known poverty
and ambition, that I too have had my experiences."
"I daresay: yet pardon me when I intimate that I am not accustomed to bare
my soul. Moreover, there is fixed between you and me such a gulf that
——"
"A gulf? Do you again say that I am an aristocrat? Come, come, Evgenii
Vasilitch! Have I not already told you that I——?"
"Can it avail anything to discuss the future when, for the most part, our
futures are wholly independent of ourselves? Should the occasion arise to
be up and doing, well and good: but, should the occasion not arise, at least
let us leave ourselves room for thankfulness that we did not waste time in
useless chatter."
"What? You call a friendly talk 'useless chatter'? Then do you deem me, as a
woman, unworthy of your confidence, or do you despise all women?"
"You I do not despise: and that you know full well."
"I know nothing of the kind. Of course I can understand your reluctance to
speak of your future career; but as to what is taking place within you at the
present moment——"
"'Taking place within me at the present moment'?" Bazarov exclaimed.
"One would think I was a state or a community! Nor is it a process which
interests me; while, in addition, a man cannot always put into words 'what
is taking place within him.'"
"I do not see it. Why should you hesitate to express what may be in your
soul?"
"Could you do as much?" asked Bazarov.
"I could," came the reply after a brief hesitation.
Bazarov bowed in an ironical manner.
"Then you have the advantage of me," he said.
Her glance quickened into a note of interrogation.

"Very well," she said. "Yet I will venture to say that you and I have not met
in vain, and that we shall always remain good friends. Moreover, I feel
certain that in time your secretiveness and reserve will disappear."
"Then have you noticed in me much such 'secretiveness and reserve'?"
"I have."
Bazarov rose, and moved towards the window.
"Do you really want to know the cause of that 'secretiveness, and reserve'?"
he asked. "Do you really want to know 'what is taking place within' me?"
"I do," she replied. Yet even as she spoke she felt run through her a tinge of
apprehension for which she could not account.
"And you will not be angry with me if I tell you?"
"No."
"No?"
He approached her and halted behind her.
"Learn, then," he said, "that I love you with a blind, insensate passion. You
have forced it from me at last!"
She stretched out her arms before her, while Bazarov, turning, pressed his
forehead against the window-pane. His breath caught in his throat, and his
whole body was quivering. Yet this was not the agitation born of the
diffidence of youth, nor was it the awe inspired by a first confession of love.
Rather, it was the beating of a strong and terrible emotion which resembled
madness and was, perhaps, akin to it. As for Madame Odintsov, a great
horror had come over her—also a great feeling of compassion for him.
"Evgenii Vasilitch!" she cried. In the words there rang an involuntary note
of tenderness.
Wheeling about, he devoured her with his glance. Then he seized her hands
in his, and pressed her to his bosom.
She did not free herself at once. Only after a moment did she withdraw to a
corner, and stand looking at him. He rushed towards her again, but she
whispered in hurried alarm:

"You have mistaken me!"
Had he taken another step, she would have screamed.
Biting his lips, he left the room.
Half an hour later her maid brought her a note. It consisted of a single line
only, and said: "Must I depart to-day, or may I remain until to-morrow?"
To it Anna Sergievna replied: "Why depart? I have failed to understand you,
and you have failed to understand me—that is all."
But mentally she added: "Rather, I have failed to understand myself."
Until dinner time she remained secluded, and spent the hours in pacing her
room with her hands clasped behind her. Occasionally she would halt
before the window-panes or a mirror, to draw a handkerchief across a spot
on her neck which seemed to be burning like fire. And every time that she
did so she asked herself what had led her to force Bazarov's confidence;
also, whether or not she had had any suspicion that such a thing might
result.
"Yes, I am to blame," she finally decided. "Yet I could not have foreseen the
whole dénouement."
Then she recalled Bazarov's almost animal face as he rushed to seize her in
his arms. And at the thought she blushed.
"Or is it that——?" Here she stopped, and shook back her curls. The reason
was that she had seen herself in a mirror, and, as in a flash, had learnt from
that image of a head thrown back, with a mysterious smile lurking between
a pair of half-parted lips and in a pair of half-closed eyes, something which
confounded her.
"No, no! Again no!" she cried. "Only God knows what might come of it.
Such things are not to be played with. Freedom from worry is the chief
thing in the world."
Nor had her sangfroid really been shattered. Rather, she was a little agitated
—so little that, when, for some unknown reason, she shed a tear or two,
those tears owed their origin not to any deep emotion, to the fact that she
was wounded, but to a sense of having involuntarily been at fault in
permitting certain vague yearnings—a certain consciousness of the

transience of life, a certain desire for novelty—to urge her towards the
boundary line. And over that boundary line she had peeped. And in front of
her she had beheld, not an abyss, but a waste, a sheer ugliness.

XIX

In spite of her self-command, in spite of her superiority to convention,
Madame Odintsov could not but feel a little uncomfortable when she
entered the dining-room for the evening meal. Nevertheless the meal passed
off without incident, and after it Porphyri Platonitch came in, and related
various anecdotes on the strength of a recent visit to the neighbouring town
—among other things, a story to the effect that Governor "Bardeloue" had
commanded his whole staff of officials to wear spurs, in order that, if need
be, he could dispatch them on their errands on horseback! Meanwhile,
Arkady talked in an undertone to Katia, and also paid diplomatic attention
to the Princess; while Bazarov maintained such an obstinate, gloomy
silence that Madame, glancing at him (as she did twice, and openly, not
covertly), thought to herself, as she scanned his stern, forbidding face,
downcast eyes, and all-pervading expression of rigid contempt: "No, no!
Again, no!"
Dinner over, she conducted her guests into the garden, and, perceiving that
Bazarov desired a word with her, walked aside a little, halted, and waited
for him. Approaching with his eyes on the ground, he said in a dull way:
"I must beg your pardon, Anna Sergievna. Surely you must be feeling
extremely angry with me?"
"No, not angry so much as grieved," she replied.
"So much the worse! But I have received sufficient punishment, have I not?
My position now (I am sure that you will agree with me) is a very awkward
one. True, you wrote in your message: 'Why need you depart?' but I cannot
and will not remain. By to-morrow, therefore, I shall have departed."
"But why need you, need you——?"
"Why need I depart?"

"No, I was going to have said something quite different."
"We cannot recover the past," he continued, "and it was only a question of
time before this should happen. I know only of one condition under which I
could remain. And that condition is never likely to arise. For (pardon my
presumption) I suppose you neither love me now nor could ever do so?"
With the words there came a flash from under his dark brows.
She did not reply. Through her brain there flitted only the one thought: "I
am afraid of this man!"
"Farewell," he continued, as though he had divined that thought. Then he
moved away towards the house.
Entering the house a little later, Anna Sergievna called to Katia, and took
the girl by the arm: nor throughout the rest of the evening did she once part
from her. Also, instead of joining in a game of cards, she sat uttering laugh
after laugh of a nature which ill consorted with her blanched and careworn
face. Gazing at her perplexedly, as a young man will do, Arkady kept
asking himself the question: "What can this mean?" As for Bazarov, he
locked himself in his room, and only appeared to join the rest at tea. When
he did so, Anna Sergievna yearned to say something kind to him, but could
think of no words for the purpose. To her dilemma, however, an unexpected
incident put an end. This was the entry of the butler to announce Sitnikov!
To describe the craven fashion in which the young Progressive entered the
room would be impossible. Although, with characteristic importunity, he
had decided to repair to the residence of a lady with whom he was barely
acquainted, and who had not accorded him an invitation (his pretext for
such presumption being that, according to information received, she
happened to be entertaining guests who were both intellectual and "very
intimate" with himself), he had since felt his courage ebb to the marrow of
his bones, and now, instead of proffering all the excuses and compliments
which he had prepared in advance, blurted out some ridiculous story to the
effect that Evdoksia Kukshin had sent him to inquire after the health of
Anna Sergievna, and that Arkady Nikolaievitch had always spoken of him
in terms of the highest respect. But at this point he began to stammer, and
so lost his head as to sit down upon his own hat! No one bade him depart,
however, and Anna Sergievna even went so far as to present him to her aunt

and sister. Accordingly it was not long before he recovered his equanimity,
and shone forth with his accustomed brilliancy. Often the appearance of the
paltry represents a convenient phenomenon in life, since it relaxes over-taut
strings, and sobers natures prone to conceit and self-assurance by reminding
them of their kinship with the newcomer. Thus Sitnikov's arrival caused
everything to become duller and a trifle more futile, but also rendered
things simpler, and enabled the company to partake of supper with a better
appetite, and to part for the night half an hour earlier than usual.
"Let me recall to you some words of your own," said Arkady when he had
got into bed, and Bazarov was still undressing. "I refer to the words: 'Why
are you down-hearted? Have you just fulfilled a sacred duty?'"
Between the two there had become established those half-quizzical relations
which are always a sign of tacit distrust and a smouldering grudge.
"To-morrow I intend to set out for my father's place," remarked Bazarov, in
disregard of what Arkady had said.
The latter raised himself on his elbow. Though surprised, he also, for some
reason, felt glad.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Then that is why you are down-hearted?"
Bazarov yawned.
"When you are come to be a little older," he replied, "you will know more."
"And what of Anna Sergievna?" continued Arkady.
"Well? What of her?"
"Is it likely that she will let you go?"
"I am not her hireling."
Arkady relapsed into thought, and Bazarov sought his bed, and turned his
face to the wall.
For a few moments silence reigned.
"Evgenii," said Arkady suddenly.
"Yes?"
"I too intend to leave to-morrow."

Bazarov made no reply.
"True, I shall be returning to Marino," continued Arkady, "but we might
bear one another company as far as Khokhlovskïe Viselki, and there you
could hire horses of Thedot. Of course, I should have been delighted to
make your family's acquaintance, but, were I to accompany you, I might act
as a source of constraint upon them and yourself alike. You must pay us
another visit at Marino later."
"I will. As a matter of fact, I have left some of my things there." Bazarov
still had his face turned to the wall.
"Why does he not ask me the reason of my departure—a departure as
sudden as his?" reflected Arkady. "Why is either of us departing, for that
matter?"
As he continued to reflect he realised that, while unable to return a
satisfactory answer to the question propounded, he seemed to have got a
heartache somehow, to be feeling that he would find it hard to part with the
life at Nikolsköe to which he was grown so accustomed. Yet he could not
remain there alone. That would be worse still.
"Between him and her there is something in the wind," he reflected. "That
being so, what would my sticking here avail after he had gone? I should
weary Anna Sergievna, and lose my last chance of pleasing her."
Then he began to draw a mental picture of the lady whom he had just
named: until there cut across the fair presentment of the young widow
another set of features.
"Katia too I shall miss," he whispered to his pillow (which had already
received one of his tears). At length, raising his curly poll, he exclaimed:
"What, in the devil's name, brought that idiot Sitnikov here?"
He heard Bazarov stir under the bedclothes, then remark:
"You yourself are an idiot. We need the Sitnikovs of this world. Such
donkeys are absolutely necessary to us, to me. The gods ought not to have
to bake pots."
"Ah!" reflected Arkady. For, as in a flash, there had become revealed to him
the bottomless profundity of Bazarov's conceit.

"Then you and I are the gods?" he said aloud. "Or are you a god, and I a
donkey?"
"You are," came the gruff reply. "As yet, at all events, you are."
No particular astonishment was evinced by Madame Odintsov when, on the
following day, Arkady informed her that it was his intention to accompany
Bazarov. Rather, she looked distraught and weary. Katia glanced at him
gravely and in silence, and the Princess went so far as to cross herself under
her shawl—a precaution against the young men observing the gesture.
Sitnikov too was dumbfounded at having just entered the breakfast-room in
a new and most elegant suit (this time not of "Slavophil" cut, not to mention
the fact that he had also had the pleasure of amazing his temporary valet
with the multitude of his shirts), only to find himself confronted with the
prospect of being deserted by his comrades! He shuffled and wriggled like a
hare driven to the edge of a covert, and blurted out, almost in panic-stricken
fashion, that he too had a great mind to depart. Nor did Madame Odintsov
make any great effort to dissuade him.
"I have an exceedingly comfortable koliaska," the unfortunate young man
said to Arkady, "and I could give you a lift in it, and leave Evgenii Vasilitch
to use your tarantass, which would suit him better than the koliaska."
"But I should not like to take you so far out of your way, for the distance to
my home is considerable."
"That would not matter, that would not matter. I have plenty of time to
spare, and also some business to do in that direction."
"What? Leasehold business again?" inquired Arkady disparagingly. But
Sitnikov was so distraught that he forbore to giggle in his usual fashion.
"I can guarantee that the koliaska is comfortable," he repeated. "Indeed, it
could hold all three of us."
"Do not vex Monsieur Sitnikov by refusing," put in Madame Odintsov.
So, with a meaning glance at her, Arkady nodded assent to Sitnikov.
Breakfast over, the guests departed. Anna Sergievna offered Bazarov her
hand.
"I hope we shall meet again?" she said.

"Only if you wish it," he replied.
"Then we shall meet again."
The first to issue upon the verandah and enter Sitnikov's koliaska was
Arkady. The butler assisted him obsequiously, although Arkady could with
equal readiness have struck the man or burst into tears. As for Bazarov, he
took possession of the tarantass.
Khokhlovskïe Viselki reached, Arkady waited until Thedot, the local
posting-master, had harnessed fresh horses, and then, approaching the
tarantass, said to Bazarov with his old smile:
"Evgenii, take me with you. I should like to come to your place, after all."
"Get in, then," muttered Bazarov.
This made Sitnikov, who had been walking up and down beside his
conveyance, and whistling, fairly gasp. Nevertheless the heartless Arkady
removed his luggage from the koliaska, seated himself beside Bazarov, and,
according his late fellow-traveller a courteous bow, shouted: "Right away!"
The tarantass started, and soon was lost to view. Much taken aback,
Sitnikov gazed at his coachman. But the latter was flicking the flanks of the
trace horse with his whip, and therefore Sitnikov had no choice but to leap
into the vehicle, to shout to a couple of peasants: "Off with your caps, you
rascals!" and be driven to the town, whither he arrived at a late hour, and
where, on the following day, he declared to Madame Kukshin that he had
had enough of "those odious churls and upstarts."
On Arkady seating himself beside Bazarov in the tarantass, he pressed his
hand, and Bazarov seemed to divine the meaning of the silent hand-clasp,
and to appreciate it. During the previous night the elder man had never once
closed his eyes. Also, for several days past he had neither smoked a cigar
nor eaten more than the merest scrap of food. Indeed, as he sat in the
tarantass, his fine-drawn profile, under the overshadowing cap, looked
sharper and grimmer than ever.
"Give me a cigar, will you?" he said. "Also, pray look at my tongue, and tell
me if it has a bilious appearance."
"Yes, it has," replied Arkady.

"I thought so, for this cigar seems tasteless. Moreover, the infernal thing has
come unrolled."
"You have changed a good deal of late?" hazarded Arkady.
"I daresay. But I shall be myself again, soon. The only thing now troubling
me is the fact that my mother is so good-naturedly fussy. Should one's
paunch not be projecting, or should one not eat at least ten meals a day, she
relapses into despair. My father, of course, is different, for he has been all
over the world, and knows what is what. This cigar is simply unsmokable."
And Bazarov consigned it to the dust of the roadway.
"The distance to your place is twenty-five versts, I suppose?" queried
Arkady.
"It is so. But inquire of that sage there." And Bazarov pointed to the peasant
(an employé of Thedot's) who was seated on the box.
The "sage" in question replied that he "could not say exactly," since the
verst-posts in those parts had not been measured out; after which he went
on to swear at the shaft horse for "kicking" its "jowl about"—that is to say,
jerking its head up and down.
"Aye, aye," commented Bazarov. "Take warning from me, my young friend.
An instructive example sits before you—an example of the vanity of this
world. By a single thread does the destiny of every man hang, and at any
moment there may open before him an abyss into which he and his may
plunge. For always he is laying up for himself misfortune."
"At what are you hinting?" asked Arkady.
"At nothing. I am merely saying outright that you and I have behaved very
foolishly. However, why talk of it? I have noticed that in surgical operations
it is the patient who fights against his hurt who soonest gets well."
"I do not understand you," Arkady said. "So far as I can see, you have
nothing whatsoever to complain of."
"You cannot understand me? Well, mark this: that you had far better go and
break stones by the roadside than allow a woman to obtain even the least
hold over you. Such a thing is sheer" (he nearly said "Romanticism," but
changed his mind) "rubbish."

"Perhaps you do not believe me?" he went on. "Nevertheless, I tell you that,
though you and I have been cultivating feminine society, and enjoying it,
the sense of relief when such society is abandoned is like taking a cold bath
on a summer's day. Never ought a man to touch such follies. Always he
ought, as the excellent Spanish saying has it, 'to remain as the beasts of the
field.' Look here," he added to the peasant on the box. "Do you, my man of
wisdom, possess a wife?"
The peasant turned a portion of a flat, near-sighted visage in the friends'
direction.
"A wife?" he repeated. "Yes, I do. Why shouldn't I?"
"Never mind that. Do you ever beat her?"
"My wife? Sometimes. But never without good cause."
"Excellent! And does she ever beat you?"
The peasant gave his reins a jerk.
"What a thing, barin!" he exclaimed. "Surely you must be joking?"
Evidently the question had offended him.
"You hear that, Arkady Nikolaievitch?" said Bazarov. "You and I have been
similarly beaten. That is what comes of being gentry."
Arkady laughed in spite of himself, but Bazarov turned away, and did not
speak again until the end of the journey.
To Arkady the twenty-five versts seemed like fifty; but at length there came
into view, on the slope of a low hill, the homestead of the manor where
Bazarov's parents resided. On one side of it, amid a clump of young birch
trees, there could be seen the servants' quarters under their thatched roofs;
while at the door of the nearest hut a couple of fur-capped peasants were
engaged in a contest of mutual abuse.
"You are an old pig!" one of them said to the other. "And that is worse than
being a young one."
"Your wife is a witch," retorted the other.
"From the lack of restraint in their bearing," commented Bazarov, "as well
as from the playfulness of their terms of speech, you will gather that my

father's peasantry are not downtrodden. But here is my father himself. I can
see him stepping out on to the verandah. He will have heard the sound of
our collar-bells. Yes, it is he! I recognise his figure. But how grey he looks,
poor old fellow!"

XX

Bazarov leant forward from the tarantass, and Arkady, peering over his
friend's shoulder, beheld, on the entrance steps of the manor-house, a tall,
thin man with dishevelled hair and a narrow, aquiline nose. Clad in an old
military tunic of which the front was flying open, he was standing with legs
apart, a long pipe in his mouth, and eyes blinking in the glare of the
sunlight.
The horses pulled up.
"So you have come at last!" exclaimed Bazarov's father, still continuing to
smoke (though, as he did so, the stem of the pipe was rattling and shaking
between his fingers). "Now, jump out, jump out!"
Again and again he embraced his son.
"Eniusha, Eniusha!"[1] the tremulous voice of an old woman also cried as
the door of the house opened and there appeared on the threshold a short,
rotund old dame in a white cap and a short striped blouse. Gasping and
staggering, she would have fallen had not Bazarov hastened to support her.
As he did so her fat old arms clasped him around the neck, and her head
sank upon his bosom. All then was still for a moment. Only her convulsive
sobs broke the silence. Meanwhile Bazarov Senior breathed hard, and
blinked more vigorously than ever.
"Enough, enough, Arisha!" he said at length with a glance at Arkady, who
had remained standing beside the tarantass (and even the peasant on the
box-seat had turned away his head). "Pray cease, I tell you. This is not
necessary. I beg of you to cease."

"Ah, Vasili Ivanitch!" whimpered the poor old woman. "To think of the long
while since last I saw my Eniusha, my own, my darling boy!" Still keeping
her arms clasped around Bazarov, she withdrew her ruffled, convulsed, tear-
stained face from his breast, looked at him for a moment with blissful, yet
comical, eyes, and glued herself again to his bosom.
"Yes, yes," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Such is in the nature of things. But had we
not better go indoors? See! Evgenii has brought a guest!"
With a slight scrape and a bow, he added to Arkady:
"Pray pardon us, sir, but you will understand the situation. A woman's
weakness—ahem!—and a mother's heart."
His lips, chin, and eyebrows too were working. Evidently he was striving to
master himself, and to appear totally indifferent. Arkady responded to his
bow with a like salutation.
"Yes, yes, dear mother; let us go indoors," said Bazarov. Leading the
shaking old lady into the house, he seated her in a cosy chair, bestowed
upon his father another hurried embrace, and then presented Arkady.
"I am glad indeed to make your acquaintance!" said Vasili Ivanitch. "I am
glad indeed! But do not expect too much of us, my dear sir. My
establishment is organised on simple lines; it is placed on what I might call
'a war footing.' Come, come, Arina! Pray calm yourself, and attend to your
duties as a hostess. Oh, fie, to give way in such a manner! What will our
guest think of you?"
"My dear, I do not know the gentleman's name," the old lady sobbed
through her tears.
"Arkady Nikolaievitch," prompted Vasili Ivanitch in an undertone, but with
great ceremony.
"Then pray pardon a foolish old woman, sir." Arina Vlasievna blew her
nose, inclined her head to right and left, and wiped each eye in turn as she
did so. "Yes, pray pardon me, but I had thought never again to see my
darling boy before I died."
"But, you see, we have seen him again," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Here,
Taniushka!"—this to a barefooted serf girl of thirteen who, clad in a bright
red cotton frock, had been an interested, but timid, observer in the doorway.

"Bring your mistress a glass of water on a salver. Do you hear? And you,
gentlemen," he continued with old-fashioned sprightliness, "will you be so
good as to step into the study of a retired veteran?"
"First another kiss, Eniusha," gasped Arina Vlasievna. Then, as Bazarov
bent over her form, she added: "How handsome you have grown!"
"Handsome or not, he is human," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Wherefore, now that
you have satisfied your mother's heart, I look to you to see also to the
satisfaction of our honoured guests. For than yourself no one knows better
that nightingales cannot be fed on air."
This caused the old lady to rise from her chair, and to exclaim:
"Yes, yes: in one moment, Vasili Ivanitch. The table shall be laid, and I
myself will hurry to the kitchen, and see that the samovar be got ready.
Everything shall be done. Why, it must be three years since last I gave
Eniusha a meal."
"Yes, three years, dear wife. But now bustle about, and do not let yourself
get flurried. Gentlemen, accompany me, I beg of you. But here is
Timotheitch coming to pay you his respects. How delighted he looks, the
old rascal! Now, pray favour me with your company."
And he strode fussily ahead with much shuffling and creaking of flat-soled
slippers.
The Bazarovian establishment consisted of six small rooms, of which one—
the room to which Vasili Ivanitch was now conducting our friends—was
looked upon as the study. Between its two windows there stood a fat-legged
table, strewn with dusty, fusty papers; on the walls hung a number of
Turkish weapons, nagaiki,[2] and swords, a couple of landscapes, a few
anatomical plates, a portrait of Hufeland,[3] a black-framed monogram done
in hair, and a diploma protected with a glass front; between two large
birchwood cupboards stood a ragged, battered leathern sofa; on shelves lay
huddled a miscellany of books, boxes, stuffed birds, jars, and bladders; and,
lastly, in a corner reposed a broken electric battery.
"Already I have warned you," said Vasili Ivanitch to Arkady, "that we live
here, so to speak, en bivouac."

"Make no excuses," put in Bazarov. "Kirsanov knows that you and I are not
Croesuses, and that no butler is kept. But where can we find Arkady a bed?
That is the question."
"We have an excellent room in the wing, where he would be most
comfortable."
"You have added a wing, then?"
"Yes, Evgenii Vasilitch," Timotheitch interposed. "At least, a bathroom."
"But it is to a room next the bathroom that I am referring," Vasili Ivanitch
hastened to explain. "However, that will not matter, since it is now summer
time. I will run up there at once, and see that it is put in order. Meanwhile,
Timotheitch, fetch in the luggage. To you, Evgenii, I will allot the study.
Cuique suum."[4]
"There!" said Bazarov to Arkady as soon as his father had left the room. "Is
he not just such a jolly, good-hearted, queer old fellow as your own father,
though in a different way? He chatters just as he always used to do."
"Yes; and your mother seems an excellent woman."
"She is. Moreover, you can see that she does not attempt to hide her
feelings. Only wait and see what a dinner she will give us!"
"But as you were not expected to-day," put in Timotheitch, who had just re-
entered with Bazarov's portmanteau, "no beef has been got into the house."
"Never mind. Let us dine without beef—or, for that matter, without
anything at all. 'Poverty is no crime.'"
"How many souls[5] are there on your father's property?" asked Arkady.
"It is not his property; it is my mother's. The number of souls on it is, I
think, fifteen."
"No, twenty-two," corrected Timotheitch with an air of pride. The next
moment the sound of shuffling slippers was heard once more, and Vasili
Ivanitch re-entered.
"Your room will be ready for you in a few minutes," he announced
grandiloquently to Arkady. "Meanwhile, here is your servant." He pointed
to a close-cropped urchin who, clad in an out-at-elbows blue kaftan and an

odd pair of shoes, had also made his appearance. "His name is Thedika,
and, for all my son's injunction, I had better repeat to you not to expect too
much of him—though certainly he will be able to fill your pipe for you. I
presume that you smoke?"
"I do, but only cigars."
"A commendable rule! I too prefer cigars, but find them extremely difficult
to procure in this isolated part of the country."
"Have done with bewailing your poverty," Bazarov good-naturedly
interrupted. "Rather, seat yourself on this sofa, and take a rest."
Vasili Ivanitch smilingly did as he was bidden. Extremely like his son in
features (save that his forehead was lower and narrower, and his mouth a
trifle wider), he was for ever on the move—now shrugging his shoulders as
though his coat cut him under the armpits, now blinking, now coughing,
now twitching his fingers. In this he was sharply differentiated from his son,
whose most distinguishing characteristic was his absolute immobility.
"Have done with bewailing my poverty?" repeated the old man. "Why, you
cannot surely think that I would weary our guest with complaints
concerning our isolation? As a matter of fact, a man of brains need never be
isolated, and I myself do everything in my power to avoid becoming moss-
grown, and falling behind the times."
Extracting from his pocket a new yellow handkerchief which he had
contrived to lay hands upon while proceeding to Arkady's room, he
continued, as he flourished the handkerchief in the air:
"Of the fact that, at some cost to myself, I have organised my peasantry on
the obrok system, and apportioned them one-half, even more, of my land, I
will not speak, since I conceive that to have been my duty, as well as a
measure dictated by prudence (though no other landowner in the
neighbourhood would have done as much). Rather, I am referring to
scholarships and to science."
"I see that you have here The Friend of Health for 1855," remarked
Bazarov.
"Yes, a friend sent it me," Vasili Ivanitch hastened to explain. "Phrenology
too we take into account" (he addressed this last to Arkady rather than to

Bazarov, while accompanying it with a nod towards a small plaster bust of
which the cranial surface was divided into a series of numbered squares).
"Yes indeed! Nor are we ignorant of Schönlein[6] and Rademacher."
"In the province of —— you still believe in Rademacher?" queried
Bazarov.
Vasili Ivanitch laughed.
"In the province of —— we still believe in ——? Ah, gentlemen! Hardly
could you expect us to move as fast as you do. You find us in a state of
transition. In my day, the humoralist Hoffmann and the vitalist Braun had
already come to be looked upon with ridicule (and their fulminations
undoubtedly seem absurd); but now you have replaced Rademacher with a
new authority, and are making obeisance to that authority exactly as though
in twenty years' time he too will not have fallen into contempt."
"Let me tell you, for your comforting," said Bazarov, "that we ridicule all
medicine, and render obeisance to no one."
"What? Do you not wish to become a doctor?"
"Yes; but the one thing does not preclude the other."
Vasili Ivanitch raked out his pipe until only a glowing morsel of ash
remained.
"Perhaps so, perhaps so," he said. "That point I will not dispute. For who
am I that I should dispute such things—I who am a mere retired army
doctor, et voilà tout—an army doctor who has taken to agriculture?"
With that he turned to Arkady.
"Do you know, I served under your grandfather," he said. "He was then in
command of a brigade. Many and many a review have I seen. And the
society in which I mixed, the men whom I had as comrades! Yes, this
humble individual has felt the pulses of Prince Vitzentschein and
Zhukovsky, and also known all the leaders of the Southern Army of '14."
He pursed his lips impressively. "At the same time, of course, my
department was a separate one from theirs. It was the department of the
lancet, you understand. Your grandfather stood high in the esteem of every
one, and was a true soldier."

"We will agree that he was a decent old curmudgeon," drawled Bazarov.
"To think of speaking so, Evgenii!" exclaimed the old man. "General
Kirsanov was not one of those who——"
"Never mind him. As we were driving hither I greatly admired your birch
plantation. It is doing splendidly."
Vasili Ivanitch's face brightened instantly.
"Yes, and see what a garden I have made!" he exclaimed. "Every tree in it
has been planted with my own hands—orchard trees, and bush fruit trees,
and every sort of medicinal herb. Ah, young sirs, though you may be wise
in your generation, many a truth did old Paracelsus[7] discover in herbis et
verbis et lapidibus. For myself, I have now retired from practice; yet twice a
week am I given a chance to refurbish my ancient store of knowledge, since
folk come to me for advice, and I cannot well turn them away. In particular
do the poor seek my help, since there is no other doctor hereabouts. Yet
stay! A certain retired major dabbles in the art. Once I asked him whether he
had ever studied medicine, and he replied that he had not, that all that he did
he did 'out of philanthropy'! 'Out of philanthropy'! Ha, ha, ha! What think
you of that, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Fill me a pipe, Thedika," said Bazarov curtly.
"And there was another doctor who came to visit a patient in this
neighbourhood," continued Vasili Ivanitch in a tone of mock despair. "But
by the time he arrived the patient had already joined his forefathers, and the
servant of the house would not admit the doctor, saying that the latter's
services were no longer required. This the doctor had scarcely expected,
and he was rather taken aback. 'Did the barin gasp before he died?' he
inquired. 'He did, sir,' was the reply. 'Very much?' 'Yes, very much.' 'Good!
—And the doctor returned home. Ha, ha, ha!"
Yet no one laughed except the old man himself. True, Arkady contrived to
summon up a smile, but Bazarov only stretched himself and yawned. The
conversation lasted about an hour, and then Arkady managed to get away to
his room, which he found to consist of the vestibule to the bathroom, but at
the same time to be clean and inviting. Soon afterwards Taniushka arrived
to announce dinner.

The meal, though hastily prepared, was excellent, and even sumptuous.
Only the wine proved to be rather of the "gooseberry" order—the dark-
coloured sherry procured by Timotheitch from a certain wine merchant in
the town smacking in equal parts of resin and of honey. Also, in addition,
the flies made themselves a nuisance, owing to the fact that the page boy
whose duty it was to keep them at bay with a green whisk had, for the
nonce, been banished, lest he should excite too much comment on the part
of the up-to-date visitors. Lastly, Arina Vlasievna had robed herself in gala
attire—that is to say, in a high-peaked cap with yellow ribands and a blue,
embroidered shawl. She burst into renewed weeping on beholding her
beloved Eniusha, but, this time, gave her husband no occasion to chide her,
so speedily did her own fear of staining her shawl cause her to wipe away
the tears. None but the two young men ate anything, for the host and
hostess had long ago dined; while as waiters there officiated Thedika (much
burdened with the novelty of wearing shoes) and a woman of a masculine
type of face, and with a hump on her back, who was also accustomed to
execute the functions of housekeeper, keeper of the poultry, and sempstress.
During the meal Vasili Ivanitch paced to and fro, and discussed, in cheerful,
and even rapturous, terms, the grave fears which Napoleon's[8] policy and
the intricacy of the Italian question inspired in his breast. Arina Vlasievna,
for her part, quite disregarded Arkady, and offered him not a single dish,
but, seated with her hand supporting her face (to which a pair of puffy,
cherry-coloured lips and a few moles communicated a kindly expression),
kept her eyes fixed upon her son, while her breath came in a succession of
pants. Her great desire was to ask her son how long he was going to stay,
but she dared not do so for fear he should reply: "Only for two days," or
something of the kind—which was a prospect of a nature to make her heart
die within her. On the roast being served, Vasili Ivanitch disappeared, and
returned, the next moment, with an uncorked bottle of champagne.
"See here," he exclaimed. "Rustic though we may be, we still keep
something to make merry with on state occasions."
That said, he filled three tumblers and a wine-glass, proposed a health to
"our inestimable guests," heel-tapped his glass in the military fashion, and
forced his wife to drain hers to the dregs. Presently the pastry course
supervened; during which, though Arkady could not bear anything sweet,
he deemed it his duty to partake of no less than four out of the many

confections which had been prepared for his benefit. And this obligation he
felt to be the more binding in that Bazarov bluntly declined all, and lit a
cigar. Lastly there appeared tea, cream, biscuits, and butter; after which
Vasili Ivanitch conducted the party into the garden, in order that the guests
might admire the beauty of the evening. As he passed a certain bench he
whispered in Arkady's ear:
"This is where I love to sit and meditate as I watch the sun sinking. It is just
the spot for a hermit like myself. And, further on, I have planted a few of
Horace's favourite trees."
"What trees?" asked Bazarov, who had partially overheard.
"Acacia trees."
The other yawned, and, on observing this, Vasili Ivanitch hastened to say:
"I expect that you travellers would like now to seek the arms of Morpheus?"
"We should," Bazarov assented. "Yes, that is a true saying."
Upon which the son said "Good night" to his mother, and kissed her on the
forehead, while she bestowed upon him a threefold embrace and (covertly)
a blessing; while Vasili Ivanitch conducted Arkady to his room, and wished
him "such God-given rest as I myself used to enjoy during the happier years
of my life."
And certainly Arkady slept splendidly in the mint-scented annexe to the
bathroom, where the only sound to be heard was that of a cricket chirping
lustily against a rival from behind the stove.
Meanwhile, on leaving Arkady, Vasili Ivanitch repaired to the study, where,
squatting at the foot of the sofa, he was about to enter into a discursive
conversation with his son when the latter dismissed him, on the plea that he
desired, rather, to go to sleep. Yet never once did Bazarov close his eyes
that night, but lay staring into the darkness, since his memories of
childhood had less power to move him than had the remembrance of the
bitter experience through which he had recently passed.
For her part, Arina Vlasievna said her prayers with an overflowing heart,
and then indulged in a long talk with Anfisushka; who, planted like a block
before her mistress, with her solitary eye fixed upon the latter,
communicated in a mysterious whisper her opinions and prognostications

on the subject of Evgenii Vasilitch. Finally Arina Vlasievna's pleasurable
emotion, coupled with the wine and the tobacco smoke, so caused the old
lady's head to start whirling that, when her husband came to bed, he found
himself obliged to moderate her exuberance with a gesture.
Arina Vlasievna was a true Russian housewife of the old school. That is to
say, she ought to have lived a couple of hundred years earlier, during the
period when the ancient Muscovite Empire was in being. At once pious and
extremely nervous, she believed in every species of portent, divination,
proverb, and vision; also in such things as urodivïe,[9] household demons,
wood spirits, unlucky encounters, spells, popular medicines, Thursday salt,
and an ever-imminent end to the world. Again, she placed much faith in
such ideas as that, if a lighted candle lasts through the night preceding
Easter Day, the buckwheat crops will come up well; that, should a human
eye chance to fall upon a mushroom during the process of its growth, such
growth will terminate forthwith; that the devil loves to be where-soever
there is water; and that all Jews bear on their breasts a blood-red stain.
Again, she stood in great awe of mice, adders, frogs, sparrows, leeches,
thunder, cold water, draughts, horses, billy-goats, fair men, and black cats,
and also looked upon crickets and dogs as unclean creatures. Again, she
never ate veal, pigeons, crabs, cheese, asparagus, artichokes, hare, or water
melons (the last-named for the reason that, when split open, they reminded
her of the head of John the Baptist!). Nor could she ever speak of oysters
without a shudder. Again, though she loved eating, she observed every fast;
though she slept ten hours out of the twenty-four, she never even went to
bed if Vasili Ivanitch had got a headache; she read no books beyond Alexis
or Siskins of the Forest; she wrote, at most, two letters a year; she knew
every wrinkle as regards the departments of housekeeping, boiling, and
baking (and that even though she herself never laid a finger upon anything,
and hated even to have to stir from her place); she was aware that there
were certain folk in the world who must command, and others who must
serve—wherefore she loved servility and genuflexions; she treated all her
subordinates with kindness and consideration; she sent never a beggar away
empty; and she condemned no one for a fault, although at times she had a
tendency to talk scandal. Likewise, in her youth she had been comely, and a
player of the clavichord, and able to speak a little French; but, owing to
long residence with a husband whom she had married purely for love, she
had grown rusty in those accomplishments, and forgotten alike her French

and her music; she loved and feared her son to a degree almost beyond
expression; she deputed the management of her property entirely to Vasili
Ivanitch, and never interfered with it, but would fall to gasping, and waving
her handkerchief about, and affrightedly raising her eyebrows, whenever
her helpmeet happened to broach some new plan or some necessary reform
which he had in his mind's eye; and, lastly, she was of so apprehensive a
temperament that she lived in constant fear of some unknown misfortune,
and would burst into tears should any one mention anything of a mournful
character.
Such women are now extinct; and only God knows whether we ought to be
glad of the fact.

[1] An endearing diminutive of Evgenii.
[2] Cossack whips.
[3] Christoph Wilhelm Hufeland (1762-1836), a well-known German physicist
whose treatise Makrobiotik, or The Art of Prolonging Life, has been translated
into almost every European language.
[4] "To each his own."
[5] i.e. serfs.
[6] Johann Lukas Schönlein (1793-1864), a noted German physician.
[7] Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim (1493-1541), most commonly
known by his self-coined name of Paracelsus, and a German-Swiss traveller and
physician.
[8] Napoleon III.
[9] Urodivïe, or "sacred imbeciles," were persons who, deficient of intellect in
the ordinary sense, were yet believed by ancient Russia to enjoy particularly
intimate communication with the divine and the unseen.

XXI

When, in the morning, Arkady rose and opened the window, the first object
to greet his eyes was Vasili Ivanitch. Clad in a smock-frock, and belted with
a handkerchief, the old man was busily digging in his vegetable garden. As
soon as he noticed his young guest, he leaned upon his spade, and cried:
"Good morning! How have you slept?"
"Splendidly," replied Arkady.
"And I, as you see, am imitating Cincinnatus, and preparing a bed of late
turnips. By the mercy of God do the times compel every man to win his
bread with his own hands. At all times, indeed, is it useless to rely upon
others: it is best to work oneself. Thus Jean Jacques Rousseau was right.
Half an hour ago, however, you would have seen me in a very different rôle
—first of all, injecting opium into a woman who had come to me with what
the peasants call I the goad,' and we dysentery, and then pulling out some
teeth for a second woman. And, would you believe it, when I proposed
administering ether to the second woman she would have none of it! These
things I do gratis, you know, and as an amateur. Yet, let that not surprise

you, for, after all, I am but a plebeian, but a homo novus. Come downstairs
to sit in the shade and enjoy the freshness of the morning until breakfast
shall be ready."
Arkady did as invited.
"You confer a favour upon me," said Vasili Ivanitch, raising his hand in
military fashion to the battered skull-cap which adorned his head. "You see,
I know you to be used to luxury and ease. Yet even the folk of the great
world need not disdain to snatch a brief respite under the roof of a cottage."
"I neither belong to the great world nor am used to luxury," protested
Arkady.
"Come now!" Vasili Ivanitch indulged in an amiable affectation of
incredulity. "I myself, though I am now on the shelf, have rubbed about in
my time, and can tell a bird by its flight. Also, I dabble a little in
physiognomy and psychology. For that matter, I will not hesitate to say that,
had I not enjoyed those advantages, I should long ago have come to rack
and ruin, for the reason that, being one of the small fry, I should soon have
been jostled out of the way by the crowd. Also, without flattery, I may say
that the friendship which I discern to be existing between you and my son
affords me the greatest pleasure. Only this moment I was speaking to him;
for (as probably you know) he jumps out of bed at a very early hour, and
goes careering all over the countryside. M-might I make so bold as to ask
you whether you have known him long?"
"Only since last winter."
"Indeed? Also, might I make so bold as to ask whether—But sit you down,
will you not?—might I also, as his father, venture to ask your frank opinion
of him?"
"Your son is the most remarkable man that I have ever met," came the
enthusiastic reply.
Vasili Ivanitch's eyes closed suddenly, while his cheeks quivered, and the
spade slipped from his hand.
"Then you think?" he began.
"I do not think—I am certain that there lies before your son a future which
will make your name famous. I have felt certain of this since the first

moment I met him."
"Indeed? Indeed?" Vasili Ivanitch could scarcely articulate the words, but
on his capacious lips there had dawned, and become fixed, a smile of
triumph.
"Would you like to hear how our first meeting came about?"
"Indeed I should! And any other details you like."
Arkady therefore plunged into a discourse on Bazarov of the same ardour
and the same enthusiasm as he had displayed on the night of the mazurka
with Madame Odintsov. As Vasili Ivanitch listened, he blew his nose, rolled
his handkerchief into a ball, coughed, and ruffled his hair; until, no longer
able to contain himself, he reached over in Arkady's direction, and pressed
his lips to the young man's shoulder.
"You have indeed cheered my heart!" he exclaimed, still smiling. "I simply
idolise my son! But while my dear old wife is able to stand on rather a
different footing with Evgenii—she is his mother, you know—I myself dare
not express my whole feelings in his presence, for the reason that he
dislikes such things, and is opposed to any manifestations of emotion. For
the same reason some folk accuse him of hardness of heart and pride and
insensibility; but men like Evgenii cannot be measured by ordinary
standards, can they? For example, any one but he would have gone on
acting as a drag upon his parents; but, would you believe it? never once
since his birth has he asked us for a kopeck more than he absolutely needed!
There, by God!"
"Yes, your son is a sincere, single-minded man," agreed Arkady.
"Yes, single-minded," affirmed Vasili Ivanitch. "And not only do I idolise
him—I am proud of him, and have as my one conceit the hope that some
day there may stand in his biography the following words: 'He was the son
of a plain military doctor who, nevertheless, had the wit to divine the merits
of the subject of this book, and to spare no pains in his education.'"
The old man's voice faltered for a moment, but presently resumed:
"What think you? Will the field of medicine bring him the fame which you
have foretold?"

"Not the field of medicine alone—though in it, as elsewhere, he will
become a leader."
"What field, then, Arkady Nikolaievitch?"
"I could not say. But in any case he will rise to fame."
"'He will rise to fame'!" The old man relapsed into a state of ecstatic
contemplation.
Presently Anfisushka arrived with a large plate of raspberries and the
message:
"Arina Vlasievna has sent me to say that breakfast is ready."
Vasili Ivanitch started from his reverie.
"Bring us also some nice cool plums," he said.
"I will, sir."
"Yes, mind that they are cool. Arkady Nikolaievitch, do not stand on
ceremony, but help yourself. Is Evgenii Vasilitch yet back, Anfisushka?"
"I am," called Bazarov from Arkady's room.
Vasili Ivanitch wheeled about.
"Aha!" he cried. "So you have gone to pay your friend a visit? But you are
too late, amice: he and I have been having a long conversation together, and
it is now breakfast time, and your mother is calling us. By the way, Evgenii,
a word or two with you."
"Concerning what?"
"Concerning a peasant who is suffering from jaundice."
"Jaundice?"
"Yes, of a very chronic and stubborn kind. I have prescribed scurvy grass
and St. John's wort, and ordered the man to eat carrots, and given him a
dose of soda; but such things are mere palliatives—I want something of a
more drastic nature. That you laugh at medicine I am, of course, aware; but
none the less I feel certain that you could give me some good, practical
advice. But that you can do later. At the present moment, let us go in to
breakfast."

And he leapt from the bench on which he had been seated, trolling gaily the
couplet:
"Let us take for our rule, for our rule let us take it,
To live but for pleasure, and never forsake it!"
"What high spirits!" Bazarov remarked as he retired from the window.
Later, when the noontide sun was glowing from behind a thin canopy of
dense, pale vapour, and all was still save that the chirping of a few birds in
the trees lulled the hearer to a curious, drowsy lethargy, and the incessant
call of a young hawk on a topmost bough made the air ring with its strident
note, Arkady and Bazarov made for themselves pillows of sweet, dry,
fragrant, crackling hay, and stretched themselves in the shadow of a rick.
"Do you see that aspen tree?" remarked Bazarov. "I mean the one growing
at the edge of a depression, where a brick kiln used to stand? Well, when I
was a boy I used to believe that, together, the depression and the aspen tree
constituted a special talisman, in that, when near them, I never found time
hang heavy upon my hands. Of course, the explanation is that in those days
I failed to understand that that immunity from ennui was due to the very
fact of my being a boy. But, now that I am grown up, the talisman seems to
have lost its power."
"How long were you here in those days?"
"Only two years. After that we moved elsewhere. In fact, we led a
wandering life, and spent it mostly in towns."
"Is the house an old one?"
"It is. My maternal grandfather built it."
"Who was he?"
"The devil only knows! I think a major of some sort, a man who had served
under Suvorov,[1] and could tell all manner of tales about crossing the Alps
—though I daresay he told plenty of lies too."
"Ah! I noticed a portrait of Suvorov in the drawing-room. Cheerful-looking
old houses like this I simply love. Somehow they seem to have a smell of
their own."

"Yes—a smell of lamp-oil mingled with trefoil," agreed Bazarov with a
yawn. "But what flies they contain as well!"
There was a pause. Then Arkady resumed:
"Were you strictly kept when you were a boy?"
"You have seen for yourself what my parents are like. Surely they do not
seem very severe folk."
"And do you love them very much?"
"I do."
"Certainly they seem to love you."
Bazarov was silent. Presently, however, clasping his hands behind his head,
he asked:
"Do you know what is in my mind?"
"No. What?"
"I am thinking of the pleasant life that my parents must lead. To think that at
sixty my father can still fuss about, and talk of 'palliatives,' and doctor
people, and do the bountiful to the peasants, and, in short, enjoy himself,
and that my mother has her days so crammed full of occupations (including
sighing and groaning) that she does not know which to begin upon first! On
the other hand, I——"
"Yes, you?"
"Am doing what you see—lying under a rick. The space occupied by my
body is small indeed compared with the surrounding immensity in which it
has neither part nor lot, and the portion of time allotted to me here on earth
is insignificant indeed compared with the eternity which I have never
known, and shall never enter! Yet in this same atom, in this same
mathematical point which I call my body, the blood circulates, and the brain
operates at will. A fine discrepancy for you—a fine futility!"
"I would remark that what you have just said applies to every human being
in creation."
"True. What I mean is that my parents know not a single tedious moment,
nor are in the least distressed with the thought of their insignificance—it is

a thought which never stinks in their nostrils; whereas I—well, I feel
nothing but weariness and rancour in my breast."
"Rancour? Why rancour?"
"How can you ask? Have you forgotten the recent past?"
"No: only, I do not recognise your right to be angry: unhappy, perhaps, but
not——"
"I perceive you to understand love as it is understood by all our modern
young men. That is to say, chirping 'Tsip, tsip, tsip!' like pullets, you take to
your heels as soon as ever you see love approaching. I, however, am
different.—But enough of this. What is past help is best not talked about."
Bazarov rolled over on to his elbow. "Ah! Here is a young ant towing in its
wake a half-dead fly. Pull, brother, pull! Never mind that the fly hangs back,
but avail yourself of your animal right to abjure all sympathy, seeing that
our friend has only himself to thank for his trouble."
"Do not speak like that," expostulated Arkady. "How are you yourself to
thank for your trouble?"
Bazarov raised his head.
"Nay," he said, "I was but jesting. Never have I got myself into trouble, and
never shall any woman do it for me. Amen! I have spoken. Never will you
hear from me another word on the subject."
For a while the two friends lay without speaking.
"Yes," continued Bazarov, "man is a strange being. Contemplating from a
distance the dull life led by my parents, one would almost feel inclined to
say to oneself: 'What could be better than that, seeing that in that existence
one merely eats and drinks and knows oneself to be acting in a sane and
regular manner?' Yet a man will still become depressed, and yearn for
company, even though he may curse it when he has got it."
"One ought so to order one's life that every moment in it shall be of
significance," said Arkady sententiously.
"Of course; but while the significant, and even the pseudo-significant—yes,
the absolutely insignificant as well—may be bearable, it is trifles, trifles
that matter."

"Unless a man recognise their existence, they do not exist."
"H'm! A contra-platitude."
"What is that?"
"This—that, should you say that education is useful, you will be uttering a
platitude; but, should you say that education is harmful, you will be uttering
a contra-platitude. The one is identical with the other, except that they differ
a little in elegance of expression."
"And which has right on its side?"
"'Which has right on its side?' I can only re-echo: 'Which?'"
"Come! You are out of spirits to-day."
"Am I? Then the sun must have touched me a little, or else I must have
eaten too many raspberries to be good for me."
"Then you would do well to have a sleep."
"I think you are right. Only, do not look at me while I sleep, for a man cuts
his very worst figure at such a time."
"Surely you do not care for people's opinion?"
"I do, even though a man in the best sense of the term ought never to
trouble his head about such things, seeing that such a man is either above
criticism or too feared and hated for critics to wish to tackle him."
"Curious! For I myself never hate any one."
"And I hate a great many people. You, you see, are a tender soul, you are so
much pap, and therefore hatred could never come within your purview.
People as retiring, as devoid of self-confidence as you are——"
"What about your own self-confidence?" interrupted Arkady. "What about
your own opinion of yourself?"
Bazarov paused—then replied:
"As we were passing the hut of your starosta to-day (what a neat, pretty
little place it looked!) you said to me: 'Not until every peasant shall have
come to own such a place as this, and every one of us shall have contributed
his mite to that end, will Russia attain perfection.' But, for my part, I

abominate the scurvy churl for whom I am supposed to jump out of my
skin, even though never a 'thank you' should I get from him for doing so.
For why should he thank me? His métier happens to be living in a white
hut, and mine to be——"
"Come, come, Evgenii! One is almost forced to agree with those who
accuse us of being unprincipled."
"You talk like your uncle. No such thing as principle exists. That you seem
never to have divined. Instincts only exist, and upon them everything
depends."
"How so?"
"Thus. We will take myself as an example. Owing to the nature of my
instincts, I am prone to deny—I am prone to deny because my brain is so
constituted. In the same way, if you were to ask me why I am interested in
chemistry, and why you like apples, I should reply that the same reason
holds good in each case—that our respective instincts are what they are. In
other words, there exists between your instincts and mine a certain affinity.
Deeper it is not given us to probe."
"Then is honour an instinct?"
"It is."
"Oh, Evgenii!" cried Arkady sorrowfully.
"Do you dislike the conversation? Then let us philosophise no more, but
'permit nature to waft upon us the silence of sleep,' to quote Pushkin."
"Pushkin never said any such thing," objected Arkady.
"Then, if he did not, he ought, being a poet, to have done so. Perhaps he had
served in the army?"
"Never did he serve in the army."
"Indeed? Why, in his every line we come across 'To battle, to battle, for the
honour of Russia!'"
"That is a mere invention on your part. The statement is an absolute
calumny."

"A calumny? What matters a calumny? What is there in the term to be
afraid of? Slander a man as much as you like, yet for himself he will hear
things twenty times worse."
"Suppose we sleep," said Arkady irritably.
"With pleasure," Bazarov replied.
Nevertheless neither succeeded in the effort, for almost every sleep-
destroying sentiment happened to be in the ascendant. So, after five minutes
of such ineffectual striving, both opened their eyes, and lay mutely gazing
about then.
"Look!" cried Arkady after a pause. "Do you see that withered maple leaf
fluttering to the ground? Are not its movements exactly like those of a
butterfly? Strange that an object so joyous and full of life should be able so
to counterfeit an object mournful and dead!"
"My friend," protested Bazarov, "let me make at least this request of you:
that you do not talk in 'beautiful language.'"
"I talk as I am able. I decline to be domineered over. Should a thought
chance to enter my head, why should I not express it?"
"Similarly am I at liberty to express the thought that to talk in 'beautiful
language' is sheerly indecent."
"Indecent? Then swearing is not indecent?"
"Aha! I perceive you still to be minded to follow in your uncle's footsteps.
How the idiot would have rejoiced if he could have heard you!"
"What did you call Paul Petrovitch?"
"I called him merely what he is—merely an idiot."
"Have done!" shouted Arkady.
"Therein I detect the tie of blood," said Bazarov calmly. "It is a very
stubborn factor, I have noticed, in some people. A man may abjure
everything else, and cut himself adrift from every other prejudice, yet still
remain powerless to confess that the brother who habitually steals his shirts
is a thief. You see, the difficulty lies in the word 'my.' Is not that so?"

"No. It was from a sense of justice, rather than from a sense of kinship, that
I spoke. But since you have no understanding of the former, as an instinct
which you simply do not possess, you are not in a position to pass judgment
upon such a feeling."
"In other words, 'I, Arkady Kirsanov, am altogether above your
comprehension,' Well, I make mute obeisance to that."
"Come, come, Evgenii! We shall end by quarrelling."
"Oh that you would do me the favour to quarrel! We could have a real set-to
à outrance, and with our coats off."
"To the end that——?"
"To the end that we might rend one another in pieces. Why not? Here, amid
the hay, in this idyllic setting, far from the madding crowd and every human
eye, it would be not at all a bad thing. No, you shall not make it up with me!
Rather will I seize you by the throat!"
As he extended his long, sharp fingers, Arkady rolled over and prepared
jestingly to grapple with his assailant. But the next moment the sight of
Bazarov's face, with its expression of malice and the non-jesting menace
which lurked in the twisted smile and the flashing eyes, gave him a shock,
and filled him with involuntary awe.
"This, then, is where you have got to!" cried Vasili Ivanitch from behind
them as, vested in a home-made cotton pea-jacket and a home-made straw
hat, the old military doctor suddenly confronted the pair. "I have been
searching for you everywhere, and certainly you have chosen a capital spot,
and are engaged also in a capital occupation—in the occupation of lying on
the earth and gazing at the heavens. For my part, I believe that such an
occupation can have its uses."
"I gaze at the heavens only when I am going to sneeze," said Bazarov. Then,
turning to Arkady, he added in an undertone: "Forgive me if I hurt you."
"Do not mention it," was Arkady's rejoinder in a similar undertone, as
covertly he pressed his friend's hand.
Shocks of such a kind, however, were bound, in time, to react upon their
friendship.

"As I look at you, young gentlemen," Vasili Ivanitch continued as, nodding
his head, he rested his hands upon a crooked stick, his own manufacture,
which had a Turk's head for a handle, "I cannot sufficiently admire you.
What strength you embody! How you speak of the flower of youth, of
capacity, and of talent! You resemble Castor and Pollux themselves."
"To think of your flaunting your mythology like that!" said Bazarov. "At the
same time, you must have been a fine Latin scholar in your day. In fact, did
not you once receive a silver medal for an essay?"
"The Dioscuri, the Dioscuri themselves!" continued the old man
ecstatically.
"Come, come, father! Do not play the fool,"
"Ah, well! No, I have not sought you out to pay you compliments: I have
come to inform the pair of you that dinner is nearly ready, and also to give
you, Evgenii, a warning. I know that, as a man of sense, as well as a man
well versed in the world, you will be charitable. The case is this. This
morning your mother took it into her head to organise a thanksgiving
ceremony on the occasion of your return.—No, do not think that I am
inviting you to the ceremony: on the contrary, it is over. All that I am going
to say is that Father Alexis——"
"The priest?"
"Yes, and our private confessor. Well, this Father Alexis is going to dine
with us, even though I had not expected it, and it was not my suggestion,
but merely an arrangement which has come about somehow—probably
through his having failed to understand me aright. Not that we look upon
him as anything but a man of rectitude and good sense."
"Surely you do not mean to imply that he is likely to devour my portion of
the food, do you?"
Vasili Ivanitch burst out laughing.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he cried.
"I feel easy, then," continued Bazarov. "In fact, never do I mind with whom
I sit at table."
Vasili Ivanitch's face brightened at once.

"I felt sure of that in advance," he said. "Yes, I knew that you, a young man,
are as superior to prejudice as I am at sixty-two" (Vasili had none the less
shrunk from confessing that he had wished for the thanksgiving ceremony
as much as his wife had, since his piety was fully equal to hers). "In any
case Father Alexis would like to make your acquaintance; while you, for
your part, will very likely take to him, seeing that he not only plays cards,
but also (though this is quite between ourselves) smokes a pipe!"
"Indeed? After dinner, then, we will have a game, and I will despoil him
utterly."
"Ha, ha, ha! We shall see, we shall see."
"Then at times you hark back to old days?" Bazarov asked with a tinge of
surprise.
Vasili Ivanitch's bronzed cheeks took on a faint flush.
"For shame, Evgenii!" he muttered. "Remember that the past is the past.
Nevertheless, even in this gentleman's presence I am ready to confess that
in my youth I had my addictions, and that, since, I have paid for them. But
how hot the weather is! Let me seat myself beside you; though I hope that,
in doing so, I shall not interrupt your conversation?"
"By no means," replied Arkady with alacrity.
Vasili Ivanitch subsided with a grunt and the remark:
"Your logement reminds me of my military bivouacking days—this rick
being a dressing-station." There followed a sigh. "Aye, many and many an
experience have I had in my time. For instance, let me tell you a curious
story about the black death in Bessarabia."
"When you received the order of St. Vladimir?" said Bazarov. "Yes, I know
the story. But why do you never wear the badge of the order?"
"As I have told you, I care not a jot for appearances," protested Vasili
Ivanitch (though only on the previous day had he had the red riband of the
order removed from his coat). He then embarked upon the story.
"Evgenii has gone to sleep," presently he whispered to Arkady with a good-
humoured wink and a pointing finger. "Come, come, Evgenii!" he added in
a louder tone. "It is time to get up! Time for dinner!"

Father Alexis—a stout, good-looking man with thick, well-combed hair and
an embroidered girdle over a lilac cassock—proved a clever, resourceful
guest who, taking the initiative as regards shaking hands with Arkady and
Bazarov (somehow he seemed to divine that they did not require his
blessing), bore himself, in general, with complete absence of restraint, and,
while neither demeaning himself nor imposing general constraint, made
merry over scholastic Latin, defended his archbishop, quaffed a couple of
glasses of wine (refusing a third), and accepted one of Arkady's cigars,
though, instead of smoking it, he put it into his pocket to take home with
him. The only thing that was at all unpleasant was the fact that every now
and then, on raising a stealthy hand to brush from his face a fly, he, in lieu
of doing so, crushed the insect flat!
Dinner over, he seated himself with modest zest at the card-table, and ended
by despoiling Bazarov of two-and-a-half roubles in paper money (this rural
establishment took no account of the system of computing cash in silver).
During the game the hostess sat beside her son with her cheek resting on
her hand as usual, and only rose from the table when it became necessary to
order further relays of refreshment. Yet to caress Bazarov was more than
she dared do; nor did he give her the least encouragement in that direction;
in addition to which Vasili Ivanitch further restrained her ardour by
whispering at intervals: "Do not worry our Evgenii. Young men do not like
that sort of thing." Also, hardly need it be said that the dinner of which the
company had just partaken had been of the usual sumptuousness, seeing
that at break of day Timotheitch had set out for Circassian beef, and that the
starosta also had galloped in quest of trout, eels, and crabs, while a sum of
forty-two kopecks had been paid to peasant women for mushrooms. Arina
Vlasievna's eyes, fixed immovably upon Bazarov, had in them something
more than tenderness and affection. In them there were also sadness,
curiosity, a touch of apprehension, and a kind of painful deference. Yet
never did he mark their expression, since never did he turn in her direction,
save to put to her the curtest of questions, and, once, to ask her to lay her
hand in his, "for luck." On the latter occasion she slipped her plump fingers
into his hard, capacious palm, waited a little, and then asked him:
"Has that helped you at all in your play?"
"It has not," he replied with a contemptuous grimace. "On the contrary,
things are even worse than they were before."

"Yes, the cards seem to be against you," remarked Father Alexis with an
assumed air of sympathy as he stroked his handsome beard.
"But beware of the Code Napoleon, my father," observed Vasili Ivanitch as
he played an ace. "Beware of the Code Napoleon."
"Which, in the end, brought Napoleon to St. Helena," retorted the father as
he trumped the ace.
"A glass of currant wine, Eniushka dear?" asked Arina Vlasievna.
Bazarov replied with a shrug of his shoulders.
Next day he said to Arkady:
"To-morrow I must depart. The place wearies me, for I wish to work, and it
is impossible to do so here. I will come to your place, I think, for all my
chemical preparations are there. Moreover, one can at least lock one's door
at your place; whereas here, though my father keeps saying, 'My study is
entirely at your disposal, and no one shall disturb you,' he himself is never
absent for a moment. And, for that matter, I should be ashamed to lock him
outside, or my mother either. Sometimes I can hear her groaning in the next
room. Yet no sooner do I go out to her than I find that I have not a word to
say."
"She will be much distressed at your departure," said Arkady. "And so will
he."
"But I intend to return."
"Exactly when?"
"When I am on my way back to St. Petersburg."
"I am particularly sorry for your mother."
"Why so? Has she been stuffing you with fruit?" Arkady lowered his eyes.
"You do not know her," he said. "She is not only a good woman, but also a
very wise one. This morning I had half an hour's very practical and
interesting talk with her."
"A talk in which she told you all about me?"
"We spoke of other topics besides yourself."

"Possibly. Possibly, too, you, as an outsider, may see things clearer than I
do. Yet when a woman can talk for half an hour it is a good sign, and I will
depart as I have said."
"But you will not find it easy to break the news to her, for her plans for us
extend over a couple of weeks."
"No, it may not prove easy, as you say; and the less so since the devil led
me to vex my father this morning. It was like this. A few days ago he had
one of his serfs flogged, and therein did rightly. No, you need not look at
me with such indignation. I say my father did rightly for the reason that the
peasant in question had proved himself to be an arrant thief and drunkard.
Unfortunately, my father had not expected me to get to hear of the
occurrence; wherefore he was the more put out when he found that I had
done so. Well, now his vexation will be twofold! However, no matter. He
will get over it before long."
Yet, though Bazarov had said "No matter," he let the whole of the rest of the
day elapse before he could make up his mind to acquaint Vasili Ivanitch
with his intention. Finally, just as he was saying good-night to his father in
the study, he observed with a prolonged yawn:
"By the way, I had almost forgotten to request you to have our horses sent
forward to Thedot's."
Vasili Ivanitch looked thunderstruck.
"Then is Monsieur Kirsanov leaving us?" he inquired.
"Yes, and I am going with him."
Vasili Ivanitch fidgeted for a moment or two.
"You say that you are going with him?" he murmured.
"Yes. I must go. So pray have the horses sent forward as requested."
"I—I will, I will," the old man stuttered. "So they are to go to Thedot's?
Yes, yes, very well. Only, only—is there any particular reason for this
change of plan?"
"There is. I am engaged to pay Arkady a short visit. That done, I will return
to you."

"Only to be a short visit? Good!" And Vasili Ivanitch pulled out his pocket-
handkerchief, and blew his nose. In doing so, he bent his head very low—
almost to the ground. "Well, well! Things shall be as you desire. Yet we had
hoped that you would have stayed with us a little longer. Three days only!
Three days after three years of absence! Ah, that is not much, Evgenii—it is
not much!"
"But I tell you I intend to return soon. You see, I must go."
"You have no choice, eh? Very well, very well. Of course, engagements
must be kept. Yes, yes; of course they must be kept. And I am to send the
horses forward? Very good. Naturally, Arina and I had not altogether looked
for this. Only to-day she has been to a neighbour to beg flowers for your
room."
Nor of the fact that, each morning, he had gone downstairs in his slippers to
confer with Timotheitch; nor of the fact that, producing, with tremulous
fingers, one ragged banknote after another, he had commissioned his
henchman to make various purchases with special reference to the question
of eatables (in particular, of a certain red wine which he had noticed the
young men to like); no, of none of these facts did Vasili Ivanitch make any
mention.
"The greatest thing in the world is one's freedom," he went on. "I, too, make
it my rule. Never should one let oneself be hampered or——"
A sudden break occurred in his voice, and he made for the door.
"I promise you that we will return soon, my father. I give you my word of
honour upon that."
But Vasili Ivanitch did not look round—he just waved his hand and
departed. Mounting to the bedroom, he found Arina asleep, so started to say
his prayers in an undertone, for fear of awaking her. But at once she opened
her eyes.
"In that you, Vasili Ivanitch?" she asked.
"Yes, mother."
"Have you just left Eniusha? Do you know, I am anxious about him. Does
he sleep comfortably on the sofa? To-day I told Anfisushka to lay him out

your travelling mattress and the new pillows. Also, I would have given him
our feather bed had he not disliked soft lying."
"Do not fret, mother dear. He is quite comfortable. 'Lord, pardon us
sinners!'" And Vasili Ivanitch went on with his prayers. Yet his heart was
full of an aching compassion for his old companion; nor did he want to tell
her overnight of the sorrow which was awaiting her on the morrow.
Next day, therefore, Arkady and Bazarov departed. From earliest morn an
air of woe pervaded the household. Anfisushka let fall some crockery, and
Thedika's perturbation ended in his taking off his shoes. As for Vasili
Ivanitch, he fussed about, and made a brave show—he talked in loud tones,
and stamped his feet upon the floor as he walked; but his face had suddenly
fallen in, and his glance could not meet that of his son. Meanwhile Arina
Vlasievna indulged in quiet weeping. Indeed, but for the fact that her
husband had spent two hours that morning in comforting her, she would
have broken down completely, and lost all self-control.
But at last, when, after reiterated promises to return within, at most, a
month, Bazarov had freed himself from the arms which sought to detain
him, and entered the tarantass; when the horses had started, and their
collar-bow had begun to tinkle, and the wheels to revolve; when to gaze
after the vehicle any longer had become useless, and the dust had subsided,
and Timotheitch, bent and tottering, had crawled back into his pantry; when
the old couple found themselves alone in a house which seemed suddenly to
have grown as dishevelled and as decrepit as they—then, ah, then did Vasili
Ivanitch desist from his brief show of waving his handkerchief in the
verandah, and sink into a chair, and drop his head upon his breast.
"He has gone for ever, he has gone for ever," he muttered. "He has gone
because he found the life here tedious, and once more I am as lonely as the
sand of the desert!"
These words he kept repeating again and again; and, each time that he did
so, he raised his hand, and pointed into the distance.
But presently Arina Vlasievna approached him, and, pressing her grey head
to his, said:
"Never mind, my Vasia. True, our son has broken away from us; he is like a
falcon—he has flown hither, he has flown thither, as he willed: but you and

I, like lichen in a hollow tree, are still side by side, we are not parted.... And
ever I shall be the same to you, as you will be the same to me."
Taking his hands from his face, Vasili Ivanitch embraced his old comrade,
his wife, as never—no, not even during the days of his courtship—he had
done before. And thus she comforted him.
[1] Alexander Vasilievitch Suvorov (1729-1800), the great Russian general who,
after defeating Napoleon in Italy, crossed the Alps to join hands with Korsakov,
but found the latter to have been routed by Massena.

XXII

In silence, or merely exchanging a few unimportant words, the travellers
made their way to Thedot's posting-house. Arkady felt anything but pleased
with Bazarov, and Bazarov felt anything but pleased with himself.
Moreover, the younger man's heart was heavy with the sort of unreasoning
depression which is known only to youth.
The driver hitched his horses, and then, mounting to the box, inquired
whether he was to drive to the right or to the left.
Arkady started. The road to the right led to the town, and thence to his
father's house; while the road to the left led to Madame Odintsov's
establishment.
He glanced at Bazarov.
"To the left, Evgenii?" he queried.
Bazarov turned away his head.
"Why that folly again?" he muttered.
"Folly, I know," said Arkady, "but what does that matter? We need but call
in passing."
Bazarov pulled his cap over his eyes.
"Do as you like," he said.

"To the left, then," cried Arkady to the coachman; and the tarantass started
in the direction of Nikolsköe. Nevertheless, for all that the friends had
decided upon this foolish course, they remained as silent and downcast as
ever.
Indeed, Madame Odintsov's butler had not even made his appearance upon
the verandah before the pair divined that they had done unwisely to yield to
such an impulse. The fact that no one in the house had expected them was
emphasised by the circumstance that when Madame entered the drawing-
room they had already spent a considerable time there in awkward silence.
However, she accorded them her usual suave welcome, though she seemed
a little surprised at their speedy return, and, at heart, not over-pleased at it.
For this reason they hastened to explain that theirs was a mere passing call,
and that in about four hours they would be continuing their journey to the
town. In reply she said nothing beyond that she requested Arkady to convey
her greetings to his father, and then sent for her aunt; and inasmuch as the
Princess entered in a state of having just overslept herself, her wrinkled old
face betokened even greater malignity than usual. Katia was not well, and
did not leave her room at all: and this caused Arkady suddenly to realise
that he would have been as glad to see her as Anna Sergievna. The four
hours were filled with a desultory conversation which Anna Sergievna
carried on without a single smile: nor until the very moment of parting did
her usual friendliness seem to stir within her soul.
"I am out of humour to-day," she said, "but that you must not mind. Come
again soon. I address the invitation to you both."
Bazarov and Arkady responded with silent bows, re-entered the tarantass,
and drove forward to Marino, whither they arrived, without incident, on the
following evening. En route, neither of the pair mentioned Madame
Odintsov, and Barazov in particular scarcely opened his mouth, but gazed
towards the horizon with a hard look in his eyes.
But at Marino every one was delighted to see them, for Nikolai Petrovitch
had begun to feel uneasy at the prolonged absence of his son, and now leapt
from the sofa with a cry of joy when Thenichka ran to announce that "the
young gentlemen" were arriving. Yes, even Paul Petrovitch felt conscious of
a touch of pleasant excitement, and smiled indulgently as he shook hands
with the wanderers. Ensued then much talking and questioning, in which

Arkady took the leading part, and more especially during supper, which
lasted far into the night, since Nikolai Petrovitch ordered up several bottles
of porter which had just arrived from Moscow, and made so merry that his
cheeks assumed a raspberry tint, and he fell to venting half-boyish, half-
hysterical laughs. Moreover, the general enlivenment extended even to the
kitchen, where Duniasha kept breathlessly banging doors, and at three
o'clock in the morning Peter essayed to execute on the guitar a Cossack
waltz which would have sounded sweet and plaintive amid the stillness of
the night had not the performance broken down after the opening cadenza,
owing to the fact that nature had denied the cultured underling a talent
either for music or for anything else.
Indeed, of late, life at Marino had been far from comfortable. In particular
had poor Nikolai Petrovitch been in a bad way, for his troubles in
connection with the estate—troubles of an exclusively futile and hopeless
order—were growing greater from day to day. The worst of them came of
the system of hired labour, which enabled some of the workmen to keep
demanding either their discharge or an increase of wages, and others to
depart as soon as ever they had received their earnest-money. Also, some of
the horses had fallen sick, certain implements had been burnt, all hands
were performing their tasks in a slovenly manner, a milling machine
ordered from Moscow had turned out to be useless owing to its weight, a
second such machine had broken down on its first being used, half the cattle
sheds had disappeared in a conflagration caused by a blind old serf woman
"smoking" her cow with a firestick during blustery weather (though she
herself asserted that the trouble had come of the barin's manufacturing new-
fangled cheeses and lacteal products in general), and, lastly, the steward had
grown so fat and lazy (as do all Russians who fall upon "easy times"), and
permitted his dislike of Nikolai Petrovitch so to limit his activities, that he
had come to doing no more than bestowing an occasional prod upon a
passing pig, or threatening some half-naked serf boy, while spending the
rest of the time in bed. Again, such of the peasants as had received
allotments under the obrok system had failed to pay their dues, as well as
applied themselves to stealing timber to such an extent that, almost every
night, the watchman had to apprehend a culprit or two, as well as to
impound horses which peasants had turned out to graze in the meadows
attached to the manor. For illicit grazing of this sort Nikolai Petrovitch had
decreed forfeiture of the horses; but usually the matter ended in the animals

being kept for a day or two at the barin's expense, and then restored to their
owners. Lastly, the peasants had taken to quarrelling among themselves,
through brothers conceiving the idea of demanding a share of each other's
earnings, and through their wives suddenly finding themselves unable to get
on in the same hut; wherefore feuds had arisen which had caused whole
households to spring to their feet as at a word of command, and to flock to
the portico of the estate office, where, breaking in upon the barin's privacy
(very often with bruised faces and drunken gait), they demanded justice and
an immediate settlement, while female sobs and whimperings mingled with
the curses of the male portion of the throng. Whenever this had happened
Nikolai Petrovitch had had to part the hostile factions from one another, and
to shout himself hoarse, even though he had known in advance that no
equitable decision was feasible. Finally, there had been a deficiency of
hands for the harvest, since a neighbouring odnovorzty[1] of benign aspect
who had undertaken taken to provide harvesters at two roubles per desiatin
had cheated without compunction, and supplied women workers who also
demanded extortionate wages. Meanwhile the grain had rotted in the fields,
and, later on, the women had not got through the mowing before the Board
of Overseers had begun to press for immediate payment of percentage dues
and arrears.
"I can do nothing," would be Nikolai Petrovitch's despairing exclamation
"My principles forbid me either to contend with these people or to send for
the stanovoi[2] yet, without the power to threaten punishment, one can make
no headway with such folk."
"Du calme, du calme," Paul Petrovitch would advise. Then he would growl,
frown, and twist his moustache.
From these brawls Bazarov kept entirely aloof: nor, as a guest, was he
called upon to interfere in them, but was free, from the day of his arrival, to
apply himself solely to his frogs, infusoria, and chemical compositions. On
the other hand, Arkady considered himself bound, if not to help his father,
at all events to offer to help him; wherefore he listened to Nikolai's
complaints with patience, and on one occasion even tendered him advice
(though not advice meant to be taken, but advice designed to manifest the
interest felt by him, Arkady, in current affairs). As a matter of fact, estate-
management was not wholly distasteful to him, and he could find pleasure
in thinking out agricultural problems; but his mind was filled with other

preoccupations. For one thing, he discovered to his surprise that his
thoughts were constantly turning in the direction of Nikolsköe; and though
there had been a time when he would have shrugged his shoulders upon
being told that he would ever come to find residence under the same roof as
Bazarov—least of all, when that roof was his father's—a dull affair, he
found time hang heavy on his hands, and his attention easily stray
elsewhere. So he tried the expedient of walking until thoroughly worn out,
but even this did not help him; until eventually he learnt, in conversation
with his father, that recently some letters of great interest had been chanced
upon—letters which Arkady's mother had indited to the mother of Madame
Odintsov. And from that moment onwards he never rested until he had
induced Nikolai Petrovitch to re-discover the said letters, and to turn out,
during the search, a score of boxes and drawers. Then only, when the half-
mouldy documents had been dragged to light, did the young man feel easier
in his soul, and bear himself as though now he saw before him the goal of
his existence.
"'I address the invitation to both of you,'" he kept whispering to himself.
"Yes, that is what she said. Damn it, I will go."
But next there would recur to his memory the recent visit and its cold
reception; until once more he would be seized with his old timidity and
awkwardness. In the end, however, the spirit of adventurous youth, aided by
a secret desire to try his luck, to test his strength unaided, and without a
protector, contrived to win the day.
Ten days later, therefore, he invented a pretext, in the shape of a desire to
study the working of Sunday schools, to drive to the town, and thence to
Nikolsköe. As he drove, the manner in which he encouraged his postilion
communicated to his progress the character, rather, of a young officer's trip
to fight his first duel, for diffidence, impatience, and delight were well-nigh
choking him.
"Above all things," he kept reflecting, "I must not think too much of
myself." And though the postilion who had fallen to his lot was of the type
of rascal who pulls up at every tavern door, there hove in sight, before long,
the familiar, high-pitched roof of the mansion.
"But what am I doing?" now occurred to him the thought. "Indeed, would it
not be better to go back?"

Unfortunately, to the sound of the postilion's whistlings and tongue-
clickings the troika of horses trotted bravely forward, and presently the
bridge thundered under the combined weight of the hooves and wheels. Ah,
there was the avenue of clipped firs! Yes, and there was a glimpse of a pink
dress amid some dark foliage! Yes, and there a glimpse of a young face
peering from the shade of a silken parasol! Yes, yes—it was Katia! He had
recognised her in an instant, as she him! Bidding the postilion pull up,
Arkady leapt from the carriage, and approached the maiden.
"So it is you?" she exclaimed. And at the same moment a blush overspread
her face. "Let us go and look for my sister. She is in the garden, and will be
delighted to see you."
So she conducted him thither. How lucky that he had met her as he had
done! More pleased he could not have felt if she had been his own sister.
Yes, things were indeed fortunate! Now there would have to be no butler,
and no formal announcement of his arrival.
Of Anna Sergievna he caught sight at a turn in the path. She had her back to
him, but presently, on hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, faced
about.
Once more confusion seized Arkady in its grip. Yet no sooner had she
spoken than he felt his courage return.
"How do you do?" she said in her even, kindly way as she advanced to meet
him with a smile that was slightly tempered with the sun and wind. "Where
did you find him, Katia?"
"I have brought with me something which you are unlikely to have been
expecting," he said. "For I——"
"But you have brought me yourself," she rejoined. "And that is the best
bringing of all."
[1] A freeholder, a member of the class which, in the days of this story, stood
midway between the pomiestchik, or landowner, and the Krestianin, or serf.
[2] Magistrate.

XXIII

After speeding Arkady on his way with satirical expressions of regret (as
well as giving him to understand that the satirist laboured under no
delusions as to the object of the young man's journey), Bazarov withdrew
into complete seclusion, since a perfect fever for work had come upon him.
Nor did he quarrel any longer with Paul Petrovitch, and the less so since the
latter had now come to adopt an exclusively aristocratic attitude, and to
express his sentiments only in monosyllables, not in words. Once, and once
only, did he allow himself to engage in a controversy with Bazarov over the
then current question of the rights of the dvoriané. But suddenly he checked
himself, and said with an air of cold politeness:
"It is clear that we shall never understand one another. At all events I have
not the honour to understand you."
"True," agreed Bazarov. "For a man may understand the precipitation of
ether, and be au fait with what is taking place in the sun, yet, confront him
with the fact that another man blows his nose differently from the manner in
which he blows his own, and at once that man will become lost in
perplexity."
At the same time, there were occasions when Paul Petrovitch requested
permission to attend the other's experiments; and once he went so far as to
apply his perfumed, clean-shaven features to the microscope, for the
purpose of observing how a transparent infusorium could swallow a
greenish-looking particle, and then masticate the same with fang-like
protuberances which grew in its throat. Still more frequently was Nikolai
Petrovitch present in Bazarov's room. Indeed, but for the counter-distraction
of estate-management, he would have spent his whole time in the process of
what he called "self-improvement." Yet he never hampered the young
naturalist: on the contrary, he would seat himself in a remote corner of the
room, and, but for a guarded question or two, confine himself solely to
silently and absorbedly watching the experiments. Also, at meal times he
always endeavoured to turn the conversation in the direction of physics or
geology or chemistry, for the reason that he divined in any other direction
(that of industry, or, still more, that of politics) there lay a greater danger of
collisions, or, at all events, of mutual soreness. For rightly did he divine that
his brother's enmity towards Bazarov had by no means abated. And to this

conclusion an incident which occurred at a juncture when cholera had just
made its appearance in the neighbourhood, and carried off two victims from
Marino itself, lent additional colour. One night Paul Petrovitch happened to
be seized with a fainting fit, yet refused to apply to Bazarov for assistance;
and when Bazarov, on meeting him on the following day, inquired why such
a course had not been adopted, Paul Petrovitch—still pale, but as carefully
brushed and combed as ever—retorted: "Did not you yourself tell me that
you have no belief in medicine?"
Thus day followed day. Yet, though Bazarov devoted himself wholly to
work, there was one person in the house whom he did not hold at arm's
length, but was always willing to talk to. That person was Thenichka.
Mostly he encountered her in the early mornings, when she was walking in
the garden or the courtyard; but never did he enter her room, nor did she
ever come to his door, save once, for the purpose of asking him to help her
with Mitia's bath. And she not only trusted Bazarov; she also held him in no
awe, and allowed herself more freedom in his presence than she did in that
of Nikolai Petrovitch himself. The reason is difficult to determine. Perhaps
it was the fact that unconsciously she detected in Bazarov none of the
dvorianin element, none of that superiority which at once attracts and
repels; the young Nihilist, to her, was just a clever doctor, and no more. At
all events, she was so free from shyness in his presence that she would
dandle her child unabashed, and, on one occasion, when seized with a
headache, went so far as to accept at his hands a spoonful of medicine.
True, in Nikolai Petrovitch's presence she seemed to shun Bazarov; but this
was done more out of a sense of decorum than through subtlety. As for Paul
Petrovitch, she feared him as much as ever, for he had taken to watching her
with a keen, steady eye, and to making his appearance behind her as though
his figure, clad in its inevitable English suit, and posed in its usual attitude
of hands in trousers pockets, had suddenly sprung from the floor.
"Whenever I see him I feel cold all over," once she complained to
Duniasha; whereupon that maiden's thoughts reverted longingly to another
"unfeeling" individual who had, all unwittingly, come to be "the cruel
tyrant" of her heart.
Thenichka, therefore, liked Bazarov, and Bazarov liked Thenichka. Indeed,
no sooner did he speak to her than his face would undergo a change, and,
assuming a bright, almost a good-humoured, expression, exchange its

habitual superciliousness for something like playful solicitude. Meanwhile
she grew more beautiful daily. In the lives of young women there is a
season when they begin to unfold and bloom like the roses in summer: and
to that period Thenichka had just come. Everything, even the July heat then
prevalent, contributed to it. Dressed in a gown of some light white material,
she looked even lighter and whiter than it; and though she escaped actual
sunburn, the heated air imparted to her cheeks and ears a faint tan, and,
permeating her frame with gentle indolence, imbued her exquisite eyes with
dreamy languor. No longer could she do any work; she could only let her
hands sink upon her lap, and there remain. Seldom going even for a stroll,
she spent the most of her time in a state of gently querulous and panting,
but not distasteful, inertia.
"You should go and bathe as often as you can," Nikolai Petrovitch said to
her one day (he had had a large, canopied bathing-place constructed in one
of the last few ponds on the estate).
"Ah!" she gasped. "Even to walk to the pond half-kills me: and to walk
back from it half-kills me again. There is no shade in the garden, you see."
"True," he agreed, wiping his forehead.
At seven o'clock one morning, when Bazarov was returning from a walk, he
encountered Thenichka in the midst of a lilac clump which, though past the
season of flowering, was still green and leafy. As usual, she had a white
scarf thrown over her head, and beside the bench on which she was sitting
there was a bunch of red and white roses with the dew yet glistening on
their petals. He bade her good morning.
"It is you, then, Evgenii Vasilitch!" she exclaimed as she put aside a corner
of her scarf to look at him—a movement which bared her arm to the elbow.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he seated himself beside her. "Is it a
nosegay you are making?"
"Yes, for the breakfast table. Nikolai Petrovitch is so fond of such things."
"But breakfast is not yet. What a waste of flowers!"
"I know, but I gather them now because later the weather becomes too hot
for walking. This is the only time when it is possible even to breathe. The
heat makes me faint, and I am afraid of falling ill with it."

"Mere fancy. Let me feel your pulse."
He took her hand in his, and found the pulse to be beating with such
regularity that he did not trouble even to count its throbs.
"You will live to be a hundred," he said as he relinquished her wrist.
"God preserve me from that!" exclaimed she.
"Why so? Surely you would like to live a long time?"
"Yes—I should; but not for a hundred years. You see, my grandmother lived
to be eighty-five, but suffered terribly. Long before she died she had a
constant cough, and was also blind and deaf and crooked, and had become a
burden to herself. What would be the use of a life like that?"
"You think that it is better to be young?"
"I do. And why not?"
"How is it better? Tell me that."
"How is it better? Oh, as long as one is young one can do what one wants to
do—one can walk about, and carry things, and not be dependent upon other
folk. Is not that the best way?"
"I do not know. At all events I care not whether I be young or old."
"What makes you say that? Surely you cannot mean it?"
"No? Well, think of what my youth means to me. I am a lonely man, a man
without home or—"
"But all depends upon yourself."
"No, it does not. I only wish that some one would take pity upon my
loneliness!"
She glanced at him, but said nothing. After a pause she resumed:
"What is that book of yours?"
"This? It is a learned, scholarly work."
"How you study! Do you never grow tired of it? By this time, I should
think, you must know everything."
"Indeed I do not.... But try reading a few lines of the book."

"I should never understand them. Is it a Russian book?" (She took the
heavily bound volume into her hands.)
"What a large book!" she continued.
"Yes. Also, it is a Russian book."
"Nevertheless I should not be able to understand it.
"I do not want you to understand it. I merely want to be able to watch you
as you read. For when you read you twitch your little nose most
charmingly!"
She began to read aloud a page "on Creosote," but soon burst out laughing,
and replaced the book upon the bench, whence it slipped to the ground.
"I love to see you laugh," said Bazarov.
"Say no more," she interrupted.
"Also, I love to hear you speak. Your voice is like the bubbling of a brook."
She turned away her head, and fell to sorting her flowers. Presently she
resumed:
"Why do you love to hear me speak? You must have talked to many much
finer and cleverer ladies?"
"I assure you, nevertheless, that all the I fine and clever ladies' in the world
are worth less than your little finger."
"Oh, come!" And she crossed her hands.
Bazarov picked up the book.
"It is a work on medicine," he observed. "Why did you throw it away?"
"It is a work on medicine?" she re-echoed, and turned to him again. "Do
you know, ever since you gave me those capsules—you remember them, do
you not?—Mitia has slept splendidly! I can never sufficiently thank you.
You are indeed good!"
"But the physician ought to be paid his fee," remarked he with a smile.
"Doctors never do their work for nothing."
Upon this she raised her eyes. They looked all the darker for the brilliant
glare which was beating upon the upper portion of her face. As a matter of

fact, she was trying to divine whether he was speaking in earnest or in jest.
"Of course I should be delighted to pay you!" she said. "But first I must
mention the matter to Nikolai Petrovitch."
"What?" he exclaimed. "You really think it is money I want? No, I do not
require of you money."
"What, then?" she queried.
"What? Well, guess."
"How can I guess?"
"Then I must tell you. I want, I want—I want one of those roses."
She burst into a peal of laughter, and clapped her hands with delight at the
request. Yet the laughter was accompanied with a certain sense of relief.
Bazarov eyed her.
"Ah, you must excuse my laughing, Evgenii Vasilitch," she said (bending
over the seat of the bench, she fumbled among the roses). "Which sort
should you prefer? A red rose or a white one?"
"A red one, and not too large."
"Then take this one," she said, sitting up again. Yet even as she spoke she
drew back her outstretched hand, and, biting her lips, glanced in the
direction of the entrance to the arbour, and listened intently.
"What is it?" asked Bazarov. "Do you hear Nikolai Petrovitch coming?"
"No. Besides, every one has gone out to the fields. Nor do I fear any one
except Paul Petrovitch. I merely thought that, that——"
"You thought what?"
"That some one might be coming this way. It seems I was wrong. Take this
rose."
She handed Bazarov the gift.
"Why do you fear Paul Petrovitch?" he asked.
"I do so because he frightens me—when I speak to him he returns me no
answer; he just stares at me in a meaning sort of way. You, too, do not like
him, I believe? It was with him that you had such a quarrel, was it not?

What it was all about I do not know, but at least I know that you worsted
him like, like With a gesture she signified the manner in which she
considered Bazarov to have routed Paul Petrovitch.
"And, had he worsted me," he inquired, "would you have taken my part?"
"How could I? We should have agreed no better than you and he."
"You think so? Then let me tell you that a certain little hand could twist me
around its little finger."
"Whose hand is that?"
"I expect you can guess. But smell this rose which you have just given me."
She bent forward in the direction of the flower, and as she did so her scarf
slipped from her head to her shoulders, and revealed a mass of dark, soft,
fluffy, glossy hair.
"Wait," said Bazarov. "I, too, will smell the rose." And, reaching forward,
he kissed her full on her parted lips.
She started back, and pressed her hands against his breast as though to repel
him; but so weak was the act of repulsion that he found it possible to renew
and to prolong his kiss.
Suddenly there sounded from among the lilac bushes a dry cough, and just
as Thenichka darted to the other end of the bench Paul Petrovitch appeared,
bowed slightly to the pair, said with a sort of melancholy acidity in his tone:
"It is you, then?" and turned on his heel and departed. The next moment
Thenichka picked up her roses and rushed from the arbour. As she passed
Bazarov she whispered in his ear: "That was indeed wrong of you, Evgenii
Vasilitch!" And the words voiced a note of reproach that was palpably
genuine and unfeigned.
Instantly Bazarov's thoughts recurred to another scene in which he had
recently taken part, and he became conscience-stricken, as also
contemptuous of himself, and vexed. He shook his head, congratulated
himself ironically on his folly, and departed to his room.
As for Paul Petrovitch, he left the garden and walked slowly into the forest.
He remained there a considerable time; and, on returning to breakfast,

looked so dark of mien that Nikolai Petrovitch inquired anxiously whether
he were not ill.
"As you know," replied the other quietly, "I suffer habitually from
biliousness."

XXIV

Two hours later he knocked at Bazarov's door.
"I feel that I must apologise for disturbing you in your pursuits," he said as
he seated himself near the window and rested both hands upon a fine ivory-
headed cane which he had brought with him (as a rule he did not carry one).
"But the fact is that circumstances compel me to request five minutes of
your time."
"The whole of my time is at your disposal," replied Bazarov, across whose
features, as Paul Petrovitch had crossed the threshold, there had flitted a
curious expression.
"No; five minutes will be sufficient. I have come to ask you a simple
question."
"And what might that question be?"
"Listen. When first you came to stay in my brother's house, and I had not
yet been forced to deny myself the pleasure of conversing with you, it fell
to my lot to hear you hold forth on many different subjects. But, unless my
memory deceives me, never once did the conversation between you and
myself, or in my presence, happen to fall upon the subject of the duel or
single combat. Would you, therefore, mind putting yourself out to the extent
of giving me the benefit of your views on the subject mentioned?"
Bazarov, who had risen to receive his visitor, now reseated himself upon the
edge of the table, and folded his arms upon his breast.
"My views are as follows," he replied. "From the theoretical standpoint, the
duel is a sheer absurdity. From the practical standpoint, it is another matter
altogether."

"You intend to convey (if I have understood you aright?) that, apart from
your theoretical views on the duel, you would not, in practice, allow
yourself to be insulted without subsequently demanding satisfaction?"
"You have guessed my meaning precisely."
"Good! It is a view which I am indeed glad to hear you express, in that it
delivers me from a dilemma."
"You mean, from a state of indecision?"
"They are one and the same thing. I express myself in this manner to the
end that you may understand me. I am not one of your college rats.
Consequently I repeat that through your words I am relieved of the
necessity of resorting to what would have been a painful expedient. To
speak plainly, I have made up my mind to fight you."
Bazarov raised his eyebrows a little.
"To fight me?" he said.
"Yes, to fight you."
"And for what reason—if you do not mind telling me?"
"For a reason which I might explain, but concerning which I prefer to
remain silent. Suffice it for me to intimate that your presence offends me,
that I detest and despise your person, and (should the foregoing be
insufficient) that I——"
"Enough!" interrupted Bazarov. His eyes had flashed even as Paul's had
done. "Further explanations would be superfluous. You have presumed to
whet upon me your chivalrous spirit; wherefore, though I might have
refused it, I will afford you satisfaction to the top of your bent."
"I have to express to you my sincere obligation. From the first did I feel
encouraged to hope that you would accept my challenge without
constraining me to resort to more forcible measures."
"In other words, and speaking without metaphor, to that cane?" said
Bazarov in a tone of supreme indifference.
"Well, that is fair enough. Further insults are not needed—nor would you
have found the offering of them altogether free from danger. Pray, therefore,

remain a gentleman. It is as one that I accept your challenge."
"Good!" replied Paul Petrovitch; and he laid aside his cane. "Next, a few
words on the subject of the conditions of our duel. First, pray be so good as
to inform me whether or not you deem it necessary to resort to the formality
of some such small difference of opinion as might serve as an ostensible
excuse for my challenge?"
"I think that unnecessary. Such things are best done without formalities of
any kind."
"I agree—that is to say, I, like you, consider that to go into the true reasons
for our antagonism would be inexpedient. Let us therefore allege to the
world that we could not abide one another. What need would there be to say
more?"
"What indeed?" echoed Bazarov in a tone decidedly ironical.
"Also, with regard to the actual conditions of the duel. Inasmuch as we have
no seconds—for where could we find them?——"
"Quite so. Where indeed?"
"I have the honour to propose to you the following. Let us fight to-morrow
morning—say, at six o'clock: the rendezvous to be behind the copse, the
weapons to be pistols, and the distance ten paces."
"Ten paces. Quite so! You and I abhor each other even at ten paces."
"Eight, then, if you wish?"
"The same applies to eight."
"And the number of shots to be two apiece. Also, in case either of us should
fall, let each of us previously place in his pocket a letter laying upon
himself the entire blame for his demise."
"To that condition I wholly demur," said Bazarov.
"I think that you are straying into the pages of a French novel, and away
from reality."
"Possibly I am. But, also, you will agree that to incur an unmerited
suspicion of murder is a prospect not pleasant to contemplate?"

"I do. Yet still there remains another method of avoiding such an awkward
imputation. That is to say, though we shall have no seconds, we can have a
witness."
"Whom precisely, if I might ask?"
"Peter."
"Peter? What Peter?"
"Peter the valet, a man who stands at the apex of contemporary culture, and
could therefore play the rôle, and perform the functions, proper to such an
occasion pre-eminently comme il faut."
"I think that you are jesting, my good sir?"
"No, I am not. If you will deign to give my proposal consideration you will
speedily arrive at the conviction that it is as simple as it is charged with
good sense. Schiller it would be impossible to hide in a bag, but I will
undertake to prepare Peter for the part, and to bring him to the rendezvous."
"Still you are pleased to jest," said Paul Petrovitch as he rose. "But as you
have so kindly met me, I have not the right to make further claims upon
your time. All is arranged, then? In passing, have you any pistols?"
"How should I have any pistols? I am not a man of war."
"Then perhaps you will allow me to offer you some of mine? Rest assured
that they have not been fired by me for five years."
"A very comforting assurance!"
"Lastly," said Paul Petrovitch as he reached for his cane, "it only remains
for me to thank you, and to leave you to your pursuits. I have the honour to
bid you good-day."
"And I to say farewell until our pleasant meeting."
With which Bazarov escorted his visitor to the door.
Paul Petrovitch gone, Bazarov stood awhile in thought. Then he exclaimed:
"Splendid indeed! Yet also unutterably stupid! What a comedy to play! Talk
of educated dogs dancing on their hind legs!... However, I could not have
refused him, for, otherwise, he would have struck me and then"—Bazarov

turned pale, for his pride had been aroused—"well, then I should have
strangled him like a kitten!"
He returned to his microscope, but found his heart to be still beating, and
the coolness necessary to scientific observation to have disappeared.
"I suppose he saw us this morning," he continued to himself. "Yet surely he
is not doing this on his brother's behalf? For what is there in a kiss? No;
something else is in the background. Bah! What if it should be that he
himself is in love with her? Yes, that is it. It is as clear as day. What a mess!
Truly a horrible mess, however it be viewed! For first of all I am to have
my brains blown out, and then I am to be made to leave this place! And
there is Arkady to consider, and that old heifer Nikolai Petrovitch.
Awkward! Awkward indeed!"
However, the day dragged its slow length along. Thenichka remained
practically non-existent (in other words, she kept to her room as closely as a
mouse to its hole), Nikolai Petrovitch walked about with a careworn air (it
had been reported to him that mildew had begun to attack the wheat), and
Paul Petrovitch's mien of icy urbanity succeeded in damping the spirits of
Prokofitch himself.
Presently Bazarov sat down to write a letter to his father, but tore it up, and
threw the pieces under the table.
"Should I be killed," he reflected, "my parents will hear of it soon enough.
But I shall not be killed—I have yet far to wander about the world."
Next he ordered Peter to call him at dawn; and inasmuch as the order was
accompanied with a mention of important business, Peter jumped to the
conclusion that it was Bazarov's intention to take him to St. Petersburg.
Bazarov then retired to rest. Yet, late though he had done so, he was
troubled with fantastic visions. Ever before him there flitted Madame
Odintsov, who was also his mother. And ever behind her there walked a
black cat, which was also Thenichka. For his part, Paul Petrovitch figured
as a forest which the dreamer was engaged to fight.
At length, when four o'clock arrived, Peter came to rouse him. Hastily
dressing himself, he left the house with the valet. The morning was fine and
fresh, and though a few wisps of cloud were trailing across the pale-blue
transparency of the zenith, a light dew had coated the grass and foliage with

drops, and was shining like silver on spiders' webs. The steaming earth
seemed still to be seeking to detain the roseate traces of dawn in her
embrace; but presently every quarter of the sky became lit up, and
resounded again to the songs of larks.
Bazarov walked straight ahead until he reached the copse—then seated
himself at the shadowy edge of the trees, and explained to Peter the services
which he looked to the latter to perform; upon which the "cultured" menial
came near to fainting, and was calmed only with an assurance that he would
but have to stand at a distance, as a looker-on, and that in no case would
responsibility attach to his person.
"And think," Bazarov concluded, "in what an important rôle you are about
to figure!"
But Peter, extending his hands deprecatingly, only turned up his eyes,
became green in the face, and went and leant against a birch tree.
The copse was skirted by the road from Marino, and the light coating of
dust bore no mark of having been disturbed since the previous evening,
whether by wheel or by foot. Involuntarily Bazarov kept glancing along this
road as, plucking and chewing stems of grass, he repeated again and again
to himself: "What a piece of folly!" More than once, too, the morning air
made him shiver, and Peter gaze plaintively in his direction; but Bazarov
only laughed, for he at least was no coward.
At length hoofs sounded along the road, and there came into sight from
behind the trees a peasant driving two horses with traces attached. As the
man passed Bazarov he looked at him inquisitively, but failed to doff his
cap; and this circumstance impressed Peter unfavourably, since the valet
considered it a bad omen.
"Like ourselves, that peasant has risen early," thought Bazarov. "But
whereas he has risen to work, we——!"
"Some one else is coming, I believe," whispered Peter.
Bazarov raised his head, and saw Paul Petrovitch, in a light check jacket
and a pair of snow-white trousers, walking briskly along the road. Under his
arm was a green, baize-covered box.

"Pardon me for having kept you waiting," he said with a bow to Bazarov,
and then one to Peter (for even to the latter he, for the nonce, seemed to
accord something of the respect due to a second). "As a matter of fact, I was
loth to arouse my valet."
"I beg that you will not mention it," replied Bazarov. "We ourselves have
only just arrived."
"So much the better!" And Paul Petrovitch glanced about him. "There will
be no one to see us or disturb us. Are you agreeable to proceeding?"
"Quite."
"And I presume that you require no further explanations?"
"None whatsoever."
"Then kindly load these." Paul Petrovitch took from the box a brace of
pistols.
"No. Do you load, while I measure the distance—my legs are longer than
yours." This last Bazarov added with a dry smile. "Now, one, two, three
——"
"I beg your pardon, sir," gasped Peter, who was trembling as with ague. "I
beg your pardon, but might I move further away?"
"Four, five—— Certainly, my good fellow! Pray do so. You can go and
stand behind that tree there, and stop your ears—provided that you do not
also stop your eyes. Lastly, should either Monsieur Kirsanov or myself fall,
you are to run and pick up the fallen. Six, seven, eight——" Bazarov
halted. "That will do, I suppose?" he added to Paul Petrovitch. "Or would
you prefer me to add another couple of paces?"
"Do as you please," the other replied as he rammed home the second of the
two bullets.
"Then I will add those two paces." And Bazarov scratched a line in the soil
with his toe. "Here is the mark. Apropos, how many paces is each of us to
retire from our respective marks?"
"Ten, I presume," said Paul Petrovitch as he proffered Bazarov a brace of
pistols. "Will you kindly make choice of these?"

"I will. Nevertheless you will agree that our duel is singular, even to the
point of absurdity? For pray observe the countenance of our second!"
"It is still your pleasure to jest," Paul Petrovitch responded coldly. "Of the
singularity of our contest I make no denial. I merely consider it my duty to
warn you that I intend to right you in grim earnest. So, à bon entendeur,
salut!"
"Yet, even though we intend to exterminate one another, why should we not
enjoy our jest, and thus combine utile with dulce? You have spoken to me in
French. I reply in Latin."
"I repeat that I intend to fight you in grim earnest," said Paul Petrovitch;
with which he moved to his place, and Bazarov, after counting ten paces
from his mark, turned, and halted.
"Are you ready?" inquired Paul Petrovitch.
"I am."
"Then engage."
Bazarov started to advance, and Paul Petrovitch did the same, with his left
hand thrust into his coat pocket, and his right gradually elevating the
muzzle of his pistol.
"The fellow is aiming straight for my nose," thought Bazarov to himself.
"And how the rascal is screwing up his eyes as he marches! This is not a
wholly pleasing sensation. I had better keep my eyes fixed upon his watch-
chain."
Past Bazarov's ear something suddenly whistled, while almost at the same
moment there came the sound of a report.
"I seemed to hear something, but no matter," was the thought which flashed
through Bazarov's brain. Then he advanced another step, and, without
aiming, pulled the trigger.
As he did so Paul Petrovitch gave a faint start, and clapped his hand to his
thigh, down the white trouser-leg of which there began to trickle a thin
stream of blood.
Bazarov threw aside his pistol and approached his antagonist.

"Are you wounded?" he inquired.
"Pray recall me to the mark," said Paul Petrovitch. "You have the right so to
do, and we are merely wasting time. The conditions of the contest allow of
a second shot apiece."
"Pardon me, that can be deferred," said Bazarov, catching hold of Paul
Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale in the face. "I am no longer a
duellist, but a doctor, and must examine your wound. Peter! Here! Where
the devil has the man got to?"
"This is sheer folly," gasped Paul Petrovitch. "I need no help. Let us——"
Yet, even as he tried to twirl his moustache, his arm fell to his side, his eyes
closed, and he collapsed in a swoon.
"Something new!" involuntarily cried Bazarov as he laid his antagonist
upon the grass. "A swoon! Let us see what is the matter with him."
Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he wiped away the blood, and probed
the neighbourhood of the wound.
"The bone is intact," he muttered. "Yes, and the bullet has merely pierced
the flesh a little below the surface. Nothing but the musculus vastus
externus is so much as touched. In three weeks' time we shall have him
trotting about again. A swoon! Oh these men of nerves! What thin skins, to
be sure!"
"Is—is he dead?" came in Peter's tremulous voice from behind.
Bazarov looked up.
"No," he said. "Run for a little water, and he will outlive us both."
Unfortunately the "perfect servant" did not understand what was said to
him, but remained stock still. In fact, even when, the next moment, Paul
Petrovitch opened his eyes Peter went on crossing himself and repeating:
"He is dying!"
"Monsieur Bazarov," the wounded man said with a twisted smile, "you were
perfectly in the right when you said that the face of that man was the face of
a fool."
"It is so," agreed Bazarov. "Damn you, will you fetch some water!" (The
latter to the valet.)

"There is no need," put in Paul Petrovitch. "It was only a passing vertigo.
Kindly assist me to sit up. That is it. A scratch like this will require only to
be bandaged for me to walk home again. There will be no necessity to have
the drozhki sent. For that matter, the duel need not be renewed unless you
wish it. At least to-day you have acted like a gentleman. Kindly note that I
have said so."
"To the past we have no need to refer," said Bazarov. "And, as regards the
future, it calls for equally little remark, seeing that I intend to leave here at
once. Allow me to bind your leg. The wound is not dangerous, but one of a
nature which will make it as well to have the blood staunched. But first I
must restore that stuck pig to life."
Shaking Peter vigorously by the collar, he dispatched him in search of the
drozhki.
"But see that you do not alarm my brother," was Paul Petrovitch's injunction
also to the man. "You are not to breathe a word of what has happened."
Peter set off at full speed. During the time that he was hastening for the
drozhki, the two antagonists sat silently side by side on the ground, while
Paul Petrovitch tried his best not to look at Bazarov, for the reason that he
did not feel inclined to become reconciled with him, while at the same time
he felt ashamed alike of his impulsiveness, his failure, and the scheme
which had had this ending, though he realised that it might have been
worse.
"At least will the fellow swagger here no more," he thought to himself by
way of consolation. "And, for that, much thanks!"
The silence was a heavy, awkward silence, for neither of the pair felt
comfortable—each of them recognised that the other had taken his measure.
To friends, such a recognition may be very agreeable, but to foes it is far
from welcome—least of all, when neither explanations nor a parting are
feasible.
"I hope that I have not bound your leg too tightly?" said Bazarov at last.
"Oh no," replied Paul Petrovitch. "As a matter of fact, it is doing
splendidly." After a pause he added: "But we cannot deceive my brother.
How would it be if we were to tell him that we fell out over politics?"

"Capital!" agreed Bazarov. "Tell him, for instance, that I started cursing
Anglomaniacs."
"A good idea! But what can that man be thinking of us? I cannot imagine."
The speaker pointed to the same peasant who, shortly before the duel, had
driven a pair of loose horses past Bazarov, and was now shuffling
homewards, while doffing his cap at the sight of the gentlemen.
"Who can say?" replied Bazarov. "Probably he is thinking of nothing at all.
As Madame Radcliffe[1] frequently reminds us, the Russian muzhik is an
unknown quantity. Does any one understand him? He does not even
understand himself."
"There you go again!" began Paul Petrovitch, but suddenly broke off to say
in a still louder tone: "See what that fool Peter has done! Here comes my
brother himself!"
Sure enough, on turning his head, Bazarov saw Nikolai Petrovitch's pale
face peering from the drozhki. Nor had the vehicle come to a halt before
Nikolai had sprung from the step, and rushed towards his brother.
"What is this?" he cried in agitated accents. "Evgenii Vasilitch, I beg of you
to tell me what has happened."
"Nothing has happened," replied Paul Petrovitch in Bazarov's stead. "You
are disturbing yourself to no purpose. I had a small quarrel with Monsieur
Bazarov, and have paid a penalty as small."
"But whence did it arise? For God's sake tell me!"
"What is there to say? It arose from the fact that Monsieur Bazarov spoke in
disrespectful terms of Sir Robert Peel. I would hasten to add that,
throughout, I alone was at fault, and that Monsieur Bazarov bore himself
admirably—I being the challenger."
"But look at the blood!"
"Pshaw! Did you suppose my veins to run with water? As a matter of fact,
the blood-letting will do me good. Is not that so, doctor? Help me to mount
the drozhki, and away with melancholy! By to-morrow I shall be recovered.
Splendid! That is the way to do it. Right away, coachman!"

When on the point of starting homewards in the wake of the drozhki,
Nikolai Petrovitch perceived Bazarov to be for remaining behind.
"Evgenii Vasilitch," he said, "I would beg of you to attend my brother until
a doctor can be procured from the town."
Bazarov nodded in silence.
An hour later Paul Petrovitch was reposing in bed with his leg neatly and
artistically bandaged. The whole house was in a turmoil, Thenichka greatly
upset, and Nikolai able to do nothing but wring his hands. The sick man, on
the contrary, laughed and jested, especially with Bazarov, and, to meet the
occasion, had donned a fine linen shirt, an elegant morning jacket, and a
Turkish fez. Lastly, he forbade any one to close the shutters, and kept
venting humorous protests against the necessity of abstaining from food.
Towards nightfall, however, fever supervened, and his head began to ache;
with the result that when the doctor arrived from the town (Nikolai
Petrovitch had disobeyed his brother in this respect, and Bazarov also had
consented to his doing so, in that, after paying the patient a single visit, and
that a very brief one, and being put to the mortification of having to avoid
Thenichka on two occasions when he met her, he had felt that he preferred
to spend the rest of the day in loneliness, bitterness, and rancour)—when
the doctor arrived from the town he advised a cooling draught, but at the
same time confirmed Bazarov's opinion that no danger was to be
apprehended. In passing, it may also be mentioned that, on being informed
by Nikolai Petrovitch that Paul Petrovitch's wound had been self-inflicted
through an accident, the said doctor replied "H'm!"; to which, on receiving
into his hand a fee of twenty-five roubles, he added that of course things of
the kind often occurred.
No one in the house, that night, retired to bed, or even undressed, but at
intervals Nikolai Petrovitch would tiptoe into his brother's room, and as
silently withdraw. At intervals, too, Paul Petrovitch would awake from a
doze, sigh faintly, and say to Nikolai either "Couchez-vous" or "Please give
me a drink." But once it happened that Nikolai sent the invalid a glass of
lemonade by the hand of Thenichka; and this time Paul Petrovitch scanned
her long and searchingly before draining the tumbler to the dregs. Towards
morning the fever increased a little, and a trace of lightheadedness made its
appearance which for a while caused the patient only to utter disconnected

words. But suddenly he opened his eyes, and, on seeing his brother bending
solicitously over the bed, murmured:
"Nikolai, do not you think that Thenichka slightly resembles Nelly?"
"What Nelly, Paul? Who is Nelly?"
"How can you ask? The Princess R., of course. In the upper portion of the
face especially Thenichka resembles her. C'est de la même famille."
Nikolai Petrovitch made no reply. He could only remain lost in wonder that
bygone fancies could so survive in the human consciousness.
"That this should have cropped up again!" he reflected.
On another occasion Paul Petrovitch muttered as he clasped his hands
behind his head: "How I love this idle existence!" And again, a few minutes
later, he whispered: "I will not allow a single rascal to touch me!"
Nikolai Petrovitch sighed. To whom the words referred he had not a notion.
At eight o'clock next morning Bazarov entered Nikolai's room. His stock of
insects, birds, and frogs had either been packed up or liberated.
Rising to meet him, Nikolai said:
"So you have come to say good-bye?"
"I have."
"I understand your feelings, and I commend them. I know that my poor
brother alone was to blame, and is now paying the penalty. Also, I gather
from what he says that your position was such that you could not possibly
have acted otherwise than as you did—that for you to have avoided this
duel would have been impossible. That being so, we must attribute the
mischance to the—er—standing antagonism of your views" (here Nikolai
Petrovitch tripped over his words a little). "My brother is one of the old
school, a man of hot temper and great persistency. Consequently we have
God to thank that things have turned out no worse. Finally I may say that
every possible precaution against publicity has been taken."
"Quite so," said Bazarov carelessly. "But I will leave my address with you,
in case of anything occurring."

"I hope that nothing will occur. Indeed, my one regret is that your stay in
my house should have—should have terminated in such a fashion. And I am
the more grieved in that Arkady—-"
"I expect to be seeing him very soon," interrupted Bazarov, whom
"explanations" or "speeches" of any kind always roused to fever pitch. "On
the other hand, should I not do so, pray convey to him my greetings and my
regrets."
"I will," said Nikolai Petrovitch with a bow; but even before he had finished
Bazarov had left the room.
Paul Petrovitch, too, as soon as he heard that Bazarov was on the point of
departing, expressed a desire to see him, and to shake hands with him. Yet
Bazarov remained as cold as ice, for well he knew that Paul Petrovitch's
only aim was to make a show of "magnanimity," while to Thenichka he did
not say good-bye at all—he merely exchanged with her a glance as she
peeped from one of the windows. Her face looked to him careworn.
"Before long she will either trip or elope," he reflected.
On the other hand, Peter was so moved at the prospect of parting with his
patron that he wept on the latter's shoulder until his transports were cooled
with the question: "Surely your eyes are not made of water?" while
Duniasha's emotion was such that she had to take refuge in a thicket.
Meanwhile the cause of all this grief mounted the travelling-cart, and lit a
cigar; and even when he had travelled four versts, and reached a spot where
a turn in the road brought the Kirsanov farm into line with the new manor-
house, he merely expectorated some tobacco juice, and muttered, as he
wrapped himself closer in his cloak: "The cursed tomnoddies!"
Thenceforth Paul Petrovitch began to mend, but still was ordered to keep
his bed for another week. What he called his "imprisonment" he bore with
very fair patience, although he remained fussy in the matter of his toilet,
and constantly had himself sprinkled with eau-de-Cologne. Meanwhile
Nikolai Petrovitch read aloud to him the newspapers, and Thenichka served
him with soup, lemonade, scrambled eggs, and tea. Yet she never entered
the room without feeling a mysterious nervousness come over her. Paul
Petrovitch's unexpected behaviour had frightened every one in the house,
but her it had frightened most of all. Only old Prokofitch seemed

undismayed at the occurrence, and kept asserting that, in his day, "the
gentry used to bore holes in one another right enough, but only the gentry.
Jackanapes like that Bazarov would have been ducked in the gutter for their
pains."
Thenichka felt little pricking of conscience, but there were times when the
thought of the true cause of the quarrel rendered her at least uneasy, and the
more so because Paul Petrovitch's way of looking at her was now so strange
that, even when she turned her back to him, she could still feel his eyes
upon her. In combination, therefore, her worries led to her growing thinner,
and also (as often happens in such circumstances) to her adding to her
beauty.
At length, one morning, Paul Petrovitch felt so much better that he left his
bed, and removed to the sofa; while Nikolai Petrovitch, after seeing that he
had all he wanted, betook himself to the farm. Also, it fell to Thenichka's lot
to take the invalid a cup of tea; and when she had placed it on the table, she
was about to withdraw, when Paul Petrovitch requested her to remain.
"Why should you hurry away?" he said. "Is it that you have other things to
do?"
"No—yes. That is to say, I have to go and pour out tea for the servants."
"Duniasha can do that. Surely you will stay awhile with a sick man who has
something of great importance to say to you?"
Silently she seated herself on the edge of a chair.
"Listen," he continued, as he tugged at his moustache.
"For some time past I have been wanting to ask you why you are so afraid
of me?"
"Afraid of you?"
"Yes; for you never look at me. In fact, one would think that your
conscience was uneasy."
Her face reddened, but she looked Paul Petrovitch straight in the eyes.
Somehow his aspect struck her as peculiar, and her heart began to throb.
"Is your conscience clear?" he asked.

"Yes, Why should it not be?" she responded in a whisper.
"I do not know. Certainly I can recall no one against whom you can have
committed a fault. Against me? It is scarcely probable. Against others in
this house? That is as improbable. Against my brother? But him you love,
do you not?"
"I do."
"With your whole heart and soul?"
"With my whole heart and soul."
"Really and truly, Thenichka?" (never before had he addressed her thus).
"Look me in the eyes. To lie is a terrible sin. You know that, of course?"
"But I am not lying, Paul Petrovitch. Did I not love Nikolai Petrovitch, I
should not want to live."
"And you would exchange him for no one else?"
"Whom should I exchange him for?"
"I do not know. Surely not for the gentlemen who has just left us?"
Thenichka rose to her feet.
"Why should you torment me in this way?" she cried. "What have I done
that you should speak to me so?"
"Thenichka," came the mournful reply, "I speak to you in this manner for
the reason that I saw——"
"You saw what?"
"I saw you—in the lilac arbour."
She blushed to her ears, to the very roots of her hair.
"But how was I to blame?" at length she contrived to say.
Paul Petrovitch raised himself on the sofa.
"You swear, do you, that you were not to blame?" he said. "That you were
not in the slightest degree to blame? Not at all?"
"I love Nikolai Petrovitch," came the reply, delivered with sudden energy
and a rising sob, "and never shall I love any other man. As for what you

saw, before the Throne of Judgment I swear that I am innocent, that I have
always been so, and that I would rather die than be suspected of having
deceived Nikolai Petrovitch, my benefactor."
Her voice failed her. Then, behold! she felt Paul seize and press her hand!
Turning her head, she looked down at him—and stood almost petrified. For
his face was even paler than usual, his eyes were glistening, and—most
surprising thing of all!—a great tear was trickling down his cheek!
"Thenichka," he whispered in a voice which hardly seemed his own, "I beg
of you always to love, and never to cease loving, my brother. He is such a
good, kind fellow as has not his equal in the world. Never desert him for
another; never listen to any tales which you may hear of him, but reflect
how terrible it would be for him to love and not to be loved! Yes, think well,
Thenichka, before ever you forsake him."
Thenichka's amazement caused her eyes almost to start from her head, and
her nervousness completely to vanish. Judge, also, of her surprise when,
though he did not draw her to himself, nor kiss her, Paul Petrovitch raised
her hand to his lips, and then burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing!
"God in Heaven!" she thought to herself. "What if this should make him
have another fainting fit?"
Meanwhile, in that one moment Paul Petrovitch was living over again a past
phase of his ruined life.
Presently hurried footsteps were heard causing the staircase to creak; and
just as Paul pushed Thenichka away from him and replaced his head upon
the pillow, the door opened, and Nikolai Petrovitch—fresh, ruddy, and
smiling—entered with little Mitia. The latter, equally fresh and ruddy, was
leaping in Nikolai's arms, and pressing his tiny, naked feet against the
buttons of his father's rural smock.
Running to father and child, Thenichka threw her arms around both alike,
and sank her head upon the former's shoulder. This caused him to halt in
amazement, for never before had the bashful, reserved Thenichka shown
him any endearment in the presence of a third person.
"What is the matter?" he exclaimed. Then he glanced at Paul, handed Mitia
to Thenichka, and, approaching the bedside, inquired if his brother were
worse.

Paul's face was buried in his handkerchief, but he replied:
"Oh dear no. Not at all. If anything, I am better—yes, very much better."
"Nevertheless you have been over-hasty in removing to the sofa," said
Nikolai Petrovitch; after which he turned to ask Thenichka why she was
leaving the room, but she departed abruptly, and closed the door behind her.
"I had come to show you my little rascal," Nikolai continued. "He had been
pining for a sight of his uncle. But she has carried him away for some
reason. What is the matter? Has something occurred?"
"My brother," replied Paul Petrovitch—and as he uttered the words Nikolai
Petrovitch gave a start, and felt ill at ease, he knew not why. "My brother,
pray give me your word of honour that you will fulfil the request which I
am going to make."
"What request, Paul? I beg of you to continue."
"A request of the first importance. Upon it, I believe, your entire happiness
depends. Also, what I am going to say represents the fruit of much thought.
My brother, the request is that you will do your duty, the duty of a good and
honourable man. In other words, I beseech you to put an end to this scandal
and bad example, which is unworthy of you, unworthy of a man who is the
best of souls."
"To what do you refer, Paul?"
"To this. You ought to marry Thenichka. She loves you, and is the mother
of your child."
Stepping back, Nikolai Petrovitch clasped his hands together.
"Do you say this?" he exclaimed. "Do you say this—you whom I have
always understood to be opposed to such unions? Do you say this? Surely
you know that solely out of respect for yourself have I hitherto refrained
from doing what rightfully you call my duty?"
"Wrongfully, then, have you respected me," said Paul Petrovitch with a sad
smile. "In fact, almost I am beginning to think that Bazarov was right when
he accused me of only feigning the aristocratic instinct. For it is not enough
for you and me to trouble ourselves about worldly matters alone. We are old
men past our prime, who ought to lay aside all pettinesses, and to fulfil

strictly our obligations. Nor forget that, should we thus act, we shall receive
an added measure of happiness as our reward."
Nikolai Petrovitch flung himself upon his brother, and embraced him again
and again.
"You have opened my eyes," he cried. "When I described you as the best
man in the world I was not wrong: and now I perceive your wisdom to be
equal to your magnanimity."
"Quieter, quieter!" advised Paul. "Do not further inflame the leg of an old
fool who, at fifty, has fought a duel like a young ensign. Then the matter is
settled, and Thenichka is to become my belle-soeur?"
"Yes, my dearest Paul. But what will Arkady say?"
"Arkady? He will be delighted. True, marriage does not come within his
purview or principles, but at least his sense of social equality will be
tickled. And, in the nineteenth century, what does caste matter?"
"Paul, Paul, let me embrace you once more. You need not be afraid. I will
do it very carefully." And the two brothers flung their arms around one
another.
"Well?" continued Paul Petrovitch. "What think you? Shall we tell her at
once?"
"No, we need not be in too much of a hurry," replied Nikolai Petrovitch.
"As a matter of fact, you have been having a talk with her, have you not?"
"I have been having a talk with her? Quelle idée!"
"However, your first business is to recover. Thenichka will not run away,
and in the meanwhile the affair must be carefully considered."
"Then you have decided upon it?"
"Certainly I have! And I thank you with all my heart. But I must leave you
for a while now, for you ought to have some rest, and any excitement is bad
for you. Matters can be discussed later. Go to sleep, dearest of brothers, and
may God restore you to health!"
"Why did he thank me?" thought Paul Petrovitch to himself after Nikolai
had gone." Does not the affair depend upon him alone, seeing that, after the

marriage, I myself shall have to depart elsewhere—to Dresden or to
Florence, and to abide there until I die?"
He bathed his forehead with eau-de-Cologne, and then closed his eyes. As
he lay with his handsome, refined head resting on the pillow, he looked, in
the clear light of the sun, like a corpse.
[1] Ann Radcliffe, née Ward (1764-1823), an English novelist who wrote The
Mysteries of Udolpho and other tales, and travelled extensively.

XXV

In the shade of a tall ash tree in the garden at Nikolsköe Katia and Arkady
were seated on a bench. Beside them, on the ground, lay Fifi—his lengthy
body twisted into the curve known to sporting folk as "the hare's crouch."
Neither from Arkady nor from Katia was a word proceeding. Arkady was
holding in his hands a half-opened book, and she was picking a few crumbs
from a basket, and throwing them to a small family of sparrows which, with
the timid temerity of their tribe, were chirping and hopping at her very feet.
A faint breeze was stirring the leaves of the ash tree, and dappling Fifi's
tawny back and the dark line of the pathway with a number of wavering
circles of pale golden light; but Arkady and Katia were wholly in shade,
save that an occasional streak glanced upon, and gleamed in, her hair. Just
for the reason that the pair were silent and side by side was there present to
their consciousness a camaraderie which, while causing neither to have the
other definitely in mind, pleased each with the sense of the other's
propinquity. The expression of both is changed since last we saw them.
Arkady's face wears a staider air, and Katia looks more animated and less
retiring.
At length, however, Arkady spoke.
"Do you not think," he said, "that our Russian term yasen is particularly
suitable to the ash tree? For no other tree cleaves the air with such airy
brightness."[1] Katia looked up.

"I agree," she replied, while Arkady proudly reflected: "At all events she
does not reprove me for talking in 'beautiful language.'"
"By the way," Katia continued with a glance at the book in his hands, "I
cannot say that I always approve of Heine. I like him neither when he is
laughing nor when he is in tears—I like him only when he is meditative and
languid."
"Well, I like him when he is laughing," Arkady remarked.
"Then still there survives in you a trace of your old satirical tendency. Still
your reformation needs to be completed."
"Indeed?" thought Arkady. "My satirical tendency? Oh, that Bazarov could
have heard that!"
While aloud he said:
"Who is 'we'? Yourself?"
"Oh dear no! My sister, and Porfiri Platonitch, with whom you no longer
quarrel, and my aunt, whom, three days ago, you escorted to church."
"I did so only because I could not refuse. And as regards Anna Sergievna,
kindly remember that, in many things, she agrees with Bazarov."
"Yes, she used to be greatly under his influence, and so did you."
"And so did I? Then am I now emancipated from that influence?"
Katia returned no reply.
"I know that you never liked him," Arkady continued.
"Did I not? It was not for me to judge him."
"Never do I hear that reply without declining to believe it. There is not a
person living whom all of us have not the right to judge. A disclaimer of
that kind always represents an excuse."
"To tell the truth, I disliked him less than I felt him to be a stranger to me—
as complete a one as I to him—or you either, for that matter."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that—well, how can I express it? That, whereas he was a wild bird,
you and I are tame ones."

"I am a tame one?"
Katia nodded assent. Arkady scratched his ear.
"Look here," he said. "I may tell you that that constitutes, in essence, an
insult."
"Why so? Do you want to be a wild bird?"
"Not necessarily a wild one, but at least one strong and energetic."
"You need wish no such thing. Your friend was both, yet he would rather
have been otherwise.
"H'm! You believe that he used to exercise a considerable influence over
Anna Sergievna?"
"Yes. But no one can hold a rein over her for long." Katia added this last
sotto voce.
"What makes you think that?"
"The fact that she is very proud—rather, that she values her independence."
"Who does not?" queried Arkady, while there flashed through his mind the
thought: "Why this mention of her?" Curiously enough, the same thought
occurred to Katia too. But this was not so curious as might have been
supposed, seeing that when young people meet in frequent and amicable
converse, identical thoughts are apt to enter their brains.
Arkady smiled, edged nearer to Katia, and said in a whisper: "Confess that
you are a little afraid of her."
"Of whom?"
"Of her" repeated Arkady meaningly.
"Are you afraid of her?" countered Katia.
"I am. Please note that I believe you to be the same."
Katia raised a menacing finger.
"I am surprised at you!" she exclaimed. "Never at any time has my sister
been better disposed towards you than she is now. She likes you
considerably more than when you first came."

"Really?"
"Yes. And have you not noticed it? You ought to be pleased at the notion."
Arkady reflected.
"How I have contrived to win Anna Sergievna's good graces I do not know,"
at length he said. "Surely it cannot be because I brought her those letters
which were written by your mother?"
"It is, though, and because of other reasons as well—reasons which I will
forbear to mention."
"Why will you?"
"Because I will."
"Oh, I know your faculty for obstinacy."
"It is one which I possess."
"Also, your faculty for observing things."
Katia glanced at him. Then she inquired:
"Why lose your temper? What are you thinking of?"
"This: that I cannot understand how you come to possess those powers of
observation which undoubtedly are yours. I understand it the less because
you are so nervous and distrustful and shy of everybody and——"
"It is because I have lived such a lonely life. A life of that kind leads one to
reflect in spite of oneself. Am I shy of every one, though?"
Arkady bestowed upon her an appreciative glance.
"Never mind," he said. "At all events it is not often that people in your
position—I mean, people of your wealth—possess such a gift. To them, as
to the Tsars, truth penetrates hardly."
"But I am not wealthy."
Arkady failed at first to follow her meaning, but reflected: "Certainly the
property belongs to her sister, not to her." Nor was the thought wholly
unpleasing—so little so that presently he added:
"You said that very prettily."

"I said what?"
"That you are not wealthy. You said it so simply, so without any false
shame, so without the least arrière pensée. Apropos, the consciousness of
the ordinary person who both knows and confesses that he or she is poor
always seems to me to contain more than the mere words imply—it
harbours also a touch of vanity."
"I have, thanks to my sister, had no experience of poverty. And as for my
possessions, I mentioned them only because the words came of themselves
to my lips."
"Quite so. Yet confess that you too harbour a grain of the vanity to which I
have alluded."
"Give me an example of my doing so."
"An example? Well, may I ask why you have not married a rich man?"
"Were I to love such a one very much, I——But no man of that sort has
come my way: wherefore I have made no such marriage."
"There, now!" cried Arkady. "But why should you not do so in the future?"
"Because even the poets deprecate mésalliances."
"You mean that you wish either to rule or——?"
"Oh no! What good would that be? On the contrary, I am prepared to be
ruled, even though I believe that inequality in any form works badly. A
union of self-respect with submission—that is what I best understand, that
is what spells true happiness. A mere subordinate existence is—well,
something which I do not fancy."
"'Something which I do not fancy,'" commented Arkady. "Yes, you are of
the same blood as Anna Sergievna: you are as independent as she, and you
are even more secretive. In fact, however deep-rooted and sacred a stock of
sentiments you might hold, you would never, of your own accord, give
them utterance."
"Of course! How could you suppose anything else?"
"Also, you are clever, and have a measure of character equal to, if not
greater than, hers."

"I dislike being compared with my sister. You seem to have forgotten that
she is both 'beautiful' and 'intellectual' and—— Moreover, you, above all
people, ought not to say anything to her disparagement, and still less to say
it seriously."
"Why 'you, above all people'? Do you think that I am jesting?"
"I am certain of it."
"Indeed? But what if I were to say that I really mean my words? What if I
were to say that, if anything, I have under-expressed what is in my mind?"
"I fail to follow you."
"Do you? Your quickness of perception has been overrated."
"Why has it?"
Averting his head, Arkady returned no reply, while Katia fell to searching
for the last crumbs in her basket, and throwing them to the sparrows.
Unfortunately, the throw of her arm proved too strong, and the birds flew
away without even touching the food offered them.
"Katia," said Arkady, "it may be that you look upon these things as matters
of no moment. Kindly note, therefore, that neither for your sister nor for
any other person would I exchange Mademoiselle Katerina Sergievna."
Rising, he walked away as though in sudden alarm at having allowed the
words to escape his lips. Meanwhile Katia, with her hands resting upon the
basket and her head bent, gazed after him. Gradually there crept into her
cheeks a rosy tint; and though her lips were not smiling, and her dark eyes
contained a hint of perplexity, there lurked also in her expression another
unexpressed feeling.
"Are you alone?" said Anna Sergievna's voice from behind her. "I thought
that Arkady came with you into the garden?"
Katia slowly raised her eyes to her sister (tastefully, and even showily,
dressed, the latter was standing on the path, and engaged in stirring Fin's
ears with the point of an open parasol), and as slowly replied:
"Yes—I am alone."

"So I see," commented Madame with a smile. "He has gone indoors, I
suppose?"
"Probably."
"And you have been reading with him?"
"I have."
Anna Sergievna took Katia under the chin, and raised her face towards her
own.
"You have not quarrelled, I hope?" she said.
"Oh no," said Katia, and quietly put away her sister's hand.
"What solemn replies! Well, I came here to propose a walk, since he is
always asking me to go one. But, to pass to another subject, some shoes
have arrived for you from the town, so you had better go and try them on.
Only yesterday I was noticing how shabby your old ones are. In general,
you do not take sufficient pains in such matters, for you have charming feet,
and also not ugly hands, even though a trifle too large. You ought to take
care of your feet. When you are here you do not do so sufficiently."
Madame passed onwards with a light rustle of her handsome gown, while
Katia rose from the bench, and, taking the volume of Heine, departed in
another direction—though not to try on the boots.
"'You have charming feet,'" she repeated to herself as she tripped up the
sun-baked steps of the terrace. "'You have charming feet.' Well, before long
some one shall be at them."
Confusion then overcame her, and she took the remaining steps at a bound.
Meanwhile Arkady made for his room. As he was passing through the hall
he was overtaken by the butler, and informed that Monsieur Bazarov was
awaiting him above.
"Evgenii Vasilitch?" exclaimed Arkady in a tone very much as of alarm.
"Has he been here long?"
"A few minutes only. He instructed me not to announce him to Madame but
to take him straight to your room."

"I hope that nothing unfortunate has occurred at home," reflected Arkady as
he ran up the stairs and opened the door of the bedroom. But the first sight
of Bazarov's face reassured him, even though a more experienced eye might
have detected in the features of the unlooked-for guest certain signs that
inward turmoil underlay their usual rigidity. Clad in a dust cloak and a
travelling cap, he was seated on the window-sill, and did not rise even
when, rushing towards him with exclamations of astonishment, and fussing
to and fro like a man who believes himself to be overjoyed, as well as
desires other people to believe it, Arkady cried:
"What a surprise! What has brought you here? Surely everything at home is
well, and all are in good health?"
"Everything at your home is well," said Bazarov; "but all are not in good
health. However, if your brains are not hopelessly wandering, first tell them
to bring me some kvass, and then sit down and listen to my few but, I hope,
well-chosen words."
This quieted Arkady, and upon that Bazarov told him of the duel with Paul
Petrovitch. The recital finished, Arkady stood amazed, as well as distressed.
But this he did not think it necessary to state—he merely inquired whether
his uncle's wound were really a harmless one, and, on receiving the reply
that it was of a nature uninteresting from every but the medical point of
view, forced a smile. Yet all the while he felt secretly hurt, and also secretly
ashamed. This Bazarov seemed to divine.
"See," he said, "what comes of consorting with feudal folk! Should one's lot
be cast among them, inevitably one gets drawn into their knightly tourneys.
Being on my way to my parents' place, I have turned aside to But no; I will
not be guilty of a foolish and useless lie. The real reason why I have turned
aside is that—oh, the devil only knows why! Times there are when a man
ought to take himself by the scruff of the neck, and uproot himself like a
radish from a garden border. That is what I did when I was last here. But,
since, a longing has come upon me to take just another peep at all that I
then forsook—to view once more the border where I used to grow."
"By the words 'all that I then forsook' I hope that you do not mean myself as
well?" cried Arkady anxiously. "Do not say that you intend to sever me also
from your friendship?"

Bazarov looked at him. He did so fixedly, almost sharply.
"Would the eventuality distress you?" he inquired. "Rather, it is you who
have forsaken me, O verdant and transparent soul. Inter alia, I hope that
your affair with Anna Sergievna is progressing?"
"My 'affair with Anna Sergievna'?"
"For her sake, was it not, you came hither from the town? Ah, tender young
chicken of mine, what about those Sunday Schools? Come, come! Do not
tell me that you are not in love with her. Or have you at last learnt to be
secretive?"
"Always I have been frank with you, as you know; wherefore pray believe
me when I say—I call God to witness that it is true—that your surmises are
mistaken."
"Truly a new song!" remarked Bazarov sotto voce.
"But do not disturb yourself: it is all one to me. Certainly, a Romanticist
would have said: 'Our roads are beginning to diverge'; but I say no more
than that clearly we have no further use for one another."
"Oh, Evgenii!"
"Dear lad, it is no misfortune. At all times is something in the world finding
out that it has no use for something else. So we must say good-bye. Ever
since I arrived in this place I have been feeling as uncomfortable as a
Governor's lady when she hears a work of Gogol's read aloud. In fact, I did
not order my horses to be unharnessed."
"But you cannot act like this!"
"Why not?"
"Because, apart from my own feelings, such a speedy departure would be
the height of rudeness to Anna Sergievna. I know that she would like to see
you."
"No, she would not."
"I am positive that she would. Why pretend like this? Are you going to say
that it is not for her sake alone that you are here?"
"You have grounds for that surmise, yet I say that you are wrong."

But Arkady proved to be right, for Anna Sergievna really desired to see
Bazarov, and, through the butler, sent him word to that effect. After tidying
his costume, therefore, and tucking his new great-coat under his arm (in
readiness to depart as soon as the interview should be concluded), he went
downstairs, and was received, not in the room where he had unexpectedly
disclosed his passion, but in the drawing-room. Anna Sergievna's manner,
as she offered him the tips of her fingers, was pleasant enough, yet her face
betrayed involuntary tension.
"To begin with," Bazarov hastened to say, "allow me to reassure you. You
see before you a corpse which has long returned to its senses, and is also
not destitute of hope that others have forgotten its folly. I am unlikely to see
you again for an extended period, but, though (as you know) I am not given
to sentiment, I feel that I should like to bear away with me the thought that
my image still fills your mind with aversion."
She caught at her breath like a person who has just arrived at the summit of
a lofty mountain. Then her face lightened into a smile, and, offering
Bazarov her hand a second time, she allowed it to respond to the pressure of
his.
"When sorrow is asleep, do not wake it," she said. "And the less so since
my conscience convicts me, if not of coquetry on that occasion, at all events
of something else. One word more. Let us be friends again. For it was all a
dream, was it not? And who remembers dreams?"
"Who indeed? And love—well, love is a mere empirical sentiment."
"I am glad to hear you say so."
Thus Anna Sergievna, and thus Bazarov. And both conceived themselves to
be speaking the truth. But was it the truth?—at all events, the whole truth?
The speakers themselves did not know, and therefore the author does not.
Nevertheless both the man and the woman framed their words to create an
atmosphere of mutual confidence.
Next Anna Sergievna asked Bazarov how he had spent his time at the
Kirsanovs'; and though he came within an ace of telling her of the duel with
Paul Petrovitch, he checked himself in time, and replied that he had been
engaged in work.

"And I," she said, "have been, for some unknown reason, out of humour,
and meditating going abroad; but the fit is passing now (thanks to the
arrival of your friend Arkady Nikolaievitch), and already I find myself
relapsing into my old rut, and resuming my true rôle."
"And what is your true rôle?"
"The rôle of acting as aunt or preceptress or mother—call it what you like
—to my sister. In passing, I wonder if you are aware that once upon a time I
did not altogether understand your close friendship with Arkady
Nikolaievitch? Somehow he seemed too insignificant for you. But now, I
know him better, and have convinced myself that in his head there is a
brain. Above all things, he is young, young—not like you and myself,
Evgenii Vasilitch."
"But he is still shy in your presence?" queried Bazarov.
"He" began Anna Sergievna; then, checking herself, continued: "No; he is
gaining confidence, and has taken to talking to me quite freely; whereas
once upon a time, though I did not seek his company, he used to flee
whenever I came near him. By the way, he is great friends with Katia."
Somehow this irritated Bazarov.
"Never can a woman forbear dissembling," was his reflection. Aloud he
said with a frigid smile: "Then you say that he used to flee from you? But
surely it cannot be a secret that formerly he cherished for you une grande
passion?"
"What? He too?"
"Yes, he too," affirmed Bazarov with a nod. "But I think that you knew
that? It was not a piece of news that I have just told you?"
Her eyes became fixed upon the floor.
"I believe you to be wrong," she observed.
"So do not I. But perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it?" To himself he
added: "And perhaps you will not, in future, play the hypocrite with me."
"Why should you not have mentioned it?" she queried. "As a matter of fact,
I believe you to be attaching importance to a mere passing impression, and
shall soon think that you have a tendency to exaggerate."

"Suppose we talk of something else?" he suggested.
"For what reason?"
However, of her own accord she diverted the conversation into another
channel. True, she had assured him, and she herself believed, that
everything was buried in the past; yet she felt ill at ease, and conscious that,
even while jesting or exchanging the merest of bagatelles, she had
weighing upon her a nervous oppression. In fact, it was akin to the case of
passengers afloat. Though such folk will laugh and talk with the same
apparent indifference as on land, let but the machinery stop, or the least sign
of anything unusual appear, and at once every face will display that peculiar
expression of anxiety which comes only of constant knowledge of ever-
present danger.
Of similar sort was Anna Sergievna's interview with Bazarov; nor was it
prolonged, in that soon she began to feel so absent-minded, and to answer
with such vagueness, that she proposed a move to the hall, where there were
found Katia and the Princess.
"And where is Arkady Nikolaievitch?" inquired the hostess; and, on being
told that he had not been seen for over an hour, she sent messengers to
summon him. But this proved a lengthy task, seeing that he had withdrawn
to the remotest corner of the garden, and, sitting with chin upon hands, was
plunged in thought. Those thoughts were important and profound, but not
sad; and though he knew that Anna Sergievna was alone with Bazarov, he
felt none of his old jealousy, but, rather, gazed before him with quiet
cheerfulness—with an air as though something had pleased and surprised
him, and led him to arrive at a certain decision.

[1] Yasen is derived from the adjective yasni, meaning clear or bright.

XXVI

Although the late Monsieur Odintsov had disliked "innovations," he had not
been opposed to the indulgence of "a certain play of refined taste," and had
erected, in a space between the hothouses and the lake, a building modelled
in the style of a Greek temple, but consisting of undeniable Russian bricks.
Also, he had caused to be inserted in the massive rear wall of this temple or
gallery six niches for six statues which were designed to represent Solitude,
Silence, Thought, Melancholy, Modesty, and Sensibility, and which he had
purposed to import from abroad; but only one of these, the statue of the
Goddess of Silence, with a finger to her lips, had actually been delivered
and erected; and even of that the household underlings had knocked off the
nose on the very day of the statue's arrival. True, a neighbouring sculptor
had offered to furnish the goddess with a nose "twice as good as the last
one," but Odintsov had none the less ordered her removal to a corner of the
millhouse, where for several years past she had acted as a source of
superstitious awe to the peasant women of the district. Likewise, the front
wall of the temple had become so overgrown with bushes that only the
capitals of the supporting columns remained visible above the mass of
verdure, and even at midday the interior of the building was cool and
pleasant; and though Anna Sergievna had never really liked the place since
the day when she had discovered an adder there, Katia paid it frequent
visits, and, seating herself on a great stone bench which was fixed under
one of the niches, would read or work, or surrender herself to the influence
of that perfect restfulness which, known, probably, to every one, comes of a
silent, half-unconscious contemplation of the great waves of life as they
break for ever around and against us.
On the morning after Bazarov's arrival Katia was in her usual position on
the bench, and beside her was Arkady—he having specially asked her to
accompany him thither.

Though an hour was still wanting to luncheon time, the dew and the
freshness of the morning had already given place to the sultriness and the
aridity of noontide. Arkady's face yet bore the expression of yesterday, but
Katia's features were stamped with one, rather, of depression. This was
because after breakfast her sister had called her into the boudoir, and to
some of those blandishments which always alarmed the girl had added a
word of advice that Katia should observe more caution in her converse with
Arkady, and, above all things, avoid such solitary tête-à-têtes with him as
appeared to have aroused the attention of the household in general, and of
the Princess in particular. Since the previous evening Anna Sergievna had
been out of humour; and inasmuch as Katia's conscience was not wholly
clear of responsibility in the matter, she had intimated, when yielding to
Arkady's request, that it must be for the last time.
"Katia," he began with a sort of easy uneasiness, "since the day when I had
the good fortune to reside under the same roof as yourself I have talked to
you on many different subjects. But one particular question has for me a
paramount importance: nor upon that question have I yet touched.
Yesterday you said that during my stay here I have undergone a process of
reformation"—he neither sought nor avoided Katia's eye—"and, to be
frank, such a reformation has, in part at least, come about. Better than any
one else do you know that this is so—you to whom, above all others, that
remaking is due."
"To me?" she re-echoed.
"Yes, to you," Arkady repeated. "No longer am I the presumptuous lad who
came here a short while ago: not for nothing have I attained my twenty-
third year. And though I still wish to be of use in life, though I still wish to
consecrate the whole of my faculties to the service of Truth, I no longer
seek my ideals where I was wont to do—they appear to me to stand much
nearer home. Hitherto I have been in ignorance of myself, hitherto I have
set myself tasks beyond my powers; but now, through a certain feeling
which is within me, my eyes have become opened. By the way, the manner
in which I express myself may be lacking in clarity, yet I venture to hope
that I have made myself understood?"
Katia said nothing; but she ceased to look at the speaker.

"In my opinion," he went on in a tone of rising emotion, while in a birch
tree overhead a chaffinch started pouring forth a flood of unstudied song,
"in my opinion, it is the duty of an honourable man to be frank with those
who, with those who—in short, with those who stand nearest to him in life.
Consequently I, I am minded to—to—-"
Here Arkady's eloquence failed him. He stumbled and stuttered and had to
pause for a moment. Meanwhile Katia's eyes remained lowered. One would
have thought that she did not in the least understand this preamble, but was
expecting to hear something quite of a different nature.
"That I shall surprise you I know in advance," continued Arkady, once more
spurring his faculties. "And that surprise will be the greater when I tell you
that the feeling to which I have alluded concerns, to a certain extent—yes,
to a certain extent, yourself. For yesterday, you will remember, you imputed
to me a lack of gravity "—he was speaking much like a man who, having
blundered into a bog, feels that at each step he sinks deeper and deeper, yet
struggles on in the hope of eventually extricating himself—"and such a
reproach is all too often levelled against, all too often falls upon, young
people who have ceased to deserve it. Were I but possessed of more self-
confidence" ("God help me! God help me!" he thought despairingly, but
Katia did not even turn her head)—"had I but the right to hope that——"
"Did I but feel sure that you really mean what you say," broke in, at this
moment, the clear accents of Anna Sergievna.
Arkady became dumb, and Katia turned pale; for along a little path which
skirted the bushes screening the temple there were advancing Bazarov and
Madame! Katia and Arkady could not actually see the pair, yet they could
hear every word uttered, and even catch the sound of their breathing, and
the rustle of Anna Sergievna's dress. Advancing a few more steps, the
couple halted, and remained standing in front of the building.
"It is like this," Anna Sergievna continued. "You and I have blundered into
an error. That is to say, while neither of us is in the heyday of youth—I so
least of the two—and both of us have lived our fives and are weary, we are
also (for I need not stand on ceremony) individuals of intellect.
Consequently, though, at first, we interested one another, and felt our
mutual curiosity aroused, it happened that subsequently——"

"That subsequently I grew stale in your eyes," hazarded Bazarov.
"Oh no! That that was not the cause of the situation you are well aware.
But, whatever the cause, you and I have not a compelling need of one
another. Therein lies the point. In other words, both of us have in us—how
shall I express it?—both of us are too mutually akin. We were slow to grasp
that fact. Now, Arkady—-"
"Have you a 'compelling need'—of him?" put in Bazarov.
"For shame, Evgenii Vasilitch! You yourself have averred that he is not
wholly indifferent to me; and I too have long suspected that he cherishes for
me at least a measure of admiration. As we are on the subject, I will not
attempt to conceal from you that of late the fact that I am old enough to be
his aunt has not prevented me from devoting to him more of my thoughts
than I used to do. In his fresh young sentimentality there is a certain
charm."
"The term 'fascination' comes handier in such cases," said Bazarov in the
deep, quiet tone which, with him, always signified sarcasm. "As a matter of
fact, I found Arkady secretive yesterday—he made but the scantiest of
references either to you or your sister. That constitutes an important
symptom."
"Katia and he are brother and sister to one another," said Madame. "Indeed I
am pleased to see it—though perhaps I ought not to connive at so much
familiarity."
"I presume that the element speaking in you is the sister?" drawled Bazarov.
"Of course! But need we stand here? Let us move on. We hold curious
conversations, do we not? Indeed, to think of all the things which I now say
to you! Yet I still fear you a little, even though I trust you as being, at heart,
a good man."
"I am far from good; and you only call me so because I have lost all
significance in your eyes. Ill boots it to weave chaplets for the head of a
corpse."
"Evgenii Vasilitch, we cannot always command ourselves," came the sound
of Anna Sergievna's next words; but the next moment the wind soughed, the
leaves rustled, and the rest of what she was saying was carried away into

the distance. Nothing beyond it save (after a pause) "You are free, are you
not?" on the part of Bazarov could be distinguished. Then the sound of their
footsteps died away, and once more complete silence reigned.
Turning to Katia, Arkady saw that she was sitting as before, but with her
head more bent.
"Katerina Sergievna," he said tremulously, and with his hands clasped, "I
shall love you always, and beyond recall; nor shall I ever love another
woman. This is what I have been trying to say to you this morning, in the
hope that I might ascertain your views, and then beg for your hand. I am not
a rich man, but I would make any sacrifice for your sake. Come, then! Will
you answer me? Will you trust me? Surely you do not think that I am
speaking out of frivolity? Recall the past few days: may you not rest
assured now that my remaining self (you know what I mean) is gone for
ever? Come, look at me—look at me and speak but a word, a single word. I
love you, I love you! Do not refuse to believe that I mean what I say."
Gravely, yet with a radiant look in her eyes, Katia raised her head, and, after
a moment's thought, said with the trace of a smile: "Yes."
Arkady leapt up.
"'Yes'? You have said 'Yes,' Katia! But what do mean by that word? Do you
mean that you believe in my love, or do you mean that——? No, no; I dare
not finish the sentence."
Katia repeated only the word "Yes," but this time she left no room for
misunderstanding. Arkady seized her large, but not unshapely, hands in his,
and, panting with rapture, strained her to his breast. He could scarcely stand
upon his feet—he could only keep repeating again and again: "Katia!
Katia!" Meanwhile she shed a few innocent tears at which she smiled as
they fell. The man who has not seen such tears in the eyes of his beloved
does not know the height of happiness to which, with mingled joy and
gratitude and modesty, a woman can attain.
Next morning Anna Sergievna sent for Bazarov to her boudoir; and when he
arrived she, with a forced smile, handed him a folded sheet of notepaper.
That sheet represented a letter from Arkady, a letter in which he begged for
her sister's hand.

Bazarov skimmed the epistle—then scarcely could forbear venting the
rancour which blazed for a moment in his breast.
"It is as I said, you see," he commented. "Only yesterday you were telling
me that his feeling for Katerina Sergievna was that of a brother for a sister!
And what are you going to do?"
"What would you advise me to do?" she said, still smiling.
"I presume"—he also was smiling, although he was feeling as wholly out of
spirits, as little inclined towards gaiety, as she was—"I presume that we
have no choice but to bestow our blessing upon the young couple. In every
respect it would be a good match, for his father has a nice little property,
Arkady is the only son, and the father is too easy-going to be likely to raise
any difficulty."
Madame Odintsov rose and paced the room for a moment or two—her face
alternately flushing and turning pale.
"So that is what you think?" she said. "Well, I too see no impediment.
Indeed, the affair rejoices me both for Katia's sake and for—yes, for his.
But first I must await his father's consent; and for that purpose I will send
Arkady himself to interview Nikolai Petrovitch. So I was right yesterday,
was I not? I was right when I said that you and I are become elderly? How
did I fail to foresee this? I am indeed surprised at it!"
Again she smiled, but, in the very act of smiting, turned away.
"Our young folk are indeed cunning," remarked Bazarov. After a pause he
added:
"Good-bye now. I hope that the affair may develop Well. From a distance I,
too, shall rejoice."
She turned and faced him.
"Need you really go?" she asked. "Why not stay a little longer? Pray stay,
for I find talking to you a stimulant—it is like walking on the edge of a
precipice: at first one is afraid, then one gathers courage. Do not go."
"I thank you for the proposal, as also for your flattering estimate of my
conversational powers," said Bazarov. "Nevertheless, I have tarried
overlong in a sphere which is alien to my personality. Only for a while can

flying fish support themselves in the air. Then they relapse into their natural
element. Allow me to flop back into mine."
Yet a bitter laugh was twisting his pale features. She saw it, and felt sorry
for him.
"The man still loves me," was her thought, and she extended a sympathetic
hand.
He understood her, however.
"No, no!" he exclaimed as he withdrew a step or two. "Though poor, I have
never yet accepted aims. Good-bye, and may your lot always be happy."
"Yet we shall meet again," she replied with an involuntary gesture. "Of that
I am certain."
"Anything may occur in this world," he remarked—then bowed and was
gone.
That afternoon he said to Arkady as he knelt down to pack his trunk:
"I hear that you are going to make a nest for yourself? And why should you
not? It is an excellent course to take. But for you to dissemble is useless,
and I had scarcely expected that you would do so. Has the preoccupation of
it all deprived you of your tongue?"
"When I left you at Marino I had no thought of this," said Arkady. "You are
the dissembler, though, are you not? For when you say 'It is an excellent
course to take,' you dissemble, as well as waste your time, seeing that I am
well aware of your views on marriage."
"Merely my way of expressing myself. You see what I am doing at this
moment. In my trunk is a vacant space. I am packing it with straw. And the
same with life's trunk. To avoid leaving empty spaces therein we pad the
interstices. You need not be offended. You cannot fail to remember what I
really think of Katerina Sergievna. While some maidens earn cheap
reputations by merely smiling at right moments, your inamorata can show
more—indeed, so much more that soon you will be (and very properly)
under her thumb."
Slapping down the lid of the trunk, Bazarov rose from the floor.

"Now, farewell," he said. "No, I will not deceive you: we are parting for
ever, and you know it. In my opinion you have acted wisely, for you were
not meant to live the hard, bitter, reckless life of Nihilism—you lack at once
the necessary coolness and the necessary venom. But this is not to say that
in you there is not a due measure of youthful spirit. What I mean is that that
asset alone is not sufficient for the work. The dvorianin is powerless to
progress beyond either well-bred effervescence or well-bred humility: and
both sentiments are futile. For example, you have not yet been blooded, yet
already you think yourself a man: whereas the two chief conditions of our
existence are battle and bloodshed. Yes, the dust from our heels hurts your
eyes, and the grime on our bodies makes you feel dirty. In other words,
although you derive a certain gratification from indulging in self-criticism,
and think no small beer of yourself, you have failed to grow to our stature.
To us such things are vanities. Tools' of an altogether different kind are
what we need for the task. Consequently I repeat that, though a fine young
fellow enough, you are also just a little-minded, so-called 'liberal-minded'
baritch[1]—what my father calls a 'product of evolution.'"
"Evgenii," was Arkady's sad reply, "we are parting for ever, yet this is all
that you have to say to me!"
Bazarov scratched his head.
"Something else I could say, Arkady," he replied. "But I will not say that
something—it would savour too much of Romanticism. Get married as
soon as you can, line your nest, and beget plenty of offspring. Nor will
those offspring be altogether fools, seeing that they will be born in due
season, and not when you and I were.... My horses are ready and I must
depart. Of the rest of the household I have taken leave already. Shall we
embrace once more, eh?"
The tears gushed in torrents from Arkady's eyes as he flung himself upon
his old friend and mentor.
"Ah, youth, youth!" commented Bazarov. "See what comes of being young!
But before long, I know, Katerina Sergievna will have set things right. Yes,
she will console you."
With a last good-bye he mounted the travelling cart, and, in the act of doing
so, pointed to a pair of jackdaws which were sitting perched upon the stable

roof.
"See!" he cried. "There's an instructive lesson for you!"
"What do you mean?" queried Arkady.
"What?" was Bazarov's ejaculation. "Are you so ignorant of, or so forgetful
of, natural history as not to know that the jackdaw is the most respected of
family birds? Mark the good example before you. Farewell, señor!"
And with a clatter the cart started on its way.
Nor was Bazarov mistaken, for, even before nightfall, Arkady, deep in
conversation with Katia, had completely forgotten his vanished instructor.
Moreover, already the young fellow was beginning to play second fiddle to
his fiancée: which circumstance the girl, on realising, in no way felt
surprised at. So it was arranged that on the following day he should depart
for Marino to interview his father; and in the meanwhile, Anna Sergievna,
having no desire to hamper the young couple, merely observed such a show
of propriety as involved her not leaving them together for long, but at the
same time keeping at a distance the Princess, who, since the tidings of the
impending union, had been in a state of lachrymose rancour. For herself,
Anna Sergievna had at first feared that the spectacle of the young people's
happiness would prove too much for her; but now the contrary proved to be
the case, and she not only failed to feel hurt at the spectacle, but even found
that it interested her and eventually softened her—a consummation which
brought both relief and regret.
"Bazarov was right," she reflected. "It was mere curiosity, mere love of
ease, mere egoism, mere——"
"Children, is love an empirical sentiment?" once she asked of Arkady and
Katia: but neither of the pair understood her meaning. Moreover, they were
fighting a little shy of her, since they could not altogether forget the
conversation which they had involuntarily overheard; but in time Anna
Sergievna succeeded in overcoming also this timidity, and found the task
the more easy to perform in that she had succeeded also in overcoming her
disappointment.
[1] A small squire.

XXVII

The old Bazarovs' delight at their son's return was the greater in that the
event was so unexpected. To such an extent did Anna Vlasievna fuss and
flounce about the house that Vasili Ivanitch likened her to a hen partridge
(no doubt the short tail of her blouse did impart to her rather a bird-like
aspect); while, as regards Vasili himself, he grunted, and sucked the amber
mouthpiece of his pipe, and, grasping the shank, inverted the bowl as
though to make sure that it was secure, and, finally, parted his capacious
lips, and gave vent to a noiseless chuckle.
"I am going to spend with you six whole weeks," said Bazarov. "But I
desire to work, and therefore must not be disturbed."
"Before we will disturb you, you shall forget what my face looks like,"
replied Vasili Ivanitch.
And he kept his word; for, after allotting his son the study, he not only
remained completely out of sight, but even prevented his wife from
manifesting the least sign of tenderness.
"When Evgenii last visited us," he said to her, "you and I proved a little
wearisome; so this time we must be more discreet."
Anna Vlasievna agreed, much as she lost by the arrangement, seeing that
now she beheld her son only at meal times, and feared, even then, to speak
to him.
"Eniushenka," she would begin—then, before he had had time to raise his
eyes, pluck nervously at the strings of her cap, and whisper: "Oh no; it was
nothing," and address herself, instead, to Vasili Ivanitch; saying, for
instance (with cheek on hand as usual): "My dear, which would our darling
Eniusha prefer for dinner—cabbage soup or beef with horse-radish?" And
when Vasili Ivanitch would reply: "Why should you not ask him yourself?"
she would exclaim: "Oh no, for that might vex him."
But eventually Bazarov ceased to closet himself, in that there came an
abatement of the work fever, and to it succeeded fits of depression, ennui,
and an inordinate restlessness. In his every movement there began to loom a
strange discontent, from his gait there disappeared its old firm, active self-
confidence, and, ceasing to indulge in solitary rambles, he took to

cultivating society, to attending tea in the drawing-room, to pacing the
kitchen garden, and to joining Vasili Ivanitch in a silent smoking of pipes.
Nay, on one occasion he even paid Father Alexis a visit!
At first the new order of things rejoiced Vasili Ivanitch's heart: but that joy
proved short-lived.
"Though I could not say why, Eniusha makes me anxious," he confided to
his spouse. "Not that he is discontented or ill-tempered—such things would
not have mattered: rather, it is that he is sad and brooding, and never opens
his lips. Would that he would curse you and me, for instance! Also, he is
thinner; nor do I like the colour of his face."
"O God!" whispered the old woman. "Yet I may not even put my arms
around his neck!"
From that time onwards Vasili Ivanitch began to make cautious attempts to
question Bazarov concerning his work, his health, and his friend Arkady;
but always Bazarov returned reluctant, indifferent replies, and once, when
his father was for introducing the foregoing topics, said irritably:
"Why are you for ever tiptoeing around me? Your present manner is even
worse than your former one."
"There, there—I did not mean anything," was poor Vasili Ivanitch's reply.
Political allusions proved equally fruitless. For instance, when Vasili
Ivanitch was seeking to engage his son's interest on the score of the
impending emancipation of the serfs and progress in general, the other
muttered carelessly:
"Yesterday, when passing through the courtyard, I heard some peasant lads
singing, not one of the good old songs, but I The age of truth is coming in,
when hearts shall glow with love.' There's progress for you!"
Occasionally Bazarov would repair to the village, and, in his usual
bantering fashion, enter into conversation with some peasant.
"Well," he said to a muzhik, "pray expound to me your views on life. For
they tell me that in you lie the whole strength and the whole future of
Russia—that you are going to begin a new epoch in our history, and to give
us both a real language and new laws."

The peasant made no reply at the moment. Then he said:
"We might do all that if first we had a new chapel here."
"Tell me something, though, about the world in general," Bazarov
interrupted. "The world stands on three fishes, does it not?"
"It does that, batiushka," the peasant replied with the quiet, good-humoured
sweetness of the patriarchal age. "But above it stands the will of the
masters. The baré are our fathers, and the harder the barin drives, the better
for the muzhik."
Shrugging his shoulders contemptuously at this statement, Bazarov turned
away, while the peasant slunk off homewards.
"What did he say?" asked a sullen-looking, middle-aged peasant who had
been standing at the door of his hut during the course of the foregoing
colloquy. "Was he talking of arrears of taxes?"
"Of arrears of taxes!" retorted the first peasant, his tone now containing not
a trace of its late patriarchal sweetness, but, rather, a note of purely dry
contempt. "He was chattering just for chattering's sake—he likes to hear his
own tongue wag. Do not all of us know what a barin and the likes of him
are good for?"
"Aye," agreed the second peasant; whereafter, with much nodding of caps
and gesticulating of fists, they fell to discussing their own affairs and
requirements. So alas for Bazarov's scornful shrug of the shoulders! And
alas for that knowledge of the way in which the peasant should be talked to
whereof the young Nihilist had made such boast when disputing with Paul
Petrovitch! In fact, never had it dawned upon the mind of the self-confident
Bazarov that, in the eyes of the muzhik, he was no better than a pease-
pudding.
However, he succeeded in discovering for himself an occupation. This was
when, in bandaging a peasant's leg, Vasili Ivanitch's hands shook a little
through senility, and his son hastened to his assistance: and from that time
forth Bazarov acted as Vasili Ivanitch's partner, even though he maintained
unabated his ridicule both of the remedies which he himself advised and of
the father who hastened to put them into practice. Yet in no way did his
son's raillery annoy Vasili Ivanitch: rather, it heartened the old man.
Smoking his pipe, and drawing his dirty overall in to his waist with both

thumbs, he would listen delightedly to the scoffer, and chuckle, and show
his blackened teeth the more in proportion as the sallies contained a greater
measure of venom. Nay, stupid or simply senseless as many of these
witticisms were, he would frequently catch them up, and repeat them. To
take one instance, he, for several days in succession, kept assuring every
one in the village and in the town that "we call this the nine o'clock
office"—the sole basis being the fact that once, on learning of his (Vasili
Ivanitch's) habit of attending Matins, Bazarov had made use of the phrase in
question.
"Thank God, Evgenii has ceased to mope," he confided in a whisper to his
wife. "In fact, you should have heard him rating me to-day!"
Also, the thought that he had such an assistant in his labours filled the old
man with pride.
"Yes, yes," he would say as he handed some peasant woman in a man's
jacket a phial of medicinal water or a pot of cold cream, "you ought daily to
thank God that my son happens to be staying with me, since otherwise you
could not possibly have been treated according to the latest and most
scientific methods. Do you understand? I say that even Napoleon, the
Emperor of the French, has not at his disposal a better physician than my
son."
And the peasant woman (who had come, it may be, to complain of "a lifting
with the gripes"—an expression which probably she herself could not have
explained) would bow, then proffer the three or four eggs which would be
tied up in a corner of her neckcloth.
Also, when Bazarov extracted a tooth from the jaw of a travelling pedlar,
Vasili Ivanitch could not allow even the very ordinary character of the tooth
to prevent him from preserving it as a rarity, and showing it to Father
Alexis.
"See what a fang!" he said. "And to think of the strength which Evgenii
must possess! He lifted the pedlar clean from the ground! It was like
uprooting an oak tree!"
"Splendid!" was Father Alexis' comment—he knew not what else to say,
nor, for that matter, how else to get rid of the enthusiastic veteran.

Lastly, there was an occasion when a peasant from a neighbouring village
brought his brother to be treated. Suffering from typhus, the patient was
lying face downwards on the straw in the cart, and had reached the last
stage, since already his body was covered with spots of a hectic nature, and
he had long lost consciousness. To an expression of regret that resort had
not sooner been had to medical aid, Vasili Ivanitch could add no more than
an intimation that no hope was left: nor was he wrong, seeing that even
before the peasant succeeded in conveying his brother back to the village,
the sick man had breathed his last.
Three days later Bazarov entered his father's room with an inquiry for some
hell-stone.
"I have some," said Vasili Ivanitch; "but what do you want it for?"
"For the cauterisation of a wound."
"A wound on whom?"
"A wound on myself."
"On yourself? Let me see the place. Where is it?"
"There—on that finger. To-day I went to the village whence they brought
the typhus patient the other day; and though they tried to conceal the body, I
succeeded in discovering it. Not for a long time had I had a chance of doing
that sort of work."
"Yes?"
"And the sequel was that I cut myself, and, on repairing to the district
physician, found that he did not possess what I wanted."
Vasili Ivanitch went white to the lips. Hurrying, without a word, into his
study, he returned thence with some hell-stone. Bazarov was for carrying it
away forthwith.
"No, no!" cried Vasili Ivanitch. "For God's sake allow me to see to this in
person."
Bazarov smiled.
"You are indeed a keen practitioner," he commented.

"Do not jest, I beg of you. Show me the finger. No, it is not a large wound.
Am I hurting it at all?"
"Not in the least. Have no fear. You can press it harder still if you like."
Vasili Ivanitch paused.
"Do you not think," he said, "that it would be better to cauterise the finger
with an iron?"
"No, I do not. Moreover, that ought, in any case, to have been done sooner;
whereas by now even the hell-stone is unlikely to prove effectual, seeing
that, as you know, once absorbed into the system, the germ renders all
remedies too late."
"How 'too late'?" gasped Vasili Ivanitch.
"What I say. Four hours have elapsed since the injury."
Vasili Ivanitch gave the wound a further cauterisation. "So the district
physician had no hell-stone?" he queried.
"None."
"God in heaven! To think of that man calling himself a doctor, yet being
without such an indispensable remedy!"
"You should have seen his lancets!" remarked Bazarov. Then he left the
room.
Throughout that evening and the next few days Vasili Ivanitch kept making
every possible excuse to enter his son's room; and though he never actually
referred to the wound—he even strove to confine his conversation to purely
extraneous subjects—his observation of his son remained so persistent, his
solicitude so marked, that at length Bazarov, losing patience, bade him
begone. Of course Vasili Ivanitch promised not to repeat the intrusion; and
as a matter of fact he kept this promise the more religiously in that Arina
Vlasievna (who had had the matter carefully concealed from her) was
beginning to scent something in the wind, and to press for reasons why,
during the previous night, her husband had never once closed his eyes.
Accordingly, for the next two days Vasili Ivanitch faithfully observed the
undertaking he had given; and that although the covert observation of his
son's looks which he maintained showed them to be growing by no means

to his liking: but on the third day, during dinner, Vasili Ivanitch could bear it
no more, for Bazarov was sitting with his eyes lowered and his plate empty.
"You are eating nothing, Evgenii?" he said with his face composed to
express absolute indifference. "In my opinion, the dinner is well cooked."
"The only reason why I am eating nothing," replied Bazarov, "is that I am
not hungry."
"You have no appetite?" the old man queried timidly. "Also, is—is your
head aching at all?"
"Yes. Why should it not ache?"
Arina Vlasievna began to prick up her ears.
"Do not be angry, Evgenii," Vasili Ivanitch continued, "b-but might I feel
your pulse and examine you?"
Bazarov looked at him.
"You need not feel my pulse," he said. "Without that, I can tell that I have a
touch of fever."
"You feel shivery, eh?"
"Yes. I think I will go and lie down. Pray make me a little lime-juice tea, for
I seem to have caught a chill."
"Yes," Arina Vlasievna put in, "I heard you coughing last night."
"But it is only a chill," added Bazarov, and left the room.
So Arina Vlasievna set to work to make the lime-juice tea, and Vasili
Ivanitch went into an adjoining room and tore his hair.
Bazarov did not get up again that day, but passed the night in a state of
heavy coma. At one o'clock he opened his eyes with an effort, and, on
seeing his father's pale face in the lamp-light, bade him depart. At once the
other excused himself for the intrusion, but nevertheless returned on tiptoe,
and, concealing himself behind the open doors of a cupboard, remained
there to watch his son. Nor did Arina Vlasievna go to bed, but at intervals
set the study door ajar, in order that she might "see how our Eniusha was
sleeping" and look at Vasili Ivanitch: for though nothing of the latter was to

be discerned except a bowed, motionless back, even that much afforded her
a little comfort.
In the morning Bazarov attempted to rise, but his head swam, and blood
gushed from his nose, so he desisted from the attempt. In silence Vasili
Ivanitch tended him, and Arina Vlasievna came to ask him how he felt. He
replied "Better," then turned his face to the wall. Instantly Vasili Ivanitch
fell to gesticulating violently at his wife with both hands: which proceeding
proved so far successful that, by dint of biting her lips, Arina Vlasievna
contrived to force back the tears, and leave the room. Of a sudden
everything in the house had seemed to turn dark. Everywhere faces looked
drawn, and everywhere there was to be observed a curious stillness of
which one cause, among others, was the fact that there had hastily been
removed from the courtyard of the village a vociferous cock which no
reasoning had been able to convince of the necessity of silence.
So Bazarov continued lying with his face to the wall. Once or twice Vasili
Ivanitch essayed a tentative question or two, but the attempt only wearied
Bazarov, and the old man at length subsided into an armchair, and sat
nervously twitching his fingers. Next, Vasili repaired to the garden for a few
minutes, and looked, as he stood there, like a statue which has been struck
with immeasurable astonishment (never at any time was the expression of
surprise absent from his features); whereafter he returned to his son's room,
in the hope of evading questions on the part of his wife, but she took him by
the hand, and grimly, almost threateningly asked: "What is the matter with
our Eniusha?" and when Vasili strove to pull himself together, and to force a
smile, there issued, to his horror, not a smile at all, but a sort of
irresponsible laugh.
Earlier in the morning he had sent for a doctor to assist him; wherefore he
now considered that it would be well to advise his son of the fact, lest
Bazarov should lose his temper on discovering the fact in question for
himself.
Vasili Ivanitch explained the situation, and then Bazarov turned himself
about on the sofa, gazed at his father for a moment or two, and asked to be
given something to drink. Vasili Ivanitch handed him some water, and
seized the opportunity also to feel his son's forehead. It seemed to be on
fire.

"My father," said Bazarov in a hoarse, dragging voice, "I fear that my
course is run. The infection has caught me, and in a few days you will be
laying me in my grave."
Some one might have thrust Vasili Ivanitch violently backwards, so sharply
did he stagger.
"Evgenii," he gasped, "why say that? God have you in his keeping! It is
merely that you have caught a chill."
"Come, come!" interrupted Bazarov, but in the same dragging tone as
before. "It is useless to talk like that to a doctor. All the signs of infection
are present. That you know for yourself."
"But—but where are the signs of—of infection?"
"Look at these. What do they mean?"
And Bazarov pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. What he showed his father
was a number of red, angry-looking patches that were coming into view.
Vasili Ivanitch started and turned cold with fear. At length he contrived to
stammer out:
"Yet—even supposing that, that there should be anything in the nature of
infection——"
"Of pyæmia, you mean," the son prompted.
"Anything in the nature of epidemic infec——"
"Of pyæmia, I repeat," grimly, insistently corrected Bazarov. "Have you
forgotten your textbooks?"
"Yes—well, have it your own way. But we will cure you, all the same."
"Fiddlesticks! But, apart from that question, I had scarcely looked to die so
soon. To be frank, I think it hard upon me. And now you and my mother
must fall back upon the fund of religious strength which lies within you.
The hour to put it to the test has arrived." He drank some more water. "One
particular request I desire to make while my brain is yet clear, for, by to-
morrow, or the day after, it will, as you know, have failed, and even now I
am not sure whether I am expressing myself sensibly, seeing that, as I was
lying here just now, I seemed to see a pack of red dogs leaping around me,

and yourself making a point at me as a dog does at a partridge. Yes, it was
like being drunk. Can you understand what I say?"
"Yes, yes, Evgenii; you are talking quite sensibly."
"Very well. Now, I believe that you have sent for a doctor; and if the fact
will give you any comfort, I too shall be pleased. But also I beg that you
will send word to, to——"
"To Arkady Nikolaievitch?" the old man suggested.
"To whom? To Arkady Nikolaievitch?" re-echoed Bazarov bewilderedly.
"Oh, you mean that young cockerel of ours? No, no—do not disturb him,
for he has just joined the company of the jackdaws. You need not be
surprised at these words—they do not mean that delirium is setting in; they
are merely a metaphor. Well, it is to Madame Odintsov, the lady landowner
of this neighbourhood, that I desire a messenger to be sent. I suppose you
have heard of her?" (Vasili Ivanitch nodded assent.) "All that the messenger
need say is that Evgenii Vasilitch sends his compliments, and is dying. Will
you do this?"
"Of course I will, Evgenii! But why think that you are going to die? Come,
come! Were such a thing to happen, where would be the justice of the
world?"
"I could not say. I only know that I desire the messenger to be sent."
"He shall start at once, and I myself will write the letter."
"No, no: that will not be necessary. Merely let the messenger deliver my
greeting. That, and nothing more. Now I will return to my red dogs. How
curious it is that, though I strive to concentrate my thoughts upon death,
there results from them nothing—I see before me only a great blur!"
And he turned his face wearily to the wall, while Vasili Ivanitch left the
room, ascended to the bedroom above, and fell upon his knees before the
sacred ikons.
"Pray, Arina, pray!" he moaned. "Our son is dying!"
On the doctor arriving, the latter proved to be the district physician who had
failed to produce hell-stone when required. After an examination of the

patient he prescribed a watching course, and also added a few words as to a
possible recovery.
"Have you ever known people in my condition not set out for the Elysian
Fields?" asked Bazarov sharply as he caught hold of the leg of a table which
stood beside his sofa, and shook it until the table actually altered its
position. "See my strength!" he continued. "All of it is still there, yet I must
go hence! To think that, whereas an old man has lost touch with life, I
should——! Ah, however much you may deny death, it never will deny
you.... I hear some one weeping. Who is it?" There was a pause. "Is it my
mother? Poor soul! No one will be left for her to stuff with her marvellous
borstchi.[1] And you, Vasili Ivanitch—are you too whimpering? Come,
come! If Christianity cannot help you, try to become a Stoic philosopher.
You have often enough boasted of being one."
"Aye, a fine philosopher I, to be sure!" sobbed poor old Vasili with the tears
hopping down his cheeks.
Thereafter Bazarov grew hourly worse, for the disease was taking the rapid
course inevitable under the circumstances. Yet his powers of memory were
unimpaired, and he understood everything that was said to him, for as yet
he was making a brave fight to retain his faculties.
"No, I must not let my senses fail," he kept whispering to himself as he
clenched his fists. "But oh, the folly of it all!" And then he would repeat to
himself, over and over again, some such formula as "Eight and ten—what
do they make?"
Meanwhile Vasili Ivanitch wandered about in a state bordering upon
distraction—proposing first one remedy, and then another, and constantly
covering up his son's feet.
"Suppose we wrap him in an ice-sheet?" he suggested once in a tone of
agony. "How, too, about an emetic, or a mustard plaster on his stomach, or a
little bloodletting?"
But to each and all of these remedies the doctor (whom Vasili Ivanitch had
begged to remain in the house) demurred. Likewise the doctor drank the
patient's lemonade, and then requested to be given a pipe and "something
warm and strengthening"—to wit, a glassful of vodka. Meanwhile Arina
Vlasievna sat on a chair by the door, and only at intervals retired to pray. It

seemed that a few days earlier she had let fall, and broken, a toilet mirror,
and that all her life long she had looked upon such an occurrence as an evil
omen. With her, in silence, sat Anfisushka; while, as for Timotheitch, he
had departed with the message to Madame Odintsov.
That night Bazarov did not improve, for he was racked with high fever; but
as morning approached, the fever grew a little easier, and after he had asked
Arina Vlasievna to perform his toilet, and had kissed her hand, he managed
to swallow a little tea: which circumstance caused Vasili Ivanitch to pluck
up courage, and to exclaim:
"Thank God, the crisis has both come and gone!"
"Do not be too sure of that," rejoined Bazarov. "For what does the term
'crisis' signify? Some one once invented it, shouted 'Crisis!' and
congratulated himself ever after. Extraordinary how the human race
continues to attach credence to mere words! For example, tell a man that he
is a fool, yet refrain from assaulting him, and he will be downcast; but tell
him that he is a man of wisdom, yet give him no money, and he will be
overjoyed."
So reminiscent of Bazarov's former sallies was this little speech that Vasili
Ivanitch's heart fairly overflowed.
"Bravo!" he cried, clapping his hands in dumb show. "Well said!"
Bazarov smiled a sad smile.
"Then you think," said he, "that the 'crisis' is either approaching or
retiring?"
"I know that you are better. That I can see for myself. And the fact rejoices
me."
"Well, it is not always a bad thing to rejoice. But have you sent word to, to
—to her? You know whom I mean?"
"Of course I have, Evgenii."
The improvement did not long continue, for to it there succeeded attacks of
pain. Vasili Ivanitch sat by the bed: and as he did so it seemed as though
something in particular were worrying the old man. Several times he tried
to speak, and each time he failed. But at length he contrived to gasp out:

"Evgenii! Son! My dearest son! My own beloved son!"
Even Bazarov could not remain wholly indifferent to such an unwonted
appeal. Turning his head a little, and making an evident effort to shake off
the unconsciousness that was weighing him down, he murmured:
"What is it, my father?"
"This, Evgenii." And all of a sudden the old man fell upon his knees beside
the bed. "Evgenii, you are better now, and with God's help will recover; but
do, in any case, seize this hour to comfort me and your mother by fulfilling
all the duties of a Christian. Yes, though to say this is painful for me, how
much more terribly would it hurt me if—if this chance were to pass for
ever, Evgenii! Think, oh think of what——"
The old man could say no more, while over the son's face and closed eyes
there passed a curious expression. A pause followed. Then Bazarov said:
"To comfort you, I will not altogether refuse your request; but, since you
yourself have said that I am better, surely there can be no need for hurry?"
"Yes, you are better, Evgenii—you are better; but who can say what may lie
in the dispensation of God? Whereas, once this duty shall have been
fulfilled——"
"Yet I will wait a little," interrupted Bazarov. "This much, however, I will
concede: that, should you prove to be wrong in your surmise as to my
recovery, I will allow the Last Sacrament to be administered."
"And, Evgenii, I beg of you to——"
"I will wait a little, I repeat. And now let me go to sleep. Do not disturb
me."
And he replaced his head in its former position, while the old man rose
from his knees, reseated himself in the chair, rested his chin upon his hands,
and fell to biting his fingers.
Presently Vasili's ear caught the rumble of a light carriage—the sound
which is always so distinguishable in a quiet country spot. Nearer and
nearer came the sound of the wheels; nearer and nearer came the hard
breathing of horses. Springing from his chair, he rushed to the window. Into
the courtyard of the mansion there was turning a two-seated, four-horsed

buggy! Without stopping to think what this could mean, he darted forward
to the front door, where, transported with joy, he was just in time to see a
liveried footman open the door of the vehicle, and assist thence a lady in a
black cloak, with a veil of the same hue.
"I am Madame Odintsov," she said. "Is Evgenii Vasilitch still alive? I
presume you are his father? I have brought with me a doctor."
Even as she spoke the doctor in question—a German-looking little
individual in spectacles—descended in a slow and dignified manner from
the buggy.
"O angel of mercy!" cried Vasili Ivanitch as, seizing her hand, he pressed it
convulsively to his lips. "Yes, our Evgenii is still alive! And now he will be
saved! Wife! Wife! There is an angel come to us from Heaven!"
"What?" responded the old woman with a gasp as she came running out of
the hall. So lost in bewilderment was she that, falling at Anna Sergievna's
feet, she actually began madly to kiss the hem of the visitor's cloak.
"Come, come!" Madame exclaimed. "What does all this mean?"
But Arina Vlasievna was deaf to everything, and Vasili Ivanitch too could
only continue repeating:
"There is an angel come to us from Heaven! There is an angel come to us
from Heaven! There is an angel come to us from Heaven!"
"Wo ist der Kranke? (Where is the patient)?" asked the doctor with a touch
of impatience.
This restored Vasili Ivanitch to his senses.
"Come this way, come this way," he said. "Yes, pray follow me, Werthester
Herr Kollega" (titles based upon the strength of bygone memories).
For answer the German exclaimed "Eh?", and pulled a not very gracious
smirk.
Vasili Ivanitch led the way to the study.
"Here is the doctor brought by Madame Anna Sergievna Odintsov," he said
as he bent over his son.
"She herself too is here."

Bazarov opened his eyes with a start.
"What do you say?" he asked.
"I say that Madame Anna Sergievna Odintsov is here, and that she has
brought with her this good doctor."
Bazarov peered around.
"Where is Anna Sergievna?" he murmured. "Do you say that she is here?
Then I wish to see her."
"You shall see her, Evgenii; but first of all I must have a chat with this
gentleman, and tell him the story of your illness: for Sidor Sidorovitch"
(that was the name of the district physician) "has gone home, and a short
consultation must be held."
Bazarov eyed the German.
"All right," he said. "Hold your consultation as soon as you like. Only, do
not speak in Latin, for I know the meaning of the words Jam moritur."
"Der Herr scheint des Deutschen mächtig zu sein," the newly-arrived
disciple of Æsculapius remarked to Vasili Ivanitch.
"Ich habe——" the old man began; then added: "But perhaps we had better
speak in Russian, my dear sir?"
And the consultation followed.
Half an hour later Vasili Ivanitch conducted Anna Sergievna into the study.
As the doctor passed out he whispered to her that recovery was hopeless.
She glanced at Bazarov, and halted as though petrified, so striking was the
bloodshot, deathlike face, with the dim eyes turned so yearningly in her
direction. Nevertheless her feeling was one merely of chill, oppressive
terror, while at the same moment there flashed through her brain the thought
that, if she had loved him, no such feeling could now have been present.
"I thank you," he said with an effort. "I had not expected this, and you have
done a kind act in coming. So we meet once more, even as you foretold!"
"Has not Madame Anna Sergievna indeed been kind?" put in Vasili
Ivanitch.

"Father, pray leave us," said Bazarov. "I know, Anna Sergievna, that you
will excuse him. For at such a time as this——" And he nodded towards his
weak, prostrate form.
Vasili Ivanitch left the room.
"A second time I thank you," continued Bazarov. "To have acted so is
worthy of the Tsars. For they say that even the Sovereign visits a deathbed
when requested."
"Evgenii Vasilitch, I hope that——"
"Let us speak plainly. My course is run. I am under the wheel, and we need
not think of the future. Yet how curious it is that to each individual human
being death, old though it is as an institution, comes as a novelty!...
Nevertheless, it shall not make me quail: and then there will fall the curtain,
and then—well, then they will write Fuit." There followed a feeble gesture.
"But what did I want to say to you? That I have loved you? There was a
time when the phrase 'I love' had for me no meaning; and now it will have
less than ever, seeing that love is a form, and that my particular embodiment
of it is fast lapsing towards dissolution. It Ah, how perfect you are! You
stand there as beautiful as—-"
There passed over Anna Sergievna an involuntary shudder.
"Nay," he said. You need not be afraid. "But will you not sit down? Seat
yourself near me, but not too near, for my malady is infectious."
She crossed the room with a rapid step, and seated herself beside the sofa
on which he was lying.
"O woman of kind heart!" he whispered. "And to think that you are beside
me once more! To think that you, so pure and fresh and young, are in this
sorry room! Well, good-bye, and may you live long, and enjoy your time
while you may. Of all things in this world long life is the most desirable: yet
you can see for yourself what an ugly spectacle I, a half-crushed, but still
wriggling, worm, am now become. There was a time when I used to say: 'I
will do many things in life, and refuse to die before I have completed those
tasks, for I am a giant': but now I have indeed a giant's task in hand—the
task of dying as though death were nothing to me.... No matter. I am not
going to put my tail between my legs."

He broke off, and groped for his tumbler. She handed it him without
drawing off her glove. Her breath was coming in jerks.
"It will not be long before you will have forgotten me," he went on. "For a
dead mortal is no companion for a living one. I daresay that my father will
tell you what a man is being lost to Russia; but that is all rubbish.
Nevertheless, do not undeceive him, for he is old, old. Rather, comfort him
as you would comfort a child, and also be kind to my mother. Two such
mortals as them you will not find in all your great world—no, not though
you search for them with a candle by daylight.... Russia needs me, indeed!
Evidently she does not need me. Whom, then, does she need? She needs
shoemakers, tailors, butchers.... What does a butcher sell? He sells meat,
does he not?... I think that I am wandering—I seem to see before me a
forest...."
He pressed his hand to his forehead, and Anna Sergievna bent over him.
"Evgenii Vasilitch," she said, "I am here."
With a combined movement he took her hand and raised himself a little.
"Good-bye," he said with a sudden spasm of energy and a last flash of his
eyes. "Good-bye.... I kissed you that time, did I not, when, when——?...
Ah, breathe now upon the expiring lamp, that it may go out in peace."
She pressed her lips gently to his forehead.
"Enough," he murmured as he sank back upon the pillow. "Now let there
come—darkness."
She left the room quietly.
"Well?" whispered Vasili Ivanitch.
"He has gone to sleep," she replied in a voice that was scarcely audible.
But Bazarov was not fated to go to sleep. Rather, as night approached he
sank into a state of coma, and, on the following day, expired. Father Alexis
performed over him the last rites of religion, and at the moment when
Extreme Unction was being administered, and the holy oil touched his
breast, one of the dying man's eyelids raised itself, and over the face there
seemed to flit something like an expression of distaste at the sight of the
priest in his vestments, the smoking censer, and the candles before the ikon.

Finally, when Bazarov's last breath had been drawn, and there had arisen in
the house the sound of "the general lamentation," something akin to frenzy
came upon Vasili Ivanitch.
"I declare that I protest!" he cried with his face blazing and quivering with
fury, and his fist beating the air as in menace of some one. "I declare that I
protest, that I protest, that I protest!"
Upon that old Arina Vlasievna, suffused in tears, laid her arms around his
neck, and the two sank forward upon the floor. Said Anfisushka later, when
relating the story in the servants' quarters: "There they knelt together—side
by side, their heads drooping like those of two sheep at midday."

Ah, but in time the heat of noontide passes, and to it there succeed nightfall
and dusk, with a return to the quiet fold where for the weary and the heavy-
laden there waits sleep, sweet sleep.
[1] Roast beef with horse-radish.

XXVIII

Since that time six months have passed, and there has fallen upon the
country a "white" winter—a winter of clear, keen, motionless frosts, of
deep, crackling snow, of pink-rimed trees, of pale-emerald heavens, of
smoke-capped chimneys, of puffs of vapour from momentarily opened
doors, of faces fresh and hard-bitten, of horses galloping headlong to thaw
their frozen limbs. It is now the close of a January day, and the increasing
chill of evening is nipping the still air in an ever-tightening vice as the sun
sinks downward into a sea of red.
But in the windows of Marino there are lights burning, and Prokofitch,
vested in a black tail-coat, a pair of white gloves, and a peculiar atmosphere
of solemnity, is laying the table with seven covers. This is because a week
ago there were solemnised in the tiny church of the parish—solemnised

quietly, almost without a witness—two sets of nuptials: the nuptials of
Arkady and Katia and those of Nikolai Petrovitch and Thenichka. And to-
day Nikolai Petrovitch is offering his brother a farewell dinner, for the
reason that Paul is on the point of departing for Moscow, whither Anna
Sergievna has already removed after bestowing upon the younger of the two
couples a handsome dowry.
At three o'clock precisely the company gathers around the board. Mitia too
is present with his niania (in nurse's cap), while Paul Petrovitch is seated
between Katia and Thenichka, and the bridegrooms are ranged one on either
side of their newly-wedded spouses. A change has taken place in our old
acquaintances since last we saw them—they have improved, as regards the
younger ones, both in appearance and in sedateness of demeanour. Only
Paul Petrovitch looks thinner; though the circumstance imparts, if anything,
an added touch of refinement and "grand-seignorishness" to his always
expressive features. Thenichka, in particular, is a different person from what
she was. Clad in a brand-new silken gown, and wearing a broad velvet band
over her hair and a necklace around her throat, she holds herself with an
immovable dignity, yet also with an immovable deference towards her
surroundings. And meanwhile she smiles, as much as to say: "Pardon me,
but I am not responsible for this"; while the others respond with similar
smiles, as though they too would be glad to excuse themselves for their
share in the proceedings. Yet the fact that on every one present sits a touch
of gravity and embarrassment becomes the company no less than do their
other characteristics. Everywhere, too, there is to be seen such an anxious
solicitude for mutual wants that the company could seem unanimously to be
playing some simple-minded comedy; and though, of the guests, the
quietest is Katia, it is plain, from her confidence of bearing, that, as a
daughter-in-law, she has found favour in the eyes of Nikaiai Petrovitch.
At length the meal comes to an end, and Nikolai, rising and grasping a
wine-glass, addresses Paul Petrovitch:
"Dearest brother, you are about to leave us. Yes, you are about to leave us.
But not for long must you be absent, since I, for one, could never express to
you how much I, how much I—that is to say, how much we But, to tell you
the truth, I am not good at making a speech. Arkady, to you I depute the
task."

"But I am not ready, Papa."
"Neither am I. However, Paul, I embrace you, and wish you every joy, and
beg of you to return to us soon."
Whereupon Paul Petrovitch exchanges greetings all round (not excluding
little Mitia), and, in particular, kisses Thenichka's hand (which she has not
learnt to offer in the right way), drinks a twice-filled glass to the company
at large, and says with a profound sigh: "May you all be happy, my friends!
Farewell![1]" And though the English terminal flourish passes unnoticed,
every one is touched with the benediction which has preceded it.
"Yes, and I drink to the memory of Bazarov," whispers Katia to her husband
as she clinks glasses with him: but though, in response, he squeezes her
hand, he decides not to propose the toast in public.

And here, apparently, there ought to follow the word Finis; but since some
of my readers may care to know how each of the characters in the book is
faring at the present day, I will satisfy that curiosity.
To take Anna Sergievna first, she has married—not for love, nor yet out of a
sense of duty—a rising young statesman who is an intelligent legislator, a
severely practical thinker, a man of strong will and eloquence, and a lover
with a temperament as cold as ice. Nevertheless the pair reside on amicable
terms, and may, in time, attain to happiness—nay, even to love.
As for the Princess, she is dead, and her memory perished with her.
The Kirsanovs, father and son, are settled at Marino, and appear to be
righting their industrial affairs, in that Arkady has developed into a capable
manager, and the estate now brings in a fair income. Nikolai Petrovitch, too,
is constant in his endeavours to make peace on the property, and, riding
systematically round it, delivers long speeches in the belief that only need
the peasantry be "reasoned with"—that is to say, plied with the same words
over and over again—for the muzhik gradually to become a tractable
animal. Yet Nikolai earns the approval neither of the educated gentry, who
speak with affected jauntiness of the coming "'mancipation"[2] (they
invariably give the syllable "an" a nasal inflection), nor of those uneducated

landowners who roundly curse what they term "that ——'muncipation." In
other words, for both classes Nikolai Petrovitch is too "mild."
Katerina Sergievna has had a son born to her, and named him Kolia; Mitia
is now a big, active, volubly lisping boy; and Thenichka (rather, Theodosia
Nikolaievna) adores her daughter-in-law only less than her husband and
Mitia. In fact, that adoration reaches the point that, should Katia sit down to
the piano, Thenichka cannot leave her though the playing continue all day.
Then a word concerning Peter the valet. As much a lump of mingled
stupidity and conceit as ever, he still pronounces his e's as u's, but has taken
unto himself a wife, and, with her, a respectable dowry. The daughter of a
market gardener of the neighbouring town, she had already refused two
eligible partis solely on the ground that they did not possess watches! But
Peter possesses not only a watch, but also a pair of patent leather pumps.
Again, any day on the Brühl Terrace, in Dresden, you may meet, between
two and four o'clock in the afternoon (the fashionable hour for a
promenade), a man of about fifty. Grey-headed, and afflicted with gout, yet
still handsome, he is elegantly dressed, and stamped with that air of good
breeding which comes only of long association with elevated strata of
society. That man is Paul Petrovitch. Having left Moscow for foreign parts
for his health's sake, he has settled in Dresden for the reason that there he
possesses the largest number of English and nomad-Russian acquaintances.
Towards the former he bears himself with simplicity, and almost with
modesty, but with a touch of hauteur; and, in return, the English look upon
him as a trifle tedious, but respect him on the score of his being "quite a
gentleman." In the presence of the Russian element, however, Paul
Petrovitch is more free and easy—he gives rein unstintedly to his sarcasm,
and rallies both his compatriots and himself. Yet from him such things come
pleasantly, and with a gay insouciance, and in a becoming manner; while, in
addition, he holds Slavophil views—views which (as we all know)
invariably induce the great world to rate their holder a person très distingué.
True, never by any chance does Paul read a Russian book; yet by way of
compensation, there stands on his writing-table a silver ash-tray shaped like
a muzhik's clog. Moreover, from some of our Russian tourists he receives
considerable attention when they happen to be passing through the town;
and even our old friend Matvei Ilyitch Koliazin, on finding himself "in
temporary opposition," has paid him a visit while en route to Bohemia for a

course of the waters. In fact, the only persons who show Paul no deference
at all are the native Germans, whose society he does not greatly cultivate.
Yet even they agree that, in the matter of obtaining tickets for the Court
Chapel or the theatre and so forth, none is so clever, so dexterous, as "der
Herr Baron von Kirsanov." In fact, always does he do "the right thing" so
far as he is able; and even yet he can create some stir, owing to the fact that
he has once, and to good purpose, been a social lion. Yet life presses upon
him not a little heavily—more heavily than he himself is aware. Merely
need one look at him as, huddled against the aisle wall of the Russian
church, he sits plunged in thought, with his lips bitterly compressed, and
continues sitting there until, remembering his surroundings, he makes,
almost imperceptibly, the sign of the cross. In similar fashion, Madame
Kukshin has gone abroad—in her case, to Heidelberg, where she is engaged
in studying, not natural science, but architecture—a branch wherein she has,
according to herself, "discovered several new laws." Also, still she is hail-
fellow-well-met with students, more especially with some of those Russian
physicists and chemists who swarm in Heidelberg, and who, though at first
flabbergasting the simple-minded German professors with the moderation
of their views, subsequently proceed to flabbergast those professors with
the wholeheartedness of their sloth. In fact, it is of two or three of those
chemistry students who, though unable to distinguish even oxygen from
azote, are yet charged to the brim with conceit and the spirit of "denial,"
that Madame Kukshin's circle is chiefly composed.
Similarly, friend Sitnikov is preparing to become a great man. For which
purpose he is flaunting it in St. Petersburg, and (to quote his own
expression) "carrying on the work of the late Bazarov." True, rumour
declares that some one has recently given him a second thrashing; as also
that he (Sitnikov) has declined to face the music—rather, that he has
preferred to hint in an obscure article in an equally obscure newspaper that
his assailant is the coward; but to this report Sitnikov merely attaches the
epithet "ironical." For the rest, his father continues to send him remittances,
while his wife accounts him equally a littérateur and a fool.
Lastly, in a remote corner of Russia there lies a little country cemetery. Like
most cemeteries of the kind, it is depressing of aspect. Over its fences dense
masses of weed have grown, its drab wooden crosses are rickety and
turning mouldy under their blistered, painted canopies, its stone paths have

lost their alignment, and look as though some one has displaced them from
below, its two or three ragged trees diffuse only the scantiest of shade, and
sheep wander unhindered over its tombs. But among those tombs there lies
a grave which no man molests and no animal tramples upon: only the birds
perch upon it and sing as evening falls. For around that grave stands an iron
railing, and at its head and foot are planted two young fir trees. It is the
grave of Evgenii Vasilitch Bazarov. Occasionally from the neighbouring
manor-house there come two aged and decrepit folk, a man and his wife.
Supporting one another with a step which ever grows heavier, they
approach the railing, sink upon their knees, and weep long, bitter tears as
they gaze at the dumb headstone where their son lies sleeping. Then they
exchange a word or two, dust the stone with assiduous care, lay upon it a
sprig of fir, and offer a last petition. Yet even then they can scarce bear to
tear themselves from the spot where they can draw nearest to their son, and
to their memories of him.
But are those tears, those prayers, all fruitless? Is that love, that hallowed,
selfless love, of theirs to be wholly unavailing? No, no, and a thousand
times no! For, though the heart which lies within that tomb may have been
passionate and wild and erring, the flowers which bloom in that spot
contemplate us with eyes of naught but peace and innocence, and speak to
us of naught but the eternal, mighty calm of "unheeding" nature, as an
image of the Eternal Reconciliation, and of the Life which shall have no
End.
[1] In the text this word is given in English.
[2] i.e. the emancipation of the serfs, which was carried out in 1861.

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

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be
renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law
means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the
Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States
without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying
and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the
PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a
registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook,
except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying
royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge
anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is
very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg
eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do
practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by
U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license,
especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any
other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you
agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License
available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing
Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work,
you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the
terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright)
agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement,
you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg
electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy
of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to
be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on
or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be
bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can
do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying
with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a
lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you
follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to
Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual
work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are

located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works
based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are
removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg
mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing
Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for
keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can
easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you
share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a
constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the
laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before
downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating
derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work.
The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status
of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied
or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it
away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™
License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United
States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from
texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice
indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the
work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without
paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a
work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on
the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs
1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the
permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply
with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed
by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project
Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the
copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License
terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any
other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently
displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or
immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the
official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no
additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of
exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work
in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format
must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph
1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing,
copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply
with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to
or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the
use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the
owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate
royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days
following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to
prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly
marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about
donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does
not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You
must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works
possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all
access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in
this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project

Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3
below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works
not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and
the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as,
but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription
errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or
damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that
damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except
for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to
you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE
THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT
EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE
THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE
TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL,
PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE
NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you
discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you
can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the
defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund.
If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to