Fathers and Sons By Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

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Fathers and Sons

Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

(Translator: Richard Hare)

Published: 1862

Categorie(s): Fiction

Source: http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au About Turgenev:

Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev (November 9 [O.S. October 28] 1818 – September 3 [O.S. August 22] 1883) was a major Russian novelist and playwright. His novel Fathers and Sons is regarded as a major work of 19th-century fiction. Source: Wikipedia

Also available on Feedbooks Turgenev:

- First Love (1860)

- The Torrents Of Spring (1872)

- Home of the Gentry (1859)

- Virgin Soil (1877)

- Rudin (1857)

- On the Eve (1860)

- Mumu (1879)

- The Diary Of A Superfluous Man and Other Stories (1899)

- A Sportman's Sketches (1852)

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Dedicated to the memory of

Vissarion Grigor’evich Belinsky

Chapter 1

“Well, Pyotr, still not in sight?” was the question asked on 20th May, 1859, by a gentleman of about forty, wearing a dusty overcoat and checked trousers, who came out hatless into the low porch of the posting station at X. He was speaking to his servant, a chubby young fellow with whitish down growing on his chin and with dim little eyes.

The servant, in whom everything — the turquoise ring in his ear, the hair plastered down with grease and the polite flexibility of his movements — indicated a man of the new improved generation, glanced condescendingly along the road and answered, “No, sir, definitely not in sight.”

“Not in sight?” repeated his master.

“No, sir,” replied the servant again.

His master sighed and sat down on a little bench. We will introduce him to the reader while he sits, with his feet tucked in, looking thoughtfully around.

His name was Nikolai Petrovich Kirsanov. He owned, about twelve miles from the posting station, a fine property of two hundred serfs or, as he called it — since he had arranged the division of his land with the peasants — a “farm” of nearly five thousand acres. His father, a general in the army, who had served in 1812, a crude, almost illiterate, but good-natured type of Russian, had stuck to a routine job all his life, first commanding a brigade and later a division, and lived permanently in the provinces, where by virtue of his rank he was able to play a certain part. Nikolai Petrovich was born in south Russia, as was his elder brother Pavel, of whom we shall hear more; till the age of fourteen he was educated at home, surrounded by cheap tutors, free-and-easy but fawning adjutants, and all the usual regimental and staff people. His mother, a member of the Kolyazin family, was called Agatha as a girl, but as a general’s wife her name was Agafoklea Kuzminishna Kirsanov; she was a domineering military lady, wore gorgeous caps and rustling silk dresses; in church she was the first to go up to the cross, she talked a lot in a loud voice, let her children kiss her hand every morning and gave them her blessing at night — in fact, she enjoyed her life and got as much out of it as she could. As a general’s son, Nikolai Petrovich — though so far from brave that he had even been called a “funk” — was intended, like his brother Pavel, to enter the army; but he broke his leg on the very day he obtained a commission and after spending two months in bed he never got rid of a slight limp for the rest of his life. His father gave him up as a bad job and let him go in for the civil service. He took him to Petersburg as soon as he was eighteen and placed him in the university there. His brother happened at the same time to become an officer in a guards regiment. The young men started to share a flat together, and were kept under the remote supervision of a cousin on their mother’s side, Ilya Kolyazin, an important official. Their father returned to his division and to his wife and only occasionally wrote to his sons on large sheets of grey paper, scrawled over in an ornate clerkly handwriting; the bottom of these sheets was adorned with a scroll enclosing the words, “Pyotr Kirsanov, Major-General.”

In 1835 Nikolai Petrovich graduated from the university, and in the same year General Kirsanov was put on the retired list after an unsuccessful review, and came with his wife to live in Petersburg. He was about to take a house in the Tavrichesky Gardens, and had joined the English club, when he suddenly died of an apoplectic fit. Agafoklea Kuzminishna soon followed him to the grave; she could not adapt herself to a dull life in the capital and was consumed by the boredom of retirement from regimental existence. Meanwhile Nikolai Petrovich, during his parents’ lifetime and much to their distress, had managed to fall in love with the daughter of his landlord, a petty official called Prepolovensky. She was an attractive and, as they call it, well-educated girl; she used to read the serious articles in the science column of the newspapers. He married her as soon as the period of mourning for his parents was over, and leaving the civil service, where his father had secured him a post through patronage, he started to live very happily with his Masha, first in a country villa near the Forestry Institute, afterwards in Petersburg in a pretty little flat with a clean staircase and a draughty drawing room, and finally in the country where he settled down and where in due course his son, Arkady, was born. Husband and wife lived well and peacefully; they were hardly ever separated, they read together, they sang and played duets together on the piano, she grew flowers and looked after the poultry yard, he busied himself with the estate and sometimes hunted, while Arkady went on growing in the same happy and peaceful way. Ten years passed like a dream. Then in 1847 Kirsanov’s wife died. He hardly survived this blow and his hair turned grey in a few weeks; he was preparing to travel abroad, if possible to distract his thoughts … but then came the year 1848. He returned unwillingly to the country and after a rather long period of inactivity he began to take an interest in improving his estate. In 1855 he brought his son to the university and spent three winters in Petersburg with him, hardly going out anywhere and trying to make acquaintance with Arkady’s young comrades. The last winter he was unable to go, and here we see him in May, 1859, already entirely grey-haired, plump and rather bent, waiting for his son, who had just taken his university degree, as once he had taken it himself.

The servant, from a feeling of propriety, and perhaps also because he was anxious to escape from his master’s eye, had gone over to the gate and was smoking a pipe. Nikolai Petrovich bowed his head and began to stare at the crumbling steps; a big mottled hen walked sedately towards him, treading firmly with its thick yellow legs; a dirty cat cast a disapproving look at him, as she twisted herself coyly round the railing. The sun was scorching; a smell of hot rye bread was wafted from the dim entrance of the posting station. Nikolai Petrovich started musing. “My son … a graduate … Arkasha … ” kept on turning round in his mind; he tried to think of something else, but the same thoughts returned. He remembered his dead wife. “She did not live to see it,” he murmured sadly. A plump blue pigeon flew on to the road and hurriedly started to drink water from a puddle near the well. Nikolai Petrovich began to watch it, but his ear had already caught the sound of approaching wheels …

“It sounds as if they’re coming, sir,” announced the servant, emerging from the gateway.

Nikolai Petrovich jumped up and fixed his eyes on the road. A carriage appeared with three posting horses abreast; inside it he caught a glimpse of the band of a student’s cap and the familiar outline of a dear face …

“Arkasha! Arkasha!” cried Kirsanov, and he ran out into the road, waving his arms … A few moments later his lips were pressed to the beardless dusty sunburnt cheek of the young graduate.

Chapter 2

“Let me shake myself first, Daddy,” said Arkady, in a voice rather tired from traveling but boyish and resonant, as he responded gaily to his father’s greetings; “I’m covering you with dust.”

“Never mind, never mind,” repeated Nikolai Petrovich, smiling tenderly, and struck the collar of his son’s cloak and his own greatcoat with his hand. “Let me have a look at you; just show yourself,” he added, moving back from him, and then hurried away towards the station yard, calling out, “This way, this way, bring the horses along at once.

Nikolai Petrovich seemed much more excited than his son; he was really rather confused and shy. Arkady stopped him.

“Daddy,” he said, “let me introduce you to my great friend, Bazarov, about whom I wrote to you so often. He has kindly agreed to come to stay with us.”

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

“I am delighted,” he began, “and grateful for your kind intention to visit us; I hope — please tell me your name and patronymic.”

“Evgeny Vassilyev,” answered Bazarov in a lazy but manly voice, and turning back the collar of his rough overcoat he showed his whole face. It was long and thin with a broad forehead, a nose flat at the base and sharper at the end, large greenish eyes and sand-colored, drooping side whiskers; it was enlivened by a calm smile and looked self-confident and intelligent.

“I hope, my dear Evgeny Vassilich, that you won’t be bored staying with us,” continued Nikolai Petrovich.

Bazarov’s thin lips moved slightly, but he made no answer and merely took off his cap. His fair hair, long and thick, did not hide the prominent bumps on his broad skull.

“Well, Arkady,” Nikolai Petrovich began again, turning to his son, “would you rather have the horses brought round at once or would you like to rest?”

“We’ll rest at home, Daddy; tell them to harness the horses.”

“At once, at once,” his father exclaimed. “Hey, Pyotr, do you hear? Get a move on, my boy.” Pyotr, who as a perfectly modern servant had not kissed his master’s hand but only bowed to him from a distance, vanished again through the gates.

“I came here with the carriage, but there are three horses for your tarantass also,” said Nikolai Petrovich fussily, while Arkady drank some water from an iron bucket brought to him by the woman in charge of the station, and Bazarov began smoking a pipe and went up to the driver, who was unharnessing the horses. “There are only two seats in the carriage, and I don’t know how your friend … ”

“He will go in the tarantass,” interrupted Arkady in an undertone. “Don’t stand on ceremony with him, please. He’s a splendid fellow, so simple — you will see.”

Nikolai Petrovich’s coachman brought the horses round.

“Well, make haste, bushy beard!” said Bazarov, addressing the driver.

“Do you hear, Mitya,” chipped in another driver, standing with his hands behind him thrust into the slits of his sheepskin coat, “what the gentleman just called you? That’s just what you are — a bushy beard.”

Mitya only jerked his hat and pulled the reins off the steaming horses.

“Hurry up, lads, lend a hand!” cried Nikolai Petrovich. “There’ll be something to drink our health with!”

In a few minutes the horses were harnessed; father and son took their places in the carriage: Pyotr climbed on to the box; Bazarov jumped into the tarantass, leaned his head back against the leather cushion — and both vehicles rolled away.

Chapter 3

“So here you are, a graduate at last — and home again,” said Nikolai Petrovich, touching Arkady now on the shoulder, now on the knee. “At last!”

“And how is uncle? Is he well?” asked Arkady, who in spite of the genuine, almost childish joy which filled him, wanted as soon as possible to turn the conversation from an emotional to a more commonplace level.

“Quite well. He wanted to come with me to meet you, but for some reason he changed his mind.”

“And did you have a long wait for me?” asked Arkady.

“Oh, about five hours.”

“You dear old daddy!”

Arkady turned round briskly to his father and gave him a resounding kiss on the cheek. Nikolai Petrovich laughed quietly.

“I’ve got a splendid horse for you,” he began. “You will see for yourself. And your room has been freshly papered.”

“And is there a room ready for Bazarov?”

“We will find one all right.”

“Please, Daddy, be kind to him. I can’t tell you how much I value his friendship.”

“You met him only recently?”

“Quite recently.”

“That’s how I didn’t see him last winter. What is he studying?”

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

“Ah! he’s in the medical faculty,” remarked Nikolai Petrovich, and fell silent. “Pyotr,” he went on, stretching out his hand, “aren’t those our peasants driving along?”

Pyotr looked aside to where his master was pointing. A few carts, drawn by unbridled horses, were rolling rapidly along a narrow side-track. In each cart were seated one or two peasants in unbuttoned sheepskin coats.

“Just so, sir,” replied Pyotr.

“Where are they going — to the town?”

“To the town, I suppose — to the pub,” Pyotr added contemptuously, and half turned towards the coachman as if including him in the reproach. But the latter did not turn a hair; he was a man of the old type and did not share the latest views of the younger generation.

“The peasants have given me a lot of trouble this year,” went on Nikolai Petrovich, turning to his son. “They won’t pay their rent. What is one to do?”

“And are you satisfied with your hired laborers?”

“Yes,” said Nikolai Petrovich between his teeth. “But they’re being set against me, that’s the worst of it, and they don’t really work properly; they spoil the tools. However, they’ve managed to plough the land. We shall manage somehow — there will be enough flour to go round. Are you starting to be interested in agriculture?”

“What a pity you have no shade,” remarked Arkady, without answering the last question.

“I have had a big awning put up on the north side over the veranda,” said Nikolai Petrovich; “now we can even have dinner in the open air.”

“Won’t it be rather too like a summer villa? … But that’s a minor matter. What air there is here! How wonderful it smells. Really it seems to me no air in the world is so sweetly scented as here! And the sky too … ” Arkady suddenly stopped, cast a quick look behind him and did not finish his sentence.

“Naturally,” observed Nikolai Petrovich, “you were born here, so everything is bound to strike you with a special — ”

“Really, Daddy, it makes absolutely no difference where a person is born.”

“Still — ”

“No, it makes no difference at all.”

Nikolai Petrovich glanced sideways at his son, and the carriage went on half a mile farther before their conversation was renewed.

“I forget if I wrote to you,” began Nikolai Petrovich, “that your old nurse Yegorovna has died.”

“Really? Poor old woman! And is Prokovich still alive?”

“Yes, and not changed a bit. He grumbles as much as ever. Indeed, you won’t find many changes at Maryino.”

“Have you still the same bailiff?”

“Well, I have made a change there. I decided it was better not to keep around me any freed serfs who had been house servants; at least not to entrust them with any responsible jobs.” Arkady glanced towards Pyotr.“Il est libre en effet,” said Nikolai Petrovich in an undertone, “but as you see, he’s only a valet. My new bailiff is a townsman — he seems fairly efficient. I pay him 250 rubles a year. But,” added Nikolai Petrovich, rubbing his forehead and eyebrows with his hand (which was always with him a sign of embarrassment), “I told you just now you would find no changes at Maryino, … That’s not quite true … I think it my duty to tell you in advance, though … .”

He hesitated for a moment and then went on in French.

“A severe moralist would consider my frankness improper, but in the first place I can’t conceal it, and then, as you know, I have always had my own particular principles about relations between father and son. Of course you have a right to blame me. At my age … To cut a long story short, that — that girl about whom you’ve probably heard … .”

“Fenichka?” inquired Arkady casually.

Nikolai Petrovich blushed.

“Don’t mention her name so loudly, please … Well, yes … she lives with me now. I have installed her in the house … there were two small rooms available. Of course, all that can be altered.”

“But why, Daddy; what for?’

“Your friend will be staying with us … it will be awkward.”

“Please don’t worry about Bazarov. He’s above all that.”

“Well, but you too,” added Nikolai Petrovich. “Unfortunately the little side-wing is in such a bad state.”

“For goodness’ sake, Daddy,” interposed Arkady. “You needn’t apologize. Are you ashamed?”

“Of course, I ought to be ashamed,” answered Nikolai Petrovich, turning redder and redder.

“Enough of that, Daddy, please don’t … ” Arkady smiled affectionately. “What a thing to apologize for,” he thought to himself, and his heart was filled with a feeling of indulgent tenderness for his kind, soft-hearted father, mixed with a sense of secret superiority. “Please stop that,” he repeated once more, instinctively enjoying the awareness of his own more emancipated outlook.

Nikolai Petrovich looked at his son through the fingers of the hand with which he was again rubbing his forehead, and a pang seized his heart … but he immediately reproached himself for it.

“Here are our own meadows at last,” he remarked after a long silence.

“And that is our forest over there, isn’t it?” asked Arkady.

“Yes. But I have sold it. This year they will cut it down for timber.”

“Why did you sell it?”

“We need the money; besides, that land will be taken over by the peasants.”

“Who don’t pay their rent?”

“That’s their affair; anyhow they will pay it some day.”

“It’s a pity about the forest,” said Arkady, and began to look around him.

The country through which they were driving could not possibly be called picturesque. Field after field stretched right up to the horizon, now gently sloping upwards, then slanting down again; in some places woods were visible and winding ravines, planted with low scrubby bushes, vividly reminiscent of the way in which they were represented on the old maps of Catherine’s times. They passed by little streams with hollow banks and ponds with narrow dams, small villages with low huts under dark and often crumbling roofs, and crooked barns with walls woven out of dry twigs and with gaping doorways opening on to neglected threshing floors; and churches, some brick-built with the stucco covering peeling off in patches, others built of wood, near crosses fallen crooked in the overgrown graveyards. Gradually Arkady’s heart began to sink. As if to complete the picture, the peasants whom they met were all in rags and mounted on the most wretched-looking little horses; the willows, with their broken branches and trunks stripped of bark, stood like tattered beggars along the roadside; lean and shaggy cows, pinched with hunger, were greedily tearing up grass along the ditches. They looked as if they had just been snatched out of the clutches of some terrifying murderous monster; and the pitiful sight of these emaciated animals in the setting of that gorgeous spring day conjured up, like a white ghost, the vision of interminable joyless winter with its storms, frosts and snows … “No,” thought Arkady, “this country is far from rich, and the people seem neither contented nor industrious; we just can’t let things go on like this; reforms are indispensable … but how are we to execute them, how should we begin?”

Such were Arkady’s thoughts … but even while he was thinking, the spring regained its sway. All around lay a sea of golden green — everything, trees, bushes and grass, vibrated and stirred in gentle waves under the breath of the warm breeze; from every side the larks were pouring out their loud continuous trills; the plovers were calling as they glided over the low-lying meadows or noiselessly ran over the tufts of grass; the crows strutted about in the low spring corn, looking picturesquely black against its tender green; they disappeared in the already whitening rye, only from time to time their heads peeped out from among its misty waves. Arkady gazed and gazed and his thoughts grew slowly fainter and died away … He flung off his overcoat and turned round with such a bright boyish look that his father hugged him once again.

“We’re not far away now,” remarked Nikolai Petrovich. “As soon as we get to the top of this hill the house will be in sight. We shall have a fine life together, Arkasha; you will help me to farm the land, if only it doesn’t bore you. We must draw close to each other now and get to know each other better, mustn’t we?”

“Of course,” murmured Arkady. “But what a wonderful day it is!”

“To welcome you home, my dear one. Yes, this is spring in all its glory. Though I agree with Pushkin — do you remember, in Evgeny Onegin,

“‘To me how sad your coming is,

Spring, spring, sweet time of love!

What — ’”

“Arkady,” shouted Bazarov’s voice from the tarantass, “give me a match. I’ve got nothing to light my pipe with.”

Nikolai Petrovich fell silent, while Arkady, who had been listening to him with some surprise but not without sympathy, hurriedly pulled a silver matchbox out of his pocket and told Pyotr to take it over to Bazarov.

“Do you want a cigar?” shouted Bazarov again.

“Thanks,” answered Arkady.

Pyotr came back to the carriage and handed him, together with the matchbox, a thick black cigar, which Arkady started to smoke at once, spreading around him such a strong and acrid smell of cheap tobacco that Nikolai Petrovich, who had never been a smoker, was forced to turn away his head, which he did unobtrusively, to avoid hurting his son’s feelings.

A quarter of an hour later both carriages drew up in front of the porch of a new wooden house, painted grey, with a red iron roof. This was Maryino, also known as New Hamlet, or as the peasants had nicknamed it, Landless Farm.

Chapter 4

No crowd of house servants ran out to meet their master; there appeared only a little twelve-year-old girl, and behind her a young lad, very like Pyotr, came out of the house; he was dressed in a grey livery with white armorial buttons and was the servant of Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov. He silently opened the carriage door and unbuttoned the apron of the tarantass. Nikolai Petrovich with his son and Bazarov walked through a dark and almost empty hall, through the door of which they caught a glimpse of a young woman’s face, and into a drawing room furnished in the most modern style.

“Well, here we are at home,” said Nikolai Petrovich, removing his cap and shaking back his hair. “Now the main thing is to have supper and then to rest.”

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a meal, certainly,” said Bazarov, stretching himself, and he sank on to a sofa.

“Yes, yes, let us have supper at once,” exclaimed Nikolai Petrovich, and for no apparent reason stamped his foot. “Ah, here comes Prokovich, just at the right moment.”

A man of sixty entered, white-haired, thin and swarthy, dressed in a brown coat with brass buttons and a pink neckerchief. He grinned, went up to kiss Arkady’s hand, and after bowing to the guest, retreated to the door and put his hands behind his back.

“Here he is, Prokovich,” began Nikolai Petrovich; “at last he has come back to us … Well? How do you find him?”

“As well as could be,” said the old man, and grinned again. Then he quickly knitted his bushy eyebrows. “Do you want supper served?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes, yes, please. But don’t you want to go to your room first, Evgeny Vassilich?”

“No, thanks. There’s no need. Only tell them to carry my little trunk in there and this garment, too,” he added, taking off his loose overcoat.

“Certainly. Prokovich, take the gentleman’s coat.” (Prokovich, with a puzzled look, picked up Bazarov’s “garment” with both hands, and holding it high above his head went out on tiptoe.) “And you, Arkady, are you going to your room for a moment?”

“Yes, I must wash,” answered Arkady, and was just moving towards the door when at that moment there entered the drawing room a man of medium height, dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionable low cravat and patent leather shoes, Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov. He looked about forty-five; his closely cropped grey hair shone with a dark luster like unpolished silver; his ivory-colored face, without wrinkles, had exceptionally regular and clear features, as though carved by a sharp and delicate chisel, and showed traces of outstanding beauty; particularly fine were his shining, dark almond-shaped eyes. The whole figure of Arkady’s uncle, graceful and aristocratic, had preserved the flexibility of youth and that air of striving upwards, away from the earth, which usually disappears when people are over thirty.

Pavel Petrovich drew from his trouser pocket his beautiful hand with its long pink nails, a hand which looked even more beautiful against the snowy white cuff buttoned with a single large opal, and stretched it out to his nephew. After a preliminary European hand shake, he kissed him three times in the Russian style; in fact he touched his cheek three times with his perfumed mustache, and said, “Welcome!”

Nikolai Petrovich introduced him to Bazarov; Pavel Petrovich responded with a slight inclination of his supple body and a slight smile, but he did not give him his hand and even put it back in his pocket.

“I began to think that you weren’t coming today,” he began in a pleasant voice, with an amiable swing and shrug of the shoulders; his smile showed his splendid white teeth. “Did anything go wrong on the road?”

“Nothing went wrong,” answered Arkady. “Only we dawdled a bit. So now we’re as hungry as wolves. Make Prokovich hurry up, Daddy; I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Wait, I’m coming with you,” exclaimed Bazarov, suddenly pulling himself off the sofa. Both the young men went out.

“Who is he?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“A friend of Arkasha’s; according to him a very clever young man.”

“Is he going to stay with us?”

“Yes.”

“That unkempt creature!”

“Well, yes.”

Pavel Petrovich drummed on the table with his finger tips. “I fancy Arkady s’est dégourdi,” he observed. “I’m glad he has come back.”

At supper there was little conversation. Bazarov uttered hardly a word, but ate a lot. Nikolai Petrovich told various anecdotes about what he called his farming career, talked about the forthcoming government measures, about committees, deputations, the need to introduce new machinery, etc. Pavel Petrovich paced slowly up and down the dining room (he never ate supper), occasionally sipping from a glass of red wine and less often uttering some remark or rather exclamation, such as “Ah! aha! hm!” Arkady spoke about the latest news from Petersburg, but he was conscious of being a bit awkward, with that awkwardness which usually overcomes a youth when he has just stopped being a child and has come back to a place where they are accustomed to regard and treat him as a child. He made his sentences quite unnecessarily long, avoided the word “Daddy,” and even sometimes replaced it by the word “Father,” mumbled between his teeth; with exaggerated carelessness he poured into his glass far more wine than he really wanted and drank it all. Prokovich did not take his eyes off him and kept on chewing his lips. After supper they all separated at once.

“Your uncle’s a queer fellow,” Bazarov said to Arkady, as he sat in his dressing gown by the bed, smoking a short pipe. “All that smart dandyism in the country. Just think of it! And his nails, his nails — they ought to be sent to an exhibition!”

“Why, of course you don’t know,” replied Arkady; “he was a great figure in his day. I’ll tell you his story sometime. He was extremely handsome, and used to turn all the women’s heads.”

“Oh, that’s it! So he keeps it up for the sake of old times. What a pity there’s no one for him to fascinate here! I kept on looking at his astonishing collar, just like marble — and his chin, so meticulously shaved. Come, come, Arkady, isn’t it ridiculous?”

“Perhaps it is, but he’s a good man really.”

“An archaic survival! But your father is a splendid fellow. He wastes his time reading poetry and knows precious little about farming, but he’s kindhearted.”

“My father has a heart of gold.”

“Did you notice how shy he was?”

Arkady shook his head, as if he were not shy himself.

“It’s something astonishing,” went on Bazarov, “these old romantic idealists! They go on developing their nervous systems till they get highly strung and irritable, then they lose their balance completely. Well, good night. In my room there’s an English washstand, but the door won’t fasten. Anyhow, that ought to be encouraged — English washstands — they stand for progress!”

Bazarov went out, and a sense of peaceful happiness stole over Arkady. It was sweet to fall asleep in one’s own home, in the familiar bed, under the quilt which had been worked by loving hands, perhaps the hands of his old nurse, those gentle, good and tireless hands. Arkady remembered Yegorovna, and sighed and wished, “God rest her soul” … for himself he said no prayer.

Both he and Bazarov soon fell asleep, but others in the house remained awake much longer. Nikolai Petrovich was agitated by his son’s return. He lay in bed but did not put out the candles, and propping his head in his hands he went on thinking. His brother was sitting till long after midnight in his study, in a wide armchair in front of the fireplace, in which some embers glowed faintly. Pavel Petrovich had not undressed, but some red Chinese slippers had replaced his patent leather shoes. He held in his hand the last number of Galignani, but he was not reading it; he gazed fixedly into the fireplace, where a bluish flame flickered, dying down and flaring up again at intervals … God knows where his thoughts were wandering, but they were not wandering only in the past; his face had a stern and concentrated expression, unlike that of a man who is solely absorbed in his memories. And in a little back room, on a large chest, sat a young woman in a blue jacket with a white kerchief thrown over her dark hair; this was Fenichka; she was now listening, now dozing, now looking across towards the open door, through which a child’s bed was visible and the regular breathing of a sleeping infant could be heard.

Chapter 5

The next morning Bazarov woke up earlier than anyone else and went out of the house. “Ugh!” he thought, “this isn’t much of a place!” When Nikolai Petrovich had divided his estate with his peasants, he had to set aside for his new manor house four acres of entirely flat and barren land. He had built a house, offices and farm buildings, laid out a garden, dug a pond and sunk two wells; but the young trees had not flourished, very little water had collected in the pond, and the well water had a brackish taste. Only one arbor of lilac and acacia had grown up properly; the family sometimes drank tea or dined there. In a few minutes Bazarov had explored all the little paths in the garden; he went into the cattle yard and the stables, discovered two farm boys with whom he made friends at once, and went off with them to a small swamp about a mile from the house in order to search for frogs.

“What do you want frogs for, sir?” asked one of the boys.

“I’ll tell you what for,” answered Bazarov, who had a special capacity for winning the confidence of lower-class people, though he never cringed to them and indeed treated them casually; “I shall cut the frog open to see what goes on inside him, and then, as you and I are much the same as frogs except that we walk on legs, I shall learn what is going on inside us as well.”

“And why do you want to know that?”

“In order not to make a mistake if you’re taken ill and I have to cure you.”

“Are you a doctor, then?”

“Yes.”

“Vaska, did you hear that? The gentleman says that you and I are just like frogs; that’s queer.”

“I’m frightened of frogs,” remarked Vaska, a boy of seven with flaxen hair and bare feet, dressed in a grey smock with a high collar.

“What are you frightened of? Do they bite?”

“There, paddle along into the water, you philosophers,” said Bazarov.

Meanwhile Nikolai Petrovich had also awakened and had gone to see Arkady, whom he found dressed. Father and son went out on to the terrace under the shelter of the awning; the samovar was already boiling on the table near the balustrade among great bunches of lilac. A little girl appeared, the same one who had first met them on their arrival the evening before. In a shrill voice she said, “Fedosya Nikolayevna is not very well and she can’t come; she told me to ask you, will you pour out tea yourself or should she send Dunyasha?”

“I’ll pour myself, of course,” interposed Nikolai Petrovich hurriedly. “Arkady, how do you like your tea, with cream or with lemon?”

“With cream,” answered Arkady, then after a brief pause he muttered questioningly, “Daddy?”

Nikolai Petrovich looked at his son with embarrassment. “Well?” he said.

Arkady lowered his eyes.

“Excuse me, Daddy, if my question seems to you indiscreet,” he began; “but you yourself by your frank talk yesterday encouraged me to be frank … you won’t be angry?”

“Go on.”

“You make me bold enough to ask you, isn’t the reason why Fen … isn’t it only because I’m here that she won’t come to pour out tea?”

Nikolai Petrovich turned slightly aside.

“Perhaps,” he at length answered, “she supposes … she feels ashamed.”

Arkady glanced quickly at his father. “She has no reason to feel ashamed. In the first place, you know my point of view,” (Arkady much enjoyed pronouncing these words) “and secondly, how could I want to interfere in the smallest way with your life and habits? Besides, I’m sure you couldn’t make a bad choice; if you allow her to live under the same roof with you, she must be worthy of it; in any case, it’s not for a son to judge his father — particularly for me, and with such a father, who has always let me do everything I wanted.”

Arkady’s voice trembled to start with; he felt he was being magnanimous and realized at the same time that he was delivering something like a lecture to his father; but the sound of his own voice has a powerful effect on any man, and Arkady pronounced the last words firmly and even emphatically.

“Thank you, Arkasha,” said Nikolai Petrovich thickly, and his fingers again passed over his eyebrows. “What you suppose is in fact quite true. Of course if this girl hadn’t deserved … it’s not just a frivolous fancy. It’s awkward for me to talk to you about this, but you understand that it’s difficult for her to come here in your presence, especially on the first day of your arrival.”

“In that case I’ll go to her myself!” exclaimed Arkady, with a fresh onrush of generous excitement, and he jumped up from his seat. “I will explain to her that she has no need to feel ashamed in front of me.”

Nikolai Petrovich got up also.

“Arkady,” he began, “please … how is it possible … there … I haven’t told you yet … ”

But Arkady was no longer listening to him; he had run off the terrace. Nikolai Petrovich gazed after him and sank into a chair overwhelmed with confusion. His heart began to throb … Did he realize at that moment the inevitable strangeness of his future relations with his son? Was he aware that Arkady might have shown him more respect if he had never mentioned that subject at all? Did he reproach himself for weakness? It is hard to say. All these feelings moved within him. though in the state of vague sensations only, but the flush remained on his face, and his heart beat rapidly.

Then came the sound of hurrying footsteps and Arkady appeared on the terrace. “We have introduced ourselves, Daddy!” he cried with an expression of affectionate and good-natured triumph on his face. “Fedosya Nikolayevna is really not very well today, and she will come out a little later. But why didn’t you tell me I have a brother? I should have kissed him last night as I kissed him just now!”

Nikolai Petrovich tried to say something, tried to rise and open wide his arms. Arkady flung himself on his neck.

“What’s this? Embracing again!” sounded the voice of Pavel Petrovich behind them.

Father and son were both equally glad to see him at that moment; there are situations, however touching, from which one nevertheless wants to escape as quickly as possible.

“Why are you surprised at that?” said Nikolai Petrovich gaily. “What ages I’ve been waiting for Arkasha. I haven’t had time to look at him properly since yesterday.”

Arkady went up to his uncle and again felt on his cheeks the touch of that perfumed mustache. Pavel Petrovich sat down at the table. He was wearing another elegant English suit with a bright little fez on his head. That fez and the carelessly tied little cravat suggested the freedom of country life, but the stiff collar of his shirt — not white, it is true, but striped, as is correct with morning dress — stood up as inexorably as ever against his well-shaved chin.

“Where is your new friend?” he asked Arkady.

“He’s not in the house; he usually gets up early and goes off somewhere. The main thing is not to pay any attention to him; he dislikes ceremony.”

“Yes, that’s obvious,” Pavel Petrovich began, slowly spreading butter on his bread. “Is he going to stay long with us?”

“Possibly. He came here on his way to his father’s.”

“And where does his father live?”

“In our province, about sixty-five miles from here. He has a small property there. He used to be an army doctor.”

“Tut, tut, tut! Of course. I kept on asking myself, ‘Where have I heard that name before, Bazarov?’ Nikolai, don’t you remember, there was a surgeon called Bazarov in our father’s division.”

“I believe there was.”

“Exactly. So that surgeon is his father. Hm!” Pavel Petrovich pulled his mustache. “Well, and Monsieur Bazarov, what is he?” he asked in a leisurely tone.

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

“Please do, nephew.”

“He is a nihilist !”

“What?” asked Nikolai Petrovich, while Pavel Petrovich lifted his knife in the air with a small piece of butter on the tip and remained motionless.

“He is a nihilist,” repeated Arkady.

“A nihilist,” said Nikolai Petrovich. “That comes from the Latin nihil, nothing,as far as I can judge; the word must mean a man who … who recognizes nothing?”

“Say — who respects nothing,” interposed Pavel Petrovich and lowered his knife with the butter on it.

“Who regards everything from the critical point of view,” said Arkady.

“Isn’t that exactly the same thing?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“No, it’s not the same thing. A nihilist is a person who does not bow down to any authority, who does not accept any principle on faith, however much that principle may be revered.”

“Well, and is that good?” asked Pavel Petrovich. “That depends, uncle dear. For some it is good, for others very bad.”

“Indeed. Well, I see that’s not in our line. We old-fashioned people think that without principles, taken as you say on faith, one can’t take a step or even breathe. Vous avez changé tout cela; may God grant you health and a general’s rank, and we shall be content to look on and admire your … what was the name?”

“Nihilists,” said Arkady, pronouncing very distinctly.

“Yes, there used to be Hegelists and now there are nihilists. We shall see how you will manage to exist in the empty airless void; and now ring, please, brother Nikolai, it’s time for me to drink my cocoa.”

Nikolai Petrovich rang the bell and called, “Dunyasha!” But instead of Dunyasha, Fenichka herself appeared on the terrace. She was a young woman of about twenty-three with a soft white skin, dark hair and eyes, childishly pouting lips and plump little hands. She wore a neat cotton dress; a new blue kerchief lay lightly over her soft shoulders. She carried a large cup of cocoa and setting it down in front of Pavel Petrovich, she was overcome with confusion; the hot blood rushed in a wave of crimson under the delicate skin of her charming face. She lowered her eyes and stood by the table slightly pressing it with her finger tips. She looked as if she were ashamed of having come in and somehow felt at the same time that she had a right to come.

Pavel Petrovich frowned and Nikolai Petrovich looked embarrassed. “Good morning, Fenichka,” he muttered through his teeth.

“Good morning,” she replied in a voice not loud but resonant, and casting a quick glance at Arkady, who gave her a friendly smile, she went quietly away. She had a slightly swaying walk, but that also suited her.

For some minutes silence reigned on the terrace. Pavel Petrovich was sipping his cocoa; suddenly he raised his head. “Here is Mr. Nihilist coming over to visit us,” he murmured.

Bazarov was in fact approaching through the garden, striding over the flower beds. His linen coat and trousers were bespattered with mud; a clinging marsh plant was twined round the crown of his old round hat, in his right hand he held a small bag in which something alive was wriggling. He walked quickly up to the terrace and said with a nod, “Good morning, gentlemen; sorry I was late for tea; I’ll join you in a moment. I just have to put these prisoners away.”

“What have you there, leeches?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“No, frogs.”

“Do you eat them or keep them for breeding?”

“For experiments,” answered Bazarov indifferently, and went into the house.

“So he’s going to cut them up,” observed Pavel Petrovich; “he has no faith in principles, but he has faith in frogs.”

Arkady looked sadly at his uncle; Nikolai Petrovich almost imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders. Pavel Petrovich himself felt that his epigram had misfired and he began to talk about farming and the new bailiff who had come to him the evening before to complain that a laborer, Foma, was “debauched,” and had become unmanageable. “He’s such an Æsop,” he remarked. “He announces to everyone that he’s a worthless fellow; he wants to have a good time and then he’ll suddenly leave his job on account of some stupidity.”

Chapter 6

Bazarov came back, sat down at the table and began to drink tea hurriedly. Both brothers watched him in silence, and Arkady glanced furtively from one to the other.

“Did you walk far this morning?” asked Nikolai Petrovich at last.

“To where you’ve got a little marsh near an aspen wood. I scared away five snipe. You might shoot them, Arkady.”

“So you’re not a sportsman yourself?”

“No.”

“Isn’t physics your special subject?” asked Pavel Petrovich in his turn.

“Yes, physics, and natural science in general.”

“They say the Teutons have lately had great success in that line.”

“Yes, the Germans are our teachers in it,” Bazarov answered carelessly.

Pavel Petrovich had used the word “Teutons” instead of “Germans” with an ironical intention, which, however, no one noticed.

“Have you such a high opinion of Germans?” asked Pavel Petrovich with exaggerated politeness. He was beginning to feel a concealed irritation. Bazarov’s complete nonchalance disgusted his aristocratic nature. This surgeon’s son was not only self-assured, he even answered abruptly and unwillingly and there was something coarse and almost insolent in the tone of his voice.

“Their scientists are a clever lot.”

“Ah, yes. I expect you hold a less flattering opinion about Russian scientists.”

“Very likely.”

“That is very praiseworthy self-denial,” said Pavel Petrovich, drawing himself up and throwing back his head. “But how is it that Arkady Nikolaich was telling us just now that you acknowledge no authorities? Don’t you even believe in them?”

“Why should I acknowledge them, or believe in them? If they tell me the truth, I agree — that’s all.”

“And do all Germans tell the truth?” murmured Pavel Petrovich, and his face took on a distant, detached expression, as if he had withdrawn to some misty height.

“Not all,” answered Bazarov with a short yawn, obviously not wanting to prolong the discussion.

Pavel Petrovich looked at Arkady, as if he wanted to say, “How polite your friend is.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” he began again with some effort, “I plead guilty of not liking Germans. There’s no need to mention Russian Germans, we all know what sort of creatures they are. But even German Germans don’t appeal to me. Formerly there were a few Germans here and there; well, Schiller for instance, or Goethe — my brother is particularly fond of them — but nowadays they all seem to have turned into chemists and materialists … ”

“A decent chemist is twenty times more useful than any poet,” interrupted Bazarov.

“Oh, indeed!” remarked Pavel Petrovich, and as if he were falling asleep he slightly raised his eyebrows. “So you don’t acknowledge art?”

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

“Ah, just so; you like joking, I see. So you reject all that Very well. So you believe in science only?”

“I have already explained to you that I don’t believe in anything; and what is science — science in the abstract? There are sciences, as there are trades and professions, but abstract science just doesn’t exist.”

“Excellent. Well, and do you maintain the same negative attitude towards other traditions which have become generally accepted for human conduct?”

“What is this, a cross-examination?” asked Bazarov.

Pavel Petrovich turned a little pale … Nikolai Petrovich felt that the moment had come for him to intervene in the conversation.

“Sometime we should discuss this subject with you in greater detail, my dear Evgeny Vassilich; we will hear your views and express our own. I must say I’m personally very glad you are studying natural science. I heard that Liebig made some wonderful discoveries about improving the soil. You can help me in my agricultural work and give me some useful advice.”

“I’m at your service, Nikolai Petrovich, but Liebig is quite above our heads. We must first learn the alphabet and only then begin to read, and we haven’t yet grasped the a b c.”

“You are a nihilist all right,” thought Nikolai Petrovich, and added aloud, “All the same I hope you will let me apply to you occasionally. And now, brother, I think it’s time for us to go and have our talk with the bailiff.”

Pavel Petrovich rose from his seat. “Yes,” he said, without looking at anyone; “it’s sad to have lived like this for five years in the country, far from mighty intellects! You turn into a fool straight away. You try not to forget what you have learned — and then one fine day it turns out to be all rubbish, and they tell you that experienced people have nothing to do with such nonsense, and that you, if you please, are an antiquated old simpleton. What’s to be done? Obviously young people are cleverer than we.”

Pavel Petrovich turned slowly on his heels and went out; Nikolai Petrovich followed him.

“Is he always like that?” Bazarov coolly asked Arkady directly the door had closed behind the two brothers.

“I must say, Evgeny, you were unnecessarily rude to him,” remarked Arkady. “You hurt his feelings.”

“Well, am I to humor them, these provincial aristocrats? Why, it’s all personal vanity, smart habits, and foppery. He should have continued his career in Petersburg if that’s his turn of mind … But enough of him! I’ve found a rather rare specimen of water beetle, Dytiscus marginatus — do you know it? I’ll show you.”

“I promised to tell you his story … ” began Arkady.

“The story of the beetle?”

“Come, come, Evgeny — the story of my uncle. You’ll see he’s not the kind of man you take him for. He deserves pity rather than ridicule.”

“I don’t dispute, but why do you worry about him?”

“One should be just, Evgeny.”

“How does that follow?”

“No, listen … ”

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

Chapter 7

Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov was educated first at home, like his younger brother, and afterwards in the Corps of Pages. From childhood he was distinguished by his remarkable beauty; he was self-confident, rather ironical, and had a biting sense of humor; he could not fail to please people. He began to be received everywhere directly he had obtained his commission as an officer. He was pampered by society, and indulged in every kind of whim and folly, but that did not make him any less attractive. Women went crazy about him, men called him a fop and secretly envied him. He shared a flat with his brother, whom he loved sincerely although he was most unlike him. Nikolai Petrovich was rather lame, had small, agreeable but somewhat melancholy features, little black eyes and soft thin hair; he enjoyed being lazy, but he also liked reading and was shy in society. Pavel Petrovich did not spend a single evening at home, prided himself on his boldness and agility (he was just bringing gymnastics into fashion among the young men of his set), and had read in all five or six French books. At twenty-eight he was already a captain; a brilliant career lay before him. Suddenly all that was changed.

In those days there used to appear occasionally in Petersburg society a woman who has even now not been forgotten — Princess R. She had a well-educated and respectable, but rather stupid husband, and no children. She used suddenly to travel abroad and equally suddenly return to Russia, and in general she led an eccentric life. She was reputed to be a frivolous coquette, abandoned herself keenly to every kind of pleasure, danced to exhaustion, laughed and joked with young men whom she used to receive before dinner in a dimly lit drawing room, but at night she wept and said prayers, finding no peace anywhere, and often paced her room till morning, wringing her hands in anguish, or sat, pale and cold, reading a psalter. Day came and she turned again into a lady of fashion, she went about again, laughed, chatted and literally flung herself into any activity which could afford her the slightest distraction. She had a wonderful figure; her hair, golden in color and heavy like gold, fell below her knees, yet no one would have called her a beauty; the only striking feature in her whole face was her eyes — and even her eyes were grey and not large — but their glance was swift and deeply penetrating, carefree to the point of audacity and thoughtful to the verge of melancholy — an enigmatic glance. Something extraordinary shone in those eyes even when her tongue was chattering the emptiest gossip. She dressed exquisitely. Pavel Petrovich met her at a ball, danced a mazurka with her, in the course of which she did not utter a single sensible word, and fell passionately in love with her. Accustomed to making conquests, he succeeded with her also, but his easy triumph did not damp his enthusiasm. On the contrary, he found himself in a still closer and more tormenting bondage to this woman, in whom, even when she surrendered herself without reserve, there seemed always to remain something mysterious and unattainable, to which no one could penetrate. What was hidden in that soul — God alone knows! It seemed as if she were in the grip of some strange powers, unknown even to herself; they seemed to play with her at will and her limited mind was not strong enough to master their caprices. Her whole behavior was a maze of inconsistencies; the only letters which could have aroused her husband’s just suspicions she wrote to a man who was almost a stranger to her, and her love had always an element of sadness; she no longer laughed and joked with the man whom she had chosen, but listened to him and looked at him in bewilderment. Sometimes this bewilderment would change suddenly into a cold horror; her face would take on a wild, deathlike expression and she would lock herself up in her bedroom; her maid, putting her ear to the keyhole, could hear her smothered sobs. More than once, as he returned home after a tender meeting, Kirsanov felt within him that heart-rending, bitter gloom which follows the consciousness of total failure. “What more do I want?” he asked himself, but his heart was heavy. He once gave her a ring which had a sphinx engraved in the stone.

“What is this?” she asked. “A sphinx?”

“Yes,” he answered, “and that sphinx is — you.”

“Me?” she asked, and slowly looked at him with her enigmatic eyes. “Do you know, that is very flattering,” she added with a meaningless smile, while her eyes still looked as strangely as before.

Pavel Petrovich suffered even while Princess R. loved him, but when she became cold to him, and that happened quite soon, he almost went out of his mind. He tortured himself, he was jealous, he gave her no rest but followed her everywhere. She grew sick of his persistent pursuit of her and went abroad. He resigned from his regiment in spite of the entreaties of his friends and the advice of his superior officers, and he followed the princess abroad; four years he spent in foreign countries, at one time pursuing her, at other times trying to lose sight of her; he was ashamed of himself, he was indignant at his own lack of resolution — but nothing helped. Her image — that incomprehensible, almost meaningless, but fascinating image — was too deeply rooted in his heart. In Baden he once more revived his former relationship with her; it seemed as though she had never before loved him so passionately … but in a month it was all over; the flame flared up for the last time and then died out forever. Foreseeing the inevitable separation, he wanted at least to remain her friend, as if lasting friendship with such a woman were possible … She left Baden secretly and from that time permanently avoided meeting Kirsanov. He returned to Russia and tried to live as before, but he could not adapt himself to his old routine. He wandered from place to place like one possessed; he still went out to parties and retained the habits of a man of the world; he could boast of two or three more conquests; but he no longer expected anything from himself or from others, and he undertook nothing new. He grew old and grey, spending all his evenings at the club, embittered and bored — arguing indifferently in bachelor society became a necessity for him, and that was a bad sign. Of course the thought of marriage never even occurred to him. Ten years passed in this way, grey and fruitless years, but they sped by terribly quickly. Nowhere does time fly as it does in Russia; in prison, they say, it flies even faster. One day when he was dining at his club, Pavel Petrovich heard that Princess R. was dead. She had died in Paris in a state bordering on insanity. He rose from the table and paced about the rooms for a long time, occasionally standing motionless behind the cardplayers, but he returned home no earlier than usual. A few weeks later he received a packet on which his name had been written; it contained the ring which he had given to the princess. She had drawn lines in the shape of a cross over the sphinx and sent him a message to say that the solution of the enigma was the cross.

This happened at the beginning of the year 1848, at the same time as Nikolai Petrovich came to Petersburg after the death of his wife. Pavel Petrovich had hardly seen his brother since the latter had settled in the country; Nikolai Petrovich’s marriage had coincided with the very first days of Pavel Petrovich’s acquaintance with the princess. When he returned from abroad, he went to the country, intending to stay two months with his brother and to take pleasure in his happiness, but he could stand it for only a week. The difference between them was too great. In 1848 this difference had diminished; Nikolai Petrovich had lost his wife, Pavel Petrovich had abandoned his memories; after the death of the princess he tried not to think about her. But for Nikolai there remained the feeling of a well-spent life, and his son was growing up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a lonely bachelor, was entering into that indefinite twilight period of regrets which resemble hopes and of hopes which are akin to regrets, when youth is over and old age has not yet started.

This time was harder for Pavel Petrovich than for other people, for in losing his past he lost everything he had.

“I won’t ask you to come to Maryino now,” Nikolai Petrovich said to him one day (he had called his property by that name in honor of his wife); “you found it dull there even when my dear wife was alive, and now, I fear, you would be bored to death.”

“I was stupid and fidgety then,” answered Pavel Petrovich. “Since then I have calmed down, if not grown wiser. Now, on the contrary, if you will let me, I am ready to settle down with you for good.”

Instead of answering, Nikolai Petrovich embraced him; but a year and a half elapsed after this conversation before Pavel Petrovich finally decided to carry out his intention. Once he was settled in the country, however, he would not leave it, even during those three winters which Nikolai spent in Petersburg with his son. He began to read, chiefly in English; indeed he organized his whole life in an English manner, rarely met his neighbors and went only out to the local elections, and then he was usually silent, though he occasionally teased and alarmed landowners of the old school by his liberal sallies, and he held himself aloof from members of the younger generation. Both generations regarded him as “stuck up,” and both respected him for his excellent aristocratic manners, for his reputation as a lady killer, for the fact that he was always perfectly dressed and always stayed in the best room in the best hotel; for the fact that he knew about good food and had once even dined with the Duke of Wellington at Louis Philippe’s table; for the fact that he took with him everywhere a real silver dressing case and a portable bath; for the fact that he smelt of some unusual and strikingly “distinguished” perfume; for the fact that he played whist superbly and always lost; lastly they respected him for his incorruptible honesty. Ladies found him enchantingly romantic, but he did not cultivate the society of ladies …

“So you see, Evgeny,” remarked Arkady, as he finished his story, “how unjustly you judge my uncle. Not to mention that he has more than once helped my father out of financial troubles, given him all his money — perhaps you don’t know, the property was never divided up — he’s happy to help anyone; incidentally he is always doing something for the peasants; it is true, when he talks to them, he screws up his face and sniffs eau de Cologne… ”

“Nerves, obviously,” interrupted Bazarov.

“Perhaps, but his heart is in the right place. And he’s far from stupid. What a lot of useful advice he has given me … especially … especially about relations with women.”

“Aha! If you burn your mouth with hot milk, you’ll even blow on water — we know that!”

“Well,” continued Arkady, “in a word, he’s profoundly unhappy — it’s a crime to despise him.”

“And who is despising him?” retorted Bazarov. “Still, I must say that a man who has staked his whole life on the one card of a woman’s love, and when that card fails, turns sour and lets himself drift till he’s fit for nothing, is not really a man. You say he’s unhappy; you know better than I do; but he certainly hasn’t got rid of all his foibles. I’m sure that he imagines he is busy and useful because he reads Galignani and once a month saves a peasant from being flogged.”

“But remember his education, the age in which he grew up,” said Arkady.

“Education?” ejaculated Bazarov. “Everyone should educate himself, as I’ve done, for instance … And as for the age, why should I depend upon it? Let it rather depend on me. No, my dear fellow, that’s all emptiness and loose living. And what are these mysterious relations between a man and a woman? We physiologists know what they are. You study the anatomy of the eye; and where does it come in, that enigmatic look you talk about? That’s all romanticism, rubbish, and moldy æsthetics. We had much better go and examine the beetle.”

And the two friends went off to Bazarov’s room, which was already pervaded by a kind of medical surgical smell, mixed with the reek of cheap tobacco.

Chapter 8

Pavel Petrovich did not stay long at his brother’s interview with the bailiff, a tall, thin man with the soft voice of a consumptive and cunning eyes, who to all Nikolai Petrovich’s remarks answered, “Indeed, certainly, sir,” and tried to show up the peasants as thieves and drunkards. The estate had only just started to be run on the new system, whose mechanism still creaked like an ungreased wheel and cracked in places like homemade furniture of raw, unseasoned wood. Nikolai Petrovich did not lose heart but he often sighed and felt discouraged; he realized that things could not be improved without more money, and his money was almost all spent. Arkady had spoken the truth; Pavel Petrovich had helped his brother more than once; several times, seeing him perplexed, racking his brains, not knowing which way to turn, Pavel Petrovich had moved towards the window, and with his hands thrust into his pockets had muttered between his teeth, “Mais je puis vous donner de l’argent,” and gave him money; but today he had none left himself and he preferred to go away. The petty disputes of agricultural management wearied him; besides, he could not help feeling that Nikolai Petrovich, with all his zeal and hard work, did not set about things in the right way, although he could not point out exactly what were his brother’s mistakes. “My brother is not practical enough,” he would say to himself; “they cheat him.” On the other hand, Nikolai Petrovich had the highest opinion of Pavel Petrovich’s practical capacity and was always asking for his advice. “I’m a mild, weak person, I’ve spent my life in the depths of the country,” he used to say, “while you haven’t seen so much of the world for nothing; you understand people, you see through them with an eagle’s eye.” In answer to such words, Pavel Petrovich only turned aside but did not contradict his brother.

Leaving Nikolai Petrovich in the study, he walked along the corridor which separated the front portion of the house from the back; on reaching a low door he stopped and hesitated for a moment, then, pulling at his mustache, he knocked on it.

“Who is there? Come in,” called out Fenichka’s voice.

“It is me,” said Pavel Petrovich, and opened the door. Fenichka jumped up from the chair on which she was sitting with her baby, and putting him into the arms of a girl who at once carried him out of the room, she hastily straightened her kerchief.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” began Pavel Petrovich without looking at her; “I only wanted to ask you … as they are sending into the town today … to see that they buy some green tea for me.”

“Certainly,” answered Fenichka, “how much tea do you want?”

“Oh, half a pound will be enough, I should think. I see you have made some changes here,” he added, casting a rapid look around and at Fenichka’s face. “Those curtains,” he went on, seeing that she did not understand him.

“Oh, yes, the curtains; Nikolai Petrovich kindly gave them to me, but they’ve been hung up for quite a long time.”

“Yes, and I haven’t been to see you for a long time. Now it is all very nice here.”

“Thanks to Nikolai Petrovich’s kindness,” murmured Fenichka.

“You are more comfortable here than in the little side-wing where you used to be?” inquired Pavel Petrovich politely but without any trace of a smile.

“Certainly, it is better here.”

“Who has been put in your place now?”

“The laundrymaids are there now.”

“Ah!”

Pavel Petrovich was silent. “Now he will go,” thought Fenichka; but he did not go and she stood in front of him rooted to the spot, moving her fingers nervously.

“Why did you send your little one away?” said Pavel Petrovich at last. “I love children; do let me see him.”

Fenichka blushed all over with confusion and joy. She was frightened of Pavel Petrovich; he hardly ever spoke to her.

“Dunyasha,” she called. “Will you bring Mitya, please?” (Fenichka was polite to every member of the household.) “But wait a moment; he must have a frock on.” Fenichka was going towards the door.

“That doesn’t matter,” remarked Pavel Petrovich.

“I shall be back in a moment,” answered Fenichka, and she went out quickly.

Pavel Petrovich was left alone and this time he looked round with special attention. The small, low room in which he found himself was very clean and cosy. It smelt of the freshly painted floor and of camomile flowers. Along the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought by the late General Kirsanov in Poland during a campaign; in one corner was a little bedstead under a muslin canopy alongside a chest with iron clamps and a curved lid. In the opposite corner a little lamp was burning in front of a big, dark picture of St. Nicholas the Miracle-Worker; a tiny porcelain egg hung over the saint’s breast suspended by a red ribbon from his halo; on the window sills stood carefully tied greenish glass jars filled with last year’s jam; Fenichka had herself written in big letters on their paper covers the word “Gooseberry;” it was the favorite jam of Nikolai Petrovich. A cage containing a short-tailed canary hung on a long cord from the ceiling; he constantly chirped and hopped about, and the cage kept on swinging and shaking, while hemp seeds fell with a light tap onto the floor. On the wall just above a small chest of drawers hung some rather bad photographs of Nikolai Petrovich taken in various positions; there, too, was a most unsuccessful photograph of Fenichka; it showed an eyeless face smiling with effort in a dingy frame — nothing more definite could be distinguished — and above Fenichka, General Yermolov, in a Caucasian cloak, scowled menacingly at distant mountains, from under a little silk shoe for pins which fell right over his forehead.

Five minutes passed; a sound of rustling and whispering could be heard in the next room. Pavel Petrovich took from the chest of drawers a greasy book, an odd volume of Masalsky’s Musketeer, and turned over a few pages … The door opened and Fenichka came in with Mitya in her arms. She bad dressed him in a little red shirt with an embroidered collar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathing heavily, his whole body moved up and down, and he waved his little hands in the air as all healthy babies do; but his smart shirt obviously impressed him and his plump little person radiated delight. Fenichka had also put her own hair in order and rearranged her kerchief; but she might well have remained as she was. Indeed, is there anything more charming in the world than a beautiful young mother with a healthy child in her arms?

“What a chubby little fellow,” said Pavel Petrovich, graciously tickling Mitya’s double chin with the tapering nail of his forefinger; the baby stared at the canary and laughed.

“That’s uncle,” said Fenichka, bending her face over him and slightly rocking him, while Dunyasha quietly set on the window sill a smoldering candle, putting a coin under it.

“How many months old is he?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“Six months, it will be seven on the eleventh of this month.”

“Isn’t it eight, Fedosya Nikolayevna?” Dunyasha interrupted timidly.

“No, seven. What an idea!”

The baby laughed again, stared at the chest and suddenly seized his mother’s nose and mouth with all his five little fingers. “Naughty little one,” said Fenichka without drawing her face away.

“He’s like my brother,” said Pavel Petrovich.

“Who else should he be like?” thought Fenichka.

“Yes,” continued Pavel Petrovich as though speaking to himself. “An unmistakable likeness.” He looked attentively, almost sadly at Fenichka.

“That’s uncle,” she repeated, this time in a whisper.

“Ah, Pavel, there you are!” suddenly resounded the voice of Nikolai Petrovich.

Pavel Petrovich turned hurriedly round with a frown on his face, but his brother looked at him with such delight and gratitude that he could not help responding to his smile.

“You’ve got a splendid little boy,” he said, and looked at his watch. “I came in here to ask about some tea … ”

Then, assuming an expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovich at once left the room.

“Did he come here of his own accord?” Nikolai Petrovich asked Fenichka.

“Yes, he just knocked and walked in.”

“Well, and has Arkasha come to see you again?”

“No. Hadn’t I better move into the side-wing again, Nikolai Petrovich?”

“Why should you?”

“I wonder whether it wouldn’t be better just at first.”

“No,” said Nikolai Petrovich slowly, and rubbed his forehead. “We should have done it sooner … How are you, little balloon?” he said, suddenly brightening, and went up to the child and kissed him on the cheek; then he bent lower and pressed his lips to Fenichka’s hand, which lay white as milk on Mitya’s little red shirt.

“Nikolai Petrovich, what are you doing?” she murmured, lowering her eyes, then quietly looked up again; her expression was charming as she peeped from under her eyelids and smiled tenderly and rather stupidly.

Nikolai Petrovich had made Fenichka’s acquaintance in the following way. Three years ago he had once stayed the night at an inn in a remote provincial town. He was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the room assigned to him and the freshness of the bed linen; surely there must be a German woman in charge, he thought at first; but the housekeeper turned out to be a Russian, a woman of about fifty, neatly dressed, with a good-looking, sensible face and a measured way of talking. He got into conversation with her at tea and liked her very much. Nikolai Petrovich at that time had only just moved into his new home, and not wishing to keep serfs in the house, he was looking for wage servants; the housekeeper at the inn complained about the hard times and the small number of visitors to that town; he offered her the post of housekeeper in his home and she accepted it. Her husband had long been dead; he had left her with an only daughter, Fenichka. Within a fortnight Arina Savishna (that was the new housekeeper’s name) arrived with her daughter at Maryino and was installed in the side-wing. Nikolai Petrovich had made a good choice. Arina brought order into the household. No one talked about Fenichka, who was then seventeen, and hardly anyone saw her; she lived in quiet seclusion and only on Sundays Nikolai Petrovich used to notice the delicate profile of her pale face somewhere in a corner of the church. Thus another year passed.

One morning Arina came into his study, and after bowing low as usual, asked him if he could help her daughter, as a spark from the stove had flown into her eye. Nikolai Petrovich, like many homeloving country people, had studied simple remedies and had even procured a homeopathic medicine chest. He at once told Arina to bring the injured girl to him. Fenichka was much alarmed when she heard that the master had sent for her, but she followed her mother. Nikolai Petrovich led her to the window and took her head between his hands. After thoroughly examining her red and swollen eye, he made up a poultice at once, and tearing his handkerchief in strips showed her how it should be applied. Fenichka listened to all he said and turned to go out. “Kiss the master’s hand, you silly girl,” said Arina. Nikolai Petrovich did not hold out his hand and in confusion himself kissed her bent head on the parting of the hair. Fenichka’s eye soon healed, but the impression she had made on Nikolai Petrovich did not pass away so quickly. He had constant visions of that pure, gentle, timidly raised face; he felt that soft hair under the palms of his hands, and saw those innocent, slightly parted lips, through which pearly teeth gleamed with moist brilliance in the sunshine. He began to watch her very attentively in church and tried to get into conversation with her. At first she was extremely shy with him, and one day, meeting him towards evening on a narrow footpath crossing a rye field, she ran into the tall, thick rye, overgrown with cornflowers and wormwood, to avoid meeting him face to face. He caught sight of her small head through the golden network of ears of rye, from which she was peering out like a wild animal, and called out to her affectionately, “Good evening, Fenichka. I won’t bite.”

“Good evening,” murmured Fenichka, without emerging from her hiding place.

By degrees she began to feel more at ease with him, but she was still a shy girl when suddenly her mother, Arina, died of cholera. What was to become of Fenichka? She had inherited from her mother a love of order, tidiness and regularity, but she was so young, so alone in the world; Nikolai Petrovich was so genuinely kind and considerate … There is no need to describe what followed …

“So my brother came to see you?” Nikolai Petrovich asked her. “He just knocked and came in?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s good. Let me give Mitya a swing.”

And Nikolai Petrovich began to toss him almost up to the ceiling, to the vast delight of the baby, and to the considerable anxiety of his mother, who each time he flew upwards stretched out her arms towards his little bare legs.

Meanwhile Pavel Petrovich had gone back to his elegant study, which was decorated with handsome blue wallpaper, and with weapons hanging from a multicolored Persian carpet fixed to the wall; it had walnut furniture, upholstered in dark green velvet, a Renaissance bookcase of ancient black oak, bronze statuettes on the magnificent writing desk, an open hearth … He threw himself on the sofa, clasped his hands behind his head and remained motionless, looking at the ceiling with an expression verging on despair. Perhaps because he wanted to hide even from the walls whatever was reflected in his face, or for some other reason, he rose, drew the heavy window curtains and again threw himself on the sofa.

Chapter 9

On that same day Bazarov met Fenichka. He was walking with Arkady in the garden and explaining to him why some of the trees, particularly the oaks, were growing badly.

“You would do better to plant silver poplars here, or firs and perhaps limes, with some extra black earth. The arbor there has grown up well,” he added, “because it’s acacia and lilac; they’re good shrubs, they don’t need looking after. Ah! there’s someone inside.”

In the arbor Fenichka was sitting with Dunyasha and Mitya. Bazarov stopped and Arkady nodded to Fenichka like an old friend.

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

“Whom do you mean?”

“You must know; only one of them is pretty.”

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

“Aha!” remarked Bazarov. “That shows your father’s got good taste. I like your father; ay, ay! He’s a good fellow. But we must make friends,” he added, and turned back towards the arbor.

“Evgeny,” cried Arkady after him in bewilderment, “be careful what you do, for goodness’ sake.”

“Don’t worry,” said Bazarov. “I’m an experienced man, not a country bumpkin.”

Going up to Fenichka, he took off his cap. “May I introduce myself?” he began, making a polite bow. “I’m a friend of Arkady Nikolayevich and a harmless person.”

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

“What a wonderful baby,” continued Bazarov. “Don’t be uneasy, my praises have never brought the evil eye. Why are his cheeks so flushed? Is he cutting his teeth?”

“Yes,” murmured Fenichka, “he has cut four teeth already and now the gums are swollen again.”

“Show me … don’t be afraid, I’m a doctor.” Bazarov took the baby in his arms, and to the great astonishment of both Fenichka and Dunyasha the child made no resistance and was not even frightened.

“I see, I see … It’s nothing, he’ll have a good set of teeth. If anything goes wrong you just tell me. And are you quite well yourself?”

“Very well, thank God.”

“Thank God, that’s the main thing. And you?” he added, turning to Dunyasha.

Dunyasha, who behaved very primly inside the house and was frivolous out of doors, only giggled in reply.

“Well, that’s all right. Here’s your young hero.”

Fenichka took back the baby in her arms.

“How quiet he was with you,” she said in an undertone. “Children are always good with me,” answered Bazarov. “I have a way with them.”

“Children know who loves them,” remarked Dunyasha. “Yes, they certainly do,” Fenichka added. “Mitya won’t allow some people to touch him, not for anything.”

“Will he come to me?” asked Arkady, who after standing at a distance for some time had come to join them. He tried to entice Mitya into his arms, but Mitya threw back his head and screamed, much to Fenichka’s confusion.

“Another day, when he’s had time to get accustomed to me,” said Arkady graciously, and the two friends walked away.

“What’s her name?” asked Bazarov.

“Fenichka … Fedosya,” answered Arkady.

“And her father’s name? One must know that, too.”

“Nikolayevna.”

“Good. What I like about her is that she’s not too embarrassed. Some people, I suppose, would think ill of her on that account. But what rubbish! Why should she be embarrassed? She’s a mother and she’s quite right.”

“She is in the right,” observed Arkady, “but my father … ”

“He’s right, too,” interposed Bazarov.

“Well, no, I don’t think so.”

“I suppose an extra little heir is not to your liking.”

“You ought to be ashamed to attribute such thoughts to me!” retorted Arkady hotly. “I don’t consider my father in the wrong from that point of view; as I see it, he ought to marry her.”

“Well, well,” said Bazarov calmly, “how generous-minded we are! So you still attach significance to marriage; I didn’t expect that from you.”

The friends walked on a few steps in silence.

“I’ve seen all round your father’s place,” began Bazarov again. “The cattle are bad, the horses are broken down, the buildings aren’t up to much, and the workmen look like professional loafers; and the bailiff is either a fool or a knave, I haven’t yet found out which.”

“You are very severe today, Evgeny Vassilich.”

“And the good peasants are taking your father in properly; you know the proverb ‘the Russian peasant will cheat God himself.’”