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.’”

“I begin to agree with my uncle,” remarked Arkady. “You certainly have a poor opinion of Russians.”

“As if that mattered! The only good quality of a Russian is to have the lowest possible opinion about himself. What matters is that twice two make four and the rest is all rubbish.”

“And is nature rubbish?” said Arkady, gazing pensively at the colored fields in the distance, beautifully lit up in the mellow rays of the sinking sun.

“Nature, too, is rubbish in the sense you give to it. Nature is not a temple but a workshop, and man is the workman in it.”

At that moment the long drawn-out notes of a cello floated out to them from the house. Someone was playing Schubert’s Expectation with feeling, though with an untrained hand, and the sweet melody flowed like honey through the air.

“What is that?” exclaimed Bazarov in amazement.

“My father.”

“Your father plays the cello?”

“Yes.”

“And how old is your father?”

“Forty-four.”

Bazarov suddenly roared with laughter.

“What are you laughing at?”

“My goodness! A man of forty-four, a father of a family, in this province, plays on the cello!”

Bazarov went on laughing, but, much as he revered his friend’s example, this time Arkady did not even smile.

Chapter 10

A fortnight passed by. Life at Maryino pursued its normal course, while Arkady luxuriously enjoyed himself and Bazarov worked. Everyone in the house had grown accustomed to Bazarov, to his casual behavior, to his curt and abrupt manner of speaking. Fenichka indeed, felt so much at ease with him that one night she had him awakened; Mitya had been seized by convulsions; Bazarov had gone, half-joking and half-yawning as usual, had sat with her for two hours and relieved the child. On the other hand, Pavel Petrovich had grown to hate Bazarov with all the strength of his soul; he regarded him as conceited, impudent, cynical and vulgar, he suspected that Bazarov had no respect for him, that he all but despised him — him, Pavel Kirsanov! Nikolai Petrovich was rather frightened of the young “Nihilist” and doubted the benefit of his influence on Arkady, but he listened keenly to what he said and was glad to be present during his chemical and scientific experiments. Bazarov had brought a microscope with him and busied himself with it for hours. The servants also took to him, though he made fun of them; they felt that he was more like one of themselves, and not a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle with him and used to cast significant sidelong glances at him when she skipped past like a squirrel. Pyotr, who was vain and stupid to the highest degree, with a constant forced frown on his brow, and whose only merit consisted in the fact that he looked polite, could spell out a page of reading and assiduously brushed his coat — even he grinned and brightened up when Bazarov paid any attention to him; the farm boys simply ran after “the doctor” like puppies. Only old Prokovich disliked him; at table he handed him dishes with a grim expression; he called him “butcher” and “upstart” and declared that with his huge whiskers he looked like a pig in a sty. Prokovich in his own way was quite as much of an aristocrat as Pavel Petrovich.

The best days of the year had come — the early June days. The weather was lovely; in the distance, it is true, cholera was threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had grown used to its periodic ravages. Bazarov used to get up very early and walk for two or three miles, not for pleasure — he could not bear walking without an object — but in order to collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he took Arkady with him. On the way home an argument often sprang up, in which Arkady was usually defeated in spite of talking more than his companion.

One day they had stayed out rather late. Nikolai Petrovich had gone into the garden to meet them, and as he reached the arbor he suddenly heard the quick steps and voices of the two young men; they were walking on the other side of the arbor and could not see him.

“You don’t know my father well enough,” Arkady was saying. “Your father is a good fellow,” said Bazarov, “but his day is over; his song has been sung to extinction.”

Nikolai Petrovich listened intently . . . Arkady made no reply.

The man whose day was over stood still for a minute or two, then quietly returned to the house.

“The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,” Bazarov went on meanwhile. “Please explain to him how utterly useless that is. After all he’s not a boy, it’s high time he got rid of such rubbish. And what an idea to be romantic in our times! Give him something sensible to read.”

“What should I give him?” asked Arkady.

“Oh, I think Büchner’s Stoff und Kraft to start with.”

“I think so too,” remarked Arkady approvingly. “Stoff und Kraft is written in popular language . . .”

“So it seems,” said Nikolai Petrovich the same day after dinner to his brother, as they sat in his study, “you and I are behind the times, our day is over. Well . . . perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing, I must say, hurts me; I was so hoping just now to get on really close and friendly terms with Arkady, and it turns out that I’ve lagged behind while he has gone forward, and we simply can’t understand one another.”

“But how has he gone forward? And in what way is he so different from us?” exclaimed Pavel Petrovich impatiently. “It’s that grand seigneur of a nihilist who has knocked such ideas into his head. I loathe that doctor fellow; in my opinion he’s nothing but a charlatan; I’m sure that in spite of all his tadpoles he knows precious little even in medicine.”

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

“And so disagreeably conceited,” Pavel Petrovich broke in again.

“Yes,” observed Nikolai Petrovich, “he is conceited. Evidently one can’t manage without it, that’s what I failed to take into account. I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I divided the land with the peasants, started a model farm, so that I’m even described as a “Rebel” all over the province; I read, I study, I try in every way to keep abreast of the demands of the day — and they say my day is over. And brother, I really begin to think that it is.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ll tell you why. I was sitting and reading Pushkin today . . . I remember, it happened to be The Gypsies . . . Suddenly Arkady comes up to me and silently, with such a kind pity in his face, as gently as if I were a baby, takes the book away from me and puts another one in front of me instead . . . a German book . . . smiles and goes out, carrying Pushkin off with him.”

“Well, really! What book did he give you?”

“This one.”

And Nikolai Petrovich pulled out of his hip pocket the ninth edition of Büchner’s well-known treatise.

Pavel Petrovich turned it over in his hands. “Hm!” he growled, “Arkady Nikolayevich is taking your education in hand. Well, have you tried to read it?”

“Yes, I tried.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Either I’m stupid, or it’s all nonsense. I suppose I must be stupid.”

“But you haven’t forgotten your German?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“Oh, I understand the language all right.”

Pavel Petrovich again fingered the book and glanced across at his brother. Both were silent.

“Oh, by the way,” began Nikolai Petrovich, evidently wanting to change the subject — “I’ve had a letter from Kolyazin.”

“From Matvei Ilyich?”

“Yes. He has come to inspect the province. He’s quite a bigwig now, he writes to say that as a relation he wants to see us again, and invites you, me and Arkady to go to stay in the town.”

“Are you going?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“No. Are you?”

“No. I shan’t go. What is the sense of dragging oneself forty miles on a wild-goose chase. Mathieu wants to show off to us in all his glory. Let him go to the devil! He’ll have the whole province at his feet, so he can get on without us. It’s a grand honor — a privy councilor! If I had continued in the service, drudging along in that dreary routine, I should have been a general-adjutant by now. Besides, you and I are behind the times.”

“Yes, brother; it seems the time has come to order a coffin, and to cross the arms over one’s chest,” remarked Nikolai Petrovich with a sigh.

“Well, I shan’t give in quite so soon,” muttered his brother. “I’ve got a quarrel with this doctor creature in front of me, I’m sure of that.”

The quarrel materialized that very evening at tea. Pavel Petrovich came into the drawing room all keyed up, irritable and determined. He was only waiting for a pretext to pounce upon his enemy, but for some time no such pretext arose. As a rule Bazarov spoke little in the presence of the “old Kirsanovs” (that was what he called the brothers), and that evening he felt in a bad humor and drank cup after cup of tea without saying a word. Pavel Petrovich was burning with impatience; his wishes were fulfilled at last.

The conversation turned to one of the neighboring landowners. “Rotten aristocratic snob,” observed Bazarov casually; he had met him in Petersburg.

“Allow me to ask you,” began Pavel Petrovich, and his lips were trembling, “do you attach an identical meaning to the words ‘rotten’ and ‘aristocrat’?”

“I said ‘aristocratic snob,’” replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip of tea.

“Precisely, but I imagine you hold the same opinion of aristocrats as of aristocratic snobs. I think it my duty to tell you that I do not share that opinion. I venture to say that I am well known to be a man of liberal views and devoted to progress, but for that very reason I respect aristocrats — real aristocrats. Kindly remember, sir,” (at these words Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel Petrovich) “kindly remember, sir,” he repeated sharply, “the English aristocracy. They did not abandon one iota of their rights, and for that reason they respect the rights of others; they demand the fulfillment of what is due to them, and therefore they respect their own duties. The aristocracy gave freedom to England, and they maintain it for her.”

“We’ve heard that story many times; what are you trying to prove by it?”

“I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir,” (when Pavel Petrovich became angry he intentionally clipped his words, though of course he knew very well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. This whim indicated a survival from the period of Alexander I. The great ones of that time, on the rare occasions when they spoke their own language, made use of such distortions as if seeking to show thereby that though they were genuine Russians, yet at the same time as grands seigneurs they could afford to ignore the grammatical rules of scholars) “I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir, that without a sense of personal dignity, without self-respect — and these two feelings are developed in the aristocrat — there is no firm foundation for the social . . . bien public . . . for the social structure. Personal character, my good sir, that is the chief thing; a man’s personality must be as strong as a rock since everything else is built up on it. I am well aware, for instance, that you choose to consider my habits, my dress, even my tidiness, ridiculous; but all this comes from a sense of self-respect and of duty — yes, from a sense of duty. I live in the wilds of the country, but I refuse to lower myself. I respect the dignity of man in myself.”

“Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovich,” muttered Bazarov, “you respect yourself and you sit with folded hands; what sort of benefit is that to the bien public? If you didn’t respect yourself, you’d do just the same.

Pavel Petrovich turned pale. “That is quite another question. There is absolutely no need for me to explain to you now why I sit here with folded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to tell you that aristocracy — is a principle, and that only depraved or stupid people can live in our time without principles. I said as much to Arkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it to you now. Isn’t that so, Nikolai?”

Nikolai Petrovich nodded his head.

“Aristocracy, liberalism, progress, principles,” said Bazarov. “Just think what a lot of foreign . . . and useless words! To a Russian they’re no good for anything!”

“What is good for Russians according to you? If we listen to you, we shall find ourselves beyond the pale of humanity, outside human laws. Doesn’t the logic of history demand . . .”

“What’s the use of that logic to us? We can get along without it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, this. You don’t need logic, I suppose, to put a piece of bread in your mouth when you’re hungry. For what do we need those abstractions?”

Pavel Petrovich raised his hands. “I simply don’t understand you after all that. You insult the Russian people. I fail to understand how it is possible not to acknowledge principles, rules! By virtue of what can you act?”

“I already told you, uncle dear, that we don’t recognize any authorities,” interposed Arkady.

“We act by virtue of what we recognize as useful,” went on Bazarov. “At present the most useful thing is denial, so we deny — ”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“What? Not only art, poetry . . . but . . . the thought is appalling . . .”

“Everything,” repeated Bazarov with indescribable composure.

Pavel Petrovich stared at him. He had not expected this, and Arkady even blushed with satisfaction.

“But allow me,” began Nikolai Petrovich. “You deny everything, or to put it more precisely, you destroy everything . . . But one must construct, too, you know.”

“That is not our business . . . we must first clear the ground.”

“The present condition of the people demands it,” added Arkady rather sententiously; “we must fulfill those demands, we have no right to yield to the satisfaction of personal egotism.”

That last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov; it smacked of philosophy, or romanticism, for Bazarov called philosophy a kind of romanticism — but he did not judge it necessary to correct his young disciple.

“No, no!” cried Pavel Petrovich with sudden vehemence. “I can’t believe that you young men really know the Russian people, that you represent their needs and aspirations! No, the Russian people are not what you imagine them to be. They hold tradition sacred, they are a patriarchal people, they cannot live without faith . . .”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” interrupted Bazarov. “I’m even ready to agree that there you are right.”

“And if I am right . . .”

“It proves nothing, all the same.”

“Exactly, it proves nothing,” repeated Arkady with the assurance of an experienced chess player who, having foreseen an apparently dangerous move on the part of his adversary, is not in the least put out by it.

“How can it prove nothing?” mumbled Pavel Petrovich in consternation. “In that case you must be going against your own people.”

“And what if we are?” exclaimed Bazarov. “The people imagine that when it thunders the prophet Ilya is riding across the sky in his chariot. What then? Are we to agree with them? Besides, if they are Russian, so am I.”

“No, you are not a Russian after what you have said. I can’t admit you have any right to call yourself a Russian.”

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

“While you talk to them and despise them at the same time.”

“What of that, if they deserve contempt! You find fault with my point of view, but what makes you think it came into being by chance, that it’s not a product of that very national spirit which you are championing?”

“What an idea! How can we need nihilists?”

“Whether they are needed or not — is not for us to decide. Why, even you imagine you’re not a useless person.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please!” cried Nikolai Petrovich, getting up.

Pavel Petrovich smiled, and laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder, made him sit down again.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, “I shan’t forget myself, thanks to that sense of dignity which is so cruelly ridiculed by our friend — our friend, the doctor. Allow me to point out,” he resumed, turning again to Bazarov, “you probably think that your doctrine is a novelty? That is an illusion of yours. The materialism which you preach, was more than once in vogue before and has always proved inadequate . . . .”

“Yet another foreign word!” broke in Bazarov. He was beginning to feel angry and his face looked peculiarly copper-colored and coarse. “In the first place, we preach nothing; that’s not in our line . . .”

“What do you do, then?”

“This is what we do. Not long ago we used to say that our officials took bribes, that we had no roads, no commerce, no real justice. . . .”

“Oh, I see, you are reformers — that’s the right name, I think. I, too, should agree with many of your reforms, but . . .”

“Then we suspected that talk and only talk about our social diseases was not worth while, that it led to nothing but hypocrisy and pedantry; we saw that our leading men, our so-called advanced people and reformers, are worthless; that we busy ourselves with rubbish, talk nonsense about art, about unconscious creation, parliamentarianism, trial by jury, and the devil knows what — when the real question is daily bread, when the grossest superstitions are stifling us, when all our business enterprises crash simply because there aren’t enough honest men to carry them on, while the very emancipation which our government is struggling to organize will hardly come to any good, because our peasant is happy to rob even himself so long as he can get drunk at the pub.”

“Yes,” broke in Pavel Petrovich, “indeed, you were convinced of all this and you therefore decided to undertake nothing serious yourselves.”

“We decided to undertake nothing,” repeated Bazarov grimly. He suddenly felt annoyed with himself for having been so expansive in front of this gentleman.

“But to confine yourselves to abuse.”

“To confine ourselves to abuse.”

“And that is called nihilism?”

“And that is called nihilism,” Bazarov repeated again, this time in a particularly insolent tone.

Pavel Petrovich screwed up his eyes a little. “So that’s it,” he murmured in a strangely composed voice. “Nihilism is to cure all our woes, and you — you are our saviors and heroes. Very well — but why do you find fault with others, including the reformers? Don’t you do as much talking as anyone else?”

“Whatever faults we may have, that is not one of them,” muttered Bazarov between his teeth.

“What then, do you act? Are you preparing for action?”

Bazarov made no reply. A tremor passed through Pavel Petrovich, but he at once regained control of himself.

“Hm!. . . Action, destruction . . .” he went on. “But how can you destroy without even knowing why?”

“We shall destroy because we are a force,” remarked Arkady.

Pavel Petrovich looked at his nephew and laughed.

“Yes, a force can’t be called to account for itself,” said Arkady, drawing himself up.

“Unhappy boy,” groaned Pavel Petrovich, who could no longer maintain his show of firmness. “Can’t you realize the kind of thing you are encouraging in Russia with your shallow doctrine! No, it’s enough to try the patience of an angel! Force! There’s force in the savage Kalmuk, in the Mongol, but what is that to us? What is dear to us is civilization, yes, yes, my good sir, its fruits are precious to us. And don’t you tell me these fruits are worthless; the poorest dauber, un barbouilleur, the man who plays dance music for five farthings an evening, even they are of more use than you because they stand for civilization and not for brute Mongolian force! You fancy yourselves as advanced people, and yet you’re only fit for the Kalmuk’s dirty hovel! Force! And remember, you forceful gentlemen, that you’re only four men and a half, and the others — are millions, who won’t let you trample their sacred beliefs under foot, but will crush you instead!”

“If we’re crushed, that’s in store for us,” said Bazarov. “But it’s an open question. We’re not so few as you suppose.”

“What? You seriously suppose you can set yourself up against a whole people?”

“All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a penny candle,” answered Bazarov.

“Indeed! First comes an almost Satanic pride, then cynical jeers — so that is what attracts the young, what takes by storm the inexperienced hearts of boys! Here is one of them sitting beside you, ready to worship the ground beneath your feet. Look at him. (Arkady turned aside and frowned.) And this plague has already spread far and wide. I am told that in Rome our artists don’t even enter the Vatican. Raphael they regard as a fool, because, of course, he is an authority; and these artists are themselves disgustingly sterile and weak, men whose imagination can soar no higher than Girls at a Fountain — and even the girls are abominably drawn! They are fine fellows in your view, I suppose?”

“To my mind,” retorted Bazarov, “Raphael isn’t worth a brass farthing, and they’re no better than he.”

“Bravo, bravo! Listen, Arkady . . . that is how modern young men should express themselves! And if you come to think of it, they’re bound to follow you. Formerly young men had to study. If they didn’t want to be called fools they had to work hard whether they liked it or not. But now they need only say ‘Everything in the world is rubbish!’ and the trick is done. Young men are delighted. And, to be sure, they were only sheep before, but now they have suddenly turned into Nihilists.”

“You have departed from your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity,” remarked Bazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady had turned hot all over and his eyes were flashing. “Our argument has gone too far . . . better cut it short, I think. I shall be quite ready to agree with you,” he added, getting up, “when you can show me a single institution in our present mode of life, in the family or in society, which does not call for complete and ruthless destruction.”

“I can show you millions of such institutions!” cried Pavel Petrovich — “millions! Well, take the commune, for instance.”

A cold smile distorted Bazarov’s lips. “Well, you had better talk to your brother about the commune. I should think he has seen by now what the commune is like in reality — its mutual guarantees, its sobriety and suchlike.”

“Well, the family, the family as it exists among our peasants,” cried Pavel Petrovich.

“On that subject, too, I think it will be better for you not to enter into too much detail. You know how the head of the family chooses his daughters-in-law? Take my advice, Pavel Petrovich, allow yourself a day or two to think it all over; you’ll hardly find anything straight away. Go through the various classes of our society and examine them carefully, meanwhile Arkady and I will — ”

“Will go on abusing everything,” broke in Pavel Petrovich.

“No, we will go on dissecting frogs. Come, Arkady; good-by for the present, gentlemen!”

The two friends walked off. The brothers were left alone and at first only looked at each other.

“So that,” began Pavel Petrovich, “that is our modern youth! Those young men are our heirs!”

“Our heirs!” repeated Nikolai Petrovich with a weary smile. He had been sitting as if on thorns throughout the argument, and only from time to time cast a sad furtive glance at Arkady. “Do you know what I was reminded of, brother? I once quarreled with our mother; she shouted and wouldn’t listen to me. At last I said to her, ‘Of course you can’t understand me; we belong to two different generations.’ She was terribly offended, but I thought, ‘It can’t be helped — a bitter pill, but she has to swallow it.’ So now our turn has come, and our successors can tell us: ‘You don’t belong to our generation; swallow your pill.’”

“You are much too generous and modest,” replied Pavel Petrovich. “I’m convinced, on the contrary, that you and I are far more in the right than these young gentlemen, although perhaps we express ourselves in more old-fashioned language — vieilli — and are not so insolently conceited . . . and the airs these young people give themselves! You ask one ‘Would you like white wine or red?’ ‘It is my custom to prefer red,’ he answers in a deep voice and with a face as solemn as if the whole world were looking at him that moment . . .”

“Do you want any more tea?” asked Fenichka, putting her head in at the door; she had not wanted to come into the drawing room while the noisy dispute was going on.

“No, you can tell them to take away the samovar,” answered Nikolai Petrovich, and he got up to meet her. Pavel Petrovich said “bonsoir “ to him abruptly, and went to his own study.

Chapter 11

Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovich went into the garden to his favorite arbor. He was filled with melancholy thoughts. For the first time he saw clearly the distance separating him from his son and he foresaw that it would grow wider every day. So they were spent in vain, those winters in Petersburg, when sometimes he had pored for whole days on end over the latest books; in vain had he listened to the talk of the young men, and rejoiced when he succeeded in slipping a few of his own words into heated discussions.

“My brother says we are right,” he thought, “and laying aside all vanity, it even seems to me that they are further from the truth than we are, though all the same I feel they have something behind them which we lack, some superiority over us . . . is it youth? No, it can’t only be that; their superiority may be that they show fewer traces of the slaveowner than we do.”

Nikolai Petrovich’s head sank despondently, and he passed his hand over his face.

“But to renounce poetry, to have no feeling for art, for nature . . .”

And he looked round, as though trying to understand how it was possible to have no feeling for nature. It was already evening; the sun was hidden behind a small clump of aspens which grew about a quarter of a mile from the garden; its shadow stretched indefinitely across the motionless fields. A little peasant on a white pony was riding along the dark narrow path near the wood; his whole figure was clearly visible even to the patch on his shoulder, although he was in the shade; the pony’s hoofs rose and fell with graceful distinctness. The sun’s rays on the farther side fell full on the clump of trees, and piercing through them threw such a warm light on the aspen trunks that they looked like pines, and their leaves seemed almost dark blue, while above them rose a pale blue sky, tinged by the red sunset glow. The swallows flew high; the wind had quite died down, some late bees hummed lazily among the lilac blossoms, a swarm of midges hung like a cloud over a solitary branch which stood out against the sky. “How beautiful, my God!” thought Nikolai Petrovich, and his favorite verses almost rose to his lips; then he remembered Arkady’s Stoff und Kraft — and remained silent, but he still sat there, abandoning himself to the sad consolation of solitary thought. He was fond of dreaming, and his country life had developed that tendency in him. How short a time ago he had been dreaming like this, waiting for his son at the posting station, and how much had changed since that day; their relations, then indeterminate, had now been defined — and how defined! His dead wife came back to his imagination, but not as he had known her for so many years, not as a good domesticated housewife, but as a young girl with a slim waist, an innocent inquiring look and a tightly twisted pigtail on her childish neck. He remembered how he had seen her for the first time. He was still a student then. He had met her on the staircase of his lodgings, and running into her by accident he tried to apologize but could only mutter “Pardon, Monsieur,” while she bowed, smiled, then suddenly seemed frightened and ran away, glanced quickly back at him, looked serious and blushed. Afterwards the first timid visits, the hints, the half-smiles and embarrassment; the uncertain sadness, the ups and downs and at last that overwhelming joy . . . where had it all vanished away? She had been his wife, he had been happy as few on earth are happy . . . “But,” he mused, “those sweet fleeting moments, why could one not live an eternal undying life in them?”

He made no effort to clarify his thoughts, but he felt that he longed to hold that blissful time by something stronger than memory; he longed to feel his Marya near him, to sense her warmth and breathing; already he could fancy her actual presence . . .

“Nikolai Petrovich,” came the sound of Fenichka’s voice close by. “Where are you?”

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

The enchanted world arising out of the dim mists of the past, into which he had just stepped, quivered — and disappeared.

“I’m here,” he answered; “I’m coming. You run along.” “There they are, traces of the slaveowner,” flashed through his mind. Fenichka peeped into the arbor without speaking to him and went away again; and he noticed with surprise that night had fallen while he was dreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed, and Fenichka’s face had glimmered in front of him, so pale and slight. He got up and was about to go home, but the emotions stirring his heart could not be calmed so soon, and he began walking slowly about the garden, sometimes meditatively surveying the ground, then raising his eyes to the sky where multitudes of stars were twinkling. He went on walking till he was almost tired out, but the restlessness within him, a yearning vague melancholy excitement, was still not appeased. Oh, how Bazarov would have laughed at him if he had known what was happening to him then! Even Arkady would have condemned him. He, a man of forty-four, an agriculturist and a landowner, was shedding tears, tears without reason; it was a hundred times worse than playing the cello.

Nikolai Petrovich still walked up and down and could not make up his mind to go into the house, into the cosy peaceful nest, which looked at him so hospitably from its lighted windows; he had not the strength to tear himself away from the darkness, the garden, the sensation of fresh air on his face, and from that sad restless excitement.

At a turn in the path he met Pavel Petrovich. “What is the matter with you?” he asked Nikolai Petrovich. “You are as white as a ghost; you must be unwell. Why don’t you go to bed?” Nikolai said a few words to his brother about his state of mind and moved away. Pavel Petrovich walked on to the end of the garden, also deep in thought, and he, too, raised his eyes to the sky — but his beautiful dark eyes reflected only the light of the stars. He was not born a romantic idealist, and his fastidiously dry though ardent soul, with its tinge of French scepticism, was not addicted to dreaming . . .

“Do you know what?” Bazarov was saying to Arkady that very night. “I’ve had a splendid idea. Your father was saying today that he had received an invitation from that illustrious relative of yours. Your father doesn’t want to go, but why shouldn’t we be off to X? You know the man invites you as well. You see what fine weather it is; we’ll stroll around and look at the town. Let’s have a jaunt for five or six days, no more.

“And you’ll come back here afterwards?”

“No, I must go to my father’s. You know he lives about twenty miles from X. I’ve not seen him or my mother for a long time; I must cheer the old people up. They’ve been good to me, my father particularly; he’s awfully funny. I’m their only one. “Will you stay long with them?”

“I don’t think so. It will be dull, of course. “And you’ll come to us again on your way back.”

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

“If you like,” answered Arkady languidly.

In his heart he was overjoyed by his friend’s suggestion, but thought it a duty to conceal his feeling. He was not a nihilist for nothing!

The next day he set off with Bazarov to X. The younger members of the household at Maryino were sorry about their departure; Dunyasha even wept . . . but the older people breathed more freely.

The town of X. to which our friends set off was under the jurisdiction of a governor, who was still a young man, and who was at once progressive and despotic, as so often happens with Russians. Before the end of the first year of his governorship, he had managed to quarrel not only with the marshal of nobility, a retired guards-officer, who kept open house and a stud of horses, but even with his own subordinates. The resulting feuds at length grew to such proportions that the ministry in Petersburg found it necessary to send a trusted official with a commission to investigate everything on the spot. The choice of the authorities fell on Matvei Ilyich Kolyazin, the son of that Kolyazin under whose protection the brothers Kirsanov had been when they were students in Petersburg. He was also a “young man,” that is to say, he was only just over forty, but he was well on the way to becoming a statesman and already wore two stars on his breast — admittedly, one of them was a foreign star and not of the first magnitude. Like the governor, upon whom he had come to pass judgment, he was considered a “progressive,” and though he was already a bigwig he was not altogether like the majority of bigwigs. Of himself he had the highest opinion, his vanity knew no bounds, but his manners were simple, he had a friendly face, he listened indulgently and laughed so good-naturedly that on first acquaintance he might even have been taken for “a jolly good fellow.” On important occasions, however, he knew, so to speak, how to make his authority felt. “Energy is essential,” he used to say then; “l’energie est la première qualité d’un homme d’état“ yet in spite of all that, he was habitually cheated, and any thoroughly experienced official could twist him round his finger. Matvei Ilyich used to speak with great respect about Guizot, and tried to impress everyone with the idea that he did not belong to the class of routine officials and old-fashioned bureaucrats, that not a single phenomenon of social life escaped his attention . . . He was quite at home with phrases of the latter kind. He even followed (with a certain casual condescension, it is true) the development of contemporary literature — as a grown-up man who meets a crowd of street urchins will sometimes join them out of curiosity. In reality, Matvei Ilyich had not got much further than those politicians of the time of Alexander I, who used to prepare for an evening party at Madame Svyechin’s by reading a page of Condillac; only his methods were different and more modern. He was a skillful courtier, and extremely cunning hypocrite, and little more; he had no aptitude for handling public affairs, and his intellect was scanty, but he knew how to manage his own affairs successfully; no one could get the better of him there, and of course, that is a most important thing.

Matvei Ilyich received Arkady with the amiability, or should we say playfulness, characteristic of the enlightened higher official. He was astonished, however, when he heard that both the cousins he had invited had stayed at home in the country. “Your father was always a queer fellow,” he remarked, playing with the tassels of his magnificent velvet dressing gown, and turning suddenly to a young official in a faultlessly buttoned-up uniform, he shouted with an air of concern, “What?” The young man, whose lips were almost glued together from prolonged silence, came forward and looked in perplexity at his chief . . . But having embarrassed his subordinate, Matvei Ilyich paid him no further attention. Our higher officials are fond of upsetting their subordinates, and they resort to quite varied means of achieving that end. The following method, among others, is often used, “is quite a favorite,” as the English say: a high official suddenly ceases to understand the simplest words and pretends to be deaf; he asks, for instance, what day of the week it is.

He is respectfully informed, “Today’s Friday, your Excellency.”

“Eh? What? What’s that? What do you say?” the great man repeats with strained attention.

“Today’s Friday, your Excellency.”

“Eh? What? What’s Friday? What Friday?”

“Friday, your Excellency, the day of the week.”

“What, are you presuming to teach me something?”

Matvei Ilyich remained a higher official, though he considered himself a liberal.

“I advise you, my dear boy, to go and call on the governor,” he said to Arkady. “You understand I don’t advise you to do so on account of any old-fashioned ideas about the necessity of paying respect to the authorities, but simply because the governor is a decent fellow; besides, you probably want to get to know the society here . . . You’re not a bear, I hope? And he’s giving a large ball the day after tomorrow.”

“Will you be at the ball?” inquired Arkady.

“He gives it in my honor,” answered Matvei Ilyich, almost pityingly. “Do you dance?”

“Yes, I dance, but not well.”

“That’s a pity! There are pretty women here, and it’s a shame for a young man not to dance. Of course I don’t say that because of any old conventions; I would never suggest that a man’s wit lies in his feet, but Byronism has become ridiculous — il a fait son temps.”

“But, uncle, it’s not because of Byronism that I don’t . . .”

“I’ll introduce you to some of the local ladies and take you under my wing,” interrupted Matvei Ilyich, and he laughed a self-satisfied laugh. “You’ll find it warm, eh?”

A servant entered and announced the arrival of the superintendent of government institutions, an old man with tender eyes and deep lines round his mouth, who was extremely fond of nature, especially on summer days, when, to use his words, every little busy bee takes a little bribe from every little flower.” Arkady withdrew.

He found Bazarov at the inn where they were staying, and took a long time to persuade him to accompany him to the governor’s.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Bazarov at last. “It’s no good doing things by halves. We came to look at the landowners, so let us look at them!”

The governor received the young men affably, but he did not ask them to sit down, nor did he sit down himself. He was perpetually fussing and hurrying; every morning he put on a tight uniform and an extremely stiff cravat; he never ate or drank enough; he could never stop making arrangements. He invited Kirsanov and Bazarov to his ball, and within a few minutes he invited them a second time, taking them for brothers and calling them Kisarov.

They were on their way back from the governor’s, when suddenly a short man in Slav national dress jumped out of a passing carriage and crying “Evgeny Vassilich,” rushed up to Bazarov.

“Ah, it’s you, Herr Sitnikov,” remarked Bazarov, still walking along the pavement. “What chance brought you here?”

“Just fancy, quite by accident,” the man replied, and returning to the carriage, he waved his arms several times and shouted, “Follow, follow us! My father had business here,” he went on, jumping across the gutter, “and so he asked me to come . . . I heard today you had arrived and have already been to visit you.” (In fact on returning home the friends did find there a card with the corners turned down, bearing the name Sitnikov, in French on one side, and in Slavonic characters on the other.) “I hope you are not coming from the governor’s.”

“It’s no use hoping. We’ve come straight from him.”

“Ah, in that case I will call on him, too . . . Evgeny Vassilich, introduce me to your . . . to the. . . .”

“Sitnikov, Kirsanov,” mumbled Bazarov, without stopping.

“I am much honored,” began Sitnikov, stepping sideways, smirking and pulling off his overelegant gloves. “I have heard so much . . . I am an old acquaintance of Evgeny Vassilich and I may say — his disciple. I owe to him my regeneration...”

Arkady looked at Bazarov’s disciple. There was an expression of excited stupidity in the small but agreeable features of his well-groomed face; his little eyes, which looked permanently surprised, had a staring uneasy look, his laugh, too, was uneasy — an abrupt wooden laugh.

“Would you believe it,” he continued, “when Evgeny Vassilich for the first time said before me that we should acknowledge no authorities, I felt such enthusiasm . . . my eyes were opened! By the way, Evgeny Vassilich, you simply must get to know a lady here who is really capable of understanding you and for whom your visit would be a real treat; you may have heard of her?”

“Who is it?” grunted Bazarov unwillingly.

“Kukshina, Eudoxie, Evdoksya Kukshina. She’s a remarkable nature,émancipeé in the true sense of the word, an advanced woman. Do you know what? Let us all go and visit her now. She lives only two steps from here . . . We will have lunch there. I suppose you have not lunched yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, that’s splendid. She has separated, you understand, from her husband; she is not dependent on anyone.”

“Is she pretty?” Bazarov broke in.

“N — no, one couldn’t say that.”

“Then what the devil are you asking us to see her for?”

“Ha! You must have your joke . . . she will give us a bottle of champagne.”

“So that’s it. The practical man shows himself at once. By the way, is your father still in the vodka business?”

“Yes,” said Sitnikov hurriedly and burst into a shrill laugh. “Well, shall we go?”

“You wanted to meet people, go along,” said Arkady in an undertone.

“And what do you say about it, Mr. Kirsanov?” interposed Sitnikov. “You must come too — we can’t go without you.”

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

“Never mind about that. Kukshina is a good sort!”

“Will there be a bottle of champagne?” asked Bazarov.

“Three!” cried Sitnikov, “I’ll answer for that.”

“What with?”

“My own head.”

“Better with your father’s purse. However, we’ll come along.”

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