[1]Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811-1899), chemist and physicist; inventor of Bunsen's burner and magnesium light; and originator (with Kirchhov) of spectrum analysis.
[1]Robert Wilhelm Bunsen (1811-1899), chemist and physicist; inventor of Bunsen's burner and magnesium light; and originator (with Kirchhov) of spectrum analysis.
As we know, time either flies like a bird or crawls like a snail. Thus a man is in best case when he fails to notice either the rapidity or the slowness of its flight. Similarly did Bazarov and Arkady spend their fortnight at Madame Odintsov's. Of this another contributory cause was the fact that alike in her household and in her daily life she maintained arégimeto which she herself strictly adhered, and to which she constrained others to adhere; so that the daily domestic round accomplished itself according to a fixed programme. At eight o'clock the company would assemble for breakfast; whereafter, until luncheon time, individuals could do whatsoever they chose (the hostess herself devoting her attention to her steward—she administered her estate on theobrokor tithes system—her household servants, and her head housekeeper). Next, before dinner, the company would reassemble for conversation or for reading aloud; and the rest of the evening would be devoted to a walk, to cards, or to music. Lastly, at half-past ten Anna Sergievna would withdraw to her room, issue her orders for the following day, and retire to bed.
But to Bazarov this measured, slightly formal regularity was not wholly agreeable. "Somehow it reminds one of running on a pair of rails," he used to declare; while so much did the sight of liveried lacqueys and graded serfs offend his democratic instincts that once he averred that one might as well dine in the English fashion outright, and wear white ties and black tail-coats. These views he expressed to Anna Sergievna (something in her always led men to lay bare their opinions in her presence); and, after she had heard him out, she said: "From your point of view, the matter is as you say, and perhaps I play the fine lady too much; but in the country one cannot live anyhow; such a course always leads one to grow slovenly."
So she continued herrégimeas before. Yet, though Bazarov grumbled, he and Arkady found that to that very formality they owed the fact that everything in the establishment "ran as on rails." In passing it may be mentioned that between the two young men there had taken place a change which dated from the day of their arrival at Nikolsköe, and manifested itself, as regards Bazarov (for whom Anna Sergievna evidently entertained a liking, though seldom did she agree with hisdicta), in the form of an unwonted captiousness which led him easily to lose his temper, to speak always with reluctance, to glare about him, and to be as unable to sit still as though mines had been exploding beneath his seat. As for Arkady (now come finally to the conclusion that he was in love with Madame Odintsov), the change manifested itself, rather, in his falling a prey to a melancholy which in no way prevented him from making friends with Katia, and even helped him to maintain with her kindly and cordial relations.
"Whereas Madame cares nothing for me," he would reflect, "thisgood-hearted creature does not give me the cold shoulder."
And these reflections would cause his heart to taste once more the sensuous joy of "magnanimity." Dimly Katia herself divined that her society afforded him a sort of comfort; wherefore she saw no reason to deny either him or herself the pleasure of this innocent, half-diffident, half-trustfulcamaraderie. True, in the presence, and under the keen eye, of the elder sister (who always caused Katia to retire precipitately into her shell) the pair never exchanged a single word (indeed, as a man in love, Arkady could not well have paid attention to any one but the object of his adoration while in the latter's vicinity); but as soon as he found himself alone with Katia he began, to a certain degree, really to enjoy himself. That is to say, whereas he knew himself to be incompetent to interest Madame (seeing that whenever he found himself alone with her he blushed and lost his head, while she, on her side, did not know what to say to him, so jejune was his mind as compared with her own), in Katia's presence he felt perfectly at home, and could treat her with condescension, and let her expound to him the impressions which she derived from music and the reading of tales, poems, and other "trifles." Nor did he notice, nor would he have consented to recognise had he noticed, the fact that those same "trifles" interested him as much as they did Katia. At the same time, the latter in no way acted as a clog upon his melancholy; wherefore, just as Madame was at her ease with Bazarov, so the young man was at his with Katia, and, after a short period of joint converse, the two couples would usually diverge. This happened especially during walks, and the more readily in that, whereas Katia adored nature, and Arkady too loved it (though he would never have admitted the fact), to Madame and Bazarov the charms of the natural world represented more or less a matter of indifference. Hardly need I add that from this constant separation between Arkady and Bazarov there flowed inevitable results which brought about in the relations of the pair a gradual change. That is to say, Bazarov ceased to discourse on Madame Odintsov—he ceased even to censure her for her "aristocratic manners"; and while, with regard to Katia, he sang her praises as usual (at the same time advising the placing of a check upon her sentimental tendencies), he took to uttering these encomiums only in a half-hearted and a perfunctory way, and, in general, to lecturing his pupil less than he had formerly done. Rather, he seemed to avoid him, to feel in some way uncomfortable in his presence.
These things Arkady duly noted, but kept his observations to himself.
The real cause of the innovation was the feeling which Madame Odintsov inspired in Bazarov's breast, and which he found to be a torture and a madness to him. Yet, had any one hinted to him, ever so distantly, that what was taking place in his soul could ever have been possible, he would have denied it with a contemptuous laugh and a cynical imprecation, seeing that, though a great devotee of feminine society and feminine beauty, he looked upon love in the ideal, the "romantic" (to use his own term) aspect as unpardonable folly, and upon the sentiment of chivalry as a sort of aberration or malady which moved him frequently to express his astonishment that Toggenburg and his Minnesingers and troubadours never ended by being clapped in a madhouse.
"Should a woman please you," he would say, "strive to attain your goal; but if you cannot attain that goal, waste no further trouble—just turn away. For the world does not rest upon a single keystone."
In similar fashion Madame Odintsov "pleased" Bazarov: yet, though the widespread reports in circulation about her might, with the freedom and independence of her views and the undoubtedpenchantwhich she entertained for himself, have been reckoned to tell in his favour, he soon discovered that, in her case, the "goal" wasnotto be attained. Also, he found to his surprise that he could not "turn away"—rather, that the mere thought of her made his blood boil. True, that symptom, if it had been the only one, might have been dealt with; but there became implanted in him something else—something which he had hitherto refused to admit, something of which he had hitherto made sport, but something which now aroused his pride. Therefore, although, when conversing with Anna Sergievna, he poured added scorn upon everything "romantic," he recognised, during his hours of solitude, that even in his own personality there lurked an element of "Romanticism." And at such times there was nothing for it but to rush out of doors into the woods, and to stride along at a pace which snapped off chance-met boughs, and found vent in curses at both them and himself. Or he would seek a hayloft or stable, and, stubbornly closing his eyes, strive to woo sleep, and almost invariably fail. Yet, as he sat there, there would come to him delusions that those proud lipshadonce responded to his kisses, that those chaste armshadembraced his neck, that those soulful eyeshadgazed tenderly—yes, tenderly—into his: and at such times his head would whirl, and for a second or two, and until his discontent returned, he would relapse into a state of trance, and, as though urged by a demon, think thoughts of unavowable import. Again, there were times when he would conceive a change similar to his own to have taken place inher, and the expression of her face already to be charged with a special significance. Yet, this point reached, he would end merely by stamping his feet, grinding his teeth, and mentally shaking his fist at himself.
Once, when walking with her in the garden, he announced to her in curt, gruff tones that he intended soon to depart for his father's place; whereupon Anna Sergievna turned pale, as though something had pricked her heart, and pricked it in such a manner as to surprise even herself, and to leave her wondering what it could portend. Yet not for the sake of testing her, nor of seeing what might possibly come of it, had he mentioned his purposed departure (never at any time did he indulge in "scheming"). Rather, the reason was that, earlier that morning, he had had an interview with his father's steward, Timotheitch, a rough, but quick-witted, old fellow who, in past days, had acted as his nurse, and had now presented himself—with tousled, flaxen hair, red, weather-beaten face, watery, sunken eyes, short, stout jacket of grey-blue cloth, leathern girdle, and tarred boots—at Nikolsköe.
"Good-day to you, ancient!" had been Bazarov's greeting.
"Good-day toyou, batiushka!" had responded the old man with a gleeful smile which had covered his face with wrinkles.
"And how is it that I see you here?" Bazarov had continued. "Is it that they have sent you to fetch me?"
"By no means, pardon me,batiushka!" Timotheitch had stammered out this denial for the reason that he had suddenly recollected certain strict injunctions imposed upon him before starting. "No, it is merely that I am on my way to the town on affairs connected with the estate, and turned aside a little to pay my respects to your honour. No, not to disturb you at all—oh dear no!"
"Do not lie," Bazarov had said. "Isthisthe way to the town?"
Timotheitch, cringing, had returned no reply.
"And how is my father?" Bazarov had continued.
"Quite well, thank God!"
"And my mother?"
"Your mother is the same, thank God!"
"And they are, I suppose, expecting me?"
The old man had cocked his head with a knowing air.
"Evgenii Vasilitch, why should theynotbe expecting you? Yes, as God is my trust, I know that their hearts are simply aching for a sight of you."
"Well, well! Do not make too long a stay of it, but tell them that I will come presently."
"I will,batiushka."
Yet it had been with a sigh that Timotheitch had replaced his cap on his head with both hands, left the house, remounted the shabbydrozhkiwhich he had left waiting at the gates, and disappeared at a trot—thoughnotin the direction of the town.
The same evening saw Madame sitting in her boudoir with Bazarov, and Arkady pacing the salon, and listening to Katia's music. As for the Princess, she had gone to bed, for she could not abide the presence of guests—least of all, of "those upstarts and good-for-nothings" as she termed our friends. In fact, though she confined herself, in the drawing-room or the dining-room, to sulking, she resorted, when alone with her maid in the bedroom, to abuse of Arkady and Bazarov which made her cap and her false front fairly dance on her head. These things, of course, Madame Odintsov knew.
"Why need you depart?" she said to Bazarov. "Have you forgotten your promise?"
Bazarov started.
"What promise?" he asked.
"Then youhaveforgotten it! I mean the promise to give me a few lessons in chemistry?"
"How can I fulfil it? My father is expecting me at home, and I ought not to stay a day longer. You had better read throughNotions Générales de Chimie, by Pelouse and Frémy. It is an excellent work, and clearly written—the very thing you want."
"But you said that no book can adequately replace—I forget the exact phrase you used, but you know what I mean, do you not?"
"I cannot help myself," he muttered.
"Nevertheless, why go?" She lowered her voice as she spoke. Bazarov glanced at her as she leant back in her chair and crossed her arms (which were bare to the elbow), and saw that by the light of the lamp (softened with a shade of pleated paper) she was looking paler than usual—also that the outlines of her figure were almost buried in a soft white gown, from underneath which there peeped forth the tips of her toes, posed crosswise.
"What reason should I have for remaining?" he replied.
She gave her head the faintest toss.
"What reason should you have?" she re-echoed. "Well, are you not happy here? Do you think that there will be no one to regret your departure?"
"There will be no one. Of that I am certain."
"Then you are wrong," came the reply after a pause. "But I do not believe you—I have an idea that you are not speaking seriously."
Bazarov said nothing.
"Why do you not answer me?" she persisted.
"What is there to say? In general, to regret people's absence is not worth while, and, least of all, the absence of people like myself."
"Why, again?"
"Because I am a prosaic and eminently uninteresting individual. Nor do I know how to talk."
"But you know how to play the esquire?"
"No, not even that. And, as you know, the softer aspect of life, the aspect which you hold so dear, lies altogether beyond me."
Madame Odintsov nibbled the corner of her handkerchief.
"Think what you like," she said, "but at leastIshall find things dull when you are gone."
"Arkady will remain," he hazarded.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Nevertheless I shall find the time wearisome," she repeated.
"Not for long."
"Why not?"
"Because, as you have very truly said, things never seem dull to you save when yourrégimeis infringed. In fact, with such faultless regularity have you ordered your life that there abides in it no room for dullness or depression or any other burdensome feeling."
"And I too am faultless, I suppose—I have ordered my life too regularly ever to err?"
"I daresay. Take an example of it. In a few minutes it will be ten o'clock; when, as I know by experience, you will request me to leave your presence."
"Oh no, I shall not. You may remain. By the way, please open that window. The room is simply stifling."
Bazarov rose and unfastened the casement, which swung backwards with a snap, for the reason that he had not expected it to open so easily, and that his hands were trembling. Into the aperture glanced the soft, warm night with its vista of dark vault of heaven, faintly rustling trees, and pure, free, sweet-scented air.
"Also, please pull down the blind, and then resume your seat. I wish to have a little further talk with you before you go. Tell me something about yourself—a person to whom, by the way, you never refer."
"I would rather converse with you on more profitable subjects."
"What modesty! Nevertheless I wish to learn something of you, and of your family, and of the father for whose sake you are soon going to abandon me."
"Why the word 'abandon'?" reflected Bazarov. Then he added aloud: "Things of that kind interest no one—least of all you. I and my people are obscure folk."
"Whereas I, you imagine, am an aristocrat?"
Bazarov looked up.
"Yes," he replied with emphasis.
She smiled.
"Then I can see that your knowledge of me is small," she remarked. "But of course—you believe all human beings to be identical, and therefore not worth the trouble of studying. Some day I will tell you my history. But first tell me yours."
"You say that my knowledge of you is small?" queried Bazarov. "You may be right. Possiblyeveryhuman being is an enigma. Let us take an example of that. You have withdrawn from society, and find it irksome, and limit your visitors' list to a couple of students. Yet why, with your intellect and your beauty, do you live in the country?"
"Why?" came the sharp rejoinder. "But first be so good as to explain what you mean by my 'beauty.'"
Bazarov frowned.
"That lies beside the point," he muttered. "The point is that I cannot understand why you settle in a rural spot of this kind."
"You cannot understand it, you cannot explain it?"
"No. There is only one possible explanation: and that is that you remain here because you are a person of self-indulgence who love comfort and the amenities of life, and are indifferent to aught else."
Again Madame Odintsov smiled.
"Then you are still determined to believe that I am incapable of being moved?" she said.
Bazarov glanced at her from under his brows.
"By curiosity, yes," he said. "But by nothing else."
"Indeed? Then I cease to wonder that you and I do not get on together. You are exactly like myself."
"That you and I do not get on together?" echoed Bazarov vaguely.
"Yes. But I had forgotten—you must be longing to retire?"
Bazarov rose. The lamp was casting a dim light, while into the fragrant, darkened, isolated room there came wafted at intervals, under the swinging blind, the sensuous freshness of the night, and the sounds of its mysterious whisperings. Madame Odintsov did not stir. Over her was stealing the same strange agitation which had infected Bazarov. Suddenly he realised that he was alone with a young and beautiful woman.
"Need you go?" she asked slowly.
He made no reply—he merely resumed his seat.
"Then you think me a spoilt, pampered, indolent person?" she continued in the same slow tone as she fixed her eyes upon the window. "Yet this much I know about myself: that I am very unhappy."
"Unhappy? For what reason? Because you attach too much importance to petty slanders?"
She frowned. Somehow she felt vexed that he should have understood her thus.
"No; things of that kind do not disturb me," she said. "Never should I allow them to do so—I am too proud. The reason why I am unhappy is that I have no wish, no enthusiasm, to live. I daresay you will not believe me, and will think that a mere 'petty aristocrat,' a person who is lapped in lace and seated in an armchair, is saying all this (and I will not conceal from you that I love what you call 'the comforts of life'): yet all the while I feel as though I had no desire to continue my existence. Pray reconcile that contradiction if you can. But perhaps you consider what I say 'Romanticism'?"
Bazarov shook his head.
"You are yet young," he said. "Also, you are rich and independent. What more could you have? What more do you desire?"
"What more?" she re-echoed with a sigh. "I do not know. I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time. Yes, I am growing old," she continued as she drew the ends of her mantilla around her bare shoulders. In doing so, she glanced at Bazarov. Her eyes met his, and the faintest of blushes stole into her face. "Behind me lie many memories—memories of my life in St. Petersburg, of a period of wealth followed by poverty, of my father's death, of my marriage, of my travels abroad—yes, many such memories there are. Yet none of them are worth cherishing. And before me lies only a weary road with no goal to it, along which I have no desire to travel."
"You are disenchanted," said Bazarov.
"No," she replied with a shiver. "Rather, I am dissatisfied. Oh that I could form a strong attachment of some kind!"
"To fall in lovemightsave you," remarked Bazarov. "But you are incapable of that. That is where your misfortune lies."
Madame dropped her eyes upon the sleeve of her mantilla.
"I am incapable of falling in love?" she murmured.
"Not altogether. Moreover, I did wrong to call it a misfortune: for the person most to be pitied is the person who meets with that experience."
"What experience do you mean?"
"The experience of falling in love."
"How come you to know that?"
"By hearsay," he replied irritably, while to himself he added: "You are a mere coquette whom sheer idleness is leading to weary and madden me." And his heart swelled within him.
"On the other hand," he went on, "it may be that you are too exacting?"
As he spoke he bent forward and fell to playing with the tassels of his chair.
"Possibly I am," she agreed. "But, you see, I conceive that it ought to be everything or nothing. 'A life for a life.' 'Take my all, give your all, and put a truce to regrets and any thought of return.' That is the best rule."
"Indeed?" queried Bazarov. "Well, it is not a bad rule, and I am surprised that you should have failed to attain your desire."
"Self-surrender, you think, is an easy thing?"
"Not if one considers matters first, and appraises oneself, and sets upon oneself a definite value. It is only surrenderwithoutconsideration that is easy."
"But how could one not value oneself? If one had value, no one would desire one's surrender."
"That would not be your concern nor mine: some one else's business would it be to determine our respective values. The one thing that would immediately concern us would be to knowhowto surrender."
Madame Odintsov sat up sharply.
"I still believe you to be speaking from experience," she said.
"No; words, idle words—words not meant to be taken personally."
"Then you yourself might be capable of surrendering?"
"I might. But in any case I should not care to boast."
Both remained silent for a moment. From the drawing-room came the notes of the piano.
"How late Katia is playing!" remarked Anna Sergievna.
Bazarov raised his head.
"Yes, itislate," he said. "Time for you to go to rest."
"Wait a moment, however. Why should you hurry away? I have something more to say to you."
"What may it be?"
"Wait," she repeated. As she did so, her eyes gazed at him as though studying his personality. For a few moments he paced the room—then suddenly approached her, said "Good night," squeezed her hand until she could have shrieked with the pain, and departed.
Raising her fingers to her lips, she blew after him a kiss. Then, rising with an abrupt, convulsive movement, she ran towards the door as though to call him back. But at that moment her maid entered with a decanter on a silver tray, and Madame halted, bid the maid begone, reseated herself, and sank into a reverie. Her hair, like a winding black snake, had broken loose from its fastenings. Dimly illumined by the lamp, she sat motionless, save that at intervals she chafed her hands, for the night air was beginning to grow chilly.
Two hours later Bazarov re-entered his bedroom in a state of dishevelment and despondency, and with his boots soaked with dew. Arkady was seated, fully dressed, at the writing-table, with a book in his hands.
"So you are not in bed yet?" Bazarov remarked irritably.
Arkady's only reply was to ask the counter-question:
"You have been sitting with Anna Sergievna, have you not?"
"I have," replied Bazarov. "I was sitting there while you and Katia were playing the piano."
"Oh,Iwas not playing," retorted Arkady. Then he stopped, for he felt the tears to be very near his eyes, and had no wish to let them fall in the presence of his satirical mentor.
When Madame Odintsov entered the breakfast-room next morning, Bazarov had been sitting over his cup for a considerable time. He glanced sharply at her as she opened the door, and she turned in his direction as inevitably as though he had signed to her to do so. Somehow her face looked pale, and it was not long before she returned to her boudoir, whence she issued again only at luncheon time. Since dawn the weather had been too rainy to admit of outdoor expeditions, and therefore the party adjourned to the drawing-room, where Arkady began to read aloud the latest number of some journal, while the Princess manifested her usual surprise at his conduct (as though it had been conduct of an indecent nature!), and fixed upon him a gaze which, though one of lasting malignancy, proved also to be one of which he took not the slightest notice.
"Pray come to my boudoir, Evgenii Vasilitch," said Anna Sergievna. "I have something to ask you. I think that last night you mentioned some textbook or another?"
Rising, she moved towards the door, whilst the Princess stared around the room as much as to say: "Dear, dear! This does surprise me!" Then she brought her eyes back to Arkady, who, raising his voice, and bending towards Katia (by whose side he was sitting), continued his reading as before.
Meanwhile Madame Odintsov walked hurriedly to her boudoir, and Bazarov followed with his eyes fixed upon the floor, and his ears open to no sound but the faint rustling of a silk dress. Arrived at her destination, Madame seated herself in the chair which she had occupied overnight, and Bazarov also took a seat where he had sat on the occasion in question.
"What is the title of the book?" she asked after a brief pause.
"Notions Générales, by Pelouse and Frémy. I can also recommend Ganot'sTraité Élémentaire de Physique Expérimentale, which is more detailed in its plates than the other work, and, in general, is——"
But Madame Odintsov held up her hand.
"Pardon me," she interrupted. "I have not brought you here to discuss textbooks. I have brought you here to renew our conversation of last night, at the point where you left the room so abruptly. I hope that I shall not weary you?"
"I am entirely at your service. What was it we were discussing?"
She glanced at him.
"Happiness, I think," she said. "In fact, I was speaking to you of myself. The reason why I mention happiness is the following. Why is it that when one is enjoying, say, a piece of music, or a beautiful summer evening, or a conversation with a sympathetic companion, the occasion seems rather a hint at an infinite felicity existent elsewhere than a real felicity actually being experienced? Perhaps, however, you have never encountered such a phenomenon?"
"'Where we are not, there do we wish to be,'—you know the proverb. Last night you said that you are dissatisfied. Such a thought never enters into my head."
"Is it that such thoughts seem to you ridiculous?"
"No—rather, that they never occur to me."
"Indeed? Well, to know what your thoughtsareis a thing which I greatly wish to attain."
"I do not understand you."
"Then listen. For a long time past I have been wishing to have this out with you. Do not tell me—you yourself know that it is useless to do so—that you are a man apart. As a matter of fact, you are a man still young, with all your life before you. I wish to know for what you are preparing, and what future awaits you, and what is the goal which you are seeking to reach, and whither you are travelling, and what you have in your mind—in short, who and what you are."
"I am surprised! Already you know that I dabble in natural science; while, as regards my future——"
"Yes? As regards your future?"
"I have told you that I purpose to become a district physician."
Anna Sergievna waved her hand impatiently.
"Why tell me that, when you yourself do not believe it? It is for Arkady to return me such answers, not you."
"And is Arkady in any way——?"
"Wait. Do you mean to tell me that such a modest rôle will really satisfy you, when you yourself have asserted that the science of medicine does not exist? No, no! You have given me that answer for the reason that you desire to keep me at arm's length, that you have no faith in me. Then let me tell you that Iamcapable of understanding you, that I too have known poverty and ambition, that I too have had my experiences."
"I daresay: yet pardon me when I intimate that I am not accustomed to bare my soul. Moreover, there is fixed between you and me such a gulf that——"
"A gulf? Do you again say that I am an aristocrat? Come, come, Evgenii Vasilitch! Have I not already told you that I——?"
"Can it avail anything to discuss the future when, for the most part, our futures are wholly independent of ourselves? Should the occasion arise to be up and doing, well and good: but, should the occasionnotarise, at least let us leave ourselves room for thankfulness that we did not waste time in useless chatter."
"What? You call a friendly talk 'useless chatter'? Then do you deem me, as a woman, unworthy of your confidence, or do you despise all women?"
"You I do not despise: and that you know full well."
"I know nothing of the kind. Of course I can understand your reluctance to speak of your future career; but as to what is taking place within you at the present moment——"
"'Taking place within me at the present moment'?" Bazarov exclaimed. "One would think I was a state or a community! Nor is it a process which interests me; while, in addition, a man cannot always put into words 'what is taking place within him.'"
"I do not see it. Why should you hesitate to express what may be in your soul?"
"Couldyoudo as much?" asked Bazarov.
"I could," came the reply after a brief hesitation.
Bazarov bowed in an ironical manner.
"Then you have the advantage of me," he said.
Her glance quickened into a note of interrogation.
"Very well," she said. "Yet I will venture to say that you and I have not met in vain, and that we shall always remain good friends. Moreover, I feel certain that in time your secretiveness and reserve will disappear."
"Then have you noticed in me much such 'secretiveness and reserve'?"
"I have."
Bazarov rose, and moved towards the window.
"Do you really want to know the cause of that 'secretiveness, and reserve'?" he asked. "Do you really want to know 'what is taking place within' me?"
"I do," she replied. Yet even as she spoke she felt run through her a tinge of apprehension for which she could not account.
"And you will not be angry with me if I tell you?"
"No."
"No?"
He approached her and halted behind her.
"Learn, then," he said, "that I love you with a blind, insensate passion. You have forced it from me at last!"
She stretched out her arms before her, while Bazarov, turning, pressed his forehead against the window-pane. His breath caught in his throat, and his whole body was quivering. Yet this was not the agitation born of the diffidence of youth, nor was it the awe inspired by a first confession of love. Rather, it was the beating of a strong and terrible emotion which resembled madness and was, perhaps, akin to it. As for Madame Odintsov, a great horror had come over her—also a great feeling of compassion for him.
"Evgenii Vasilitch!" she cried. In the words there rang an involuntary note of tenderness.
Wheeling about, he devoured her with his glance. Then he seized her hands in his, and pressed her to his bosom.
She did not free herself at once. Only after a moment did she withdraw to a corner, and stand looking at him. He rushed towards her again, but she whispered in hurried alarm:
"You have mistaken me!"
Had he taken another step, she would have screamed.
Biting his lips, he left the room.
Half an hour later her maid brought her a note. It consisted of a single line only, and said: "Must I depart to-day, or may I remain until to-morrow?"
To it Anna Sergievna replied: "Why depart? I have failed to understand you, and you have failed to understand me—that is all."
But mentally she added: "Rather, I have failed to understand myself."
Until dinner time she remained secluded, and spent the hours in pacing her room with her hands clasped behind her. Occasionally she would halt before the window-panes or a mirror, to draw a handkerchief across a spot on her neck which seemed to be burning like fire. And every time that she did so she asked herself what had led her to force Bazarov's confidence; also, whether or not she had had any suspicion that such a thing might result.
"Yes, Iamto blame," she finally decided. "Yet I could not have foreseen the wholedénouement."
Then she recalled Bazarov's almost animal face as he rushed to seize her in his arms. And at the thought she blushed.
"Or is it that——?" Here she stopped, and shook back her curls. The reason was that she had seen herself in a mirror, and, as in a flash, had learnt from that image of a head thrown back, with a mysterious smile lurking between a pair of half-parted lips and in a pair of half-closed eyes, something which confounded her.
"No, no! Again no!" she cried. "Only God knows what might come of it. Such things are not to be played with. Freedom from worry is the chief thing in the world."
Nor had hersangfroidreally been shattered. Rather, she was a little agitated—so little that, when, for some unknown reason, she shed a tear or two, those tears owed their origin not to any deep emotion, to the fact that she was wounded, but to a sense of having involuntarily been at fault in permitting certain vague yearnings—a certain consciousness of the transience of life, a certain desire for novelty—to urge her towards the boundary line. And over that boundary line she had peeped. And in front of her she had beheld, not an abyss, but a waste, a sheer ugliness.
In spite of her self-command, in spite of her superiority to convention, Madame Odintsov could not but feel a little uncomfortable when she entered the dining-room for the evening meal. Nevertheless the meal passed off without incident, and after it Porphyri Platonitch came in, and related various anecdotes on the strength of a recent visit to the neighbouring town—among other things, a story to the effect that Governor "Bardeloue" had commanded his whole staff of officials to wear spurs, in order that, if need be, he could dispatch them on their errands on horseback! Meanwhile, Arkady talked in an undertone to Katia, and also paid diplomatic attention to the Princess; while Bazarov maintained such an obstinate, gloomy silence that Madame, glancing at him (as she did twice, and openly, not covertly), thought to herself, as she scanned his stern, forbidding face, downcast eyes, and all-pervading expression of rigid contempt: "No, no! Again, no!"
Dinner over, she conducted her guests into the garden, and, perceiving that Bazarov desired a word with her, walked aside a little, halted, and waited for him. Approaching with his eyes on the ground, he said in a dull way:
"I must beg your pardon, Anna Sergievna. Surely you must be feeling extremely angry with me?"
"No, not angry so much as grieved," she replied.
"So much the worse! But I have received sufficient punishment, have I not? My position now (I am sure that you will agree with me) is a very awkward one. True, you wrote in your message: 'Why need you depart?' but I cannot and will not remain. By to-morrow, therefore, I shall have departed."
"But why need you, need you——?"
"Why need I depart?"
"No, I was going to have said something quite different."
"We cannot recover the past," he continued, "and it was only a question of time before this should happen. I know only of one condition under which I could remain. And that condition is never likely to arise. For (pardon my presumption) I suppose you neither love me now nor could ever do so?"
With the words there came a flash from under his dark brows.
She did not reply. Through her brain there flitted only the one thought: "I am afraid of this man!"
"Farewell," he continued, as though he had divined that thought. Then he moved away towards the house.
Entering the house a little later, Anna Sergievna called to Katia, and took the girl by the arm: nor throughout the rest of the evening did she once part from her. Also, instead of joining in a game of cards, she sat uttering laugh after laugh of a nature which ill consorted with her blanched and careworn face. Gazing at her perplexedly, as a young man will do, Arkady kept asking himself the question: "What can this mean?" As for Bazarov, he locked himself in his room, and only appeared to join the rest at tea. When he did so, Anna Sergievna yearned to say something kind to him, but could think of no words for the purpose. To her dilemma, however, an unexpected incident put an end. This was the entry of the butler to announce Sitnikov!
To describe the craven fashion in which the young Progressive entered the room would be impossible. Although, with characteristic importunity, he had decided to repair to the residence of a lady with whom he was barely acquainted, and who had not accorded him an invitation (his pretext for such presumption being that, according to information received, she happened to be entertaining guests who were both intellectual and "very intimate" with himself), he had since felt his courage ebb to the marrow of his bones, and now, instead of proffering all the excuses and compliments which he had prepared in advance, blurted out some ridiculous story to the effect that Evdoksia Kukshin had sent him to inquire after the health of Anna Sergievna, and that Arkady Nikolaievitch had always spoken of him in terms of the highest respect. But at this point he began to stammer, and so lost his head as to sit down upon his own hat! No one bade him depart, however, and Anna Sergievna even went so far as to present him to her aunt and sister. Accordingly it was not long before he recovered his equanimity, and shone forth with his accustomed brilliancy. Often the appearance of the paltry represents a convenient phenomenon in life, since it relaxes over-taut strings, and sobers natures prone to conceit and self-assurance by reminding them of their kinship with the newcomer. Thus Sitnikov's arrival caused everything to become duller and a trifle more futile, but also rendered things simpler, and enabled the company to partake of supper with a better appetite, and to part for the night half an hour earlier than usual.
"Let me recall to you some words of your own," said Arkady when he had got into bed, and Bazarov was still undressing. "I refer to the words: 'Why are you down-hearted? Have you just fulfilled a sacred duty?'"
Between the two there had become established those half-quizzical relations which are always a sign of tacit distrust and a smouldering grudge.
"To-morrow I intend to set out for my father's place," remarked Bazarov, in disregard of what Arkady had said.
The latter raised himself on his elbow. Though surprised, he also, for some reason, felt glad.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Thenthatis why you are down-hearted?"
Bazarov yawned.
"When you are come to be a little older," he replied, "you will know more."
"And what of Anna Sergievna?" continued Arkady.
"Well? What of her?"
"Is it likely that she will let you go?"
"I am not her hireling."
Arkady relapsed into thought, and Bazarov sought his bed, and turned his face to the wall.
For a few moments silence reigned.
"Evgenii," said Arkady suddenly.
"Yes?"
"I too intend to leave to-morrow."
Bazarov made no reply.
"True, I shall be returning to Marino," continued Arkady, "but we might bear one another company as far as Khokhlovskïe Viselki, and there you could hire horses of Thedot. Of course, I should have been delighted to make your family's acquaintance, but, were I to accompany you, I might act as a source of constraint upon them and yourself alike. You must pay us another visit at Marino later."
"I will. As a matter of fact, I have left some of my things there." Bazarov still had his face turned to the wall.
"Why does he not askmethe reason ofmydeparture—a departure as sudden as his?" reflected Arkady. "Why is either of us departing, for that matter?"
As he continued to reflect he realised that, while unable to return a satisfactory answer to the question propounded, he seemed to have got a heartache somehow, to be feeling that he would find it hard to part with the life at Nikolsköe to which he was grown so accustomed. Yet he could not remain there alone. That would be worse still.
"Between him and her there is something in the wind," he reflected. "That being so, what would my sticking here avail after he had gone? I should weary Anna Sergievna, and lose my last chance of pleasing her."
Then he began to draw a mental picture of the lady whom he had just named: until there cut across the fair presentment of the young widow another set of features.
"Katia too I shall miss," he whispered to his pillow (which had already received one of his tears). At length, raising his curly poll, he exclaimed:
"What, in the devil's name, brought that idiot Sitnikov here?"
He heard Bazarov stir under the bedclothes, then remark:
"You yourself are an idiot. We need the Sitnikovs of this world. Such donkeys are absolutely necessary to us, tome. The gods ought not to have to bake pots."
"Ah!" reflected Arkady. For, as in a flash, there had become revealed to him the bottomless profundity of Bazarov's conceit.
"Then you and I are the gods?" he said aloud. "Or are you a god, and I a donkey?"
"You are," came the gruff reply. "As yet, at all events, you are."
No particular astonishment was evinced by Madame Odintsov when, on the following day, Arkady informed her that it was his intention to accompany Bazarov. Rather, she looked distraught and weary. Katia glanced at him gravely and in silence, and the Princess went so far as to cross herself under her shawl—a precaution against the young men observing the gesture. Sitnikov too was dumbfounded at having just entered the breakfast-room in a new and most elegant suit (this timenotof "Slavophil" cut, not to mention the fact that he had also had the pleasure of amazing his temporary valet with the multitude of his shirts), only to find himself confronted with the prospect of being deserted by his comrades! He shuffled and wriggled like a hare driven to the edge of a covert, and blurted out, almost in panic-stricken fashion, that he too had a great mind to depart. Nor did Madame Odintsov make any great effort to dissuade him.
"I have an exceedingly comfortablekoliaska," the unfortunate young man said to Arkady, "and I could give you a lift in it, and leave Evgenii Vasilitch to use yourtarantass, which would suit him better than thekoliaska."
"But I should not like to take you so far out of your way, for the distance to my home is considerable."
"That would not matter, that would not matter. I have plenty of time to spare, and also some business to do in that direction."
"What? Leasehold business again?" inquired Arkady disparagingly. But Sitnikov was so distraught that he forbore to giggle in his usual fashion.
"I can guarantee that thekoliaskais comfortable," he repeated. "Indeed, it could hold all three of us."
"Do not vex Monsieur Sitnikov by refusing," put in Madame Odintsov.
So, with a meaning glance at her, Arkady nodded assent to Sitnikov.
Breakfast over, the guests departed. Anna Sergievna offered Bazarov her hand.
"I hope we shall meet again?" she said.
"Only if you wish it," he replied.
"Then weshallmeet again."
The first to issue upon the verandah and enter Sitnikov'skoliaskawas Arkady. The butler assisted him obsequiously, although Arkady could with equal readiness have struck the man or burst into tears. As for Bazarov, he took possession of thetarantass.
Khokhlovskïe Viselki reached, Arkady waited until Thedot, the local posting-master, had harnessed fresh horses, and then, approaching thetarantass, said to Bazarov with his old smile:
"Evgenii, take me with you. I should like to come to your place, after all."
"Get in, then," muttered Bazarov.
This made Sitnikov, who had been walking up and down beside his conveyance, and whistling, fairly gasp. Nevertheless the heartless Arkady removed his luggage from thekoliaska, seated himself beside Bazarov, and, according his late fellow-traveller a courteous bow, shouted: "Right away!" Thetarantassstarted, and soon was lost to view. Much taken aback, Sitnikov gazed at his coachman. But the latter was flicking the flanks of the trace horse with his whip, and therefore Sitnikov had no choice but to leap into the vehicle, to shout to a couple of peasants: "Off with your caps, you rascals!" and be driven to the town, whither he arrived at a late hour, and where, on the following day, he declared to Madame Kukshin that he had had enough of "those odious churls and upstarts."
On Arkady seating himself beside Bazarov in thetarantass, he pressed his hand, and Bazarov seemed to divine the meaning of the silent hand-clasp, and to appreciate it. During the previous night the elder man had never once closed his eyes. Also, for several days past he had neither smoked a cigar nor eaten more than the merest scrap of food. Indeed, as he sat in thetarantass, his fine-drawn profile, under the overshadowing cap, looked sharper and grimmer than ever.
"Give me a cigar, will you?" he said. "Also, pray look at my tongue, and tell me if it has a bilious appearance."
"Yes, it has," replied Arkady.
"I thought so, for this cigar seems tasteless. Moreover, the infernal thing has come unrolled."
"You have changed a good deal of late?" hazarded Arkady.
"I daresay. But I shall be myself again, soon. The only thing now troubling me is the fact that my mother is so good-naturedly fussy. Should one's paunch not be projecting, or should one not eat at least ten meals a day, she relapses into despair. My father, of course, is different, for he has been all over the world, and knows what is what. This cigar is simply unsmokable." And Bazarov consigned it to the dust of the roadway.
"The distance to your place is twenty-five versts, I suppose?" queried Arkady.
"It is so. But inquire of that sage there." And Bazarov pointed to the peasant (anemployéof Thedot's) who was seated on the box.
The "sage" in question replied that he "could not say exactly," since the verst-posts in those parts had not been measured out; after which he went on to swear at the shaft horse for "kicking" its "jowl about"—that is to say, jerking its head up and down.
"Aye, aye," commented Bazarov. "Take warning from me, my young friend. An instructive example sits before you—an example of the vanity of this world. By a single thread does the destiny of every man hang, and at any moment there may open before him an abyss into which he and his may plunge. For always he is laying up for himself misfortune."
"At what are you hinting?" asked Arkady.
"At nothing. I am merely saying outright that you and I have behaved very foolishly. However, why talk of it? I have noticed that in surgical operations it is the patient who fights against his hurt who soonest gets well."
"I do not understand you," Arkady said. "So far as I can see, you have nothing whatsoever to complain of."
"You cannot understand me? Well, mark this: that you had far better go and break stones by the roadside than allow a woman to obtain even the least hold over you. Such a thing is sheer" (he nearly said "Romanticism," but changed his mind) "rubbish."
"Perhaps you do not believe me?" he went on. "Nevertheless, I tell you that, though you and I have been cultivating feminine society, and enjoying it, the sense of relief when such society is abandoned is like taking a cold bath on a summer's day. Never ought a man to touch such follies. Always he ought, as the excellent Spanish saying has it, 'to remain as the beasts of the field.' Look here," he added to the peasant on the box. "Do you, my man of wisdom, possess a wife?"
The peasant turned a portion of a flat, near-sighted visage in the friends' direction.
"A wife?" he repeated. "Yes, I do. Why shouldn't I?"
"Never mind that. Do you ever beat her?"
"My wife? Sometimes. But never without good cause."
"Excellent! And does she ever beatyou?"
The peasant gave his reins a jerk.
"What a thing,barin!" he exclaimed. "Surely you must be joking?" Evidently the question had offended him.
"You hear that, Arkady Nikolaievitch?" said Bazarov. "You and I have been similarly beaten. That is what comes of being gentry."
Arkady laughed in spite of himself, but Bazarov turned away, and did not speak again until the end of the journey.
To Arkady the twenty-five versts seemed like fifty; but at length there came into view, on the slope of a low hill, the homestead of the manor where Bazarov's parents resided. On one side of it, amid a clump of young birch trees, there could be seen the servants' quarters under their thatched roofs; while at the door of the nearest hut a couple of fur-capped peasants were engaged in a contest of mutual abuse.
"You are an old pig!" one of them said to the other. "And that is worse than being a young one."
"Your wife is a witch," retorted the other.
"From the lack of restraint in their bearing," commented Bazarov, "as well as from the playfulness of their terms of speech, you will gather that my father's peasantry are not downtrodden. But here is my father himself. I can see him stepping out on to the verandah. He will have heard the sound of our collar-bells. Yes, itishe! I recognise his figure. But how grey he looks, poor old fellow!"
Bazarov leant forward from thetarantass, and Arkady, peering over his friend's shoulder, beheld, on the entrance steps of the manor-house, a tall, thin man with dishevelled hair and a narrow, aquiline nose. Clad in an old military tunic of which the front was flying open, he was standing with legs apart, a long pipe in his mouth, and eyes blinking in the glare of the sunlight.
The horses pulled up.
"So you have come at last!" exclaimed Bazarov's father, still continuing to smoke (though, as he did so, the stem of the pipe was rattling and shaking between his fingers). "Now, jump out, jump out!"
Again and again he embraced his son.
"Eniusha, Eniusha!"[1]the tremulous voice of an old woman also cried as the door of the house opened and there appeared on the threshold a short, rotund old dame in a white cap and a short striped blouse. Gasping and staggering, she would have fallen had not Bazarov hastened to support her. As he did so her fat old arms clasped him around the neck, and her head sank upon his bosom. All then was still for a moment. Only her convulsive sobs broke the silence. Meanwhile Bazarov Senior breathed hard, and blinked more vigorously than ever.
"Enough, enough, Arisha!" he said at length with a glance at Arkady, who had remained standing beside thetarantass(and even the peasant on the box-seat had turned away his head). "Pray cease, I tell you. This is not necessary. I beg of you to cease."
"Ah, Vasili Ivanitch!" whimpered the poor old woman. "To think of the long while since last I saw my Eniusha, my own, my darling boy!" Still keeping her arms clasped around Bazarov, she withdrew her ruffled, convulsed, tear-stained face from his breast, looked at him for a moment with blissful, yet comical, eyes, and glued herself again to his bosom.
"Yes, yes," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Such is in the nature of things. But had we not better go indoors? See! Evgenii has brought a guest!"
With a slight scrape and a bow, he added to Arkady:
"Pray pardon us, sir, but you will understand the situation. A woman's weakness—ahem!—and a mother's heart."
His lips, chin, and eyebrows too were working. Evidently he was striving to master himself, and to appear totally indifferent. Arkady responded to his bow with a like salutation.
"Yes, yes, dear mother; let us go indoors," said Bazarov. Leading the shaking old lady into the house, he seated her in a cosy chair, bestowed upon his father another hurried embrace, and then presented Arkady.
"I am glad indeed to make your acquaintance!" said Vasili Ivanitch. "I am glad indeed! But do not expect too much of us, my dear sir. My establishment is organised on simple lines; it is placed on what I might call 'a war footing.' Come, come, Arina! Pray calm yourself, and attend to your duties as a hostess. Oh, fie, to give way in such a manner! What will our guest think of you?"
"My dear, I do not know the gentleman's name," the old lady sobbed through her tears.
"Arkady Nikolaievitch," prompted Vasili Ivanitch in an undertone, but with great ceremony.
"Then pray pardon a foolish old woman, sir." Arina Vlasievna blew her nose, inclined her head to right and left, and wiped each eye in turn as she did so. "Yes, pray pardon me, but I had thought never again to see my darling boy before I died."
"But, you see, wehaveseen him again," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Here, Taniushka!"—this to a barefooted serf girl of thirteen who, clad in a bright red cotton frock, had been an interested, but timid, observer in the doorway. "Bring your mistress a glass of water on a salver. Do you hear? And you, gentlemen," he continued with old-fashioned sprightliness, "will you be so good as to step into the study of a retired veteran?"
"First another kiss, Eniusha," gasped Arina Vlasievna. Then, as Bazarov bent over her form, she added: "How handsome you have grown!"
"Handsome or not, he is human," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Wherefore, now that you have satisfied your mother's heart, I look to you to see also to the satisfaction of our honoured guests. For than yourself no one knows better that nightingales cannot be fed on air."
This caused the old lady to rise from her chair, and to exclaim:
"Yes, yes: in one moment, Vasili Ivanitch. The table shall be laid, and I myself will hurry to the kitchen, and see that thesamovarbe got ready. Everything shall be done. Why, it must be three years since last I gave Eniusha a meal."
"Yes, three years, dear wife. But now bustle about, and do not let yourself get flurried. Gentlemen, accompany me, I beg of you. But here is Timotheitch coming to pay you his respects. How delighted he looks, the old rascal! Now, pray favour me with your company."
And he strode fussily ahead with much shuffling and creaking of flat-soled slippers.
The Bazarovian establishment consisted of six small rooms, of which one—the room to which Vasili Ivanitch was now conducting our friends—was looked upon as the study. Between its two windows there stood a fat-legged table, strewn with dusty, fusty papers; on the walls hung a number of Turkish weapons,nagaiki,[2]and swords, a couple of landscapes, a few anatomical plates, a portrait of Hufeland,[3]a black-framed monogram done in hair, and a diploma protected with a glass front; between two large birchwood cupboards stood a ragged, battered leathern sofa; on shelves lay huddled a miscellany of books, boxes, stuffed birds, jars, and bladders; and, lastly, in a corner reposed a broken electric battery.
"Already I have warned you," said Vasili Ivanitch to Arkady, "that we live here, so to speak,en bivouac."
"Make no excuses," put in Bazarov. "Kirsanov knows that you and I are not Croesuses, and that no butler is kept. But where can we find Arkady a bed? That is the question."
"We have an excellent room in the wing, where he would be most comfortable."
"You have added a wing, then?"
"Yes, Evgenii Vasilitch," Timotheitch interposed. "At least, a bathroom."
"But it is to a roomnextthe bathroom that I am referring," Vasili Ivanitch hastened to explain. "However, that will not matter, since it is now summer time. I will run up there at once, and see that it is put in order. Meanwhile, Timotheitch, fetch in the luggage. To you, Evgenii, I will allot the study.Cuique suum."[4]
"There!" said Bazarov to Arkady as soon as his father had left the room. "Is he not just such a jolly, good-hearted, queer old fellow as your own father, though in a different way? He chatters just as he always used to do."
"Yes; and your mother seems an excellent woman."
"She is. Moreover, you can see that she does not attempt to hide her feelings. Only wait and see what a dinner she will give us!"
"But as you were not expected to-day," put in Timotheitch, who had just re-entered with Bazarov's portmanteau, "no beef has been got into the house."
"Never mind. Let us dinewithoutbeef—or, for that matter, without anything at all. 'Poverty is no crime.'"
"How many souls[5]are there on your father's property?" asked Arkady.
"It is not his property; it is my mother's. The number of souls on it is, I think, fifteen."
"No, twenty-two," corrected Timotheitch with an air of pride. The next moment the sound of shuffling slippers was heard once more, and Vasili Ivanitch re-entered.
"Your room will be ready for you in a few minutes," he announced grandiloquently to Arkady. "Meanwhile, here is your servant." He pointed to a close-cropped urchin who, clad in an out-at-elbows bluekaftanand an odd pair of shoes, had also made his appearance. "His name is Thedika, and, for all my son's injunction, I had better repeat to you not to expect too much of him—though certainly he will be able to fill your pipe for you. I presume that you smoke?"
"I do, but only cigars."
"A commendable rule! I too prefer cigars, but find them extremely difficult to procure in this isolated part of the country."
"Have done with bewailing your poverty," Bazarov good-naturedly interrupted. "Rather, seat yourself on this sofa, and take a rest."
Vasili Ivanitch smilingly did as he was bidden. Extremely like his son in features (save that his forehead was lower and narrower, and his mouth a trifle wider), he was for ever on the move—now shrugging his shoulders as though his coat cut him under the armpits, now blinking, now coughing, now twitching his fingers. In this he was sharply differentiated from his son, whose most distinguishing characteristic was his absolute immobility.
"Have done with bewailing my poverty?" repeated the old man. "Why, you cannot surely think that I would weary our guest with complaints concerning our isolation? As a matter of fact, a man of brains needneverbe isolated, and I myself do everything in my power to avoid becoming moss-grown, and falling behind the times."
Extracting from his pocket a new yellow handkerchief which he had contrived to lay hands upon while proceeding to Arkady's room, he continued, as he flourished the handkerchief in the air:
"Of the fact that, at some cost to myself, I have organised my peasantry on theobroksystem, and apportioned them one-half, even more, of my land, I will not speak, since I conceive that to have been my duty, as well as a measure dictated by prudence (though no other landowner in the neighbourhood would have done as much). Rather, I am referring to scholarships and to science."
"I see that you have hereThe Friend of Healthfor 1855," remarked Bazarov.
"Yes, a friend sent it me," Vasili Ivanitch hastened to explain. "Phrenology too we take into account" (he addressed this last to Arkady rather than to Bazarov, while accompanying it with a nod towards a small plaster bust of which the cranial surface was divided into a series of numbered squares). "Yes indeed! Nor are we ignorant of Schönlein[6]and Rademacher."
"In the province of —— you still believe in Rademacher?" queried Bazarov.
Vasili Ivanitch laughed.
"In the province of —— we still believe in ——? Ah, gentlemen! Hardly could you expect us to move as fast as you do. You find us in a state of transition. In my day, the humoralist Hoffmann and the vitalist Braun had already come to be looked upon with ridicule (and their fulminations undoubtedly seem absurd); but now you have replaced Rademacher with a new authority, and are making obeisance to that authority exactly as though in twenty years' time he too will not have fallen into contempt."
"Let me tell you, for your comforting," said Bazarov, "that we ridicule all medicine, and render obeisance to no one."
"What? Do you not wish to become a doctor?"
"Yes; but the one thing does not preclude the other."
Vasili Ivanitch raked out his pipe until only a glowing morsel of ash remained.
"Perhaps so, perhaps so," he said. "That point I will not dispute. For who am I that I should dispute such things—I who am a mere retired army doctor,et voilà tout—an army doctor who has taken to agriculture?"
With that he turned to Arkady.
"Do you know, I served under your grandfather," he said. "He was then in command of a brigade. Many and many a review have I seen. And the society in which I mixed, the men whom I had as comrades! Yes, this humble individual has felt the pulses of Prince Vitzentschein and Zhukovsky, and also known all the leaders of the Southern Army of '14." He pursed his lips impressively. "At the same time, of course, my department was a separate one from theirs. It was the department of the lancet, you understand. Your grandfather stood high in the esteem of every one, and was a true soldier."
"We will agree that he was a decent old curmudgeon," drawled Bazarov.
"To think of speaking so, Evgenii!" exclaimed the old man. "General Kirsanov was not one of those who——"
"Never mind him. As we were driving hither I greatly admired your birch plantation. It is doing splendidly."
Vasili Ivanitch's face brightened instantly.
"Yes, and see what a garden I have made!" he exclaimed. "Every tree in it has been planted with my own hands—orchard trees, and bush fruit trees, and every sort of medicinal herb. Ah, young sirs, though you may be wise in your generation, many a truth did old Paracelsus[7]discoverin herbis et verbis et lapidibus. For myself, I have now retired from practice; yet twice a week am I given a chance to refurbish my ancient store of knowledge, since folk come to me for advice, and I cannot well turn them away. In particular do the poor seek my help, since there is no other doctor hereabouts. Yet stay! A certain retired major dabbles in the art. Once I asked him whether he had everstudiedmedicine, and he replied that he had not, that all that he did he did 'out of philanthropy'! 'Out of philanthropy'! Ha, ha, ha! What think you of that, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Fill me a pipe, Thedika," said Bazarov curtly.
"And there was another doctor who came to visit a patient in this neighbourhood," continued Vasili Ivanitch in a tone of mock despair. "But by the time he arrived the patient had already joined his forefathers, and the servant of the house would not admit the doctor, saying that the latter's services were no longer required. This the doctor had scarcely expected, and he was rather taken aback. 'Did thebaringasp before he died?' he inquired. 'He did, sir,' was the reply. 'Very much?' 'Yes, very much.' 'Good!—And the doctor returned home. Ha, ha, ha!"
Yet no one laughed except the old man himself. True, Arkady contrived to summon up a smile, but Bazarov only stretched himself and yawned. The conversation lasted about an hour, and then Arkady managed to get away to his room, which he found to consist of the vestibule to the bathroom, but at the same time to be clean and inviting. Soon afterwards Taniushka arrived to announce dinner.
The meal, though hastily prepared, was excellent, and even sumptuous. Only the wine proved to be rather of the "gooseberry" order—the dark-coloured sherry procured by Timotheitch from a certain wine merchant in the town smacking in equal parts of resin and of honey. Also, in addition, the flies made themselves a nuisance, owing to the fact that the page boy whose duty it was to keep them at bay with a green whisk had, for the nonce, been banished, lest he should excite too much comment on the part of the up-to-date visitors. Lastly, Arina Vlasievna had robed herself in gala attire—that is to say, in a high-peaked cap with yellow ribands and a blue, embroidered shawl. She burst into renewed weeping on beholding her beloved Eniusha, but, this time, gave her husband no occasion to chide her, so speedily did her own fear of staining her shawl cause her to wipe away the tears. None but the two young men ate anything, for the host and hostess had long ago dined; while as waiters there officiated Thedika (much burdened with the novelty of wearing shoes) and a woman of a masculine type of face, and with a hump on her back, who was also accustomed to execute the functions of housekeeper, keeper of the poultry, and sempstress. During the meal Vasili Ivanitch paced to and fro, and discussed, in cheerful, and even rapturous, terms, the grave fears which Napoleon's[8]policy and the intricacy of the Italian question inspired in his breast. Arina Vlasievna, for her part, quite disregarded Arkady, and offered him not a single dish, but, seated with her hand supporting her face (to which a pair of puffy, cherry-coloured lips and a few moles communicated a kindly expression), kept her eyes fixed upon her son, while her breath came in a succession of pants. Her great desire was to ask her son how long he was going to stay, but she dared not do so for fear he should reply: "Only for two days," or something of the kind—which was a prospect of a nature to make her heart die within her. On the roast being served, Vasili Ivanitch disappeared, and returned, the next moment, with an uncorked bottle of champagne.