[1]Ann Radcliffe,néeWard (1764-1823), an English novelist who wroteThe Mysteries of Udolphoand other tales, and travelled extensively.
[1]Ann Radcliffe,néeWard (1764-1823), an English novelist who wroteThe Mysteries of Udolphoand other tales, and travelled extensively.
In the shade of a tall ash tree in the garden at Nikolsköe Katia and Arkady were seated on a bench. Beside them, on the ground, lay Fifi—his lengthy body twisted into the curve known to sporting folk as "the hare's crouch." Neither from Arkady nor from Katia was a word proceeding. Arkady was holding in his hands a half-opened book, and she was picking a few crumbs from a basket, and throwing them to a small family of sparrows which, with the timid temerity of their tribe, were chirping and hopping at her very feet. A faint breeze was stirring the leaves of the ash tree, and dappling Fifi's tawny back and the dark line of the pathway with a number of wavering circles of pale golden light; but Arkady and Katia were wholly in shade, save that an occasional streak glanced upon, and gleamed in, her hair. Just for the reason that the pair were silent and side by side was there present to their consciousness acamaraderiewhich, while causing neither to have the other definitely in mind, pleased each with the sense of the other's propinquity. The expression of both is changed since last we saw them. Arkady's face wears a staider air, and Katia looks more animated and less retiring.
At length, however, Arkady spoke.
"Do you not think," he said, "that our Russian termyasenis particularly suitable to the ash tree? For no other tree cleaves the air with such airy brightness."[1]Katia looked up.
"I agree," she replied, while Arkady proudly reflected: "At all eventsshedoes not reprove me for talking in 'beautiful language.'"
"By the way," Katia continued with a glance at the book in his hands, "I cannot say that I always approve of Heine. I like him neither when he is laughing nor when he is in tears—I like him only when he is meditative and languid."
"Well, I like him when he is laughing," Arkady remarked.
"Then still there survives in you a trace of your old satirical tendency. Still your reformation needs to be completed."
"Indeed?" thought Arkady. "My satirical tendency? Oh, that Bazarov could have heard that!"
While aloud he said:
"Who is 'we'? Yourself?"
"Oh dear no! My sister, and Porfiri Platonitch, with whom you no longer quarrel, and my aunt, whom, three days ago, you escorted to church."
"I did so only because I could not refuse. And as regards Anna Sergievna, kindly remember that, in many things, she agrees with Bazarov."
"Yes, she used to be greatly under his influence, and so did you."
"And so did I? Then am I now emancipated from that influence?"
Katia returned no reply.
"I know that you never liked him," Arkady continued.
"Did I not? It was not for me to judge him."
"Never do I hear that reply without declining to believe it. There is not a person living whomallof us have not the right to judge. A disclaimer of that kind always represents an excuse."
"To tell the truth, I disliked him less than I felt him to be a stranger to me—as complete a one as I to him—or you either, for that matter."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that—well, how can I express it? That, whereas he was a wild bird, you and I are tame ones."
"Iam a tame one?"
Katia nodded assent. Arkady scratched his ear.
"Look here," he said. "I may tell you that that constitutes, in essence, an insult."
"Why so? Do youwantto be a wild bird?"
"Not necessarily a wild one, but at least one strong and energetic."
"You need wish no such thing. Your friend was both, yet he would rather have been otherwise.
"H'm! You believe that he used to exercise a considerable influence over Anna Sergievna?"
"Yes. But no one can hold a rein over her for long." Katia added this lastsotto voce.
"What makes you think that?"
"The fact that she is very proud—rather, that she values her independence."
"Who does not?" queried Arkady, while there flashed through his mind the thought: "Why this mention of her?" Curiously enough, the same thought occurred to Katia too. But this was not so curious as might have been supposed, seeing that when young people meet in frequent and amicable converse, identical thoughts are apt to enter their brains.
Arkady smiled, edged nearer to Katia, and said in a whisper: "Confess that you are a little afraid of her."
"Of whom?"
"Ofher" repeated Arkady meaningly.
"Are youafraid of her?" countered Katia.
"I am. Please note that I believe you to be the same."
Katia raised a menacing finger.
"I am surprised at you!" she exclaimed. "Never at any time has my sister been better disposed towards you than she is now. She likes you considerably more than when you first came."
"Really?"
"Yes. And have you not noticed it? You ought to be pleased at the notion."
Arkady reflected.
"How I have contrived to win Anna Sergievna's good graces I do not know," at length he said. "Surely it cannot be because I brought her those letters which were written by your mother?"
"It is, though, and because of other reasons as well—reasons which I will forbear to mention."
"Why will you?"
"Because I will."
"Oh, I know your faculty for obstinacy."
"It is one which I possess."
"Also, your faculty for observing things."
Katia glanced at him. Then she inquired:
"Why lose your temper? What are you thinking of?"
"This: that I cannot understand how you come to possess those powers of observation which undoubtedly are yours. I understand it the less because you are so nervous and distrustful and shy of everybody and——"
"It is because I have lived such a lonely life. A life of that kind leads one to reflect in spite of oneself. Am I shy ofeveryone, though?"
Arkady bestowed upon her an appreciative glance.
"Never mind," he said. "At all events it is not often that people in your position—I mean, people of your wealth—possess such a gift. To them, as to the Tsars, truth penetrates hardly."
"But I amnotwealthy."
Arkady failed at first to follow her meaning, but reflected: "Certainly the property belongs to her sister, not to her." Nor was the thought wholly unpleasing—so little so that presently he added:
"You said that very prettily."
"I said what?"
"That you are not wealthy. You said it so simply, so without any false shame, so without the leastarrière pensée. Apropos, the consciousness of the ordinary person who both knows and confesses that he or she is poor always seems to me to contain more than the mere words imply—it harbours also a touch of vanity."
"I have, thanks to my sister, had no experience of poverty. And as for my possessions, I mentioned them only because the words came of themselves to my lips."
"Quite so. Yet confess that you too harbour a grain of the vanity to which I have alluded."
"Give me an example of my doing so."
"An example? Well, may I ask why you have not married a rich man?"
"Were I to love such a one very much, I——But no man of that sort has come my way: wherefore I have made no such marriage."
"There, now!" cried Arkady. "But why should you not do so in the future?"
"Because even the poets deprecatemésalliances."
"You mean that you wish either to rule or——?"
"Oh no! What good would that be? On the contrary, I am prepared to be ruled, even though I believe that inequality in any form works badly. A union of self-respect with submission—that is what I best understand, that is what spells true happiness. A mere subordinate existence is—well, something which I do not fancy."
"'Something which I do not fancy,'" commented Arkady. "Yes, you are of the same blood as Anna Sergievna: you are as independent as she, and you are even more secretive. In fact, however deep-rooted and sacred a stock of sentiments you might hold, you would never, of your own accord, give them utterance."
"Of course! How could you suppose anything else?"
"Also, you are clever, and have a measure of character equal to, if not greater than, hers."
"I dislike being compared with my sister. You seem to have forgotten that she is both 'beautiful' and 'intellectual' and—— Moreover, you, above all people, ought not to say anything to her disparagement, and still less to say it seriously."
"Why 'you, above all people'? Do you think that I am jesting?"
"I am certain of it."
"Indeed? But what if I were to say that I really mean my words? What if I were to say that, if anything, I have under-expressed what is in my mind?"
"I fail to follow you."
"Do you? Your quickness of perception has been overrated."
"Why has it?"
Averting his head, Arkady returned no reply, while Katia fell to searching for the last crumbs in her basket, and throwing them to the sparrows. Unfortunately, the throw of her arm proved too strong, and the birds flew away without even touching the food offered them.
"Katia," said Arkady, "it may be that you look upon these things as matters of no moment. Kindly note, therefore, that neither for your sister nor for any other person would I exchange Mademoiselle Katerina Sergievna."
Rising, he walked away as though in sudden alarm at having allowed the words to escape his lips. Meanwhile Katia, with her hands resting upon the basket and her head bent, gazed after him. Gradually there crept into her cheeks a rosy tint; and though her lips were not smiling, and her dark eyes contained a hint of perplexity, there lurked also in her expression another unexpressed feeling.
"Are you alone?" said Anna Sergievna's voice from behind her. "I thought that Arkady came with you into the garden?"
Katia slowly raised her eyes to her sister (tastefully, and even showily, dressed, the latter was standing on the path, and engaged in stirring Fin's ears with the point of an open parasol), and as slowly replied:
"Yes—I am alone."
"So I see," commented Madame with a smile. "He has gone indoors, I suppose?"
"Probably."
"And you have been reading with him?"
"I have."
Anna Sergievna took Katia under the chin, and raised her face towards her own.
"You have not quarrelled, I hope?" she said.
"Oh no," said Katia, and quietly put away her sister's hand.
"What solemn replies! Well, I came here to propose a walk, since he is always asking me to go one. But, to pass to another subject, some shoes have arrived for you from the town, soyouhad better go and try them on. Only yesterday I was noticing how shabby your old ones are. In general, you do not take sufficient pains in such matters, for you have charming feet, and also not ugly hands, even though a trifle too large. You ought to take care of your feet. When you are here you do not do so sufficiently."
Madame passed onwards with a light rustle of her handsome gown, while Katia rose from the bench, and, taking the volume of Heine, departed in another direction—thoughnotto try on the boots.
"'You have charming feet,'" she repeated to herself as she tripped up the sun-baked steps of the terrace. "'You have charming feet.' Well, before long some one shall be at them."
Confusion then overcame her, and she took the remaining steps at a bound.
Meanwhile Arkady made for his room. As he was passing through the hall he was overtaken by the butler, and informed that Monsieur Bazarov was awaiting him above.
"Evgenii Vasilitch?" exclaimed Arkady in a tone very much as of alarm. "Has he been here long?"
"A few minutes only. He instructed me not to announce him to Madame but to take him straight to your room."
"I hope that nothing unfortunate has occurred at home," reflected Arkady as he ran up the stairs and opened the door of the bedroom. But the first sight of Bazarov's face reassured him, even though a more experienced eye might have detected in the features of the unlooked-for guest certain signs that inward turmoil underlay their usual rigidity. Clad in a dust cloak and a travelling cap, he was seated on the window-sill, and did not rise even when, rushing towards him with exclamations of astonishment, and fussing to and fro like a man who believes himself to be overjoyed, as well as desires other people to believe it, Arkady cried:
"What a surprise! What has brought you here? Surely everything at home is well, and all are in good health?"
"Everything at your home is well," said Bazarov; "but all are not in good health. However, if your brains are not hopelessly wandering, first tell them to bring me somekvass, and then sit down and listen to my few but, I hope, well-chosen words."
This quieted Arkady, and upon that Bazarov told him of the duel with Paul Petrovitch. The recital finished, Arkady stood amazed, as well as distressed. But this he did not think it necessary to state—he merely inquired whether his uncle's wound were really a harmless one, and, on receiving the reply that it was of a nature uninteresting from every but the medical point of view, forced a smile. Yet all the while he felt secretly hurt, and also secretly ashamed. This Bazarov seemed to divine.
"See," he said, "what comes of consorting with feudal folk! Should one's lot be cast among them, inevitably one gets drawn into their knightly tourneys. Being on my way to my parents' place, I have turned aside to But no; I will not be guilty of a foolish and useless lie. The real reason why I have turned aside is that—oh, the devil only knows why! Times there are when a man ought to take himself by the scruff of the neck, and uproot himself like a radish from a garden border. That is whatIdid when I was last here. But, since, a longing has come upon me to take just another peep at all that I then forsook—to view once more the border where I used to grow."
"By the words 'all that I then forsook' I hope that you do not mean myself as well?" cried Arkady anxiously. "Do not say that you intend to sever me also from your friendship?"
Bazarov looked at him. He did so fixedly, almost sharply.
"Would the eventuality distress you?" he inquired. "Rather, it is you who have forsaken me, O verdant and transparent soul.Inter alia, I hope that your affair with Anna Sergievna is progressing?"
"My 'affair with Anna Sergievna'?"
"For her sake, was it not, you came hither from the town? Ah, tender young chicken of mine, what about those Sunday Schools? Come, come! Do not tell me that you are not in love with her. Or have you at last learnt to be secretive?"
"Always I have been frank with you, as you know; wherefore pray believe me when I say—I call God to witness that it is true—that your surmises are mistaken."
"Truly a new song!" remarked Bazarovsotto voce.
"But do not disturb yourself: it is all one to me. Certainly, a Romanticist would have said: 'Our roads are beginning to diverge'; but I say no more than that clearly we have no further use for one another."
"Oh, Evgenii!"
"Dear lad, it is no misfortune. At all times is something in the world finding out that it has no use for something else. So we must say good-bye. Ever since I arrived in this place I have been feeling as uncomfortable as a Governor's lady when she hears a work of Gogol's read aloud. In fact, I did not order my horses to be unharnessed."
"But you cannot act like this!"
"Why not?"
"Because, apart from my own feelings, such a speedy departure would be the height of rudeness to Anna Sergievna. I know that she would like to see you."
"No, she would not."
"I am positive that she would. Why pretend like this? Are you going to say that it is not for her sake alone that you are here?"
"You have grounds for that surmise, yet I say that you are wrong."
But Arkady proved to be right, for Anna Sergievna really desired to see Bazarov, and, through the butler, sent him word to that effect. After tidying his costume, therefore, and tucking his new great-coat under his arm (in readiness to depart as soon as the interview should be concluded), he went downstairs, and was received, not in the room where he had unexpectedly disclosed his passion, but in the drawing-room. Anna Sergievna's manner, as she offered him the tips of her fingers, was pleasant enough, yet her face betrayed involuntary tension.
"To begin with," Bazarov hastened to say, "allow me to reassure you. You see before you a corpse which has long returned to its senses, and is also not destitute of hope that others have forgotten its folly. I am unlikely to see you again for an extended period, but, though (as you know) I am not given to sentiment, I feel that I should like to bear away with me the thought that my image still fills your mind with aversion."
She caught at her breath like a person who has just arrived at the summit of a lofty mountain. Then her face lightened into a smile, and, offering Bazarov her hand a second time, she allowed it to respond to the pressure of his.
"When sorrow is asleep, do not wake it," she said. "And the less so since my conscience convicts me, if not of coquetry on that occasion, at all events of something else. One word more. Let us be friends again. For it was all a dream, was it not? And who remembers dreams?"
"Who indeed? And love—well, love is a mere empirical sentiment."
"I am glad to hear you say so."
Thus Anna Sergievna, and thus Bazarov. And both conceived themselves to be speaking the truth. But was it the truth?—at all events, the whole truth? The speakers themselves did not know, and therefore the author does not. Nevertheless both the man and the woman framed their words to create an atmosphere of mutual confidence.
Next Anna Sergievna asked Bazarov how he had spent his time at the Kirsanovs'; and though he came within an ace of telling her of the duel with Paul Petrovitch, he checked himself in time, and replied that he had been engaged in work.
"And I," she said, "have been, for some unknown reason, out of humour, and meditating going abroad; but the fit is passing now (thanks to the arrival of your friend Arkady Nikolaievitch), and already I find myself relapsing into my old rut, and resuming my true rôle."
"And what is your true rôle?"
"The rôle of acting as aunt or preceptress or mother—call it what you like—to my sister. In passing, I wonder if you are aware that once upon a time I did not altogether understand your close friendship with Arkady Nikolaievitch? Somehow he seemed too insignificant for you. But now, I know him better, and have convinced myself that in his head there is a brain. Above all things, he is young, young—not like you and myself, Evgenii Vasilitch."
"But he is still shy in your presence?" queried Bazarov.
"He" began Anna Sergievna; then, checking herself, continued: "No; he is gaining confidence, and has taken to talking to me quite freely; whereas once upon a time, though I did not seek his company, he used to flee whenever I came near him. By the way, he is great friends with Katia."
Somehow this irritated Bazarov.
"Never can a woman forbear dissembling," was his reflection. Aloud he said with a frigid smile: "Then you say that he used to flee from you? But surely it cannot be a secret that formerly he cherished for youune grande passion?"
"What? He too?"
"Yes, he too," affirmed Bazarov with a nod. "But I think that you knew that? It was not a piece of news that I have just told you?"
Her eyes became fixed upon the floor.
"I believe you to be wrong," she observed.
"So do not I. But perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it?" To himself he added: "And perhaps you will not, in future, play the hypocrite with me."
"Why should you not have mentioned it?" she queried. "As a matter of fact, I believe you to be attaching importance to a mere passing impression, and shall soon think that you have a tendency to exaggerate."
"Suppose we talk of something else?" he suggested.
"For what reason?"
However, of her own accord she diverted the conversation into another channel. True, she had assured him, and she herself believed, that everything was buried in the past; yet she felt ill at ease, and conscious that, even while jesting or exchanging the merest ofbagatelles,she had weighing upon her a nervous oppression. In fact, it was akin to the case of passengers afloat. Though such folk will laugh and talk with the same apparent indifference as on land, let but the machinery stop, or the least sign of anything unusual appear, and at once every face will display that peculiar expression of anxiety which comes only of constant knowledge of ever-present danger.
Of similar sort was Anna Sergievna's interview with Bazarov; nor was it prolonged, in that soon she began to feel so absent-minded, and to answer with such vagueness, that she proposed a move to the hall, where there were found Katia and the Princess.
"And where is Arkady Nikolaievitch?" inquired the hostess; and, on being told that he had not been seen for over an hour, she sent messengers to summon him. But this proved a lengthy task, seeing that he had withdrawn to the remotest corner of the garden, and, sitting with chin upon hands, was plunged in thought. Those thoughts were important and profound, but not sad; and though he knew that Anna Sergievna was alone with Bazarov, he felt none of his old jealousy, but, rather, gazed before him with quiet cheerfulness—with an air as though something had pleased and surprised him, and led him to arrive at a certain decision.
[1]Yasenis derived from the adjectiveyasni, meaning clear or bright.
[1]Yasenis derived from the adjectiveyasni, meaning clear or bright.
Although the late Monsieur Odintsov had disliked "innovations," he had not been opposed to the indulgence of "a certain play of refined taste," and had erected, in a space between the hothouses and the lake, a building modelled in the style of a Greek temple, but consisting of undeniable Russian bricks. Also, he had caused to be inserted in the massive rear wall of this temple or gallery six niches for six statues which were designed to represent Solitude, Silence, Thought, Melancholy, Modesty, and Sensibility, and which he had purposed to import from abroad; but only one of these, the statue of the Goddess of Silence, with a finger to her lips, had actually been delivered and erected; and even of that the household underlings had knocked off the nose on the very day of the statue's arrival. True, a neighbouring sculptor had offered to furnish the goddess with a nose "twice as good as the last one," but Odintsov had none the less ordered her removal to a corner of the millhouse, where for several years past she had acted as a source of superstitious awe to the peasant women of the district. Likewise, the front wall of the temple had become so overgrown with bushes that only the capitals of the supporting columns remained visible above the mass of verdure, and even at midday the interior of the building was cool and pleasant; and though Anna Sergievna had never really liked the place since the day when she had discovered an adder there, Katia paid it frequent visits, and, seating herself on a great stone bench which was fixed under one of the niches, would read or work, or surrender herself to the influence of that perfect restfulness which, known, probably, to every one, comes of a silent, half-unconscious contemplation of the great waves of life as they break for ever around and against us.
On the morning after Bazarov's arrival Katia was in her usual position on the bench, and beside her was Arkady—he having specially asked her to accompany him thither.
Though an hour was still wanting to luncheon time, the dew and the freshness of the morning had already given place to the sultriness and the aridity of noontide. Arkady's face yet bore the expression of yesterday, but Katia's features were stamped with one, rather, of depression. This was because after breakfast her sister had called her into the boudoir, and to some of those blandishments which always alarmed the girl had added a word of advice that Katia should observe more caution in her converse with Arkady, and, above all things, avoid such solitarytête-à-têteswith him as appeared to have aroused the attention of the household in general, and of the Princess in particular. Since the previous evening Anna Sergievna had been out of humour; and inasmuch as Katia's conscience was not wholly clear of responsibility in the matter, she had intimated, when yielding to Arkady's request, that it must be for the last time.
"Katia," he began with a sort of easy uneasiness, "since the day when I had the good fortune to reside under the same roof as yourself I have talked to you on many different subjects. But one particular question has for me a paramount importance: nor upon that question have I yet touched. Yesterday you said that during my stay here I have undergone a process of reformation"—he neither sought nor avoided Katia's eye—"and, to be frank, such a reformation has, in part at least, come about. Better than any one else do you know that this is so—you to whom, above all others, that remaking is due."
"To me?" she re-echoed.
"Yes, to you," Arkady repeated. "No longer am I the presumptuous lad who came here a short while ago: not for nothing have I attained my twenty-third year. And though I still wish to be of use in life, though I still wish to consecrate the whole of my faculties to the service of Truth, I no longer seek my ideals where I was wont to do—they appear to me to stand much nearer home. Hitherto I have been in ignorance of myself, hitherto I have set myself tasks beyond my powers; but now, through a certain feeling which is within me, my eyes have become opened. By the way, the manner in which I express myself may be lacking in clarity, yet I venture to hope that I have made myself understood?"
Katia said nothing; but she ceased to look at the speaker.
"In my opinion," he went on in a tone of rising emotion, while in a birch tree overhead a chaffinch started pouring forth a flood of unstudied song, "in my opinion, it is the duty of an honourable man to be frank with those who, with those who—in short, with those who stand nearest to him in life. Consequently I, I am minded to—to—-"
Here Arkady's eloquence failed him. He stumbled and stuttered and had to pause for a moment. Meanwhile Katia's eyes remained lowered. One would have thought that she did not in the least understand this preamble, but was expecting to hear something quite of a different nature.
"That I shall surprise you I know in advance," continued Arkady, once more spurring his faculties. "And that surprise will be the greater when I tell you that the feeling to which I have alluded concerns, to a certain extent—yes, to a certain extent, yourself. For yesterday, you will remember, you imputed to me a lack of gravity "—he was speaking much like a man who, having blundered into a bog, feels that at each step he sinks deeper and deeper, yet struggles on in the hope of eventually extricating himself—"and such a reproach is all too often levelled against, all too often falls upon, young people who have ceased to deserve it. Were I but possessed of more self-confidence" ("God help me! God help me!" he thought despairingly, but Katia did not even turn her head)—"had I but the right to hope that——"
"Did I but feel sure that you really mean what you say," broke in, at this moment, the clear accents of Anna Sergievna.
Arkady became dumb, and Katia turned pale; for along a little path which skirted the bushes screening the temple there were advancing Bazarov and Madame! Katia and Arkady could not actually see the pair, yet they could hear every word uttered, and even catch the sound of their breathing, and the rustle of Anna Sergievna's dress. Advancing a few more steps, the couple halted, and remained standing in front of the building.
"It is like this," Anna Sergievna continued. "You and I have blundered into an error. That is to say, while neither of us is in the heyday of youth—I so least of the two—and both of us have lived our fives and are weary, we are also (for I need not stand on ceremony) individuals of intellect. Consequently, though, at first, we interested one another, and felt our mutual curiosity aroused, it happened that subsequently——"
"That subsequently I grew stale in your eyes," hazarded Bazarov.
"Oh no! That that was not the cause of the situation you are well aware. But, whatever the cause, you and I have not acompelling needof one another. Therein lies the point. In other words, both of us have in us—how shall I express it?—both of us are too mutuallyakin.We were slow to grasp that fact. Now, Arkady—-"
"Have you a 'compelling need'—of him?" put in Bazarov.
"For shame, Evgenii Vasilitch! You yourself have averred that he is not wholly indifferent to me; and I too have long suspected that he cherishes for me at least a measure of admiration. As we are on the subject, I will not attempt to conceal from you that of late the fact that I am old enough to be his aunt has not prevented me from devoting to him more of my thoughts than I used to do. In his fresh young sentimentality there is a certain charm."
"The term 'fascination' comes handier in such cases," said Bazarov in the deep, quiet tone which, with him, always signified sarcasm. "As a matter of fact, I found Arkady secretive yesterday—he made but the scantiest of references either to you or your sister. That constitutes an important symptom."
"Katia and he are brother and sister to one another," said Madame. "Indeed I am pleased to see it—though perhaps I ought not to connive at so much familiarity."
"I presume that the element speaking in you is the sister?" drawled Bazarov.
"Of course! But need we stand here? Let us move on. We hold curious conversations, do we not? Indeed, to think of all the things which I now say to you! Yet I still fear you a little, even though I trust you as being, at heart, a good man."
"I am far from good; and you only call me so because I have lost all significance in your eyes. Ill boots it to weave chaplets for the head of a corpse."
"Evgenii Vasilitch, we cannot always command ourselves," came the sound of Anna Sergievna's next words; but the next moment the wind soughed, the leaves rustled, and the rest of what she was saying was carried away into the distance. Nothing beyond it save (after a pause) "You are free, are you not?" on the part of Bazarov could be distinguished. Then the sound of their footsteps died away, and once more complete silence reigned.
Turning to Katia, Arkady saw that she was sitting as before, but with her head more bent.
"Katerina Sergievna," he said tremulously, and with his hands clasped, "I shall love you always, and beyond recall; nor shall I ever love another woman. This is what I have been trying to say to you this morning, in the hope that I might ascertain your views, and then beg for your hand. I am not a rich man, but I would make any sacrifice for your sake. Come, then! Will you answer me? Will you trust me? Surely you do not think that I am speaking out of frivolity? Recall the past few days: may you not rest assured now that my remaining self (you know what I mean) is gone for ever? Come, look at me—look at me and speak but a word, a single word. I love you, I love you! Do not refuse to believe that I mean what I say."
Gravely, yet with a radiant look in her eyes, Katia raised her head, and, after a moment's thought, said with the trace of a smile: "Yes."
Arkady leapt up.
"'Yes'? You have said 'Yes,' Katia! But what do mean by that word? Do you mean that you believe in my love, or do you mean that——? No, no; I dare not finish the sentence."
Katia repeated only the word "Yes," but this time she left no room for misunderstanding. Arkady seized her large, but not unshapely, hands in his, and, panting with rapture, strained her to his breast. He could scarcely stand upon his feet—he could only keep repeating again and again: "Katia! Katia!" Meanwhile she shed a few innocent tears at which she smiled as they fell. The man who has not seen such tears in the eyes of his beloved does not know the height of happiness to which, with mingled joy and gratitude and modesty, a woman can attain.
Next morning Anna Sergievna sent for Bazarov to her boudoir; and when he arrived she, with a forced smile, handed him a folded sheet of notepaper. That sheet represented a letter from Arkady, a letter in which he begged for her sister's hand.
Bazarov skimmed the epistle—then scarcely could forbear venting the rancour which blazed for a moment in his breast.
"It is as I said, you see," he commented. "Only yesterday you were telling me that his feeling for Katerina Sergievna was that of a brother for a sister! And what are you going to do?"
"What would you advise me to do?" she said, still smiling.
"I presume"—he also was smiling, although he was feeling as wholly out of spirits, as little inclined towards gaiety, as she was—"I presume that we have no choice but to bestow our blessing upon the young couple. In every respect it would be a good match, for his father has a nice little property, Arkady is the only son, and the father is too easy-going to be likely to raise any difficulty."
Madame Odintsov rose and paced the room for a moment or two—her face alternately flushing and turning pale.
"So that is what you think?" she said. "Well, I too see no impediment. Indeed, the affair rejoices me both for Katia's sake and for—yes, for his. But first I must await his father's consent; and for that purpose I will send Arkady himself to interview Nikolai Petrovitch. So I was right yesterday, was I not? I was right when I said that you and I are become elderly? How did I fail to foresee this? I am indeed surprised at it!"
Again she smiled, but, in the very act of smiting, turned away.
"Our young folk are indeed cunning," remarked Bazarov. After a pause he added:
"Good-bye now. I hope that the affair may develop Well. From a distance I, too, shall rejoice."
She turned and faced him.
"Need you really go?" she asked. "Why not stay a little longer? Pray stay, for I find talking to you a stimulant—it is like walking on the edge of a precipice: at first one is afraid, then one gathers courage. Do not go."
"I thank you for the proposal, as also for your flattering estimate of my conversational powers," said Bazarov. "Nevertheless, I have tarried overlong in a sphere which is alien to my personality. Only for a while can flying fish support themselves in the air. Then they relapse into their natural element. Allow me to flop back into mine."
Yet a bitter laugh was twisting his pale features. She saw it, and felt sorry for him.
"The man still loves me," was her thought, and she extended a sympathetic hand.
He understood her, however.
"No, no!" he exclaimed as he withdrew a step or two. "Though poor, I have never yet accepted aims. Good-bye, and may your lot always be happy."
"Yet we shall meet again," she replied with an involuntary gesture. "Of that I am certain."
"Anything may occur in this world," he remarked—then bowed and was gone.
That afternoon he said to Arkady as he knelt down to pack his trunk:
"I hear that you are going to make a nest for yourself? And why should you not? It is an excellent course to take. But for you to dissemble is useless, and I had scarcely expected that you would do so. Has the preoccupation of it all deprived you of your tongue?"
"When I left you at Marino I had no thought of this," said Arkady. "You are the dissembler, though, are you not? For when you say 'It is an excellent course to take,' you dissemble, as well as waste your time, seeing that I am well aware of your views on marriage."
"Merely my way of expressing myself. You see what I am doing at this moment. In my trunk is a vacant space. I am packing it with straw. And the same with life's trunk. To avoid leaving empty spaces therein we pad the interstices. You need not be offended. You cannot fail to remember what I really think of Katerina Sergievna. While some maidens earn cheap reputations by merely smiling at right moments, yourinamoratacan show more—indeed, so much more that soon you will be (and very properly) under her thumb."
Slapping down the lid of the trunk, Bazarov rose from the floor.
"Now, farewell," he said. "No, I will not deceive you: we are parting for ever, and you know it. In my opinion you have acted wisely, for you were not meant to live the hard, bitter, reckless life of Nihilism—you lack at once the necessary coolness and the necessary venom. But this is not to say that in you there is not a due measure of youthful spirit. What I mean is that that asset alone is not sufficient for the work. Thedvorianinis powerless to progress beyond either well-bred effervescence or well-bred humility: and both sentiments are futile. For example, you have not yet been blooded, yet already you think yourself a man: whereas the two chief conditions of our existence are battle and bloodshed. Yes, the dust from our heels hurts your eyes, and the grime on our bodies makes you feel dirty. In other words, although you derive a certain gratification from indulging in self-criticism, and think no small beer of yourself, you have failed to grow to our stature. To us such things are vanities. Tools' of an altogether different kind are what we need for the task. Consequently I repeat that, though a fine young fellow enough, you are also just a little-minded, so-called 'liberal-minded'baritch[1]—what my father calls a 'product of evolution.'"
"Evgenii," was Arkady's sad reply, "we are parting for ever, yet this is all that you have to say to me!"
Bazarov scratched his head.
"Something else I could say, Arkady," he replied. "But I will not say that something—it would savour too much of Romanticism. Get married as soon as you can, line your nest, and beget plenty of offspring. Nor will those offspring be altogether fools, seeing that they will be born in due season, and not when you and I were.... My horses are ready and I must depart. Of the rest of the household I have taken leave already. Shall we embrace once more, eh?"
The tears gushed in torrents from Arkady's eyes as he flung himself upon his old friend and mentor.
"Ah, youth, youth!" commented Bazarov. "See what comes of being young! But before long, I know, Katerina Sergievna will have set things right. Yes, she will console you."
With a last good-bye he mounted the travelling cart, and, in the act of doing so, pointed to a pair of jackdaws which were sitting perched upon the stable roof.
"See!" he cried. "There'san instructive lesson for you!"
"What do you mean?" queried Arkady.
"What?" was Bazarov's ejaculation. "Are you so ignorant of, or so forgetful of, natural history as not to know that the jackdaw is the most respected of family birds? Mark the good example before you. Farewell, señor!"
And with a clatter the cart started on its way.
Nor was Bazarov mistaken, for, even before nightfall, Arkady, deep in conversation with Katia, had completely forgotten his vanished instructor. Moreover, already the young fellow was beginning to play second fiddle to hisfiancée: which circumstance the girl, on realising, in no way felt surprised at. So it was arranged that on the following day he should depart for Marino to interview his father; and in the meanwhile, Anna Sergievna, having no desire to hamper the young couple, merely observed such a show of propriety as involved her not leaving them together for long, but at the same time keeping at a distance the Princess, who, since the tidings of the impending union, had been in a state of lachrymose rancour. For herself, Anna Sergievna had at first feared that the spectacle of the young people's happiness would prove too much for her; but now the contrary proved to be the case, and she not only failed to feel hurt at the spectacle, but even found that it interested her and eventually softened her—a consummation which brought both relief and regret.
"Bazarov was right," she reflected. "It was mere curiosity, mere love of ease, mere egoism, mere——"
"Children, is love an empirical sentiment?" once she asked of Arkady and Katia: but neither of the pair understood her meaning. Moreover, they were fighting a little shy of her, since they could not altogether forget the conversation which they had involuntarily overheard; but in time Anna Sergievna succeeded in overcoming also this timidity, and found the task the more easy to perform in that she had succeeded also in overcoming her disappointment.
[1]A small squire.
[1]A small squire.
The old Bazarovs' delight at their son's return was the greater in that the event was so unexpected. To such an extent did Anna Vlasievna fuss and flounce about the house that Vasili Ivanitch likened her to a hen partridge (no doubt the short tail of her blousedidimpart to her rather a bird-like aspect); while, as regards Vasili himself, he grunted, and sucked the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, and, grasping the shank, inverted the bowl as though to make sure that it was secure, and, finally, parted his capacious lips, and gave vent to a noiseless chuckle.
"I am going to spend with you six whole weeks," said Bazarov. "But I desire to work, and therefore must not be disturbed."
"Before we will disturb you, you shall forget what my face looks like," replied Vasili Ivanitch.
And he kept his word; for, after allotting his son the study, he not only remained completely out of sight, but even prevented his wife from manifesting the least sign of tenderness.
"When Evgenii last visited us," he said to her, "you and I proved a little wearisome; so this time we must be more discreet."
Anna Vlasievna agreed, much as she lost by the arrangement, seeing that now she beheld her son only at meal times, and feared, even then, to speak to him.
"Eniushenka," she would begin—then, before he had had time to raise his eyes, pluck nervously at the strings of her cap, and whisper: "Oh no; it was nothing," and address herself, instead, to Vasili Ivanitch; saying, for instance (with cheek on hand as usual): "My dear, which would our darling Eniusha prefer for dinner—cabbage soup or beef with horse-radish?" And when Vasili Ivanitch would reply: "Why should you not ask him yourself?" she would exclaim: "Oh no, for that might vex him."
But eventually Bazarov ceased to closet himself, in that there came an abatement of the work fever, and to it succeeded fits of depression,ennui, and an inordinate restlessness. In his every movement there began to loom a strange discontent, from his gait there disappeared its old firm, active self-confidence, and, ceasing to indulge in solitary rambles, he took to cultivating society, to attending tea in the drawing-room, to pacing the kitchen garden, and to joining Vasili Ivanitch in a silent smoking of pipes. Nay, on one occasion he even paid Father Alexis a visit!
At first the new order of things rejoiced Vasili Ivanitch's heart: but that joy proved short-lived.
"Though I could not say why, Eniusha makes me anxious," he confided to his spouse. "Not that he is discontented or ill-tempered—such things would not have mattered: rather, it is that he is sad and brooding, and never opens his lips. Would that he would curse you and me, for instance! Also, he is thinner; nor do I like the colour of his face."
"O God!" whispered the old woman. "Yet I may not even put my arms around his neck!"
From that time onwards Vasili Ivanitch began to make cautious attempts to question Bazarov concerning his work, his health, and his friend Arkady; but always Bazarov returned reluctant, indifferent replies, and once, when his father was for introducing the foregoing topics, said irritably:
"Why are you for ever tiptoeing around me? Your present manner is even worse than your former one."
"There, there—I did not mean anything," was poor Vasili Ivanitch's reply.
Political allusions proved equally fruitless. For instance, when Vasili Ivanitch was seeking to engage his son's interest on the score of the impending emancipation of the serfs and progress in general, the other muttered carelessly:
"Yesterday, when passing through the courtyard, I heard some peasant lads singing, not one of the good old songs, but I The age of truth is coming in, when hearts shall glow with love.' There's progress for you!"
Occasionally Bazarov would repair to the village, and, in his usual bantering fashion, enter into conversation with some peasant.
"Well," he said to amuzhik, "pray expound to me your views on life. For they tell me that in you lie the whole strength and the whole future of Russia—that you are going to begin a new epoch in our history, and to give us both a real language and new laws."
The peasant made no reply at the moment. Then he said:
"We might do all that if first we had a new chapel here."
"Tell me something, though, about the world in general," Bazarov interrupted. "The world stands on three fishes, does it not?"
"It does that,batiushka," the peasant replied with the quiet, good-humoured sweetness of the patriarchal age. "But above it stands the will of the masters. Thebaréare our fathers, and the harder thebarindrives, the better for themuzhik."
Shrugging his shoulders contemptuously at this statement, Bazarov turned away, while the peasant slunk off homewards.
"What did he say?" asked a sullen-looking, middle-aged peasant who had been standing at the door of his hut during the course of the foregoing colloquy. "Was he talking of arrears of taxes?"
"Of arrears of taxes!" retorted the first peasant, his tone now containing not a trace of its late patriarchal sweetness, but, rather, a note of purely dry contempt. "He was chattering just for chattering's sake—he likes to hear his own tongue wag. Do not all of us know what abarinand the likes of him are good for?"
"Aye," agreed the second peasant; whereafter, with much nodding of caps and gesticulating of fists, they fell to discussing their own affairs and requirements. So alas for Bazarov's scornful shrug of the shoulders! And alas for that knowledge of the way in which the peasant should be talked to whereof the young Nihilist had made such boast when disputing with Paul Petrovitch! In fact, never had it dawned upon the mind of the self-confident Bazarov that, in the eyes of themuzhik, he was no better than a pease-pudding.
However, he succeeded in discovering for himself an occupation. This was when, in bandaging a peasant's leg, Vasili Ivanitch's hands shook a little through senility, and his son hastened to his assistance: and from that time forth Bazarov acted as Vasili Ivanitch's partner, even though he maintained unabated his ridicule both of the remedies which he himself advised and of the father who hastened to put them into practice. Yet in no way did his son's raillery annoy Vasili Ivanitch: rather, it heartened the old man. Smoking his pipe, and drawing his dirty overall in to his waist with both thumbs, he would listen delightedly to the scoffer, and chuckle, and show his blackened teeth the more in proportion as the sallies contained a greater measure of venom. Nay, stupid or simply senseless as many of these witticisms were, he would frequently catch them up, and repeat them. To take one instance, he, for several days in succession, kept assuring every one in the village and in the town that "we call this the nine o'clock office"—the sole basis being the fact that once, on learning of his (Vasili Ivanitch's) habit of attending Matins, Bazarov had made use of the phrase in question.
"Thank God, Evgenii has ceased to mope," he confided in a whisper to his wife. "In fact, you should have heard him rating me to-day!"
Also, the thought that he had such an assistant in his labours filled the old man with pride.
"Yes, yes," he would say as he handed some peasant woman in a man's jacket a phial of medicinal water or a pot of cold cream, "you ought daily to thank God that my son happens to be staying with me, since otherwise you could not possibly have been treated according to the latest and most scientific methods. Do you understand? I say that even Napoleon, the Emperor of the French, has not at his disposal a better physician than my son."
And the peasant woman (who had come, it may be, to complain of "a lifting with the gripes"—an expression which probably she herself could not have explained) would bow, then proffer the three or four eggs which would be tied up in a corner of her neckcloth.
Also, when Bazarov extracted a tooth from the jaw of a travelling pedlar, Vasili Ivanitch could not allow even the very ordinary character of the tooth to prevent him from preserving it as a rarity, and showing it to Father Alexis.
"See what a fang!" he said. "And to think of the strength which Evgenii must possess! He lifted the pedlar clean from the ground! It was like uprooting an oak tree!"
"Splendid!" was Father Alexis' comment—he knew not what else to say, nor, for that matter, how else to get rid of the enthusiastic veteran.
Lastly, there was an occasion when a peasant from a neighbouring village brought his brother to be treated. Suffering from typhus, the patient was lying face downwards on the straw in the cart, and had reached the last stage, since already his body was covered with spots of a hectic nature, and he had long lost consciousness. To an expression of regret that resort had not sooner been had to medical aid, Vasili Ivanitch could add no more than an intimation that no hope was left: nor was he wrong, seeing that even before the peasant succeeded in conveying his brother back to the village, the sick man had breathed his last.
Three days later Bazarov entered his father's room with an inquiry for some hell-stone.
"I have some," said Vasili Ivanitch; "but what do you want it for?"
"For the cauterisation of a wound."
"A wound on whom?"
"A wound on myself."
"On yourself? Let me see the place. Where is it?"
"There—on that finger. To-day I went to the village whence they brought the typhus patient the other day; and though they tried to conceal the body, I succeeded in discovering it. Not for a long time had I had a chance of doing that sort of work."
"Yes?"
"And the sequel was that I cut myself, and, on repairing to the district physician, found that he did not possess what I wanted."
Vasili Ivanitch went white to the lips. Hurrying, without a word, into his study, he returned thence with some hell-stone. Bazarov was for carrying it away forthwith.
"No, no!" cried Vasili Ivanitch. "For God's sake allow me to see to this in person."
Bazarov smiled.
"You are indeed a keen practitioner," he commented.
"Do not jest, I beg of you. Show me the finger. No, it is not a large wound. Am I hurting it at all?"
"Not in the least. Have no fear. You can press it harder still if you like."
Vasili Ivanitch paused.
"Do you not think," he said, "that it would be better to cauterise the finger with an iron?"
"No, I do not. Moreover, that ought, in any case, to have been done sooner; whereas by now even the hell-stone is unlikely to prove effectual, seeing that, as you know, once absorbed into the system, the germ renders all remedies too late."
"How 'too late'?" gasped Vasili Ivanitch.
"What I say. Four hours have elapsed since the injury."
Vasili Ivanitch gave the wound a further cauterisation. "So the district physician had no hell-stone?" he queried.
"None."
"God in heaven! To think of that man calling himself a doctor, yet being without such an indispensable remedy!"
"You should have seen his lancets!" remarked Bazarov. Then he left the room.
Throughout that evening and the next few days Vasili Ivanitch kept making every possible excuse to enter his son's room; and though he never actually referred to the wound—he even strove to confine his conversation to purely extraneous subjects—his observation of his son remained so persistent, his solicitude so marked, that at length Bazarov, losing patience, bade him begone. Of course Vasili Ivanitch promised not to repeat the intrusion; and as a matter of fact he kept this promise the more religiously in that Arina Vlasievna (who had had the matter carefully concealed from her) was beginning to scent something in the wind, and to press for reasons why, during the previous night, her husband had never once closed his eyes. Accordingly, for the next two days Vasili Ivanitch faithfully observed the undertaking he had given; and that although the covert observation of his son's looks which he maintained showed them to be growing by no means to his liking: but on the third day, during dinner, Vasili Ivanitch could bear it no more, for Bazarov was sitting with his eyes lowered and his plate empty.
"You are eating nothing, Evgenii?" he said with his face composed to express absolute indifference. "In my opinion, the dinner is well cooked."
"The only reason why I am eating nothing," replied Bazarov, "is that I am not hungry."
"You have no appetite?" the old man queried timidly. "Also, is—is your head aching at all?"
"Yes. Why should it not ache?"
Arina Vlasievna began to prick up her ears.
"Do not be angry, Evgenii," Vasili Ivanitch continued, "b-but might I feel your pulse and examine you?"
Bazarov looked at him.
"You need not feel my pulse," he said. "Without that, I can tell that I have a touch of fever."
"You feel shivery, eh?"
"Yes. I think I will go and lie down. Pray make me a little lime-juice tea, for I seem to have caught a chill."
"Yes," Arina Vlasievna put in, "I heard you coughing last night."
"But it is only a chill," added Bazarov, and left the room.
So Arina Vlasievna set to work to make the lime-juice tea, and Vasili Ivanitch went into an adjoining room and tore his hair.
Bazarov did not get up again that day, but passed the night in a state of heavy coma. At one o'clock he opened his eyes with an effort, and, on seeing his father's pale face in the lamp-light, bade him depart. At once the other excused himself for the intrusion, but nevertheless returned on tiptoe, and, concealing himself behind the open doors of a cupboard, remained there to watch his son. Nor did Arina Vlasievna go to bed, but at intervals set the study door ajar, in order that she might "see how our Eniusha was sleeping" and look at Vasili Ivanitch: for though nothing of the latter was to be discerned except a bowed, motionless back, even that much afforded her a little comfort.
In the morning Bazarov attempted to rise, but his head swam, and blood gushed from his nose, so he desisted from the attempt. In silence Vasili Ivanitch tended him, and Arina Vlasievna came to ask him how he felt. He replied "Better," then turned his face to the wall. Instantly Vasili Ivanitch fell to gesticulating violently at his wife with both hands: which proceeding proved so far successful that, by dint of biting her lips, Arina Vlasievna contrived to force back the tears, and leave the room. Of a sudden everything in the house had seemed to turn dark. Everywhere faces looked drawn, and everywhere there was to be observed a curious stillness of which one cause, among others, was the fact that there had hastily been removed from the courtyard of the village a vociferous cock which no reasoning had been able to convince of the necessity of silence.
So Bazarov continued lying with his face to the wall. Once or twice Vasili Ivanitch essayed a tentative question or two, but the attempt only wearied Bazarov, and the old man at length subsided into an armchair, and sat nervously twitching his fingers. Next, Vasili repaired to the garden for a few minutes, and looked, as he stood there, like a statue which has been struck with immeasurable astonishment (never at any time was the expression of surprise absent from his features); whereafter he returned to his son's room, in the hope of evading questions on the part of his wife, but she took him by the hand, and grimly, almost threateningly asked: "What is the matter with our Eniusha?" and when Vasili strove to pull himself together, and to force a smile, there issued, to his horror, not a smile at all, but a sort of irresponsible laugh.
Earlier in the morning he had sent for a doctor to assist him; wherefore he now considered that it would be well to advise his son of the fact, lest Bazarov should lose his temper on discovering the fact in question for himself.
Vasili Ivanitch explained the situation, and then Bazarov turned himself about on the sofa, gazed at his father for a moment or two, and asked to be given something to drink. Vasili Ivanitch handed him some water, and seized the opportunity also to feel his son's forehead. It seemed to be on fire.
"My father," said Bazarov in a hoarse, dragging voice, "I fear that my course is run. The infection has caught me, and in a few days you will be laying me in my grave."
Some one might have thrust Vasili Ivanitch violently backwards, so sharply did he stagger.
"Evgenii," he gasped, "why say that? God have you in his keeping! It is merely that you have caught a chill."
"Come, come!" interrupted Bazarov, but in the same dragging tone as before. "It is useless to talk like that to a doctor. All the signs of infection are present. That you know for yourself."
"But—but where are the signs of—of infection?"
"Look at these. What do they mean?"
And Bazarov pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. What he showed his father was a number of red, angry-looking patches that were coming into view.
Vasili Ivanitch started and turned cold with fear. At length he contrived to stammer out:
"Yet—even supposing that, that there should be anything in the nature of infection——"
"Of pyæmia, you mean," the son prompted.
"Anything in the nature of epidemic infec——"
"Of pyæmia, I repeat," grimly, insistently corrected Bazarov. "Have you forgotten your textbooks?"
"Yes—well, have it your own way. But we will cure you, all the same."
"Fiddlesticks! But, apart from that question, I had scarcely looked to die so soon. To be frank, I think it hard upon me. And now you and my mother must fall back upon the fund of religious strength which lies within you. The hour to put it to the test has arrived." He drank some more water. "One particular request I desire to make while my brain is yet clear, for, by to-morrow, or the day after, it will, as you know, have failed, and even now I am not sure whether I am expressing myself sensibly, seeing that, as I was lying here just now, I seemed to see a pack of red dogs leaping around me, and yourself making a point at me as a dog does at a partridge. Yes, it was like being drunk. Can you understand what I say?"
"Yes, yes, Evgenii; you are talking quite sensibly."
"Very well. Now, I believe that you have sent for a doctor; and if the fact will give you any comfort, I too shall be pleased. But also I beg that you will send word to, to——"
"To Arkady Nikolaievitch?" the old man suggested.
"To whom? To Arkady Nikolaievitch?" re-echoed Bazarov bewilderedly. "Oh, you mean that young cockerel of ours? No, no—do not disturb him, for he has just joined the company of the jackdaws. You need not be surprised at these words—they do not mean that delirium is setting in; they are merely a metaphor. Well, it is to Madame Odintsov, the lady landowner of this neighbourhood, that I desire a messenger to be sent. I suppose you have heard of her?" (Vasili Ivanitch nodded assent.) "All that the messenger need say is that Evgenii Vasilitch sends his compliments, and is dying. Will you do this?"
"Of course I will, Evgenii! But why think that you are going to die? Come, come! Were such a thing to happen, where would be the justice of the world?"
"I could not say. I only know that I desire the messenger to be sent."
"He shall start at once, and I myself will write the letter."
"No, no: that will not be necessary. Merely let the messenger deliver my greeting. That, and nothing more. Now I will return to my red dogs. How curious it is that, though I strive to concentrate my thoughts upon death, there results from them nothing—I see before me only a great blur!"
And he turned his face wearily to the wall, while Vasili Ivanitch left the room, ascended to the bedroom above, and fell upon his knees before the sacredikons.
"Pray, Arina, pray!" he moaned. "Our son is dying!"
On the doctor arriving, the latter proved to be the district physician who had failed to produce hell-stone when required. After an examination of the patient he prescribed a watching course, and also added a few words as to a possible recovery.
"Have you ever known people in my conditionnotset out for the Elysian Fields?" asked Bazarov sharply as he caught hold of the leg of a table which stood beside his sofa, and shook it until the table actually altered its position. "See my strength!" he continued. "All of it is still there, yet I must go hence! To think that, whereas an old man has lost touch with life, I should——! Ah, however much you may deny death, it never will denyyou.... I hear some one weeping. Who is it?" There was a pause. "Is it my mother? Poor soul! No one will be left for her to stuff with her marvellousborstchi.[1]And you, Vasili Ivanitch—are you too whimpering? Come, come! If Christianity cannot help you, try to become a Stoic philosopher. You have often enough boasted of being one."
"Aye, a fine philosopher I, to be sure!" sobbed poor old Vasili with the tears hopping down his cheeks.
Thereafter Bazarov grew hourly worse, for the disease was taking the rapid course inevitable under the circumstances. Yet his powers of memory were unimpaired, and he understood everything that was said to him, for as yet he was making a brave fight to retain his faculties.
"No, I must not let my senses fail," he kept whispering to himself as he clenched his fists. "But oh, the folly of it all!" And then he would repeat to himself, over and over again, some such formula as "Eight and ten—what do they make?"
Meanwhile Vasili Ivanitch wandered about in a state bordering upon distraction—proposing first one remedy, and then another, and constantly covering up his son's feet.
"Suppose we wrap him in an ice-sheet?" he suggested once in a tone of agony. "How, too, about an emetic, or a mustard plaster on his stomach, or a little bloodletting?"
But to each and all of these remedies the doctor (whom Vasili Ivanitch had begged to remain in the house) demurred. Likewise the doctor drank the patient's lemonade, and then requested to be given a pipe and "something warm and strengthening"—to wit, a glassful ofvodka. Meanwhile Arina Vlasievna sat on a chair by the door, and only at intervals retired to pray. It seemed that a few days earlier she had let fall, and broken, a toilet mirror, and that all her life long she had looked upon such an occurrence as an evil omen. With her, in silence, sat Anfisushka; while, as for Timotheitch, he had departed with the message to Madame Odintsov.
That night Bazarov did not improve, for he was racked with high fever; but as morning approached, the fever grew a little easier, and after he had asked Arina Vlasievna to perform his toilet, and had kissed her hand, he managed to swallow a little tea: which circumstance caused Vasili Ivanitch to pluck up courage, and to exclaim:
"Thank God, the crisis has both come and gone!"
"Do not be too sure of that," rejoined Bazarov. "For what does the term 'crisis' signify? Some one once invented it, shouted 'Crisis!' and congratulated himself ever after. Extraordinary how the human race continues to attach credence to mere words! For example, tell a man that he is a fool, yet refrain from assaulting him, and he will be downcast; but tell him that he is a man of wisdom, yet give him no money, and he will be overjoyed."
So reminiscent of Bazarov's former sallies was this little speech that Vasili Ivanitch's heart fairly overflowed.
"Bravo!" he cried, clapping his hands in dumb show. "Well said!"
Bazarov smiled a sad smile.
"Then you think," said he, "that the 'crisis' is either approaching or retiring?"
"I know that you are better. That I can see for myself. And the fact rejoices me."
"Well, it is not always a bad thing to rejoice. But have you sent word to, to—toher? You know whom I mean?"
"Of course I have, Evgenii."
The improvement did not long continue, for to it there succeeded attacks of pain. Vasili Ivanitch sat by the bed: and as he did so it seemed as though something in particular were worrying the old man. Several times he tried to speak, and each time he failed. But at length he contrived to gasp out:
"Evgenii! Son! My dearest son! My own beloved son!"
Even Bazarov could not remain wholly indifferent to such an unwonted appeal. Turning his head a little, and making an evident effort to shake off the unconsciousness that was weighing him down, he murmured:
"What is it, my father?"
"This, Evgenii." And all of a sudden the old man fell upon his knees beside the bed. "Evgenii, you are better now, and with God's help will recover; but do, in any case, seize this hour to comfort me and your mother by fulfilling all the duties of a Christian. Yes, though to say this is painful for me, how much more terribly would it hurt me if—if this chance were to pass for ever, Evgenii! Think, oh think of what——"
The old man could say no more, while over the son's face and closed eyes there passed a curious expression. A pause followed. Then Bazarov said: