About a fortnight passed by. Life at Maryino went on its accustomed
course, while Arkady was lazy and enjoyed himself, and Bazarov worked.
Every one in the house had grown used to him, to his careless manners,
and his curt and abrupt speeches. Fenitchka, in particular, was so far
at home with him that one night she sent to wake him up; Mitya had had
convulsions; and he had gone, and, half joking, half-yawning as usual,
he stayed two hours with her and relieved the child. On the other hand
Pavel Petrovitch had grown to detest Bazarov with all the strength of
his soul; he regarded him as stuck-up, impudent, cynical, and vulgar;
he suspected that Bazarov had no respect for him, that he had all but a
contempt for him--him, Pavel Kirsanov!
Nikolai Petrovitch was rather afraid of the young 'nihilist,' and was
doubtful whether his influence over Arkady was for the good; but he was
glad to listen to him, and was glad to be present at his scientific and
chemical experiments. Bazarov had brought with him a microscope, and
busied himself for hours together with it. The servants, too, took to
him, though he made fun of them; they felt, all the same, that he was
one of themselves, not a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle
with him, and used to cast significant and stealthy glances at him when
she skipped by like a rabbit; Piotr, a man vain and stupid to the last
degree, for ever wearing an affected frown on his brow, a man whose
whole merit consisted in the fact that he looked civil, could spell out
a page of reading, and was diligent in brushing his coat--even he
smirked and brightened up directly Bazarov paid him any attention; the
boys on the farm simply ran after the 'doctor' like puppies. The old
man Prokofitch was the only one who did not like him; he handed him the
dishes at table with a surly face, called him a 'butcher' and 'an
upstart,' and declared that with his great whiskers he looked like a
pig in a stye. Prokofitch in his own way was quite as much of an
aristocrat as Pavel Petrovitch.
The best days of the year had come--the first days of June. The weather
kept splendidly fine; in the distance, it is true, the cholera was
threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had had time to get
used to its visits. Bazarov used to get up very early and go out for
two or three miles, not for a walk--he couldn't bear walking without an
object--but to collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he
took Arkady with him.
On the way home an argument usually sprang up, and Arkady was usually
vanquished in it, though he said more than his companion.
One day they had lingered rather late; Nikolai Petrovitch went to meet
them in the garden, and as he reached the arbour he suddenly heard the
quick steps and voices of the two young men. They were walking on the
other side of the arbour, and could not see him.
'You don't know my father well enough,' said Arkady.
'Your father's a nice chap,' said Bazarov, 'but he's behind the times;
his day is done.'
Nikolai Petrovitch listened intently.... Arkady made no answer.
The man whose day was done remained two minutes motionless, and stole
slowly home.
'The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,' Bazarov was
continuing meanwhile. 'Explain to him, please, that that's no earthly
use. He's not a boy, you know; it's time to throw up that rubbish. And
what an idea to be a romantic at this time of day! Give him something
sensible to read.'
'What ought I to give him?' asked Arkady.
'Oh, I think Büchner's _Stoff und Kraft_ to begin with.'
'I think so too,' observed Arkady approving, '_Stoff und Kraft_ is
written in popular language....'
'So it seems,' Nikolai Petrovitch said the same day after dinner to his
brother, as he sat in his study, 'you and I are behind the times, our
day's over. Well, well. Perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing I
confess, makes me feel sore; I did so hope, precisely now, to get on to
such close intimate terms with Arkady, and it turns out I'm left
behind, and he has gone forward, and we can't understand one another.'
'How has he gone forward? And in what way is he so superior to us
already?' cried Pavel Petrovitch impatiently. 'It's that high and
mighty gentleman, that nihilist, who's knocked all that into his head.
I hate that doctor fellow; in my opinion, he's simply a quack; I'm
convinced, for all his tadpoles, he's not got very far even in
medicine.'
'No, brother, you mustn't say that; Bazarov is clever, and knows his
subject.'
'And his conceit's something revolting,' Pavel Petrovitch broke in
again.
'Yes,' observed Nikolai Petrovitch, 'he is conceited. But there's no
doing without that, it seems; only that's what I did not take into
account. I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I
have started a model farm; I have done well by the peasants, so that I
am positively called a "Red Radical" all over the province; I read, I
study, I try in every way to keep abreast with the requirements of the
day--and they say my day's over. And, brother, I begin to think that it
is.'
'Why so?'
'I'll tell you why. This morning I was sitting reading Pushkin.... I
remember, it happened to be _The Gipsies_ ... all of a sudden Arkady
came up to me, and, without speaking, with such a kindly compassion on
his face, as gently as if I were a baby, took the book away from me,
and laid another before me--a German book ... smiled, and went away,
carrying Pushkin off with him.'
'Upon my word! What book did he give you?'
'This one here.'
And Nikolai Petrovitch pulled the famous treatise of Büchner, in the
ninth edition, out of his coat-tail pocket.
Pavel Petrovitch turned it over in his hands. 'Hm!' he growled. 'Arkady
Nikolaevitch is taking your education in hand. Well, did you try
reading it?'
'Yes, I tried it.'
'Well, what did you think of it?'
'Either I'm stupid, or it's all--nonsense. I must be stupid, I
suppose.'
'Haven't you forgotten your German?' queried Pavel Petrovitch.
'Oh, I understand the German.'
Pavel Petrovitch again turned the book over in his hands, and glanced
from under his brows at his brother. Both were silent.
'Oh, by the way,' began Nikolai Petrovitch, obviously wishing to change
the subject, 'I've got a letter from Kolyazin.'
'Matvy Ilyitch?'
'Yes. He has come to----to inspect the province. He's quite a bigwig
now; and writes to me that, as a relation, he should like to see us
again, and invites you and me and Arkady to the town.'
'Are you going?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.
'No; are you?'
'No, I shan't go either. Much object there would be in dragging oneself
over forty miles on a wild-goose chase. _Mathieu_ wants to show himself
in all his glory. Damn him! he will have the whole province doing him
homage; he can get on without the likes of us. A grand dignity, indeed,
a privy councillor! If I had stayed in the service, if I had drudged on
in official harness, I should have been a general-adjutant by now.
Besides, you and I are behind the times, you know.'
'Yes, brother; it's time, it seems, to order a coffin and cross one's
arms on ones breast,' remarked Nikolai Petrovitch, with a sigh.
'Well, I'm not going to give in quite so soon,' muttered his brother.
'I've got a tussle with that doctor fellow before me, I feel sure of
that.'
A tussle came off that same day at evening tea. Pavel Petrovitch came
into the drawing-room, all ready for the fray, irritable and
determined. He was only waiting for an excuse to fall upon the enemy;
but for a long while an excuse did not present itself. As a rule,
Bazarov said little in the presence of the 'old Kirsanovs' (that was
how he spoke of the brothers), and that evening he felt out of humour,
and drank off cup after cup of tea without a word. Pavel Petrovitch was
all aflame with impatience; his wishes were fulfilled at last.
The conversation turned on one of the neighbouring landowners. 'Rotten
aristocratic snob,' observed Bazarov indifferently. He had met him in
Petersburg.
'Allow me to ask you,' began Pavel Petrovitch, and his lips were
trembling, 'according to your ideas, have the words "rotten" and
"aristocrat" the same meaning?'
'I said "aristocratic snob,"' replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip
of tea.
'Precisely so; but I imagine you have the same opinion of aristocrats
as of aristocratic snobs. I think it my duty to inform you that I do
not share that opinion. I venture to assert that every one knows me for
a man of liberal ideas and devoted to progress; but, exactly for that
reason, I respect aristocrats--real aristocrats. Kindly remember, sir'
(at these words Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel
Petrovitch), 'kindly remember, sir,' he repeated, with acrimony--'the
English aristocracy. They do not abate one iota of their rights, and
for that reason they respect the rights of others; they demand the
performance of what is due to them, and for that reason they perform
their own duties. The aristocracy has given freedom to England, and
maintains it for her.'
'We've heard that story a good many times,' replied Bazarov; 'but what
are you trying to prove by that?'
'I am tryin' to prove by that, sir' (when Pavel Petrovitch was angry he
intentionally clipped his words in this way, though, of course, he knew
very well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. In this
fashionable whim could be discerned a survival of the habits of the
times of Alexander. The exquisites of those days, on the rare occasions
when they spoke their own language, made use of such slipshod forms; as
much as to say, 'We, of course, are born Russians, at the same time we
are great swells, who are at liberty to neglect the rules of
scholars'); 'I am tryin' to prove by that, sir, that without the sense
of personal dignity, without self-respect--and these two sentiments are
well developed in the aristocrat--there is no secure foundation for the
social ... _bien public_ ... the social fabric. Personal character,
sir--that is the chief thing; a man's personal character must be firm
as a rock, since everything is built on it. I am very well aware, for
instance, that you are pleased to consider my habits, my dress, my
refinements, in fact, ridiculous; but all that proceeds from a sense of
self-respect, from a sense of duty--yes, indeed, of duty. I live in the
country, in the wilds, but I will not lower myself. I respect the
dignity of man in myself.'
'Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovitch,' commented Bazarov; 'you respect
yourself, and sit with your hands folded; what sort of benefit does
that do to the _bien public_? If you didn't respect yourself, you'd do
just the same.'
Pavel Petrovitch turned white. 'That's a different question. It's
absolutely unnecessary for me to explain to you now why I sit with
folded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to
tell you that aristocracy is a principle, and in our days none but
immoral or silly people can live without principles. I said that to
Arkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it now. Isn't it so,
Nikolai?'
Nikolai Petrovitch nodded his head.
'Aristocracy, Liberalism, progress, principles,' Bazarov was saying
meanwhile; 'if you think of it, what a lot of foreign ... and useless
words! To a Russian they're good for nothing.'
'What is good for something according to you? If we listen to you, we
shall find ourselves outside humanity, outside its laws. Come--the
logic of history demands ...'
'But what's that logic to us? We can get on without that too.'
'How do you mean?'
'Why, this. You don't need logic, I hope, to put a bit of bread in your
mouth when you're hungry. What's the object of these abstractions to
us?'
Pavel Petrovitch raised his hands in horror.
'I don't understand you, after that. You insult the Russian people. I
don't understand how it's possible not to acknowledge principles,
rules! By virtue of what do you act then?'
'I've told you already, uncle, that we don't accept any authorities,'
put in Arkady.
'We act by virtue of what we recognise as beneficial,' observed
Bazarov. 'At the present time, negation is the most beneficial of
all--and we deny----'
'Everything?'
'Everything!'
'What? not only art and poetry ... but even ... horrible to say ...'
'Everything,' repeated Bazarov, with indescribable composure.
Pavel Petrovitch stared at him. He had not expected this; while Arkady
fairly blushed with delight.
'Allow me, though,' began Nikolai Petrovitch. 'You deny everything; or,
speaking more precisely, you destroy everything.... But one must
construct too, you know.'
'That's not our business now.... The ground wants clearing first.'
'The present condition of the people requires it,' added Arkady, with
dignity; 'we are bound to carry out these requirements, we have no
right to yield to the satisfaction of our personal egoism.'
This last phrase obviously displeased Bazarov; there was a flavour of
philosophy, that is to say, romanticism about it, for Bazarov called
philosophy, too, romanticism, but he did not think it necessary to
correct his young disciple.
'No, no!' cried Pavel Petrovitch, with sudden energy. 'I'm not willing
to believe that you, young men, know the Russian people really, that
you are the representatives of their requirements, their efforts! No;
the Russian people is not what you imagine it. Tradition it holds
sacred; it is a patriarchal people; it cannot live without faith ...'
'I'm not going to dispute that,' Bazarov interrupted. 'I'm even ready
to agree that in that you're right.'
'But if I am right ...'
'And, all the same, that proves nothing.'
'It just proves nothing,' repeated Arkady, with the confidence of a
practised chess-player, who has foreseen an apparently dangerous move
on the part of his adversary, and so is not at all taken aback by it.
'How does it prove nothing?' muttered Pavel Petrovitch, astounded. 'You
must be going against the people then?'
'And what if we are?' shouted Bazarov. 'The people imagine that, when
it thunders, the prophet Ilya's riding across the sky in his chariot.
What then? Are we to agree with them? Besides, the people's Russian;
but am I not Russian too?'
'No, you are not Russian, after all you have just been saying! I can't
acknowledge you as Russian.'
'My grandfather ploughed the land,' answered Bazarov with haughty
pride. 'Ask any one of your peasants which of us--you or me--he'd more
readily acknowledge as a fellow-countryman. You don't even know how to
talk to them.'
'While you talk to him and despise him at the same time.'
'Well, suppose he deserves contempt. You find fault with my attitude,
but how do you know that I have got it by chance, that it's not a
product of that very national spirit, in the name of which you wage war
on it?'
'What an idea! Much use in nihilists!'
'Whether they're of use or not, is not for us to decide. Why, even you
suppose you're not a useless person.'
'Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please!' cried Nikolai
Petrovitch, getting up.
Pavel Petrovitch smiled, and laying his hand on his brother's shoulder,
forced him to sit down again.
'Don't be uneasy,' he said; 'I shall not forget myself, just through
that sense of dignity which is made fun of so mercilessly by our
friend--our friend, the doctor. Let me ask,' he resumed, turning again
to Bazarov; 'you suppose, possibly, that your doctrine is a novelty?
That is quite a mistake. The materialism you advocate has been more
than once in vogue already, and has always proved insufficient ...'
'A foreign word again!' broke in Bazarov. He was beginning to feel
vicious, and his face assumed a peculiar coarse coppery hue. 'In the
first place, we advocate nothing; that's not our way.'
'What do you do, then?'
'I'll tell you what we do. Not long ago we used to say that our
officials took bribes, that we had no roads, no commerce, no real
justice ...'
'Oh, I see, you are reformers--that's what that's called, I fancy. I
too should agree to many of your reforms, but ...'
'Then we suspected that talk, perpetual talk, and nothing but talk,
about our social diseases, was not worth while, that it all led to
nothing but superficiality and pedantry; we saw that our leading men,
so-called advanced people and reformers, are no good; that we busy
ourselves over foolery, talk rubbish about art, unconscious
creativeness, parliamentarism, trial by jury, and the deuce knows what
all; while, all the while, it's a question of getting bread to eat,
while we're stifling under the grossest superstition, while all our
enterprises come to grief, simply because there aren't honest men
enough to carry them on, while the very emancipation our Government's
busy upon will hardly come to any good, because peasants are glad to
rob even themselves to get drunk at the gin-shop.'
'Yes,' interposed Pavel Petrovitch, 'yes; you were convinced of all
this, and decided not to undertake anything seriously, yourselves.'
'We decided not to undertake anything,' repeated Bazarov grimly. He
suddenly felt vexed with himself for having, without reason, been so
expansive before this gentleman.
'But to confine yourselves to abuse?'
'To confine ourselves to abuse.'
'And that is called nihilism?'
'And that's called nihilism,' Bazarov repeated again, this time with
peculiar rudeness.
Pavel Petrovitch puckered up his face a little. 'So that's it!' he
observed in a strangely composed voice. 'Nihilism is to cure all our
woes, and you, you are our heroes and saviours. But why do you abuse
others, those reformers even? Don't you do as much talking as every one
else?'
'Whatever faults we have, we do not err in that way,' Bazarov muttered
between his teeth.
'What, then? Do you act, or what? Are you preparing for action?'
Bazarov made no answer. Something like a tremor passed over Pavel
Petrovitch, but he at once regained control of himself.
'Hm! ... Action, destruction ...' he went on. 'But how destroy without
even knowing why?'
'We shall destroy, because we are a force,' observed Arkady.
Pavel Petrovitch looked at his nephew and laughed.
'Yes, a force is not to be called to account,' said Arkady, drawing
himself up.
'Unhappy boy!' wailed Pavel Petrovitch, he was positively incapable of
maintaining his firm demeanour any longer. 'If you could only realise
what it is you are doing for your country. No; it's enough to try the
patience of an angel! Force! There's force in the savage Kalmuck, in
the Mongolian; but what is it to us? What is precious to us is
civilisation; yes, yes, sir, its fruits are precious to us. And don't
tell me those fruits are worthless; the poorest dauber, _un
barbouilleur_, the man who plays dance music for five farthings an
evening, is of more use than you, because they are the representatives
of civilisation, and not of brute Mongolian force! You fancy yourselves
advanced people, and all the while you are only fit for the Kalmuck's
hovel! Force! And recollect, you forcible gentlemen, that you're only
four men and a half, and the others are millions, who won't let you
trample their sacred traditions under foot, who will crush you and walk
over you!'
'If we're crushed, serve us right,' observed Bazarov. 'But that's an
open question. We are not so few as you suppose.'
'What? You seriously suppose you will come to terms with a whole
people?'
'All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a farthing dip,' answered
Bazarov.
'Yes, yes. First a pride almost Satanic, then ridicule--that, that's
what it is attracts the young, that's what gains an ascendancy over the
inexperienced hearts of boys! Here's one of them sitting beside you,
ready to worship the ground under your feet. Look at him! (Arkady
turned away and frowned.) And this plague has spread far already. I
have been told that in Rome our artists never set foot in the Vatican.
Raphael they regard as almost a fool, because, if you please, he's an
authority; while they're all the while most disgustingly sterile and
unsuccessful, men whose imagination does not soar beyond 'Girls at a
Fountain,' however they try! And the girls even out of drawing. They
are fine fellows to your mind, are they not?'
'To my mind,' retorted Bazarov, 'Raphael's not worth a brass farthing;
and they're no better than he.'
'Bravo! bravo! Listen, Arkady ... that's how young men of to-day ought
to express themselves! And if you come to think of it, how could they
fail to follow you! In old days, young men had to study; they didn't
want to be called dunces, so they had to work hard whether they liked
it or not. But now, they need only say, "Everything in the world is
foolery!" and the trick's done. Young men are delighted. And, to be
sure, they were simply geese before, and now they have suddenly turned
nihilists.'
'Your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity has given way,' remarked
Bazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady was hot all over, and his eyes
were flashing. 'Our argument has gone too far; it's better to cut it
short, I think. I shall be quite ready to agree with you,' he added,
getting up, 'when you bring forward a single institution in our present
mode of life, in family or in social life, which does not call for
complete and unqualified destruction.'
'I will bring forward millions of such institutions,' cried Pavel
Petrovitch--'millions! Well--the Mir, for instance.'
A cold smile curved Bazarov's lips. 'Well, as regards the Mir,' he
commented; 'you had better talk to your brother. He has seen by now, I
should fancy, what sort of thing the Mir is in fact--its common
guarantee, its sobriety, and other features of the kind.'
'The family, then, the family as it exists among our peasants!' cried
Pavel Petrovitch.
'And that subject, too, I imagine, it will be better for yourselves not
to go into in detail. Don't you realise all the advantages of the head
of the family choosing his daughters-in-law? Take my advice, Pavel
Petrovitch, allow yourself two days to think about it; you're not
likely to find anything on the spot. Go through all our classes, and
think well over each, while I and Arkady will ...'
'Will go on turning everything into ridicule,' broke in Pavel
Petrovitch.
'No, will go on dissecting frogs. Come, Arkady; good-bye for the
present, gentlemen!'
The two friends walked off. The brothers were left alone, and at first
they only looked at one another.
'So that,' began Pavel Petrovitch, 'so that's what our young men of
this generation are! They are like that--our successors!'
'Our successors!' repeated Nikolai Petrovitch, with a dejected smile.
He had been sitting on thorns, all through the argument, and had done
nothing but glance stealthily, with a sore heart, at Arkady. 'Do you
know what I was reminded of, brother? I once had a dispute with our
poor mother; she stormed, and wouldn't listen to me. At last I said to
her, "Of course, you can't understand me; we belong," I said, "to two
different generations." She was dreadfully offended, while I thought,
"There's no help for it. It's a bitter pill, but she has to swallow
it." You see, now, our turn has come, and our successors can say to us,
"You are not of our generation; swallow your pill."'
'You are beyond everything in your generosity and modesty,' replied
Pavel Petrovitch. 'I'm convinced, on the contrary, that you and I are
far more in the right than these young gentlemen, though we do perhaps
express ourselves in old-fashioned language, _vieilli_, and have not
the same insolent conceit.... And the swagger of the young men
nowadays! You ask one, "Do you take red wine or white?" "It is my
custom to prefer red!" he answers in a deep bass, with a face as solemn
as if the whole universe had its eyes on him at that instant....'
'Do you care for any more tea?' asked Fenitchka, putting her head in at
the door; she had not been able to make up her mind to come into the
drawing-room while there was the sound of voices in dispute there.
'No, you can tell them to take the samovar,' answered Nikolai
Petrovitch, and he got up to meet her. Pavel Petrovitch said '_bon
soir_' to him abruptly, and went away to his study.