Six months had passed by. White winter had come with the cruel
stillness of unclouded frosts, the thick-lying, crunching snow, the
rosy rime on the trees, the pale emerald sky, the wreaths of smoke
above the chimneys, the clouds of steam rushing out of the doors when
they are opened for an instant, with the fresh faces, that look stung
by the cold, and the hurrying trot of the chilled horses. A January day
was drawing to its close; the cold evening was more keen than ever in
the motionless air, and a lurid sunset was rapidly dying away. There
were lights burning in the windows of the house at Maryino; Prokofitch
in a black frockcoat and white gloves, with a special solemnity, laid
the table for seven. A week before in the small parish church two
weddings had taken place quietly, and almost without witnesses--Arkady
and Katya's, and Nikolai Petrovitch and Fenitchka's; and on this day
Nikolai Petrovitch was giving a farewell dinner to his brother, who was
going away to Moscow on business. Anna Sergyevna had gone there also
directly after the ceremony was over, after making very handsome
presents to the young people.
Precisely at three o'clock they all gathered about the table. Mitya was
placed there too; with him appeared a nurse in a cap of glazed brocade.
Pavel Petrovitch took his seat between Katya and Fenitchka; the
'husbands' took their places beside their wives. Our friends had
changed of late; they all seemed to have grown stronger and better
looking; only Pavel Petrovitch was thinner, which gave even more of an
elegant and 'grand seigneur' air to his expressive features.... And
Fenitchka too was different. In a fresh silk gown, with a wide velvet
head-dress on her hair, with a gold chain round her neck, she sat with
deprecating immobility, respectful towards herself and everything
surrounding her, and smiled as though she would say, 'I beg your
pardon; I'm not to blame.' And not she alone--all the others smiled,
and also seemed apologetic; they were all a little awkward, a little
sorry, and in reality very happy. They all helped one another with
humorous attentiveness, as though they had all agreed to rehearse a
sort of artless farce. Katya was the most composed of all; she looked
confidently about her, and it could be seen that Nikolai Petrovitch was
already devotedly fond of her. At the end of dinner he got up, and, his
glass in his hand, turned to Pavel Petrovitch.
'You are leaving us ... you are leaving us, dear brother,' he began;
'not for long, to be sure; but still, I cannot help expressing what I
... what we ... how much I ... how much we.... There, the worst of it
is, we don't know how to make speeches. Arkady, you speak.'
'No, daddy, I've not prepared anything.'
'As though I were so well prepared! Well, brother, I will simply say,
let us embrace you, wish you all good luck, and come back to us as
quickly as you can!'
Pavel Petrovitch exchanged kisses with every one, of course not
excluding Mitya; in Fenitchka's case, he kissed also her hand, which
she had not yet learned to offer properly, and drinking off the glass
which had been filled again, he said with a deep sigh, 'May you be
happy, my friends! _Farewell!_' This English finale passed unnoticed;
but all were touched.
'To the memory of Bazarov,' Katya whispered in her husband's ear, as
she clinked glasses with him. Arkady pressed her hand warmly in
response, but he did not venture to propose this toast aloud.
The end, would it seem? But perhaps some one of our readers would care
to know what each of the characters we have introduced is doing in the
present, the actual present. We are ready to satisfy him.
Anna Sergyevna has recently made a marriage, not of love but of good
sense, with one of the future leaders of Russia, a very clever man, a
lawyer, possessed of vigorous practical sense, a strong will, and
remarkable fluency--still young, good-natured, and cold as ice. They
live in the greatest harmony together, and will live perhaps to attain
complete happiness ... perhaps love. The Princess K---- is dead,
forgotten the day of her death. The Kirsanovs, father and son, live at
Maryino; their fortunes are beginning to mend. Arkady has become
zealous in the management of the estate, and the 'farm' now yields a
fairly good income. Nikolai Petrovitch has been made one of the
mediators appointed to carry out the emancipation reforms, and works
with all his energies; he is for ever driving about over his district;
delivers long speeches (he maintains the opinion that the peasants
ought to be 'brought to comprehend things,' that is to say, they ought
to be reduced to a state of quiescence by the constant repetition of
the same words); and yet, to tell the truth, he does not give complete
satisfaction either to the refined gentry, who talk with _chic_, or
depression of the _emancipation_ (pronouncing it as though it were
French), nor of the uncultivated gentry, who unceremoniously curse 'the
damned _'mancipation_.' He is too soft-hearted for both sets. Katerina
Sergyevna has a son, little Nikolai, while Mitya runs about merrily and
talks fluently. Fenitchka, Fedosya Nikolaevna, after her husband and
Mitya, adores no one so much as her daughter-in-law, and when the
latter is at the piano, she would gladly spend the whole day at her
side.
A passing word of Piotr. He has grown perfectly rigid with stupidity
and dignity, but he too is married, and received a respectable dowry
with his bride, the daughter of a market-gardener of the town, who had
refused two excellent suitors, only because they had no watch; while
Piotr had not only a watch--he had a pair of kid shoes.
In the Brühl Terrace in Dresden, between two and four o'clock--the most
fashionable time for walking--you may meet a man about fifty, quite
grey, and looking as though he suffered from gout, but still handsome,
elegantly dressed, and with that special stamp, which is only gained by
moving a long time in the higher strata of society. That is Pavel
Petrovitch. From Moscow he went abroad for the sake of his health, and
has settled for good at Dresden, where he associates most with English
and Russian visitors. With English people he behaves simply, almost
modestly, but with dignity; they find him rather a bore, but respect
him for being, as they say, _'a perfect gentleman.'_ With Russians he
is more free and easy, gives vent to his spleen, and makes fun of
himself and them, but that is done by him with great amiability,
negligence, and propriety. He holds Slavophil views; it is well known
that in the highest society this is regarded as _très distingué_! He
reads nothing in Russian, but on his writing table there is a silver
ashpan in the shape of a peasant's plaited shoe. He is much run after
by our tourists. Matvy Ilyitch Kolyazin, happening to be in temporary
opposition, paid him a majestic visit; while the natives, with whom,
however, he is very little seen, positively grovel before him. No one
can so readily and quickly obtain a ticket for the court chapel, for
the theatre, and such things as _der Herr Baron von Kirsanoff_. He does
everything good-naturedly that he can; he still makes some little noise
in the world; it is not for nothing that he was once a great society
lion;--but life is a burden to him ... a heavier burden than he
suspects himself. One need but glance at him in the Russian church,
when, leaning against the wall on one side, he sinks into thought, and
remains long without stirring, bitterly compressing his lips, then
suddenly recollects himself, and begins almost imperceptibly crossing
himself....
Madame Kukshin, too, went abroad. She is in Heidelberg, and is now
studying not natural science, but architecture, in which, according to
her own account, she has discovered new laws. She still fraternises
with students, especially with the young Russians studying natural
science and chemistry, with whom Heidelberg is crowded, and who,
astounding the naïve German professors at first by the soundness of
their views of things, astound the same professors no less in the
sequel by their complete inefficiency and absolute idleness. In company
with two or three such young chemists, who don't know oxygen from
nitrogen, but are filled with scepticism and self-conceit, and, too,
with the great Elisyevitch, Sitnikov roams about Petersburg, also
getting ready to be great, and in his own conviction continues the
'work' of Bazarov. There is a story that some one recently gave him a
beating; but he was avenged upon him; in an obscure little article,
hidden in an obscure little journal, he has hinted that the man who
beat him was a coward. He calls this irony. His father bullies him as
before, while his wife regards him as a fool ... and a literary man.
There is a small village graveyard in one of the remote corners of
Russia. Like almost all our graveyards, it presents a wretched
appearance; the ditches surrounding it have long been overgrown; the
grey wooden crosses lie fallen and rotting under their once painted
gables; the stone slabs are all displaced, as though some one were
pushing them up from behind; two or three bare trees give a scanty
shade; the sheep wander unchecked among the tombs.... But among them is
one untouched by man, untrampled by beast, only the birds perch upon it
and sing at daybreak. An iron railing runs round it; two young
fir-trees have been planted, one at each end. Yevgeny Bazarov is buried
in this tomb. Often from the little village not far off, two quite
feeble old people come to visit it--a husband and wife. Supporting one
another, they move to it with heavy steps; they go up to the railing,
fall down, and remain on their knees, and long and bitterly they weep,
and yearn and intently gaze at the dumb stone, under which their son is
lying; they exchange some brief word, wipe away the dust from the
stone, set straight a branch of a fir-tree, and pray again, and cannot
tear themselves from this place, where they seem to be nearer to their
son, to their memories of him.... Can it be that their prayers, their
tears are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred, devoted love, is not
all-powerful? Oh, no! However passionate, sinning, and rebellious the
heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep serenely at
us with their innocent eyes; they tell us not of eternal peace alone,
of that great peace of 'indifferent' nature; tell us too of eternal
reconciliation and of life without end.