There issued on to the verandah to greet the arrivals no throng of
household serfs--only a solitary girl of twelve. Presently, however,
she was joined by a young fellow much resembling Peter, but dressed
in a grey livery coat to which embossed, silver-gilt buttons were
attached. This was Paul Kirsanov's valet. In silence he opened the door
of the _koliaska_, and unhooked the apron of the _tarantass_; whereupon
the three gentlemen alighted, passed through a dark, bare hall (the
face of a young woman peered at them for a moment from behind a door),
and entered a drawing-room upholstered in the latest fashion.
"So here we are at home again!" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, taking
off his cap, and shaking back his hair. "Let us have supper, and then
for bed, bed!"
"Yes, something to eat would undoubtedly be welcome," remarked Bazarov
as, yawning, he seated himself upon a sofa.
"Quite so; I will have supper served at once." Nikolai Petrovitch,
for no apparent reason, tripped over his own feet. "And here comes
Prokofitch," he added.
As he spoke entered a man of about sixty who, white-haired, and of
thin, swarthy features, was wearing a cinnamon-coloured tail-coat
with brass buttons and a crimson collar. He smiled with delight as he
approached and shook hands with Arkady. Then, with a bow to the guest,
he retired to the doorway, and folded his hands behind his back.
"So here is the young master, Prokofitch!" said Nikolai Petrovitch.
"He is home at last. And how, think you, is he looking?"
"Very well, very well," the old man said with another smile. The next
moment, however, he knit his shaggy brows, and suggested: "Shall I lay
the table?"
"If you please, if you please." Nikolai Petrovitch turned to Bazarov.
"Before supper," he said, "would you care to go to your room?"
"I thank you, no. But please have my trunk conveyed thither, and also
this wrap." And Bazarov divested himself of his cloak.
"Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's cloak."
The old butler received the garment gingerly, held it well away from
him with both hands, and left the room on tiptoe.
"And you, Arkady?" continued Nikolai Petrovitch. "Do you not wish to go
to your room?"
"Yes; for a wash I should be thankful," was Arkady's reply as he moved
towards the door. At that moment it opened to admit a man of medium
height who was dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionably low
collar, and a pair of patent leather boots. This was Paul Petrovitch
Kirsanov. Although forty-five, he had close-cropped grey hair of the
sheen of new silver, and his sallow, unwrinkled face was as clear-cut
and regular of outline as though carved with a light, fine chisel.
Still retaining traces of remarkable comeliness, his bright, black,
oblong eyes had a peculiar attraction, and his every well-bred, refined
feature showed that symmetry of youth, that air of superiority to the
rest of the world which usually disappears when once the twenties have
been passed.
Drawing from his trouser pocket a slender hand the long, pink nails
of which looked all the slenderer for the snowy whiteness of the
superimposed cuff and large opal sleeve-link, he offered it to his
nephew; after which, this prefatory European "handshake" over, he
thrice kissed Arkady in the Russian fashion--that is to say, touched
his nephew's cheek with his perfumed moustache, and murmured: "I
congratulate you."
Next Nikolai Petrovitch presented to him Bazarov. Inclining his supple
figure with a faint smile, Paul Petrovitch this time did not offer his
hand. On the contrary, he replaced it in his pocket.
"I was beginning to think that you never meant to arrive," he said with
an amiable hoist of his shoulders and a display of some beautiful white
teeth. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing," replied Arkady, "except that we lingered a little. For the
same reason are we as hungry as wolves; so pray tell Prokofitch to be
quick, Papa, and I shall be back in a moment."
"Wait; I will go with you," added Bazarov as he rose from the sofa; and
the two young men left the room together.
"Who is your guest?" asked Paul Petrovitch.
"A friend of Arkady's, and, according to Arkady's showing, a man of
intellect."
"He is going to stay here?"
"He is."
"A long-haired fellow like that?"
"Certainly."
In that particular direction Paul Petrovitch said no more, but, tapping
the table with his finger-nails, added:
"_Je pense que notre Arkady s'est dégourdi._[1] And in any case I am
pleased to see him back again."
At supper little was said. In particular did Bazarov scarcely speak,
though he ate heartily; and only Nikolai Petrovitch proved garrulous as
he related various incidents in what he termed his "agricultural life,"
and gossiped of forthcoming administrative measures, committees,
deputations, the need of introducing machinery, and other such topics.
For his part, Paul Petrovitch paced the room (he never took supper),
and sipped a glassful of red wine, and occasionally interjected some
such remark--rather, exclamation--as "Ah!" or "Oh, ho!" or "H'm!"
Arkady's contribution consisted of a little St. Petersburg gossip, even
though, throughout, he was conscious of a touch of that awkwardness
which overtakes a young man when, just ceased to be a boy, he returns
to the spot where hitherto he has ranked as a mere child. In other
words, he drawled his phrases unnecessarily, carefully avoided the use
of the term "Papasha,"[2] and, once, even went so far as to substitute
for it the term "Otety"[3]--though, true, he pronounced it with some
difficulty. Lastly, in his excessive desire to seem at his ease, he
helped himself to more wine than was good for him, and tasted some of
every brand. Meanwhile Prokofitch chewed his lips, and never removed
his eyes from his young master.
Supper over, the company dispersed.
"A queer fellow is that uncle of yours," Bazarov said to Arkady as,
clad in a dressing-gown, he seated himself by his friend's bed, and
sucked at a short pipe. "To think of encountering such elegance in the
country! He would take a prize with his finger-nails."
"You do not know him yet," said Arkady. "In his day he was a leading
lion, and some time or another I will tell you his history. Yes, many
and many a woman has lost her head over his good looks."
"Then I should think that he has nothing to live on save memories,"
observed Bazarov. "At all events, there is no one _here_ for him to
enslave. I looked him over to-night, and never in my life have beheld
a collar of such marvellous gloss, or a chin so perfectly shaven. Yet
such things can come to look ridiculous, do not you think?"
"Yes--perhaps they can. But he is such an excellent fellow in himself!"
"Oh, certainly--a truly archangelic personage! Your father, too, is
excellent; for though he may read foolish poetry, and though his ideas
on the subject of industry may be few, his heart is in the right place."
"He is a man with a heart of gold."
"Nevertheless, did you notice his nervousness to-night?"
Arkady nodded as though to himself such a weakness was a perfect
stranger.
"Curious indeed!" commented Bazarov. "Ah, you elderly Romanticists!
You over-develop the nervous system until the balance is upset. Now,
good-night. In my room there is an English washstand, yet the door
will not shut! But such things (English washstands I mean) need to be
encouraged: they represent 'progress.'"
And Bazarov departed, while Arkady surrendered himself to a sensation
of comfort. How pleasant was it to be sinking to sleep in one's
comfortable home, and in one's own familiar bed, and under a well-known
coverlet worked by loving hands--perhaps those of his good, kind,
tireless old nurse! And at the thought of Egorovna he sighed, and
commended her soul to the Heavenly Powers. But for himself he did not
pray.
Soon both he and Bazarov were asleep; but certain other members of the
household there were who remained wakeful. In particular had Nikolai
Petrovitch been greatly excited by his son's return; and though he went
to bed, he left the candle burning, and, resting with his head on his
hands, lay thinking deeply.
Also, his brother sat up in his study until nearly midnight. Seated
in an ample armchair before a corner where a marble stove was
smouldering, he had effected no alteration in his costume beyond
having exchanged his patent leather boots for a pair of heelless, red
felt slippers. Lastly, he was holding, though not reading, the latest
number of _Galignani_, and his eyes were fixed upon the stove, where
a quivering blue spurt of flame kept alternately disappearing and
bursting forth again. Whither his thoughts were wandering God only
knows; but that they were not meandering through the past alone was
proved by the fact that in his expression there was a concentrated
gloom which is never in evidence when a man's mind is occupied with
memories and no more.
Finally, seated on a chest in a small room at the back of the house,
and wearing a blue dressing-jacket and, thrown over her dark hair,
a white scarf, was the girl Thenichka. As she sat there she kept
listening, and starting, and gazing towards an open door which at once
afforded a glimpse of an infant's cot and admitted the sound of a
sleeping child's respiration.
[1] "I think that our friend Arkady has acquired some polish."
[2] Dear Papa.
[3] Father.
V
Next morning Bazarov was the first to awake and go out of doors.
"Ah," thought he to himself as he gazed about him, "this is _not_ much
of a place to look at."
When apportioning allotments to his peasantry, Nikolai Petrovitch had
found himself forced to exclude from the new "farm" four _desiatins_
of level, naked land, and upon this space had built himself a house,
quarters for his servants, and a homestead. Also, he had laid out
a garden, dug a pond, and sunk two wells. But the young trees had
fared badly, very little water had risen in the pond, and the wells
had developed a brackish taste. The only vegetation to attain robust
growth was a clump of lilacs and acacias, under the shade of which the
household was accustomed to take tea or to dine. Within a few minutes
Bazarov had traversed all the paths in the garden, visited the stables
and the cattlesheds, and made friends with two young household serfs
whom he happened to encounter, and with whom he set forth to catch
frogs in a marsh about a verst from the manor.
"For what do you want frogs, _barin_?" asked one of the lads.
"To make them useful," replied Bazarov (who possessed a peculiar gift
for winning the confidence of his inferiors, even though he never
cozened them, but, on the contrary, always treated them with asperity).
"You see, I like to open them, and then to observe what their insides
are doing. You and I are frogs too, except that we walk upon our hind
legs. Thus the operation helps me to understand what is taking place in
ourselves."
"And what good will that do you?"
"This. That if you should fall sick, and I should have to treat you, I
might avoid some mistakes."
"Then you are a doctor?"
"I am."
"Listen to that, Vasika! The _barin_ says that you and I too are frogs.
My word!"
"I don't like frogs," remarked Vasika, a barefooted boy of seven with
a head as white as tow, and a costume made up of a grey blouse and a
stiff collar.
"_Why_ don't you like them?" asked Bazarov. "Do you think they will
bite you? Nay! Into the water, my young philosophers!"
Nikolai Petrovitch too had left his bed, and, on going to visit Arkady,
found him fully dressed; wherefore father and son proceeded to repair
to the terrace, and there seated themselves under the shade of the
awning. Amid nosegays of lilac, a tea-urn was simmering on a table
by the balustrade, and presently there appeared upon the scene also
the damsel who, on the previous night, had met the arrivals on the
verandah. She announced in shrill tones:
"Theodosia Nikolaevna is not very well this morning, and cannot come to
breakfast. So she has told me to ask you whether you will pour out tea
for yourselves, or whether she is to send Duniasha?"
"I will pour it out myself," Nikolai Petrovitch replied with some
haste. "Will you have cream or lemon in your tea, Arkady?"
"Cream," he replied. After a pause he continued:
"Papasha----"
Nikolai Petrovitch glanced confusedly in his direction.
"Yes?" said he.
Arkady lowered his eyes.
"Pardon me if my question should seem to you indiscreet," he began,
"but, owing to your frankness of last night, I am emboldened to return
it. You will not take offence, will you?"
"Oh no! Pray go on."
"Then I feel encouraged to ask you whether it--whether it is because
I am here that she--that is to say, Thenichka--has not joined us at
breakfast?"
Nikolai Petrovitch slightly averted his face.
"It may be so," he said at length. "At all events, I presume that--that
she prefers, she prefers--in fact, that she is shy."
Arkady glanced at his father.
"But why should she be shy?" he inquired. "In the first place, you know
my views" (he uttered the words with no little complacency), "and, in
the second place, surely you cannot suppose that I would by a hair's
breadth intrude upon your life and your habits? No; sure am I that
never could you make a bad choice; and if you have asked this girl
to reside under your roof, that is tantamount to saying that she has
well deserved it. In any case, moreover, it is not for a son to summon
his father to judgment--least of all for me, who possess a father
like yourself, a father who has never restricted his son's freedom of
action."
At first Arkady's voice had trembled a little, since not only did he
feel that he was doing the "magnanimous," but also he knew that he
was delivering something like a "lecture" to his father; but such an
effect does the sound of his own voice exercise upon a human being that
towards the end Arkady pronounced his words firmly, and even with a
certain degree of _empressement_.
"I thank you, Arkady," Nikolai Petrovitch said faintly as his fingers
began their customary perambulation of his forehead. "Nor is your
conjecture mistaken, for if this girl had not deserved the invitation,
I should not, of course, have--in other words, as you imply, this is no
frivolous whim on my part. Nor need I have spoken of the matter, were
it not that I desired you to understand that she might possibly have
felt embarrassed at meeting you on the very day after your arrival."
"Then let _me_ go and meet _her_," exclaimed Arkady with another access
of "magnanimity" as he sprang from his chair. "Yes, let _me_ go and
explain to her why she need not shun me."
Nikolai Petrovitch also rose.
"Arkady," he began, "pray do me a favour. Hitherto I had not warned you
that----"
But, without listening to him, Arkady darted from the terrace. For
a moment or two Nikolai Petrovitch gazed after him--then, overcome
with confusion, relapsed into a chair. His heart was beating rapidly.
Whether or not he was picturing to himself a strangeness of future
relations with his son; whether he was imagining that, had his son
refrained from interfering, the latter might have paid him more respect
in future; whether he was reproaching himself for his own weakness--it
is difficult to say what his thoughts were. Probably in them there was
a combination of the feelings just indicated, if only in the form of
apprehensions. Yet those apprehensions cannot have been deeply rooted,
as was proved by the fact that, for all the beating of his heart, the
colour had not left his face.
Soon hasty footsteps were heard approaching, and Arkady reappeared on
the terrace.
"I have made her acquaintance!" he shouted with a kindly,
good-humoured, triumphant expression. "That Theodosia Nikolaievna is
not well to-day is a fact; but also it is a fact that she is going to
appear later. And why did you not tell me that I had a little brother?
Otherwise I should have gone and kissed him last night, even as I have
done this moment."
Nikolai Petrovitch tried to say something--to rise and to make an
explanation of some sort; but Arkady cut him short by falling upon his
neck.
"What is this? Again embracing?" said Paul Petrovitch behind them.
As a matter of fact, neither father nor son was ill-pleased to see
him appear, for, however touching such situations may be, one may be
equally glad to escape from them.
"At what are you surprised?" asked Nikolai Petrovitch gaily. "Remember
that I have not seen Arkesha for several centuries--at all events, not
since last night!"
"Oh, I am not surprised," said Paul Petrovitch. "On the contrary, I
should not mind embracing him myself."
And Arkady, on approaching his uncle, felt once more upon his cheek the
impression of a perfumed moustache. Paul Petrovitch then sat down to
table. Clad in an elegant morning suit of English cut, he was flaunting
on his head a diminutive fez which helped the carelessly folded tie to
symbolise the freedom of a country life. At the same time, the stiff
collar of the shirt (which was striped, not white, as best befitted
a matutinal toilet) supported with its usual rigour an immaculately
shaven chin.
"Well, Arkady?" said he. "Where is your new friend?"
"Out somewhere. He seldom misses going for an early morning walk.
But the great thing is to take no notice of him, for he detests all
ceremony."
"So I have perceived." And with his usual deliberateness Paul
Petrovitch began to butter a piece of bread. "Will he be staying here
very long?"
"Well, as long as he may care to stay. As a matter of fact, he is going
on to his father's place."
"And where does his father live?"
"Some eighty versts from here, in the same province as ourselves. I
believe he has a small property, and used to be an army doctor."
"H'm! Ever since last night I have been asking myself where I can have
heard the name before. Nikolai, do you remember whether there was a
doctor of that name in our father's division?"
"Yes, there used to be."
"Then that doctor will be this fellow's father. H'm!" And Paul
Petrovitch twitched his moustache. "What exactly is your Bazarov?" he
enquired of Arkady.
"What _is_ he?" Arkady repeated smiling. "Do you really want me to tell
you what he is, Uncle?"
"If you please, my nephew."
"He is a Nihilist."
"A what?" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, while even Paul Petrovitch
paused in the act of raising a knife to the edge of which there was a
morsel of butter adhering.
"A Nihilist," repeated Arkady.
"A Nihilist?" queried Nikolai Petrovitch. "I imagine that that must
be a term derived from the Latin _nihil_ or 'nothing.' It denotes,
I presume, a man who--a man who--well, a man who declines to accept
_anything_."
"Or a man who declines to _respect_ anything," hazarded Paul Petrovitch
as he re-applied himself to the butter.
"No, a man who treats things solely from the critical point of view,"
corrected Arkady.
"But the two things are one and the same, are they not?" queried Paul
Petrovitch.
"Oh no. A Nihilist is a man who declines to bow to authority, or to
accept any principle on trust, however sanctified it may be."
"And to what can that lead?" asked Paul Petrovitch.
"It depends upon the individual. In one man's case, it may lead to
good; in that of another, to evil."
"I see. But we elders view things differently. We folk of the
older generation believe that without principles" (Paul Petrovitch
pronounced the word softly, and with a French accent, whereas Arkady
had pronounced it with an emphasis on the leading syllable)--"without
principles it is impossible to take a single step in life, or to draw a
single breath. _Mais vous avez changé tout cela._ God send you health
and a general's rank, Messieurs Nihil--how do you pronounce it?"
"Ni-hi-lists," said Arkady distinctly.
"Quite so (formerly we had Hegelists, and now they have become
Nihilists)--God send you health and a general's rank, but also let us
see how you will contrive to exist in an absolute void, an airless
vacuum. Pray ring the bell, brother Nikolai, for it is time for me to
take my cocoa."
Nikolai Petrovitch did as requested, and also shouted for Duniasha;
but, instead of the latter, there issued on to the terrace Thenichka
in person. A young woman of twenty-three, she was pale, and
gentle-looking, with dark eyes and hair, a pair of childishly red,
pouting lips, and delicate hands. Also, she was clad in a clean
cotton gown, a new blue kerchief was thrown lightly over her rounded
shoulders, and she was carrying in front of her a large cup of cocoa.
Shyly she placed the latter before Paul Petrovitch, while a warm, rosy
current of blood suffused the exquisite skin of her comely face, and
then she remained standing by the table, with lowered eyes and the
tips of her fingers touching its surface. Yet, though she looked as
though she were regretting having come, she looked as though she felt
that she had a right to be there.
Paul Petrovitch frowned, and Nikolai Petrovitch looked confused.
"Good morning, Thenichka," the latter muttered.
"Good morning," she replied in a low, clear voice. Then she glanced
askance at Arkady, and he smiled at her in friendly fashion. Finally
she departed with a quiet step and slightly careless gait--the latter a
peculiarity of hers.
Silence reigned on the terrace. For a while Paul Petrovitch drank his
cocoa. Then he suddenly raised his head, and muttered:
"Monsieur Nihilist is about to give us the pleasure of his company."
True enough, Bazarov could be seen stepping across the flowerbeds. On
his linen jacket and trousers was a thick coating of mud, to the crown
of his ancient circular hat clung a piece of sticky marshweed, and in
his hand he was holding a small bag. Also, something in the bag kept
stirring as though it were alive. Approaching the terrace with rapid
strides, he nodded to the company and said:
"Good morning, gentlemen! Pardon me for being so late. I shall be back
presently, but first my captures must be stowed away."
"What are those captures?" Paul Petrovitch inquired. "Leeches?"
"No, frogs."
"Do you eat them? Or do you breed them?"
"I catch them for purposes of experiment," was Bazarov's only reply as
carelessly he entered the house.
"In other words, he vivisects them," was Paul Petrovitch's comment. "In
other words, he believes in frogs more than in principles."
Arkady threw his uncle a reproachful look, and even Nikolai Petrovitch
shrugged his shoulders, so that Paul Petrovitch himself felt his _bon
mot_ to have been out of place, and hastened to divert the subject to
the estate and the new steward.