 CHAPTER X A fortnight passed by. Life at Marino pursued its normal course, while Arcadi luxuriously enjoyed himself and Bazarov worked. Everyone in the house had grown accustomed to Bazarov, to his casual behavior, to his curt and abrupt manner of speaking. Fenechka, indeed, felt so much at ease with him that one night she had him awakened. Mitya had been seized by convulsions. Bazarov had gone, half joking and half yawning as usual, had sat with her for two hours and relieved the child. On the other hand Pavel Petrovich had grown to hate Bazarov with all the strength of his soul. He regarded him as conceited, impudent, cynical and vulgar. He suspected that Bazarov had no respect for him, that he all but despised him. Him! Pavel Kirsanov! Nikolai Petrovich was rather frightened of the young nihilist and doubted the benefit of his influence on Arcadi. But he listened keenly to what he said and was glad to be present during his chemical and scientific experiments. Bazarov had brought a microscope with him and busied himself with it for hours. The servants also took to him, though he made fun of them. They felt that he was more like one of themselves and not a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle with him and used to cast significant side-long glances at him when she skipped past like a squirrel. Piotr, who was vain and stupid to the highest degree, with a constant forced frown on his brow, and whose only merit consisted in the fact that he looked polite, could spell out a page of reading and assiduously brushed his coat. Even he grinned and brightened up when Bazarov paid any attention to him. The farm boys simply ran after the doctor, like puppies. Only old Prokovich disliked him. At table he handed him dishes with a grim expression. He called him butcher and upstart, and declared that with his huge whiskers he looked like a pig in a sty. Prokovich in his own way was quite as much of an aristocrat as Pavel Petrovich. The best days of the year had come, the early June days. The weather was lovely. In the distance, it is true, cholera was threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had grown used to its periodic ravages. Bazarov used to get up very early and walk for two or three miles, not for pleasure. He could not bear walking without an object, but in order to collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he took Arkady with him. On the way home an argument often sprang up, in which Arkady was usually defeated in spite of talking more than his companions. One day they had stayed out rather late. Nikolai Petrovich had gone into the garden to meet them, and as he reached the arbor he suddenly heard the quick steps and voices of the two young men. They were walking on the other side of the arbor and could not see him. You don't know my father well enough, Arkady was saying. Your father is a good fellow, said Bazarov, but his day is over. His song has been sung to extinction. Nikolai Petrovich listened intently. Arkady made no reply. The man whose day was over stood still for a minute or two, then quietly returned to the house. The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin, Bazarov went on, meanwhile. Please explain to him how utterly useless that is. After all, he's not a boy. It's high time he got rid of such rubbish. And what an idea to be romantic in our times. Give him something sensible to read. What should I give him? asked Arkady. Oh, I think Buchner's Stoff und Kraft to start with. I think so too, remarked Arkady approvingly. Stoff und Kraft is written in popular language. So it seems, said Nikolai Petrovich, the same day after dinner to his brother as they sat in his study. You and I are behind the times. Our day is over. Well, perhaps Bazarov is right. But one thing, I must say, hurts me. I was so hoping just now to get on really close and friendly terms with Arkady, and it turns out that I've lagged behind while he has gone forward, and we simply can't understand one another. But how has he gone forward? And in what way is he so different from us? exclaimed Pavel Petrovich impatiently. It's that grand senior of a nihilist who has knocked such ideas into his head. I loathe that Dr. Fellow. In my opinion, he's nothing but a charlatan. I'm sure that in spite of all his tadpoles, he knows precious little even in medicine. No, brother, you mustn't say that. Bazarov is clever and knows his subject. And so disagreeably conceded Pavel Petrovich broke in again. Yes, observed Nikolai Petrovich. He is conceded. Evidently one can't manage without it. That's what I failed to take into account. I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times. I divided the land with the peasants, started a model farm, so that I'm even described as a rebel all over the province. I read, I study, I try in every way to keep abreast of the demands of the day, and they say my day is over. And, brother, I really begin to think that it is. Why is that? I'll tell you why. I was sitting and reading Pushkin today. I remember it happened to be the Gypsies. Suddenly Arkady comes up to me and silently, with such a kind pity in his face, as gently as if I were a baby, takes the book away from me and puts another one in front of me instead, a German book. Smiles and goes out, carrying Pushkin off with him. Well, really, what book did he give you? This one. And Nikolai Petrovich pulled out of his hip pocket the ninth edition of Bookner's well-known treatise. Pavel Petrovich turned it over in his hands. Hmm, he growled. Arkady Nikolayevich is taking your education in hand. Well, have you tried to read it? Yes, I tried. What did you think of it? Either I'm stupid or it's all nonsense. I suppose I must be stupid. But you haven't forgotten your German, asked Pavel Petrovich. Oh, I understand the language all right. Pavel Petrovich again fingered the book and glanced across at his brother. Both were silent. Oh, by the way, began Nikolai Petrovich, evidently wanting to change the subject. I've had a letter from Kolyasin. From Matvei Ilyich? Yes, he has come to inspect the province. He's quite a bigwig now. He writes to say that as a relation he wants to see us again, and invites you, me, and Arkady to go to stay in the town. Are you going? asked Pavel Petrovich. No. Are you? No, I shan't go. What is the sense of dragging oneself forty miles on a wild goose chase? Matvei wants to show off to us in all his glory. Let him go to the devil. He'll have the whole province at his feet so he can get on without us. It's a grand honor, a privy counselor. If I had continued in the service, drudging along in that dreary routine, I should have been a general adjutant by now. Besides, you and I are behind the times. Yes, brother, it seems the time has come to order a coffin, and to cross the arms over one's chest, remarked Nikolai Petrovich with a sigh. Well, I shan't give in quite so soon, muttered his brother. I've got a quarrel with this doctor-creature in front of me. I'm sure of that. The quarrel materialized that very evening at tea. Pavel Petrovich came into the drawing-room all keyed up, irritable, and determined. He was only waiting for a pretext to pounce upon his enemy. But for some time no such pretext arose. As a rule, Bazarov spoke little in the presence of the old Kirsanov's, that was what he called the brothers, and that evening he felt in a bad humor and drank cup after cup of tea without saying a word. Pavel Petrovich was burning with impatience. His wishes were fulfilled at last. The conversation turned to one of the neighboring landowners. Rotten aristocratic snob, observed Bazarov casually. He had met him in Petersburg. Allow me to ask you, began Pavel Petrovich, and his lips were trembling. Do you attach an identical meaning to the words Rotten and Aristocrat? I said, Aristocratic snob, replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip of tea. Precisely, but I imagine you hold the same opinion of aristocrats as of aristocratic snobs. I think it my duty to tell you that I do not share that opinion. I venture to say that I am well known to be a man of liberal views and devoted to progress. But for that very reason I respect aristocrats, real aristocrats. Kindly remember, sir—at these words Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel Petrovich. Kindly remember, sir, he repeated sharply, the English aristocracy. They did not abandon one iota of their rights, and for that reason they respect the rights of others. They demand the fulfillment of what is due to them, and therefore they respect their own duties. The aristocracy gave freedom to England, and they maintain it for her. We've heard that story many times. What are you trying to prove by it? I am trying to prove by that, sir. When Pavel Petrovich became angry, he intentionally clipped his words, though, of course, he knew very well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. This whim indicated a survival from the period of Alexander I. The great ones of that time, on the rare occasions when they spoke their own language, made use of such distortions as if seeking to show thereby that, though they were genuine Russians, yet at the same time as grand senior, they could afford to ignore the grammatical rules of scholars. I am trying to prove by that, sir, that without a sense of personal dignity, without self-respect, and these two feelings are developed in the aristocrat, there is no firm foundation for the social bien public, for the social structure. Personal character, my good sir, that is the chief thing. A man's personality must be as strong as a rock since everything else is built up on it. I am well aware, for instance, that you choose to consider my habits, my dress, even my tidiness, ridiculous. But all this comes from a sense of self-respect and of duty. Yes, from a sense of duty. I live in the wilds of the country, but I refuse to lower myself. I respect the dignity of man and myself. Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovich, muttered bazarov, you respect yourself and you sit with folded hands. What sort of benefit is that to the bien public? If you didn't respect yourself, you'd do just the same. Pavel Petrovich turned pale. That is quite another question. There is absolutely no need for me to explain to you now why I sit here with folded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to tell you that aristocracy is a principle, and that only depraved or stupid people can live in our time without principles. I said as much to Arkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it to you now. Isn't that so, Nikolai? Nikolai Petrovich nodded his head. Aristocracy, liberalism, progress, principles, said bazarov, just think what a lot of foreign and useless words. To a Russian they're no good for anything. What is good for Russians, according to you? If we listen to you, we shall find ourselves beyond the pale of humanity, outside human laws. Doesn't the logic of history demand what's the use of that logic to us? We can get along without it. What do you mean? Why this? You don't need logic, I suppose, to put a piece of bread in your mouth when you're hungry. For what do we need those abstractions? Pavel Petrovich raised his hands. I simply don't understand you after all that. You insult the Russian people. I fail to understand how it is possible not to acknowledge principles. Rules. By virtue of what can you act? I already told you, Uncle Deer, that we don't recognize any authorities, interposed Arkady. We act by virtue of what we recognize as useful, went on bazarov. At present the most useful thing is denial, so we deny everything, everything. What? Not only art, poetry, but the thought is appalling. Everything, repeated bazarov with indescribable composure. Pavel Petrovich stared at him. He had not expected this, and Arkady even blushed with satisfaction. But allow me, began Nikolai Petrovich. You deny everything, or to put it more precisely, you destroy everything. But one must construct, too, you know. That is not our business. We must first clear the ground. The present condition of the people demands it, added Arkady rather sententiously. We must fulfill those demands. We have no right to yield to the satisfaction of personal egotism. That last phrase obviously displeased bazarov. It smacked of philosophy, or romanticism. For bazarov called philosophy a kind of romanticism. But he did not judge it necessary to correct his young disciple. No, no, cried Pavel Petrovich with sudden vehemence. I can't believe that you young men really know the Russian people, that you represent their needs and aspirations. No, the Russian people are not what you imagine them to be. They hold tradition sacred. They are patriarchal people. They cannot live without faith. I'm not going to argue with you, interrupted bazarov. I'm even ready to agree that there you are right. And if I am right, it proves nothing all the same. Exactly! It proves nothing, repeated Arkady with the assurance of an experienced chess player, who, having foreseen an apparently dangerous move on the part of his adversary, is not in the least put out by it. How can it prove nothing, mumbled Pavel Petrovich in consternation? In that case, you must be going against your own people. And what if we are, exclaimed bazarov? The people imagine that when it thunders, the prophet Ilya is riding across the sky in his chariot. What then? Are we to agree with them? Besides, if they are Russian, so am I. No, you are not a Russian, after what you have said. I can't admit you have any right to call yourself a Russian. My grandfather plowed the land, answered bazarov with hotty pride. Ask any one of your peasants which of us, you or me, he would more readily acknowledge as a fellow countryman. You don't even know how to talk to them. While you talk to them and despise them at the same time, what of that, if they deserve contempt? You find fault with my point of view, but what makes you think it came into being by chance, that it's not a product of that very national spirit which you are championing? What an idea! How can we need nihilists? Whether they are needed or not is not for us to decide. Why, even you imagine you're not a useless person. Gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities, please, cried Nikolai Petrovich, getting up. Pavel Petrovich smiled, and laying his hand on his brother's shoulder, made him sit down again. Don't be alarmed, he said. I shan't forget myself, thanks to that sense of dignity which is so cruelly ridiculed by our friend, our friend the doctor. Allow me to point out, he resumed, turning again to bazarov, you probably think that your doctrine is a novelty? That is an illusion of yours. The materialism which you preach was more than once invoked before, and has always proved inadequate. Yet another foreign word broke in bazarov. He was beginning to feel angry, and his face looked peculiarly copper-colored and coarse. In the first place we preach nothing, that's not in our line. What do you do, then? This is 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're reformers, that's the right name, I think. I too should agree with many of your reforms, but then we suspected that talk and only talk about our social diseases was not worthwhile, that it led to nothing but hypocrisy and pedantry. We saw that our leading men, our so-called advanced people and reformers, are worthless, that we busy ourselves with rubbish, talk nonsense about art, about unconscious creation, parliamentarianism, trial by jury, and the devil knows what, when the real question is daily bread, when the grossest superstitions are stifling us, when all our business enterprises crash simply because there aren't enough honest men to carry them on, while the very emancipation which our government is struggling to organize will hardly come to any good, because our peasant is happy to rob even himself so long as he can get drunk at the pub. Yes, broken Pavel Petrovich, indeed you were convinced of all this, and you therefore decided to undertake nothing serious yourselves. We decided to undertake nothing, repeated Bazarov grimly. He suddenly felt annoyed with himself for having been so expansive in front of this gentleman, but to confine yourselves to abuse, to confine ourselves to abuse. And that is called nihilism? And that is called nihilism, Bazarov repeated again, this time in a particularly insolent tone. Pavel Petrovich screwed up his eyes a little. So that's it, he murmured in a strangely composed voice. Nihilism is to cure all our woes, and you, you are our saviors and heroes. Very well, but why do you find fault with others, including the reformers? Don't you do as much talking as anyone else? Whatever faults we may have, that is not one of them, muttered Bazarov between his teeth. What then, do you act? Are you preparing for action? Bazarov made no reply. A tremor passed through Pavel Petrovich. But he at once regained control of himself. Hmm, action, destruction, he went on. But how can you destroy without even knowing why? We shall destroy because we are a force, remarked Arkady. Pavel Petrovich looked at his nephew and laughed. Yes, a force can't be called to account for itself, said Arkady, drawing himself up. Unhappy boy, groaned Pavel Petrovich, who could no longer maintain his show of firmness. Can't you realize the kind of thing you are encouraging in Russia with your shallow doctrine? No, it's enough to try the patience of an angel. Force. There's force in the savage kalmuk, or in the mongol. But what is that to us? What is dear to us is civilization, yes. Yes, my good sir, its fruits are precious to us. And don't you tell me these fruits are worthless? The poorest darber, Unbablye, the man who plays dance music for five farthings in evening. Even there of more use than you, because they stand for civilization and not for brute Mongolian force. You fancy yourselves as advanced people, and yet you're only fit for the kalmuk's dirty hovel. Force. And remember, you forceful gentleman, that you're only four men and a half, and the others are millions, who won't let you trample their sacred beliefs under foot, but will crush you instead. If we're crushed, that's in store for us, said Bazarov. But it's an open question. We're not so few as you suppose. What? You seriously suppose you can set yourself up against a whole people? All Moscow was burnt down, you know, by a penny candle, answered Bazarov. Indeed. First comes an almost satanic pride, then cynical jeers. So that is what attracts the young, what takes by storm the inexperienced hearts of boys. Here is one of them sitting beside you, ready to worship the ground beneath your feet. Look at him. Arkady turned aside and frowned. And this plague is already spread far and wide. I am told that in Rome our artists don't even enter the Vatican. Raphael, they regard as a fool, because, of course, he is an authority. And these artists are themselves disgustingly sterile and weak, men whose imagination can soar no higher than girls at a fountain. And even the girls are abominably drawn. They are fine fellows in your view, I suppose. To my mind, retorted Bazarov, Raphael isn't worth a brass farthing, and they're no better than he. Bravo! Bravo! Listen, Arkady, that is how modern young men should express themselves. And if you come to think of it, they're bound to follow you. Formerly young men had to study. If they didn't want to be called fools, they had to work hard, whether they liked it or not. But now they need only say, everything in the world is rubbish, and the trick is done. Young men are delighted. And to be sure, they were only sheep before, but now they have suddenly turned into nihilists. You have departed from your praiseworthy sense of personal dignity, remarked Bazarov phlegmatically, while Arkady had turned hot all over and his eyes were flashing. Our argument has gone too far. Better cut it short, I think. I shall be quite ready to agree with you, he added, getting up, when you can show me a single institution in our present mode of life. In the family or in society, which does not call for complete and ruthless destruction. I can show you millions of such institutions, cried Pavel Petrovich. Millions! Well, take the Commune, for instance. A cold smile distorted Bazarov's lips. Well, you had better talk to your brother about the Commune. I should think he has seen by now what the Commune is like in reality. It's mutual guarantees, it's sobriety and such like. Well, the family, the family as it exists among our peasants, cried Pavel Petrovich. On that subject, too, I think it will be better for you not to enter into too much detail. You know how the head of the family chooses, his daughters-in-law? Take my advice, Pavel Petrovich. Allow yourself a day or two to think it all over. You'll hardly find anything straight away. Go through the various classes of our society, and examine them carefully. Meanwhile, Arkady and I will... We'll go on abusing everything, broken Pavel Petrovich. No, we will go on dissecting frogs. Come, Arkady. Goodbye for the present, gentlemen. The two friends walked off. The brothers were left alone, and at first only looked at each other. So that, began Pavel Petrovich, that is our modern youth. Those young men are our heirs. Our heirs, repeated Nikolai Petrovich with a weary smile. He had been sitting as if on thorns throughout the argument, and only from time to time cast a sad, furtive glance at Arkady. Do you know what I was reminded of, brother? I once quarreled with our mother. She shouted and wouldn't listen to me. At last I said to her, Of course you can't understand me. We belong to two different generations. She was terribly offended, but I thought it can't be helped. A bitter pill, but she has to swallow it. So now our turn has come, and our successors can tell us, you don't belong to our generation, swallow your pill. You are much too generous and modest, replied Pavel Petrovich. I am convinced, on the contrary, that you and I are far more in the right than these young gentlemen, although perhaps we express ourselves in more old-fashioned language, VAE, and are not so insolently conceded, and the heirs these young people give themselves. You ask one, Would you like white wine or red? It is my custom to prefer red, he answers in a deep voice, and with a face as solemn as if the whole world were looking at him that moment. Do you want any more tea? asked Fenichka, putting her head in at the door. She had not wanted to come into the drawing-room while the noisy dispute was going on. No, you can tell them to take away the Samovar, answered Nikolai Petrovich, and he got up to meet her. Pavel Petrovich said Bosseois to him abruptly, and went to his own study. End of Chapter 10. Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 11 of Fathers and Sons This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline Fathers and Sons by Yvon Turgenev Translated by Richard Hare Chapter 11 Half an hour later Nikolai Petrovich went into the garden to his favorite arbor. He was filled with melancholy thoughts. For the first time he saw clearly the distance separating him from his son, and he foresaw that it would grow wider every day. So they were spent in vain, those winters in Petersburg, when sometimes he had poured for whole days on end over the latest books. In vain had he listened to the talk of the young men, and rejoiced when he succeeded in slipping a few of his own words into heated discussions. My brother says we are right, he thought, and laying aside all vanity, it even seems to me that they are further from the truth than we are, though all the same I feel they have something behind them which we lack some superiority over us. Is it youth? No, it can't only be that. Their superiority may be that they show fewer traces of the slave owner than we do. Nikolai Petrovich's head sank despondently, and he passed his hand over his face. But to renounce poetry, to have no feeling for art, for nature, and he looked around as though trying to understand how it was possible to have no feeling for nature. It was already evening, the sun was hidden behind a small clump of aspens which grew about a quarter of a mile from the garden, its shadow stretched indefinitely across the motionless fields. A little peasant on a white pony was riding along the dark narrow path near the wood. His whole figure was clearly visible even to the patch on his shoulder, although he was in the shade. The pony's hoofs rose and fell with graceful distinctness. The sun's rays on the farther side fell full on the clump of trees, and piercing through them threw such a warm light on the aspen trunks that they looked like pines, and their leaves seemed almost dark blue, while above them rose a pale blue sky, tinged by the red sunset glow. The swallows flew high, the wind had quite died down, some late bees hummed lazily among the lilac blossoms, a swarm of midges hung like a cloud over a solitary branch which stood out against the sky. How beautiful, my God! thought Nikolai Petrovich, and his favorite verses almost rose to his lips. Then he remembered Arkady's Stoff und Kraft, and remained silent, but he still sat there, abandoning himself to the sad consolation of solitary thought. He was fond of dreaming, and his country life had developed that tendency in him. How short a time ago he had been dreaming like this, waiting for his son at the posting station, and how much had changed since that day, their relations, then indeterminate, had now been defined, and how defined. His dead wife came back to his imagination, but not as he had known her for so many years, not as a good domesticated housewife, but as a young girl with a slim waist, an innocent inquiring look and a tightly twisted pigtail on her childish neck. He remembered how he had seen her for the first time. He was still a student then. He had met her on the staircase of his lodgings, and running into her by accident he tried to apologize, but could only mutter, pardon, monsieur, while she bowed, smiled, then suddenly seemed frightened and ran away, glanced quickly back at him, looked serious and blushed. Afterwards the first timid visit, the hint, the half-smiles and embarrassment, the uncertain sadness, the ups and downs, and at last that overwhelming joy. Where had it all vanished away? She had been his wife, he had been happy as few on earth are happy. But, he mused, those sweet fleeting moments, why could one not live an eternal undying life in them? He made no effort to clarify his thoughts, but he felt that he longed to hold that blissful time by something stronger than memory. He longed to feel his muddy of near him, to sense her warmth and breathing. Already he could fancy her actual presence. Nikolai Petrovich came the sound of Finichka's voice close by. Where are you? He started. He felt no remorse, no shame. He never admitted even the possibility of comparison between his wife and Finichka. But he was sorry that she had thought of coming to look for him. Her voice had brought back to him at once his gray hair, his age, his daily existence. The enchanted world arising out of the dim mists of the past into which he had just stepped, quivered and disappeared. I'm here, he answered. I'm coming. You run along. There they are, traces of the slave owner, flashed through his mind. Finichka peeped into the arbor without speaking to him, and went away again, and he noticed with surprise that night had fallen while he was dreaming. Everything around was dark and hushed, and Finichka's face had glimmered in front of him, so pale and slight. He got up and was about to go home, but the emotions stirring his heart could not be calmed so soon, and he began walking slowly about the garden, sometimes meditatively surveying the ground, then raising his eyes to the sky, where multitudes of stars were twinkling. He went on walking till he was almost tired out, but the restlessness within him, a yearning, vague, melancholy excitement, was still not appeased. Oh, how Bazarov would have laughed at him if he had known what was happening to him then! Even Arkady would have condemned him. He, a man of forty-four, an agriculturist and a landowner, was shedding tears, tears without reason. It was a hundred times worse than playing the cello. Nikolai Petrovich still walked up and down and could not make up his mind to go into the house, into the cozy, peaceful nest which looked at him so hospitably from its lighted windows. He had not the strength to tear himself away from the darkness, the garden, the sensation of fresh air in his face, and from that sad, restless excitement. At a turn in the path he met Pavel Petrovich. What is the matter with you? he asked Nikolai Petrovich. You are as white as a ghost. You must be unwell. Why don't you go to bed? Nikolai said a few words to his brother about his state of mind and moved away. Pavel Petrovich walked on to the end of the garden, also deep in thought, and he too raised his eyes to the sky, but his beautiful dark eyes reflected only the light of the stars. He was not born a romantic idealist, and his fastidiously dry, though ardent soul, with its tinge of French skepticism, was not addicted to dreaming. Do you know what Bazarov was saying to Arkady that very night? I've had a splendid idea. Your father was saying today that he had received an invitation from that illustrious relative of yours. Your father doesn't want to go, but why shouldn't we be off to X? You know the man invites you as well. You see what fine weather it is. We'll stroll around and look at the town. Let's have a jaunt for five or six days, no more. And you'll come back here afterwards? No, I must go to my father's. You know, he lives about twenty miles from X. I've not seen him or my mother for a long time. I must cheer the old people up. They've been good to me, my father particularly. He's awfully funny. I'm their only one. Will you stay long with them? I don't think so. It'll be dull, of course. And you'll come to us again on your way back? I don't know. We'll see. Well, what do you say? Shall we go? If you like, answered Arkady languidly. In his heart he was overjoyed by his friend's suggestion, but thought it a duty to conceal his feeling. He was not a nihilist for nothing. The next day he set off with Bazarov to X. The younger members of the household at Marino were sorry about their departure. Dunyasha even wept. But the older people breathed more freely. CHAPTER XII The town of X, to which our friend set off, was under the jurisdiction of a governor, who was still a young man, and who was at once progressive and despotic, as so often happens with Russians. Before the end of the first year of his governorship, he had managed to quarrel not only with the Marshal of Nobility, a retired guards officer who kept open house and a stud of horses, but even with his own subordinates. The resulting feuds at length grew to such proportions that the ministry in Petersburg found it necessary to send a trusted official with a commission to investigate everything on the spot. The choice of the authorities fell on Matvei Ilyich Kolyazin, the son of that Kolyazin under whose protection the brothers Kirsenov had been when they were students in Petersburg. He was also a young man, that is to say he was only just over forty, but he was well on the way to becoming a statesman and already wore two stars on his breast. Admittedly one of them was a foreign star and not of the first magnitude. Like the governor upon whom he had come to pass judgment, he was considered a progressive, and though he was already a bigwig he was not altogether like the majority of bigwigs. Of himself he had the highest opinion. His vanity knew no bounds, but his manners were simple. He had a friendly face. He listened indulgently and laughed so good-naturedly that on first acquaintance he might even have been taken for a jolly good fellow. On important occasions, however, he knew, so to speak, how to make his authority felt. Energy is essential, he used to say then. L'énergie est la première qualité d'un homme d'état. Yet in spite of all that he was habitually cheated and any thoroughly experienced official could twist him round his finger. Mathvi Ilyich used to speak with great respect about guiseaux and tried to impress everyone with the idea that he did not belong to the class of routine officials and old-fashioned bureaucrats, that not a single phenomenon of social life escaped his attention. He was quite at home with phrases of the latter kind. He even followed, with a certain casual condescension, it is true, the development of contemporary literature as a grown-up man who meets a crowd of street urchins will sometimes join them out of curiosity. In reality, Mathvi Ilyich had not got much farther than those politicians of the time of Alexander I, who used to prepare for an evening party at Madame Svyetchen's by reading a page of Kondiyak. Only his methods were different and more modern. He was a skillful courtier and extremely cunning hypocrite and little more. He had no aptitude for handling public affairs and his intellect was scanty, but he knew how to manage his own affairs successfully. No one could get the better of him there, and, of course, that is a most important thing. Mathvi Ilyich received Arkady with the amiability, or should we say playfulness, characteristic of the enlightened higher official. He was astonished, however, when he heard that both the cousins he had invited had stayed at home in the country. Your father was always a queer fellow, he remarked, playing with the tassels of his magnificent velvet dressing gown, and turning suddenly to a young official in a faultlessly buttoned-up uniform, he shouted with an air of concern, What? The young man, whose lips were almost glued together from prolonged silence, came forward and looked in perplexity at his chief. But having embarrassed his subordinate, Mathvi Ilyich paid him no further attention. Our higher officials are fond of upsetting their subordinates, and they resort to quite varied means of achieving that end. The following method, among others, is often used, is quite a favorite, as the English say. A higher official suddenly ceases to understand the simplest words, and pretends to be deaf. He asks, for instance, what day of the week it is. He is respectfully informed, Today's Friday, Your Excellency. Eh? What? What's that? What do you say? The great man repeats with strained attention. Today's Friday, Your Excellency. Eh? What? What's Friday? What Friday? Friday, Your Excellency, the day of the week. What? Are you presuming to teach me something? Mathvi Ilyich remained a higher official, though he considered himself a liberal. I advise you, my dear boy, to go and call on the Governor, he said to Arkady. You understand, I don't advise you to do so on account of any old-fashioned ideas about the necessity of paying respect to the authorities, but simply because the Governor is a decent fellow. Besides, you probably want to get to know the society here. You're not a bear, I hope. And he's giving a large ball the day after tomorrow. Will you be at the ball, inquired Arkady? He gives it in my honor, answered Mathvi Ilyich, almost pittingly. Do you dance? Yes, I dance, but not well. That's a pity. There are pretty women here, and it's a shame for a young man not to dance. Of course, I don't say that because of any old conventions. I would never suggest that a man's wit lies in his feet. But Byronism has become ridiculous. Il a fait sentant. But, uncle, it's not because of Byronism that I don't. I'll introduce you to some of the local ladies and take you under my wing, interrupted Mathvi Ilyich, and he laughed, a self-satisfied laugh. You'll find it warm, eh? A servant entered, and announced the arrival of the superintendent of government institutions. An old man with tender eyes and deep lines round his mouth, who was extremely fond of nature, especially on summer days, when, to use his words, every little busy bee takes a little bribe from every little flower. Arkady withdrew. He found bazaar of at the inn where they came from. He found bazaar of at the inn where they were staying, and took a long time to persuade him to accompany him to the governor's. Well, it can't be helped, said bazaar of at last. It's no good doing things by halves. We came to look at the landowners, so let us look at them. The governor received the young men affably, but he did not ask them to sit down, nor did he sit down himself. He was perpetually fussing and hurrying. Every morning he put on a tight uniform and an extremely stiff cravat. He never ate or drank enough. He could never stop making arrangements. He invited Kirsanov and Bazaarov to his ball, and within a few minutes he invited them a second time, taking them for brothers and calling them Kisanov. They were on their way back from the governor's, when suddenly a short man in slov national dress jumped out of a passing carriage and crying, Evgeny Vasilych, rushed up to bazaarov. Ah, it's you, Ersitnikov, remarked bazaarov, still walking along the pavement. What chance brought you here? Just fancy, quite by accident, the man replied, and returning to the carriage he waved his arm several times and shouted, Follow, follow us! My father had business here! He went on, jumping across the gutter, and so he asked me to come. I heard today you had arrived and have already been to visit you. In fact, on returning home, the friends did find there a card with the corners turned down, bearing the name Sittnikov, in French on one side, and in Slavonic characters on the other. I hope you are not coming from the governor's. It's no use hoping we've come straight from him. Ah, in that case I will call on him, too. Evgeny Vasilych, introduce me to the... Sittnikov Kirsanov, mumbled bazaarov without stopping. I am much honoured, began Sittnikov, stepping sideways, smirking and pulling off his over-elegant gloves. I have heard so much. I am an old acquaintance of Evgeny Vasilych, and I must say his disciple. I owe to him my regeneration. Arkady looked at bazaarov's disciple. There was an expression of excited stupidity in the small but agreeable features of his well-groomed face. His little eyes, which looked permanently surprised, had a staring uneasy look. His laugh, too, was uneasy, an abrupt, wooden laugh. Would you believe it, he continued, when Evgeny Vasilych for the first time said before me that we should acknowledge no authorities, I felt such enthusiasm my eyes were opened. By the way, Evgeny Vasilych, you simply must get to know a lady here who is really capable of understanding you, and for whom your visit would be a real treat. You may have heard of her? Who is it? grunted bazaarov unwillingly. She's a remarkable nature, emancipé, in the true sense of the word, an advanced woman. Do you know what? Let us all go and visit her now. She lives only two steps from here. We will have lunch there. I suppose you have not lunched yet? No, not yet. Well, that's splendid. She is separated, you understand, from her husband. She is not dependent on anyone. Is she pretty? bazaarov broken. No, one couldn't say that. Then what the devil are you asking us to see her for? Ha! you must have your joke. She will give us a bottle of champagne. So that's it, the practical man shows himself at once. By the way, is your father still in the vodka business? Yes, said Sitnikov, hurriedly, and burst into a shrill laugh. Well, shall we go? You wanted to meet people, go along, said Arkady, in an undertone. And what do you say about it, Mr. Kirsanov, interposed to Sitnikov? You must come, too. We can't go without you. But how can we burst in upon her all at once? Never mind about that. Kukshina is a good sort. Will there be a bottle of champagne? asked Bazaarov. Three! cried Sitnikov. I'll answer for that. What with? My own head. Better with your father's purse. However, we'll come along. End of Chapter 12, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 of Fathers and Sons This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev Translated by Richard Hare Chapter 13 The small detached house in Moscow-style, inhabited by Evdotsia Nikitichna, or Evdotsia Kukshina, stood in one of those streets of X, which had been lately burnt down. It is well known that our Russian provincial towns are burnt down once every five years. At the door, above a visiting-card nailed on at a slant, hung a bell-handle, and in the hall the visitors were met by someone in a cap. Not quite a servant, nor quite a companion. Unmistakable signs of the progressive aspirations of the lady of the house. Sitnikov asked if Evdotsia Nikitichna was at home. Is that you, Victor? Sounded a shrill voice from the other room. Come in! The woman in the cap disappeared at once. I'm not alone, said Sitnikov, casting a sharp look at Arkady and Bazarov as he briskly pulled off his cloak, beneath which appeared something like a leather jacket. No matter, answered the voice, entre! The young men went in. The room which they entered was more like a working study than a drawing-room. Papers, letters, fat issues of Russian journals, for the most part uncut, lay thrown about on dusty tables. White cigarette ends were scattered all over the place. A lady, still young, was half lying on a leather-covered sofa. Her blonde hair was de-shelled, and she was wearing a crumpled silk dress, with heavy bracelets on her short arms and a lace kerchief over her head. She rose from the sofa, and carelessly drawing over her shoulders a velvet cape, trimmed with faded ermine. She murmured languidly, Good morning, Victor, and held out her hand to Sitnikov. Bazarov, Kirsanov, he announced abruptly, successfully imitating Bazarov's manner. So glad to meet you, answered Madame Kuchina, fixing on Bazarov her round eyes, between which appeared a forlorn little turned-up red nose. I know you, she added, and pressed his hand. Bazarov frowned. There was nothing definitely ugly in the small plain figure of the emancipated woman, but her facial expression produced an uncomfortable effect on the spectator. One felt impelled to ask her, What's the matter? Are you hungry? Or bored? Or shy? Why are you fidgeting? Both she and Sitnikov had the same nervous manner. Her movements and speech were very unconstrained, and at the same time awkward. She evidently regarded herself as a good-natured, simple creature. Yet all the time, whatever she did, it always struck one that it was not exactly what she wanted to do. Everything with her seemed, as children say, done on purpose, that is, not spontaneously or simply. Yes, yes, I know you, Bazarov! she repeated. She had the habit, peculiar to many provincial and Moscow ladies, of calling men by their bare surnames from the moment she first met them. Would you like a cigar? A cigar is all very well, interjected Sitnikov, who was already lolling in an arm-chair with his legs in the air. But give us some lunch! We're frightfully hungry, and tell them to bring us up a bottle of champagne. You cyber-right! cried Evdoksia with a laugh. When she laughed, the gum showed over her upper teeth. Isn't it true, Bazarov? He's a cyber-right. I like comfort in life, pronounced to Sitnikov gravely. But that doesn't prevent me from being a liberal. It does, though. It does, exclaimed Evdoksia, and nevertheless gave instructions to her made both about the lunch and about the champagne. What do you think about that? she added, turning to Bazarov. I'm sure you share my opinion. Well, no, retorted Bazarov. A piece of meat is better than a piece of bread, even from the point of view of chemistry. Are you studying chemistry? That's my passion. I've invented a new sort of paste. A paste? You? Yes. And do you know what it's for? To make dolls heads so that they can't break. I'm practical, also, you see. But it's not quite ready yet. I've still got to read Liebig. By the way, have you read Kislyakov's article on female labor in the Moscow news? Please read it. Of course, you're interested in the woman's question, and in the school's, too. What does your friend do? What is his name? Madame Kukshina poured out her questions one after another, with affected negligence, without waiting for the answers. Spoilt children talk like that to their nurses. My name is Arkady Nikolayevich Kirsanov, and I do nothing. Evdoksia giggled. Oh, how charming! What? Don't you smoke? Victor, you know I'm very angry with you. What for? They tell me you've begun praising George Sand, a backward woman and nothing else. How can people compare her with Emerson? She hasn't a single idea about education or physiology or anything. I'm sure she's never even heard of embryology, and in these days what can be done without that? Evdoksia actually threw up her hand. Oh, what a wonderful article Elishevich has written about it. He's a gentleman of genius. Evdoksia constantly used the word gentlemen instead of the word man. Bizarre up! Sit by me on the sofa. You don't know, perhaps, but I'm awfully afraid of you. And why, may I ask? You're a dangerous gentleman. You're such a critic. My God, how absurd! I'm talking like some provincial landowner, but I really am one. I manage my property myself, and just imagine, my bailiff, Jerofe, he's a wonderful type, just like Fenimore Cooper's Pathfinder. There's something so spontaneous about him. I've come to settle down here. It's an intolerable town, isn't it? But what is one to do? The town's like any other town, remarked Bizarre off coolly. All its interests are so petty. That's what is so dreadful. I used to spend the winters in Moscow, but now my lawful husband, Monsieur Cooction, lives there. And besides, Moscow nowadays, I don't know, it's not what it was. I'm thinking of going abroad. I almost went last year. To Paris, I suppose, said Bizarre off. To Paris and to Heidelberg. Why to Heidelberg? How can you ask? Bunsen lives there. Bizarre off could find no reply to that one. Pierre Sipoznikov, do you know him? No, I don't. Not no Pierre Sipoznikov? He's always at Lydia Kostatov's. I don't know her, either. Well, he undertook to escort me. Thank God I'm independent. I've no children. What did I say? Thank God. Never mind, though. Evdoksia rolled a cigarette between her fingers, brown with tobacco stains, put it across her tongue, licked it, and started to smoke. The maid came in with a tray. Ah, here's lunch. Will you have an aperitif first? Victor, open the bottle. That's in your line. Yes, it's in my line, mummled Sipoznikov, and again uttered a piercing convulsive laugh. Are there any pretty women here? Asked Bizarre off as he drank down a third glass. Yes, there are, answered Evdoksia. But they're also empty-headed. For instance, my friend Odintsova is nice-looking. It's a pity she's got such a reputation. Of course, that wouldn't matter, but she has no independent views, no breadth of outlook, nothing of that kind. The whole system of education wants changing. I've thought a lot about it. Our women are so badly educated. There's nothing to be done with them, interposed Sipnikov. One ought to despise them, and I do despise them utterly and completely. The possibility of feeling and expressing contempt was the most agreeable sensation to Sipnikov. He attacked women in particular, never suspecting that it would be his fate, a few months later, to cringe to his wife merely because she had been born a princess Dorodoliasov. Not one of them would be capable of understanding our conversation. Not one of them deserves to be spoken about by serious men like us. But there's no need whatsoever for them to understand our conversation, remarked Bizarre. Whom do you mean? said Evdoksia. Pretty women. What? Do you then share the ideas of Prudhon? Bizarre off drew himself up haughtily. I share no one's ideas. I have my own. Damn all authorities! shouted Sipnikov, delighted to have an opportunity of expressing himself boldly in front of the man he slavishly admired. But even Makali—Madame Kukshina was trying to say— Damn Makali! thundered Sipnikov. Are you going to stand up for those silly females? Not for silly females, no, but for the rights of women which I have sworn to defend to the last drop of my blood. Damn! but here Sipnikov stopped. But I don't deny you that, he said. No, I see you're a slavophile. No, I'm not a slavophile, though of course. No, no, no, you are a slavophile. You're a supporter of patriarchal despotism. You want to have the whip in your hand. A whip is a good thing, said Bizarre off, but we've got to the last drop of what, interrupted Evdoksia? Of Champagne, most honoured Evdoksia Nikotishna. Of Champagne, not of your blood. I can never listen calmly when women are attacked, went on Evdoksia. It's awful, awful. Instead of attacking them, you should read Michelet's book de l'amour. That something exquisite. Gentlemen, let us talk about love, added Evdoksia, letting her arm rest on the crumpled sofa cushion. A sudden silence followed. No, why should we talk of love? said Bizarre off. But you mention just now of Madame Odintsov. That was the name, I think. Who is the lady? She's charming, delightful, squeaked Sitnikov. I'll introduce you. Clever, rich, a widow. It's a pity she's not yet advanced, though. She ought to see more of our Evdoksia. I drink to your health, you sody, clink glasses. A talk, a talk, a tin tin tin. A talk, a talk, a tin tin tin. Victor, you're a rascal! The lunch was prolonged. The first bottle of champagne was followed by another, by a third, and even by a fourth. Evdoksia chattered away without drawing breath. Sitnikov seconded her. They talked a lot about whether marriage was a prejudice or a crime, whether men were born equal or not, and precisely what constitutes individuality. Finally things went so far that Evdoksia, flushed from the wine she had drunk, began tapping with her flat fingertips on a discordant piano, and singing in a husky voice, first gypsy songs, then Seymour Schiff's song Granada lie slumbering, while Sitnikov tied a scarf round his head and represented the dying lover at the words, and thy lips to mine in burning kiss and twine. Arkady could stand no more. Gentlemen, this is approaching bedlam, he remarked aloud. Bazarov, who at rare intervals had thrown a sarcastic word or two into the conversation, he paid more attention to the champagne. Yon, loudly, rose to his feet, and without taking leave of their hostess, he walked off with Arkady. Sitnikov jumped up and followed them. Well, what do you think of her? He asked, hopping obsequiously from one side to another. As I told you, a remarkable personality. If only we had more women like that. She is, in her own way, a highly moral phenomenon. And is that establishment of your father's also a moral phenomenon? muttered Bazarov, pointing to a vodka shop which they were passing at that moment. Sitnikov again gave vent to his shrill laugh. He was much ashamed of his origin, and hardly knew whether to feel flattered or offended by Bazarov's unexpected familiarity. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 14 of Fathers and Sons This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Fathers and Sons by Ivan Tergenyev Translated by Richard Hare Chapter 14 Two days later the Governor's Ball took place. Matva Ilyich was the real hero of the occasion. The Marshal of Nobility announced to Al and Sundry that he had come only out of respect for him, while the Governor, even at the Ball, and even while he was standing still, continued to make arrangements. The amiability of Matva Ilyich's manner was equaled only by his dignity. He behaved graciously to everyone, to some with a shade of disgust, to others with a shade of respect. He was gallant. Au vais chevalier français, to all the ladies, and was continually bursting into hearty, resounding laughter in which no one else joined, as befits a high official. He slapped Arkady on the back and called him Nephew loudly, bestowed on Bazarov, who was dressed in a shabby frock coat, an absent-minded but indulgent side-long glance, and an indistinct but affable grunt in which the words eye and very were vaguely distinguishable, held out a finger to Sitnikov, and smiled at him, though his head had already turned round to greet someone else. Even to Madame Cuxina, who appeared at the Ball without a crinole line, wearing dirty gloves and a bird of paradise in her hair, he said, enchante. There were crowds of people and plenty of men dancers. Most of the civilians stood in rows along the walls, but the officers danced assiduously, especially one who had spent six weeks in Paris, where he had mastered several daring exclamations such as zout, offitre, pst, pst, mon bibi, and so on. He pronounced them perfectly, with real genuine Parisian chic, and at the same time he said, si j'aurai, instead of si j'aurai, and absolutement, in the sense of absolutely, expressed himself, in fact, in that great Rousseau French jargon, which the French laugh at when they have no reason to assure us that we speak French-like angels, comme des anges. Arkady danced badly, as we already know, and Bazarov did not dance at all. They both took up their position in a corner where Sitnikov joined them. With an expression of contemptuous mockery on his face, he turned one spiteful remark after another, looked insolently around him, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Suddenly his face changed, and turning to Arkady, he said in a rather embarrassed tone, Odintsova has arrived. Arkady looked round and saw a tall woman in a black dress standing near the door. He was struck by her dignified bearing. Her bare arms lay gracefully across her slim waist. Light sprays of fuchsia hung from her shining hair over her sloping shoulders. Her clear eyes looked out from under a prominent white forehead. Their expression was calm and intelligent. Calm but not pensive. And her lips showed a scarcely perceptible smile. A sort of affectionate and gentle strength emanated from her face. Do you know her? Arkady asked Sitnikov. Very well. Would you like me to introduce you? Please, after this quadril. Bazarov also noticed Madame Odintsova. What a striking figure, he said. She's not like the other females. When the quadril was over, Sitnikov led Arkady over to Madame Odintsova. But he hardly seemed to know her at all, and stumbled over his words, while she looked at him in some surprise. But she looked pleased when she heard Arkady's family name, and she asked him whether he was not the son of Nikolai Petrovich. Yes. I have seen your father twice and heard a lot about him, she went on. I am very glad to meet you. At this moment some adjutant rushed up to her and asked her for a quadril. She accepted. Do you dance, then? asked Arkady respectfully. Yes, and why should you suppose I don't dance? Do you think I'm too old? Please, how could I possibly? But in that case, may I ask you for a Mazurka? Madame Odintsova smiled graciously. Certainly, she said, and looked at Arkady, not exactly patronizingly, but in the way married sisters look at very young brothers. She was, in fact, not much older than Arkady. She was twenty-nine. But in her presence he felt like a schoolboy, so that the difference in their ages seemed to matter much more. Matva Ilyich came up to her in a majestic manner and started to pay her compliments. Arkady moved aside, but he still watched her. He could not take his eyes off her even during the quadril. She talked to her partner as easily as she had to the grand official, slightly turning her head and eyes, and once or twice she laughed softly. Her nose, like most Russian noses, was rather thick, and her complexion was not translucently clear. Nevertheless Arkady decided that he had never before met such a fascinating woman. The sound of her voice clung to his ears. The very folds of her dress seemed to fall differently, more gracefully and amply than on other women, and her movements were wonderfully flowing and at the same time natural. Arkady was overcome by shyness when, at the first sounds of the Mazurka, he took a seat beside his partner. He wanted to talk to her, but he only passed his hand through his hair and could not find a single word to say. But his shyness and agitation soon passed. Madame Odintsov's tranquillity communicated itself to him. Within a quarter of an hour he was telling her freely about his father, his uncle, his life in Petersburg, and in the country. Madame Odintsov listened to him with courteous sympathy, slowly opening and closing her fan. The conversation was broken off when her partners claimed her. Sitnikov, among others, asked her to dance twice. She came back, sat down again, took up her fan, and did not even breathe more rapidly, while Arkady started talking again, penetrated through and through by the happiness of being near her, talking to her, looking at her eyes, her lovely forehead, and her whole charming dignified and intelligent face. She said little, but her words showed an understanding of life. Judging by some of her remarks, Arkady came to the conclusion that this young woman had already experienced and thought a great deal. Who is that you were standing with? she asked him, when Mr. Sitnikov brought you over to me. So you noticed him? asked Arkady in his turn. He has a wonderful face, hasn't he? That's my friend, Bazarov. Arkady went on to discuss his friend. He spoke of him in such detail and with so much enthusiasm that Madame Odintsov turned round and looked at him attentively. Meanwhile, the Mazurka was drawing to a close. Arkady was sorry to leave his partner. He had spent almost an hour with her, so happily. Certainly he had felt the whole time, as though she were showing indulgence to him, as though he ought to be grateful to her. But young hearts are not weighed down by that feeling. The music stopped. Merci, murmured Madame Odintsov, rising. You promised to pay me a visit. Bring your friend with you. I am very curious to meet a man who has the courage to believe in nothing. The Governor came up to Madame Odintsov, announced that supper was ready, and with a worried look offered her his arm. As she went out, she turned to smile once more at Arkady. He bowed low, followed her with his eyes. How graceful her figure seemed to him! How radiant in the sober luster of the black silk fold! And he was conscious of some kind of refreshing humility of soul, as he thought. This very minute she has forgotten my existence. Well, Bazarov asked Arkady as soon as he had returned to the corner. Did you have a good time? A man has just told me that your lady is— oh, never mind what—but the fellow is probably a fool. What do you think? Is she? I don't understand what you mean, said Arkady. My goodness, what innocence! In that case, I don't understand the man you quote. Madame Odintsov is very charming, but she is so cold and reserved that— Still waters run deep, you know, interposed Bazarov. You say she is cold. That just adds to the flavor. You like ices, I expect? Perhaps, muttered Arkady. I can't express any opinion about that. She wants to meet you and ask me to bring you over to visit her. I can imagine how you described me. Never mind, you did well. Take me along. Whoever she may be, whether she's just a provincial climber or an emancipated woman like Kwakshina. Anyhow, she's got a pair of shoulders the like of which I haven't seen for a long time. Arkady was hurt by Bazarov's cynicism, but, as often happens, he did not blame his friend for those particular things which he disliked in him. Why do you disagree with free thought for women, he asked in a low voice? Because, my lad, as far as I can see free thinking women are all monsters. The conversation was cut short at this point. Both young men left immediately after supper. They were pursued by a nervously angry but faint-hearted laugh from Madame Kwakshina, whose vanity had been deeply wounded by the fact that neither of them had paid the slightest attention to her. She stayed later than anyone else at the ball, and at four o'clock in the morning she was dancing a polka mazurka in Parisian style with Sitnikov. The Governor's Ball culminated in this edifying spectacle. End of Chapter 14, recording by Roger Maline Chapter 15 of Fathers and Sons This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev Translated by Richard Hare Chapter 15 We'll soon see to what species of mammal this specimen belongs, Bazarov said to Arkady the following day as they modded the staircase of the hotel where Madame Odintsov was staying. I can smell something wrong here. I'm surprised at you, cried Arkady. What, you of all people, Bazarov, clinging to that narrow morality which— What a funny fellow you are, said Bazarov carelessly, cutting him short. Don't you know that in my dialect, and for my purpose, something wrong means something right? That's just my advantage. Didn't you tell me yourself this morning that she made a strange marriage, though, to my mind, to marry a rich old man is far from a strange thing to do, but, on the contrary, sensible enough? I don't believe the gossip of the town, but I should like to think, as our enlightened Governor says, that it's just. Arkady made no answer and knocked at the door of the apartment. A young servant in livery ushered the two friends into a large room, furnished in bad taste, like all Russian hotel rooms, but filled with flowers. Madame Odintsov soon appeared in a simple morning dress. In the light of the spring sunshine she looked even younger than before. Arkady introduced Bazarov and noticed with concealed astonishment that he seemed embarrassed. While Madame Odintsov remained perfectly calm, as she had been on the previous day, Bazarov was himself conscious of feeling embarrassed and was annoyed about it. What an idea! Frightened of a female, he thought, and lolling in an armchair, quite like Sitnikov, he began to talk in an exaggeratedly casual manner, while Madame Odintsov kept her clear eyes fixed on him. Anna Sergeyevna Odintsova was the daughter of Sergei Nikolaevich Loktev, notorious for his personal beauty, speculations, and gambling, who, after fifteen years of a stormy and sensational life in Petersburg and Moscow, ended by ruining himself completely at cards and was obliged to retire to the country, where soon afterwards he died, leaving a very small property to his two daughters. Anna, a girl of twenty at that time, and Katya, a child of twelve. Their mother, who belonged to an impoverished princely family, had died in Petersburg while her husband was still in his heyday. Anna's position after her father's death was a very difficult one. The brilliant education which she had received in Petersburg had not fitted her for the cares of domestic and household economy, nor for an obscure life buried in the country. She knew no one in the whole neighborhood, and there was no one she could consult. Her father had tried to avoid all contact with his neighbors. He despised them in his way, and they despised him in theirs. However, she did not lose her head, and promptly sent for a sister of her mother's, Princess of Dotya Stepanovna, ex. A spiteful, arrogant old lady, who, uninstilling herself in her niece's house, appropriated the best rooms for herself, grumbled and scolded from morning till night, and refused to walk a step, even in the garden, without being attended by her one and only serf, a surly footman in a threadbare pea-green livery with light blue trimming and a three-cornered hat. Anna, patiently put up with all her aunt's caprices, gradually set to work on her sister's education, and it seemed was already reconciled to the idea of fading away in the wilderness. But fate had decreed otherwise. She happened to be seen by a certain Odintsov, a wealthy man of 46, an eccentric hypochondriac, swollen, heavy in sour, but not stupid and quite good-natured. He fell in love with her and proposed marriage. She agreed to become his wife, and they lived together for six years. Then he died, leaving her all his property. For nearly a year after his death, Anna Sergeyevna remained in the country. Then she went abroad with her sister, but stayed only in Germany. She soon grew tired of it and came back to live at her beloved Nikolsko, nearly thirty miles from the town of Ex. Her house was magnificent, luxuriously furnished, and had a beautiful garden with conservatories. Her late husband had spared no expense to gratify his wishes. Anna Sergeyevna rarely visited the town and as a rule only on business. Even then she did not stay long. She was not popular in the province. There had been a fearful outcry when she married Odintsov. All sorts of slanderous stories were invented about her. It was asserted that she had helped her father in his gambling escapades, and even that she had gone abroad for a special reason to conceal some unfortunate consequences. You understand, the indignant gossips would conclude. She has been through fire and water, they said of her, to which a noted provincial wit added, and through the brass instruments. All this talk reached her, but she turned a deaf ear to it. She had an independent and sufficiently determined character. Madame Odintsov sat leaning back in her armchair, her hands folded, and listened to Bazarov. Contrary to his habit, he was talking a lot and was obviously trying to interest her, which also surprised Arkady. He could not be sure whether Bazarov had achieved his object, for it was difficult to learn from Anna Sergeyevna's face what impression was being made on her. It retained the same gracious refined look. Her bright eyes shone with attention, but it was an unruffled attention. During the first minutes of the visit Bazarov's awkward manners had impressed her disagreeably, like a bad smell or a discordant sound. But she saw at once that he was nervous and that flattered her. Only the commonplace was repulsive to her, and no one would have accused Bazarov of being commonplace. Arkady had several surprises in store for him that day. He had expected that Bazarov would talk to an intelligent woman like Madame Odintsov about his convictions and views. She herself had expressed a desire to hear the man who dares to believe in nothing. But instead of that Bazarov talked about medicine, about homeopathy, and about botany. It turned out that Madame Odintsov had not wasted her time in solitude. She had read a number of good books and herself spoke an excellent Russian. She turned the conversation to music, but observing that Bazarov had no appreciation of art, quietly turned it back to botany, although Arkady was just launching out on a discourse about the significance of national melodies. Madame Odintsov continued to treat him as though he were a younger brother. She seemed to appreciate his good nature and youthful simplicity, and that was all. A lively conversation went on for over three hours, ranging freely over a variety of subjects. At last the friends got up and began to take their leave. Anna Sergeyevna looked at them kindly, held out her beautiful white hand to each, in turn, and after a moment's thought said with a diffident but delightful smile, if you are not afraid of being bored, gentlemen, come and see me at Nikolsko. Oh, Anna Sergeyevna! cried Arkady. That will be the greatest happiness for me. And you, Mr. Bazarov? Bazarov only bowed, and Arkady had yet another surprise. He noticed that his friend was blushing. Well, he said to him in the street, do you still think she's— Who can tell? Just see how frozen she is, answered Bazarov. Then, after a short pause, he added, she's a real grand duchess, a commanding sort of person. She only needs a train behind her and a crown on her head. Our grand duchesses can't talk Russian like that, observed Arkady. She is known ups and downs, my lad. She's been hard up. Anyhow, she's delightful, said Arkady. What a magnificent body, went on Bazarov. How I should like to see it on the dissecting table. Stop, for heaven's sake, Evgeny. You go too far. Well, don't get angry, you baby. I meant its first rate. We must go to stay with her. When? Well, why not the day after tomorrow? What is there to do here? Drink champagne with Kirchina? Listen to your cousin, the liberal statesman? Let's be off the day after tomorrow. By the way, my father's little place is not far from there. This Nikolsko is on the X-road, isn't it? Yes. Excellent. Why hesitate? Leave that to fools and intellectuals. I say, what a splendid body. Three days later the two friends were driving along the road to Nikolsko. The day was bright and not too hot, and the plump post-horses trotted smartly along, flicking their tied and plated tails. Arkady looked at the road, and without knowing why, he smiled. Congratulate me! exclaimed Bazarov suddenly. Today is the twenty-second of June, my saint's day. Let us see how he will watch over me. They expect me home today, he added, dropping his voice. Well, they can wait. What does it matter? End of Chapter 15, Recording by Roger Maline