baby born badewanne gebraucht

fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 1 "well, pyotr, still not in sight?" was the question asked on 20th may, 1859,by a gentleman of about forty, wearing a dusty overcoat and checked trousers, whocame out hatless into the low porch of the posting station at x. he was speaking to his servant, a chubbyyoung fellow with whitish down growing on his chin and with dim little eyes. the servant, in whom everything--theturquoise ring in his ear, the hair plastered down with grease and the politeflexibility of his movements--indicated a

man of the new improved generation, glanced condescendingly along the road andanswered, "no, sir, definitely not in sight.""not in sight?" repeated his master. "no, sir," replied the servant again. his master sighed and sat down on a littlebench. we will introduce him to the reader whilehe sits, with his feet tucked in, looking thoughtfully around. his name was nikolai petrovich kirsanov. he owned, about twelve miles from theposting station, a fine property of two

hundred serfs or, as he called it--since hehad arranged the division of his land with the peasants--a "farm" of nearly fivethousand acres. his father, a general in the army, who hadserved in 1812, a crude, almost illiterate, but good-natured type of russian, had stuckto a routine job all his life, first commanding a brigade and later a division, and lived permanently in the provinces,where by virtue of his rank he was able to play a certain part. nikolai petrovich was born in south russia,as was his elder brother pavel, of whom we shall hear more; till the age of fourteenhe was educated at home, surrounded by

cheap tutors, free-and-easy but fawning adjutants, and all the usual regimental andstaff people. his mother, a member of the kolyazinfamily, was called agatha as a girl, but as a general's wife her name was agafokleakuzminishna kirsanov; she was a domineering military lady, wore gorgeous caps and rustling silk dresses; in church she wasthe first to go up to the cross, she talked a lot in a loud voice, let her childrenkiss her hand every morning and gave them her blessing at night--in fact, she enjoyed her life and got as much out of it as shecould.

as a general's son, nikolai petrovich--though so far from brave that he had even been called a "funk"--was intended, likehis brother pavel, to enter the army; but he broke his leg on the very day he obtained a commission and after spendingtwo months in bed he never got rid of a slight limp for the rest of his life.his father gave him up as a bad job and let him go in for the civil service. he took him to petersburg as soon as he waseighteen and placed him in the university there.his brother happened at the same time to become an officer in a guards regiment.

the young men started to share a flattogether, and were kept under the remote supervision of a cousin on their mother'sside, ilya kolyazin, an important official. their father returned to his division andto his wife and only occasionally wrote to his sons on large sheets of grey paper,scrawled over in an ornate clerkly handwriting; the bottom of these sheets was adorned with a scroll enclosing the words,"pyotr kirsanov, major-general." in 1835 nikolai petrovich graduated fromthe university, and in the same year general kirsanov was put on the retiredlist after an unsuccessful review, and came with his wife to live in petersburg.

he was about to take a house in thetavrichesky gardens, and had joined the english club, when he suddenly died of anapoplectic fit. agafoklea kuzminishna soon followed him tothe grave; she could not adapt herself to a dull life in the capital and was consumedby the boredom of retirement from regimental existence. meanwhile nikolai petrovich, during hisparents' lifetime and much to their distress, had managed to fall in love withthe daughter of his landlord, a petty official called prepolovensky. she was an attractive and, as they call it,well-educated girl; she used to read the

serious articles in the science column ofthe newspapers. he married her as soon as the period ofmourning for his parents was over, and leaving the civil service, where his fatherhad secured him a post through patronage, he started to live very happily with his masha, first in a country villa near theforestry institute, afterwards in petersburg in a pretty little flat with aclean staircase and a draughty drawing room, and finally in the country where he settled down and where in due course hisson, arkady, was born. husband and wife lived well and peacefully;they were hardly ever separated, they read

together, they sang and played duetstogether on the piano, she grew flowers and looked after the poultry yard, he busied himself with the estate and sometimeshunted, while arkady went on growing in the same happy and peaceful way.ten years passed like a dream. then in 1847 kirsanov's wife died. he hardly survived this blow and his hairturned grey in a few weeks; he was preparing to travel abroad, if possible todistract his thoughts...but then came the year 1848. he returned unwillingly to the country andafter a rather long penod of inactivity he

began to take an interest in improving hisestate. in 1855 he brought his son to theuniversity and spent three winters in petersburg with him, hardly going outanywhere and trying to make acquaintance with arkady's young comrades. the last winter he was unable to go, andhere we see him in may, 1859, already entirely grey-haired, plump and ratherbent, waiting for his son, who had just taken his university degree, as once he hadtaken it himself. the servant, from a feeling of propriety,and perhaps also because he was anxious to escape from his master's eye, had gone overto the gate and was smoking a pipe.

nikolai petrovich bowed his head and beganto stare at the crumbling steps; a big mottled hen walked sedately towards him,treading firmly with its thick yellow legs; a dirty cat cast a disapproving look at him, as she twisted herself coyly round therailing. the sun was scorching; a smell of hot ryebread was wafted from the dim entrance of the posting station. nikolai petrovich started musing."my son...a graduate...arkasha..." kept on turning round in his mind; he triedto think of something else, but the same thoughts returned.

he remembered his dead wife."she did not live to see it," he murmured sadly. a plump blue pigeon flew on to the road andhurriedly started to drink water from a puddle near the well. nikolai petrovich began to watch it, buthis ear had already caught the sound of approaching wheels... "it sounds as if they're coming, sir,"announced the servant, emerging from the gateway.nikolai petrovich jumped up and fixed his eyes on the road.

a carriage appeared with three postinghorses abreast; inside it he caught a glimpse of the band of a student's cap andthe familiar outline of a dear face... "arkasha! arkasha!" cried kirsanov, and he ran outinto the road, waving his arms...a few moments later his lips were pressed to thebeardless dusty sunburnt cheek of the young graduate. > fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 2 "let me shake myself first, daddy," saidarkady, in a voice rather tired from

traveling but boyish and resonant, as heresponded gaily to his father's greetings; "i'm covering you with dust." "never mind, never mind," repeated nikolaipetrovich, smiling tenderly, and struck the collar of his son's cloak and his owngreatcoat with his hand. "let me have a look at you; just showyourself," he added, moving back from him, and then hurried away towards the stationyard, calling out, "this way, this way, bring the horses along at once. nikolai petrovich seemed much more excitedthan his son; he was really rather confused and shy.arkady stopped him.

"daddy," he said, "let me introduce you tomy great friend, bazarov, about whom i wrote to you so often.he has kindly agreed to come to stay with us." nikolai petrovich turned round quickly andgoing up to a tall man in a long, loose rough coat with tassels, who had justclimbed out of the carriage, he warmly pressed the ungloved red hand which thelatter did not at once hold out to him. "i am delighted," he began, "and gratefulfor your kind intention to visit us; i hope--please tell me your name andpatronymic." "evgeny vassilyev," answered bazarov in alazy but manly voice, and turning back the

collar of his rough overcoat he showed hiswhole face. it was long and thin with a broad forehead,a nose flat at the base and sharper at the end, large greenish eyes and sand-colored,drooping side whiskers; it was enlivened by a calm smile and looked self-confident andintelligent. "i hope, my dear evgeny vassilich, that youwon't be bored staying with us," continued nikolai petrovich. bazarov's thin lips moved slightly, but hemade no answer and merely took off his cap. his fair hair, long and thick, did not hidethe prominent bumps on his broad skull. "well, arkady," nikolai petrovich beganagain, turning to his son, "would you

rather have the horses brought round atonce or would you like to rest?" "we'll rest at home, daddy; tell them toharness the horses." "at once, at once," his father exclaimed."hey, pyotr, do you hear? get a move on, my boy." pyotr, who as a perfectly modern servanthad not kissed his master's hand but only bowed to him from a distance, vanishedagain through the gates. "i came here with the carriage, but thereare three horses for your tarantass also," said nikolai petrovich fussily, whilearkady drank some water from an iron bucket brought to him by the woman in charge of

the station, and bazarov began smoking apipe and went up to the driver, who was unharnessing the horses."there are only two seats in the carriage, and i don't know how your friend..." "he will go in the tarantass," interruptedarkady in an undertone. "don't stand on ceremony with him, please.he's a splendid fellow, so simple--you will see." nikolai petrovich's coachman brought thehorses round. "well, make haste, bushy beard!" saidbazarov, addressing the driver. "do you hear, mitya," chipped in anotherdriver, standing with his hands behind him

thrust into the slits of his sheepskincoat, "what the gentleman just called you? that's just what you are--a bushy beard." mitya only jerked his hat and pulled thereins off the steaming horses. "hurry up, lads, lend a hand!" criednikolai petrovich. "there'll be something to drink our healthwith!" in a few minutes the horses were harnessed;father and son took their places in the carriage: pyotr climbed on to the box;bazarov jumped into the tarantass, leaned his head back against the leather cushion--and both vehicles rolled away. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 3

"so here you are, a graduate at last--andhome again," said nikolai petrovich, touching arkady now on the shoulder, now onthe knee. "at last!" "and how is uncle? is he well?" asked arkady, who in spite ofthe genuine, almost childish joy which filled him, wanted as soon as possible toturn the conversation from an emotional to a more commonplace level. "quite well.he wanted to come with me to meet you, but for some reason he changed his mind.""and did you have a long wait for me?"

asked arkady. "oh, about five hours.""you dear old daddy!" arkady turned round briskly to his fatherand gave him a resounding kiss on the cheek. nikolai petrovich laughed quietly."i've got a splendid horse for you," he began."you will see for yourself. and your room has been freshly papered." "and is there a room ready for bazarov?""we will find one all right." "please, daddy, be kind to him.i can't tell you how much i value his

friendship." "you met him only recently?""quite recently." "that's how i didn't see him last winter.what is he studying?" "his chief subject is--natural science. but he knows everything.next year he wants to take his doctor's degree.""ah! he's in the medical faculty," remarked nikolai petrovich, and fell silent. "pyotr," he went on, stretching out hishand, "aren't those our peasants driving along?"pyotr looked aside to where his master was

pointing. a few carts, drawn by unbridled horses,were rolling rapidly along a narrow side- track.in each cart were seated one or two peasants in unbuttoned sheepskin coats. "just so, sir," replied pyotr."where are they going--to the town?" "to the town, i suppose--to the pub," pyotradded contemptuously, and half turned towards the coachman as if including him inthe reproach. but the latter did not turn a hair; he wasa man of the old type and did not share the latest views of the younger generation.

"the peasants have given me a lot oftrouble this year," went on nikolai petrovich, turning to his son."they won't pay their rent. what is one to do?" "and are you satisfied with your hiredlaborers?" "yes," said nikolai petrovich between histeeth. "but they're being set against me, that'sthe worst of it, and they don't really work properly; they spoil the tools.however, they've managed to plough the land. we shall manage somehow--there will beenough flour to go round.

are you starting to be interested inagriculture?" "what a pity you have no shade," remarkedarkady, without answering the last question. "i have had a big awning put up on thenorth side over the veranda," said nikolai petrovich; "now we can even have dinner inthe open air." "won't it be rather too like a summervilla?...but that's a minor matter. what air there is here!how wonderful it smells. really it seems to me no air in the worldis so sweetly scented as here! and the sky too..."arkady suddenly stopped, cast a quick look

behind him and did not finish his sentence. "naturally," observed nikolai petrovich,"you were born here, so everything is bound to strike you with a special----""really, daddy, it makes absolutely no difference where a person is born." "still----""no, it makes no difference at all." nikolai petrovich glanced sideways at hisson, and the carriage went on half a mile farther before their conversation wasrenewed. "i forget if i wrote to you," began nikolaipetrovich, "that your old nurse yegorovna has died.""really?

poor old woman! and is prokovich still alive?""yes, and not changed a bit. he grumbles as much as ever.indeed, you won't find many changes at maryino." "have you still the same bailiff?""well, i have made a change there. i decided it was better not to keep aroundme any freed serfs who had been house servants; at least not to entrust them withany responsible jobs." arkady glanced towards pyotr. "il est libre en effet," said nikolaipetrovich in an undertone, "but as you see,

he's only a valet.my new bailiff is a townsman--he seems fairly efficient. i pay him 250 rubles a year. but," added nikolai petrovich, rubbing hisforehead and eyebrows with his hand (which was always with him a sign ofembarrassment), "i told you just now you would find no changes at maryino,...that's not quite true...i think it my duty to tellyou in advance, though...." he hesitated for a moment and then went onin french. "a severe moralist would consider myfrankness improper, but in the first place

i can't conceal it, and then, as you know,i have always had my own particular principles about relations between fatherand son. of course you have a right to blame me. at my age...to cut a long story short,that--that girl about whom you've probably heard....""fenichka?" inquired arkady casually. nikolai petrovich blushed. "don't mention her name so loudly,please...well, yes...she lives with me now. i have installed her in the house...therewere two small rooms available. of course, all that can be altered."

"but why, daddy; what for?'"your friend will be staying with us...it will be awkward.""please don't worry about bazarov. he's above all that." "well, but you too," added nikolaipetrovich. "unfortunately the little side-wing is insuch a bad state." "for goodness' sake, daddy," interposedarkady. "you needn't apologize.are you ashamed?" "of course, i ought to be ashamed,"answered nikolai petrovich, turning redder and redder."enough of that, daddy, please don't..."

arkady smiled affectionately. "what a thing to apologize for," he thoughtto himself, and his heart was filled with a feeling of indulgent tenderness for hiskind, soft-hearted father, mixed with a sense of secret superiority. "please stop that," he repeated once more,instinctively enjoying the awareness of his own more emancipated outlook. nikolai petrovich looked at his son throughthe fingers of the hand with which he was again rubbing his forehead, and a pangseized his heart...but he immediately reproached himself for it.

"here are our own meadows at last," heremarked after a long silence. "and that is our forest over there, isn'tit?" asked arkady. "yes. but i have sold it. this year they will cut it down fortimber." "why did you sell it?""we need the money; besides, that land will be taken over by the peasants." "who don't pay their rent?""that's their affair; anyhow they will pay it some day.""it's a pity about the forest," said arkady, and began to look around him.

the country through which they were drivingcould not possibly be called picturesque. field after field stretched right up to thehorizon, now gently sloping upwards, then slanting down again; in some places woodswere visible and winding ravines, planted with low scrubby bushes, vividly reminiscent of the way in which they wererepresented on the old maps of catherine's times. they passed by little streams with hollowbanks and ponds with narrow dams, small villages with low huts under dark and oftencrumbling roofs, and crooked barns with walls woven out of dry twigs and with

gaping doorways opening on to neglectedthreshing floors; and churches, some brick- built with the stucco covering peeling offin patches, others built of wood, near crosses fallen crooked in the overgrowngraveyards. gradually arkady's heart began to sink. as if to complete the picture, the peasantswhom they met were all in rags and mounted on the most wretched-looking little horses;the willows, with their broken branches and trunks stripped of bark, stood like tattered beggars along the roadside; leanand shaggy cows, pinched with hunger, were greedily tearing up grass along theditches.

they looked as if they had just beensnatched out of the clutches of some terrifying murderous monster; and thepitiful sight of these emaciated animals in the setting of that gorgeous spring day conjured up, like a white ghost, the visionof interminable joyless winter with its storms, frosts and snows..."no," thoughtarkady, "this country is far from rich, and the people seem neither contented nor industrious; we just can't let things go onlike this; reforms are indispensable...but how are we to execute them, how should webegin?" such were arkady's thoughts...but evenwhile he was thinking, the spring regained

its sway. all around lay a sea of golden green--everything, trees, bushes and grass, vibrated and stirred in gentle waves underthe breath of the warm breeze; from every side the larks were pouring out their loud continuous trills; the plovers were callingas they glided over the low-lying meadows or noiselessly ran over the tufts of grass;the crows strutted about in the low spring corn, looking picturesquely black against its tender green; they disappeared in thealready whitening rye, only from time to time their heads peeped out from among itsmisty waves.

arkady gazed and gazed and his thoughtsgrew slowly fainter and died away...he flung off his overcoat and turned roundwith such a bright boyish look that his father hugged him once again. "we're not far away now," remarked nikolaipetrovich. "as soon as we get to the top of this hillthe house will be in sight. we shall have a fine life together,arkasha; you will help me to farm the land, if only it doesn't bore you.we must draw close to each other now and get to know each other better, mustn't we?" "of course," murmured arkady."but what a wonderful day it is!"

"to welcome you home, my dear one.yes, this is spring in all its glory. though i agree with pushkin--do youremember, in evgeny onegin, "'to me how sad your coming is, spring,spring, sweet time of love! what----'" "arkady," shouted bazarov's voice from thetarantass, "give me a match. i've got nothing to light my pipe with." nikolai petrovich fell silent, whilearkady, who had been listening to him with some surprise but not without sympathy,hurriedly pulled a silver matchbox out of his pocket and told pyotr to take it overto bazarov.

"do you want a cigar?" shouted bazarovagain. "thanks," answered arkady. pyotr came back to the carriage and handedhim, together with the matchbox, a thick black cigar, which arkady started to smokeat once, spreading around him such a strong and acrid smell of cheap tobacco that nikolai petrovich, who had never been asmoker, was forced to turn away his head, which he did unobtrusively, to avoidhurting his son's feelings. a quarter of an hour later both carriagesdrew up in front of the porch of a new wooden house, painted grey, with a red ironroof.

this was maryino, also known as new hamlet,or as the peasants had nicknamed it, landless farm. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 4 no crowd of house servants ran out to meettheir master; there appeared only a little twelve-year-old girl, and behind her ayoung lad, very like pyotr, came out of the house; he was dressed in a grey livery with white armorial buttons and was the servantof pavel petrovich kirsanov. he silently opened the carriage door andunbuttoned the apron of the tarantass. nikolai petrovich with his son and bazarovwalked through a dark and almost empty

hall, through the door of which they caughta glimpse of a young woman's face, and into a drawing room furnished in the most modernstyle. "well, here we are at home," said nikolaipetrovich, removing his cap and shaking back his hair. "now the main thing is to have supper andthen to rest." "it wouldn't be a bad thing to have a meal,certainly," said bazarov, stretching himself, and he sank on to a sofa. "yes, yes, let us have supper at once,"exclaimed nikolai petrovich, and for no apparent reason stamped his foot."ah, here comes prokovich, just at the

right moment." a man of sixty entered, white-haired, thinand swarthy, dressed in a brown coat with brass buttons and a pink neckerchief. he grinned, went up to kiss arkady's hand,and after bowing to the guest, retreated to the door and put his hands behind his back. "here he is, prokovich," began nikolaipetrovich; "at last he has come back to us...well?how do you find him?" "as well as could be," said the old man,and grinned again. then he quickly knitted his bushy eyebrows."do you want supper served?" he asked

solemnly. "yes, yes, please.but don't you want to go to your room first, evgeny vassilich?""no, thanks. there's no need. only tell them to carry my little trunk inthere and this garment, too," he added, taking off his loose overcoat."certainly. prokovich, take the gentleman's coat." (prokovich, with a puzzled look, picked upbazarov's "garment" with both hands, and holding it high above his head went out ontiptoe.)

"and you, arkady, are you going to yourroom for a moment?" "yes, i must wash," answered arkady, andwas just moving towards the door when at that moment there entered the drawing rooma man of medium height, dressed in a dark english suit, a fashionable low cravat and patent leather shoes, pavel petrovichkirsanov. he looked about forty-five; his closelycropped grey hair shone with a dark luster like unpolished silver; his ivory-coloredface, without wrinkles, had exceptionally regular and clear features, as though carved by a sharp and delicate chisel, andshowed traces of outstanding beauty;

particularly fine were his shining, darkalmond-shaped eyes. the whole figure of arkady's uncle,graceful and aristocratic, had preserved the flexibility of youth and that air ofstriving upwards, away from the earth, which usually disappears when people areover thirty. pavel petrovich drew from his trouserpocket his beautiful hand with its long pink nails, a hand which looked even morebeautiful against the snowy white cuff buttoned with a single large opal, andstretched it out to his nephew. after a preliminary european hand shake, hekissed him three times in the russian style; in fact he touched his cheek threetimes with his perfumed mustache, and said,

"welcome!" nikolai petrovich introduced him tobazarov; pavel petrovich responded with a slight inclination of his supple body and aslight smile, but he did not give him his hand and even put it back in his pocket. "i began to think that you weren't comingtoday," he began in a pleasant voice, with an amiable swing and shrug of theshoulders; his smile showed his splendid white teeth. "did anything go wrong on the road?""nothing went wrong," answered arkady. "only we dawdled a bit.so now we're as hungry as wolves.

make prokovich hurry up, daddy; i'll beback in a moment." "wait, i'm coming with you," exclaimedbazarov, suddenly pulling himself off the sofa. both the young men went out."who is he?" asked pavel petrovich. "a friend of arkasha's; according to him avery clever young man." "is he going to stay with us?" "yes.""that unkempt creature!" "well, yes."pavel petrovich drummed on the table with his finger tips.

"i fancy arkady s'est d gourdi," heobserved. "i'm glad he has come back."at supper there was little conversation. bazarov uttered hardly a word, but ate alot. nikolai petrovich told various anecdotesabout what he called his farming career, talked about the forthcoming governmentmeasures, about committees, deputations, the need to introduce new machinery, etc. pavel petrovich paced slowly up and downthe dining room (he never ate supper), occasionally sipping from a glass of redwine and less often uttering some remark or rather exclamation, such as "ah! aha! hm!"

arkady spoke about the latest news frompetersburg, but he was conscious of being a bit awkward, with that awkwardness whichusually overcomes a youth when he has just stopped being a child and has come back to a place where they are accustomed to regardand treat him as a child. he made his sentences quite unnecessarilylong, avoided the word "daddy," and even sometimes replaced it by the word "father,"mumbled between his teeth; with exaggerated carelessness he poured into his glass far more wine than he really wanted and drankit all. prokovich did not take his eyes off him andkept on chewing his lips.

after supper they all separated at once. "your uncle's a queer fellow," bazarov saidto arkady, as he sat in his dressing gown by the bed, smoking a short pipe."all that smart dandyism in the country. just think of it! and his nails, his nails--they ought to besent to an exhibition!" "why, of course you don't know," repliedarkady; "he was a great figure in his day. i'll tell you his story sometime. he was extremely handsome, and used to turnall the women's heads." "oh, that's it!so he keeps it up for the sake of old

what a pity there's no one for him tofascinate here! i kept on looking at his astonishingcollar, just like marble--and his chin, so meticulously shaved. come, come, arkady, isn't it ridiculous?""perhaps it is, but he's a good man really.""an archaic survival! but your father is a splendid fellow. he wastes his time reading poetry and knowsprecious little about farming, but he's kindhearted.""my father has a heart of gold." "did you notice how shy he was?"

arkady shook his head, as if he were notshy himself. "it's something astonishing," went onbazarov, "these old romantic idealists! they go on developing their nervous systemstill they get highly strung and irritable, then they lose their balance completely.well, good night. in my room there's an english washstand,but the door won't fasten. anyhow, that ought to be encouraged--english washstands--they stand for progress!" bazarov went out, and a sense of peacefulhappiness stole over arkady. it was sweet to fall asleep in one's ownhome, in the familiar bed, under the quilt

which had been worked by loving hands,perhaps the hands of his old nurse, those gentle, good and tireless hands. arkady remembered yegorovna, and sighed andwished, "god rest her soul"...for himself he said no prayer. both he and bazarov soon fell asleep, butothers in the house remained awake much longer.nikolai petrovich was agitated by his son's return. he lay in bed but did not put out thecandles, and propping his head in his hands he went on thinking.

his brother was sitting till long aftermidnight in his study, in a wide armchair in front of the fireplace, in which someembers glowed faintly. pavel petrovich had not undressed, but somered chinese slippers had replaced his patent leather shoes. he held in his hand the last number ofgalignani, but he was not reading it; he gazed fixedly into the fireplace, where abluish flame flickered, dying down and flaring up again at intervals...god knows where his thoughts were wandering, but theywere not wandering only in the past; his face had a stern and concentratedexpression, unlike that of a man who is

solely absorbed in his memories. and in a little back room, on a largechest, sat a young woman in a blue jacket with a white kerchief thrown over her darkhair; this was fenichka; she was now listening, now dozing, now looking across towards the open door, through which achild's bed was visible and the regular breathing of a sleeping infant could beheard. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 5 the next morning bazarov woke up earlierthan anyone else and went out of the house. "ugh!" he thought, "this isn't much of aplace!"

when nikolai petrovich had divided hisestate with his peasants, he had to set aside for his new manor house four acres ofentirely flat and barren land. he had built a house, offices and farmbuildings, laid out a garden, dug a pond and sunk two wells; but the young trees hadnot flourished, very little water had collected in the pond, and the well waterhad a brackish taste. only one arbor of lilac and acacia hadgrown up properly; the family sometimes drank tea or dined there. in a few minutes bazarov had explored allthe little paths in the garden; he went into the cattle yard and the stables,discovered two farm boys with whom he made

friends at once, and went off with them to a small swamp about a mile from the housein order to search for frogs. "what do you want frogs for, sir?" askedone of the boys. "i'll tell you what for," answered bazarov,who had a special capacity for winning the confidence of lower-class people, though henever cringed to them and indeed treated them casually; "i shall cut the frog open to see what goes on inside him, and then,as you and i are much the same as frogs except that we walk on legs, i shall learnwhat is going on inside us as well." "and why do you want to know that?"

"in order not to make a mistake if you'retaken ill and i have to cure you." "are you a doctor, then?""yes." "vaska, did you hear that? the gentleman says that you and i are justlike frogs; that's queer." "i'm frightened of frogs," remarked vaska,a boy of seven with flaxen hair and bare feet, dressed in a grey smock with a highcollar. "what are you frightened of? do they bite?""there, paddle along into the water, you philosophers," said bazarov.

meanwhile nikolai petrovich had alsoawakened and had gone to see arkady, whom he found dressed. father and son went out on to the terraceunder the shelter of the awning; the samovar was already boiling on the tablenear the balustrade among great bunches of lilac. a little girl appeared, the same one whohad first met them on their arrival the evening before. in a shrill voice she said, "fedosyanikolayevna is not very well and she can't come; she told me to ask you, will you pourout tea yourself or should she send

dunyasha?" "i'll pour myself, of course," interposednikolai petrovich hurriedly. "arkady, how do you like your tea, withcream or with lemon?" "with cream," answered arkady, then after abrief pause he muttered questioningly, "daddy?"nikolai petrovich looked at his son with embarrassment. "well?" he said.arkady lowered his eyes. "excuse me, daddy, if my question seems toyou indiscreet," he began; "but you yourself by your frank talk yesterdayencouraged me to be frank...you won't be

angry?" "go on.""you make me bold enough to ask you, isn't the reason why fen...isn't it only becausei'm here that she won't come to pour out tea?" nikolai petrovich turned slightly aside."perhaps," he at length answered, "she supposes...she feels ashamed."arkady glanced quickly at his father. "she has no reason to feel ashamed. in the first place, you know my point ofview," (arkady much enjoyed pronouncing these words) "and secondly, how could iwant to interfere in the smallest way with

your life and habits? besides, i'm sure you couldn't make a badchoice; if you allow her to live under the same roof with you, she must be worthy ofit; in any case, it's not for a son to judge his father--particularly for me, and with such a father, who has always let medo everything i wanted." arkady's voice trembled to start with; hefelt he was being magnanimous and realized at the same time that he was deliveringsomething like a lecture to his father; but the sound of his own voice has a powerful effect on any man, and arkady pronouncedthe last words firmly and even

emphatically. "thank you, arkasha," said nikolaipetrovich thickly, and his fingers again passed over his eyebrows."what you suppose is in fact quite true. of course if this girl hadn'tdeserved...it's not just a frivolous fancy. it's awkward for me to talk to you aboutthis, but you understand that it's difficult for her to come here in yourpresence, especially on the first day of your arrival." "in that case i'll go to her myself!"exclaimed arkady, with a fresh onrush of generous excitement, and he jumped up fromhis seat.

"i will explain to her that she has no needto feel ashamed in front of me." nikolai petrovich got up also."arkady," he began, "please...how is it possible...there... i haven't told you yet..."but arkady was no longer listening to him; he had run off the terrace.nikolai petrovich gazed after him and sank into a chair overwhelmed with confusion. his heart began to throb...did he realizeat that moment the inevitable strangeness of his future relations with his son? was he aware that arkady might have shownhim more respect if he had never mentioned

that subject at all?did he reproach himself for weakness? it is hard to say. all these feelings moved within him. thoughin the state of vague sensations only, but the flush remained on his face, and hisheart beat rapidly. then came the sound of hurrying footstepsand arkady appeared on the terrace. "we have introduced ourselves, daddy!" hecried with an expression of affectionate and good-natured triumph on his face. "fedosya nikolayevna is really not verywell today, and she will come out a little later.but why didn't you tell me i have a

brother? i should have kissed him last night as ikissed him just now!" nikolai petrovich tried to say something,tried to rise and open wide his arms. arkady flung himself on his neck. "what's this?embracing again!" sounded the voice of pavel petrovich behind them. father and son were both equally glad tosee him at that moment; there are situations, however touching, from whichone nevertheless wants to escape as quickly as possible.

"why are you surprised at that?" saidnikolai petrovich gaily. "what ages i've been waiting for arkasha.i haven't had time to look at him properly since yesterday." arkady went up to his uncle and again felton his cheeks the touch of that perfumed mustache.pavel petrovich sat down at the table. he was wearing another elegant english suitwith a bright little fez on his head. that fez and the carelessly tied littlecravat suggested the freedom of country life, but the stiff collar of his shirt--not white, it is true, but striped, as is correct with morning dress--stood up as

inexorably as ever against his well-shavedchin. "where is your new friend?" he askedarkady. "he's not in the house; he usually gets upearly and goes off somewhere. the main thing is not to pay any attentionto him; he dislikes ceremony." "yes, that's obvious," pavel petrovichbegan, slowly spreading butter on his bread."is he going to stay long with us?" "possibly. he came here on his way to his father's.""and where does his father live?" "in our province, about sixty-five milesfrom here.

he has a small property there. he used to be an army doctor.""tut, tut, tut! of course.i kept on asking myself, 'where have i heard that name before, bazarov?' nikolai, don't you remember, there was asurgeon called bazarov in our father's division.""i believe there was." "exactly. so that surgeon is his father.hm!" pavel petrovich pulled his mustache."well, and monsieur bazarov, what is he?"

he asked in a leisurely tone. "what is bazarov?"arkady smiled. "would you like me to tell you, uncle, whathe really is?" "please do, nephew." "he is a nihilist!""what?" asked nikolai petrovich, while pavel petrovich lifted his knife in the airwith a small piece of butter on the tip and remained motionless. "he is a nihilist," repeated arkady."a nihilist," said nikolai petrovich. "that comes from the latin nihil, nothing,as far as i can judge; the word must mean a

man who...who recognizes nothing?" "say--who respects nothing," interposedpavel petrovich and lowered his knife with the butter on it."who regards everything from the critical point of view," said arkady. "isn't that exactly the same thing?" askedpavel petrovich. "no, it's not the same thing. a nihilist is a person who does not bowdown to any authority, who does not accept any principle on faith, however much thatprinciple may be revered." "well, and is that good?" asked pavelpetrovich.

"that depends, uncle dear.for some it is good, for others very bad." "indeed. well, i see that's not in our line.we old-fashioned people think that without principles, taken as you say on faith, onecan't take a step or even breathe. vous avez chang, tout cela; may god grantyou health and a general's rank, and we shall be content to look on and admireyour...what was the name?" "nihilists," said arkady, pronouncing verydistinctly. "yes, there used to be hegelists and nowthere are nihilists. we shall see how you will manage to existin the empty airless void; and now ring,

please, brother nikolai, it's time for meto drink my cocoa." nikolai petrovich rang the bell and called,"dunyasha!" but instead of dunyasha, fenichka herselfappeared on the terrace. she was a young woman of about twenty-threewith a soft white skin, dark hair and eyes, childishly pouting lips and plump littlehands. she wore a neat cotton dress; a new bluekerchief lay lightly over her soft shoulders. she carried a large cup of cocoa andsetting it down in front of pavel petrovich, she was overcome with confusion;the hot blood rushed in a wave of crimson

under the delicate skin of her charmingface. she lowered her eyes and stood by the tableslightly pressing it with her finger tips. she looked as if she were ashamed of havingcome in and somehow felt at the same time that she had a right to come.pavel petrovich frowned and nikolai petrovich looked embarrassed. "good morning, fenichka," he mutteredthrough his teeth. "good morning," she replied in a voice notloud but resonant, and casting a quick glance at arkady, who gave her a friendlysmile, she went quietly away. she had a slightly swaying walk, but thatalso suited her.

for some minutes silence reigned on theterrace. pavel petrovich was sipping his cocoa;suddenly he raised his head. "here is mr. nihilist coming over to visitus," he murmured. bazarov was in fact approaching through thegarden, striding over the flower beds. his linen coat and trousers werebespattered with mud; a clinging marsh plant was twined round the crown of his oldround hat, in his right hand he held a small bag in which something alive waswriggling. he walked quickly up to the terrace andsaid with a nod, "good morning, gentlemen; sorry i was late for tea; i'll join you ina moment.

i just have to put these prisoners away." "what have you there, leeches?" asked pavelpetrovich. "no, frogs.""do you eat them or keep them for breeding?" "for experiments," answered bazarovindifferently, and went into the house. "so he's going to cut them up," observedpavel petrovich; "he has no faith in principles, but he has faith in frogs." arkady looked sadly at his uncle; nikolaipetrovich almost imperceptibly shrugged his pavel petrovich himself felt that hisepigram had misfired and he began to talk

about farming and the new bailiff who hadcome to him the evening before to complain that a laborer, foma, was "debauched," andhad become unmanageable. "he's such an 'sop," he remarked. "he announces to everyone that he's aworthless fellow; he wants to have a good time and then he'll suddenly leave his jobon account of some stupidity." fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 6 bazarov came back, sat down at the tableand began to drink tea hurriedly. both brothers watched him in silence, andarkady glanced furtively from one to the other.

"did you walk far this morning?" askednikolai petrovich at last. "to where you've got a little marsh near anaspen wood. i scared away five snipe. you might shoot them, arkady.""so you're not a sportsman yourself?" "no.""isn't physics your special subject?" asked pavel petrovich in his turn. "yes, physics, and natural science ingeneral." "they say the teutons have lately had greatsuccess in that line." "yes, the germans are our teachers in it,"bazarov answered carelessly.

pavel petrovich had used the word "teutons"instead of "germans" with an ironical intention, which, however, no one noticed. "have you such a high opinion of germans?"asked pavel petrovich with exaggerated politeness.he was beginning to feel a concealed irritation. bazarov's complete nonchalance disgustedhis aristocratic nature. this surgeon's son was not only self-assured, he even answered abruptly and unwillingly and there was something coarseand almost insolent in the tone of his voice.

"their scientists are a clever lot.""ah, yes. i expect you hold a less flattering opinionabout russian scientists." "very likely." "that is very praiseworthy self-denial,"said pavel petrovich, drawing himself up and throwing back his head. "but how is it that arkady nikolaich wastelling us just now that you acknowledge no authorities?don't you even believe in them?" "why should i acknowledge them, or believein them? if they tell me the truth, i agree--that'sall."

"and do all germans tell the truth?"murmured pavel petrovich, and his face took on a distant, detached expression, as if hehad withdrawn to some misty height. "not all," answered bazarov with a shortyawn, obviously not wanting to prolong the discussion.pavel petrovich looked at arkady, as if he wanted to say, "how polite your friend is." "as far as i'm concerned," he began againwith some effort, "i plead guilty of not liking germans. there's no need to mention russian germans,we all know what sort of creatures they are.but even german germans don't appeal to me.

formerly there were a few germans here andthere; well, schiller for instance, or goethe--my brother is particularly fond ofthem--but nowadays they all seem to have turned into chemists and materialists..." "a decent chemist is twenty times moreuseful than any poet," interrupted bazarov. "oh, indeed!" remarked pavel petrovich, andas if he were falling asleep he slightly raised his eyebrows. "so you don't acknowledge art?""the art of making money or of advertising pills!" cried bazarov, with a contemptuouslaugh. "ah, just so; you like joking, i see.

so you reject all that very well.so you believe in science only?" "i have already explained to you that idon't believe in anything; and what is science--science in the abstract? there are sciences, as there are trades andprofessions, but abstract science just doesn't exist.""excellent. well, and do you maintain the same negativeattitude towards other traditions which have become generally accepted for humanconduct?" "what is this, a cross-examination?" askedbazarov. pavel petrovich turned a littlepale...nikolai petrovich felt that the

moment had come for him to intervene in theconversation. "sometime we should discuss this subjectwith you in greater detail, my dear evgeny vassilich; we will hear your views andexpress our own. i must say i'm personally very glad you arestudying natural science. i heard that liebig made some wonderfuldiscoveries about improving the soil. you can help me in my agricultural work andgive me some useful advice." "i'm at your service, nikolai petrovich,but liebig is quite above our heads. we must first learn the alphabet and onlythen begin to read, and we haven't yet grasped the a b c."

"you are a nihilist all right," thoughtnikolai petrovich, and added aloud, "all the same i hope you will let me apply toyou occasionally. and now, brother, i think it's time for usto go and have our talk with the bailiff." pavel petrovich rose from his seat. "yes," he said, without looking at anyone;"it's sad to have lived like this for five years in the country, far from mightyintellects! you turn into a fool straight away. you try not to forget what you havelearned--and then one fine day it turns out to be all rubbish, and they tell you thatexperienced people have nothing to do with

such nonsense, and that you, if you please,are an antiquated old simpleton. what's to be done?obviously young people are cleverer than we." pavel petrovich turned slowly on his heelsand went out; nikolai petrovich followed him."is he always like that?" bazarov coolly asked arkady directly thedoor had closed behind the two brothers. "i must say, evgeny, you were unnecessarilyrude to him," remarked arkady. "you hurt his feelings." "well, am i to humor them, these provincialaristocrats?

why, it's all personal vanity, smarthabits, and foppery. he should have continued his career inpetersburg if that's his turn of mind... but enough of him! i've found a rather rare specimen of waterbeetle, dytiscus marginatus--do you know it?i'll show you." "i promised to tell you his story..." beganarkady. "the story of the beetle?""come, come, evgeny--the story of my uncle. you'll see he's not the kind of man youtake him for. he deserves pity rather than ridicule.""i don't dispute, but why do you worry

about him?" "one should be just, evgeny.""how does that follow?" "no, listen..."and arkady told him his uncle's story. the reader will find it in the followingchapter. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 7 pavel petrovich kirsanov was educated firstat home, like his younger brother, and afterwards in the corps of pages. from childhood he was distinguished by hisremarkable beauty; he was self-confident, rather ironical, and had a biting sense ofhumor; he could not fail to please people.

he began to be received everywhere directlyhe had obtained his commission as an officer. he was pampered by society, and indulged inevery kind of whim and folly, but that did not make him any less attractive.women went crazy about him, men called him a fop and secretly envied him. he shared a flat with his brother, whom heloved sincerely although he was most unlike him. nikolai petrovich was rather lame, hadsmall, agreeable but somewhat melancholy features, little black eyes and soft thinhair; he enjoyed being lazy, but he also

liked reading and was shy in society. pavel petrovich did not spend a singleevening at home, prided himself on his boldness and agility (he was just bringinggymnastics into fashion among the young men of his set), and had read in all five orsix french books. at twenty-eight he was already a captain; abrilliant career lay before him. suddenly all that was changed. in those days there used to appearoccasionally in petersburg society a woman who has even now not been forgotten--princess r. she had a well-educated and respectable,but rather stupid husband, and no children.

she used suddenly to travel abroad andequally suddenly return to russia, and in general she led an eccentric life. she was reputed to be a frivolous coquette,abandoned herself keenly to every kind of pleasure, danced to exhaustion, laughed andjoked with young men whom she used to receive before dinner in a dimly lit drawing room, but at night she wept andsaid prayers, finding no peace anywhere, and often paced her room till morning,wringing her hands in anguish, or sat, pale and cold, reading a psalter. day came and she turned again into a ladyof fashion, she went about again, laughed,

chatted and literally flung herself intoany activity which could afford her the slightest distraction. she had a wonderful figure; her hair,golden in color and heavy like gold, fell below her knees, yet no one would havecalled her a beauty; the only striking feature in her whole face was her eyes--and even her eyes were grey and not large--buttheir glance was swift and deeply penetrating, carefree to the point ofaudacity and thoughtful to the verge of melancholy--an enigmatic glance. something extraordinary shone in those eyeseven when her tongue was chattering the

emptiest gossip.she dressed equisitely. pavel petrovich met her at a ball, danced amazurka with her, in the course of which she did not utter a single sensible word,and fell passionately in love with her. accustomed to making conquests, hesucceeded with her also, but his easy triumph did not damp his enthusiasm. on the contrary, he found himself in astill closer and more tormenting bondage to this woman, in whom, even when shesurrendered herself without reserve, there seemed always to remain something mysterious and unattainable, to which noone could penetrate.

what was hidden in that soul--god aloneknows! it seemed as if she were in the grip ofsome strange powers, unknown even to herself; they seemed to play with her atwill and her limited mind was not strong enough to master their caprices. her whole behavior was a maze ofinconsistencies; the only letters which could have aroused her husband's justsuspicions she wrote to a man who was almost a stranger to her, and her love had always an element of sadness; she no longerlaughed and joked with the man whom she had chosen, but listened to him and looked athim in bewilderment.

sometimes this bewilderment would changesuddenly into a cold horror; her face would take on a wild, deathlike expression andshe would lock herself up in her bedroom; her maid, putting her ear to the keyhole,could hear her smothered sobs. more than once, as he returned home after atender meeting, kirsanov felt within him that heart-rending, bitter gloom whichfollows the consciousness of total failure. "what more do i want?" he asked himself,but his heart was heavy. he once gave her a ring which had a sphinxengraved in the stone. "what is this?" she asked. "a sphinx?""yes," he answered, "and that sphinx is--

you.""me?" she asked, and slowly looked at him with her enigmatic eyes. "do you know, that is very flattering," sheadded with a meaningless smile, while her eyes still looked as strangely as before. pavel petrovich suffered even whileprincess r. loved him, but when she became cold to him, and that happened quite soon,he almost went out of his mind. he tortured himself, he was jealous, hegave her no rest but followed her everywhere.she grew sick of his persistent pursuit of her and went abroad.

he resigned from his regiment in spite ofthe entreaties of his friends and the advice of his superior officers, and hefollowed the princess abroad; four years he spent in foreign countries, at one time pursuing her, at other times trying to losesight of her; he was ashamed of himself, he was indignant at his own lack ofresolution--but nothing helped. her image--that incomprehensible, almostmeaningless, but fascinating image--was too deeply rooted in his heart. in baden he once more revived his formerrelationship with her; it seemed as though she had never before loved him sopassionately...but in a month it was all

over; the flame flared up for the last timeand then died out forever. foreseeing the inevitable separation, hewanted at least to remain her friend, as if lasting friendship with such a woman werepossible...she left baden secretly and from that time permanently avoided meetingkirsanov. he returned to russia and tried to live asbefore, but he could not adapt himself to his old routine. he wandered from place to place like onepossessed; he still went out to parties and retained the habits of a man of the world;he could boast of two or three more conquests; but he no longer expected

anything from himself or from others, andhe undertook nothing new. he grew old and grey, spending all hisevenings at the club, embittered and bored- -arguing indifferently in bachelor societybecame a necessity for him, and that was a bad sign. of course the thought of marriage nevereven occurred to him. ten years passed in this way, grey andfruitless years, but they sped by terribly quickly. nowhere does time fly as it does in russia;in prison, they say, it flies even faster. one day when he was dining at his club,pavel petrovich heard that princess r. was

dead. she had died in paris in a state borderingon insanity. he rose from the table and paced about therooms for a long time, occasionally standing motionless behind the cardplayers,but he returned home no earlier than usual. a few weeks later he received a packet onwhich his name had been written; it contained the ring which he had given tothe princess. she had drawn lines in the shape of a crossover the sphinx and sent him a message to say that the solution of the enigma was thecross. this happened at the beginning of the year1848, at the same time as nikolai petrovich

came to petersburg after the death of hiswife. pavel petrovich had hardly seen his brothersince the latter had settled in the country; nikolai petrovich's marriage hadcoincided with the very first days of pavel petrovich's acquaintance with the princess. when he returned from abroad, he went tothe country, intending to stay two months with his brother and to take pleasure inhis happiness, but he could stand it for only a week. the difference between them was too great. in 1848 this difference had diminished;nikolai petrovich had lost his wife, pavel

petrovich had abandoned his memories; afterthe death of the princess he tried not to think about her. but for nikolai there remained the feelingof a well-spent life, and his son was growing up under his eyes; pavel, on thecontrary, a lonely bachelor, was entering into that indefinite twilight period of regrets which resemble hopes and of hopeswhich are akin to regrets, when youth is over and old age has not yet started. this time was harder for pavel petrovichthan for other people, for in losing his past he lost everything he had.

"i won't ask you to come to maryino now,"nikolai petrovich said to him one day (he had called his property by that name inhonor of his wife); "you found it dull there even when my dear wife was alive, andnow, i fear, you would be bored to death." "i was stupid and fidgety then," answeredpavel petrovich. "since then i have calmed down, if notgrown wiser. now, on the contrary, if you will let me, iam ready to settle down with you for good." instead of answering, nikolai petrovichembraced him; but a year and a half elapsed after this conversation before pavelpetrovich finally decided to carry out his intention.

once he was settled in the country,however, he would not leave it, even during those three winters which nikolai spent inpetersburg with his son. he began to read, chiefly in english;indeed he organized his whole life in an english manner, rarely met his neighborsand went only out to the local elections, and then he was usually silent, though he occasionally teased and alarmed landownersof the old school by his liberal sallies, and he held himself aloof from members ofthe younger generation. both generations regarded him as "stuckup," and both respected him for his excellent aristocratic manners, for hisreputation as a lady killer, for the fact

that he was always perfectly dressed and always stayed in the best room in the besthotel; for the fact that he knew about good food and had once even dined with the dukeof wellington at louis philippe's table; for the fact that he took with him everywhere a real silver dressing case anda portable bath; for the fact that he smelt of some unusual and strikingly"distinguished" perfume; for the fact that he played whist superbly and always lost; lastly they respected him for hisincorruptible honesty. ladies found him enchantingly romantic, buthe did not cultivate the society of

ladies... "so you see, evgeny," remarked arkady, ashe finished his story, "how unjustly you judge my uncle. not to mention that he has more than oncehelped my father out of financial troubles, given him all his money--perhaps you don'tknow, the property was never divided up-- he's happy to help anyone; incidentally he is always doing something for the peasants;it is true, when he talks to them, he screws up his face and sniffs eau decologne..." "nerves, obviously," interrupted bazarov.

"perhaps, but his heart is in the rightplace. and he's far from stupid. what a lot of useful advice he has givenme...especially...especially about relations with women.""aha! if you burn your mouth with hot milk, you'll even blow on water--we know that!" "well," continued arkady, "in a word, he'sprofoundly unhappy--it's a crime to despise him.""and who is despising him?" retorted bazarov. "still, i must say that a man who hasstaked his whole life on the one card of a

woman's love, and when that card fails,turns sour and lets himself drift till he's fit for nothing, is not really a man. you say he's unhappy; you know better thani do; but he certainly hasn't got rid of all his foibles. i'm sure that he imagines he is busy anduseful because he reads galignani and once a month saves a peasant from beingflogged." "but remember his education, the age inwhich he grew up," said arkady. "education?" ejaculated bazarov. "everyone should educate himself, as i'vedone, for instance...and as for the age,

why should i depend upon it?let it rather depend on me. no, my dear fellow, that's all emptinessand loose living. and what are these mysterious relationsbetween a man and a woman? we physiologists know what they are. you study the anatomy of the eye; and wheredoes it come in, that enigmatic look you talk about?that's all romanticism, rubbish, and moldy 'sthetics. we had much better go and examine thebeetle." and the two friends went off to bazarov'sroom, which was already pervaded by a kind

of medical surgical smell, mixed with thereek of cheap tobacco. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 8 pavel petrovich did not stay long at hisbrother's interview with the bailiff, a tall, thin man with the soft voice of aconsumptive and cunning eyes, who to all nikolai petrovich's remarks answered, "indeed, certainly, sir," and tried to showup the peasants as thieves and drunkards. the estate had only just started to be runon the new system, whose mechanism still creaked like an ungreased wheel and crackedin places like homemade furniture of raw, unseasoned wood.

nikolai petrovich did not lose heart but heoften sighed and felt discouraged; he realized that things could not be improvedwithout more money, and his money was almost all spent. arkady had spoken the truth; pavelpetrovich had helped his brother more than once; several times, seeing him perplexed,racking his brains, not knowing which way to turn, pavel petrovich had moved towards the window, and with his hands thrust intohis pockets had muttered between his teeth, "mais je puis vous donner de l'argent," andgave him money; but today he had none left himself and he preferred to go away.

the petty disputes of agriculturalmanagement wearied him; besides, he could not help feeling that nikolai petrovich,with all his zeal and hard work, did not set about things in the right way, although he could not point out exactly what werehis brother's mistakes. "my brother is not practical enough," hewould say to himself; "they cheat him." on the other hand, nikolai petrovich hadthe highest opinion of pavel petrovich's practical capacity and was always askingfor his advice. "i'm a mild, weak person, i've spent mylife in the depths of the country," he used to say, "while you haven't seen so much ofthe world for nothing; you understand

people, you see through them with aneagle's eye." in answer to such words, pavel petrovichonly turned aside but did not contradict his brother. leaving nikolai petrovich in the study, hewalked along the corridor which separated the front portion of the house from theback; on reaching a low door he stopped and hesitated for a moment, then, pulling athis mustache, he knocked on it. "who is there?come in," called out fenichka's voice. "it is me," said pavel petrovich, andopened the door. fenichka jumped up from the chair on whichshe was sitting with her baby, and putting

him into the arms of a girl who at oncecarried him out of the room, she hastily straightened her kerchief. "excuse me for disturbing you," began pavelpetrovich without looking at her; "i only wanted to ask you...as they are sendinginto the town today...to see that they buy some green tea for me." "certainly," answered fenichka, "how muchtea do you want?" "oh, half a pound will be enough, i shouldthink. i see you have made some changes here," headded, casting a rapid look around and at fenichka's face."those curtains," he went on, seeing that

she did not understand him. "oh, yes, the curtains; nikolai petrovichkindly gave them to me, but they've been hung up for quite a long time.""yes, and i haven't been to see you for a long time. now it is all very nice here.""thanks to nikolai petrovich's kindness," murmured fenichka. "you are more comfortable here than in thelittle side-wing where you used to be?" inquired pavel petrovich politely butwithout any trace of a smile. "certainly, it is better here."

"who has been put in your place now?""the laundrymaids are there now." "ah!"pavel petrovich was silent. "now he will go," thought fenichka; but hedid not go and she stood in front of him rooted to the spot, moving her fingersnervously. "why did you send your little one away?"said pavel petrovich at last. "i love children; do let me see him."fenichka blushed all over with confusion and joy. she was frightened of pavel petrovich; hehardly ever spoke to her. "dunyasha," she called."will you bring mitya, please?"

(fenichka was polite to every member of thehousehold.) "but wait a moment; he must have a frockon." fenichka was going towards the door. "that doesn't matter," remarked pavelpetrovich. "i shall be back in a moment," answeredfenichka, and she went out quickly. pavel petrovich was left alone and thistime he looked round with special attention.the small, low room in which he found himself was very clean and cosy. it smelt of the freshly painted floor andof camomile flowers.

along the walls stood chairs with lyre-shaped backs, bought by the late general kirsanov in poland during a campaign; inone corner was a little bedstead under a muslin canopy alongside a chest with ironclamps and a curved lid. in the opposite corner a little lamp wasburning in front of a big, dark picture of st. nicholas the miracle-worker; a tinyporcelain egg hung over the saint's breast suspended by a red ribbon from his halo; on the window sills stood carefully tiedgreenish glass jars filled with last year's jam; fenichka had herself written in bigletters on their paper covers the word "gooseberry;" it was the favorite jam ofnikolai petrovich.

a cage containing a short-tailed canaryhung on a long cord from the ceiling; he constantly chirped and hopped about, andthe cage kept on swinging and shaking, while hemp seeds fell with a light tap ontothe floor. on the wall just above a small chest ofdrawers hung some rather bad photographs of nikolai petrovich taken in variouspositions; there, too, was a most unsuccessful photograph of fenichka; it showed an eyeless face smiling with effortin a dingy frame--nothing more definite could be distinguished--and above fenichka,general yermolov, in a caucasian cloak, scowled menacingly at distant mountains,

from under a little silk shoe for pinswhich fell right over his forehead. five minutes passed; a sound of rustlingand whispering could be heard in the next room. pavel petrovich took from the chest ofdrawers a greasy book, an odd volume of masalsky's musketeer, and turned over a fewpages...the door opened and fenichka came in with mitya in her arms. she bad dressed him in a little red shirtwith an embroidered collar, had combed his hair and washed his face; he was breathingheavily, his whole body moved up and down, and he waved his little hands in the air as

all healthy babies do; but his smart shirtobviously impressed him and his plump little person radiated delight. fenichka had also put her own hair in orderand rearranged her kerchief; but she might well have remained as she was. indeed, is there anything more charming inthe world than a beautiful young mother with a healthy child in her arms? "what a chubby little fellow," said pavelpetrovich, graciously tickling mitya's double chin with the tapering nail of hisforefinger; the baby stared at the canary and laughed.

"that's uncle," said fenichka, bending herface over him and slightly rocking him, while dunyasha quietly set on the windowsill a smoldering candle, putting a coin under it. "how many months old is he?" asked pavelpetrovich. "six months, it will be seven on theeleventh of this month." "isn't it eight, fedosya nikolayevna?" dunyasha interrupted timidly."no, seven. what an idea!" the baby laughed again, stared at the chestand suddenly seized his mother's nose and

mouth with all his five little fingers."naughty little one," said fenichka without drawing her face away. "he's like my brother," said pavelpetrovich. "who else should he be like?" thoughtfenichka. "yes," continued pavel petrovich as thoughspeaking to himself. "an unmistakable likeness."he looked attentively, almost sadly at fenichka. "that's uncle," she repeated, this time ina whisper. "ah, pavel, there you are!" suddenlyresounded the voice of nikolai petrovich.

pavel petrovich turned hurriedly round witha frown on his face, but his brother looked at him with such delight and gratitude thathe could not help responding to his smile. "you've got a splendid little boy," hesaid, and looked at his watch. "i came in here to ask about some tea..." then, assuming an expression ofindifference, pavel petrovich at once left the room."did he come here of his own accord?" nikolai petrovich asked fenichka. "yes, he just knocked and walked in.""well, and has arkasha come to see you again?""no. hadn't i better move into the side-

wing again, nikolai petrovich?" "why should you?""i wonder whether it wouldn't be better just at first.""no," said nikolai petrovich slowly, and rubbed his forehead. "we should have done it sooner...how areyou, little balloon?" he said, suddenly brightening, and went up to the child andkissed him on the cheek; then he bent lower and pressed his lips to fenichka's hand, which lay white as milk on mitya's littlered shirt. "nikolai petrovich, what are you doing?"she murmured, lowering her eyes, then

quietly looked up again; her expression wascharming as she peeped from under her eyelids and smiled tenderly and ratherstupidly. nikolai petrovich had made fenichka'sacquaintance in the following way. three years ago he had once stayed thenight at an inn in a remote provincial town. he was pleasantly surprised by thecleanliness of the room assigned to him and the freshness of the bed linen; surelythere must be a german woman in charge, he thought at first; but the housekeeper turned out to be a russian, a woman ofabout fifty, neatly dressed, with a good-

looking, sensible face and a measured wayof talking. he got into conversation with her at teaand liked her very much. nikolai petrovich at that time had onlyjust moved into his new home, and not wishing to keep serfs in the house, he waslooking for wage servants; the housekeeper at the inn complained about the hard times and the small number of visitors to thattown; he offered her the post of housekeeper in his home and she acceptedit. her husband had long been dead; he had lefther with an only daughter, fenichka. within a fortnight arina savishna (that wasthe new housekeeper's name) arrived with

her daughter at maryino and was installedin the side-wing. nikolai petrovich had made a good choice. arina brought order into the household. no one talked about fenichka, who was thenseventeen, and hardly anyone saw her; she lived in quiet seclusion and only onsundays nikolai petrovich used to notice the delicate profile of her pale facesomewhere in a corner of the church. thus another year passed. one morning arina came into his study, andafter bowing low as usual, asked him if he could help her daughter, as a spark fromthe stove had flown into her eye.

nikolai petrovich, like many homelovingcountry people, had studied simple remedies and had even procured a homeopathicmedicine chest. he at once told arina to bring the injuredgirl to him. fenichka was much alarmed when she heardthat the master had sent for her, but she followed her mother. nikolai petrovich led her to the window andtook her head between his hands. after thoroughly examining her red andswollen eye, he made up a poultice at once, and tearing his handkerchief in stripsshowed her how it should be applied. fenichka listened to all he said and turnedto go out.

"kiss the master's hand, you silly girl,"said arina. nikolai petrovich did not hold out his handand in confusion himself kissed her bent head on the parting of the hair. fenichka's eye soon healed, but theimpression she had made on nikolai petrovich did not pass away so quickly. he had constant visions of that pure,gentle, timidly raised face; he felt that soft hair under the palms of his hands, andsaw those innocent, slightly parted lips, through which pearly teeth gleamed withmoist brilliance in the sunshine. he began to watch her very attentively inchurch and tried to get into conversation

with her. at first she was extremely shy with him,and one day, meeting him towards evening on a narrow footpath crossing a rye field, sheran into the tall, thick rye, overgrown with cornflowers and wormwood, to avoidmeeting him face to face. he caught sight of her small head throughthe golden network of ears of rye, from which she was peering out like a wildanimal, and called out to her affectionately, "good evening, fenichka. i won't bite.""good evening," murmured fenichka, without emerging from her hiding place.

by degrees she began to feel more at easewith him, but she was still a shy girl when suddenly her mother, arina, died ofcholera. what was to become of fenichka? she had inherited from her mother a love oforder, tidiness and regularity, but she was so young, so alone in the world; nikolaipetrovich was so genuinely kind and considerate... there is no need to describe whatfollowed... "so my brother came to see you?"nikolai petrovich asked her. "he just knocked and came in?"

"yes.""well, that's good. let me give mitya a swing." and nikolai petrovich began to toss himalmost up to the ceiling, to the vast delight of the baby, and to theconsiderable anxiety of his mother, who each time he flew upwards stretched out herarms towards his little bare legs. meanwhile pavel petrovich had gone back tohis elegant study, which was decorated with handsome blue wallpaper, and with weaponshanging from a multicolored persian carpet fixed to the wall; it had walnut furniture, upholstered in dark green velvet, arenaissance bookcase of ancient black oak,

bronze statuettes on the magnificentwriting desk, an open hearth...he threw himself on the sofa, clasped his hands behind his head and remained motionless,looking at the ceiling with an expression verging on despair. perhaps because he wanted to hide even fromthe walls whatever was reflected in his face, or for some other reason, he rose,drew the heavy window curtains and again threw himself on the sofa. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 9 on that same day bazarov met fenichka.he was walking with arkady in the garden

and explaining to him why some of thetrees, particularly the oaks, were growing badly. "you would do better to plant silverpoplars here, or firs and perhaps limes, with some extra black earth. the arbor there has grown up well," headded, "because it's acacia and lilac; they're good shrubs, they don't needlooking after. ah! there's someone inside." in the arbor fenichka was sitting withdunyasha and mitya. bazarov stopped and arkady nodded tofenichka like an old friend.

"who's that?" bazarov asked him directly they had passedby. "what a pretty girl!""whom do you mean?" "you must know; only one of them ispretty." arkady, not without embarrassment,explained to him briefly who fenichka was. "aha!" remarked bazarov. "that shows your father's got good taste.i like your father; ay, ay! he's a good fellow.but we must make friends," he added, and turned back towards the arbor.

"evgeny," cried arkady after him inbewilderment, "be careful what you do, for goodness' sake.""don't worry," said bazarov. "i'm an experienced man, not a countrybumpkin." going up to fenichka, he took off his cap."may i introduce myself?" he began, making a polite bow. "i'm a friend of arkady nikolayevich and aharmless person." fenichka got up from the garden seat andlooked at him without speaking. "what a wonderful baby," continued bazarov. "don't be uneasy, my praises have neverbrought the evil eye.

why are his cheeks so flushed?is he cutting his teeth?" "yes," murmured fenichka, "he has cut fourteeth already and now the gums are swollen again.""show me...don't be afraid, i'm a doctor." bazarov took the baby in his arms, and tothe great astonishment of both fenichka and dunyasha the child made no resistance andwas not even frightened. "i see, i see...it's nothing, he'll have agood set of teeth. if anything goes wrong you just tell me.and are you quite well yourself?" "very well, thank god." "thank god, that's the main thing.and you?" he added, turning to dunyasha.

dunyasha, who behaved very primly insidethe house and was frivolous out of doors, only giggled in reply. "well, that's all right.here's your young hero." fenichka took back the baby in her arms."how quiet he was with you," she said in an undertone. "children are always good with me,"answered bazarov. "i have a way with them.""children know who loves them," remarked dunyasha. "yes, they certainly do," fenichka added."mitya won't allow some people to touch

him, not for anything." "will he come to me?" asked arkady, whoafter standing at a distance for some time had come to join them. he tried to entice mitya into his arms, butmitya threw back his head and screamed, much to fenichka's confusion. "another day, when he's had time to getaccustomed to me," said arkady graciously, and the two friends walked away."what's her name?" asked bazarov. "fenichka...fedosya," answered arkady. "and her father's name?one must know that, too."

"nikolayevna.""good. what i like about her is that she's not tooembarrassed. some people, i suppose, would think ill ofher on that account. but what rubbish! why should she be embarrassed?she's a mother and she's quite right." "she is in the right," observed arkady,"but my father..." "he's right, too," interposed bazarov. "well, no, i don't think so.""i suppose an extra little heir is not to your liking.""you ought to be ashamed to attribute such

thoughts to me!" retorted arkady hotly. "i don't consider my father in the wrongfrom that point of view; as i see it, he ought to marry her.""well, well," said bazarov calmly, "how generous-minded we are! so you still attach significance tomarriage; i didn't expect that from you." the friends walked on a few steps insilence. "i've seen all round your father's place,"began bazarov again. "the cattle are bad, the horses are brokendown, the buildings aren't up to much, and the workmen look like professional loafers;and the bailiff is either a fool or a

knave, i haven't yet found out which." "you are very severe today, evgenyvassilich." "and the good peasants are taking yourfather in properly; you know the proverb 'the russian peasant will cheat godhimself.'" "i begin to agree with my uncle," remarkedarkady. "you certainly have a poor opinion ofrussians." "as if that mattered! the only good quality of a russian is tohave the lowest possible opinion about himself.what matters is that twice two make four

and the rest is all rubbish." "and is nature rubbish?" said arkady,gazing pensively at the colored fields in the distance, beautifully lit up in themellow rays of the sinking sun. "nature, too, is rubbish in the sense yougive to it. nature is not a temple but a workshop, andman is the workman in it." at that moment the long drawn-out notes ofa cello floated out to them from the house. someone was playing schubert's expectationwith feeling, though with an untrained hand, and the sweet melody flowed likehoney through the air. "what is that?" exclaimed bazarov inamazement.

"my father.""your father plays the cello?" "yes." "and how old is your father?""forty-four." bazarov suddenly roared with laughter."what are you laughing at?" "my goodness! a man of forty-four, a father of a family,in this province, plays on the cello!" bazarov went on laughing, but, much as herevered his friend's example, this time arkady did not even smile. fathers and sons by ivan turgenevchapter 10

a fortnight passed by.life at maryino pursued its normal course, while arkady luxuriously enjoyed himselfand bazarov worked. everyone in the house had grown accustomedto bazarov, to his casual behavior, to his curt and abrupt manner of speaking. fenichka indeed, felt so much at ease withhim 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 twohours and relieved the child. on the other hand, pavel petrovich hadgrown 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, pavelkirsanov! nikolai petrovich was rather frightened ofthe young "nihilist" and doubted the benefit of his influence on arkady, but helistened keenly to what he said and was glad to be present during his chemical andscientific experiments. bazarov had brought a microscope with himand busied himself with it for hours. the servants also took to him, though hemade fun of them; they felt that he was more like one of themselves, and not amaster. dunyasha was always ready to giggle withhim and used to cast significant sidelong

glances at him when she skipped past like asquirrel. pyotr, who was vain and stupid to thehighest degree, with a constant forced frown on his brow, and whose only meritconsisted in the fact that he looked polite, could spell out a page of reading and assiduously brushed his coat--even hegrinned and brightened up when bazarov paid any attention to him; the farm boys simplyran after "the doctor" like puppies. only old prokovich disliked him; at tablehe 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 muchof an aristocrat as pavel petrovich. the best days of the year had come--theearly june days. the weather was lovely; in the distance, itis true, cholera was threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had grown usedto its periodic ravages. bazarov used to get up very early and walkfor two or three miles, not for pleasure-- he could not bear walking without anobject--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 inspite of talking more than his companion.

one day they had stayed out rather late. nikolai petrovich had gone into the gardento meet them, and as he reached the arbor he suddenly heard the quick steps andvoices of the two young men; they were walking on the other side of the arbor andcould not see him. "you don't know my father well enough,"arkady was saying. "your father is a good fellow," saidbazarov, "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 fora 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 uselessthat is. after all he's not a boy, it's high time hegot rid of such rubbish. and what an idea to be romantic in ourtimes! give him something sensible to read.""what should i give him?" asked arkady. "oh, i think buchner's stoff und kraft tostart with." "i think so too," remarked arkadyapprovingly. "stoff und kraft is written in popularlanguage..."

"so it seems," said nikolai petrovich thesame day after dinner to his brother, as they sat in his study, "you and i arebehind the times, our day is over. well...perhaps bazarov is right; but onething, i must say, hurts me; i was so hoping just now to get on really close andfriendly terms with arkady, and it turns out that i've lagged behind while he has gone forward, and we simply can'tunderstand 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 seigneur of a nihilist whohas knocked such ideas into his head.

i loathe that doctor fellow; in my opinionhe's nothing but a charlatan; i'm sure that in spite of all his tadpoles he knowsprecious little even in medicine." "no, brother, you mustn't say that; bazarovis clever and knows his subject." "and so disagreeably conceited," pavelpetrovich broke in again. "yes," observed nikolai petrovich, "he isconceited. evidently one can't manage without it,that's what i failed to take into account. i thought i was doing everything to keep upwith the times; i divided the land with the peasants, started a model farm, so that i'meven described as a "rebel" all over the province; i read, i study, i try in every

way to keep abreast of the demands of theday--and they say my day is over. and brother, i really begin to think thatit is." "why is that?" "i'll tell you why.i was sitting and reading pushkin today... i remember, it happened to be thegypsies...suddenly arkady comes up to me and silently, with such a kind pity in hisface, as gently as if i were a baby, takes the book away from me and puts another one in front of me instead...a germanbook...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 buchner's well-known treatise. pavel petrovich turned it over in hishands. "hm!" he growled, "arkady nikolayevich istaking 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 kolyazin." "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 usagain, 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. mathieu wants to show off to us in all hisglory. 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 councilor!if i had continued in the service, drudging along in that dreary routine, i should havebeen a general-adjutant by now. besides, you and i are behind the times." "yes, brother; it seems the time has cometo order a coffin, and to cross the arms

over one's chest," remarked nikolaipetrovich with a sigh. "well, i shan't give in quite so soon,"muttered his brother. "i've got a quarrel with this doctorcreature in front of me, i'm sure of that." the quarrel materialized that very eveningat tea. pavel petrovich came into the drawing roomall keyed up, irritable and determined. he was only waiting for a pretext to pounceupon his enemy, but for some time no such pretext arose. as a rule bazarov spoke little in thepresence of the "old kirsanovs" (that was what he called the brothers), and thatevening he felt in a bad humor and drank

cup after cup of tea without saying a word. pavel petrovich was burning withimpatience; his wishes were fulfilled at last.the conversation turned to one of the neighboring landowners. "rotten aristocratic snob," observedbazarov casually; he had met him in petersburg. "allow me to ask you," began pavelpetrovich, and his lips were trembling, "do you attach an identical meaning to thewords 'rotten' and 'aristocrat'?" "i said 'aristocratic snob,'" repliedbazarov, lazily swallowing a sip of tea.

"precisely, but i imagine you hold the sameopinion of aristocrats as of aristocratic snobs. i think it my duty to tell you that i donot share that opinion. i venture to say that i am well known to bea man of liberal views and devoted to progress, but for that very reason irespect aristocrats--real aristocrats. kindly remember, sir," (at these wordsbazarov lifted his eyes and looked at pavel petrovich) "kindly remember, sir," herepeated sharply, "the english aristocracy. they did not abandon one iota of theirrights, and for that reason they respect the rights of others; they demand thefulfillment 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; whatare you trying to prove by it?" "i am tryin' to prove by that, sir," (whenpavel petrovich became angry he intentionally clipped his words, though ofcourse he knew very well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. this whim indicated a survival from theperiod of alexander i. the great ones of that time, on the rareoccasions when they spoke their own language, made use of such distortions asif seeking to show thereby that though they

were genuine russians, yet at the same time as grands seigneurs they could afford toignore the grammatical rules of scholars) "i am tryin' to prove by that, sir, thatwithout 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 socialstructure. personal character, my good sir, that isthe chief thing; a man's personality must be as strong as a rock since everythingelse is built up on it. i am well aware, for instance, that youchoose to consider my habits, my dress,

even my tidiness, ridiculous; but all thiscomes from a sense of self-respect and of duty--yes, from a sense of duty. i live in the wilds of the country, but irefuse to lower myself. i respect the dignity of man in myself." "let me ask you, pavel petrovich," mutteredbazarov, "you respect yourself and you sit with folded hands; what sort of benefit isthat to the bien public? if you didn't respect yourself, you'd dojust the same. pavel petrovich turned pale."that is quite another question. there is absolutely no need for me toexplain to you now why i sit here with

folded hands, as you are pleased to expressyourself. i wish only to tell you that aristocracy--is a principle, and that only depraved or stupid people can live in our time withoutprinciples. i said as much to arkady the day after hecame 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...anduseless words! to a russian they're no good for anything!" "what is good for russians according toyou?

if we listen to you, we shall findourselves 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 apiece 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 allthat.

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 dear, that we don't recognize any authorities,"interposed arkady. "we act by virtue of what we recognize asuseful," went on bazarov. "at present the most useful thing isdenial, so we deny--" "everything?" "everything.""what? not only art, poetry...but...the thought isappalling..."

"everything," repeated bazarov withindescribable 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 onemust construct, too, you know." "that is not our business...we must firstclear the ground." "the present condition of the peopledemands it," added arkady rather sententiously; "we must fulfill thosedemands, we have no right to yield to the satisfaction of personal egotism."

that last phrase obviously displeasedbazarov; it smacked of philosophy, or romanticism, for bazarov called philosophya kind of romanticism--but he did not judge it necessary to correct his young disciple. "no, no!" cried pavel petrovich with suddenvehemence. "i can't believe that you young men reallyknow the russian people, that you represent their needs and aspirations! no, the russian people are not what youimagine them to be. they hold tradition sacred, they are apatriarchal 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 areright." "and if i am right..." "it proves nothing, all the same." "exactly, it proves nothing," repeatedarkady with the assurance of an experienced chess player who, having foreseen anapparently dangerous move on the part of his adversary, is not in the least put outby it. "how can it prove nothing?" mumbled pavelpetrovich in consternation. "in that case you must be going againstyour own people."

"and what if we are?" exclaimed bazarov. "the people imagine that when it thundersthe 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 ploughed the land,"answered bazarov with haughty 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, butwhat makes you think it came into being by chance, that it's not a product of thatvery national spirit which you are championing?" "what an idea!how can we need nihilists?" "whether they are needed or not--is not forus to decide. why, even you imagine you're not a uselessperson."

"gentlemen, gentlemen, no personalities,please!" cried nikolai petrovich, getting up. pavel petrovich smiled, and laying his handon his brother's shoulder, made him sit down again. "don't be alarmed," he said, "i shan'tforget myself, thanks to that sense of dignity which is so cruelly ridiculed byour friend--our friend, the doctor. allow me to point out," he resumed, turningagain to bazarov, "you probably think that your doctrine is a novelty?that is an illusion of yours. the materialism which you preach, was morethan once in vogue before and has always

proved inadequate....""yet another foreign word!" broke in he was beginning to feel angry and his facelooked 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 ourofficials took bribes, that we had no roads, no commerce, no real justice...." "oh, i see, you are reformers--that's theright name, i think. i, too, should agree with many of yourreforms, but..."

"then we suspected that talk and only talkabout our social diseases was not worth while, that it led to nothing but hypocrisyand pedantry; we saw that our leading men, our so-called advanced people and reformers, are worthless; that we busyourselves 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 grossestsuperstitions are stifling us, when all our business enterprises crash simply becausethere aren't enough honest men to carry them on, while the very emancipation which

our government is struggling to organizewill hardly come to any good, because our peasant is happy to rob even himself solong as he can get drunk at the pub." "yes," broke in pavel petrovich, "indeed,you were convinced of all this and you therefore decided to undertake nothingserious yourselves." "we decided to undertake nothing," repeatedbazarov grimly. he suddenly felt annoyed with himself forhaving 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," bazarovrepeated again, this time in a particularly insolent tone.pavel petrovich screwed up his eyes a little. "so that's it," he murmured in a strangelycomposed voice. "nihilism is to cure all our woes, and you--you are our saviors and heroes. very well--but why do you find fault withothers, including the reformers? don't you do as much talking as anyoneelse?" "whatever faults we may have, that is notone 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."hm!... action, destruction..." he went on. "but how can you destroy without evenknowing why?" "we shall destroy because we are a force,"remarked arkady. pavel petrovich looked at his nephew andlaughed. "yes, a force can't be called to accountfor itself," said arkady, drawing himself "unhappy boy," groaned pavel petrovich, whocould no longer maintain his show of

firmness. "can't you realize the kind of thing youare 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, 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 areworthless; the poorest dauber, un

barbouilleur, the man who plays dance musicfor five farthings an evening, even they are of more use than you because they stand for civilization and not for brutemongolian force! you fancy yourselves as advanced people,and yet you're only fit for the kalmuk's dirty hovel! force! and remember, you forceful gentlemen, thatyou're only four men and a half, and the others--are millions, who won't let youtrample 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 yourselfup against a whole people?" "all moscow was burnt down, you know, by apenny candle," answered bazarov. "indeed! first comes an almost satanic pride, thencynical jeers--so that is what attracts the young, what takes by storm theinexperienced 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 has already spread far andwide. i am told that in rome our artists don'teven enter the vatican. raphael they regard as a fool, because, ofcourse, he is an authority; and these artists are themselves disgustingly sterileand weak, men whose imagination can soar no higher than girls at a fountain--and eventhe girls are abominably drawn! they are fine fellows in your view, isuppose?" "to my mind," retorted bazarov, "raphaelisn't worth a brass farthing, and they're

no better than he.""bravo, bravo! listen, arkady...that is how modern youngmen should express themselves! and if you come to think of it, they'rebound to follow you. formerly young men had to study. if they didn't want to be called fools theyhad to work hard whether they liked it or not. but now they need only say 'everything inthe world is rubbish!' and the trick is done.young men are delighted. and, to be sure, they were only sheepbefore, but now they have suddenly turned

into nihilists." "you have departed from your praiseworthysense of personal dignity," remarked bazarov phlegmatically, while arkady hadturned hot all over and his eyes were flashing. "our argument has gone too far...better cutit 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 oflife, in the family or in society, which does not call for complete and ruthlessdestruction." "i can show you millions of suchinstitutions!" cried pavel petrovich--

"millions! well, take the commune, for instance."a cold smile distorted bazarov's lips. "well, you had better talk to your brotherabout the commune. i should think he has seen by now what thecommune is like in reality--its mutual guarantees, its sobriety and suchlike.""well, the family, the family as it exists among our peasants," cried pavel petrovich. "on that subject, too, i think it will bebetter 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, allowyourself a day or two to think it all over; you'll hardly find anything straight away. go through the various classes of oursociety and examine them carefully, meanwhile arkady and i will----""will go on abusing everything," broke in pavel petrovich. "no, we will go on dissecting frogs.come, arkady; good-by for the present, gentlemen!"the two friends walked off. the brothers were left alone and at firstonly looked at each other. "so that," began pavel petrovich, "that isour modern youth!

those young men are our heirs!" "our heirs!" repeated nikolai petrovichwith a weary smile. he had been sitting as if on thornsthroughout the argument, and only from time to time cast a sad furtive glance atarkady. "do you know what i was reminded of,brother? i once quarreled with our mother; sheshouted and wouldn't listen to me. at last i said to her, 'of course you can'tunderstand 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 oursuccessors can tell us: 'you don't belong to our generation; swallow your pill.'""you are much too generous and modest," replied pavel petrovich. "i'm convinced, on the contrary, that youand i are far more in the right than these young gentlemen, although perhaps weexpress ourselves in more old-fashioned language--vieilli--and are not so insolently conceited...and the airs theseyoung people give themselves! you ask one 'would you like white wine orred?'

'it is my custom to prefer red,' he answersin a deep voice and with a face as solemn as if the whole world were looking at himthat 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 roomwhile the noisy dispute was going on. "no, you can tell them to take away thesamovar," answered nikolai petrovich, and he got up to meet her.pavel petrovich said "bonsoir" to him abruptly, and went to his own study.

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