Fathers and Sons
this world. By a single thread does the destiny of every man hang, and
at any moment there may open before him an abyss into which he and his
may plunge. For always he is laying up for himself misfortune."
"At what are you hinting?" asked Arkady.
"At nothing. I am merely saying outright that you and I have behaved
very foolishly. However, why talk of it? I have noticed that in
surgical operations it is the patient who fights against his hurt who
soonest gets well."
"I do not understand you," Arkady said. "So far as I can see, you have
nothing whatsoever to complain of."
"You cannot understand me? Well, mark this: that you had far better
go and break stones by the roadside than allow a woman to obtain
even the least hold over you. Such a thing is sheer" (he nearly said
"Romanticism," but changed his mind) "rubbish."
"Perhaps you do not believe me?" he went on. "Nevertheless, I tell you
that, though you and I have been cultivating feminine society, and
enjoying it, the sense of relief when such society is abandoned is like
taking a cold bath on a summer's day. Never ought a man to touch such
follies. Always he ought, as the excellent Spanish saying has it, 'to
remain as the beasts of the field.' Look here," he added to the peasant
on the box. "Do you, my man of wisdom, possess a wife?"
The peasant turned a portion of a flat, near-sighted visage in the
friends' direction.
"A wife?" he repeated. "Yes, I do. Why shouldn't I?"
"Never mind that. Do you ever beat her?"
"My wife? Sometimes. But never without good cause."
"Excellent! And does she ever beat _you_?"
The peasant gave his reins a jerk.
"What a thing, _barin_!" he exclaimed. "Surely you must be joking?"
Evidently the question had offended him.
"You hear that, Arkady Nikolaievitch?" said Bazarov. "You and I have
been similarly beaten. That is what comes of being gentry."
Arkady laughed in spite of himself, but Bazarov turned away, and did
not speak again until the end of the journey.
To Arkady the twenty-five versts seemed like fifty; but at length there
came into view, on the slope of a low hill, the homestead of the manor
where Bazarov's parents resided. On one side of it, amid a clump of
young birch trees, there could be seen the servants' quarters under
their thatched roofs; while at the door of the nearest hut a couple of
fur-capped peasants were engaged in a contest of mutual abuse.
"You are an old pig!" one of them said to the other. "And that is worse
than being a young one."
"Your wife is a witch," retorted the other.
"From the lack of restraint in their bearing," commented Bazarov, "as
well as from the playfulness of their terms of speech, you will gather
that my father's peasantry are not downtrodden. But here is my father
himself. I can see him stepping out on to the verandah. He will have
heard the sound of our collar-bells. Yes, it _is_ he! I recognise his
figure. But how grey he looks, poor old fellow!"
XX
Bazarov leant forward from the _tarantass_, and Arkady, peering
over his friend's shoulder, beheld, on the entrance steps of the
manor-house, a tall, thin man with dishevelled hair and a narrow,
aquiline nose. Clad in an old military tunic of which the front was
flying open, he was standing with legs apart, a long pipe in his mouth,
and eyes blinking in the glare of the sunlight.
The horses pulled up.
"So you have come at last!" exclaimed Bazarov's father, still
continuing to smoke (though, as he did so, the stem of the pipe was
rattling and shaking between his fingers). "Now, jump out, jump out!"
Again and again he embraced his son.
"Eniusha, Eniusha!"[1] the tremulous voice of an old woman also cried
as the door of the house opened and there appeared on the threshold
a short, rotund old dame in a white cap and a short striped blouse.
Gasping and staggering, she would have fallen had not Bazarov hastened
to support her. As he did so her fat old arms clasped him around the
neck, and her head sank upon his bosom. All then was still for a
moment. Only her convulsive sobs broke the silence. Meanwhile Bazarov
Senior breathed hard, and blinked more vigorously than ever.
"Enough, enough, Arisha!" he said at length with a glance at Arkady,
who had remained standing beside the _tarantass_ (and even the peasant
on the box-seat had turned away his head). "Pray cease, I tell you.
This is not necessary. I beg of you to cease."
"Ah, Vasili Ivanitch!" whimpered the poor old woman. "To think of the
long while since last I saw my Eniusha, my own, my darling boy!" Still
keeping her arms clasped around Bazarov, she withdrew her ruffled,
convulsed, tear-stained face from his breast, looked at him for a
moment with blissful, yet comical, eyes, and glued herself again to his
bosom.
"Yes, yes," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Such is in the nature of things. But
had we not better go indoors? See! Evgenii has brought a guest!"
With a slight scrape and a bow, he added to Arkady:
"Pray pardon us, sir, but you will understand the situation. A woman's
weakness--ahem!--and a mother's heart."
His lips, chin, and eyebrows too were working. Evidently he was
striving to master himself, and to appear totally indifferent. Arkady
responded to his bow with a like salutation.
"Yes, yes, dear mother; let us go indoors," said Bazarov. Leading
the shaking old lady into the house, he seated her in a cosy chair,
bestowed upon his father another hurried embrace, and then presented
Arkady.
"I am glad indeed to make your acquaintance!" said Vasili Ivanitch.
"I am glad indeed! But do not expect too much of us, my dear sir. My
establishment is organised on simple lines; it is placed on what I
might call 'a war footing.' Come, come, Arina! Pray calm yourself, and
attend to your duties as a hostess. Oh, fie, to give way in such a
manner! What will our guest think of you?"
"My dear, I do not know the gentleman's name," the old lady sobbed
through her tears.
"Arkady Nikolaievitch," prompted Vasili Ivanitch in an undertone, but
with great ceremony.
"Then pray pardon a foolish old woman, sir." Arina Vlasievna blew her
nose, inclined her head to right and left, and wiped each eye in turn
as she did so. "Yes, pray pardon me, but I had thought never again to
see my darling boy before I died."
"But, you see, we _have_ seen him again," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Here,
Taniushka!"--this to a barefooted serf girl of thirteen who, clad in a
bright red cotton frock, had been an interested, but timid, observer
in the doorway. "Bring your mistress a glass of water on a salver.
Do you hear? And you, gentlemen," he continued with old-fashioned
sprightliness, "will you be so good as to step into the study of a
retired veteran?"
"First another kiss, Eniusha," gasped Arina Vlasievna. Then, as Bazarov
bent over her form, she added: "How handsome you have grown!"
"Handsome or not, he is human," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Wherefore, now
that you have satisfied your mother's heart, I look to you to see also
to the satisfaction of our honoured guests. For than yourself no one
knows better that nightingales cannot be fed on air."
This caused the old lady to rise from her chair, and to exclaim:
"Yes, yes: in one moment, Vasili Ivanitch. The table shall be laid, and
I myself will hurry to the kitchen, and see that the _samovar_ be got
ready. Everything shall be done. Why, it must be three years since last
I gave Eniusha a meal."
"Yes, three years, dear wife. But now bustle about, and do not let
yourself get flurried. Gentlemen, accompany me, I beg of you. But here
is Timotheitch coming to pay you his respects. How delighted he looks,
the old rascal! Now, pray favour me with your company."
And he strode fussily ahead with much shuffling and creaking of
flat-soled slippers.
The Bazarovian establishment consisted of six small rooms, of which
one--the room to which Vasili Ivanitch was now conducting our
friends--was looked upon as the study. Between its two windows there
stood a fat-legged table, strewn with dusty, fusty papers; on the walls
hung a number of Turkish weapons, _nagaiki_,[2] and swords, a couple
of landscapes, a few anatomical plates, a portrait of Hufeland,[3] a
black-framed monogram done in hair, and a diploma protected with a
glass front; between two large birchwood cupboards stood a ragged,
battered leathern sofa; on shelves lay huddled a miscellany of books,
boxes, stuffed birds, jars, and bladders; and, lastly, in a corner
reposed a broken electric battery.
"Already I have warned you," said Vasili Ivanitch to Arkady, "that we
live here, so to speak, _en bivouac_."
"Make no excuses," put in Bazarov. "Kirsanov knows that you and I are
not Croesuses, and that no butler is kept. But where can we find Arkady
a bed? That is the question."
"We have an excellent room in the wing, where he would be most
comfortable."
"You have added a wing, then?"
"Yes, Evgenii Vasilitch," Timotheitch interposed. "At least, a
bathroom."
"But it is to a room _next_ the bathroom that I am referring," Vasili
Ivanitch hastened to explain. "However, that will not matter, since it
is now summer time. I will run up there at once, and see that it is
put in order. Meanwhile, Timotheitch, fetch in the luggage. To you,
Evgenii, I will allot the study. _Cuique suum._"[4]
"There!" said Bazarov to Arkady as soon as his father had left the
room. "Is he not just such a jolly, good-hearted, queer old fellow as
your own father, though in a different way? He chatters just as he
always used to do."
"Yes; and your mother seems an excellent woman."
"She is. Moreover, you can see that she does not attempt to hide her
feelings. Only wait and see what a dinner she will give us!"
"But as you were not expected to-day," put in Timotheitch, who had just
re-entered with Bazarov's portmanteau, "no beef has been got into the
house."
"Never mind. Let us dine _without_ beef--or, for that matter, without
anything at all. 'Poverty is no crime.'"
"How many souls[5] are there on your father's property?" asked Arkady.
"It is not his property; it is my mother's. The number of souls on it
is, I think, fifteen."
"No, twenty-two," corrected Timotheitch with an air of pride. The next
moment the sound of shuffling slippers was heard once more, and Vasili
Ivanitch re-entered.
"Your room will be ready for you in a few minutes," he announced
grandiloquently to Arkady. "Meanwhile, here is your servant." He
pointed to a close-cropped urchin who, clad in an out-at-elbows blue
_kaftan_ and an odd pair of shoes, had also made his appearance. "His
name is Thedika, and, for all my son's injunction, I had better repeat
to you not to expect too much of him--though certainly he will be able
to fill your pipe for you. I presume that you smoke?"
"I do, but only cigars."
"A commendable rule! I too prefer cigars, but find them extremely
difficult to procure in this isolated part of the country."
"Have done with bewailing your poverty," Bazarov good-naturedly
interrupted. "Rather, seat yourself on this sofa, and take a rest."
Vasili Ivanitch smilingly did as he was bidden. Extremely like his son
in features (save that his forehead was lower and narrower, and his
mouth a trifle wider), he was for ever on the move--now shrugging his
shoulders as though his coat cut him under the armpits, now blinking,
now coughing, now twitching his fingers. In this he was sharply
differentiated from his son, whose most distinguishing characteristic
was his absolute immobility.
"Have done with bewailing my poverty?" repeated the old man. "Why,
you cannot surely think that I would weary our guest with complaints
concerning our isolation? As a matter of fact, a man of brains need
_never_ be isolated, and I myself do everything in my power to avoid