Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (64 page)

‘Do you eat them — or keep them?’

‘For experiment,’ said Bazarov indifferently, and he went off into the house.

‘So he’s going to cut them up,’ observed Pavel Petrovitch. ‘He has no faith in principles, but he has faith in frogs.’

Arkady looked compassionately at his uncle; Nikolai Petrovitch shrugged his shoulders stealthily. Pavel Petrovitch himself felt that his epigram was unsuccessful, and began to talk about husbandry and the new bailiff, who had come to him the evening before to complain that a labourer, Foma, ‘was deboshed,’ and quite unmanageable. ‘He’s such an Æsop,’ he said among other things; ‘in all places he has protested himself a worthless fellow; he’s not a man to keep his place; he’ll walk off in a huff like a fool.’

CHAPTER VI

Bazarov came back, sat down to the table, and began hastily drinking tea. The two brothers looked at him in silence, while Arkady stealthily watched first his father and then his uncle.

‘Did you walk far from here?’ Nikolai Petrovitch asked at last.

‘Where you’ve a little swamp near the aspen wood. I started some half - dozen snipe; you might slaughter them; Arkady.’

‘Aren’t you a sportsman then?’

‘No.’

‘Is your special study physics?’ Pavel Petrovitch in his turn inquired.

‘Physics, yes; and natural science in general.’

‘They say the Teutons of late have had great success in that line.’

‘Yes; the Germans are our teachers in it,’ Bazarov answered carelessly.

The word Teutons instead of Germans, Pavel Petrovitch had used with ironical intention; none noticed it however.

‘Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?’ said Pavel Petrovitch, with exaggerated courtesy. He was beginning to feel a secret irritation. His aristocratic nature was revolted by Bazarov’s absolute nonchalance. This surgeon’s son was not only not overawed, he even gave abrupt and indifferent answers, and in the tone of his voice there was something churlish, almost insolent.

‘The scientific men there are a clever lot.’

‘Ah, ah. To be sure, of Russian scientific men you have not such a flattering opinion, I dare say?’

‘That is very likely.’

‘That’s very praiseworthy self - abnegation,’ Pavel Petrovitch declared, drawing himself up, and throwing his head back. ‘But how is this? Arkady Nikolaitch was telling us just now that you accept no authorities? Don’t you believe in
them?’

‘And how am I accepting them? And what am I to believe in? They tell me the truth, I agree, that’s all.’

‘And do all Germans tell the truth?’ said Pavel Petrovitch, and his face assumed an expression as unsympathetic, as remote, as if he had withdrawn to some cloudy height.

‘Not all,’ replied Bazarov, with a short yawn. He obviously did not care to continue the discussion.

Pavel Petrovitch glanced at Arkady, as though he would say to him, ‘Your friend’s polite, I must say.’ ‘For my own part,’ he began again, not without some effort, ‘I am so unregenerate as not to like Germans. Russian Germans I am not speaking of now; we all know what sort of creatures they are. But even German Germans are not to my liking. In former days there were some here and there; they had — well, Schiller, to be sure, Goethe ... my brother — he takes a particularly favourable view of them.... But now they have all turned chemists and materialists ...’

‘A good chemist is twenty times as useful as any poet,’ broke in Bazarov.

‘Oh, indeed,’ commented Pavel Petrovitch, and, as though falling asleep, he faintly raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t acknowledge art then, I suppose?’

‘The art of making money or of advertising pills!’ cried Bazarov, with a contemptuous laugh.

‘Ah, ah. You are pleased to jest, I see. You reject all that, no doubt? Granted. Then you believe in science only?’

‘I have already explained to you that I don’t believe in anything; and what is science — science in the abstract? There are sciences, as there are trades and crafts; but abstract science doesn’t exist at all.’

‘Very good. Well, and in regard to the other traditions accepted in human conduct, do you maintain the same negative attitude?’

‘What’s this, an examination?’ asked Bazarov.

Pavel Petrovitch turned slightly pale.... Nikolai Petrovitch thought it his duty to interpose in the conversation.

‘We will converse on this subject with you more in detail some day, dear Yevgeny Vassilyitch; we will hear your views, and express our own. For my part, I am heartily glad you are studying the natural sciences. I have heard that Liebig has made some wonderful discoveries in the amelioration of soils. You can be of assistance to me in my agricultural labours; you can give me some useful advice.’

‘I am at your service, Nikolai Petrovitch; but Liebig’s miles over our heads! One has first to learn the a b c, and then begin to read, and we haven’t set eyes on the alphabet yet.’

‘You are certainly a nihilist, I see that,’ thought Nikolai Petrovitch. ‘Still, you will allow me to apply to you on occasion,’ he added aloud. ‘And now I fancy, brother, it’s time for us to be going to have a talk with the bailiff.’

Pavel Petrovitch got up from his seat.

‘Yes,’ he said, without looking at any one; ‘it’s a misfortune to live five years in the country like this, far from mighty intellects! You turn into a fool directly. You may try not to forget what you’ve been taught, but — in a snap! — they’ll prove all that’s rubbish, and tell you that sensible men have nothing more to do with such foolishness, and that you, if you please, are an antiquated old fogey. What’s to be done? Young people, of course, are cleverer than we are!’

Pavel Petrovitch turned slowly on his heels, and slowly walked away; Nikolai Petrovitch went after him.

‘Is he always like that?’ Bazarov coolly inquired of Arkady directly the door had closed behind the two brothers.

‘I must say, Yevgeny, you weren’t nice to him,’ remarked Arkady. ‘You have hurt his feelings.’

‘Well, am I going to consider them, these provincial aristocrats! Why, it’s all vanity, dandy habits, fatuity. He should have continued his career in Petersburg, if that’s his bent. But there, enough of him! I’ve found a rather rare species of a water - beetle,
Dytiscus marginatus;
do you know it? I will show you.’

‘I promised to tell you his story,’ began Arkady.

‘The story of the beetle?’

‘Come, don’t, Yevgeny. The story of my uncle. You will see he’s not the sort of man you fancy. He deserves pity rather than ridicule.’

‘I don’t dispute it; but why are you worrying over him?’

‘One ought to be just, Yevgeny.’

‘How does that follow?’

‘No; listen ...’

And Arkady told him his uncle’s story. The reader will find it in the following chapter.

CHAPTER VII

Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov was educated first at home, like his younger brother, and afterwards in the Corps of Pages. From childhood he was distinguished by remarkable beauty; moreover he was self - confident, somewhat ironical, and had a rather biting humour; he could not fail to please. He began to be seen everywhere, directly he had received his commission as an officer. He was much admired in society, and he indulged every whim, even every caprice and every folly, and gave himself airs, but that too was attractive in him. Women went out of their senses over him; men called him a coxcomb, and were secretly jealous of him. He lived, as has been related already, in the same apartments as his brother, whom he loved sincerely, though he was not at all like him. Nikolai Petrovitch was a little lame, he had small, pleasing features of a rather melancholy cast, small, black eyes, and thin, soft hair; he liked being lazy, but he also liked reading, and was timid in society.

Pavel Petrovitch did not spend a single evening at home, prided himself on his ease and audacity (he was just bringing gymnastics into fashion among young men in society), and had read in all some five or six French books. At twenty - eight he was already a captain; a brilliant career awaited him. Suddenly everything was changed.

At that time, there was sometimes seen in Petersburg society a woman who has even yet not been forgotten. Princess R —
 
— . She had a well - educated, well - bred, but rather stupid husband, and no children. She used suddenly to go abroad, and suddenly return to Russia, and led an eccentric life in general. She had the reputation of being a frivolous coquette, abandoned herself eagerly to every sort of pleasure, danced to exhaustion, laughed and jested with young men, whom she received in the dim light of her drawing - room before dinner; while at night she wept and prayed, found no peace in anything, and often paced her room till morning, wringing her hands in anguish, or sat, pale and chill, over a psalter. Day came, and she was transformed again into a grand lady; again she went out, laughed, chattered, and simply flung herself headlong into anything which could afford her the slightest distraction. She was marvellously well - proportioned, her hair coloured like gold and heavy as gold hung below her knees, but no one would have called her a beauty; in her whole face the only good point was her eyes, and even her eyes were not good — they were grey, and not large — but their glance was swift and deep, unconcerned to the point of audacity, and thoughtful to the point of melancholy — an enigmatic glance. There was a light of something extraordinary in them, even while her tongue was lisping the emptiest of inanities. She dressed with elaborate care. Pavel Petrovitch met her at a ball, danced a mazurka with her, in the course of which she did not utter a single rational word, and fell passionately in love with her. Being accustomed to make conquests, in this instance, too, he soon attained his object, but his easy success did not damp his ardour. On the contrary, he was in still more torturing, still closer bondage to this woman, in whom, even at the very moment when she surrendered herself utterly, there seemed always something still mysterious and unattainable, to which none could penetrate. What was hidden in that soul — God knows! It seemed as though she were in the power of mysterious forces, incomprehensible even to herself; they seemed to play on her at will; her intellect was not powerful enough to master their caprices. Her whole behaviour presented a series of inconsistencies; the only letters which could have awakened her husband’s just suspicions, she wrote to a man who was almost a stranger to her, whilst her love had always an element of melancholy; with a man she had chosen as a lover, she ceased to laugh and to jest, she listened to him, and gazed at him with a look of bewilderment. Sometimes, for the most part suddenly, this bewilderment passed into chill horror; her face took a wild, death - like expression; she locked herself up in her bedroom, and her maid, putting her ear to the keyhole, could hear her smothered sobs. More than once, as he went home after a tender interview, Kirsanov felt within him that heartrending, bitter vexation which follows on a total failure.

‘What more do I want?’ he asked himself, while his heart was heavy. He once gave her a ring with a sphinx engraved on the stone.

‘What’s that?’ she asked; ‘a sphinx?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘and that sphinx is you.’

‘I?’ she queried, and slowly raising her enigmatical glance upon him. ‘Do you know that’s awfully flattering?’ she added with a meaningless smile, while her eyes still kept the same strange look.

Pavel Petrovitch suffered even while Princess R —
 
— loved him; but when she grew cold to him, and that happened rather quickly, he almost went out of his mind. He was on the rack, and he was jealous; he gave her no peace, followed her about everywhere; she grew sick of his pursuit of her, and she went abroad. He resigned his commission in spite of the entreaties of his friends and the exhortations of his superiors, and followed the princess; four years he spent in foreign countries, at one time pursuing her, at another time intentionally losing sight of her. He was ashamed of himself, he was disgusted with his own lack of spirit ... but nothing availed. Her image, that incomprehensible, almost meaningless, but bewitching image, was deeply rooted in his heart. At Baden he once more regained his old footing with her; it seemed as though she had never loved him so passionately ... but in a month it was all at an end: the flame flickered up for the last time and went out for ever. Foreseeing inevitable separation, he wanted at least to remain her friend, as though friendship with such a woman was possible.... She secretly left Baden, and from that time steadily avoided Kirsanov. He returned to Russia, and tried to live his former life again; but he could not get back into the old groove. He wandered from place to place like a man possessed; he still went into society; he still retained the habits of a man of the world; he could boast of two or three fresh conquests; but he no longer expected anything much of himself or of others, and he undertook nothing. He grew old and grey; spending all his evenings at the club, jaundiced and bored, and arguing in bachelor society became a necessity for him — a bad sign, as we all know. Marriage, of course, he did not even think of. Ten years passed in this way; they passed by colourless and fruitless — and quickly, fearfully quickly. Nowhere does time fly past as in Russia; in prison they say it flies even faster. One day at dinner at the club, Pavel Petrovitch heard of the death of the Princess R —
 
— . She had died at Paris in a state bordering on insanity.

He got up from the table, and a long time he paced about the rooms of the club, or stood stockstill near the card - players, but he did not go home earlier than usual. Some time later he received a packet addressed to him; in it was the ring he had given the princess. She had drawn lines in the shape of a cross over the sphinx and sent him word that the solution of the enigma — was the cross.

This happened at the beginning of the year 1848, at the very time when Nikolai Petrovitch came to Petersburg, after the loss of his wife. Pavel Petrovitch had scarcely seen his brother since the latter had settled in the country; the marriage of Nikolai Petrovitch had coincided with the very first days of Pavel Petrovitch’s acquaintance with the princess. When he came back from abroad, he had gone to him with the intention of staying a couple of months with him, in sympathetic enjoyment of his happiness, but he had only succeeded in standing a week of it. The difference in the positions of the two brothers was too great. In 1848, this difference had grown less; Nikolai Petrovitch had lost his wife, Pavel Petrovitch had lost his memories; after the death of the princess he tried not to think of her. But to Nikolai, there remained the sense of a well - spent life, his son was growing up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a solitary bachelor, was entering upon that indefinite twilight period of regrets that are akin to hopes, and hopes that are akin to regrets, when youth is over, while old age has not yet come.

This time was harder for Pavel Petrovitch than for another man; in losing his past, he lost everything.

‘I will not invite you to Maryino now,’ Nikolai Petrovitch said to him one day, (he had called his property by that name in honour of his wife); ‘you were dull there in my dear wife’s time, and now I think you would be bored to death.’

‘I was stupid and fidgety then,’ answered Pavel Petrovitch; ‘since then I have grown quieter, if not wiser. On the contrary, now, if you will let me, I am ready to settle with you for good.’

For all answer Nikolai Petrovitch embraced him; but a year and a half passed after this conversation, before Pavel Petrovitch made up his mind to carry out his intention. When he was once settled in the country, however, he did not leave it, even during the three winters which Nikolai Petrovitch spent in Petersburg with his son. He began to read, chiefly English; he arranged his whole life, roughly speaking, in the English style, rarely saw the neighbours, and only went out to the election of marshals, where he was generally silent, only occasionally annoying and alarming land - owners of the old school by his liberal sallies, and not associating with the representatives of the younger generation. Both the latter and the former considered him ‘stuck up’; and both parties respected him for his fine aristocratic manners; for his reputation for successes in love; for the fact that he was very well dressed and always stayed in the best room in the best hotel; for the fact that he generally dined well, and had once even dined with Wellington at Louis Philippe’s table; for the fact that he always took everywhere with him a real silver dressing - case and a portable bath; for the fact that he always smelt of some exceptionally ‘good form’ scent; for the fact that he played whist in masterly fashion, and always lost; and lastly, they respected him also for his incorruptible honesty. Ladies considered him enchantingly romantic, but he did not cultivate ladies’ acquaintance....

‘So you see, Yevgeny,’ observed Arkady, as he finished his story, ‘how unjustly you judge of my uncle! To say nothing of his having more than once helped my father out of difficulties, given him all his money — the property, perhaps you don’t know, wasn’t divided — he’s glad to help any one, among other things he always sticks up for the peasants; it’s true, when he talks to them he frowns and sniffs eau de cologne.’ ...

‘His nerves, no doubt,’ put in Bazarov.

‘Perhaps; but his heart is very good. And he’s far from being stupid. What useful advice he has given me especially ... especially in regard to relations with women.’

‘Aha! a scalded dog fears cold water, we know that!’

‘In short,’ continued Arkady, ‘he’s profoundly unhappy, believe me; it’s a sin to despise him.’

‘And who does despise him?’ retorted Bazarov. ‘Still, I must say that a fellow who stakes his whole life on one card — a woman’s love — and when that card fails, turns sour, and lets himself go till he’s fit for nothing, is not a man, but a male. You say he’s unhappy; you ought to know best; to be sure, he’s not got rid of all his fads. I’m convinced that he solemnly imagines himself a superior creature because he reads that wretched
Galignani
, and once a month saves a peasant from a flogging.’

‘But remember his education, the age in which he grew up,’ observed Arkady.

‘Education?’ broke in Bazarov. ‘Every man must educate himself, just as I’ve done, for instance.... And as for the age, why should I depend on it? Let it rather depend on me. No, my dear fellow, that’s all shallowness, want of backbone! And what stuff it all is, about these mysterious relations between a man and woman? We physiologists know what these relations are. You study the anatomy of the eye; where does the enigmatical glance you talk about come in there? That’s all romantic, nonsensical, æsthetic rot. We had much better go and look at the beetle.’

And the two friends went off to Bazarov’s room, which was already pervaded by a sort of medico - surgical odour, mingled with the smell of cheap tobacco.