Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (76 page)

‘Fedka, fill me a pipe!’ said Bazarov rudely.

‘And there’s another doctor here who just got to a patient,’ Vassily Ivanovitch persisted in a kind of desperation, ‘when the patient had gone
ad patres;
the servant didn’t let the doctor speak; you’re no longer wanted, he told him. He hadn’t expected this, got confused, and asked, “Why, did your master hiccup before his death?” “Yes.” “Did he hiccup much?” “Yes.” “Ah, well, that’s all right,” and off he set back again. Ha! ha! ha!’

The old man was alone in his laughter; Arkady forced a smile on his face. Bazarov simply stretched. The conversation went on in this way for about an hour; Arkady had time to go to his room, which turned out to be the anteroom attached to the bathroom, but was very snug and clean. At last Tanyusha came in and announced that dinner was ready.

Vassily Ivanovitch was the first to get up. ‘Come, gentlemen. You must be magnanimous and pardon me if I’ve bored you. I daresay my good wife will give you more satisfaction.’

The dinner, though prepared in haste, turned out to be very good, even abundant; only the wine was not quite up to the mark; it was almost black sherry, bought by Timofeitch in the town at a well - known merchant’s, and had a faint coppery, resinous taste, and the flies were a great nuisance. On ordinary days a serf - boy used to keep driving them away with a large green branch; but on this occasion Vassily Ivanovitch had sent him away through dread of the criticism of the younger generation. Arina Vlasyevna had had time to dress: she had put on a high cap with silk ribbons and a pale blue flowered shawl. She broke down again directly she caught sight of her Enyusha, but her husband had no need to admonish her; she made haste to wipe away her tears herself, for fear of spotting her shawl. Only the young men ate anything; the master and mistress of the house had dined long ago. Fedka waited at table, obviously encumbered by having boots on for the first time; he was assisted by a woman of a masculine cast of face and one eye, by name Anfisushka, who performed the duties of housekeeper, poultry - woman, and laundress. Vassily Ivanovitch walked up and down during the whole of dinner, and with a perfectly happy, positively beatific countenance, talked about the serious anxiety he felt at Napoleon’s policy, and the intricacy of the Italian question. Arina Vlasyevna took no notice of Arkady. She did not press him to eat; leaning her round face, to which the full cherry - coloured lips and the little moles on the cheeks and over the eyebrows gave a very simple good - natured expression, on her little closed fist, she did not take her eyes off her son, and kept constantly sighing; she was dying to know for how long he had come, but she was afraid to ask him.

‘What if he says for two days,’ she thought, and her heart sank. After the roast Vassily Ivanovitch disappeared for an instant, and returned with an opened half - bottle of champagne. ‘Here,’ he cried, ‘though we do live in the wilds, we have something to make merry with on festive occasions!’ He filled three champagne glasses and a little wineglass, proposed the health of ‘our inestimable guests,’ and at once tossed off his glass in military fashion; while he made Arina Vlasyevna drink her wineglass to the last drop. When the time came in due course for preserves, Arkady, who could not bear anything sweet, thought it his duty, however, to taste four different kinds which had been freshly made, all the more as Bazarov flatly refused them and began at once smoking a cigarette. Then tea came on the scene with cream, butter, and cracknels; then Vassily Ivanovitch took them all into the garden to admire the beauty of the evening. As they passed a garden seat he whispered to Arkady —

‘At this spot I love to meditate, as I watch the sunset; it suits a recluse like me. And there, a little farther off, I have planted some of the trees beloved of Horace.’

‘What trees?’ asked Bazarov, overhearing.

‘Oh ... acacias.’

Bazarov began to yawn.

‘I imagine it’s time our travellers were in the arms of Morpheus,’ observed Vassily Ivanovitch.

‘That is, it’s time for bed,’ Bazarov put in. ‘That’s a correct idea. It is time, certainly.’

As he said good - night to his mother, he kissed her on the forehead, while she embraced him, and stealthily behind his back she gave him her blessing three times. Vassily Ivanovitch conducted Arkady to his room, and wished him ‘as refreshing repose as I enjoyed at your happy years.’ And Arkady did as a fact sleep excellently in his bath - house; there was a smell of mint in it, and two crickets behind the stove rivalled each other in their drowsy chirping. Vassily Ivanovitch went from Arkady’s room to his study, and perching on the sofa at his son’s feet, he was looking forward to having a chat with him; but Bazarov at once sent him away, saying he was sleepy, and did not fall asleep till morning. With wide open eyes he stared vindictively into the darkness; the memories of childhood had no power over him; and besides, he had not yet had time to get rid of the impression of his recent bitter emotions. Arina Vlasyevna first prayed to her heart’s content, then she had a long, long conversation with Anfisushka, who stood stock - still before her mistress, and fixing her solitary eye upon her, communicated in a mysterious whisper all her observations and conjectures in regard to Yevgeny Vassilyevitch. The old lady’s head was giddy with happiness and wine and tobacco smoke; her husband tried to talk to her, but with a wave of his hand gave it up in despair.

Arina Vlasyevna was a genuine Russian gentlewoman of the olden times; she ought to have lived two centuries before, in the old Moscow days. She was very devout and emotional; she believed in fortune - telling, charms, dreams, and omens of every possible kind; she believed in the prophecies of crazy people, in house - spirits, in wood - spirits, in unlucky meetings, in the evil eye, in popular remedies, she ate specially prepared salt on Holy Thursday, and believed that the end of the world was at hand; she believed that if on Easter Sunday the lights did not go out at vespers, then there would be a good crop of buckwheat, and that a mushroom will not grow after it has been looked on by the eye of man; she believed that the devil likes to be where there is water, and that every Jew has a blood - stained patch on his breast; she was afraid of mice, of snakes, of frogs, of sparrows, of leeches, of thunder, of cold water, of draughts, of horses, of goats, of red - haired people, and black cats, and she regarded crickets and dogs as unclean beasts; she never ate veal, doves, crayfishes, cheese, asparagus, artichokes, hares, nor water - melons, because a cut water - melon suggested the head of John the Baptist, and of oysters she could not speak without a shudder; she was fond of eating — and fasted rigidly; she slept ten hours out of the twenty - four — and never went to bed at all if Vassily Ivanovitch had so much as a headache; she had never read a single book except
Alexis or the Cottage in the Forest;
she wrote one, or at the most two letters in a year, but was great in housewifery, preserving, and jam - making, though with her own hands she never touched a thing, and was generally disinclined to move from her place. Arina Vlasyevna was very kindhearted, and in her way not at all stupid. She knew that the world is divided into masters whose duty it is to command, and simple folk whose duty it is to serve them — and so she felt no repugnance to servility and prostrations to the ground; but she treated those in subjection to her kindly and gently, never let a single beggar go away empty - handed, and never spoke ill of any one, though she was fond of gossip. In her youth she had been pretty, had played the clavichord, and spoken French a little; but in the course of many years’ wanderings with her husband, whom she had married against her will, she had grown stout, and forgotten music and French. Her son she loved and feared unutterably; she had given up the management of the property to Vassily Ivanovitch — and now did not interfere in anything; she used to groan, wave her handkerchief, and raise her eyebrows higher and higher with horror directly her old husband began to discuss the impending government reforms and his own plans. She was apprehensive, and constantly expecting some great misfortune, and began to weep directly she remembered anything sorrowful.... Such women are not common nowadays. God knows whether we ought to rejoice!

CHAPTER XXI

On getting up Arkady opened the window, and the first object that met his view was Vassily Ivanovitch. In an Oriental dressing - gown girt round the waist with a pocket - handkerchief he was industriously digging in his garden. He perceived his young visitor, and leaning on his spade, he called, ‘The best of health to you! How have you slept?’

‘Capitally,’ answered Arkady.

‘Here am I, as you see, like some Cincinnatus, marking out a bed for late turnips. The time has come now — and thank God for it! — when every one ought to obtain his sustenance with his own hands; it’s useless to reckon on others; one must labour oneself. And it turns out that Jean Jacques Rousseau is right. Half an hour ago, my dear young gentleman, you might have seen me in a totally different position. One peasant woman, who complained of looseness — that’s how they express it, but in our language, dysentery — I ... how can I express it best? I administered opium, and for another I extracted a tooth. I proposed an anæsthetic to her ... but she would not consent. All that I do
gratis
—
anamatyer (en amateur).
I’m used to it, though; you see, I’m a plebeian,
homo novus
— not one of the old stock, not like my spouse.... Wouldn’t you like to come this way into the shade, to breathe the morning freshness a little before tea?’

Arkady went out to him.

‘Welcome once again,’ said Vassily Ivanovitch, raising his hand in a military salute to the greasy skull - cap which covered his head. ‘You, I know, are accustomed to luxury, to amusements, but even the great ones of this world do not disdain to spend a brief space under a cottage roof.’

‘Good heavens,’ protested Arkady, ‘as though I were one of the great ones of this world! And I’m not accustomed to luxury.’

‘Pardon me, pardon me,’ rejoined Vassily Ivanovitch with a polite simper. ‘Though I am laid on the shelf now, I have knocked about the world too — I can tell a bird by its flight. I am something of a psychologist too in my own way, and a physiognomist. If I had not, I will venture to say, been endowed with that gift, I should have come to grief long ago; I should have stood no chance, a poor man like me. I tell you without flattery, I am sincerely delighted at the friendship I observe between you and my son. I have just seen him; he got up as he usually does — no doubt you are aware of it — very early, and went a ramble about the neighbourhood. Permit me to inquire — have you known my son long?’

‘Since last winter.’

‘Indeed. And permit me to question you further — but hadn’t we better sit down? Permit me, as a father, to ask without reserve, What is your opinion of my Yevgeny?’

‘Your son is one of the most remarkable men I have ever met,’ Arkady answered emphatically.

Vassily Ivanovitch’s eyes suddenly grew round, and his cheeks were suffused with a faint flush. The spade fell out of his hand.

‘And so you expect,’ he began ...

‘I’m convinced,’ Arkady put in, ‘that your son has a great future before him; that he will do honour to your name. I’ve been certain of that ever since I first met him.’

‘How ... how was that?’ Vassily Ivanovitch articulated with an effort. His wide mouth was relaxed in a triumphant smile, which would not leave it.

‘Would you like me to tell you how we met?’

‘Yes ... and altogether....’

Arkady began to tell his tale, and to talk of Bazarov with even greater warmth, even greater enthusiasm than he had done on the evening when he danced a mazurka with Madame Odintsov.

Vassily Ivanovitch listened and listened, blinked, and rolled his handkerchief up into a ball in both his hands, cleared his throat, ruffled up his hair, and at last could stand it no longer; he bent down to Arkady and kissed him on his shoulder. ‘You have made me perfectly happy,’ he said, never ceasing to smile. ‘I ought to tell you, I ... idolise my son; my old wife I won’t speak of — we all know what mothers are! — but I dare not show my feelings before him, because he doesn’t like it. He is averse to every kind of demonstration of feeling; many people even find fault with him for such firmness of character, and regard it as a proof of pride or lack of feeling, but men like him ought not to be judged by the common standard, ought they? And here, for example, many another fellow in his place would have been a constant drag on his parents; but he, would you believe it? has never from the day he was born taken a farthing more than he could help, that’s God’s truth!’

‘He is a disinterested, honest man,’ observed Arkady.

‘Exactly so; he is disinterested. And I don’t only idolise him, Arkady Nikolaitch, I am proud of him, and the height of my ambition is that some day there will be the following lines in his biography: “The son of a simple army - doctor, who was, however, capable of divining his greatness betimes, and spared nothing for his education ...”‘ The old man’s voice broke.

Arkady pressed his hand.

‘What do you think,’ inquired Vassily Ivanovitch, after a short silence, ‘will it be in the career of medicine that he will attain the celebrity you anticipate for him?’

‘Of course, not in medicine, though even in that department he will be one of the leading scientific men.’

‘In what then, Arkady Nikolaitch?’

‘It would he hard to say now, but he will be famous.’

‘He will be famous!’ repeated the old man, and he sank into a reverie.

‘Arina Vlasyevna sent me to call you in to tea,’ announced Anfisushka, coming by with an immense dish of ripe raspberries.

Vassily Ivanovitch started. ‘And will there be cooled cream for the raspberries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cold now, mind! Don’t stand on ceremony, Arkady Nikolaitch; take some more. How is it Yevgeny doesn’t come?’

‘I’m here,’ was heard Bazarov’s voice from Arkady’s room.

Vassily Ivanovitch turned round quickly. ‘Aha! you wanted to pay a visit to your friend; but you were too late,
amice,
and we have already had a long conversation with him. Now we must go in to tea, mother summons us. By the way, I want to have a little talk with you.’

‘What about?’

‘There’s a peasant here; he’s suffering from icterus....

‘You mean jaundice?’

‘Yes, a chronic and very obstinate case of icterus. I have prescribed him centaury and St. John’s wort, ordered him to eat carrots, given him soda; but all that’s merely palliative measures; we want some more decided treatment. Though you do laugh at medicine, I am certain you can give me practical advice. But we will talk of that later. Now come in to tea.’

Vassily Ivanovitch jumped up briskly from the garden seat, and hummed from
Robert le Diable
—

‘Singular vitality!’ observed Bazarov, going away from the window.

It was midday. The sun was burning hot behind a thin veil of unbroken whitish clouds. Everything was hushed; there was no sound but the cocks crowing irritably at one another in the village, producing in every one who heard them a strange sense of drowsiness and ennui; and somewhere, high up in a tree - top, the incessant plaintive cheep of a young hawk. Arkady and Bazarov lay in the shade of a small haystack, putting under themselves two armfuls of dry and rustling, but still greenish and fragrant grass.

‘That aspen - tree,’ began Bazarov, ‘reminds me of my childhood; it grows at the edge of the clay - pits where the bricks were dug, and in those days I believed firmly that that clay - pit and aspen - tree possessed a peculiar talismanic power; I never felt dull near them. I did not understand then that I was not dull, because I was a child. Well, now I’m grown up, the talisman’s lost its power.’

‘How long did you live here altogether?’ asked Arkady.

‘Two years on end; then we travelled about. We led a roving life, wandering from town to town for the most part.’

‘And has this house been standing long?’

‘Yes. My grandfather built it — my mother’s father.’

‘Who was he — your grandfather?’

‘Devil knows. Some second - major. He served with Suvorov, and was always telling stories about the crossing of the Alps — inventions probably.’

‘You have a portrait of Suvorov hanging in the drawing - room. I like these dear little houses like yours; they’re so warm and old - fashioned; and there’s always a special sort of scent about them.’

‘A smell of lamp - oil and clover,’ Bazarov remarked, yawning. ‘And the flies in those dear little houses.... Faugh!’

‘Tell me,’ began Arkady, after a brief pause, ‘were they strict with you when you were a child?’

‘You can see what my parents are like. They’re not a severe sort.’

‘Are you fond of them, Yevgeny?’

‘I am, Arkady.’

‘How fond they are of you!’

Bazarov was silent for a little. ‘Do you know what I’m thinking about?’ he brought out at last, clasping his hands behind his head.

‘No. What is it?’

‘I’m thinking life is a happy thing for my parents. My father at sixty is fussing around, talking about “palliative” measures, doctoring people, playing the bountiful master with the peasants — having a festive time, in fact; and my mother’s happy too; her day’s so chockful of duties of all sorts, and sighs and groans that she’s no time even to think of herself; while I ...’

‘While you?’

‘I think; here I lie under a haystack.... The tiny space I occupy is so infinitely small in comparison with the rest of space, in which I am not, and which has nothing to do with me; and the period of time in which it is my lot to live is so petty beside the eternity in which I have not been, and shall not be.... And in this atom, this mathematical point, the blood is circulating, the brain is working and wanting something.... Isn’t it loathsome? Isn’t it petty?’

‘Allow me to remark that what you’re saying applies to men in general.’

‘You are right,’ Bazarov cut in. ‘I was going to say that they now — my parents, I mean — are absorbed and don’t trouble themselves about their own nothingness; it doesn’t sicken them ... while I ... I feel nothing but weariness and anger.’

‘Anger? why anger?’

‘Why? How can you ask why? Have you forgotten?’

‘I remember everything, but still I don’t admit that you have any right to be angry. You’re unlucky, I’ll allow, but ...’

‘Pooh! then you, Arkady Nikolaevitch, I can see, regard love like all modern young men; cluck, cluck, cluck you call to the hen, but if the hen comes near you, you run away. I’m not like that. But that’s enough of that. What can’t be helped, it’s shameful to talk about.’ He turned over on his side. ‘Aha! there goes a valiant ant dragging off a half - dead fly. Take her, brother, take her! Don’t pay attention to her resistance; it’s your privilege as an animal to be free from the sentiment of pity — make the most of it — not like us conscientious self - destructive animals!’

‘You shouldn’t say that, Yevgeny! When have you destroyed yourself?’

Bazarov raised his head. ‘That’s the only thing I pride myself on. I haven’t crushed myself, so a woman can’t crush me. Amen! It’s all over! You shall not hear another word from me about it.’

Both the friends lay for some time in silence.

‘Yes,’ began Bazarov, ‘man’s a strange animal. When one gets a side view from a distance of the dead - alive life our “fathers” lead here, one thinks, What could be better? You eat and drink, and know you are acting in the most reasonable, most judicious manner. But if not, you’re devoured by ennui. One wants to have to do with people if only to abuse them.’