Chapter XII: Act I: Scene 2 (2)

Turgénev is the most noted of the novelists who began their literary
career in the forties. He was brought up in the estate of his father,
in the Government of Orél. His early impressions were extremely
unpleasant: his father belonged to the brutal type of the old landed
proprietors, and his mother developed, after the death of her husband,
similar repellent characteristics. Thus Turgénev, who was himself
possessed of a soft and refined nature, received an early bias against
the whole institution of serfdom. In 1833 Turgénev entered the St.
Petersburg University, and five years later he went to Berlin to
finish his education. He had tried writing poetry before, but he met
with little success. Upon his return to Russia he wrote _Parásha_, a
novel in verse, in which the Romantic incident of the story is
tempered by a goodly admixture of realism. It at once attracted
attention, and Turgénev was fairly launched into literature. But he
became a power in literature only at the end of the forties when he
began to publish his series of sketches from the life of the peasants
under the name of _Memoirs of a Hunter_: their effect was tremendous:
it was the first time that the public read sympathetic stories about
the serfs, and they did a great deal to hasten the emancipation. The
government looked awry at this tendency of Turgénev’s novels, and when
he, in 1852, wrote a eulogistic essay on Gógol, who had just died, he
was banished to his estate. Upon his release, he went abroad where he,
with short interruptions, passed the rest of his days. Then followed
that series of brilliant novels, _Dimítri Rúdin_, _Faust_, _A Nest of
Gentlefolk_, which made him famous throughout Europe. In 1862 appeared
his _Fathers and Sons_. In this novel he attempted to give a picture
of the new tendencies in Russian society. But he had been too long
away from Russian surroundings, and so he has been blamed for not
having grasped the positive characteristics of the younger generation.
His later productions are tinged by pessimism, which finds its most
pronounced expression in his _Poems in Prose_.

The following translations of Turgénev’s works have been published:
_After Death_, in Modern Age, 1883. _Annals of a Sportsman_, extracts
in _Photographs from Russian Life_, in Fraser’s Magazine, and in
Graham’s Magazine, 1854; _Russian Life in the Interior_, London, 1855;
_Annals of a Sportsman_, translated from the French by F. P. Abbott
(Leisure Hour Series, No. 164), New York, 1885; _Tales from the
Note-book of a Sportsman_, translated by E. Richter, London, 1895.
_The Antchar_, in Galaxy, 1873. _Asya_, under title _Assja_, in
Galaxy, 1877; _Annouchka_, translated from the French by F. P. Abbott,
Boston, 1884. _Daughter of Russia_, translated by G. W. Scott (Seaside
Library), New York, 1882. _Desperate_, in Cosmopolitan, 1888. _Dimitri
Roudine_ (Leisure Hour Series), New York, 1873 (reprinted from Every
Saturday, 1873). _The Dream_, in Home Journal, 1878. _Fathers and
Sons_, translated by E. Schuyler, New York, 1867, London, 1888, and
(Leisure Hour Series and Seaside Library) New York, 1883; _Fathers and
Children_, New York, 1883. _Faust_, in Galaxy, 1872. _First Love_, and
_Punin and Baburin_, translated by S. Jerrold, London, 1884. _Hamlet
and Don Quixote_, translated by J. Král and P. Durdík, in Poet Lore,
vol. iv. _The Idiot_, London, 1887, and in Temple Bar, 1870. _A Leaf
of the Steppes_, in London Society, and in Living Age, 1873; _Nobleman
of the Steppes_, in Scribner’s Monthly, 1877. _The Living Mummy_, in
Scribner’s Monthly, 1876. _Liza_, translated by W. R. S. Ralston,
London, 1869 and 1884, and New York, 1872. _Mumu_, and _Diary of a
Superfluous Man_, translated by H. Gersoni, New York, 1884. _Novels_
(containing _Dimitri Roudine_,--_Fathers and Sons_, translated by E.
Schuyler, _Liza_, translated by Ralston, _On the Eve_, by Turner,
_Smoke_, by West, _Spring-floods_, by S. M. Butts, _A Leaf of the
Steppes_, by W. H. Browne), 6 vols., New York, 1874-5. _On the Eve_,
translated by C. B. Turner, London, 1871, and New York, 1873. _Poems
in Prose_, Boston, 1873; _Senilia, Poems in Prose_, in MacMillan’s
Magazine, vol. xlix, 1887, and Eclectic Magazine, vol. cii, 1887;
_Senilia, Poems in Prose_, translated by S. J. Macmullan, Bristol,
[1890]. _The Priest’s Son_, in Lippincott’s, 1877. _Punin and
Baburin_, translated by G. W. Scott (Seaside Library), New York, 1882.
_The Ruffian_ (?) (Overland Library, No. 13), New York, 188-. _Smoke,
or, Life at Baden_, London, 1868; _Smoke_, translated from the French,
by W. F. West, New York, 1873, and London, 1883. _Song of Triumphant
Love_ (Seaside Library), New York, 1883. _The Sorcerer_, in Appleton’s
1870; under title _How Russians meet Death_, in Temple Bar, and in
Living Age, 1887. _Spring Floods_, translated by E. Richter, London,
1896. _Strange Adventure of Lieut. Yergunof_, in Galaxy, 1877. _Tales
from a Stormy Night_, New York, 1891. _Three Meetings_, in
Lippincott’s, 1875. _An Unfortunate Woman_, also _Assya_, translated
by H. Gersoni (Standard Library, No. 142), New York, 1886; _The
Unfortunate One_, translated by A. R. Thompson, London, 1888.
_Vassilissa_, in Romance, 1892. _Virgin Soil_, translated from the
French by T. S. Perry (Leisure Hour Series), New York, 1877, and
London, 1883--translated by A. W. Dilke, London, 1878 and 1879.
_Visions_, in Galaxy, 1872, and in Cornhill, and Living Age, 1880.
_The Watch_, in Lippincott’s, 1876, and in _The Bridal March_, from
the Norwegian of Björnson, and _The Watch_, translated by J. E.
Williams, London, 1893. _Works_ (containing _Dimitri Roudine_,
_Fathers and Sons_, _Liza_, _Smoke_, and _Virgin Soil_), 5 vols.,
London, 1889. There is also a complete set of his _Works_, translated
from the Russian by Mrs. Garnett, London, and New York, 1894-99.

FROM “FATHERS AND SONS”

----Arkádi stepped towards his uncle, and he once more felt the touch of his perfumed moustache upon his own cheeks. Pável Petróvich seated himself at the table. He was dressed in an elegant morning gown after the English fashion; his head was embellished by a small fez. This fez and the carelessly tied neckerchief hinted of the freedom of country life; but the stiff collar of the shirt, which was not white, but coloured, as is proper for the morning toilet, stuck with customary inexorability against the clean-shaven chin.

“Where is your new friend?” he asked Arkádi.

“He is not at home. He generally rises early and goes away. The main thing is, not to pay any attention to him: he does not like ceremonies.”

“Yes, that is evident.” Pável Petróvich began leisurely to spread some butter on his bread. “Is he going to stay here long?”

“That depends. He has stopped here on his way to his father’s.”

“Where does his father live?”

“In our Government, some eighty versts from here. He has a small estate there. He used to be an army surgeon.”

“Well, well, well! That ’s why I kept on asking myself: ‘Where have you heard that name Bazárov’? Nikoláy, it seems to me there was a surgeon by the name of Bazárov in papa’s division.”

“I think there was.”

“That ’s right. So that surgeon is his father. Hm!” Pável Petróvich smoothed his moustaches. “Well, and Mr. Bazárov himself, what is he?” asked he with deliberation.

“What Bazárov is?” Arkádi smiled. “If you want, uncle, I ’ll tell you what he really is.”

“Do me the favour, dear nephew.”

“He is a nihilist.”

“What?” asked Nikoláy Petróvich, and Pável Petróvich raised up his knife with a piece of butter at the end of the blade, and remained immovable.

“He is a nihilist,” repeated Arkádi.

“Nihilist,” muttered Nikoláy Petróvich. “That is from the Latin _nihil_, nothing, so far as I can judge; consequently that word designates a man who--who acknowledges nothing?”

“Say, who respects nothing,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, starting again to spread his butter.

“Who looks at everything from the critical point of view,” remarked Arkádi.

“Is not that the same?” asked Pável Petróvich.

“No, not the same. A nihilist is a man who bows to no authorities, who accepts not a single principle on faith, no matter with what respect that principle be surrounded.”

“And do you call that good?” Pável Petróvich interrupted.

“It depends, uncle. It ’s good for some, and very bad for others.”

“I declare. Well, that, I see, is beyond us. We are of the older generation; we assume that without principles (Pável Petróvich pronounced this word softly, in the French fashion, Arkádi, on the contrary, pronounced it hard, with a decided accent on the first syllable), without principles taken, as you say, on faith, it is impossible to take a step, or breathe. _Vous avez changé tout cela._ God grant you health and the rank of general,[15] but we shall only take pleasure in looking at you, gentlemen----what do you call them?”

“Nihilists,” Arkádi said distinctly.

“Yes. Formerly there used to be Hegelists, and now there are nihilists. Let us see how you are going to exist in the vacuum, in an airless space. But now, please ring the bell, brother Nikoláy Petróvich; it is time for me to drink my cocoa.”

----For some moments silence reigned upon the terrace. Pável Petróvich sipped his cocoa, and then he suddenly raised his head.

“There is the nihilist coming to honour us with his presence,” he said half aloud.

There was really Bazárov, crossing the beds in the garden. His linen ulster and trowsers were smeared with mud; a prickly swamp plant surrounded the band of his old round hat; in his right hand he held a small bag, and in the bag were crawling living things. He rapidly approached the terrace and said, nodding: “Good-morning, gentlemen! Excuse me for being late to tea. I shall be back at once; I just want to find a place for my captives.”

“What have you there, leeches?” asked Pável Petróvich.

“No, frogs.”

“Do you eat them or raise them?”

“For experiments,” indifferently answered Bazárov and went into the house.

“You see, he is going to cut them up,” remarked Pável Petróvich. “He does not believe in principles, but in frogs.”

Arkádi looked with pity at his uncle, and Nikoláy Petróvich stealthily shrugged his shoulders. Pável Petróvich felt himself that he had made an infelicitous remark, and began to talk about the estate and the new manager who had come to him a few days before to complain of Fomá’s having become useless on account of his reckless ways.

----Bazárov returned, seated himself at the table, and began hastily to drink his tea. Both brothers looked at him in silence, and Arkádi threw stealthy glances, now upon his father, now upon his uncle.

“Did you have a long tramp?” finally asked Nikoláy Petróvich.

“You have a small swamp near the aspen grove. I there scared up some five snipes. Arkádi, you ’ll have some shooting there.”

“Are you not a hunter?”

“No.”

“I understand your specialty is physics?” asked Pável Petróvich in his turn.

“Yes, physics; natural sciences in general.”

“They say the Teutons have of late made great progress in this field.”

“Yes, the Germans are in this our teachers,” Bazárov answered carelessly.

Pável Petróvich had used the word Teutons, instead of Germans, in irony, but no one took notice of it.

“Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?” spoke Pável Petróvich with affected politeness. He began to feel a secret irritation. Bazárov’s extreme plainness ruffled his aristocratic nature. That son of a surgeon not only was not abashed, but he answered abruptly and as if against his will, and in the sound of his voice there was something harsh, nay, impudent.

“Their learned men are a fine lot.”

“Yes, yes. Well, I suppose, you have not the same flattering conception of the Russian savants.”

“I guess you are right.”

“That is a very laudable self-abnegation,” retorted Pável Petróvich, straightening himself, and throwing his head back. “But how is it Arkádi Nikoláevich told a little while ago that you did not acknowledge any authorities? Do you not believe them?”

“Why should I acknowledge them? And what should I believe? If I am told a fact, I agree with it, that ’s all.”

“Do the Germans always tell facts?” spoke Pável Petróvich, and his face assumed a disinterested, distant expression, just as if he had retired to some cloudy height.

“Not all,” answered Bazárov with a slight yawn, evidently not wishing to continue the discussion.

Pável Petróvich looked at Arkádi, as if to tell him: “I must say, your friend is a polite chap.”

“As for me,” he spoke again with some effort, “I, sinful man, am not particularly fond of the Germans. Not to mention the Russian Germans: we all know what kind of birds they are. But I cannot stomach even the German Germans. Those of the former generations were not half so bad; they then had, well, a Schiller, or let us say, a Goethe----Brother thinks quite favourably of them. But now there is such a procession of chemists and materialists over there----”

“A decent chemist is twenty times more useful than any poet,” Bazárov interrupted him.

“Indeed!” spoke Pável Petróvich, barely raising his eyebrows, as if falling asleep. “So you do not acknowledge art?”

“The art to make money, or no more hemorrhoids!” exclaimed Bazárov with a contemptuous smile.

“Yes, yes. How you please yourself to jest! So you deny all that? Very well. So you believe only in science?”

“I have already reported to you that I believe in nothing. What is science anyway, science in general? There are sciences, as there are trades and professions; but science in general does not exist at all!”

“Very well, sir. Well, and do you assume the same negative attitude in regard to all the other institutions, generally accepted in human existence?”

“What is this, an inquest?” asked Bazárov.

Pável Petróvich grew slightly pale. Nikoláy Petróvich thought it necessary to take part in the conversation.

“We will discuss this matter more thoroughly some other time, dear Evgéni Vasílich; we shall then get your view, and we shall tell you ours. I, for my part, am very glad to hear that you busy yourself with the natural sciences. I have heard that Liebig has made some remarkable discoveries in regard to the fertilisation of the fields. You could aid me in my agronomic work by giving me some useful advice.”

“I am at your service, Nikoláy Petróvich; but what business have we with Liebig? We must first learn the ABC, and then we may take to books; we have not yet put our eyes on A.”

“I should say you _are_ a nihilist,” thought Nikoláy Petróvich. “Still, let me in case of necessity have recourse to you,” he added aloud. “But for the present, brother, I think it is time for us to go and have a talk with the steward.”

Pável Petróvich rose from his chair.

“Yes,” he said, without looking at anyone, “it is a misfortune to live five years in the country, away from great minds! You will just become a round fool. You are trying not to forget what you have learned, and, before you know it, it turns out that it is all nonsense, and you are told that clever people no longer busy themselves with such trifles, and that you, sir, are an old-fashioned night-cap. What is to be done? It seems the younger generation is really more clever than we are.”

Pável Petróvich slowly turned upon his heels and walked away leisurely. Nikoláy Petróvich went after him.

“Say, is he always that way?” Bazárov coolly asked Arkádi, when the door was closed behind the two brothers.

“Listen, Evgéni, you have treated him altogether too brusquely,” remarked Arkádi. “You have offended him.”

“I am not going to pamper these county aristocrats! It is with them nothing but egotism, manners of society lions, dandyism! Well, he ought to have continued his activities in St. Petersburg, if he is built that way---- However, God be with him! I have found a fairly rare specimen of a water beetle,--_Dysticus marginatus_, do you know it? I ’ll show it to you!”

----They began to talk about one of the landowners of the neighbourhood.

“A scoundrel, a snob of an aristocrat,” calmly remarked Bazárov who had met him in St. Petersburg.

“Permit me to ask you,” began Pável Petróvich, and his lips quivered, “according to your conception, the words ‘scoundrel’ and ‘aristocrat’ mean one and the same thing?”

“I said ‘snob of an aristocrat,’” remarked Bazárov, lazily sipping his tea.

“Just so. But I suppose you are of the same opinion about aristocrats, as you are about snobs. I regard it my duty to inform you that I do not share that opinion of yours. I dare say, I am known as a liberal man and one who loves progress, and it is for that very reason that I respect aristocrats, that is, real aristocrats. Remember, dear sir” (at these words Bazárov turned his eyes to Pável Petróvich), “remember, dear sir,” he repeated with acrimony, “the English aristocrats. They do not yield an iota from their privileges, and therefore they respect the rights of others. They demand the fulfilment of obligations towards them, and therefore they fulfil their own obligations. The aristocracy gave England its freedom, and the aristocracy supports it.”

“We have heard that old song before,” replied Bazárov. “But what do you wish to prove by it?”

“I wish to prove by that there thing, dear sir” (when Pável Petróvich got angry, he purposely said “that there” and “this here,” although he knew full well that grammar did not permit any such forms. In this oddity one might perceive a reminiscence of the traditions of the days of Alexander I. The somebodies of those days were in the habit of using “that there” and “that yer,” in the rare cases when they spoke their native language, as much as to say: “We are native Russes, and at the same time dignitaries, who have a right to disdain scholastic rules”), “I wish to prove by that there thing that without the feeling of one’s own dignity, without respect to oneself,--and in an aristocrat these feelings are developed,--there is no secure foundation of society--_bien public_--the social structure. Individuality, dear sir,--that is the main thing: human individuality must be as strong as a rock, for everything rests upon it. I know very well, that you please yourself to find my habits, my toilet, in fine, my cleanliness, ridiculous, but it all flows from my feeling of self-respect, from my feeling of duty, yes, sir, yes, sir--duty. I am living in the country, in the wilderness, but I do not let myself fall--I respect the man in me.”

“Permit me to say, Pável Petróvich,” spoke Bazárov, “you claim to respect yourself, and yet you sit with folded hands; what good is that to the _bien public_? It would be better, if you respected yourself less, and did more.”

Pável Petróvich grew pale. “That is an entirely different question. It is not my duty to explain to you now, why I am sitting with folded hands, as you please to express yourself. I only want to say that aristocratism is a principle, and in our days only immoral and brainless people can live without principles. I told Arkádi so on the next day after his arrival, and I repeat it to you. Am I not right, Nikoláy?”

Nikoláy Petróvich nodded his head.

“Aristocratism, liberalism, progress, principles,” Bazárov was saying in the meantime. “Just think how many foreign and useless words! A good Russian would not take them gratis.”

“Then what does he want, according to you? Listening to you, one might conclude that we are living beyond the pale of humanity, beyond its laws. Why, sir, the logic of history demands----”

“What do you want to do with that logic? We are getting along without it.”

“How so?”

“We just do. I hope you do not need any logic in order to put a piece of bread into your mouth, when you are hungry. What good to us are all these abstractions?”

Pável Petróvich waved his hands.

“After that I do not understand you. You insult the Russian nation. I can’t understand how one can fail to acknowledge principles and rules! By dint of what do you act?”

“I told you before, uncle, that we do not acknowledge any authorities,” interposed Arkádi.

“We act by dint of what we regard as useful,” spoke Bazárov. “At the present time the most useful thing is negation,--we negate.”

“Everything?”

“Everything!”

“What? Not only art, poetry----but----it is terrible to say it----”

“Everything,” repeated Bazárov with inexpressible calm.

Pável Petróvich stared at him. He had not expected that, while Arkádi even blushed with joy.

“But permit me to ask you,” again said Pável Petróvich, “you deny everything, or, to express myself more correctly, you destroy everything--but is it not necessary to build up again?”

“That is not our affair. First, the place has to be cleared.”

“The contemporary condition of the people demands it,” Arkádi added with dignity. “We must execute these demands; we have no right to devote ourselves to the satisfaction of our personal egotism.”

This last phrase evidently displeased Bazárov: it smacked of philosophy, that is, of Romanticism, for Bazárov called philosophy Romanticism; but he did not think it necessary to contradict his young disciple.

“No, no!” exclaimed Pável Petróvich in a sudden passion. “I do not wish to believe that you, gentlemen, properly understand the Russian nation, that you are the representatives of its needs, its aims! No, the Russian nation is not as you represent it to yourselves. It reveres tradition, it is patriarchal, it cannot live without faith----”

“I will not dispute that,” interrupted Bazárov; “I am even willing to admit that you are right in this.”

“And if I am right----”

“And yet it proves nothing.”

“That ’s it, it proves nothing,” repeated Arkádi with the confidence of an experienced chess player who, foreseeing the apparently dangerous move of his antagonist, does not become in the least uneasy.

“How does it not prove anything?” muttered Pável Petróvich in wonderment. “So you are going against your nation?”

“What of it, if I do? People imagine that when it thunders the prophet Elias is riding in a chariot over the heavens. Well? Shall I agree with them? Besides, they are Russians, and am I not myself a Russian?”

“No, you are not a Russian, after what you have just told me! I cannot acknowledge you as a Russian.”

“My grandfather was a ploughman,” replied Bazárov with supercilious pride. “Ask any of your peasants, in whom he will quicker recognise a countryman of his, in you or me? You do not even know how to talk with him.”

“But you speak with him and despise him at the same time.”

“Why not, if he deserves contempt! You find fault with my tendency, but who told you that it is accidental in me? that it is not provoked by the same national spirit that you are championing?”

“Well, of what good are the nihilists?”

“It is not for you to decide whether they are any good or not. Don’t you regard yourself useful?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please no personalities!” exclaimed Nikoláy Petróvich, rising from his chair.

Pável Petróvich smiled and, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder, compelled him to sit down again.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will not forget myself, by dint of that very feeling of dignity that the gentleman, the doctor, makes so light of. Permit me,” he turned again towards Bazárov, “you probably think that your doctrine is something new. But you imagine that in vain. The materialism which you preach has been in vogue more than once, and it has always proved itself insufficient----”

“Again a foreign word!” interrupted Bazárov. He began to feel annoyed and his face assumed a coarse coppery colour. “First of all, we preach nothing; that is not our custom----”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I ’ll tell you what we do. In former days, not so long ago, we used to say that the officials take bribes, that we have no roads, no commerce, no regular justice.”

“Yes, yes, you are accusers, I think that is what you call it. I agree with many of your accusations, but----”

“Then we came to the conclusion that to prate, nothing but prate, about our sores is not worth the trouble, that it only leads to triteness and doctrinarianism; we discovered that our wise men, the so-called leaders and accusers, were good for nothing, that we were busying ourselves with nonsense, were talking of art, unconscious creative power, parliamentarism, of legalism, and the devil knows of what not, when we ought to have talked of the daily bread, when we were oppressed by most vulgar superstition, when all our commercial companies burst only because there was a dearth of honest men, when the very liberty with which the Government is concerned would hardly do us any good, because our peasants would as lief rob themselves, if only they could fill themselves with brandy in the tavern.”

“Ah,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, “ah! You have convinced yourself of all that, and so you have decided not to do anything seriously?”

“And we decided not to undertake anything,” grimly repeated Bazárov. He suddenly felt irritated for having entered into a dispute with that gentleman.

“And only to scoff?”

“To scoff.”

“And that is called nihilism.”

“And that is called nihilism,” again repeated Bazárov, but this time with special rudeness.

Pável Petróvich slightly closed his eyes.

“Ah, that ’s the way!” he said with a strangely calm voice. “Nihilism is to help all misery, and you--you--are our deliverers and heroes. Yes. But why do you hold others in honour, say, those very accusers? Or do you not prate like the rest?”

“You may accuse us of anything else, but not of that,” said Bazárov through his teeth.

“Well? You act, don’t you? You are getting ready to act?”

Bazárov did not answer. Pável Petróvich shuddered, but he immediately controlled himself.

“Hm!--Act, break--” he continued. “But how are you going to break, not knowing for what purpose?”

“We break, because we are a force,” remarked Arkádi.

Pável Petróvich glanced at his nephew and smiled.

“Yes, force does not give any accounts of itself,” said Arkádi straightening himself out.

“Miserable man!” lamented Pável Petróvich. He was absolutely unable to hold himself any longer. “If you only thought what you are supporting in Russia by your despicable phrase? No, that would make an angel lose his patience! Force! A wild Calmuck, a Mongolian has force too, but of what good is it to us? We treasure civilisation, yes, sir, yes, sir, dear sir, we treasure its fruits. Don’t tell me that these fruits are worthless. The last latherer, _un barbouilleur_, a fiddler who gets five kopeks for an evening, are more useful than you, because they are the representatives of a civilisation, and not of a rude Mongolian force! You regard yourselves as leaders, but you ought to pass your days in a Calmuck tent! Force! Remember, gentlemen of force, that there are only four and a half of you, and there are millions of others who will not permit you to tread under foot their most sacred beliefs and who will crush you.”

“If they will crush us, then that is our destiny,” spoke Bazárov. “Only you are slightly off. We are not as few as you imagine.”

“What? You think in earnest you will be able to stand out against a whole nation?”

“You know, it was a kopek candle that caused the conflagration of Moscow,” replied Bazárov.

“Yes, yes. First it is an almost satanic pride, and then contemptuous scoffing. That ’s what the young generation is carried away with, that ’s what conquers the inexperienced hearts of boys! Just look at them: one of them is sitting by your side; he almost worships you,--look at him. (Arkádi turned away and frowned.) This plague has spread far and wide. I have been told that our artists won’t visit the Vatican in Rome, that they regard Raphael almost as a fool, because, don’t you see, he is an authority; but they themselves are impotent and barren to nausea; their fancy does not rise above a _Girl at the Fountain_, try as they may! And the girl is horribly painted at that. In your opinion they are a fine lot, are they not?”

“In my opinion,” retorted Bazárov, “Raphael is not worth a copper penny, and they are not better than he.”

“Bravo! Bravo! Listen, Arkádi! That ’s the way modern young men must express themselves! When I come to think of it, why should they not follow you! Formerly young men had to study; they did not like to pass for ignoramuses, and so they worked, even against their will. But all they have to say now is: “Everything in the world is bosh!” and that ’s all there is to it. The young people are happy. And really, formerly they were nothing but blockheads, but now they have suddenly turned nihilists.”

“There, your vaunted feeling of your personal dignity has played you false,” phlegmatically remarked Bazárov, while Arkádi flamed up and his eyes glistened. “Our discussion has gone too far---- It seems it would be better to cut it short altogether. I will then be ready to agree with you,” he added, rising, “when you will show me one single institution in our present existence, social or domestic, which does not call for a complete and merciless negation.”

“I will show you millions of such institutions,” exclaimed Pável Petróvich, “millions! For example, the village commune.”

A cold smile contorted Bazárov’s lips.

“When it comes to the commune,” he said, “you had better have a talk with your brother. He, it seems, has discovered in practice what kind of a thing the commune is, and communal responsibility, temperance, and similar fine things.”

“The family, if you please, the family, as it exists with our peasants!” cried Pável Petróvich.

“It would be better, I suppose, not to enter into the details of that affair. Listen, Pável Petróvich, give yourself two days’ time; you will hardly find anything before that time. Run over all our conditions of life, consider them all well, while, in the meantime, Arkádi and I will----”

“Make light of everything,” interrupted Pável Petróvich.

“No, cut up frogs. Come, Arkádi! Good-bye, gentlemen!”

Both friends went out.

[15] See page 98, line 28.

POEMS IN PROSE (SENILIA)

NATURE

I dreamt that I entered an enormous subterranean hall with high vaults. It was all filled with an even, subterranean light.

In the very centre of the hall sat a majestic woman in a flowing garment of a green colour. Bending her head on her hand, she seemed to be buried in deep meditation.

I saw at once that that woman was Nature herself, and, with a sudden chill, a reverential awe entered my soul.

I approached the woman who was sitting there, and making a respectful bow: “O our common mother!” I exclaimed. “What are you meditating on? Are you, perchance, pondering on the future destiny of the human race? Or, how it may reach the highest possible perfection and happiness?”

The woman slowly turned to me her dark, piercing eyes. Her lips moved, and there issued from them a ringing voice, like the clanking of iron.

“I am thinking how to add greater strength to the muscles of a flea’s legs, that it may more easily save itself from its enemies. The equilibrium between attack and defence has been impaired---- It must be re-established.”

“What?” I lisped an answer. “Is that what you are thinking about? But are we not, men, your favourite children?”

The woman barely frowned: “All creatures are my children,” she spoke, “and I take equal care of them, and equally exterminate them.”

“But goodness--reason--justice----” I muttered again.

“Those are human words,” was heard the woman’s voice. “I know neither good nor evil---- Reason is not my law, and what is justice? I have given you life, and I will take it from you and will give it to others, worms or men----it makes no difference to me---- You defend yourself in the meantime, and do not bother me!”

I wanted to retort--but the earth around me gave a dull groan and trembled, and I awoke.

Dmítri Vasílevich Grigoróvich. (1822-1900.)

Grigoróvich was the son of a landed proprietor, and was born in a
village on the Vólga, in the Government of Simbírsk. His early
childhood he passed at home; at ten years of age he entered a boarding
school in Moscow, and later the School of Engineers, where he studied
at the same time as his friend Dostoévski. Having become infatuated
with art, he transferred himself to the Academy of Arts and there
studied drawing for two years. He began writing in 1844, and attracted
the attention of the public and of the critic Byelínski by his
sketches from the life of the serfs, _The Village_ and _Antón the
Miserable_. These were followed by a large number of shorter stories
and two novels, _The Fishermen_ and _The Emigrants_; they mainly excel
for their artistic landscape painting, in which they abound. His warm
advocacy of emancipation and his sympathetic descriptions of peasant
life have earned for him the name of the Russian Beecher-Stowe.

Two of his stories have been translated into English: _Cruel City_,
after the Russian, with a sketch of the author, by E. de Pierson
(Sunshine Series, No. 84), London and New York, 1891; _New Year’s Eve_
(Railway and General Automatic Library), London, [1892].

FROM “THE FISHERMEN”

A gloomy, grey day. The vault of heaven looks as though lowered, as though pensively reposing over the silent earth. If it were not for the warmth of the air, the nascent odour of budding verdure, one might have thought spring had suddenly been changed into autumn. There are many such days in the beginning of spring. They resemble the fair, pensive face of a young girl. All Nature suddenly grows still, like a lively child in the open, who, having abandoned himself to noisy, boisterous merriment, and not trusting his strength, suddenly throws himself tired on the grass and sleeps a sweet sleep.

In such days you will not hear a sound. Everything living seems to hold its breath, to get ready for something, to collect its strength for a noisy celebration of the summer. The flocks are silent, as if intoxicated by the strong aroma of the unfolding plants, which, lacking the sunrays, is spreading over the ground; the animals are reclining on the succulent grass, and hang their heads, or lazily wander about. The birds dreamily slumber on the branches that are permeated by their fresh, young sap; the insects are hid under the tree-bark, or have crept into the narrow seams of the moss that, in an infinitely diminished form, resembles impassable fir forests; not a fly buzzes in the air; the air itself seems to be afraid to break the solemn quiet, and touches not a blade, nor even raises the light down that is left in the meadows by the young, newly hatched goslings.

Nothing can be more poetical than such days! A delicate, happily tuned ear can distinguish, midst this dead silence, a measured, harmonious singing. Your soul is filled with an inexpressibly pleasant sensation. But not ecstatic agitation nor pensive sorrow (in which there is a charm of their own) takes possession of your soul: no! your blood and brain are in perfect composure; you simply feel happy; your whole being involuntarily recognises the possibility of quiet, peaceful enjoyments, of a modest, intimate life with yourself,--a life which you have been, perchance, long seeking in vain; the capitals, with their din, splendour, and enticements, do not exist for you: they appear so small that you do not even notice them. In such moments your heart is light and free, as in the first years of happy youth; not one evil thought will enter your head. You are satisfied with yourself, satisfied with your feelings, satisfied with your loneliness, and you bless Providence for having given you a chance to live, breathe, and feel.

It was just such a day when Vanyúsha, early in the morning, bade his family farewell. The landscape, it seemed, had assumed the most gloomy and grey appearance in order to rouse in the heart of the lad as little regret as possible in parting with familiar places. The fisherman’s family was standing in the yard: it was not numerous now, for Peter, Vasíli, and their wives and children had left the day before. There were there in all: Glyeb, his old wife, his son, the adopted child, and Grandfather Kondráti, who had come to see Vanyúsha off.

We find them during the most fateful and oppressive minute. The gate that leads out to the small square is already open; grandfather Kondráti has already taken back to the cabin the old ikon with which the parents have blessed their son. It is only left to say: “Come!” but old Glyeb is still hesitating. Gríshka has meanwhile told the companion of his youth good-bye; he is standing some distance away; his head is bent, his brows are knit, but his dark eyes, which are stealthily directed now to one side of the yard, now to another, clearly indicate that his sorrowful look is assumed only by necessity, to fit the occasion, and that he does not share the family’s grief.

None of those present this minute think of the adopted child. Aunt Ánna tightly clasps the neck of her beloved child with both her hands; the face of the old woman is still more tightly pressed against his breast; in a weak, dying voice she pronounces a disconnected parting prayer. Before them Glyeb is standing; his eyes are dry; he utters no complaints, no accusations, no bitter words of blame, but his hands folded over his breast, the drooping head, the furrows, which one cannot count upon his high brow, sufficiently indicate that the soul of the old fisherman is passing through a heavy trial. In vain Grandfather Kondráti, whom Glyeb always respected and obeyed, tries to console him, calling to his aid soul-saving words: the words of the old man are powerless now; they act upon Glyeb as upon a half-witted person: he hears every word of the grandfather, distinguishes every sound of his voice, but does not retain them in his memory. Glyeb is still unable to collect his thoughts: in the last three days the old man had passed through so much sorrow! The acts of his children have effaced from his memory the whole sixty years of a quiet, undisturbed, one may even say, happy life. But however much one may think, or feel grieved, nothing is gained by it, and time passes. “Come!” says Glyeb.

Grandfather Kondráti warily unclasps the hands of the old woman who thoughtlessly and speechlessly is hanging about the neck of her son; Aunt Ánna has wept her last strength away with her last tears. Ványa transfers her from his hands to the hands of Kondráti, hastily throws a bundle with his possession over his shoulder, makes the sign of the cross and, without raising his tearful eyes, hurries after his father who meanwhile has bent around the corner of the cabin. A despairing, heartrending cry, uttered behind him, chains the young lad to the spot.

“Ványa!--Ványa!”

“Cease, mother----do not grieve so----God is merciful!” says he, embracing the old woman who is grasping him in her hands like an insensate person.

But the consolations are in vain! Grandfather Kondráti and Ványa continue their path, while supporting Ánna. Now, they have already passed the garden, and now, they have crossed the brook. This brook, witness of youthful years, serves as the last threshold of the paternal house. Now, they have already reached the footpath, and they begin to ascend the hill. Memories are crowding in the soul of the young lad; with every advancing step there is a new parting.

However much the young fisherman strengthened himself with the thought that by his action he had saved his old father from injustice and had freed him from a heavy sin, however strong his faith in Providence was, yet he could not restrain his tears that of their own accord coursed down his youthful cheeks. It is, indeed, hard for the first time to part from your paternal home, and you cannot control your heart: it will not listen to reason, and is not deceived by fancies and hopes.

It is even more difficult for a common man to leave his native roof, than for any other person. No matter how wretched the cabin of the poor man may be, he is attached to it with all his feelings, with all his soul. The attachment of the educated man for material objects to which he has become accustomed, his attachment for his house and his soil, is quite insignificant in comparison with the attachment of the common man for the same objects with which he is familiar. This is easily explained: the mental and spiritual life which more or less absolves man from a coarse materialism is very limited in the common man. Living almost exclusively a material, carnal life, he, so to say, grows one with every object which surrounds him, with every log of his cabin; he was born there, he has passed his life there without interruption; not one thought has drawn him away beyond the confines of his native hut: on the contrary, all his thoughts have been directed to the one object of never leaving his home. The Russian peasant is pre-eminently a lover of his family, and domestic in his habits.

I had once occasion to see a ploughman’s family who were of their own free will emigrating to the fertile southern Governments, bidding farewell to their field,--miserable two desyatínas of clayey, almost worthless, soil. I have in all my life not seen such a terrible parting, such terrible tears! A mother, who parts from her beloved children, does not embrace them so passionately and does not kiss them so warmly, as these peasants kissed the earth that had supported them so many years. It seemed as though they left themselves in these two plots. Pieces of earth were even sewed into the amulets of the suckling babes!

The common man bows to habit: when he parts from his house, he parts from everything that binds him to the soil. He has lived in his exclusive, limited sphere; there are no interests for him outside of his home; he looks with suspicion at the world which transcends the limits of his customary, narrow conceptions. When he leaves his home, he does not strengthen himself, as we do, with dreams and hopes: he positively knows only this,--that he is leaving his home, that he is leaving everything which binds him to life, and therefore he abandons himself with all his feelings, with all his soul to grief.

Having reached the summit of the high ridge of the river bank, from which the deceased Uncle Akím had once timidly descended with Gríshka to the cabin of the old fisherman, Glyeb stopped. It was not the rapid ascent that had tired him: he would rather have walked more rapidly, and would have gone higher up. A strange weight rested upon the old man’s heart; he wished to walk a hundred versts without stopping, if the exhaustion would only allay the persistent pining that was gnawing at his heart. When Ványa and Grandfather Kondráti, who were still supporting Ánna, had ascended the hill, Glyeb went up to them:

“Why did you bring her here?” said he impatiently: “it will not make things easier. Well, old woman, that will do--say farewell, and the Lord be with you! Too much parting,--too much weeping! Well, good-bye!”

“Good-bye, mother!” muttered the son, and for the first time he could not control himself, and for the first time burst out into tears: he wept bitterly, like a small boy.

The old woman shuddered at this sight: her oblivion disappeared, her strength was resurrected. Drawing aside with her lean hands the kerchief which covered her head, she cast a senseless glance on all present, as if not yet quite conscious of what was happening, and then she suddenly, with the rapidity of lightning, threw herself on her son, and placed her hands over his head. The cry that accompanied that motion cut as with a knife the hearts of the two old men. People of Grandfather Kondráti’s age do not weep: all the tears have been wept, and their source itself has long ago dried up. But Glyeb had yet seen little grief; and so his strength left him. However much Glyeb fortified himself, however much he turned his head aside, and knit his brows, large teardrops of their own will burst from his eyes and silvered still more his grey beard. He waved his hand and walked ahead more rapidly. Ványa tore himself away from the embrace of his mother and ran after him, all the time making the sign of the cross.

“Ványa! Ványa!”

The old woman started after her son; but her legs gave way. She fell upon her knees and extended her hands before her.

Ványa meanwhile continued to follow his father. Only once did he turn back: the cabins, the small squares, the brook, the boats, the nets,--all had disappeared! At the edge of the hill, which hid the indentation of the shore that served him for his native place, he saw only Kondráti’s white head leaning over something prostrate in the road. Beyond them, in the limitless depth, he saw the distant meadows. From this height Grandfather Kondráti’s little lake appeared as in the palm of the hand: a white moving dot glinted through the verdure that surrounded the lake in a dark strip. Ványa almost stopped, but immediately turned his head aside, made the sign of the cross, and walked on more rapidly. When he found himself within a few steps from his father, he did not hold out, and turned back once more; but this time the eyes of the young lad no longer met familiar places: everything had disappeared behind the hill, the dark ridge of which rested against the gloomy, grey, cheerless sky.

Farewell, mother! Farewell home, childhood, memories,--farewell everything!

Yákov Petróvich Polónski. (1820-1898).

Polónski was born in the city of Ryazán, where he graduated from the
Gymnasium. After that he studied law at the Moscow University, and in
1844 he published his first collection of poems, under the title of
_Gamuts_. Then began for him years of restless wanderings in Russia
and abroad, in his attempt to earn his daily bread. Upon his return to
St. Petersburg, in 1859, he became an editor of a periodical, and soon
after he was made a member in the Board of Foreign Censorship. His
genius has been characterised by Turgénev as follows: “His talent
represents a special, quite individual mixture of simple-hearted
grace, a free picturesqueness of language, upon which still rests a
reflection of Púshkin’s elegance, and a certain amiable, though
frequently awkward, honesty and truthfulness of impressions. At times
he, almost unconsciously to himself, surprises one with the sharpness
of his poetic vision.” Many of his lyrics belong to the most popular
of songs in Russia, and have been set to music. Of his longer poems,
the fantastic tale _Musician Grasshopper_ enjoys the greatest
popularity.

But little of Polónski has been translated. In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian
Lyrics_ are given _The Birds_, _Night in the Crimea_, _The Sun and the
Moon_, _The Guardian Angel_; in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the
Russian_,--_On Skobelev_ (reprinted in the Library of the World’s Best
Literature); in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 21, by H.
Havelock, _Love scared thee not_, and _To the fond heart that
passionately loveth_; in Free Russia, vol. xii, No. 11, by Charlotte
Sidgwick, _A Vision_.

THE BIRDS

The smell of fields pervades the air,
And in the peaceful sky
Are heard the lays of tuneful birds,
Resounding far and high.

Each has its mate, with whom it spends
The hours of day and night;
In unmown fields, and growing grass,
Their homes are their delight.

Up in the skies they pour their notes,
Fired with enraptured song;
But, still, to earth, though not for bread,
The free birds all belong.

While thus I listen to their voice,
Vexation stirs my mind;
Their happy lot with envy fills
The hearts of all mankind.

--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.

NIGHT IN THE CRIMEA

Bear’st thou in mind the moon’s glimmering light,
On rocks the waves dashing with sullen roar,
The rustling trees with sleepy leaves adight,
The chirruping crickets in the fields anight,
Close by the garden, on the sea-girt shore?

In twilight soft, beneath the garden’s shade,
We wandered; scent of laurel filled the air;
We saw a grotto in the vineyard made,
And water falling, as we careless strayed,
Which sounded sweetly in the basin there.

Dost thou recall the freshness of the hour,
The smell of roses, and the murmuring brooks?
All Nature seemed entranced with magic power,
And at each other, in the perfumed bower
Sitting, gazed we with absorbing looks.

The music flowing from all Nature’s smiles,
The melody working in the awakened soul,
This have I heard mid all the cozening wiles
Of life,--in direst storms,--and it beguiles
My aching heart, and fills my spirit whole.

I lent unto the chords attentive ear,
While my mind warmèd to the beauteous sound,
Which touched my senses with triumphant cheer;
I listened till it drew me ever near,
And all my soul with joyous rapture bound.

--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.

───────

Love scared thee not, for early thy heart ripened;
His was thy trust, and now thou mourn’st alone.
O hapless, hopeless prey of lies and passion,
Burst thou their net, and fear not any blame!

The blame of men, their feigned reprobation,
Heed not, nor weep, but clear thy clouded eyes.
Not I thy judge, thy headsman, though I know it
That with a laugh malice thy doom has signed.

Has not each one of us been passion’s plaything?
Will nought but death assuage thine enemies’ scorn?
Will e’en thy friends not cease thy soul to torture?
Feed not the fire, and malice self must die.

And all that in thee was of pure, of holy,
Of dear, shall sacred be to those that love thee,
And rich as ever shall thy generous heart be,
And thou shalt love as erst and, loving, smile.

--Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 21.

FROM “MUSICIAN GRASSHOPPER”

Not the blustering cricket chirping at the stove I sing: my hero is a small grasshopper. He was of small size, but oblong in shape, and wore over his back a greenish frock; he was thin-legged, lank, and broad of brow, and he was a real genius, had a special gift: he was famed as a musician among all the insects, and he often invited his friends to hear his concerts. He lived under the luxuriant grass in the open field, and drowned the air with the eternal piping of his orchestra. The frivolous tribe of hoppers has forgotten that at that time he was the representative of good taste and music.

Everything which the rustic dweller nowadays hears outside the window, as he lies upon his bed, or as he walks out on the balcony in his morning gown,--this crackling piping, this discordant din that is over everything,--so dry and yet so tender,--if in this gloomy concert there is at all any glowing voluptuousness and rapture,--believe me,--those are the bygone, eternal creations, or imitations, of my hero.

Poor little grasshopper, your genius is forgotten! But you have passed your life not without adventures. I know you did not in vain pass for an idealist: you used to sit down in the silvery light of the moon, under the canopy of night, upon a grassblade broken by the wind. Though the bending ears are not lightly broken, yet the naughty wind crushes many of them in the wavy meadow. You used to sit down, and with all your might you scraped upon your fiddle, in order to glorify night. And the empty-headed squeakers, the villainous mosquitoes, the trumpeters of the steppe, teased you, and ladybirds fell in love with you, and envy roiled many a little head with the same musical inclination and with the same eagerness, but not with the same ability. And the gnat threatened to kill, by means of science, the sounds which you produced, and the weighty June-bug repeatedly assured all that it was pleasant to moisten the ears at your concert, for otherwise the ears would dry up, like the grass, from the terrible drouth.

In your private life you have frequently been put in an awkward position by the good little ladybirds, flies, and little bugs: you listened to their confessions, and timidly avoided secret meetings with them. Nothing, however, disturbed your calm: no sting appeared injurious to your talent: you were unconquerable in the musical world.