“And how old is your father?”
“Forty-four.”
Bazarov suddenly roared with laughter.
“What are you laughing at?”
“My goodness! A man of forty-four, a father of a family, in this province, plays on the cello!”
Bazarov went on laughing, but, much as he revered his friend’s example, this time Arkady did not even smile.
Chapter 10
A fortnight passed by.
Life at Maryino pursued its normal course, while Arkady luxuriously enjoyed himself and Bazarov worked.
Everyone in the house had grown accustomed to Bazarov, to his casual behavior, to his curt and abrupt manner of speaking.
Fenichka indeed, felt so much at ease with him that one night she had him awakened; Mitya had been seized by convulsions; Bazarov had gone, half-joking and half-yawning as usual, had sat with her for two hours and relieved the child.
On the other hand, Pavel Petrovich had grown to hate Bazarov with all the strength of his soul; he regarded him as conceited, impudent, cynical and vulgar, he suspected that Bazarov had no respect for him, that he all but despised him — him, Pavel Kirsanov!
Nikolai Petrovich was rather frightened of the young “Nihilist” and doubted the benefit of his influence on Arkady, but he listened keenly to what he said and was glad to be present during his chemical and scientific experiments.
Bazarov had brought a microscope with him and busied himself with it for hours.
The servants also took to him, though he made fun of them; they felt that he was more like one of themselves, and not a master.
Dunyasha was always ready to giggle with him and used to cast significant sidelong glances at him when she skipped past like a squirrel. Pyotr, who was vain and stupid to the highest degree, with a constant forced frown on his brow, and whose only merit consisted in the fact that he looked polite, could spell out a page of reading and assiduously brushed his coat — even he grinned and brightened up when Bazarov paid any attention to him; the farm boys simply ran after “the doctor” like puppies.
Only old Prokovich disliked him; at table he handed him dishes with a grim expression; he called him “butcher” and “upstart” and declared that with his huge whiskers he looked like a pig in a sty.
Prokovich in his own way was quite as much of an aristocrat as Pavel Petrovich.
The best days of the year had come — the early June days.
The weather was lovely; in the distance, it is true, cholera was threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had grown used to its periodic ravages.
Bazarov used to get up very early and walk for two or three miles, not for pleasure — he could not bear walking without an object — but in order to collect specimens of plants and insects.
Sometimes he took Arkady with him.
On the way home an argument often sprang up, in which Arkady was usually defeated in spite of talking more than his companion.
One day they had stayed out rather late. Nikolai Petrovich had gone into the garden to meet them, and as he reached the arbor he suddenly heard the quick steps and voices of the two young men; they were walking on the other side of the arbor and could not see him.
“You don’t know my father well enough,” Arkady was saying.
“Your father is a good fellow,” said Bazarov, “but his day is over; his song has been sung to extinction.”
Nikolai Petrovich listened intently . . . Arkady made no reply.
The man whose day was over stood still for a minute or two, then quietly returned to the house.
“The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,” Bazarov went on meanwhile. “Please explain to him how utterly useless that is.
After all he’s not a boy, it’s high time he got rid of such rubbish.
And what an idea to be romantic in our times!
Give him something sensible to read.”
“What should I give him?” asked Arkady.
“Oh, I think Buchner’s Stoff und Kraft to start with.”
“I think so too,” remarked Arkady approvingly.
“Stoff und Kraft is written in popular language . . .”
“So it seems,” said Nikolai Petrovich the same day after dinner to his brother, as they sat in his study, “you and I are behind the times, our day is over.
Well . . . perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing, I must say, hurts me; I was so hoping just now to get on really close and friendly terms with Arkady, and it turns out that I’ve lagged behind while he has gone forward, and we simply can’t understand one another.”
“But how has he gone forward?
And in what way is he so different from us?” exclaimed Pavel Petrovich impatiently. “It’s that grand seigneur of a nihilist who has knocked such ideas into his head.
I loathe that doctor fellow; in my opinion he’s nothing but a charlatan; I’m sure that in spite of all his tadpoles he knows precious little even in medicine.”
“No, brother, you mustn’t say that; Bazarov is clever and knows his subject.”
“And so disagreeably conceited,” Pavel Petrovich broke in again.
“Yes,” observed Nikolai Petrovich, “he is conceited.
Evidently one can’t manage without it, that’s what I failed to take into account.
I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I divided the land with the peasants, started a model farm, so that I’m even described as a “Rebel” all over the province; I read, I study, I try in every way to keep abreast of the demands of the day — and they say my day is over.
And brother, I really begin to think that it is.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ll tell you why.
I was sitting and reading Pushkin today . . .