I remember, it happened to be The Gypsies . . . Suddenly Arkady comes up to me and silently, with such a kind pity in his face, as gently as if I were a baby, takes the book away from me and puts another one in front of me instead . . . a German book . . . smiles and goes out, carrying Pushkin off with him.”
“Well, really!
What book did he give you?”
“This one.”
And Nikolai Petrovich pulled out of his hip pocket the ninth edition of Buchner’s well-known treatise.
Pavel Petrovich turned it over in his hands.
“Hm!” he growled, “Arkady Nikolayevich is taking your education in hand.
Well, have you tried to read it?”
“Yes, I tried.”
“What did you think of it?”
“Either I’m stupid, or it’s all nonsense.
I suppose I must be stupid.”
“But you haven’t forgotten your German?” asked Pavel Petrovich.
“Oh, I understand the language all right.”
Pavel Petrovich again fingered the book and glanced across at his brother.
Both were silent.
“Oh, by the way,” began Nikolai Petrovich, evidently wanting to change the subject — “I’ve had a letter from Kolyazin.”
“From Matvei Ilyich?”
“Yes.
He has come to inspect the province.
He’s quite a bigwig now, he writes to say that as a relation he wants to see us again, and invites you, me and Arkady to go to stay in the town.”
“Are you going?” asked Pavel Petrovich.
“No. Are you?”
“No. I shan’t go.
What is the sense of dragging oneself forty miles on a wild-goose chase.
Mathieu wants to show off to us in all his glory. Let him go to the devil! He’ll have the whole province at his feet, so he can get on without us.
It’s a grand honor — a privy councilor!
If I had continued in the service, drudging along in that dreary routine, I should have been a general-adjutant by now.
Besides, you and I are behind the times.”
“Yes, brother; it seems the time has come to order a coffin, and to cross the arms over one’s chest,” remarked Nikolai Petrovich with a sigh.
“Well, I shan’t give in quite so soon,” muttered his brother. “I’ve got a quarrel with this doctor creature in front of me, I’m sure of that.”
The quarrel materialized that very evening at tea.
Pavel Petrovich came into the drawing room all keyed up, irritable and determined.
He was only waiting for a pretext to pounce upon his enemy, but for some time no such pretext arose.
As a rule Bazarov spoke little in the presence of the “old Kirsanovs” (that was what he called the brothers), and that evening he felt in a bad humor and drank cup after cup of tea without saying a word.
Pavel Petrovich was burning with impatience; his wishes were fulfilled at last.
The conversation turned to one of the neighboring landowners.
“Rotten aristocratic snob,” observed Bazarov casually; he had met him in Petersburg.
“Allow me to ask you,” began Pavel Petrovich, and his lips were trembling, “do you attach an identical meaning to the words ‘rotten’ and ‘aristocrat’?”
“I said ‘aristocratic snob,’” replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip of tea.
“Precisely, but I imagine you hold the same opinion of aristocrats as of aristocratic snobs.
I think it my duty to tell you that I do not share that opinion.
I venture to say that I am well known to be a man of liberal views and devoted to progress, but for that very reason I respect aristocrats — real aristocrats.
Kindly remember, sir,” (at these words Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel Petrovich) “kindly remember, sir,” he repeated sharply, “the English aristocracy.
They did not abandon one iota of their rights, and for that reason they respect the rights of others; they demand the fulfillment of what is due to them, and therefore they respect their own duties.
The aristocracy gave freedom to England, and they maintain it for her.”
“We’ve heard that story many times; what are you trying to prove by it?”
“I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir,” (when Pavel Petrovich became angry he intentionally clipped his words, though of course he knew very well that such forms are not strictly grammatical.
This whim indicated a survival from the period of Alexander I.
The great ones of that time, on the rare occasions when they spoke their own language, made use of such distortions as if seeking to show thereby that though they were genuine Russians, yet at the same time as grands seigneurs they could afford to ignore the grammatical rules of scholars) “I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir, that without a sense of personal dignity, without self-respect — and these two feelings are developed in the aristocrat — there is no firm foundation for the social . . . bien public . . . for the social structure.