Fathers and Sons

Bazarov threw aside his pistol and approached his antagonist.

"Are you wounded?" he inquired.

"Pray recall me to the mark," said Paul Petrovitch. "You have the right so to do, and we are merely wasting time. The conditions of the contest allow of a second shot apiece."

"Pardon me, that can be deferred," said Bazarov, catching hold of Paul Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale in the face. "I am no longer a duellist, but a doctor, and must examine your wound. Peter! Here! Where the devil has the man got to?"

"This is sheer folly," gasped Paul Petrovitch. "I need no help. Let us – " Yet, even as he tried to twirl his moustache, his arm fell to his side, his eyes closed, and he collapsed in a swoon.

"Something new!" involuntarily cried Bazarov as he laid his antagonist upon the grass. "A swoon! Let us see what is the matter with him."

Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he wiped away the blood, and probed the neighbourhood of the wound.

"The bone is intact," he muttered. "Yes, and the bullet has merely pierced the flesh a little below the surface. Nothing but the musculus vastus externus is so much as touched. In three weeks' time we shall have him trotting about again. A swoon! Oh these men of nerves! What thin skins, to be sure!"

"Is – is he dead?" came in Peter's tremulous voice from behind.

Bazarov looked up.

"No," he said. "Run for a little water, and he will outlive us both."

Unfortunately the "perfect servant" did not understand what was said to him, but remained stock still. In fact, even when, the next moment, Paul Petrovitch opened his eyes Peter went on crossing himself and repeating: "He is dying!"

"Monsieur Bazarov," the wounded man said with a twisted smile, "you were perfectly in the right when you said that the face of that man was the face of a fool."

"It is so," agreed Bazarov. "Damn you, will you fetch some water!" (The latter to the valet.)

"There is no need," put in Paul Petrovitch. "It was only a passing vertigo. Kindly assist me to sit up. That is it. A scratch like this will require only to be bandaged for me to walk home again. There will be no necessity to have the drozhki sent. For that matter, the duel need not be renewed unless you wish it. At least to-day you have acted like a gentleman. Kindly note that I have said so."

"To the past we have no need to refer," said Bazarov. "And, as regards the future, it calls for equally little remark, seeing that I intend to leave here at once. Allow me to bind your leg. The wound is not dangerous, but one of a nature which will make it as well to have the blood staunched. But first I must restore that stuck pig to life."

Shaking Peter vigorously by the collar, he dispatched him in search of the drozhki.

"But see that you do not alarm my brother," was Paul Petrovitch's injunction also to the man. "You are not to breathe a word of what has happened."

Peter set off at full speed. During the time that he was hastening for the drozhki, the two antagonists sat silently side by side on the ground, while Paul Petrovitch tried his best not to look at Bazarov, for the reason that he did not feel inclined to become reconciled with him, while at the same time he felt ashamed alike of his impulsiveness, his failure, and the scheme which had had this ending, though he realised that it might have been worse.

"At least will the fellow swagger here no more," he thought to himself by way of consolation. "And, for that, much thanks!"

The silence was a heavy, awkward silence, for neither of the pair felt comfortable – each of them recognised that the other had taken his measure. To friends, such a recognition may be very agreeable, but to foes it is far from welcome – least of all, when neither explanations nor a parting are feasible.

"I hope that I have not bound your leg too tightly?" said Bazarov at last.

"Oh no," replied Paul Petrovitch. "As a matter of fact, it is doing splendidly." After a pause he added: "But we cannot deceive my brother. How would it be if we were to tell him that we fell out over politics?"

"Capital!" agreed Bazarov. "Tell him, for instance, that I started cursing Anglomaniacs."

"A good idea! But what can that man be thinking of us? I cannot imagine." The speaker pointed to the same peasant who, shortly before the duel, had driven a pair of loose horses past Bazarov, and was now shuffling homewards, while doffing his cap at the sight of the gentlemen.

"Who can say?" replied Bazarov. "Probably he is thinking of nothing at all. As Madame Radcliffe36 frequently reminds us, the Russian muzhik is an unknown quantity. Does any one understand him? He does not even understand himself."

"There you go again!" began Paul Petrovitch, but suddenly broke off to say in a still louder tone: "See what that fool Peter has done! Here comes my brother himself!"

Sure enough, on turning his head, Bazarov saw Nikolai Petrovitch's pale face peering from the drozhki. Nor had the vehicle come to a halt before Nikolai had sprung from the step, and rushed towards his brother.

"What is this?" he cried in agitated accents. "Evgenii Vasilitch, I beg of you to tell me what has happened."

"Nothing has happened," replied Paul Petrovitch in Bazarov's stead. "You are disturbing yourself to no purpose. I had a small quarrel with Monsieur Bazarov, and have paid a penalty as small."

"But whence did it arise? For God's sake tell me!"

"What is there to say? It arose from the fact that Monsieur Bazarov spoke in disrespectful terms of Sir Robert Peel. I would hasten to add that, throughout, I alone was at fault, and that Monsieur Bazarov bore himself admirably – I being the challenger."

"But look at the blood!"

"Pshaw! Did you suppose my veins to run with water? As a matter of fact, the blood-letting will do me good. Is not that so, doctor? Help me to mount the drozhki, and away with melancholy! By to-morrow I shall be recovered. Splendid! That is the way to do it. Right away, coachman!"

When on the point of starting homewards in the wake of the drozhki, Nikolai Petrovitch perceived Bazarov to be for remaining behind.

"Evgenii Vasilitch," he said, "I would beg of you to attend my brother until a doctor can be procured from the town."

Bazarov nodded in silence.

An hour later Paul Petrovitch was reposing in bed with his leg neatly and artistically bandaged. The whole house was in a turmoil, Thenichka greatly upset, and Nikolai able to do nothing but wring his hands. The sick man, on the contrary, laughed and jested, especially with Bazarov, and, to meet the occasion, had donned a fine linen shirt, an elegant morning jacket, and a Turkish fez. Lastly, he forbade any one to close the shutters, and kept venting humorous protests against the necessity of abstaining from food.

Towards nightfall, however, fever supervened, and his head began to ache; with the result that when the doctor arrived from the town (Nikolai Petrovitch had disobeyed his brother in this respect, and Bazarov also had consented to his doing so, in that, after paying the patient a single visit, and that a very brief one, and being put to the mortification of having to avoid Thenichka on two occasions when he met her, he had felt that he preferred to spend the rest of the day in loneliness, bitterness, and rancour) – when the doctor arrived from the town he advised a cooling draught, but at the same time confirmed Bazarov's opinion that no danger was to be apprehended. In passing, it may also be mentioned that, on being informed by Nikolai Petrovitch that Paul Petrovitch's wound had been self-inflicted through an accident, the said doctor replied "H'm!"; to which, on receiving into his hand a fee of twenty-five roubles, he added that of course things of the kind often occurred.

No one in the house, that night, retired to bed, or even undressed, but at intervals Nikolai Petrovitch would tiptoe into his brother's room, and as silently withdraw. At intervals, too, Paul Petrovitch would awake from a doze, sigh faintly, and say to Nikolai either "Couchez-vous" or "Please give me a drink." But once it happened that Nikolai sent the invalid a glass of lemonade by the hand of Thenichka; and this time Paul Petrovitch scanned her long and searchingly before draining the tumbler to the dregs. Towards morning the fever increased a little, and a trace of lightheadedness made its appearance which for a while caused the patient only to utter disconnected words. But suddenly he opened his eyes, and, on seeing his brother bending solicitously over the bed, murmured:

"Nikolai, do not you think that Thenichka slightly resembles Nelly?"

"What Nelly, Paul? Who is Nelly?"

"How can you ask? The Princess R., of course. In the upper portion of the face especially Thenichka resembles her. C'est de la même famille."

Nikolai Petrovitch made no reply. He could only remain lost in wonder that bygone fancies could so survive in the human consciousness.

"That this should have cropped up again!" he reflected.

On another occasion Paul Petrovitch muttered as he clasped his hands behind his head: "How I love this idle existence!" And again, a few minutes later, he whispered: "I will not allow a single rascal to touch me!"

Nikolai Petrovitch sighed. To whom the words referred he had not a notion.

At eight o'clock next morning Bazarov entered Nikolai's room. His stock of insects, birds, and frogs had either been packed up or liberated.

Rising to meet him, Nikolai said:

"So you have come to say good-bye?"

"I have."

"I understand your feelings, and I commend them. I know that my poor brother alone was to blame, and is now paying the penalty. Also, I gather from what he says that your position was such that you could not possibly have acted otherwise than as you did – that for you to have avoided this duel would have been impossible. That being so, we must attribute the mischance to the – er – standing antagonism of your views" (here Nikolai Petrovitch tripped over his words a little). "My brother is one of the old school, a man of hot temper and great persistency. Consequently we have God to thank that things have turned out no worse. Finally I may say that every possible precaution against publicity has been taken."

"Quite so," said Bazarov carelessly. "But I will leave my address with you, in case of anything occurring."

"I hope that nothing will occur. Indeed, my one regret is that your stay in my house should have – should have terminated in such a fashion. And I am the more grieved in that Arkady – "

"I expect to be seeing him very soon," interrupted Bazarov, whom "explanations" or "speeches" of any kind always roused to fever pitch. "On the other hand, should I not do so, pray convey to him my greetings and my regrets."

"I will," said Nikolai Petrovitch with a bow; but even before he had finished Bazarov had left the room.

Paul Petrovitch, too, as soon as he heard that Bazarov was on the point of departing, expressed a desire to see him, and to shake hands with him. Yet Bazarov remained as cold as ice, for well he knew that Paul Petrovitch's only aim was to make a show of "magnanimity," while to Thenichka he did not say good-bye at all – he merely exchanged with her a glance as she peeped from one of the windows. Her face looked to him careworn.

"Before long she will either trip or elope," he reflected.

On the other hand, Peter was so moved at the prospect of parting with his patron that he wept on the latter's shoulder until his transports were cooled with the question: "Surely your eyes are not made of water?" while Duniasha's emotion was such that she had to take refuge in a thicket. Meanwhile the cause of all this grief mounted the travelling-cart, and lit a cigar; and even when he had travelled four versts, and reached a spot where a turn in the road brought the Kirsanov farm into line with the new manor-house, he merely expectorated some tobacco juice, and muttered, as he wrapped himself closer in his cloak: "The cursed tomnoddies!"

Thenceforth Paul Petrovitch began to mend, but still was ordered to keep his bed for another week. What he called his "imprisonment" he bore with very fair patience, although he remained fussy in the matter of his toilet, and constantly had himself sprinkled with eau-de-Cologne. Meanwhile Nikolai Petrovitch read aloud to him the newspapers, and Thenichka served him with soup, lemonade, scrambled eggs, and tea. Yet she never entered the room without feeling a mysterious nervousness come over her. Paul Petrovitch's unexpected behaviour had frightened every one in the house, but her it had frightened most of all. Only old Prokofitch seemed undismayed at the occurrence, and kept asserting that, in his day, "the gentry used to bore holes in one another right enough, but only the gentry. Jackanapes like that Bazarov would have been ducked in the gutter for their pains."

Thenichka felt little pricking of conscience, but there were times when the thought of the true cause of the quarrel rendered her at least uneasy, and the more so because Paul Petrovitch's way of looking at her was now so strange that, even when she turned her back to him, she could still feel his eyes upon her. In combination, therefore, her worries led to her growing thinner, and also (as often happens in such circumstances) to her adding to her beauty.

At length, one morning, Paul Petrovitch felt so much better that he left his bed, and removed to the sofa; while Nikolai Petrovitch, after seeing that he had all he wanted, betook himself to the farm. Also, it fell to Thenichka's lot to take the invalid a cup of tea; and when she had placed it on the table, she was about to withdraw, when Paul Petrovitch requested her to remain.

"Why should you hurry away?" he said. "Is it that you have other things to do?"

"No – yes. That is to say, I have to go and pour out tea for the servants."

"Duniasha can do that. Surely you will stay awhile with a sick man who has something of great importance to say to you?"

Silently she seated herself on the edge of a chair.

"Listen," he continued, as he tugged at his moustache.

"For some time past I have been wanting to ask you why you are so afraid of me?"

"Afraid of you?"

"Yes; for you never look at me. In fact, one would think that your conscience was uneasy."

Her face reddened, but she looked Paul Petrovitch straight in the eyes. Somehow his aspect struck her as peculiar, and her heart began to throb.

"Is your conscience clear?" he asked.

"Yes, Why should it not be?" she responded in a whisper.

"I do not know. Certainly I can recall no one against whom you can have committed a fault. Against me? It is scarcely probable. Against others in this house? That is as improbable. Against my brother? But him you love, do you not?"

"I do."

"With your whole heart and soul?"

"With my whole heart and soul."

"Really and truly, Thenichka?" (never before had he addressed her thus). "Look me in the eyes. To lie is a terrible sin. You know that, of course?"

"But I am not lying, Paul Petrovitch. Did I not love Nikolai Petrovitch, I should not want to live."

"And you would exchange him for no one else?"

"Whom should I exchange him for?"

"I do not know. Surely not for the gentlemen who has just left us?"

Thenichka rose to her feet.

"Why should you torment me in this way?" she cried. "What have I done that you should speak to me so?"

"Thenichka," came the mournful reply, "I speak to you in this manner for the reason that I saw – "

"You saw what?"

"I saw you– in the lilac arbour."

She blushed to her ears, to the very roots of her hair.

"But how was I to blame?" at length she contrived to say.

Paul Petrovitch raised himself on the sofa.

"You swear, do you, that you were not to blame?" he said. "That you were not in the slightest degree to blame? Not at all?"

"I love Nikolai Petrovitch," came the reply, delivered with sudden energy and a rising sob, "and never shall I love any other man. As for what you saw, before the Throne of Judgment I swear that I am innocent, that I have always been so, and that I would rather die than be suspected of having deceived Nikolai Petrovitch, my benefactor."

Her voice failed her. Then, behold! she felt Paul seize and press her hand! Turning her head, she looked down at him – and stood almost petrified. For his face was even paler than usual, his eyes were glistening, and – most surprising thing of all! – a great tear was trickling down his cheek!

"Thenichka," he whispered in a voice which hardly seemed his own, "I beg of you always to love, and never to cease loving, my brother. He is such a good, kind fellow as has not his equal in the world. Never desert him for another; never listen to any tales which you may hear of him, but reflect how terrible it would be for him to love and not to be loved! Yes, think well, Thenichka, before ever you forsake him."

Thenichka's amazement caused her eyes almost to start from her head, and her nervousness completely to vanish. Judge, also, of her surprise when, though he did not draw her to himself, nor kiss her, Paul Petrovitch raised her hand to his lips, and then burst into a convulsive fit of sobbing!

"God in Heaven!" she thought to herself. "What if this should make him have another fainting fit?"

Meanwhile, in that one moment Paul Petrovitch was living over again a past phase of his ruined life.

Presently hurried footsteps were heard causing the staircase to creak; and just as Paul pushed Thenichka away from him and replaced his head upon the pillow, the door opened, and Nikolai Petrovitch – fresh, ruddy, and smiling – entered with little Mitia. The latter, equally fresh and ruddy, was leaping in Nikolai's arms, and pressing his tiny, naked feet against the buttons of his father's rural smock.

Running to father and child, Thenichka threw her arms around both alike, and sank her head upon the former's shoulder. This caused him to halt in amazement, for never before had the bashful, reserved Thenichka shown him any endearment in the presence of a third person.

"What is the matter?" he exclaimed. Then he glanced at Paul, handed Mitia to Thenichka, and, approaching the bedside, inquired if his brother were worse.

Paul's face was buried in his handkerchief, but he replied:

"Oh dear no. Not at all. If anything, I am better – yes, very much better."

"Nevertheless you have been over-hasty in removing to the sofa," said Nikolai Petrovitch; after which he turned to ask Thenichka why she was leaving the room, but she departed abruptly, and closed the door behind her.

"I had come to show you my little rascal," Nikolai continued. "He had been pining for a sight of his uncle. But she has carried him away for some reason. What is the matter? Has something occurred?"

"My brother," replied Paul Petrovitch – and as he uttered the words Nikolai Petrovitch gave a start, and felt ill at ease, he knew not why. "My brother, pray give me your word of honour that you will fulfil the request which I am going to make."

"What request, Paul? I beg of you to continue."

"A request of the first importance. Upon it, I believe, your entire happiness depends. Also, what I am going to say represents the fruit of much thought. My brother, the request is that you will do your duty, the duty of a good and honourable man. In other words, I beseech you to put an end to this scandal and bad example, which is unworthy of you, unworthy of a man who is the best of souls."

"To what do you refer, Paul?"

"To this. You ought to marry Thenichka. She loves you, and is the mother of your child."

Stepping back, Nikolai Petrovitch clasped his hands together.

"Do you say this?" he exclaimed. "Do you say this —you whom I have always understood to be opposed to such unions? Do you say this? Surely you know that solely out of respect for yourself have I hitherto refrained from doing what rightfully you call my duty?"

"Wrongfully, then, have you respected me," said Paul Petrovitch with a sad smile. "In fact, almost I am beginning to think that Bazarov was right when he accused me of only feigning the aristocratic instinct. For it is not enough for you and me to trouble ourselves about worldly matters alone. We are old men past our prime, who ought to lay aside all pettinesses, and to fulfil strictly our obligations. Nor forget that, should we thus act, we shall receive an added measure of happiness as our reward."

Nikolai Petrovitch flung himself upon his brother, and embraced him again and again.

"You have opened my eyes," he cried. "When I described you as the best man in the world I was not wrong: and now I perceive your wisdom to be equal to your magnanimity."

"Quieter, quieter!" advised Paul. "Do not further inflame the leg of an old fool who, at fifty, has fought a duel like a young ensign. Then the matter is settled, and Thenichka is to become my belle-soeur?"

"Yes, my dearest Paul. But what will Arkady say?"

"Arkady? He will be delighted. True, marriage does not come within his purview or principles, but at least his sense of social equality will be tickled. And, in the nineteenth century, what does caste matter?"

"Paul, Paul, let me embrace you once more. You need not be afraid. I will do it very carefully." And the two brothers flung their arms around one another.

"Well?" continued Paul Petrovitch. "What think you? Shall we tell her at once?"

"No, we need not be in too much of a hurry," replied Nikolai Petrovitch. "As a matter of fact, you have been having a talk with her, have you not?"

"I have been having a talk with her? Quelle idée!"

"However, your first business is to recover. Thenichka will not run away, and in the meanwhile the affair must be carefully considered."

"Then you have decided upon it?"

"Certainly I have! And I thank you with all my heart. But I must leave you for a while now, for you ought to have some rest, and any excitement is bad for you. Matters can be discussed later. Go to sleep, dearest of brothers, and may God restore you to health!"

"Why did he thank me?" thought Paul Petrovitch to himself after Nikolai had gone." Does not the affair depend upon him alone, seeing that, after the marriage, I myself shall have to depart elsewhere – to Dresden or to Florence, and to abide there until I die?"

He bathed his forehead with eau-de-Cologne, and then closed his eyes. As he lay with his handsome, refined head resting on the pillow, he looked, in the clear light of the sun, like a corpse.

XXV

In the shade of a tall ash tree in the garden at Nikolsköe Katia and Arkady were seated on a bench. Beside them, on the ground, lay Fifi – his lengthy body twisted into the curve known to sporting folk as "the hare's crouch." Neither from Arkady nor from Katia was a word proceeding. Arkady was holding in his hands a half-opened book, and she was picking a few crumbs from a basket, and throwing them to a small family of sparrows which, with the timid temerity of their tribe, were chirping and hopping at her very feet. A faint breeze was stirring the leaves of the ash tree, and dappling Fifi's tawny back and the dark line of the pathway with a number of wavering circles of pale golden light; but Arkady and Katia were wholly in shade, save that an occasional streak glanced upon, and gleamed in, her hair. Just for the reason that the pair were silent and side by side was there present to their consciousness a camaraderie which, while causing neither to have the other definitely in mind, pleased each with the sense of the other's propinquity. The expression of both is changed since last we saw them. Arkady's face wears a staider air, and Katia looks more animated and less retiring.

At length, however, Arkady spoke.

"Do you not think," he said, "that our Russian term yasen is particularly suitable to the ash tree? For no other tree cleaves the air with such airy brightness."37 Katia looked up.

"I agree," she replied, while Arkady proudly reflected: "At all events she does not reprove me for talking in 'beautiful language.'"

"By the way," Katia continued with a glance at the book in his hands, "I cannot say that I always approve of Heine. I like him neither when he is laughing nor when he is in tears – I like him only when he is meditative and languid."