Fathers and Sons (16 page)

Arkady noticed all this but kept his thoughts to himself.

The real reason for this whole change lay in the feelings that Odintsova had inspired in Bazarov – feelings which tormented
and maddened him and which he would have denied with a scornful laugh and a cynical curse if anyone had even remotely hinted
at the possibility of what had happened to him. Bazarov was a great lover of women and of feminine beauty, but love in the
ideal or, in his word, romantic, sense he called rubbish, unforgivable folly; he considered chivalrous love a kind of deformity
or disease, and several times he expressed his surprise that Toggenburg hadn’t been consigned to a lunatic asylum
with the whole pack of Minnesingers and troubadours.
¹
‘If you like a woman,’ he would say, ‘try and get what you want; but if you can’t, well, you can’t; just go away – there
are other fish in the sea.’ He liked Anna Sergeyevna: the stories that went around about her, the freedom and independence
of her thinking, her indubitably positive feelings towards him – everything seemed to be in his favour; however, he soon realized
that with her you wouldn’t get ‘what you want’, but to his amazement he hadn’t the strength to turn away from her. As soon
as he started to think of her, his blood was on fire; he could easily have coped with that, but something else had taken root
in him, something he had absolutely no time for, which he always used to mock, which offended all his pride. In his conversations
with Anna Sergeyevna he expressed his scornful indifference to all things romantic even more than before; but when he was
on his own he recognized with indignation that he had become a romantic. Then he would take himself off to the woods and walk
there with big strides, breaking off branches in his path and muttering curses at her and at himself; or he would go up into
the hayloft in the barn and, stubbornly closing his eyes, would try to fall asleep, in which of course he didn’t always succeed.
He would suddenly imagine those chaste arms some day twined in an embrace round his neck, those proud lips responding to his
kisses, those wise eyes tenderly – yes, tenderly – meeting his, and his head would spin and for a moment he would forget himself
– until his anger flared up again. He caught himself in all manner of ‘shameful’ thoughts as if a devil were playing with
him. He sometimes thought that Anna Sergeyevna too had changed, that her expression signified something particular, that perhaps…
But then he would usually stamp his foot and grind his teeth and shake his fist.

However, Bazarov wasn’t completely wrong. He had caught Odintsova’s imagination, he interested her, she thought about him
a lot. When he wasn’t there she didn’t pine, she didn’t wait for him to come, but his coming at once enlivened her; she was
glad to spend time alone with him and was glad to talk to him even when he made her angry or attacked her taste and her
elegant ways. She seemed to want to study her own self while putting him to the test.

One day, as they were walking in the garden, he suddenly announced in a glum voice that he was going to leave and go to his
father’s village… She went pale as if she’d been stabbed in the heart – so painfully that she was surprised and for a long
time afterwards thought about what that might mean. Bazarov hadn’t made this announcement to test her and see what happened.
He never played games. That morning he had seen Timofeich, his father’s bailiff who had looked after him as a child, a shrewd
and agile old man with faded yellow hair, a weather-beaten red face and screwed-up, running eyes. Timofeich had unexpectedly
appeared before Bazarov in his short jacket of thick grey-blue cloth, belted with a bit of strap, and tarred boots.

‘Well, old friend, greetings!’ exclaimed Bazarov.

‘Greetings, Yevgeny Vasilyevich, sir,’ the old man began and gave a happy smile, which wrinkled up his entire face.

‘Why’ve you come? Did they send you for me?’

‘How can you think that, sir?’ Timofeich stammered (remembering the strict instructions his master had given him when he left).
‘I was going to town on master’s business and heard Your Honour was here, so I dropped in on the way, that is – just to have
a look at Your Honour, otherwise I wouldn’t bother you!’

‘Don’t tell lies,’ Bazarov interrupted him. ‘Is this your way to town?’

Timofeich hesitated and didn’t reply.

‘Is my father well?’

‘He is, thank God.’

‘And my mother?’

‘Arina Vlasyevna is well, thanks to the Lord.’

‘I suppose they’re waiting for me.’

The old man put his little head to one side.

‘Oh, Yevgeny Vasilyevich, how could they not! Believe me, my heart bleeds when I look at your parents.’

‘Very well then! Don’t get carried away. Tell them I’ll soon be there.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Timofeich answered, with a sigh.

Having gone out of the house, he pulled down his cap over his forehead with both hands, got up into the wretched fast droshky
he had left at the gates and went off at a trot, only not in the direction of the town.

That evening Anna Sergeyevna was sitting in her room with Bazarov while Arkady was walking up and down the big drawing room,
listening to Katya play the piano. The princess had gone to her rooms upstairs; she generally couldn’t stand guests, and in
particular these ‘new lunatics’ as she called them. In the public rooms she just sulked, but in her own quarters with her
maid she sometimes got so carried away with abuse that her cap and wig jumped about on her head. Anna Sergeyevna knew all
that.

‘How can you think of leaving?’ she began. ‘What about your promise?’

Bazarov shivered.

‘What promise?’

‘Have you forgotten? You were going to give me some chemistry lessons.’

‘What can I do? My father is expecting me, and I can’t hold back any longer. However, you can read Pelouse and Frémy’s
Notions générales de Chimie
.
²
It’s a good book and clearly written. You’ll find in it all you need.’

‘But do you remember you told me a book cannot replace – I’ve forgotten how you phrased it, but you know what I mean… do you
remember?’

‘What can I do?’ Bazarov repeated.

‘Why leave?’ said Anna Sergeyevna, lowering her voice.

He looked at her. She leant her head against the back of her chair and crossed her arms, which were bare to the elbow, on
her breast. She looked paler in the light of a single lamp with a cut paper shade. She was completely shrouded in the soft
drapery of a voluminous white dress: the tips of her feet, which were also crossed, were only just visible.

‘But why stay?’ Bazarov replied.

She turned her head a little.

‘Why? Aren’t you enjoying yourself here? Or do you think you won’t be missed?’

‘I’m sure I won’t be.’

For a moment Anna Sergeyevna didn’t say anything.

‘You’re wrong to think that. But I don’t believe you. You couldn’t be serious saying it.’ Bazarov continued to sit without
moving. ‘Yevgeny Vasilyevich, why aren’t you saying anything?’

‘What should I be saying to you? In general there’s no point in missing people, certainly not me.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I’m a down-to-earth, uninteresting man. I don’t know how to talk.’

‘You’re fishing for compliments, Yevgeny Vasilyevich.’

‘I don’t do that. Don’t you yourself know that I can’t enter the elegant side of life, that side you so value?’

Anna Sergeyevna bit the corner of her handkerchief.

‘You can think what you like, but I’ll be bored when you go.’

‘Arkady will be staying behind.’

She slightly shrugged her shoulders.

‘I’ll be bored,’ she said again.

‘Really? At all events you won’t be bored for long.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because you yourself told me that you only get bored when the order of your life is disturbed. You’ve organized your life
with such faultless regularity that there can be no room in it for boredom or distress… for any painful feeling.’

‘You find me faultless… that is, in the regularity of my life?’

‘Absolutely! For example – in a few minutes’ time it’ll strike ten, and I know in advance you’ll ask me to leave.’

‘No, I won’t, Yevgeny Vasilyich. You can stay. Open that window… I feel there’s no air.’

Bazarov got up and gave the window a push. It opened at once with a noise… He wasn’t expecting it to open so easily – and
his hands were shaking. The dark and gentle night entered the room with its almost black sky, the soft murmur of the trees
and the fresh smell of free, clean air.

‘Pull down the blind and sit down,’ said Anna Sergeyevna. ‘I
want to chat to you before you go. Tell me something about yourself. You never talk about yourself.’

‘Anna Sergeyevna, I try and talk to you about useful things.’

‘You’re very modest… But I’d like to learn something about you, about your family, about your father, for whom you’re leaving
us.’

‘Why is she talking like this?’ thought Bazarov.

‘All that has absolutely no interest,’ he said aloud, ‘especially for you. We’re humble people…’

‘And you think I’m an aristocrat?’

Bazarov raised his eyes to her.

‘Yes,’ he said with exaggerated emphasis.

She smiled.

‘I see you don’t know me very well, although you claim all men are like one another and there is no point in studying them.
One day I’ll tell you the story of my life… But first you’ll tell me yours.’

‘I don’t know you very well,’ Bazarov repeated. ‘Perhaps you’re right; perhaps everyone effectively is a riddle. You, for
example. You shun society, it wears you down – and then you invite two students to come and stay. Why, with your intelligence,
with your beauty, do you live in the country?’

‘What? What did you say then?’ Anna Sergeyevna interrupted him animatedly. ‘With my… beauty?’

Bazarov frowned.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled, ‘I meant to say I don’t really understand why you’ve gone to live in the country.’

‘You don’t understand… However, do you have a way of explaining it to yourself?’

‘Yes, I do… I suppose you stay the whole time in the same place because you are spoilt, because you’re very fond of comfort
and convenience, and are pretty indifferent to everything else.’

She smiled again.

‘You really don’t want to think I’m capable of passion.’

Bazarov looked at her with a frown.

‘Out of curiosity perhaps, but not otherwise.’

‘Really? Well, now I understand why we get on so well. You’re just the same as me.’

‘We get on so well…’ Bazarov said in a low voice.

‘Yes!… But I forgot that you want to leave.’

Bazarov got up. A lamp was feebly burning in the dark, scented, secluded room. The blind stirred lightly and let in the irritating
freshness of the night and its mysterious rustling. Anna Sergeyevna didn’t move but she was gradually overcome by a hidden
emotion… which communicated itself to Bazarov. He suddenly felt himself alone with a young and beautiful woman…

‘Where are you going?’ she said slowly.

He didn’t reply and sat down again on his chair.

‘And so you think me an effete, spoilt creature, with no troubles,’ she went on in the same tone of voice and keeping her
eyes fixed on the window. ‘But I know about myself that I’m very unhappy.’

‘You’re unhappy! Why? Surely you can’t attach any importance to worthless gossip?’

She frowned. She was annoyed that he had misunderstood her.

‘That gossip doesn’t even make me laugh, Yevgeny Vasilyevich, and I am too proud to let it worry me. I am unhappy because…
because I have no desire, no urge to live. You’re looking at me distrustfully, you’re thinking – there’s the “aristocrat”
speaking, all dressed in lace, sitting in her velvet chair. I am quite open: I like what you call comfort, and at the same
time I don’t have much wish to live. Reconcile that contradiction as you choose. But of course all that to you is romanticism.’

Bazarov shook his head.

‘You’re healthy, independent, rich: what else? What more do you want?’

‘What more do I want?’ she repeated and sighed. ‘I’m very tired, I’m old, it seems to me I’ve been alive for a long time.
Yes, I’m old,’ she went on, slowly pulling the edge of her mantilla over her bare arms. Her eyes met Bazarov’s and she went
slightly red. ‘I have already so many memories behind me: life
in St Petersburg, riches, then poverty, then my father’s death, marriage, then the usual trip abroad… I have many memories,
but nothing worth remembering, and ahead of me lies a long, long road, and no goal… I don’t want to take that road.’

‘Are you so disillusioned?’ asked Bazarov.

‘No,’ she said after a pause, ‘but I’m not satisfied. I think that if I could form a strong attachment to something…’

‘You want to love,’ Bazarov interrupted her, ‘but you can’t. That’s where your unhappiness comes from.’

Anna Sergeyevna began to examine the sleeves of her mantilla.

‘Can’t I love?’ she said.

‘No! Only I was wrong to call that unhappiness. On the contrary, one should feel for someone to whom that thing happens.’

‘To whom what happens?’

‘Love.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘From hearsay,’ Bazarov said crossly.

‘You’re flirting,’ he thought, ‘you’re bored and you’re playing with me from having nothing to do while I…’ His heart really
felt as if it was bursting.

‘Besides, perhaps you’re too demanding,’ he said, leaning right forward and playing with the fringe of his chair.

‘Maybe I am. For me it’s all or nothing. A life for a life. What I give I expect to be given – no regrets and no return. Otherwise
better not.’

‘Well then,’ said Bazarov, ‘those are fair conditions, and I am surprised you haven’t yet… found what you want.’

‘But do you think it’s easy to surrender oneself completely to something?’

‘It’s not easy once you start reflecting on it, and playing a waiting game, and putting a price on yourself, that is valuing
yourself, but if you don’t reflect, it’s very easy to surrender yourself.’