Fathers and Sons

Ivan Turgenev

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780486114453
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

Considered one of Ivan Turgenev's finest works, Fathers and Sons was the first of the great nineteenth-century Russian novels to achieve international renown. A stirring tale of generational conflict during a period of social revolution, it vividly depicts the friction between liberal and conservative thought and the rise of the radical new philosophy of nihilism. Set in Russia during the 1860s against the backdrop of the liberation of the serfs, the story concerns the clash of older aristocrats with the new democratic intelligentsia.
The impressionable young student Arkady Kirsanoff arrives home in the company of his friend Bazarov, a cynical biologist. Arkady's father and uncle, already distressed by the upheaval of the peasants, grow increasingly irritated at Bazarov's outspoken nihilism and his ridicule of the conventions of state, church, and home. The young friends, bored by the rustic life of the Kirsanoff estate, venture off to the provincial capital in search of amusement. There they encounter both romance and alienation.
This inexpensive edition of a literary landmark affords students and general readers the opportunity to savor a timeless masterpiece of world literature.

XXIV

Two HOURS later he knocked at Bazarov’s door.

“I must apologise for hindering you in your scientific pursuits,” he began, seating himself on a chair in the window and leaning with both hands on a handsome walking-stick with an ivory knob (he usually walked without a stick), “But I am constrained to beg you to spare me five minutes of your time ... no more.”

“All my time is at your disposal,” answered Bazarov, over whose face there passed a quick change of expression directly Pavel Petrovitch crossed the threshold.

“Five minutes will be enough for me. I have come to put a single question to you.”

“A question? What is it about?”

“I will tell you, if you will kindly hear me out. At the commencement of your stay in my brother’s house, before I had renounced the pleasure of conversing with you, it was my fortune to hear your opinions on many subjects; but so far as my memory serves, neither between us, nor in my presence, was the subject of single combats and duelling in general broached. Allow me to hear what are your views on that subject?”

Bazarov, who had risen to meet Pavel Petrovitch, sat down on the edge of the table and folded his arms.

“My view is,” he said, “that from the theoretical standpoint, duelling is absurd; from the practical standpoint, now—it’s quite a different matter.”

“That is, you mean to say, if I understand you right, that whatever your theoretical views on duelling, you would not in practice allow yourself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction?”

“You have guessed my meaning absolutely.”

“Very good. I am very glad to hear you say so. Your words relieve me from a state of incertitude.”

“Of uncertainty, you mean to say.”

“That is all the same; I express myself so as to be understood; I ... am not a seminary rat. Your words save me from a rather deplorable necessity. I have made up my mind to fight you.”

Bazarov opened his eyes wide. “Me?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But what for, pray?”

“I could explain the reason to you,” began Pavel Petrovitch, “but I prefer to be silent about it. To my idea your presence here is superfluous ; I cannot endure you; I despise you; and if that is not enough for you...”

Pavel Petrovitch’s eyes glittered ... Bazarov’s, too, were flashing.

“Very good,” he assented. “No need of further explanations. You’ve a whim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this pleasure, but—so be it!”

“I am sensible of my obligation to you,” replied Pavel Petrovitch; “and may reckon then on your accepting my challenge without compelling me to resort to violent measures,.”

“That means, speaking Without metaphor, to that stick?” Bazarov remarked coolly. “That is precisely correct. It’s quite unnecessary for you to insult me. Indeed, it would not be a perfectly safe proceeding. You can remain a gentleman.... I accept your challenge, too, like a gentleman.”

“That is excellent,” observed Pavel Petrovitch, putting his stick in the corner. “We will say a few words directly about the conditions of our duel; but I should like first to know whether vou think it necessary to resort to the formality of a trifling dispute, which might serve as a pretext for my challenge?”

“No; it’s better without formalities.”

“I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into the real grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one another. What more is necessary?”

“What more, indeed?” repeated Bazarov ironically.

“As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that we shall have no seconds—for where could we get them?”

“Exactly so; where could we get them?”

“Then I have the honour to lay the following proposition before you: The combat to take place early to-morrow, at six, let us say, behind the copse, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces ...”

“At ten paces? That will do; we hate one another at that distance.”

“We might have it eight,” remarked Pavel Petrovitch.

“We might.”

“To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put a letter in his pocket, in which he accuses himself, of his end.”

“Now, that I don’t approve of at all,” observed Bazarov. “There’s a slight flavour of the French novel about it, something not very plausible.”

“Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it would be unpleasant to incur a suspicion of murder?”

“I agree as to that. But there is a means of avoiding that painful reproach. We shall have no seconds, but we can have a witness.”

“And whom, allow me to inquire?”

“Why, Piotr.”

“What Piotr?”

“Your brother’s valet. He’s a man who has attained to the acme of contemporary culture, and he will perform his part with all the comilfo [Comme il faut] necessary in such cases.”

“I think vou are joking, sir.”

“Not at all. If you think over my suggestion, you will be convinced that it’s full of common sense and simpliciy. You can’t hide a candle under a bushel; but I’ll undertake to prepare Piotr in a fitting manner, and bring him on to the field of battle.”

“You persist in jesting still,” Pavel Petrovitch declared, getting up from his chair. “But after the courteous readiness you have shown me, I have no right to pretend to lay down.... And so, everything is arranged.... By the way, perhaps you have no pistols?”

“How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovitch? I’m not in the army.”

“In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that it’s five years now since I shot with them.”

“That’s a very consoling piece of news.”

Pavel Petrovitch took up his stick.... “And now, my dear sir, it only remains for me to thank you and to leave you to your studies. I have the honour to take leave of you.”

“Till we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,” said Bazarov, conducting his visitor to the door.

Pavel Petrovitch went out, while Bazarov remained standing a minute before the door, and suddenly exclaimed, “Pish, well, I’m dashed! How fine, and how foolish! A pretty farce we’ve been through! Like trained dogs dancing on their hind-paws. But to decline was out of the question; why, I do believe he’d have struck me, and then ...” (Bazarov turned white at the very thought; all his pride was up in arms at once)—“then it might have come to my strangling him like a cat.” He went back to his microscope, but his heart was beating, and the composure necessary for taking observations had disappeared. “He caught sight of us today,” he thought; “but would he really act like this on his brother’s account? And what a mighty matter it is—a kiss? There must be something else in it. Bah! isn’t he perhaps in love with her himself? To be sure, he’s in love; it’s as clear as day. What a complication! It’s a nuisance!” he decided at last; “it’s a bad job, look at it which way you will. In the first place, to risk a bullet through one’s brains, and in any case to go away; and then Arkady ... and that dear innocent pussy, Nikolai Petrovitch. It’s a bad job, an awfully bad job.”

The day passed in a kind of peculiar stillness and languor. Fenitchka gave no sign of her existence; she sat in her little room like a mouse in its hole. Nikolai Petrovitch had a careworn air. He had just heard that blight had begun to appear in his wheat, upon which he had in particular rested his hopes. Pavel Petrovitch overwhelmed every one, even Prokofitch, with his icy courtesy. Bazarov began a letter to his father, but tore it up, and threw it under the table.

“If I die,” he thought, “they will find it out; but I’m not going to die. No, I shall struggle along in this world a good while yet” He gave Piotr orders to come to him on important business the next morning directly it was light. Piotr imagined that he wanted to take him to Petersburg with him. Bazarov went late to bed, and all night long he was harassed by disordered dreams ... Madame Odintsov kept appearing in them, now she was his mother, and she was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten seemed to be Fenitchka; then Pavel Petrovitch took the shape of a great wood, with which he had yet to fight. Piotr waked him up at four o’clock; he dressed at once, and went out with him.

It was a lovely, fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds hovered overhead in little curls of foam on the pale clear blue; a fine dew lav in drops on the leaves and grass, and sparkled like silver on the spiders’ webs; the damp, dark earth seemed still to keep traces of the rosy dawn; from the whole sky the songs of larks came pouring in showers. Bazarov walked as far as the copse, sat down in the shade at its edge, and only then disclosed to Piotr the nature of the service he expected of him. The refined valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov soothed him by the assurance that he would have nothing to do but stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not incur any sort of responsibility. “And meantime,” he added, “only think what an important part you have to play!” Piotr threw up his hands, looked down, and leaned against a birch-tree, looking green with terror.

The road from Maryino skirted the copse; a light dust lay on it, untouched by wheel or foot since the previous day. Bazarov unconsciously stared along this road, picked and gnawed a blade of grass, while he kept repeating to himself, “What a piece of foolery!” The chill of the early morning made him shiver twice.... Piotr looked at him dejectedly, but Bazarov only smiled; he was not afraid.

The tramp of horses’ hoofs was heard along the road.... A peasant came into sight from behind the trees. He was driving before him two horses hobbled together, and as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather strangely, without touching his cap, which it was easy to see disturbed Piotr, as an unlucky omen. “There’s some one else up early too,” thought Bazarov; “but he at least has got up for work, while we ...”

“Fancy the gentleman’s coming,” Piotr faltered suddenly.

Bazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovitch. Dressed in a light check jacket and snow-white trousers, he was walking rapidly along the road; under his arm he carried a box wrapped up in a green cloth.

“I beg your pardon, I believe I have kept you waiting,” he observed, bowing first to Bazarov, then to Piotr, whom he treated respectfully at that instant, as representing something in the nature of a second. “I was unwilling to wake my man.”

“It doesn’t matter,” answered Bazarov; “we’ve only just arrived ourselves.”

“Ah! so much the better!” Pavel Petrovitch took a look round. “There’s no one in sight; no one hinders us. We can proceed?”

“Let us proceed.”

“You do not, I presume, desire any fresh explanations?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Would you like to load?” inquired Pavel Petrovitch, taking the pistols out of the box.

“No; you load, and I will measure out the paces. My legs are longer,” added Bazarov with a smile. “One, two, three.”

“Yevgeny Vassilyitch,” Piotr faltered with an effort (he was shaking as though he were in a fever), “say what you like, I am going farther off.”

“Four ... five ... Good. Move away, my good fellow, move away; you may get behind a tree even, and stop up your ears, only don’t shut your eyes; and if any one falls, run and pick him up. Six ... seven ... eight ...” Bazarov stopped. “Is that enough?” he said, turning to Pavel Petrovitch; “or shall I add two paces more?”

“As you like,” replied the latter, pressing down the second bullet.

“Well, we’ll make it two paces more.” Bazarov drew a line on the ground with the toe of his boot. “There’s the barrier then. By the way, how many paces may each of us go back from the barrier? That’s an important question too. That point was not discussed yesterday.”

“I imagine, ten,” replied Pavel Petrovitch, handing Bazarov both pistols. “Will you be so good as to choose?”

“I will be so good. But, Pavel Petrovitch, you must admit our combat is singular to the point of absurdity. Only look at the countenance of our second.”

“You are disposed to laugh at everything,,” answered Pavel Petrovitch. “I acknowledge the strangeness of our duel, but I think it my duty to warn you that I intend to fight seriously. A bon entendeur, salut!”

“Oh! I don’t doubt that we’ve made up our minds to make away with each other; but why not laugh too and unite utile dulci? You talk to me in French, while I talk to you in Latin.”

“I am going to fight in earnest,” repeated Pavel Petrovitch, and he walked off to his place. Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces from the barrier, and stood still.

“Are you ready?” asked Pavel Petrovitch.

“perfectly.”

“We can approach one another.”

Bazarov moved slowly forward, and Pavel Petrovitch, his left hand thrust in his pocket, walked towards him, gradually raising the muzzle of his pistol.... “He’s aiming straight at my nose,” thought Bazarov, “and doesn’t he blink down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation, though. I’m going to look at his watch chain.”

Something whizzed sharply by his very ear, and at the same instant there was the sound of a shot. “I heard it, so it must be all right,” had time to flash through Bazarov’s brain. He took one more step, and without taking aim pressed the spring.

Pavel Petrovitch gave a slight start, and clutched at his thigh. A stream of blood began to trickle down his white trousers.

Bazarov flung aside the pistol, and went up to his antagonist. “Are you wounded?” he said.

“You had the right to call me up to the barrier,” said Pavel Petrovitch, “but that’s of no consequence. According to our agreement, each of us has the right to one more shot.”

“All right, but, excuse me, that’ll do another time,” answered Bazarov, catching hold of Pavel Petrovitch, who was beginning to turn pale. “Now, I’m not a duellist, but a doctor, and I must have a look at your wound before anything else. Piotr, come here, Piotr! where have you gone to?”

“That’s all nonsense ... I need no one’s aid,” Pavel Petrovitch declared jerkily, “and ... we must ... again ...” He tried to pull at his moustaches, but his hand failed him, his eves grew dim, and he lost consciousness.

“Here’s a pretty pass! A fainting fit! What next!” Bazarov cried unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the grass. “Let’s have a look what’s wrong.” He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round the wound.... “The bone’s not touched,” he muttered through his teeth; “the ball didn’t go deep; one muscle, vas-tus externus, grazed. He’ll be dancing about in three weeks! ... And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!”

“Is he killed?” the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling behind his back.

Bazarov looked round. “Go for ...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• Note
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI
• XXII
• XXIII
• XXIV
• XXV
• XXVI
• XXVII
• XXVIII
• DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS