Fathers and Sons

by Ivan Turgenev

‘He is a nihilist,’ repeated Arkady. ‘A nihilist,’ said Nikolai Petrovich. ‘That’s from the Latin nihil, nothing, so far as I can judge. Therefore, the word denotes a man who … who doesn’t recognize anything?’ ‘Say, rather, who doesn’t respect anything,’ added Pavel Petrovich and once more busied himself with the butter. ‘Who approaches everything from a critical point of view,’ remarked Arkady. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ ‘No, it’s not the same thing. A nihilist is a man who doesn’t acknowledge any authorities, who doesn’t accept a single principle on faith, no matter how much that principle may be surrounded by respect.’

‘A good chemist’s twenty times more useful than a poet,’ said Bazarov.

‘Yes,’ he declared without looking at anyone, ‘it’s a great misfortune to have spent five years or so in the country far removed from great minds! In a flash you become a perfect fool. You try not to forget what you’ve been taught and then—just like that!—it turns out everything you’ve been taught is nonsense and you’re told sensible people don’t concern themselves with such rubbish any more and that you’re, so to speak, old hat. What’s to be done! Evidently the young are more intelligent than we are, that’s a fact.’ Pavel Petrovich slowly turned on his heels and slowly walked away. Nikolai Petrovich set off after him. ‘Is he always like that?’ Bazarov asked Arkady cold-bloodedly as soon as the door had closed behind the two brothers.

Nowhere does time pass as swiftly as in Russia, though they say that in prison it passes even more quickly.

Nikolai had the enduring consolation of a life well spent and a son who was growing up before his very eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a solitary bachelor, had entered upon that confused and darkling time of life—a time when regrets look like hopes and hopes like regrets—when youth is over but old age has not yet begun.

He’s given me all sorts of good advice … especially … especially on dealing with women.’ ‘Aha! A bit of his own medicine—we know the sort of thing!’ ‘Well, to put it briefly,’ Arkady went on, ‘he’s deeply unhappy, believe you me, and it’s wrong to despise him.’ ‘Who’s despising him?’ Bazarov retorted. ‘But I’ll tell you this—a man who’s staked everything on the card of a woman’s love and when that card’s beaten gets all embittered and sinks to the point where he’s not fit for anything, he’s not a man, not a real man.

Fenechka had also put her hair in order and adjusted her kerchief, but she could well have left things as they were—for, in fact, is there anything more attractive in the world than a pretty young mother with a healthy child in her arms?

‘Who’s that?’ Bazarov asked him as soon as they’d gone past. ‘What a pretty girl!’ ‘Who are you talking about?’ ‘It’s obvious—only one of them’s pretty.’

Doesn’t their superiority lie in the fact that there are fewer traces of class-consciousness and privilege in them than in us?

And afterwards came the first shy visits, the half-words, the half-smiles and then the bewilderment and the sadness and the passion and, at last, the breathless joy … Where had all that gone? She became his wife and he had been happy as few are on this earth. But, he thought, those sweet, first moments, why shouldn’t one live with them in undying, eternal life?

In his heart he was overjoyed at his friend’s suggestion, but he considered he was obliged to hide his feelings. He wasn’t a nihilist for nothing!

TIME (as is well known) sometimes flies like a bird, sometimes crawls like a worm. But a man feels particularly happy when he doesn’t even notice whether it’s passing quickly or quietly.

By contrast, he felt at home with Katya. He condescended to her and didn’t stop her talking about the impressions aroused in her by music, the reading of novels and poetry and other nonsense, either not noticing or unaware that such ‘nonsense’ appealed to him as well. For her part Katya didn’t interfere with his need to feel sorry for himself. Arkady got on with Katya.

I’m unhappy because … because I’ve no desire, no wish to live. You’re giving me doubting looks, you’re thinking—that’s the “aristocrat” speaking who wears lace and sits in a velvet armchair. I can’t hide the fact that I love what you call “comfort”, and yet at the same time I have little desire to live. Reconcile that contradiction how you will. Besides, in your eyes it’s all romanticism.

‘what’s the point of talking and thinking about the future which for the most part doesn’t depend on us? If the opportunity arises to do something—great, and if it doesn’t at least you’ll be glad you didn’t chatter about it beforehand.’

The appearance of mediocrity is often useful in life because it weakens tautly strung strings and sobers up people’s self-confident or self-forgetful feelings, reminding them how close they are to mediocrity as well.

The flies were also a nuisance. Normally a servant-boy would keep them away with a large leafy branch, but on this occasion Vasily Ivanovich sent him away out of fear of being censured by the younger generation.

‘That aspen over there’, Bazarov began, ‘reminds me of my childhood. It’s growing at the edge of a hole which is all that remains of a brick barn, and in those days I was sure that that hole and that aspen possessed special magic powers, because I was never bored when I was near them. I didn’t understand then that I wasn’t bored because I was a child. Now I’m grown-up the special magic powers don’t work any more.’

‘Look,’ Arkady suddenly said, ‘a dry maple leaf has broken loose and is falling to the ground. Its movement is exactly like the flight of a butterfly. Isn’t that odd? What is saddest and dead bears a resemblance to what is most joyous and living.’ ‘Oh, Arkady Nikolaich, my friend,’ exclaimed Bazarov, ‘I ask one thing of you: Don’t talk fancy!’

(Vasily Ivanovich did not dare admit that he had himself wanted a church service; he was no less devout than his wife.)

‘Got to … So be it, you’ve got to do your duty, that must come first. So I’ll send off the horses, shall I? Right. Arina and I haven’t expected this, of course. She’s asked for some flowers from a neighbour to make your room look nice.’ (Vasily Ivanovich did not mention the fact that each morning, as soon as it was light, standing barefoot in his slippers, he had had discussions with Timofeich and, taking out one torn banknote after another with trembling fingers, he had ordered him to make various purchases, laying particular stress on delicacies to eat and on red wine which, so far as could be observed, the young men enjoyed very much.) ‘The main thing is freedom. That’s always been my rule. You mustn’t impose restraints … You mustn’t…’ He suddenly fell silent and went off towards the door.

Then Arina Vlasevna went up close to him and, leaning her grey head against his grey head, said: ‘There’s nothing for it, Vasya! Our son’s cut off from us. He’s a falcon, like a falcon he wanted to come and he flew here, then he wanted away and he flew away. But you and I, we’re just a couple of old mushrooms, we are, stuck in the hollow of a tree, sitting side by side and never moving. Except that I’ll always remain the same for you for ever and ever, just as you will for me.’ Vasily Ivanovich took his hands away from his face and suddenly embraced his wife, his true friend, more tightly even than he’d been used to embrace her in his youth, for she had comforted him in his misery.

‘The chief thing is not to think,’ he constantly repeated to himself.

Arkady was once again on the point of being embarrassed, but the first words she uttered calmed him at once. ‘Hello, you runaway!’ she said in her level, fond voice and walked towards him, smiling and screwing up her eyes against the sun and the breeze. ‘Where did you find him, Katya?’ ‘Anna Sergeevna,’ he began, ‘I have brought you something quite unexpected …’ ‘You’ve brought yourself, that’s best of all.’

No, my dear brother, we’ve done enough putting on airs and thinking how society’ll react. We’re already old and staid and it’s time we put all vanity on one side. Let us, as you say, do our duty. You wait and see, we may even obtain happiness into the bargain.’

They were both silent, but it was precisely in the fact of their silence and their sitting together that a trusting closeness reigned. Each seemed not to be thinking about the other, but was secretly delighted by the other’s nearness.

Who is that crying?’ he added after a moment. ‘Is it mother? Poor thing! Who’ll she be able to feed her marvellous borshch to after this? And you, Vasily Ivanovich, you’re sniffling as well, aren’t you? Well, if Christianity doesn’t help, be a philosopher, a stoic! After all, you used to boast you were a philosopher, didn’t you?’ ‘I’m no philosopher!’ wailed Vasily Ivanovich and tears just poured down his cheeks.