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Fathers and Sons, part three Sequence of Action: Bazarovs
Reunion with his Parents (Chapter 20)
Turgenevs point of view? His judgment of Bazarov? Perhaps the nihilist is the true romantic while those who dance the social dance with all its absurdities are the true realists. After being rejected by Odintsova, Bazarov determines to leave Nikolskoe and go home to visit his parents, sixty miles away. While riding there with Arkady, he tries to master his emotions: I'll tell you
this; to my mind it's better to break stones on the road than to let a
woman get the mastery of even the end of one's little finger. That's
all . . . ," Bazarov was about to utter his favorite word
"romanticism," but checked himself and said "rubbish." (Chapter 19) (170) "Ugh! I can
see, Arkady Nikolaich, that you regard
love like all modern young men; cluck, cluck, cluck, you call to the
hen, and the moment the hen comes near, off you run! I'm not like that.
But enough of it all. It's a shame to talk about what can't be helped."
(Chapter 21) (193) Bazarovs Reunion with his Parents (Chapter 20) How do Bazarovs parents welcome him home (after an absence of three years)? Compare Bazarovs fathers estate with Nikolskoe and Marino. How does Vassily Ivanich run things? What political philosophy does he practice?
you mustn't expect anything grand: we live very
simply here, like military people. (176) .. I, for
instance, at the cost of quite considerable sacrifices to myself, have
put my peasants on the rent system and have given up my land to them in
return for half the proceeds. I considered it my duty; common sense
alone demands that it should be done, though other landowners don't
even think about doing it. But I speak now of the sciences, of
education. (178) . "What am I? A
retired army doctor, voila
too; and now farming has fallen to my lot. I served in your
grandfather's brigade," he addressed himself to Arkady again. (179) .
See the
little garden I've got now. I planted every tree myself. I have fruit,
raspberries and all kinds of medicinal herbs. . . . I've
retired from practice, as you know, but at least twice a week something
happens to bring me back to my old work. They come for advice-- I can't
drive them away-- and sometimes the poor people need help. Indeed there
are no doctors here at all. One of the neighbors here, a retired major,
just imagine it, he doctors the people too. I ask the question: 'Has he
studied medicine?' They answer: 'No, he hasn't studied, he does it more
from philanthropy' . . . ha! ha! (180) ..
he had one
of his rent-paying peasants flogged the other day and quite rightly
too-- yes, yes, don't look at me in such horror-- he did right because
that peasant is a frightful thief and drunkard; only my father had no
idea that I, as they say, became aware of the facts. He was very much
embarrassed (203) What should we make of this couple and their home? His whole
house consisted of six tiny rooms. One of these-- the one into which he
led our friends-- was called the study. A thick-legged table, littered
with papers blackened by an ancient accumulation of dust as if they had
been smoked, occupied the whole space between the two windows; on the
walls hung Turkish firearms, whips, a saber, two maps, some anatomical
diagrams, a portrait of Hufeland, a
monogram woven out of hair in a blackened frame, and a diploma under
glass; a leather sofa, torn and worn hollow in places, stood between
two huge cupboards of Karelian birchwood;
on the shelves, books, little boxes, stuffed birds, jars and phials
were crowded together in confusion; in one corner lay a broken electric
battery. (176) . Arina
Vlasyevna was a genuine Russian lady of olden times; she ought to have
lived two centuries before, in the ancient Moscow days. She was very
devout and emotional; she believed in fortunetelling, charms, dreams
and omens of every conceivable kind; she believed in the prophecies of
crazy people, in house spirits, in wood spirits, in unlucky meetings,
in the evil eye, in popular remedies; she ate specially prepared salt
on Holy Thursday and believed that the end of the world was close at
hand; she believed that if on Easter Sunday the candles did not go out
at Vespers, then there would be a good crop of buckwheat, and that a
mushroom will not grow after a human eye has seen it; she believed that
the devil likes to be where there is water, and that every Jew has a
blood-stained spot on his breast; she was afraid of mice, of snakes, of
frogs, of sparrows, of leeches, of thunder, of cold water, of draughts,
of horses, of goats, of red-haired people and of black cats; she
regarded crickets and dogs as unclean animals; she never ate veal,
pigeons, crayfish, cheese, asparagus, Jerusalem artichokes, hares, or
watermelons because a cut watermelon suggested the head of John the
Baptist; she could not speak of oysters without a shudder; she enjoyed
eating--but strictly observed fasts; she slept ten hours out of the
twenty-four--and never went to bed at all if Vassily Ivanovich had so
much as a headache; she had never read a single book except Alexis or the Cottage in the Forest; she
wrote one or at most two letters in a year, but she was an expert
housewife, knew all about preserving and jam making, though she touched
nothing with her own hands and was usually reluctant to move from her
place. Arina Vlasyevna was very kindhearted and in her own way far from
stupid. She knew that the world is divided into masters whose duty it
is to command, and simple people whose duty it is to serve--and so she
felt no disgust for servile behavior or bowing to the ground; but she
treated affectionately and gently those in subjection to her, never let
a single beggar go away empty-handed, and never spoke ill of anyone,
though she was fond of gossip. In her youth she had been very pretty,
had played the clavichord and spoken a little French; but in the course
of many years of wandering with her husband, whom she had married
against her will, she had grown stout and forgotten both music and
French. Her son she loved and feared unutterably; she had handed over
the management of her little estate to Vassily Ivanovich--and she no
longer took any part in it; she would groan, wave her handkerchief and
raise her eyebrows higher and higher in horror directly her old husband
began to discuss impending land reforms and his own plans. She was
apprehensive, always expecting some great calamity, and would weep at
once whenever she remembered anything sad . . . Nowadays such women
have almost ceased to exist. God knows whether this should be a cause
for rejoicing! (183-85) Describe the dinners that Bazarovs mother prepares for him. The
dinner, though hastily prepared, was very good and even abundant; only
the wine was not quite up to the mark; it was sherry, almost black,
bought by Timofeich in the town from a
well-known merchant, and it had a flavor of copper or resin; the flies
also were a nuisance. (181)
The next day she invites the local priest to come and perform a service of thanksgiving.
(There is no
need to say what dinner was like that day; Timofeich
in person had galloped off at dawn to procure some special Circassian beef; the bailiff had gone off in
another direction for turbot, perch and crayfish; for mushrooms alone
the peasant woman had been paid forty-two kopeks in copper) (201-02) Vasily Ivanovich in
his Garden And here I
am, as you see, like some Cincinnatus, preparing a bed for late
turnips. The time has come now--and thank
God for it!--when everyone should secure his sustenance by the work of
his own hands: it is useless to rely on others; one must labor oneself.
So it turns out that Jean Jacques Rousseau is right. Half an hour ago,
my dear young sir, you could have seen me in an entirely different
position. One peasant woman, who complained of looseness--that's how
they express it, but in our language, dysentery--I--how shall I express
it? I injected her with opium; and for another I extracted a tooth. I
offered her an anesthetic, but she refused. I do all that gratis-- anamatyer. (187-88) On his son: Vassily
Ivanovich listened and listened, blew his nose, rolled his handkerchief
up into a ball with both hands, cleared his throat, ruffled up his
hair--and at length could contain himself no longer; he bent down to
Arkady and kissed him on the shoulder. "You have made me perfectly
happy," he said... (189) The Break with Arkady: (191-98) "Ah, Arkady,
do me a favor, let's quarrel properly for once, to the bitter end, to
the point of destruction." (198) Bazarov on his parents unconsciousness: When one gets
a side view from a distance of the dumb life our 'fathers' lead here,
one thinks: what could be better? You eat and drink and know you are
acting in the most righteous and sensible way. If not, you're devoured
by the tedium of it. (193) Bazarov on politics: A real man
is not meant to be thought about, but is someone who must be either
obeyed or hated
.. When I meet a man who can hold his own beside me
then I'll change my opinion of myself
(195) Bazarov on ideals: Principles
don't exist in general--you haven't yet managed to understand even that
much!--but there are sensations. Everything depends on them. (195-96) Bazarov on the peasants for whom he has dedicated his life: You said, for
instance, today as we passed the cottage of our bailiff Philip--the one
that's so neat and clean--well, you said, Russia will achieve
perfection when the poorest peasant has a house like that, and every
one of us ought to help to bring it about . . . And I felt such a
hatred for this poorest peasant, this Philip or Sidor,
for whom I have to be ready to sacrifice my skin and who won't even
thank me for it--and why should he thank me? Well, suppose he lives in
a clean house, while weeds grow out of me--so, what next?" (195) And Bazarov crushes his parents by leaving again, two days after he arrived. (Vassily Ivanovich did not even mention that every morning the moment it was light he consulted with Timofeich, and standing with his bare feet in slippers, pulling out with trembling fingers one crumpled ruble note after another, entrusted him with various purchases, particularly of good things to eat, and of red wine, which, as far as he could observe, the young men liked extremely.) (204-05)
Bazarov
and Arkady left on the following day. From early morning the house was
filled with gloom; Anfisushka let the
dishes slip out of her hand; even Fedka
became bewildered and at length took off his boots. Vassily Ivanovich
fussed more than ever; obviously he was trying to make the best of it,
talked loudly and stamped his feet, but his face looked haggard and he
continually avoided looking his son in the eyes. Arina Vlasyevna wept
quietly; she would have broken down and lost all control of herself if
her husband had not spent two whole hours exhorting her early that
morning. When Bazarov, after repeated promises to come back within a
month at the latest, tore himself at last from the embraces detaining
him, and took his seat in the tarantass,
when the horses started, the bell rang and the wheels were moving--and
when it was no longer any use gazing after them, when the dust had
settled down, and Timofeich, all bent and
tottering as he walked, had crept back to his little room; when the old
people were left alone in the house, which also seemed to have suddenly
shrunk and grown decrepit--Vassily Ivanovich, who a few moments before
had been heartily waving his handkerchief on the steps, sank into a
chair and his head fell on his breast. "He
has abandoned us, cast us off!" he muttered. "Abandoned us, he only
feels bored with us now. Alone, all alone, like a solitary finger," he
repeated several times, stretching out his hand with the forefinger
standing out from the others. Then
Arina Vlasyevna came up to him and leaning her grey head against his
grey head, she said: "What can we do, Vasya?
A son is a piece broken off. He's like a falcon that flies home and
flies away again when it wants; but you and I are like mushrooms
growing in the hollow of a tree, we sit side by side without moving
from the same place. Only I will never change for you, and you will
always be the same for me." Vassily Ivanovich took his hands from his face and embraced his wife, his friend, more warmly than he had ever embraced her in his youth; she comforted him in his sorrow. (205-06) How does Bazarovs behavior here fit into Turgenevs overall purpose? Flying Visit to Nikolskoe (Chapter 22) Bazarov: What sort of stupidity is this? Return to Marino (Chapter
22) The farm has deteriorated, and Nikolai cannot get the peasants to work because he refuses to flog them Every
day difficulties arose on the farm--senseless, distressing
difficulties. The troubles with the hired laborers had become
intolerable. Some gave notice or asked for higher wages, while others
walked off with wages they had received in advance; the horses fell
sick; the harness was damaged as though it had been burnt; the work was
carelessly done; a threshing machine ordered from Moscow turned out to
be unusable because it was too heavy; another winnowing machine was
ruined the very first time it was used; half the cattle sheds were
burned down because a blind old woman on the farm went with a blazing
firebrand in windy weather to fumigate her cow . . . of course, the old
woman maintained that the whole mishap was due to the master's plan of
introducing new-fangled cheeses and dairy products. The bailiff
suddenly turned lazy and began to grow fat as every Russian grows fat
when he gets an easy living. When he caught sight of Nikolai Petrovich
in the distance, he would try to demonstrate his zeal by throwing a
stick at a passing pig, or by threatening some half-naked ragamuffin,
but for the rest of the time he was generally asleep. The peasants who
had been put on the rent system did not pay in time and stole wood from
the forest; almost every night the watchmen caught peasants' horses in
the farm meadows and sometimes removed them after a scrimmage. Nikolai
Petrovich would fix a money fine for damages, but the matter usually
ended by the horses being returned to their owners after they had been
kept for a day or two on the master's forage. On top of all this the
peasants began to quarrel among themselves; brothers asked for their
property to be divided, their wives could not get on together in one
house; suddenly a quarrel would flare up, they would all rise to their
feet, as though at a given signal, would run to the porch of the estate
office, and crawl in front of the master, often in a drunken state with
battered faces, demanding justice and retribution; an uproar and clamor
would ensue, the shrill screams of the women mingling with the curses
of the men. The contending parties had to be examined, and one had to
shout oneself hoarse, knowing in advance that it was in any case quite
impossible to reach a just settlement. There were not enough hands for
the harvest; a neighboring yeoman, in the most benevolent manner,
contracted to supply him with reapers for a commission of two rubles
per acre--and cheated him in the most shameless way; his peasant women
demanded exorbitant prices, and meanwhile the corn got spoiled; the
harvest was not in the common ownership, but at the same time the
Council of Guardians issued threats and demanded immediate and full
payment of interest due . . . "It's
beyond my power!" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovich several times in despair.
"I can't flog them myself; to send for the police--is against my
principles, but without the fear of punishment you can do absolutely
nothing with them!" (209-11) Bazarov refuses to comment. Instead he busies himself with his experiments on frogs.
Meanwhile, Arkady pines for Katya until one day he just impulsively goes to Nikolskoe and discovers that Katya is delighted to see him. He, too, is delighted to see her. The Kiss (Chapter 23) Turgenev contrives to trap Bazarov in the middle of a typical 19thc. romantic novel. Turgenev uses obvious literary artifices like stolen kisses, overheard conversations and, ultimately, duels to further humiliate his materialist hero. Bazarov is trapped in the wrong novel. "It smacks too much of a French novel, a bit unreal." (Chapter 24) .. "What the
devil-- How fine and how stupid! A pretty farce we've been acting; like
trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. But it was out of the question
to refuse; I really believe he would have struck me, and then . . ."
(Bazarov turned pale at the very thought; all his pride stood up on
end.) "I might have had to strangle him like a kitten." (228-29)
Bazarov went
to bed late, and all night long he was oppressed by disordered dreams .
. . Madame Odintsov kept on appearing in them; now she was his mother
and she was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten
was really Fenichka; then Pavel Petrovich
took the shape of a great forest, with which he had still to fight. (229-30) .. "What a piece of idiocy!"
Cholera began to break out in some places in the neighborhood, and even "carried off" two people from Maryino itself.
Bazarov went on working obstinately and grimly . . . and meanwhile there was in Nikolai Petrovich's house one person to whom, if he did not open his heart, he was at least glad to talk . . . that person was Fenichka. . He used
to meet her chiefly in the early morning, in the garden or the
farmyard; he never went to see her in her room and she had only once
come to his door to inquire--should she give Mitya
his bath or not? She not only had confidence in him and was not afraid
of him, she felt freer and more at ease with him than she did with
Nikolai Petrovich himself. It is hard to say how this came about;
perhaps because unconsciously she felt in Bazarov the absence of
anything aristocratic, of all that superiority which at once attracts
and overawes. In her eyes he was both an excellent doctor and a simple
man. She attended to her baby in his presence without any
embarrassment, and once when she was suddenly overcome by giddiness and
headache she took a spoonful of medicine from his hands. (217) Fenichka liked Bazarov, and he liked her also.
His face was even transformed when he talked to her; it took on an open
kindly expression, and his habitual nonchalance was modified by a kind
of jocular attentiveness. Fenichka was
growing prettier every day. There is a period in the life of young
women when they suddenly begin to expand and blossom like summer roses;
such a time had come for Fenichka. (217)
One day
at seven o'clock in the morning, Bazarov was returning from a walk and
encountered Fenichka in the lilac arbor,
which had long ceased to flower but was still thick with green leaves
. (218) .. Fenichka
stretched her little neck forward and put her face close to the flower, . . . The kerchief slipped from her hair
on to her shoulders, disclosing a soft mass of black shining and
slightly ruffled hair. "Wait
a moment; I want to smell it with you," said Bazarov; he bent down and
kissed her vigorously on her parted lips. She
shuddered, pushed him back with both her hands on his breast, but
pushed weakly, so that he was able to renew and prolong his kiss. A dry cough made itself heard behind the lilac bushes.(222) .. The Duel (Chapter 24) "I don't
quite agree with that," said Bazarov. "It smacks too much of a French
novel, a bit unreal." (227) .. Bazarov
moved slowly forward and Pavel Petrovich walked towards him, his left
hand thrust in his pocket, gradually raising the muzzle of his pistol .
. . "He's aiming straight at my nose," thought Bazarov, "and how
carefully he screws up his eyes, the scoundrel! Not an agreeable
sensation. I'd better look at his watch-chain Something whizzed by
sharply close to Bazarov's ear, and a shot rang out at that moment. "I
heard it, so it must be all right," managed to flash through Bazarov's
brain. He took one more step, and without taking aim, pressed the
trigger. Pavel
Petrovich swayed slightly and clutched at his thigh. A thin stream of
blood began to trickle down his white trousers. Bazarov
threw his pistol aside and went up to his antagonist. "Are you
wounded?" he asked. (232-33) .
Now I'm no
longer a duelist but a doctor, and first of all I must have a look at
your wound. (233) ..
Pyotr dashed off, and while he was running for a
droshky, the two antagonists sat on the ground in silence. Pavel
Petrovich tried not to look at Bazarov; he did not want to be
reconciled to him in any case; he felt ashamed of his own arrogance, of
his failure; he was ashamed of the whole affair he had arranged even
though he realized it could not have ended more auspiciously. "At least
he won't go on hanging around here," he consoled himself by thinking:
"one should be thankful even for that." The prolonged silence was
oppressive and awkward. Both of them felt ill at ease; each was
conscious that the other understood him. For friends such a feeling is
agreeable, but for those who are not friends it is most unpleasant,
especially when it is impossible either to come to an understanding or
to separate. (234-35) . Bazarov on peasants:
"Who knows
him!" answered Bazarov. The Russian
peasant is that mysterious unknown person about whom Mrs. Radcliffe
used to say so much. Who can understand him? He doesn't understand
himself." . Bazarov sat the whole day in his room, looking yellow and angry, and only went in to the invalid for as brief a visit as possible; twice he happened to meet Fenichka, but she shrank away from him in horror. . Bazarov
came to see him on the following day at eight o'clock. He had already
managed to pack and had set free all his frogs, insects and birds. "You
have come to say good-by to me?" said Nikolai Petrovich, getting up to
meet him. "Exactly."
.
when, three miles
further on at a bend in the road, he saw for the last time the Kirsanovs' farmstead and its new manor house
standing together on the sky line, he merely spat and muttering,
"Damned noblemen," wrapped himself more tightly in his cloak. (239) . Brother,
do your duty, the duty of an honest and generous man, put an end to the
scandal and the bad example you are setting--you, the best of men!" "What
do you mean, Pavel?" "Marry
Fenichka . . . she loves you; she
is--the mother of your son." (243) Arkady and Katyas Courtship (Chapter 25)
"But,
you see, I am not rich." Arkady
was surprised and did not at once understand Katya. "Why, as a matter
of fact, the property is all her sister's!" struck him suddenly; the
thought was not disagreeable to him. "How
nicely you said that," he remarked.
"Lovely little feet," she thought, as she slowly and lightly mounted the stone steps of the terrace which were burning from the heat of the sun. "Lovely little feet, you call them . . . Well, he shall be at my feet."
To Arkady:
"Hm! A new story," remarked Bazarov under his breath, "but you needn't get agitated about it, for it's a matter of complete indifference to me. A romantic would say: I feel that our roads are beginning to branch out in different directions, but I will simply say that we're tired of each other." "Evgeny . . ." "There's no harm in that, my good soul; one gets tired of plenty of other things in the world! And now I think we had better say good-by. Ever since I've been here I've felt so disgusting, just as if I'd been reading Gogol's letters to the wife of the Governor of Kaluga. By the way, I didn't tell them to unharness the horses." Arkady and Katyas Betrothal (Chapter 26) Setting: a building in the style of a Greek temple, made of Russian brick. Along the windowless back wall of this temple or gallery were placed six niches for statues, which Odintsov proceeded to order from abroad. These statues were intended to represent Solitude, Silence, Meditation, Melancholy, Modesty and Sensibility. One of them, the Goddess of Silence, with her finger on her lips, had been delivered and placed in position; but on the very same day some of the farm boys knocked off her nose, and although the neighboring plasterer undertook to make her a new nose, "twice as good as the previous one," . After listening to Bazarov and Odintsova put each other off: "Katerina Sergeyevna," he said; his voice shook
and he clenched his hands; "I love you--forever and irrevocably, and I
love no one except you. I wanted to tell you this, to find out what you
will say and to ask you to marry me, because, of course, I'm not rich
and I feel ready for any kind of sacrifice . . . You don't answer? You
don't believe me? Do you think I'm talking lightly? But remember these
last days! Surely you must be convinced by now that everything
else--you understand me--absolutely everything else has vanished long
ago and left no trace? Look at me, say one word to me . . . I love . .
. I love you . . . believe me." Katya
turned her eyes to Arkady with a grave and radiant look, and after a
long reflective pause, she murmured, smiling slightly, "Yes."
Many a young lady is
called intelligent simply because she can sigh intelligently; but yours
can hold her own, and indeed she'll hold it so well that she'll have
you under her thumb--well, and that's quite as it should be. . "And now I say again, farewell . . . because it's useless to deceive ourselves; we are parting forever, and you know it yourself . . . you acted sensibly; you were not made for our bitter, rough, lonely existence. There's no daring in you, no hatred, though you've got youthful dash and youthful fervor; that's not enough for our business. Your sort, the nobility, can never go farther than noble resignation or noble indignation, but those things are trifles. For instance, you won't fight--and yet you fancy yourselves as brave fellows--but we want to fight. So there! Our dust would get into your eyes, our mud would soil you, but you're not up to our standard, you unconsciously admire yourselves and you enjoy finding fault with yourselves; but we're fed up with all that--we want something else! We want to smash people! You're a fine fellow, but all the same you're a mild little liberal gentleman--ay volatoo, as my parent would say. Bazarovs Death (Chapter 27) Bazarov, however, soon ceased to shut himself up; his fever for work abated and was replaced by painful boredom and a vague restlessness. A strange weariness began to show itself in all his movements; even his walk, once so firm, bold and impetuous, was changed. . One day, talking about the approaching liberation of the serfs, he hoped to arouse his son's sympathy by making some remarks about progress; but Bazarov only answered indifferently, "Yesterday I was walking along the fence and heard our peasant boys, instead of singing an old folk song, bawling some street ditty about 'the time has come for love' . . . that's what your progress amounts to." The Peasants on Bazarov: "How could he understand!" answered the other peasant, and pushing back their caps and loosening their belts they both started discussing their affairs and their needs. Alas! Bazarov, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he who knew how to talk to the peasants (as he had boasted in his dispute with Pavel Petrovich), the self-confident Bazarov did not for a moment suspect that in their eyes he was all the same a kind of buffoon . . . . . Bazarovs Injury:
One
day a peasant from a neighboring village brought over to Vassily
Ivanovich his brother, who was stricken with typhus. The unhappy man,
lying flat on a truss of straw, was dying; his body was covered with
dark patches, he had long ago lost consciousness. Vassily Ivanovich
expressed his regret that no one had taken any steps to secure medical
aid earlier and said it was impossible to save the man. In fact the
peasant never got his brother home again; he died as he was, lying in
the cart. Three
days later Bazarov came into his father's room and asked him if he had
any silver nitrate. "Yes;
what do you want it for?" "I
want it . . . to burn out a cut." "For
whom?" "For
myself." "How
for yourself? What is that? What sort of a cut? Where is it?" "Here,
on my finger. I went today to the village where they brought that
peasant with typhus, you know. They wanted to open the body for some
reason, and I've had no practice at that sort of thing for a long
time." "Well?"
"Well,
so I asked the district doctor to help; and so I cut myself." Vassily
Ivanovich suddenly turned completely white, and without saying a word
rushed into his study and returned at once with a piece of silver
nitrate in his hand. Bazarov was about to take it and go away. "For
God's sake," muttered Vassily Ivanovich, "let me do it myself."
Bazarov
abruptly turned round on the sofa, looked fixedly with dim eyes at his
father and asked for something to drink. Vassily
Ivanovich gave him some water and in so doing felt his forehead; it was
burning. "Listen,
old man," began Bazarov in a slow husky voice, "I'm in a bad way. I've
caught the infection and in a few days you'll have to bury me." Vassily
Ivanovich staggered as though someone had knocked his legs from under
him. "Evgeny,"
he muttered, "what are you saying? God have mercy on you! You've caught
cold . . ." "Stop
that," interrupted Bazarov in the same slow, deliberate voice; "a
doctor has no right to talk like that. I've all the symptoms of
infection, you can see for yourself." "What
symptoms . . . of infection, Evgeny? . . . Good heavens!" "Well,
what's this?" said Bazarov, and pulling up his shirt sleeve he showed
his father the ominous red patches coming out on his arm.
Farewell To Odintsova:
"Well,
what have I to say to you . . . I loved you? That had no sense even before, and less than ever now. Love is a form,
but my own form is already dissolving. Better for me to say--how
wonderful you are! And now you stand there, so beautiful. . ." Anna
Sergeyevna involuntarily shuddered. "Never
mind, don't be agitated . . . Sit down over there . . . Don't come
close to me; you know my disease is infectious." Anna
Sergeyevna walked quickly across the room and sat down in the armchair
near the sofa on which Bazarov was lying.
.. Anna Sergeyevna gave him some water to drink, without taking off her glove
Towards evening he sank into a complete coma, and the following day he died. Father Alexei performed the last rites of religion over him. When they anointed him, and the holy oil touched his breast, one of his eyes opened, and it seemed as though, at the sight of the priest in his vestments, of the smoking censer, of the candle burning in front of the image, something like a shudder of horror passed through his death-stricken face. The Double Wedding (Chapter 28) Anna Sergeyevna has recently married again, not for love but out of reasonable conviction, a man who may be one of the future leaders of Russia, a very clever lawyer with vigorous practical sense, a strong will and a remarkable gift of eloquence--still young, good-natured, and cold as ice. They live very harmoniously together and may live to the point of attaining happiness . . . perhaps even love.
Katerina Sergeyevna has a son, Kolya, and Mitya already runs about fearlessly, and talks a lot. Fenichka, Fedosya Nikolaevna, after her husband and Mitya, adores no one so much as her daughter-in-law, and when Katerina plays the piano, she would gladly spend the whole day at her side. . The Final Paragraph: At Bazarovs Grave There is a small village graveyard in one of the remote corners of Russia. Like almost all our graveyards, it has a melancholy look; the ditches surrounding it have long been overgrown; grey wooden crosses have fallen askew and rotted under their once painted gables; the gravestones are all out of position, just as if someone had pushed them from below; two or three bare trees hardly provide some meager shade; the sheep wander unchecked among the tombs . . . But among them is one grave untouched by human beings and not trampled on by any animal; only the birds perch on it and sing at daybreak. An iron railing surrounds it and two young fir trees have been planted there, one at each end; Evgeny Bazarov is buried in this tomb. Often from the near-by village two frail old people come to visit it--a husband and wife. Supporting one another, they walk with heavy steps; they go up to the iron railing, fall on their knees and weep long and bitterly, and gaze intently at the silent stone under which their son lies buried; they exchange a few words, wipe away the dust from the stone or tidy up some branches of a fir tree, then start to pray again and cannot tear themselves away from that place where they seem to be nearer to their son, to their memories of him . . . Can it be that their prayers and their tears are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred devoted love, is not all powerful? Oh, no! However passionate, sinful or rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep at us serenely with their innocent eyes; they tell us not only of eternal peace, of that great peace of "indifferent" nature; they tell us also of eternal reconciliation and of life without end. |