The Giants of Russian Literature: The Greatest Russian Novels, Stories, Plays, Folk Tales & Legends. Максим Горький

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      "Oh, I am not surprised," said Paul Petrovitch. "On the contrary, I should not mind embracing him myself."

      And Arkady, on approaching his uncle, felt once more upon his cheek the impression of a perfumed moustache. Paul Petrovitch then sat down to table. Clad in an elegant morning suit of English cut, he was flaunting on his head a diminutive fez which helped the carelessly folded tie to symbolise the freedom of a country life. At the same time, the stiff collar of the shirt (which was striped, not white, as best befitted a matutinal toilet) supported with its usual rigour an immaculately shaven chin.

      "Well, Arkady?" said he. "Where is your new friend?"

      "Out somewhere. He seldom misses going for an early morning walk. But the great thing is to take no notice of him, for he detests all ceremony."

      "So I have perceived." And with his usual deliberateness Paul Petrovitch began to butter a piece of bread. "Will he be staying here very long?"

      "Well, as long as he may care to stay. As a matter of fact, he is going on to his father's place."

      "And where does his father live?"

      "Some eighty versts from here, in the same province as ourselves. I believe he has a small property, and used to be an army doctor."

      "H'm! Ever since last night I have been asking myself where I can have heard the name before. Nikolai, do you remember whether there was a doctor of that name in our father's division?"

      "Yes, there used to be."

      "Then that doctor will be this fellow's father. H'm!" And Paul Petrovitch twitched his moustache. "What exactly is your Bazarov?" he enquired of Arkady.

      "What is he?" Arkady repeated smiling. "Do you really want me to tell you what he is, Uncle?"

      "If you please, my nephew."

      "He is a Nihilist."

      "A what?" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, while even Paul Petrovitch paused in the act of raising a knife to the edge of which there was a morsel of butter adhering.

      "A Nihilist," repeated Arkady.

      "A Nihilist?" queried Nikolai Petrovitch. "I imagine that that must be a term derived from the Latin nihil or 'nothing.' It denotes, I presume, a man who—a man who—well, a man who declines to accept anything."

      "Or a man who declines to respect anything," hazarded Paul Petrovitch as he re-applied himself to the butter.

      "No, a man who treats things solely from the critical point of view," corrected Arkady.

      "But the two things are one and the same, are they not?" queried Paul Petrovitch.

      "Oh no. A Nihilist is a man who declines to bow to authority, or to accept any principle on trust, however sanctified it may be."

      "And to what can that lead?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

      "It depends upon the individual. In one man's case, it may lead to good; in that of another, to evil."

      "I see. But we elders view things differently. We folk of the older generation believe that without principles" (Paul Petrovitch pronounced the word softly, and with a French accent, whereas Arkady had pronounced it with an emphasis on the leading syllable)—"without principles it is impossible to take a single step in life, or to draw a single breath. Mais vous avez changé tout cela. God send you health and a general's rank, Messieurs Nihil—how do you pronounce it?"

      "Ni-hi-lists," said Arkady distinctly.

      "Quite so (formerly we had Hegelists, and now they have become Nihilists)—God send you health and a general's rank, but also let us see how you will contrive to exist in an absolute void, an airless vacuum. Pray ring the bell, brother Nikolai, for it is time for me to take my cocoa."

      Nikolai Petrovitch did as requested, and also shouted for Duniasha; but, instead of the latter, there issued on to the terrace Thenichka in person. A young woman of twenty-three, she was pale, and gentle-looking, with dark eyes and hair, a pair of childishly red, pouting lips, and delicate hands. Also, she was clad in a clean cotton gown, a new blue kerchief was thrown lightly over her rounded shoulders, and she was carrying in front of her a large cup of cocoa. Shyly she placed the latter before Paul Petrovitch, while a warm, rosy current of blood suffused the exquisite skin of her comely face, and then she remained standing by the table, with lowered eyes and the tips of her fingers touching its surface. Yet, though she looked as though she were regretting having come, she looked as though she felt that she had a right to be there.

      Paul Petrovitch frowned, and Nikolai Petrovitch looked confused.

      "Good morning, Thenichka," the latter muttered.

      "Good morning," she replied in a low, clear voice. Then she glanced askance at Arkady, and he smiled at her in friendly fashion. Finally she departed with a quiet step and slightly careless gait—the latter a peculiarity of hers.

      Silence reigned on the terrace. For a while Paul Petrovitch drank his cocoa. Then he suddenly raised his head, and muttered:

      "Monsieur Nihilist is about to give us the pleasure of his company."

      True enough, Bazarov could be seen stepping across the flowerbeds. On his linen jacket and trousers was a thick coating of mud, to the crown of his ancient circular hat clung a piece of sticky marshweed, and in his hand he was holding a small bag. Also, something in the bag kept stirring as though it were alive. Approaching the terrace with rapid strides, he nodded to the company and said:

      "Good morning, gentlemen! Pardon me for being so late. I shall be back presently, but first my captures must be stowed away."

      "What are those captures?" Paul Petrovitch inquired. "Leeches?"

      "No, frogs."

      "Do you eat them? Or do you breed them?"

      "I catch them for purposes of experiment," was Bazarov's only reply as carelessly he entered the house.

      "In other words, he vivisects them," was Paul Petrovitch's comment. "In other words, he believes in frogs more than in principles."

      Arkady threw his uncle a reproachful look, and even Nikolai Petrovitch shrugged his shoulders, so that Paul Petrovitch himself felt his bon mot to have been out of place, and hastened to divert the subject to the estate and the new steward.

      VI

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      Bazarov, returning, seated himself at the table, and fell to drinking tea. The brothers contemplated him in silence. Arkady glanced covertly from his father to his uncle, and back again.

      "Have you walked far this morning?" at length Nikolai Petrovitch inquired.

      "To a marsh beside an aspen coppice. By the way, Arkady, I flushed five head of woodcock. Perhaps you would like to go and shoot them?"

      "Then you yourself are no sportsman?"

      "No."

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