Fathers and Sons

‘I am sincerely obliged to you,’ answered Pavel Petrovich, ‘and I can now hope that you will accept my challenge without making me resort to violence.’

  ‘Meaning that cane, speaking bluntly?’ Bazarov said coolly. ‘That’s quite fair. There’s absolutely no need for you to insult me. That wouldn’t be wholly free of risk. You can remain a gentleman… I accept your challenge too in a gentlemanly spirit.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Pavel Petrovich pronounced and put his cane in a corner. ‘We will now say a few words about the conditions of our duel. But first I would like to know if you felt it necessary to resort to the formality of a small quarrel, which could serve as the pretext for my challenge?’

  ‘No, better without formalities.’

  ‘I think so myself. I also consider it inappropriate to go into the real reasons for our conflict. We can’t stand one another. What more do we need?’

  ‘What more do we need?’ Bazarov repeated ironically.

  ‘As far as the conditions of our duel are concerned, since we won’t have seconds – for where would we get them?’

  ‘Where indeed?’

  ‘I have the honour of proposing to you the following: we fight tomorrow, early, let’s say at six, beyond the little wood, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces…’

  ‘Ten paces? That’s right, that’s the measure of our mutual hatred.’

  ‘Or else eight,’ said Pavel Petrovich.

  ‘Yes, why not.’

  ‘Two shots, and to cover all eventualities each of us puts in his pocket a note putting the blame for his death on himself.’

  ‘Now I don’t quite agree with that,’ said Bazarov. ‘It’s becoming a bit like a French novel, a bit improbable.’

  ‘Maybe. However, you will agree that it’s unpleasant to lay oneself open to the suspicion of murder.’

  ‘I agree. But there is a way of avoiding that depressing accusation. We won’t have seconds, but we could have a witness.’

  ‘Who exactly, if I may ask?’

  ‘Pyotr.’

  ‘Who’s Pyotr?’

  ‘Your brother’s valet. He’s a man standing at the zenith of modern education and will perform his role with all the comme il faut1 necessary on such occasions.’

  ‘My dear sir, I think you are joking.’

  ‘Not at all. Once you have considered my proposal, you will be convinced that it is full of good sense and simplicity. The truth will come out. But I’ll undertake to prepare Pyotr appropriately and to bring him to the field of combat.’

  ‘You are continuing to joke,’ said Pavel Petrovich, getting up from his chair. ‘But after the amiable readiness you have shown I have no right to be offended with you… And so, everything is arranged… By the way, do you have pistols?’

  ‘Where would I have got pistols, Pavel Petrovich? I am not a warrior.’

  ‘In that case I offer you mine. You can be assured that I haven’t fired them for five years.’

  ‘That’s very comforting information.’

  Pavel Petrovich got his cane…

  ‘Now, my dear sir, it only remains for me to thank you and to restore you to your studies. I have the honour to take my leave of you.’

  ‘I look forward, my dear sir, to our next meeting,’ said Bazarov, seeing his guest to the door.

  Pavel Petrovich went out, and Bazarov stood a while in front of the door and suddenly exclaimed, ‘Hell and damnation, how noble and how silly! What a comedy we’ve been playing! Like performing dogs dancing on their back legs. But it was impossible to say no. He’d have been quite likely to hit me, and then…’ (Bazarov went pale at the very thought. All of his pride reared up, as it were.) ‘Then I’d have had to strangle him like a kitten.’ He went back to his microscope, but his heart was beating hard, and the calm one needs for observation had gone. ‘He saw us today,’ he thought, ‘but was he really standing up for his brother? And what’s so special about a kiss? There’s something else here. Bah! Is he in love himself? Of course he’s in love. That’s clear as daylight. Just think, what a mess!… A nasty business!’ he pronounced finally. ‘A nasty business, whichever way you look at it. First, I’ve got to offer him my head, and in any case I’ve got to leave. Then there’s Arkady… and that wet Nikolay Petrovich. A nasty, nasty business.’

  The day went by especially quietly and sluggishly. Fenechka might not have existed on this earth: she sat in her little room like a mouse in its hole. Nikolay Petrovich had a worried look. He’d been informed rust had appeared on his wheat for which he had had special hopes. Pavel Petrovich brought everyone down with his frigid politeness, even Prokofyich. Bazarov half started a letter to his father but tore it up and threw it under the table. ‘If I die,’ he thought, ‘they’ll hear about it. But I won’t die. No, I’m going to be hanging around this world of ours a long time yet.’ He told Pyotr to come and see him the next day at crack of dawn on an important matter. Pyotr imagined he wanted to take him with him to St Petersburg. Bazarov went to bed late and was tormented all night by disordered dreams… Odintsova was spinning round in front of him, she was his mother, she was followed round by a kitten with black whiskers, and that kitten was Fenechka. And Pavel Petrovich came to him in the shape of a great forest which he still had to fight. Pyotr woke him at four. He dressed right away and went out with him.

  It was a lovely fresh morning. The pale, clear azure of the sky was dappled with little fleecy clouds. A light dew had fallen on the leaves and grass and shone silver on the spider webs. The moist, dark earth seemed to hold the rosy traces of sunrise. The whole sky rang with the song of larks. Bazarov went as far as the wood, sat down at its edge and only then disclosed to Pyotr the service he required of him. The well-trained servant was mortally scared, but Bazarov calmed him with the assurance that he had nothing to do but to stand at a distance and watch, and that he wasn’t exposed to any responsibility. ‘And then,’ he added,’ just think what an important role you’ll have!’ Pyotr made a gesture with his hands, lowered his eyes and leant against a birch tree, looking green.

  The road from Marino skirted the little wood. It was covered with light dust, untouched by wheels or human feet since the previous day. Bazarov involuntarily looked down the road, picked a blade of grass and chewed it and kept repeating to himself, ‘How silly this is!’ The morning chill made him shiver a couple of times… Pyotr gave him a despairing look, but Bazarov only grinned; he wasn’t afraid.

  The clattering of horse’s hooves came down the road… A muzhik appeared from the trees. He was driving two hobbled horses along in front of him and, as he went past Bazarov, he gave him a strange sort of look and didn’t remove his cap, which clearly bothered Pyotr as an unfavourable omen. ‘He too has got up early,’ thought Bazarov, ‘and he at least is working, but what are we doing?’

  ‘I think they’re coming,’ Pyotr whispered suddenly.

  Bazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovich. Wearing a light checked jacket and trousers that were white as snow, he was walking quickly down the road. Under his arm he carried a case wrapped in green cloth.

  ‘Excuse me, I think I have kept you waiting,’ he said, bowing first to Bazarov and then to Pyotr, whom at that moment he treated with something like respect, as a second. ‘I didn’t want to wake my valet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bazarov replied. ‘We’ve only just got here ourselves.’

  ‘Ah, so much the better!’ Pavel Petrovich looked around. ‘I can’t see anyone, no one is going to interfere… Can we begin?’

  ‘Let’s.’

  ‘I imagine you don’t require any further explanation.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Would you be so good as to load?’ asked Pavel Petrovich, taking the pistols out of the case.

  ‘No. You load, and I’ll start measuring out the paces. I have longer legs,’ Bazarov added with an ironic smile. ‘One, two, three…’

  ‘Yevgeny Vasilyich,’ Pyotr stammered awkwardly (he was shaking as if he had a fever), ‘with your pe
rmission, I’ll move off.’

  ‘Four… five… You do that, my friend, you move off. You can even go behind a tree and block your ears, only don’t shut your eyes, and if anyone falls, run and pick them up. Six… seven… eight.’ Bazarov stopped. ‘Is that enough?’ he said, turning to Pavel Petrovich. ‘Or shall I add a couple of paces?’

  ‘As you please,’ he said, putting in a second bullet.

  ‘So, we’ll add two more paces.’ Bazarov marked a line on the ground with the toe of his boot. ‘Here’s the barrier. By the way how many paces should each of us go back from the barrier? That too is an important question. There was no discussion of that yesterday.’

  ‘Ten, I think,’ Pavel Petrovich replied, offering both pistols to Bazarov. ‘Be so kind as to choose.’

  ‘That I will. But you must agree, Pavel Petrovich, that our duel is comically out of the ordinary. Just look at our second’s face.’

  ‘You’re always wanting to make jokes,’ Pavel Petrovich answered. ‘I don’t deny the peculiarity of our duel but I consider it my duty to warn you that I intend to fight seriously. À bon entendeur salut!’2

  ‘Oh, I am in no doubt that we have made up our minds to eliminate each other. But why not have a laugh and combine utile dulci?3 There – you said something to me in French and I respond to you in Latin.’

  ‘I am going to fight seriously,’ Pavel Petrovich repeated and went off to his place.

  Bazarov on his side counted off ten paces from the barrier and stopped.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Pavel Petrovich asked.

  ‘Yes, quite ready.’

  ‘We can engage.’

  Bazarov quietly moved forward, while Pavel Petrovich walked towards him, putting his left hand into his pocket and gradually raising the barrel of his pistol… ‘He’s aiming right at my nose,’ Bazarov thought, ‘and he’s trying so hard, with his eyes all screwed up, the old devil! But it’s a disagreeable sensation. I am going to look at his watch chain…’ Something whizzed sharply right by Bazarov’s ear and at that moment there came the sound of a shot. ‘I heard it, so I must be all right’ was the thought that quickly flashed through his head. He took one more step and, without aiming, pressed the trigger.

  Pavel Petrovich flinched slightly and grabbed at his thigh with his hand. A stream of blood went down his white trousers.

  Bazarov threw the pistol aside and went towards his opponent.

  ‘Are you wounded?’ he said.

  ‘You had the right to call me to the barrier,’ said Pavel Petrovich, ‘and this is trivial. By the rules each of us has one more shot.’

  ‘Well, forgive me, that can wait till another time,’ Bazarov answered and put his arms round Pavel Petrovich, who was beginning to go pale. ‘Now I am no longer a duellist but a doctor and first of all I must inspect your wound. Pyotr! Come here, Pyotr! Where are you hiding?’

  ‘That’s all nonsense… I don’t need anyone’s help,’ Pavel Petrovich said very slowly, ‘and… we must… again…’ He tried to pull at his moustache, but his arm was too weak; he rolled up his eyes and lost consciousness.

  ‘Here’s something new! Fainting! What next!’ Bazarov couldn’t help exclaiming as he lowered Pavel Petrovich on to the grass. ‘Let’s see what the problem is.’ He took out a handkerchief, wiped the blood and felt round the wound… ‘The bone isn’t broken,’ he muttered through his teeth, ‘the bullet has gone right through, not very deep, it’s grazed one muscle, vastus externus. He’ll be dancing in three weeks!… But fainting! I’ve had enough of these high-strung types! Look at what delicate skin he has.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Bazarov heard Pyotr’s tremulous voice babbling behind him. He looked round.

  ‘Go and get some water, my friend, be quick, and he’ll outlive us both.’ But the latest model of servant didn’t appear to understand his words and didn’t move. Pavel Petrovich slowly opened his eyes. ‘He’s going!’ Pyotr whispered, and began crossing himself.

  ‘You’re right… What a stupid face!’ said the wounded gentleman with a forced smile.

  ‘Damn you, go and get some water!’ cried Bazarov.

  ‘I don’t need any… It was just a momentary vertige4… Help me up… like that… We just need something to tie up this scratch, and I’ll walk home, or if not they can send the droshky for me. If you agree, we won’t resume our duel. You have behaved nobly… today, today I mean.’

  ‘There’s no reason to go over the past,’ Bazarov retorted, ‘and we needn’t worry ourselves about the future either, because I mean to go off at once. Come, I’ll now bandage your leg. Your wound isn’t dangerous, but it’s still better to stop the bleeding. But first we have to bring this creature back to his senses.’

  Bazarov shook Pyotr by the collar and sent him off to fetch the droshky.

  ‘Take care you don’t scare my brother,’ said Pavel Petrovich to him. ‘And don’t even think of reporting this to him.’

  Pyotr hurried off, and while he was running to fetch the droshky the two opponents sat on the ground without speaking. Pavel Petrovich tried not to look at Bazarov. In spite of everything he didn’t want to make his peace with him. He was ashamed of his arrogance, of his failure, he was ashamed of the whole thing he had started, although he also felt the outcome couldn’t have been more favourable. ‘At least he won’t be hanging about here,’ he consoled himself, ‘and many thanks for that.’ The silence continued, heavy and awkward. Both men felt uncomfortable. Each knew the other understood him. That kind of knowledge is agreeable for friends, and for enemies very disagreeable, especially when they can’t either have it out or separate.

  ‘Have I made the bandage on your leg too tight?’ Bazarov asked at last.

  ‘No, it’s all right, fine,’ Pavel Petrovich answered and added after a short pause, ‘We won’t be able to keep this from my brother, we’ll have to tell him we fought over politics.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Bazarov. ‘You can tell him I was rude about all Anglophiles.’

  ‘That’s very good. What do you suppose that man thinks of us now?’ Pavel Petrovich went on, pointing to that muzhik who had driven his hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes before the duel and who was now coming back along the road. He stepped deferentially aside and took off his cap at the sight of ‘gentlemen’.

  ‘Who knows!’ answered Bazarov. ‘It’s most likely he doesn’t think anything. The Russian muzhik is the mysterious stranger whom Mrs Radcliffe5 used to go on about. Who can understand him? He can’t himself.’

  ‘Oh, now you’re starting that!’ Pavel Petrovich began, then exclaimed suddenly, ‘Look what your idiot Pyotr has gone and done! My brother is hurrying here!’

  Bazarov turned and saw Nikolay Petrovich sitting in the droshky, white-faced. He jumped down before it had stopped and rushed to his brother.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said in an anxious voice. ‘Yevgeny Vasilyich, please, what is all this?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ answered Pavel Petrovich. ‘There was no point in alarming you. Mr Bazarov and I had a small quarrel, and I have paid a bit for it.’

  ‘What was it all about, for God’s sake?’

  ‘What can I tell you? Mr Bazarov said something disrespectful about Sir Robert Peel.6 I hasten to add that in all of this only I am to blame and Mr Bazarov behaved very well. I called him out.’

  ‘But, my goodness, you’re bleeding!’

  ‘Do you think I have water in my veins? But this bloodletting will even do me good. Won’t it, doctor? Help me get into the droshky and don’t give in to depression. Tomorrow I’ll be recovered. That’s it, excellent. Coachman, get going.’

  Nikolay Petrovich followed the droshky; Bazarov would have stayed behind…

  ‘I must ask you to look after my brother,’ Nikolay Petrovich said to him, ‘until we get another doctor here from the town.’

  Bazarov nodded without saying anything.

  An hour later Pavel Petrovich was already lying in his bed, with a proper bandage round his le
g. The whole house was in a state of alarm. Fenechka felt unwell. Nikolay Petrovich quietly wrung his hands while Pavel Petrovich laughed and joked, especially with Bazarov. He was wearing a fine batiste night-shirt and an elegant morning jacket and fez. He wouldn’t let them lower the window-blind and made amusing complaints about not being allowed to take food.

  However, by nightfall he had a fever. His head began to ache. The doctor from the town came. (Nikolay Petrovich hadn’t listened to his brother, and this was what Bazarov himself wanted too; he had spent the whole day sitting in his room, looking all jaundiced and angry, and he only came out for the briefest visits to the patient; a couple of times he happened to meet Fenechka, but she recoiled from him in horror.) The new doctor prescribed cooling drinks but in other respects confirmed Bazarov’s assurances that no danger need be envisaged. Nikolay Petrovich said to him that his brother had wounded himself through carelessness, to which the doctor replied ‘Hm!’, but having then been given twenty-five silver roubles in his hand, he pronounced, ‘You don’t say! That does indeed often happen.’

  No one in the house went to bed or undressed. Nikolay Petrovich now and then tiptoed in and out of his brother’s room. Pavel Petrovich dozed, groaned slightly, said to him in French, ‘Couchez-vous’7 – and asked for a drink. Nikolay Petrovich once made Fenechka bring him a glass of lemonade; Pavel Petrovich stared at her and drank the glass to the last drop. By morning the fever had risen a little, and he showed some signs of delirium. At first Pavel Petrovich uttered incoherent words, then he suddenly opened his eyes and, seeing his brother by his bed solicitously bending over him, said:

  ‘Nikolay, doesn’t Fenechka have something in common with Nelly?’

  ‘What Nelly, Pasha?’8

  ‘How can you ask that? Princess R.… Especially in the upper part of the face. C’est de la même famille.’9

  Nikolay Petrovich said nothing in reply but in his heart he was astonished at the tenacity of a man’s old feelings.

  ‘So that’s come up now,’ he thought.

  ‘Oh, how I love that simple creature!’ Pavel Petrovich moaned, wearily putting his arms behind his head. ‘I will not allow any insolent fellow to dare to touch…’ he babbled a few moments later.