A fortnight passed by. Life at Maryino pursued its normal course, while Arkady luxuriously enjoyed himself and Bazarov worked. Everyone in the house had grown accustomed to Bazarov, to his casual behavior, to his curt and abrupt manner of speaking. Fenichka indeed, felt so much at ease with him that one night she had him awakened; Mitya had been seized by convulsions; Bazarov had gone, half-joking and half-yawning as usual, had sat with her for two hours and relieved the child. On the other hand, Pavel Petrovich had grown to hate Bazarov with all the strength of his soul; he regarded him as conceited, impudent, cynical and vulgar, he suspected that Bazarov had no respect for him, that he all but despised him — him, Pavel Kirsanov! Nikolai Petrovich was rather frightened of the young “Nihilist” and doubted the benefit of his influence on Arkady, but he listened keenly to what he said and was glad to be present during his chemical and scientific experiments. Bazarov had brought a microscope with him and busied himself with it for hours. The servants also took to him, though he made fun of them; they felt that he was more like one of themselves, and not a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle with him and used to cast significant sidelong glances at him when she skipped past like a squirrel. Pyotr, who was vain and stupid to the highest degree, with a constant forced frown on his brow, and whose only merit consisted in the fact that he looked polite, could spell out a page of reading and assiduously brushed his coat — even he grinned and brightened up when Bazarov paid any attention to him; the farm boys simply ran after “the doctor” like puppies. Only old Prokovich disliked him; at table he handed him dishes with a grim expression; he called him “butcher” and “upstart” and declared that with his huge whiskers he looked like a pig in a sty. Prokovich in his own way was quite as much of an aristocrat as Pavel Petrovich.

The best days of the year had come — the early June days. The weather was lovely; in the distance, it is true, cholera was threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had grown used to its periodic ravages. Bazarov used to get up very early and walk for two or three miles, not for pleasure — he could not bear walking without an object — but in order to collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he took Arkady with him. On the way home an argument often sprang up, in which Arkady was usually defeated in spite of talking more than his companion.

One day they had stayed out rather late. Nikolai Petrovich had gone into the garden to meet them, and as he reached the arbor he suddenly heard the quick steps and voices of the two young men; they were walking on the other side of the arbor and could not see him.

“You don’t know my father well enough,” Arkady was saying. “Your father is a good fellow,” said Bazarov, “but his day is over; his song has been sung to extinction.”

Nikolai Petrovich listened intently . . . Arkady made no reply.

The man whose day was over stood still for a minute or two, then quietly returned to the house.

“The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,” Bazarov went on meanwhile. “Please explain to him how utterly useless that is. After all he’s not a boy, it’s high time he got rid of such rubbish. And what an idea to be romantic in our times! Give him something sensible to read.”

“What should I give him?” asked Arkady.

“Oh, I think Büchner’s Stoff und Kraft to start with.”

“I think so too,” remarked Arkady approvingly. “Stoff und Kraft is written in popular language . . .”

“So it seems,” said Nikolai Petrovich the same day after dinner to his brother, as they sat in his study, “you and I are behind the times, our day is over. Well . . . perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing, I must say, hurts me; I was so hoping just now to get on really close and friendly terms with Arkady, and it turns out that I’ve lagged behind while he has gone forward, and we simply can’t understand one another.”

“But how has he gone forward? And in what way is he so different from us?” exclaimed Pavel Petrovich impatiently. “It’s that grand seigneur of a nihilist who has knocked such ideas into his head. I loathe that doctor fellow; in my opinion he’s nothing but a charlatan; I’m sure that in spite of all his tadpoles he knows precious little even in medicine.”

“No, brother, you mustn’t say that; Bazarov is clever and knows his subject.”

“And so disagreeably conceited,” Pavel Petrovich broke in again.

“Yes,” observed Nikolai Petrovich, “he is conceited. Evidently one can’t manage without it, that’s what I failed to take into account. I thought I was doing everything to keep up with the times; I divided the land with the peasants, started a model farm, so that I’m even described as a “Rebel” all over the province; I read, I study, I try in every way to keep abreast of the demands of the day — and they say my day is over. And brother, I really begin to think that it is.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ll tell you why. I was sitting and reading Pushkin today . . . I remember, it happened to be The Gypsies . . . Suddenly Arkady comes up to me and silently, with such a kind pity in his face, as gently as if I were a baby, takes the book away from me and puts another one in front of me instead . . . a German book . . . smiles and goes out, carrying Pushkin off with him.”

“Well, really! What book did he give you?”

“This one.”

And Nikolai Petrovich pulled out of his hip pocket the ninth edition of Büchner’s well-known treatise.

Pavel Petrovich turned it over in his hands. “Hm!” he growled, “Arkady Nikolayevich is taking your education in hand. Well, have you tried to read it?”

“Yes, I tried.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Either I’m stupid, or it’s all nonsense. I suppose I must be stupid.”

“But you haven’t forgotten your German?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“Oh, I understand the language all right.”

Pavel Petrovich again fingered the book and glanced across at his brother. Both were silent.

“Oh, by the way,” began Nikolai Petrovich, evidently wanting to change the subject — “I’ve had a letter from Kolyazin.”

“From Matvei Ilyich?”

“Yes. He has come to inspect the province. He’s quite a bigwig now, he writes to say that as a relation he wants to see us again, and invites you, me and Arkady to go to stay in the town.”

“Are you going?” asked Pavel Petrovich.

“No. Are you?”

“No. I shan’t go. What is the sense of dragging oneself forty miles on a wild-goose chase. Mathieu wants to show off to us in all his glory. Let him go to the devil! He’ll have the whole province at his feet, so he can get on without us. It’s a grand honor — a privy councilor! If I had continued in the service, drudging along in that dreary routine, I should have been a general-adjutant by now. Besides, you and I are behind the times.”

“Yes, brother; it seems the time has come to order a coffin, and to cross the arms over one’s chest,” remarked Nikolai Petrovich with a sigh.

“Well, I shan’t give in quite so soon,” muttered his brother. “I’ve got a quarrel with this doctor creature in front of me, I’m sure of that.”

The quarrel materialized that very evening at tea. Pavel Petrovich came into the drawing room all keyed up, irritable and determined. He was only waiting for a pretext to pounce upon his enemy, but for some time no such pretext arose. As a rule Bazarov spoke little in the presence of the “old Kirsanovs” (that was what he called the brothers), and that evening he felt in a bad humor and drank cup after cup of tea without saying a word. Pavel Petrovich was burning with impatience; his wishes were fulfilled at last.

The conversation turned to one of the neighboring landowners. “Rotten aristocratic snob,” observed Bazarov casually; he had met him in Petersburg.

“Allow me to ask you,” began Pavel Petrovich, and his lips were trembling, “do you attach an identical meaning to the words ‘rotten’ and ‘aristocrat’?”

“I said ‘aristocratic snob,’” replied Bazarov, lazily swallowing a sip of tea.

“Precisely, but I imagine you hold the same opinion of aristocrats as of aristocratic snobs. I think it my duty to tell you that I do not share that opinion. I venture to say that I am well known to be a man of liberal views and devoted to progress, but for that very reason I respect aristocrats — real aristocrats. Kindly remember, sir,” (at these words Bazarov lifted his eyes and looked at Pavel Petrovich) “kindly remember, sir,” he repeated sharply, “the English aristocracy. They did not abandon one iota of their rights, and for that reason they respect the rights of others; they demand the fulfillment of what is due to them, and therefore they respect their own duties. The aristocracy gave freedom to England, and they maintain it for her.”

“We’ve heard that story many times; what are you trying to prove by it?”

“I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir,” (when Pavel Petrovich became angry he intentionally clipped his words, though of course he knew very well that such forms are not strictly grammatical. This whim indicated a survival from the period of Alexander I. The great ones of that time, on the rare occasions when they spoke their own language, made use of such distortions as if seeking to show thereby that though they were genuine Russians, yet at the same time as grands seigneurs they could afford to ignore the grammatical rules of scholars) “I am tryin’ to prove by that, sir, that without a sense of personal dignity, without self-respect — and these two feelings are developed in the aristocrat — there is no firm foundation for the social . . . bien public . . . for the social structure. Personal character, my good sir, that is the chief thing; a man’s personality must be as strong as a rock since everything else is built up on it. I am well aware, for instance, that you choose to consider my habits, my dress, even my tidiness, ridiculous; but all this comes from a sense of self-respect and of duty — yes, from a sense of duty. I live in the wilds of the country, but I refuse to lower myself. I respect the dignity of man in myself.”

“Let me ask you, Pavel Petrovich,” muttered Bazarov, “you respect yourself and you sit with folded hands; what sort of benefit is that to the bien public? If you didn’t respect yourself, you’d do just the same.

Pavel Petrovich turned pale. “That is quite another question. There is absolutely no need for me to explain to you now why I sit here with folded hands, as you are pleased to express yourself. I wish only to tell you that aristocracy — is a principle, and that only depraved or stupid people can live in our time without principles. I said as much to Arkady the day after he came home, and I repeat it to you now. Isn’t that so, Nikolai?”

Nikolai Petrovich nodded his head.

“Aristocracy, liberalism, progress, principles,” said Bazarov. “Just think what a lot of foreign . . . and useless words! To a Russian they’re no good for anything!”

“What is good for Russians according to you? If we listen to you, we shall find ourselves beyond the pale of humanity, outside human laws. Doesn’t the logic of history demand . . .”

“What’s the use of that logic to us? We can get along without it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, this. You don’t need logic, I suppose, to put a piece of bread in your mouth when you’re hungry. For what do we need those abstractions?”

Pavel Petrovich raised his hands. “I simply don’t understand you after all that. You insult the Russian people. I fail to understand how it is possible not to acknowledge principles, rules! By virtue of what can you act?”

“I already told you, uncle dear, that we don’t recognize any authorities,” interposed Arkady.

“We act by virtue of what we recognize as useful,” went on Bazarov. “At present the most useful thing is denial, so we deny — ”

“Everything?”

“E............