you surprised?’ Nikolay Petrovich said merrily. ‘I’ve been waiting for Arkasha for such an age… I haven’t yet looked
enough at him since yesterday.’
‘I’m not surprised at all,’ said Pavel Petrovich, ‘I’m not even against embracing him myself.’
Arkady went to his uncle and again felt on his cheeks the brush of his scented moustache. Pavel Petrovich sat down at the
table. He was wearing an elegant morning suit, in the English taste; his head was decked with a little fez. The fez and his
carelessly knotted necktie alluded to the freedom of country life, but the tight collar of his shirt – not a white one, it’s
true, but multicoloured, as befits a morning toilette – held in his well-shaven chin, relentless as ever.
‘Where’s your new friend?’ he asked Arkady.
‘He’s not in the house. He usually gets up early and goes off somewhere. The main thing is, you mustn’t pay him any attention:
he doesn’t like ceremony.’
‘Yes, one can see that.’ Pavel Petrovich began unhurriedly to spread butter on his bread. ‘Will he be staying with us long?’
‘It depends. He’s stopped here on his way to his father’s.’
‘And where does his father live?’
‘In our province, fifty miles from here. He has a little estate there. He used to be a regimental doctor.’
‘Yes, yes, yes… I’ve been wondering, where have I heard that name, Bazarov?… Nikolay, do you remember, wasn’t there a Doctor
Bazarov in Papa’s army division?
‘I think there was.’
‘Precisely. So that doctor is his father. Hm!’ Pavel Petrovich twitched his moustache. ‘Well, and what exactly is Mr Bazarov?’
he asked in a deliberate tone.
‘What is Bazarov?’ Arkady grinned. ‘Uncle dear, do you want me to tell you what he really is?’
‘Please, dear nephew.’
‘He’s a nihilist.’
‘What?’ asked Nikolay Petrovich while Pavel Petrovich raised his knife with a bit of butter on the end of the blade and didn’t
move.
‘He’s a nihilist,’ repeated Arkady.
‘A nihilist,’ pronounced Nikolay Petrovich. ‘That comes from the Latin
nihil
, nothing, in so far as I can make out. So the word must mean a man who… who acknowledges nothing, mustn’t it?’
‘Say rather, a man who respects nothing,’ interrupted Pavel Petrovich and returned to the butter.
‘Who approaches everything from a critical point of view,’ commented Arkady.
‘But isn’t that just the same?’ asked Pavel Petrovich.
‘No, it isn’t just the same. The nihilist is a man who bows down to no authority, who takes no single principle on trust,
however much respect be attached to that principle.’
‘And so, is that a good thing?’ interrupted Pavel Petrovich.
‘It depends from whose point of view, Uncle. For some it’s good, for others very bad.’
‘Really. Well, I can see it’s not for us. We, the older generation, think that without principles,’ (Pavel Petrovich pronounced
the
word
princípes
, in the soft French way, while Arkady on the contrary pronounced it ‘príntsiple’, stressing the first syllable) ‘without
principes
, taken on trust, as you say, we can’t move one step forward or breathe.
Vous avez changé tout cela
, 2 God grant you good health and a general’s rank, 3 and we will just gaze at you, gentlemen… what do you call yourselves?’
‘Nihilists,’ Arkady said very clearly.
‘Yes. Once there were Hegelists 4 and now there are nihilists. We’ll see how you’ll manage to exist in a void, in space without air. And now, brother Nikolay
Petrovich, please ring, it’s time for me to have my cocoa.’
Nikolay Petrovich rang and called ‘Dunyasha!’ But instead of Dunyasha Fenechka herself came out on the terrace. She was a
young woman of about twenty-three, all white and soft, with dark hair and dark eyes, with red, full lips like a child’s and
delicate hands. She wore a neat cotton printed dress and a new pale blue scarf lay on her rounded
enough at him since yesterday.’
‘I’m not surprised at all,’ said Pavel Petrovich, ‘I’m not even against embracing him myself.’
Arkady went to his uncle and again felt on his cheeks the brush of his scented moustache. Pavel Petrovich sat down at the
table. He was wearing an elegant morning suit, in the English taste; his head was decked with a little fez. The fez and his
carelessly knotted necktie alluded to the freedom of country life, but the tight collar of his shirt – not a white one, it’s
true, but multicoloured, as befits a morning toilette – held in his well-shaven chin, relentless as ever.
‘Where’s your new friend?’ he asked Arkady.
‘He’s not in the house. He usually gets up early and goes off somewhere. The main thing is, you mustn’t pay him any attention:
he doesn’t like ceremony.’
‘Yes, one can see that.’ Pavel Petrovich began unhurriedly to spread butter on his bread. ‘Will he be staying with us long?’
‘It depends. He’s stopped here on his way to his father’s.’
‘And where does his father live?’
‘In our province, fifty miles from here. He has a little estate there. He used to be a regimental doctor.’
‘Yes, yes, yes… I’ve been wondering, where have I heard that name, Bazarov?… Nikolay, do you remember, wasn’t there a Doctor
Bazarov in Papa’s army division?
‘I think there was.’
‘Precisely. So that doctor is his father. Hm!’ Pavel Petrovich twitched his moustache. ‘Well, and what exactly is Mr Bazarov?’
he asked in a deliberate tone.
‘What is Bazarov?’ Arkady grinned. ‘Uncle dear, do you want me to tell you what he really is?’
‘Please, dear nephew.’
‘He’s a nihilist.’
‘What?’ asked Nikolay Petrovich while Pavel Petrovich raised his knife with a bit of butter on the end of the blade and didn’t
move.
‘He’s a nihilist,’ repeated Arkady.
‘A nihilist,’ pronounced Nikolay Petrovich. ‘That comes from the Latin
nihil
, nothing, in so far as I can make out. So the word must mean a man who… who acknowledges nothing, mustn’t it?’
‘Say rather, a man who respects nothing,’ interrupted Pavel Petrovich and returned to the butter.
‘Who approaches everything from a critical point of view,’ commented Arkady.
‘But isn’t that just the same?’ asked Pavel Petrovich.
‘No, it isn’t just the same. The nihilist is a man who bows down to no authority, who takes no single principle on trust,
however much respect be attached to that principle.’
‘And so, is that a good thing?’ interrupted Pavel Petrovich.
‘It depends from whose point of view, Uncle. For some it’s good, for others very bad.’
‘Really. Well, I can see it’s not for us. We, the older generation, think that without principles,’ (Pavel Petrovich pronounced
the
word
princípes
, in the soft French way, while Arkady on the contrary pronounced it ‘príntsiple’, stressing the first syllable) ‘without
principes
, taken on trust, as you say, we can’t move one step forward or breathe.
Vous avez changé tout cela
, 2 God grant you good health and a general’s rank, 3 and we will just gaze at you, gentlemen… what do you call yourselves?’
‘Nihilists,’ Arkady said very clearly.
‘Yes. Once there were Hegelists 4 and now there are nihilists. We’ll see how you’ll manage to exist in a void, in space without air. And now, brother Nikolay
Petrovich, please ring, it’s time for me to have my cocoa.’
Nikolay Petrovich rang and called ‘Dunyasha!’ But instead of Dunyasha Fenechka herself came out on the terrace. She was a
young woman of about twenty-three, all white and soft, with dark hair and dark eyes, with red, full lips like a child’s and
delicate hands. She wore a neat cotton printed dress and a new pale blue scarf lay on her rounded
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