Anna Sergeyevna Odintsova was the daughter of Sergey Nikolayevich Loktev, a man celebrated for his speculations, his gambling
and his looks, who, after maintaining a very
public existence in St Petersburg and Moscow for about fifteen years, finally lost everything at the tables and had to go
to live in the country, where he soon died. He left a minute inheritance to his two daughters, Anna, who was twenty, and Katerina,
who was twelve. Their mother, who came from the impoverished princely family of Kh–, had died in St Petersburg while her husband
was still going strong. Anna’s situation after her father’s death was very hard. Her brilliant Petersburg education hadn’t
prepared her for coping with estate and domestic chores, or for the boredom of country life. She knew absolutely no one in
the whole neighbourhood, and she had no one from whom to take advice. Her father had tried to avoid contact with the neighbours;
he despised them and they despised him, each in their own way. However, she didn’t lose her head and at once wrote and sent
for her mother’s sister, Princess Avdotya Stepanovna Kh–ya, a proud and ill-tempered old woman who, as soon as she had settled
in her niece’s house, took all the best rooms for herself. She groused and grumbled from morning till night and even on her
walks in the garden she was always accompanied by her only serf, a glum footman in a worn pea-green livery with blue braid
and a tricorne hat. Anna patiently put up with all her aunt’s caprices, occupied herself in the meantime with her sister’s
education and seemed to have already reconciled herself to the thought of fading away in the depths of the country… But fate
had decreed for her otherwise. She happened to catch the eye of one Odintsov, a very wealthy man of forty-six or so, an eccentric
and hypochondriac, fat, heavy and depressive, but for all that far from stupid and a good man. He fell in love with her and
offered her his hand. She consented to be his wife – and he lived with her for about six years and, dying, left her all his
fortune. Anna Sergeyevna didn’t leave the estate for about a year after his death; then she and her sister went off abroad.
But she went only to Germany. She missed home and came back to live in her beloved Nikolskoye, which was about twenty-five
miles from the town of ***. There she had a magnificent, richly furnished house and a beautiful garden with hothouses: her
late husband had denied himself nothing. Anna Sergeyevna went
to the town very seldom, mostly on business and then only for short visits. She wasn’t liked in the province; her marriage
to Odintsov had given rise to a terrible amount of talk; people told all manner of silly stories about her, averring that
she had helped her father in his swindles, that she had gone abroad for a very good reason, out of the necessity of concealing
the unfortunate consequences of… ‘You know what of, don’t you?’ the indignant gossips would conclude. It was said of her,
‘She’s been through fire and water’; and a famous wit in the province would usually add, ‘And through copper piping too.’
All these rumours reached her, but she let them flow past her: she was a free spirit and quite strong-minded.
Odintsova sat leaning against the back of her armchair and listened to Bazarov, one arm resting on the other. Unusually for
him he talked quite a lot and was clearly making an effort to impress Anna Sergeyevna: this again surprised Arkady. He couldn’t
decide if Bazarov was achieving his aim. It was difficult to read Anna Sergeyevna’s thoughts from her face: she kept the same
expression, amiable and refined. Her lovely eyes were luminous with attention, but their depths were not stirred. Bazarov’s
posing in the first moments of the visit made an unpleasant impression on her, like a bad smell or a grating noise, but she
immediately understood that he was embarrassed, and that even flattered her. Only vulgarity repelled her, and no one could
have accused Bazarov of vulgarity. That day there were continual surprises for Arkady. He expected Bazarov to talk to Odintsova,
as an intelligent woman, about his convictions and opinions: she herself had expressed her wish to listen to a man ‘who is
bold enough to believe in nothing’. But instead Bazarov talked of medicine and homoeopathy and botany. It was apparent that
Odintsova hadn’t wasted her time in her solitude: she had read a number of good books and she spoke good Russian.
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She began talking about music but, seeing that Bazarov had no time for art, she quietly returned the conversation to botany,
although Arkady was on the point of holding forth on the meaning of folk tunes. Odintsova continued to treat him like a younger
brother: she seemed to appreciate in him the good heart and
ingenuousness of youth – and nothing more. The conversation – measured, wide-ranging and lively – went on for over three hours.
At last the two friends got up and began to take their leave. Anna Sergeyevna looked at them warmly, gave each of them her
beautiful white hand and, after a moment’s thought, said with a wavering but positive smile:
‘Gentlemen, if you’re not afraid of being bored, come and see me in Nikolskoye.’
‘Anna Sergeyevna, what are you saying?’ exclaimed Arkady. ‘I’d be particularly happy to…’
‘What about you, Monsieur Bazarov?’
Bazarov just bowed – and Arkady had a final surprise: he noticed his friend was blushing.
‘Well?’ he said to Bazarov in the street. ‘Do you still think she’s a bit of oh-ho-ho?’
‘God knows! She really has frozen herself up!’ Bazarov responded, and added after a moment’s silence, ‘A duchess, a sovereign
lady. She just needs to have a train behind her and a crown on her head.’
‘Our duchesses don’t speak Russian like that.’
‘She’s had some difficult times, my friend. She’s eaten the same bread as we have.’
‘But still she’s a delight,’ said Arkady.
‘And what a splendid body!’ Bazarov went on. ‘I’d like to see it now on the dissecting table.’
‘For God’s sake, Yevgeny, stop it! That’s disgusting.’
‘Calm down, don’t be so dainty. I said – she’s first class. We must go and see her.’
‘When?’
‘Why not the day after tomorrow? What is there for us to do here? Drink champagne with Kukshina? Listen to your cousin, the
liberal statesman?… Let’s get on the road the day after tomorrow. Also my father’s little property is not far from there.
Isn’t Nikolskoye on the *** road?’
‘Yes.’
‘
Optime
.
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Let’s not waste time. Only fools waste time – and know-alls. I say to you, a splendid body!’
Two days later the two friends were on the road to Nikolskoye. It was a bright day, not too hot, and the well-fed little post-horses
trotted smoothly along, their braided and plaited tails swinging gently. Arkady looked at the road and smiled, without knowing
why.
‘You must congratulate me,’ Bazarov exclaimed suddenly. ‘Today is the 22nd of June, my saint’s day. Let’s see how he looks
after me. They’re expecting me at home today,’ he added, lowering his voice… ‘Well, they’ll have to wait, it doesn’t matter!’
The mansion where Anna Sergeyevna lived stood on the slope of an open hill a short distance from a yellow-painted church with
a green roof, white columns and above the main entrance a fresco in the ‘Italian’ style representing the Resurrection of Christ.
The eye was particularly caught by the muscular contours of a swarthy warrior in a spiked helmet reclining in the foreground.
Beyond the church stretched two long rows of village houses, their chimneys sticking up here and there above the thatched
roofs. The manor house was built in the same style as the church, the style we call Alexandrine.
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The house too was painted yellow, and had a green roof, white columns and a pediment with a coat of arms. The province architect
had been responsible for both buildings, much to the taste of the late Odintsov, who couldn’t stand ‘pointless and whimsical
innovations’, as he called them. The house was flanked on both sides by the dark trees of an old garden, and an avenue of
clipped firs led to the entrance.
Two strapping liveried footmen met our friends in the hall, and one of them at once ran off to fetch the butler. The butler,
a portly man in a black frock coat, soon appeared and directed the guests up a carpeted staircase to their particular room,
where there were already two beds and everything necessary for their toilet. It was clear that order reigned in the house:
everything was clean, everything had an official smell, like in a minister’s reception room.
‘Anna Sergeyevna asks you to come down to her in half an hour,’ said the butler. ‘Meanwhile do you need anything?’
‘Nothing, my good sir,’ said Bazarov, ‘but would you be very kind and bring me a glass of vodka.’
‘Of course, sir,’ the butler replied, not without some surprise, and went off, his boots squeaking as he went.
‘What style, what
grand genre
!’ said Bazarov. ‘I think that’s what you call it. A duchess, that’s what she is.’
‘A fine duchess,’ retorted Arkady, ‘who right away offers an invitation to such mighty aristocrats as you and me.’
‘Me especially, doctor to be, son of a doctor, grandson of a sexton… You knew my grandfather was a sexton?… Like Speransky,’
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Bazarov added with a grimace, after a short silence. ‘Still, the lady really does know how to indulge herself! Shouldn’t
we put on tails?’
Arkady just shrugged his shoulders… but he too felt a bit awkward.
Half an hour later Bazarov and Arkady went down to the drawing room. It was a large and lofty room, furnished with some luxury
but without much taste. The usual formal row of furniture stood along the walls. The wallpaper, gold-patterned on a brown
background, had been ordered by the late Odintsov from Moscow, from his friend and commission agent, a wine merchant. Above
the central sofa hung the portrait of a flabby, fair-haired man – who seemed to look at the guests with unfriendly eyes. ‘That
must be
himself
,’ Bazarov whispered to Arkady and added, wrinkling his nose, ‘Why don’t we run away?’ But at that moment the hostess came
in. She wore a light wool dress, and, with her hair smoothly combed back behind her ears, her fresh, clean face had a girlish
look.
‘Thank you for keeping your promise,’ she began. ‘Now be my guests for a while. It’s really quite nice here. I’ll introduce
you to my sister, she plays the piano rather well. Monsieur Bazarov, you don’t care but, Monsieur Kirsanov, I think you like
music. Apart from my sister my old aunt lives with me. And there’s a neighbour who sometimes comes to play
cards. That’s all of our society. And now let’s sit down.’
Odintsova pronounced the whole of this little speech with particular clarity as if she had learnt it off by heart. Then she
turned to Arkady. It turned out her mother had known Arkady’s and had even been a confidante when she had been in love with
Nikolay Petrovich. Arkady spoke with warmth about his dead mother. Meanwhile Bazarov began to look through some picture albums.
‘I’ve become so tame,’ he thought to himself.
A beautiful borzoi bitch with a sky-blue collar ran into the drawing room, her feet clacking over the parquet, and she was
followed by a girl of about eighteen, dark-complexioned and black-haired, with a slightly rounded but attractive face and
small dark eyes. In her hands she held a basket of flowers.
‘Here is my Katya,’ said Anna Sergeyevna, indicating her with a movement of her head.
Katya gave them a small curtsey, sat down by her sister and began to sort the flowers. The borzoi, which was called Fifi,
came up to each of the guests, wagging her tail, and thrust her cold muzzle into their hand.
‘Did you pick all these yourself?’ Anna Sergeyevna asked.
‘I did,’ answered Katya.
‘And is Aunt coming to tea?’
‘Yes.’
When Katya spoke she had a very attractive smile, shy and open, accompanied by a curiously stern upward look. Everything in
her spoke of the springtime of youth – her voice, the down on her face, her rosy hands with white circular marks on the palms,
her slightly narrow shoulders… She kept on blushing and taking quick breaths.
Anna Sergeyevna turned to Bazarov. ‘Yevgeny Vasilyevich,’ she began, ‘you’re looking at pictures out of politeness. It doesn’t
interest you. Better come over here and let us have a good talk about something or other.’
Bazarov came over.
‘What would you like to talk about?’ he said.
‘Whatever you choose. I warn you, I’m terribly argumentative.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. That seems to surprise you. Why is that?’
‘Because, in so far as I can judge, your temperament is calm and cold, but argument needs passion.’
‘How have you got to know me so soon? First, I am impatient and persistent – you should ask Katya – and, second, I’m very
easily carried away by passion.’
Bazarov looked at Anna Sergeyevna.
‘Maybe. You know best. And so, you want an argument. Let’s begin. I was looking at the views of Saxon Switzerland
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in your album, and you said to me that that can’t interest me. You said that because you assume I have no artistic sense
– and indeed I have none. But those views could interest me from a geological point of view, for example in connection with
the formation of mountains.’
‘Excuse me, as a geologist you should be consulting a book, a specialist work, rather than a picture.’
‘A drawing can present to me visually what a book needs ten whole pages to explain.’
Anna Sergeyevna didn’t reply.
‘And so do you really not have a drop of artistic sense?’ she said, putting her elbows on the table and with this movement
bringing her face nearer to Bazarov. ‘How can you do without it?’
‘But may I ask why it’s needed?’
‘If only to be able to get to know people and to study them.’
Bazarov smiled.
‘First, for that we have life experience. And second I tell you it’s a waste of effort studying separate individuals. All
human beings are like one another, in their souls as much as their bodies. Each of us has an identically constructed brain,
spleen, heart, lungs. And the so-called moral qualities are the same in us all; small variations have no significance. A single
human specimen is enough to judge them all. People are like trees in a forest. No botanist is going to study each individual
birch tree.’