"You do not understand my father," Arkady was saying.
Nikolai Petrovitch halted instead of revealing himself.
"Oh, he is a good fellow enough," replied Bazarov. "But also he is a man on the shelf, a man whose song has been sung."
Though Nikolai Petrovitch strained his ears, he failed to catch Arkady's reply. So the "man on the shelf" lingered for a minute or two—then walked slowly back to the house.
"For the past three days I have noted him reading Pushkin," continued Bazarov. "You ought to explain to him that no good can come of that, for he is no longer a boy, and ought to have shaken himself free of such fiddlesticks. Who would desire to be a Romanticist? Give him something practical."
"For instance?"
"Let me consider. For a start, give him Büchner's[1] Stoff und Kraft."
"Good!" Arkady's tone was approving. "Stoff und Kraft is at least written in a popular style."
The same day Nikolai Petrovitch was sitting with his brother. At length he said:
"I find that you and I are men on the shelf, that our songs have been sung. Eh? And perhaps Bazarov is right. Yet I confess that one thing hurts me: and that is that, though I had hoped to draw nearer to Arkady, I am being left in the rear, and he is for ever marching ahead. No longer do he and I understand one another."