Fathers and Children Ivan Turgenev (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📖

prevent it!” cried Evdoksya. She gave directions, however, to her maid, both as regards the lunch and the champagne.

“What do you think about it?” she added, turning to Bazarov. “I’m persuaded you share my opinion.”

“Well, no,” retorted Bazarov; “a piece of meat’s better than a piece of bread even from the chemical point of view.”

“You are studying chemistry? That is my passion. I’ve even invented a new sort of composition myself.”

“A composition? You?”

“Yes. And do you know for what purpose? To make dolls’ heads so that they shouldn’t break. I’m practical, too, yon see. But everything’s not quite ready yet. I’ve still to read Liebig. By the way, have you read Kislyakov’s article on Female Labour, in the Moscow Gazette? Read it please. You’re interested in the woman question, I suppose? And in the schools too? What does your friend do? What is his name?”

Madame Kukshin shed her questions one after another with affected negligence, not waiting for an answer; spoilt children talk so to their nurses.

“My name’s Arkady Nikolaitch Kirsanov,” said Arkady, “and I’m doing nothing.”

Evdoksya giggled. “How charming! What, don’t you smoke? Victor, do you know, I’m very angry with you.”

“What for?”

“They tell me you’ve begun singing the praises of George Sand again. A retrograde woman, and nothing else! How can people compare her with Emerson! She hasn’t an idea on education, nor physiology, nor anything. She’d never, I’m persuaded, heard of embryology, and in these days⁠—what can be done without that?” (Evdoksya even threw up her hands.) “Ah, what a wonderful article Elisyevitch has written on that subject! He’s a gentleman of genius.” (Evdoksya constantly made use of the word “gentleman” instead of the word “man.”) “Bazarov, sit by me on the sofa. You don’t know, perhaps, I’m awfully afraid of you.”

“Why so? Allow me to ask.”

“You’re a dangerous gentleman; you’re such a critic. Good God! yes! why, how absurd, I’m talking like some country lady. I really am a country lady, though. I manage my property myself; and only fancy, my bailiff Erofay’s a wonderful type, quite like Cooper’s Pathfinder; something in him so spontaneous! I’ve come to settle here finally; it’s an intolerable town, isn’t it? But what’s one to do?”

“The town’s like every town,” Bazarov remarked coolly.

“All its interests are so petty, that’s what’s so awful! I used to spend the winters in Moscow⁠ ⁠… but now my lawful spouse, Monsieur Kukshin’s residing there. And besides, Moscow nowadays⁠ ⁠… there, I don’t know⁠—it’s not the same as it was. I’m thinking of going abroad; last year I was on the point of setting off.”

“To Paris, I suppose?” queried Bazarov.

“To Paris and to Heidelberg.”

“Why to Heidelberg?”

“How can you ask? Why, Bunsen’s there!”

To this Bazarov could find no reply.

“Pierre Sapozhnikov⁠ ⁠… do you know him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not know Pierre Sapozhnikov⁠ ⁠… he’s always at Lidia Hestatov’s.”

“I don’t know her either.”

“Well, it was he undertook to escort me. Thank God, I’m independent; I’ve no children.⁠ ⁠… What was that I said: thank God! It’s no matter though.”

Evdoksya rolled a cigarette up between her fingers, which were brown with tobacco stains, put it to her tongue, licked it up, and began smoking. The maid came in with a tray.

“Ah, here’s lunch! Will you have an appetiser first? Victor, open the bottle; that’s in your line.”

“Yes, it’s in my line,” muttered Sitnikov, and again he gave vent to the same convulsive laugh.

“Are there any pretty women here?” inquired Bazarov, as he drank off a third glass.

“Yes, there are,” answered Evdoksya; “but they’re all such empty-headed creatures. Mon amie, Odintsova, for instance, is nice-looking. It’s a pity her reputation’s rather doubtful.⁠ ⁠… That wouldn’t matter, though, but she’s no independence in her views, no width, nothing⁠ ⁠… of all that. The whole system of education wants changing. I’ve thought a great deal about it, our women are very badly educated.”

“There’s no doing anything with them,” put in Sitnikov; “one ought to despise them, and I do despise them fully and completely!” (The possibility of feeling and expressing contempt was the most agreeable sensation to Sitnikov; he used to attack women in especial, never suspecting that it was to be his fate a few months later to be cringing before his wife merely because she had been born a princess Durdoleosov.) “Not a single one of them would be capable of understanding our conversation; not a single one deserves to be spoken of by serious men like us!”

“But there’s not the least need for them to understand our conversation,” observed Bazarov.

“Whom do you mean?” put in Evdoksya.

“Pretty women.”

“What? Do you adopt Proudhon’s ideas, then?”

Bazarov drew himself up haughtily. “I don’t adopt anyone’s ideas; I have my own.”

“Damn all authorities!” shouted Sitnikov, delighted to have a chance of expressing himself boldly before the man he slavishly admired.

“But even Macaulay,” Madame Kukshin was beginning⁠ ⁠…

“Damn Macaulay,” thundered Sitnikov. “Are you going to stand up for the silly hussies?”

“For silly hussies, no, but for the rights of women, which I have sworn to defend to the last drop of my blood.”

“Damn!”⁠—but here Sitnikov stopped. “But I don’t deny them,” he said.

“No, I see you’re a Slavophil.”

“No, I’m not a Slavophil, though, of course⁠ ⁠…”

“No, no, no! You are a Slavophil. You’re an advocate of patriarchal despotism. You want to have the whip in your hand!”

“A whip’s an excellent thing,” remarked Bazarov; “but we’ve got to the last drop.”

“Of what?” interrupted Evdoksya.

“Of champagne, most honoured Avdotya Nikitishna, of champagne⁠—not of your blood.”

“I can never listen calmly when women are attacked,” pursued Evdoksya. “It’s awful, awful. Instead of attacking them, you’d better read Michelet’s book, De l’amour. That’s exquisite! Gentlemen, let us talk of love,” added Evdoksya, letting her arm fall languidly on the rumpled sofa cushion.

A sudden silence followed. “No, why should we talk of love,” said Bazarov; “but you mentioned just now a Madame Odintsov⁠ ⁠… That was what you called her, I think? Who is that lady?”

“She’s charming, charming!” piped Sitnikov. “I will introduce you. Clever, rich, a widow. It’s a pity, she’s not yet advanced enough;