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

she ought to see more of our Evdoksya. I drink to your health, Evdoxie! Let us clink glasses! Et toc, et toc, et tin-tin-tin! Et toc, et toc, et tin-tin-tin!!!”

“Victor, you’re a wretch.”

The lunch dragged on a long while. The first bottle of champagne was followed by another, a third, and even a fourth.⁠ ⁠… Evdoksya chattered without pause; Sitnikov seconded her. They had much discussion upon the question whether marriage was a prejudice or a crime, and whether men were born equal or not, and precisely what individuality consists in. Things came at last to Evdoksya, flushed from the wine she had drunk, tapping with her flat fingertips on the keys of a discordant piano, and beginning to sing in a hoarse voice, first gipsy songs, and then Seymour Schiff’s song, “Granada lies slumbering”; while Sitnikov tied a scarf round his head, and represented the dying lover at the words⁠—

“And thy lips to mine
In burning kiss entwine.”

Arkady could not stand it at last. “Gentlemen, it’s getting something like Bedlam,” he remarked aloud. Bazarov, who had at rare intervals put in an ironical word in the conversation⁠—he paid more attention to the champagne⁠—gave a loud yawn, got up, and, without taking leave of their hostess, he walked off with Arkady. Sitnikov jumped up and followed them.

“Well, what do you think of her?” he inquired, skipping obsequiously from right to left of them. “I told you, you see, a remarkable personality! If we only had more women like that! She is, in her own way, an expression of the highest morality.”

“And is that establishment of your governor’s an expression of the highest morality too?” observed Bazarov, pointing to a ginshop which they were passing at that instant.

Sitnikov again went off into a shrill laugh. He was greatly ashamed of his origin, and did not know whether to feel flattered or offended at Bazarov’s unexpected familiarity.

XIV

A few days later the ball at the Governor’s took place. Matvy Ilyitch was the real “hero of the occasion.” The marshal of nobility declared to all and each that he had come simply out of respect for him; while the Governor, even at the ball, even while he remained perfectly motionless, was still “making arrangements.” The affability of Matvy Ilyitch’s demeanour could only be equalled by its dignity. He was gracious to all, to some with a shade of disgust, to others with a shade of respect; he was all bows and smiles “en vrai chevalier français” before the ladies, and was continually giving vent to a hearty, sonorous, unshared laugh, such as befits a high official. He slapped Arkady on the back, and called him loudly “nephew”; vouchsafed Bazarov⁠—who was attired in a rather old evening coat⁠—a sidelong glance in passing⁠—absent but condescending⁠—and an indistinct but affable grunt, in which nothing could be distinguished but “I⁠ ⁠…” and “very much”; gave Sitnikov a finger and a smile, though with his head already averted; even to Madame Kukshin, who made her appearance at the ball with dirty gloves, no crinoline, and a bird of Paradise in her hair, he said “enchanté.” There were crowds of people, and no lack of dancing men; the civilians were for the most part standing close along the walls, but the officers danced assiduously, especially one of them who had spent six weeks in Paris, where he had mastered various daring interjections of the kind of⁠—“zut,” “Ah, fichtr-re,” “pst, pst, mon bibi,” and such. He pronounced them to perfection with genuine Parisian chic, and at the same time he said “si j’aurais” for “si j’avais,” “absolument” in the sense of “absolutely,” expressed himself, in fact, in that Great Russo-French jargon which the French ridicule so when they have no reason for assuring us that we speak French like angels, “comme des anges.”

Arkady, as we are aware, danced badly, while Bazarov did not dance at all; they both took up their position in a corner; Sitnikov joined himself on to them, with an expression of contemptuous scorn on his face, and giving vent to spiteful comments, he looked insolently about him, and seemed to be really enjoying himself. Suddenly his face changed, and turning to Arkady, he said, with some show of embarrassment it seemed, “Odintsova is here!”

Arkady looked round, and saw a tall woman in a black dress standing at the door of the room. He was struck by the dignity of her carriage. Her bare arms lay gracefully beside her slender waist; gracefully some light sprays of fuchsia drooped from her shining hair on to her sloping shoulders; her clear eyes looked out from under a rather overhanging white brow, with a tranquil and intelligent expression⁠—tranquil it was precisely, not pensive⁠—and on her lips was a scarcely perceptible smile. There was a kind of gracious and gentle force about her face.

“Do you know her?” Arkady asked Sitnikov.

“Intimately. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Please⁠ ⁠… after this quadrille.”

Bazarov’s attention, too, was directed to Madame Odintsov.

“That’s a striking figure,” he remarked. “Not like the other females.”

After waiting till the end of the quadrille, Sitnikov led Arkady up to Madame Odintsov; but he hardly seemed to be intimately acquainted with her; he was embarrassed in his sentences, while she looked at him in some surprise. But her face assumed an expression of pleasure when she heard Arkady’s surname. She asked him whether he was not the son of Nikolai Petrovitch.

“Yes.”

“I have seen your father twice, and have heard a great deal about him,” she went on; “I am glad to make your acquaintance.”

At that instant some adjutant flew up to her and begged for a quadrille. She consented.

“Do you dance then?” asked Arkady respectfully.

“Yes, I dance. Why do you suppose I don’t dance? Do you think I am too old?”

“Really, how could I possibly.⁠ ⁠… But in that case, let me ask you for a mazurka.”

Madame Odintsov smiled graciously.