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

the barn, and, obstinately closing his eyes, try to force himself to sleep, in which, of course, he did not always succeed. Suddenly his fancy would bring before him those chaste hands twining one day about his neck, those proud lips responding to his kisses, those intellectual eyes dwelling with tenderness⁠—yes, with tenderness⁠—on his, and his head went round, and he forgot himself for an instant, till indignation boiled up in him again. He caught himself in all sorts of “shameful” thoughts, as though he were driven on by a devil mocking him. Sometimes he fancied that there was a change taking place in Madame Odintsov too; that there were signs in the expression of her face of something special; that, perhaps⁠ ⁠… but at that point he would stamp, or grind his teeth, and clench his fists.

Meanwhile Bazarov was not altogether mistaken. He had struck Madame Odintsov’s imagination; he interested her, she thought a great deal about him. In his absence, she was not dull, she was not impatient for his coming, but she always grew more lively on his appearance; she liked to be left alone with him, and she liked talking to him, even when he irritated her or offended her taste, her refined habits. She was, as it were, eager at once to sound him and to analyse herself.

One day walking in the garden with her, he suddenly announced, in a surly voice, that he intended going to his father’s place very soon.⁠ ⁠… She turned white, as though something had given her a pang, and such a pang, that she wondered and pondered long after, what could be the meaning of it. Bazarov had spoken of his departure with no idea of putting her to the test, of seeing what would come of it; he never “fabricated.” On the morning of that day he had an interview with his father’s bailiff, who had taken care of him when he was a child, Timofeitch. This Timofeitch, a little old man of much experience and astuteness, with faded yellow hair, a weather-beaten red face, and tiny teardrops in his shrunken eyes, unexpectedly appeared before Bazarov, in his shortish overcoat of stout greyish-blue cloth, girt with a strip of leather, and in tarred boots.

“Hullo, old man; how are you?” cried Bazarov.

“How do you do, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?” began the little old man, and he smiled with delight, so that his whole face was all at once covered with wrinkles.

“What have you come for? They sent for me, eh?”

“Upon my word, sir, how could we?” mumbled Timofeitch. (He remembered the strict injunctions he had received from his master on starting.) “We were sent to the town on business, and we’d heard news of your honour, so here we turned off on our way, that’s to say⁠—to have a look at your honour⁠ ⁠… as if we could think of disturbing you!”

“Come, don’t tell lies!” Bazarov cut him short. “Is this the road to the town, do you mean to tell me?” Timofeitch hesitated, and made no answer. “Is my father well?”

“Thank God, yes.”

“And my mother?”

“Anna Vlasyevna too, glory be to God.”

“They are expecting me, I suppose?”

The little old man held his tiny head on one side.

“Ah, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, it makes one’s heart ache to see them; it does really.”

“Come, all right, all right! shut up! Tell them I’m coming soon.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Timofeitch, with a sigh.

As he went out of the house, he pulled his cap down on his head with both hands, clambered into a wretched-looking racing droshky, and went off at a trot, but not in the direction of the town.

On the evening of the same day, Madame Odintsov was sitting in her own room with Bazarov, while Arkady walked up and down the hall listening to Katya’s playing. The princess had gone upstairs to her own room; she could not bear guests as a rule, and “especially this new riffraff lot,” as she called them. In the common rooms she only sulked; but she made up for it in her own room by breaking out into such abuse before her maid that the cap danced on her head, wig and all. Madame Odintsov was well aware of all this.

“How is it you are proposing to leave us?” she began; “how about your promise?”

Bazarov started. “What promise?”

“Have you forgotten? You meant to give me some lessons in chemistry.”

“It can’t be helped! My father expects me; I can’t loiter any longer. However, you can read Pelouse et Frémy, Notions générales de Chimie; it’s a good book, and clearly written. You will find everything you need in it.”

“But do you remember; you assured me a book cannot take the place of⁠ ⁠… I’ve forgotten how you put it, but you know what I mean⁠ ⁠… do you remember?”

“It can’t be helped!” repeated Bazarov.

“Why go away?” said Madame Odintsov, dropping her voice.

He glanced at her. Her head had fallen on to the back of her easy-chair, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were folded on her bosom. She seemed paler in the light of the single lamp covered with a perforated paper shade. An ample white gown hid her completely in its soft folds; even the tips of her feet, also crossed, were hardly seen.

“And why stay?” answered Bazarov.

Madame Odintsov turned her head slightly. “You ask why. Have you not enjoyed yourself with me? Or do you suppose you will not be missed here?”

“I am sure of it.”

Madame Odintsov was silent a minute. “You are wrong in thinking that. But I don’t believe you. You could not say that seriously.” Bazarov still sat immovable. “Yevgeny Vassilyitch, why don’t you speak?”

“Why, what am I to say to you? People are not generally worth being missed, and I less than most.”

“Why so?”

“I’m a practical, uninteresting person. I don’t know how to talk.”

“You are fishing, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.”

“That’s not a habit of mine. Don’t you know yourself that I’ve nothing in common with the elegant side of life, the side you prize so much?”

Madame Odintsov bit