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

“You know the saying, ‘Happiness is where we are not,’ ” replied Bazarov; “besides, you told me yesterday you are discontented. I certainly never have such ideas come into my head.”

“Perhaps they seem ridiculous to you?”

“No; but they don’t come into my head.”

“Really? Do you know, I should very much like to know what you do think about?”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Listen; I have long wanted to speak openly to you. There’s no need to tell you⁠—you are conscious of it yourself⁠—that you are not an ordinary man; you are still young⁠—all life is before you. What are you preparing yourself for? What future is awaiting you? I mean to say⁠—what object do you want to attain? What are you going forward to? What is in your heart? in short, who are you? What are you?”

“You surprise me, Anna Sergyevna. You are aware that I am studying natural science, and who I⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, who are you?”

“I have explained to you already that I am going to be a district doctor.”

Anna Sergyevna made a movement of impatience.

“What do you say that for? You don’t believe it yourself. Arkady might answer me in that way, but not you.”

“Why, in what is Arkady⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop! Is it possible you could content yourself with such a humble career, and aren’t you always maintaining yourself that you don’t believe in medicine? You⁠—with your ambition⁠—a district doctor! You answer me like that to put me off, because you have no confidence in me. But, do you know, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, that I could understand you; I have been poor myself, and ambitious, like you; I have been perhaps through the same trials as you.”

“That is all very well, Anna Sergyevna, but you must pardon me for⁠ ⁠… I am not in the habit of talking freely about myself at any time as a rule, and between you and me there is such a gulf⁠ ⁠…”

“What sort of gulf? You mean to tell me again that I am an aristocrat? No more of that, Yevgeny Vassilyitch; I thought I had proved to you⁠ ⁠…”

“And even apart from that,” broke in Bazarov, “what could induce one to talk and think about the future, which for the most part does not depend on us? If a chance turns up of doing something⁠—so much the better; and if it doesn’t turn up⁠—at least one will be glad one didn’t gossip idly about it beforehand.”

“You call a friendly conversation idle gossip?⁠ ⁠… Or perhaps you consider me as a woman unworthy of your confidence? I know you despise us all.”

“I don’t despise you, Anna Sergyevna, and you know that.”

“No, I don’t know anything⁠ ⁠… but let us suppose so. I understand your disinclination to talk of your future career; but as to what is taking place within you now⁠ ⁠…”

“Taking place!” repeated Bazarov, “as though I were some sort of government or society! In any case, it is utterly uninteresting; and besides, can a man always speak of everything that ‘takes place’ in him?”

“Why, I don’t see why you can’t speak freely of everything you have in your heart.”

“Can you?” asked Bazarov.

“Yes,” answered Anna Sergyevna, after a brief hesitation.

Bazarov bowed his head. “You are more fortunate than I am.”

Anna Sergyevna looked at him questioningly. “As you please,” she went on, “but still something tells me that we have not come together for nothing; that we shall be great friends. I am sure this⁠—what should I say, constraint, reticence in you will vanish at last.”

“So you have noticed reticence⁠ ⁠… as you expressed it⁠ ⁠… constraint?”

“Yes.”

Bazarov got up and went to the window. “And would you like to know the reason of this reticence? Would you like to know what is passing within me?”

“Yes,” repeated Madame Odintsov, with a sort of dread she did not at the time understand.

“And you will not be angry?”

“No.”

“No?” Bazarov was standing with his back to her. “Let me tell you then that I love you like a fool, like a madman.⁠ ⁠… There, you’ve forced it out of me.”

Madame Odintsov held both hands out before her; but Bazarov was leaning with his forehead pressed against the window pane. He breathed hard; his whole body was visibly trembling. But it was not the tremor of youthful timidity, not the sweet alarm of the first declaration that possessed him; it was passion struggling in him, strong and painful⁠—passion not unlike hatred, and perhaps akin to it.⁠ ⁠… Madame Odintsov felt both afraid and sorry for him.

“Yevgeny Vassilyitch!” she said, and there was the ring of unconscious tenderness in her voice.

He turned quickly, flung a searching look on her, and snatching both her hands, he drew her suddenly to his breast.

She did not at once free herself from his embrace, but an instant later, she was standing far away in a corner, and looking from there at Bazarov. He rushed at her⁠ ⁠…

“You have misunderstood me,” she whispered hurriedly, in alarm. It seemed if he had made another step she would have screamed.⁠ ⁠… Bazarov bit his lips, and went out.

Half-an-hour after, a maid gave Anna Sergyevna a note from Bazarov; it consisted simply of one line: “Am I to go today, or can I stop till tomorrow?”

“Why should you go? I did not understand you⁠—you did not understand me,” Anna Sergyevna answered him, but to herself she thought: “I did not understand myself either.”

She did not show herself till dinnertime, and kept walking to and fro in her room, stopping sometimes at the window, sometimes at the looking-glass, and slowly rubbing her handkerchief over her neck, on which she still seemed to feel a burning spot. She asked herself what had induced her to “force” Bazarov’s words, his confidence, and whether she had suspected nothing⁠ ⁠… “I am to blame,” she decided aloud, “but I could not have foreseen this.” She fell to musing, and blushed crimson, remembering Bazarov’s almost animal face when he had rushed at her.⁠ ⁠…

“Oh?” she uttered suddenly aloud, and she stopped short and shook back her curls.⁠ ⁠… She caught sight of herself in the glass; her head thrown