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

“Well, I didn’t give it you for you to understand it. I wanted to look at you while you were reading. When you read, the end of your little nose moves so nicely.”

Fenitchka, who had set to work to spell out in a low voice the article on “Creosote” she had chanced upon, laughed and threw down the book⁠ ⁠… it slipped from the seat on to the ground.

“Nonsense!”

“I like it too when you laugh,” observed Bazarov.

“I like it when you talk. It’s just like a little brook babbling.”

Fenitchka turned her head away. “What a person you are to talk!” she commented, picking the flowers over with her finger. “And how can you care to listen to me? You have talked with such clever ladies.”

“Ah, Fedosya Nikolaevna! believe me; all the clever ladies in the world are not worth your little elbow.”

“Come, there’s another invention!” murmured Fenitchka, clasping her hands.

Bazarov picked the book up from the ground.

“That’s a medical book; why do you throw it away?”

“Medical?” repeated Fenitchka, and she turned to him again. “Do you know, ever since you gave me those drops⁠—do you remember?⁠—Mitya has slept so well! I really can’t think how to thank you; you are so good, really.”

“But you have to pay doctors,” observed Bazarov with a smile. “Doctors, you know yourself, are grasping people.”

Fenitchka raised her eyes, which seemed still darker from the whitish reflection cast on the upper part of her face, and looked at Bazarov. She did not know whether he was joking or not.

“If you please, we shall be delighted.⁠ ⁠… I must ask Nikolai Petrovitch⁠ ⁠…”

“Why, do you think I want money?” Bazarov interposed. “No; I don’t want money from you.”

“What then?” asked Fenitchka.

“What?” repeated Bazarov. “Guess!”

“A likely person I am to guess!”

“Well, I will tell you; I want⁠ ⁠… one of those roses.”

Fenitchka laughed again, and even clapped her hands, so amusing Bazarov’s request seemed to her. She laughed, and at the same time felt flattered. Bazarov was looking intently at her.

“By all means,” she said at last; and, bending down to the seat, she began picking over the roses. “Which will you have⁠—a red one or a white one?”

“Red, and not too large.”

She sat up again. “Here, take it,” she said, but at once drew back her outstretched hand, and, biting her lips, looked towards the entrance of the arbour, then listened.

“What is it?” asked Bazarov. “Nikolai Petrovitch?”

“No⁠ ⁠… Mr. Kirsanov has gone to the fields⁠ ⁠… besides, I’m not afraid of him⁠ ⁠… but Pavel Petrovitch⁠ ⁠… I fancied⁠ ⁠…”

“What?”

“I fancied he was coming here. No⁠ ⁠… it was no one. Take it.” Fenitchka gave Bazarov the rose.

“On what grounds are you afraid of Pavel Petrovitch?”

“He always scares me. And I know you don’t like him. Do you remember, you always used to quarrel with him? I don’t know what your quarrel was about, but I can see you turn him about like this and like that.”

Fenitchka showed with her hands how in her opinion Bazarov turned Pavel Petrovitch about.

Bazarov smiled. “But if he gave me a beating,” he asked, “would you stand up for me?”

“How could I stand up for you? but no, no one will get the better of you.”

“Do you think so? But I know a hand which could overcome me if it liked.”

“What hand?”

“Why, don’t you know, really? Smell, how delicious this rose smells you gave me.”

Fenitchka stretched her little neck forward, and put her face close to the flower.⁠ ⁠… The kerchief slipped from her head on to her shoulders; her soft mass of dark, shining, slightly ruffled hair was visible.

“Wait a minute; I want to smell it with you,” said Bazarov. He bent down and kissed her vigorously on her parted lips.

She started, pushed him back with both her hands on his breast, but pushed feebly, and he was able to renew and prolong his kiss.

A dry cough was heard behind the lilac bushes. Fenitchka instantly moved away to the other end of the seat. Pavel Petrovitch showed himself, made a slight bow, and saying with a sort of malicious mournfulness, “You are here,” he retreated. Fenitchka at once gathered up all her roses and went out of the arbour. “It was wrong of you, Yevgeny Vassilyevitch,” she whispered as she went. There was a note of genuine reproach in her whisper.

Bazarov remembered another recent scene, and he felt both shame and contemptuous annoyance. But he shook his head directly, ironically congratulated himself “on his final assumption of the part of the gay Lothario,” and went off to his own room.

Pavel Petrovitch went out of the garden, and made his way with deliberate steps to the copse. He stayed there rather a long while; and when he returned to lunch, Nikolai Petrovitch inquired anxiously whether he were quite well⁠—his face looked so gloomy.

“You know, I sometimes suffer with my liver,” Pavel Petrovitch answered tranquilly.

Two hours later he knocked at Bazarov’s door.

“I must apologise for hindering you in your scientific pursuits,” he began, seating himself on a chair in the window, and leaning with both hands on a handsome walking-stick with an ivory knob (he usually walked without a stick), “but I am constrained to beg you to spare me five minutes of your time⁠ ⁠… no more.”

“All my time is at your disposal,” answered Bazarov, over whose face there passed a quick change of expression directly Pavel Petrovitch crossed the threshold.

“Five minutes will be enough for me. I have come to put a single question to you.”

“A question? What is it about?”

“I will tell you, if you will kindly hear me out. At the commencement of your stay in my brother’s house, before I had renounced the pleasure of conversing with you, it was my fortune to hear your opinions on many subjects; but so far as my memory serves, neither between us, nor in my presence, was the subject of single combats and duelling in general broached. Allow me to hear what are your views on that subject?”

Bazarov, who had risen to meet Pavel Petrovitch,