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

“I must ask you to look after my brother,” Nikolai Petrovitch said to him, “till we get another doctor from the town.”

Bazarov nodded his head without speaking. In an hour’s time Pavel Petrovitch was already lying in bed with a skilfully bandaged leg. The whole house was alarmed; Fenitchka fainted. Nikolai Petrovitch kept stealthily wringing his hands, while Pavel Petrovitch laughed and joked, especially with Bazarov; he had put on a fine cambric nightshirt, an elegant morning wrapper, and a fez, did not allow the blinds to be drawn down, and humorously complained of the necessity of being kept from food.

Towards night, however, he began to be feverish; his head ached. The doctor arrived from the town. (Nikolai Petrovitch would not listen to his brother, and indeed Bazarov himself did not wish him to; he sat the whole day in his room, looking yellow and vindictive, and only went in to the invalid for as brief a time as possible; twice he happened to meet Fenitchka, but she shrank away from him with horror.) The new doctor advised a cooling diet; he confirmed, however, Bazarov’s assertion that there was no danger. Nikolai Petrovitch told him his brother had wounded himself by accident, to which the doctor responded, “Hm!” but having twenty-five silver roubles slipped into his hand on the spot, he observed, “You don’t say so! Well, it’s a thing that often happens, to be sure.”

No one in the house went to bed or undressed. Nikolai Petrovitch kept going in to his brother on tiptoe, retreating on tiptoe again; the latter dozed, moaned a little, told him in French, Couchez-vous, and asked for drink. Nikolai Petrovitch sent Fenitchka twice to take him a glass of lemonade; Pavel Petrovitch gazed at her intently, and drank off the glass to the last drop. Towards morning the fever had increased a little; there was slight delirium. At first Pavel Petrovitch uttered incoherent words; then suddenly he opened his eyes, and seeing his brother near his bed bending anxiously over him, he said, “Don’t you think, Nikolai, Fenitchka has something in common with Nellie?”

“What Nellie, Pavel dear?”

“How can you ask? Princess R⁠⸺. Especially in the upper part of the face. C’est de la même famille.”

Nikolai Petrovitch made no answer, while inwardly he marvelled at the persistence of old passions in man. “It’s like this when it comes to the surface,” he thought.

“Ah, how I love that lightheaded creature!” moaned Pavel Petrovitch, clasping his hands mournfully behind his head. “I can’t bear any insolent upstart to dare to touch⁠ ⁠…” he whispered a few minutes later.

Nikolai Petrovitch only sighed; he did not even suspect to whom these words referred.

Bazarov presented himself before him at eight o’clock the next day. He had already had time to pack, and to set free all his frogs, insects, and birds.

“You have come to say goodbye to me?” said Nikolai Petrovitch, getting up to meet him.

“Yes.”

“I understand you, and approve of you fully. My poor brother, of course, is to blame; and he is punished for it. He told me himself that he made it impossible for you to act otherwise. I believe that you could not avoid this duel, which⁠ ⁠… which to some extent is explained by the almost constant antagonism of your respective views.” (Nikolai Petrovitch began to get a little mixed up in his words.) “My brother is a man of the old school, hot-tempered and obstinate.⁠ ⁠… Thank God that it has ended as it has. I have taken every precaution to avoid publicity.”

“I’m leaving you my address, in case there’s any fuss,” Bazarov remarked casually.

“I hope there will be no fuss, Yevgeny Vassilyitch.⁠ ⁠… I am very sorry your stay in my house should have such a⁠ ⁠… such an end. It is the more distressing to me through Arkady’s⁠ ⁠…”

“I shall be seeing him, I expect,” replied Bazarov, in whom “explanations” and “protestations” of every sort always aroused a feeling of impatience; “in case I don’t, I beg you to say goodbye to him for me, and accept the expression of my regret.”

“And I beg⁠ ⁠…” answered Nikolai Petrovitch. But Bazarov went off without waiting for the end of his sentence.

When he heard of Bazarov’s going, Pavel Petrovitch expressed a desire to see him, and shook his hand. But even then he remained as cold as ice; he realised that Pavel Petrovitch wanted to play the magnanimous. He did not succeed in saying goodbye to Fenitchka; he only exchanged glances with her at the window. Her face struck him as looking dejected. “She’ll come to grief, perhaps,” he said to himself.⁠ ⁠… “But who knows? she’ll pull through somehow, I dare say!” Piotr, however, was so overcome that he wept on his shoulder, till Bazarov damped him by asking if he’d a constant supply laid on in his eyes; while Dunyasha was obliged to run away into the wood to hide her emotion. The originator of all this woe got into a light cart, smoked a cigar, and when at the third mile, at the bend in the road, the Kirsanovs’ farm, with its new house, could be seen in a long line, he merely spat, and muttering, “Cursed snobs!” wrapped himself closer in his cloak.

Pavel Petrovitch was soon better; but he had to keep his bed about a week. He bore his captivity, as he called it, pretty patiently, though he took great pains over his toilette, and had everything scented with eau-de-cologne. Nikolai Petrovitch used to read him the journals; Fenitchka waited on him as before, brought him lemonade, soup, boiled eggs, and tea; but she was overcome with secret dread whenever she went into his room. Pavel Petrovitch’s unexpected action had alarmed everyone in the house, and her more than anyone; Prokofitch was the only person not agitated by it; he discoursed upon how gentlemen in his day used to fight, but only with real gentlemen; low curs like that they used to order a horsewhipping in the