‘What an idea! Let me feel your pulse.’ Bazarov took her hand, felt for the evenly - beating pulse, but did not even begin to count its throbs. ‘You’ll live a hundred years!’ he said, dropping her hand.
‘Ah, God forbid!’ she cried.
‘Why? Don’t you want a long life?’
‘Well, but a hundred years! There was an old woman near us eighty - five years old — and what a martyr she was! Dirty and deaf and bent and coughing all the time; nothing but a burden to herself. That’s a dreadful life!’
‘So it’s better to be young?’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘But why is it better? Tell me!’
‘How can you ask why? Why, here I now, while I’m young, I can do everything — go and come and carry, and needn’t ask any one for anything.... What can be better?’
‘And to me it’s all the same whether I’m young or old.’
‘How do you mean — it’s all the same? It’s not possible what you say.’
‘Well, judge for yourself, Fedosya Nikolaevna, what good is my youth to me. I live alone, a poor lonely creature ...’
‘That always depends on you.’
‘It doesn’t at all depend on me! At least, some one ought to take pity on me.’
Fenitchka gave a sidelong look at Bazarov, but said nothing. ‘What’s this book you have?’ she asked after a short pause.
‘That? That’s a scientific book, very difficult.’
‘And are you still studying? And don’t you find it dull? You know everything already I should say.’
‘It seems not everything. You try to read a little.’
‘But I don’t understand anything here. Is it Russian?’ asked Fenitchka, taking the heavily bound book in both hands. ‘How thick it is!’
‘Yes, it’s Russian.’
‘All the same, I shan’t understand anything.’
‘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.
CHAPTER XXIV
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, sat down on the edge of the table and folded his arms.
‘My view is,’ he said, ‘that from the theoretical standpoint, duelling is absurd; from the practical standpoint, now — it’s quite a different matter.’
‘That is, you mean to say, if I understand you right, that whatever your theoretical views on duelling, you would not in practice allow yourself to be insulted without demanding satisfaction?’
‘You have guessed my meaning absolutely.’
‘Very good. I am very glad to hear you say so. Your words relieve me from a state of incertitude.’
‘Of uncertainty, you mean to say.’
‘That is all the same! I express myself so as to be understood; I ... am not a seminary rat. Your words save me from a rather deplorable necessity. I have made up my mind to fight you.’
Bazarov opened his eyes wide. ‘Me?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘But what for, pray?’
‘I could explain the reason to you,’ began Pavel Petrovitch, ‘but I prefer to be silent about it. To my idea your presence here is superfluous; I cannot endure you; I despise you; and if that is not enough for you ...’
Pavel Petrovitch’s eyes glittered ... Bazarov’s too were flashing.
‘Very good,’ he assented. ‘No need of further explanations. You’ve a whim to try your chivalrous spirit upon me. I might refuse you this pleasure, but — so be it!’
‘I am sensible of my obligation to you,’ replied Pavel Petrovitch; ‘and may reckon then on your accepting my challenge without compelling me to resort to violent measures.’
‘That means, speaking without metaphor, to that stick?’ Bazarov remarked coolly. ‘That is precisely correct. It’s quite unnecessary for you to insult me. Indeed, it would not be a perfectly safe proceeding. You can remain a gentleman.... I accept your challenge, too, like a gentleman.’
‘That is excellent,’ observed Pavel Petrovitch, putting his stick in the corner. ‘We will say a few words directly about the conditions of our duel; but I should like first to know whether you think it necessary to resort to the formality of a trifling dispute, which might serve as a pretext for my challenge?’
‘No; it’s better without formalities.’
‘I think so myself. I presume it is also out of place to go into the real grounds of our difference. We cannot endure one another. What more is necessary?’
‘What more, indeed?’ repeated Bazarov ironically.
‘As regards the conditions of the meeting itself, seeing that we shall have no seconds — for where could we get them?’
‘Exactly so; where could we get them?’
‘Then I have the honour to lay the following proposition before you: The combat to take place early to - morrow, at six, let us say, behind the copse, with pistols, at a distance of ten paces....’
‘At ten paces? that will do; we hate one another at that distance.’
‘We might have it eight,’ remarked Pavel Petrovitch.
‘We might.’
‘To fire twice; and, to be ready for any result, let each put a letter in his pocket, in which he accuses himself of his end.’
‘Now, that I don’t approve of at all,’ observed Bazarov. ‘There’s a slight flavour of the French novel about it, something not very plausible.’
‘Perhaps. You will agree, however, that it would be unpleasant to incur a suspicion of murder?’
‘I agree as to that. But there is a means of avoiding that painful reproach. We shall have no seconds, but we can have a witness.’
‘And whom, allow me to inquire?’
‘Why, Piotr.’
‘What Piotr?’
‘Your brother’s valet. He’s a man who has attained to the acme of contemporary culture, and he will perform his part with all the comilfo (comme il faut) necessary in such cases.’
‘I think you are joking, sir.’
‘Not at all. If you think over my suggestion, you will be convinced that it’s full of common - sense and simplicity. You can’t hide a candle under a bushel; but I’ll undertake to prepare Piotr in a fitting manner, and bring him on to the field of battle.’
‘You persist in jesting still,’ Pavel Petrovitch declared, getting up from his chair. ‘But after the courteous readiness you have shown me, I have no right to pretend to lay down.... And so, everything is arranged.... By the way, perhaps you have no pistols?’
‘How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovitch? I’m not in the army.’
‘In that case, I offer you mine. You may rest assured that it’s five years now since I shot with them.’
‘That’s a very consoling piece of news.’
Pavel Petrovitch took up his stick.... ‘And now, my dear sir, it only remains for me to thank you and to leave you to your studies. I have the honour to take leave of you.’
‘Till we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,’ said Bazarov, conducting his visitor to the door.
Pavel Petrovitch went out, while Bazarov remained standing a minute before the door, and suddenly exclaimed, ‘Pish, well, I’m dashed! how fine, and how foolish! A pretty farce we’ve been through! Like trained dogs dancing on their hind - paws. But to decline was out of the question; why, I do believe he’d have struck me, and then ...’ (Bazarov turned white at the very thought; all his pride was up in arms at once) — ’then it might have come to my strangling him like a cat.’ He went back to his microscope, but his heart was beating, and the composure necessary for taking observations had disappeared. ‘He caught sight of us to - day,’ he thought; ‘but would he really act like this on his brother’s account? And what a mighty matter is it — a kiss? There must be something else in it. Bah! isn’t he perhaps in love with her himself? To be sure, he’s in love; it’s as clear as day. What a complication! It’s a nuisance!’ he decided at last; ‘it’s a bad job, look at it which way you will. In the first place, to risk a bullet through one’s brains, and in any case to go away; and then Arkady ... and that dear innocent pussy, Nikolai Petrovitch. It’s a bad job, an awfully bad job.’
The day passed in a kind of peculiar stillness and languor. Fenitchka gave no sign of her existence; she sat in her little room like a mouse in its hole. Nikolai Petrovitch had a careworn air. He had just heard that blight had begun to appear in his wheat, upon which he had in particular rested his hopes. Pavel Petrovitch overwhelmed every one, even Prokofitch, with his icy courtesy. Bazarov began a letter to his father, but tore it up, and threw it under the table.
‘If I die,’ he thought, ‘they will find it out; but I’m not going to die. No, I shall struggle along in this world a good while yet.’ He gave Piotr orders to come to him on important business the next morning directly it was light. Piotr imagined that he wanted to take him to Petersburg with him. Bazarov went late to bed, and all night long he was harassed by disordered dreams.... Madame Odintsov kept appearing in them, now she was his mother, and she was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten seemed to be Fenitchka; then Pavel Petrovitch took the shape of a great wood, with which he had yet to fight. Piotr waked him up at four o’clock; he dressed at once, and went out with him.
It was a lovely, fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds hovered overhead in little curls of foam on the pale clear blue; a fine dew lay in drops on the leaves and grass, and sparkled like silver on the spiders’ webs; the damp, dark earth seemed still to keep traces of the rosy dawn; from the whole sky the songs of larks came pouring in showers. Bazarov walked as far as the copse, sat down in the shade at its edge, and only then disclosed to Piotr the nature of the service he expected of him. The refined valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov soothed him by the assurance that he would have nothing to do but stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not incur any sort of responsibility. ‘And meantime,’ he added, ‘only think wha
t an important part you have to play!’ Piotr threw up his hands, looked down, and leaned against a birch - tree, looking green with terror.
The road from Maryino skirted the copse; a light dust lay on it, untouched by wheel or foot since the previous day. Bazarov unconsciously stared along this road, picked and gnawed a blade of grass, while he kept repeating to himself, ‘What a piece of foolery!’ The chill of the early morning made him shiver twice.... Piotr looked at him dejectedly, but Bazarov only smiled; he was not afraid.
The tramp of horses’ hoofs was heard along the road.... A peasant came into sight from behind the trees. He was driving before him two horses hobbled together, and as he passed Bazarov he looked at him rather strangely, without touching his cap, which it was easy to see disturbed Piotr, as an unlucky omen. ‘There’s some one else up early too,’ thought Bazarov; ‘but he at least has got up for work, while we ...’
‘Fancy the gentleman’s coming,’ Piotr faltered suddenly.
Bazarov raised his head and saw Pavel Petrovitch. Dressed in a light check jacket and snow - white trousers, he was walking rapidly along the road; under his arm he carried a box wrapped up in green cloth.
‘I beg your pardon, I believe I have kept you waiting,’ he observed, bowing first to Bazarov, then to Piotr, whom he treated respectfully at that instant, as representing something in the nature of a second. ‘I was unwilling to wake my man.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ answered Bazarov; ‘we’ve only just arrived ourselves.’
‘Ah! so much the better!’ Pavel Petrovitch took a look round. ‘There’s no one in sight; no one hinders us. We can proceed?’
‘Let us proceed.’
‘You do not, I presume, desire any fresh explanations?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Would you like to load?’ inquired Pavel Petrovitch, taking the pistols out of the box.
‘No; you load, and I will measure out the paces. My legs are longer,’ added Bazarov with a smile. ‘One, two, three.’
‘Yevgeny Vassilyevitch,’ Piotr faltered with an effort (he shaking as though he were in a fever), ‘say what you like, I am going farther off.’
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 70