She lives only two steps from here . . .
We will have lunch there.
I suppose you have not lunched yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, that’s splendid.
She has separated, you understand, from her husband; she is not dependent on anyone.”
“Is she pretty?” Bazarov broke in.
“N— no, one couldn’t say that.”
“Then what the devil are you asking us to see her for?”
“Ha! You must have your joke . . . she will give us a bottle of champagne.”
“So that’s it.
The practical man shows himself at once.
By the way, is your father still in the vodka business?”
“Yes,” said Sitnikov hurriedly and burst into a shrill laugh. “Well, shall we go?”
“You wanted to meet people, go along,” said Arkady in an undertone.
“And what do you say about it, Mr. Kirsanov?” interposed Sitnikov. “You must come too — we can’t go without you.”
“But how can we burst in upon her all at once?”
“Never mind about that.
Kukshina is a good sort!”
“Will there be a bottle of champagne?” asked Bazarov.
“Three!” cried Sitnikov, “I’ll answer for that.”
“What with?”
“My own head.”
“Better with your father’s purse.
However, we’ll come along.”
Chapter 13
The small detached house in Moscow style inhabited by Avdotya Nikitishna — or Evdoksya Kukshina, stood in one of those streets of X. which had been lately burnt down (it is well known that our Russian provincial towns are burnt down once every five years).
At the door, above a visiting card nailed on at a slant, hung a bell handle, and in the hall the visitors were met by someone in a cap, not quite a servant nor quite a companion — unmistakable signs of the progressive aspirations of the lady of the house.
Sitnikov asked if Avdotya Nikitishna was at home.
“Is that you, Viktor?” sounded a shrill voice from the other room. “Come in!”
The woman in the cap disappeared at once.
“I’m not alone,” said Sitnikov, casting a sharp look at Arkady and Bazarov as he briskly pulled off his cloak, beneath which appeared something like a leather jacket.
“No matter,” answered the voice. “Entrez.”
The young men went in.
The room which they entered was more like a working study than a drawing room.
Papers, letters, fat issues of Russian journals, for the most part uncut, lay thrown about on dusty tables; white cigarette ends were scattered all over the place.
A lady, still young, was half lying on a leather-covered sofa; her blonde hair was disheveled and she was wearing a crumpled silk dress, with heavy bracelets on her short arms and a lace kerchief over her head.
She rose from the sofa, and carelessly drawing over her shoulders a velvet cape trimmed with faded ermine, she murmured languidly,
“Good morning, Viktor,” and held out her hand to Sitnikov.
“Bazarov, Kirsanov,” he announced abruptly, successfully imitating Bazarov’s manner.
“So glad to meet you,” answered Madame Kukshina, fixing on Bazarov her round eyes, between which appeared a forlorn little turned-up red nose, “I know you,” she added, and pressed his hand.
Bazarov frowned.
There was nothing definitely ugly in the small plain figure of the emancipated woman; but her facial expression produced an uncomfortable effect on the spectator.
One felt impelled to ask her,
“What’s the matter, are you hungry?
Or bored?
Or shy?
Why are you fidgeting?”
Both she and Sitnikov had the same nervous manner.
Her movements and speech were very unconstrained and at the same time awkward; she evidently regarded herself as a good-natured simple creature, yet all the time, whatever she did, it always struck one that it was not exactly what she wanted to do; everything with her seemed, as children say, done on purpose, that is, not spontaneously or simply.