He caught himself indulging in all sorts of “shameful thoughts,” as though a devil were mocking at him.
It seemed to him sometimes that a change was also taking place in Madame Odintsov, that her face expressed something unusual, that perhaps . . . but at that point he would stamp on the ground, grind his teeth or clench his fist.
Meanwhile he was not entirely mistaken.
He had struck Madame Odintsov’s imagination; he interested her; she thought a lot about him.
In his absence she was not exactly bored, she did not wait for him with impatience, but when he appeared she immediately became livelier; she enjoyed being left alone with him and she enjoyed talking to him, even when he annoyed her or offended her taste and her refined habits.
She seemed eager both to test him and to analyse herself.
One day, walking with her in the garden, he abruptly announced in a surly voice that he intended to leave very soon to go to his father’s place . . . She turned white, as if something had pricked her heart; she was surprised at the sudden pain she felt and pondered long afterwards on what it could mean.
Bazarov had told her about his departure without any idea of trying out the effect of the news upon her; he never fabricated stories.
That same morning he had seen his father’s bailiff, Timofeich, who had looked after him as a child.
This Timofeich, an experienced and astute little old man, with faded yellow hair, a weather-beaten red face and with tiny teardrops in his shrunken eyes, had appeared quite unexpectedly in front of Bazarov, in his short coat of thick grey-blue cloth, leather girdle and tarred boots.
“Hullo, old man, how are you?” exclaimed Bazarov.
“How do you do, Evgeny Vassilich?” began the little old man, smiling with joy, so that his whole face was immediately covered with wrinkles.
“What have you come here for?
They sent you to find me, eh?”
“Fancy that, sir! How is it possible?” mumbled Timofeich (he remembered the strict injunctions he had received from his master before he left). “We were sent to town on the master’s business and heard news of your honor, so we turned off on the way — well — to have a look at your honor . . . as if we could think of disturbing you!”
“Now then, don’t lie!” Bazarov cut him short. “It’s no use your pretending this is on the road to the town.”
Timofeich hesitated and said nothing.
“Is my father well?”
“Thank God, yes!”
“And my mother?”
“Arina Vlasyevna too, glory be to God.”
“They’re expecting me, I suppose.”
The old man leaned his little head on one side.
“Oh, Evgeny Vassilich, how they wait for you!
Believe me, it makes the heart ache to see them.”
“All right, all right, don’t rub it in.
Tell them I’m coming soon.”
“I obey,” answered Timofeich with a sigh.
As he left the house he pulled his cap down with both hands over his head, then clambered into a dilapidated racing carriage, and went off at a trot, but not in the direction of the town.
On the evening of that day Madame Odintsov was sitting in one room with Bazarov while Arkady walked up and down the hall listening to Katya playing the piano.
The princess had gone upstairs to her own room; she always loathed visitors, but she resented particularly the “new raving lunatics,” as she called them.
In the main rooms she only sulked, but she made up for that in her own room by bursting into such a torrent of abuse in front of her maid that the cap danced on her head, wig and all.
Madame Odintsov knew all about this.
“How is it that you are proposing to leave us,” she began; “what about your promises?”
Bazarov made a movement of surprise.
“What promises?”
“Have you forgotten?
You intended to give me some chemistry lessons.”
“It can’t be helped!
My father expects me; I can’t put it off any longer.
Besides, you can read Pelouse et Fremy, Notions Generales de Chimie; it’s a good book and clearly written.
You will find in it all you need.”
“But you remember you assured me that a book can’t take the place of . . . I forget how you put it, but you know what I mean . . . don’t you remember?”
“It can’t be helped,” repeated Bazarov.
“Why should you go?” said Madame Odintsov, dropping her voice.
He glanced at her.
Her head had fallen on the back of the armchair and her arms, bare to the elbow, were folded over her bosom.
She seemed paler in the light of the single lamp covered with a translucent paper shade.
A broad white dress covered her completely in its soft folds; even the tips of her feet, also crossed, were hardly visible.
“And why should I stay?” answered Bazarov.