“I think you are joking, sir.”
“Not in the least.
If you think over my suggestion you will be convinced that it is full of common sense and simplicity.
Murder will out — but I can undertake to prepare Pyotr in a suitable manner and bring him to the field of battle.”
“You persist in joking,” said Pavel Petrovich, getting up from his chair. “But after the courteous readiness you have shown, I have no right to claim . . . so everything is arranged . . . by the way, I suppose you have no pistols?”
“How should I have pistols, Pavel Petrovich?
I’m not an army man.”
“In that case, I offer you mine.
You may rest assured that I have not shot with them for five years.”
“That’s a very consoling piece of news. — ”
Pavel Petrovich picked 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 honor to take leave of you.”
“Until we have the pleasure of meeting again, my dear sir,” said Bazarov, conducting his visitor to the door.
Pavel Petrovich went out; Bazarov remained standing for a moment in front of the door, then suddenly exclaimed,
“What the devil — How fine and how stupid!
A pretty farce we’ve been acting; like trained dogs dancing on their hind legs.
But it was out of the question to refuse; I really believe he would have struck me, and then . . .” (Bazarov turned pale at the very thought; all his pride stood up on end.) “I might have had to strangle him like a kitten.”
He went back to his microscope, but his heart was beating fast and the composure so essential for accurate observation had disappeared.
“He saw us today,” he thought, “but can it be that he would do all this on account of his brother?
And how serious a matter is it — a kiss?
There must be something else in it.
Bah! Isn’t he in love with her himself?
Obviously he’s in love — it’s as clear as daylight.
What a mess, just think . . . it’s a bad business!” he decided at last. “It’s bad from whatever angle one looks at it.
In the first place to risk a bullet through one’s brain, and then in any case to go away from here; and what about Arkady . . . and that good-natured creature Nikolai Petrovich?
It’s a bad business.”
The day passed in a peculiar calm and dullness.
Fenichka gave no sign of life at all; she sat in her little room like a mouse in its hole.
Nikolai Petrovich had a careworn look.
He had just heard that his wheat crop on which he had set high hopes had begun to show signs of blight, Pavel Petrovich overwhelmed everyone, even Prokovich, with his icy politeness.
Bazarov began a letter to his father, but tore it up and threw it under the table.
“If I die,” he thought, “they will hear about it; but I shan’t die; no, I shall struggle along in this world for a long time yet.”
He gave Pyotr an order to come to him on important business the next morning as soon as it was light. Pyotr imagined that Bazarov wanted to take him to Petersburg.
Bazarov went to bed late, and all night long he was oppressed by disordered dreams . . . Madame Odintsov kept on appearing in them; now she was his mother and she was followed by a kitten with black whiskers, and this kitten was really Fenichka; then Pavel Petrovich took the shape of a great forest, with which he had still to fight.
Pyotr woke him at four o’clock; he dressed at once and went out with him.
It was a lovely fresh morning; tiny flecked clouds stood overhead like fleecy lambs in the clear blue sky; fine dewdrops lay on the leaves and grass, sparkling like silver on the spiders’ webs; the damp dark earth seemed still to preserve the rosy traces of the dawn; the songs of larks poured down from all over the sky.
Bazarov walked as far as the plantation, sat down in the shade at its edge and only then disclosed to Pyotr the nature of the service he expected from him.
The cultured valet was mortally alarmed; but Bazarov quieted him down by the assurance that he would have nothing to do except to stand at a distance and look on, and that he would not incur any sort of responsibility.
“And besides,” he added, “only think what an important part you have to play.”
Pyotr threw up his hands, cast down his eyes, and leaned against a birch tree, looking green with terror.
The road from Maryino skirted the plantation; a light dust lay on it, untouched by wheel or foot since the previous day.
Bazarov found himself staring along this road, picking and chewing a piece of grass, and he kept on repeating to himself:
“What a piece of idiocy!”
The morning chill made him shiver twice . . . Pyotr looked at him dismally, but Bazarov only smiled; he was not frightened.
The tramp of horses’ hoofs could be heard coming 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 removing his cap, which evidently disturbed Pyotr, as an unlucky omen.
“There’s someone else up early too,” thought Bazarov, “but he at least has got up for work while we . . .”
“It seems the gentleman is coming,” whispered Pyotr suddenly.
Bazarov raised his head and caught sight of Pavel Petrovich.