“How can I be blamed for that?” she pronounced with an effort.
Pavel Petrovich raised himself up.
“You were not to blame?
No?
Not at all?”
“I love Nikolai Petrovich and no one else in the world and I shall always love him!” cried Fenichka with sudden force, while sobs rose in her throat. “As for what you saw, I will say on the dreadful day of last judgment that I am innocent of any blame for it and always was, and I would rather die at once if people can suspect me of any such thing against my benefactor, Nikolai Petrovich . . .”
But here her voice failed, and at the same moment she felt that Pavel Petrovich was seizing and pressing her hand . . . She looked at him and was almost petrified.
He had turned even paler than before; his eyes were shining, and most surprising of all — one large solitary tear was rolling down his cheek.
“Fenichka!” he said in a strange whisper. “Love him, love my brother!
He is such a good kind man.
Don’t give him up for anyone, don’t listen to anyone else’s talk.
Only think, what can be more terrible than to love and not to be loved in return.
Never leave my poor Nikolai!”
Fenichka’s eyes were dry and her fright had vanished — so great was her amazement.
But what were her feelings when Pavel Petrovich, Pavel Petrovich of all people, pressed her hand to his lips and seemed to pierce into it without kissing it, only breathing convulsively from time to time . . .
“Good heavens!” she thought, “is he suffering from some attack?”
At that moment his whole ruined life stirred within him.
The staircase creaked under rapidly approaching footsteps. . . . He pushed her away from him and let his head drop back on the pillow.
The door opened, and Nikolai Petrovich came in, looking cheerful, fresh and ruddy.
Mitya, just as fresh and rosy as his father, with nothing but his little shirt on, was frisking about in his arms, snatching with bare little toes at the buttons of his rough country coat.
Fenichka simply flung herself upon him and clasping him and her son together in her arms, dropped her head on his shoulder.
Nikolai Petrovich was astonished; Fenichka, so shy and modest, never demonstrated her feelings for him in front of a third person.
“What’s the matter?” he said, and glancing at his brother he handed Mitya to her. “You don’t feel worse?” he asked, going up to Pavel Petrovich, who buried his face in a cambric handkerchief.
“No . . . not at all . . . on the contrary, I am much better.”
“You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to move to the sofa.
Where are you going?” added Nikolai Petrovich, turning towards Fenichka, but she had already closed the door behind her. “I was bringing my young hero in to show you; he has been crying for his uncle.
Why did she carry him off?
What’s wrong with you, though?
Has anything happened between you?”
“Brother!” said Pavel Petrovich gravely. “Give me your word to carry out my one request.”
“What request, tell me.”
“It is very important; it seems to me the whole happiness of your life depends on it.
I have been thinking a lot all this time about what I want to say to you now . . . Brother, do your duty, the duty of an honest and generous man, put an end to the scandal and the bad example you are setting — you, the best of men!”
“What do you mean, Pavel?”
“Marry Fenichka . . . she loves you; she is — the mother of your son.”
Nikolai Petrovich moved a step backwards and threw up his hands.
“You say that, Pavel? You, whom I always took for the most relentless opponent of such marriages!
You say that!
But don’t you know that it was only out of respect for you that I have not done what you rightly called my duty!”
“Your respect for me was quite mistaken in this case,” said Pavel Petrovich with a weary smile. “I begin to think that Bazarov was right when he accused me of being an aristocratic snob.
No, dear brother, let us stop worrying ourselves about the opinion of the outside world; we are elderly humble people by now; it’s high time we laid aside all these empty vanities.
We must do our duty, just as you say, and maybe we shall find happiness that way in addition.”
Nikolai Petrovich rushed over to embrace his brother.
“You have really opened my eyes,” he exclaimed. “I was right in always maintaining that you are the kindest and wisest man in the world, and now I see you are just as reasonable as you are generous-minded.”
“Softly, softly,” Pavel Petrovich interrupted him. “Don’t knock the leg of your reasonable brother who at close on fifty has been fighting a duel like a young lieutenant.
So, then, the matter is settled; Fenichka is to be my . . . belle-soeur .”
“My darling Pavel!
But what will Arkady say?”
“Arkady?
He’ll be enthusiastic, of course!