“Lovely little feet,” she thought, as she slowly and lightly mounted the stone steps of the terrace which were burning from the heat of the sun. “Lovely little feet, you call them . . . Well, he shall be at my feet.”
But a feeling of shame came over her at once, and she ran swiftly upstairs.
Arkady was going along the passage to his room when he was overtaken by the butler, who announced that Mr. Bazarov was sitting in his room.
“Evgeny!” muttered Arkady in a startled tone. “Has he been here long?”
“He has arrived only this minute, and gave orders not to be announced to Anna Sergeyevna but to be shown straight up to you.”
“Can any misfortune have happened at home?” thought Arkady, and running hurriedly up the stairs he opened the door at once.
The sight of Bazarov immediately reassured him, though a more experienced eye would probably have discerned signs of inward excitement in the sunken but still energetic face of the unexpected visitor.
With a dusty cloak over his shoulders, and a cap on his head, he was sitting by the window; he did not even get up when Arkady flung himself on his neck with loud exclamations.
“Well, how unexpected!
What good luck has brought you?” he kept on repeating, bustling about the room like someone who both imagines and wants to show that he is pleased. “I suppose everything is all right at home; they’re all well, aren’t they?”
“Everything is all right there, but not everyone is well,” said Bazarov. “But don’t go on chattering, get them to bring me some kvass, sit down and listen to what I’m going to tell you, in a few, but, I hope, fairly vigorous sentences.”
Arkady kept quiet while Bazarov told him about his duel with Pavel Petrovich.
Arkady was greatly surprised and even upset, but he did not think it necessary to show this; he asked only whether his uncle’s wound was really not serious, and on receiving the reply that it was — most interesting, though not from a medical point of view — he gave a forced smile, but he felt sick at heart and somehow ashamed.
Bazarov seemed to understand him.
“Yes, brother,” he said, “you see what comes of living with feudal people.
One becomes feudal oneself and takes part in knightly tournaments.
Well, so I set off for my father’s place,” Bazarov concluded, “and on the way I turned in here . . . to tell you all this, I should say, if I didn’t think it a useless and stupid lie.
No, I turned in here — the devil knows why.
You see it’s sometimes a good thing for a man to take himself by the scruff of the neck and pull himself away, like a radish out of its bed; that’s what I’ve just done . . . But I wanted to take one more look at what I’ve parted company with, at the bed where I’ve been sitting.”
“I hope that those words don’t apply to me,” retorted Arkady excitedly. “I hope you don’t think of parting from me.”
Bazarov looked at him intently; his eyes were almost piercing.
“Would that upset you so much?
It strikes me that you have parted from me already; you look so fresh and smart . . . your affairs with Anna Sergeyevna must be proceeding very well.”
“What do you mean by my affairs with Anna Sergeyevna?”
“Why, didn’t you come here from the town on her account, my little bird?
By the way, how are those Sunday schools getting on?
Do you mean to tell me you’re not in love with her?
Or have you already reached the stage of being bashful about it?”
“Evgeny, you know I’ve always been frank with you; I can assure you, I swear to you, you’re making a mistake.”
“Hm!
A new story,” remarked Bazarov under his breath, “but you needn’t get agitated about it, for it’s a matter of complete indifference to me.
A romantic would say: I feel that our roads are beginning to branch out in different directions, but I will simply say that we’re tired of each other.”
“Evgeny . . .”
“There’s no harm in that, my good soul; one gets tired of plenty of other things in the world!
And now I think we had better say good-by.
Ever since I’ve been here I’ve felt so disgusting, just as if I’d been reading Gogol’s letters to the wife of the Governor of Kaluga.
By the way, I didn’t tell them to unharness the horses.”
“Good heavens, that’s impossible!”
“And why?”
“I say nothing of myself, but it would be the height of discourtesy to Anna Sergeyevna, who will certainly want to see you.”
“Well, you’re mistaken there.”
“On the contrary, I’m convinced that I’m right,” retorted Arkady. “And what are you pretending for?
For that matter, haven’t you come here because of her?”
“That might even be true, but you’re mistaken all the same.”
But Arkady was right.
Anna Sergeyevna wanted to see Bazarov and sent a message to him to that effect through the butler.
Bazarov changed his clothes before he went to her; it turned out that he had packed his new suit in such a way as to be able to take it out easily.
Madame Odintsov received him, not in the room where he had so unexpectedly declared his love to her, but in the drawing room.
She held her finger tips out to him amiably, but her face showed signs of involuntary tension.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” Bazarov hastened to say, “first of all I must set your mind at rest.