He knew that Anna Sergeyevna was sitting alone with Bazarov, and he felt no jealousy as he had before; on the contrary, his face slowly brightened; it seemed as if he was at once wondering and rejoicing and deciding to do something.
Chapter 26
The late Odintsov had disliked innovations, but he admitted “a certain play of ennobled taste” and had consequently erected in his garden, between the hothouse and the lake, a building in the style of a Creek temple, made of Russian brick.
Along the windowless back wall of this temple or gallery were placed six niches for statues, which Odintsov proceeded to order from abroad.
These statues were intended to represent Solitude, Silence, Meditation, Melancholy, Modesty and Sensibility.
One of them, the Goddess of Silence, with her finger on her lips, had been delivered and placed in position; but on the very same day some of the farm boys knocked off her nose, and although the neighboring plasterer undertook to make her a new nose, “twice as good as the previous one,” Odintsov ordered her to be removed, and she could still be seen in the corner of the threshing barn, where she had stood for many years, a source of superstitious terror to the peasant women.
The front part of the temple had long ago been overgrown with thick bushes; only the capitals of the columns could be seen above the thick green.
Inside the temple itself it was cool even at midday.
Anna Sergeyevna did not like visiting this place ever since she had seen a snake there; but Katya often came and sat on a wide stone seat constructed under one of the niches.
Here, surrounded by shade and coolness, she used to read and work, or give herself up to that sensation of perfect peace, known probably to everyone, the charm of which consists in the half-conscious mute listening to that vast current of life which uninterruptedly flows both around us and within us.
On the day after Bazarov’s arrival, Katya was sitting on her favorite stone seat, and Arkady was sitting beside her again.
He had begged her to come with him to the temple.
It was about an hour before lunchtime; the dewy morning had given place to a hot day.
Arkady’s face retained the expression of the preceding day; Katya looked preoccupied.
Her sister, immediately after their morning tea, had called her into her study, and after some preliminary caresses — which always rather alarmed Katya — advised her to be more guarded in her behavior with Arkady, and to avoid solitary talks with him, which had attracted the attention of her aunt and the household.
Apart from that, Anna Sergeyevna was still in a bad mood from the evening before, and Katya herself felt embarrassed, as if she had done something wrong.
When she yielded to Arkady’s entreaties, she said to herself that it was for the last time.
“Katerina Sergeyevna,” he began with a sort of bashful carelessness, “ever since I have had the happiness of living under the same roof with you, I have discussed many things with you, but meanwhile there is one very important question — for me — which I have not yet touched on.
You remarked yesterday that I have been transformed here,” he went on, at once catching and avoiding the inquiring look which Katya fixed on him. “In fact I have changed a lot, and you know that better than anyone else — you to whom above all I owe this change.”
“I . . .?
Me . . .?” said Katya.
“I am no longer now the conceited boy I was when I arrived here,” went on Arkady. “I’ve not reached the age of twenty-three for nothing; as before I want to be useful, I want to devote all my powers to the truth; but I don’t look for my ideals where I used to look before; they have shown themselves to me . . . so much nearer.
Up till now I failed to understand myself, I set myself tasks which were beyond my strength . . . My eyes have recently been opened, thanks to one feeling . . . I’m not expressing myself quite clearly, but I hope you understand me . . .”
Katya made no reply, but she stopped looking at Arkady.
“I suppose,” he began again, this time in a more agitated voice, while above his head a chaffinch sang its song heedlessly among the leaves of a birch tree, “I suppose it is the duty of every honest person to be absolutely frank with those . . . with those people, who . . . in a word, with those who are near to him, and so I . . . I intend . . .”
But at this point Arkady’s eloquence abandoned him; he fumbled for words, stammered and was obliged to pause for a while. Katya still did not raise her eyes.
It seemed as though she did not even understand what he was leading up to with all this, as though she were awaiting something.
“I foresee that I shall surprise you,” began Arkady, pulling himself together again with an effort; “all the more since this feeling is connected in a certain way — in a certain way, remember — with you.
You reproached me yesterday, you remember, for a lack of seriousness,” Arkady went on with the air of a person who has walked into a swamp, feels that he is sinking in deeper and deeper at every step, and yet hurries forward in the hope of crossing it quicker; “that reproach is often aimed . . . often falls . . . on young men even when they no longer deserve it; and if I had more self-confidence . . .” (“Come, help me, do help me,” Arkady was thinking in desperation, but Katya kept her head averted as before.) “If I could hope . . .”
“If I could feel convinced of what you said,” sounded at that moment the clear voice of Anna Sergeyevna.
Arkady fell silent at once and Katya turned pale.
Alongside the very bushes which screened the temple ran a little path.
Anna Sergeyevna was walking along it accompanied by Bazarov.
Katya and Arkady could not see them, but they heard every word, the rustle of their clothes, their very breathing.
They walked on a few steps and then, as if on purpose, stopped right opposite the temple.
“You see,” continued Anna Sergeyevna, “you and I made a mistake; we have both passed our first youthful stage, I particularly; we have seen life, we are tired; we are both intelligent — why pretend otherwise? — at first we were interested in each other, our curiosity was aroused . . . and afterwards. . .”
“And afterwards my interest fell flat,” interposed Bazarov.
“You know that was not the cause of our misunderstanding.
But however that may be, we did not need each other, that’s the main thing; there was in us . . . how shall I put it? . . . too much of the same thing.
We did not realize that straight away.
Now Arkady, on the contrary . . .”
“Do you need him?” asked Bazarov.
“Stop, Evgeny Vassilich.
You say he is not indifferent to me, and it always seemed to me that he liked me. I know that I could well be his aunt, but I don’t want to conceal from you that I have begun to think about him more often.
In that fresh youthful feeling there is a special charm . . .”
“The word fascination is more often used in such cases,” interrupted Bazarov; a violent suppressed bitterness could be detected in the steady but hollow tone of his voice. “Arkady was secretive with me about something yesterday, and wouldn’t talk about either you or your sister . . . that’s a serious symptom.”
“He’s just like a brother with Katya,” remarked Anna Sergeyevna, “and I like that in him, though perhaps I ought not to have let them become so intimate.”
“Is that idea prompted by your feelings . . . as a sister?” said Bazarov, dragging out his words.
“Of course . . . but why are we standing here?
Let us go on.