Fathers and Children, Ivan Turgenev [best book reader .TXT] 📗

the corner of her handkerchief.

“You may think what you like, but I shall be dull when you go away.”

“Arkady will remain,” remarked Bazarov. Madame Odintsov shrugged her shoulders slightly. “I shall be dull,” she repeated.

“Really? In any case you will not feel dull for long.”

“What makes you suppose that?”

“Because you told me yourself that you are only dull when your regular routine is broken in upon. You have ordered your existence with such unimpeachable regularity that there can be no place in it for dullness or sadness⁠ ⁠… for any unpleasant emotions.”

“And do you consider I am so unimpeachable⁠ ⁠… that’s to say, that I have ordered my life with such regularity?”

“I should think so. Here’s an example; in a few minutes it will strike ten, and I know beforehand that you will drive me away.”

“No; I’m not going to drive you away, Yevgeny Vassilyitch. You may stay. Open that window.⁠ ⁠… I feel half-stifled.”

Bazarov got up and gave a push to the window. It flew up with a loud crash.⁠ ⁠… He had not expected it to open so easily; besides, his hands were shaking. The soft, dark night looked in to the room with its almost black sky, its faintly rustling trees, and the fresh fragrance of the pure open air.

“Draw the blind and sit down,” said Madame Odintsov; “I want to have a talk with you before you go away. Tell me something about yourself; you never talk about yourself.”

“I try to talk to you upon improving subjects, Anna Sergyevna.”

“You are very modest.⁠ ⁠… But I should like to know something about you, about your family, about your father, for whom you are forsaking us.”

“Why is she talking like that?” thought Bazarov.

“All that’s not in the least interesting,” he uttered aloud, “especially for you; we are obscure people.⁠ ⁠…”

“And you regard me as an aristocrat?”

Bazarov lifted his eyes to Madame Odintsov.

“Yes,” he said, with exaggerated sharpness.

She smiled. “I see you know me very little, though you do maintain that all people are alike, and it’s not worth while to study them. I will tell you my life some time or other⁠ ⁠… but first you tell me yours.”

“I know you very little,” repeated Bazarov. “Perhaps you are right; perhaps, really, everyone is a riddle. You, for instance; you avoid society, you are oppressed by it, and you have invited two students to stay with you. What makes you, with your intellect, with your beauty, live in the country?”

“What? What was it you said?” Madame Odintsov interposed eagerly. “With my⁠ ⁠… beauty?”

Bazarov scowled. “Never mind that,” he muttered; “I meant to say that I don’t exactly understand why you have settled in the country?”

“You don’t understand it.⁠ ⁠… But you explain it to yourself in some way?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… I assume that you remain continually in the same place because you indulge yourself, because you are very fond of comfort and ease, and very indifferent to everything else.”

Madame Odintsov smiled again. “You would absolutely refuse to believe that I am capable of being carried away by anything?”

Bazarov glanced at her from under his brows.

“By curiosity, perhaps; but not otherwise.”

“Really? Well, now I understand why we are such friends; you are just like me, you see.”

“We are such friends⁠ ⁠…” Bazarov articulated in a choked voice.

“Yes!⁠ ⁠… Why, I’d forgotten you wanted to go away.”

Bazarov got up. The lamp burnt dimly in the middle of the dark, luxurious, isolated room; from time to time the blind was shaken, and there flowed in the freshness of the insidious night; there was heard its mysterious whisperings. Madame Odintsov did not move in a single limb; but she was gradually possessed by concealed emotion.

It communicated itself to Bazarov. He was suddenly conscious that he was alone with a young and lovely woman.⁠ ⁠…

“Where are you going?” she said slowly.

He answered nothing, and sank into a chair.

“And so you consider me a placid, pampered, spoiled creature,” she went on in the same voice, never taking her eyes off the window. “While I know so much about myself, that I am unhappy.”

“You unhappy? What for? Surely you can’t attach any importance to idle gossip?”

Madame Odintsov frowned. It annoyed her that he had given such a meaning to her words.

“Such gossip does not affect me, Yevgeny Vassilyitch, and I am too proud to allow it to disturb me. I am unhappy because⁠ ⁠… I have no desires, no passion for life. You look at me incredulously; you think that’s said by an ‘aristocrat,’ who is all in lace, and sitting in a velvet armchair. I don’t conceal the fact: I love what you call comfort, and at the same time I have little desire to live. Explain that contradiction as best you can. But all that’s romanticism in your eyes.”

Bazarov shook his head. “You are in good health, independent, rich; what more would you have? What do you want?”

“What do I want,” echoed Madame Odintsov, and she sighed, “I am very tired, I am old, I feel as if I have had a very long life. Yes, I am old,” she added, softly drawing the ends of her lace over her bare arms. Her eyes met Bazarov’s eyes, and she faintly blushed. “Behind me I have already so many memories: my life in Petersburg, wealth, then poverty, then my father’s death, marriage, then the inevitable tour in due order.⁠ ⁠… So many memories, and nothing to remember, and before me, before me⁠—a long, long road, and no goal.⁠ ⁠… I have no wish to go on.”

“Are you so disillusioned?” queried Bazarov.

“No, but I am dissatisfied,” Madame Odintsov replied, dwelling on each syllable. “I think if I could interest myself strongly in something.⁠ ⁠…”

“You want to fall in love,” Bazarov interrupted her, “and you can’t love; that’s where your unhappiness lies.”

Madame Odintsov began to examine the sleeve of her lace.

“Is it true I can’t love?” she said.

“I should say not! Only I was wrong in calling that an unhappiness. On the contrary, anyone’s more to be pitied when such a mischance befalls him.”

“Mischance, what?”

“Falling in love.”

“And how do you come to know that?”

“By hearsay,”