fit! What next!’ Bazarov cried unconsciously, as he laid Pavel Petrovitch on the grass. ‘Let’s have a look what’s wrong.’ He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round the wound…. ‘The bone’s not touched,’ he muttered through his teeth; ‘the ball didn’t go deep; one muscle, vastus externus, grazed. He’ll be dancing about in three weeks!… And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!’

‘Is he killed?’ the quaking voice of Piotr came rustling behind his back.

Bazarov looked round. ‘Go for some water as quick as you can, my good fellow, and he’ll outlive us yet.’

But the modern servant seemed not to understand his words, and he did not stir. Pavel Petrovitch slowly opened his eyes. ‘He will die!’ whispered Piotr, and he began crossing himself.

‘You are right … What an imbecile countenance!’ remarked the wounded gentleman with a forced smile.

‘Well, go for the water, damn you!’ shouted Bazarov.

‘No need…. It was a momentary vertigo…. Help me to sit up … there, that’s right…. I only need something to bind up this scratch, and I can reach home on foot, or you can send a droshky for me. The duel, if you are willing, shall not be renewed. You have behaved honourably … to-day, to-day—observe.’

‘There’s no need to recall the past,’ rejoined Bazarov; ‘and as regards the future, it’s not worth while for you to trouble your head about that either, for I intend being off without delay. Let me bind up your leg now; your wound’s not serious, but it’s always best to stop bleeding. But first I must bring this corpse to his senses.’

Bazarov shook Piotr by the collar, and sent him for a droshky.

‘Mind you don’t frighten my brother,’ Pavel Petrovitch said to him; ‘don’t dream of informing him.’

Piotr flew off; and while he was running for a droshky, the two antagonists sat on the ground and said nothing. Pavel Petrovitch tried not to look at Bazarov; he did not want to be reconciled to him in any case; he was ashamed of his own haughtiness, of his failure; he was ashamed of the whole position he had brought about, even while he felt it could not have ended in a more favourable manner. ‘At any rate, there will be no scandal,’ he consoled himself by reflecting, ‘and for that I am thankful.’ The silence was prolonged, a silence distressing and awkward. Both of them were ill at ease. Each was conscious that the other understood him. That is pleasant to friends, and always very unpleasant to those who are not friends, especially when it is impossible either to have things out or to separate.

‘Haven’t I bound up your leg too tight?’ inquired Bazarov at last.

‘No, not at all; it’s capital,’ answered Pavel Petrovitch; and after a brief pause, he added, ‘There’s no deceiving my brother; we shall have to tell him we quarrelled over politics.’

‘Very good,’ assented Bazarov. ‘You can say I insulted all anglomaniacs.’

‘That will do capitally. What do you imagine that man thinks of us now?’ continued Pavel Petrovitch, pointing to the same peasant, who had driven the hobbled horses past Bazarov a few minutes before the duel, and going back again along the road, took off his cap at the sight of the ‘gentlefolk.’

‘Who can tell!’ answered Bazarov; ‘it’s quite likely he thinks nothing. The Russian peasant is that mysterious unknown about whom Mrs. Radcliffe used to talk so much. Who is to understand him! He doesn’t understand himself!’

‘Ah! so that’s your idea!’ Pavel Petrovitch began; and suddenly he cried, ‘Look what your fool of a Piotr has done! Here’s my brother galloping up to us!’

Bazarov turned round and saw the pale face of Nikolai Petrovitch, who was sitting in the droshky. He jumped out of it before it had stopped, and rushed up to his brother.

‘What does this mean?’ he said in an agitated voice. ‘Yevgeny Vassilyitch, pray, what is this?’

‘Nothing,’ answered Pavel Petrovitch; ‘they have alarmed you for nothing. I had a little dispute with Mr. Bazarov, and I have had to pay for it a little.’

‘But what was it all about, mercy on us!’

‘How can I tell you? Mr. Bazarov alluded disrespectfully to Sir Robert Peel. I must hasten to add that I am the only person to blame in all this, while Mr. Bazarov has behaved most honourably. I called him out.’

‘But you’re covered with blood, good Heavens!’

‘Well, did you suppose I had water in my veins? But this blood-letting is positively beneficial to me. Isn’t that so, doctor? Help me to get into the droshky, and don’t give way to melancholy. I shall be quite well to-morrow. That’s it; capital. Drive on, coachman.’

Nikolai Petrovitch walked after the droshky; Bazarov was remaining where he was….

‘I must ask you to look after my brother,’ Nikolai Petrovitch said to him, ’till we get another doctor from the town.’

Bazarov nodded his head without speaking. In an hour’s time Pavel Petrovitch was already lying in bed with a skilfully bandaged leg. The whole house was alarmed; Fenitchka fainted. Nikolai Petrovitch kept stealthily wringing his hands, while Pavel Petrovitch laughed and joked, especially with Bazarov; he had put on a fine cambric night-shirt, an elegant morning wrapper, and a fez, did not allow the blinds to be drawn down, and humorously complained of the necessity of being kept from food.

Towards night, however, he began to be feverish; his head ached. The doctor arrived from the town. (Nikolai Petrovitch would not listen to his brother, and indeed Bazarov himself did not wish him to; he sat the whole day in his room, looking yellow and vindictive, and only went in to the invalid for as brief a time as possible; twice he happened to meet Fenitchka, but she shrank away from him with horror.) The new doctor advised a cooling diet; he confirmed, however, Bazarov’s assertion that there was no danger. Nikolai Petrovitch told him his brother had wounded himself by accident, to which the doctor responded, ‘Hm!’ but having twenty-five silver roubles slipped into his hand on the spot, he observed, ‘You don’t say so! Well, it’s a thing that often happens, to be sure.’

No one in the house went to bed or undressed. Nikolai Petrovitch kept going in to his brother on tiptoe, retreating on tiptoe again; the latter dozed, moaned a little, told him in French, Couchez-vous, and asked for drink. Nikolai Petrovitch sent Fenitchka twice to take him a glass of lemonade; Pavel Petrovitch gazed at her intently, and drank off the glass to the last drop. Towards morning the fever had increased a little; there was slight delirium. At first Pavel Petrovitch uttered incoherent words; then suddenly he opened his eyes, and seeing his brother near his bed bending anxiously over him, he said, ‘Don’t you think, Nikolai, Fenitchka has something in common with Nellie?’

‘What Nellie, Pavel dear?’

‘How can you ask? Princess R——. Especially in the upper part of the face. C’est de la même famille.’

Nikolai Petrovitch made no answer, while inwardly he marvelled at the persistence of old passions in man. ‘It’s like this when it comes to the surface,’ he thought.

‘Ah, how I love that light-headed creature!’ moaned Pavel Petrovitch, clasping his hands mournfully behind his head. ‘I can’t bear any insolent upstart to dare to touch …’ he whispered a few minutes later.

Nikolai Petrovitch only sighed; he did not even suspect to whom these words referred.

Bazarov presented himself before him at eight o’clock the next day. He had already had time to pack, and to set free all his frogs, insects, and birds.

‘You have come to say good-bye to me?’ said Nikolai Petrovitch, getting up to meet him.

‘Yes.’

‘I understand you, and approve of you fully. My poor brother, of course, is to blame; and he is punished for it. He told me himself that he made it impossible for you to act otherwise. I believe that you could not avoid this duel, which … which to some extent is explained by the almost constant antagonism of your respective views.’ (Nikolai Petrovitch began to get a little mixed up in his words.) ‘My brother is a man of the old school, hot-tempered and obstinate…. Thank God that it has ended as it has. I have taken every precaution to avoid publicity.’

‘I’m leaving you my address, in case there’s any fuss,’ Bazarov remarked casually.

‘I hope there will be no fuss, Yevgeny Vassilyitch…. I am very sorry your stay in my house should have such a … such an end. It is the more distressing to me through Arkady’s …’

‘I shall be seeing him, I expect,’ replied Bazarov, in whom ‘explanations’ and ‘protestations’ of every sort always aroused a feeling of impatience; ‘in case I don’t, I beg you to say good-bye to him for me, and accept the expression of my regret.’

‘And I beg …’ answered Nikolai Petrovitch. But Bazarov went off without waiting for the end of his sentence.

When he heard of Bazarov’s going, Pavel Petrovitch expressed a desire to see him, and shook his hand. But even then he remained as cold as ice; he realised that Pavel Petrovitch wanted to play the magnanimous. He did not succeed in saying good-bye to Fenitchka; he only exchanged glances with her at the window. Her face struck him as looking dejected. ‘She’ll come to grief, perhaps,’ he said to himself…. ‘But who knows? she’ll pull through somehow, I dare say!’ Piotr, however, was so overcome that he wept on his shoulder, till Bazarov damped him by asking if he’d a constant supply laid on in his