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"Will he go to heaven?" "Who?" "Pavel Ivanich." "He will. He suffered much. Besides, he was a priest's son, and priests have many relations. They will pray for his soul." The bandaged soldier sat down on Goussiev's hammock and said in an undertone: "You won't live much longer, Goussiev. You'll never see Russia." "Did the doctor or the nurse tell you that?" asked Goussiev.
"Let me tell you that by being here just now you've played me such a dirty trick that I'll never forgive you as long as I live." Pavel Ivanitch went out of the arbour, and beside himself with rage, strode rapidly to his villa. Even the sight of the table laid for supper did not soothe him. "Once in a lifetime such a chance has turned up," he thought in agitation; "and then it's been prevented!
He turned over all his earnings to the mother, and she took the money from him with as little fuss as from Pavel. Sometimes Andrey would suggest with a twinkle in his eyes: "Shall we read a little, mother, eh?" She would invariably refuse, playfully but resolutely.
Perhaps Bazarov is right; but one thing I confess, makes me feel sore; I did so hope, precisely now, to get on to such close intimate terms with Arkady, and it turns out I'm left behind, and he has gone forward, and we can't understand one another. 'How has he gone forward? And in what way is he so superior to us already? cried Pavel Petrovitch impatiently.
'This one here. And Nikolai Petrovitch pulled the famous treatise of Büchner, in the ninth edition, out of his coat-tail pocket. Pavel Petrovitch turned it over in his hands. 'Hm! he growled. 'Arkady Nikolaevitch is taking your education in hand. Well, did you try reading it? 'Yes, I tried it. 'Well, what did you think of it? 'Either I'm stupid, or it's all nonsense.
There are sciences, as there are trades and crafts; but abstract science doesn't exist at all. 'Very good. Well, and in regard to the other traditions accepted in human conduct, do you maintain the same negative attitude? 'What's this, an examination? asked Bazarov. Pavel Petrovitch turned slightly pale.... Nikolai Petrovitch thought it his duty to interpose in the conversation.
The whole day long she would move around like a squirrel in a wheel, cook dinner, and boil lilac-colored gelatin and glue for the proclamations. Some people would come, leave notes with her to deliver to Pavel, and disappear, infecting her with their excitement. The leaflets appealing to the working people to celebrate the first of May flooded the village and the factory.
But to Nikolai, there remained the sense of a well-spent life, his son was growing up under his eyes; Pavel, on the contrary, a solitary bachelor, was entering upon that indefinite twilight period of regrets that are akin to hopes, and hopes that are akin to regrets, when youth is over, while old age has not yet come.
She sat down at his side close to him, shoulder to shoulder. Pavel stood in front of them, holding Andrey's hand in his and pressing it. "I understand how hard it is for you," he said. "He told me that they know us all, that we are all on the gendarme's record, and that we are going to be dragged in before the first of May. I didn't answer, I laughed, but my blood boiled.
The turner, stupefied with amazement, borrowed a horse from a neighbor, and now was taking his old woman to the hospital in the hope that, by means of powders and ointments, Pavel Ivanitch would bring back his old woman's habitual expression. "I say, Matryona,..." the turner muttered, "if Pavel Ivanitch asks you whether I beat you, say, 'Never! and I never will beat you again. I swear it.
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