Free Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev Page B

The baby laughed again, stared at the trunk and suddenly grabbed at his mother’s nose and lips
     with his whole hand. ‘Naughty boy,’ said Fenechka, without moving her face away from his grasp.
    ‘He looks like my brother,’ Pavel Petrovich observed.
    ‘Who else could he look like?’ thought Fenechka.
    ‘Yes,’ Pavel Petrovich went on as if talking to himself, ‘a definite likeness.’ He looked at Fenechka attentively, almost
     sadly.
    ‘That’s Uncle,’ she repeated, now in a whisper.
    ‘Ah! Pavel! That’s where you are!’ There suddenly came the voice of Nikolay Petrovich.
    Pavel Petrovich hastily turned round and frowned; but his brother gave him a look of such joy and gratitude that he could
     only respond with a smile.
    ‘You’ve a splendid little chap,’ he said and looked at his watch. ‘I came in here about my tea…’
    And resuming his expression of indifference, Pavel Petrovich now left the room.

    ‘Did he come in just like that?’ Nikolay Petrovich asked Fenechka.
    ‘Yes, just like that. He knocked and came in.’
    ‘Hm. And has Arkasha been to see you again?’
    ‘No, he hasn’t. Nikolay Petrovich, shouldn’t I move into the wing?’
    ‘Why should you?’
    ‘I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for a while.’
    ‘N… no,’ Nikolay Petrovich stuttered and rubbed his forehead. ‘It’s too late… Good morning, baby,’ he said with sudden animation
     and he went up to the little boy and kissed him on the cheek. Then he bowed slightly and put his lips to Fenechka’s hand,
     lying white as milk on Mitya’s red shirt.
    ‘Nikolay Petrovich! What are you doing?’ she murmured and lowered her eyes, then gently raised them again… The expression
     in her eyes was charming as she looked up from under her brows, with a loving, slightly foolish laugh.
    Nikolay Petrovich had got to know Fenechka in the following way. Once, three years previously, he had had to spend the night
     in an inn in a distant district town. He had been pleasantly impressed by the cleanliness of the room he was given and the
     freshness of the bed linen. ‘I wonder if the landlady isn’t German,’ he had thought. But she turned out to be Russian, a woman
     of about fifty, neatly dressed, with an attractive, intelligent face and a reserved way of speaking. He started talking to
     her over tea. He liked her very much. Nikolay Petrovich at that time had just moved into his new home and, not wishing to
     use serfs, was looking for free servants to hire. The landlady for her part was complaining about how few visitors came to
     the town and about times being difficult. He offered her the job of housekeeper in his house; she agreed. Her husband had
     died long ago, leaving her just one daughter, Fenechka. A couple of weeks later Arina Savishna (that was the new housekeeper’s
     name) and her daughter arrived at Marino and were lodged in the wing. Nikolay Petrovich had made a successful choice. No one
     talked much about Fenechka, who was already seventeen, and she was hardly seen ; she led a quiet, retiring existence, and
     it was only on Sundays that Nikolay Petrovich noticed her delicate
profile and white face in a corner of the parish church. More than a year went by like this.
    One morning Arina came into his study and, bowing low, as she usually did, asked if he could do something to help her daughter,
     who had had a spark from the stove in her eye. Nikolay Petrovich, like all landowners living on their estates, dabbled in
     medicine and had even ordered a homoeopathic medicine chest. He at once told Arina to bring in the patient. When she learnt
     the master had summoned her, Fenechka was very scared but still she followed her mother in. Nikolay Petrovich took her up
     to the window and held her head in both his hands. Having carefully examined her red and inflamed eye, he prescribed an eyewash,
     which he made up himself then and there, and, ripping up his handkerchief, he showed her how to soak the