's residing there. And besides, Moscow nowadays ... there, I
don't know--it's not the same as it was. I'm thinking of going abroad;
last year I was on the point of setting off.'

'To Paris, I suppose?' queried Bazarov.

'To Paris and to Heidelberg.'

'Why to Heidelberg?'

'How can you ask? Why, Bunsen's there!'

To this Bazarov could find no reply.

'_Pierre_ Sapozhnikov ... do you know him?'

'No, I don't.'

'Not know _Pierre_ Sapozhnikov ... he's always at Lidia Hestatov's.'

'I don't know her either.'

'Well, it was he undertook to escort me. Thank God, I'm independent;
I've no children.... What was that I said: _thank God!_ It's no matter
though.'

Evdoksya rolled a cigarette up between her fingers, which were brown
with tobacco stains, put it to her tongue, licked it up, and began
smoking. The maid came in with a tray.

'Ah, here's lunch! Will you have an appetiser first? Victor, open the
bottle; that's in your line.'

'Yes, it's in my line,' muttered Sitnikov, and again he gave vent to
the same convulsive laugh.

'Are there any pretty women here?' inquired Bazarov, as he drank off a
third glass.

'Yes, there are,' answered Evdoksya; 'but they're all such empty-headed
creatures. _Mon amie_, Odintsova, for instance, is nice-looking. It's a
pity her reputation's rather doubtful.... That wouldn't matter, though,
but she's no independence in her views, no width, nothing ... of all
that. The whole system of education wants changing. I've thought a
great deal about it, our women are very badly educated.'

'There's no doing anything with them,' put in Sitnikov; 'one ought to
despise them, and I do despise them fully and completely!' (The
possibility of feeling and expressing contempt was the most agreeable
sensation to Sitnikov; he used to attack women in especial, never
suspecting that it was to be his fate a few months later to be cringing
before his wife merely because she had been born a princess
Durdoleosov.) 'Not a single one of them would be capable of
understanding our conversation; not a single one deserves to be spoken
of by serious men like us!'

'But there's not the least need for them to understand our
conversation,' observed Bazarov.

'Whom do you mean?' put in Evdoksya.

'Pretty women.'

'What? Do you adopt Proudhon's ideas, then?'

Bazarov drew himself up haughtily. 'I don't adopt any one's ideas; I
have my own.'

'Damn all authorities!' shouted Sitnikov, delighted to have a