chance of
expressing himself boldly before the man he slavishly admired.

'But even Macaulay,' Madame Kukshin was beginning ...

'Damn Macaulay,' thundered Sitnikov. 'Are you going to stand up for the
silly hussies?'

'For silly hussies, no, but for the rights of women, which I have sworn
to defend to the last drop of my blood.'

'Damn!'--but here Sitnikov stopped. 'But I don't deny them,' he said.

'No, I see you're a Slavophil.'

'No, I'm not a Slavophil, though, of course ...'

'No, no, no! You are a Slavophil. You're an advocate of patriarchal
despotism. You want to have the whip in your hand!'

'A whip's an excellent thing,' remarked Bazarov; 'but we've got to the
last drop.'

'Of what?' interrupted Evdoksya.

'Of champagne, most honoured Avdotya Nikitishna, of champagne--not of
your blood.'

'I can never listen calmly when women are attacked,' pursued Evdoksya.
'It's awful, awful. Instead of attacking them, you'd better read
Michelet's book, _De l'amour_. That's exquisite! Gentlemen, let us talk
of love,' added Evdoksya, letting her arm fall languidly on the rumpled
sofa cushion.

A sudden silence followed. 'No, why should we talk of love,' said
Bazarov; 'but you mentioned just now a Madame Odintsov ... That was
what you called her, I think? Who is that lady?'

'She's charming, charming!' piped Sitnikov. 'I will introduce you.
Clever, rich, a widow. It's a pity, she's not yet advanced enough; she
ought to see more of our Evdoksya. I drink to your health, _Evdoxie!_
Let us clink glasses! _Et toc, et toc, et tin-tin-tin! Et toc, et toc,
et tin-tin-tin!!!_'

'Victor, you're a wretch.'

The lunch dragged on a long while. The first bottle of champagne was
followed by another, a third, and even a fourth.... Evdoksya chattered
without pause; Sitnikov seconded her. They had much discussion upon the
question whether marriage was a prejudice or a crime, and whether men
were born equal or not, and precisely what individuality consists in.
Things came at last to Evdoksya, flushed from the wine she had drunk,
tapping with her flat finger-tips on the keys of a discordant piano,
and beginning to sing in a hoarse voice, first gipsy songs, and then
Seymour Schiff's song, 'Granada lies slumbering'; while Sitnikov tied a
scarf round his head, and represented the dying lover at the words--

'And thy lips to mine
In burning kiss entwine.'

Arkady could not stand it at last. 'Gentlemen, it's getting somethin