the first place, I am not in the least good; and in the second
place, I have lost all significance for you, and you tell me I am
good.... It's like a laying a wreath of flowers on the head of a
corpse.'

'Yevgeny Vassilyitch, we are not responsible ...' Anna Sergyevna began;
but a gust of wind blew across, set the leaves rustling, and carried
away her words. 'Of course, you are free ...' Bazarov declared after a
brief pause. Nothing more could be distinguished; the steps retreated
... everything was still.

Arkady turned to Katya. She was sitting in the same position, but her
head was bent still lower. 'Katerina Sergyevna,' he said with a shaking
voice, and clasping his hands tightly together, 'I love you for ever
and irrevocably, and I love no one but you. I wanted to tell you this,
to find out your opinion of me, and to ask for your hand, since I am
not rich, and I feel ready for any sacrifice.... You don't answer me?
You don't believe me? Do you think I speak lightly? But remember these
last days! Surely for a long time past you must have known that
everything--understand me--everything else has vanished long ago and
left no trace? Look at me, say one word to me ... I love ... I love you
... believe me!'

Katya glanced at Arkady with a bright and serious look, and after long
hesitation, with the faintest smile, she said, 'Yes.'

Arkady leapt up from the stone seat. 'Yes! You said Yes, Katerina
Sergyevna! What does that word mean? Only that I do love you, that you
believe me ... or ... or ... I daren't go on ...'

'Yes,' repeated Katya, and this time he understood her. He snatched her
large beautiful hands, and, breathless with rapture, pressed them to
his heart. He could scarcely stand on his feet, and could only repeat,
'Katya, Katya ...' while she began weeping in a guileless way, smiling
gently at her own tears. No one who has not seen those tears in the
eyes of the beloved, knows yet to what a point, faint with shame and
gratitude, a man may be happy on earth.

The next day, early in the morning, Anna Sergyevna sent to summon
Bazarov to her boudoir, and with a forced laugh handed him a folded
sheet of notepaper. It was a letter from Arkady; in it he asked for her
sister's hand.

Bazarov quickly scanned the letter, and made an effort to control
himself, that he might not show the malignant feeling which was
instantaneously aflame in his breast.

'So that's how it is,' he commented; 'and you, I fancy, onl