ulously; you think
that's said by an "aristocrat," who is all in lace, and sitting in a
velvet armchair. I don't conceal the fact: I love what you call
comfort, and at the same time I have little desire to live. Explain
that contradiction as best you can. But all that's romanticism in your
eyes.'

Bazarov shook his head. 'You are in good health, independent, rich;
what more would you have? What do you want?'

'What do I want,' echoed Madame Odintsov, and she sighed, 'I am very
tired, I am old, I feel as if I have had a very long life. Yes, I am
old,' she added, softly drawing the ends of her lace over her bare
arms. Her eyes met Bazarov's eyes, and she faintly blushed. 'Behind me
I have already so many memories: my life in Petersburg, wealth, then
poverty, then my father's death, marriage, then the inevitable tour in
due order.... So many memories, and nothing to remember, and before me,
before me--a long, long road, and no goal.... I have no wish to go on.'

'Are you so disillusioned?' queried Bazarov.

'No, but I am dissatisfied,' Madame Odintsov replied, dwelling on each
syllable. 'I think if I could interest myself strongly in
something....'

'You want to fall in love,' Bazarov interrupted her, 'and you can't
love; that's where your unhappiness lies.'

Madame Odintsov began to examine the sleeve of her lace.

'Is it true I can't love?' she said.

'I should say not! Only I was wrong in calling that an unhappiness. On
the contrary, any one's more to be pitied when such a mischance befalls
him.'

'Mischance, what?'

'Falling in love.'

'And how do you come to know that?'

'By hearsay,' answered Bazarov angrily.

'You're flirting,' he thought; 'you're bored, and teasing me for want
of something to do, while I ...' His heart really seemed as though it
were being torn to pieces.

'Besides, you are perhaps too exacting,' he said, bending his whole
frame forward and playing with the fringe of the chair.

'Perhaps. My idea is everything or nothing. A life for a life. Take
mine, give up thine, and that without regret or turning back. Or else
better have nothing.'

'Well?' observed Bazarov; 'that's fair terms, and I'm surprised that so
far you ... have not found what you wanted.'

'And do you think it would be easy to give oneself up wholly to
anything whatever?'

'Not easy, if you begin reflecting, waiting and attaching value to
yourself, prizing yourself, I mean; but to give oneself up without
refle