"To this. You ought to marry Thenichka. She loves you, and is the mother of your child."
Stepping back, Nikolai Petrovitch clasped his hands together.
"Do you say this?" he exclaimed. "Do you say this—you whom I have always understood to be opposed to such unions? Do you say this? Surely you know that solely out of respect for yourself have I hitherto refrained from doing what rightfully you call my duty?"
"Wrongfully, then, have you respected me," said Paul Petrovitch with a sad smile. "In fact, almost I am beginning to think that Bazarov was right when he accused me of only feigning the aristocratic instinct. For it is not enough for you and me to trouble ourselves about worldly matters alone. We are old men past our prime, who ought to lay aside all pettinesses, and to fulfil strictly our obligations. Nor forget that, should we thus act, we shall receive an added measure of happiness as our reward."
Nikolai Petrovitch flung himself upon his brother, and embraced him again and again.
"You have opened my eyes," he cried. "When I described you as the best man in the world I was not wrong: and now I perceive your wisdom to be equal to your magnanimity."
"Quieter, quieter!" advised Paul. "Do not further inflame the leg of an old fool who, at fifty, has fought a duel like a young ensign. Then the matter is settled, and Thenichka is to become my belle-soeur?"
"Yes, my dearest Paul. But what will Arkady say?"
"Arkady? He will be delighted. True, marriage does not come within his purview or principles, but at least his sense of social equality will be tickled. And, in the nineteenth century, what does caste matter?"
"Paul, Paul, let me embrace you once more. You need not be afraid. I will do it very carefully." And the two brothers flung their arms around one another.