“Put on your caps, fools!” he drove to the town, where he arrived very late, and where the next day, at Madame Kukshin’s he spoke severely about two “disgustingly stuck-up and ignorant fellows.”
Sitting in the tarantass alongside Bazarov, Arkady pressed his friend’s hand warmly, and for a long time he said nothing.
It seemed as though Bazarov appreciated both Arkady’s action and his silence.
He had not slept at all the previous night, neither had he smoked, and for several days he had scarcely eaten anything.
His thin profile stood out darkly and sharply from under his cap, which was pulled down over his eyebrows.
“Well, brother,” he said at last, “give me a cigar . . . but look, I say, is my tongue yellow?”
“It’s yellow,” answered Arkady.
“Hm — yes . . . and the cigar has no taste.
The machine is out of gear.”
“You have certainly changed lately,” observed Arkady.
“That’s nothing; we shall soon recover.
One thing bothers me — my mother is so softhearted; if your tummy doesn’t grow round as a barrel and you don’t eat ten times a day, she’s in despair.
My father’s all right, he’s been everywhere and known all the ups and downs.
No, I can’t smoke,” he added, and flung the cigar away into the dusty road.
“Do you think it’s another sixteen miles to your place?” asked Arkady.
“Yes, but ask this wise man.”
He pointed to the peasant sitting on the box, a laborer of Fedot’s.
But the wise man only answered: “Who’s to know? miles aren’t measured hereabouts,” and went on swearing under his breath at the shaft horse for “kicking with her headpiece,” by which he meant, jerking her head.
“Yes, yes,” began Bazarov, “it’s a lesson for you, my young friend, an instructive example.
The devil knows what rubbish it is.
Every man hangs by a thread, any minute the abyss may open under his feet, and yet he must go and invent for himself all kinds of troubles and spoil his life.”
“What are you hinting at?” asked Arkady.
“I’m not hinting at anything; I’m saying plainly that we both behaved like fools.
What’s the use of talking about it?
But I’ve noticed in hospital work, the man who’s angry with his illness — he’s sure to get over it.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” remarked Arkady, “it seems you have nothing to complain about.”
“Well, if you don’t quite understand me, I’ll tell you this; to my mind it’s better to break stones on the road than to let a woman get the mastery of even the end of one’s little finger.
That’s all . . .,” Bazarov was about to utter his favorite word “romanticism,” but checked himself and said “rubbish.”
“You won’t believe me now, but I’ll tell you; you and I fell into feminine society and very nice we found it; but we throw off that sort of society — it’s like taking a dip in cold water on a hot day.
A man has no time for these trifles. A man must be untamed, says an old Spanish proverb.
Now you, my wise friend,” he added, addressing the peasant on the box. “I suppose you have a wife?”
The peasant turned his dull bleary-eyed face towards the two young friends.
“A wife?
Yes.
How could it be otherwise?”
“Do you beat her?”
“My wife?
Anything may happen.
We don’t beat her without a reason.”
“That’s fine.
Well, and does she beat you?”
The peasant tugged at the reins.
“What things you say, sir.
You like a joke.” He was obviously offended.
“You hear, Arkady Nikolayevich.
But we’ve been properly beaten — that’s what comes of being educated people.”
Arkady gave a forced laugh, while Bazarov turned away and did not open his mouth again for the rest of the journey.
Those sixteen miles seemed to Arkady quite like double the distance.
But at last on the slope of some rising ground the little village where Bazarov’s parents lived came into sight.
Close to it, in a young birch copse, stood a small house with a thatched roof.