After the roast Vassily Ivanovich disappeared for a moment and returned with an opened half-bottle of champagne.
“Here,” he exclaimed, “though we do live in the wilds, we have something to make merry with on festive occasions!”
He poured out three full glasses and a little wineglass, proposed the health of “our invaluable guests,” and at once tossed off his glass in military fashion and made Arina Vlasyevna drink her wineglass to the last drop.
When the time came for the sweet preserves, Arkady, who could not bear anything sweet, thought it his duty, however, to taste four different kinds which had been freshly made — all the more since Bazarov flatly refused them and began at once to smoke a cigar.
Afterwards tea was served with cream, butter and rolls; then Vassily Ivanovich took them all out into the garden to admire the beauty of the evening.
As they passed a garden seat he whispered to Arkady,
“This is the spot where I love to meditate as I watch the sunset; it suits a recluse like me.
And there, a little farther off, I have planted some of the trees beloved by Horace.”
“What trees?” asked Bazarov, overhearing,
“Oh . . . acacias.”
Bazarov began to yawn.
“I suppose it is time our travelers were in the embrace of Morpheus,” observed Vassily Ivanovich.
“In other words, it’s time for bed,” Bazarov interposed. “That’s a correct judgment; it certainly is high time!”
Saying good night to his mother, he kissed her on the forehead while she embraced him and secretly behind his back she gave him her blessing three times.
Vassily Ivanovich showed Arkady to his room and wished him “as refreshing repose as I also enjoyed at your happy years.”
In fact Arkady slept extremely well in his bathhouse; it smelt of mint, and two crickets behind the stove rivaled each other in their prolonged drowsy chirping.
Vassily Ivanovich went from Arkady’s room to his own study and, settling down on the sofa at his son’s feet, was looking forward to having a chat with him; but Bazarov sent him away at once, saying he felt sleepy, but he did not fall asleep till morning.
With wide-open eyes he stared angrily into the darkness; memories of childhood had no power over him, and besides he had not yet been able to rid himself of the impression of his recent bitter experiences.
Arina Vlasyevna first prayed to her heart’s content, then she had a long, long conversation with Anfisushka, who stood rooted to the spot in front of her mistress, and fixing her solitary eye upon her, communicated in a mysterious whisper all her observations and conjectures about Evgeny Vassilevich.
The old lady’s head was giddy with happiness, wine and tobacco smoke; her husband tried to talk to her — but with a wave of the hand he gave it up.
Arina Vlasyevna was a genuine Russian lady of olden times; she ought to have lived two centuries before, in the ancient Moscow days.
She was very devout and emotional; she believed in fortunetelling, charms, dreams and omens of every conceivable kind; she believed in the prophecies of crazy people, in house spirits, in wood spirits, in unlucky meetings, in the evil eye, in popular remedies; she ate specially prepared salt on Holy Thursday and believed that the end of the world was close at hand; she believed that if on Easter Sunday the candles did not go out at Vespers, then there would be a good crop of buckwheat, and that a mushroom will not grow after a human eye has seen it; she believed that the devil likes to be where there is water, and that every Jew has a blood-stained spot on his breast; she was afraid of mice, of snakes, of frogs, of sparrows, of leeches, of thunder, of cold water, of draughts, of horses, of goats, of red-haired people and of black cats; she regarded crickets and dogs as unclean animals; she never ate veal, pigeons, crayfish, cheese, asparagus, Jerusalem artichokes, hares, or watermelons because a cut watermelon suggested the head of John the Baptist; she could not speak of oysters without a shudder; she enjoyed eating — but strictly observed fasts; she slept ten hours out of the twenty-four — and never went to bed at all if Vassily Ivanovich had so much as a headache; she had never read a single book except Alexis or the Cottage in the Forest; she wrote one or at most two letters in a year, but she was an expert housewife, knew all about preserving and jam making, though she touched nothing with her own hands and was usually reluctant to move from her place.
Arina Vlasyevna was very kindhearted and in her own way far from stupid.
She knew that the world is divided into masters whose duty it is to command, and simple people whose duty it is to serve — and so she felt no disgust for servile behavior or bowing to the ground; but she treated affectionately and gently those in subjection to her, never let a single beggar go away empty-handed, and never spoke ill of anyone, though she was fond of gossip.
In her youth she had been very pretty, had played the clavichord and spoken a little French; but in the course of many years of wandering with her husband, whom she had married against her will, she had grown stout and forgotten both music and French.
Her son she loved and feared unutterably; she had handed over the management of her little estate to Vassily Ivanovich — and she no longer took any part in it; she would groan, wave her handkerchief and raise her eyebrows higher and higher in horror directly her old husband began to discuss impending land reforms and his own plans.
She was apprehensive, always expecting some great calamity, and would weep at once whenever she remembered anything sad . . . Nowadays such women have almost ceased to exist.
God knows whether this should be a cause for rejoicing!
Chapter 21
On getting up, Arkady opened the window, and the first object which met his eyes was Vassily Ivanovich.
In a Turkish dressing gown tied round the waist with a pocket handkerchief, the old man was zealously digging his kitchen garden.
He noticed his young visitor and leaning on his spade he called out,
“Good health to you!
How did you sleep?”
“Splendidly,” answered Arkady.
“And here I am, as you see, like some Cincinnatus, preparing a bed for late turnips.
The time has come now — and thank God for it! — when everyone should secure his sustenance by the work of his own hands: it is useless to rely on others; one must labor oneself.
So it turns out that Jean Jacques Rousseau is right.
Half an hour ago, my dear young sir, you could have seen me in an entirely different position.
One peasant woman, who complained of looseness — that’s how they express it, but in our language, dysentery — I— how shall I express it? I injected her with opium; and for another I extracted a tooth.
I offered her an anesthetic, but she refused.
I do all that gratis — anamatyer.
However, I’m used to it; you see I’m a plebeian, homo nous — not one of the old stock, not like my wife . . . But wouldn’t you like to come over here in the shade and breathe the morning freshness before having tea?”
Arkady went out to him.
“Welcome once more!” said Vassily Ivanovich, raising his hand in a military salute to the greasy skullcap which covered his head. “You, I know, are accustomed to luxury and pleasures, but even the great ones of this world do not disdain to spend a brief time under a cottage roof.”
“Gracious heavens,” protested Arkady, “as if I were a great one of this world!
And I’m not accustomed to luxury either.”
“Pardon me, pardon me,” replied Vassily Ivanovich with an amiable grimace. “Though I am a back number now, I also have knocked about the world — I know a bird by its flight.
I am something of a psychologist in my way, and a physiognomist.
If I had not, I venture to say, been granted that gift, I should have come to grief long ago; a little man like me would have been blotted out.