I must tell you without flattery, the friendship I observe between you and my son sincerely delights me.
I have just seen him; he got up very early as he habitually does — you probably know that — and ran off for a ramble in the neighborhood.
Permit me to be so inquisitive — have you known my Evgeny long?”
“Since last winter.”
“Indeed.
And permit me to question you further — but why shouldn’t we sit down? Permit me as a father to ask you frankly: what is your opinion of my Evgeny?”
“Your son is one of the most remarkable men I have ever met,” answered Arkady emphatically.
Vassily Ivanovich’s eyes suddenly opened wide, and a slight flush suffused his cheeks.
The spade dropped from his hand.
“And so you expect . . .,” he began.
“I’m convinced,” interrupted Arkady, “that your son has a great future before him, that he will do honor to your name.
I’ve felt sure of that ever since I met him.”
“How — how did it happen?” articulated Vassily Ivanovich with some effort.
An enthusiastic smile parted his broad lips and would not leave them.
“Would you like me to tell you how we met?”
“Yes . . . and all about it — ”
Arkady began his story and spoke of Bazarov with even greater warmth, even greater enthusiasm than he had done on that evening when he danced a mazurka with Madame Odintsov.
Vassily Ivanovich listened and listened, blew his nose, rolled his handkerchief up into a ball with both hands, cleared his throat, ruffled up his hair — and at length could contain himself no longer; he bent down to Arkady and kissed him on the shoulder.
“You have made me perfectly happy,” he said, without ceasing to smile. “I ought to tell you, I . . . idolize my son; I won’t even speak of my old wife — naturally, a mother — but I dare not show my feelings in front of him, because he disapproves of that.
He is opposed to every demonstration of emotion; many people even find fault with him for such strength of character, and take it for a sign of pride or lack of feeling; but people like him ought not to be judged by any ordinary standards, ought they?
Look at this, for example; others in his place would have been a constant drag on their parents; but he — would you believe it? — from the day he was born he has never taken a farthing more than he could help, that’s God’s truth.”
“He is a disinterested, honest man,” remarked Arkady.
“Exactly so, disinterested.
And I not only idolize him, Arkady Nikolaich, I am proud of him, and the height of my only ambition is that some day there will be the following words in his biography:
‘The son of an ordinary army doctor, who was able, however, to recognize his talent early and spared no pains for his education . . .’” The old man’s voice broke.
Arkady pressed his hand.
“What do you think?” inquired Vassily Ivanovich after a short silence, “surely he will not attain in the sphere of medicine the celebrity which you prophesy for him?”
“Of course, not in medicine, though even there he will be one of the leading scientific men.”
“In what then, Arkady Nikolaich?”
“It would be hard to say now, but he will be famous.”
“He will be famous,” repeated the old man, and he relapsed into thought.
“Arina Vlasyevna sent me to call you in to tea,” announced Anfisushka, passing by with a huge dish of ripe raspberries.
Vassily Ivanovich started.
“And will the cream be cooled for the raspberries?”
“Yes.”
“Be sure it is cold!
Don’t stand on ceremony. Arkady Nikolaich — take some more.
How is it Evgeny doesn’t come back?”
“I’m here,” called Bazarov’s voice from inside Arkady’s room.
Vassily Ivanovich turned round quickly.
“Aha, you wanted to pay a visit to your friend; but you were too late, amice, and we have already had a long conversation.
Now we must go in to tea; mother has sent for us.
By the way, I want to have a talk with you.”
“What about?”
“There’s a peasant here; he’s suffering from icterus . . .”
“You mean jaundice?”
“Yes, a chronic and very obstinate case of icterus.
I have prescribed him centaury and St. John’s wort, told him to eat carrots, given him soda; but all those are palliative measures; we need some more radical treatment.
Although you laugh at medicine, I’m sure you can give me some practical advice.
But we will talk about that later.