Arkady, on the contrary, considered it his duty, if not to help his father, at least to create an impression of being ready to help him.
He listened to him patiently and sometimes gave his advice, not that he expected it to be acted upon, but in order to show his concern.
The details of agricultural management were not repugnant to him; he even indulged in pleasant dreams about agricultural work, but at this time his mind was preoccupied with other ideas.
To his own surprise Arkady found he was thinking incessantly of Nikolskoe; formerly he would have just shrugged his shoulders if anyone had told him he could feel bored under the same roof as Bazarov — particularly in his own home — but now he was bored and longed to get away.
He tried walking till he was tired out, but that did not help either.
One day when talking to his father, he found out that Nikolai Petrovich possessed a number of quite interesting letters, written to his wife by Madame Odintsov’s mother, and Arkady gave him no peace until he had taken out the letters, for which Nikolai Petrovich was obliged to rummage in twenty different drawers and boxes.
Having gained possession of these crumbling papers, Arkady somehow calmed down as if he had secured a clearer vision of the goal towards which he ought now to move. “‘I say that to both of you,’” he kept on repeating to himself, “those were the words she added.
I shall go there, I shall go, hang it all!”
Then he recalled his last visit, the cold reception and his previous embarrassment, and shyness overwhelmed him.
But the adventurous daring of youth, the secret desire to try his luck, to test his powers independently without anyone else’s protection — prevailed at last.
Before ten days had passed after his return to Maryino, on the pretext of going to study the organization of Sunday schools, he galloped off again to the town, and from there on to Nikolskoe.
Uninterruptedly urging the driver forward, he dashed on like a young officer riding into battle; he felt at once frightened and lighthearted and breathless with impatience.
“The main thing is — I mustn’t think,” he kept on saying to himself.
His driver happened to be a high-spirited fellow, who stopped in front of every inn and exclaimed,
“A drink?” or
“What about a drink?” but, to make up for that, after the drink he did not spare his horses.
At length there came into sight the high roof of the familiar house . . .
“What shall I do?” suddenly flashed through Arkady’s mind. “Anyhow, I can’t turn back now!”
The three horses sped gaily on; the driver yelled and whistled at them.
Already the little bridge was echoing under the wheels and the horses’ hoofs, and the avenue of lopped pines was drawing nearer . . . he caught a glimpse of a woman’s pink dress moving among the dark green trees, and a young face peeped out from under the light fringe of a parasol . . . he recognized Katya, and she recognized him.
Arkady ordered the driver to stop the galloping horses, jumped out of the carriage and went up to her.
“It’s you!” she murmured and slowly blushed all over; “let us go to my sister, she’s here in the garden; she will be pleased to see you.”
Katya led Arkady into the garden.
His meeting with her struck him as a particularly happy omen; he was delighted to see her, as though she were someone close to his heart.
Everything had happened so agreeably; no butler, no formal announcement.
At a turn in the path he caught sight of Anna Sergeyevna.
She was standing with her back to him; hearing his footsteps, she gently turned round.
Arkady would have felt embarrassed again, but the first words which she uttered immediately set him at ease.
“Welcome, you runaway!” she said in her smooth caressing voice, and came forward to meet him, smiling and screwing up her eyes from the sun and breeze.
“Where did you find him, Katya?”
“I have brought you something, Anna Sergeyevna,” he began, “which you certainly don’t expect . . .”
“You have brought yourself; that’s better than anything else.”
Chapter 23
Having seen Arkady off with ironical sympathy, and given him to understand that he was not in the least deceived about the real object of his journey, Bazarov shut himself up in solitude, and set to work with feverish intensity.
He no longer argued with Pavel Petrovich, particularly since the latter assumed in his presence an oppressively aristocratic manner and expressed his opinions more by inarticulate sounds than by words.
Only on one occasion Pavel Petrovich fell into a controversy with the nihilist over the then much discussed question about the rights of the nobles in the Baltic provinces, but he quickly stopped himself, remarking with a chilly politeness:
“However, we cannot understand one another; I, at least, have not the honor of understanding you.”
“I should think not!” exclaimed Bazarov. “A human being can understand everything — how the ether vibrates, and what’s going on in the sun; but how another person can blow his nose differently from him, that he’s incapable of understanding.”
“What, is that a joke?” remarked Pavel Petrovich in a questioning tone and walked away.
However, he sometimes asked permission to be present at Bazarov’s experiments and once even placed his perfumed face, washed with the finest soap, over the microscope, in order to see how a transparent protozoon swallowed a green speck and busily chewed it with two very adroit organs which were in its throat.
Nikolai Petrovich visited Bazarov much oftener than his brother; he would have come every day “to learn,” as he expressed it, if the worries of his farm had not kept him too busy.
He did not interfere with the young research worker; he used to sit down in a corner of the room and watch attentively, occasionally permitting himself some discreet question.
During dinner and supper he used to try to turn the conversation to physics, geology or chemistry, since all other subjects, even agriculture, to say nothing of politics, might lead, if not to collisions, at least to mutual dissatisfaction.
Nikolai Petrovich guessed that his brother’s dislike of Bazarov had not diminished.
A minor incident, among many others, confirmed his surmise.
Cholera began to break out in some places in the neighborhood, and even “carried off” two people from Maryino itself.
One night Pavel Petrovich had a rather severe attack of illness.
He was in pain till the morning, but he never asked for Bazarov’s help; when he met him the next day, in reply to his question why he had not sent for him, he answered, still very pale, but perfectly brushed and shaved.
“Surely I remember you said yourself you don’t believe in medicine.”
So the days passed.