I kept on looking at his astonishing collar, just like marble — and his chin, so meticulously shaved.
Come, come, Arkady, isn’t it ridiculous?”
“Perhaps it is, but he’s a good man really.”
“An archaic survival!
But your father is a splendid fellow.
He wastes his time reading poetry and knows precious little about farming, but he’s kindhearted.”
“My father has a heart of gold.”
“Did you notice how shy he was?”
Arkady shook his head, as if he were not shy himself.
“It’s something astonishing,” went on Bazarov, “these old romantic idealists!
They go on developing their nervous systems till they get highly strung and irritable, then they lose their balance completely.
Well, good night.
In my room there’s an English washstand, but the door won’t fasten.
Anyhow, that ought to be encouraged — English washstands — they stand for progress!”
Bazarov went out, and a sense of peaceful happiness stole over Arkady.
It was sweet to fall asleep in one’s own home, in the familiar bed, under the quilt which had been worked by loving hands, perhaps the hands of his old nurse, those gentle, good and tireless hands.
Arkady remembered Yegorovna, and sighed and wished, “God rest her soul” . . . for himself he said no prayer.
Both he and Bazarov soon fell asleep, but others in the house remained awake much longer.
Nikolai Petrovich was agitated by his son’s return.
He lay in bed but did not put out the candles, and propping his head in his hands he went on thinking.
His brother was sitting till long after midnight in his study, in a wide armchair in front of the fireplace, in which some embers glowed faintly.
Pavel Petrovich had not undressed, but some red Chinese slippers had replaced his patent leather shoes.
He held in his hand the last number of Galignani, but he was not reading it; he gazed fixedly into the fireplace, where a bluish flame flickered, dying down and flaring up again at intervals . . . God knows where his thoughts were wandering, but they were not wandering only in the past; his face had a stern and concentrated expression, unlike that of a man who is solely absorbed in his memories.
And in a little back room, on a large chest, sat a young woman in a blue jacket with a white kerchief thrown over her dark hair; this was Fenichka; she was now listening, now dozing, now looking across towards the open door, through which a child’s bed was visible and the regular breathing of a sleeping infant could be heard.
Chapter 5
The next morning Bazarov woke up earlier than anyone else and went out of the house.
“Ugh!” he thought, “this isn’t much of a place!”
When Nikolai Petrovich had divided his estate with his peasants, he had to set aside for his new manor house four acres of entirely flat and barren land.
He had built a house, offices and farm buildings, laid out a garden, dug a pond and sunk two wells; but the young trees had not flourished, very little water had collected in the pond, and the well water had a brackish taste.
Only one arbor of lilac and acacia had grown up properly; the family sometimes drank tea or dined there.
In a few minutes Bazarov had explored all the little paths in the garden; he went into the cattle yard and the stables, discovered two farm boys with whom he made friends at once, and went off with them to a small swamp about a mile from the house in order to search for frogs.
“What do you want frogs for, sir?” asked one of the boys.
“I’ll tell you what for,” answered Bazarov, who had a special capacity for winning the confidence of lower-class people, though he never cringed to them and indeed treated them casually; “I shall cut the frog open to see what goes on inside him, and then, as you and I are much the same as frogs except that we walk on legs, I shall learn what is going on inside us as well.”
“And why do you want to know that?”
“In order not to make a mistake if you’re taken ill and I have to cure you.”
“Are you a doctor, then?”
“Yes.”
“Vaska, did you hear that? The gentleman says that you and I are just like frogs; that’s queer.”
“I’m frightened of frogs,” remarked Vaska, a boy of seven with flaxen hair and bare feet, dressed in a grey smock with a high collar.
“What are you frightened of? Do they bite?”
“There, paddle along into the water, you philosophers,” said Bazarov.
Meanwhile Nikolai Petrovich had also awakened and had gone to see Arkady, whom he found dressed.
Father and son went out on to the terrace under the shelter of the awning; the samovar was already boiling on the table near the balustrade among great bunches of lilac.
A little girl appeared, the same one who had first met them on their arrival the evening before. In a shrill voice she said,
“Fedosya Nikolayevna is not very well and she can’t come; she told me to ask you, will you pour out tea yourself or should she send Dunyasha?”
“I’ll pour myself, of course,” interposed Nikolai Petrovich hurriedly. “Arkady, how do you like your tea, with cream or with lemon?”
“With cream,” answered Arkady, then after a brief pause he muttered questioningly, “Daddy?”
Nikolai Petrovich looked at his son with embarrassment.
“Well?” he said.
Arkady lowered his eyes.