Fathers and Children

by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

  CHAPTER IV

  No crowd of house-serfs ran out on to the steps to meet the gentlemen;a little girl of twelve years old made her appearance alone. After herthere came out of the house a young lad, very like Piotr, dressed in acoat of grey livery, with white armorial buttons, the servant of PavelPetrovitch Kirsanov. Without speaking, he opened the door of thecarriage, and unbuttoned the apron of the coach. Nikolai Petrovitchwith his son and Bazarov walked through a dark and almost empty hall,from behind the door of which they caught a glimpse of a young woman'sface, into a drawing-room furnished in the most modern style.

  'Here we are at home,' said Nikolai Petrovitch, taking off his cap, andshaking back his hair. 'That's the great thing; now we must have supperand rest.'

  'A meal would not come amiss, certainly,' observed Bazarov, stretching,and he dropped on to a sofa.

  'Yes, yes, let us have supper, supper directly.' Nikolai Petrovitchwith no apparent reason stamped his foot. 'And here just at the rightmoment comes Prokofitch.'

  A man about sixty entered, white-haired, thin, and swarthy, in acinnamon-coloured dress-coat with brass buttons, and a pinkneckerchief. He smirked, went up to kiss Arkady's hand, and bowing tothe guest retreated to the door, and put his hands behind him.

  'Here he is, Prokofitch,' began Nikolai Petrovitch; 'he's come back tous at last.... Well, how do you think him looking?'

  'As well as could be,' said the old man, and was grinning again, but hequickly knitted his bushy brows. 'You wish supper to be served?' hesaid impressively.

  'Yes, yes, please. But won't you like to go to your room first, YevgenyVassilyitch?'

  'No, thanks; I don't care about it. Only give orders for my little boxto be taken there, and this garment, too,' he added, taking off hisfrieze overcoat.

  'Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's coat.' (Prokofitch, withan air of perplexity, picked up Bazarov's 'garment' in both hands, andholding it high above his head, retreated on tiptoe.) 'And you, Arkady,are you going to your room for a minute?'

  'Yes, I must wash,' answered Arkady, and was just moving towards thedoor, but at that instant there came into the drawing-room a man ofmedium height, dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionable lowcravat, and kid shoes, Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov. He looked aboutforty-five: his close-cropped, grey hair shone with a dark lustre, likenew silver; his face, yellow but free from wrinkles, was exceptionallyregular and pure in line, as though carved by a light and delicatechisel, and showed traces of remarkable beauty; specially fine were hisclear, black, almond-shaped eyes. The whole person of Arkady's uncle,with its aristocratic elegance, had preserved the gracefulness of youthand that air of striving upwards, away from earth, which for the mostpart is lost after the twenties are past.

  Pavel Petrovitch took out of his trouser pocket his exquisite hand withits long tapering pink nails, a hand which seemed still more exquisitefrom the snowy whiteness of the cuff, buttoned with a single, big opal,and gave it to his nephew. After a preliminary handshake in theEuropean style, he kissed him thrice after the Russian fashion, that isto say, he touched his cheek three times with his perfumed moustaches,and said, 'Welcome.'

  Nikolai Petrovitch presented him to Bazarov; Pavel Petrovitch greetedhim with a slight inclination of his supple figure, and a slight smile,but he did not give him his hand, and even put it back into his pocket.

  'I had begun to think you were not coming to-day,' he began in amusical voice, with a genial swing and shrug of the shoulders, as heshowed his splendid white teeth. 'Did anything happen on the road.'

  'Nothing happened,' answered Arkady; 'we were rather slow. But we're ashungry as wolves now. Hurry up Prokofitch, dad; and I'll be backdirectly.'

  'Stay, I'm coming with you,' cried Bazarov, pulling himself up suddenlyfrom the sofa. Both the young men went out.

  'Who is he?' asked Pavel Petrovitch.

  'A friend of Arkasha's; according to him, a very clever fellow.'

  'Is he going to stay with us?'

  'Yes.'

  'That unkempt creature?'

  'Why, yes.'

  Pavel Petrovitch drummed with his finger tips on the table. 'I fancyArkady _s'est degourdi_,' he remarked. 'I'm glad he has come back.'

  At supper there was little conversation. Bazarov especially saidnothing, but he ate a great deal. Nikolai Petrovitch related variousincidents in what he called his career as a farmer, talked about theimpending government measures, about committees, deputations, thenecessity of introducing machinery, etc. Pavel Petrovitch paced slowlyup and down the dining-room (he never ate supper), sometimes sipping ata wineglass of red wine, and less often uttering some remark or ratherexclamation, of the nature of 'Ah! aha! hm!' Arkady told some news fromPetersburg, but he was conscious of a little awkwardness, thatawkwardness, which usually overtakes a youth when he has just ceased tobe a child, and has come back to a place where they are accustomed toregard him and treat him as a child. He made his sentences quiteunnecessarily long, avoided the word 'daddy,' and even sometimesreplaced it by the word 'father,' mumbled, it is true, between histeeth; with an exaggerated carelessness he poured into his glass farmore wine than he really wanted, and drank it all off. Prokofitch didnot take his eyes off him, and kept chewing his lips. After supper theyall separated at once.

  'Your uncle's a queer fish,' Bazarov said to Arkady, as he sat in hisdressing-gown by his bedside, smoking a short pipe. 'Only fancy suchstyle in the country! His nails, his nails--you ought to send them toan exhibition!'

  'Why of course, you don't know,' replied Arkady. 'He was a great swellin his own day, you know. I will tell you his story one day. He wasvery handsome, you know, used to turn all the women's heads.'

  'Oh, that's it, is it? So he keeps it up in memory of the past. It's apity there's no one for him to fascinate here though. I kept staring athis exquisite collars. They're like marble, and his chin's shavedsimply to perfection. Come, Arkady Nikolaitch, isn't that ridiculous?'

  'Perhaps it is; but he's a splendid man, really.'

  'An antique survival! But your father's a capital fellow. He wastes histime reading poetry, and doesn't know much about farming, but he's agood-hearted fellow.'

  'My father's a man in a thousand.'

  'Did you notice how shy and nervous he is?'

  Arkady shook his head as though he himself were not shy and nervous.

  'It's something astonishing,' pursued Bazarov, 'these old idealists,they develop their nervous systems till they break down ... so balanceis lost. But good-night. In my room there's an English washstand, butthe door won't fasten. Anyway that ought to be encouraged--an Englishwashstand stands for progress!'

  Bazarov went away, and a sense of great happiness came over Arkady.Sweet it is to fall asleep in one's own home, in the familiar bed,under the quilt worked by loving hands, perhaps a dear nurse's hands,those kind, tender, untiring hands. Arkady remembered Yegorovna, andsighed and wished her peace in heaven.... For himself he made noprayer.

  Both he and Bazarov were soon asleep, but others in the house wereawake long after. His son's return had agitated Nikolai Petrovitch. Helay down in bed, but did not put out the candles, and his head proppedon his hand, he fell into long reveries. His brother was sitting longafter midnight in his study, in a wide armchair before the fireplace,on which there smouldered some faintly glowing embers. Pavel Petrovitchwas not undressed, only some red Chinese slippers had replaced the kidshoes on his feet. He held in his hand the last number of _Galignani_,but he was not reading; he gazed fixedly into the grate, where a bluishflame flickered, dying down, then flaring up again.... God knows wherehis thoughts were rambling, but they were not rambling in the pastonly; the expression of his face was concentrated and surly, which isnot the way when a man is absorbed solely in recollections. In a smallback room there sat, on a large chest, a young woman in a blue dressingjacket with a white kerchief thrown over her dark hair, Fenitchka. Shewas half listening, half dozing, and often looked across towards theopen door through which a child's cradle was
visible, and the regularbreathing of a sleeping baby could be heard.