Such were Arkady’s reflections; … but even as he reflected, the spring regained its sway. All around was golden green, all—trees, bushes, grass—shone and stirred gently in wide waves under the soft breath of the warm wind; from all sides flooded the endless trilling music of the larks; the peewits were calling as they hovered over the low-lying meadows, or noiselessly ran over the tussocks of grass; the rooks strutted among the half-grown short spring-corn, standing out black against its tender green; they disappeared in the already whitening rye, only from time to time their heads peeped out amid its grey waves. Arkady gazed and gazed, and his reflections grew slowly fainter and passed away. … He flung off his cloak and turned to his father, with a face so bright and boyish, that the latter gave him another hug.
“We’re not far off now,” remarked Nikolai Petrovitch; “we have only to get up this hill, and the house will be in sight. We shall get on together splendidly, Arkasha; you shall help me in farming the estate, if only it isn’t a bore to you. We must draw close to one another now, and learn to know each other thoroughly, mustn’t we!”
“Of course,” said Arkady; “but what an exquisite day it is today!”
“To welcome you, my dear boy. Yes, it’s spring in its full loveliness. Though I agree with Pushkin—do you remember in Yevgeny Onyegin—
“To me how sad thy coming is,
Spring, spring, sweet time of love!
What …”
“Arkady!” called Bazarov’s voice from the coach, “send me a match; I’ve nothing to light my pipe with.”
Nikolai Petrovitch stopped, while Arkady, who had begun listening to him with some surprise, though with sympathy too, made haste to pull a silver matchbox out of his pocket, and sent it to Bazarov by Piotr.
“Will you have a cigar?” shouted Bazarov again.
“Thanks,” answered Arkady.
Piotr returned to the carriage, and handed him with the matchbox a thick black cigar, which Arkady began to smoke promptly, diffusing about him such a strong and pungent odour of cheap tobacco, that Nikolai Petrovitch, who had never been a smoker from his youth up, was forced to turn away his head, as imperceptibly as he could for fear of wounding his son.
A quarter of an hour later, the two carriages drew up before the steps of a new wooden house, painted grey, with a red iron roof. This was Maryino, also known as New-Wick, or, as the peasants had nicknamed it, Poverty Farm.
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 her there came out of the house a young lad, very like Piotr, dressed in a coat of grey livery, with white armorial buttons, the servant of Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov. Without speaking, he opened the door of the carriage, and unbuttoned the apron of the coach. Nikolai Petrovitch with 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’s face, into a drawing-room furnished in the most modern style.
“Here we are at home,” said Nikolai Petrovitch, taking off his cap, and shaking back his hair. “That’s the great thing; now we must have supper and 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 Petrovitch with no apparent reason stamped his foot. “And here just at the right moment comes Prokofitch.”
A man about sixty entered, white-haired, thin, and swarthy, in a cinnamon-coloured dress-coat with brass buttons, and a pink neckerchief. He smirked, went up to kiss Arkady’s hand, and bowing to the guest retreated to the door, and put his hands behind him.
“Here he is, Prokofitch,” began Nikolai Petrovitch; “he’s come back to us at last. … Well, how do you think him looking?”
“As well as could be,” said the old man, and was grinning again, but he quickly knitted his bushy brows. “You wish supper to be served?” he said impressively.
“Yes, yes, please. But won’t you like to go to your room first, Yevgeny Vassilyitch?”
“No, thanks; I don’t care about it. Only give orders for my little box to be taken there, and this garment, too,” he added, taking off his frieze overcoat.
“Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman’s coat.” (Prokofitch, with an air of perplexity, picked up Bazarov’s “garment” in both hands, and holding 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 the door, but at that instant there came into the drawing-room a man of medium height, dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionable low cravat, and kid shoes, Pavel Petrovitch Kirsanov. He looked about forty-five: his close-cropped, grey hair shone with a dark lustre, like new silver; his face, yellow but free from wrinkles, was exceptionally regular and pure in line, as though carved by a light and delicate chisel, and showed traces of remarkable beauty; specially fine were his clear, black, almond-shaped eyes. The whole person of Arkady’s uncle, with its aristocratic elegance, had preserved the gracefulness of youth and that air of striving upwards, away from earth, which for the most part is lost after the twenties are past.
Pavel Petrovitch took out of his trouser pocket his exquisite hand with its long tapering pink nails, a hand which seemed still more exquisite from the snowy whiteness of the cuff, buttoned with a single, big opal, and gave it to his nephew. After a preliminary handshake in the European style, he kissed him thrice after the Russian fashion, that is to say, he
