Fathers & Sons. Ivan Turgenev

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      III

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      "To think that you are now a graduate and home again!" said Nikolai Petrovitch as he tapped Arkady on the knee, and then on the shoulder. "There now, there now!"

      "And how is Uncle? Is he quite well?" asked Arkady—the reason for the question being that though he felt filled with a genuine, an almost childish delight at his return, he also felt conscious of an instinct that the conversation were best diverted from the emotional to the prosaic.

      "Yes, your uncle is quite well. As a matter of fact, he also had arranged to come and meet you, but at the last moment changed his mind."

      "Did you have very long to wait?" continued Arkady.

      "About five hours."

      "Dearest Papa!" cried Arkady as, leaning over towards his father, he imprinted upon his cheek a fervent kiss. Nikolai Petrovitch smiled quietly.

      "I have got a splendid horse for you," he next remarked. "Presently you shall see him. Also, your room has been entirely repapered."

      "And have you a room for Bazarov as well?"

      "One shall be found for him."

      "Oh—and pray humour him in every way you can. I could not express to you how much I value his friendship."

      "But you have not known him very long, have you?"

      "No—not very long."

      "I thought not, for I do not remember to have seen him in St. Petersburg last winter. In what does he most interest himself?"

      "Principally in natural science. But, to tell the truth, he knows practically everything, and is to become a doctor next year."

      "Oh! So he is in the Medical Faculty?" Nikolai Petrovitch remarked; after which there was silence for a moment.

      "Peter," went on Nikolai, pointing with his hand, "are not those peasants there some of our own?"

      Peter glanced in the direction indicated, and saw a few waggons proceeding along a narrow by-road. The teams were bridleless, and in each waggon were seated some two or three muzhiks with their blouses unbuttoned.

      "Yes, they are some of our own," Peter responded.

      "Then whither can they be going? To the town?"

      "Yes—or to the tavern." This last was added contemptuously, and with a wink to the coachman that was designed to enlist that functionary's sympathy: but as the functionary in question was one of the old school which takes no share in the modern movement, he stirred not a muscle of his face.

      "This year my peasants have been giving me a good deal of trouble," Nikolai Petrovitch continued to his son. "Persistently do they refuse to pay their tithes. What ought to be done with them?"

      "And do you find your hired workmen satisfactory?"

      "Not altogether," muttered Nikolai Petrovitch. "You see, they have become spoilt, more's the pity! Any real energy seems quite to have left them, and they not only ruin my implements, but also leave the land untilled. Does estate-management interest you?"

      "The thing we most lack here is shade," remarked Arkady in evasion of the question.

      "Ah, but I have had an awning added to the north balcony, so that we can take our meals in the open air."

      "But that will give the place rather the look of a villa, will it not? Things of that sort never prove effectual. But oh, the air here! How good it smells! Yes, in my opinion, things never smell elsewhere as they do here. And oh, the sky!"

      Suddenly Arkady stopped, threw a glance of apprehension in the direction of the tarantass, and relapsed into silence.

      "I quite agree with you," replied Nikolai Petrovitch. "You see, the reason is that you were born here, and that therefore the place is bound to have for you a special significance."

      "But no significance can attach to the place of a man's birth, Papa."

      "Indeed?"

      "Oh no. None whatsoever."

      Nikolai Petrovitch glanced at the speaker, and for fully half a verst let the vehicle proceed without the conversation between them being renewed. At length Nikolai Petrovitch observed:

      "I cannot remember whether I wrote to tell you that your old nurse, Egorovna, is dead."

      "Dead? Oh, the poor old woman! But Prokofitch—is he still alive?"

      "He is so, and in no way changed—that is to say, he grumbles as much as ever. In fact, you will find that no really important alterations have taken place at Marino."

      "And have you the same steward as before?"

"No; СКАЧАТЬ