الفصل الفصل 4 · 第4章

There issued on to the verandah to greet the arrivals no throng of

household serfs--only a solitary girl of twelve. Presently, however,

she was joined by a young fellow much resembling Peter, but dressed

in a grey livery coat to which embossed, silver-gilt buttons were

attached. This was Paul Kirsanov's valet. In silence he opened the door

of the _koliaska_, and unhooked the apron of the _tarantass_; whereupon

the three gentlemen alighted, passed through a dark, bare hall (the

face of a young woman peered at them for a moment from behind a door),

and entered a drawing-room upholstered in the latest fashion.

"So here we are at home again!" exclaimed Nikolai Petrovitch, taking

off his cap, and shaking back his hair. "Let us have supper, and then

for bed, bed!"

"Yes, something to eat would undoubtedly be welcome," remarked Bazarov

as, yawning, he seated himself upon a sofa.

"Quite so; I will have supper served at once." Nikolai Petrovitch,

for no apparent reason, tripped over his own feet. "And here comes

Prokofitch," he added.

As he spoke entered a man of about sixty who, white-haired, and of

thin, swarthy features, was wearing a cinnamon-coloured tail-coat

with brass buttons and a crimson collar. He smiled with delight as he

approached and shook hands with Arkady. Then, with a bow to the guest,

he retired to the doorway, and folded his hands behind his back.

"So here is the young master, Prokofitch!" said Nikolai Petrovitch.

"He is home at last. And how, think you, is he looking?"

"Very well, very well," the old man said with another smile. The next

moment, however, he knit his shaggy brows, and suggested: "Shall I lay

the table?"

"If you please, if you please." Nikolai Petrovitch turned to Bazarov.

"Before supper," he said, "would you care to go to your room?"

"I thank you, no. But please have my trunk conveyed thither, and also

this wrap." And Bazarov divested himself of his cloak.

"Certainly. Prokofitch, take the gentleman's cloak."

The old butler received the garment gingerly, held it well away from

him with both hands, and left the room on tiptoe.

"And you, Arkady?" continued Nikolai Petrovitch. "Do you not wish to go

to your room?"

"Yes; for a wash I should be thankful," was Arkady's reply as he moved

towards the door. At that moment it opened to admit a man of medium

height who was dressed in a dark English suit, a fashionably low

collar, and a pair of patent leather boots. This was Paul Petrovitch

Kirsanov. Although forty-five, he had close-cropped grey hair of the

sheen of new silver, and his sallow, unwrinkled face was as clear-cut

and regular of outline as though carved with a light, fine chisel.

Still retaining traces of remarkable comeliness, his bright, black,

oblong eyes had a peculiar attraction, and his every well-bred, refined

feature showed that symmetry of youth, that air of superiority to the

rest of the world which usually disappears when once the twenties have

been passed.

Drawing from his trouser pocket a slender hand the long, pink nails

of which looked all the slenderer for the snowy whiteness of the

superimposed cuff and large opal sleeve-link, he offered it to his

nephew; after which, this prefatory European "handshake" over, he

thrice kissed Arkady in the Russian fashion--that is to say, touched

his nephew's cheek with his perfumed moustache, and murmured: "I

congratulate you."

Next Nikolai Petrovitch presented to him Bazarov. Inclining his supple

figure with a faint smile, Paul Petrovitch this time did not offer his

hand. On the contrary, he replaced it in his pocket.

"I was beginning to think that you never meant to arrive," he said with

an amiable hoist of his shoulders and a display of some beautiful white

teeth. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," replied Arkady, "except that we lingered a little. For the

same reason are we as hungry as wolves; so pray tell Prokofitch to be

quick, Papa, and I shall be back in a moment."

"Wait; I will go with you," added Bazarov as he rose from the sofa; and

the two young men left the room together.

"Who is your guest?" asked Paul Petrovitch.

"A friend of Arkady's, and, according to Arkady's showing, a man of

intellect."

"He is going to stay here?"

"He is."

"A long-haired fellow like that?"

"Certainly."

In that particular direction Paul Petrovitch said no more, but, tapping

the table with his finger-nails, added:

"_Je pense que notre Arkady s'est dégourdi._[1] And in any case I am

pleased to see him back again."

At supper little was said. In particular did Bazarov scarcely speak,

though he ate heartily; and only Nikolai Petrovitch proved garrulous as

he related various incidents in what he termed his "agricultural life,"

and gossiped of forthcoming administrative measures, committees,

deputations, the need of introducing machinery, and other such topics.

For his part, Paul Petrovitch paced the room (he never took supper),

and sipped a glassful of red wine, and occasionally interjected some

such remark--rather, exclamation--as "Ah!" or "Oh, ho!" or "H'm!"

Arkady's contribution consisted of a little St. Petersburg gossip, even

though, throughout, he was conscious of a touch of that awkwardness

which overtakes a young man when, just ceased to be a boy, he returns

to the spot where hitherto he has ranked as a mere child. In other

words, he drawled his phrases unnecessarily, carefully avoided the use

of the term "Papasha,"[2] and, once, even went so far as to substitute

for it the term "Otety"[3]--though, true, he pronounced it with some

difficulty. Lastly, in his excessive desire to seem at his ease, he

helped himself to more wine than was good for him, and tasted some of

every brand. Meanwhile Prokofitch chewed his lips, and never removed

his eyes from his young master.

Supper over, the company dispersed.

"A queer fellow is that uncle of yours," Bazarov said to Arkady as,

clad in a dressing-gown, he seated himself by his friend's bed, and

sucked at a short pipe. "To think of encountering such elegance in the

country! He would take a prize with his finger-nails."

"You do not know him yet," said Arkady. "In his day he was a leading

lion, and some time or another I will tell you his history. Yes, many

and many a woman has lost her head over his good looks."

"Then I should think that he has nothing to live on save memories,"

observed Bazarov. "At all events, there is no one _here_ for him to

enslave. I looked him over to-night, and never in my life have beheld

a collar of such marvellous gloss, or a chin so perfectly shaven. Yet

such things can come to look ridiculous, do not you think?"

"Yes--perhaps they can. But he is such an excellent fellow in himself!"

"Oh, certainly--a truly archangelic personage! Your father, too, is

excellent; for though he may read foolish poetry, and though his ideas

on the subject of industry may be few, his heart is in the right place."

"He is a man with a heart of gold."

"Nevertheless, did you notice his nervousness to-night?"

Arkady nodded as though to himself such a weakness was a perfect

stranger.

"Curious indeed!" commented Bazarov. "Ah, you elderly Romanticists!

You over-develop the nervous system until the balance is upset. Now,

good-night. In my room there is an English washstand, yet the door

will not shut! But such things (English washstands I mean) need to be

encouraged: they represent 'progress.'"

And Bazarov departed, while Arkady surrendered himself to a sensation

of comfort. How pleasant was it to be sinking to sleep in one's

comfortable home, and in one's own familiar bed, and under a well-known

coverlet worked by loving hands--perhaps those of his good, kind,

tireless old nurse! And at the thought of Egorovna he sighed, and

commended her soul to the Heavenly Powers. But for himself he did not

pray.

Soon both he and Bazarov were asleep; but certain other members of the

household there were who remained wakeful. In particular had Nikolai

Petrovitch been greatly excited by his son's return; and though he went

to bed, he left the candle burning, and, resting with his head on his

hands, lay thinking deeply.

Also, his brother sat up in his study until nearly midnight. Seated

in an ample armchair before a corner where a marble stove was

smouldering, he had effected no alteration in his costume beyond

having exchanged his patent leather boots for a pair of heelless, red

felt slippers. Lastly, he was holding, though not reading, the latest

number of _Galignani_, and his eyes were fixed upon the stove, where

a quivering blue spurt of flame kept alternately disappearing and

bursting forth again. Whither his thoughts were wandering God only

knows; but that they were not meandering through the past alone was

proved by the fact that in his expression there was a concentrated

gloom which is never in evidence when a man's mind is occupied with

memories and no more.

Finally, seated on a chest in a small room at the back of the house,

and wearing a blue dressing-jacket and, thrown over her dark hair,

a white scarf, was the girl Thenichka. As she sat there she kept

listening, and starting, and gazing towards an open door which at once

afforded a glimpse of an infant's cot and admitted the sound of a

sleeping child's respiration.

[1] "I think that our friend Arkady has acquired some polish."

[2] Dear Papa.

[3] Father.