Fathers and Children, Ivan Turgenev [best book reader .TXT] 📗

never let a single beggar go away empty-handed, and never spoke ill of anyone, though she was fond of gossip. In her youth she had been pretty, had played the clavichord, and spoken French a little; but in the course of many years’ wanderings with her husband, whom she had married against her will, she had grown stout, and forgotten music and French. Her son she loved and feared unutterably; she had given up the management of the property to Vassily Ivanovitch⁠—and now did not interfere in anything; she used to groan, wave her handkerchief, and raise her eyebrows higher and higher with horror directly her old husband began to discuss the impending government reforms and his own plans. She was apprehensive, and constantly expecting some great misfortune, and began to weep directly she remembered anything sorrowful.⁠ ⁠… Such women are not common nowadays. God knows whether we ought to rejoice! XXI

On getting up Arkady opened the window, and the first object that met his view was Vassily Ivanovitch. In an Oriental dressing-gown girt round the waist with a pocket-handkerchief he was industriously digging in his garden. He perceived his young visitor, and leaning on his spade, he called, “The best of health to you! How have you slept?”

“Capitally,” answered Arkady.

“Here am I, as you see, like some Cincinnatus, marking out a bed for late turnips. The time has come now⁠—and thank God for it!⁠—when everyone ought to obtain his sustenance with his own hands; it’s useless to reckon on others; one must labour oneself. And it turns out that Jean Jacques Rousseau is right. Half an hour ago, my dear young gentleman, you might have seen me in a totally different position. One peasant woman, who complained of looseness⁠—that’s how they express it, but in our language, dysentery⁠—I⁠ ⁠… how can I express it best? I administered opium, and for another I extracted a tooth. I proposed an anaesthetic to her⁠ ⁠… but she would not consent. All that I do gratis⁠—anamatyer (en amateur). I’m used to it, though; you see, I’m a plebeian, homo novus⁠—not one of the old stock, not like my spouse.⁠ ⁠… Wouldn’t you like to come this way into the shade, to breathe the morning freshness a little before tea?”

Arkady went out to him.

“Welcome once again,” said Vassily Ivanovitch, raising his hand in a military salute to the greasy skullcap which covered his head. “You, I know, are accustomed to luxury, to amusements, but even the great ones of this world do not disdain to spend a brief space under a cottage roof.”

“Good heavens,” protested Arkady, “as though I were one of the great ones of this world! And I’m not accustomed to luxury.”

“Pardon me, pardon me,” rejoined Vassily Ivanovitch with a polite simper. “Though I am laid on the shelf now, I have knocked about the world too⁠—I can tell a bird by its flight. I am something of a psychologist too in my own way, and a physiognomist. If I had not, I will venture to say, been endowed with that gift, I should have come to grief long ago; I should have stood no chance, a poor man like me. I tell you without flattery, I am sincerely delighted at the friendship I observe between you and my son. I have just seen him; he got up as he usually does⁠—no doubt you are aware of it⁠—very early, and went a ramble about the neighbourhood. Permit me to inquire⁠—have you known my son long?”

“Since last winter.”

“Indeed. And permit me to question you further⁠—but hadn’t we better sit down? Permit me, as a father, to ask without reserve, What is your opinion of my Yevgeny?”

“Your son is one of the most remarkable men I have ever met,” Arkady answered emphatically.

Vassily Ivanovitch’s eyes suddenly grew round, and his cheeks were suffused with a faint flush. The spade fell out of his hand.

“And so you expect,” he began⁠ ⁠…

“I’m convinced,” Arkady put in, “that your son has a great future before him; that he will do honour to your name. I’ve been certain of that ever since I first met him.”

“How⁠ ⁠… how was that?” Vassily Ivanovitch articulated with an effort. His wide mouth was relaxed in a triumphant smile, which would not leave it.

“Would you like me to tell you how we met?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… and altogether.⁠ ⁠…”

Arkady began to tell his tale, and to talk of Bazarov with even greater warmth, even greater enthusiasm than he had done on the evening when he danced a mazurka with Madame Odintsov.

Vassily Ivanovitch listened and listened, blinked, and rolled his handkerchief up into a ball in both his hands, cleared his throat, ruffled up his hair, and at last could stand it no longer; he bent down to Arkady and kissed him on his shoulder. “You have made me perfectly happy,” he said, never ceasing to smile. “I ought to tell you, I⁠ ⁠… idolise my son; my old wife I won’t speak of⁠—we all know what mothers are!⁠—but I dare not show my feelings before him, because he doesn’t like it. He is averse to every kind of demonstration of feeling; many people even find fault with him for such firmness of character, and regard it as a proof of pride or lack of feeling, but men like him ought not to be judged by the common standard, ought they? And here, for example, many another fellow in his place would have been a constant drag on his parents; but he, would you believe it? has never from the day he was born taken a farthing more than he could help, that’s God’s truth!”

“He is a disinterested, honest man,” observed Arkady.

“Exactly so; he is disinterested. And I don’t only idolise him, Arkady Nikolaitch, I am proud of him, and the height of my ambition is that some day there will be the following lines in his biography: ‘The son of a simple army-doctor, who was, however, capable of divining his greatness betimes, and