Fathers and Children Ivan Turgenev (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📖

downs himself. No, I can’t smoke,” he added, and he flung the cigarette into the dust of the road.

“Do you think it’s twenty miles?” asked Arkady.

“Yes. But ask this sage here.” He indicated the peasant sitting on the box, a labourer of Fedot’s.

But the sage only answered, “Who’s to know⁠—miles hereabout aren’t measured,” and went on swearing in an undertone at the shaft horse for “kicking with her headpiece,” that is, shaking with her head down.

“Yes, yes,” began Bazarov; “it’s a lesson to you, my young friend, an instructive example. God knows, what rot it is? Every man hangs on a thread, the abyss may open under his feet any minute, and yet he must go and invent all sorts of discomforts for himself, and spoil his life.”

“What are you alluding to?” asked Arkady.

“I’m not alluding to anything; I’m saying straight out that we’ve both behaved like fools. What’s the use of talking about it! Still, I’ve noticed in hospital practice, the man who’s furious at his illness⁠—he’s sure to get over it.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” observed Arkady; “I should have thought you had nothing to complain of.”

“And since you don’t quite understand me, I’ll tell you this⁠—to my mind, it’s better to break stones on the highroad than to let a woman have the mastery of even the end of one’s little finger. That’s all⁠ ⁠…” Bazarov was on the point of uttering his favourite word, “romanticism,” but he checked himself, and said, “rubbish. You don’t believe me now, but I tell you; you and I have been in feminine society, and very nice we found it; but to throw up society like that is for all the world like a dip in cold water on a hot day. A man hasn’t time to attend to such trifles; a man ought not to be tame, says an excellent Spanish proverb. Now, you, I suppose, my sage friend,” he added, turning to the peasant sitting on the box⁠—“you’ve a wife?”

The peasant showed both the friends his dull blear-eyed face.

“A wife? Yes. Every man has a wife.”

“Do you beat her?”

“My wife? Everything happens sometimes. We don’t beat her without good reason!”

“That’s excellent. Well, and does she beat you?”

The peasant gave a tug at the reins. “That’s a strange thing to say, sir. You like your joke.”⁠ ⁠… He was obviously offended.

“You hear, Arkady Nikolaevitch! But we have taken a beating⁠ ⁠… that’s what comes of being educated people.”

Arkady gave a forced laugh, while Bazarov turned away, and did not open his mouth again the whole journey.

The twenty miles seemed to Arkady quite forty. But at last, on the slope of some rising ground, appeared the small hamlet where Bazarov’s parents lived. Beside it, in a young birch copse, could be seen a small house with a thatched roof.

Two peasants stood with their hats on at the first hut, abusing each other. “You’re a great sow,” said one; “and worse than a little sucking pig.”

“And your wife’s a witch,” retorted the other.

“From their unconstrained behaviour,” Bazarov remarked to Arkady, “and the playfulness of their retorts, you can guess that my father’s peasants are not too much oppressed. Why, there he is himself coming out on the steps of his house. They must have heard the bells. It’s he; it’s he⁠—I know his figure. Ay, ay! how grey he’s grown though, poor chap!”

XX

Bazarov leaned out of the coach, while Arkady thrust his head out behind his companion’s back, and caught sight on the steps of the little manor-house of a tall, thinnish man with dishevelled hair, and a thin hawk nose, dressed in an old military coat not buttoned up. He was standing, his legs wide apart, smoking a long pipe and screwing up his eyes to keep the sun out of them.

The horses stopped.

“Arrived at last,” said Bazarov’s father, still going on smoking though the pipe was fairly dancing up and down between his fingers. “Come, get out; get out; let me hug you.”

He began embracing his son⁠ ⁠… “Enyusha, Enyusha,” was heard a trembling woman’s voice. The door was flung open, and in the doorway was seen a plump, short, little old woman in a white cap and a short striped jacket. She moaned, staggered, and would certainly have fallen, had not Bazarov supported her. Her plump little hands were instantly twined round his neck, her head was pressed to his breast, and there was a complete hush. The only sound heard was her broken sobs.

Old Bazarov breathed hard and screwed his eyes up more than ever.

“There, that’s enough, that’s enough, Arisha! give over,” he said, exchanging a glance with Arkady, who remained motionless in the coach, while the peasant on the box even turned his head away; “that’s not at all necessary, please give over.”

“Ah, Vassily Ivanitch,” faltered the old woman, “for what ages, my dear one, my darling, Enyusha,”⁠ ⁠… and, not unclasping her hands, she drew her wrinkled face, wet with tears and working with tenderness, a little away from Bazarov, and gazed at him with blissful and comic-looking eyes, and again fell on his neck.

“Well, well, to be sure, that’s all in the nature of things,” commented Vassily Ivanitch, “only we’d better come indoors. Here’s a visitor come with Yevgeny. You must excuse it,” he added, turning to Arkady, and scraping with his foot; “you understand, a woman’s weakness; and well, a mother’s heart⁠ ⁠…”

His lips and eyebrows too were twitching, and his beard was quivering⁠ ⁠… but he was obviously trying to control himself and appear almost indifferent.

“Let’s come in, mother, really,” said Bazarov, and he led the enfeebled old woman into the house. Putting her into a comfortable armchair, he once more hurriedly embraced his father and introduced Arkady to him.

“Heartily glad to make your acquaintance,” said Vassily Ivanovitch, “but you mustn’t expect great things; everything here in my house is done in a plain way, on a military footing. Arina Vlasyevna, calm yourself, pray; what weakness! The gentleman our guest will think ill of