"Arkady Nikolaievitch," prompted Vasili Ivanitch in an undertone, but with great ceremony.
"Then pray pardon a foolish old woman, sir." Arina Vlasievna blew her nose, inclined her head to right and left, and wiped each eye in turn as she did so. "Yes, pray pardon me, but I had thought never again to see my darling boy before I died."
"But, you see, we have seen him again," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Here, Taniushka!"—this to a barefooted serf girl of thirteen who, clad in a bright red cotton frock, had been an interested, but timid, observer in the doorway. "Bring your mistress a glass of water on a salver. Do you hear? And you, gentlemen," he continued with old-fashioned sprightliness, "will you be so good as to step into the study of a retired veteran?"
"First another kiss, Eniusha," gasped Arina Vlasievna. Then, as Bazarov bent over her form, she added: "How handsome you have grown!"
"Handsome or not, he is human," said Vasili Ivanitch. "Wherefore, now that you have satisfied your mother's heart, I look to you to see also to the satisfaction of our honoured guests. For than yourself no one knows better that nightingales cannot be fed on air."
This caused the old lady to rise from her chair, and to exclaim:
"Yes, yes: in one moment, Vasili Ivanitch. The table shall be laid, and I myself will hurry to the kitchen, and see that the samovar be got ready. Everything shall be done. Why, it must be three years since last I gave Eniusha a meal."
"Yes, three years, dear wife. But now bustle about, and do not let yourself get flurried. Gentlemen, accompany me, I beg of you. But here is Timotheitch coming to pay you his respects. How delighted he looks, the old rascal! Now, pray favour me with your company."
And he strode fussily ahead with much shuffling and creaking of flat-soled slippers.
The Bazarovian establishment consisted of six small rooms, of which one—the room to which Vasili Ivanitch was now conducting our friends—was looked upon as the study. Between its two windows there stood a fat-legged table, strewn with dusty, fusty papers; on the walls hung a number of Turkish weapons, nagaiki,[2] and swords, a couple of landscapes, a few anatomical plates, a portrait of Hufeland,[3] a black-framed monogram done in hair, and a diploma protected with a glass front; between two large birchwood cupboards stood a ragged, battered leathern sofa; on shelves lay huddled a miscellany of books, boxes, stuffed birds, jars, and bladders; and, lastly, in a corner reposed a broken electric battery.