"Never mind. Let us dine without beef—or, for that matter, without anything at all. 'Poverty is no crime.'"
"How many souls[5] are there on your father's property?" asked Arkady.
"It is not his property; it is my mother's. The number of souls on it is, I think, fifteen."
"No, twenty-two," corrected Timotheitch with an air of pride. The next moment the sound of shuffling slippers was heard once more, and Vasili Ivanitch re-entered.
"Your room will be ready for you in a few minutes," he announced grandiloquently to Arkady. "Meanwhile, here is your servant." He pointed to a close-cropped urchin who, clad in an out-at-elbows blue kaftan and an odd pair of shoes, had also made his appearance. "His name is Thedika, and, for all my son's injunction, I had better repeat to you not to expect too much of him—though certainly he will be able to fill your pipe for you. I presume that you smoke?"
"I do, but only cigars."
"A commendable rule! I too prefer cigars, but find them extremely difficult to procure in this isolated part of the country."
"Have done with bewailing your poverty," Bazarov good-naturedly interrupted. "Rather, seat yourself on this sofa, and take a rest."
Vasili Ivanitch smilingly did as he was bidden. Extremely like his son in features (save that his forehead was lower and narrower, and his mouth a trifle wider), he was for ever on the move—now shrugging his shoulders as though his coat cut him under the armpits, now blinking, now coughing, now twitching his fingers. In this he was sharply differentiated from his son, whose most distinguishing characteristic was his absolute immobility.
"Have done with bewailing my poverty?" repeated the old man. "Why, you cannot surely think that I would weary our guest with complaints concerning our isolation? As a matter of fact, a man of brains need never be isolated, and I myself do everything in my power to avoid becoming moss-grown, and falling behind the times."