had brought with him a microscope, and
busied himself for hours together with it. The servants, too, took to
him, though he made fun of them; they felt, all the same, that he was
one of themselves, not a master. Dunyasha was always ready to giggle
with him, and used to cast significant and stealthy glances at him when
she skipped by like a rabbit; Piotr, a man vain and stupid to the last
degree, for ever wearing an affected frown on his brow, a man whose
whole merit consisted in the fact that he looked civil, could spell out
a page of reading, and was diligent in brushing his coat--even he
smirked and brightened up directly Bazarov paid him any attention; the
boys on the farm simply ran after the 'doctor' like puppies. The old
man Prokofitch was the only one who did not like him; he handed him the
dishes at table with a surly face, called him a 'butcher' and 'an
upstart,' and declared that with his great whiskers he looked like a
pig in a stye. Prokofitch in his own way was quite as much of an
aristocrat as Pavel Petrovitch.

The best days of the year had come--the first days of June. The weather
kept splendidly fine; in the distance, it is true, the cholera was
threatening, but the inhabitants of that province had had time to get
used to its visits. Bazarov used to get up very early and go out for
two or three miles, not for a walk--he couldn't bear walking without an
object--but to collect specimens of plants and insects. Sometimes he
took Arkady with him.

On the way home an argument usually sprang up, and Arkady was usually
vanquished in it, though he said more than his companion.

One day they had lingered rather late; Nikolai Petrovitch went to meet
them in the garden, and as he reached the arbour he suddenly heard the
quick steps and voices of the two young men. They were walking on the
other side of the arbour, and could not see him.

'You don't know my father well enough,' said Arkady.

'Your father's a nice chap,' said Bazarov, 'but he's behind the times;
his day is done.'

Nikolai Petrovitch listened intently.... Arkady made no answer.

The man whose day was done remained two minutes motionless, and stole
slowly home.

'The day before yesterday I saw him reading Pushkin,' Bazarov was
continuing meanwhile. 'Explain to him, please, that that's no earthly
use. He's not a boy, you know; it's time to throw up that rubbish. And
what an idea to be a romantic at this time of day! Give him something
sensibl