w each other thoroughly, mustn't we!'

'Of course,' said Arkady; 'but what an exquisite day it is to-day!'

'To welcome you, my dear boy. Yes, it's spring in its full loveliness.
Though I agree with Pushkin--do you remember in Yevgeny Onyegin--

'To me how sad thy coming is,
Spring, spring, sweet time of love!
What ...'

'Arkady!' called Bazarov's voice from the coach, 'send me a match; I've
nothing to light my pipe with.'

Nikolai Petrovitch stopped, while Arkady, who had begun listening to
him with some surprise, though with sympathy too, made haste to pull a
silver matchbox out of his pocket, and sent it to Bazarov by Piotr.

'Will you have a cigar?' shouted Bazarov again.

'Thanks,' answered Arkady.

Piotr returned to the carriage, and handed him with the match-box a
thick black cigar, which Arkady began to smoke promptly, diffusing
about him such a strong and pungent odour of cheap tobacco, that
Nikolai Petrovitch, who had never been a smoker from his youth up, was
forced to turn away his head, as imperceptibly as he could for fear of
wounding his son.

A quarter of an hour later, the two carriages drew up before the steps
of a new wooden house, painted grey, with a red iron roof. This was
Maryino, also known as New-Wick, or, as the peasants had nicknamed it,
Poverty Farm.

CHAPTER IV

No crowd of house-serfs ran out on to the steps to meet the gentlemen;
a little girl of twelve years old made her appearance alone. After her
there came out of the house a young lad, very like Piotr, dressed in a
coat of grey livery, with white armorial buttons, the servant of Pavel
Petrovitch Kirsanov. Without speaking, he opened the door of the
carriage, and unbuttoned the apron of the coach. Nikolai Petrovitch
with his son and Bazarov walked through a dark and almost empty hall,
from behind the door of which they caught a glimpse of a young woman's
face, into a drawing-room furnished in the most modern style.

'Here we are at home,' said Nikolai Petrovitch, taking off his cap, and
shaking back his hair. 'That's the great thing; now we must have supper
and rest.'

'A meal would not come amiss, certainly,' observed Bazarov, stretching,
and he dropped on to a sofa.

'Yes, yes, let us have supper, supper directly.' Nikolai Petrovitch
with no apparent reason stamped his foot. 'And here just at the right
moment comes Prokofitch.'

A man about sixty entered, white-haired, thin, and swarthy, in a
cinna