From the scene of his discomfiture Bazaroff fled to his own house, taking Arkady with him.  Vassily Ivanovitch, his father, an old retired army doctor, who had not seen his son for three years, was standing on the steps of the little manor house as the coach in which they travelled rolled up.  He was a tall, thinnish man, with, dishevelled hair and a thin hawk nose, dressed in an old military coat not buttoned up.  He was smoking a long pipe and screwing up his eyes to keep the sun out of them.  The horses stopped.

“Arrived at last,” said Bazaroff’s father, still going on smoking, though the pipe was fairly dancing up and down between his fingers.

“Enyusha, Enyusha,” was heard a trembling woman’s voice.  The door was flung open and in the doorway was seen a plump, short little woman, in a white cap and a short, striped jacket.  She moaned, staggered, and would certainly have fallen had not Bazaroff supported her.  Her plump little hands were instantly twined round his neck.  “For what ages, my dear one, my darling Enyusha!” she cried, her wrinkled face wet with tears.  Old Bazaroff breathed hard and screwed his eyes up more than ever.

“There, that’s enough, that’s enough, Arina; give over—­please give over.”

His lips and eyebrows were twitching and his beard was quivering... but he was obviously trying to control himself and appear almost indifferent.  But, like his wife, the old man was deeply moved at the coming of his son.  Only with difficulty could he keep his eyes off him.  The whole little house was turned upside down to provide him proper entertainment.  Arisha produced the most tempting dainties she could cook and old Bazaroff brought out a bottle of wine, told some of the best of his old stories, and, regardless of the snubs uttered occasionally by Bazaroff, seemed to be filled with an ecstatic joy as long as he could be near him.  He took an early opportunity of questioning Arkady, and when he heard the words of praise that fell from the latter’s lips and the expectation that was current at the University of the great future for his son, he could stand it no longer.  He bent down to Arkady and kissed him on his shoulder.

“You have made me perfectly happy,” he said, never ceasing to smile.  “I ought to tell you, I... idolise my son; my old wife I won’t speak of—­we all know what mothers are!—­but I dare not show my feelings before him, because he doesn’t like it.  He is averse to every kind of demonstration of feeling; many people even find fault with him for such firmness of character, and regard it as a proof of pride or lack of feeling, but men like him ought not to be judged by the common standard, ought they?”

One thing troubled old Bazaroff.  How long was his son going to stay?  He dared not ask him, but he centred his hopes on three weeks, at least.  Bazaroff, however, was restless and unsatisfied.  He had not succeeded in effacing the memory of Madame Odintsov.  On the third day he told Arkady that he could stand it no longer.