oing things by
halves. We came to look at the gentry; let's look at them!'

The Governor received the young men affably, but he did not ask them to
sit down, nor did he sit down himself. He was in an everlasting fuss
and hurry; in the morning he used to put on a tight uniform and an
excessively stiff cravat; he never ate or drank enough; he was for ever
making arrangements. He invited Kirsanov and Bazarov to his ball, and
within a few minutes invited them a second time, regarding them as
brothers, and calling them Kisarov.

They were on their way home from the Governor's, when suddenly a short
man, in a Slavophil national dress, leaped out of a trap that was
passing them, and crying, 'Yevgeny Vassilyitch!' dashed up to Bazarov.

'Ah! it's you, Herr Sitnikov,' observed Bazarov, still stepping along
on the pavement; 'by what chance did you come here?'

'Fancy, absolutely by chance,' he replied, and returning to the trap,
he waved his hand several times, and shouted, 'Follow, follow us! My
father had business here,' he went on, hopping across the gutter, 'and
so he asked me.... I heard to-day of your arrival, and have already
been to see you....' (The friends did, in fact, on returning to their
room, find there a card, with the corners turned down, bearing the name
of Sitnikov, on one side in French, on the other in Slavonic
characters.) 'I hope you are not coming from the Governor's?'

'It's no use to hope; we come straight from him.'

'Ah! in that case I will call on him too.... Yevgeny Vassilyitch,
introduce me to your ... to the ...'

'Sitnikov, Kirsanov,' mumbled Bazarov, not stopping.

'I am greatly flattered,' began Sitnikov, walking sidewise, smirking,
and hurriedly pulling off his really over-elegant gloves. 'I have heard
so much.... I am an old acquaintance of Yevgeny Vassilyitch, and, I may
say--his disciple. I am indebted to him for my regeneration....'

Arkady looked at Bazarov's disciple. There was an expression of
excitement and dulness imprinted on the small but pleasant features of
his well-groomed face; his small eyes, that seemed squeezed in, had a
fixed and uneasy look, and his laugh, too, was uneasy--a sort of short,
wooden laugh.

'Would you believe it,' he pursued, 'when Yevgeny Vassilyitch for the
first time said before me that it was not right to accept any
authorities, I felt such enthusiasm ... as though my eyes were opened!
Here, I thought, at last I have found a man! By the way, Yevg