ething of a birdlike
appearance. He himself merely growled and gnawed the amber mouthpiece
of his pipe, or, clutching his neck with his fingers, turned his head
round, as though he were trying whether it were properly screwed on,
then all at once he opened his wide mouth and went off into a perfectly
noiseless chuckle.

'I've come to you for six whole weeks, governor,' Bazarov said to him.
'I want to work, so please don't hinder me now.'

'You shall forget my face completely, if you call that hindering you!'
answered Vassily Ivanovitch.

He kept his promise. After installing his son as before in his study,
he almost hid himself away from him, and he kept his wife from all
superfluous demonstrations of tenderness. 'On Enyusha's first visit, my
dear soul,' he said to her, 'we bothered him a little; we must be wiser
this time.' Arina Vlasyevna agreed with her husband, but that was small
compensation since she saw her son only at meals, and was now
absolutely afraid to address him. 'Enyushenka,' she would say
sometimes--and before he had time to look round, she was nervously
fingering the tassels of her reticule and faltering, 'Never mind, never
mind, I only----' and afterwards she would go to Vassily Ivanovitch
and, her cheek in her hand, would consult him: 'If you could only find
out, darling, which Enyusha would like for dinner to-day--cabbage-broth
or beetroot-soup?'--'But why didn't you ask him yourself?'--'Oh, he
will get sick of me!' Bazarov, however, soon ceased to shut himself up;
the fever of work fell away, and was replaced by dreary boredom or
vague restlessness. A strange weariness began to show itself in all his
movements; even his walk, firm, bold and strenuous, was changed. He
gave up walking in solitude, and began to seek society; he drank tea in
the drawing-room, strolled about the kitchen-garden with Vassily
Ivanovitch, and smoked with him in silence; once even asked after
Father Alexey. Vassily Ivanovitch at first rejoiced at this change, but
his joy was not long-lived. 'Enyusha's breaking my heart,' he
complained in secret to his wife; 'it's not that he's discontented or
angry--that would be nothing; he's sad, he's sorrowful--that's what's
so terrible. He's always silent. If he'd only abuse us; he's growing
thin, he's lost his colour.'--'Mercy on us, mercy on us!' whispered the
old woman; 'I would put an amulet on his neck, but, of course, he won't
allow it.' Vassily Ivanovitch several times attempte