“Your uncle’s a queer fish,” Bazaroff remarked to Arkady, in the seclusion of their room; “only fancy such style in the country!  His nails, his nails—­you ought to send them to an exhibition!  And as to his chin, it’s shaved simply to perfection.  Now, come, Arkady, isn’t he rather ridiculous?”

“Perhaps he is,” replied Arkady; “but he’s a splendid man, really.”

“An antique survival!  But your father’s a capital fellow.  He wastes his time reading poetry, and doesn’t know much about farming, but he’s a good-hearted fellow.”

“My father’s a man in a thousand.”

“Did you notice how shy and nervous he is?”

Arkady shook his head, as though he himself were not shy and nervous.

“It’s something astonishing,” pursued Bazaroff, “these old idealists, they develop their nervous systems till they break down... so balance is lost....  In my room there’s an English wash-stand, but the door won’t fasten.  Anyway, that ought to be encouraged—­an English wash-stand stands for progress.”

The antipathy between Pavel Petrovitch and Bazaroff became more pronounced as the days went by.  There were several passages of arms between them—­the one taking the old-fashioned view of life, the other dismissing contemptuously his outlook as unprogressive.  For himself, Nikolai Petrovitch was too delighted at having his son with him to feel any concern about Bazaroff.

“What is this Mr. Bazaroff—­your friend?” Pavel asked one day, with a drawl.

“Would you like me to tell you, uncle?” Arkady replied with a smile.  “He is a Nihilist, a man who accepts nothing, who regards everything from the critical point of view—­who does not take any principle on faith, whatever reverence that principle may be enshrined in.”

“Well, and is that good?”

“That depends, uncle.  Some people it would do good to, but some people would suffer for it.”

“Indeed!  Well, I see it’s not in our line.  We are old-fashioned people; we imagine that without principles, taken as you say on faith, there is no taking a step, no breathing. Vous avez change tout cela, God give you good health and the rank of a general, while we will be content to look on and admire worthy... what was it?”

“Nihilist,” Arkady said, speaking very distinctly.

So great was the silent, unvoiced antipathy between the two men that Nikolai Petrovitch, even, breathed more freely when Arkady and Bazaroff at the end of a fortnight announced their intention of visiting the neighbouring town of X------.