The night passed badly for Bazarov. … He was in the agonies of high fever. Towards morning he was a little easier. He asked for Arina Vlasyevna to comb his hair, kissed her hand, and swallowed two gulps of tea. Vassily Ivanovitch revived a little.
“Thank God!” he kept declaring; “the crisis is coming, the crisis is at hand!”
“There, to think now!” murmured Bazarov; “what a word can do! He’s found it; he’s said ‘crisis,’ and is comforted. It’s an astounding thing how man believes in words. If he’s told he’s a fool, for instance, though he’s not thrashed, he’ll be wretched; call him a clever fellow, and he’ll be delighted if you go off without paying him.”
This little speech of Bazarov’s, recalling his old retorts, moved Vassily Ivanovitch greatly.
“Bravo! well said, very good!” he cried, making as though he were clapping his hands.
Bazarov smiled mournfully.
“So what do you think,” he said; “is the crisis over, or coming?”
“You are better, that’s what I see, that’s what rejoices me,” answered Vassily Ivanovitch.
“Well, that’s good; rejoicings never come amiss. And to her, do you remember? did you send?”
“To be sure I did.”
The change for the better did not last long. The disease resumed its onslaughts. Vassily Ivanovitch was sitting by Bazarov. It seemed as though the old man were tormented by some special anguish. He was several times on the point of speaking—and could not.
“Yevgeny!” he brought out at last; “my son, my one, dear son!”
This unfamiliar mode of address produced an effect on Bazarov. He turned his head a little, and, obviously trying to fight against the load of oblivion weighing upon him, he articulated: “What is it, father?”
“Yevgeny,” Vassily Ivanovitch went on, and he fell on his knees before Bazarov, though the latter had closed his eyes and could not see him. “Yevgeny, you are better now; please God, you will get well, but make use of this time, comfort your mother and me, perform the duty of a Christian! What it means for me to say this to you, it’s awful; but still more awful … forever and ever, Yevgeny … think a little, what …”
The old man’s voice broke, and a strange look passed over his son’s face, though he still lay with closed eyes.
“I won’t refuse, if that can be any comfort to you,” he brought out at last; “but it seems to me there’s no need to be in a hurry. You say yourself I am better.”
“Oh, yes, Yevgeny, better certainly; but who knows, it is all in God’s hands, and in doing the duty …”
“No, I will wait a bit,” broke in Bazarov. “I agree with you that the crisis has come. And if we’re mistaken, well! they give the sacrament to men who’re unconscious, you know.”
“Yevgeny, I beg.”
“I’ll wait a little. And now I want to go to sleep. Don’t disturb me.” And he laid his head back on the pillow.
The old man rose from his knees, sat down in the armchair, and, clutching his beard, began biting his own fingers …
The sound of a light carriage on springs, that sound which is peculiarly impressive in the wilds of the country, suddenly struck upon his hearing. Nearer and nearer rolled the light wheels; now even the neighing of the horses could be heard. … Vassily Ivanovitch jumped up and ran to the little window. There drove into the courtyard of his little house a carriage with seats for two, with four horses harnessed abreast. Without stopping to consider what it could mean, with a rush of a sort of senseless joy, he ran out on to the steps. … A groom in livery was opening the carriage doors; a lady in a black veil and a black mantle was getting out of it …
“I am Madame Odintsov,” she said. “Yevgeny Vassilvitch is still living? You are his father? I have a doctor with me.”
“Benefactress!” cried Vassily Ivanovitch, and snatching her hand, he pressed it convulsively to his lips, while the doctor brought by Anna Sergyevna, a little man in spectacles, of German physiognomy, stepped very deliberately out of the carriage. “Still living, my Yevgeny is living, and now he will be saved! Wife! wife! … An angel from heaven has come to us. …”
“What does it mean, good Lord!” faltered the old woman, running out of the drawing-room; and, comprehending nothing, she fell on the spot in the passage at Anna Sergyevna’s feet, and began kissing her garments like a mad woman.
“What are you doing!” protested Anna Sergyevna; but Arina Vlasyevna did not heed her, while Vassily Ivanovitch could only repeat, “An angel! an angel!”
“Wo ist der Kranke? and where is the patient?” said the doctor at last, with some impatience.
Vassily Ivanovitch recovered himself. “Here, here, follow me, würdigster Herr Collega,” he added through old associations.
“Ah!” articulated the German, grinning sourly.
Vassily Ivanovitch led him into the study. “The doctor from Anna Sergyevna Odintsov,” he said, bending down quite to his son’s ear, “and
