Bazarov suddenly opened his eyes. “What did you say?”
“I say that Anna Sergyevna is here, and has brought this gentleman, a doctor, to you.”
Bazarov moved his eyes about him. “She is here. … I want to see her.”
“You shall see her, Yevgeny; but first we must have a little talk with the doctor. I will tell him the whole history of your illness since Sidor Sidoritch” (this was the name of the district doctor) “has gone, and we will have a little consultation.”
Bazarov glanced at the German. “Well, talk away quickly, only not in Latin; you see, I know the meaning of jam moritur.”
“Der Herr scheint des Deutschen mächtig zu sein,” began the new follower of Aesculapius, turning to Vassily Ivanovitch.
“Ich … gabe … We had better speak Russian,” said the old man.
“Ah, ah! so that’s how it is. … To be sure …” And the consultation began.
Half-an-hour later Anna Sergyevna, conducted by Vassily Ivanovitch, came into the study. The doctor had had time to whisper to her that it was hopeless even to think of the patient’s recovery.
She looked at Bazarov … and stood still in the doorway, so greatly was she impressed by the inflamed, and at the same time deathly face, with its dim eyes fastened upon her. She felt simply dismayed, with a sort of cold and suffocating dismay; the thought that she would not have felt like that if she had really loved him flashed instantaneously through her brain.
“Thanks,” he said painfully, “I did not expect this. It’s a deed of mercy. So we have seen each other again, as you promised.”
“Anna Sergyevna has been so kind,” began Vassily Ivanovitch …
“Father, leave us alone. Anna Sergyevna, you will allow it, I fancy, now?”
With a motion of his head, he indicated his prostrate helpless frame.
Vassily Ivanovitch went out.
“Well, thanks,” repeated Bazarov. “This is royally done. Monarchs, they say, visit the dying too.”
“Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I hope—”
“Ah, Anna Sergyevna, let us speak the truth. It’s all over with me. I’m under the wheel. So it turns out that it was useless to think of the future. Death’s an old joke, but it comes fresh to everyone. So far I’m not afraid … but there, senselessness is coming, and then it’s all up!—” he waved his hand feebly. “Well, what had I to say to you … I loved you! there was no sense in that even before, and less than ever now. Love is a form, and my own form is already breaking up. Better say how lovely you are! And now here you stand, so beautiful …”
Anna Sergyevna gave an involuntary shudder.
“Never mind, don’t be uneasy. … Sit down there. … Don’t come close to me; you know, my illness is catching.”
Anna Sergyevna swiftly crossed the room, and sat down in the armchair near the sofa on which Bazarov was lying.
“Noble-hearted!” he whispered. “Oh, how near, and how young, and fresh, and pure … in this loathsome room! … Well, goodbye! live long, that’s the best of all, and make the most of it while there is time. You see what a hideous spectacle; the worm half-crushed, but writhing still. And, you see, I thought too: I’d break down so many things, I wouldn’t die, why should I! there were problems to solve, and I was a giant! And now all the problem for the giant is how to die decently, though that makes no difference to anyone either. … Never mind; I’m not going to turn tail.”
Bazarov was silent, and began feeling with his hand for the glass. Anna Sergyevna gave him some drink, not taking off her glove, and drawing her breath timorously.
“You will forget me,” he began again; “the dead’s no companion for the living. My father will tell you what a man Russia is losing. … That’s nonsense, but don’t contradict the old man. Whatever toy will comfort the child … you know. And be kind to mother. People like them aren’t to be found in your great world if you look by daylight with a candle. … I was needed by Russia. … No, it’s clear, I wasn’t needed. And who is needed? The shoemaker’s needed, the tailor’s needed, the butcher … gives us meat … the butcher … wait a little, I’m getting mixed. … There’s a forest here …”
Bazarov put his hand to his brow.
Anna Sergyevna bent down to him. “Yevgeny Vassilyitch, I am here …”
He at once took his hand away, and raised himself.
“Goodbye,” he said with sudden force, and his eyes gleamed with their last light. “Goodbye. … Listen … you know I didn’t kiss you then. … Breathe on the dying lamp, and let it go out …”
Anna Sergyevna put her lips to his forehead.
“Enough!” he murmured, and dropped back on to the pillow. “Now … darkness …”
Anna Sergyevna went softly out. “Well?” Vassily Ivanovitch asked her in a whisper.
“He has fallen asleep,” she answered, hardly audibly. Bazarov was not fated to awaken. Towards evening he sank into complete unconsciousness, and the following day he died. Father Alexey performed the last rites of religion over him. When they anointed him with the last unction, when the holy oil touched his breast, one eye opened, and it seemed as though at the sight of the priest in his vestments, the smoking censers, the light before the image, something like a shudder of horror passed over the death-stricken face. When at last he had breathed his last, and there arose a universal lamentation in the house, Vassily Ivanovitch was seized by a sudden frenzy. “I said I should rebel,” he shrieked hoarsely, with his face inflamed and distorted, shaking his fist in the air, as though threatening someone; “and I rebel, I rebel!” But Arina Vlasyevna, all in tears, hung upon his neck, and both fell on their faces together. “Side by side,” Anfisushka related afterwards in the servants’ room, “they dropped their poor heads like lambs at noonday …”
But the heat of noonday passes, and evening comes and night, and then, too, the return to the kindly refuge, where sleep is sweet for the weary and heavy laden. …
