บทที่ บทที่ 27 · 第27章

The old Bazarovs' delight at their son's return was the greater in

that the event was so unexpected. To such an extent did Anna Vlasievna

fuss and flounce about the house that Vasili Ivanitch likened her to a

hen partridge (no doubt the short tail of her blouse _did_ impart to

her rather a bird-like aspect); while, as regards Vasili himself, he

grunted, and sucked the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, and, grasping the

shank, inverted the bowl as though to make sure that it was secure,

and, finally, parted his capacious lips, and gave vent to a noiseless

chuckle.

"I am going to spend with you six whole weeks," said Bazarov. "But I

desire to work, and therefore must not be disturbed."

"Before we will disturb you, you shall forget what my face looks like,"

replied Vasili Ivanitch.

And he kept his word; for, after allotting his son the study, he not

only remained completely out of sight, but even prevented his wife from

manifesting the least sign of tenderness.

"When Evgenii last visited us," he said to her, "you and I proved a

little wearisome; so this time we must be more discreet."

Anna Vlasievna agreed, much as she lost by the arrangement, seeing that

now she beheld her son only at meal times, and feared, even then, to

speak to him.

"Eniushenka," she would begin--then, before he had had time to raise

his eyes, pluck nervously at the strings of her cap, and whisper: "Oh

no; it was nothing," and address herself, instead, to Vasili Ivanitch;

saying, for instance (with cheek on hand as usual): "My dear, which

would our darling Eniusha prefer for dinner--cabbage soup or beef with

horse-radish?" And when Vasili Ivanitch would reply: "Why should you

not ask him yourself?" she would exclaim: "Oh no, for that might vex

him."

But eventually Bazarov ceased to closet himself, in that there came an

abatement of the work fever, and to it succeeded fits of depression,

_ennui_, and an inordinate restlessness. In his every movement there

began to loom a strange discontent, from his gait there disappeared

its old firm, active self-confidence, and, ceasing to indulge in

solitary rambles, he took to cultivating society, to attending tea in

the drawing-room, to pacing the kitchen garden, and to joining Vasili

Ivanitch in a silent smoking of pipes. Nay, on one occasion he even

paid Father Alexis a visit!

At first the new order of things rejoiced Vasili Ivanitch's heart: but

that joy proved short-lived.

"Though I could not say why, Eniusha makes me anxious," he confided to

his spouse. "Not that he is discontented or ill-tempered--such things

would not have mattered: rather, it is that he is sad and brooding,

and never opens his lips. Would that he would curse you and me, for

instance! Also, he is thinner; nor do I like the colour of his face."

"O God!" whispered the old woman. "Yet I may not even put my arms

around his neck!"

From that time onwards Vasili Ivanitch began to make cautious attempts

to question Bazarov concerning his work, his health, and his friend

Arkady; but always Bazarov returned reluctant, indifferent replies, and

once, when his father was for introducing the foregoing topics, said

irritably:

"Why are you for ever tiptoeing around me? Your present manner is even

worse than your former one."

"There, there--I did not mean anything," was poor Vasili Ivanitch's

reply.

Political allusions proved equally fruitless. For instance, when Vasili

Ivanitch was seeking to engage his son's interest on the score of the

impending emancipation of the serfs and progress in general, the other

muttered carelessly:

"Yesterday, when passing through the courtyard, I heard some peasant

lads singing, not one of the good old songs, but I The age of truth is

coming in, when hearts shall glow with love.' There's progress for you!"

Occasionally Bazarov would repair to the village, and, in his usual

bantering fashion, enter into conversation with some peasant.

"Well," he said to a _muzhik_, "pray expound to me your views on life.

For they tell me that in you lie the whole strength and the whole

future of Russia--that you are going to begin a new epoch in our

history, and to give us both a real language and new laws."

The peasant made no reply at the moment. Then he said:

"We might do all that if first we had a new chapel here."

"Tell me something, though, about the world in general," Bazarov

interrupted. "The world stands on three fishes, does it not?"

"It does that, _batiushka_," the peasant replied with the quiet,

good-humoured sweetness of the patriarchal age. "But above it stands

the will of the masters. The _baré_ are our fathers, and the harder the

_barin_ drives, the better for the _muzhik_."

Shrugging his shoulders contemptuously at this statement, Bazarov

turned away, while the peasant slunk off homewards.

"What did he say?" asked a sullen-looking, middle-aged peasant who

had been standing at the door of his hut during the course of the

foregoing colloquy. "Was he talking of arrears of taxes?"

"Of arrears of taxes!" retorted the first peasant, his tone now

containing not a trace of its late patriarchal sweetness, but, rather,

a note of purely dry contempt. "He was chattering just for chattering's

sake--he likes to hear his own tongue wag. Do not all of us know what a

_barin_ and the likes of him are good for?"

"Aye," agreed the second peasant; whereafter, with much nodding of

caps and gesticulating of fists, they fell to discussing their own

affairs and requirements. So alas for Bazarov's scornful shrug of the

shoulders! And alas for that knowledge of the way in which the peasant

should be talked to whereof the young Nihilist had made such boast when

disputing with Paul Petrovitch! In fact, never had it dawned upon the

mind of the self-confident Bazarov that, in the eyes of the _muzhik_,

he was no better than a pease-pudding.

However, he succeeded in discovering for himself an occupation. This

was when, in bandaging a peasant's leg, Vasili Ivanitch's hands shook

a little through senility, and his son hastened to his assistance: and

from that time forth Bazarov acted as Vasili Ivanitch's partner, even

though he maintained unabated his ridicule both of the remedies which

he himself advised and of the father who hastened to put them into

practice. Yet in no way did his son's raillery annoy Vasili Ivanitch:

rather, it heartened the old man. Smoking his pipe, and drawing his

dirty overall in to his waist with both thumbs, he would listen

delightedly to the scoffer, and chuckle, and show his blackened teeth

the more in proportion as the sallies contained a greater measure of

venom. Nay, stupid or simply senseless as many of these witticisms

were, he would frequently catch them up, and repeat them. To take one

instance, he, for several days in succession, kept assuring every one

in the village and in the town that "we call this the nine o'clock

office"--the sole basis being the fact that once, on learning of his

(Vasili Ivanitch's) habit of attending Matins, Bazarov had made use of

the phrase in question.

"Thank God, Evgenii has ceased to mope," he confided in a whisper to

his wife. "In fact, you should have heard him rating me to-day!"

Also, the thought that he had such an assistant in his labours filled

the old man with pride.

"Yes, yes," he would say as he handed some peasant woman in a man's

jacket a phial of medicinal water or a pot of cold cream, "you ought

daily to thank God that my son happens to be staying with me, since

otherwise you could not possibly have been treated according to the

latest and most scientific methods. Do you understand? I say that even

Napoleon, the Emperor of the French, has not at his disposal a better

physician than my son."

And the peasant woman (who had come, it may be, to complain of "a

lifting with the gripes"--an expression which probably she herself

could not have explained) would bow, then proffer the three or four

eggs which would be tied up in a corner of her neckcloth.

Also, when Bazarov extracted a tooth from the jaw of a travelling

pedlar, Vasili Ivanitch could not allow even the very ordinary

character of the tooth to prevent him from preserving it as a rarity,

and showing it to Father Alexis.

"See what a fang!" he said. "And to think of the strength which Evgenii

must possess! He lifted the pedlar clean from the ground! It was like

uprooting an oak tree!"

"Splendid!" was Father Alexis' comment--he knew not what else to say,

nor, for that matter, how else to get rid of the enthusiastic veteran.

Lastly, there was an occasion when a peasant from a neighbouring

village brought his brother to be treated. Suffering from typhus,

the patient was lying face downwards on the straw in the cart, and

had reached the last stage, since already his body was covered with

spots of a hectic nature, and he had long lost consciousness. To an

expression of regret that resort had not sooner been had to medical

aid, Vasili Ivanitch could add no more than an intimation that no

hope was left: nor was he wrong, seeing that even before the peasant

succeeded in conveying his brother back to the village, the sick man

had breathed his last.

Three days later Bazarov entered his father's room with an inquiry for

some hell-stone.

"I have some," said Vasili Ivanitch; "but what do you want it for?"

"For the cauterisation of a wound."

"A wound on whom?"

"A wound on myself."

"On yourself? Let me see the place. Where is it?"

"There--on that finger. To-day I went to the village whence they

brought the typhus patient the other day; and though they tried to

conceal the body, I succeeded in discovering it. Not for a long time

had I had a chance of doing that sort of work."

"Yes?"

"And the sequel was that I cut myself, and, on repairing to the

district physician, found that he did not possess what I wanted."

Vasili Ivanitch went white to the lips. Hurrying, without a word, into

his study, he returned thence with some hell-stone. Bazarov was for

carrying it away forthwith.

"No, no!" cried Vasili Ivanitch. "For God's sake allow me to see to

this in person."

Bazarov smiled.

"You are indeed a keen practitioner," he commented.

"Do not jest, I beg of you. Show me the finger. No, it is not a large

wound. Am I hurting it at all?"

"Not in the least. Have no fear. You can press it harder still if you

like."

Vasili Ivanitch paused.

"Do you not think," he said, "that it would be better to cauterise the

finger with an iron?"

"No, I do not. Moreover, that ought, in any case, to have been done

sooner; whereas by now even the hell-stone is unlikely to prove

effectual, seeing that, as you know, once absorbed into the system, the

germ renders all remedies too late."

"How 'too late'?" gasped Vasili Ivanitch.

"What I say. Four hours have elapsed since the injury."

Vasili Ivanitch gave the wound a further cauterisation. "So the

district physician had no hell-stone?" he queried.

"None."

"God in heaven! To think of that man calling himself a doctor, yet

being without such an indispensable remedy!"

"You should have seen his lancets!" remarked Bazarov. Then he left the

room.

Throughout that evening and the next few days Vasili Ivanitch kept

making every possible excuse to enter his son's room; and though he

never actually referred to the wound--he even strove to confine his

conversation to purely extraneous subjects--his observation of his

son remained so persistent, his solicitude so marked, that at length

Bazarov, losing patience, bade him begone. Of course Vasili Ivanitch

promised not to repeat the intrusion; and as a matter of fact he

kept this promise the more religiously in that Arina Vlasievna (who

had had the matter carefully concealed from her) was beginning to

scent something in the wind, and to press for reasons why, during

the previous night, her husband had never once closed his eyes.

Accordingly, for the next two days Vasili Ivanitch faithfully observed

the undertaking he had given; and that although the covert observation

of his son's looks which he maintained showed them to be growing by

no means to his liking: but on the third day, during dinner, Vasili

Ivanitch could bear it no more, for Bazarov was sitting with his eyes

lowered and his plate empty.

"You are eating nothing, Evgenii?" he said with his face composed to

express absolute indifference. "In my opinion, the dinner is well

cooked."

"The only reason why I am eating nothing," replied Bazarov, "is that I

am not hungry."

"You have no appetite?" the old man queried timidly. "Also, is--is your

head aching at all?"

"Yes. Why should it not ache?"

Arina Vlasievna began to prick up her ears.

"Do not be angry, Evgenii," Vasili Ivanitch continued, "b-but might I

feel your pulse and examine you?"

Bazarov looked at him.

"You need not feel my pulse," he said. "Without that, I can tell that I

have a touch of fever."

"You feel shivery, eh?"

"Yes. I think I will go and lie down. Pray make me a little lime-juice

tea, for I seem to have caught a chill."

"Yes," Arina Vlasievna put in, "I heard you coughing last night."

"But it is only a chill," added Bazarov, and left the room.

So Arina Vlasievna set to work to make the lime-juice tea, and Vasili

Ivanitch went into an adjoining room and tore his hair.

Bazarov did not get up again that day, but passed the night in a state

of heavy coma. At one o'clock he opened his eyes with an effort, and,

on seeing his father's pale face in the lamp-light, bade him depart.

At once the other excused himself for the intrusion, but nevertheless

returned on tiptoe, and, concealing himself behind the open doors of

a cupboard, remained there to watch his son. Nor did Arina Vlasievna

go to bed, but at intervals set the study door ajar, in order that she

might "see how our Eniusha was sleeping" and look at Vasili Ivanitch:

for though nothing of the latter was to be discerned except a bowed,

motionless back, even that much afforded her a little comfort.

In the morning Bazarov attempted to rise, but his head swam, and blood

gushed from his nose, so he desisted from the attempt. In silence

Vasili Ivanitch tended him, and Arina Vlasievna came to ask him how he

felt. He replied "Better," then turned his face to the wall. Instantly

Vasili Ivanitch fell to gesticulating violently at his wife with both

hands: which proceeding proved so far successful that, by dint of

biting her lips, Arina Vlasievna contrived to force back the tears,

and leave the room. Of a sudden everything in the house had seemed to

turn dark. Everywhere faces looked drawn, and everywhere there was to

be observed a curious stillness of which one cause, among others, was

the fact that there had hastily been removed from the courtyard of the

village a vociferous cock which no reasoning had been able to convince

of the necessity of silence.

So Bazarov continued lying with his face to the wall. Once or

twice Vasili Ivanitch essayed a tentative question or two, but the

attempt only wearied Bazarov, and the old man at length subsided

into an armchair, and sat nervously twitching his fingers. Next,

Vasili repaired to the garden for a few minutes, and looked, as he

stood there, like a statue which has been struck with immeasurable

astonishment (never at any time was the expression of surprise absent

from his features); whereafter he returned to his son's room, in the

hope of evading questions on the part of his wife, but she took him by

the hand, and grimly, almost threateningly asked: "What is the matter

with our Eniusha?" and when Vasili strove to pull himself together, and

to force a smile, there issued, to his horror, not a smile at all, but

a sort of irresponsible laugh.

Earlier in the morning he had sent for a doctor to assist him;

wherefore he now considered that it would be well to advise his son of

the fact, lest Bazarov should lose his temper on discovering the fact

in question for himself.

Vasili Ivanitch explained the situation, and then Bazarov turned

himself about on the sofa, gazed at his father for a moment or two, and

asked to be given something to drink. Vasili Ivanitch handed him some

water, and seized the opportunity also to feel his son's forehead. It

seemed to be on fire.

"My father," said Bazarov in a hoarse, dragging voice, "I fear that my

course is run. The infection has caught me, and in a few days you will

be laying me in my grave."

Some one might have thrust Vasili Ivanitch violently backwards, so

sharply did he stagger.

"Evgenii," he gasped, "why say that? God have you in his keeping! It is

merely that you have caught a chill."

"Come, come!" interrupted Bazarov, but in the same dragging tone as

before. "It is useless to talk like that to a doctor. All the signs of

infection are present. That you know for yourself."

"But--but where are the signs of--of infection?"

"Look at these. What do they mean?"

And Bazarov pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. What he showed his

father was a number of red, angry-looking patches that were coming into

view.

Vasili Ivanitch started and turned cold with fear. At length he

contrived to stammer out:

"Yet--even supposing that, that there should be anything in the nature

of infection----"

"Of pyæmia, you mean," the son prompted.

"Anything in the nature of epidemic infec----"

"Of pyæmia, I repeat," grimly, insistently corrected Bazarov. "Have you

forgotten your textbooks?"

"Yes--well, have it your own way. But we will cure you, all the same."

"Fiddlesticks! But, apart from that question, I had scarcely looked to

die so soon. To be frank, I think it hard upon me. And now you and my

mother must fall back upon the fund of religious strength which lies

within you. The hour to put it to the test has arrived." He drank some

more water. "One particular request I desire to make while my brain is

yet clear, for, by to-morrow, or the day after, it will, as you know,

have failed, and even now I am not sure whether I am expressing myself

sensibly, seeing that, as I was lying here just now, I seemed to see

a pack of red dogs leaping around me, and yourself making a point at

me as a dog does at a partridge. Yes, it was like being drunk. Can you

understand what I say?"

"Yes, yes, Evgenii; you are talking quite sensibly."

"Very well. Now, I believe that you have sent for a doctor; and if the

fact will give you any comfort, I too shall be pleased. But also I beg

that you will send word to, to----"

"To Arkady Nikolaievitch?" the old man suggested.

"To whom? To Arkady Nikolaievitch?" re-echoed Bazarov bewilderedly.

"Oh, you mean that young cockerel of ours? No, no--do not disturb him,

for he has just joined the company of the jackdaws. You need not be

surprised at these words--they do not mean that delirium is setting in;

they are merely a metaphor. Well, it is to Madame Odintsov, the lady

landowner of this neighbourhood, that I desire a messenger to be sent.

I suppose you have heard of her?" (Vasili Ivanitch nodded assent.)

"All that the messenger need say is that Evgenii Vasilitch sends his

compliments, and is dying. Will you do this?"

"Of course I will, Evgenii! But why think that you are going to die?

Come, come! Were such a thing to happen, where would be the justice of

the world?"

"I could not say. I only know that I desire the messenger to be sent."

"He shall start at once, and I myself will write the letter."

"No, no: that will not be necessary. Merely let the messenger deliver

my greeting. That, and nothing more. Now I will return to my red dogs.

How curious it is that, though I strive to concentrate my thoughts upon

death, there results from them nothing--I see before me only a great

blur!"

And he turned his face wearily to the wall, while Vasili Ivanitch left

the room, ascended to the bedroom above, and fell upon his knees before

the sacred _ikons_.

"Pray, Arina, pray!" he moaned. "Our son is dying!"

On the doctor arriving, the latter proved to be the district physician

who had failed to produce hell-stone when required. After an

examination of the patient he prescribed a watching course, and also

added a few words as to a possible recovery.

"Have you ever known people in my condition _not_ set out for the

Elysian Fields?" asked Bazarov sharply as he caught hold of the leg

of a table which stood beside his sofa, and shook it until the table

actually altered its position. "See my strength!" he continued. "All

of it is still there, yet I must go hence! To think that, whereas an

old man has lost touch with life, I should----! Ah, however much you

may deny death, it never will deny _you_.... I hear some one weeping.

Who is it?" There was a pause. "Is it my mother? Poor soul! No one will

be left for her to stuff with her marvellous _borstchi_.[1] And you,

Vasili Ivanitch--are you too whimpering? Come, come! If Christianity

cannot help you, try to become a Stoic philosopher. You have often

enough boasted of being one."

"Aye, a fine philosopher I, to be sure!" sobbed poor old Vasili with

the tears hopping down his cheeks.

Thereafter Bazarov grew hourly worse, for the disease was taking the

rapid course inevitable under the circumstances. Yet his powers of

memory were unimpaired, and he understood everything that was said to

him, for as yet he was making a brave fight to retain his faculties.

"No, I must not let my senses fail," he kept whispering to himself as

he clenched his fists. "But oh, the folly of it all!" And then he would

repeat to himself, over and over again, some such formula as "Eight and

ten--what do they make?"

Meanwhile Vasili Ivanitch wandered about in a state bordering upon

distraction--proposing first one remedy, and then another, and

constantly covering up his son's feet.

"Suppose we wrap him in an ice-sheet?" he suggested once in a tone of

agony. "How, too, about an emetic, or a mustard plaster on his stomach,

or a little bloodletting?"

But to each and all of these remedies the doctor (whom Vasili Ivanitch

had begged to remain in the house) demurred. Likewise the doctor drank

the patient's lemonade, and then requested to be given a pipe and

"something warm and strengthening"--to wit, a glassful of _vodka_.

Meanwhile Arina Vlasievna sat on a chair by the door, and only at

intervals retired to pray. It seemed that a few days earlier she had

let fall, and broken, a toilet mirror, and that all her life long

she had looked upon such an occurrence as an evil omen. With her, in

silence, sat Anfisushka; while, as for Timotheitch, he had departed

with the message to Madame Odintsov.

That night Bazarov did not improve, for he was racked with high fever;

but as morning approached, the fever grew a little easier, and after

he had asked Arina Vlasievna to perform his toilet, and had kissed her

hand, he managed to swallow a little tea: which circumstance caused

Vasili Ivanitch to pluck up courage, and to exclaim:

"Thank God, the crisis has both come and gone!"

"Do not be too sure of that," rejoined Bazarov. "For what does the

term 'crisis' signify? Some one once invented it, shouted 'Crisis!'

and congratulated himself ever after. Extraordinary how the human

race continues to attach credence to mere words! For example, tell a

man that he is a fool, yet refrain from assaulting him, and he will

be downcast; but tell him that he is a man of wisdom, yet give him no

money, and he will be overjoyed."

So reminiscent of Bazarov's former sallies was this little speech that

Vasili Ivanitch's heart fairly overflowed.

"Bravo!" he cried, clapping his hands in dumb show. "Well said!"

Bazarov smiled a sad smile.

"Then you think," said he, "that the 'crisis' is either approaching or

retiring?"

"I know that you are better. That I can see for myself. And the fact

rejoices me."

"Well, it is not always a bad thing to rejoice. But have you sent word

to, to--to _her_? You know whom I mean?"

"Of course I have, Evgenii."

The improvement did not long continue, for to it there succeeded

attacks of pain. Vasili Ivanitch sat by the bed: and as he did so it

seemed as though something in particular were worrying the old man.

Several times he tried to speak, and each time he failed. But at length

he contrived to gasp out:

"Evgenii! Son! My dearest son! My own beloved son!"

Even Bazarov could not remain wholly indifferent to such an unwonted

appeal. Turning his head a little, and making an evident effort to

shake off the unconsciousness that was weighing him down, he murmured:

"What is it, my father?"

"This, Evgenii." And all of a sudden the old man fell upon his knees

beside the bed. "Evgenii, you are better now, and with God's help will

recover; but do, in any case, seize this hour to comfort me and your

mother by fulfilling all the duties of a Christian. Yes, though to say

this is painful for me, how much more terribly would it hurt me if--if

this chance were to pass for ever, Evgenii! Think, oh think of what----"

The old man could say no more, while over the son's face and closed

eyes there passed a curious expression. A pause followed. Then Bazarov

said:

"To comfort you, I will not altogether refuse your request; but, since

you yourself have said that I am better, surely there can be no need

for hurry?"

"Yes, you _are_ better, Evgenii--you _are_ better; but who can say what

may lie in the dispensation of God? Whereas, once this duty shall have

been fulfilled----"

"Yet I will wait a little," interrupted Bazarov. "This much, however, I

will concede: that, should you prove to be wrong in your surmise as to

my recovery, I will allow the Last Sacrament to be administered."

"And, Evgenii, I beg of you to----"

"I will wait a little, I repeat. And now let me go to sleep. Do not

disturb me."

And he replaced his head in its former position, while the old man rose

from his knees, reseated himself in the chair, rested his chin upon his

hands, and fell to biting his fingers.

Presently Vasili's ear caught the rumble of a light carriage--the sound

which is always so distinguishable in a quiet country spot. Nearer and

nearer came the sound of the wheels; nearer and nearer came the hard

breathing of horses. Springing from his chair, he rushed to the window.

Into the courtyard of the mansion there was turning a two-seated,

four-horsed buggy! Without stopping to think what this could mean, he

darted forward to the front door, where, transported with joy, he was

just in time to see a liveried footman open the door of the vehicle,

and assist thence a lady in a black cloak, with a veil of the same hue.

"I am Madame Odintsov," she said. "Is Evgenii Vasilitch still alive? I

presume you are his father? I have brought with me a doctor."

Even as she spoke the doctor in question--a German-looking little

individual in spectacles--descended in a slow and dignified manner from

the buggy.

"O angel of mercy!" cried Vasili Ivanitch as, seizing her hand, he

pressed it convulsively to his lips. "Yes, our Evgenii is still alive!

And now he will be saved! Wife! Wife! There is an angel come to us from

Heaven!"

"What?" responded the old woman with a gasp as she came running out

of the hall. So lost in bewilderment was she that, falling at Anna

Sergievna's feet, she actually began madly to kiss the hem of the

visitor's cloak.

"Come, come!" Madame exclaimed. "What does all this mean?"

But Arina Vlasievna was deaf to everything, and Vasili Ivanitch too

could only continue repeating:

"There is an angel come to us from Heaven! There is an angel come to us

from Heaven! There is an angel come to us from Heaven!"

"_Wo ist der Kranke_? (Where is the patient)?" asked the doctor with a

touch of impatience.

This restored Vasili Ivanitch to his senses.

"Come this way, come this way," he said. "Yes, pray follow me,

_Werthester Herr Kollega_" (titles based upon the strength of bygone

memories).

For answer the German exclaimed "Eh?", and pulled a not very gracious

smirk.

Vasili Ivanitch led the way to the study.

"Here is the doctor brought by Madame Anna Sergievna Odintsov," he said

as he bent over his son.

"She herself too is here."

Bazarov opened his eyes with a start.

"What do you say?" he asked.

"I say that Madame Anna Sergievna Odintsov is here, and that she has

brought with her this good doctor."

Bazarov peered around.

"Where is Anna Sergievna?" he murmured. "Do you say that she is here?

Then I wish to see her."

"You shall see her, Evgenii; but first of all I must have a chat with

this gentleman, and tell him the story of your illness: for Sidor

Sidorovitch" (that was the name of the district physician) "has gone

home, and a short consultation must be held."

Bazarov eyed the German.

"All right," he said. "Hold your consultation as soon as you like.

Only, do not speak in Latin, for I know the meaning of the words _Jam

moritur."_

"_Der Herr scheint des Deutschen mächtig zu sein_," the newly-arrived

disciple of Æsculapius remarked to Vasili Ivanitch.

"_Ich habe_----" the old man began; then added: "But perhaps we had

better speak in Russian, my dear sir?"

And the consultation followed.

Half an hour later Vasili Ivanitch conducted Anna Sergievna into the

study. As the doctor passed out he whispered to her that recovery was

hopeless.

She glanced at Bazarov, and halted as though petrified, so striking was

the bloodshot, deathlike face, with the dim eyes turned so yearningly

in her direction. Nevertheless her feeling was one merely of chill,

oppressive terror, while at the same moment there flashed through her

brain the thought that, if she had loved him, no such feeling could now

have been present.

"I thank you," he said with an effort. "I had not expected this, and

you have done a kind act in coming. So we meet once more, even as you

foretold!"

"Has not Madame Anna Sergievna indeed been kind?" put in Vasili

Ivanitch.

"Father, pray leave us," said Bazarov. "I know, Anna Sergievna, that

you will excuse him. For at such a time as this----" And he nodded

towards his weak, prostrate form.

Vasili Ivanitch left the room.

"A second time I thank you," continued Bazarov. "To have acted so is

worthy of the Tsars. For they say that even the Sovereign visits a

deathbed when requested."

"Evgenii Vasilitch, I hope that----"

"Let us speak plainly. My course is run. I am under the wheel, and

we need not think of the future. Yet how curious it is that to each

individual human being death, old though it is as an institution,

comes as a novelty!... Nevertheless, it shall not make me quail: and

then there will fall the curtain, and then--well, then they will write

_Fuit_." There followed a feeble gesture. "But what did I want to

say to you? That I have loved you? There was a time when the phrase

'I love' had for me no meaning; and now it will have less than ever,

seeing that love is a form, and that my particular embodiment of it is

fast lapsing towards dissolution. It Ah, how perfect you are! You stand

there as beautiful as---"

There passed over Anna Sergievna an involuntary shudder.

"Nay," he said. You need not be afraid. "But will you not sit down?

Seat yourself near me, but not too near, for my malady is infectious."

She crossed the room with a rapid step, and seated herself beside the

sofa on which he was lying.

"O woman of kind heart!" he whispered. "And to think that you are

beside me once more! To think that you, so pure and fresh and young,

are in this sorry room! Well, good-bye, and may you live long, and

enjoy your time while you may. Of all things in this world long life is

the most desirable: yet you can see for yourself what an ugly spectacle

I, a half-crushed, but still wriggling, worm, am now become. There was

a time when I used to say: 'I will do many things in life, and refuse

to die before I have completed those tasks, for I am a giant': but now

I have indeed a giant's task in hand--the task of dying as though death

were nothing to me.... No matter. I am not going to put my tail between

my legs."

He broke off, and groped for his tumbler. She handed it him without

drawing off her glove. Her breath was coming in jerks.

"It will not be long before you will have forgotten me," he went on.

"For a dead mortal is no companion for a living one. I daresay that my

father will tell you what a man is being lost to Russia; but that is

all rubbish. Nevertheless, do not undeceive him, for he is old, old.

Rather, comfort him as you would comfort a child, and also be kind to

my mother. Two such mortals as them you will not find in all _your_

great world--no, not though you search for them with a candle by

daylight.... Russia needs me, indeed! Evidently she does _not_ need me.

Whom, then, does she need? She needs shoemakers, tailors, butchers....

What does a butcher sell? He sells meat, does he not?... I think that I

am wandering--I seem to see before me a forest...."

He pressed his hand to his forehead, and Anna Sergievna bent over him.

"Evgenii Vasilitch," she said, "I am here."

With a combined movement he took her hand and raised himself a little.

"Good-bye," he said with a sudden spasm of energy and a last flash

of his eyes. "Good-bye.... I kissed you that time, did I not, when,

when----?... Ah, breathe now upon the expiring lamp, that it may go out

in peace."

She pressed her lips gently to his forehead.

"Enough," he murmured as he sank back upon the pillow. "Now let there

come--darkness."

She left the room quietly.

"Well?" whispered Vasili Ivanitch.

"He has gone to sleep," she replied in a voice that was scarcely

audible.

But Bazarov was not fated to go to sleep. Rather, as night approached

he sank into a state of coma, and, on the following day, expired.

Father Alexis performed over him the last rites of religion, and at

the moment when Extreme Unction was being administered, and the holy

oil touched his breast, one of the dying man's eyelids raised itself,

and over the face there seemed to flit something like an expression

of distaste at the sight of the priest in his vestments, the smoking

censer, and the candles before the _ikon._

Finally, when Bazarov's last breath had been drawn, and there had

arisen in the house the sound of "the general lamentation," something

akin to frenzy came upon Vasili Ivanitch.

"I declare that I protest!" he cried with his face blazing and

quivering with fury, and his fist beating the air as in menace of some

one. "I declare that I protest, that I protest, that I protest!"

Upon that old Arina Vlasievna, suffused in tears, laid her arms around

his neck, and the two sank forward upon the floor. Said Anfisushka

later, when relating the story in the servants' quarters: "There they

knelt together--side by side, their heads drooping like those of two

sheep at midday."

* * * * *

Ah, but in time the heat of noontide passes, and to it there succeed

nightfall and dusk, with a return to the quiet fold where for the weary

and the heavy-laden there waits sleep, sweet sleep.

[1] Roast beef with horse-radish.