Fathers and Sons

"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.[39 - Roast beef with horse-radish.] 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.