Fathers and Sons
"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