“Try wrapping up in cold sheets . . . emetic . . . mustard plasters on the stomach . . . bleeding,” he said with an effort.
The doctor, whom he had begged to stay, agreed with everything he said, gave the patient lemonade to drink, and for himself asked for a pipe and for something “warming and strengthening” — meaning vodka.
Arina Vlasyevna sat on a low stool near the door and only went out from time to time to pray. A few days previously, a little mirror had slipped out of her hands and broken, and she had always considered this as a bad omen; even Anfisushka was unable to say anything to her.
Timofeich had gone off to Madame Odintsov’s place.
The night passed badly for Bazarov . . . High fever tortured him.
Towards the morning he felt a little easier.
He asked Arina Vlasyevna to comb his hair, kissed her hand and swallowed a few sips of tea.
Vassily Ivanovich revived a little.
“Thank God!” he repeated, “the crisis is near . . . the crisis is coming.”
“There, think of that!” muttered Bazarov. “What a lot a word can do!
He’s found one; he said ‘crisis’ and is comforted.
It’s an astounding thing how human beings have faith in words.
You tell a man, for instance, that he’s a fool, and even if you don’t thrash him he’ll be miserable; call him a clever fellow, and he’ll be delighted even if you go off without paying him.”
This little speech of Bazarov’s, recalling his old sallies, greatly moved Vassily Ivanovich.
“Bravo! splendidly said, splendid!” he exclaimed, making as though to clap his hands.
Bazarov smiled ruefully.
“Well, so do you think the crisis is over or approaching?”
“You’re better, that’s what I see, that’s what rejoices me.
“Very well; there’s never any harm in rejoicing.
And, do you remember, did you send the message to her?”
“Of course I did.”
The change for the better did not last long.
The disease resumed its onslaughts.
Vassily Ivanovich was sitting close to Bazarov.
The old man seemed to be tormented by some particular anguish.
He tried several times to speak — but could not.
“Evgeny!” he ejaculated at last, “My son, my dear, beloved son!”
This unexpected outburst produced an effect on Bazarov . . . He turned his head a little, evidently trying to fight against the load of oblivion weighing down on him, and said,
“What is it, father?”
“Evgeny,” went on Vassily Ivanovich, and fell on his knees in front of his son, who had not opened his eyes and could not see him. “You’re better now; please God, you will recover; but make good use of this interval, comfort your mother and me, fulfill your duty as a Christian!
How hard it is for me to say this to you — how terrible; but still more terrible would be . . . forever and ever, Evgeny . . . just think what . . .”
The old man’s voice broke and a strange look passed over his son’s face, though he still lay with his eyes closed.
“I won’t refuse, if it’s going to bring any comfort to you, he muttered at last; “but it seems to me there’s no need to hurry about it.
You say yourself, I’m better.”
“Yes, Evgeny, you’re better, certainly, but who knows, all that is in God’s hands, and in fulfilling your duty . .”
“No, I’ll wait a bit,” interrupted Bazarov. “I agree with you that the crisis has come.
But if we’re mistaken, what then? Surely they give the sacrament to people who are already unconscious.”
“For heaven’s sake, Evgeny, . .”
“I’ll wait, I want to sleep now.
Don’t disturb me.”
And he laid his head back on the pillow.
The old man rose from his knees, sat down on a chair and clutching at his chin began to bite his fingers . . . .”
The sound of a carriage on springs, a sound so remarkably distinguishable in the depths of the country, suddenly struck upon his hearing.
The light wheels rolled nearer and nearer; the snorting of the horses was already audible. . . . Vassily Ivanovich jumped up and ran to the window.
A two-seated carriage harnessed with four horses was driving into the courtyard of his little house.
Without stopping to consider what this could mean, feeling a kind of senseless outburst of joy, he ran out into the porch . . . A livened groom was opening the carriage door; a lady in a black shawl, her face covered with a black veil, stepped out of it . . .
“I am Madame Odintsov,” she murmured. “Is Evgeny Vassilich still alive?
Are you his father?
I have brought a doctor with me.”
“Benefactress!” exclaimed Vassily Ivanovich, and seizing her hand, he pressed it convulsively to his lips, while the doctor brought by Anna Sergeyevna, a little man in spectacles, with a German face, climbed very deliberately out of the carriage. “He’s still alive, my Evgeny is alive and now he will be saved!