Well, good-by!
Live long, that’s best of all, and made the most of it while there is time.
You see, what a hideous spectacle, a worm, half-crushed, but writhing still.
Of course I also thought, I’ll break down so many things, I won’t die, why should I?
There are problems for me to solve, and I’m a giant! And now the only problem of this giant is how to die decently, though that too makes no difference to anyone . . . Never mind; I’m not going to wag my tail.”
Barazov fell silent and began feeling with his hand for the glass.
Anna Sergeyevna gave him some water to drink, without taking off her glove and breathing apprehensively.
“You will forget me,” he began again. “The dead is no companion for the living.
My father will tell you what a man Russia has lost in me . . . That’s nonsense, but don’t disillusion the old man.
Whatever toy comforts the child . . . you know.
And be kind to my mother.
People like them can’t be found in your great world even if you search for them by day with a torch . . . Russia needed me . . . no, clearly I wasn’t needed.
And who is needed?
The shoemaker’s needed, the tailor’s needed, the butcher . . . sells meat . . . the butcher — wait a bit, I’m getting mixed up . . . there’s a forest here . . .”
Bazarov put his hand on his forehead.
Anna Sergeyevna bent over him.
“Evgeny Vassilich, I am here . . .”
He at once took his hand away and raised himself.
“Good-by,” he said with sudden force, and his eyes flashed with a parting gleam. “Good-by . . . Listen . . . you know I never kissed you then . . . Breathe on the dying lamp and let it go out.”
Anna Sergeyevna touched his forehead with her lips.
“Enough,” he murmured, and fell back on the pillow. “And now . . . darkness . . .”
Anna Sergeyevna slipped softly out.
“Well?” Vassily Ivanovich asked her in a whisper.
“He has fallen asleep,” she answered, almost inaudibly.
Bazarov was not destined to awaken again.
Towards evening he sank into a complete coma, and the following day he died.
Father Alexei performed the last rites of religion over him.
When they anointed him, and the holy oil touched his breast, one of his eyes opened, and it seemed as though, at the sight of the priest in his vestments, of the smoking censer, of the candle burning in front of the image, something like a shudder of horror passed through his death-stricken face.
When at last he had stopped breathing and a general lamentation arose in the house, Vassily Ivanovich was seized by a sudden fit of frenzy.
“I said I should rebel!” he shouted hoarsely, his face red and distorted, and shaking his fist in the air as if he were threatening someone. “And I rebel, I rebel!”
But Arina Vlasyevna, all in tears, flung her arms round his neck and both fell on their knees together.
“So side by side,” related Anfisushka afterwards in the servants’ room, “they bowed their poor heads like lambs in the heat of noon-day. . .”
But the heat of noonday passes and is followed by evening and night, and there comes the return to a quiet refuge where sleep is sweet for the tormented and weary . . .
Chapter 28
Six months passed.
White winter had set in with the cruel stillness of cloudless frosts, with its thick crunching snow, rosy hoarfrost on the trees, pale emerald sky, wreaths of smoke curling above the chimneys, steam emerging from momentarily opened doors, with those fresh faces which look bitten by cold, and the hurried trot of shivering horses.
A January day was drawing to its close; the evening cold pierced keenly through the motionless air, and a brilliant sunset was rapidly dying away.
Lights were burning in the windows of the house at Maryino; Prokovich in a black tail coat and white gloves, with an air of unusual solemnity, was laying the table for seven.
A week earlier in the small parish church, two weddings had taken place quietly, almost without witnesses — Arkady’s marriage to Katya and that of Nikolai Petrovich to Fenichka; and on this day Nikolai Petrovich was giving a farewell dinner for his brother, who was going away to Moscow on some business.
Anna Sergeyevna had also gone there directly the wedding was over, after making generous presents to the young couple.
Punctually at three o’clock the whole company assembled at the table.
Mitya was brought along too and with him appeared a nurse in an embroidered peasant headdress.
Pavel Petrovich sat between Katya and Fenichka; the husbands sat next to their wives.
Our friends had somewhat changed lately; they all seemed to have grown better looking and stronger; only Pavel Petrovich had become thinner, which, incidentally, still further enhanced the elegant and“grand seigneur”quality of his expressive features . . . Fenichka, too, was different.
In a fresh-colored silk dress with a wide velvet headdress on her hair, and a gold chain round her neck, she sat respectfully motionless, respectful towards herself and everyone around her, and smiled, as if she wanted to say:
“Excuse me, I’m not to blame.”
And not only she — the others also all smiled and seemed to excuse themselves; they all felt a little awkward, a little sad, but fundamentally happy.
They all helped each other with an amusing attentiveness, as if they had agreed in advance to act some good-natured comedy.
Katya was quieter than any of the others; she looked confidently around her, and it was already noticeable that Nikolai Petrovich had managed to become quite devoted to her.
Just before the dinner was over he stood up and, holding his glass in his hand, turned to Pavel Petrovich.