Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (85 page)

Vassily Ivanovitch gave him some water, and as he did so felt his forehead. It seemed on fire.

‘Governor,’ began Bazarov, in a slow, drowsy voice; ‘I’m in a bad way; I’ve got the infection, and in a few days you’ll have to bury me.’

Vassily Ivanovitch staggered back, as though some one had aimed a blow at his legs.

‘Yevgeny!’ he faltered; ‘what do you mean!... God have mercy on you! You’ve caught cold!’

‘Hush!’ Bazarov interposed deliberately. ‘A doctor can’t be allowed to talk like that. There’s every symptom of infection; you know yourself.’

‘Where are the symptoms ... of infection Yevgeny?... Good Heavens!’

‘What’s this?’ said Bazarov, and, pulling up his shirtsleeve, he showed his father the ominous red patches coming out on his arm.

Vassily Ivanovitch was shaking and chill with terror.

‘Supposing,’ he said at last, ‘even supposing ... if even there’s something like ... infection ...’

‘Pyæmia,’ put in his son.

‘Well, well ... something of the epidemic ...’

‘Pyæmia,’ Bazarov repeated sharply and distinctly; ‘have you forgotten your text - books?’

‘Well, well — as you like.... Anyway, we will cure you!’

‘Come, that’s humbug. But that’s not the point. I didn’t expect to die so soon; it’s a most unpleasant incident, to tell the truth. You and mother ought to make the most of your strong religious belief; now’s the time to put it to the test.’ He drank off a little water. ‘I want to ask you about one thing ... while my head is still under my control. To - morrow or next day my brain, you know, will send in its resignation. I’m not quite certain even now whether I’m expressing myself clearly. While I’ve been lying here, I’ve kept fancying red dogs were running round me, while you were making them point at me, as if I were a woodcock. Just as if I were drunk. Do you understand me all right?’

‘I assure you, Yevgeny, you are talking perfectly correctly.’

‘All the better. You told me you’d sent for the doctor. You did that to comfort yourself ... comfort me too; send a messenger ...’

‘To Arkady Nikolaitch?’ put in the old man.

‘Who’s Arkady Nikolaitch?’ said Bazarov, as though in doubt.... ‘Oh, yes! that chicken! No, let him alone; he’s turned jackdaw now. Don’t be surprised; that’s not delirium yet. You send a messenger to Madame Odintsov, Anna Sergyevna; she’s a lady with an estate.... Do you know?’ (Vassily Ivanovitch nodded.) ‘Yevgeny Bazarov, say, sends his greetings, and sends word he is dying. Will you do that?’

‘Yes, I will do it.... But is it a possible thing for you to die, Yevgeny?... Think only! Where would divine justice be after that?’

‘I know nothing about that; only you send the messenger.’

‘I’ll send this minute, and I’ll write a letter myself.’

‘No, why? Say I sent greetings; nothing more is necessary. And now I’ll go back to my dogs. Strange! I want to fix my thoughts on death, and nothing comes of it. I see a kind of blur ... and nothing more.’

He turned painfully back to the wall again; while Vassily Ivanovitch went out of the study, and struggling as far as his wife’s bedroom, simply dropped down on to his knees before the holy pictures.

‘Pray, Arina, pray for us!’ he moaned; ‘our son is dying.’

The doctor, the same district doctor who had had no caustic, arrived, and after looking at the patient, advised them to persevere with a cooling treatment, and at that point said a few words of the chance of recovery.

‘Have you ever chanced to see people in my state
not
set off for Elysium?’ asked Bazarov, and suddenly snatching the leg of a heavy table that stood near his sofa, he swung it round, and pushed it away. ‘There’s strength, there’s strength,’ he murmured; ‘everything’s here still, and I must die!... An old man at least has time to be weaned from life, but I ... Well, go and try to disprove death. Death will disprove you, and that’s all! Who’s crying there?’ he added, after a short pause — ’Mother? Poor thing! Whom will she feed now with her exquisite beetroot - soup? You, Vassily Ivanovitch, whimpering too, I do believe! Why, if Christianity’s no help to you, be a philosopher, a Stoic, or what not! Why, didn’t you boast you were a philosopher?’

‘Me a philosopher!’ wailed Vassily Ivanovitch, while the tears fairly streamed down his cheeks.

Bazarov got worse every hour; the progress of the disease was rapid, as is usually the way in cases of surgical poisoning. He still had not lost consciousness, and understood what was said to him; he was still struggling. ‘I don’t want to lose my wits,’ he muttered, clenching his fists; ‘what rot it all is!’ And at once he would say, ‘Come, take ten from eight, what remains?’ Vassily Ivanovitch wandered about like one possessed, proposed first one remedy, then another, and ended by doing nothing but cover up his son’s feet. ‘Try cold pack ... emetic ... mustard plasters on the stomach ... bleeding,’ he would murmur with an effort. The doctor, whom he had entreated to remain, agreed with him, ordered the patient lemonade to drink, and for himself asked for a pipe and something ‘warming and strengthening’ — that’s to say, brandy. Arina Vlasyevna sat on a low stool near the door, and only went out from time to time to pray. A few days before, a looking - glass had slipped out of her hands and been broken, and this she had always considered an omen of evil; even Anfisushka could say nothing to her. Timofeitch had gone off to Madame Odintsov’s.

The night passed badly for Bazarov.... He was in the agonies of high fever. Towards morning he was a little easier. He asked for Arina Vlasyevna to comb his hair, kissed her hand, and swallowed two gulps of tea. Vassily Ivanovitch revived a little.

‘Thank God!’ he kept declaring; ‘the crisis is coming, the crisis is at hand!’

‘There, to think now!’ murmured Bazarov; ‘what a word can do! He’s found it; he’s said “crisis,” and is comforted. It’s an astounding thing how man believes in words. If he’s told he’s a fool, for instance, though he’s not thrashed, he’ll be wretched; call him a clever fellow, and he’ll be delighted if you go off without paying him.’

This little speech of Bazarov’s, recalling his old retorts, moved Vassily Ivanovitch greatly.

‘Bravo! well said, very good!’ he cried, making as though he were clapping his hands.

Bazarov smiled mournfully.

‘So what do you think,’ he said; ‘is the crisis over, or coming?’

‘You are better, that’s what I see, that’s what rejoices me,’ answered Vassily Ivanovitch.

‘Well, that’s good; rejoicings never come amiss. And to her, do you remember? did you send?’

‘To be sure I did.’

The change for the better did not last long. The disease resumed its onslaughts. Vassily Ivanovitch was sitting by Bazarov. It seemed as though the old man were tormented by some special anguish. He was several times on the point of speaking — and could not.

‘Yevgeny!’ he brought out at last; ‘my son, my one, dear son!’

This unfamiliar mode of address produced an effect on Bazarov. He turned his head a little, and, obviously trying to fight against the load of oblivion weighing upon him, he articulated: ‘What is it, father?’

‘Yevgeny,’ Vassily Ivanovitch went on, and he fell on his knees before Bazarov, though the latter had closed his eyes and could not see him. ‘Yevgeny, you are better now; please God, you will get well, but make use of this time, comfort your mother and me, perform the duty of a Christian! What it means for me to say this to you, it’s awful; but still more awful ... for ever and ever, Yevgeny ... think a little, what ...’

The old man’s voice broke, and a strange look passed over his son’s face, though he still lay with closed eyes.

‘I won’t refuse, if that can be any comfort to you,’ he brought out at last; ‘but it seems to me there’s no need to be in a hurry. You say yourself I am better.’

‘Oh, yes, Yevgeny, better certainly; but who knows, it is all in God’s hands, and in doing the duty ...’

‘No, I will wait a bit,’ broke in Bazarov. ‘I agree with you that the crisis has come. And if we’re mistaken, well! they give the sacrament to men who’re unconscious, you know.’

‘Yevgeny, I beg.’

‘I’ll wait a little. And now I want to go to sleep. Don’t disturb me.’ And he laid his head back on the pillow.

The old man rose from his knees, sat down in the armchair, and, clutching his beard, began biting his own fingers ...

The sound of a light carriage on springs, that sound which is peculiarly impressive in the wilds of the country, suddenly struck upon his hearing. Nearer and nearer rolled the light wheels; now even the neighing of the horses could be heard.... Vassily Ivanovitch jumped up and ran to the little window. There drove into the courtyard of his little house a carriage with seats for two, with four horses harnessed abreast. Without stopping to consider what it could mean, with a rush of a sort of senseless joy, he ran out on to the steps.... A groom in livery was opening the carriage doors; a lady in a black veil and a black mantle was getting out of it ...

‘I am Madame Odintsov,’ she said. ‘Yevgeny Vassilvitch is still living? You are his father? I have a doctor with me.’

‘Benefactress!’ cried Vassily Ivanovitch, and snatching her hand, he pressed it convulsively to his lips, while the doctor brought by Anna Sergyevna, a little man in spectacles, of German physiognomy, stepped very deliberately out of the carriage. ‘Still living, my Yevgeny is living, and now he will be saved! Wife! wife!... An angel from heaven has come to us....’

‘What does it mean, good Lord!’ faltered the old woman, running out of the drawing - room; and, comprehending nothing, she fell on the spot in the passage at Anna Sergyevna’s feet, and began kissing her garments like a mad woman.

‘What are you doing!’ protested Anna Sergyevna; but Arina Vlasyevna did not heed her, while Vassily Ivanovitch could only repeat, ‘An angel! an angel!’

‘Wo ist der Kranke?
and where is the patient?’ said the doctor at last, with some impatience.

Vassily Ivanovitch recovered himself. ‘Here, here, follow me, würdigster Herr Collega,’ he added through old associations.

‘Ah!’ articulated the German, grinning sourly.

Vassily Ivanovitch led him into the study. ‘The doctor from Anna Sergyevna Odintsov,’ he said, bending down quite to his son’s ear, ‘and she herself is here.’

Bazarov suddenly opened his eyes. ‘What did you say?’

‘I say that Anna Sergyevna is here, and has brought this gentleman, a doctor, to you.’

Bazarov moved his eyes about him. ‘She is here.... I want to see her.’

‘You shall see her, Yevgeny; but first we must have a little talk with the doctor. I will tell him the whole history of your illness since Sidor Sidoritch’ (this was the name of the district doctor) ‘has gone, and we will have a little consultation.’

Bazarov glanced at the German. ‘Well, talk away quickly, only not in Latin; you see, I know the meaning of
jam moritur.’

‘
Der Herr scheint des Deutschen mächtig zu sein
,’ began the new follower of Æsculapius, turning to Vassily Ivanovitch.

‘
Ich
...
gabe
... We had better speak Russian,’ said the old man.

‘Ah, ah! so that’s how it is.... To be sure ...’ And the consultation began.

Half - an - hour later Anna Sergyevna, conducted by Vassily Ivanovitch, came into the study. The doctor had had time to whisper to her that it was hopeless even to think of the patient’s recovery.

She looked at Bazarov ... and stood still in the doorway, so greatly was she impressed by the inflamed, and at the same time deathly face, with its dim eyes fastened upon her. She felt simply dismayed, with a sort of cold and suffocating dismay; the thought that she would not have felt like that if she had really loved him flashed instantaneously through her brain.