‘Strength, strength!’ he said. ‘It’s all there still, but I have to die! That old peasant at least had time to lose the desire
for life, but I… Yes, you go and try to say no to death. Death says no to you, and that’s it! Who’s crying there?’ he said
after a pause. ‘Mother? Poor thing! Who will she feed now with her amazing borshch? Vasily Ivanovich, I think you’re snivelling
too. Well, if Christianity doesn’t help, be a philosopher, a Stoic
7
or something. Didn’t you boast you were a philosopher?’
‘I’m no philosopher!’ cried Vasily Ivanovich, and the tears dripped down his cheeks.
With every hour Bazarov became worse. The disease took a rapid course, as is often the case with surgical infections. He hadn’t
yet lost his memory and understood what was said to him; he was still fighting. ‘I don’t want to become delirious,’ he whispered
clenching his fists, ‘that’s so absurd!’ And then he said, ‘So take ten from eight, what’s left?’ Vasily Ivanovich went about
like a madman, proposing one treatment after another, but did nothing but cover up his son’s legs. ‘Wrap him in cold sheets…
an emetic… mustard plasters on the stomach…
blood-letting,’ he kept saying with an effort. The doctor, whom he had begged to stay, said yes to his proposals and made
the patient drink lemonade; for himself he asked for a nice little pipe, then for something ‘warming and restorative’, namely
vodka. Arina Vlasyevna sat on a small, low bench by the door and only from time to time went away to pray; some days before
a toilet mirror had slipped from her hands and broken, and she always considered that a bad omen. Even Anfisushka couldn’t
say anything to her. Timofeich had set off for Odintsova’s.
Bazarov had a bad night… He was tormented by a high fever. The morning brought some relief. He asked Arina Vlasyevna to comb
his hair; he kissed her hand and drank a couple of mouthfuls of tea. Vasily Ivanovich’s spirits were raised a bit.
‘Thank God!’ he kept repeating. ‘The crisis has come… the crisis has passed.’
‘Fancy that!’ said Bazarov. ‘All that in a word! He’s found one, he says “crisis” and he’s comforted. It’s amazing how man
still believes in words. For example, if you call him a fool and don’t beat him, he’ll be wretched. Call him a genius and
don’t give him any money – he’ll be quite satisfied.’
This little speech of Bazarov’s, reminiscent of his earlier ‘sallies’, stirred Vasily Ivanovich’s emotions.
‘Bravo! Brilliantly said, brilliant!’ he exclaimed, pretending to clap his hands.
Bazarov smiled sadly.
‘So what do you think?’ he said. ‘Has the crisis passed or come?’
‘You’re better, that’s what I see and that’s what makes me happy,’ Vasily Ivanovich answered.
‘Excellent. To be happy is never a bad thing. And that message to her, you remember, did you send it?’
‘I did, of course.’
The change for the better didn’t last long. The attacks of the illness began again. Vasily Ivanovich sat by Bazarov and seemed
in special torment. Several times he tried to speak – and couldn’t.
‘Yevgeny!’ he eventually uttered. ‘My son, my darling, my beloved son!’
This unusual appeal had an effect on Bazarov… He turned his head a little and, with an obvious effort to break out of the
unconsciousness that lay heavy on him, pronounced the words:
‘What, Father?’
‘Yevgeny,’ Vasily Ivanovich continued and fell on his knees in front of Bazarov although his son didn’t open his eyes and
couldn’t see him. ‘Yevgeny, you are better now. God willing, you will recover. But take advantage of this moment, give comfort
to your mother and to me and do your duty as a Christian!
8
It’s terrible for me to say this to you, it’s terrible. But even more terrible… it’s for eternity, Yevgeny… think, how terrible…’
The old man’s voice broke, and now there passed over his son’s face a strange look, although he continued to lie with his
eyes closed.
‘I don’t refuse, if it can give you comfort,’ he said finally. ‘But I don’t think there’s any need yet for hurry. You yourself
say I’m better.’
‘Yes, you are better, Yevgeny, you are. But who knows, it’s all in God’s will, and, having done your duty…’
‘No, I’ll wait,’ Bazarov interrupted him. ‘I agree with you that the crisis has come. But even if you and I are wrong, it
doesn’t matter – they can give communion to the unconscious.’
‘Please, Yevgeny…’
‘I’ll wait. And now I want to sleep. Don’t bother me.’
And he laid his head where it had been before.
The old man got up, sat in his chair and, putting his chin in his hands, began to chew his fingers…
He suddenly heard the rumble of a sprung carriage, the rumble which sounds so very clear in the depths of the countryside.
The wheels rolled nearer and nearer, and now he could hear the horses snorting… Vasily Ivanovich jumped up and rushed to the
window. A two-seated carriage harnessed to four horses was entering the yard of his little house. Without considering what
this might mean, overcome by a surge of
mindless joy, he ran out on to the porch… A liveried footman opened the doors of the carriage. A lady in a black veil and
cloak got out.
‘I am Odintsova,’ she said. ‘Is Yevgeny Vasilyich still alive? Are you his father? I’ve brought a doctor with me.’
‘Our benefactor!’ cried Vasily Ivanovich and, seizing her hand, pressed it convulsively to his lips. Meanwhile the doctor
Anna Sergeyevna had brought, a small man with spectacles and a German cast of face, unhurriedly got out of the carriage. ‘He’s
still alive, my Yevgeny’s still alive and now he’ll be saved! Wife! Wife! An angel from heaven has come to us…’
‘Lord above, what is it?’ the old woman stammered, running out of the drawing room and, without understanding anything, there
in the hall she fell at Anna Sergeyevna’s feet and began to kiss her dress like a madwoman.
‘Don’t! Don’t!’ Anna Sergeyevna repeated, but Arina Vlasyevna didn’t listen to her while Vasily Ivanovich just went on saying,
‘An angel! An angel!’
‘
Wo ist der Kranke?
9
Und ver is the patsient?’ the doctor said finally, not without some signs of annoyance.
Vasily Ivanovich collected himself.
‘In here, in here, please follow me,
wertester Herr College
,’
10
he added, from distant memory.
‘Ach!’ said the German with a sour smile.
Vasily Ivanovich took him into the study.
‘It’s the doctor from Anna Sergeyevna Odintsova,’ he said, bending right down to his son’s ear, ‘and she herself is here.’
Bazarov suddenly opened his eyes.
‘What did you say?’
‘I am saying that Anna Sergeyevna Odintsova is here and has brought this gentleman to see you, who is a doctor.’
Bazarov looked around him.
‘She’s here… I want to see her.’
‘You will, Yevgeny. But first the doctor and I must have a chat. Since Sidor Sidorych has gone’ (that was the name of the
district doctor) ‘I’ll tell him the whole history of your illness, and we’ll have a little consultation!’
Bazarov looked at the German.
‘Well be quick about your chat, and don’t do it in Latin. I do understand the meaning of
iam moritur.
’
11
‘
Der Herr scheint des Deutschen mächtig zu sein
,’
12
the new alumnus of Aesculapius
13
began, turning to Vasily Ivanovich.
‘
Ikh… gabe…
14
We had better speak Russian,’ the old man said.
‘Aha! Zo zat is how it is… Be zo gut…’
And the consultation began.
Half an hour later Anna Sergeyevna came into the study accompanied by Vasily Ivanovich. The doctor had already managed to
whisper to her that one shouldn’t even think of the patient’s recovery.
She looked at Bazarov… and stopped at the door, she was so shocked by his inflamed and the same time ghastly face and the
lacklustre eyes staring at her. She simply felt chill, agonizing fear. Momentarily the thought flashed through her mind that
she wouldn’t have felt that if she had really loved him.
‘Thank you,’ he said with an effort. ‘I didn’t expect this. It’s kind of you. Now we are meeting once more, as you promised.’
‘Anna Sergeyevna was so kind,’ Vasily Ivanovich began.
‘Father, leave us. Anna Sergeyevna, you won’t mind… I think that now…’ He pointed to his wasted prostrate body.
Vasily Ivanovich went out.
‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘A tsar’s kindness. They say tsars too visit the dying.’
‘Yevgeny Vasilyich, I hope…’
‘Oh, Anna Sergeyevna, let’s speak the truth. I am finished. I’ve fallen under the wheels. And in the end there was no point
in thinking about the future. Death is something ancient, but it comes fresh to each of us. Up till now I haven’t been scared…
but then will come unconsciousness and
phut
!’ (He made a feeble gesture with his hand.) ‘So what shall I say to you… I loved you! That didn’t make any sense then, and
now even less. Love is just a form, but my own form is already disintegrating. Let me say rather – how wonderful you are!
And now you’re standing here, so beautiful…’
Anna Sergeyevna shivered involuntarily.
‘It doesn’t matter, don’t be alarmed… sit down there… Don’t come near me: my illness is infectious.’
Anna Sergeyevna quickly walked across the room and sat down in a chair next to the couch on which Bazarov lay.
‘You are so generous!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, so near and so young, fresh, pure… in this foul room!… Well, goodbye! Live a long
life – that’s best of all – and take advantage of it while there’s time. Look at this hideous sight: a worm that’s half crushed
but still wriggling. And I also used to think I’ll achieve a great deal, I won’t die, not me! I have a task ahead and I’m
a giant! And now the giant’s whole task is how to die a decent death, although no one else cares about that… No matter: I’m
not going to start wagging my tail.’
Bazarov fell silent and began to feel for his glass with his hand. Anna Sergeyevna gave it to him so he could drink, without
taking off her glove and breathing nervously.
‘You will forget me,’ he began again, ‘a dead man is no friend for the living. My father will say to you, what a man Russia
is losing… That’s nonsense but don’t disillusion the old man. Anything to keep a child happy… you know. And be kind to my
mother. You won’t find people like them in your big world even with a torch by daylight… Russia needs me… No, she clearly
doesn’t. And who is needed? A cobbler is needed, a tailor is needed, a butcher… he sells meat… a butcher… Wait, I’m getting
confused… There’s forest…’
Bazarov put his hand on his forehead.
Anna Sergeyevna leant over him.
‘Yevgeny Vasilyich, I am here…’
He quickly removed his hand and raised himself.
‘Goodbye,’ he said in a sudden surge of energy, and his eyes flashed one last time. ‘Goodbye… Listen… I didn’t kiss you then…
Blow on the dying lamp and let it go out…’
Anna Sergeyevna put her lips to his forehead.
‘That’s enough!’ he said and fell back on the pillow. ‘Now… the dark…’
Anna Sergeyevna quietly went out.
‘What happened?’ Vasily Ivanovich whispered to her.
‘He’s gone to sleep,’ she answered barely audibly.
Bazarov was never to wake again. Towards evening he went into complete unconsciousness and died the next day. Father Aleksey
performed the last rites over him. When he was given extreme unction, when the holy chrism touched his breast one of his eyes
opened and it seemed as if for a moment, at the sight of the priest in his robes and the smoking censer and the candles before
the icons, something like a look of horror passed over his deathly pale features. When he had finally given his last sigh,
and the whole household raised its lament, Vasily Ivanovich was seized by sudden fury. ‘I said I would cry out in defiance,’
he shouted hoarsely, his face twisted and aflame, shaking his fist in the air as if threatening someone, ‘and I will cry out,
I will cry out!’ But Arina Vlasyevna in tears put her arms round his neck and they both fell prostrate to the ground. ‘So
side by side,’ Anfisushka recounted later in the servants’ room, ‘they laid down their heads like lambs at noon…’
But the heat of noon passes, and evening and nightfall, and there comes the return to the quiet refuge where there is sweet
sleep for the tormented and the weary…
Six months passed. Midwinter had come – cloudless frosts, harsh and still, thick, crunchy snow, pink hoar-frost on the trees,
a pale emerald sky, caps of smoke on the chimneys, puffs of steam coming out of doors opened for a moment, people’s fresh
faces looking as if they’d been nipped and the measured trot of horses, chilled to the bone. The January day was already drawing
to a close. The cold of evening held the windless air in a tighter grip, and a blood-red sunset faded quickly. Lights were
being lit in the windows of the Marino house, and Prokofyich, in black tail coat and white gloves, was laying seven covers
on the table with special ceremony. A week before, two weddings had taken place in the little parish church, quietly and with
almost no witnesses – those of Katya and Arkady, and of
Nikolay Petrovich and Fenechka. Today Nikolay Petrovich was giving a farewell dinner for his brother, who was leaving for
Moscow on business. Anna Sergeyevna had gone there immediately after the wedding, having generously provided for the young
couple.
They all came to the table at exactly three o’clock. A place had also been laid there for Mitya, who had already acquired
a nursemaid in a brocade
kokoshnik.
1
Pavel Petrovich took his seat between Katya and Fenechka. The ‘bridegrooms’ were placed on either side of their wives. Our
friends have changed recently: they have all gained in looks and in maturity. Only Pavel Petrovich has become thinner; that
incidentally has given his expressive features even more of the elegant look of a
grand seigneur
2
… Fenechka too has changed. In a new silk dress, with a broad velvet snood over her hair and a gold chain round her neck,
she sits calmly, with a sense of respect towards herself and towards all around her, and with a smile on her lips as if she
would say, ‘I’m sorry, it’s not my doing.’ And she wasn’t the only one smiling – the others also all smiled apologetically.
Everyone felt a little awkward, a little sad but, if truth be told, in a very good mood. Everyone looked after their neighbours
with comic attentiveness as if they had all agreed to play out some artless comedy. Katya said less than anyone. She looked
trustingly around her, and it was obvious that she had already completely won the heart of Nikolay Petrovich. Before the end
of the meal he rose and, taking a glass in his hand, turned to Pavel Petrovich.