an tell you without feeling my pulse," he said. "I
am feverish."

"Has there been any shivering?"

"Yes, there's been shivering, too; I'll go and lie down."

Bazaroff did not get up again all day, and passed the whole night in
heavy, half-unconscious slumber. At one o'clock in the morning, opening
his eyes with an effort, he saw, by the light of a lamp, his father's
pale face bending over him, and told him to go away. The old man begged
his pardon, but he quickly came back on tiptoe, and, half hidden by the
cupboard door, he gazed persistently at his son. His wife did not go to
bed either, and, leaving the study door open a very little, she kept
coming up to it to listen "how Enyusha was breathing" and to look at
Vassily Ivanovitch. She could see nothing but his motionless bent back,
but even that afforded her some faint consolation.

In the morning Bazaroff spoke to his father in a slow, drowsy voice.

"Governor, I am in a bad way; I've got the infection, and in a few days
you will have to bury me."

Vassily Ivanovitch staggered back as if someone had aimed a blow at his
leg.

"God have mercy on you! What do you mean? You have only caught a cold.
I've sent for the doctor and you'll soon be cured."

"Come, that's humbug. I've got the typhus; you can see it in my arm. You
told me you'd sent for the doctor. You did that to comfort yourself...
comfort me, too; send a messenger to Madame Odintsov; she's a lady with
an estate... Do you know?" (Vassily Ivanovitch nodded.) "Yevgeny
Bazaroff, say, sends his greetings, and sends word he is dying. Will you
do that?"

"Yes, I will do it... But it is an impossible thing for you to die...
Think only! Where would divine justice be after that?"

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

He turned his face painfully to the wall, 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 murmured. "Our son is dying."

Bazaroff got worse every hour. He was in the agonies of high fever. His
mother and father watched over him, combing his hair and giving him
gulps of tea. The old man was tormented by a special anguish. He wished
his son to take the sacrament, though, knowing his attitude towards
religion, he dared not ask him. At last he could keep back the words no
longer. As in a broken voice he begged his son to see a priest, a