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 ...'

'Pyaemia,' put in his son.

'Well, well ... something of the epidemic ...'

'Pyaemia,' 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