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Old Bazaroff breathed hard and screwed his eyes up more than ever. "There, that's enough, that's enough, Arina; give over please give over." His lips and eyebrows were twitching and his beard was quivering... but he was obviously trying to control himself and appear almost indifferent. But, like his wife, the old man was deeply moved at the coming of his son.
For himself, Nikolai Petrovitch was too delighted at having his son with him to feel any concern about Bazaroff. "What is this Mr. Bazaroff your friend?" Pavel asked one day, with a drawl. "Would you like me to tell you, uncle?" Arkady replied with a smile.
Bazaroff watched Pavel Petrovitch take careful aim.... "He's aiming straight at my nerves," he thought; "and doesn't he blink down it carefully, the ruffian! Not an agreeable sensation, though! I'm going to look at his watch-chain." Something whizzed sharply by his ear, and at the same instant there was the sound of a shot. Bazaroff, without taking aim, pressed the spring.
There Arkady left his companion in order to see Katya. Bazaroff, determined to cure himself of his passion for Madame Odintsov, made the rest of the journey alone, and took up his quarters once more in the house of Nicolai Petrovitch. The fact of Arkady's absence did not tend to improve matters between Pavel Petrovitch and Bazaroff. After a week the aristocrat's antipathy passed all bounds.
"Side by side," said one of the servants afterwards, "they drooped their poor heads like lambs at noonday...." There is a little grave in the graveyard, surrounded by an iron railing; two young fir-trees have been planted, one at each end. Yevgeny Bazaroff is buried in this tomb. Often from the little village not far off two quite feeble old people come to visit it a husband and wife.
You say, too, that I meant to caricature the youth of Russia in Bazaroff? you repeat this pardon the frankness of the expression nonsensical accusation? Bazaroff, this is my favorite child, for whose sake I quarrelled with Katkoff, upon whom I used all the color at my command. Bazaroff, this fine mind, this hero, a caricature? But it seems that there is nothing to be done in the case.
"Have you no appetite? And your head?" he at last asked, timidly; "does it ache?" "Yes, of course it aches." "Don't be angry, please," continued Vassily Ivanovitch. "Won't you let me feel your pulse?" Bazaroff got up. "I can 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.
"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.
"Good-bye.... Listen.... You know I didn't kiss you then.... Breathe on the dying lamp, and let it go out...." She put her lips on his forehead. "Enough!" he murmured, and dropped back on to the pillow. "Now... darkness...." Madame Odintsov went softly out. "Well?" Vassily Ivanovitch asked her in a whisper. "He has fallen asleep," she answered, hardly audible. But Bazaroff was not fated to awaken.
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