evna did
not go to bed either, and leaving the study door just 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 Bazarov tried to get up; he was seized with
giddiness, his nose began to bleed; he lay down again. Vassily
Ivanovitch waited on him in silence; Arina Vlasyevna went in to him and
asked him how he was feeling. He answered, 'Better,' and turned to the
wall. Vassily Ivanovitch gesticulated at his wife with both hands; she
bit her lips so as not to cry, and went away. The whole house seemed
suddenly darkened; every one looked gloomy; there was a strange hush; a
shrill cock was carried away from the yard to the village, unable to
comprehend why he should be treated so. Bazarov still lay, turned to
the wall. Vassily Ivanovitch tried to address him with various
questions, but they fatigued Bazarov, and the old man sank into his
armchair, motionless, only cracking his finger-joints now and then. He
went for a few minutes into the garden, stood there like a statue, as
though overwhelmed with unutterable bewilderment (the expression of
amazement never left his face all through), and went back again to his
son, trying to avoid his wife's questions. She caught him by the arm at
last and passionately, almost menacingly, said, 'What is wrong with
him?' Then he came to himself, and forced himself to smile at her in
reply; but to his own horror, instead of a smile, he found himself
taken somehow by a fit of laughter. He had sent at daybreak for a
doctor. He thought it necessary to inform his son of this, for fear he
should be angry. Bazarov suddenly turned over on the sofa, bent a fixed
dull look on his father, and asked for drink.

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