a little easier. He asked for Arina
Vlasyevna to comb his hair, kissed her hand, and swallowed two gulps of
tea. Vassily Ivanovitch revived a little.

'Thank God!' he kept declaring; 'the crisis is coming, the crisis is at
hand!'

'There, to think now!' murmured Bazarov; 'what a word can do! He's
found it; he's said "crisis," and is comforted. It's an astounding
thing how man believes in words. If he's told he's a fool, for
instance, though he's not thrashed, he'll be wretched; call him a
clever fellow, and he'll be delighted if you go off without paying
him.'

This little speech of Bazarov's, recalling his old retorts, moved
Vassily Ivanovitch greatly.

'Bravo! well said, very good!' he cried, making as though he were
clapping his hands.

Bazarov smiled mournfully.

'So what do you think,' he said; 'is the crisis over, or coming?'

'You are better, that's what I see, that's what rejoices me,' answered
Vassily Ivanovitch.

'Well, that's good; rejoicings never come amiss. And to her, do you
remember? did you send?'

'To be sure I did.'

The change for the better did not last long. The disease resumed its
onslaughts. Vassily Ivanovitch was sitting by Bazarov. It seemed as
though the old man were tormented by some special anguish. He was
several times on the point of speaking--and could not.

'Yevgeny!' he brought out at last; 'my son, my one, dear son!'

This unfamiliar mode of address produced an effect on Bazarov. He
turned his head a little, and, obviously trying to fight against the
load of oblivion weighing upon him, he articulated: 'What is it,
father?'

'Yevgeny,' Vassily Ivanovitch went on, and he fell on his knees before
Bazarov, though the latter had closed his eyes and could not see him.
'Yevgeny, you are better now; please God, you will get well, but make
use of this time, comfort your mother and me, perform the duty of a
Christian! What it means for me to say this to you, it's awful; but
still more awful ... for ever and ever, Yevgeny ... think a little,
what ...'

The old man's voice broke, and a strange look passed over his son's
face, though he still lay with closed eyes.

'I won't refuse, if that can be any comfort to you,' he brought out at
last; 'but it seems to me there's no need to be in a hurry. You say
yourself I am better.'

'Oh, yes, Yevgeny, better certainly; but who knows, it is all in God's
hands, and in doing the duty ...'

'No, I will wait a bit,' broke in Bazarov. '