The improvement did not long continue, for to it there succeeded attacks of pain. Vasili Ivanitch sat by the bed: and as he did so it seemed as though something in particular were worrying the old man. Several times he tried to speak, and each time he failed. But at length he contrived to gasp out:
"Evgenii! Son! My dearest son! My own beloved son!"
Even Bazarov could not remain wholly indifferent to such an unwonted appeal. Turning his head a little, and making an evident effort to shake off the unconsciousness that was weighing him down, he murmured:
"What is it, my father?"
"This, Evgenii." And all of a sudden the old man fell upon his knees beside the bed. "Evgenii, you are better now, and with God's help will recover; but do, in any case, seize this hour to comfort me and your mother by fulfilling all the duties of a Christian. Yes, though to say this is painful for me, how much more terribly would it hurt me if—if this chance were to pass for ever, Evgenii! Think, oh think of what——"
The old man could say no more, while over the son's face and closed eyes there passed a curious expression. A pause followed. Then Bazarov said:
"To comfort you, I will not altogether refuse your request; but, since you yourself have said that I am better, surely there can be no need for hurry?"
"Yes, you are better, Evgenii—you are better; but who can say what may lie in the dispensation of God? Whereas, once this duty shall have been fulfilled——"
"Yet I will wait a little," interrupted Bazarov. "This much, however, I will concede: that, should you prove to be wrong in your surmise as to my recovery, I will allow the Last Sacrament to be administered."
"And, Evgenii, I beg of you to——"