"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. The old man begged his pardon, but he quickly came back on tiptoe, and, half hidden by the cupboard door, he gazed persistently at his son. His wife did not go to bed either, and, leaving the study door 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 Bazaroff spoke to his father in a slow, drowsy voice.
"Governor, I am in a bad way; I've got the infection, and in a few days you will have to bury me."
Vassily Ivanovitch staggered back as if someone had aimed a blow at his leg.
"God have mercy on you! What do you mean? You have only caught a cold. I've sent for the doctor and you'll soon be cured."
"Come, that's humbug. I've got the typhus; you can see it in my arm. You told me you'd sent for the doctor. You did that to comfort yourself... comfort me, too; send a messenger to Madame Odintsov; she's a lady with an estate... Do you know?" (Vassily Ivanovitch nodded.) "Yevgeny Bazaroff, say, sends his greetings, and sends word he is dying. Will you do that?"