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,
