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The sun was shining, the sky was blue; in the limpid spaces above the earth there was a flood of crystal light. Ilya Ippolytovich strolled through the park and thought of his father. The old man had lived a full, rich, and magnificent life. It had possessed so much that was good, bright and necessary. Now death! Nothing would remain. Nothing! And this nothing was terrible to Ilya Ippolytovitch.
To what end? Ippolyte Ippolytovich sat in the large, bare dining-room eating chicken cutlets and broth. A napkin was tied round his neck as if he were a child. Vasena fed him from a tea-spoon, and afterwards led him into his study. The old man lay down on a sofa, put his hand behind his head and fell asleep, his eyes half-open. Ilya went to him in the study.
A silvery moon triumphantly rode the clear cold over-arching sky. Ippolyte Ippolytovich lay upon his sofa. He felt nothing. The space occupied by his body resembled only a great, dark, hollow bin in which there was nothing! Close by, a rat flopped across the floor, but the old man did not hear. A teasing autumnal fly settled on his eyebrow, he did not wink.
Ippolyte Ippolytovich had married at about the age of forty; of his three sons only Ilya was living. The old man called his son to memory, pictured him in his mind, but felt neither joy nor interest felt nothing! Dimly, somewhere far away in the dark recesses of his memory, lurked a glimmering, wavering image of his son; at first he saw him as an infant, then as a boy, finally a youth.
Vasena entered in her calm yet vigorous manner. Her broad hips and deep bosom were only loosely covered by a red jacket. "Ippolyte Ippolytovich, it is time for your meal," she called in a matter of fact tone. But he did not reply, nor utter his usual "Eh?" They sent at once for the doctor, who felt his pulse, pressed a glass to his lips, then said in a low, solemn tone: "He is dead."
He was always slumbering, lying with half-open, discoloured eyes on a large sofa tapestried in pig-skin of English make, and covered with a bear-skin rug. He lay there day and night, his right arm flung back behind his head. Whenever, by day or night, he was called by his name Ippolyte Ippolytovich, he would remain silent a moment collecting his wits, then answer: "Eh?" He had no thoughts.
Vasilisa Vasena came every morning at seven o'clock; she was a country-woman of about thirty seven, strong, healthy, red-faced, reminiscent of a July day in her floridness and vigorous health. She used to say quietly: "Good morning to you, Ippolyte Ippolytovich." And he would give a base "Eh?" in a voice like a worn-out gramophone record.
He has come to have a look at me before I die." Vasena promptly answered: "Lord! you are not so young as to...." They were silent. The old man lay back on the sofa and slept. "Ippolyte Ippolytovich, you must take your walk!" "Eh?" It was a "St. Martin's Summer."
His father looked at him from beneath his cap, gave a feeble smile, then said after a pause: "Eh?" Vasena answered for him: "You may well ask how he is doing, Ilya Ippolytovich! Why, we are fearing the worst every day." Ilya threw her a reproachful glance and said loudly: "It is nonsense, father! You have still a hundred years to live! You are tired, let us sit down here and have a talk together."
Ippolyte Ippolytovich was silent and indifferent, only at moments, half-closing and screwing up his eyes, and straightening out his lips, he laughed: "He-he! He-he!" Then added, slyly: "I am dying, you say? He-he! He- he!" Ilya Ippolytovich walked through the empty rooms of the dying house. How dusty and mouldy it seemed!
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