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Updated: June 19, 2025
"What, is he not dead? ..." "Who?" "The learned one...." "Philip? Ye-es!" "Did you forget? ... Alas!" said Tyapa, hoarsely. The Captain rose to his feet, yawned and stretched himself till all his bones cracked. "Well, then! Go and give information..." "I will not go ... I do not like them," said the Captain, morosely. "Well, then, wake up the Deacon... I shall go, at any rate."
The brazen sound coming from the belfry rang out into the dark and died away, and before its last indistinct note was drowned another stroke was heard and the monotonous silence was again broken by the melancholy clang of bells. The next morning Tyapa was the first to wake up. Lying on his back he looked up into the sky.
The lamp was a bad one... The light was fitful, and dark shadows flickered on the dosshouse walls. The Captain watched them, scratching his beard. Tyapa returned bringing a vedro of water, and placing it by the teacher's head, he took his arm as if to raise him up. "The water is not necessary," and the Captain shook his head. "But we must try to revive him," said the old ragcollector.
"What kind of a man are you? . . . Your soul seems to be torn away and you still continue speaking . . . as if you knew something . . . It would be better if you were silent." "Ah, Tyapa, what you say is true," replied the teacher sadly.
Then he sat by the side of the dead man and sighed, as he remembered that they had lived together for the last three years. Tyapa entered holding his head like a goat which is ready to butt. He sat down quietly and seriously on the opposite side of the teacher's body, looked into the dark, silent face, and began to sob. "So ... he is dead ... I too shall die soon..."
Tyapa, as a rule, spoke in a hoarse and hardly audible voice, and that is why he spoke very little, and loved to be alone. But whenever a stranger, compelled to leave the village, appeared in the dosshouse, Tyapa seemed sadder and angrier, and followed the unfortunate about with biting jeers and a wicked chuckling in his throat.
"Splendid!" cry the people, approving the orator's deduction, and Tyapa bellows all the time, scratching his breast. He always bellows like this as he drinks his first glass of vodki, when he has a drunken headache. The Captain beams with joy. They next read the correspondence. This is, for the Captain, "an abundance of drinks," as he himself calls it.
The Deacon tried to get up, but fell and swore loudly. When Tyapa had gone the Captain touched Martyanoff's shoulder and said in low tones: "Well, Martyanoff . . . You must feel it more then the others. You were . . . But let that go to the Devil . . . Don't you pity Philip?"
"It teaches one.... I learned to read there.... I also got this book.... And all these you see, free...." When the teacher appeared in the dosshouse, Tyapa had already lived there for some time. He looked long into the teacher's face, as if to discover what kind of a man he was.
Tyapa, as a rule, spoke in a hoarse and hardly audible voice, and that is why he spoke very little, and loved to be alone. But whenever a stranger, compelled to leave the village, appeared in the dosshouse, Tyapa seemed sadder and angrier, and followed the unfortunate about with biting jeers and a wicked chuckling in his throat.
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