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Updated: May 24, 2025
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."
Vasena, standing by the door, and somewhat resembling a wild animal, answered calmly: "Well he wasn't so young as to.... Haven't we all got to die! What is it to him now? He and his had everything in their day! Dear Lord, they had everything!" Low, downy cloudlets drifted over the sky in the early hours of the morning. Dark, lowering masses followed in their wake.
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."
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.
Over the scattered blood-red vine leaves on the terrace, which was deluged in mellow autumnal sunshine, the bent-up old man walked, leaning heavily on a bamboo cane, and supported by the sturdy Vasena. He had a skull-cap pulled down low over his forehead, and wore a long, black overcoat. Sometimes the old man relapsed into a state of coma, lasting several hours.
Vasena promptly began washing him with a sponge, then fed him with manna-gruel. The old man sat bent up on the sofa, his hands resting on his knees. He ate slowly from a spoon. They were silent, his eyes gazing inwardly, seeing nothing. Sunbeams stole in through the window and glistened on his yellowish hair. "Your good son, Ilya Ippolytovich, has come," Vasena said. "Eh?"
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.
"Another minute and it would have been death," the doctor would say in a deep, grave voice. When the old man had at length recovered, Vasena used to say to him: "Lord! We were so frightened, we were so frightened! ... We thought you were quite gone. Yes, we did. For you know, you are not so young as to...."
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."
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