‘But can’t we,’ I thought, looking
at his wasted face, ’get him away from here?
Perhaps there may still be a chance of curing him.’
But Avenir cut short my suggestion.
‘No, brother, thanks,’ he said; ’it
makes no difference where one dies. I shan’t
live till the winter, you see.... Why give trouble
for nothing? I’m used to this house.
It’s true the people...’
‘They’re unkind, eh?’ I put in.
’No, not unkind! but wooden-headed creatures.
However, I can’t complain of them. There
are neighbours: there’s a Mr. Kasatkin’s
daughter, a cultivated, kind, charming girl... not
proud...’
Sorokoumov began coughing again.
‘I shouldn’t mind anything,’ he
went on, after taking breath, ’if they’d
only let me smoke my pipe.... But I’ll have
my pipe, if I die for it!’ he added, with a
sly wink. ’Thank God, I have had life enough!
I have known so many fine people.
‘But you should, at least, write to your relations,’
I interrupted.
’Why write to them? They can’t be
any help; when I die they’ll hear of it.
But, why talk about it... I’d rather you’d
tell me what you saw abroad.’
I began to tell him my experiences. He seemed
positively to gloat over my story. Towards evening
I left, and ten days later I received the following
letter from Mr. Krupyanikov:
’I have the honour to inform you, my dear sir,
that your friend, the student, living in my house,
Mr. Avenir Sorokoumov, died at two o’clock in
the afternoon, three days ago, and was buried to-day,
at my expense, in the parish church. He asked
me to forward you the books and manuscripts enclosed
herewith. He was found to have twenty-two roubles
and a half, which, with the rest of his belongings,
pass into the possession of his relatives. Your
friend died fully conscious, and, I may say, with
so little sensibility that he showed no signs of regret
even when the whole family of us took a last farewell
of him. My wife, Kleopatra Aleksandrovna, sends
you her regards. The death of your friend has,
of course, affected her nerves; as regards myself,
I am, thank God, in good health, and have the honour
to remain, your humble servant,’
‘G. Krupyanikov.’
Many more examples recur to me, but one cannot relate
everything. I will confine myself to one.
I was present at an old lady’s death-bed; the
priest had begun reading the prayers for the dying
over her, but, suddenly noticing that the patient
seemed to be actually dying, he made haste to give
her the cross to kiss. The lady turned away with
an air of displeasure. ’You’re in
too great a hurry, father,’ she said, in a voice
almost inarticulate; ’in too great a hurry.’...
She kissed the cross, put her hand under the pillow
and expired. Under the pillow was a silver rouble;
she had meant to pay the priest for the service at
her own death....
Yes, the Russians die in a wonderful way.
