"Yes. Vassily, it is bad. Had you come to me two days sooner I could have cured you in the twinkling of an eye; now, however, there is inflammation, which may easily turn to mortification."
"Impossible! Kapiton Timofeïtch!"
"But I tell you it is so!"
"How can it be?"
The surgeon merely shrugged his shoulders.
"And must I die for such a rubbishy thing?"
"I do not say that you must die — but you must stay here."
The peasant thought and thought, looked down on the ground, then upwards, scratched his head, and finally seized his cap.
"Where are you going, Vassily?"
"Where? why, home of course, if it is really so bad. If it be so, I must settle my affairs."
"But you will do yourself harm, Vassily; I wonder how you got here at all. Do stay here."
"No, friend Kapiton Timofeïtch; if I am to die so soon, I will die at home. Why should I die here? God only knows what might happen at home!"
"One cannot tell, Vassily, what turn your case may take: anyhow it is a dangerous one, very dangerous, no doubt of that — and for that very reason you must stay here."
The peasant shook his head.
"No, Kapiton Timofeïtch, I will not stay — but you might give me a prescription."
"Medicine alone will do no good."
"I tell you I cannot stay."
"Well, as you like. — But don't blame me afterwards."
The surgeon tore a leaf from the album, wrote a prescription, and explained to him the necessary treatment. The peasant took the paper, gave Kapiton a silver half-rouble, went out, and seated himself in his telega.
"Good-bye, then, Kapiton Timofeïtch; do not take it amiss, and think of the orphans if anything should" — he called back to him.
"Oh, Vassily, do stay here!"
The peasant only shook his head, hit his horse with the reins, and drove out of the yard. I went into the street and looked after him. The road was muddy and rough; the miller drove carefully and slowly, guided his horse with skill, and courteously greeted the passers-by. — Four days afterwards he was dead.
The Russian does indeed die in a remarkable way. How many instances I can call to mind! I remember you, my old friend, O unsuccessful student, Avenir Sorokoumoff, best and noblest of men! I see again your sallow consumptive face, your scanty fair hair, your gentle smile, your inspired gaze, your long limbs. I can hear your feeble friendly voice. You were living with a country gentleman in Great Russia, by name Gur Krupianikoff ; instructing his children Fofa and Sosa in Russian grammar, geography, and history; you bore with patience Gur's coarse jokes, the odious familiarity of the agent, and the naughtiness of the unruly boys; without a murmur, although smiling bitterly, you complied with the exacting caprices of their ennui listless mother.
How happy you were, however, in the evenings, when, after supper, you could at last rest and be free from all duties. Then you sat at the window, thoughtfully smoking your pipe, or eagerly skimming the dirty and torn newspaper which the land-surveyor, a homeless waif like yourself, had brought from the town. How pleased you were with the poetry and tales; tears glistened in your eyes, a blissful smile played on your lips; and what generous sympathy for all that was noble and beautiful filled your soul, pure as a little child's! One must tell the truth; you were not remarkable for over great sharpness of intellect; nature had not endowed you with any great memory or industry; at the university you were reckoned among the worst of students; you slept through the lectures, and at the examination you preserved a solemn silence; but who was it whose eyes sparkled, and who became almost breathless with delight, at the success and the triumph of a companion? who but you, Avenir! who believed blindly in the value of his friends, who fondly sang their praises, who stubbornly defended them? who was it that knew neither envy nor selfishness, who always sacrificed himself, and voluntarily placed himself below people who were not fit to black his shoes? — that was ever you, my good Avenir! I remember now how you parted from your comrades with a breaking heart, when you went to fulfil your vocation; evil presentiments overpowered you. They came true; you were badly off in the country; there you had no one to whom you could listen with reverence, no one whom you could admire and love. The sons of the steppes, as well as the educated country gentlefolk, treated you as a tutor; the former did so roughly, the latter contemptuously. It must be owned
