A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
moving. . . . I fell down in a heap, and when I came to myself, I began to weep and weep . . . I could not stop myself.' . . .
Radilov was silent. I looked at him, then at Olga. . . . I can never forget the expression of her face. The old lady had laid the stocking down on her knees, and taken a handkerchief out of her reticule; she was stealthily wiping away her tears. Fyodor Miheitch suddenly got up, seized his fiddle, and in a wild and hoarse voice began to sing a song. He wanted doubtless to restore our spirits; but we all shuddered at his first note, and Radilov asked him to be quiet.
'Still what is past, is past,' he continued; 'we cannot recall the past, and in the end . . . all is for the best in this world below, as I think Voltaire said,' he added hurriedly.
'Yes,' I replied, ' of course. Besides, every trouble can be endured, and there is no position so terrible that there is no escape from it.'
'Do you think so?' said Radilov. 'Well, perhaps you are right. I recollect I lay once in the hospital in Turkey half dead; I had typhus fever. Well, our quarters were nothing to boast of—of course, in time of war—and we had to thank God for what we had! Suddenly they bring in more sick—where are they to put them? The doctor goes here and there—there is no room left. So he comes up to me and asks the attendant, "Is he alive?" He answers, "He was alive this morning." The doctor bends down, listens; I am breathing.
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