Sometimes the old man relapsed into a state of coma, lasting several
hours. Then life seemed to have ebbed from him entirely. A clay-like
pallor over-spread his face, he had the lips and open, glassy eyes of
a corpse, and he scarcely breathed. Then they sent post-haste for the
doctor, who sprinkled him with camphor, gave him oxygen and produced
artificial respiration. The old man slowly came to, rolling his eyes.
"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...."
Ippolyte Ippolytovich was silent and indifferent, only at moments,
half-closing and screwing up his eyes, and straightening out his
lips, he laughed:
"He-he! He-he!" Then added, slyly: "I am dying, you say? He-he! He-
he!"
V
Ilya Ippolytovich walked through the empty rooms of the dying house.
How dusty and mouldy it seemed! The sun came through the tarnished
window-panes and the specks of dust looked golden in its radiant
light. He entered the room where he had passed his childhood. Dust
lay everywhere, on the window-sills, on the floor, and on the
furniture. Here and there fresh boot-prints were visible. A thin
portmanteau--not belonging to the house and pasted over with many
labels--lay on a table. A hard, icy stillness pervaded the entire
place.
Ilya Ippolytovich was stout like his father, but he still walked
erect. His hair was already thinning and growing grey over the
temples, but his face was clean-shaven, like a youth's. His lips were
wrinkled and he had large, grey, weary eyes.
He felt gloomy and unhappy, because his father's days were numbered;
and he brooded miserably over the awkwardness of approaching death,
wondering how one should behave towards a man who was definitely
doomed. To and fro, from corner to corner, he walked, with restless,
springy steps.
He met his father on the terrace.
"Hallo, father!" he said briskly, with an intentional show of
carelessness.
The old man looked at him blindly, not recognising his son at first.
But afterwards he smiled, went up the steps, and gave his cheek to be
kissed. It smelt of wax.
"Eh?" said the old man.
Ilya kissed him, laughed hilariously, and slapped him lightly on the
shoulder: "It is a long time since we met, father. How are you?"
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."
They sat down on the marble steps of the terrace. Silence. No words
came to Ilya. Try as he might, he could not think what to say.
"Well, I am still painting pictures," he tried at last; "I am
preparing to go abroad."
The old man did not hear him; he looked at his son without seeing or
understanding, plunged in his own reflections.
"You have come to look at me? You think I shall die soon?" he asked
suddenly.
Ilya Ippolytovich grew very pale and muttered confusedly: "What are
you saying, father? What do you mean?"
But his father no longer heard. He had fallen back in his chair, his
eyes half-closed and glassy, his face utterly expressionless. He was
asleep.