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. He again made a pretence of being
cheerful, but his tired eyes betrayed grief, and behind his clean-
shaven face, his grey English coat, and yellow boots, somehow one
felt there was a great shaken and puzzled soul suffering, yet seeking
to conceal its anguish.
He sat down at his father's feet.
For a long time the old man searched his face with his eyes, then in
a scraping, worn-out piping voice, said: "Eh?"
"It is so long since we met, father, I am longing to have a chat with
you! Somehow I have no one dearer to me than you! Absolutely no one!
How are you, sir?"
The old man gazed before him with bleary eyes. He did not seem to
have heard. But suddenly screwing up his eyes, straightening out his
lips and opening his empty jaws, he laughed:
"He-he! he-he!" he laughed, and said jovially: "I am dying soon. He-
he! he-he!"
However, Ilya no longer felt as embarrassed as on that first occasion
on the terrace. In a hasty undertone, almost under his breath, he
asked:
"But aren't you afraid?"
"No! He-he!"
"Don't you believe in God?"
"No! He-he!"
They were silent for a long time after that. Then the old man raised
himself on his elbows with a sly grin.
"You see," he said, "when a man is worn out ... sleep is the best
thing for him ... that is so with dying ... one wants to die....
Understand? When a man is worn out...."
He was silent for a moment, then grinned and repeated:
"He-he! He-he! Understand?"
Ilya gave his father a long look, standing there motionless, with
wide-open eyes, feeling a thrill of utter horror.
But the old man was already slumbering.