The coach was ready, but the driver loitered. He had gone into the driver's
cottage,[89] where it was warm, close, dark, and suffocating; smelling of
human occupation, of cooking bread, of cabbage, and of sheep-skin garments.
[Footnote 89: _izbá._]
Several drivers were in the room; the cook was engaged near the oven, on
top of which lay a sick man wrapped up in pelts.
"Uncle Khveódor! hey! Uncle Khveódor," called a young man, the driver, in a
tulup, and with his knout in his belt, coming into the room, and addressing
the sick man.
"What do you want, rattlepate? What are you calling to Fyédka[90] for?"
demanded one of the drivers. "There's your carriage waiting for you."
[Footnote 90: Fyédka and Fyédya are diminutives of Feódor, Theodore.]
"I want to borrow his boots. Mine are worn out," replied the young fellow,
tossing back his curls and straightening his mittens in his belt. "Why? is
he asleep? Say, Uncle Khveódor!" he insisted, going to the oven.
"What is it?" a weak voice was heard saying, and a blowsy, emaciated face
was lifted up from the oven.
A broad, gaunt hand, bloodless and covered with hairs, pulled up his
overcoat over the dirty shirt that covered his bony shoulder. "Give me
something to drink, brother; what is it you want?"
The young fellow handed him a small dish of water.
"I say, Fyédya," said he, hesitating, "I reckon you won't want your new
boots now; let me have them? Probably you won't need them any more."
The sick man dropping his weary head down to the lacquered bowl, and
dipping his thin, hanging mustache in the brown water, drank feebly and
eagerly.
His tangled beard was unclean; his sunken, clouded eyes were with
difficulty raised to the young man's face. When he had finished drinking,
he tried to raise his hand to wipe his wet lips, but his strength failed
him, and he wiped them on the sleeve of his overcoat. Silently, and
breathing with difficulty through his nose, he looked straight into the
young man's eyes, and tried to collect his strength.
"Maybe you have promised them to some one else?" said the young driver. "If
that's so, all right. The worst of it is, it is wet outside, and I have to
go out to my work, and so I said to myself, 'I reckon I'll ask Fyédka for
his boots; I reckon he won't be needing them.' But maybe you will need
them,--just say"....
Something began to bubble up and rumble in the sick man's chest; he bent
over, and began to strangle, with a cough that rattled in his throat.
"Now I should like to know where he would need them?" unexpectedly snapped
out the cook, angrily addressing the whole hovel. "This is the second month
that he has not crept down from the oven. Just see how he is all broken up!
and you can hear how it must hurt him inside. Where would he need boots?
They would not think of burying him in new ones! And it was time long ago,
God pardon me the sin of saying so. Just see how he chokes! He ought to be
taken from this hovel to another, or somewhere. They say there's hospitals
in the city; but what's you going to do? he takes up the whole room, and
that's too much. There isn't any room at all. And yet you are expected to
keep neat."
"Hey! Seryóha, come along, take your place, the people are waiting," cried
the head man of the station, coming to the door.
Seryóha started to go without waiting for his reply, but the sick man
during his cough intimated by his eyes that he was going to speak.
"You can take the boots, Seryóha," said he, conquering the cough and
getting his breath a little. "Only, do you hear, buy me a stone when I am
dead," he added hoarsely.
"Thank you, uncle; then I will take them, and as for the
stone,--_éï-éï!_--I will buy you one."
"There, children, you are witnesses," the sick man was able to articulate,
and then once more he bent over and began to choke.
"All right, we have heard," said one of the drivers. "But run, Seryóha, or
else the stárosta will be after you again. You know Lady Shirkínskaya is
sick."
Seryóha quickly pulled off his ragged, unwieldy boots, and flung them under
the bench. Uncle Feódor's fitted his feet exactly, and the young driver
could not keep his eyes off them as he went to the carriage.
"_Ek!_ what splendid boots! Here's some grease," called another driver with
the grease-pot in his hand, as Seryóha mounted to his box and gathered up
the reins. "Get them for nothing?"
"So you're jealous, are you?" cried Seryóha, lifting up and tucking around
his legs the tails of his overcoat. "Off with you, my darlings," he cried
to the horses, cracking his knout; and the coach and barouche with their
occupants, trunks, and other belongings, were hidden in the thick autumnal
mist, and rapidly whirled away over the wet road.
The sick driver remained on the oven in the stifling hovel, and, not being
able to throw off the phlegm, by a supreme effort turned over on the
other-side, and stopped coughing.
Till evening there was a continual coming and going, and eating of meals in
the hovel, and the sick man was not noticed. Before night came on, the cook
climbed upon the oven, and pulled off the sheep-skin from his legs.
"Don't be angry with me, Nastásya," murmured the sick man. "I shall soon
leave you your room."
"All right, all right, it's of no consequence. But what is the matter with
you, uncle? Tell me."
"All my innards are gnawed out, God knows what it is!"
"And I don't doubt your gullet hurts you when you cough so?"
"It hurts me all over. My death is at hand, that's what it is. _Okh! Okh!
Okh!_" groaned the sick man.
"Now cover up your legs this way," said Nastásya, comfortably arranging the
overcoat so that it would cover him, and then getting down from the oven.
During the night the hovel was faintly lighted by a single taper. Nastásya
and a dozen drivers were sleeping, snoring loudly, on the floor and the
benches. Only the sick man feebly choked and coughed, and tossed on the
oven.
In the morning no sound was heard from him.
"I saw something wonderful in my sleep," said the cook, as she stretched
herself in the early twilight the next morning. "I seemed to see Uncle
Khveódor get down from the oven, and go out to cut wood. 'Look here,' says
he, 'I'm going to help you, Násya;' and I says to him, 'How can you split
wood?' but he seizes the hatchet, and begins to cut so fast, so fast that
nothing but chips fly. 'Why,' says I, 'ain't you been sick?'--'No,' says
he, 'I am well,' and he kind of lifted up the axe, and I was scared; and I
screamed and woke up. He can't be dead, can he?--Uncle Khveódor! hey,
uncle!"
Feódor did not move.
"Now he can't be dead, can he? Go and see," said one of the drivers who had
just waked up. The emaciated hand, covered with reddish hair, that hung
down from the oven, was cold and pale.
"Go tell the superintendent; it seems he is dead," said the driver.
Feódor had no relatives. He was a stranger. On the next day they buried him
in the new burying-ground behind the grove; and Nastásya for many days had
to tell everybody of the dream which she had seen, and how she had been the
first to discover that Uncle Feódor was dead.