A YOUNG peasant, with white eyebrows and eyelashes and broad
cheekbones, in a torn sheepskin and big black felt overboots, waited
till the Zemstvo doctor had finished seeing his patients and came
out to go home from the hospital; then he went up to him, diffidently.
"Please, your honour," he said.
"What do you want?"
The young man passed the palm of his hand up and over his nose,
looked at the sky, and then answered:
"Please, your honour. . . . You've got my brother Vaska the blacksmith
from Varvarino in the convict ward here, your honour. . . ."
"Yes, what then?"
"I am Vaska's brother, you see. . . . Father has the two of us:
him, Vaska, and me, Kirila; besides us there are three sisters, and
Vaska's a married man with a little one. . . . There are a lot of
us and no one to work. . . . In the smithy it's nearly two years
now since the forge has been heated. I am at the cotton factory, I
can't do smith's work, and how can father work? Let alone work, he
can't eat properly, he can't lift the spoon to his mouth."
"What do you want from me?"
"Be merciful! Let Vaska go!"
The doctor looked wonderingly at Kirila, and without saying a word
walked on. The young peasant ran on in front and flung himself in
a heap at his feet.
"Doctor, kind gentleman!" he besought him, blinking and again passing
his open hand over his nose. "Show heavenly mercy; let Vaska go
home! We shall remember you in our prayers for ever! Your honour,
let him go! They are all starving! Mother's wailing day in, day
out, Vaska's wife's wailing . . . it's worse than death! I don't
care to look upon the light of day. Be merciful; let him go, kind
gentleman!"
"Are you stupid or out of your senses?" asked the doctor angrily.
"How can I let him go? Why, he is a convict."