How the Old Man Died
From the very morning, the old man's suffering was worse. He was seized by an agonizing exhaustion...He had been weak as a kitten for a month at least, but that particular day, there was a special kind of weakness. There was a spot of melancholy somewhere below his heart-a pathetic mood that made him feel like inciting to tears. He wasn't exactly frightened; he was more surprised, for he had never experienced such a weariness before. From time to time, he felt that he was losing the use of his legs. He would wiggle his toes just to make sure. Then his left hand would suddenly go numb. But when he tried to move it, everything felt all right. God only knew how bon-weary he really was...
He bore it till midday, hoping he would get better or that the heartache would ease up at least and he would feel like smoking a cigarette or having a drink of water. Suddenly, he realized death was fast approaching.
"Look here, old woman..." he said to his wife, who was no spring chicken herself. "Look here... I think I'm dying."
"For the love of God!" ex claimed the old woman. "Why on earth are you thinking up such nonsense?"
"Could you take me down from here? I'm tired of lying like this," said the old man who was stretched out on the stove-bed.
"For God's sake, get me down."
"I can't do it by myself. I'll have to get Yegor to help me."
"Yes, go and fetch him. Do' you think he's home?"
"I saw him fiddling about in his vegetable garden. I'll go get him..."
The old woman put on her coat and went out, letting a frosty cloud of cold air into the house as she shut the door.
"It's winter, and my death will cause a heap of trouble..." thought the old man.
Their neighbor Yegor came in, cursing the bitter cold.
"Wait a bit. Uncle Stepan," he said. "Let me warm up a little, and I'll come get you down. I don't want you to catch your death of a cold from me. Are you feeling worse, or what?"
"Can't get much worse than this, Yegor. I'm dying."
"What's all the rush? Don't panic."
"Panic or not, this is it. Is it really freezing outside?"
"Oh, it's about fifty below," said Yegor, lighting a cigarette. "And there's not enough snow on the fields to cover a gnat's ass. That'll be bad for the crops, sure enough. They're trying to haul in some snow from other places for the fields, but it's a fool's errand."
"Maybe it'll snow again..."
"Not much chance of that. Well now, let's get you down from there..."
The old woman fluffed up the old man's pillow and smoothed the feather-bed. Yegor stepped onto the bench by the stove and scooped the old man up in his powerful arms.
"Hold onto my neck, all right? That's it! You're light as a feather. Uncle Stepan."
"I've just wasted away this last months..."
"You weigh less than a child. Why, my Kolya is a good sight heavier than you."
Yegor put the old man onto the bed, and his wife covered him with a sheepskin coat.
"Do you want me to roll you some tobacco? Do you feel like a smoke?" Yegor offered.
"No, thanks. I don't feel like it. My God," muttered the old man with a sigh, "it sure is troublesome to die in winter..."
"Please, stop all that talk!" said Yegor earnestly. "You have to chase all those black thoughts away." He moved his stool closer to the bed and sat down. "You know, during the war, I got wounded pretty bad. I thought I was done for. But the doc said. If you wanna live, you will. If you don't then you'll die for sure.' I was so weak, I couldn't even say a word. But I lay there in that bed and bought: Why shouldn't I want to live? What a stupid thing to say...' So you'd better just relax and start thinking about how much you want to live."
The old man grinned wearily.
"Give me a drag," he said.
Yegor handed him a cigarette. The old man inhaled deeply and started coughing. He coughed for a long time...
"I'm so full of holes the smoke goes straight to my stomach."
Yegor gave a chuckle.
"Where does it pain you the worst?" asked the old woman, staring at her husband with pity which, for some unknown reason, was mixed with irritation.
"It hurts everywhere... I'm so tired, I feel like alt the blood's been drained out of me."
The three of them kept their peace for a while.
"Well, I'd better get going, Uncle Stepan," Yegor said. "I've got to feed and water the livestock yet..."
"Well, go ahead if you've got to."
"I'll drop by towards evening to see how you're doing."
"Yes, you do that, son."
So Yegor left.
"You know why you're so weak? You haven't been eating anything, that's why," the old woman told him.
"Maybe I should go get one of the hens and wring her neck. Then I could make you some broth. Chicken broth always tastes so good when it's fresh, uh?
The old man thought.
"Don't bother. There's no sense wasting a chicken on me..."
"Never mind the chicken. I want to do it if you think it'd make you feel better."
"Don't bother," the old man repeated. "I'd rather have half a glass of vodka. That might get my blood flowing a bit faster."
The old woman went over to the cupboard and took out a quarter-liter bottle. It was carefully corked. The bottle was a bit more than half full.
"I hope it won't do you too much harm."
"When did vodka ever do a body any harm?" the old man snapped with vexation. "You've been fussing about my vodka all your life, because you've never been able to get it through your thick skull that vodka is the best medicine of all. You're a bunch of dunderheads, the lot of you."
"Just don't get started!" the old woman replied, equally vexed. "You and your dunderheads. One foot in the grave, and there you are mad as a wet hen. The doctor says you're not supposed to worry."
"Doctors are always saying people mustn't die either. But they keep on dying."
The old woman poured half a glass of vodka and handed it to the old man. He took a sip and nearly choked on it.
The alcohol dribbled from his lips. He lay motionless for quite a while then wheezed with difficulty:
"No, I guess there's a time a man should lay off the sauce."
The old woman stood staring at him with pity. She kept staring at him until she let out a sob, saying:
"Look here, old man... God forbid, but if you really do die, what am I going to do here all alone?!"
The old man kept his peace for a long time, staring sternly at the ceiling. It was hard for him to talk, but in fact, he wanted to start a good long conversation.
"First of all, try to get some old-age support from "Misha. Tell him: 'When your father was on his deathbed, he said it was his dying wish that you look after your mother till the very end.' You tell him that, and if the son-of-a-bitch doesn't do right by you, then take him to court. If he has no sense of shame, you'll have no choice but to do it. After all, you have to get by somehow. Write to Manya and say that boy of hers needs an education. He's smart as a whip and even knows the 'Internationale' by heart. Tell her, 'It was your father's dying wish that you give the boy an education."' The old man was exhausted from the effort and fell silent, staring at the ceiling. The expression on his face was ponderous and stern.
"What should I say to Petya?" asked the old woman, wiping her tears away, for she, too, was in a mood to talk seriously and without any tears.
"Petya?.. Don't bother him. because he can barely mate ends met as it is."
"Maybe I should really make that chicken broth, eh? I'll ask Yegor to wring the hen's neck for me..."
"Don't bother..."
"Why? Are you feeling worse?"
"The same. Let me rest a while," said the old man, closing his eyes and breathing evenly. He looked a lot like a dead man just then, for the expression on his face was one of serenity and estrangement.
"Stepan! " the old woman exclaimed.
"Huh?"
"Don't lie like that..."
"What do you mean, like that? A man's dying, and here she is telling him how he should lie. So tell me how... On all fours?"
"I'll go get the priest so he can administer extreme unction if you don't mind."
"He can go to the devil. Did he ever do me a good turn? And. you'll give him that chicken for nothing. You'd do better giving it to Yegor so he'll dig me a grave. Who else would do it?"
"Oh, I'm sure somebody will..."
"Somebody...' And you'll be running all over the village like a chicken with its head cut off looking for someone to dig that frozen earth. Wintertime... Why couldn't it happen in the summer?"
"Are you sure you're dying? Maybe you'll get better."
"Better? Don't kid yourself... My legs are going numb... Oh God, it's hard," the old man sighed. "Dear God, be merciful to me, a sinner."
The old woman gave another sob.
"Stepan, try to keep your chin up. Remember what Yegor said."
"He doesn't know anything about this sort of thing! He's sound as a bell. Tell him not to die, and he won't."
"Well then, forgive me, old man, if I've done you any wrong."
"God wilt forgive you," the old man mouthed the oftrepeated phrase. He was about to say something important, but suddenly he broke off and glanced around, strangely disturbed...
"Agnusha," he muttered, "forgive me... I was just kidding. Look-there's somebody in the corner. Who's that?"
"Where, Stepan?"
"Over there!.." said the old man, rising on his elbow and peering in terror into the corner of the room closest to him. 'There She* is," he said, "sitting there all holloweyed..."
Yegor came in the evening...
On the bed lay the old man, his white nose sharp as a beak. The old woman was weeping quietly by his bedside...
Yegor took off his hat, stood a while, then silently crossed himself before the icon.
"Yes," he said, "Uncle Stepan felt Her coming before She got here."
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