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.