the sun was shining, the sky was blue; in the limpid spaces above the earth there was a flood of crystal light.

ilya ippolytovich strolled through the park and thought of his father. the old man had lived a full, rich, and magnificent life. it had possessed so much that was good, bright and necessary. now— death! nothing would remain. nothing! and this nothing was terrible to ilya ippolytovitch.

does not living man recognize life, the world, the sun, all that is around and within him, through himself? he reflected. a man dies, and the world dies for him. thenceforward he feels and recognises nothing. nothing! then what is the use of living, developing, working, when in the end there will be—nothing?… was there no great wisdom in his father's hundred years? nor in his fatherhood?

a crane was crying somewhere overhead. the sound came from a scarcely visible dark arrow in the cloudless sky, which flew south. red, frost-covered leaves were rustling underfoot. ilya's face was pale, the wrinkles round his lips made him seem tired and feeble. he had spent his whole life alone, in the solitude of a cold studio, living arduously among pictures, for the sake of pictures. to what end?