haste, and hurried out into the garden.

There, under an old, spreading apple-tree sat Ignat in a big oaken
armchair. The light of the sun fell in thin stripes through the
branches of the trees upon the white figure of the old man clad in his
night-garments. There was such a profound silence in the garden that
even the rustle of a branch, accidentally touched by Foma's clothes,
seemed to him like a loud sound and he shuddered. On the table, before
his father, stood the samovar, purring like a well-fed tom-cat and
exhaling a stream of steam into the air. Amid the silence and the fresh
verdure of the garden, which had been washed by abundant rains the day
before, this bright spot of the boldly shining, loud brass seemed to
Foma as something unnecessary, as something which suited neither the
time nor the place--nor the feeling that sprang up within him at the
sight of the sickly, bent old man, who was dressed in white, and who sat
alone underneath the mute, motionless, dark-green foliage, wherein red
apples were modestly peeping.

"Be seated," said Ignat.

"We ought to send for a doctor." Foma advised him irresolutely, seating
himself opposite him.

"It isn't necessary. It's a little better now in the open air. And now
I'll sip some tea and perhaps that will do me more good," said Ignat,
pouring out tea into the glasses, and Foma noticed that the teapot was
trembling in his father's hand.

"Drink."

Silently moving up one glass for himself, Foma bent over it, blowing the
foam off the surface of the tea, and with pain in his heart, hearing the
loud, heavy breathing of his father. Suddenly something struck against
the table with such force that the dishes began to rattle.

Foma shuddered, threw up his head and met the frightened, almost
senseless look of his father's eyes. Ignat stared at his son and
whispered hoarsely:

"An apple fell down (the devil take it!). It sounded like the firing of
a gun."

"Won't you have some cognac in your tea?" Foma suggested.

"It is good enough without it."

They became silent. A flight of finches winged past over the garden,
scattering a provokingly cheerful twittering in the air. And again the
ripe beauty of the garden was bathed in solemn silence. The fright was
still in Ignat's eyes.

"Oh Lord, Jesus Christ!" said he in a low voice, making the sign of the
cross. "Yes. There it is--the last hour of my life."

"Stop, papa!" whispered Foma.

"Why stop? We'll have our tea,