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Chapter 37 Death (2)
Another gentleman added at the bottom: Et moi aussi j'aime la nature! Jean Kobyliatnikoff helped the doctor buy six beds with his own money, hoping to heal God's people smoothly.Besides him, there were two other people in the hospital: one was Pavel, a carver who suffered from neurosis, and the other was a woman who worked as a cook with a crippled hand, Beautiful Kitlisa.The two of them prepared potions, dried or soaked herbs, and they cured people with fevers.The neurotic engraver was unhappy and rarely spoke.At night he sang about the "Beautiful Venus," and went up to every passer-by, asking him to let him marry the long-dead Malanian girl.The woman with the crippled arm beat him and made him guard the turkey.Once I went to visit the assistant doctor Kabidong.We had just sat down to talk about our latest hunt, when a wagon came into the yard, pulled by a miller's peculiar, unusually fat, slate-gray horse.In the cart sat a sturdy peasant with a mottled beard and a new coat.

"Ah, Vasily Dmitritch," Kapiton called out through the window, "welcome..."

Then he said to me in a low voice: "This is the miller of Lyubovshino."

Moaning, the farmer got out of the cart, went into the assistant's room, looked up for the icon, and made the sign of the sign of the cross. "Well, Vasily Dmitritch, is there any news? . A bit uncomfortable." "What's the matter?" "Well, Cappyton Timofich. I bought some millstones in town recently, and when I brought them home, I took them out of the car. , Maybe it was too hard, I just felt a shock in my stomach, as if something was broken... I have been uncomfortable since then. Today I am particularly uncomfortable."

"Well," Capbie replied, taking a sniff of snuff, "it's hernia. How long have you been sick?"

"It's the tenth day." "The tenth day?" (The assistant doctor takes a deep breath through his teeth and shakes his head.)
"Let me check and check."

"Oh, Vasily Dmitritch," he said at last, "I sympathize with you, poor fellow, it's not all right with you, you're very ill, stay with me, and I'll do my best. My strength, but I can't guarantee it."

"Is it that powerful?" the surprised miller murmured, as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Yes, Vasili Dmitritch, very powerful. If you had come to me two days earlier, you would have been all right, and you would have recovered in no time, but now you have an infection, which is about to turn into a gangrene."

"It's not true, Capidon Timofitch." "It's true what I told you." "How could this be! (The assistant shrugs his shoulders.) Would I have Die?" "I didn't say...just please stay here." The farmer became thoughtful, looked at the ground, then at us, scratched the back of his head, and reached for his hat. "Where are you going, Vasily Dmitritch?"

"Where are you going? Where else will you go? Since you are so sick, you can only go home. Things are already like this, so we should make some arrangements."

"You're doing yourself a disservice, Vasili Dmitritch, come on. I was just wondering why you came here? Stay here."

"No, old man, Capitoline Timofitch, if you're going to die, you'll have to die at home; and what if you die here—who knows what's going to happen to my house."

"It's not yet certain what your condition is, Vasily Dmitritch ... it must be dangerous, very dangerous, there is no doubt ... that is why you should stay here."

(The farmer shakes his head.) "No, Capbiton Timofitch, I can't stay here . . . I'll ask you for a prescription."

"Just taking medicine is useless." "I told you, you can't stay here." "Then do whatever you want...don't blame me in the future!"

The assistant doctor tore a piece of paper from the booklet, wrote a prescription, and told him what else he should do.The peasant took the prescription, gave Kabyton half a ruble, went out of the room, and got into the car. "Goodbye, Capitoline Timofitch. If there is anything I'm sorry for, please forgive me. In case something happens, please take care of my orphans..."

"Hey, stay here, Vasili!" The farmer didn't speak, but just shook his head, hit the horse with the rein, and drove out of the yard.I walked out into the street and watched him go from behind.The road was muddy and rough, and the miller drove carefully and leisurely, steered his horses swiftly, and greeted everyone he met... On the fourth day he died.

Most Russians die very strangely.Many dead people flooded my memory at once.I remember you, my old friend, a student who did not graduate Avenil Sorokoumov, a wonderful and morally good man!Now I can see your sick blue face again, your thin hazel hair, your humble and kind smile, your ecstatic eyes, your emaciated limbs; kind voice.You lived in the house of the Great Russian landowner Gur Krubyanikov, taught his children Fufa and Zoziya Russian, geography and history, and tolerated the unpleasant banter of the master Gur and the rough kindness of the housekeeper , the naughtiness of vicious boys; you accept the sharp demands of the boring mistress with wry smiles and no regrets.But what a relief whenever you rest after dinner, when at last you can lay aside all responsibilities and business, and sit by the window, smoking a cigarette contemplatively, or leafing greedily through the incomplete and incomplete volume. Oil-stained magazines—brought to you from the city by land surveyors just like you!At that time you were especially fond of all poems and novels, tears came from your eyes easily, and you smiled so contentedly.The sincere love for human beings, the love for all good things, permeates your child-like pure soul!Actually, to be honest, you're not a very witty person.You have neither a long memory nor a natural studiousness.In college you were considered one of the underachievers, you fell asleep during class, and you were too nervous to speak during exams.But who is the one whose eyes are shining with joy for the progress and success of his classmates, and who is the one who is so excited that he can't breathe? —It was Avenir...who believed so easily in the noble mission of his friends, who proudly honored them and defended them with all his might?Who is not envious, who is not vain; who sacrifices himself generously, who willingly obeys those who untie your bootlaces are not worth mentioning? ... all you, all you, our good Avenir!I remember: you said good-bye to your friends with sorrow when you left to fulfill your "engagement";In the country you have no one to reverently listen to, no one to marvel at, no one to admire... Steppe dwellers and educated landowners treat you like other teachers, some with barbaric attitudes, some Feel free to.Besides, your appearance is not attractive.You are shy, you blush, you sweat, you stutter... The country air does not restore your health, you melt like a candle, poor fellow!Indeed, your room faces the garden.The plum tree, the apple tree, the linden tree sprinkle their ethereal, beautiful flowers on your table, your inkwell, your books.On the wall hangs a clock-mat of blue silk, which was given to you at parting by that beautiful, kind, sentimental German woman, the governess with curly blond hair and blue eyes.Occasionally, old friends come to visit you from Moscow and bring out other people's or your own poems, which can make you very happy.But solitude, the grievous slavery of the teaching profession, the pain of loss of liberty, endless autumns and winters, endless sickness... Poor, poor Avenir!

I visited Avenir shortly before his death.He can barely walk anymore.Although the landowner Gul Krubyannikov did not drive him out of the house, he stopped paying him a salary and hired another teacher for Chaozia... and put Fufa in the Secondary School.Avenir sat in an old Voltaire easy chair by the window.The weather was sunny and sunny.The clear autumn sky glowed a cheerful blue over a row of dark-brown linden trees whose leaves had fallen; and here and there the few remaining golden leaves trembled and rustled.The cold earth steamed under the sun's rays and gradually thawed; the slanting, red sunlight fell gently on the pale grass; there was a slight crackling sound in the air; Their clear and distinct voices.Avenir wore a tattered Bukhara toga; the green scarf cast a lifeless hue on his very emaciated face.He was very happy to see me, and held out his hand, ready to speak, but then coughed.I made him stop and sat next to him... Avenir had a carefully copied volume of Korzoff's poems on his lap, and he smiled and patted it gently with his hand. "He's really a poet." He tried his best to control his cough, mumbled, and then began to read in a barely audible voice:
Have the eagle's wings been bound?Is its future blocked?
I stopped him because the doctor wouldn't allow him to talk.I know what he likes.Sorokoumov never really "pursued" science, but he liked to know how far the world of great minds had come.He often stopped a friend in the corner of the room and asked him about things.He listened, amazed, believed what his friend said, and said it over and over again.He had an unusually keen interest in German philosophy.I started talking to him about Hegel (a long time ago, you know).Avenir nodded his head affirmatively, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and said in a low voice: "I understand, I understand! . . . Ah! Excellent, excellent! . . . " This dying, displaced man The childish thirst for knowledge of the lonely and lonely people really moved me to tears.It must be said that Avenir, in contrast to all other pulmonary patients, was well aware of his condition... But what about him? ... neither sighed, nor grieved, and did not even once mention his situation ... He pulled himself together and began to talk about Moscow, about his classmates, about Pushkin, about the theater, about Russian literature.He recalled our dinners, the heated debates in our group, and sadly named two or three dead friends... "Do you remember Daxia?" Then he said, "This lovely man Son! This sweetheart! She loves me so much!... How is she now? The poor thing must have lost weight and haggarded?"

I can't bear to disappoint the patient, and in fact, why should I let him know that his Dassia is much fatter now, is hanging out with the merchants—Brother Kondachikov, powdering, putting on rouge, whining Speak loudly and scold people.

"But," I thought, looking at his terribly tired face, "can I move him out of here? Maybe there is still hope of healing him..." But Arvenir did not let me finish my proposal. .

"No, man, thank you," he said, "it's all the same where I die. I'm not going to survive the winter anyway... Why bother anyone? I'm used to it here. Although The owner here..."

"It's all vicious, right?" I continued. "No, no malice! They're all wooden people. But I can't hate them. There are neighbors here: the landowner Kasatkin has a daughter, an educated, kind, kind girl... not proud..."

Sorokoumov coughed again.

"I don't care about anything else," he went on after a break, "as long as I'm allowed to smoke..." He blinked slyly, then went on: "I'm not going to die like this, I'm going to smoke! Thank God I live Enough is enough, met a lot of good people..."

"You should at least write a letter to your relatives," I went on.

"Why write to my relatives? Help—they won't help me. I'm dead, they'll know sooner or later. But why talk about it? . . knowledge?"

I started talking.He listened carefully.When it was getting dark I left, and about ten days later I received this letter from Mr. Krubyannikov:

Dear Sirs: Your dear friend Mr. Avenil Sorokoumov, a college student living in the dormitory, passed away at 22:[-] p.m. three days ago, and was buried today in the chapel of our diocese at my expense.Your friend asked me to send you books and manuals, which are enclosed with this letter.He still has a sum of [-] and a half rubles, which has been sent to his relatives for receipt together with other items.When your dear friend was dying, his mind was clear, and he was very peaceful, even when he said goodbye to his family members, there was no sign of mourning.My wife, Kleopatra Alexandrovna, greeted me with my pen.My wife mourns the death of your dear friend, and I take care of your health.Please be safe.

Gul Krubyannikov nodded

There are many other examples that come to mind - but I can't list them all, just one more.

I was at the bedside of an old landowner who was dying.The priest began to read the last prayer for her, and suddenly seeing that the patient seemed to be dying, he hurriedly brought the cross to her to kiss.The landlady moved away unhappily. "What are you in a hurry for, priest," she said with a stiff tongue, "it's time..." She kissed the cross respectfully, then just put her hand under the pillow, and died before she could take it out.There was a silver ruble under the pillow: it was what she wanted to pay the priest for her last prayers... Ah, how strange Russians die!
(End of this chapter)