More Tales from Tolstoi
"You never will do what I ask you," said she with a weak and querulous voice. The husband, extending his neck, listened humbly. "What is it, my friend?" " How many times haven't I said that these doctors know nothing-? It is the simple medicines that really cure. . . The little father has just been saying — there's a shopkeeper . . . Send ! " "For whom, my friend?" " My God, you will understand nothing," and the sick woman frowned and closed her eyes. The doctor came up and took her hand'. The pulse was plainly beating feebler and feebler. He beckoned to the husband. The invalid observed the gesture and looked round her in terror. The sister turned aside and wept. " Don'^t weep, don't torture yourself and me ! " said the invalid — " it deprives me of the little calmr ness I have left." "You are an angel," said the sister, kissing her hand. " No, no, kiss me here ! ... it is only coipses whose hands we kiss! My God, my God! " That same evening the invalid was already a corpse, and the corpse was placed upon a bier in the saloon of that large house. In that large apartment, with closed doors, sat a solitary D'yachok[1] singing in cadence through his nose the Psalms of David. The bright light from the wax-candles on the large silver candelabra fell on the white forehead of the defunct,
on her heavy waxen hands, on the stone-stiff folds
- ↑ A church singer.
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