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dampness. Ivan Spiridonovich bent a cherry tree branch towards himself, drops of dew fell off. Ivan then pulled off a twig, sniffed at the leaves, smoothed them out between his fingers and said aloud, thoughtfully and somberly,
    â€œAll the same, life is a beautiful thing.”
    And so, with the twig, he walked up to the hospital, surrounded by gay Christmas trees. In the hospital he sat in Doctor Nevleninov’s study, at the writing desk, as if at home, motionless, his elbows resting on the white blotting paper. Daniil Alexandrovich came in with Natalya Yevgrafovna and Natalya Yevgrafovna, dressed all in white, stood silently to one side, by the window.
    â€œYou know me, Daniil Alexandrovich, so don’t beat about the bush,”–Ivan Spiridonovich began speaking first, without saying ‘hello.’
    â€œYou’ve done all the tests, then? Cancer?”
    â€œCancer,” answered Natalya Yevgrafovna.
    â€œAnd there’s no mistake?”
    â€œNo, we checked very carefully.”
    â€œThat’s it, then, cancer!”
    â€œYes.”
    Ivan Spiridonovich crossed his gnarled fingers, grinned sullenly, was silent.
    â€œSo… I’ve had a read of your book, Daniil Alexandrovich. It says there that cancer of the stomach is an incurable disease. So it must be death, then.”
    â€œYou could have an operation,” answered Natalya Yevgrafovna quietly.
    â€œI could have an operation, quite true. But you know yourself it’s only a stop-gap measure,” said Ivan Spiridonovich, who was addressing Daniil Alexandrovich the whole time.
    â€œYou’ll perform the operation on me, and in two months time another will be needed. At my age it’s difficult for me to stand pain. Yes, and a year’s enough!” Ivan Spiridonovich for a moment was silent. “You know yourself, Daniil Alexandrovich… Yes…” and fell silent.
    Here there was an uneasy moment. Ivan Spiridonovich closely followed Daniil Alexandrovich’s eyes; and these eyes, gray, large, in an old face, sad and tender, suddenly shied away from the dark eyes of Ivan Spiridonovich; Ivan Spiridonovich lifted his head high, round his neck he wore a white kerchief instead of a tie, and the kerchief was visible.
    â€œWell, goodbye then!”
    â€œAnd what sort of food are you getting?” Natalya Yevgrafovna asked, hurried to ask.
    â€œMilk. O.K? I drink a glass a day. You must have other patients to see… Goodbye!”
    â€œNo, wait, don’t rush off, Ivan!”
    â€œYes, goodbye, Danya! All the best!”
    This was said by all three at once. And that was bad.
    Daniil Alexandrovich was trying to hold Ivan Spiridonovich back, but he would not stay and hurried away. Only in the hallway, when he had put on his hat, did Ivan Spiridonovich turn round quickly, firmly shake Daniil Alexandrovich’s hand and kiss him.
    â€œYou know it’s death. Let me kiss you again!”
    In Ivan Spiridonovich’s eyes the tears welled up, Daniil Alexandrovich hugged him closely to himself. Natalya Yevgrafovna walked across the hall. Ivan Spiridonovich turned to the wall and said tonelessly:
    â€œWe old folk must make way for the young. Let them live!”
    On that day, at that hour intrepid was the word written in the Executive Committee room–by the son Arkhip Arkhipov: – TO BE SHOT.
    At home Ivan Spiridonovich lay down on the settee with his face to the wall–and lay like this motionlessly for his son. And his son came at five, that is at half past three by the sun. And they spent the day together, with domestic matters and problems, till the evening ‘Taps,’ which is always played in the
barracks, at nine by the sun. At six Arkhip Ivanovich lugged water up from the Vologa to the garden beds, watered the cucumbers and cabbages. Down by the Vologa he would examine his fishing tackle (he loved to fish), put two young perch in as bait, from the Executive