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Committee the errand girl brought Izvestiya , and Arkhip Ivanovich got wrapped up in the newspapers by the river. The sun was already disappearing into the west, the yellow dusk was creeping up, from the Volkovich garden descended the smell of raspberries, and in the kitchen-gardens the gaily colored garden girls bawled out their song. And in the cathedral the chimes rang out–Dong! Dong! Dong!–like a stone thrown into a creek of water lilies. At half past seven–for an hour–Arkhip Ivanovich went off to town, and when he returned he went to his own clean half and sat down at the table and remained seated, like his father, very erect. The father helped the son, counted on the abacus, added up figures quickly and accurately. It was gradually getting dark, the sky was green then became blue, became crystal.
    And then in the barracks they began to play ‘Taps,’ and the girls in the kitchen-gardens sang something very sad. At dusk the cows were rounded up, and Ivan Spiridonovich went to meet and milk them. And when he returned, Arkhip Ivanovich had already finished counting, had folded the papers and was standing in the middle of the room. In the room it was dark, and the moonlight fell onto the transom of the window frames and onto the floor. The son was, like the father, short of stature, hairy, with a spade-beard and was standing, like his father, hands behind his back–heavy hands. Ivan Spiridonovich stood for a moment by the door and went out, and returned with a candle, placed the candle on the floor, sat down himself near the table, elbows placed on the table.
    â€œArkhip, I have to have a talk to you. Listen,” said the old man strictly. “It was once stated by a certain learned philosopher that if it took a man two months to die, and during that time he had to suffer from an illness, then better than that, he should look after himself… You have already said you agree with this, because death is no longer so terrible,” said Ivan Spiridonovich, quietly and slowly, carefully choosing his words; his head was lowered.
    Arkhip Ivanovich moved away.
    â€œTalk sense, father,” said the son quietly. “What are you getting at? Do you hear?”–and then when the son said this “do you hear,” his voice trembled.
    â€œI was at Daniil Alexandrovich’s hospital today. And he told me that I have an incurable disease, cancer of the stomach, two months from now I’ll be dead, and meanwhile I’m to suffer and be tortured with terrible tortures. Understand?”
    Arkhip Ivanovich paced out a strange circle around the room: started to walk quickly towards his father, but, after taking two steps, turned sharply to the door, but again turned back and went and stood calmly by the writing table, by the window, with his back to his father.
    â€œYou said, Arkhip, as I understand it, that the earlier the better. This is what you said, is that what you think?”
    Arkhip Ivanovich did not reply at once and answered quietly:
    â€œYes. That’s what I think,” he said quietly.
    â€œThat is that rather than die–one should look after oneself?”
    â€œYes,” he said tonelessly.
    â€œAnd I also think that. You know, once you’re dead–there’ll be nothing, that’s the end. There’ll be nothing.”
    â€œOnly, father,”–and the word ‘father’ stammered painfully. “You know you’re my father–I’ve lived all my life with you, I’m alive because of you–you understand, that makes me sick!”
    Ivan Spiridonovich fidgeted about on the chair, as if he were looking for something, then he got up and stood for a moment–and walked over to his son, placed his hands on his son’s shoulders from behind, pressed his head against the leather jacket, against his back.
    â€œI know. I understand. You’re–my son! I wondered for a long time–should I speak to you,