vasilisa vasena came every morning at seven o'clock; she was a country-woman of about thirty seven, strong, healthy, red-faced, reminiscent of a july day in her floridness and vigorous health.
she used to say quietly: "good morning to you, ippolyte
ippolytovich."
and he would give a base "eh?" in a voice like a worn-out gramophone record.
vasena promptly began washing him with a sponge, then fed him with manna-gruel. the old man sat bent up on the sofa, his hands resting on his knees. he ate slowly from a spoon. they were silent, his eyes gazing inwardly, seeing nothing. sunbeams stole in through the window and glistened on his yellowish hair.
"your good son, ilya ippolytovich, has come," vasena said.
"eh?"
ippolyte ippolytovich had married at about the age of forty; of his three sons only ilya was living. the old man called his son to memory, pictured him in his mind, but felt neither joy nor interest— felt nothing!
dimly, somewhere far away in the dark recesses of his memory, lurked a glimmering, wavering image of his son; at first he saw him as an infant, then as a boy, finally a youth. he recollected that now already he too was almost an old man. it came to him that once, long ago, this image was necessary and very dear to him, that afterwards he had lost sight of it, and that now it had become meaningless to him.
dully, through inertia, the old man inquired: "he has come, you say?"
"yes, came in the night, alone. he is resting now."
"eh? he has come to have a look at me before i die."
vasena promptly answered: "lord! you are not so young as to…."
they were silent. the old man lay back on the sofa and slept.
"ippolyte ippolytovich, you must take your walk!"
"eh?"
it was a "st. martin's summer." over the scattered blood-red vine leaves on the terrace, which was deluged in mellow autumnal sunshine, the bent-up old man walked, leaning heavily on a bamboo cane, and supported by the sturdy vasena. he had a skull-cap pulled down low over his forehead, and wore a long, black overcoat.
