Does not living man recognize life, the world, the sun, all that is around and within him, through himself? he reflected. A man dies, and the world dies for him. Thenceforward he feels and recognises nothing. Nothing! Then what is the use of living, developing, working, when in the end there will be--nothing?... Was there no great wisdom in his father's hundred years? Nor in his fatherhood? A crane was crying somewhere overhead. The sound came from a scarcely visible dark arrow in the cloudless sky, which flew south. Red, frost-covered leaves were rustling underfoot. Ilya's face was pale, the wrinkles round his lips made him seem tired and feeble. He had spent his whole life alone, in the solitude of a cold studio, living arduously among pictures, for the sake of pictures. To what end? VII Ippolyte Ippolytovich sat in the large, bare dining-room eating chicken cutlets and broth. A napkin was tied round his neck as if he were a child. Vasena fed him from a tea-spoon, and afterwards led him into his study. The old man lay down on a sofa, put his hand behind his head and fell asleep, his eyes half-open. Ilya went to him in the study. He again made a pretence of being cheerful, but his tired eyes betrayed grief, and behind his clean- shaven face, his grey English coat, and yellow boots, somehow one felt there was a great shaken and puzzled soul suffering, yet seeking to conceal its anguish. He sat down at his father's feet. For a long time the old man searched his face with his eyes, then in a scraping, worn-out piping voice, said: "Eh?" "It is so long since we met, father, I am longing to have a chat with you! Somehow I have no one dearer to me than you! Absolutely no one! How are you, sir?" The old man gazed before him with bleary eyes. He did not seem to have heard. But suddenly screwing up his eyes, straightening out his lips and opening his empty jaws, he laughed: "He-he! he-he!" he laughed, and said jovially: "I am dying soon. He- he! he-he!" However, Ilya no longer felt as embarrassed as on that first occasion on the terrace. In a hasty undertone, almost under his breath, he asked: "But aren't you afraid?" "No! He-he!" "Don't you believe in God?" "No! He-he!" They were silent for a long time after that. Then the old man raised himself on his elbows with a sly grin. "You see," he said, "when a man is worn out ... sleep is the best thing for him ... that is so with dying ... one wants to die.... Understand? When a man is worn out...." He was silent for a moment, then grinned and repeated: "He-he! He-he! Understand?" Ilya gave his father a long look, standing there motionless, with wide-open eyes, feeling a thrill of utter horror. But the old man was already slumbering. VIII Day faded. The blue autumnal twilight spread over the earth and peeped in through the windows. A purple mist filled the room with vague, spectral shadows. Outside was a white frost. A silvery moon triumphantly rode the clear cold over-arching sky.