Olga Ivanovna made no reply, but went on weeping.  After waiting for an answer the doctor shrugged his shoulders and went out.

“I will come to-morrow,” he called from the passage.

All the way home, as he sat in his carriage, he was shrugging his shoulders and muttering: 

“What a pity that I don’t know how to speak!  I haven’t the gift of persuading and convincing.  It’s evident she does not understand me since she lies!  It’s evident!  How can I make her see?  How?”

TOO EARLY!

THE bells are ringing for service in the village of Shalmovo.  The sun is already kissing the earth on the horizon; it has turned crimson and will soon disappear.  In Semyon’s pothouse, which has lately changed its name and become a restaurant—­a title quite out of keeping with the wretched little hut with its thatch torn off its roof, and its couple of dingy windows—­two peasant sportsmen are sitting.  One of them is called Filimon Slyunka; he is an old man of sixty, formerly a house-serf, belonging to the Counts Zavalin, by trade a carpenter.  He has at one time been employed in a nail factory, has been turned off for drunkenness and idleness, and now lives upon his old wife, who begs for alms.  He is thin and weak, with a mangy-looking little beard, speaks with a hissing sound, and after every word twitches the right side of his face and jerkily shrugs his right shoulder.  The other, Ignat Ryabov, a sturdy, broad-shouldered peasant who never does anything and is everlastingly silent, is sitting in the corner under a big string of bread rings.  The door, opening inwards, throws a thick shadow upon him, so that Slyunka and Semyon the publican can see nothing but his patched knees, his long fleshy nose, and a big tuft of hair which has escaped from the thick uncombed tangle covering his head.  Semyon, a sickly little man, with a pale face and a long sinewy neck, stands behind his counter, looks mournfully at the string of bread rings, and coughs meekly.

“You think it over now, if you have any sense,” Slyunka says to him, twitching his cheek.  “You have the thing lying by unused and get no sort of benefit from it.  While we need it.  A sportsman without a gun is like a sacristan without a voice.  You ought to understand that, but I see you don’t understand it, so you can have no real sense. . . .  Hand it over!”

“You left the gun in pledge, you know!” says Semyon in a thin womanish little voice, sighing deeply, and not taking his eyes off the string of bread rings.  “Hand over the rouble you borrowed, and then take your gun.”

“I haven’t got a rouble.  I swear to you, Semyon Mitritch, as God sees me:  you give me the gun and I will go to-day with Ignashka and bring it you back again.  I’ll bring it back, strike me dead.  May I have happiness neither in this world nor the next, if I don’t.”

“Semyon Mitritch, do give it,” Ignat Ryabov says in his bass, and his voice betrays a passionate desire to get what he asks for.