“K-gee!” cried Ivan Ivanitch, “K-g-ee!”

The door opened again and the master came in with a candle.

The gander was sitting in the same attitude as before, with his beak open, and his wings spread out, his eyes were closed.

“Ivan Ivanitch!” his master called him.

The gander did not stir.  His master sat down before him on the floor, looked at him in silence for a minute, and said: 

“Ivan Ivanitch, what is it?  Are you dying?  Oh, I remember now, I remember!” he cried out, and clutched at his head.  “I know why it is!  It’s because the horse stepped on you to-day!  My God!  My God!”

Auntie did not understand what her master was saying, but she saw from his face that he, too, was expecting something dreadful.  She stretched out her head towards the dark window, where it seemed to her some stranger was looking in, and howled.

“He is dying, Auntie!” said her master, and wrung his hands.  “Yes, yes, he is dying!  Death has come into your room.  What are we to do?”

Pale and agitated, the master went back into his room, sighing and shaking his head.  Auntie was afraid to remain in the darkness, and followed her master into his bedroom.  He sat down on the bed and repeated several times:  “My God, what’s to be done?”

Auntie walked about round his feet, and not understanding why she was wretched and why they were all so uneasy, and trying to understand, watched every movement he made.  Fyodor Timofeyitch, who rarely left his little mattress, came into the master’s bedroom too, and began rubbing himself against his feet.  He shook his head as though he wanted to shake painful thoughts out of it, and kept peeping suspiciously under the bed.

The master took a saucer, poured some water from his wash-stand into it, and went to the gander again.

“Drink, Ivan Ivanitch!” he said tenderly, setting the saucer before him; “drink, darling.”

But Ivan Ivanitch did not stir and did not open his eyes.  His master bent his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak into the water, but the gander did not drink, he spread his wings wider than ever, and his head remained lying in the saucer.

“No, there’s nothing to be done now,” sighed his master.  “It’s all over.  Ivan Ivanitch is gone!”

And shining drops, such as one sees on the window-pane when it rains, trickled down his cheeks.  Not understanding what was the matter, Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyitch snuggled up to him and looked with horror at the gander.

“Poor Ivan Ivanitch!” said the master, sighing mournfully.  “And I was dreaming I would take you in the spring into the country, and would walk with you on the green grass.  Dear creature, my good comrade, you are no more!  How shall I do without you now?”

It seemed to Auntie that the same thing would happen to her, that is, that she too, there was no knowing why, would close her eyes, stretch out her paws, open her mouth, and everyone would look at her with horror.  Apparently the same reflections were passing through the brain of Fyodor Timofeyitch.  Never before had the old cat been so morose and gloomy.