"That's worth while," replied the doctor.
"Well now, how about her?" asked the husband with a sigh, lowering his voice and raising his brows.
"I have told you that she cannot reach Moscow, much less Italy, especially in such weather."
"What is to be done, then? Oh! my God! my God!"
The husband covered his eyes with his hand.... "Give it here," he added, addressing his man, who came bringing the travelling-case.
"You'll have to stop somewhere on the route," replied the doctor, shrugging his shoulders.
"But tell me, how can that be done?" rejoined the husband. "I have done every thing to keep her from going: I have spoken to her of our means, and of our children whom we should have to leave behind, and of my business. She would not hear a word. She has made her plans for living abroad, as though she were well. But if I should tell her what her real condition is, it would kill her."
"Well, she is a dead woman now: you may as well know it, Vasíli Dmítritch. A person cannot live without lungs, and there is no way of making lungs grow again. It is melancholy, it is hard, but what is to be done about it? It is my business and yours to make her last days as easy as possible. It is the confessor that is needed here."
"Oh, my God! Now just perceive how I am situated, in speaking to her of her last will. Let come whatever may, yet I cannot speak of that. And yet you know how good she is."
"Try at least to persuade her to wait until the roads are frozen," said the doctor, shaking his head significantly: "something might happen during the journey."