But he could not discover the answer to his own question, and so replied:
“So!”
And such a profound thought was conveyed by this short word, that this wreck of a man, whose life was so pitiable and lonely, was convulsed with a fresh burst of scalding tears.
But at his bedside rapacious death was noiselessly taking its seat, and waiting—quietly, patiently, persistently.
THE CITY
It was an immense city in which they lived: Petrov, clerk in a commercial bank, and he, the other,—name unknown.
They used to meet once a year, at Easter, when they both went to pay a visit at one and the same house, that of the Vasilyevskys. Petrov used to pay a visit also at Christmas, but probably the other, whom he used to meet, came at Christmas at a different hour, and so they did not see one another. The first two or three times Petrov did not notice him among so many visitors, but the fourth year his face seemed known to him and they greeted one another with a smile—and the fifth year Petrov proposed to clink glasses with him.
“Your health!” he said politely, and held out his glass.
“Here’s to yours!” the other replied with a smile, and he too held out his glass.
Petrov did not think of asking his name, and when he went out into the street he quite forgot his existence, and the whole year never thought of him again. Every day he went to the bank, where he had been employed for nine years; in the winter he occasionally went to the theatre; in the summer he visited at the bungalow of an acquaintance; and twice he was ill with the influenza—the second time immediately before Easter.