"Does he make use of the Elizabeth pills I sent him against gout?"
"Constantly."
"Can he sleep at night?"
"Sometimes, yes; sometimes, no."
"Does he not grumble when it is new moon, or the wind blows?"
"At times. But he soon calms down."
"Of course, he always has that horrid pipe in his mouth, and sits in clouds of smoke like a charcoal-burner."
"What else should he do?"
"Wait a minute. Just take him these warm night-caps. I knitted them with red wool for the old man myself. He has always liked red caps. Tell him that I think of him, though he does not think of me. But what could he send me—tobacco ashes?"
(Alas! the old man has long become dust and ashes himself. He was Anna Feodorovna's husband, a martyr to gout, who did not see his wife once in a year, although they lived in the same house. Neither would visit the other. She could not endure a pipe; he could not live without it. One day he, too, found that his mausoleum in the Alexander Nevski Cathedral was a more peaceful resting-place than his bed; but he was interred so silently that his old wife did not know of his death, and continued to knit him his red night-caps.)