Bykovsky took the bottle out of his hands and set it in its place
and went on:

"Secondly, you smoke. . . . That's very bad. Though I smoke it does
not follow that you may. I smoke and know that it is stupid, I blame
myself and don't like myself for it." ("A clever teacher, I am!"
he thought.) "Tobacco is very bad for the health, and anyone who
smokes dies earlier than he should. It's particularly bad for boys
like you to smoke. Your chest is weak, you haven't reached your
full strength yet, and smoking leads to consumption and other illness
in weak people. Uncle Ignat died of consumption, you know. If he
hadn't smoked, perhaps he would have lived till now."

Seryozha looked pensively at the lamp, touched the lamp-shade with
his finger, and heaved a sigh.

"Uncle Ignat played the violin splendidly!" he said. "His violin
is at the Grigoryevs' now."

Seryozha leaned his elbows on the edge of the table again, and sank
into thought. His white face wore a fixed expression, as though he
were listening or following a train of thought of his own; distress
and something like fear came into his big staring eyes. He was most
likely thinking now of death, which had so lately carried off his
mother and Uncle Ignat. Death carries mothers and uncles off to the
other world, while their children and violins remain upon the earth.
The dead live somewhere in the sky beside the stars, and look down
from there upon the earth. Can they endure the parting?