at the gate. On holidays Vlasov started off on his round of the
taverns. He walked in silence, and stared into people's faces as if
looking for somebody. His dog trotted after him the whole day long.
Returning home drunk he sat down to supper, and gave his dog to eat
from his own bowl. He never beat her, never scolded, and never
petted her. After supper he flung the dishes from the table--if his
wife was not quick enough to remove them in time--put a bottle of
whisky before him, and leaning his back against the wall, began in a
hoarse voice that spread anguish about him to bawl a song, his mouth
wide open and his eyes closed. The doleful sounds got entangled in
his mustache, knocking off the crumbs of bread. He smoothed down
the hair of his beard and mustache with his thick fingers and sang--
sang unintelligible words, long drawn out. The melody recalled the
wintry howl of wolves. He sang as long as there was whisky in the
bottle, then he dropped on his side upon the bench, or let his head
sink on the table, and slept in this way until the whistle began to
blow. The dog lay at his side.

When he died, he died hard. For five days, turned all black, he
rolled in his bed, gnashing his teeth, his eyes tightly closed.
Sometimes he would say to his wife: "Give me arsenic. Poison me."

She called a physician. He ordered hot poultices, but said an
operation was necessary and the patient must be taken at once to
the hospital.

"Go to the devil! I will die by myself, dirty vermin!" said Michael.

And when the physician had left, and his wife with tears in her
eyes began to insist on an operation, he clenched his fists and