Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume XIV).djvu/60

Rh 'Of what complaint had Misha died? No doubt....'

Then I bit my tongue but the young woman understood my unuttered hint. She took a swift glance at me, then looked down again, smiled mournfully, and said at once: 'Oh no! he had quite given that up, ever since he got to know me But he had no health at all! It was shattered quite. As soon as he gave up drink, he fell into ill health directly. He became so steady; he always wanted to help father in his land or in the garden, or any other work there might be  in spite of his being of noble birth. But how could he get the strength? At writing, too, he tried to work; as you know, he could do that work capitally, but his hands shook, and he couldn't hold the pen properly. He was always finding fault with himself; "I'm a white-handed poor creature," he would say; "I've never done any good to anybody, never helped, never laboured!" He worried himself very much about that. He used to say that our people labour,—but what use are we? Ah, Nikolai Nikolaitch, he was a good man—and he was fond of me and I  Ah, pardon me....'

Here the young woman wept outright. I would have consoled her, but I did not know how.

'Have you a child left you?' I asked at last.