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 announced threateningly: "Don't you dare! It will be worse for you if I get well." He died in the morning at the moment when the whistle called the men to work.

He lay in the coffin with open mouth, his eyebrows knit as if in a scowl.

He was buried by his wife, his son, the dog, an old drunkard and thief, Daniel Vyesovshchikov, a discharged smelter, and a few beggars of the suburb.

His wife wept a little and quietly; Pavel did not weep at all.

The villagers who met the funeral in the street stopped, crossed themselves, and said to one another: "Guess Pelagueya is glad he died!" And some corrected: "He didn't die; he rotted away like a beast." When the body was put in the ground, the people went away, but the dog remained for a long time, and sitting silently on the fresh soil, she sniffed at the grave..