The light of the sun fell in thin stripes through the branches of the trees upon the white figure of the old man clad in his night-garments.

There was such a profound silence in the garden that even the rustle of a branch, accidentally touched by Foma's clothes, seemed to him like a loud sound and he shuddered.

On the table, before his father, stood the samovar, purring like a well-fed tom-cat and exhaling a stream of steam into the air.

Amid the silence and the fresh verdure of the garden, which had been washed by abundant rains the day before, this bright spot of the boldly shining, loud brass seemed to Foma as something unnecessary, as something which suited neither the time nor the place--nor the feeling that sprang up within him at the sight of the sickly, bent old man, who was dressed in white, and who sat alone underneath the mute, motionless, dark-green foliage, wherein red apples were modestly peeping.
"Be seated," said Ignat.
"We ought to send for a doctor." Foma advised him irresolutely, seating himself opposite him.
"It isn't necessary.

It's a little better now in the open air.