tells me he is very glad to be rid of so nasty a habit; and, one sees, is living well, with his house and everything well managed, and who, had he not given up drinking, would have had none of these things.
“Yes, that is so!”
“Well then, you know, you should do the same. You are such a nice, good lad. … What do you need vodka for, when you say yourself there is no good in it? … You, too, should give it up! … It would be such a good thing!”
He remains silent, and looks at me intently. I prepare to go, and hold out my hand to him.
“Truly, give it up from now! It would be such a good thing!”
With his strong hand he firmly presses mine, evidently regarding my gesture as challenging him to promise.
“Very well then … it can be done!” says he, quite unexpectedly, and in a joyous and resolute tone.
“Do you really promise?” say I, surprised.
“Well, of course! I promise,” he says, nodding his head and smiling slightly.
The quiet tone of his voice, and his serious, attentive face, show that he is not joking, but that he is really making a promise he means to keep.
Old age or illness, or both together, has made me very ready to cry when I am touched with joy. The simple words of that kindly, firm, strong man, so evidently ready for all that is good, and standing so alone, touch me so that sobs rise to my throat, and I step aside, unable to utter a word.