Sanine Part 16

To her it was incredible, inconceivable that on a beautiful summer evening, radiantly pleasant such as this, some one should have to suffer and to die. It was natural, of course, but, for some reason or other, to her it seemed wrong. She was ashamed to have such a feeling, and strove to suppress it, endeavouring to appear sympathetic, an effort which made her distress seem greater than that of her companions.

"Oh! poor fellow! ... is he really...?"

Sina wanted to ask: "Is he really going to die very soon?" but the words stuck in her throat, and she plied Dubova with fatuous and incoherent questions.

"Anatole Pavlovitch says that he will die to-night or to-morrow morning," replied Dubova, in a dull voice.

"Shall we go to him?" whispered Sina. "Or do you think that we had better not? I don't know."

This was the question uppermost in the minds of them all. Should they go and see s.e.m.e.noff die? Was it a right or wrong thing to do? They all wanted to go, and yet were fearful of what they should see. Yourii shrugged his shoulders.

"Let us go," he said. "Very likely they won't admit us, and perhaps, too--"

"Perhaps he might wish to see some one," added Dubova, as if relieved.

"Come on! We'll go!" said Sina with decision.

"Schafroff and Novikoff are there," added Dubova, as if to justify herself.

Sina ran indoors to fetch her hat and coat, and then they went sadly through the town to the large, grey, three-storied building, the hospital where s.e.m.e.noff lay dying.

The long, vaulted pa.s.sages were dark, and smelt strongly of iodoform and carbolic. As they pa.s.sed the section for the insane, they heard a strident, angry voice, but no one was visible. They felt scared, and anxiously hastened towards a dark little window. An old, grey-haired peasant, with a long white beard and wearing a large ap.r.o.n came clattering along the pa.s.sage in his heavy top-boots to meet them.

"Who is it that you wish to see?" he asked, stopping short.

"A student has been brought here--s.e.m.e.noff--to-day!" stammered Dubova.

"No. 6, please, upstairs," said the attendant, and pa.s.sed on. They could hear him spit noisily on the flooring and then wipe it with his foot. Upstairs it was brighter and cleaner; and the ceiling was not vaulted. A door with "Doctors' Room" inscribed on it stood ajar. A lamp was burning in this room where a jingling of bottles and gla.s.ses could be heard. Yourii looked inside, and called out. The jingling ceased, and Riasantzeff appeared, looking fresh and hearty, as usual.

"Ah!" he exclaimed in a cheery voice, being evidently accustomed to events such as that which saddened his visitors. "I am on duty to-day.

How do you do, ladies?" Yet, frowning suddenly, he added with grave significance, "He seems to be still unconscious. Let us go to him.

Novikoff and the others are there."

As they walked in single file along the clean, bare pa.s.sage, past big white doors with black numbers on them, Riasantzeff said:

"A priest has been sent for. It's astonis.h.i.+ng how quickly the end came.

I was amazed. But latterly he caught cold, you know, and that was what did it. Here we are."

Riasantzeff opened a white door and went in, the others following in awkward fas.h.i.+on as they pushed against each other on the threshold.

The room was clean and s.p.a.cious. Four of the six beds in it were empty, each one having its coa.r.s.e grey coverlet folded neatly, and strangely suggestive of a coffin. On the fifth bed sat a little wizened old man in a dressing-gown, who glanced timidly at the newcomers; and on the sixth bed, beneath a similar coa.r.s.e coverlet, lay s.e.m.e.noff. At his side, in a bent posture, sat Novikoff, while Ivanoff and Schafroff stood by the window. To all of them it seemed odd and painful to shake hands in the presence of the dying man, yet not to do so seemed equally embarra.s.sing, as though by such omission they hinted that death was near. Some greeted each other, and some refrained, while all stood still gazing with grim curiosity at s.e.m.e.noff.

He breathed slowly and with difficulty. How different he looked from the s.e.m.e.noff they knew! Indeed, he hardly seemed to be alive. Though his features and his limbs were the same, they now appeared strangely rigid and dreadful to behold. That which naturally gave life and movement to the bodies of other human beings no longer seemed to exist in his. Something horrible was being swiftly, secretly accomplished within his motionless frame, an important work that could not be postponed. All that remained to him of life was, as it were, concentrated upon this work, observing it with keen, inexplicable interest.

The lamp hanging from the ceiling shone clearly upon the dying man's lifeless visage. All standing there gazed upon it, holding their breath as if fearing to disturb something infinitely solemn; and in such silence the laboured, sibilant breathing of the patient sounded terribly distinct.

The door opened, and with short, senile steps a fat little priest entered, accompanied by his psalm-singer, a dark, gaunt man. With these came Sanine. The priest, coughing slightly, bowed to the doctors and to all present, who acknowledged his greeting with excessive politeness, and then remained perfectly silent as before. Without noticing anybody, Sanine took up his position by the window, eyeing s.e.m.e.noff and the others with great curiosity as he sought to discern what the patient and those about him actually felt and thought. s.e.m.e.noff remained motionless, breathing just as before.

"He is unconscious, is he?" asked the priest gently, without addressing anyone in particular.

"Yes," replied Novikoff, hastily.

Sanine murmured something unintelligible. The priest looked questioningly at him, but, as Sanine remained silent, he turned away, smoothed his hair back, donned his stole and in high-pitched, unctuous tones began to chant the prayers for the dying.

The psalm-singer had a ba.s.s voice, hoa.r.s.e and disagreeable, so that the vocal contrast was a painfully discordant one as the sound of this chanting rose to the lofty ceiling. No sooner had it commenced than the eyes of all were fixed in terror upon the dying man. Novikoff, standing nearest to him, thought that s.e.m.e.noff's eye-lids moved slightly, as if the sightless eyeb.a.l.l.s had been turned in the direction of the chanting. To the others, however, s.e.m.e.noff appeared as strangely motionless as before.

At the first notes Sina began to cry, gently but persistently, letting the tears course down her youthful, pretty face. All the others looked at her, and Dubova in her turn began to weep. To the men's eyes tears also rose, which by clenching their teeth they strove to keep back.

Every time the chanting grew louder, the girls wept more freely. Sanine frowned, and shrugged his shoulders irritably, thinking how intolerable to s.e.m.e.noff, if he heard it, such wailing must be when to healthy normal men it was so utterly depressing.

"Not so loud!" he said to the priest irritably.

The latter amiably bent forward to hear this remark, and, when he understood it, he frowned and only sang louder. His companion glared at Sanine and the others all looked at him as well, in fear and astonishment, as if he had said something offensive. Sanine showed his annoyance by a gesture, but said nothing.

When the chanting ceased, and the priest had wrapped up the crucifix in his stole, the suspense was more painful than ever. s.e.m.e.noff lay there as rigid, as motionless as before. Suddenly the same thought, dreadful but irresistible, came into the minds of all. If only it could all end quickly! If only s.e.m.e.noff would die! In fear and shame they sought to suppress this wish, exchanging timid glances.

"If only this were all over!" said Sanine in an undertone. "Ghastly, isn't it?"

"Yes!" replied Ivanoff.

They spoke almost in whispers, and it was plain that s.e.m.e.noff could not hear them, but yet all the others looked shocked.

Schafroff was about to say something, but at that moment a new sound, indescribably plaintive, echoed through the room, sending a s.h.i.+ver through all.

"Ee--ee--ee!" moaned s.e.m.e.noff.

And, as if he had got that mode of expression which he wanted, he continued to give out this long-drawn note, only interrupted by his laboured, hoa.r.s.e breathing.

At first the others could not conceive what had happened to him, but soon Sina and Dubova and Novikoff began to weep. Slowly and solemnly the priest resumed his chanting. His fat good-tempered face showed evident sympathy and emotion. A few minutes pa.s.sed. Suddenly s.e.m.e.noff ceased moaning.

"It is all over," murmured the priest.

Then slowly, and with much effort, s.e.m.e.noff moved his tightly-glued lips, and his face became contracted as if by a smile, The onlookers heard his hollow, weird voice that, issuing from the depth of his chest, sounded as if it came through a coffin-lid.

"Silly old fool!" he said, looking hard at the priest. His whole body trembled, his eyes rolled madly in their sockets, and he stretched himself at full length.

They had all heard these words, but no one moved; and for a moment the sorrowful expression vanished from the priest's fat, moist face. He looked about him anxiously, but encountered no one's glance. Only Sanine smiled.

s.e.m.e.noff again moved his lips, yet no sound escaped from them, while one side drooped of his thin, fair moustache. Once more he stretched his limbs, and became longer and more terrible. There was no sound, nor the slightest movement whatever. n.o.body wept now. The approach of death had been more grievous, more appalling than its actual advent; and it seemed strange that so harrowing a scene should have ended so simply and swiftly. For a few moments they stood beside the bed and looked at the dead, peaked features, as if they expected something else to happen. Wishful to rouse within themselves a sense of horror and pity, they watched Novikoff intently as he closed the dead man's eyes and crossed his hands on his breast. Then they went out quietly and cautiously. In the pa.s.sages lamps were now lighted, and all seemed so familiar and simple that every one breathed more freely. The priest went first, tripping along with short steps. Desiring to say a few words of consolation to the young people, he sighed, and then began softly:

"Dear, dear! It is very sad. Such a young man, too. Alas! it is plain that he died unrepentant. But G.o.d is merciful, you know--"

"Yes, yes, of course," replied Schafroff, who walked next to him and wished to be polite.

"Does his family know?" asked the priest.

"I really can't tell you," said Schafroff.

They all looked at each other in astonishment, as it seemed odd and not altogether decent to be unable to say who s.e.m.e.noff's people were.