On the following evening Yourii went to the same spot where he had met
Sina Karsavina and her companion. Throughout the day he had thought
with pleasure of his talk with them on the previous evening, and he
hoped to meet them again, discuss the same subjects, and perceive the
same look of sympathy and tenderness in Sina’s gentle eyes.
It was a calm evening. The air was warm, and a slight dust floated
above the streets. Except for one or two passers-by, the boulevard was
absolutely deserted. Yourii walked slowly along, his eyes fixed on the
ground.
“How boring!” he thought. “What am I to do?”
Suddenly Schafroff, the student, walking briskly, and, swinging his
arm, approached him with a friendly smile on his face.
“Why are you dawdling along like this, eh?” he asked, stopping short,
and giving Yourii a big, strong hand.
“Oh! I am bored to death, and there’s nothing to do. Where are you
going?” asked Yourii, in a languid, patronizing tone. He always spoke
thus to Schafroff, because, as a former member of the revolutionary
committee he looked upon the lad as just an amateur revolutionist.
Schafroff smiled as one thoroughly pleased with himself.
“We have got a lecture to-day,” he said, pointing to a packet of thin
pamphlets in coloured wrappers. Yourii mechanically took one, and,
opening it, read the long, dry preface to a popular Socialistic
address, once well known to him, but which he had quite forgotten.
“Where is the lecture to be given?” he asked with the same slightly
contemptuous smile as he handed back the pamphlet.
“At the school,” replied Schafroff, mentioning the one at which Sina
Karsavina and Dubova were teachers. Yourii remembered that Lialia had
once told him about these lectures, but he had paid no attention.
“May I come with you?” he asked.
“Why, of course!” replied Schafroff, eager to assent to this proposal.
He looked upon Yourii as a real agitator, and, over-estimating his
political abilities, felt a reverence for him that bordered on
affection.
“I am greatly interested in such matters.” Yourii felt it necessary to
say this, being all the while glad that he had now got an engagement
for the evening, and that he would see Sina again.
“Why, yes, of course,” said Schafroff.
“Then, let us go.”
They walked quickly along the boulevard and crossed the bridge, from
each side of which came humid airs, and they soon reached the school
where people had already assembled.
In the large, dark room with its rows of benches and desks the white
cloth used for the magic lantern was dimly visible, and there were
sounds of suppressed laughter. At the window, through which could be
seen the dark green boughs of trees in twilight, stood Lialia and
Dubova. They gleefully greeted Yourii.
“I am so glad that you have come!” said Lialia.
Dubova shook him vigorously by the hand.
“Why don’t you begin?” asked Yourii, as he furtively glanced round,
hoping to see Sina.
“So Sinaida Pavlovna doesn’t attend these lectures?” he observed with
evident disappointment.
At that moment a lucifer-match flashed close to the lecturer’s desk on
the platform, illuminating Sina’s features. The light shone upon her
pretty fresh face; she was smiling gaily.
“Don’t I attend these lectures?” she exclaimed, as, bending down to
Yourii, she held out her hand. He gladly grasped it without speaking,
and leaning lightly on him she sprang from the platform. He felt her
sweet, wholesome breath close to his face.
“It is time to begin,” said Schafroff, who came in from the adjoining
room.
The school attendant with heavy tread walked round the room, lighting
one by one the large lamps which soon shed a bright light. Schafroff
opened the door leading to the passage, and said in a loud voice: “This
way, please!”
Shyly at first, and then in noisy haste, the people entered the
lecture-room. Yourii scrutinized them closely; his keen interest as a
propagandist was roused. There were old folk, young men, and children.
No one sat in the front row; but, later on, it was filled by several
ladies whom Yourii did not know; by the fat school-inspector; and by
masters and mistresses of the elementary school for boys and girls. The
rest of the room was full of men in caftans and long coats, soldiers,
peasants, women, and a great many children in coloured shirts and
frocks.
Yourii sat beside Sina at a desk and listened while Schafroff read,
calmly, but badly, a paper on universal suffrage. He had a hard,
monotonous voice and everything he read sounded like a column of
statistics. Yet everybody listened attentively with the exception of
the intellectual people in the front row, who soon grew restless and
began whispering to each other. This annoyed Yourii, and he felt sorry
that Schafroff should read so badly. The latter was obviously tired, so
Yourii said to Sina:
“Suppose I finish reading it for him? What do you say?”
Sina shot a kindly glance at him from beneath her drooping eye-lashes.
“Oh! yes, do read! I wish you would.”
“Do you think it will matter?” he whispered, smiling at her as if she
were his accomplice.
“Matter? Not in the least. Everybody will be delighted.”
During a pause, she suggested this to Schafroff, who being tired and
aware how badly he had read, accepted with pleasure.
“Of course! By all means!” he exclaimed, as usual, giving up his place
to Yourii.
Yourii was fond of reading, and read excellently. Without looking at
anyone, he walked to the desk on the platform and began in a loud, well
modulated voice. Twice he looked down at Sina, and each time he
encountered her bright, expressive glance. He smiled at her in pleasure
and confusion, and then, turning to his book, began to read louder and
with greater emphasis. To him it seemed as if he were doing a most
excellent and interesting thing. When he had finished, there was some
applause in the front seats. Yourii bowed gravely, and as he left the
platform he smiled at Sina as much as to say, “I did that for your
sake.” There was some murmuring, and a noise of chairs being pushed
back as the listeners rose to go. Yourii was introduced to two ladies
who complimented him on his performance. Then the lamps were put out
and the room became dark.
“Thank you very much,” said Schafroff as he warmly shook Yourii’s hand.
“I wish that we always had some one to read to us like that.”
Lecturing was his business, and so he felt obliged to Yourii as if the
latter had done him a personal service, although he thanked him in the
name of the people. Schafroff laid stress on the word “people.” “So
little is done here for the people,” he said, as if he were telling
Yourii a great secret, “and if anything _is_ done, it is in a half-
hearted, careless way. It is most extraordinary. To amuse a parcel of
bored gentlefolk dozens of first-rate actors, singers and lecturers are
engaged, but for the people a lecturer like myself is quite good
enough.” Schafroff smiled at his own bland irony. “Everybody’s quite
satisfied. What more do they want?”
“That is quite true,” said Dubova. “Whole columns in the newspapers are
devoted to actors and their wonderful performances; it is positively
revolting; whereas here …”
“Yet what a good work we’re doing!” said Schafroff, with conviction, as
he gathered his pamphlets together.
“Sancta Simplicitas!” ejaculated Yourii inwardly.
Sina’s presence, however, and his own success inclined him to be
tolerant. Indeed Schafroff’s utter ingenuousness almost touched him.
“Where shall we go now?” asked Dubova, as they came out into the
street.
Outside it was not nearly so dark as in the lecture-room, and in the
sky a few stars shone.
“Schafroff and I are going to the Ratoffs,” said Dubova. “Will you take
Sina home?”
“With pleasure,” said Yourii.
Sina lodged with Dubova in a small house that stood in a large, barren-
looking garden. All the way thither she and Yourii talked of the
lecture and its impression upon them, so that Yourii felt more and more
convinced that he had done a good and great thing. As they reached the
house, Sina said:
“Won’t you come in for a moment?” Yourii gladly accepted. She opened
the gate, and they crossed a little grass-grown courtyard beyond which
lay the garden.
“Go into the garden, will you?” said Sina, laughing. “I would ask you
to come indoors, but I am afraid things are rather untidy, as I have
been out ever since the morning.”
She went in, and Yourii sauntered towards the green, fragrant garden.
He did not go far, but stopped to look round with intense curiosity at
the dark windows of the house, as if something were happening there,
something strangely beautiful and mysterious. Sina appeared in the
doorway. Yourii hardly recognized her. She had changed her black dress,
and now wore the costume of Little Russia, a thin bodice cut low, with
short sleeves and a blue skirt.
“Here I am!” she said, smiling.
“So I see!” replied Yourii with a certain mysterious emphasis that she
alone could appreciate.
She smiled once more, and looked sideways, as they walked along the
garden-path between long grasses and branches of lilac. The trees were
small ones, most of them being cherry-trees, whose young leaves had an
odour of resinous gum. Behind the garden there was a meadow where wild
flowers bloomed amid the long grass.
“Let us sit down here,” said Sina.
They sat down by the, fence that was falling to pieces, and looked
across the meadow at the dying sunset. Yourii caught hold of a slender
lilac-branch, from which fell a shower of dew.
“Shall I sing something to you?” asked Sina.
“Oh! yes, do!” replied Yourii.
As on the evening of the picnic, Sina breathed deeply, and her comely
bust was clearly denned beneath the thin bodice, as she began to sing,
“Oh, beauteous Star of Love.” Pure and passionate, her notes floated
out on the evening air. Yourii remained motionless, gazing at her, with
bated breath. She felt that his eyes were upon her, and, closing her
own, she sang on with greater sweetness and fervour. There was silence
everywhere as if all things were listening; Yourii thought of the
mysterious hush of woodlands in spring when a nightingale sings.
As Sina ceased on a clear, high note, the silence seemed yet more
intense. The sunset light had faded; the sky grew dark and more vast.
The leaves and the grass quivered imperceptibly; across the meadow and
through the garden there passed a soft, perfumed breeze; faint as a
sigh. Sina’s eyes, shining in the gloom, turned to Yourii.
“Why so silent?” she asked.
“It is almost too delightful here!” he murmured, and again he grasped a
dewy branch of lilac.
“Yes, it is very beautiful,” replied Sina dreamily.
“In fact it is beautiful to be alive,” she added.
A thought, vague and disquieting, crossed Yourii’s mind, but it
vanished without taking any clear shape. Some one loudly whistled twice
on the other side of the meadow, and then came silence, as before.
“Do you like Schafroff?” asked Sina suddenly, being inwardly amused at
so apparently inept a question.
Yourii felt a momentary pang of jealousy, but with a slight effort he
replied gravely. “He’s a good fellow.”
“How devoted he is to his work!”
Yourii was silent.
A faint grey mist rose from the meadow and the grass grew paler in the
dew.
“It is getting damp,” said Sina, shivering slightly.
Yourii unconsciously looked at her round, soft shoulders, feeling
instantly confused, and she, aware of his glance became confused also,
although it was pleasant to her.
“Let us go.”
Regretfully they returned along the narrow garden-path, each brushing
lightly against the other at times as they walked. All around seemed
dark and deserted, and Yourii fancied that now the garden’s own life
was about to begin, a life mysterious and to all unknown. Yonder, amid
the trees and across the dew-laden grass strange shadows soon would
steal, as the dusk deepened, and voices whispered in green, silent
places. This he said to Sina, and her dark eyes wistfully peered into
the gloom. If, so Yourii thought, she were suddenly to fling all her
clothing aside, and rush all white and nude and joyous over the dewy
grass towards the dim thicket, this would not be in the least strange,
but beautiful and natural; nor would it disturb the life of the green,
dark garden, but would make this more complete. This, too, he had a
wish to tell her, but he dared not do so, and spoke instead of the
people and of lectures. But their conversation flagged, and then
ceased, as if they were only wasting words. Thus they reached the
gateway in silence, smiling to themselves, brushing the dew from the
branches with their shoulders. Everything seemed as calm and happy and
pensive as they were themselves. As before, the courtyard was dark and
solitary, but the outer gate was open, and a sound of hasty footsteps
in the house could be heard, and of the opening and shutting of
drawers.
“Olga has come back,” said Sina.
“Oh! Sina, is that you?” asked Dubova from within, and the tone of her
voice suggested some sinister occurrence. Pale and agitated, she
appeared in the doorway.
“Where were you? I have been looking for you. Semenoff is dying!” she
said breathlessly.
“What!” exclaimed Sina, horror-struck.
“Yes, he is dying. He broke a blood-vessel. Anatole Pavlovitch says
that he’s done for. They have taken him to the hospital. It was
dreadfully sudden. There we were, at the Ratoffs’, having tea, and he
was so merry, arguing with Novikoff about something or other. Then he
suddenly began to cough, stood up, and staggered, and the blood spurted
out, on to the table-cloth, and into a little saucer of jam … all
black, and clotted….”
“Does he know it himself?” asked Yourii with grim interest. He
instantly remembered the moonlit night, the sombre shadow, and the
weak, broken voice, saying, “You will be alive, and you’ll pass my
grave, and stop, whilst I …”
“Yes, he seems to know,” replied Dubova, with a nervous movement of the
hands. “He looked at us all, and asked ‘What is it?’ And then he shook
from head to foot and said, ‘Already!’ … Oh! isn’t it awful?”
“It’s too shocking!”
All were silent.
It was now quite dark, yet, though the sky was clear, to them it seemed
suddenly to have grown gloomy and sad.
“Death is a horrible thing!” said Yourii, turning pale.
Dubova sighed, and gazed into vacancy. Sina’s chin trembled, and she
smiled helplessly. She could not feel so shocked as the others; young
as she was, and full of life, she could not fix her thoughts on death.
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 Semenoff 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 Semenoff lay dying.
The long, vaulted passages were dark, and smelt strongly of iodoform
and carbolic. As they passed 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 apron came
clattering along the passage 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—Semenoff—to-day!” stammered Dubova.
“No. 6, please, upstairs,” said the attendant, and passed 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 glasses 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 passage, past big
white doors with black numbers on them, Riasantzeff said:
“A priest has been sent for. It’s astonishing 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 fashion as they pushed against each other on the threshold.
The room was clean and spacious. Four of the six beds in it were empty,
each one having its coarse 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 coarse coverlet, lay Semenoff. 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
embarrassing, 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 Semenoff.
He breathed slowly and with difficulty. How different he looked from
the Semenoff 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 Semenoff and the
others with great curiosity as he sought to discern what the patient
and those about him actually felt and thought. Semenoff 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 bass voice, hoarse 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 Semenoff’s eye-lids moved slightly, as if
the sightless eyeballs had been turned in the direction of the
chanting. To the others, however, Semenoff 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 Semenoff, 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. Semenoff 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 Semenoff 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 Semenoff 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 shiver
through all.
“Ee—ee—ee!” moaned Semenoff.
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, hoarse 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 passed. Suddenly Semenoff
ceased moaning.
“It is all over,” murmured the priest.
Then slowly, and with much effort, Semenoff 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.
Semenoff 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. Nobody 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 passages 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 God 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 Semenoff’s people were.
“His sister is at the high school, I believe,” observed Sine.
“Ah! I see! Well, good-bye!” said the priest, slightly raising his hat
with his plump fingers.
“Good-bye!” they replied in unison.
On reaching the street, they sighed, as if relieved.
“Where shall we go now?” asked Schafroff.
After brief hesitation, they all took leave of each other, and went
their different ways.