Augustinovich went directly from Pani Visberg's to the hospital, where
he remained all night. Yosef was ill, very ill. Typhus rushed at that
strong organism, threatening it with utter destruction. About midnight
the sick man began to rave; he talked with himself, and argued
obstinately on the immortality of the soul with a black cat which he saw
sitting on the bed. It appeared that he feared death, for a number of
times indescribable terror was depicted on his face. He feared and
trembled very acutely after every movement of Augustinovich. At moments
he sang with a quivering voice, and as it were through sleep various
gladsome and melancholy songs, or conversed with acquaintances. There
was even a kind of astonishing humor in the naturalness of tones in
these conversations.
Augustinovich, unmanned already by the events of preceding days, was
irritated unspeakably. He waited for morning with longing, looking often
at the window-panes, which, as if through spite, continued to be as
black as ever. Outside there was deep darkness, and fine rain began to
cut the window-panes, filling the hospital chamber with a sound which
was monotonous and disagreeable.
For a long time such sad and disquieting thoughts had not wandered into
Augustinovich's head as at that moment. Resting his elbows on his knees
and covering his face with his hands, he meditated over the marvellous
and painful complication of events during the last few days. Sometimes
he raised his head and cast a quick glance at the sick man; at times it
seemed to him that the gloom of death was falling on the withered, sharp
features of Yosef.
Augustinovich pondered over this, how a man, so active and broadly
living a short time before, would be in a couple of days, perhaps,
something dead, which they would bury in the ground, and the comedy
would be ended! Oh, an ordinary, everyday thought, and every day equally
bitter for those who must think: This is the end! dust! Still, when he
lived with full life, he judged, analyzed, acted perhaps more widely
than others. As a plough turns out the sod, so he, in the soil of life,
from the furrows of good and evil was winning good and--? Involuntarily
one asks for the moral sense of this fable. Where, when, on what
planets, will living persons find an answer beyond the tomb?
Immortality?--In the ocean of human acts perhaps a few moral atoms of
the deeds of the dead survive, but that I, powerful, energetically
self-conscious, where is it? And those atoms of acts are like the corpse
of a sailor dropped down from a ship into the abyss of the sea. Where
shall we look for them, and who will find them? Will God ever fish them
out from those shoreless billows, and will He develop from them a new
self-conscious being? "_È bene trovato!_" The bitterness of these
thoughts settled now on the sleepy forehead of Augustinovich, but
meanwhile the window-panes from black began to turn gray. It was
dawning. In the chamber the light of the candle grew rosier gradually
and fainter, objects began to issue from the shade. In the corridors
were heard now the steps of the hospital servants. An hour later the
doctor came in.
"How is the patient?" inquired he.
"Ill," answered Augustinovich, abruptly.
The doctor thrust out his lower lip with importance, wrinkled his
forehead, and felt the pulse of the sick man.
"What do you think?" inquired Augustinovich.
"Well, what? I think nothing--he is ill, very ill."
A shade of irony passed over Augustinovich's face.
"But I think, professor, that medicine is a very dull child which
believes that if it takes its heels in its hands it can lift itself. Is
this not the case?"
The doctor nodded a couple of times, prescribed some cooling medicine,
and went out. Augustinovich, looking at the prescription, shook his head
in his turn, shrugged his shoulders, and sat at the bed.
Meanwhile the patient grew worse toward evening, about midnight he was
almost dying. Augustinovich wept like a child and knocked himself
against the walls of the chamber. He sat up again through the whole
night.
Toward morning it seemed to him that he noticed a slight improvement,
but that improvement was deceptive. Pale and red spots appeared on the
sick man; evidently he had burnt out in fever and was quenching.
In the evening Pani Visberg came. Augustinovich would not admit her to
the room. From his face she learned that something terrible must be
happening.
"Is he alive?" cried she.
"He is dying!" answered Augustinovich, briefly.
A few hours later the chaplain of the hospital anointed Yosef.
Augustinovich had not strength to be present at the ceremony; he ran out
into the city.
He needed to collect his thoughts, he needed to draw breath; he felt
that his thoughts were beginning to grow dim--very likely the loss of
Yosef would destroy his balance. He had expected everything, but not
that Yosef would die.
He did not know himself whither he was hurrying; a number of times he
halted as if in fear that he would return too late.
All at once some thought flashed through his head; he noticed that he
was standing before Helena's lodgings.
"I will go in. Let her take farewell of him!"
Half an hour later Helena was kneeling at Yosef's bed. Her unbound hair
was lying in broad tresses on the bed; she was embracing the sick man's
feet with her hands, her face resting on them.
In that room of the hospital reigned a silence of the grave; nothing was
heard but the quick broken breath of Yosef.
So passed the long, cursed night, every moment of which seemed the last
one for Yosef. Finally, on the thirteenth day from the first the disease
was vanquished. Yosef was decidedly better.
At his bed sat, without leaving it, Augustinovich and Helena; the latter
seemed to forget the world at that bed. With Yosef's life life returned
to Helena also. She was delighted to ecstasy with even the smallest
proof of improvement.
At last Yosef regained consciousness.
Augustinovich was not present at that moment; the first person whom he
saw was Helena.
The sick man looked at her for a moment; on his forehead a certain
working of thought became evident.
At last he recalled her to mind. He smiled. Evidently the smile was
forced; still Helena threw herself on her knees with tears of delight.
But Augustinovich when he returned noticed that her presence disquieted
the sick man and even tortured him. Yosef did not take his eyes from
Helena for an instant; he followed every movement of hers.
With that inane gesticulation peculiar to old or to sick people he moved
his lips.
Augustinovich followed Yosef's eyes carefully. He had a foreboding of
evil.
Meanwhile, as usual, toward evening the fever increased; still the sick
man fell asleep. Augustinovich strove to persuade Helena to go home for
rest.
"I will not leave him for a moment," answered she, with what for her was
uncommon decision.
Augustinovich took his seat in the armchair in silence and meditated
deeply; soon his head began to weigh on him, his lids became leaden, an
invincible drowsiness seized him with increasing force, his head dropped
on his breast, he nodded to the right, to the left, and fell asleep.
After a while he woke again.
"Is he sleeping?" inquired he, looking at Yosef.
"He is sleeping, but unquietly," answered Helena.
Augustinovich again dropped his head. Suddenly a shriek from Helena
roused him.
The sick man was sitting up in bed in a paroxysm of malignant fever; his
face was burning, his eyes glittering like those of a wolf; his
emaciated hand was extended toward Helena.
"What is this!" cried Augustinovich.
Helena seized him convulsively by the hands; she felt that his whole
body trembled.
"Do not torture me!" whispered the sick man, with a hoarse, broken
voice. "Thou hast killed Gustav, and now thou wouldst kill me. Away! I
do not love thee! Be off!"
Again he fell on the bed.
"Lula, my Lula, save me!" whispered Yosef.
Augustinovich almost by force conducted Helena from the chamber. In the
corridor was heard for a while quick conversation, and the name of the
countess was repeated. At last Augustinovich returned alone.
He was pale, great drops of sweat were flowing down his forehead.
"Everything is ended now," said he, in a whisper.
* * * * *
Helena ran driven by despair. Yosef's words and the brief conversation
with Augustinovich had cleared as with a bloody lightning-flash many
circumstances which had been dark to her. She ran with the single object
of going straight forward. Her thoughts were burning her like fire, or
rather they were thoughts no longer, they were a circle of fire sparks
driven around madly by a whirlwind.
The city in that evening hour was lighted with a thousand lamps, calm
domestic fires looked through the clear windows at her. She ran on.
Through the streets throngs of people flowed forward as usual; some
passers-by turned around to gaze at her; one young man said something
with a smile, but looking her in the eyes he drew back in fright. She
ran on. At last instead of streets there were alleys, next alleys which
were emptier and darker. In the windows lights were evident no longer;
there the wearied population were sleeping after the toil of the day; in
a rare place a lamp gleamed, or the echoes of a footstep were heard.
The night was damp, but calm; a kind of weight oppressive to the spirit
was hanging in the atmosphere. From the Dnieper came a harsh breeze; a
watery mist left drops on Helena's clothing and hair. On, on she ran.
Nervous spasms distorted her face. In spite of the coolness it seemed to
her that fire from heaven was falling on her head, her hands, and her
breast. Those little fires seemed to dance and whirl about her, and in
each one of them she saw the face now of Yosef, now of Gustav. Her cape
had fallen off, the wind had torn her hat away, dampness unbound her
hair. She fell to the earth a number of times. Soon amid night and
emptiness she found herself alone. Only the distant noise of the city
and the barking of dogs in that part through which she was hastening
pursued her. She ran ever forward.
She felt neither torture nor pain. All her thoughts rushed to one
centre; that was her misfortune. When love takes a part of one's life,
it pays with disappointment; for Helena love had been everything.
Existence for her had ceased now to have sense. The charm was broken.
There was no forgiveness for that woman, though she had "loved much;"
there could be only peace, not in life, but beyond it.
Meanwhile she ran forward, but strength was deserting her. Her lips had
grown parched, her eyes were now dim, her clothing wet and bespattered
with mud. She fell oftener and oftener; sometimes she turned her face to
the sky, seizing the air greedily. The ground on which she was running
became wetter and wetter. From afar could be heard now the sobbing of
the wave, and that marvellous converse of water, half fitful, half
gloomy.
At the brink Helena halted a moment.
Closing her eyes on a sudden and stretching her hands out before her,
the woman rushed forward.
With the plash in the river was heard a short scream, stopped by the
water,--her last scream.
Then followed silence. Deep night was in the sky.