IT was still in the drawing-room, so still that a house-fly that
had flown in from outside could be distinctly heard brushing against
the ceiling. Olga Ivanovna, the lady of the villa, was standing by
the window, looking out at the flower-beds and thinking. Dr.
Tsvyetkov, who was her doctor as well as an old friend, and had
been sent for to treat her son Misha, was sitting in an easy chair
and swinging his hat, which he held in both hands, and he too was
thinking. Except them, there was not a soul in the drawing-room or
in the adjoining rooms. The sun had set, and the shades of evening
began settling in the corners under the furniture and on the cornices.
The silence was broken by Olga Ivanovna.
"No misfortune more terrible can be imagined," she said, without
turning from the window. "You know that life has no value for me
whatever apart from the boy."
"Yes, I know that," said the doctor.
"No value whatever," said Olga Ivanovna, and her voice quivered.
"He is everything to me. He is my joy, my happiness, my wealth. And
if, as you say, I cease to be a mother, if he . . . dies, there
will be nothing left of me but a shadow. I cannot survive it."
Wringing her hands, Olga Ivanovna walked from one window to the
other and went on:
"When he was born, I wanted to send him away to the Foundling
Hospital, you remember that, but, my God, how can that time be
compared with now? Then I was vulgar, stupid, feather-headed, but
now I am a mother, do you understand? I am a mother, and that's all
I care to know. Between the present and the past there is an
impassable gulf."
Silence followed again. The doctor shifted his seat from the chair
to the sofa and impatiently playing with his hat, kept his eyes
fixed upon Olga Ivanovna. From his face it could be seen that he
wanted to speak, and was waiting for a fitting moment.
"You are silent, but still I do not give up hope," said the lady,
turning round. "Why are you silent?"
"I should be as glad of any hope as you, Olga, but there is none,"
Tsvyetkov answered, "we must look the hideous truth in the face.
The boy has a tumour on the brain, and we must try to prepare
ourselves for his death, for such cases never recover."
"Nikolay, are you certain you are not mistaken?"
"Such questions lead to nothing. I am ready to answer as many as
you like, but it will make it no better for us."
Olga Ivanovna pressed her face into the window curtains, and began
weeping bitterly. The doctor got up and walked several times up and
down the drawing-room, then went to the weeping woman, and lightly
touched her arm. Judging from his uncertain movements, from the
expression of his gloomy face, which looked dark in the dusk of the
evening, he wanted to say something.
"Listen, Olga," he began. "Spare me a minute's attention; there is
something I must ask you. You can't attend to me now, though. I'll
come later, afterwards. . . ." He sat down again, and sank into
thought. The bitter, imploring weeping, like the weeping of a little
girl, continued. Without waiting for it to end, Tsvyetkov heaved a
sigh and walked out of the drawing-room. He went into the nursery
to Misha. The boy was lying on his back as before, staring at one
point as though he were listening. The doctor sat down on his bed
and felt his pulse.
"Misha, does your head ache?" he asked.