* Here two lines are blotted out.—A. Ch.
A little blue lamp was burning in the room and faintly lighted up her
face. . . . It was impossible either to read or write by its light.
Olga was lying on her bed, her head bandaged up. One could only see
her pale sharp nose and the eyelids that closed her eyes. At the
moment I entered the room her bosom was bared and the doctors were
placing a bag of ice on it.* Olga was therefore still alive. Two
doctors were attending on her. When I entered, Pavel Ivanovich,
screwing up his eyes, was auscultating her heart with much panting and
puffing.
* I draw the reader's attention to a certain circumstance.
Kamyshev, who loved on every occasion, even in his disputes with
Polycarp, to descant on the condition of his soul, says not a word
of the impression made on him by the sight of the dying Olga. I
think this omission was intentional.—A. Ch.
The district doctor, who looked a worn-out and sickly man, was sitting
pensively near the bed in an arm-chair and seemed to be feeling her
pulse. Father Jeremiah, who had just finished his work, was wrapping
up the cross in his stole and preparing to depart.
“Pëtr Egorych, do not grieve!” he said with a sigh and looked towards
the corner of the room. “Everything is God's will. Turn for protection
to God.”
Urbenin was seated on a stool in a corner of the room. He was so much
changed that I hardly recognized him. Want of work and drink during
the last month had told as much on his clothes as on his appearance;
his clothes were worn out, his face too.
The poor fellow sat there motionless, supporting his head on his fists
and never taking his eyes off the bed. . . . His hands and face were
still stained with blood. . . . He had forgotten to wash them. . . .
Oh, the prediction of my soul and of my poor bird!
Whenever the noble bird which I had killed screamed out his phrase
about the husband who killed his wife, Urbenin's figure always arose
before my mind's eye. Why? . . . I knew that jealous husbands often
kill their unfaithful wives; at the same time I knew that such men as
Urbenin do not kill people. . . . And I drove away the thought of the
possibility of Olga being killed by her husband as something absurd.
“Was it he or not he?” I asked myself as I looked at his unhappy face.
And to speak candidly I did not give myself an affirmative answer,
despite the Count's story and the blood I saw on his hands and face.
“If he had killed her he would have washed off that blood long ago,” I
said to myself, remembering the following proposition of a magistrate
of my acquaintance: “A murderer cannot bear the blood of his victim.”
If I had wished to tax my memory I could have remembered many
aphorisms of a similar nature, but I must not anticipate or fill my
mind with premature conclusions.
“My respects!” the district doctor said to me. “I am very glad you
have come. . . . Please can you tell me who is master here?”
“There is no master. . . . Chaos reigns here,” I answered.
“A very good apophthegm, but it does not assist me,” the district
doctor answered with bitterness. “For the last three hours I have been
asking, imploring to have a bottle of port or champagne sent here and
not a soul has deigned to listen to my prayer! They are all as deaf as
posts! They have only just brought the ice I ordered three hours ago.
What does it mean? A woman is dying here, and they only seem to laugh!
The Count is pleased to sit in his study drinking liqueurs, and they
can't bring even a wineglass here! I wanted to send to the chemist in
the town, and I was told all the horses are worn out, and there's
nobody who can go as they are all drunk. . . . I wanted to send to my
hospital for medicines and bandages and they favoured me with a fellow
who could hardly stand on his legs. I sent him two hours ago, and what
do you think? They tell me he has only just started! Is that not
disgusting? They're all drunk, rude, ill-bred! . . . They all seem
idiots! By God, it is the first time in my life I've come across such
heartless people!”
The doctor's indignation was justifiable. He had not exaggerated,
rather the contrary. . . . A whole night would have been too short a
time for pouring out one's gall on all the disorders and malpractices
that could be found on the Count's estate. The servants were all
abominable, having been demoralized by the want of work and
supervision. Among them there was not a single man-servant who could
not have served as a type of a servant who had lived long and
feathered his nest in the Count's service.
I went off to get some wine. Having distributed three or four cuffs, I
succeeded in obtaining both champagne and Valerian drops, to the
unspeakable delight of the doctors. An hour later* the doctor's
assistant came from the hospital bringing with him all that was
necessary.
* I must draw the reader's attention to a very important
circumstance. During from two to three hours M. Kamyshev only walks
about from room to room, shares the doctor's indignation about the
servants, boxes their ears to right and left, and so on. Can you
recognize in him an examining magistrate? He evidently was in no
hurry, and was only trying to kill time. Evidently he knew who the
murderer was. Besides, there are the quite unnecessary searches
made in the Scops-Owl's room and the examination of the gipsies,
that appear more like banter than cross-questioning, and could only
have been undertaken to pass the time.—A. Ch.
Pavel Ivanovich succeeded in pouring into Olga's mouth a tablespoon of
champagne. She made an effort to swallow and groaned. Then they
injected some sort of drops under the skin.
“Olga Nikolaevna!” the district doctor shouted into her ear. “Olga
Ni‑ko‑la‑evna!”
“It is difficult to expect her to regain consciousness!” Pavel
Ivanovich said with a sigh. “The loss of blood has been great, besides
the blow she received on the head with some blunt instrument must have
caused concussion of the brain.”
It is not my business to decide if there had been concussion of the
brain or not, but Olga opened her eyes and asked for something to
drink. . . . The stimulants had had effect.
“Now you can ask her whatever you require . . .” Pavel Ivanovich
said, nudging my elbow. “Ask.”