One dreary September morning the ambulance-van drew up in the courtyard
of the Infirmary, and Pronim lifted from it another victim of the
epidemic, a yellow-faced, emaciated, half-dead little lad in motley
clothes, stained with many colours.
"Another case from Petounukoff's house!" said the driver of the van in
answer to a question as to the quarter from which he had brought the
new patient.
"Tschischik!" cried Orloff in a tone of pain. "Good heavens! it is
Senka. Little imp, don't you recognize me?"
"Yes, I do," said Tschischik with an effort, as he lay on the
stretcher, turning up his eyes to catch a glimpse of Orloff, who was
standing behind him.
"Ah! you merry little bird! How did this happen?" asked Orloff. He was
quite upset at the sight of the lad, who was completely exhausted with
the painful disease.
"Why could it not spare this Innocent child?" he cried out, shaking
his head slowly, and as if concentrating in this cry all his tense
horror.
Tschischik was silent, and shivered from head to foot.
"I am so cold!" he said, as they laid him on the bed and took off his
ragged, paint-stained clothes.
"We'll soon pop you into a nice hot bath!" Orloff promised him. "We'll
make you well again in a hurry."
Tschischik shook his head.
"No, Uncle Grigori.... I shall never be well again," he whispered
in a dead voice.... "Bend down towards me.... I stole the accordion
... it is hidden under some wood in the woodshed.... The day before
yesterday ... I played on it for the first time.... Oh! what a beauty
it is I ... Directly after I had these pains in my stomach.... They
were a punishment for the sin.... Give it back, Uncle Grigori.... The
accordion-player had a sister.... Ah!... A ... ah!"
His whole body shook and twisted with violent cramps. All they could
do was done for the little lad, but the weakened body was unable to
guard the spark of life. That same evening Orloff carried Tschischik's
body to the mortuary. He felt as if he had himself received a blow or
an injury. He tried to straighten out the little body, but could not
succeed in doing so. He left the place with a stunned feeling, in a
dark, melancholy mood, with the image of the once bright and cheerful,
but now so frightfully disfigured boy, constantly before his eyes.
He had the oppressive consciousness of his own helplessness when face
to face with death. How much trouble and care he had lavished on poor
little Tschischik, and how anxious the doctors had been to cure the
lad!... But in spite of it all he had to die!... It all seemed so
unjust!... He himself also, Grigori Orloff, would have some day to pack
up his traps in the same way, leaving nothing behind. Then all would
be over. A shudder ran through him, and he immediately experienced a
feeling of loneliness, of being forsaken. He felt the need of talking
to some understanding person about it all. He had often tried to get
a long talk with one of the students, but no one here had time to
philosophize. So there was nothing for it but to talk to his wife. In a
heavy, oppressed mood he sought out Matrona.
She was just off duty, and was washing herself in a corner of the room.
The samovar stood ready, simmering and steaming on the table.
Grigori sat down in silence, and looked at Matrona's bared, round
shoulders. The samovar boiled up, and spurted drops of hot steam
around. Matrona also splashed the water about with her washing. In the
corridor outside, the attendants' footsteps could be heard hurrying
backwards and forwards, and Grigori tried to guess, from the sound of
the steps, who was passing. Suddenly it seemed to him as if Matrona's
shoulders were as cold and as damp with perspiration as was the body of
the little Tschischik, as he tossed about on his bed in the agony of
cholera cramps.
Grigori shuddered, and said in a low voice--
"Senka is dead...."
"Dead!... Senka dead? God rest his soul!" exclaimed Matrona piously,
scarcely pausing in her noisy ablutions, and spluttering the soapsuds
from mouth and nose.
"I feel sorry for the poor child," said Grigori in a sad voice.
"But he was a mischievous lad, though," Matrona interjected.
"Well, leave him in peace now he is dead and gone! It's not our
business what he was when alive.... I am truly sorry he is dead! He was
such a quick, bright boy! The accordion ... hm! He was indeed a sharp
lad! Sometimes the thought used to cross my mind that I should like to
have him to teach,--not exactly as an apprentice. He was an orphan, he
might have got attached to us, and have taken the place of a son.... I
fear we shall never have children!... I don't understand why. Such a
strong, hearty woman as you are, and yet you bear no children.... You
had one, and there was an end of it!... Ah! if we only had a couple
of little squallers, I believe our life would not be so tedious.... As
things are, I work and work, and what is the end of it all? Just to
provide daily bread for you and me!... And why do we need daily bread?
So that we may be able to work.... And so life goes round in a circle
without sense or meaning.... If we only had children they would change
our life entirely ... yes, entirely..."
All this was said in a fretful, dissatisfied tone of voice, his head
sunk on his breast Matrona stood listening to all he had to say; but
growing gradually paler and paler.
"I am strong and healthy; so are you," continued Grigori; "and yet we
have no children. What is the reason?... I think and think about it
till I get quite melancholy, and take to drinking in sheer desperation!"
"What you are saying is not true!" said Matrona in a firm loud voice.
"You are not speaking the truth! Never dare to repeat to me what you
have just said!... If you take to drink, it is only your own dissipated
habits that prevent your keeping away from it My not having children
has nothing to do with it! That idea is false, Grigori!"
Grigori was stunned by her words. He rose and leaned against the back
of his chair, watching his wife, and scarcely recognizing her. Never
before had he seen her in such a rage; looking at him with so much
pitiless anger in her eyes; never before had she spoke with such fierce
strength.
"Go on!... Go on!.." said Grigori defiantly, whilst he clutched the
back of the chair. "I should like to hear what else you have got to
say!"
"You shall soon hear!... I should never have said what I have just
said, if you had not reproached me so unfairly! You tell me I do not
bear you children!... Very well!... Never will I bear you a child.... I
have no wish to bear one to you, after the way you have treated me!"
Her voice broke with sobs, but she almost screamed the last words.
"Stop that noise!" said her husband in a severe voice.
"Would you like me to remind you why I have no children?... Just
remember, Grischka, how you have always ill-treated me, and constantly
kicked me about the body! Just reckon up the blows and knocks you have
given me, the times you have tortured me! How often have you made the
blood flow? My clothes were often soaked with blood. And it's your
cruelty, my dear husband, that has prevented my having children! ...
And now you reproach me with it?... Are you not ashamed to look into
my eyes, you murderer--you?... Yes, you are a murderer, for you have
killed your own children! And now you want to lay the blame upon
me!... upon me, who bore everything, who forgave you everything! But
these words I can never forget or forgive; to my dying hour I shall
remember them! ... Did you imagine then that I did not, like other
women, long for children? Did you think I did not wish to have any?...
Many and many a night, when I lay sleepless, I have prayed the good God
to save the child in my womb from you ... you murderer! When I see some
other woman's child, I could cry with envy and bitterness, because such
happiness is denied me.... Ah! Holy Virgin! How often have I wished
that Senka were my child! How I would have cared for him!... And then,
notwithstanding all this, for you to reproach me with not bearing you a
child!..."
She had grown breathless, and the words poured incoherently from her
lips. Her face was congested, and showed red patches under the skin;
she trembled and clutched her throat, which was choked with sobs.
Grigori sat white and troubled, still holding on tightly to his chair;
watching with wide-open eyes this woman, his wife, but who seemed now a
stranger to him. He was afraid of her ... he was afraid she might seize
him and throttle him. She seemed to threaten him with her flashing
angry eyes. At this moment she was immeasurably his superior; he felt
it and feared her accordingly. He could not jump up and strike her, as
he would have done formerly, for he could not help being overawed by
the moral and mental force, which seemed to make of her a new being.
"You have wounded my soul, Grischka!... Your sin and your guilt towards
me are great.... I bore everything and kept silence.... Why was that?
Because I loved you ... and I still love you, but I will not bear these
reproaches from you ... it's beyond my strength to do so.... Though you
are the husband whom Heaven has given me, I curse you for those words
of yours!"
"Silence!" roared Grigori, showing his teeth.
"Halloa! What's all this row about? Have you forgotten where you
are?... We can have no squabbles here!"
A mist seemed to rise before Grischka's eyes. He did not notice who was
standing in the doorway, speaking in these full bass tones, but pushing
the intruder aside, rushed past him into the open air. Matrona stood
for a moment in the middle of the room, as if struck blind and dumb,
then stumbled with outstretched hands towards her bed and threw herself
down on it, sobbing aloud.
It was already growing dark. The silvery rays of the moon, piercing
the torn edges of the clouds, fell across the floor, throwing the
rest of the room into blue shadow. By and by a thick drizzling rain
began to beat against the window-panes, and run down the walls of the
Infirmary--sounding like a herald of the approaching autumn with its
damp, reeking, darkening days. The pendulum of the clock, with its
monotonous tick-tick, marked the passing of the minutes. The drops of
rain pattered ceaselessly against the window-panes. Hour after hour
passed, and still the rain continued to fall On her bed the woman lay
motionless, staring with wide-open feverish eyes at the ceiling. Her
face was dark and careworn, her teeth were firmly clenched, and her
cheek-bones seemed to stand out prominently; in her eyes there was
an expression of sadness and of painful expectation. Still the rain
continued to beat against the walls and the windows. It sounded like
some one whispering in a monotonous but persuasive voice, trying to
bring conviction; without possessing the power to do this rapidly and
with telling arguments; and who was therefore attempting to obtain
his object by this painful, tedious droning, entirely wanting in the
enthusiasm of real belief.
The grey twilight of a rainy dawn tinged the sky with the colour of
steel which has lost its polish. Sleep had not yet visited Matrona's
eyes. Ever through the monotonous drip, drip of the rain she seemed to
hear the ominously repeated question--
"What will happen next? What will happen next?"
This question seemed to press in on her soul with irresistible force,
and resounded like a dull pain through her brain.
"What will happen next?"
She feared to answer the question, though now and then the answer
would suggest itself in spite of herself, in the image of her drunken,
brutally cruel husband. It was so hard for her to relinquish the
dream of a peaceful life, filled with love--this dream which she had
cherished for the last few weeks--and she strove with all her might to
repel her ominous forebodings. At the same time it became clearer to
her that if Grigori were to return to his former evil ways, their life
together would be utterly impossible. She had seen him as a different
being; she herself had become different, and she could only look back
upon her past life with abhorrence and with fear. New sensations,
unknown to her before, had awoke within her. But after all she was but
a woman, and after a time she began to reproach herself with her share
in the quarrel that had just taken place.
"How did it all come about?"
"Good Lord! I seem to have quite lost my senses!..."
Another whole sad hour went by in these painful contradictory thoughts.
It had become broad daylight; a thick mist lay over the fields, whilst
the sky was hidden by grey, heavy clouds.
"Matrona, it is time to go to your work!" Mechanically obeying the
summons, she rose slowly, washed herself, and went with listless, heavy
steps into the ward. Here, her languid appearance, her sad face and
swollen eyes, immediately attracted the attention of those on duty.
"What is the matter with you then, Matrona? Are you ill?" asked the
lady doctor.
"No, I am all right."
"You can speak openly; don't fear to give trouble. You know if there is
anything the matter I can find a substitute for you."
Matrona was troubled at the thought of this kind-hearted but strange
person perceiving the anguish that was in her soul; so, summoning up
her last remnant of courage, she replied smilingly, but with an aching
heart--
"There is really nothing the matter!... I have had a bit of a quarrel
with my husband.... It's all over now.... And it's really nothing new."
"Poor soul!" sighed the lady doctor, who knew all about Matrona's
former life.
Matrona felt as if she should like to fall down at the feet of this
woman and break into loud sobs. But she controlled herself and pressed
her lips firmly together, to keep back the tears which it required all
her self-control to restrain.
As soon as she was off duty she returned at once to her room. Casting
a look out of window she saw the ambulance-van coming along through
the fields, evidently bringing another patient to the Infirmary. Still
the same thick fine rain fell ceaselessly from the clouds--the fields
were empty and deserted. Matrona turned away from the window, and with
a heavy sigh sat down at the table.
"What was going to happen next?" Still this question sounded through
her brain, and her heart beat time in unison with the words. For a
long time she sat there alone in a sort of heavy stupor, though each
footstep in the corridor made her start and glance anxiously at the
door....
When at last it opened, and Grigori himself appeared, she neither
started nor moved, for she felt at that moment as if the heavy
rain-clouds outside had suddenly fallen on her, crushing her with their
weight.
Grigori remained standing near the door, then, throwing on the floor
his wet cap, he approached Matrona with heavy creaking footsteps. He
was wet through, the water was pouring from him. His face was flushed,
his eyes looked dim, on his lips was a broad, foolish smile. As he
came nearer Matrona could hear the water oozing out of his boots. He
looked a pitiful object, and Matrona even in her worst dreams had never
imagined him thus.
"What a sight you are," she said quietly.
"Shall I fall down at your feet and beg your forgiveness?" Grischka
asked with a weak, sheepish movement of his head.
She was silent
"No?... Well, just as you like!... I have been walking about the whole
night thinking it out as to whether I am guilty towards you or not. At
last I made up my mind; yes, I am guilty.... And now I come to ask your
pardon; will you grant it?"
Still she remained dumb; her heart was tom with bitter recollections,
for as he stood before her he reeked of vodka.
"Just listen!... Don't make too many grimaces about it! Take advantage
of my being sober and friendly," said Grigori, in a louder and more
threatening voice. "Will you forgive me?"
"You are drunk," said Matrona, sighing. "Go and have your sleep out."
"It's a lie! I am not drunk, but only tired.... I have been walking
about and thinking ... I have thought of many things, my dear. So take
care what you are about!"
He shook his finger at her menacingly, and a constrained smile played
round his mouth.
"Why won't you speak?"
"I can't speak to you now."
"And why not pray?"
His face flushed suddenly, and he raised his voice. "It was _you_ who
made the row yesterday; _you_ who shouted and scolded ... and _I_ come
now, and beg your forgiveness. Do you quite realize that?"
His manner whilst he spoke was excited, his lips quivered, and
his nostrils dilated. Matrona knew only too well what these signs
foreboded; the cellar, the Saturday night rows, all the dreariness of
their empty life.
"I realize it only too plainly," she replied in a firm, decided voice.
"You have become once more a wild beast! Ah! that it should be so!"
"Whether I am a wild beast or not, that has nothing to do with the
matter!... I ask you if you will forgive me? What do you imagine
then?... Do you think I can't live without your forgiveness? Oh, I can
get along very well without it ... but all the same I come and ask you
to forgive.... Do you understand?..."
"Leave me alone, Grigori! do!" exclaimed Matrona wearily, turning away
from him.
"Leave you alone? So that is what you want?" laughed Grigori in a
malicious voice. "I am to go away, and you are to remain here, alone,
free and untroubled?... No, that shall never be! Just see how you like
this!"
He seized her by the shoulders, and holding her tightly against him,
flourished a clasp-knife in front of her face. The knife had a short,
thick, rusty blade.
"Well?... How do you like that?"
"Oh! I wish you would stab me and make an end of it," said Matrona,
with a heavy sigh. She freed herself from his grasp, and turned away.
Grischka took a step backwards; the tone of her words had filled him
with astonishment He had often heard similar words from her lips, but
they had never before been uttered in such a desperate tone of voice.
He was completely taken aback at her not showing more fear at sight of
the knife. For a moment or two he had been ready to strike her--but
now he could not, and would not Half dazed by the indifference she
manifested towards his threats, he threw the knife on the table, and
asked her with suppressed anger in his voice--
"What is it you want then, you devil?"
"I want nothing, nothing," cried Matrona, sobbing hysterically. "But
you, what do you want?... You came here with the intention of killing
me!... Well then, kill me, and have done with it!"
Grigori looked at her, and was silent He did not know what to be at
next; his sensations had become so mixed and complicated. He had come
with the express intention of triumphing over his wife. Last night,
when they were quarrelling, she had proved herself the stronger of the
two--that had been quite clear to him, and the thought of it lowered
him in his own estimation. It was absolutely necessary that she should
now submit to him. He did not try to explain to himself why, but he
felt it was absolutely necessary. Being a man of a passionate, complex
nature, he had suffered keenly, and had reflected on many things during
the last few hours, but his ignorance prevented him from explaining
to himself the chaos of emotions, which his wife's just and outspoken
accusations had awoke in him. He perceived that she was in revolt
against him, and he had brought the knife in order to frighten and
subdue her. He might possibly have killed her, if she had not met his
desire to subdue her with such passive resistance. But there she stood,
defenceless before him, broken down with trouble--yet stronger than he.
This gave him a shock, and produced on him a sobering effect.
"Listen!" he said; "leave off this nonsense; you know that I could very
soon finish you off with this.... One blow under the ribs, and all
would be over! That would put an end to all worry and trouble.... It's
very simple!"
He felt whilst he was speaking that he was not expressing what was in
his heart, and he was again silent. Matrona still remained with her
back to him, and motionless. Once more she was feverishly and rapidly
passing in review the period of their life together; whilst at the
same time there pressed in again upon her consciousness the question--
"What is going to happen next?"
"Motrja!" Grigori suddenly began in a soft voice, placing his hand on
the table and bending over his wife. "Is it altogether my fault that
everything has gone wrong--that things are not as they should be ...
between us?... I know I have an unfortunate disposition...."
He sighed, and shook his head slowly and bitterly.
"If you only knew what an ache I have in my heart! My life seems to me
so cramped and narrow!... After all, what sort of a life is this? These
sick people, for instance, can they be any comfort to me? Some of them
die ... others recover and go on living ... and I have to continue to
drag out my existence!... but how?... Is the life we are leading any
better than the pains of cholera?... It is a constant struggle, and how
frightful it is!... Ah! I can't express all that is in my soul.... But
I know that I can't go on living like this.... But how to alter it I
don't know.... Look at those, for instance, who are suffering in the
Infirmary; what care is taken of them because they are ill; and I also
am ill ... I have pains and cramps in my soul; but no one takes care
of me; so I am worse off than they are. And you tell me that I am no
better than a brute.... Nothing but a drunken sot!... Ah! you don't
understand me ... you are a heartless...."
He was speaking in a clear, quiet tone of voice, but she paid but
little attention to his words, for she was occupied with her own
thoughts.
"You do not answer," he continued, feeling something new and great
unfolding within him. "Why do you not speak? What is it you want?"
"I want nothing from you!" exclaimed Matrona. "Why do you worry me so?
What do you want me to do?"
"What do I want you to do?... Well ... you are to ... I want...."
Orloff felt that he was not in a state to define exactly what he
wanted. He was unable to put it clearly into words, so that he could
himself express, and make her understand, what he wanted to say. But
he realized that some barrier had arisen between them, which no words,
however eloquent, could break down. This thought awoke a feverish rage
in his heart He struck Matrona with his clenched fist on the back of
her head, and roared out--
"You damned sorceress! You are trying to provoke me.... I'll kill you,
you witch!"
The blow was so violent that she fell face forwards on the table. But
she quickly recovered herself, and facing her husband with a look of
hatred and defiance in her eyes, she cried out in a loud voice--Go on
beating me!"
"Hush! Be quiet!"
"Why don't you go on beating me, I say!"
"Oh, you devil!"
"No, Grigori, I won't stand this sort of thing any longer!"
"Hush! I say!"
"I won't be ill-treated by you any more!"
He ground his teeth, and took a step backwards, perhaps with the
intention of striking her with greater force.... But at this moment the
door opened suddenly, and Doctor Wasschtschenko appeared on the scene.
"What's going on here? Do you forget where you are? What sort of
business is this?"
His face wore a severe and surprised expression. Orloff did not seem
in the least taken aback, but, nodding his head at the doctor, he
remarked--
"It's nothing! nothing but a little clearing up of the atmosphere
between man and wife."
And he laughed with a half-nervous, half-sneering smile in the doctor's
face.
"Why were you absent from duty to-day?" said the doctor angrily, for he
was vexed by Orloff's sneering, impertinent manner.
Grigori shrugged his shoulders, and replied coolly--
"I was otherwise engaged.... I had business of my own to attend to...."
"Oh!... Was that so? And who was making all that row last night?"
"We were," Grigori replied.
"Oh! it was you ... was it?... Very good, very good!... You
make yourselves quite at home here, it seems.... Go out without
permission...."
"We are not slaves...."
"Silence!... You would like to turn this place into a vodka-shop, you
scum!... I'll let you know where you are!"
A wild rush of defiance, a passionate desire to rush out and get free
from all these confused feelings that oppressed him, suddenly took
possession of Grischka. It seemed to him all at once, that by doing
something out of the common, something extraordinary, he could tear
himself free from the bonds that were fettering his soul. He shuddered,
as a pleasant cool feeling seemed to creep round his heart, and going
up to the doctor with quiet cat-like tread he said--
"Don't strain your throat, shouting like that! I know very well where I
am ... a place where you kill people!"
"What are you talking about?... What was that you said?" exclaimed the
doctor in an astonished voice.
Grigori realized that he had made use of a meaningless and insulting
expression; but he would not retract it; he grew more excited, and
continued--
"Oh! it doesn't matter! You'll soon see what I meant!... Matrona, pack
up your traps; we are off!"
"Not so fast, my friend! You must repeat first what you have just
said," insisted the doctor in a quiet voice that boded no good. "Come
now, speak!... You shall catch it for this, you scoundrel!"
Grischka stared him full in the face--he had a feeling as if he were
being carried away by a puff of wind, and as if each breath that he
took made him feel lighter.
"Don't shout or swear, Nadrei Stepanovitch!... You think perhaps that
because it is cholera time you have a right to order me about.... But
you are wrong.... All your cures here are of no use to mankind, they
are not worth a brass farthing! No one wants you and your science
and your cures!.. Well, if I did call your place a deathtrap it was
nonsense perhaps I was talking, ... that I acknowledge ... because I
was in a rage. But to shout at me here like that ... you have no right
to behave so!"
"You won't get off so easily," said the doctor quietly; "I'll have to
teach you a lesson!... Hi there! Come in, you that are outside!"
A group of listeners had already assembled in the corridor. Grischka's
eyes flashed, and he set his teeth.
"I don't call out, and I am not afraid.... But if you are so very
anxious to give me a lesson ... then I shall have something to say
about it."
"Well, say it then quickly!"
"I shall go into town, and tell every one, 'My good people, listen! and
I will tell you how they cure the cholera!'"
"W-what?" said the doctor; opening still wider his eyes.
"Yes, and we'll all come up here together; and we'll help you to
disinfect with a vengeance ... we'll make a bonfire!"
The doctor's anger had turned to intense astonishment, as he listened
to this man, whom he had known as a decent hard-working fellow, but who
was now carried away with these mad rebellious fancies.
"What are you saying, you fool?... How can you be so stupid!"
The word "stupid" jarred on Grischka's sensibilities. He realized
that he had fully deserved the title, but the consciousness of this
increased his rage.
"I know very well what I am saying!" he added with glowing eyes. "It's
all the same to me.... To such as I am, it's all the same, at any
time; it's useless for us to try and restrain our impulses. Come,
Matrona, pack up your traps!"
"I'm not going to leave," said Matrona in a quiet restrained voice.
The doctor watched them both with astonished eyes, not knowing what to
make of it all.
"You are either drunk, or mad!" he said to Grischka. "Do you understand
yet what you are doing?"
Grischka either could not or would not give in; he felt he had gone too
far. So he retorted in a tone of would-be irony--
"You ask if I know what I am doing?... But do you know yourself what
you are doing? Disinfecting? Ha! ha!... and curing the sick people;
whilst those who are well are dying from the stress and misery of
life!... Matrona, I'll knock your head off if you don't come with me!"
"I shall not go with you!"
She stood there, white and motionless; but the expression in her eyes
was cold and resolute, as she looked her husband in the face. This look
had the effect of damping his heroics, his head sunk on his breast, and
he turned silently away.
"Devil take him!" said the doctor. "There's no making head or tail of
what he means!... Just listen, my good fellow. Be off with you as
quickly as you can, and thank your lucky stars that I let you off so
easily! I might have given you over to the police, you fool! Now, be
off!"
Grischka cast a lowering look at the doctor. He would rather have been
beaten, or given into custody; but the doctor was a kind-hearted man,
and could see that Orloff was not at the present moment responsible for
his actions.
"For the last time; are you coming with me?" Grischka asked his wife,
in a hoarse voice.
"No, I am not going," she answered, throwing back her head, as if she
expected a blow.
"Well--go to the devil, all of you!" he cried, with a hopeless gesture.
"What the deuce do I want with any of you?"
"You poor fool!" exclaimed the doctor almost compassionately.
"Don't swear!" shouted Grigori; then turning to his wife, "Well, you
damned hussy, you see I am off!... Perhaps we shall never meet again in
this life ... perhaps we shall ... that will be just as I choose. But
if we do meet--it won't go well with you.... That I can promise you!"
Then he turned towards the door.
"Farewell, you tragic hero!" cried the doctor in a sarcastic voice, as
Grigori passed him. Orloff stopped, and turning his sad glowing eyes on
the doctor, said in a restrained voice--
"You had better leave me alone ... don't wind up the spring any more
... it was lucky it unwound without hurting any one ... don't try it on
again!".
He picked up his wet cap from the floor, put it on his head, lingered
for a moment, and then went out without once glancing at Matrona.
The doctor looked at Orloff's wife with a searching glance, as she
stood in front of him with a pale death-like look on her face.
Then nodding in the direction of Grigori, he asked her, "What is the
matter with him?"
"I don't know...."
"H'm--and where is he going now?"
"He will go and get drunk," Matrona replied in a convinced tone of
voice.
The doctor frowned and left her.
Matrona looked out of the window. Through the darkness of the night,
and through the rain and wind, she could discern the figure of a man
leaving the Infirmary, and walking towards the town. He was the only
living thing to be seen in the dreary wet expanse of fields.
Matrona's face grew still whiter; she went towards a corner of the
room, dropped on her knees, and began to pray fervently, her head
bowed almost to the floor. Deep sighs and ardent words of passionate
prayer escaped from her lips, whilst in her excitement and anguish her
hands clutched feverishly at her throat and breast.