Sanine

"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 Raton's', 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."