The room was clean and spacious. Four of the six beds in it were empty,
each one having its coarse grey coverlet folded neatly, and strangely
suggestive of a coffin. On the fifth bed sat a little wizened old man
in a dressing-gown, who glanced timidly at the newcomers; and on the
sixth bed, beneath a similar coarse coverlet, lay Semenoff. At his
side, in a bent posture, sat Novikoff, while Ivanoff and Schafroff
stood by the window. To all of them it seemed odd and painful to shake
hands in the presence of the dying man, yet not to do so seemed equally
embarrassing, as though by such omission they hinted that death was
near. Some greeted each other, and some refrained, while all stood
still gazing with grim curiosity at Semenoff.
He breathed slowly and with difficulty. How different he looked from
the Semenoff they knew! Indeed, he hardly seemed to be alive. Though
his features and his limbs were the same, they now appeared strangely
rigid and dreadful to behold. That which naturally gave life and
movement to the bodies of other human beings no longer seemed to exist
in his. Something horrible was being swiftly, secretly accomplished
within his motionless frame, an important work that could not be
postponed. All that remained to him of life was, as it were,
concentrated upon this work, observing it with keen, inexplicable
interest.
The lamp hanging from the ceiling shone clearly upon the dying man's
lifeless visage. All standing there gazed upon it, holding their breath
as if fearing to disturb something infinitely solemn; and in such
silence the laboured, sibilant breathing of the patient sounded
terribly distinct.
The door opened, and with short, senile steps a fat little priest
entered, accompanied by his psalm-singer, a dark, gaunt man. With these
came Sanine. The priest, coughing slightly, bowed to the doctors and to
all present, who acknowledged his greeting with excessive politeness,
and then remained perfectly silent as before. Without noticing anybody,
Sanine took up his position by the window, eyeing Semenoff and the
others with great curiosity as he sought to discern what the patient
and those about him actually felt and thought. Semenoff remained
motionless, breathing just as before.
"He is unconscious, is he?" asked the priest gently, without addressing
anyone in particular.
"Yes," replied Novikoff, hastily.
Sanine murmured something unintelligible. The priest looked
questioningly at him, but, as Sanine remained silent, he turned away,
smoothed his hair back, donned his stole and in high-pitched, unctuous
tones began to chant the prayers for the dying.
The psalm-singer had a bass voice, hoarse and disagreeable, so that the
vocal contrast was a painfully discordant one as the sound of this
chanting rose to the lofty ceiling. No sooner had it commenced than the
eyes of all were fixed in terror upon the dying man. Novikoff, standing
nearest to him, thought that Semenoff's eye-lids moved slightly, as if
the sightless eyeballs had been turned in the direction of the
chanting. To the others, however, Semenoff appeared as strangely
motionless as before.