Sanine

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.