Kirilov listened in silence as though he did not understand the Russian language.
When Aboguin once more mentioned Papchinsky and his wife's father, and once more began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness, the doctor shook his head and said, drawling each word listlessly:
"Excuse me, but I can't go. . . . Five minutes ago my . . . son died."
"Is that true?" Aboguin whispered, stepping back. "My God, what an awful moment to come! It's a terribly fated day . . . terribly! What a coincidence .. . and it might have been on purpose!"
Aboguin took hold of the door handle and dropped his head in meditation. Evidently he was hesitating, not know- ing whether to go away, or to ask the doctor once more.
"Listen," he said eagerly, seizing Kirilov by the sleeve. "I fully understand your state! God knows I'm ashamed to try to hold your attention at such a moment, but what can I do? Think yourself—who can I go to? There isn't another doctor here besides you. For heaven's sake come. I'm not asking for myself. It's not I that's ill!"
Silence be^m. K.irilov t^^^ his ba^ to Abo^^, s^^ still for a while and slowly went out oi the hall into the drawing-room. To judge by his unce^^n, machine-like ^ve- ment, and by the attentiveness with which he arranged the hanging shade on the unlighted lamp in the dra^mg-room and consulted a thick which lay on the table—at a moment he had neither nor desire, nor did he
think of anything, and probablv ^^ already iorgotten that there was a stranger standing in his hall. The gloom and the quiet of the drawing-room apparently increased his in- ^mity. As he went from the drawing-room to his study be raised his right foot higher than he need, felt with his hands for the door-posts, and then one felt a certain perplexity in his whole figure, as though he had entered a strange house by chance, or for the first time in his life had got drunk, and now was giving himself up in bewilderment to the new se^tion. A wide line of light stretched across the shelves on one wall of the study; this light, together with the heavy stifling smell of carbolic acid and ether came from the door ajar that led from the study into the bed- room. . . . The doctor sank into a chair before the table; for a while he looked drowsily at the shining then
rose, and went into the bedroom.
Here, in the bedroom dead quiet reigned. Everything, down to the last trifle, spoke eloquently of the tempest under- gone, of weariness, and everything rested. The candle whicl; stood among a close crowd of phials, boxes and jars on the stool and the big lamp on the chest of drawers brightly lit the room. On the bed, by the window, the boy lay open-eyed, with a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but it seemed that his open eyes became darker and darker every second and sank into his skull. Having laid her hands on his body and hid her face in the folds of the bed-clothes, the mother now was on her knees before the bed. Like the boy she did not move, but how much living movement was felt in the coil of her body and in her hands! She was press- ing close to thc bed with hcr whole bcing, with cagcr vehemence, as though she wcre afr.iid to violatc the quiet and comfortable pose which she had found at last for hcr wi*ary body. Illankcts, cloths, basins, splashcs on the lloor, brushcs and spoons scattcrcd everywhcre, a whitc bottlc of lime- water, the stilling heavy air itsclf—cverything died away, and as it wcre plunged into quictude.
The doctor stopped by his wife, thrust his hands into his trouscr pockcts and bending his hcad on one side looked fixedly at his son. His facc showcd indiffcrence; only the drops which glistened on his beard revealcd that he had bcen lately weeping.
The rcpulsivc terror of which we think when wc speak of dcath was abscnt from the bed-room. In thc pervading dumbness, in the mother's pose, in thc indiffercnce of thc doctor's face was something attractivc that touched the heart, the subtle and elusive bcauty of human grief, which it will take men long to undcrstand and describe, and only music, it seems, is able to exprcss. Beauty too was felt in the stern stillness. Kirilov and his wifc were silcnt and did not wcep, as though they confesscd all the poctry of their condition. As once the season of thcir youth passed away, so now in this boy their right to bcar children had passcd away, al.ns! for ever to eternity. The doctor is forty-four years old, al- ready grcy and looks like an old man; his faded sick wife is thirty-five. Andrey was not merely the only son but the last.
In contrast to his wife the doctor's nature belonged to those which fcel the nccessity of movcment whcn thcir soul is in pain. Aftcr standing by his wife for about fivc minutcs, he passcd from the bed-room lifting his right foot too high, into a little room half fi1lcd with a big broad divan. From there he went to the kitchen. Aftcr wandering about the fire- place and the cook's bed, he stooped through a litlle door and came into the hall.
Here he saw the white scarf and the pale face again.
"At last," sighed Aboguin, seizing the door-handle. "Let us go, please."
The doctor shuddered, glanced at him and remembered.
"Listen. I've told you already that I can't go," he said, livening. "WhWhat a strange idea!"
"Doctor, I'm made of flesh and blood, too. I fully under- stand your condition. I sympathise with you," Aboguin said in an imploring voice, putting his hand to his scarf. "But I ^ not asking for myself. My wife is dying. If you had heard her cry, if you'd seen her face, you would under- stand my insistence! My God—and I thought that you'd gone to dress yourself. The time is precious, Doctor! Let us go, I beg of you."
"I can't come," Kirilov said after a pause, and stepped into his drawing-room.
Aboguin followed him and seized him by the sleeve.
"You're in sorrow. I understand. But I'm not asking you to cure a toothache, or to give expert evidence,—but to save a human life." He went on imploring like a beggar. "This life is more than any personal grief. I ask you for courage, for a brave deed—in the name of humanity."
"Humanity cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably. "In the name of the same humanity I ask you not to take me away. My God, what a strange idea! I can hardly stand on my feet and you frighten me with humanity. I'm not fit for anything now. I won't go for anything. With whom shall I leave my wife? No, no. . . ."
Kirilov flung out his open hands and drew back.
"And . . . and don't ask me," he continued, disturbed. "I'm sorry.. . . Under the Laws, Volume XIII., I'm obliged to go and you have the right to drag me by the neck. . . . Well, drag me, but . . . I'm not fit. . . . I'm not even able to speak. Excuse me."
"It's quite unfair to speak to me in that tone, Doctor," said Aboguin, again taking the doctor by the sleev':!. "The thirteenth volume be damned! I have no right to do violence to your will. If you want to, come; if you don't, then God be with you; but it's not to your will that I apply, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You say your son died just now. Who could understand my terror better than you?"
Aboguin's voice trembled with agitation. His tremor and his tone were much more convincing than his words. Aboguin was sincere, but it is remarkable that every phrase he used came out stilted, soulless, inopportunely florid, and as it were insulted the atmosphere of the doctor's house and the woman who was dying. He felt it himself, and in his fear of being misunderstood he exerted himself to the utmost to make his voice soft and tender so as to convince by the sincerity of his tone at least, if not by his words. As a rule, however deep and beautiful the words they affect only the unconcerned. They cannot always satisfy those who are happy 01 distressed because the highest expression of happi- ness or distress is most often silence. Lovers understand each other best when they are silent, and a fervent passionate speech at the graveside affects only outsiders. To the widow and children it seems cold and trivial.