CHAPTER III

One Monday morning, just as the Orloffs had finished their breakfast, there appeared on the threshold of their unfriendly-looking dwelling the imposing form of a police-officer. Grischka Orloff sprang frightened from his seat, and catching a glimpse of a startled and reproachful look in his wife's eye, made vain efforts to recall to his dulled brain the events of the last few days. Matrona watched him with looks that spoke of anxious reproach. In obstinate silence, though full of scared expectation, Grischka turned his troubled eyes on the unexpected guest.

"This way! Down here!" cried the police-officer to some one who was coming down behind him.

"It's as dark as a vault here!... What a devil's hole is this merchant Petounukoff's house!" The words were spoken in a young, cheerful voice.

The police-officer moved on one side, and, with a rapid step, a medical student in a white coat entered the Orloffs' dwelling, holding his cap in his hand. His head was smooth shaven, his forehead high and sunburnt; he had cheerful brown eyes, which smiled through his spectacles.

"Good-morning!" he exclaimed, in his still youthful ringing alto voice. "I have the honour to introduce myself to you; I am a member of the Sanitary Commission. I have come to inquire about the state in which you live here, and just to report what sort of air you are breathing.... It's quite abominable air!"

Orloff breathed more freely, and a look of relief passed across his face. From the first moment, the medical student, with his boisterous unaffected ways, pleased him; the healthy young face, covered on cheeks and chin with fair downy hair, had something so friendly and good-natured in it The fresh free laughter of the young man brought into the Orloffs' cellar a ray of light and of brightness.

"Now, my good people," continued the student, after a pause; "you might empty the slop-pail a little more often, for it is from that this horrible smell comes. I should like to advise you, my good woman, to wash it out more often, and to place chloride of lime in the corners of the room. That will purify the air, and it's a very good remedy against the damp. And you, my fine fellow—why do you look so upset?" He turned towards Orloff, seized his hand suddenly, and felt his pulse. The quick assured manner of the medical student impressed the Orloffs to such a degree that they seemed at first to be struck dumb. Matrona smiled constrainedly and watched him in silence, whilst Grigori seemed as if refreshed by the sight of the open fair young face.

"Well, and how are your stomachs feeling?" asked the medical student "You can speak out openly to me without any fuss—it's a question you see of life and death.... If anything is not quite right we will treat you gratis with some simple citrate medicine or something of that sort, and you will be all right in a few days."

"We can't complain; we are fairly healthy," said Grigori, smiling. "And if I don't seem quite up to the mark, it's nothing out of the common—to tell the truth, I took a drop too much last night...."

"That I had already guessed, for my nose told me so.... Of course it was only a small glass too much? Only half a glass or so?..."

Grischka could not contain himself when listening to the comical way in which this was said, and watching the sly grimace which accompanied it; and he burst into a loud good-tempered laugh. Matrona smiled also behind her apron. The medical student, who, at first had laughed with them for company, then changed to a more serious expression. As the lines of his face altered, it appeared even more open and candid than before.

"That a man who is working should drink a glass from time to time—that is all right," said he. "But as I have just said, it must be taken in moderation, and as times are now it is better to keep away from drink altogether. Have you already heard about the epidemic that is just now raging in the town?"

And with a serious expression on his face, he began to tell the Orloffs about the cholera, and the means to be taken to counteract it; trying to express himself as clearly and as simply as possible. Whilst talking, he was busily examining the room, feeling the walls with his hands, looking behind the door, stooping down to peep into the stove, and sniffing about everywhere with his nose. His voice, which had not yet completely changed, alternated between bass and treble, and the simple forms of words which he used impressed themselves unconsciously on the minds of his audience. His brown eyes gleamed, and seemed full of youthful enthusiasm for the work to which he had dedicated himself so earnestly and simply.

Grigori hung eagerly on every one of his words, and followed with curiosity all his movements. Matrona listened also, without understanding very much; the police-officer had already gone off.

"Be careful to use chloride of lime as I have told you. Close by here is a new building; for a couple of kopecks they will give you a whole heap of it. And, about the drink, it's better to leave it alone for a while, my friend. Well, good-day to you I I shall soon be looking you up again...."

And he disappeared as quickly as he came, and left as it were as a recollection of his pleasant visit, a contented, happy smile on the faces of the couple.

For a time they were silent, both looking at each other, unable to put into words the impression which this sudden visit, with all its revelation of well-directed energy, had made on the monotonous tenor of their dull automatic life.

"Just think, now!" began Grigori at last, shaking his head, "what a sorcerer that fellow is!... And they tell us that those are the men who poison people! Can a man with a face like that have anything to do with those sort of goings on?... And that cheerful clear voice, and all the rest of it!... No, it's all open and above board, it's all straight! He comes in quite simply—'Here I am, my good people; listen to what I have to say!' Chloride of lime, that can't hurt And citric acid, that's just an acid, and nothing more.... The principal thing, however, is to keep clean, to have everything clean indoors, and to attend to the slop-bucket Can a man be poisoned by attending to those sort of things? They must be stupid folk who talk like that!... Poisoners, they call them? Yes, that's it.... To think that such a dear fellow as that could be a poisoner! Pfui!... 'He who works may drink a glass,' he said; 'of course with moderation.' Did you hear, Matrona? Well, pour me out one, then. Is there one left?"

Matrona hastened to pour him out a glass of vodka, which she produced from some hiding-place.

"He is really a very nice fellow; there is something so friendly about him," she said, still smiling at the thought of the student. "But who can say what the others may be like? Perhaps they are indeed hired to——"

"What do you mean?... Hired to do what?" roared Grigori.

"Well, to put folk out of the way.... It seems there is an order that all the poor people are to be poisoned when there are too many of them," added Motrja.

"Who told you that?"

"Well, everybody says so.... The painter's cook says so also.... And lots of others say the same thing."

"A lot of silly fools! What would the Government gain by it? Just think a moment! First they would have to treat us all with medicine; and then they would have to pay for the funerals, the coffins, the graves, and all that sort of thing. That all costs something, and it all has to come out of the coffers of the State.... That's all idle chatter; if they really want to get rid of a few of the poor people, they have only got to send them out to Siberia; there's room for them all there; or to some uninhabited island, where they can dig the ground, work and pay taxes! Can't you understand? Don't you see that would be the right sort of way of thinning out the people, and would be at the same time advantageous.... For an uninhabited island produces nothing; but workers, who pay taxes, are the most important matter for the State coffers. But what sense would there be in poisoning people and burying them?... There would be no sense in it, don't you see? And then about the medical students; they are certainly a troublesome lot, but more especially because they are always in opposition to the authorities, than because they poison people.... No, you won't catch a medical student doing that, not for all the money in the world!... One can see at once that these students are not that sort."

The whole day they talked of the medical student, and of the advice he had given them. They spoke of his cheerful laugh, of his expression, and they remembered that there was a button missing on his coat But on the question as to whether it was missing on the right side or the left, they could not agree; and they nearly came to pulling one another's hair over it. Twice already Grischka had made his wife angry, but he noticed in time that her bottle still contained a good drop of vodka; so in the end he gave in to her. They made resolutions to commence cleaning up their cellar the next day, and then began once more to talk of the student, whose entry into their home had acted on them like a refreshing breath of fresh air.

"By heavens, but he's a regular jolly lad!" said Grigori delighted. "He comes in as simply as if he had known us for years, gives the necessary directions, and there's an end of it.... All without noise or fuss, though he had a right to use authority.... That's the sort of fellow that takes my fancy! One sees at once that he has a heart for people like us.... What say you, Motrja? They don't want us to die, that's all about it I And all this women's chatter about poisoning and that sort of thing—that's all rubbish. 'How are your stomachs getting on?' he asked. If he wants to poison me what can it matter to him how my stomach is? And how cleverly he explained all that.... What the devil did he call those—those worms that get into our insides?"

"'Bactery,' or some word like that," answered Motrja, with a sneer. "But he only told us that to frighten us, so as to make us more careful about being clean...."

"Who knows, perhaps it is true! Perhaps there are animals of that sort—in the damp all kinds of creatures live! Damn it all, what was the name of those little beasts? Bac—bactery—that was not quite it.... If I could only pronounce it I.... It's just on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out!..."

Once again, in the evening when they lay down to sleep, they spoke about the event of the day with the most na?ve excitement, just as children have the habit of chattering with each other about some strong impression they may have received. And they fell asleep in the middle of the conversation.

In the morning they woke up early. At their bedside stood the painter's stout cook; her usually healthy, rosy-coloured face was now white and leaden-looking.

"How is it you are still in bed?".she began at once in an excited voice, speaking with trembling lips. "The cholera has started here in the courtyard! The Lord has visited us...!" and she began suddenly to sob aloud.

"What nonsense! It can't be true!" cried Grigori In a scared voice.

"And I forgot again last night to carry out the slop-bucket!" said Matrona with contrition.

"I have come in to say good-bye to you, my dear friends," said the cook. "I have decided to leave, and go back to my village."

"Who is in for it?" asked Grigori, jumping out of bed.

"The accordion-player. He drank last evening some cold water from the pump, and in the night he was taken with dreadful cramps."

"The accordion-player?" muttered Grigori. It seemed to him quite incredible that any sort of illness could hurt that strong fellow. Yesterday only he crossed the yard as cheerful and as proud as a peacock.

"I shall just go and see what is going on," said Grischka, still smiling incredulously.

"But it is catching, Grischka!" screamed Matrona, horrified.

"What do you want to be doing there, man? Stay here!" cried the cook.

Grigori muttered a few curses, and began to dress himself hastily without washing, and went out just as he was into the yard.

Matrona caught hold of him by the shoulders to hold him back; he felt how her hand trembled, but he shook her off against her will.

"Get away, or something will happen!" he shouted out, pushing her back, and he strode out by the door.

The courtyard seemed empty and quiet.... Whilst Grigori walked towards the accordion-player's room a feeling of fear took possession of him; but this was followed by an immediate sense of satisfaction that he should be the only one in the house who had the courage to visit the sick man. This feeling increased when he noticed that the tailor's apprentices were watching him from the windows of the second-floor. In order to appear quite free from fear he whistled as he went along. At the door, however, of the accordion-player's room he met with a slight surprise. He was not the first to visit the sick man; Senka Tschischik was there before him. Senka was just sticking his nose through the crack of the door, and observing in his usual fashion, with intense curiosity, all that was going on in the room. He did not notice Orloff's approach till the latter took him by the ear.

"Just look, Uncle Grischka, how the cramps have got hold of him!" he whispered, lifting his dirty little face, which, under the impression of what he had just been witnessing, seemed more sharp-set than ever. "How parched and dried up he looks. By Jove! he looks like a dry cask!"

Orloff was quite overcome by the pestiferous atmosphere which was issuing from the room. He stood there silently, listening to Tschischik, whilst watching with one eye through the narrow crack of the partly open door.

"We ought, perhaps, to give him some water to drink, Uncle Grigori," said Tschischik.

Orloff glanced at the excited, nervous, trembling face of the child, and felt within himself the desire to help the sufferer.

"Be off, quick, and get some water!" he ordered Senka. Then he opened wide the door of the sick man's room, and stepped boldly across the threshold.

Through the mist, which seemed to have arisen before his eyes, Grigori saw poor Kisljakoff. The accordion-player, dressed in his best clothes, leant all of a heap against the table, pressing convulsively his body against the edge, which he held with both his hands. His feet, still wearing the patent leather boots, dangled helplessly on the damp floor.

"Who is there?" asked the sick man in a hollow, apathetic, changed voice.

Grigori moved a step nearer, treading carefully over the damp boards, and trying to speak in even cheerful tone of voice.

"It is!—brother Mitri Pawlow.... What's the matter with you, then? This is a queer sort of music you are making here! Did you have a drop too much yesterday?"

He looked at Kisljakoff with terrified curiosity, for he scarcely recognized him. The accordion-player's face had taken on it a drawn angular expression; the cheek-bones stood out sharply. The deep-sunk eyes, surrounded by black rings, looked unusually fixed and staring. The skin had turned the colour of a corpse in summer-time. Orloff felt he was looking into the leaden face of a dying man. Only the slow movement of the jaws showed that what was before him was still a living body.... For some time Kisljakoff stared with motionless, glassy eyes into Grigori's face; and this dying stare frightened Orloff. It seemed to him as if a damp, cold hand had seized him by the throat, and was slowly strangling him. And he felt within him the desire to leave as soon as possible this room, which used to be so pleasant and gay, but which now seemed unnaturally cold, and filled with such a horrible foul smell of decay and rottenness.

"Come now," said he, preparing to leave the room.

Suddenly a sort of change passed over the grey face of the accordion-player. The lips, which were tinged with a leaden-coloured shade, opened, and he said in a low monotonous voice—

"I—must—d—die."

These three words, uttered so apathetically, struck Orloff's head and heart like three dull strokes. He turned, as if stunned, towards the door, where he was met by Tschischik, hot and perspiring, who was returning with a bucket of water.

"Here's some water from Spridinoff's well!... They did not want to let me take it, the dogs!"

He placed the bucket on the ground, disappeared quickly into a corner of the room, and re-appeared with a glass, which he handed to Orloff. Then he went on chattering—

"They said we had cholera here. Well, I said, what does that matter?... It will come to you, too—it's going all round the town. Then I got a box on the ear...."

Orloff took the glass, filled it from the bucket, and drank it off in one draught In his ears still rang the words of the sick man—

"I—must—die."

Tschischik wriggled about the room like an eel; he seemed to be quite in his element.

"Give me water," moaned the accordion-player, leaning his trembling body forward on the table.

Tschischik ran up to him and held a glass of water to his black, swelled lips. Grigori stood as if spell-bound or in a bad dream, leaning against the wall near the door. He heard how the sick man gulped down the water, and how Tschischik asked him if he should undress him and put him on the bed; and then he heard once more the voice of the painter's cook. He could see her fat face glancing with an expression of mingled fear and pity from one of the windows of the courtyard, as she said in a whining tone—"Mix two tablespoonfuls of soot with pine-juice and rum, and give it to him."

Some one whom he could not see, but who stood behind her, recommended cucumber-pickle and aqua regia.

Orloff felt suddenly with a clear flash the strong silent voice of his soul speaking. In order to strengthen the flickering flame, he rubbed his forehead briskly; then he left the room suddenly, ran across the yard, and disappeared down the street.

"Oh, Lord!... The cobbler's taken ill now!... He's run off to the Infirmary!" cried loudly the cook.

Matrona stood near her, with wide-open eyes, and trembling in her whole body.

"You're a liar!" she said angrily, though her white lips could scarcely pronounce the words. "My Grischka could not catch this filthy complaint. He'd never give way to it."

But the cook was not listening to her; she had already gone off somewhere else, talking excitedly as she went along. Five minutes later quite a crowd of neighbours and passers-by had assembled before the merchant Petounukoff's house. There they stood, whispering together under their breath, and on each of their faces one could read the same feeling of terror, nervous excitement and hopeless misery—mixed with secret rage on the part of some, and of fictitious boldness on that of others. Tschischik ran backwards and forwards between the courtyard and the sick man's room, bringing each time to the curious crowd of onlookers some fresh piece of news about the condition of the accordion-player.

The crowd stood tightly pressed together, and filled the dusty, foul-smelling air of the street with its half-uttered whispers. From time to time a loud oath from some undistinguishable quarter was heard; an oath as senseless as it was malicious.

"Look there; there's Orloff coming!"

Orloff drove up on an ambulance-van covered over with a white awning, which stopped at the door of the old house. He was seated by the side of the driver, a dark-looking man, who was also dressed in white linen.

"Make way there! Get out of the way!" shouted the driver of the carriage, in a deep bass voice to the bystanders.

He drove right into the midst of the crowd, so that they scattered to right and left, falling over each other. The sight of the ambulance-van, and the rough voice of the driver, both helped to calm the excited feelings of the onlookers, and many of them left their posts of observation. Close behind the driver was to be seen the medical student, who had the day before visited the Orloffs. His hat was on the back of his head, big drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead. He wore a long, dazzlingly white coat, in front of which a big hole had been burnt out with some strong acid.

"Now then, Orloff! Where's the sick man?" asked the student in a loud voice, throwing a critical glance at the bystanders, who were loitering about in small knots, partially concealed behind the comers of the gates.

"Look out! There's the cook coming," cried some one.

"Take care, or he'll cook you something you don't like!" replied a second voice in a vicious tone.

The would-be wit, who is always to be found in a crowd, shouted out, "Just wait; he'll cook a broth for you that won't agree with your stomach!"

The crowd laughed, but it was a mirthless laugh, a mixture of fear and of distrust.

"They don't seem to be afraid of the infection themselves.... That's rather difficult to understand," some one in the crowd remarked, with a meaning look, but in a voice that betrayed hatred. Under the impression of this question the faces in the crowd took on once more threatening expressions, and the conversation fell to low whispers.

"Look, they are bringing him out now!"

"Orloff is carrying him! Just look what a bold fellow he is!"

"It's true, he has plenty of courage."

"What does it matter for a sot like him? What has he to be afraid of?"

"Carefully, carefully, Orloff! Lift his legs higher ... that's right Ate you ready?... Drive on, Peter!" the student ordered. "Tell the doctor I will follow him directly.... I beg of you, Mr. Orloff, to stay here for a time and help me to disinfect the place.... You might take this opportunity of learning what to do in case of necessity some other time. Is it agreed? Yes?"

"We can set about it at once," said Orloff with visible pride, glancing round at the crowd.

"I will help too!" cried Tschischik.

He had followed the ambulance-van up to the door of the Infirmary, and had already returned in time to offer his services to the medical student The latter looked at him over his spectacles.

"Who are you, my little chap?"

"I am the apprentice here at the painter's," replied Tschischik.

"And you are not afraid of the cholera?"

"I ... afraid?" replied Senka, astonished. "I am not afraid of anything in the world."

"Is that so?... Well, that's all right.... Just listen now, my friends."

The student sat down on a barrel which stood in the yard, and, whilst he rocked himself backwards and forwards on it, he began to explain to Orloff and Tschischik how, before everything else, they must be scrupulously clean in their own persons.

A few minutes later Matrona, smiling anxiously, joined the group in the courtyard. The cook followed her, wiping her tear-stained eyes with a damp apron. One by one the crowd followed, approaching the group where sat the student, with furtive steps as a cat might approach a sparrow. After about a dozen people had collected, the student became more enthusiastic and interested, for he observed the increasing attention paid to what he was saying. Standing in their midst, and gesticulating as he spoke, he gave a sort of lecture, raising by turns a laugh, or calling forth an expression of distrust.

"The principal thing, gentlemen, in all cases of illness is cleanliness in your own persons, and good fresh air," thus he instructed his listeners.

"But those who keep clean manage to die all the same!" remarked one of the audience.

"Ah! dear Lord!" sighed the painter's cook out loud. "It would be better to pray to the holy martyr St. Barbara to save us from a sudden death!"

Orloff stood near his wife, and though apparently occupied with his own thoughts, watched the student with a fixed stare. Suddenly he felt some one pull his sleeve.

"Little Uncle Grigori!" whispered Tschischik in his ear, standing on tiptoe, and looking at the cobbler with small round eyes that glowed like burning coals. "The poor Mitri Pavlovitch is going to die. He has no relations—what will become of his accordion?"

"Keep quiet, you little imp!" Orloff replied, and pushed him on one side.

Senka looked in at the window of the room from which they had just carried out the accordion-player, his eyes searching round with a covetous glance.

"Well, as a final word of caution, my friends, use plenty of chloride of lime!" the student's voice was heard once more saying.