A Death in the HospitalСмерть в госпитале

And now, as I write this, there comes vividly back to me one dying man, a consumptive, that same Mikhailov who lay almost opposite me. Mikhailov himself, though, I knew little. He was still a very young man, twenty-five or so, no more, tall, thin, and of exceedingly comely appearance. He lived in the special section and was strangely silent, always somehow quietly, somehow calmly sad. It was as if he were “withering away” in the prison.

So, at least, the convicts spoke of him afterward; he left a good memory of himself among them. I recall only that he had beautiful eyes. He died at about three in the afternoon, on a frosty, clear day. I remember the sun was piercing right through the green, slightly frosted panes in the windows of our ward with its strong, slanting rays. A whole stream of them poured over the unfortunate man. He died unconscious, and hard; he was a long time dying, several hours on end. From the morning on, his eyes had begun not to recognize those who came up to him. They wanted to ease him somehow; they could see that it was very hard for him. He breathed with difficulty, deeply, rasping; his chest rose high, as if he had too little air. He had thrown off his blanket and all his clothes, and at last began tearing off his shirt. It was terrible to look at that long, long body, with its legs and arms wasted to the bone, its sunken belly, its raised chest, its ribs standing out sharply, as on a skeleton. On all his body there remained only a wooden cross with a little pouch, and the fetters, through which, it seemed, he could now have slipped his withered leg. Half an hour before his death everyone among us seemed to grow hushed and began talking almost in whispers. Whoever walked about trod somehow without a sound. They talked little among themselves, and of unrelated things, and only now and then glanced at the dying man, who rasped more and more. At last, with a wandering, unsteady hand, he felt for the pouch on his chest and began tearing it off, as if it too were a burden to him, troubled him, weighed on him. They took off the pouch too. About ten minutes later he died. They knocked on the door for the sentry and let him know. An attendant came in, looked dully at the dead man, and went off for the medical assistant. The medical assistant, a young, good-natured fellow, soon appeared; with quick steps, treading loudly through the hushed ward, he went up to the deceased and, with a peculiarly offhand air, took his pulse, felt it, waved his hand, and went out. At once they went off to inform the guard: the criminal was an important one, of the special section; even to have him recognized as dead took special ceremonies.

While they waited for the sentries, one of the convicts put forward the idea in a low voice that it would not be amiss to close the deceased’s eyes. Another heard him out attentively, went silently up to the dead man, and closed them. Seeing the cross lying right there on the pillow, he picked it up, looked it over, and silently put it back around Mikhailov’s neck; put it on and crossed himself. Meanwhile the dead face was stiffening; a ray of light played on it; the mouth was half open; two rows of white young teeth gleamed from under the thin lips that clung to the gums. At last the sergeant of the guard came in, wearing his short sword and his helmet, two attendants behind him. He came forward, slowing his steps more and more, glancing in bewilderment at the convicts, who had fallen silent and were looking sternly at him from every side. A step away from the dead man he stopped as if rooted to the spot, as though he had lost his nerve. The completely naked, withered corpse, in nothing but its fetters, struck him, and suddenly he unfastened his chin strap, took off his helmet, which was not at all required, and crossed himself with a broad sweep. It was a stern, gray, soldierly face. I remember that at that very moment Chekunov was standing right there, also a gray old man. All the while he had been gazing silently and intently into the sergeant’s face, point-blank, and following his every gesture with a strange attention. But their eyes met, and Chekunov’s lower lip suddenly, for some reason, trembled. He twisted it somehow strangely, bared his teeth, and, giving the sergeant a quick nod toward the dead man, as if without meaning to, said:

“He had a mother too, you know!” — and he walked away.

But now they began to lift the corpse; they lifted it together with the cot; the straw crackled, and the fetters, amid the general silence, clanked ringingly on the floor… They picked them up. They carried the body out. Suddenly everyone began talking loudly. The sergeant could be heard, already in the corridor, sending someone for the blacksmith. The dead man had to have his fetters struck off…