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.