But the professor did not do anything more.
He took off his white coat, wiped his hands with some damp balls of cotton wool and looked again into Alexei's face.
The bluish shadow around the folds of his mouth and nose was growing deeper.
'Hopeless', the professor said very quietly into the ear of the clean-shaven man. 'Stay with him, please, Doctor Brodovich.'
'Camphor?' asked Doctor Brodovich in a whisper.
'Yes, yes.'
'A full syringe?'
'No.' The professor looked out of the window and thought a moment. 'No, just three grams at a time.
And often.' He thought again, then added: 'Telephone me in case of a termination' - the professor whispered very cautiously so that even through the haze of delirium Alexei should not hear him, - 'I'll be at the hospital.
Otherwise I'll come back here straight after my lecture.'
# Year after year, for as long as the Turbins could remember, the ikon lamps had been lit at dusk on December 24th, and in the evening they had lit the warm, twinkling candles on the Christmas tree in the drawing-room.
But now that insidious bullet-wound and the rattle of typhus had put everything out of joint, had hastened the lighting of the ikon lamp.
As she closed her bedroom door behind her, Elena went over to her bedside table, took from it a box of matches, climbed up on a chair and lit the wick in the lamp hanging on chains in front of the old ikon in its heavy metal covering.
When the flame burned up brightly the halo above the dark face of the Virgin changed to gold and her eyes shone with a look of welcome.
The face, inclined to one side, looked at Elena.
In the two square panes of the window was a silent, white December day, and the flickering tongue of flame helped to create a sense of the approaching festival. Elena got down from the chair, took the shawl from her shoulders and dropped onto her knees.
She rolled back a corner of the carpet to reveal an open space of gleaming parquet and she silently bowed down until her forehead touched the floor.
Myshlaevsky returned to the dining-room, followed by Nikolka, whose eyelids were puffy and red.
They had just come from Alexei's room.
As Nikolka returned to the dining-room he said to his companions:
'He's dying . . ,' and took a deep breath.
'Look,' said Myshlaevsky, 'hadn't we better call a priest?
Don't you agree, Nikol?
Otherwise he may die without confession . . .'
'I shall have to tell Lena', Nikolka replied anxiously. 'I can't do it without her.
And something seems to be the matter with her now . . .'
'What does the doctor say?' asked Karas.
'What is there to say?
There's no more to say', said Myshlaevsky hoarsely.
For a long time they spoke in uneasy whispers, punctuated by the sighs of the pale, worried Lariosik.
Again they consulted Doctor Brodovich, who came out into the lobby, lit a cigarette and whispered that the patient was in the terminal stage and that of course they could call a priest if they wanted to, he had no objec- tion since the patient was in any case unconscious and it could do him no harm.
'Silent confession . . .'
They whispered and whispered but could not decide whether it was yet time to send for the priest. They knocked on Elena's door, and in a dull voice she replied:
'Don't come in yet . . . I'll come out later . . .'
And they went away.
From her knees Elena looked up at the fretted halo above the dark face with its clear eyes and she stretched out her arms and said in a whisper:
'Holy Mother of God, intercede for us. You have sent us too much sorrow.
In one year you have destroyed this family.
Why?
You have taken our mother away from us, my husband has gone and will not come back, I know, I see that clearly now.
And now you are taking away our eldest.
Why?
How will Nikolka and I survive, the two of us alone?
Look and see what is happening all around . . .
Mother of God, intercede for us and have mercy on us . . .
Perhaps we are sinful people, but why should we be punished like this?'
She bowed down once more, fervently touching the floor with her forehead, crossed herself and stretching out her arms, prayed again:
'You are our only hope, Immaculate Virgin, you alone.
Pray to your Son, pray to the Lord God to perform a miracle ...'
Elena's whispering grew more passionate, she stumbled over the words, but her prayer flowed on like an unbroken stream.