The half-lifeless body slithered around, twitching legs slid in every direction and the lolling head hung like a puppet's on a string.
Tonk-tank went the clock, as it fell off the wall and jumped back into place again.
Bunches of flowers danced a jig in the vase.
Elena's face was flushed with red patches and a lock of hair dangled over her right eyebrow.
'That's right.
Now put him to bed.'
'At least wrap him in a bathrobe.
He's indecent like that with me around.
You damned fools - you can't hold your drink.
Viktor!
Viktor!
What's the matter with you?
Vik . . .'
'Shut up, Elena.
You're no help.
Listen, Nikolka, in my study . . . there's a medicine bottle ... it says "Liquor ammonii", you can tell because the corner of the label's torn off . . . anyway, you can't mistake the smell of sal ammoniac.'
'Yes, right away . . .'
'You, a doctor - you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alexei. ..'
'All right, I know . . .'
'What?
Has his pulse stopped?'
'No, he's just passed out.'
'Basin!'
'Ah-aah
'Christ!'
Violent reek of ammonia.
Karas and Elena held Myshlaevsky's mouth open.
Nikolka supported him while Alexei twice poured white cloudy liquid into his mouth.
'Aah . . . ugh . . . urkhh . . .'
'The snow . . .'
'God almighty.
Can't be helped, though. Only way to do it . . .'
On his forehead lay a wet cloth dripping water, below it the swivelling, bloodshot whites of his eyes under half-closed lids, bluish shadows around the sharpened nose.
For an anxious quarter of an hour, bumping each other with their elbows, they strove with the vanquished officer until he opened his eyes and croaked:
'Aah ... let me go . . .'
'Right. That's better. He can stay and sleep here.'
Lights went on in all the rooms and beds were quickly made up.
'Leonid, you'd better sleep in here, next to Nikolka's room.'
'Very well.'
Copper-red in the face but cheerful, Shervinsky clicked his spurs and, bowing, showed the parting in his hair.
Elena's white hands fluttered over the pillows as she arranged them on the divan.
'Please don't bother ... I can make up the bed myself.' 'Nonsense.
Stop tugging at that pillow - I don't need your help.'
'Please let me kiss your hand ...'
'What for?'
'Gratitude for all your trouble.'
'I can manage without hand-kissing for the moment . . .
Nikolka, you're sleeping in your own bed.
Well, how is he?'
'He's all right, sleeping it off.'