Inside the house reigned noiseless confusion. An old lady and two young girls were sitting in the dining room, forgetful of their crocheting, which lay on the table. They were waiting with intense anxiety. In the maids' room two women were busied preparing mustard plasters and poultices, and the rhythmic tinkling of the spoons pierced the silence like the chirping of a cricket. Barefooted girls were stealing silently along the corridor, scurrying back and forth from the entresol to the maids' room. At times a voice was heard from upstairs: "What about the mustard plasters? Are you asleep there?" And a girl would dash out of the maids' room. At last heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the regimental surgeon entered the dining room, a tall, broad-shouldered man, with firm, ruddy cheeks, the picture of health. His voice was sonorous, his gait steady, his eyes clear, gay and frank, his lips full and fresh. In spite of his fifty years he was a thoroughly fast liver and expected to see many years pass before he would give up drinking and carousing. He wore a showy summer suit, and his spotless piqué coat was trimmed with white buttons bearing arms. On entering he made a clicking sound with his lips and tongue.
"Girls!" he shouted merrily, standing on the threshold. "Bring us some vodka and something to eat."
"Well, doctor, how is he?" the old lady asked, her voice full of anxiety.
"The Lord's mercy is infinite, Arina Petrovna," answered the physician.
"What do you mean? Then he——"
"Just so. He will last another two or three days, and then—good-bye!" The doctor made an expressive gesture with his hand and hummed: "Head over heels, head over heels he will fall."
"How's that? Doctors treated him—and now all of a sudden——"
"What doctors?"
"The zemstvo doctor and one from the town used to come here."
"Fine doctors! If they'd given him a good bleeding, they'd have saved him."