The husband was in great excitement, and seemed utterly distraught. He walked towards the old lady, but stopped short a few paces from her, turned, walked about the room, and went up to the priest. The priest looked at him, raised his eyebrows heavenwards, and sighed. His thick, grizzled beard turned upwards too, and then sank again.
“My God! my God!” said the husband.
“There is nothing one can do,” said the priest, and again his brows and his beard were elevated and drooped again.
“And her mother here!” the husband said, almost in despair. “She will never support this! She loves her, she loves her so that she … I don’t know. If you, father, would attempt to soothe her and to persuade her to go out of this room.”
The priest rose and went to the old lady.
“True it is, that none can sound the depths of a mother’s heart,” said he; “but God is merciful.”
The old lady’s face began suddenly twitching, and she sobbed hysterically.
“God is merciful,” the priest went on, when she was a little calmer. “In my parish, I must tell you, there was a man ill, much worse than Marya Dmitryevna, and a simple artisan cured him with herbs in a very short time. And this same artisan is in Moscow now, indeed. I told Vassily Dmitryevitch—he might try him. Anyway, it would be a comfort to the sick woman. With God all things are possible.”
“No, she can’t live,” said the old lady; “if it could have been me, but God takes her.”
The sick woman’s husband hid his face in his hands, and ran out of the room.