“What is it?” he said crossly, and, his hand shaking unintentionally, he poured too many drops into the glass. He threw the mixture onto the floor and asked for some more water. The maid brought it.
There were in the room a child’s cot, two boxes, two armchairs, a table, a child’s table, and the little chair on which Prince Andréy was sitting. The curtains were drawn, and a single candle was burning on the table, screened by a bound music book so that the light did not fall on the cot.
“My dear,” said Princess Márya, addressing her brother from beside the cot where she was standing, “better wait a bit … later …”
“Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things off—and this is what comes of it!” said Prince Andréy in an exasperated whisper, evidently meaning to wound his sister.
“My dear, really … it’s better not to wake him … he’s asleep,” said the princess in a tone of entreaty.
Prince Andréy got up and went on tiptoe up to the little bed, wineglass in hand.
“Perhaps we’d really better not wake him,” he said hesitating.
“As you please … really … I think so … but as you please,” said Princess Márya, evidently intimidated and confused that her opinion had prevailed. She drew her brother’s attention to the maid who was calling him in a whisper.
It was the second night that neither of them had slept, watching the boy who was in a high fever. These last days, mistrusting their household doctor and expecting another for whom they had sent to town, they had been trying first one remedy and then another. Worn out by sleeplessness and anxiety they threw their burden of sorrow on one another and reproached and disputed with each other.