‘‘Nanny, mama’s dying!’’ Sasha said, weeping. ‘‘We must fetch papa!...’
The nanny went upstairs to the bedroom and, after glancing at the sick woman, gave her a lighted wax candle to hold. Terrified, Sasha fussed and begged, herself not knowing whom, to fetch her papa, then she put on her coat and kerchief and ran outside. She knew from the servants that her father had another wife and two daughters with whom he lived on Bazarnaya Square. She ran left from the gate, crying and afraid of strangers, and soon began to sink into the snow and feel cold.
She met an empty cab but did not take it: he might drive her out of town, rob her, and abandon her by the cemetery (the maid had told her over tea that there had been such a case). She walked and walked, breathless from fatigue and sobbing. Coming to Bazarnaya, she asked where Mr. Panaurov lived. Some unknown woman explained it to her at length and, seeing that she understood nothing, took her by the hand to a one-story house with a porch. The door was not locked. Sasha ran through the front hall, then a corridor, and finally found herself in a bright, warm room where her father was sitting by the samovar, and with him a lady and two little girls. But she could no longer utter a word and only sobbed. Panaurov understood.
‘‘Mama’s probably not well?’’ he asked. ‘‘Tell me, girclass="underline" is mama unwell?’’
He became worried and sent for a cab.
When they reached home, Nina Fyodorovna was sitting, propped on pillows, with a candle in her hand. Her face had darkened, and her eyes were closed. In the bedroom, crowded by the doorway, stood the nanny, the cook, the maid, the muzhik Prokofy, and some other unknown simple people. The nanny was ordering something in a whisper, and they did not understand her. At the far end of the room, by the window, stood Lida, pale, sleepy, sternly gazing at her mother from there.
Panaurov took the candle from Nina Fyodorovna’s hands and, wincing squeamishly, flung it onto the chest of drawers.
‘‘This is terrible!’’ he said, and his shoulders twitched. ‘‘Nina, you must lie down,’’ he said tenderly. ‘‘Lie down, dear.’’
She looked and did not recognize him... They lay her on her back.
When the priest and Dr. Sergei Borisych came, the servants were already crossing themselves piously and commemorating her.
‘‘There’s a story for you!’’ the doctor said pensively, coming out to the drawing room. ‘‘And she was still young, not even forty yet.’’
The loud sobbing of the girls was heard. Panaurov, pale, with moist eyes, went over to the doctor and said in a weak, languid voice:
‘‘My dear, do me a favor, send a telegram to Moscow. It’s decidedly beyond me.’’
The doctor found the ink and wrote the following telegram to his daughter: ‘‘Mrs. Panaurov passed away eight this evening. Tell husband: house on Dvoryanskaya for sale, transfer of mortgage plus nine. Auction twelfth. Advise not let slip.’’
IX
LAPTEV LIVED IN one of the lanes off Malaya Dmitrovka, not far from Stary Pimen. Besides the big house on the street, he also rented the two-story wing in the yard for his friend Kochevoy, an assistant attorney whom all the Laptevs simply called Kostya, because he had grown up before their eyes. Facing his wing was another, also two-story, in which there lived a French family, consisting of a husband, a wife, and five daughters.
It was ten below zero. The windows were covered with frost. Waking up in the morning, Kostya, with a preoccupied look, took fifteen drops of some medicine, then got two dumbbells from the bookcase and began doing exercises. He was tall, very thin, with a big, reddish mustache; but most conspicuous in his appearance were his remarkably long legs. Pyotr, a middle-aged muzhik in a jacket and cotton trousers tucked into high boots, brought the samovar and made tea.
‘‘Very nice weather today, Konstantin Ivanych,’’ he said.
‘‘Yes, nice, only the pity is, brother, our life here is nothing to shout about.’’
Pyotr sighed out of politeness.
‘‘How are the girls?’’ asked Kochevoy.
‘‘The priest hasn’t come, Alexei Fyodorych himself is giving them their lesson.’’
Kostya found an unfrosted spot on the window and began looking through binoculars at the windows of the French family’s house.
‘‘Can’t see,’’ he said.
Meanwhile, downstairs Alexei Fyodorych was teaching Sasha and Lida their catechism. They had been living in Moscow for a month and a half, on the ground floor of the wing, with their governess. Three times a week, a teacher from the city school and a priest came. Sasha was studying the New Testament, and Lida had recently started the Old. Lida’s homework from the last time was to repeat everything before Abraham.
‘‘And so, Adam and Eve had two sons,’’ said Laptev. ‘‘Splendid. But what were their names? Try to remember!’’
Lida, stern as ever, said nothing, stared at the table, and only moved her lips; and the older Sasha looked into her face and suffered.
‘‘You know perfectly well, only don’t be nervous,’’ said Laptev. ‘‘Well, what were the names of Adam’s sons?’’
‘‘Abel and Cabel,’’ Lida whispered.
‘‘Cain and Abel,’’ Laptev corrected.
A big tear crept down Lida’s cheek and fell onto the book. Sasha also lowered her eyes and blushed, ready to weep. Laptev could not speak from pity, a lump rose in his throat; he got up from the table and lit a cigarette. Just then Kochevoy came downstairs with a newspaper in his hand. The girls stood up and curtseyed without looking at him.
‘‘For God’s sake, Kostya, work with them a little,’’ Laptev turned to him. ‘‘I’m afraid I’ll start crying myself, and I have to get to the warehouse before dinner.’’
‘‘All right.’’
Alexei Fyodorych left. Kostya, with a very serious face, frowning, sat down at the table and drew the Catechism towards him.
‘‘Well, missies?’’ he asked. ‘‘How far did you get?’’
‘‘She knows about the flood,’’ said Sasha.
‘‘About the flood? All right, let’s whiz through the flood. Go ahead.’’ Kostya skimmed through the brief description of the flood in the book and said: ‘‘I must point out to you that such a flood as they describe here never actually happened. And there wasn’t any Noah. Several thousand years before the birth of Christ, there was an unusual flood on earth, and it’s mentioned not only in the Jewish Bible but in the books of other ancient people as well, such as the Greeks, the Chaldeans, the Hindus. But whatever this flood was, it couldn’t have covered the whole earth. Well, the plains were flooded, but not the mountains. You can go ahead and read this book, but don’t believe it especially.’’
Lida’s tears flowed again; she turned away and suddenly sobbed so loudly that Kostya gave a start and got up from his place in great confusion.
‘‘I want to go home,’’ she said. ‘‘To papa and nanny.’’
Sasha also began to cry. Kostya went upstairs to his rooms and said to Yulia Sergeevna on the telephone:
‘‘Dearest, the girls are crying again. It’s simply impossible.’’
Yulia Sergeevna came running from the big house in nothing but a dress and a knitted shawl, chilled through, and began comforting the girls.
‘‘Believe me, believe me,’’ she said in a pleading voice, pressing one of the girls to her, then the other, ‘‘your papa will come today, he sent a telegram. You’re sorry for your mama, and I’m sorry for her, too, it breaks my heart, but what’s to be done? We can’t go against God!’’
When they stopped crying, she wrapped them up and took them for a drive. First they went down Malaya Dmitrovka, then past Strastnoy Boulevard to Tverskaya; they stopped at the Iverskaya Chapel,16 lit candles, knelt down, and prayed. On the way back, they stopped at Filippov’s and bought some lenten rolls with poppyseed.