As always, they eat and drink, and they keep up a cheerful and friendly
chatter. Sometimes two of them speak together. A stranger in the garden
might conclude that a large company is gathered on the terrace.
Frequently Borya’s name is mentioned.
“To be sure, Borya likes....”
“Perhaps Borya will bring....”
“It is strange Borya is not yet here....”
“Perhaps Borya will come in the evening....”
“We must ask Borya whether he has read....”
“It is possible this is not new to Borya....”
While below, under the terrace, the old nurse, each time she hears
Borya’s name, crosses herself and mumbles:
“O Lord, rest the soul of thy servant, Boris.”
At first her voice is low, but it gradually grows louder and louder.
Finally the three women at the table can hear her words. They tremble
slightly and exchange anxious glances, into which steals an expression
of perplexed fear. So they begin to speak even louder, and to laugh
even more merrily. They permit no intervals of silence, and the hum of
their talk and laughter prevents for the time their hearing the nurse’s
mumbling in the garden.
But their voices inevitably fall after a mention of the beloved name,
and now again they hear the tranquil, terrible words:
“O Lord, rest the soul....”
They sit at luncheon long, but they talk more industriously than they
eat. They glance nervously toward the gate. It seems a terrible thing
to have to leave the table and to go somewhere while Borya is not yet
with them.