Natasha re-reads the telegram. A sudden terror, strangely akin to
shame, for a moment strikes at her heart. She can hear the heavy beat
of blood in her temples. She is, as it were, being strangled from all
sides; she can hardly breathe; the walls seem to have come together,
oppressing her on all sides; and the rapid, pale, pencilled strokes
seem also to have run together into one jumble on the grey paper.
Certain thoughts, one after the other, slowly make way into Natasha’s
dimmed consciousness—oppressive, evil, pitiless thoughts.
Stupefied, she wonders how she shall tell her mother. She observes that
her hands tremble. She recalls the telephone number of the Lareyevs,
where her mother undoubtedly is.
Then terror seizes her anew; she shivers violently from head to foot as
with ague. Her mind is a whirl of confusion.
“No, it is a mistake! It cannot be. It is a cruel, senseless mistake!
It is some one’s stupid, cruel joke.”
Boris, our beloved boy, with his fine honest eyes—think of him hanging!
There will be a rattle in his throat, as strangling, he will swing in
the noose. With sharp, clutching pain, the gentle, childish neck will
tighten; the sunburnt face will grow purple; the swollen tongue will
creep out all in froth, and the widely dilated eyes will reflect the
terror of cruel death.
No, no, it cannot be! It is a mistake! But who can be malicious enough
to make such a mistake?
And then where is Boris?
Her cold reasoning says that it is so, that no mistake has been made.
The words are clear, the address is correct—yes, yes! It was really to
be expected. Here it is, this lavishness of life which he dreamt of,
which they both dreamt of. “I love all immoderation. To be lavish—only
then we may reach our goal!”
Her legs tremble. She feels herself terribly weak. She sits down on the
sofa.
Oh God, what’s to be done? How is she to tell her mother this terrible
thing?
Or should she conceal it? And do everything that could be done by
herself? But no, she could do ridiculously little herself!
It is necessary to tell. It must be done quickly. She must not lose an
instant. Perhaps it is still possible to save Boris, by going, by
petitioning.
Why is she sitting still then? It is necessary to act at once.
Natasha seizes the telephone. What a long time the operator takes to
answer.
At last she is connected. She can hear sounds of music and the hum of
voices.
A cheerful, familiar voice asks:
“Who’s there?”
“It is Natasha Ozoreva.”
“Good evening, Natasha,” says Marusya Lareyeva loudly. “What a pity you
did not come. We are having a fine time.”
“Good evening, dear Marusya. Is mamma with you?”
“Yes, she is here. Shall I call her?”
“No, no, for God’s sake. Let some one break it to her....”
“Has anything happened?”
“Marusya, a terrible misfortune. Our Boris has been arrested.”
“My God! For what?”
“I don’t know. He’ll have a military trial. I feel desperate. It’s so
terrible. For God’s sake, don’t frighten mother too much. Tell her to
come home at once, please.”
“Oh, my God, how awful!”
“Oh, Marusya, dearest, for God’s sake, be quick.”
“I’ll tell my mother at once. Wait at the telephone, Natasha.”
Natasha holds the receiver to her ear and waits. She hears the noise of
footsteps. Some one has begun to sing.
Then again the same voice, extremely agitated:
“Natasha, do you hear? Your mother wants to speak to you herself.”
Natasha trembles with fright. Good God, what shall she tell her mother!
She inquires:
“What? Is she coming herself to the telephone?” she asks.
“Yes, yes. Your mother is here now.”