The thought that Boris had been hanged could not enter into their
habitual, everyday thoughts. Only in the hour when the sun was at its
zenith, and in the hour of the midnight moon, it would penetrate their
awakened consciousness like a sharp poniard. Again it would pierce the
soul with a sharp, tormenting pain, and again it would vanish in the
dim mist of dawn with a kind of dull agony. And again, the same
unreasonable conviction would awake in their hearts.
No, Borya will return. The bell will suddenly ring, and the door will
be opened to him.
“Oh, Borya! Where have you been wandering?”
How we shall kiss him! And how much there will be to tell!
“What does it matter where you have been wandering. You have been
wandering, and, you have been found, like the prodigal son.”
How happy all will be!
The old nurse will not be consoled. She wails:
“Boryushka, Boryushka, my incomparable one! I say to him: ‘Boryushka,
I’m going to the poor-house!’ And he says to me: ‘No,’ says he,
‘_nyanechka_,[4] I’ll not let you go to the poor-house. I,’ he says,
‘will let you stop with me, _nyanechka_; only wait till I grow up,’
says he, ‘and you can live with me.’ Oh, Boryushka, what’s this you’ve
done!”
In the morning the old nurse enters the vestibule. Whose grey overcoat
is it that she sees hanging on the rack? It is Borya’s, his _gymnasia_
uniform. Has he then not gone to the _gymnasia_ to-day?
She wanders into the dining-room, making a muffled noise with her soft
slippers.
“Natashenka, is Boryushka home to-day? His overcoat’s there on the
rack. Or is he sick?”
“_Nyanechka_!” exclaims Natasha.
And, frightened, she looks at her mother.
The old nurse has suddenly remembered. She is crying. The grey head
shivers in its black wrap. The old woman wails:
“I go there and I look, what’s that I see? Borya’s overcoat. I say to
myself, Borya’s gone to the _gymnasia_, why’s his overcoat here? It’s
no holiday. Oh, my Boryushka is gone!”
She wails louder and louder. Then the old woman falls to the floor and
begins to beat the boards with her head.
“Borechka, my own Borechka! If the Lord had only taken me, an old
woman, instead of him. What’s the use of life to me? I drag along, of
no cheer to myself or to any one else.”
Natasha, helpless, tries to quiet her.
“_Nyanechka_, dearest, rest a little.”
“May Thou rest me, O Lord! My heart told me something was wrong. I’ve
been dreaming all sorts of bad dreams. These black dreams have come
true! Oh, Borechka, my own!”
The old woman continues to beat her head and to wail. Natasha implores
her mother:
“For God’s sake, mamma, have Borya’s overcoat taken from the rack.”
Sofia Alexandrovna looks at her with her dark, smouldering eyes and
says morosely:
“Why? It had better hang there. He might suddenly need it.”
Oh, hateful memories! As long as the evil Dragon reigns in the heavens
it is impossible to escape them.
Natasha roams restlessly, she can find no place for herself. She is off
to the woods; she recalls Boris there, and that he has been hanged. She
is off to the river; she recalls Boris there, and that he is no more.
She is back at home, and the walls of the old house recall Boris to
her, and that he will not return.
Like a pale shadow the mother wanders along the walks of the garden,
choosing to pause there where the shade is densest. The old grandmother
sits upon a bench and finishes the reading of the newspapers. It is the
same every day.
[4] Little nurse.
L
And now the evening is approaching. The sun is low and red. It looks
straight into people’s eyes as though, while expiring, it were begging
for mercy. A breeze blows from the river, and it brings the laughter of
white water nymphs.
A number of noisy urchins are running in the road; their shirt-tails
flap merrily in the wind, while their sleeves are filled with wind like
balloons. The sound of a harmonica comes from the distance, and its
song runs on very merrily. The corncrake screeches in the field, and
its call resembles a general’s loud snore.
The old house once more casts and arranges its long dark shadows
disturbed by the intrusive day. Its windows blaze forth with the red
fire of the evening sun.
The gilliflower exhales its seductive aroma in some of the distant
paths. The roses seem even redder in the sunset, and more sweet. The
eternal Aphrodite—the naked marble of her proud body taking on a rose
tint—smiles again, and lets fall her draperies as fascinatingly as
ever.
And everything is directed as before toward cherished, unreasonable
hopes. Enfeebled by the day’s heat, and by the sadness of the bright
day, the harassed soul has exhausted its measure of suffering, and it
falls from the iron embrace of sorrow to the beloved dark earth of the
past, once more besprinkled with dreamily refreshing dew.
And again, as at dawn, the three women in the old house await Boris, or
a short time happy in their madness.
They await him, and they chat of him, until, from behind the trees of
the dark wood, the cold moon shows her ever sad face. The dead moon is
under a white shroud of mist.
Then again they remember that Borya has been hanged, and they meet at
the green-covered pond to weep for him.