Towards the end of October Nina Fyodorovna had unmistakable symptoms
of a relapse. There was a change in her face, and she grew rapidly
thinner. In spite of acute pain she still imagined that she was
getting better, and got up and dressed every morning as though she
were well, and then lay on her bed, fully dressed, for the rest of
the day. And towards the end she became very talkative. She would
lie on her back and talk in a low voice, speaking with an effort
and breathing painfully. She died suddenly under the following
circumstances.
It was a clear moonlight evening. In the street people were tobogganing
in the fresh snow, and their clamour floated in at the window. Nina
Fyodorovna was lying on her back in bed, and Sasha, who had no one
to take turns with her now, was sitting beside her half asleep.
"I don't remember his father's name," Nina Fyodorovna was saying
softly, "but his name was Ivan Kotchevoy--a poor clerk. He was a
sad drunkard, the Kingdom of Heaven be his! He used to come to us,
and every month we used to give him a pound of sugar and two ounces
of tea. And money, too, sometimes, of course. Yes. . . . And then,
this is what happened. Our Kotchevoy began drinking heavily and
died, consumed by vodka. He left a little son, a boy of seven. Poor
little orphan! . . . We took him and hid him in the clerk's quarters,
and he lived there for a whole year, without father's knowing. And
when father did see him, he only waved his hand and said nothing.
When Kostya, the little orphan, was nine years old--by that time
I was engaged to be married--I took him round to all the day
schools. I went from one to the other, and no one would take him.
And he cried. . . . 'What are you crying for, little silly?' I said.
I took him to Razgulyay to the second school, where--God bless
them for it!--they took him, and the boy began going every day
on foot from Pyatnitsky Street to Razgulyay Street and back again
. . . . Alyosha paid for him. . . . By God's grace the boy got on,
was good at his lessons, and turned out well. . . . He's a lawyer
now in Moscow, a friend of Alyosha's, and so good in science. Yes,
we had compassion on a fellow-creature and took him into our house,
and now I daresay, he remembers us in his prayers. . . Yes. . . ."
Nina Fyodorovna spoke more and more slowly with long pauses, then
after a brief silence she suddenly raised herself and sat up.
"There's something the matter with me . . . something seems wrong,"
she said. "Lord have mercy on me! Oh, I can't breathe!"
Sasha knew that her mother would soon die; seeing now how suddenly
her face looked drawn, she guessed that it was the end, and she was
frightened.
"Mother, you mustn't!" she began sobbing. "You mustn't."
"Run to the kitchen; let them go for father. I am very ill indeed."
Sasha ran through all the rooms calling, but there were none of the
servants in the house, and the only person she found was Lida asleep
on a chest in the dining-room with her clothes on and without a
pillow. Sasha ran into the yard just as she was without her goloshes,
and then into the street. On a bench at the gate her nurse was
sitting watching the tobogganing. From beyond the river, where the
tobogganing slope was, came the strains of a military band.
"Nurse, mother's dying!" sobbed Sasha. "You must go for father! . . ."
The nurse went upstairs, and, glancing at the sick woman, thrust a
lighted wax candle into her hand. Sasha rushed about in terror and
besought some one to go for her father, then she put on a coat and
a kerchief, and ran into the street. From the servants she knew
already that her father had another wife and two children with whom
he lived in Bazarny Street. She ran out of the gate and turned to
the left, crying, and frightened of unknown people. She soon began
to sink into the snow and grew numb with cold.
She met an empty sledge, but she did not take it: perhaps, she
thought, the man would drive her out of town, rob her, and throw
her into the cemetery (the servants had talked of such a case at
tea). She went on and on, sobbing and panting with exhaustion. When
she got into Bazarny Street, she inquired where M. Panaurov lived.
An unknown woman spent a long time directing her, and seeing that
she did not understand, took her by the hand and led her to a house
of one storey that stood back from the street. The door stood open.
Sasha ran through the entry, along the corridor, and found herself
at last in a warm, lighted room where her father was sitting by the
samovar with a lady and two children. But by now she was unable to
utter a word, and could only sob. Panaurov understood.
"Mother's worse?" he asked. "Tell me, child: is mother worse?"
He was alarmed and sent for a sledge.
When they got home, Nina Fyodorovna was sitting propped up with
pillows, with a candle in her hand. Her face looked dark and her
eyes were closed. Crowding in the doorway stood the nurse, the cook,
the housemaid, a peasant called Prokofy and a few persons of the
humbler class, who were complete strangers. The nurse was giving
them orders in a whisper, and they did not understand. Inside the
room at the window stood Lida, with a pale and sleepy face, gazing
severely at her mother.
Panaurov took the candle out of Nina Fyodorovna's hand, and, frowning
contemptuously, flung it on the chest of drawers.
"This is awful!" he said, and his shoulders quivered. "Nina, you
must lie down," he said affectionately. "Lie down, dear."
She looked at him, but did not know him. They laid her down on her
back.
When the priest and the doctor, Sergey Borisovitch, arrived, the
servants crossed themselves devoutly and prayed for her.
"What a sad business!" said the doctor thoughtfully, coming out
into the drawing-room. "Why, she was still young--not yet forty."
They heard the loud sobbing of the little girls. Panaurov, with a
pale face and moist eyes, went up to the doctor and said in a faint,
weak voice:
"Do me a favour, my dear fellow. Send a telegram to Moscow. I'm not
equal to it."
The doctor fetched the ink and wrote the following telegram to his
daughter:
"Madame Panaurov died at eight o'clock this evening. Tell your
husband: a mortgaged house for sale in Dvoryansky Street, nine
thousand cash. Auction on twelfth. Advise him not miss opportunity."