An ambulance was standing at the door and we stopped dead in our
tracks at the sight. The ambulance men were coming down the stairs
with a stretcher on which lay Maria Vasilievna.
Her uncovered face was as white as it had been at Korablev's the night
before, only now it looked as if carved in ivory.
I drew back against the banisters to let the stretcher pass, and Katya,
with a piteous murmur "Mummy!", walked alongside it. But Maria
Vasilievna did not open her eyes, and did not stir. I realised that she was
going to die.
Sick at heart I stood in the yard watching them push the stretcher into
the ambulance. I saw the old lady tuck the blanket round Maria
Vasilievna's feet with trembling hands, saw the steam coming from
everyone's mouth, the ambulance man's, too, as he produced a book
that had to be signed, and from Nikolai Antonich's as he peered
painfully from under his glasses and signed it.
"Not here," the man said roughly with a gesture of annoyance, and put
the book away into the big pocket of his white overall.
Katya ran home and returned in her own coat, leaving mine in the
kitchen. She got into the ambulance. The doors closed on Maria
Vasilievna, who lay there white and ghastly, and the ambulance, starting
off with a jerk like an ordinary lorry, sped on its way to the casualty
ward.
Nikolai Antonich and the old lady were left alone in the courtyard. For
a time they stood there in silence. Then he turned and went inside,
moving his feet mechanically as though he were afraid of falling. I had
never seen him like that before.
The old lady asked me to meet the doctor and tell him he was not
needed. I ran off and met him in Triumfalnaya Square, at a tobacconist
kiosk. The doctor was buying a box of matches.
"Dead?" he asked.
I told him that she was not and that the ambulance had taken her to
hospital and I could pay him if he wanted.
"No need, no need," the doctor said gruffly.
I went back to find the old lady sitting in the kitchen, weeping. Nikolai
Antonich was no longer there—he had gone off to the hospital.
"Nina Kapitonovna," I said, "is there anything I can do for you?" She
blew her nose and wept and blew her nose again. This went on for a long
time while I stood and waited. At last she asked me to help her on with
her coat and we took a tram to the hospital.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
ONE IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
132
That night, with the sense of speed still whistling as it were in my ears
as I hurtled on, though I was lying in my bed in the dark, it dawned on
me that Maria Vasilievna's decision to do away with herself had been
made when sitting in Korablev's room the night before. That's why she
had been so calm and had smoked such a lot and said such queer things.
Her mind was on some mysterious track of its own, of which we knew
nothing. Everything she said was tinctured by the decision she had come
to. It was not me she had been asking questions, but herself, and she
answered them herself.
Perhaps she had thought that I was mistaken and that it was
somebody else the letter referred to. Perhaps she had been hoping that
the passages which I had remembered and which Katya had deliberately
kept from her, would not have the terrible import she feared. Perhaps
she had been hoping that Nikolai Antonich, who had done so much for
her late husband-so much that that alone was reason enough for
marrying him—would turn out to be not so guilty and base as she
feared.
And I? Look what I had done!
I went hot and cold all over. I flung back the blanket and took deep
breaths to steady myself and think matters out calmly. I went over that
conversation again. How clear it was to me now! It was as if each word
was turning slowly round before me and I could now see its other,
hidden side.
"I love Ensk. It's wonderful there. Such gardens!" It had been pleasant
to her to recall her youth at that moment. She was taking farewell, as it
were, of her hometown-now that she had made her decision.
"Montigomo Hawk's Claw - I used to call him that." Her voice had
shaken, because nobody else knew she had called him that, and so it was
undeniable proof that I had remembered the words right.
"I haven't spoken to him about these letters. He's upset as it is. I don't
think I ought to just now—what do you say?" And these words, too,
which had seemed so odd to me yesterday—how clear they were now!
He was her husband, perhaps the closest person in the world to her.
And she simply did not want to upset him, knowing that she had
troubles enough in store for him.
I had forgotten all about my deep breathing and was sitting up in bed,
thinking and thinking. She had wanted to say goodbye to Korablev as
well—that was it! He loved her, too, maybe more than anybody else did.
She had wanted to take leave of the life which they might have made a
go of. I had always had a feeling that it was Korablev she cared for.
I should have been asleep long ago, seeing that I had a very serious
term-test facing me the next day, and that it was anything but pleasant
to brood over the happenings of that unhappy day.
I must have fallen asleep, but only for a minute. Suddenly a voice
close at my side said quietly: "She's dead." I opened my eyes, but nobody
was there, of course. I must have said it myself.
And so, against my will, I found myself recalling how Nina
Kapitonovna and I had gone to the hospital together. I tried to go to
sleep, but I couldn't drive the memories away.
We had sat on a big white seat next to some doors, and it was some
time before I realised that the stretcher with Maria Vasilievna on it was
in the next room so close to us.
133
And then an elderly nurse had come out and said: "You have come to
see Tatarinova? You may go in." And she herself hastily put a white
gown on the old lady and tied the strings.
A chill struck my heart, I understood at once that she must be in a bad
way if you were allowed in without a special permission. My heart went
cold again when the elderly nurse went up to another nurse, somewhat
younger, who was registering patients, and in answer to a question of
hers, said: "Goodness, no! Not a chance."
Then began a long wait. I gazed at the white door and imagined them
all-Nikolai Antonich, the old lady and Katya-standing around the
stretcher on which Maria Vasilievna lay. Then somebody came out,
leaving the door ajar for a moment, and I saw that it was not like that at
all. There was no longer any stretcher there, and something white with a
dark head lay on a low couch with somebody in white kneeling in front
of it. I also saw a bare arm hanging down from the couch, and then the
door shut. After that came a thin hoarse scream, and the nurse who was
registering patients stopped for a minute, then resumed her writing and
explaining. I don't know why, but I realised at once that the scream was
Nikolai Antonich's. In such a thin little voice! Like a child's.
The elderly nurse came out and, with a business-like air that was
obviously affected, began talking to some young man who stood