XLIX
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 poorhouse!’ And he says to me: ‘No,’ says he, ‘nyanechka, I’ll not let you go to the poorhouse. 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 today?
She wanders into the dining-room, making a muffled noise with her soft slippers.
“Natashenka, is Boryushka home today? 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 anyone 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.