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
kneading his hat in his hands. She glanced at me—because I had come
with Nina Kapitonovna—then looked away at once. And I realised that
Maria Vasilievna was dead.
Afterwards I heard the nurse saying to someone: 'Such a pity, a
beautiful woman.' It all seemed to be happening in a dream, and I'm
not sure whether it was she who said it or somebody else, as Katya and
the old lady came out of the room in which she had died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IT ISN'T HIM
Those were miserable days and I don't feel like dwelling on them,
though I remember every conversation, every encounter, almost every
thought. They were days which cast a large shadow, as it were, on my
life.
Soon after Maria Vasilievna's funeral I sat down to work. It seemed to
me that there was something like a sense of self-preservation in the
fierce persistence with which I applied myself to my studies, thrusting
all thoughts behind me. It was not easy, especially bearing in mind that
when I went up to Katya at the funeral she turned away from me.
It happened like this. Unexpectedly, very many people came to the
funeral-colleagues of Maria Vasilievna's and even students who had
been at the Medical Institute with her. She had always seemed a lonely
person, but apparently many people knew her and liked her. Among
these strangers, all talking in whispers and gazing at the gateway,
waiting for the coffin to be carried out, stood Korablev, hollow-eyed, his
big moustache looking enormous on his haggard face.
