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Three Years
by A. Chekhov
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
VIII 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."
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