The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 26
XXVI.
What Awaited Us in the Country
On the 25th of April we dismounted from the road carriage, at the veranda of the Petróvskoe house. When we left Moscow, papa was lost in thought, and upon Volódya's asking whether mamma was not ill, he looked at him with sadness, and silently nodded his head. During the journey, he became perceptibly calmer; but as we approached our home, his face assumed an even more sad expression, and when, upon leaving the carriage, he asked of Fóka, who came running out of breath: "Where is Natálya Nikoláevna?" his voice was not firm, and there were tears in his eyes. Good old Fóka stealthily looked at us, dropped his eyes, and, opening the door to the antechamber, answered, with his face turned away:
"This is the sixth day she has not left the chamber."
Mílka, who, as I later learned, had not stopped whining since the first day when mamma became ill, joyfully rushed up to father, jumped on him, whined, and licked his hands; but he pushed her aside and went into the sitting-room, thence into the sofa-room, from which a door led straight into mamma's chamber. The nearer he approached this room, the more his unrest was to be noticed in all his movements. As he entered the sofa-room, he walked on tiptoe, barely drew breath, and made the sign of the cross before he had the courage to turn the latch of the closed door. Just then, unkempt, weeping Mimi came running in from the corridor. "Ah, Peter Aleksándrych!" she said in a whisper, with an expression of real despair, and then, noticing that papa was turning the latch of the door, added scarcely audibly: "You can't pass through here; you have to go in through the outer door."
Oh, how heavily all that acted upon my childish imagination, which was prepared for sorrow by some terrible presentiment!
We went into the maids room. In the corridor we ran against fool Akím, who used to amuse us with his grimaces; at this moment he not only did not seem funny to me, but nothing struck me so painfully as the appearance of his meaningless, indifferent face. In the maids' room two servant girls, who were sitting at some work, rose to greet us, but the expression of their faces was so sad that I felt terribly. Passing through Mimi's room, papa opened the door of the chamber, and we entered. To the right of the door were two windows, which were darkened by shawls; at one of these, Natálya Sávishna was seated, with spectacles on her nose, and was knitting a stocking. She did not rise to kiss us, as she was in the habit of doing, but only raised herself a little, glanced at us through her spectacles, and her tears began to flow in streams. I did not like it at all that at the first sight of us they all started weeping, while just before they were calm.
To the left of the door stood a screen, behind the screen a bed, a small table, a medicine box, and a large armchair, in which the doctor was dozing. Near the bed stood a very blond young lady of remarkable beauty, in a white morning gown, and, rolling up her sleeves a little, she put ice to the head of mamma, whom I was able to see. This young lady was la belle Flamande, of whom mamma had written, and who later on was to play such an important part in the life of our whole family. The moment we entered, she took one hand away from mamma's head, and arranged over her breast the folds of her gown, then said in a whisper: " She is unconscious."
I was in great anguish then, but I noticed all the details. It was almost dark in the room, and warm, and there was a mingled odour of mint, eau de cologne, camomile, and Hoffmann's drops. That odour struck me so powerfully that not only when I smell it, but even when I think of it, my imagination immediately transfers me into that gloomy, close room, and reproduces all the minutest details of that terrible moment.
Mamma's eyes were open, but she did not see anything. Oh, I shall never forget that terrible look! There was so much suffering expressed in it.
We were taken away.
When I later asked Natálya Sávishna about the last moments of my mother, she told me this:
"When you were taken away, my little dove kept on tossing for a long time, as though something were choking her here; then she dropped her head from the pillows, and fell asleep, as softly and calmly as if she were an angel of heaven. I had just gone out to see why they were not bringing the drink, — and when I came back, she, the treasure of my heart, had thrown off everything about her, and was beckoning to father. He bent down to her, but she evidently had no strength to say what she wanted; she only opened her lips, and began to sigh: 'My Lord! God! The children! The children!' I wanted to run for you, but Iván Vasílich stopped me, saying that it would excite her too much, and that it would be better not to call you. Then she only lifted her hand, and let it fall again. God knows what she meant to say by it! I think she was blessing you, though you were out of sight; and thus God has decreed that she should not see her children before her last moments. Then she raised herself, my little dove, folded her little hands just like this, and then spoke in a voice that I can't repeat: 'Mother of God, do not desert them!' By this time the agony had reached her heart, and one might see by her eyes that the poor woman was suffering terribly: she fell back on her pillows, bit the sheet, and her tears began to flow in streams."
"Well, and then?"
Natálya could not speak any more: she turned her face away, and burst into tears.
Mamma had passed away amidst terrible sufferings.