XXVIII.
The Last Sad Memories
Mamma was no more, but our life ran in the usual routine; we went to bed and rose at the same hours, and in the same rooms. Morning and evening, tea, dinner, supper, — everything was at the customary hours. The tables and chairs stood in the same places. Nothing in the house nor in our manner of life had changed, — only she was no more —
It seemed to me that after such a misfortune everything ought to change. Our usual manner of life appeared to me as an insult to her memory, and too vividly reminded me of her absence.
On the day before the funeral, after dinner, I was sleepy, and I went to the room of Natálya Sávishna, intending to lie down on her soft feather bed, under her warm quilt. When I entered, Natálya Sávishna was lying on her bed, and no doubt was sleeping. When she heard the sound of my footsteps, she raised herself, threw back the woollen kerchief with which her head was covered to protect it against flies, and, fixing her cap, seated herself on the edge of her bed.
As it used to happen frequently that after dinner I came to rest in her room, she guessed the cause of my coming, and said to me, rising from her bed:
"You have come to rest yourself, my little dove? Lie down!"
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