"I'll make it thirty-two roubles."
Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace.
"You can have credit," added Bezenchuk.
The three owners of the Nymph said nothing.
They sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and bowing as they went.
Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of hunger, went into the hallway.
He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room and was looking hot and bothered.
Holding up his cassock in his right hand, Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.
It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in his nose from the strong smell of medicine.
In the outer room Ippolit Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist.
She spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.
"She's worse. She's just made her confession.
Don't make a noise with your boots."
"I'm not," said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. "What's happened?"
Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner room:
"Very severe heart attack."
Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added:
"The possibility of her not recovering should not be discounted.
I've been on my feet all day.
I came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to for some time.
You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it beforehand . . ."
Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear.
He quickly crossed himself with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.
CHAPTER TWO
MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE
Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head.
She was wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion when ladies wore the "chanticleer" and had just begun to dance the tango.
Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing.
Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
"Claudia Ivanovna!" called Ippolit Matveyevich.
His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a drop of mercury.
"Claudia Ivanovna," repeated Vorobyaninov, "what's the matter?"
But again he received no answer.
The old woman had closed her eyes and slumped to one side.
The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a little boy taken to be washed.
"She's dropped off.
The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed.
Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's.
Here's the prescription. Find out how much an ice-bag costs."
Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable superiority in such matters.
It was a long way to the chemist's.
Clutching the prescription in his fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.
It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of bread and onion.
The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge from an iron pot and licking their spoons.
At the sight of Vorobyaninov the undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers.
Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:
"Always in me way, durn 'em."
In the middle of the square, near the bust of the "poet Zhukovsky, which was inscribed with the words
"Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of the Earth", an animated conversation was in progress following the news of Claudia Ivanovna's stroke.
The general opinion of the assembled citizens could have been summed up as "We all have to go sometime" and "What the Lord gives, the Lord takes back".