In short, they'll be here by midnight . . .'
'How do you know that it will be exactly at midnight?'
But Shervinsky had no time to reply, as the door-bell rang and Vasilisa came into the apartment.
Bowing to right and left, with handshakes for all and a specially warm one for Karas, Vasilisa made straight for the piano, his boots squeaking.
Smiling radiantly, Elena offered him her hand and with a jerky little bow Vasilisa kissed it.
'God knows why, but Vasilisa is somehow much nicer since he had his money stolen,' thought Nikolka, reflecting philosophically: 'Perhaps money stops people from being nice.
Nobody here has any money, for example, and they're all nice.'
Vasilisa declined the offer of tea.
No, thank you very much.
Most kind. (Giggle) How cosy it is here, despite the terrible times.
(Giggle) No, really, thank you very much.
Wanda Mikhailovna's sister had arrived from the country, and he had to go right back home.
He had only come to deliver a letter to Elena Vasilievna.
He had just opened the letter-box at the front door and there it was.
'Thought I should bring it up right away.
Goodbye.'
With another little jerk, Vasilisa took his leave.
Elena took the letter into the bedroom.
'A letter from abroad?
Can it really be?
Obviously there are such letters - you only have to touch the envelope to feel the difference.
But how did it get here?
No mail is being delivered.
Even from Zhitomir to the City letters have to be sent by hand.
How stupid and crazy everything is in this country.
After all, people still travel by train - why not letters?
Yet this one got here.
Bad news can always be sure of getting through.
Where's it from? War . . .
Warsaw.
But the handwriting's not Talberg's.
I don't like the look of it.'
Although the bedroom lamp was shaded, Elena had an unpleasant impression as if someone had ripped off the colored silk shade and the unshaded light had struck her eyes.
The expression on Elena's face changed until it looked like the ancient face of the Virgin in the fretted silver ikon-cover.
Her lips trembled, then her mouth twitched and set into folds of contempt.
The sheet of gray deckle-edged paper and its torn envelope lay in the pool of light. ...
I have only just heard that you have divorced your husband.
The Ostroumovs saw Sergei at the embassy - he was leaving for Paris with the Hertz family; they say he's going to marry Lydia Hertz. What strange things happen in all this muddle and chaos.
I'm sorry you didn't leave Russia, sorry for all of you left behind in the clutches of the muzhiks.
The newspapers here are saying that Petlyura is advancing on the City. .We all hope the Germans won't let him . . .
A march tune which Nikolka was strumming next door thumped mechanically in Elena's head, as it came through the walls and the door muffled with its tapestry portiere that showed a smiling
Louis XIV, one arm thrust out and holding a long beribboned stick.
The door-handle clicked, there was a knock and Alexei entered.
He glanced down at his sister's face, his mouth twitched in the same way as hers had done and he asked:
'From Talberg?'
Elena was too ashamed and embarrassed to reply at first, but after a moment she pulled herself together and pushed the sheet of paper towards Alexei:
'From Olga ... in Warsaw . . .'
Alexei stared at the letter, running his eyes along the lines until he had read it all, then read the opening words again:
My dear Lena, I don't know whether this will reach you, but . . .
Various colors played over his face: against a background of ashen-yellow his cheek bones were tinged with pink and his eyes changed from blue to black.