“You’re such a sweet pet!” she used to say with perfect sincerity, stroking his hair.  “You’re such a pretty dear!”

Towards Lent he went to Moscow to collect a new troupe, and without him she could not sleep, but sat all night at her window, looking at the stars, and she compared herself with the hens, who are awake all night and uneasy when the cock is not in the hen-house.  Kukin was detained in Moscow, and wrote that he would be back at Easter, adding some instructions about the Tivoli.  But on the Sunday before Easter, late in the evening, came a sudden ominous knock at the gate; some one was hammering on the gate as though on a barrel—­ boom, boom, boom!  The drowsy cook went flopping with her bare feet through the puddles, as she ran to open the gate.

“Please open,” said some one outside in a thick bass.  “There is a telegram for you.”

Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before, but this time for some reason she felt numb with terror.  With shaking hands she opened the telegram and read as follows: 

“Ivan Petrovitch died suddenly to-day.  Awaiting immate instructions fufuneral Tuesday.”

That was how it was written in the telegram—­“fufuneral,” and the utterly incomprehensible word “immate.”  It was signed by the stage manager of the operatic company.

“My darling!” sobbed Olenka.  “Vanka, my precious, my darling!  Why did I ever meet you!  Why did I know you and love you!  Your poor heart-broken Olenka is alone without you!”

Kukin’s funeral took place on Tuesday in Moscow, Olenka returned home on Wednesday, and as soon as she got indoors, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed so loudly that it could be heard next door, and in the street.

“Poor darling!” the neighbours said, as they crossed themselves.  “Olga Semyonovna, poor darling!  How she does take on!”

Three months later Olenka was coming home from mass, melancholy and in deep mourning.  It happened that one of her neighbours, Vassily Andreitch Pustovalov, returning home from church, walked back beside her.  He was the manager at Babakayev’s, the timber merchant’s.  He wore a straw hat, a white waistcoat, and a gold watch-chain, and looked more a country gentleman than a man in trade.

“Everything happens as it is ordained, Olga Semyonovna,” he said gravely, with a sympathetic note in his voice; “and if any of our dear ones die, it must be because it is the will of God, so we ought have fortitude and bear it submissively.”