‘Missy dear, you’d better leave the room,’ Lida told her sister, evidently finding my words harmful for such a young girl.
Zhenya sadly looked at her sister and mother and went out.
‘People who want to justify their own indifference usually come out with such charming things,’ Lida said. ‘Rejecting hospitals and schools is easier than healing people or teaching.’
‘That’s true, Lida, that’s true,’ her mother agreed.
‘Now you’re threatening to give up working,’ Lida continued. ‘It’s obvious you value your painting very highly! But let’s stop arguing. We’ll never see eye to eye, since I value the most imperfect of these libraries or dispensaries – of which you spoke so contemptuously just now – more highly than all the landscapes in the world.’ Turning to her mother she immediately continued in an entirely different tone of voice: ‘The prince has grown much thinner, he’s changed dramatically since he was last with us. They’re sending him to Vichy.’6
She told her mother about the prince to avoid talking to me. Her face was burning and to hide her agitation she bent low over the table as if she were short-sighted, and pretended to be reading the paper. My company was disagreeable for them. I said goodbye and went home.
IV
It was quiet outside. The village on the far side of the pond was already asleep. Not a single light was visible, only the pale reflections of the stars faintly glimmered on the water. Zhenya stood motionless at the gates with the lions, waiting to see me off.
‘Everyone’s asleep in the village,’ I told her, trying to make out her face in the gloom – and I saw those dark, mournful eyes fixed on me. ‘The innkeeper and horse thieves are peacefully sleeping, while we respectable people quarrel and annoy one another.’
It was a sad August night – sad because there was already a breath of autumn in the air. The moon was rising, veiled by a crimson cloud and casting a dim light on the road and the dark fields of winter corn along its sides. There were many shooting stars. Zhenya walked along the road by my side, trying not to see the shooting stars, which frightened her for some reason.
‘I think you’re right,’ she said, trembling from the damp night air. ‘If people would only work together, if they could give themselves up to the life of the spirit they would soon know everything.’
‘Of course, we’re superior beings and if in fact we did recognize the full power of human genius and lived only for some higher end, then in the long run we’d all come to be like gods. But that will never happen – mankind will degenerate and not a trace of genius will remain.’
When we could no longer see the gates Zhenya stopped and hurriedly shook hands with me.
‘Good night,’ she said with a shudder. Only a thin blouse covered her shoulders and she huddled up from the cold. ‘Please come tomorrow!’
I was horrified at the prospect of being left alone and felt agitated and unhappy with myself and others. And I too tried not to look at the shooting stars.
‘Please stay a little longer,’ I said. ‘Please do!’
I loved Zhenya. I loved her – perhaps – for meeting me and seeing me off, for looking so tenderly and admiringly at me. Her pale face, her slender neck, her frailty, her idleness, her books – they were so moving in their beauty! And what about her mind? I suspected that she was extremely intelligent. The breadth of her views enchanted me, perhaps because she thought differently from the severe, pretty Lida, who disliked me. Zhenya liked me as an artist. I had won her heart with my talent and I longed to paint for her alone. I dreamt of her as my little queen who would hold sway with me over these trees, fields, this mist, sunset, over this exquisite, magical nature where I had so far felt hopelessly lonely and unwanted.
‘Please stay a little longer,’ I asked. ‘Please stay!’
I took off my coat and covered her chilled shoulders. Afraid that she might look silly and unattractive in a man’s coat, she threw it off – and then I embraced her and started showering her face, shoulders and arms with kisses.
‘Till tomorrow!’ she cried.
For about two minutes after that I could hear her running. I didn’t feel like going home and I had no reason for going there anyway. I stood and reflected for a moment and then slowly made my way back to have another look at that dear, innocent old house that seemed to be staring at me with its attic windows as if they were all-comprehending eyes. I walked past the terrace and sat down on a bench in the darkness under the old elm by the tennis court. In the windows of the attic storey where she slept a bright light suddenly shone, turning soft green when the lamp was covered with a shade. Shadows stirred. I was full of tenderness, calm and contentment – contentment because I had let myself be carried away and had fallen in love. And at the same time I was troubled by the thought that only a few steps away Lida lived in one of the rooms of that house – Lida, who disliked and possibly even hated me. I sat waiting for Zhenya to come out. I listened hard and people seemed to be talking in the attic storey.
About an hour passed. The green light went out and the shadows vanished. The moon stood high now over the house and illuminated the sleeping garden, the paths. Dahlias and roses in the flowerbeds in front of the house were clearly visible and all of them seemed the same colour. It became very cold. I left the garden, picked up my coat from the path and unhurriedly made my way home.
Next day, when I arrived at the Volchaninovs after dinner, the French windows into the garden were wide open. I sat for a while on the terrace, expecting Zhenya to appear any minute behind the flowerbed by the tennis court, or on one of the avenues – or her voice to come from one of the rooms. Then I went through the drawing-room and dining-room. There wasn’t a soul about. From the dining-room I walked down a long corridor to the hall and back. In the corridor there were several doors and through one of them I could hear Lida’s voice.
‘God sent a crow…’ she was saying in a loud, deliberate voice – probably dictating – ‘God sent a crow a piece of cheese7… Who’s there?’ she suddenly called out, hearing my footsteps.
‘It’s me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, but I can’t come out now. I’m busy with Dasha.’
‘Is Yekaterina Pavlovna in the garden?’
‘No. She went this morning with my sister to her aunt’s in Penza. This winter they’ll probably go abroad,’ she added after a pause.
‘Go-od se-ent a crow a pi-iece of che-eese. Have you written that down?’
I went into the hall and stared vacantly at the pond and the village. And I could hear her voice: ‘A pi-iece of che-eese… Go-od sent the crow…’
And I left the grounds the same way I had first come: from the courtyard into the garden, past the house, then along the lime-tree avenue. Here a boy caught up with me and handed me a note.
‘I’ve told my sister everything and she insists we break up,’ I read. ‘I could never upset her by disobeying. May God grant you happiness. I’m sorry. If you only knew how bitterly Mama and I are crying.’
Then came the dark fir avenue, the broken-down fence. On that same field where once I had seen the flowering rye and heard the quails calling, cows and hobbled horses were now grazing. Here and there on the hills were the bright green patches of winter corn. A sober, humdrum mood came over me and I felt ashamed of all I had said at the Volchaninovs. And I was as bored as ever with life. When I got home I packed and left for St Petersburg that same evening.
I never saw the Volchaninovs again. Not long ago, however, I met Belokurov on the train when I was travelling to the Crimea. He was still wearing that peasant jerkin and embroidered smock, and when I inquired about his health he replied that he was well – thank you very much! We started talking. He had sold his estate and bought a smaller one in Lyubov Ivanovna’s name. He told me Lida was still living in Shelkovka and teaching in the school. Gradually she’d managed to gather around her a circle of congenial spirits, a pressure group, and at the last local election they’d ‘blackballed’ Balagin, who up t
o then had his hands on the whole district. As for Zhenya, Belokurov only told me that she wasn’t living at home and that he didn’t know where she was.
I’m already beginning to forget that old house with the mezzanine and only occasionally, when I’m painting or reading, do I suddenly remember – for no apparent reason – that green light in the window; or the sound of my footsteps as I walked home across the fields at night, in love, rubbing my hands in the cold. And even more rarely, when I am sad at heart and afflicted with loneliness, do I have dim memories. And gradually I come to feel that I haven’t been forgotten either, that she is waiting for me and that we’ll meet again…
Missy, where are you?
Peasants
I
Nikolay Chikildeyev, a waiter at the Slav Fair1 in Moscow, was taken ill. His legs went numb and it affected his walk so much that one day he stumbled and fell down as he was carrying a tray of peas and ham along one of the passages. As a result, he had to give up his job. Any money he and his wife had managed to save went on medical expenses, so they now had nothing to live on. He got bored without a job, so he decided it was probably best to return to his native village. It’s easier being ill at home – and it’s cheaper; they don’t say ‘there’s no place like home’ for nothing.
It was late in the afternoon when he reached his village, Zhukovo. He had always remembered his old home from childhood as a cheerful, bright, cosy, comfortable place, but now, as he entered the hut, he was actually scared when he saw how dark, crowded and filthy it was in there. Olga, his wife, and his daughter, Sasha, who had travelled back with him, stared in utter bewilderment at the huge neglected stove (it took up nearly half the hut), black with soot and flies – so many flies! It was tilting to one side, the wall-beams were all askew, and the hut seemed about to collapse any minute. Instead of pictures, labels from bottles and newspaper cuttings had been pasted over the wall next to the icons. This was real poverty! All the adults were out reaping. A fair-haired, dirty-faced little girl of about eight was sitting on the stove, so bored she didn’t even look up as they came in. Down below, a white cat was rubbing itself on the fire-irons. Sasha tried to tempt it over: ‘Here Puss, here!’
‘She can’t hear you,’ the little girl said, ‘she’s deaf.’
‘How’s that?’
‘They beat her.’
From the moment they entered the hut, Nikolay and Olga could see the kind of life they led there. But they didn’t make any comment, threw their bundles onto the floor and went out into the street without a word. Their hut was third from the end and seemed the poorest and oldest. The second hut was not much better, while the last one – the village inn – had an iron roof and curtains, was unfenced and stood apart from the others. The huts formed a single row and the whole peaceful, sleepy little village, with willows, elders and ash peeping out of the yards, had a pleasant look.
Beyond the gardens, the ground sloped steeply down to the river, like a cliff, with huge boulders sticking out of the clay. Paths threaded their way down the slope between the boulders and pits dug out by the potters, and bits of brown and red clay piled up in great heaps. Down below a bright green, broad and level meadow opened out – it had already been mown and the village cattle were grazing on it. The meandering river with its magnificent leafy banks was almost a mile from the village and beyond were more broad pastures, cattle, long strings of white geese, and then a similar steep slope on its far side. At the top stood a village, a church with five ‘onion’ domes, with the manor house a little further on.
‘What a lovely spot!’ Olga said, crossing herself when she saw the church. ‘Heavens, so much open space!’
Just then the bells rang for evensong (it was Saturday evening). Two little girls, who were carrying a bucket of water down the hill, looked back at the church to listen to them.
‘It’ll be dinner time at the Slav Fair now,’ Nikolay said dreamily.
Nikolay and Olga sat on the edge of the cliff, watching the sun go down and the reflections of the gold and crimson sky in the river, in the church windows, in the air all around, which was gentle, tranquil, pure beyond description – such air you never get in Moscow.
But after the sun had set and the lowing cows and bleating sheep had gone past, the geese had flown back from the far side of the river and everything had grown quiet – that gentle light faded from the air and the shades of evening swiftly closed in.
Meanwhile the old couple – Nikolay’s parents – had returned. They were skinny, hunchbacked, toothless and the same height. Marya and Fyokla, his sisters-in-law, who worked for a landowner on the other side of the river, had returned too. Marya – the wife of his brother Kiryak – had six children, while Fyokla (married to Denis, who was away on military service) had two. When Nikolay came into the hut and saw all the family there, all those bodies large and small sprawling around on their bunks, cradles, in every corner; when he saw how ravenously the old man and the woman ate their black bread, dipping it first in water, he realized that he had made a mistake coming here, ill as he was, without any money and with his family into the bargain – a real blunder!
‘And where’s my brother Kiryak?’ he asked when they had greeted each other.
‘He’s living in the forest, working as a nightwatchman for some merchant. Not a bad sort, but he can’t half knock it back!’
‘He’s no breadwinner!’ the old woman murmured tearfully. ‘Our men are a lousy lot of drunkards, they don’t bring their money back home! Kiryak’s a drinker. And the old man knows the way to the pub as well, there’s no harm in saying it! The Blessed Virgin must have it in for us!’
They put the samovar on especially for the guests. The tea smelt of fish, the sugar was grey and had been nibbled at, and cockroaches ran all over the bread and crockery. The tea was revolting, just like the conversation, which was always about illness and how they had no money. But before they even managed to drink the first cup a loud, long drawn out, drunken cry came from outside.
‘Ma-arya!’
‘Sounds like Kiryak’s back,’ the old man said. ‘Talk of the devil.’
Everyone went quiet. And a few moments later they heard that cry again, coarse and drawling, as though it was coming from under the earth.
‘Ma-arya!’
Marya, the elder sister, turned pale and huddled closer to the stove, and it was somehow strange to see fear written all over the face of that strong, broad-shouldered woman. Suddenly her daughter – the same little girl who had been sitting over the stove looking so apathetic – sobbed out loud.
‘And what’s the matter with you, you silly cow?’ Fyokla shouted at her – she was strong and broad-shouldered as well. ‘I don’t suppose he’s going to kill you.’
Nikolay learnt from the old man that Marya didn’t live in the forest, as she was scared of Kiryak, and that whenever he was drunk he would come after her, make a great racket and always beat her mercilessly.
‘Ma-arya!’ came the cry – this time right outside the door.
‘Please, help me, for Christ’s sake, my own dear ones…’ Marya mumbled breathlessly, panting as though she had just been dropped into freezing water. ‘Please protect me…’
Every single child in the hut burst out crying, and Sasha gave them one look and followed suit. There was a drunken coughing, and a tall man with a black beard and a fur cap came into the hut. As his face was not visible in the dim lamplight, he was quite terrifying. It was Kiryak. He went over to his wife, swung his arm and hit her across the face with his fist. She was too stunned to cry out and merely sank to the ground; the blood immediately gushed from her nose.
‘Should be ashamed of yourself, bloody ashamed!’ the old man muttered as he climbed up over the stove. ‘And in front of guests. A damned disgrace!’
But the old woman sat there without saying a word, all hunched up, and seemed to be thinking; Fyokla went on rocking the cradle. Clearly pleased at the terrifying effect he had on everyone, Kiryak seized Marya’s ha
nd, dragged her to the door and howled like a wild animal, so that he seemed even more terrifying. But then he suddenly saw the guests and stopped short in his tracks.
‘Oh, so you’ve arrived…’ he muttered, letting go of his wife. ‘My own brother, with family and all…’
He reeled from side to side as he said a prayer in front of the icon, and his drunken red eyes were wide open. Then he continued, ‘So my dear brother’s come back home with his family… from Moscow. The great capital, that is, Moscow, mother of cities… Forgive me…’
He sank down on a bench by the samovar and started drinking tea, noisily gulping from a saucer, while no one else said a word. He drank about ten cups, then slumped down on the bench and started snoring.
The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904 Page 6
