‘At the trial four Jews had been convicted of arson and conspiracy – in my opinion, on no reasonable grounds at all. I became very heated over dinner, felt bad and I can’t remember even now what I said, only that Anna Alekseyevna kept shaking her head and telling her husband, “Dmitry, how can they do this?”
‘Luganovich was a good man, one of those simple, open-hearted people who are firmly convinced that once you have a man in the dock he must be guilty, and that a verdict can only be challenged in writing, according to the correct legal procedure, and never during dinner or private conversation. “We haven’t set anything alight,” he said softly, “so we won’t have to stand trial or go to prison.”
‘Both husband and wife plied me with food and drink. Judging from little details – the way they made coffee together and their mutual understanding that needed no words – I concluded that they were living peacefully and happily, and that they were glad to have a guest. After dinner there were piano duets. When it grew dark I went back to the hotel. All of this was at the beginning of spring. I spent the whole of the following summer in Sofino without emerging once and I was too busy even to think of going into town. But I could not forget that slender, fair-haired woman for one moment. Although I made no conscious effort to think about her, she seemed to cast a faint shadow over me.
‘In late autumn there was a charity show in town. I took my seat in the governor’s box, where I’d been invited during the interval, and there was Anna Alekseyevna sitting next to the governor’s wife. Once again I was struck by that irresistible, radiant beauty, by those tender, loving eyes, and once again I felt very close to her.
‘We sat side by side, then we went into the foyer where she told me, “You’ve lost weight. Have you been ill?”
‘“Yes, I’ve rheumatism in my shoulder and I sleep badly when it rains.”
‘“You look quite exhausted. When you came to dinner in the spring you seemed younger, more cheerful. You were very lively then and said some most interesting things. I was even a little taken with you, I must confess. For some reason I often thought about you during the summer and when I was getting ready for the theatre I had a feeling I might see you today.” And she burst out laughing.
‘“But now you seem to have no energy,” she repeated. “It ages you.”
‘Next day I had lunch with the Luganoviches. Afterwards they drove out to their country villa to make arrangements for the winter, and I went with them. I came back to town with them and at midnight I was having tea in those peaceful domestic surroundings, in front of a roaring fire, while the young mother kept slipping out to see if her little girl was sleeping. Afterwards I made a point of visiting the Luganoviches whenever I came to town. We grew used to one another and I usually dropped in unannounced, like one of the family.
‘That soft drawling voice I found so attractive would come echoing from one of the far rooms: “Who’s there?”
‘“It’s Pavel Konstantinych,” the maid or nanny would reply.
‘Then Anna Alekseyevna would appear with a worried look and every time she’d ask me the same question, “Why haven’t you been to see us? Is anything wrong?”
‘The way she looked at me, the delicate, noble hand she offered me, the clothes she wore in the house, her hairstyle, her voice and footsteps always made me feel that something new, out of the ordinary and important had happened in my life. We’d have long conversations – and long silences – immersed in our own thoughts. Or she would play the piano for me. If she was out, I’d stay and wait, talk to the nanny, play with the baby, or lie on the sofa in the study and read the papers. When Anna Alekseyevna came back I’d meet her in the hall, take her shopping and for some reason I’d always carry it so devotedly and exultantly you’d have thought I was a little boy.
‘You know the story about the farmer’s wife who had no worries until she went and bought a pig. The Luganoviches had no worries, so they made friends with me. If I was away from town for long, they thought I must be ill or that something had happened to me and they would get terribly worked up. And they were concerned that an educated man like myself, speaking several languages, didn’t use his time studying or doing literary work and could live out in the wilds, forever turning round like a squirrel on a wheel and slaving away without a penny to show for it. They sensed that I was deeply unhappy and that if I spoke, laughed or ate, it was only to hide my suffering. Even at cheerful times, when I was in good spirits, I knew they were giving me searching looks. They were particularly touching when I really was in trouble, when some creditor was chasing me, or when I couldn’t pay some bill on time. Both of them would stay by the window whispering, and then the husband would come over to me, looking serious, and say, “Pavel Konstantinych, if you’re a bit short, my wife and I beg you not to think twice about asking us!”
‘And his ears would turn red with excitement. Often, after a whispering session at the window, he would come over to me, ears flushed, and say, “My wife and I beg you to accept this little gift.”
‘And he’d give me cufflinks, a cigarette case or a table-lamp. In return, I’d send them some poultry, butter or flowers from the country. They were quite well-off, by the way, both of them. In my younger days I was always borrowing and wasn’t too fussy where the money came from, taking it wherever I could get it. But for nothing in the world would I have borrowed from the Luganoviches. The very idea!
‘I was unhappy. Whether I was at home, out in the fields, in the barn, I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and I tried to unravel the mystery of that young, beautiful, clever woman who had married an uninteresting man, who could almost be called old (he was over forty) and had borne his children. And I tried to solve the enigma of that boring, good-natured, simple-minded fellow, with his insufferable common sense, always crawling up to the local stuffed shirts at balls and soirées, a lifeless, useless man whose submissive, indifferent expression made you think he’d been brought along as an object for sale, a man who believed, however, that he had the right to be happy and to be the father of her children. I never gave up trying to understand why she was fated to meet him, and not me, why such a horrible mistake should have to occur in our lives.
‘Every time I went into town I could tell from her eyes that she had been waiting for me, and she would admit that from the moment she’d got up she’d had some kind of premonition that I would be coming. We had long talks and there were long silences, and we didn’t declare our love, but concealed it jealously, timidly, fearing anything that might betray our secret to each other. Although I loved her tenderly, deeply, I reasoned with myself and tried to guess what the consequences would be if we had no strength to combat it. It seemed incredible that my gentle, cheerless love could suddenly rudely disrupt the happy lives of her husband and children – of that whole household in fact, where I was so loved and trusted. Was I acting honourably? She would have gone away with me, but where could I take her? It would have been another matter if my life had been wonderful and eventful – if, for example, I’d been fighting to liberate my country, or if I’d been a famous scholar, actor or artist. But I’d only be taking her away from an ordinary, pedestrian life into one that was just the same, just as prosaic, even more so, perhaps. And just how long would we stay happy? What would become of her if I was taken ill, or died? Or if we simply stopped loving each other?
‘And she seemed to have come to the same conclusion. She had been thinking about her husband, her children, and her mother, who loved her husband like a son. If she were to let her feelings get the better of her, then she would have to lie or tell the whole truth, but either alternative would have been equally terrible and distressing for someone in her position. And she was tormented by the question: would her love make me happy, wouldn’t she be complicating a life which was difficult enough already, brimful of all kinds of unhappiness? She thought that she was no longer young enough for me and that she wasn’t hard-working or energetic enough to start a new life with me. Often she told her
husband that I should marry some nice clever girl who would make a good housewife and be a help to me. But immediately she would add that it would be a hard job finding someone answering to that description in that town.
‘Meanwhile the years passed. Anna Alekseyevna already had two children. Whenever I called on the Luganoviches the servants welcomed me with smiles, the children shouted that Uncle Pavel Konstantinych had arrived and clung to my neck. Everyone was glad. They didn’t understand what was going on deep down inside me and they thought that I too shared their joy. All of them considered me a most noble person, and both parents and children felt that the very personification of nobility was walking around the house, and this lent a very special charm to their attitude towards me, as if my being there made their lives purer and finer. I would go to the theatre with Anna Alekseyevna – we always used to walk. We would sit side by side in the stalls, shoulders touching, and as I took the opera glasses from her I felt that she was near and dear to me, that she belonged to me, that we couldn’t live without each other. But through some strange lack of mutual understanding we would always say goodbye and part like strangers when we left the theatre. In that town they were already saying God knows what about us, but there wasn’t one word of truth in it.
‘Later on, Anna Alekseyevna visited her mother and sister more often. She started to have fits of depression when she realized her life was unfulfilled, ruined, and she had no desire to see either her husband or the children. She was already having treatment for a nervous disorder.
‘We didn’t say one word to each other and she seemed strangely irritated with me when other people were around. She’d quarrel with everything I said, and if I was having an argument she would always take the other person’s side. If I dropped something she would coldly say, “Congratulations.” If I left my opera glasses behind when we went to the theatre she’d say afterwards, “I knew that you’d forget them.”
‘Whether for better or for worse, there’s nothing in this life that doesn’t come to an end sooner or later. The time to part finally came when Luganovich was made a judge in one of the western provinces. They had to sell the furniture, horses and the villa. When we drove out to the villa and turned round for a last glimpse of the garden and the green roof, everyone felt sad and it was then I realized the time had come to say farewell – and not only to a simple villa. On the advice of her doctor they decided to send Anna Alekseyevna to the Crimea, while soon afterwards Luganovich would take the children with him to the western province.
‘A large crowd of us went to see Anna Alekseyevna off. She had already said goodbye to her husband and children, and the train was about to leave at any moment. I rushed to her compartment to put a basket that she’d almost forgotten onto the luggage-rack. Now it was time to say farewell. When our eyes met we could hold ourselves back no longer. I embraced her and she pressed her face to my chest and the tears just flowed. As I kissed her face, shoulders and hands that were wet with tears – oh, how miserable we both were! – I declared my love and realized, with a searing pain in my heart, how unnecessary, trivial and illusory everything that had stood in the way of our love had been. I understood that with love, if you start theorizing about it, you must have a nobler, more meaningful starting-point than mere happiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue, as they are commonly understood. Otherwise it’s best not to theorize at all.
‘I kissed her for the last time, pressed her hand and we parted for ever. The train was already moving. I took a seat in the next compartment, which was empty, and cried until the first stop, where I got out and walked back to Sofino.’
While Alyokhin was telling his story the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. Burkin and Ivan Ivanych went onto the balcony, from which there was a wonderful view of the garden and the river, gleaming like a mirror now in the sunlight. As they admired the view they felt sorry that this man, with those kind, clever eyes, who had just told his story so frankly, was really turning round and round in his huge estate like a squirrel in a cage, showing no interest in academic work or indeed anything that could have made his life more agreeable. And they wondered how sad that woman’s face must have been when he said goodbye on the train and kissed her face and shoulders. Both of them had met her in town and in fact Burkin had even known her and thought she was beautiful.
A Visit to Friends
(A STORY)
A letter arrived one morning.
Kuzminki, June 7th
Dear Misha,
You’ve completely forgotten us, please come and visit us soon, we so want to see you. Come today. We beg you, dear sir, on bended knees! Show us your radiant eyes!
Can’t wait to see you,
Ta and Va
The letter was from Tatyana Alekseyevna Losev, who had been called ‘Ta’ for short when Podgorin was staying at Kuzminki ten or twelve years ago. But who was this ‘Va’? Podgorin recalled the long conversations, the gay laughter, the love affairs, the evening walks and that whole array of girls and young women who had once lived at Kuzminki and in the neighbourhood. And he remembered that open, lively, clever face with freckles that matched chestnut hair so well – this was Varvara Pavlovna, Tatyana’s friend. Varvara Pavlovna had taken a degree in medicine and was working at a factory somewhere beyond Tula.1 Evidently she had come to stay at Kuzminki now.
‘Dear Va!’ thought Podgorin, surrendering himself to memories. ‘What a wonderful girl!’
Tatyana, Varvara and himself were all about the same age. But he had been a mere student then and they were already marriageable girls – in their eyes he was just a boy. And now, even though he had become a lawyer and had started to go grey, all of them still treated him like a youngster, saying that he had no experience of life yet.
He was very fond of them, but more as a pleasant memory than in actuality, it seemed. He knew little about their present life, which was strange and alien to him. And this brief, playful letter too was something quite foreign to him and had most probably been written after much time and effort. When Tatyana wrote it her husband Sergey Sergeich was doubtlessly standing behind her. She had been given Kuzminki as her dowry only six years before, but this same Sergey Sergeich had already reduced the estate to bankruptcy. Each time a bank or mortgage payment became due they would now turn to Podgorin for legal advice. Moreover, they had twice asked him to lend them money. So it was obvious that they either wanted advice or a loan from him now.
He no longer felt so attracted to Kuzminki as in the past. It was such a miserable place. That laughter and rushing around, those cheerful carefree faces, those rendezvous on quiet moonlit nights – all this had gone. Most important, though, they weren’t in the flush of youth any more. Probably it enchanted him only as a memory, nothing else. Besides Ta and Va, there was someone called ‘Na’, Tatyana’s sister Nadezhda, whom half-joking, half-seriously they had called his fiancée. He had seen her grow up and everyone expected him to marry her. He had loved her once and was going to propose. But there she was, twenty-three now, and he still hadn’t married her.
‘Strange it should turn out like this,’ he mused as he reread the letter in embarrassment. ‘But I can’t not go, they’d be offended.’
His long absence from the Losevs lay like a heavy weight on his conscience. After pacing his room and reflecting at length, he made a great effort of will and decided to go and visit them for about three days and so discharge his duty. Then he could feel free and relaxed – at least until the following summer. After lunch, as he prepared to leave for the Brest Station, he told his servants that he would be back in three days.
It was two hours by train from Moscow to Kuzminki, then a twenty-minute carriage drive from the station, from which he could see Tatyana’s wood and those three tall, narrow holiday villas that Losev (he had entered upon some business enterprise in the first years of his marriage) had started building but had never finished. He had been ruined by these holiday villas, by various business projects, by frequent trips to Moscow, where h
e used to lunch at the Slav Fair2 and dine at the Hermitage,3 ending up in Little Bronny Street4 or at a gipsy haunt named Knacker’s Yard, calling this ‘having a fling’. Podgorin liked a drink himself – sometimes quite a lot – and he associated with women indiscriminately, but in a cool, lethargic way, without deriving any pleasure. It sickened him when others gave themselves up to these pleasures with such zest. He didn’t understand or like men who could feel more free and easy at the Knacker’s Yard than at home with a respectable woman, and he felt that any kind of promiscuity stuck to them like burrs. He didn’t care for Losev, considering him a boring, lazy, old bungler and more than once had found his company rather repulsive.
Just past the wood, Sergey Sergeich and Nadezhda met him.
‘My dear fellow, why have you forgotten us?’ Sergey Sergeich asked, kissing him three times and then putting both arms round his waist. ‘You don’t feel affection for us any more, old chap.’
He had coarse features, a fat nose and a thin, light-brown beard. He combed his hair to one side to make himself look like a typical simple Russian. When he spoke he breathed right into your face and when he wasn’t speaking he’d breathe heavily through the nose. He was embarrassed by his plumpness and inordinately replete appearance and would keep thrusting out his chest to breathe more easily, which made him look pompous.
The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904 Page 14
