‘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.
The House with the Mezzanine
(AN ARTIST’S STORY)
I
About six or seven years ago I was staying in a district of T— province, on the estate of a young landowner by the name of Belokurov – a very early riser who sported a peasant jerkin, drank beer in the evenings and who was always complaining to me that no one, anywhere, really appreciated him. He had a cottage in the garden, while I lived in the old manor house, in a vast colonnaded ballroom which, apart from the wide sofa on which I slept and a table where I played patience, was devoid of furniture. Even in calm weather there was always a peculiar droning in the ancient Amos stoves and during thunderstorms the whole house shook as if it were splitting into small pieces. It was rather frightening, especially at night when the ten big windows were suddenly all aglow in the lightning.