She revered her elder daughter. Lida never made up to her and would only discuss serious matters with her. She lived a life apart and for her mother and sister she was godlike, something of an enigma, just like an admiral who never leaves his cabin.
‘Our Lida’s a remarkable person, isn’t she?’ her mother would often say.
And now, as the drizzle came down, we talked about Lida.
‘She’s a remarkable person,’ her mother said, adding in a muted, conspiratorial tone as she glanced anxiously over her shoulder: ‘You don’t find many like her. Only I’m getting rather worried, you know. The school, the dispensaries, books – all that’s most commendable, but why go to such extremes? After all, she’s twenty-three, it’s time she thought seriously about herself. What with all those books and dispensaries her life will be over before she even notices it … it’s time she got married.’
Pale from reading, her hair in disarray, Zhenya raised her head a little, looked at her mother and said as if to herself: ‘Mama, everything depends on God’s will.’
And once again she buried herself in her book.
Belokurov arrived in his peasant jerkin and embroidered smock. We played croquet and tennis. And then, after dark, we enjoyed a leisurely supper. Again Lida talked about schools and that Balagin, who had the whole district under his thumb. As I left the Volchaninovs that evening I took away with me an impression of a long, idle day – and the sad realization that everything in this world comes to an end, however long it may appear. Zhenya saw us to the gates and, perhaps because she had spent the whole day with me from morning to night, I felt that without her everything was such a bore and I realized how dear this whole charming family was to me. And for the first time that summer I had the urge to paint.
‘Tell me, why do you lead such a boring, drab life?’ I asked Belokurov as we went back. ‘My own life is boring, difficult, monotonous, because I’m an artist. I’m an odd kind of chap; since I was young I’ve been plagued by feelings of hatred, by frustration with myself, by lack of belief in my work. I’ve always been poor, I’m a vagrant. But as for you – you’re a normal, healthy man, a landowner, a squire. So why do you lead such a boring life? Why do you take so little from it? For instance, why have you never fallen in love with Lida or Zhenya?’
‘You’re forgetting that I love another woman,’ Belokurov replied.
He was talking of his companion Lyubov Ivanovna, who lived in the cottage with him. Every day I saw that plump, podgy, self-important woman – rather like a fattened goose – strolling around the garden in a traditional beaded folk costume, always carrying a parasol. The servants were always calling her in for a meal, or for tea. Three years ago she had rented one of the holiday cottages and had simply stayed on to live with Belokurov – for ever, it seemed. She was about ten years older than him and ruled him with a rod of iron – so much so that he had to ask permission whenever he wanted to go somewhere. She often sobbed in a deep, masculine voice and then I would send word that I would move out of the flat if she didn’t stop. And stop she did.
When we were back Belokurov sat on my couch with a pensive frown, while I paced the room, feeling a gentle excitement, as if I were in love. I wanted to talk about the Volchaninovs.
‘Lida could only fall in love with a council worker who is as devoted as she is to hospitals and schools,’ I said. ‘Oh, for a girl like her one would not only do welfare work but even wear out a pair of iron boots, like the girl in the fairy-tale! And there’s Missy. Isn’t she charming, this Missy!’
Belokurov embarked on a long-winded discussion about the malady of the age – pessimism – dragging out those ‘er’s. He spoke confidently and his tone suggested that I was quarrelling with him. Hundreds of miles of bleak, monotonous, scorched steppe can never be so utterly depressing as someone who just sits and chatters away – and you have no idea when he’s going to leave you in peace.
‘Pessimism or optimism have nothing to do with it,’ I said, irritably. ‘The point is, ninety-nine people out of a hundred have no brains.’
Belokurov took this personally and left in a huff.
III
‘The prince is staying in Malozyomovo and sends his regards,’ Lida told her mother. She had just come in from somewhere and was removing her gloves. ‘He had many interesting things to tell us … He promised to raise the question of a clinic for Malozyomovo with the council again, but stressed that there was little hope.’ Turning to me she said: ‘I’m sorry, I keep forgetting that kind of thing’s of no interest to you.’
This really got my back up.
‘Why isn’t it interesting?’ I asked, shrugging my shoulders. ‘You don’t want to know my opinion, but I assure you that the question interests me a great deal.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. In my opinion they don’t need a clinic at Malozyomovo.’
My irritation was infectious. She looked at me, screwed up her eyes and asked: ‘What do they need then? Landscape paintings?’
‘They don’t need landscapes either. They don’t need anything.’
She finished taking off her gloves and unfolded the paper that had just been collected from the post office. A minute later she said quietly, as if trying to control herself: ‘Last week Anna died in childbirth. If there’d been a clinic near her she’d be alive now. And I really do think that our fine gentlemen landscape painters should have some opinions on that score.’
‘I have very definite views on that score, I assure you,’ I replied – and she hid behind her paper as if she didn’t want to listen. ‘To my mind, with things as they are, clinics, schools, libraries, dispensaries only serve to enslave people. The peasants are weighed down by a great chain and instead of breaking this chain you’re only adding new links – that’s what I think.’
She raised her eyes and smiled ironically as I continued, trying to catch the main thread of my argument:
‘What matters is not Anna dying in childbirth, but that all these peasant Annas, Mavras and Pelageyas toil away from dawn to dusk and that this unremitting labour makes them ill. All their lives they go in fear and trembling for their sick and hungry children, dreading death and illness. All their lives they’re being treated for some illness. They fade away before their time and die in filth and stench. And as their children grow up it’s the same old story. And so the centuries pass and untold millions of people live worse than animals, wondering where their next meal will come from, hounded by constant fear. The whole horror of their situation is that they have no time to think of their souls, no time to remember that they were created in the image and likeness of their Creator. Famine, irrational fears, unceasing toil – these are like avalanches, blocking all paths to spiritual activity, which is precisely what distinguishes man from beast and makes life worth living. You come to their aid with hospitals and schools, but this doesn’t free them from their shackles: on the contrary, you enslave them even more since, by introducing fresh prejudices you increase the number of their needs – not to mention the fact that they have to pay the council for their plasters and books – and so they have to slave away even harder.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ Lida said, putting down her paper. ‘I’ve heard it all before. But I’ll say one thing: you can’t just sit twiddling your thumbs. True, we’re not the saviours of humanity and perhaps we make lots of mistakes, but we are doing what we can and we are right. The loftiest, most sacred task for any civilized man is to serve his neighbours – and we try to serve them as best we can. You don’t like it, but there’s no pleasing everyone.’