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 cheese … 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 to 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?
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. 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.