“Call me simply Pavlik,” he replied, becoming ever bolder.
“Do you think I’ll do as an aunt for you as well?”
“I’d give a lot to have such an aunt! For the time being I’m only your unfortunate neighbour.”
“Is it really a misfortune?”
“I could hear you last night. Your room turns out to be next to mine.”
She laughed indifferently:
“And I could hear you. It’s wrong to eavesdrop and spy.”
“How impermissibly beautiful you are!” he said, fixedly examining the variegated grey of her eyes, the matt whiteness of her face and the sheen of the dark hair beneath her white headscarf.
“Do you think so? And do you want not to permit me to be so?”
“Yes. Your hands alone could drive anyone mad…”
And with cheerful audacity he seized her right hand with his left. She, standing with her back to the shelves, glanced over his shoulder into the drawing room and did not remove the hand, gazing at him with a strange grin, as though waiting: well, and what next? He, not releasing her hand, squeezed it tightly, pulling it away downwards, and he gripped her waist with his right arm. She again glanced over his shoulder and threw her head back slightly, as though protecting her face from a kiss, but she pressed her curving torso against him. He, catching his breath with difficulty, stretched towards her half-open lips and moved her towards the couch. She, frowning, began shaking her head, whispering: “No, no, we mustn’t, lying down we’ll see and hear nothing…” and with eyes grown dim she slowly parted her legs… A minute later his face fell onto her shoulder. She stood for a little longer with clenched teeth, then quietly freed herself from him and set off elegantly through the drawing room, saying loudly and indifferently to the noise of the rain:
“Oh, what rain! And all the windows are open upstairs…”
The next morning he woke up in her bed – she had turned onto her back in bed linen rucked up and warmed in the course of the night, with her bare arm thrown up behind her head. He opened his eyes and joyfully met her unblinking gaze, and with the giddiness of a fainting fit sensed the pungent smell of her armpit…
Someone knocked hastily at the door.
“Who’s there?” she asked calmly, without pushing him aside. “Is it you, Maria Ilyinishna?”
“Me, Katerina Nikolayevna.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Let me come in, I’m afraid someone will hear me and they’ll run and frighten the General’s wife…”
When he had slipped out into his room, she unhurriedly turned the key in the lock.
“There’s something wrong with His Excellency, I think an injection needs to be given,” Maria Ilyinishna started whispering as she came in. “The General’s wife is still asleep, thank God, go quickly…”
Maria Ilyinishna’s eyes were already becoming rounded like a snake’s: while speaking, she had suddenly seen a man’s shoes beside the bed – the student had fled barefooted. And she also saw the shoes and Maria Ilyinishna’s eyes.
Before breakfast she went to the General’s wife and said she must leave all of a sudden: started calmly lying that she had received a letter from her father – the news that her brother was seriously wounded in Manchuria – that her father, by reason of his widowerhood, was completely alone in such misfortune…
“Ah, how I understand you!” said the General’s wife, who already knew everything from Maria Ilyinishna. “Well, what’s to be done, go. Only send a telegram to Dr Krivtsov from the station for him to come at once and stay with us until we find another nurse…”
Then she knocked at the student’s door and thrust a note upon him: “All’s lost, I’m leaving. The old woman saw your shoes beside the bed. Remember me kindly.”
At breakfast his aunt was just a little sad, but spoke with him as though nothing were wrong.
“Have you heard? The nurse is going away to her father’s. He’s alone and her brother is terribly wounded…”
“I’ve heard, Aunt. What a misfortune this war is, so much grief everywhere. And what was the matter with Uncle after all?”
“Ah, nothing serious, thank God. He’s a dreadful hypochondriac. It seems to be the heart, but it’s all because of the stomach…”
At three o’clock Antigone was driven away to the station by troika. Without raising his eyes, he said goodbye to her on the perron, as though having run out by chance to order a horse to be saddled. He was ready to cry out from despair. She waved a glove to him from the carriage, sitting no longer in a headscarf, but in a pretty little hat.
An Emerald[100]
The nocturnal dark-blue blackness of the sky, covered in quietly floating clouds, everywhere white, but beside the high moon pale blue. If you look closely, it isn’t the clouds floating, it’s the moon, and near it, together with it, a star’s golden tear is shed: the moon glides away into the heights that have no end, and carries the star away with it, ever higher and higher.
She is sitting sideways on the ledge of a wide open window and, with her head leaning out, is looking up – her head is spinning a little from the movement of the sky. He is standing at her knees.
“What colour is it? I can’t define it! Can you, Tolya?”
“The colour of what, Kisa?”
“Don’t call me that, I’ve told you a thousand times already…”
“I obey, Ksenya Alexandrovna, ma’am.”
“I’m talking about that sky between the clouds. What a marvelous colour! Both terrifying and marvellous. Now that is truly heavenly, there aren’t any like that on earth. A sort of emerald.”
“Since it’s in the heavens, of course it’s heavenly. Only why an emerald? And what’s an emerald? I’ve never seen one in my life. You simply like the word.”
“Yes. Well, I don’t know – maybe not an emerald, but a ruby… Only such a one as is probably only found in paradise. And when you look at it all like this, how can you possibly not believe that there is a paradise, angels, the throne of God…”
“And golden pears on willows…”
“How spoilt you are, Tolya. Maria Sergeyevna’s right in saying that the very worst girl is still better than any young man.”
“Truth itself speaks with her lips, Kisa.”
The dress she is wearing is cotton, speckled, the shoes cheap; her calves and knees are plump, girlish, her little round head with a small braid around it is so sweetly thrown back… He puts one hand on her knee, clasps her shoulders with the other, and half-jokingly kisses her slightly parted lips. She quietly frees herself, removes his hand from her knee.
“What is it? Are we offended?”
She presses the back of her head against the jamb of the window, and he sees that she is crying.
“But what’s the matter?”
“Oh, leave me alone…”
“But what’s happened?”
She whispers:
“Nothing…”
And jumping down from the window ledge, she runs away.
He shrugs his shoulders:
“Stupid to the point of saintliness!”
The Visitor
The visitor rang once, twice – it was quiet on the other side of the door, no reply. He pressed the button again, ringing for a long time, insistently, demandingly – heavy running footsteps were heard – and a short wench, sturdy as a fish, all smelling of kitchen fumes, opened up and looked in bewilderment: dull hair, cheap turquoise earrings in thick earlobes, a Finnish face covered in ginger freckles, seemingly oily hands filled with blue-grey blood. The visitor fell upon her quickly, angrily and cheerfully:
“Why on earth don’t you open up? Asleep, were you?”
“No, sir, you can’t hear a thing in the kitchen, the stove’s ever so noisy,” she replied, continuing to gaze at him in confusion: he was thin, swarthy, with big teeth, a coarse black beard and piercing eyes; he had a grey silk-lined overcoat on his arm, and a grey hat tilted back off his forehead.