The weather was perfect. The silver birches were gleaming in the sun and shedding a dappled shade. Karpenko, though he gazed at her with adoring eyes, was still too shy to say much. As usual, Pinegin was wearing his white tunic and puffing on his pipe. After two weeks of Sergei’s lively conversation, Olga found the soldier’s silence rather agreeable.
She had long ago decided that, if Karpenko was in love with her, he was certainly harmless. Indeed, he was so shy that she liked to bring him out of himself. She had learned, for instance, that he came from Poltava province, south-east of Kiev, from an old Cossack family. ‘My brothers are strapping fellows – it’s only me that’s so small,’ he apologized. After some coaxing, he had one day admitted that he, too, hoped to make a literary reputation in the future.
As usual, therefore, after they had walked awhile, they began to talk, and encouraged by Olga, the young Cossack started to speak of his beloved Ukraine. It was a delight to hear him, a pleasure to see his soft eyes glow as he described to them the whitewashed houses and their thatched roofs, the huge fields of wheat on the rich black earth, the vineyards and lemon groves down by the Black Sea, the huge melons that were grown in his own village. ‘It’s another world in the south,’ he confessed. ‘Life is easier. Why, even now, if we need more land, we just take our ploughs out into the empty steppe, which has no end.’
So wonderful was his description that Pinegin nodded his head thoughtfully and remarked: ‘It is so. I have been there, and it is just so.’
And it was this statement that suddenly prompted Olga to turn to the quiet soldier and try to draw him out for once.
How little, still, she knew of him. What sort of life had he had? Where had he come from? Where had he served? Was he always so much alone, or had there been others close to him in his past – lovers perhaps? And above all what did he really think about his life, this man who seemed to know so much, yet say so little?
‘It is your turn, Fyodor Petrovich,’ she said softly. ‘You say you have been in the south. What can you tell us about it?’
‘I passed through the Ukraine,’ he replied. ‘But I have served further south, in the Caucasus Mountains. Do you wish to know about that?’
‘Most certainly,’ she smiled. ‘I do.’
He took a little time to reply, but when at last he did, his thin, hard face took on a faraway look. His voice was very quiet. And the words he used were simple, soldier’s words, yet very carefully chosen. Olga was riveted.
He told her about the high Georgian passes that now belonged to Russia, and those beyond, where wild tribesmen still dwelt. He described the mountain goats; the huge ravines one could look down and see the shepherds in the gullies a thousand feet below; the swirling mists over which, as far as the eye could see, the snowy peaks hung pink and white in the crystal sky. He told her about the tribesmen in their bright tunics and shaggy sheepskins – Georgians, Circassians, and those distant descendants of the radiant Alans, the proud Ossetians – who might suddenly appear from nowhere: ‘Friendly one day, with a bullet for you the next.’ She could see it all, as though she had been there.
‘I was down in the eastern steppe once,’ he continued. ‘On the edge of the desert. That’s a strange region.’ And he told her about the little fortresses between the Black and the Caspian Seas, and about the Tatar and other Turkish tribesmen who made the frontiers such dangerous places. And now Olga had a vision of something huge, harsh, unknowable, yet pitilessly clear.
And as she listened, she wondered. There was something about him: something distant, something one could not touch. Had he, perhaps, drunk in something of the character of these harsh, lonely regions where he had lived? Was he, as Alexis said, dangerous? If so, she was not sure it wasn’t strangely attractive.
It was just as she was considering this, and hoping to draw him out further that, out of nowhere, Sergei suddenly appeared along the path.
‘Our work is done!’ he cried. ‘I am Romeo, and you are Juliet.’ And then in a whisper, which she hoped Pinegin could not hear: ‘Has he been boring you?’
But if Pinegin heard, he said nothing. And they all four walked back together.
Misha Bobrov watched the grown-ups. Young Arina was beside him. It had been very hot that day and everyone was lethargic. They were rehearsing a scene from Romeo and Juliet.
He had seen his father make two mistakes with his lines and Uncle Sergei had had to correct him. But it didn’t seem to matter because Uncle Sergei was laughing. His father looked rather red.
‘It’s beautiful, Seriozha,’ his Aunt Olga said. ‘But enough for today. I must sit down.’
Tea,’ called Sergei to young Arina. ‘We need tea.’
As the girl went off to the house, little Misha went over to his Uncle Sergei. He felt very hot too. Perhaps, he thought, if they all sat down, his Uncle Sergei would tell him a story. ‘Well, my little bear?’ his Uncle said. ‘What can we do for you?’ And Misha let him ruffle his hair.
But now his father was turning towards him.
It was such a small incident; yet, like one of those little flashes of lightning on the horizon that warns of the approach of a summer storm, Olga should have seen its true significance.
She was hardly surprised, when Alexis abruptly announced he was going for a walk, that no one was anxious to join him. But this caused him to turn to his little son, who at that moment happened to be standing beside Sergei, and ask: ‘Well, Misha, are you coming?’
It was such a small gesture: it was nothing really. The child just glanced up at Sergei and hesitated. That was all. But it was enough. Olga saw Alexis flinch for a second, then instantly stiffen.
‘You prefer to be with your Uncle Sergei than me,’ he said, with quiet bitterness.
The little boy, sensing his mistake, looked confused. Then he blushed.
‘Oh, no,’ he said seriously. And then: ‘You are my Papa.’ And he went to Alexis’s side.
Alexis turned and the two of them walked away, but Olga saw that he did not give the little boy his hand and, remembering that he would soon be leaving them to fight the Turks, she felt sorry for them both.
It was probably just as well, Olga thought, that on the following evening Sergei had arranged for some musicians to come over from Russka so that they could have a little dance – a ‘bal’ as he called it. Perhaps, Olga hoped, this would break the tension.
How delightful it was. Just as if she were in the city, Olga would pile up her rich hair, put on a gossamer ball gown with billowing sleeves and her dainty, flat-heeled dancing slippers with their pink ribbons; the men would put on uniforms, and take turns dancing with her and Tatiana by the bright light of a hundred candles, while the servants and the two Arinas watched with broad smiles.
But the star of the evening was little Karpenko. He borrowed a balalaika and led the musicians in haunting Ukrainian melodies. Then he danced for them – wild, Cossack dances, crouching almost on the ground while he kicked out his legs, and next, leaping high into the air while the musicians kept up a frenzied beat. Once, drawing himself up and arching his back, and jamming a tall, sheepskin hat upon his head, he gave a brilliant version of a stately Georgian dance – moving across the floor with precise little steps, turning his body from side to side as he went, so that he seemed almost to be floating. ‘He’s good,’ Pinegin remarked. ‘I’ve served down there so I should know.’ He smiled wryly. ‘He even manages to look two feet taller.’ And it amused Olga very much that a few minutes later, the Cossack disappeared on to the verandah outside with young Arina, and was gone for some time.