And the soldier in his white tunic smiled.
‘Well, Bobrov,’ he remarked with a dry laugh, ‘if your brother had said that to me in our regiment, I suppose I should have had to play target practice with his head. But we won’t mind. Let’s have a game of cards.’ And before Alexis could speak, Pinegin led him firmly away.
Thank God, Olga thought: thank God for Pinegin.
The following morning, Alexis announced that he had to go to Vladimir to see the governor. He expected to be back in a week.
‘Would you stay here, my dear fellow, and keep an eye on my brother?’ he asked Pinegin, to which the other quietly agreed.
By noon, Alexis was gone. With him he carried a letter that he had written late the night before. It was addressed to Count Benckendorff.
Did she still love Sergei? She was fond of him, of course; but could one love a man so self-centred? The quarrel with Alexis had been so unnecessary and his insults unforgivable. The next morning, when he took Misha out fishing, she ignored him.
All morning, she was occupied with her two babies. Old Arina was unwell that day, but young Arina helped her.
It was in the early afternoon, while young Arina was putting the two infants down for a sleep, that Olga, strolling towards the birch wood above the house, noticed the white uniform of Pinegin alone in the alley. Feeling she should speak to him, she followed him and soon came to his side.
‘I owe you many thanks, Fyodor Petrovich,’ she said quietly, as they walked along.
He gave her a quick look. In the flickering light and shadow of the alley his eyes looked a deeper blue than usual. ‘I am always at your service,’ he said, and quietly puffed on his pipe.
They went slowly up the alley. Despite the fact it was high summer, the short grass in the shade was still green and springy. There was the faintest breeze. ‘I am very angry with Sergei,’ she sighed.
He did not reply for a few moments. Then, taking his pipe out of his mouth, he said calmly, ‘If you will forgive me, he is still a child.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
He glanced at her again. ‘Even children, Olga Alexandrovna, can be dangerous though.’
Sergei? Dangerous? Yet that was what Alexis had said of this man. They walked on in silence. What did she make of him? she wondered. If a man is to be judged by his actions, she must think well of him. It was certainly restful to be in his quiet presence. She looked at his hard, impassive face and remembered how he had danced with her, then smiled to herself. Perfect controclass="underline" she could imagine him as a patient hunter, biding his time.
Yet still there was something distant about him, something she could not fathom. And, emboldened by the sense of intimacy they shared at that moment, she suddenly turned to him and said: ‘You told me something of your life once, Fyodor Petrovich. But may I ask you – what do you believe in? Do you believe in God, for instance? And what guides you when you are in danger?’ She stopped, hoping she had not offended him.
He puffed on his pipe for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Fate,’ he said at last. ‘When you never know if a tribesman’s going to put a bullet in your head, you start to believe in fate.’ He smiled. ‘It’s restful.’
‘You’re not like my brothers, are you?’
‘No, that’s true.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your brothers are always hoping for something. If they can’t hope, they get angry – or give up, like Ilya.’
‘You don’t hope?’
He turned towards her. ‘As I said, I believe in fate. Things happen as they are meant to. We just have to recognize our destiny.’
She was conscious of his pale blue eyes, watching her. Yes, she thought; she had a strange sensation of being safe with him, yet also in danger – and she found it rather fascinating. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I understand a little.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, Olga Alexandrovna,’ he said quietly, ‘I think we understand one another.’
And sensing that this was a compliment, and not knowing quite how to respond, she reached out and lightly touched his arm.
Then they walked back.
And why not, after all? Pinegin was alone. After leaving Olga, he had decided to walk along the lane to Russka; and now he was sitting on one of the little burial mounds beside the path, enjoying the view of the monastery as the afternoon sun glanced off its golden domes.
Why shouldn’t he? He was a gentleman, wasn’t he? And this woman was speciaclass="underline" she was not like the others.
He had had his share of women. There had been that Jewish girl, when he was stationed in the Ukraine. And the Circassian, down in the mountains. Pure beauty. There he had lived far from the clinging dross of civilization. And some others. But because he was so ridiculously poor, he had always felt awkward with the daughters of the gentry. He told himself they were shallow, vapid, and of no interest. I, who have stood so often on the edge of the abyss, between life and death, he used to think, what can they say to me? But Olga was a being apart. She has suffered, he told himself. She might understand me. He suspected he might never find another like her.
He was poor, of course. Yet he had noticed that when other poor men married rich women, people thought well of them, even admired them. Besides, he had other things to offer. He was not some young fool with only a few thousand serfs to recommend him. He was a man who could take care of himself, who had stood alone. And there was something else – a secret that he was strangely proud of: he had never known fear.
Quietly he puffed on his pipe. After all, why not?
Alexis would be back in a few days. If he hadn’t changed his mind, he would make his proposal then.
Young Karpenko looked at Sergei with a puzzled frown: something strange was happening to his friend.
There was something about him, some profound inner tension and excitement whose causes Karpenko could not fathom. He knew that behind the façade – behind the Sergei who played idiotic practical jokes, behind even the moralist who so furiously protested about the State of Russia – there was a still, poetic soul. This was the Sergei he loved. And, he could sense, it was this inner man who, for whatever mysterious reason, had been raised to a pitch of secret nervous exaltation. Why, he had no idea.
And now, this strange request. What could his friend be up to? Why was he so insistent?
‘I’ll do what I can,’ the Cossack said, ‘though I’m not sure it will work.’ He gave Sergei a puzzled look. ‘It’s just that I don’t understand…’
Sergei sighed. How could anyone understand? ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured his friend. ‘It’s very easy. Just do as I say, that’s all.’ He hardly understood it himself. But he knew one thing, more certainly than anything in his life. ‘It must happen,’ he muttered. ‘It must.’ He had planned it all so carefully.
It was June 24, the Feast of St John. The last week, since his quarrel and the departure of Alexis, had not been easy. Everyone had been keeping to themselves and he had felt rather an outcast. Ilya stayed with his books; Pinegin frequently went out hunting alone; his mother would scarcely speak to him; even little Misha seemed to be shy of him. And Olga, after three days, had told him sadly: ‘I tried so hard to keep the peace, Seriozha. And you spoilt it. You have hurt me.’
But the coming feast had lightened the atmosphere. People had begun to look more cheerful. And when, two days before, Sergei had made his suggestion, it had been quite warmly greeted. ‘I always promised to take you there,’ Olga had said to Pinegin. And Tatiana announced: ‘Ilya and I will come too. I haven’t been to that place in years.’
And so it was agreed that, after the celebrations that day, they would all make an expedition to visit the old sacred springs. We’ll take the two Arinas as well,’ Sergei suggested. ‘Then old Arina can tell us fairy tales.’ It was a charming thought, for a delightful setting, and appropriate to the day. For it was the custom, upon St John’s Night, for people to go into the forest.