Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and soap, and Alehin went to the bath-house with his guests.
" It's a long time since I had a wash," he said, undressing. " I have got a nice bath-house, as you see — my father built it — but I somehow never have time to wash."
He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and the water round him turned brown.
" Yes, I must say," said Ivan Ivanovitch mean- ingly, looking at his head.
" It's a long time since I washed . . ." said Alehin with embarrassment, giving himself a second soap- ing, and the water near him turned dark blue, like ink.
I van I vanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash, and swam in the rain, fling- ing his arms out wide. He stirred the water into waves which set the white lilies bobbing up and down; he swam to the very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute later in another place, and swam on, and kept on diving, trying to touch the bottom.
" Oh, my goodness I " he repeated continually, en- joying himself thoroughly. " Oh, my goodness 1 " He swam to the mill, talked to the peasants there, then returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning his face to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but he still went on swimming and diving. " Oh, my good- ness! . . ." he said. " Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! . . .
" That's enough I " Burkin shouted to him.
They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lighted in the big drawing-room up- stairs, and Burkin and I van I vanovitch, attired in silk dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in arm-chairs; and Alehin, washed and combed, in a new coat, was walking about the drawing-room, evi- dently enjoying the feelir.g of warmth, cleanliness, dry clothes, and light shoes; and when lovely Pel- agea, stepping noiselessly on the carpet and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray — only then I van Ivanovitch began on his story, and it seemed as though not only Burkin and Alehin were listening, but also the ladies, young and old, and the officers who looked down upon them sternly and calmly from their gold frames.
" There are two of us brothers," he began—" I, Ivan Ivanovitch, and my brother, Nikolay Ivano- vitch, two years younger. I went in for a learned profession and became a veterinary surgeon, while Nikolay sat in a government office from the time he was nineteen. Our father, Tchimsha-Himalaisky, was a kantonist, but he rose to be an officer and left us a little estate and the rank of nobility. After his death the little estate went in debts and legal ex- penses ; but, anyway, we had spent our childhood running wild in the country. Like peasant children, we passed our days and nights in the fields and the woods, looked after horses, stripped the bark off the trees, fished, and so on. . . . And, you know, whoever has once in his life caught perch or has seen the migrating of the thrushes in autumn, watched how they float in flocks over the village on bright, cool days, he will never be a real townsman, and will have a yearning for freedom to the day of his death. My brother was miserable in the government office. Years passed by, and he went on sitting in the same place, went on writing the same papers and thinking of one and the same thing — how to get into the country. And this yearning by degrees passed into a definite desire, into a dream of buying himself a little farm somewhere on the banks of a river or a lake.
" He was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and I was fond of him, but I never sympathized with this de- sire to shut himself up for the rest of his life in a little farm of his own. It's the correct thing to say that a man needs no more than six feet of earth. But six feet is what a corpse needs, not a man. And they say, too, now, that if our intellectual classes are attracted to the land and yearn for a farm, it's a good thing. But these farms are just the same as six feet of earth. To retreat from town, from the struggle, from the bustle of life, to retreat and bury oneself in one's farm — it's not life, it's egoism, lazi- ness, it's monasticism of a sort, but monasticism without good works. A man does not need six feet of earth or a farm, but the whole globe, all nature, where he can have room to display all the qualities and peculiarities of his free spirit.
" My brother Nikolay, sitting in his government office, dreamed of how he would eat his own cab- bages, which would fill the whole yard with such a gavoury smell, take his meals on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit for whole hours on the seat by the gate gazing at the fields and the forest. Garden- ing books and the agricultural hints in calendars were his delight, his favourite spiritual sustenance; he enjoyed reading newspapers, too, but the only things he read in them were the advertisements of so many acres of arable land and a grass meadow with farm-houses and buildings, a river, a garden, a mill and millponds, for sale. And his imagination pictured the garden-paths, flowers and fruit, starling cotes, the carp in the pond, and all that sort of thing, you know. These imaginary pictures were of dif- ferent kinds according to the advertisements which he came across, but for some reason in every one of them he had always to have gooseberries. He could not imagine a homestead, he could not picture an idyllic nook, without gooseberries.
" ' Country life has its conveniences,' he would sometimes say. ' You sit on the verandah and you drink tea, while your ducks swim on the pond, there is a delicious smell everywhere, and . . . and the gooseberries are growing.'
" He used to draw a map of his property, and in every map there were the same things— (a) house for the family, (b) servants' quarters, (c) kitchen- garden, (d) gooseberry-bushes. He lived parsi- moniously, was frugal in food and drink, his clothes were beyond description; he looked like a beggar, but kept on saving and putting money in the bank. He grew fearfully avaricious. I did not like to look at him, and I used to give him something and send him presents for Christmas and Easter, but he used to save that too. Once a man is absorbed by an idea there is no doing anything with him.
" Years passed: he was transferred to another province. He was over forty, and he was still read- ing the advertisements in the papers and saving up. Then I heard he was married. Still with the same object of buying a farm and having gooseberries, he married an elderly and ugly widow without a trace of feeling for her, simply because she had filthy lucre. He went on living frugally after marrying her, and kept her short of food, while he put her money in the hank in his name.
11 Her first husband had been a postmaster, and. with him she was accustomed to pies and home-made wines, while with her second husband she did not get enough black bread; she began to pine away with this sort of life, and three years later she gave up her soul to God. And I need hardly say that my brother never for one moment imagined that he was responsible for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a man queer. In our town there was a merchant who, before he died, ordered a plateful of honey and ate up all his money and lottery tickets with the honey, so that no one might get the benefit of it. While I was inspecting cattle at a railway- station, a cattle-dealer fell under an engine and had his leg cut off. We carried him into the waiting- room, the blood was flowing—it was a horrible thing — and he kept asking them to look for his leg and was very much worried about it; there were twenty roubles in the boot on the leg that had been cut off, and he was afraid they would be lost."