‘God sent a crow…’ she was saying in a loud, deliberate voice – probably dictating – ‘God sent a crow a piece of cheese7… 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?
Peasants
I
Nikolay Chikildeyev, a waiter at the Slav Fair1 in Moscow, was taken ill. His legs went numb and it affected his walk so much that one day he stumbled and fell down as he was carrying a tray of peas and ham along one of the passages. As a result, he had to give up his job. Any money he and his wife had managed to save went on medical expenses, so they now had nothing to live on. He got bored without a job, so he decided it was probably best to return to his native village. It’s easier being ill at home – and it’s cheaper; they don’t say ‘there’s no place like home’ for nothing.
It was late in the afternoon when he reached his village, Zhukovo. He had always remembered his old home from childhood as a cheerful, bright, cosy, comfortable place, but now, as he entered the hut, he was actually scared when he saw how dark, crowded and filthy it was in there. Olga, his wife, and his daughter, Sasha, who had travelled back with him, stared in utter bewilderment at the huge neglected stove (it took up nearly half the hut), black with soot and flies – so many flies! It was tilting to one side, the wall-beams were all askew, and the hut seemed about to collapse any minute. Instead of pictures, labels from bottles and newspaper cuttings had been pasted over the wall next to the icons. This was real poverty! All the adults were out reaping. A fair-haired, dirty-faced little girl of about eight was sitting on the stove, so bored she didn’t even look up as they came in. Down below, a white cat was rubbing itself on the fire-irons. Sasha tried to tempt it over: ‘Here Puss, here!’
‘She can’t hear you,’ the little girl said, ‘she’s deaf.’
‘How’s that?’
‘They beat her.’
From the moment they entered the hut, Nikolay and Olga could see the kind of life they led there. But they didn’t make any comment, threw their bundles onto the floor and went out into the street without a word. Their hut was third from the end and seemed the poorest and oldest. The second hut was not much better, while the last one – the village inn – had an iron roof and curtains, was unfenced and stood apart from the others. The huts formed a single row and the whole peaceful, sleepy little village, with willows, elders and ash peeping out of the yards, had a pleasant look.
Beyond the gardens, the ground sloped steeply down to the river, like a cliff, with huge boulders sticking out of the clay. Paths threaded their way down the slope between the boulders and pits dug out by the potters, and bits of brown and red clay piled up in great heaps. Down below a bright green, broad and level meadow opened out – it had already been mown and the village cattle were grazing on it. The meandering river with its magnificent leafy banks was almost a mile from the village and beyond were more broad pastures, cattle, long strings of white geese, and then a similar steep slope on its far side. At the top stood a village, a church with five ‘onion’ domes, with the manor house a little further on.
‘What a lovely spot!’ Olga said, crossing herself when she saw the church. ‘Heavens, so much open space!’
Just then the bells rang for evensong (it was Saturday evening). Two little girls, who were carrying a bucket of water down the hill, looked back at the church to listen to them.
‘It’ll be dinner time at the Slav Fair now,’ Nikolay said dreamily.
Nikolay and Olga sat on the edge of the cliff, watching the sun go down and the reflections of the gold and crimson sky in the river, in the church windows, in the air all around, which was gentle, tranquil, pure beyond description – such air you never get in Moscow.
But after the sun had set and the lowing cows and bleating sheep had gone past, the geese had flown back from the far side of the river and everything had grown quiet – that gentle light faded from the air and the shades of evening swiftly closed in.
Meanwhile the old couple – Nikolay’s parents – had returned. They were skinny, hunchbacked, toothless and the same height. Marya and Fyokla, his sisters-in-law, who worked for a landowner on the other side of the river, had returned too. Marya – the wife of his brother Kiryak – had six children, while Fyokla (married to Denis, who was away on military service) had two. When Nikolay came into the hut and saw all the family there, all those bodies large and small sprawling around on their bunks, cradles, in every corner; when he saw how ravenously the old man and the woman ate their black bread, dipping it first in water, he realized that he had made a mistake coming here, ill as he was, without any money and with his family into the bargain – a real blunder!
‘And where’s my brother Kiryak?’ he asked when they had greeted each other.
‘He’s living in the forest, working as a nightwatchman for some merchant. Not a bad sort, but he can’t half knock it back!’