Alyokhin was terribly sleepy. He had been up about the farm before three in the morning, and he could hardly keep his eyes open. But he lin^ered on, fearing to miss any interesting tale which his guests might have to tell. As for what' Ivan Ivanovich had just said, as for whether it was wise or true ... that was beyond him. His guests were not discussing meal, hay or pitch, but something with no direct bearing on his life. He liked that, and he wanted them to go on.
'It's bedtime, though,' said Burkin, getting up. 'May I wish you good night?'
Alyokhin said good night and went down to his own quarters while his guests remained upstairs. They were sharing a large room containing two old carved wooden beds and an ivory crucifix in the comer. Their beds were wide and cool, they had been made by the fair Pelageya, and the linen smelt agreeably fresh.
Ivan Ivanovich undressed in silence and lay down. 'Lord, forgive us sinners,' said he, pulling the blankets over his head. His pipe was on the table, reeking strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin could not sleep for a long time for wondering where the atrocious smell came from. All night long rain drummed on the windows.
CONCERNING LOVE
For lunch next day delicious pasties, crayfish and mutton rissoles were scrved. During the mcal Nikanor the cook came upstairs to .isk what the guests wanted for dinner. He was a man ofaiverage height with a puffy face and small eycs—and so clean-shaven that his whiskers seemed to have been plucked out rather than cut ofЈ
Alyokhin e.xplained that thc fair Pelageya was in lovc with this cook. He was a drunkard .md a bit ofa hooligan, so she didn't want to marry him, but she didn't mind 'just living with him'. He was very pious, though, and his religion forbade his just living with her. He insisted on marriage, didn't want her othcrwise. He swore at hcr in his cups, and even beat her. She would hide upstairs, weeping, when he was drunk, while Alyokhin and his servants stayed at home to protect her if necessary.
The conversation turncd to lovc.
'What makes people fall in love?' asked Alyokhin. 'Why couldn't Pelageya love someonc else more suited to her intellectually and physically? Why must she love this Nikanor—"Fat-face", cveryone calls him round here—seeing that personal happiness is an important factor in love? It's all very mysterious, there are any number ofpossible interpretations. So far we've only heard one incontrovertible truth about love: the biblical "this is a great mystery". Everything else written and spokcn about love has offered no solution, but has just posed questions which have simply remained unanswered. What seems to explain one instance doesn't fit a dozen others. It's best to interpret each instance separately, in my view, without trying to generalize. We must isolate each individual case, as doctors say.'
'Very true,' agreed Burkin.
'Your ordinary decent Russian has a weakness for these unsolved problems. Where other peoples romanticize their love, garnishing it with roses and nightingalcs, we Russians bedizen ours with dubious profundities—and the most tedious available, at that. Back in my student days in Moscow I had a "friend": a lovely lady who, when I held her in my arms, was always wondering what monthly allowancc I would givc her, and what was the price of a pound of beef. We're just the same. When we're in love we're for ever questioning ourselves.
Are we being honourable or dishonourablc? Wise or stupid? How will it end, this love? And so on. Whether this attitude is right or wrong I don't know, but that it is a nuisance, that it is unsatisfactory and frustrating—that I do know.'
He seemed to have some story he wanted to tell. People who live alone always do have things on their minds that they are keen to talk about. Bachelors deliberately go to the public baths, and to restaurants in town, just to talk, and they sometimes tell bath attendants or waiters the most fascinating tales. In the country, though, it is their guests to whom they usually unbosom themselves. Grey sky and rain-soaked trees could be seen through the windows. There was nowhere to go in such weather—and nothing to do except swap yarns.
I've been living and far^mg in Sofyino for some time—since I took my degree (Alyokhin began). By upbringing I'm the arm- chair type, my leanings are academic. But this estate was badly in debt when I came here, and since it was partly through spending so much on my education that Father had run up those debts, I decided to stay on and work until I'd paid them off. I made my decision and started working here: not without a certain repugnance, frankly. The land isn't all that productive hereabouts, and if you don't want to farm at a loss you either have to use hired hands— slave labour, practically—or else you have to run the place peasant- fashion: do your own field work, that is, yourself and your family. There's no other way. But I hadn't gone into these subtleties at the time. Not one single plot of earth did I leave in peace, I corralled all the near-by villagers and their women, and I had us all working away like billy-o. I ploughed myself, I sowed and I reaped myself—bored stiff the while, and frow^^g fastidiously like a village cat eating gherkins in the vegetable patch because it's starving. My body ached, I was nearly dead on my feet. At first I thought I could easily combine this drudgery with the cultured life—all I had to do, thought I, was to observe a certain routine. I moved into the best rooms up here, I arranged for coffee and liqueurs to be served after lunch and dinner, and I read the European Herald in bed at night. But one day our priest, Father Ivan, turned up and scoffed my whole stock of liquor at a sitting. The priest also ran off with my European Heralds, or rather his daughters did, because I never managed to get as far as my bed in su^rner, especially during hayma^^g, but slept in the barn, in a sledge, or in some woodman's hut—hardly conducive to reading, that.
I gradually moved downstairs, I began having my meals with the servantS, and there's nothing left of my former gracious living but these same servants who once worked for my father, and whom I hadn't the hcart to dismiss.
Quite early on I was elected an honorary justice of the peace, and had to go to town now and then to take part in sessions and sit at the assizes, which I found entertaining. When you've been cooped up here for a couple of months, especially in winter, you end up yearning for a black frock-coat. Now, at the assizes you had your frock-coats, your uni- forms, your tail-coats. They were all lawyers there, all educated men. They were the sort of people you could talk to. To sit in an arm-chair wearing clean underwear and light boots with your watch-chain on your chest ... after sleeping in a sledge and eating wi'th servants, that really was the height of luxury.
I was always welcome in townwn, and I liked meeting new people. Now, among these new friendships the most serious—and, quite honestly, the most pleasant—was with Luganovich, the Deputy Chair- man ofAssize. You both know him: a most charming individual. This happened just after the famous arson case. The proceedings had lasted two days, we were worn out, and Luganovich looked in my direction.
'How about dinner at my place?'
I was surprised, barely knowing the man, and then only in an official capacity—I had never visited his home. After calling briefly at my" hotel to change, I set ofЈ This dinner led to my first meeting with Luganovich's wife, ^rne. She was still very young, not more than twenty-two, and her first child had been born six months previously. It all happened so long ago that I'd be hard put to it, now, to deĥne precisely what it was about her that so much attracted me. But at that ^^er it was abundantly clear. I saw a woman—young, handsome, kind, intellectual and captivating—unlike any I had ever met before. I at once sensed that this creature was dear to me, I seemed to know her already—rather as if I'd once seen that face, those eager, intelligent eyes, when I was a little boy looking at the album on my mother's chest-of-drawers.