At the arson trial four Jews had been found gu.ilty and it had been made a conspiracy charge: quite indefensibly in my view. I became rather agitated at ^Mer—most. distressed, in fact—and I've forgotten what I said, now, except that Anne kept s^^mg her head and telling her husband that 'I just can't believe it, Dmitry'.
Luganovich is a good fellow, one of those simple-^mded chaps who have got it into their heads that the man in the dock is .-ilw.-ivs guilty, and that a sentence may be challenged only in writing, through the proper ch^mels—most certainly not at a private dinner-table.
'You and I didn't start that fire,' he said gently. 'Which is why you and I aren't being tried and sent to prison.'
Husband and wife both pressed food and drink on me. From several details—the way they made coffee together, the way they understood each other almost without words—I concluded that they lived in peace and harmony, that they were pleased to be entertaining a guest. We played piano duets after dinner. Then it grew dark and I went to my lodgings.
This happened in early spring, after which I was stuck in Sofyino all summer. I didn't even think of town, I was so busy. But I was haunted all along by the memory of t}lat slender, fair-haired woman. Not directly present in my consciousness, she seemed rather to cast a faint shadow over it.
In late autumn a charity performance was staged in to\wn. I went into the Governor's box (having been invited jn the interval), and there was Anne Luganovich seated by the Governor's wife. Again I was struck by that same irresistible vibrant beauty, by that charming, friendly expression in her eyes. And again I sensed an intimacy shared.
We sat next to each other, we walked in the foyer, and she told me that I had gro\vn thinner. Had I been il?
'Yes. I've had a bad shoulder, and I sleep poorly when it rains.'
'You look worn out. When you came to dinner in the spring you seemed younger, more sure of yourselЈ You were a bit carried away at the time, you talked a lot, you were quite fascinating. I couldn't help being a bit taken with you, actually. I've often thought of you during the summer for some reason, and when I was getting ready for the theatre tonight I felt sure I should see you.'
She laughed. 'But today you look worn out,' she repeated. 'It makes you seem older.'
I lunched at the Luganoviches' next day. Afterwards they drove out to their holiday cottage to put it in shape for the winter. I went with them, I came back to town with them, and at midnight I had tea with them in the peaceful setting of their home: by a blazing fire, with the young mother going out from time to time to see if her little girl was asleep. After that I always made a point of seeing the Luganoviches when I was in We got to know each other, and I used to call un^mounced. I was just like one of the family.
'Who is that?' I would hcar her ask from the back of the house in the slow drawl which I found so attractive.
'It's Mr. Alyokhin,' the maid or nanny would answer, and Anne would appear looking worried. Why hadn't I been to see them sooner? Had anything happened?
Her gaze, the clasp of her fine, delicate hand, thc clothes which she wore about the housc, the way she did her hair, her voice, her steps . . . they always made mc feel as ifsomething new and out of the ordin- ary, something significant, had happened to mc. We enjoyed long conversations—and long silences, each wrapt in his own thoughts. Or she would play the piano for me. When there was no one at home I would wait, I'd talk to nanny, play with baby, or lie on the study ottoman reading the newspaper. When Anne came in I W4)uld meet her in the hall and take her shopping off her. I always carried that shopping so fondly and triumphantly, somehow—-just like a little boy.
It was a bit like the farmer's wife in the story, the one who had no troubles—not, that is, until she went and bought herself a pig ! The Luganoviches had no troubles—so they went and chummed up with me! Ifl hadn't been to townwn recently, then I must be ill or something must have happened to me, and both would be genuinely alarmed. What worried them was that I—an educated man who knew foreign languages—didn't devote myself to learning or letters, but lived in the country, going round and round tle same old treadmill, that I worked so much but was always hard up. I was bound to be unhappy, they felt, and if they saw me talking, laughing or having a meal, I must be doing so merely to conccal my anguish. Even when I was happy and relaxed I could feel them viewing me with concern. They were particularly touching when I really was in a bit of a fix: when some creditor was pressing me, when I couldn't meet some payment on time. Husband and wife would then whisper together by the window, and he would approach me looking very solemn.
'If you're a bit short, Paul, my wife and I would like to lend you something. Please don't hesitate to ask.' His ears would flush with embarrassment.
Or else he would come up with his red ears after one of those whispering sessions by the window, and say that he and his wife 'do most urgently beg you to accept this gift'. He would then present me with some studs, a cigarette-<ase or a lamp. In retuni I would send them something from the country: a bird for the table, butter, flowers. Both of them, incidentally, had money of their o^. Now, I was always borrowing in the early days, and I wasn't particularly choosy about it—I took. my loans where I could get them. But no power on earth would have induced me to borrow from the Luganovi^es. Nccd I uy more?
I was u^Uppy. At home, in my fields and in my b^ my thoughts were of her. I tried to plumb the mystery of a young, handsome, intelligent woman, the ■"Wife of an unattractive, almost elderly husband (the man was over forty) and the mother of his children. I also tried to plumb the myaery of this ame uruttnctive husband, good sort, this easy-going fellow with his boring, co^rnon^^^ol views, who (when attending a pa:uty or dance) always cultivated the fuddy- duddies, this listles misfit with his sub^isive air of being a s^xutor or a bale of g^^ put up for auction . .. of ^^ ^^ who still believed in his right to be happy and to havc children by her. Why ever, I kept wondering, had she met him instead of me? To what so drastic
an error in our lives?
^fc my visits to I could always teU from her eyes that she was expecting me, and she'd admit having had a s^^^ feeling all day— she'd gu^xd I'd be co^^g. We enjoyed our long conv^Mtions and silences, not declaring our love for each other but concealing it fearfully andje:Uously. We feared which might betray our ^CTet to
ourselves. ^^^ and tender though my love was, I tried to be ^raible about it, s^^^^^ what the upshot might be if we should bd the strength to fight our ^^ons. It incredible that a love so quiet,
so ud a.s ^rne could suddenly and crudely disrupt the happy tenor of her husband's and children's lives: disrupt an entire household where I was so loved and ^^ted. Was that the way for a d^^t ^^ to ^tave? She would have gone away with me—but where to? Where could I take her? Things^^^ would have ^ct ^fierent if my life had ^^ ro^^tic and if I'd ^ct fighting for my country's
freedom, for insunce, if I'd ^ct a distinguished ^olar, actor or ^tot. & it was I should be conve^^ her from one humdrum. colourles into another h^ndrum, or even worse. How