The girls had just thrown down their spades and sat down for their midday meal. They got out pots and jugs wrapped in cloths and began to eat. One was eating buckwheat kasha, another had some soured milk. Ganka unwrapped her own little bundle, took out a thick crust of bread and a bulb of garlic, rubbed the bread with the garlic and began to eat, shining her mischievous eyes at me.
I took fright and went away. How terrible that Ganka ate such filth. It was as if the garlic had thrust her away from me. She had become alien and incomprehensible. Better if she’d eaten fish with a knife.
I remembered what my brother had said about Yelena the Beautiful,[5] but this brought me no consolation and I plodded back to the house.
Nanny was sitting by the back door, knitting a stocking and listening to the housekeeper.
I heard the name “Ganka” and froze. I knew only too well that if I went up to them they’d either shoo me away or stop talking.
“She worked for the steward’s wife all winter. She’s a hardworking girl. But not an evening went by—the steward’s wife noticed—without a soldier coming to see her. The steward’s wife packed him off once, and she packed him off twice—but what could the good woman do? She couldn’t be packing him off night after night.”
“Indeed!” said Nanny. “How could she?”
“So she scolded her now and again, of course, but Ganka just laughed—it was water off a duck’s back. Then, just before Twelfth Night, the steward’s wife hears noises in the kitchen—as if Ganka were constantly pushing something about the room. And then, first thing in the morning, she hears tiny squeals. She hurries into the kitchen: not a sign of Ganka—just a baby wrapped up in pieces of cloth, lying on some bedding and letting out little squeals. She takes fright. She looks everywhere: where was Ganka? Had something very bad happened? She looks out through the window—and there she is. Standing by the hole in the ice, barefoot, washing out her linen and singing away. The steward’s wife would have liked to dismiss her, but how could she manage without her? It’s not easy to find such a sturdy, hard-working lass.”
I slipped quietly off.
So Ganka was friends with a common, uneducated soldier. This was horrible, horrible. And then she had tormented some little baby. This really was something dark and terrible. She had stolen it from somewhere and wrapped it up in rags; and when it had begun to squeal, she’d run off to the ice hole and sung songs there.
All evening I was in misery. That night I had a dream from which I awoke in tears. But my dream was neither sad nor frightening, and I was crying not from grief but from rapture. When I woke, I could barely remember it. I could only say, “I dreamt of a boat. It was quite transparent, light blue. It floated through the wall, straight into silver rushes. Everything was poetry and music.”
“So why all the howling?” asked Nanny. “It’s only a boat! Maybe this boat of yours will bring you something good.”
I could see she didn’t understand, but there was nothing more I could say or explain. And my soul was ringing, singing, weeping in ecstasy. A light-blue boat, silver rushes, poetry and music.
I didn’t go out into the garden. I was afraid I’d see Ganka and begin thinking about the soldier and the little baby wrapped up in cloth, that everything would once again become frightening and incomprehensible.
The day dragged restlessly on. It was blustery outside and the wind was bending the trees. The branches shook; the leaves made a dry, boiling sound, like sea surf.
In the corridor, outside the store room, was a surprise: on the table stood an opened crate of oranges. It must have been brought from town that morning; after lunch they’d be handed out to us.
I adore oranges. They are round and golden, like the sun, and beneath their peel are thousands of tiny pockets bursting with sweet, fragrant juice. An orange is a joy. An orange is a thing of beauty.
And suddenly I thought of Ganka. She didn’t know about oranges. Warm tenderness and pity filled my heart.
Poor Ganka! She didn’t know. I must give her one. But how? To take one without asking was unthinkable. But if I did ask, I’d be told to wait until after lunch. And then I wouldn’t be able to take the orange away from table. I wouldn’t be allowed to, or they’d ask questions—someone might even guess. I’d be laughed at. Better just to take one without asking. I’d be punished, I wouldn’t be given any more—but so what? What was I afraid of ?
Round, cool and pleasing, the orange lay in my hand.
How could I? Thief! Thief! Never mind. There’d be time enough for all that—what mattered now was to find Ganka.
The girls turned out to be weeding right by the house, by the back door.
“Ganka! This is for you, for you! Try it—it’s for you.”
Her red mouth laughed.
“What is it?”
“It’s an orange. It’s for you.”
She turned it round and round in her hand. I mustn’t embarrass her.
I ran back inside and, sticking my head out of the corridor window, waited to see what would happen. I wanted to share in Ganka’s delight.
She bit off a piece together with the peel (Oh, why hadn’t I peeled it first?), then suddenly opened her mouth wide, made a horrible face, spat everything out and hurled the orange far into the bushes. The other girls stood around her, laughing. And she was still screwing up her face, shaking her head, spitting, and wiping her mouth with the cuff of her embroidered shirt.
I climbed down from the windowsill and went quickly to the dark end of the corridor. Squeezing behind a large chest covered with a dusty carpet, I sat on the floor and began to weep.
Everything was over. I had become a thief in order to give her the best thing I knew in all the world. And she hadn’t understood, and she had spat it out.
How would I ever survive this grief and this hurt?
I wept till I had no more tears. Then a new thought came into my head: “What if there are mice here behind the chest?”
This fear entered my soul, grew in strength, scared away my previous feelings and returned me to life.
In the corridor I bumped into Nanny. She threw up her hands in horror.
“Your dress! Your dress! You’re covered in muck, head to toe! And don’t tell me you’re crying again, are you?”
I said nothing. This morning humanity had failed to understand my silver rushes, which I had so longed to explain. And “this”—this was beyond telling. “This” was something I had to be alone with.
But humanity wanted an answer. It was shaking me by the shoulder. And I fended it off as best I could.
“I’m not crying. I… my… I’ve just got toothache.”
THE GREEN DEVIL
I could think of nothing else all month: Would they let me go to the Christmas party, or not?
I was cunning. I prepared the ground. I told my mother about the glorious achievements of Zhenya Ryazanova, for whom the party was being given. I said that Zhenya was doing very well at school, that she was almost top of the class and was always being held up as an example to us. And that she wasn’t just a little girl, but a very serious woman: she was already sixteen.
In short, I didn’t waste any time. And then, one fine morning I was called into the living room and told to stand in front of the big mirror and try on a white dress with a blue sash; I understood that I had won. I would be going to the party.
After that, preparations began in earnest: I took oil from the icon lamp in Nanny’s room and smeared it on my eyebrows every evening to make them grow thicker in time for the ball; I altered a corset my older sister had thrown away and then hid it under the mattress; I rehearsed sophisticated poses and enigmatic smiles in front of the mirror. My family expressed surprise. “Why’s Nadya looking so idiotic?” people kept asking. “I suppose she’s at that awkward age. Oh well, she’ll grow out of it.”