'Yes, I suppose so. It's ugly. I shan't stay long—I'm just passing through. I'll leave today.'
'Where are you going?'
'To the Crimea—the Caucasus, I mean.'
'Oh. Will you be away long?'
'I don't know.'
Katya stands up and holds out her hand—smiling coldly, not meeting my eyes.
'So you won't be at my funeral?' I want to ask.
But she doesn't look at me. Her hand is cold and seems alien. I accompany her to the door in silence.
Now she has left me and is walking do^n the long corridor without looking back. She knows I'm watching her, and will probably tum round when she reaches the comer.
No, she hasn't turned. Her black dress has flashed before my eyes for the last time, her steps have died away.
Farewell, my treasure!
NEIGHBOURS
Peter Ivashin was invery bad humour. His unmarried sister had gone to live with Vlasich, a married man. Somehow hoping to shake off the irksome, depressed mood which obsessed him indoors and out of doors, he would summon up his sense of fair play and all his high-minded, worthy principles. (Hadn't he always stood out for free love ?) But it was no use and he could never help reaching the same conclusion as stupid N^my: his sister had behaved badly, Vlasich had stolen his sister. It was all most distressing.
His mother stayed closeted in her room all day, Nanny spoke in whispers and kept sighing, his aunt was on the point of leaving every day, so they kept bringing her suitcases into the hall and then taking them back to her room. In house, courtyard and garden it was as quiet as if they had a corpse laid out. Aunt, servants, even the peasants ... all seemed to give Ivashin enigmatic, baffled looks as if to say that his sister had been seduced and what was he going to do about it? And he blamed himself for doing nothing, though what he should actually be doing he had no idea.
Thus six days passed. On the afternoon of the seventh, a Sunday, a messenger rode over with a letter. The address was in a familiar feminine hand: 'Her Excell. Mrs. Anna Ivashin.' Ivashin rather felt that there was something provocative, defiant and liberal about the envelope, the handwriting and that unfinished word 'Excell.'. And female liberalism is intolerant, pitiless and harsh.
'She'd rather die than give in to her unhappy mother and ask forgiveness,' thought Ivashin, taking the letter to his mother.
Mother was lying on her bed fullyclothed. Seeingherson, she abruptly sat up and patted the greyhairs which had strayed from under her cap.
'What is it, what is it?' she asked impatiently.
'This came,' said her son, handing over the letter.
The name Zina, even the word 'she', were not spoken in that house. They talked of Zina impersonally: 'this was sent,' 'a departure took place.' The mother recognized her daughter's writing, her face grew ugly and disagreeable, and the grey hairs once more escaped from her cap.
'Never!' she said, gesticulating as if the letter had scorched her fmgers. 'No, no, never! Nothing would induce me.'
The mother sobbed hysterically in her grief and shame. She obviously wanted to read the letter, but pride would not permit her. Ivashin realized that he ought to open it himself and read it out, but he suddenly felt angrier than he had ever felt in his life and he rushed out into the yard.
'Say there will be no answer!' he shouted to the messenger. 'No answer, I say! Tell her that, you swine!'
He tore up the letter. Then tears came into his eyes and he went out into the fields, feeling cruel, guilty and wretched.
He was only twenty-seven years old, but he was already fat, he dressed like an old man in loose, roomy clothes and was short of breath. He had all the qualities of an old bachelor lando^er. He never fell in love, never thought of marriage, and the only people he was fond of were his mother, his sister, Nanny and Vasilyich the gardener. He liked a good meal, his afternoon nap and conversation about politics or lofty abstractions. He had taken a university degree in his time, but had come to think of that as a sort of conscription incumbent on young men between eighteen and twenty-five years of age. Anyway, the thoughts which now daily haunted his mind . . . they had nothing to do with the university and his course of studies.
In the fields it was hot and still, as if rain was in the offing. The wood was steaming, and there was an oppressive, fragrant smell of pines and rotting leaves. Ivashin kept stopping to wipe his wet brow. He inspected his winter com and his spring com, went round his clover field, and twice chased off a partridge and her chicks at the edge of the wood. And all the time he was conscious that this insufferable situation could not go on for ever, that he must end it one way or the other. He might end it stupidly and brutally somehow, but end it he must.
How, though? What could he do, he wondered, casting supplicatory glances at sky and trees as if begging their help.
But sky and trees were mute, nor were high-minded principles of any avail. Common sense suggested that the agonizing problem admitted only a stupid solution and that today's scene with the messenger was not the last of its kind. He was afraid to think what might happen next.
The sun was setting as he made his way home, now feeling the problem to be utterly insoluble. To accept what had happened was impossible, \>ut it was equally impossible not to accept it and there was no middle way. Removing his hat, he fanned himself with his handkerchief and was walking do^ the road with over a mile to go when he heard a ringing behind him. It was an ingenious, highly successful combination of bells and chimes which sounded like tinkling glass. Only one person went abroad with this tintinnabulation: Inspector Medovsky of the police, a former hussar officer who had wasted his substance and had a pretty rough time, an invalid and a distant relative of Ivashin's. He was an old friend of the family and had a fatherly affection for Zina, whom he much admired.
'I was just corning to see you,' he said as he caught Ivashin up. 'Get in and I'll give you a lift.'
He was smiling and looked cheerful, clearly not yet aware that Zina had gone to live with Vlasich. He might have been informed, but if so he hadn't believed it. Ivashin found himself in an awkward situation.
'You're most welcome,' he muttered, blushing until tears carne into his eyes and uncertain what lie to tell or how to tell it.
'Delighted,' he went on, trying to smile, 'but, er, Zina's away and Mother's ill.'
'What a pity,' said the Inspector, looking at Ivashin thoughtfully. 'And I was hoping to spend an evening with you. Where has Zina gone?'
'To the Sinitskys', and then she wanted to go on to a convent, I think. I don't know definitely.'
The Inspector talked a little longer, then turned back, and Ivashin walked home, horrified to think what the other would feel when he learnt the truth. Ivashin imagined his feelings and savoured them as he entered the house.
'Lord help us,' he thought.
Only his aunt was taking afternoon tea in the dining-room. Her face held its usual expression suggestive of a weak, defenceless woman, but one who would not permit herself to be insulted. Ivashin sat at the far end of the table (he disliked his aunt) and began drinking his tea in silence.
'Your mother missed lunch again today,' said his aunt. 'You light bear it in mind, Peter. Starving herself to death won't cure her troubles.'
Ivashin found it absurd for his aunt to meddle in other people's business and make her o^n departure depend on Zina's having left home. He felt like saying something rude, but restrained himself— realizing even as he did so that the time had come for action and that he could let things slide no longer. It was a matter of either doing something straight away or of falling down, screaming and banging his head on the floor. He pictured Vlasich and Zina, both free-thinking, both well pleased with themselves, kissing under some maple-tree, and then his seven days' accumulated depression and anger all seemed to topple over on Vlasich.