At last the train appeared. Perfectly pink steam poured from the smokestack and rose above the grove, and two windows in the last car suddenly flashed so brightly in the sun that it was painful to look.
‘‘Teatime!’’ said Yulia Sergeevna, getting up.
She had gained weight recently, and her gait was now ladylike, slightly lazy.
‘‘But all the same, it’s not good without love,’’ said Yartsev, walking after her. ‘‘We just keep talking and reading about love, but we love little ourselves, and that really isn’t good.’’
‘‘It’s all trifles, Ivan Gavrilych,’’ said Yulia. ‘‘That’s not where happiness lies.’’
They had tea in a little garden where mignonette, stock, and nicotiana were blooming and the early gladioli were already opening. By Yulia Sergeevna’s face, Yartsev and Kochevoy could see that she was living through a happy time of inner peace and balance, and that she needed nothing besides what was already there, and they themselves felt inwardly peaceful and well. Whatever any of them said, it all came out intelligent and to the point. The pines were beautiful, the resin smelled more wonderful than ever, and the cream was very tasty, and Sasha was a nice, intelligent girl...
After tea, Yartsev sang romances, accompanying himself on the piano, while Yulia and Kochevoy sat silently and listened, only Yulia got up from time to time and quietly went to look at the baby and at Lida, who for two days now had lain in a fever and eaten nothing.
‘‘ ‘My friend, my tender friend...’ ’ sang Yartsev. ‘‘No, ladies and gentlemen, you can put a knife in me,’’ he said and shook his head, ‘‘but I don’t understand why you’re against love! If I weren’t busy fifteen hours a day, I’d certainly fall in love.’’
Supper was served on the terrace; it was warm and still, but Yulia wrapped herself in a shawl and complained of the dampness. When it got dark, she felt out of sorts for some reason, kept shuddering, and asked her guests to stay longer; she offered them wine and had cognac served after supper to keep them from leaving. She did not want to be left alone with the children and the servants.
‘‘We dacha women are organizing a show for the children,’’ she said. ‘‘We already have everything—the space and the actors—all we need is a play. About two dozen plays have been sent to us, but not a single one of them will do. Now, you love theater and you know history well,’’ she turned to Yartsev, ‘‘so write us a history play.’’
‘‘Well, that’s possible.’’
The guests drank all the cognac and got ready to leave. It was past ten o’clock, late by dacha standards.
‘‘How dark, dark as pitch!’’ Yulia said, seeing them off to the gate. ‘‘I don’t know how you’ll make it, gentlemen. Anyhow, it’s cold!’’
She wrapped herself more tightly and went back to the porch.
‘‘And my Alexei must be playing cards somewhere!’’ she called. ‘‘Good night!’’
After the bright rooms, nothing could be seen. Yartsev and Kostya felt their way like blind men, reached the railroad tracks, and crossed them.
‘‘Can’t see a damned thing!’’ Kostya suddenly said in a bass voice, stopping and looking at the sky. ‘‘But the stars, the stars, like new coins! Gavrilych!’’
‘‘Eh?’’ Yartsev responded somewhere.
‘‘I say: can’t see a thing. Where are you!’’
Yartsev, whistling, came up to him and took his arm.
‘‘Hey, dacha people!’’ Kostya suddenly shouted at the top of his voice. ‘‘We’ve caught a socialist!’’
When tipsy, he was always very restless, shouted, picked on policemen and cabbies, sang, guffawed furiously.
‘‘Nature, devil take it!’’ he shouted.
‘‘Now, now,’’ Yartsev tried to calm him down. ‘‘Mustn’t do that. I beg you.’’
Soon the friends became accustomed to the darkness and began to make out the silhouettes of the tall pines and telephone poles. Rare whistles reached them from the Moscow stations, and the wires hummed plaintively. The grove itself made no sound, and in this silence, something proud, strong, mysterious could be felt, and now, at night, it seemed that the tops of the pines almost touched the sky. The friends found their cutting and went along it. It was quite dark here, and only by the long strip of sky spangled with stars, and the trampled ground under their feet, did they know they were going along a path. They walked side by side in silence, and both fancied there were people coming in the opposite direction. The drunken mood left them. It occurred to Yartsev that the souls of Moscow tsars, boyars, and patriarchs might be flitting about in this grove now, and he was going to say so to Kostya but restrained himself.
When they came to the city gate, there was a slight glimmer in the sky. Still silent, Yartsev and Kochevoy walked along the pavement past cheap dachas, taverns, lumber yards; under the railway arch, the dampness, pleasant, scented with lindens, chilled them, and then a long, wide street opened out, with not a soul on it, not a light... When they reached Krasny Pond, day was already breaking.
‘‘Moscow is a city that still has much suffering ahead of her,’’ Yartsev said, looking at the Alexeevsky Monastery.
‘‘How did that enter your head?’’
‘‘It just did. I love Moscow.’’
Yartsev and Kostya had both been born in Moscow and adored her, and for some reason regarded other cities with hostility; they were convinced that Moscow was a remarkable city and Russia a remarkable country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and abroad, they felt bored, uncomfortable, ill at ease, and they found the gray Moscow weather most pleasant and healthy. Days when cold rain raps at the windows, and dusk falls early, and the walls of houses and churches take on a brown, mournful color, and you do not know what to put on when you go outside—such days pleasantly excited them.
Finally, near a train station, they took a cab.
‘‘In fact, it would be nice to write a history play,’’ said Yartsev, ‘‘but you know, without the Liapunovs and the Godunovs, from the times of Yaroslav or Monomakh21... I hate all Russian history plays, except for Pimen’s monologue.22 When you deal with some historical source, or even when you read a textbook of Russian history, it seems that everything in Russia is remarkably talented, gifted, and interesting, but when I watch a history play in the theater, Russian life begins to seem giftless, unhealthy, and unoriginal to me.’’
Near Dmitrovka, the friends parted, and Yartsev went further on to his place on Nikitskaya. He dozed, rocking in the cab, and kept thinking about the play. Suddenly he imagined an awful noise, clanging, shouts in some unknown language like Kalmyk; and some village, all caught in flames, and the neighboring forest, covered with hoarfrost and a tender pink from the fire, can be seen far around, and so clearly that each little fir tree is distinct; some wild people, on horseback and on foot, rush about the village, their horses and themselves as crimson as the glow in the sky.
‘‘It’s the Polovtsi,’’23 thinks Yartsev.
One of them—old, frightening, with a bloody face, all scorched—is tying a young girl with a white Russian face to his saddle. The old man shouts something furiously, but the girl watches sorrowfully, intelligently... Yartsev shook his head and woke up.
‘‘ ‘My friend, my tender friend...’ ’he sang.
Paying the cabby and then going up the stairs to his place, he still could not quite recover, and saw the flames sweep on to the trees, the forest crackle and smoke; an enormous wild boar, mad with terror, rushes through the village... But the girl tied to the saddle keeps watching.
When he entered his apartment, it was already light. On the grand piano, near an open score, two candles were burning down. On the couch lay Rassudina, in a black dress with a sash, a newspaper in her hand, fast asleep. She must have played for a long time, waiting for Yartsev to come back, and fallen asleep before he came.
‘‘Eh, quite worn out!’’ he thought.
He carefully took the newspaper from her hand, covered her wit
h a plaid, put out the candles, and went to his bedroom. Lying down, he thought about the history play, and the refrain ‘‘My friend, my tender friend...’ would not leave his head.
Two days later, Laptev stopped by for a moment to tell him that Lida had come down with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeevna and the baby had caught it from her, and in another five days came the news that Lida and Yulia were recovering, but the baby had died, and the Laptevs had fled from their Sokolniki dacha to the city.
XIV
IT BECAME UNPLEASANT for Laptev to stay long at home. His wife often went to the wing, telling him she had to do lessons with the girls, but he knew she went there not to give lessons but to weep at Kostya’s. The ninth day came, then the twentieth, then the fortieth,24 and he had to go each time to the Alexeevskoe cemetery and listen to the memorial service, and then torment himself all day thinking only about the unfortunate baby and saying all sorts of banalities to his wife in consolation. He rarely went to the warehouse now and was occupied only with charity, thinking up various cares and chores, and he was glad when he chanced to drive around for a whole day on account of some trifle. Recently he had been preparing to go abroad, in order to acquaint himself there with the setting up of night shelters, and this thought now diverted him.
It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the wing to weep, and Laptev was lying on the couch in his study, trying to think where he would go. Just then Pyotr announced that Rassudina had come. Laptev was very glad, jumped up, and went to meet the unexpected guest, his former friend, whom he had almost begun to forget. Since that evening when he had seen her for the last time, she had not changed in the least and was exactly the same.
‘‘Polina!’’ he said, reaching both hands out to her. ‘‘It’s been ages! If you knew how glad I am to see you! Come in!’’
Rassudina jerked his hand as she shook it and, without taking off her coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.
‘‘I’ve come for a minute,’’ she said. ‘‘I have no time to talk of trifles. Kindly sit down and listen. Whether you’re glad to see me or not is decidedly all one to me, since I don’t care a whit about any gracious attention to me from fine gentlemen. If I’ve come to you, it’s because I’ve already been to five places today and was refused everywhere, and yet it’s an urgent matter. Listen,’’ she went on, looking him in the eye, ‘‘five students I know, limited and muddleheaded people but unquestionably poor, haven’t made their payments and are now being expelled. Your wealth imposes on you the duty of going to the university at once and paying for them.’’
‘‘With pleasure, Polina.’’
‘‘Here are their last names,’’ said Rassudina, handing Laptev a little note. ‘‘Go this very minute, you’ll have time to enjoy family happiness afterwards.’’
Just then a rustling was heard behind the door to the drawing room: it must have been the dog scratching himself. Rassudina blushed and jumped up.
‘‘Your Dulcinea’s25 eavesdropping on us!’’ she said. ‘‘That is vile!’’
Laptev felt offended for Yulia.
‘‘She’s not here, she’s in the wing,’’ he said. ‘‘And do not speak of her like that. Our baby has died, and she is in terrible grief.’’
‘‘You can reassure her,’’ Rassudina grinned, sitting down again, ‘‘there’ll be a dozen more. Who hasn’t got wits enough to make babies?’’ 26
Laptev remembered hearing the same thing or something like it many times long ago, and the poetry of the past wafted over him, the freedom of solitary, unmarried life, when it seemed to him that he was young and could do whatever he liked, and when there was no love for his wife or memory of their baby.
‘‘Let’s go together,’’ he said, stretching.
When they came to the university, Rassudina stopped to wait by the gate, and Laptev went to the office; a little later, he returned and handed Rassudina five receipts.
‘‘Where to now?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yartsev’s.’’
‘‘I’ll come with you.’’
‘‘But you’ll keep him from working.’’
‘‘No, I assure you!’’ he said and looked at her imploringly.
She was wearing a black hat trimmed with crape, as if she was in mourning, and a very short, shabby coat with the pockets sticking out. Her nose seemed longer than it used to be, and her face was deathly pale, despite the cold. Laptev found it pleasing to follow her, obey her, and listen to her grumbling. He walked along and thought about her: what inner strength this woman must have if, being so unattractive, angular, restless, unable to dress properly, aways untidily combed, and always somehow ungainly, she still could charm.
They entered Yartsev’s apartment by the back door, through the kitchen, where they were met by the cook, a neat little old woman with gray curls; she got very embarrassed, smiled sweetly, which made her face resemble a piece of pastry, and said:
‘‘Please come in.’’
Yartsev was not at home. Rassudina sat at the piano and took up some dull, difficult exercises, ordering Laptev not to bother her. And he did not distract her with talk but sat to one side and leafed through The Messenger of Europe. After playing for two hours—this was her daily helping—she ate something in the kitchen and went to her lessons. Laptev read the sequel to some novel, then sat for a long time, not reading and not feeling bored, and pleased that he was late for dinner at home.
‘‘Ha, ha, ha!’’ Yartsev’s laughter rang out, and he himself came in, hale, cheerful, red-cheeked, in a new tailcoat with bright buttons. ‘‘Ha, ha, ha!’’
The friends had dinner together. Then Laptev lay down on the sofa, and Yartsev sat by him and lit a cigar. Dusk fell.
‘‘I must be getting old,’’ said Laptev. ‘‘Since my sister Nina died, for some reason I’ve begun thinking frequently of death.’’
They talked about death, about the immortality of the soul, how it would indeed be nice to resurrect and then fly off somewhere to Mars, to be eternally idle and happy, and above all, to think in some special unearthly way.
‘‘I have no wish to die,’’ Yartsev said softly. ‘‘No philosophy can reconcile me with death, and I look upon it simply as a disaster. I want to live.’’
‘‘You love life, Gavrilych?’’
‘‘Yes, I do.’’
‘‘And I can’t understand myself at all in this connection. First I’m in a gloomy mood, then I’m indifferent. I’m timid, unsure of myself, I have a cowardly conscience, I’m quite unable to adjust to life, to master it. Another man talks stupidly, or cheats, and does it so cheerfully, while it happens that I do good consciously and feel nothing but anxiety or total indifference. All this, Gavrilych, I explain by the fact that I’m a slave, the grandson of a bonded serf. Before we smutty-faced ones make it onto the real path, a lot of our kind will have to lay down their bones!’’
‘‘That’s all to the good, dear heart,’’ Yartsev said and sighed. ‘‘It only shows once again how rich and diverse Russian life is. Ah, how rich! You know, I’m more convinced every day that we’re living on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I’d like to live long enough to take part in it myself. Believe it or not, but I think a remarkable generation is now growing up. When I teach children, especially girls, it delights me. Wonderful children!’’
Yartsev went to the piano and played a chord.
‘‘I’m a chemist, I think chemically, and I’ll die a chemist,’’ he went on. ‘‘But I’m greedy, I’m afraid I’ll die unsated; chemistry alone isn’t enough for me, I snatch at Russian history, art history, pedagogy, music... Your wife told me once in the summer that I should write a history play, and now I want to write and write; it seems I could just sit for three days and nights, without getting up, and keep writing. Images wear me out, they crowd in my head, and I feel as if my brain is pulsing. I have no wish at all that something special should come from me, that I should create some great thing, I simply want to live, to dream, to hope, to k
eep up everywhere . . . Life, dear heart, is short, and we must live it the best we can.’’
After this friendly conversation, which ended only at midnight, Laptev began to visit Yartsev almost every day. He was drawn to him. Usually he came before evening, lay down, and waited patiently for him to come, without feeling the least boredom. Yartsev, having come home from school and eaten, would sit down to work, but Laptev would ask some question, a conversation would begin, work was set aside, and at midnight the friends would part, very pleased with each other.
But this did not last long. Once, coming to Yartsev’s, Laptev found Rassudina alone, sitting at the piano and playing her exercises. She looked him over coldly, almost hostilely, and asked, without offering him her hand:
‘‘Tell me, please, when will there be an end to this?’’
‘‘To what?’’ Laptev asked, not understanding.
‘‘You come here every day and hinder Yartsev in his work. Yartsev is not a little merchant, he’s a scholar, and every minute of his life is precious. You must understand that and have at least a little delicacy!’’
‘‘If you find that I’m hindering him,’’ Laptev said meekly, feeling confused, ‘‘I’ll discontinue my visits.’’
‘‘Splendid. Go now, or he may come and find you here.’’
The tone in which this was said, and Rassudina’s indifferent eyes, utterly confused him. She no longer had any feelings for him, except the wish that he leave quickly—and how unlike her former love that was! He left without shaking her hand, and thought she would call after him and tell him to come back, but the sounds of the exercises were heard again, and he understood, as he slowly went down the stairs, that he was now a stranger to her.
The Complete Short Novels Page 43