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Three Years
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XIII More than a year had passed. Yulia and Yartsev were lying on the
grass at Sokolniki not far from the embankment of the Yaroslav
railway; a little distance away Kotchevoy was lying with hands
under his head, looking at the sky. All three had been for a
walk, and were waiting for the six o'clock train to pass to go
home to tea.
"Mothers see something extraordinary in their children, that is
ordained by nature," said Yulia. "A mother will stand for hours
together by the baby's cot looking at its little ears and eyes
and nose, and fascinated by them. If any one else kisses her
baby the poor thing imagines that it gives him immense pleasure.
And a mother talks of nothing but her baby. I know that weakness
in mothers, and I keep watch over myself, but my Olga really is
exceptional. How she looks at me when I'm nursing her! How she
laughs! She's only eight months old, but, upon my word, I've
never seen such intelligent eyes in a child of three."
"Tell me, by the way," asked Yartsev: "which do you love most --
your husband or your baby?"
Yulia shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know," she said. "I never was so very fond of my
husband, and Olga is in reality my first love. You know that I
did not marry Alexey for love. In old days I was foolish and
miserable, and thought that I had ruined my life and his, and
now I see that love is not necessary -- that it is all
nonsense."
"But if it is not love, what feeling is it that binds you to
your husband? Why do you go on living with him?"
"I don't know. . . . I suppose it must be habit. I respect him,
I miss him when he's away for long, but that's -- not love. He
is a clever, honest man, and that's enough to make me happy. He
is very kind and good-hearted. . . ."
"Alyosha's intelligent, Alyosha's good," said Kostya, raising
his head lazily; "but, my dear girl, to find out that he is
intelligent, good, and interesting, you have to eat a
hundredweight of salt with him. . . . And what's the use of his
goodness and intelligence? He can fork out money as much as you
want, but when character is needed to resist insolence or
aggressiveness, he is faint-hearted and overcome with
nervousness. People like your amiable Alyosha are splendid
people, but they are no use at all for fighting. In fact, they
are no use for anything."
At last the train came in sight. Coils of perfectly pink smoke
from the funnels floated over the copse, and two windows in the
last compartment flashed so brilliantly in the sun, that it hurt
their eyes to look at it.
"Tea-time!" said Yulia Sergeyevna, getting up.
She had grown somewhat stouter of late, and her movements were
already a little matronly, a little indolent.
"It's bad to be without love though," said Yartsev, walking
behind her. "We talk and read of nothing else but love, but we
do very little loving ourselves, and that's really bad."
"All that's nonsense, Ivan Gavrilitch," said Yulia. "That's not
what gives happiness."
They had tea in the little garden, where mignonette, stocks, and
tobacco plants were in flower, and spikes of early gladiolus
were just opening. Yartsev and Kotchevoy could see from Yulia's
face that she was passing through a happy period of inward peace
and serenity, that she wanted nothing but what she had, and
they, too, had a feeling of peace and comfort in their hearts.
Whatever was said sounded apt and clever; the pines were lovely
-- the fragrance of them was exquisite as it had never been
before; and the cream was very nice; and Sasha was a good,
intelligent child.
After tea Yartsev sang songs, accompanying himself on the piano,
while Yulia and Kotchevoy sat listening in silence, though Yulia
got up from time to time, and went softly indoors, to take a
look at the baby and at Lida, who had been in bed for the last
two days feverish and eating nothing.
"My friend, my tender friend," sang Yartsev. "No, my friends,
I'll be hanged if I understand why you are all so against love!"
he said, flinging back his head. "If I weren't busy for fifteen
hours of the twenty-four, I should certainly fall in love."
Supper was served on the verandah; it was warm and still, but
Yulia wrapped herself in a shawl and complained of the damp.
When it got dark, she seemed not quite herself; she kept
shivering and begging her visitors to stay a little longer. She
regaled them with wine, and after supper ordered brandy to keep
them from going. She didn't want to be left alone with the
children and the servants.
"We summer visitors are getting up a performance for the
children," she said. "We have got everything -- a stage and
actors; we are only at a loss for a play. Two dozen plays of
different sorts have been sent us, but there isn't one that is
suitable. Now, you are fond of the theatre, and are so good at
history," she said, addressing Yartsev. "Write an historical
play for us."
"Well, I might."
The men drank up all the brandy, and prepared to go.
It was past ten, and for summer-villa people that was late.
"How dark it is! One can't see a bit," said Yulia, as she went
with them to the gate. "I don't know how you'll find your way.
But, isn't it cold?"
She wrapped herself up more closely and walked back to the
porch.
"I suppose my Alexey's playing cards somewhere," she called to
them. "Good-night!"
After the lighted rooms nothing could be seen. Yartsev and
Kostya groped their way like blind men to the railway embankment
and crossed it.
"One can't see a thing," said Kostya in his bass voice, standing
still and gazing at the sky. "And the stars, the stars, they are
like new three-penny-bits. Gavrilitch!"
"Ah?" Yartsev responded somewhere in the darkness.
"I say, one can't see a thing. Where are you?"
Yartsev went up to him whistling, and took his arm.
"Hi, there, you summer visitors!" Kostya shouted at the top of
his voice. "We've caught a socialist."
When he was exhilarated he was always very rowdy, shouting,
wrangling with policemen and cabdrivers, singing, and laughing
violently.
"Nature be damned," he shouted.
"Come, come," said Yartsev, trying to pacify him. "You mustn't.
Please don't."
Soon the friends grew accustomed to the darkness, and were able
to distinguish the outlines of the tall pines and telegraph
posts. From time to time the sound of whistles reached them from
the station and the telegraph wires hummed plaintively. From the
copse itself there came no sound, and there was a feeling of
pride, strength, and mystery in its silence, and on the right it
seemed that the tops of the pines were almost touching the sky.
The friends found their path and walked along it. There it was
quite dark, and it was only from the long strip of sky dotted
with stars, and from the firmly trodden earth under their feet,
that they could tell they were walking along a path. They walked
along side by side in silence, and it seemed to both of them
that people were coming to meet them. Their tipsy exhilaration
passed off. The fancy came into Yartsev's mind that perhaps that
copse was haunted by the spirits of the Muscovite Tsars, boyars,
and patriarchs, and he was on the point of telling Kostya about
it, but he checked himself.
When they reached the town gate there was a faint light of dawn
in the sky. Still in silence, Yartsev and Kotchevoy walked along
the wooden pavement, by the cheap summer cottages,
eating-houses, timber-stacks. Under the arch of interlacing
branches, the damp air was fragrant of lime-trees, and then a
broad, long street opened before them, and on it not a soul, not
a light. . . . When they reached the Red Pond, it was daylight.
"Moscow -- it's a town that will have to suffer a great deal
more," said Yartsev, looking at the Alexyevsky Monastery.
"What put that into your head?"
"I don't know. I love Moscow."
Both Yartsev and Kostya had been born in Moscow, and adored the
town, and felt for some reason antagonistic to every other town.
Both were convinced that Moscow was a remarkable town, and
Russia a remarkable country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and
abroad, they felt dull, uncomfortable, and ill at ease, and they
thought their grey Moscow weather very pleasant and healthy. And
when the rain lashed at the window-panes and it got dark early,
and when the walls of the churches and houses looked a drab,
dismal colour, days when one doesn't know what to put on when
one is going out -- such days excited them agreeably.
At last near the station they took a cab.
"It really would be nice to write an historical play," said
Yartsev, "but not about the Lyapunovs or the Godunovs, but of
the times of Yaroslav or of Monomach. . . . I hate all
historical plays except the monologue of Pimen. When you have to
do with some historical authority or even read a textbook of
Russian history, you feel that every one in Russia is
exceptionally talented, gifted, and interesting; but when I see
an historical play at the theatre, Russian life begins to seem
stupid, morbid, and not original."
Near Dmitrovka the friends separated, and Yartsev went on to his
lodging in Nikitsky Street. He sat half dozing, swaying from
side to side, and pondering on the play. He suddenly imagined a
terrible din, a clanging noise, and shouts in some unknown
language, that might have been Kalmuck, and a village wrapped in
flames, and forests near covered with hoarfrost and soft pink in
the glow of the fire, visible for miles around, and so clearly
that every little fir-tree could be distinguished, and savage
men darting about the village on horseback and on foot, and as
red as the glow in the sky.
"The Polovtsy," thought Yartsev.
One of them, a terrible old man with a bloodstained face all
scorched from the fire, binds to his saddle a young girl with a
white Russian face, and the girl looks sorrowful, understanding.
Yartsev flung back his head and woke up.
"My friend, my tender friend . . ." he hummed.
As he paid the cabman and went up his stairs, he could not shake
off his dreaminess; he saw the flames catching the village, and
the forest beginning to crackle and smoke. A huge, wild bear
frantic with terror rushed through the village. . . . And the
girl tied to the saddle was still looking.
When at last he went into his room it was broad daylight. Two
candles were burning by some open music on the piano. On the
sofa lay Polina Razsudin wearing a black dress and a sash, with
a newspaper in her hand, fast asleep. She must have been playing
late, waiting for Yartsev to come home, and, tired of waiting,
fell asleep.
"Hullo, she's worn out," he thought.
Carefully taking the newspaper out of her hands, he covered her
with a rug. He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. As
he got into bed, he still thought of his historical play, and
the tune of "My friend, my tender friend" was still ringing in
his head. . . .
Two days later Laptev looked in upon him for a moment to tell
him that Lida was ill with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeyevna
and her baby had caught it from her, and five days later came
the news that Lida and Yulia were recovering, but the baby was
dead, and that the Laptevs had left their villa at Sokolniki and
had hastened back to Moscow.
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