Fifty two stories, p.28
Fifty-Two Stories, page 28
Ryabovich looked indifferently ahead and behind, at the napes and at the faces; any other time he would have dozed off, but now he was all immersed in his new, pleasant thoughts. At first, when the brigade had just set out, he wanted to persuade himself that the incident with the kiss was interesting only as a small, mysterious adventure, that it was essentially worthless, and to think seriously about it was stupid, to say the least; but he soon waved logic away and gave himself up to dreaming…Now he imagined himself in Rabbek’s drawing room next to a girl who resembled the lilac young lady and the blond girl in black; then he closed his eyes and saw himself with another totally unknown girl with very indefinite features; mentally he talked to her, caressed her, leaned down to her shoulder, imagined to himself war and separation, then reunion, a supper with his wife, children…
“Mind the swingletrees!” The command rang out each time they went down a hill.
He, too, cried, “Mind the swingletrees!” and worried that this cry might break up his dream and bring him back to reality…
Passing by some landowner’s estate, Ryabovich looked through the paling into the garden. His eyes caught sight of a long alley, straight as a ruler, sprinkled with yellow sand and lined with young birches…With the avidity of a daydreamer, he pictured to himself a woman’s small feet walking on the yellow sand, and, quite unexpectedly, in his imagination there clearly appeared the girl who had kissed him and whom he had managed to picture to himself yesterday at dinner. This image had stayed in his brain and now did not leave him.
At noon a cry came from the rear by the supply train:
“Attention! Eyes left! Officers!”
In a carriage with a pair of white horses, the brigade general rolled by. He stopped at the second battery and shouted something nobody understood. Several officers rode up to him, Ryabovich among them.
“How’s things? Eh?” asked the general, blinking his red eyes. “Any sick?”
Having received answers, the general, short and skinny, munched, pondered, and said, turning to one of the officers:
“The shaft rider of the third carriage took his knee-guard off and hung it on the front, the canaille. Slap a penalty on him.”
He raised his eyes to Ryabovich and went on:
“And your breeching strap looks much too long…”
After making several more dull observations, the general looked at Lobytko and grinned.
“And you, Lieutenant Lobytko, look very sad today,” he said. “Missing Lopukhova, eh? Gentlemen, he’s missing Lopukhova!”
Lopukhova was a very corpulent and very tall lady, well past forty. The general, who nursed a predilection for large women, whatever age they might be, suspected this same predilection in his officers. The officers smiled deferentially. The general, pleased that he had said something very funny and caustic, laughed loudly, tapped his driver’s back, and saluted. The carriage rolled on…
“Everything I’m dreaming about now, and that now seems impossible and unearthly to me, is essentially quite ordinary,” thought Ryabovich, looking at the clouds of dust in the wake of the general’s carriage. “It’s all quite ordinary and experienced by everyone…For instance, this general loved in his time, is married now, has children. Captain Vakhter is also married and loved, though he has a very ugly red nape and no waist…Salmanov is brutish and too much of a Tartar, but he, too, had a love affair that ended in marriage…I’m like everybody else, and sooner or later will experience the same thing everybody does…”
And the thought that he was an ordinary man and had an ordinary life gladdened and encouraged him. Now he boldly pictured her and his happiness as he wished, and nothing hindered his imagination…
When the brigade reached its destination in the evening and the officers were resting in their tents, Ryabovich, Merzlyakov, and Lobytko sat around a trunk having supper. Merzlyakov ate unhurriedly and, chewing slowly, read The Messenger of Europe, holding it on his knees. Lobytko talked incessantly and kept topping up his glass of beer, while Ryabovich, who had a fog in his head from dreaming all day long, said nothing and drank. After three glasses, he became tipsy, weak, and had an irrepressible desire to share his new sensations with his comrades.
“A strange happening happened to me at those Rabbeks’…,” he began, trying to give his voice an indifferent and mocking tone. “I went to the billiard room, you know…”
He started telling in great detail about the incident with the kiss and after a minute fell silent…In that minute he had told everything, and he was terribly surprised that it had taken so little time to tell it. It had seemed to him that he could tell about the kiss till morning. Having heard him out, Lobytko, who lied a lot and therefore did not believe anyone, looked at him mistrustfully and smirked. Merzlyakov raised his eyebrows and calmly, not tearing his eyes from The Messenger of Europe, said:
“God knows!…Throwing herself on your neck without any warning…Must be some kind of psychopath.”
“Right, must be a psychopath…,” Ryabovich agreed.
“Something similar once happened to me…,” said Lobytko, making frightened eyes. “I was going to Kovno last year…I had a second-class ticket…The car was overcrowded, it was impossible to sleep. I gave the conductor fifty kopecks…He took my luggage and brought me to a separate compartment…I lie down and cover myself with a blanket…It’s dark, you see. Suddenly I feel somebody touch my shoulder and breathe into my face. I move my hand and feel somebody’s elbow…I open my eyes and, can you imagine—a woman! Dark eyes, red lips like fine salmon, nostrils breathing passion, bosom—a buffer…”
“Excuse me,” Merzlyakov interrupted calmly, “I understand about the bosom, but how could you see the lips if it was dark?”
Lobytko began to dodge and laughed at Merzlyakov’s obtuseness. This jarred on Ryabovich. He left the trunk, lay down, and promised himself never to be openhearted.
Camp life began…Days flowed by, one very much like another. During all those days, Ryabovich felt, thought, and behaved like a man in love. Every morning, when the orderly brought him a full washbasin, he poured the cold water over his head, remembering each time that there was something good and warm in his life.
In the evenings, when his comrades started talking about love and women, he listened, moved closer, and assumed the expression that the faces of soldiers have when they hear stories of battles they themselves took part in. And on those evenings when carousing officers, with setter-Lobytko at their head, made donjuanesque raids on the “outskirts,” Ryabovich, taking part in the raids, was sad each time, felt himself deeply guilty, and mentally asked her forgiveness…In leisure hours or on sleepless nights, when the urge came over him to remember his childhood, father, mother, all that was near and dear, he unfailingly remembered Mestechki, the strange horse, Rabbek, his wife, who resembled the empress Eugénie, the dark room, the bright crack in the door…
On the thirty-first of August he was returning from camp, now not with his brigade, but with two batteries. He dreamed all the way and was excited, as if he were going to his native land. He passionately wanted to see again the strange horse, the church, the insincere Rabbek family, the dark room; the “inner voice” that so often deceives lovers whispered to him for some reason that he was sure to see her…And he was tormented by questions: How would he meet her? What would he talk about with her? Would she not have forgotten about the kiss? In the worst outcome, he thought, even if he did not run into her, it would already be pleasant enough for him to walk through the dark room and remember…
Towards evening the familiar church and white barns appeared on the horizon. Ryabovich’s heart began to pound…He was not listening to the officer who was riding next to him and saying something. He forgot about everything and greedily peered at the river glistening in the distance, the roof of the house, the dovecot over which pigeons circled, lit by the setting sun.
Approaching the church and then listening to the quartermaster, he waited every second for a rider to appear from behind the wall and invite the officers to tea, but…the quartermaster’s report ended, the officers dismounted and wandered off to the village, and the rider did not appear…
“Rabbek will find out at once from his peasants that we have come and will send for us,” Ryabovich thought, going into the cottage and not understanding why his comrade was lighting a candle and the orderlies were hurrying to start the samovars…
A heavy anxiety came over him. He lay down, then got up again and looked out the window to see if the rider was coming. But there was no rider. He lay down again, got up half an hour later, and, unable to bear his anxiety, went outside and walked towards the church. The square by the wall was dark and deserted…Three soldiers stood in a row at the very top of the slope and were silent. Seeing Ryabovich, they roused themselves and saluted. He returned the salute and started down the familiar path.
On the other bank, the whole sky was flooded with crimson color: the moon was rising; two peasant women, talking loudly, walked about in the kitchen garden tearing off cabbage leaves; beyond the kitchen garden, several cottages showed darkly…On the near bank everything was the same as in May: the path, the bushes, the willows hanging over the water…only the brave nightingale was not singing and there was no smell of poplars and young grass.
On reaching the garden, Ryabovich looked through the gate. The garden was dark and quiet…He could only see the white trunks of the nearest birches and a small part of the alley; the rest all merged into a black mass. Ryabovich greedily listened and peered, but after standing there for a quarter of an hour and not hearing or seeing anything, he trudged back…
He approached the river. Before him the general’s bathhouse and the sheets hanging on the rails of the little bridge showed white. He went up on the little bridge, stood there, and without any need touched a sheet. The sheet turned out to be rough and cold. He looked down at the water…The river flowed swiftly and the gurgling around the pilings of the bathhouse was barely audible. The red moon was reflected near the left bank; little ripples ran across its reflection, spreading it, tearing it to pieces, and, it seemed, wishing to carry it off…
“How stupid! How stupid!” thought Ryabovich, looking at the flowing water. “Not smart at all!”
Now, when he expected nothing, the incident with the kiss, his impatience, vague hopes, and disappointment appeared to him in a clear light. It no longer seemed strange to him that he had not gone on waiting for the general’s rider and that he would never see the one who had accidentally kissed him instead of someone else; on the contrary, it would be strange if he were to see her…
The water flowed who knows where and why. It had flowed the same way in May; from the small river in the month of May it had poured into a big river, from the river into the sea, then it evaporated, turned into rain, and maybe that same water was now flowing again before Ryabovich’s eyes…What for? Why?
And the whole world, the whole of life appeared to Ryabovich as an incomprehensible, pointless joke…And taking his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he again recalled how fate in the person of an unknown woman had unwittingly been kind to him, recalled his summer dreams and images, and his life seemed to him extraordinarily meager, miserable, and colorless…
When he went back to his cottage, he did not find any of his comrades. The orderly reported that they had all gone to “General Fontryabkin,” who had sent a rider for them…For a moment joy rose in Ryabovich’s breast, but he extinguished it at once, went to bed, and to spite his fate, as if wishing to vex it, did not go to the general’s.
1887
BOYS
“VOLODYA’S HERE!” someone shouted outside.
“Volodechka’s here!” hollered Natalya, running into the dining room. “Oh, my God!”
The whole Korolyov family, who had been expecting their Volodya to come any moment, rushed to the windows. At the entrance stood a wide sledge, and from the troika of white horses a thick mist rose. The sledge was empty, because Volodya was already standing in the front hall and undoing his bashlyk with red, cold fingers.1 His school coat, cap, galoshes, and the hair at his temples were covered with rime, and the whole of him from head to foot gave off such a tasty, frosty smell that, looking at him, you wanted to get chilled and say “Brrr!” His mother and aunt rushed to embrace and kiss him, Natalya fell at his feet and began pulling off his felt boots, his sisters let out squeals, doors creaked and slammed, and Volodya’s father, in his shirtsleeves and with scissors in his hand, ran to the front hall and cried out in alarm:
“We’ve been expecting you since yesterday! A good trip? All’s well? Lord God, let the boy greet his father! What, am I not his father?”
“Bow-wow!” bellowed the bass voice of Milord, a huge black dog, his tail knocking against the walls and furniture.
Everything merged into one general, joyful noise that went on for about two minutes. When the first impulse of joy passed, the Korolyovs noticed that, besides Volodya, there was another small person in the front hall, wrapped in kerchiefs, shawls, and bashlyks, and covered with rime. He stood motionless in the corner, in the shadow of a big fox-fur overcoat.
“Volodechka, who is this?” his mother asked in a whisper.
“Ah!” Volodya caught himself. “I have the honor of introducing my friend Lentilkin, a junior in my school…I’ve brought him for a visit.”
“How nice, you’re very welcome!” the father said joyfully. “Excuse me, I’m in my house clothes…Come in! Natalya, help Mr. Ventilkin out of his coat! My God, chase this dog away! What a punishment!”
A short time later Volodya and his friend Lentilkin, stunned by the noisy reception and still rosy from the cold, were sitting at the table having tea. The winter sun, passing through the snow and frosty patterns on the windows, glimmered on the samovar and bathed its pure rays in a rinsing bowl. The room was warm, and the boys felt how, unwilling to yield to each other, warmth and frost both tickled their chilled bodies.
“Well, soon it will be Christmas!” the father said in a singsong voice, rolling a cigarette of reddish-brown tobacco. “It feels like no time since it was summer, and your mother wept seeing you off! Yet here you are again! Time flies, lad! Before you can say ‘Ah!’ old age will be upon you. Mr. Mentilkin, help yourself, don’t be shy! We’re simple folk.”
Volodya’s three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha—the eldest was eleven—sat at the table and did not take their eyes off the new acquaintance. Lentilkin was the same age and height as Volodya, but not so plump and white; he was thin, swarthy, and covered with freckles. His hair was bristly, his eyes narrow, his lips thick; generally he was quite unattractive, and if he had not been wearing a school jacket, by his appearance he might have been taken for a scullery maid’s son. He was sullen, silent all the time, and never once smiled. Looking at him, the girls immediately figured out that he must be a very intelligent and educated man. He was thinking about something all the time, and was so taken up with his thoughts that, when he was asked about something, he gave a start, shook his head, and asked them to repeat the question.
The girls noticed that Volodya, always cheerful and talkative, also spoke little this time, did not smile at all, and did not even seem glad that he had come home. While they sat over tea, he addressed his sisters only once, and that with somehow strange words. He pointed to the samovar and said:
“In California they drink gin instead of tea.”
He, too, was taken up with some thoughts, and, judging by the glances he exchanged with his friend Lentilkin, the boys’ thoughts were the same.
After tea they all went to the children’s room. The father and the girls sat down at the table and went on with the work interrupted by the boys’ arrival. They were making flowers and Christmas tree garlands from different colored papers. It was fascinating and noisy work. The girls met each newly made flower with rapturous cries, even cries of awe, as if the flower had fallen from the sky; Papa also went into raptures and occasionally threw the scissors on the floor, angry with them for being dull. The mother kept running into the children’s room with a very anxious look and asking:
“Who took my scissors? Ivan Nikolaich, did you take my scissors again?”
“Lord God, they won’t even give me scissors!” Ivan Nikolaich would reply in a tearful voice and, heaving himself against the back of his chair, would assume the pose of an insulted man, but a minute later he would again be in raptures.
During his previous visits, Volodya had also busied himself with preparing the Christmas tree or had run out to the yard to see the coachman and the shepherd piling up the snow, but this time he and Lentilkin paid no attention to the colored paper and did not go to the stable even once, but sat by the window and started whispering about something; then the two of them opened a geographical atlas and started studying some map.
“First to Perm…,” Lentilkin said in a low voice, “…from there to Tyumen…then Tomsk…then…to Kamchatka…From there the Samoyeds2 will take us in a boat across the Bering Strait…And there’s America for you…They’ve got a lot of fur-bearing animals.”
“And California?” asked Volodya.
“California’s further down…Just get to America, and California’s right around the corner. We can provide for ourselves by hunting and robbery.”
Lentilkin avoided the girls all day and looked at them mistrustfully. After the evening tea it happened that he was left alone with them for five minutes. It was awkward to be silent. He cleared his throat sternly, rubbed his left arm with his right palm, glanced sullenly at Katya, and asked:
