‘That’s not true’, Little Volodya said, lowering the collar of his fur coat and revealing his handsome face. ‘This wasn’t a case of par dépit, but something really terrible. Her brother Dmitry was sentenced to hard labour in Siberia and no one knows where he is now. The mother died of grief.’ He raised his collar again. ‘And Olga did the right thing’, he added dully. ‘Living as a ward, and with a treasure like our Sophia Lvovna, what’s more – that’s enough food for thought!’
Sophia Lvovna noted the contempt in his voice and wanted to say something very nasty in reply, but she said nothing. Once more euphoria gripped her. She stood up and shouted tearfully, ‘I want to go to morning service. Driver, turn back! I want to see Olga!’
They turned back. The convent bell had a dull peal and Sophia Lvovna felt there was something in it reminding her of Olga and her life. Bells rang out from other churches. When the driver had brought the troika to a halt, Sophia leapt from the sledge and rushed unescorted to the gates.
‘Please don’t be long!’ her husband shouted. ‘It’s late.’
She went through the dark gates, then along the path leading to the main church; the light snow crunched under her feet and the tolling of the bells sounded right over her head now and seemed to penetrate her whole being. First she came to the church door, the three steps down, then the porch, with paintings of the saints on both sides; there was a smell of juniper and incense. Then came another door, which a dark figure opened, bowing very low… In the church the service had not yet begun. One of the nuns was in front of the icon-screen lighting candles in their holders, another was lighting a chandelier. Here and there, close to the columns and side-chapels, were motionless, black figures. ‘They’ll be standing in exactly the same places till morning’, Sophia Lvovna thought and the whole place struck her as dark, cold, depressing – more depressing than a graveyard. Feeling bored, she glanced at the motionless, frozen figures and suddenly her heart sank. Somehow she recognized one of the nuns – short, with thin shoulders and a black shawl on her head – as Olga, although when she had entered the convent she had been plump and taller, she thought. Deeply disturbed for some reason, Sophia Lvovna hesitantly walked over to the lay sister, looked over her shoulder into her face and saw it was Olga.
‘Olga!’ she said, clasping her hands and too excited to say anything else. ‘Olga!’
The nun recognized her immediately, raised her eyebrows in astonishment and her pale, freshly washed face (even, it seemed, her white kerchief visible under her shawl) glowed with joy.
‘God has performed a miracle’, she said and also clasped her thin, pale little hands.
Sophia Lvovna firmly embraced her and kissed her, frightened as she did so that her breath might smell of drink.
‘We were just passing and we thought of you’, she said breathlessly, as though she had just completed a fast walk. ‘Heavens, how pale you are! I’m… I’m very pleased to see you. Well, how are you? Bored?’ Sophia Lvovna looked round at the other nuns and now she lowered her voice: ‘So much has happened… you know I married Volodya Yagich. You must remember him… I’m very happy.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that! And is your father well?’
‘Yes, he often remembers you. But you must come and see us during the holidays, Olga. Will you do that?’
‘Yes, I’ll come’, Olga said smiling. ‘I’ll come the day after tomorrow.’
Without even knowing why, Sophia burst into tears and cried in silence for a whole minute. Then she dried her eyes and said, ‘Rita will be very sorry she didn’t see you. She’s with us too. And Little Volodya. They’re at the gate. How pleased they would be to see you! Come out and see them, the service hasn’t started yet.’
‘All right’, Olga agreed. She crossed herself three times and walked out with Sophia Lvovna.
‘So, you said you’re happy, Sophia’, she said after they were past the gates.
‘Very.’
‘Well, thank God.’
When Big Volodya and Little Volodya saw the nun they got off the sledge and greeted her respectfully. They were visibly moved by her pale face and her nun’s black habit, and they were both pleased that she remembered them and had come to greet them. Sophia Lvovna wrapped her in a rug and covered her with one flap of her fur coat to protect her from the cold. Her recent tears had lightened and cleansed her soul and she was glad that the noisy, riotous and essentially immoral night had unexpectedly come to such a pure and quiet conclusion. Then to keep Olga by her side longer, she suggested, ‘Let’s take her for a ride! Olga, get in. Just a little one.’
The men expected the nun to refuse – religious people don’t go around in troikas – but to their amazement she agreed and got in. When the troika hurtled off towards the town gates, no one said a word; their only concern was to make her warm and comfortable. Each one of them thought about the difference in her from before. Her face was impassive, somewhat expressionless, cold, pale, transparent, as though water flowed in her veins instead of blood. Two or three years ago she had been buxom and rosy-cheeked, had talked about eligible bachelors and laughed loud at the least thing.
The troika turned round at the town gates. Ten minutes later they were back at the convent and Olga climbed out. The bells were ringing a series of chimes.
‘God be with you’, Olga said, giving a low, nun-like bow.
‘So you will come then, Olga?’
‘Of course I will.’
She quickly left and soon disappeared through the dark gateway. After the troika had moved on everyone somehow felt very sad. No one said a word. Sophia Lvovna felt weak all over and her heart sank. Making a nun get into a sledge and go for a ride with that drunken crowd struck her now as stupid, tactless and almost sacrilegious. The desire for self-deception vanished with her tipsiness and now she clearly realized that she did not and could not love her husband, it was all nothing but silly nonsense. She had married for money because, as her ex-schoolgirl friends put it, he was ‘madly rich,’ because she was terrified of becoming an old maid, like Rita, because her doctor father got on her nerves and because she wanted to annoy Little Volodya. Had she guessed when she was contemplating marriage that it would turn out to be so nasty, painful and ugly, she would never have agreed to it, not for anything in the world. But the damage was done now, she had to accept things.
They arrived home. As she lay in her warm, soft bed and covered herself with a blanket, Sophia Lvovna recalled the dark porch, the smell of incense, the figures by the columns, and she was distressed at the thought that these figures would still be standing there, quite motionless, all the time she was sleeping. Early morning service would be interminably long, and after that there would be the hours, then Mass, then more prayers…
‘But surely God exists? He certainly exists and I must certainly die. Therefore, sooner or later, I must think of my soul, eternal life, like Olga does. Olga is saved now, she has solved all her problems for herself… But what if there is no God? Then her life has been wasted. But how has it been wasted? Why?’
A minute later another thought entered her head. ‘God exists, death will certainly come. I should be thinking of my soul. If Olga could see her death this very minute she would not be afraid. She’s ready. But the most important thing is, she’s solved the riddle of existence for herself. God exists… yes. But isn’t there another way out apart from becoming a nun? That means renouncing life, destroying it…’ Sophia Lvovna became rather scared and hid her head under the pillow. ‘I mustn’t think about it’, she whispered, ‘I mustn’t.’
Yagich was walking up and down in the next room, his spurs softly jingling; he was deep in thought. Sophia Lvovna thought that this man was near and dear to her only in one thing – he was called Volodya too. She sat on her bed and tenderly called, ‘Volodya!’
‘What do you want?’ her husband replied.
‘Nothing.’
She lay down again. There were bells tolling – from that same convent, perhaps – a
nd once again she recalled the porch and the dark figures. Thoughts of God and inescapable death wandered through her mind; she pulled the blanket over her head to drown the sound of the bells. She expected, before old age and death came, that her life would drag on for such a terribly long time, and from one day to the next she would have to cope with the nearness of someone she did not love, and who had come into the room just at that moment and was getting into bed; and she would have to suppress that hopeless love for another – someone who was so young, so charming and apparently so unusual. She looked at her husband and wanted to say good night, but she suddenly burst into tears instead. She felt annoyed with herself.
‘Well, we’re off again’, Yagich said.
She did calm down, but not until later, towards ten in the morning. She had stopped crying and shaking all over; she developed a severe headache, however. Yagich was hurrying, getting ready for late Mass and in the next room he was grumbling at the batman helping him dress. He came into the bedroom once, his spurs softly jingling, took something, and when he came in a second time he was wearing epaulettes and decorations; he limped slightly from rheumatism. He gave Sophia Lvovna the impression he was a beast of prey, prowling and looking round.
Then she heard him on the telephone. ‘Please put me through to the Vasilyevsky Barracks’, he said. A minute later he went on, ‘Is that Vasilyevsky Barracks? Please ask Dr Salimovich to come to the phone.’ Then, a minute later, ‘Who am I speaking to? Volodya? Fine. My dear chap, please ask your father to come over right away, my wife is terribly off colour after what happened yesterday. What’s that? He’s out? Hm… thanks… Yes, I’d be much obliged. Merci.’
Yagich came into the bedroom for the third time, bent over his wife, made the sign of the cross over her, let her kiss his hand (women who loved him would kiss his hand, he was used to this), and said he would be back for dinner. And he left.
Towards noon the maid announced Little Volodya. Swaying from weariness and her headache, Sophia Lvovna quickly put on her stunning new lilac, fur-trimmed negligee and hurriedly tidied her hair. In her heart she felt inexpressibly tender and trembled for joy – and for fear he might leave. She wanted just one look at him.
Little Volodya was paying her a visit in formal dress – tailcoat and white tie. When Sophia Lvovna came into the drawing-room he kissed her hand, said how deeply sorry he was to see her so unwell. When they had sat down he praised her negligee.
‘Seeing Olga last night has upset me’, she said. ‘At first it was painful for me, but now I envy her. She is like an immovable rock, it’s impossible to budge her. But was there really no other way out for her, Volodya? Can burying oneself alive really solve life’s problems? You’d call that death, not life, wouldn’t you?’ At the mention of Olga, Little Volodya’s face showed deep emotion. ‘Now look, Volodya, you’re a clever man’, Sophia Lvovna said. ‘Teach me to be like her. Of course, I’m a non-believer and I couldn’t become a nun. But couldn’t I do something that would be just as good? I find life hard enough.’ After a brief silence she continued, ‘Teach me… tell me something that will convince me. Just one word.’
‘One word? Okay. Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay.’2
‘Volodya, why do you despise me?’ she asked excitedly. ‘You speak to me in some special – if you’ll forgive the expression – fancy language that one doesn’t use with friends and respectable women. You’re a successful scholar, you love your studies, but why do you never tell me about them? Why? Aren’t I good enough?’
Little Volodya frowned irritably and said, ‘Why this sudden passion for scholarship? Perhaps you want us to have a constitution? Or perhaps sturgeon with horseradish?’3
‘Oh, have it your way then. I’m a mediocre, worthless, unprincipled, stupid woman… I’ve made thousands, thousands of mistakes. I’m not right in the head, a loose woman, and for that I deserve contempt. But you’re ten years older than me, Volodya, aren’t you? And my husband is thirty years older. You watched me grow up and if you’d wanted to, you could have made me anything you wanted, an angel even. But you…’ (here her voice shook) ‘treat me dreadfully. Yagich was an old man when he married me, and you…’
‘Well, enough of that. Enough’, Volodya said, drawing closer to her and kissing both her hands. ‘We’ll leave the Schopenhauers4 to philosophize and argue about anything they like, but now we’re going to kiss these sweet little hands.’
‘You despise me and if only you knew the suffering it causes me’, she said hesitantly, knowing beforehand that he would not believe her. ‘If you only knew how I want to improve myself, to start a new life! It fills me with joy just thinking about it’, she murmured and actually shed a few joyous tears. ‘To be a good, honest, decent person, not to lie, to have a purpose in life.’
‘Stop it please! You don’t have to put on an act for me, I don’t like it’, Volodya said, looking peevish. ‘Heavens, you’d think we were at the theatre! Let’s behave like normal human beings!’
To prevent him from leaving in a temper she began to make excuses, forced herself to smile – to please him – mentioned Olga again and that she wanted to solve the riddle of her existence, to become a real human being.
‘Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay’, he chanted softly. ‘Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay!’
And then quite suddenly he clasped her waist. Barely conscious of what she was doing she put her hands on his shoulders and for a whole minute looked rapturously at his clever, sarcastic face, his forehead, eyes, handsome beard…
‘You’ve known for a long time that I love you’, she confessed with an agonized blush and she felt that even her lips had twisted in a paroxysm of shame. ‘I love you. So why do you torment me?’
She closed her eyes and kissed him firmly on the lips. For a long time – a whole minute perhaps – she just could not bring herself to end this kiss, although she knew very well that she was behaving badly, that he might tell her off, or that a servant might come in…
Half an hour later, when he had got what he wanted, he sat in the dining-room eating a snack while she knelt before him, staring hungrily into his face. He told her she was like a small dog waiting for someone to toss it a piece of ham. Then he sat her on one knee, rocked her like a child and sang, ‘Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay… Ta-ra-ra-boomdeay!’
When he was about to leave she asked him passionately, ‘When? Later on? Where?’ And she held out both hands to his mouth, as if wanting to catch his reply in them.
‘It’s not really convenient today’, he said after a moment’s thought. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, though.’
And they parted. Before lunch Sophia Lvovna went off to the convent to see Olga, but was told that she was reading the Psalter for someone who had died. From the convent she went to her father’s and drove aimlessly up and down the main streets and side-streets until evening. While she was riding, for some reason she kept remembering that aunt with the tear-stained eyes, who was fretting her life away.
That night they all went riding on troikas again and heard the gypsies in that out-of-town restaurant. And when they were once again passing the convent Sophia Lvovna thought of Olga and became terrified at the thought that there was no escape for girls and women in her circle, except perpetual troika-rides or entering a convent to mortify the flesh…
The following day she had a lovers’ rendezvous once again. She went for solitary cab-rides around town and thought of her aunt.
A week later Little Volodya dropped her. Then life reverted to normal and was just as boring, dreary – and sometimes just as excruciating as it had ever been. The Colonel and Little Volodya had long billiards and piquet sessions, Rita told her tasteless anecdotes in the same lifeless fashion, Sophia Lvovna kept driving in cabs and asking her husband to take her for troika-rides.
Almost every day she called at the convent, boring Olga with her complaints of intolerable suffering; she cried and felt that she had brought something impure, pathetic and shabby into the cell. Olga, however, as if repeating a well-learnt lesson parrot-fashion, t
old her that there was nothing to worry about, that it would all pass and that God would forgive her.
Three Years
I
It was dark, but in some houses lights had already been lit, and at the end of the street, behind the barracks, a pale moon was rising. Laptev was sitting on a bench by the gate waiting for evening service to finish at St Peter and St Paul’s. He reckoned that Julia Sergeyevna would pass him on her way home from church, and then he could talk to her and perhaps spend the rest of the evening with her.
He had been sitting there an hour and a half, picturing in his mind his Moscow flat, his Moscow friends, Pyotr his valet, his writing-desk. He looked in bewilderment at the dark, motionless trees and thought it peculiar that he wasn’t living in his villa at Sokolniki1 any more, but in a provincial town, in a house past which a large herd of cattle was driven every morning and evening, raising dreadful clouds of dust – to the accompaniment of blowing horns. He remembered those long conversations in Moscow in which he had taken part not so very long ago, about the possibility of life without love, about passionate love being a psychosis and, finally, about love not existing at all, being only physical attraction, and so on. As he recalled all this he sadly reflected that if someone had asked him now what love really was, he would have been at a loss for an answer.
The service was over now and the congregation appeared. Laptev looked intently at the dark figures. The Bishop had driven past in his carriage, the bells had stopped ringing, the red and green lights on the belfry had been put out, one after the other – these were the illuminations in celebration of the patronal festival – and people were in no hurry, stopping to talk under the windows. But at last Laptev heard familiar voices, his heart started pounding and he was gripped by despair, since Julia Sergeyevna wasn’t alone, but with two other ladies.