On top of that, the golden cornices, the Venetian mirrors with flowers, paintings like the one over the piano – all this, plus her husband’s and Kostya’s arguments about art, made her feel bored, irritable and sometimes even full of loathing.
Life ran its normal course, from day to day, and promised nothing special. The theatre season was over and warm days had arrived – the weather was always fine now. One morning the Laptevs went off to the local assizes to hear Kostya, who had been appointed by the court, defend someone. They had taken their time before leaving and arrived when the cross-examination of witnesses had already started. A soldier from the reserves was accused of burglary. Many of the witnesses were laundresses, who testified that the accused often visited their employer, the laundry proprietress. Late on the eve of the Exaltation of the Cross39 this soldier had come to ask for money to buy himself a drink for the ‘morning after’, but no one gave him any. Then he had left, but returned an hour later with some beer and peppermint cakes for the girls. They drank and sang almost till dawn, but in the morning they noticed that the lock to the loft entrance had been broken and some linen was missing – three men’s nightshirts, a skirt and two sheets. Kostya sarcastically asked each witness if she had drunk any of the beer that the accused had brought that night. He was obviously trying to make it look as if the laundresses had robbed their own laundry. He delivered his speech coolly, angrily eyeing the jury.
He explained burglary and petty larceny. He spoke in great detail and with conviction, displaying an outstanding talent for expatiating long and solemnly about what was common knowledge to everyone. And it was difficult to make out what precisely he was getting at. The jurors were able to draw only the following conclusion from his lengthy speech: either there had been a burglary, but no petty larceny, since the money from the sale of the linen was spent by the laundresses on drink; or that there had been larceny, but no burglary. But Kostya was evidently on the right tack, since his speech deeply moved the jury and public and pleased everyone. Julia nodded to Kostya when an acquittal was brought and afterwards shook him firmly by the hand.
In May the Laptevs went to their villa at Sokolniki, as Julia was pregnant.
XIII
More than a year passed. At Sokolniki, not far from the main Yaroslavl40 railway line, Julia and Yartsev were sitting on the grass. Kochevoy was lying nearby, his hands under his head, gazing up at the sky. All three had had enough of walking and were waiting for the six o’clock suburban train so that they could go home for tea.
‘Mothers always think their children are exceptional, Nature’s arranged it that way’, Julia said. ‘A mother will stand by the cot for hours on end looking rapturously at her baby’s tiny ears, eyes and nose. If some stranger kisses her baby the poor woman thinks this gives him the utmost pleasure. And mothers can talk of nothing but babies. I know that mothers tend to have this weakness and I’m guarding against it myself. But my Olga really is exceptional, honestly! The way she looks at me when she’s feeding, the way she laughs! She’s only eight months old, but I swear to you I’ve never seen such clever eyes, even in a three-year-old.’
‘Incidentally, whom do you love more?’ asked Yartsev. ‘Your husband or your baby?’
Julia shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know’, she said. ‘I never felt deep affection for my husband and Olga’s really my first love. You know I didn’t marry Aleksey for love. I used to be stupid, I went through absolute hell and I couldn’t stop thinking that I had ruined his life and mine. But I realize now that one doesn’t need love, it’s a lot of nonsense.’
‘So, if it isn’t love, then what kind of feeling attaches you to your husband? Why do you stay with him?’
‘I don’t know… Must be force of habit, I think. I respect him, I miss him when he’s away for a long time, but that’s not love. He’s a clever, honest man and that’s enough to make me happy. He’s very kind and unpretentious…’
‘Aleksey’s clever, Aleksey’s kind’, Kostya said, lazily raising his head. ‘But you need to know him for ages before you ever find out that he’s intelligent, kind and fascinating, my dear. And what’s the use of his kindness or his brains? He’ll stump up as much money as you want – he’s capable of that. But when it comes to showing strength of character, seeing off some cheeky devil or smart aleck, then he fights shy and loses heart. Men like your dear Aleksey may be fine people, but they’re absolutely useless in battle. Yes, they’re actually fit for absolutely nothing.’
At last the train came into sight. Bright pink steam poured from its funnel and rose over the small patch of forest. Two windows in the last carriage suddenly flashed so brilliantly in the sun it hurt one’s eyes.
‘Teatime!’ Julia Sergeyevna said, standing up.
She had recently put on weight and now she walked rather lazily, like a middle-aged lady.
‘All the same, it’s not much of a life without love’, Yartsev said, following her. ‘We’re always talking and reading about love, but we don’t put it into practice – and that’s a bad thing, I must say.’
‘That’s not important, Ivan’, Julia said. ‘You won’t find happiness there.’
They drank tea in the little garden, where mignonette, stocks and tobacco plants were in flower and early gladioli were opening out. From the expression on Julia Sergeyevna’s face, Yartsev and Kochevoy could tell that this was a happy time of spiritual calm and equilibrium for her and that she needed nothing besides what she already possessed; they too began to feel relaxed, tranquil at heart. Whatever one might think, things were turning out very well – just right, in fact. The pines were beautiful, the smell of resin was more wonderful than ever, the cream was delicious. Sasha was a clever, fine girl.
After tea Yartsev sang some sentimental songs, accompanying himself on the piano, while Julia and Kochevoy listened in silence – only Julia got up now and then and quietly left the room to have a look at the baby, and at Lida, who had had a temperature for two days and wasn’t eating.
‘ “My dear, tender love”’,41 Yartsev sang. Then he shook his head and said, ‘By the life of me I can’t understand what you have against love. If I weren’t busy fifteen hours a day I’d fall in love myself – no question about it.’
Supper was laid on the terrace. It was warm and quiet, but Julia wrapped herself in her shawl and complained of the damp. When it was dark she grew rather restless, kept shivering and asked her guests to stay on. She regaled them with wine and after supper had them served with brandy to stop them leaving. She didn’t want to be on her own with the children and servants.
‘We lady villa-dwellers are organizing a show for the children’, she said. ‘We already have everything – theatre, actors. All that’s missing is a play. We’ve been sent a score of different ones, but none is any good.’ Turning to Yartsev she said, ‘Now, you love the theatre and you’re a history expert. Why don’t you write a historical play for us?’
‘All right.’
The guests finished all the brandy and prepared to leave. It was past ten, which was late for people in holiday villas.
‘It’s so dark, it’s pitch-black’, Julia said, seeing them through the gate. ‘I don’t know how you’ll find the way back, my friends. It’s really very cold!’
She wrapped herself more tightly and went back to the porch.
‘My Aleksey must be playing cards somewhere!’ she exclaimed. ‘Goodnight!’
After the bright lights in the house they couldn’t see a thing. Yartsev and Kostya groped along like blind men until they reached the railway line, which they crossed.
‘Can’t see a damned thing!’ Kostya said in a deep voice, stopping to gaze at the sky. ‘Look at those stars – like new fifteen copeck pieces! Yartsev!!’
‘What?’ came back Yartsev’s voice.
‘I said I can’t see a thing. Where are you?’
Whistling, Yartsev went up to him and took his arm.
‘Hey, all you holiday-makers!’ Kostya suddenly shouted
at the top of his voice. ‘We’ve caught a socialist!’
Whenever he’d had a few drinks he was boisterous, shouting and picking quarrels with policemen and cabbies, singing and laughing furiously.
‘To hell with Nature!’ he shouted.
‘Now now’, Yartsev said, trying to calm him down. ‘That’s enough. Please!’
The friends soon grew used to the dark and began to make out the silhouettes of lofty pines and telegraph poles. Now and then whistles could be heard from railway stations in Moscow, and telegraph wires hummed mournfully. But no sound came from that patch of forest and there was something proud, strong and mysterious about the silence. And now, at night, the tops of the pines seemed almost to touch the sky. The friends found the correct cutting and went down it. Here it was pitch-black and only the long strip of star-strewn sky and the well-trodden earth beneath their feet told them that they were on the path. Silently they walked, side by side, both imagining that people were coming towards them. Yartsev had the idea that souls of Muscovite tsars, boyars and patriarchs might be wandering around the forest. He wanted to tell Kostya, but stopped himself.
When they reached the city gate dawn was just glimmering. Still without a word, Yartsev and Kochevoy walked down a road past cheap holiday villas, pubs and timber yards. Under the branch-line railway bridge they suddenly experienced a pleasant dampness, smelling of lime trees. Then a long, broad street opened up without a soul or light on it. When they reached Krasny Prud,42 dawn was breaking.
‘Moscow’s a city that will have to go through a lot more suffering in the future!’ Yartsev said, looking at the Alekseyev Monastery.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I just do. I love Moscow.’
Both Yartsev and Kostya were born in Moscow and they adored it – for some reason they felt hostile towards other cities. They were convinced that Moscow was a remarkable city, and Russia a remarkable country. Away in the Crimea or the Caucasus, or abroad, they felt bored, uncomfortable, out of place, and their beloved Moscow’s dreary grey weather was the most pleasant and healthy of all, they thought. Days when the cold rain beats on windows and dusk comes on early, when walls of houses and churches take on a sombre, brownish colour, when you don’t know what to wear when you go out into the street – days like these pleasantly stimulated them. In the end they took a cab near the station.
‘Actually, I’d like to write a historical play’, Yartsev said, ‘but without all those Lyapunovs and Godunovs. I’d write about the times of Yaroslav or Monomakh. I hate all Russian historical plays, except for Pimen’s soliloquy.43 When you’re dealing with some historical source or reading text books on Russian history, everything Russian appears so incredibly talented, competent and interesting. But when I see a historical play at the theatre, Russian life strikes me as inept, morbid and uninspiring.’
The friends parted at Dmitrovka Street and Yartsev drove on to his rooms in Nikitsky Street. He rocked to and fro, dozing, his whole mind on that play. Suddenly he imagined a terrible noise, clanging, shouts in some incomprehensible language – Kalmuck, most likely. There was a village engulfed in flames, and the nearby woods, covered in hoar frost and faint pink in the conflagration, could be so clearly seen for miles around that every little fir tree was distinguishable. Some wild savages, on horse and on foot, tore through the village: both they and their steeds were as crimson as the glow in the sky.
‘They’re Polovtsians’,44 thought Yartsev.
One of them – old, bloody-faced and covered all over with burns – was tying a young, white-faced Russian girl to his saddle. The old man was ranting and raving, while the girl looked on with sad, intelligent eyes.
Yartsev shook his head and woke up.
‘ “My dear, tender love”’, he chanted.
He paid the cab-driver and went up to his rooms, but he just couldn’t return to reality and saw the flames spreading to the trees. The forest crackled and began to smoke. An enormous wild boar, maddened with fear, charged through the village. And the girl who was tied to the saddle was still watching.
It was light when Yartsev entered his rooms. Two candles were burning low on the piano, near some open music books. In a dark dress with a sash, a newspaper in her hands, Polina lay fast asleep on the couch. She must have been playing for some time waiting for Yartsev and fallen asleep.
‘God, she looks worn out!’ he thought.
Carefully removing the paper from her hands, he covered her with a rug, snuffed the candles and went to his bedroom. As he lay down he thought of that historical play and couldn’t get that line – ‘My dear, tender love’ – out of his head.
Two days later Laptev dropped in for a moment to say that Lida had diphtheria and that Julia Sergeyevna and the baby had caught it from her. Five days later came the news that Lida and Julia were recovering, but that the baby had died and the Laptevs had dashed back to town from the villa at Sokolniki.
XIV
Laptev didn’t like spending much time at home now. His wife often went over to the lodge, saying that she had to see to the girls’ lessons. However, she didn’t go there for that, but to cry at Kostya’s. The ninth, twentieth, fortieth day passed and still he had to go to the St Alexis Cemetery45 for requiem mass, after which he had a hellish twenty-four hours thinking only of that unfortunate baby and uttering various platitudes to console his wife. He seldom went to the warehouse now and busied himself solely with charitable work, inventing sundry little jobs or worries for himself, and he was delighted when he had to ride around the whole day on some trivial matter.
Recently he had been intending to go abroad to learn about organization of hostels for the poor and now this idea provided some diversion.
It was one day in autumn. Julia had just gone to the lodge to cry, while Laptev was lying on his study couch wondering where to go. Then Pyotr announced that Polina had arrived. Absolutely delighted, Laptev leapt up and went to greet his unexpected visitor, that former friend he had almost forgotten now. Since that evening when he had seen her last she hadn’t changed at all.
‘Polina!’ he said, stretching out both hands. ‘It’s been so long! You just can’t imagine how glad I am to see you. Welcome!’
Rassudina greeted him by tugging at his hand, entered the study and sat down without taking off her coat or hat.
‘I’ve only dropped in for a minute, I’ve no time for chit-chat. Please sit down and listen. I couldn’t care less whether you’re pleased or not to see me, as I don’t give a damn for the gracious attentions of members of the male sex. The reason I’m here now is that I’ve already called at five places today and was refused in every one of them. It’s an urgent matter. Now, listen’, she added, looking him in the eye. ‘Five students I know, all with limited brain-power, but indubitably poor, haven’t paid their fees and have been expelled. Your wealth makes it incumbent on you to go to the university immediately and pay their fees for them.’
‘With pleasure, Polina.’
‘Here are their names’, Rassudina said, handing Laptev a note. ‘You must go this minute, you can wallow in domestic bliss later.’
Just then came a vague rustling sound from behind the door into the drawing-room – it was most probably the dog scratching itself. Rassudina blushed and leapt to her feet. ‘Your little Dulcinea’s trying to eavesdrop’, she said. ‘That’s a rotten trick!’
Laptev felt insulted on Julia’s behalf.
‘She’s not here, she’s at the lodge’, he said. ‘And don’t talk about her like that. We’ve lost our baby and she’s terribly depressed.’
‘You can set her mind at rest’, Rassudina laughed, sitting down again. ‘She’ll have another dozen of them. You don’t need brains to have babies!’46
Laptev remembered hearing this, or something similar, many times before, long ago, and he recaptured that idyllic past, his free bachelor life when he had felt young and capable of anything, when love for a wife and memories of a child just didn’t exist for him.
br /> ‘Let’s go together’, he said, stretching himself.
When they reached the university Rassudina waited at the gates, while Laptev went to the bursar’s office. After a short time he returned and handed Rassudina five receipts.
‘Where are you off to now?’ he asked.
‘To see Yartsev.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘But you’ll interrupt him in his work.’
‘I won’t, I assure you!’ he replied, looking at her imploringly.
She was wearing a black mourning hat with crêpe trimmings, and a very short, shabby coat with bulging pockets. Her nose seemed longer than ever and her face had no colour, in spite of the cold. Laptev liked following and obeying her, and listening to her grumbling. On the way he reflected on the inner strength she must have if, despite her ugliness, clumsiness and restlessness, despite her lack of dress sense, despite her hair always being dishevelled and despite her rather ungainly figure, she was still a woman of great charm.
They made their way into Yartsev’s rooms by the back door – through the kitchen, where they were welcomed by the cook, a neat old woman with grey curls. Deeply embarrassed, she smiled sweetly at them and this made her small face look like a piece of puff pastry.
‘Please come in’, she said.
Yartsev was out. Rassudina sat at the piano and started some boring, difficult exercises, having instructed Laptev not to interrupt. He didn’t distract her with conversation, but sat to one side leafing through the European Herald.47 After practising for two hours – that was her daily stint – she ate something in the kitchen and went off to give some lessons. Laptev read an instalment of some novel, then sat there for some time, neither reading nor feeling bored, but pleased that he was already late for dinner at home.
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ he heard Yartsev laugh – and then the man himself came in. He was healthy, hearty, red-cheeked, and wore a new tailcoat with shiny buttons. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’