Andrei Vasilyevitch Kovrin, Magister, had worn himself out, and
unsettled his nerves. He made no effort to undergo regular treatment;
but only incidentally, over a bottle of wine, spoke to his friend the
doctor; and his friend the doctor advised him to spend all the spring
and summer in the country. And in the nick of time came a long letter
from Tánya Pesótsky, asking him to come and stay with her father at
Borisovka. He decided to go.
But first (it was in April) he travelled to his own estate, to his
native Kovrinka, and spent three weeks in solitude; and only when the
fine weather came drove across the country to his former guardian and
second parent, Pesótsky, the celebrated Russian horti-culturist. From
Kovrinka to Borisovka, the home of the Pesótskys, was a distance of
some seventy versts, and in the easy, springed calêche the drive along
the roads, soft in springtime, promised real enjoyment.
The house at Borisovka was, large, faced with a colonnade, and adorned
with figures of lions with the plaster falling off. At the door stood
a servant in livery. The old park, gloomy and severe, laid out in
English fashion, stretched for nearly a verst from the house down to
the river, and ended there in a steep clay bank covered with pines
whose bare roots resembled shaggy paws. Below sparkled a deserted
stream; overhead the snipe circled about with melancholy cries--all, in
short, seemed to invite a visitor to sit down and write a ballad. But
the gardens and orchards, which together with the seed-plots occupied
some eighty acres, inspired very different feelings. Even in the worst
of weather they were bright and joy-inspiring. Such wonderful roses,
lilies, camelias, such tulips, such a host of flowering plants of every
possible kind and colour, from staring white to sooty black,--such a
wealth of blossoms Kovrin had never seen before. The spring was only
beginning, and the greatest rareties were hidden under glass; but
already enough bloomed in the alleys and beds to make up an empire of
delicate shades. And most charming of all was it in the early hours of
morning, when dewdrops glistened on every petal and leaf.
In childhood the decorative part of the garden, called contemptuously
by Pesótsky "the rubbish," had produced on Kovrin a fabulous
impression. What miracles of art, what studied monstrosities, what
monkeries of nature! Espaliers of fruit trees, a pear tree shaped like
a pyramidal poplar, globular oaks and lindens, apple-tree houses,
arches, monograms, candelabra--even the date 1862 in plum trees, to
commemorate the year in which Pesótsky first engaged in the art of
gardening. There were stately, symmetrical trees, with trunks erect
as those of palms, which after examination proved to be gooseberry or
currant trees. But what most of all enlivened the garden and gave it
its joyous tone was the constant movement of Pesótsky's gardeners.
From early morning to late at night, by the trees, by the bushes, in
the alleys, and on the beds swarmed men as busy as ants, with barrows,
spades, and watering-pots.
Kovrin arrived at Borisovka at nine o'clock. He found Tánya and her
father in great alarm. The clear starlight night foretold frost, and
the head gardener, Ivan Karlitch, had gone to town, so that there was
no one who could be relied upon. At supper they spoke only of the
impending frost; and it was decided that Tánya should not go to bed at
all, but should inspect the gardens at one o'clock and see if all were
in order, while Yegor Semiónovitch should rise at three o'clock, or
even earlier.
Kovrin sat with Tánya all the evening, and after midnight accompanied
her to the garden. The air already smelt strongly of burning. In the
great orchard, called "the commercial," which every year brought Yegor
Semiónovitch thousands of roubles profit, there already crept along
the ground the thick, black, sour smoke which was to clothe the young
leaves and save the plants. The trees were marshalled like chessmen in
straight rows--like ranks of soldiers; and this pedantic regularity,
together with the uniformity of height, made the garden seem monotonous
and even tiresome. Kovrin and Tánya walked up and down the alleys,
and watched the fires of dung, straw, and litter; but seldom met the
workmen, who wandered in the smoke like shadows. Only the cherry and
plum trees and a few apple trees were in blossom, but the whole garden
was shrouded in smoke, and it was only when they reached the seed-plots
that Kovrin was able to breathe.
"I remember when I was a child sneezing from the smoke," he said,
shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I cannot understand how smoke
saves plants from the frost."
"Smoke is a good substitute when there are no clouds," answered Tánya.
"But what do you want the clouds for?"
"In dull and cloudy weather we have no morning frosts."
"Is that so?" said Kovrin.
He laughed and took Tánya by the hand. Her broad, very serious, chilled
face; her thick, black eyebrows; the stiff collar on her jacket which
prevented her from moving her head freely; her dress tucked up out of
the dew; and her whole figure, erect and slight, pleased him.
"Heavens! how she has grown!" he said to himself. "When I was here
last time, five years ago, you were quite a child. You were thin,
long-legged, and untidy, and wore a short dress, and I used to tease
you. What a change in five years!"
"Yes, five years!" sighed Tánya. "A lot of things have happened since
then. Tell me, Andrei, honestly," she said, looking merrily into his
face, "do you feel that you have got out of touch with us? But why do
I ask? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you.... Some
estrangement is natural. But whether that is so or not, Andrusha, I
want you now to look on us as your own. We have a right to that."
"I do, already, Tánya."
"Your word of honour?"
"My word of honour."
"You were surprised that we had so many of your photographs. But surely
you know how my father adores you, worships you. You are a scholar, and
not an ordinary man; you have built up a brilliant career, and he is
firmly convinced that you turned out a success because he educated you.
I do not interfere with his delusion. Let him believe it!"
Already dawn. The sky paled, and the foliage and clouds of smoke began
to show themselves more clearly. The nightingale sang, and from the
fields came the cry of quails.
"It is time for bed!" said Tánya. "It is cold too." She took Kovrin
by the hand. "Thanks, Andrusha, for coming. We are cursed with most
uninteresting acquaintances, and not many even of them. With us it is
always garden, garden, garden, and nothing else. Trunks, timbers," she
laughed, "pippins, rennets, budding, pruning, grafting.... All our
life goes into the garden, we never even dream of anything but apples
and pears. Of course this is all very good and useful, but sometimes I
cannot help wishing for change. I remember when you used to come and
pay us visits, and when you came home for the holidays, how the whole
house grew fresher and brighter, as if someone had taken the covers off
the furniture; I was then a very little girl, but I understood...."
Tánya spoke for a time, and spoke with feeling. Then suddenly it came
into Kovrin's head that during the summer he might become attached to
this little, weak, talkative being, that he might get carried away,
fall in love--in their position what was more probable and natural?
The thought pleased him, amused him, and as he bent down to the kind,
troubled face, he hummed to himself Pushkin's couplet:
"Oniégin; I will not conceal
That I love Tatyana madly."
By the time they reached the house Yegor Semiónovitch had risen.
Kovrin felt no desire to sleep; he entered into conversation with
the old man, and returned with him to the garden. Yegor Semiónovitch
was tall, broad-shouldered, and fat. He suffered from shortness of
breath, yet walked so quickly that it was difficult to keep up with
him. His expression was always troubled and hurried, and he seemed to
be thinking that if he were a single second late everything would be
destroyed.
"There, brother, is a mystery for you!" he began, stopping to recover
breath. "On the surface of the ground, as you see, there is frost, but
raise the thermometer a couple of yards on your stick, and it is quite
warm.... Why is that?"
"I confess I don't know," said Kovrin, laughing.
"No!... You can't know everything.... The biggest brain cannot
comprehend everything. You are still engaged with your philosophy?"
"Yes, ... I am studying psychology, and philosophy generally."
"And it doesn't bore you?"
"On the contrary, I couldn't live without it."
"Well, God grant ..." began Yegor Semiónovitch, smoothing his big
whiskers thoughtfully. "Well, God grant ... I am very glad for your
sake, brother, very glad...."
Suddenly he began to listen, and making a terrible face, ran off the
path and soon vanished among the trees in a cloud of smoke.
"Who tethered this horse to the tree?" rang out a despairing voice.
"Which of you thieves and murderers dared to tether this horse to the
apple tree? My God, my God! Ruined, ruined, spoiled, destroyed! The
garden is ruined, the garden is destroyed! My God!"
When he returned to Kovrin his face bore an expression of injury and
impotence.
"What on earth can you do with these accursed people?" he asked in a
whining voice, wringing his hands. "Stepka brought a manure cart here
last night and tethered the horse to an apple tree ... tied the reins,
the idiot, so tight, that the bark is rubbed off in three places. What
can you do with men like this? I speak to him and he blinks his eyes
and looks stupid. He ought to be hanged!"
When at last he calmed down, he embraced Kovrin and kissed him on the
cheek.
"Well, God grant ... God grant!..." he stammered. "I am very, very glad
that you have come. I cannot say how glad. Thanks!"
Then, with the same anxious face, and walking with the same quick step,
he went round the whole garden, showing his former ward the orangery,
the hothouses, the sheds, and two beehives which he described as the
miracle of the century.
As they walked about, the sun rose, lighting up the garden. It grew
hot. When he thought of the long, bright day before him, Kovrin
remembered that it was but the beginning of May, and that he had before
him a whole summer of long, bright, and happy days; and suddenly
through him pulsed the joyous, youthful feeling which he had felt when
as a child he played in this same garden. And in turn, he embraced the
old man and kissed him tenderly. Touched by remembrances, the pair went
into the house and drank tea out of the old china cups, with cream and
rich biscuits; and these trifles again reminded Kovrin of his childhood
and youth. The splendid present and the awakening memories of the past
mingled, and a feeling of intense happiness filled his heart.
He waited until Tánya awoke, and having drunk coffee with her, walked
through the garden, and then went to his room and began to work. He
read attentively, making notes; and only lifted his eyes from his books
when he felt that he must look out of the window or at the fresh roses,
still wet with dew, which stood in vases on his table. It seemed to
hint that every little vein in his body trembled and pulsated with joy.