“Who’s there?” The old woman suddenly started. “Who called me?”
“It’s I.... Don’t you remember Avtonomov?... We used to know each
other....”
“Avtonomov, mercy.... We never knew any one of that name.... I don’t know
you.... Wait a moment and I’ll call some one. Fedosya, oh, Fedosya!...
Come here quick....”
“Don’t call, mother.... I won’t disturb you.... Have you really forgotten
Avtonomov?... I used to be called Genasha....”
The old woman got up, took the candle and held it out of the window.
There was no breeze. The flame burned steadily and illuminated the
bushes, the walls of the house, and the wrinkled face of the old woman
with her glasses pressed up on her forehead.
“That voice sounded familiar.... Where are you?... If you’re a good man——”
She held the candle above her head and the light fell on Avtonomov. The
old woman staggered, but just then another woman entered the room. The
old woman grew bolder and again threw the light on Avtonomov.
“Fine,” she said coldly. “The suitor, of course.... What are you walking
around under the window for?...”
“I happened to be passing, Olimpiada Nikolayevna——”
“Passing, and would pass.... See here, when the master returns, he’ll set
the dogs on you.”
She closed the window and lowered the curtain. The bushes disappeared,
and the figure of Avtonomov was lost in the darkness.
We could then think of leaving, and we quickly descended the hillock....
In a few minutes we heard the bells in the tower. Some one apparently
wanted to show that there were people in the cemetery....
Andrey Ivanovich walked slowly and thoughtfully. Ivan Ivanovich ran
panting at a dog trot and constantly stifling his cough.... When we had
reached a proper distance he stopped and said again with indescribable
sorrow:
“We’ve lost Avtonomov....”
His voice was so despairing that Andrey Ivanovich and I involuntarily
felt sorry for him. We stopped and began to peer into the darkness.
“He’s coming,” said Andrey Ivanovich, straining his lynx-like eyes.
In very truth we soon saw behind us a strange shape like a moving tree.
Avtonomov had large bunches of lilacs in his belt, on his shoulders, and
in his hands, and even his cap was decorated with flowers. When he caught
up with us he had perfect control of himself and seemed neither glad nor
astonished. He walked on along the road and the branches waved about him
in a very peculiar manner.
“It’s great to walk at night, signor,” he began grandiloquently, like
an actor. “The fields are clothed in darkness.... There’s a grove on
one side.... See how peaceful it is! The nightingale pours forth its
melody....”
He almost declaimed this but yet his voice showed that he was a little
exasperated.
“Wouldn’t you like a spray from my garden, signor?”
With a theatrical gesture, he offered me a branch of lilacs.
Near the road a nightingale sang timidly and irresolutely. In the
distance, in answer to the bells from the cemetery, came another, and we
could hear the noise of a rattle. Somewhere on the dark plain dogs were
barking.... The night grew darker and it began to feel like rain....
“I’m sorry,” Avtonomov suddenly began at random, “I got separated from
you by the cemetery. I have an old friend who lives there, a real old
friend. If he’d been home, we’d all have gotten lodging and something to
eat.... The old woman asked me to stop, ... but without her husband——”
Ivan Ivanovich cleared his throat. The bootmaker snorted ironically.
Avtonomov must have guessed that we had seen more than he thought, for he
turned to me and said:
“Judge not, signor, that ye be not judged.... Another’s soul, signor, is
dark.... Some time,” he added resolutely, “believe me, I’ll come here,
... and I’ll be entertained.... And then....”
“And then?”
“Oh!... we’ll be entertained.... Drink till you can’t see.... And I’ll
crow over it....”
“Why?”
“Why! This place should be like any other. But yet, signor, it appeals
to me.... The past....”
He walked on more rapidly.
We passed by a little village and reached the last hut. Its small windows
looked out sightlessly into the dark field.... All were sleeping within.
Avtonomov suddenly walked up to the window and tapped sharply on the
pane. An indistinct face appeared behind it.
“Who’s there?” asked a dull voice, and a frightened face was pressed
against the glass. “Who’s coming around this time of night?”
“The d-devil,” drawled Avtonomov in a piercing, evil tone, and he stuck
his head with its floral decorations against the pane.... The face within
disappeared in terror.... Dogs began to bark in the village; the guard
struck his rattle; the dark plain went on guard.... Again somewhere in
the distance the sleeping churches droned forth their prolonged notes, as
if to defend the peaceful region from some unknown evil. As if they felt
that above them was hanging the menace of certain dark and hopelessly
ruined lives.