I
IT was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the
districts of the province of T----, on the estate of a young landowner
called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant
tunic, drink beer in the evenings, and continually complain to me
that he never met with sympathy from any one. He lived in the lodge
in the garden, and I in the old seigniorial house, in a big room
with columns, where there was no furniture except a wide sofa on
which I used to sleep, and a table on which I used to lay out
patience. There was always, even in still weather, a droning noise
in the old Amos stoves, and in thunder-storms the whole house shook
and seemed to be cracking into pieces; and it was rather terrifying,
especially at night, when all the ten big windows were suddenly lit
up by lightning.
Condemned by destiny to perpetual idleness, I did absolutely nothing.
For hours together I gazed out of window at the sky, at the birds,
at the avenue, read everything that was brought me by post, slept.
Sometimes I went out of the house and wandered about till late in
the evening.
One day as I was returning home, I accidentally strayed into a place
I did not know. The sun was already sinking, and the shades of
evening lay across the flowering rye. Two rows of old, closely
planted, very tall fir-trees stood like two dense walls forming a
picturesque, gloomy avenue. I easily climbed over the fence and
walked along the avenue, slipping over the fir-needles which lay
two inches deep on the ground. It was still and dark, and only here
and there on the high tree-tops the vivid golden light quivered and
made rainbows in the spiders' webs. There was a strong, almost
stifling smell of resin. Then I turned into a long avenue of limes.
Here, too, all was desolation and age; last year's leaves rusted
mournfully under my feet and in the twilight shadows lurked between
the trees. From the old orchard on the right came the faint, reluctant
note of the golden oriole, who must have been old too. But at last
the limes ended. I walked by an old white house of two storeys with
a terrace, and there suddenly opened before me a view of a courtyard,
a large pond with a bathing-house, a group of green willows, and a
village on the further bank, with a high, narrow belfry on which
there glittered a cross reflecting the setting sun.
For a moment it breathed upon me the fascination of something near
and very familiar, as though I had seen that landscape at some time
in my childhood.
At the white stone gates which led from the yard to the fields,
old-fashioned solid gates with lions on them, were standing two
girls. One of them, the elder, a slim, pale, very handsome girl
with a perfect haystack of chestnut hair and a little obstinate
mouth, had a severe expression and scarcely took notice of me, while
the other, who was still very young, not more than seventeen or
eighteen, and was also slim and pale, with a large mouth and large
eyes, looked at me with astonishment as I passed by, said something
in English, and was overcome with embarrassment. And it seemed to
me that these two charming faces, too, had long been familiar to
me. And I returned home feeling as though I had had a delightful
dream.
One morning soon afterwards, as Byelokurov and I were walking near
the house, a carriage drove unexpectedly into the yard, rustling
over the grass, and in it was sitting one of those girls. It was
the elder one. She had come to ask for subscriptions for some
villagers whose cottages had been burnt down. Speaking with great
earnestness and precision, and not looking at us, she told us how
many houses in the village of Siyanovo had been burnt, how many
men, women, and children were left homeless, and what steps were
proposed, to begin with, by the Relief Committee, of which she was
now a member. After handing us the subscription list for our
signatures, she put it away and immediately began to take leave of
us.
"You have quite forgotten us, Pyotr Petrovitch," she said to
Byelokurov as she shook hands with him. "Do come, and if Monsieur
N. (she mentioned my name) cares to make the acquaintance of admirers
of his work, and will come and see us, mother and I will be delighted."