IV

It was quite still out of doors; the village on the further side

of the pond was already asleep; there was not a light to be seen,

and only the stars were faintly reflected in the pond. At the gate

with the lions on it Genya was standing motionless, waiting to

escort me.

"Every one is asleep in the village," I said to her, trying to make

out her face in the darkness, and I saw her mournful dark eyes fixed

upon me. "The publican and the horse-stealers are asleep, while we,

well-bred people, argue and irritate each other."

It was a melancholy August night--melancholy because there was

already a feeling of autumn; the moon was rising behind a purple

cloud, and it shed a faint light upon the road and on the dark

fields of winter corn by the sides. From time to time a star fell.

Genya walked beside me along the road, and tried not to look at the

sky, that she might not see the falling stars, which for some reason

frightened her.

"I believe you are right," she said, shivering with the damp night

air. "If people, all together, could devote themselves to spiritual

ends, they would soon know everything."

"Of course. We are higher beings, and if we were really to recognise

the whole force of human genius and lived only for higher ends, we

should in the end become like gods. But that will never be--mankind

will degenerate till no traces of genius remain."

When the gates were out of sight, Genya stopped and shook hands

with me.

"Good-night," she said, shivering; she had nothing but her blouse

over her shoulders and was shrinking with cold. "Come to-morrow."

I felt wretched at the thought of being left alone, irritated and

dissatisfied with myself and other people; and I, too, tried not

to look at the falling stars. "Stay another minute," I said to her,

"I entreat you."

I loved Genya. I must have loved her because she met me when I came

and saw me off when I went away; because she looked at me tenderly

and enthusiastically. How touchingly beautiful were her pale face,

slender neck, slender arms, her weakness, her idleness, her reading.

And intelligence? I suspected in her intelligence above the average.

I was fascinated by the breadth of her views, perhaps because they

were different from those of the stern, handsome Lida, who disliked

me. Genya liked me, because I was an artist. I had conquered her

heart by my talent, and had a passionate desire to paint for her

sake alone; and I dreamed of her as of my little queen who with me

would possess those trees, those fields, the mists, the dawn, the

exquisite and beautiful scenery in the midst of which I had felt

myself hopelessly solitary and useless.

"Stay another minute," I begged her. "I beseech you."

I took off my overcoat and put it over her chilly shoulders; afraid

of looking ugly and absurd in a man's overcoat, she laughed, threw

it off, and at that instant I put my arms round her and covered her

face, shoulders, and hands with kisses.

"Till to-morrow," she whispered, and softly, as though afraid of

breaking upon the silence of the night, she embraced me. "We have

no secrets from one another. I must tell my mother and my sister

at once. . . . It's so dreadful! Mother is all right; mother likes

you--but Lida!"

She ran to the gates.

"Good-bye!" she called.

And then for two minutes I heard her running. I did not want to go

home, and I had nothing to go for. I stood still for a little time

hesitating, and made my way slowly back, to look once more at the

house in which she lived, the sweet, simple old house, which seemed

to be watching me from the windows of its upper storey, and

understanding all about it. I walked by the terrace, sat on the

seat by the tennis ground, in the dark under the old elm-tree, and

looked from there at the house. In the windows of the top storey

where Misuce slept there appeared a bright light, which changed to

a soft green--they had covered the lamp with the shade. Shadows

began to move. . . . I was full of tenderness, peace, and satisfaction

with myself--satisfaction at having been able to be carried away

by my feelings and having fallen in love, and at the same time I

felt uncomfortable at the thought that only a few steps away from

me, in one of the rooms of that house there was Lida, who disliked

and perhaps hated me. I went on sitting there wondering whether

Genya would come out; I listened and fancied I heard voices talking

upstairs.

About an hour passed. The green light went out, and the shadows

were no longer visible. The moon was standing high above the house,

and lighting up the sleeping garden and the paths; the dahlias and

the roses in front of the house could be seen distinctly, and looked

all the same colour. It began to grow very cold. I went out of the

garden, picked up my coat on the road, and slowly sauntered home.

When next day after dinner I went to the Voltchaninovs, the glass

door into the garden was wide open. I sat down on the terrace,

expecting Genya every minute, to appear from behind the flower-beds

on the lawn, or from one of the avenues, or that I should hear her

voice from the house. Then I walked into the drawing-room, the

dining-room. There was not a soul to be seen. From the dining-room

I walked along the long corridor to the hall and back. In this

corridor there were several doors, and through one of them I heard

the voice of Lida:

"'God . . . sent . . . a crow,'" she said in a loud, emphatic

voice, probably dictating--"'God sent a crow a piece of cheese

. . . . A crow . . . a piece of cheese.' . . . Who's there?" she

called suddenly, hearing my steps.

"It's I."

"Ah! Excuse me, I cannot come out to you this minute; I'm giving

Dasha her lesson."

"Is Ekaterina Pavlovna in the garden?"

"No, she went away with my sister this morning to our aunt in the

province of Penza. And in the winter they will probably go abroad,"

she added after a pause. "'God sent . . . the crow . . . a piece

. . . of cheese.' . . . Have you written it?"

I went into the hall, and stared vacantly at the pond and the

village, and the sound reached me of "A piece of cheese. . . . God

sent the crow a piece of cheese."

And I went back by the way I had come here for the first time--

first from the yard into the garden past the house, then into the

avenue of lime-trees. . . . At this point I was overtaken by a small

boy who gave me a note:

"I told my sister everything and she insists on my parting from

you," I read. "I could not wound her by disobeying. God will give

you happiness. Forgive me. If only you knew how bitterly my mother

and I are crying!"

Then there was the dark fir avenue, the broken-down fence. . . .

On the field where then the rye was in flower and the corncrakes

were calling, now there were cows and hobbled horses. On the slope

there were bright green patches of winter corn. A sober workaday

feeling came over me and I felt ashamed of all I had said at the

Voltchaninovs', and felt bored with life as I had been before. When

I got home, I packed and set off that evening for Petersburg.

----

I never saw the Voltchaninovs again. Not long ago, on my way to the

Crimea, I met Byelokurov in the train. As before, he was wearing a

jerkin and an embroidered shirt, and when I asked how he was, he

replied that, God be praised, he was well. We began talking. He had

sold his old estate and bought another smaller one, in the name of

Liubov Ivanovna. He could tell me little about the Voltchaninovs.

Lida, he said, was still living in Shelkovka and teaching in the

school; she had by degrees succeeded in gathering round her a circle

of people sympathetic to her who made a strong party, and at the

last election had turned out Balagin, who had till then had the

whole district under his thumb. About Genya he only told me that

she did not live at home, and that he did not know where she was.

I am beginning to forget the old house, and only sometimes when I

am painting or reading I suddenly, apropos of nothing, remember the

green light in the window, the sound of my footsteps as I walked

home through the fields in the night, with my heart full of love,

rubbing my hands in the cold. And still more rarely, at moments

when I am sad and depressed by loneliness, I have dim memories, and

little by little I begin to feel that she is thinking of me, too

--that she is waiting for me, and that we shall meet. . . .

Misuce, where are you?