Kovalenko seized him by the collar and pushed, and Belikov pitched down the stairs, his galoshes thumping. The stairs were high and steep, but he flew to the bottom unharmed, stopped and touched himself on the nose. Were his glasses safe? And just at that moment, as he was hurtling down the stairs, Varenka had come in and two ladies with her; they stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched – and for Belikov this was the most terrible thing of all. It would have been better, it seemed to him, to break his neck, both legs, than to become a laughingstock. Why now the whole city would know, it would reach the principal, the trustees – oh if only he hadn’t come – someone would draw a new caricature, and all of this would end up with an order for his dismissal . . .
As he straightened himself up, Varenka recognized him, and looking at his comical features, rumpled coat, galoshes, not understanding what was going on and supposing that he had fallen on his own, she couldn’t control herself, and the whole house was filled with her laughter.
‘Ha-ha-ha!’
And with this booming, overflowing ha-ha-ha it all came to an end, both the matchmaking and Belikov’s earthly existence. He no longer heard what Varenka was saying, and he saw nothing. Returning to his own place, he first of all took her portrait off the table, and afterward he lay down and didn’t get up again.
Three days later Aphanasy came to my door and asked if he shouldn’t send for a doctor, since something was wrong with his master. I went to Belikov’s apartment. He was lying behind the bed curtains, covered with a blanket, silent. You asked him a question and got only yes or no – and not another sound. He lay there and Aphanasy wandered about nearby, gloomy, frowning, sighing heavily, smelling of vodka like a tavern.
A month later Belikov died. We all went to his funeral, including all the students and the seminarians. As he lay in his coffin, his expression was gentle, contented, as if he was glad we’d finally laid him in a box from which he’d never again have to arise. Yes, he had reached his ideal! And as if in his honour, at the hour of his funeral the weather grew clouded, rainy; we were all in galoshes and carried umbrellas. Varenka too was in galoshes, and when they lowered the coffin into the grave, she shed a few tears. I have noticed that Ukrainian women only cry or laugh; nothing in-between exists for them.
I must confess that to bury someone like Belikov is a great pleasure. When we returned from the cemetery we all wore a humble, pious expression: no one wished to betray this feeling of pleasure – a feeling like that which we experienced long, long ago, back in childhood when the grown-ups left the house, and we ran to the garden the next second, revelling in our total freedom. Ah, freedom, freedom! Even a hint, even a faint hope of it, its very possibility, gives wings to the soul, isn’t that so?
We came back from the cemetery in a good mood. But that went on no more than a week, and life flowed by just as before, harsh, dull, stupid life, nothing to stop it going round and round, everything unresolved; things didn’t get better. And truly, we had buried Belikov, but how many such men still remained, enclosed in their shells, how many of them there will be, still.”
“Yes, there you have it, the way it is,” Ivan Ivanych said and lit up his pipe.
“How many of them there will be still,” Burkin repeated.
The teacher came out of the shed. He was not a very tall man, stout, quite bald, with a dark beard almost to his belt. With him came the two dogs.
“Oh moon, moon,” he said, looking upward.
It was already midnight. To the right the whole village was visible, the long street stretched into the distance for three miles. It was all immersed in a deep, quiet sleep; neither motion nor sound, it was hard to believe that nature could be so peaceful. When, on a moonlit night, you see a wide village street with its peasant houses, haystacks, sleeping willows, tranquility enters the soul; in this calm, wrapped in the shade of night, free from struggle, anxiety and passion, everything is gentle, wistful, beautiful, and it seems that the stars are watching over it tenderly and with love, and that this is taking place somewhere unearthly, and that all is well. On the left, at the edge of the village, the countryside began; it was visible for a long way, as far as the horizon, and to its full extent this open land was lit by moonlight, and there was neither movement nor sound.
“Yes, there you have it,” repeated Ivan Ivanych. “And you know, the way we live in the city, the closeness, crowded together, how we sign unnecessary documents, play cards, isn’t that really a shell? And the way we lead our whole lives among loafers, people pursuing lawsuits, fools, idle women, talking and listening to all manner of nonsense, isn’t that really a shell? Look, if you like I’ll tell you an interesting story.”
“No, it’s past time to sleep,” Burkin said. “Tell me tomorrow.”
They both went into the shed and lay down in the hay. And soon both covered themselves and dozed off until suddenly they heard a light step, tup, tup . . . Someone was walking not far from the shed, went a few steps, stopped, and in a minute, once again, tup, tup. . . The dogs stirred.
“That’s Mavra walking past,” Burkin said.
The steps died away.
“You watch and listen while they tell lies,” pronounced Ivan Ivanych, turning on his other side, “and they call you a fool because you put up with the lies; you put up with injuries, humiliations, not daring to declare openly that you are on the side of the free, honest people, and you lie to yourself, you smile, and all this for the sake of a loaf of bread and warm coals, for the sake of a propriety that’s not worth a penny – no, it’s impossible to live any longer like this.”
“Well, that’s from another opera, Ivan Ivanych,” the teacher said. “Let’s go to sleep.”
And after ten minutes Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanych kept turning from side to side and sighing, and then he got up, went outside again, and sitting by the door, began to smoke his pipe.
2 Gooseberries
“Before, when we were in the village elder’s hut,” Burkin said, “you had it in mind to tell some story.”
“Yes, I wanted to tell you about my brother.”
Ivan Ivanych gave a deep sigh and lit his pipe, ready to begin telling his story, but just at that moment the rain came on. And within five minutes a heavy rain was pouring down on all sides, and it was hard to foresee when it might end. Ivan Ivanych and Burkin stood hesitating; the dogs, already soaked, put their tails between their legs and looked toward them pathetically.
“We have to find shelter somewhere,” Burkin said. “Let’s go to Alyokhin’s. It’s close by.”
“Let’s go.”
They turned aside and walked steadily through the mown fields, first straight on, then bearing right until they reached the road. Soon poplars came into sight, an orchard, then the red roofs of the barns; a river shone and the view opened out on a wide pool with a mill and a white bathhouse. This was Sophina, where Alyokhin lived.