Approaching the church and then listening to the quartermaster, he waited every second for a rider to appear from behind the wall and invite the officers to tea, but…the quartermaster’s report ended, the officers dismounted and wandered off to the village, and the rider did not appear…
“Rabbek will find out at once from his peasants that we have come and will send for us,” Ryabovich thought, going into the cottage and not understanding why his comrade was lighting a candle and the orderlies were hurrying to start the samovars…
A heavy anxiety came over him. He lay down, then got up again and looked out the window to see if the rider was coming. But there was no rider. He lay down again, got up half an hour later, and, unable to bear his anxiety, went outside and walked towards the church. The square by the wall was dark and deserted…Three soldiers stood in a row at the very top of the slope and were silent. Seeing Ryabovich, they roused themselves and saluted. He returned the salute and started down the familiar path.
On the other bank, the whole sky was flooded with crimson color: the moon was rising; two peasant women, talking loudly, walked about in the kitchen garden tearing off cabbage leaves; beyond the kitchen garden, several cottages showed darkly…On the near bank everything was the same as in May: the path, the bushes, the willows hanging over the water…only the brave nightingale was not singing and there was no smell of poplars and young grass.
On reaching the garden, Ryabovich looked through the gate. The garden was dark and quiet…He could only see the white trunks of the nearest birches and a small part of the alley; the rest all merged into a black mass. Ryabovich greedily listened and peered, but after standing there for a quarter of an hour and not hearing or seeing anything, he trudged back…
He approached the river. Before him the general’s bathhouse and the sheets hanging on the rails of the little bridge showed white. He went up on the little bridge, stood there, and without any need touched a sheet. The sheet turned out to be rough and cold. He looked down at the water…The river flowed swiftly and the gurgling around the pilings of the bathhouse was barely audible. The red moon was reflected near the left bank; little ripples ran across its reflection, spreading it, tearing it to pieces, and, it seemed, wishing to carry it off…
“How stupid! How stupid!” thought Ryabovich, looking at the flowing water. “Not smart at all!”
Now, when he expected nothing, the incident with the kiss, his impatience, vague hopes, and disappointment appeared to him in a clear light. It no longer seemed strange to him that he had not gone on waiting for the general’s rider and that he would never see the one who had accidentally kissed him instead of someone else; on the contrary, it would be strange if he were to see her…
The water flowed who knows where and why. It had flowed the same way in May; from the small river in the month of May it had poured into a big river, from the river into the sea, then it evaporated, turned into rain, and maybe that same water was now flowing again before Ryabovich’s eyes…What for? Why?
And the whole world, the whole of life appeared to Ryabovich as an incomprehensible, pointless joke…And taking his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he again recalled how fate in the person of an unknown woman had unwittingly been kind to him, recalled his summer dreams and images, and his life seemed to him extraordinarily meager, miserable, and colorless…
When he went back to his cottage, he did not find any of his comrades. The orderly reported that they had all gone to “General Fontryabkin,” who had sent a rider for them…For a moment joy rose in Ryabovich’s breast, but he extinguished it at once, went to bed, and to spite his fate, as if wishing to vex it, did not go to the general’s.
1887
BOYS
“VOLODYA’S HERE!” someone shouted outside.
“Volodechka’s here!” hollered Natalya, running into the dining room. “Oh, my God!”
The whole Korolyov family, who had been expecting their Volodya to come any moment, rushed to the windows. At the entrance stood a wide sledge, and from the troika of white horses a thick mist rose. The sledge was empty, because Volodya was already standing in the front hall and undoing his bashlyk with red, cold fingers.1 His school coat, cap, galoshes, and the hair at his temples were covered with rime, and the whole of him from head to foot gave off such a tasty, frosty smell that, looking at him, you wanted to get chilled and say “Brrr!” His mother and aunt rushed to embrace and kiss him, Natalya fell at his feet and began pulling off his felt boots, his sisters let out squeals, doors creaked and slammed, and Volodya’s father, in his shirtsleeves and with scissors in his hand, ran to the front hall and cried out in alarm:
“We’ve been expecting you since yesterday! A good trip? All’s well? Lord God, let the boy greet his father! What, am I not his father?”
“Bow-wow!” bellowed the bass voice of Milord, a huge black dog, his tail knocking against the walls and furniture.
Everything merged into one general, joyful noise that went on for about two minutes. When the first impulse of joy passed, the Korolyovs noticed that, besides Volodya, there was another small person in the front hall, wrapped in kerchiefs, shawls, and bashlyks, and covered with rime. He stood motionless in the corner, in the shadow of a big fox-fur overcoat.
“Volodechka, who is this?” his mother asked in a whisper.
“Ah!” Volodya caught himself. “I have the honor of introducing my friend Lentilkin, a junior in my school…I’ve brought him for a visit.”
“How nice, you’re very welcome!” the father said joyfully. “Excuse me, I’m in my house clothes…Come in! Natalya, help Mr. Ventilkin out of his coat! My God, chase this dog away! What a punishment!”
A short time later Volodya and his friend Lentilkin, stunned by the noisy reception and still rosy from the cold, were sitting at the table having tea. The winter sun, passing through the snow and frosty patterns on the windows, glimmered on the samovar and bathed its pure rays in a rinsing bowl. The room was warm, and the boys felt how, unwilling to yield to each other, warmth and frost both tickled their chilled bodies.
“Well, soon it will be Christmas!” the father said in a singsong voice, rolling a cigarette of reddish-brown tobacco. “It feels like no time since it was summer, and your mother wept seeing you off! Yet here you are again! Time flies, lad! Before you can say ‘Ah!’ old age will be upon you. Mr. Mentilkin, help yourself, don’t be shy! We’re simple folk.”
Volodya’s three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha—the eldest was eleven—sat at the table and did not take their eyes off the new acquaintance. Lentilkin was the same age and height as Volodya, but not so plump and white; he was thin, swarthy, and covered with freckles. His hair was bristly, his eyes narrow, his lips thick; generally he was quite unattractive, and if he had not been wearing a school jacket, by his appearance he might have been taken for a scullery maid’s son. He was sullen, silent all the time, and never once smiled. Looking at him, the girls immediately figured out that he must be a very intelligent and educated man. He was thinking about something all the time, and was so taken up with his thoughts that, when he was asked about something, he gave a start, shook his head, and asked them to repeat the question.
The girls noticed that Volodya, always cheerful and talkative, also spoke little this time, did not smile at all, and did not even seem glad that he had come home. While they sat over tea, he addressed his sisters only once, and that with somehow strange words. He pointed to the samovar and said:
“In California they drink gin instead of tea.”
He, too, was taken up with some thoughts, and, judging by the glances he exchanged with his friend Lentilkin, the boys’ thoughts were the same.