‘‘This forest is by Shishkin,’’19 her husband explained to her. ‘‘He always paints one and the same thing... But pay attention to this: such purple snow has never existed... And this boy’s left arm is shorter than his right.’’
When everyone was tired, and Laptev went looking for Kostya so as to go home, Yulia stopped in front of a small landscape and gazed at it indifferently. In the foreground a rivulet, a wooden bridge across it, a path on the other side disappearing into the dark grass, a field, then to the right a piece of forest, a bonfire nearby: it must have been a night pasture. And in the distance, the last glow of the sunset.
Yulia imagined herelf walking across the little bridge, then down the path further and further, and it is quiet all around, drowsy corncrakes cry, the fire flickers far ahead. And for some reason, it suddenly seemed to her that she had seen those same clouds that stretched across the red part of the sky, and the forest, and the fields long ago and many times; she felt lonely, and she wanted to walk, walk, walk down the path; and where the sunset’s glow was, there rested the reflection of something unearthly, eternal.
‘‘How well it’s painted!’’ she said, surprised that she had suddenly understood the painting. ‘‘Look, Alyosha! Do you see how quiet it is?’’
She tried to explain why she liked this landscape so much, but neither her husband nor Kostya understood her. She kept looking at the landscape with a sad smile, and the fact that the others found nothing special in it troubled her; then she began walking around the rooms again and looking at the pictures, she wanted to understand them, and it no longer seemed to her that many pictures at the exhibition were alike. When, on returning home, she paid attention for the first time to the big painting that hung over the grand piano in the drawing room, she felt animosity towards it and said:
‘‘Who on earth wants to have such pictures!’’
And after that the gilded cornices, the Venetian mirrors with flowers, and pictures like the one that hung over the grand piano, as well as the discussions of her husband and Kostya about art, aroused in her a feeling of boredom and vexation and sometimes even hatred.
Life flowed on as usual from day to day, promising nothing special. The theater season was over, the warm time was coming. The weather remained excellent all the while. One morning the Laptevs were going to the district court to hear Kostya, who had been appointed by the court to defend someone. They were delayed at home and arrived at the court when the examination of the witnesses had already begun. A reserve soldier was accused of burglary. Many of the witnesses were washerwomen; they testified that the accused often visited the woman who ran the laundry; on the eve of the Elevation, 20 he came late at night and began asking for money for the hair of the dog, but no one gave him any; then he left, but came back an hour later and brought some beer and mint gingerbreads for the girls. They drank and sang songs almost till daybreak, and when they looked in the morning, the lock on the attic door was broken and laundry was missing: three men’s shirts, a skirt, and two sheets. Kostya asked each witness mockingly whether she had drunk the beer brought by the accused on the eve of the Elevation. Evidently what he was driving at was that the washerwomen had stolen from themselves. He delivered his speech without the least excitement, looking angrily at the jury.
He explained what was burglary and what was simple theft. He spoke in great detail, persuasively, displaying an extraordinary capacity for talking at length and in a serious tone about something everybody always knew. And it was hard to understand what he was actually after. From his long speech, the foreman of the jury could only come to the following conclusion: ‘‘There was burglary but no theft, because the washerwomen drank up the laundry themselves, or if there was theft, then there was no burglary.’’ But he evidently said precisely what was necessary, because his speech moved the jury and the public, and they liked it very much. When the verdict of acquittal was announced, Yulia nodded to Kostya and later firmly shook his hand.
In May the Laptevs moved to their summer house in Sokolniki. By then Yulia was pregnant.
XIII
MORE THAN A year went by. In Sokolniki, not far from the tracks of the Yaroslavl Railway, Yulia and Yartsev were sitting on the grass; a little to one side, Kochevoy lay with his hands behind his head, looking at the sky. All three had had enough of walking and were waiting for the local six o’clock train to pass before going home to have tea.
‘‘Mothers see something extraordinary in their children— that’s the way nature arranged it,’’ Yulia was saying. ‘‘A mother stands for hours by a little bed, looking at her baby’s little ears, little eyes, little nose, and admiring them. If someone else kisses her child, the poor woman thinks it gives the person great pleasure. And the mother talks about nothing but her child. I know this weakness in mothers and keep an eye on myself, but really, my Olya is extraordinary. How she gazes while she’s nursing! How she laughs! She’s only eight months old, but by God, I haven’t seen such intelligent eyes even in a three-year-old.’’
‘‘Tell us, by the way,’’ asked Yartsev, ‘‘whom do you love more: your husband or your child?’’
Yulia shrugged her shoulders.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ve never loved my husband very much, and Olya is essentially my first love. You know, I didn’t marry Alexei for love. Before, I used to be stupid, I suffered, I kept thinking I’d ruined his life and mine, but now I see there’s no need for any love, it’s all nonsense.’’
‘‘But if it isn’t love, what feeling binds you to your husband? Why do you live with him?’’
‘‘I don’t know... Just so, out of habit, it must be. I respect him, I miss him when he’s away for long, but that—isn’t love. He’s an intelligent, honest man, and that’s enough for my happiness. He’s very kind, simple...’
‘‘Alyosha’s intelligent, Alyosha’s kind,’’ said Kostya, lazily raising his head, ‘‘but, my dear, to find out that he’s intelligent, kind, and interesting, you have to go through hell and high water with him... And what’s the use of his kindness or his intelligence? He’ll dish you up as much money as you like, that he can do, but if there’s a need for strength of character, to resist some brazenheaded boor, he gets embarrassed and loses heart. People like your gentle Alexis are wonderful people, but they’re not fit for struggle. And generally, they’re not fit for anything.’’
At last the train appeared. Perfectly pink steam poured from the smokestack and rose above the grove, and two windows in the last car suddenly flashed so brightly in the sun that it was painful to look.
‘‘Teatime!’’ said Yulia Sergeevna, getting up.
She had gained weight recently, and her gait was now ladylike, slightly lazy.
‘‘But all the same, it’s not good without love,’’ said Yartsev, walking after her. ‘‘We just keep talking and reading about love, but we love little ourselves, and that really isn’t good.’’
‘‘It’s all trifles, Ivan Gavrilych,’’ said Yulia. ‘‘That’s not where happiness lies.’’
They had tea in a little garden where mignonette, stock, and nicotiana were blooming and the early gladioli were already opening. By Yulia Sergeevna’s face, Yartsev and Kochevoy could see that she was living through a happy time of inner peace and balance, and that she needed nothing besides what was already there, and they themselves felt inwardly peaceful and well. Whatever any of them said, it all came out intelligent and to the point. The pines were beautiful, the resin smelled more wonderful than ever, and the cream was very tasty, and Sasha was a nice, intelligent girl...