"To whom can I turn now, my darling?" she sobbed when she had buried her husband. "How can I live without you, wretched and unhappy as I a!li? Pity me, good people, left all alone in the world—"
She wore a black dress with white cuffs and gave up wearing hat and gloves for good. She hardly ever left the house except to go to church or to visit her hus- band's grave, and at home she lived like a nun. Only at the end of six months did she take off her widow's weeds and open the shutters. Sometimes in the morn- ing she was seen with her cook going to market for pro- visions, but how she lived now and what went on in her house could only be guessed. People based their guesses on such facts as that they saw her having tea with the veterinary in her little garden, he reading the newspaper aloud to her, and that, meeting an acquaint- ance at the post office, she would say:
''There is no proper veterinary inspection in our to^, and that's why there is so much illness around. So often you hear of people getting ill from the milk or catching infections from horses and cows. When you come down to it, the health of domestic animals must be as well cared for as the health of human beings."
She now repeated the veterinary's words and held the same opinions about everything that he did. It was plain that she could not live even for one year without an attachment and that she had found new happiness in the wing of her house. Another woman would have been condemned for this, but of Olenka no one could think ilclass="underline" everything about her was so unequivocal. Nei- ther she nor the veterinary mentioned to anyone the change that had occurred in their relations; indeed, they tried to conceal it, but they didn't succeed, be- cause Olenka could not keep a secret. When he had visitors, his regimental colleagues, she, pouring the tea or serving the supper, would begin to talk of the cattle plague, of the pearl disease, of the municipal slaughter- houses. He would be terribly embarrassed and when the guests had gone, he would grasp her by the arms and hiss angrily:
''I've asked you before not to talk about things that you don't understand! When veterinaries speak among themselves, please don't butt in! It's really annoying!"
She would look at him amazed and alarmed and ask, "But Volodichka, what shall I talk about?"
And with tears in :her eyes she would hug him and beg him not to be angry, and both of them were happy. Yet this happiness did not last long. The veterinary
left, left forever, with his regiment, which was moved to some remote place, it may have been Siberia. And Olenka remained alone.
Now she was quite alone. Her father had died long ago, and his armchair stood in the attic, covered with dust and minus one leg. She got thinner and lost her looks, and passers-by in the street did not glance at her and smile as they used to. Obviously, her best years were over, were behind her, and now a new kind of life was beginning for her, an unfamiliar kind that did not bear thinking of. In the evening Olenka sat on her porch, and heard the band play at The Tivoli and the rockets go off, but this no longer suggested anything to her mind. She looked apathetically at the empty court- yard, thought of nothing, and later, when night came, she would go to bed and dream of the empty court- yard. She ate and drank as though involuntarily.
Above all, and worst of all, she no longer had any opinions whatever. She saw objects about her and un- derstood what was going on, but she could not form an opinion about anything and did not know what to talk about. And how terrible it is not to have any opinions! You see, for instance, a bottle, or the rain, or a peasant driving in a cart, but what is the bottle for, or the rain, or the peasant, what is the meaning of them, you can't tell, and you couldn't, even if they paid you a thousand rubles. When Kukin was about, or Pustovalov or, later, the veterinary, Olenka could explain it all and give her opinions about anything you like, but now there was the same emptiness in her head and in her heart as in her courtyard. It was weird, and she felt as bitter as if she had been eating wormwood.
Little by little the town was extending in all direc- tions. Gypsy Road was now a regular street, and where
The Tivoli had been and the lumberyards, houses had sprung up and lanes had multiplied. How swiftly time passes! Olcnka's house had taken on a shabby look, the roof was rusty, the shed sloped, and the whole yard was invaded by burdock and stinging nettles. Olenka herself had aged and grown homely. In the summer she sat on the porch, feeling empty and dreary and bitter, as before; in the winter she sat by the window and stared at the snow. Sometimes at the first breath of spring or when the wind brought her the chime of church bells, memories of the past would overwhelm her, her heart would contract sweetly and her eyes would brim over with tears. But this only lasted a mo- ment, and then there was again emptiness and once more she was possessed by a sense of the futility of life; Trot, the black kitten, rubbed against her and purred softly, but Olenka was not affected by these feline ca- resses. Is that what she needed? She needed an affection that would take possession of her whole being, her soul, her mind, that would give her ideas, a purpose in life, that would warm her aging blood. And she would shake the kitten off her lap, and say irritably: "Scat! Scat! Don't stick to me!"
And so it went, day after day, year after year, and no joy, no opinion! Whatever Mavra the cook would say, was well enough.
One hot July day, toward evening, when the cattle were being driven home and the yard was filled with clouds of dust, suddenly someone knocked at the gate. Olenka herself went to open it and was dumfounded at what she saw: at the gate stood Smirnin, the veteri- nary, already gray, and wearing civilian clothes. She suddenly recalled everything and, unable to control her- self, burst into tears, silently letting her head drop on his breast. She was so agitated that she scarcely noticed how the two of them entered the house and sat do^ to tea.
"My dear," she m^mured, trembling with joy, "Vla- dimir Platonych, however did you get here?"
"I have come here for good," he explained. "I have retired from the army and want to see what it's like to be on my own and live a settled life. And besides, my son is ready for high school. I have made up with my wife, you know."
"Where is she?..
"She's at the hotel with the boy, and I'm out looking for lodgings."
"Goodness, Vladimir Platonych, take my house! You don't need to look further! Good Lord, and you can have it free," exclaimed Olenka, all in a flutter and be- ginning to cry again. "You live here in the house, and the wing will do for me. Heavens, I'm so glad!"
The next day they began painting the roof and white- washing the walls, and Olenka, her arms akimbo, walked about the yard, giving orders. The old smile had come back to her face, and she was lively and spry, as though she had waked from a long sleep. Presently the veteri- nary's wife arrived, a thin, homely lady with bobbed hair who looked as if she were given to caprices. With her was the little boy, Sasha, small for his age (he was going on ten), chubby, with clear blue eyes and dim- ples in his cheeks.
No sooner did he walk into the yard than he began chasing the cat, and immediately his eager, joyous laughter rang out.
"Auntie, is that your cat?" he asked Olenka. 'When she has little ones, please give us a kitten. Mama is terribly afraid of mice."
Olenka chatted with him, then gave him tea, and her heart suddenly grew warm and contracted sweetly, as if this little boy were her own son. And in the evening, as he sat in the dining-room doing his homework, she looked at him with pity and tenderness and whispered:
"My darling, my pretty one, my little one! How blond you are, and so clever!"
"An island," he was reciting from the book, "is a body of land entirely surrounded by water."
"An island is a body of land . • ." she repeated and this was the first opinion she expressed with conviction after so many years of silence and mental vacuity.