erect, and he had to be made to go to sleep, otherwise he would go mad
with excitement and joy.
The men who shared the compartment with me were by this time out
in the corridor, smoking. I suppose they were waiting for me to get
dressed and come out, but I was still lying there, daydreaming.
We had arranged that Sanya's sister (whom I always called Sasha in
my letters to distinguish her from my Sanya) was to meet me at the
railway station—she, "or Pyotr, if I am unwell", she had written. She had
several times made passing mention of her indisposition, but her letters
were so cheerful, with little drawings in them, that I attached no
importance to these remarks. I had an inkling of what it was about,
though. In one of her letters Pyotr was depicted with a paint brush in
one hand and an infant in the other, the two of them being remarkably
alike.
Everybody had their hats and coats on now, and my fellow travellers
helped to get my suitcase down from the rack. It was rather heavy,
because I had taken with me everything I possessed, even several
interesting specimens of rock. I was so excited. Leningrad! Suddenly,
between the passengers' heads, the platform came into view, and I
began looking out for the Skovorodnikovs. But the platform slid past
and there was no sign of them. Then I recollected with annoyance that I
had not wired them the number of my carriage.
A porter lugged my case out and we stood together on the platform
until everybody had walked past. The Skovorodnikovs were not there.
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Sasha in one of her letters had described in detail, even giving a
sketch, how to get to their place in Karl Liebknecht Prospekt. But I got it
all mixed up and coming out into Nevsky Prospekt I asked a polite
Leningrader in a pince-nez: "Can you please tell me how to get to
Nevsky Prospekt?"
It was a disgraceful blunder, and I have never told a living soul about
it.
Then I got into a tram crush, and the only thing I noticed was that the
streets were rather empty compared with Moscow. So was the one I got
off at and down which I dragged my suitcase. And there was house No.
79. "Berenstein, Photographic Artist". This was the place.
I was standing on the second floor landing, rubbing my fingers, which
were numb from carrying that accursed suitcase, when the front door
banged downstairs and a lanky figure in a mackintosh with his cap in his
hand dashed past me, taking the steps two at a time.
"Pyotr!" I cried.
He was worlds away at the moment from any thought of me, for he
stopped, glanced at me, and, finding nothing of interest in me, made a
movement to run on. Some dim recollection, however, made him pause.
"Don't you recognise me?"
"Why, of course I do! Katya, I'm coming from the hospital," he said in
a tone of despair. "Sasha was taken in last night."
"No, really?"
"Yes. Come along in. That's why we couldn't come to meet you."
"What's the matter with her?"
"Didn't she write you?"
"No."
"Come along, I'll tell you all about it."
Evidently the family of the photographic artist Berenstein took a great
interest in the affairs of Sasha and Pyotr, for a slight, smartly dressed
woman met Pyotr in the hall and inquired with some agitation: "Well,
how is she?"
He said he knew nothing, he had not been allowed to go in, but at that
moment another woman, just as slight and elegant, came running out
and asked agitatedly: "Well, how is she?"
And Pyotr had to explain to her again that he knew nothing and had
not been allowed to go in.
Sasha was expecting a child, that is why they had taken her to the
hospital.
"Why are you so upset, Pyotr? I'm sure everything will be fine."
We were alone in his room and he was sitting opposite me hunched
up in an armchair. His face looked bleak and he clenched his teeth as if
in pain when I said that everything would be fine.
"You don't know. She's very ill, she has the flu and she's coughing. She
said it would be all right too."
He introduced me to the family of the photographic artist—to his little
grey-haired, graceful wife and her as graceful little grey-haired sister.
The head of the family had moved to Moscow, for some reason, but they
showed me his portrait, that of a well-favoured man with a fine head of
hair wearing a velvet jacket-your true photographic artist, perhaps more
of an artist than a photographer.
I went to sleep in Sasha's bed, but Pyotr said he did not feel sleepy
and settled down with a book by the telephone. The nurse at the
239
hospital phoned regularly every half hour. I fell asleep after one of these
calls, but only for a minute I believe, because someone started knocking
on the wall with short, sharp raps, and I jumped up, not knowing where
I was and what was happening. There was a light in the passage and
voices sounded there, as of several people talking loudly all together.
The next moment Pyotr dashed into the room, looking like some
elongated monster, and started a wild dance.
Then he leaned over the table and began to take something off the
wall.
"Pyotr, what is it? What's happened?"
"A boy!" he yelled. "A boy!"
All kinds of things started dropping around as he tried to take from
the wall a large portrait in a heavy frame. First he knelt on the table,
then stood on it, and tried to get between the wall and the picture.
"And Sasha? How's Sasha? You're crazy! Why are you taking that
picture down?"
"I promised to give it to Mrs Berenstein if everything went well."
He clambered down from the table, kissed me and burst into tears.
And this morning I met Sanya.
When the train appeared a ripple of excitement ran down the
platform. Though there were not many people there, I stood well back
from them so that he could easily spot me. I was calm, I believe. Only it
seemed to me that everything was happening very slowly—the train
drew slowly alongside the platform, and the first passengers slowly
stepped down and came towards me ever so slowly. They came and
came, but there was no sign of Sanya, and my heart sank. He had not
arrived.
"Katya!"
I turned and saw him standing by the first carriage. I ran to him,
feeling everything within me quivering with excitement and happiness.
We, too, walked very slowly down the platform, stopping every
minute to look at each other. I don't remember what we talked about
those first few minutes. Sanya was asking me hurried questions and I
was answering almost without hearing myself.
We went to Astoria, as Sanya said it was more convenient for him to
stay at a hotel, and from there we phoned Pyotr. He let out a wild whoop
when I told him that Sanya was standing beside me and trying to snatch
the receiver out of my hand. They roared at each other disjointedly:
"Hey! How goes it, old chap, eh?" In the end they came to an
understanding-Sanya was to go to the clinic and together they would try
to get in to see Sasha. "And me?" Sanya took me in his arms.
"From now on, where I go, you go!" he said. "And that's that!" They did
not let us see Sasha, of course, but he sent her a note and received her