VII

The long autumn sunset was dying. The narrow crimson slit glowing on the edge of the horizon, between a bluish cloud and the earth, faded out. Now earth and trees and sky could no longer be seen. Overhead big stars shimmered with their eyelashes in the blackness of night, and the blue beam of the lighthouse shot upwards in a thin column that seemed to splash into a liquid, blurred circle of light as it struck the firmament. Moths fluttered against the glass hoods over the candles. In the front garden the star-shaped flowers of the tobacco-plant gave off a stronger scent in the cool darkness.

Speshnikov, the vice-governor and Colonel Ponamaryov had left long ago, promising to send the horses back from the tramway terminus to pick up the general. The remaining guests sat on the terrace. Despite his protests General Anosov was made to put on his greatcoat, and his feet were wrapped in a warm rug. He sat between the two sisters, with a bottle of his favourite Pommard claret in front of him. They waited on him eagerly, filling his thin glass with the heavy, thick wine, passing the matches, cutting cheese for him, and so on. The old general all but purred with bliss.

“Yes, autumn’s coming,” said the old man, gazing at the candle-light and thoughtfully shaking his head. “Autumn. And I must start packing up. What a pity! It would have been so nice to stay here at the seaside, in ease and quiet, now that the weather’s so fine!”

“Why not do so, Grandad?” said Vera.

“I can’t, my dear, I can’t. Duty calls. My leave is over. But I certainly wish I could. How the roses smell! I can feel it from here. And in summer the flowers somehow had no scent, except the white acacias – and they smelled of sweets.”

Vena took two little roses – pink and carmine – out of a small jug and stuck them into the buttonhole of the general’s greatcoat.

“Thanks, Vera dear.” He bent his head lo smell the flowers, and smiled the friendly smile of a kind old man.

“I remember when we took up our quarters in Bucharest. One day as I was walking down the street there came a strong smell of roses. I stopped and saw two soldiers, with a line cut-glass bottle of attar standing between them. They had already oiled their boots and rifle-locks with it. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ I asked. ‘It’s some sort of oil, sir. We put some of it in our gruel but it’s no good – rasps the tongue – but it smells all right.’ I gave them a ruble and they gladly let me have it. The bottle was no more than half-full, but considering the high price of the stuff it would fetch at least two hundred rubles. The soldiers were quite content, and they said, ‘Here’s another thing, sir. Peas of some kind. We tried hard to boil them, but the accursed stuff won’t get soft.’ It was coffee-beans, so I told them, ‘That’s only good for the Turks – it’s of no use to soldiers.’ Fortunately they hadn’t eaten any opium. In some places I had seen opium tablets trampled into the mud.”

“Tell us frankly, Grandad,” said Anna, “did you ever know fear in battle? Were you afraid?”

“How strangely you talk, Anna. Of course I was afraid. Please don’t believe those who say they weren’t afraid and think the whizzing of bullets the sweetest music on earth. Only cranks or braggarts can talk like that. Everybody’s afraid, only some shake in their boots with fear, while others keep themselves in hand. And though fear always remains the same, the ability to keep cool improves with practice; hence all the heroes and brave men. That’s how it is. But once I was frightened almost to death.”

“Tell us about it, Grandad,” both sisters begged in unison.

They still listened to Anosov’s stories with the same rapture as in their early childhood. Anna had spread out her elbows on the table quite like a child, propping her chin on her cupped hands. There was a sort of cosy charm about his unhurried, simple narrative. The somewhat bookish words and figures of speech which he used in telling his war memories sounded strange and clumsy. You would have thought he was imitating some nice ancient story-teller.

“It’s a very short story,” he responded. “It happened at Shipka in winter, after I was shell-shocked. There were four of us in our dug-out. That was when something terrible befell me. One morning when I rose from bed, I fancied I was Nikolai and not Yakov, and I couldn’t undeceive myself, much as I tried. Sensing that my mind was becoming deranged, I shouted for some water to be brought to me, wet my head with it, and recovered my reason.”

“I can imagine how many victories you won over women there, Yakov Mikhailovich,” said Jennie Reiter, the pianist. “You must have been very handsome in your youth.”

“Oh, but our Grandad is handsome – even now!” cried Anna.

“I wasn’t handsome,” said Anosov, with a calm smile. “But I wasn’t shunned, either. There was a moving incident in Bucharest. When we marched into the city, the people welcomed us in the main square with gunfire, which damaged many windows; but where water had been placed in glasses the windows were unharmed. This is how I learned that. Coming to the lodgings assigned to me, I saw on the window-sill a low cage and on the cage a large cut-glass bottle with clear water that had goldfish swimming in it, and a canary perched among them. A canary in water! I was greatly surprised, but inspecting it I saw that the bottle had a broad bottom with a deep hollow in it, so that the canary could easily fly in and perch there.

“I walked into the house and saw a very pretty Bulgarian girl. I showed her my admission slip and took the opportunity to ask her why the panes in the house were undamaged after the gunfire, and she told me it was because of the water. She also told me about the canary; how dull-witted I had been! While we were talking, our eyes met, a spark flew between us like electricity, and I felt that I had fallen headlong in love – passionately and irrevocably.”

The old man paused and slowly sipped the black wine.

“But you confessed it to her afterwards, didn’t you?” asked the pianist.

“Well, yes, of course. But I did it without words. This is how it came about – ”

“I hope you won’t make us blush, Grandad?” Anna remarked, smiling slyly.

“Not at all, the affair was perfectly respectable. You see, the townspeople didn’t give us the same welcome everywhere, but in Bucharest the people were so easy-going with us that one day when I started playing a violin the girls at once came in their Sunday dresses and began to dance, and then it became a daily habit.

“On an evening like that, when the moon was shining, I went into the passage where my Bulgarian girl had disappeared. On seeing me she pretended to be picking dry rose petals, which, incidentally, are gathered there by the sackful. But I put my arms round her, held her close to my heart and kissed her several times.

“From then on, when the moon and stars came out in the sky, I would hurry to my beloved and forget the day’s worries while I was with her. And when the time came for us to march on we swore eternal love, and parted for ever.”

“Is that all?” asked Lyudmila Lvovna, disappointed.

“What else did you expect?” replied the general.

“You will pardon me for saying so, Yakov Mikhailovich, but that isn’t love – it’s just an army officer’s camp adventure.”

“I don’t know, really, whether it was love or some other sentiment.”

“What I mean is, have you never known genuine love? A love that – well, in short, the kind of love that is holy and pure and eternal – and unearthly – Have you never experienced love like that?”

“I can’t tell, honestly,” faltered the old man, rising from his arm-chair. “I suppose not. At first, when I was young, I had no time, what with merry-making and cards and war. It seemed as if life and youth and good health would last for ever. Then I looked back and saw that I was already an old wreck. And now, Vera dear, please don’t keep me any longer. I’ll say goodbye to you all. Hussar,” he said to Bakhtinsky, “the night is warm, let’s go and meet our carriage.”

“I’ll go with you, Grandad,” said Vera.

“So will I,” added Anna.

Before leaving Vera stepped up to her husband.

“There’s a red case in my drawer,” she said to him softly. “In it you’ll find a letter. Read it.”

VIII

Anna and Bakhtinsky led the way, followed at some twenty paces by the general, arm-in-arm with Vera. The night was so black that during the first few minutes, before their eyes got used to the darkness, they had to grope for the way with their feet. Anosov, who despite his age still boasted surprisingly keen eyesight, had to help his companion. From time to time his big cold hand fondly stroked Vera’s hand, which lay lightly on the bend of his sleeve.

“She’s a funny woman, that Lyudmila Lvovna,” he said suddenly, as if continuing aloud the thoughts that had been going through his head. “I’ve seen it so often in my life: as soon as a lady gets past fifty, especially if she’s a widow or a spinster, she longs to hang about somebody else’s love. She either spies, gloats and gossips, or offers to take care of your happiness, or works up a lot of treacly talk about exalted love. But I would say that nowadays people no longer know how to love. I see no real love. Nor did I see any in my time!”

“How can that be, Grandad?” Vera objected as she squeezed his arm slightly. “What slander! You were married yourself, weren’t you? Then you must have loved.”

“It doesn’t mean a thing, Vera. Do you know how I got married? She was a peach of a girl, young and fresh, and she would sit by my side, her bosom heaving under the blouse. She’d lower her beautiful long eyelashes, and blush suddenly. The skin of her cheeks was so delicate, her neck so white and innocent, and her hands so soft and warm. God! Her papa and mamma slunk about us, eavesdropped at the door, and looked wistfully at me – with the gaze of faithful dogs. And I’d get little swift pecks when I was leaving. At tea her foot would touch mine as if by chance. Well, they got me before I knew where I was. ‘Dear Nikita Antonovich, I have come to ask you for the hand of your daughter. Believe me, this angel – ’ Before I had finished the papa’s eyes were moist, and he started to kiss me. ‘My dear boy! I guessed it long ago. May God keep you. Only take good care of our treasure!’ Three months later the angelic treasure was going about the house in a shabby dressing-gown and slippers on her bare feet, her thin hair unkempt and hung with curl-papers. She wrangled with orderlies like a fishwife and made a fool of herself with young officers, lisping, giggling, rolling her eyes. In the presence of others she for some reason called me Jacques, pronouncing it with a languid, long-drawn nasal twang, ‘Oh, Ja-a-acques.’ A spendthrift and a hypocrite, slovenly and greedy. And her eyes were always so insincere. It’s all over now, finished and done with. I’m even grateful to that wretched actor. It was lucky we had no children.”

“Did you forgive them, Grandad?”

“ ‘Forgive’ isn’t the word, Vera dear. At first I was like a madman. If I’d seen them then I’d certainly have killed them. Then the whole thing gradually wore off, and nothing was left but contempt. So much the better. God warded off useless bloodshed. Besides, I was spared the lot of most husbands. Indeed, what would have become of me if it hadn’t been for that disgusting incident? A pack-camel, a despicable abettor and protector, a milk cow, a screen, some sort of household utensil. No! It’s all for the best, Vera.”

“No, no, Grandad, the old grievance still rankles in your heart, if you’ll allow me to say so. And you extend your own unhappy experience to all mankind. Take Vasya and me. You couldn’t call our marriage an unhappy one, could you?”

Anosov did not speak for a while.

“All right, let’s say your case is an exception,” he said at length reluctantly. “But why do people generally get married? Let’s take the woman. She’s ashamed of remaining single, especially after all her friends have married. It’s unbearable to be a burden on the family. She wants to be mistress of the house, mother of a family, enjoy independence. Then there’s the need – the outright physical need – for motherhood, and for making a nest of her own. Men’s motives are different. First of all they get sick of their bachelor life, the disorder in their rooms, restaurant meals, dirt, cigarette ends, torn or unmatching linen, debts, unceremonious friends, and so on, and so forth. Secondly, they feel that it’s healthier and more economical to live in a family. In the third place, they think that after they’ve died, a part of them will be left in their children – an illusion of immortality. In the fourth place, there’s the temptation of innocence, as in my case. And sometimes there is the consideration of a nice dowry. But where does love come in? Disinterested, self-sacrificing love that expects no reward? The love said to be ‘stronger than death’? I mean that kind of love for which it’s not an effort but sheer joy to perform any feat, give your life, accept martyrdom. Wait, Vera, are you going to talk to me about your Vasya again? Believe me, I like him. He’s all right. Who knows if the future may not show his love in a light of great beauty. But try to understand what kind of love I am talking about. Love must be a tragedy. The greatest mystery in the world! No comforts, calculations or compromises must affect it.”

“Have you ever seen such love, Grandad?” Vera asked softly.

“No,” the old man replied firmly. “I know of two instances that come close to it. But one of them was prompted by stupidity, and the other – it was – a kind of sour stuff – utterly idiotic. I can tell you about them if you like. It won’t take long.”

“Please do, Grandad.”

“All right. A regimental commander in our division – but not in our regiment – had a wife. She was a regular scarecrow, I must tell you. She was bony, red-haired, long-legged, scraggy, big-mouthed. Her make-up used to peel off her face like plaster off an old Moscow house. But, for all that, she was a kind of regimental Messalina, with a lot of spirit, arrogance, contempt for people, a passion for variety, and she was a morphine addict into the bargain.

“One day in autumn a new ensign was sent to our regiment, a greenhorn fresh from military school. A month later that old jade had him under her thumb. He was her page, her slave, her eternal dance partner. He used to carry her fan and handkerchief and rush out in snow and frost to get her horses, with nothing on but his flimsy coat. It’s awful when an innocent lad lays his first love at the feet of an old, experienced, ambitious debauchee. Even if he manages to get away unscathed, you must give him up for lost just the same. He’s marked for life.

“By Christmas she was fed up with him. She fell back on one of her previous, tried and tested passions. But he couldn’t do without her. He trailed after her like a shadow. He was worn out, and lost weight and colour.

In high-flown language, ‘death had marked his brow.’ He was terribly jealous of her. They said that he used to stand under her window all night long.

“One day in spring they got up a kind of picnic in the regiment. I knew the two personally, but I was not there when it happened. As usual on such occasions, a lot was drunk. They started back after nightfall, along the railway. Suddenly they saw a goods train coming. It was creeping up a rather steep incline. They heard whistles. And the moment the headlights of the engine came alongside she suddenly whispered in the ensign’s ear, ‘You keep telling me you love me. But if I tell you to throw yourself under this train I’m sure you won’t do it.’ He didn’t say a word in reply, but just rushed under the train. They say he had worked it out well, and meant to drop between the front and back wheels, where he would have been neatly cut in two. But some idiot tried to keep him back and push him away. Only he wasn’t strong enough. The ensign clung to the rail with both his hands and they were chopped off.”

“How dreadful!” Vera exclaimed.

“He had to resign from military service. His comrades collected a little money for his journey. He couldn’t very well stay in a town where he was a living reproach both to her and to the entire regiment. And that was the end of the poor chap – he became a beggar, and then froze to death somewhere on a Petersburg pier.

“The second case was quite a pitiful one. The woman was just like the other, except that she was young and pretty. Her behaviour was most reprehensible. Light as we made of domestic affairs like that, we were shocked. But her husband didn’t mind. He knew and saw everything but did nothing to stop it. His friends gave him hints,, but he waved them away. ‘Cut it out. It’s no business of mine. All I want is for Lena to be happy.’ Such a fool!

“In the end she got herself seriously involved with Lieutenant Vishnyakov, a subaltern from their company. And the three of them lived in two-husband wedlock, as if it were the most lawful kind of matrimony. Then our regiment was ordered to the front. Our ladies saw us off, and so did she, but, really, it was sickening: she didn’t so much as glance at her husband, at least to keep up appearances if for no other reason. Instead she hung on her lieutenant like ivy on a rotten wall, and wouldn’t leave him for a second. By way of farewell, when we were settled in the train and the train started, the hussy shouted after her husband, ‘See that you take good care of Volodya! If anything happens to him I’ll leave the house and never come back. And I’ll take the children with me.’

“Perhaps you imagine the captain was a ninny? A jelly-fish? A sissy? Not at all. He was a brave soldier. At Zeloniye Gori he led his company against a Turkish redoubt six times, and of his two hundred men only fourteen were left. He was wounded twice, but refused to go to the medical station. That’s what he was like. The soldiers worshipped him.

“But she had told him what to do. His Lena had!

“And so, like a nurse or a mother, he took care of that coward and idler Vishnyakov, that lazy drone. At night in camp, in rain and mud, he’d wrap him in his own greatcoat. He would supervise a sapper’s job for him, while he lounged in a dug-out or played faro. At night he’d inspect the outposts for Vishnyakov. And that was at a time, mark you, when the Turks used to cut down our pickets as easily as a Yaroslavl countrywoman cuts down her cabbages. It’s a sin to say so, but, upon my honour, everybody was happy to learn that Vishnyakov had died of typhus in hospital.”

“How about women, Grandad? Have you never met loving women?”

“Of course I have, Vera. I’ll say more: I’m sure that almost every woman in love is capable of sublime heroism. Don’t you see, from the moment she kisses, embraces, gives herself, she is a mother. Love to her, if she does love, is the whole meaning of life – the whole universe! But it is no fault of hers that love has assumed such vulgar forms and degenerated into a sort of everyday convenience, a little diversion. The ones to blame are the men, who are surfeited at twenty, who have a chicken’s body and a rabbit’s heart, and are incapable of strong desires, heroic deeds, the tenderness and worship of love. They say real love did exist at one time. If not, then isn’t it what the best minds and souls of the world – poets, novelists, musicians, artists – have dreamt of and longed for? The other day I read the story of Manon Lescaut and Cavalier des Grieux. It brought tears to my eyes – it really did. Tell me in all honesty, doesn’t every woman dream, deep in her heart, of such a love – a single-minded, all-forgiving love ready to bear anything, modest and self-sacrificing?”

“Of course she does, Grandad.”

“And since it isn’t there women take their revenge. In another thirty years or so from now – I shan’t live to see it, Vera dear, but you may; remember what I’m telling you – some thirty years from now women will wield unprecedented power in the world. They will dress like Indian idols. They’ll trample us men underfoot as contemptible, grovelling slaves. Their extravagant wishes and whims will become painful laws for us. And all because throughout the generations we’ve been unable to worship and revere love. It will be a vengeance. You know the law: action and reaction are equal and opposite.”

He paused a while, then asked suddenly, “Tell me, Vera, if only you don’t find it embarrassing, what was that story about a telegraphist which Prince Vasily told us tonight? How much of it is fact and how much his usual embellishment?”

“Do you really wish to know, Grandad?”

“Only if you care to tell me, Vera. If for some reason you’d rather not – ”

“Not at all. I’ll tell you with pleasure.”

And she told the general in detail about a crazy man who had begun to pursue her with his love two years before her marriage.

She had never seen him, and did not know his name. He had only written to her, signing G.S.Z. Once he had mentioned that he was a clerk in some office – he had not said a word about the telegraph office. He was apparently watching her movements closely, because in his letters he always mentioned very accurately where she had spent this or that evening and in what company, and how she had been dressed. At first his letters sounded vulgar and ludicrously ardent, although they were quite proper. But once she wrote to ask him – ”by the way, Grandad, don’t let that out to our people: nobody knows it” – not to annoy her any more with his protestations of love. From then on he wrote no more about love and sent her only an occasional letter – at Easter, on New Year’s Eve, and on her birthday. Princess Vera also told the general about that day’s parcel and gave him almost word for word the strange letter from her mysterious admirer.

“Y-es,” the general drawled at last. “Perhaps he’s just an addle-head, a maniac, or – who knows? – perhaps the path of your life has been crossed by the very kind of love that women dream about and men are no longer capable of. Just a moment. Do you see lights moving ahead? That must be my carriage.”

At the same time they heard behind them the blare of a motor-car and the road, rutted by wheels, shone in a white acetylene light. Gustav Ivanovich drove up.

“I’ve taken your things with me, Anna. Get in,” he said. “May I give you a lift, Your Excellency?”

“No, thank you, my friend,” answered the general. “I don’t like that engine. All it does is shake and stink – there’s no pleasure in it. Well, good night, Vera dear. I’ll be coming often now,” he said, kissing Vera’s forehead and hands.

There were goodbyes all round. Friesse drove Vera Nikolayevna to the gale of her villa and, swiftly describing a circle, shot off into the darkness in his roaring, puffing motor-car.