“The Oaklings”

I was then, my friends, in only my twenty-third year – an affair, as you can see, of long ago, still in the days of Nicholas I of blessed memory – I’d just been promoted to the rank of cornet in the Guards and, in the winter of what was a memorable year for me, I’d been granted two weeks’ leave on my family estates in Ryazan where, since the death of my father, my mother had lived alone, and, on arriving, I fell in a short time cruelly in love: I looked in one day on a long empty country seat of my grandfather’s in a certain little village called Petrovskoye in the neighbourhood of our own house, and then on various pretexts I began looking in there more and more frequently. The Russian countryside is wild even now, in winter most of all, so what was it like in my day! Petrovskoye was wild like that too, with, on its outskirts, that empty country house called “The Oaklings”, for at the entrance to it there grew several oak trees, in my time already ancient and mighty. Beneath those oaks stood an old crude hut, beyond the hut were some outbuildings, wrecked by time, and further on still were the wastelands of the felled orchard, covered with snow, and the ruin of the manor house with the dark voids of frameless windows. And it was in that hut beneath the oaks that I used to sit almost every day, jabbering all sorts of nonsense, ostensibly about estate management, to our village headman, Lavr, who lived in it, and even basely seeking his friendship, while surreptitiously casting mournful looks at his taciturn wife, Anfisa, who was more like a Spaniard than a simple Russian house serf, and was almost half the age of Lavr himself – a strapping peasant with a brick-coloured face covered in a dark-red beard, who might easily have become ataman of a gang of Murom robbers. In the morning I would read indiscriminately whatever came to hand, tinkle on the fortepiano, singing along languorously: “Oh when, my soul, you prayed either to perish or to love,” then, after having dinner, I would go off until evening to “The Oaklings”, irrespective of the burning winds and blizzards which flew to us untiringly from the Saratov steppes. Thus Christmas-tide passed, and the time for my return to duty approached, of which one day, with feigned naturalness, I duly informed Lavr and Anfisa. Lavr remarked edifyingly on the fact that service to the Tsar, of course, came before everything, and then went out of the hut to fetch something, while Anfisa, who was sitting with sewing in her hands, suddenly lowered the sewing onto her knees, followed her husband with her Castilian eyes, and, as soon as the door had slammed behind him, flashed them at me with impetuous passion and said in a fervent whisper:

“Master, he’ll be leaving for town tomorrow and staying overnight – come here to me and while away the evening in farewell. I’ve held back, but now I’ll say it: parting with you will be bitter for me.”

I, of course, was overwhelmed by such an admission, and only had time to nod my head to signify consent before Lavr came back into the hut.

After that, as you can understand, I didn’t hope, in my inexpressible impatience, even to survive until the following evening, I didn’t know what to do with myself, thinking only one thing: I would neglect my entire career, give up the regiment, remain for ever in the countryside, join my fate with her upon Lavr’s death – and more of the like… “I mean, he’s already old,” I thought, regardless of the fact that Lavr wasn’t yet even fifty, “he should die soon…” Finally the night passed – right through until morning I was first smoking a pipe, then drinking rum, without getting the least bit drunk, forever growing heated in my foolhardy dreams – the short winter’s day passed too, it began to get dark, and outside there was a really severe snowstorm. How could I leave the house now, what could I tell my mother? I’m at a loss, don’t know what to do, when suddenly I have a simple idea: I’ll go in secret, that’s all there is to it! I proclaimed myself indisposed, said I wouldn’t be having any supper but would be going to bed, then as soon as my mother had finished eating and withdrawn to her room – the early winter’s night had already come down – I dressed in great haste, ran to the stablemen’s hut, ordered a light sledge to be harnessed up, and was off. Outside, not a thing could be seen in the white darkness of the blizzard, but the horse was familiar with the way, I let it go at random, and not half an hour had passed before the humming oaks above the cherished hut began showing black in that darkness, its window began shining through the snow. I tied the horse to an oak, threw a horse cloth over it and, beside myself, went through a snowdrift and into the dark lobby! I groped for the door of the hut, stepped over the threshold, and she, already dressed up, powdered, rouged, in the brightness and red smoke of a torch, is sitting on a bench by the table, which is covered with refreshments on a white tablecloth, and waiting for me, all eyes. Everything is indistinct and trembling in this brightness and the smoke, but even through them her eyes are visible – so wide are they and intent! In a holder on a post by the stove, above a tub of water a spill is crackling, dazzling with its quick, crimson flame, and dropping fiery sparks which hiss in the water; on the table there are plates of nuts and mint sweets, a bottle of fruit liqueur, two glasses; and she, by the table, with her back to the window, which is white with snow, is sitting in a lilac silk sarafan, a calico blouse with loose sleeves, a coral necklace – her little jet-black head of hair, which would have done any society beauty honour, is brushed smooth and parted in the middle, silver earrings hang in her ears… Catching sight of me, she leapt up, in an instant had thrown off my snow-covered hat and fox-fur poddyovka, and pushed me towards the bench – all as if in a frenzy, contrary to all my former ideas about her proud unassailability – then she flung herself onto my knees and embraced me, pressing her hot cheeks against my face…

“Why ever did you hold back,” I say, “and wait until we were parting?”

She replies in desperation:

“Ah, what else could I do? My heart would be racing when you came, I could see your agony, but I’m strong and didn’t give myself away! And where could I have confided in you? I mean, not for a minute was I one to one with you, and in front of him you couldn’t confide even with a glance: he’s sharp-eyed as an eagle, and if he noticed anything, he’d kill, he wouldn’t hesitate!”

And again she embraces me, squeezes my timid hand, puts it on her knees… I can sense her body on my legs through the light sarafan and am no longer in control of myself, when suddenly she straightens her whole body, alert and wild, and leaps up, gazing at me with the eyes of the Pythia:

“Do you hear?”

I listen – I can hear nothing except the noise of the snow beyond the wall – what is it? I ask.

“Someone’s driven up! A horse neighed! It’s him!”

And, running round the table and sitting down at it, overcoming her heavy breathing, she says loudly in an ordinary voice, pouring from the bottle with a shaking hand:

“Drink some liqueur, sir. You’ll feel the cold when you go…”

And it was at that point he came in, all shaggy with snow, in a sheepskin “three-eared” cap and sheepskin coat, he took a look, said: “Hello, sir,” painstakingly put the coat up on the shelf above the stove, took off the hat and shook it down, and, wiping his wet face and beard with the hem of his sheepskin jacket, began talking unhurriedly:

“Well, what weather! Somehow I struggled as far as Bolshiye Dvory – no, I’m thinking, you’re done for, you won’t make it – drove to a wayside inn, stood the mare under an awning out of the storm, gave her some fodder, and went into the hut myself for some cabbage soup – I’d turned up just at dinner time – and there I sat almost till evening. And then I’m thinking – ah, I’ll head home, come what may, maybe God’ll get me back again – I can’t be doing with town, I can’t be doing with business in such a nightmare! And here I am back again, thank God…”

We’re silent, sitting rooted to the spot in the most terrible embarrassment, we understand that he’d understood everything at once, she doesn’t raise her eyelashes, I look up at him occasionally… I must confess, he was picturesque! Big, broad-shouldered, with a green belt done up tight around his short sheepskin jacket with its coloured Tatar patterns, solidly shod in Kazan felt boots; his brick-coloured face is burning from the wind, his beard is glittering with the melting snow, his eyes with threatening intelligence… Going up to the spill-holder, he set light to a new spill, then sat down at the table, picked up the bottle with his thick fingers, poured, drained the glass, and said to one side:

“I really don’t know, sir, how you’ll get back now. But it’s high time you were going, your horse is all covered in snow, it’s standing all bent over… Don’t be angry, now, that I won’t come out to see you home – over the day I’ve had a really hard time of it, and I’ve not seen my wife all day either, and there’s something I have to have a talk with her about…”

Without a word in reply I got up, put on my things and left…

And in the morning, at first light, there’s a rider from Petrovskoye: in the night, Lavr had hanged his wife with his green belt on an iron hook in a door lintel, and in the morning had gone to Petrovskoye and announced to the men:

“Neighbours, I’ve had a calamity. My wife has hanged herself – her mind was obviously disturbed. I woke up at dawn, and she’s already hanging all blue in the face, her head’s dropped onto her chest. She’d got dressed up for some reason, and rouged – and she’s hanging, just a bit short of the floor… Witness it, Christian men.”

They looked at him and said:

“How about that, what a thing to have done to herself! But why is it, headman, the whole of your beard’s been torn out in tufts, your whole face has been slashed to pieces from top to bottom by claws, and your eye’s pouring blood? Tie him up, lads!”

He was beaten with lashes and sent to Siberia, to the mines.

30th October 1943