suddenly seems that it hasn't. When I told them to send him out with
the Pakhtusov, they said there was a pilot on board already. What if
there is! Your man has definite ideas.' He said it just like that—'your
man'.
'Never mind, I'll have another go at them. Drop in and see us some
day.'
I said I should be very happy to, and we said goodbye. Every day I get a
letter, sometimes two letters, from Romashov. The envelopes are
addressed 'Second Party, Bashkir Geological Survey Board', as though
they were mailed to an institution. I am something of an institution
though, as there was no other way of arranging for me to work in
Moscow. But the address is a joke, and a joke, which is repeated every
day becomes a nuisance.
At first I used to read these letters, then I started to return them
unopened, and then stopped reading and returning them altogether. But
somehow I cannot get myself to burn these letters; they lie about all
over the place, and when I come across them I snatch my hand away.
I run into the writer of these letters the same way. He used to be a
very busy man, and I just can't make out how he finds the time to stand
about in the street whenever I come out of the house. I meet him in
shops and at the theatre, and it's very unpleasant, because he bows to
me and I ignore him. When he makes a movement to come up, I turn
away.
He called on Valya, and cried, and yelled at him like mad when Valya
jokingly cited a similar example of unrequited love among the
chimpanzees.
Altogether he has begun to loom so large in my life that I am
beginning to feel morbid about it. The moment I close my eyes I see him
in front of me in his new grey coat and soft hat, which he has taken to
wearing on my account-he told me as much himself one day.
July 12, 1935. Of course, it was a very strange idea of mine-to go to
Romashov and get from him those papers which Vyshimirsky had
handed over to him. It was a cruel thought—to go to him after all those
letters and the flowers which I sent back. But the more I thought of it
the more the idea appealed to me. I saw myself coming in and him
staring at me, bewildered, without saying a word, then turning pale,
dashing down the corridor and flinging open the door of his room, while
I said coolly: 'Misha, I've come to see you on business.'
The curious thing about it is that everything happened exactly as I had
pictured it. I have just come away from Mm.
He was wearing a warm suit of blue pyjamas and hadn't had time to
comb his hair yet. It was wet-apparently after a bath-and hung down his
forehead in yellow strands. He stood pale and silent, while I took my
coat off. Then he stepped swiftly towards me.
'Katya!'
'Misha, I've come to see you on business,' I repeated coolly. 'Get
dressed and comb your hair. Where can I wait?'
227
'Yes, of course...'
He ran down the corridor and flung open the door of his room.
'In here, please. Excuse me...'
'On the contrary. Excuse me.'
We had visited him the previous year, the three of us-Nikolai
Antonich, Grandma and myself, and Grandma, by the way, had kept
throwing out hints all the evening that he had borrowed forty rubles
from her and not given it back.
I had liked his room at the time, but I thought it looked even better
now. It was done up in pleasing light-grey tones, the door and built-in
cupboard somewhat of a lighter shade than the walls. The upholstered
furniture was soft and comfortable, and everything was attractively
arranged. The window looked out on Dog Place-my favourite spot in
Moscow. I have loved Dog Place ever since a child-that little square with
its monument to dogs that had died, and all the quaint little turnings
that ran off it.
'Misha,' I said when he had come back, combed, scented, and
wearing a new blue suit which I had not seen before, 'I have come to
answer all your letters. What's that nonsense you write about my
repenting it later if I didn't marry you! It's silly schoolboy behaviour to
keep writing me every day when you know that I do not even read your
letters. You know perfectly well that I never intended to marry you, and
you have no reason to write that I misled you.'
It was rather frightening to watch the way his face changed. He had
come in with an eager, happy look, as if hoping, yet scarcely able to
believe it-and now hope was dying with every word I uttered and his
face drained slowly of life. He turned away and looked down on the
floor.
'It's too long to explain why I allowed you to speak about it before.
There were many reasons. But you are an intelligent man. You could not
have made the mistake of believing that I loved you.'
'But you won't be happy with him!'
His knees were shaking, and he covered his eyes several times in a
strange way. I was reminded of what Sanya had said about him sleeping
with his eyes open.
'I'll kill myself and you,' he whispered.
'You can kill yourself for all I care,' I said very calmly. 'I don't want
to quarrel with you, but really, what right have you to talk that way? You
started an intrigue, as though girls in our day can be won by means of
idiotic intrigues! You haven't a shred of self-esteem, otherwise you
wouldn't be dogging my steps every day. The best thing you can do is
listen to me and say nothing, because I know everything you are going
to say. And now, to come to the point: what are those papers you took
from Vyshimirsky?'
'What papers?'
'Don't pretend, Misha. You know perfectly well what I am talking
about. The papers you used to threaten Nikolai Antonich with, papers
which showed him up as having been a stock-jobber and which you
afterwards offered to let Sanya have if he gave me up and went away.
