Zastennaya Street? Was it so narrow and crooked? And is it
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Lopukhinsky Boulevard? The boulevard gladdened me, though: all
down the main avenue, behind the lime trees, stretched a line of
splendid new buildings. The black lime trees looked like a pencil
drawing on a white background and their black shadows lay aslant on
the white snow- it made a beautiful picture.
I walked fast, and at every step I kept recognising old landmarks or
viewing new ones with surprise. There was the orphanage in which Aunt
Dasha had been going to put my sister and me; it was now a green
colour and a big marble plaque had appeared on the wall with gold
lettering on it. I could not believe my eyes-it said: 'Alexander Pushkin
stayed in this house in 1824'. Well I never! In that house! What airs the
orphanage kids would have given themselves had they known this!
And here were the 'Chambers', where Mother and I had once handed
in a petition. The place did not look half as imposing now. The old low
grating had been removed from the windows and at the gate hung a
signboard saying: Cultural Centre.
And there were the ramparts. My heart beat faster at the sight of
them. A granite embankment stretched before me, and I hardly
recognised our poor old shelving river bank. But what astonished me
more than anything was to find our houses gone and in their place a
public garden had been laid out and on the seats sat nannies holding
infants wrapped up like little mummies. I had expected anything but
this. I stood for a long time on the ramparts surveying with amazement
the garden, the granite embankment and the boulevard, on which we
used to play tipcat. On the site of the common back of the small grocery
and oil shops there now stood a tall grey building, outside which a guard
in a huge sheepskin coat strode up and down. I accosted him.
'The town power station,' he answered importantly, when I pointed
to the building and asked what it was.
'Do you happen to know where Skovorodnikov lives?'
'The judge?'
'No.'
'Then I don't know. We have only one man here by that name-
the judge.'
I walked away. Could it be that old Skovorodnikov had become a
judge? I turned round to have another look at the fine tall building
erected on the site of our wretched old houses, and decided that it could
be.
'What does the judge look like? Is he tall?'
'Yes.'
'With whiskers?'
'No, he has no whiskers,' the guard said. He sounded sort of offended
for old Skovorodnikov.
H'm, no whiskers. Not much hope.
'Where does that judge live?'
'In Gogolevsky Street, in what used to be Marcouse's house.
I knew the house, one of the best in the town, with lions' heads on
either side of the entrance. Again I was nonplussed. There was nothing
for it but to go down to Gogolevsky Street, and I went, little hoping that
old Skovorodnikov had shaved off his moustache, become a judge and
taken up residence in such a posh house.
In less than half an hour I was in Gogolevsky Street at the Marcouse
house. The lions' heads were eight years older, but as impressive and
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fearsome as ever. I stood irresolute at the wide covered entrance door.
Should I ring or not? Or should I ask a policeman where the Address
Bureau was?
Muslin curtains in Aunt Dasha's taste hung in the windows and that
decided me. I rang the bell.
The door was opened by a girl of about sixteen in a blue flannel dress,
her smoothly brushed hair parted in the middle. She was of a dark
complexion, and that puzzled me. 'Do the Skovorodnikovs live here?'
'Yes.'
'And is ... er ... Darya Gavrilovna at home?' I said, giving Aunt Dasha
her full title.
'She'll soon be in,' the girl said, smiling and regarding me with
curiosity. She smiled just like Sanya, but Sanya was fair and had curly
hair and blue eyes. No, this wasn't Sanya. 'May I wait?' 'Certainly.'
I took my coat off in the hall and she showed me into a large well-
furnished room. The place of honour in it was occupied by a grand
piano. This did not look much like Aunt Dasha.
I was gazing about me with what must have been a rather sheepish
and happy expression, because the girl was staring at me with all her
eyes. All of a sudden she tilted her head and cocked up an eyebrow
exactly the way Mother used to do. I realised that it was Sanya after all.
'Sanya?' I queried, somewhat uncertainly. She looked surprised. 'Yes.'
'But you were fair,' I went on in a shaky voice. 'How comes it? When
we lived in the village you were quite fair. But now you're all on the
darkish side.'
She was dumbfounded, even her mouth fell open. 'What village?'
'When Father died!' I said, and laughed. 'Don't say you've forgotten !
Don't you remember me?'
I felt choky in the throat. After all I had loved her very much and
hadn't seen her for eight years, and she looking so much like Mother.
'Sanya,' she brought out at last. 'My God! Why, we had given you up
for dead long ago.' She embraced me.
'Sanya, Sanya! Is it really you! But sit down, why are you standing?
Where have you come from? When did you arrive?'
We sat down side by side, but she jumped up the next moment and
ran into the hall to get my box.
'Wait a minute! Don't go away. Tell me how you're getting on. How's
Aunt Dasha?'
'How about yourself? Why didn't you write to us? We've been
