nannies say. He was given something to eat and, with some trouble, put to bed. At last he fell asleep. Mikulitsyn’s Ustinya took Nyusha to her room, to give her supper and initiate her into the mysteries of the house. Antonina Alexandrovna and the men were invited to evening tea.
Alexander Alexandrovich and Yuri Andreevich asked permission to absent themselves for a moment and went out to the porch for a breath of fresh air.
“So many stars!” said Alexander Alexandrovich.
It was dark. Standing two steps apart on the porch, the son- and father-in-law could not see each other. But behind them, from around the corner of the house, the light of a lamp fell from the window into the ravine. In its column, bushes, trees, and some other vague objects showed mistily in the damp air. The bright strip did not take in the conversing men and made the darkness around them still thicker.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll have to examine the outbuilding he intends for us, and if it’s fit to live in, start repairing it at once. While we’re getting that corner in shape, the soil will thaw, the earth will warm up. Then, without losing a moment, we’ll get to the garden beds. Between words in the conversation, I thought I heard him promise to help us with seed potatoes. Or did I hear wrong?”
“He promised, he promised. And other seed. I heard it with my own ears. And the corner he’s offering us we saw in passing as we crossed the park. You know where? It’s the rear of the manor house, drowning in nettles. It’s made of wood, but the house itself is stone. I showed you from the cart, remember? I’d dig the beds there. I think it’s the remains of a flower garden. It seemed so to me from a distance. Maybe I’m mistaken. The paths will have to be avoided, passed over, but the soil of the old flower beds was probably well manured and rich in humus.”
“We’ll see tomorrow. I don’t know. The ground is probably terribly overgrown with grass and hard as a rock. The manor must have had a kitchen garden. Maybe the plot’s still there and lying fallow. It will all become clear tomorrow. There are probably still morning frosts here. There will certainly be a frost during the night. How fortunate that we’re already here, in place. We can congratulate each other on that. It’s good here. I like it.”
“Very nice people. He especially. She’s a bit affected. She’s displeased with herself, there’s something in her she doesn’t like. Hence this tireless, fussily false garrulousness. As if she’s hastening to distract attention from her appearance, to forestall an unfavorable impression. And that she forgets to take her hat off and carries it on her shoulders is not absentmindedness either. It really becomes her.”
“Anyhow, let’s go in. We got stuck out here too long. It’s awkward.”
On their way to the lighted dining room, where, at a round table under a hanging lamp, the hosts and Antonina Alexandrovna were sitting by the samovar and drinking tea, the father- and son-in-law passed through the director’s dark study.
In it there was a wide, single-pane window across the whole wall, high above the ravine. From the window, as the doctor had managed to notice earlier, while it was still light, the view opened onto the distance far beyond the ravine and the plain across which Vakkh had taken them. By the window stood a planning or drafting table, wide, also across the whole wall. On it a big fowling piece lay lengthwise, leaving empty space to right and left, and thereby emphasizing the great width of the table.
Now, passing by the study, Yuri Andreevich again noted enviously the window with its panoramic view, the size and position of the table, and the spaciousness of the well-furnished room, and this was the first thing that escaped him in the form of an exclamation to his host, when he and Alexander Alexandrovich, on entering the dining room, went to the tea table.
“What a wonderful spot you have here. And what an excellent study, conducive to work, inspiring.”
“In a glass or in a cup? And how do you like it, weak or strong?”
“Look, Yurochka, what a stereoscope Averky Stepanovich’s son made for himself when he was little.”
“He still hasn’t grown up, hasn’t settled down, though he wins over district after district for Soviet power from the Komuch.”
“The what?”
“The Komuch.”
“What is that?”
“It’s the army of the Siberian government, which is for the restoration of power to the Constituent Assembly.”
“All day we’ve heard ceaseless praise of your son. You have every right to be proud of him.”
“These are views of the Urals, double, stereoscopic, also made by him and taken by a camera he made himself.”
“Are these cookies made with saccharine? They’re excellent.”
“Oh, come now! Such a backwoods and saccharine? Hardly! Real, honest sugar. I put some in your tea from the sugar bowl. Didn’t you notice?”
“Yes, in fact. I was looking at the photographs. And it seems the tea is also natural?”
“With flower petals. It goes without saying.”
“From where?”
“The magic tablecloth. An acquaintance. A modern-day activist. Of very leftist convictions. An official representative of the local economic council. He hauls our timber to town, and through acquaintances gets grain, butter, and flour for us. Siverka.” (So she called her Averky.) “Siverka, move the biscuit plate closer to me. And now I wonder if you can answer, what was the year of Griboedov’s death?”10
“He was born, I think, in 1795. I don’t remember exactly when he was killed.”
“More tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“And now something else. Tell me when and between what countries was the peace of Nimwegen concluded?”
