And now Alkina had come again, and began as always:
“I’ve come on business.”
Trirodov regarded her with a deep, tranquil glance and answered her with the usual commonplaces of welcome.
Slightly agitated by hidden desires, Alkina spoke of the “business” in hand.
It had already been decided that the party orator who was to come to speak at the projected mass meeting would be quartered at Trirodov’s: this was thought to be the least dangerous place. Alkina came to say that the orator was expected that evening. It was necessary to bring him to Trirodov’s house in such a way that the town should not know anything about it. As soon as they had decided at what entrance he should be received Trirodov went out of the room to make the necessary arrangements. The agreeable consciousness of creative mystery filled him with joy.
When Trirodov returned Alkina was standing at the table and turning over the pages of a new book. Her hands trembled slightly. She glanced expectantly at Trirodov. She appeared to wish to say something meaningful and tender—but instead she resumed her remarks on business. She told him what was new in town, in her school, in the organization—about the confiscation of the local newspaper, about personalities ordered to leave town by the police, about the factory ferment.
“Who will be our own speakers at the mass meeting?” asked Trirodov.
“Bodeyev, from the school, for one.”
“I do not like his manner of speaking,” said Trirodov.
“He’s a good party workman,” observed Alkina with a timid smile. “He’s to be valued for that.”
“You know, of course, that I am not much of a party man,” said Trirodov.
Alkina was silent. She trembled lightly as she rose from her seat, then suddenly ceased to be agitated. Only her vivid lips, speaking slowly, seemed to be alive in her pale face.
“Giorgiy Sergeyevitch, will you love me a little?”
Trirodov smiled. He sat quietly in his chair and looked at her simply and dispassionately. He did not answer at once. Alkina asked again with her sad and gentle humility:
“Perhaps you haven’t the time, nor the desire?”
“No, Katya, I shall be glad,” answered Trirodov calmly. “You’ll find it convenient in there,” and he signified with his eyes the little neighbouring room which had no other exit.
Alkina flushed lightly and said:
“If you will permit me, I’d rather undress here. It would give me joy to have you look at me a long time.”
Trirodov helped her to undo the clasps of her skirt. Alkina sat down on a chair, bent over, and began to undo the buttons of her boots. Then, with evident enjoyment at having freed her feet, she walked slowly across the floor towards the door and turned the key in the lock.
“As you know, I have but one joy,” she said.
She gracefully threw off her clothes and stood before Trirodov with uplifted arms. She was sinuously slender, like a white serpent. Crossing the fingers of her upraised hands, she bent her whole body forward, so that she appeared more sinuously slender than ever, and the curve of her body almost resembled a white ring. Then she relaxed her arms, stood up erect, all tranquil and self-possessed, and said:
“I want you to take a good look at me. I haven’t grown old yet, have I? And not altogether faded?”
Trirodov surveyed her with admiration and said quietly:
“Katya, you are as handsome as always.”
Alkina was mistrustful.
“It’s true, isn’t it, that clothes have too long cramped my body and injured the skin. How can my body be handsome?”
“You are graceful and flexible,” answered Trirodov. “The lines of your body are somewhat elongated but wholly elastic. If anyone were to measure your body he would find no error in its proportions.”
Alkina scrutinized herself attentively and went on incredulously:
“The lines are good—but the colour? I believe you once said that Russians often have unpleasant complexions. When I look on the whiteness of my body I am reminded of plaster of paris, and I begin to weep because I am so ugly.”
“No, Katya,” asserted Trirodov. “The whiteness of your body is not like plaster of paris. It is marble, slightly rose-tinged. It is milk poured into a pink crystal vase. It is mountain snow lit up with the last glow of sunset. It is a white reverie suffused with rose desire.”
Alkina smiled joyously and flushed lightly as she asked him:
“Will you take a few snapshots of me today? Otherwise I shall weep, because I am so ugly and so meagre that you do not wish to recall sometimes my face and my body.”
“Yes,” answered Trirodov, “I have a few films ready.”
Alkina laughed gleefully and said:
“Now kiss me.”
She bent over Trirodov and almost fell into his arms. The kisses seemed tranquil and innocent; it might have been a sister kissing a brother. How gentle and elastic her skin was under his hands! Alkina pressed against him with a submissive, yielding movement. Trirodov carried her to the wide, soft couch. She lay in his arms timidly and quietly and looked straight into his eyes with a simple, innocent look.
When the sweet and deep minutes passed, followed by fatigue and shame, Alkina lay there motionlessly with half-closed eyes—and then said suddenly:
“I’ve been wanting to ask you, and somehow couldn’t decide to. Do you detest me? Perhaps you think me very shameless?”
She turned her face towards him and looked at him with frightened, ashamed eyes. And he answered her with his usual resolution:
“No, Katya. Shame is often needed, in order that we may gain control over it.”
Alkina once
