Then she noticed, sitting on a stone near the river, that young Russian who had lately walked up from Seoul—Alexander Petrovitch Weber. This young man, a plain, sad, gawky creature enough, radiated beauty in Anna’s eyes, because she knew that he and Seryozha had met. Seryozha had even brought him to the house the day before yesterday when she had been busy over the washing. Seryozha had, she believed, liked him, and this boy had doubtless been delighted by Seryozha. It seemed as if some scrap of Seryozha’s darling personality had been grafted upon this young man.
She therefore walked towards him, feeling fat and humble and ungainly, as she had felt ever since she had lost sight of Seryozha. She must be tentative and a little self-conscious with everyone now, since there was no one in Chi-tao-kou to justify her existence—no son before whom she could feel, “Well, I mayn’t be beautiful, but this splendid creature calls me Mother.” She approached Alexander Weber, conscious of her waddle and of her splay shoes, one of which was slit over one toe to accommodate a corn.
Alexander Weber was very tall and lanky, black-haired and sallow, with a big nose, abrupt cheekbones and generally prominent features—among which an assertive Adam’s apple seemed to hold its own, almost as though it were a second attempt at a chin. He had a very gentle look in his dark eyes—a look which he withdrew from the river and focused, as though with difficulty, on the approaching Anna. “My son—Sergei Sergeievitch Malinin, you know—started for Seoul yesterday.”
“I know,” said Alexander, rising politely, though indifferently, from his boulder. “I thought of going with him.”
“Going with him? Why, you have only just come from there, surely!” said Anna.
“Yes,” said the young man, dreamily.
“He hasn’t anything like the spirit, the vitality, of my Seryozha,” thought Anna, gladly. She added, aloud, “Had you hoped to find work in Chi-tao-kou. I’m afraid there is little for Russians to do here, especially for a young man like you, that would be worth while. Is that why you thought of leaving so soon? Or are you not well lodged?”
“I am on my way up to Harbin,” he said. “There is always a chance of a job on the railway there. Oh yes, I am well enough lodged. I am with Nikitin, the droshky man. He even let me earn something yesterday, driving an American missionary to Erh-tao-kou in a droshky.”
“On your way to Harbin?” exclaimed Anna. “Why, you have just said you considered going back to Seoul.”
“Yes,” said Alexander, straying into his dream again. “I am not really sure what I want to do.”
“Perhaps you have left someone you are fond of in Seoul, and are worrying about her,” suggested Anna, gently. “Your mother, perhaps.” A mother, it seemed to her at the moment, was the only thing that a young man could reasonably worry about.
“Yes, I have left my mother,” answered Alexander, patiently. “But she has other sons. I have left my betrothed, too. Or rather, she was my betrothed; she is not so now. She is a dreadful creature.”
“A dreadful creature?” exclaimed Anna, surprised.
“Yes, dreadful. Would you believe it, Anna Semionovna?—she—she forgets in a minute—even while you are speaking—what you are speaking about. She will say—‘One moment, Sasha, I must just take this basket to my mother,’ and one waits—waits—waits—half an hour—an hour—and at last one goes to find out what has happened. There she is, whistling, shelling peas in her mother’s kitchen. ‘But, Tanya,’ you say—and then you see that she has forgotten. Forgotten that I was waiting—that I was in the middle of telling her something—I—her betrothed! Sometimes, too, when I meet her unexpectedly, I can see that, for a moment, she doesn’t know who I am … even the face of her betrothed she has forgotten. It is not to be borne.”
“How extraordinary!” exclaimed Anna. “What a heartless woman.”
“Heartless! Heartless, you say! She is as heartless as death. She is not alive. Sometimes I think she really hates anything that is alive. And it is not as if she were really very irresistible. She can’t afford this behavior—if she doesn’t look out she’ll never get a husband.”
“Perhaps that would be as well,” said Anna. “Since she couldn’t make a man happy.”
“Happy! Happy, you say! She is death to any man that loves her. Seven men have loved her—and where are they now? She has a pretty face, certainly, but anyone who loves her loves death. One may walk side by side with her and feel that a river runs between her and oneself—like remembering someone who is dead. She has red hair and very thin hands. Once I took hold of her hand—caressingly, as a man does take the hand of his girl—and when she tried to snatch it away, I held it—in fun, you know—surely a man may do that. … Anna Semionovna, she bit me—really deeply—in the wrist. I was quite revolted. I walked away. After half an hour she ran after me. She holds her head like this … and her hair comes unpinned when she runs. She runs very lightly. When I heard her coming, I thought: ‘Well, at least something is gained. She can be near enough to a man to be angry with him—and then to come and beg his pardon.’ And so she did beg my pardon—but what do you think? In begging my pardon she shook hands, lightly and politely, as one would shake a stranger’s hand … then she drew her hand away, and seemed to imagine that no hurt remained. …”
“Well, you are well rid of her,” said Anna.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Alexander, instantly far away again, fixing his gentle, black, shortsighted
