the evening service, held because the grandmother, Marfa Mikhailovna, wanted it, was only just over, and now Nadya—who had slipped out into the garden for a minute—could see the table being laid for supper in the dining room, and her grandmother bustling about in a magnificent silk dress, while Father Andrey, the archpresbyter of the cathedral, was discussing something with Nina Ivanovna, Nadya’s mother, who for some reason looked very young when seen through the window in the evening light. Beside Nina Ivanovna stood Andrey Andreyich, Father Andrey’s son, who was listening attentively.
It was quiet and cool in the garden, where the dark peaceful shadows lay on the earth. From a long way away, probably from outside the town, came the croaking of frogs. There was a feeling of May, sweet May, in the air. You found yourself breathing deeply, and you imagined that somewhere else, somewhere beneath the sky and above the treetops, somewhere in the open fields and the forests far from the town—somewhere there the spring was burgeoning with its own mysterious and beautiful life, full of riches and holiness, beyond the comprehension of weak, sinful man. And for some reason you found yourself wanting to cry.
Nadya was already twenty-three, and ever since she was sixteen she had been passionately dreaming of marriage: now at last she was betrothed to Andrey Andreyich, whom she could see clearly through the window. She liked him, the wedding had been arranged for the seventh of July, but she felt no joy in her heart, slept badly at night, and all her happiness had gone from her. Through the open windows of the kitchen in the basement, she heard the servants scurrying about, the clatter of knives, the banging of the swinging door; there was the smell of roast turkey and marinated cherries. And for some reason it seemed to her that it would always be like this, unchanging till the end of time.
Someone came out of the house and stood on the steps. It was Alexander Timofeyich, known as Sasha, who had arrived from Moscow about ten days before for a visit. Many years ago there had come to the grandmother’s house a certain distant relative, Maria Petrovna, a widowed gentlewoman, begging charity. She was small and thin, and suffered from some illness, and was very poor. Sasha was her son. For some reason people said of him that he would make a fine artist, and when his mother died, Grandmother, for the salvation of her own soul, sent him to study at the Komissarov school in Moscow. A year or so later he went on to study at a school of painting, where he remained for about fifteen years, just managing to scrape through his final examinations in architecture, but he never practiced as an architect. Instead he went to work at a lithography shop in Moscow. He used to spend nearly every summer with Nadya’s grandmother, usually very ill, to rest and recuperate.
He wore a tightly buttoned frock coat and shabby canvas trousers crumpled at the hems. His shirt had not been ironed, and there was something soiled about him. He wore a beard, was very thin, with enormous eyes, long lean fingers, and his skin was dark; in spite of this, he was handsome. At the Shumins’ he was regarded as one of the family, and felt himself at home. For a long time the room where he lived when he visited them had been known as Sasha’s room.
Standing on the porch, he caught sight of Nadya and went up to her.
“It’s nice here,” he said.
“It’s really nice. You ought to stay until the autumn.”
“Yes, I know. Probably I’ll have to. I may stay with you till September.”
He burst out laughing for no reason at all, and then sat down beside her.
“I’ve been sitting here and gazing at Mother,” said Nadya. “She looks so young from here. Of course, she has her weaknesses,” she added after a pause, “but she is still a most unusual woman.”
“Yes, she’s very nice,” Sasha agreed. “In her own way, of course. She’s good and kind, but somehow … How shall I put it? Early this morning I went down to your kitchen. I saw four maidservants sleeping right there on the floor, no beds, just a few rags for bedclothes, stench, bedbugs, cockroaches.… It was like that twenty years ago, and since then there’s been no change at all. It’s no use blaming your grandmother, God bless her soul, but your mother speaks French and acts in amateur theatricals.… You’d think she’d understand about these things.”
While Sasha talked, he held out two long bony fingers in front of Nadya’s face.
“Everything here looks strange to me,” he went on. “Maybe it’s because I’m not used to it. God in heaven, no one ever does anything! Your mother does nothing all day but walk about like a duchess, your grandmother does nothing either, and you’re the same. And your fiance, Andrey Andreyich, does nothing either!”
Nadya had heard all this the year before, and she thought she had heard it the year before that: she knew that was how Sasha’s mind worked. Once these speeches had amused her, but now for some reason they irritated her.
“It’s old stuff,” she said, and got up. “I wish you’d say something new.”
He laughed and got up too, and they walked together to the house. She was tall, beautiful, well formed, and looked almost offensively healthy and stylishly dressed beside him; she was even conscious of this herself, and felt sorry for him, and strangely awkward.
“You talk a lot of nonsense!” she said. “Look what you just said about my Andrey—you really don’t know him at all!”
“
When they reached the dining room, everyone was already at supper. The grandmother—“Granny” to everyone in the house—was a very corpulent, plain old lady with thick eyebrows and a tiny mustache, who talked in a loud voice: from her voice and manner of speaking it was obvious that she was the most important woman in the household. She owned a row of stalls in the market place, the old house with its pillars and garden was hers, and every morning she prayed tearfully to God to spare her from ruin. Her daughter-in-law, Nadya’s mother, Nina Ivanovna, was a tightly corseted blonde who wore pince-nez and rings on all her fingers. Father Andrey was a lean toothless old man who wore an expression which suggested that he was always about to say something amusing, and his son Andrey Andreyich, Nadya’s fiance, was a plump handsome creature with curly hair, who resembled an actor or a painter. They were all talking about hypnotism.
“You’ll be well again in a week here,” Granny said, turning to Sasha. “Only you must eat more. Just look at you,” she sighed. “You look dreadful! Why, you look like the Prodigal Son, and that’s the truth!”
“He wasted his substance in riotous living,” Father Andrey said slowly, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “And it was his curse to feed with the unmitigated swine!”
“I admire my old man,” Andrey Andreyich said, patting his father’s shoulder. “He’s really a splendid old fellow. Very decent.”
They were silent for a while. Sasha suddenly burst out laughing, and covered his mouth with his napkin.
