‘‘Moscow is a city that still has much suffering ahead of her,’’ Yartsev said, looking at the Alexeevsky Monastery.
‘‘How did that enter your head?’’
‘‘It just did. I love Moscow.’’
Yartsev and Kostya had both been born in Moscow and adored her, and for some reason regarded other cities with hostility; they were convinced that Moscow was a remarkable city and Russia a remarkable country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and abroad, they felt bored, uncomfortable, ill at ease, and they found the gray Moscow weather most pleasant and healthy. Days when cold rain raps at the windows, and dusk falls early, and the walls of houses and churches take on a brown, mournful color, and you do not know what to put on when you go outside— such days pleasantly excited them.
Finally, near a train station, they took a cab.
‘‘In fact, it would be nice to write a history play,’’ said Yartsev, ‘‘but you know, without the Liapunovs and the Godunovs, from the times of Yaroslav or Monomakh21... I hate all Russian history plays, except for Pimen’s monologue.22 When you deal with some historical source, or even when you read a textbook of Russian history, it seems that everything in Russia is remarkably talented, gifted, and interesting, but when I watch a history play in the theater, Russian life begins to seem giftless, unhealthy, and unoriginal to me.’’
Near Dmitrovka, the friends parted, and Yartsev went further on to his place on Nikitskaya. He dozed, rocking in the cab, and kept thinking about the play. Suddenly he imagined an awful noise, clanging, shouts in some unknown language like Kalmyk; and some village, all caught in flames, and the neighboring forest, covered with hoarfrost and a tender pink from the fire, can be seen far around, and so clearly that each little fir tree is distinct; some wild people, on horseback and on foot, rush about the village, their horses and themselves as crimson as the glow in the sky.
‘‘It’s the Polovtsi,’’23 thinks Yartsev.
One of them—old, frightening, with a bloody face, all scorched—is tying a young girl with a white Russian face to his saddle. The old man shouts something furiously, but the girl watches sorrowfully, intelligently... Yartsev shook his head and woke up.
‘‘ ‘My friend, my tender friend...’ ’he sang.
Paying the cabby and then going up the stairs to his place, he still could not quite recover, and saw the flames sweep on to the trees, the forest crackle and smoke; an enormous wild boar, mad with terror, rushes through the village... But the girl tied to the saddle keeps watching.
When he entered his apartment, it was already light. On the grand piano, near an open score, two candles were burning down. On the couch lay Rassudina, in a black dress with a sash, a newspaper in her hand, fast asleep. She must have played for a long time, waiting for Yartsev to come back, and fallen asleep before he came.
‘‘Eh, quite worn out!’’ he thought.
He carefully took the newspaper from her hand, covered her with a plaid, put out the candles, and went to his bedroom. Lying down, he thought about the history play, and the refrain ‘‘My friend, my tender friend...’ would not leave his head.
Two days later, Laptev stopped by for a moment to tell him that Lida had come down with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeevna and the baby had caught it from her, and in another five days came the news that Lida and Yulia were recovering, but the baby had died, and the Laptevs had fled from their Sokolniki dacha to the city.
XIV
IT BECAME UNPLEASANT for Laptev to stay long at home. His wife often went to the wing, telling him she had to do lessons with the girls, but he knew she went there not to give lessons but to weep at Kostya’s. The ninth day came, then the twentieth, then the fortieth,24 and he had to go each time to the Alexeevskoe cemetery and listen to the memorial service, and then torment himself all day thinking only about the unfortunate baby and saying all sorts of banalities to his wife in consolation. He rarely went to the warehouse now and was occupied only with charity, thinking up various cares and chores, and he was glad when he chanced to drive around for a whole day on account of some trifle. Recently he had been preparing to go abroad, in order to acquaint himself there with the setting up of night shelters, and this thought now diverted him.
It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the wing to weep, and Laptev was lying on the couch in his study, trying to think where he would go. Just then Pyotr announced that Rassudina had come. Laptev was very glad, jumped up, and went to meet the unexpected guest, his former friend, whom he had almost begun to forget. Since that evening when he had seen her for the last time, she had not changed in the least and was exactly the same.
‘‘Polina!’’ he said, reaching both hands out to her. ‘‘It’s been ages! If you knew how glad I am to see you! Come in!’’
Rassudina jerked his hand as she shook it and, without taking off her coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.
‘‘I’ve come for a minute,’’ she said. ‘‘I have no time to talk of trifles. Kindly sit down and listen. Whether you’re glad to see me or not is decidedly all one to me, since I don’t care a whit about any gracious attention to me from fine gentlemen. If I’ve come to you, it’s because I’ve already been to five places today and was refused everywhere, and yet it’s an urgent matter. Listen,’’ she went on, looking him in the eye, ‘‘five students I know, limited and muddleheaded people but unquestionably poor, haven’t made their payments and are now being expelled. Your wealth imposes on you the duty of going to the university at once and paying for them.’’
‘‘With pleasure, Polina.’’
‘‘Here are their last names,’’ said Rassudina, handing Laptev a little note. ‘‘Go this very minute, you’ll have time to enjoy family happiness afterwards.’’
Just then a rustling was heard behind the door to the drawing room: it must have been the dog scratching himself. Rassudina blushed and jumped up.
‘‘Your Dulcinea’s25 eavesdropping on us!’’ she said. ‘‘That is vile!’’
Laptev felt offended for Yulia.
‘‘She’s not here, she’s in the wing,’’ he said. ‘‘And do not speak of her like that. Our baby has died, and she is in terrible grief.’’
