‘‘It all depends on the undulations of credit,’’ Pochatkin said after some reflection.
‘‘What do you mean by the undulations of credit?’’
Pochatkin started to explain, but Laptev did not understand anything and sent for Makeichev. The man came at once, said a prayer, had a bite to eat, and, in his sedate, dense baritone, began by saying that salesclerks were obliged to pray to God day and night for their benefactors.
‘‘Splendid, only allow me not to consider myself your benefactor,’’ said Laptev.
‘‘Every man should remember what he is and sense his rank. You, by God’s mercy, are our father and benefactor, and we are your slaves.’’
‘‘I’m sick of all this, finally!’’ Laptev became angry. ‘‘Please be my benefactor now, explain to me the state of our business. Kindly do not consider me a boy, otherwise I’ll close the warehouse tomorrow. Father has gone blind, my brother’s in the madhouse, my nieces are still young; I hate this business and would gladly walk out, but there’s nobody to replace me, you know that yourselves. For God’s sake, then, drop the politics!’’
They went to the warehouse to do the accounts. Then they did accounts at home in the evening, and the old man himself helped; initiating his son into his commercial secrets, he spoke in such a tone as if he was occupied not with trade but with sorcery. It turned out that the income increased by approximately a tenth yearly, and that the Laptevs’ fortune, counting only money and securities, equaled six million roubles.
When, past midnight, after the accounting, Laptev went out into the fresh air, he felt himself under the charm of those numbers. The night was still, moonlit, stifling; the white walls of the houses across the river, the sight of the heavy, locked gates, the silence, and the black shadows produced the general impression of some sort of fortress, and the only thing lacking was a sentry with a gun. Laptev went to the little garden and sat on a bench by the fence that separated it from the next yard, where there was also a little garden. The bird cherry was in bloom. Laptev remembered that in the time of his childhood, this bird cherry was just as gnarled and just as tall, and had not changed in the least since then. Every little corner of the garden and yard reminded him of the distant past. And in his childhood, just as now, one could see, through the sparse trees, the whole yard flooded with moonlight, the shadows were just as mysterious and severe, the black dog lay in just the same way in the middle of the yard, and the windows of the salesclerks’ lodgings were open wide. And these were all cheerless memories.
Light footsteps were heard behind the fence in the neighboring yard.
‘‘My dearest, my darling...’ a man’s voice whispered just by the fence, so that Laptev could even hear breathing.
Now they kissed... Laptev was sure that the millions and the business, which he had no heart for, would ruin his life and turn him finally into a slave; he imagined how he would gradually become accustomed to his position, would gradually enter into the role of head of a trading firm, would grow dull, old, and finally die, as average people generally die, squalidly, sourly, boring everyone around him. But what prevented him from abandoning both the millions and the business, and leaving this little garden and yard that had been hateful to him ever since childhood?
The whispering and kisses on the other side of the fence stirred him. He went out to the middle of the yard and, unbuttoning his shirt on his chest, looked at the moon, and he fancied that he would now order the gate to be opened, go out and never come back there again; his heart was sweetly wrung by the foretaste of freedom, he laughed joyfully and imagined what a wonderful, poetic, and maybe even holy life it could be...
But he went on standing there and asking himself: ‘‘What holds me here?’’ And he was vexed both with himself and with this black dog, which lay on the stones instead of going off to the fields, to the forest, where it would be independent, joyful. Obviously the same thing prevented both him and this dog from leaving the yard: the habit of captivity, of the slavish condition...
The next day, at noon, he went to see his wife, and so as not to be bored, he invited Yartsev to come with him. Yulia Sergeevna was living in a dacha in Butovo, and he had not seen her for five days now. Arriving at the station, the friends got into a carriage, and Yartsev kept singing all the way and admiring the splendid weather. The dacha was in a big park not far from the station. About twenty paces from the gate, at the beginning of the main alley, under an old, spreading poplar, sat Yulia Sergeevna, waiting for her guests. She was wearing a light, elegant, lace- trimmed dress of a pale cream color, and in her hands was the same old, familiar parasol. Yartsev greeted her and went to the dacha, from which came the voices of Sasha and Lida, but Laptev sat down beside her to talk about their affairs.
‘‘Why haven’t you come for so long?’’ she asked without letting go of his hand. ‘‘I sit here for whole days and watch to see if you’re coming. I’m bored without you!’’
She got up and passed her hand over his hair, looking curiously at his face, his shoulders, his hat.
‘‘You know, I love you,’’ she said and blushed. ‘‘You’re dear to me. Here you’ve come, I see you, and I’m so happy I can’t say. Well, let’s talk. Tell me something.’’
She was declaring her love for him, but he felt as if he had been married to her for ten years already, and he wanted to have lunch. She hugged him around the neck, tickling his cheek with the silk of her dress; he carefully removed her arm, got up, and, without saying a word, went to the dacha. The girls came running to meet him.
‘‘How they’ve grown!’’ he thought. ‘‘And so many changes in these three years... But maybe I’m to live another thirteen or thirty years... The future still holds something for us! Time will tell.’’
He embraced Sasha and Lida, who hung on his neck, and said:
‘‘Grandpa sends his greetings... Uncle Fedya will die soon, Uncle Kostya has sent a letter from America and says hello to you. He’s bored with the exposition30 and will come back soon. And Uncle Alyosha’s hungry.’’
Then he sat on the terrace and watched his wife slowly walking down the alley towards the dacha. She was thinking about something, and on her face there was a sad, charming expression, and tears glistened in her eyes. She was no longer the slender, fragile, pale-faced girl she once had been, but a mature, beautiful, strong woman. And Laptev noticed the rapturous look with which Yartsev met her, how her new, beautiful expression was reflected in his face, also sad and admiring. It seemed as if he was seeing her for the first time in his life. And while they were having lunch on the terrace, Yartsev smiled somehow joyfully and bashfully, and kept looking at Yulia, at her beautiful neck. Laptev watched him involuntarily and thought that maybe he was to live another thirteen or thirty years...And what were they to live through in that time? What does the future hold for us?
And he thought:
‘‘Time will tell.’’
