but the morning frost, and it was settled that Tanya should not go to bed, and between twelve and one should walk through the garden, and see that everything was done properly, and Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier.
Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely.
'Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here,' he said, shrugging his shoulders, 'but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost.'
'Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ...' answered Tanya.
'And what do you want clouds for?'
'In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost.'
'You don't say so.'
He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him.
'Good heavens! she is grown up,' he said. 'When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!'
'Yes, five years!' sighed Tanya. 'Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly,' she began eagerly, looking him in the face: 'do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that.'
'I do, Tanya.'
'On your word of honour?'
'Yes, on my word of honour.'
'You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him.'
Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air.
'It's time we were asleep, though,' said Tanya, 'and it's cold, too.' She took his arm. 'Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards,' she laughed. 'Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, it always seemed to be fresher and brighter in the house, as though the covers had been taken off the lustres and the furniture. I was only a little girl then, but yet I understood it.'
She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the idea came into his head that in the course of the summer he might grow fond of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried away and fall in love; in their position it was so possible and natural! This thought touched and amused him; he bent down to her sweet, preoccupied face and hummed softly:
''Onyegin, I won't conceal it;
I madly love Tatiana....''
By the time they reached the house, Yegor Semyonitch had got up. Kovrin did not feel sleepy; he talked to the old man and went to the garden with him. Yegor Semyonitch was a tall, broad-shouldered, corpulent man, and he suffered from asthma, yet he walked so fast that it was hard work to hurry after him. He had an extremely preoccupied air; he was always hurrying somewhere, with an expression that suggested that if he were one minute late all would be ruined!
'Here is a business, brother ...' he began, standing still to take breath. 'On the surface of the ground, as you see, is frost; but if you raise the thermometer on a stick fourteen feet above the ground, there it is warm.... Why is that?'
'I really don't know,' said Kovrin, and he laughed.
'H'm!... One can't know everything, of course.... However large the intellect may be, you can't find room for everything in it. I suppose you still go in chiefly for philosophy?'
'Yes, I lecture in psychology; I am working at philosophy in general.'
'And it does not bore you?'
'On the contrary, it's all I live for.'
'Well, God bless you!...' said Yegor Semyonitch, meditatively stroking his grey whiskers. 'God bless you!... I am delighted about you ... delighted, my boy....'
But suddenly he listened, and, with a terrible face, ran off and quickly disappeared behind the trees in a cloud of smoke.
'Who tied this horse to an apple-tree?' Kovrin heard his despairing, heart-rending cry. 'Who is the low scoundrel who has dared to tie this horse to an apple-tree? My God, my God! They have ruined everything; they have spoilt everything; they have done everything filthy, horrible, and abominable. The orchard's done for, the orchard's ruined. My God!'
When he came back to Kovrin, his face looked exhausted and mortified.
'What is one to do with these accursed people?' he said in a tearful voice, flinging up his hands. 'Styopka was carting dung at night, and tied the horse to an apple-tree! He twisted the reins round it, the rascal, as tightly as he could, so that the bark is rubbed off in three places. What do you think of that! I spoke to him and he stands like a post and only blinks his eyes. Hanging is too good for him.'
Growing calmer, he embraced Kovrin and kissed him on the cheek.
'Well, God bless you!... God bless you!...' he muttered. 'I am very glad you have come. Unutterably glad.... Thank you.'
Then, with the same rapid step and preoccupied face, he made the round of the whole garden, and showed his former ward all his greenhouses and hot-houses, his covered-in garden, and two apiaries which he called the marvel of our century.
While they were walking the sun rose, flooding the garden with brilliant light. It grew warm. Foreseeing a long, bright, cheerful day, Kovrin recollected that it was only the beginning of May, and that he had before him a whole summer as bright, cheerful, and long; and suddenly there stirred in his bosom a joyous, youthful feeling, such as he used to experience in his childhood, running about in that garden. And he hugged the old man and kissed him affectionately. Both of them, feeling touched, went indoors and drank tea out of old-fashioned china cups, with cream and satisfying krendels made with milk and eggs; and these trifles reminded Kovrin again of his childhood and boyhood. The delightful present was blended with the impressions of the past that stirred within him; there was a tightness at his heart; yet he was happy.
He waited till Tanya was awake and had coffee with her, went for a walk, then went to his room and sat down to work. He read attentively, making notes, and from time to time raised his eyes to look out at the open windows or at the fresh, still dewy flowers in the vases on the table; and again he dropped his eyes to his book, and it seemed to him as though every vein in his body was quivering and fluttering with pleasure.
