Dark Avenues / Темные аллеи. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Иван Бунин

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said loudly and manfully while still on the move.

      “Wonderfully!” she replied, immoderately cheerful. “I always sleep like a log…[108]”

      He retained her hand in his big one and looked into her eyes. She met his gaze with a joyful effort.

      “Why did you sleep so long, my angel?” he said with familiarity. “Good people are already having lunch.”

      “Daydreaming all the time!” she answered in a brisk manner, quite at odds with[109] her entire appearance.

      “And what about?”

      “All sorts of things!”

      “Oh dear, watch out! ‘Thus little children they do drown, whilst bathing in the summer weather, the Chechen’s there across the river’[110].”

      “And it’s the Chechen that I’m waiting for!” she replied with the same cheerful briskness.

      “Better let’s go and have vodka and fish soup,” he said, thinking: she probably doesn’t even have the money to buy lunch.

      She began stamping her feet coquettishly:

      “Yes, yes, vodka, vodka! It’s hellish cold!”

      And they set off at a rapid pace for the first-class dining room, she in front, he behind her, already examining her with a certain greed.

      He had thought about her in the night. The day before, he had started speaking to her by chance and made her acquaintance by the steamboat’s side, as it had approached some high, black bank in the dusk, beneath which there was already a scattering of lights; he had then sat with her on deck, on a long bench running the length of the first-class cabins, beneath their windows with white slatted shutters, but had not sat for long and had regretted it in the night. To his surprise, he had realized in the night that he already wanted her. Why? Out of the habit of being attracted to chance and unknown travelling women while on the road? Now, sitting with her in the dining room, clinking glasses to the accompaniment of cold, unpressed caviar[111] and a hot kalach[112], he already knew why she attracted him so, and impatiently awaited the matter being brought to a conclusion. Because of the fact that all this – both the vodka and her familiarity – was in astonishing contradiction to her, he was inwardly getting more and more excited.

      “Well then, another one each and that’ll do!” he says.

      “Quite right, that’ll do,” she replies, striking the same note. “But it’s splendid vodka!”

      Of course, she had touched him with the way she had become so confused the day before when he had told her his name, the way she had been stunned by this unexpected acquaintance with a famous writer – sensing and seeing that confusion was, as always, pleasant, it always disposes you favourably towards a woman, if she is not utterly plain and stupid; it immediately creates a certain intimacy between you and her, lends you boldness in your treatment of her and as though a certain right to her already. But it was not this alone that aroused him: he had apparently struck her as a man as well, while it was with all her poverty and simple-heartedness that she had touched him. He had already adopted an unceremonious way with female admirers, an easy and rapid transition from the first minutes of acquaintance with them to a freedom of manner, ostensibly artistic, and that affected simplicity of questioning: who are you? where from? married or not? He had asked questions like that the day before too – he had gazed into the dusk of the evening at the multicoloured lights on the buoys forming long reflections in the darkening water around the steamboat, at the campfires burning red on the rafts, he had sensed the smell of the smoke from them, thinking: “This needs to be remembered – straight away there seems to be the smell of fish soup in that smoke,” and had asked:

      “May I learn your name?”

      She had quickly told him her first name and patronymic.

      “Are you returning home from somewhere?”

      “I’ve been in Sviyazhsk at my sister’s. Her husband died suddenly, and she was left in a terrible situation, you see.”

      At first she had been so confused that she had kept on looking somewhere into the distance. Then she had started answering more boldly.

      “And are you married too?”

      She had begun grinning strangely:

      “I am. And, alas, not for the first year…”

      “Why ‘alas’?”

      “In my stupidity I hurried into it too early. You don’t have time to look around before your life’s gone by!”

      “Oh, there’s still a long way to go until then.”

      “Alas, not long! And I’ve still experienced nothing in life, nothing!”

      “It’s still not too late to experience things.”

      And at that point, with a grin, she had suddenly shaken her head:

      “And I will!”

      “And what is your husband? A civil servant[113]?”

      She had waved her hand:

      “Oh, a very good and kind but unfortunately completely uninteresting man… The secretary of our District Land Board[114]…”

      “What a sweet, unfortunate woman,” he had thought, and had taken out his cigarette case:

      “Would you like a cigarette?”

      “Very much!”

      And she had clumsily, but courageously lit up, inhaling quickly, in a woman’s way. And inside him once again pity for her had stirred, pity for her familiarity, and, together with the pity – tenderness, and a voluptuous desire to exploit her naivety and tardy inexperience, which, he had already sensed, would be sure to be combined with extreme boldness. Now, sitting in the dining room, he looked with impatience at her thin arms, at the faded and for that reason still more touching little face, at the abundant dark hair, done up any old how[115], which she kept on giving a shake, having taken off her black hat and thrown her little grey coat off her shoulders, off her fustian dress[116]. He was moved and aroused by the frankness with which she had talked to him the day before about her family life, about her age, no longer young, and by the fact that now she had suddenly plucked up her courage[117] and was doing and saying the very things that were so amazingly unsuited to her. She had become slightly flushed from the vodka; even her pale lips had turned pink, and her eyes had filled with a sleepily mocking gleam.

      “You know,” she said suddenly, “there we were talking about dreams: do you know what I dreamt of most of all as a schoolgirl? Ordering myself calling cards! We’d become completely impoverished then, sold the remains of the estate and moved into town, and there was absolutely no one for me to give them to, but how I dreamt! It’s dreadfully silly…”

      He

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