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

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he said cautiously. “It’s time I was off.”

      “You’re going already?” she whispered senselessly.

      And suddenly she came to and, arms crossed, struck herself on the breast with her hands:

      “And where are you going? How will I get along without you now? What am I to do now?”

      “Styopa, I’ll come back again soon…”

      “But Daddy will be at home, won’t he? – how ever will I see you? I’d come to the wood on the other side of the highway, but how can I get out of the house?”

      Clenching his teeth, he toppled her onto her back. She threw her arms out wide and exclaimed in sweet despair, as though about to die: “Ah!”

      Afterwards he stood before the plank bed, already wearing his poddyovka and his cap, with his knout in his hand and with his back to the windows, to the dense lustre of the sun, which had just appeared, while she knelt on the bed and, sobbing and opening her mouth wide in a childish and unattractive way, articulated jerkily:

      “Vasil Lixeyich… for Christ’s sake… for the sake of the King of Heaven Himself, take me in marriage! I’ll be your very meanest slave! I’ll sleep by your doorstep – take me! I’d leave and come to you as I am, but who’ll let me do it like this! Vasil Lixeyich…”

      “Be quiet,” Krasilschikov said sternly. “In a few days’ time I’ll come and see your father and tell him I’m marrying you. Do you hear?”

      She sat down on her legs, breaking off her sobbing immediately, and obtusely opened wide her wet, radiant eyes:

      “Is that true?”

      “Of course it’s true.”

      “I already turned sixteen at Epiphany[46],” she said hurriedly.

      “Well then, so in six months’ time you can get married too…”

      On returning home, he began preparations at once, and towards evening left for the railway in a troika. Two days later he was already in Kislovodsk.

5th October 1938

      Muza

      I was then no longer in the first flush of youth[47], but came up with the idea of studying painting – I had always had a passion for it – and, abandoning my estate in the Tambov Province, I spent the winter in Moscow: I took lessons from a talentless, but quite well-known artist, an untidy, fat man who had made a very good job of adopting for himself all that is expected: long hair thrown back in big, greasy curls, a pipe in his teeth, a garnet-coloured velvet jacket, dirty grey gaiters on his shoes – I particularly hated them – a careless manner, condescending glances at a pupil’s work through narrowed eyes and, muttering, as if to himself:

      “Amusing, amusing… Undoubted progress…”

      I lived on the Arbat, by the Prague restaurant, in the Capital rooms. I worked at the artist’s and at home in the daytime, and not infrequently spent the evenings in cheap restaurants with various new acquaintances from Bohemia, both young and worn, but all equally attached to billiards and crayfish with beer… I had an unpleasant and boring life! That effeminate, slovenly artist, his “artistically” neglected studio, crammed with all kinds of dusty props, that gloomy Capital… What remains in my memory is snow falling continually outside the window, the muffled rumbling and ringing of horse-drawn trams down the Arbat, in the evening the sour stench of beer and gas in a dimly lit restaurant… I don’t understand why I led such a wretched existence – I was far from poor at the time.

      But then one day in March, when I was sitting working with pencils at home, and through the open transoms of the double glazing[48] there was no longer the reek of the wintry damp of sleet and rain, the horseshoes were clattering along the roadway no longer in a wintry way, and the trams seemed to be ringing more musically, someone knocked at the door of my entrance hall. I called out: “Who’s there?” but no reply ensued. I waited, called out again – again silence, then a fresh knock. I got up and opened the door: by the threshold stands a tall girl in a grey winter hat, in a straight, grey coat, in grey overshoes[49], looking fixedly, her eyes the colour of acorns, and on her long lashes, on her face and hair beneath the hat shine drops of rain and snow. She looks and says:

      “I’m a Conservatoire student, Muza Graf. I heard you were an interesting person and I’ve come to meet you. Do you have any objection?”

      Quite surprised, I replied, of course, with a courteous phrase:

      “I’m most flattered, you’re very welcome. Only I must warn you that the rumours that have reached you are scarcely true: I don’t think there’s anything interesting about me.”

      “In any event[50], do let me come in, don’t keep me at the door,” she said, still looking at me in the same direct way. “If you’re flattered, then let me come in.”

      And having entered, quite at home, she began taking off her hat in front of my greyly silver and in places blackened mirror, and adjusting her rust-coloured hair; she threw off her coat and tossed it onto a chair, remaining in a checked flannel dress, sat down on the couch, sniffing her nose, wet with snow and rain, and ordered:

      “Take my overshoes off and give me my handkerchief from my coat.”

      I gave her the handkerchief, she wiped her nose, and stretched out her legs to me:

      “I saw you yesterday at Shor’s concert[51],” she said indifferently.

      Restraining a silly smile of pleasure and bewilderment – what a strange guest! – I obediently took off the overshoes, one after the other. She still smelt freshly of the air, and I was excited by that scent, excited by the combination of her masculinity with all that was femininely youthful in her face, in her direct eyes, in her large and beautiful hand – in everything that I looked over and felt, while pulling the high overshoes off from under her dress, beneath which lay her knees, rounded and weighty, and seeing her swelling calves in fine, grey stockings and her elongated feet in open, patent-leather shoes[52].

      Next she settled down comfortably on the couch, evidently not intending to be leaving soon. Not knowing what to say, I began asking questions about what she had heard of me and from whom, and who she was, where and with whom she lived. She replied:

      “What I’ve heard and from whom is unimportant. I came more because I saw you at the concert. You’re quite handsome. And I’m a doctor’s daughter, I live not far from you, on Prechistensky Boulevard.”

      She spoke abruptly somehow, and concisely. Again not knowing what to say, I asked:

      “Do you want some tea?”

      “Yes,” she said. “And if you have the money, order some rennet apples to be bought at Belov’s – here on the Arbat. Only hurry the boots[53] along, I’m impatient.”

      “Yet you seem so calm.”

      “I may seem a lot of things…”

      When

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