The carriages rode narrowly along the banks of a rivulet. The high mountainous banks slowly but surely began to join with the narrowed vale and transformed into a gorge before them; the rocky mountain, alongside which they traveled, consisted of gargantuan rocks bound together by flora, pressing against one another with such frightening force that at the very sight of them Samoylenko involuntarily groaned. Damp and mystery fluttered at the passengers from narrow fissures and gorges that sliced the shadowy and beautiful mountain in places; other mountains could be seen, brown, pink, lilac, smoke-colored or awash in bright light through the gorges. As the road passed the gorges the sound of water was heard occasionally falling from above, slapping against the rocks.
“Oh, these damned mountains,” Laevsky sighed, “how tired I am of them!”
At the point where the Black River fell into the Yellow, and black water resembling India ink sullied the yellow and struggled with it, across the road stood Tartar Kerbalay’s dukhan with a Russian flag on the roof and a signboard on which “The Pleasant Dukhan” was written in chalk. Near that was a smallish garden enclosed by a wicker fence; there stood a table and chairs, and in the center of pitiful prickly shrubbery rose a single solitary cypress tree, dark and beautiful.
Kerbalay was a small, clever Tartar, in a blue shirt and white apron, he stood in the road and, holding his stomach, bowed low in greeting to the carriages and, smiling, displayed his shiny white teeth.
“Greetings, Kerbalayka!” Samoylenko called out to him. “We’ll ride a bit further, and you drag the samovar and chairs over! Be lively now!”
Kerbalay nodded assent with his closely cropped head and muttered something, and only those sitting at the back of the carriage could make out: “We have trout, Your Excellency.”
“Bring it over, bring it over!” Von Koren said to him.
Driving five hundred paces from the dukhan, the carriage stopped. Samoylenko selected a meadow that wasn’t too big, that was peppered with rocks, comfortable for sitting on, and where a tree fallen by a gale lay with upturned knotted roots and dried-out yellow needles. There was a sparse bridge of timber thrown across the little river, and on the other shore, exactly opposite them, on four not very tall pylons stood a little wooden shed used for drying corn, reminiscent of the cabin that stood on chicken legs in the folktale about Baba Yaga; a ladder had been lowered from its door.
Everyone had the same first impression, that they would never find their way out of this place. Wherever you looked, in every direction, mountains towered and closed in around them, and from the direction of the dukhan and the dark cypress the evening dusk quickly, quickly raced at them, and as a result the narrow, crooked Black River Valley became even more narrow and the mountains even higher. They could hear the roaring river and the cicadas’ ceaseless cries.
“How charming!” Maria Konstantinovna said, inhaling deeply in excitement. “Children, just look how good this all is! What quiet!”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is good,” agreed Laevsky, who had liked the view but for some reason, as he looked up at the sky and at the bluish smoke rising from the chimney pipe of the dukhan, suddenly became sad. “Yes, it’s good!” he repeated.
“Ivan Andreich, describe this view!” Maria Konstantinovna said, teary-eyed.
“What for?” Laevsky asked. “Your impression is better than some description. This wealth of color and sound that many experience in nature by means of their impressions, writers garble into a shameful, indecipherable scene.”
“Is that so?” Von Koren coldly asked, selecting the largest rock for himself near the water and attempting to climb atop it to have a seat. “Is that so?” he repeated, staring at Laevsky point-blank. “What about Romeo and Juliet? What about Pushkin’s Ukrainian night, for example? Nature is expected to arrive, bent low at the knee.”
“I suppose so …” agreed Laevsky, who didn’t have the energy to conceptualize or contradict. “By the way,” he said, after a moment had passed, “what is Romeo and Juliet in actuality? A beautiful, poetic sacred love, a bed of roses beneath which is hidden, rot. Romeo is the same kind of beast as anyone else.”
“No matter what anyone says to you, it all comes back to …”
Von Koren glanced at Katya and did not finish speaking.
“What do I come back to?” asked Laevsky.
“For instance, someone says to you: ‘What a lovely bunch of grapes!’ But you: ‘Yes, although it will look so disgraceful once chewed and digested in the stomach.’ What does this speak to? It’s nothing new but it’s a strange habit.”
Laevsky knew that Von Koren had no love for him. He feared him for this reason, and in his presence, he felt as though everyone were encumbered and that someone was looking over his shoulder. He did not give a reply, walked off to the side and regretted ever having come on the trip.
“Ladies and gentlemen, march! Find kindling for the fire!” commanded Samoylenko.
They all dispersed in every which direction, and the only ones to remain were Kirilin, Achmianov and Nikodim Aleksandrich. Kerbalay had brought over chairs, spread a rug out on the ground and put out several bottles of wine. The police captain, Kirilin, a tall, stately man, who wore his greatcoat over his service jacket regardless of the weather, with a proud gait and a deep albeit hoarse voice, resembled a typical young provincial chief of police. His countenance was sad and sleepy, as though he had just been awoken against his wishes.
“What did you bring us, you dolt?” he asked Kerbalay, slowly pronouncing each word. “I ordered you to bring Kvareli, and you, Tartar-face, what did you bring? Well? What?”
“We have plenty of our own wine, Igor Alekseich,” Nikodim Aleksandrich noted timidly and politely.
“What’s that? Well, I want my wine served here too. I’m participating in this picnic and I think it’s only proper that I contribute my rightful share. On-ly pro-per! Bring us ten bottles of Kvareli!”
“Why so many?” Nikodim Aleksandrich was taken aback, knowing that Kirilin had no money.
“Twenty bottles! Thirty!” cried Kirilin.
“Forget it, let him,” whispered Achmianov to Nikodim Aleksandrich. “I’ll pay for it.”
Nadezhda Fyodorovna was in a cheerful, mischievous mood. She wanted to hop around, laugh at the top of her lungs, yell, tease, play the coquette. In her cheap calico print dress with little blue eyelets, in little red shoes and in that very same straw hat, she perceived herself as being petite, simple, light and ethereal, like a butterfly. She ran across a weak little bridge and stared into the water for a minute so her head would start spinning, then uttered a little cry and ran off laughing to the opposite bank toward the shed where grain was dried. It seemed to her that all the men and even Kerbalay were admiring her. Then, in the fast approaching darkness, the trees merged with the mountains, the horses with the carriages, and lights began to shimmer in the windows of the dukhan; she walked along the little path that wound through boulders and thorny bushes, she made her way up a mountain and sat down on a rock. Below her a campfire had already been lit. The deacon, his shirtsleeves rolled up, milled about near the fire, and his long black shadow formed a radius that circled around the fire. He was adding kindling and stirring the contents of the cauldron with a spoon tied to a long stick. Samoylenko, with a coppery-red face, plodded around near the fire, as he would in his own kitchen, and shouted ferociously:
“Ladies and gentlemen, where is the salt? For heaven’s sake, have we forgotten it? Why has everyone settled in as though they were the lords of the manor while I alone toil?”
Laevsky and Nikodim Aleksandrich sat next to one another on a fallen tree and stared at the fire lost in thought. Maria Konstantinovna, Katya and Kostya were removing a tea service and plates from a basket. Von Koren stood at the bank nearly at the water’s edge, his arms crossed and one leg lifted up on a rock, his thoughts on something. Red spots from the fire joined with the shadows, meandered along the earth near the darkened human forms, quivered upon th
e mountains, upon the trees, upon the bridge, upon the drying shed. On the opposite shore the precipitous, pitted little bank was fully illuminated, it glimmered and was reflected in the river, and the speeding turbulent river tore its reflection to shreds.
The deacon went to get the fish that Kerbalay had been cleaning and washing on the shore, but halfway there he stopped and looked all around him.
My lord, how good it is here! he thought. The people, the rocks, the fire, the twilight, that disfigured tree—that’s all there is, but how good it is!
Strangers appeared on the opposite bank near the drying shed. Because of the fading light and the smoke of the campfire wafting to the opposite shore, it was not possible to make out all the people immediately. They came into view in parts, here a shaggy hat and a gray beard, there a blue shirt, here rags from shoulders to the knees and a dagger across the stomach, there a young swarthy face with black eyebrows so bushy and gruff, they appeared to have been drawn with charcoal. Five of them sat on the ground in a circle around the campfire, while the other five continued on to the drying shed. One of them stood in the doorway with his back to the campfire, hands folded behind his back, and began to tell a story that must have been very interesting, because when Samoylenko added kindling to the fire it flared up shooting off sparks and brightly illuminating the drying shed; two tranquil countenances appearing to pay close attention became visible in the doorway, likewise those sitting in the circle turned and began to listen to the story. Not long after, those seated in the circle began to sing, something drawn-out, melodic, similar to the hymn of receiving the host, the deacon realized what would become of him in ten years’ time when he had returned from the expedition—he, the young Hieromonk-missionary, an author with a name and a remarkable past. He’s been granted the appointment of Archimandrite, then Architrave. He presents the liturgy in a cathedral-esque church. In a golden mitre with the Panagia he steps out onto the ambo with the trikerion and the dikerion and makes the sign of the cross before a mass of people. He proclaims: “Look down from Heaven, O God, and behold this vineyard, as it was Your right hand that planted it!” While children with angelic voices sing a response of: “Holy God …”
“Deacon, where’s the fish?” Samoylenko’s voice was heard.
Returning to the fire, the deacon imagined a pageant procession along a dusty road on a hot July day following the path of the cross. The men carry a gonfalon up ahead, and the women and girls, icons. Next the choirboys and the sexton, his jaw tied and straw in his hair. Next, according to sequence, comes he, the deacon. Behind him the priest in a skull-cap and cross, and behind him a crowd of men, women and little boys fill the air with dust. There in the crowd are the priest’s wife and the deaconess, their heads covered by shawls. The singing of the choir, the wails of the children, the cries of the quail, the skylarks’ warble … Now they stop and the flock is doused with holy water … They proceed and in genuflection pray for rain. Later a snack, conversation …
And that’s good too …, the deacon thought.
VII
Kirilin and Achmianov made their way up the mountain along a little path. Achmianov lingered and stopped, but Kirilin approached Nadezhda Fyodorovna.
“Good evening!” he said, touching the visor of his cap.
“Good evening.”
“Yes, milady!” Kirilin said, looking up at the sky and thinking.
“What do you mean—’Yes, milady’?” asked Nadezhda Fyodorovna, who was momentarily silent, noticing that Achmianov was observing them both.
“Well, what I mean is,” the officer spoke, slowly, “it seems that our love has withered before ever having blossomed, so to speak. This is what you expect me to understand? The coquetry was all from your side. It’s the way of your kind. Unless you consider me a vagrant, with whom you may act however you please.”
“It was all a mistake! Leave me alone!” Nadezhda Fyodorovna said harshly, on this brilliant evening full of wonder, looking at him with fear and asking herself in bewilderment: Could it be that in fact there was a moment when she had liked this man and he had been close to her?
“There you have it, then!” Kirilin said. He stood for a bit in silence, thought, then said: “Come, now. We can wait until you’re in a better mood, but in the meantime you can believe me when I say that I am a respectable man and I won’t allow anyone to question it. You cannot toy with me! Adieu!”
He touched the visor of his cap and walked off to the side, making his way through the bushes. After waiting a little while, Achmianov approached with uncertainty.
“This is a good evening!” he said with a subtle Armenian accent.
He wasn’t bad looking at all. Dressed according to the latest style, he carried himself without pretense, like a young man who’d received a seminary education, but Nadezhda Fyodorovna didn’t care for him because she owed his father three hundred rubles. It was unpleasant for her that a shopkeeper had been invited to the picnic, and it was also unpleasant that he had approached her on this particular evening, when her soul felt so pure.
“All in all, the picnic is a success,” he said, again falling silent.
“Yes,” she agreed, and, as though just remembering her debt at that very moment, carelessly said: “Yes, let them know, over at your store, that Ivan Andreich will come by in a day or so to pay the three hundred … or whatever the amount is.”
“I’m prepared to give you another three hundred if you would just stop reminding me of the debt every single day. What’s the point?”
Nadezhda Fyodorovna began to laugh. A funny thought had entered her mind, that if she were any less moral and, if she wished, then she could rid herself of the debt in a minute’s time. If, for instance, she were to turn the head of this attractive, young fool! How funny that would be in actuality, how absurd, how wild! And she suddenly wanted to love, fleece and leave him. Then see what would come of it all.
“Please allow me to give you one piece of advice,” Achmianov said timidly. “I’m asking you, guard yourself against Kirilin. He is saying horrible things about you wherever he goes.”
“I’m not interested in knowing what some fool is saying about me,” Nadezhda Fyodorovna said coldly, but she was seized by worry, and her funny idea about playing with the young, the sweet Achmianov had suddenly lost its luster.
“We have to go back down,” she said. “They’re calling us.”
Down below, the ukha was ready. It was being doled out in plates and eaten with the kind of ceremony that only occurs at picnics; and everyone found the ukha very tasty and that they’d never eaten anything nearly as tasty at home. As is the routine at all picnics the napkins were lost en masse, wrappings, discarded greasy papers crawled about in the wind, they didn’t know whose glass this was and whose bread that was, spilled wine on the rug and in their own laps, spilled salt, while the darkness encircled them and the fire no longer burned as brightly and every one of them felt too lazy to rise and add kindling to it. They were all drinking wine, even Kostya and Katya were given half a glass each. Nadezhda Fyodorovna drank a glass, then another, became a little bit intoxicated and forgot all about Kirilin.
“A luxurious picnic, a charming evening,” Laevsky said, chipper from the wine, “but I would still prefer a good winter to all of this. ‘Dusty frost sparkles silver on his beaver collar.’ ”
“Everyone to his own taste,” Von Koren observed.
Laevsky felt awkward. He felt the heat of the fire at his back, and Von Koren’s hatred at his chest and face. This respectable, intelligent man’s hatred likely harbored a sound cause. It humiliated him, weakened him, and he, not having enough strength to resist, said in a tone meant to curry favor:
“I love nature passionately and regret that I am not a naturalist. I envy you.”
“Well, I neither feel regret, nor do I envy you,” Nadezhda Fyodorovna said. “I don’t understand how anyone can seriously occupy their time with insects and bugs while people are suffering.”
Lae
vsky shared her opinion. He was totally unfamiliar with the natural sciences and could never sympathize with the authoritative and educated tone of people who thought profoundly about ant antennae and cockroach paws, and he was always annoyed that those people, on the basis of antennae, paws and some kind of proto-plasma (which he always imagined as an oyster), take it upon themselves to answer questions that factor into the origin and life of man. But he heard nothing but lies in the words of Nadezhda Fyodorovna, and, for no other reason than to contradict her, he said:
“The point is not the bugs, the point is research!”
VIII
They began taking their seats in the carriages for the ride home, late, somewhere in the eleventh hour. Everyone was seated, the only ones missing were Nadezhda Fyodorovna and Achmianov, who were chasing each other on the other side of the river and laughing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, hurry up!” Samoylenko yelled to them.
“Perhaps ladies ought not to be given wine,” Von Koren said quietly.
Exhausted by the picnic, Von Koren’s hatred and his own thoughts, Laevsky walked in Nadezhda Fyodorovna’s direction, and when she, cheerful, happy, feeling light as a feather, breathless and giddy, grabbed him by both hands and placed her head on his chest, he took a step back and sternly said:
“You are behaving like … a coquette.”
It came out rather harshly, so that even he began to take pity on her. She could read the pity, the hatred, the vexation on his angry, exhausted face, and her spirits suddenly plummeted. She understood that she’d overdone it, that she had conducted herself too loosely, and, saddened, began to feel weighed down, fat, vulgar and drunk. She took the first available seat in the carriage, together with Achmianov. Laevsky sat with Kirilin, the zoologist with Samoylenko, the deacon with the ladies, and the train left the station.