Fifty-Two Stories

On the thirty-first of August he was returning from camp, now not with his brigade, but with two batteries. He dreamed all the way and was excited, as if he were going to his native land. He passionately wanted to see again the strange horse, the church, the insincere Rabbek family, the dark room; the “inner voice” that so often deceives lovers whispered to him for some reason that he was sure to see her…And he was tormented by questions: How would he meet her? What would he talk about with her? Would she not have forgotten about the kiss? In the worst outcome, he thought, even if he did not run into her, it would already be pleasant enough for him to walk through the dark room and remember…

Towards evening the familiar church and white barns appeared on the horizon. Ryabovich’s heart began to pound…He was not listening to the officer who was riding next to him and saying something. He forgot about everything and greedily peered at the river glistening in the distance, the roof of the house, the dovecot over which pigeons circled, lit by the setting sun.

Approaching the church and then listening to the quartermaster, he waited every second for a rider to appear from behind the wall and invite the officers to tea, but…the quartermaster’s report ended, the officers dismounted and wandered off to the village, and the rider did not appear…

“Rabbek will find out at once from his peasants that we have come and will send for us,” Ryabovich thought, going into the cottage and not understanding why his comrade was lighting a candle and the orderlies were hurrying to start the samovars…

A heavy anxiety came over him. He lay down, then got up again and looked out the window to see if the rider was coming. But there was no rider. He lay down again, got up half an hour later, and, unable to bear his anxiety, went outside and walked towards the church. The square by the wall was dark and deserted…Three soldiers stood in a row at the very top of the slope and were silent. Seeing Ryabovich, they roused themselves and saluted. He returned the salute and started down the familiar path.

On the other bank, the whole sky was flooded with crimson color: the moon was rising; two peasant women, talking loudly, walked about in the kitchen garden tearing off cabbage leaves; beyond the kitchen garden, several cottages showed darkly…On the near bank everything was the same as in May: the path, the bushes, the willows hanging over the water…only the brave nightingale was not singing and there was no smell of poplars and young grass.

On reaching the garden, Ryabovich looked through the gate. The garden was dark and quiet…He could only see the white trunks of the nearest birches and a small part of the alley; the rest all merged into a black mass. Ryabovich greedily listened and peered, but after standing there for a quarter of an hour and not hearing or seeing anything, he trudged back…

He approached the river. Before him the general’s bathhouse and the sheets hanging on the rails of the little bridge showed white. He went up on the little bridge, stood there, and without any need touched a sheet. The sheet turned out to be rough and cold. He looked down at the water…The river flowed swiftly and the gurgling around the pilings of the bathhouse was barely audible. The red moon was reflected near the left bank; little ripples ran across its reflection, spreading it, tearing it to pieces, and, it seemed, wishing to carry it off…

“How stupid! How stupid!” thought Ryabovich, looking at the flowing water. “Not smart at all!”

Now, when he expected nothing, the incident with the kiss, his impatience, vague hopes, and disappointment appeared to him in a clear light. It no longer seemed strange to him that he had not gone on waiting for the general’s rider and that he would never see the one who had accidentally kissed him instead of someone else; on the contrary, it would be strange if he were to see her…

The water flowed who knows where and why. It had flowed the same way in May; from the small river in the month of May it had poured into a big river, from the river into the sea, then it evaporated, turned into rain, and maybe that same water was now flowing again before Ryabovich’s eyes…What for? Why?

And the whole world, the whole of life appeared to Ryabovich as an incomprehensible, pointless joke…And taking his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he again recalled how fate in the person of an unknown woman had unwittingly been kind to him, recalled his summer dreams and images, and his life seemed to him extraordinarily meager, miserable, and colorless…

When he went back to his cottage, he did not find any of his comrades. The orderly reported that they had all gone to “General Fontryabkin,” who had sent a rider for them…For a moment joy rose in Ryabovich’s breast, but he extinguished it at once, went to bed, and to spite his fate, as if wishing to vex it, did not go to the general’s.

1887

BOYS

“VOLODYA’S HERE!” someone shouted outside.