Fifty-Two Stories

His neck, as it seemed to him, was still smeared with oil, and near his mouth he felt a coolness, as from menthol drops. The shoulders and arms of the lilac young lady, the temples and sincere eyes of the blond girl in black, waists, dresses, brooches flitted through his imagination. He tried to fix his attention on these images, but they leaped, blurred, flickered. On the wide black background that every person sees when he closes his eyes, these images disappeared entirely, and he began to hear hasty footsteps, the rustling of a dress, the sound of the kiss, and—an intense, causeless joy came over him…As he surrendered himself to that joy, he heard the orderly come back and report that there was no beer. Lobytko was terribly indignant and again began to pace.

“Well, isn’t he an idiot?” he said, stopping in front of Ryabovich, then in front of Merzlyakov. “You’d have to be a blockhead and a fool not to find any beer! Eh? Well, isn’t he a canaille?”⁴

“Of course you can’t find beer here,” said Merzlyakov, without taking his eyes from The Messenger of Europe.

“Really? You don’t think so?” Lobytko persisted. “Lord God, drop me on the moon, and right away I’ll find you beer and women! Look, I’ll go right now and find it…Call me a scoundrel if I don’t!”

He spent a long time getting dressed and pulling on his big boots, then silently smoked a cigarette and left.

“Rabbek, Grabbek, Labbek,” he muttered, stopping in the front hall. “I don’t like going alone, devil take it. Ryabovich, wouldn’t you like to make a promenazh

? Eh?”

Receiving no reply, he came back, slowly undressed, and lay down. Merzlyakov sighed, set aside The Messenger of Europe, and blew out the candle.

“Hm—yes, sir…,” Lobytko murmured, lighting up a cigarette in the dark.

Ryabovich pulled the covers over his head, curled up, and began gathering together the images flitting through his imagination and uniting them into a single whole. But nothing came of it. Soon he fell asleep, and his last thought was that someone had caressed him and made him happy, that in his life something extraordinary, stupid, but extremely good and joyful had happened. This thought did not leave him even in sleep.

When he woke up, the sensation of oil on his neck and of menthol coolness near his lips was not there, but the wave of joy surged up in his breast as the day before. He gazed rapturously at the window frames gilded by the rising sun and listened to the movement outside. There was loud talk just by the window. Ryabovich’s battery commander, Lebedetsky, had just caught up with the brigade, and, being unaccustomed to speaking softly, was talking very loudly with his sergeant.

“And what else?” shouted the commander.

“During yesterday’s shoeing, Your Honor, Golubchik got pricked. The paramedic applied clay and vinegar. They lead him to one side now on a bridle. And also, Your Honor, the workman Artemyev got drunk yesterday, and the lieutenant punished him by sitting him on the front of a spare gun carriage.”

The sergeant also reported that Karpov forgot about new cords for the bugles and stakes for the tents, and that last night the officers visited General von Rabbek. In the middle of the conversation, the red-bearded head of Lebedetsky appeared in the window. He squinted at the officers’ sleepy physiognomies and greeted them.

“All well?” he asked.

“The shaft horse has a sore on his withers from the new yoke,” Lobytko said, yawning.

The commander sighed, thought a moment, and said loudly:

“And I think I’ll still go to see Alexandra Evgrafovna. I must call on her. Well, goodbye. I’ll catch up with you in the evening.”

A quarter of an hour later the brigade set out on its way. As it moved down the road past the barns of the estate, Ryabovich looked to the right at the house. The blinds were drawn. Evidently the house was still asleep. Asleep, too, was the girl who had kissed Ryabovich yesterday. He wanted to picture her sleeping. The bedroom window wide open, green branches peeking through the window, the morning freshness, the smell of poplars, lilacs, and roses, a bed, a chair, and on it the dress that had rustled yesterday, little shoes, a watch on the table—all this he portrayed to himself clearly and distinctly, but the features, the sweet, sleepy smile, precisely what was important and specific, evaded his imagination, like quicksilver under a finger. Having gone half a mile, he turned to look back: the yellow church, the house, the river, and the garden were flooded with light; the river with its bright green banks reflected the blue sky and, silvery here and there from the sun, was very beautiful. Ryabovich looked at Mestechki for the last time and felt as sad as if he were parting with something very near and dear.