Tales of the Wilderness | Page 9

then her child began to
cry, and she hurriedly left the room. The tea-urn softly simmered and

seethed, emitting a low, hissing sound in unison with that of the wires.
The men took up their tea and returned to their chess. Vera Lvovna
returned from the drawing-room; and, taking a seat on the sofa beside
her husband, sat there without stirring, with the fixed, motionless eyes
of a nocturnal bird.
"Have you examined the Goya, Vera Lvovna?" Polunin asked
suddenly.
"I just glanced through the _History of Art_; then I sat down with
Natasha."
"He has the most wonderful devilry!" Polunin declared, "and, do you
know, there is another painter--Bosch. He has something more than
devilry in him. You should see his Temptation of St. Anthony!"
They began to discuss Goya, Bosch, and St. Anthony, and as Polunin
spoke he imperceptibly led the conversation to the subject of St.
Francis d'Assisi. He had just been reading the Saint's works, and was
much attracted by his ascetical attitude towards the world. Then the
conversation flagged.
It was late when the Arkhipovs left, and Polunin accompanied them
home. The last breath of an expiring wind softly stirred the pine-
branches, which swayed to and fro in a mystic shadow-dance against
the constellations. Orion, slanting and impressive, listed across a
boundless sky, his starry belt gleaming as he approached his midnight
post. In the widespread stillness the murmur of the pines sounded like
rolling surf as it beats on the rocks, and the frozen snow crunched like
broken glass underfoot: the frost was cruelly sharp.
On reaching home, Polunin looked up into the overarching sky,
searching the glittering expanse for his beloved Cassiopeian
Constellation, and gazed intently at the sturdy splendour of the Polar
Star; then he watered the horses, gave them their forage for the night,
and treated them to a special whistling performance.
It struck warm in the stables, and there was a smell of horses' sweat. A
lantern burned dimly on the wall; from the horses' nostrils issued grey,
steamy cloudlets; Podubny, the stallion, rolled a great wondering eye
round on his master, as though inquiring what he was doing. Polunin
locked the stable; then stood outside in the snow for a while, examining
the bolts.
In the study Alena had made herself up a bed on the sofa, sat down next

it in an armchair and began tending her baby, bending over it humming
a wordless lullaby. Polunin sat down by her when he came in and
discussed domestic affairs; then took the child from Alena and rocked
her. Pale green beams of moonlight flooded through the windows.
Polunin thought of St. Francis d'Assisi, of the Arkhipovs who had lost
faith and yet were seeking the law, of Alena and their household. The
house was wrapped in utter silence, and he soon fell into that sound,
healthy sleep to which he was now accustomed, in contrast to his
former nights of insomnia.
The faint moon drifted over the silent fields, and the pines shone tipped
with silver. A new-born wind sighed, stirred, then rose gently from the
enchanted caverns of the night and soared up into the sky with the swift
flutter of many-plumed wings. Assuredly Kseniya Ippolytovna
Enisherlova was not asleep on such a night.
II
The day dawned cold, white, pellucid--breathing forth thin, misty
vapour, while a hoar-frost clothed the houses, trees, and hedges. The
smoke from the village chimneypots rose straight and blue. Outside the
windows was an overgrown garden, a snow-covered tree lay prone on
the earth; further off were snow-clad fields, the valley and the forest.
Sky and air were pale and transparent, and the sun was hidden behind a
drift of fleecy white clouds.
Alena came in, made some remark about the house, then went out to
singe the pig for Christmas.
The library-clock struck eleven; a clock in the hall answered. Then
there came a sudden ring on the telephone; it sounded strange and
piercing in the empty stillness.
"Is that you, Dmitri Vladimirovich? Dmitri Vladimirovich, is that
you?" cried a woman's muffled voice: it sounded a great way off
through the instrument.
"Yes, but who is speaking?"
"Kseniya Ippolytovna Enisherlova is speaking", the voice answered
quietly; then added in a higher key: "Is it you, my ascetic and seeker?
This is me, me, Kseniya."
"You, Kseniya Ippolytovna?" Polunin exclaimed joyfully.
"Yes, yes ... Oh yes!... I am tired of roaming about and being always on
the brink of a precipice, so I have come to you ... across the fields,

where there is snow, snow, snow and sky ... to you, the seeker.... Will
you take me? Have you forgiven me that July?"
Polunin's face was grave and attentive as he bent over the telephone:
"Yes, I have forgiven," he replied.
* * *