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Hundreds of miles of desolate, monotonous, burnt-up steppe cannot induce such deep depression as one man when he sits and talks, and one does not know when he will go. "It's not a question of pessimism or optimism," I said irritably; "its simply that ninety-nine people out of a hundred have no sense." Byelokurov took this as aimed at himself, was offended, and went away.
Having heard from her daughter that I might come to Shelkovka, she had hurriedly recalled two or three of my landscapes which she had seen in exhibitions in Moscow, and now asked what I meant to express by them. Lidia, or as they called her Lida, talked more to Byelokurov than to me.
"Oh, for the sake of a girl like that one might not only go into the Zemstvo, but even wear out iron shoes, like the girl in the fairy tale. And Misuce? What a sweet creature she is, that Misuce!" Byelokurov, drawling out "Er er," began a long-winded disquisition on the malady of the age pessimism. He talked confidently, in a tone that suggested that I was opposing him.
After handing us the subscription list for our signatures, she put it away and immediately began to take leave of us. "You have quite forgotten us, Pyotr Petrovitch," she said to Byelokurov as she shook hands with him. I bowed. When she had gone Pyotr Petrovitch began to tell me about her.
IT was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the districts of the province of T , on the estate of a young landowner called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant tunic, drink beer in the evenings, and continually complain to me that he never met with sympathy from any one.
A sober workaday feeling came over me and I felt ashamed of all I had said at the Voltchaninovs', and felt bored with life as I had been before. When I got home, I packed and set off that evening for Petersburg. I never saw the Voltchaninovs again. Not long ago, on my way to the Crimea, I met Byelokurov in the train.
Although they had ample means, the Voltchaninovs lived on their estate summer and winter without going away. Lidia was a teacher in the Zemstvo school in her own village, and received a salary of twenty-five roubles a month. She spent nothing on herself but her salary, and was proud of earning her own living. "An interesting family," said Byelokurov. "Let us go over one day.
At supper Lida talked to Byelokurov again of the Zemstvo, of Balagin, and of school libraries. She was an energetic, genuine girl, with convictions, and it was interesting to listen to her, though she talked a great deal and in a loud voice perhaps because she was accustomed to talking at school.
Why haven't you, for instance, fallen in love with Lida or Genya?" "You forget that I love another woman," answered Byelokurov. He was referring to Liubov Ivanovna, the lady who shared the lodge with him.
And it seemed to me that these two charming faces, too, had long been familiar to me. And I returned home feeling as though I had had a delightful dream. One morning soon afterwards, as Byelokurov and I were walking near the house, a carriage drove unexpectedly into the yard, rustling over the grass, and in it was sitting one of those girls. It was the elder one.
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