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colour of what, Kisa?”

      “Don’t call me that, I’ve told you a thousand times already…”

      “I obey, Ksenya Alexandrovna, ma’am.”

      “I’m talking about that sky between the clouds. What a marvelous colour! Both terrifying and marvellous. Now that is truly heavenly, there aren’t any like that on earth. A sort of emerald.”

      “Since it’s in the heavens, of course it’s heavenly. Only why an emerald? And what’s an emerald? I’ve never seen one in my life. You simply like the word.”

      “Yes. Well, I don’t know – maybe not an emerald, but a ruby… Only such a one as is probably only found in paradise. And when you look at it all like this, how can you possibly not believe that there is a paradise, angels, the throne of God…”

      “And golden pears on willows…”

      “How spoilt you are, Tolya. Maria Sergeyevna’s right in saying that the very worst girl is still better than any young man.”

      “Truth itself speaks with her lips, Kisa.”

      The dress she is wearing is cotton, speckled, the shoes cheap; her calves and knees are plump, girlish, her little round head with a small braid around it is so sweetly thrown back… He puts one hand on her knee, clasps her shoulders with the other, and half-jokingly kisses her slightly parted lips. She quietly frees herself, removes his hand from her knee.

      “What is it? Are we offended?”

      She presses the back of her head against the jamb of the window, and he sees that she is crying.

      “But what’s the matter?”

      “Oh, leave me alone…”

      “But what’s happened?”

      She whispers:

      “Nothing…”

      And jumping down from the window ledge, she runs away.

      He shrugs his shoulders:

      “Stupid to the point of saintliness!”

3rd October 1940

      The Visitor

      The visitor rang once, twice – it was quiet on the other side of the door, no reply. He pressed the button again, ringing for a long time, insistently, demandingly – heavy running footsteps were heard – and a short wench, sturdy as a fish, all smelling of kitchen fumes, opened up and looked in bewilderment: dull hair, cheap turquoise earrings in thick earlobes, a Finnish face covered in ginger freckles, seemingly oily hands filled with blue-grey blood. The visitor fell upon her quickly, angrily and cheerfully:

      “Why on earth don’t you open up? Asleep, were you?”

      “No, sir, you can’t hear a thing in the kitchen, the stove’s ever so noisy,” she replied, continuing to gaze at him in confusion: he was thin, swarthy, with big teeth, a coarse black beard and piercing eyes; he had a grey silk-lined overcoat on his arm, and a grey hat tilted back off his forehead.

      “We know all about your kitchen! You’ve probably got a fireman boyfriend sitting with you!”

      “No, sir…”

      “Well, there you are, then, just you watch out!”

      As he spoke, he quickly glanced from the entrance hall into the sunlit drawing room, with its rich red velvet armchairs and, between the windows, a portrait of Beethoven with broad cheekbones.

      “And who are you?”

      “How do you mean?”

      “The new cook?”

      “Yes, sir…”

      “Fekla? Fedosya?”

      “No, sir… Sasha.”

      “And the master and mistress aren’t at home, then?”

      “The master’s at the newspaper and the mistress has gone to Vasilyevsky Island… to that, what’s it called? Sunday school.”

      “That’s annoying. Well, never mind, I’ll drop by again tomorrow. So, tell them, say: a frightening dark man came, Adam Adamych. Repeat what I said.”

      “Adam Adamych.”

      “Correct, my Flemish Eve. Make sure you remember. And for the time being, here’s what…”

      He looked around again briskly and threw his coat onto a stand beside a chest:

      “Come over here, quickly.”

      “Why?”

      “You’ll see…”

      And in one moment, with his hat on the back of his head, he toppled her onto the chest and threw the hem of her skirt up from her red woollen stockings and plump knees the colour of beetroot.

      “Sir! I’ll shout so the whole house can hear!”

      “And I’ll strangle you. Be quiet!”

      “Sir! For God’s sake… I’m a virgin!”

      “That’s no matter. Well, here we go!”

      And a minute later he disappeared. Standing by the stove, she cried quietly in rapture, then began sobbing, and ever louder, and she sobbed for a long time until she got the hiccups, right up until lunch, until someone rang for her. It was the mistress, young, wearing a gold pincenez, energetic, sure of herself and quick, who had arrived first. On entering, she immediately asked:

      “Has anybody called?”

      “Adam Adamych.”

      “Did he leave a message?”

      “No, ma’am… Said he’d drop by again tomorrow.”

      “And why are you all tear-stained?”

      “It’s the onions…”

      At night in the kitchen, which gleamed with cleanliness, with new paper scallops along the edges of the shelves and the red copper of the scrubbed saucepans, a lamp was burning on the table; it was very warm from the stove, which had not yet cooled down; there was a pleasant smell of the remains of the food in a sauce with bay leaves, and of nice everyday life. Having forgotten to extinguish the lamp, she was fast asleep behind her partition – as she had lain down, without undressing, so had she fallen asleep, in the sweet hope that Adam Adamych would come again tomorrow, that she would see his frightening eyes and that, God willing, the master and mistress would once more not be at home.

      But in the morning he did not come. And at dinner the master said to the mistress:

      “Do you know, Adam has left for Moscow. Blagosvetlov told me. He must have popped in yesterday to say goodbye.”

3rd October 1940

      Wolves

      The dark of a warm August night, and the dim stars can barely be seen twinkling here and there in the cloudy sky. A soft road into the fields, rendered mute by deep dust, down which a chaise is driving with two youthful passengers: a young miss from a small estate and a grammar-school boy. Sullen flashes of summer lightning at times light up a pair of draught horses[101] with tangled manes, running evenly in simple harness, and the peaked cap and shoulders of a lad in a hempen shirt[102] on the box; they reveal for a moment the fields ahead, deserted after the hours of work, and a distant, sad little wood. In the village the evening before there had been noise, cries, the cowardly barking and yelping of dogs: with amazing audacity, when the people in the huts were still having supper, a wolf had killed a sheep in one of the yards and had all but[103] carried it off – the men had leapt out in time with cudgels at the din from the dogs and had won it back, already dead, with its side ripped open. Now the young miss is chuckling nervously, lighting matches and throwing them into the darkness, crying merrily:

      “I’m afraid of the wolves!”

      The

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