VII + 

TatianaтАЩs mother, Varvara Alexeievna Ostapenko, sat in her garden, embroidering silk in bright colors. Varvara was a tall woman, thin and melancholy, with a dark birthmark on one cheek. She had a slow and anxious awkwardness of body; she held her head up often, as though listening, walked on tiptoe, and when, as now, she rested, never leaned back for more than a few seconds. A few seconds slackening and then again there she would be, listening, with her face up, as though expecting a call. + 

The garden, which had been made by their Japanese landlord, seemed built, fitted together, rather than grown. Curves of asymmetrical disciplined branches looped from sky to ground; the green in-bent horizon of the garden looked like handwriting against the dazzling sky. A young reddening maple, a pine, a Japanese cherry tree, and a stunted self-conscious cedar laid down careful shadows at one anotherтАЩs feet in a sort of cold courtliness. There were no flowers except Michaelmas daisies frothing in a mauve mist over the brim of a streaked glazed blue urn in a corner of the garden. Flying seedpods, gossamers and birds seemed like untidinesses in the air of a garden where even the shadows were studied. The September heat of the plain boxed in the garden as though in a glass case. + 

A thread of sound like a fluteтБатАФthe sound of Tatiana whistlingтБатАФfrom somewhere in the house, seemed to run like a rill of coolness through the garden. + 

тАЬTanya whistles like a boy,тАЭ thought Varvara. She imagined Tatiana as the girl must look as she ironed in the washing-shed outside the houseтБатАФwhistling in time with her ironing. тАЬShe must be hot, though,тАЭ thought Varvara. тАЬThere is no draught in the shed.тАЭ She imagined the light diamond mustache of tiny drops that appeared always on TatianaтАЩs upper lip when she was hotтБатАФa little delicate hint of heat that, in that still girl, took the place of the raw flush, the bloated mouth, the hair askew, the stare-eyed goggle that in so many other women and men are the symptoms of overheating. + 

The three members of the Ostapenko family were always very conscious one of another. Their craving that each should be justified, even when wrong, that each should be worthy of each and appear worthy even when unworthy, that none should be hurt or humiliated, even when deserving of rebuff, amounted to a kind of chronic soreness of heart. They all almost hated and quite loved one anotherтБатАФsavage in the disappointment of their own hopes of one another, and savage in their anger against outsiders for being disappointed. They had an overbearing family egoism; they felt as if they were set apart, as if they should be judged by a standard different from that to which other families conform. Each thought the other two, for instance, more beautiful than ordinary beauty; even VarvaraтАЩs birthmark seemed to her husband and daughter a sort of hallmark of queer beauty. Only Pavel Ostapenko felt real vanity about himself; Varvara and Tatiana each felt it for the other two. In themselves they were more proud of the things they did not do very well than they were about their gifts. With one half of her mind Varvara knew that her designs for her embroidery were not worth the exquisite stitching she put into them. The designs were childish and ungainlyтБатАФnot simple enough to be primitive, not clever enough to be sophisticated. Criticism of her designs, therefore, could make her tremble with anger, and pointed praise of her stitching was almost equally humiliating. She knewтБатАФand refused to admitтБатАФthat she was an interpreter, not a creator, in everything, but she refused to be praised for anything less than creation. + 

In the same way, TatianaтАЩs only vanity was her whistle. It was sweet and most flexible and versatile; she could give it either the ogling quality of the saxophone or the cold veiled purity of the flute. It was always impeccably accurate. Her ear heard words in the air which, running through her senses, not through her brain, came out as tunes through her lipsтБатАФwandering, passing, blind tunes that never went forward and never came back. It was a foolish and tiny skill, much more akin to a birdтАЩs song than a human sound; the sound mixed lightly with the cooing of doves and the whistling of larksтБатАФit had none of the interrupting, creative quality of most human melody. Tatiana did not feel that she should be applauded for her whistling, but she herself enjoyed it intensely. It was very close and clear in her own ears and filled up all the lonely space about her. She heard it almost as though it were space singing, not herself, and she looked forward to it whenever she set herself to work with her hands in an empty place. She valued this knack of hers far more than she valued her straight and vivid beauty. She had grown weary now of having her beauty praised, since such praise was always the prelude to a demandтБатАФto one of the dangerous approaches she dreaded. + 

There was a side gate to the garden, opening under a twirl of tufted pine branch. By the care with which the latch was lifted Varvara knew that her husband, Pavel, was a little drunk but not very. Varvara looked at him with a sourness that came of expectations disappointed. The trouble was that she had invented a Pavel Ostapenko for herself, to which the actual Pavel seldom conformed. She was a Procrustean wife. + 

Pavel looked uneasily at his wife as he pulled at his little red beard. He used his beard as though it were a kind of tab by which to pull his mouth open; tugging at his beard, he pulled his jaw downтБатАФsnapped it up againтБатАФopenтБатАФshutтБатАФopenтБатАФshowing fine teeth and an uneasy tongue. + 

тАЬI have some news,тАЭ he said, looking down at his wife, rather relieved to be about to put his uneasiness and rancor into words. + 

Varvara had decided deliberately to sulk a little. She felt that a cold silence now might make him drink one glass less next time. + 

тАЬI have heard something,тАЭ he began again, тАЬthat makes me as uncomfortable and guilty as though it were my own fault. Oh, VaritchkaтБатАФthat poor boy, Sasha Weber.тБатАКтБатАж I was fond of him. He has cut his throat.тАЭ + 

тАЬSasha!тАЭ exclaimed Varvara, shocked out of her resolve. тАЬBut he has left Seoul.тБатАКтБатАж How do you know?тБатАКтБатАж Who heard?тАЭ + 

тАЬSoloviev heard from the boyтАЩs mother. He had reached Chi-tao-kou, just over the Chinese border.тБатАКтБатАж Evidently he found life unbearable, after all, though he made a show of indifference.тАЭ PavelтАЩs tearsтБатАФfor he was an emotional drinkerтБатАФspilled suddenly over his cheekbones. + 

тАЬIt is not our fault. It is not our fault,тАЭ said Varvara, huskily. тАЬWhat nonsense to cry as if it were our fault! A boyтАЩs folly still remains folly, even if he is dead and will never be a fool againтБатАФpoor little fool!тАЭ + 

Ostapenko pulled his jaw into a few more gapes. His eyesтБатАФbrown irises entirely surrounded by whitesтБатАФglared in a frightened way at his wife. + 

тАЬUp to now I have tried to think of Tanya as a dear girlтБатАФa too charming, too lovely girl.тБатАКтБатАж Every lovely girl, I have thought, has these adventuresтБатАКтБатАж fascinating danger to the young bloodsтБатАКтБатАж fatal gift of beautyтБатАКтБатАж the kind of thing great-aunts in the тАЩfifties suffered fromтБатАФlove-tokens, duels, rivals sending rosebudsтБатАФyou know what I meanтБатАФquite natural.тБатАКтБатАж Now, suddenly, Varitchka, I donтАЩt believe it is natural, or pretty. ThereтАЩs something wrong. Something unnatural. Something unhealthy.тАЭ He said the last word almost in a choking voice. Health was one of his vanities. + 

тАЬUnnatural? Unhealthy?тАЭ exclaimed Varvara, stitching in tense jerks. тАЬWhat is unnatural? What is natural? Only the majority.тАЭ + 

тАЬWell, youth is naturalтБатАКтБатАж and girlishnessтБатАКтБатАж and warmth and motherhoodтБатАКтБатАжтАЭ Pavel was shading his eyes with his hand, and from beneath his little finger tears that seemed unwarranted by the matter of what he said ran down his face. тАЬThereтАЩs something about our Tanya that kills decent young creatures like Sasha WeberтБатАФeven if they donтАЩt cut their throats or join the Chinese army. Look at Piotr Isaev; look at Boris Andreievitch, or Stepan. One canтАЩt wag a finger at all this and say, тАШA-ha! the saucy chit!тАЩ O God! thatтАЩs the troubleтБатАФsheтАЩs not near enough to be saucy. You canтАЩt smile at a thing a hundred miles off.тАЭ + 

Ideas that looked like the long-ignored truth seemed to come with appalling clarity into PavelтАЩs humming, giddy mind. He seemed to see his daughter all at once as a stillness, an interruption in loud and moving lifeтБатАФsomething pale suspended like a ghost, just higher than the groundтБатАФabout which gay coarse heavy-footed life moved in vain, moved and dodged, seeking for glances from eyes that stopped warm hearts beating. A little figure of death surviving life. And this was his daughter. Her existence seemed to him, in his present mood, an insult to the life that dizzied him in himself. тАЬWhat kind of a creature have I begotten?тАЭ he croaked. тАЬSomething that is a woman and is not.тАЭ + 

тАЬThere you are,тАЭ said Varvara, fiercely flattening the silk upon her knee. тАЬThere you are! Why should everything be a woman or a man?тАЭ + 

тАЬWhat do you meanтБатАФmenтБатАФwomen? What else is there? Out of men and women comes lifeтБатАФthe only life there is.тАЭ + 

тАЬTanya is living.тАЭ + 

тАЬTanyaтБатАФah, tschah!тБатАФshe is living.тАЭ He was silent, listening to the sound of TanyaтАЩs whistling. тАЬYes,тАЭ he said, after a moment, in a different voice, тАЬshe is living.тАЭ He paused for some time, waving his head a little as though his eyes were trying to follow the twirl of a rather giddy world. тАЬBut because of her, Sasha Weber is dead.тАЭ + 

тАЬNot because of her, exactly,тАЭ said Varvara, slowly. тАЬBecause of a collision between new things and old thingsтБатАКтБатАж Sasha Weber comes at the end of something oldтБатАФTanya comes at the beginning, perhaps, of something new.тАЭ + 

тАЬA bad beginning,тАЭ said Pavel, тАЬsince it seems our line is to stop with her. I donтАЩt know what you mean, Varitchka. And whatever you mean, IтАЩm sure it is unhealthy and ugly.тАЭ + 

тАЬEverythingтАЩs unnatural when it begins. EverythingтАЩs ugly when we havenтАЩt seen it before.тАЭ + 

тАЬI donтАЩt know what you mean. It is TanyaтАЩs dutyтБатАФit is every womanтАЩs dutyтБатАФto be natural and warm and young, not to suck life out of warm natural young things and remain cold as a cat herself.тАЭ + 

тАЬWe donтАЩt know what is the duty of new things,тАЭ insisted Varvara. тАЬPerhaps they havenтАЩt any. Anyway, new or old, theyтАЩre all natural.тАЭ + 

тАЬWhat is she, then, you silly woman, if sheтАЩs not the thing we knowтБатАФa young woman, born to bear children?тАЭ + 

тАЬPerhaps sheтАЩs a thing,тАЭ said Varvara. тАЬThat maple treeтАЩs a thing. A man can love that without wanting to get into bed with it. Listen.тАЭ + 

TatianaтАЩs whistle fluted, stopped again, shaped itself into an unthinking trill or two. + 

тАЬListen,тАЭ said Varvara, тАЬwhose voice is that? ThatтАЩs a thingтАЩs voice.тАЭ + 

And as she applied this cruel word to her daughter, the word became somehow a word of praiseтБатАФa proud word. It seemed suddenly common to be anything but a thing. + 

тАЬAh, tschah!тАЭ snorted Pavel, striking the trunk of the little maple tree with an outflung hand. тАЬIt is absurd. I have been talking nonsense. So have you. TanyaтАЩs just an unawakened child. The little minx. She has no understanding of her effect on men. Perhaps the shock of hearing of SashaтАЩs death and knowing it to be the result of her childish heartlessness willтБатАФTanitchka!тАЭ he shouted. + 

Tatiana in the ironing-shed heard his voice with an urgency that almost stopped her heart. She was so lost, so enclosed in her cooing forgetful space, that his voice seemed like a shot suddenly unwarrantably fired in time of peace. Her finger was jerked by surprise from the handle of the iron she was using and pressed for a second on the scorching metal. The pain of the finger sprang up her arm. After the first second, her burnt finger was interesting to herтБатАФa possession to be studied, to be proud of. She began prodding it, squeezing it, to make it hurt more. The skin thickened and whitened on the burn; she looked at it closely, feeling the finger grow hotter and hotterтБатАФmore and more apoplectic, as though it were so full of blood that it would burst. + 

тАЬTanya!тАЭ roared her father again from the garden. + 

Tatiana left the iron burning a sheet and went out of the shed, through the house, and into the garden. + 

Her father stood with his arm crooked round a bough of the little maple, like one with his arm round the shoulders of a friend. He looked at Tatiana anxiously, breathing heavily. Her mother, sitting rigidly, jerking at stitches, did not look up. + 

тАЬI heard a piece of news today,тАЭ said Pavel, тАЬthat may interest you. Or it may not.тАЭ + 

тАЬI expect it will, papasha,тАЭ said Tatiana in a drowsy voice. She stood rocking a little on her feet, torturing her throbbing finger. + 

тАЬI expect you hardly think it worth while to remember Alexander Petrovitch Weber,тАЭ said Pavel, who had become very angry again directly he saw his daughter. He fixed on her his characteristic glare that islanded his irises in startled white. тАЬSometimes it seems to me that you donтАЩt distinguish between one young man and another. I suppose you think theyтАЩre all alike in their follyтБатАФand none worthy of your highnessтАЩs attention. My God!тАЭ he shouted suddenly, тАЬit would do you good to be raped by one of them.тАЭ + 

Tatiana pinched and tore at her agonising finger. + 

тАЬAlexander Petrovitch is dead,тАЭ he said. тАЬHe cut his throat. Just before he killed himself he wrote to his mother that his death would relieve you of a nuisance.тАЭ + 

тАЬThat was ridiculous of him,тАЭ said TatianaтАЩs mother in a matter-of-fact voice. тАЬIt was also very spiteful and theatrical.тАЭ + 

тАЬAt any rate, you wouldnтАЩt waste a tear on Sasha Weber, of course,тАЭ said Pavel to his daughter, choking with anger. тАЬSasha knew that, of course. But he was mistaken, poor fool, in thinking that you would feel anything so active as relief, wasnтАЩt he? Why should you feel anything at all? What does it matter to you that a living young man is dead?тАЭ + 

Tatiana looked at her finger. Through the nail, she noticed, the red blood showed purple. Things were hurt, things died, blood ran into burnt fingers and out of cut throats. Containers of uneasy blood, thatтАЩs all we are. Big and little, male and female, two-legged, four-legged, six legged, many-legged, winged and creeping, wise and foolish, we slide and stride and wiggle about the world until something called death lets the blood out, to be soaked into the ground, to be dried into the air, to form again in other containers.тБатАКтБатАж Why should there be any of this merging between one skinful of blood and bones and another? Why canтАЩt we get used to the loneliness of having separate blood? Pitchers may go to the same well, be dipped, and come home full, clinking handles, tinkling together, but always separate, each with its dreadful integrity complete, its inviolate solitary storm of contents. Not till the pitcher is spilled is there a mergingтБатАФa cold, loveless merging into thirsty space. These images, quite clear but wordless, passed across the screen of TatianaтАЩs sight as she looked at her finger, cramping the muscles round her eyes till her forehead smarted. тАЬWhy do I feel my finger and my forehead hurting, and not the wound in SashaтАЩs throat?тАЭ she thought all at once. тАЬWhat is it that feels one wound so much and another not at all?тАЭ + 

The maple tree rustled as Pavel shook it with his tense arm. His arm was aching to beat his daughter, to break up her exasperating stillness. тАЬI suppose you donтАЩt know why this unhappy young man killed himself,тАЭ he croaked. + 

тАЬNo,тАЭ said Tatiana. She knew that he had killed himself by way of revenge on herтБатАФhe had told her that he would, but she did not know why. What were two meтАЩs to each other, that one should be so necessary to another? A sort of accident, it seemed, happened in young menтАЩs blood that made them think that two meтАЩs could be kneaded together into an us. Most of them probably lived to find it a mistake. Only dear Sasha had incredibly thrown his me awayтБатАФpoured it out of a cut throat, because he could not double it into an us. Here in this generous world were a million million meтАЩsтБатАФa million million columns of lonely blood and bone. There was no such thing as a real us. + 

тАЬExcept the Siamese twins,тАЭ said Tatiana aloud, absentmindedly. + 

Pavel boxed her ears. + 

Varvara got up from her chair, her face twisting, her mind profoundly disturbed. тАЬOh, what a complicated family IтАЩve got!тАЭ she thought, proudly. тАЬYou must stop and think, Pavlik,тАЭ she said, in a dry, urgent voice. тАЬThink. Think. ItтАЩs impossible to make things one way that really are another. Tanya is Tanya, whether you like it or not, and you know, when youтАЩre sober, you like it. She has as much right to be herself as you haveтБатАФand even if she hadnтАЩt, you couldnтАЩt change her, either by hitting her or in any other way. She couldnтАЩt change herself. SheтАЩs alive.тАЭ + 

тАЬYes, and SashaтАЩs dead,тАЭ shouted Pavel. тАЬHe had just as much right to be alive as she has. More right, because he was natural. He was a man. He should have begotten sons. What is this thing we have called our daughter? A thingтБатАФa lifeless thingтБатАФkilling live men.тБатАКтБатАж What about our grandchildren who have a right to be born? A thing thatтАЩs not alive is preventing men and women from being alive. SheтАЩs cutting us off from our grandchildren. Five timesтБатАФsix timesтБатАФseven timesтБатАФshe might have been married; she might have been turned into a live womanтБатАФa live motherтБатАФa live wife. Her face, her bodyтБатАФher womanтАЩs face and bodyтБатАФtheyтАЩre lies.тБатАКтБатАж Yes, sheтАЩs crying nowтБатАФshe looks almost like a woman when she cries, doesnтАЩt sheтБатАФbut itтАЩs all lies.тБатАКтБатАжтАЭ + 

Tatiana, her head still bent over her hand as though she were obsessed by the phenomenon of her burnt finger, was crying violentlyтБатАФher shoulders jerking, her mouth squared, the muscles round her eyes quivering, tears springing down her cheeks and chin. She was rigid with anger against her father because he was invading herтБатАФhis words were fettering her, just as his hard hands had clapped an ache round her head. + 

тАЬAnd Piotr GavrilovitchтБатАФwhom she promised only a month or two ago to marryтБатАФwhere is he now? GoneтБатАФturned out, I suppose, since all her promises are lies. I suppose she said, You foolish Petya, that promise of mine was a jokeтБатАФa thingтАЩs promise.тБатАКтБатАж Eh? EhтБатАФ? Answer me, girl.тАЭ + 

тАЬWhat do you want her to answer, Pavlik?тАЭ said Varvara, standing within an armтАЩs-length of her weeping daughter, but not touching her. + 

тАЬAnswer me, girl. Piotr Gavrilovitch, the last young fool you lied toтБатАФyou showed him the door, I suppose, when youтАЩd sucked him dry. HeтАЩs not coming back any more, is he?тАЭ + 

Tatiana shook her head. + 

тАЬNo, of course not. I suppose you said to him, You can go and cut your throat now, Petya, as Sasha did. The joke is over, you saidтБатАФtill another softhearted young fool comes along. ItтАЩs a joke youтАЩve played too often, you little snake. I tell you itтАЩs a stale joke. I wonder you can sleep at night. What about Boris, who went to Shanghai? His father never heard from him again. Did he cut his throat, too, do you think, or just starve to death? It doesnтАЩt matter to you, of course, does it? What about old SolovievтАЩs son, Stepan? You didnтАЩt manage to turn him out of his home, but I hope youтАЩre proud of what you did do, for IтАЩve never seen him sober since he left this garden for the last time. What about Vanya, whose eye you nearly blinded for life at that kissing game when he was having a bit of fun? What aboutтБатАФGood God, girl!тАЭ + 

For Tatiana was suddenly laughing. She lifted her eyes at last from her clasped hands and laughed. A picture of a sort of centrifugal burst of young men bouncing from one center had come into her mind. Like a flock of rabbits running from a weaselтБатАФjumping off cliffs, plunging into streams, turning head over heels in panic, springing under railway trainsтБатАФa bomb of furry fugitives bursting as the result of one puny little spark of life inside a separate bag of fur. Certainly seven was too many to cry over. Over oneтБатАФeach one of the sevenтБатАФtears might be shed. Tatiana knew that as soon as she was quiet again she would be imagining the cruel look of the knife in poor SashaтАЩs sightтБатАФthe feel of its pressing edge on his tender throat. But nowтБатАФseven voices singing in silly unison, тАЬGoodbye foreverтАЭтБатАФseven twangs of breaking hearts like the snapping strings of balalaikas.тБатАКтБатАж + 

The father and mother stood and looked at their giggling child. + 

тАЬShe is right,тАЭ said Varvara after a moment, with a brisk, hard look, as she folded her sewing. тАЬSeven is too many to cry over. Seven is like the chorus in comic opera. You go and lie down, Pavlik; you are overexcited and you talk nonsense. There is no reason why Tanya should try to be any different from what she is. If seventy lovers instead of seven came along, it wouldnтАЩt be her fault if none of them was the right one. Perhaps sheтАЩs just more particular than the rest of us.тАЭтБатАКтБатАж She looked at her husband with a wry, unnatural archness. тАЬOr perhaps sheтАЩs not the kind of girl that marries. ItтАЩs only a habit that makes men and old virgins think so much of love and marriage.тБатАКтБатАжтАЭ + 

Varvara stopped speaking, overcome with a sort of despair. All this pain, this weeping, this shouting, was like a blot upon perfectionтБатАФa blot that must be at the same time erased and accepted by her. This storm must be outwardly stilled, yet inwardly justified; it must be part of the air of the house nowтБатАФand yet it was leaving ruin in its path. Ruin must henceforth decorate the garden. Part of her pride in the familyтАЩs perfection must be TatianaтАЩs imperfection, just as PavelтАЩs drunkenness had become a subtletyтБатАФan Ostapenko essentialтБатАФmisunderstood though it might be outside. She knew that her husband was often drunk, but ignorant outsiders might thinkтБатАФwell, they might think that he drank! She knew there was a fundamental perversity, a passional lack, in her daughterтБатАФbut, with so many disappointed and spiteful lovers about, Heaven knew what the neighbors might say. They might call the child frigid, undesirable, likely to live and die alone. One must fashion these potential weapons into stones to strengthen the ramparts of family defense. + 

тАЬWhat have you done to your finger, Tanya?тАЭ she said, awkwardly. + 

тАЬI burnt it on the iron.тАЭ + 

Pavel was walking a few steps here and a few steps there in the hot shade of the garden, clasping and unclasping his hands, mopping his dripping forehead. тАЬButter,тАЭ he said. тАЬButter is good for a burn.тАЭ Thinking of his TanyaтБатАФhis claimant for Ostapenko immortalityтБатАФburning her finger on an iron gave him a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach, though he still longed to beat her and make her scream. + 

тАЬIt is very sore, I suppose,тАЭ said Varvara. тАЬIf you come in I will put something on it.тАЭ + 

тАЬButterтБатАФbutterтБатАФтАЭ murmured Pavel, rather wildly. He was wondering why this business of TatianaтАЩs disappointed lovers had seemed to him so important just now. By what logical steps had he reached his present condition of agitation and anger against his daughter? Everything seemed unnaturally separated in his mind now: the talk in the drinking-house with old Soloviev, the news of SashaтАЩs death at Chi-tao-kou, the sudden discovery that the leaves of the maple in the garden had turned gold, VarvaraтАЩs comment on TatianaтАЩs whistling, TatianaтАЩs tears, TatianaтАЩs laughter, TatianaтАЩs burnt finger, TatianaтАЩs need of a good whipping, TatianaтАЩs need of butter, his own need of a wash and a good sleepтБатАКтБатАж each of these facts seemed static and ready-made in his mind, none growing out of any other. + 

Alone with Tatiana, Varvara said as she bent over the wounded finger: тАЬYour papa is overexcitedтБатАКтБатАж the hot weather.тБатАКтБатАж His disappointment is natural. Sasha Weber was the son-in-law he would have liked.тАЭ + 

TatianaтАЩs throat tautened as she imagined a knife at a throat. Yet really SashaтАЩs suicide hurt her just about as much as her burnt finger hurt her, no more. Her thoughts were intermittently free of either injury; they played with the shape of the sunlight on the floor, with the angular lines of her fatherтАЩs coat hanging on a chair, with the blowing, casual design of gusty gold sand blowing across the paper screens. Chairs, tables, cupboardsтБатАФheavy props for heavy Russian bodies, supports for heavy Russian possessionsтБатАФlooked oddly in the light flat Japanese gold-and-white room. They were like vulgar plums in a cake or cube of light sweet air. The alcove that in a Japanese house should hold a flowery suggestion of an altar framed KatyaтАЩs sewing-machine. Tatiana could almost see the surprise of that room, finding itself patched with such heavy shapes and shadows; finding itself looking out at a frank spotted world through the crudeness of glass windows, instead of veiled by the subtle blindness of paper windows set into fretted frames. Though Tatiana was so well used to the room, she saw it freshly today because she remembered that Sasha once knocked his head against the frame of this door. He must have felt the bruise as now she felt her own burnt finger; her own head, she remembered, had ached for an hour in sympathy with his, just as now her throat tingled and throbbed to the slash of a knife against his throat. The strange prisoner feeling still puzzled herтБатАФthat prisoner, filling his prison with such a flame of superfluous life, pain, and joy, that the neighboring human prisons are almost set alight. And thenтБатАФsuddenlyтБатАФdeadтБатАФcoldтБатАФno feelingтБатАФno message from the prisoner ever again. Six months ago the results of the contact of SashaтАЩs skull against a doorframe were a curse, a blue skin, an hourтАЩs soreness, a little headache, a lot of grumbling, sympathy from Tatiana, a chronic caution when entering by that door afterward. Now, SashaтАЩs bones could beat against hard stonesтБатАКтБатАж no protests of skin and blood, no complaint from his quiet lips, no anger in his brain, no sympathy needed from friends and lovers. No sympathyтБатАФno sympathy needed; no wandering love whistled in by a master from far fields. She was safe now, she thought, from one more invasion. Sasha could never make her feel guilty againтБатАФguilty for being Tatiana Ostapenko. + 

Her finger was throbbing, her head was aching from her fatherтАЩs blow. She still felt coldly angry with her fatherтБатАФand yet proud of him. He had attacked her spiritually and physically, and yet, she though the was so splendid, so queer, so much more colored and individual than other men. He was a part of her; for the moment she hated him as she might hate oneтАЩs own rebellious limb. тАЬA lonely and wild father,тАЭ she thought, тАЬhitting his daughter because she would take no lover. How rare! how Ostapenko!тАЭ She would not have contradicted an outsiderтАЩs view of her father. тАЬA simple tipsy man,тАЭ you might have said, and so he was. Yes, simple with a precious Ostapenko simplicity; tipsy as a poet without words.тБатАКтБатАж Even ordinary derogatory words could be twisted by each Ostapenko to feed the family sense of apartness. + 

тАЬWell,тАЭ said Tatiana, тАЬSashaтАЩs safe and dead now.тАЭ Her finger hurt so much, as her mother touched it, that she could almost have wished to die of this injury as Sasha had died of his. TatianaтАЩs body was always morbidly sensitive to pain. Little pains, that in other people seemed easily dismissed from attention, often demanded real fortitude of her. That was why she was so much preoccupied with the thought of painтБатАФwhy she invented stories about pain and death in the night to make her body thrill. + 

тАЬMy darling,тАЭ said Varvara, in inquiry, not in criticism, тАЬhave you no feelings for other peopleтАЩs sufferings? Do you not mind very much about poor Sasha?тАЭ + 

Tatiana listened, a little confused. The two questions seemed to her to be quite separate. Minding about a personтБатАФno. Minding about peopleтБатАФwell, nobody could feel more actually than she felt the very feelings of people, animals, insects, things, ghosts, even the air bruised by shadows. + 

тАЬNo mamma, I havenтАЩt any heart,тАЭ she mumbled, feeling this to be the safest claim. + 

Varvara registered this as a confirmation of a new piece of Ostapenko peculiarity. Her daughter had no heart. Well, were hearts necessary? Men and womenтБатАФespecially womenтБатАФhad been judged too much by their capacity for love. This was because people who love, propagate, thought Varvara, and transmit their vulgar standard of love from generation to generation. Just as rabbits transmit their bobtails. Bobtails are a conventional rabbit standard. A rabbit with a long curly tail would be feared, shunned, trampled to death, so the innovation would die untried, unbequeathed, abortive. But its death didnтАЩt prove the essential wrongness of long curly tails for rabbits. Genius was probably often heartless. But genius did not often propagate. Strangeness meant physical mortality, so strangeness was rare, never reborn, always new in every manifestation. All the stupid thingsтБатАФcruelty, prostitution, womanly modesty, conventional religion, conventional moralityтБатАФonly survived so rampantly because of the excessive fertility of the stupid. + 

тАЬWell,тАЭ she said, lamely, тАЬpeople with no hearts have no babies.тАЭ + 

тАЬPeople with no hearts,тАЭ said Tatiana, тАЬcan be the mothers ofтБатАФohтБатАФall sorts of things.тАЭ She had a vague feeling of tremendous posterityтБатАФmountains, clouds, tigers, spiders, flowers, citiesтБатАФall giving birth.тБатАКтБатАж But even as she spoke she knew that this feeling was an easy and false consolation. + 

Varvara sighed and went out. Tatiana went to her room, her finger greased and bandaged and the more painful for having been treated so seriously. She stood rigidly, looking toward the window. To look out of her window was, with her, almost always a prayer or an act of praise to some unknown God. The window was like the face of God or of a lover to her; she studied every line and shade, as an adoring lover studies a face, or a believer a miraculous manifestation. She marveled so over living things, simply because they lived, moved, breathed, grew, begot, conceived. Yet she was accused of killing, of treachery to that strange quiet empire, the law of which is the beating of the heart. She, who valued things for their independence of herself, for their incomprehensibility, for their magical remotenessтБатАФshe who so slightly intruded even upon her own lifeтБатАФwas reproached for intruding on the lives of others. All the world outside her window was jeweled with impeccable lifeтБатАФand she, trusted in the treasure-house, was a convicted robber. She set her eyes and her face toward that world, but a voice in her heart was crying: тАЬTake me out of the earth, that I may hear no more the reproach.тБатАКтБатАж If men who lived are dead, why should I, who never lived, have the right to breathe when every breath I take is a lie? Or if I must live, let me live at last, let me be a woman alive, as these animals around me are animals alive.тБатАКтБатАж Let me no longer see onlyтБатАФlet me be.тБатАКтБатАж It ought to be easy to live,тАЭ she thought, desperately, breaking off her prayer and dragging her eyes from the bright window. тАЬEven a worm in the earth can live.тБатАКтБатАжтАЭ Her finger throbbed and burned. She looked at it, pinched it. тАЬOh, you liar!тАЭ she said. + 

She went down from her room, through the sunny kitchen and out through the ironing-shed into the yard. She noticed the iron standing on the sheet as she had left it, and, lifting it up, looked at the angular heart-shaped burn on the linen. The sheet was not spoiled in TatianaтАЩs eyes; the mark was symmetrical, shapely, and of a fine sienna color. The thing, in fact, was simply branded with a signature of oddity. She left the iron tilted upright, and thought that it looked like a creature begging forgiveness for the sin of printing a private and unlicensed mark upon its world. + 

She leaned on the gate of her fatherтАЩs yard, looking out at the valley, at the crisscrossing paths, the yellow mud-walled houses, the tree where she had parted from Piotr Isaev, the last of her lovers. She leaned one cheek on the top bar of the high gate, and looked at the world sideways, under the blurred arch formed by the bone of her nose and brow. Seen sideways, thus framed, everything in sight looked separate and significantтБатАФto be seen by itself. The barley looked as if it were being brushed upward by an impossible perpendicular wind. The soft hills changed their angles and were now built of precipices down which the clouds rolled like avalanches. And, as if the freshness of this sideways view quickened also her hearing, she could hear with a sudden urgency the starlings in the big tree preparing for autumn flight. They were making that curious wailing whistleтБатАФalmost like a miniature howlingтБатАФthat starlings utter in their migratory restless mood. And as soon as Tatiana noticed this sound, she could see that almost every leaf in the tree had a bird behind it. The tree was as full of movement as a bonfire; whistling curled up from it like smoke. + 

Tatiana felt an arch tweak at her instep. She looked down and saw that all the chickens in the yard, thinking that her presence meant a meal, were gathered about her feet. Each hen looked incredulously at the unexpectedly uneatable dust about her feet, first with one eye and then with the other. Tatiana, watching them, putting thoughts into their narrow heads, presently became aware that, leaning on the gate, she had opened it a little, and the disappointed hens were wandering out into the road. + 

Tatiana, dancing on her toes as she always did, ran out after them, and as she did so, a further block of hens squeezed out with a rustle and a cackle. тАЬChok-chok-chok,тАЭ she called, throwing imaginary grain in the gateway. A few hens went in and a few more came out. тАЬSupposing they were men,тАЭ thought Tatiana. тАЬMen that I was trying to leadтБатАФlike Joan of ArcтБатАФto some great enterprise. I should have to fail, with such silly rebels as these behind me.тАЭ Her supposings always promoted her to a first place. тАЬFriend, go up higherтАЭ was always the note of her imaginative orgies, although in actual life she never asserted herself. But in her imagination she never knew herself as a mere Tanya. + 

In her mind, now, the indecision of the hens was as articulate as her own predicament. тАЬWhat does she want us to do?тАЭ she thought for the hens. тАЬThis wayтБатАФthat wayтБатАФwhich way? IтАЩm trying to do right, butтБатАФwhat is right? Oh, what a puzzling world this is, outside our gateтБатАКтБатАжтАК!тАЭ + 

With a good deal of flurry and worry Tatiana drove the chickensтБатАФall of them but threeтБатАФback into the yard. There they were, that group of cackling conservatives, trying to collect their wits after their daring excursion into novelty, scratching feverishly at the dust and, in their excitement, hardly looking at what their scratching had turned up. Tatiana thought they all must have that bathed, naked feeling that comes on getting safely home after a new experience. But she had no time to enjoy their relief, for the three exceptions were hurrying away into the world. They believed that they were being chased by a perfectly unconscious and absentminded donkey which was carrying a load along the track, side by side with its small boy tyrant. The three hens hurried from side to side of the track, confusedly flattering themselves that so far they had cleverly outwitted their pursuer. + 

Tatiana looked at the misunderstood donkey lovingly and wondered if all devils were devilish by mistake. She pulled the mild devilтАЩs dusty ear as she ran by. + 

The hens redoubled their efforts. Two devils were evidently after them now, they thought. They had entirely forgotten which way the peaceful cabbage-stalks and fish-heads of home lay. Their lives had suddenly become one huge delirium. Tatiana giggled as she ran. Who would have thought that three hens could run so fast and so far. She imagined her mother saying to her father, тАЬWhere can our Tanya have got to, Pavlik? Can she have gone to weep on SashaтАЩs grave at Chi-tao-kou?тАЭ And then the efficient Japanese police telephoning, тАЬAno neтБатАКтБатАж ano neтБатАКтБатАж moshiтБатАФmoshiтБатАФano ne. Your daughter was last seen climbing the rocks of the Umi-Kongo in pursuit of three hens.тБатАКтБатАжтАЭ + 

Every time Tatiana burst into a wily gallop, hoping to outrun the hens in one spurt, the hens did the same and outran her. It was a hopeless situation; Tatiana wasted a lot of breath in giggling. + 

Passersby were quite unhelpful. None of the Koreans on the road lifted a finger to shock the errant fowls into a return. The only Korean that helped at all did it unwittingly. He was lying quite drunk on his side near the ditch, his top-hat tilted over one temple; he was singing in a smiling little whine to himself, and when the hens found themselves looking into a human face on a level with their own beaks, they very nearly decided to turn back. But on second thoughts they made a wide detour and hurried on. + 

But about a hundred yards farther on, the hens met two pairs of boots which danced menacingly about the road, while voices thundered, тАЬChok-chok-chok.тАЭ The hens turned back. The odds were too heavyтБатАФdevils before and devils behind. How can hens die better than facing fearful odds? Almost any wayтБатАФmuch betterтБатАФthought the hens. Tatiana, close on their tailsтБатАФfor the hens were getting tiredтБатАФsaw for a moment only the boots of the approaching strangers shuffling helpfully in front of the hens. Then she managed to seize one hen by the wing and snatch it to her bosom in a storm of flying feathers and dying yawps. The other hens rushed round in circles. They were caught by the strangers. + 

Tatiana had an impression of clumsy size in the man nearest to her, but she hardly saw his face because at that moment all the sky became full of birds, keeping a vast rendezvous in the sky. Thousands and thousands of birds decided at that moment to fly back to their lost summer; thousands and thousands of them merged into a great giddiness against the blueтБатАФa wind for the sight. Their thousands of twitterings and whisperings ran together into one wide shrill sibilance; the rustlings of their countless wings were smoothed into an inimitable breathing. It was impossible for even Tatiana to think thoughts into such a multitude; it seemed they must fly in a kind of democratic ecstasy or trance, they must think with a multiple me, an ego spread thinly over the whole sky like butter on bread. + 

Tatiana, dazzled and giddy, watching the birds, heard one of the strangers talking what seemed to her to be English, and in the midst of the unknown words she caught her own family name. She looked then at the two men with the shocked, half-insulted puckered look with which she instinctively met any approachтБатАФa look of, тАЬSir, pray unhand me.тАЭ She saw Wilfred ChewтАЩs gold tooth. Where had she seen that strange thing before? Of Seryozha she only saw that his eyelids were very much tucked in under the brow bones, and that his hair was bleached and rough. + 

Seryozha saw very much more of Tatiana than she saw of him. A feeling of quick interest seemed now to establish itself in his mind with the familiarity of an old feeling, though he had not realized that he had paid much attention to the talk of either Alexander Weber or Wilfred Chew. She was a little too odd-looking for his rather childish taste; her face was too white, her hair too dark a red, her eyes too light and wide. Yet he felt instantly in touch with a new and manly experience; the expression of her face, puckered, he thought, against the sunтБатАФthough really it was against himselfтБатАФseemed to be laughing and young, but laughing through a mist. There was something in her eyes that reminded him of his fatherтАЩs blindnessтБатАФor, he thought, of that queer glare in the moonтАЩs face that gave him, on a clear night, that sense of inexplicable hunger. She was bowed a little on one side to hold the horrified chicken under her arm; she looked like a child trying to hide a forbidden toy, bending askew, alert to run. There was a just visible twitching of the muscles under the soft bluish skin below her eyes. This still creature could move, then; there was a flutter in this stone. + 

тАЬThis, Saggay Saggayitch,тАЭ said Wilfred Chew (who had, you see, made an advance in intimacy), тАЬthis is Miss Tatiana Ostapenko whom I mentioned to you once or twice before. She, unfortunately, in common with the rest of her family, speaks no English, but I believe she will remember that we had the mutual pleasure of meeting, some time ago, when I called on her father with Sir Theo Mustard. Kindly recall this to her mind in Russian.тАЭ + 

Seryozha at once withdrew his eyes from Tatiana, since he was about to address her. He looked at a stone on the ground, at the vanishing cloud of birds. тАЬThis Chinese fellow says you know him,тАЭ he mumbled. + 

тАЬI remember,тАЭ said Tatiana, remembering suddenly. тАЬHe came in a motorcar with an imbecile English lord.тАЭ + 

тАЬShe remembers, does she not?тАЭ said Wilfred, complacently. тАЬI thought she would. I was right.тАЭ + 

It was impossible for Tatiana to carry three hens under two arms. She carried one, Seryozha carried the other two. Tatiana walked a step in frontтБатАФshe was never quite with anyone. Seryozha did not look at her. He slouched along, looking at his shoesтБатАФthe toe of one of which was completely worn awayтБатАФlooking down at the hens. The hens were looking at each other across his lower chest with an unexpectedly calm expression. Seryozha, who suddenly felt much cleverer than usual, remembered another English idiom. тАЬLook,тАЭ he said to Wilfred, тАЬMrs.┬аHen say, тАШKeep stiff upper beak, sister.тАЩтАКтАЭ + 

He swung along, pleased with his wit, looking at everything except Tatiana. Nobody said anything else. + 

But just as they passed the village tree, emptied now of its birds, Tatiana looked up and, with one little dancing step, broke the rhythm of their silent walk. And Seryozha looked at her then, looked at her straight young back, her headkerchief, which had slipped back to her nape, looked at the clothes and trifles that encased herтБатАФthe comb that held her red hair, the faded blouse, the full, uneven cotton skirt, her brown bare legs, her feet shod with cloth shoes. He saw these things clinging to her slim dancing bodyтБатАФthis rustling cloud of faded cotton swinging round her body. She didnтАЩt know that little tape was showing at her neck he thought gently. She was suddenly real to him, because he could imagine the homely habit by which she would put on those touching clothesтБатАФa comb here, a button there, and then a look in the mirror to see, anxiously, if everything was pleasant and decent. That little tape, the day-worn look of the hem of her skirt, the dust on her blunt Chinese shoes, humbled her charmingly in his sight. He strutted behind her; the hens seesawed under his arms, sharing involuntarily in his swagger. + 