Chapter 28

IN THE COUNTRY

Next day Woloda and myself departed in a post-chaise for the
country. Turning over various Moscow recollections in my head as
we drove along, I suddenly recalled Sonetchka Valakhin--though
not until evening, and when we had already covered five stages of
the road. "It is a strange thing," I thought, "that I should be
in love, and yet have forgotten all about it. I must start and
think about her," and straightway I proceeded to do so, but only
in the way that one thinks when travelling--that is to say,
disconnectedly, though vividly. Thus I brought myself to such a
condition that, for the first two days after our arrival home, I
somehow considered it incumbent upon me always to appear sad and
moody in the presence of the household, and especially before
Katenka, whom I looked upon as a great connoisseur in matters of
this kind, and to whom I threw out a hint of the condition in
which my heart was situated. Yet, for all my attempts at
dissimulation and assiduous adoption of such signs of love
sickness as I had occasionally observed in other people, I only
succeeded for two days (and that at intervals, and mostly towards
evening) in reminding myself of the fact that I was in love, and
finally, when I had settled down into the new rut of country life
and pursuits, I forgot about my affection for Sonetchka
altogether.

We arrived at Petrovskoe in the night time, and I was then so
soundly asleep that I saw nothing of the house as we approached
it, nor yet of the avenue of birch trees, nor yet of the
household--all of whom had long ago betaken themselves to bed and
to slumber. Only old hunchbacked Foka--bare-footed, clad in some
sort of a woman's wadded nightdress, and carrying a candlestick--
opened the door to us. As soon as he saw who we were, he trembled
all over with joy, kissed us on the shoulders, hurriedly put on
his felt slippers, and started to dress himself properly. I
passed in a semi-waking condition through the porch and up the
steps, but in the hall the lock of the door, the bars and bolts,
the crooked boards of the flooring, the chest, the ancient
candelabrum (splashed all over with grease as of old), the
shadows thrown by the crooked, chill, recently-lighted stump of
candle, the perennially dusty, unopened window behind which I
remembered sorrel to have grown--all was so familiar, so full of
memories, so intimate of aspect, so, as it were, knit together by
a single idea, that I suddenly became conscious of a tenderness
for this quiet old house. Involuntarily I asked myself, "How have
we, the house and I, managed to remain apart so long?" and,
hurrying from spot to spot, ran to see if all the other rooms
were still the same.