the old butler made a great ado in the house at the approach of the new year. in preparation for a great ball, he cleared the inlaid floors, spread carpets, filled the lamps; placed new candles here and there; took the silver and the dinner-services out of their chests, and procured all the requisites for fortune-telling. by new year's eve the house was in order, the stately rooms glittering with lights, and uniformed village-lads stood by the doors.

kseniya ippolytovna awoke late on that day and did not get up, lying without stirring in bed until dinner time, her hands behind her head. it was a clear, bright day and the sun's golden rays streamed in through the windows, and were reflected on the polished floor, casting wavy shadows over the dark heavy tapestry on the walls. outside was the cold blue glare of the snow, which was marked with the imprints of birds' feet, and a vast stretch of clear turquoise sky.

the bedroom was large and gloomy; the polished floor was covered with rugs; a canopied double bedstead stood against the further wall; a large wardrobe was placed in a corner.

kseniya ippolytovna looked haggard and unhappy. she took a bath before dinner; then had her meal—alone, in solitary state, drowsing lingeringly over it with a book.

crows, the birds of destruction, were cawing and gossiping outside in the park. at dusk the fragile new moon rose for a brief while. the frosty night was crisp and sparkling. the stars shone diamond-bright in the vast, all-embracing vault of blue; the snow was a soft, velvety green.

polunin arrived early. kseniya ippolytovna greeted him in the drawing-room. a bright fire burnt on the hearth; beside it were two deep armchairs. no lamps were alight, but the fire-flames cast warm, orange reflections; the round-topped windows seemed silvery in the hoar-frost.

kseniya ippolytovna wore a dark evening dress and had plaited her hair; she shook hands with polunin.

"i am feeling sad to-day, polunin," she said in a melancholy voice.

they sat down in the armchairs.

"i expected you at five. it is now six. but you are always churlish and inconsiderate towards women. you haven't once wanted to be alone with me—or guessed that i desired it!" she spoke calmly, rather coldly, gazing obstinately into the fire, her cheeks cupped between her narrow palms. "you are so very silent, a perfect diplomat…. what is it like in the fields to-day? cold? warm? tea will be served in a moment."

there was a pause.

at last polunin broke the silence.

"yes, it was bitterly cold, but fine." after a further pause he added: "when we last talked together you did not say all that was in your mind. say it now."

kseniya ippolytovna laughed:

"i have already said everything! isn't it cold? i have not been out to-day. i have been thinking about paris and of that … that june…. tea should be ready by this time!"

she rose and rung the bell, and the old butler came in.

"will tea be long?"

"i will bring it now, barina."

he went out and returned with a tray on which were two glasses of tea, a decanter of rum, some pastries, figs, and honey, and laid them on the little table beside the armchairs.

"will you have the lamps lighted, barina?" he inquired, respectfully.

"no. you may go. close the door."

the old butler looked at them knowingly; then withdrew.

kseniya turned at once to polunin.

"i have told you everything. how is it you have not understood? drink up your tea."

"tell me again," he pleaded.

"take your tea first; pour out the rum. i repeat i have already told you all. you remember about the mice? did you not understand that?" kseniya ippolytovna sat erect in her chair; she spoke coldly, in the same distant tone in which she had addressed the butler.

polunin shook his head: "no, i haven't understood."

"dear me, dear me!" she mocked, "and you used to be so quick-witted, my ascetic. still, health and happiness do not always sharpen the wits. you are healthy and happy, aren't you?"

"you are being unjust again," polunin protested. "you know very well that i love you."

kseniya ippolytovna gave a short laugh: "oh, come, come! none of that!" she drank her glass of tea feverishly, threw herself back in the chair, and was silent.

polunin also took his, warming himself after his cold drive.

she spoke again after a while in a quiet dreamy tone: "in this stove, flames will suddenly flare up, then die away, and it will become cold. you and i have always had broken conversations. perhaps the arkhipovs are right—when it seems expedient, kill! when it seems expedient, breed! that is wise, prudent, honest…." suddenly she sat erect, pouring out quick, passionate, uneven words:

"do you love me? do you desire me … as a woman?… to kiss, to caress?… you understand? no, be silent! i am purged…. i come to you as you came to me that june…. you didn't understand about the mice?… or perhaps you did.

"have you noticed, have you ever reflected on that which does not change in man's life, but for ever remains the same? no, no, wait!… there have been hundreds of religions, ethics, aesthetics, sciences, philosophical systems: they have all changed and are still changing— only one law remains unaltered, that all living things—whether men, mice, or rye—are born, breed, and die.

"i was packing up for nice, where a lover expected me, when suddenly i felt an overwhelming desire for a babe, a dear, sweet, little babe of my own, and i remembered you …. then i travelled here, to russia so as to bear it in reverence…. i am able to do so now!…"

polunin rose and stood close to kseniya ippolytovna: his expression was serious and alarmed.

"don't beat me," she murmured.

"you are innocent, kseniya," he replied.

"oh, there you go again!" she cried impatiently. "always sin and innocence! i am a stupid woman, full of beliefs and superstitions— nothing more—like all women. i want to conceive here, to breed and bear a child here. do you wish to be the father?"

she stood up, looking intently into polunin's eyes.

"what are you saying, kseniya?" he asked in a low, grave, pained tone.

"i have told you what i want. give me a child and then go—anywhere— back to your alena! i have not forgotten that june and july."

"i cannot," polunin replied firmly; "i love alena."

"i do not want love," she persisted; "i have no need of it. indeed i have not, for i do not even love you!" she spoke in a low, faint voice, and passed her hand over her face.

"i must go," the man said at last.

she looked at him sharply. "where to?"

"how do you mean 'where to'? i must go away altogether!"

"ah, those tragedies, duties, and sins again!" she cried, her eyes burning into his with hatred and contempt. "isn't it all perfectly simple? didn't you make a contract with me?"

"i have never made one without love. and i love only alena. i must go."

"oh, what cruel, ascetical egoism!" she cried violently. then suddenly all her rage died down, and she sat quietly in the chair, covering her face with her hands.

polunin stood by, his shoulders bowed, his arms hanging limply. his face betrayed grief and anxiety.

kseniya looked up at him with a wan smile: "it is all right—there is no need to go… it was only my nonsense…. i was merely venting my anger…. don't mind me …. i am tired and harassed. of course i have not been purged. i know that is impossible… we are the 'heisha-girls of lantern-light'…. you remember annensky? … give me your hand."

polunin stretched out his large hand, took her yielding one in his and pressed its delicate fingers.

"you have forgiven me?" she murmured.

he looked at her helplessly, then muttered: "i cannot either forgive or not forgive. but … i cannot!"

"never mind; we shall forget. we shall be cheerful and happy. you remember: 'where beauty shines amidst mire and baseness there is only torment'…. you need not mind, it is all over!"

she uttered the last few words with a cry, raised herself erect, and laughed aloud with forced gaiety.

"we shall tell fortunes, jest, drink, be merry—like our grandfathers … you remember! …had not our grandmothers their coachmen friends?"

she rang the bell and the butler came in.

"bring in more tea. light the fire and the lamps."

the fire burnt brightly and illuminated the leather-covered chairs.

the portrait frames on the walls shone golden through the darkness.

polunin paced up and down the room, his hands behind his back; his

footsteps were muffled in the thick carpet.

sleigh bells began to ring outside.

it was just ten o'clock as the guests assembled from the town and the neighbouring estates. they were received in the drawing-room.

taper, the priest's son, commenced playing a polka, and the ladies went into the ballroom; the old butler and two footmen brought wax candles and basins of water, and the old ladies began to tell fortunes. a troupe of mummers tumbled in, a bear performed tricks, a little russian dulcimer-player sang songs.

the mummers brought in with them the smell of frost, furs, and napthaline. one of them emitted a cock's crow, and they danced a russian dance. it was all merry and bright, a tumultuous, boisterous revel, as in the old russian aristocracy days. there was a smell of burning wax, candle-grease, and burning paper.

kseniya ippolytovna was the soul of gaiety; she laughed and jested cheerfully as she waltzed with a lyceum student, a general's son. she had re-dressed her hair gorgeously, and wore a pearl necklace round her throat. the old men sat round card-tables in the lounge, talking on local topics.

at half past eleven a footman opened the door leading into the dining-room and solemnly announced that supper was served. they supped and toasted, ate and drank amid the clatter of knives, forks, dishes, and spoons. kseniya made arkhipov, polunin, a general and a magistrate sit beside her.

at midnight, just as they were expecting the clock to chime, kseniya ippolytovna rose to propose a toast; in her right hand was a glass; her left was flung back behind her plaited hair; she held her head high. all the guests at once rose to their feet.

"i am a woman," she cried aloud. "i drink to ourselves, to women, to the gentle, to the homely, to happiness and purity! to motherhood! i drink to the sacred—" she broke off abruptly, sat down and hung her head.

somebody cried: "hurrah!" to someone else it seemed that kseniya was weeping. the clock began to chime, the guests shouted "hurrah!" clinked glasses, and drank.

then they sang, while some rose and carried round glasses to those of the guests who were still sober and those who were only partially intoxicated. they bowed. they sang the goblets, and the basses thundered:

"drink to the dregs! drink to the dregs!" kseniya ippolytovna offered her first glass to polunin. she stood in front of him with a tray, curtseyed without lifting her eyes and sang. polunin rose, colouring with embarrassment:

"i never drink wine," he protested.

but the basses thundered: "drink to the dregs! drink to the dregs!"

his face darkened, he raised a silencing arm, and firmly repeated:

"i never drink wine, and i do not intend to."

kseniya gazed into the depths of his eyes and said softly:

"i want you to, i beg you…. do you hear?"

"i will not," polunin whispered back.

then she cried out:

"he doesn't want to! we mustn't make him against his will!" she turned away, offered her glass to the magistrate, and after him to the lyceum student; then excused herself and withdrew, quietly returning later looking sad and as if she had suddenly aged.

they lingered a long while over supper; then went into the ball-room to dance, and sing, and play old fashioned games. the men went to the buffets to drink, the older ones then sat in the drawing-room playing whist, and talked.

it was nearly five o'clock when the guests departed. only the arkhipovs and polunin remained. kseniya ippolytovna ordered coffee, and all four sat down at a small table feeling worn out. the house was now wrapt in silence. the dawn had just broken.

kseniya was tired to death, but endeavoured to appear fresh and cheerful. she passed the coffee round, and then fetched a bottle of liqueur. they sat almost in silence; what talk they exchanged was desultory.

"one more year dropped into eternity," arkhipov said, sombrely.

"yes, a year nearer to death, a year further from birth," rejoined

polunin.

kseniya ippolytovna was seated opposite him. her eyes were veiled. she rose now to her feet, leaned over the table and spoke to him in slow, measured accents vibrating with malice:

"well, pious one! everything here is mine. i asked you to-day to give me a baby, because i am merely a woman and so desire motherhood…. i asked you to take wine… you refused. the nearer to death the further from birth, you say? well then, begone!"

she broke into tears, sobbing loudly and plaintively, covering her face with her hands; then leant against the wall, still sobbing. the arkhipovs ran to her; polunin stood at the table dumbfounded, then left the room.

"i didn't ask him for passion or caresses. … i have no husband!" kseniya cried, sobbing and shrieking like a hysterical girl. they calmed her after a time, and she spoke to them in snatches between her sobs, which were less violent for a while. then she broke out weeping afresh, and sank into an armchair.

the dawn had now brightened; the room was filled with a faint, flickering light. misty, vaporous, tormenting shadows danced and twisted oddly in the shifting glimmer: in the tenebrous half-light the occupants looked grey, weary, and haggard, their faces strangely distorted by the alternate rise and fall of the shadows. arkhipov's bald head with its tightly stretched skin resembled a greatly elongated skull.

"listen to me, you arkhipovs," kseniya cried brokenly. "supposing a distracted woman who desired to be pure were to come and ask you for a baby—would you give her the same answer as polunin? he said it was impossible, that it was sin, that he loved someone else. would you answer like that, arkhipov, knowing it was the woman's last—her only—chance of salvation—her only love?" she looked eagerly from one to the other.

"no, certainly not—i should answer in a different way," arkhipov replied quietly.

"and you, vera lvovna, a wife … do you hear? i speak in front of you?"

vera lvovna nodded, laid her hand gently on kseniya's forehead, and answered softly and tenderly:

"i understand you perfectly."

again kseniya wept.

the dawn trod gently down the lanes of darkness. the light grew clearer and the candles became dim and useless. the outlines of the furniture crept out of the net of shadows. through the blue mist outside the snow, valley, forest, and fields were faintly visible. from the right of the horizon dawn's red light flushed the heavens with a cold purple.

polunin drove along by the fields, trotting smoothly behind his stallion. the earth was blue and cold and ghostly, a land carved out of dreams, seemingly unsubstantial and unreal. a harsh, bitter wind blew from the north, stirring the telegraph-wires by the roadside to a loud, humming refrain. a silence as of death reigned over the land, yet life thrilled through it; and now and then piping goldfinches appeared from their winter nests in the moist green ditches, and flew ahead of polunin; then suddenly turned aside and perched lightly on the wayside brambles.

night still lingered amid the calm splendour of the vast, primeval forest. as he drove through the shadowed glades the huge trees gently swayed their giant boughs, softly brushing aside the shroud of encompassing darkness.

a golden eagle darted from its mist-wreathed eyrie and flew over the fields; then soared upwards in ever-widening circles towards the east—where, like a pale rose ribbon stretched across the sky, the light from the rising sun shed a delicate opalescent glow on the snow, which it transformed to an exquisite lilac, and the shadows, to which it lent a wonderful, mysterious, quivering blue tint.

polunin sat in his seat, huddled together, brooding morosely, deriving a grim satisfaction from the fact that—all the same—he had not broken the law. henceforth, he never could break it; the thought of kseniya ippolytovna brought pain, but he would not condemn her.

at home, alena was already up and about; he embraced her fondly, clasped her in his arms, kissed her forehead; then he took up the infant and gazed lingeringly, with infinite tenderness, upon her innocent little face.

the day was glorious; the golden sunlight streamed in through the windows in a shining cataract, betokening the advent of spring, and made pools of molten gold upon the floor. but the snow still lay in all its virgin whiteness over the earth.