the day dawned cold, white, pellucid—breathing forth thin, misty vapour, while a hoar-frost clothed the houses, trees, and hedges. the smoke from the village chimneypots rose straight and blue. outside the windows was an overgrown garden, a snow-covered tree lay prone on the earth; further off were snow-clad fields, the valley and the forest. sky and air were pale and transparent, and the sun was hidden behind a drift of fleecy white clouds.

alena came in, made some remark about the house, then went out to singe the pig for christmas.

the library-clock struck eleven; a clock in the hall answered. then there came a sudden ring on the telephone; it sounded strange and piercing in the empty stillness.

"is that you, dmitri vladimirovich? dmitri vladimirovich, is that you?" cried a woman's muffled voice: it sounded a great way off through the instrument.

"yes, but who is speaking?"

"kseniya ippolytovna enisherlova is speaking", the voice answered quietly; then added in a higher key: "is it you, my ascetic and seeker? this is me, me, kseniya."

"you, kseniya ippolytovna?" polunin exclaimed joyfully.

"yes, yes … oh yes!… i am tired of roaming about and being always on the brink of a precipice, so i have come to you … across the fields, where there is snow, snow, snow and sky … to you, the seeker…. will you take me? have you forgiven me that july?"

polunin's face was grave and attentive as he bent over the telephone:

"yes, i have forgiven," he replied.

one long past summer, polunin and kseniya ippolytovna used to greet the glowing dawn together. at sundown, when the birch-trees exhaled a pungent odour and the crystal sickle of the moon was sinking in the west, they bade adieu until the morrow on the cool, dew-sprinkled terrace, and polunin passionately kissed—as he believed—the pure, innocent lips of kseniya ippolytovna.

but she laughed at his ardour, and her avid lips callously drank in his consuming, protesting passion, only to desert him afterwards, abandoning him for paris, and leaving behind her the shreds of his pure and passionate love.

that june and july had brought joy and sorrow, good and ill. polunin was already disillusioned when he met alena, and was living alone with his books. he met her in the spring, and quickly and simply became intimate with her, begetting a child, for he found that the instinct of fatherhood had replaced that of passion within him.

alena entered his house at evening, without any wedding-ceremony, placed her trunk on a bench in the kitchen, and passing quickly through into the study, said quietly:

"here i am, i have come." she looked very beautiful and modest as she stood there, wiping the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief.

kseniya ippolytovna arrived late when dusk was already falling and blue shadows crept over the snow. the sky had darkened, becoming shrouded in a murky blue; bullfinches chirruped in the snow under the windows. kseniya ippolytovna mounted the steps and rang, although polunin had already opened the door for her.

the hall was large, bright, and cold. as she entered, the sunrays fell a moment on the windows and the light grew warm and waxy, lending to her face—as polunin thought—a greenish-yellow tint, like the skin of a peach, and infinitely beautiful. but the rays died away immediately, leaving a blue crepuscular gloom, in which kseniya ippolytovna's figure grew dim, forlorn, and decrepit.

alena curtseyed: kseniya ippolytovna hesitated a moment, wondering if she should give her hand; then she went up to alena and kissed her.

"good evening", she cried gaily, "you know i am an old friend of your husband's."

but she did not offer her hand to polunin.

kseniya ippolytovna had greatly changed since that far-off summer. her eyes, her wilful lips, her grecian nose, and smooth brows were as beautiful as ever, but now there was something reminiscent of late august in her. formerly she had worn bright costumes—now she wore dark; and her soft auburn hair was fastened in a simple plait.

they entered the study and sat down on the sofa. outside the windows lay the snow, blue like the glow within. the walls and the furniture grew dim in the twilight. polunin—grave and attentive—hovered solicitously round his guest. alena withdrew, casting a long, steadfast look at her husband.

"i have come here straight from paris", kseniya explained. "it is rather queer—i was preparing to leave for nice in the spring, and was getting my things together, when i found a nest of mice in my wardrobe. the mother-mouse ran off, leaving three little babes behind her; they were raw-skinned and could only just crawl. i spent my whole time with them, but on the third day the first died, and then the same night the other two…. i packed up for russia the next morning, to come here, to you, where there is snow, snow…. of course there is no snow in paris—and it will soon be christmas, the russian christmas."

she became silent, folded her hands and laid them against her cheek; for a moment she had a sorrowful, forlorn expression.

"continue, kseniya ippolytovna", polunin urged.

"i was driving by our fields and thinking how life here is as simple and monotonous as the fields themselves, and that it is possible to live here a serious life without trivialities. you know what it is to live for trivialities. i am called—and i go. i am loved—and i let myself be loved! something in a showcase catches my eye and i buy it. i should always remain stationary were it not for those that have the will to move me….

"i was driving by our fields and thinking of the impossibility of such a life: i was thinking too that i would come to you and tell you of the mice…. paris, nice, monaco, costumes, english perfumes, wine, leonardo da vinci, neo-classicism, lovers, what are they? with you everything is just as of old."

she rose and crossed to the window.

"the snow is blue-white here, as it is in norway—i jilted valpyanov there. the norwegian people are like trolls. there is no better place than russia! with you nothing changes. have you forgiven me that july?"

polunin approached and stood beside her.

"yes, i have forgiven", he said earnestly.

"but i have not forgiven you that june!" she flashed at him; then she resumed: "the library, too, is the same as ever. do you remember how we used to read maupassant together in there?"

kseniya ippolytovna approached the library-door, opened it, and went in. inside were book-cases behind whose glass frames stood even rows of gilded volumes; there was also a sofa, and close to it a large, round, polished table. the last yellow rays of the sun came in through the windows. unlike that in the study, the light in here was not cold, but warm and waxy, so that again kseniya ippolytovna's face seemed strangely green to polunin, her hair a yellow-red; her large, dark, deep-sunken eyes bore a stubborn look.

"god has endowed you with wonderful beauty, kseniya, ippolytovna,"

polunin said gravely.

she gave him a keen glance; then smiled. "god has made me wonderfully tempting! by the way, you used to dream of faith; have you found it?"

"yes, i have found it."

"faith in what?"

"in life."

"but if there is nothing to believe in?"

"impossible!"

"i don't know. i don't know." kseniya ippolytovna raised her hands to her head. "the japanese, naburu kotokami, is still looking for me in paris and nice… i wonder if he knows about russia…. i have not had a smoke for a whole week, not since the last little mouse died; i smoked egyptians before …. yes, you are right, it is impossible not to have faith."

polunin went to her quickly, took her hands, then dropped them; his eyes were very observant, his voice quiet and serious.

"kseniya, you must not grieve, you must not."

"do you love me?"

"as a woman—no, as a fellow-creature—i do," he answered firmly.

she smiled, dropped her eyes, then moved to the sofa, sat down and arranged her dress, then smiled again.

"i want to be pure."

"and so you are!" polunin sat down beside her, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

they were silent.

kseniya ippolytovna said at last: "you have grown old, polunin!"

"yes, i have grown old. people do, but there is nothing terrible in that when they have found what they sought for."

"yes, when they have found it…. but what about now? why do you say that? is it alena?"

"why ask? although i am disillusioned, kseniya, i go on chopping firewood, heating the stove, living just to live. i read st. francis d'assisi, think about him, and grieve that such a life as his may not be lived again. i know he was absurd, but he had faith, and now alena—i love her, i shall love her for ever. i wish to feel god!"

kseniya ippolytovna looked at him curiously:

"do you know what the baby-mice smelt like?"

"no, why do you ask?"

"they smelt like new-born babies—like human children! you have a daughter, natasha. that is everything."

the sun sank in an ocean of wine-coloured light, and a great red wound remained amidst the drift of cold clouds over the western horizon. the snow grew violet, and the room was filled with shadowy, purplish twilight. alena entered and the loud humming of the telegraph wires came through the study's open door.

by nightfall battalions of fleeting clouds flecked the sky; the moon danced and quivered in their midst—a silver-horned goddess, luminous with the long-stored knowledge of the ages. the bitter snow-wind crept, wound, and whirled along in spirals, loops, and ribbons, lashing the fields, whining and wailing its age-old, dismal song over the lone desolate spaces. the land was wretched, restless, and forlorn; the sky was overcast with sombre, gaping caverns shot through with lurid lines of fire.

at seven o'clock the arkhipovs arrived.

kseniya ippolytovna had known them a long time: they had been acquaintances even before arkhipov's marriage. as he greeted her now, he kissed her hand and began speaking about foreign countries— principally germany, which he knew and admired. they passed into the study, where they argued and conversed: they had nothing much to talk about really. vera lvovna was silent, as usual; and soon went to see natasha. polunin also was quiet, walking about the room with his hands behind his back.

kseniya ippolytovna jested in a wilful, merry, and coquettish fashion with arkhipov, who answered her in a polite, serious, and punctilious manner. he was unable to carry on a light, witty conversation, and was acutely conscious of his own awkwardness. from a mere trifle, something kseniya ippolytovna said about fortune-telling at christmas, there arose an old-standing dispute between the two men on belief and unbelief.

arkhipov spoke with calmness and conviction, but polunin grew angry, confused, and agitated. arkhipov declared that faith was unnecessary and injurious, like instinct and every other sentiment; that there was only one thing immutable—intellect. only that was moral which was intelligent.

polunin retorted that the intellectual and the non-intellectual were no standard of life, for was life intelligent? he asked. he contended that without faith there was only death; that the one thing immutable in life was the tragedy of faith and the spirit.

"but do you know what thought is, polunin?"

"yes, indeed i do!"

"don't smile! do you not know that thought kills everything? reflect, think thrice over what you regard as sacred, and it will be as simple as a glass of lemonade."

"but death?"

"death is an exit into nothing. i have always that in reserve—when i am heart-broken. for the present i am content to live and thrive."

when the dispute was over, vera lvovna said in a low voice, as calm as ever:

"the only tragic thing in life is that there is nothing tragical, while death is just death, when anyone dies physically. a little less metaphysics!"

kseniya ippolytovna had been listening, alert and restless.

"but all the same," she answered vera lvovna animatedly, "isn't the absence of tragedy the true tragedy?"

"yes, that alone."

"and love?"

"no, not love."

"but aren't you married?"

"i want my baby."

kseniya ippolytovna, who was lying on the sofa, rose up on her knees, and stretching out her arms cried:

"ah, a baby! is that not instinct?"

"that is a law!"

the women began to argue. then the dispute died down. arkhipov proposed a game of chance. they uncovered a green table, set lighted candles at its corners and commenced to play leisurely and silently as in winter. arkhipov sat erect, resting his elbows at right angles on the table.

the wind whistled outside, the blizzard increased in violence, and from some far distance came the dismal, melancholy creaking and grinding of iron. alena came in, and sat quietly beside her husband, her hands folded in her lap. they were killing time.

"the last time, i sat down to play a game of chance amidst the fjords in a little valley hotel; a dreadful storm raged the whole while," kseniya ippolytovna remarked pensively. "yes, there are big and little tragedies in life!"

the wind shrieked mournfully; snow lashed at the windows. kseniya stayed on until a late hour, and alena invited her to remain overnight; but she refused and left.

polunin accompanied her. the snow-wind blew violently, whistling and cutting at them viciously. the moon seemed to be leaping among the clouds; around them the green, snowy twilight hung like a thick curtain. the horses jogged along slowly. darkness lay over the land.

polunin returned alone over a tractless road-way; the gale blew in his face; the snow blinded him. he stabled his horses; then found alena waiting up for him in the kitchen, her expression was composed but sad. polunin took her in his arms and kissed her.

"do not be anxious or afraid; i love only you, no one else. i know why you are unhappy."

alena looked up at him in loving gratitude, and shyly smiled.

"you do not understand that it is possible to love one only. other men are not able to do that," polunin told her tenderly.

the hurricane raged over the house, but within reigned peace. polunin went into his study and sat down at his desk; natasha began to cry; he rose, took a candle, and brought her to alena, who nursed her. the infant looked so small, fragile, and red that polunin's heart overflowed with tenderness towards her. one solitary, flickering candle illumined the room.

there was a call on the telephone at daybreak. polunin was already up. the day slowly broke in shades of blue; there was a murky, bluish light inside the rooms and outside the windows, the panes of which were coated with snow. the storm had subsided.

"have i aroused you? were you still in bed?" called kseniya.

"no, i was already up."

"on the watch?"

"yes."

"i have only just arrived home. the storm whirled madly round us in the fields, and the roads were invisible, frozen under snow … i drove on thinking, and thinking—of the snow, you, myself, arkhipov, paris … oh, paris…! you are not angry with me for ringing you up, are you, my ascetic?… i was thinking of our conversation."

"what were you thinking?"

"this…. we were speaking together, you see…. forgive me, but you could not speak like that to alena. she would not understand … how could she?"

"one need not speak a word, yet understand everything. there is something that unites—without the aid of speech—not only alena and me, but the world and me. that is a law of god."

"so it is," murmured kseniya. "forgive me … poor old alena."

"i love her, and she has given me a daughter…."

"yes, that is true. and we … we love, but are childless… we rise in the morning feeling dull and depressed from our revels of overnight, while you were wisely sleeping." kseniya ippolytovna's voice rose higher. "'we are the heisha-girls of lantern-light,' you remember annensky? at night we sit in restaurants, drinking wine and listening to garish music. we love—but are childless…. and you? you live a sober, righteous and sensible life, seeking the truth…. isn't that so?' truth!" her cry was malignant and full of derision.

"that is unjust, kseniya," answered polunin in a low voice, hanging his head.

"no, wait," continued the mocking voice at the other end of the line; "here is something more from annensky: 'we are the heisha-girls of lantern-light!'… 'and what seemed to them music brought them torment'; and again: 'but cypris has nothing more sacred than the words i love, unuttered by us' …"

"that is unjust, kseniya."

"unjust!" she laughed stridently; then suddenly was silent. she began to speak in a sad, scarcely audible whisper: "but cypris has nothing more sacred than the words i love, unuttered by us…. i love … love…. oh, darling, at that time, in that june, i looked upon you as a mere lad. but now i seem small and little myself, and you a big man, who defends me. how miserable i was alone in the fields last night! but that is expiation…. you are the only one who has loved me devotedly. thank you, but i have no faith now."

the dawn was grey, lingering, cold; the east grew red.