There came a knock at the door. Misha grew shy again at the sound and timidly unbarred it. Vania appeared.

«That’s how it is, is it?» he exclaimed with a sudden assumption of superiority. «You’re together and Mitia told me not to let you talk to each other! However I’m not his spy. He can look after you himself if he wants to instead of playing about with the girls like a billy goat. All the same you had better come away, Nicolas Petrovitch, or he’ll suspect you and he can be very nasty.»

Mesentzeff realized the excellence of the advice and left the cabin. The flames of sunset were by now burnt out: only one red bar hanging smouldering over the blue sea of mist. Mesentzeff thought of Petrograd. An uncontrollable desire swept over him to be in the city, to jump into a taxi and give the comforting order «To the Hotel d’Europe». What more was he to wait for? What more surprising anyway than the peasant chemist extending mercy to Lavoisier and all science?

But just at that moment he heard Mitia’s voice; and his detestation of the man gave him courage and the determination to persevere in getting through the hornets’ nest, and to declare the death of Masha to the world. It would be interesting to see what the «white and joyful» old man thought of it!

Mitia was standing at the further corner of the house. He was not alone, for Mesentzeff heard the fresh voice of a girl raised in supplication.

«My diamond prince! Stay one day more! How can I live without you?»

«As you did before.»

«Then why did you dance with me like that? Why did you speak as you did?»

«Dancing is good for the young... and words... what are words?.. birds that fly away and are never seen again.»

«Listen, I have never loved before. Come with me. My mother does not expect me home.»

«No, no I don’t want you. I have a sweetheart already, a long way from here... Several! I am a hawk and you are a crow. Find a mate of your own kind. Leave the hawk alone. Hullo! Tears? What’s that for? Aren’t there plenty of men in this world? Let me go. Here are my friends.»

Mesentzeff had coughed to attract attention and Mitia immediately appeared. His face was still bright with the pleasure of dancing and only his eyebrows showed him to be annoyed, a slight frown adding to his beauty. On catching sight of Mesentzeff he smiled. «Why aren’t you in there whispering with Misha, Nicolas Petrovitch?»

Mesentzeff did not reply. They went into the hut together and started making arrangements for the night. Covering the plank floor with rags and coats they rolled saddle cloths into pillows. Like all men of genius Misha was a poor host. His guests threw themselves on to their own improvised couches and the cabin was in silence. In one corner burned the tiny flame of the sacred icon, in another the laboratory lamp.

Vania was already asleep when Mitia raised himself on one elbow and whispered. «Misha, Misha, doesn’t the policeman worry you?»

«No!» came the gruff answer.

«How’s that?»

«He’s a chemist himself.»

«The policeman?»

«Yes, he puts mushrooms or willow leaves into spirits and calls it mushroom or willow wine. He thinks himself a great chemist and believes he is to get the Academy prize. He’s a very good fellow.»

«Well, well, sleep in peace.»

As the travellers prepared to start next morning, Misha came up to Mesentzeff and showed him an old book bound in shagreen. «They gave me that to learn chemistry from,» he said shyly. «But there’s not much in it. I found out more for myself.»

Mesentzeff glanced at the headings. «Have you no others?» he asked, very much surprised.

«No, they promised me some, but so far haven’t sent them.»

«Come on, come on,» shouted Mitia from without.

«It is an old book, but perhaps that is as well...»

«Farewell, Misha, work hard!» came from outside.

Художественная проза Гумилева занимает более скромное место в его наследии, нежели поэзия и драматургия. Тем не менее, это весьма важный аспект в деятельности великого художника слова, и относительная скудость в настоящий момент исследовательских материалов, обращенных к этому кругу произведений, нельзя объяснить иначе как досадным историческим недоразумением, обусловленным во многом, конечно, труднодоступностью их для читателей и исследователей в годы тоталитаризма.

При жизни Гумилева его прозаические вещи появлялись только в периодике и были собраны воедино лишь в посмертном сборнике «Тень от пальмы» (Пг.: Мысль, 1922), где не было обозначено ни имени составителя — Г. В. Иванова, — ни источников публикации, ни дат.