Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov (Illustrated) (467 page)

‘Are you afraid of thunder-storms?’ I asked Olenka.

She only pressed her cheek to her round shoulders and looked at me with childish confidence.

‘I’m afraid,’ she whispered after a moment’s reflection. ‘My mother was killed by a storm... The newspapers even wrote about it... My mother was going through the fields, crying... She had a very bitter life in this world. God had compassion on her and killed her with His heavenly electricity.’

‘How do you know that there is electricity there?’

‘I have learned... Do you know, people who have been killed by a storm or in war, or who have died after a difficult confinement go to paradise... This is not written anywhere in books, but it is true. My mother is now in paradise! I think the thunder will also kill me some day, and I shall go to paradise too... Are you a cultivated man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will not laugh... This is how I should like to die: to dress in the most costly fashionable frock, like the one I saw the other day on our rich lady, the landowner Sheffer; to put bracelets on my arms... Then to go to the very summit of the Stone Grave and allow myself to be killed by the lightning, so that all the people could see it... A terrible peal of thunder, and then, you know, the end!’

‘What an odd fancy!’ I said, laughing and looking into her eyes that were full of holy horror at this terrible but dramatic death. ‘Then you don’t want to die in an ordinary dress?’

‘No!’ Olenka shook her head. ‘And so that everybody should see me.’

‘The frock you are in is far better than any fashionable and expensive dress... It suits you. In it you look like the red flower of the green woods.’

‘No, that is not true!’ And Olenka sighed ingenuously. ‘This frock is a cheap one; it can’t be pretty.’

The Count came up to our window with the evident intention of talking to pretty Olenka. My friend could speak three European languages, but he did not know how to talk to women. He stood near us awkwardly, smiling in an inane manner; then he mumbled inarticulately, ‘Er - yes,’ and retraced his steps to the decanter of vodka.

‘You were singing “I love the thunder in early May,” ‘ I said to Olenka. ‘Have those verses been set to music?’

‘No, I sing all the verses I know to my own melodies.’

I happened by chance to glance back. Urbenin was looking at us. In his eyes I read hatred and animosity: passions that were not at all in keeping with his kind, meek face.

‘Can he be jealous?’ I thought.

The poor fellow caught my inquiring glance, rose from his chair and went into the lobby to look for something... Even by his gait one could see that he was agitated. The peals of thunder became louder and louder, more prolonged, and oftener repeated... The lightning unceasingly illuminated the sky, the pines and the wet earth with its pleasant but blinding light... The rain was not likely to end soon. I left the window and went up to the bookshelves and began to examine Olenka’s library. ‘Tell me what you read, and I will tell you what you are,’ I said. But from the books that were so symmetrically ranged on the shelves it was difficult to arrive at any estimate of Olenka’s mental capacities or ‘educational standard’. There was a strange medley on those shelves. Three anthologies, one book of Bôrne’s, Evtushevsky’s arithmetic, the second volume of Lermontov’s works, Shklyarevsky, a number of the magazine
Work
, a cookery book,
Skladchina...
I might enumerate other books for you, but at the moment I took
Skladchina
from the shelf and began to turn over the pages. The door leading into the next room opened, and a person entered the drawing-room, who at once diverted my attention from Olenka’s standard of culture. This person was a tall, muscular man in a print dressing-gown and torn slippers, with an extremely odd appearance. His face, covered all over with blue veins, was ornamented with a pair of sergeant’s moustaches and whiskers, and had in general a strong resemblance to a bird. His whole face seemed to be drawn forwards, as if trying to concentrate itself in the tip of the nose. Such faces are like the spout of a pitcher. This person’s small head was set on a long thin throat, with a large Adam’s-apple, and shook about like the nesting-box of a starling in the wind... This strange man looked round on us all with his dim green eyes, and then let them rest on the Count.

‘Are the doors shut?’ he asked in an imploring voice.

The Count looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Don’t trouble, papasha!’ Olenka answered. ‘They are all shut... Go back to your room!’

‘Is the barn door shut?’

‘He’s a little queer... It takes him sometimes,’ Urbenin whispered to me as he came in from the lobby. ‘He’s afraid of thieves, and always worrying about the doors, as you see.’

‘Nikolai Efimych,’ he continued, addressing this strange apparition, ‘go back to your room and go to bed! Don’t worry, everything is shut up!’

‘And are the windows shut?’

Nikolai Efimych hastily looked to see if the windows were properly bolted, and then without taking any notice of us he shuffled off into his own room.

‘The poor fellow has these attacks sometimes,’ Urbenin began to explain as soon as he had left the room. ‘He’s a good, capable man; he has a family, too - such a misfortune! Almost every summer he is a little out of his mind...’

I looked at Olenka. She became confused, and hiding her face from us began to put in order again her books that I had disarranged. She was evidently ashamed of her mad father.

‘The carriage is here, your Excellency! Now you can drive home, if you wish!’

‘Where has that carriage come from?’ I asked.

‘I sent for it...’

A minute later I was sitting with the Count in the carriage, listening to the peals of thunder and feeling very angry.

‘We’ve been nicely turned out of the little house by that Pëtr Egorych, the devil take him!’ I grumbled, getting really angry. ‘So he’s prevented us from examining Olenka properly! I wouldn’t have eaten her! The old fool! The whole time he was bursting with jealousy... He’s in love with that girl...’

‘Yes, yes, yes... Would you believe it, I noticed that, too! He wouldn’t let us go into the house from jealousy. And he sent for the carriage out of jealousy too... Ha, ha, ha!’

‘The later love comes the more it burns... Besides, brother, it’d be difficult not to fall in love with this girl in red, if one saw her every day as we saw her today! She’s devilish pretty! But she’s not for the likes of him... He ought to understand it and not be so selfishly jealous of others... Why can’t he just love her and not stand in the way of others, especially as he must know she’s not destined for him?... What an old blockhead!’

‘Do you remember how enraged he was when Kuz’ma mentioned her name at tea-time?’ the Count sniggered. ‘I thought he was going to thrash us all... A man does not defend the good fame of a woman so hotly if he’s indifferent to her...’

‘Some men will, brother... But this is not the question... What’s important is this... If he can order us about in the way he has done today, what does he do with the lesser folk, with those who are under his thumb? Doubtless, the stewards, the butlers, the huntsmen and the rest of the small fry are prevented by him from even approaching her! Love and jealousy make a man unjust, heartless, misanthropical... I don’t mind betting that for the sake of this Olenka he’s upset more than one of the people under his control. You’d be wise in future if you put less trust in his complaints of the people in your service and his demands for the dismissal of this person or that. In general, limit his power for a time... Love will pass — well, and then there will be nothing to fear. He’s a kind and honest fellow...’

‘And what do you think of her papa?’ the Count asked, laughing.

‘A madman... He ought to be in a madhouse and not looking after forests. In general you won’t be far from the truth if you put up a signboard “Madhouse” over the gate of your estate... You have a real Bedlam here! This forester, the Scops-Owl, Franz, who is mad on cards, this old man in love, an excitable girl, a drunken Count... What more do you want?’

‘Why, this forester receives a salary! How can he do his work if he is mad?’

‘Urbenin evidently only keeps him for his daughter’s sake... Urbenin says that Nikolai Efimych has these attacks every summer... That’s not likely... This forester is ill, not every summer, but always... By good luck, your Pëtr Egorych seldom lies, and he gives himself away when he does lie about anything...’

‘Last year Urbenin informed me that our old forester Akhmet’ev was going to become a monk on Mount Athos, and he recommended me to take the “experienced, honest and worthy Skvortsov”... I, of course, agreed as I always do. Letters are not faces: they do not give themselves away when they lie.’

The carriage drove into the courtyard and stopped at the front door. We alighted. The rain had stopped. The thunder cloud, scintillating with lightning and emitting angry grumbles, was hurrying towards the north-east and uncovering more and more of the dark blue star-spangled sky. It was like a heavily armed power which having ravaged the country and imposed a terrible tribute, was rushing on to new conquests... The small clouds that remained behind were chasing after it as if fearing to be unable to catch it up... Nature had its peace restored to it.

And that peace seemed astonished at the calm, aromatic air, so full of softness, of the melodies of nightingales, at the silence of the sleeping gardens and the caressing light of the rising moon. The lake awoke after the day’s sleep, and by gentle murmurs brought memories of itself to man’s hearing...

At such a time it is good to drive through the fields in a comfortable calash or to be rowing on the lake... But we went into the house... There another sort of poetry was awaiting us.

CHAPTER V

A man who under the influence of mental pain or unbearably oppressive suffering sends a bullet through his own head is called a suicide; but for those who give freedom to their pitiful, soul-debasing passions in the holy days of spring and youth, there is no name in man’s vocabulary. After the bullet follows the peace of the grave: ruined youth is followed by years of grief and painful recollections. He who has profaned his spring will understand the present condition of my soul. I am not yet old, or grey, but I no longer live. Psychologists tell us that a soldier, who was wounded at Waterloo, went mad, and afterwards assured everybody - and believed it himself - that he had died at Waterloo, and that what was now considered to be him was only his shadow, a reflection of the past. I am now experiencing something resembling this semi-death...

‘I am very glad that you ate nothing at the forester’s and haven’t spoilt your appetite,’ the Count said to me as we entered the house. ‘We shall have an excellent supper... Like old times... Serve supper!’ He gave the order to Il’ya who was helping him to take off his coat and put on a dressing-gown.

We went into the dining-room. Here on the side-table life was already bubbling over. Bottles of every colour and of every imaginable size were standing in rows as on the shelves of a theatre refreshment-room, reflecting on their sides the light of the lamps while awaiting our attention. All sorts of salted and pickled viands and various
hors d’œuvres
stood on another table with a decanter of vodka and another of English bitters. Near the wine bottles there were two dishes, one of sucking pig and the other of cold sturgeon.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ the Count began as he poured out three glasses of vodka and shivered as if from cold. ‘To our good health! Kaetan Kazimirovich, take your glass!’

I drank mine off, the Pole only shook his head in refusal. He moved the dish of sturgeon towards himself, smelt it, and began to eat.

I must apologize to the reader. I have now to describe something not at all ‘romantic’.

‘Well, come on... Let’s have another,’ the Count said, and filled the glasses again. ‘Fire away, Lecoq!’

I took up my wineglass, looked at it and put it down again.

‘The devil take it, it’s so long since I drank,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we drink to old times?’

Without further reflection, I filled five glasses and emptied them one after another down my throat. That was the only way I knew how to drink. Small schoolboys learn how to smoke cigarettes from big ones: the Count looked at me, poured out five glasses for himself, and, bending forwards in the form of an arch, frowning and shaking his head, he drank them off. My five glasses appeared to him to be bravado, but I drank them not at all to display my talent for drinking... I wanted to get drunk, to get properly, thoroughly drunk... Drunk as I had not been for a long time while living in my village. Having drunk them, I sat down to table and began to discuss the sucking pig.

Intoxication was not long in coming. I soon felt a slight giddiness. There was a pleasant feeling of coolness in my chest — and a happy, expansive condition set in. Without any visible transition I suddenly became very gay. The feeling of emptiness and dullness gave place to a sensation of thorough joy and gaiety. I smiled. I suddenly wanted chatter, laughter, people around me. As I chewed the sucking pig I began to feel the fullness of life, almost the self-sufficiency of life, almost happiness.

‘Why don’t you drink anything?’ I asked the Pole.

‘He never drinks,’ the Count said. ‘Don’t force him to.’

‘But surely you can drink something?’

The Pole put a large bit of sturgeon into his mouth and shook his head in refusal. His silence incensed me.

‘I say, Kaetan - what’s your patronymic? — why are you always silent?’ I asked him. ‘I have not had the pleasure of hearing your voice as yet.’

His two eyebrows that resembled the outstretched wings of a swallow were raised and he gazed at me.

‘Do you wish me to speak?’ he asked with a strong Polish accent.

‘Very much.’

‘Why do you wish it?’

‘Why, indeed! On board steamers at dinner strangers and people who are not -acquainted converse together, and here are we, who have known one another for several hours, looking at each other and not exchanging a single word! What does that look like?’

The Pole remained silent.

‘Why are you silent?’ I asked again after waiting a moment. ‘Answer something, can’t you?’

‘I do not wish to answer you. I hear laughter in your voice, and I do not like derision.’

‘He’s not laughing at all,’ the Count interposed in alarm. ‘Where did you fish up that notion, Kaetan? He’s quite friendly...’

‘Counts and Princes have never spoken to me in such a tone!’ Kaetan said, frowning. ‘I don’t like that tone.’

‘Consequently, you will not honour me with your conversation?’ I continued to worry him as I emptied another glass and laughed.

‘Do you know my real reason for coming here?’ the Count broke in, desirous of changing the conversation. ‘I haven’t told you as yet? In Petersburg I went to the doctor who has always treated me, to consult him about my health. He listened to my chest, knocked and pressed me everywhere, and said: “You’re not a coward!” Well, you know, though I’m no coward, I grew pale. “I’m not a coward,” I replied.’

‘Cut it short, brother... This is tiresome.’

‘He told me I should soon die if I did not go away from Petersburg! My liver is quite diseased from too much drink... So I decided to come here. It would have been silly to remain there. This estate is so fine — so rich... The climate alone is worth a fortune! Here, at least, I can occupy myself with my own affairs. Work is the best, the most efficacious medicine. Kaetan, is that not true? I shall look after the estate and chuck drink... The doctor did not allow me a single glass... not one!’

‘Well, then, don’t drink.’

‘I don’t drink... Today is the last time, in honour of meeting you again’ - the Count stretched towards me and gave me a smacking kiss on the cheek - ‘my dear, good friend. Tomorrow - not a drop! Today, Bacchus takes leave of me for ever... Serezha, let us have a farewell glass of cognac together?’

We drank a glass of cognac.

‘I shall get well, Serezha, golubchek, and I shall look after the estate... Rational agriculture! Urbenin — is good, kind... he understands everything, but is he the master? He sticks to routine! We must send for magazines, read, look into everything, take part in the agricultural and dairy exhibitions, but he is not educated for that! Is it possible he can be in love with Olenka? Ha-ha! I shall look into everything and keep him as my assistant... I shall take part in the elections; I shall entertain society... Eh? Even here one can live happily! What do you think? Now there you are, laughing again! Already laughing! One really can’t talk with you about anything!’

I was gay, I was amused. The Count amused me; the candles, the bottles amused me; the stucco hares and ducks that ornamented the walls of the dining-room amused me... The only thing that did not amuse me was the sober face of Kaetan Kazimirovich. The presence of this man irritated me.

‘Can’t you send that Polish nobleman to the devil?’ I whispered to the Count.

‘What? For God’s sake!’ the Count murmured, seizing both my hands as if I had been about to beat his Pole. ‘Let him sit there!’

‘I can’t look at him! I say,’ I continued, addressing Pshekhotsky, ‘you refused to talk to me; but forgive me. I have not yet given up hope of being more closely acquainted with your conversational capacities.’

‘Leave him alone!’ the Count said, pulling me by the sleeve. ‘I implore you!’

‘I shall not stop worrying you until you answer me,’ I continued. ‘Why are you frowning? Is it possible that you still hear laughter in my voice?’

‘If I had drunk as much as you have, I would talk to you; but as it is we are not fairly matched,’ the Pole replied.

‘That we are not fairly matched is what was to be proved... That is exactly what I wanted to say. A goose and a swine are no comrades; the drunkard and the sober man are no kin; the drunkard disturbs the sober man, the sober man the drunkard. In the adjoining drawing-room there is a soft and excellent sofa. It’s a good thing to lie upon it after sturgeon with horse-radish. My voice will not be heard there. Do you not wish to retire to that room?’

The Count clasped his hands and walked about the dining-room with blinking eyes.

He is a coward and is always afraid of ‘big’ talk. I, on the contrary, when drunk, am amused by cross-purposes and discon-tentedness.

‘I don’t understand! I don’t un-der-stand!’ the Count groaned, not knowing what to say or what to do.

He knew it was difficult to stop me.

‘I am only slightly acquainted with you,’ I continued. ‘Perhaps you are an excellent man, and therefore I don’t wish to quarrel with you too soon... I won’t quarrel with you. I only invite you to understand that there is no place for a sober man among drunken ones... The presence of a sober man has an irritating effect on the drunken organism! Take that to heart!’

‘Say whatever you like!’ Pshekhotsky sighed. ‘Nothing that you can say will provoke me, young man.’

‘So nothing will provoke you? Will you also not be offended if I call you an obstinate swine?’

The Pole grew red in the face — but only that. The Count became pale, he came up to me, looked imploringly at me, and spread his arms.

‘Come, I beg you! Restrain your tongue!’

I had now quite entered into my drunken part, and wanted to go on, but fortunately at that moment the Count and the Pole heard footsteps and Urbenin entered the dining-room.

‘I wish you all a good appetite!’ he began. ‘I have come, your Excellency, to find out if you have any orders for me?’

‘I have no orders so far, but a request,’ the Count replied, I am very glad you have come, Pëtr Egorych... Sit down and have supper with us, and let us talk about the business of the estate...’

Urbenin sat down. The Count drank off a glass of cognac and began to explain his plans for the future rational management of the estate. He spoke very long and wearisomely, often repeating himself and changing the subject. Urbenin listened to him lazily and attentively as serious people listen to the prattle of children and women. He ate his fish-soup, and looked sadly at his plate.

‘I have brought some remarkable plans with me!’ the Count said among other things. ‘Remarkable plans! I will show them to you if you wish?’

Karnéev jumped up and ran into his study for the plans. Urbenin took advantage of his absence to pour out half a tumbler of vodka, gulped it down, and did not even take anything to eat after it.

‘Disgusting stuff this vodka is!’ he said, looking with abhorrence at the decanter.

‘Why didn’t you drink while the Count was here, Pëtr Egorych?’ I asked him. is it possible that you were afraid to?’

‘It is better to dissimulate, Sergey Petrovich, and drink in secret than to drink before the Count. You know what a strange character the Count has... If I stole twenty thousand from him and he knew it, he would say nothing owing to his carelessness; but if I forgot to give him an account of ten kopecks that I had spent, or drank vodka in his presence, he would begin to lament that his bailiff was a robber. You know him well.’

Urbenin half-filled the tumbler again and swigged it off.

‘I think you did not drink formerly, Pëtr Egorych,’ I said.

‘Yes, but now I drink... I drink terribly!’ he whispered. ‘Terribly, day and night, not giving myself a moment’s respite! Even the Count never drank to such an extent as I do now... It is dreadfully hard, Sergey Petrovich! God alone knows what a weight I have on my heart! It’s just grief that makes me drink... I always liked and honoured you, Sergey Petrovich, and I can tell you quite candidly... I’d often be glad to hang myself!’