Count. I? I pay you compliments?
Darya. Yes, yes. Do you imagine you have changed very much since I saw you last? But let us talk of something else. You had better tell me what you are doing, how you spend your time in Petersburg — all that’s so interesting to me. . . . You keep up your music, don’t you?
Count. Yes, in my spare time, you know.
Darya. Have you still the same splendid voice?
Count. A splendid voice I never had, but I do sing still.
Darya. Ah, I remember you had a delightful voice, so sympathetic. ... I believe you used to compose, too?
Count. I do compose a little now.
Darya. In what style?
Count. In the Italian. I don’t care for any other. Pour moi — je fais peu; mais ce que je fais est bien. By the way, you used to be fond of music. You yourself, I remember, used to sing very charmingly, and to play the piano very well. I hope you haven’t dropped all that?
Darya [pointing to the piano and the music lying on it]. There’s my answer.
Count. Ah. [Goes up to the piano.]
Darya. But unhappily our piano is a very poor one; it is in tune, though. It’s a little shaky, but it’s not an agony to hear it.
Count [Strikes two or three chords]. It’s not a bad tone. Oh — what an idea! I believe you played at sight?
Darya. If it’s not too difficult, I can.
Count. Oh, it’s not at all difficult. I have a little tiny thing here, une bagatelle que j’ai composee, a little duet from my opera for tenor and soprano — as perhaps you’ve heard — I’m writing an opera — - just to amuse myself, you know . . . sans aucune pretention.
Darya. Really?
Count. I tell you what, if you’ll allow me, I’ll send for that little duet, or, no, I’d better go and fetch it. We’ll try it together, shall we?
Darya. Have you got it here?
Count. Yes, at my hotel.
Darya. Oh, Count, for goodness’ sake, make haste and get it. Oh dear, I am grateful to you! Please go and fetch it.
Count [takes his hat], At once. Vous verrez cela n’est pas mal. I hope you will like this little trifle.
Darya. Can you doubt it? Only I beg you beforehand not to be critical.
Count. Oh, how can you? On the contrary it is I . .. [As he is going to the door.] Ah! so you were in no mood for laughter in those days!
Darya. I believe you are laughing at me now And yet I have something I could show you. . . .
Count. What is it? What is it?
Darya. That I have treasured. ... I should like to see if you would recognize it....
Count. But what is it you are talking of?
Darya. I know what. Go now and fetch your little duet, and then we’ll see.
Count. Vous fetes un ange. I’ll be back in a moment. Vous fetes un ange. [Kisses his hand to her and vanishes into hall.]
Darya [looks after him and after a brief silence, exclaims]. Victory! Victory!... Can it really be? And so quickly, so unexpectedly! Ah! Je suis un ange! je suis adorable! So I have not quite gone to seed yet. I can still attract even men like him . . . [Smiling] like him. . . . Oh, my dear Count! I can’t disguise the fact that you are rather funny and have certainly seen your best days. And he didn’t turn a hair when I told him he was twenty - eight then instead of thirty - nine . . . how coolly I told the lie, though. Go and fetch your little duet, as you call it. You may be sure I shall think it charming. [Stops before the mirror, looks at herself, and passes both hands down her figure.] My poor countrified dress, good - bye to you, I shall soon part from you!
It’s a good thing I begged that fashion plate from our Mayor’s wife. You’ve done me good service. I’ll never throw you away; but I’m not going to put you on in Petersburg. [Prinking before the glass.] I fancy velvet would not look out of place on these shoulders. [The door from hall is opened a little way and Misha’s head appears. He looks for some time at Darya and, without coming in, says in an undertone: ‘Darya Ivanovna.’]
Darya [turning round quickly]. Ah, it’s you, Misha! What do you want? I’ve no time. . . .
Misha. I know, I know . . . I’m not coming in; I only wanted to warn you that Alexey Ivanitch will be here in a minute.
Darya. Why didn’t you take him for a walk?
Misha. I did go for a walk with him, Darya Ivanovna, but he said he wanted to go to his office; I couldn’t prevent him.
Darya. Well, did he go to the office?
Misha. Yes, he certainly did go into the Department; but a little while afterwards he came out again.
Darya. How do you know he came out?
Misha. I was watching round the corner. [Listens.] There, I believe he’s just coming in. [Vanishes, and a minute later reappears.] You won’t forget me, will you?
Darya. No, no.
Misha. All right. [Disappears.]
Darya. Can Alexey Ivanitch have taken it into his head to be jealous? A happy moment for it, I must say! [She sits down. Stupendyev comes in from hall. He is embarrassed. Darya looks round.] Oh, it’s you, Alexis?
Stupendyev. Me, me, my love. Has the Count gone?
Darya. I thought you were at the office.
Stupendyev. I did just look in at the Department, you know, to tell them not to expect me. How could I go to - day? We have such an honoured guest. . . . But what has become of him?
Darya [gets up]. Listen, Alexey Ivanitch, do you want to get a good post, with a good salary, in Petersburg?
Stupendyev. Me? I should rather think so!
Darya. You would like it?
Stupendyev. Of course . . . what a question?
Darya. Then leave me alone.
Stupendyev. Alone? How do you mean?
Darya. Alone with the Count. He’ll be here in a minute. He’s gone to his hotel for a little duet.
Stupendyev. A little duet?
Darya. Yes, a little duet. He has composed a duet. We want to try it over together.
Stupendyev. Then why must I go?... I should like to hear it too.
Darya. Oh, Alexey Ivanitch! You know all composers are frightfully shy, and a third person — seems simply awful to them.
Stupendyev. Composer? H’m. ... A third person.
But I really don’t know whether it’s quite proper. . . . How can I go out of the house? . . . The Count may be offended, in fact.
Darya. Not a bit — I assure you. He knows you are a busy man, with official duties; besides, you’ll be back to dinner.
Stupendyev. To dinner? Yes.
Darya. At three o’clock.
Stupendyev. Three o’clock. H’m! Yes ... I quite agree with you. . . . To dinner. Yes, at three o’clock. [Fidgets. ]
Darya [after waiting a little]. Well, what are you going to do?
Stupendyev. I don’t know . . . I’ve got... a bit of a headache. Here on the left side.
Darya. Have you? On the left side?
Stupendyev. Yes, really . . . here, here, on the left side; I don’t know ... I think I’d better remain at home.
Darya. I tell you what, my dear, you are jealous of the Count, that’s clear.
Stupendyev. Me jealous! What an idea! That would be too stupid....
Darya. Of course, it would be very stupid, there’s no doubt about that; but you are jealous.
Stupendyev. I am?
Darya. You are jealous of a man who dyes his hair.
Stupendyev. Does the Count dye his hair? What of it? I wear a wig.
Darya. That’s true; and so, as your peace of mind is more precious to me than anything, stay, by all means. . . . But give up all thought of Petersburg.
Stupendyev. But why so? Can this post in Petersburg . . . can it depend on my being absent?
Darya. Precisely.
Stupendyev. H’m! Queer. Of course, I agree with you; but still you must admit, it is queer.
Darya. Perhaps.
Stupendyev. How queer it is . . . how queer it is! Walks about the room.] H’m!
Darya. But make
up your mind quickly, anyway. . . . The Count will be back in a minute. . . .
Stupendyev. How queer it is! A pause.’] Do you know what, Dasha, I will remain.
Darya. As you please.
Stupendyev. But did the Count actually say anything about this post?
Darya. I can add nothing to what I have told you already. Stay or go, as you please.
Stupendyev. And is it a good post?
Darya. It is.
Stupendyev. I quite agree with you . . . I . . . will stay. Yes, decidedly I will stay, Dasha. [From the hall comes the voice of the Count, carolling a roulade. ] Here he is! [After a brief hesitation.] At three o’clock! Good - bye! [Runs off into study.]
Darya. Thank God! [The Count comes in, a roll of music in his hands.] At last! I thought you were never coming, Count.
Count. Me voilk, me voila, ma toute belle. I was detained.
Darya. Show me, show me. . . . You can’t imagine how impatient I feel! [Takes the roll from his hands and eagerly examines it.]
Count. Please, you mustn’t expect anything too extraordinary. I told you beforehand, you know, that it’s just a trifle, a mere trifle.
Darya [not taking her eyes from the music]. Quite the contrary. . . . Oh, mais c’est charmant! Ah, how sweet this transition is! [Pointing with her finger.] Ah, I’m in love with that passage.
Count [with a modest simper]. Yes, it is a little out of the ordinary.
Darya. And this rentree!
Count. Ah! you like it?
Darya. Very, very charming! Well, come along, come along; why waste time? [Goes to piano, sits down, puts up stand and lays music on it. The Count takes up his position behind her.]
Darya. It is — andante?
Count. Andante, andante amoroso quasi cantando. . . . [Clearing his throat.] H’m, h’m! I’m not in voice to - day. . . . But you must make allowances. . . . Une voix de compositeur, vous savez.
Darya. The usual excuse. Poor me, what can I say after that? I’ll begin. [She plays the ritournelle.] This is difficult.
Count. Not for you.
Darya. The words are very nice.
Count. Yes. ... I found them, I think, dans Metastase. ... I don’t know whether they are legibly written. [Pointing with his finger.] He sings this to her:
‘La dolce tua imagine O, vergine amata Dell’a ma inamorata.’
Well, so listen. [Sings a song in the Italian style; Darya Ivanovna accompanies him.]
Darya. Splendid, splendid. . . . Oh, que c’est joli.
Count. You think so?
Darya. Wonderful, wonderful!
Count. I didn’t sing it as it should be sung. But, my goodness, how you accompanied it! I assure you no one has ever accompanied me so well... no one!
Darya. You flatter me.
Count. I flatter? That’s not in my character, Darya Ivanovna. Believe me, c’est moi qui le dit. You are a great pianist.
Darya [who seems still absorbed in contemplation of the music], I do like this passage! How original it is!
Count. It is, isn’t it?
Darya. And can the whole opera be as fine?
Count. You know a composer cannot judge of that; but I fancy the rest is no worse, if not better.
Darya. Oh dear! Won’t you play me something from the opera?
Count. I should be only too glad and happy to do what you ask, Darya Ivanovna, but I’m sorry to say I don’t play the piano, and I have brought nothing with me.
Darya. What a pity! [Getting up.] Another time then. I hope, Count, you will come and see us again before you go away?
Count. If you allow me, I should be glad to come every day. As regards my promise, you need have no doubts about that.
Darya [innocently], What promise?
Count. I will obtain a post for your husband in Petersburg, I give you my word of honour. You must not remain here. Why, it would be simply outrageous! Vous n’etes pas faite pour . . . pour . . . vegeter ici. You ought to be one of the brilliant ornaments of our Petersburg world, and I should like ... I shall be proud to be the first. . . . But you seemed absorbed ... in what may I ask?
Darya [humming as though to herself J. La dolce tua imaging. . . .
Count. Ah! I knew that phrase would stay in your memory, I knew it. . . . As a rule, all I write est tres chantant.
Darya. That air is most charming. But I beg your pardon, Count ... I didn’t hear what you were saying . . . thanks to your music.
Count. I was saying that you really must move to Petersburg, Darya Ivanovna — for your own sake and your husband’s in the first place and for my sake in the second. I venture to bring in myself because . . . because our old friendship, I may say, gives me a certain right to do so. I have never forgotten you, Darya Ivanovna, and now more than ever I can assure you I am sincerely devoted to you . . . that this meeting with you . . .
Darya [;mournfully]. Count, why are you saying this?
Count. Why shouldn’t I say what I feel?
Darya. Because you ought not to arouse in me . . .
Count. Arouse what? . . . Arouse what? . . . Tell me. . . .
[Stupendyev appears in study doorway.]
Darya. Vain expectations.
Count. Why vain? And what expectations?
Darya. I will be frank with you, Valeryan Nikolaitch.
Count. You remember my name!
Darya. Well, you see . . . here you have shown . . . some interest in me, but in Petersburg I shall perhaps seem so insignificant that I dare say you will regret what you are now intending to do for us.
Count. Oh, good heavens, how can you say such things! You don’t know your own value. Is it possible you don’t understand. . . . Mais vous etes une femme charmante.
Regret what I’m doing for you, Darya Ivanovna!
Darya [seeing Stupendyev]. For my husband, you mean.
Count. Well, yes, yes, for your husband. Regret it. . . . No, you don’t yet know my real feelings. ... I want to be open with you ... in my turn.
Darya [embarrassed]. Count. . . .
Count. You don’t know my real feelings, I tell you, you don’t know them.
Stupendyev [comes rapidly into the room, approaches the Count who is standing with his back to him and bows]. Your Excellency, your Excellency.. . .
Count. You don’t know what I am feeling, Darya Ivanovna. . . .
Stupendyev [shouts]. Your Excellency, your Excellency. ...
Count [turns round quickly, looks at him for some time, and says calmly]. Oh, is it you, Alexey Ivanitch? Where have you sprung from?
Stupendyev. From the study . . . from the study, your Excellency. I’ve been here, in the study, your Excellency. . . .
Count. I thought you were at your office. Here your wife and I have been making music. Mr. Stupendyev, you are the happiest of men! I tell you this so simply, so directly, because I’ve known your wife from a child.
Stupendyev. You are too kind, your Excellency.
Count. Yes, yes . . . you are a happy man!
Darya. My dear, you may thank the Count . . .
Count [quickly interrupting], Permettez. ... Je le lui dirai moi - meme . . plus tard . . . quand nous serons plus d’accord. [Aloud to Stupendyev.] You are a happy man! Are you fond of music?
Stupendyev. Oh, yes, your Excellency. ... I . . .
Count [turning to Darya Ivanovna]. By the way . . . there was something you meant to show me, have you forgotten?
Darya. To show you?
Count. Yes ... you ... Vous avez dejk oublie?
Darya [in a rapid aside]. II est jaloux et il comprend le frangais. Oh yes, of course ... I remember now: I meant to ... I meant to show you our garden; there is still time before dinner.
Count. Ah! [A pause.] So you have a garden?
Darya. A little one, but plenty of flowers in it.
Count. Yes, yes, I remember; you were always very fond of flowers. Show me your garden, do, please do. [Goes to piano for his hat.]
Stupendyev [going up to Darya
, in an undertone]. What’s this ... what’s this . . . what does this mean, eh?
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 340