I remembered the Count’s garden, with all the splendour of its cool conservatories, and the semidarkness of its narrow, neglected avenues. These avenues, protected from the sun by a canopy of the green, intertwined branches of ancient limes, know me very well. And they know those women who sought my love and the semidarkness… I remembered the luxurious drawing-room with the sweet repose of its velvet sofas, those heavy curtains and carpets soft as down, that indolence so adored by healthy young animals… I recalled my drunken recklessness that knew no bounds, my satanic pride and contempt for life. And my large body, weary with sleep, once more yearned for movement.
‘Tell him I’m coming.’
The peasant bowed and left.
‘I wouldn’t have let that devil in had I known!’ Polikarp growled as he swiftly and aimlessly turned the pages of his book.
‘Put that book down and go and saddle Zorka,’ I said sternly. ‘And look lively!’
‘Lively? Oh, of course… I’ll dash off and see to it right away… There’d be some excuse if he was going there on business, but he’ll ride over and bring the old devil to his knees!’
This was said in an undertone, but loud enough for me to hear. My servant who had whispered this impertinence stood erect, scornfully smirking and expecting some retaliatory outburst, but I pretended not to have heard. Silence was my most effective, my sharpest weapon in my battles with Polikarp. The contemptuous way I usually turned a deaf ear to his vitriolic remarks would disarm him and take the wind out of his sails. As a punishment it worked better than any clout on the ear or torrent of abuse. When Polikarp had gone out into the yard to saddle Zorka, I peeped into the book I had stopped him reading. It was The Count of Monte Christo,7 Dumas’ spine-chilling novel. My cultured fool read everything, from pub signs to Auguste Comte,8 who was lying in my trunk together with my other abandoned, unread books. Out of all that mass of printed and written matter, however, he recognized only terrifying, extremely exciting novels with distinguished ‘personages’, with poison and subterranean passages – everything else he styled ‘rubbish’. I shall have occasion to discuss his reading later on, but now it was time to go!
A quarter of an hour later my Zorka’s hoofs were already raising dust along the road from the village to the Count’s estate. The sun was close to its resting place for the night, but the heat and humidity continued to make themselves felt. The burning air was motionless and dry, despite the fact that my path skirted the banks of the most enormous lake. To the right I could see a great watery expanse; to the left the young vernal foliage of an oak grove caressed my eyes, but at the same time my cheeks had to endure a Sahara-like heat.
‘There’s sure to be a storm!’ I reflected, having visions of a fine, cooling downpour.
The lake was peacefully sleeping. It did not greet Zorka’s flight with a single sound and only the cry of a young woodcock broke the sepulchral silence of that motionless giant. The sun looked at itself in it as though it were a huge mirror and flooded its entire breadth, from the road to the far bank, with its blinding light. To my dazzled eyes nature seemed to be receiving its light from the lake instead of from the sun.
The stifling heat also lulled into drowsiness the life in which the lake and its green banks were so rich. The birds were in hiding, the fish made no splash in the water, the grasshoppers and crickets were quietly waiting for the cool to set in. All around everything was deserted. Only now and then did my Zorka bear me into a thick cloud of mosquitoes that lived along the banks; and far out on the lake there barely stirred the three little black boats belonging to old Mikhey, our fisherman, who had fishing rights to the whole lake.
II
I did not ride in a straight line, but followed the curving banks of the circular lake. Travelling in a straight line was possible only by boat, but those who went overland were forced to describe a great circle, which meant a detour of about six miles. As I rode along and glanced at the lake, I had a continuous view of the clayey bank on the far side, where the white strip of a blossoming cherry orchard gleamed, while beyond the cherry trees were the Count’s barns, dotted with many-coloured doves, and then the white belfry of the Count’s church. By the clayey bank stood a bathing-hut, its sides nailed down with canvas; sheets were hanging up to dry on the railings. As I surveyed all this, a mere half mile appeared to separate me from my friend the Count, whereas in fact I had to ride about another ten miles to reach the estate.
On the way I considered my peculiar relationship with the Count. I found it interesting to take stock of this, to try and see where the two of us stood. But alas! This exercise was beyond my powers. However much I reflected, in the end I was forced to conclude that I was a poor judge of myself and of people in general. Those who knew both the Count and myself interpreted our mutual relationship in different ways. Those with limited brainpower, who couldn’t see further than their noses, were fond of claiming that the distinguished Count had found an excellent drinking companion and stooge in that ‘poor and undistinguished examining magistrate’. As they saw it, I, the author of these lines, went crawling and grovelling around the Count’s table for a few crumbs and titbits! In their opinion, that distinguished Croesus, the bugbear, the envy of the whole of S— district, was extremely intelligent and liberal-minded. Otherwise, the fact that he so graciously condescended to be friends with an impoverished investigating magistrate, together with the genuine tolerance with which he accepted my over-familiarity with him, would have been incomprehensible. But those who were more intelligent explained our great intimacy as ‘community of spiritual interests’. The Count and I were contemporaries. We had both graduated from the same university, we were both lawyers and we both knew very little. I myself knew a few things, but the Count had forgotten or drowned in alcohol all he had ever known. We were both proud men and for reasons known only to ourselves we lived like recluses, shunning society. We were both indifferent to what society thought of us (I mean the society in S— district), we were both immoral and we would both certainly come to a bad end. Such were the ‘spiritual interests’ that bound us. Those who knew us could have said no more than this about our relationship.
Of course, they would have had more to say had they known how spineless, pliant and complaisant my friend’s nature was – and how strong and firm I was. They would have had a great deal to say had they known how fond that vain man was of me and how I detested him! He was first to offer me his friendship and I was first to address him as an intimate – but what a difference in tone! In an excess of noble feelings he had embraced me and humbly begged my friendship. But on one occasion, overcome by contempt and disgust, I told him:
‘That’s enough rubbish from you!’9
And he considered this familiarity an expression of friendship and took advantage of it, repaying me with his own honest, brotherly brand.
Yes, I would have acted more honestly and decently if I’d turned my Zorka around and ridden back to Polikarp and Ivan Demyanych. Later on I thought more than once about how many misfortunes I could have avoided bearing on my shoulders, how much good I could have done those who were close to me, if only I’d had the determination that evening to turn back, if only Zorka had bolted and borne me far away from that terrifying, vast lake! How many painful memories would not be oppressing my brain now, making me constantly drop my pen and clutch my head! But I shall not anticipate, especially as later I shall be compelled to dwell many more times on pain and sorrow: now for cheerful matters!
My Zorka bore me right up to the gates of the Count’s courtyard. Just as we were going through she stumbled, so that I lost a stirrup and was almost thrown to the ground.
‘A bad omen, sir!’ shouted some peasant who was standing by one of the doors in the Count’s long row of stables.
I believe that anyone who falls from his horse can break his neck, but I don’t believe in omens. Handing the bridle to the peasant and beating the dust off my riding-boots with my whip, I ran into the house. No one was there to
greet me. The windows and doors of the rooms were wide open, but despite that there was an oppressive, peculiar smell in the air – a blend of the odours of ancient, deserted apartments with the pleasant if pungent, narcotic scent of hothouse plants that had recently been brought into the rooms from the conservatories. In the drawing-room, on one of the sofas upholstered in light-blue silk, lay two crumpled cushions and on a round table in front of it I saw a glass containing a few drops of liquid that smelt of potent Riga balsam.10 All this led me to believe that the house was inhabited, but I did not meet a living soul in any of the eleven rooms through which I passed. The same desolation that surrounded the lake reigned in that house.
From the so-called ‘mosaic’ drawing-room, large French windows led into the garden. They made a loud noise as I opened them and went down the marble terrace steps into the garden. After I’d taken a few strides along the avenue I met Nastasya, an old crone of about ninety who had been the Count’s nanny. She was a tiny, wrinkled creature whom death had forgotten, with bald head and piercing eyes. Whenever you looked at her face you couldn’t help remembering the nickname that the other servants had given her: Owlet. When she saw me she shuddered and almost dropped the jug of cream she was carrying in both hands.
‘How are you, Owlet?’ I asked.
She gave me a sidelong glance and silently walked past. I grasped her shoulder.
‘Don’t be scared, you old fool… where’s the Count?’
The old woman pointed at her ears.
‘Are you deaf? Have you been like that long?’
Despite her advanced age the old crone could hear and see very well, but she found it not unprofitable to calumniate her sensory organs. I wagged my finger and let her go.
After a few more steps I heard voices and before long I saw people. Just where the avenue widened out into an open space, surrounded by cast-iron benches and shaded by tall, white acacias, stood a table with a gleaming samovar on it. People were sitting around the table, talking. I quietly made my way across the grass to the little open space, hid behind a lilac bush, and sought out the Count with my eyes.
My friend, Count Karneyev, was sitting at the table on a folding cane chair, drinking tea. He was wearing that same multicoloured dressing-robe in which I’d seen him two years before, and a straw hat. His face had an anxious, preoccupied look and was deeply furrowed, so that those who didn’t know him might have thought that some grave thought or problem was troubling him at that precise moment. In appearance the Count hadn’t changed one bit during our two-year separation: there was that same small, thin body, as frail and sluggish as a corncrake’s, those same narrow, consumptive’s shoulders and that small head with reddish hair. His nose was as red as ever, and his cheeks were the same as they had been two years ago, sagging like limp rags. There was nothing bold, strong or manly in his face. Everything was weak, apathetic and flaccid. Only his long, drooping moustache made any impression. Someone had told my friend that a long moustache suited him: he believed him and every morning he would measure how much that hairy growth over his pale lips had lengthened. That moustache put you in mind of a bewhiskered but very young and puny kitten.
Next to the Count, at the same table, sat a stout gentleman I didn’t know, with a large, closely cropped head and jet-black eyebrows. This gentleman’s face was plump and shiny as a ripe melon. His moustache was longer than the Count’s, his forehead low, his lips tightly pressed and his eyes were gazing lazily at the sky. His features had run to fat, but despite that they were as stiff as dried-up leather. He wasn’t the Russian type. This stout gentleman was without jacket or waistcoat and simply wore a smock stained with dark patches of sweat. He was drinking seltzer water instead of tea.
At a respectful distance from the table stood a portly, stocky man with a plump red neck and protruding ears. This was Urbenin, the Count’s estate manager. In honour of His Excellency’s arrival he had donned a new black suit and was now suffering agonies. The sweat simply streamed from his red, sunburnt face. Next to the manager stood the peasant who had brought me the letter. It was only then that I noticed that he had one eye missing. Holding himself stiffly to attention and not daring to budge, he stood there like a statue as he waited to be questioned.
‘I’d like to take your whip from you, Kuzma, and thrash the living daylights out of you,’ the manager was telling him in a drawling, admonitory, soft, deep voice. ‘How can you be so slapdash about the Master’s orders? You should have asked the gentleman to come right away and found out exactly when we could expect him.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed the Count nervously. ‘You should have found everything out! So, he told you he’d come. But that’s not good enough! I need him here, this very minute! Right away – wi-th-out fail! He couldn’t have understood you when you asked him.’
‘Why do you need him so badly?’ the stout gentleman asked the Count.
‘I have to see him!’
‘Is that all? If you ask me, Aleksey, that investigating magistrate of yours would be best advised to stay at home today. I don’t feel up to visitors at the moment.’
I opened my eyes wide. What did that imperious, peremptory ‘I’ imply?
‘But he’s not just a visitor,’ my friend pleaded. ‘He won’t prevent you from resting after your journey. You don’t have to stand on ceremony with him – you’ll soon see what a fine fellow he is. You’ll take to him immediately and you’ll be the best of friends, my dear chap!’
I emerged from my hiding place behind the lilac bush and went towards the table. When the Count saw me and recognized me his face lit up with a smile.
‘Here he is, here he is!’ he exclaimed, flushed with pleasure and leaping from the table. ‘It’s so very nice of you to come!’ After running up to me he performed a little jig, embraced me and scratched my cheeks several times with his bristly moustache. The kisses were followed by prolonged handshaking and peering into my eyes.
‘You haven’t changed one bit, Sergey! Still just the same! As handsome and as strong as ever! Thanks for doing me the favour of coming!’
Freeing myself from the Count’s embrace, I greeted the manager, whom I knew very well, and took my place at the table.
‘Ah, my dear chap!’ the Count continued, at once anxious and overjoyed. ‘If you only knew how pleasant it is to behold your grave countenance!… You haven’t met? Allow me to introduce you – my good friend Kaetan Kazimirovich Pshekhotsky… And this is…’ he went on, introducing me to the fat gentleman, ‘my good, long-standing friend Sergey Petrovich Zinovyev! He’s our district investigating magistrate.’ The stout, black-browed gentleman rose slightly and offered me his chubby, dreadfully sweaty hand.
‘Delighted!’ he mumbled, eyeing me up and down. ‘Absolutely delighted!’
After he had unbosomed himself and calmed down, the Count poured me a glass of cold, dark-brown tea and pushed a box of biscuits towards me.
‘Help yourself… I bought them at Eynem’s11 as I was passing through Moscow. But I’m angry with you, Seryozha – so angry that I even felt like terminating our friendship! It’s not simply that you haven’t written me a single line over the past two years – you haven’t even deigned to answer any of my letters. That’s not very friendly!’
‘I’m no good at writing letters,’ I said. ‘And besides, I don’t have time for letter-writing. Please tell me – what was there to write about?’
‘There must have been plenty of things!’
‘But there weren’t, honestly. I acknowledge only three kinds of letter: love letters, congratulatory letters and business letters. I didn’t write the first, as you’re not a woman and I’m not in love with you. You don’t need the second and we can do without the third, as neither of us has had any mutual business since the day we were born.’
‘That may well be true,’ replied the Count, who was ready and willing to agree to everything. ‘All the same, you could at least have written a line. And on top of that, as Pyotr Yegorych so rightly says, fo
r those entire two years you never once set foot here, just as if you were living a thousand miles away or as if… you were put off by my wealth. You could have lived here, done a spot of shooting. Just think what might have happened while I was away!’
The Count spoke a great deal and at great length. Once he started, his tongue would wag incessantly, interminably, however footling and trivial the subject.
He was as indefatigable as my Ivan Demyanych in his articulation of sounds and for me this ability made him barely tolerable. On this occasion he was stopped by his servant Ilya, a lanky, thin man in shabby, badly stained livery, who brought the Count a wine glass of vodka and half a tumbler of water on a silver tray. The Count downed the vodka, took a sip of water, frowned and shook his head.
‘So, you still haven’t lost your habit of swilling vodka at the first opportunity!’ I remarked.
‘No, I haven’t, Seryozha!’
‘Well, you could at least give up that drunken frowning and waggling your head! It’s frightful!’
‘I’m giving everything up, old man. My doctors have forbidden me to drink. I’m only having a little drink now as it’s unhealthy to kick bad habits all in one go… it has to be done gradually…’
I looked at the Count’s sickly, worn face, at the wine glass, at the footman in yellow shoes; I looked at the black-browed Pole who from the very start for some reason struck me as a scoundrel and crook; at the one-eyed peasant standing to attention – and I felt uneasy, stifled. Suddenly I had the urge to escape from that filthy atmosphere, but not before opening the Count’s eyes to my boundless antipathy towards him. For one moment I was actually on the point of getting up and leaving there and then. But I didn’t leave. I’m ashamed to admit that sheer physical laziness held me back.
‘Bring me a glass of vodka too!’ I ordered Ilya.
Oblong-shaped shadows began to fall on the avenue and on the open space where we were sitting. And now the distant croaking of frogs, the cawing of crows and the song of orioles greeted the setting sun. The spring evening was drawing in.
The Shooting Party Page 5