The Shooting Party

  My reason argued against riding over to the Count’s estate. Once I had vowed to the Count never to set foot in his house again how could I sacrifice my self-esteem, my pride? What would that mustachioed fop have thought if, after our inane conversation, I’d gone up to him as if nothing had happened? Wouldn’t that have been an admission of guilt?

  Furthermore, as an honest man, I should have broken off all relations with Olga. Any future liaison could only bring about her ruin. She had blundered in marrying Urbenin and by having an affair with me she had blundered yet again. Wouldn’t living with that elderly husband and simultaneously having a secret lover make her resemble a depraved doll? Not to mention how loathsome such a life would be in principle – one also had to think of the consequences.

  What a coward I was! I feared the consequences, I feared the present and I feared the past. Any ordinary man would have laughed at my line of reasoning – he wouldn’t have paced from corner to corner, clutched his head and drawn up all kinds of plans, but would have let life, which grinds even millstones into flour, take control. Life would have digested everything, without asking either for his help or permission. But I’m cautious to the point of cowardice. I paced from corner to corner, sick with pity for Olga and at the same time I was horrified at the thought that she might agree to the suggestion I had made in a moment of passion and come and stay with me – as I had promised her – for ever! What would have happened if she had done what I wanted and married me? How long would that ‘for ever’ have lasted and what would life with me have given poor Olga? I wouldn’t have given her a family, therefore I wouldn’t have given her happiness. No, it wasn’t right to ride over to Olga!

  But meanwhile my heart yearned passionately for her. I pined like a young boy, in love for the first time and not allowed out for a rendezvous. Tempted by the incident in the garden, I thirsted for a new meeting – and the seductive image of Olga, who, as I knew very well, was also waiting and pining for me, never left my head for one moment.

  The Count sent me letter after letter, each more woeful and self-degrading than the last. He implored me to forgive that ‘kind, simple, but rather limited man’ and he was amazed that I had decided to break off a long-standing friendship for some mere trifle. In one of his last letters he promised to come in person and if I so desired would bring along Pshekhot-sky to apologize – although ‘he didn’t feel that he was in the least to blame’. I read the letters and replied by asking each messenger to leave me in peace. I was very good at putting on an act!

  When my nervous agitation was at its peak, when I stood by the window and decided to go anywhere except the Count’s estate, when I was tormenting myself with arguments, self-reproach and visions of the love-making that awaited me at Olga’s, my door softly opened, I heard light footsteps behind me and my neck was immediately encircled by two pretty little arms.

  ‘Is that you, Olga?’ I asked, turning round.

  I recognized her from her hot breath, from the way she clung to my neck and even from her smell. Pressing her small head against my cheek she struck me as extraordinarily happy. She couldn’t speak for happiness – not one word. I pressed her to my breast – and then what became of all the anguish, of all those questions that had been tormenting me for three days on end? I laughed and skipped for joy, just like a schoolboy.

  Olga was wearing a blue silk dress that beautifully suited her pale complexion and her magnificent flaxen hair. This dress was in the latest fashion and looked terribly expensive. Most probably it had cost Urbenin about a quarter of his salary.

  ‘You do look pretty today!’ I said, lifting Olga and kissing her neck. ‘Well now, how are you? Are you well?’

  ‘It’s not very nice here, is it?’ she replied, glancing around my study. ‘You’re a wealthy man, you get a large salary, yet how simply you live!’

  ‘Not everyone can live in the lap of luxury like the Count,’ I said. ‘But enough said about my “wealth”. What good genius has brought you to my lair?’

  ‘Stop it, Seryozha, you’re crumpling my dress… put me down! I’ve only dropped in for a moment, darling. I told everyone at home I was going to see Akatikha, the Count’s laundrywoman – she doesn’t live very far from here, about three houses away. Put me down, darling, it’s embarrassing! Why haven’t you been to see me for so long?’

  I made some sort of reply, sat her down opposite me and began to contemplate her beauty. For a minute we looked at each other in silence.

  ‘You’re very pretty, Olga,’ I sighed. ‘It’s even a pity and rather insulting that you’re so pretty!’

  ‘Why is it a pity?’

  ‘Because the devil only knows who’s got you in his clutches.’

  ‘But what more do you want? Aren’t I yours? I’m here, aren’t I?… Now listen, Seryozha. Will you tell me the truth if I ask you?’

  ‘Of course I’ll tell you the truth.’

  ‘Would you have married me if I hadn’t married Pyotr Yegorych?’

  ‘Probably not’ was what I wanted to say, but why pick at a wound which was painful enough and which was tormenting poor Olga’s heart?

  ‘Of course I would,’ I said in the tone of one speaking the truth. Olya sighed and looked down.

  ‘What a mistake I made, what a terrible mistake! And what’s worst of all, it can’t be rectified! I can’t divorce him, can I?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘I don’t understand why I was in such a hurry! We girls are so stupid and empty-headed. There’s no one around to give us a good thrashing! But there’s no going back now and there’s no point in arguing. Neither arguments nor tears will help. Yesterday I cried all night long, Seryozha. There he was… lying next to me… but I was thinking of you and I couldn’t sleep. I even wanted to run away that night – even into the forest and back to Father. Better to live with an insane father than with this… what’s his name?’

  ‘Having second thoughts about it won’t help, Olya. You should have thought about it then, when you drove with me from Tenevo and were so delighted to be marrying a rich man. But it’s too late now to be practising eloquence…’

  ‘Too late… then there’s nothing I can do about it!’ Olya said, decisively waving her arm. ‘As long as it gets no worse I can go on living. Goodbye… I must go now.’

  I drew Olya to me and showered her face with kisses, as if trying to reward myself for those three lost days. She snuggled up to me like a lamb, warming my face with her hot breath. There was silence.

  ‘A husband murdered his wife,’ screeched my parrot.

  Olya shuddered, freed herself from my embrace and looked at me questioningly.

  ‘It’s only the parrot, darling,’ I said. ‘Now relax…’

  ‘A husband murdered his wife!’ Ivan Demyanych repeated.

  Olya stood up, silently put on her hat and gave me her hand. Fear was written all over her face.

  ‘And what if Urbenin finds out?’ she asked, looking at me with wide-open eyes. ‘He’ll kill me!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ I laughed. ‘I’d be a fine person if I let him kill you! But he’s hardly capable of such an unusual act as murder. You’re leaving? Well, goodbye my child… I shall wait… Tomorrow I’ll be in the forest, near the cottage where you used to live. We’ll meet there.’

  After I had seen Olya out and returned to my study I found Polikarp there. He was standing in the middle of the room sternly eyeing me and contemptuously shaking his head.

  ‘Mind that doesn’t happen here again, Sergey Petrovich,’ he said in the tone of a strict parent. ‘I won’t stand for it!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I say. Do you think I didn’t see? I saw everything. She’d better not dare come here! I don’t want any carryings-on here! There’s other places for that.’

  I was in the most splendid mood and therefore Polikarp’s spying, his didactic tone, didn’t make me angry. I laughed and dispatched him to the kitchen.

  Barely giving me time t
o collect myself after Olya’s visit, a new visitor arrived. A carriage rattled up to the door of my flat and Polikarp – spitting to each side and muttering oaths – announced the arrival of ‘that damned fellow… may he go to hell!’ – that is, the Count, whom he hated from the bottom of his heart. The Count entered, eyed me tearfully and shook his head.

  ‘You keep turning your back on me, you don’t want to talk.’

  ‘I don’t keep turning my back,’ I replied.

  ‘I was so fond of you, Seryozha, and you… just for some trifle… Why do you have to insult me? Why?’

  The Count sat down, sighed and shook his head.

  ‘Come on, stop playing the fool!’ I said. ‘It’s all right.’

  My influence over that weak, frail little man was strong – as strong as my contempt for him. My contemptuous tone didn’t offend him – on the contrary. On hearing my ‘It’s all right’, he leapt up and began embracing me.

  ‘I’ve brought him with me… he’s waiting in the carriage… do you want him to apologize in person?’

  ‘Do you know what he’s done wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s fine. He can forget the apology, but you must warn him that if anything of the sort happens once again I shan’t merely get mad – I shall take steps!’

  ‘So, it’s peace then, Seryozha? Excellent! You should have done this ages ago – the devil only knows what you were quarrelling about! Just like two schoolgirls! Oh, by the way, dear chap, I wonder if you’ve… half a glass of vodka? I’m absolutely parched.’

  I ordered some vodka. The Count drank two glasses, sprawled out on the sofa and chattered away.

  ‘I just bumped into Olga, dear chap. Splendid girl! I must tell you – I’m beginning to detest that Urbenin. Which means I’m beginning to fancy Olya. Devilishly pretty! I’m thinking of having a little flirtation with her.’

  ‘You should keep away from married women!’ I sighed.

  ‘Come off it, he’s an old man! There’s no harm in pinching Pyotr Yegorych’s wife. She’s too good for him. He’s just like a dog – can’t guzzle himself, so he stops everyone else. Today I shall start my assault and go about it systematically. Such a sweetie! What style, old man! Simply makes you smack your lips!’

  The Count drank a third glass and continued:

  ‘Do you know who else I fancy here? Nadenka, that idiot Kalinin’s daughter. A fiery brunette, pale complexion, with gorgeous eyes – you know the type! I must also cast my line there… I’m giving a party at Whitsun – a musical-vocal-literary party – just so that I can invite her. So, my friend, life’s not too bad here – quite jolly in fact! There’s the social life, women… and… mind if I have a little nap… just a few minutes?’

  ‘You may. But what about Pshekhotsky in the carriage?’

  ‘He can wait, damn him! I myself don’t care for him, dear chap.’ The Count raised himself on his elbow and said in a mysterious voice: ‘I’m keeping him only out of necessity… I need him… Well, to hell with him!’

  The Count’s elbow gave way and his head flopped onto the cushion. A minute later I could hear snoring.

  After the Count left that evening a third visitor arrived – Dr Pavel Ivanovich. He had come to tell me that Nadezhda Nikolayevna wasn’t very well and that she had finally refused him. The poor devil was miserable and resembled a wet hen.

  XIV

  The poetic month of May went by… lilacs and tulips finished flowering – and with them fate had ordained that the joys of love should also shed their blossoms (despite its sinfulness and pain, love still occasionally afforded sweet minutes that can never be erased from the memory). But there are moments for which one would sacrifice months and years.

  One evening in June, after the sun had set but when its broad trail – a crimson and golden strip – still glowed in the distant west, heralding a calm, bright day, I rode Zorka up to the outbuilding where Urbenin lived. That evening a musical soirée was to be held at the Count’s. The guests had already started arriving, but the Count wasn’t at home: he had gone for a ride and had promised to be back very soon. Shortly afterwards, holding my horse by the bridle, I stood at the porch and chatted with Sasha, Urbenin’s little daughter. Urbenin himself was sitting on the steps with his head propped on his fists, peering at the distant prospect through the gates. He was gloomy and answered my questions reluctantly. I left him in peace and turned to Sasha.

  ‘Where’s your new mama?’ I asked her.

  ‘She’s gone riding with the Count. She goes riding with him every day.’

  ‘Every day,’ muttered Urbenin with a sigh.

  Much could be heard in that sigh. In it I could hear exactly what was troubling my heart too, what I was endeavouring to explain to myself but was unable to – and I became lost in speculation.

  So, Olga went riding with the Count every day. But that didn’t mean a thing. Olga could never have fallen in love with the Count, and Urbenin’s jealousy was totally unfounded. It wasn’t the Count of whom we should have been jealous, but something else, which had taken me so long to understand. This ‘something else’ stood like a solid wall between myself and Olga. She still loved me, but after the visit described in the previous chapter, she hadn’t come to see me more than twice and when she met me somewhere outside my flat she would flush mysteriously and stubbornly evade my questions. She reciprocated my caresses passionately, but her responses were so abrupt, so nervous, that all I could remember of our brief trysts was an agonizing perplexity. Her conscience wasn’t clear – that was obvious – but it was impossible to read the precise reason for this on Olga’s guilty face.

  ‘I hope your new mama is well?’ I asked Sasha.

  ‘Yes, she is. But last night she had toosache. She was kwying.’

  ‘Crying?’ Urbenin asked, turning his face to Sasha. ‘Did you see her? You must have dreamt it, darling.’

  Olga did not have toothache. If she had been crying, it was from something other than physical pain. I wanted to continue my conversation with Sasha, but this I didn’t manage, since at that moment I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs and soon we saw the riders – a gentleman awkwardly bouncing about in the saddle and a graceful horsewoman. To conceal my joy from Olga I lifted Sasha in my arms and kissed her forehead as I ran my fingers through her fair hair.

  ‘What a pretty girl you are, Sasha!’ I said. ‘Such beautiful curls!’

  Olga gave me a fleeting glance, replied to my bow in complete silence and went into the outbuilding, leaning on the Count’s arm. Urbenin got up and followed her.

  Five minutes later the Count emerged from the outbuilding. He was cheerful as never before, his face even seemed to have a fresher look.

  ‘Congratulate me!’ he said, taking my hand and giggling.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On my conquest… Just one more of these rides and I swear by the ashes of my noble ancestors I’ll pluck the petals from this flower.’

  ‘So you haven’t plucked them yet?’

  ‘Yet?… Well, almost! During ten minutes of “your hand in mine”45 not once did she take it away. I smothered it with kisses! But let’s wait until tomorrow, we must be on our way now. They’re expecting me. Oh yes! I need to talk to you about something, dear chap. Tell me, is it true what people are saying… that you have evil designs on Nadezhda Nikolayevna?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘If it’s true, I won’t stand in your way. It’s not my policy to trip people up. But if you have no designs on her, then of course…’

  ‘I have no designs.’

  ‘Merci, my dear chap!’

  The Count had visions of killing two hares at once and he was fully convinced that he would succeed. And on that evening I observed his pursuit of these hares. It was all as stupid and comical as a fine caricature. As I watched I could only laugh or be repelled by the Count’s vulgarity; but no one could have thought that this puerile pursuit would end with the moral fall of a few, the ruin of some – and
the crimes of others!

  The Count did not kill two hares, but more! Yes, he killed them, but the skins and flesh went to someone else.

  I saw him furtively squeeze the hand of Olga, who invariably greeted him with a friendly smile, but who watched him leave with a disdainful grin. Once, eager to show that there were no secrets between us, he even kissed her hand in my presence.

  ‘What an idiot!’ she whispered in my ear as she wiped her hand.

  ‘Listen, Olga,’ I said when the Count had left. ‘I feel there’s something you want to tell me. Yes?’

  I looked searchingly into her face. She blushed crimson and blinked timorously, like a cat caught stealing.

  ‘Olga,’ I said sternly. ‘You’ve got to tell me! I insist!’

  ‘Yes, there is something I want to tell you,’ she whispered, pressing my hands. ‘I love you, I can’t live without you, but don’t come here to see me, my darling! Don’t love me any more, don’t call me Olya. I can’t go on like this, it’s impossible. And don’t even let anyone see that you love me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s what I want. You don’t need to know the reason and I’m not going to tell you. Now leave me, they’re coming.’

  I didn’t leave her and she herself had to bring our conversation to an end. Taking the arm of her husband, who just happened to be passing, she nodded at me with a hypocritical smile and left.

  The Count’s other ‘hare’ – Nadezhda Nikolayevna – enjoyed his undivided attention that evening. The whole time he buzzed around her, telling her anecdotes, joking and flirting, while she, pale and exhausted, twisted her mouth into an artificial smile. Kalinin the JP constantly watched them, stroked his beard and coughed meaningfully. The Count’s flirtation with his daughter was very much to his liking: a Count as son-in-law! What dream could be sweeter for a provincial bon vivant? From the moment the Count started courting his daughter, he had grown two feet in his own estimation. And with what imperious glances he sized me up, how spitefully he coughed when he talked to me! ‘You stood on ceremony and you deserted us,’ he said, ‘but we don’t give a damn! Now we have a Count!’