is terribly dry!’
I ordered vodka to be served. The Count drank two glasses, sprawled himself out on the sofa, and began to chatter.
‘I say, brother, I just met Olia… A fine girl! I must tell you, I’m beginning to detest Urbenin… That means that Olenka is beginning to please me… She’s devilish pretty! I’m thinking of making up to her.’
‘One ought not to touch the married ones!’ I said with a sigh.
‘Come now, he’s an old man… It’s no sin to cheat Pëtr Egorych out of his wife… She’s no mate for him… He’s like a dog; he can’t eat it himself and won’t let others have it… I’m going to begin my siege today; I’ll begin systematically… She’s such a sweet little duck - h’m! - quite chic, brother! One licks one’s chops!’
The Count drank a third glass and continued:
‘Of the girls here, do you know who else pleases me? Nadenka, that fool Kalinin’s daughter… A burning brunette, you know the sort, pale, with wonderful eyes… I must also cast my line there… I’m giving a party at Whitsuntide, a musical, vocal, literary evening on purpose to invite her… As it turns out, it’s not so bad here; quite jolly! There’s society, and women… and… May I have forty winks here… only a moment?’
‘You may… But how about Pshekhotsky in the carriage?’
‘He may wait, the devil take him! Brother, I myself don’t like him.’
The Count raised himself on his elbow and said mysteriously:
‘I keep him only from necessity… because I must… May the devil take him!’
The Count’s elbow gave way, his head sank on the cushion. A minute later snores were heard.
In the evening after the Count had left, I had another visitor; the doctor, Pavel Ivanovich. He came to inform me of Nadezhda Nikolaevna’s illness and also that she had definitely refused him her hand. The poor fellow was downhearted and went about like a drenched hen.
CHAPTER XVII
The poetical month of May had passed…
The lilacs and tulips were over, and fate decreed that with them the ecstasies of love, which, notwithstanding their guiltiness and painfulness, had yet occasionally afforded us sweet moments that can never be effaced from our memory, should likewise wither. There are moments for which one would give months, yea, even years!
On a June evening when the sun was already set, but its broad track in purple and gold still glowed in the distant West, foretelling a calm and clear day for the morrow, I rode on Zorka up to the house where Urbenin lived. On that evening the Count was giving a musical party. The guests were already arriving, but the Count was not at home; he had gone for a ride and had left word he would return soon.
A little later I was standing at the porch, holding my horse by the bridle and chatting with Urbenin’s little daughter, Sasha. Urbenin himself was sitting on the steps with his head supported on his fists, looking into the distance, which could be seen through the open gates. He was gloomy and answered my questions reluctantly. I left him in peace and occupied myself with Sasha.
‘Where is your new mama?’ I asked her.
‘She has gone riding with the Count. She rides with him every day.’
‘Every day!’ Urbenin grumbled with a sigh.
Much could be heard in that sigh. The same feelings could be heard in it that were agitating my soul and that I was trying to explain to myself, but was unable to do so, and therefore became lost in conjecture.
Every day Olga went out for rides with the Count. But that was a trifle. Olga could not fall in love with the Count, and Urbenin’s jealousy was groundless. We ought not to have been jealous of the Count, but of something else which, however, I could not understand for a long time. This ‘something else’ built up a whole wall between Olga and me. She continued to love me, but after the visit which has been described in the last chapter, she had not been to my house more than twice, and when we met in other places she flared up in a strange way and obstinately refused to answer my questions. She returned my caresses with passion, but her movements were sudden and startled, so that our short rendezvous only left a feeling of painful perplexity in my mind. Her conscience was not clean; this was clear, but what was the real cause? Nothing could be read on Olga’s guilty face.
‘I hope your new mama is well?’ I asked Sasha.
‘She’s quite well. Only in the night she had toothache. She cried.’
‘She cried,’ Urbenin repeated, looking at Sasha. ‘Did you see it? My darling, you only dreamed it.’
Olga had not had toothache. If she had cried it was not with pain, but for something else… I wanted to continue talking to Sasha, but I did not succeed in this, as at that moment the noise of horses’ hoofs was heard and we soon saw the riders — a man inelegantly jumping about in his saddle, and a graceful lady rider. In order to hide my joy from Olga, I took Sasha into my arms and, smoothing her fair hair with my hand, I kissed her on the forehead.
‘Sasha, how pretty you are!’ I said. ‘And what nice curls you have!’
Olga cast a rapid glance at me, returned my bow in silence, and leaning on the Count’s arm, entered the house. Urbenin rose and followed her.
Five minutes later the Count came out of the house. He was gay. I had never seen him so gay before. Even his face had a fresher look.
‘Congratulate me,’ he said, giggling, as he took my arm.
‘What on?’
‘On my conquest… One more ride like this, and I swear by the ashes of my noble ancestors I shall tear the petals from this flower.’
‘You have not torn them off yet?’
‘As yet?… Almost! During ten minutes, “Thy hand in my hand,” ‘ the Count sang, ‘and… not once did she draw it away… I kissed it! Wait for tomorrow. Now let us go. They are expecting me. Oh, by-the-by, golubchek, I want to talk to you about something. Tell me, old man, is it true what people say - that you are… that you entertain evil intentions with regard to Nadenka Kalinin?’
‘Why?’
‘If that were true, I won’t come in your way. It’s not in my principles to put a spoke in another’s wheels. If, however, you have no sort of intentions, then of course—’
‘I have none.’
‘Merci, my soul!’
The Count thought of killing two hares at the same time, and was firmly convinced that he would succeed. On the evening I am describing I watched the chase of these two hares. The chase was stupid and as comical as a good caricature. When watching it one could only laugh or be revolted at the Count’s vulgarity, but nobody could have thought that this schoolboy chase would end with the moral fall of some, the ruin and the crimes of others!
The Count not only killed two hares, but more! He killed them, but he did not get their skins and their flesh.
I saw him secretly press Olga’s hand, who received him each time with a friendly smile and looked after him with a contemptuous grimace. Once, evidently wishing to show that there were no secrets between us, he even kissed her hand in my presence.
‘What a blockhead!’ she whispered into my ear, and wiped her hand.
‘I say, Olga,’ I asked, when the Count had gone away, ‘I think there is something you want to tell me. What is it?’
I looked searchingly into her face. She blushed scarlet and began to blink in a frightened manner, like a cat who has been caught stealing.