An hour later we were all seated at long tables, dining.
To anybody who was accustomed to cobwebs, mildew and wild gipsy whoops
in the Count's apartments it must have seemed strange to look on the
workaday, prosaical crowd that now, by their habitual chatter, broke
the usual silence of the ancient and deserted halls. This many
coloured noisy throng looked like a flight of starlings which in
flying past had alighted to rest in a neglected churchyard or—may the
noble bird forgive me such a comparison!—a flight of storks that in
the twilight of one of their migratory days had settled down on the
ruins of a deserted castle.
I sat there hating that crowd which frivolously examined the decaying
wealth of the Counts Karnéev. The mosaic walls, the carved ceilings,
the rich Persian carpets and the rococo furniture excited enthusiasm
and astonishment. A self-satisfied smile never left the Count's
moustachioed face. He received the enthusiastic flattery of his guests
as something that he deserved, though in reality all the riches and
luxuries of his deserted mansion were not acquired in any way thanks
to him, but on the contrary, he merited the bitterest reproaches and
contempt for the barbarously dull indifference with which he treated
all the wealth, that had been collected by his fathers and
grandfathers, collected not in days, but in scores of years! It was
only the mentally blind or the poor of spirit who could not see in
every slab of damp marble, in every picture, in each dark corner of
the Count's garden, the sweat, the tears and the callosities on the
hands of the people whose children now swarmed in the little log huts
of the Count's miserable villages. . . . Among all those people seated
at the wedding feast, rich, independent people, people who might
easily have told him the plainest truths, there was not one who would
have told the Count that his self-satisfied grin was stupid and out of
place. . . . Everybody found it necessary to smile flatteringly and to
burn paltry incense before him. If this was ordinary politeness (with
us, many love to throw everything on politeness and propriety), I
would prefer the churl who eats with his hands, who takes the bread
from his neighbour's plate, and blows his nose between two fingers, to
these dandies.
Urbenin smiled, but he had his own reasons for this. He smiled
flatteringly, respectfully, and in a childlike, happy manner. His
broad smiles were the result of a sort of dog's happiness. A devoted
and loving dog, who had been fondled and petted, and now in sign of
gratitude wagged its tail gaily and with sincerity.
Like Risler Senior in Alphonse Daudet's novel, beaming and rubbing his
hands with delight, he gazed at his young wife, and from the
superabundance of his feelings could not refrain from asking question
after question:
“Who could have thought that this young beauty would fall in love with
an old man like myself? Is it possible she could not find anybody
younger and more elegant? Women's hearts are incomprehensible!”
He even had the courage to turn to me and blurt out:
“When one looks around, what an age this is we live in! He, he! When
an old man can carry off such a fairy from under the nose of youth!
Where have you all had your eyes? He, he. . . . Young men are not what
they used to be!”
Not knowing what to do or how to express the feelings of gratitude
that were overflowing in his broad breast, he was constantly jumping
up, stretching out his glass towards the Count's glass and saying in a
voice that trembled with emotion:
“Your Excellency, my feelings toward you are well known. This day you
have done so much for me that my affection for you appears like
nothing. How have I merited such a great favour, your Excellency, or
that you should take such an interest in my joy? It is only Counts and
bankers who celebrate their weddings in such a way! What luxury, what
an assembly of notable guests! . . . Oh, what can I say! . . . Believe
me, your Excellency, I shall never forget you, as I shall never forget
this best and happiest day of my life.”
And so on. . . . Olenka was evidently not pleased with her husband's
florid respectfulness. One could see she was annoyed at his speeches,
that raised smiles on the faces of the guests and even caused them to
feel ashamed for him. Notwithstanding the glass of champagne she had
drunk, she was still not gay, and morose as before. . . . She was as
pale as she had been in church, and the same look of dread was in her
eyes. . . . She was silent, she answered lazily to all the questions
that were asked, scarcely smiled at the Count's witticisms, and she
hardly touched the expensive dishes. . . . In proportion as Urbenin
became slightly intoxicated and thought himself the happiest of
mortals, her pretty face appeared more and more unhappy. It made me
sorrowful to look at her, and in order not to look at her face I tried
not to lift my eyes off my plate.
How could her sadness be explained? Was not regret beginning to gnaw
at the poor girl's heart? Or perhaps her vanity had expected even
greater pomp?
During the second course when I lifted my eyes and looked at her, I
was painfully struck by her expression. The poor girl in trying to
answer some of the Count's silly remarks, was making strenuous efforts
to swallow something; sobs were welling up in her throat. She did not
remove her handkerchief from her mouth, and looked at us timidly, like
a frightened little animal, to see if we did not notice that she
wanted to cry.
“Why are you looking so glum to-day?” the Count asked. “Oh, ho! Pëtr
Egorych, it's your fault! Have the goodness to cheer your wife up!
Ladies and gentlemen, I demand a kiss! Ha, ha! . . . The kiss I demand
is, of course, not for me, but only . . . that they should kiss each
other! Bitter!”
“Bitter!” echoed Kalinin.
Urbenin, smiling all over his red face, rose and began to blink.
Olenka forced by the calls and the demands of the guests, rose
slightly and offered her motionless, lifeless lips to Urbenin. He
kissed her. . . . Olenka pressed her lips together as if she feared
they would be kissed another time, and glanced at me. . . . Probably
my look was an evil one. Catching my eye, she suddenly blushed, and
taking up her handkerchief, she began to blow her nose, trying in that
way to hide her terrible confusion. . . . The thought entered my mind
that she was ashamed before me, ashamed of that kiss, ashamed of her
marriage.
“What have I to do with you?” I thought, but at the same time I did
not remove my eyes from her face, trying to discover the cause of her
confusion.
The poor little thing could not stand my gaze. It is true the blush of
shame soon left her face, but in place of it tears began to rise up in
her eyes, real tears such as I had never before seen on her face.
Pressing her handkerchief to her face, she rose and rushed out of the
dining-room.
“Olga Nikolaevna has a bad headache,” I hastened to say in order to
explain her departure. “Already this morning she complained of her
head. . . .”
“Not at all, brother,” the Count said jokingly. “A headache has
nothing to do with it. It's all caused by the kiss, it has confused
her. Ladies and gentlemen, I announce a severe reprimand for the
bridegroom! He has not taught his bride how to kiss! Ha, ha, ha!”
The guests, delighted with the Count's wit, began to laugh. . . . But
they ought not to have laughed. . . .
Five minutes passed, ten minutes passed, and the bride did not
return. . . . A silence fell on the party. . . . Even the Count ceased
joking. . . . Olenka's absence was all the more striking as she had
left suddenly without saying a word. . . . To say nothing about
etiquette, which had received a shock first of all, Olenka had left
the table immediately after the kiss, so it was evident she was cross
at having been forced to kiss her husband. . . . It was impossible to
suppose she had gone away because she was confused. . . . One can be
confused for a minute, for two, but not for an eternity, as the first
ten minutes of her absence appeared to us all. What a number of evil
thoughts entered into the half tipsy minds of the men, what scandals
were being prepared by the charming ladies! The bride had risen and
left the table! What an effective and scenic point for a drama in the
provincial “fashionable world”!
Urbenin began to be uneasy and looked round.
“Nerves. . . .” he muttered. “Or perhaps something has gone wrong with
her toilet. . . . Who can account for anything with these women?
She'll come back directly—this very minute.”
But when another ten minutes had passed and she had not appeared, he
looked at me with such unhappy, imploring eyes that I was sorry for
him.
“Would it matter if I went to look for her?” his eyes asked. “Won't
you help me, golubchik, to get out of this horrible position? Of all
here you are the cleverest, the boldest, the most ready-witted man. Do
help me!”
I saw the entreaty in his unhappy eyes and decided to help him. How I
helped him the reader will see farther on. . . . I will only say that
the bear who assisted the hermit in Krylov's fable loses all its
animal majesty, becomes pale, and turns into an innocent infusoria
when I think of myself in the part of the “obliging fool.” . . . The
resemblance between me and the bear consists only in this that we both
went to help quite sincerely without foreseeing any bad consequences
from our help, but the difference between us is enormous. . . . The
stone with which I struck Urbenin's forehead was many times more
weighty. . . .
“Where is Olga Nikolaevna?” I asked the lackey who had brought round
the salad.
“She went into the garden, sir,” he replied.
“This is becoming quite impossible, mesdames!” I said in a jocular
tone, addressing myself to the ladies. “The bride has gone away and my
wine has become quite sour! . . . I must go to look for her and bring
her back, even if all her teeth were aching! The best man is an
official personage, and he is going to show his authority!”
I rose, amid the loud applause of my friend the Count, left the
dining-room and went into the garden. The hot rays of the midday sun
poured straight upon my head, which was already excited by wine.
Suffocating heat and sultriness seemed to strike me in the face. I
went along one of the side avenues at a venture, and, whistling some
sort of melody, I gave full scope to my capacities as an ordinary
detective. I examined all the bushes, summer-houses and caves, and
when I began to be tormented by the regret that I had turned to the
right instead of to the left, I suddenly heard a strange sound.
Somebody was laughing or crying. The sounds issued from one of the
grottoes that I had left to examine last of all. Quickly entering it,
I found the object of my search enveloped in dampness, the smell of
mildew, mushrooms, and lime.
She stood there leaning against a wooden column that was covered with
black moss, and lifting her eyes full of horror and despair on me, she
tore at her hair. Tears poured from her eyes as from a sponge that is
pressed.
“What have I done? What have I done?” she muttered.
“Yes, Olia, what have you done?” I said, standing before her with
folded arms.
“Why did I marry him? Where were my eyes? Where was my sense?”
“Yes, Olia. . . . It is difficult to explain your action. To explain
it by inexperience is too indulgent; to explain it by depravity—I
would rather not. . . .”
“I only understood it to-day . . . only to-day! Why did I not
understand it yesterday? Now all is irrevocable, all is lost! All,
all! I might have married the man I love, the man who loves me!”
“Who is that, Olia?” I asked.
“You!” she said, looking me straight and openly in the eyes. “But I
was too hasty! I was foolish! You are clever, noble, young. . . . You
are rich! You appeared to me unattainable!”
“Well, that's enough, Olia,” I said, taking her by the hand. “Wipe
your little eyes and come along. . . . They are waiting for you
there. . . . Well, don't cry any more, don't cry. . . .” I kissed her
hand. . . . “That's enough, little girl! You have done a foolish thing
and are now paying for it. . . . It was your fault. . . . Well, that's
enough, be calm. . . .”
“But you love me? Yes? You are so big, so handsome! Don't you love
me?”
“It's time to go, my darling. . . .” I said, noticing to my great
horror that I was kissing her forehead, taking her round the waist,
that she was scorching me with her hot breath and that she was hanging
round my neck.
“Enough!” I mumbled. “That must satisfy you!”
Five minutes later, when I carried her out of the grotto in my arms
and troubled by new impressions put her on her feet, I saw Pshekhotsky
standing almost at the entrance. . . . He stood there, looking at me
maliciously and applauding silently. . . . I measured him with my
glance, and giving Olga my arm, walked off towards the house.
“We'll see the last of you here to-day,” I said, looking back at
Pshekhotsky. “You will have to pay for this spying!”
My kisses had probably been ardent because Olga's face was burning as
if ablaze. There were no traces of the recently shed tears to be seen
on it.
“Now, as the saying is, the ocean is but knee-deep for me,” she
murmured as we went together towards the house and she pressed my
elbow convulsively. “This morning I did not know where to hide myself
from terror, and now . . . now, my good giant, I don't know what to
do from happiness! My husband is sitting and waiting for me
there. . . . Ha, ha! . . . What's that to me? If he were even a
crocodile, a terrible serpent . . . I'm afraid of nothing! I love
you, and that's all I want to know!”
I looked at her face, radiant with happiness, at her eyes, brim full
of joyful, satisfied love, and my heart sank with fear for the future
of this pretty and happy creature: her love for me was but an extra
impulse towards the abyss. . . . How will this laughing woman with no
thought for the future end? . . . My heart misgave me and sank with a
feeling that cannot be called either pity or sympathy, because it was
stronger than these feelings. I stopped and laid my hand on Olga's
shoulder. . . . I had never before seen anything more beautiful,
graceful and at the same time more pitiful. . . . There was no time
for reasoning, deliberation or thought, and, carried away by my
feelings, I exclaimed:
“Olga, come home with me at once! This instant!”
“How? What did you say?” she asked, unable to understand my somewhat
solemn tone.
“Let us drive to my house immediately!”
Olga smiled and pointed to the house. . . .
“Well, and what of that?” I said. “Isn't it all the same if I take you
to-morrow or to-day? But the sooner the better. . . . Come!”
“But . . . that's somehow strange——”
“Girl, you're afraid of the scandal? Yes, there'll be an unusual, a
grandiose scandal, but a thousand scandals are better than that you
should remain here! I won't leave you here! I can't leave you here!
Olga, do you understand? Cast aside your faint-heartedness, your
womanly logic, and obey me! Obey me if you do not desire your own
ruin!”
Olga's eyes said that she did not understand me. . . . Meanwhile time
did not stop but went its course, and it was impossible for us to
remain standing in the avenue while they were expecting us _there_. We
had to decide. . . . I pressed to my heart “the girl in red,” who
actually was my wife now, and at that moment it appeared to me that I
really loved her. . . . loved her with a husband's love, that she was
mine, and that her fate rested on my conscience. . . . I saw that I
was united with this creature for ever, irrevocably.
“Listen, my darling, my treasure!” I said. “It's a bold step. . . . It
will separate us from our nearest friends; it will call down upon our
heads a thousand reproaches and tearful lamentations. Perhaps it will
even spoil my career; it will cause me a thousand unsurmountable
unpleasantnesses, but, my darling, it is settled! You will be my
wife! . . . I want no better wife. God preserve me from all other
women! I will make you happy; I will take care of you like the apple
of my eye, as long as I live; I will educate you—make a woman of you!
I promise you this, and here is my honest hand on it!”
I spoke with sincere passion, with feeling, like a stage lover acting
the most pathetic scene of his part. I spoke very well, I seemed to be
inspired by the touch of an eagle's wing that was soaring over our
heads. My Olia took my outstretched hand, held it in her own small
hands, and kissed it tenderly. But this was not a sign of assent. On
the silly little face of an inexperienced woman who had never before
heard such speech, there appeared a look of perplexity. . . . She
still could not understand me.
“You say I am to go to you?” she said reflectively. “I don't quite
understand you. . . . Don't you know what _he_ would say?”
“What have you to do with what he would say?”
“How so? No, Serezha! Better say no more. . . . Please leave that
alone. . . . You love me, and I want nothing more. With your love I'm
ready to go to hell.”
“But, little fool, how will you manage it?”
“I shall live here, and you—why you will come every day. . . . I will
come to meet you.”
“But I can't imagine such a life for you without a shudder! At
night—he; in the day—I. . . . No, that is impossible! Olia, I love you
so much at the present moment that . . . I am madly jealous. . . . I
never suspected I had the capacity for such feelings.”
But what imprudence! I had my arm round her waist, and she was
stroking my hand tenderly at the time when at any moment one could
expect somebody would be passing down the avenue and might see us.
“Come,” I said, removing my arm. “Put on your cloak and let us be
off!”
“How quickly you want to do things,” she murmured in a tearful voice.
“You hurry as if to a fire. And God only knows what you have invented!
To run away immediately after the marriage! What will people say?”
And Olenka shrugged her shoulders. Her face wore such a look of
perplexity, astonishment and incomprehension that I only waved my hand
and postponed settling her “life questions” to another moment.
Besides, there was no time to continue our conversation: we were going
up the stone stairs that led to the terrace and heard the sound of
voices. At the dining-room door Olia arranged her hair, saw that her
dress was in order, and went into the room. No signs of confusion
could be noticed on he face. She entered the room much more boldly
than I had expected.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have brought back the fugitive,” I said as I
sat down in my place. “I found her with difficulty. . . . I'm quite
tired out by this search. I went into the garden, I looked around, and
there she was walking about in the avenue. . . . ‘Why are you here?’ I
asked her. ‘Just so,’ she answered. ‘It's so stuffy.’”
Olia looked at me, at the guests, at her husband, and began to laugh.
Something amused her, and she became gay. I read on her face the wish
to share with all that crowd of diners the sudden happiness that she
had experienced; and not being able to give expression to it in words,
she poured it out in her laughter.
“What a funny person I am!” she said. “I am laughing, and I don't know
why I am laughing. . . . Count, laugh!”
“Bitter,” cried Kalinin.
Urbenin coughed and looked inquiringly at Olia.
“Well?” she said, with a momentary frown.
“They are calling out ‘bitter,’” Urbenin smiled, and rising, he wiped
his lips with his napkin.
Olga rose too and allowed him to kiss her immovable lips. . . . The
kiss was a cold one, but it served to increase the fire that was
smouldering in my breast and threatened every moment to burst into
flame. . . . I turned away and with compressed lips awaited the end of
the dinner. . . . Fortunately the end was soon reached, otherwise I
would not have been able to endure it.