“Come here!” I said to the Count rudely, going up to him after dinner.
The Count looked at me with astonishment and followed me into the
empty room to which I led him.
“What do you want, my dear friend?” he asked as he unbuttoned his
waistcoat and hiccuped.
“Choose one of us. . . .” I said, scarcely able to stand on my feet
from the rage that had mastered me. “Either me or Pshekhotsky! If you
don't promise me that in an hour that scoundrel shall leave your
estate, I will never set my foot here again! . . . I give you half a
minute to make your choice!”
The Count dropped the cigar out of his mouth and spread his
arms. . . .
“What's the matter with you, Serezha?” he asked, opening his eyes
wide. “You look quite wild!”
“No useless words, if you please! I cannot endure that spy, scoundrel,
rogue, your friend Pshekhotsky, and in the name of our close
friendship I demand that he shall no longer be here, and instantly,
too!”
“But what has he done to you?” the Count asked, much agitated. “Why
are you attacking him?”
“I ask you again: me or him?”
“But, golubchik, you are placing me in a horribly awkward
position. . . . Stop! There's a feather on your dress coat! . . . You
are demanding the impossible from me!”
“Good-bye!” I said. “I am no longer acquainted with you.”
And turning sharply on my heel, I went into the anteroom, put on my
overcoat, and hastened out of the house. When crossing the garden
towards the servants' department, where I wanted to give the order to
have my horse put to, I was stopped. Coming towards me with a small
cup of coffee in her hand, I was met by Nadia Kalinin. She was also at
Urbenin's wedding, but a sort of undefined fear had forced me to avoid
speaking to her, and during the whole day I had not gone up to her,
nor said a word to her.
“Sergey Petrovich!” she said in an unnaturally deep voice when in
passing her I slightly raised my hat. “Stop!”
“What may your commands be?” I asked, as I came up to her.
“I have nothing to command. . . . Besides, you are no lackey,” she
said, gazing straight into my eyes and becoming terribly pale. “You
are hurrying somewhere, but if you have time might I detain you for a
moment?”
“Certainly! . . . I can't understand why you ask it? . . .”
“In that case let us sit down. . . . Sergey Petrovich,” she continued,
after we had seated ourselves. “All this day you have tried to avoid
seeing me, and have gone round me, as if you were afraid of meeting me
and as if on purpose, I had decided to speak to you. . . . I am proud
and egoistical. . . . I do not know how to obtrude myself . . . but
once in a lifetime one can sacrifice pride.”
“To what do you refer?”
“I had decided to ask you. . . . The question is humiliating, it is
difficult for me. . . . I don't know how I shall stand it. . . .
Answer me without looking at me. . . . Sergey Petrovich, is it
possible you are not sorry for me?”
Nadia looked at me and slightly shook her head. Her face became paler.
Her upper lip trembled and was drawn to one side.
“Sergey Petrovich! I always think that . . . you have been separated
from me by some misunderstanding, some caprice. . . . I think if we
had an explanation, all would go on as formerly. If I did not think
it, I would not have strength to put you the question you are about to
hear. Sergey Petrovich, I am unhappy. . . . You must see it. . . . My
life is no life. . . . All is dried up. . . . And chiefly . . . this
uncertainty . . . one does not know, whether to hope or not. . . .
Your conduct towards me is so incomprehensible that it is impossible
to arrive at any certain conclusion. . . . Tell me, and I shall know
what to do. . . . My life will then have an aim. . . . I shall then
decide on something.”
“Nadezhda Nikolaevna, you wish to ask me about something?” I said,
preparing in my mind an answer to the question I had a presentiment
was coming.
“Yes, I want to ask. . . . The question is humiliating. . . . If
anybody were listening to us they might think I was obtruding myself,
in a word,—was a sort of Pushkin's Tatiana. . . . But this question
has been tortured from me. . . .”
The question was really forced from her by torture. When Nadia turned
her face towards me to put that question, I became frightened: Nadia
trembled, pressed her fingers together convulsively, and pressed from
her lips with melancholy sadness the fatal words. Her pallor was
terrible.
“May I hope?” she whispered at last. “Do not be afraid to tell me
candidly. . . . Whatever the answer may be, it will be better than
uncertainty. What is it? May I hope?”
She waited for an answer, meanwhile the state of my soul was such that
I was incapable of making a sensible answer. Drunk, excited by the
occurrence in the grotto, enraged by Pshekhotsky's spying, and Olga's
indecision, and the stupid conversation I had had with the Count, I
scarcely heard Nadia.
“May I hope?” she repeated. “Answer me!”
“Ach, I can't answer now, Nadezhda Nikolaevna!” I said with a wave of
the hand as I rose, “I am incapable at the present moment of giving
any sort of answer. Forgive me, I neither heard nor understood you. I
am stupid and excited. . . . It's really a pity you took the trouble.”
I again waved my hand and left Nadia. It was only afterwards when I
became calm again, that I understood how stupid and cruel I had been
in not giving the girl an answer to her simple and ingenuous question.
Why did I not answer her?
Now when I can look back dispassionately at the past, I do not explain
my cruelty by the condition of my soul. It appears to me that in not
giving a straightforward answer I was coquetting and playing the fool.
It is difficult to understand the human soul, but it is still more
difficult to understand one's own soul. If I really was playing the
fool, may God forgive me! Although to make game of another's suffering
ought not to be forgiven.