The Count's “secret” could not have enraged me so greatly. I had
nothing to do with the Count, nor with the marriage, which he had
concealed from me.
It only remains to explain the condition of my soul at that time by
fatigue and nervous derangement. That is the only explanation I can
find.
When Polycarp left the room I covered myself up to the head and wanted
to sleep. It was dark and quiet. The parrot moved about restlessly in
its cage, and the regular ticking of the hanging clock in Polycarp's
room could be heard through the wall. Peace and quiet reigned
everywhere else. Physical and moral exhaustion overpowered me, and I
began to doze. . . . I felt that a certain weight gradually fell from
me, and hateful images melted into mist. . . . I remember I even began
to dream. I dreamed that on a bright winter morning I was walking in
the Nevsky of Petersburg, and, having nothing to do, looked into the
shop windows. My heart was light and gay. . . . I had not to hurry
anywhere. I had nothing to do, I was absolutely free. The
consciousness that I was far from my village, far from the Count's
estate and from the cold and sullen lake, made me feel all the more
peaceful and gay. I stopped before one of the largest windows and
began to examine ladies' hats. The hats were familiar to me. . . . I
had seen Olga in one of them, Nadia in another; a third I had seen on
the day of the shooting party on the fair-haired head of that Zosia,
who had arrived so unexpectedly. . . . Familiar faces smiled at me
under the hats. . . . When I wanted to say something to them they all
three blended together into one large red face. This face moved its
eyes angrily and stuck out its tongue. . . . Somebody pressed my neck
from behind. . . .
“The husband killed his wife!” the red face shouted.
I shuddered, cried out, and jumped out of my bed as if I had been
stung. I had terrible palpitations of the heart, a cold sweat came out
on my brow.
“The husband killed his wife!” the parrot repeated again. “Give me
some sugar! How stupid you are! Fool!”
“It was only the parrot,” I said to calm myself as I got into bed
again. “Thank God!”
I heard a monotonous murmur. . . . It was the rain pattering on the
roof. . . . The clouds I had seen when walking on the banks of the
lake had now covered the whole sky. There were slight flashes of
lightning that lighted up the portrait of the late Pospelov. . . . The
thunder rumbled just over my bed. . . .
“The last thunderstorm of this summer,” I thought.
I remembered one of the first storms. . . . Just the same sort of
thunder had rumbled overhead in the forest the first time I was in the
forester's house. . . . The “girl in red” and I were standing at the
window then, looking out at the pine trees that were illuminated by
the lightning. Dread shone in the eyes of that beautiful creature. She
told me her mother had been killed by lightning, and that she herself
was thirsting for an effective death. . . . She wanted to be dressed
like the richest lady of the district. She understood that luxurious
dress suited her beauty. And, conscious of her vain majesty, she
wanted to mount to the top of the “Stone Grave” and there meet an
effective death.