Then I went to the Count's study, and as I passed through a whole
suite of dark, unlighted rooms, I looked into one of the numerous
doors. I saw a touching picture. At a table near a boiling samovar
Zosia and her brother Pshekhotsky were seated. . . . Zosia, dressed in
a light blouse but still wearing the same bracelets and rings, was
smelling at a scent bottle and sipping tea from her cup with
fastidious languor. Her eyes were red with weeping. . . . Probably the
occurrences at the shooting party had shaken her nerves very much, and
had spoilt her frame of mind for a long time to come. Pshekhotsky,
with his usual wooden face, was lapping up his tea in large gulps from
the saucer and saying something to his sister. To judge from the
mentor-like expression of his face, he was trying to calm her and
persuade her not to cry.
I naturally found the Count with entirely shattered nerves. This puny
and flabby man looked thinner and more fallen in than ever. . . . He
was pale, and his lips trembled as if with ague. His head was tied up
in a white pocket-handkerchief, which exhaled a strong odour of
vinegar that filled the whole room. When I entered the room he jumped
up from the sofa, on which he was lying, and rushed towards me wrapped
up in the folds of his dressing-gown.
“Oh! oh!” he began, trembling and in a choking voice. “Well?”
And uttering some inarticulate sounds, he pulled me by the sleeve to
the sofa and, waiting till I was seated, he pressed against me like a
frightened dog and began to pour out all his grievances.
“Who could have expected it? Eh? Wait a moment, golubchik, I'll cover
myself up with the plaid. . . . I have fever. . . . Murdered, poor
thing! And how brutally murdered! She's still alive, but the village
doctor says she'll die this night. . . . A terrible day! . . . She
arrived without rhyme or reason, that . . . wife of mine . . . may
the devil take her! . . . That was my most unfortunate mistake,
Serezha; I was married in Petersburg when drunk. I hid it from you. I
was ashamed of it, but there—she has arrived, and you can see her for
yourself. . . . Look and be punished. . . . Oh, the accursed weakness!
Under the influence of the moment and vodka, I'm capable of doing
anything you like! The arrival of my wife is the first present, the
scandal with Olga the second. . . . I'm expecting a third. . . . I
know what will happen next. . . . I know! I'll go mad! . . .”
Having drunk three glasses of vodka and called himself an ass, a
scoundrel and a drunkard, the Count began in a whimpering voice and a
confused manner to describe the drama that had taken place at the
shooting party. . . . What he told me was approximately the following:
About twenty or thirty minutes after I had left, when the astonishment
at Zosia's arrival had somewhat subsided, and when Zosia herself,
having made acquaintance with the guests, began to play the part of
hostess, the company suddenly heard a piercing, heartrending shriek.
This shriek came from the forest and was repeated four times. It was
so extraordinary that the people who heard it sprang to their feet,
the dogs began to bark, and the horses pricked up their ears. The
shriek was unnatural, but the Count was able to recognize in it a
woman's voice. . . . There were notes of despair and terror in
it. . . .
Women must shriek in that way when they see a ghost, or at the sudden
death of a child. . . . The alarmed guests looked at the Count; the
Count looked at them. . . . For about three minutes there was the
silence of the grave.
While the ladies and gentlemen looked at each other, the coachmen and
lackeys rushed towards the place from which the cry had come. The
first messenger of grief was the old manservant, Il'ya. He ran back to
the clearing from the forest, with a pale face, dilated pupils, and
wanted to say something, but breathlessness and excitement prevented
him from speaking. At last, overcoming his agitation, he crossed
himself and said:
“The missis has been murdered!”
“What missis? Who had murdered her?”
But Il'ya made no reply to these questions. . . . The part of the
second messenger fell to the lot of a man who was not expected and
whose appearance caused general surprise. Both the sudden appearance
and the look of this man were astonishing. . . . When the Count saw
him, and remembered that Olga was walking about in the forest, his
heart sank, and from a terrible presentiment his legs gave way under
him.
It was Pëtr Egorych Urbenin, the Count's former bailiff and Olga's
husband. At first the company heard heavy footsteps and the cracking
of brushwood. . . . It seemed as if a bear was making his way from the
forest to the clearing. Then the heavy form of unfortunate Pëtr
Egorych came in sight. When he came out of the forest and saw the
company assembled on the clearing, he stepped back and stopped as if
he were rooted to the ground. For about two minutes he remained silent
and motionless, and in this way gave the people time to examine him
properly. He had his usual grey jacket on and trousers that were
already well worn. He was without a hat, and his matted hair stuck to
his sweaty brow and temples. . . . His face, which was usually purple
and often almost blue, was now quite pale. . . . His eyes looked
around senselessly, staring wildly. . . . His hands and lips
trembled. . . .
But what was the most astonishing and what instantly attracted the
attention of the stupefied spectators were his blood-stained
hands. . . . Both his hands and shirt cuffs were thickly covered with
blood, as if they had been washed in a bath of blood.
Three minutes Urbenin remained dumbfounded, and then, as if awakening
from a dream, he sat down on the grass cross-legged and groaned. The
dogs, scenting something unwonted, surrounded him and raised a
bark. . . . Having glanced round the assembled company with dim eyes,
Urbenin covered his face with both hands and again there was
silence. . . .
“Olga, Olga, what have you done!” he groaned.
Heartrending sobs were torn from his breast and shook his broad
shoulders. . . . When he removed the hands from his face the whole
company saw the marks of blood that they had left on his cheeks and
forehead.
When he got to this place the Count waved his hands convulsively,
seized a glass of vodka, drank it off, and continued:
“From that point my recollections become mixed. You can well
understand all these events had so stunned me that I had lost the
power of thinking. . . . I can remember nothing that happened
afterwards! I only remember that the men brought some sort of a body
in a torn, blood-stained dress out of the wood. . . . I could not look
at it! They put it into a calash and drove off. . . . I did not hear
either groans or weeping. . . . They say that the small dagger which
she always carried about with her had been thrust into her side. . . .
You remember it? I had given it to her. It was a blunt dagger—blunter
than the edge of this glass. . . . What strength was necessary to
plunge it in! Brother, I liked Caucasian arms, but now may the deuce
take all those arms! To-morrow I will order them all to be thrown
away.”
The Count drank another glass of vodka and continued:
“But what a shame! What an abomination! We brought her to the
house. . . . You can understand our despair, our horror, when
suddenly, may the devil take all the gipsies, we heard gay
singing! . . . They were all ranged in a row, singing at the top of
their voices! . . . You see, they wanted to receive us with chic, but
it turned out quite misplaced. . . . It was like Ivanushka-the-fool,
who, meeting a funeral, became excited and shouted: ‘Pull away, you
can't pull it over!’ Yes, brother! I wanted to entertain my guests and
had ordered the gipsies, and what a muddle came of it! Not gipsies
ought to have been sent for but doctors and priests. And now I don't
know what to do! What am I to do? I don't know any of these
formalities and customs. I don't know whom to call in, for whom to
send. . . . Perhaps the police ought to come, the Public
Prosecutor. . . . How the devil can I know? Thank goodness, Father
Jeremiah, having heard about the scandal, came to give her the
Communion. I should never have thought of sending for him. I implore
you, dear friend, make all the necessary arrangements! By God, I'm
going mad! The arrival of my wife, the murder . . . Brrr! . . . Where
is my wife now? Have you seen her?”
“I've seen her. She's drinking tea with Pshekhotsky.”
“With her brother, you say. . . . Pshekhotsky, he's a rogue! When I
ran away from Petersburg secretly, he found out about my flight and
has stuck to me. What an amount of money he has been able to squeeze
out of me during the whole of this time no one can calculate!”