The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov. Anton Chekhov
did you say? What did you say?’ I shouted.
‘None so deaf as those who will not hear!’
‘Oh, ho! You dare to be impudent!’ I thundered and poured out all my bile on my poor lackey. ‘Get out! Let me see no more of you, scoundrel! Out with you!’
And without waiting for my man to leave the room, I fell on the bed and began to sob like a boy. My overstrained nerves could bear no more. Powerless wrath, wounded feelings, jealousy — all found vent in one way or another.
‘The husband killed his wife!’ squalled my parrot, raising his yellow feathers.
Under the influence of this cry the thought entered my head that Urbenin might really kill his wife.
Falling asleep, I dreamed of murders. My nightmare was suffocating and painful… It appeared to me that my hands were stroking something cold, and I had only to open my eyes to see a corpse. I dreamed that Urbenin was standing at the head of my bed, looking at me with imploring eyes.
CHAPTER XIX
After the night that is described above a calm set in. I remained at home, only allowing myself to leave the house or ride about on business. Heaps of work had accumulated, so it was impossible for me to be idle. From morning till night I sat at my writing-table scribbling, or examining people who had fallen into my magisterial claws. I was no longer drawn to Karnéevka, the Count’s estate.
I thought no more of Olga. That which falls from the load is lost; and she it was who had fallen from my load and was, as I thought, irrecoverably lost. I thought no more about her and did not want to think about her.
‘Silly, vicious trash!’ I said to myself whenever her memory arose in my mind in the midst of my strenuous labours.
Occasionally, however, when I lay down to sleep or when I awoke in the morning, I remembered various moments of our acquaintance, and the short connection I had had with Olga. I remembered the ‘Stone Grave’, the little house in the wood in which ‘the girl in red’ lived, the road to Tenevo, the meeting in the grotto… and my heart began to beat faster… I experienced bitter heartache… But it was not for long. The bright memories were soon obliterated under the weight of the gloomy ones. What poetry of the past could withstand the filth of the present? And now, when I had finished with Olga, I looked upon this ‘poetry’ quite differently… Now I looked upon it as an optical illusion, a lie, hypocrisy… and it lost half its charm in my eyes.
The Count had become quite repugnant to me. I was glad not to see him, and I was always angry when his moustachioed face returned vaguely to my mind. Every day he sent me letters in which he implored me not to sulk but to come to see the no longer ‘solitary hermit’. Had I listened to his letters, I would have been doing a displeasure to myself.
‘It’s finished!’ I thought. ‘Thank God! It bored me…’ I decided to break off all connection with the Count, and this decision did not cost me the slightest struggle. Now I was not at all the same man that I had been three weeks before, when after the quarrel about Pshekhotsky I could scarcely bring myself to stay at home. There was no attraction now.
Staying always at home at last seemed unendurable, and I wrote to Doctor Pavel Ivanovich, asking him to come and have a chat. For some reason I received no reply to this letter, so I wrote another. But the second received the same answer as the first. Evidently dear ‘Screw’ was pretending to be angry… The poor fellow, having received a refusal from Nadenka Kalinin, looked upon me as the cause of his misfortune. He had the right to be angry, and if he had never been angry before it was merely because he did not know how to.
‘When did he have time to learn?’ I thought, being perplexed at not receiving answers to my letters.
In the third week of obstinate seclusion in my own house the Count paid me a visit. Having scolded me for not riding over to see him nor sending him answers to his letters, he stretched himself out on the sofa and before he began to snore he spoke on his favourite theme - women.
I understand,’ he began languidly, screwing up his eyes and placing his hands under his head, ‘that you are delicate and susceptible. You don’t come to me from fear of breaking into our duet… interfering… An unwelcome guest is worse than a Tartar, a guest during the honeymoon is worse than a horned devil. I understand you. But, my dear friend, you forget that you are a friend and not a guest, that you are loved, esteemed. By your presence you would only complete the harmony… And what harmony, my dear brother! A harmony that I am unable to describe to you!’
The Count pulled his hands out from under his head and began to wave them about.
I myself am unable to understand if I am living happily or not. The devil himself wouldn’t be able to understand it. There are certainly moments when one would give half one’s life for an encore, but on the other hand there are days when one paces the rooms from corner to corner, as if beside oneself and ready to cry…
‘For what reason?’
‘Brother, I can’t understand that Olga. She’s like an ague not a woman. With the ague one has either fever or shivering fits. That’s how she is; five changes every day. She is either gay or so lifeless that she is choking back tears and praying… Sometimes she loves me, sometimes she doesn’t. There are moments when she caresses me as no woman has ever caressed me in my whole life. But sometimes it is like this: You awake unexpectedly, you open your eyes, and you see a face turned on you… such a terrible, such a savage face… a face that is all distorted with malignancy and aversion… When one sees such a thing all the enchantment vanishes… And she often looks at me in that way…’
‘With aversion?’
‘Well, yes! I can’t understand it… She swears that she came to me only for love, and still hardly a night passes that I do not see that face. How is it to be explained? I begin to think, though of course I don’t want to believe it, that she can’t bear me and has given herself to me for those rags which I buy for her now. She’s terribly fond of rags! She’s capable of standing before the mirror from morning to evening in a new frock; she is capable of crying for days and nights about a spoilt flounce… She’s terribly vain! What chiefly pleases her in me is that I’m a Count. She would never have loved me had I not been a Count. Never a dinner or supper passes that she does not reproach me with tears in her eyes, for not surrounding myself with aristocratic society. You see, she would like to reign in that society… A strange girl!’
The Count fixed his dim eyes on the ceiling and became pensive. I noticed, to my great astonishment, that this time, as an exception, he was sober. This struck and even touched me.
‘You are quite normal today,’ I said. ‘You are not drunk, and you don’t ask for vodka. What’s the meaning of this transformation?’
‘Yes, so it is! I had no time to drink, I’ve been thinking… I must tell you, Serezha, I’m seriously in love; it’s no joke. I am terribly fond of her. It’s quite natural, too… She’s a rare woman, not of the ordinary sort, to say nothing of her appearance. Not much intellect, to be sure, but what feeling, elegance, freshness! She can’t be compared with my former Amalias, Angelicas, and Grushas, whose love I have enjoyed till now. She’s something from another world, a world I do not know.’
‘Philosophizing!’ I laughed.
‘I’m captivated, I’ve almost fallen in love! But now I see the square of nought is nought. Her behaviour - she wore a mask that deceived me. The pink cheeks of innocence proved to be rouge, the kiss of love - the request to buy a new frock… I took her into my house like a wife, and she behaves like a mistress who is paid in cash. But it’s enough now. I am keeping a check on my soul’s aspirations, and beginning to see Olga as a mistress… Enough!’
‘Well, why not? How about the husband?’
‘The husband?