At the gate Vera glanced back at him for an instant, wrapped her shawl more tightly around her hunched shoulders and hurried down the path.
Ognyov was left alone. As he went back to the wood he walked slowly, constantly stopping to look round at the gate and his whole bearing seemed to express utter disbelief in what he had done. He searched for Verochka’s footprints along the path and could not believe that a young woman whom he liked so much had just declared her love and that he had so clumsily and boorishly ‘spurned’ her. For the first time in his life he had learnt from experience how little of what we do depends on our goodwill and he found himself in the position of a decent, sincere man who had brought cruel, undeserved suffering upon his neighbour despite himself.
His conscience troubled him and when Verochka disappeared from view it began to dawn on him that he had lost something very precious and close that he would never find again. He felt that with Verochka part of his youth had slipped away and that those moments he had lived through so fruitlessly would never be repeated.
When he reached the bridge he stopped and reflected. He wanted to find the reason for his strange coldness. It did not lie outside, but within him – that was clear. He frankly admitted to himself that it was not the cool detachment of which clever people boast so often, or that of a self-centred fool, but simply spiritual impotence, a lack of any deep appreciation of beauty, premature ageing brought on by his upbringing, his frantic struggle to earn a living, his bachelor existence in rented rooms.
From the bridge he walked slowly, reluctantly as it were, into the wood. Here, where in places sharply outlined patches of moonlight appeared against the impenetrable darkness and where he was aware of nothing but his own thoughts, he longed passionately to recapture what he had lost.
And Ognyov remembers going back to the house. Spurring himself on with memories, forcing himself to conjure up Verochka’s image, he swiftly strode towards the garden. By now the mist had vanished from the path and the garden, and the bright moon looked down as if newly washed; only the sky in the east was hazy and overcast… Ognyov remembers his cautious steps, those dark windows, the heavy scent of heliotrope and mignonette. The familiar Karo, amicably wagging his tail, came up and sniffed his hand. This was the only living creature that saw Ognyov walk twice around the house, pause beneath Verochka’s dark window and leave the garden with a deep sigh and gesture of despair.
An hour later he was in the town. Weary and despondent, he leaned his body and burning face against the inn gates and banged the knocker. Somewhere in the town a waking dog barked and as though in response to his knocking the watchman struck his iron plate near the church.
‘Gadding about at night again…?’ grumbled the Old Believer innkeeper as he opened the gates in a long shirt resembling a woman’s nightdress. ‘Better be saying your prayers than gadding around like this…’
Ognyov went into his room, sank onto the bed and gazed at the lamp for a long, long time. Then he shook his head and started packing…
The Name-day Party
I
After the eight-course feast, with its interminable conversation, Olga Mikhaylovna went out into the garden. They were celebrating her husband’s name-day, and she was completely exhausted by her duty to keep smiling and talking, by the clatter of dishes, by the servants’ stupidity, by the long breaks during the meal and by the corset she had put on to conceal her pregnancy from the guests. She wanted to get right away from the house, to sit in the shade and to relax by thinking about the child that was due in about two months’ time. She was always prone to thoughts like these whenever she turned left from the main avenue into the narrow path. Here, in the dense shade of plum and cherry trees, dry branches scratched her shoulders and neck, cobwebs brushed her face while she conjured up visions of a small creature of indeterminate sex, with vague features. And then she would feel that it was not the cobwebs but the tiny creature that was affectionately tickling her face and neck. When the thin wattle fence appeared at the bottom of the path, and beyond it the pot-bellied hives with earthenware roofs, when the motionless, stagnant air became filled with the scent of hay and honey and she could hear the gentle buzzing of bees, that tiny creature would take complete possession of her. She would sit pondering on a bench near the plaited osier hut.
This time too she walked as far as the bench, sat down and began to think. But instead of that tiny creature it was the big people she had only just left who filled her mind. She was deeply worried that she, the hostess, had abandoned her guests, and she remembered her husband Pyotr Dmitrich’s and Uncle Nikolay Nikolaich’s arguments over lunch about trial by jury, the press, and women’s education. As usual, her husband had argued to flaunt his conservative views in front of the guests, but mainly so that he could disagree with her uncle, whom he disliked. But her uncle contradicted him, finding fault with every word to prove to the assembled guests that, despite his fifty-nine years, he, her uncle, still preserved the mental agility and liveliness of a young man. By the end of the dinner Olga herself could stand it no longer and began a clumsy defence of higher education for women – not because any defence was necessary, but simply to annoy her husband, whom she thought had been unfair. The guests found this argument very tiresome, but felt that they should intervene and make endless comments, although not one of them cared a scrap about trial by jury or women’s education.
Olga was sitting on the near side of the wattle fence, just by the hut. The sun lay hidden behind clouds, the trees and air had a gloomy look, as though it was going to rain; but it was still hot and humid. The sad-looking hay that had been cut under the trees on St Peter’s Eve remained ungathered. With its withered, many-coloured flowers, it gave off an oppressive, sickly scent. Everything was quiet. Beyond the fence bees buzzed monotonously.
Suddenly there was the unexpected sound of footsteps and voices. Someone was coming down the path towards the beehives.
‘It’s so close!’ a woman’s voice came. ‘What do you think, is it or isn’t it going to rain?’
‘It is, my treasure, but not before tonight,’ languidly answered a very familiar male voice. ‘We’re in for quite a shower.’
Olga reasoned that if she quickly hid in the hut they would move on without seeing her and she would not have to talk or force a smile. She gathered in her skirts, stooped and went inside. Her face, neck and arms were immediately immersed in air as hot and humid as steam. But for the humidity, the stifling smell of rye, dill and osiers that quite took her breath away, this thatched hut with its dim interior would have made the perfect hiding-place from her guests, where she could think about that little creature. It was cosy and quiet.
‘What a lovely spot!’ a female voice said. ‘Let’s sit down here, Pyotr.’
Olga peered through a chink between two osier plaits and saw her husband Pyotr with one of the guests, Lyubochka Sheller, a seventeen-year-old girl just out of boarding-school. With his hat pushed over the back of his head, and feeling heavy and lazy from too much wine, Pyotr sauntered along by the fence, kicking some hay into a little heap. Pink from the heat and pretty as ever, Lyubochka was standing with her hands behind her back watching the languid movements of his large, handsome body.
Olga knew that her husband was attractive to women and she did not like to see him with them. There was nothing really remarkable in Pyotr’s lazily kicking hay into a pile on which he and Lyubochka could sit down and indulge in idle gossip; nor was there anything really noteworthy in the fact that pretty Lyubochka was looking at him so sweetly. Yet Olga felt annoyed with her husband and both frightened and pleased at the thought of being an eavesdropper.
‘Sit down, my enchantress,’ Pyotr said as he sank on to the hay and stretched himself. ‘That’s it. Now, tell me something interesting.’
‘Well, really! You’ll only fall asleep as soon as I start.’
‘Fall asleep? Allah forbid. How could I fall asleep with such pretty little eyes looking at me?’
Ther
e was nothing remarkable, either, in her husband’s words, in his sprawling over the hay in the presence of a lady, with his hat pushed over the back of his neck. Women had spoilt him – he knew that they were attracted to him and he had developed a special tone when talking to them, which, as everyone said, suited him. He was behaving towards Lyubochka as with any other woman. But Olga was jealous all the same.
‘Please tell me,’ Lyubochka said after a brief silence, ‘if it’s true what they say, that you’re facing prosecution.’
‘Me? Yes, it’s true, I’m now looked upon as one of the criminal fraternity, my precious.’
‘But why?’
‘For nothing at all… it was mainly… it’s mainly because of something to do with politics,’ Pyotr said, yawning. ‘It’s the struggle between Left and Right. I’m a reactionary old stick-in-the-mud and I was bold enough to use – in official communications – expressions that such infallible Gladstones as our local Justice of the Peace Kuzma Grigoryevich Vostryakov (and Vladimir Pavlovich Vladimirov too) found offensive.’
Pyotr yawned again and went on, ‘In this society of ours you may disapprove of the sun, the moon or anything you like, but God help you if you say anything about liberals! Liberals are like that toadstool over there – if you touch it accidentally it will shower you with clouds of dust.’
‘What happened to you, then?’
‘Nothing much; it was all a storm in a teacup. Some wretched schoolmaster – a loathsome type of clerical origin – filed a suit before our J.P., Vostryakov, against an innkeeper for slander and assault in a public place. According to the facts, both schoolmaster and innkeeper were blind drunk, both behaved equally nastily. Even if there had been a case to answer, both parties were at fault anyway. Vostryakov should have fined both of them for breach of the peace and thrown them out of court – and that would have been the end of the matter. But we don’t do things that way! We always want to classify, to stick labels on people – the individual and facts take second place. However terrible a scoundrel your schoolmaster may be, he’s bound to be right, for the simple fact that he’s a schoolmaster. But innkeepers are always in the wrong just because they’re innkeepers – they always grab what they can. Vostryakov sentenced the innkeeper to a term in prison, the innkeeper appealed to the Assizes who solemnly upheld Vostryakov’s verdict. Well, I spoke my mind… got rather worked up about it… that’s all.’
Pyotr spoke calmly, with a casual irony, but in fact he was terribly worried about the impending trial. Olga remembered how he had come back from those ill-fated proceedings and had tried desperately to conceal his despondency and feeling of dissatisfaction with himself from the servants. Being an intelligent man, he could not help thinking that he had gone too far in expressing disagreement – and how he had been forced to prevaricate to hide this feeling from himself and others! How many futile discussions had taken place, how much grumbling and forced laughter at things that were not at all funny! And when he learned that he had to stand trial, he had suddenly become weary and dejected, and begun to sleep badly and taken to standing by the window more often, drumming his fingers on the panes. He was too ashamed to admit to his wife that he was feeling depressed, and this had annoyed her.
‘I hear you’ve been away, in Poltava,’ Lyubochka said.
‘Yes,’ Pyotr replied. ‘I got back two days ago.’
‘I bet it was very nice there.’
‘Yes, it was nice, very nice in fact. I must tell you, I happened to arrive just in time for the haymaking, which is the most idyllic time of year in the Ukraine. Here we have a large house, with a large garden, but what with all these servants, all the rushing around, it’s quite impossible to see any haymaking. But on my farm down in the Ukraine forty acres of meadow open out before your eyes, you can see reapers from every window. There’s mowing in the meadows and the garden, there’s no visitors, none of this rushing around, so you just can’t help seeing, hearing and feeling anything but haymaking. There’s the smell of hay outdoors and in, scythes clatter away from dawn to dusk. The dear old Ukraine’s a charming country, really. Believe me, when I drank water at those wells with their sweeps and filthy vodka at Jewish taverns, when the sound of Ukrainian fiddles and tambourines wafted over to me on calm evenings – then I was tempted by the enchanting thought of settling down on my farm and living a life miles away from these Assizes, smart conversations, philosophizing women and interminable dinners.’
Pyotr was not lying. He had been feeling depressed and he was really dying to get away from it all. He had gone to Poltava only to escape from his study, the servants, his friends and everything that would remind him of his wounded pride and his mistakes.
Lyubochka suddenly leapt up and waved her arms in horror.
‘Oh, a bee, a bee!’ she screamed. ‘It’s going to sting me!’
‘Don’t be silly, of course it’s not!’ Pyotr said. ‘What a little coward you are!’
‘No, no, it’s going to!’ Lyubochka cried, looking round at the bee as she quickly made her escape.
Pyotr followed her, his feeling of tenderness mingled with sadness as he watched her go. Looking at her he must have thought of his farm in the south, of solitude and – who knows? – perhaps he was even thinking how warm and snug life on his farm would be if that young, pure, fresh girl who was unspoilt by higher education, who was not pregnant, had been his wife…
When the voices and footsteps died away, Olga left the hut and set off towards the house. She wanted to cry and by now felt extremely jealous. She understood how tired Pyotr was, that he was dissatisfied with himself and ashamed; and people who are ashamed always avoid close friends more than anyone else and open their hearts only to strangers. She also understood that Lyubochka, like all those other women now drinking coffee in the house, posed no threat to her. But it was all so incomprehensible, so frightening, and Olga had now come to feel that Pyotr only half belonged to her.
‘He has no right,’ she muttered, trying to find the reason for her jealousy and her annoyance with her husband. ‘No right at all. I’m going to let him know where he stands. This instant!’
She decided to find her husband right away and tell him the facts of the matter. The way he attracted women and sought their approval, as though it was a gift from heaven, was unspeakably degrading. He was behaving dishonourably when he gave perfect strangers what by right belonged to his wife, when he hid his heart and conscience from her and bared them to the first pretty face that came along. What had she done wrong? Finally, she was sick and tired of his lying. He was perpetually posing, flirting, saying what he did not mean and trying to appear other than he really was or should have been. What was the point of this prevarication? Was that sort of thing right for a respectable man? His lying was an insult to himself and to those to whom he dissimulated; and he did not care what kind of lies he told. If he could keep posing, showing off at the Bench, expatiating at dinner about the prerogatives of power just to spite her uncle, couldn’t he see that it only went to show that he did not give a damn for the court, for himself or for anyone listening to him or watching?
As she came out on to the main avenue Olga tried to give the impression she was performing some domestic duty. The men were drinking liqueurs and eating soft fruit on the terrace. One of them, the examining magistrate, a stout, elderly gentleman, a clown and wit, must have been telling some rather risqué story since he suddenly pressed his hands to his fat lips when he saw the mistress of the house and sat back in his chair, eyes goggling. Olga did not care for their clumsy, overbearing wives, their gossip, their over-frequent visits, their adulation of her husband – whom they all hated. But now, when they were sitting there having drinks after a good meal, and showed no sign of leaving, she found their presence quite nauseating. But she smiled warmly at the examining magistrate and wagged a threatening finger at him so as not to appear ungracious. She crossed the ballroom and drawing-room smiling, making out that she was on her way to give orders to the servants a
nd make some arrangements. ‘I hope no one stops me, God forbid!’ she thought, but she forced herself to stop for a moment in the drawing-room to listen – out of politeness’ sake – to a young man playing the piano. After standing there for a minute she shouted ‘Bravo, bravo, Monsieur Georges!’, clapped twice and went on her way.
She found her husband in his study. He was sitting at his desk pondering something. His face had a stern, pensive, guilty look. This was not the Pyotr who had been arguing during the meal and whom the guests knew, but someone quite different – exhausted, guilty, dissatisfied with himself – whom only his wife knew. He must have gone into the study for some cigarettes. An open case lay before him, full of cigarettes, and one hand was resting in the desk drawer. He seemed to have frozen at the moment of taking them out.
Olga felt sorry for him. It was as clear as daylight that he was exhausted, worried and perhaps engaged in a battle against himself. Olga silently went over to the desk. Wanting to prove to him that she had forgotten the arguments over dinner and that she was no longer angry, she shut the cigarette case and put it in his side pocket.
‘What shall I tell him?’ she wondered. ‘I’ll say that deceitfulness is like a swamp, the further you go in, the harder it is to get out. Then I’ll tell him: you’ve been carried away by that false role you’ve been acting out, you’ve gone too far. You’ve insulted people who were devoted to you and did you no harm. So please go and apologize to them, have a good laugh at yourself and you’ll feel better. And if you want peace and solitude, let’s go away from here together.’
When his eyes met his wife’s, Pyotr suddenly assumed that indifferent, gently mocking expression he had worn at dinner and in the garden. He yawned and stood up.
‘It’s after five,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Even if our guests take pity on us and depart at eleven, that still leaves another six hours. That’s something cheerful to look forward to, need I say!’