THE COLLECTED WORKS OF ANTON CHEKHOV. Anton Chekhov

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      This question received no reply. It was all the same to the Pole where he was. Urbenin did not consider his voice decisive, and I was too much delighted with the coolness of the forest and its resinous air to wish to turn back. Besides, it was necessary to kill time till night, even by a simple walk. The thoughts of the approaching wild night were accompanied by a sweet sinking of the heart. I am sorry to confess that I looked forward to it, and had already mentally a foretaste of its enjoyments. Judging by the impatience with which the Count constantly looked at his watch, it was evident that he, too, was tormented by expectations. We felt that we understood each other.

      Near the forester’s house, which nestled between pines on a small square open space, we were met by the loud-sounding bark of two small fiery-yellow dogs, of a breed that was unknown to me; they were as glossy and supple as eels. Recognizing Urbenin, they joyfully wagged their tails and ran towards him, from which one could deduce that the bailiff often visited the forester’s house. Here, too, near the house, we were met by a lad without boots or cap, with large freckles on his astonished face. For a moment he looked at us in silence with staring eyes, then, evidently recognizing the Count, he gave an exclamation and rushed headlong into the house.

      ‘I know what he’s gone for,’ the Count said, laughing. ‘I remember him… It’s Mit’ka.’

      The Count was not mistaken. In less than a minute Mit’ka came out of the house carrying a tray with a glass of vodka and a tumbler half full of water.

      ‘For your good health, your Excellency!’ he said, a broad grin suffusing the whole of his stupid, astonished face.

      The Count drank off the vodka, washed it down with water in lieu of a snack, but this time he made no wry face. A hundred paces from the house there was an iron seat, as old as the pines above it. We sat down on it and contemplated the May evening in all its tranquil beauty… The frightened crows flew cawing above our heads, the song of nightingales was borne towards us from all sides; these were the only sounds that broke the pervading stillness.

      The Count does not know how to be silent, even on such a calm spring evening, when the voice of man is the least agreeable sound.

      ‘I don’t know if you will be satisfied?’ he said to me. ‘I have ordered a fish-soup and game for supper. With the vodka we shall have cold sturgeon and sucking-pig with horseradish.’

      As if angered at this prosaic observation, the poetical pines suddenly shook their tops and a gentle rustle passed through the wood. A fresh breeze swept over the glade and played with the grass.

      ‘Down, down!’ Urbenin cried to the flame-coloured dogs, who were preventing him from lighting his cigarette with their caresses. ‘I think we shall have rain before night. I feel it in the air. It was so terribly hot today that it does not require a learned professor to prophesy rain. It will be a good thing for the corn.’

      ‘What’s the use of corn to you,’ I thought, ‘if the Count will spend it all on drink? No need to worry about the rain.’

      Once more a light breeze passed over the forest, but this time it was stronger. The pines and the grass rustled louder.

      ‘Let us go home.’

      We rose and strolled lazily back towards the little house.

      ‘It is better to be this fair-haired Olenka,’ I said, addressing myself to Urbenin, ‘and to live here with the beasts than to be a magistrate and live among men… It’s more peaceful. Is it not so, Pëtr Egorych?’

      ‘It’s all the same what one is, Sergey Petrovich, if only the soul is at peace.’

      ‘Is pretty Olenka’s soul at peace?’

      ‘God alone knows the secrets of other people’s souls, but I think she has nothing to trouble her. She has not much to worry her, and no more sins than an infant… She’s a very good girl! Ah, now the sky is at last beginning to threaten rain…’

      A rumble was heard, somewhat like the sound of a distant vehicle or the rattle of a game of skittles. Somewhere, far beyond the forest, there was a peal of thunder. Mit’ka, who had been watching us the whole time, shuddered and crossed himself.

      ‘A thunderstorm!’ the Count exclaimed with a start. ‘What a surprise! The rain will overtake us on our way home… How dark it is! I said we ought to have turned back! And you wouldn’t, and went on and on.’

      ‘We might wait in the cottage till the storm is over,’ I suggested.

      ‘Why in the cottage?’ Urbenin said hastily, and his eyes blinked in a strange manner, it will rain all night, so you’ll have to remain all night in the cottage! Please, don’t trouble… Go quietly on, and Mit’ka shall run on and order your carriage to come to meet you.’

      ‘Never mind, perhaps it won’t rain all night… Storm clouds usually pass by quickly… Besides, I don’t know the new forester as yet, and I’d also like to have a chat with this Olenka… and find out what sort of girl she is…’

      ‘I’ve no objections!’ the Count agreed.

      ‘How can you go there, if - if the place is not - not in order?’ Urbenin mumbled anxiously. ‘Why should your Excellency sit there in a stuffy room when you could be at home? I don’t understand what pleasure that can be! How can you get to know the forester if he is ill?’

      It was very evident that the bailiff strongly objected to our going into the forester’s house. He even spread his arms as if he wanted to bar the way… I understood by his face that he had reasons for preventing us from going in. I respect other people’s reasons and secrets, but on this occasion my curiosity was greatly excited. I persisted, and we entered the house.

      ‘Come into the drawing-room, please,’ barefooted Mit’ka spluttered almost choking with delight.

      Try to imagine the very smallest drawing-room in the world, with unpainted deal walls. These walls are hung all over with oleographs from the Niva, photographs in frames made of shells, and testimonials. One testimonial is from a certain baron, expressing his gratitude for many years of service; all the others are for horses. Here and there ivy climbs up the wall… In a corner a small lamp, whose tiny blue flame is faintly reflected on the silver mounting, burns peacefully before a little icon. Chairs that have evidently been only recently bought are pressed close together round the walls. Too many had been purchased, and they had been squeezed together, as there was nowhere else to put them… Here, also, there are armchairs and a sofa in snow-white covers with flounces and laces, crowded up with a polished round table. A tame hare dozes on the sofa… The room is cosy, clean and warm… The presence of a woman can be noticed everywhere. Even the whatnot with books has a look of innocence and womanliness; it appears to be anxious to say that there is nothing on its shelves but wishy-washy novels and mawkish verse… The charm of such warm, cosy rooms is not so much felt in spring as in autumn, when you look for a refuge from the cold and damp.

      After much loud snivelling, blowing, and noisy striking of matches, Mit’ka lit two candles and placed them on the table as carefully as if they had been milk. We sat down in the armchairs, looked at each other, and laughed.

      ‘Nikolai Efimych is ill in bed,’ Urbenin said, to explain the absence of the master, ‘and Olga Nikolaevna has probably gone to accompany my children…’

      ‘Mit’ka, are the doors shut?’ СКАЧАТЬ