‘All right… I think she’s well,’ the doctor replied, screwing up his eyes at a toy soldier with lilac face and crimson uniform. ‘She was inquiring about you.’
‘And what precisely was she inquiring about?’
‘Well, things in general… she’s angry with you for not having visited them for so long. She wants to see you and discover the reasons for this sudden cooling off towards their house. You used to go there every day and then – well, I ask you! It’s as if you’d simply cut them off… and you don’t even bow when you meet them…’
‘That’s nonsense, Screwy. In fact, I stopped visiting the Kalinins as I didn’t have the time. The truth is the truth. My relationship with that family is as excellent as ever. I always bow if I happen to meet one of them.’
‘But when you met her father last Thursday, for some reason you didn’t think it necessary to acknowledge his greeting.’
‘I don’t care for that blockhead of a JP,’ I replied, ‘and I just can’t look at his ugly mug calmly. All the same, I still have the strength to bow to him and shake his outstretched hand. I probably didn’t notice him last Thursday, or I didn’t recognize him. You’re not yourself today, Screwy, and you keep picking on me.’
‘I’m fond of you, dear chap,’ Pavel Ivanovich sighed, ‘but I don’t believe you. “Didn’t notice, didn’t recognize…” – I need neither your explanations nor your excuses. What’s the point of them if there’s so little truth in them? You’re a splendid, fine fellow, but in your sick brain there’s some section which, I’m sorry to say, is capable of any mean trick.’
‘My most humble thanks.’
‘Now don’t get angry, dear chap. I hope to God that I’ve made a mistake, but you strike me as something of a psychopath. Sometimes, against your better judgement and the general tenor of your fine nature, you suddenly have such cravings, you act so wildly that everyone who knows you as a respectable man is completely baffled. It’s simply staggering how those lofty moral principles of yours, with which I have the honour to be acquainted, can coexist with these sudden urges that culminate in such blatant abominations! What kind of animal is this?’ Pavel Ivanovich suddenly asked the stall-keeper in a completely different tone of voice as he raised to his eyes a wooden creature with human nose, a mane and grey stripes down its back.
‘It’s a lion,’ yawned the stall-keeper. ‘But it could be some other animal. Damned if I know!’
From the toy stalls we went to the textile stalls, where business was already in full swing.
‘Those toys only mislead children,’ observed the doctor. ‘They give the most distorted ideas about flora and fauna. That lion, for example. It’s striped, it’s purple and it squeaks. Whoever heard of squeaking lions?!’
‘Listen, Screwy,’ I said. ‘It’s obvious that you’ve something to tell me, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Out with it! I enjoy listening to you, even when you say unpleasant things!’
‘Whether it’s pleasant or not, old boy, you must listen. There’s a lot I have to tell you.’
‘Fire away… I’m turning into one enormous ear.’
‘I’ve already told you that I suspect you’re a psychopath. Now, would you care to hear the evidence? I shall express myself frankly and perhaps rather harshly at times. My words will jar on you, but please don’t get angry, old chap. You know how I feel towards you – I’m fonder of you than anyone else in the district and I respect you. I’m telling you this not by way of reproach or criticism, or even to hurt you. Let’s both be objective, old man. Let’s examine your psyche with an impartial eye, as if it were the liver or stomach.’
‘Fine, let’s be objective,’ I agreed.
‘Excellent. So, let’s begin with your relationship with the Kalinins. If you care to consult your memory, it will tell you that you started visiting the Kalinins immediately on your arrival in our blessed district. They did not seek your acquaintance. From the start, the JP didn’t take to you because of your arrogant look, your sarcastic tone and your friendship with that raffish Count – and you would never have been invited there if you yourself hadn’t first paid them a visit. Do you remember? You got to know Nadezhda Nikolayevna and started going to the JP’s house almost every day. Whenever I visited the house you were invariably there… They gave you the warmest of welcomes. Those people were as nice as pie to you… both the father and mother, and the little sisters. They grew attached to you, as if you were one of the family. They were in raptures over you, they pampered you, they went into fits of laughter over your feeblest joke. For them you were the very paragon of wit, high-mindedness, gentlemanliness. You seemed to be aware of this and you repaid attachment with attachment – you used to go there every single day, even on the eve of church festivals when they were busy cleaning and up to their eyes in preparations. Finally, the ill-fated love you aroused in Nadenka is no secret to you – isn’t that so? Knowing full well that she was head over heels in love with you, you went there day after day. And what then, old man? A year ago, for no earthly reason, you suddenly stopped visiting them. They waited a week, a month – they’re still waiting, but you never turn up. They write to you, but you don’t reply. Finally, you don’t even send them your regards. For someone like you, who attaches so much importance to etiquette, your behaviour must appear the height of rudeness! What prompted you to steer clear of the Kalinins, so abruptly, so dramatically? Had they offended you? Did you get bored with them? In that case you could have broken away gradually, not in that insultingly brusque, quite uncalled-for manner.’
‘So, I’ve stopped visiting them,’ I laughed, ‘and therefore I’ve joined the ranks of psychopaths! How naïve you are, Screwy! Isn’t it all the same whether one ends a friendship suddenly or gradually? It’s even more honest if you make a clean break – it’s not so hypocritical. But all this is so trivial!’
‘Let’s admit it’s all very trivial, or that some hidden reasons that are no concern of an outside observer compelled you to cold-shoulder them so abruptly. But how can one explain this latest action of yours?’
‘What, for instance?’
‘For instance, one day you turned up at a local government meeting – I don’t know what business you had there – and when the chairman asked why you were no longer to be seen at the Kalinins you replied – just try and remember what you said! – “I’m scared of being married off!” That’s what slipped off your tongue! And you said this during a meeting, loud and clear, so that all hundred members in the room could hear you. Your remark met with laughter and obscene jokes about fishing for husbands. Some rotter catches up your words, goes to the Kalinins and repeats them to Nadezhda while they are all having dinner. Why all these insults, Sergey Petrovich?’
Pavel Ivanovich barred my way, planting himself in front of me and continuing to stare into my face with imploring, almost tearful eyes.
‘Why such insults? For what? Because this fine girl loves you? Let’s admit that her father – like every father – has designs on you. Like a good father he has everyone in his sights – you, me, Markuzin… All parents are alike. There’s no doubt that she was head over heels with you and perhaps hoping to become your wife. So why give her such a resounding slap in the face? Weren’t you responsible for these designs on your person? You went there every day – ordinary visitors don’t call so frequently. During the day you went fishing with her, in the evening you strolled in the garden, jealously keeping your little tête-à-têtes a secret. You discovered that she loved you – and you didn’t alter your behaviour one little bit! After that, could anyone have doubted your intentions? I was convinced that you would marry her! And you… you complained, you laughed. What for? What has she done to you?’
‘Don’t shout, Screwy, people are looking,’ I said, walking around Pavel Ivanovich. ‘Let’s finish this conversation, old man, it’s all old women’s talk. But I’ll just say a few things – and then I don’t want to hear any more from you! I used to visit the Kalinins because I was bore
d and because I was interested in Nadenka. She’s a fascinating girl. Perhaps I might even have married her, but when I found out that you preceded me as aspirant for her heart, that you were not indifferent towards her, I decided to retire from the scene. It would have been cruel on my part to have cramped the style of such a splendid chap as you!’
‘Merci for the favour! I didn’t ask for this very gracious indulgence and as far as I can tell from your expression you’re not telling the truth now, you’re talking idly, not thinking about what you’re saying. And then the fact that I’m a splendid chap didn’t prevent you – on one of your last visits – from suggesting something to Nadenka in the summer-house which wouldn’t have done this “splendid chap” any good, had he married her!’
‘Hold on! How did you find out about my “suggestion”, Screwy? So, things can’t be so bad with you if people can trust you with such secrets! But you’ve turned white with rage and it almost looks as if you’re about to hit me any minute. And just now you agreed to be objective! How funny you are, Screwy! Come, enough of this nonsense… Let’s go to the post office.’
We set off for the post office, which looked gaily onto the market place with its three little windows. Through the grey fence we could see the many-coloured flowerbed of our postmaster Maksim Fyodorovich, famous throughout the district for his expertise in laying out flowerbeds, borders, lawns, etc.
We found Maksim Fyodorovich very pleasantly occupied. Red-faced and beaming with pleasure, he was sitting at his green table leafing through a thick bundle of one-hundred rouble notes as if they were a book. Clearly, even the sight of someone else’s money was capable of lifting his spirits.
‘Hullo, Maksim Fyodorovich!’ I greeted him. ‘Where did you get that pile of money from?’
‘Well now, it’s to be sent to St Petersburg,’ the postmaster replied, smiling sweetly and pointing his chin at the corner where a dark figure was sitting on the only chair in the post office. When it saw me the figure rose and came over to me. I recognized it as my newly created enemy whom I had so deeply offended when getting drunk at the Count’s.
‘My most humble respects,’ he said.
‘Good morning, Kaetan Kazimirovich,’ I replied, pretending not to notice his outstretched hand. ‘How’s the Count?’
‘Well, thank God… but he’s rather in the dumps. He’s expecting you over any minute.’
On Pshekhotsky’s face I could detect a desire to have a little chat with me. What could the reason be for this, seeing that I’d called him ‘pig’ that evening? And why such a change in his attitude?
‘That’s a lot of money you’ve got there,’ I said, looking at the packets of hundred-rouble notes he was preparing for dispatch.
And it was just as if someone had prodded my grey matter! On one of those banknotes I saw charred edges, with one corner completely burnt off. It was that very same one-hundred rouble note that I had wanted to burn on the Shandor candle when the Count refused to accept it from me in payment for the gipsies and which Pshekhotsky had picked up when I had thrown it on the floor.
‘I’d do better giving it to some beggar than consigning it to the flames’ he had said then.
To which ‘beggars’ was he sending it now?
‘Seven thousand five hundred roubles,’ Maksim Fyodorovich said, taking ages to count them. ‘Exactly right!’
It’s awkward prying into someone else’s secrets, but I desperately wanted to know whose money it was and to whom in St Petersburg that black-browed Pole was sending it. In any event, the money wasn’t his – and the Count had no one in St Petersburg to send it to.
He’s cleaned that drunken Count out, I thought. If that stupid, deaf Owlet can rob the Count, then what problem will this goose have thrusting his paw into his pocket?
‘Oh, by the way, I’m sending some money off too,’ Pavel Ivanovich suddenly remembered. ‘Do you know what, gentlemen? You’ll never believe it! For fifteen roubles you can get five items, carriage paid. A telescope, chronometer, calendar and some other things. Maksim Fyodorych, please lend me a sheet of paper and an envelope.’
Screwy sent off his fifteen roubles. I collected my newspapers and letters and we left the post office.
We set off for the church. Screwy strode along behind me, pale and miserable as an autumn day. Contrary to expectations, he was deeply distressed by the conversation in which he had attempted to portray himself as ‘objective’.
In the church they were ringing the bells. A dense and apparently endless crowd was descending the porch steps and above it rose ancient banners and the dark cross that headed the procession. The sun played gaily on the priests’ vestments and the icon of the Holy Virgin gave off dazzling rays.
‘There’s our lot,’ said the doctor, pointing to our local beau monde that had detached itself from the crowd and was standing to one side.
‘Your lot, not mine,’ I said.
‘It’s all the same… let’s go and join them.’
I went up to my friends and exchanged bows. Kalinin the JP, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a grey beard and crab-like, bulging eyes, stood in front of everyone, whispering something in his daughter’s ear. Pretending not to notice me, he did not make one movement in acknowledgement of the ‘general’ salutation I aimed in his direction.
‘Goodbye, my sweet little angel!’ he said tearfully, kissing his daughter’s pale forehead. ‘Drive home on your own – I’ll be back by evening. My visits won’t take very long.’
After kissing his daughter once more and sweetly smiling at the beau monde, he frowned grimly and turned sharply on one heel towards a peasant with a village constable’s badge who was standing behind him.
‘Will I ever get my carriage and horses?’ he said hoarsely.
The constable shuddered and waved his arms.
‘Watch out!’ Kalinin shouted.
The crowd that was following the procession made way and the JP’s carriage drove up to Kalinin in great style, the bells of the horses jingling away. Kalinin climbed in, bowed majestically, alarming the crowd with his ‘Watch out!!’, and disappeared from view without so much as a glance at me.
‘What a majestic swine!’ I whispered in the doctor’s ear. ‘Let’s get out of here!’
‘But surely you want a word with Nadezhda Nikolayevna?’ Pavel Ivanych asked.
‘No, I must be off… I haven’t the time…’
The doctor gave me an angry look, sighed and turned away. I performed a ‘general’ bow and went over to the booths. As I fought my way through the dense crowd I turned round to glance at the JP’s daughter. She followed me with her eyes and seemed to be trying to see if I could bear her pure, penetrating gaze, so full of bitter resentment and reproach.
‘But why?’ her eyes were saying.
Something stirred within me and I felt pained and ashamed of my stupid behaviour. Suddenly I had the urge to go back and, with all the strength of my gentle (and so far not completely corrupted) soul, to caress and fondle that girl who loved me so passionately and whom I had so dreadfully insulted, and to tell her that it was not I who was to blame, but my damned pride, which prevented me from living, from breathing and from taking the decisive step. That stupid, foppish pride of mine, so brimful of vanity! Could such a shallow person as myself hold out an olive branch, when I knew and could see very well that the eyes of the local gossips and sinister old crones34 were watching my every movement? Rather let them shower her with scornful looks and smiles than lose faith in that ‘inflexibility’ and pride of mine, which silly women found so pleasing.
When I discussed earlier with Pavel Ivanych the reasons that made me suddenly stop visiting the Kalinins, I was being dishonest and quite inaccurate. I concealed the real reason – I concealed it because I was ashamed of its triviality. This reason, as flimsy as gossamer, was as follows. On my last visit, after I had handed Zorka to the coachman, the following phrase reached my ears as I was entering the Kalinins’ house:
‘Nadya, where ar
e you? Your fiancé’s arrived!’
These words were spoken by her father, the JP, who had probably not expected me to hear him. But hear him I did and my vanity was aroused.
‘Me a fiancé?’ I asked myself. ‘Who allowed you to call me a fiancé? And on what basis?’
And something seemed to snap deep inside me… My pride welled up and I forgot all that I had remembered when riding to the Kalinins… I forgot that I had captivated the girl and that I in turn had been so taken with her that I was unable to spend a single evening without her company. I forgot her lovely eyes that never left my memory day and night, her kind smile, her melodious voice. I forgot those quiet summer evenings which would never be repeated, either for me or for her… Everything crumbled under the pressure of devilish arrogance, aroused by that stupid phrase of her simpleton father. Infuriated, I had swept out of the house, mounted Zorka and galloped off, vowing to be revenged on Kalinin, who had dared enlist me as fiancé for his daughter without my permission.
‘Besides, Voznesensky’s in love with her,’ I thought, trying to justify my sudden departure as I rode home. ‘He started buzzing around her before me and he was already considered her fiancé when I first met her. I won’t cramp his style!’
From that time onwards I never set foot in Kalinin’s house again, although there were moments when I suffered from longings for Nadya and my heart was yearning, simply yearning, for a renewal of the past. But the whole district knew about the break that had occurred, knew that I had ‘cut and run’ from marriage. But my vanity could not make any concessions!
Who can tell? If Kalinin hadn’t used that phrase and if I hadn’t been so foolishly vain and touchy, perhaps there would have been no need for me to look back, or for her to look at me with such eyes. But better such eyes, better that feeling of injury and reproach than what I saw in them several months after the meeting in the church at Tenevo. The sadness that was shining now in the depths of those black eyes was only the beginning of that terrible disaster which wiped the girl off the face of the earth, like a sudden, onrushing train. It was like comparing little flowers to the berries that were already ripening in order to pour awful venom into her frail body and pining heart.
The Shooting Party Page 11
