“Let them kiss each other!” the judge Kalinin repeated.
Forced by the cheers of the guests, Olga rose. Mr. Urbenin also stood, listing a bit to one side. She turned her cold, motionless lips to him. He kissed her, and she quickly turned away and tightened her mouth into a line so that he could not kiss her again.
I watched her carefully. She could not stand my glance. She put a napkin to her face, slipped away from the table, and ran out of the living room into the back garden.
“Olga has a headache,” I tried to explain. “She complained to me about it earlier this morning.”
“Listen, brother,” the Count joked. “Headache has nothing to do with it. It’s that kiss that did it, and she’s all confused. I may have to give a verbal reprimand to this groom. He hasn’t broken his wife in to his kissing yet. Ha-ha-ha!”
The guests enjoyed the joke and laughed uproariously. But they should not have been laughing. Five minutes passed, and then ten, but she did not return. Silence fell. The jokes stopped. Her absence was profound because she had not excused herself as she left. She had simply stood up, right after the kiss, as if she were angry that they had forced her to kiss her husband. She did not seem to be confused, because one can only be confused for a moment; this was different—the bride stood up, walked out. It was a nice plot twist for a comedy of manners.
Mr. Urbenin glanced around nervously.
“My friends,” he mumbled, “maybe something in her gown has come undone. It’s a woman thing.” But several more minutes passed, and he gazed at me with such unhappiness in his eyes that I decided to enter the scene.
I met his eyes. “Maybe you can find her and get me out of this spot. You’re the best man here,” his eyes said.
I decided to respond to his desperate need and to come to the rescue.
“Where’s Olga?” I asked the waiter who was serving the salad.
“She’s gone into the garden,” he said.
“The bride has left us and my wine grows sour,” I addressed the ladies at the table. “I must go and search for her, and bring her back even if all her teeth are aching. I am the best man at this wedding, and I have duties to fulfill.
I stood up, walked past the applauding count, and went out into the garden.
I looked in side alleys, little caves and gazebos.
Suddenly, off to the right, I heard someone either laughing or crying. I found the bride in a little grotto. She was leaning on a moss-covered wooden column and her face was shining with tears, as though a new spring had burst forth from the earth.
“What have I done? What have I done!” she cried.
“Yes, Olga, what have you done?” I said as she flung her head on my chest.
“Where were my eyes, where was my head?”
“Yes, Olga, this is a good question.” I told her, “I can’t explain this as just being spoiled.”
“And now everything is ruined and there’s no going back. Everything! I could have married the man I love, the man who loves me!”
“Who could you have married? Who is this man, Olga?” I asked.
“It’s you!” she said, looking directly into my eyes. “I was so stupid! You’re clever, you’re noble, and you’re young … You’re rich, too—you seemed to me—so far from me.”
“Stop it, Olga,” I said. “Wipe your eyes, stop crying, stop it! Stop this, my dear, you’ve made a silly mistake and now you have to face it. Calm down; calm down, please!”
“You are such a nice man, such a beautiful man. Yes?”
“Let it go, my dear,” I said, noticing to my terrible surprise that I was kissing her forehead, that I held her slender waist, that she was leaning on my neck. “Stop it, please!”
Five minutes later, tired by new impressions, I carried her out of the cave in my arms.
A short distance away, I saw the Count’s manager Mr. Kazimir applauding quietly as he watched us go.
CHAPTER THREE HORSEBACK RIDING
On a beautiful evening in June, when the sun had already set, but the wide orange line still covered the faraway west, I went to Mr. Urbenin’s house.
I found Mr. Urbenin himself there, sitting on the steps of his porch with his chin resting in both hands, looking away into the distance. He was very gloomy; his small talk came only unwillingly, so I chatted instead with his daughter, Alexandra.
“Where is your new mother?” I asked her.
“She went horseback riding with the Count. She rides with him every day.”
“Every day,” mumbled Mr. Urbenin with a sigh.
There was a lot in his sigh. Olga’s conscience was clouded, but I could not understand what was going on as I looked into her guilty eyes when she came secretly to see me, twice during the past week.
“I hope that your new mother is in good health?” I asked Alexandra.
“Yes, she is,” answered the little girl. “But last night she had a toothache, and she was crying.”
“She was crying?” Mr. Urbenin asked, puzzled. “You saw it? Well, you must have dreamed it, my dear.”
I knew that Olga’s teeth were fine. If she’d been crying, it was from something else.
I wanted to talk to Alexandra a bit more, but we heard galloping hooves, and we saw two figures, an awkward male rider and a graceful Amazon. I lifted Alexandra into my arms, trying to hide my happiness at seeing Olga, caressed her blond curly hair with my fingers, and kissed the little girl on her head.
“You’re such a pretty girl, Alexandra,” I said, “You have such lovely curls!”
Olga looked at me briefly, nodded politely, and, holding the Count by the elbow, went into the mansion. Mr. Urbenin stood up and followed her. A few minutes later, the Count stepped out. His face looked fresh, and he was joyful in a way I’d never seen before.
“Please congratulate me, my friend,” he said taking my arm under the elbow.
“What for?”
“A victory!”
“One more ride like that, and I will—I swear it on the dust of my noble ancestors—I will pluck the petals from this flower!”
“You haven’t picked them yet?” I asked.
“Not yet, but I’m almost there,” the Count said. “Wait, my dear—will you have a swig of vodka? My throat is very dry.”
I asked the butler to bring the vodka. The Count drank two shots in quick succession, sat down on the couch, and continued his chatter.
“You know, I’ve just spent some time with Olga, and I am starting to hate this Mr. Urbenin! This means that I am beginning to like Olga, you know I do. She’s a damned attractive woman. I’m going make some serious advances before long.”
“You should never touch a married woman.” I sighed.
“Well, yes, but Peter Egorovich is an old man, and it’s not such a sin to amuse his wife a bit. She’s no match for him. He’s a dog in the manger—he won’t eat it himself, and he won’t let any one else near it either. The campaign will begin later today, and I’m not going to take no for an answer. She is such a woman, I’m telling you! This is first-class, brother. You’re going to love hearing about it.”
The Count downed a third shot of vodka, and continued,
“You know what? I’m going to throw a party. We’ll have music, amateur theater, and literature—all for her, to invite her in and make it with her there. As for today, well, Olga and I were just out riding, and you know what? It was for ten minutes”—and then the Count started singing, ‘Your hand was in my hand’—“and she didn’t even try to take her little hand away. I kissed it everywhere. But just wait until tomorrow, and for now let’s go in. They’re waiting for me. Oh, yes! I need to talk to you, my good man, about one thing. Tell me, please, is it true what people are saying about you—that you have intentions for Nadine Kalinina, the daughter of the old judge?”