Podgorin wanted to make promises, to reassure her and even he began to believe that Kuzminki was saved – it was really so easy.
‘ “And thou shalt be que-een of the world”,’ he sang, striking a pose. But suddenly he was conscious that there was nothing he could do for these people, absolutely nothing, and he stopped singing and looked guilty.
Then he sat silently in one corner, legs tucked under him, wearing slippers belonging to someone else.
As they watched him the others understood that nothing could be done and they too fell silent. The piano was closed. Everyone noticed that it was late – it was time for bed – and Tatyana put out the large lamp in the drawing-room.
A bed was made up for Podgorin in the same little outhouse where he had stayed in the past. Sergey Sergeich went with him to wish him goodnight, holding a candle high above his head, although the moon had risen and it was bright. They walked down a path with lilac bushes on either side and the gravel crunched underfoot.
Before he had time to groan
A bear came and knocked him prone,
Sergey Sergeich said.
Podgorin felt that he’d heard those lines a thousand times, he was sick and tired of them! When they reached the outhouse, Sergey Sergeich drew a bottle and two glasses from his loose jacket and put them on the table.
‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘It’s a Double-O. It’s impossible to have a drink in the house with Varvara around. She’d be on to me about alcoholism. But we can feel free here. It’s a fine brandy.’
They sat down. The brandy was very good.
‘Let’s have a really good drink tonight,’ Sergey Sergeich continued, nibbling a lemon. ‘I’ve always been a gay dog myself and I like having a fling now and again. That’s a must!’
But the look in his eyes still showed that he needed something from Podgorin and was about to ask for it.
‘Drink up, old man,’ he went on, sighing. ‘Things are really grim at the moment. Old eccentrics like me have had their day, we’re finished. Idealism’s not fashionable these days. It’s money that rules and if you don’t want to get shoved aside you must go down on your knees and worship filthy lucre. But I can’t do that, it’s absolutely sickening!’
‘When’s the auction?’ asked Podgorin, to change the subject.
‘August 7th. But there’s no hope at all, old man, of saving Kuzminki. There’s enormous arrears and the estate doesn’t bring in any income, only losses every year. It’s not worth the battle. Tatyana’s very cut up about it, as it’s her patrimony of course. But I must admit I’m rather glad. I’m no country man. My sphere is the large, noisy city, my element’s the fray!’
He kept on and on, still beating about the bush and he watched Podgorin with an eagle eye, as if waiting for the right moment.
Suddenly Podgorin saw those eyes close to him and felt his breath on his face.
‘My dear fellow, please save me,’ Sergey Sergeich gasped. ‘Please lend me two hundred roubles!’
Podgorin wanted to say that he was hard up too and he felt that he might do better giving two hundred roubles to some poor devil or simply losing them at cards. But he was terribly embarrassed – he felt trapped in that small room with one candle and wanted to escape as soon as possible from that breathing, from those soft arms that grasped him around the waist and which already seemed to have stuck to him like glue. Hurriedly he started feeling in his pockets for his notecase where he kept money.
‘Here you are,’ he muttered, taking out a hundred roubles. ‘I’ll give you the rest later. That’s all I have on me. You see, I can’t refuse.’ Feeling very annoyed and beginning to lose his temper he went on. ‘I’m really far too soft. Only please let me have the money back later. I’m hard up too.’
‘Thank you. I’m so grateful, dear chap.’
‘And please stop imagining that you’re an idealist. You’re as much an idealist as I’m a turkey-cock. You’re simply a frivolous, indolent man, that’s all.’
Sergey Sergeich sighed deeply and sat on the couch.
‘My dear chap, you are angry,’ he said. ‘But if you only knew how hard things are for me! I’m going through a terrible time now. I swear it’s not myself I feel sorry for, oh no! It’s the wife and children. If it wasn’t for my wife and children I’d have done myself in ages ago.’ Suddenly his head and shoulders started shaking and he burst out sobbing.
‘This really is the limit!’ Podgorin said, pacing the room excitedly and feeling really furious. ‘Now, what can I do with someone who has caused a great deal of harm and then starts sobbing? These tears disarm me, I’m speechless. You’re sobbing, so that means you must be right.’
‘Caused a great deal of harm?’ Sergey Sergeich asked, rising to his feet and looking at Podgorin in amazement. ‘My dear chap, what are you saying? Caused a great deal of harm? Oh, how little you know me. How little you understand me!’
‘All right then, so I don’t understand you, but please stop whining. It’s revolting!’
‘Oh, how little you know me!’ Sergey Sergeich repeated, quite sincerely. ‘How little!’
‘Just take a look at yourself in the mirror,’ Podgorin went on. ‘You’re no longer a young man. Soon you’ll be old. It’s time you stopped to think a bit and took stock of who and what you are. Spending your whole life doing nothing at all, forever indulging in empty, childish chatter, this play-acting and affectation. Doesn’t it make your head go round – aren’t you sick and tired of it all? Oh, it’s hard going with you! You’re a stupefying old bore, you are!’
With these words Podgorin left the outhouse and slammed the door. It was about the first time in his life that he had been sincere and really spoken his mind.
Shortly afterwards he was regretting having been so harsh. What was the point of talking seriously or arguing with a man who was perpetually lying, who ate and drank too much, who spent large amounts of other people’s money while being quite convinced that he was an idealist and a martyr? This was a case of stupidity, or of deep-rooted bad habits that had eaten away at his organism like an illness past all cure. In any event, indignation and stern rebukes were useless in this case. Laughing at him would be more effective. One good sneer would have achieved much more than a dozen sermons!
‘It’s best just ignoring him,’ Podgorin thought. ‘Above all, not to lend him money.’
Soon afterwards he wasn’t thinking about Sergey Sergeich, or about his hundred roubles. It was a calm, brooding night, very bright. Whenever Podgorin looked up at the sky on moonlit nights he had the feeling that only he and the moon were awake – everything else was either sleeping or drowsing. He gave no more thought to people or money and his mood gradually became calm and peaceful. He felt alone in this world and the sound of his own footsteps in the silence of the night seemed so mournful.
The garden was enclosed by a white stone wall. In the right-hand corner, facing the fields, stood a tower that had been built long ago, in the days of serfdom. Its lower section was of stone; the top was wooden, with a platform, a conical roof and a tall spire with a black weathercock. Down below were two gates leading straight from the garden into the fields and a staircase that creaked underfoot led up to the platform. Under the staircase some old broken armchairs had been dumped and they were bathed in the moonlight as it filtered through the gate. With their crooked upturned legs these armchairs seemed to have come to life at night and were lying in wait for someone here in the silence.