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‘Tell him I’m coming.’

The peasant bowed and left.

‘I wouldn’t have let that devil in had I known!’ Polikarp growled as he swiftly and aimlessly turned the pages of his book.

‘Put that book down and go and saddle Zorka,’ I said sternly. ‘And look lively!’

‘Lively? Oh, of course… I’ll dash off and see to it right away… There’d be some excuse if he was going there on business, but he’ll ride over and bring the old devil to his knees!’

This was said in an undertone, but loud enough for me to hear. My servant who had whispered this impertinence stood erect, scornfully smirking and expecting some retaliatory outburst, but I pretended not to have heard. Silence was my most effective, my sharpest weapon in my battles with Polikarp. The contemptuous way I usually turned a deaf ear to his vitriolic remarks would disarm him and take the wind out of his sails. As a punishment it worked better than any clout on the ear or torrent of abuse. When Polikarp had gone out into the yard to saddle Zorka, I peeped into the book I had stopped him reading. It was The Count of Monte Christo,7 Dumas’ spine-chilling novel. My cultured fool read everything, from pub signs to Auguste Comte,8 who was lying in my trunk together with my other abandoned, unread books. Out of all that mass of printed and written matter, however, he recognized only terrifying, extremely exciting novels with distinguished ‘personages’, with poison and subterranean passages – everything else he styled ‘rubbish’. I shall have occasion to discuss his reading later on, but now it was time to go!

A quarter of an hour later my Zorka’s hoofs were already raising dust along the road from the village to the Count’s estate. The sun was close to its resting place for the night, but the heat and humidity continued to make themselves felt. The burning air was motionless and dry, despite the fact that my path skirted the banks of the most enormous lake. To the right I could see a great watery expanse; to the left the young vernal foliage of an oak grove caressed my eyes, but at the same time my cheeks had to endure a Sahara-like heat.

‘There’s sure to be a storm!’ I reflected, having visions of a fine, cooling downpour.

The lake was peacefully sleeping. It did not greet Zorka’s flight with a single sound and only the cry of a young woodcock broke the sepulchral silence of that motionless giant. The sun looked at itself in it as though it were a huge mirror and flooded its entire breadth, from the road to the far bank, with its blinding light. To my dazzled eyes nature seemed to be receiving its light from the lake instead of from the sun.

The stifling heat also lulled into drowsiness the life in which the lake and its green banks were so rich. The birds were in hiding, the fish made no splash in the water, the grasshoppers and crickets were quietly waiting for the cool to set in. All around everything was deserted. Only now and then did my Zorka bear me into a thick cloud of mosquitoes that lived along the banks; and far out on the lake there barely stirred the three little black boats belonging to old Mikhey, our fisherman, who had fishing rights to the whole lake.

II

I did not ride in a straight line, but followed the curving banks of the circular lake. Travelling in a straight line was possible only by boat, but those who went overland were forced to describe a great circle, which meant a detour of about six miles. As I rode along and glanced at the lake, I had a continuous view of the clayey bank on the far side, where the white strip of a blossoming cherry orchard gleamed, while beyond the cherry trees were the Count’s barns, dotted with many-coloured doves, and then the white belfry of the Count’s church. By the clayey bank stood a bathing-hut, its sides nailed down with canvas; sheets were hanging up to dry on the railings. As I surveyed all this, a mere half mile appeared to separate me from my friend the Count, whereas in fact I had to ride about another ten miles to reach the estate.

On the way I considered my peculiar relationship with the Count. I found it interesting to take stock of this, to try and see where the two of us stood. But alas! This exercise was beyond my powers. However much I reflected, in the end I was forced to conclude that I was a poor judge of myself and of people in general. Those who knew both the Count and myself interpreted our mutual relationship in different ways. Those with limited brainpower, who couldn’t see further than their noses, were fond of claiming that the distinguished Count had found an excellent drinking companion and stooge in that ‘poor and undistinguished examining magistrate’. As they saw it, I, the author of these lines, went crawling and grovelling around the Count’s table for a few crumbs and titbits! In their opinion, that distinguished Croesus, the bugbear, the envy of the whole of S— district, was extremely intelligent and liberal-minded. Otherwise, the fact that he so graciously condescended to be friends with an impoverished investigating magistrate, together with the genuine tolerance with which he accepted my over-familiarity with him, would have been incomprehensible. But those who were more intelligent explained our great intimacy as ‘community of spiritual interests’. The Count and I were contemporaries. We had both graduated from the same university, we were both lawyers and we both knew very little. I myself knew a few things, but the Count had forgotten or drowned in alcohol all he had ever known. We were both proud men and for reasons known only to ourselves we lived like recluses, shunning society. We were both indifferent to what society thought of us (I mean the society in S— district), we were both immoral and we would both certainly come to a bad end. Such were the ‘spiritual interests’ that bound us. Those who knew us could have said no more than this about our relationship.

Of course, they would have had more to say had they known how spineless, pliant and complaisant my friend’s nature was – and how strong and firm I was. They would have had a great deal to say had they known how fond that vain man was of me and how I detested him! He was first to offer me his friendship and I was first to address him as an intimate – but what a difference in tone! In an excess of noble feelings he had embraced me and humbly begged my friendship. But on one occasion, overcome by contempt and disgust, I told him:

‘That’s enough rubbish from you!’9

And he considered this familiarity an expression of friendship and took advantage of it, repaying me with his own honest, brotherly brand.

Yes, I would have acted more honestly and decently if I’d turned my Zorka around and ridden back to Polikarp and Ivan Demyanych. Later on I thought more than once about how many misfortunes I could have avoided bearing on my shoulders, how much good I could have done those who were close to me, if only I’d had the determination that evening to turn back, if only Zorka had bolted and borne me far away from that terrifying, vast lake! How many painful memories would not be oppressing my brain now, making me constantly drop my pen and clutch my head! But I shall not anticipate, especially as later I shall be compelled to dwell many more times on pain and sorrow: now for cheerful matters!

My Zorka bore me right up to the gates of the Count’s courtyard. Just as we were going through she stumbled, so that I lost a stirrup and was almost thrown to the ground.

‘A bad omen, sir!’ shouted some peasant who was standing by one of the doors in the Count’s long row of stables.

I believe that anyone who falls from his horse can break his neck, but I don’t believe in omens. Handing the bridle to the peasant and beating the dust off my riding-boots with my whip, I ran into the house. No one was there to greet me. The windows and doors of the rooms were wide open, but despite that there was an oppressive, peculiar smell in the air – a blend of the odours of ancient, deserted apartments with the pleasant if pungent, narcotic scent of hothouse plants that had recently been brought into the rooms from the conservatories. In the drawing-room, on one of the sofas upholstered in light-blue silk, lay two crumpled cushions and on a round table in front of it I saw a glass containing a few drops of liquid that smelt of potent Riga balsam.10 All this led me to believe that the house was inhabited, but I did not meet a living soul in any of the eleven rooms through which I passed. The same desolation that surrounded the lake reigned in that house.