‘That may well be true,’ replied the Count, who was ready and willing to agree to everything. ‘All the same, you could at least have written a line. And on top of that, as Pyotr Yegorych so rightly says, for those entire two years you never once set foot here, just as if you were living a thousand miles away or as if… you were put off by my wealth. You could have lived here, done a spot of shooting. Just think what might have happened while I was away!’
The Count spoke a great deal and at great length. Once he started, his tongue would wag incessantly, interminably, however footling and trivial the subject.
He was as indefatigable as my Ivan Demyanych in his articulation of sounds and for me this ability made him barely tolerable. On this occasion he was stopped by his servant Ilya, a lanky, thin man in shabby, badly stained livery, who brought the Count a wine glass of vodka and half a tumbler of water on a silver tray. The Count downed the vodka, took a sip of water, frowned and shook his head.
‘So, you still haven’t lost your habit of swilling vodka at the first opportunity!’ I remarked.
‘No, I haven’t, Seryozha!’
‘Well, you could at least give up that drunken frowning and waggling your head! It’s frightful!’
‘I’m giving everything up, old man. My doctors have forbidden me to drink. I’m only having a little drink now as it’s unhealthy to kick bad habits all in one go… it has to be done gradually…’
I looked at the Count’s sickly, worn face, at the wine glass, at the footman in yellow shoes; I looked at the black-browed Pole who from the very start for some reason struck me as a scoundrel and crook; at the one-eyed peasant standing to attention – and I felt uneasy, stifled. Suddenly I had the urge to escape from that filthy atmosphere, but not before opening the Count’s eyes to my boundless antipathy towards him. For one moment I was actually on the point of getting up and leaving there and then. But I didn’t leave. I’m ashamed to admit that sheer physical laziness held me back.
‘Bring me a glass of vodka too!’ I ordered Ilya.
Oblong-shaped shadows began to fall on the avenue and on the open space where we were sitting. And now the distant croaking of frogs, the cawing of crows and the song of orioles greeted the setting sun. The spring evening was drawing in.
‘Let Urbenin sit down,’ I told the Count. ‘He’s standing there in front of you like a little boy.’
‘Oh, how thoughtless of me, Pyotr Yegorych!’ the Count exclaimed, turning to his manager. ‘Please take a seat, you’ve been standing there long enough!’
Urbenin sat down and looked at me with grateful eyes. Invariably healthy and cheerful, this time he struck me as ill and depressed. His face had a wrinkled, sleepy look and his eyes gazed at us lazily and reluctantly.
‘What’s new, Pyotr Yegorych?’ Karneyev asked him. ‘What’s new? Anything special to report, anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Everything’s the same, Your Excellency…’
‘Are there any… nice new girls around, Pyotr Yegorych?’
The deeply virtuous Pyotr Yegorych blushed.
‘I don’t know, Your Excellency. I don’t concern myself with such things.’
‘There are a few, Your Excellency,’ boomed one-eyed Kuzma; who had been silent up to now. ‘And very nice ones they be too!’
‘Pretty?’
‘There’s all kinds, Your Excellency, for every taste. Dark ones, fair ones… all sorts.’
‘You don’t say! Hold on a minute… I remember you now, you’re that former Leporello12 of mine, the clerk at the council offices… Your name’s Kuzma, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘I remember, I remember. So, which ones would you recommend? All village girls, I dare say?’
‘Oh yes, most of ’em, but there’s some what’s better-class, like.’
‘And where did you find these “better-class” ones?’ asked Ilya, winking at Kuzma.
‘At Holy Week the postman’s sister-in-law came to stay… her name’s Nastasya Ivanna… A well-oiled girl she is. I’d ’ave taken a bite meself, but I didn’t ’ave no money. All rosy-cheeked – and everything in the right place! And there’s an even better one… She’s been waiting for you, Your Excellency. Ever so young, nice and plump, very jolly – a real smasher! Such a smasher as you’ve never seen the likes of, even in St Pittiburg, Your Excellency!’
‘Who is she?’
‘Olenka, the forester Skvortsov’s little daughter.’
Urbenin’s chair cracked under him. Supporting himself with his hands on the table and turning purple, the manager slowly stood up and turned towards one-eyed Kuzma. The expression of weariness and boredom on his face gave way to violent anger.
‘Shut up, you oaf!’ he snarled. ‘You one-eyed reptile! You can say what you want, but don’t you dare talk about respectable people like that!’
‘I weren’t talking about you, Pyotr Yegorych!’ replied Kuzma, quite unruffled.
‘I don’t mean myself, you idiot! Oh, please forgive me, Your Excellency,’ the manager said, turning to the Count. ‘Forgive me for making a scene, but I would ask Your Excellency to stop that Leporello of yours – as you were pleased to call him – from extending his enthusiasm to people who are in every way deserving of respect!’
‘It’s all right,’ babbled the naïve Count. ‘He didn’t say anything particularly bad.’
Insulted and excited beyond all measure, Urbenin walked away from the table and stood sideways to us. With his arms crossed on his chest and blinking, he hid his purple face from us behind some small branches and became very thoughtfuclass="underline" did this man foresee that in the very near future his moral feelings would have to suffer insults a thousand times more bitter?
‘I can’t understand why he’s taking it so badly,’ the Count whispered. ‘What a queer fish! Nothing offensive was said at all.’
After two years of sobriety the glass of vodka had a slightly intoxicating effect on me. A feeling of lightness, of pleasure, flooded my brain and my whole body. What’s more, I began to feel the cool of evening gradually replacing the stifling heat of the day. I suggested going for a stroll. The Count and his new Polish friend’s jackets were brought from the house and off we went, with Urbenin following us.
III
The Count’s garden, through which we were strolling, deserves a very special description on account of its striking luxuriance. In botanical, horticultural and many other respects it is richer and grander than any other garden I have seen. Besides the romantic avenues described above, with their green vaults, you’ll find everything there that the most fastidious eye might demand from a garden. Here there is every possible kind of indigenous and foreign fruit tree, ranging from cherry and plum, to apricot trees with enormous fruit the size of goose eggs. Mulberries, barberries, French bergamot trees and even olives are to be found at every step. Here there are half-ruined mossy grottoes, fountains, small ponds reserved for goldfish and tame carp, little hillocks, summer-houses, expensive hothouses. And this uncommon luxury, assembled by the hands of grandfathers and fathers, this wealth of large, full roses, of romantic grottoes and endless paths, had been barbarously neglected and left to the mercy of weeds, thieves’ axes and the crows that unceremoniously built their ugly nests on the rare trees. The lawful proprietor of this domain walked at my side and not one muscle of his haggard and self-satisfied face twitched at the sight of all that neglect and blatant human slovenliness, just as though he wasn’t the owner of that garden. Only once, for want of something to do, did he tell the manager that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to scatter a little sand over the paths. Yes, he could pay attention to the absence of sand that no one needed, but he didn’t notice the bare trees that had died during the cold winter and the cows that were straying through the garden! To this observation Urbenin replied that it would take ten workers to look after the garden, and, since His Excellency didn’t wish to live on his estate, any money spent on the garden would be an unnecessary and unproductive luxury. Of course, the Count agreed with this argument.