‘And I must confess – I don’t have the time!’ Urbenin said dismissively. ‘I have to work in the fields in summer, in winter I have to sell grain in town. There’s no time for gardens in this place!’
The main, so-called ‘general’ avenue, whose whole charm lay in its broad lime trees and masses of tulips that stretched in two multicoloured strips along its entire length, ended in the distance in a yellow patch. This was the yellow stone summer-house where once there had been a bar and billiard table, skittles and Chinese board games. Aimlessly, we walked towards it. At the entrance we were met by a living creature that rather unsettled the nerves of my not very courageous companions.
‘A serpent!’ the Count suddenly screamed, gripping my shoulder and turning pale. ‘Just look!’
The Pole took a step backwards, stopped as if rooted to the spot and spread his arms out, just as though he were barring the path of a ghost. On the topmost step of the dilapidated flight of stone steps lay a young snake – a common Russian viper. When it spotted us it raised its tiny head and started moving. The Count screamed again and hid behind my back.
‘Don’t be afraid, Your Excellency!’ Urbenin said lazily, planting his foot on the first step.
‘What if it bites me?’
‘It won’t bite… Incidentally, the harm from this type of snakebite is usually greatly exaggerated. I was once bitten by an old snake and – as you can see – I didn’t die. Human bites are more dangerous than a snake’s!’ sighed Urbenin, unable to resist pointing a moral.
And in fact the manager barely had time to climb two or three more steps before the snake stretched to its full length and darted into a crevice between two flagstones with lightning speed. When we entered the summer-house we saw another living creature. On the old, faded, torn baize of the billiard table lay an old, shortish man, in blue jacket, striped trousers and jockey cap. He was sleeping sweetly and serenely. Around his toothless, cavernous mouth and sharp nose, flies were disporting themselves. As thin as a skeleton, motionless and open-mouthed, he resembled a corpse just brought from the morgue for dissection.
‘Franz!’ Urbenin said, nudging him. ‘Franz!’
After five or six nudges, Franz closed his mouth, sat up, looked round at all of us and lay down again. A minute later his mouth was wide open again and the flies that had been frolicking near his nose were once again disturbed by the gentle tremors of his snoring.
‘He’s sleeping, the dissolute pig!’ sighed Urbenin.
‘Isn’t that our gardener, Tricher?’ asked the Count.
‘The man himself… he gets into this state every day. During the day he sleeps like a log and at night he plays cards. I’m told that last night he played until six in the morning.’
‘What does he play?’
‘Games of chance… mainly stukolka.’13
‘Yes, men of his sort are bad at their work. They get paid for doing absolutely nothing.’
‘I didn’t say that by way of complaint or to express my dissatisfaction, Your Excellency… I simply… well… I just felt sorry that such an able man should be slave to his passions. Besides, he’s hard-working – a good man, who earns his money.’
We looked once more at Franz the cardsharp and left the summer-house. From there we headed for the garden gate that led out into the fields.
There are few novels where garden gates don’t play a leading part. If you haven’t noticed this, then ask my Polikarp – he has devoured piles of dreadful and not so dreadful novels in his time and will no doubt confirm that trivial but nonetheless basic fact.
My novel isn’t free of garden gates either. But my gate is different from the others in that my pen will be leading through it many unfortunate wretches and hardly a single happy person – the reverse of what happens in other novels. And worst of all, I’ve already had occasion to describe this gate once, not as a novelist but as an investigating magistrate. In my novel it will let more criminals than lovers pass through.
A quarter of an hour later, leaning on our walking-sticks, we were trudging up the hill that we all knew as ‘Stone Grave’. In neighbouring villages there exists the legend that under this pile of stones rests the body of a Tatar khan who, fearing that his enemies might desecrate his ashes after his death, left instructions in his will for a heap of stones to be piled up over him. But this legend has little truth in it. Those layers of stone, their size and relation to each other, rule out the agency of human hands in the origin of the hill. It stands by itself in a field and resembles an upturned night-cap.
When we had clambered to the top we could see the entire lake in all its enchanting expanse and indescribable beauty. The sun was no longer reflected in it – it had set, leaving a broad crimson strip that illuminated everything around with a pleasant pinkish-yellow light. At our feet lay the Count’s estate, with manor house, church and garden, while in the distance, on the far side of the lake, was the small greyish village where fate had decreed I should reside. As before, the surface of the lake was motionless. Old Mikhey’s little boats had separated from each other and were hurrying towards the bank.
To one side of my little village was the dark railway station, where small clouds of steam rose from locomotives, while behind us, on the other side of Stone Grave, a new vistas opened up. At the foot of Stone Grave stretched a road, bordered by lofty, ancient poplars. This road led to the Count’s forest, that reached to the very horizon.
The Count and I stood on the top of the hill. Urbenin and the Pole, being rather unadventurous people, preferred to wait for us on the road down below.
‘Who’s that bigwig?’ I asked the Count, nodding towards the Pole. ‘Where did you fish him out from?’
‘He’s a very nice chap, Seryozha, very nice!’ the Count said in alarm. ‘You’ll soon be best of friends!’
‘Oh, I hardly think so. Why does he never say a word?’
‘He’s quiet by nature. But he’s really very clever!’
‘And what sort of person is he?’
‘I met him in Moscow. He’s very nice. I’ll tell you all about it later, don’t ask me now. Shall we go down?’
We descended Stone Grave and walked along the road towards the forest. It was growing noticeably darker. From the forest came the cries of cuckoos and the warbling of a tired and probably young nightingale.
‘Ooh! Ooh!’ came the shrill cry of a child as we approached the forest. ‘Try and catch me!’
Out of the forest ran a little girl of about five, in a light-blue frock, her hair as white as flax. When she saw us she laughed out loud, skipped over to Urbenin and put her arms around his knee. Urbenin lifted her and kissed her on the cheek.
‘It’s my daughter Sasha,’ he said. ‘A lovely girl!’
In hot pursuit of Sasha, Urbenin’s fifteen-year-old schoolboy son dashed out of the forest. The moment he saw us he hesitantly doffed his cap, put it on and then pulled it off again. A patch of red slowly followed him. At once our attention was riveted by this patch.
‘What a magical vision!’ exclaimed the Count, grasping my hand. ‘Just look! How charming. Who is this girl? And I never knew that such naiads dwelt in my forest!’
I glanced at Urbenin to ask him who the girl was and – strange to relate – only then did I notice that the estate manager was terribly drunk. Red as a lobster, he gave a wild lurch and grabbed my elbow, enveloping me in alcoholic fumes as he whispered in my ear: